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The staffroom is stiflingly hot and unbearably loud.
Severus wonders, for the third time in the last ten minutes, what had possessed him to come here, instead of staying away from all the ruckus, safely ensconced in his quiet chambers in the depths of the dungeons. The answer to that, he supposes, is the same as the previous two times – he decided to put more effort into interacting with his colleagues after the war, and he wants to see Hermione Granger.
Speaking of said witch, the newest addition to the staff and the youngest Arithmancy Professor Hogwarts has ever seen is currently speaking animatedly with the Headmistress, seeming to be enjoying all the fuss of the holiday cheer very much. Severus usually hates people who are too cheerful, and were it anyone else, he probably would have already told her some pointed words about being childish, but it is Granger, and Severus must grudgingly acknowledge that his standard rules don’t pertain to her anymore. He even allowed her to put decorated fir branches in a vase in his office a few days ago and hasn’t thrown them into the hearth immediately after she left. He has to admit that Granger at least has taste, as no garish red and gold can be found on the branches, and even her festive attire this evening lacks sequins or some other type of frivolity one could generally expect to find on such article of clothing.
The moment he catches himself thinking about her dress, again, for the fifth time this evening (and that is only counting the times he has fully registered he was doing that), he figures it might be a good time to find something else to distract himself with. Taking note of the refreshment table in the far corner of the staff room, he decides that getting a glass of the Christmas punch seems like a sensible option.
After swiftly drinking the punch that is exceedingly heavy on the whisky – courtesy of Minerva, no doubt, Severus chooses a different corner this time for his quiet observation of the madness happening around him, relaxing a little as he leans against the wall, its coolness against his back a welcome steadying presence. He closes his eyes and lets himself imagine, just for a moment, what would it be like to be a different person, free from the confines of his meticulously crafted armour that has merged with his persona during the past few decades, the one no longer distinguishable from the other, tied tightly together with the chains of bad decisions of his youth. It is an exercise in futility, but what time of the year, if not the Christmas, is the season for such foolishness, he argues, and so he imagines himself stepping into the crowd, confidently crossing the room towards Granger, smiling at her, asking her for a dance to the sound of the festive music blasting from the gramophone that Filius had enchanted, and complimenting her dress. Sixth time, he realises, that is the sixth time already this evening that his brain has decided to concentrate on her blasted dark-green dress that is enveloping her body in ways Severus desperately wishes he could. His lack of control snaps him out of his daydream - I am not a bloody seventh year, he repeats to himself like a mantra - and prompts him to angrily march back towards the refreshment table to pour himself another glass of the festive punch.
As he reaches for the pitcher, he realises he is no longer alone, and there she is, holding a cup of what appears to be a hot chocolate and smiling brightly at him as if encountering him by the snack bar was the best Christmas gift she could have been given.
“Merry Christmas, Granger,” he offers with his eyebrows raised, not really hiding his true opinion about the unnecessary cheer. This doesn’t seem to phase Hermione, who is quite used to his gloomy disposition, and her smile grows even wider as she replies:
“Bah, humbug, Mr. Scrooge!” chuckling a bit. It has been a running joke between them for the past couple of weeks, Granger asking him if he has buried someone with a stake of holly through his heart yet on multiple occasions and calling him “Ebenezer” on other.
Even a year and a half after their friendship has come to be, Severus still finds it baffling how at ease he feels in her presence. He finally proceeds with pouring himself a glass of the punch, while asking Granger her opinion about an article in the Potions Quarterly that they both obtained by owl post the previous morning. He nurses his drink while listening intently to her, not holding back to express his true feelings about both the author and the contents of said article. He enjoys this - being able to be completely truthful, not having to tone down his personality or hide behind half-truths and straight up lies - if only during their heated debates about academia (or on a few memorable occasions, politics). They change from topic to topic a couple of times as several of their colleagues come to grab a bite or pour themselves a drink and then disappear again into the chaos of the ongoing festivity, both feeling comfortable in their bickering about everything from the usage of glass stirring rods in alkaline potions to the merits of student self-evaluation. It’s pure hogwash, Severus thinks of the latter one, but he indulges her, listening to her thoroughly prepared arguments before voicing his previous thought out loud.
“I am so happy you are here, Severus,” says Granger suddenly, smiling at him once again (for the nineteenth time this evening - Severus is quite ashamed to admit that he has been keeping count), “I know you hate the staff parties… whatever made you come?”
And here comes the moment of horror, as while Severus thinks his carefully prepared excuse of losing a Quidditch wager to Minerva (no one can keep track of all of Minerva’s bets, except for the Headmistress herself - it is her favourite pastime, after all), his mouth decides to live its own life, and he can clearly hear himself saying:
“I wanted to see you.”
To that, Granger blushes and says, “I was hoping to see you as well, Severus!”
Later, when thinking back on their conversation, Severus will recognise that this was the moment he should have realised that something was not right, but unfortunately, this is far from the first time he unintentionally blurted something out in Granger’s presence, and he attributes his candour to both his social ineptitude and unsolicited feelings for Granger.
His disobedient mouth however seems to have brought fruit, as Granger follows their exchange by shyly asking:
“Would you… would you like to dance with me, Severus?”, her eyes firmly cast on her shoes.
