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Snow fell softly outside the tall, frost-bitten windows of Grimmauld Place, the flakes catching briefly in the glow of the street lamps before melting into the darkness. Inside, however, the house was alive in a way it hadn’t been in years. Warmth poured from every fireplace, and laughter rolled through the corridors like an old, familiar song.
While Ginny and Harry had spent years rehabilitating the place, it was now a decade since the end of the war and the place had never looked more festive. Though it was technically an Order Christmas party, with the odd member and their spouse sprinkled about here and there, it had unquestionably morphed into a Weasley Christmas.
Hermione stood with a mug of hot cider near the door to the sitting room, watching the chaos unfold. Children darted in and out of the crowd, little blurs of red and black and silver hair and multi-coloured handmade jumpers.
James, all of four years old, was leading his brother Albus and cousin Rose in what appeared to be a very dangerous game of “dragon chase,” complete with a flying stuffed Hungarian Horntail and several near-misses with the tree.
“Not near the presents!” Ginny called, exasperated but smiling as she bounced baby Lily on her hip.
Across the room, Ron and Lavender were arguing cheerfully about whether Rose could have a second cookie before dinner. The girl was already dusted with sugar from the first one, her curls wild and cheeks flushed from running.
Bill and Fleur sat on the sofa, their daughter Victoire crouched beside the fire with Teddy Lupin, attempting to make chocolate frogs dance in time to Celestina Warbeck’s “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.”
Even Percy had loosened his tie. Audrey was beside him with little Lucy asleep on her shoulder, while their oldest daughter Molly chased their cousins Fred and Roxanne round the refreshment table with Arthur trying, in vain, to herd them all back towards the presents.
It was warm. It was loud. It was home.
Hermione took a sip of cider and smiled faintly to herself. A decade since the war, and somehow they’d all built something bright out of the ashes. She wasn’t sure she’d ever tire of seeing it.
“Bit of a madhouse, isn’t it?”
She turned to find Charlie Weasley leaning against the doorframe, face ruddy from the cold and eyes twinkling. He held a butterbeer in one hand and a small bow of holly in the other, which he promptly tucked behind her ear before she could protest.
“Now you look festive,” he said, grinning.
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled all the same. “Careful, or your mother will start trying to plan a wedding again.”
“She probably still has the guest list,” he said with a laugh. “Seems we’re the last of the lot, though, eh? Only two left unencumbered by domestic bliss.”
“Don’t say that too loudly,” Hermione warned, glancing around to make sure Molly wasn’t within earshot. Her eyes landed on Andromeda Tonks and—was that Kingsley beside her? Hermione blinked. He had an arm draped casually along the back of Andromeda’s chair, the two of them sharing quiet smiles. She hid a smirk behind her cup. “You’ll have her brandishing a bouquet before the night’s over.”
Charlie chuckled, following her gaze. “Good for them. Bit unexpected, though.”
“Unexpected, but rather lovely,” Hermione agreed. “They deserve something good.”
“Ah, well,” he said, mock-sighing, “maybe this is the year we both give in and let Mum have her way.”
Hermione laughed softly. “You wouldn’t survive me, Weasley.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, eyes bright with mischief. “I’ve wrestled dragons, you know.”
“I imagine they’re less temperamental,” she replied, amused.
He threw his head back and laughed. “Fair. Still, you’d think a war heroine would have blokes queuing round the corner by now. Maybe your standards are too high.”
She arched a brow. “To have standards, Charlie, I’d first need there to be someone interested.”
He looked scandalised. “Hermione Granger, you mean to tell me no one’s tried their luck? Not even a half-decent sort from the Ministry?”
“Afraid not,” she said lightly. “Apparently, intelligent conversation and moral backbone aren’t particularly fashionable traits.”
“Tragic,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “Truly a loss for wizarding kind.”
Hermione laughed again, the sound warm and genuine, echoing through the din of merriment around them. She didn’t feel lonely exactly, just… aware of something missing. Some note unresolved beneath the cheerful melody of the night.
Her gaze drifted towards the window, where the snow fell heavier now, coating the world in quiet white. For a moment she let herself watch it fall, the way the flakes swirled and vanished against the glass, the glow of lamplight softening the darkness outside.
Beside her, Charlie murmured something about Bill and excused himself. Hermione glanced down into her half-finished cider. It had gone lukewarm, the spice dulled. She decided something stronger was in order.
At the refreshment table, she picked up a fresh mug and began assembling a hot toddy with a generous pour of firewhisky, a squeeze of lemon, and a stick of cinnamon to stir. The chatter of the room filled the air in a steady hum. She didn’t notice when it began to fade. Didn’t see the way conversation slowed or how even the children had dropped their voices to a hush.
She only felt the presence beside her, the sudden, quiet weight of it. Thinking it was Charlie again, she turned to speak.
