syd

time is precious, waste it wisely | she/her | 19 |

[supersecretaccount123]

𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐!

19 she/her

MASTERLIST

About me!!! ★ INTJ ★ reluctantly American ★ criminal justice, psychology, & ABA Student ★ chronic comma overuser

Add me on... Pinterest : Defnotsydney

Goodreads : idk just click the link

my tags...

[supersecretaccount123]

Masterlist

Harry Potter Fandom

Moodboards ★ The Childhoods of Severus Snape and Harry Potter ★ O Mine Enemy Studying Occlumency ★ Whatever it Takes Memento Vivere ★ O Mine Enemy Brewing + Studying

Oneshots ★ Snape finds Harry Drunk

Criminal Minds Fandom

Moodboards ★ Emily Prentiss Interpol ★ Misc. Hotchner

Misc. ★ Hotch's Realistic Spotify Playlist

[marriso11]

opening the sevetitus tag recently to find two new comic spreads from @ieatbreadz and @quartzite16, an animation from @dorianseverus, art in general from ieatbreadz and @gravityt (aswell as reblogd/interactions), severitus scenarios/based discussions from @inkyarcturus and @cringingwithabook

holy peak

ok but fr just wanted to shout out severitus some creators/moots for their hard work involving our little community. I and many others appreciate the constant flow of content you continue to bring to our fandom. It’s such a joy seeing media made surrounding the trope i enjoy most and im so gladly to be in such a positive, and family esque communal atmosphere here on tumblr!! Thanks for putting so much effort into severitus!! i appreciate u!!

[cringingwithabook]

my dude bro, I'm crying into the flan I'm baking rn. deadass though this was incredibly sweet and I'm so thankful y'all like my bs<3

[marriso11]

ur “bs” is greatly appreciated!!

[supersecretaccount123]

I love our little community sm 😭

[supersecretaccount123]

"People say we're alike"

The childhoods of Severus Snape and Harry Potter

[mat1cozemiyom]

good morning severus!

i love the way he never enjoys anything..my grumpy diva

u can use/print it as a sticker if you want^^

[supersecretaccount123]

snape waking up to a hyper harry, prior to caffeine.

[supersecretaccount123]

“Harry slumped in his chair. If Dumbledore thought this book would prepare him, he would be sorely disappointed. All the book had served to do so far was to discourage Harry further. It made learning Occlumency sound so hard.

Harry sneaked a glance at Snape through his lowered lashes. The man had been leafing through various books and writing notes on parchment for more than an hour. Harry tried to sit up straight enough to get a glimpse of what he was writing, but he couldn’t quite manage. Having failed, he slumped back down in his chair.”

O Mine Enemy, chapter 15 - KirbyLane

With finals week quickly approaching, I thought i’d make a little severitus study board. And of course, it’s inspired by O Mine Enemy on ao3.

[supersecretaccount123]

How have I never noticed this!!

[supersecretaccount123]

"Lily was the only person who truly saw me beyond the Dark Arts I delved in. She kept me grounded…”

Harry and Snapes discussion, based on chapter 21: Memento Vivere of @sanctuary-angel ‘s fanfic Whatever It Takes

[supersecretaccount123]

harry sitting in with snape while he brews at grimmuald place

inspired by O Mine Enemy

do yall like super specific mood boards like this one? bc I LOVE making them & could post them every day if yall let me 😭

[sanctuary-angel]

Awwww reminds me of Whatever It Takes 🥹

[supersecretaccount123]

wait omg this is my current ao3 read!! it’s so good so far. i’m on chapter 21/66 and it’s already destroyed both me and my sleep schedule.

[sanctuary-angel]

This makes me so happy 🥹💝 It's my baby! Its sequel - Light of Mine - is a current WIP.

I love writing post-war severitus SO much!

Thank you for giving it a chance ✨️

[supersecretaccount123]

OMG I DIDNT EVEN REALIZE THAT WAS YOU!!! I didn’t read ur user- I feel like i’m talking to a celeb rn 🤭😆

brb gonna go make a mood board for urs now

[supersecretaccount123]

harry sitting in with snape while he brews at grimmuald place

inspired by O Mine Enemy

do yall like super specific mood boards like this one? bc I LOVE making them & could post them every day if yall let me 😭

[sanctuary-angel]

Awwww reminds me of Whatever It Takes 🥹

[supersecretaccount123]

wait omg this is my current ao3 read!! it’s so good so far. i’m on chapter 21/66 and it’s already destroyed both me and my sleep schedule.

[supersecretaccount123]

harry sitting in with snape while he brews at grimmuald place

inspired by O Mine Enemy

do yall like super specific mood boards like this one? bc I LOVE making them & could post them every day if yall let me 😭

[supersecretaccount123]

Drunk Harry + Severitus

Babys first ever fic! I've literally never written anything but academic texts, so this was such an interesting experience. I had a hyper specific scene in mind that was far too elaborate for an ask, so I decided to give writing it myself a try. Lowk lost the plot after the second paragraph.

Summary: AU where Snape survives, Harry is stuck at Grimmauld place waiting for things to calm down post war. TW heavy drinking.

Harry had lost track of the days since he’d been deposited at Grimmauld place. At first, people would come and go; members of the Order picking up leftover artifacts from those lost in the war, Hermione dropping off a rather unappealing stack of leather-bound textbooks, the occasional drop-in from Luna, which more often than not, involved a long-winded and mostly one-sided discussion of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.

At first, he found the trickle of people busting through the townhouse maddening; the creek of the back door and the inevitable shrieks of Walburga Black plummeting through his marinating pool of misery. But as the weeks stretched on, he found himself nursing a stale grievance, and as the halls eventually fell empty, his mind felt only numb. What was once a consistent noise in his head to unravel now felt fuzzy. Occasionally, he would sit on the floor of Sirius’s childhood bedroom, forcing the image of his cold body to the front of his mind once again, just to feel the grief. He would squeeze his eyes closed and wait for the release, for the hot tears to fall down his cheeks and for his mind to weep like it once did.

When the silence became persistent, he threw himself into studies. Being confined to Grimmauld place, he was unable to assist in the active roundup of the lingering death eaters, so he attempted what he could to support from the sidelines. He had some communication with the remaining Order, tedious and time consuming archival tasks from McGonagall or various case briefs for Snape, but for the most part, he spent his days reading anything he could get his hands on. Anything remotely helpful to the war efforts he consumed cover to cover; Advanced Rune Translation, Arithmantic Predictive Models for Magical Conflict, Defensive Warding: Theory vs. Practice. His body became an auxiliary function to his mind. His once precise reflexes now sluggish and dulled, his reality muddling with the prevalence of his inner world.

It wasn’t until his reread of Magical Trauma and Memory Distortion that he slowed. Halfway through a chapter, he found himself going back a page, then another, until a paragraph near the margin caught and held his attention. 

Trauma may result in a diminished or inconsistent emotional response. In certain cases altered states, whether induced through potion, intoxication, or extreme fatigue, can reduce the mind’s capacity for suppression.

There’s a way to feel it again, to luxuriate in his misery just a bit longer, just until this fog lifts.

At first, the drinking was measured, experimental, almost clinical in nature. He liked the burn of the firewhiskey, the way it made his throat ache and eyes water, almost like he was crying again. The drink, while not exactly lifting the fog, made him at peace with it. Initially, he didn’t need to drink much, a shot or two, just to soften the edges. 

