could u write snape!readerxharry fanfic? love ur work btw
Warnings: litteraly the title
The air in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place tasted of wet wool and centuries of accumulated resentment. Harry navigated the narrow, dim corridor of the second floor, his footsteps muffled by carpets that felt like they were composed of equal parts dust and dead skin. He had spent the first few weeks of the summer trapped in a cycle of frustration and boredom, the walls of the ancestral Black home closing in on him while the Ministry of Magic played a game of pretend. He felt like a caged animal, pacing the confines of a house that breathed malice.
He stopped outside the library, a room that remained one of the few sanctuaries from the chaotic energy of the Weasleys and the hushed, urgent whispers of the Order of the Phoenix. Inside, the lighting was amber and oppressive, filtered through heavy velvet curtains that blocked out the London smog. Sitting at a sprawling mahogany table, surrounded by towers of leather-bound volumes, was Y/N Snape.
Harry had known her for four years, of course, but he had treated her like a piece of the school furniture. She was Severus Snape’s daughter, a fact that had initially acted as a barrier thicker than any ward. In the corridors of Hogwarts, he had seen her as a shadow, quiet, studious, and possessing the same sharp, discerning gaze as her father. He had assumed she shared the man's bitterness. He had never bothered to look closer.
Now, in the oppressive silence of the library, he noticed the way she held her quill, her fingers smudged with indigo ink. She didn't look up as he entered, but the slight tilt of her head suggested she had tracked his movement from the moment he stepped over the threshold.
"The noise in the kitchen has reached a crescendo, I take it?" she asked. Her voice wasn't the biting sneer of her father; it was lower, like the hum of a cello, possessing a calm that Harry found unexpectedly grounding.
Harry slumped into a chair opposite her, the wood creaking under his weight. "Ron and Hermione are arguing about the O.W.L.s again. I think Mrs. Weasley is about five minutes away from banning them both from the dinner table."
Y/N finally looked up. Her eyes were a mirror of her father's, but the expression within them was different. Where Severus held a permanent flicker of disdain, Y/N held a weary sort of curiosity. She closed the book she had been reading, a dense tome on ancient runes, with a soft thud that echoed through the room.
"They are passionate. It is a quality you possess in abundance, Harry, though usually, it manifests as a desire to jump headfirst into a lake without checking the depth," she remarked. There was no malice in the comment, only a dry observation that made Harry blink.
"I don't jump into lakes," Harry countered, though he knew it was a lie. He leaned back, observing her. "Why are you always in here? I don't think I've seen you in the kitchen once since I arrived."
"My father prefers that I remain out of the way of the 'chaos," she said, her lips curving into a faint, ghost-like smile. "And I prefer the company of dead authors to the company of living wizards who spend half their time shouting. It is quieter. More predictable."
Harry felt a strange tug of kinship. He spent his life being the center of a storm he never asked to join, and here she was, the daughter of the most hated man in the castle, carving out a sanctuary of silence. He looked at the smudge of ink on her cheek and felt a sudden, irrational urge to reach out and wipe it away. He pulled his hand back, gripping the edge of the table.
"Does he actually let you leave the house?" Harry asked, his voice dropping.
Y/N leaned forward, her chin resting on her palm. "He trusts me to be invisible. As long as I am invisible, I am free. It is a peculiar arrangement, but it works. Tell me, do you actually enjoy being the Golden Boy, or is the crown becoming too heavy for your head?"
Harry scoffed, a genuine laugh escaping him. "It's not a crown. It's more like a target. Everyone looks at me and sees either a savior or a liar. I’m not sure which is worse."
"The liar is more interesting," she replied, her gaze intensifying. "Saviors are boring. They are static. But a liar, or someone perceived as one, has layers. There is a secret beneath the surface. I've always found the secrets more compelling than the stories."
For the first time in years, Harry didn't feel the need to defend himself. He didn't feel the urge to argue or prove his honesty. He simply sat there, bathed in the amber light, watching the way her eyes searched his face. It was a scrutiny that felt different from Snape’s; it wasn't an interrogation, but an exploration.
The following week, the heat of the London summer seeped through the stone walls of Grimmauld Place, making the house feel stifling. Harry found himself seeking out the library more often, not for the books, but for the quiet conversations that had begun to define his days. They talked about things he couldn't tell Ron or Hermione, the crushing weight of expectation, the fear of the dark, and the strange, isolating feeling of being known by everyone but understood by no one.