“Oh!”
The exclamation came out as a gasp as she jumped, the mug slipping in her hands. Hot toddy sloshed forward in a golden arc, splashing down the front of a black woollen turtleneck.
Her heart plummeted.
“Oh! I’m so sorry—I didn’t see—” She fumbled for her wand, patting at her pockets, words tumbling over themselves. “I’ll just—let me fix—”
Before she could finish, he lifted a hand and murmured a spell she didn’t catch. A rush of warm air swept between them, evaporating the spill instantly. The sudden heat brushed over her skin like a physical touch, making her shiver despite herself.
“I—I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, and hated how breathless she sounded.
Severus Snape stood before her, pale and austere, his dark eyes unreadable. She’d seen him out and about on rare occasions, but never here. Never surrounded by laughter and light.
“I assure you,” he said dryly, “I am already regretting it.”
The words might have stung once. Now they only made her bite back a nervous laugh. He didn’t sound cruel, only uncomfortable.
She turned back to the table, stirring another drink to distract herself. “Would you like one, er… sir?”
He made a low noise, something between amusement and resignation. “Severus will be fine. And yes, a drink would be… acceptable.”
She prepared the toddy in silence, acutely aware of him standing beside her. When she handed it over, their fingers brushed only briefly, but it was enough to send another unwanted flush up her neck. He turned away before he could see it, already moving toward the far side of the room where Kingsley and Minerva were now deep in conversation.
Hermione exhaled slowly. Merlin’s beard, what on earth was wrong with her? It was Snape, for goodness sake.
She took a long sip of her own drink, wincing at the heat, and retreated to the edge of the room to compose herself.
The party had found its rhythm again. Laughter, the crackle of the fire, the faint hum of Celestina Warbeck crooning from the wireless. And yet her gaze kept drifting back to him. To the way he inclined his head politely when Minerva said something that made Kingsley laugh, the slight twitch of his mouth as though fighting off a smile.
She was still watching when Luna appeared at her side, one hand resting atop her very round belly.
“How are the twins doing?” Hermione asked, grateful for the distraction.
“They’ll be here any day now,” Luna said serenely. “Technically due yesterday. Rolf’s beside himself with worry, of course, but I keep telling him babies rarely arrive precisely on schedule. Or so I’ve heard. Personally, I’m rather enjoying all the extra naps.”
Hermione smiled. “You look wonderful.”
“Thank you.” Luna’s eyes followed hers across the room. “Severus looks much healthier these days, doesn’t he?”
Hermione hummed her agreement. “Not being under the thumb of a madman tends to do wonders for one’s complexion.”
Luna laughed softly. The firelight caught the silver sheen of the delicate mark on her wrist: a spray of forget-me-nots that shimmered faintly when she moved.
Hermione’s gaze lingered on it, unbidden. She thought of her own, a sprig of rosemary etched along her collarbone, invisible to the public. It had appeared the morning she turned sixteen and had glowed faintly for days before settling into the faint silvery hue of an old scar.
So many never found the one who matched them. Some did, but too late. They were already married, or too entangled in other lives. The marks didn’t demand romance; sometimes they only meant understanding, a kinship deeper than words. Still, the foolish, romantic part of her had always wondered.
Ron and Lavender weren’t soulmates. Neither were Harry and Ginny. But love had bloomed for them all the same. Maybe that was the better fate.
“Did you know straight away that Rolf was your soulmate?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Luna’s smile was patient, dreamy as ever. “I saw his mark the first day we met. But I didn’t want to interfere with fate, so I waited until he noticed mine. Took him months, actually. He’s very good at spotting bowtruckles but hopeless with women.”
Hermione laughed, pressing a hand to her mouth. “That sounds about right.”
Her fingers drifted unconsciously to her collarbone, tracing the hidden mark through the fabric of her jumper. Luna’s eyes followed the motion and softened.
“You’ll find yours, Hermione,” she said simply. “I know you will.”
There was something in her tone, that curious, unshakable conviction Luna possessed, that made Hermione believe her, even if she didn’t know why.
“Thanks, Luna.”
Luna grimaced lightly and rubbed at her belly. “Excuse me. One of them is rather determined to practise acrobatics this evening.”
Hermione smiled as her friend waddled off toward the restroom, leaving her alone again at the edge of the room. The music swelled; laughter rose once more. Across the room, Severus Snape stood in the glow of the firelight, cup in hand, speaking quietly with Minerva. For the briefest moment, he glanced her way, and Hermione felt her pulse stutter.
Before Hermione could reflect on her reaction, Molly Weasley’s unmistakable voice rang through the room.
“Dinner’s ready, dears! Come along now before it goes cold!”