Though her asking makes him feel something that could possibly only be described as true happiness, he is prepared to answer along the lines of “if I must” in a voice that indicates that he would suffer through such activity most unwillingly, but his mouth strikes again: “I would like nothing more.”
At this, Granger’s eyes widen in surprised, and he can only imagine that his does as well - such proclamation is, after all, wholly uncharacteristic of him. Granger is not one to waste such an opportunity though - he can promptly feel her warm, smooth, petite palm in his, and before he can say anything to correct his shocking statement, she drags him a few steps away to a secluded corner, her other hand then embracing him in a stance one would assume if he were to dance, well, two would assume if they were to dance, before enquiring:
“Are you alright, Severus?”
This seems to be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, as Severus loses all semblance of control over what he says, his voice quiet but clear:
“Of course I am not okay, Hermione… how can I be okay when I love you?”, he pauses for one breath, during which the catastrophic truth of what he has just said aloud dawns on him, “Oh fuck, someone must have spiked the fucking punch!”, he exclaims, purposefully not looking at the certain look of horror that must be shown on Granger’s face, marching angrily back towards the refreshment table, grabbing the thrice-damned jug with the punch and stomping off to his office in the dungeons.
Only when he pours yet another glass of the blasted punch at the desk in his office, adding the contents of a small vial he removed from one his many cabinets, the resulting purple smoke confirming his suspicions, does he realise Granger has gone after him, to tell him off for his unsolicited profession of unrequited feelings, no doubt. He still does not look at her, fishing out a different vial, this time out of an inner pocket of his cloak, downing its contents, and with a brief “Excuse me” that is meant to convey both his horror at the events that have transpired and his intention to take his leave, he tries to storm off (even though they are in his office), except, he doesn’t, his legs taking a leaf out of his mouth's book and refusing to cooperate. This finally prompts him to look at Granger, who, contrary to his expectations, does not look repulsed – if anything, she looks a bit amused by his physical struggle, and is evidently the culprit behind his inability to stalk off – her stretched out hand prepared to recast the sticking charm currently holding him down should he cast the counter-curse strongly suggests it, at the very least.
“What is in the punch?”, she asks calmly, and while he would like nothing more than to lie to her and tell her it was some sort of a stupid love potion from the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes or Zonko’s or some such nonsense, he knows she would spot his lie quiet easily, what with her crusade against the legal sale of love potions and therefore her being more than adept at recognising them – she would undoubtedly want to find the culprit and give them a piece of her mind, which he would understand as well. Seeing no other way around it – around her fingers still making sure he cannot just do a runner, he tells her the truth: “Veritaserum,” waiting for her to be the one that will want to run now, or maybe for her to start screaming at him.
What he certainly does not expect is her whispered “Oh”, nor the haste with which she then fills a conjured glass with the punch and chugs it in one go. Nothing makes sense to him anymore, as Granger then holds his eyes and tells him quietly but clearly:
“I love you, Severus, I’ve loved you for a while now.”
His face must be showing some of his inner turmoil of emotions – disbelief, fear, nervousness, but above all, extreme and utter joy – because Hermione softly laughs out loud and tentatively reaches for his hand, giving it a little squeeze, before asking him uncertainly:
“Could I… may I kiss you now?”, and that seems to finally bring him out of his stupor, and as he, still in disbelief but not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, takes a step towards her to close the space between the two of them, he realises that he didn’t even notice when she has ended her sticking charm, and so he comments on that, while tentatively embracing her, to which she replies that it wasn’t that she wanted to force him to listen to her confession, that she just wanted to know whether his was true, and was worried he would run away and refuse to talk to her.
“You know me quite well,“ he tells her as he decides to be truthful with her even without the unwanted help of the truth serum from now on, “I did want to run.”
And then he is kissing her, and she is kissing him, and it is glorious.
Later, when their lips are swollen and her head is resting on his shoulder, Hermione looks up at him and with a mischievous smile says:
“You know, you owe me a dance, Severus,” and before he has time to react, she summons a gramophone and an LP out of Merlin-knows-where, puts the LP on – one of his favourites, Hats by The Blue Nile, he notices - smiling at him (Severus finally lost count of how many times she had smiled at him somewhere in the middle of their nonverbal conversation) and curtsying in a silly way before offering him a hand. This makes Severus smile in return (only the third ever full smile that Severus has smiled at Hermione, but Severus doesn’t know that Hermione is keeping count too, of course), and he takes her offered hand and dances with her until the end of the A-side finishes playing, at which moment he turns it to the B-side with a flick of his fingers and dances with her some more, twirling her and holding her close and murmuring his declarations of love for her along to the lyrics.
Much later still, the current headmistress of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry sits behind her desk in her office, pulls open a drawer of said desk, takes out a big, yellowed piece of parchment, points at it with her wand, whispers “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good”, takes one look at the dots with the names Hermione Granger and Severus Snape resting next to each other in the private quarters of the latter mentioned, smiles contentedly, takes a vial containing a clear substance out of her pocket, places it in the opened drawer, points her wand at the parchment again, whispers “Mischief managed”, and places the parchment back in the drawer, closing it.