The people love him. That bright spot in the darkness that is her son. She watched from the side, from the shadows. She was like that, once. That was a long time ago.
As a girl she played on the ice, fighting off the cold with each step she took. The family would be leaving soon. They would set off from their home as they do twice every year. They go to follow the moon, content to live in the darkness for the love of the god they worship. The girl doesn't hate the moon, but oh does she hate the dark.
She's called back to the house. They would leave for the boats soon. There was nothing that could make her turn from this though. The light peeks over the horizon and floods her eyes, filling her with its warmth. She reaches, stretching her fingers wide, trying without hope to capture some of that brightness. Her mother calls again, insistant and out of patience. A cloud rolls over the rising sun and the light fades. The girl sinks with a shiver as the wind bites at her skin. She would not see the sun again until the next migration.
Her efforts to catch the light were not all in vein. It lives in her. She carries it close. When the cold nights steal all the warmth her smile gives it back. Her laughter could lead someone through the deepest darkness. Though what nobody could miss was her eyes. Two bright suns lived within them, always searching for more light.
This core, burning hot within her thrashed against the confines of her home. The burden of her quilts weighed her down as she piled more on to ease the chill. Her parents complained when she lit too many candles, chasing away those always creeping shadows.
There was a time, a short time, between the endless night and the next migration, after the long darkness and before the first sunrise, that light snuck into her people's world. The girl would spend every second of this time outside. Her world of black and white and grey was painted with the soft pastels of morning. Bundled as she was, she delighted in the dawn's pink hues. If she climbed highest hill, to the very top of their arctic land, she could bask in those trickling rays until they fled behind the horizon again. At the end of the light, not the day, there were hours left until proper night, she would go back down. Back to bright her brightness home.
"One day," she thought, "one day I will have my home in the sun".
Shadows have their way of creeping in. The girl consumed by sunlight and wrapped in warmth died that cold night on the ice. It wasn't an instant death. She fought and clawed and clinged to the radiance that made her. It did not matter. She faded.
The woman stands now, cold and dark and distant. She was everything a queen of her people should be. She watched her son, her sun, warm and bright and brilliant. He was everything she should have been.
You never dared to tell Severus how you feel, convinced he could never see you the same way. But when an injury lands you in the infirmary and Poppy questions your affections, fate steps in—wearing a black cloak and looking utterly panicked.
▸ Masterlist
The dull ache in your ankle wasn’t nearly as painful as the embarrassment burning on your face. The heat of humiliation crept up your neck, settling in your cheeks as you sat on the infirmary bed, trying to ignore the throbbing reminder of your own clumsiness. It had been a simple misstep—one moment of distraction while navigating the dim corridors of Hogwarts, and suddenly, the world had tilted. The next thing you knew, you were tumbling down a short flight of stone stairs, landing in a graceless heap at the bottom. The injury wasn’t severe—just a minor twist, barely worth mentioning—but Madam Pomfrey was never one to take chances.
So here you were, swinging your uninjured foot, letting out a small sigh as she worked. The faint glow of candlelight flickered across the infirmary walls, casting long, wavering shadows over the neatly lined beds. It was quiet, save for the occasional clink of vials and the rustling of crisp linens as Madam Pomfrey bustled about. Normally, the steady efficiency of her care was something you found comforting. But tonight, your thoughts were elsewhere, tangled up in something—or rather, someone—you had been trying not to think about.
“You look troubled,” Pomfrey observed, her voice gentle but knowing. She wrapped your ankle with practiced ease, her movements as careful as ever.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the infirmary bed. You should have known she would notice. Madam Pomfrey had a way of seeing through people, of recognizing wounds that weren’t just physical. You hesitated, debating whether to brush it off or tell the truth. Finally, you mumbled, “It’s nothing.”
Her sharp gaze flicked up to meet yours, one brow raising ever so slightly. “Oh, I doubt that,” she remarked, smoothing down the bandage with a firm but reassuring touch. “Is this about your clumsy fall, or is there something else weighing on you?”
You pressed your lips into a thin line. The fall was nothing—a moment of carelessness, easily forgotten. But the thoughts circling in your head, the emotions twisting in your chest? Those weren’t so easily dismissed.
