Chapter 1: All by Myself and a Little Bit of Severus Snape
Summary:
Reader just moved to a town named Spinner's End and unravels her families dark past by entangling herself with a mysterious figure called Severus Snape.
Chapter Text
The sun has just set by the horizon, casting long gloomy shadows along the quiet streets of the little town of Spinner’s End. Most of the houses were dark with no light and life in them, except for one - the home of a new neighbour, you.
You had recently moved into town because of the expensive lifestyle you had faced living in cities like London. Here, you could have similar accommodations for much cheaper, allowing you to save some money for renovations. Moreover, you were a pureblood witch who had been brought up the Muggle way. Your parents, fearing for your safety and wanting to keep you away from the pureblood prejudices of the wizarding world, had chosen a quiet, hidden upbringing for you. Despite this, they ensured you received a wand and a solid grounding in magic so you could adapt when the time came for you to engage with the magical world. Now, here you were, transitioning to an unknown town and a fresh start.
Coincidentally, the house you bought was next to a person named Severus Snape, a figure you knew little about other than mere whispers and gossips of his mysterious dark character along with his infamous billowing robes that he seems to wear all the time.
However, tonight you were in a celebrating mood and well spirited so you connected the enchanted gramophone-an heirloom that can be turned into a laptop when among muggles that play both Muggle and magical tunes-to the Bluetooth speakers you had enchanted to work with it, blasting your favorite tunes to celebrate the achievement of settling done after a long arduous week. Moreover, it was New Year’s Eve, so why not just ring in the new year spirits, you thought.
The bass echoed and thumped through the walls, the beats along with the bass filled the air, creating a stark contrast to the usual tranquility of Spinner’s End. Unbeknownst to you, Severus Snape was in his basement trying to brew The Draught Of Living Peace and the music was not aiding his effort in brewing it peacefully.
With a deep sigh and a furrowed brow, Snape slammed the knife he was holding with frustration down on the countertop. He could no longer bear to ignore the raucous and booming sounds from your house. Determined to put an end to this nuisance, he donned his robes and stormed out of his house, marching up to your front door.
You were in the middle of a particularly energetic dance when you heard a very loud knock. Startled, you paused the song, quickly transfiguring the gramophone into the laptop, and slipped your wand in your sleeves when you went to the door. Who could it be at this hour? You opened it, only to find Snape standing there, looking pissed off and irritated.
“Good evening,” you greeted skeptically, trying to mask the surprise with a friendly and jovial smile.
“Well, it would be a good evening if you weren’t blasting that infernal music in your merry way when others are trying to accomplish meaningful tasks in their life.” he replied sarcastically, his voice dripping with irritation.” Do you have any idea what time it is?”
You were flabbergasted by his words and glanced at your watch shrugging you said “ It’s not that late even. I didn't think it would be a problem seeing there’s not many staying on the street and your house was dark too so I thought maybe you were out. I didn't think it would be a problem.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed further. “Well, it is a problem. As the music is preventing me from completing my work as it needs a modicum of peace and quiet.”
Realizing and feeling guilty for your mistake, you sighed apologetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you and disrupt your work. I just got a little carried away with the New Year’s spirit”.
Snape’s stern expression softened slightly, though he still looked exasperated.”Just keep it down, would you?”
“Of course,” you agreed, feeling a bit sheepish. “ I’ll turn it off. I didn’t realize it was bothering anyone.”
With a curt nod, Snape turned and walked back to his house, leaving you feeling a mix of embarrassment and curiosity about your enigmatic neighbor.
As you settled down for a quieter evening, you couldn’t help but reflect on the interaction. Despite his stern and dark personality, something was intriguing about Severus Snape. You absentmindedly slid your wand out and started twirling it as you mused. Maybe, as the new year began, this would be a chance to bridge the gap between your vastly different worlds. You smiled softly, thinking of ways to make amends or perhaps even find common ground with your mysterious neighbour.
As the clock struck midnight, you whispered an incantation that released a small burst of sparkling light—your own magical tradition for welcoming the new year.
You quietly wished yourself, "Happy New Year," hoping that it would bring new opportunities and connections—and maybe, just maybe, a peaceful relationship with the man next door.
Chapter 2: All by Myself and a Little More of Severus Snape
Summary:
Reader tries to reconcile with her mysterious neighbour, Severus Snape after solo partying hard.
Chapter Text
The first rays of sunlight streamed through your window, but your thoughts were clouded with guilt. You thought cynically, what a good way to start your New Year. Laying on the bed, memories of your loud music and encountering your brooding neighbour, Severus Snape, kept replaying in your mind. You couldn’t shake the gut feeling that you owed him an apology - that's more than words.
Determined to make amends, you decided on something simple yet heartfelt: butter cookies and coffee. You weren’t a professional baker, but you hoped the gesture would smooth things over. Throwing off the covers, you shuffled into the kitchen, mentally bracing yourself for the challenge ahead. By the time the smell of butter and vanilla filled the air, your nerves mixed with a strange sense of curiosity about the enigmatic man next door.
You slid the tray of cookies into the oven and glanced at the steaming cup of coffee you’d brewed. It was a simple gesture, but you hoped it would convey sincerity. By the time the biscuits were golden and fragrant, you’d carefully arranged them into a small basket. Beside it, a flask of freshly brewed coffee rested snugly in its holder. You had enchanted the coffee to stay hot, a small touch you hoped he’d appreciate.
Taking a deep breath, you stepped outside and approached the dark, slightly foreboding house next door. The shadows of Spinner’s End seemed to linger longer around it, but you shook off the unease and rapped gently on the door.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed from within. When the door swung open, there he was—Severus Snape. His black robes billowed slightly as if stirred by a breeze that didn’t exist, and his sharp gaze pinned you where you stood.
“Yes?” he intoned, his voice as silky and sharp as you remembered.
“Good morning,” you began, your voice wavering slightly. “I wanted to apologise for last night. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I brought these as a peace offering.” You held up the basket, your fingers tightening nervously around its handle.
Snape’s gaze flicked to the basket and back to you, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, he sighed and stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter.
You stepped inside, and immediately, a sweet, earthy aroma hit your senses. It was unlike anything you’d ever smelled—warm, herbal, and oddly comforting.
“Your house smells... unique,” you remarked, genuinely intrigued. “Like herbs and flowers. What is that?”
Snape stiffened, his expression sharpening. “I fail to see how that is any of your business.”
You held up your hands defensively. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just... it reminds me of something magical or maybe like potion brewing.”
His gaze snapped to you, his suspicion intensifying. “Magical?”, “Potion brewing?” he echoed, his voice low and dangerous.
Realizing you’d let something slip, you hesitated before reaching into your pocket. Slowly, you pulled out your wand and held it up.” Hey, don’t get too hasty or jinx me. I know that you’re a wizard. Because yesterday when you were confronting me I saw your wand in your sleeves so obviously I’m a witch too,” you admitted. “Pureblood, technically, but I was raised in the Muggle world. My parents wanted to keep me away from... all the drama.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed further, though this time it was more in scrutiny than outright hostility. “A pureblood, living among Muggles,” he mused, his voice dripping with disdain. “How... peculiar.”
You shrugged. “It was my parent's choice. They taught me enough magic to get by, but I’m still learning. Hence the lack of finesse with things like silencing charms.”
Snape let out a low scoff, but his posture relaxed ever so slightly. “How fortunate for you, then, that your ignorance hasn’t resulted in catastrophic consequences. Yet.”
You chose to ignore the jab, instead glancing around his dimly lit home. Your eyes landed on a small cauldron bubbling in the corner of the room. “Is that what’s making the smell?” you asked, pointing.
He followed your gaze, then sighed. “If you must know, I am brewing The Draught of Living Peace. It is a delicate potion, one that requires precision and, he shot you a pointed look, —“the absence of disruptions.”
You winced at the reminder of your blunder but pressed on. “It sounds fascinating. How do you get it to smell so… comforting?”
Snape’s eyes narrowed, though he seemed faintly amused by your curiosity. “The aroma is a byproduct of combining lavender essence and powdered moonstone. Satisfactory?”
“Actually, yes,” you said, smiling. “I didn’t realize potions could be so… delicate.”
Snape stared at you for a moment, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. “Few appreciate the intricacies of potion-making,” he said, his voice quieter now.
You stepped closer, your curiosity outweighing your caution. “Could you show me? I’ve always been interested in potions, but I never had a proper teacher.”
He raised an eyebrow.“Your enthusiasm for potioneering is almost as dangerous as your disregard for silencing charms.”
“Hey, I’m not that bad!” you protested, though you couldn’t help but laugh. “I can follow instructions... most of the time.”
Snape sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are relentless,” he muttered, though there was a faint hint of amusement in his tone.
As he turned back to his cauldron, he frowned slightly. “Blast it,” he muttered under his breath.
“Something wrong?” you asked hesitantly.
“I’m out of valerian root,” he said, half to himself. “And the apothecaries in this miserable town don’t carry it.”
Your face lit up with an idea. “I could help! I mean, I’m new here, but I’d love to explore the area. Maybe I could track some down for you?”
Snape raised an eyebrow, clearly sceptical. “And what would you know about valerian root?”
“Not much,” you admitted. “But you could describe it, or I could take notes. Consider it part of my apology.”
For a long moment, Snape regarded you as though weighing the pros and cons of trusting you with even the smallest task. Finally, he sighed, his resignation evident. “Fine. But if you return with anything other than valerian root, I will hold you personally responsible for the consequences.”
As you took out a small notebook and began jotting down his description of valerian root, you couldn’t help but feel a small thrill of accomplishment. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Perhaps this strange, begrudging connection was the beginning of something—not quite friendship, but something nonetheless.
As you turned to leave, Snape’s voice stopped you.
