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Valentine’s Day at Hogwarts is always somewhat of a nightmare. The students are positively rambunctious; the meals are always weirdly themed, with foods dyed red and pink; there’s chocolate everywhere, and your students never pay much attention during class. You’ve tried several different ways to organize an interesting lesson for them whenever the holiday comes around, but their attention always slips. This year, you’ve decided to just give them a free study period. Your classes are all on track with the curriculum, and attempting to teach during this madness would just be too much work. 

You sigh as you head out of your office and toward the Great Hall for breakfast, mentally preparing yourself for a wave of noise and bright colors. You soon find, however, that it surpasses your expectations. 

“What the fuck,” you breathe as you settle near the Head table, horror and dread hitting you all at once. The Great Hall is drowning in flowers, pink and red carnations lining the walls and tables and everything in sight. There are streamers everywhere; winged cupid decorations and assortments of chocolates and candy dispersed across the tables… 

“Language,” your coworker Severus Snape says. Head of Slytherin House and Potions professor, Severus is known amongst the students for being rather intimidating and even terrifying. Though that’s hardly the most pressing concern at the moment. 

You give him an unamused glare, before looking around the space and reluctantly settling into your seat. “Seriously, what is this?” 

“Ah, gentlemen!” a far too bright and cheery voice greets you both. You watch in growing defeat as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for the year, Gilderoy Lockhart, makes his way towards you both at the Head table. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” he says cheerfully. He looks about the same as always—over-styled blond hair, smarmy grin—save for the pink robes he’s wearing. 

“Are we to assume this is your doing?” Severus states dryly, barely paying him a glance over his goblet. 

“Yes, of course, my good man!” Lockhart says, taking a bow before standing in front of both of you. He’s on the wrong side of the table, his back facing the students’ tables. Before you can ask what he wants, Lockhart is reaching out and grasping your free hand. Quick as lightning, he kisses the top of your hand. 

Your plate and goblet rattle against the table impatiently. Lockhart doesn’t seem to notice, instead sending you a small smile which seems far too genuine. It fades a bit as he turns to look at Snape, before mischief quirks his lips into a smirk. 

Severus looks at him darkly. “Absolutely not,” he orders, clearly catching on to what Lockhart had intended to do. Lockhart sighs, though he shrugs and heads for the far end of the table to walk around it. His seat is next to yours, unfortunately—something you’ve bemoaned for the entirety of the school year. 

You can feel Severus’s eyes burning into the side of your face, but you’re too busy staring at Gilderoy. When his back is turned, you subtly wipe at the top of your hand, distaste flickering across your face too fast for anyone to see. (Anyone but Severus, who spots it and almost seems to relax a little.) 

Lockhart soon takes his seat at your side, leaving you in the middle of two entirely conflicting personalities: Severus and his sardonic cynicism; Lockhart and his relentless optimism. And on Valentine’s Day, no less. Wonderful. 

“Whose bright idea was it to give the students candy so early in the morning?” you ask with a scowl, before beginning to eat your own breakfast. 

“Mine, of course,” Gilderoy grins. He nudges your shoulder. “Relax, professor. They deserve some fun!” 

“Not if it’s at our expense,” you mutter dryly. Severus’s head inclines ever so slightly at your side, as if in agreement. 

There’s the sound of footsteps, before a new presence stands in front of you. A dwarf with curly red hair, cloaked in pink and wearing fake angelic wings, looks at you. You stare back. It’s quiet for a moment. He’s taller than the table, though a bit shorter than you when you’re sitting.

“Um…” you trail off awkwardly, starting to think he’s here for you. “Hey.” 

“Good morrow, dear fellow,” the dwarf responds, giving you a half-bow. “I have a message from an admirer.”

“What?” you choke out, painfully aware of Severus and Lockhart at your sides, in addition to the eyes of the nearby staff and any students. You glance around for an escape. “That’s okay…” you say quickly. 

The dwarf clears his throat dramatically, a mischievous smirk growing on his lips. He’s enjoying himself, evidently. His eyes remain locked on your form, making eye contact as he proceeds with the so-called message. “With a heart of gold and lessons eloquently told, his charisma understated and—” 

“Okay, no,” you interrupt him immediately. The dwarf freezes. “No, no. We’re not doing this.” You lock eyes with the surprised dwarf and point at Lockhart. “How much is he paying you for this?” 

The dwarf’s eyebrows furrow as he stares at you skeptically, evidently deciding if he should tell you. Eventually he shrugs. “Two Galleons,” he responds. 

