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Chapter Text

Hermione Granger had always remembered Hogwarts in winter as something close to a dream—too magical, too bright, too full of wonder to be entirely real. But stepping through the castle doors for the first time in years, she realized that memory had never done it justice.

Enchanted snow drifted lazily from the vaulted ceiling of the Entrance Hall, each flake shimmering with warm gold light before dissolving into nothingness. Evergreen garlands wrapped the stone pillars, crackling faintly with charm energy. Far above her, floating candles cast gently dancing shadows over everything.

Hermione stopped to take it all in, her breath catching in the cold air.

“I’m home,” she whispered, surprised by the emotion in her voice.

It wasn’t that the Ministry work she’d been doing for the past two years lacked purpose. But the red tape, the endless committees, the political posturing—Hermione had grown weary of it. She missed learning. Teaching. Passing on magic instead of policing it. And when McGonagall’s owl arrived with an offer she had never expected, Hermione hadn’t hesitated.

She brushed her fingers along the rail of the staircase, smiling when warm sparks responded to her touch—Hogwarts recognizing her magic, greeting her like an old friend.

A ping of chiming snowflakes suddenly landed on her hair. She looked up just in time for another flurry to swirl around her head.

“Well,” she murmured, brushing enchanted frost off her curls, “I suppose that’s a welcome.”

“Indeed it is.”

The unmistakable voice made Hermione turn sharply.

“Professor McGonagall!”

The Headmistress swept toward her with surprising grace for someone who spent most of her time reprimanding grown adults. She enveloped Hermione in a hug that was warm, firm, and far longer than anything she’d ever given a student.

“Hermione, my dear, it’s wonderful to have you back,” McGonagall said, pulling away but keeping her hands on Hermione’s arms. “You look well. Older—though I suppose that is inevitable.”

Hermione laughed. “I could say the same about you.”

McGonagall sniffed. “I have not aged. I have merely matured.”

Hermione’s smile softened. “It’s really good to be here.”

“And we are very fortunate to have you.” McGonagall paused, her eyes sharpening but twinkling with something suspiciously mischievous. “I’ve informed the Deputy Headmaster of your arrival. He should be along any moment.”

“The Depu—” Hermione stopped. Her stomach dipped. “Snape?”

“Of course.” McGonagall’s lips twitched at the corners. “He’s been invaluable these past years.”

Hermione highly doubted “invaluable” meant “pleasant.”

Before she could respond, the doors to the Great Hall swung open with a soft, dramatic whoosh of winter air.

Severus Snape emerged exactly as she remembered him: stern expression, severe robes billowing like a storm cloud, hair impeccable in its refusal to obey gravity. He stopped at the sight of her.

And Hermione felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing.

“Professor Granger,” Snape said at last, enunciating her new title with slow, deliberate precision. His voice—deep, smooth, unmistakable—rolled through the hall. “How… unexpected.”

Hermione resisted the urge to straighten her posture. “Good evening, Professor Snape.”

He stepped closer, his dark eyes flicking over her—assessing, calculating, perhaps searching for remnants of the student she used to be. Hermione held his gaze unflinchingly.

“You made it here without catastrophes, then,” he said.

Hermione raised a brow. “Contrary to popular belief, I am capable of travel without detonations.”

“If you say so.”

McGonagall shot him a pointed look. His expression did not change.

Hermione noticed something else, though—something small, something quick. Snape did not seem entirely composed. He stood too still, as if bracing. His voice, though dry, carried a faint undercurrent she could not identify.

Surprise, perhaps. Or something edged with unease.

McGonagall broke the moment with a brisk clap of her hands. “Now that greetings are done, let’s get you settled, Hermione. The staff room is eager to welcome you.”

They began walking down the corridor, McGonagall leading the way with purposeful strides. Snape walked a half-step behind Hermione—close enough for her to feel the faint warmth of his presence, far enough to avoid appearing as though he was accompanying her.