Pomfrey had always been kind to you. She was one of the few people in this castle who could sense when something was truly bothering you, even when you tried to hide it. Maybe that was why, after a long sigh, you finally admitted, “It’s about… Severus.”
Her hands stilled for just a fraction of a second before she let out a chuckle—soft, but unmistakably amused. “Severus Snape?”
You nodded, fiddling with a loose thread on your sleeve, not quite able to meet her eyes. Saying his name out loud made it feel more real, more complicated. You weren’t even sure where to begin.
Pomfrey frowned slightly, not in disapproval but in genuine curiosity. “What do you even see in him?”
It was a fair question, one you had asked yourself countless times. Severus Snape wasn’t exactly the warmest presence at Hogwarts. He was sharp-tongued, sarcastic, and often withdrawn, his dark robes giving him the appearance of a shadow moving through the castle. Most students avoided him unless absolutely necessary, wary of his reputation for biting remarks and his intimidating presence.
And yet…
You had seen glimpses of something else beneath that cold exterior. Moments when his sharp eyes softened, when his expression held something other than disdain. A hidden kindness, perhaps, or at least a flicker of something that the rest of the world failed to notice. You weren’t blind to his faults—his temper, his bitterness, the way he seemed to carry old wounds like armor—but you also knew there was more to him than what others assumed.
Still, explaining that to someone like Madam Pomfrey, who had likely seen Snape treat students with the same icy demeanor as everyone else, wasn’t easy.
Everyone at Hogwarts saw Severus Snape as cold, bitter, and unapproachable. Most students barely spared him a second thought beyond his sharp words, his brooding presence, and the way his black robes billowed dramatically as he stalked through the castle like a living shadow.
But that wasn’t how you saw him.
“He has sad eyes,” you said quietly, almost as if speaking the words aloud would make them more real.
Madam Pomfrey, who had been tidying up her potions kit with methodical precision, blinked in surprise. “Sad eyes?” she echoed, as if the concept was foreign to her.
You exhaled, steadying your thoughts before continuing. “People think he’s just mean, that he’s cruel for the sake of it, but they don’t look at him properly.” Your fingers loosened their grip on your robe, smoothing the creases. “When he thinks no one is watching, his expression softens—just for a second. Like he’s carrying something too heavy, something he’s never been able to set down.”
Madam Pomfrey studied you, her sharp but gentle gaze assessing, but she said nothing. Perhaps she was waiting to see how far you would go with this line of thought.
You swallowed, hesitant but unable to stop yourself now. “He’s brilliant. Everyone knows that. But he never asks for anything in return. He never seeks recognition or approval, even when he deserves it. He acts like he doesn’t care about anything, but I see it in the little things.”
You glanced at the sterile white sheets of the infirmary bed, choosing your words carefully. “People think he’s heartless because he doesn’t smile, because his voice is sharp and his eyes are cold. But I see him when no one else is looking.”
Your fingers traced absent patterns on the fabric as you continued, voice quieter now, as if confessing a secret you hadn’t fully admitted to yourself. “I see it in the way he stands at the back of the Great Hall, always watching but never part of anything. The way his hands tighten behind his back when he hears something that bothers him, but he never says a word. The way his expression flickers—not much, barely enough to notice—when someone actually thanks him, like he’s not sure what to do with it.”
You took a breath, steadying yourself. “He acts like he doesn’t care, but I think he cares too much. He’s spent so long building walls around himself that no one bothers trying to see past them. But I have.”
Your voice grew firmer now, more certain. “I see how he holds himself apart from the world, how he’s convinced himself he doesn’t need anyone. But no one is born like that. He wasn’t always this way. Somewhere along the way, he decided it was safer to be alone than to be hurt again.”
You lifted your gaze to Pomfrey, meeting her assessing stare. “That’s what I see. And maybe that’s why I—” You hesitated, exhaling shakily. “That’s why I can’t look away.”
Pomfrey, who had been watching you carefully, finally spoke, her voice softer now. “And does he see you?”
The question hit harder than expected. It wasn’t meant to be cruel—Pomfrey had never been cruel—but it was the kind of question that forced you to confront something you weren’t sure you had the answer to.
