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Chapter Text

A faint yet hurried knock echoed through the chamber walls of a man with thick black hair. His robes brushed against the floor as his hands rested lightly on the quilt, the nib of his quill gliding across parchment in neat, deliberate strokes.

Severus Snape’s eyes flicked toward the door for only a moment. The knob twitched, then the door creaked open an inch. He looked back down at the parchment, continuing to write as if the intrusion were expected.

“To what do I owe your visit at this hour, Professor Slughorn?” His voice was calm, low, and precise.

“Well, I intentionally came here,” Slughorn replied with a sheepish smile, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. “I thought perhaps you’d accompany me to the Three Broomsticks for a drink. It has been quite a long day.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

Snape did not stop writing. “I take it the students you usually pester for company were unavailable. So now you’ve come to me.” His tone was bone-dry.

Slughorn chuckled nervously. “Not at all, my boy, not at all. You know I value your company greatly.” His eyes darted to the potions lining the shelves. “It’s just that the others seemed occupied, and I’m dreadfully in need of a sip of firewhisky and a taste of pumpkin pasty.”

“Put that back,” Snape murmured, without even glancing up.

Slughorn froze mid-reach toward a vial. “Ah—yes, of course,” he said, quickly returning it to its place.

Snape finally lifted his gaze, dark eyes meeting Slughorn’s with a measured calm that made the older man fidget.

“Very well,” Snape said after a long pause. “I suppose I could tolerate it. I’ll join you, though I see no reason to find it entertaining.” He rose from his chair, sliding it neatly back under the table before striding toward the door.

Slughorn’s face split into a wide grin. “Splendid! Excellent choice, Severus.” He gathered his cloak eagerly, and within moments, both professors vanished into thin air.

---

A sharp crack echoed through the thick night air as they appeared in Hogsmeade. The crowd around the Three Broomsticks was lively and loud, voices overlapping in laughter and chatter. Slughorn shuffled toward the pub with enthusiasm, while Snape followed at a measured pace, his long strides parting the crowd with minimal effort.

Inside, Slughorn found a seat near the bar, already ordering a plate of pumpkin pasty and a tankard of firewhisky. Snape sat beside him, his expression unreadable as Slughorn began eating noisily.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Slughorn said through a mouthful of pie. “It’s been ages since I’ve had one of these.” He pushed another plate toward Snape. “Go on, try one.”

Snape declined with a curt shake of his head.

Slughorn sighed dramatically, taking another bite. “Well, more for me then.”

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Slughorn set his tankard down and turned toward Snape with a lowered voice. “Professor, I didn’t just bring you here for company. I need advice.”

Snape’s hand stilled around his glass. “I suspected as much.”

Slughorn leaned in, lowering his voice further. “I can’t discuss this at Hogwarts. Too many ears about. It’s about Flitwick. His health. He’s been overworked since You-Know-Who’s return. All those enchantments and wards—it’s taken a toll on him. Albus is worried.”

He fiddled with his waistcoat, glancing around before continuing. “Now there’s talk of bringing someone in to assist him, or worse, replace him.”

Snape’s expression remained impassive. “Then do not replace him,” he said after a pause. “Hire someone to learn under him. An assistant, not a successor. It keeps his pride intact and still relieves the strain. Dumbledore gets his reassurance, and Flitwick keeps his dignity.”

Slughorn blinked, impressed. “Brilliant as always, Severus.”

Snape finally reached for a fork and sampled a small piece of the pasty. “Hardly brilliant. Just practical.”

---

A week later, Hogwarts was alive again.

The Great Hall buzzed with laughter, the air alive with the energy of returning students. Candles floated above the long tables, their glow reflected in the polished silverware.

Among the faculty, a young woman sat at the staff table, hands fidgeting with her utensils. Verena Silverleigh was new, elegant, and visibly nervous. Her dark brown hair was neatly pinned, and she kept aligning her forks and goblet as if symmetry might calm her nerves.

The hall filled rapidly. At last, the candles flared brighter as Dumbledore rose from his seat, smiling warmly.

“Dearest witches and wizards, welcome to another year at Hogwarts. Before our feast begins, I have a small announcement.”

His eyes sparkled. “Professor Flitwick will be joined this year by an assistant to share his duties in Charms. Please extend a warm welcome to Professor Verena Silverleigh.”

All eyes turned toward her.

McGonagall nudged her gently. “Up you get, dear.”

Startled, Verena rose quickly, knocking over her goblet with a loud clang. A ripple of laughter passed through the hall. She smiled awkwardly and gave a small wave before sitting down again, cheeks flushed.

As the feast began, she poured juice for her neighbors in an attempt to recover. McGonagall nodded approvingly. Sprout thanked her with a warm smile.

Then she turned to the man beside her—pale skin, black robes, hooked nose, expression unreadable.

Snape’s eyes were fixed on his plate, his low voice carrying toward Professor Sprout. “Perhaps a draught of human transfiguration would suffice, if stabilized properly.”

Verena hesitated, then offered politely, “Would you like some juice, Professor?”

Snape looked up.

For a moment, time stopped. His gaze locked on hers, studying her face as though trying to place it. The air seemed to thicken between them before he finally extended his goblet.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

She filled it carefully and smiled. “I’m Verena Silverleigh.”

“I am aware,” he replied, tone clipped. “The Headmaster announced it minutes ago.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Right. Of course.”

For the rest of the meal, she stole discreet glances at him. There was something magnetic about the way he carried himself—controlled, deliberate, as though he were perpetually holding back a storm.

“Verena!” Slughorn’s jovial voice interrupted her thoughts. He waddled toward the table, Hagrid following close behind.

He plopped into the seat beside her, grinning. “Brought a few things for your classroom. Hagrid helped me pick them out.”

Hagrid handed her a bag filled with feathers and candles. “Figured yeh might be needin’ these.”

“Thank you,” Verena said, smiling warmly.

Slughorn leaned closer. “Between us, my dear, you’ve Severus to thank for being here. It was his idea you assist Flitwick.”

Verena blinked. “Professor Snape?”

Across the table, Snape coughed softly, setting down his goblet before standing and leaving without a word.

Slughorn carried on, oblivious. “Albus thought it best, and Severus agreed. Said you’d be a fine addition.”

Verena frowned slightly. “How did he even know me?”

Hagrid chuckled. “You were in the Prophet a while back, weren’t yeh? Somethin’ about Ministry work.”

She smiled faintly, though her mind lingered on Snape’s abrupt exit.

“How tall is he anyway?” she muttered under her breath.

---

The next morning, Verena hurried to the Charms classroom, arms full of books and feathers. Flitwick was already there, floating candles into place.

“The students will arrive any moment,” he squeaked.

“Yes, Professor. I brought extra feathers in case some get… accidentally exploded.”

He chuckled approvingly, and soon the room filled with students.

The lesson flew by. Verena’s voice grew hoarse from guiding spell after spell, but the spark in her students’ eyes was reward enough.

By the end of the day, she returned to her quarters, greeted by the flutter of an owl. A letter awaited her, sealed with elegant handwriting.

Loveliest Ver,

I can’t believe how empty this office feels without you. I miss your laugh. How was your first day teaching? Write me soon, my love.

– Rowan Thorne

Verena exhaled softly. She remembered their last argument, his anger, the slammed doors, the broken plate. And now he missed her. She folded the letter neatly, placing it on her desk before stroking her owl, Duchess.

A knock startled her. A timid first-year Slytherin stood outside, clutching her books.

“Professor Silverleigh? I had some questions about Charms,” the girl murmured.

“Come in, dear. Let’s go over them together.”

Hours passed as they practiced. When the girl finally smiled in triumph, Verena’s heart warmed. She offered to walk her to the Slytherin dorms, not wanting her to roam the halls alone.

The corridors glowed faintly with torchlight as they descended into the dungeons.

“Thank you, Professor!” the girl said, disappearing behind the stone doors.

“Professor Silverleigh.”

Verena turned sharply. Snape stood behind her, half-shrouded in shadow.

“Oh, Professor! Please, just call me Verena,” she said with a polite smile.

He ignored the suggestion. “May I ask what business you have in the Slytherin dungeons?” His voice was measured but carried quiet authority.

“I was escorting a student,” she explained. “She came to my chambers for help, and I couldn’t let her walk alone.”

Snape’s expression didn’t change, though something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. “Dinner begins at seven,” he said finally. “The buffet is punctual.”

And with that, he swept past her, robes trailing behind him like a moving shadow.

---

That evening, the Great Hall shimmered with candlelight once more. Verena sat at the staff table, nerves settling as conversation buzzed around her.

“Settling in?” McGonagall asked kindly.

“I’m managing,” Verena said.

Flitwick beamed. “She’s doing splendidly already!”

Snape’s low voice cut through their chatter. “One day does not define a career, Flitwick. We’ll see how long her optimism lasts.”

Verena smiled tightly. “I assure you, Professor, I’ve endured worse than overconfident first-years.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “Letters already, Professor Silverleigh? Family?”

“No, not family,” Verena said softly. “My partner. Rowan Thorne. He works at the Ministry.”

Snape’s hand froze midair.

“A partner,” he repeated quietly. His tone was unreadable, but his eyes had gone colder.

“Yes. He writes often,” Verena said, smiling faintly.

Flitwick clapped his hands together. “How lovely! Long-distance is never easy.”

Snape said nothing more. His hand tightened around his goblet before setting it down with a soft clink.

He didn’t speak again for the rest of dinner, though Verena felt his gaze on her from time to time.

Chapter Text

The night air bit against Verena’s skin as she left the Great Hall, the echo of clinking silverware and murmured goodnights still lingering in the vaulted corridors.

She clutched her stack of essays tighter to her chest, trying not to think about the way Snape’s eyes had followed her across the table, sharp and unreadable.

He hadn’t said another word after that one

“A partner?” though the syllables seemed to cling to her even now, cloying and unshakable.

She told herself she was imagining the weight of his gaze. She told herself he didn’t care.

And yet…

She didn’t notice him until she nearly collided at the base of the stairwell leading to the dungeons.

“Professor Snape,” she blurted, startled.

He stood in shadow, arms folded, black robes falling like a curtain around him.

“You should watch where you’re going. Hallways are not designed for aimless wandering.”

“I wasn’t wandering,” she said, bristling before she could stop herself. “I was—”

“Carrying essays. At this hour,” he interrupted smoothly. “Merlin forbid you delegate the drudgery.” The corner of his mouth twitched, but not in amusement. She realized belatedly that he was trying, poorly, to keep his voice casual.

“Well,” she said, gathering her composure, “I find it… grounding.”

“Grounding,” he repeated, his dark eyes fixed on hers. The word tasted strange in his mouth, like he was testing it for ulterior meanings.

For a long moment neither of them spoke. She was acutely aware of the way the torchlight threw shadows across his face, sharpening cheekbones, darkening the hollows beneath his eyes.

Finally, he shifted. “Rowan Thorne,” he said flatly.

The name hit the air like a curse.

She swallowed. “Yes. What about him?”

His eyes narrowed, though his voice remained deceptively quiet. “Stubborn as ever, you said.”

She frowned. “You were listening rather closely.”

“Eavesdropping,” he corrected. “An unflattering word, but accurate.”

She almost laughed, though the sound died before it could leave her throat. His expression was unreadable, a fortress of restraint.

“Why does it matter to you?” she asked softly.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that the cold stone wall pressed at her back.

“It doesn’t,” he said finally, voice low and edged, though the tension in his frame betrayed him.

Then he swept past her, robes snapping against the floor, leaving nothing but the lingering smell of spice and bitter herbs in his wake.

She exhaled, realizing she’d been holding her breath the entire time.

But the question had lodged itself in her chest, stubborn as any curse.

If it doesn’t matter to him… then why did it feel like it did?

---

Another day, another class had passed, and Verena scurried her way outside the room into the corridors. After a while, she slammed her satchel down on the staffroom table, and parchment spilled out like confetti in a gale.

“Bloody useless thing,” she muttered, yanking at the strap. It had snapped halfway down the corridor, scattering her carefully planned lessons.

She tried knotting it, twisting it, even looping it in ways that felt desperate and slightly ridiculous, but the leather refused to cooperate.

From the far end of the room, a voice cut through the quiet.

“Subtle entrance as always.”

She rolled her eyes. Snape, of course. She didn’t even need to look up; the figure hunched in the corner, robes pooling around him like spilled ink, was unmistakable.

But curiosity had its claws in her, so she glanced, just for a second. His black eyes flicked toward her, sharp and precise, before returning to whatever torture he was inflicting on some essay.

“My bag just gave up on me,” she snapped, gathering her scattered papers. “I don’t need commentary.”

His eyebrow lifted. “Merlin forbid you plan ahead and purchase something sturdy. Though perhaps dramatics suit you better.”

She glared at him. “Do you have a spare? Anything?”

A long pause. Then he set his quill down with the faintest sigh, as if touching anything mundane was an affront to the universe. He reached into his inner pocket and produced a small sewing kit.

“…You carry that around?” she asked, incredulous.

“Yes, I,” he replied, lips curling. “In case of thrilling social occasions. But mostly because, unlike certain colleagues, I do not discard objects that show wear.”

She smirked. “You… sew? That’s rich.”

He ignored her and threaded the needle with long, precise fingers. She watched, feeling something like fascination, or maybe mild fear, as he began stitching the strap.

“Watch closely,” he said suddenly, voice sharp. “It’s not as simple as it looks. One misplaced stitch and the whole repair is ruined. See? Like this.” He demonstrated a small tuck, holding the leather taut with one hand while guiding the needle through with the other.

“Notice how I angle the needle. Too shallow and it frays. Too deep and the strap weakens. Most people… would fail this immediately.”

“I’m taking mental notes,” she said, leaning in, though secretly she was mesmerized by the way his hands moved, precise, confident, deliberate.

He snorted. “You’d still manage to ruin it.”

She shot him a glare. “Don’t tempt me.”

He glanced up at her, just for a moment, and she felt the weight of his stare. “Do you even know what you’re holding? A strap is not just a strap. It’s tension, distribution of weight, an engineering problem. Most of your students would call it leather and move on. I… do not.”