“Don’t expect gratitude,” he said dryly, though his tone lacked real malice.
“I wouldn’t dare,” you said with a playful smirk.
Before you stepped out, you turned back to him. “By the way, I never introduced myself.” You gave your name before tilting your head. “And you are?”
Snape gave you a long, unreadable look before answering in his usual slow, deliberate tone. “Severus Snape. I am the Potions Master at Hogwarts.”
Chapter 3: All By Myself and Much More of Severus Snape
Summary:
What begins as a simple task for Snape leads the reader into a whirlwind of battles with forest creatures, intruders, and the ghosts of a family’s hidden past.
Chapter Text
The morning fog still clung to the air as you set off on your mission to find valerian root, Snape’s terse instructions fresh in your mind. He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming—"Look for pale pink flowers, thin leaves, and don’t bring me weeds,"—but you were determined to make good on your offer.
The streets of Spinner’s End were dreary as ever, but you ventured further, following a barely visible trail that wound into a small grove of trees at the edge of town. The deeper you went, the more the air seemed to hum with faint magic. A weathered signpost pointing to “Botanical Clearing” caught your eye, and you made your way toward it, stepping over tangled roots and patches of frost.
As you scanned the ground for valerian root, your fingers brushing the stems of unfamiliar plants, a soft rustling sound made you freeze. Slowly, you turned, your wand slipping into your hand. From behind a cluster of bushes, a large, shadowy figure emerged from the trees. It was a Grindylow, its green, spindly limbs slick with moisture, and its glowing yellow eyes fixed hungrily on you.
“Brilliant,” you muttered, fumbling for your wand. Of course, Snape had failed to mention the possibility of running into a water demon during your “simple” errand.
The Grindylow lunged, its webbed claws swiping inches from your face. Instinct took over as you shouted, “Stupefy!” A bolt of red light struck the creature’s chest, sending it staggering back.
But it wasn’t enough to stop it. The Grindylow snarled, circling you as you scrambled to steady your wand. You racked your brain for another spell when a sudden CRACK echoed through the woods. The Grindylow howled, its limbs twitching, before collapsing to the ground.
You turned to see Snape emerging from the shadows, his wand pointed at the now-immobile creature. His black robes seemed to blend into the darkness, and his expression was a mixture of irritation and begrudging concern.
“Did you think to prepare for this outing at all, or were you planning to duel every creature in the forest?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I didn’t know it would be so... lively,” you replied, trying to catch your breath.
Snape’s gaze flickered to the valerian root at your feet. “At least you found it. I suppose that’s worth something.”
Back at the house, you handed Snape the valerian root with a mix of pride and sheepishness. He inspected it closely, nodding once before setting it aside. “It’s a miracle you didn’t bring back dandelions.”
You bit back a retort as he began preparing the potion. The workroom was as precise and methodical as its owner, with shelves of neatly labelled jars and a cauldron already simmering over a low flame.
“Watch closely,” Snape instructed. “If you’re going to waste my time, at least learn something.”
You nodded, eager to prove yourself. He handed you a jar of powdered asphodel. “Add two pinches. No more, no less.”
You carefully measured out the powder, but as you tipped the second pinch into the cauldron, the jar slipped from your fingers. A small avalanche of powder fell into the potion, which immediately hissed and bubbled over.
Snape’s glare could have frozen fire. “Do you delight in chaos, or is it simply your nature?”
“Sorry!” you stammered, stepping back. “I’ll clean it up—”
With a flick of his wand, Snape stabilized the potion, though it now emitted alarming teal-coloured steam. He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “One more mistake and you’ll scrub cauldrons until the next equinox.”
“Sorry!” you said, flushing. “I’m just—new to this.”
He sighed deeply, muttering something about “inept amateurs,” but he allowed you to continue, this time under his watchful eye. Slowly, you got the hang of the rhythm, and to your surprise, he even offered a rare bit of praise.
“Passable,” he said as you added the valerian root to the cauldron. “Barely.”
As the potion simmered, Snape began explaining its purpose—The Draught of Living Peace, a potion designed to calm even the most frayed nerves. His voice softened as he spoke, and you realized this was more than just a routine brew for him.
“Potions,” he said quietly, “require discipline. Patience. A level of control few possess.” He glanced at you. “Qualities you would do well to cultivate.”
For a moment, his usual sharpness faded, and you caught a glimpse of something deeper—an almost wistful pride in his craft.
Just as the potion began to take on its intended lavender hue, a loud crash shattered the calm from near the entrance hallway. Snape froze, his hand hovering over the cauldron before his expression hardened into sharp focus.
“Stay here,” he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. Before you could argue, he stalked toward the door, his wand gripped tightly.
Ignoring his order, you followed at a cautious distance, heart pounding. The source of the disturbance quickly became clear: the sound of muffled voices and hurried footsteps echoed through the house. Someone had broken in.
The intruders—two cloaked figures—were rifling through the sitting room, their wands drawn. One of them, a wiry man with a twisted sneer, was directing the other. “The potions storeroom will be in the basement,” he hissed. “Find it, quickly before that Snape comes.”
Snape emerged from the shadows, his wand aimed directly at the man. “I would suggest,” he said in a voice like ice, “that you reconsider your life choices.”
The wiry man flinched but then sneered, eyes narrowing. “Snape,” he drawled. “Didn’t think we’d run into you so soon. Still playing both sides, are you?”
Snape’s expression didn’t waver. “You assume I’m playing at all.”
The second figure—a younger woman—hesitated, her hand trembling as she pointed her wand toward Snape.
“Expelliarmus!” you shouted, stepping into the room. The spell caught her off guard, her wand flying from her grasp.
Snape shot you a sharp glare. “I told you to stay put,” he snapped, though there was a flicker of approval in his eyes.
The wiry man lunged for his wand, but Snape’s next spell hit him squarely in the chest, knocking him into the wall. The woman scrambled to retreat, but you raised your wand again, your heart racing.
“Don’t even think about it,” you warned, surprised by the steadiness in your voice.
With the intruders subdued, Snape wasted no time binding them with thick ropes that materialized from the tip of his wand. His expression was unreadable as he stepped closer to the man. “Who sent you?” he demanded, his voice low and menacing.
The man sneered, his lip curling. “You know who,” he spat. “And he hasn’t forgotten.”
Snape’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. He exchanged a glance with you, his expression unreadable but tense. She is so naïve.
But during this exchange, the man’s gaze flickered—just for a fraction of a second—to you. His eyes widened, a flicker of recognition flashing across his face. Doubt. Surprise.
Snape saw it.
His grip on his wand tightened instinctively. Damn it.
Before you could notice, Snape moved, pressing his wand to the man’s throat, his voice like venom. “Get out,” he growled, every syllable a deadly promise. “Before I make you regret it.”
The man chuckled but didn’t resist. He hesitated for just a beat longer, his gaze darting toward you once more. Snape didn’t miss the way the man seemed to hesitate, as if piecing something together—something dangerous.
This is bad.
The moment Snape released them, they Disapparated.
Silence crashed down over the room like a storm.
Snape’s gaze lingered on the door, his expression shadowed. “Thieves,” he said finally. “Nothing more.”
Lies. But necessary ones. She can’t know. Not yet.
He turned sharply toward you, his scowl deepening. “And what, exactly, was running through that reckless mind of yours when you barged in here barely knowing any spells to defend yourself?” His voice was sharp, but underneath it—buried deep—was something else. Something unspoken.
She doesn’t even realize what she’s done.
“Thank Merlin the one you knew actually worked,” he muttered, shaking his head.
You weren’t convinced. There was something in his tone that suggested this was far from random.
“Let’s return to the potion,” he said curtly, brushing past you. But as you followed him back to the room, the unease lingered.
Snape clenched his jaw, thoughts racing.
They know about her now.
And worse...
They recognize her.
This wasn’t over.
Not yet.
The room settled back into a tense rhythm as the potion brewed. To fill the oppressive silence, you found yourself talking, the words spilling out unbidden.
You spoke of your life in the Muggle world, your parents’ decision to leave the wizarding world behind, and your conflicting feelings about returning to a life you barely understood.
“My father always said magic was more trouble than it was worth,” you admitted, stirring the potion as Snape had instructed. “But part of me always wondered what I was missing.”
Snape was silent momentarily, his hands precise as he prepared the valerian root. “Your father was naive,” he finally said, clipped but thoughtful. “Magic is neither good nor evil—it is a tool. How you wield it determines its worth.”
His words resonated deeply, shifting your perspective in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
Emboldened, you hesitated before adding, “My mother didn’t agree with him, though. She was... passionate about magic. She said she used to duel at school, that she was good at it.”
Snape’s movements stilled. Slowly, he turned to face you, his expression unreadable. “Your mother’s name?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice. “Lyra Carrington,” you said, watching his reaction closely.
"Carrington." The name settled heavily in his mind, stirring memories long buried. He had not heard it in years, but the moment it left your lips, there was no doubt. Lyra Carrington—reckless, brilliant, infuriatingly stubborn. He had crossed paths with her more than once, always on the fringes of a war that had consumed them both. And now, her daughter stood before him, unknowingly stirring ghosts he had long tried to forget.
Snape’s jaw tightened, and his dark eyes flickered with recognition. “Carrington,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She was formidable. A talented duelist, though prone to recklessness. She had a... reputation.”
“Reputation?” you pressed, intrigued.
He didn’t elaborate, instead focusing back on the cauldron. “She was skilled. That much is certain. And a staunch supporter of her beliefs, even when they led her into... dangerous circles.”
You frowned, your mind racing. “Dangerous circles? What do you mean?”
Snape hesitated, his gaze darkening. “Your mother was known to associate with certain individuals during Voldemort’s rise. She was never formally accused of aligning with him, but her choices raised questions.”