Did he see you? Or were you just another blurred figure in the background, another professor who would eventually fade from his life like everyone else?
You swallowed hard, your fingers curling once more into the fabric of your robe. “I don’t know,” you admitted.
And that, more than anything, was what scared you.
Pomfrey studied you for a long moment, her expression unreadable but filled with something close to understanding. She didn’t offer any empty reassurances, nor did she press the matter further. Instead, she gave you a small, knowing pat on the knee before rising to her feet.
“Well,” she said as she adjusted her apron, “I suppose that’s something only time will tell.”
You nodded absently, though your mind still churned with uncertainty.
Pomfrey busied herself with tidying up, her movements calm and methodical. The faint rustling of parchment and the distant echoes of students in the corridors created an odd sense of quiet—until the infirmary doors suddenly slammedopen, the force rattling the potion bottles on the shelves.
Both you and Pomfrey startled at the unexpected intrusion.
And there, standing in the doorway, was him.
Severus Snape.
His black robes billowed slightly from the abruptness of his entrance, his presence consuming the room in an instant. His face, usually set in its familiar mask of indifference, was strangely tense. His dark eyes, sharper than ever, scanned the room with barely restrained urgency before landing on you.
“You’re here.”
The words were barely above a whisper, yet they carried a weight that made your breath hitch.
Your heart stuttered in your chest.
“...Severus?”
You weren’t sure what stunned you more—his sudden appearance, the strange energy crackling between you, or the fact that he looked almost… relieved to see you sitting there in one piece.
His gaze dropped to your bandaged ankle, his expression darkening. His lips pressed into a thin line, his hands curling into fists at his sides, as though restraining himself from doing—something.
“I heard you fell,” he said, his voice tight, controlled. But not in the usual way. No, this was different. It wasn’t the clipped tone of a professor irritated by carelessness. It was the voice of someone who had imagined far worse.
You swallowed, suddenly feeling foolish under his scrutiny. “It was just the stairs,” you murmured, shifting slightly. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
His nostrils flared. “Obviously.”
Normally, that sharp remark would have been laced with biting sarcasm. But tonight, there was no mockery, no exasperation—just something he was desperately trying to smother.
His gaze flickered over you again, intense and assessing. His fingers twitched ever so slightly before he folded his arms over his chest, forcing himself into the familiar posture of cold detachment.
“Why wasn’t I informed?” he demanded, directing his irritation at Pomfrey now.
Pomfrey, entirely unfazed, raised an unimpressed brow. “Because, Professor Snape, I do not typically send out urgent summons for mild sprains.”
The look Severus shot her was pure venom, but it was wasted—Pomfrey just gave him a long, slow glance, the kind that said, Oh, I see exactly what’s going on here.
And you saw it too.
The way he was standing stiffly, his shoulders too tense. The way his eyes, despite their usual coldness, kept flicking back to you, as though reassuring himself that you were still there. The way he was trying—failing—to act indifferent.
Heat crept up your neck, your fingers curling into the blanket draped over your lap. You felt entirely too exposed under his gaze.
Pomfrey sighed, shaking her head with a knowing smirk as she turned away, muttering something about overreacting professors and their dramatics.
You felt like you might combust on the spot.
Severus, now standing directly beside you, peered down at your ankle again. “Does it still hurt?”
You blinked at him, thrown off by the softness of his voice.
“N-no,” you stammered, clearing your throat. “Madam Pomfrey already took care of it.”
He nodded stiffly, but the tension in his jaw didn’t ease.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
You were too flustered, too aware of the way his presence filled every inch of the space around you. And him—he was too still, too composed, as though fighting something within himself.
His arms were folded tightly over his chest, his shoulders locked in rigid tension, but his eyes—those dark, stormy eyes—betrayed him. There was something warring beneath the surface, something just barely restrained.
You swallowed hard, shifting slightly under the weight of it all.
From her desk, Pomfrey let out a quiet hum, and then, to your utter horror, she chuckled.
“She’s fine, Severus,” she said, her voice thick with unmistakable amusement. “You may stop brooding now.”