She chuckled, partly because his obsession was ridiculous, partly because it was impressive. “So, this is your thrilling social occasion?”

“Hardly,” he muttered, concentrating. “I have thrilling social occasions. This is… maintenance.” He moved the needle in a fluid motion, guiding it through the fraying edge.

“Notice how I tie off here, then cut the thread just so. Precision. Discipline. Elegance.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You sound like a master chef explaining how to dice an onion.”

“Better,” he said flatly. “One misstep here, and the bag is worthless. One misstep in the kitchen, and someone gets mildly irritated. There’s no comparison.”

She bit back a laugh, then reached out instinctively to touch the strap. He froze, gaze snapping to hers. “Do not,” he warned.

“Relax,” she teased. “I’m not going to ruin it.”

“Most people say that before they ruin it.” He resumed stitching, but this time his movements slowed slightly, deliberate, as if teaching an invisible pupil.

“Notice the tension here. Leather has memory. Pull too hard and it will never return. Pull too lightly and it collapses under strain. Most of your colleagues would never think of this. But you, well, perhaps you’re at least curious.”

“I am,” she admitted, fascinated despite herself. “I never thought about leather like that. I just… carry things.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he focused on the stitch in front of him, moving with absolute care. Then he glanced at her, sharp as a scalpel.

“Carrying is not enough. Objects demand respect. You will learn that eventually… or break them. And with them, perhaps yourself.”

She tilted her head, half intrigued, half annoyed by the veiled threat. “Charming.”

“Flattery is unnecessary,” he muttered, finishing the last stitch. “Now watch carefully as I tie off. There is technique even here. Not just a knot, but orientation, pressure, symmetry.” He secured the thread and cut it with his teeth. “Observe. Symmetry. Precision. Done.”

He handed the satchel back. She lifted it, testing the strap. It was perfect. Solid. Reliable. Almost beautiful.

“Not bad,” she said, smirking. “Almost makes up for your personality.”

His black eyes locked on hers, sharp and dangerous. “If you breathe a word of this, your tea will taste faintly of doxy droppings for the rest of term.”

She grinned, tilting her head. “Your secret’s safe. For now.”

“Do you know,” he said suddenly, voice quieter, “that sewing requires patience? That’s why I do it. Precision. Control. Discipline. Most students, or colleagues, throw away what’s damaged. They do not try to repair. They do not bother. They… discard.”

She felt a flicker of understanding, something human hidden beneath the layers of scowl and sarcasm. “I get that,” she admitted softly. “I don’t always throw things away either.”

He didn’t reply immediately. Just picked up his quill again, but she noticed the small pause before he began scratching at the essay again, as if he was thinking about something else entirely. She couldn’t tell if it was the bag, the lesson, or her that lingered in his mind.

She gathered her parchments, slung the bag over her shoulder, and glanced at him one last time. That ghost of a smirk, almost imperceptible, tugged at the corner of his mouth, and she realized something that made her chest tighten: for one fleeting moment, he was almost… human.

And her? She felt that too.

---

Still impressed despite herself, the strap felt sturdy under her hand, a little miracle of leather and thread.

Snape picked up his quill again, pretending the moment never happened, though she couldn’t help but notice the small stiffness in his movements, as if the act of sewing had been mildly inconvenient, yet strangely personal.

“By the way,” she said, testing the waters, “Flitwick isn’t in his classroom. I checked, nothing posted on the board, no lights, no… him.”

Snape froze mid-gesture, quill hovering above parchment, like she’d interrupted a particularly delicate potion.

“…And this matters because?” His voice was flat, but she detected a sharp edge beneath the monotone.

“Because we were supposed to cover his lesson today,” she replied, tilting her head. “I can handle the students, but they get rowdy without him.”

He snorted, a sound that almost resembled laughter.

“Rowdy. Of course. You find students rowdy when someone competent is absent. Naturally.” He gestured vaguely at the satchel, as if implying that repairing objects, or, apparently, controlling students, required the same kind of care.

“I’m not blaming you for this,” she muttered, though there was a faint teasing edge to her voice. “I just… didn’t think you’d notice. You seem… otherwise occupied.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Occupied? Perhaps. Focused. Attentive. Disciplined. Or perhaps I am simply content to allow chaos in other people’s realms. You might call it strategy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Strategy, huh? Sounds suspiciously like laziness.”

He didn’t answer immediately, only returned to his quill for a heartbeat before finally speaking, voice quieter now, almost conspiratorial.

“Strategy is… complicated. One must understand the variables, the likelihood of failure, the… potential for collateral damage.” He tapped the tip of his quill against his temple. “Chaos is rarely random. It has rules. I know them.”

She couldn’t help but grin. “So, if I understand correctly… you’re saying Flitwick’s absence is perfectly predictable, and therefore nothing to panic over?”

Snape tilted his head, clearly debating whether to indulge her. “Predictable? Perhaps. Controllable? Rarely. Nevertheless, it is… manageable. You, presumably, can survive the ordeal.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’ll survive. But the students… they’ll try to eat me alive without his presence. You should’ve seen the look on Crabbe’s face this morning. Like I personally stole his chocolate frog.”

For a fleeting moment, she swore she saw the corner of Snape’s mouth twitch. “I do not find this amusing,” he muttered, though there was a faint sharpness to his voice that betrayed mild interest.

“You should maintain discipline. It is your responsibility as a teacher. You will not let incompetence, either your own or your colleagues’, derail the class.”

“Of course,” she replied, tilting her head at him, smirking. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the master of precision.”

He shot her a look that was part warning, part… amusement. She couldn’t place it, and that’s what made it so infuriating.

“Precision,” he said carefully, “is not optional. Even in matters you consider trivial. A misstep is not merely an inconvenience. It is… a lesson. One I hope you understand.”

She shrugged, though inside she was laughing. He was still lecturing her, but somehow, against all reason, she was enjoying it. There was a rhythm here, a push and pull, and she felt… alive in the staffroom in a way that only happened when someone made her simultaneously terrified and curious.

“And Flitwick?” she pressed, leaning a little closer. “You’re going to tell me where he went, or should I prepare for complete anarchy?”

He considered this, his eyes narrowing. “Flitwick is… absent. That is all you need to know. Perhaps he has matters to attend to. Perhaps he is incapacitated by… some minor calamity. You will find out in due course, no doubt. I do not concern myself with… the trivial wanderings of colleagues. I concern myself with results.”

She bit back a laugh, picturing the tiny professor bouncing around the castle in some chaotic misadventure.

“Results, right. I’ll make sure they don’t destroy the classroom while he’s gone.”

Snape tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that felt like it could weigh her down. “Do not underestimate them,” he said, voice low.

“They are unpredictable. Clever. Dangerous in ways you may not anticipate. Do not assume that absence equates to harmlessness.”

She grinned despite herself, heart beating faster than it should. “Got it. Dangerous, unpredictable, clever. Check, check, check. I’ll keep my wits about me.”

He nodded once, curt, and finally turned his attention back to his work, quill scratching against parchment with that familiar, infuriating precision.

She gathered her scattered lessons and strapped the satchel over her shoulder, walking toward the door with the smallest smile tugging at her lips.

As she left the staffroom, she glanced back at him, expecting the same scowl that was his signature. But for a split second, there was something… else.

A hint of satisfaction. Or maybe amusement. Maybe both.

Either way, it was enough to make her pause at the doorway, just long enough to wonder if she’d ever get used to moments like this in the presence of Severus Snape, or if that was precisely why they lingered in her mind, long after the staffroom was empty.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape had barely managed a wink of sleep that night. His mind kept circling back to the woman with the brown eyes.

How, in Merlin’s name, had she managed to draw more than a few sentences out of him? They had only met a few weeks prior. There was no shared bond, no particular reason for her to linger in his thoughts, yet the memory of her felt… unforced. Natural, even.

Perhaps he ought to slow himself down.

He entered the Great Hall just as the morning chatter began to swell. His teaching robes clung uncomfortably to his skin, still damp from the mist outside. Across the staff table, Professor Silverleigh sat with Professor McGonagall, the two deep in cheerful conversation.

“Yes, indeed!” McGonagall was saying, her Scottish accent sharp but fond. “Miss Poppins is quite the remarkable student. Her insights into the Goblin Rebellions are most impressive for a first year, bright as a button, that girl.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t the only one who noticed,” Silverleigh replied with a light laugh. “Quite an advanced mindset for her age. She reminds me of a young Hermione Granger, actually, without the hand-raising every five seconds.”

McGonagall chuckled softly.

Their conversation was cut short when a sudden commotion rose from the Hufflepuff table. A group of older Slytherins had cornered a nervous-looking first-year.

Snape’s head snapped toward the sound. His robes flared as he strode down the aisle.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice low and venomous.

The Slytherins froze instantly, recognizing their Head of House. None dared to look at him.

“Ten points from Slytherin,” he said smoothly, pausing just long enough to let the words sting. “And a three-hour detention—each.”

A collective groan rippled through the group. Snape’s expression didn’t waver.

He swept past them without another word and returned to the staff table, taking the empty seat beside Professor Silverleigh.

“That was quite the punishment, Professor,” Silverleigh remarked lightly, offering a small smile.

Snape inclined his head, eyes never leaving his plate.

Silverleigh took the hint, turning back to her breakfast, but her gaze flickered toward him once or twice, curious.

He must have a head full of thoughts right now, she mused silently.

The Great Hall slowly emptied, the echo of scraping benches fading into the corridors. Silverleigh gathered her notes, balancing a half-eaten croissant atop her parchment.

“Busy day ahead?” McGonagall asked, adjusting her spectacles. “As always,” she said with a polite smile. “Flitwick wants me to review the new batch of first years. Their wand control’s been... explosive.” McGonagall’s lips twitched. “Try not to lose an eyebrow this time.” Silverleigh chuckled softly, waving her off before heading out of the hall.

The castle was alive with morning light, gold spilling through stained glass windows. Her heels clicked quietly against the stone floor, until another set of footsteps matched her pace.

She glanced sideways.

Snape.

His robes whispered along the ground, stride even, gaze fixed ahead.

“Professor Snape,” she greeted. He inclined his head slightly, robes sweeping like ink behind him. “Off to your first lesson?” His tone was composed, almost casual, but there was a deliberate calmness beneath it, the kind that came from someone reigning himself in. “Yes,” she said, tightening her hold on the parchment against her chest. “Professor Flitwick insisted we start practical work early. I suspect he’s testing how I handle chaos.”

Snape hummed, a low, thoughtful sound that might have been amusement if it weren’t so tightly contained. “The first-years,” he said quietly, “excel at chaos. They confuse enthusiasm for ability.” Silverleigh laughed under her breath. “You make them sound like a potion gone wrong.” “Most of them are,” he replied, deadpan. But the faintest flicker of something softened his eyes, an almost imperceptible warmth quickly shuttered.

They continued down the corridor in silence. Portraits along the walls leaned closer, whispering in excitement; it wasn’t often Severus Snape was seen speaking to anyone for this long, especially not with this kind of… civility.

At the foot of the staircase, she hesitated. “You know,” she said after a beat, “you surprised me earlier.” Snape turned his head slightly, one dark brow raised. “Did I?”

“Ten points from Slytherin,” she reminded him. “I didn’t think you’d be so… fair.”

His gaze cut toward her, sharp as a blade, though his voice stayed measured. “Fairness is not favoritism. Discipline applies to everyone, especially my own House.” “Of course,” she said quickly, a teasing edge in her tone. “I meant it as a compliment, not a criticism.”

For a fleeting moment, his mouth twitched, an echo of a smirk he didn’t quite allow to exist.

Then he seemed to catch himself. His expression cooled, shoulders straightening. “Flattery,” he said, voice softer now, “will not endear you to me.” Silverleigh tilted her head, unable to resist. “Who said it was flattery?”

That earned her silence. The kind that pressed heavy between them, thick with something unsaid, something perilously close to interest. He looked at her then, fully, as though weighing the risk of speaking again. But instead, he inclined his head slightly. “Good day, Professor.”

His voice was polite. Distant. Controlled.

And yet, his steps slowed as he turned away, as if his body resisted what his mind demanded. Silverleigh watched him descend, black robes whispering along the staircase. The morning light caught at the edge of his hair, and for just a second, she thought she saw him glance back.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

She exhaled softly, heart tapping faster than it should. There was something about him, something deliberate, restrained, like a man perpetually standing at the edge of saying what he shouldn’t. And for reasons she couldn’t quite explain… she hoped he wouldn’t stop walking beside her next time.

---

The teacher’s lounge smelled faintly of parchment and black tea. The fire burned low, shadows flickering over worn armchairs and stacks of unmarked essays.
Verena sat hunched at the far end of the table, face buried in her hands. Her hair was loose, escaping its usual tidy bun, and the ink on her fingers had long dried into faint gray smudges.

Her day had been… disastrous. The first-years had turned her classroom into a dueling pit. Someone transfigured a quill into a frog, another set a desk aflame, and not a single spell went the way it should. Without Flitwick, the chaos had eaten her alive.

She replayed every moment in her head, every trembling incantation, every burst of sparks gone wrong. She’d imagined teaching would feel rewarding, empowering even. Instead, she’d spent the entire day feeling like she was drowning in a sea of eager, reckless hands.

“Oh, it happens to all of us, dear,” cooed Sprout, patting her arm. Verena forced a weak laugh, the kind that only half-reaches the throat. “First term’s always the roughest,” said McGonagall from behind her teacup. “You’ll find your rhythm soon enough.”

Would she, though? Verena wasn’t sure. She’d been so determined to prove she belonged here, to show she wasn’t just some replacement filling in for Flitwick, but the students had seen straight through her composure. They could smell fear. Children always could.

She glanced down at her hands. Ink stains under her nails, a scorch mark near her sleeve cuff. Hardly the image of authority she’d imagined.

Her eyes flicked up, just once, to the far end of the table.