Hermione glanced around, letting the castle wash over her: warm breathing walls, soft murmuring magic, portraits waking from naps and whispering excitedly to one another.

“This place hasn’t changed,” she murmured.

“Everything changes,” Snape said quietly behind her. “Whether we wish it to or not.”

Hermione turned to glance at him. His face remained blank, unreadable. But his eyes flickered—just once—like a curtain twitching.

Before she could reply, they rounded a corner and—
Hermione nearly collided with a sprig of mistletoe dangling just low enough to be insulting.

“Honestly?” she muttered.

McGonagall made a noise of exaggerated innocence. “Goodness. That wasn’t here earlier.”

Snape’s lip curled. “The castle appears to be testing your situational awareness… Professor Granger.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “It’s enchanted mistletoe, Severus. Not a defensive hex.”

“Given its location,” he muttered, “I’m not convinced.”

A group of third-year students hurried by, whispering far too loudly to be subtle.

“Is that the new Charms professor?”
“She’s really pretty.”
“Do you think she’ll make Snape smile?”
“Impossible.”

Snape made a low, dangerous sound in his throat.

Hermione bit back a laugh. McGonagall did not bother hiding her own.

By the time they reached the staff room, Hermione’s nerves had settled into a warm fluttering anticipation. The room was softly lit, filled with floating winter lanterns and cushioned armchairs gathered around a large fireplace crackling with shimmering green flames.

Professor Flitwick practically bounced toward her.
“Professor Granger! A delight! A true delight! I’ve been looking forward to discussing charm sequencing with you!”

Sprout followed with a warm hug, smelling of earth and peppermint soil.

Several newer staff members introduced themselves, each eager, kind, and full of questions. Hermione felt her heart swell—this was where she belonged.

But every few minutes, she caught Snape watching her from the far corner of the room. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. Eyes… alert. As though trying to solve a puzzle he wasn’t certain he wanted to understand.

She forced herself to ignore the way her stomach fluttered every time their gazes met.

Hours later, after conversations, pastries, and more congratulations than she expected, Hermione finally made her way to her new quarters in the east wing—a cozy set of rooms with warm brick walls and a window overlooking the snow-covered grounds.

She unpacked slowly, savoring the feeling of settling in, then decided to take a walk. Old habits, after all, did die hard.

The library was quiet at night at Hogwarts—peaceful, reverent, humming with silent expectation.

She turned down the final corridor—

And collided with a wall of dark fabric and impatience.

Snape.

Again.

He stopped with impeccable reflexes, cape billowing dramatically for a second before settling around him like shadows returning to their master.

“Must you wander aimlessly through the corridors as though you’ve never been here before?” he drawled.

“Must you lurk in every hallway I turn into?” Hermione countered.

“This is my castle, Granger.”

Hermione lifted her chin. “Pretty sure ownership lies with Headmistress McGonagall.”

His eyes narrowed. For a moment, Hermione wondered if she’d pushed too far—but instead of biting back, Snape did something entirely unexpected.

He stepped aside. And with a stiff, almost formal tilt of his head, said:

“After you.”

Hermione blinked. She had expected sarcasm. A snarl. A sneer. Not… courtesy.

“Thank you,” she said softly, brushing past him.

She felt his eyes follow her. Heavy. Searching.

Something in the air hummed, warm and strange. Something alive.

As she walked away, she heard a faint rustling. She turned.

Another sprig of enchanted mistletoe had appeared above where they’d stood.

Snape glared up at it with profound betrayal.

“Absolutely not,” he muttered, flicking his wand. The mistletoe squeaked and scampered across the ceiling like a startled spider.

Hermione pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her laugh.

Christmas at Hogwarts, she realized, was going to be anything but simple.

Chapter Text

The first week of term passed with a rhythm Hermione hadn’t felt in years. The castle seemed to breathe differently when she walked through it: alive with magic and anticipation. The students, thrilled by a familiar face and a new professor in their midst, followed her with wide eyes and eager questions.

