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Chapter Text

George Weasley never imagined that the best business partner he’d ever have—after Fred—would be Severus Snape. But life, as George had learned, was full of surprises. After losing Fred, George had struggled to rekindle the spark of creativity that had fueled their joint brilliance. Every product he designed felt half-formed, every idea incomplete without the back-and-forth banter that had made his and Fred’s partnership legendary.

Desperate, George had placed an ad in the Daily Prophet , seeking someone with top-notch qualifications in Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration. A mastery in any of those fields was preferred, but more than credentials, George sought someone who could provide the same spark Fred had: someone who could challenge him, laugh with him, and push his ideas to their limits.

The applicants had poured in—bright-eyed witches and wizards eager to join the infamous Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Yet, one by one, they all fell short. None of them had Fred’s wit, his knack for mischief, or the ability to keep up with George’s rapid-fire ideas. For nearly a year, George slogged through a revolving door of employees and a painfully slow trickle of uninspired new products. He began to wonder if he’d ever find someone who could match Fred’s energy.

Then, against all odds, Severus Snape applied.

The name had shocked George when he saw it at the top of the application. The former Death Eater, the war hero, the man with a reputation as one of the most intimidating professors Hogwarts had ever seen? It had to be a joke. But the application was real, and when Snape showed up for an interview, his demeanor was as dour as ever.

Snape’s reasoning for applying was simple: no one else would hire him. Despite his heroic actions in the war, the wizarding world hadn’t forgiven—or forgotten—his past. The dark mark on his arm was a permanent reminder of the choices he’d made, and few were willing to look past it. Teaching positions were closed to him, potioneering labs didn’t want his “tainted reputation,” and most businesses balked at his surly attitude. Applying for a position at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was a long shot, a last-ditch effort to secure a future.

But to George, it was perfect.

Snape’s snarky wit and sharp intellect were exactly what George needed. Where others saw a bitter, intimidating man, George saw someone who could finally provide the give-and-take he craved. Snape’s acerbic commentary on George’s ideas was hilarious, and his genius with potions and spellcraft was unmatched. For the first time in a year, George felt alive again, sparring with someone who could keep up with his chaotic creativity.

For Snape, the arrangement was ideal. George allowed him to work in relative peace, tucked away in a laboratory where he could invent without interruption. The salary was more than generous, and the only person he had to deal with was George, whose irreverent humor and lack of judgment made the partnership surprisingly tolerable.

In just a few months, the shop’s shelves were overflowing with new products: self-stirring cauldrons that sang while brewing, potion-infused prank candies, and enchanted hats that offered sarcastic quips when worn. Snape’s expertise gave the products a level of sophistication they hadn’t had before, while George’s flair for theatrics ensured they were still fun and marketable.

The day George Weasley announced the expansion of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes into serious magical products, Severus Snape thought he had misheard. Serious products? For Aurors and Ministry officials? It was like suggesting Zonko’s should start crafting diplomatic parchments. But George was unwavering, and soon the shop’s cheeky charm coexisted with shelves of prototype magical devices: enchanted surveillance mirrors, self-sealing potion kits, and protective wards that could be deployed in seconds.

With these new ventures came the need for an arithmancer, someone who could analyze the outcomes of complex potions, predict the effects of spellwork under duress, and even chart how political trends might influence Ministry purchasing. Severus barely paid attention to the search process. He assumed George would hire another underqualified fool. But when the chosen candidate turned out to be Hermione Granger, Severus’s irritation knew no bounds.

George had delivered the news with an air of nonchalance, as though he wasn’t about to upset Severus’s carefully constructed world. “She starts next week,” George had said brightly. “Top floor office. Shouldn’t be too much of a bother for you, mate. You’ll hardly see her unless, you know, you want to.”

Severus’s scowl deepened, and without a word, he raised his wand and cast a spell. George’s hair turned a vivid, electric blue, matching the sparks of fury in Severus’s dark eyes. It took George a week to charm it back to its usual ginger, though he found the incident more amusing than infuriating.

When Hermione Granger arrived, Severus braced himself for the worst. He envisioned the swotty Gryffindor he had taught at Hogwarts: relentless, idealistic, and constantly eager to prove herself. To his surprise—and mild dismay—this Hermione was different.

Gone was the overeager schoolgirl who raised her hand for every question. In her place was a sharp, focused woman who carried herself with quiet determination. She was still a bit of a workaholic, splitting her time between her role at WWW and her tireless campaign for equal rights for magical creatures. But there was a steeliness to her now, a sense of purpose that left little room for idle chatter or pleasantries. She didn’t bother trying to win him over or make conversation unless it was strictly necessary, which Severus begrudgingly respected.

Her presence, however, still grated on him. Her office, just two floors above his laboratory, was a reminder of her proximity. Occasionally, she would descend to his workspace to discuss projections or consult on product designs. These interactions were efficient and professional, but Severus couldn’t help noticing her meticulous nature—how she furrowed her brow as she scribbled calculations or how her fingers absentmindedly twirled a quill when deep in thought. It was maddeningly distracting.

For Hermione’s part, she treated Severus with careful neutrality. She knew his temper and reputation, but she also recognized his brilliance. If anything, she was impressed by his contributions to the company and had no qualms about saying so, much to his discomfort.

Still, Severus couldn’t shake the feeling that her presence disrupted the quiet solitude he had enjoyed. George, of course, found the whole situation endlessly entertaining.

“Lighten up, Snape,” George teased one day, catching the potions master glaring at the ceiling as though Hermione’s office were a personal affront. “Granger’s good for us. She’s already got the Ministry interested in our prototypes. And who knows? Maybe you’ll even learn to enjoy her company.”

Severus shot George a withering glare. “When Hippogriffs learn to waltz,” he muttered, turning back to his cauldron.

But deep down, Severus wasn’t sure if it was annoyance or something else entirely that made him so hyper aware of Hermione Granger’s every move.

That had been five years ago. Now, Hermione Granger was no longer the thorn in Severus Snape's side he had once considered her to be. The shift hadn’t been immediate, but one significant change had certainly helped: she was no longer dating Ronald Weasley. Severus hadn’t realized how much the association with the youngest male Weasley had colored his opinion of her until their relationship ended. With Ronald out of the picture, Hermione had grown up, become more self-assured, and, to Severus’s surprise, far less irritating.

More importantly, she had stopped looking at him through the lens of a former student gazing up at her professor. Instead, she began interacting with him as she did with George—openly, bluntly, and with just enough teasing to make him bristle without crossing the line into outright disrespect. She challenged his ideas without the condescension he expected and, to his astonishment, seemed to enjoy the back-and-forth just as much as George did.

What had started as begrudging tolerance slowly evolved into something resembling camaraderie. They worked well together, their intellects complementing each other in ways neither would have predicted. She often sought his insight on the theoretical underpinnings of her arithmancy work, and in return, she offered him a perspective that was annoyingly perceptive.

Somewhere along the way, they had fallen into an easy rhythm. He no longer dreaded her visits to his laboratory; in fact, he found himself looking forward to their debates. She had a brilliant mind, a quick wit, and—much to his irritation—a habit of challenging him just enough to keep him on his toes.

Though Severus would never admit it aloud, Hermione had grown from a "complete nuisance" into what could only be described as a friend. A begrudging, occasionally exasperating friend, but a friend nonetheless.

George had noticed the change long before Severus had. “You’re smiling more,” George had needled one day, watching Severus scowl at Hermione’s retreating form after she’d delivered a biting remark about his handwriting. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you actually liked her.”

Severus had sneered. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, but his usual venom was noticeably absent.

George only laughed.

It was mid-April when Hermione stormed into the team planning session, her usual composed demeanor nowhere in sight. Her face was flushed, her curls were slightly askew, and she looked thoroughly exasperated. Without so much as a greeting, she dropped into her seat, yanked out a stack of parchment, and began scribbling furiously. Arithmancy equations spilled onto the page in a flurry of precise but aggressive pen strokes as she muttered to herself under her breath.

Severus, who had been reviewing a prototype potion formula at the far end of the table, glanced at her with mild curiosity. He decided to give her a few minutes to stew before risking an interruption. Hermione’s rare outbursts were usually best approached with caution.

By the time George sauntered in, balancing a plate of biscuits and a steaming mug of tea, Hermione was still furiously scratching away. George paused in the doorway, his brows lifting in amusement as he took in the scene.

“What’s up with Granger?” he asked, casually biting into a biscuit.

Severus shrugged, not bothering to look up from his work. “She’s been like that since she arrived,” he said dryly. “I assumed it was one of her many crusades.”

George, ever the opportunist for drama, set his tea down and approached Hermione. “Oi, Hermione,” he said lightly, leaning against the table. “What’s got your wand in a knot? This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with your lunch date, would it?”

That did it. Hermione’s quill snapped in her hand, and she let out an exasperated huff. “The nerve of that man!” she exclaimed, her voice laced with equal parts indignation and disbelief.

Severus arched a brow, setting his notes aside. This promised to be entertaining.

George grinned, clearly delighted. “Oh, do tell. What happened? Did he spill soup on you or try to split the bill?”

Hermione glared at George before launching into a tirade. “He spent the entire time talking about himself—his job, his accomplishments, his utterly boring hobbies. And when I tried to steer the conversation to anything remotely interesting, like recent developments in magical creature rights or the potential implications of integrating Muggle scientific theories into spellcasting, do you know what he did? He yawned ! Right in my face!”

Severus snorted before he could stop himself, earning a pointed look from Hermione.

“And then,” she continued, her voice rising, “as if that wasn’t bad enough, he had the audacity to suggest that my ‘strong opinions’ might intimidate potential suitors. Intimidate! As if having a brain and a backbone were some kind of flaw!”

George was openly laughing now, tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes. “Oh, that’s rich. Who was this prat? I need to send him a thank-you note for giving me the best laugh I’ve had all week.”

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I don’t even know why I bother,” she muttered, her voice muffled.

Severus cleared his throat, his expression carefully neutral. “Perhaps your mistake lies in expecting intelligence from someone who willingly spends time at Madam Puddifoot’s,” he said, his tone cutting but oddly sympathetic.

Hermione’s head shot up, her lips twitching as if fighting a smile. “You may have a point,” she admitted grudgingly.

George clapped Severus on the shoulder. “See? Snape’s got your back. Maybe next time, you should skip the dates and just hang out with us geniuses. Far more stimulating conversation.”

“Far less disastrous, too,” Severus added smoothly, smirking.

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t entirely suppress the grin that tugged at her lips. “You two are insufferable,” she said, though there was no heat in her words.

“Ah,” George quipped, “but we’re your insufferable.”

With that, he wandered over to Hermione’s side, peering down at the parchment she was furiously scribbling on. His plate of biscuits was still in hand, and as he leaned closer, a few errant crumbs rained down onto her intricate work.

“George!” Hermione snapped, brushing at the parchment with an exasperated huff. “Honestly, do you have to eat over my work?”

George held up his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Sorry, sorry. What’s this nebulous mess of equations, anyway? Some sort of curse-breaking or world-saving endeavor?”

Hermione scowled, straightening her notes. “It’s nothing of the sort. I’ve decided I’m no longer doing this absurd letter matchmaking system for dates. It’s clearly flawed.”

“And this—” George gestured to the layers of symbols and variables, “—is the solution?”

“Yes,” Hermione said matter-of-factly, picking up her quill again. “Any suitor who contacts me through the Lonely Hearts section of the Prophet will now be required to complete a comprehensive questionnaire. I’ll then apply their answers to this equation to determine our compatibility. That way, I can avoid disasters like today’s ordeal.”

George squinted at the parchment, then at the list of questions beside it. His brows shot up. “Ninety questions? Hermione, are you running a compatibility check or preparing for a Ministry-level interrogation?”

She sniffed, entirely unbothered. “It takes more than a handful of questions to accurately assess compatibility. Factors like shared values, intellectual alignment, communication preferences, emotional availability—it all matters.”

George gave a low whistle. “Blimey, that’s thorough. Do you really need all of these?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied firmly, tapping her quill against the list for emphasis.

At the far end of the table, Severus let out a gruff scoff, drawing their attention. “You cannot seriously believe that compatibility, let alone an actual relationship, can be determined by some overly complex algorithm,” he said, his words dripping with disdain.

Hermione turned to glare at him. “Why not? Compatibility is a measurable phenomenon. It’s based on shared interests, personality traits, and values. Why shouldn’t I apply logic to something people insist on approaching so emotionally?”

“Because relationships are not potion formulas or arithmantic proofs,” Severus countered, folding his arms. “Human behavior is far too unpredictable, not to mention fickle, for your mathematical theatrics to yield anything worthwhile.”

“And what would you suggest, Severus?” Hermione shot back, her tone sharp. “Relying on pure chance and gut instinct? That clearly hasn’t worked out so far.”

“I would suggest,” he said coolly, “that you stop treating potential suitors like research subjects. You might find more success with a touch of spontaneity rather than an overreliance on—” he gestured dismissively at her parchment, “—this mess of numbers.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “I’d rather rely on numbers than intuition when my intuition has proven to be catastrophically wrong.”

“Perhaps,” Severus said with a faint smirk, “the issue lies less with your intuition and more with your insistence on entertaining fools in the first place.”

George stepped between them, holding up his hands. “Alright, alright, let’s not turn this into a duel, yeah? Hermione, if this whole questionnaire thing actually works, I’ll personally fund a patent for it. And Snape—” he turned to Severus with a grin, “—don’t be so smug. You’re the last person I’d take romantic advice from.”

Severus glared at George but said nothing, while Hermione merely huffed and returned to her equations, muttering something about how at least her solution had a chance of success.

Two days later, George burst into Severus’s laboratory, his signature shit eating grin plastered across his face and two envelopes clutched in his hands. The scent of brewing potions and herbs filled the air, but George, as always, seemed oblivious to the ambiance—or to the clear do not disturb atmosphere Severus exuded.

“Good news, Snape!” George declared, tossing one of the letters onto the workbench, narrowly avoiding a flask of bubbling purple liquid.

Severus scowled, setting down his stirring rod and glaring at the offending envelope as though it might explode. “Good news for whom, precisely?”

“For science! Or love. Maybe both.” George smiled, waving the second envelope dramatically. “I wrote to Hermione, pretending to be a wizard named Ferdinand Featherbottom. Told her I was interested in courting her and filled out her questionnaire. Just to see how well we’re matched, of course.”

Severus snorted, leaning back against the bench with crossed arms. “You’re a fool, Weasley. What do you expect to gain from this absurd charade?”

“Oh, I’m glad you think it’s absurd,” George said cheerfully, flipping the other envelope in his hand. “Because you’ll be joining me.”

Severus straightened, his expression darkening. “ What? ”

“You heard me,” George said, tossing the second envelope onto the table. “Meet Victor Thorne, a charming, mysterious wizard who will also be vying for Hermione’s attention. That’s you, by the way.”

Severus fixed him with a withering stare. “Absolutely not. I refuse to participate in this farcical exercise.”

“Too bad,” George said with a shrug, undeterred. “Consider it a mandatory work bonding activity.”

“I would rather endure a cauldron explosion than indulge in your juvenile games,” Severus replied icily, turning back to his potion as if the conversation was over.

“Come on, Snape,” George persisted, pulling up a stool and planting himself at the workbench. “For all we know, you could be Hermione’s one true love.”

Severus froze for a fraction of a second before turning his sharp gaze back to George. “Better you than me.”

George grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Oh, don’t be so sure. She did mention your name a couple of times when she was ranting about her date the other day. Mostly in the context of you being insufferable and uncaring about her feelings, but hey, that’s practically a term of endearment coming from her.”

Severus scowled, his jaw tightening. “This is ridiculous.”

“It’s genius,” George countered. “Think of it as an experiment. You’re always preaching about research and observation, aren’t you? Well, let’s see how the mighty Victor Thorne fares against Ferdinand Featherbottom. Who knows? You might surprise yourself.”

Severus picked up the envelope with a long-suffering sigh, looking at it as though it had personally offended him. “If I agree to this nonsense, will you leave me in peace?”

“Of course,” George said, his grin widening. “For now, anyway. But don’t get too comfortable—I’ll be back to compare notes once Hermione starts replying.”

With that, George sauntered out of the laboratory, leaving Severus to glower at the envelope and curse the day he ever agreed to work for Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

Scowling, Severus Snape sat in his dimly lit lab, the questionnaire sprawled in front of him. It was far too personal. Inane questions about his favorite color, his shoe size, his preferred type of tea—ridiculous, frivolous nonsense. He couldn’t fathom how Hermione Granger, of all people, thought such questions had any place in a serious compatibility test. It was a mockery, and yet here he was, staring at it in frustration.

"This is absurd," he muttered to himself, glaring at the list of questions as if they might bite back. How could anyone with an ounce of intelligence ask such trite, meaningless things? And yet, as he flipped through more of the pages, it became clear the questions were only getting worse.

There were questions about philosophy— “What is your stance on the role of free will versus determinism?” —which was borderline tolerable, even interesting, if not for the fact that he didn’t have time for such idealistic, whimsical notions in his life. There were others that veered into ethics, with queries like “Is it ever acceptable to lie for the greater good?” which left him wondering whether Granger had taken to reading too many Muggle philosophy books or simply believed every wizard needed to answer questions like this before daring to interact with another human being.

And then, the questions took a turn for the worse.

“If you were given the power to change one thing in the world, what would it be and why?”

Severus stared at it, feeling a flicker of bitterness rise in his chest. What could he possibly answer that wouldn’t make him sound like a man haunted by regrets? He quickly moved past it, hoping for something less… personal.

But no, the next question was worse:

“If you could rewrite history, what moment would you change and what would be the consequences?”

It felt too close. Too real. He grimaced, wishing for the comfortable numbness of potion-making or the isolation of his study.

The next series of questions, however, were even stranger— “Which would you prefer: the pursuit of knowledge at all costs, or living a life of simple happiness? Why?” followed by “Do you believe the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few?” They were becoming less about compatibility and more like a test of his very character, as though Granger thought this was some kind of moral tribunal.

Severus ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. What kind of absurd exercise was this? What was she trying to do with this?

But then it hit him.

If it was a joke, if this questionnaire wasn’t real, if it was just an experiment to see how far people would go for her entertainment—then it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t work. No one could possibly answer all these questions seriously and expect a relationship to blossom from it.

So why not just finish it?

If it was all destined to fail, as he suspected, then it didn’t matter what he wrote. With a gruff sigh, he set the quill to parchment and started answering. But the further he went, the stranger and lengthier the responses became. Hermione Granger had somehow turned a silly matchmaking questionnaire into a labyrinth of introspection. By the time he reached the final few questions, it had become clear that he was less filling out a questionnaire for a date, and more pouring out the tangled, messy, complicated thoughts of his very soul.

“What is the greatest personal sacrifice you have ever made?”

Severus paused. There were too many moments, too many choices, too many regrets to choose from. But he wasn’t sure he was ready to admit any of them, not even to the puzzle Granger had so carefully laid out before him.

By the time he was finished, the answers felt like a confession, a shedding of layers he hadn’t intended to reveal. A part of him couldn’t help but wonder if Hermione truly wanted to know the answers to these questions—or was she simply setting a trap, hoping to expose something in him he didn’t even know was there?

With a sigh, Severus placed the quill down and took a step back, staring at the parchment. He had completed the questionnaire, but he wasn’t sure he felt any more “compatible” with Hermione Granger. Instead, he felt… exposed.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, staring at the page. "What have I gotten myself into?"

Chapter Text

About a month had passed since the questionnaires had been sent off, and neither Ferdinand Featherbottom nor Victor Thorne had heard a word from Miss Granger. Severus was determined not to care. He told himself repeatedly that the entire endeavor was ridiculous and doomed to failure. Yet, as the days wore on, he couldn’t quite shake the niggling curiosity about whether Victor Thorne had passed Hermione’s absurdly complex equation—or, more to the point, if anyone could.