Snape sat there, silent, one hand curled around his teacup, gaze unreadable. He hadn’t offered advice, nor mockery. Just… quiet attention. He always seemed to look without looking, as if he was cataloging every twitch of expression, every falter, but pretending not to. She didn’t know what unnerved her more, the thought that he might be judging her, or the faint, ridiculous hope that he wasn’t.

Maybe he thought she was weak. Maybe he didn’t think of her at all.

Her throat tightened.

For some reason, that made her want to cry more than anything else.

Because at that moment, what she wanted more than comfort or reassurance was for him to say something. Anything. But he didn’t. He just sat there, still as stone, the steam from his teacup curling between them like a wall.

wasnt it just yesterday, that he couldn't manage to shut his yap to threads and needles?

And so Verena smiled faintly, pretending she hadn’t been waiting for his voice. Pretending that the silence didn’t feel heavier because it was his.

The clock struck seven, and the soft murmur of the teachers’ lounge began to fade. McGonagall closed her ledger with a decisive snap, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “Dinner’s ready in the Great Hall,” she said briskly, glancing at the younger witch slouched by the fire.

Verena managed a small, practiced smile, the kind that suggested gratitude more than joy. “Go ahead,” she murmured. “I think I’ll rest tonight.”

Sprout clucked sympathetically. “Don’t overwork yourself, dear. It’s only your first week.”

“Yes,” Flitwick would have said if he’d been there, “you’ll find your rhythm soon enough.” But he wasn’t. And Verena felt his absence like a missing heartbeat.

Within minutes, the lounge emptied, McGonagall’s crisp footsteps fading down the hall, Sprout humming softly to herself, even the portrait above the mantel yawning into silence.

The fire crackled and hissed, sparks catching on her reflection in the windowpane. She stared at herself, the tired slump of her shoulders, ink-stained fingers still twitching like they were casting spells she no longer believed would work.

I shouldn’t have raised my voice, she thought, rubbing her temples. Flitwick never had to. They listened to him.

She told herself it was just the adjustment period, that she would adapt, but her confidence had been paper-thin to begin with, and the day had torn straight through it.

Her mind drifted. To the laughter echoing down the corridors. To Snape’s silence at the end of the table earlier, the kind that wasn’t dismissive, but heavy, watchful. It wasn’t comfort, exactly, but it lingered longer than Sprout’s pat on the arm or McGonagall’s brisk encouragement.

He hadn’t said a word.

And still, it was his silence she replayed.

The firelight dimmed as the clock ticked closer to eight. The warmth that filled the lounge only deepened the ache in her chest. She hadn’t realized how alone the castle could feel once the noise drained from it.

---

She felt it, as she closed the door of her chambers. Her nerves were frayed. And though every professor she’d spoken to had reassured her that “first terms are always dreadful,” it did nothing to quiet the small, panicked voice whispering you’re not cut out for this. She pressed her palms against her temples, breathing shallowly. The fire crackled, and she thought, perhaps if she just sat here long enough, her thoughts might settle.

But then—

The flames in her hearth flared green.

Her stomach dropped.

“Verena,” came a voice, smooth, familiar, and unwelcome.

Rowan Thorne.

The fire crackled through the floo-connected fireplace, turned emerald green. Rowan Thorne’s face flickered into view within the flames, his expression half-hidden by the swirling ash.

She froze, pulse thrumming in her throat. His face flickered in the emerald firelight, as sharply handsome as ever, though the corners of his mouth held that same cold amusement that had once both charmed and crushed her. “Rowan,” she said, voice barely steady. “It’s late.”

He tilted his head. “Is that how you greet me now?”

“I’m tired,” she muttered, sinking onto the chair nearest the fire. “I had a long day.”

“Ah, yes. Teaching. How’s that going?” His tone dripped with feigned curiosity. “You always had a soft spot for lost causes.” Her jaw tightened. “It’s going fine.”

He smiled, slow and cruel. “Fine. That word again. You use it every time you’re falling apart.”

Her fingers dug into her skirt. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” he said, though his eyes glinted with something sharp. “Just to talk. You’ve been distant.”

“You’re one to talk,” she snapped before she could stop herself. “I haven’t heard from you in days.”

“I’ve been busy,” he said simply.

“With what?”

He shrugged. “Things that matter.”

Her heart clenched. “Right. Because my life doesn’t matter, is that it?”

“Don’t twist my words, Verena.” His voice dropped, low, cutting. “You always do that. You take something small and make it about you.”

She stood suddenly, the movement sharp enough to make the chair scrape against the floor. “Because you never make it about me, Rowan! You never— Merlin, you never even ask how I’m doing!”

He stared at her, face unreadable, eyes cold. “You’re doing what you always do, begging for reassurance like it’s oxygen.”

That hit like a curse. Her throat went tight. “You know how hard this job is for me. You know how—”

“Oh, here we go again,” he interrupted. “The world’s against you, the students are impossible, and poor Verena just needs someone to hold her hand.”

“Stop it,” she said, voice trembling.

He leaned closer through the flames, tone syrupy and venomous all at once. “You wanted this, remember? You wanted to prove yourself. Maybe it’s not the students. Maybe you just can’t handle being challenged.”

Tears stung her eyes before she could stop them. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” His laugh was humorless. “You talk about fair while you make me the villain every time I don’t drop everything for you?”

“I’m not asking you to drop everything!” she shouted. “I’m asking you to care!”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The fire crackled between them like static.

Then, Rowan leaned back slightly, his tone softening, falsely gentle, the way it always did right before she broke. “You’re spiraling again,” he said. “Take a breath, Verena. You’re too emotional when you’re tired.”

She stared at him, anger and heartbreak twisting together in her chest. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“No, you’re trying to control the narrative,” she spat. “You always do. You twist things until I start doubting myself.”

He smiled faintly. “If you really think I’m that cruel, maybe you should ask yourself why you keep coming back.”

That silence

That horrible, suffocating silence

It said everything she didn’t want to admit.

Her throat worked as she swallowed hard. “Because I love you.” His gaze softened, but his words didn’t. “Then stop turning love into a weapon.”

That was it. That was always it. The way he said things that made her feel both small and guilty for wanting more.

“I can’t do this right now,” she whispered. “Not tonight.”

“Then don’t,” he said coldly, the fire dimming slightly. “Run away, like always.” Before she could respond, the connection severed, his face vanishing in a hiss of green sparks.

Verena’s breath came fast, shallow, shaky. She pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out, the other clutching the edge of the table. The room seemed to close in on her, heavy, silent, suffocating. Her chest ached. Every muscle in her body trembled with exhaustion and shame. She wanted to scream, or throw something, or maybe just disappear.

Instead, she stumbled toward the door. The air in her chambers had turned stifling, and she needed, something. Anything.

She flung the door open

—and froze.

Snape stood there.

One hand in his pocket, the other holding a small covered plate and a tiny glass vial.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. “Relaxing draught,” he said finally, his tone even, almost bored. “And food.” Her pulse jumped. “You didn’t have to—” “I did,” he interrupted, his gaze unreadable. “You’re working tomorrow. If you fall ill, I’ll be expected to cover Charms. I have no interest in that.”

The words were cold, clinical

but there was something in the way he said them.

Something careful. Deliberate.

Verena blinked hard, trying to pull herself together. “Right. Of course.” He extended the plate toward her. The faint scent of warm soup drifted upward. She reached out to take it, their fingers brushing for a fraction of a second, warm skin, a spark she pretended not to feel.

His eyes flicked briefly to hers, sharp but not unkind. “Eat,” he murmured. “Thank you,” she said softly, unsure whether she meant it for the food or the silence that followed.

He nodded once, “Try to sleep. You look worse than usual.” Her lips parted in half a scoff, half a sigh. “You have such a way with words, Severus.” A ghost of a smirk, barely there,  tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So I’ve been told.”

She hesitated. “Did you.. hear anything?” He nodded once. No unnecessary words. But his gaze flicked briefly past her shoulder, toward the extinguished Floo. “You should be careful who you let in through your fireplace,” he said quietly. “Not everyone calls with good intentions.”

Her breath caught. His expression didn’t change, but there was something behind it, restrained anger, not directed at her. “I—He’s my…” She trailed off, shame burning through her throat. “It’s complicated.”

“It usually is,” he murmured.

She blinked, taken aback by the faintest hint of… understanding in his voice.

a brief, steadying contact that grounded her more than anything she’d heard all evening.

“Eat,” he repeated simply. “Then sleep.” She nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, Professor.” He inclined his head and turned to leave. The corridor light caught the edge of his profile, carved in quiet restraint. But then, just before he rounded the corner, he hesitated.

“People like him,” he said without looking back, “will always convince you you’re too much. You’re not.”

Her breath hitched. “Snape—”

“Good night, Professor Silverleigh.”

He disappeared down the hall before she could respond. Verena closed the door slowly, her hand still trembling on the knob. She stared at the tray, the potion, the soup, and for the first time all day, felt the weight in her chest loosen.

Not because she felt better. But because, for once, someone hadn’t demanded she explain her pain. She sat at her desk, the potion’s soft scent curling around her. Maybe he didn’t mean to comfort her. Maybe it was just duty. But the way he’d looked at her, steady, wordless, unflinching, felt like something dangerously close to care.

And for Verena Silverleigh, who always begged for scraps of attention from men who vanished when she needed them most… that quiet, reluctant kindness was enough to make her feel seen.

Chapter Text

Professor Verena Silverleigh believed everything between her and Severus Snape would be awkward from this day forward. He had seen her raw, stripped of composure, her voice breaking in front of a dying fire. He had brought her food, a potion, and an excuse so blunt it almost fooled her into thinking it was all business. Almost.

Verena’s weekend teaching schedule was reserved solely for those preparing for their O.W.L.s for one hour in the morning, and thank Merlin she hadn’t run into Severus once. At last, she could breathe easy and enjoy a quiet afternoon in Hogsmeade.

Back in her chambers after teaching, her bed was a mess of papers and robes, her wand tossed somewhere among the sheets. Her head pounded with the kind of exhaustion that even sleep couldn’t cure. she stood before the mirror, brushing her hair until the rhythm steadied her breathing.

“Pull yourself together, Silverleigh,” she murmured to her reflection.

Her reflection didn’t argue, but it didn’t look convinced either. There were faint bruises under her eyes, the kind that spoke of restless nights and held-back tears.

Another set teaching robes hung over the chair, but she didn’t reach for them. Her gaze drifted instead to the green dress folded neatly at the foot of her bed. A soft, flowing pattern of vines and gold threads. The color of control. The color that made her feel, just for a moment, like herself.

It wasn’t school attire. But today, she didn’t care.

She slipped it on, fastened the belt at her waist, and smoothed the fabric with her hands. It had been a gift from a Muggle friend years ago, back when things felt lighter. It had always been her favorite.

A small voice piped from her desk. “Professor Silverleigh, are you ready for Hogsmeade?”

She turned, spotting Clara, a first-year Slytherin who had somehow managed to charm her way into Verena’s weekend plans. The girl was already wrapped in a winter cloak, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Nearly,” Verena said, summoning her wand from the mess of blankets with a flick. “Give me a moment, love.”

Clara grinned, eyes wide. “I like your dress. Green suits you.”

Verena smiled faintly. “It’s my favorite color.”

That seemed to delight the girl even more.

By the time they made their way down to the Great Hall, the chatter of students echoed off the stone walls, lively, chaotic, full of anticipation. At the front stood Professor Snape, robes swaying slightly as he addressed the group of older students who had drawn the short straw of supervision duty. His expression suggested he would rather be anywhere else.

“Do not stray,” he instructed curtly. “Do not attempt to purchase anything prohibited. And if any of you think for a moment I won’t know—”

“—you will,” one brave seventh-year finished dryly.

A glare silenced him immediately.

Verena joined the group near the rear, trying to appear inconspicuous, but Snape noticed her almost at once. His eyes flicked toward her, just a glance, yet the reaction was immediate, visceral.

green.

He hadn’t realized until that moment how rarely he’d seen her out of her black robes. The color warmed her skin, softened her edges. The faint gold embroidery caught the light, brushing her shoulders with a quiet radiance.

Ridiculous, he thought sharply. She’s just another colleague.

He turned away, motioning for the students to follow.

Yet as they set out for Hogsmeade, he found his attention slipping, drawn again and again to the small figure moving easily among the students. Verena’s voice carried just enough for him to catch fragments, gentle laughter, calm words of guidance. The kind of tone that soothed chaos without needing to raise itself.

When they reached the village, he gave his obligatory warnings, then allowed the students to scatter in groups. He remained near the main street, ensuring no one strayed too far.

From a distance, he caught sight of her entering a small boutique with the Slytherin girl in tow. Through the glass, he could see her smile, soft, genuine, as Clara tried on a knitted hat far too big for her head. Verena said something, the girl laughed, and Verena tucked a stray curl behind the child’s ear.

Snape looked away before anyone noticed he was watching.

A few minutes later, she exited the shop, a small wrapped box in her hands and a delicate red flower tucked behind her ear. The contrast against her dark hair was striking, and though he didn’t linger on the thought, it remained in the back of his mind for the rest of the afternoon.

---

By the time they returned to Hogwarts, the sun had long dipped below the horizon. The torches along the stone corridors flickered, casting moving shadows that made the walls feel alive.

Dinner came and went in a blur of chatter and clinking cutlery. Verena was once again in her formal teaching robes, her hair neatly tied back, her smile polite. Snape told himself that he preferred it that way, that the green had been too distracting, too… unguarded.

He did not convince himself.

---

Later that night, there was a knock on his chamber door.

He had been reviewing essays, red ink flowing neatly across parchment, when he heard it. The sound was hesitant, two soft raps, followed by silence.

“Enter,” he said.

The door creaked open, and there she was, hair slightly damp from the evening mist, cheeks touched with faint color. In her hands, the same small box from Hogsmeade.

“I wanted to give you this,” she said quietly. “As thanks. For… last night. The potion, and the food.”

His quill paused mid-sentence.

“You didn’t have to,” he replied, voice even.

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I wanted to.”

He took the box from her, their fingers brushing for the briefest moment.

“Thank you,” he said, tone clipped.

“You’re welcome.”