Hermione, in turn, delighted in every response, every spark of understanding she saw. She reveled in correcting a charm’s subtle misalignments, in demonstrating the smallest gestures that made magic more elegant. Hogwarts, in winter, with snow drifting silently through the corridors, reminded her why she had fallen in love with magic in the first place.

But through every lesson, every carefully planned demonstration, she felt the eyes of another teacher.

Severus Snape.

He wasn’t hiding it. He never did. He would appear at the doorway when she least expected him, leaning against the frame with that eternal scowl that never truly softened. His gaze followed her through the classroom, lingering just long enough to unsettle her without offering a word of explanation.

Hermione caught herself thinking about it too often. She chastised herself internally: He’s the Deputy Headmaster. He’s monitoring lessons. That’s all. Professional.

Still, it made her heart skip when his sharp, dark eyes met hers across a room of whispering students.

“Professor Granger,” Snape’s voice called from the doorway one morning, cutting through the chatter of her third-year class. “A word, if you please.”

Hermione glanced up. He wasn’t smiling. She should have expected that. Still, she rose, arching an eyebrow. “Of course, Professor Snape. Excuse me, class.”

A few students snickered. Hermione ignored them.

In the corridor, he closed the classroom door behind them. “Miss Granger. We have an overlap in the curriculum between your Charms syllabus and my Defense Against the Dark Arts schedule. Certain spells—specifically disarming and shielding charms—will be covered in both courses this semester.”

Hermione crossed her arms, trying to mask the flare of irritation and curiosity. “Yes, I am aware. I’ve planned the sequences carefully. It will complement your lessons, not repeat them.”

Snape’s dark eyes narrowed. “I’ve reviewed your plan. It lacks sufficient progression for students who struggle with incantation focus. They’ll need reinforcement. Otherwise, chaos ensues.”

Hermione raised a brow. “I assure you, Severus—” She stopped herself. Professor Snape. “I am more than capable of managing a classroom, especially one of young witches and wizards who are capable of adapting.”

His lips twitched—not quite a smile, though perhaps that was what made it dangerous. “I never doubted your competence. I merely doubt your… attention to small details. You underestimate the persistence of chaos.”

Hermione exhaled. Of course. “So we’re talking about scheduling and supplemental exercises, correct?”

“Yes.” His tone clipped. “And cooperation. I expect it.”

Hermione smirked faintly. “Then we are agreed.”

The brief flash of mutual understanding—or was it challenge?—hung between them. Then he turned, robes rustling like shadows, and left without another word. Hermione felt her chest tighten, a pulse she refused to acknowledge.

That evening, Hermione found herself wandering the library. She had intended to organize her lesson plans, but the soft candlelight and quiet murmur of magic felt more inviting than work.

She rounded a corner into a secluded alcove and froze.

Snape was there. Alone.

The books he had pulled from the shelves hovered around him, suspended in precise mid-air formation. He wasn’t teaching. He wasn’t grading. He wasn’t glowering at a student.

He was reading.

Something in the stillness of him—the slight slump of his shoulders, the faint lines of weariness around his eyes—made Hermione hesitate. This wasn’t the implacable, untouchable professor she remembered. This was… human. Fragile in ways he would never admit.

“Professor,” she said softly, not wanting to startle him.

Snape looked up. For a second, the usual hard mask faltered. Then it returned. “Miss Granger. I did not expect to see anyone in this section at this hour.”

“I could say the same,” she replied, moving closer but keeping a respectful distance.

He set a tome down with a soft thump. “Do you require assistance in locating anything?”

“No,” she said, “though I am tempted to ask what you’re doing here.”

“Studying,” he said simply. “Some things one cannot teach properly without reviewing… the theory.”

Hermione’s curiosity softened into understanding. She could see the weight he carried—the war, the lives lost, the countless battles fought not just outside Hogwarts, but within himself. It explained much of his sharpness, his rigidity, his insistence on control.