The declaration was met with instant uproar. Children shrieked with delight and bolted for the kitchen like a stampede of hippogriffs, parents following in their wake, laughing and scolding in equal measure.
Hermione fell in behind the crowd, walking alongside Minerva and Severus as they made their slower approach to the doorway.
“Oh, Hermione dear,” Minerva said over the clamour ahead, “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d come up to the school sometime and take a look at a few books we’ve unearthed. Can’t make any sense of them. Thought it might be up your alley.”
Hermione smiled, pleased. “Of course. Let me take a look at my schedule and I’ll send you an owl.”
“Splendid,” Minerva said, patting her arm. “They’ve been gathering dust long enough. I suspect one might even predate the Founders—oh, Severus, do stop glowering, you look as though Christmas personally offended you.”
His lips twitched but he said nothing, following them into the kitchen.
Nearly every chair was already claimed. Children squirmed in their seats, plates were already half-filled, conversations overlapped in a happy din. Minerva slid into a seat between Bill and Arthur, leaving the two empty chairs at the end of the table conspicuously side by side.
Hermione’s stomach gave a small, inexplicable jolt.
She glanced at Severus, who appeared equally disinclined to comment, and they both took their seats without a word. They avoided each other’s gaze. She wasn’t sure why, only that it felt safer that way.
Dinner unfolded in what could only be described as organised pandemonium, with clinking cutlery, bursts of laughter, and Percy attempting to lecture the children on appropriate dinner etiquette while Molly senior kept refilling everyone’s plates. Halfway through the meal, little Rose nodded off mid-bite, her curls tumbling into her mashed potatoes. The table erupted in laughter. Ron scooped her up with a grin and carried her upstairs, Lavender following close behind.
When dessert appeared, Hermione’s eyes fixed longingly on the pumpkin pie placed just out of reach, and directly in front of Severus. He was deep in quiet conversation with Charlie, and she hesitated to interrupt. Instead, she stood, meaning to lean forward and fetch it herself.
She bent, stretching, and her hair brushed against one of the lit tea candles.
There was a sharp hiss. Then a flare of heat.
Her hair caught fire.
Chairs scraped back in alarm. Voices rose.
Severus was the first to react. He was on his feet in an instant, reaching across the narrow space to smother the flames. But the wool of his jumper met the fire, and in the next heartbeat his sleeve went up in a whoosh of orange light.
Hermione could only stare in horror. The realisation hit her a moment too late: the spill from earlier, the firewhisky clinging to his clothes.
“Water!” someone shouted.
In a room full of witches and wizards, Charlie instead grabbed the nearest pitcher and threw its contents at Hermione, drenching her immediately. She sputtered, soaked but safe, as steam rose from her hair.
Severus, however, was now fully aflame.
“Severus!” she cried, reaching for more water, but before she could throw it, he seized the hem of his jumper and yanked it over his head in one swift motion, flinging it to the floor. Flames flared and sputtered as the fabric smouldered, until he drew his wand and extinguished the fire with a curt flick.
The kitchen fell into stunned silence, the only sound the soft crackle of the hearth and the hiss of the dying embers at his feet. Smoke curled lazily from the scorched remains of his jumper.
But Hermione wasn’t looking at the jumper.
Her eyes were on him.
The sight struck her breathless: the pale, bare skin of his chest, rising and falling with rapid, uneven breaths. The glow of the candles caught on his skin, lighting up the silver of a mark she knew by heart.
A sprig of rosemary, curling delicately across his collarbone, on the exact opposite side of her own.
Her rosemary.
Her mark.
For a heartbeat, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. The world narrowed to that single shimmering reflection, hers and his, identical, impossibly real.
He looked at her then, and in that moment, she knew.
He had known all along.
The truth shone in the tightness of his jaw, the haunted flicker in his eyes, the sharp intake of breath he couldn’t quite disguise.
Without a word, he stooped to snatch the half-burnt jumper from the floor.
“Thank you for the meal, Molly,” he said, his voice even but strained. “I believe I’ve had quite enough excitement for one evening.”
And before anyone could respond, he turned and strode from the room, the air still faintly hazy with smoke in his wake.
Hermione stood rooted to the spot, water dripping down onto the floor, heart thundering in her chest.
Across the table, Luna met her gaze. There was no shock in her expression, only that quiet, knowing smile.
Hermione’s breath caught.
Luna inclined her head slightly, as though to say now you know.
The following week passed in a blur of parchment, irritation, and sleepless nights.
Hermione had thrown herself into research the way she always did when something gnawed at her: stubbornly, obsessively, and to the exclusion of meals and reason. She only knew the basics of how soulmates worked; now she wanted every detail, every possible explanation.
And she wanted to know how he had known.
She’d worn a bathing costume exactly once in the past ten years, and no one else had been there. Even during the war, sleeping rough in forests and fields, she’d always taken care to change privately. As far as she was aware, she was the only person who knew what and where her mark was.
