read on wattpad or below cut ྀིྀི
•first post in here only to promote my fanfic that i haven’t uploaded 3 years ago til since last year so apologies for the bad grammar and fiction wise imagination.
holidays went by fast i thought as i get on the platform back to hogwarts, christmas was celebrated so was new years aahh..I've had quite the holidays. a warm smile creeps my face.
i finally put my stuff on top of my seat and sat down, a huff escaped me as i rest my head and stared out the window looking at the stunning view in-front of me.
For the first time in years, she had allowed herself to leave Scotland entirely—had taken a modest cottage near the coast of Cornwall where the sea air tangled in her hair and the mornings arrived slowly, wrapped in gold and salt. She had walked barefoot across cold sand, read novels she had abandoned in her youth, and written letters she never sent.
She had told herself she needed the quiet.
She had not admitted—to herself, or anyone else—that distance might soften the shape of a particular memory.
Hogwarts rose from the landscape now like something summoned rather than built, its towers piercing a sky still brushed with late-August warmth. The windows caught the sinking sun and threw it back in glints of amber. Boats were already gathering near the far shore, the first-years chattering in tremulous excitement.
She exhaled slowly as the carriage slowed to a stop in the courtyard. The doors opened. The scent of old stone and approaching autumn met her like an embrace she had not realized she missed.
Staff members filtered in through the great oak doors—Professor Flitwick animated as ever, Professor Sprout brushing soil from her sleeves, and Professor McGonagall upright and composed, her sharp eyes scanning the arrivals with quiet approval.
Y/N stepped down, smoothing her robes. She had always taken care with her appearance at the start of term. It was, she believed, a subtle promise: that learning could be beautiful.
And yet beneath the familiar rhythm of return—trunks floating overhead, owls streaking across the dusk—her pulse betrayed her.
He never left long. Even during holidays, it was whispered that he preferred the solitude of the dungeons to any brighter company. She had once teased him about it in passing.
"You avoid sunlight as though it has personally offended you," she had said.
"It has," he replied dryly. "It reveals far too much."
She smiled at the memory despite herself.
Inside the Entrance Hall, torches flickered to life. The marble staircase gleamed faintly. Her footsteps echoed, measured and calm, though her thoughts were anything but.
The Great Hall had not yet filled with students; the Sorting would not begin until tomorrow. Tonight was reserved for staff—planning, schedules, the quiet reshuffling of another academic year.
She had almost convinced herself she would not see him until morning.
The door to the staff room opened just as she approached, and he emerged as though conjured by her anticipation.
Severus Snape paused when he saw her.
It was the smallest hesitation. Barely perceptible. But she noticed.
His black robes fell in precise lines, immaculate as ever. His dark eyes flicked over her—assessing, unreadable—and for a fleeting moment something softer moved behind them. Something not meant for public view.
"Professor," he inclined his head slightly.
"Severus," she replied, her voice measured, warm but not intimate.
The corridor felt suddenly narrower.
"You have returned," he said, as though the possibility had been uncertain.
"I do believe that is customary at the end of summer," she answered lightly.
His mouth twitched. It might have been the ghost of a smirk.
"You enjoyed your holiday?"
There it was. A question that sounded perfunctory, but she knew better. He did not ask questions without purpose.
"I did," she said. "The sea is... restorative."
"Hmm." His gaze lingered for half a breath too long. "I imagine it would be."
Silence stretched—not uncomfortable, but charged with the weight of things neither would articulate.
He stepped aside, allowing her to pass into the staff room first. A small courtesy. Unnecessary. Noted.
Inside, the long table was already strewn with parchment and timetables. Professor McGonagall was discussing curriculum adjustments. A low hum of professional conversation filled the air.
She felt him settle beside her.
He always chose that seat.
It had begun by accident, years ago—an empty chair, a shared glance over some particularly absurd Ministry directive. It had become habit. Then expectation. Now it was something else entirely.
Their shoulders nearly brushed.
She could sense his presence as distinctly as if it were a spell humming at her side. The faint scent of crushed herbs and old books. The controlled stillness he wore like armor.
When Professor McGonagall addressed the room regarding inter-house collaboration, Y/N offered thoughtful suggestions. Snape countered with precise refinements. Their exchanges were seamless, almost rehearsed.
They did not look at one another while speaking.
After the meeting dispersed, parchment gathered and candles dimmed, Y/N lingered under the pretense of reorganizing her notes. She heard the others depart one by one.
Footsteps remained behind her.
"You've rearranged your classroom," Snape observed.
She did not turn immediately. "I felt a change was necessary."
"You rarely indulge in unnecessary change."
She faced him then. The staff room was nearly empty, shadows pooling along the edges of the walls. Only a few candles remained lit, casting unsteady gold across his sharp features.
"Learning what?" he asked.
"That routine," she said softly, "is not always synonymous with safety."
"Safety," he repeated, as though testing the word.