“I… I think I understand,” she said gently. “It must be… difficult sometimes. All of this—teaching, rebuilding, remembering.”

Snape’s gaze flicked to her. For the first time, it seemed to linger with interest rather than irritation. “Difficultness is irrelevant. One adapts. One survives. That is the expectation.”

Hermione hesitated. “I know,” she said softly. “But surviving doesn’t always make things… easier. Sometimes it makes them heavier.”

He didn’t reply. Hermione didn’t need him to. She could see the truth in his eyes.

The students, of course, had other plans.

By the end of the week, whispers and snickers had given rise to what they proudly dubbed “Operation: Professors Under Mistletoe.” Every doorway, corridor, and stairwell seemed to sprout a sprig or cluster of enchanted greenery, carefully positioned to encourage accidental—or “forced”—proximity.

Hermione walked down the corridor one afternoon, books in her arms, only to find herself abruptly halted.

“Professor Granger!”

She looked up. Snape. Of course.

“And what is your hurry?” he asked.

“Nothing in particular,” she said, trying to hide her amusement at his grim expression.

Snape’s eyes flicked to the ceiling—and then back to her. A sprig of mistletoe hovered above them, enchanted with subtle charm energy.

“Absolutely not,” he muttered, flicking his wand to send it spinning harmlessly down the corridor.

Hermione bit back a laugh. “You do realize the students are doing this on purpose, right?”

He didn’t respond. He merely watched her for a moment, eyes sharper than any mistletoe could ever be.

Later, Hermione’s first Hogsmeade weekend assignment approached, and she was paired with Snape to supervise students.

Walking side by side through the snow-dusted streets, Hermione noticed the smallest details: the stiffness of his shoulders relaxing slightly as he watched students playfully toss snow at each other, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when a group of first-years nearly collided with him.

She found herself laughing more than she had expected. “Severus,” she said gently, “you’re not as terrifying outside the castle as inside it.”

He glanced at her. “Outside the castle, chaos has fewer consequences. Inside, it has policy implications.”

“Policy implications,” Hermione repeated with mock solemnity. “Ah yes. And yet here you are, supervising first-years while I try to convince them that transfiguring a teacup into a frog is not, in fact, dangerous.”

Snape’s eyes softened just slightly. “You handle them… well. It is… commendable.”

Hermione felt a sudden warmth in her chest. Not affection, not yet, but recognition. She knew he didn’t give praise lightly.

A silence fell between them. Neither spoke, but the quiet was not uncomfortable. It was… something else.

They returned to Hogwarts, hearts heavier with unspoken acknowledgment: they were both aware of the spark, the pull, and neither was prepared to confront it fully.

Chapter Text

The first Hogsmeade weekend of the year arrived with a blast of winter air that made Hermione’s cheeks rosy as she and the students assembled at the castle gates. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, coating the ground in a soft white carpet. The village beyond the castle buzzed with excitement, shop windows glowing with enchanted decorations, and the scent of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts drifting on the wind.

Hermione adjusted her scarf and checked her schedule again. Snape was to accompany her as co-supervisor. She had expected grumbles, perhaps a curt word or two about student behavior—but what she hadn’t expected was the intensity of his presence.

He stood slightly apart from the students, arms crossed, eyes scanning every corner of the courtyard. Hermione could see the way his gaze flicked from student to student, measuring, calculating. He had a reputation, yes—but she’d never realized how meticulously he watched for any hint of trouble, even now.

“Severus,” she said softly as the first-years clustered around her, “if you continue to glare at them like that, they may actually start behaving properly out of fear.”

He turned his head slightly. “That is the point.”

Hermione suppressed a grin. “I meant… it might make you seem approachable.”

“Approachable is not necessary,” he said, dark eyes glinting with a sharp amusement she hadn’t seen before. “Control is.”