The revelation hit you like a jolt. Your mother had always been a fierce, enigmatic figure, but this side of her past was entirely new to you.
“Is that why they left the wizarding world?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
“It would explain much,” Snape replied, his tone softer but still guarded. “Perhaps they sought safety—or redemption—in obscurity.”
A heavy silence settled over the room as you grappled with the implications.
Later, as the potion reached completion, you couldn’t help but ask, “Did you know her well?”
Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Well enough,” he said shortly, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or an echo of old wounds.
Before you could press further, he set down the stirring rod with a decisive clink. “The potion is complete,” he announced his voice back to its usual clipped precision. “Bottle it, and be careful not to spill a single drop.”
As you carefully filled the vials, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of uncovering the tangled web of your family’s history—and its connection to the man standing beside you.
When you handed Snape the final vial, he regarded you with a rare look of grudging respect. “Not entirely useless,” he remarked dryly.
You smirked, the tension breaking just slightly. “High praise, coming from you.”
Snape gave a faint scoff, but his expression softened almost imperceptibly. For the first time, you wondered if, beneath the harsh exterior, there was someone who understood the struggles of navigating a world fraught with shadows and secrets.
As you left for the night, you turned back at the door. “See you tomorrow?”
Snape didn’t respond immediately, but the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “If you insist on returning, try not to destroy my house.”
You smiled, noticing his smirk. Perhaps this was the start of an unusual, tentative friendship—or something more.
Chapter 4: All by Myself With Severus Snape Awaiting the Battle
Summary:
After a break-in, the reader discovers their mother's dark past and undergoes intense training with Snape to face looming dangers.
Chapter Text
The events of the previous night lingered in your mind like a shadow. Despite Snape’s gruff dismissal of the intruders as mere thieves, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it—something tied to the fragments of your mother’s mysterious past.
Snape felt the same. Though he would never admit it aloud, the attack had unsettled him. Not because he couldn’t handle a few desperate remnants of the Dark Lord’s regime—but because of the way the intruder had looked at you. The flicker of recognition in his eyes had been brief but unmistakable. And that meant trouble.
He had sent word to Minerva before dawn, using discreet channels. If something larger was at play, she needed to be aware. Yet now, as he worked in silence, he found himself irritated by your presence. Not because of your incompetence—though there was plenty of that—but because you were an unnecessary complication in a game he had thought long over.
The room was quiet save for the rhythmic bubbling of a cauldron and the faint scratch of Snape’s quill against parchment. He focused on his work with an almost ruthless precision, trying to push aside the nagging unease. You, however, were not so easily distracted.
You lingered by the shelves, pretending to organize jars, but your mind was elsewhere. Finally, you broke the silence. “Umm, Severus, may I call you that? And about yesterday…”
Snape’s quill paused mid-stroke. Without looking up, he nodded and replied “I trust you’re not about to waste my time with idle speculation.”
“It’s not idle,” you insisted. “Those intruders—they weren’t just thieves, were they? And you recognized my mother’s name. I think you know more than you’re letting on.”
Snape’s jaw tightened. He had hoped you wouldn’t press the issue. But you were persistent—like your mother. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
Your mother, he thought grimly, had been reckless in her youth, always drawn to dangerous ideas and dangerous people. The Carrington name was not one he had expected to hear again, let alone from you.
“Your mother,” he began slowly, “was… complicated. Brilliant, yes, but reckless. Her choices often placed her in the company of individuals who sought power above all else.”
“You mean Death Eaters,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
Snape’s expression darkened. “She was never marked, but her allegiances were questioned. That is all I will say on the matter.”
You frowned, frustration bubbling up. “But why would they come here? What were they looking for?”
“Potion ingredients,” he replied curtly. “A common target for those with nefarious intentions.”
It was a lie—or at least, not the entire truth. Snape suspected there was something deeper at play, but until he had confirmation, he would not involve you more than necessary.
You weren’t convinced. There was something in his tone—something guarded—that made you suspect he wasn’t telling the whole truth.
Before you could press further, a sharp knock echoed through the house. Snape stiffened, his wand appearing in his hand almost instinctively. He gestured for you to stay back as he moved toward the door.
This time, you obeyed—mostly. Keeping a safe distance, you watched as Snape opened the door, his expression sharpening into something unreadable.
Standing on the doorstep was a woman you had never seen before. She was tall, her posture rigid with a kind of effortless authority. Her sharp features were framed by neatly pinned grey hair, and she wore deep green robes that looked both elegant and practical. But it was her eyes that caught your attention—cool, intelligent, and piercing, as though they could see right through you.
You had never seen her before, but Snape’s reaction told you enough. His posture stiffened just slightly, his usual irritation tempered by something you couldn’t quite place.
The woman’s gaze flickered to you briefly, assessing, before she addressed Snape in a crisp, no-nonsense tone. “Severus. May I come in?”
Snape stepped aside without a word, and the woman entered, moving with the kind of quiet confidence that made you instinctively straighten up. There was something about her, something that made you feel oddly out of place—like an outsider looking in on a world that had existed long before you stepped into it.
Who was she? And how did she know Snape? Maybe his colleague from Hogwarts?
You swallowed your questions, but they churned in your mind as the woman turned to face you fully this time, her expression unreadable.
“And you must be the assistant,” she said, her voice measured, though there was an unmistakable note of curiosity in it.
You hesitated. She spoke as though she already knew who you were, as though you were just another piece in a puzzle she had already figured out. But to you, she was a complete mystery.
“There’s been chatter among certain circles—rumours of activity tied to the remnants of the Dark Lord’s followers. I thought it prudent to inform you.”
Snape inclined his head. “And I assume you received my message, Minerva."
Minerva. You turned the name over in your mind, still none the wiser. But whatever this woman wanted, one thing was clear—she wasn’t just a casual visitor.
You stiffened beside them. “Wait—you called her?”
Snape exhaled sharply. “Obviously.”
Your stomach twisted. If Snape had thought the situation serious enough to call for outside assistance, then your suspicions were correct—the break-in had been anything but random.
The woman—Minerva—turned her attention back to you, scrutinizing you with an intensity that made you resist the urge to shrink under her gaze. “I assume this involves your young assistant?”
Snape let out a long-suffering sigh. “It seems she has an uncanny knack for stumbling into trouble.”
You bristled but said nothing, still trying to piece together who this woman was and why she spoke with such familiarity to Snape. There was something about her presence—calm yet commanding—that told you she was someone of great importance. But whether she was an ally or just another reminder of how little you truly knew about Snape’s world, you weren’t sure yet.
“What exactly happened?” she asked.
Snape gave a clipped summary of the previous night’s events, omitting the part where you had disobeyed his order to stay put. McGonagall listened intently, her expression growing more concerned with every word.
“This is troubling,” she said when he finished. “If they were targeting you specifically, it suggests they’re after something more than ingredients.”
“What could they possibly want from me?” Snape asked, his tone edged with irritation.
McGonagall hesitated, then turned to you. “Your mother’s name—Carrington. There are old records linking her to a rare potion, one thought to enhance certain… dark magical abilities.”
Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he went very still. He had considered the possibility, but hearing McGonagall confirm it only deepened his unease. If those fools were truly searching for remnants of such knowledge, then you were in more danger than he had anticipated.
For a fraction of a second, he seemed lost in thought—just long enough for you to notice the barely perceptible shift. The slight tightening of his fingers around his quill. The flicker of something in his eyes. Recognition. Not just of the potion, but of what it meant.
You blinked, stunned. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“Few have,” McGonagall replied. “It’s been lost to time—or so we thought. If there’s any truth to these rumors, they may believe your family holds some key to recreating it.”
Snape exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fools chasing shadows,” he muttered at last, his voice clipped. He dipped his quill into the ink, resuming his writing with almost forced precision, as if the motion alone could dismiss the conversation. But you weren’t convinced.
McGonagall studied him for a moment before turning back to you. “Be that as it may, you’d do well to be vigilant. And I suggest you keep an eye on your assistant—if she’s connected to this, she may become a target.”
You swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling in.
After McGonagall left, the house felt heavier, the air thick with unspoken tension. Snape returned to his work, his movements sharp and deliberate. You hesitated, then approached him cautiously.
“Do you think they’ll come back?” you asked quietly.
Snape didn’t look up. “It’s likely.”
Your stomach twisted. “What do we do?”
At last, he lifted his gaze, dark eyes locking onto yours with rare intensity. “We prepare.”
The following morning, Snape wasted no time dragging you into the duelling chamber he had set up in the basement. The room was dimly lit, its stone walls damp and cold, with a series of old duelling dummies propped against one side. A long, faded rug ran down the centre, marking the unofficial boundary of the duelling area.
Snape stood at the far end, his robes billowing slightly as he turned to face you. He studied you with a critical eye, noting your grip on your wand—too tense, too uncertain. This would be difficult. You lacked the discipline, the instinct, the ruthlessness needed to survive a real attack.
He had seen it before—people who thought they could handle danger, only to freeze the moment real threats bore down on them. He would not let you be one of them.
“Wand out,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
You swallowed hard and obeyed, gripping your wand tightly.
“This is not some fancy fencing or muggle fighting club,” Snape began, pacing in front of you with his hands clasped behind his back. “There will be no safe practice rounds, no cheering crowd to bolster your confidence. Out there, hesitation will get you killed.”
“I understand,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt.
“Do you?” he snapped, his dark eyes narrowing. “Because from what I’ve seen, you’re far more adept at stumbling into danger than actually facing it.”
He wasn’t just talking about last night. There was a recklessness in you, a stubbornness that reminded him of someone else—someone he would rather not think about.
Heat flushed your cheeks, but you didn’t look away. “Then teach me. I’ll learn.”