One afternoon, they were tasked by Mrs. Weasley to organize the attic, a chore that mostly involved dodging sentient dust bunnies and avoiding the gaze of the screaming portrait of Walburga Black. The attic was a graveyard of forgotten things: moth-eaten curtains, cracked mirrors, and trunks filled with blackened silver.
Y/N was standing on a rickety ladder, reaching for a heavy chest of documents. As she shifted her weight, the ladder groaned and swayed violently. Harry reacted without thinking, lunging forward to steady the wood. He caught her by the waist, his arm wrapping firmly around her middle to pull her back toward the center of gravity.
For a moment, the world narrowed down to the scent of her, something that smelled like dried lavender and old paper, with a sharp metallic undertone of potion ingredients. She was smaller than she seemed at the table, her frame delicate but tense. Harry could feel the rapid thrum of her heart against his forearm, a frantic rhythm that mirrored his own.
She didn't pull away immediately. She looked down at him, her breath hitching. The distance between them was negligible, the air between their lips humming with a sudden, electric tension. Harry’s grip tightened instinctively, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of her robes.
"I had it," she whispered, though she made no move to move.
"You were about to take a dive into a pile of cursed antiques," Harry replied, his voice sounding thicker than usual.
"A noble way to go," she murmured. "Death by a haunted wardrobe."
He let her go slowly, his hand lingering on her waist for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. The loss of contact felt like a physical coldness. As she stepped down from the ladder, she didn't look at him, but he noticed the faint flush creeping up her neck, a rose-colored bloom against her pale skin.
"My father would have a fit if he saw you touching me," she said, her voice regaining its composure, though it lacked its usual steadiness.
"He'd probably try to deduct points from Gryffindor even though we're not at school," Harry joked, but the humor felt forced. He was acutely aware of the space between them, a gap that felt both too wide and dangerously small.
"He sees the world in binaries, Harry. Light and dark. Loyalty and betrayal. He doesn't understand the gray areas," she said, turning to face him. "He thinks that by keeping me separate, he is protecting me from the world. He doesn't realize he's just making the world a mystery I have to solve from a distance."
Harry looked at her, really looked at her, and felt a sudden, sharp ache in his chest. He realized that her isolation was a mirror of his own. He was isolated by fame; she was isolated by blood. They were two anomalies living in a house of ghosts.
"You're not a mystery to me," Harry said.
Y/N paused, her expression softening. She reached out, her fingers grazing the sleeve of his shirt. "No? And what have you concluded about me, Harry Potter?"
"That you're the only person in this house who doesn't look at me like I'm a puzzle to be solved or a weapon to be wielded," he answered.
She smiled, and this time it wasn't a ghost of a smile. It was warm, reaching her eyes, transforming her face into something that took Harry's breath away. He felt a sudden, dizzying rush of affection, a feeling so intense it bordered on pain. He wanted to tell her—to say the words that were currently hammering against the back of his teeth, but the shadow of Severus Snape loomed large in his mind.
The tension of the summer continued to build, woven into the mundane fabric of their interactions. They developed a shorthand, a way of communicating through glances and half-smiles across the dinner table. Harry found himself noticing the smallest details: the way she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear when she was concentrating, the way she sighed when she read a particularly tedious passage of text, and the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't watching.
One evening, the Order had a particularly loud meeting in the dining room. The shouting could be heard through the floorboards, a cacophony of voices debating strategy and warnings. Harry had retreated to the drawing room, leaning against the cold mantelpiece of the fireplace, staring at the dying embers.
Y/N entered the room silently, her presence announced only by the soft click of the door. She didn't say anything at first, simply coming to stand beside him. They stood in silence for a long time, the distant noise of the meeting serving as a backdrop to the sudden, heavy intimacy of the room.
"Do you think it will ever end?" she asked softly. "The fear? The feeling that we are just waiting for the other shoe to drop?"
Harry looked at her. The firelight cast deep shadows across her face, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw and the softness of her lips. "I don't know. I think the fear is just part of the deal now. But it's easier when you're not the only one feeling it."