She hesitated, glancing around the dimly lit room. His shelves were lined with potion jars, old books, and stacks of neatly folded parchments. Everything was in order, everything but him.

She noticed his eyes flicker toward her side, where the old satchel he had mended for her lay everyday as she entered the great hall for breakfast.

“You’re not using it,” he said before he could stop himself.

"Sorry?" Silverleigh replied, confused.

"Your satchel that I mended, you're not using it."

She blinked, surprised. “Oh. I only use it when I teach. I don’t want it to wear out too quickly.”

Something in his chest loosened at that, though he disguised it with a small nod.

“Is there anything else you need mended?” he asked, more out of habit than curiosity.

“Nothing yet,” she replied, though her mind was already turning over the question.

She left soon after, bidding him a quiet goodnight. He listened to her footsteps fade down the hall, then turned his attention to the small box on his desk.

Inside was a set of sewing needles and fine threads, arranged neatly beside a small book. A muggle novel, romance, if the cover was any indication. A note was tucked inside the first page.

Thank you. Your stitching was better than any charm I’ve seen. You might like this—it’s a good story, and I think you’d understand the parts most people miss.

He stared at the handwriting, her handwriting, small, neat, unmistakably hers.

A quiet laugh escaped him, startled and unbidden. He hadn’t received a gift in years. Not since before…

No. He shut the thought down before it could finish.

“It’s just a thank you,” he muttered under his breath, sliding the book aside. “Nothing more.”

---

Verena, meanwhile, had torn her room apart.

“Anything,” she muttered, digging through her wardrobe. “There must be something he can fix.”

Her fingers brushed over a delicate lace dress, one she’d worn once to a faculty dinner. It was in perfect condition.

She stared at it for a long moment, then, with an exasperated sigh, ripped a small piece of lace from the hem.

“What am I doing?” she groaned, clutching the torn fabric.

But her feet were already moving.

Within minutes, she was knocking at his door again.

This time, he looked up from a pile of essays, brow furrowed.

“Professor Silverleigh,” he said. “Is there something wrong?”

“Not… wrong, exactly,” she said, holding up the torn lace. “But you did offer.”

He glanced between her and the lace, then set his quill aside. “Leave it there. I’ll get to it when I’m done grading.”

She smiled faintly, placing it on his desk.

“Of course,” she said softly.

Her eyes lingered on the papers, rows of red ink, precise and elegant. She’d always known his handwriting was impeccable, but up close, it was almost beautiful. There was rhythm to it, discipline, every line deliberate.

“You write beautifully,” she said before she could stop herself.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “A pointless observation.”

No, I mean it,” she pressed gently. “It’s clean. Confident. You can tell a lot about someone from how they write.”

“Can you now?” His tone was half amusement, half challenge.

“Mm,” she said. “You write like someone who hides how kind they actually are.”

That silenced him.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The fire crackled quietly, throwing warm light across parchment and ink.

“Actually," She continued. “I’ve been helping my students with penmanship lately. Thought I might have them copy one of your passages.”

He gave a quiet grunt, but there was the faintest trace of dry humor in his expression. “If you intend to torture them, I suggest something shorter.”

She smiled at that, actually smiled. “Noted.”

Then, as if remembering something, she rummaged briefly in her satchel. “Actually… that reminds me.”

From between a few lesson plans and a folded scrap of cloth, she drew out a small stack of parchment tied loosely with string. “I’ve been working on this. A short story for the first-years. Something light to get them reading beyond textbooks.” She hesitated, thumb brushing the corner of a page. “I didn’t plan to show anyone, but… you write so well. I thought you might… look over it? Rewrite it to something readable. If you want to.”

He blinked, taken aback. “I hardly have time to read children’s tales.”

“I know,” she said softly. “It’s just—if you ever do.”

There was no expectation in her tone, only that same quiet earnestness he’d begun to notice in her—an instinct to reach out even when the world gave her every reason not to.

Snape exhaled through his nose. “Leave it,” he said finally, motioning toward the desk. “I’ll see if it’s legible.”

Then she gave a small, heartily laugh “Thank you, Professor.” She set the little bundle down and smiled gently. “Anyway. I’ll let you finish.”

When she turned to leave, his voice followed her.

“Professor Silverleigh.”

She paused.

“I’ll have your things mended and maybe, just maybe, rewritten by tomorrow,” he said simply.

She smiled. “Thank you, Professor.”

She nodded politely, and turned to leave. The door shut softly behind her.

For a while, he didn’t move. The faint scent of her perfume, floral and clean, like morning rain, hung in the air. He stared at the closed door, then at the neat stack of parchment she’d left behind.

The fox and the forest. That was the title scrawled at the top in her looping, uneven hand.

He sat down. Uncapped his black ink bottle. Began to read.

At first, it was simple, almost naïve. A tale about a fox who had lost its way in an endless wood, yet kept walking, day after day, believing that someone was waiting at the other end. The prose was rough in places, but there was something pure in the rhythm, something human.

Without realizing it, he took up his quill.

His initial intent was correction—refining clumsy transitions, trimming indulgent phrases. But as his hand moved, the urge to “fix” gave way to something else. Her sentences were soft in their vulnerability, not the kind that begged for polish but for understanding.

He slowed down. Let her words breathe. Adjusted only enough to guide the flow, not to erase her voice.

Halfway through, he paused. The line about the fox, it kept walking, even when no one waited at the end of the path, caught in his mind like a splinter.

He sat back. The clock ticked somewhere behind him, each second dragging like thought.

It was, perhaps, the most honest thing he’d read in years.

He frowned at that realization, almost offended by it, before leaning forward again. Quill in hand, he pressed on, tracing the rhythm of her words with more care than he intended to give.

Outside, rain began to tap against the window. It filled the quiet between his breaths. The room smelled faintly of parchment and storm. He didn’t notice the hours slipping past; didn’t notice how the ink dried in small blots where he’d paused too long.

When he finished, the pile of parchment looked different, not merely rewritten, but reborn. The same story, yet steadier, clearer, threaded with something both of them had unknowingly poured into it.

He aligned the edges neatly, fingertips brushing over the final page. Her story. His ink. The faintest merging of worlds he usually kept apart.

For a moment, he simply sat there, rereading the last lines. And the fox did not find its way home, but it learned that walking was enough.

He exhaled slowly. Not quite a sigh.

Something in his chest, some small, traitorous part, warmed.

He told himself it was only the satisfaction of well-edited work. That was all. But when his eyes lingered on her name written at the top, in that looping hand so unlike his own, the lie felt fragile.

He gathered the papers carefully, almost reverently, and placed them in a drawer. Then, on impulse, he touched the small tear in the lace she asked to be mended earlier—the one he’d repair and return.

A foolish sentiment, he told himself. Yet the memory of her smile, faint, tired, but real, would not leave him.

And this time, when he told himself it was nothing,
he didn’t quite believe it.

That night, as rain tapped softly against the windows, he repaired the lace with care that made no sense even to him. The thread lay smooth, the seam invisible.

When he finished, he traced the edge of the fabric once, lightly, thoughtfully, before setting it aside.

He told himself it was nothing.

But his heart hadn’t stopped its quiet, treacherous rhythm since the first time he’d seen her in that green dress.

Chapter Text

The castle was silent by the time Severus Snape decided to deliver the repaired lace and Verena Silverleigh’s rewritten manuscript.

Days had passed since she’d given him the little torn fabric and the children’s story tucked beside it, completely forgetting that he told her he would bring her the finished request the day after she brought them. Days he spent convincing himself that he wanted her to think he was too occupied with essays and potion drafts to bother with something so trivial. Yet every evening, he’d find his eyes drawn to the folded lace on his desk, the neat hem glinting faintly under candlelight, and to the pages filled with her small, looping handwriting.

He had rewritten her story in his own precise script. Every word was still hers, but he had refined the phrasing, added rhythm, and made the narrative glide as smoothly as the quill in his hand. He told himself it was for her students’ sake,  that the children would learn better from clear, clean lettering. But that wasn’t true. He’d done it because her story had moved him.

Snape wasn’t sentimental, but he’d caught himself rereading her closing lines.

“Sometimes, magic isn’t in the wand or the words, it’s in the trying.”

Ridiculous. Yet something about it stayed with him.

He picked up the neatly bound pages, tucked them under his arm, and set out through the dim corridors toward her chambers. The lace was folded carefully in his pocket, a detail no one but him would think mattered.

He could already imagine her faint surprise when he delivered both,  that mixture of gratitude and awkwardness she always wore around him. He didn’t know why it pleased him. He didn’t even want to know.

When he reached the corridor that led to her door, he slowed. A faint murmur drifted through the air, a voice that didn’t belong to her.

“…really, Verena, I don’t see how this is acceptable.”

could it be..

Rowan Thorne.

Snape froze mid-step, his shadow stretching long across the stones. He knew that tone, low, clipped, with the controlled fury of someone used to power.

He took a step closer, his breath shallow, the words becoming clearer.

“I write to you for weeks,” Rowan was saying, “and you can’t even find the decency to respond properly? Then I arrive here, after clearing it with Dumbledore, mind you, and you make me wait nearly an hour because you’re teaching?”

There was a pause, and Verena’s voice followed, quiet but strained. “You didn’t tell me you were coming, Rowan. You can’t just appear at Hogwarts whenever you want. There are rules—”

“Oh, don’t start quoting school policy to me,” he snapped. “I spoke with Dumbledore himself. He welcomed me, said I was free to visit. You should be grateful I’m here at all.”

Snape’s grip tightened around the bound pages, the leather cover pressing into his palm. His instinct urged him forward, but he stopped himself, listening instead.

Verena’s tone was soft, placating. “I am grateful. I just… It’s been a hard week. The first-years—”

“Don’t deflect.” His words cut through her like glass. “Every time I try to talk to you, you make it about your work. I’m not the one you’re supposed to be loyal to anymore, am I? It’s the castle now. The students. That’s where your devotion lies.”

“That’s not fair,” she said, and Snape could hear the tremor beneath it.

“No? What’s unfair is me being treated like a burden.”

“Rowan—”

“You’ve changed.” His voice dropped lower, colder. “You used to be warm. Soft. Now it’s as though I’m speaking to one of them, one of those cold, brittle professors who’ve traded their hearts for chalk and parchment.”

Verena’s silence stretched painfully long. When she did speak, her words came out broken, almost pleading. “You make it sound like I’ve done something wrong by wanting a life outside of you.”

He laughed, quiet, humorless. “Outside of me? There is no ‘outside of me,’ Verena. I’ve been patient, far more than you deserve.”

Something fell, a quill, maybe, or a book. She must have backed away from him; Snape could hear the scrape of her chair against the floor.

“I think you should leave,” she said at last.

“Oh, now you’re dismissing me?” Rowan’s voice hardened again. “After everything I’ve done for you, after everything I’ve put up with?”

Snape’s patience snapped like a thread. He stepped forward silently, closing the distance toward her door, not yet visible, but close enough to hear every tremor in her breath.

“You’re twisting things,” she whispered. “You always do. I’m not the villain here, Rowan. You hurt me. You say things that—”

“That's what? Make you see sense?” His volume rose, sharp and dangerous. “You’re too emotional, Verena. Too fragile. I’m the only one who’s ever kept you grounded, and you know it.”

She flinched audibly. “Stop it.”

“You don’t get to tell me to stop.”

And then, the faintest sound of motion, too abrupt, too forceful.

Snape saw it as he turned the corner: Rowan’s hand raised, not in a strike yet, but high enough to draw instinct. Verena froze, eyes wide.

Snape’s voice sliced through the air.

“Mr. Thorne.”

Rowan stiffened immediately, his arm still half-lifted. Verena spun around, shock flooding her face. Snape stood in the doorway, dark as a shadow against the dim torchlight, his expression unreadable.

“I trust,” he said, stepping into the room with unhurried precision, “that you are not about to do something profoundly stupid.”

Rowan dropped his arm, the tension in his shoulders rigid. “Professor Snape,” he said stiffly. “Forgive the intrusion. I was having a private discussion—”

“You were raising your hand to a member of staff.”

“That’s absurd.” Rowan gave a clipped laugh, feigning composure. “I was merely—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence.” Snape’s tone didn’t rise, but it didn’t need to. Each word landed with surgical precision. “I saw enough.”

Rowan bristled. “This is a personal matter, Professor. I have every right to—”

“You have no rights here,” Snape interrupted, his voice silk over steel. “This is Hogwarts, not your home, not your stage. You’re a guest at best—and a tolerated one, at that.”

Verena stood frozen between them, torn between humiliation and disbelief.

Rowan turned to her, exasperated. “Are you really going to let him speak to me like that?”

She hesitated. Her throat worked, but no words came.

Snape took another step forward, close enough that his presence all but filled the room. “You’ve made your point clear enough for one evening,” he said coolly. “I suggest you take it elsewhere.”

“I’ll speak with Dumbledore,” Rowan said sharply, squaring his shoulders.

“Do,” Snape replied. “He enjoys hearing about visitors who disregard staff privacy and nearly resort to violence.”

Rowan’s jaw flexed. “You’re twisting this.”

“Am I?” Snape’s gaze darkened. “Then by all means, clarify your intentions. You raised your hand—what exactly were you planning to do with it?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Rowan’s nostrils flared. He straightened his cloak with deliberate calm. “You’ve overstepped.”

“I’ve intervened,” Snape corrected, “which I assure you, is preferable to the alternative.”

That was when Verena finally spoke — quiet, raw. “Rowan. Please go.”

Her voice broke on the last word.

For a moment, Rowan just stared at her, as though he couldn’t believe she’d said it. His composure faltered again, and in that crack of silence, Snape’s stillness became something lethal.

Rowan turned abruptly, storming past him. The scent of rain and frustration followed him out into the corridor, his footsteps echoing until they disappeared down the hall.

When the door closed, Verena let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a sob. She pressed a trembling hand to her temple, staring at the fire as if willing it to erase what just happened.

Snape said nothing. He set the bound story and the mended lace on her desk, wordless, deliberate.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” she whispered.