By the end of the month, curiosity won out over his better judgment. He found himself striding toward the top floor, his scowl deepening with each step. As he neared Hermione’s office, muffled exclamations of frustration reached his ears. He paused briefly outside the door, debating whether he should turn around, but the sound of parchment rustling and a muffled curse made his decision for him.

Pushing the door open, Severus stopped short at the scene before him. Piles upon piles of responses were stacked precariously across her desk, spilling onto the floor. A glowing, magical projection of the infamous equation was spread across the wall, its intricate symbols and calculations shifting and spinning like a living entity. Hermione stood in the midst of the chaos, her hair in wild disarray and ink smudged on her cheek, furiously plugging answers into the equation while muttering curses under her breath.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing?” Severus demanded, his voice cutting through her flurry of activity.

Hermione jumped, nearly dropping the parchment in her hands. She whirled around, looking both flustered and annoyed. “What does it look like I’m doing?” she snapped, waving the parchment at him. “I’m trying to sort through this disaster!”

“This… disaster ?” he echoed, gesturing to the room. “You brought this upon yourself, Granger. Did you truly expect such a harebrained scheme to yield anything other than chaos?”

She glared at him, but the exasperation in her eyes was unmistakable. “I didn’t expect this! ” she exclaimed, throwing the parchment onto one of the many piles. “Do you have any idea how many responses I received? Hundreds! And most of them are complete rubbish!”

Severus raised a brow, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “I would have thought your ‘foolproof’ equation would weed out the less desirable candidates.”

Hermione groaned, running a hand through her hair. “It’s not that simple! Half of them didn’t even answer the questions properly, and the other half…” She trailed off, her gaze flicking to the glowing equation on the wall. “The equation isn’t… quite working as intended.”

“Not working?” Severus drawled, smirking slightly. “Surely you, the great Hermione Granger, didn’t miscalculate?”

Her cheeks flushed, and she shot him a slicing look. “It’s not a miscalculation! It’s just… more complicated than I anticipated. The equation works, theoretically, but inputting the data manually is taking forever, and some of these answers don’t even fit the parameters I set!”

Severus couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Let me see if I understand this correctly: you created an overly convoluted compatibility algorithm, advertised yourself in The Prophet , and now you’re overwhelmed because the entire wizarding world has decided to court you?”

“I didn’t think this many people would respond!” she retorted, throwing her hands up. “And besides, most of them aren’t even serious. Do you know how many of these letters are from people trying to pitch me their business ideas or sell me things?”

“Shocking,” Severus said dryly. “It’s almost as though inviting strangers to describe their compatibility through a mathematical formula wasn’t the most prudent idea.”

Hermione just huffed, her hands on her hips. “If you’re just here to gloat, you can leave.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of leaving,” Severus replied, his tone laced with mockery. “This is far too entertaining.”

She huffed, turning back to her equation. “If you’re so entertained, why don’t you make yourself useful and help me sort through this mess?”

He raised a brow. “And what makes you think I would willingly subject myself to such tedium?”

“Because you clearly have nothing better to do,” she shot back, not bothering to look at him.

For a moment, Severus considered leaving her to her madness. But as he watched her mutter to herself, furiously scribbling notes and glaring at the equation as though it had personally offended her, he found himself walking further into the room.

“Very well,” he said, picking up one of the discarded responses. “Let’s see what kind of lunatics you’ve attracted, shall we?”

Severus sifted through the stack of responses, his dark eyes narrowing at each ridiculous letter. Hermione hadn’t been exaggerating about the sheer absurdity of the applicants.

The first response he opened was a thinly veiled sales pitch for a self-stirring cauldron. “Innovative,” Severus muttered curtly, tossing it onto a pile labeled Rubbish . The next was an inquiry about Harry Potter’s availability for a book signing. Severus sneered, crumpling the letter into a tight ball and tossing it at the waste bin.

“This is what passes for romance these days?” he questioned with disdain. Hermione didn’t respond, too engrossed in her equation to look up.

The third response had him pausing, his lips curling into a deep frown. The answers were barely legible, the applicant apparently too dense to grasp the concept of full sentences, let alone the complex questions Hermione had crafted. The response to her question about moral philosophy was a single word: Huh?

Severus groaned. “This one seems to be under the impression that literacy is optional.”

Hermione sighed without looking at him. “Just put it in the reject pile.”

He did so with relish, but the next letter made him stiffen. The writer had forgone answering the questions entirely, instead penning a crude proposition that left nothing to the imagination.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” Severus snapped, slamming the parchment onto the desk. “This one doesn’t even pretend to take you seriously. His entire letter is a thinly veiled attempt to solicit—”

“—favors,” Hermione finished for him, her tone clipped. “Yes, I’ve had a few of those.”

“A few ?” Severus echoed. “This is more than a ‘few,’ Granger. This is a veritable parade of idiocy, insincerity, and downright vulgarity!”

Hermione finally looked up, exhaling sharply as she rubbed her temples. “You’re not wrong,” she admitted. “I thought filtering through them would be easier, but some of these…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

Severus set the offending letter aside, his jaw tightening. “I hope you’ve sent responses to these cretins explaining precisely how unsuitable they are.”

“Of course I haven’t,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Why would I waste my time on them?”

“Because they deserve to be reminded of their rank inadequacy,” he said curtly.

Hermione smiled slightly. “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“I don’t,” he shot back, though the faint flush rising on his cheeks suggested otherwise. “I simply despise idiocy, and these letters are an affront to even the lowest standards of intelligence.”

She chuckled softly, but her amusement faded as she gestured to the still-growing piles of responses. “It’s not all bad, you know. Some of them are… thoughtful. But even then, the equation hasn’t matched anyone yet. Either my parameters are too strict, or—” 

“Or this entire endeavor was doomed from the start,” Severus finished, cutting her off. “You’ve overcomplicated what is, at its core, a simple concept. Compatibility cannot be boiled down to equations and formulas.”

“And what would you suggest instead?” she challenged, arching a brow. “Letting fate decide? Wandering around waiting for some spark of connection to strike like lightning?”

“Better that than reducing human interaction to arithmetic,” he retorted, narrowing his eyes. “If you’re truly seeking compatibility, perhaps you should stop looking for it on parchment.”

“Are you offering to help me find it, then?” she quipped, her tone light but her eyes observent.

Severus froze for a fraction of a second before returning her gaze with a measured look. “I’m merely suggesting that your current methodology leaves much to be desired.”

Hermione’s lips quirked into a small, knowing smile, but she said nothing, turning back to her work. Severus, scowling once more, returned to the pile of responses, determined not to let her get the last word.

It had taken the rest of the workday and well into the next morning to wade through the mess of applications. By the time they were finished, Severus had helped Hermione whittle down the hundreds of applicants to just under twenty. The thought of seeing Hermione's smile as they concluded was almost worth the grueling task, Severus told himself. Almost.

When Hermione realized she could have her answers finalized by the weekend, her entire face lit up with pure joy. She clasped her hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. "This is perfect! I’ll finally know who might actually be worth my time."

He raised an eyebrow as she sorted through the narrowed-down pile. "Speaking of which, Granger, you've dedicated quite an unhealthy amount of time to this... project. Are you not concerned about falling behind in your actual work?"

Hermione looked up, startled, and then waved his concern away with a flick of her wrist. "Oh, I’m not worried. I’m already three months ahead of schedule. I always build in buffers for projects in case of emergencies or unexpected events."

Severus gave her a long, appraising look. "That level of foresight might be commendable if it didn’t border so closely on madness."

She laughed at that, the sound light and unbothered. "Maybe, but it works. And soon enough, we’ll see just how well this equation works, too."

He muttered something under his breath about Gryffindor optimism as he returned to his workstation, but the sight of her excitement lingered in his mind. She was, as ever, infuriatingly endearing.

That following Monday, Severus received a letter bearing Hermione Granger’s tidy script. He stared at the envelope for a long moment before finally breaking the seal with a quick slicing charm. Inside was a neatly folded piece of parchment, her writing as precise and deliberate as ever.

Dear Mr. Thorne,

I want to thank you for your patience and the time you took to thoughtfully respond to the questionnaire. It’s clear you gave each question genuine consideration, which is more than I can say for the vast majority of replies I received. Sifting through the responses was… enlightening, to say the least. Finding individuals like yourself who approached the process sincerely was a rarity, and I appreciated it more than you may realize.

Once I applied your answers to the matrix, however, I encountered an unexpected complication. For nearly everyone else, the formula worked as intended, efficiently delivering a compatibility result. Yet when I input your responses, something strange occurred: the matrix refused to align. No matter how many times I checked and rechecked my calculations, it simply wouldn’t produce an answer.

After weeks of frustration, several attempts to reconfigure the formula, and no small amount of cursing at both myself and the entire field of Arithmancy, I finally identified the issue. It wasn’t a flaw in the equation itself, nor was it an error in your answers. Rather, it was a missing variable—one that couldn’t be calculated or predicted by any formula I’d devised.

Mr. Thorne, as it turns out, the only way for us to resolve this anomaly is to get to know each other through a more traditional means: correspondence. The matrix suggests—quite insistently, I might add—that only by engaging in a meaningful exchange of letters can we determine whether or not we are compatible.

I must admit, this revelation left me both flustered and amused. The notion of building a connection through letters alone feels oddly romantic, as if pulled straight from the pages of a Jane Austen novel. While the logical part of me balks at the inefficiency of such a method, I can’t deny there’s something delightfully quaint about it.

And so, Mr. Thorne, I find myself with a rather unorthodox proposal. Would you be amenable to corresponding with me in this manner until the matrix reaches a conclusion? If you require proof of my findings, I’d be more than happy to send you a copy of the equation along with the annotated results for your review.

I realize this is an unusual request, but I find myself genuinely intrigued by your responses and would greatly enjoy the opportunity to learn more about you.

Awaiting your reply,
Hermione Granger

Severus reread the letter, his furrowed brow deepening with each line. The nerve of her—requesting that they continue corresponding by letter as though this was some Austen-inspired romantic farce. He had crafted "Victor's" answers to be precise but forgettable, thorough yet devoid of any unique flair. And now, thanks to her accursed matrix and its inexplicable anomaly, she was suggesting a prolonged written exchange as if it were the only logical solution.

He set the letter down, staring at it as though his disdain could somehow make it disappear. George would delight in this development, no doubt. The prospect of enduring his colleague's gleeful commentary was almost enough to consider abandoning the entire charade.

And yet, the idea of writing to Hermione intrigued him more than he cared to admit. Despite his annoyance, he found himself begrudgingly respecting her thoroughness and ingenuity. Few people could challenge him intellectually, and even fewer would dare. But engaging with her through letters carried its risks—he would have to maintain the "Victor Thorne" persona flawlessly, revealing just enough to keep her interest while avoiding any hint of his true identity.

With a resigned sigh, Severus pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and uncapped his ink. The situation was spiraling far beyond the simple workplace prank George had envisioned, and now it was up to him to ensure it didn’t unravel completely.

"Victor Thorne," he grumbled, dipping his quill into the inkwell. "You’re proving to be an exceedingly inconvenient distraction."

When George found out about Severus’s newfound pen-pal arrangement with Hermione, the redhead nearly keeled over with laughter, clutching his sides as he gasped for air. "I can't—I can't breathe!" he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "This is priceless, Snape. Absolutely priceless!"

Severus, his expression as thunderous as ever, glared at him from across the room. "If you're quite finished behaving like an infant, Weasley, you may kindly leave and allow me to work in peace."

George, predictably, did no such thing. Instead, he sauntered over, still chuckling. "You know," he began, grinning like a Cheshire cat, "I'd be happy to take your letter up to the owlery for you. Wouldn't want you getting all flustered around the birds. They're very judgmental creatures, after all."

Severus shot him a look that could have cut glass. "I can manage a simple trip to the owlery, thank you very much."

"Right, right," George said, still smirking. Then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, he raised an eyebrow. "You did use the Anonymous Author Quill to disguise your handwriting, didn’t you? Wouldn’t want her recognizing that scrawly, dramatic penmanship of yours."

Severus’s glare intensified. "Obviously."

"Good, good," George said, nodding with mock seriousness. "Just checking. Wouldn’t want our dear Miss Granger realizing that the surly potions master she works with is secretly the swoon-worthy Mr. Victor Thorne."

Severus’s jaw tightened as he picked up the sealed letter and handed it over. "Take this to the owlery and leave," he snapped.

George took the letter with a theatrical bow. "As you wish, Mr. Thorne." 

George didn’t even make it to the door of Severus’s lab before it burst open with all the subtlety of a hex. Hermione stormed in, her wand tucked haphazardly into her messy bun and her eyes blazing with fury. She zeroed in on George, pointing an accusatory finger.

“I can’t believe you!” she seethed. “You filled out my questionnaire under the name Ferdinand Featherbottom ! Are you serious? That leaves only one other possible match!”

Blinking, George put on his best wide-eyed, innocent expression. A hand slung over his heart as if he was wounded. “Me? Ferdinand Featherbottom? Never heard of the bloke.”

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. “Don’t play dumb with me, Weasley. How did I know it was you? Oh, I don’t know… maybe because you responded to my follow-up letter asking for a date on official Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes stationery and signed it with your personal stamp ! The one only you use!”

Wincing, George scratched the back of his neck with an exaggerated grimace. “Ah, well. Guess you’ve got me there,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. Then, with a sudden shift back to his usual cheeky self, he asked, “So, are we on for Friday? I’m thinking dinner and a romantic broom ride. Very classy, very Ferdinand Featherbottom .”

She glared at him, crossing her arms. “It is not a date. It’s an apology dinner for wasting my time, and then you’re buying me a book at Flourish and Blotts.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Okay, but hear me out: what if it is a date, and I buy you three books? Now that’s romance.”

With that proposition, Hermione hesitated, her expression softening just a fraction. “Three books, you say?”

“Your pick,” George promised as he extended his pinky out to her.

She sighed, clearly trying to keep up her indignation but failing. “Fine. But I have some expensive ones on my list, so don’t think you’re getting off easy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love. Friday it is.” George grinned triumphantly. 

As Hermione turned to leave, she muttered something about having to revise her equations now that Ferdinand Featherbottom was no longer in the running. George winked at Severus, who had watched the entire exchange in stony silence.

“Well, Thorne,” George said, chuckling as he finally exited, “guess it’s just you and me left in the running.”

Dear Miss Granger,

Allow me to begin by applauding your tenacity. Few possess the patience—or the audacity—to wrestle a formula into submission, particularly when faced with something as stubbornly unpredictable as human nature. It seems I underestimated just how committed you were to this endeavor.

Your letter, however, was entirely unexpected. I entered this exercise anticipating little more than amusement at best, and yet here we are, with you proposing something as quaint—and dare I say intriguing—as a correspondence by letter. To think, a meticulously designed Arithmancy matrix reduced to suggesting we write to one another like characters from a Regency novel. One might almost call it charming.

You claim the matrix cannot resolve your answers without the assistance of letters. Very well, Miss Granger, I am prepared to humor you—though I must admit, I find the prospect more appealing than I should. There is, after all, something oddly satisfying about the notion of engaging in a thoughtful exchange without the distractions of the outside world.

I see no need to review your findings, as I trust the integrity of your work. Instead, I’ll accept your rather unorthodox proposal. Feel free to ask your follow-up questions, and I will endeavor to provide answers that satisfy your curiosity—or at the very least, keep you guessing.

Consider me intrigued, Miss Granger. Let us see where this experiment of yours leads.

Yours,
Victor Thorne

Chapter Text

Whenever Hermione finished writing a letter, George would swoop in, offering to send it off via owl. However, instead of actually using one, he would tuck the letter away and wait until the next day before strolling down to Snape’s lab. With a straight face and a twinkle of mischief in his eye, he’d hand over the letter, claiming an owl had just dropped it off. When Snape inevitably drafted a reply, George would once again step in, promising to send it by owl post, only to wait another day before delivering it to Hermione. He defended his peculiar system with a cheeky grin, justifying that he was sparing an owl the exhausting ordeal of flying up and down two whole floors. It was, in his words, an act of animal kindness—with the added bonus of stretching out the entertainment.

At first, Hermione was too engrossed in the thrill of the correspondence to question George’s unusual level of interest in her letters. She found it endearing how eager he seemed to assist, even if his smirk was a touch suspicious. But as weeks passed and her letters arrived at inconsistent times—or, on one memorable occasion, smelled faintly of biscuits—Hermione’s sharp mind started piecing things together.

One afternoon, as George made his usual grand show of "delivering" a reply from Victor, Hermione leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and gave him a look that could rival Professor McGonagall’s sternest glare.

“George,” she began sweetly, which immediately put him on edge, “is there a particular reason why these letters seem to spend so much time in your possession before reaching their intended recipient?”

George feigned innocence, clutching his chest as though her words had physically wounded him. “Hermione, how could you accuse me of such treachery? I’m merely facilitating a beautiful exchange of—”

“Cut the nonsense, Weasley.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve been meddling, haven’t you?”

Caught, George’s grin widened into a full-blown cheeky smirk. “Meddling is such a strong word. I’d prefer to call it… enhancing the experience.”

“Enhancing?” Hermione repeated, incredulous. “George, these letters are personal! How long have you been holding onto them before delivering them?”

“Not long!” George defended, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just long enough to ensure they’re properly appreciated. You know, savor the moment, build the anticipation... Besides, isn’t it better this way? Keeps the mystery alive.”

“George Weasley,” Hermione said warningly, her wand slipping into her hand as her tone dropped to a deadly calm, “if you don’t start delivering these letters immediately and as they were intended, I will hex you into next week.”

George took a cautious step back, hands still raised. “Point taken, no need to get wand-happy. But come on, Hermione, admit it—it’s been more fun this way!”

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but the thought gave her pause. As much as she hated to admit it, there was something oddly thrilling about the drawn-out nature of the letters, the way her anticipation for Victor’s replies had built over days.

“I’m not admitting anything,” she finally said, tucking her wand back into her bun. “But if you so much as delay one more letter, I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

George saluted her. “Understood. Immediate delivery from now on.” He hesitated, then added with a mischievous wink, “But you know, Hermione, if you’re this worked up about letters, I can’t imagine how you’ll handle an actual date with the mysterious Victor Thorne.”

Hermione flushed, her scowl tightening as he sauntered out of her office with a laugh, leaving her to fume—and to wonder, just for a moment, what that first meeting might actually be like.

The letters evolved from stiff pleasantries to something more natural—organic, even. Victor’s dry humor shone through with every quip and teasing remark, and Hermione found herself eagerly anticipating his replies. Their exchanges became a ritual, a bright spot in her day that she hadn’t realized she was missing. It became second nature to think of questions she wanted to ask him throughout the day, jotting them down hastily in the margins of her notes so she wouldn’t forget when it came time to write her next letter.

Victor seemed to know exactly how to challenge her without crossing the line. When she mentioned her passion for magical creature rights, he countered with a thought-provoking debate on the unintended consequences of regulating magical ecosystems. His arguments were thorough but not dismissive, his tone respectful but tinged with a subtle playfulness that made her want to write back immediately. When she confessed her fascination with ancient runes, he responded with a reference to a particularly obscure rune set that had her diving into her bookshelf for hours.

Somehow, their letters started to feel less like words on a page and more like a genuine conversation. Victor had a way of responding that made her feel seen and understood in a way that few others managed. And as much as she prided herself on her ability to challenge him back, she couldn’t help but be delighted when he managed to stump her with a particularly clever turn of phrase or an obscure historical reference.

As the weeks passed, Hermione started to get a picture of this Victor Thorne. He was tall with dark hair—at least, that was how she imagined him. His words painted the image of someone reserved but passionate, someone who preferred evenings spent in quiet contemplation over loud gatherings. She liked to imagine him working over a desk, the sleeves of his dress shirt pushed up to his elbows as he worked on a difficult charm or transfiguration problem. She wasn't quite sure which, since when she asked about his job, he merely stated that he worked in the field of research.

It frustrated her, in part, how much she thought about him. She’d find herself lingering over his letters, dissecting every word for hidden meaning, and daydreaming about what his life might be like. She imagined the way his voice might sound—low, measured, and confident—and the way his eyes might crinkle at the edges when he laughed.