Y/N shifted closer, her shoulder brushing against his. The contact was light, but it sent a jolt through Harry's system. He turned toward her, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"I used to wonder why you never spoke to me at school," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought you hated me because of who my father is. I thought I was just another extension of his bitterness in your eyes."
"I didn't hate you," Harry said, his voice rough. "I just… I didn't know how to look at you. Every time I saw you, I saw him. I didn't realize that you were your own person. I was stupid."
"You weren't stupid. You were survival-oriented. There is a difference," she replied. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. "I spent four years watching you from the edges of the Great Hall, wondering what it felt like to be the center of everything. I didn't realize that the center is actually the loneliest place to be."
Harry felt a lump form in his throat. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead. His fingers lingered there, the skin of her brow cool and smooth. Y/N closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, a small, contented sound escaping her throat.
The moment was fragile, a glass sculpture held together by a thread. Harry felt the magnetic pull of her, the irresistible urge to close the distance. He leaned in, his breath mingling with hers, the world outside the drawing room fading into insignificance. He could smell the lavender again, stronger now, mixed with the scent of the dying fire.
Just as their lips were about to touch, the door swung open with a violent crash.
Harry jumped back as if he had been struck by a stunning spell. Severus Snape stood in the doorway, his black robes billowing around him like a shroud. His face was a mask of cold fury, his eyes darting between Harry and his daughter. The air in the room suddenly felt freezing, the warmth of the fire extinguished by Snape's presence.
"Dad…" Y/N said, her voice steady, though she stepped away from Harry.
Snape stepped into the room, his movements fluid and predatory. He didn't look at his daughter; his gaze was locked on Harry, brimming with a mixture of suspicion and disgust.
"I find it fascinating," Snape drawled, his voice a low, dangerous hiss, "that despite the gravity of the current political climate, Mr. Potter still finds the time to wander the halls in search of distractions. Tell me, Potter, does your arrogance extend to the belief that you are entitled to the company of everyone in this house?"
Harry felt the familiar surge of anger, the heat rising in his chest. "I wasn't doing anything, Professor."
"Your 'nothing' is remarkably loud, Potter," Snape sneered, stepping closer. "My daughter is not a curiosity for you to examine in your spare time. She is not one of your admirers, nor is she a pawn in your quest for attention. You will keep your distance. Am I clear?"
"We were just talking, dad," Y/N interrupted, her voice firm.
Snape turned his gaze toward her, and for a moment, the mask slipped. There was a flicker of something,fear, perhaps, or a desperate need to protect, before the coldness returned.
"You are far too trusting, Y/N. A trait that, while admirable in a vacuum, is fatal in the company of a boy who attracts disaster like a magnet," Snape said. He turned back to Harry. "Out. Now."
Harry didn't wait for a second command. He pushed past Snape, his shoulder brushing against the man's robes. As he hurried down the hall, he could feel Snape's gaze boring into his back, a silent promise of misery for the coming school year. But more than the anger, Harry felt a crushing sense of loss. The bubble had burst, and the reality of their situation had crashed back down upon them.
The remaining weeks of the summer were strained. The library became a place of guarded silence. They still spoke, but the conversations were shorter, the glances more fleeting. The electric tension remained, but it was now laced with a sense of danger. They were playing a game where the stakes were not just house points, but the fragile peace within the house.
Harry watched Y/N from across the dinner table, noting the way she retreated further into herself under her father's watchful eye. He saw the way she would occasionally look at him, a longing expression that mirrored his own, before quickly averting her gaze when Snape shifted in his seat.
One afternoon, Harry found a small piece of parchment tucked into his textbook. It was written in a neat, precise hand.
The attic. Midnight. Bring something to eat
Harry didn't hesitate. At midnight, he crept through the darkened halls, avoiding the creaky floorboards and the occasional mutter of a portrait. He climbed the stairs to the attic, his heart racing.
Y/N was waiting for him, sitting on a pile of old rugs with a plate of stolen sandwiches and a bottle of pumpkin juice. The moonlight streamed through a small, circular window, casting a silver glow over the dusty room.
"You came," she said, her voice soft and hopeful.
"Of course I came," Harry replied, sitting down beside her.
They ate in silence for a while, the shared meal a small act of rebellion. The tension between them was almost tangible, a physical force that pulled them together.
