Jealous Snape and fem reader?
^ lockharts the cause of jealousy
Warning: Rejection, jealousy
The corridors of Hogwarts always had an air of whispered secrets, of footsteps that seemed to echo longer than they should, and of shadows that clung stubbornly to the corners of every stone wall. But for you, the school had never seemed quite so suffocating as it did when you watched Severus Snape move through those halls. His dark robes swirled around him like storm clouds, and his eyes, always just a fraction too sharp, too calculating, seemed to pierce through every pretense, every carefully constructed mask you wore in your own classroom.
You had been teaching at Hogwarts for a few years now, and every day, you found yourself drawn to him in a way that was both intoxicating and maddening. There was a gravity to him, a pull you could not resist no matter how hard you tried. And yet, no matter how many stolen moments you attempted, no matter how many subtle smiles or lingering glances, Severus Snape remained distant, unyielding, and maddeningly immune to any hint of affection.
Your heart ached in ways that were sometimes almost unbearable. You remembered the first time you had caught yourself staring at him across the staff room, the way the lamplight caught the curve of his jaw, the way his hair fell in an inescapable shadow over his pale, sharp features. You had told yourself it was admiration, pure professional respect, but deep down, you knew the truth. You loved him, with a fierceness that frightened you, with a longing that refused to be denied.
And yet, each attempt you made was met with cold deflection. A terse word, a sidelong glance that felt like dismissal, a careful avoidance that was unmistakable. You tried to tell yourself that perhaps he was simply unaware of your feelings, that perhaps he had never considered the possibility of intimacy, of connection. But you knew better. He knew. He always knew.
It was during one particularly bitterly cold winter morning, with frost forming delicate lace on the windows of the potion classroom, that you decided to try once more. You had lingered after your lesson, pretending to examine the shelves of ingredients, watching as Snape moved silently across the room, his presence dominating the small space with an almost physical weight.
âProfessor Snape,â you said, your voice steadier than you felt, âmay I have a word?â
He turned slowly, and for a heartbeat, you thought perhaps the universe might bend in your favor. His dark eyes fixed on you, and for a moment, you dared to hope.
âYes?â His tone was neutral, but there was that familiar steel behind it, that impenetrable barrier he always carried.
âI⌠I just wanted toââ You stopped yourself, your throat tightening. Words that had felt so natural, so inevitable, now seemed fragile and inadequate. âI wanted to ask if⌠if you might like to⌠dinner. Perhaps, sometime. Outside of Hogwarts.â
Snapeâs expression did not change. There was no flicker of surprise, no hint of warmth. He simply regarded you as one might regard a particularly persistent stain on oneâs robes.
âI do not socialize with staff,â he said finally, his voice as cold and precise as the edge of a knife. âNor do I entertain unnecessary distractions.â
The words were simple, but they cut deeper than any curse. You nodded, swallowing hard, trying not to let your disappointment show, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity. âOf course,â you said softly, your heart constricting painfully. âI⌠understand.â
He inclined his head slightly and turned away, leaving you alone with the bitter taste of rejection lingering in the air, mingling with the faint, acrid scent of potion ingredients. You forced yourself to focus on your work, but every glance at him over the next few days, every casual conversation in passing, reminded you of the impossible chasm between what you felt and what he would allow.
Days turned into weeks, and still, you tried. A comment here, a small gesture there, each one carefully calculated, subtle enough to avoid outright dismissal, yet daring enough to hope for a spark. And each time, he responded with the same unwavering coldness, the same impenetrable wall of indifference that made your chest ache with both longing and frustration.
There were moments when you caught yourself staring at him, alone in the staff room, when he was grading papers with his usual meticulous precision. You imagined what it would be like to feel his hand brush yours, to see something more than the constant, guarded distance in his eyes. But then he would glance up, see you watching, and your fragile fantasies shattered like glass under a hammer.
The breaking point came on a rainy afternoon. The castle was silent, save for the soft patter of raindrops against the windows and the occasional distant howl of wind. You had stayed late, trying to finish grading your studentsâ essays, when he entered the classroom, his robes dripping, eyes darkened by some storm you could not name.
âI need to speak with you,â you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.
He paused, and for a terrifying moment, you thought perhapsâperhaps this time would be different. But then he shook his head slowly. âYou persist in your delusions,â he said, his voice sharp, almost cruel. âI have told you beforeâI am not interested. I do not⌠wish to engage in such⌠sentimental nonsense. Your persistence borders on insubordination, and I will not tolerate it.â
The words struck you with a force you could not have anticipated. Insidious, cutting, unyielding. You had expected rejection, yes, but never such pointed, almost hostile dismissal. You felt the blood drain from your face, your hands trembling as the essays you held slipped from your fingers to the floor with a muted thud.