Your head snapped up, your gaze flying to her in disbelief. Brooding? You barely had time to process the teasing in her tone before you caught something else—something that sent a fresh wave of panic through you.
The way she was side-eyeing you.
You stiffened, heat rising rapidly to your cheeks. Pomfrey wasn’t just watching this exchange—she was enjoying it. Her lips twitched ever so slightly, her expression unreadable but undeniably knowing.
You could barely breathe.
Your gaze flickered back to Severus instinctively, your face burning hotter at the realization.
Did he notice too? Did he realize what Pomfrey was implying? Did he—
But he wasn’t looking at Pomfrey.
He was still looking at you.
And not just looking. Watching.
The moment your eyes met his, you felt frozen in place, pinned beneath the intensity of his gaze. There was something unreadable in his expression, something flickering behind his usual cold mask, something dangerously close to vulnerability.
For a second, just a fleeting second, you swore you saw his fingers twitch, as if he wanted to reach for you but thought better of it.
Your stomach flipped.
Pomfrey cleared her throat loudly, breaking the silence, though her smirk was anything but subtle.
“Well,” she said, gathering some parchment from her desk with deliberate ease. “If that’s all, I’ll be taking my leave. I trust you won’t be hovering all night, Severus?”
Your eyes widened slightly.
Severus snapped out of whatever spell he had momentarily been caught in, his expression darkening instantly. “I do nothover,” he bit out, the sharpness in his voice a little too quick, a little too defensive.
Pomfrey simply arched a brow, entirely unimpressed.
“I’ll be in my office should you need anything,” she said lightly, her gaze flickering between the two of you before she turned and disappeared behind her door, leaving you alone.
With him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
You forced yourself to look anywhere but at him, your hands twisting together in your lap. You could still feel the ghost of his stare, lingering even as he finally shifted his weight slightly.
“…You should be more careful,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, but still firm.
You nodded quickly, not trusting yourself to speak.
More silence.
You felt like you were going to burst.
And then, just before he turned to leave, he hesitated.
“…Rest,” he muttered, and then, in a swift movement, he was gone, his robes billowing behind him.
The moment the infirmary doors shut, you exhaled shakily, pressing your hands to your burning face. Your heart was still hammering against your ribs, your stomach twisting itself into knots.
Oh, Merlin.
What just happened?
You had seen Severus angry, sarcastic, even cruel. You had seen him frustrated, impatient, and cold. But worried? Soft?Lingering? That was new. That was terrifying.
And the worst part?
You had liked it.
Before you could even begin to process the mess of emotions swirling inside you, Pomfrey suddenly reappeared out of nowhere, materializing at your bedside like a ghost who had been waiting for the moment Severus left.
You barely had time to look up before—
“Oh, he’s smitten!” she squealed.
Your head snapped up so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.
“POMFREY!” you choked, absolutely mortified.
But the older witch was grinning, her eyes practically twinkling with the kind of amusement you had never seen from her before. Gone was the composed, no-nonsense matron. In her place stood a woman who had just witnessed prime romantic drama unfold before her very eyes and was absolutely living for it.
“Oh, don’t Pomfrey me,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “That man stormed in here like a thundercloud, barely stopped himself from grabbing you, and then stood there looking like he’d been stabbed just because you sprained an ankle!”
Your entire body felt like it was on fire. “It wasn’t—he didn’t—he always looks like that!”
Pomfrey gave you the flattest, most unimpressed look imaginable.
“Please,” she scoffed. “I’ve seen Severus Snape treat a dying student with less urgency than what he just displayed over your mild injury.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
No words came out.
Because… she wasn’t wrong.
Pomfrey beamed. “Oh, this is delicious.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands, hoping that if you just stayed there long enough, the castle might crumble and take you with it.
“I knew there was something,” Pomfrey continued smugly. “The way you talked about him? The way he looked at you?My dear, the man is a lost cause.”
You groaned louder. “This is not happening.”
“Oh, but it is,” she said, practically giddy. “And the best part? He doesn’t even realize how obvious he is.”
You risked a peek through your fingers. “He hates everyone, Pomfrey. Including me.”
She snorted. “Oh, sweetheart. No, he doesn’t.”