The students practically bounced with energy as they filed into Hogsmeade. Hermione kept an eye on the group, while also sneaking glances at Snape. Even in the crisp air, he moved with a quiet grace, robes brushing the snow-covered streets as he subtly redirected students who wandered too far.

“Look!” a first-year exclaimed, pointing toward Honeydukes. “Chocolate frogs!”

“Stay together,” Snape barked, and Hermione stifled a laugh at how effortlessly he assumed authority even in public.

“You’re… really good at this,” Hermione said under her breath as they walked alongside the students. “Even outside the castle.”

Snape glanced at her, expression unreadable. “Experience.”

“Experience,” she echoed. “And maybe a touch of intimidation.”

He did not answer, but Hermione noticed a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that suggested amusement—he was not entirely immune to her teasing.

Their first stop was a small bakery, warm and fragrant. Hermione guided a group of younger students to the front, explaining the rules for purchasing sweets while Snape maintained a silent watch from the doorway.

One student, a bold third-year, ducked around Hermione and approached Snape with a chocolate frog in hand.

“Professor Snape,” the student said nervously, “uh… do you want one?”

Snape’s dark eyes narrowed. “Do not presume to feed me, child.”

Hermione nearly choked on her laughter. The student backed away hastily, and Snape’s expression softened imperceptibly the instant the child retreated.

“He’s… harmless,” Hermione whispered, trying to suppress another laugh.

Snape’s gaze returned to her. “You underestimate chaos if you think this proves anything.”

Outside, snow had begun to fall more heavily. The students were laughing, throwing small snowballs at each other, and Hermione realized with a start that Snape was actually… enjoying himself. Not smiling—he never smiled—but he moved among the students with an ease that betrayed no annoyance, only quiet watchfulness.

“You know,” Hermione said lightly as they walked, “you don’t always have to be so… stern. Sometimes it’s okay to let a little joy in.”

Snape’s eyes flicked toward her. “Joy is irrelevant. Students are unpredictable. Chaos reigns whether one permits it or not.”

“Maybe,” Hermione said, “but letting them enjoy themselves doesn’t hurt.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stopped suddenly at a small bridge over a frozen stream. A group of first-years had thrown a snowball at one another and lost balance, sliding dangerously toward the edge.

Without thinking, Hermione ran forward—but Snape was faster. One smooth motion, and he had both students back on solid ground, standing between them with his cape spread like a protective barrier.

Hermione’s heart thudded in her chest. The action, the proximity, the sudden intensity—it was a sharp reminder of the man beneath the mask. She met his eyes, and for a fleeting second, the bustling Hogsmeade streets faded away.

The students scrambled to apologize, and Snape returned them to their feet with curt instructions. Then, as if nothing had happened, he stepped back.

Hermione shook slightly, adjusting her scarf. “You… you didn’t have to—”

“I did,” he said simply, voice low. “It was necessary.”

And that was the end of the conversation. Hermione felt her pulse slow, but her mind refused to calm.

Later, they stopped at a small cafe, the kind where enchanted lanterns cast a warm glow on the snow outside. Hermione held a steaming cup of hot chocolate, watching Snape stand stiffly by the window, hands clasped behind his back.

“You never really… eat anything, do you?” she asked.

He raised a brow. “I do when necessary.”

“You look miserable standing there,” Hermione said, teasing. “You could sit. The warmth is… pleasant.”

Snape’s eyes flicked to her. “I prefer vigilance.”

Hermione sipped her cocoa. “And yet here you are, watching children eat candy and throw snow at each other. That counts as… vigilance?”

A pause. Then, the faintest hint of a smirk. “Perhaps it does.”

Hermione felt a strange thrill. He wasn’t smiling, not really—but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, and the dark, stormy eyes carried a flicker of amusement.

She took a small sip of cocoa, feeling the warmth spread through her. “Maybe you’re not as impossible as everyone says.”