âI⌠I onlyâŚâ you started, your voice breaking. âI only thoughtââ
âThat you could sway me with flattery or false charm?â he interrupted, his eyes cold and unreadable. âYou mistake tolerance for interest, weakness for affection. I do not feel what you feel. I never will.â
Something inside you broke then. Not entirely, not yet, but enough. The warmth of hope that had sustained you for months, the delicate tendrils of longing that had wound themselves around your heart, were scorched in an instant by the harshness of his rejection. You wanted to beg, to plead, to somehow make him understand, but even as you opened your mouth, you realized it would change nothing. It would never change anything.
With a heavy, shuddering breath, you gathered your strength. âI⌠I understand,â you whispered, though your voice was nearly drowned by the storm outside. âI will not trouble you further.â
He said nothing, merely turned and left, his dark silhouette disappearing into the corridor as if he had never been there at all. You sank into the nearest chair, hands covering your face, tears slipping unbidden down your cheeks. The ache in your chest was deep, visceral, a wound that words could not heal. And yet, beneath the pain, there was a spark, a quiet, stubborn ember of resolve that had been smoldering beneath your heartbreak.
You would move on. Not because you had forgotten him, not because the love that had burned so fiercely within you could simply be erased. But because you deserved more than the cold indifference of a man who could never return your affection. You deserved warmth, and understanding, and a love that would not leave you bruised and hollow.
The first step was the hardest. Folding your hands in your lap, you breathed deeply, forcing yourself to rise. The castle felt different now, not a place of longing and unrequited desire, but a place where you could finally reclaim yourself. The rain had softened outside, a delicate mist curling around the castle towers, and for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to feel the tentative beginnings of hope.
You did not know what the future held, or how long it would take to forget the ache that Severus Snape had imprinted on your heart. But you knew one thing with absolute certainty: you would try. And perhaps, someday, that effort would lead you to someone who would meet your love with equal fire, who would hold your heart with the tenderness it deserved.
For now, you walked from the empty classroom with your head held high, the echo of your footsteps mingling with the fading storm, a silent declaration that you were ready to move forwardâfinally, irrevocably, for yourself.
The following school year brought a brittle kind of calm to Hogwarts. You had kept your distance from Severus Snape, careful not to provoke another painful rejection. In truth, the months had been a quiet healing period, though the shadow of your feelings for him still lingered like a faint ache behind your ribs. You had learned, painfully, how to swallow desire, how to bury it beneath professionalism and polite smiles, and for the most part, it had worked. You focused on your classes, your students, and the small, comforting rituals that grounded you in the midst of the castleâs chaos.
It was a sunny September morning when the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher arrived: Gilderoy Lockhart, with his flamboyant robes, gleaming hair, and perpetual grin. He was everything that Snape was not: warm, effusive, and maddeningly self-assured. From the moment he stepped into the staff room, he made a grand show of introductions, waving one manicured hand at everyone, including you.
âAh! And you must be the enchanting Professorââ he paused, looking directly at you with a bright, unashamed gleam in his eyes, ââthe charming MissâŚ?â
âY/N,â you supplied softly, keeping your tone polite but measured.
âAh, Y/N! A name as lovely as the lady herself!â he said, bowing with theatrical flair. âI do hope weâll become quite close this year. I have an uncanny ability to see a personâs true⌠potential, you see.â
You smiled politely, the warmth of your caution keeping the flattery at armâs length. âIâm sure weâll work well together,â you said carefully, nodding.
Lockhart took that as encouragement, of course, and from that moment, he made it his mission to be in your company as much as possible. He lingered near your classroom when he didnât need to, praised your work in front of others with obvious overtones, and constantly attempted small acts of charmâoffering to fetch your potion ingredients, complimenting your handwriting, commenting on how radiant your smile was.
You found it difficult to refuse him outright. You were gentle, shy, and averse to confrontation, and while you were not interested in him, your polite nature left room for misunderstanding. You tried to deflect, to smile and nod without encouraging him, but Lockhart interpreted your kindness as subtle invitation.
One afternoon, as the sun filtered lazily through the tall windows of the library, you found yourself cornered at a table by Lockhart, who had insisted on helping you organize your notes.
