Like many before me, I also have an idea for a fic. Well, it's more of a theory, actually...
What if boggart wouldn't be just aimless lost dark magic?
What if boggartism is actually, much like lycanthrophy, an illness, caused by maybe a (rabies-like) virus, that overtakes the brain, and that forces the victim to maybe very painfully develope entirely new organs that makes it possible for the victims to transfigure themselves into any possible thing imaginable?
And maybe not only new organs, but also so incredibly fine-tuned senses, allowing the boggart to sense a persons fears, emotions, and maybe even their entire pasts, which eventually drives the infected utterly mad at some point, along with perhaps unbearable pain from developing the new organs, along with an excruciating feeling of hunger from the energy loss of all the said developments, that also renders them entirely unable to find any sleep?
I mean, that would pretty much explain a boggart's predatory hunting style, and how they'd be able to know everyone's fears and how they are able to transfigure themselves so fast.
And the fact that a boggart doesn't know what to do when forced into a form that's hilarious to it's supposed victim/food, and being laughed at, is that the boggart is concentrating so hard on these fine-tuned senses, that it's ripped out of it's train of thought by the sudden change of atmosphere and by how unlogical a victim's reaction might appear to the boggart, so much so that it doesn't know anymore what to do.
It's basically just like a shark being turned upside down.
I could also imagine that, as the virus overtakes the host's brain more and more in the span of two to three weeks, that they lose all their emotions and touch to humanity, so that they unlearn any common sense, any and all human traditions and even how to pull of certain expression to even be able to imitate any kind of emotions, because they're so completely caught up in trying to satisfying that insatiable hunger of their's.
Furthermore, I can actually see a boggart, that when it kills any creature in order to feed, it automatically overtakes any and all abilities it's food had, but also all the urges and needs it had.
And I can also imagine that a boggarts stomach will evolve to be able to digest absolutely everything, because the stomach acid that a boggart is capable of producing can eat up absolutely anything, including glass, rocks, metal, plastic, etc... And that, again, also causes them to always be hungry.
Also, since Voldemort wants to wipe out any and all muggleborns and half bloods, I can see him being the inventer of the virus in the first place, because why just wipe the muggles out, when you can use them as a mindless, fearless and ever-hungry army to subdue the rest of the wizarding world and become king of the entire realm?
As for the fact that he still isn't king yet, maybe the idea just didn't work out after all, so he let's his loyal followeds throw the muggles/half bloods he's experimented on out in the woods to fight for their own, leaving everyone else to deal with the problem?
And what if then, there's one single boggart that learns to keep herself somewhat under control for the most part for full six years, and then, after, let's say, going into a state of crysalis for one more entire year or so, to mark her as a now full-fledged adult boggart that's after breaking from her puppa is unable to change anymore, but then eventually she finds Hogwarts castle at some point, and asks for food and shelter?
Albus, who's being the 'kind', old man he is, allows her to stay, but, of course, and much to Severus's annoyance, he's the one who's left to deal with boggart reader, look after her and somehow keep her under control when the virus kicks in at full force.
What do you think about this plot? I'd love to hear your opinion about it, and, if you'd like to, a fic, or maybe some headcanons about Severus and boggart fem reader :)
Oh, I actually really liked your theory. it's super creative and you clearly put a lot of thought into it 🖤 It ties everything together in a very dark, almost horror-science way that fits the wizarding world.
That said, I think there are a couple of loose ends you’d probably want to patch up if you turn this into a fic. For example: if a boggart gains the powers and urges of anything it kills, wouldn't that risk it becoming too overpowered to be controlled by laughter? And with the chrysalis stage: if the boggart loses its ability to change, how would people still recognize it as a "boggart" rather than just a monster with heightened senses? Also, the Voldemort connection is clever, but you'd need to explain why no one in canon (Ministry, Aurors, etc.) ever mentions this army of failed experiments wandering around. It risks becoming too big a "hidden war" unless you set it up carefully
But honestly, as a plot for a story? It's solid. It's creepy, fresh, and I can totally see Severus being the one who gets stuck with babysitting duty and getting increasingly exasperated by it. It has great potential for tension, angst, and dark humor.
That being said… I'll be honest with you. I've been a bit lazy lately 😅 and, to be really frank, I never feel that much excitement to write for Snape. He's one of those characters I admire, but I dont always feel inspired to explore in fic form. So I probably wouldn't take this one on myself but I definitely think you or another writer could make it into something really unique
I've meant the unable to change part emotion-wise and in the way their urges affect them if they don't learn to be able to control them.
And while, yes, one could think that there's a risk that a boggart could become overpowered to be controlled, I'd say that, since they heavily rely on their high tuned senses, they are very deep in concentration on only one thing, which is manipulating their 'prey', human or animal, into freezing up in fear or hunting said prey down.
And a sudden change, like it being forced into a different form without it wanting to and sudden loud noises like laughter in such a tense situation, causes the boggart to be entirely thrown off track, so it doesn't know what to do anymore, rendering them rather defenseless for a few precious moments.
Because, despite a boggart's senses being so highly fine tuned, they're extremely sensitive to change, as these senses give a boggart the capability to read a person like a book in order to quickly find their biggest fears, so they can feast or infect another person. So these senses are their biggest weakness,you could say.
Besides, while boggarts may be great hunters, even they don't manage to lure in all of their prey items, especially when they're still weak after their crysalis state, not to mention, inexperienced.
After all, they were in their crysalis form for an entire year, without moving, so their muscles went back and got weak from not being used. And at the beginning of their illness they're still inexpirienced and have to learn how to properly transfigure themselves first, especially when they used to be muggles before.
But I'd say a boggart would also be recognized by the sense of threat and fear that comes with a boggart, and that would cause the prey item to suddenly feel the need to panic and run from something it doesn't even see. Besides, the fact that it can transfigure itself into anything after practicing and learning, let alone into the exact thing the person that's being hunted down by the boggart fears most, shows intelligence.
At least in my opinion, even if it's intelligence fuelled by madness, but that would be two things that might brand a creature as a boggart.
I could also see that maybe another thing that could mark a boggart down as a boggart, would be, like demetors as well it seems, can't use magic, no matter if they were muggles or wizards/witches before.
After all, wizards/witches can also get infected because an infected does not make a differen e between blood, because a boggart is just mad with hunger and forced to obey the virus wrecking their bodies, and, since I can pretty much see that a boggart might, due to the madness, be very violent creatures, they could just rip their prey to shreds and eat, or maybe even have the ability to unhinge their jaw and swallow their food whole, like a snake.
Because I feel like Voldemort, if he was the inventer of said virus, would probably pay himself, because he's the megalomaniac he is, a little tribute because he has snake features or something.
That's why the virus would be transmitted by bite, meaning by bodily fluids like spit, just like the rabies virus.
And as to why it never was explained was, because there are people like Fudge and Delores, and maybe with the high counsil and only their most trusted aurors, they decided to keep it hidden away in a top secret file, so panic wouldn't break out.
Instead they could claim that boggarts are a newly discovered species of magical animal, but scare everyone that boggarts are highly dangerous creatures that people should stay away from, and that it's therefore forbidden to keep them as pets.
While that is going on, there could be aurors hidden away in the ministry, that, just like Snape, are able to invent spells that may actually repell a boggart, but are still unable to do much damage or kill a boggart. Which could be the reason why Moody retired from being an auror, because he does not agree with leaving the rest of the wizarding world in the dark of the true origins of boggart, especially because they are so dangerous.
So he retires, and the ministry eventually comes up with a few protection spells that are capable of keeping a boggart away for a while, but have to be renewed frequently in order for it to keep working, which explains why boggarts are never seen in places like Hogsmeade for example.
However, unfortunately for the ministry, there are people like Professor Lupin that, despite it being declared illigal, still has a 'pet boggart', that he's locked in a wardrobe. Because, him being a werewolf and all, already had a few encounters with boggarts before. Therefore he's far more experienced the most other people, and knows how to keep a boggart under control.
And, with a bit of brains and luck, after all, he's been part of the Maurauders, he figures out how to use said protection spells against boggarts on the wardrobe to keep it locked inside (so it can't just eat it's way out of the wardrobe lol! xD).
And not gonna lie, Hagrid probably would also love to have a boggart as a pet. He just doesn't have the means to hide it from people.
Do you think that that would explain these lose ends? Opinion about it?
That's honestly a really creative continuation of your original theory. I can tell you've thought deeply about the biological and magical logic of how "boggartism" would function! The virus angle works surprisingly well with the established wizarding world - especially tying it to Voldemort's obsession with immortality, control, and serpentine symbolism. The bite-transmission detail and the link to rabies make it feel disturbingly plausible
That said, I'd say there are still a few loose threads: for example, if boggarts can infect others by bite, how would the Ministry contain outbreaks without word leaking? And if even Aurors can't kill them, how was Lupin able to trap one safely in a wardrobe without constant supervision? You mention protection spells that need frequent renewal — maybe the boggart in Lupin's office is extremely weak or in a kind of half-dormant state due to isolation?
I really like how you tied their vulnerability to laughter to sensory overload, that's a clever, almost scientific interpretation of a moment that's always been played for humor in the books. The idea that they're hypersensitive to emotional "frequencies" gives them tragic depth too, like pred tors driven mad by empathy gone wrong
Sorry I haven't been answering for so long. Life got in the way.
But that is exactly the thing, it would be impossible for the ministry of magic to keep word from leaking if there was an outbreak, because all they have to contain the boggarts and keep them in the forest are these specific spells in the first place. That's why the minister of magic would be so adamant on a strict upkeeping of said shield magic.
But while the ministry and their top secret lackeys keep the shields up and therefore keep the people from panicking, I can also see gruesome experiments being done on captured speciments, happening somewhere in a bunker deep down underground, like in the starting scene of 28 days later.
And I can see a team of top notch scientists working on disecting a boggart, stealing it's organs to, for example, in order to understand the ever-changing and never-constant(, due to the nature of a boggart in itself,) magical properties that have embedded itself in every fibre of a boggart's being.
I think, the would test if the organs that were taken out would change anything in questions of the boggart's feral state, or if the organs would regrow after being taken away, and they would also take away different organs to see it it was any influence of the boggart's ability to transform itself, not to mention that they would most likely teast if they can kill a boggart by stealing enough blood or organs, and how many organs they wouls have to take away/ how much blood a boggart has to lose until death.
And that brings me to your next question. In my opinion, there's much more to Lupin than he let's on.
I'd go as far as to say that he's part of this top secret knowledge and works for the people researching boggarts. So in front of the children he's that sweet, funny and laid back teacher they all trust and love. But in the laboratory he's is this cold, cruel monster of a man that has no mercy with any boggart whatsoever.