“I imagine not,” he said, his voice quieter now.

She turned toward him, eyes red, vulnerable. “Thank you.”

He looked at her for a long moment, too long, perhaps. Then, as though catching himself, he inclined his head curtly.

“I brought your things,” he said. “You’ll find them in better condition than before.”

He turned to leave.

But her voice stopped him again. “You didn’t have to interfere.”

He paused at the door, half-shadowed. “You’re correct. I didn’t.”

She blinked, confused.

“I chose to.”

The words fell from Snape’s lips deliberately, heavy with the weight of authority, yet edged with a subtle tension that Verena could not ignore. She blinked at him, confusion flickering in her eyes, but there was something else there, too, something warmer, though quickly suppressed.

“You didn’t have to,” she said again, quieter this time, almost a whisper.

“I did,” he replied, stepping closer, the shadow of the corridor stretching long around him. “Some actions demand choice, even when one should not. Intervention is rarely polite. It is necessary.”

Her fingers tightened around the lace she had handed him days ago, the delicate embroidery now mended. “And you… decided it was your responsibility?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“Yes,” he said, dark eyes unblinking. “Because someone had to ensure reason prevailed. And I do not stand idly by when others cannot—or will not.”

Verena let out a soft breath, a mixture of exasperation and admiration. “You make it sound so… simple.”

Snape’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “It is never simple, Verena. One simply acts—or allows chaos to persist.”

She lowered her gaze to the manuscript and lace on the desk. “I… thank you, Severus.”

He inclined his head once, curtly. “Do not thank me. Consider it resolved.”

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. The air was heavy, charged with something unspoken, acknowledgment, tension, restraint. Then, without another word, Snape turned, leaving the warmth of her chambers for the cold, dimly lit stone corridors. His mind had already shifted. Rowan Thorne would not stop here.

Rowan is at Dumbledore’s office. I will follow.

---

The hallway was silent except for Snape’s measured footsteps. He moved with purpose, each step deliberate, careful not to announce his presence before the moment demanded it. By the time he reached the office, the door was ajar, and the faint sound of Rowan’s clipped, precise tone carried into the corridor.

“…And yet the rules are clear. Staff cannot—will not—operate without oversight. It is a question of standards, of discipline, of—”

Dumbledore’s calm voice threaded between Rowan’s words. “I understand your concern, Rowan. But perhaps some flexibility is required. Not all methods are suited for all individuals.”

Snape stepped fully into the office, dark as a shadow pooling in the corner. Both men turned, though Rowan’s mask of composure did not falter.

“Severus,” Dumbledore said mildly, eyes twinkling faintly at the tension radiating from Snape. “I see you have joined us.”

“I am here to ensure clarity,” Snape said smoothly, voice low and deliberate. “It seems Mr. Thorne’s interpretation of protocol requires correction.”

Rowan’s jaw flexed. “I am only fulfilling my mandate. Ensuring standards are maintained.”

“Standards do not include intimidation,” Snape said, sharp, deliberate. “Nor do they grant liberty to coerce or harass staff.”

Dumbledore’s serene gaze flicked between them. “I trust that resolution—without escalation, will be your aim, Severus?”

Snape inclined his head once. “Naturally. But I will not allow reason or authority to be twisted into oppression under my watch.”

Rowan’s composure faltered slightly beneath Snape’s gaze, thinly veiled irritation simmering under his control.

“Oppression? I am only asking for adherence to the rules,” Rowan said, voice clipped. “I do not see how your interpretation of civility conflicts with mine.”

“Your interpretation is neither civility nor authority,” Snape replied, deliberately cold. “It is intimidation cloaked in the guise of duty. Your mandate does not grant you moral supremacy. It grants you oversight, nothing more.”

“You speak as though you alone understand the intricacies of school management,” Rowan said, voice rising slightly, an edge of disbelief and frustration piercing through the controlled mask. “Perhaps you underestimate the necessity of enforcement.”

Snape’s dark eyes fixed him. “I do not underestimate enforcement. I merely recognize when enforcement has become tyranny.”

Rowan bristled. “You speak dangerously, Severus.”

“And you act recklessly,” Snape countered. “That is the difference between us. You rely on authority without judgment. I rely on judgment, without excess reliance on authority.”

Dumbledore’s fingers steepled. “Perhaps both perspectives are necessary. Moderation, after all, requires balance.”

“I intend to maintain that balance,” Snape said evenly. “Even if it requires correcting misperceptions of authority in real time.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened further. “And what would you have me do? Simply leave? Cease my inspections?”

“You would do well to temper your methods,” Snape said, darkly measured. “Your mandate is not a weapon. Do not mistake it for one.”

---

The next day, Rowan arrived at Hogwarts with an entirely different demeanor. Calm, precise, suffocating. He wielded his authority like a scalpel, inspecting reports, correcting procedure, questioning staff at every opportunity, finding fault in every minor deviation.

Snape was the first target.

“Professor Snape,” Rowan began, glancing at a stack of potion notes. “It seems your preparation for class yesterday deviated from protocol. Could you explain this oversight?”

“It deviated from your imagined protocol,” Snape said, tone even. “The students’ experience remained unchanged.”

“I assure you, my standards are not imagined,” Rowan replied, arching an eyebrow. “I expect complete adherence.”

“Adherence to what?” Snape asked, voice low, controlled. “To a bureaucratic ideal of authority, or to the needs of the students? There is a difference, Mr. Thorne.”

Rowan smiled thinly. “The difference, Professor, is irrelevant. Compliance is expected. Deviations, regardless of justification, will be noted.”

Snape inclined his head, expression unchanged. “Duly noted.”

---

The day progressed with Rowan shadowing every corridor, observing every interaction. Each quill stroke Snape made, each word he spoke, was scrutinized. Rowan would lean over parchment, flicking his gaze like a hawk, demanding explanations for minor choices. The harassment was methodical, suffocating, a slow-burning torture reminiscent of Umbridge’s infamous tenure.

At one point, Rowan approached the potions classroom.

“Professor Snape,” he said, eyes scanning the shelves. “These ingredients are not arranged according to regulation. Explain.”

“They are arranged for efficiency,” Snape replied, eyes calm, voice flat. “The students’ safety is not compromised. That is what matters.”

Rowan’s lips pressed together. “Safety is only one consideration. Regulations exist for a reason. Deviations, intentional or not, reflect poorly on staff competence.”

“Competence is measured by results, not by arbitrary conformity,” Snape said evenly. “Which is why your obsession with minutiae will always fail to teach.”

Rowan’s smile was thin, almost predatory. “I find your arrogance… troubling, Professor.”

“As I find your inflexibility tiresome,” Snape countered.

---

By mid-afternoon, Rowan had constructed a web of administrative annoyances: requests for justification, forced reports, additional inspections, and publicized critiques of minor errors. Each tactic was calculated to frustrate and destabilize the staff. Snape, unflinching, met each move with a controlled counter, a chess game of verbal and bureaucratic precision.

Verena moved quietly through the corridors, watching the subtle sparring. She caught Snape’s eye once, a fleeting look that carried reassurance: he would not allow Rowan to dominate unchecked.

Rowan’s presence lingered like a shadow. Every whisper in the staffroom, every redirection of authority, every pointed critique, was designed to test patience, provoke irritation, and assert dominance.

And Snape, calm, precise, unyielding, read every move, planning his responses, always three steps ahead. This was no longer about courtesy or intervention, it was about endurance, control, and silent strategy.

By the end of the day, the staff were exhausted, intimidated, and unsettled. Rowan left only briefly for dinner, leaving a trail of meticulous notes and subtle humiliation in his wake. Snape remained poised, calculating the next day’s moves, knowing that the battle for control at Hogwarts had only just begun.

Chapter Text

Morning at Hogwarts arrived pale and restless, as though the castle itself had sensed that something was coming undone. The corridors felt colder, quieter, the portraits glancing sideways at the tension hanging thick between the walls.

Rowan entered the staff room with a smirk that did not reach his eyes. His steps were measured, his robes impeccable, his every movement precise. He had spent the night rehearsing his next strategy. Yesterday’s exchanges had exposed something that infuriated him: Snape’s composure. No matter how cleverly Rowan tried to provoke him, Snape never faltered. He never raised his voice, never lost rhythm. Every attack Rowan crafted had been absorbed and neutralized with surgical grace.

It was intolerable.

So today, Rowan planned to corner him in subtler ways. He had rewritten meeting memos, rearranged schedules, and slipped contradictory instructions into staff communications. He had even convinced two department heads to deliver him updates directly, bypassing Snape entirely. To anyone else, it looked like administrative efficiency. To Rowan, it was the first move of his next strike.

When Snape arrived, he surveyed the staff room in silence. His eyes swept across the tables, noting the stacks of parchment and misplaced folders. His expression was unreadable, but there was a faint tightening around his jaw that only Verena noticed.

"Good morning," Rowan greeted smoothly.

Snape merely inclined his head, his voice low and unbothered. "Morning."

The staff resumed their chatter, but the air between the two men seemed to hum with quiet hostility. Rowan leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "I took the liberty of reviewing the updated schedules. You might want to look over the revisions. Efficiency is key, after all."

Snape glanced at the parchment. "I see," he said simply, scanning it once. He did not protest or correct. He simply took out his quill, annotated a few lines, and placed the paper neatly aside.

Rowan frowned. "You’re not going to contest them?"

"I have better uses for my time."

The comment was clean, polite, and utterly infuriating.

By midday, Rowan’s patience began to unravel. He watched Snape glide through meetings, unbothered, resolving conflicts before they could be weaponized. Each time Rowan attempted to plant confusion, Snape countered with calm authority. He made Rowan’s manipulations look childish, almost invisible.

Rowan caught Verena near the stairwell after lunch. Her hands were full of parchment and inkpots, her posture light but guarded.

"You’ve been quiet lately," he said.

"I’ve been working."

"Working," Rowan repeated, voice soft but edged. "Or watching?"

Verena froze for a moment. "Watching what, exactly?"

He stepped closer. "Don’t play innocent. You’ve seen the way he looks at you."

Her eyes narrowed. "The way who looks at me?"

"You know who," Rowan said quietly. "Snape."

Verena exhaled, setting her papers down with care. "You’re imagining things. He doesn’t look at me any differently than he does anyone else."

"He doesn’t look at anyone else," Rowan snapped. His control slipped for a fraction of a second. "He stares, Verena. He watches every time you enter the room."

She tilted her head, expression cooling. "And that bothers you because you think I’d want him to?"

Rowan hesitated. He had not expected that tone, calm and cutting, almost detached.

"This isn’t a game," he said.

"No," she replied, gathering her things. "It’s not. But you keep treating it like one."

She walked away before he could respond. He stood in the corridor, breathing through clenched teeth. From the shadows at the end of the hallway, Snape had seen the tail end of the exchange. He watched Rowan’s shoulders tighten, his hands curl into fists, his composure falter. For a brief second, something dangerous flickered in Snape’s eyes: protectiveness, anger, maybe both.

The rest of the day unfolded like a silent war. Rowan made mistake after mistake, his frustration clouding judgment. Verena avoided him when she could. Snape, despite his outward calm, felt the tension press heavier with every passing hour.

That evening, in the Great Hall, Rowan tried a different kind of strike.

The staff had gathered for dinner, their voices filling the space with subdued conversation. Candles floated above them, flickering gold over the long tables. Snape sat at the far end, reading through a student report between sips of tea. Verena sat several seats away, speaking quietly with Professor Yarrow.

Rowan watched her from across the room, his thoughts circling like vultures. If she wanted distance, he would give her reason to close it. He smiled at the young muggle studies professor sitting beside him, a new hire, bright-eyed and eager. Their conversation began innocently, a few remarks about curriculum changes and student behavior. But then Rowan laughed a little louder, leaned a little closer.

Every word was deliberate.

Verena looked up once. Her expression did not waver, but her hand tightened around her fork.

Snape noticed. He did not react outwardly, but the small flick of his eyes toward Rowan carried silent contempt.

Rowan continued his performance, his voice smooth, his grin practiced. The young professor laughed softly at something he said, brushing her hair back. It was a small gesture, but it was enough. He could feel Verena’s gaze flicker toward them again, or maybe he only imagined it.

When the dinner ended, Verena was the first to leave. Her pace was calm, but her heart was pounding. She did not feel jealous. She felt insulted.

Rowan caught up to her near the corridor outside the Hall.

"Leaving so soon?"

"I’m tired."

"You barely ate."

"I lost my appetite," she said, her tone measured.

He stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. "You know, you could at least pretend to care."

"About what?" she asked quietly.

"About me."

Verena’s patience snapped. "Don’t twist this, Rowan. What you did back there wasn’t about me. It was about you trying to prove something."

"I wasn’t proving anything."

"Yes, you were. You wanted to make me jealous, and im not, not in the slightest."

His expression flickered. "You’re overreacting."

"No," she said. "I’m finally reacting."

Silence filled the corridor, cold and heavy.

From down the hall, Snape appeared, carrying a stack of scrolls. His presence was unintentional, but the tension in the air stopped him. He did not speak, only watched the exchange quietly.

Rowan noticed him too. "Perfect timing," he muttered bitterly. "Here to witness another scene, Professor?"

Snape’s voice was low. "I have no interest in your theatrics, Mr. Rowan."

"Then stop staring."

Snape did not blink. "Then stop performing."

Rowan’s jaw tightened. For a moment, it seemed like he might say something more, but Verena stepped between them.

"Enough," she said. "Both of you."

Her tone carried authority, but her eyes betrayed exhaustion.

Snape inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable, then turned and continued down the corridor. The echo of his footsteps lingered long after he disappeared from view.

Rowan looked at her, trying to find something in her face, guilt or affection or remorse, anything. But all he saw was calm finality.

"You’re really going to take his side?" he asked quietly.

"This isn’t about sides," she replied. "It’s about respect."

"I’ve respected you."

"No," she said. "You’ve tested me."

Rowan’s breath hitched, as though her words had struck deeper than he expected. "So what now?"

Verena picked up her pace again, her voice softer now, almost mournful. "Now, I think we stop pretending this is working."