And that—that—was the most dangerous thought of all.
Summary: In this slightly altered universe, Severus was gifted a daughter who, unfortunately, had to grow up in the height of Voldemorts' rise to glory. This poem encapsulates Snapes' feelings and wishes as his daughter(age 11) finds his lifeless body in the boat house.
A/N: This is a short poem I wrote in preparation for a Snape fanfic I've started planning out. I'm also gonna have this posted on Ao3 as a placeholder for when I finish writing it. Also, mind the x reader tags despite this not nessisarily being x reader. Plz enjoy!!
When you find my lifeless body,
Know that you, too, found my still conscious heart.
When you beg for me to open my eyes,
Know that I'll be watching over you until the day we get to meet again.
When you wrap my limp arms around you,
Try to remain ignorant to the heavy weight they carry.
And when the doubt of my death finally subsides,
Find it within yourself to ease your grief,
Because I can no longer be the one who eases it for you.
With death came sorrow,
And with sorrow came clarity.
I was a fool, not for creating life
In a time of war but instead,
allowing war to taint a future
both of us could have thrived in.
Would I ever be given a second chance,
I’d be the biggest fool of all if I refused your light.
Would I ever be shown your light with fresh eyes,
Perhaps I’d come to realize where my true loyalties lie.
And would you ever find me again,
By all means, show me your light as if you were the sun itself,
Because to be blinded by your light is far greater
A/N: Hello! This is the first thing I've ever posted on Tumblr, so I'm hoping this goes well🤞 Also, this fic was originally inspired by an old Irish jig so I'll attach a URL if you wanna take a listen.
Summary: After expecting yourself to spend the entire winter break in solitude, you get an unexpected request to visit your potions master. (Works with any gender)
If you had thought rationally for even a single second before going to the shore, you would've been able to add two and two together. In other words, you would've realized that it would be far too cold to accomplish any form of finger picking, either good or bad. Unfortunately, rationality was far in between with you these days, and those fingers of yours were left hovering over the steel strings of your guitar without an occupation. “Stop shaking,” you demanded yourself, scrutinizing the uncontrollable tremor of your hand. “You're not even cold.” Clasping your hands together in an attempt to warm them up, you looked at the distant family from the corner of your eye.
A father with his two young sons walked along the rocky shore with thick layers on, each of the boys trying to prove who could get closest to the crashing waves without getting their shoes wet. You narrowed your eyes at the father, questioning his parenting skills. You shook your head and let out a huff of discontentment, whispering to yourself, “It's fucking freezing and this is where you choose to take your damned kids?”
What I would give to use incendio right now…
The sleeves of your jacket were going to have to suffice for the meantime. Though, clinging the hems of the sleeves into your tight fists didn't achieve much other than putting only a small amount of feeling back into your fingertips. You were beginning to think the family was never going to leave and the wand you had brought with you would be of no use to you.
The murmuring of the two boys suddenly grew louder but not due their closer distance to you, but instead due to their enthusiastic reactions to a distant black dot flying just above the water. Upon realizing what exactly the spot of blackness was, you understood why they'd be excited about it. It's not often you see a black owl flying amongst white seagulls. Especially when you consider that the only black owl in the U.K. belonged to Professor Snape. While one child had an untamable grin on his face, the other hid behind his father as the three of them watched the owl land atop the log you were sitting on.
“What's the reason for this, huh?” You asked the bird, though he remained unphased much like his owner even as you reached over to grab the letter next to his claws. You rested your chest over your guitar as you opened the envelope, your attempt causing you to yelp in pain. “Ack-” As you pushed your thumb beneath the envelope's tongue from one side to the other, the edge of the paper unpleasantly sliced the skin over your knuckle. A second later, blood was already leaking out of the wound and a small drop fell onto the letter before you could prevent it. You quickly placed the small cut in between your lips as you pulled out the letter to read it, the few words hardly obscured by the damp blood stain.
“See me as soon as possible.
S.S.”
You skipped the part where he wrote ‘Hope your winter break is going well’ or ‘Sorry for the unwarranted interruption to your free time’. Maybe he meant to write it and forgot.