One particular letter left her more flustered than usual. He’d shared a glimpse of his younger self: an awkward boy who had once been too bookish and introverted to fit in with his peers. “I doubt I’ve changed much,” he wrote. “Though I have learned, over time, how to weaponize wit as a shield.” Hermione had smiled, feeling a pang of empathy for him. She understood what it meant to feel out of place, to have to rely on intellect to carve out a space for oneself.

One night, curled up in her favorite armchair, she clutched a steaming cup of Earl Grey and reread his latest letter. It was filled with little details: his childhood fascination with alchemical theory, his preference for crisp autumn evenings over summer’s heat, and a candid confession of his favorite guilty pleasure—a certain brand of rich, bitter chocolate that he claimed was "as close to perfection as one could get in confectionery."

She found herself unable to stop smiling as she pictured him eating that chocolate, indulging in something decadent and rare. The thought made him feel more tangible, less of a mystery and more of a man she could reach out and touch.

The realization sent a flutter of nerves through her chest. How had this happened? How had she gone from skeptically testing her compatibility matrix to daydreaming about a man she’d never even met? Hermione had always prided herself on being pragmatic, grounded in logic and reason. And yet here she was, clutching a letter like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Victor Thorne had become more than just a name on parchment. He was the first thing she thought of when she woke up and the last thing on her mind before she fell asleep. And while part of her told herself to slow down, another part couldn’t help but hope that perhaps, just perhaps, this letter-writing experiment was leading her toward something extraordinary.

As for Severus Snape, he didn’t mind writing to Miss Granger—not that he would admit such a thing aloud, even to himself. Though he wouldn’t go so far as to say he felt anything beyond a tentative friendship for the witch, there was a strange comfort in the anonymity of their correspondence. Victor Thorne was, in essence, still Severus Snape, but he was a version unburdened by the weight of his past. There was no Dark Mark, no war, no years of playing a role that had consumed every part of his identity. Victor was freer, cleaner, and more at ease, and Severus found he liked that version of himself.

He enjoyed the challenge of sparring with Hermione—not with wands or harsh words this time, but with ideas and intellect. Her letters were a labyrinth of thought, filled with questions that forced him to consider perspectives he might have otherwise dismissed. She didn’t shy away from his harsher remarks, instead countering them with arguments that left him begrudgingly impressed.

Victor found himself amused by the witch’s habits, which she often let slip without realizing it. She had a particular fondness for lists—lists of books she wanted to read, theories she wanted to explore, or even mundane tasks she needed to accomplish. She described these lists in detail, as though writing them down to him made them more achievable. He had taken to teasing her gently about them, quipping in one letter that her “list of life goals could double as a comprehensive treatise on magical scholarship.”

Yet it wasn’t just her intellect that intrigued him. Her warmth shone through even the most formal of sentences. She wrote with a kind of unguarded honesty that made him pause, her words carrying an optimism and resilience he found disarming. It was... nice.

Of course, Severus would never admit to looking forward to her letters. But he couldn’t deny the flicker of anticipation that stirred when George strolled into his lab with that familiar smirk and a folded parchment in hand. Nor could he deny the satisfaction he felt when he crafted his replies, each word meticulously chosen to reveal just enough to keep her engaged without giving away too much.

He told himself it was just a game, an exercise in wit and wordplay. But as the weeks turned into months, he began to notice a shift in his own feelings. There was something deeply satisfying about being Victor Thorne—a man whose intelligence was respected, whose past was irrelevant, and whose company was genuinely enjoyed.

And then there was Hermione herself. Bright, challenging, and endlessly curious, she was the kind of woman who could make even the darkest corners of a mind like his feel illuminated. She had a way of drawing out the best of him—or at least, the best of Victor Thorne.

Still, Severus was careful not to let these thoughts linger too long. Victor might be free of Severus Snape’s baggage, but that didn’t mean the man behind the quill could afford to entertain foolish notions. For now, he was content to let the letters continue, content to challenge her mind and be challenged in return.

Victor Thorne might not be real, but the connection they were building felt entirely too genuine. And for now, Severus told himself that was enough.

Then it happened.

Severus Snape fell for the witch.

It was a particularly sweltering summer afternoon, the kind of day when the heat seemed to seep through even the thickest of stone walls. Severus had abandoned his lab, where the boiling potions and the steady hum of cauldrons made the room unbearable despite his best cooling charms. Hogwarts' dungeons, for all their gloom, had at least provided relief from such oppressive weather. He missed that.

Seeking refuge, he made his way to Hermione’s office, reasoning that her meticulously organized chaos might be preferable to the molten heat of his own workspace. George was preoccupied with the frenzy of before-school sales, leaving the upper floor mercifully quiet.

When he stepped into her office, the sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

She was perched on a stool, dressed in a pair of muggle denim shorts and a simple tank top. Her hair was piled into a messy bun, and the infamous “Mudblood” scar on her forearm was fully visible, its jagged lines a stark contrast against her skin. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her shoulders, catching the light from the enchanted lanterns.

“Afternoon, Severus,” she greeted without turning around, her focus firmly fixed on the sprawling matrices covering the walls. Her voice was light, unbothered by the heat, and she gave him a quick, genuine smile before returning to her work.

He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, watching her scribble notes onto a piece of parchment, utterly engrossed.

Pulling himself together, he walked further into the room, his spider like eyes falling on a stack of letters haphazardly placed on her desk. The neat penmanship was all too familiar—his own, disguised through the Anonymous Author Quill as the handwriting of Victor Thorne.

Curiosity piqued, he gestured toward the pile. “Still hoarding your correspondence, I see,” he remarked dryly.

Hermione turned, following his gaze, and her face lit up. “Oh, those? They’re Victor’s letters,” she said with a fondness that made his chest tighten.

She picked up one from the top of the stack, holding it reverently. “He’s just so… wonderful, Severus. His way with words is unparalleled, and he has such an intriguing mind. He makes me think—really think—about everything, from philosophy to the tiniest details of daily life. It’s refreshing.”

She beamed at the letter in her hand, and Severus’s heart sank. She wasn’t talking about Victor Thorne, not really. She was talking about him—about the best parts of himself that he had only been able to express through the safety of anonymity.

He cleared his throat, his voice laced with carefully masked disapproval. “And what of your latest adventure with George? Didn’t the two of you have some sort of ‘apology dinner’ planned?”

Hermione groaned, rolling her eyes as she set the letter down. “Don’t remind me. It was a disaster.”

Severus arched a brow, silently urging her to elaborate.

“Well, first of all,” she began, crossing her arms, “George thought it would be funny to start the evening with a prank—a harmless prank, he called it. It involved charmed wine glasses that kept refilling themselves.”

Severus’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk. “Sounds like George.”

“Exactly,” Hermione huffed. “I spent half the evening trying not to drown and the other half lecturing him about the proper etiquette of dinnerware.” She shook her head, a small, begrudging smile tugging at her lips. “And then, to make it up to me, he let me pick out six books at Flourish and Blotts instead of the agreed upon three. Like I’m some child to be bribed with sweets.”

“And were you?”

“Obviously,” she admitted, her grin widening. “But that’s beside the point.”

Severus’s amusement faded as he asked, his voice carefully neutral, “So there won’t be a second date?”

Hermione snorted. “Absolutely not. George is a dear friend, but dating him?” She shuddered. “It feels... wrong. He’s Ron’s brother, for Merlin’s sake. And beyond that, he’s my boss. Imagine the gossip! No, it’s not worth it, and honestly, I couldn’t see us working as a couple anyway.”

There was a trace of something vulnerable in her tone, a flicker of uncertainty that made Severus’s chest tighten.

“And Victor Thorne?” he found himself asking, unable to resist.

“Victor’s different,” Hermione said softly, almost to herself. “I don’t even know what he looks like, but he doesn’t feel like someone I’d have to explain myself to. He doesn’t come with… baggage.”

Severus turned away, pretending to examine the equations on the wall. Her words struck deeper than he cared to admit. Victor didn’t have baggage because Victor wasn’t real.

“Perhaps you’re too easily charmed by a well-written letter,” he said, his tone more clipped than he intended.

Hermione looked at him, her expression thoughtful. “Or perhaps,” she countered, “you underestimate the power of words.”

Severus didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the swirling numbers before him. For the first time, he wasn’t sure who was playing the more dangerous game: Victor Thorne, the clever mystery man Hermione was falling for, or Severus Snape, the man who had no idea how to disentangle himself from this growing web of feelings.

Hermione turned from the wall of equations to Severus, her expression bright with an idea. "You know," she began, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, "I could show you the matrix. I need to input more data from Victor's last letter anyway. Maybe you'd find it interesting. It’s all rather... intricate."

Severus raised a brow, masking his inner turmoil with his usual aloofness. “If you insist,” he replied, his tone dry but curious despite himself.

Hermione practically glowed with enthusiasm as she pulled her wand from her bun, the loose strands of her hair tumbling around her face. With a flick, the matrix unfolded across the wall, a mesmerizing array of moving symbols, lines, and glowing nodes. Severus stepped closer, his sharp eyes scanning the sprawling diagram.

"Here," Hermione said, pointing to one section. “This part is compatibility in intelligence. It’s weighted more heavily because, well, it’s important to me.” She glanced at him, her cheeks coloring faintly.

“And here,” she continued, moving her hand to another set of lines and symbols, “is compatibility in morals and ethics. That’s also pretty significant.”

Severus’s eyes followed her gestures, but his gaze shifted to her face as she spoke, her excitement contagious. She moved with such confidence and passion, her voice laced with a genuine fondness for the subject—and, by extension, for Victor .

But then Hermione’s hand drifted to a smaller, less intricate section of the matrix, and she laughed softly. “Of course, there are the sillier factors. Like this—whether you’re a morning person.”

Severus smirked faintly. “And how does one quantify such a thing?”

“With far more precision than you’d think,” she replied with a playful grin. “Then there’s this bit—the eternal debate of whether you squeeze the toothpaste tube from the middle or the end.”

He arched a brow. “Surely, this is the cornerstone of all great relationships.”

Hermione laughed, the sound warm and genuine, and for a moment, Severus felt a strange sense of ease. But then her expression shifted as she gestured to a different part of the diagram.

“This layer,” she said, her voice softening, “projects a potential meeting date. Based on all the data so far, it’s estimating…” She trailed off, her brow furrowing as she adjusted the equations with a few flicks of her wand.

The projected date appeared: Two years from now.

Hermione’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “Two years,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “That feels... so far away.”

Severus’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t decipher whether it was guilt, jealousy, or something else entirely. Watching her disappointment stirred something in him, a fierce, unwelcome protectiveness he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. 

“But,” she continued, brightening again, “this whole system isn’t perfect. New data could change the projections entirely. It’s all very fluid.” She turned to him, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of hope and determination. “What do you think, Severus? Impressive, isn’t it?”

He regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “It’s... thorough,” he said finally, his voice carefully measured.

Her face lit up at his approval, and as she began explaining another facet of the matrix, Severus found himself unable to look away. Her passion, her brilliance, the way her whole being seemed to shine when she talked about something she loved—it was magnetic.

And that’s when it hit him.

He had fallen for her.

Not Victor. Not the clever alias he’d crafted to play this game. It was Severus Snape—broken, cynical, burdened by a lifetime of regrets—who was helplessly, undeniably drawn to Hermione Granger.

The realization terrified him.

For years, he’d buried himself in shadows, certain that love was a luxury he’d forfeited long ago. But standing here, watching her beam as she poured her heart into her work, he felt a crack in the walls he’d so carefully constructed.

“Terrifying,” he muttered under his breath, though whether he referred to the complexity of the matrix or his own spiraling emotions, he couldn’t quite say.

“What was that?” Hermione asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“Nothing,” Severus replied quickly, masking his turmoil behind a practiced sneer. “Though I suspect Victor’s patience will wear thin if you keep him waiting two years.”

Hermione laughed again, her gaze soft. “Oh, I don’t think so. Something tells me Victor’s the patient sort.”

Severus said nothing, but his thoughts raced. For the first time, the name Victor Thorne felt like more than just a clever game. It felt like a trap, one he wasn’t sure he could escape without breaking both of their hearts.

Chapter Text

The dim glow of the Leaky Cauldron’s flickering oil lamps barely cut through the haze of pipe smoke and the cheerful din of earlier patrons, now reduced to a few stragglers nursing their final drinks. Severus sat stiffly at the corner table George had claimed as his own, the remnants of a shared bottle of White Rat Whiskey glinting in the lamplight. His long fingers curled around his glass, swirling the clear liquid as he fixed George with a pointed glare.

“This,” Severus began, speaking in a low and unimpressed manner, “is a terrible idea. As are all your ‘celebrations,’ if you must know.”

George, leaning back in his chair with a grin that was far too relaxed for Severus’s taste, raised his glass in a mock toast. “Ah, but what would we do without your sunshine, Snape?”

He scowled, but the edge was softened by the slight flush on his pale cheeks. He was tipsy, and he hated that George’s ridiculous antics had managed to draw him into this state yet again.

Hermione had left hours earlier, claiming a looming deadline for one of her campaigns, though Severus suspected she just wanted to escape George’s insistence that she stay for “one more round.”

“You’re sulking,” George observed, pointing at Severus with his half-empty glass. “Admit it. You miss her too.”

Severus shot him a fierce look. “What drivel are you spouting now?”

“Hermione,” George started. “I see the way you look at her when she’s explaining her matrix nonsense. It’s like you’re listening, but also trying to figure out if she’s mad or brilliant. Spoiler: it’s both.”

Taking a measured sip of his drink, Severus made sure his expression was unreadable. “Your drunken ramblings are as tedious as ever.”

George snorted. “You’re deflecting. But that’s alright. I’ve got time.”

“Why do you insist on dragging me to these absurd gatherings, Weasley? Surely, there’s no enjoyment for either of us in this.” Severus raised a brow, his patience thinning.

The redhead’s grin faded slightly, replaced by something softer, quieter. He stared at the whisky in his glass for a long moment before answering. “Fred and I used to do this. After every new product launch, we’d hit the pub, have a laugh, and stay until the place was practically kicking us out. It was our thing, you know? A way to celebrate, to remind ourselves why we started it all in the first place.”

He said nothing, though Severus' scowl softened. 

His eyes flickered upwards, George’s expression turning earnest. “It’s stupid, I know. But when Fred…” He trailed off, swallowing hard before forcing a smile. “Well, when he was gone, I didn’t want to stop. Felt like I’d be losing another piece of him if I did. So now, I make everyone come. Hermione hates it—she thinks I just want to get plastered—but it’s not about the drinks. It’s about the people.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and unspoken. Severus regarded George with a newfound understanding, his usual sharp retorts tempered by the vulnerability in the younger man’s voice.

“You’re sentimental, Weasley,” Severus said finally, lacking its usual bite.

George laughed, the sound a little strained. “Guilty as charged.”

Draining the rest of his whisky, Severus set the glass down with deliberate precision. “For what it’s worth, your brother would likely call you a sentimental idiot.”

George grinned, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and grief. “Yeah, but he’d say it with love.”

Leaning back in his chair, George drank the last of his whisky before setting the glass down with a satisfied thud. “Alright, enough about my sentimentality. Let’s talk about you and your Victor-Hermione situation.”

Severus stiffened, narrowing his eyes. “There is no ‘situation,’ Weasley.”

“Oh, but there is,” George countered, wagging a finger at him. “You’ve been writing to her for months now, Snape. Months. And don’t think I haven’t noticed how invested you’ve become. You could’ve let it fizzle out at any point, but here we are, still playing postal games like it’s 1895.”

Severus’s jaw tightened. “The arrangement suits us both. There’s no need to complicate matters further.”

“Except it’s already complicated, isn’t it? You’re halfway to smitten with her, and she’s clearly charmed by Victor. So what’s your endgame here, mate?” George leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as his grin widened. 

“I don’t have one,” Severus snapped. “And I have no intention of pursuing… anything.”

George rolled his eyes. “You’re scared.”

Severus’s glare could have made ice sweat. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m not,” George said, unfazed. “You’re terrified. Because if you meet her as Victor, the charade falls apart, and if you approach her as yourself, you think you’ll be rejected. So instead, you’re stuck in this limbo, writing letters and pretending it’s enough.”

The Potions Master didn’t respond, his fingers tightening around his empty glass.

George sighed, his face softening into something kinder. “Look, mate. If you’re that scared of meeting her as Victor, then why not try wooing her as yourself? No disguises, no letters. Just you.”

“And what, pray tell, do you expect me to do? Show up with a bouquet of roses and stammer my way through some declaration of affection?”

“Don’t be daft,” George said, laughing. “You’re Severus bloody Snape. You don’t do roses; you do intellectual debates and brooding charm. Just… start small. Talk to her, spend more time with her. Merlin knows you already have plenty of common ground.”

Severus shook his head, muttering something about idiotic ideas, but George pressed on.

“Think on it,” George advised, leaning back again. “And don’t forget, her birthday is in a few days. Get her something good. I expect to see you at the party.”

“I have no intention of attending that circus,” Severus said flatly.

“Why not?” George asked, feigning surprise. “Afraid of running into Harry? Or is it Ron you don’t want to deal with?”

Severus glowered. “Both, if you must know. Potter will undoubtedly be insufferable, and Weasley... I’ve had my fill of his sulking for one lifetime.”

“Oh, come on. You can handle them. Besides, it’s Hermione’s birthday. If nothing else, you can lurk in the corner with a drink and make sarcastic comments to me all night.” George smirked. 

Severus raised a skeptical brow.

“Look,” George continued, now more serious, “you mean more to her than you think, Snape. Showing up would mean a lot to her, even if she won’t say it outright. And who knows? Maybe you’ll have a good time.”

When Severus didn’t respond, George let out a dramatic sigh. “As your best friend, I’m telling you, you’ll regret it if you’re not there.”

“You are not my best friend,” Severus drawled, fixing George with a pointed glare.

George waved off the comment with a flick of his hand. “Details. As your best friend, I demand you get her a present that shows you pay attention. None of this ‘generic’ rubbish. It better be something personal.”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are insufferable.”

“Yeah, but you tolerate me,” George said with a wink as he stood up. “See you at the party, mate. Don’t be late.”

With that, George sauntered off, leaving Severus alone with his thoughts, the faint hum of the nearly empty pub, and the distinct feeling that he had been thoroughly outmaneuvered.

That was the conversation that led Severus to sulk in the shadows of 12 Grimmauld Place, a glass of firewhisky in hand, watching Hermione light up as she moved effortlessly through the crowd of her friends. She looked radiant, her curls bouncing as she laughed at something Ginny said, her cheeks flushed from the attention lavished upon her.

Severus had deliberately arrived late, hoping to avoid most of the festivities. It had been George, of course, who spotted him almost immediately and swooped in like a hawk on a particularly irritable mouse.

“Ah, Snape! You made it!” George exclaimed, shoving a ridiculous pink party hat onto Severus’s head before he could protest.

He froze, his hand halfway to his wand. “Weasley,” he growled, “remove this abomination from my person immediately, or I will—”

“Relax,” George interrupted. “You’re blending right in now. Look, it matches the balloons.”

Severus glanced toward the obnoxiously cheerful balloons floating in the corner, all in varying shades of pink and gold. His scowl deepened. “This is a crime on par with Potter naming his progeny after me.”

George burst out laughing, slapping Severus on the back. “See? This is why I like you. Always good for a laugh.”

And then George was gone, disappearing into the crowd before Severus could retaliate.

So there Severus stood, cloaked in his signature black robes, scowling fiercely beneath a pink party hat, all because of Hermione. Just for her.

His dark eyes tracked her every movement, noting the ease with which she navigated the party. She was entirely in her element, chatting animatedly with Harry and Luna, her hands fluttering as she explained something with her usual fervor. Her joy was palpable, infectious, and he hated how much it affected him.

Then, as if the universe sought to punish him further, Ronald Weasley loudly declared, “Alright, everyone, it’s time for gifts!”

