I've begun a new mini series on ao3, but I will also be dropping the chapters here. It will be about five chapters total. Here is chapter 1!
Read here or on AO3.
(This series can be read with any gender for reader and will have 5 or 6 chapters total)
CHAPTER 1: What Is That Melody
It is said that life can be breathed into a place by the people who occupy it. A dingy cottage on the outskirts of a town can be a lovely home to a family simply doing their best to be happy while raising a child. A town suffering economically can be polished with a veneer of gaiety when the community is brought together for the merry festivities that sweep through the streets come wintertime. Even a school can be considered a home to those looking for an escape, friendship, new adventures…
But not Hogwarts.
Not anymore.
No longer could anyone call Hogwarts their home. A prison perhaps, considering the students had no choice but to live there for the next nine months. With Voldemort in control of the ministry and Severus acting as headmaster of the school, Hogwarts had become a place of desolation and fear. The boat rides from the train station, which once roused anticipation and excitement from faces old and new, now caused anxiety and embitterment. The students couldn’t even be themselves— couldn’t be what they were: children. Instead, they were subjected to the strictest and borderline militaristic treatment. The Sorting Ceremony was no longer a joyful event. The only people who spoke a peep were Professor McGonagall and the Sorting Hat, leaving the room otherwise quiet, filled with a thick tension as the sorted students grimly shuffled to their respective houses.
The teachers tried their best to keep students engaged and cheerful during classes, but there was only so much they could do with the Carrows undoing all that work every day with their twisted teachings and abusive punishments. And all while this happened, Severus remained hidden in his ivory tower.
Severus hated it—hated himself for allowing over two decades' worth of bad decision-making to culminate into… this. The isolation was what kept his mind at bay. No one ever saw him in the halls or at meals. All his time was either spent in the Headmaster’s office, at Malfoy Manor attending meetings, or in some random countryside where only the ravens that nested in the pine trees could hear his anguished screams and spells he cast at boulders. He couldn’t bear to show his face to the colleagues he could once call friends. He was ashamed, each disdainful look he received from them on the first day was another arrow in his back. The pressure to wear a mask of indifference towards the suffering of students and a disposition of support for Voldemort tore him apart inside. How could they possibly understand his position? How could they possibly know that he was simply following the strategic instructions of the Headmaster he was forced to kill in cold blood? There was hardly any reprieve for him except for his walks through the Scotland hills, the bottom of a firewhiskey bottle…
And…
He could pinpoint the exact day it started. Precisely one month after the start of the school year, something strange began to happen in the castle. On Sunday night, a minute after curfew took effect, music would begin to play. The sound emanated throughout the castle, and its source was difficult to determine as a result of the castle’s stony walls encouraging an even echo. Severus recognized the instrument. It was what muggles called “electric guitars” and he only recognized it because the instrument's sound reminded him of the Weird’s Sisters performance at the Yule Ball.
As one might expect, the occurrence greatly vexed him the first night it happened. The instrument’s song echoed through the night air and a large set of windows he kept open at night and only closed right before retiring. Filch and the Carrows, not needing an order from the headmaster to know that they should find whoever was causing a disturbance after curfew, came up empty-handed.
At first, everyone in the castle thought this was just a one-time thing, a show of rebellion against the people who had sucked all the fun out of Hogwarts, leaving it a shell of its former self. But then, it happened again. And again. And again.
Every Sunday at 9:01 PM a song would play from somewhere in the castle, its notes managing to reach even the dungeons. It was only one song, a different one each time. These short-lived performances made it more difficult for the Carrows and Filch to catch the offender. The other teachers didn’t mind. Neither did the students. In fact, they began to look forward to it. Each weekly performance gave them hope the following week would somehow get better, and that they shouldn’t give up despite the ruinous circumstances they found themselves in. That there was still a fight to be had.
By Halloween, Severus had given up trying to remain irritated by the music that pervaded the air. On a night filled with so much self-loathing and heartache toward the one he had lost, he couldn't muster the energy to even care, let alone walk to the windows and close them. He was halfway through a bottle sitting in a chair he was undeserving of, letting the music wash over him, placating him almost. Despite finding such an instrument to be distasteful and loud, the muggle music played was not. Few songs were familiar to him, including one song he heard at the beginning of December. He had closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, pretending to be somewhere else outside of this miserable sphere as the music echoed gently into his office from the night sky. The performance lasted just over three minutes and left his office in overwhelming silence once again. As he imagined it did with other students, it brought him a tiny bit of comfort and left him vaguely wondering what would be played the next Sunday night.
Watching from the Battlements, Severus sighed in relief when the last of the students exited the castle, guided by Hagrid and Filch towards the boathouse, and eventually the train station. It was the start of winter break and every student went home for the holidays. Who could blame them? The parents desperately wished for them to come home. Any letter he had received from parents about why their child was writing home about enduring the Cruciatius curse had been tossed in the fire. As if he could write them back or do anything about it, to begin with. It brought him some peace to know that the students would return home once again to be with their loved ones before the second half of the term.
This, however, left the castle terribly empty. All the other teachers went home, even Filch, choosing to go to a squib village for the holidays since there would be no one to look after for the next few weeks, which left the headmaster all to his lonesome. It was his desire to leave as well, but it was required of him to stay over the holidays. And it wasn’t as though his destitute little home in Spinner’s End would be any better.
Reading, drinking, and thinking. That’s all he cared to do on his first day in the empty castle. In the morning he bypassed the rope that guarded the restrictive section and selected a book to read, usually some sort of history book, in the afternoons he walked around aimlessly like an Azkaban prisoner devoid of their soul, hoping something unsuspecting would come out of the Forbidden Forest and just end him already. At night he found solace in the amber liquid that sat in his hand as he stared into the fire, his mind a pendulum swinging back and forth from wondering how Potter and his friends were fairing while on the run to whether it was worth fighting the battle anymore.
Then he heard it.
Dum…Dum…Dum…Dum…
His eyes flashed open from their once fluttery state as he snapped his head from the roaring fireplace to the barely opened windows. The music was back, but hadn’t all the students go home? The time on his wall clock displayed 9:01. That student was still here.
He crossed to the other side of the room, pushed open the large windows, and listened to the introductory strumming of the guitar. As he listened he had a realization if he was able to hear the music this well from his office…
It had to be coming from one of the towers.
He was going to find out who had been doing this.
With a swoosh of his robes, his body resembled that of a tattered cloak or a lethifold as he took off through his open windows and into the night sky. He had to be very careful to avoid the dementors posted around the school, whose job was to make sure students didn't try to escape via broom. He swept around to each tower only stopping for only a moment to see if a student was present. Time was of the essence as he expected the performance to last only a few minutes as they had before. The more he flew around the closer to the music he got, leaving him with one last destination.
The Astronomy Tower. It was the highest point in Hogwarts and had an almost 360-degree pan opening to the night sky, which meant the sound could travel far and wide.
Severus landed quietly just beyond the other side of the railing and his suspicions were confirmed. The music, now deafening, sounded as though it was coming from right on top of him. When he looked around he saw no one, even when he looked up towards the hollowed ceiling. And right as the song was about to reach its crescendo—
“Homenum Revelio,” he chanted, swishing his wand about the air.
There was a disembodied wind-like noise, indicating that a human presence had been revealed. Sitting against the incline of a load-bearing beam up in the air was a 7th-year student, one leg bent while the other dangled off with a look of mild surprise on their face. He recognized you. You were one of his best students in the time he was your potion’s Professor and continued to hear many things about you from Slughorn. You were also set to graduate this year with many NEWT classes beneath your belt and a recommendation from Slughorn, but upon the start of Severus’s reign as headmaster, you had mysteriously dropped every subject except for Charms. No one had answers but granted, very few asked.
He remembered you as someone who was rather polite. Quiet, but amicable enough that people felt they could ask you questions. Otherwise, you kept to yourself.
You blinked down at him from your spot, strumming hand frozen before you slowly lowered it while your gaze remained locked on the Headmaster.
“So it has been you breaking the rules and serenading all of Hogwarts,” he drawled, stiffly.
You returned no verbal reply, only a silent, subtle nod of confirmation. His eyes flicked over the instrument that rested across your torso. It was glowing a light blue, presumably a spell that empowered it to work properly in the manner it would in the muggle world.
“Why?”
“...I wanted to piss the Carrows off,” you eventually said after opening and closing your mouth.
“You have surely succeeded in that endeavor,” he stated quietly. “Come down from there.”
Severus watched in silence as you slung the instrument around you with a strap and carefully scaled your way back down to the dusty floors of the Astronomy Tower. His eyes flit over your attire as you turned to face him. You were dressed in muggle clothes, wearing an especially thick sweatshirt to help combat the frigid winter air.
“You chose not to go home as everyone else has?”
“My “home” has been reduced to a pile of rubble for a few months now,” you murmured.
His brows scrunched together momentarily before softening in understanding. He recalled you being a half-blood, but not every half-blood was safe, especially if the parents were outspoken about pro-muggle views. “What of your parents?”
“In America. Hopefully. I don't know if they made it. I’m supposed to meet them there upon graduation, assuming I manage to have my escape arranged properly.”
A buzzing crackle of energy lit between the two of you.
“Very few would take the risk of admitting such plans to flee eventual capture in the face of a Death Eater. Especially one so close to the Dark Lord.” Severus narrowed his eyes at you, his tone remaining calculated as he chose his words carefully to feel out the situation. He needed absolute confirmation, not some fickle half-belief statements in which straws would be grasped.
Both your eyes searched one another for any whisper of doubt and uncertainty, you making sure his hand stayed away from his wand specifically. But with just a few words, you swept any possible reluctance off the table.
“...I know what you are, Professor.”
His eyes flashed and his Occlumency walls went up in pure reflexive instinct.
“If you truly did not care for the students, you wouldn’t have sent all those kids off to have detention with Hagrid instead of letting their fate fall to Amycus and Alecto. They would’ve had them begging for death.” Your eyes drifted over to the spot Dumbledore would have stood before he plummeted from the rails of the Astronomy Tower. Severus followed your gaze and internally winced at where you were looking.
“This is the last place I would expect to see you.”
Severus calmly turned and ambled back towards the railing, cold hands clasped beneath his cloak. “I don’t wish to be at Hogwarts as a whole any more than you do,” he murmured, the underlying truth tacitly laid bare before you, confirming the prospect you were desperately hoping to be correct. And he was being surprisingly… soft with you, a fact that only helped your case and your suspicions of his true ideals.
He saw no point in lying to you. He was tired. So tired. Playing this role was killing him. He was confident enough in his own Occlumency to hide this conversation from the Dark Lord, but someone needed to know of his true intentions. He needed that mental support to keep him going and he wasn’t going to get it from the portrait of the man who ensnared him into this whole ordeal.
“And yet here you are,” you replied with a similar gentleness.
“The path ahead of me is a Hobson’s choice. Surely, you are insightful enough to understand that.”
You nodded, the wood beneath you creaking as you approached the railing, but kept a certain distance between the two of you. “I do. I just didn’t expect you to linger for the break.”
“It is difficult to traverse discreetly when your name and face have been plastered in major news outlets. I’m ordered to remain here and should I be spotted outside of Hogwarts or Hogsmeade, the news will surely get back to the Dark Lord. And one cannot just polyjuice anyone without knowing their blood type as insurance.” He side-eyed you. “Given the circumstances, I’m surprised you haven’t taken the break as an opportunity to run.”
“There are too many uncertainties at play,” you responded. “It's a waiting game for me. Should it all go wrong, I need to have learned to conceal myself properly by then.”
“Is that why you are only taking Charms?”
“...Yes. DADA has been tainted, the seventh-year potions are of no use to me, and it…” you shook your head looking towards the Great Lake that sparkled in the moonlight. “It won’t matter. I’m just…done. I’m going back to the muggle world. Away from all this. It’s my best shot at safety.”
He glanced at you solemnly. “You are not confident in Potter?” You are not confident in me?
You sighed. “I'll…do what I need to do here to keep morale up, but…no. Potter has proven to be unpredictable and it is not wrong of me to think of self-preservation in these times.”
He exhaled faintly. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”
Neither of you said anything else except for Snape telling you to return to your common room lest you catch your death up here. However, the both of you would retire for the night with a crumb of comradery nestled somewhere in your hearts.
Summary: A one-shot of Severus Snape being an absolute yearner for you
~2k words
Cold. Intimidating. Surly.
Those were the words commonly used to describe Severus Snape.
So imagine one’s surprise when it was found out he was married.
“What?”
“You’re barkin’…”
“There’s no way anyone would marry that git.’
How could anyone marry, let alone tolerate someone with his personality? Could such a person really exist?
Well…yes.
You, his former classmate and someone he hadn’t reconnected with until ten years after graduation, had managed it. His friend, one of the few classmates at Hogwarts he tolerated, who had been there for his trials and triumphs, who still made time for him despite their nearly opposite schedules, managed to chip away at the ice and severity he projected towards those he was wary of. His mask. His protection.
And beneath it, he was a certified yearner.
It felt like an invisible, aching pull toward you when you were in the room that made his hands clench and unclench in desperation. And it drove him mad.
His eyes would lock onto you like you were a crystal ball that could tell him all the secrets of the universe. They’d trace your face, your fingers, the curve of your clothed back, memorizing every inch of your being. The things he wanted to touch. Hold. Kiss.
But he never allowed himself the luxury so easily. That is to say, he never initiated.
If you had ever come up behind him and wrapped your arms around him or placed a kiss on his cheek while he was making tea, then by all means, he would return it tenfold. But taking the initial step to begin with was something he never did.
Severus had the lesson beaten, quite literally, into his head that men who showed vulnerability and a need for the softer things made them weak. Made them pathetic. That it didn’t make him a man. It was a different story with sex. Society perpetuated that demanding and taking it, as dubious as that was, attributed masculine value to him. Of course, he never exercised such brutish behavior, nor agreed with it.
When it came to wanting your affections in general, however, the shame he had learned from a young age had always overpowered his want for it. He often suffered in silence, vibrating with the desire to swaddle you in his cloak-clad arms and litter your face and neck with kisses. So when you’d floo into his office to stay with him in the evenings and on the weekends, he felt he was forced to stand there and wait for you to give him that lovely smile, set your things down, and draw him into a hug and a kiss rather than approach you himself.
Then, it happened.
A business excursion.
You weren’t originally meant to go, but someone had fallen ill, and you were their substitute. You’d be gone for a week in Italy. Italy. A country where men were raised to be very demonstrative with their affections. Where you could, quite possibly, be stolen away from him by someone with well-groomed hair and sinful compliments. But there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was see you off and murmur words of encouragement to you before he would be officially deprived of your presence for seven gruelling days.
***
The shift was immediate.
Severus was more curt to his colleagues and harsher in his classes, his frustration mounting with every day that passed. Dumbledore had assumed something had happened between the two of you, a disagreement or fight of some kind that left him more brooding than usual. When Severus was questioned on it and answered that you were to be away in a different country for a week, the two older staff members shared a knowing look of amusement. The man was merely missing you.
Every evening, by himself, he spent in front of the fireplace, a book he would attempt to read discarded in his lap, and his head propped up on his fist, staring into the flames. You being gone forced him to think about how many moments in the span of your relationship he had wasted when he could’ve pressed his lips to yours or when you had finished organizing a cabinet, and he could’ve turned you around and slipped his arms between yours and held you close. He would never tell you this, but he missed you so badly that by day two, he had enlarged a pillow to be your size, wrapped it with one of your cloaks you had left behind that smelled strongly of you, and spooned it at night during the entirety of your absence.
On the last day of your planned trip, he had spent the entire evening after his final class pacing about his office, unnecessarily rearranging books and decorations for the millionth time, anything to keep his mind off the impatience that ate at him like termites on wood. He was acting ridiculously, and he knew it. Surely, he was not this needy, that he wasn’t creating indents in the stone floors from how intensely agitated his footfalls were. But he was at his breaking point.
Damn propriety. He needed you.
When his floo crackled with green sparks, his head snapped toward the childed masonry. There were a few more firm pops, and suddenly, WHOOSH! Green fire erupted upwards for just a second before vanishing, and in its place stood you.
It took him no longer than two seconds to cross the room.
You stepped out of the floo, hardly having a moment to set your suitcase down and look for your partner, before you were wrapped in warm black cloth and a pair of lips pressed firmly against yours.
You gasped against the kiss, taken aback by the abruptness of it until you realized it was Severus, but then your brain short-circuited further, that this was also Severus initiating. You had never minded that he didn’t, as he was always receptive to you, and his nature with most other people was more reserved, but this was still a pleasant surprise.
His mouth moved against yours passionately, his movements desperate, yet devastatingly precise in how his lips molded against yours. His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand pressing your back and the other threading in your hair, keeping you right where he wanted for now. You melted cooperatively against him, a fact that greatly relieved Severus as you matched his mouth with pleasurable hums, arms looping around his neck.
After a good minute or two, you just barely managed to separate from him to get a few gulps of much-needed air, pink-faced and panting the first syllable of his name before his mouth was back on yours, unwilling to separate for longer than even a moment. This time, while keeping his lips on you, his hands grabbed your waist and guided you hurriedly to the couch, where he hit the edge of the cushion and plopped down, dragging you with him, and manhandling your body to straddle his lap with your torso, pressing against his.
You were stunned by this sudden bout of forwardness from him and subtly wondered if this would turn sexual at all, but his hands travelled no lower than your waist, and to your relief, as you were a bit tired and just wanted to relax despite missing him.
You did your best to keep up with the way his mouth worked against yours, intoxicated by this desperate version of him that sought you without hesitation. You had noticed in the past the way he always seemed to wait for you to hug or kiss him, and not always easily; sometimes with great, visible restraint; his hands flexing at his sides were always the sign that he was trying very hard to contain the yearner in him he tried to hide deep down. But he wasn’t hiding it now.
The next time you separated, it was he who eased you back by your shoulders. Both of you were practically heaving, pink in the face as you attempted to catch your breath.
“That was a nice welcome home,” you chuckled breathlessly, cupping his face. It was an innocent statement, and really, just slipped out. Using humor to break the tension was always your go-to. However, it had the opposite effect.
Severus made an expression you could only label as him “clamming up.” His breath stilled, jaw tightening, and his eyes flicked down and away at some unknown point. It was the face he made when he was confronted over something he knew was his fault when the two of you argued. His throat bobbed a little, and his hands jumped from your shoulders to your waist with, you assumed, the intention of moving you off him.
Well, you weren’t going to have that.
Before he could apply any pressure, you caught him off guard and surged forward, pressing your body fully to his, your weight making him sink deeper back against the couch cushions as you tucked your head into the crook of his neck.
He froze.
“I missed you,” you had decidedly murmured into his ear, one arm resting on his shoulder, the other looping up so your fingers travelled up the base of his skull and scratched soothingly on his scalp, a move that never failed to make him relax.
The tension in his body from his own self-doubt began to ease somewhat, his arms coming to hesitantly wrap around you once more.
“I thought about you every day,” you continued. “And uhm…I’m sorry if you missed any of your cloaks for the week.”
Severus found his voice again. “My cloaks?”
“Yes. I…I took one from your wardrobe before I left. Just to have at night.” You blushed furiously and added far more quietly. “It was awful not being able to feel you in the bed.”
Inside, he melted at the fact that you had missed him to such a degree. That the pull toward one another was very much reciprocated. He buried his nose into your hair, sighing and tightening his hold on you.
“I missed you as well. Your absence at night was…similarly torturous.”
“Oh? Did you do anything similar to what I did?” you asked jokingly. And yet, you had felt him flinch. It was subtle, but there. Enough to tell you the truth in place of his lack of response.
You began to lean back up. “Severus, if I go to your bedroom, will I find—” Your face met his shoulder again as your head was pressed unceremoniously back into place.
“Don’t,” Severus grunted, and you could feel the heat that blazed up his neck against your forehead. He was embarrassed enough as it is. “You already know. Just…stay here,” he beseeched quietly. “Please…”
“Of course,” you whispered, with a slight laugh. “At least until my knees go numb.”
You had meant it as a joke, but Severus took such things very seriously, especially if he intended to keep you pressed against him for as long as he could. He encouraged you to sit back a little before helping you move into a more comfortable position with you sitting sideways in his lap with your head still coming to rest in the crook of his neck. Your fingers played with his hand, bringing it up to your mouth and kissing his knuckles individually.
“I know it was torturous for you,” you said quietly. “I know you have these…reservations when you want to love up on me physically. That you feel the need to wait until I do it to you.” You kissed the back of his palm and let his hand come to rest in your grasp. “And that’s alright, if it’s nerves…or you’re just self-conscious. I get it. I still love you all the same. As long as I never make you uncomfortable with my spontaneity—”
“You don’t,” Severus muttered against your hair, placing a soft kiss on your head. “You never do. Don’t ever stop. Otherwise…”
💌Severus Snape x Herbology Professor(or intern/new professor)!Reader
💭SFW: Fluff, kind of slowburn ish, Snape falling in love for you, Snape asks you out at the end, reader being kind of oblivious to Snape’s feelings, McGonagall not so secretly rooting for you
A/N: This was a request I got a long while ago that I forgot to publish and then I accidentally deleted my entire inbox ago like a week and a half ago… oops. Still working on that Harry smut, energy has been finicky and I’m also running out of title names so…enjoy! Also I kind of made up herbs here so....I can't remember if everything mentioned is genuinely in Harry Potter. I got lazy, ok?
—
The last rays of sun filtered in through the greenhouse glass, casting long amber streaks across the rows of plants. The warmth of the day still clung to the air, mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil and fresh herbs. You were bent over a tray of dittany, carefully snipping the mature stems, fingertips smudged green and brown.
A faint click of the door opening broke the quiet.
“I assumed this time of day would afford me some peace,” came the familiar drawl, dry as ever.
You didn’t look up right away, too focused on trimming the final sprig just so. “It usually does. But Pomona let me stay late—she’s already gone for the evening.”
You turned then, wiping your hands on the edge of your robe. “If you’re here for your asphodel, I set aside a few roots. The good ones.”
Snape paused, half-shadowed in the doorway, robes billowing slightly with the breeze that followed him in. “You’ve taken to preparing them for me now, have you?”
You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Well, you don’t like when the third-years mangle it. Figured I’d save us both the trouble.”
He stepped forward slowly, eyeing the basket of sorted roots with a furrowed brow that wasn’t quite irritation. You knew that look by now—it was his version of…appreciation, maybe.
“You’re far too accommodating,” he muttered, reaching for the basket.
You tilted your head. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”
There was a beat of silence. He didn’t respond, not directly. Instead, he took the basket and turned away, muttering something that might have been “Hmph. At least someone here is competent.”
As he pushed the door open, you called gently after him, “You’re welcome, Severus.”
He paused again. Just briefly. Didn’t turn back. But the door closed a little more gently than usual behind him.
—
The last of the students had filed out in a flurry of parchment and scuffed shoes, leaving behind the usual aftermath—dried potions clinging to cauldrons, the faint scent of burnt lavender, and his patience hanging by a thread. Snape waved his wand with a practiced flick, vanishing the worst of the mess, but left the benches and shelves untouched.
He glanced at the time.
You were usually in the dungeons by now, carrying that blasted basket of herbs and trimmed ingredients like it was second nature. No fanfare. No knock. Just a soft rustle of robes and the gentle thud of the basket placed near his desk.
But the hallway outside was silent.
He paced once behind his desk, then again. Sat. Stood up. Adjusted the jars along the side shelf with more force than needed.
Ridiculous.
He had no use for distractions. Least of all ones that came in the shape of a professor too kind for your own good—offering him perfect snips of monkshood and bundles of fresh lavender, leaving little parchment notes in neat handwriting:
“Figured you’d want this batch—fresh from greenhouse three. ”
He still had yesterday’s note tucked under a stack of unused parchment, though he told himself it was only because he might need to reference it later.
Another glance at the time.
Then, as if summoned—soft footsteps echoed down the hall. A pause. The faint creak of the classroom door, opening just a bit.
Your voice, a quiet breath of warmth in the gloom:
“Sorry I’m late. I got caught up de-thorning the wandwood. Nasty thing today.”
Snape didn’t move at first. He just blinked at you from behind his desk, caught somewhere between relief and something far more irritating.
You stepped fully inside, brushing a stray leaf from your sleeve as you set the basket down. “I brought extra. Pomona said the next few weeks might be rough with the way the fluxweed’s reacting to the moon cycle.”
Still, he said nothing. Just looked at you. A little too long.
“…Is everything alright?” you asked finally, uncertain.
Snape cleared his throat. “Perfectly fine,” he said, voice clipped. “You’re late.”
You raised an eyebrow, more amused than offended. “Didn’t know you timed my deliveries.”
“I don’t.”
You only smiled, starting to turn to go. “Alright, then. I’ll be out of your way.”
But this time, he spoke before you reached the door.
“…I expect the same quality tomorrow,” he said, low and almost gruff. “If you’re planning to make a habit of it.”
You turned back, eyes bright with just the hint of a knowing smile. “Of course, Professor.”
And then you left. And he stood there for a moment longer than he meant to, listening to the echo of your footsteps as they faded down the corridor.
The kettle was whistling gently in the corner as you poured yourself a cup of tea, the clink of ceramic and quiet shuffle of parchment the only sounds in the room. A rare moment of peace between classes.
“Ah, there you are,” came McGonagall’s voice, crisp and familiar, as she stepped inside with a small stack of essays in hand. “I thought I saw you duck in.”
You smiled over your shoulder. “Just grabbing a quick cup. The third-years nearly destroyed my entire bench this morning trying to identify waterweed.”
She tsked sympathetically, setting her papers down and conjuring a second cup for herself. “Better yours than mine,” she murmured, then took a sip. “Though I must say—Herbology seems to be agreeing with more than just your students lately.”
You blinked, turning slightly. “…Pardon?”
McGonagall’s expression didn’t change much, but there was an unmistakable gleam in her eyes. “Severus has been… unusually tolerable these past few weeks.”
Your brows lifted. “Tolerable?”
“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she said, waving a hand. “I’m quite fond of the man in my own way, but I’ve known Severus for decades. He doesn’t do pleasant unless something’s caused it—or someone.”
Heat began creeping up your neck, but you busied yourself with stirring your tea. “Maybe he’s just been getting more sleep.”
“I highly doubt that,” McGonagall quipped, then added more softly, “He’s been speaking quite highly of the new monkshood you brought in. Very precise. And I’ve heard him recommend your tincture preservation methods to Slughorn.”
You blinked. “He… recommended me?”
“Mmhmm.” She glanced at you over her glasses. “So whatever it is you’ve been bringing down to those dungeons—it’s working.”
You chuckled nervously, pressing the rim of your cup to your lips to hide your smile. “It’s just plants, Minerva.”
“Yes,” she said, tone far too knowing, “and perhaps something a bit more human than that.”
And with that, she turned back to her papers, utterly serene, like she hadn’t just thrown your morning into a tailspin.
Your knuckles tapped gently against the heavy door of his office. It was half open—rare. Even rarer that the flickering firelight within actually gave the place a warm glow.
“Come in,” came that familiar, velvet-dry voice.
You stepped inside, arms cradling the satchel of fresh-cut lovage and yarrow. “Brought your request, Professor.”
“Must you always call me that?” he asked, barely glancing up from his parchment. “We’re both professors.”