Shaking those naive thoughts aside, you glanced back at the owl, meeting his dull gaze with a raised brow. “Right now?” Even if Snape's owl could answer your question, he wouldn't stick around long enough to do so, leaving you with no choice but to pack up your guitar and find somewhere secluded enough to apparate back to the castle.
– – – – – – – – – – – –
What little frustration you once had quickly melted away as warmth immediately enveloped your body, somehow making your ‘warm’ layers suddenly feel cold against your warming skin. Looking around, you found yourself right back at Hogwarts, within the walls of the potions classroom and as you stood idle, you took note of the professor's absence within his own classroom. You'd be lying if you said you weren't already imagining yourself having to play a game of bloody hide-and-seek just to find the man.
The heat that pleasantly warmed the left side of your body, however, prompted you to look towards his office, the opened door and faintly flickering light from within suggesting that a game of hide-and-seek wasn't going to be necessary. Walking over, you found him sitting at his desk with his head leaning against his propped up hand and a pile of opened books in front of him. He had the fireplace lit, likely due to the dungeon's natural cold temperatures being drastically augmented by the winter. “Professor,” you said as you stood just outside of his office. “I got your letter.”
When his gaze shifted up from his books, he noticed multiple things at once, first being your muggle attire, second being the large guitar shaped luggage you carried with you and finally, the blood stained letter you held in your other hand. “Did my letter find you in the midst of a brawl, Y/L/N?” He asked dryly, noticing the blood on your thumb.
“No,” you responded just as dryly as you took slow steps inside of his office to bask in more of the fire's warmth.
“Why have you not healed it yet?”
You tilted your head in confusion and in turn, he nodded to the cut on your thumb. “Ah- Well, I was around muggles when it happened. I got it when I opened your letter.” You stood your guitar against the wall before walking further into his office, making your way to the chair in front of his desk. “So did you need me for something?”
“Not exactly.”
Once you sat down, he took the bloodstained letter out of your hand and placed it to the side before gently pulling on your wrist so that your hand would be closer to him. He frowned in disapproval as he felt just how cold your skin was. “I take it you were outside.”
“I was.”
“Not leisurely, I hope?” When you didn't answer, his eyes shot up to yours for a brief moment, giving you a scolding glare. “Foolish child.”
With his hand still around your wrist, he lifted his other one to your thumb, his pointer finger keeping it slightly elevated while his thumb pressed against your nail so he could closely inspect the injury. “How did you manage to cut yourself by opening a bloody envelope?”
“It can't be that hard to imagine how.” You were slightly taken aback by his commanding assessment of such a minor injury but nonetheless, you indulged his concern, taking a mental note on how warm his fingers were against your cold hand. “This is why people use max stamps, Professor. Think about all of the people you've sent letters to who've gotten paper cuts because you refuse to use wax stamps.”
“This is evidence of your clumsiness, Y/L/N, I assure you. Not the benefits to using wax stamps.” He released your thumb but kept his grip around your wrist to keep your hand from moving as he casted a cleaning spell on the small wound. Gradually, the dried blood surrounding the area began to vanish and the distance between the edges of skin began to close, leaving only the faintest red line as proof of the cut's previous existence. After a quiet moment, you took your hand back and rubbed the newly healed skin on your knuckle, your thoughts slipping to the lingering warmth around your wrist where he had held it. When he heard you mutter a ‘thank you,’ he simply nodded in acknowledgment, letting a comfortable silence fill the air between the two of you. He didn't seem all that eager to enlighten you on his reason for having you here, instead, he quietly allowed the warmth of the fire to engulf your cold self while he started putting his books away.
“Has your Christmas been pleasant?” You asked as he was turned to his bookshelf. When you got no response, the air became awkward and you assumed you didn't speak loud enough. You faced the fire with slightly flushed cheeks, too embarrassed to repeat yourself.
“It's been bearable.” He placed a small box on his desk. Its surface was a matte black and lacked much character. “Open it.”
With a puzzled expression, you met his gaze before looking down at the box, your hand slowly reaching for it. “What is this?”
“What does it look like?” He asked with a raised brow.
Is it not painfully obvious?