Severus inwardly groaned, wishing he’d had the foresight to leave even earlier. But it was too late now; the group was gathering around Hermione, and he found himself moving a reluctant four centimeters to the left—just enough to join the circle without fully abandoning the safety of the shadows.

Hermione sat at the center of the room, a soft flush on her cheeks as she waved off the announcement. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” she protested lightly, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her excitement.

The gifts were, unsurprisingly, typical of her friends’ understanding of her preferences. A thick tome on obscure magical theories from Luna. A set of ornate, charmed quills from Ginny. Several vouchers to Flourish and Blotts—one of which bore the unmistakable messy scrawl of Harry Potter.

She opened each gift with a mixture of delight and gratitude, her face lighting up with each thoughtful gesture. Severus couldn’t help but notice how her fingers lingered on the spines of the books, how she ran her thumb over the engraving on the quills.

“Thank you, everyone,” Hermione said with a warm smile as she finished. “This is all so thoughtful. I really appreciate it.”

It was Luna who spotted Severus’s forgotten gift hidden somewhat under the coffee table. “There's one more.” 

As if Christmas had come early, George's entire facial expression grew wider as he looked between the gift and Snape. Clapping his hands together loudly, and drawing everyone’s attention, he spoke. “Hold on, hold on! We’re not done yet!” His grin practically splitting his face in two.

“George, what are you up to?”

“Oh, just making sure the most important gift isn’t forgotten,” he replied innocently. He turned dramatically,his gaze landing on Severus, still lurking at the edge of the group, his pink party hat slightly askew. “Snape, don’t tell me you forgot a gift for the birthday girl!”

All eyes turned toward him, and Severus’s frown deepened. He muttered something inaudible under his breath, but George wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily.

“Come on, mate! Surely you’ve got something for Hermione. Maybe a potion? Or, I don’t know, an essay on the ethical dilemmas of wizarding research? She’d love that!”

The group erupted into laughter, but Hermione shot George a warning look. “George, leave him alone.”

But Severus, for all his irritation, wasn’t about to back down in the face of Weasley’s antics. He stepped forward, and with a deliberate flick of his wand, the gift from under the coffee table. It floated into his hand, and he handed it to Hermione without a word, his expression blank and unreadable.

Taking the package, Hermione's hands dropped a bit from its unexpected weight. “You didn’t have to,” she said softly, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“It seemed appropriate.”

Hermione’s attention returned to the gift and she began to unwrap it. Beneath the paper was an old Weasley Wizard Wheezes box, and inside, nestled in silvery tissue paper, was a pair of old brass swan bookends. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each swan elegant and regal, their wings folded in perfect symmetry. Hermione froze, her breath catching in her throat as her fingers brushed over the cool metal.

“Oh,” she whispered. Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked up at Severus, her lips parted as if struggling to find the words.

Everyone stilled, watching the unexpected exchange with quiet curiosity. Even George, poised for another quip, held back when he noticed the shift in Hermione’s demeanor.

“These… these are just like the ones my grandmother had. I loved them so much when I was little. I used to beg her to let me have them when I grew up, but when she passed away…” She hesitated, dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “My cousin Dorcas got them. I thought I’d never see anything like them again.”

Her fingers curled protectively around one of the bookends as if it were a piece of her childhood made real again. “Severus, this is…” She trailed off, shaking her head as a tear slipped down her cheek. “Thank you. I don’t even know what to say.”

“It was nothing,” Severus dismissed. His dark eyes flickered with something unspoken as he crossed his arms, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. “I happened to see them in a charity shop window and thought you might like them. That’s all.”

Hermione shook her head, clutching the bookends a little tighter. “No, it’s not nothing. This is… thoughtful. So thoughtful.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she offered him a tearful smile. “I love them.”

“I’m glad they please you,” he murmured, inclining his head as his gaze briefly met hers before darting away.

What Hermione didn’t know, and what Severus would never admit, was the truth behind the gift. Those swan bookends had lingered in his mind ever since she’d written the story to Victor—about her grandmother, about the bookends, and how much they had meant to her. When he’d learned about the party, he’d resolved to find them, spending every spare moment combing through muggle charity shops and antique stores until, finally, he’d stumbled upon the perfect pair.

Hermione gently set the bookends down and stood, crossing the small space between them. Before Severus could react, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around him in a warm hug. He stiffened at first, clearly caught off guard, but eventually, he relaxed just enough to awkwardly pat her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his chest. “This means more than you know.”

“It was a simple gesture,” he replied as the faintest hint of color rose to his cheeks. “Nothing more.”

As she pulled back, her face still flushed with emotion, George—never one to let a moment linger too long—cleared his throat dramatically. “Well, well, Snape. Who knew you had a sentimental streak?”

“Careful, Weasley. Lest I accidentally poison your next drink.” Severus said dryly, regaining its familiar bite.

The party goers once again erupted into laughter, the tension diffusing as the party resumed its lively chatter. But even as Hermione returned to her seat, her smile brighter than before, she kept glancing at the bookends, her fingers occasionally brushing over them as if reassuring herself they were real.

Soon the group began shifting their attention to the cake that Ginny was bringing out from the kitchen. Despite his attempts to fade into the background, his presence was far too conspicuous.

It was Harry who dared to talk to him. Clearing his throat and leaning toward Snape, trying for a casual approach. “So, Professor—uh, Severus—what do you think of Grimmauld Place these days?”

Snape turned his dark eyes to Harry, one brow arching slightly. “It’s slightly less intolerable now that it’s not under Black’s... distinctive influence. Though the décor remains depressingly grim.”

“Grimmauld, grim. George is wearing off on you Sir.” Ron said before realising his mistake in the honourific. 

“Well, we’ve tried to make it more welcoming, though I suppose it’s a work in progress.” Harry looked down at his drink, obviously a bit nervous around his former professor. 

Snape’s gaze flicked briefly to the twinkling banners and enchanted streamers overhead, his lips curving faintly. “Indeed. The... festivities are nothing if not enthusiastic.”

Luna, who had been quietly examining the cake, piped up, “It’s the nargle-free decorations. They really brighten a place up.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Snape gave her a sidelong glance, his expression carefully blank. 

“Cake is ready!” Ginny shouted as she placed the cake with way to candle muggle candles on it in front of Hermione. 

There was a flurry movement as everyone gathered around the cake. Hermione stood at the center, the warm glow of the candles casting a soft light over her face.

The group launched into an enthusiastic, off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday,” their voices echoing through the old house. Hermione closed her eyes as she made her wish, her hair catching the golden light like a halo, and blew out the candles. The group erupted into cheers and applause, and as the last of the smoke curled from the extinguished candles, Neville piped up.

“What did you wish for, Hermione?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

Before Hermione could respond, Ginny smirked, leaning forward with a teasing glint in her eyes. “To shag that sexy letter buddy of hers, Victor Thorne.”

Hermione’s cheeks turned crimson as the room collectively turned to her in surprise. “Ginny!” she hissed, glaring at her friend, who was entirely unapologetic.

“Letter buddy?” Neville asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. “You’ve got a pen pal, Hermione?”

Hermione shook her head quickly, her voice a bit too high-pitched as she replied, “He’s no one! Just someone I’ve corresponded with about research. It’s purely academic.”

Ginny raised a skeptical eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Purely academic, is it? Please. Every time you get a letter, you’re grinning like Crookshanks used to when he caught a gnome. And let’s not forget the time you actually swooned over his handwriting.”

“I did not swoon!” Hermione protested, her words breaking slightly in her embarrassment.

“Oh, but you did,” Ginny countered, turning almost dreamy as she clasped her hands to her chest in exaggerated imitation. “Oh, Victor, your penmanship is as eloquent as your words. Truly, you are the soul of intellect and wit!”

At this, Ron and George, standing on opposite sides of the room, both grinned wickedly.

“Victor, I love you,” George began to sing, his voice overly dramatic.

“Victor, I do,” Ron chimed in, clutching an invisible letter to his chest.

“When we’re apart, my quill writes only for you!” they finished together, swaying as if serenading an invisible figure.

Hermione buried her face in her hands as laughter erupted around the room. “You’re all insufferable,” she muttered, though the corners of her mouth twitched despite her mortification.

Even Snape, lurking in the shadows, allowed himself a faint smirk at the chaos unfolding before him. He sipped his firewhisky, his dark eyes flicking toward Hermione, who was now trying—and failing—to fend off Ginny’s relentless teasing.

“Don’t let them bother you, Hermione,” Luna said, serene as always. “If this Victor Thorne is as brilliant as you say, perhaps he’s also a fire crab animagus. They’re very compatible with witches who love books.”

“Thank you, Luna,” Hermione said weakly, though her glare at Ginny still held firm.

As the laughter subsided and the cake was sliced, Hermione finally managed to reclaim a shred of dignity, though the song would undoubtedly haunt her for weeks to come.

A few days later, Severus found himself standing awkwardly outside Hermione’s office, a steaming cup of tea balanced in each hand. He was about to turn around and retreat when the sound of her exasperated muttering reached his ears.

She was hunched over her desk, surrounded by stacks of parchment and half-unrolled scrolls, her brow furrowed in concentration. The projection of yet another matrix lit up one wall, but today it shared space with charts and graphs outlining potential shifts in Ministry policy. She looked utterly consumed, her quill scratching furiously against the page.

He cleared his throat, and her head shot up, her tired eyes narrowing in momentary confusion before softening. “Oh, Severus. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

He held out one of the cups, his expression deliberately neutral. “They appear to have mistakenly given me two.”

Hermione blinked at the offered drink, then at him. “Two Earl Greys?” she asked skeptically, tilting her head.

“Yes,” he said shortly, praying she wouldn’t question it further.

She studied him for a beat longer before accepting the cup. “Well, their mistake is my gain,” she murmured, taking a cautious sip. Her shoulders relaxed almost immediately, and a soft hum of appreciation escaped her lips.

“Thank you,” she said, a genuine smile breaking through her fatigue. “I needed this.”

He shrugged, feigning disinterest, though he was watching her reaction intently. “It would have gone to waste otherwise.”

“Of course,” she replied, laced with amused disbelief as she gestured to the cluttered chair across from her desk. “Since you’re here, perhaps you can help me untangle this mess.”

He lowered himself into the chair with a resigned sigh, setting his own untouched cup aside. It wasn’t as though he’d actually intended to drink it—he found her preferred combination of sugar and milk nauseating—but it had served its purpose.

As she began explaining her latest analysis, her hands animatedly gesturing to the graphs and notes in front of her, Severus allowed himself a moment to watch her. The lines of stress that had been etched into her face earlier were softening, replaced by her usual determination and fervor.

Her passion was infectious, and though the intricacies of political maneuvering were hardly his domain, he listened attentively, occasionally offering his insights.

When she paused to sip her tea and give him a grateful glance, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles. This simple gesture, this shared moment, was worth every ounce of effort—even if it meant enduring her abominable tea.

A week later, Hermione’s office was filled with the scent of fresh lilies and lavender. The bouquet was enormous, arranged in a delicate glass vase that seemed entirely out of place amidst her clutter of parchment and books. George strolled in behind it, carrying it with a flourish and an exaggerated look of curiosity.

“Well, well, Granger,” he teased, setting it down with a dramatic thunk. “Is this from some mysterious admirer, or is it just your keen sense of justice making the flowers grow spontaneously in your honor?”

Hermione rolled her eyes as she picked up the accompanying card, her brow furrowing as she read the elegantly penned note:

Congratulations on your success. Your dedication continues to inspire.

No name, no clue. Just the vague compliment. She turned the card over, checked the envelope, even inspected the vase. Nothing.

George leaned against the desk, grinning. “Secret admirer, obviously. I mean, who wouldn’t be inspired by our resident champion of house elf rights? You’re practically a beacon of moral virtue—and paperwork.”

“Very funny,” Hermione muttered, though her cheeks warmed faintly. “It’s probably someone from the Ministry. Maybe even Kingsley.”

George gave her a sly look. “Oh sure, because the Minister of Magic has time to swing by a florist between his meetings with foreign dignitaries. Right.”

Hermione waved him off, but throughout the day, her gaze kept drifting to the bouquet. There was something about the gesture, the note, the flowers themselves—so perfectly chosen.

Meanwhile, Severus was enduring no small amount of grief from George, who had caught him slipping into the shop with the bouquet earlier that morning.

“Positively romantic,” George had drawled as he lounged against the counter, watching Severus finalize the purchase with a faint scowl. “Lilies and lavender—do I detect symbolism here, or is that just your tortured poet side coming out?”

“Careful, Weasley,” Severus had replied darkly. “Keep talking, and I’ll enchant that mouth of yours shut.”

George merely laughed, snapping his fingers as if struck by inspiration. “This is for Hermione, isn’t it? Oh, it is! Snape, you devil, I’m touched.”

Severus didn’t dignify him with a response, but his pointed glare spoke volumes.

The flowers, however, were only half the effort.

The dinner meeting with Lucius had been Severus’s more intricate maneuver. He’d approached Malfoy with the idea under the guise of a personal favor, ensuring the elder Slytherin believed it was entirely in his interest to meet with Hermione about her new bill.

“It could do wonders for your image,” Severus had remarked smoothly. “Reformed aristocrat, championing progressive causes—it practically writes itself.”

Lucius had smirked. “And you wish to involve me in this... altruistic endeavor, why, exactly?”

“A mutual friend of mine is leading the charge,” Severus replied with a dismissive tone, “and she’ll benefit from your cooperation. Consider it an opportunity to make certain... alliances.”

The dinner was arranged at an exclusive restaurant, and Severus deliberately bowed out at the last moment, citing an unavoidable conflict.

“I trust you’ll find the evening enlightening,” he’d said with a faint smirk.

Lucius had merely chuckled. “Indeed. I’m curious to see how Miss Granger handles herself in the snake pit.”

The next day, Hermione returned from the dinner, glowing with excitement over the progress she’d made. George caught her in the breakroom, grinning as she poured herself a celebratory tea.

“So, what’s the verdict? Did Malfoy compliment your tireless efforts, or did he just sneer over his goblet of wine?”

Hermione laughed. “Actually, he was surprisingly cooperative. He even agreed to review the bill and provide input. It was... unexpected.”

“Unexpected, huh?” George said, his grin growing. He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Almost as if someone softened him up beforehand.”

Hermione paused, frowning slightly, but George didn’t give her time to dwell on it.

“Anyway,” he continued brightly, “congrats on winning over the big bad Malfoy. You’re a force to be reckoned with, Granger.”

In his lab, Severus pretended not to overhear Hermione marveling about how “productive” the dinner had been, though a flicker of satisfaction crossed his face when she called the whole evening “a surprising success.”

Chapter Text

Hermione pushed open the heavy door to Severus Snape’s lab with an urgency that sent it creaking loudly on its hinges. Snape, dressed in black trousers and a black jumper looked slightly less forbidding than usual, glanced up from where he was fastening the clasps on a travel case of potions. His fingers paused mid-motion, his expression softening the moment he saw her.

“Hermione,” he greeted smoothly as he set the case aside. His dark eyes studied her, the edges of his lips twitching in what could almost be called a smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She grinned, leaning against the doorframe for a moment as she caught her breath. Her cheeks were flushed from her hurried pace, and a loose strand of hair fell across her face, which she absently tucked behind her ear. “Oh, good, you’re still here! I was worried you might’ve already left.”

“Left?” Snape’s hands resumed their methodical work, closing the clasps with deliberate precision before turning fully to face her. “You underestimate my busy social calendar. How else would I maintain my reputation as a relentless party animal?”

Hermione burst out laughing, the sound light and genuine as she stepped into the room. “Yes, I’m sure you’re the toast of every ball in wizarding Britain.” She waved her hand dismissively before clasping it with the other in front of her. “No, but really—you don’t have plans tonight, do you?”

He tilted his head slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. The faint smirk remained on his face, though his tone shifted to something more curious. “Nothing pressing, no. Why?”

“Perfect!” Hermione’s excitement bubbled over as she moved closer, her boots clicking softly against the stone floor. “George can’t make it to pub trivia tonight, and we’re short a person. I thought of you immediately—you’re brilliant, you know practically everything, and I’d really appreciate your help.”

Snape arched a brow, leaning casually against the edge of his workbench. His posture was relaxed, but the gleam in his eyes hinted at amusement. “Pub trivia? Forgive me if I fail to see the appeal.”

“Come on,” Hermione urged, taking another step forward and clasping her hands in front of her as if pleading. “The winning team gets ten Galleons each. And besides, it’ll be fun. A chance to show off that incredible brain of yours and help me out in the process.”

“Incredible brain, is it?” His tone was lighter now, his sharp features softening. “Flattery, Hermione? I wasn’t aware I required coaxing.”

She blushed faintly, her hand brushing against the side of her skirt as if smoothing it down. “I’m not above a little flattery if it gets the job done. Besides, it’s true.”

Snape let out a low hum, his fingers absently brushing the edge of the workbench as he studied her. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and the warmth in her eyes made it impossible to say no. “And here I thought you’d be surrounded by eager volunteers. Why me?”

“Because you’re the best option,” she replied without hesitation, the sincerity in her tone catching him off guard. “And because you’re my friend, Severus.”

Friend. The word sent a complicated pang through him, though he masked it by shifting his weight slightly, standing straighter.

“I suppose I could be persuaded,” he said after a beat, his voice softer. “If only to ensure that your team doesn’t suffer the indignity of defeat.”

Hermione’s smile widened, and she reached out as if to touch his arm but hesitated, clasping her hands together instead. Relief and delight radiated from her as she said, “Brilliant! Thank you so much.”

Snape inclined his head slightly. A quiet warmth bloomed in his chest at the sight of her happiness, and he allowed himself the smallest smile. “What time do we depart for this thrilling escapade?”

“Seven sharp,” she replied, already backing toward the door. Her hand hovered over the handle, her excitement making her movements quick and almost fidgety. “Don’t be late!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied smoothly, his gaze following her as she disappeared through the door, the soft click of the latch breaking the silence.

Snape lingered for a moment, his hand brushing over the workbench before he picked up the case he’d been packing. The corners of his mouth quirked upward briefly as he shook his head. An evening spent in Hermione’s company, even in a crowded pub, wasn’t something he could turn down. 

The Hobgoblin’s Hideaway lived up to its name, Snape thought as he stepped inside behind Hermione. The pub was dimly lit, with mismatched wooden furniture that had clearly seen better days, walls plastered with peeling posters of old Quidditch matches, and a flickering neon sign behind the bar that advertised some dubious drink called “Goblin’s Gold.” Yet, despite the shabby charm, the place was buzzing with energy, laughter, and the chatter of dozens of patrons packed into every corner.

Hermione turned to him, her cheeks glowing faintly pink, whether from the cool air outside or her excitement, he wasn’t sure. “Come on, our group’s over there,” she said, gesturing toward a cluster of tables pushed together near the back of the pub.

Snape followed, his sharp eyes taking in the crowd she led him to. It was larger than he had anticipated, easily a half dozen people gathered around, their faces lighting up as they noticed Hermione’s arrival.

“Hermione!” Ginny Weasley called, waving them over. “Took you long enough! Thought you’d ditched us for Victor Thorne.”

Snape’s lip twitched at the name, but he said nothing.

“We are still just writing,” Hermione replied, rolling her eyes before gesturing toward him. “And I brought a replacement for George. Everyone, you remember Severus Snape.”

The table quieted for half a beat, the name still carrying a certain weight. Then Bill Weasley rose from his chair, extending a hand with a polite, if slightly wary, smile. “Professor Snape,” he said respectually. “Or... I suppose it’s just Severus now.”

“Mr. Weasley,” Snape replied smoothly, shaking Bill’s hand with a firm grip. His dark eyes flicked to the rest of the table, briefly meeting each gaze with a subtle nod.

“We’re all on our best behavior tonight, I see,” Ginny teased, breaking the momentary tension.