For a moment she wondered if she had gone too far. If the careful balance they maintained—this quiet orbit—had tilted.
But his expression did not harden. Instead, something almost vulnerable passed through it before he masked it once more.
"Honesty," he said evenly, "is frequently overrated."
"Only by those who fear its consequences."
His voice lowered, no longer the cutting tone he reserved for students. "And you believe I fear consequences?"
She held his gaze. "I believe you fear... exposure."
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was full of unsaid things.
He stepped closer—not enough to breach propriety, but enough that the space between them felt deliberate.
"You mistake caution for fear," he said quietly.
Their proximity was dangerous in its subtlety. Anyone walking in would see two colleagues engaged in earnest debate. Nothing more.
But beneath that veneer, something electric trembled.
A flicker of memory rose in her mind: late evenings spent grading essays side by side in companionable quiet; the rare dry remark that coaxed a genuine laugh from him; the way he had once, almost absentmindedly, corrected a smudge of ink on her wrist with the gentlest brush of his thumb.
Neither had acknowledged it.
A sound in the corridor broke the moment.
He stepped back instantly, distance restored as though it had never been breached.
"Term begins tomorrow," he said, composure seamless. "You should rest."
She almost smiled at the irony.
She gathered her parchments. "Goodnight, Severus."
His eyes met hers one final time.
The castle shifted overnight.
By morning, the halls were alive with the rustle of robes and nervous anticipation. First-years stared at the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall as though it were the sky itself reborn. Older students reunited in loud clusters.
Y/N moved through it all with practiced grace.
Teaching grounded her. The structure of lessons, the spark in a student's eye when comprehension dawned—it was a rhythm she trusted.
And yet she found her awareness drawn, again and again, toward the dungeon corridor.
At lunch, she arrived in the Great Hall to find her usual seat unoccupied.
She told herself it did not matter.
He arrived moments later.
Their eyes met across the length of the staff table. A silent acknowledgment. A current passing invisibly between them.
When he took his seat, their sleeves brushed.
"Your third-years," he murmured without looking at her, "have already managed to ignite a tapestry."
She suppressed a smile. "Innovation should be encouraged."
"Arson is not innovation."
A faint huff escaped him—almost laughter.
Around them, conversation carried on. No one paid particular attention to the quiet exchange at the far end of the table.
But Professor McGonagall's eyes flicked toward them once, thoughtful.
That evening, rain lashed against the castle windows. The corridors emptied early; even the most restless students retreated to their common rooms.
Y/N remained in her classroom longer than necessary.
When a soft knock sounded at the door, she knew who it would be.
He stepped inside, damp at the hem of his robes from the storm.
"You left this," he said, holding out a slim book.
It was the novel she had taken to Cornwall. The one she had meant to keep private.
"You found it in the staff room," she said carefully.
He did not move to leave.
"Did you read it?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Heat crept into her cheeks. "It was not assigned reading."
His gaze lifted to hers. "It was... unexpectedly hopeful."
She studied him. "You sound almost surprised."
Thunder rolled outside, low and distant.
"Hope," she said quietly, "is not weakness."
"I never claimed it was."
"No," she conceded. "You merely distrust it."
Another stretch of silence—but softer now.
"You believe," he said at last, "that one should act upon every... inclination."
"I believe," she replied carefully, "that denying them does not make them disappear."
The candlelight flickered between them.
He stepped closer again—close enough that she could see the fine tension along his jaw, the restraint he wore like a second skin.
"And if acting upon them," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "invites complications neither party can afford?"
Her pulse thundered louder than the storm.
"Then," she said steadily, "perhaps the question becomes whether avoidance is truly less complicated."
They stood there—two professors, rational and composed—balanced on the edge of something fragile and undeniable.
But to set the book gently on her desk between them.
"I will see you at breakfast," he said, retreating once more into propriety.
Autumn settled fully over Hogwarts in the weeks that followed. Leaves turned copper and gold. The lake darkened. The castle breathed in its familiar patterns.
They resumed their quiet orbit.
Shared glances across the Great Hall. Low-voiced debates in staff meetings. Occasional walks along the battlements under the guise of discussing curriculum revisions.
But something undeniable.
One evening, as the sun sank behind the Forbidden Forest, they stood side by side along the stone parapet.
Students' laughter drifted faintly from below.
"You considered not returning this year," he said suddenly.
She looked at him, startled. "How did you know?"
"You hesitated in your correspondence."
Of course he had noticed.
"I needed distance," she admitted.
"Nor did I," he said quietly.
The admission settled between them like a fragile truth.
Wind tugged at her hair. His robes stirred beside her.
They did not reach for one another.
For now, it was enough to stand there—two guarded souls who had found, against their better judgment, something steady in the other's presence.
Ok so this what my 13 old brain thought up a year ago. still trying to understand how to make it seem more than understandable then how it would sound in our heads. >_<