You smiled faintly as you walked closer, noting the way his hand had paused mid-sentence. “Habit, I guess.”
Snape looked up then—really looked—and his expression softened almost imperceptibly. You didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered. You never did.
“I harvested the yarrow early this morning,” you added, laying the bundle gently across a cleared space on his desk. “Before the sun fully crested. It’s more potent that way.”
He nodded, fingertips brushing the stalks like they were something rare. “Of course you’d know that.”
There was something in his tone. Not sarcasm, not dismissive. Just… low, quiet appreciation. It made your chest tighten.
“You always bring exactly what I need,” he said after a beat, voice even softer now. “Even before I realize I’ve run out.”
You shrugged gently, watching him with careful eyes. “That’s what colleagues are for.”
But he didn’t answer.
Instead, he stood.
He didn’t loom the way others claimed he did—no, this was different. Hesitant. Like he was standing on the edge of something he hadn’t allowed himself to want in years. Maybe ever.
“I’m not…” he started, then stopped. Frowned. Tried again. “I don’t do this.”
You tilted your head. “Do what?”
He stepped closer. “This. Whatever this is between us.”
Your breath hitched.
“I’ve watched you flit about this castle with a smile that could undo the very seams of a man’s restraint,” he said, voice low. “And yet, you never seem to notice the effect you have. On me.”
A silence stretched. You felt it crackling between you like static.
And then, almost shyly—almost—he reached out, fingers brushing yours. Testing.
“If I were to ask if I might… take you to Hogsmeade. Not as a colleague. Not as a favor.” His eyes held yours. “But as a man very foolishly falling for you.”
Your heart soared.
You stepped closer, letting your fingers slip fully into his hand.
“I’d say yes,” you murmured. “Even if you are a little foolish.”
His mouth quirked upward. Just slightly. Just enough.
And in the quiet of his dungeon office, for the first time in far too long, Severus Snape let himself feel hope.
Counting tales was so good, I fear we need a pt 2!!
If you were inclined to write a part 2, maybe one with a role reversal, where the reader has to coax Severus to bed (given he’s also a hypocrite and neglects himself??)
And maybe in this fic he might realise his feelings are reciprocated…? 🥺👉👈
𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: Severus Snape x Female Professor Reader
𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴: Fluff
𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃: 5k
𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂:None
Summary: Severus attempts to bribe you into getting some much-needed rest, knowing your tendency to overwork yourself… only for you to discover that, this time, he may need just as much convincing when it comes to his own sleep.
Author’s Note: I truly enjoyed writing this after my break from Tumblr. It feels wonderful to return with renewed energy and inspiration. I’ll definitely be writing more for our dear Severus, I’ve missed him quite a bit. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you love this one.
Counting Tales of Midnight
Part two of Counting Tales
Severus Snape Masterlist | Main Masterlist
The clock in the corridor chimed midnight, the sound rolling through the castle halls like a distant ripple in still water.
You had been ready for bed technically. Sleeping wear on, essays stacked neatly for tomorrow, wand idly tucked between your fingers as you tidied the last stubborn wrinkle from your uniform with a soft flick of magic. A habit you had developed over the past few weeks… ever since Severus Snape had begun appearing, without fail, somewhere around this hour, checking wordlessly, reluctantly that you had actually gone to sleep.
Tonight, though, he hadn’t come.
And you told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself that twice.
By the third time you found yourself sitting at your desk staring at the door, you stopped pretending. With a quiet sigh that felt far too dramatic for someone in pajamas, you stood, grabbed your wand, and made your way down toward the dungeons light trailing faintly ahead of you like a small, stubborn star refusing to be swallowed by stone.
His office door was ajar. Of course it was.
living in this castle was a suspense as it is.. You pushed it open just enough to slip inside. The room was dim, lit only by the low, hypnotic glow beneath a simmering cauldron. Shadows moved lazily along the stone walls. The air smelled like crushed asphodel and something sharper metallic, almost ink-dark, like secrets left too long in the open.
Severus Snape stood hunched over his desk, entirely absorbed, searching for something among jars and parchment like the rest of the world simply did not exist.
You cleared your throat softly.
"i believe its already midnight unless my clock got bewitched "
Without looking up, he drawls softly, silk over steel.
“Your observational skills remain intact, Professor. A relief, considering you teach Astronomy.”
“Oh hush, don't underestimate my observing skills I don't need a telescope to see such details you'll be suprised what I see” you said.
He stirs the potion once precisely counterclockwise before finally lifting his dark eyes to meet yours. They flicker, briefly, betraying something warmer than irritation.
“Time,” he continues quietly, “is a flexible construct in the pursuit of excellence.”
His gaze travels over your form in the doorway, lingering just a second too long before returning to the parchment beside him.
“And yet… here you are. At one in the morning.”
"Twelve" you corrected
"It's still the same in spirit” he said A faint arch of his brow as he looked at you proving his point.
“Have the stars aligned in such a way that you felt compelled to supervise my bedtime, Professor?”
"Well, usually you'd visit my office telling me to go to bed...which actually I did. But I came to check on you since I didn't find you checking on me I find it fair to return the favor.....but finding you at this hour” you paused looking at his desk and then back at him rather dramatically stressing your point. “you know I find this quite unfair. "
Snape’s quill stills mid-stroke before looking up at you wondering what you mean, he Slowly and deliberately, sets his notebook aside and furrowed his brows.
“Unfair?” He tastes the word as though it might be poisonous as he thought about it, never in his moments with you he wanted you to feel that way, he cared for what you might think. And it worried him.
“I was unaware I had entered into a contractual obligation to escort you to your chambers each evening.”
Yet there is no real bite in his tone only a quiet undercurrent of something else. His dark eyes rise to yours again, studying your expressions to see if you were offended but he found none.
“You went to bed,” he repeats quietly, almost to himself. “Without protest?” he asked suprised. He leans back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
“Yes Severus, Im not a little child that needs lifting to get to bed” you said raising your chin high in confidence.
“Oh…” he said “you did act like one.”
You gasped dramatically acting Offended making him look at you with a small grin forming on his lips.
“if I knew this would be the out that I failed to appear… you'd come searching.” he said rather amused of the thought. Little did you know he felt his heart flutter of the thought that in the world so dark there was still someone who cared to look for him even then so.
“Tell me, Professor… is it concern for a colleague that brings you into the dungeons at this hour?” His voice lowers, the room seeming to narrow around them.
“Or have you grown… accustomed to my insistence?”*
You grinned as you walked closer to his desk on the side where he was sitting on his wooden chair you took a seat on the top his desk
"well I be lying if I'd say I didn't got use to you pulling me to my bed and reading to me...with your voice lulling be to sleep” you said “ It be a bonus if you had carried me" you said fiddling with a pencil before looking at him through your lashes
Severus froze on his seat, he wasn't customer to a woman. Especially you sitting on his desk. He may have had thought about it before, seeing other couples do it. At some point he also thought about…would he one day experience such thing also.
Your presence so close perched upon his desk, invading the careful order of parchment and vials should irritate him.
But…It didnt.
His gaze lowers to where your fingers toy with the pencil, then lifts slowly to meet your eyes beneath your lashes. The flicker there is unmistakable dark, intent, and far too warm for a man who prides himself on restraint.
He may have control but he was also a man.
He rises from his chair in one fluid motion, tall and imposing, closing the small distance between you. One hand comes to rest beside you on the desk, trapping you gently between his arm and the polished wood. The other lifts, long fingers brushing the pencil from your grasp and setting it aside.
“You adapt quickly to indulgence,” he murmurs. “A very…very dangerous trait.” he said.
His eyes search your face, all sardonic edges softened as you meet his eyes.
“You should know better than to tempt a man who spends his evenings brewing volatile substances.” he paused looking at your reaction before His voice drops further.
“Is that so” you said raising a brow.
“I did not come tonight,” he admits quietly, “because I believed you capable of sleeping without my supervision.” His hand fiddles your white nightgown that pooled on his wooden desk.
“And yet… here you are. Seeking it.”
You looked up at him with a small smile
almost teasing.
"Correction professor." You said
"I came here to check on you in return since you are one hypocrite love.” You said making Severus shift hearing the word as you continued
“Because you tell me to go to bed saying it's not good for me to stay up late, only for you to stay up this late" you grinned.
For a fleeting second, something dangerously close to a smile ghosts across his lips at the nickname he never heard someone call him that way before but it was endearing enough to be tempted…and you saying it already got his attention hooked.
“A strong accusation.”
His hand settles at your waist gently as a gentleman could muster,. His thumb shifts slightly against the fabric of your robes. Your breath hitched in a small inaudible gasp
“I instruct you to rest,” he murmurs, leaning just enough that his voice brushes your ear, “because you exhaust yourself charting constellations until dawn. You forget to eat….You forget to sleep.”
“I,” he continues, straightening slightly, eyes holding yours,
“am quite accustomed to functioning on little rest.” His gaze softens despite himself.
“Though it appears I am less accustomed to being… monitored.” His fingers tighten ever so slightly at your waist.
“You came down into the dungeons at one in the morning to ensure I was not overworking myself..
“That is either reckless… or deeply affectionate.” His dark brow arches.
“Which shall I record in my notes, Professor?”*
“Maybe you should record first is your sleep Severus" you said giving him a knowing look. "potions can wait tomorrow." You said using his way of words, quoting him basically…his eyes narrow slightly at your attempt to turn his own words against him though the faintest hint of amusement lingers beneath the surface.
“Quoting me to myself,” he murmurs. “A bold strategy.”
“I am,” he says quietly, with a touch of dry emphasis, “perfectly capable of determining when my work may be postponed.”
“And still… you insist.”
His thumb shifts slightly, almost absent-minded against your side, betraying that your presence has already disrupted whatever discipline he claimed to have.
“You should be asleep,” he adds, though the reprimand has lost all its edge. “That was, if I recall, the entire purpose of my… nightly visits.”
You hummed and shrugged a shoulder.
He studies you expression, searching, as if weighing something unspoken.
“…and yet you came for me instead.”
“If I were to humor this… intervention of yours…”
His brow lifts faintly.
“..what precisely are you proposing, Professor? That I abandon my work and allow myself to be… escorted?”
"yes professor, unless you prefer me dragging you to your quarter since... blackmailing you won't work I know" you said with a grin, you know games like this you had been a professor long enough to know People with a look in the eye.
"Which do you prefer most?" You asked moving closer fiddling with the table.
For a moment, Snape paused, finding this entertaining. “Dragging me,” he repeats softly, a trace of incredulity laced with something far more intrigued than offended. His gaze flickers down briefly to where your fingers toy with the table, then back up to meet your eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches almost a smirk, but far too restrained to fully form.
“You do seem to possess a rather… ambitious view of your capabilities, Professor.”
He steps closer just enough that the distance between them vanishes entirely. His hand at your waist steadies you as he leans in slightly, his voice dropping to that familiar, intimate murmur.
“And yet,” he adds, quieter now, “I find myself curious to see you attempt it.”
His eyes search yours, dark and unreadable, before softening just a fraction.
“However,” he continues, tone shifting less teasing, more deliberate, “I suspect neither dragging nor blackmail will be necessary.”
His hand slips away from your waist, though not without reluctance.
“I will… concede,” he says, the word clearly chosen with care, “that postponing my work for a few hours will not result in catastrophic failure.”
He straightens, regaining some of his usual composure, though his gaze lingers on you a second too long.
“Lead the way, then.”
A faint arch of his brow, voice low and smooth again:
“Since you appear so determined to ensure I follow my own advice.”
You took his hand gently to make sure he won't go back to his seat which he tried.
Snape’s hand twitched toward the cauldron again, fingers brushing the worn edge as if some invisible thread still tied him to the potion’s steady simmer. His gaze flicked toward it sharp, calculating, almost reluctant as though abandoning it for even a moment felt like a personal failing.
“I—” he began tightly, already searching for an excuse, “I forgot to cover the potion.”
He turned with deliberate precision, reaching for a cloth as if the act of leaving unfinished work behind were itself intolerable. Every movement was controlled, measured an attempt to regain dominance over his own distraction.
But your hand closed gently around his.
Firm and Certain. The motion halted him more effectively than any command ever could.
His fingers stilled mid-reach, tension tightening through his arm as his attention shifted back to you. For a moment, he simply stared, as though trying to reconcile the simplicity of the gesture with the way it unraveled his intent.
“I—there is also…” he started again, voice lower now, less certain, “the ingredients. They are… delicate tonight.”
Another excuse.
Another attempt at retreat into routine.
Sigh…Severus…
But you didn’t let go.
Instead, you guided him with quiet insistence, your hand sliding to his back, the contact steady and grounding. He stiffened at the touch just for a heartbeat like a man unused to being steered by anything other than his own will.
“The cauldron won’t walk,” you said softly, coaxing rather than commanding. “You can continue it tomorrow.”
Then, quieter…almost teasing “You’re rather stubborn for an adult.”
That finally drew a faint reaction. His jaw tightened, not in anger, but in resignation edged with reluctant awareness. His eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, as though weighing the gravity of surrendering even this small piece of control.
“I am perfectly aware,” he murmured at last, voice low and restrained. Still, he didn’t resist as you guided him away from the desk.
Step by step, the pull of the potion faded behind him, replaced by something far more disarming the warmth of your hand at his back, the steady presence beside him, the unsettling ease with which you displaced his discipline.
By the time they reached the threshold of his quarters, the tension in him had not vanished but it had changed shape.
Less resistance.
He paused there, the torchlight catching the sharp lines of his face as he looked at you again longer this time, quieter.
“…Tomorrow,” he said at last, voice softer, “the potion can indeed wait.” And this time, when he finally moved forward, he did not turn back.
The door clicked shut, the soft sound echoing through Severus’s quarters and settling into the silence between them. Torchlight flickered along the stone walls, casting warm, wavering shadows that made the room feel smaller like the air itself had shifted.
You remained by the door for only a moment before moving toward him, gesturing gently for him to sit on the bed. Severus complied without protest, watching you with a quiet, unreadable stillness that never quite masked how aware he was of your presence.
Then, almost instinctively, you reached for him. Your fingers moved with careful purpose as you adjusted and unclasped his outer robes, straightening what had been slightly disheveled from the day.
It was practical, nothing more or at least that was what you told yourself at first. But the realization crept in slowly, subtle as breath: how close you were standing, how your hands lingered, how personal the act had become.
He sits on the edge of the bed, rigid in posture, eyes dark and calculating as always but tonight, they betray the faintest tremor of vulnerability. you moved with quiet efficiency, unclasping his robe as if it were the simplest task in the world, yet the brush of your fingers against his skin sends a ripple through him. The warmth of your presence, the gentleness of your touch, the sheer audacity of your care…it was intoxicating.
He does not protest. Nor because he is accustomed to this, but because the fluttering in his chest is far too distracting to resist.
A man so used to control, so used to command, finds himself willingly undone by a single, deliberate act of affection.
When you noticed his eyes widen an almost imperceptible hitch in his breath you faltered for a second, realizing the intimacy of your actions.
Yet Severus does not pull away.
If anything, his posture softens, a quiet acknowledgment that this attention, this closeness is something he rarely allows himself to feel.
“I might get used to this,” he mutters, voice low, threading the words with humor and sincerity, the attempt at a joke barely masking the truth beneath.
Your eyes flick to his, and for a long heartbeat, the room holds still two people suspended in that fragile, buzzing tension between love, desire, and trust. He shifts slightly, the barest exhale, allowing himself to relax into your care while still maintaining that shadow of his ever-present composure.
It’s intimate… delicate…. And yet, for Severus Snape, it feels… dangerously close to home, something that he didn't fear he'll fall into abyss of another harm.
You back away Alittle just one step…your hands letting go for a moment when you realized what you were doing..
"I'm sorry...I should have asked first" you said. Severus's dark eyes lock onto yours the instant you hesitated, a flash of something almost… fierce, tempered by care. His hand closes gently but firmly around your wrist, halting you to step before you can retreat further.
“You… need not apologize,” he says, voice low, velvety, carrying that rare softness reserved for you alone.
He tilts his head just slightly, studying you, reading the quick flutter in your chest and the tiny hesitation in your gaze.
The shadows of the room play over his sharp features, making his intensity almost tangible. For once, there is no sarcasm, no bite just the man beneath all that sternness.. stripped of pretense, quietly tethering you with the simple act of holding your hand.
“Do you think I would… let you leave,” he murmurs, the edge of a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips, “after standing here, caring for me?”
His thumb brushes lightly over your skin in reassurance, the motion deliberate and grounding. The tension in the air eases just enough for you to realize that he isn’t angry, only protective and more importantly, he isn’t going anywhere.
(I mean…really…theres only one door…unless he uses the window, anyway!!)
“You are here,” he continues, softer now, “because you choose to be. And I… wish you would stay.”
His gaze held yours, unwavering, almost daring you to pull away, though the warmth in his eyes assured you that you were safe, that you are wanted, and that whatever hesitance you feel is shared, understood, and gently coaxed away.
The room hums with quiet intimacy, their hands still connected, the night holding its breath around them.
You nodded softly
"very well then" you said in a low voice almost like a whisper.
As you resumed removing his cloak and hanging it on the chair.
Severus watches your every movement, the quiet grace with which you hanged his cloak making the shadows of the room dance across your features.
The tension between them hums in the air, almost tangible, like the sharp tang of potion fumes mixed with something sweeter something unspoken and intimate.
When he speaks, it is barely more than a whisper, yet it lands with weight, pressing against the space between them.
“Have I ever told you,” he murmurs, voice low and deliberate, “that your eyes… truly hold the stars? No telescope, no magic… could capture what I see in them.”
Your hands falter slightly on the suit collar, caught between the mundane task and the gravity of his words.
The faintest blush blooms across your cheeks, and for a moment, you felt utterly exposed beneath the intensity of his gaze.
“I… no,” you stammers softly, your voice almost swallowed by the quiet of the room.
He shifted closer, the subtle scrape of his shoes against the stone floor barely audible, closing the gap until the heat from his presence brushes against yours. His dark eyes are fixed on you and only you , unrelenting yet tender, every shadow of his usual sternness softened by the warmth he cannot or will not hide.
His hand, previously resting at his side, rises slowly, deliberate, until his fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your cheek. The touch is feather-light, reverent, and it makes the room feel impossibly small, as if the walls themselves have drawn closer to witness the fragile intimacy unfolding.
“You,” he breathes, voice thick with a rare vulnerability, “are… unlike anyone I’ve ever known.”
The words hang between them, heavy and intimate, carrying more weight than any potion, any spell, any lecture he has ever given. And in that silence, the stars themselves seem to echo in the dark depths of his eyes.
You looked at him, not noticing the closeness "and why's that Severus?" You asked your eyes, glancing at his lips and his dark eyes.
Severus catches the flicker of your gaze, the subtle, dangerous drift from his eyes to his lips. For a heartbeat, he stiffens every ounce of his discipline screaming for restrain but the warmth of your presence, the blush that still lingers on your cheeks, tugs at something far older and quieter in him.
“Why…” he murmurs, voice low and rough around the edges, almost a growl swallowed beneath his calm, “because you… see things. Feel things. In a way no one else… bothers to notice. And you…”
His words falter, but the intensity in his dark gaze never wavers, the storm beneath the surface made visible only in the way his pupils darken, the faint quiver of his jaw, the slow, deliberate inhale he takes as he closes the last few inches between them.
“You move… me,” he admits, quieter than a whisper, “in ways I cannot… name.”
His hand, previously hovering, now slides gently to your cheek, thumb brushing along the soft curve, grounding yet intimate. The heat of his palm against your skin sends a flutter through you, and the closeness of his chest so near, the faint scent of potion and something uniquely him, makes the air between them thrum.
His lips are a mere breath away from yours now, and he holds your gaze, dark eyes locking with yours, testing, daring you to meet the pull he can no longer resist.
“If that is not… enough reason, I hardly know what could be.”
The room grows impossibly still around them, the tension thick, palpable, like the calm before a storm. And for once, Severus Snape allows himself to be utterly, entirely… vulnerable.
You closed the gap cupping his face gently capturing his lips so gently before Severus returned it hungrily. Something of a result of holding back too long. Severus freezes for a heartbeat as your hands cup his face, the warmth of your touch anchoring him in the moment. Then, instinct takes over something that has been simmering beneath his controlled exterior for far too long. His lips meet yours, first with a slow, cautious pressure, tasting, testing… and then with the ferocity of all the restraint he’s held in check.
It’s a kiss that speaks of years of buried desire, of longing held too tightly, of stolen glances and unspoken confessions. His hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer, letting the heat between them build without apology. The bed dips beneath them as he gradually lowers himself back, keeping you pressed against him, every inch of motion deliberate yet urgent.
When they finally break apart, just centimeters apart, his dark eyes wide, raw, and intensely alive capture yours. The faintest whisper of breath escapes him, mingling with yours in the quiet of the room.
“Oh… dear,” you murmured, the words slipping out almost involuntarily, betraying the flutter in your chest.
He leans closer again, voice a low rumble, still near your lips, still carrying the weight of his yearning.
“You… you should not do that,” he breathes, though the protest is hollow, almost teasing. “Not… not when I am this… unprepared.”
His hands linger on your back, one cupping your cheek now, the other tracing the line of your spine, both a tether and a promise. The room feels suspended, charged with the quiet intensity of two hearts finally acknowledging what’s been simmering between them for so long.
And for Severus Snape, every controlled, measured part of him trembles with the delight and danger of finally surrendering just a little to you.
"unprepared?" You asked suprised. "Sounds like I'm the one unprepared unlike you"
Severus lets out a low, almost inaudible hum, the kind that vibrates somewhere deep in his chest. His dark eyes soften, glinting with a mixture of amusement and something far more dangerous desire restrained by the faintest thread of composure.
“Unprepared…” he repeats, voice rough, almost teasing despite the fire in his gaze. “I… perhaps I should have anticipated this… but it seems,”his hand slides from you cheek to your waist, holding you just a fraction closer “that my… careful control has failed spectacularly.”
He tilts his head slightly, lips brushing a whisper away from you, close enough for the warmth of his breath to tease your skin.
“You speak as though you are the one unprepared,” he murmurs, tone deep, low, and teasingly scolding. “Yet… here you are. Courageous. Bold. And… far too irresistible.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, a rare, dark smile flickering. He leans in just a little closer, the tension of restraint threading through him like electricity, his eyes searching yours as though asking silently if you truly meant to push him this far.
“Perhaps… it is I who have underestimated you,” he whispers, voice thick, deliberate, a low rumble of both warning and admiration.
The air between them hums, the night holding its breath around the soft rustle of bedcovers and the quiet, dangerous intimacy of two people finally letting the world fall away.
you looked at him. You smiled at him "I never expected you'd love me back.." you said with truth and pain in your disbelief.
Severus freezes for the briefest moment, his dark eyes locking onto yours. Your words hang in the air, fragile yet bold, and for once, all of his usual composure falters. The sharpness that usually shields him melts into something raw, something entirely unguarded.
“You… expected otherwise?” he murmurs, voice low and husky, each word deliberate, as if tasting the confession before letting it leave his lips.
He leans closer, the faint brush of his nose against you making the air between them electric. His hand moves slowly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, lingering at your cheek with a tenderness that betrays the storm beneath his exterior.
“I…” he begins, dark eyes flicking to your lips, then back to your eyes, “I have… never been one to… display affection frivolously.”
The corners of his mouth twitch, almost breaking into a small, private smile reserved for you alone.
“But you…” His fingers tighten slightly on your waist, drawing you a fraction closer. “…you are not frivolous. You have always… been… significant.”
He pauses, letting the weight of the words settle, the room heavy with quiet intimacy, their breaths mingling.
“And,” he murmurs, almost a whisper, “…I have loved you, in the ways that… matter. In ways I… never thought I could.”
His eyes search yours, dark, intense, and undeniably sincere a man who has spent years mastering every emotion finally allowing himself to speak the one truth he never could hide from you.
The tension softens just enough for a faint, almost imperceptible smile to grace his lips, as if admitting a secret he’s carried alone for far too long.
"well, now you know...that I feel that same Severus" you said gently placing your hand on his cheek brushing away his hair with a small lovesick smile.
Severus catches the soft brush of your hand against his cheek, the tender motion unraveling the last threads of his restraint. Your small, lovesick smile sends a shiver down his spine, and for a heartbeat, he simply drinks you, the curve of your lips, the warmth of your touch, the halo of hair splayed across the bed like a crown.
"This is rather... scandalous don't you think?" You said Alittle shy. After all you two are professors of a school and rumors are…indescribable fast.
He leans closer, the air between them charged and heavy, every breath shared in that quiet space. He held your leg raising it to give him room, his dark eyes flick to you with a mixture of restrained amusement and undeniable desire.
“Scandalous,” he murmurs, voice low, velvet-dark, a trace of a smirk tugging at his lips, “is one word for it.”
His fingers trace the line of your jaw with deliberate care, a slow, measured touch that contrasts sharply with the heat simmering beneath the surface. He hovers just above yours, the faint scent of your skin mingling with the lingering traces of potion and the night, making it impossible to think rationally.
“And yet,” he adds, eyes locking on yours, “it seems… entirely… unavoidable.”
There’s a pause as his gaze softens just a fraction, the storm behind his dark eyes tempered by tenderness. His lips hover over yours, barely an inch away, every muscle coiled in tension, waiting for permission or perhaps daring you to take the next step.
Even in the quiet intimacy of his quarters, the night feels electric, each heartbeat syncing with the unsaid confession: that this… this moment, scandalous as it may be, is exactly where they both belong.
You gave him the permission to kiss you Severus’s lips linger near yours, tasting the permission you offered, the warmth of your skin searing through every careful layer of his restraint. His dark eyes darken further, pupils dilated, every inch of him leaning into the closeness, the intimacy he’s long denied himself. For a fleeting moment, the world narrows to nothing but the rise and fall of your chest, the soft brush of your hair, the intoxicating scent that clings to you.
Then, just as suddenly, you broke the kiss, with grin mischievous and teasing. His chest tightens, a groan of both frustration and amusement escaping him as you spoke.
“Not to spoil the fun… but… I think you better rest, Severus.”
The words land like a spell, precise and unyielding. For a heartbeat, he freezes, gaze flicking to you with a mixture of disbelief and mock outrage. Then a low, dark chuckle escapes him, rich with humor and exasperation.
“Curse you,” he mutters under his breath, throwing his head back against the pillow, letting out a dramatic groan. “You remembered… as if that will… make it easier!”
Even as he curses, the corners of his lips twitch into a reluctant, dark grin. The tension between them lingers, the playful spark in your eyes fueling a warmth in him he cannot deny, even as exhaustion tugs at the edges of his control.
He settles back, though still close enough that every subtle movement of you brushes against him, the night still crackling with unspoken promises, desire, and that delicate thread of intimacy only they share.
You chuckled at his damatics, you shifted closer to him placing your head on his chest.
Severus feels the shift before it fully settles the soft weight of your head on his chest, the subtle warmth pressing against him. His hand, almost instinctively, moves to rest atop yourd, fingers brushing along yours with careful gentleness. For a man so used to control, the sensation of your trust, so close and intimate, is quietly disarming.
"Don't worry Im not going anywhere" you said
“Hm…” he murmurs, voice low and rough, a soft exhale betraying the faintest crack in his usual composure. “I suppose… that is… acceptable.”