You stare at him in disbelief, before turning to Gilderoy. “Two Galleons?” you echo disbelievingly, turning to look at Lockhart. He already has a guilty expression on his face, a kind of faux-innocent smile mixed with a grimace. “You realize minimum wage is four, Lockhart. And you’re supposed to clear this kind of thing with Dumbledore too.” 

“Ahahaha…” Lockhart chuckles awkwardly. 

“Okay, well,” you sigh, turning back to the dwarf. “I’m not made of money, but I’ll give you four Galleons if you and your friends leave me and my classroom alone for the day.” 

“Deal,” the dwarf agrees. 

“Sweet,” you nod, standing up so you can dig into the pockets of your robes. “Actually, here’s five. If the students retaliate, come to me and I’ll deal with them accordingly.” You hold out the Galleons and place them in the dwarf’s open palm. 

The dwarf’s lips part as he stares at you with wide eyes. It takes a few seconds before he snaps out of it, pocketing the Galleons with a wink at you and returning to the students’ tables. You stare after him before slumping back into your seat, rubbing your hands over your face. 

“How very Slytherin of you,” Severus comments. 

Shit. You completely forgot that he was sitting right there next to you. He’d been so quiet throughout the entire interaction. It actually takes you a few moments to process his remark, and once you do, your eyes briefly widen.  

“Aw, Severus,” you then tease, a slight smile rising on your lips as you turn to him. “Was that a compliment? I didn’t realize you were celebrating the holiday too.” 

The Potions professor immediately flicks his wrist and sends a hex at you; you manage to throw up a wordless shield just in time. 

“Five points to Slytherin for ingenuity,” Severus then states, apropos of nothing. 

“I was a Ravenclaw; how is that fair?” you squint at him. 

“You’re a Ravenclaw?” Gilderoy pipes up from your right. You turn to look at him and nod. He brightens. “Me too! Ah, it makes an absurd amount of sense, doesn’t it? The two most dashing professors, eligible bachelors of the House of wisdom. I’m afraid I take the title rather easily, but second is still quite commendable.”

You don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to respond to that. “Right…” you say awkwardly, giving him a slight grimace before turning to look at Severus for help. The man’s head is turned as he eats his breakfast, a slight clench to his jaw. 

You’re starting to think it’s going to be a long day.

After your first Ancient Runes class, you have a quick break before your next one. On your way back from the bathroom, as you’re walking through the hall, you hear the sound of sniffling and pause. Your footsteps halt and the sniffling stops for a second, before there’s a strangled breath and a stifled sob. You frown, looking around the hall until your eyes catch on a nearby alcove. There’s a young girl with platinum blond hair tied back into two braids, her knees tucked up to her chest as she sits near the window. She’s a first-year Slytherin student, from what you remember. And a Muggle-born.

“Miss Chase,” you greet her carefully. “Are you all right?” 

“Y—Yeah,” she chokes out, burying her head into her knees. You feel something like sympathy rising in your chest and you take a hesitant step closer, your hands resting in your pockets as you lean against the nearby wall and regard her. 

“You’re sure?” you persist. 

“...No…” she admits. 

“Well, what’s the matter?” you question. “It’s Friday, you shouldn’t be crying,” you try to lighten the mood a bit. 

She lets out a watery laugh, her arms still tight around her legs. “It’s nothing,” she murmurs, her words half-obstructed. “Just stupid stuff.” 

“It can’t be that stupid, if you’re this upset,” you reason. “Is it the whole Valentine’s Day chaos?”

Chase shakes her head. 

“Is it another student?” you continue.

Her shoulders stiffen. Bingo.

“One of your classmates?” you ask. She shakes her head. “Housemates?” you venture to guess.

A hesitant nod. You get the sense she’s close to revealing something, so you keep quiet. And sure enough, after a second, Chase continues. “He keeps making fun of me,” she says, curling into herself a bit more. “Pushing me around, hexing me. Saying I don’t belong, that I don’t deserve to be here.” 

Then, fury rises in your chest. “Who?” you ask immediately, skin nearly simmering in anger. One of the purebloods, you suspect.

She nods almost imperceptibly. “Flint,” Chase responds, looking down. 

“Flint?” you echo, almost shocked. The guy’s an upper-year—he should know better than to be tormenting younger students. “That’s—” you cut yourself off with a shake of your head. “I’ll make sure he’s disciplined accordingly,” you reassure the young girl. 

“Really?” she asks, as if surprised that you’d take her word for it so easily. 

“Of course,” you nod. “You belong here, same as everyone else.” 

“...Thanks,” she says, wiping her eyes a bit. 

“It’s perfectly normal to be a Muggle-born here at Hogwarts,” you continue. “And if anyone tells you otherwise, you send them straight to me. Okay?” 