She left him standing in the middle of the corridor, surrounded by silence.

Outside, thunder rolled faintly across the hills, the first sign of an approaching storm.

And somewhere deep within the castle, Snape sat alone in his chambers, the faintest crease in his brow betraying what he would never say aloud, that in all his years mastering the art of restraint, he had never despised someone as quietly, as precisely, as he now despised Rowan.

The rain began before dawn. It swept through the castle grounds in sheets, drumming softly against the windows and echoing through the stone corridors. By morning, the world outside was gray and blurred, as if Hogwarts itself was trying to wash away the tension that had settled in overnight.

---

Verena arrived early. The halls were quiet, the torches still dim from the storm’s gloom. She took her seat in the staff room, arranging lesson plans she knew she would not finish. Her thoughts were elsewhere, replaying fragments of last night’s argument. Rowan’s face when she walked away. The hollow echo of her own words.

She had meant what she said. It wasn’t anger anymore, just exhaustion. The kind that came from being constantly tested, constantly expected to prove that her loyalty still belonged to him.

She sighed and turned another page, forcing herself to focus. That was when Snape entered.

He did not greet her immediately. He rarely did. But his steps were quieter this morning, his expression thoughtful, as though he too carried the residue of the previous night. He poured himself a cup of tea, set it down without a sound, and began sorting through a stack of essays.

For several minutes, they worked in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It never was. There was something steady about Snape’s presence, something grounded that helped her breathe easier, even when she didn’t want to admit it.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. “You saw, didn’t you?”

Snape looked up from his parchment. “If you are referring to Mr. Rowan’s behavior, yes.”

Verena hesitated. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

He set his quill aside. “Do not apologize for another’s lack of restraint.”

The words were calm, but they carried weight. For a moment, she wanted to ask what he really thought of Rowan, of her, of everything. But before she could, the door opened, and Rowan stepped in.

He looked composed, as though the night had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience. “Good morning,” he said brightly.

Neither of them responded immediately. Verena lowered her gaze, pretending to read. Snape’s hand twitched slightly at his side, the only sign of irritation.

Rowan crossed the room and began his usual routine, arranging his notes, humming under his breath. “Quite the storm last night,” he remarked casually. “Almost poetic, don’t you think?”

Snape did not answer. Verena didn’t either.

Rowan’s eyes flicked toward her. “We didn’t finish our conversation, Verena.”

She kept her attention on her parchment. “That’s because there was nothing left to finish.”

His smile faltered. “I disagree.”

Snape stood. The motion was smooth, almost deliberate. “Some matters are best left unfinished,” he said quietly, and left the room without another word.

Rowan’s jaw tightened as the door closed behind him. “He’s quite fond of interrupting, isn’t he?”

Verena met his eyes. “Maybe he just knows when to walk away.”

It was a simple response, but it cut deep.

---

That evening, during dinner, the atmosphere in the Great Hall felt heavier than usual. The storm had not yet lifted, and thunder rolled distantly beyond the windows. Rowan was seated with a group of staff near the front, his laughter louder than necessary. Verena sat beside Professor Yarrow, listening halfheartedly to a discussion about exam logistics.

On the other end of the table, Snape was quiet, eating in silence, though his gaze occasionally drifted upward, scanning the room without lingering too long on anyone in particular.

Rowan caught Verena’s occasional glances toward Snape and decided to play his next move.

He leaned toward a young Astronomy professor, smiling with practiced ease. His tone softened, his gestures a little too casual. To anyone watching, it looked harmless, even friendly. But Verena knew that expression. She knew what it meant when his hand brushed someone’s sleeve, when he tilted his head just enough to make eye contact feel intentional.

She looked away. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her reaction.

But Snape saw everything.

From his seat at the end of the table, his eyes moved between them, expression neutral yet razor-sharp. He recognized performance when he saw it. Rowan’s voice was slightly too light, his laughter slightly too forced. And when Verena’s expression hardened, even for a second, Snape understood exactly what Rowan was trying to do.

Later, as the meal ended, Verena rose quietly and left the hall. Snape’s eyes followed her for a moment before he stood as well. He caught up to her at the base of the staircase, his voice low.

“Are you all right?”

She looked up, startled. “Yes. Why?”

He studied her for a moment. “You seem... distracted.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Just tired.”

Snape nodded, but something in his gaze lingered longer than usual. “Do not allow him to provoke you,” he said finally. “That is precisely what he wants.”

“I know,” she replied. “But knowing doesn’t make it easier.”

His eyes softened, though only slightly. “You have more restraint than he ever will.”

She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Coming from you, that’s almost a compliment.”

Something in his expression flickered, but he said nothing more. He inclined his head and continued down the hall, leaving her alone again.

For reasons she couldn’t explain, the conversation left a faint ache in her chest.

---

The next day unfolded in uneasy quiet. Rowan avoided her for most of the morning, which was a small mercy. Snape kept his distance as well, buried in reports and correspondence. But their paths crossed often, in meetings, in corridors, in brief glances that lingered just a moment too long.

By mid-afternoon, Verena found herself outside Snape’s classroom, parchment in hand, hesitating before knocking. The door was slightly ajar, and his voice carried faintly from inside.

“Miss Cleary, your potion is separating because you failed to maintain the proper temperature. Do it again.”

There was no anger in his tone, just cold precision. When the students left, Verena stepped inside.

“Professor Snape.”

He looked up from his desk. “Professor Silverleigh.”

“I need your signature on this requisition form for supplies,” she said, placing the parchment before him.

He scanned it, then signed without comment. “You could have sent an owl.”

“I wanted to make sure it reached you directly.”

His gaze lifted. “You do not trust the owls?”

She smiled faintly. “Not the owls. The people.”

For a moment, their eyes met, and the silence that followed carried more meaning than words could. But then Snape looked away.

“Regardless,” he said, voice lower now, “it is unnecessary for you to trouble yourself. We are colleagues, not confidants.”

The word struck her like a blade.

Colleagues.

It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. Somewhere between shared glances and quiet exchanges, she had thought they had moved past that. That perhaps beneath the composure and restraint, there was something almost like friendship.

She forced herself to nod. “Of course. Colleagues.”

Snape did not respond. He returned to his papers as though the conversation had ended, but his quill hesitated for a fraction of a second before continuing.

When she left the room, her chest felt tight.

Outside, she saw Rowan waiting near the stairwell. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately,” he said.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” she replied, “but it’s work.”

He stepped closer. “Is that what you call it?”

“I call it professionalism. Something you might try for once.”

Rowan’s composure cracked. “You think you’re better than me now? You think Snape sees something in you that I don’t?”

“I don’t care what he sees,” Verena said sharply. “But I do care about how you treat me.”

Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with restrained anger. “You can flirt with every woman in this castle if it makes you feel powerful. Just don’t expect me to wait around and applaud it.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she turned and walked away before he could.

Down the corridor, Snape had emerged again, his expression unreadable as he watched her leave. Their eyes met briefly, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them.

It was not affection. Not yet. But it was recognition.

---

That night, as the storm returned, Verena sat by her window, watching the rain slide down the glass. Her mind replayed the day in fragments: Rowan’s smirk, Snape’s quiet words, the hollow echo of “colleagues.”

It wasn’t love she felt, not exactly. It was confusion. The slow, aching kind that made her question why the idea of being seen as nothing more than a coworker could hurt so much.

In another part of the castle, Snape stood alone in his classroom, extinguishing the candles one by one. When the room was finally dark, he allowed himself a single thought he would never voice aloud.

She deserved better than a man who mistook jealousy for affection.

And perhaps, though he would never admit it, that thought unsettled him more than anything Rowan could ever say.

Chapter Text

By morning, the corridors of Hogwarts stirred with unusual excitement. Whispers chased through the stone halls faster than the fluttering of house-elf feet. Professor Flitwick had returned.

The Charms corridor glowed brighter than usual, sunlight pooling on the flagstones as the tiny professor scurried along, his robes bouncing with every step. Verena was mid-lecture when the door burst open. Students turned, startled, then broke into delighted applause.

“Professor Flitwick!” one of them cried.

“Ah, my dear pupils!” he squeaked, beaming. “I trust you have not reduced the classroom to rubble in my absence.”

Verena grinned as he floated up onto his stack of books. “Welcome back, sir,” she said warmly. “Your timing is perfect. We were just finishing the demonstration.”

Flitwick looked around approvingly, nodding. “Wonderful. I see the room still stands. Well done, Professor Silverleigh. You have kept them in excellent shape.”

As the students filtered out at the end of class, he gestured for her to stay. “I imagine you have questions,” he said, hopping down. “And so do I. Walk with me, will you?”

They strolled through the corridor together, Flitwick’s short strides surprisingly brisk. “I have spoken with the Headmaster,” he began, voice low. “There have been developments. The Ministry has agreed to lift its dependency on Hogwarts for inspection matters. In short, we are no longer bound to their oversight.”

Verena blinked, absorbing the words. “You mean—no more check-ups? No more evaluators?”

“Exactly,” Flitwick said with a small smile. “No more unnecessary visits. The Headmaster wishes to reestablish Hogwarts’ independence. It is, however, information not yet meant for public ears.”

Verena nodded. “Of course.”

Flitwick stopped in the middle of the hall, his expression softening. “I am forbidden to discuss certain matters beyond Dumbledore and myself, but I trust you understand the gravity. This transition will ruffle feathers, particularly among those who relied on the Ministry’s hand in school affairs.”

Verena thought immediately of Rowan. Her chest tightened.

Later that day, the staffroom was alive with the buzz of conversation. Cups clinked, parchment rustled, and the smell of tea drifted through the air. Flitwick had gathered the staff to announce his return.

McGonagall sat by the window, knitting with practiced precision. Sprout discussed seed shipments from the greenhouses. Slughorn poured tea with his usual theatrical flair. And by the fireplace, Snape stood silently, arms crossed, watching.

When Flitwick finished explaining the Ministry’s withdrawal, murmurs broke out around the room.

“So we are fully autonomous now?” McGonagall asked, her tone calm but sharp with interest.

“In principle, yes,” Flitwick replied. “Though certain formalities remain.”

“That will not sit well with the Ministry,” Snape said quietly. His voice cut through the conversation like a thin blade.

“Indeed not,” McGonagall agreed. “Particularly with their latest appointee overseeing Hogwarts affairs.”

Flitwick gave a knowing look. “Mr. Thorne, yes. I suspect he will not take the news kindly.”

Verena’s pulse quickened. She could almost feel the weight of Rowan’s name pressing into her chest. The mention drew curious glances from the room.

Slughorn adjusted his spectacles. “I thought Mr. Thorne was here only temporarily.”

“So did we all,” Snape murmured.

Verena tried to keep her expression steady, but the tension in her hands betrayed her. “Rowan won’t interfere,” she said softly, though her voice lacked conviction.

McGonagall’s brow arched slightly. “Let us hope that remains true.”

The meeting drifted into logistical discussion, but the air had grown uneasy. Verena could feel Snape’s gaze on her more than once, heavy and unreadable. When the others began to disperse, she lingered by the table, organizing parchment she didn’t really need to touch.

Snape was the last to leave. His footsteps slowed as he passed her. “You should prepare yourself,” he said quietly.

“For what?” she asked.

“For the inevitable confrontation.” His tone was matter-of-fact, yet there was a faint undercurrent of concern she couldn’t quite name. “Pride rarely accepts power slipping through its fingers. Mr. Thorne strikes me as a man driven more by control than duty.”

Verena frowned. “You’ve barely spoken to him.”

“I do not need to speak to recognize temperament,” Snape said, eyes steady on hers. “Be cautious.”

She nodded, though her throat felt tight. “Thank you. I will.”

But his gaze lingered a moment longer, the firelight reflecting faintly in his eyes, before he turned and disappeared into the corridor.

---

By the time Rowan arrived at the castle later that evening, the corridors had grown dim with the approaching storm. Verena found him waiting outside her classroom, the usual polished composure gone from his face.

“You could have told me,” he said without greeting.

She froze. “Told you what?”

“That the Ministry’s oversight has been revoked,” Rowan said, voice low but trembling with barely controlled anger. “You knew, didn’t you? From Flitwick. From Dumbledore.”

“It wasn’t my place to—”

“Not your place?” he interrupted, stepping closer. “I’m your partner, Verena. Or has that become irrelevant now that you have Hogwarts and your… colleagues?”

Her heart skipped at the word, sharp and deliberate.

“Don’t do that,” she said quietly.

“Do what?” he countered. “Question why you’ve been spending late hours with Snape? Why the man who can barely stand anyone suddenly finds reason to talk to you?”

Her jaw tightened. “You’re twisting things.”

“Am I?” Rowan’s tone darkened. “I saw you two after the meeting. Whispering in corners like schoolchildren.”

“It was professional,” she snapped, louder than she meant to.

The corridor amplified her words. A few portraits stirred awake, muttering.

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “Professional. Right. Like your lectures on empathy? Or perhaps he’s been offering… private lessons?”

Her hand clenched at her side. “That’s enough.”

But before she could leave, he caught her wrist. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

She yanked free, voice shaking. “You’re wrong. And you know what else is wrong? You, Rowan. The way you’ve treated me. The way you tried to control every step I took outside the Ministry. The way you let your pride blind you.”

The words came like released arrows. She hadn’t planned them, but once loosed, they wouldn’t stop.

“I saw you,” she continued, quieter now. “At the Ministry gala. On the newspapers. With her. Your Ex.”

Rowan’s expression faltered for a fraction of a second before hardening again. “That meant nothing.”

“It meant enough to make me see you for what you are,” she said. “You can’t stand losing control, can you? Not over your work, not over me.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You don’t understand,” he muttered. “I did that because I thought—because I thought I was losing you to him.”

“You already lost me,” she said softly.

For a moment, neither spoke. Only the distant rumble of thunder filled the silence.

Then Rowan stepped back, his composure fracturing completely. “I can’t do this,” he said hoarsely. “Not here. Not with all of them watching.”

Verena turned and realized the staffroom door had opened. McGonagall, Slughorn, and Snape stood there, frozen in the doorway, having heard enough.