“Speak for yourself,” Bill quipped, gesturing for Snape to take the seat next to him. “Thanks for stepping in. George and I aren’t allowed on the same team anymore—too much bad blood over the infamous Dungbomb Question.”

Harry groaned, throwing up her hands. “That’s what happens when you both think you’re the funniest person in the room.”

Hermione slid into her seat across from Snape, unwinding her scarf as she smiled. “Well, now we’ve got Severus. I think Team Moaning Myrtles might finally have the upper hand tonight.”

Snape arched a brow at her. “You place a remarkable amount of confidence in someone who’s never participated in such a spectacle.”

“It’s trivia, not dragon taming,” Hermione replied.

Bill leaned closer, with the signature Weasley smirk. “Don’t let her fool you, Professor—sorry, Severus. This is serious business. And just so you know, we take turns claiming Hermione each week. She’s the ringer.”

“She’s also a know-it-all,” Ron added affectionately, tossing a peanut at Hermione, who caught it midair.

“It’s just for fun,” Hermione said, glancing at Snape as if to reassure him.

“Fun,” Snape repeated, skeptical.

“It is fun,” Bill insisted. “Especially when we win. And tonight, you’re on Team Moaning Myrtles. Welcome aboard.”

“And the others?” Snape asked, gesturing toward the adjoining table.

“Team Slytherin your pants,” Harry said with a mock sneer. “Losers, mostly. Especially if Ron’s the one answering sports questions.”

“You love me,” Ron called from the other table, raising his butterbeer in salute.

“Debatable,” Harry shot back, though her grin softened the jab.

As the banter swirled around him, Snape allowed himself to settle into his seat. His gaze flicked toward Hermione, who was unwrapping a biscuit one of her friends had passed her. She caught his eye and smiled, a small, private gesture that warmed him in a way he wasn’t prepared to admit.

Perhaps, he thought, as he adjusted his cloak and prepared for what promised to be a ridiculous evening, there were worse places to be.

As the trivia master announced that the night’s games were about to begin, the tables shuffled into their respective groups. Tonight’s teams were divided a bit differently than usual, a strategic move given Severus Snape’s presence. His reputation as an intellectual powerhouse necessitated some recalibration.

“It’s only fair,” Ron teased as they rearranged seats. “With Snape playing, you lot need all the help you can get.”

The teams settled: Hermione, Neville, Harry, and Ginny on one side, and Bill, Snape, Ron, and Luna on the other.

Snape arched a brow as Ron plopped down beside him. The boy—no, the man now, Severus had to remind himself—grinned nervously, his hands fiddling with a bottle of butterbeer. Snape said nothing, though he silently questioned how much strategic value Ron could possibly bring to the table.

At least the boy wonder wasn’t on his team.

“Right,” Bill announced, clapping his hands together as he surveyed his team. “We’ve got this. Luna’s got the weird facts, I’ve got the history, Snape’s got... everything else, and Ron will... um...”

“Be Ron,” Neville supplied helpfully from across the room, earning a round of laughter.

“Oi!” Ron protested, though his grin remained intact.

The trivia master, a jovial witch in flowing purple robes, tapped her wand against a bell. “Teams, are we ready?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be,” Hermione replied confidently.

Snape’s gaze flicked over to Hermione’s team. She was already pulling a quill and parchment from her bag, her expression focused and determined. The sight made him feel oddly lighter, though he quickly masked it behind his usual impassive demeanor.

“Alright, teams,” the trivia master called out, her wand amplifying her voice. “First round, general knowledge. Let’s see who’s sharp tonight!”

Snape shifted in his seat, his fingers steepled as he surveyed his surroundings. 

“Alright Severus,” Bill began. “Now there is my dignity riding on this so the pressure is on. I hope you can handle it.”

“I assure you, I’m well-acquainted with pressure,” Snape replied dryly. “Though this is much worse than lying to the Dark Lord.”

Ron, seated beside Luna, shifted awkwardly. “Just so you know, Snape, this isn’t Hogwarts-level stuff. It’s... fun. You know, for a laugh.”

Snape arched his brow. “I shall endeavor to adjust my standards accordingly.”

Luna, perched at the end of the table with her trademark serene smile, piped up, “I think it’s wonderful that you’re here. Trivia is an excellent way to explore the obscure corners of knowledge.”

“Obscure corners, indeed,” Snape muttered, though he found himself glancing at Hermione again. She caught his eye and gave a small, encouraging smile.

The trivia master waved her wand, and the first question floated into the air above her, shimmering in golden letters:

“What year was the Ministry of Magic officially established?”

Hermione leaned forward, her quill poised over their answer sheet. “1707,” she whispered confidently to her team. “It was established after the International Statute of Secrecy in 1692.”

Neville furrowed his brow, glancing between her and Harry. “Are you sure? That seems kind of late.”

“Positive,” Hermione replied, leaving no room for doubt. “It was part of the reorganization after the Statute.”

Ginny scribbled the answer down. “Done. Next.”

Across the room, at Team Slytherin Your Pants’ table, Snape sat with an air of measured focus, his dark eyes scanning the question while his fingers tapped lightly against the table.

“1707,” he said curtly, breaking the brief silence.

Bill nodded, quill in hand. “That sounds right. Post-Statute reforms.”

“I thought it was earlier,” Ron muttered, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“Then you would be wrong,” Snape retorted, his voice dry but not harsh.

Luna, who was drawing spirals on the corner of their answer sheet, looked up and said dreamily, “1707 does feel significant. Maybe it’s because the Snorkack migration also happened that year.”

Snape shot her a look, his quill pausing mid-stroke, but he said nothing, merely finishing the answer.

The trivia master announced, “The answer is... 1707!”

Both teams erupted into cheers, though the atmosphere differed. Team Moaning Mrytles celebrated with high-fives, Ginny ruffling Harry’s hair as he grinned triumphantly. On the other side, Team Slytherin Your Pants exchanged subtle nods, though Bill clapped Snape on the shoulder.

“Good call,” Bill said with a grin.

Snape inclined his head slightly, glancing toward Hermione’s table. She caught his eye and offered a small, encouraging smile that he couldn’t help but return in the faintest curve of his lips.

The next question floated above the trivia master:

“What is the common name for the plant known as ‘Acanthia Veneficum’?”

Hermione immediately perked up, her quill hovering above the parchment. “Witch’s Thorn,” she said confidently. “It’s used in antidotes.”

Harry squinted at her. “Are you sure? It sounds like Deadly Briar.”

“No,” Hermione replied firmly, her curls bouncing as she shook her head. “Deadly Briar is a derivative hybrid.”

Neville scratched his head, leaning closer to the parchment. “She’s right. I used Witch’s Thorn in Herbology for antidotes last year.”

Ginny quickly wrote it down, while Harry leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I’ll trust you on this one.”

Meanwhile, Team Slytherin Your Pants had a similar debate.

“Witch’s Thorn,” Snape said immediately, his tone brooking no argument.

Ron frowned. “What about Deadly Briar?”

Snape turned his dark gaze on him. “Do you truly wish to argue botany with me, Weasley?”

Ron held up his hands defensively. “No, no! Go ahead.”

Luna piped up, twirling her quill. “Did you know Witch’s Thorn can survive in underwater caves? Imagine how pretty it must look, swaying with the water currents.”

Snape glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Riveting,” he said dryly, though he dutifully wrote the answer.

When the trivia master revealed the answer as Witch’s Thorn, Team moaning Myrtles whooped in triumph, Hermione beaming with satisfaction. Over at Team Slytherin Your Pants, Snape merely smirked.

The next question brought a collective groan:

“Which famous wizard once claimed: ‘Magic is nothing without precision’?”

Hermione immediately leaned in. “That’s Nicholas Flamel. He said it during an interview about his alchemical work.”

“Are you sure?” Neville asked, scratching his chin.

“Absolutely,” Hermione said with a nod.

Ginny jotted it down, giving Harry a playful nudge. “Let’s see if they know this one.”

At Team Slytherin Your Pants, Snape didn’t even wait for debate. “Nicholas Flamel.”

Bill grinned. “You’re quick on the draw tonight.”

Snape’s gaze didn’t waver from the question. “It’s a matter of common knowledge if one pays attention.”

Ron leaned back, tilting his chair precariously. “I was going to say Merlin.”

“Of course you were,” Snape said, arching an eyebrow.

When the trivia master confirmed the answer, the competition remained neck-and-neck. The room buzzed with energy, the teams trading teasing glances as they awaited the next round. Snape, while initially skeptical of this evening, found himself unexpectedly at ease in the lively atmosphere—especially whenever Hermione’s laughter reached his ears.

The rest of the evening played out this way, each team neck and neck. It looked as if for the first time since either team could remember that there would be a tie. 

The trivia master strode back to the podium, wand in hand, the tension in the room thick as butterbeer foam. She raised her voice, a sly smile playing on her lips. “And now, for the final question. What is the approximate calorie count of the average Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Bean, and which year were they first marketed to the public?”

The room fell silent.

“What the actual—” Ron started, but Bill clapped a hand over his mouth.

On Team Moaning Myrtles’ side, Harry dropped his quill onto the table. “Calories? Are they serious?”

Neville scratched his head. “Does anyone even eat enough of them to care?”

Ginny sighed, tapping her foot impatiently. “Hermione, you’ve got to know this one.”

Hermione frowned, her fingers steepled as she thought. “They’re mostly sugar and some binding agents. I’d estimate somewhere around 6 calories each. As for the year...” She trailed off, clearly uncertain.

“Come on, you can do this,” Ginny encouraged, her elbow brushing Hermione’s arm.

“Maybe 1935? Or was it earlier?” Hermione murmured.

Meanwhile, on Team Slytherin Your Pants, Snape stared at the trivia master as if she’d just insulted his potion-making skills. “This is absurd,” he muttered with disdain.

Bill chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve never studied confectionery lore, have you, Severus?”

“No, William, I can’t say that I have,” Snape replied, dripping with sarcasm.

Ron threw up his hands. “Well, we’re screwed. I eat the beans; I don’t interrogate them.”

Luna, who had been scribbling tiny drawings of winged candies on the corner of the parchment, suddenly perked up. “Oh, it’s simple!”

All three of her teammates turned toward her.

“Of course it is,” Snape said, folding his arms. “Do enlighten us.”

“They’re approximately 4 calories each, give or take depending on the flavor,” Luna said dreamily, her eyes unfocused. “And they were first sold in 1957, while Bertie Bott was trying to make some sweet treats from food, but it ended up tasting like a dirty sock.”

Ron blinked. “From food?”

“Yes,” Luna continued serenely. “That’s why the flavors are so unpredictable. It was quite a breakthrough, really.”

Snape stared at her for a long moment. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he gestured toward the parchment. “Write it down.”

When time was called, the trivia master reviewed both answers.

“Team Moaning Myrtles,” she said, raising her eyebrows at their submission. “Answered 6 calories and 1935.”

Ginny groaned softly as Neville muttered, “Well, it was a guess.”

“And Team Slytherin Your Pants answered 4 calories and 1957.” The trivia master paused for effect.

“The correct answer is... 4 calories and 1957!”

Luna clapped her hands, her face lighting up with delight.

Ron gaped at her. “How—how in Merlin’s name did you know that?”

“Oh, it’s common knowledge if you’ve ever spoken to Bertie’s portrait at Hogwarts,” Luna replied matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Snape’s lips twitched at the absurdity. “A most unorthodox source, but effective nonetheless.”

From across the room, Hermione watched him, her brow furrowing in mild suspicion even as she smiled. “Next week,” she said quietly to Ginny, “we’re getting Luna on our team.”

The group settled into a large corner booth, snug and full of energy after their victory. Snape, ever deliberate, made sure to position himself at the end of the bench, his back to the wall and his gaze naturally falling to Hermione, who slid in beside him with a rustle of her robes.

The pub was alive with chatter and laughter, other tables bustling with wizards and witches unwinding from their day. A jukebox in the corner played a jaunty Celestina Warbeck tune, slightly out of tune but charming in its way. The scent of butterbeer and fried snacks lingered in the air, mixing with the faint tang of spilled firewhiskey.

Hermione leaned toward Snape, her shoulder brushing his arm as she turned to him with a sly smile. “So,” she began, her voice low enough to make it feel like a private joke, “do I get a finder’s fee for bringing you along and guaranteeing our victory?” She placed her elbows on the table, her fingers loosely clasped, tilting her head to catch his reaction.

Snape’s brow arched slightly, the flickering light catching the sharp angles of his face. “A finder’s fee?” he echoed, his voice soft but wry. “Are we negotiating now, Miss Granger?”

She shrugged, a playful glint in her eyes as she propped her chin on her hand. “I think it’s only fair. I mean, you wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me.”

Snape allowed the faintest of smiles to play on his lips, the kind that would vanish if you blinked. “Indeed. And what, pray tell, do you propose as adequate compensation?”

Straightening, her hair caught the candlelight like a cascade of gold. “Well,” she said with mock seriousness, “if you’re feeling particularly indebted, you could start with a butterbeer.”

Snape tilted his head slightly, the gesture almost indulgent. “Butterbeer? Not Ogden’s Finest?”

Hermione chuckled, shaking her head as she absentmindedly traced her finger along the rim of her empty glass. “Oh, no. My alcohol tolerance is embarrassingly low. One glass of anything stronger and I’m under the table.”

Before Snape could respond, Harry leaned in from across the table, his chair screeching slightly against the floor. “Which is why she’s currently drinking two shots of firewhiskey.”

Hermione groaned and dropped her face into her hands, her elbows planted firmly on the table. The rest of the group erupted into laughter, Ginny clapping her hands together while Neville nearly knocked over his butterbeer in his excitement.

“You’re drinking firewhiskey?” Snape asked, his deep voice cutting through the noise. He leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest as his dark eyes settled on her, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

“She is,” Harry said, smirking as he leaned one elbow on the table. “Because we all want to hear two Shot Hermione’s impressions again.”

Neville lit up like a Lumos charm, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he leaned forward eagerly. “Oh, yes! Two Shot Hermione does the best Hogwarts staff impressions!”

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly, the barest hint of intrigue flickering in their depths. “Does she now?”

“They’re brilliant!” Ginny added, her cheeks flushed from laughter—or perhaps the remnants of her own firewhiskey. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and beamed at Hermione. “Last time, her McGonagall was so good, I was actually scared she’d take points from Gryffindor.”

“And the Trelawney!” Harry chimed in, nearly doubling over with laughter. “She nailed the voice. Nearly choked on my drink.”

Neville nodded vigorously, his chair creaking beneath him. “She’s got everyone down. Even Hagrid—though she can’t quite do the beard justice.”

Hermione peeked out from between her fingers, her face flushed a deep pink. “You’re all terrible,” she muttered with exasperated fondness.

“Terrible,” Harry agreed, raising his butterbeer in a mock toast. “But also right. So, drink up!”

Ginny slid the shot glass across the table with a cheeky look, her fingers tapping a rhythm against the wood as she leaned back. The group watched with gleeful anticipation, the atmosphere electric with their collective amusement.

Snape remained still, his posture rigid but not unkind, his gaze sharp as it moved between them. “I must admit, this... tradition of yours has piqued my curiosity.”

Hermione gave him a mock glare, picking up the glass and holding it aloft as if it were a toast. “Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes but unable to suppress a smile. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

As she downed the shot in one swift motion, the group erupted into cheers, Neville pounding the table with enthusiasm while Bill whooped loudly. Snape allowed himself a faint, private smile as he watched Hermione set the glass down with a theatrical wince. She never ceased to surprise him.

The room was buzzing with energy, the group of friends laughing and talking over one another, but it was Hermione who was the loudest. Her cheeks flushed from the firewhiskey, her laughter a bit more tipsy than usual. With the second shot, her confidence grew, and soon enough, the group was egging her on to do her best Hogwarts staff impressions.

“Alright, Hermione, you have to do McGonagall! It’s a classic!” Neville urged, a grin on his face as he leaned forward, clearly anticipating the fun.

The brightest witch of her age just giggled and slurred, “Oh, oh, yes, McGonagall...” Hermione took a deep breath, her face suddenly becoming much more serious as she adopted the familiar stern expression. “Five points will be awarded to each of you for sheer… dumb… luck! ” 

Grabbing the edge of a tray holding some chips she slid them over towards Harry. “Have a biscuit, Potter.”

Everyone erupted into laughter, Ginny clutching her stomach as she laughed so hard she nearly choked on her drink, as Harry simply slid Hermione a butterbeer. Even Snape, who had been sitting back and observing the spectacle, allowed the smallest of smiles to cross his lips as he watched her mimic the stern professor.

Hermione was just getting started, her drunken state only adding to the chaos as she leaned in, eyes wide with excitement. “And then there’s Flitwick !” she exclaimed, her voice jumping in pitch as she clasped her hands together like a tiny, excitable professor. “Come on, Miss Granger! Just a flick and a swish! You can do it! I believe in you!” She nearly bounced in her seat, her drunken enthusiasm bubbling over.

Ginny snorted, nearly choking on her drink. “That’s way too accurate,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye, and everyone at the table joined her in fits of laughter.

“Oh, don’t forget Trelawney,” Ron added, already preparing for his turn to make a fool of himself. “She’s my personal favorite.”

Hermione, already holding her butterbeer too tightly, grinned wickedly. “Oh, yes,” she said dramatically, her eyes going wide as she tilted her head back, hands waving as if she were seeing the future. “ The Grim... the terrible Grim! There is something in the stars tonight... something terrible, something fated! ” She flourished her arms for effect, her butterbeer sloshing dangerously, causing a few droplets to spill over the edge.

The table was already laughing too hard to care, and Hermione’s slurred words only made it worse. Snape, whose usual stoic face was locked in a tight, controlled mask, allowed a small exhale that almost passed for a chuckle. His gaze softened as he watched Hermione, captivated by her carefree energy.

“And then, of course, there’s Professor Snape ,” Harry said, nudging Hermione, his face lit with mischief. “We can’t leave out Snape , can we?”

“Ohhh, you want Snape ?” Hermione said, leaning forward with too much intensity, her words a dramatic, deep whisper. She lowered her chin and scowled, raising one eyebrow just like Snape always did. “ Are you always an insufferable know-it-all, ” she mimicked dangerously close to a growl. “Yes, it is easy to see that nearly six years of magical education have not been wasted on you, Potter. Ghosts are transparent ... ” She paused. “ I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. ”

Everyone burst into another round of hearty laughter, but Hermione’s gaze darted to Snape, daring him to say something—anything. Snape was quiet for a long moment.

“I did,” he muttered, his eyes soft, almost fond despite his attempt at keeping his usual severity.

The group dissolved into more laughter, oblivious to the subtle shift in the air around them. "Alright, now you've really done it," Bill chuckled, leaning back in his seat, wiping away tears. "If you’re going to do Snape, you’ve got to do the real thing. The look of a thousand poisons , the death glare ... the famous snarling at everyone ."

Hermione immediately crossed her arms, adopting a posture as stiff as a broomstick. She narrowed her eyes, glaring at the group with such intensity that it was as if she could actually curse them all into oblivion. “Why did I ever think I’d get away with this?” she muttered in a low voice, giving a perfect imitation of Snape's brooding, venomous tone. “Why do I even bother trying to teach you... dunderheads anything? You should all be in Slytherin—it’s the only house where competence is actually recognized.”

The laughter was immediate, with even Snape blinking slightly at the unexpected accuracy of her impersonation. His gaze didn’t shift away from her this time, lingering for a moment too long. Despite himself, he couldn’t quite mask the warmth in his eyes as he watched her.

“I always thought he’d say something more sarcastic,” Ginny said from across the table, a grin spreading across his face. “Like, ‘Couldn’t even find your way out of a dungeon with a bloody map.’”

Now looking somewhat dazed from all the firewhiskey and the steady stream of jokes, Hermione grinned wickedly. “Oh, and don’t forget the best part,” she continued, her speech slurring a little as she raised an eyebrow. “‘Your stupidity knows no bounds, Mr. Weasley, but it does have its limits. Now leave me be and go do something—anything—useful.’” She waved her hand grandly for effect, knocking her drink again, but at this point no one was really paying attention to it.