His sole motivation for that thought, is to finally be healed from his lycanthrophy. And after years of suffering through every new cycle, he doesn't care anymore what he has to do anymore as long as he can accomplish his goal of being healed and being able to lead a normal life.
The thing is, Snape knows, since he's canoncally the double agent between Voldemort and the Order. So I would be pretty sure that he had to use polyjuice potion before to get into said top-secret lab, where he happened to observe Lupin being his merciless and gruesome self.
That's also one of the reasons as to why Snape resents and looks down on Lupin, though Snape doesn't tell him what he saw, of course, because he has to keep his cover up.
And instead of confronting Lupin, I can see Snape going off on his own little mission to find out more about the spells because he's aware that Lupin knows the spells as he's a part of the agency, because otherwise, he wouldn't have seen Lupin abusing boggarts in that lab.
He'd take advantage of the fact that the boggart in the wardrobe was already weak from the shield spell that is installed almost everywhere outside the forest and by Lupin starving it, and there's also likely the fact that the boggart was put into an almost paralized state by Lupin by adding extra spells.
Maybe the boggart in the wardrobe, which could possibly be the reader if a fanfiction was written, could also be somewhat different from the other speciments by either being a bit calmer and less aggressive or by being mostly immune and in charge of their urges and mental state, but still able to infect others and having multible triggers, like for example the smell of blood, that makes them go feral.
Either way, getting any information out of said boggart speciment would likely be very difficult due to the trauma they most likely experience by the hand of Lupin. But if Snape was able to earn the boggart's trust by feeding it when he can or by helping it to freedom, he might be rewarded with the wanted information.
Like many before me, I also have an idea for a fic. Well, it's more of a theory, actually...
What if boggart wouldn't be just aimless lost dark magic?
What if boggartism is actually, much like lycanthrophy, an illness, caused by maybe a (rabies-like) virus, that overtakes the brain, and that forces the victim to maybe very painfully develope entirely new organs that makes it possible for the victims to transfigure themselves into any possible thing imaginable?
And maybe not only new organs, but also so incredibly fine-tuned senses, allowing the boggart to sense a persons fears, emotions, and maybe even their entire pasts, which eventually drives the infected utterly mad at some point, along with perhaps unbearable pain from developing the new organs, along with an excruciating feeling of hunger from the energy loss of all the said developments, that also renders them entirely unable to find any sleep?
I mean, that would pretty much explain a boggart's predatory hunting style, and how they'd be able to know everyone's fears and how they are able to transfigure themselves so fast.
And the fact that a boggart doesn't know what to do when forced into a form that's hilarious to it's supposed victim/food, and being laughed at, is that the boggart is concentrating so hard on these fine-tuned senses, that it's ripped out of it's train of thought by the sudden change of atmosphere and by how unlogical a victim's reaction might appear to the boggart, so much so that it doesn't know anymore what to do.
It's basically just like a shark being turned upside down.
I could also imagine that, as the virus overtakes the host's brain more and more in the span of two to three weeks, that they lose all their emotions and touch to humanity, so that they unlearn any common sense, any and all human traditions and even how to pull of certain expression to even be able to imitate any kind of emotions, because they're so completely caught up in trying to satisfying that insatiable hunger of their's.
Furthermore, I can actually see a boggart, that when it kills any creature in order to feed, it automatically overtakes any and all abilities it's food had, but also all the urges and needs it had.
And I can also imagine that a boggarts stomach will evolve to be able to digest absolutely everything, because the stomach acid that a boggart is capable of producing can eat up absolutely anything, including glass, rocks, metal, plastic, etc... And that, again, also causes them to always be hungry.
Also, since Voldemort wants to wipe out any and all muggleborns and half bloods, I can see him being the inventer of the virus in the first place, because why just wipe the muggles out, when you can use them as a mindless, fearless and ever-hungry army to subdue the rest of the wizarding world and become king of the entire realm?
As for the fact that he still isn't king yet, maybe the idea just didn't work out after all, so he let's his loyal followeds throw the muggles/half bloods he's experimented on out in the woods to fight for their own, leaving everyone else to deal with the problem?
And what if then, there's one single boggart that learns to keep herself somewhat under control for the most part for full six years, and then, after, let's say, going into a state of crysalis for one more entire year or so, to mark her as a now full-fledged adult boggart that's after breaking from her puppa is unable to change anymore, but then eventually she finds Hogwarts castle at some point, and asks for food and shelter?
Albus, who's being the 'kind', old man he is, allows her to stay, but, of course, and much to Severus's annoyance, he's the one who's left to deal with boggart reader, look after her and somehow keep her under control when the virus kicks in at full force.
What do you think about this plot? I'd love to hear your opinion about it, and, if you'd like to, a fic, or maybe some headcanons about Severus and boggart fem reader :)
Oh, I actually really liked your theory. it's super creative and you clearly put a lot of thought into it 🖤 It ties everything together in a very dark, almost horror-science way that fits the wizarding world.
That said, I think there are a couple of loose ends you’d probably want to patch up if you turn this into a fic. For example: if a boggart gains the powers and urges of anything it kills, wouldn't that risk it becoming too overpowered to be controlled by laughter? And with the chrysalis stage: if the boggart loses its ability to change, how would people still recognize it as a "boggart" rather than just a monster with heightened senses? Also, the Voldemort connection is clever, but you'd need to explain why no one in canon (Ministry, Aurors, etc.) ever mentions this army of failed experiments wandering around. It risks becoming too big a "hidden war" unless you set it up carefully
But honestly, as a plot for a story? It's solid. It's creepy, fresh, and I can totally see Severus being the one who gets stuck with babysitting duty and getting increasingly exasperated by it. It has great potential for tension, angst, and dark humor.
That being said… I'll be honest with you. I've been a bit lazy lately 😅 and, to be really frank, I never feel that much excitement to write for Snape. He's one of those characters I admire, but I dont always feel inspired to explore in fic form. So I probably wouldn't take this one on myself but I definitely think you or another writer could make it into something really unique
I've meant the unable to change part emotion-wise and in the way their urges affect them if they don't learn to be able to control them.
And while, yes, one could think that there's a risk that a boggart could become overpowered to be controlled, I'd say that, since they heavily rely on their high tuned senses, they are very deep in concentration on only one thing, which is manipulating their 'prey', human or animal, into freezing up in fear or hunting said prey down.
And a sudden change, like it being forced into a different form without it wanting to and sudden loud noises like laughter in such a tense situation, causes the boggart to be entirely thrown off track, so it doesn't know what to do anymore, rendering them rather defenseless for a few precious moments.
Because, despite a boggart's senses being so highly fine tuned, they're extremely sensitive to change, as these senses give a boggart the capability to read a person like a book in order to quickly find their biggest fears, so they can feast or infect another person. So these senses are their biggest weakness,you could say.
Besides, while boggarts may be great hunters, even they don't manage to lure in all of their prey items, especially when they're still weak after their crysalis state, not to mention, inexperienced.
After all, they were in their crysalis form for an entire year, without moving, so their muscles went back and got weak from not being used. And at the beginning of their illness they're still inexpirienced and have to learn how to properly transfigure themselves first, especially when they used to be muggles before.
But I'd say a boggart would also be recognized by the sense of threat and fear that comes with a boggart, and that would cause the prey item to suddenly feel the need to panic and run from something it doesn't even see. Besides, the fact that it can transfigure itself into anything after practicing and learning, let alone into the exact thing the person that's being hunted down by the boggart fears most, shows intelligence.
At least in my opinion, even if it's intelligence fuelled by madness, but that would be two things that might brand a creature as a boggart.
I could also see that maybe another thing that could mark a boggart down as a boggart, would be, like demetors as well it seems, can't use magic, no matter if they were muggles or wizards/witches before.
After all, wizards/witches can also get infected because an infected does not make a differen e between blood, because a boggart is just mad with hunger and forced to obey the virus wrecking their bodies, and, since I can pretty much see that a boggart might, due to the madness, be very violent creatures, they could just rip their prey to shreds and eat, or maybe even have the ability to unhinge their jaw and swallow their food whole, like a snake.
Because I feel like Voldemort, if he was the inventer of said virus, would probably pay himself, because he's the megalomaniac he is, a little tribute because he has snake features or something.
That's why the virus would be transmitted by bite, meaning by bodily fluids like spit, just like the rabies virus.
And as to why it never was explained was, because there are people like Fudge and Delores, and maybe with the high counsil and only their most trusted aurors, they decided to keep it hidden away in a top secret file, so panic wouldn't break out.
Instead they could claim that boggarts are a newly discovered species of magical animal, but scare everyone that boggarts are highly dangerous creatures that people should stay away from, and that it's therefore forbidden to keep them as pets.
While that is going on, there could be aurors hidden away in the ministry, that, just like Snape, are able to invent spells that may actually repell a boggart, but are still unable to do much damage or kill a boggart. Which could be the reason why Moody retired from being an auror, because he does not agree with leaving the rest of the wizarding world in the dark of the true origins of boggart, especially because they are so dangerous.
So he retires, and the ministry eventually comes up with a few protection spells that are capable of keeping a boggart away for a while, but have to be renewed frequently in order for it to keep working, which explains why boggarts are never seen in places like Hogsmeade for example.
However, unfortunately for the ministry, there are people like Professor Lupin that, despite it being declared illigal, still has a 'pet boggart', that he's locked in a wardrobe. Because, him being a werewolf and all, already had a few encounters with boggarts before. Therefore he's far more experienced the most other people, and knows how to keep a boggart under control.
And, with a bit of brains and luck, after all, he's been part of the Maurauders, he figures out how to use said protection spells against boggarts on the wardrobe to keep it locked inside (so it can't just eat it's way out of the wardrobe lol! xD).
And not gonna lie, Hagrid probably would also love to have a boggart as a pet. He just doesn't have the means to hide it from people.
Do you think that that would explain these lose ends? Opinion about it?
Hey! I have an idea fic? I just wanna see how you would want to write it, snape n fem reader are married, have kids and all- both professors in hogwarts and during the yule ball, they were listen as those catchers for the ones that sneaked off to, and minerva was with them and reminded them of when they were around 6th year, they were 'sneaking' off and minerva caught them- snape n reader embarassed lol, idk if you get it- but i hope you do write a fic inspired by thisss💕
Title: Some Things Never Change
Summary: As Severus and his wife patrol the corridors after the Yule Ball, an encounter with McGonagall reminds them of a long-forgotten, mischief-filled past.
Pairing: Severus Snape × Fem! Reader
Warnings: None.