It became routine, evenings bled into nights at the long mahogany table of the Black’s former residence. What was once a pristinely kept house was now littered with half-drunk coffee mugs and booze bottles, parchment spread in uneven stacks, ink drying in thin, neglected lines where his quill had stalled midthought. The bottle sat within reach, always within reach, He would read, pause, drink. Read, pause, drink. The rhythm of it steadier than sleep had ever been.

He stopped going upstairs altogether at some point. It was easier to let exhaustion take him where he sat, cheek pressed to the cool wood, the scent of sweat and booze clinging to his sleeves. Mornings, or what he assumed were mornings, came slowly, his head thick, his mouth dry, the house silent. He would drag himself to the couch in the study only when the light through the curtains became unbearable.

The mirror in the hall caught him once, and he lingered longer than he meant to. There was something off in the reflection. Even his movements felt delayed, like he was watching himself a second too late to intervene. He looked away before he could place it.

It took more to get to a comfortable state now, not by much, he was careful about that, distantly, in the way one is careful about things they’ve already decided not to stop. Just enough to sit with the memories without chasing them, without forcing his emotions into something they refused to become. Most nights it worked, most nights he stayed there, hovering just above clarity. But tonight, his meticulous, borderline obsessive balance slipped. He didn’t notice it at first, but the warmth came quicker and spread further until it wasn’t contained to his chest. It bled into his limbs, heavy and slow. 

He kept drinking, chasing something he couldn’t quite place in his drunken state. The room swirled, his hand missed the edge of the table when he reached to steady himself, fingers catching on parchment instead, smearing ink onto his palm. Harry let out a quiet breath, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. For a moment something broke through, it wasn’t sharp like it had been before, during those weeks of constant interruptions and self inflicted misery, instead it was fractured and jagged. A flash of Sirius in his mind was gone before he could hold onto it.

He reached for the bottle again, but an undeniable creak of the front door opening, echoing loud in the otherwise empty house, caused Harry to instinctively draw his wand at the threat. His eyes took longer than he’d have liked to focus on the distinctive black cloak of Severus Snape. 

His eyes scanned over the boy, taking in his uncharacteristically dishevelled appearance.

"Put that wand down," he drawls, his tone smooth and authoritative. "You don't even recognize who you're pointing it at."

“Thatss precisely the point, ssiir.” Harry slurs as he lowers his wand. “Wha’are you even doin’ ‘ere?” He asks, accidentally gesturing with his wand, causing a stack of books across the room to crash down in its magical wake.

“Watch yourself,” he snapped, stepping to disarm the drunken boy as a second pile toppled down dangerously close to the pair. He slid the boy’s wand from his hand and into his robe pocket, then sighed before speaking again. "i’m here to pick up a few articles I believe you possess."

Harry moves to stand, but loses the will to complete the action. He weakly gestures in the direction of the study. Snape disappears momentarily to retrieve the papers, then sits down across from Harry, his dark eyes flicking to the numerous empty bottles strewn across the table, then to the slumped form of the no longer eleven year old kid he knew. His fingers tap against the dark wood table, impatiently. 

“This is how you honor your godfather's home? His memory? With this performance?” He gestures vaguely, “Though I suppose it’s fitting, Sirius would have approved of such… reckless self destruction." He speaks slowly, calculating his tone, posture, manners. 

Harry glowers, though he can assume the effect is at least somewhat ruined by the way his head lolls against his shoulder. “You don’t… you don’ get to talk ‘bout him.”

Snape leans forward. “No? Then tell me Potter, what exactly do you think you’re accomplishing here?”

Harry tenses, his hand moving back to the bottle, but snape snatches it with seemingly effortless grace.

“Ah-ah,” Snape examines the label of the bottle, a small frown on his face. “If you’re going to drown yourself in self-pity at least have the decency to do it competently.” 

Harry scowls, his cheeks flushing with indignation, or perhaps just the alcohol. “Like you’d know anythin’ ‘bout-”

“About what?” Snape spits, “Grief? Loss? Tell me Potter, when does this little experiment end? When that bottle is empty? When you’ve successfully erased every last trace of competence?” His eyes flash with what Harry might have thought was sadness, if he weren’t trying to keep up with what Snape was saying.

Snape sharply exhaled through his nose. “Pathetic,” he murmured, though with less bite in his tone than intended. Severus has seen this before, many years ago, in himself. In the hollow eyed survivors of the first war, in the way grief carved out and hollowed a person until only the bare husk of themselves remained. 

He could leave. He should leave. Deliver the report to the Order, let someone else, Granger perhaps, or the insufferable weasley boy, deal with this mess. Instead, he found himself stepping around the table and hoisting the boy to his feet. 

Harry was surprised to feel Snape's hands around his biceps, his grasp firm in a stabilizing manner. He stumbled a bit as he freed his legs from beneath the table, Snape was silent as he slowly walked Harry to the study, speaking only when he approached the dark leather couch perched against the only wall not littered with books.

“You will,” He begins to speak, icily, as he gently lowers Harry onto the couch, “Regret this in the morning. Though given your current state of living, I suspect you’ve already resigned yourself to that inevitability.”

Snape straightens up. Harry just watches the man, too inebriated to form anything close to dialect, he makes a faint sound of what he hopes to be agreement. He turned to leave when Harry’s voice, barely audible, roughened by sleep and alcohol, cut through the silence “Don’t…. Don’t go.”

Snape faltered for a moment. It wasn’t an order, nor quite a request. It sounded nearly accidental, like it slipped out before Harry could stop it.

“I’m not.. I jus’...I dunno.” Harry's eyes were still on the man, his voice small. The silence gaped between them, Snape stood frozen to the spot.

“You’re gonna leave anyway,” Harry muttered.

“Yes.” Snape stated plainly. 

He turned away after conjuring a heated blanket over the half-awake boy, silently closing the door behind himself. He dragged a hand across his sullen face before casting an organizational spell throughout the home and setting down a notecard on the now visible tabletop.

Potter,

You cannot drown your grief, it will only learn to float. If you do intend to continue this self-indulgent spiral, at least ensure it does not interfere with your ability to be of use.

—S.S.

[marriso11]

alright so give me 50 chapters, a sequel, and a collection of related one shots

ok but this was so fucking good so peak🥹🙏

[supersecretaccount123]

omg tysm. who knew writing stale academic papers would pay off?

I might make a sequel. I’m imagining that the tuff love worked for harry. I initially wanted something fluffier, but this just happened. we shall see! 🤭

[supersecretaccount123]

Drunk Harry + Severitus

Babys first ever fic! I've literally never written anything but academic texts, so this was such an interesting experience. I had a hyper specific scene in mind that was far too elaborate for an ask, so I decided to give writing it myself a try. Lowk lost the plot after the second paragraph.

Summary: AU where Snape survives, Harry is stuck at Grimmauld place waiting for things to calm down post war. TW heavy drinking.

Harry had lost track of the days since he’d been deposited at Grimmauld place. At first, people would come and go; members of the Order picking up leftover artifacts from those lost in the war, Hermione dropping off a rather unappealing stack of leather-bound textbooks, the occasional drop-in from Luna, which more often than not, involved a long-winded and mostly one-sided discussion of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.