“What, no comment?” she teased, her posture loose and relaxed now due to being fully flushed with alcohol. “I thought you’d have some snarky retort by now.”

Snape allowed himself to lean in just a fraction closer. “Five points to Gryffindor. You’ve outdone yourself tonight, Hermione. I... may need a moment to recover from that performance.”

“Nope, sorry Severus,” she slurred just enough to make his heart flutter. The way she said it, so carefree and confident, stirred something in Snape—a warmth that was both unexpected and entirely out of place. For a moment, he was consumed by the thought of how easy it would be to lean in, to kiss her right there, but he quickly shut it down.

“What are you going to do now, then?” he asked, trying to regain his composure.

Hermione’s eyes gleamed with mischief as she stood up, wobbling a little before catching herself. “Move, Severus,” she said, pushing lightly at his arm with a tipsy grin. “I need to do my Hagrid impression.”

Snape stepped aside, though he couldn't help but watch her with a slight, intrigued frown as she maneuvered her way to the bar. She climbed up with surprising ease for someone so drunk, her determination only slightly hindered by the wobble of her movements. She adjusted her stance, then, in the deepest, most exaggerated drawl she could muster, declared, “Fluffy shouldn’t’ve said that!”

She paused, staring out across the room, waiting for the reactions she was used to getting. But the bar was slick, and her foot slipped out from under her. Hermione let out a small squeal as she began to fall backward, the world spinning around her.

Instinctively, Severus was right there. His hand shot out, catching her around the waist with surprising gentleness, though the grip was firm enough to stop her from toppling over completely.

Hermione blinked, staring up at him. The closeness, the softness in his touch, and the way his breath caught for a split second sent a thrill through her. She looked down at his lips—almost in a daze—and the words that came out of her mouth were completely unfiltered. “If I didn’t know better, Professor, I’d think you were about to kiss me.”

There was a pause, and her grin turned flirtatious as she added, “And I think I would like it. But then you’d be fired from Hogwarts, since I’m still a student.” She chuckled, slightly breathless, unaware of how much her words had affected him.

Severus froze for a moment, his breath catching in his chest. His fingers lingered at her waist, reluctant to let go, and his mind scrambled for a proper response. Of course, kissing Hermione Granger was beyond out of the question, but that didn’t stop his heart from beating wildly in his chest.

He cleared his throat, his voice coming out a little rougher than usual. “Let’s get you home,” he said, his hand still resting against her side to steady her.

Hermione blinked at him, her expression turning more thoughtful. “Hmm, okay. Can you... can you take me home?” A bit more vulnerable than it had been a moment ago. She looked over at Harry, who had been watching the whole interaction with an amused grin.

“Harry,” Hermione began, just a bit slurred, “can you give Severus my house?” She was still slightly off-balance, leaning on Snape more than she realized, but her words were clear enough.

“What?”

Her face scrunched up in frustration. “My house Harry. Severus needs my house to take me home!”

Harry nodded and quickly scribbled down her address on a napkin. “Sure,” he said with a smile,.

Snape took the napkin from Harry with a brief nod, his attention never straying too far from Hermione. She was still standing much closer to him than he ever expected, and the slight sway of her body against his had a profound effect on him that he was desperate to ignore.

He straightened up, gently guiding her away from the bar. “Come on,” he muttered, more gentle than Hermione would have expected. “Let’s get you back to your flat.”

After the swift Apparition, Severus glanced down at Hermione, her balance uncertain as she clung to him for support. He’d braced himself for her to lose her stomach after the journey, but to his surprise, she held herself together, though she still swayed slightly on her feet. The night’s drinking had clearly taken its toll, and Severus couldn’t help but feel a pang of protectiveness as he guided her carefully toward her flat.

When they arrived at the door, Hermione fumbled with her keys, the motions slow and uncoordinated. Severus watched her closely, stepping in to offer a hand when she nearly dropped the bunch of keys. After trying a few before landing on the right one, the door creaked open.

As they stepped inside, a ginger cat darted out of the shadows, its eyes gleaming in the dim light of the hallway. It let out an angry screech, as if it had been waiting all night to express its displeasure at being disturbed.

The cat, despite its protests, made a beeline for the other room as Severus ushered Hermione in.

“You should get some rest,” he suggested softly, leading her into the bedroom.

Hermione nodded with a sleepy smile, still holding onto him as she leaned into him for balance. "Thanks," she mumbled.

"Let me help you get comfortable," he said, though his gaze shifted to the bed, a clear reminder that she needed rest. He paused, trying to hide the awkwardness. “You need to change into them on your own.”

Hermione nodded again, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. “I can do it,” she whispered, and Severus found himself, despite everything, wanting to make sure she was comfortable, needing to make sure she didn’t feel too vulnerable in this moment.

“I’ll be right outside,” he said, his hand lingering on the doorframe for just a second longer than necessary. He left, though his feet felt heavier with each step as he made his way to the kitchen to find her a glass of water.

When he returned with the water and a small trash bin—just in case—he found the door to her bedroom slightly ajar. The sight that greeted him made his breath catch. She had already slid under the covers, her clothes discarded carelessly across the floor. There was a soft vulnerability about her that made Severus hesitate for just a moment before entering.

He placed the glass of water on the nightstand, followed by the headache and sober-up potions he’d swiped from his lab before they had left for the bar. She would thank him for those in the morning, though he wasn’t quite sure how to explain to her his sudden need to look after her so thoroughly.

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

But just as he was about to step back and leave, he heard her call his name in a sleepy, quiet voice.

“Severus?” she said, and his name on her lips sent a strange jolt through his chest.

He turned. “Yes?”

She looked up at him through half-closed eyes, a small, slightly drunken smile plastered her lips. “Thank you... for taking me home.” She reached out, her hand soft as it brushed against his arm. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

Before Severus could reply, Hermione leaned in slightly, her eyes closed in an attempt to kiss his cheek. But, in her inebriated state, she missed and instead grazed his jaw.

For a split second, their faces were so close that Severus could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin. The moment stretched on, as if the world was on pause, but Hermione, clearly oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere, simply rolled over, pulling the blankets closer around herself.

Severus blinked, fighting the sensation spreading in his chest that was altogether too unfamiliar. He didn’t stay long after that. He made sure to ward the door before he left, his heart beating a little faster than usual as he stepped into the quiet of the night.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape had long since mastered the art of silence. He had learned to occupy a room with nothing more than his presence, his sharp gaze a silent command. But this was different.

When he had opened the door to Hermione’s office, intending to offer her lunch and perhaps spend a moment with her—something he had been doing more and more lately—he hadn’t expected to find her in such a fragile state. There she was, curled up in the corner, her body trembling as sobs wracked through her. Her usually neat hair hung limp, her bright eyes—so full of purpose—were red and swollen, as if some part of her had just been ripped away.

He should have walked away, he knew that. He should have closed the door and left her to grieve in peace, keeping his distance as he had done with so many others before her. But that irrational part of him, the one that had been quietly whispering for months, refused to let him turn around and walk out.

“Granger,” he said softly, almost betraying his calm demeanor.

Her head snapped up, and the surprise and embarrassment in her eyes cut through him. “Professor—Severus. I’m—I’m fine,” she said quickly, wiping her face with trembling hands. But the tremor in her voice was undeniable.

“No, you’re not,” Severus replied, his tone firm but quiet, as though he couldn’t stop himself from speaking. There was a gentleness in his words, one he hadn’t known existed in him, especially not for her.

She looked at him, her breath still shaky. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Stop.” Severus cut her off, stepping further into the room, his heart thudding in a way he hadn’t expected. There was no judgment in his eyes, only the quiet understanding that made her want to break down all over again. He could feel it in the air between them—his own frustration with being unable to fix this, her sorrow so raw that it radiated from her.

She looked at him, eyes filled with unshed tears. “Crookshanks,” she whispered, the words breaking her. “He... he passed away this morning.”

Severus’ heart twisted at the sound of her voice. He had barely even seen the cat. Only when he had taken her home from the pub and maybe once or twice around Hogwarts. But seeing Hermione—this brilliant, fierce woman—reduced to such grief, something inside him shifted.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words sounding almost foreign as they left his mouth. But there was sincerity there, something deeper than he cared to acknowledge.

Her hands shook as she wiped her face again, her sorrow spilling over in waves. Severus sat down beside her, his movements stiff but deliberate. He could have hovered, awkwardly standing there as he always did, but this time—this time, he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

The silence that passed between them was thick, heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was a silence born of understanding, of the unspoken connection that had been growing between them over the past few months. Severus had been trying—actively, stubbornly trying—to show her that he cared, though he was unsure if she even noticed. His feelings had been growing, twisting around the simple moments they shared: their quiet conversations over potion ingredients, her laughter at his sarcastic remarks, and the brief, unspoken touches that lingered a little too long to be innocent.

Finally, Hermione leaned against him, her body collapsing slightly as her tears continued. Severus froze, his breath catching. He had never been one for touch—never known what to do with it. But when she settled against him, he didn’t move away. He let her, slowly, cautiously, drawing her in with the unspoken promise of support.

Her breathing slowed, but she didn’t pull away. Without thinking, Severus reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief. He handed it to her, his fingers brushing against hers. Her eyes flicked up to him, her gaze soft despite the tears still clinging to her lashes.

“Thank you,” she whispered, fragile but full of gratitude. She dabbed at her eyes, though her hands were still trembling.

He didn’t let her pull away. Instead, he kept his arm near her, close enough that she could feel the subtle warmth of his presence, but not so close as to overwhelm her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, voice small, but the apology wasn’t necessary.

“It’s not your fault,” Severus said, quieter now, a softness that was almost unrecognizable. “It’s... not your fault, Hermione.”

And in that moment, as they sat in the quiet of her office, Severus felt true peace.

Hermione rested her head back against his shoulder, her breathing steady now, but still faintly broken. Severus didn’t know what to do, what to say, or if he should say anything at all. But in that silence, in the shared comfort of her presence, he realized that for once, he didn’t need to. She didn’t need him to fix everything. She just needed him to be there.

And in that moment, he knew, with terrifying clarity, that he would stay with her as long as she needed him to.

Severus stared at Hermione, her face still streaked with tears, but now a flicker of something akin to resilience, a fragile spark of hope, ignited in her eyes. It was a side of her he rarely witnessed, a vulnerability that both terrified and strangely captivated him. He was speechless, unsure of how to respond.

"Would you like to skip the rest of work and get some ice cream?" she asked softly, her voice barely a whisper, the words catching in her throat.

Blinking, Severus was momentarily taken aback. Ice cream? Of all the things to suggest, it was certainly the last thing he expected. He could almost hear the disapproving voices of his colleagues echoing in his head—those that would insist on sticking to duty no matter the situation. He was Severus Snape, after all. The potions master who didn’t take breaks. The one who worked through even the darkest hours, always toiling away in the lab or at his desk.

But then, Hermione’s words sunk in fully.

“And skip out on work?”

She managed a small, watery smile, her eyes avoiding his. "Why not?" she added, her lip trembling slightly. "George already did two hours ago. Ginny got a new racing broom, so, naturally, he had to abandon everything to go see it."

Severus raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Leave it to George Weasley to abandon work for something as trivial as a new broom. But even that absurdity was somehow... comforting.

"George, of course," he murmured.

Hermione’s eyes flickered with something akin to relief—like she was testing the waters with him. "Come on," she coaxed. "You deserve a break. And honestly, I think it would do both of us some good."

Severus hesitated. There was a part of him that felt a small twinge of guilt at the idea of abandoning his duties. He couldn't just leave, could he? What would people think? What would she think?

But then, looking at Hermione—sitting there, her eyes red-rimmed, a tear tracing a path down her cheek, her shoulders slumped in a way that spoke volumes of her grief—he realized that, perhaps, a small break was just what they both needed. In the end, what was a couple of hours in the grand scheme of things? He had worked through far worse moments in his life. One afternoon of indulgence wouldn’t hurt.

He glanced down at her, and the corners of his lips quirked upward slightly.

"Fine," he said begrudgingly, accepting his fate. "But only because it’s an emergency."

Hermione’s face lit up, a watery smile gracing her lips. For the first time in what felt like forever, Severus allowed himself to relax. He could never remember the last time he did something so impractical. He didn’t do frivolous things. Yet with her, something about the mundane felt... necessary. Even if it was just for a moment.

Severus followed Hermione out of her office as she led the way. Determined to make this outing enjoyable for her, he reached into his pocket for his wallet. "I want to pay."

"Okay, I have one condition."

Severus raised an eyebrow. “A condition?”

"Absolutely," Hermione replied, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You cannot get something boring like vanilla, okay? You need to pick something... something... I don't know," she trailed off, her voice catching. "Fun… Or adventurous…Something... anything but vanilla."

Severus blinked. Fun? Adventurous? He couldn't remember the last time he'd considered a dessert, much less ice cream, as something to be taken seriously . But, clearly, Hermione had different ideas about such things.

He smirked. “Adventurous, huh? You do realize I’m not twelve anymore, right?”

"Well, I'm not either," she whispered, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "But... today has been awful. And honestly, I deserve this. I'm not going to let a little thing like adulthood stop me from trying to... to feel something other than this emptiness."

Severus hesitated for a moment, still unsure. But then, he watched her, he could see how badly she needed it.

“I’ll tell you what,” Severus said slowly, thinking about it. “I’ll pick something ‘fun,’ as you put it. But only if you promise to stop calling this ‘fun.’ This is... irresponsible . But, if it helps you feel better, I suppose I’ll give it a go.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up with gratitude, and for a moment, Severus felt a warmth stir in his chest that he couldn’t quite explain. He didn’t want to think too deeply about it, though. This was... just one of those moments, wasn’t it? The kind of spontaneous thing people sometimes did when they didn’t want to feel weighed down by everything.

She gave him a satisfied nod, a small sigh escaping her lips as the tension visibly eased from her shoulders. "It's exactly what I need."

And with that, they walked side by side, stepping out into the warm summer air—heading for Fortescues, a temporary escape, and maybe, just maybe, a fleeting moment of comfort that neither of them had known they needed so badly.

The shop was bustling, as it often was in the afternoons, customers chatting animatedly as they browsed shelves of colorful, outrageous products. Lee Jordan was manning the front counter, cracking jokes and bantering with regulars. It was his way—always the life of the room, always quick with a quip.

That’s when Hermione walked through, heading toward the stairs that led to her office above. Her pace was slower than usual, her shoulders slightly hunched. Her hair, which she usually tamed into some semblance of order, was untamed, curling wildly in every direction. Her eyes were red-rimmed, though she kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, determined to avoid interaction.

Lee, oblivious to her state, called out from behind the counter. “Blimey, Hermione! You’re giving Snape a run for his Galleons in the hair department today. You two having a contest, or did you just lose a bet?”

Hermione froze mid-step, her back stiffening. Slowly, she turned her head toward him, and the brief look on her face—devastated, on the verge of tears—made Lee’s grin falter instantly.

“Sorry,” she muttered before bolting up the stairs.

Lee blinked, guilt washing over him. “What did I say?” he asked the nearest customer, but they just shrugged.

From the far corner of the shop, Severus Snape lowered the jar of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder he had been inspecting for a random quality check. His dark eyes followed Hermione’s retreating form before shifting to Lee. The withering glare he directed at the younger man was sharp enough to silence him mid-breath.

Snape slipped through the crowd, his long hair billowing faintly, and ascended the stairs to Hermione’s office. The door was closed but not locked. He knocked once, a quiet yet purposeful sound, before stepping inside.

Hermione was seated at her desk, her head bowed over folded arms. She didn’t look up when he entered.

“Hermione,” he began, his words softer than usual but still carrying its characteristic authority.

“Go away, Severus,” she said.

He ignored her, closing the door behind him and crossing the room in measured strides. He stood by her desk, his presence impossible to ignore. “That imbecile downstairs is incapable of tact, but his words are not worth tears.”

Hermione finally looked up, 

She shook her head, letting out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. “It’s not him. It’s not what he said.” Her hands clenched into fists on her lap. “It’s everything. I—I don’t know what to do, Severus. I’ve barely slept. I can’t focus. And Crookshanks…” Her voice broke. “He’s still in my old school trunk under a stasis charm.”

Snape’s brow furrowed slightly. He’d known about the stasis charm she had placed on the cat, but hearing her say it aloud again stirred something strange and uncomfortable in him. “You know that’s not a permanent solution,” he said carefully, though his usual sharpness was conspicuously absent.

Hermione didn’t respond immediately. Her hands trembled as she rubbed at her eyes, which were red and puffy from days of crying. When she finally spoke, her words were raw and cracked with emotion. “I know it’s not. But... but every time I think about burying him...” Her breath hitched, and she pressed a fist to her mouth, as if trying to keep herself from falling apart entirely. “It feels like I’m erasing him. Like once I do, he’s gone forever, and I can’t... I can’t handle that.”

She looked utterly broken, and Snape felt the faint, unwelcome pull of something he could only describe as empathy. It was deeply unsettling. He hesitated, the awkwardness of the moment settling heavily around him. What was he supposed to say? What could he do?

After what felt like an eternity, he finally said, haltingly, “If it’s too difficult for you, I... I could assist.”

Hermione looked up at him sharply, her tear-streaked face filled with surprise and something close to desperation. Her lip quivered as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “You’d help me?” she asked.

Snape swallowed hard, caught off guard by the intensity of her reaction. “I would,” he replied gently, his usual composure cracking just slightly. “It would be... practical to—”

“Thank you,” she interrupted, her words tumbling out in a rush, thick with grief and gratitude. “Thank you, Severus. You don’t know what this means to me. I—I couldn’t do it alone. But maybe... maybe if we gave him a proper funeral, it would feel... better. Like I was honoring him instead of just... throwing him away.”

Snape blinked, momentarily stunned. “A funeral?” he repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.

“Yes.” Hermione nodded quickly, clutching at the edge of her desk like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “He deserves that. He was always there for me, through everything. He wasn’t just a pet; he was my friend, my family. I think—I think it would help.”

For a long moment, Snape said nothing, his mind racing. He had meant a simple burial, nothing elaborate or sentimental. But looking at her now—her eyes pleading, her hands trembling—he knew he couldn’t bring himself to correct her.

“A proper funeral,” he echoed with heavy with resignation.

“Thank you,” Hermione whispered again, her words breaking on a sob. Despite the tears, a faint, fragile smile flickered across her face. “Thank you, Severus. Truly.”

Snape inclined his head stiffly, exiting her office and heading back down to his lab. 

The next day, Severus paced the lab in a nervous frenzy, his thoughts swirling with confusion and guilt. The very idea of orchestrating a proper funeral for Crookshanks—Hermione’s beloved cat—felt absurd, a task so delicate that it was beyond anything he had ever experienced. It wasn’t the sort of thing one could prepare for. There were no books, no resources on how to lay a pet to rest in the wizarding world. Not that he had expected there to be. The Magical Menagerie had provided little more than blank stares when he inquired, their faces as confused as his own.

And so, he found himself here—alone in the quiet of his lab, standing over a collection of pamphlets about magical creatures and burial rituals, none of which applied to the situation at hand.

How did one plan a cat’s funeral?

He could handle potions, deadly spells, and even Dark Lords. But this? It felt impossible.

His frustration simmered just below the surface, but the weight of the responsibility hung heavily on him. It wasn’t just the absurdity of it all; it was the grief he had seen in Hermione’s eyes ever since Crookshanks had passed. The cat had been her constant companion, a creature she had cared for and loved fiercely. Severus knew that, deep down, this was something he needed to get right for her—for her peace of mind.

Severus threw himself into the task with the kind of precision he usually reserved for his potions. 

He asked Hermione where Crookshanks should be buried, trying his best to keep the conversation as practical as possible. Her answer was simple—her parents' garden. It was where the cat had spent many hours lounging in the sun, and it seemed fitting. Severus, for his part, was relieved. The garden would provide a peaceful resting place, far from the distractions of the city.