âYou know,â he said, leaning a little too close, his perfume sweet and cloying, âa woman of your intellect and grace shouldnât be working alone. Perhaps I could⌠be of assistance more often?â
You gave a nervous laugh, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. âI appreciate it, truly, but I manage quite well on my own.â
âAh, modesty!â he exclaimed, as though he had just discovered a hidden treasure. âBut even the most capable must have⌠company now and then. You wouldnât refuse a friend, would you?â
You hesitated, then shook your head, forcing a polite smile. âI⌠I think I can manage, thank you.â
Lockhart, ever persistent, merely tilted his head and smiled, clearly taking your shyness as a coy invitation rather than a gentle refusal. You tried to focus on your parchment, on the precise notes and calculations in your careful handwriting, but the discomfort of his presence made your fingers tremble.
You did not notice at first that Severus Snape had entered the library, his dark figure a stark contrast to the sunlit space. He moved silently between the shelves, his sharp eyes scanning until they landed on the two of you. The sight of Lockhart leaning so casually toward you, so obviously attempting to charm and seduce, made something low and bitter coil in Snapeâs chest.
For a moment, he simply watched, his expression unreadable, the storm behind his eyes barely contained. Your laughterâsoft, nervous, and unassumingâcut through the air like a knife, and he realized with shocking clarity just how fiercely he cared.
It was jealousy. Raw, sudden, and entirely unfamiliar. He had never imagined it before, because he had never allowed himself to imagine you with anyone else. Yet now, watching Lockhartâs hand brush against your notes, seeing your polite attempts to fend him off, he felt a surge of something he could not name at first.
The truth hit him with the force of an unforgiving curse: he loved you. Not in the detached, begrudging sense he sometimes allowed himself to think of the students he tolerated, not in the secret admiration he had once carried for Lily, but with the fullness of an aching, all-consuming devotion. And worse, the thought that someone else could occupy the space in your heart that he had long claimed for himself was unbearable.
Lockhart finally noticed Snapeâs presence and, with a charmingly arrogant smile, gave a little bow before excusing himself, claiming he had other students to charm. You let out a small sigh of relief, adjusting your notes, unaware of the intensity burning behind Snapeâs eyes.
Snape stepped closer to your table, the air around him thick and cold, the kind of presence that could make the faintest of hearts quail. You looked up at him and startled slightly.
âProfessor Snape,â you said softly. âI didnât see you there.â
âI saw everything,â he said simply, his voice low and edged with something you had never heard before: possessiveness, and a hint of raw emotion. He paused, his dark eyes searching yours as though weighing your very soul. âYou allowed him⌠far too close.â
Your cheeks flushed. âI⌠I didnâtââ
âYou did nothing,â he interrupted sharply, though the edge of his anger softened almost imperceptibly. âYet your naivety leaves you vulnerable. I will not allow it again.â
There was something almost desperate in his tone, a tremor beneath the cold exterior that made your heart skip. You had never heard him like this. You had never seen him like this. And for a moment, you realized that this was not just protectivenessâit was fear. Fear of losing you.
Snapeâs hand brushed against your notes as he reached for them, not touching you, but his proximity was enough to make your pulse quicken. âI⌠I do not know how toââ he began, then stopped, shaking his head as if trying to shake off a thought that frightened him.
But the realization remained, undeniable, like a splinter lodged deep in his chest: he loved you. He had loved you all along, though he had masked it with coldness, rejection, and distance. And seeing you with someone else, even briefly, had torn open a fissure in him that he could no longer ignore.
You looked at him, tentative, unsure of the storm you had just witnessed, and in that suspended moment, Snape understood the truth of his own heart in a way he could never unsee.
He had always been so certain of his control, so assured of his detachmentâbut now, the certainty was gone, replaced by an undeniable, aching truth. He loved you, and the knowledge left him both terrified and exhilarated.
For the first time, he could no longer pretend indifference. The realization sat heavy on his shoulders, a weight that he did not yet know how to carryâbut he could not deny it.
As you packed your parchment away, oblivious to the tempest he carried within him, Severus Snape remained frozen for a heartbeat, staring at you with an intensity that left no room for misinterpretation. This time, he would not let his feelings remain hidden. Not entirely.
He loved you. And that, he knew, would change everything.
The weeks after that day in the library were some of the most difficult and yet strangely exhilarating for both of you. You could feel the subtle shift in the air whenever Severus was nearâan undercurrent of intensity that had always existed but had now become undeniable. He watched you with that sharp, penetrating gaze, but instead of his usual cold detachment, there was a new weight in his eyes, something raw and vulnerable that made your heart both ache and race.
And yet, despite this change, you remained guarded. The memory of his harsh rejection, the sting of the words that had once shattered your fragile hope, lingered like a shadow over your heart. You could not forget how completely he had dismissed you, how cruelly indifferent he had seemed. Even now, when he lingered near, your chest tightened with the reflexive fear of being hurt again.
