Please please please make a fix where y/n is a new teacher, was several years below severus, and has a hard time controlling her class. Take it how you want
Title: Teach Me To Be Strict?
Warning: a bit of angst (a tiny bit)
Word Count: +3000
Masterlist
___
The castle had a way of swallowing sound, softening footsteps, and wrapping the corridors in a stillness that didn’t quite belong to any ordinary school. Yet somehow, some impossibly cruel twist of fate, your classroom was the exception. Every morning you walked through the dim stone halls with a gentle resolve, your wand tucked harmlessly at your side, your lesson plans neatly stacked in your arms, and your heart determined to be as kind as you had always been taught to be. You were the newest professor at Hogwarts, brought in with warm promises that students respond to compassion and that the staff would “support you in any way you needed.” But those promises felt like faint memories now, drowned beneath the constant thrum of chaos that erupted each time you opened your classroom door.
It wasn’t that your students were malicious. No, most of them were bright, spirited, and endlessly curious. But they saw softness, and in their youthful brilliance, they exploited it. The moment you stepped inside each morning, the class transformed from a polite murmur into a storm of darting quills, drifting parchment, and half-hearted attempts at listening. You raised your voice, gently at first, then a little firmer, then with as much calm authority as you could muster… but it never seemed to matter. They simply didn’t hear you. Or rather, they didn’t fear you. And at Hogwarts, fear, however unfortunate, was often the quickest path to order.
On one particular afternoon, the trouble swelled like a badly cast charm. You had barely set your books on the desk when several students began passing enchanted doodles across the room, paintings of your face that twisted and exaggerated into comically serene expressions. Ink pots rattled. A cauldron toppled. A flock of conjured paper cranes swooped through the air before you could even inhale to stop them. You tried again, calm, steady, hopeful.
“Class, please… I need you to focus.”
Your voice floated through the mayhem like a feather thrown into a storm.
It didn’t stand a chance.
You felt the first sting of helplessness in your chest, tight, unwelcome, deeply unprofessional. You were supposed to be strong. You were supposed to be capable. And yet here you stood, the kind professor the students walked over without a second thought, clutching your wand like a lifeline you never used as forcefully as you needed to.
The crashing sounds grew louder, echoing down the long corridor outside. A book thudded to the floor. A chair scraped wildly. Someone shouted something about a spell gone wrong. You tried again, raising your voice to a level that was uncomfortably unfamiliar.
“Everyone, settle down! Right now!”
Still nothing.
But there was someone, someone with notoriously sharp ears and an even sharper gaze, who did hear.
A sudden silence rippled through the hallway, cold and immediate, like frost forming over glass. You didn’t hear his footsteps at first; he moved like a shadow, deliberate and quiet, almost part of the castle itself. But you sensed him before you saw him. A shift in the air. A tightening in your students’ faces. A collective jolt of dread.
Then, the classroom door slammed open with a sharp, echoing crack.
Professor Severus Snape filled the doorway like a stormcloud that had taken human shape, tall, dark-coated, his presence swallowing every rogue sound in the room. His black eyes swept over the chaos with an expression that suggested he was watching a cauldron boil over in slow motion, entirely against his will.
Not a single student dared move.
The storm went dead still.
You felt your breath catch, not out of fear, but out of something stranger, something mixed with relief and embarrassment. Snape took one long, calculated step inside. His robes followed him in a sleek, silent wave, and the temperature of the room seemed to drop with each inch he advanced.
“What,” he said, his voice low, silken, and sharper than any blade, “is the meaning of this… cacophony?”
A few students whimpered. One quietly dropped a spell-damaged quill. Another tried to hide a floating parchment with a flick of their sleeve, only to freeze when Snape’s gaze fell squarely on them.
He did not yell. He didn’t need to. His very presence was discipline distilled into human form.
You swallowed, your voice soft as you attempted, “Professor Snape, I—I apologize for the noise. They were just—”
He lifted a hand, cutting you off gently but firmly—surprisingly without cruelty. “There is no need for you to apologize.” Then he turned back to the class, his eyes narrowing into slits. “They are the ones who will be explaining their behavior.”
The students did not rush to explain. They did not fidget. They did not breathe too loudly.
Snape stepped forward again, the quiet tap of his boots sounding like thunder in the silence the class now worshiped. He clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the row of stiffened spines and wide eyes before him.
“I assure you,” he said, his voice like slow-melting ice, “if this level of disrespect continues, I will personally oversee your lessons for the remainder of the week. And I promise you…” His gaze fell across the room like a curtain of shadow. “You will not enjoy my teaching methods nearly as much as you enjoy tormenting your professor.”
A shudder passed through the class. Several students glanced at you with desperate expressions, silently begging for mercy you had no intention of offering, not after the day you’d just endured.
Snape let the silence settle until it became almost unbearable. Then, with a slow exhale, he turned his head slightly toward you. His voice dropped into a tone meant only for your ears.
“They will remain silent,” he murmured. “For as long as you require.”
You felt warmth touch your cheeks, not embarrassment this time, but gratitude, deep and unexpected.