He halted mid-step, scrutinizing you. You were exhausted from the night before, shaken, yet still standing in front of him, demanding to be better.
Snape stopped pacing, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might relent. Instead, he raised his wand and fired a non-verbal spell straight at your feet.
“Protego!” you shouted instinctively, barely managing to raise a shield in time. The force of the spell sent you stumbling back, but you kept your footing.
“Too slow,” Snape said sharply. “Again.”
For hours, he drilled you relentlessly. He threw spell after spell, each one faster and more unpredictable than the last. When you managed to block a Stupefy, he switched to Disarming Charms. When you deflected a jinx, he countered with a hex designed to knock you off balance.
You were sloppy. Your footwork was disastrous. And yet—
You weren’t giving up.
Most would have by now. He had seen fully trained wizards falter under less. But you kept standing, wand raised, even when you trembled with exertion.
“Focus!” he barked as you tripped over your own feet, landing hard on the stone floor.
“I am focusing!” you snapped, pushing yourself up and wiping sweat from your brow.
“Clearly not enough,” he retorted. “If this is the extent of your skill, you might as well hand yourself over to the enemy now and save them the trouble.”
The words stung, but you refused to let them break you. Gritting your teeth, you raised your wand again.
“Expelliarmus!” you shouted, aiming directly at him.
Snape flicked his wand effortlessly, deflecting the spell as if swatting away a fly. “Lousy." He narrowed his eyes. "Put some force behind it, or don’t bother at all.”
The hours stretched on, and your body screamed in protest. Your arms ached from holding your wand aloft, and your legs felt like they might give out at any moment. But every time you thought about asking for a break, Snape’s voice echoed in your mind: Hesitation will get you killed.
So you kept going.
By the time he finally lowered his wand, your shirt was soaked with sweat, and your breathing was ragged. Snape regarded you coolly, his expression unreadable. He let the silence stretch before speaking.
“You’re improving,” he said at last, though his tone was begrudging.
You blinked, startled. “Really?”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he replied. “You’re still abysmally slow, and your footwork is atrocious. But you’re… less hopeless than you were this morning.”
It wasn’t exactly high praise, but coming from Snape, it felt monumental. You allowed yourself a small smile.
He saw the flicker of a smile cross your face, and he ignored the way it made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
“Rest,” he instructed, turning away. “We begin again tomorrow at dawn.”
You groaned inwardly but nodded, too exhausted to argue.
As he left the room, Snape exhaled slowly.
You were nowhere near ready. But if last night had proven anything, it was that you would need to be.
He would make sure of it.
The next day, Snape’s training intensified. He pushed you to the brink of your limits, forcing you to dodge, block, and counter until your muscles burned and your wand felt like an extension of your arm.
But it wasn’t just the physical strain—it was the mental exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm you. Snape’s sharp critiques, his relentless pace, and his refusal to acknowledge your progress made you question whether you were truly capable of mastering any of this.
Snape saw it in the way your stance faltered, the slight delay in your counters, the way your frustration simmered just beneath the surface. It was predictable. Expected. Most people broke under this kind of pressure.
And yet, despite everything, you didn’t quit.
That was the only reason he continued. If you had shown any sign of giving up, he would have told you to leave, to stay out of his way, to stop wasting his time. But you didn’t.
One afternoon, after yet another gruelling session, you found yourself sitting on the cold stone floor, your head in your hands.
Snape exhaled sharply. Pathetic.
Except… no. Not pathetic. Just exhausted. He knew the signs. He had been there once—pushed beyond his limits, forced to fight until his body refused to move. Until his only options were survival or death.
“Do you intend to wallow in self-pity, or will you stand up and try again?” Snape’s voice cut through the silence like a whip.
You looked up at him, your frustration boiling over. “Why are you so hard on me? I’m trying, but it’s never enough for you!”
Snape’s expression darkened, and for a moment, he nearly snapped back. Because the world is merciless. Because no one will care how hard you tried when you’re lying on the ground, wandless, bleeding out. Because I know what happens when someone isn’t prepared.
Instead, he stepped closer, letting his words settle like iron.
“Do you think your enemies will go easy on you?” he asked quietly, his tone cold but measured. “Do you think they’ll care that you’re tired, or that you’ve already given everything you have? They will exploit every weakness, every hesitation. And if you falter, even for a moment, they will kill you.”
He didn’t soften his words. He couldn’t. The world wasn’t kind. If you wanted to survive, you had to understand that.
His words hung heavy in the air, and you felt a lump rise in your throat. But beneath his harshness, you caught a glimpse of something deeper—concern, perhaps, or a twisted sense of responsibility.
You swallowed hard, but to his surprise, you didn’t look away. You didn’t shrink back or try to argue.
“I’m not giving up,” you said firmly, pushing yourself to your feet. “No matter how hard you are on me, I’m not giving up.”
Snape studied you in silence. The determination in your eyes, the set of your jaw—it was painfully familiar.
Foolish. Reckless. Stubborn.
Just like your mother.
He felt something settle uneasily in his chest.
“Good,” he said at last, his voice quieter now. “Because if you survive this, it won’t be because of luck. It will be because you earned it.”
Over the next few weeks, you began to see the results of your training. Your reflexes sharpened, your spells grew stronger, and you found yourself anticipating Snape’s moves before he made them.
One evening, during a particularly intense duel, you managed to disarm him—a feat you hadn’t thought possible.
“Expelliarmus!”
Snape’s wand flew from his hand.
Silence hung between you as the realization sank in. You had disarmed him.
Snape retrieved his wand with slow, deliberate movements, his expression unreadable. He turned it over in his fingers, eyes dark and unreadable. The fact that you had bested him—even just once—unsettled him more than he was willing to admit. He had trained you to survive, but had he underestimated just how much you had learned?
“Not bad,” he said at last. His voice was even, but something flickered in his gaze—calculation, scrutiny. Pride? No, not pride. He wouldn’t allow himself that. And yet…
You exhaled, a small, breathless smile tugging at your lips. It wasn’t outright praise, but coming from him, it was enough.
But as Snape studied you, a weight settled in his chest. This wasn’t just about teaching you how to hold your own in a fight. Every spell you mastered, every hesitation you shed, brought you closer to something inevitable. He had set you on this path, and whether he admitted it or not, he had a hand in whatever came next.
The training wasn’t over, and the danger still loomed. But for the first time, you felt like you might stand a chance.
And as you squared off against Snape once more, your wand at the ready, you realized something else, you weren’t just learning to defend yourself. You were learning to fight for the future and the truth about your past.
Snape raised his wand, his gaze steady. Whatever you would find, whatever lay ahead—he couldn’t shield you from it. He could only prepare you.
And so, the duel resumed.
Chapter 5: All by Myself With Severus Snape and Bleeding Truths
Summary:
The reader uncovers buried secrets, clashes with Snape, and collapses—leaving fate hanging in the balance.
Chapter Text
The warmth of sleep still clung to you as you drifted in and out of consciousness, curled beneath the blankets in the quiet of your home. The night had settled deep, wrapping everything in silence.
Snape had drilled you relentlessly over the past few weeks, and exhaustion clung to you like a second skin. But you weren’t foolish enough to think you were ready. Not really. Not yet. The wards he had placed around your home offered some reassurance, a layer of unseen protection. And yet, in the back of your mind, a whisper of unease remained.
It wasn’t until the soft creak of a floorboard shattered the stillness that your eyes snapped open.
Something was wrong.
Before you could fully register the sound, rough hands yanked you from bed, a strong grip clamping over your mouth. Panic surged through you as you thrashed against the hold, but the attacker was stronger.
"Quiet," a harsh voice hissed in your ear, and you immediately recognized the lanky Death Eater from weeks before, dragging you toward the door.
Fear turned to blind desperation as you struggled, but a sharp shove sent you tumbling forward. The air was knocked from your lungs as you crashed against the wooden stairs, pain exploding along your back and arms as you rolled down. You barely had time to groan before a boot pressed against your ribs, pinning you in place.
"Stay down, and this will be over quickly," the voice growled.
Then the air crackled—Snape’s wards had been triggered.
A thunderous crash erupted from the front of the house as the door blasted open, sending shards of wood flying. The weight on your ribs lifted as your assailant turned, but it was too late.
Snape had arrived.
His wand was already drawn, dark eyes burning with fury as he took in the scene. Shadows flickered across his face in the dim light, his presence filling the room like a storm rolling in.
Fools, he thought coldly, wand tightening in his grip. They dare touch her?
"Get away from her," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous.
The Death Eater lunged, but Snape was faster. A nonverbal spell sent the attacker flying backward, crashing into the far wall with a sickening thud. More figures emerged from the shadows—at least two more, their masked faces unreadable but their intent clear.
A jet of red light shot through the room, forcing you to dive behind a wooden worktable. Snape reacted instantly, his wand slashing through the air as he threw up a protective barrier. The Death Eaters moved in sync, trained for moments like these.
Snape calculated his next move with precision. His mind raced through the possible reasons. Retribution? A message? Or were they after knowledge? Did they believe she knew the potion recipe?
Another curse came hurtling toward him, and he deflected it effortlessly. He was outnumbered, but they were outmatched.
You gritted your teeth, your heart hammering against your ribs. You had trained for this, but facing it now was entirely different. The room became a storm of curses and counter-curses, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning wood and shattered glass.
Then pain lanced through your side.
A curse—one you hadn't seen coming—struck just below your ribs, right where the bruise from the earlier attack throbbed. A searing agony ripped through you. You bit back a cry, staggering as warmth spread beneath your fingertips where you clutched your wound. Blood. You knew that if Snape saw you injured, he would either send you away or shift his focus from the battle, leaving himself vulnerable.
You couldn't let that happen.