Author's Notes: Thank you for your request; I hope you enjoy it.
Also read on Ao3
The Great Hall was dazzling, transformed for the Yule Ball with twinkling fairy lights and enchanted ice sculptures. The air was filled with the sweet notes of the band’s melody, and the laughter of students swirled around you like snowflakes caught in a winter breeze.
You stood near the edge of the ballroom, your arm linked with your husband's, as you leaned your head against his shoulder. Severus Snape remained as rigid as ever, his sharp profile set in an expression of detached boredom, but you knew better.
His dark eyes were fixated on the dance floor, watching—no, glowering—at a particular couple moving in perfect synchrony to the music.
Your fourteen-year-old daughter, Selina Snape, was dancing with none other than Harry bloody Potter.
You could practically hear the scowl forming on Severus’s face. His long fingers twitched slightly at his side, his posture even stiffer than usual. You had to bite back a smirk. Oh, he was not pleased at all.
You sighed dramatically, your fingers tightening around his arm as you swayed slightly. “Sev,” you murmured, tilting your face up toward him, “are you going to ask me to dance, or shall I continue to wither away in loneliness?”
“No,” came the flat reply.
You gasped theatrically, placing a hand on your chest as if wounded. “Not even a dance with your own wife? If I had known you would refuse, I would have accepted when Professor Riddle asked me earlier.”
Severus didn’t even blink. His expression remained as indifferent as ever, but you knew him too well. His jaw was tighter than usual. He might not like Tom Riddle, but tonight, there was someone he liked even less.
You followed his gaze and sighed.
Oh dear.
You knew this would happen. You had deliberately avoided telling Severus that Selina was coming to the ball with Harry because you knew exactly what his reaction would have been—an immediate, unequivocal no.
He had assumed she would come with Draco Malfoy, an acceptable if slightly arrogant choice in his mind. But now, here she was, dancing with James Potter’s son—smiling, laughing, looking far too comfortable in his arms.
Severus’s scowl deepened.
“She’s smiling,” he muttered, his baritone voice laced with quiet fury.
“Yes, well, people tend to smile when they’re enjoying themselves, Severus,” you teased, though you knew your words would do nothing to pacify him.
“With Potter,” he snapped. “With Potter’s spawn.”
You sighed, resting your head back against his shoulder. “He’s a nice boy.”
“He’s a Potter,” Severus growled.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Severus, not every Potter is your sworn enemy.”
He turned his head slowly to look at you, his black eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “You didn’t tell me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
You swallowed, schooling your features into the most innocent expression you could manage. “Tell you what?”
His glare intensified. “That she was coming with him.”
You hesitated for a fraction of a second—just long enough for his glare to turn deadly.
“And why, pray tell, did you conveniently forget to mention that our daughter would be spending her evening with that—” he cut himself off, inhaling sharply through his nose as if struggling to find an insult severe enough.
Because you knew what would have happened had you told him. Selina would have been forbidden from going with Harry. The wards around the dungeons would have been reinforced, and she would have been forced to attend with someone he deemed acceptable—most likely under his watchful, overbearing gaze.
You sighed, placing a soothing hand on his arm. “Severus, Selina is fourteen. She’s intelligent, she’s strong-willed—wonder where she got that from—and she can make her own choices. You have to trust her.”
His eyes flickered back to the dance floor, and his fingers clenched at his sides. “She is fourteen. And she is dancing with Potter.”
You suppressed a laugh. Oh, he was seething.
“She looks happy,” you pointed out softly.
“She looks infatuated.”
You grinned. “Are you worried she’s going to run off and marry him tonight?”
Severus gave you a withering look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then what is the problem?”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “The problem, dear wife, is that he is the son of James Potter—”
“And Lily,” you reminded him gently.
Severus flinched ever so slightly at the name.
You softened, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You can’t hold James’s sins against Harry forever, Sev. He’s a good boy. And he’s treating our daughter with kindness.”
Severus said nothing. He only stared, his gaze unreadable.
You knew what he was thinking. It should have been Draco, someone acceptable, someone he approved of; but fate was fickle, and Selina Snape had inherited her mother's ability to make her own choices—choices that Severus couldn't always control.
And that terrified him.
You leaned up to press a kiss to his jaw, murmuring, “You trust her, don’t you?”
He remained stiff for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. “I do.”
“Then trust that she knows what she’s doing.”
He was silent. Then—
“I still don’t like it.”
You laughed softly, squeezing his hand. “No, I imagine you wouldn’t.”
For a moment, he simply watched, his dark eyes never leaving his daughter. Selina's face was bright with laughter as Harry spun her beneath his arm, her dress swirling around her. She looked happy; she looked free.
And Severus looked deeply unimpressed.
You knew this wasn’t the end of the conversation. Oh, no. This was just the beginning.
But for now, Severus merely exhaled, rolling his shoulders stiffly. “Fine,” he muttered, voice clipped. “But if he so much as breathes the wrong way, I will hex him into next week.”
You smirked, squeezing his arm as you rested against him again.
“Of course, dear.”
The Yule Ball had finally come to an end, and the castle was beginning to settle into an eerie, post-festivity stillness. You and Severus, as part of your usual duties as professors, wandered through the corridors to ensure that no students had snuck off for secret trysts. You had no illusions—there were certainly students hidden away in dark corners, wrapped up in teenage romance and poor decision-making. And you had no doubt that Severus was particularly eager to catch them in the act.
The air was crisp with the lingering chill of winter, the stone corridors illuminated by flickering torchlight as your robes swayed with each step. Severus walked beside you, his arms crossed over his chest, his black eyes scanning every shadow with his usual sharp vigilance. His lips were pressed into a thin, disapproving line, as if the very idea of students engaging in hormonal idiocy disgusted him to his core.
“I don’t understand why Albus insists on holding these ridiculous events,” Severus muttered, his deep voice echoing softly through the empty hallways. “It only encourages foolish behavior.”
You smirked, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “Oh, Severus, let the children have a little fun. Not everyone has spent their teenage years brooding in the dungeons like you.”
His glare was immediate. “Fun,” he scoffed, sneering as he turned a corner. “Fun leads to rule-breaking, which leads to detentions that I have to supervise.”
You chuckled, enjoying his perpetual irritation. Before you could tease him further, another presence emerged from a corridor ahead of you. Minerva McGonagall, dressed in her formal emerald robes, approached with the air of someone who had also been searching for errant students. She greeted you both with a knowing look.
“Ah, Severus, I suspected I’d find you prowling the halls, eager to ruin some poor student’s evening,” Minerva said with an amused smile.
Severus gave her a flat look. “I am merely ensuring that the Yule Ball does not become an excuse for debauchery.”
Minerva chuckled, then turned to you. “And you, my dear, how are you faring? I imagine it’s been a long night.”
You smiled, rolling your shoulders slightly. “It has, but I suppose it’s nothing compared to what we’ll have to endure when the next generation of students arrives.”
Minerva hummed in agreement, her sharp eyes twinkling with amusement. “Speaking of which, I do believe your daughter enjoyed herself this evening.”
Severus tensed immediately, his scowl deepening. “Yes,” he said curtly. “Far too much.”
Minerva bit back a chuckle. “Ah, so you’ve accepted young Mr. Potter as Selina’s companion for the evening, then?”
“I have accepted nothing,” Severus snapped. “I am merely tolerating it.”
Minerva laughed lightly, shaking her head as the three of you continued walking together. The conversation turned to other things—students’ behavior, the decorations of the Great Hall, and a few amusing tales of ball mishaps—until Severus suddenly stopped in his tracks.
His eyes narrowed at an alcove just ahead, where the sound of hurried shuffling and muffled whispers betrayed the presence of students attempting to remain hidden. With a dramatic sweep of his robes, Severus stormed toward the alcove hiding the culprits.
Two students—one Ravenclaw, one Hufflepuff—gasped in shock, their faces flushing as they immediately scrambled to adjust their clothes. The girl hastily fixed the laces of her dress robes, while the boy looked as if he wished he could disappear entirely.
Severus loomed over them, his glare venomous. “Ten points from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff,” he announced icily. “Each. And detention.”
The students paled but nodded meekly, knowing better than to argue.
Severus’ sneer deepened. “Now, get out of my sight before I reconsider my mercy.”
The pair hurried away, nearly tripping over each other in their haste to escape. Once they were gone, Severus exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Brainless, hormonal teenagers,” he muttered darkly.
Minerva hummed in amusement, crossing her arms as she leaned against the nearby wall. “That alcove,” she mused thoughtfully. “I remember catching two students in that very spot once. Oh, what a sight it was—robes in disarray, guilty expressions, and the absolute terror in their eyes when I found them.”
You, who had been listening with mild amusement, suddenly froze as realization hit you like a lightning bolt.
Severus, who had been scowling, also tensed slightly—though, as always, he was far better at masking his emotions than you were.
Minerva turned her gaze toward you both, her lips twitching. “Oh,” she mused, “I do believe it was the two of you.”
Your cheeks burned. Severus’ jaw tightened.
Minerva smirked, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Ah, yes. You were both sixth-years, if I recall correctly. I remember how Severus had the audacity to try and claim that he was merely ‘helping you with an advanced spell.’”
Severus made a sound suspiciously close to a scoff, crossing his arms as his dark eyes flicked anywhere but toward Minerva. “It was a valid excuse.”
Minerva arched a brow, clearly not buying it. “Yes, of course. Helping your dear wife ‘study’—in a secluded alcove—past curfew.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Minerva, must we?”
Minerva chuckled, thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment. “Oh, I think it’s only fair. Here you both are now, patrolling the very same halls you once tried to sneak around. My, how times have changed.”
You huffed, looking at Severus, who was maintaining his usual unruffled expression—except for the slight, telltale tension in his shoulders. You could tell he was mortified, but, of course, he would rather die than admit it.
Minerva sighed, shaking her head. “Ah, young love.”
Severus exhaled sharply, glancing toward you at last. His black eyes met yours, and for a fleeting second, something softened in them.
Times had changed indeed. Back then, you had been reckless teenagers, hiding away from professors who would separate you if caught. Now, you were married, walking these same halls as Hogwarts professors—together.
You reached out, your fingers brushing against Severus’ hand briefly. He allowed the touch, though he rolled his eyes slightly before turning away.
“I suggest we continue our patrol before any more students make regrettable decisions,” he muttered.
Minerva smirked. “Indeed. Though, if you ever catch another pair of students in that alcove, do try to remember—history has a way of repeating itself.”
With a final amused glance at the two of you, Minerva strode off down another corridor, leaving you alone with Severus.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, you turned to him, still blushing. “Well. That was mortifying.”