He did ask her if she wanted a coffin, and when she shook her head, saying it felt a bit much for a cat, he couldn’t help but agree. The idea of a coffin for Crookshanks, even one made to fit his small, scruffy form, seemed absurd to Severus. Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure they even made coffins that small. It would have been an impossible task for him to arrange, so the decision felt like a relief.

After getting Hermione’s parents’ address, Severus wrote them a letter explaining the situation. He phrased it delicately, but the request was clear—would they be willing to host a small ceremony for Crookshanks in their garden? To his surprise, they were more than happy to accommodate, and he received a swift reply from them, saying they would be honored.

With that step taken care of, Severus moved on to the next task: gathering supplies. He sent a discreet owl to Narcissa Malfoy, knowing that if anyone could provide elegant, yet understated, chairs for a funeral, it was Narcissa. She sent the chairs within hours, along with an unsolicited bouquet of forget-me-nots and a note that simply read, For Hermione, with love and sympathy.

The headstone, however, proved to be more of a challenge than he had anticipated. He had never purchased a cat’s headstone before. The stone carver, an eccentric wizard with more enthusiasm than Severus thought appropriate, was overjoyed at the challenge. “First cat headstone I’ve ever done!” the man had said, beaming. 

Severus had half expected the man to offer him a celebratory handshake. The stone itself was simple—a rounded slab with Crookshanks’ name engraved in elegant, swirling letters. It felt right, even if Severus couldn’t help but feel a small pang of unease at how much he was putting into this for a cat.

The final touch was the invitations. He had commissioned a set of simple, tasteful invites, each featuring an elegant floral design, to send to Hermione’s closest friends. He wasn’t sure if she would want anyone there, but he knew how much her friends had meant to her during this difficult time. Hermione deserved the chance to grieve with the people who loved her.

When the invitations arrived, Severus felt a small wave of satisfaction. He had done everything he could to make sure the day went smoothly, even if, deep down, it felt more like a chaotic, misguided attempt to make up for something he couldn’t even fully understand himself.

The night before the ceremony, Severus found himself standing in front of the headstone, contemplating what he had done. He could have backed out at any point, could have let someone else take on the burden of organizing this bizarre event. But something in him—something deep and unspoken—had made him push forward. It wasn’t just about Crookshanks. It was about Hermione.

Now, standing in the middle of the Granger family's neatly kept backyard in Oxfordshire, Snape wasn’t sure whether to be exasperated or utterly bewildered.

Hermione’s parents had been gracious about hosting a funeral for a cat in their otherwise idyllic garden. They now stood at the edge of the gathering, her father wearing a somber suit and her mother gently stroking Hermione’s hair as she fought to hold back tears. The scene was strangely formal: rows of chairs had been arranged, and the guests—all clad in their finest black robes—sat quietly, their expressions ranging from genuine sorrow to mild confusion.

In the middle of it all, a metre-deep grave lay freshly dug in the lush green lawn, the tiny, fur-wrapped body of Crookshanks resting at the bottom. Snape caught himself staring at it for a moment, wondering how his life had come to this point.

Luna Lovegood stood just to his left, drawing even more attention than usual in a towering papier-mâché hat that, to Snape’s astonishment, bore an uncanny resemblance to Crookshanks. The misshapen whiskers twitched with every slight breeze, and the exaggerated ginger tufts seemed to glow in the soft afternoon sunlight. Snape’s lip twitched, caught between irritation and reluctant admiration for her commitment to the absurd.

Hermione sniffled audibly, clutching a handkerchief in one trembling hand while her mother whispered soothingly into her ear. Her eyes were rimmed red, and though she clearly struggled to keep her composure, the sight of Crookshanks’ lifeless body was threatening to undo her.

Snape cleared his throat, feeling uncharacteristically awkward as he adjusted his robes. Here they all were, gathered in solemn tribute to the cat who had, somehow, earned the kind of send-off most humans would envy.

As if sensing his discomfort, Luna leaned over and said in her usual dreamy tone, “He’ll come back as something lovely, you know. Perhaps a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.”

Snape closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. “Indeed,” he murmured, not trusting himself to say more.

Hermione wiped at her eyes and took a shaky breath, stepping forward to face the gathered crowd. “If anyone has something they’d like to say about Crookshanks,” she said softly, her body shaking from grief, “now would be the time.”

The silence that followed was palpable. People exchanged awkward glances, some fidgeting in their seats. Snape’s sharp gaze swept over the group, silently daring anyone to break the tension.

And then, near the back of the gathering, there was an audible thunk followed by a hushed but fierce whisper.

“I’m not doing it, Harry!”

“Yes, you are! Hermione’s upset—say something !”

“She doesn’t want to hear from me, mate!”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Ron, just get up there!”

A distinct shuffle ensued, followed by a dramatic sigh as Ron Weasley was pushed—quite literally—into the spotlight. He stumbled forward, his ears already a furious shade of red as he cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck.

“Er... right,” Ron began, his voice overly loud in the quiet. “So... Crookshanks. He was, uh... he was a good cat.”

Hermione’s lip quivered, her teary gaze locked on Ron.

“And, um... okay, I’m just going to say it—when I first met Crookshanks, I didn’t exactly... like him.” Ron winced, adjusting his cuffs. “I mean, he was constantly after my rat, and I might’ve said some things—terrible things—about him being ugly or annoying.”

From her seat, Ginny coughed loudly, the words “ Disrespecting the dead! ” not-so-subtly implied in her tone.

Ron shot her a glare but quickly straightened. “Right, yeah—sorry. What I mean to say is... well, Crookshanks was smarter than I gave him credit for. Turns out, my rat wasn’t a rat at all, but a dodgy little git of a man in disguise. And Crookshanks knew. He knew the whole time.”

Ron’s tone shifted, gaining a hint of sincerity as he continued, “So, yeah, Crookshanks was a great and noble cat. He wasn’t just smart—he was loyal. He protected Hermione, helped us when we needed it most. And, uh... yeah. He was a good cat.”

There was a brief pause before Ginny, unable to help herself, piped up with a quick addendum. “And a brilliant gnome hunter!” she said brightly, raising her hand as if toasting. “Seriously, Crookshanks cleared our garden out faster than the twins ever could.”

A soft chuckle rippled through the group, and even Hermione managed a faint smile through her tears.

Snape, standing stoically to the side, let out the faintest huff of air—perhaps a sigh, or something dangerously close to amusement—as Ron shuffled awkwardly back to his seat, muttering under his breath.

“Thank you,” Hermione said between sniffles as she glanced between Ron and Ginny. “That was... that was really lovely.”

Before the silence could settle again, Luna Lovegood leaned closer to Snape, her wide, dreamy eyes fixed on him. “Did you know,” she began in a hushed tone, “that Kneazles are rumored to guide lost souls to the afterlife? It’s said they use their tails as compasses to find the most scenic routes.”

Snape turned his head slowly, fixing her with a long, unreadable stare. His expression was so blank it bordered on comical, but the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed his disbelief. “Fascinating,” he said flatly, though he made no effort to continue the conversation.

Luna merely beamed, clearly taking his response as encouragement.

Before she could elaborate, Hermione stood, signaling to the group that it was time to proceed with the burial. The small gathering rose in unison, chairs scraping softly against the grass as they formed a loose circle around the grave.

Hermione knelt beside the freshly dug hole, her unsteady hands clutching a small bundle of Crookshanks’ favorite toys: a well battered crochet rat, a frayed ball of string, and an old, well-worn blanket he used to sleep on. She placed them gently beside his still form, her tears falling silently onto the items.

“I thought he’d like these,” she whispered. Her mother knelt beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders in quiet comfort.

Harry, gripping the handle of a sturdy shovel, stepped forward to take the lead. He glanced at Hermione for permission, and when she gave a tiny nod, he began to fill in the grave.

The crowd watched in respectful silence, but the moment was abruptly interrupted by Ron, who, squinting at one of the toys, muttered, “Blimey, that one looks just like Scabbers—”

Thwack.

Before he could finish, Ginny’s elbow shot into his ribs with practiced precision. Ron grunted, clutching his side. “Ow! What was that for?” he hissed.

“Have some respect!” Ginny snapped in a whisper, glaring at him.

Snape, who had been standing stiffly near the back, allowed himself a faint sneer, though he said nothing.

When the last bit of soil was smoothed over, Hermione stepped back, her face pale but composed. “Thank you,” she said quietly with a fragile strength. “All of you.”

Snape inclined his head, his dark eyes lingering on her for a brief moment before he turned his gaze back to the ground, his hands clasped behind his back. He wasn’t sure why, but the heaviness in the air didn’t feel entirely unwelcome. There was a strange intimacy in this shared grief, however peculiar the circumstances, and though he would never admit it, he felt oddly... connected.

As the group began to disperse, Luna leaned toward him again, her expression serious. “You know, Professor, if you ever need help crafting a Kneazle compass, I’d be happy to assist.”

Snape closed his eyes for a brief moment, silently reminding himself of his considerable patience. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied dryly, before following the others back toward the house.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s letters to Victor had begun to shift in tone over the next few weeks. They were no longer just friendly exchanges or intellectual sparring. They had become deeper, more vulnerable. She started to tell him things she had never shared with anyone else, not even her closest friends. She poured out the quiet fears she had tucked away during the war, the uncertainties that had haunted her even in the midst of victory.

One letter described the quiet nights at the Burrow, sitting by the fire, as she tried to piece together the fragments of the life she had lost during the conflict. She spoke of her longing for peace, for a sense of normalcy that still felt out of reach.

Then, there were the lighter moments—the dreams she hadn’t fully realized yet, but cherished nonetheless. She wrote about her hopes for a family, a life that wasn’t defined by her struggles. Three children , she said. She wanted three, and she could already picture them running around in a big garden, perhaps a house in the country. She described the kind of home she envisioned, complete with a massive library—her sanctuary, her place to escape, and to share with the family she wanted so much.

And with each letter, each shared piece of her heart, the connection with Victor deepened. In one letter, she confessed, almost shyly, that she had begged the Sorting Hat to place her in Gryffindor when she was eleven. Not because she thought she was brave, but because she feared she wouldn't measure up to the ideals of the other houses. It was a vulnerable admission, one that she rarely spoke of.

But the most alarming thing, to Severus, was the way her letters began to end. It was subtle at first, but over time, he began to notice the change. The simple, polite sign-offs, the “Best regards” or “Yours truly,” were replaced with something far more intimate. She started to end her letters with a word that, for him, was never used lightly: love .

It was as if her affection, her heart, was slipping into these words, words meant for someone else. And for all the careful distance he had tried to maintain between himself and the illusion of Victor Thorne, Severus could feel the weight of it pressing down on him. He wasn’t blind—he knew the significance of that word. It was a word she would only give to someone she trusted, someone who had earned it in the deepest, most meaningful way.

And that realization hit him like a cold gust of wind, numbing him to the core.

She’s falling for him, Severus thought bitterly. And the worst part was, she was falling for someone who didn’t even exist.

It had been a mistake. He had known it, deep down, but he had allowed himself to become too enmeshed in her life, too comfortable in the correspondence, in the game they had been playing. He had allowed himself to feel things he had no right to feel. And now, in her letters, he could see how much she was giving of herself, how much she was falling for the man she thought he was.

Severus stood by his desk, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. There was no way out of this now. He had let it go on too long, let himself become too involved. And when the day came—and it would come—when Hermione discovered the truth, he knew exactly what she would feel. She would hate him. She would be angry with him for deceiving her, for hiding behind an alias.

The guilt gnawed at him. It was too late to undo what he had done, too late to keep up the charade for much longer. Every letter, every word of affection she sent to Victor Thorne, was another reminder of how much he was deceiving her. And yet, as much as it terrified him to admit, Severus couldn’t bring himself to stop writing to her. Every word she wrote, every moment she shared with him, made him feel more alive than he had in years. And the thought of losing that connection—losing her—was unbearable.

As the letters continued to pile up, Severus found himself unable to look at them without feeling a sense of dread. How long could he keep pretending? How long could he remain in this dangerous game, knowing that it would inevitably end in disaster?

Hermione deserved the truth, but the truth would tear everything apart. And for the first time in his life, Severus wasn’t sure he was strong enough to bear the consequences. So he decided he was going to tell her. Expose his lies and beg for forgiveness. He didn’t expect Hermione to want to work with him after this, and he didn’t blame her. He had deceived her, built a false persona around her, and in doing so, hurt her in ways he couldn't undo. She would be angry, and she should be. There was no excuse for what he had done.

But that was a problem for another day. For now, he would confess, and he would hope—hopelessly—that she would somehow forgive him, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it. After all, what was a life of solitary regret compared to the joy of having someone like Hermione in his life, even if it was only for a fleeting moment?

He had planned it out meticulously. He would ask to meet her in the office, face to face, and he would lay it all out. He would tell her everything: that he was Victor Thorne, that the letters had been a lie, that he was the one she had been writing to all along. And then, he would beg for her forgiveness and accept whatever consequences came his way.

But the moment never came.

Just as Severus was preparing to put his plan into motion, George called for a work meeting. It was supposed to be a routine affair—everyone gathered together to discuss upcoming projects and products—but Severus could sense that something else was on George's mind. The way he insisted that everyone attend, the casual way he smiled even though his eyes were twinkling with some sort of mischief... something was off.

Severus didn’t want to go. He had a terrible feeling in his gut, a sense that whatever George was planning, it wasn’t going to make things any easier. But he couldn’t exactly ignore the meeting. Hermione would be there, and he had learned long ago that ignoring George Weasley’s requests—however nonchalant they seemed—was not a wise decision.

The meeting room was oddly quiet, just the three of them—George, Severus, and Hermione. Severus was standing by the window, arms crossed, watching the drizzle fall outside as he mentally prepared himself for what was coming. 

Hermione was seated at the table, her fingers tracing the edges of a half-empty mug of tea. George, ever the chatterbox, was leaning against the wall, arms casually crossed with that mischievous gleam in his eyes that Severus had come to know all too well. He felt a knot form in his stomach as George’s gaze flicked between him and Hermione, clearly enjoying the tension.

“So, Hermione,” he began breaking the silence, “I’m dying to know how things are going with Mr. Thorne. Have you two finally come to your senses and decided to meet up, or are you still waiting for the universe to give you a sign?”

Hermione shifted in her seat, her fingers nervously tapping against her mug. She glanced at Severus for a moment before her gaze dropped back to the parchment in front of her. “Well, the matrix still says I need to wait,” she explained with a hint of uncertainty. “It’s not the right time yet. It’s a bit complicated…”

George waved her off with exaggerated patience. “Ah, no, no. Enough with the matrix! What is it really telling you? You’ve been talking to him for months now. I know you’re getting excited, Hermione. Just admit it! Don’t hide behind the data—go for it!”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed slightly as she bit her lip, clearly nervous. “I don’t know, George. I mean… what if it’s too soon? What if he doesn’t want to meet?”

“Oh, please.” George practically rolled his eyes. “That man has been dying to meet you for ages! It’s obvious from your letters. Victor Thorne is practically melting for you, Hermione. You’re gorgeous, clever, and completely captivating. If he doesn’t want to meet you in person, then he’s a bloody fool.”

Hermione flushed, unable to suppress an anxious smile. “You really think so?” she asked, a bit of hope creeping into her voice.

“Of course I do!” George shot a look at Severus, who stood quietly in the corner, avoiding the conversation altogether. “Don’t you agree, Severus? I mean, the guy must be completely smitten by her, right? Any guy would be as long as he had eyes and half a brain cell.”

Severus didn’t look at George at first, but the pressure was mounting. He could feel the heat in his cheeks rising, but he steeled himself. He didn’t want to play this game, but George wasn’t giving him a choice.

“You want me to compliment her?” Severus questioned. He turned to Hermione with a glance, his expression unreadable. “Fine. You’re intelligent, resourceful, and have a... singular charm that makes it difficult for anyone to ignore you.”

Hermione’s breath hitched, her heart skipping a beat at his words, and she could’ve sworn she saw a faint blush on Severus’s face as he spoke, though he quickly masked it.

George, ever the instigator, clapped his hands together and pointed at Hermione. “See? Even Snape thinks you’re amazing! And that man wouldn’t compliment a sunrise if it glowed just for him.”

Hermione let out a small, laugh, her eyes glancing over to Severus, then back to George. “Well, if you put it like that...” she trailed off, her fingers curling nervously around the quill in her hand. “I guess I could give it a try.”

“Exactly!” George grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Now, get to it. Write him right now. Ask him to meet. You deserve to meet someone who recognizes how amazing you are. Go on, Hermione. Let’s get the ball rolling.”

Severus watched, almost reluctantly, as Hermione hesitated, staring at the parchment in front of her. There was something in her eyes now—less hesitation and more something else, something like excitement, though it was tempered by the nerves that twisted in her gut. She drew in a shaky breath and began to write.

She looked up briefly, her eyes locking with Severus’s as if she was about to say something, but she quickly turned her attention back to her letter. Her handwriting flowed onto the parchment, the nervousness almost palpable, but there was a certain anticipation in her movements.

“I’m doing it. I’m actually doing it.” Hermione murmured.

George beamed. “That’s my girl! Now let’s just hope Mr. Thorne has the good sense to say yes.” He shot Severus a knowing look, as if to say, She’s incredible, don’t you dare mess this up.

Severus swallowed hard, nodding faintly but saying nothing. The weight of his guilt pressed heavily on him, knowing that with every passing moment, he was digging himself deeper into a pit he might never climb out of.

For all his flaws and lies, Severus Snape would rather see her happy—even at his own expense. 

George snatched the letter from Hermione’s hand the moment her quill left the parchment, holding it up triumphantly like he’d just won a Quidditch match. “Perfect! I’ll make sure this gets to him right away.”

Hermione blinked, startled by his enthusiasm. “You’re sending it now?”

“Absolutely.” George tucked the letter into his pocket with a dramatic flourish. “But before I do, we’ve got something else to do. You, Hermione Granger, are going to practice your date.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “My what ?”

“Your date!” George said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re going to meet Victor Thorne, Hermione. You’ve got to be prepared. What if you get all nervous and clam up? Or worse, talk about house-elf legislation for three straight hours?”

Hermione huffed. “That’s incredibly rude, George.”

“Accurate though, isn’t it?” George grinned, unfazed. “Anyway, no need to worry. We’re going to role-play this date right now. Lucky for you, we’ve got someone perfect to stand in for Victor.”

Severus, who had been standing silently by the window and praying this conversation would end quickly, froze as George turned to him with a devilish gleam in his eye. “Snape. You’re up.”

“No,” Severus said flatly.

“Yes,” George countered, undeterred.

“This is absurd,” Severus muttered, glaring at George.

“Come on, you’re practically Victor Thorne already,” George quipped, earning himself a sharp look from Severus that he skillfully ignored. “Just pretend to be a mysterious, brooding researcher with a penchant for big words. Oh wait—you don’t have to pretend.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “George, this is ridiculous. I don’t need to practice a date. I’m perfectly capable of—”

“Nonsense!” George cut her off, pulling her up from her seat and nudging her toward Severus, who looked as though he were contemplating a well-timed Disapparition. “Snape, sit there. Hermione, sit opposite him. Go on, you’re having dinner at some swanky wizarding restaurant. There’s candlelight, romance in the air. And… action!”

Hermione sighed, reluctantly sitting down across from Severus, whose expression was a perfect blend of disdain and discomfort. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered again, her cheeks turning pink.

“You said that already,” George chimed in from his spot leaning against the wall. “Now, Hermione, say hello to Victor.”

Severus scowled at George, then reluctantly turned his attention to Hermione. “Good evening, Miss Granger,” he said stiffly, his voice betraying none of the storm raging inside him.

“Good evening, Mr. Thorne,” she replied, her tone polite but hesitant.

George groaned dramatically. “No, no, no! Where’s the chemistry? The spark? Hermione, you like this guy! Snape—er, Victor—she’s charming, clever, and stunning. Act like you’re impressed, mate!”