At first, he found the trickle of people busting through the townhouse maddening; the creek of the back door and the inevitable shrieks of Walburga Black plummeting through his marinating pool of misery. But as the weeks stretched on, he found himself nursing a stale grievance, and as the halls eventually fell empty, his mind felt only numb. What was once a consistent noise in his head to unravel now felt fuzzy. Occasionally, he would sit on the floor of Sirius’s childhood bedroom, forcing the image of his cold body to the front of his mind once again, just to feel the grief. He would squeeze his eyes closed and wait for the release, for the hot tears to fall down his cheeks and for his mind to weep like it once did.

When the silence became persistent, he threw himself into studies. Being confined to Grimmauld place, he was unable to assist in the active roundup of the lingering death eaters, so he attempted what he could to support from the sidelines. He had some communication with the remaining Order, tedious and time consuming archival tasks from McGonagall or various case briefs for Snape, but for the most part, he spent his days reading anything he could get his hands on. Anything remotely helpful to the war efforts he consumed cover to cover; Advanced Rune Translation, Arithmantic Predictive Models for Magical Conflict, Defensive Warding: Theory vs. Practice. His body became an auxiliary function to his mind. His once precise reflexes now sluggish and dulled, his reality muddling with the prevalence of his inner world.

It wasn’t until his reread of Magical Trauma and Memory Distortion that he slowed. Halfway through a chapter, he found himself going back a page, then another, until a paragraph near the margin caught and held his attention. 

Trauma may result in a diminished or inconsistent emotional response. In certain cases altered states, whether induced through potion, intoxication, or extreme fatigue, can reduce the mind’s capacity for suppression.

There’s a way to feel it again, to luxuriate in his misery just a bit longer, just until this fog lifts.

At first, the drinking was measured, experimental, almost clinical in nature. He liked the burn of the firewhiskey, the way it made his throat ache and eyes water, almost like he was crying again. The drink, while not exactly lifting the fog, made him at peace with it. Initially, he didn’t need to drink much, a shot or two, just to soften the edges. 

It became routine, evenings bled into nights at the long mahogany table of the Black’s former residence. What was once a pristinely kept house was now littered with half-drunk coffee mugs and booze bottles, parchment spread in uneven stacks, ink drying in thin, neglected lines where his quill had stalled midthought. The bottle sat within reach, always within reach, He would read, pause, drink. Read, pause, drink. The rhythm of it steadier than sleep had ever been.

He stopped going upstairs altogether at some point. It was easier to let exhaustion take him where he sat, cheek pressed to the cool wood, the scent of sweat and booze clinging to his sleeves. Mornings, or what he assumed were mornings, came slowly, his head thick, his mouth dry, the house silent. He would drag himself to the couch in the study only when the light through the curtains became unbearable.

The mirror in the hall caught him once, and he lingered longer than he meant to. There was something off in the reflection. Even his movements felt delayed, like he was watching himself a second too late to intervene. He looked away before he could place it.

It took more to get to a comfortable state now, not by much, he was careful about that, distantly, in the way one is careful about things they’ve already decided not to stop. Just enough to sit with the memories without chasing them, without forcing his emotions into something they refused to become. Most nights it worked, most nights he stayed there, hovering just above clarity. But tonight, his meticulous, borderline obsessive balance slipped. He didn’t notice it at first, but the warmth came quicker and spread further until it wasn’t contained to his chest. It bled into his limbs, heavy and slow. 

He kept drinking, chasing something he couldn’t quite place in his drunken state. The room swirled, his hand missed the edge of the table when he reached to steady himself, fingers catching on parchment instead, smearing ink onto his palm. Harry let out a quiet breath, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. For a moment something broke through, it wasn’t sharp like it had been before, during those weeks of constant interruptions and self inflicted misery, instead it was fractured and jagged. A flash of Sirius in his mind was gone before he could hold onto it.

He reached for the bottle again, but an undeniable creak of the front door opening, echoing loud in the otherwise empty house, caused Harry to instinctively draw his wand at the threat. His eyes took longer than he’d have liked to focus on the distinctive black cloak of Severus Snape. 

His eyes scanned over the boy, taking in his uncharacteristically dishevelled appearance.

"Put that wand down," he drawls, his tone smooth and authoritative. "You don't even recognize who you're pointing it at."

“Thatss precisely the point, ssiir.” Harry slurs as he lowers his wand. “Wha’are you even doin’ ‘ere?” He asks, accidentally gesturing with his wand, causing a stack of books across the room to crash down in its magical wake.

“Watch yourself,” he snapped, stepping to disarm the drunken boy as a second pile toppled down dangerously close to the pair. He slid the boy’s wand from his hand and into his robe pocket, then sighed before speaking again. "i’m here to pick up a few articles I believe you possess."

Harry moves to stand, but loses the will to complete the action. He weakly gestures in the direction of the study. Snape disappears momentarily to retrieve the papers, then sits down across from Harry, his dark eyes flicking to the numerous empty bottles strewn across the table, then to the slumped form of the no longer eleven year old kid he knew. His fingers tap against the dark wood table, impatiently. 

“This is how you honor your godfather's home? His memory? With this performance?” He gestures vaguely, “Though I suppose it’s fitting, Sirius would have approved of such… reckless self destruction." He speaks slowly, calculating his tone, posture, manners. 

Harry glowers, though he can assume the effect is at least somewhat ruined by the way his head lolls against his shoulder. “You don’t… you don’ get to talk ‘bout him.”

Snape leans forward. “No? Then tell me Potter, what exactly do you think you’re accomplishing here?”

Harry tenses, his hand moving back to the bottle, but snape snatches it with seemingly effortless grace.

“Ah-ah,” Snape examines the label of the bottle, a small frown on his face. “If you’re going to drown yourself in self-pity at least have the decency to do it competently.” 

Harry scowls, his cheeks flushing with indignation, or perhaps just the alcohol. “Like you’d know anythin’ ‘bout-”

“About what?” Snape spits, “Grief? Loss? Tell me Potter, when does this little experiment end? When that bottle is empty? When you’ve successfully erased every last trace of competence?” His eyes flash with what Harry might have thought was sadness, if he weren’t trying to keep up with what Snape was saying.

Snape sharply exhaled through his nose. “Pathetic,” he murmured, though with less bite in his tone than intended. Severus has seen this before, many years ago, in himself. In the hollow eyed survivors of the first war, in the way grief carved out and hollowed a person until only the bare husk of themselves remained. 

He could leave. He should leave. Deliver the report to the Order, let someone else, Granger perhaps, or the insufferable weasley boy, deal with this mess. Instead, he found himself stepping around the table and hoisting the boy to his feet. 

Harry was surprised to feel Snape's hands around his biceps, his grasp firm in a stabilizing manner. He stumbled a bit as he freed his legs from beneath the table, Snape was silent as he slowly walked Harry to the study, speaking only when he approached the dark leather couch perched against the only wall not littered with books.

“You will,” He begins to speak, icily, as he gently lowers Harry onto the couch, “Regret this in the morning. Though given your current state of living, I suspect you’ve already resigned yourself to that inevitability.”

Snape straightens up. Harry just watches the man, too inebriated to form anything close to dialect, he makes a faint sound of what he hopes to be agreement. He turned to leave when Harry’s voice, barely audible, roughened by sleep and alcohol, cut through the silence “Don’t…. Don’t go.”

Snape faltered for a moment. It wasn’t an order, nor quite a request. It sounded nearly accidental, like it slipped out before Harry could stop it.

“I’m not.. I jus’...I dunno.” Harry's eyes were still on the man, his voice small. The silence gaped between them, Snape stood frozen to the spot.

“You’re gonna leave anyway,” Harry muttered.