The humiliation on Rowan’s face was instant.

Snape’s gaze was unreadable, though his jaw tightened slightly.

Rowan’s voice broke as he said, “Congratulations, Verena. You’ve made quite the scene.”

He turned on his heel and stormed out, the heavy doors slamming behind him.

Verena stood frozen in the doorway, the echo of the slammed doors still vibrating in her chest. The staffroom behind her was silent. McGonagall’s sharp eyes and Slughorn’s uneasy frown pressed down on her, but it was Snape’s dark, unreadable stare that made her hesitate the longest.

Her chest was tight, and the anger that had flared so fiercely in the staffroom had cooled into something heavier—something that felt like fear. Fear that Rowan would leave, that this would be the last time she could reach him before his pride swallowed him whole.

Her feet felt rooted to the stone floor, as if the castle itself were holding her back. And yet, as she watched the doorway he had slammed, a small, insistent voice inside her whispered that she could not let him go like this.

The hallway was cold, the rain already dripping through high windows, casting streaks of silver across the dark stone. She stepped forward once, then paused. The rational part of her screamed to stay, to wait for him to calm down, to give him space. But the other part—the part that had cared for him longer than she had realized—pushed her onward.

Her boots slipped slightly on the wet stones as she hurried down the hall, rain from the leaky windows mixing with the nervous sweat on her face. Each step toward the main doors felt like stepping further from safety, further from control. She clenched her fists, fighting the lump in her throat, and forced herself to keep moving.

The doors opened with a groan, the storm outside immediately assaulting her senses. Rain pounded against the castle roof, sheets of water streaked the courtyards, and the wind whipped at her robes, threatening to pull her backward. She took a deep breath and ran, boots splashing through puddles, her hair plastered to her face.

Rowan’s figure was just visible through the sheets of rain, moving quickly across the courtyard. His shoulders were tense, the familiar rigid line of control cracking under the weight of shame and anger. She called his name once, twice, but the storm swallowed her words.

Her heart raced. Each step brought a tangle of fear and guilt that she could not shake. What if she did not reach him in time? What if he vanished into the darkness, leaving her with only regret?

The courtyard ended, and she had to make a choice: stay in the shelter of the castle, wait for him to return, or follow him into the storm, into the unknown. Her hand hovered over the door frame, gripping the wet wood for a moment, hesitating.

Then, almost against her better judgment, she stepped forward.

The cold hit her instantly, biting into her skin through her soaked robes. Lightning flashed, illuminating Rowan’s dark silhouette moving toward the edge of the forest near the Womping Willow. She blinked, squinting through the sheets of rain, and took another step.

Fear and determination wove together in her chest, each pulse urging her onward. The storm seemed endless, the wind tearing at her hair, branches snapping dangerously close to her head, but she could not stop. Not now. Not when he was out there, alone, unraveling.

She slowed for a moment, toes slipping on a slick stone, mind racing. Was this reckless? Absolutely. Dangerous? Undeniably. But the thought of him out there, hurting, consumed with pride and shame, made every risk worth it.

Her heart pounded in her ears, matching the rhythm of the rain, and finally, she took a deep breath and ran toward him, letting the storm carry her forward.

By the time she reached the edge of the trees, she could see him leaning against the trunk of the Womping Willow, shoulders shaking, fists digging into the bark. Her own chest heaved with exertion and fear.

“Rowan!” she called, her voice trembling, barely audible over the storm.

He flinched but did not turn. For a moment, she froze, wondering if she had made the wrong choice. The wind clawed at her robes, the branches lashed, and the rain blurred her vision. She wanted to stop, to turn back to the safety of the castle, but the sight of him, so human and exposed, held her in place.

Slowly, carefully, she stepped closer, mud squelching beneath her boots. Her voice softened. “Rowan, please… talk to me.”

His head snapped up, eyes blazing with anger and shame, but he did not move away.

“I said I can’t do this!” he shouted, voice breaking over the storm. “I can’t, Verena! Not here! Not now!”

“I am not leaving you out here like this,” she said, closing the distance between them. “We need to—”

“Need to what?” he interrupted, anger laced with raw shame. “Talk? Fix this? I already told you, you humiliated me in front of everyone! You made it worse!”

“I did not humiliate you!” she shot back, breath ragged. “I spoke the truth. You let your pride and jealousy control you, Rowan. And now you’re punishing both of us for it!”

Rowan laughed bitterly, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the wind. “Truth?” he spat. “You think this is truth? You think this is love? You think anyone wants to see someone as weak as me losing their composure in front of the staff?”

Verena felt a pang, a sting deep in her chest. “This isn’t about weakness. This is about honesty. About seeing each other, really seeing each other. And you… you refuse it!”

He stepped back, fists clenched. “I refuse it because I will not be made a fool! I will not be the man who crumbles in front of everyone because someone else thinks they know what I feel!”

The rain plastered her hair to her face, and her voice trembled. “Do you even know what you’re saying, Rowan? Do you even know what you’re doing to us?”

He froze, then shook his head violently. “I do! I know exactly what I am doing. I am protecting myself from… from this! From you!”

Verena blinked, her heart breaking at the rawness in his voice. “Protecting yourself from me?” she whispered. “Rowan, that is not love. That is fear. And I cannot stay with someone who chooses fear over me.”

For a long moment, they just stared at each other, rain drenching them, wind whipping at their robes. Then Rowan shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Fine. Then… then consider this the end. I cannot… I cannot do this anymore. Not with you. Not here.”

Her stomach dropped. “What… what are you saying?”

“I am saying we are done,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. “You made your choice today. I am making mine. Goodbye, Verena.”

Before she could respond, he turned and stormed into the trees surrounding the castle, disappearing into the stormy night. Verena stood frozen, mud and rain soaking through her, chest tight with a mixture of fear, anger, and heartbreak.

---

Back inside Hogwarts, the castle felt unusually quiet, almost hollow. The Great Hall had been filled with the usual chatter and clatter of students, the scrape of cutlery against plates, the low hum of magic-infused conversations. The enchanted ceiling reflected the storm raging outside, flickers of lightning casting shadows across the hall. But tonight, something was off. Dinner had been served, the tables groaning under the weight of food, but neither Rowan nor Verena had returned.

Rowan’s absence was easy enough to notice, his usual confident gait and striking presence missing from the long tables where Slytherins often congregated. But it was Verena’s missing presence that unsettled the staff. Her seat at the staff table, usually marked by the neat arrangement of her books and the careful folding of her napkin, was empty and abandoned. There was no subtle sign she had been there at all. The students whispered among themselves, their voices dipping and rising like wary waves, yet she was nowhere to be seen.

The chatter of the hall seemed distant to anyone paying attention, muted by the storm pounding against the enormous windows. Rain streaked down the glass in relentless sheets, and the occasional crack of lightning illuminated the anxious faces of students. The wind moaned through the castle eaves, carrying with it the scent of wet stone and cold air. Even in the warmth of the Great Hall, a creeping tension wrapped itself around the long tables, settling into the bones of the castle and the people within it.

Hours passed. The long tables slowly emptied as students finished their meals and filed out, leaving behind abandoned trays and forgotten conversations. Plates with half-eaten stew and bread, mugs of cooling pumpkin juice, and the faint smell of burnt toast lingered in the air. Candles flickered in the breeze from the open windows, their soft light struggling against the storm. One by one, the house-elves began clearing the debris, moving in practiced silence, but even they seemed to sense the unusual heaviness of the hall.

A few remaining students glanced at the empty staff seat with curiosity, then looked around uneasily as though expecting someone, anyone, to appear and explain her absence. Whispers fluttered across the tables. “Where’s Professor Silverleigh?” one student asked, voice low. Another shook their head. “Probably just late. She’s always studying anyway.” But the explanations felt hollow even to the students themselves. The absence of a presence like Verena’s was not something easily dismissed.

Meanwhile, outside the hall, the storm showed no mercy. Sheets of rain hammered the courtyards, puddles forming almost instantly in depressions in the stone pathways. Wind ripped through the towers, causing banners to snap and dance violently, echoing the chaos that had begun to settle in the hearts of those still inside. The lightning streaked across the sky again, reflecting briefly in the polished floor of the Great Hall, illuminating the emptiness of the space and drawing the shadows long and jagged along the walls.

The staff of Hogwarts noticed her absence too. McGonagall’s sharp eyes scanned the hall periodically, lips pressed into a thin line, while Slughorn’s frown deepened with each passing moment. But it was Snape who did not look away, who did not allow himself the luxury of ignoring it. His dark eyes, shadowed beneath the heavy lids, flicked repeatedly toward the empty seat. Something gnawed at him, something that rarely did. A premonition, perhaps, or simply a recognition of a young woman who had not returned to the hall, whose absence carried weight beyond mere tardiness.

Time dragged on. The hall’s echoing emptiness became almost oppressive, punctuated only by the distant clatter of house-elves and the occasional shout of students leaving the castle for the evening. Candles guttered, shadows stretched longer, and the storm raged in the courtyard outside with a relentlessness that seemed almost personal. McGonagall rose from her seat, signaling the end of the meal for the remaining students, and the hall finally emptied, leaving behind a strange quiet, thick and pressing.

Rowan returned not long after, slipping through the high doors into the dimly lit hall. He moved quickly, almost too quickly, eyes scanning the room with that familiar mixture of frustration and apprehension. His wet cloak clung to him, dripping onto the polished floor, and the smell of rain followed him inside.

Snape appeared at the far end of the hall, stepping silently into the shadows, dark robes plastered to him from the rain that clung stubbornly to the castle walls. His expression was unreadable, but there was an unmistakable edge to his gaze as it fixed on Rowan. “Where is she?” His voice was low, a sharp contrast to the muffled quiet of the hall. It cut through Rowan’s thoughts like a blade.

Rowan froze for a moment, weighing his words carefully. “I… I don’t know,” he said, forcing a calm he did not feel, brushing past Snape as if to dismiss the question.

Snape moved faster than Rowan anticipated, grabbing the front of his cloak and yanking him back. The contact was sudden, jarring, and the usual confidence Rowan carried faltered. He realized in an instant that Snape was not merely asking. He was demanding.

“I am not her chaperone,” Rowan said sharply, trying to wrench himself free. “I am not responsible for her, Professor. She is… she is not my responsibility.”

Snape’s hand tightened on his collar, eyes burning with a dangerous intensity. “You will answer me,” he said, voice low and deadly calm. “Because whether you acknowledge it or not, you do know something is wrong. You cannot deny it.”

Rowan’s throat tightened. The storm outside had nothing on the storm building within him now, facing Snape’s unyielding glare. Fear prickled at his spine in a way he had rarely experienced, and the bravado he usually carried crumbled. “I… I don’t know, Professor,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper, the first true tremor of uncertainty creeping in.

Snape released him with a sudden shove that sent him stumbling backward, forcing him to steady himself against a nearby pillar. His dark eyes remained locked on Rowan, unrelenting. “Then we find her,” he said, each word deliberate, carrying the weight of authority and the certainty that failure was not an option. “And we do not waste another moment.”

Without waiting for a response, Snape turned and left the hall, stepping into the storm that battered the castle with relentless force. Rain soaked through his black robes instantly, plastering them to his body. His long strides took him across the slick courtyard, eyes scanning every shadow, every twisted branch, every corner where she could have gone. The wind ripped at him, howling through the towers, yet his pace never faltered. Every sense was alert, every movement precise.

He moved through the corridors, staircases, classrooms, and hidden corners of Hogwarts. Each empty room, each deserted hallway, only deepened the gnawing worry in his chest. This was not like her. She would never leave the castle without telling someone, never vanish into the storm for no reason. Something had gone wrong. Something dangerous.

At last, he reached the edge of the forest, the Womping Willow looming above him, its massive limbs thrashing violently in the wind. And there, beneath the twisted branches, illuminated briefly by a jagged flash of lightning, he saw her.

She was motionless, small and fragile against the wild, thrashing backdrop of rain and wind. Her hair clung to her face, robes plastered to her body, body shivering from the cold and the shock of being caught in the storm. Snape’s chest tightened, and without hesitation, he stepped forward.

“Miss Silverleigh,” he called, his voice low and commanding, cutting through the wind and rain. He closed the distance, kneeling beside her. Her eyes fluttered weakly, barely registering his presence. Her body trembled violently.

Snape’s arms moved with precision and care. He lifted her bridal style into his chest, careful not to jostle her, holding her firmly as he turned back toward the castle. Rain and wind tore at his robes, hair plastering to his face, and the path back was treacherous, mud sucking at his boots. Yet he did not falter. Every step was deliberate, calculated, ensuring her safety above all else.

The warm lights of Hogwarts finally came into view, a beacon against the storm. Snape delivered her safely to Madame Pomfrey, who immediately took over. She wrapped Verena in warm blankets, checked her vitals, and fussed over her with brisk efficiency. Snape remained at her side, silent and watchful, until she finally began to stir the following afternoon.

Her eyes fluttered open, she looked sideways to the figure of black robes beside her. Snape sat there, looking at her intently. Realising she has finally woke up, he brushed a hair from her face.  Cheeks flushed with embarrassment, she murmured, voice barely audible, “Professor… I…”

“You are safe,” Snape said, measured and calm. “That is what matters. Do not concern yourself with the rest.”

Her gaze dropped, voice hesitant. “I… we broke up.”

Snape’s eyes held hers, unwavering. “You do not deserve a man who would abandon you to the storm. Remember that.”

She flushed deeper, yet a small spark of relief flickered in her chest. When Madame Pomfrey brought her another potion. Snape watched her down it in one go. The two starred at each other for quite some time and shared a comfortable silence. Snape was first to break it.

“I read the book you gave me,” he said quietly. “I would like more recommendations, if you would not mind.”

Her lips curved into a small, tentative smile. “I think… I could do that,” she said. And for the first time in the chaos of the night, there was a fragile sense of calm, a quiet promise that not all storms left destruction in their wake.