Gritting your teeth, you pulled yourself into the shadows, slipping behind the shelves where Snape stored countless ingredients and potions. If you stayed low and quiet, maybe you could be useful—maybe you could find something, anything, that could help.
Snape was about to counter a spell when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw you jerk forward—hit.
Pain lanced through your side, and Snape caught the way your body stiffened, the way your fingers instinctively clutched the wound before you forced yourself to move.
Foolish girl, he thought, a sharp pang of irritation and something dangerously close to concern cutting through him.
You were trying to hide it from him.
Of course you were.
Even in the middle of a life-threatening attack, you were reckless enough to put his safety above your own.
Stubborn, reckless, insufferable— Snape turned his attention back to the fight, —and yet, if she dies, I’ll never forgive myself.
You disappeared into the shadows, but Snape knew better. He knew you were hurt. Knew you were struggling to stay upright. And yet, despite the pain, you were still trying to fight.
Through the gaps in the shelves, you saw Snape moving with terrifying precision, his wand an extension of his will as he deflected and countered every spell thrown at him. His opponents were skilled, but Snape was ruthless. He was fighting not just to win, but to end this quickly.
And then you saw it.
One of the Death Eaters had veered off from the main battle, heading straight for your desk—your diary and scattered research notes. This wasn’t about potion ingredients or random theft. This was about knowledge. A clue from the past.
Summoning every ounce of strength you had left, you reached for your wand.
"Expelliarmus!"
Snape caught the movement in his peripheral vision just as the Death Eater reached for your diary. He had been turning to react when your voice rang out.
The Death Eater’s wand flew from their hand, but the effort sent a fresh wave of pain through your side, and you barely managed to stay upright. They turned, locking eyes with you, and before you could react, a powerful Stupefy crashed into you.
Snape saw the price of it before you even collapsed.
The way your body swayed, the sudden paleness of your skin—
No—
The Death Eater struck first. The moment the light left your eyes, Snape was already moving.
Something cold coiled in his chest.
Anger.
A lethal, burning anger.
The Death Eater barely had time to turn before Snape sent them crashing against the far wall with enough force to break something.
Then he strode toward you, ignoring the remaining intruder’s attempt at retaliation. His wand flicked once—a barrier flared between them, cutting off their curses.
His hand gripped your wrist, searching.
A pulse.
Faint.
Alive, he thought, exhaling sharply.
He turned his head slightly, dark eyes narrowing as he faced the remaining Death Eater. They hesitated, just for a second.
They weren’t expecting this.
They weren’t expecting him.
"Leave," he said, voice ice-cold. "Before I let my temper dictate the outcome."
The Death Eater hesitated, their stance shifting ever so slightly.
Then, without another word, they Disapparated.
Silence crashed over the house like a wave. The only sound was the ragged cadence of Snape’s breathing.
He looked down at you, limp in his arms, blood staining his fingers.
You reckless, insufferable girl, he thought bitterly, but his grip on you tightened as if to anchor you to this world.
He had too many questions, too many suspicions swirling in his mind.
But for now, only one thing mattered.
Don’t you dare die on me.
You woke to voices—low, urgent, and unfamiliar at first. The pain in your side was dull now, like an echo of what it had been, but the stiffness in your limbs told you you had been out for hours.
And then you recognized one of the voices.
Minerva McGonagall.
Slowly, you cracked your eyes open, blinking against the dim candlelight. The warmth of a healing spell still lingered on your skin, and as your vision adjusted, you saw McGonagall standing beside Snape, her expression unreadable.
Another man sat near your bed—someone you had only heard of but never seen before in real life, only in papers and on chocolate frog boxes.
Albus Dumbledore.
Snape’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “You were reckless.”
You swallowed hard. “I—”
“You disobeyed me,” he continued, his voice laced with anger and something else. Something sharper. Something dangerous. “You could have been killed.”
“I was trying to help,” you shot back, your voice hoarse.
Snape’s jaw tightened. Foolish girl. Does she not realize how close she came to dying? His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he forced himself to remain still. He could still see it—her crumpled form, the blood staining his hands as he checked for a pulse. The ghost of that fear still clung to him, though he buried it beneath his usual scowl.
McGonagall cleared her throat. “The intruders weren’t after mere ingredients. They were looking for something specific.”
Dumbledore steepled his fingers. “They were after a potion—a formula they believe you possess. One tied to your mother’s past.”
Snape felt the words strike deep, as if a long-buried truth had been unearthed. Lyra’s past. His lips pressed into a thin line. He had known this would come back to haunt them, but not like this. Not with her daughter being dragged into it.
Your stomach dropped. “They think I know how to make it?”
“Not just think,” Snape said coldly. “They tried to take you.” His voice was sharper than intended, but he didn’t care. He needed her to understand the gravity of what had happened.
Your mind raced. Why would they think you knew about your mother’s potion? And more importantly, why did Snape seem to know so much about it?
Dumbledore nodded. “This potion, if brewed correctly, would grant Death Eaters the ability to turn invisible at will, allowing them to go untraceable in their... activities.”
Your breath hitched. Had your mother been involved in this? And Snape—how did he know? You glanced at him, searching his face for answers, but he looked away, his expression unreadable. But his silence spoke volumes.
McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore. “Regardless, this proves they will not stop. You are in danger.”
Snape clenched his jaw. Of course she’s in danger. She was always going to be in danger the moment her name surfaced again. He had spent years keeping his distance, letting sleeping ghosts remain undisturbed. And yet, despite every effort, fate had dragged her straight into the fire.
Dumbledore spoke calmly. “You must be moved to a safe location, and dear Severus here will be joining you too.”
Snape stiffened. “Do you expect me to play babysitter?” His voice dripped with irritation, but beneath it, unease simmered. Protecting her meant being closer than he wanted to be—to her, to the truth, to memories he had buried long ago.
“You are already involved,” Dumbledore said. “And whether you approve or not, she may be the key to uncovering what truly happened.”
Snape met your gaze, his dark eyes unreadable. She doesn’t even know the half of it.
You returned his stare, a suspicion settling in your mind. How did he know so much about your mother’s work? He regarded you briefly, something shifting behind his dark eyes.
Finally, he exhaled. “Fine.” His voice was clipped, edged with reluctance. “But let’s make one thing clear.”
He stepped closer, voice low and sharp. “You will listen to me. No more reckless heroics. No more foolish disobedience. If you want to survive this, you follow my orders. Understood?”
You swallowed hard but nodded. “Understood.”
Dumbledore smiled. “Then it is decided.”
With that, Dumbledore and McGonagall said their farewells, offering you one last look of quiet reassurance before stepping out into the night. Snape followed them, muttering something under his breath as he went to send them off.
The door clicked shut.
And then, silence.
When Snape returned, his expression was unreadable, but you had spent enough time around him to recognize the tension in his frame. It was as if he was bracing himself.
You weren’t about to let this go and demanded, "Why do you know so much about my mother's work?"
His expression darkened." This is not the time-".
“No. No more secrets.” You forced yourself upright, ignoring the way your body protested. “You’ve known things from the start. My mother, this potion—tell me the truth.”
Snape’s patience snapped. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
If she only knew the weight of the truth she was asking for...
“I think I do.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t back down. “You’ve been hiding something from me since the beginning. I deserve to know—”
“You deserve?” His voice turned sharp as steel. “You have no idea what you’ve walked into. You think this is a game? That you can demand answers without understanding the consequences?”
“I almost died, Snape!” You shot back, hands curling into fists. “I have a right to know why! What my mother was involved in! What you’re hiding!”
His face twisted with something unreadable—anger, frustration, something deeper. Does she think this will change anything? That knowing the truth will make her safer?
“You are as reckless as she was.”
The words stung. “Maybe if you stopped treating me like a child and actually told me—”
“Enough!” Snape’s voice thundered through the room. “You think you can handle the truth? You can’t. Because once you know, there’s no turning back.”
Merlin help me, I wish she never had to.
Your vision swam. The anger, the exhaustion, the pain—it was all too much. A sharp, searing ache ripped through your side, and when you glanced down, your robes were stained red.
Snape’s eyes widened. Not again. Not her.
“Foolish girl—”
Your body tilted sideways, your strength finally giving out. The last thing you heard was Snape cursing under his breath before the world tilted and everything went dark.
Chapter 6: All By Myself With Severus Snape While Walking on Thorns
Summary:
The reader simmers, fury coiling tight, while Snape weathers the storm—cold, unyielding, and one word away from ruin.
Notes:
My dear readers, first and foremost—thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your patience, your support, and your kind words mean the absolute world to me. Every comment, every message, every ounce of love for this story has kept me going, and I’m beyond grateful for each of you!
I’m so sorry for the long wait—assignments had me in a chokehold, but now that my semester has ended, I’m free at last! I’ll do my best to update regularly and keep the story flowing. Hope you guys enjoy reading it.
Chapter Text
Pain. That was the first thing that registered when you drifted into consciousness. A dull, persistent ache radiated from your wounds, a cruel reminder of the past night's events. Blinking against the dim light, your gaze swept the room, and the memories crashed into you all at once—collapsing, Snape’s furious scolding, and the suffocating weight of everything that had transpired.
A bitter taste settled on your tongue. Enough. You had enough.
Forcing yourself upright, you bit back a hiss as a sharp pain shot through your side. Every movement was a battle against your own body, but you refused to be deterred. With slow, deliberate motions, you steadied yourself, forcing shaky legs to cooperate. Your limbs protested, but you pushed through, clinging to the singular thought that had taken root in your mind: I need to get out of here.
Your eyes darted around the room, searching for your belongings. Quietly, you made your way to the door, pressing your ear against the wood, listening. Silence. Swallowing a sharp breath, you turned the knob and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, each step calculated to avoid making a sound.