The girl nods again, seeming to regain a bit of confidence. “Yeah,” she agrees. “You’re right. Thanks.” 

Chase promptly pushes herself off the window sill and stands up, giving you a nod before running off. You stare after her with a slight frown, before resolve runs through you and you head off to Minerva’s classroom, where the sixth-year Slytherins will be. 

(You depart too quickly to notice the edge of a black cloak, the familiar swish of the material as the eavesdropper turns on his heel and walks off.) 

By the time it’s mid-afternoon, you’re about ready to lose it. Fortunately, you’re done with most of your classes—since you teach Ancient Runes, an upper-year elective. A person may think that you’re further removed from the madness, since your students are more mature. Right? 

Wrong. The upper-years are just as involved in Valentine’s Day as the younger kids, and there’s typically a lot of drama. It doesn’t help that you’ve been starting to take over for Flitwick as Ravenclaw’s Head of House, leaving you as the person for Ravenclaws to go to when they’re having trouble. And, safe to say, Valentine’s Day and trouble go hand-in-hand. 

You try your best to help your students, but you’re starting to get sick of being a relationship therapist, at this point. There’s only so much you can say or do to help them, and a lot of the time, they don’t even listen anyway.

So when your door swings open without so much as a single knock, you snap. “Higgins, if you still haven’t told Perkins that you like him, I swear to Merlin—” you huff, pinching the bridge of your nose and looking up from the essays you’re grading. The rest of the words die on your tongue as you realize it isn’t Higgins. 

“Oh, Severus,” you realize, staring at the Potionsmaster. “Hey.” 

He arches a brow, standing passively in the doorway like a dark scourge. “Hello,” he responds flatly. “Expecting someone else?” 

“Dreading, more like,” you mutter. Again, this remark is only meant for you, but Severus seems to hear it, as something close to amusement flits across his face. 

“Yes, how difficult things must be for you,” he drawls. “The cool professor.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s nothing you all aren’t already experiencing,” you say with a dismissive wave of your hand. “How’s your day been? Suitably infuriating, I’d bet.” 

“About as irritating as usual,” he responds. “No one is foolish enough to risk inciting my wrath.” 

“Lucky,” you huff. 

“One of your Ravenclaws left this behind in my classroom,” Severus informs you, quick to get to business. You extend a hand and take it from him, turning it around in your hand. It’s a knitting needle. 

“Oh, yeah, I know whose this is,” you nod. The needle belongs to one of the third-years, who focuses better when she has something to do with her hands while in class. You’ll return it to her. “Thanks, Severus.” 

He nods firmly and departs. 

You stare after him, dismissing the misguided hope that he was there to give you something else. 

Once dinner rolls around, you’re well and truly fed up with the Valentine’s Day festivities. You contemplate ditching dinner altogether and asking one of the house elves to prepare something small for you, but you’re sure they’re swamped with preparing the feast. 

So, you reluctantly make your way through the Great Hall and take your seat at the Head table, despite wanting nothing more than to disappear forever. Severus is already sitting at the chair next to you, probably just as irritated by the holiday as you are. 

When there’s movement at your right side, evidently Gilderoy taking his seat next to you, you stiffen and almost freeze. 

“It’s just me,” a familiar voice says. 

Immediately, all the tension seeps out of you as you look over to find the headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House, Minerva McGonagall. “Oh, Minerva,” you greet her breathlessly. “Hi.” 

“Hello,” she responds with a smile, taking the seat next to you. She’s wearing her typical robes and hat, her glasses perched on her nose as her gaze sweeps the room. She inclines her head at your coworker. “Severus.” 

“Minerva,” he responds with a similar gesture. 

She sends him an unreadable look, which makes Severus scowl and turn his eyes to his plate. Before you can wonder what that’s about, Minerva is addressing you. “I’ve heard you’ve been rather popular today,” she says diplomatically, a hint of amusement in her voice. 

“Depends on your idea of popularity,” you respond dryly. 

“He’s been positively swarmed with admirers,” Severus volunteers.  

You glare at him. “No, I haven’t,” you argue, before stabbing your fork into your food with vigor. “And you’ll be happy to know that the dwarfs respected my request,” you point out. While the other students and professors have been plagued with messages, you’ve been unbothered in your classroom and in the halls. It’s a small mercy. Five Galleons is a fair price to pay for your peace of mind, you think. 

“Oh, I’m simply thrilled,” Severus drawls. 

You roll your eyes and turn to Minerva. “Mostly, it’s been relationship counseling,” you admit.

“Ah,” she nods wisely. “Yes, things are always hectic around this time, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” you agree. “I thought the upper-years would be better than the younger ones… but they’re even worse.” 