“Yes.” Snape stated plainly. 

He turned away after conjuring a heated blanket over the half-awake boy, silently closing the door behind himself. He dragged a hand across his sullen face before casting an organizational spell throughout the home and setting down a notecard on the now visible tabletop.

Potter,

You cannot drown your grief, it will only learn to float. If you do intend to continue this self-indulgent spiral, at least ensure it does not interfere with your ability to be of use.

—S.S.

[fafodill]

I don't know why or how, but Sneep feels like someone who'd have a pickle fetish.

Like, the vinegary taste of them and they way they drip all over your hands. Not like getting off on it, but that warm feeling, yk?

I also have a slight fever and sleep deprivation, so take this with a grain of salt

I hope your fever went down anon, and that you're coming to term with your own pickle fetish.

[thatfatbitxch]

Hi! I just read you're taking requests and I love your writings, so I was wondering if you could write something about Reader being a new teacher at Hogwarts, and she's just as dark and gloomy as Severus? You can choose where to go from there, sorry if it's too vague!

Kindred Shadows

Pairing: Severus Snape x prof reader

Note: I tried my best to make the reader dark and gloomy but that’s not typically what I write so I hope this is okay and what you wanted.

∴.·:*¨¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

The first whispers of Y/N’s arrival at Hogwarts spread through the castle long before the term began. A new professor—stern, enigmatic, and as unapproachable as the dungeons themselves.

The students, ever eager for gossip, speculated wildly.

“She’s worse than Snape,” a Gryffindor declared in hushed tones.

“No way,” a skeptical Ravenclaw shot back. “No one’s worse than Snape.”

Yet when Professor Y/N arrived, their doubts turned to wary silence.

She strode into the Great Hall during the Start-of-Term Feast, a figure wrapped in shadows, her dark robes trailing behind her like a wraith. Her expression was unreadable, her presence quiet yet suffocating. She did not fidget, did not seek conversation. Instead, her sharp eyes flickered over the students, dissecting them as if they were pieces on a chessboard.

At the staff table, Severus Snape watched her. He was not pleased.

A new professor was bad enough. A professor who mirrored his own presence—his own reputation—was far worse.

Albus Dumbledore, ever the orchestrator of chaos, introduced her with a twinkle in his eye.

“Professor Y/N will be joining us as the new Ancient Runes professor. I trust you will all extend to her the same respect and courtesy you show your other professors.”

A few students exchanged knowing glances.

Snape smirked at the irony.

Y/N inclined her head in acknowledgment but spoke nothing.

The feast continued. She did not engage in small talk with her colleagues. Instead, she observed. She was used to being alone, to building walls high enough that no one could breach them. And yet, across the table, she felt the weight of Snape’s gaze on her. Calculating. Measuring.

She met his stare with equal intensity.

No fear. No admiration. Just… understanding.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Her classroom, deep within the castle, was a reflection of herself—dimly lit, filled with the scent of parchment and ink, lined with ancient tomes that whispered secrets long forgotten. She demanded perfection.

She ran her lessons with an ironclad discipline, leaving no room for foolishness.

When a Gryffindor laughed during a translation exercise in the first week, she fixed them with a stare so sharp it could cut steel.

“Do you find something amusing about misinterpreting a warding rune and accidentally locking yourself in a room for the rest of your life?” she asked, her voice calm but laced with quiet menace.

The student swallowed hard and shook their head. “No, Professor.”

Word spread quickly.

Unlike Snape, she did not belittle students, nor did she play favorites. She was fair, but she was strict. She did not tolerate cruelty, nor did she tolerate incompetence.

She did, however, tolerate silence.

Perhaps that was why she and Snape fell into an unspoken understanding so quickly.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Late at night, Snape often prowled the halls, ensuring students were where they ought to be. He expected to be alone.

Until he wasn’t.

One evening, he turned a corner and nearly collided with her.

She did not flinch.

Nor did she apologize.

Instead, she merely regarded him with those piercing eyes of hers before stepping aside, allowing him to pass.

For the first time in years, Severus Snape found himself momentarily unsettled.

He found her again in the library.

Seated in a secluded corner, surrounded by tomes most wizards had long forgotten, she read with the quiet intensity of someone who belonged in the company of books more than people.

“Professor Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low as he approached.

She did not look up. “Professor Snape.”

His lip curled. “You are quite the enigma.”

She finally closed her book with a soft thud and met his gaze. “And you are predictable.”

His brow arched. “Am I?”

She tilted her head slightly. “You think yourself the only one who understands solitude. The only one who walks the halls unseen except when necessary.”

He said nothing.

“You’re not.”

The silence stretched between them, long and unyielding.

Yet, for the first time, it was not uncomfortable.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

It was now November.

The rain pounded against the castle windows, the sky dark and brooding.

The students had long since retreated to their dormitories, and yet, Y/N remained in the corridors, walking alone.

Snape found her there.

“You enjoy the cold?” he asked dryly, arms folded across his chest.

She didn’t turn to face him. “I enjoy the quiet.”

A pause. Then—

“You’re avoiding something.”

She finally turned to him. “And you’re prying.”

His lips twitched in the closest thing he had to amusement. “Touché.”

She sighed, rubbing her temple. “The staff insists on socializing. Minerva invited me for tea. Dumbledore for chess. Even Hagrid suggested a trip to see his… creatures.”

Snape smirked. “You sound as though you were asked to suffer the Cruciatus Curse.”

She exhaled sharply. “I prefer to be alone is all.”

Another pause.

Then, with quiet understanding, Snape turned on his heel and began walking.

To her own surprise, Y/N followed.

They walked in silence, side by side, shadows trailing in their wake.

It became a habit.

Snape and Y/N often found themselves in the same places at the same time—never planned, never spoken about, but always… expected.

A silent presence at the staff table.

A quiet nod in the corridors.

A book exchanged without words in the library.

Neither sought conversation, yet neither avoided it.

The other professors noticed.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Flitwick whispered to Sprout one evening. “I daresay Professor Y/N and Severus seem… to be friends.”

McGonagall merely sipped her tea. “Two solitary creatures will always recognize each other, Filius.”

Dumbledore, ever the observer, merely smiled.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

It wasn’t until a staff meeting in December that something shifted.

The discussion had turned to disciplinary measures. A group of Slytherins had tormented a young Hufflepuff, and Y/N was the first to demand action.

“This should not be tolerated,” she said, voice cold and sharp. “Favoritism should not dictate consequences.”

Snape stiffened. “You believe me to be biased?”

“I believe you to be blind,” she countered.

Silence fell over the room.

The two professors stared at each other, tension thick in the air.

Snape’s jaw tightened. He expected her to be like him—calculated, logical. He did not expect her to challenge him so openly.

But Y/N did not back down.

It was, perhaps, the first time someone had ever met his glare without fear.

And for the first time in years, Severus Snape felt something unfamiliar coil in his chest.

Intrigue.

Respect.

Something deeper.

But beneath that, something far darker stirred, something more intense and difficult to ignore.

Lust.

He caught himself staring at the way her lips pressed together, the slight curve of her figure, her unyielding presence in the room. His pulse quickened, a tight knot forming deep in his gut. He wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else—something dangerous, something… uncontrolled.

The way her eyes locked with his—sharp, knowing—made his body feel warm in a way that was far more intense than any reaction he’d ever had before.

It unsettled him.