Halfway down the stairs, a door creaked open behind you.
Your stomach twisted. No, no, no.
Without thinking, you hurried your pace, descending as quickly as your injuries allowed. Your pulse pounded in your ears, drowning out everything else—until a sharp incantation rang through the air.
Colloportus.
The door before you sealed itself with a definitive click just as footsteps echoed behind you. A chill ran down your spine.
"And where do you think you're going?"
The low, silken voice cut through the silence like a blade. Your breath hitched. Snape.
Turning slowly, you met his piercing gaze. He stood at the top of the staircase, arms crossed, his black eyes gleaming with irritation—and something else. Concern? No, you refused to acknowledge that.
“Unlock the door, Snape.” Your voice was steady despite the fury boiling beneath your skin. You gritted your teeth and twisted the knob aggressively, willing it to open.
Snape descended the stairs with slow, deliberate steps, his expression unreadable. “You’re in no condition to be wandering off,” he said coolly, voice laced with that infuriating condescension. “Or have you suddenly developed a penchant for reckless decisions?”
Your fingers curled into fists. “Reckless?” A bitter laugh escaped you. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I supposed to just sit here and let you control my life?”
His jaw tightened. “And you think storming off like a petulant child disproves that?”
Your breath came fast and shallow. “Yes, and it’s none of your business whether I’m a petulant child or not! So unlock the door, Snape—now!”
You slammed your palm against the door, frustration mounting. Your vision blurred at the edges, pain flaring in your limbs, but you refused to back down. He was always like this—always looming, always controlling, always thinking he knew best.
Snape inhaled sharply through his nose, his patience clearly fraying. His hands flexed at his sides as if debating whether to physically stop you.
You weren’t going to let him.
Gritting your teeth, you wrenched the doorknob violently, twisting it over and over—until, by sheer force or stubborn luck, it snapped open. Without thinking, you bolted, ignoring the searing pain that clawed at your every step.
Snape’s voice rang out behind you, sharp and commanding, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t look back. You ran until you reached the familiar threshold of your home, your sanctuary, your escape.
You slammed the door behind you, chest heaving. Hands shaking, you leaned against the wood, pressing your forehead against its cool surface.
He wouldn’t follow. He wouldn’t dare.
…Would he?
Taking a deep breath, you turned around looking at the life you built in this house a few weeks ago nearly a month ago, and if someone told you that you would be facing all these things, you would have laughed at their face. So without reminiscing, you checked your wound making sure no bleeding or blood was seeping through the bandages, you started packing all the things and shrinking things into your luggage. After a while, done packing you just stood in the empty hallway took it all in one last time and started your way to Snape's house.
The journey back to Snape's house was a blur of stubborn determination and throbbing pain. You ignored it. You ignored everything—the ache in your limbs, the dull pounding in your skull, the raw sting of his words still echoing in your mind. By the time you stepped through the threshold, you felt as if the very walls were closing in, suffocating and familiar all at once.
Snape was waiting.
He was standing in the sitting room, his dark robes shifting slightly as he turned to face you, his expression unreadable. The tension coiled in the air between you like a storm about to break.
His voice, when it came, was measured, almost careful. "You shouldn't have left."
You didn't reply. You simply walked past him, eyes set forward, refusing to acknowledge the way his presence loomed like a shadow at your back.
"Reckless decisions seem to be a habit of yours." His tone was sharp now, cutting. "You can barely stand, yet you insist on—"
"I don't want to hear it." Your voice was flat, hollow.
Snape inhaled sharply, his patience visibly fraying. "You were injured. You could have—"
"I said I don't want to hear it, Snape."
You kept walking, ignoring the way his presence practically burned into your back. You didn't see his expression shift, the flicker of frustration warring with something else. Something heavier.
Snape clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching at his sides. He wanted to snap back, to demand that you stop acting like a foolish child. But the words never came. Because beneath the anger, beneath the irritation, there was something far worse—an unfamiliar, unwelcome sense of helplessness.
He had seen you bloodied. Collapsed. He had been the one to keep you from hitting the floor. And despite everything, despite his rational mind telling him that this was just another complication he didn't need—he had worried.
And now, you refused to even look at him.
Fine.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked toward the staircase. If you were so determined to shut him out, so be it. He would not waste his breath.
The room fell into silence, thick and suffocating.
Then, the fireplace roared to life.
A swirl of green flames erupted, and from within stepped the unmistakable figure of Albus Dumbledore. His usual twinkle was absent, replaced by something far more solemn.
"Ah," Dumbledore said, surveying the room. "I see the air is particularly charged this evening."
You crossed your arms, unwilling to meet his gaze. Snape, now halfway up the stairs, stopped but did not turn around.
Dumbledore sighed. "Come now, my dear. I imagine you have plenty of reasons to be upset, but I must ask—do you truly believe Severus was trying to control you out of anything but concern?"
Your jaw tightened. You knew that. Deep down, you knew that. But it didn't change the way his words had cut, the way his overbearing nature made you feel trapped.
"I don't need his concern," you muttered.
Behind you, Snape scoffed.
Dumbledore's gaze flicked to him. "And you, Severus. Do you believe your approach was without flaw?"
Snape stiffened. "I don't see how coddling would have served any purpose."
Dumbledore hummed. "Ah, yes. And yet, here we are."
The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable. Finally, the headmaster straightened. "Regardless, this is not the time for division. The arrangements have been made—you both need to leave immediately."
You nodded stiffly, saying nothing. Snape merely swept past Dumbledore, heading to gather his things without another word.
Minutes later, you both stood in the centre of the sitting room. The portkey—a small, unassuming silver pocket watch—lay in Dumbledore's palm.
"Take care of each other," he said simply.
Neither of you responded.
And then, with a sharp pull behind your navel, the world around you vanished.
The safe house was beautiful.
Rolling green hills stretched as far as the eye could see, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. A quaint stone cottage stood at the heart of it, its windows glowing warmly, as if welcoming its new inhabitants. The air was fresh, crisp, tinged with the scent of damp earth and the distant hum of rustling leaves. It should have been peaceful. It should have been a relief.
But the beauty of the place did nothing to thaw the ice between you and Snape.
The moment the Portkey had released its grip on you both, you had taken a single glance at your surroundings and turned away, stepping into the house without so much as a glance in his direction. Your bag hit the nearest chair with a careless thud, the weight of it ignored as you stalked deeper into the cottage, disappearing into the first room you could find.
You refused to look back. You refused to acknowledge him. You had nothing to say.
Snape lingered at the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, his grip tightening around the handle of his own bag. His lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line as his dark eyes followed the spot where you had vanished.
Fine. If you wanted to act like a sulking child, so be it.
With precise, measured movements, he set his bag down beside yours—not carelessly, not in a rush. He would not storm after you, no matter how infuriating your behavior was. He would not give you the satisfaction of thinking he cared about this petty display.
But Merlin, did it grate on him.
He rolled his shoulders back, inhaling slowly through his nose, trying to quell the irritation threatening to claw its way up his throat. You were impossible. Infuriating. You refused to listen, refused to see reason. And yet, despite his frustration, despite his insistence that he did not care how you decided to sulk…
The silence was unbearable.
His fingers twitched at his sides before he clenched them into fists. There was nothing left to say. Not right now. If you wanted space, take it.
Let the silence speak.
And so, the Cold War began.
Days passed in strained quiet, an unspoken battle of wills filling every corner of the house. Meals were eaten separately. Any required communication was clipped, clinical, and necessity-bound. You moved around him as though he didn’t exist, and Snape, for all his patience, found his temper fraying more with each passing day.
He had faced impossible students. Endured the insufferable presence of dunderheads for years. Held his tongue against far greater provocations. But this—this—was different.
This was deliberate.
He could see it in the way you held yourself, in the calculated avoidance, in the way your eyes never quite met his. You weren’t just ignoring him. You were shutting him out completely.
Fine.
If you wanted to play that game, he would play it better.
But there was something else that nagged at him, something beyond the infuriating silence. At first, he had dismissed it as mere exhaustion. The aftermath of injuries. The adjustment to new surroundings. But then he noticed.
The subtle winces. The way your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking. The way you lingered near the cupboards longer than necessary. The way you refused to let him near enough to assess your wounds.
And then, the truth fell into his lap. Quite literally.
You had left the sitting room in a hurry that evening, brushing past him without a glance. Something slipped from your pocket, rolling across the floor with a soft clink. Snape’s gaze flicked downward, catching the glint of a familiar-looking bottle.
Painkillers.
Slowly, he bent down, picking up the bottle with careful fingers. Turning it over, his eyes narrowed at the dosage label. Far beyond what was safe to be taking for days.
His grip tightened around the bottle. His mind sharpened, pieces locking into place with a deadly kind of clarity. The lingering exhaustion. The pale complexion. The lack of proper healing.
You had been avoiding potions.
A slow, cold anger spread through him. This wasn’t just stubbornness. This was recklessness in its purest form.
Snape exhaled sharply, staring down at the bottle before setting it deliberately onto the nearest table. His jaw tightened, dark eyes flickering toward the hallway where you had disappeared moments ago.
Enough.
This war would end, one way or another. And you were about to learn that Severus Snape did not lose battles—especially not when your well-being was at stake.
You pretended he didn’t exist, and he pretended it didn’t bother him.
But it did.
You could see it in the way his fingers twitched when you ignored his questions, the way his jaw clenched when you turned your back on him. His patience was a fragile thread, stretched thin, ready to snap.
It was only a matter of time.
And then, the moment arrived.
You had been sitting in the lounge just trying to divert your mind from what has been happening around you by reading a book and while doing so you heard the door to the lounge being opened and in came Snape. In haste, to avoid any interaction with him , you quickly gathered your things and rushed out.