•••

hello to my readers! if there's anyone here who watched Sense and Sensibility where one of the lead actors was played by Alan Rickman, Snape's actor. That is where I got the idea of Snape going through the storm!! it's a great romance movie—y'all should watch it :))

Chapter Text

Severus Snape woke to the quiet of the dungeon, though it was hardly a restful awakening. The memory of last night clung to him with stubborn insistence. Verena. Her face, delicate and unsettled, the small sound of her voice, the way she had looked at him with something between relief and confusion—it would not leave his mind. He had told himself it was only concern, only the duty to ensure she was safe. Yet the truth gnawed at him: he had been thinking of her constantly, from the moment he opened his eyes.

He hated it, the way the thought of her made his pulse tighten. He hated the knowledge that he was already anticipating seeing her later that day in Hogsmeade. It was, he reminded himself with strict insistence, only to distract her from the aftermath of her break-up. Only to offer friendship. That was all.

Yet even as he moved through his morning routines, even as he prepared his classroom and double-checked potion ingredients, her presence lingered in the edges of his mind. He caught himself imagining the curve of her smile, her faint laughter at something he had said, the way her hair fell over her shoulders when she tilted her head in thought.

He told himself repeatedly that it was ridiculous to dwell on it. She had been hurt. She deserved space. And yet every instinct, every quietly rebellious part of his mind, urged him to be near her, to speak with her, to see her smile in a moment untouched by sorrow.

Even now, he realized, it was not solely concern or duty. His heart betrayed his mind, stubbornly, insistently, in the way he despised. He would not admit it aloud. He would not even admit it to himself. And yet, when the thought of her crossing the Hogsmeade streets later that day entered his mind, a small, inexplicable tension coiled in his chest.

He told himself he would maintain composure. He would be nothing more than a friend. He would not let these feelings show. But as he adjusted his notes for the morning lesson, checking each step for precision, he caught himself wondering if she would laugh at a certain passage in a book, if she would glance at him as she often did, a spark of mischief in her eyes.

He hated it. Hated how much he cared.

---

The classroom smelled faintly of herbs and simmering liquids. Students shuffled their cauldrons and ingredients, murmuring quietly. Severus Snape moved to the front, his black eyes scanning the room with a calm, controlled precision.

“Today,” he began, voice measured, “we will be preparing a calming draught. Observe each ingredient carefully. Measure with accuracy, stir deliberately, and note all reactions. Deviations, however small, may render the potion ineffective.”

From the corner of the room, the first-year Slytherin girl who always accompanied Verena on Hogsmeade trips fidgeted with something small in her hands. She leaned toward her seatmate, whispering rapidly, excitement barely contained.

“Guess where I got this?” she whispered, glancing around to make sure no one else saw.

“Where?” her friend asked, curiosity bright in her eyes.

“The photobooth at Hogsmeade! Last time we went—I got it on a whim, and look! Isn’t it perfect?” She giggled softly. “I just had to show it to someone.”

“Wow! You’re so lucky,” her friend whispered. “I wish I had one.”

Snape’s sharp gaze caught the slight movement. Without breaking his composure, he walked toward the girl. “Hand it over,” he said quietly but firmly. “It will be returned at the end of the day. Distractions are not permitted in this classroom.”

The girl flushed, trembling slightly as she obeyed. “Yes, Professor,” she whispered.

Snape placed the photograph carefully on his desk and turned back to the front. “Now,” he said, holding up a vial of Valerian root extract, “observe how the liquid responds to agitation. Stir exactly as instructed. Any deviation may compromise the potion. Begin.”

Even as the students started their work, the girl whispered under her breath to her friend. “I can’t believe he took it… at least it’ll come back after class.”

Her friend giggled. “Honestly, Professor Snape is terrifying… but that photograph is so cute. I wish I had one too.”

Snape moved along the aisles, inspecting each cauldron, correcting technique, and reiterating instructions in his clipped, precise tone. He ignored the whispers but noted the ripple of excitement caused by the confiscated photograph.

By the end of all classes, the photograph remained safely on his desk, untouched. The room had emptied, and the castle was quiet, save for the distant echoes of students moving to their next lessons.

A soft knock sounded at his office door.

“Professor?” Verena’s voice called lightly, teasing as always.

“Enter,” he said, straightening slightly, hiding the tension coiling in his chest.

She stepped inside, taking the photograph from Snape's table. “The student asked for this back,” she said, laughing softly. “They were teary-eyed because of you—they were afraid to ask themselves.”

Snape’s dark eyes followed her carefully. He took the photograph from her, their fingers brushing slightly. “Then they may have it,” he said. “Are you certain it will be returned safely?”

“Yes,” she replied, smiling faintly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Snape then once again handed the photograph back to her hand. For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Verena tilted her head, eyes glinting with mischief. “So, you kept busy while this morning?”

“Productive,” he said evenly, though he could not stop himself from watching the way she moved. “And you?”

“Fine,” she said softly. “Though… I’ve been a little distracted. Breakups have a way of doing that.”

Snape’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. “I am aware. Which is precisely why I look forward to accompanying you to Hogsmeade later. To ensure your mind is occupied… and to explore the books you might recommend.”

Verena laughed lightly, a sound that seemed to linger in the quiet office. “Oh? You look forward to my recommendations? That’s… unexpected.”

“Not unexpected,” he said quietly. “Necessary.”

She raised her eyebrows teasingly. “Necessary, or… enjoyable?”

He allowed the faintest hesitation, almost imperceptible. “You could say both,” he murmured.

She laughed again, a soft, teasing sound that made his chest tighten against his will. “I suppose I’ll have to pick carefully then. Wouldn’t want to ruin your afternoon, Professor.”

“You could hardly ruin it,” he said. “I would find the experience… enlightening.”

Verena leaned closer, lowering her voice playfully. “Enlightening? That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

He cleared his throat but did not look away. “It will suffice. Now, tell me which books you would like to show me first. I expect your selections to be… accurate.”

Her laughter trailed into the quiet of the office, warm and bright. “Oh, I think I can manage that,” she said, her eyes glinting. “But you might regret letting me choose first.”

Snape’s dark gaze lingered on her, full of an intensity he would never voice aloud. “I look forward to it regardless,” he admitted.

Verena smiled, tilting her head. “Good. Then it’s settled. Hogsmeade, books, and… perhaps a little mischief along the way.”

---

The walk to Hogsmeade was quieter than usual. The corridors of Hogwarts had emptied into the brisk afternoon, but Snape’s steps were deliberate, careful, as though measured to avoid betraying his thoughts. His mind, however, refused such discipline. It ran ahead to the small day he would spend with Verena, wandering the shops, touching books she might recommend, seeing the faint sparkle of curiosity in her eyes. He hated himself for anticipating it.

He kept his hands hidden in the folds of his robe, though his fingers flexed occasionally, as if longing to brush back a stray hair or to steady her shoulder as she navigated a cobblestone. He did not. He could not. He forced his gaze ahead, but from the corner of his eye, he followed her movements, memorizing the tilt of her head when she observed something of interest, the small curve of her lips when she smiled at some passing detail.

Verena glanced at him lightly. “You walk as if expecting danger around every corner,” she said, teasing, though he caught the faint curve of amusement in her tone.

“I am cautious,” he said evenly. He allowed a small moment to note how the sunlight caught her hair, how it shifted as she adjusted her scarf. His chest tightened, a subtle ache he could neither name nor admit.

She laughed softly, a low sound, not loud but enough to draw his attention, and he realized he had been holding his breath. The rhythm of her step beside his, the occasional brush of her sleeve, anchored him in a way that was both exasperating and irresistible. He reminded himself repeatedly that this was about distraction, about guidance, about normality. And yet his heart betrayed every rational thought.

They entered the small streets of Hogsmeade, bustling with students and the quiet hum of daily life. Snape’s gaze did not waver from her. He adjusted his steps so that he walked slightly behind her, careful to maintain a respectful distance, yet close enough that her warmth brushed the edges of his senses.

The bookstore loomed ahead, familiar and welcoming. He noted her reaction before his own thoughts intruded, how her shoulders eased, the faint tilt of her head as she scanned the rows of books through the glass. He hated the helpless pull in his chest, the part of him that wanted to see her delighted, to see her eyes light up at every discovery.

Inside, he trailed her slowly, pretending to examine a shelf while noting how she paused over certain titles. The curve of her fingers along the spines, the quiet murmurs of her own thoughts, the faint lift of her lips when something intrigued her, he cataloged it all. He resisted the urge to reach out, to brush back hair from her temple, to correct the slight tilt of her posture. His restraint was conscious, deliberate, but every fiber of him yearned to bridge the distance between them.

She pulled a small volume from the shelf, holding it up for him to see. “You must read this,” she said softly. “I think… it suits you.”

He nodded, taking the book carefully in his hands, though his fingers lingered longer than necessary along the edge of the spine. He studied the cover with feigned attention while his gaze continually returned to her movements, the faint smile she offered without realizing its effect on him.

They moved deeper into the store, the aisles narrowing, the scent of parchment and ink surrounding them. Snape was acutely aware of the space between them, of the way a mere step closer would make their shoulders brush, of the way the soft floor muffled her movements and amplified his awareness of her presence.

A glimpse of the photobooth outside caught his eye, and his heart quickened. He noted the small rise of her eyebrows as she caught his hesitation. “Do you want a picture?” she asked. “Just to remember today?”

He swallowed, tightening the grip on the book in his hands. The pulse in his veins betrayed him. He wanted to say more, to insist, to confess the small storm of longing, but he only said, “If you wish it.”

Severus paid for the books he have on hand and insisted Verena get one for herself too and Severus, ever so happily, paid for it too. Later on they found themselves walking towards the booth. She stepped closer to the booth, and he followed, conscious of every tiny movement, every fraction of an inch that brought them nearer. The moment the curtain closed behind them, Snape felt the space shrink, as though the world had narrowed to the two of them. He noted the way Verena shifted slightly on the narrow bench, the subtle tilt of her head as she positioned herself, the way her sleeve brushed lightly against his. The contact was minimal, fleeting, and yet it left his chest tight and his hands still.

She laughed softly, barely audible, as she adjusted the camera on the small ledge. The sound was restrained, casual, but it tugged at something deep within him. He focused on the book she had recommended earlier, letting his eyes trace its edges, forcing himself to appear composed while every fiber of his being was drawn to her.

Verena leaned slightly forward, nudging the camera with careful fingers. The movement brought her shoulder against his once more, and he shifted just enough to maintain space while feeling the warmth radiate across the small distance. He had to fight the urge to reach out, to steady her hand, to anchor himself in the fleeting nearness.

The camera whirred softly. Snape felt the small vibrations under his fingers as it counted down. He could smell her perfume faintly, the floral notes delicate and pervasive. The effect was almost dizzying, and he had to remind himself to breathe.

She glanced at him briefly, her eyes bright, her lips curving slightly. He caught the movement and allowed a faint nod, pretending to focus on the camera while his mind cataloged every detail of her expression, every hint of light in her gaze.

The flash went off. The photograph would emerge soon, but he did not care for the image itself. What mattered was the closeness, the fleeting shared space, the small, inconsequential movements that spoke louder than any words. The way she shifted to accommodate him, the way her shoulder brushed his, the gentle tilt of her head, it was more than a photograph could capture. It was over in an instant, a simple capture of a fleeting moment. Snape’s hand closed around the photograph as she slid it toward him. Her fingers brushed his, deliberate or not, and the warmth lingered longer than it should have. He took the photograph carefully, holding it as though it were fragile, though the weight of it was nothing compared to the weight of what it represented.

“Keep it,” she said softly, almost teasing, yet there was a trust in her tone. “It is for you.”

He inclined his head, wordless, holding the photograph closer to his chest than necessary. His fingers flexed slightly around it, pressing the paper gently as though he could imprint the memory of her there, imprint the warmth, the light, the subtle pulse of her presence.

The curtain opened, and the soft drizzle outside greeted them. Verena pulled an umbrella from her bag and held it above their heads. The narrow coverage forced them to walk close, her shoulder brushing his as they stepped onto the cobblestones. He felt every contact, subtle and electric, yet he maintained a careful, controlled posture.

She glanced up at him, her eyes sparkling despite the rain. “It is only a little rain. We are dry enough under this.”

“Yes,” he said quietly, his voice low, almost lost in the patter of rain. He adjusted the edge of the umbrella to ensure she remained protected. His hand lingered on the shaft a moment longer than necessary, feeling the heat from her proximity.

They walked slowly back toward Hogwarts. He noted the curve of her stride, the way her scarf shifted with each step, the occasional tilt of her head as she observed something in the street. Every small motion captured his attention completely. His mind cataloged it all while his heart betrayed him, beating unevenly and fast.

When they reached the castle, the weight of the photograph in his hands reminded him of every fleeting moment they had shared. They paused briefly for the gates, and he caught her glance, the hint of fatigue and lingering sadness from the breakup visible despite her attempt to mask it.

They parted at the entrance to the dining hall. She moved toward her table with a soft smile, careful and polite, yet he could see the shadows of her previous sorrows beneath it. He watched her, hand still pressed lightly against the photograph in his robes.

He stole glances as she ate, observing the small movements, the way she occasionally pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, the faint curve of her lips when she laughed quietly at something another student said. His chest ached, tight with the desire to protect her, to reach for her, and yet he remained rooted in place, silent and controlled.

Later, when the hall emptied, she left for her chambers. Snape remained at his table, finishing his own meal, the photograph secure in his hand. Once he was alone in his chambers, he removed it carefully from his robes. The faint scent of her perfume lingered on the paper, a delicate reminder of the day.

He placed it in the first page of his favorite book, pressing it gently, as though he could capture her presence there permanently. His fingers lingered on the page, memorizing the subtle weight of the photograph, the warmth of the paper against his skin, the faint echo of the day’s laughter and small moments.

He hated himself for how much he wanted to linger in that memory. He hated the ache that accompanied his longing. Yet he could not resist. Every motion, every glance, every detail of her presence had lodged itself inside him, and even as he closed the book, he knew the image of her, the sound of her laughter, and the faint scent that lingered on the photograph would stay with him, quietly, insistently, endlessly.