Severus merely sniffed. “I fail to see the humor in it.”
You smirked. “Of course you do. Because you weren’t the one caught babbling excuses about ‘advanced spellwork.’”
He shot you a glare but said nothing.
You laughed, linking your arm with his as you both continued down the corridor. “Come on, Severus,” you teased. “Let’s go ruin some more students’ nights.”
You had only taken a few steps before Severus’s hand suddenly grasped your wrist, pulling you swiftly into the darkened space. A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your back met his firm chest, his long fingers sliding up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.
"Severus," you breathed, still laughing softly, "what on earth—"
He cut you off with a kiss—slow and deliberate, his lips brushing against yours with a tenderness that contradicted the usual sharpness of his demeanor. His back pressed against the cold stone wall, anchoring you to him as his other hand slid to your waist, pulling you even closer. The warmth of him, the intoxicating scent of potions and parchment that always clung to his robes, surrounded you.
Your fingers curled into the front of his coat as he deepened the kiss, his long, aristocratic nose brushing against your cheek. His lips moved with a slow, maddening precision, as if he were savoring the taste of you, indulging in something long overdue.
You broke the kiss with a quiet, breathless chuckle, your forehead resting against his chest. "What are you doing?" you murmured against the fabric of his robes, your voice filled with amusement.
Severus smirked, his deep black eyes gleaming with something dangerous, something utterly enthralling. "I’m merely showing you what I would have done," he murmured, voice thick with promise, "if Minerva hadn’t interrupted us all those years ago."
His fingers trailed up your throat, tilting your chin so he could claim your lips again—this time firmer, hungrier. His long, elegant fingers tangled in your hair, holding you in place as his mouth dominated yours, his tongue sweeping over yours in a slow, intoxicating dance.
A shiver ran down your spine, the heat between your bodies making the cool air of the castle seem distant, inconsequential. Your hands fisted in his robes, pressing yourself against him as you let out a soft moan against his lips.
But then, with a playful glint in your eye, you pulled back just enough to whisper teasingly, "I really shouldn’t let you kiss me like this… after all, you didn’t even dance with me at the ball."
Severus let out a low chuckle, the sound deep and sinful. "Dancing is a frivolous display," he murmured against your lips, "this, however…" His hand slid down the curve of your waist, gripping you possessively. "This is far more productive."
You gasped as he suddenly turned you, pressing you back against the wall, his body pinning you effortlessly. The cool stone sent a contrast of sensation along your overheated skin, making you arch into him instinctively. He took the opportunity to press his knee between your legs, parting them just enough that the pressure sent sparks of pleasure coursing through you.
"Severus," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his long black hair, pulling him down for another kiss, this one hot and desperate.
"Tell me," he murmured against your lips, his voice low and dripping with dark amusement, "would you rather have had a waltz with me in front of the entire school… or this?" His hips rolled forward just enough to make his point, and you inhaled sharply, nails digging into his shoulders.
"I—I suppose this," you admitted, barely able to form the words as he pressed slow, teasing kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat.
He smirked against your skin. "I thought so."
His hands found the fabric of your dress, fingers slipping beneath it to trace the bare skin of your thighs, making you tremble. He had always been a man of precision, of control, but here, now, with you in his arms, he was all consuming.
“Now,” he murmured, his voice a dangerous purr, “let me see what you’re wearing under that dress—”
A throat cleared behind you.
You felt a familiar rush of dread, like ice-cold water had been poured down your spine. Snape, to his credit, didn’t so much as flinch—he merely turned his head ever so slowly, like a predator disturbed mid-hunt.
And there, standing in the dimly lit corridor, arms crossed and expression poised somewhere between knowing amusement and mild exasperation, was Minerva.
Oh, Merlin.
For a brief, horrifying second, you felt like you were sixteen again, caught in this very same alcove by the very same woman, only this time, instead of a sharp reprimand and a week’s worth of detention, Minerva was smiling.
“Well, well,” she mused, her Scottish brogue rich with humor. “Some things never change.”
Your face burned, and you immediately made to step back, but Severus’s grip remained firm on your waist, his fingers tightening deliberately as his lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but was far too amused to be innocent.
And then— then—he had the audacity to say:
“I was merely teaching her an advanced spell.”
Your mouth fell open.
Minerva laughed.
“Oh, Severus,” she said, shaking her head in amusement, “you used that exact excuse eighteen years ago. Do you expect me to believe it now?”
Snape’s obsidian eyes gleamed with mischief, his expression unreadable save for the slight twitch of his lips. “You believed it then,” he murmured silkily.
Minerva outright chuckled, clearly entertained beyond measure. “No, Severus, I did not.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I’m going to die of embarrassment,” you muttered.
Minerva gave you a conspiratorial look before glancing back at Severus, whose fingers had yet to leave your waist. “Do try to behave yourselves,” she said, the twinkle in her eyes unmistakable as she turned on her heel and walked away.
You let out a breath of relief, but before you could step back fully, Severus’s grip tightened, pulling you flush against him once more.
“An advanced spell?” you hissed, incredulous. “Again?”
His smirk was almost imperceptible, but you knew it was there. “It worked last time, didn’t it?”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the grin tugging at your lips. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
He tilted his head slightly, his long, dark hair falling around his angular face as he studied you with that piercing gaze. “I always enjoy getting away with things,” he murmured, his deep voice a sinful caress against your ear.
Then, before you could protest, he kissed you again.
It was slow at first, a deliberate press of his lips against yours, as if savoring the moment. But then—Merlin’s bloody beard—he deepened it, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with the perfect mix of dominance and precision.
You melted against him, grasping at the front of his robes as his hands wandered lower, tracing over your hips, pressing possessively into the curve of your backside.
“You were saying?” he murmured between kisses, his tone full of smug amusement.
You barely managed a breathless, “You’re incorrigible.”
He hummed, his lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw, then down the column of your throat. “You wouldn’t have married me otherwise.”
His hands slid over the fabric of your dress, tugging lightly at the material. “Now,” he whispered, lips brushing over your skin, “where were we?”
You smirked, reaching up to pull him back into another kiss.
“Somewhere between history repeating itself and me still not getting that damn dance.”
His chuckle was dark, amused, wicked.
“Then allow me to make it up to you,” he purred.
And oh, did he ever.
The heavy wooden door to your quarters creaked open, and you stepped inside with Severus at your side, both of you still recovering from your rather eventful evening. Your lips were tingling from stolen kisses in the alcove, and the warmth of Severus’s hand against your waist lingered as if branded onto your skin.
But whatever lingering tension and playful desire had followed you back to your rooms vanished the moment you saw Selina.
There she was—already tucked under your covers, clad in her night robes, arms crossed over her chest, looking entirely too comfortable in your bed.
She raised an unimpressed brow as she stared at the both of you. “You took long enough.”
Severus stopped dead in his tracks, his black eyes narrowing at his daughter. “What,” he drawled slowly, his deep baritone laced with irritation, “are you doing here?”
Selina sat up slightly, wrinkling her nose at her father as though he had just asked the stupidest question in the world. She had his exact scowl, his exact disapproving glare—his exact mannerisms.
“I needed to talk to Mum,” she said simply.
Severus’s frown deepened. “You have your own room,” he reminded her, crossing his arms over his chest. “In the Slytherin common room.”
Selina huffed, brushing some of her long, dark hair over her shoulder. “Yes, but I wanted to talk to Mum here. You wouldn’t understand—it’s girl talk.”
Severus’s lips parted slightly in offense, his expression flickering between disbelief and indignation. “Girl talk?” he repeated, his voice utterly unimpressed.
“Yes, girl talk,” Selina replied, tilting her head slightly, her dark eyes—so much like his—flashing with amusement. “Which means, Dad, that you need to leave.”
Severus stiffened, his expression utterly scandalized. “Excuse me?”
Selina sat up straighter in bed and waved a dismissive hand toward the door. “Go on. Shoo.”
For a moment, Severus looked at you, waiting—no, demanding—that you intervene.
You merely shrugged.
“Selina, you shouldn’t be in here,” he pressed, his irritation growing. “Your dormitory—”
“Dad,” Selina interrupted, rolling her eyes, “just go.”
Severus bristled. It was his bedroom, his quarters; and his own daughter had just exiled him from his own domain. “I will not be thrown out of my own—”
Selina flicked her wand.
The bedroom door slammed shut in his face.
A thud sounded from the other side of the door, followed by the very audible sound of Severus’s furious inhale.
There was a long pause.
And then—“SELINA EILEEN SNAPE, YOU OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW.”
You let out a breathless chuckle, unable to hold back your amusement, as Selina merely smirked and settled back into the pillows. “Honestly,” she muttered, pulling the blankets around her. “He should’ve seen that coming.”
You giggled, shaking your head as you sat down beside her. “He’ll sulk for hours now,” you warned.
“Let him.” Selina smirked, brushing some hair out of her face. “It’s girl talk, Mum. He wouldn’t understand.”
You sighed, shaking your head as you adjusted the pillows behind you. “Alright, then,” you said, turning toward her fully, “what’s so important that you had to banish your father from his own bedroom?”
Selina hesitated for a moment, fiddling with the sleeve of her night robe. “I just…” She trailed off, chewing on her bottom lip before exhaling heavily. “I wanted to talk about boys.”
Oh. That explained a lot.
You resisted the urge to smirk. “Boys, huh?”
Selina groaned, tilting her head back against the pillow. “Yes.”
“Wouldn’t your dorm mates be more helpful?” you teased.
She shot you a look that was so Severus. “I don’t want their advice,” she muttered. “I want yours.”
Something warm spread through your chest at that. You softened, placing a hand on hers. “Alright,” you murmured. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Selina hesitated, her expression shifting to something more vulnerable. “I… I don’t know how to explain it,” she muttered, fidgeting. “It’s just—feelings.”
Ah. Feelings. Now it made sense.
You had seen the way she had looked at Harry Potter tonight. The way she had smiled when he took her hand. The way her eyes had lit up when he made her laugh. She liked him.
And, knowing your husband, that was precisely why she had waited until Severus was gone before bringing this up.
“You mean Harry,” you said gently.
Selina flushed a shade of red that rivaled the Gryffindor banners.
“I don’t know,” she groaned, burying her face in her hands. “It’s just—he’s nice. And he’s funny. And he doesn’t treat me like some stuck-up Slytherin, and I just—I don’t know.”
You chuckled softly, brushing a hand over her hair. “That sounds like a crush, sweetheart.”
Selina let out a dramatic whine. “Ugh, don’t say it like that.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “I know it’s embarrassing, but trust me, it’s normal.”
Selina peeked up at you from behind her hands. “You really think so?”