She stood there, calm and unflinching, but there was something in the air, something that made the space between them heavy with unspoken things. The longer their gaze lingered, the more his mind lost focus.

He quickly masked the heat rising in his chest, though it was useless to try and erase it. He knew she saw it, the shift in his demeanor, but he didn’t care.

It was a fleeting moment, but it lasted long enough to change everything.

For a split second, Severus Snape was left standing at the edge of something darker than he had ever known—something far more consuming than anything he’d ever been prepared for.

The meeting eventually moved on, the conversation shifting away from them. But Snape barely listened. His mind was elsewhere, replaying her words.

By the time the meeting ended, she had already left.

Snape remained seated, unmoving.

It took him longer than he cared to admit to realize something uncomfortable:

She had been right.

That night, Y/N found something walking intoher office.

A book.

She recognized it immediately—it was one she had been meaning to borrow from the library, one she had mentioned offhandedly weeks ago.

Beside it sat a single cup of tea, still warm.

And tucked beneath the book was a small piece of parchment.

She picked it up, her fingers brushing over the familiar, sharp handwriting. The note read:

“Perhaps I do have favorites. A wise person once said, however, that even the blind can be made to see. Drink the tea before it grows cold.”

There was no signature.

No explanation.

But she knew.

Y/N’s lips quirked slightly at the unspoken apology. It wasn’t much—no grand gesture, no flowery sentiment—but it was enough.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, a mix of surprise and something else she couldn’t quite place.

As she settled back into her chair, her thoughts turned to the note and to Snape. There had been a shift—something between them had changed. It was subtle, but it was there, in the way he had looked at her during the meeting, the way he hadn’t been able to hide his reaction when she challenged him.

Her mind wandered. The attraction that had flickered between them was undeniable, even if neither of them had acknowledged it aloud.

Y/N set the cup down, the warmth spreading through her chest, and leaned back in her chair, considering the note once more.

She had always been careful with her feelings—guarded, independent, unwilling to let anyone in. But Snape… He was different. Something about him made her feel things she hadn’t felt in years.

And now, with the note, that unspoken connection between them felt even more potent.

She knew Snape wasn’t the type to reveal his emotions easily. His pride and detachment were legendary. But she had seen through it—just as he had seen through her.

The thought of him, however reluctantly, acknowledging something more than their usual interactions made her pulse quicken.

There was something dangerous about it, about him. But in a way, that only drew her in further.

Y/N’s lips parted as she took another sip of the tea, the warmth settling deep within her, but her thoughts remained a swirl of uncertainty.

What did this mean? Would he act on it? Or was this just another of his cryptic gestures, meant to test her without revealing anything concrete?

She didn’t know. But she couldn’t ignore the feeling that things were changing. And the more she thought about it, the harder it was to push it aside.

Meanwhile, in the shadowed halls of Hogwarts, Severus Snape lingered in his own thoughts, trying to ignore the simmering tension rising within him. The note he had left her—it had been a gamble, but he couldn’t help himself. The pull he felt towards her was far too strong, and for the first time in years, he didn’t want to hide it.

His desire for control, for distance, was slipping. He couldn’t hide the growing fascination, the undeniable need for something deeper. The way she had looked at him earlier that day… He could still feel the weight of her gaze, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

The question now was whether or not he could resist it.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

In the classroom, Snape turned just as the door creaked open. His gaze met hers instantly, that familiar, intense look flickering in his eyes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was thick with unspoken words and hidden tension.

Then, Snape broke the silence, his voice low and measured.

“I trust you found the tea… to your liking?”

Y/N met his gaze, her heart racing, and nodded.

“It was… perfect,” she replied, her voice steady despite the rapid beat of her heart.

Their eyes held for a beat longer than either intended, the space between them charged with something neither was willing to fully acknowledge.

But for once, neither of them looked away.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, like an electric current in the air, making it almost impossible to breathe. Snape’s gaze held hers, the weight of his eyes seeming to dig deeper, as if he were seeing straight through her—into the places she kept hidden even from herself.

Y/N’s pulse quickened, her chest tightening as she fought the urge to speak. She didn’t know what to say. The words felt stuck in her throat, like they’d all been twisted together into something she couldn’t untangle. The connection between them was undeniable, and it was starting to feel suffocating in its intensity.

Snape’s voice broke the silence once again, this time a touch softer, though still laced with the same authority.

“You didn’t need to take my tea, you know.” His words were clipped, but there was an edge to them that hadn’t been there before—a vulnerability barely masked by his usual cold composure. “I merely… thought you might appreciate it.”

Y/N stood still, holding his gaze, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk behind her. She wasn’t sure what to make of his tone. There was something in it, something raw that she hadn’t expected from him. Something that matched the storm swirling inside her.

She took a step forward, her body moving of its own accord. The gap between them seemed impossibly small now, her breath catching in her throat as she closed the distance. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it felt like it reverberated through the very air between them.

“Why did you leave it for me?” she asked, her words both a question and a challenge. Her heart pounded, but she forced herself to stand her ground. She wasn’t about to back down. Not now.

Snape didn’t answer right away, his gaze flickering briefly to the floor before returning to her eyes. The cool, detached persona he wore seemed to waver for a moment, and in that brief instant, Y/N saw something more—something that was so stark and raw it left her breathless.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, his voice quiet, as if he were reluctant to speak the truth. “Perhaps I thought… you would appreciate the gesture.”

His words hung in the air, the vulnerability in them stirring something in Y/N that she hadn’t felt in years. It was strange, this delicate shift between them. It was new, uncharted territory for both of them.

Before she could stop herself, she stepped closer to him. The space between them was now so small that she could feel the warmth of his body, a heat that seemed to mirror the rapid pulse in her chest.

Snape’s lips parted as if he was about to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes flickered down to her lips, and for a moment, everything seemed to pause. The tension in the room was almost suffocating, and Y/N felt as if the very air around them was charged with something unspoken.

Her mind screamed at her to step back, to stop whatever this was before it spiraled out of control. But her body betrayed her, taking another step closer, until their faces were mere inches apart. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the lingering tension between them.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.

But the tension was unbearable.

The moment stretched, and Y/N could feel the magnetism between them pulling her in. It wasn’t just physical. It was something deeper, something more primal. She had spent so long keeping her emotions in check, but now, with Snape standing so close, the walls she’d built seemed to crumble. Her heart raced, her breath shallow as she struggled to make sense of the storm that had been set in motion between them.

Finally, Snape spoke, his voice barely a rasp.

“Y/N…” he began, but the rest of the sentence died on his lips. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He wasn’t sure he could say it, even if he tried. The words felt like a weight on his tongue, too heavy to speak, too dangerous to acknowledge.

Y/N inhaled sharply, her mind in a whirl of confusion. Her fingers twitched, longing to reach out to him, but she held herself still. If she moved now, she knew there would be no going back.

His breath was warm against her skin, his presence overwhelming. She could feel the tension between them, thick and suffocating, making it nearly impossible to think clearly.

“I should go,” she said, her voice barely audible, though it wavered. She wanted to leave before either of them did something neither of them could take back. She stepped back, but she didn’t make it far. Snape’s hand shot out, almost instinctively, his fingers brushing her wrist.

Y/N froze, her body stiffening at the contact. The shock of it, the sheer electricity that seemed to course through her at his touch, nearly made her heart stop.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world outside the classroom seemed to fall away, and all that remained was the space between them—charged, dangerous, and more intimate than anything either had experienced in years.