You took the small box in your hand, giving the professor one more glance before lifting the lid. Within the box was a bracelet. Its design was simple with its shape resembling a thin three stranded braid made up entirely of a dark metal material. With a slightly widened grin, you looked up at your professor who was still on his feet, intently watching you. “You got me a gift.”
“I gave you protection.”
His line of words came out like a sudden embrace, the implications of his desire to have you protected feeling slightly jarring, though undoubtedly assuring. “Is it charmed?”
“Yes.” He finally sat back down. “Protego Maxima.”
After putting the box back on the desk, you slid your compressed palm through the narrow bracelet, observing it as it dangled around your wrist. “Well, you gave this to me on Christmas, so it's definitely a gift.” Your bashful smile was presented proudly to Snape and he could feel himself wanting to mirror it. “Thank you,” you said.
“Merry Christmas, Y/L/N.” He actually let the corners of his lips lift into a subtle grin.
“Merry Christmas, professor.”
You looked back down at the bracelet around your wrist as you turned it around with your other hand, the texture of the small braid feeling pleasant against your skin. “If I'd known we were exchanging Christmas gifts, I would've brought yours.”
“There's no nee-”
“Actually,” you interrupted, standing from your chair. “I'll just get it now.” Before he could say anything, you apparate away and his office was enveloped with silence once more.
Upon apparating back into your family's house in Galway, you immediately felt the difference in temperatures which caused a chill to run down your spine. You rushed into your old room and found the narrow, dark brown box containing your professor's gift laying on the window sill. As you walked towards the window, the sound of the cat caught you off guard, his ‘meow’ amplified by the quietness that consumed the house. He laid peacefully on the pillow you were clinging onto when you woke up this morning and you started to feel guilt slowly tearing at you. The cat usually shared this house with the rest of your family who were currently spending the holidays at your grandparent's house in Scotland. Even if you felt like you were just his cat sitter, you were still the only other warm body in the house.
And you had the nerve to leave him to his lonesomeness.
“I'll be back soon, boy,” you assured regretfully, petting the underside of his chin before taking the box and apparating back into the professor's office.
Snape was just as he was when you left, his gaze lingering over the flames and his thumb gently tapping against the wood of his desk. When he heard you return, he looked over and let out an inaudible sigh when he saw you'd come back with a box in your hand. “Give it here, then.”
You sat back down on your chair that was still warm and placed the box on his desk, sliding it closer to him with a certain mischievous glint in your eyes. His distasteful gaze studied the box as it inched closer. “When you see it, just-” You paused. “The timing is a coincidence, that's all.”
After giving you a suspicious glare, he took the box in both hands and used his two thumps to pop the lid open. Upon seeing what the box contained, he felt a tug at the corner of his lips. It was good timing, indeed.
“A wax stamp.”
“Look at the design on it,” you said, trying but failing to calm the grin on your face as you pointed to the head of the silver stamp. His reaction was just about what you could've expected.
The professor placed the box down with the stamp in his hand and he turned it over to see the finely engraved design of a two headed snake. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it at an old thrift shop near Galway.”
“A thrift shop,” He repeated almost condescendingly. It was another muggle thing he wasn't entirely familiar with.
“It's the kind of shop that sells whatever people have pawned off or donated.” You silently watched him for any signs that he was pleased with the gift, but his face was too difficult to read. “And if you still prefer to send letters without wax stamps, I'm sure it would sell nicely.”
Hearing your absurd suggestion, he narrowed his eyes at you. Even if he wasn't already planning on using it, he wouldn't be so insensitive as to sell it for mere coin. There was too much value in the simple fact that you had given this to him. And considering your hands would likely benefit from using it, there was no question. “Nonsense. If it means you'll no longer be giving yourself paper cuts, Y/L/N, I'll make good use of it. Consider your clumsiness my incentive.”
“My thumbs appreciate it.”
The two of you shared the space in comforting silence, letting the fondness that came from exchanging gifts with each other sink in. If not for the fact that this was your first real social interaction since the beginning of winter break, this moment may not have felt as uplifting to you, not to mention a little daunting. You would've never believed that you'd be spending Christmas day with the potion master and, undoubtedly, it felt rewarding having grown this close with him.