Snape’s gaze lingered. “Do not draw conclusions from… one instance of tolerable behavior.”

Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head. “I won’t. But one can hope.”

By the time they returned to Hogwarts, the snow had turned to a gentle, magical fall, dusting the castle in sparkling white. Students chatted happily, exhausted but exhilarated. Hermione noticed that Snape, though still rigid in posture, had relaxed slightly. The sharp lines of tension were still there, but softened by small, imperceptible signs: a hair slightly out of place, a shoulder shifting less tensely, eyes that had softened when meeting hers.

Hermione felt a sudden, quiet hope. Perhaps this winter—this season of enchantment and mischief—might allow them both something they hadn’t dared to expect: trust. And maybe, if she was honest, something more.

Back at the castle, she unpacked her belongings in her quarters, thoughts still lingering on the day’s events. She could hear Snape moving through the hallways, silent as a shadow. He had returned early to oversee the students’ safe return, no doubt.

Hermione smiled faintly. She thought of the small moments—the way he had saved the students from falling, the almost-smile in the cafe, the subtle attentiveness he had shown throughout the day.

Something inside her stirred. Not love—not yet—but curiosity. And admiration. And perhaps a growing awareness that Hogwarts, with all its snow and magic and mischief, had conspired to bring them together once again.

And, as she glanced out the window at the softly falling snow, Hermione realized that Christmas this year was shaping up to be more magical than she had anticipated.

Chapter Text

The castle was alive with quiet magic that night. Snow fell gently beyond the windows, glittering in the warm glow of enchanted lanterns. Inside, garlands of holly, twinkling fairy lights, and carefully conjured mistletoe sprigs hung in every corridor, stairwell, and doorway.

Hermione moved briskly, dragging a large box of enchanted ornaments to the Great Hall for the staff’s holiday decorations. She had planned to finish her work quickly, hoping to retreat to her quarters with a steaming cup of tea and a quiet evening of study.

Her plan was, unsurprisingly, overly ambitious.

“Miss Granger?” a familiar, clipped voice called from the shadows.

She looked up to find Snape standing near the staircase, arms crossed, eyebrows slightly raised in what she had long ago learned was his version of curiosity.

“I thought you were going to leave,” Hermione said lightly. “It’s late.”

“I do not leave until the castle is secure,” he replied. “And clearly, you are not finished with your task.”

Hermione blinked. “Apparently not.”

He stepped closer, and she noted, as she had countless times before, the way his presence filled the corridor like a slowly tightening knot. She set the box down, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “So… you’re just going to watch me then?”

“I do not ‘watch,’” he said, voice flat but eyes sharp. “I ensure order is maintained.”

“Order,” Hermione repeated with a faint smirk. “Right.”

The box was heavier than she expected, and as she adjusted her grip, it tipped slightly. A cascade of small, sparkling ornaments tumbled toward the floor. Hermione dove forward instinctively, and—before she could curse herself for the clumsiness—strong hands steadied her.

“Careful,” Snape said, tone low, precise. “These are fragile.”

Hermione froze, aware of the proximity, the warmth of his hands around hers, the way his dark eyes held hers for the briefest moment. Her heart hammered. She could feel the tension crackling in the space between them.

“Thank you,” she said softly, still unable to move immediately.

“You are welcome,” he replied, his tone deceptively even. But there was… something behind it. Something unspoken that hung in the air, heavier than the ornaments at their feet.

They straightened simultaneously, and Hermione was keenly aware of the lingering contact of his hands. She stepped back, but it felt too abrupt, too sudden. She swallowed.

“Shall we… continue?” she asked, gesturing toward the decorations.

Snape inclined his head. “Lead the way.”

Hours passed as they worked side by side, arranging enchanted wreaths and securing magical lights that flared and shimmered in intricate patterns. Their movements were efficient but not without small collisions: a hand brushing over a scarf, a shared glance when a particularly mischievous bauble refused to stay in place. Each incident, minor as it seemed, set Hermione’s pulse racing.