So how in Merlin’s name had Severus bloody Snape found out?
She didn’t for a moment suspect him of anything untoward. He wasn’t the type. If anything, he’d have hexed himself into the next century before entertaining such impropriety. But that only made it more maddening. Had he discovered it by accident? Was there a spell that could reveal it? Some charm of detection? And if he had known all these years, why hadn’t he told her?
Had he planned simply to keep it secret forever?
The question haunted her more than she cared to admit.
Working in the Department of Mysteries had its advantages. Chief among them, it granted her access to records the general public would never see. She spent long hours in the archive vaults, combing through scrolls and grimoires on soul-bond phenomena. Every lead dead-ended the same way: theories, conjectures, no proof. Potions had been brewed, spells attempted, but none had ever come close to revealing a person’s soulmate. Fate, it seemed, was jealously private.
She learned that most pairs were granted at least one meeting in their lifetime—an intersection of paths, a chance to choose—but nothing in the natural order could force recognition. No sudden light, no divine spark, no magnetic pull. Only if both marks happened to be visible would anyone ever know straightaway.
Some soulmates spoke later of a curious familiarity, a lingering sense of déjà vu when they met, but never the sort of instant lightning-bolt revelation romantic novels promised.
Hermione sighed over that particular passage and rubbed her eyes.
She could no longer deny a small flicker of attraction towards the man, but she doubted he felt anything remotely similar. If anything, he likely thought her meddlesome, a perennial nuisance.
Still, there was one bright thread among all her findings: an obscure footnote on the magical permeability between soulmates. According to several studies, they could not work privacy charms against each other. Their magic recognised no barriers. Wards, Notice-Me-Not charms, even shield spells: none would hold.
One infamous case told of a witch who had accidentally killed her soulmate during a duel, her curse slipping through his perfectly timed Protego as though it hadn’t existed at all.
That particular anecdote made Hermione wince. But the principle gave her an idea.
Wherever Severus lived, she knew it would be under a mountain of spells designed to keep him unseen and unbothered. And she wasn’t about to abuse her position at the Ministry—or her friendship with Harry—to dig through private records.
Which left one alternative.
Draco Malfoy.
The thought made her sigh, but the logic was sound. He was Severus’s godson and, as far as she was concerned, on decent terms with him. The Malfoys had come out of the war battered but respectable; Malfoy himself had changed more than anyone could have expected.
Still, ambushing him at the Ministry canteen at seven in the morning was not her proudest moment.
He was standing in the queue for coffee when she appeared beside him.
“Granger,” he said flatly, as though she’d materialised out of thin air purely to inconvenience him. “To what do I owe this particular bout of harassment?”
“Good morning to you too, Malfoy,” she said briskly. “I need a favour.”
He eyed her warily. “That sounds ominous. Does it involve saving the world again? Because I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes.”
“Nothing so dramatic,” she replied. “I need to find someone.”
His eyes narrowed. “You do realise you’re best friends with the Chosen One, who just so happens to work for the department that finds people?”
“Yes, well,” she said, lowering her voice, “this isn’t exactly official business.”
Malfoy’s chin tilted up slightly, suspicion darkening his expression. “What are you up to, Granger?”
His suspicion turned to outright alarm when she glanced quickly round the canteen before beginning to undo the top buttons of her robes.
“Merlin’s—Granger, what—”
Before he could finish, she tugged the neck of her robes aside, revealing the silvery sprig of rosemary etched along her collarbone.
His expression changed in an instant. Shock, followed by grim understanding.
There’d been a chance he might not know, but she’d been banking on him being aware of Severus’s mark. Judging by the way he blanched, she’d been right.
“Does he know?” he asked quietly as she fastened her robes again. His usual cool composure was gone. Coffee forgotten, he glanced round the canteen before placing a careful hand on her shoulder and steering her into a quieter corner.
Hermione grimaced, folding her arms. “If his expression the other night was anything to go by, I’d wager he’s known for quite some time.”
Malfoy sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Of course he has,” he muttered under his breath. “Look, Granger, the man’s fiercely private. I might be the only living soul other than himself keyed into his wards. Even if I tell you where he is, how exactly are you planning to reach him?”
Hermione’s lips curved into a mischievous grin. “Those sorts of things don’t work against a soulmate, Malfoy. Surely you already knew that?”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, though he still hesitated. “He’ll never forgive me for this, you know.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Hermione said softly, hope threading through her tone.
Malfoy exhaled heavily. “You’re not planning to reject him or anything, are you?”
The question stilled her. A wave of melancholy rose as she thought of Severus, the lonely, sardonic man who’d carried so much for so long. She knew the story everyone whispered about: his love for Lily Evans, revealed to have been unrequited when her soulmate mark bloomed at sixteen and matched James Potter’s. The friendship that had broken in its wake. The bitterness that had followed.