He tilts his head slightly, listening to the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the quiet sound grounding him in a way no potion, no book, no spell ever could. The room is hushed, the only movement the slow, subtle shift of their bodies as they settle together under the dim torchlight.
He allows himself a rare, almost imperceptible smile at that, dark eyes glancing down at you. The tension, the longing, the storm that had raged moments before now softens into something quieter something he has long denied himself but now… finds undeniably necessary.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice almost a purr of contentment. “Because… neither am I.”
He adjusts slightly, letting you shift closer, fingers entwining gently, every inch of him relaxing just enough to savor this closeness, the trust, the quiet intimacy of simply being together.
For Severus Snape, it is both a surrender and a quiet victory, a moment of peace stolen from a life usually filled with shadow.
A little note?
He did sleep rather deeply holding you like for the first time of his life he managed to get a proper rest knowing he is safe in your arms.
Parings: Professor!Severus Snape x Professor!Fem!Reader
Summary: You and Severus had two things in common—grief and protecting Harry Potter. Though, you took different approaches in protecting the boy, you might end up saving something else you didn’t even know was there.
CW: everything that comes with the movies, angsty, Snape is taller than reader is you squint, fluff, kinda idiots in love, slow burn-ish, anxious reader, close proximity, smoochy kiss, Dumbledoor being Dumbledoor, timeline is meh, mentions of y/n, not proofread, if I missed anything lemme know! This was lowkey a fever dream. I imagined Fem!Reader but reader isn’t really descriptive.
It was your turn to make rounds after curfew. You had taken notice that Severus had ended up on the same schedule. Ultimately, you didn't mind it. The two of you weren't necessarily on bad terms; you just couldn't see eye to eye on certain things. One of them is Harry Potter. You couldn't understand why he directed his grief towards the boy. Sure, you also grieved Lily, but you didn't fault Harry for it. If anything, you loved the boy's presence. He had Lily's eyes and certainly acted like his father. It was as if they never left.
Being on the same schedule as Severus had its perks. You've turned a blind eye to Harry sneaking around past curfew multiple times. Though Harry didn't know you were also helping him avoid crossing paths with Severus. Except tonight, you weren't expecting Harry to escape so soon after curfew.
Before you rounded the corner, you heard Severus's voice echoing lowly.
"Out of bed. Again."
You approached the two before fear could root the boy in place.
"He was with me, Severus." The lie smooth on your tongue. "I asked him to assist me in my classroom."
His eyes slide to yours, twitching into a squint. "How fortunate for Mr. Potter," he drawls, "to be so...useful."
You feigned a small smile with a hum in agreement. Giving Harry a soft pat on his back, you nodded your head past Severus. "Back to your dorm, Harry."
He hesitates, glancing between you both. Snape's gaze narrows.
"Yes," he says quietly. "Do run along."
Harry leaves with a sharp nod. The silence stretched thin soon after. When you finally looked back up at Severus, his eyes were already on you. You knew he could see through your lie.
"Must you interfere?" Annoyance filled his tone.
"Must you be so cold?" You countered, glancing away and out the windows that lined the left of the hallway. You could feel his eyes on you.
"You're coddling him." He finally replied, making your lips twitch into a frown.
"He didn't ask for this."
"He's starting to ask for it and you're letting him."
His words sent a pain through your chest. "I won't let anything happen to him." You were sure of your ability, even if you died trying.
Severus’s expression didn’t change at first, but something flickered behind his eyes. Irritation, yes. But not only that.
“Your certainty,” he said slowly, “has always been your most…dangerous trait.”
You let out a quiet breath, folding your arms loosely, more to steady yourself than to guard. “And your refusal to feel anything has always been yours.”
There was a pause. You had always been quick witted and he annoyingly appreciated that about you.
The mage lights hover softly along the walls, their light dancing across his face, catching the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth.
“You presume much,” he murmured.
You stayed silent. For a moment, the years seemed to press in around you. Echoes of laughter in sunlit corridors, of whispered conversations that had once come easily. Of a girl with bright eyes and impossible kindness, who had stood between you both more times than either of you deserved.
His gaze dropped before returning to yours.
“You think I would allow anything to happen to him?” he asked, quieter now. It softened something in you.
“No,” you admitted. “I don’t.”
Another stretch of silence. Less brittle and more understood.
Your voice lowered. “We’re on the same side, Severus. Whether you like it or not.”
His lip curled faintly, though the bite lacked its usual venom. “A most unfortunate alignment.”
You almost smiled. “Then stop making it harder,” you said gently. “He’s just a boy. He doesn’t need to be afraid of you, too.”
“He needs discipline.”
“He needs balance.”
His eyes held yours, searching and measuring, as if trying to find weakness in something that wasn’t there.
“And you believe you provide that?” he asked.
“I know I do.”
Something in his posture shifted then. “…He looks at you,” Severus said after a moment, voice low, “as though you hung the stars.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the observation. “And that bothers you?” you asked softly.
His jaw tightened. “It is…unwise,” he said. “Attachment clouds judgment.”
A small, sad smile touched your lips. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
That struck deeper than you intended. You saw it in the way his shoulders stilled, in the near imperceptible hitch of breath he did not allow to fully form. Carefully, you stepped closer. Not enough to for him to shut you out but just enough to be heard without the world intruding.
Severus let out a quiet, humorless exhale. “I do not require his trust.”
“No,” you agreed. “But he deserves someone who doesn’t remind him of everything he’s lost.”
The words lingered between you. For a long moment, Severus said nothing. Then, almost reluctantly, “…I will not harm him.”
It wasn’t much. From anyone else, it would have meant little but from him, you knew he truly meant it.
“I know,” you replied softly. Your eyes met again, and this time neither of you looked away. An understanding passed. Unspoken and fragile. Not forgiveness. Not peace. But a promise. Two people bound by the same ghost…choosing, in their own broken ways, to protect what she had left behind.
The TriCup tournament had the students buzzing. More so over the fact that Harry’s name was pulled from the goblet.
You had decided to watch him dive into Black Lake, his goal to save one of the girls. A trivial task in your opinion.
You hadn’t realized your body stiffen as you held your breath, waiting for Harry to emerge from the surface. He was taking too long. Had he drowned? Had those luring creatures hurt him? Your mind spun over different possibilities. But when his head popped up, gasping for air, you breathed with him. When you deemed him safe enough, you retreaded back into the castle. It was an attempt to keep your hands from trembling.
Later that evening, you found yourself in Dumbledoor’s office. You had always marveled over the things that took up space in there. You found his trinkets fascinating.
“Ah, Y/n,” his voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “Right on time.”
You spot him with furrowed brows. The Headmaster never failed to amaze you with his peculiarity. “I apologize for bothering you, sir. But I can’t help but wonder—“
“You know…I find that Professor Snape’s storeroom always has what I need.” He spoke thoughtfully as he glanced around his office. You stilled, not quite sure how to take it. “I think Draught of Peace would do the trick.” His tone more pointed.
With a soft sigh, you nod. “Of course, sir.” You dropped your gaze before turning towards the door.
“Oh, professor?” The Headmaster called out to you, making you glance back over your shoulder. “Do tell Harry that I sent you.”
Your brows pinch in confusion. Harry? These riddle-like responses were starting to bring more of a headache. “I’ll be sure to tell him.” With that, you finally left but not without catching a knowing smile on the man’s face. Had he told Harry something to expect you? You weren’t sure. But you knew Dumbledoor always had a purpose and he had a knack for being so insightful. All you could do was trust the process.
You nearly bumped into an upset Karkaroff on your way to Severus’s storeroom. When you quickly dodged the man’s shoulder he mumbled in annoyance and continued on his way. Shaking your head, you dismissed it. And when you turned around the corner, you became face to face with Harry. You blinked at the boy in surprise. Though, you should’ve seen it coming. “Harry?”
He stared back, clearly confused and frustrated. “Professor. Sorry, I didn’t hear you coming.”
“That’s quite alright. Dumbledoor had said I’d run into you here.” You glanced down the hall behind him before looking back at him.
Harry nodded as if he had pieced together something you hadn’t. “Yes, well, I’ll be on my way then. Goodnight, Professor.” Before you could respond or even question him, he had slinked past you and disappeared around the corner.
Finally, you approached the door. “Aberto.” You mumbled with a flick of your wand. The door swung open to reveal crowded shelves and a ladder. When you stepped in, Severus stepped out from the right, holding his wand to your neck. He immediately dropped it when he noticed it was you.
“On edge are we?” You questioned with a raised brow, eyeing his hand lowering and putting away his wand.
“When someone steals from my collection, certainly.” He stated flatly, closing the door behind me.
You frown at him when he looks back at you. “And who are you accusing exactly?”
“Not you, if that’s what you’re assuming.” His brows twitch in curiosity. “What are you doing here?”
You sigh in annoyance. “According to Dumbledoor, draught of peace.”
“Draught of peace?”
You shake you head, still wondering the why part. “I assume the Headmaster is growing tired of my anxious rambling.” When you look up at him, you could practically see the gears working in his head.
“I’ve already prepared some.” He moved around you in the tight space and reached to a shelf that was just above his head.
You were slightly taken aback. It didn’t seem like something he’d bothered with in his free time. The thought had crossed your mind that maybe, maybe he had made it to give it to you before now.
He turned, handing you a vile. You gently reach for it, your fingers lingering against his. “Thank you..” It came out soft and mumbled.
“You shouldn’t worry yourself so much.” He spoke lowly.
Your eyes searched his. “Did you—?”
“Yes. Dumbledoor thought it’d be wise.”
You frown. “Is that what it is? An obligation?”
“No.” It came out firmly.
“You’re worried?” You concluded. It had to be.
“You said yourself that we are on the same side whether I liked it or not.”
You smiled before you could stop it. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”
“You’re a remarkably persistent thing, Y/n.” He was mere inches from you when your name left his lips. He rarely said it. Though, his tone wasn’t harsh at all, not like it usually was when he called you persistent.
“You’re not insulting me anymore.”
“You assume a great deal.” He countered, but remained still.
“You avoid a great deal.” It came out as a whisper, the storeroom feeling even smaller. “You haven’t pushed me away.” Another observation. You could see a sort of restraint slipping between you. The gravity pulling you closer, catching his eyes briefly dropping to your mouth. “You could.” You whispered, almost breathlessly.
“Perhaps..” He muttered.
“Severus—“ Your breath caught when he hand lifted to brush your cheek. When his thumb finally smooths over your cheekbone, you exhale softly.
“Tell me to stop.” He murmurs, the words quiet and rough.
You shake your head, keeping your eyes on his. “No.”
Without another thought, his lips pressed to yours. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow and unwinding. Unraveling the confusing knot that the two of you created. Dissipating uncertainty. Solidifying trust. The vial clattered to the floor, forgotten as you held his face. A reassurance that you wanted this as much as he did. Despite the grief. Despite the separate roles you took on. Despite it all—there was only this. The two of you connecting with something that seemed impossible with everything going on around you. It was a conclusion to a problem that struck you senseless.
When you parted, both your breaths were ragged. Your hands slid down to rest as his chest while his clenched at his side.
“I don’t think I’ll find use of the draught anymore.” You mumbled with a lazy smile.
“You certainly will.” He knew your tendencies and he knew what was to come.
Okay, so first off HAPPY APRIL FOOLS!!! This is how I envision him on this fateful day 😳
Warnings - kissing 😘
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Aprils fools day. The day of not so fond memories for Severus. The day he’d get messed with even more than he already did when he was a boy.
You however, loved pranking people on the blissful day you so called it. So what’s more fun and enticing than scheming on your favorite colleague, the potions master??
So starters, before his first period you accidentally spilled some potions on his parchments he was going to use for the lessons today, (you had copies) shrugging it off with a ‘sorry, a true and honest mistake or whatever’ as that earned a glare and a half lecture before the bell rang and the children started to flood in. You left as quick as you came, but not before he noticed that insufferable smirk.
During lunch in the great hall, as he was taking a deliberate sip of his pumpkin juice you suddenly tripped against his chair leg, it creaking against the floor loudly as the movement made him spill the pumpkin juice all over his robes. He hissed your name under his breath, sending you a death glare that would kill thousands. Once again, “sorry, such a true and honest mistake.” You muttered as you walked away, suppressing a cheeky smirk.
As the classes ended you stayed in your classroom, finishing up on the assignments the students turned in not even noticing the air grow colder or the gaze piercing through you.
“I presume you are ecstatic making a fool out of me,” his dark and smooth voice snapped you out of your grading, putting your quill back, looking up at him as he approached slowly, arms crossed.
“Whatever do you mean, professor?” You bit your cheek to suppress a guilty smile. His gaze hardened at your oblivious reply.
“Your true and honest accidents?” He practically hissed out, rounding your desk to stand beside you.
You put your gaze back on the parchments, hand creeping towards your drawer. “What? I am clumsy.” You let out a small snicker.
“Do not play games with me,” his eye twitched slightly, a vein subtly popping out of his neck.. oh so dashing.
“Games? We are not children Severus,” your gaze lifted towards him handing slipping into that drawer.
“You are the only one acting like a child!” He gave you an infuriated look.
Your scoff turned a smirk, your hand grabbing little colored scraps and quickly throwing them up at his face, “confetti surprise!!”
He stood there frozen, bewilderment taking over his face before he composed it, gritting his teeth. “To think you have the nerve.” His oh so velvety smooth voice deepened with more and more anger.
“You are in my classroom,” you pointed out.
“I do recall you spilling those potions, that I brewed myself onto my parchments, in my classroom,” he countered, putting both of his hands on each of the armchairs, effectively trapping you to only look at him. “Honest accident though; right?” He growled out.
You paused, certainly getting beaten at your own game, leaning back in your chair, looking at the small little colored scraps in his hair. “Happy April fools..?” You nervously chuckled.
His eyes narrowed, leaning forward to softly press a kiss to your lips and pulling back again. “Happy April fools,” he replied softly before storming off, muttering how much you still owe him or whatever, but you’re too in your zone. Too focused on.. did he just kiss you? He didn’t just blow up on you? Who is this man and what did he do to Severus? You raised your fingers to your lips to feel where his pressed onto.
Maybe you should prank him more.
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This is soooo rushed, but I wanted to get a fic out and im so ready for a 50 hour nap LOLLL
𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: Severus Snape x Professor Reader
𝙶𝙴𝙽𝙽𝚁𝙴: Fluff
𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃: 2k
𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐: None
Summary: Severus bribes you to go to bed because you have a knack of overworking yourself.
Author’s Note: I got tons of Snape drafts in my memo, and this will be the first one to be released.
Severus Snape Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Counting Tales
Severus Snape stood by the door of your classroom, black robes barely stirring as the night wind breeze blew steadily from your slightly ajar window.
“Professor,” he said coolly, voice low and precise,
“you keep rather late hours for someone who claims the stars are more predictable than people.”
His gaze flicked to the scattered star charts and faintly glowing instruments in your office before returning to you, lingering a fraction longer than strictly professional.
“I trust I am not interrupting… or is solitude part of your lesson plan tonight?”
It had been the seventh night in a row that Severus came to check on you in your office in the Astronomy Tower, to see if you had worked yourself to death once again—or were in bed. The light underneath the door only confirmed it.
You looked up from checking essays. It was past twelve. You didn’t even realize it.
“Oh, no. I was just finishing up,” you said, despite the fact that you were still writing.
Severus knew you were studious. Well… what did you expect from a professor like you?
Snape’s lip twitched barely, almost imperceptibly, as he stepped fully into the candlelight. His eyes narrowed at the quill still moving across parchment.
“‘Just finishing up,’” he repeated softly, with a dryness that suggested he had heard the phrase far too often. “An assertion that would be far more convincing if your hand were not still writing.”
He moved closer, black robes whispering against the stone floor, gaze flicking to the neat, meticulous notes.
Of course they were immaculate. Classic studious Ravenclaw.
“It is past midnight,” he continued, voice lower now, but edged with concern he refused to name aloud. “Even the stars you so revere observe cycles of rest. You, however, seem determined to defy them.”
He paused beside your desk, not touching anything, but close enough that his presence was undeniable.
“You promised me,” he added quietly, eyes lifting to yours at last, “that you would not work yourself into exhaustion again.”
Then, more softly only for you.
“And I have made a habit of checking because you are notoriously unreliable when left to your own devices.”
You looked up at him. “Well… I know I promised you yesterday, but I need these done tomorrow,” you said.
Snape exhaled through his nose, the sound suspiciously close to a sigh. He folded his arms, one brow lifting with theatrical restraint.
“Ah yes. Tomorrow,” he said dryly. “That mythical concept academics invoke… whenever they intend to ignore common sense.”
He leaned closer, peering over the essays as though they personally offended him.
“Tell me, are these essays on celestial mechanics,” he murmured, “or an elaborate excuse to avoid sleeping at a reasonable hour?”
Then, with exaggerated seriousness, he tapped the desk once.
“I must inform you that the Head of Slytherin is prepared to take… drastic measures.”
A pause. His eyes flicked to the quill still in your hand.
“I could confiscate that quill,” he said flatly. He hesitated.
“Five more minutes,” he conceded, lips thinning as though it pained him. “Then you stop. Or I sit here and critique every grammatical error aloud.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Choose wisely, Professor.”
“I don’t want you critiquing the students’ essays you’d mark them zero if you read them,” you said. “What are you doing here?”
Snape’s mouth twitched again, this time unmistakably amused, though he tried very hard to pretend otherwise.
“An outrageous accusation,” he replied smoothly. “I would not give them zero.”
He paused, raising a brow as he looked at you.
“Several might earn a very generous two.”
He moved to the opposite chair and sat far too casually for a man who insisted he was only here out of duty. One long leg crossed over the other, hands folding neatly.
“As for what I am doing here,” he continued, tone carefully neutral, “I was making my nightly rounds.”
He lifted a brow, eyes glinting.
“And I noticed the Astronomy Tower was still lit… again. Which means you were either being abducted by a celestial entity,” he deadpanned,
“or ignoring your own well-being.”
His gaze softened just a fraction as it settled on you.
“I ruled out the former.”
He leaned back, glancing at the towering stack of essays.
“Besides,” he added lightly, “Minerva has begun to notice a pattern. If you collapse during breakfast, it reflects poorly on us both.”
Then, with mock severity
“So. Finish that sentence,” he said, nodding at your parchment. “Then close the folder.”
His lips curved faintly.
“Or I stay. And make unhelpful commentary about planetary metaphors until you surrender—”
“But there’s so much to do, and I have to finish the students’ essays tomorrow,” you cut him off.
“I could get coffee at breakfast. I promise I won’t collapse,” you said.
Snape’s sharp eyes caught the shadow of a frown, the way your words faltered mid-justification. He tilted his head slightly, lips pressing into that familiar thin line. The essays, the coffee, the endless rationalizations all irrelevant if you were going to wear yourself down.
Without a word, he reached for a leather-bound book from the shelf, flipping it open with deliberate care. The faint scent of parchment drifted toward you as he looked back, dark eyes softening just enough to betray… something he would never name.
“If you come with me right now,” he said, voice low, almost reluctant, “I’ll read to you. Out loud. Entirely for your benefit.”
He paused, letting the weight of the offer settle, then added with unmistakable emphasis:
“I do not do this for anyone. Ever. Certainly not for anyone who insists on arguing with me instead of sleeping.”
His gaze lingered on you measuring, challenging, coaxing—unspoken insistence threading through every word.
“Come. Or stay, and I assure you, the stars will be entirely unsympathetic to your poor choices. And you'll regret it....in the morning”
The book rested in his hands like a bridge between you, the soft flicker of candlelight catching on the spine, and for a fleeting moment, he looked almost… gentle.
Severus held your worn leather-bound collection of Muggle bedtime stories between his long fingers, tilting it slightly as if it were a rare treasure.
“It is… uncommon,” he said, voice edged with teasing, “to see this book around. And yet, here it is… in my hands.”
He shook the book slowly, a faint, mischievous grin tugging at his lips.
“I had hoped to read aloud the tale of a thief… in green tights I forget his name,” he added, eyes flicking to you, “but as you are not in bed, I suppose I’ll pass. I could have voiced the sheriff, you know.”
Your eyes narrowed, standing your ground despite the flutter in your chest.
“You think you can bribe me with an old bedtime story?” you said, lifting your chin. “I’m already—”
He cut you off effortlessly, the grin widening just slightly, eyes dark with mischief.
“…older ,” he said, voice dropping, “if I am to return to my dungeon and read it alone, I suppose you will never know how delightfully the sheriff’s indignation sounds.”
Your resolve faltered for just a moment before he tilted the book, holding it like a challenge.
“Robin Hood,” he said simply, and began recounting the thefts with his usual dramatic flair, slipping into voices for the Sheriff of Nottingham and the Merry Men.
Unable to resist, you finally relented, a smile breaking through your careful composure.
“Okay, okay… I’ll go to bed,” you said softly, sliding from your seat, surrendering to the warmth of the moment.
Snape’s smile softened, and as you left the office together, the tower seemed to grow quieter, the stars outside blinking down as if giving their blessing to this rare, stolen moment of peace and closeness.
You practically skipped to your sleeping quarters, sliding under the covers with the enthusiasm of a child being promised a bedtime story.
“All right. I’m in bed,” you declared, your eyes sparkling.
Severus allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible chuckle, the corner of his lips twitching. You looked like a child demanding a story—and somehow, it was endearing beyond reason.
He perched beside you, one shoulder brushing yours as he opened the worn leather book.
“Very well,” he said softly, voice low and smooth. “Since you insist on being treated like a child, I shall indulge you.”
He flipped the page deliberately, letting the candlelight catch the edges of the worn parchment.
The familiar lines of Robin Hood filled the quiet room, and he slipped into the story with surprising warmth, his voice deep and melodic as he narrated the daring thefts and clever tricks.
You snuggled under the blankets, eyes wide, hanging onto every word, and for a moment, Severus’s usual sharpness softened entirely.
“You do know,” he murmured, turning a page, “that you’re far too old for this… yet here you are, practically bouncing in bed like an eager first-year.”
“I’m not that old, and don’t lie—you do secretly enjoy Muggle bedtime stories!” you shot back, though your grin betrayed you.
“I… do not,” he said. He shook his head, lips twitching.
Severus continued reading, voice low and steady, narrating Robin Hood’s exploits with all the dramatic flair he could muster but it was clear that your eyelids were growing heavier with each word.
Eventually, despite your quiet protests and half-hearted attempts to sit up, you drifted into sleep, resting your head against his shoulder. The book slipped slightly in his hands, but he didn’t move.
Severus closed the leather-bound book carefully, setting it aside, and let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh. He studied your sleeping face, the faint rise and fall of your chest, and the peaceful expression that softened every harsh thought he’d ever had about the world.
“Stubborn as ever,” he murmured under his breath, a rare softness in his voice.
He shifted slightly, careful not to wake you, adjusting so you could rest comfortably.
And for the first time that night, the Astronomy Tower felt warm, quiet, and almost… like home.
Severus remained awake long after you had fallen asleep, your steady breathing and soft movements against his shoulder keeping him rooted in place. He allowed himself to watch you for a few moments longer, the candlelight catching the delicate curve of your face and the way your hair spilled across the pillow.
His hand moved almost instinctively, gently tucking the blanket around your shoulders to keep you warm. He hesitated, thumb brushing lightly against your arm, before speaking in a voice barely above a whisper.
“You know,” he murmured, almost to himself, “it’s remarkable… how someone can be so brilliant, so stubborn, and still… so gentle. You have a way of being extraordinary without even trying.”
He paused, eyes tracing the peaceful rise and fall of your chest. A rare vulnerability slipped into his tone words he would never voice in daylight, words no one else would hear.
“And it’s Not just your cleverness or the way you see the stars. It’s everything else too. How you care, how you fight, how you make the world softer just by being in it… You’re… beautiful. Inside and out.”
Severus exhaled softly, the tiniest tension leaving his shoulders. He shifted slightly, making sure the blanket was snug over you, careful not to disturb your sleep.
“And… if ever there’s a day when you might see me as I see you…” he murmured, almost inaudible, “…I would consider it the most extraordinary thing in the world.”
For now, though, he stayed silent, content to let you rest, the weight of his admiration and quiet devotion settling like the stars themselves in the quiet of the Astronomy Tower.
💌Severus Snape x Herbology Professor(or intern/new professor)!Reader
💭SFW: Fluff, kind of slowburn ish, Snape falling in love for you, Snape asks you out at the end, reader being kind of oblivious to Snape’s feelings, McGonagall not so secretly rooting for you
A/N: This was a request I got a long while ago that I forgot to publish and then I accidentally deleted my entire inbox ago like a week and a half ago… oops. Still working on that Harry smut, energy has been finicky and I’m also running out of title names so…enjoy! Also I kind of made up herbs here so....I can't remember if everything mentioned is genuinely in Harry Potter. I got lazy, ok?
—
The last rays of sun filtered in through the greenhouse glass, casting long amber streaks across the rows of plants. The warmth of the day still clung to the air, mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil and fresh herbs. You were bent over a tray of dittany, carefully snipping the mature stems, fingertips smudged green and brown.
A faint click of the door opening broke the quiet.
“I assumed this time of day would afford me some peace,” came the familiar drawl, dry as ever.
You didn’t look up right away, too focused on trimming the final sprig just so. “It usually does. But Pomona let me stay late—she’s already gone for the evening.”
You turned then, wiping your hands on the edge of your robe. “If you’re here for your asphodel, I set aside a few roots. The good ones.”
Snape paused, half-shadowed in the doorway, robes billowing slightly with the breeze that followed him in. “You’ve taken to preparing them for me now, have you?”
You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Well, you don’t like when the third-years mangle it. Figured I’d save us both the trouble.”
He stepped forward slowly, eyeing the basket of sorted roots with a furrowed brow that wasn’t quite irritation. You knew that look by now—it was his version of…appreciation, maybe.
“You’re far too accommodating,” he muttered, reaching for the basket.
You tilted your head. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”
There was a beat of silence. He didn’t respond, not directly. Instead, he took the basket and turned away, muttering something that might have been “Hmph. At least someone here is competent.”
As he pushed the door open, you called gently after him, “You’re welcome, Severus.”
He paused again. Just briefly. Didn’t turn back. But the door closed a little more gently than usual behind him.
—
The last of the students had filed out in a flurry of parchment and scuffed shoes, leaving behind the usual aftermath—dried potions clinging to cauldrons, the faint scent of burnt lavender, and his patience hanging by a thread. Snape waved his wand with a practiced flick, vanishing the worst of the mess, but left the benches and shelves untouched.
He glanced at the time.
You were usually in the dungeons by now, carrying that blasted basket of herbs and trimmed ingredients like it was second nature. No fanfare. No knock. Just a soft rustle of robes and the gentle thud of the basket placed near his desk.
But the hallway outside was silent.
He paced once behind his desk, then again. Sat. Stood up. Adjusted the jars along the side shelf with more force than needed.
Ridiculous.
He had no use for distractions. Least of all ones that came in the shape of a professor too kind for your own good—offering him perfect snips of monkshood and bundles of fresh lavender, leaving little parchment notes in neat handwriting:
“Figured you’d want this batch—fresh from greenhouse three. ”
He still had yesterday’s note tucked under a stack of unused parchment, though he told himself it was only because he might need to reference it later.
Another glance at the time.
Then, as if summoned—soft footsteps echoed down the hall. A pause. The faint creak of the classroom door, opening just a bit.