“I don’t want you to go,” Snape muttered, his voice low and rough, though there was an unmistakable urgency to it.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. She looked up into his eyes, and for the first time, she saw something more than the cold, aloof mask he wore. There was a flicker of something raw—something unguarded.

And in that moment, Y/N made her choice.

She didn’t step back. She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she took a step forward, closing the gap between them once more. And as she did, she saw Snape’s breath catch, his eyes darkening with an emotion she couldn’t quite name.

Whatever this was, whatever had shifted between them, it was undeniable. And neither of them was ready to walk away. Not yet.

Without a word, Snape moved, his hand reaching out to cup her cheek, his touch almost tentative at first, as if testing the waters. Y/N’s breath hitched, and before she knew what was happening, she found herself leaning into him, her eyes fluttering closed.

The kiss came suddenly, without hesitation. It was fierce, hard—an explosion of pent-up emotions that neither of them had been willing to acknowledge until now. The taste of him, dark and familiar, overwhelmed her senses, sending a jolt through her entire body. His lips were demanding, taking control as though he could no longer fight the pull between them.

Y/N responded in kind, her hands reaching up to grip the front of his robes, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, their breaths mingling in the heated space between them, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The years of silent tension, the guarded walls they both had built, seemed to vanish in an instant.

It wasn’t just desire that filled the space between them—it was something deeper, something unspoken. Their lips moved together urgently, as if they both realized that this was the only way to truly understand the shifting current between them.

And as they finally pulled back, breathless and wild, neither of them spoke. The silence was deafening, but it didn’t need to be broken. The connection was clear now, undeniable.

The room was still, the air between them heavy with the weight of what had just happened. Y/N’s breath was unsteady, her pulse thrumming beneath her skin, but she didn’t waver. Neither did he.

She had always been different—sharp-edged, cold, a force that others avoided. She was not soft, not delicate. She did not giggle or blush or shrink beneath the weight of a man’s gaze. And Snape—he was the same.

Unyielding.

Perhaps that was why they had found each other in this strange, silent understanding. Two shadows in the same storm, drawn together not by warmth but by something deeper—something carved from the same jagged edges of solitude and restraint.

She met his gaze, unwavering, as if daring him to take back what had just happened.

He did not.

Instead, a slow smirk—just the barest hint of amusement—ghosted across his lips.

Something in her chest tightened.

Yes, she thought. He understood.

And perhaps, for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t alone.

[thatfatbitxch]

Hi! I just read you're taking requests and I love your writings, so I was wondering if you could write something about Reader being a new teacher at Hogwarts, and she's just as dark and gloomy as Severus? You can choose where to go from there, sorry if it's too vague!

Kindred Shadows

Pairing: Severus Snape x prof reader

Note: I tried my best to make the reader dark and gloomy but that’s not typically what I write so I hope this is okay and what you wanted.

∴.·:*¨¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

The first whispers of Y/N’s arrival at Hogwarts spread through the castle long before the term began. A new professor—stern, enigmatic, and as unapproachable as the dungeons themselves.

The students, ever eager for gossip, speculated wildly.

“She’s worse than Snape,” a Gryffindor declared in hushed tones.

“No way,” a skeptical Ravenclaw shot back. “No one’s worse than Snape.”

Yet when Professor Y/N arrived, their doubts turned to wary silence.

She strode into the Great Hall during the Start-of-Term Feast, a figure wrapped in shadows, her dark robes trailing behind her like a wraith. Her expression was unreadable, her presence quiet yet suffocating. She did not fidget, did not seek conversation. Instead, her sharp eyes flickered over the students, dissecting them as if they were pieces on a chessboard.

At the staff table, Severus Snape watched her. He was not pleased.

A new professor was bad enough. A professor who mirrored his own presence—his own reputation—was far worse.

Albus Dumbledore, ever the orchestrator of chaos, introduced her with a twinkle in his eye.

“Professor Y/N will be joining us as the new Ancient Runes professor. I trust you will all extend to her the same respect and courtesy you show your other professors.”

A few students exchanged knowing glances.

Snape smirked at the irony.

Y/N inclined her head in acknowledgment but spoke nothing.

The feast continued. She did not engage in small talk with her colleagues. Instead, she observed. She was used to being alone, to building walls high enough that no one could breach them. And yet, across the table, she felt the weight of Snape’s gaze on her. Calculating. Measuring.

She met his stare with equal intensity.

No fear. No admiration. Just… understanding.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Her classroom, deep within the castle, was a reflection of herself—dimly lit, filled with the scent of parchment and ink, lined with ancient tomes that whispered secrets long forgotten. She demanded perfection.

She ran her lessons with an ironclad discipline, leaving no room for foolishness.

When a Gryffindor laughed during a translation exercise in the first week, she fixed them with a stare so sharp it could cut steel.

“Do you find something amusing about misinterpreting a warding rune and accidentally locking yourself in a room for the rest of your life?” she asked, her voice calm but laced with quiet menace.

The student swallowed hard and shook their head. “No, Professor.”

Word spread quickly.

Unlike Snape, she did not belittle students, nor did she play favorites. She was fair, but she was strict. She did not tolerate cruelty, nor did she tolerate incompetence.

She did, however, tolerate silence.

Perhaps that was why she and Snape fell into an unspoken understanding so quickly.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

Late at night, Snape often prowled the halls, ensuring students were where they ought to be. He expected to be alone.

Until he wasn’t.

One evening, he turned a corner and nearly collided with her.

She did not flinch.

Nor did she apologize.

Instead, she merely regarded him with those piercing eyes of hers before stepping aside, allowing him to pass.

For the first time in years, Severus Snape found himself momentarily unsettled.

He found her again in the library.

Seated in a secluded corner, surrounded by tomes most wizards had long forgotten, she read with the quiet intensity of someone who belonged in the company of books more than people.

“Professor Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low as he approached.

She did not look up. “Professor Snape.”

His lip curled. “You are quite the enigma.”

She finally closed her book with a soft thud and met his gaze. “And you are predictable.”

His brow arched. “Am I?”

She tilted her head slightly. “You think yourself the only one who understands solitude. The only one who walks the halls unseen except when necessary.”

He said nothing.

“You’re not.”

The silence stretched between them, long and unyielding.

Yet, for the first time, it was not uncomfortable.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

It was now November.

The rain pounded against the castle windows, the sky dark and brooding.

The students had long since retreated to their dormitories, and yet, Y/N remained in the corridors, walking alone.

Snape found her there.

“You enjoy the cold?” he asked dryly, arms folded across his chest.

She didn’t turn to face him. “I enjoy the quiet.”

A pause. Then—

“You’re avoiding something.”

She finally turned to him. “And you’re prying.”

His lips twitched in the closest thing he had to amusement. “Touché.”

She sighed, rubbing her temple. “The staff insists on socializing. Minerva invited me for tea. Dumbledore for chess. Even Hagrid suggested a trip to see his… creatures.”

Snape smirked. “You sound as though you were asked to suffer the Cruciatus Curse.”

She exhaled sharply. “I prefer to be alone is all.”

Another pause.

Then, with quiet understanding, Snape turned on his heel and began walking.

To her own surprise, Y/N followed.

They walked in silence, side by side, shadows trailing in their wake.

It became a habit.

Snape and Y/N often found themselves in the same places at the same time—never planned, never spoken about, but always… expected.

A silent presence at the staff table.

A quiet nod in the corridors.

A book exchanged without words in the library.