And after that… nothing. No one.
He’d lived a solitary life, as though love itself had proven too dangerous to touch.
She hadn’t fared much better. Her brief relationship with Ron had lasted scarcely a month. It had been comfortable, but not right. They’d never even been intimate. Since then, there’d been the occasional date, a handful of one-night encounters that left her hollow. It had always felt as though she were playing a part in someone else’s story. And most of the men she’d gone out with had been foreign wizards. People who didn’t know her history so intimately, who didn’t look at her like a museum relic from the war. Unfortunately, the dating pool in Britain for a witch who intimidated half the Ministry was… limited.
“No, Malfoy,” she said at last, her voice quiet but firm. “I’m not going to reject him.”
Something in her tone must have convinced him, because his shoulders slumped and he gave a small nod.
“Alright,” he sighed. “Alright, I’ll help you. But only because I know he needs this. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course, but I can tell he’s lonely.” He gave her a meaningful look. “Now we know at least part of it’s self-inflicted, if he’s known about you all this time. Always was too proud for his own good.”
Hermione arched a brow, but he only grinned and lifted his hands in mock surrender.
“Hey, at least I grew out of it.”
She shook her head, unable to stop the small smile that tugged at her lips. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”
Malfoy huffed a laugh and reached into his robes, pulling out a small scrap of parchment. He stared at it for a moment, then pressed his wand to it and passed it to her. “Spinner’s End. Don’t tell anyone I gave you that. And… be gentle with him, Granger. He’s not as invincible as he likes people to think.”
Hermione folded the parchment carefully, a flutter of nerves stirring in her chest. “I’ll be careful,” she promised.
“I didn’t say careful,” Malfoy said, smirking faintly. “I said gentle. There’s a difference.”
She rolled her eyes, but tucked the address into her pocket all the same.
Hermione spent almost the entire day readying herself. She told herself it was out of practicality, that she was merely ensuring she didn’t look like she’d crawled straight out of the archives after a week of sleepless research, but the truth was less rational. Every small decision felt monumental.
She took a long, luxurious bath, soaking until her skin turned pink from the heat. She brushed out her hair with methodical precision, coaxing the curls into soft, obedient waves that spilled over her shoulders and down her back. A touch of mascara, a hint of colourless balm, and that was all. Anything more would have felt like disguise.
Her wardrobe, however, became a battlefield. She rejected nearly everything she owned: jumpers too plain, robes too formal, colours too harsh against her skin. After what felt like an hour of indecision, she settled on a knitted jumper in a deep, rich blue that brought out her creamy complexion. Dark trousers, soft leather boots, and her fur-lined winter cloak completed the ensemble. She caught her reflection in the mirror—tidy, composed, unthreatening—and exhaled a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
By the time she finally left her flat, it was already past ten.
He might be asleep. He didn’t seem the type to celebrate the new year. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to wait another day.
She slipped the bit of parchment from her pocket, smoothing the creases with her thumbs. The ink had begun to smudge slightly from being handled so often, but the name, Spinner’s End, remained legible.
Hermione took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and turned on the spot.
The familiar pull of Apparition gave way to a soft pop and a gust of cold air.
When she opened her eyes, she stood on a narrow, dimly lit street lined with small, uniform houses. The snow here had turned to grey slush, the air heavy with the scent of smoke from nearby chimneys. Spinner’s End looked tired and forgotten, the kind of street that time had simply stopped caring for.
His house was at the very end of the row, its blackened brick veined with dead ivy. The curtains were drawn tightly, every trace of light sealed away from the night. Even without probing, she could sense the wards layered thick around it, humming faintly at the edge of perception.
Except they didn’t stop her gaze. She could see straight through them.
Her pulse quickened.
She hesitated at the foot of the steps, tugging her cloak tighter around her. It was foolish, really, barging in uninvited at this hour. But if she didn’t do it now, she might never do it at all.
Setting her shoulders, she climbed the crumbling concrete stairs and raised her hand. Her knuckles rapped softly against the wood, the sound dull against the wind.
And then she waited.
She waited long enough for her confidence to waver, for the sting of cold to creep into her fingers, for the growing certainty that he was either asleep or wasn’t even home to begin with. She began to turn, resigned to trying again tomorrow.
Then the lock clicked.
The door opened a fraction. A long, weary sigh drifted through the crack before the door swung wider, revealing Severus standing in the doorway, wrapped in dark robes that looked as though they’d been hastily pulled on.
“I should have guessed you’d eventually track me down,” he said, voice low, resigned.
Hermione opened her mouth, but words failed her.
He gestured inside with a slow sweep of his hand. “You might as well come in.”