Your voice, a quiet breath of warmth in the gloom:
“Sorry I’m late. I got caught up de-thorning the wandwood. Nasty thing today.”
Snape didn’t move at first. He just blinked at you from behind his desk, caught somewhere between relief and something far more irritating.
You stepped fully inside, brushing a stray leaf from your sleeve as you set the basket down. “I brought extra. Pomona said the next few weeks might be rough with the way the fluxweed’s reacting to the moon cycle.”
Still, he said nothing. Just looked at you. A little too long.
“…Is everything alright?” you asked finally, uncertain.
Snape cleared his throat. “Perfectly fine,” he said, voice clipped. “You’re late.”
You raised an eyebrow, more amused than offended. “Didn’t know you timed my deliveries.”
“I don’t.”
You only smiled, starting to turn to go. “Alright, then. I’ll be out of your way.”
But this time, he spoke before you reached the door.
“…I expect the same quality tomorrow,” he said, low and almost gruff. “If you’re planning to make a habit of it.”
You turned back, eyes bright with just the hint of a knowing smile. “Of course, Professor.”
And then you left. And he stood there for a moment longer than he meant to, listening to the echo of your footsteps as they faded down the corridor.
The kettle was whistling gently in the corner as you poured yourself a cup of tea, the clink of ceramic and quiet shuffle of parchment the only sounds in the room. A rare moment of peace between classes.
“Ah, there you are,” came McGonagall’s voice, crisp and familiar, as she stepped inside with a small stack of essays in hand. “I thought I saw you duck in.”
You smiled over your shoulder. “Just grabbing a quick cup. The third-years nearly destroyed my entire bench this morning trying to identify waterweed.”
She tsked sympathetically, setting her papers down and conjuring a second cup for herself. “Better yours than mine,” she murmured, then took a sip. “Though I must say—Herbology seems to be agreeing with more than just your students lately.”
You blinked, turning slightly. “…Pardon?”
McGonagall’s expression didn’t change much, but there was an unmistakable gleam in her eyes. “Severus has been… unusually tolerable these past few weeks.”
Your brows lifted. “Tolerable?”
“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she said, waving a hand. “I’m quite fond of the man in my own way, but I’ve known Severus for decades. He doesn’t do pleasant unless something’s caused it—or someone.”
Heat began creeping up your neck, but you busied yourself with stirring your tea. “Maybe he’s just been getting more sleep.”
“I highly doubt that,” McGonagall quipped, then added more softly, “He’s been speaking quite highly of the new monkshood you brought in. Very precise. And I’ve heard him recommend your tincture preservation methods to Slughorn.”
You blinked. “He… recommended me?”
“Mmhmm.” She glanced at you over her glasses. “So whatever it is you’ve been bringing down to those dungeons—it’s working.”
You chuckled nervously, pressing the rim of your cup to your lips to hide your smile. “It’s just plants, Minerva.”
“Yes,” she said, tone far too knowing, “and perhaps something a bit more human than that.”
And with that, she turned back to her papers, utterly serene, like she hadn’t just thrown your morning into a tailspin.
Your knuckles tapped gently against the heavy door of his office. It was half open—rare. Even rarer that the flickering firelight within actually gave the place a warm glow.
“Come in,” came that familiar, velvet-dry voice.
You stepped inside, arms cradling the satchel of fresh-cut lovage and yarrow. “Brought your request, Professor.”
“Must you always call me that?” he asked, barely glancing up from his parchment. “We’re both professors.”
You smiled faintly as you walked closer, noting the way his hand had paused mid-sentence. “Habit, I guess.”
Snape looked up then—really looked—and his expression softened almost imperceptibly. You didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered. You never did.
“I harvested the yarrow early this morning,” you added, laying the bundle gently across a cleared space on his desk. “Before the sun fully crested. It’s more potent that way.”
He nodded, fingertips brushing the stalks like they were something rare. “Of course you’d know that.”
There was something in his tone. Not sarcasm, not dismissive. Just… low, quiet appreciation. It made your chest tighten.
“You always bring exactly what I need,” he said after a beat, voice even softer now. “Even before I realize I’ve run out.”
You shrugged gently, watching him with careful eyes. “That’s what colleagues are for.”
But he didn’t answer.
Instead, he stood.
He didn’t loom the way others claimed he did—no, this was different. Hesitant. Like he was standing on the edge of something he hadn’t allowed himself to want in years. Maybe ever.
“I’m not…” he started, then stopped. Frowned. Tried again. “I don’t do this.”
You tilted your head. “Do what?”
He stepped closer. “This. Whatever this is between us.”
Your breath hitched.
“I’ve watched you flit about this castle with a smile that could undo the very seams of a man’s restraint,” he said, voice low. “And yet, you never seem to notice the effect you have. On me.”
A silence stretched. You felt it crackling between you like static.
And then, almost shyly—almost—he reached out, fingers brushing yours. Testing.
“If I were to ask if I might… take you to Hogsmeade. Not as a colleague. Not as a favor.” His eyes held yours. “But as a man very foolishly falling for you.”
Your heart soared.
You stepped closer, letting your fingers slip fully into his hand.
“I’d say yes,” you murmured. “Even if you are a little foolish.”
His mouth quirked upward. Just slightly. Just enough.
And in the quiet of his dungeon office, for the first time in far too long, Severus Snape let himself feel hope.
A new professor, a peculiar magic, and old memories: Severus will rediscover what he thought he had forgotten.
𓊈 +18 | ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ | ദ്ദി ʕ˵ •̀ ᴥ - ⭒˵ ʔ 𓊉
ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ | ɴᴇxᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ
Chapter 10: Stew
• ────── ❃ ────── •
Moonlight Memory Stew
(For those seeking to rescue spells sleeping in the corners of remembrance)
Effect:
Upon tasting this stew, the mists of oblivion dissipate like fog at dawn. The flavors awaken buried magical memories: wand gestures, words in arcane Latin, even the exact intonation of that enchantment you swore never to forget. The effect lasts depending on the age of the spell and the strength of your emotional memory.
Ingredients:
300g of thought-roots (or common parsnips)
1 peeled onion
2 sheets of old parchment, crushed (only if they contain failed spells or discarded notes)
1 teaspoon of nutmeg zest
500ml of chicken broth with a drop of lemon juice and a pinch of sage
1 sprig of rosemary of memories
Leo managed to catch up with them in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Although it seemed Remus had already begun his sermon, she preferred not to interfere at first and limited herself to listening from the slightly ajar door.
• ────── ❃ ────── •
—Didn't it occur to you that this, in Sirius Black's hands, is a map to find you? —Remus asked, pointing the Marauder's Map at Harry.
—No, sir... —Harry replied almost in a whisper, avoiding eye contact.
—Your father wasn't exactly a model of discipline either —Lupin continued, approaching with an intimidating expression—. But he and your mother gave their lives to save you! Risking their sacrifice by wandering the castle alone while a murderer is on the loose is a poor way to repay them!
He paused to calm himself, breathing deeply before continuing.
—I will not lie for you again —he declared finally, his tone firm but laden with disappointment.
—Yes, sir —Harry said, looking at the floor.
It was then that Leo decided to intervene. She entered the room with a strange tranquility that Harry seemed to understand immediately, nodding without saying a word.
—Of course you won't lie for him again because, furthermore, he is detained —Leo said calmly, crossing her arms.
—That isn't necessary; I know very well Harry won't do it again —Lupin tried to concede, somewhat uncomfortable.
—No, Harry broke a rule, so he is detained —Leo replied firmly—. By the way, Harry, it's time you went to your dormitory. I want to discuss something with you, Professor —she added, looking directly at Lupin.
Harry nodded and began to leave, though before closing the door behind him, he mentioned something about the name Peter he had seen on the map. Neither adult responded, but they exchanged a look charged with surprise and bewilderment. Finally, Harry left, leaving them alone.
—What is it you want to say? —Remus asked, curious but visibly annoyed.
—I'm going to ask you to stop speaking to Harry like that —Leo demanded bluntly.
—How?
—And much less, load him with guilt that doesn't belong to him —she continued—. Harry owes nothing to James or Lily. They did what any parent would do.
—I can't believe you're speaking like this, Leo —Lupin replied with disbelief, hardening his expression—. Is it that friendship with Severus that has changed you so much?
—It doesn't matter —Leo cut in, ignoring the comment—. I don't want you to keep planting those ideas about his "fantastic" parents in his head. Remus... he already has enough on his plate. Let him be a teenager. So I ask that when he does these things, you don't just lecture him. You are his professor, not his father's friend.
Remus looked at her, conflicted. He was evidently angry that she spoke this way of James and Lily, who were not only his friends but represented true war heroes to him.
The tension in the room was palpable, as if the very walls of the classroom had shrunk under the weight of the conversation. Remus remained silent for a moment, his amber eyes fixed on Leo with a mixture of incredulity and contained frustration. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but charged with emotion.
—How can you say that? —Lupin replied, almost in a hoarse whisper, as if struggling to find the right words—. James and Lily weren't just "any parents." What they did... sacrificing themselves for Harry, protecting him even after their death... that makes them exceptional. And he has the right to know it. He has the right to understand what they meant to all of us.
Leo crossed her arms and looked directly into Remus's eyes, without hesitating or retreating before his defensive tone. There was something in her, a firmness that seemed unbreakable, as if she were willing to hold that stance for as long as necessary.
—I'm not talking about that, Remus —Leo replied, her voice calm but firm—. I've seen many like them, and what they did was no different. Sacrifice in war is common, whether you like it or not. Harry didn't ask to be saved, so don't make him feel guilty. It's the only thing you'll achieve if you continue.
Remus shook his head slowly, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. He stepped away, pacing around the desk as he tried to process Leo's words. His jaw was clenched, and when he spoke again, there was a hint of pain in his voice.
—James and Lily... they... didn't just die for him, Leo. They lived for him. They fought for him. And yes, they fought for all of us, for this world. But Harry is their legacy. How can you ask me not to speak to him of them? It is his right; moreover, just because they didn't please you is no argument for not telling him about them.
Leo sighed deeply, as if trying to maintain patience with someone who simply didn't understand her point.
—Because it isn't fair, Remus —she said finally, her tone now softer, but just as resolute—. Because he isn't just the legacy of James and Lily. He is Harry. Just Harry. And he deserves to be treated as such. Just as I don't allow Severus to reprimand him excessively out of resentment toward James. Harry deserves to make mistakes without being reminded of what he lost before he could even remember it. He deserves to have moments like this without carrying the weight of war, feeling he is failing his parents.
Lupin stopped, turning to her with an expression of internal conflict. He seemed to want to reply, to defend his stance, but Leo's words had hit him squarely. For a long moment, both remained silent, the air dense between them.
Finally, Remus lowered his gaze, his shoulders dropping slightly as if the weight of the conversation had overwhelmed him. When he spoke, his voice sounded more tired, less defensive.
—Perhaps you are right —he admitted in a low voice, almost as if talking to himself.
Leo took a step toward him, softening her posture. There was no longer reproach in her look, but something closer to understanding.
—I know, Remus —Leo said calmly—. I know how much they meant to you. And I know you're just trying to do the right thing. But you have to let Harry find his own path. If you are going to talk to him about his parents, don't limit yourself to speaking only of sacrifices or how much he resembles them. Tell him the beautiful stories too: how James and Lily fell in love, the adventures they had as Marauders, the things that made them laugh and the moments that filled them with happiness. Don't give him only burdens to bear; give him memories he can treasure.
Remus nodded slowly, as if accepting something he had known unconsciously but hadn't wanted to face. He lifted his gaze to Leo, his amber eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and melancholy.
—Thank you —he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Leo offered him a small smile, almost imperceptible, but sincere.
—Just do me a favor. Next time you feel the need to give him a sermon, think if it's really for him... or for you.
With that, she turned and left the room, leaving Remus alone with his thoughts. He remained there for a long time, staring at the closed door, reflecting on what had just happened. There was something about Leo that had always impressed him: her ability to set aside grudges when it came to what truly mattered. It was a quality he admired deeply, even since childhood. In fact, that was one of the reasons he felt such fascination for her.
He remembered those nights at Hogwarts, when they used to sneak off together to the castle kitchens. The house-elves, though enchanted by Leo's presence due to her natural kindness, weren't always as enthusiastic about the culinary experiments she carried out. Often, she tried to create magical dishes to help with her studies or practical problems. And Remus was always there, watching her with curiosity and admiration as she worked.
One of those nights stood out in his memory. She was determined to invent a dish that could improve her memory specifically for remembering complex spells and difficult potions. As she chopped onions with tears rolling down her cheeks, he couldn't help but laugh softly.
—Why do you keep asking precisely Severus for help? —he asked, leaning against the table—. He seems to demand more from you than Professor Slughorn himself. Even now, just to impress him, you invent these things...
Leo looked up, holding a wooden spoon as if it were a wand ready to cast a spell, and pointed it at him threateningly.
—Severus is my friend, so watch what you say —she warned with feigned seriousness before breaking into laughter herself.
Remus had always loved watching her cook. There was something hypnotic in the way she manipulated ingredients, mixing the magical with the mundane. She could be meticulous to the extreme, especially when incorporating delicate magical elements, but she also had an extravagant side that made him smile. For instance, that time she decided to crush old parchments of failed notes and incorporate them into her preparation, convinced that someday she would transform them into an "educational food." Remus couldn't help but wonder if she would ever manage to make it edible.
But beyond the culinary madness, what caught his attention most was how Leo seemed to channel all her creativity and determination into everything she did. When she cried inconsolably because of the onion, he would take a napkin and dry her tears without saying anything, simply sharing her space. In those moments, the connection between them was palpable, though they never spoke of it openly.
Now, years later, he still saw that same passion in her. The same ability to prioritize what was important and set aside unnecessary resentments. And although their opinions sometimes clashed, as had just happened with Harry, Remus knew Leo was right. Her perspective was valuable, even when it hurt to hear it.
As he remained lost in his thoughts, a warm sensation invaded him as he remembered those nights in the kitchens. He smiled slightly to himself, wondering if they would ever share a moment like that again. But soon he shook his head, returning to the present. He had much to think about... and perhaps, just perhaps, he needed to reconsider how he spoke of James and Lily to Harry.
As soon as she crossed the threshold of the room, Leo found Harry, who had not yet returned to his dormitory as she had ordered. He was standing a few meters from the door, motionless, looking at her with a mixture of nervousness and gratitude in his eyes. For a second, they just held each other's gaze, but then Harry ran to her and hugged her tightly.
Leo stood still for an instant, surprised by the boy's reaction. She hadn't expected him to still be there, much less to hug her like that. But soon her arms responded, enveloping him with warmth as she felt Harry's shoulders tremble slightly.
—I heard everything —Harry murmured against her chest, his voice barely audible but charged with emotion—. I... I know I probably shouldn't care what they say about my parents because they've always told me they were incredible and brave... and that's enough for me. But... thank you for caring so much about me.
Leo closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of Harry's words. There was something deeply sincere in his voice, something that transcended any barrier.
—Harry... —she began, gently stroking Harry's hair, messing it up even more than it already was—. It's time you went to your dormitory before I decide to enforce that detention doubly —she joked, though her tone remained kind.
Harry laughed softly and nodded, discreetly wiping his eyes before walking away down the corridor. There was something comforting in the way Leo spoke that left him with nothing more to say. Leo watched him go, feeling a mixture of satisfaction and concern.
During the following days, Leo couldn't help but feel somewhat strange. She knew she had grown fond of Harry, but she hadn't realized how much until now. There was something in the way he looked at her, with that mixture of admiration and gratitude, that made her feel responsible for him in a new and unexpected way. She decided then that, as part of his detention for his mischief, Harry would help clean the kitchens while she prepared a special order Severus had requested that very morning.
—I hope you understand this is for wandering around with an enchanted map at night and for sneaking off to Hogsmeade —Leo said without looking up from the ingredients she was chopping on the table—. And I want you to know I am very aware that you haven't fully learned your lesson.
Harry snorted slightly, though not enough to sound defiant. He was tired of wiping the counter, trying to remove stains and food remnants that seemed resistant to disappearing.
—I know... —he murmured, more to himself than to her. His tone was resigned, but not hostile.
Leo watched him out of the corner of her eye as she continued cooking. She noticed how Harry frowned when a particularly difficult stain wouldn't disappear after several attempts. She smiled to herself before intervening.
—Leave that for a moment, Harry —she said, gesturing toward the cloth with a nod of her head—. Come here and stir this a bit. —She handed him a wooden spoon and pointed to the pot bubbling gently on the fire—. Stir counter-clockwise. It's important.
Harry obeyed, approaching with curiosity. As he stirred the contents of the pot, he inhaled the spiced aroma beginning to fill the kitchen. It was an intriguing mix of herbs and something sweet he couldn't identify.
—What are we making? —he asked, unable to contain his curiosity.
—Something for Severus —Leo replied simply, adjusting the heat under another pan where green leaves were sizzling delicately—. Something that requires patience and precision.
After a while, the kitchen door opened silently. Severus Snape entered without making a sound, stopping at the threshold to observe the dynamic between Harry and Leo. His expression was unreadable, as always, but his dark eyes shone with an intensity suggesting he was carefully evaluating the scene before him.
Leo was the first to notice his presence. She looked up briefly and smiled upon seeing him.
—I thought you'd take longer to come —she said, giving a light touch to the conversation—. What you asked for isn't ready yet, but a rich stew is... without magic.
—Your godson has been doing an excellent job cleaning the counters. Well, at least he's trying —he commented based on what he saw.
Harry spun around quickly upon hearing Severus's voice, nearly dropping the wooden spoon he held. He stiffened, as if expecting some kind of scolding or sarcastic remark. But Severus said nothing for a few seconds, limiting himself to observing them both alternately.
Finally, he spoke, his tone as neutral as ever, though with a barely perceptible nuance of curiosity.
—I didn't know your style of discipline included turning students into cooks, Leo —he commented, crossing his arms—. Or that Potter had skills for cleaning.
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Leo jumped in before he could say anything.
—Oh, come on, Severus. We all know you're much more indulgent than you appear —she retorted with a mischievous smile, clearly enjoying the exchange—. Besides, Harry is learning something valuable today: that even the simplest jobs can be important if done with intention.
Severus arched an eyebrow, though he couldn't completely disguise a slight grimace that could be interpreted as amusement. He looked at Harry again, who now seemed uncomfortable but also... relieved? He hadn't come to scold him or point out his mistakes.
—Well, whatever you're cooking, it better work —Severus said finally, taking a step toward the table where Leo had placed some round plates—. I don't have time for failed experiments. I'll return later then.
Leo let out a soft chuckle.
—Relax, I have everything under control. And if it doesn't work, you know who to blame —she added, winking at Harry, who couldn't help but smile shyly—. By the way, don't leave yet.
Severus shook his head, exasperated but visibly pleased. Without adding anything else, he approached to inspect the food that was about to be ready, letting the conversation flow around them.
Meanwhile, Harry returned to his task of stirring the pot, feeling strangely comfortable amidst that peculiar dynamic. For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel out of place. Even Severus, despite his seriousness, seemed less intimidating in this context.
And Leo, busy between stoves and subtle jokes, couldn't stop thinking about how much her life had changed since she decided to get involved in Harry's. Perhaps it wasn't just him who was learning something new.
—Severus, don't you have anything to say to Harry? —she said, as she finally began serving the food.
—To me? —Harry asked, confused, as he sat down to eat.
Severus looked at Leo in a particular way that Harry wouldn't know how to describe, but that she knew very well. So Leo simply looked back at him, waiting for him to say whatever they had agreed upon.
—Apologies for the other night, Harry —he said, without any gesturing, direct and without looking him in the eyes—. I shouldn't have taken the map so personally.
Harry was stunned, truly impressed and even with a hint of deep fear. Not of Professor Snape, but of what Leo had achieved. She must have enormous power, he thought. Nothing seemed to convince him more than that, for what had just happened... to happen.
The silence that followed was dense, but not uncomfortable. Just... charged. As if the air itself held its breath, waiting to see what Harry would do with those strange words coming from Snape.
—I... —Harry swallowed hard, his eyes still wide as saucers—. I also... I shouldn't have said what was on the map.
Severus didn't respond immediately. He merely took a seat, with slow and ceremonial movements, as if every gesture was measured so as not to break the fragile balance Leo had woven with patience between them.
Leo, meanwhile, served a steaming plate in front of each of them, dropping a ladleful of stew with a soft thud that sounded like "enough tension already." Then she sat between them, like a living bridge.
—Good —she said, cutting the silence with a mischievous smile—. Now that you've apologized, let's eat. And if anyone starts arguing again, I'll add magical pepper to the dish. The kind that burns from the inside.
Harry let out a nervous giggle. Severus, for his part, emitted an almost imperceptible snort... but he didn't deny the threat. In fact, he took the spoon and tasted the first bite without further comment.
—It's... acceptable —he murmured finally, with his mouth still full.
—That's an epic compliment coming from you! —Leo exclaimed, raising her glass as if making a toast—. Let's celebrate!
Harry, still dazed, raised his glass too, looking alternately at Leo and Severus. At that moment, something inside him unleashed: a warm sensation. He thought they seemed like a strange makeshift family that, against all odds, worked. And while the idea of Severus as a father seemed repulsive to him, he did think of Leo as a mother. Maybe not his own, but he felt happy that someone like her cared for him as if she were.
When they finished eating, Harry left with his friends, who had come to fetch him after his detention. The first thing they talked about were the endless questions about whether Professor Sallow and Professor Snape were together. To which Harry only replied that he didn't know... but that he wondered the same thing.
Snape also left —he would return at night, when the magical stew he had ordered was ready.
Leo was left completely alone. Rarely did the elves abandon that kitchen, and in that silence, she found something unexpected: peace. She was truly content. It had been a long time since she breathed —in the true sense of the word—, and that strange dinner seemed to have recharged her energy.
Of course, she also had her heart beating hard. Seeing Severus trying to demonstrate he was no longer the same as before, even capable of apologizing to Harry just because she asked him... moved her more than she wanted to admit.
Luckily, Lupin entered with that soft smile, pulling her from her musings. He brought with him some chocolates —her favorites—, and what started as a kind gesture turned into a quiet afternoon, complicit, full of low laughs and wordless confessions.
As she cooked, she asked herself: Should they really give themselves this chance? Should she risk it? Soon, a shadow of melancholy and fear slid over her thoughts: What if he stopped wanting her? What if the Leo of now didn't please him? It was a fear buried deep in her heart —and had been there for a long time, even before entering Hogwarts—. But Dumbledore's insistence had given her some confidence; perhaps, if she faced her war wounds, they could heal. The recent discussions, however, awakened internal conflicts she didn't want to attend to... but that seemed imminent.
Everything was tinged with the color of sunset: golden, warm, fleeting. What Remus sought in going was simply to return to the past, like so many of those sunsets they had spent there. But, deep in his heart, he only wanted to corroborate something specific.
—So... you only came to give me chocolates? —Leo already suspected something.
—Of course, and to spend a good time here —he replied, calm, as he handed her one of the onions she was cutting.
—And don't you have anything else to do? I thought the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor would have more work —she looked at him strangely, receiving the onion.
—Well, it's quite late, in case you haven't noticed —he noticed the ingredients on the table—. What are you making, anyway?
—Something Severus asked for.
—I don't know why, but I feel like I've lived this before... —he said, feigning strangeness, though in reality, he was joking.
—I hadn't noticed —she laughed, while cutting the vegetables—. It's even the same recipe.
—But I don't think it's the same...
—Why?
—Because this time the onion isn't making you cry. What secret have you learned?
—I won't tell you, because you'll ruin it just to bother me —she pointed at him with the knife and then continued working.
Remus, totally challenged, looked around without finding anything suspicious. But, with a quick movement, he murmured "Revelio." The spell revealed small bubbles floating in front of Leo's eyes, protecting them from the sting of the onion.
—Oh, no! —she cried out, trying to cover herself, but it was too late. Remus, with a mischievous smile, burst the bubbles with a slight gesture.
Within seconds, Leo's eyes filled with tears. Both laughed heartily, because she truly couldn't stop crying —even when the food was ready, her eyes remained red, sensitive, and bright as if she had just survived an epic tragedy.
Finally, Severus arrived. Without stopping too long to observe, he lunged at Remus and threatened him with his wand.
—Why is Leo crying? What did you do to her? —he asked, truly furious.
The air in the kitchen turned icy in an instant. Remus, still with a smile on his lips —though now more tense—, slowly raised his hands.
—Calm down, Severus, it was just the onion, you know I have sensitive eyes —he let out a nervous laugh.
—Just a little... culinary experiment —he said, carefully—. Nothing serious. She was using an eye protection charm. I just revealed it. And... deactivated it.
—"Just deactivated it"? —Snape repeated, with a voice so low it seemed to cut the air—. Do you find it amusing to see her cry?
Leo, still rubbing her reddened eyes, intervened between laughs and tears:
—Severus, please! It was my fault! I challenged him! I told him not to discover my trick!
But Snape didn't look at her. His eyes, black as ink, remained fixed on Lupin.
—Don't touch her again —he said, with a terrifying calm—. Not with magic. Not with jokes. Not even with a look.
Remus nodded slowly, with no trace of a joke left on his face.
—Understood. It won't happen again.
There was an awkward silence as he left. He had confirmed what he wanted from the beginning, and fighting for her was no longer within his possibilities. At least, not against Severus, he thought.
Snape lowered his wand, but didn't put it away. He looked at Leo, and for a second, his expression softened —just a little—. She, still with teary eyes, approached and placed a hand on his arm.
—I'm fine, really. It was... fun. And I needed to laugh like that.
—Fun or not... —he said, trying to maintain his composure, though his voice sounded softer than usual—. It's not the first time you've cried because of him. It seems you don't remember the times they treated you badly... whether you like it or not, he was part of that.
She smiled, moved.
—Thank you. But you have to accept that you don't need to be so defensive all the time.
She turned to fetch the dish Severus had come for in the first place.
He didn't answer. He just took the plate she had prepared for him, sniffed it with distrust... and then took the first bite.
—It's... acceptable —he murmured.
—Do you remember the spell you needed now? —she asked, leaning against the counter.
—Actually, yes —he looked at her for an instant, and hesitated between approaching... or simply leaving.
Silence filled the kitchen again, but this time it wasn't uncomfortable. Rather, it was as if the air knew something was about to change.
Leo didn't look away. Not even when her eyes still stung, nor when a rebellious tear escaped from the corner of her eye. She simply waited, because she was no longer in a hurry. She had nothing else to do.
He, for his part, left the plate on the table with excessive care —as if he feared breaking something more than the china—. He took a step toward her. Then another. Until the distance between them was so short he could feel the heat of her breath.
—Will you tell me now why you're crying?
—What? I already told you, because of the onion —she tried to wipe them, but now tears were springing forth again.
—I know you better than you think —he said, with a low voice, almost a murmur—. And I haven't seen you cry in too long. I recognize that these tears are no longer because of the onion.
He took her cheek carefully, and with his thumb gently wiped her face. She simply shortened the distance... and hugged him tightly.
Severus tensed at first —out of habit—, but then, very slowly, his arms closed around her.
Leo buried her face in his shoulder, breathing in his scent of ink and dried herbs. Tears continued to fall.
—You don't have to say anything —he murmured, his lips barely brushing her hair—. Just... stay like this for a moment.