Neither sought conversation, yet neither avoided it.

The other professors noticed.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Flitwick whispered to Sprout one evening. “I daresay Professor Y/N and Severus seem… to be friends.”

McGonagall merely sipped her tea. “Two solitary creatures will always recognize each other, Filius.”

Dumbledore, ever the observer, merely smiled.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

It wasn’t until a staff meeting in December that something shifted.

The discussion had turned to disciplinary measures. A group of Slytherins had tormented a young Hufflepuff, and Y/N was the first to demand action.

“This should not be tolerated,” she said, voice cold and sharp. “Favoritism should not dictate consequences.”

Snape stiffened. “You believe me to be biased?”

“I believe you to be blind,” she countered.

Silence fell over the room.

The two professors stared at each other, tension thick in the air.

Snape’s jaw tightened. He expected her to be like him—calculated, logical. He did not expect her to challenge him so openly.

But Y/N did not back down.

It was, perhaps, the first time someone had ever met his glare without fear.

And for the first time in years, Severus Snape felt something unfamiliar coil in his chest.

Intrigue.

Respect.

Something deeper.

But beneath that, something far darker stirred, something more intense and difficult to ignore.

Lust.

He caught himself staring at the way her lips pressed together, the slight curve of her figure, her unyielding presence in the room. His pulse quickened, a tight knot forming deep in his gut. He wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else—something dangerous, something… uncontrolled.

The way her eyes locked with his—sharp, knowing—made his body feel warm in a way that was far more intense than any reaction he’d ever had before.

It unsettled him.

She stood there, calm and unflinching, but there was something in the air, something that made the space between them heavy with unspoken things. The longer their gaze lingered, the more his mind lost focus.

He quickly masked the heat rising in his chest, though it was useless to try and erase it. He knew she saw it, the shift in his demeanor, but he didn’t care.

It was a fleeting moment, but it lasted long enough to change everything.

For a split second, Severus Snape was left standing at the edge of something darker than he had ever known—something far more consuming than anything he’d ever been prepared for.

The meeting eventually moved on, the conversation shifting away from them. But Snape barely listened. His mind was elsewhere, replaying her words.

By the time the meeting ended, she had already left.

Snape remained seated, unmoving.

It took him longer than he cared to admit to realize something uncomfortable:

She had been right.

That night, Y/N found something walking intoher office.

A book.

She recognized it immediately—it was one she had been meaning to borrow from the library, one she had mentioned offhandedly weeks ago.

Beside it sat a single cup of tea, still warm.

And tucked beneath the book was a small piece of parchment.

She picked it up, her fingers brushing over the familiar, sharp handwriting. The note read:

“Perhaps I do have favorites. A wise person once said, however, that even the blind can be made to see. Drink the tea before it grows cold.”

There was no signature.

No explanation.

But she knew.

Y/N’s lips quirked slightly at the unspoken apology. It wasn’t much—no grand gesture, no flowery sentiment—but it was enough.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, a mix of surprise and something else she couldn’t quite place.

As she settled back into her chair, her thoughts turned to the note and to Snape. There had been a shift—something between them had changed. It was subtle, but it was there, in the way he had looked at her during the meeting, the way he hadn’t been able to hide his reaction when she challenged him.

Her mind wandered. The attraction that had flickered between them was undeniable, even if neither of them had acknowledged it aloud.

Y/N set the cup down, the warmth spreading through her chest, and leaned back in her chair, considering the note once more.

She had always been careful with her feelings—guarded, independent, unwilling to let anyone in. But Snape… He was different. Something about him made her feel things she hadn’t felt in years.

And now, with the note, that unspoken connection between them felt even more potent.

She knew Snape wasn’t the type to reveal his emotions easily. His pride and detachment were legendary. But she had seen through it—just as he had seen through her.

The thought of him, however reluctantly, acknowledging something more than their usual interactions made her pulse quicken.

There was something dangerous about it, about him. But in a way, that only drew her in further.

Y/N’s lips parted as she took another sip of the tea, the warmth settling deep within her, but her thoughts remained a swirl of uncertainty.

What did this mean? Would he act on it? Or was this just another of his cryptic gestures, meant to test her without revealing anything concrete?

She didn’t know. But she couldn’t ignore the feeling that things were changing. And the more she thought about it, the harder it was to push it aside.

Meanwhile, in the shadowed halls of Hogwarts, Severus Snape lingered in his own thoughts, trying to ignore the simmering tension rising within him. The note he had left her—it had been a gamble, but he couldn’t help himself. The pull he felt towards her was far too strong, and for the first time in years, he didn’t want to hide it.

His desire for control, for distance, was slipping. He couldn’t hide the growing fascination, the undeniable need for something deeper. The way she had looked at him earlier that day… He could still feel the weight of her gaze, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

The question now was whether or not he could resist it.

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

In the classroom, Snape turned just as the door creaked open. His gaze met hers instantly, that familiar, intense look flickering in his eyes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was thick with unspoken words and hidden tension.

Then, Snape broke the silence, his voice low and measured.

“I trust you found the tea… to your liking?”

Y/N met his gaze, her heart racing, and nodded.

“It was… perfect,” she replied, her voice steady despite the rapid beat of her heart.

Their eyes held for a beat longer than either intended, the space between them charged with something neither was willing to fully acknowledge.

But for once, neither of them looked away.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, like an electric current in the air, making it almost impossible to breathe. Snape’s gaze held hers, the weight of his eyes seeming to dig deeper, as if he were seeing straight through her—into the places she kept hidden even from herself.

Y/N’s pulse quickened, her chest tightening as she fought the urge to speak. She didn’t know what to say. The words felt stuck in her throat, like they’d all been twisted together into something she couldn’t untangle. The connection between them was undeniable, and it was starting to feel suffocating in its intensity.

Snape’s voice broke the silence once again, this time a touch softer, though still laced with the same authority.

“You didn’t need to take my tea, you know.” His words were clipped, but there was an edge to them that hadn’t been there before—a vulnerability barely masked by his usual cold composure. “I merely… thought you might appreciate it.”

Y/N stood still, holding his gaze, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk behind her. She wasn’t sure what to make of his tone. There was something in it, something raw that she hadn’t expected from him. Something that matched the storm swirling inside her.

She took a step forward, her body moving of its own accord. The gap between them seemed impossibly small now, her breath catching in her throat as she closed the distance. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it felt like it reverberated through the very air between them.

“Why did you leave it for me?” she asked, her words both a question and a challenge. Her heart pounded, but she forced herself to stand her ground. She wasn’t about to back down. Not now.

Snape didn’t answer right away, his gaze flickering briefly to the floor before returning to her eyes. The cool, detached persona he wore seemed to waver for a moment, and in that brief instant, Y/N saw something more—something that was so stark and raw it left her breathless.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, his voice quiet, as if he were reluctant to speak the truth. “Perhaps I thought… you would appreciate the gesture.”

His words hung in the air, the vulnerability in them stirring something in Y/N that she hadn’t felt in years. It was strange, this delicate shift between them. It was new, uncharted territory for both of them.

Before she could stop herself, she stepped closer to him. The space between them was now so small that she could feel the warmth of his body, a heat that seemed to mirror the rapid pulse in her chest.

Snape’s lips parted as if he was about to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes flickered down to her lips, and for a moment, everything seemed to pause. The tension in the room was almost suffocating, and Y/N felt as if the very air around them was charged with something unspoken.