Hermione hesitated only a moment before the chill of the night air had her stepping past him into the warmth of the interior. She did her best to ignore the faint shiver that ran up her spine when her shoulder brushed against him in the doorway.
There was no hallway. She found herself immediately within a cramped sitting room, though perhaps cramped wasn’t quite the right word. The space was small, yes, but meticulously ordered. Every available wall was lined with rich mahogany shelves, the wood polished to a gentle sheen, each book arranged with absolute precision. The dark floorboards gleamed in the firelight, and a thick, clean rug spread across the centre of the room. The furniture, though modest, was soft-looking and perfectly matched.
It was nothing like the cold, crumbling exterior of the house.
This space was quiet, warm, and gleaming with discipline. She decided it suited him perfectly.
Her eyes caught on a particular spine, and before she could stop herself, she’d crossed the room, fingertips hovering reverently over the aged green binding.
“Is this… a first edition of A Complete History of Magic Across the British Empire?”
Behind her came his voice, low and hesitant, but with the faintest note of amusement. “It is.”
She turned, eyes wide. “How—? It must be centuries old!”
“Yes,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.
She opened her mouth, closed it again, suddenly aware of how presumptuous she must look, barrelling into her former professor’s home only to immediately begin gawking at his library. Colour rushed to her cheeks.
“Er—sorry. You’re probably wondering why I’ve come.”
He tilted his head slightly, the faintest curve to his mouth. “I have some idea.”
His hand lifted almost unconsciously, fingers brushing the place on his collarbone where she knew his matching mark lay hidden.
Her breath caught. Slowly, she reached for the neckline of her jumper. Before he could protest, she tugged it aside, revealing the silvery sprig of rosemary that shimmered faintly in the firelight.
His eyes fixed on it like a drowning man catching sight of air. Fear and longing warred across his face, followed by something else, something hollow and heavy. Loneliness.
Her chest ached.
“How long have you known?” she asked softly.
He hesitated. His eyelids lowered, as if bracing himself.
“It was after your run-in with Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries,” he said finally. “I examined the curse myself while you were still unconscious, so that I might brew the proper counter-potions. It was then that I saw the mark.”
Her mouth parted slightly. That long ago.
“So you’ve known since I was sixteen?” Her voice cracked slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
A flush of colour rose to his cheeks. He was angry, but not at her.
“Because you were sixteen,” he said sharply. “It was hardly appropriate to mention such a thing, and I had no feelings toward a sixteen-year-old child at any rate.”
The words were blunt but not cruel. They carried the weight of someone trying, and failing, to make sense of his own restraint.
“Alright,” she managed, “I’ll grant you that. But why not tell me when I came of age?”
He exhaled slowly, a sound half weary, half bitter.
“At seventeen, you were still my student,” he said. “And when that ended, the war consumed everything. There was never time, nor would I have dared. Your friends would have believed I was manipulating you. Everyone would have. The Order, the Dark Lord, it wouldn’t have mattered. You would have been used as bait to control me, and it would have worked.”
He paused, eyes dark and unguarded. “Because while I felt no romantic affection then, I could not have stood by and watched my soulmate come to harm. I would have destroyed everything for you without even realising it.”
She swallowed, throat tight. “But after the war…?”
His jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the rug.
“After the war,” he murmured, “I had nothing left but blood on my hands. I thought I would die, for a time. Then I thought I’d spend my life in Azkaban, unworthy of freedom at all. When I recovered, when I found myself exonerated and on the receiving end of fame and attention I never should have had, the notion of seeking you out was… obscene. You were rebuilding the world. I was a ruin skulking in its shadow.”
He moved to the hearth, resting one hand against the mantel. Firelight flickered over the lines of his face, gilding the exhaustion that years had carved there.
“It became clear, over time,” he said quietly, “that my feelings had changed. That I was drawn to you—not as the bright but admittedly irritating and overeager child I once taught, but as the woman who rebuilt everything I’d helped to destroy. But desire and worth are not the same thing.”
Hermione stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “You believe you don’t deserve me.”
A bitter smile ghosted across his lips. “I know I don’t. You are everything I am not: light, integrity, mercy. I am none of those things. I have killed. Betrayed. Lied. I have survived when better men did not. I will spend the rest of my life making amends, and even that will not be enough.”
Her heart twisted at the rawness in his voice.
“I’d like the opportunity to prove you wrong, Severus,” she said softly.
He looked at her properly then, eyes black and searching, as though waiting for her to flinch. But she didn’t.
She held his gaze, steady and sure, until something in his expression wavered. Until the bitterness gave way to something achingly human.
The fire popped, the only sound between them.
For a long time, neither spoke.
He was the first to break the silence.
“Would you like some tea?” he asked at last, voice softer than she’d ever heard it.