And she nodded against his chest, not letting go.
Outside, night had fallen completely. Inside, the fire under the pot still crackled. She had even stopped crying, but she still didn't want to separate from him. So she took her wand and pointed it at the door. Murmuring a silent spell, the locks turned on their own, emitting a small click that caught Severus's attention.
It was then that they finally separated —slowly, as if the air between them were fragile—.
—Stay —she said, without order or demand. Just a request, rare in her, almost trembling—. I don't want to go alone tonight.
—You don't have to ask me twice.
It wasn't planned.
It was a sigh too close. An accidental brush of lips as they turned. An instant in which the air stopped, and both held their breath, as if fearing to break the spell.
It was a doubtful kiss. Just a brush. So brief anyone could have denied it. But not them.
Leo didn't move. She didn't even blink. She just looked at him —with eyes now free of tears, with her heart pounding against her chest as if it wanted to escape—, waiting.
Severus didn't pull away, nor did he speak or frown. As if he were reading an ancient text, in a language he had forgotten, but that still pulsed in his blood.
And then —slowly, like one tasting an unknown ingredient, like one fearing to burn— he leaned in again.
This time, it wasn't an accident.
It was a conscious kiss. His lips rested on hers with the delicacy of one touching something sacred. And when he felt that Leo didn't retreat —when he felt that she responded, barely, with a sigh that escaped her lips—, something inside him crumbled.
And he allowed himself more.
A hand, previously rigid at his side, rose trembling to cup her cheek —as if fearing she would vanish under his touch—. The other, without thinking, sought her waist, as if needing to anchor himself to something real, to something that wouldn't disappear upon waking.
The kiss grew. With contained hunger, released in small bites, in shared gasps, in tongues that met with the timidity of the new and the urgency of the inevitable. Leo, without breaking contact, took Severus's hand —the one still clinging to her waist— and guided it lower, over the curve of her hip, pressing gently, inviting him to go beyond fear and beyond control.
He groaned —a low, rough, almost inaudible sound that Leo felt vibrate against her lips— and in response, pulled her even closer, until there was no space between them. Until every breath became an echo of the other. Until their bodies recognized each other in the shadow and in the heat.
There were no rushes. No words. Only touch. Only breath. Only the silent truth of two souls that finally dared to touch without armor.
Severus's hand, now more secure, traced a slow line down Leo's hip, as if memorizing every curve, every tremor. She arched her back slightly, seeking more, and he responded with a deeper, more demanding kiss —as if he had awakened something he could no longer contain.
When their lips parted —only to breathe—, their foreheads remained joined. Severus's eyes were dark, dilated, lost in her.
—Leo... —he murmured, like a warning, like a plea.
—Shh... —she placed a finger on his lips—. Don't think.
She began to unbutton some of the buttons of her robe —not in haste, but with intention—, leaving it halfway, like a silent invitation. Her fingers then descended further... tracing the line of his waist, grazing the fabric of his trousers with a slowness that drove him mad.
Severus held his breath, his muscles tensing under Leo's touch, as if every inch of his skin were waking up for the first time. He closed his eyes for an instant, as if fighting against himself. Against years of discipline. Against the fear of losing control. But when he looked at her again —when he saw the determination in her eyes, the tenderness in her gesture, the absolute trust in her touch—, he knew he could no longer resist.
He didn't want to. Instead, he caught her wrist gently —not to stop her, but to guide her and feel her—, and his breath became a rough gasp, barely contained. It was impossible to disguise the effect she had on him. His body betrayed everything he had always tried to hide: desire, need, longing.
—Leo... —her name left his lips like a prayer.
She didn't answer with words. She just smiled at him —that smile only he knew— and leaned in to kiss him again, while her hand continued exploring, slow, sure, as if she knew exactly where to find him. Where to break the barriers he had built throughout his life.
Severus groaned against her mouth, a low, almost imperceptible sound, but one that resonated in the intimate space between them. His hand, which still held Leo's wrist, now guided it to where he needed it most. She felt him tremble under her touch, and that small tremor —that hint of vulnerability— made something inside her melt.
—Please... —Severus murmured, though even he didn't know what he was asking for.
His fingers moved with more firmness, tracing patterns on her skin that made him arch toward her, seeking more contact, more heat.
Leo, feeling how he surrendered little by little, separated just enough to look at him. Her eyes met Severus's, and in them she saw something she had never seen before: devotion. Desperation. Desire. All mixed in a storm that only she could calm
—Trust me —she whispered, so close her lips almost brushed his.
And Severus, with the last vestige of resistance crumbling, nodded.
The rest of the clothes disappeared slowly, piece by piece, like layers of protection that were no longer necessary. There were no rushes, no clumsiness. Only hands exploring, and when finally their bodies met, it was as if the entire world vanished. The kitchen walls no longer existed, nor the echoes of Hogwarts, nor the weight of the past. Only the two of them, in that intimacy neither had experienced before.
Severus clung to her tightly, as if fearing she might escape, as if needing to ensure this was real. But she had no plans to go anywhere. Instead, she enveloped him with her arms, her legs, her body, until there was no distance between them.
Their moans mingled in the air, low, stifled, as if even in this most intimate act, they wanted to protect it from the outside world. The movements weren't perfect, but they were sincere. Severus, who had always been careful, precise, controlled, now allowed himself to be chaotic and more human. And Leo, who had always been brave, guided him with a tenderness that completely disarmed him.
When they reached the climax, it wasn't with screams or fanfare. It was with a shared sigh, a tremor that ran through their bodies at the same time, as if even in that they were perfectly synchronized.
ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ |
¹My apologies for the long delay. I’ll probably keep taking a while, since I haven’t had my English classes, I’ve been on vacation, and between my personal projects and playing Resident Evil, time has just flown by.
On top of that, I’ve been obsessing over other characters and kind of lost my obsession with Snape and Jack. Even though I have everything structured, I just don’t feel like writing about them right now lol.
That, and since they’re my first fanfics, I feel like I don’t like them as much when I reread them, pipipi. But I keep my promises — it’ll just take me some time. I sweaaar pipipi.
𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: Severus Snape x Reader
𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴: Fluff
𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃: 7k
Summary: After a reckless night of Firewhisky, Y/N stumbles into Snape’s office, frustrated he skipped the teachers’ night out only to find herself face-to-face with long-buried feelings.
Whispers
The dungeon door creaked as it opened, its long, tired groan echoing off the stone. Severus did not bother to look up. He already knew. The uneven cadence of boots scraping against the floor
too slow, too uncoordinated gave you away immediately. Cold air followed you in, sharp with snow and saturated with Firewhisky, as if a very poorly planned blizzard had decided to pay him a visit.
You appeared in the doorway in stages. First the white-dusted cloak. Then the unmistakable sway. Then the metal flask clenched in your hand like a holy relic. By the time you made it fully inside, your robes were crooked, your balance theoretical at best.
“Lookie, lookie… my favorite dungeon batty,” you slurred, surrendering yourself to the nearest chair. It took the impact with a pained creak, legs scraping loudly across the stone as if trying to escape its fate. “What are you…doing?”
Severus finally set his quill aside. His gaze lingered on you, sharp and assessing, though something beneath it tightened an expression that hovered dangerously close to concern before being locked away where no one could accuse him of sentimentality.
“Detentions,” he said dryly. “Not that it matters. If I’d known the staff room was turning into the Leaky Cauldron after hours, perhaps I’d have reconsidered.”
You responded with a dismissive huff, lifting the flask for another sip before aiming it in his direction, arm wobbling as though the question itself required physical effort to deliver.
“Hmph. … What if ” the thought snagged halfway out, tangled and rearranged, “ what if I turned into a bee? Would you still love me?”
For a long moment, Severus did nothing at all as he studied your condition. The smell of Alcohol and your lightheadedness gave it away, you were Drunk. Luckily the students have been sent to bed already
“…A bee,” he repeated flatly.
“You believe your hypothetical metamorphosis into a striped, stinging insect determines my loyalty?”
He rose from his chair and crossed the room, movements smooth and unhurried in stark contrast to your own. The flask was removed from your grasp with practiced ease before it could slip free and shatter or worse, continue. A blanket followed, settling over your shoulders with a weight that was warmer than the dungeon air allowed.
“If Merlin forbid you became a bee,” he murmured, voice low, “I suppose I would simply keep a garden. So you had somewhere safe to land.” His lips betrayed him, twitching despite his best efforts.
“Now sit still before you fall off that chair. You’re dripping snow on my floor.”
You attempted to comply. Truly. But the room chose that moment to tilt sharply to one side, and gravity ever persuasive made its case. Before Severus could fully register the shift, your body surrendered, sliding bonelessly from the chair and colliding with the dungeon floor in a dull, unmistakable thud.
Silence followed. The kind that stretched just long enough to become judgmental.
“…Brilliant,” Severus muttered at last, pinching the bridge of his nose. “My floor is not a mattress, contrary to whatever delusion that Firewhisky has gifted you.”
He descended from his desk, robes whispering against the stone as he moved, and crouched beside you. The hem of his cloak pooled around him like spilled ink. His expression remained unimpressed, stern even but his hands were careful as he helped you sit upright, fingers firm where they steadied your weight.
“It’s just a floor,” you repeated, words thick and slurred. “We steep on it anyway.”
“Step,” he corrected sharply. “We step on it.”
You blinked up at him, eyes half-lidded and entirely unbothered.
“Tha’s what I said. Steep. Like tea.”
His eyes closed for a moment. Not briefly. Not calmly. It was a long, measured exhale the kind one took when reconsidering every decision that had led to this exact point in time.
“Of course. My error. I should have known the floor was a teapot.”
He slid an arm behind your back and hauled you to your feet, steadying you when your knees immediately attempted to betray you. The sharp bite of winter still clung to your cloak, mingling unpleasantly with the Firewhisky on your breath.
“You are going to sit on the bed in the chamber until your world stops spinning,” he instructed, voice low but no longer unkind. “And if you insist on reciting more drunken philosophy about floors and tea, I will hex your flask into a watering can.”
He glanced at you to see if you were listening. Snow melted slowly in your hair, damp curls clinging to flushed cheeks, your eyes glassy and unfocused.
“…And for the record,” he added, quieter, “even if you steeped into the floor, I would still fetch you.”
He guided you forward a few unsteady steps, muttering under his breath.
“Because clearly, someone must.”
You leaned heavily into him, your weight an uncooperative force as your words wobbled into the air like stray sparks of chaos.
“On the bed… whose bed?” you murmured, tilting your head up at him with glassy eyes.
Severus’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“…Mine,” he said flatly, though his tone carried the faintest edge of warning.
You didn’t pause. Firewhisky had loosened all sense of decorum and perhaps common sense.
“If you think about it… stars are gas, right? And farts are gas… what if we put our farts in… chambers and light it up…”
You slurred on, leaning impossibly against his chest, mumbling more nonsense into the dark fabric of his robes.
That was the final straw.
Severus’s patience measured and formidable as it was gave way to decisive action. He bent at the knees, hands sliding firmly under your arms and around your back, lifting you with the effortless strength of someone long accustomed to managing chaos of a different variety.
You mumbled incoherently against his chest as he carried you toward the bed, your head lolling against him. Your legs swung loosely, boots clicking against the stone floor until he finally set you down, easing you onto the covers with surprising gentleness.
“Really,” he muttered, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders, “you do have a talent for inventing… the most absurd hypotheticals while drunk. I must make a note to never accompany you to Hogsmeade again.”
He paused, eyes flicking to yours as you burrowed further into the covers, still mumbling.
“…Although,” he added quietly, almost reluctantly, “it is… rather endearing. In a disastrous sort of way.”
Severus settled into the chair beside the bed, keeping a careful watch over you, one hand resting at the edge of the blanket. A rare softness lingered in his gaze, betraying a fondness he would never fully admit aloud.
“Sleep. Try not to invent any more catastrophic constellations while unconscious,” he muttered.
You let out a muffled giggle, drifting somewhere between slurred nonsense and actual sleep.
Severus’s lips twitched never quite a smile but he allowed himself a single, private shake of the head.
“Hogwarts,” he whispered, “truly, is never dull.”
Your eyes struggled to focus, lids heavy, but they still found him tracing the sharp cut of his features, the candlelight catching in his hair like spilled ink. You blinked slowly, swaying slightly where you lay bundled in blankets.
“Have I ever told you…” you mumbled, words sloshing like the drink still lingering in your system, “that you’re attractively loyal?”
Severus froze.
He looked at you as though he needed to confirm that the words had truly left your mouth. A flush threatened at the tips of his ears, sharp and unwelcome, but he crushed it down with practiced severity.
“…You are inebriated,” he said stiffly, though the edges of his voice betrayed him, softened despite his effort. “And therefore, I will assume that particular remark is a symptom of intoxication, much like your theories about… combustible flatulence.”
You stared at him, unblinking.
“So… that’s a no?”
He exhaled, the sound heavy, like surrender given breath. his gaze lowering. “That is not a ‘no.’ Merely… not a conversation you will remember with dignity come morning.”
His eyes lifted again dark, steady, revealing more than he would have preferred.
“If you insist on complimenting me,” he continued, voice dropping to something quieter, “I would prefer it when you are sober. When you mean it with clarity rather than… whisky.”
You reached for him clumsily, your fingers brushing the sleeve of his robes.
“…I mean it now,” you said, head lolling to the side, voice small and sincere despite the slur that softened its edges.
Severus swallowed. The line of his throat tightened, a visible breach in his composure. A long moment stretched between you fragile, unspoken before he reached forward and gently guided your hand back beneath the blanket.
“Sleep,” he said softly, the word more plea than command. “If I am to endure flattery, let me face it with proper defenses.”
He leaned back into his chair, robes settling around him like a living shadow, and added barely audible, yet unmistakably true:
“…And for what it’s worth… no one has ever said it quite like you.”
Your voice tangled around the next words, thick with alcohol and something older, something that Firewhisky could not dull or explain. Tears welled, clinging stubbornly to your lashes as you murmured,
“I do mean it, Sevs… I do like you… since we were sixth year. But who listens to a blue bird…?”
The room seemed to still. Even the torches burned quieter, as though they too were holding their breath.
Severus did not move at once. He sat rigid, every muscle locked, as though the weight of the words had turned him to stone. Fifth year. A lifetime ago. Before war. Before scars. Before choices that left wounds no magic could ever fully close. When he rose, it was not abrupt but careful measured, as though sudden movement might shatter something fragile and precious. He knelt beside the bed, the fabric of his robes brushing the floor, and lifted a hand toward your face. His thumb hovered for a breath, then touched gentle, deliberate brushing away a tear before it could fall.
“I listened,” he said quietly. “More than you ever knew.”
You hiccupped, gaze unfocused but brimming with feeling, truth and hurt bleeding together. “No you didn’t. You never never noticed.”
Severus’s breath trembled, the faintest fracture in his control.
“I noticed everything,” he said softly.
The way you chose the cold window seat. The way you crossed your ankles before exams. The way you laughed when you thought no one was listening.
There it was…The truth, bare and unarmored. He guided you down gently, tucking the blanket closer around you, his palm lingering just briefly at your temple.
His gaze dropped.
“I simply never believed I was where a Ravenclaw should land.”
“Rest now,” he murmured, voice softer than candlelight. “If you still mean this in the morning… if you still want to speak of fifth year and blue birds and things that might have been ”
He remained beside you, his silhouette a dark, vigilant presence in the torchlight. You burrowed into the pillow his pillow and its scent wrapped around you: warm spice, parchment, and something unmistakably him. For a moment, it soothed you. You let out a small, miserable sound as the dizziness returned, sharp and sudden. The room tilted like the moving staircases, and your breath hitched as you squeezed your eyes shut.
Severus reacted instantly.
“Easy,” he murmured, flicking his wand. A bucket appeared at the bedside with a quiet pop, grimly prepared. “Firewhisky is… unforgiving.”
“No,” he said dryly, placing a cool hand at your temple. “You are simply regretting your decisions. A far less dramatic fate.”
You groaned, face half-buried in the pillow.
“I’m dying…”
A gentle cooling charm spread across your forehead, easing the worst of the spin. He reached for a glass of water, sliding an arm behind your shoulders as he lifted you just enough to drink.
“Slowly,” he instructed. “It will not sober you, but it will prevent your stomach from mutiny.”
You sipped, grimacing, then leaned into him without thinking—forehead pressing against his shoulder, seeking something solid. Severus exhaled quietly and adjusted his hold, one hand settling between your shoulder blades.
“Rest,” he said again, voice low. “The world will stop spinning soon.”
“If you are sick,” he added, practicality returning, “aim for the bucket. Not my pillow. Sentiment only stretches so far.”
His thumb brushed your shoulder anyway.
You barely finished the sentence before you lurched forward.
Another wave of nausea rolled through you, and you whimpered, shaking your head.
“I don’t wanna drink anymore…”
Severus moved with controlled speed, sitting beside you on the bed as one hand steadied your shoulder and the other swept your hair back, careful to keep it from your face. He didn’t scold. He didn’t lecture. He stayed.
“I believe the point has been made,” he muttered.
When it passed, you slumped weakly. He guided you upright, keeping the bucket close, then conjured a bowl of cool water. A cloth followed, wrung out and pressed gently to your forehead and neck.
“I’ve got you,” he said quietly—so low it wasn’t meant to be heard as anything more than fact.
You nodded faintly, eyes barely open.
“Lie back,” he instructed. “Slowly. Is the room still spinning?”
You nodded again.
“Hm.” He shifted closer, allowing you to lean against him. “Then stay where you are.”
The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile.
Your voice came out thin and pleading against his robes.
“Don’t you have any potions… to end the spinning?”
“Fortunately, I do,” he replied. “But you must promise not to wander off and debate philosophy with the suits of armor.”
“I’ll stay…” you murmured.
He studied you for a long moment—your slack posture, the trust in your weight against him. Something softened, unguarded.
“You were always terrible at lying when drunk,” he said quietly. “Still… I’ll trust you. This once.”
He shifted to stand, then paused. His hand lingered at your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone.
“Adorable,” he murmured—almost to himself.
Then he caught himself, cleared his throat, and straightened.
“I’ll return with the Anti-Vertigo Draught. Do not leave this bed, little Ravenclaw, or I will strap you to it with a Sticking Charm.”
He meant it. Probably.
As he turned toward the adjoining room, he glanced back once more, eyes dark and gentle.
“I’m right here,” he said. “I’m not going far.”
The soft sounds of potion cabinets and clinking glass filled the quiet. You curled deeper into his bed, breathing in the scent of mint, parchment, old woodsmoke—him. The dizziness eased enough to think, just barely.
You fumbled at the button at your throat, trying to breathe.
“Do not undo too much,” his voice called calmly from the storeroom. “I would prefer you not pass out half-undressed on my bedding. My reputation suffers enough as it is.”
“I’m not going naked,” you mumbled. “I just… need air…”
Your fingers wavered. Severus returned just in time to intercept them, warm hand catching your wrist.
“I am aware,” he said softly. “You are attempting to breathe, not scandalize me.”
He guided your hand down and undid one more button himself—slow, precise, stopping well before impropriety.
“There,” he murmured. “Enough to breathe.”
He returned with the vial—a soft lavender glow contained in glass—and paused when he saw you curled on your side, blankets gathered around you, eyes shut tight against the spin.
The sharp remark he’d prepared died unspoken.
Severus sat beside you, brushing hair gently from your neck and tucking the blanket higher instead of scolding.
“This will help,” he said quietly. “I brewed it for you.”
He lifted you just enough to rest against him, guiding the vial to your lips.
“Slow sips,” he instructed. “I trust you not to choke. Barely.”
You swallowed, wincing—and then sighed as the potion cooled the chaos in your stomach and head. He stayed still until your body relaxed again, easing you back onto the pillow.
“There,” he murmured. “Better.”
His hand lingered at the back of your head, fingers brushing your hair.
“And leave the rest of the buttons alone,” he added dryly. “If you remove any more layers, I will be forced to conjure a blanket fortress.”
As the potion settled, you curled instinctively closer, pressing into his side. Severus stiffened for a heartbeat—then didn’t pull away.
He adjusted the blanket around you, arm settling at your back, steady and protective.
“You are exhausted,” he said softly. “Sleep. Not apologies. Not explanations.”
His thumb brushed once over your knuckles—a fleeting gesture, gone almost before it existed.
“If you need me… I am here.”
“And for the record,” he added, voice low near your hair,
“If you need air, you will have it. If you need space, you will have that too.”
Your breathing slowed. Sleep claimed you fully, your weight trusting, unguarded. Severus remained awake, watching the rise and fall of your chest, his hand resting at your back like an anchor. For once, he did not move.
You curled closer, the spinning slowly quieting, wrapped in blankets and the scent of him. And Severus stayed solid and still beside you one hand resting at your back, keeping the world from tilting again.
Sleep claimed you fully your breaths slow, even, warm against the fabric of his robes. You had slumped against him without hesitation, trusting him with your whole weight, with your vulnerability, with the version of you that had no armor on. You didn’t know that his arms had folded around you on instinct, holding you like something precious. Like something he didn’t quite believe he deserved.
Severus, however, did not sleep.
He sat there in the dim candlelight, spine against the headboard, blanket pooled over both of you like a shared cocoon. His hand rested at the curve of your shoulder, fingers brushing the edge of the loosened collar he’d freed for you so you could breathe.
His mind, traitorous as ever, whispered.
Why me? Why here? Why now?
You could have gone to any colleague, any friend… any man. Someone who made people laugh freely. Someone charming. Someone whose past didn’t drag behind them like chains. But you had wandered through the snow and cold and misery and ended up here drunk and hurting and laid yourself down in his bed like it was the safest place in the castle.
He stared at you, jaw tight with quiet conflict.
she should not be here.She could have leftShe Deserves better than this…
What if someone is looking for her?
And yet
You curled into him, unconsciously chasing his warmth, pressing closer as though some part of you knew exactly where you belonged. His arms tightened just a little. His heart clenched a lot.
He swallowed, eyes tracing the details of you your softened expression, the way your fingers curled in the blanket, the slight smudge of snowmelt in your hair. You were wearing something nicer than your usual teaching robes meant for an evening outing, an impression, a moment. For a heartbeat, jealousy flickered hot in his chest.
Who were you trying to look beautiful for?
The answer stung.
Not me, he thought. It could never be me.
But then he looked at you again really looked and something gentler settled.
You didn’t need to impress him. Not tonight. Not ever. Quietly, so quietly it nearly broke him, he thought:
“You are enough. More than enough.” His hand brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, careful not to wake you.
He had spent a lifetime mourning what he lost with Lily mourning what James had that he never would. But as he watched you breathe against his chest, something shifted. Something frightening. Something hopeful.
Perhaps Lily was never mine to have …and perhaps you are not meant to be lost. He leaned his head back, eyes closing for just a moment as he breathed you in the mint and winter on your skin, the faint trace of Firewhisky, the warmth that settled into his ribs like a living, breathing thing. His arm tightened around you, firm but careful, like he was afraid you would vanish. And beneath all his doubt, a quiet thought bloomed small, fragile, but real.
What if she isn’t meant for someone else? What if she’s meant for me?
For the first time in years, Severus let that hope stay.
The first rays of sunlight filtered weakly through the dungeon windows, touching the stone walls and stirring motes of dust in lazy arcs. You groaned softly, head pounding, body aching in protest from the night before. Every bone felt heavy, every thought sluggish, and for a long moment, you couldn’t remember much at all, only the blur of Firewhisky, the cold of snow, the warmth of a bed that wasn’t yours… yet somehow was.
Your eyelids fluttered, and when you finally opened them, the world slowly resolved. Gray stone, flickering torchlight from a hearth you’d barely noticed yesterday, the quiet, comforting smell of mint and old books and then him.
Severus was lying there, still half-asleep, arm draped naturally across your waist. You froze, a flicker of panic igniting in your chest. You are sober now.
Completely sober.
Every inch of you realized exactly where you were. In his bed. His arms around you. The dress you’d worn, the one meant for Hogsmade, still clinging to you.
You swallowed hard, heart picking up speed despite the hangover, muscles stiff with indecision. You didn’t want to move your body screamed for rest but your mind buzzed with the sudden, sharp awareness of just how intimate the situation was. You tried to catch your breath quietly, not wanting to disturb him, but the sheer presence of him, the weight of his arm, the quiet rise and fall of his chest made your stomach twist in an unfamiliar way.
Severus, for his part, hadn’t stirred yet. His brow was relaxed, lips pressed into that neutral line he always carried, but the hand on your waist held you with a careful, instinctive steadiness as though letting go might let you fall, even if only metaphorically.
You wanted to look away, to sit up, to apologize but your limbs felt leaden, and part of you couldn’t quite bring yourself to leave the safety of his arms. Your panic simmered quietly, mingled with a strange, soft sense of… comfort.
He’s just holding me. That’s all.
You told yourself that, even as your fingers itched to tug the blanket higher, to shift just enough to regain some dignity, to convince yourself that it was normal and not not this.
Severus shifted slightly, murmuring in his sleep, still unaware that you were awake, that you were staring. One hand adjusted on your waist, thumb brushing lightly against your hip, subtle and precise, almost protective.
You felt your pulse quicken again. You realized, faintly, that you were both trapped in a moment that neither of you had planned, yet neither of you wanted to break.
And in the quiet of the dungeon morning, with sunlight flickering over stone and blanket, you wondered just for a heartbeat what would happen when he did wake.
Severus’s arm tightened minutely, pulling you slightly closer without opening his eyes. “Stay,” he whispered hoarsely, voice still thick with sleep. “Just… stay.”
Your breath caught.
You hadn’t moved.
You wouldn’t. Not yet.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. Just breathed, trying to close your eyes again, to sink into the fragile cocoon of warmth and safety his arm provided. Every nerve in your body was still tangled with the hangover, the spinning ache in your head, the dryness in your throat, the lingering buzz of yesterday’s reckless Firewhisky.
Severus shifted beside you, small movement enough to make you open your eyes again. His dark gaze, still shadowed with sleep, caught yours. Something unspoken hung between you both a question, a memory, a judgment he hadn’t yet voiced.
What did I say last night? you wondered, heart thudding uncomfortably in your chest. Your stomach twisted. You silently hoped you hadn’t embarrassed yourself and hadn't confessed some drunken nonsense that would forever haunt your professional image.
You reached up slowly, hand grazing over your dress, smoothing the fabric as if you could somehow erase the night before. It had been this dress you’d chosen, carefully, to impress him. To hint at something. To be seen. And yet, disappointment sank in like a stone.
You had gotten drunk. Against another colleague. You had let Firewhisky loosen your tongue, loosen your body, and now here you were curled against him, sober and painfully aware of every detail.
Severus’s eyes followed your movements, dark and unreadable. He noticed the smoothing of your dress, the slight tension in your hands, the way your shoulders hunched even while you lay pressed into him. His expression softened imperceptibly.
She worries, he realized, though she need not.
“You need not smooth anything,” he murmured quietly, voice low and cautious, like testing a fragile truth. “The dress. The mess. The… indiscretions of last night. None of it changes anything.”
You froze, blinking at him, heart fluttering. The faint shadow of a frown softened as he shifted slightly, adjusting his arm to keep you closer, to steady you.
“You sought warmth,” he continued, carefully measured, “and perhaps… honesty. That is all I see. Nothing else.”