“That isn’t surprising,” Minerva hums. “Though you should be flattered that they’re seeking out your counsel.” 

“Flattered?” you repeat with a scoff. “I think they’re just desperate.” 

“Give yourself more credit than that,” the headmistress reprimands you gently. Her gaze flits about the room, settling on the Slytherin table. “Have you spoken to Miss Chase recently, Severus? She seems cheerier.” 

“I did not,” he answers. Severus’s eyes move to you briefly, and Minerva catches on. She turns to you.

“Well done,” Minerva nods appreciatively.

“Thanks,” you smile tentatively. You gave Flint a firm scolding and detention for an entire week. He seemed moments away from hexing your face off, but you stood your ground. He’s probably glaring at you from the Slytherin table now. Oh well. 

You continue conversation with Minerva, when it’s suddenly interrupted by the harsh screech of wooden chair legs against the ground. Severus lets out an impatient sound and promptly gets to his feet, leaving his food half-eaten. His cloak billows around him as he walks, and he almost looks like a bat carving a path through the pink and red decorations around the hall. 

You frown after him, before turning to Minerva. “What’s his deal?” you ask her. “He’s been acting weird all day.” And yes, Valentine’s Day is probably the antithesis to every fiber of Severus’s personality. So it could just be that. But something tells you there’s more to it than that. 

Confirming your suspicions, Minerva gives you a knowing smile. “Why don’t you ask him?” she suggests. 

“I don’t think he’d appreciate that,” you say.

“No,” she relents. “Though it would help, in the end.”

You stare at Severus’s plate, which has since been cleared of his food. On it rests a dessert—it looks like blancmange. It’s pink, ironically, with some kind of cherry topping. 

You must end up looking at it for too long, because Minerva nudges your shoulder gently. She knows exactly what you’re thinking, as always. “Go.” 

That’s all the encouragement you need. You cast a few food preservation spells on the dessert before transfiguring the plate into a container. You raise your eyebrows at Minerva, and she gives you a reassuring smile. 

And you head off. 

“Severus?” you ask upon arriving at his office, knocking on his door with your free hand. “You left your dessert.” 

No response. 

“Severus?” you ask again. 

As you raise your hand to knock again, the door to his office creaks open. You frown. His door is almost never open. He loathes office hours with students, and prides himself on being as unapproachable as possible. Yet his door is still swinging open, almost inviting you in. 

You take a cautious step into the office. “Severus?” you repeat. There’s no response. After a moment, you head for his desk and place the blancmange on it hesitantly. You undo most of the spells, transfiguring the container back into a plate. There’s some parchment resting on the side of the desk, and you pick up a quill and start to write a note on it when the far door in the corner of the room nearly crashes open. 

The office door behind you clicks shut; it’s only through sheer instinct that you dodge the curse barreling at you. “Merlin,” you exhale, paying Severus a flat look. “Do you hex everyone who enters your office?”

“Those who are uninvited, yes,” he responds tersely. Severus looks a bit… undone, for lack of a better word. He’s still wearing his typical robes, but his hair looks slightly messy, as if he were running his hands through it. 

“I said your name, like, three times,” you inform him. “I was just going to leave this here.” You motion to the blancmange. 

Severus stares at it as if it’s poisoned. His nose scrunches. “Why?”

“Well, you left dinner quickly, so…” you trail off. 

Severus waits for an explanation. You don’t really have one to give, so instead you just abandon the parchment and quill on his desk and take a step back. “Anyway. I’ll just…… go,” you say awkwardly, taking another step backwards. “Let me know if you need anything.” 

“Why would I need anything?” he almost bites out. 

“I mean, I don’t know,” you say helplessly. Merlin, this is awkward. “You left in a rush, so… I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. Plus the house elves made dessert for you.” 

“The house elves,” Severus repeats, comprehension dawning on him as his eyes find the plate on his desk. You’re not sure what reaction you’re expecting, but it certainly isn’t disappointment. It’s wiped from his face so quickly you have to wonder if you even saw it at all. “Of course.” He nods stiffly. 

“What, did you want it to be from someone?” you tease, trying to lighten the tension. And somehow, this must be the wrong thing to say, because his entire body stiffens as if he was just struck by lightning. Severus’s lips twist, his fists clench, and he looks hurt. 

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately, feeling the shift in the air like a physical thing. “I was just kidding.” 

“I have never once,” Severus says carefully, studiously avoiding your gaze, “been paid any amount of attention on this blasted holiday, for as long as I have been at this castle.” 