Her mind screamed at her to step back, to stop whatever this was before it spiraled out of control. But her body betrayed her, taking another step closer, until their faces were mere inches apart. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the lingering tension between them.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.

But the tension was unbearable.

The moment stretched, and Y/N could feel the magnetism between them pulling her in. It wasn’t just physical. It was something deeper, something more primal. She had spent so long keeping her emotions in check, but now, with Snape standing so close, the walls she’d built seemed to crumble. Her heart raced, her breath shallow as she struggled to make sense of the storm that had been set in motion between them.

Finally, Snape spoke, his voice barely a rasp.

“Y/N…” he began, but the rest of the sentence died on his lips. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He wasn’t sure he could say it, even if he tried. The words felt like a weight on his tongue, too heavy to speak, too dangerous to acknowledge.

Y/N inhaled sharply, her mind in a whirl of confusion. Her fingers twitched, longing to reach out to him, but she held herself still. If she moved now, she knew there would be no going back.

His breath was warm against her skin, his presence overwhelming. She could feel the tension between them, thick and suffocating, making it nearly impossible to think clearly.

“I should go,” she said, her voice barely audible, though it wavered. She wanted to leave before either of them did something neither of them could take back. She stepped back, but she didn’t make it far. Snape’s hand shot out, almost instinctively, his fingers brushing her wrist.

Y/N froze, her body stiffening at the contact. The shock of it, the sheer electricity that seemed to course through her at his touch, nearly made her heart stop.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world outside the classroom seemed to fall away, and all that remained was the space between them—charged, dangerous, and more intimate than anything either had experienced in years.

“I don’t want you to go,” Snape muttered, his voice low and rough, though there was an unmistakable urgency to it.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. She looked up into his eyes, and for the first time, she saw something more than the cold, aloof mask he wore. There was a flicker of something raw—something unguarded.

And in that moment, Y/N made her choice.

She didn’t step back. She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she took a step forward, closing the gap between them once more. And as she did, she saw Snape’s breath catch, his eyes darkening with an emotion she couldn’t quite name.

Whatever this was, whatever had shifted between them, it was undeniable. And neither of them was ready to walk away. Not yet.

Without a word, Snape moved, his hand reaching out to cup her cheek, his touch almost tentative at first, as if testing the waters. Y/N’s breath hitched, and before she knew what was happening, she found herself leaning into him, her eyes fluttering closed.

The kiss came suddenly, without hesitation. It was fierce, hard—an explosion of pent-up emotions that neither of them had been willing to acknowledge until now. The taste of him, dark and familiar, overwhelmed her senses, sending a jolt through her entire body. His lips were demanding, taking control as though he could no longer fight the pull between them.

Y/N responded in kind, her hands reaching up to grip the front of his robes, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, their breaths mingling in the heated space between them, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The years of silent tension, the guarded walls they both had built, seemed to vanish in an instant.

It wasn’t just desire that filled the space between them—it was something deeper, something unspoken. Their lips moved together urgently, as if they both realized that this was the only way to truly understand the shifting current between them.

And as they finally pulled back, breathless and wild, neither of them spoke. The silence was deafening, but it didn’t need to be broken. The connection was clear now, undeniable.

The room was still, the air between them heavy with the weight of what had just happened. Y/N’s breath was unsteady, her pulse thrumming beneath her skin, but she didn’t waver. Neither did he.

She had always been different—sharp-edged, cold, a force that others avoided. She was not soft, not delicate. She did not giggle or blush or shrink beneath the weight of a man’s gaze. And Snape—he was the same.

Unyielding.

Perhaps that was why they had found each other in this strange, silent understanding. Two shadows in the same storm, drawn together not by warmth but by something deeper—something carved from the same jagged edges of solitude and restraint.

She met his gaze, unwavering, as if daring him to take back what had just happened.

He did not.

Instead, a slow smirk—just the barest hint of amusement—ghosted across his lips.

Something in her chest tightened.

Yes, she thought. He understood.

And perhaps, for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t alone.

[professortennant]

Severitus Rec List:

 I thought I’d jump in and list my favorite fics where Harry and Severus are father/son or mentor/mentee because I love those kinds of fics. NONE OF THESE ARE SLASH OR SNARRY.  Warning: Most of these fics contain child abuse.

Before I list individual stories, I HIGHLY recommend you just go and read EVERYTHING Snapegirlkmf has written. It is like pure magic. Seriously. Warning: Every fic after you read after will pale in comparison, usually.

Forsaken: (warning: child abuse, torture) 7th year AU: In a world clouded by fear, everyone is relying on a boy wizard to defeat the personification of evil. But who is left for Harry to rely on? Who can he trust with his life?

The Best Revenge: (warning: child abuse in the beginning) What if Snape was the one who retrieved Harry from the Dursleys out of a sense of duty to Lily? Mentor relationship develops.

Mine: (warning: child neglect) A young Harry finds out he has a father and he will be taken away from the Dursleys! This is a story of Snape coming to terms with his new role as father and his grief for Lily. Sequel here.

Hate Me: Due to ward issues, Harry is forced to stay with Snape, but Harry can’t sleep because of nightmares. Snape lends a semi-supportive ear and helps Harry heal.

Walk the Shadows: (warning: contains references to rape, physical abuse, torture) Harry is captured by Death Eaters, tortured, brain washed, etc. Snape helps him deal with the aftermath. SERIOUS ANGST.

Better Be Slytherin!: Harry is sorted into Slytherin his first year and develops a connection with the Bloody Baron. Meanwhile, Snape reconciles his hate of James (and subsequently Harry) and his duties as Head of House. Angst.

So Close (WIP with monthly updates): Snape overhears Harry talking to the ghost of Lily post-3rd year. Something about this fic hits my angst button. Basically Harry and Snape semi-bond and it’s just great.

Self-Preservation: Young Harry (I think he is 7 years old here) is brought to Hogwarts when it is revealed Snape is his father. It’s Harry and Snape’s journey through finding their place in their strange little family. There’s also a strange Snape/OFC pairing in the last few chapters, but not important to story. It’s pretty fluffy and angsty all at once. Oh. And Mama!McGonagall.

Acceptance: It’s kind of a rough read at first, like the author was trying to get her legs under her, but then, man oh man, does it pick up. Snape rescues Harry from the Dursley’s, only meaning to save the boy. But when they become emotionally attached, they find themselves in a constantly changing world, where acceptance and love are the only means to survival.

Reading the Signs: Harry is attacked at Hogwarts and has temporarily lost his voice. He learns sign language and develops a bond with Snape. Kinda angsty, kinda fluffy, sorta cliche ending, and pretty OOC, but still a good read.

Broken Wings: Harry accidentally finds his animagus shape as a falcon. Snape takes him in as his familiar. Mostly a Snape-centric story with a bunch of introspective Harry angst.

Harry Potter’s Second Chance: Harry has won the war and is done fighting. He wants the childhood he never got, so he takes a de-aging potion and is put in Snape’s care. This fic does a great job of focusing on Ron, Hermione, Malfoy, Snape, Dumbledore, and Harry.

Remembering Me: Harry loses his memory after the events of Book One. That means he has no memory of how much Snape hates him and vice versa. Unfortunately, Snape is the only one Harry semi-remembers. Therefore, Snape must care for him over the summer until Harry regains his memory. They don’t expect a bond to form. Angsty family stuff. Tis good.

Enjoy! If anyone reads any of these, I’d love to hear what y’all did or didn’t like.