He paused, eyes flicking to your face with a rare hesitation, a rare vulnerability he seldom allowed.
“Do you understand?” he asked, tone gentle, but firm. “No embarrassment lingers here.”
You felt your chest ease slightly at his words, that tight coil of panic loosening just a fraction. And though your hand still lingered on the fabric of the dress, you allowed yourself to lean a little deeper into the cradle of his arm.
Severus, for his part, remained still, keeping you safe and quiet, letting the silence settle like a shield around the two of you one that spoke louder than any words ever could.
“What did I do last night?” you whispered, panic creeping in. “I didn’t… ruin my reputation in front of the children, have I? I’ve been so reckless… What did I even say?”
You flinched slightly, voice tight with worry, fumbling against his chest as though trying to anchor yourself.
Severus’s dark eyes softened slightly as he looked down at you. He let out a faint, almost inaudible sigh half amusement, half exasperation, all restrained as always.
“You were reckless,” he said evenly, though not unkindly. “But no, you did not ruin anything. The students were never present. And if they had been… you would hardly be the first teacher to experiment with… extracurricular intoxication.”
His gaze flicked over your flushed, still-weak face, noting the tension in your shoulders and the faint tremor of panic in your hands.
“As for what you said…” His lips curved the tiniest fraction, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “You made several… unusual philosophical observations about stars, gas, and ” he paused, clearly debating how much to admit, “…the combustion of bodily functions.”
He let the words hang between you, neutral but carrying just the faintest edge of dry amusement.
“And then,” he continued, tone dropping to that quiet, more intimate level reserved only for you, “…you told me that you had liked me since fifth year. Very earnestly. And, if I am to be honest, perhaps a little… slurred.”
He shifted slightly so that your head pressed a little closer into his chest. His hand, steady and protective, brushed against your hair.
“Other than that,” he murmured, voice soft but firm, “you were exactly as you are now, stubborn, reckless, and completely… yourself. That, in my opinion, is not something that can ruin a reputation.”
He watched you carefully, the tension in your posture slowly easing under the weight of his words.
“You are safe,” he added quietly, almost a whisper, “and if anyone were to ask, last night simply never happened. Except… between us.”
And with that, he allowed a small, rare exhale of relief. You were alive. Unscathed. And in his arms. For now, that was all that mattered.
Her eyes widen looking at him still lying down beside him "I said that? Oh...." She said "I really didn't mean to say that....I mean...I didn't mean it to come out like that I know you never looked at me like I'm...it's just-
Severus’s eyes opened fully at your rush of words, dark gaze steady on you as if he’d been awake the entire time. He didn’t interrupt not at first. He let you stumble through the tangled mess of panic and apology until your breath caught.
Your voice cracked, and his hand still resting on your waist tightened ever so slightly. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just… grounding. Enough to make you stop spiraling.
“I know you never looked at me like I’m……. ”
“It’s just ”
He shifted, propping his head against his hand so he could truly look at you. Hair a bit mussed from sleep, shirt slightly wrinkled, he looked less like the unapproachable professor everyone feared, and more like a man who existed in the soft quiet between moments.
“Y/N.”
His tone wasn’t sharp, but it cut through your rambling all the same.
“You do not need to apologize for honesty,” he said quietly. “Drunken or otherwise.”
Your cheeks heated, and you looked away, but Severus wasn’t having it. Two fingers hooked gently beneath your chin barely a touch, hardly forceful and guided your gaze back to his.
“You think I have never looked at you?”
The question was soft, almost scoff-like, as though the idea was absurd. “You think I have not noticed the way you linger… the way you speak to me as though I am something other than the school’s resident menace?”
The faintest curve touched his lips not quite a smile, “I have looked at you,” he admitted, voice lower now, as though he feared the walls might hear. “Far more than is sensible. And with far more sentiment than is… professional.”
He exhaled slowly, thumb brushing your cheek before retreating, as if afraid he’d crossed a line.
“If you regret saying it, then we will forget it,” he offered, the shields in his voice returning but cracking at the edges. “No harm done. We continue on as before.”
There was a silence…before he continued.
The room went still around the two of you fire crackling, sheets warm, breath shared between inches.
“But if you did mean it…”
His gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes.
“…then say it sober.”
“I will believe it,” he murmured, “only if you do.”
"i do mean it...I do fancy you since we were fifth year. That's why James occasionally mysteriously gets detention or a bloody nose." you said.
"But I never had the courage....as foolish as it sounds that I'm supposed to be Smart." you said Severus’s breath caught just a flicker, just enough that someone who hadn’t known him for years would’ve missed it. But you saw it. You always had.
At the mention of James Potter’s “mysterious detentions” and “bloody noses,” the corner of his mouth twitched almost with amusement, definitely surprise.
“So that was you,” he murmured, voice low, raspy with sleep and disbelief. “I had always suspected divine intervention… or karma. I see now it was neither.”
Your instinct was to retreat, to take it back, to lessen the vulnerability on your tongue. You turned your face, starting to whisper, “nevermi–”
But Severus stopped you with a quiet, firm word:
“Don’t.”
His hand was warm, hesitant, but undeniably there slipped to your cheek, guiding your gaze back to him. No bravado. No mask. Just Severus.
“You are not foolish,” he said, voice steadier now. “It takes more courage to speak the truth than to hide behind intellect. Ravenclaw or not.” He studied you your flushed cheeks, your bare throat where you’d loosened the collar, the dress you’d worn for him. The realization hit him harder than any spell James Potter ever cast.
“You fancied me… then.” His eyes searched yours. “And you fancy me now.”
It wasnt a question more like a conclusion. One he was frightened of and drawn to in equal measure.
He shifted closer, slow enough to give you every chance to pull back. His forehead nearly touched yours, breath brushing your lips like a promise half-made.
“And if I tell you,” he said softly, “that I have admired you since fifth year? That I watched you choose the stars over people who never deserved your light? That I ” His voice faltered, rare and raw. “ never spoke because I thought I had nothing to offer you but shadows and regrets… would that sound foolish too?”
His thumb brushed your jaw, barely there.
“Say nothing if you don’t want to,” he whispered. “Just… stay.”
His voice dropped to a confession, almost fragile:
“Stay. Because I want you to.”
Severus’s lips pressed into a thin line. He shrugged, the faintest shrug, almost imperceptible but it carried the weight of years and memories.
You scoffed, leaning just slightly away, though still pressed into the warmth of the blankets.
“You couldn’t have fancied me back then… you were… busy,” you said, half-teasing, half-protective of your own heart.
“I did not,” he admitted quietly, “not during school.”
His gaze flickered down at you, shadows of memory clouding his dark eyes. “I was… occupied with other things. Responsibilities. Expectations. The… war.”
But then his expression softened, almost painfully so. “When I returned, after everything… I saw you again.” His voice dropped lower, almost a murmur. “You… startled me. At twenty-one, I choked on my own drink simply because you existed. You ” He paused, jaw tightening. “You had always existed in my mind, somewhere between memory and… regret. But I was careful. Silent. Professional.”
He let the words linger, as if the room itself might catch them and carry them into some place safer.
“Even though we grew closer in our years of teaching,” he continued, voice barely above the crackle of the fire, “I hid it all perfectly. Every glance, every fleeting thought, every… sentiment I could have shared… buried beneath robes, lessons, and ” His lips twitched. “…a lifetime of self-denial.”
His hand brushed lightly over yours, thumb stroking the back of your hand as if anchoring both you and himself.
“But,” he whispered finally, voice low and raw, “I have never stopped noticing you. Not once. And now… now I do not intend to hide it any longer.”
The weight of his confession settled between you, heavy, steady, and utterly honest something that no potion, no spell, no walls could conceal.
He leaned just slightly closer, dark eyes fixed on yours.
“You have no idea what you’ve done to me, Y/N. And I… I cannot promise to be subtle anymore.”
“And if you feel… anything at all,” he added, softer still, “then perhaps… it is time we stop pretending otherwise.”
He rested his forehead near yours, breathing mingling, quiet warmth between words left unspoken, waiting for your reaction.
you smiled "I'm such a fool I didn't notice that" you said
Severus let out a quiet huff through his nose something that might have passed for a laugh if it weren’t still tangled in the remnants of his nerves. Your smile, your teasing tone, the way you listed off every suspicion so casually… it undid him more than any confession ever could.
“A fool?” he echoed, eyes narrowing with mock offense. “Hardly. I was… remarkably disciplined. Deceptively so.”
He shifted onto his elbow, facing you fully now, and there was a glimmer in his eyes that hadn’t been there the night before something warmer, freer.
“You believed we were simply… best friends,” he murmured, voice low as silk over stone. “Perhaps that is where I hid my feelings safest. In plain sight.”
Your teasing continued, each item you listed landing like an exposed secret:
“All that? Ministry meetings? Late nights? Missions?”
His lips curved just a hint.
“Yes,” he admitted. “All that.”
“And every time I returned, I checked the staff table for you before I even removed my cloak.”
That earned a real reaction his shoulders stiffened, eyes flicked away, and a flush of embarrassment colored his ears.
You went on, cataloguing his protectiveness, the rules he never explained, the ones he made up purely for you.
“No wonder you never wanted me going alone. Nor remove my cloak around someone else. Or let me sit on the desk…”
“I gave perfectly rational explanations,” he tried, clearing his throat like he could hide behind decorum.
“Unstable structural integrity… questions of professionalism…”
“…It was never the desk,” he confessed softly. “It was you.”
Your silence said you didn’t buy a word of it.
His gaze slid back to yours, resigned and deeply, helplessly human.
His voice dropped further, intimate like a whisper shared under blankets or between constellations.
“You would sit there, quite unaware, and I ” He exhaled sharply, as if admitting the rest might set something alight. “ the sight of you so close, so relaxed beside me… it invited thoughts I had no right to entertain.”
He dared a smirk dark, shy, and devastating.
“Thoughts I am… now far less inclined to resist.”
“…In fact, I may encourage it.”
His hand slid to your waist, slow enough to give you every chance to protest gentle enough to tell you he already knew you wouldn’t.
“So,” he murmured, thumb brushing the fabric of that dress you wore for him, “if you wish to sit on my desk now… I will not stop you.”
"oh dear, I didnt know you had some secret ...what's the word? Stamina? deep in that bravado" you grinned
Severus Snape blinked at you slowly, as though you’d just spoken Parseltongue directly into his ear.
“Stamina,” he repeated, deadpan… but the faint, traitorous rise of color along his throat betrayed him. “That is… not the word I expected you to choose.”
“Bravado,” he murmured, leaning closer as if to test the air between you. “Yes, I am familiar with that. It is useful. It keeps students out of my classroom during lunch. Prevents unwanted conversation in the corridors. Maintains order.”
Your grin only widened.
Severus’s eyes narrowed not in irritation, but in that dangerous, slow-burning amusement he almost never let anyone see.
He paused just long enough to let the tension coil, his voice dropping to something warm and velvet-dark.
“But stamina,” he continued, tone like smoke curling around your spine, “is not something I advertise. It is… demonstrated.”
“And you, apparently, have spent years sitting beside me without ever noticing.”
A beat.
His gaze swept you neck, lips, eyes and returned with intent.
He tilted his head, lips ghosting close to your ear.
“Perhaps I wasn’t the only one hiding.”
He pulled back just enough for you to see the spark in his eyes the kind of challenge only Severus Snape could make sound like a promise.
Then, softer, a wicked thread of a smirk:
“Unless…” His fingers brushed the back of your hand, deliberate. “You are volunteering to test the theory?”
His gaze dipped to your grin, your flushed cheeks, the way you lingered.
“Because I assure you,” he said, voice suddenly silk and certainty,
“my stamina has never been in question.”
He raised a dark eyebrow at your laughter, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Yours, however…”
His smirk deepened.
“…may soon be.”
“Whats the word……,” he repeated slowly, letting each syllable land, “would I want you to use…?” He leaned just a fraction closer, his voice dropping lower, heavy and deliberate. “Perhaps… endurance? Resilience? Or shall we skip semantics entirely and allow action to speak for itself?”
“Take me to dinner first,” you said, voice tinged with blush, “and maybe we could… test that theory of yours.”
The words hung between you like fire and shadow. He tilted his head, dark eyes flicking to your lips, then back to your eyes, grin curling under his nose.
“You are… remarkably forward,” he murmured, voice low, velvet-dark.
And then, you leaned in. Closer than discretion or dinner might have suggested. The heat of your breath brushed against his jaw, and the faint scent of mint and Firewhisky and something uniquely you filled the air.
Severus’s grin faltered, a slow, dark laugh escaping his chest, nearly a growl. “Dinner… is clearly negotiable.”
He held you there for a heartbeat, hand still at your hip, gaze drinking in every detail of your flushed face, your daring eyes, the faint tremor of anticipation in your lips.
“Perhaps… testing theories is far more… pressing,” he murmured, voice heavy, teasing, utterly deliberate.
The world outside the dungeon Ministry schedules, classes, Hogwarts rules fell away. It was just the two of you, heat coiling in the quiet, a dangerous promise of action rather than words.
And Severus, for once, did not pull away.
You pressed forward, lips claiming his with reckless abandon, fire and tension colliding as if all the years of hidden longing, the silences, the suppressed glances, had condensed into this single, urgent kiss.
Severus froze for the barest heartbeat, dark eyes widening, but only briefly. Then his hands found your waist and back, pulling you impossibly closer. Every measured, controlled layer he wore professor, perfectionist, shadow of a man fell away with the press of your lips against his.
When he broke the kiss, just enough to draw a slow breath, his forehead rested against yours, chest rising and falling in quiet, unsteady rhythm. His voice was barely a whisper, hoarse with sleep, alcohol, and something far more profound.
“I love you,” he said.
The words were deliberate, impossible to ignore. Not a murmur of infatuation, not a careless confession they carried the weight of years, of regret, of silent admiration, and finally, of courage.
You blinked, heart stuttering in the aftershock of the kiss and the confession, heat blooming in your cheeks.
“You… love me?” you whispered, incredulous, voice trembling, voice full of disbelief and joy.
He nodded, dark eyes locking on yours, unflinching, serious, vulnerable in a way he had never allowed anyone to see.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I have… for a long time.”
And there it was the unspoken truth of countless nights of watching you, protecting you, feeling for you, craving for you. All laid bare in three words.
You felt your chest lift, your own heart responding, and in that moment, the world outside. the Ministry, Hogwarts, past regrets didn’t matter.
There was only this.
Only the two of you, wrapped in each other’s warmth, words no longer necessary beyond the confession that had finally been spoken.
Your pulse raced, and the only answer you could give… was to kiss him again, deeper, letting the years of waiting, longing, and hidden desire pour into that single, perfect, undeniable connection.
Severus’s hands tightened slightly around you, as if afraid the moment might slip away.
“And now,” he murmured, voice low, dark, and intimate, “you know.”
Summary: Touch-starved Severus kisses you by accident while you are healing his scars on his face.
Accidental Kiss
The dungeon corridor was quiet in the way only the dungeons could be, a damp, echoing hush that pressed against the ears. Torchlight flickered along the stone, catching on the black of Severus Snape’s robes as he pushed open the door to his private chambers with more force than strictly necessary.
You followed a step behind him, fingers tightening around your wand when you finally saw his face properly.
Merlin.
Scratches marred his pale skin, thin red lines slashed across his cheekbone and temple, some dangerously close to his eye. His lower lip was split, dried blood dark against the sharp line of his mouth. One mark curved just beside his eye, angry and raw, as if whoever or whatever had done this had come far too close to blinding him.
“Sit,” you said, sharper than you intended.
He obeyed, stiffly, lowering himself into the chair by his desk. His black eyes flicked to you, then away again, jaw tightening.
“I am perfectly capable of treating myself,” he muttered.
You ignored that. You always did when he retreated into that tone, the one meant to keep the world at bay. You stepped closer, setting your bag down, heart pounding far harder than the situation alone warranted.
This was not the first time you had healed him. It was, however, the first time the wounds were on his face.
And far too close to his lips.
“Hold still,” you said more softly.
He scoffed. “I am not a child.”
I know, you thought. That’s the problem.
You raised your wand, hands steady despite the heat creeping up your neck. Healing spells were second nature to you, muscle memory and intent woven together. Still, this felt different. Intimate, somehow, in a way that made your chest ache.
Severus felt it too.
He could feel everything. The closeness, the faint warmth of your magic, the way you leaned in without hesitation. He fixed his gaze on a distant shelf, on a vial he desperately pretended was fascinating.
Get a grip, he told himself. This is absurd. She is merely doing her duty.
And yet.
Her breath brushed his cheek as she murmured the incantation, cool magic sinking into the first scratch. His shoulders went rigid.
Too close. She is far too close.
He had not been touched gently in years. Not without pain, not without expectation. Certainly not like this, careful and focused, your brow furrowed in concentration as if his wounds mattered.
As if he mattered.
You watched the cut fade beneath your spell, skin knitting together smoothly. Relief washed through you, followed by a nervous flutter when you realized just how close you were. His face was inches from yours, his features sharp and familiar and unreadable.
His eyes flicked to you then, dark and intense.
You froze.
“I need to heal the ones near your eye,” you said quickly, voice barely above a whisper. “If you can just… look at me.”
He inhaled sharply, then did as you asked.
Big mistake.
Do not look at her, his mind screamed uselessly, even as his gaze locked onto yours. Your eyes were gentle, concerned, so achingly kind it made something twist painfully in his chest.
He could feel his pulse racing, traitorous and loud. Merlin help him, he could see the faint curve of your lips, still pressed together in concentration.
Stop thinking about her mouth.
You lifted your hand, fingers hovering near his temple to steady him. You hesitated, then gently rested your fingertips against his skin.
He nearly lost his composure entirely.
The contact was light, barely there, yet it sent a shock through him. He held his breath, terrified that if he exhaled he would do something catastrophically foolish.
You healed the scratch near his eye, then another along his cheek. Each spell brought you closer to his mouth.
You noticed his tension then, the way his hands curled into fists in his lap, knuckles white.
“Are you in pain?” you asked, worried.
“No,” he snapped, then winced. “I mean, no. Continue.”
You nodded, swallowing, and angled your wand toward his lips.
This one was delicate. You leaned in, focusing intently, aware of how close your faces were now. Your noses nearly brushed. You could see the faint scar at the corner of his mouth, the one you had noticed a hundred times and never dared comment on.
Severus could not look away.
Her lips, his mind whispered, traitorously. So close. Too close.
Your concentration faltered as you became acutely aware of his gaze, heavy and burning. You glanced up, breath catching when you realized just how intently he was watching you.
“Severus ?” you murmured.
That was the breaking point.
Something in him snapped, weeks of exhaustion, years of longing, the unbearable intimacy of this moment crashing together. Before he could stop himself, before his mind could reassert control, he leaned forward.
His lips brushed yours.
The kiss was brief, startled, unplanned, but undeniably real.
You froze, eyes wide, shock coursing through you. For half a second, the world seemed to stop.
Severus pulled back as if burned.
Merlin. What had he done.
“I,” he stammered, horror flooding his features. “I apologize. That was entirely inappropriate. I do not know what came over me. You must think me a complete fool, I assure you I never intended, that is, I would never presume, please understand, I—”
He was spiraling, words tumbling over each other in a rare, unguarded panic. He stood abruptly, pacing once, running a hand through his hair.
“I am deeply sorry. This will not happen again. I value your professionalism and your trust and I have jeopardized both and—”
“Severus.”
He didn’t seem to hear you.
“I will accept any consequences,” he continued tightly. “If you wish to leave, I understand. I should never have allowed myself to—”
You grabbed his robes and kissed him.
Harder this time.
It shut him up instantly.
His eyes widened in pure disbelief, body going completely still. You pulled back after a heartbeat, face burning, heart hammering so loudly you were certain he could hear it.
“Please,” you said softly. “Stop talking.”
He stared at you, stunned.
Silence stretched between you, thick and electric.
Then, clearing your throat, you lifted your wand again.
“You’re still bleeding,” you said, gesturing to his lip. “Sit down.”
He obeyed, dazed.
You resumed healing his wounds as if nothing had happened, though everything had. Your hands were steadier now, your magic warm and sure. His lip healed beneath your spell, skin smoothing perfectly.
Severus watched you with something dangerously close to awe.
She kissed me back, he thought faintly. Merlin help me.
When you finished, you stepped back, finally meeting his eyes.
“All done,” you said, shy smile tugging at your lips.
Severus Snape x Reader - Eye for an Eye, Heart for a Heart
Pairing: Severus Snape x Reader
Part I: Veritaserum and Consequences
Summary: This is part II of Veritaserum and Consequences
Eye for an Eye, Heart for a Heart
The days that followed were unbearable.
Sleep became a stranger to you, something other people did. Every night you lay awake, staring at the canopy of your bed as memories replayed themselves with merciless clarity, his voice saying your name, the way his shoulders had slumped, the sound of the chair scraping back as he stood to leave.
You had meant it as revenge. Petty, sharp, contained.
You had never meant to hurt him.
Guilt settled into you like a sickness, heavy and persistent. You replayed the moment over and over, searching desperately for the point where you could have stopped, where you should have stopped. Every time you reached the end, you felt the same hollow ache bloom in your chest.
You tried to apologise.
The first time, you waited outside the dungeons after class, heart pounding, rehearsing words you never got to say. He brushed past you without a glance, robes snapping like a warning.
The second time, you left a note on his desk. It was gone by the next morning. Unread, or at least unanswered.
By the third attempt, you realised he was avoiding you deliberately.
Severus Snape avoided you like the plague.
In the corridors, he altered his route the moment he saw you. In the Great Hall, he sat at the far end of the staff table, gaze fixed resolutely on his plate. In meetings, his voice was clipped, impersonal, directed at anyone but you.
It hurt far more than you expected.
On his side, things were no better.
Severus told himself he was furious at you. That your deception, your cruelty, your careless use of Veritaserum was unforgivable. And it was, in part. He had been tricked, humiliated, stripped bare in a way he had spent his entire life avoiding.
But beneath the anger was something worse.
Shame.
He was angry at himself for drinking the firewhisky without question. For letting his guard down. For forgetting, even for a single evening, that vulnerability had always been punished.
And most of all, he was furious that he had allowed himself to love anyone at all.
He replayed your expression in his mind endlessly. Your shock. Your silence. Your hesitation.
Disgust, he thought bitterly. Of course.
What else could it have been?
He told himself he should have known better. A man like him, with his past, his reputation, his sharp edges, had no business wanting someone like you. You were light where he was shadow. Warm where he was cold. Loved by students he barely tolerated.
He had misinterpreted everything.
Your laughter. Your teasing. Your attention.
He had mistaken friendship for something more and paid the price for it.
So he shut himself down completely.
He buried himself in work, snapping at students, brewing late into the night, polishing his bitterness into something sharp enough to hide behind. Every time he thought of you, the humiliation flared anew, and he smothered it ruthlessly.
Better this way, he told himself. Safer.
It was during the fourth sleepless night that you found your answer.
You sat hunched at your desk, candle burning low, surrounded by parchment filled with half-written apologies and discarded plans. Nothing felt adequate. Nothing felt fair.
And then it struck you.
Eye for an eye.
If you had stripped him of control, then the only way to make amends was to give him the same power over you.
The idea terrified you.
Which, you realised distantly, meant it was probably the right one.
The next evening, heart pounding so violently you thought it might give you away, you marched down to the dungeons.
Severus was in his office, of course. He always was.
You didn’t knock.
The door flew open, and he looked up sharply from his desk, irritation already forming before he recognised you.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded coldly.
The words hit harder than you expected, sharp and final, like a door already closing. For a heartbeat, you considered retreating, letting cowardice masquerade as respect. Your hand tightened around the strap of your bag instead.
You swallowed. “I need to talk to you.”
No hesitation. No softening.
“No,” he said flatly. “You don’t.”
Of course he’d say that. Severus Snape had perfected the art of deciding what others were allowed to need.
You stepped inside anyway, pulse roaring in your ears, and shut the door behind you with a decisive click. The sound echoed far too loudly in the small office, sealing you in with him and with everything you’d been avoiding.
His head snapped up.
He stood abruptly, chair scraping back with a sharp screech. “Get out.”
Anger flared, but beneath it was something worse, panic. He couldn’t do this. Not with you. Not after everything. Seeing you here, uninvited, determined, felt like a threat to the fragile equilibrium he’d built from bitterness and avoidance.
“Not until you listen,” you said, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat.
“I said—”
You didn’t let him finish.
Your hand slipped into your pocket, fingers closing around cool glass. You brought the vial into view deliberately, giving him just enough time to see it clearly.
His eyes narrowed instantly, pupils sharpening as recognition struck. “What is that?”
You met his gaze, heart pounding so hard you thought he might hear it. “Veritaserum.”
The word dropped between you like a blade.
His blood ran cold.
“No,” he said sharply, taking a step forward. “You will not.”
The command was instinctive, protective, furious. He had already lost control once. He would not watch it happen again.
You didn’t wait for permission.
Before doubt could catch you, before fear could turn you back, you uncorked the vial and swallowed the entire contents in one motion. The potion burned as it slid down your throat, bitter and unforgiving, and you grimaced, breath hitching as the last drop disappeared.
For a heartbeat, Severus simply stared at you.
His mind went blank.
Then fury detonated.
“Are you out of your mind?” he snapped, striding toward you, robes flaring with the force of his movement. “Do you have any idea how reckless—how stupid—”
“Ask,” you said quietly.
The single word cut through him like a spell.
He stopped short, inches away from you, breathing hard.
“What?” he demanded, as if he’d misheard.
“You get to ask,” you repeated, voice trembling despite your resolve. “Anything. Everything. Until you’re satisfied.”
His hands clenched at his sides, fingers curling into fists. This was madness. Manipulation. A trap of another kind. And yet, when he searched your face for deception, he found none.
Only resolve. Guilt so heavy it bordered on self-punishment. And something raw and aching that mirrored far too closely what he felt himself.
“This is absurd,” he said, but the conviction had drained from the word.
“It’s justice,” you replied softly. “And it’s the only apology I can give that actually matters.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
His expression was thunderous, torn between anger and something far more dangerous. He studied you as though you were an unfamiliar potion, volatile and unpredictable, weighing risk against consequence.
But there was no trick here.
Only truth.
“You are impossible,” he muttered at last, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
And then, slowly, something dark and intent flickered behind his eyes, not cruel, not vengeful, but decisive.
“Very well,” he said quietly.
The game had changed again.
Severus didn’t rush into it. He paced once behind his desk, slow and deliberate, as though arranging his thoughts into something sharp enough to use. His expression was carefully neutral, but his mind was anything but.
This is a mistake, he told himself. This is reckless. This changes nothing.
And yet, he couldn’t stop.
“Why did you do it?” he asked at last.
The question was calm. Too calm.
Your breath stuttered. You hadn’t expected him to start there, not with something so blunt, so unforgiving. The potion burned in your veins, dragging the truth up whether you wanted it or not.
“Because I was humiliated,” you said, voice thin. “Because I was angry. Because I wanted you to hurt the way I did.”
The words sounded uglier out loud.
His jaw tightened visibly. A muscle ticked near his temple.
“So it was revenge,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
He nodded once, absorbing it. Of course it was. He had known that already. Hearing it confirmed still stung more than he cared to admit.
“And when,” he continued, turning to face you fully now, “did it stop being about that?”
You swallowed hard. Your hands trembled where they rested in your lap. You hated that he could see it.