That hits you in the face, nearly knocks the wind from your chest. The entire time he’s been here…? That can’t, shouldn’t, be right. Sure, Severus is abrasive as hell and terrifying to boot, but he’s far from ugly. You think he’s pretty handsome, actually. Not to mention, he’s one of the brightest minds in Potions today. 

Your thought process must be visible across your face, because the Potions professor glares at you. “I don’t want your pity,” he spits furiously.

“It’s not pity,” you argue. “I don’t pity you, Severus.” You almost laugh at the thought. “We’re friends. I was just—”

“Yes, friends,” he interjects, almost seething now. The man takes a few steps closer. The light in the room dims, as his dark form almost swallows your entire field of view. “You remain entirely, hopelessly oblivious to my desires.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask.

“It means,” Severus enunciates carefully, approaching until you’re nearly chest to chest. You’re forced to meet his eyes, glittering and such a deep brown that they’re nearly black. Strands of his hair escape from behind his ears, framing his face. He’s looking at you as if you’re the only one in the room, the entire castle. “I’m not satisfied with mere friendship.” 

“It means,” he continues unimpeded, “that your popularity today has frustrated me beyond belief. And every scrap of attention you receive is like a hex to the chest.” 

You’re struck silent. You had no real idea. Sure, you hoped. Sure, you thought about it—far more than you should. You entertained ideas of spending time with Severus, as more than just friends. You thought about waking up next to him, sharing meals with him somewhere other than the Great Hall. Never once did you think those fantasies could bleed into reality. 

“Make no mistake,” Severus continues, breaking you from your brief reverie. “You owe me nothing.” His next words almost seem to be ripped from his chest, his voice slightly raspy in a way you’ve never heard before. “But I still want more.” 

You search his face, looking for the punchline. Of course, there isn’t one. Severus isn’t the joking type, and he’d never lie about something like this. A mere glance at him is enough: the tightness of his shoulders, the sharp jut of his jaw. He’s baring his heart to you, and expecting for it to be torn apart. He’s braced for cruelty, for disgust. 

Your next breath almost shudders. In the surrounding halls, you can hear the occasional murmurings of a conversation between students or the clamor of footsteps. Severus’s office, on the other hand, is almost steeped in silence. 

You reach for him slowly, your hand carving a path through the air and eventually settling on his forearm. “Severus, I…” The words rattle around behind your lips. You don’t know what to say or how to say it. 

He tries to pull away immediately, evidently bracing himself for rejection. You don’t let him, your grip remaining firm on his forearm. And for all his show of resistance, Severus doesn’t seem to actually want you to let go. 

“Your friendship is very valuable to me,” you begin. Once you’re convinced he’ll stay put, you reluctantly let your hand fall back to your side. “I’ve never had the courage to ask for more than that, because I thought—assumed—that it was all you were willing to give.” 

Severus considers you for a long moment. He must find no trace of dishonesty in your expression, because, hell, you are being honest. As honest and truthful as you’ve ever been. “Then you are a fool,” he admonishes you. A punctuated exhale. “If you had any reasonable conception of the depth of my feelings… you would not deem anything too much to ask for.”¹

You swallow hard. Severus’s eyes track the movement, following the line of your throat before flitting up to meet yours again. That statement flashes bright before your eyes, dangling hope before you. 

“Can I kiss you?” you ask quietly. The question hangs in the air with an uncomfortable tension. It remains there for far too long, with nothing but the distant ticking of the clock on the wall. 

Severus doesn’t give you a verbal answer, instead surging forward and kissing you. You’re not sure what you’re expecting—you know Severus is far from gentle, is made of sharp edges and uncompromising to a fault. Still, he nearly crashes into you, his hands flying up to your face and his fingers splaying across your jaw. As his lips move against yours, his other hand settles near the nape of your neck, the edges of his fingers slipping under the collar of your shirt and sending a welcome heat rushing across your skin. 

By the time you break apart, you’re almost completely breathless. Severus’s hands remain on you, just as yours linger at his upper arm and the junction of his shoulder. His eyes almost feel like they’re melting into yours, his persistent eye contact so intense. 

“You have no idea,” he says, “how many times I’ve envisioned that very moment.” 

You feel yourself smiling. And Severus’s hand rises, the back of his knuckles brushing against the edge of your lips. Something like remorse pulls his lips into the slightest of frowns. 

“I can’t pretend to be pleasant company,” Severus admits quietly, a rare vulnerability laced in those words. 

“I don’t need pleasant company,” you reassure him, your hand finding his face and your thumb brushing against his cheekbone. You swear you see him shiver. “Just you.” 

“Good.” He nods. He doesn’t seem fully convinced. 

So you kiss him again.