“Of course,” you said, squeezing her hand. “It’s part of growing up.”
She huffed, staring up at the ceiling. “Dad’s going to murder him.”
You sighed. “Your father will learn to cope.”
Selina snorted. “Yeah, sure. I give it a week before he starts hexing Harry’s cauldron in class.”
You couldn’t deny that was a possibility.
You shifted slightly, adjusting the blankets around her. “Have you told Harry how you feel?”
Selina gave you an exasperated look. “Mum.”
You chuckled. “Alright, alright. But if you like him, and he likes you, then what’s stopping you?”
Selina frowned, picking at a loose thread in the blanket. “I just… I don’t know. What if I do tell him, and then he thinks I’m weird? Or what if it ruins things? Or what if—”
“Selina,” you interrupted gently, reaching up to brush her hair behind her ear. “You’re overthinking.”
She bit her lip, glancing at you. “…You think so?”
“I know so,” you smiled. “Sometimes, you just have to be brave.”
Selina exhaled, flopping back against the pillow. “Merlin’s beard, I hate feelings.”
You laughed, smoothing a hand over her hair. “They’re messy, I know.”
She groaned again, but then—softly—“Did you ever feel like this? When you met Dad?”
You felt a different kind of warmth spread through your chest at that.
You smiled softly. “Yes, love,” you murmured, stroking her hair. “I did.”
Selina peeked up at you. “…And what happened?”
You smirked slightly. “Well, your father was exceptionally oblivious.”
Selina cackled.
“Of course he was,” she snorted. “That sounds exactly like him.”
You chuckled, shaking your head. “But eventually, we figured it out.”
Selina hummed, turning onto her side. “So you think… I should just go for it?”
“I think,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “that you should trust yourself.”
Selina exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling for a few moments before shifting to sit up. “I’ll think about it,” she muttered, though there was something resolved in her tone, as if she had already made up her mind. She threw back the covers, the cool air making her shiver slightly as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Thanks, Mum. I needed that.”
You smiled warmly, watching as she stretched before smoothing her night robes. “Always, love.”
Selina ran a hand through her long dark hair, then turned toward the door. “I should probably get back to my dormitory before someone notices I’m gone.”
You chuckled softly and nodded. “Good idea.”
With that, Selina padded toward the door and pulled it open—only to come face-to-face with Severus Snape, standing like a looming gargoyle in the dimly lit corridor, his black robes billowing slightly in the faint draft. His expression was unreadable, but the way his dark eyes bore into hers made it perfectly clear that he had been waiting.
Selina didn’t even flinch.
She made a move to step past him, but Severus moved just as quickly, his long fingers curling around the collar of her robes and tugging her back with a firm, practiced ease, as though she were still five years old and attempting to sneak biscuits from the kitchen.
You barely contained your amusement as father and daughter stood face to face, identical scowls twisting their sharp features, arms crossing in unison as they glared at each other. It was like watching two mirrors battle for dominance.
Selina tilted her head slightly. “Really, Dad?”
Severus arched a brow, unimpressed. “Really, Selina.”
A heavy silence settled between them, neither Snape willing to be the first to break. You watched, amused, as they stood locked in an unspoken war, dark eyes burning into one another, expressions perfectly identical in their stubbornness.
Finally, it was Severus who made the first move. He drew himself up, his baritone voice thick with irritation. “Would you care to explain,” he drawled, his tone dangerously smooth, “what exactly was so pressing that it required you to exile me from my own quarters?”
Selina let out a long-suffering sigh. “I already told you. It was girl talk.”
Severus’s expression did not change. “That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
Severus’s nostrils flared slightly. “You slammed the door in my face.”
“You weren’t getting the hint.”
“I was being forcibly removed from my own room.”
Selina shrugged. “And?”
Severus exhaled slowly, clearly mustering every ounce of patience he had left. “What,” he bit out, “did you need to discuss with your mother that was so dire it warranted banishing me?”
Selina stared at him for a long moment, her lips twitching. Then, with all the grace of a true Slytherin, she played her ace.
She sighed, tilting her head slightly. “It was about menstruation, Dad.”
Severus’s face barely changed, but the subtle tightening of his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly at his sides—oh, she had him.
You covered your mouth with your hand to hide your smirk.
Selina, sensing victory, leaned in just a little. “You know,” she continued, voice smooth as silk, “girl stuff. Cramps. Heavy flow. That sort of thing.” She gave a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, Dad, it’s not that complicated.”
Severus blinked once, slow and deliberate.
You swore you could hear his teeth grinding.
Selina arched an eyebrow at her father, her dark eyes flashing with something far too mischievous for Severus’s liking. She tilted her head ever so slightly, her expression the perfect mirror of his own when he was preparing to deliver a particularly scathing remark.
“Would you like me to elaborate?” she asked, her voice syrupy sweet. “I could go into detail about the heavy flow this month. It’s quite the inconvenience, really—”
“Enough.” Severus’s baritone was a sharp blade cutting through the air, his patience now thoroughly frayed. His long fingers twitched at his sides, his jaw tightening, the vein in his temple pulsing dangerously. “Leave. Now.”
Selina barely concealed her amusement as she slid past him, her night robes whispering against the stone floor. “As you wish, Dad,” she drawled, her smirk widening as she breezed past him, her voice laced with far too much satisfaction.
You watched the exchange, biting your lip to keep from laughing outright. This was a battle Severus had never stood a chance of winning.
Severus exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “That girl,” he muttered, voice thick with exasperation.
You chuckled, shaking your head as you moved toward him. “You walked right into that one, you know.”
Severus shot you a withering glare, though there was no real heat behind it. “Do not encourage her,” he warned, his deep voice laced with irritation. “She is insufferable enough as it is.”
You smirked, folding your arms across your chest. “She’s your daughter, Severus.”
Severus inhaled deeply, clearly resisting the urge to argue that particular point. Instead, he turned on his heel, his black robes billowing behind him as he strode toward his desk, his long fingers rubbing at his temple as though warding off an impending headache. “That much is painfully obvious.”
Meanwhile, Selina strolled through the dungeon corridors, taking her time as she made her way back to the Slytherin common room. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows against the cold stone walls, but she moved with ease, completely at home in the dimly lit passageways.
As she passed by her father’s classroom, she glanced at the door, her smirk deepening. He was probably still fuming, still pacing in his quarters, grumbling to himself about how utterly impossible she was. The thought sent a wave of satisfaction through her.
Reaching the entrance to the common room, she murmured the password, stepping inside as the heavy stone door slid open. The familiar green glow of the lake filtered through the high windows, casting an eerie luminescence over the room. Most of her housemates had already retired for the night, but Selina paid them no mind as she made her way toward her dormitory, still thoroughly pleased with herself.
Her father may have been Elusive, Mysterious, Fearsome Potions Master of Hogwarts, but to her, he was simply Dad. And tonight, she had won.
Back in his quarters, Severus let out a deep, exhausted sigh as he collapsed into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose once more.
“I am doomed,” he muttered.
You chuckled, moving behind him to press your hands against his tense shoulders. “You raised her,” you reminded him, kneading the knots beneath your fingers. “You made her.”
Severus groaned, closing his eyes as he let his head fall back against the chair. “A grave mistake.”
You smirked, leaning down to brush a kiss against his temple. “You love her.”
Severus huffed, though there was the slightest hint of reluctant fondness in his voice. “…Unfortunately.”
Hello, I was wandering if you knew a tv show called The Big Bang Theory? If you do can you make a headcannon of Sherlock meeting Sheldon? Just thought it might be funny.. Thank you
OOOOHHHHHH I LOVE THE BIG BANG THEORY!!! I haven’s seen it in ages but i think it’s great. Okay, so headcannons… I’m making this so that Sheldon meets Sherl in his world ie. in 221B, just cause I’m a little more comfortable writing this from that perspective.
Considering these two are both a little out of sorts and oblivious when it come to social cues and human interactions, I feel like they would get along pretty alright with one another. They’d both have their ‘spots’ in 221B; Sherlock with his leather chair and Sheldon on one end of the couch, like in TBBT, though Sherlock will persistently violate the ‘spot’ and sit there when Sheldon is somewhere else. They’d have fun together making fun of Mycroft when he graces them with his presence, though Sheldon would be out of the loop a bit when Sherl and My change to playing deduction to prove who’s the smartest. I don’t think Sheldon would want to learn about deduction, he’d find it useless in his field of study, though he’d get a kick out of seeing Sherl deduce the clients who come to the flat during his stay.
I don’t think they’d talk too much science with one another, considering Sheldon is within the physics branch and Sherl is in chemistry. I think that Sheldon would point out any equations Sherl has wrong (if he ever has any wrong) which would drive Sherl up the wall cause Sheldon would become all smug about being the better scientist. Sherlock would get his revenge by never ordering Sheldon’s pick from the Thai place for ages and using his favourite graphic tees for experiments. They’d make up eventually by getting bored with being angry.
Speaking of being bored, when Sherlock gets like that, Sheldon would be that timid, ‘I don’t know what to do’ dork that he is. He’d become anxious about being around Sherlock when he brings out John’s gun and probably scream and shout for Mrs. Hudson, who’d come up and help him immediately if she were in. If she wasn’t, Sheldon would wait out on the steps for someone to come and help him. Honestly he’d probably have that light, wavy hand music thingy with him to keep him from getting bored (I can’t remember the name of that sorry). Sherlock would make fun of him for not being able to play a ‘real instrument’ in his mind.
You know, as I go on with this, I’m beginning to think they wouldn’t get along as I had thought. They’re too similar to get along together. It’d be chaos in Baker Street if they ever had to live together for any amount of time. Sherlock would get frustrated by Sheldon’s OCD of bus pants and cause of the idea that Sheldon would probably get rid of all the dust in 221B. Sheldon would probably get twitchy from the improvised lab in the kitchen and would absolutely freak out if there was a head in the fridge. Yeah, they should never meet up on second thought.
Anyways, hope you liked this nonny! I had fun writing this! ❤️ ❤️ ❤️
You twirled in front of the mirror, adjusting the little capelet on your shoulders. The houndstooth pattern looked striking under the flat light of 221B, especially paired with the thigh-high boots that squeaked faintly when you moved. You grinned at your reflection, tugging the brim of the matching cap low over your forehead.
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” you muttered to yourself, holding the magnifying glass dramatically. The costume was perfect—half playful, half scandalous, and exactly the sort of thing to make the Halloween party tonight memorable.
“Ridiculous,” came the clipped baritone behind you.
You jumped slightly, spinning to find Sherlock leaning against the doorframe. His eyes swept over you once, quick as a scan, but you didn’t miss the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.