“The moment I realised I was enjoying it.”
The confession fell into the room like something fragile and breakable.
Severus inhaled slowly through his nose. Enjoying it. Merlin.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. His thoughts churned violently beneath the surface. He had been a fool to think this would be simple, to think he could maintain distance while holding all the power.
“Did you know?” he asked suddenly, voice lower now. “Before that night. Did you know how I felt about you?”
“No,” you said instantly, too fast, too earnest. “I swear I didn’t. I never would have done it if I had. I would never have—”
“Then why,” he cut in sharply, “were you so shocked?”
The edge in his tone made you flinch.
Your chest tightened painfully as the potion forced the truth upward, stripping away every careful excuse you’d rehearsed in your head.
“Because I never thought someone like you could want someone like me.”
The words trembled as they left you.
Severus froze.
Someone like you.
His breath hitched before he could stop it. He stared at you as if seeing you for the first time, really seeing you, not as the infuriating colleague or the teasing friend, but as someone sitting before him utterly unguarded.
“And what,” he said carefully, as though afraid of the answer, “does that mean?”
Your eyes burned. You hated how small you felt now, how exposed. “You’re… Severus Snape,” you said helplessly. “You’re brilliant and terrifying and controlled and— you don’t let anyone close. I thought at best I was a distraction. A joke.”
Something cracked inside him.
“You thought,” he said quietly, “that I would confess feelings like that for sport?”
“No,” you whispered. “I thought you’d never confess them at all.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Severus turned away abruptly, one hand braced against the edge of his desk. His thoughts were spiralling now, all the carefully constructed certainty he’d clung to over the past days beginning to fracture.
Disgust. Rejection. Humiliation.
That’s what he had been so sure he’d seen on your face.
But this? This was something else entirely.
“Do you have feelings for me?” he asked at last, almost reluctantly.
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate. Absolute. It echoed in the silence like a spell cast without wand or shield.
His fingers curled into the wood.
“How long?” he asked, voice rougher now.
“Longer than I admitted to myself,” you said. “Longer than I thought was safe.”
His heart pounded violently. Safe. You’d been afraid too.
“And,” he said, swallowing hard, “what precisely do you feel?”
The potion didn’t let you soften it.
“I love you.”
The words were quiet. Bare. Devastating.
Severus closed his eyes.
For a long moment, he said nothing at all. Inside, something fundamental shifted, rearranging itself painfully and irrevocably. He had spent days convincing himself that he was unlovable, that he had imagined everything, that your shock had been revulsion.
And now here you were, trembling under his gaze, having handed him your truth without defence.
Merlin.
When he opened his eyes again, his voice was no longer sharp.
It was careful. Almost reverent.
“…You should have warned me,” he said hoarsely.
You let out a shaky, tearful laugh. “I would have, if I’d known.”
He was suddenly acutely aware of how close you were.
Close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath against his cheek, close enough that the faint scent of parchment and something unmistakably you curled into his senses. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, fingers flexing as though unsure whether they were allowed to move at all.
Merlin help him, he wanted to kiss you.
The urge was sharp and overwhelming, rising up with frightening intensity now that the truth lay bare between you. Weeks, months of stolen glances and carefully suppressed longing surged forward all at once. He imagined the feel of your lips, the way they might soften against his, and the thought nearly undid him.
But he didn’t move.
Not yet.
Slowly, deliberately, as though any sudden movement might shatter the fragile moment, he lifted a hand and brushed his thumb along your jaw, barely touching, a question in itself. You inhaled sharply at the contact, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second, and that alone took nearly all of his restraint.
“May I?” he asked quietly.
The words cost him more courage than any duel ever had.
Your eyes opened, shining, fixed on his with an intensity that stole his breath. You nodded, a small, earnest motion.
“Yes,” you whispered.
That was all he needed.
He cupped your face fully then, hands trembling just slightly, reverent as if you were something precious rather than the infuriating, brilliant chaos you usually were. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, every chance to change your mind.
You didn’t.
Your lips met his in a kiss so gentle it almost hurt, hesitant and careful, as though you were both afraid this might be a dream. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved, simply breathing each other in, feeling the quiet miracle of it.
Then you sighed, soft and unconscious, and something inside him broke open.
The kiss deepened, not frantic, not desperate, but full, warm, laden with everything he had denied himself for far too long. His thumb traced your cheek, anchoring himself in the reality of you, of this moment, of the impossible truth that you were here and wanted him.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, he followed you instinctively, stopping only when your foreheads touched. His eyes remained closed, as if he needed the contact to stay grounded.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
“Next time,” he murmured, voice low and rough with emotion, “we resolve conflicts like adults.”
You laughed softly, the sound light and real and wonderfully alive. “No promises.”
He opened his eyes then.
And for the first time, unguarded and unmistakable, Severus Snape smiled.
Severus Snape x Reader - Veritaserum and Consequences
Pairing: Severus Snape x reader
This is a two-part fanfic already finished.
Part II: Eye for an Eye, Heart for a Heart
Summary: Severus and the reader play pranks on each other until Severus crosses the line, and the reader decides that revenge will be as sweet as a few drops of Veritaserum in Severus's firewisky.
Veritaserum and Consequences
You and Severus Snape had long ago drifted past the safety of being mere colleagues. Friends, if one insisted on technicalities. Enemies, if one asked either of you on a particularly bad day. More often than not, something tangled and undefined, shifting constantly, impossible to name without setting it aflame.
It had begun innocently, as most disasters do. A dry comment about your grading style. A pointed observation about his teaching methods, delivered with a smile far too sweet to be sincere. The sort of academic sparring that passed unnoticed at first, dismissed as personality clashes between two stubborn professors with sharp tongues.
Then it escalated.
A quill on his desk, enchanted to scribble sarcastic footnotes in the margins of his meticulously prepared lecture plans. A week later, your classroom door developed a personality, refusing to open for anyone who dared approach it with cheer, snapping shut the moment a student smiled too brightly. Snape, of course, had denied involvement with infuriating calm.
By midterm season, the staff room had learned to recognise the signs. The way Minerva would quietly relocate her tea when the two of you sat too close. Filius pretending not to notice when a stack of essays slid off a table without being touched. Pomona once muttered that you were both exhausting.
For the most part, it was harmless. Irritating, yes. Petty, certainly. But there was an unspoken rule, lines that neither of you crossed.
Until last week.
You had been grading papers, half listening to the low murmur of your classroom, when you lifted your afternoon tea and took a single sip.
The change was immediate.
Your next sentence emerged wrong, stretched and warped, vowels slurring together as if your mouth had forgotten its own language. The more you tried to correct it, the worse it became, consonants tumbling over one another until your lecture sounded like an intoxicated banshee attempting interpretive poetry.
The room had gone dead silent.
Then a few snickers. Several wide-eyed stares. One Ravenclaw, bless his courage, had raised a hand and asked if you were feeling unwell. Another whispered that maybe it was a new teaching method. Someone laughed outright.
You finished the class on pure spite, mortified and furious in equal measure, and spent the next hour in your office dissecting the tea with shaking hands. The potion was clever, subtle, and unmistakably his work.
By the time you cured yourself, your voice restored and your dignity partially salvaged, rage burned hot and clean in your chest.
Severus Snape had crossed a line.
And you were going to return the favour.
That night, long after Hogwarts had fallen quiet, you didn’t sleep. You paced your quarters, replaying the humiliation, the laughter, the way your voice had betrayed you in front of your students. The anger didn’t burn itself out. It sharpened. Focused. By candlelight you planned, revising and refining, letting spite guide your hand with almost scholarly devotion. Every possibility was weighed, every consequence considered. It had to be clever. Personal.
By dawn, you were smiling again, exhaustion buzzing beneath your skin, excitement curling tight and bright in your chest.
The following days, you were infuriatingly normal.
You greeted him in the corridors as if nothing had happened. You exchanged dry remarks over staff meetings, laughed at his barbed comments, even returned a few of them with your usual ease. You shared tea in the staff room, sat beside him at dinner, leaned close enough to speak without raising your voice.
And you did not retaliate.
No hexes. No potions. No traps.
Severus noticed.
He watched you far too closely, dark eyes narrowing every time you laughed, every time you met his gaze without challenge. He waited for the strike that never came, for the inevitable escalation that had always followed before.
Each day without it made him more uneasy.
That alone should have told him something was very wrong.
By the end of the week, when you finally spoke, your tone was casual, almost thoughtful, as though the idea had only just occurred to you.
“Perhaps,” you said, stirring your tea, “this war of ours has gone on long enough.”
He looked up sharply.
“You mean to say,” he replied coolly, “you are proposing a truce.”
“Something like that,” you said with a shrug. “A drink. At the Three Broomsticks. We make amends. Like adults.”
The suggestion hit him like a misplaced curse.
A drink. Together.
He very nearly dropped the stack of essays he was holding, fingers tightening just in time. He masked his reaction quickly, but his mind was already spiralling.
It meant nothing, he told himself immediately. A ceasefire. A professional courtesy. Friends did such things. You had always been… unconventional.
And yet.
When the time came to leave his quarters, he found himself standing far too long before his wardrobe, selecting and discarding robes with increasing irritation. He smoothed imaginary creases, checked his reflection, scowled at it.
Is this a date? his mind whispered treacherously.
Surely not, he snapped back. Do not be absurd.
Still, the thought lingered, unwelcome and impossible to banish, following him all the way out the door.
He had been aware of it for weeks now, perhaps longer, though he refused to mark a precise beginning. It crept in subtly, disguising itself as irritation, as distraction, as an inexplicable restlessness that clung to him long after your presence had faded.
His temper soured on days he didn’t see you. Staff meetings felt longer, corridors emptier, the castle itself somehow louder and more grating in your absence. He told himself it was merely habit, that he had grown accustomed to your sharp wit and persistent interference. That was all.
And yet his eyes betrayed him.
They lingered far too long when you spoke, tracking the movement of your mouth instead of listening to your words. He caught himself watching your lips form his name, imagining, with a sudden heat of shame, how they might feel against his skin. The urge to lean closer, to hear the quiet intake of your breath before you laughed, struck him without warning and left him furious with himself.
It was intolerable.
He despised it with the same thoroughness he despised all weakness. He denied it reflexively, ruthlessly, dismissing each intrusive thought as a momentary lapse, a failure of discipline. He buried it beneath late-night brewing sessions. He reminded himself of who he was. Of what he had been. Of what he did not deserve.
Affection was a luxury meant for better men.
You were simply a colleague. An annoyance. A friend, if one were being dangerously generous.
Nothing more.
You arrived at the Three Broomsticks first, claiming a small table tucked away from the worst of the noise. When Severus finally entered, sweeping his gaze across the room, he spotted you immediately.
His steps slowed.
You looked relaxed, bright-eyed, already settled, one elbow resting on the table as if you belonged there. A tiny smirk tugged at your lips when your eyes met his, not sharp or mocking, but knowing.
“Snape,” you greeted lightly. “You came.”
“As promised,” he replied, stiffly, taking the chair opposite you as though it might bite.
For a moment, the silence stretched. Not hostile, not yet comfortable either. He folded his hands together, then unfolded them. His posture was rigid, shoulders tight beneath his robes, eyes flicking briefly around the room before returning to you.
You flagged down Madam Rosmerta before he could protest. “Two firewhiskies, please.”
He opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again.
“That’s all right?” you asked, already knowing the answer.
“…Yes,” he said reluctantly.
The drinks arrived, steam curling faintly from the glasses. He stared into his for a moment too long before lifting it.
You raised yours first. “To temporary truces.”
He hesitated, then clinked his glass against yours. “Temporary,” he echoed.
The first sip seemed to loosen him just enough. Conversation began cautiously, sharp-edged at first, familiar jabs exchanged like habit. You teased him about his grading. He retorted about your classroom chaos. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the barbs dulled. Laughter slipped in, surprising you both.
At one point, he spoke at length about a brewing mishap in his NEWT class, irritation giving way to dry humour. You listened, genuinely, leaning forward, chin in your hand.
You softened your voice. “I’m glad you came, Severus.”
The way you said his name made him glance up sharply. Something unreadable passed through his eyes, and for a heartbeat, he seemed almost shy, gaze dropping again too quickly.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “So am I.”
Too comfortable, his mind warned.
When your glasses were nearly empty, you leaned back. “I’m suddenly starving. Would you mind grabbing something from the bar? I think they have meat pies.”
He nodded immediately. “Very well.”
The moment he turned away, you acted.
Just a single drop. Clear. Odourless. Veritaserum, brewed meticulously the night before, was measured with care. Enough to loosen, not to overwhelm.
You leaned back into your chair as he returned, heart racing, excitement fizzing beneath your skin.
This was going to be a very interesting night.
When Severus returned, he set the small plate between you and lifted his glass without comment. He drank deeply, longer than necessary, as if grounding himself.
You watched him over the rim of your own glass, pulse quickening.
Now.
For a few minutes, you let the evening continue as if nothing had changed. You asked about his classes, listened to him complain about a particularly hopeless Slytherin, laughed at a dry remark about Ministry regulations. He seemed more relaxed now, posture looser, voice lower, unaware that every word he spoke was being weighed and measured by you.
Gods, this feels good, you thought. Worth every sleepless hour.
You tilted your head, feigning idle curiosity. “So,” you said lightly, tracing a finger around the base of your glass, “do you have feelings for someone?”
“Yes.”
The word left him instantly, clean and unfiltered.
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Severus froze mid-motion, the realisation hitting him a heartbeat too late. His stomach dropped. His mind reeled backward, searching desperately for the moment he could have stopped himself, for the mental wall that should have been there and wasn’t.
No. No, that wasn’t right.
His hand flew to his mouth, eyes widening as understanding crashed down on him all at once. Potion. Firewhisky. Your sudden calm. The invitation.
He had walked straight into it.
His heart began to hammer painfully against his ribs, occlumency flaring on instinct, only to slide uselessly off the truth already pulled to the surface. He swallowed hard, breath shallow, every muscle in his body going rigid.
You blinked at him, wide-eyed, the picture of innocent surprise. “Oh,” you said softly. “That was fast.”
Too fast, his mind screamed.
He said nothing. Couldn’t. His gaze darted to yours, then away again, jaw clenched tight, panic etched into every line of him. He felt exposed, flayed open, as if something deeply private had been dragged into the open air without his consent.
You felt a spark of triumph flare in your chest.
Got you.
The realisation sent a thrill through you, sharp and vindictive and deeply satisfying. All week, you’d carried the humiliation, the laughter, the anger, and now, finally, you were watching it bloom on his face instead.
You leaned back in your chair, deliberately casual. “Sorry,” you added lightly, as though apologising for nothing more than an awkward question. “Did I catch you off guard?”
His fingers tightened against the table. “You-” He stopped himself abruptly, lips pressing together as he fought the urge to speak at all.
Think, Severus. Think.
But his thoughts refused to obey, sliding away from him, every attempt at control unravelling as the potion worked steadily, mercilessly. He felt trapped, pinned beneath your gaze, acutely aware that something intimate and dangerous had just been set into motion.
You watched him carefully now, eyes gleaming with barely restrained delight.
Revenge, you thought, lifting your glass again. Perfect, petty revenge.
And Severus Snape, for the first time that evening, understood with sickening clarity that he was no longer in control of this night at all.
You lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Just curious,” you said, as if you hadn’t just detonated something between you.
You took a sip of your drink, eyes half-lidded, then continued casually, “So… he—”
“She.”
The word tore out of him before you could even finish the sentence.
Severus’s breath caught sharply. His eyes widened in horror as he realised what he’d done, what he’d allowed to slip past his lips without resistance. He clapped a hand over his mouth as though he could physically force the truth back inside, heart slamming violently against his ribs.
No. No, no, no.
You looked up, smirking. “Oh,” you said, surprise flickering across your face before your lips slowly curved. “I didn’t even finish the question.”
“I—” He swallowed hard, voice tight. “You must stop this.”
There it was. The first crack.
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Stop what?”
“This line of questioning,” he said stiffly, fingers digging into the edge of the table. “It is inappropriate.”
The word sounded weak, even to his own ears.
You studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. “I just had to check,” you murmured, gaze dropping to your glass as if the matter were settled.
It wasn’t.
You looked back up, curiosity now fully alight, emboldened by the way his composure was slipping through his fingers. “Do I know her?”
“Yes.”
Instant. Unavoidable.
His eyes squeezed shut for a brief, tortured second. Merlin help him.
Your heart skipped. Interesting.
“And have you ever tried to ask her out?” you asked, tone light, conversational, as though you were discussing the weather.
“No.”
His jaw tightened. Shame burned hot beneath his skin.
“Why not?”
“Fear.”
The word landed heavy between you.
You frowned slightly, something in your chest tugging unexpectedly, but the thrill of the moment still carried you forward. “Fear of what?”
He tried to shake his head, to refuse, but his mouth moved without his permission. “Rejection. Disgust.”
Your smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second.
Severus noticed. It gave him hope, fleeting and desperate. He leaned forward abruptly, lowering his voice. “Please,” he said, the word scraped raw. “Enough. You have made your point.”
You hesitated, studying him. He looked… undone. Pale. Taut. A man standing on the edge of something he could not afford to fall into.
And yet.
After everything he’d done to you, after the laughter, the humiliation, the fury you’d carried all week, a darker part of you whispered, Just a little more.
“Have you ever fantasised about her?” you asked quietly.
“Yes.”
The answer came out softer this time, but no less damning.
Severus exhaled shakily, eyes fixed on the table as if it might swallow him whole. His pulse roared in his ears. This was spiralling. He was losing control, piece by piece, and you were the one holding the thread.
You swallowed, throat suddenly dry, excitement tinged now with something dangerously close to guilt.
“And,” you added, forcing a teasing lilt back into your voice, “what’s your favourite thing about her?”
His lips parted. He tried to stop it. He truly did.
“Her lips.”
The word tasted like ruin. He didn’t look up.
Inside, Severus was unravelling, every thought reduced to a single, frantic plea.
Please don’t ask. Please. Anything but that.
And you, unaware of just how close you were to the edge, were already considering your next question.
You knew, even as the thought formed, that this was the line. The final one. The question that would end the game, whether in laughter or in ruin.
You hesitated, fingers tightening around your glass.
You could stop now, a quiet voice whispered. You’ve won. He’s shaken, flustered, thoroughly undone. Revenge achieved.
But another part of you, crueller and still burning with last week’s humiliation, urged you forward. Just one more. You needed closure. Proof. Something tangible to justify everything.
You lifted your gaze to him.
“What’s her name?” you asked.
The words landed like a curse.
The bar didn’t truly fall silent, not really, but it felt as though it had. The laughter, the clinking glasses, the low hum of conversation all faded into nothing beneath the sudden, crushing weight in the air between you.
Severus went utterly still.
For a long moment, he didn’t move at all. Then, slowly, his shoulders sagged, the rigid tension draining out of him as something far heavier took its place. Defeat. Acceptance. He stared at the table as if it were safer than looking at you, as if meeting your eyes might finish destroying him.
This is it, he thought dully. The end of it.
He had spent his life guarding truths like weapons, locking them away behind discipline and bitterness. And now, with one careless drop of potion and one innocent-sounding question, the most dangerous truth of all was being torn from him.
He swallowed.
“Yours.”
The word was barely louder than a breath.
The world fractured.
Your mind reeled, scrambling desperately for an explanation that didn’t exist, for a misinterpretation, a trick, anything. But there was nothing to grasp onto. The truth crashed over you in a thousand sharp pieces, each one cutting deeper than the last.
Him.
Loving you.
Severus Snape, with his shadows and scars and carefully constructed distance, loving you.
Your breath caught painfully in your chest. Heat rushed to your face, then drained away, leaving you cold and hollow all at once. This wasn’t triumph. This wasn’t a victory.
This was a catastrophe.
You loved him too, the realisation rising sickeningly fast, undeniable now that it had been named. You always had. You’d just never allowed yourself to believe it mattered. Never imagined that he could look at you, with your laughter, your messiness, your affection for students he openly despised, and feel anything but irritation.
This had gone too far.
Horribly. Irrevocably too far.
You opened your mouth, heart pounding, a thousand words crashing into one another, apologies and confessions tangling uselessly on your tongue.
Before you could speak, he stood.
The chair scraped harshly against the floor, the sound snapping you back into the room. His face was carefully blank again, mask snapping back into place through sheer force of will.
“I must go,” he said stiffly.
You reached out instinctively. “Severus, wait—”
Too late.
He turned and walked away, robes sweeping behind him like a door slammed shut, not once looking back.
You remained frozen at the table, hand hovering uselessly in the air, staring down at your untouched glass.
What had begun as petty revenge now sat heavy and irreversible in your chest.
Summary: Severus bribes you to go to bed because you have a knack of overworking yourself.
Author’s Note: I got tons of Snape drafts in my memo, and this will be the first one to be released.
Counting Tales
Severus Snape stood by the door of your classroom, black robes barely stirring as the night wind breeze blew steadily from your slightly ajar window.
“Professor,” he said coolly, voice low and precise,
“you keep rather late hours for someone who claims the stars are more predictable than people.”
His gaze flicked to the scattered star charts and faintly glowing instruments in your office before returning to you, lingering a fraction longer than strictly professional.
“I trust I am not interrupting… or is solitude part of your lesson plan tonight?”
It had been the seventh night in a row that Severus came to check on you in your office in the Astronomy Tower, to see if you had worked yourself to death once again—or were in bed. The light underneath the door only confirmed it.
You looked up from checking essays. It was past twelve. You didn’t even realize it.
“Oh, no. I was just finishing up,” you said, despite the fact that you were still writing.
Severus knew you were studious. Well… what did you expect from a professor like you?
Snape’s lip twitched barely, almost imperceptibly, as he stepped fully into the candlelight. His eyes narrowed at the quill still moving across parchment.
“‘Just finishing up,’” he repeated softly, with a dryness that suggested he had heard the phrase far too often. “An assertion that would be far more convincing if your hand were not still writing.”
He moved closer, black robes whispering against the stone floor, gaze flicking to the neat, meticulous notes.
Of course they were immaculate. Classic studious Ravenclaw.
“It is past midnight,” he continued, voice lower now, but edged with concern he refused to name aloud. “Even the stars you so revere observe cycles of rest. You, however, seem determined to defy them.”
He paused beside your desk, not touching anything, but close enough that his presence was undeniable.
“You promised me,” he added quietly, eyes lifting to yours at last, “that you would not work yourself into exhaustion again.”
Then, more softly only for you.
“And I have made a habit of checking because you are notoriously unreliable when left to your own devices.”
You looked up at him. “Well… I know I promised you yesterday, but I need these done tomorrow,” you said.
Snape exhaled through his nose, the sound suspiciously close to a sigh. He folded his arms, one brow lifting with theatrical restraint.
“Ah yes. Tomorrow,” he said dryly. “That mythical concept academics invoke… whenever they intend to ignore common sense.”
He leaned closer, peering over the essays as though they personally offended him.
“Tell me, are these essays on celestial mechanics,” he murmured, “or an elaborate excuse to avoid sleeping at a reasonable hour?”
Then, with exaggerated seriousness, he tapped the desk once.
“I must inform you that the Head of Slytherin is prepared to take… drastic measures.”
A pause. His eyes flicked to the quill still in your hand.
“I could confiscate that quill,” he said flatly. He hesitated.
“Five more minutes,” he conceded, lips thinning as though it pained him. “Then you stop. Or I sit here and critique every grammatical error aloud.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Choose wisely, Professor.”
“I don’t want you critiquing the students’ essays you’d mark them zero if you read them,” you said. “What are you doing here?”
Snape’s mouth twitched again, this time unmistakably amused, though he tried very hard to pretend otherwise.
“An outrageous accusation,” he replied smoothly. “I would not give them zero.”
He paused, raising a brow as he looked at you.
“Several might earn a very generous two.”
He moved to the opposite chair and sat far too casually for a man who insisted he was only here out of duty. One long leg crossed over the other, hands folding neatly.
“As for what I am doing here,” he continued, tone carefully neutral, “I was making my nightly rounds.”
He lifted a brow, eyes glinting.
“And I noticed the Astronomy Tower was still lit… again. Which means you were either being abducted by a celestial entity,” he deadpanned,
“or ignoring your own well-being.”
His gaze softened just a fraction as it settled on you.
“I ruled out the former.”
He leaned back, glancing at the towering stack of essays.
“Besides,” he added lightly, “Minerva has begun to notice a pattern. If you collapse during breakfast, it reflects poorly on us both.”
Then, with mock severity
“So. Finish that sentence,” he said, nodding at your parchment. “Then close the folder.”
His lips curved faintly.
“Or I stay. And make unhelpful commentary about planetary metaphors until you surrender—”
“But there’s so much to do, and I have to finish the students’ essays tomorrow,” you cut him off.
“I could get coffee at breakfast. I promise I won’t collapse,” you said.
Snape’s sharp eyes caught the shadow of a frown, the way your words faltered mid-justification. He tilted his head slightly, lips pressing into that familiar thin line. The essays, the coffee, the endless rationalizations all irrelevant if you were going to wear yourself down.
Without a word, he reached for a leather-bound book from the shelf, flipping it open with deliberate care. The faint scent of parchment drifted toward you as he looked back, dark eyes softening just enough to betray… something he would never name.
“If you come with me right now,” he said, voice low, almost reluctant, “I’ll read to you. Out loud. Entirely for your benefit.”
He paused, letting the weight of the offer settle, then added with unmistakable emphasis:
“I do not do this for anyone. Ever. Certainly not for anyone who insists on arguing with me instead of sleeping.”
His gaze lingered on you measuring, challenging, coaxing—unspoken insistence threading through every word.
“Come. Or stay, and I assure you, the stars will be entirely unsympathetic to your poor choices. And you'll regret it....in the morning”
The book rested in his hands like a bridge between you, the soft flicker of candlelight catching on the spine, and for a fleeting moment, he looked almost… gentle.
Severus held your worn leather-bound collection of Muggle bedtime stories between his long fingers, tilting it slightly as if it were a rare treasure.
“It is… uncommon,” he said, voice edged with teasing, “to see this book around. And yet, here it is… in my hands.”
He shook the book slowly, a faint, mischievous grin tugging at his lips.
“I had hoped to read aloud the tale of a thief… in green tights I forget his name,” he added, eyes flicking to you, “but as you are not in bed, I suppose I’ll pass. I could have voiced the sheriff, you know.”
Your eyes narrowed, standing your ground despite the flutter in your chest.
“You think you can bribe me with an old bedtime story?” you said, lifting your chin. “I’m already—”
He cut you off effortlessly, the grin widening just slightly, eyes dark with mischief.
“…older ,” he said, voice dropping, “if I am to return to my dungeon and read it alone, I suppose you will never know how delightfully the sheriff’s indignation sounds.”
Your resolve faltered for just a moment before he tilted the book, holding it like a challenge.
“Robin Hood,” he said simply, and began recounting the thefts with his usual dramatic flair, slipping into voices for the Sheriff of Nottingham and the Merry Men.
Unable to resist, you finally relented, a smile breaking through your careful composure.
“Okay, okay… I’ll go to bed,” you said softly, sliding from your seat, surrendering to the warmth of the moment.
Snape’s smile softened, and as you left the office together, the tower seemed to grow quieter, the stars outside blinking down as if giving their blessing to this rare, stolen moment of peace and closeness.