You had been moving toward the stairs when the realization struck you like a slap—your painkillers. They weren’t in your pocket. Damn it.
Your heart pounded against your ribs, the thought hitting you like a curse. You’d left them in the sitting room. With him.
You stopped dead in your tracks, muscles locking up. Every instinct screamed at you to leave it. To walk away and suffer through the pain. But the steady, gnawing ache in your ribs—the deep soreness in your limbs—mocked you. You needed them.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you turned around, forcing one foot in front of the other. Step by step, slow and deliberate, as if Snape wouldn’t notice.
But he did. Of course, he did.
He was there, seated in his usual chair by the fireplace, shadows flickering across the sharp angles of his face. A glass of fire whiskey dangled from his long fingers, the liquid inside swirling lazily. He didn’t acknowledge you at first, but you knew—knew that beneath that impassive mask, he was watching. Always watching.
Your eyes darted across the room. The table. The floor. The chair. Where are they?
Then, movement. A slow, measured motion.
Your breath caught as Snape lifted his hand, tilting his wrist just enough for the firelight to catch—
The small, familiar bottle rested between his fingers. Label out.
Your stomach plummeted.
“You’re looking for these, I presume?” His voice was smooth, deceptively calm. But his eyes—his damn eyes—held something else entirely.
A storm. A question. A challenge.
Your pulse hammered against your throat. Stay calm. Stay in control.
“Give them to me,” you said, voice tight, controlled.
Snape tilted his head ever so slightly, scrutinizing you like an insect under glass. Assessing. Calculating.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to yourself?” His voice was quiet, but laced with something dangerous.
Your hands curled into fists. “I don’t need your opinion, Snape. Just hand them over.”
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stood. Slowly. Purposefully. Towering over you, his presence alone suffocating the air between you.
“You are not taking these again.”
The words weren’t just a command—they were final. Absolute. A cold, unyielding decree.
And something inside you snapped.
“Oh? And who the hell are you to decide that?!” Your voice rose before you could stop it, raw with frustration.
“The only one here who has a semblance of sense, clearly,” he bit out.
You laughed. A sharp, disbelieving sound. “Sense? Sense?! You have the audacity to stand there and pretend you care?”
His expression didn’t change, but the air shifted.
You saw it—the flicker of something in his gaze, a flash of something dangerous.
“I do not pretend anything,” he said, voice like a razor’s edge.
Your breath came fast, your chest rising and falling too quickly. “Then stop acting like I’m your problem.”
Silence. Heavy. Charged.
Then, in one swift motion, Snape lifted the bottle higher—
—and uncorked it.
Your eyes widened.
No.
“Don’t you dare—”
But he did.
Without hesitation, without a word, he tilted his hand—
And poured the pills straight into the fire.
A burst of blue flames swallowed them whole, sizzling into nothingness.
For a moment, you stood frozen. Staring. Disbelieving.
Then fury exploded in your chest, a white-hot, unrelenting force.
“You bastard!” The words tore from your throat as you lunged, shoving him back with all the force your battered body could muster. He barely staggered, barely moved, but your hands were shaking with rage. “You had no right!”
“I had every right,” he snapped, his voice now sharp, cutting. “Since you lack the sense to—”
“Screw you!” you snarled, stepping back, vision blurring with anger.
You turned on your heel and stormed to your room, slamming the door behind you. Your breath came in ragged gasps as frustration and exhaustion tangled together, and before you knew it, you collapsed onto the bed.
Tears of anger burned in your eyes, but you wiped them away furiously. You needed to leave. Not now—Snape was too close, too watchful—but anytime when he wasn’t paying attention. You just needed a moment of peace away from him.
And when the chance came, you would take it.
Chapter 7: All by Myself With Severus Snape and The Echo of the Past
Summary:
Snape reveals a shadowed past with the reader’s mother, sparking a tense moment that blurs the line between forgiveness and fury.
Notes:
After much chaos, pill-throwing, and escape plans,the madness continues. More secrets, more magic, and definitely more Snape. Hope you guys enjoy reading it.
Chapter Text
The first time you saw the potion, you thought you had imagined it.
A small, unassuming vial sat on your bedside table, glinting faintly in the dim candlelight. Blood-Replenishing Potion. The realization sent a strange ripple through your chest, an unsettling mix of emotions she couldn't quite pin down. You hadn't heard anyone come in. Hadn't seen him leave it. But there it was, nestled beside her wand, waiting.
You didn't touch it. Not at first.
Two more days passed, and the vials kept appearing.
Murtlap Essence. Healing Potion. Another Blood-Replenishing dose.
You never saw him place them. But you felt his presence, his gaze lingering just a second too long when you passed by him in the corridor. He never said anything about it, never asked if you were taking them. But the intent was there, woven into every silent offering.
At first, her anger had been a roaring fire, hot and untamed. The painkiller incident still burned in her mind—Snape's sharp words, his controlled fury, the way he had dared to dictate what you could and could not do with your own body. The humiliation of it all made your stomach churn. You had promised yourself that you wouldn't let him get to you. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing just how deeply his actions had unsettled you.
And yet.
The sight of those potions made something inside you waver.
She hated the way it softened the edges of her anger like water slowly wearing down the stone. Hated that some part of her recognized what he was doing.
This was Snape's version of an apology.
Not in words. Not in direct admissions. But in quiet, practical gestures. A carefully placed vial. A reminder that he was watching. That he still cared, in his infuriating way.
And it made you want to scream.
Did he think this was enough? Did he think you would forget everything just because he had shoved a few potions in your direction? He was still watching you like a hawk, always there, always looming. Every time you so much as glanced toward the door, he would be nearby, a dark presence in the corner of her vision.
It was suffocating.
You needed to breathe. You needed to be alone for once, without the weight of his scrutiny pressing down on you.
And yet... you still took the potions.
Snape had expected her to reject them.
He had imagined her taking one look at the vials and tossing them into the loo out of sheer spite. Wouldn't have been surprised if she had stormed into his study, fire in her eyes, and hurled them at his feet. But she hadn't.
She had left them untouched at first, maybe thinking it might be laced with poison. And it was returned after a few hours but then he sent it back again to her room. Where in a few hours later the bottle returned empty.
That was how he knew she wasn't as unaffected as she pretended to be.
He once when passing her room saw it in the way her shoulders tensed whenever she spotted a new vial. In the way, her fingers lingered over the glass before she pocketed it.
She was thinking about it. Thinking about him.
Good.
He had been watching her closely—perhaps more closely than necessary. But he couldn't help it. Not after what he had discovered. The painkillers had been a problem, yes, but they had merely been a symptom of something much deeper. She had been reckless. She had hidden her suffering, bottled it up until it had nearly consumed her. And he couldn't allow that to happen again.
So he left the potions. Quiet, unobtrusive gestures. A compromise between his nature and his conscience.
She could take them or leave them, but she would acknowledge them.
And if he had learned anything about her in their time together, it was that she would resent him for it.
So be it.
He would rather be resented than ignored.
He would rather she hate him than risk losing her altogether.
Still, he knew her well enough to recognize the signs. The way she lingered by the windows, the way her fingers twitched at the sight of the front door. She was waiting. Planning. Looking for an opening.
He almost smirked to himself.
She was going to try to escape him.
And she had no idea how thoroughly she had already failed.
A knock at the door disrupted the heavy silence that had settled between them. The morning had been uneventful—if one ignored the suffocating weight of Snape's gaze trailing her every movement. Every time you turned a corner, he was there. Every attempt at even standing near the door, a window, the bloody fireplace—he was there.
But this? This was a disruption. A chance.
You were already moving toward the hallway when Snape beat you to it, sweeping toward the door with his usual billowing authority. You skidded to a stop, frustration rising again, but when he opened the door, your breath caught slightly.
"Ah, Severus," came the familiar, knowing voice of Albus Dumbledore.
The warmth in his tone contrasted against Snape's sharp demeanor, but there was something else there—a careful curiosity as his gaze briefly flickered past Snape to where you stood.
"Checking in, I see," Snape muttered, stepping aside with begrudging allowance.
"Indeed," Dumbledore replied, stepping inside and giving you a small, assessing nod. "I trust you are recovering well, my dear?"
You wanted to scoff. The answer was no, not when you felt like a prisoner in this house, not when the only company you had was a man who alternated between sharp glares and unsettlingly unreadable silences. But you nodded, forcing a small smile. You weren't about to ruin this moment.
Snape, however, narrowed his eyes at your response.
Dumbledore turned to him next, and suddenly the air shifted. "Severus, a word?"
You stiffened, glancing between them, but Snape—though reluctant—inclined his head and followed Dumbledore toward the sitting room. Your pulse kicked up. If he was distracted, if you played this right—this was her moment.
Dumbledore wasted no time. "How is she really?"
Snape exhaled slowly, knowing this question had been inevitable. His fingers twitched at his sides as he glanced toward the hallway, where he could sense her waiting, listening.
"She is... stubborn," he finally admitted, voice carefully controlled. "Frustrated. She wishes to leave."
Dumbledore's knowing hum set his teeth on edge. "And you've been keeping a close eye on her, I presume?"
Snape's jaw clenched. "As is necessary. If she—" He cut himself off. If she what? Ran? Would that be so surprising? He had seen it in her eyes every time she glanced toward the door—the need to escape.
"Severus," Dumbledore said softly, pulling him from his thoughts. "Have you spoken to her?"
"I have ensured her safety," he replied, sidestepping the question.
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment before sighing. "Very well. That is not my only reason for visiting. I require several potions—ones I trust only you to brew."
Snape gave a curt nod. "I assume you need them promptly."
"Of course." A small pause. "It will take you some time, I imagine?"
Snape's fingers curled into his robes. "A few hours."
"Good." There was an edge of something unreadable in Dumbledore's gaze. "Then I will not keep you."