“Ridiculous?” you repeated, arching a brow. “Says the man who once solved a case dressed as a priest.”
“That was for infiltration,” he snapped, pushing off the doorframe, “not… whatever this is.”
You smirked, planting a hand on your hip. “This,” you said, “is me winning the best costume competition tonight.”
Sherlock’s gaze flickered—first to your legs, then away, then back again with sharp irritation, as though his eyes were betraying him. “It’s impractical. Utterly absurd. And the fabric is cheap polyester.”
“And yet,” you said sweetly, stepping closer, “you can’t stop staring.”
His jaw tensed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was simply noting that the stitching along the—” he cut himself off abruptly, nostrils flaring. “It’s a terrible disguise. No one would mistake you for a detective.”
You laughed, the sound bouncing off the cluttered walls. “Good thing I’m not trying to solve murders tonight.” Tilting your head, you asked innocently, “Do you like it?”
Sherlock’s face closed off instantly, shutters slamming down behind those icy eyes. “It’s irrelevant whether I like it or not.”
But the pink blooming faintly at the tips of his ears betrayed him.
You bit back a grin. “Irrelevant, huh?” You stepped closer still, close enough that he could smell your perfume. “Because you look a little… distracted.”
“I’m never distracted,” he said, low and sharp. His gaze darted down, lingered for one treacherous second on the neckline of the costume, then snapped back up.
“Sherlock,” you whispered, amused, “your pupils dilated.”
His scowl deepened, but he didn’t back away when you reached up and tugged the brim of your cap, leaning in. “If you’re going to a party,” he muttered tightly, “you should put on a coat.”
“Because it’s cold out?”
“Because—” His voice broke off. He clenched his jaw, fists flexing at his sides.
“Because?” you prompted, teasing.
“Because people will look at you,” he ground out.
For a moment, silence stretched between you, warm and taut. Then you chuckled, stepping back and grabbing your purse. “You’re impossible.”
Sherlock didn’t answer. He just stared as you swept out of the room, muttering something about “irrelevant” again, though his hand had curled into his coat pocket like he was holding himself together.
Behind you, as the door clicked shut, he exhaled a long breath and muttered darkly under his breath:
“God help me.”
The Halloween party was already loud when you arrived—music pounding, costumes ranging from clever to ridiculous, and laughter spilling out into the chilly London night. You adjusted your cap and walked inside, head held high. You felt eyes follow you, whispers start as your costume caught attention. Exactly as planned.
But you didn’t plan on Sherlock.
He arrived twenty minutes later, of course. Not in costume, naturally, but in his usual long coat and scarf. The crowd parted for him instinctively, his presence too sharp, too dark to blend in. His gaze found you instantly across the room, as if the chaos around him didn’t exist.
You smirked. “Couldn’t resist, huh?” you teased when he finally stalked over.
“I’m here for observation,” he said briskly. “It’s an excellent place to study human interaction under the influence of alcohol.”
“Uh-huh,” you said, sipping your drink. “And absolutely nothing to do with me?”
“Nothing whatsoever,” he clipped, though his eyes flicked down at your legs and then away, his ears burning pink again.
Before you could tease him further, a man dressed as Dracula swooped in, giving you an exaggerated bow. “Miss Holmes, I presume? Or should I call you Detective Gorgeous?”
You laughed politely, playing along. “Depends—do you have a case for me to solve?”
Dracula leaned closer, far too close. “Maybe a mystery of passion…”
And then—
“Leave.” Sherlock’s voice was low, cold, and lethal.
Both you and Dracula turned. Sherlock stood stiff and unyielding, coat flared like wings, his eyes glinting steel.
Dracula blinked. “Sorry, mate—”
“She’s not your mate,” Sherlock snapped. “Nor your mystery. You’ll find the bar far more accommodating.”
The man stammered and backed off quickly, disappearing into the crowd.
You crossed your arms. “Subtle,” you said dryly.
Sherlock’s jaw tightened. “He was… irritating.”
“He was flirting,” you corrected. “That’s what people do at parties.”
“Not with you,” he said, sharp and absolute. Then he froze, realizing what he’d just revealed. His throat bobbed again, his lips parting like he wanted to snatch the words back.
You leaned in, amused and warm all at once. “Not with me, Sherlock? Why not?”
His eyes locked on yours, stormy and conflicted. “Because…” He trailed off, fists curling at his sides again. “…Because it’s irrelevant.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You keep saying that word. And yet you look like you’re about to strangle anyone who so much as looks my way.”
He said nothing, only glared at the floor, the set of his shoulders tense as iron.
And when someone else brushed past and offered you a compliment—something lighthearted about your “sexy detective look”—you felt Sherlock’s hand close firmly around your wrist, pulling you subtly but decisively to his side.
“You’re insufferable,” you teased, leaning closer so only he could hear. “Just admit it—you like the costume.”
Sherlock’s eyes flicked to your lips, his control visibly unraveling for the briefest second before he snapped his gaze away. “No,” he said, voice low and rough. “I despise it.”
But his grip didn’t loosen.
And the way he hovered at your side all night told you everything he wouldn’t say out loud.
The night wound down slowly, the party thinning until only stragglers remained. Sherlock had hardly left your side once he arrived, standing close enough that people thought twice before approaching. When you finally tugged his sleeve and announced you were leaving, he didn’t argue—he just followed you out into the London chill, coat billowing, jaw tight.
The streets were quieter now, the sound of your boots clicking against the pavement echoing between you. Sherlock hadn’t spoken since you left, which was unusual even for him.
“You glared the poor bartender into silence,” you teased lightly, breaking the hush. “All I did was ask for a refill.”
His mouth was a thin line. “He looked too long.”
You raised a brow. “At what, exactly?”
He didn’t answer.
The climb up the stairs to 221B was equally tense, Sherlock’s long strides matching yours until you reached the door. Inside, the flat was dim, the cluttered air familiar. You set your hat on the table, unclasped the little capelet, and turned—
Only to find Sherlock standing closer than you expected, his eyes dark and unreadable.
“Sherlock?” you asked softly.
He swallowed hard, gaze flicking over your costume again before snapping back to your face. “I don’t like it,” he said finally, voice low, hoarse.
You tilted your head, smirking. “Don’t like it? You’ve been staring all night.”
“That’s the problem,” he bit out, stepping closer, his voice suddenly sharp with tension. “It’s… distracting. Infuriating. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe every time someone else looked at you.”
Your heart skipped. “So you do like it.”
His jaw clenched. “I…” His breath came unsteady now, eyes burning with something you hadn’t seen so raw in him before. “I refuse to admit to such a… ridiculous sentiment.”
You smiled, gentle now, reaching up to straighten the lapel of his coat. “You don’t have to admit anything,” you whispered. “Your face already did.”
For a moment, he was stone still. Then, in a rare lapse of control, Sherlock moved—one hand curling around your waist, the other braced against the wall behind you. His lips hovered inches from yours, his entire body tense as though fighting himself.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasped.
You shook your head, breathless. “Not a chance.”
And just like that, the wall broke. Sherlock kissed you—hard, desperate, the months of denial unraveling in a single heated moment. His grip tightened, pulling you flush against him, his coat tangling with the edges of your costume.
Your back hit the wall again as Sherlock lifted you, his long coat falling open and his scarf dropping forgotten to the floor. His mouth was relentless—hungry kisses along your jaw, teeth scraping the delicate line of your throat. The buttons of your bodysuit gave way under his impatient hands until your breasts spilled free, his tongue and teeth lavishing them like he was memorising every inch.
“Sherlock—” you gasped, your legs tightening around his waist as you felt the hard press of him straining against his trousers.
“God, you’re—” His voice broke off, guttural, as he shoved his hips against you. “You have no idea what you’ve done to me tonight.”
You smiled wickedly. “You mean this?” You tugged at the lapels of your open costume, still very much on you, taunting him with the sight.
His control shattered. He spun you toward the sofa, bending you forward over the armrest, your capelet still tied at your throat and the garters stretching against your thighs. His breath came hot and ragged against your ear.
“I’m going to take you like this,” he growled, yanking your panties to the side and unfastening his belt with a snap that echoed through the room. “In this bloody absurd disguise—because if anyone else so much as looks at you like this again, I’ll kill them.”
You moaned, pressing back against him as he shoved inside you in one deep, brutal thrust. The sound he made—half groan, half growl—sent shivers down your spine. His hands clamped onto your hips, fingers digging into flesh as he pounded into you with a rhythm that betrayed just how long he’d been holding back.
“Mine,” he rasped against your neck, each word punctuated with a sharp thrust. “Every bloody inch of you. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes, Sherlock,” you gasped, your nails clawing at the sofa as the pleasure coiled hotter, tighter.
He bent over you then, chest pressed to your back, his coat enveloping you both like a shroud. His lips grazed your ear as he whispered, “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you breathed, shuddering as his pace quickened, merciless now.
“That’s it,” he groaned, his control slipping entirely. His thrusts grew ragged, almost feral, each one driving you closer to the edge until you cried out his name, the costume clinging to your body as you came undone beneath him.
He followed moments later with a harsh, broken sound, burying himself deep as his whole body trembled with release. His face pressed into your shoulder, his hands gripping you like he might disappear without the anchor of your body beneath his.
Silence hung for a long moment, broken only by your ragged breathing. Finally, Sherlock pulled back slightly, still inside you, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear.
“I despise this costume,” he murmured, voice wrecked.
You laughed weakly, head turning to catch his flushed, disheveled face. “Funny… I think you loved it.”
His smirk was slow, dangerous, and utterly undone. “Irrelevant,” he whispered—before kissing you again, already hungry for more.
Morning sunlight slanted through the blinds of 221B, spilling over the clutter and catching dust motes in its golden glow. You stretched lazily on the sofa, Sherlock’s coat draped haphazardly over you. Beneath it, your Halloween costume clung in delicious ruins—one strap torn, a garter twisted, evidence of last night’s “irrelevance” still warm in your memory.
Sherlock stood across the room, already in his shirt and trousers, his curls a disheveled halo as he poured tea with mechanical precision. His expression was blank, controlled, though the flush lingering high on his cheekbones betrayed him.
“So,” you said sweetly, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Still think my costume is irrelevant?”
His jaw ticked. “I maintain my previous conclusion.” He set the teapot down a little too hard. “Entirely irrelevant.”
You grinned, tugging his coat tighter around you. “Right. That explains why you practically ripped it off me last night.”
His head snapped toward you, eyes sharp, but the faintest twitch of his mouth gave him away. He crossed the room in two long strides, looming over you with that intense gaze.