And so the scene ended as if sculpted from stone: every student frozen in their seats, rigid with fear; you standing beside your desk, breath finally steadying; and Severus Snape himself, the embodiment of dread and discipline, standing tall in the center of your classroom, his mere presence enough to command a respect you had never once been able to force from them.
They were terrified of him, and in that moment, for better or worse, it saved you.
—-
The days following Snape’s intervention felt strangely different. The students behaved, miraculously, suspiciously, almost unnervingly well. Every morning, they sat with perfectly straight backs, quills aligned, books open before you even stepped through the door. It was, by all accounts, the peace you had wanted since your first day. And yet the silence felt borrowed, as though it had not been earned by your own authority but purchased by the mere memory of a man cloaked in black and menace.
Snape did not mention the incident afterward. He simply returned to his routine as if the confrontation had been nothing but a necessary interruption in his day. But something lingered in the air, something you felt each time you passed him in the corridor, something in the way his dark eyes briefly flicked toward you with a look that wasn’t quite curiosity, wasn’t quite concern, but definitely wasn’t indifference.
It was two evenings later, in the stillness of the staff lounge, when he finally approached you again. You had been hunched over a stack of parchment, gently marking assignments with a small, apologetic smile for every mistake you found. Snape’s shadow fell across the table before you even realized he had entered.
“You are too forgiving with them,” he said, voice low and unimpressed.
You glanced up. “I try to encourage them.”
“You enable them,” he countered softly but with an unyielding certainty that made your stomach tighten. “Students push where they believe empty space exists. And you—” His eyes moved over your gentle handwriting on the parchment, the generous comments, the soft little notes of encouragement. “You are full of empty space.”
The words should've hurt, but his tone wasn’t cruel. It was resigned. Observant. Honest.
“I’m just… not good at being harsh,” you admitted, your fingers curling tightly around your quill. “It’s not who I am.”
Snape exhaled, a quiet sound that felt more like a thought than a breath. “Who you are,” he said finally, “is not the problem. Who they believe you to be is.”
You looked away, unsure how to respond.
Then, unexpectedly, uncharacteristically, he sat down beside you. Not across. Not looming. Simply… beside you. The gesture alone startled you.
“If you wish,” he said, folding his arms with a curl of fabric, “I can teach you.”
You blinked. “Teach me to be… strict?”
“To be respected,” he corrected. “That is not the same thing.”
And so the strange lessons began.
Every afternoon after classes, you walked with him through empty hallways as he demonstrated, with a combination of dry logic and painfully sharp precision, the art of commanding a room. He taught you how to hold eye contact without wavering, how to speak softly in a way that made students lean forward instead of talk over you, how to let silence settle long enough that it became intentional instead of awkward.
None of it came naturally.
And Snape knew.
He watched your attempts with an expression that hovered between frustration and a reluctant amusement he never quite allowed onto his face. But it glimmered in his eyes, briefly, faintly, whenever your kindness got the better of your attempts at sternness.
One afternoon, when you tried commanding an imaginary class to “sit quietly,” your voice cracked into its usual gentleness. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose.
“You cannot ask them to obey,” he murmured, exasperated. “You must expect them to.”
“I can expect them to,” you said defensively, “but that doesn’t mean I want to sound threatening.”
“You needn’t threaten.” His gaze softened, not dramatically, just barely, like frost melting from a window. “You only need to believe your words carry weight. If you do not believe it… no one else will.”
You hated to admit he was right. You hated even more how intently he spoke, how close he stood during these lessons, how often his sleeve brushed yours when he corrected the angle of your posture, how the scent of potion ingredients and warm parchment lingered in your senses long after you returned to your quarters.
Something shifted between you, quietly, slowly, unbearably.
You saw it in the way he paused before ending each lesson, as though fighting with himself about whether to leave. You felt it in how his gaze lingered a fraction of a second too long on your face when you practiced a stern stare. And once, when your hand accidentally brushed his while reaching for a quill, he froze, a complete, breathless stillness, as if the contact had been a spell cast unexpectedly.
But things changed.
Because the moment Snape realized what he was feeling, whatever he was feeling, he withdrew.
Not obviously. Not rudely. But with a subtle, unmistakable retreat.
He began avoiding you.
The first day, he simply didn’t show up for your usual after-class session. You assumed he was busy. The second day, you passed him in the hall and he turned sharply at the intersection, robes sweeping around him like a shield. On the third day, when you caught him in the staff room and offered a small hello, he inclined his head stiffly and left without a word.
Each encounter was shorter, colder, more distant than the last.
He wasn’t harsh.
He wasn’t angry.
He was… careful.
Too careful.
As if any closeness between you had become dangerous to him.
It bewildered you, hurt you more than you wanted to admit. You found yourself lingering at your desk one evening long after the corridors had emptied, your fingers brushing lightly over the parchment still containing his notes about teaching, your mind looping with confusion.
Why was he avoiding you?
What had changed?
Or worse, had it been your fault?
The room around you grew dimmer with the fading light from the windows, and you sat there in the quiet, wondering, your chest tight with a feeling you didn’t have a name for, replaying every moment in your mind and failing to understand the sudden, inexplicable distance from the man who had begun, against all expectations, to matter to you more than he should have.