You practically skipped to your sleeping quarters, sliding under the covers with the enthusiasm of a child being promised a bedtime story.
“All right. I’m in bed,” you declared, your eyes sparkling.
Severus allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible chuckle, the corner of his lips twitching. You looked like a child demanding a story—and somehow, it was endearing beyond reason.
He perched beside you, one shoulder brushing yours as he opened the worn leather book.
“Very well,” he said softly, voice low and smooth. “Since you insist on being treated like a child, I shall indulge you.”
He flipped the page deliberately, letting the candlelight catch the edges of the worn parchment.
The familiar lines of Robin Hood filled the quiet room, and he slipped into the story with surprising warmth, his voice deep and melodic as he narrated the daring thefts and clever tricks.
You snuggled under the blankets, eyes wide, hanging onto every word, and for a moment, Severus’s usual sharpness softened entirely.
“You do know,” he murmured, turning a page, “that you’re far too old for this… yet here you are, practically bouncing in bed like an eager first-year.”
“I’m not that old, and don’t lie—you do secretly enjoy Muggle bedtime stories!” you shot back, though your grin betrayed you.
“I… do not,” he said. He shook his head, lips twitching.
Severus continued reading, voice low and steady, narrating Robin Hood’s exploits with all the dramatic flair he could muster but it was clear that your eyelids were growing heavier with each word.
Eventually, despite your quiet protests and half-hearted attempts to sit up, you drifted into sleep, resting your head against his shoulder. The book slipped slightly in his hands, but he didn’t move.
Severus closed the leather-bound book carefully, setting it aside, and let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh. He studied your sleeping face, the faint rise and fall of your chest, and the peaceful expression that softened every harsh thought he’d ever had about the world.
“Stubborn as ever,” he murmured under his breath, a rare softness in his voice.
He shifted slightly, careful not to wake you, adjusting so you could rest comfortably.
And for the first time that night, the Astronomy Tower felt warm, quiet, and almost… like home.
Severus remained awake long after you had fallen asleep, your steady breathing and soft movements against his shoulder keeping him rooted in place. He allowed himself to watch you for a few moments longer, the candlelight catching the delicate curve of your face and the way your hair spilled across the pillow.
His hand moved almost instinctively, gently tucking the blanket around your shoulders to keep you warm. He hesitated, thumb brushing lightly against your arm, before speaking in a voice barely above a whisper.
“You know,” he murmured, almost to himself, “it’s remarkable… how someone can be so brilliant, so stubborn, and still… so gentle. You have a way of being extraordinary without even trying.”
He paused, eyes tracing the peaceful rise and fall of your chest. A rare vulnerability slipped into his tone words he would never voice in daylight, words no one else would hear.
“And it’s Not just your cleverness or the way you see the stars. It’s everything else too. How you care, how you fight, how you make the world softer just by being in it… You’re… beautiful. Inside and out.”
Severus exhaled softly, the tiniest tension leaving his shoulders. He shifted slightly, making sure the blanket was snug over you, careful not to disturb your sleep.
“And… if ever there’s a day when you might see me as I see you…” he murmured, almost inaudible, “…I would consider it the most extraordinary thing in the world.”
For now, though, he stayed silent, content to let you rest, the weight of his admiration and quiet devotion settling like the stars themselves in the quiet of the Astronomy Tower.
hiiì i really like your work!! if you're not too busy could i request some severus taking care of reader after a long day of work? i'm talking soft loving kisses grazing your forehead and jaw, cuddling on the couch as the fireplace crackles, tears pricking your eyes in relief and release while he kisses them away from your cheeks kinda comfort. hell yeah. OKAY THANKS HAVE A GREAT DAY 🤯🤯🙌🙌
Okay so I am sort of back...
I actually had a pretty rough start into the new year and my mental health is not very good right now so I felt like it would do me good to write something.
I am trying to work through all the requests as much as I can. Please be patient with me I am trying to do as much as I can.
I hope that this is any good.
Enjoy!
Home
Your week has been nothing but a long chain of aching, unfortunate disasters—one after another, relentless. No matter what you tried, nothing ever worked the way you wanted it to. Every idea you brought to work was shut down, talked over, dismissed without a second thought. And as if that wasn’t enough, you barely even got to see Severus.
Either you were drowning in overtime, or he was being summoned back to Hogwarts for urgent business. The days blurred together until it felt like you were being pulled under by waves that never stopped crashing over you, leaving you breathless and exhausted.
The door barely clicks shut behind you before your body gives out.
You lean against it, forehead pressed to the cool wood, eyes closing as everything you’ve been holding inside finally starts to spill over. Your chest feels too tight. Your throat burns. It’s that special kind of exhaustion that isn’t physical, the kind that settles deep in your bones after being dismissed, talked over, stretched too thin for too long.
You don’t call out or say anything.
You don’t have the energy left to do so.
But you don’t have to.
Soft footsteps sound before stopping at the doorframe to the living room and Severus stands there, already dressed down to some comfortable pants and a shirt, dark eyes fixed on you with immediate concern.
His gaze sweeps over your face, the slump of your shoulders, the way your hands tremble just a little. He doesn’t ask what happened.
He doesn’t need to, he just opens his arms.
“Come here, love.”
His voice is soft, low, wrapped in warmth. Not loud. Not urgent. Just steady. Waiting.
You push yourself off the door and follow the sound of him, dragging your feet like gravity has doubled. You fall heavily into him and the moment his body meets yours, everything breaks. Your face presses into his chest, breath hitching as tears finally spill over. Your fists clutch at his shirt like you’re afraid you might disappear if you let go.
His arms wrap around you instantly—firm, grounding, protective. One hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. The other presses between your shoulder blades, anchoring you.
“There you are,” he murmurs against your hair. “I’ve got you.” He presses a kiss to your Jaw.
Then another on your nose.
And another just between your eyes.
Slow. Intentional. Like each one is a promise.
“You did so well,” he says quietly. “I know it was hard. I’m proud of you.”
And that—that is what finally cracks you open.
Your grip tightens, and he only pulls you closer. Your shoulders shake as you cry, and he just holds you. No rushing. No trying to fix it. He rocks you slowly, barely noticeable, like he’s reminding your body how to breathe again.
„It was horrible,“ you whisper. “I’m just so tired...”
“I know,” he answers softly. “You’re safe. You don’t have to carry anything else tonight.”
Your body finally surrenders.
You breathe him in—the familiar scent of parchment, tea, something unmistakably him. Your shoulders loosen. Your jaw unclenches. The tight knot in your chest slowly begins to soften. Tears still fall, but they’re different now.
“I missed you,” you whisper, voice shaking.
He tilts his head down, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I missed you too,” he replies. “More than you know.”
When your breathing finally evens out, he guides you to the couch, sitting first and spreading his legs so you can curl into him naturally. You settle against his chest, cheek pressed to his shoulder, his arms wrapping securely around you.
His thumb starts tracing slow circles along your arm.
“Did you eat today?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head, eyes still closed.
He exhales through his nose, gentle but knowing. “I thought as much.”
He reaches for a bowl on the table—you hadn’t even noticed it. Steam still curls faintly from the surface and the scent of Soup fills your nose. He brings the spoon to your lips. You blink up at him.
“Severus…”
“Hush,” he murmurs. “Let me.”
And you do. You open your mouth as he feeds you slowly, patiently. Never rushing. Waits between bites. Watching you like you matter—because you do. Every few spoonfuls, he kisses your temple, your hairline, your forehead.
Your eyes sting again as you can’t help but lean into him again, the soup no longer what you need. He sets the bowl aside and pulls you fully into his arms. Your cheek rests over his heart. You can hear it — slow, steady, constant.
Anchoring.
Safe.
He just keeps you there, tucked against him, like this is exactly where you’re meant to be. His chin settles on the crown of your head. One arm tightens slightly around your waist, the other still threading through your hair, smoothing it down again and again like he’s afraid you might drift away if he stops.
The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the world outside distant sounds of traffic, the faint flicker of the fire. None of it matters. None of it can touch you here.
Your body finally starts to feel heavy—not the exhausted kind of heavy, but the good kind. The kind that comes when you don’t have to hold yourself upright anymore.
Severus notices immediately.
He shifts just enough to make you more comfortable, tugging the blanket over your shoulders, adjusting his position so you’re fully supported. You don’t even open your eyes. You trust him completely, like you always had.
“There,” he murmurs. “Better?”
You nod faintly as you snuggle closer, pressing your face deeper into his chest. He responds instantly, arms tightening, protective and sure. His thumb continues its slow, rhythmic strokes along your arm —like he’s reminding your body that you’re okay. That you’re here. That you survived today.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time feels soft here.
Blurry.
Warm.
Your eyes flutter closed fully, your body melting into his. The last of the tension finally drains out of your shoulders, your jaw, your hands. You don’t even realize how tightly you’ve been holding yourself until now, until you don’t have to anymore.
He doesn’t rush you.
Not once.
After a while he presses a gentle kiss to your hairline and murmurs, “Stay right here. I’ll be back.”
You barely nod.
When he returns, he doesn’t speak right away—just takes your hand and leads you down the hall. The bathroom is warm when you step inside, steam curling softly in the air. The tub is already filled, water shimmering, the faint scent of lavender and chamomile wrapping around you like a hug.
“You deserve to feel clean again,” he says quietly. “Like the day can’t cling to you anymore.”
Your throat tightens.
He helps you undress carefully, every movement reverent, like you’re the most precious thing he owns. His eyes are soft—not hungry. Just full.
He steadies you as you step into the bath, hand firm at your waist. Warmth seeps into your bones, and you sigh.
“There you go,” he whispers. “Let it wash away.”
He kneels beside the tub, sleeves rolled. Soaks a cloth, wrings it out gently and begins washing you slowly, tenderly. He starts with your arms, running the cloth over your skin like he’s erasing every cruel word, every hard moment. Then your shoulders, your back, your neck. His thumb works gently at tense spots until they release.
“You don’t have to hold anything anymore,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
When he washes your hair, he does it with the same care. Fingers gentle against your scalp, massaging softly, like he’s trying to soothe the ache right out of your thoughts. You close your eyes, leaning into it.
You feel cherished.
Loved.
When he is done, he helps you stand, wrapping a warm towel—he had warmed with a silent spell—around you immediately, shielding you from the chill. He dries you slowly, methodically, like he’s memorizing every inch of you without taking anything for granted.
And when he reaches your face, he cups it gently and press kisses, soft like feathers all over your skin.
“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly his eyes filled with pure adoration. “You are my everything.”
Your chest tightens.
You remember how hard it was in the beginning.
How loving him felt like reaching for someone through fog.
How his silences were heavier than words.
How you spent nights wondering if he felt anything at all, if you were alone in loving him this deeply.
When you first got together, he kept everything locked behind iron walls. He cared in his own way, you know that now—but back then? It felt like standing in front of a closed door with no key. He rarely spoke about his feelings. Rarely reached first. Rarely let you see what was happening behind his eyes.
You mistook his restraint for distance and his guarded nature for indifference.
There were so many misunderstandings. So many moments where you felt like you were begging to be seen, to be heard, to be chosen. You talked at each other instead of to each other. Fought more than you touched. Cried alone more than you ever admitted.
It took you almost walking away.
Standing there with your heart in your hands, telling him you couldn’t keep loving someone who felt so far away. Telling him you were tired of guessing. Tired of feeling unwanted.
That was the moment something finally shifted.
You remember the way his face had changed.
The panic.
The fear of losing you.
That was the first time he truly broke.
The first time he told you he didn’t know how to be soft. That he’d spent his entire life building walls just to survive. That opening up felt like bleeding out in front of someone and hoping they wouldn’t leave.
He promised to try, to change, anything so he would not lose you.
And he did.
When he is with you, he is nothing like the man you have met years ago. Brick by brick, he tore down every wall he’d built around himself and rebuilt them with you inside. A fortress not to keep you out, but to keep you safe.
You are the only one who gets this version of him.
A man who kneels beside a tub and washes your hair like it's sacred.
A man who worships you fully without ever expecting anything in return.
A man showing you he’s choosing you with every breath he takes.
Not perfectly.
But honestly.
"You don’t have to do all this.” you whisper as Severus turns you gently and guides you to sit on the edge of the tub, before reaching for the brush.
“There is no one else I would rather do this for,” he answers immediately. "You are the only one worth it.”
He carefully glides the brush through your hair, making sure to be careful with every tangle. Tears fall down your face and into your lap, not because you’re sad but because you feel seen.
He dresses you in soft clothes, warm fabric, his hands gentle as he helps you into them. Once he is done he leads you to the bedroom, helps you settle into bed, tucking the blankets around you like he’s protecting you from everything outside this room.
Only then he climbs in beside you and pulls you close. Your head fits perfectly under his chin. His arms wrap around you, solid and warm, one hand resting over your back, the other cradling your head.
“You are safe,” he murmurs. “You are loved.”
You cling to him, fingers curling into his shirt again, not desperate this time.
But light and sleepy.
He presses kisses your forehead, once then twice, slow and lingering before gently lifting your face towards his and capturing your lips in a soft, feather-like, kiss.
“I’m here,” he whispers against your lips. "Always."
thigh riding to soft cockwarming severus while he grades papers on his desk in his office thoughtsss?
Title: Grading Papers
PAIRING: Severus Snape x Fem!Reader || Harry Potter
CATEGORIES: smut
WARNING: thigh riding, cockwarming
HINT: Quick scenario: riding Severus while he grades papers.
WORD COUNT: 1k
୨♡୧ ｡It starts with you being needy and sneaking into his office while he is working.
୨♡୧ ｡He tries to send you off at first, but you beg him to stay because you are bored and promise you won't bother him, so he ends up accepting. Obviously, you did not keep your promise.
୨♡୧ ｡At first, you sat quietly, working on your own assignments, but then you started to inch closer and closer to Severus. He wasn't stupid. He noticed it but chose not to comment, hoping you would stop. You didn't. You continued to get closer and closer until you were right by his side.
୨♡୧ ｡He sighed deeply, glancing away from his papers to instead focus on you.
'What are you doing?'
'Nothing.'
୨♡୧ ｡Severus exhaled deeply and tried to return to grading papers, which was significantly more challenging to do when you were clearly not doing your homework but instead were fixing him with your eyes.
'What is it?'
'Nothing.'
୨♡୧ ｡Snape's lips twitched in frustration, and he put his quill down.
You were clearly not going to stop until you got what you wanted, so he crossed his arms and stared at you.
'What is it?'
୨♡୧ ｡This time, his voice was so serious and firm that you gulped and rubbed your knees shyly.
'Could I sit on your lap?'
୨♡୧ ｡Severus Snape tilted his head, his eyes widening as he heard the audacity of your request. There was no need for an answer; it was blatant. He wouldn't accept such a thing. That was his intention at least, because after another couple of minutes of you being a nuisance, he ended up agreeing.
୨♡୧ ｡You quickly climbed on him, straddling his thigh.
୨♡୧ ｡For the first part, you actually behaved.
୨♡୧ ｡Severus returned to grading papers, pleased to finally have peace, even if it meant having to accept you sitting on his lap. Sitting would have been tolerable, but you were a minx, and you didn't stop at that.
୨♡୧ ｡Severus grunted as he suddenly felt you move. It wasn't a gentle kind of move, but you ground against his thigh.
'Sorry, it was an accident.'
୨♡୧ ｡You lied, and without proof of the contrary, he accepted that excuse.
୨♡୧ ｡But then it happened again. This time, you ground harder, your hands on Severus' shoulders, clutching them as you moaned at the sensation.
'Was this also an accident?'
୨♡୧ ｡He mocked, putting his quill down again.
୨♡୧ ｡You stared down, embarrassed, but didn't stop. After all, Severus didn't say you should. He just pointed out that your actions were intentional. He leaned back slightly, watching as you began to move again, rhythmical movements as your hips rolled against him, clothed cunt grinding against his thigh.
୨♡୧ ｡Severus let you do so, although he did well at containing himself; there was an undeniable erection growing painfully in his briefs. Yet he didn't act on it.
୨♡୧ ｡He tried to pick up his quill and work on the papers, but this time it was your needy moans that disrupted his focus.
୨♡୧ ｡As you rode him, you got close. Dangerously close to an orgasm. Feeling it coming over you soon, Severus thought you might stop being a nuisance, so he slid his free hand down between your bodies, helping you chase your orgasm.
୨♡୧ ｡The climax crashed over you embarrassingly quickly, and you collapsed against Severus' chest, whimpering as he pulled his hand away from your crotch, returning his attention to his papers.
୨♡୧ ｡But this time, another problem arose.
୨♡୧ ｡You stopped bugging him, you were finally quiet and obedient on his lap, but he? He had to deal with the consequences of your naughty behaviour.
୨♡୧ ｡His erection was distracting him, but he didn't want to give in to such foolish acts without finishing his work first. Discipline had to come before these bodily desires.
୨♡୧ ｡Yet he couldn't focus.
'Foolish girl, look what you have done.'
୨♡୧ ｡Severus grunted, dropping his quill once again. This time, he reached down, opening up his robes, releasing his throbbing erection from his briefs.
୨♡୧ ｡You stared down at it curiously.
୨♡୧ ｡At first, you wanted to help with your hand or your mouth, but Severus stopped you, grabbing your wrist.
'Not. So. Fast.'
୨♡୧ ｡He guided his hand to your thigh, feeling up and under your skirt, pushing it up. Severus pulled you closer, moving your knickers to the side and adjusting his position more comfortably under you.
୨♡୧ ｡Then he grabbed his shaft and eased himself inside you with a needy low gasp.
୨♡୧ ｡You tried to start moving, but again, he stopped you, both hands gripping your hips.
'Do not.'
'But?'
'No. I have work to fulfil.'
'But?'
'After I finish this work. Now stay still and rest.'
୨♡୧ ｡You nodded and complied. You were tired after your own orgasm, so you were glad to shift comfortably and rest against Severus Snape's chest while he sighed and continued his work.
୨♡୧ ｡His shaft filled you perfectly, stretched you to the point you felt like riding him, but he said no, and you, for once, behaved and listened.
୨♡୧ ｡Despite the cock inside you, you could stay comfortable.
୨♡୧ ｡Severus was still distracted by his erection, but with his size inside you, he felt compelled to finish grading the papers faster so he could fuck the brains out of you after and punish you for bothering him while he worked.
୨♡୧ ｡But that had to wait.
୨♡୧ ｡For now, he had to be patient.
୨♡୧ ｡Patience was key.
୨♡୧ ｡He gripped the quill tightly and focused on the papers.
୨♡୧ ｡You made his job nowhere easier because, occasionally, as he worked on the papers, you would make soft, pleased sounds and squirm a bit, adjusting your position, which only pushed Severus to feel needier, his erection throbbing painfully as he fought himself to resist the urge.
୨♡୧ ｡That painful urge to grab your thighs and fuck you.
୨♡୧ ｡You felt the throbbing, sensed his neediness, and decided to be a brat, to make his life harder.
୨♡୧ ｡That was something you were very good at.
୨♡୧ ｡You made it a point to keep going, shifting and squirming, making soft motions enough to cause a little friction that would drive Severus mad with lust.
'Is something wrong, Professor?'
'You will lament this conduct soon enough, silly girl.'
Summary: Dumbledore crashes Christmas dressed like a walking candy cane, and Snape’s five-year-old daughter declares him Santa. Now Snape must compete with bells, biscuits, and betrayal.
Pairing: Severus Snape × Fem! Reader & OC
Warnings: None
Also read on Ao3
Of all the days the headmaster could wear red, the old man chose that one?
Snape stood near the hearth, one hand resting stiffly on the mantlepiece, the other clenched at his side as he watched his five-year-old daughter—his daughter—launch herself across the sitting room and into Albus Dumbledore’s arms with the squealing delight of a child who had just witnessed a Christmas miracle.
“Santa!” she gasped, legs kicking as she clung to the old man like a starstruck barnacle. “You came! You really came!”
Snape's scowl deepened, the corners of his mouth twitching with a fury that only just stopped short of audible cursing. His long fingers tapped the stone of the fireplace in rigid, controlled fury. His robes, always black and formal even in the softness of home, seemed to bristle in response to his mood.
The hat was bad enough—the headmaster’s obnoxiously bright crimson cloak, trimmed in white fur of all things, was another—but the twinkling bells stitched into his cuffs were a personal insult.
Dumbledore, for his part, seemed entirely unbothered by the confusion—or the glower boring into his back.
“Well, now,” he chuckled, eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles as Selina wrapped her arms around his neck. “I must say, this is quite the welcome. But I don’t believe I brought my reindeer…”
Selina giggled, clutching his lapel. “Mum said you might not come because of the snow, but I knew you would. I wrote a letter and everything!”
“A letter?” Dumbledore asked, arching an amused brow. “And what did it say?”
Snape moved before Selina could finish her sentence.
With a sharp intake of breath and a sweep of black robes, he stepped forward and lifted the girl cleanly out of Albus Dumbledore’s arms, settling her against his chest with rigid care, as though afraid even affection might slip if he wasn’t precise about it.
“That,” Severus said flatly, eyes never leaving the old wizard’s maddeningly pleased face, “is not Santa Claus.”
Selina stiffened instantly.
“Yes he is,” she protested, craning her neck to look past her father at the intruder. “He has a white beard. And red clothes. That’s Santa.”
“He is an elderly wizard with appallingly poor judgment,” Snape replied coldly. “Nothing more.”
Her bottom lip trembled. Then her eyes filled. Then her little fists clenched into the fabric of his robes.
“You’re mean!” she cried, her voice rising into a shrill, wounded wail. “You’re always mean! You’re ruining Christmas!”
She began to kick, wriggling furiously in his arms, outrage and heartbreak bundled together in a five-year-old’s small body. Snape grimaced as if struck.
From the kitchen doorway, you appeared with a plate of freshly baked biscuits balanced on your palms, flour dusting your sleeve. You took in the scene in one glance: your daughter mid-tantrum, your husband stiff as a gargoyle, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts dressed like he’d fallen headfirst into a festive catalogue.
“What on earth is going on?” you asked carefully.
Snape closed his eyes.
He exhaled through his nose, long and controlled, as though counting to ten had become a survival technique. “I came home,” he said slowly, opening his eyes again, “to spend a quiet Christmas evening with my wife and my daughter.”
Dumbledore beamed. “And what a splendid evening it’s becoming.”
Snape shot him a glare sharp enough to flay skin.
“Our daughter,” Snape continued, lowering Selina to the floor, though he kept one hand firmly on her shoulder, “has apparently decided that the Headmaster—who was not invited, I might add—is Father Christmas.”
Selina folded her arms, cheeks flushed. “Because he is.”
“He is not.”
“He is,” she insisted, stamping her foot. “He even jingles.”
Dumbledore lifted one sleeve, bells chiming cheerfully. “In my defense, Severus, Minerva thought it would delight her.”
“I do not care what Minerva thought,” Snape snapped. “You enjoy crashing events uninvited. You always have. Parties, weddings, battles, Christmas Eve—”
“He is!” Selina shouted, her small voice echoing like a canon shot through the sitting room. “He is Santa!”
Before Severus could conjure a reply—or a stunning hex—she had wriggled from his grasp and thrown herself back into Dumbledore’s arms with the manic devotion of a sugar-high niffler. Her tiny arms latched around the headmaster’s neck, her legs swung with the same uncoordinated determination, and she looked back at her father with wide, tear-glossed eyes, as though daring him to disagree again.
Dumbledore, to his eternal (and thoroughly unhelpful) credit, smiled serenely through the entire assault and made no move to dissuade her delusions. Instead, he settled comfortably into the armchair beside the hearth—Selina on his lap, bells chiming merrily—and, without so much as asking, plucked a biscuit from the plate you held and began to eat.
No. Devour.
Like a llama.
A very old, very cheerful llama.
Severus Snape’s jaw twitched.
You crouched beside your daughter, voice soft but firm, brushing her curls back as you coaxed her from Dumbledore’s lap with gentle hands and quiet murmurs. She resisted at first, her lip wobbling, but when you lifted her into your arms and pressed a calming kiss to her temple, the defiance crumpled.
Tears began to fall.
“I just wanted him to come,” she whispered, hiccupping into your shoulder. “I just wanted Daddy to be home.”
Severus’s breath hitched.
Your eyes met his, and you gave the faintest of nods—permission, encouragement, invitation.
You kept your tone light. “Tell Daddy what you asked for in your letter, love. Remember? The one we sent with the owl on Tuesday.”
Selina sniffled, wiping her face on your cardigan. “I asked Santa to bring Daddy home more. I said—I said I didn’t want a broom or sweets or anything. I just want Daddy to be home and stay here and not leave every time I wake up.”
She turned her head slightly, peeking at Severus with a kind of watery hope that made his chest feel like it was being slowly crushed by the weight of his own robes.
For a moment, silence filled the room—thick, suspended, raw.
Severus didn’t move. Couldn’t. His long fingers curled tightly around the edge of the mantlepiece again, the fire crackling softly beside him. His dark eyes, unreadable to nearly everyone, were locked on the little girl in your arms—his daughter, his child, his Selina—who had just spoken her heart with the kind of clarity that left him gutted.
She had asked for him.
Not presents.
Him.
He looked down slowly, as if afraid that blinking might shatter the moment. The long line of his throat bobbed once. His lips parted, and—miraculously—no snarl emerged.
Then—
CRUNCH.
Dumbledore bit into another biscuit with a sound like gravel underfoot.
Severus turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing, one twitching vein pulsing in his temple as the headmaster noisily chewed, crumbs scattering onto his crimson robes like festive confetti. Bells jingled innocently.
The moment was ruined.
Absolutely, irreparably ruined.
“…You have the chewing habits of a mountain goat,” Snape muttered, voice cold and brittle as a frostbitten blade.
“Mmm,” said Dumbledore, chewing with philosophical contentment. “I do like the ones with cinnamon. Did Minerva bake these? They have that distinct air of unresolved trauma.”
You barely suppressed a snort.
Selina giggled weakly into your collar, then looked up again at her father, more hopeful now, her smile starting to return.
Severus stared at the two of you for a long moment. Then, with stiff, deliberate movements, he stepped forward. His long robes rustled quietly as he knelt beside you—awkward, angular, every inch of him clearly suffering for it—and reached out.
His hand touched Selina’s cheek.
Not hesitantly. Carefully.
Gently.
“I…” he began, voice rough, quiet. “I shall speak with the Headmaster about… my schedule.”
Selina blinked. “So you’ll be home more?”
He met her eyes. Something flickered behind his dark gaze. Then, with the barest hint of a nod, he said, “Yes.”
The delighted squeal she let out could’ve shattered windows. She flung her arms around his neck, knocking him backward onto one knee, and for a second—even a heartbeat—Severus Snape smiled.
Not fully. Not broadly. But genuinely.
Which was more than enough.
Then—
CRUNCH.
“Really, Severus,” Dumbledore said between bites, “you’ve gone positively sentimental. It’s lovely. Terrifying. But lovely.”
Snape’s smile vanished like a popped bubble.
“I swear,” he muttered darkly, rising stiffly from the floor with Selina still clinging to him, “if you jingle once more, I will Vanish your bells into the sea.”
Dumbledore jingled.
Snape’s eye twitched.
You covered your mouth with one hand to hide the laugh that was threatening to explode.
Christmas had, against all odds, survived.
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