“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, though his hand reached down almost without thought, brushing over your exposed thigh where the garter still clung. His fingers lingered, tracing the line of your skin with maddening restraint.
“You could’ve fooled me,” you teased, tilting your head. “The great Sherlock Holmes, completely undone by a bit of lace and cheap polyester.”
His breath hitched, eyes darting down to the neckline of the torn bodysuit—and whatever iron grip on his control he had been clinging to snapped. In one swift motion, he was kneeling on the sofa, his body pressing you back into the cushions, his mouth claiming yours with a hunger that made the night before feel almost tame.
“You are,” he growled against your lips, tugging at the shredded costume, “a relentless distraction. And I despise it.” His teeth grazed your throat, his hand sliding under the torn fabric again.
“Despise it?” you gasped, already arching against him.
“Utterly,” he rasped, thrusting his hips against yours, his erection pressing hot through his trousers. “So much that I won’t stop until you can’t wear it again without remembering exactly what I did to you in it.”
Your laugh broke into a moan as his mouth claimed you again, your costume once more caught in the storm of his obsession—irrelevant in word, but absolutely everything in the way he touched you.
Sherlock’s mouth devoured yours, all sharp desperation and hunger, his hands rough now as he yanked the remnants of your costume lower, fabric tearing with an audible rip. You barely had time to gasp before he pushed you down against the couch cushions, his long frame covering yours, pinning you there like prey caught under a predator.
“You think I can stop at once?” he rasped, voice ragged, his curls falling into his eyes as he pressed his hips against you. “After last night? After—” His mouth crushed yours again, his words muffled against your lips. “You’re… impossible.”
You moaned as he shoved your thighs apart, his belt undone in a clumsy rush. The second he freed himself, he was pushing inside you, deeper, harder, as though he had been starving for this since the moment he first saw you in that costume.
Your head fell back against the sofa arm, the angle forcing him even deeper. “Sherlock!”
His groan vibrated against your throat as he thrust hard, relentless, the rhythm punishing in its intensity. “Mine,” he ground out, each word torn from his chest. “Every look, every sound—mine. No one else sees you like this.”
Your fingers dug into his back, dragging at his shirt as he moved faster, your body shuddering under the force of him. The torn garters bit into your skin, his coat still tangled around your shoulders, the whole scene messy, frantic, consumed by his obsession.
“Look at me,” he demanded suddenly, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing your eyes up to meet his. His gaze burned with raw, unguarded want. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours,” you gasped, clinging to him as your climax tore through you, shattering in waves.
That was all it took. Sherlock’s rhythm faltered, his hips snapping deep one final time as he spilled into you with a hoarse, broken groan of your name. He collapsed against you, breathless, trembling, his face buried in your shoulder.
For a long moment, the only sound in 221B was your ragged breathing and the creak of the couch beneath you both.
Finally, Sherlock lifted his head, curls wild, lips swollen, eyes still stormy. His mouth twisted into the faintest smirk.
“Still irrelevant,” he whispered, though his body refused to move from yours, his arms tightening as if daring you to challenge him.
The world seemed to slow after that — the frantic rhythm melting into stillness, the storm of it all giving way to a quiet, dizzying calm. Sherlock stayed draped over you on the couch, his chest pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. His coat was still wrapped haphazardly around your shoulders, the torn costume clinging stubbornly to you like the aftermath of the chaos you’d just made together.
Neither of you moved for a long moment. You traced lazy patterns into the back of his shirt, feeling his heart still racing against your ribs.
“You’re heavy,” you murmured eventually, teasing, though your voice was soft and warm.
“Good,” he mumbled into your shoulder, not bothering to lift his head. “Maybe you’ll stay still for five minutes.”
You laughed quietly, tilting your head to press a kiss into his messy curls. “Five minutes? Bold of you to assume I’ll give you that long before I demand breakfast.”
“Mrs. Hudson brought muffins yesterday,” he muttered, words slurred slightly with exhaustion. “Second shelf. Blue tin.”
“Are you seriously giving me directions from on top of me?”
His lips curved against your neck. “You seem capable of multitasking.”
You snorted, but the warmth in your chest only deepened as he shifted, sliding down just enough to rest his head against your sternum. It was a strangely vulnerable gesture for him — the great Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed master of logic, choosing instead to listen to the steady thrum of your heartbeat as though cataloguing it for some case only he could solve.
His fingers idly traced the strap of your ruined bodysuit, the pads of them catching on the frayed threads. “I still despise this,” he muttered quietly.
“Mm.” You brushed a curl from his forehead. “Despise it so much you had to fuck me twice in it?”
His laugh was a low, sinful thing against your skin. “Purely to prove a point.”
“Oh?”
“That you are…” He hesitated, lips grazing your sternum, “…the single most infuriating distraction I’ve ever encountered.”
You smiled, threading your fingers into his hair. “And yet you still don’t want me to take it off.”
His silence was telling. When you shifted, pretending to reach for the clasp, his hand shot up and caught your wrist before you could move.
“Leave it,” he said quickly, then cleared his throat and added, more composed, “For… observational purposes.”
“Observational purposes,” you repeated, biting back a laugh.
Sherlock huffed and tucked himself closer, muttering something under his breath about “visual continuity” and “pattern recognition.” But the way his fingers kept tracing lazy circles against the fabric, the way his breath evened out with your heartbeat beneath his ear, betrayed the truth he’d never quite say out loud.
For now, irrelevant could stay right where it was — in his arms, still dressed like the distraction that had finally broken the world’s greatest detective.
Sunlight had fully claimed Baker Street by the time you stirred awake again. The flat smelled faintly of tea and old books, the familiar hum of London traffic leaking through the windows. Sherlock was still draped half over you on the couch, his head pillowed against your chest, his curls a disheveled halo against the remnants of your torn costume.
You smiled sleepily, fingers combing through his hair. “Still despising it?” you murmured.
He made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a hum, his eyes still closed. “Loathe it entirely.”
“Mm-hmm.” You shifted just enough to press a kiss into his curls. “That’s why you won’t let me take it off.”
“Purely for data collection,” he mumbled, though his arm tightened possessively around your waist.
The moment was warm, quiet, perfect.
And then the door opened.
“Sherlock? You in—”
Both your heads snapped toward the sound at the same time. John Watson froze halfway into the room, paper bag of takeaway in one hand, his expression shifting from casual to horrified in less than a second.
“Oh,” he said flatly. “Oh. Right. I see.”
Sherlock sat bolt upright so fast he nearly tumbled off the couch, his hair sticking up in wild curls, his shirt askew, the coat tangled around your legs. He cleared his throat, straightening his spine with all the dignity he could muster.
“John,” he said stiffly, “this is not what it looks like.”
John blinked. Then blinked again. His gaze drifted to you — still sprawled on the couch, flushed and tangled in your ripped detective costume — then back to Sherlock, who looked like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water on him.
“It looks,” John said slowly, “like you’re half-dressed, she’s wearing what’s left of a Halloween costume, and the sofa needs disinfecting.”
“Incorrect,” Sherlock said quickly, voice clipped. “This is… entirely unrelated.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Unrelated.”
Sherlock’s hands flailed slightly, rare panic breaking through the surface. “It was an experiment.”
John stared. “An experiment.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, seizing the word like a lifeline. “A—ah—study on human psychology and… wardrobe-induced behavioral shifts.”
“Wardrobe-induced—Sherlock, you were asleep on her chest.”
“Resting my eyes during observation,” Sherlock corrected sharply.
John turned to you, deadpan. “Is he always like this after sex?”
You snorted, burying your face in the couch cushion to hide your laughter. “Pretty much.”
Sherlock groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “John, if you could refrain from barging into my flat unannounced—”
“I live next door,” John reminded him. “And I brought breakfast.” He held up the paper bag. “Which I am now going to eat upstairs. Far, far away from… whatever this is.”
He backed toward the door, still muttering about “bloody mad geniuses” and “buying a lock for this place.”
The second the door closed, you dissolved into laughter. Sherlock glared at you, cheeks flushed bright red.
“This is entirely your fault,” he grumbled.
“Oh, absolutely,” you teased, tugging him back down beside you. “All because of my distracting, irrelevant costume.”
His glare softened into a reluctant smirk, his lips brushing your temple. “I’ll concede one thing,” he murmured. “It is… catastrophically effective
request: What are some headcanons you could come up with about Severus getting drunk? :^)
note: these are platonic!!!! you’re with him when he gets drunk!!!
BTW I HAVE A NEW STORY FOR YALL TOMORROW SO GET READY
-
- to get Snape to drink in the first place would be a challenge within itself
- however, as students leave for Christmas break and he finally has some freedom, he decides to visit a muggle bar
- you’d go with him after he said he was going to a muggle bar and not into Hogsmeade
- his firewhiskey would affect him very quickly as he wouldn’t even bother milking it
- Snape would chuckle as he kept ordering himself more drinks, “I told Albus I was going to drink tonight if given a chance…don’t think he believed me.”
- you’d nod along, humoring your coworker as he worked on his fifth firewhiskey, somewhat concerned about what kind of drunk he would be. You had seen him as an angry drunk before, but you knew that tonight would be different
- as Snape finished his fifth firewhiskey within the second hour of being at the bar, you told Snape that you both should head back to the school. “You go…or you stay and have a drink…with moi.”
- you know Snape did not just offer you a drink, that case, in French. You laughed, “did you just offer me to drink with you, Severus?” The man nodded, “I did…you’re more tolerable now, not as annoying as you used to be as a student.”
- ouch, okay. “And how will we get home if we’re both under the influence?” you questioned. “Floo power, of course!” You looked at your colleague, ignoring his mispronunciation of floo powder.
- “walking could also be an experience for us both.”
- Snape becomes more comfortable with you throughout the night, losing the sarcasm and being very honest with you, sharing his feelings about not feeling appreciated enough by Dumbledore and You-Know-Who
- he’s been sacrificing so much for Dumbledore and he’s worried about being a double agent. What if Albus dies? Snape wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that happened. Even if he was a deatheater
- well, he whispered the last part.
- he just wants to be happy at Hogwarts, watch you grow into a professor instead of just his apprentice. Snape doesn’t want to be on both sides. He’s solely on Dumbledore’s, but I guess this is what happens when you’re in love with Lily Potter.
- anyways
- Snape would let a few compliments slip out, mostly about your hair and your laugh - you learned he loved your laugh.
- he’d also tell you how he misses Lily, but knows that she’d be happy to know that he’s looking after Harry…sort of.
- he’d also conjure his patronus just to see the look of admiration upon your face - and other’s.
- Snape would subtly brag about being the youngest head of house at Hogwarts and professor.