And somewhere in the castle’s endless labyrinth of shadows, Severus Snape walked quickly and silently, trying, unsuccessfully, to outrun the exact same realization.
The following days grew unbearable. The silence between you and Snape had turned from puzzling to suffocating, stretching across every corridor and staff meeting like an invisible wall. You’d grown used to his presence, his sharp guidance, his quiet intensity, the way he somehow seemed to see straight through your nerves and uncover strength you didn’t know you had. Now that he was gone from your routine, the absence felt like a missing page from a book you’d read every day. The students even noticed your distraction, though none of them dared mention it aloud.
___
One late afternoon, you decided you had reached your limit.
You found him in the dungeon corridor, emerging from his classroom with his usual sweep of dark robes, a stack of graded parchment tucked under his arm. You almost hesitated, almost let him pass like he had done to you countless times that week, but something stronger pulled you forward.
“Professor Snape.”
He froze instantly. Not dramatically, just a subtle, tightening stillness that hinted he had been trying to avoid this exact moment. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned his head.
You stepped toward him, heart pounding. “Why are you avoiding me?”
His eyes flicked away. “I am not.”
“You are,” you said softly but firmly, surprised by your own courage. “And I don’t understand why.”
Snape’s jaw tensed ever so slightly. He shifted the parchment under his arm, as if buying time. “I believe,” he said quietly, “that distance can sometimes be a necessity.”
“For what?”
“For maintaining… clarity.” The word sounded strained, like it was failing to convey something far more complicated.
Your chest tightened. “Clarity about what?”
He did not answer.
You took a careful step closer. “Did I do something wrong?”
His head snapped up sharply, eyes dark and intense. “No. You did nothing wrong.”
“Then why—”
“Because,” he said, voice low and uneven for the first time since you’d known him, “I do not trust myself around you.”
The words hit you like the hush before a storm. He looked away quickly, as though regretting the confession the instant it escaped him. His fingers curled tightly at his sides, and his breathing grew shallow, hardly noticeable but there.
You swallowed. “I don’t understand.”
He let out a slow, tortured exhale. “I thought I could keep our lessons… professional. Detached. But I found myself—” He paused, unable to continue for a heartbeat. “Feeling things I have never allowed myself to feel. And it is… unacceptable.”
“Unacceptable?” you echoed, hurt flickering across your chest.
“Yes.” His voice softened dangerously. “Because I do not know how to navigate this. I have spent my life with walls, and you—” He looked at you finally, truly, his gaze raw in a way that made your breath hitch. “You make them crumble without even trying.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, your pulse beating fast and frightened and hopeful. “Severus…” His name felt unfamiliar on your tongue, too personal, too intimate—but you didn’t take it back.
He closed his eyes for a moment, as though the sound of it was something he wasn’t prepared for. When he opened them, something vulnerable lingered beneath the darkness.
“You deserve someone who can speak plainly,” he said. “Someone who knows how to offer affection without hesitation. Someone who doesn’t have to unlearn a lifetime of silence to admit that he—”
He faltered again.
That was enough to break your restraint.
You stepped forward until only a breath separated you. “Finish your sentence.”
He swallowed, the movement subtle but telling. “Someone who doesn’t have to learn what it means to care for someone,” he murmured, “only because he has begun to care for you.”
Your heart swelled painfully. You hadn’t expected this, hadn’t dared hope for it, but hearing it felt like stepping into warm sunlight after days of cold rain.
You lifted a hand, not boldly, but gently, and let your fingers brush the sleeve of his robe, just above his wrist. He stiffened, but not out of rejection. More like a man afraid that one wrong move might shatter the moment entirely.
“I thought,” you whispered, “that I was imagining things. That the glances, the pauses, the way you stayed to help me… that they meant more to me than they did to you.”
“They meant too much to me,” he confessed in a voice barely audible.
Your breath trembled. “Severus… I feel the same.”
His eyes widened, barely, but enough. Enough to reveal that your words had struck something deep and long-buried.
Slowly, as though fighting himself with every inch, he raised a hand and brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek. His fingers were cool, hesitant, trembling faintly. “I do not know how to do this,” he admitted. “I have no practice… no experience.”
“You don’t need experience,” you whispered. “Just honesty.”
And in the dim, silent corridor of stone and candlelight, Severus Snape leaned in.
Not boldly. Not confidently.
But with quiet, fragile certainty.
His lips met yours in a soft, tentative kiss, barely pressure, barely movement, just the gentle warmth of someone allowing himself to feel, perhaps for the first time in his life. His hand rested lightly against your jaw, careful as though you might break beneath his touch.
You pressed into him softly, reassuringly, and he let out a breath against your mouth that carried years of withheld emotion.
When he finally pulled away, he lingered close, his forehead resting softly against yours, breath unsteady.
“I fear,” he murmured, voice trembling, “that I will not know how to be what you deserve.”
You smiled gently, cupping his cheek with a warmth he leaned into before he could stop himself.
“Let’s figure it out together.”
And for the first time, Severus Snape didn’t walk away.
___