"He's getting more suspicious," Y/N whispered, looking toward the door. "He knows I'm not as invisible as I used to be."
"I don't care," Harry said, and he realized he meant it. "I don't care about his rules or his threats."
Y/N looked at him, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. "You should care. He is a powerful man, Harry. And you are already his favorite target."
"Then let him target me," Harry said, moving closer. "I'd rather be his target than spend another day pretending that I don't think about you every second I'm awake."
The admission hung in the air, raw and honest. Y/N didn't respond with words. Instead, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his. It wasn't a kiss, but it was an intimacy that felt more profound. They stayed like that for a long time, their breaths syncing, the world reduced to the silver light and the sound of their own hearts.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"That this is just a summer dream," she said. "That once we go back to Hogwarts, the walls will go back up. That you'll go back to being the Golden Boy and I'll go back to being the shadow."
Harry reached out, taking her hand in his. He interlaced their fingers, squeezing tightly. "I can't go back to that. I've seen the gray areas now, Y/N. I don't want the light or the dark. I just want this."
She pulled back slightly, searching his face. "You're a very dangerous person to be around, Harry Potter."
"I've been told," he grinned, the first real smile he had felt in days.
As the final days of August approached, the atmosphere in Grimmauld Place shifted from stifling to electric. The departure for Hogwarts was imminent. The Order was in a state of high alert, and the weight of the coming war pressed down on everyone.
On their last night, Harry found Y/N in the library for the final time. The room felt different now—less like a sanctuary and more like a memory. She was packing her things, her movements slow and deliberate.
"I don't know what happens next," she said, not looking up from her trunk.
"We figure it out," Harry replied.
"It's not that simple. My father… he will be watching us. Every look, every word. He will be looking for any sign of weakness."
Harry stepped toward her, stopping just inches away. "Let him look. Let him see that he can't control everything."
Y/N finally looked up, and the expression in her eyes was one of heartbreaking tenderness. She reached up, her hand resting on his cheek, her thumb brushing over the scar on his forehead. It was a gesture of acceptance, a silent acknowledgment of the pain he carried.
"You're so stubborn," she murmured.
"I get it from my father," Harry joked, though the irony wasn't lost on him.
They didn't kiss. The tension was too high, the risk too great, and the emotion too heavy to be captured in a single act. Instead, they stood there in the amber light, holding onto the silence, knowing that the coming year would be a battlefield of a different kind.
As they boarded the Hogwarts Express the next morning, the separation was immediate. Y/N disappeared into a carriage toward the front of the train, her black robes blending into the crowd. Harry watched her go, feeling a void open up in his chest.
He spent the journey in a haze, the noise of Ron and Hermione's excitement sounding like it was coming from underwater. He kept thinking about the scent of lavender and old paper, the feeling of her hand in his, and the way she looked in the moonlight.
When they finally arrived at the castle and entered the Great Hall, the familiar chaos of the start-of-term feast enveloped them. Harry took his seat at the Gryffindor table, the gold and red banners fluttering above. He looked toward the staff table, where Severus Snape sat, his eyes scanning the students with their usual cold precision.
Then, Harry's gaze shifted to the Slytherin table.
Y/N was sitting there, surrounded by the cold, polished perfection of her house. She wasn't talking to anyone; she was staring straight ahead, her expression a mask of indifference. But as Harry watched, she shifted her gaze.
For a split second, their eyes met across the expanse of the hall.
There was no smile, no wave, no outward sign of recognition. But in that single look, Harry saw everything. He saw the attic, the library, the shared sandwiches, and the quiet admission of loneliness. He saw the forbidden nature of what they had found and the unexpected strength it had given him.
Snape’s gaze snapped toward Harry, his eyes narrowing. The warning was clear. The battle lines were drawn.
Harry didn't look away. He held Y/N's gaze for a heartbeat longer than was safe, a silent promise echoing between them. He was smitten, he was terrified, and he was completely, irrevocably in love with the one person he was never supposed to want.
As the feast began and the noise of the hall rose to a roar, Harry leaned back in his seat, a small, secret smile playing on his lips. The war was coming, the Ministry was lying, and his life was in peril. But for the first time in five years, Harry felt like he had something that belonged entirely to him, something that no one, not even Severus Snape, could take away.