Severus’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the edge of the table as he forced himself to play along. “You look... lovely this evening,” he said through gritted teeth, his gaze flickering briefly to Hermione’s before darting away.

Hermione bit her lip, trying not to laugh at how uncomfortable he looked. “Thank you. You… uh… look nice too.”

“Nice?” George interjected, his voice dripping with mock disappointment. “Come on, Hermione, you can do better than that!”

“This is mortifying,” Hermione muttered under her breath.

“You think this is mortifying?” Severus snapped, his usual sarcastic edge returning. “I assure you, I’m suffering far more.”

George clapped his hands. “Oh, this is going great. Okay, now, Victor, tell Hermione about your latest research project. Make it sound fascinating and mysterious.”

Severus fixed George with a murderous look but obliged. “I’ve been working on the practical applications of advanced transfigurative principles in...” He trailed off, realizing Hermione was staring at him with a mixture of amusement and confusion.

“That’s, um, interesting,” she said diplomatically, suppressing a giggle.

George threw his hands in the air. “All right, this is hopeless. You’re both too stiff. Clearly, the date would be a disaster without me.”

“Clearly,” Severus drawled sarcastically.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, her cheeks still pink but now from suppressed laughter rather than nerves. “George, I think we’ve practiced enough, don’t you?”

“Nope.” George grinned wickedly, pushing himself off the wall and heading for the door. “Clearly, you two need more time to nail this. I’ll leave you to it. Practice makes perfect and all that.”

“George!” Hermione protested, but he was already out the door, waving behind him as if he hadn’t just thrown her and Severus into the most awkward situation imaginable.

The door clicked shut, leaving Hermione and Severus sitting in silence. She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, avoiding his gaze, while Severus stared at the now-empty doorway, clearly regretting every decision that had led him to this moment.

“So,” Hermione ventured awkwardly, breaking the silence, “I suppose we’re meant to… keep going?”

Severus let out a sigh, leaning back in his chair with an air of resignation. “It seems we have no choice.”

At first, the conversation was stilted and painfully formal. Hermione asked Severus-as-Victor a question about his supposed research, and Severus responded with a dry, one-word answer. Hermione tried again, offering up a tidbit about her own work, but the reply she received was equally curt.

Hermione fidgeted in her seat, twirling a stray strand of hair between her fingers. "You know," she began, her voice a little shaky, "I never imagined I’d be role-playing a date with my coworker under the watchful eye of George Weasley. It’s a bit surreal."

Severus quirked an eyebrow, leaning slightly back in his chair. “Surreal is certainly one word for it. Torturous would be another.”

Hermione laughed, the sound light and musical. “Torturous? Surely not that bad.”

“Hermione, you vastly underestimate the lengths to which George Weasley’s meddling can go. This is just the beginning.”

Hermione shook her head. “Well, at least you’re suffering through it with me.”

“Misery loves company,” he replied with no real bite.

They fell into an easy rhythm, the earlier awkwardness beginning to fade.

“So,” Hermione said, “what would Victor think of my house-elf rights campaigns? He strikes me as someone who’d appreciate justice.”

Severus hesitated, his expression softening. “I think he would admire your passion. He would see it as… a reflection of your strength of character.”

Hermione blinked, her cheeks tinged with pink at his unexpected sincerity. “That’s… kind of you to say.”

“It’s not kindness. It’s the truth,” Severus said firmly. “Your advocacy is nothing short of remarkable. Few would put in the effort you do, especially when it involves challenging a centuries-old mindset. It requires tenacity. And courage.”

Hermione’s smile faltered, replaced by something more vulnerable. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it, though. There are days when it feels like I’m shouting into a void. Like no one’s listening.”

Severus leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes intense. “They’re listening, Granger. Change takes time, but the seeds you plant now will grow. You’ve already made strides others couldn’t begin to imagine.”

Hermione stared at him, her expression unreadable for a moment, before she gave him a tender, grateful smile. “Thank you, Severus. That means a lot.”

He inclined his head, his words gentler than usual. “I meant every word.”

A small silence passed between them before Hermione broke it with a playful smirk. “You know, for someone who claims to find this torturous, you’re not half-bad at pretending to be Victor Thorne.”

“Pretending?” Severus arched a brow. “I believe I’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty here.”

Hermione laughed. “Fair enough. You’re a natural at it. Maybe you should consider moonlighting as a professional fake date.”

“Hardly,” he said, his lip curling in mock disdain. “Once was quite enough.”

Hermione’s laughter grew, and for a moment, everything felt light and uncomplicated.

“Seriously, though,” she said, sobering slightly, “thank you for this. For being patient with me and letting me ramble about everything from work to house-elves. It… really means a lot.”

“It’s no trouble. If anything, it’s refreshing to see someone so dedicated to their beliefs. You don’t just speak about change; you act on it. That’s rare.”

Hermione blinked, clearly touched, and then stood. “I don’t think anyone’s ever said anything quite like that to me before.”

Before he could respond, she stepped closer, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Severus,” she whispered into his ear.

“Goodnight,” he murmured as he watched her leave, the warmth of her gesture lingering long after she was gone.

Severus Snape was a coward. A bloody coward. He could face down the Dark Lord, lie to his face for years, and deceive the entire wizarding world, but he couldn’t summon the courage to write a single letter to Hermione Granger. Not the letter that would tell her the truth. Not the letter that would explain why he couldn’t meet her for dinner and why their relationship—such as it was—had to end.

Victor Thorne was a lie, a façade, and he didn’t know how to confess it without breaking her heart. The thought of seeing the betrayal in her eyes, of hearing her sharp words cutting through the air, was more than he could bear. So instead of doing the honorable thing, Severus had done the one thing he swore he wouldn’t: he went to the restaurant.

Disillusioned and hidden in the shadows, he watched through the frosted glass window as Hermione sat at the small table she’d reserved. She was wearing a powder blue wrap dress, her curls carefully tamed and pinned back. A well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice sat beside her glass of wine. She looked radiant, her excitement visible in the way she checked the door every few minutes, her fingers nervously smoothing the skirt of her dress.

Severus stayed rooted in place, his chest tight with guilt. She was waiting for him—or rather, for Victor—and the thought made his throat close. He had no right to be here, to intrude on her evening, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

The scene unfolded with maddening stillness. He watched as the waiter approached her table, the young man’s polite smile faltering slightly when Hermione murmured something like, “Just a few more minutes, please. Or he’ll be here soon.” Severus could see the tension in the way she gripped the edge of her napkin. 

She smoothed the skirt of her dress, her hands brushing over the fabric repeatedly as if to calm herself. Her gaze flicked to the entrance again and again, each time with a flicker of nervous excitement that twisted something deep inside him.

Time dragged on, marked only by the subtle shifts of Hermione’s posture and the dimming of the restaurant as patrons began to leave. Severus felt every passing second as though it were a physical weight, his guilt growing heavier with each minute she waited.

Hermione leaned forward to say something to the waiter when he returned. This time, her smile was thinner, forced. She glanced at the door one more time, her eyes filled with a quiet hope that Severus knew he was about to extinguish.

When the last of the diners had left and the waitstaff began clearing the remaining tables, Hermione closed her book with deliberate care. She tucked it into her bag, moving with a grace that belied the disappointment etched into her face.

Then she stood, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. Her gaze lingered on the door for a final, painful moment before she turned and walked out into the night.

Severus stayed rooted in place, the ache in his chest unbearable as he watched her disappear down the street. Only when she was completely out of sight did he finally Apparate away, leaving behind the restaurant, the guilt, and the image of Hermione waiting for someone who would never come.

Severus Snape lay in his bed, the room cloaked in darkness, though even that could not shield him from his torment. The ache in his body felt insurmountable, a relentless agony that not even his most potent potions could dull. He knew it wasn’t just illness; it was something far worse. This was the universe, he decided, exacting justice on him for what he’d done to Hermione Granger—a mere fraction of the justice she deserved.

The image of her face, a mask of hope and quiet determination as she waited for him, played on an unending loop in his mind. Every detail was etched into his memory: the way her fingers lightly brushed the cover of her book, the occasional glance toward the door, the soft curve of her lips forming words he would never hear. And then the shift—the slow dimming of her light when she realized he wasn’t coming.

It gutted him.

Severus stared at the ceiling, his chest tight with guilt and self-loathing. He hated himself for what he had done, for how cowardly he’d been. For how much he’d hurt her.

She deserved so much better.

The thought twisted like a knife in his heart. Hermione Granger—brilliant, compassionate, fiery—deserved someone who would show up. Someone who could match her courage, her kindness, her unyielding spirit. Someone who could love her without hiding behind a façade.

And Severus Snape was none of those things.

He had always known he wasn’t worthy of her, and yet, he’d allowed himself to be selfish. To bask in her letters, to feel her warmth even through his lies, to pretend for just a moment that someone like her could care for someone like him.

Pathetic.

The thought came unbidden, harsh and cutting, but he welcomed it. He deserved worse.

The ache in his body worsened, but it was nothing compared to the hollow feeling in his chest. If there was any justice in the world, this pain would be eternal. He had broken something precious, something he could never fix, and the thought of it made him feel smaller than he had in years.

She was better off without him.

Severus closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of her, but it was futile. Her face—her kindness, her disappointment—was burned into his soul.

The knock at the door was as unwelcome as the daylight streaming through the edges of the curtains. Severus groaned, cursing Merlin himself for whatever fool thought it appropriate to disturb him in his misery. With a pained grunt, he threw on his old plaid housecoat, its fraying edges barely holding up against years of reluctant use. On his feet were the most ridiculous pair of bunny slippers, a gift from Minerva McGonagall, who had once laughed so hard she spilled her tea when he unwrapped them. He’d never admit they were unreasonably comfortable.

Shuffling down the stairs, each step aggravating the pounding headache that had taken up residence in his skull, he reached the door just in time to hear the soft creak of it opening.

“Hello?” came Hermione Granger’s unmistakable voice, tentative but clear.

Severus froze. For a moment, he entertained the notion of turning and fleeing back up the stairs, but her voice came again, followed by the distinct sound of the door closing gently behind her.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she began, her words tinged with concern. She stepped cautiously into view, holding a bag in one hand and a thermos in the other. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer. I thought perhaps you might be unwell—unable to get to the door or still asleep—and I didn’t want to leave this out in the cold.”

She looked at him then, and whatever apology she was preparing seemed to catch in her throat. His disheveled hair, shadowed eyes, and the absurd slippers were enough to leave even her at a loss for words.

He waved a hand, too tired to muster any indignation. “Kitchen’s through there,” he said gruffly, gesturing vaguely in its direction. “Put it wherever you like and… make yourself sit at home.”

She blinked at his phrasing, lips twitching with suppressed amusement, but said nothing as he turned and shuffled toward the sitting room.

Hermione disappeared into the kitchen, the sounds of cupboards opening and closing faintly reaching him. Meanwhile, Severus sank onto the couch, his head falling back against the cushions as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose with a ferocity that made his headache throb in retaliation.

Moments later, she emerged, carrying a cup of tea that she set carefully on the table before him. “I thought you might need this,” she said gently, sitting down in the armchair opposite.

He raised an eyebrow, looking at her with as much suspicion as his exhaustion would allow. “And what, pray tell, prompted this unannounced act of charity?”

She shrugged, a small, almost shy smile gracing her lips. “George said you were sick. I just… wanted to help.”

Severus stared at her, the sincerity in her voice cutting through the fog of his misery. He should have felt embarrassed, sitting there in his bunny slippers and housecoat, but her presence was oddly soothing, her concern more comforting than he cared to admit.

“Thank you,” he muttered. Then, as if remembering himself, he added gruffly, “Though it was wholly unnecessary.” Severus grumbled with as much dignity as one could muster in bunny slippers.

Hermione settled back into the armchair, her smile a touch wry. “It’s the least I can do after you helped me after bar trivia,” she replied.

He gave a noncommittal grunt in response, taking a cautious sip of the tea. The silence between them stretched out, Hermione’s eyes wandering around the room as she idly took in her surroundings.

Her gaze landed on a framed piece on the wall, and she tilted her head. “That’s so strange,” she mused aloud, “you have an academic paper you wrote framed on the wall. So does Victor. What a coincidence.”

Severus froze for a fraction of a second, the teacup lingering at his lips. He lowered it slowly, his face betraying nothing except a faint tightening around his jaw.

Hermione didn’t seem to notice his reaction, her attention snagged on the bookshelf nearby. “And that’s a teacup from the Queen’s coronation. Victor told me he had one because his mother was obsessed with the Queen.”

This time, Severus’s hand visibly tightened on the teacup.

She turned her gaze to him, her brow furrowing as a thread of suspicion began to weave through her thoughts. “You work in research,” she said slowly, her voice taking on a sharper edge. “You’re incredibly smart, with a sharp wit and a dry sense of humor.”

His lack of response only added fuel to the fire. Hermione stared at him, the pieces clicking into place with a clarity that made her chest tighten.

Her voice, when she spoke again, was low and dangerous. “Severus,” she began with disbelief. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

He set the teacup down carefully, the porcelain clinking softly against the saucer. “Hermione—”

“You’re Victor,” she interrupted, her voice rising. Her cheeks flushed, anger and betrayal bubbling to the surface. “You’ve been Victor this entire time.”

Severus didn’t deny it, couldn’t deny it. His silence said everything.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. What could he possibly say? That he hadn’t meant to deceive her? That he’d only wanted to make her smile? None of it would justify the betrayal she was feeling now.

“I trusted you,” she spat. “And you made me a fool.”

Severus stood, his own guilt and regret a weight that pressed down on him, making it difficult to meet her gaze. “Hermione, I—”

“No!” she snapped so loudly it echoed off the walls. Her eyes blazed with a fury he wasn’t sure he could withstand. “You don’t get to start explaining now! You’ve been lying to me for months! Severus! Months! Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

He flinched but remained silent, allowing her to vent the storm he had so carelessly unleashed.

“I poured my heart out to you! I told you things I’ve never told anyone else! I let myself believe there was someone out there who—who understood me! Who saw me for who I was! And not who they wanted me to be! And you— you —were the one writing those letters! Playing Victor Thorne like a bloody puppet master!”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, but it only seemed to enrage her further.

“Do you even realize how cruel that is?” she demanded, her words cutting through him like a blade. “To let me believe I was building a connection with someone—someone who didn’t exist!”

He swallowed, his throat dry and his voice a rasp. “Hermione, it wasn’t meant to—”

“Wasn’t meant to what? Hurt me? Betray me? Because congratulations, Severus, mission accomplished!” She paced the room, her anger spilling out in waves. “And the date? Did you plan to just stand me up? Or were you going to reveal yourself there and hope I didn’t hex you on the spot?”

“I couldn’t go in,” he professed quietly. “I—I couldn’t face you.”

“You were just—” She stopped herself, taking a breath, trying to keep herself under control. “And the worst part, Severus, the worst part is that George—George Weasley, of all people—was in on it too, wasn’t he?”

Severus winced, guilt flooding his chest. “Yes,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “He knew.”

“ Knew? ” Hermione’s voice shook. “So all this time, George—your so-called ‘assistant’—was helping you string me along? He was the one who told you how to get me to trust you, how to write me those letters? How to make me think I was falling for someone who wasn’t even real?”

“No,” he confessed. “He just set it up.”

The realization hit Hermione like a wave, and she staggered back a step, as if the weight of the truth was too much to bear. “He—he set it up? George? He knew everything, and still— still —he let me think it was all real?” She was breathless now, struggling to process everything.

“Yes,” Severus confirmed. “George insisted I write to you, that I respond to the questionnaire, that I keep the charade going. He was determined to get me to… well, to get you to notice me, in a way.”

Her eyes were wide with disbelief, but her expression softened as she caught sight of his remorse.

“I didn’t want it to be like this, Hermione. I never wanted to hurt you. I just—” He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. “I didn’t know how to stop once it started. And I couldn’t bring myself to tell you the truth. I was—am—an idiot.”

She blinked rapidly, her emotions a confusing swirl of hurt and frustration. “I can’t believe this,” she gasped. “I can’t believe George—of all people—was in on it. And you— you —let it happen.”

“I didn’t mean for it to go on like this,” he defended quickly, stepping toward her. “I swear. It was never supposed to get this far. But I can’t undo it. I can’t take it all back.”

A long silence passed between them as Hermione took in everything. Then, strained with emotion, she inquired, “Was any of it real?”

Severus’s heart pounded in his chest as he looked into her eyes. “Yes,” he said firmly. “It was all real, Hermione. Every word I wrote to you was real. The connection I felt—the feelings I developed for you over time—was real. It wasn’t just some game I was playing. I—I’ve had feelings for you for a long time.”

Hermione’s breath hitched as she absorbed his confession. Her eyes flickered with something—hurt, disbelief, maybe even a flicker of hope—and she opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out.

“I know I’ve hurt you,” Severus continued with the weight of his admission. “And if you can never forgive me for this, I—I understand. If you want to never see me again, I will accept that. I deserve whatever punishment you wish to give me.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Hermione was silent. She stared at him, still processing the betrayal, still trying to come to terms with the fact that the person she had fallen for was standing in front of her.

Finally, she spoke, much quieter now. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth? Why didn’t you just tell me it was you all along?”

Severus closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Because I was afraid, Hermione. I was terrified that you wouldn’t want anything to do with me. That you would hate me for deceiving you. And when I started to fall for you—when I realized what was happening—I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t face the truth, because I didn’t want to lose you.”

There was a long pause before she finally said, “So you thought lying to me would be better than telling me the truth?”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “I was a coward. I thought that maybe… maybe if I kept the lie going, I could keep you. But I know now how wrong I was. I should’ve told you the truth from the beginning. I never should have let it go this far.”

Tears welled in Hermione’s eyes as she stood there, looking at him. “You’ve broken my trust, Severus.”

“I know. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I wanted you to know the truth. And if you never want to see me again, I’ll understand. I’ll leave. But I had to tell you. Because I—because I care about you, Hermione. I care about you more than you know.”

Her features relaxed slightly as she looked at him, though her arms remained crossed.She let out a long, measured breath, her fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “The truth is, Severus… I was struggling. Between you and Victor. I couldn’t stop comparing the two of you—your wit, your intelligence, the way you always challenge me. I thought meeting Victor would help me make a decision, that seeing him in person might make things clear.”

His heart gave a painful lurch. “And now that you know the truth?”

Her lips pressed together, her gaze unyielding. “Now that I know the truth… I realize there was never really a choice. You were both the same man.”

Severus blinked, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features. “You’re saying—”

“I’m saying I can forgive you,” Hermione interrupted gently. “Not because what you did was right—it wasn’t—but because I understand why you did it. And because, despite everything, I care about you too.”

Severus exhaled sharply, relief flooding through him like a wave. “Hermione, I—”

“But,” she interrupted again, “you owe me a new cat. Crookshanks was irreplaceable, but I think I deserve a pureblood kneazle. Preferably one with excellent lineage. They’re expensive, though.”

His lips twitched, the smallest hint of a smile breaking through his usually stern expression. “I would gladly buy you a hippogriff, if that’s what you wanted.”

Hermione chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, and it melted the tension in the room. “I think a kneazle will suffice, thank you.”

She stepped closer, her eyes meeting his. Her voice softened, her hand lightly brushing against his arm. “You’ve been an idiot, Severus. But I think I can live with that.”

Before he could reply, she leaned in, her lips just brushing against his—only for him to sneeze violently into his sleeve at the worst possible moment.

Hermione burst into laughter, her head falling back as she giggled uncontrollably. “Oh, Severus,” she said through her laughter, shaking her head fondly. “You’re hopeless.”

He groaned, mortified, but before he could retreat into his usual brooding silence, Hermione leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

“I’ll take it as a sign that you’re still human,” she teased with a smirk. “Now, how about some soup? You still look like you’re about to keel over.”

Severus let out a defeated sigh but couldn’t stop the faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Soup sounds… acceptable.”

Hermione’s grin widened, and she moved toward the kitchen, her presence filling the house with warmth. As Severus watched her go, he felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years: hope.