- you’d have to make sure he wouldn’t apparate out of the bar and go anywhere.
- when you both traveled back to Hogwarts, it was incredibly late and Snape was already searching for a potion for both of your hangovers. he’d invite you into his chambers, put the potion next to his bed and plop down, giving you time to observe your once professor, now colleague.
- running a towel under warm water, you ring it out and put it on Snape’s head, also leaving some tablets of headache medicine and a glass of water on his bedside table (along with his potion).
- you softly removed his robe and cover him up with a quilt thrown over his chair. finally, you thank whatever higher power there is that it is Christmas break and quietly leave your new friend.
bonus!!!!
- when Snape wakes up, he tries to remember who took him home last night and his last image is you, putting a cloth on his forehead. he’d smile and grip onto the quilt a bit tighter.
- when he sees you, he’d give your hand a quick squeeze and bring it up to his lips, pressing a kiss.
request: What are some headcanons you could come up with about Severus getting drunk? :^)
note: these are platonic!!!! you’re with him when he gets drunk!!!
BTW I HAVE A NEW STORY FOR YALL TOMORROW SO GET READY
-
- to get Snape to drink in the first place would be a challenge within itself
- however, as students leave for Christmas break and he finally has some freedom, he decides to visit a muggle bar
- you’d go with him after he said he was going to a muggle bar and not into Hogsmeade
- his firewhiskey would affect him very quickly as he wouldn’t even bother milking it
- Snape would chuckle as he kept ordering himself more drinks, “I told Albus I was going to drink tonight if given a chance…don’t think he believed me.”
- you’d nod along, humoring your coworker as he worked on his fifth firewhiskey, somewhat concerned about what kind of drunk he would be. You had seen him as an angry drunk before, but you knew that tonight would be different
- as Snape finished his fifth firewhiskey within the second hour of being at the bar, you told Snape that you both should head back to the school. “You go…or you stay and have a drink…with moi.”
- you know Snape did not just offer you a drink, that case, in French. You laughed, “did you just offer me to drink with you, Severus?” The man nodded, “I did…you’re more tolerable now, not as annoying as you used to be as a student.”
- ouch, okay. “And how will we get home if we’re both under the influence?” you questioned. “Floo power, of course!” You looked at your colleague, ignoring his mispronunciation of floo powder.
- “walking could also be an experience for us both.”
- Snape becomes more comfortable with you throughout the night, losing the sarcasm and being very honest with you, sharing his feelings about not feeling appreciated enough by Dumbledore and You-Know-Who
- he’s been sacrificing so much for Dumbledore and he’s worried about being a double agent. What if Albus dies? Snape wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that happened. Even if he was a deatheater
- well, he whispered the last part.
- he just wants to be happy at Hogwarts, watch you grow into a professor instead of just his apprentice. Snape doesn’t want to be on both sides. He’s solely on Dumbledore’s, but I guess this is what happens when you’re in love with Lily Potter.
- anyways
- Snape would let a few compliments slip out, mostly about your hair and your laugh - you learned he loved your laugh.
- he’d also tell you how he misses Lily, but knows that she’d be happy to know that he’s looking after Harry…sort of.
- he’d also conjure his patronus just to see the look of admiration upon your face - and other’s.
- Snape would subtly brag about being the youngest head of house at Hogwarts and professor.
- you’d have to make sure he wouldn’t apparate out of the bar and go anywhere.
- when you both traveled back to Hogwarts, it was incredibly late and Snape was already searching for a potion for both of your hangovers. he’d invite you into his chambers, put the potion next to his bed and plop down, giving you time to observe your once professor, now colleague.
- running a towel under warm water, you ring it out and put it on Snape’s head, also leaving some tablets of headache medicine and a glass of water on his bedside table (along with his potion).
- you softly removed his robe and cover him up with a quilt thrown over his chair. finally, you thank whatever higher power there is that it is Christmas break and quietly leave your new friend.
bonus!!!!
- when Snape wakes up, he tries to remember who took him home last night and his last image is you, putting a cloth on his forehead. he’d smile and grip onto the quilt a bit tighter.
- when he sees you, he’d give your hand a quick squeeze and bring it up to his lips, pressing a kiss.
Going on cases with him and always making comments to him because you can damn well profile a crime scene just as well as he can.
Being just as witty as him but better with people, meaning often with cases you talk to witnesses and with the police because they prefer you to Sherlock.
Becoming close friends with John and Mary.
When John and Sherlock go off on a case, you often like to spend time with Mary and sometimes Molly and just take a break from murder and drama. Sherlock can be quite full on and intense; it’s nice to relax for a moment.
Playing chess with him and Sherlock getting extremely frustrated when you continue to win.
Moriarty taking an interest in you and Sherlock becoming protective over you; Moriarty trying to make contact with you.
One time, when you walked into Sherlock’s apartment, Moriarty was waiting for you. He was sat in your chair, drinking tea (from your mug- to this day, you’re both creeped out and impressed that he knew which one was yours), and he was patiently waiting. You talked, for a while, before Sherlock came back and Moriarty left.
Loving how witty Sherlock is with Anderson, but unlike Sherlock, you remember Lestrade’s name.
Meeting Sherlock’s brother. It annoys Sherlock how well you get on with Mycroft, but you assure him he’s your favourite Holmes.
Making sure Sherlock is nice and respectful to Molly and your friends because you’re a good influence who is smart, but cares about people too.
Being Sherlock’s Sister But Being Smarter Than Him And Dating Moriarty Would Involve...
[MASTER LIST]
Being Sherlock’s sister but being smarter than him and dating Moriarty would involve:
You’d always been a curious person- always wanting, longing to know more. Most people couldn’t satisfy your curiosity; they were too boring, too slow; too… average.
It was a similar story in school- the teachers never taught you what you wanted to know, so in the end with most of your classes you’d teach the syllabus to yourself then in class read about something actually interesting. Understandably, this caused a lot of teachers to dislike you.
But, you didn’t care- they were average anyway.
In the beginning, your brothers entertained your need for curiosity and longing for knowledge, but even they too got boring.
For a long time, you assumed you would be alone forever.
Until, you met a certain interesting person; it didn’t start over dating apps or in a bar. A letter. He sent you a letter, and right away you knew that whoever this person was, they were already better than anyone you had tried to get to know in the past.
M. That’s all you knew him as at first.
But, something about the mystery drew you in and before long you were arranging a meeting with him.
You probably should’ve been alarmed with how much he knew about you, but you got to know him pretty well too. You were no private investigator, but you did pretty damn well.
Moriarty. James Moriarty, who you would soon learn was Sherlock’s ‘nemesis.’
Moriarty became your obsession and you became his; it was intoxicating, to finally have someone that was on your level. And, he loved the way it got under Sherlock’s skin.
James always takes you on extravagant dates, to places both in the UK and abroad.
He knows how to travel in style and how to treat you. Although you insist you don’t need his money, he has a stronger will and is quite stubborn so you give in and let him spoil you rotten.
Sherlock and Mycroft beg you to come back but you are far too gone.
Will watch you from a distance as you’re interacting with the other guy, and probably can’t focus on John or Lestrade or whoever he’s talking to.
Eventually just tells the other person to shut up and he asks if it looks like you and the other person a flirting.
“Sherlock, you really don’t need to worry about y/n-” “Look at him! He’s definitely flirting with y/n. I’m going to go embarrass him.” “Sherlock, no!”
Goes over to you and really obviously puts his arm around you, but he doesn’t talk to you or look at you.
He’s too busy deducing this stranger and thinking about how to humiliate him.
After a few seconds Sherlock is RUTHLESS, will just keep annoying the stranger until he walks away.
“Why’d you to that, Sherlock?” “…”
Will probably give you the silent treatment for hours, just sulking on the couch and staring into space.
“Sherlock, just talk to me.” “…” “Sherlock!”
Begrudgingly starts talking to you after you keep bothering him.
“I don’t even know what you saw in that guy, he’s unemployed and lives alone with at least 6 cats.” “I didn’t see anything in him, Sherlock, I was just having a conversation!”
Sherlock: Headcanon being Mycroft's daughter and skipping school for "working" with your uncle
Can this actually be my life please I wanna work with Sherlock. I had fun writing this AHHAH thanks for the request anon!
Being Mycroft’s daughter and skipping school for “work” with your uncle:
Sherlock likes taking you along to cases for three reasons: to annoy Mycroft, your deductions are entertaining, and sometimes you make good suggestions.
“This case is particularity gruesome, Sherlock.” “Call a cab, John, we’re picking up (y/n).” “Did you not just hear me say ‘gruesome’, Sherlock?” “I know. Perfect for (y/n).”
Mycroft obviously doesn’t drive you to school everyday, one of his assistants do.
Sherlock is already at your school, waiting for your car to drive away.
“Sherlock, I really don’t think we should be taking (y/n) out of class-” “Shut up John, the case is much more interesting than whatever Literature class (y/n) is in right now. She’s much too advanced for that educational nonsense.”
Sherlock goes to the school office during your first class.
“(y/n) Holmes, please report to the office. Your uncle is here saying there is a family emergency.” “Family emergency? I don’t think- Sherlock!”
You love hanging out with Sherlock and John. John likes hanging out with you too, but he disagrees with Sherlock on taking you out of school. Sherlock doesn’t care.
Sherlock always asks for your opinion before John’s. That kind of pisses John off, but then again he’s secretly fascinated at how tolerant and nice Sherlock is to his niece. Watching the two of you interact restores some faith in John that Sherlock is actually human.
“Ew, Sherlock look! That’s gross!” “Yes, good deduction, very articulate. Gross indeed.”
Sometimes Lestrade is there, and he’s always confused when he sees you.
“(y/n)? Isn’t she supposed to be at school?” “No, Lestrade, she’s here to help replace Anderson. And don’t you dare call Mycroft.” “I already did.” “George!” “It’s Greg!”
So Sherlock has to rush you back to school before Mycroft is there, but his car is already waiting outside the school.
“Hi dad.” “Don’t ‘hi dad’ me, (y/n). Where’s your uncle?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Really, (y/n), you’re as difficult as your uncl- SHERLOCK! GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW!”
So Sherlock has to sit next to you in the car and the both of you usually get a lecture. Mycroft lectures Sherlock about taking you out of school to see dead bodies and he lectures you about actually going with Sherlock.
But that doesn’t stop Sherlock from taking you to more cases and it doesn’t stop you from joining him.
Malaysian Green Huntsman Spider aka Lichen Huntsman
(Heteropoda boiei, Sparassidae)
Photos 1-3 by Bernard DuPont
Photos 4-6 by Art Anker
Posted with permission; do not remove credit.
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