Hermione blinked, startled by the sudden domesticity of the offer. “Yes. Thank you.”
He inclined his head and moved to the narrow kitchen alcove. She heard the faint clink of a kettle, the hiss of a flame. A few minutes later he returned, carrying a small tray laden with a teapot, two mismatched cups, a milk jug, and a sugar bowl. The scent of bergamot and cloves mingled with the warmth of the fire.
He poured for her first, his hands steady even as his gaze remained elsewhere.
“Milk?”
“Please.”
They sat opposite one another, she on the sofa, he in the armchair, the silence between them no longer heavy, merely cautious. She sipped her tea and found it perfectly brewed.
“So,” she said after a moment, “what does one do, once one has spent years redeeming themselves?”
His mouth quirked faintly. “Attempt to avoid further catastrophe.”
“Successful so far?”
He glanced at her over the rim of his cup. “Until last week.”
She smiled into her tea, and he almost smiled back.
They talked then. Slowly at first, then more easily. Of the war, the aftermath, the rebuilding. Hermione spoke of the Department of Mysteries, of her research, of the strange sense of purpose it gave her even on the loneliest days. He spoke of teaching again for a few years before retiring; of potions commissions that still came in from all over the world.
When the topic turned to families, he surprised her by asking after the Weasleys. It seemed he remembered far more than she’d have guessed. She told him about the children, the chaos of their regular gatherings, Luna’s newborn twins, born only three days prior.
His gaze softened. “You’ve all built something remarkable.”
“We’ve all tried,” she said. “You could be included in that, too.”
He didn’t argue, though his expression said he wanted to be.
After a quiet pause, Hermione asked, “Were there ever many… soulmates among the Death Eaters?”
The question clearly caught him off guard. He leaned back, thoughtful.
“The only ones I was ever aware of were Lucius and Narcissa,” he said. “Though I suspect even that bond was more… convenient than romantic.”
“And Voldemort?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He hesitated. The shadows flickered across his face, deepening the hollows of his cheeks.
“Yes,” he said at last.
She blinked. “He had a soulmate?”
“Of a sort.” His tone darkened. “He murdered her after discovering she was Muggleborn.”
Hermione felt her stomach twist. “Who…?”
He exhaled slowly. “Myrtle Warren.”
Her mind stuttered at the name. “Moaning Myrtle? But she was only a third year when she died. Her mark wouldn’t have manifested yet.”
“So the history books say,” he murmured. “No one knows precisely how he uncovered the truth. Some form of dark ritual magic, I imagine. Something of his own creation. She was the reason he opened the Chamber of Secrets. I don’t believe he ever recovered from what he did. Not in any way that mattered, at least.”
Hermione stared into her cup, the surface trembling faintly in her hands. “I think I understand now why I couldn’t find any legitimate research on the matter. I wouldn’t have wanted to, knowing it led to that kind of darkness.”
For a long moment, only the crackle of the fire filled the room. Then, quietly, she said, “I read about a witch once who accidentally killed her soulmate. She went mad. Couldn’t bear to live with what she’d done.”
His expression turned grim. “He was adept at concealing weakness, but there were times when it showed. Moments of cruelty so needless, so vicious, it bordered on deranged. He killed his own followers for amusement. I think it takes little imagination to assume he had long since lost what tethered him to sanity.”
Hermione nodded slowly. The thought settled heavily between them.
After a moment, she spoke again, her voice softer. “You talk as though I’m some paragon of virtue, Severus. But I’ve done things I regret too.”
He looked up at that. “Such as?”
She swallowed, surprised at how difficult it was to say aloud. “I permanently disfigured Marietta Edgecombe. She was just a frightened girl, following her mother’s orders. I cursed another classmate… for Quidditch, of all things, because he annoyed everyone and I wanted my friend on the team instead of him. I lied, I stole, I made decisions that changed people’s lives without asking them first.” She hesitated, the last confession catching in her throat. “I erased my parents’ memories. And I couldn’t put them back.”
He didn’t speak immediately. When he did, his tone was quiet but firm. “Those things don’t make you lesser, Hermione. They make you real. They give you depth. You’ve seen what the world can do, and you still chose to protect it.”
She looked at him, startled by the gentleness in his voice.
“Everyone has blood on their hands,” he continued. “Some of us simply have more visible stains.”
The fire crackled softly. Above it, the small clock on his mantel gave a single, clear chime. Hermione glanced up and realised with a start that it was midnight.
“Oh!” She shot to her feet, nearly upsetting her cup. “I’m so sorry, I hadn’t realised how late it’s gotten. I’ve completely overstayed my welcome.”
He looked up at her from his chair, eyes dark and unreadable. “You have not,” he said simply, and set his own cup aside.