Severus, for his part, seemed aware of this, and it only made him more careful, more deliberate in his actions. He did not rush, did not corner you with sudden displays of emotion. Instead, he began small: a word of encouragement after class, a subtle note left on your desk, a hand brushing yours accidentallyâor so it seemedâwhile passing in the corridor. Each gesture was calculated, yet underneath it all, there was a sincerity you could not deny.
It was a rainy evening when he finally approached you in a way that could not be mistaken. You were in the greenhouse, tending to the delicate blooms that thrived in the warmth and humidity, when the door opened and he stepped inside. The storm outside made the castle feel distant, and the soft patter of rain against the glass roof wrapped the space in a quiet intimacy.
âYou have been avoiding me,â he said, his voice low, almost a whisper, though there was no mistaking the intensity beneath the words.
You looked up, startled. âI⌠I havenât been avoiding you. Iâve justââ
âBecause you still remember,â he interrupted, his eyes dark, sharp, and unflinching. âThe words I said. The way I⌠rejected you. I know.â
Your chest tightened. âI⌠yes. I canât pretend that it doesnât still hurt, Severus. You hurt me⌠deeply.â
He stepped closer, the scent of himâsharp, earthy, somehow both familiar and disarmingâwrapping around you. âI know,â he repeated, softer this time, almost a plea. âAnd it haunts me, more than you will ever know. I was a fool, Y/N. A coward. I⌠I let my fear of vulnerability, my own foolish pride, keep me from what I truly felt.â
You blinked, trying to steady your emotions. âAnd what do you truly feel?â you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the mixture of hurt and curiosity tangling painfully in your chest.
âI love you,â he said, the words simple, direct, but carrying the weight of every unspoken thought, every stolen glance, every moment of jealousy, every regret. âI have loved you all along. I was blind to it, afraid of it, and I⌠I cannot bear the thought of losing you to anyone else.â
For a long moment, you simply stared at him, your heart racing and yet guarded, because wordsâeven his wordsâcould not erase months of pain. âSeverus⌠I donât know if I can just⌠forgive that so easily,â you admitted, your voice trembling. âIt hurt too much. I donât⌠I donât know if I can trust that it wonât happen again.â
His expression softened, the hardness in his eyes giving way to something raw, vulnerable, and achingly human. âThen I will prove it to you,â he said, his voice steady, resolute. âNot with promises or words alone. I will earn your trust, every day, in every little thing I do. I will not give up, and I will not let you doubt me again.â
The following weeks became a delicate dance, a slow weaving of trust and affection. He gave you space when you needed it, yet always found small ways to show his devotionâan extra careful touch when passing you in the hallway, a book left on your desk with a note tucked inside, the faintest warmth of his presence lingering near when you graded papers together in the staff room. Each gesture, subtle yet deliberate, chipped away at the walls you had built around your heart.
You found yourself laughing softly at his dry, sarcastic remarks, noticing the small acts of kindness that he had hidden beneath his usual stern demeanor. You began to allow yourself to feel safe again, to let the hurt fade gradually as you witnessed the unwavering sincerity in his actions.
It was one late afternoon, as the sun dipped behind the clouds and cast a soft golden glow across the castle, that he finally took your hand in his, his touch deliberate, yet gentle, grounding you in a way you had missed more than you realized.
âYouâre mine,â he said quietly, not possessively, but with a certainty that left no room for doubt. âIf youâll let me, I want youâcompletely. I wonât hurt you again.â
Your heart fluttered, memories of past pain warring with the warmth of the present moment. You searched his eyes, looking for the slightest trace of insincerity, the faintest flicker of the cold, distant man who had once rejected you. But there was none. Only him. Only the Severus you had always loved, the man who had finally recognized the truth he had buried for so long.
Slowly, tentatively, you nodded, a small, trembling smile breaking across your face. âI⌠I think I can,â you whispered.
His lips curved in the faintest, almost shy smile, and he leaned in, giving you the time to pull away if you wished, to reconsider. When you did not, when your hands closed over his, he pressed his lips to yours in a gentle, lingering kiss, the kind that spoke of promises kept, of hearts mended, of love finally allowed to bloom.
The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, as if both of you were savoring the long-awaited moment, and when you finally pulled back, breathless, your foreheads resting together, you felt a peace and joy that had been absent for far too long.
âI love you,â he murmured against your lips, and you responded with the same words, the same certainty, knowing that this time, the love would endure.
And in that golden afternoon light, with the rain-softened air around you and the quiet castle holding its breath, you finally allowed yourself to believe in love againânot just in words, but in every glance, every touch, every heartbeat shared between the two of you.
The long journey from heartbreak to healing, from rejection to reconciliation, had brought you here. And in Severus Snapeâs arms, you felt whole once more.