At one point, she reached up to hang a sprig of mistletoe over a high archway. Snape’s shadow fell behind her.

“Careful,” he murmured.

She straightened, nearly falling into him as he caught her elbow. She felt the warmth of his body, the familiar scent of herbs and smoke that clung to him, and froze.

“Severus—” she began, then stopped. Words felt inadequate, clumsy.

“Miss Granger,” he said softly, voice dropping an octave. “You are not to… endanger yourself for decoration.”

“I wasn’t in danger,” she whispered.

He didn’t argue. He merely let his gaze linger, and she felt herself melting slightly under the intensity.

The mistletoe, as if orchestrated by the castle itself, appeared everywhere that evening. Over doorways, in hallways, even in unlikely corners near stairwells and alcoves. Hermione caught herself smiling despite herself; the students’ “Operation: Professors Under Mistletoe” had clearly escalated, and the castle had enthusiastically joined in.

“You know,” Hermione said after placing the last ornament, “I suspect the castle has a sense of humor.”

Snape’s eyes darkened. “The castle does not joke. It tests. You underestimate its… vigilance.”

“Testing me or testing us?” she asked lightly, daring to meet his gaze.

Snape’s lips twitched, but he said nothing. Hermione felt a thrill at the uncharacteristic hesitation.

Later, with the decorations complete, they moved toward the staff room, ostensibly to check in with McGonagall. The corridors were quiet now, the students long since returned to their dormitories. Hermione carried a small, carved lantern she had enchanted to float beside her.

“You seem… restless,” she said, glancing at him.

“I am not restless,” he said, though his sharp eyes scanned the corridors, as if anticipating some unseen threat.

“You are,” she countered softly. “I can tell. You never relax, do you?”

He did not answer immediately. Then, in a low tone that seemed almost meant for her alone, he said, “Relaxation is a luxury I cannot afford.”

Hermione felt a pang of understanding. Beneath the cold, precise exterior, there were layers she could sense but not yet touch. The war had left scars that went beyond the body, beyond what students could ever see. And yet, here he was—alive, functioning, still capable of… this.

They paused near a quiet alcove, where a particularly stubborn sprig of mistletoe hovered overhead. Hermione felt her heart leap.

“Severus,” she whispered, “you don’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupted softly.

Their eyes met. For a long, suspended moment, the world seemed to shrink until it was only them: the cold air, the faint glow of enchanted snow outside, the distant murmur of magic.

Hermione could feel the tension thrumming between them. She wanted to move closer, to close the distance—but a voice in her mind reminded her that they were both too cautious, too aware of their own scars.

And yet… she stepped slightly forward.

He did not step back.

Her pulse raced. She realized she wanted him to notice, to acknowledge, perhaps even to respond—but they were not ready. Not yet.

The silence was broken by the softest sound of magic—a bauble spinning off its hook, clinking against the stone floor. Hermione flinched, and Snape’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying the ornament before it could shatter.

Their fingers brushed.

Hermione inhaled sharply. He didn’t speak. He didn’t pull away. He merely regarded her with those dark, unyielding eyes, and in that gaze was a mixture of caution, curiosity, and… something else she could not name.

By the time they returned to the staff room, both were quiet, thoughtful. Hermione’s mind buzzed with questions she did not voice. Snape, as usual, did not betray his inner turmoil—but Hermione could sense it in the taut line of his shoulders, the slight hesitation before he dismissed her for the night.

She lingered in her quarters, listening to the soft crunch of snow outside and the faint echo of footsteps in the halls. A strange warmth settled over her—not just from the cocoa she had managed to sip, or the enchanted lantern she had set by her window, but from the unspoken connection she felt with him.

The castle, as if in confirmation, flared briefly with magical light, and a faint tinkling sound resonated in the walls. Hermione smiled softly. Perhaps Christmas had its own way of nudging them closer.