He rose, unhurried, until he stood before her. For a moment neither of them spoke. The fire crackled quietly, casting long shadows along the walls. His gaze held hers, steady and searching and so intense she forgot to breathe.
When he reached out, it was with a hesitant kind of reverence, his hand trembling slightly as his fingers brushed her cheek. The touch was feather-light at first, tracing the soft line of her jaw before his thumb brushed against her lower lip. Her breath hitched.
He hesitated then, the smallest flicker of uncertainty, before she made the decision for both of them.
Her hands rose to his chest, fingertips finding the soft fabric of his robes, and before she could think better of it, she was leaning up, and he was bending down, and their lips met.
The first touch was tentative and exploratory, but when he exhaled against her mouth, she felt it down to her bones. His lips moved over hers again, deeper now, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, drawing her closer. She felt his breath catch when she opened to him, the barest hint of tongue tasting her lower lip, and it sent a shiver through her despite the balmy temperature of the room.
Her fingers curled into his robes, anchoring herself as heat unfurled low in her stomach. It wasn’t the desperate kind of passion born from war and grief; it was gentler, but no less consuming, like something that had waited a decade for permission to exist.
The world narrowed to the soft sound of their breaths, the warmth of him against her, and the sure, steady beat of his heart beneath her hands.
Then, suddenly, a spark. A pulse of magic flared between them. She gasped as her mark tingled to life, a faint warmth spreading from her collarbone through every vein. He drew back sharply, eyes wide and dark.
“Can you feel that?” she whispered, breathless.
He nodded once, his throat working as he swallowed. Then, still close enough for her to feel his breath, he pressed his forehead to hers.
“I would like to court you,” he said softly.
She blinked, dazed. “Court me? Like with chaperones and scandalous flashing of ankles?”
A laugh broke from him then, deep, genuine, and entirely unexpected. It reverberated through her chest and sent a flush of warmth rushing through her.
“Perhaps not quite so dire as that,” he said, amusement lingering in his voice. “But I would like to do it properly. I find I am… selfish enough that I no longer wish to stay away from you.”
Her lips curved into a trembling smile. “I don’t want you to stay away either.”
Something unguarded flickered in his eyes. Longing, yes, but also relief. He raised a hand again, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone.
“I want nothing more,” he murmured, “than to wake beside you each morning. To make you dinner after a long day. To spend evenings reading by the fire with you. To one day hear the sound of small feet on the stairs at Christmas and to stand with you amid every absurd Weasley gathering. But I want to do it right. I want to give you flowers, take you places that light you up with curiosity, and make you feel cherished.”
He swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Will you let me give that to you?”
Hermione’s heart swelled painfully in her chest. “Yes,” she breathed. “I want that too.”
He closed his eyes briefly, a sigh escaping him, soft and almost pained. “You should go,” he murmured, the words rough against the quiet. “Before I ask you to stay forever.”
A tremor of laughter slipped from her, quiet and breathless. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want.”
At that, his gaze snapped to hers. The look he gave her was dark and unguarded, desire and restraint warring in the depths of his eyes. Heat coiled low in her belly, stealing her breath. For a moment, neither of them moved; the air itself seemed to hold its breath around them.
Then he tore his gaze away, jaw tightening as though reining himself in. His eyes flicked toward the sofa where her cloak lay draped neatly over the back. With quiet deliberation, he lifted it and held it out for her.
“Come,” he said at last, voice low and steady.
She turned, letting him settle the cloak over her shoulders. His hands lingered for just a moment at her collar, fingertips brushing against the soft fabric and the skin beneath. Then he moved past her to open the door.
Sometime during the night, the snow had begun to fall again. It lay thick and white over the street, glowing softly under the lamplight.
She turned back to him, reluctant to leave.
He hesitated only a heartbeat before leaning in and capturing her lips once more. This kiss was slower, sweeter: a promise rather than a discovery.
When he pulled back, he stayed close, his palm warm against her cheek. “You are beautiful, Hermione,” he murmured. “And I will strive to deserve you every day of my life.”
Her eyes shone. She reached up, fingers brushing the line of his jaw. “I’ll be the judge of what I do and don’t deserve,” she whispered. “And I want this. I want you.”
He kissed her once more, a soft, lingering touch that felt like the start of something infinite, then let her go.
She stepped into the snow, the world hushed around her, the air sharp and bright with newness. She didn’t stop until she reached the middle of the road.
When she turned back, his silhouette stood framed in the doorway, dark against the golden light within, snow drifting lazily through the space between them.
She gave him a small but certain smile, and with a gentle crack, she vanished into the night.
Severus stood for a long time in the open doorway, the firelight at his back and snow gathering at his feet.
When he finally closed the door, it was with a quiet sense of peace he hadn’t felt in years.
Inside, the clock on the mantel ticked softly, marking the first minutes of a new year and the beginning of something far greater.