Snape inclined his head as Dumbledore turned back toward the hallway—where she was no longer standing.
His stomach dropped.
Dumbledore's expression remained carefully neutral. "Thank you, Severus."
But Snape barely heard him. His pulse had already quickened. Because the house—which had been filled with her presence every moment since the incident—was suddenly far too silent.
The cold air bit at your skin as you stepped outside. The moment the heavy wooden door shut behind her, a strange feeling bloomed in your chest—something between exhilaration and dread. It had been three days. Three days of Snape's ever-watchful eyes, three days of unspoken tension thick enough to suffocate her, and now you were finally, finally alone.
Your boots crunched against the frost-bitten grass as you wandered, arms wrapped around herself. The silence was intoxicating. For the first time since the break-in, there was no looming figure, no scrutinizing stare burning into your back, no potions appearing at your bedside like clockwork. You should have been angry about that, but instead... the memory gnawed at you.
He's been watching. More than that—he's been... caring.
You hated that it made something twist deep in your stomach.
Shaking your head, you focused on your surroundings, but your thoughts wouldn't let it be. Snape. Always Snape. You thought about the way he had been lately—less sharp, less cruel, more... restrained. There was still venom, still his impossibly high walls, but underneath it, there was something raw. A flicker of something that unsettled you more than any scathing remark ever could.
And then there was her mother.
A ghost from a past you barely understood, a woman whose choices had now come crashing down onto her shoulders. What did it all mean? What had she really done? Snape knew. He always knew. And You were going to find out whether he liked it or not.
A sudden sound snapped you from your thoughts—a deep, unmistakable voice calling your name.
Your breath hitched.
You turned your head slightly, listening. The rustling of leaves. A crunch of footsteps. The way the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
You didn't answer.
Your pulse thrummed as you took a slow step forward, then another. If you stayed silent, maybe he'd think you hadn't gone far. Maybe he'd turn back.
"Where are you?!" Snape's voice rang out again, lower this time, laced with something unspoken.
You swallowed hard.
Another step.
And then the snap of a twig.
You barely had time to react before a hand clamped around your arm, yanking you back. A gasp tore from your lips as you stumbled, nearly colliding with him.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Snape's voice was a low, furious rasp. His grip was firm, and unyielding, his dark eyes burning with something you couldn't quite place.
You yanked your arm, but he held fast. "Let go of me."
"No."
Your chest heaved. "I just wanted some air—"
"You disappeared. Do you have any idea what could have happened?" His fingers dug in, his usual composure cracking. "I turned my back for a moment , and you—" He cut himself off, inhaling sharply through his nose. "You are reckless. Utterly, impossibly reckless."
Something about his tone made your heart pound in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
"Why do you even care?" The words were out before you could stop them, spat like a challenge.
His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might not answer. Then, in a voice quieter, rougher, he said, "Because I do."
The world felt like it had stilled.
He must have realized it too, because his grip slackened just slightly. You exhaled shakily, your emotions spiralling into a chaotic mess—anger, relief, something dangerous pressing against the edges of your chest.
You took advantage of his hesitation, twisting free from his hold. You took a step back, breathing hard. "Then tell me the truth."
Silence. The kind that screamed louder than words ever could.
His expression was unreadable, but you swore, for a moment, there was something almost pleading in his eyes.
"Come home," he said at last, voice low. "And I will."
The silence in the lounge was suffocating. The fire crackled in the hearth, but it did nothing to thaw the cold tension between you and Snape. He stood by the mantle, fingers curled tight around the edge as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes flickered with something unreadable—anger, guilt, hesitation.
"You don't understand," Snape finally spoke, his voice low, but each word was weighted with something heavy, something dangerous.
You scoffed, shaking your head. "Then make me understand."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He had spent the past few days trying to bridge the chasm between you in the only way he knew how—silent acts of care, potions appearing in your room, an unspoken attempt at reconciliation. But now, standing here with your defiance scorching the air between you, he realized words were inevitable.
A long pause stretched between you before he finally said it. "Your mother was my friend."
The words sent a jolt through you. "What?"
Snape exhaled sharply, looking away as if the past was a ghost standing in the room with you. "She was my junior at Hogwarts. A Slytherin. She admired me. Followed me. She was—bullied, at times. I protected her. And for that, she saw me as something I was not. A hero."
You frowned, processing his words. "You mean—she looked up to you?"
He let out a dry chuckle, but it had no humour. "It was more than that. She believed in me. When I joined the Death Eaters, I did not tell her. I did not want her anywhere near that world. But she found out. And she—" His voice hitched, just slightly. "She made the foolish decision to prove herself worthy. She sought them out. She wanted to be recognized. I tried to stop her. She wouldn't listen."
Flashback—Snape's Mind
The memory was razor-sharp, cutting through the years as if they had never passed. Lyra, standing before him, fury in her eyes.
"You think I can't handle it? You think I'm not strong enough?"
"This isn't about strength, Lyra," Snape had hissed. "You don't understand what they are—what they demand."
"I understand more than you think."
He had seen the hunger in her gaze, the reckless determination that mirrored his own when he had chosen that path. He had tried—Merlin, he had tried—to keep her from it, to push her away from the darkness.
But she had slipped through his fingers, just as she had always done.
End Flashback
You felt something tighten in your chest. "And?"
Snape closed his eyes for a brief moment. "She got in over her head. And I—had to get her out." His voice was quieter now. "I convinced her to go to Dumbledore. To leave that life before it consumed her."
Your breath hitched. "And that's when she met my father."
Snape nodded. "She was pregnant when she left. Your father helped her escape. They hid. They built a life. But before she left, she was assigned something—an important task. A potion. A recipe that the Dark Lord coveted. And now—" He met your gaze, dark eyes gleaming. "Now, with your mother gone, they want you."
A cold wave crashed over you. "You knew this. And you didn't tell me."
Snape flinched. "I was trying to keep you safe."
The room felt smaller, the air too thick to breathe. You took a step back, shaking your head. "No. No, you kept me in the dark. You—" Your voice wavered, something burning at the back of your throat. "You didn't trust me."
Snape took a step forward. "I—"
"You just wanted control. Like you always do."
"No." His voice was firm, almost desperate. "I was afraid." His gaze burned into yours. "Afraid that if I told you, you would do something reckless. Afraid that I would fail you, just as I failed her."
Silence. Thick, stifling silence.
You swallowed hard, your pulse thundering in your ears. The weight of his confession pressed down on you, squeezing the air from your lungs. But beneath it—beneath the anger, the betrayal—was something else.
Something unspoken.
Your chest tightened, and for a long moment, you stood there, taking it all in. Then, finally, you exhaled. "I forgive you."
Snape's eyes snapped to yours. He looked... stunned. As if he hadn't prepared for that response. As if he had expected venom, not a quiet surrender.
You turned on your heel and walked towards the kitchen. "I'm making dinner," you called over your shoulder. "You can help if you want."
You stood in the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets with an air of quiet determination. The tension from earlier still lingered, but something had shifted. It wasn't sharp anymore—wasn't suffocating. It had softened into something more fragile, more uncertain.
You exhaled, gripping a jar of dried basil a little too tightly. This was insane, wasn't it? Minutes ago, you had been consumed with anger, ready to throw things, ready to fight him. And now—you were making spaghetti?
What was wrong with me?
It wasn't like you had forgotten everything he said, but... you didn't want to stay angry. It was exhausting, holding onto that much emotion. And maybe, deep down, a part of you never really wanted to hate him in the first place.
Snape lingered near the doorway, watching her as if she were some kind of anomaly. She was moving with purpose, pulling out ingredients, and setting a pot of water to boil. And she had forgiven him. Just like that.
It rattled him.
She had been furious, shaking with anger when he told her the truth about her mother. And now—she was here, cooking. Just like that?
His mind reeled. He had spent years carrying the weight of his guilt, preparing for the moment someone would finally hold him accountable for it. And yet, she had looked at him and let it go.
He didn't understand her. And that both unsettled and intrigued him.
A quiet sound of movement pulled you from your thoughts. You turned, catching Snape standing near the doorway, just staring at you.
You narrowed your eyes. "Are you going to stand there and stare at me like a hoodlum, or are you going to help?"
Snape blinked. He looked... thrown. Like he genuinely did not understand how she had gone from furious to casually bossing him around in a kitchen.
Good. Let him be confused. At least you weren't suffering alone.
You grabbed a knife and held it out to him, handle-first. "Cut the onions, Professor."
Snape eyed the knife as if it had personally offended him before reluctantly stepping forward. What in Merlin's name was happening right now? He had faced the Dark Lord, survived years of war, and spent decades mastering the art of Occlumency and control—yet here he was, standing in a kitchen, assigned to onion duty.
You turned back to the stove, stirring the pot. "We're making spaghetti. Don't mess it up."
Snape scoffed. "I brew complex potions that can alter the very fabric of life. I think I can manage chopping vegetables."
You smirked. Oh, he walked right into that one.
"Oh? So you admit you're good with a knife?" you asked innocently.
Snape shot you a glare so sharp it could've peeled the onions for him. "Don't test me."
You laughed—actually laughed.
What the hell was this? Why was this... fun? Why did this feel normal when it absolutely should not?
Snape was equally perplexed. The heaviness from earlier had lifted. The air between you wasn't hostile—it was light. It was strange, surreal even, but it was happening.
Minutes passed in companionable silence. The only sounds were the soft bubbling of the sauce, and the rhythmic chopping of Snape's knife against the cutting board.
And then—
"Twenty questions," you announced suddenly.
Snape frowned, pausing his work. "What?"
You turned to face him fully, leaning against the counter with a mischievous glint in your eye. "We're stuck in this house together. Might as well get to know each other."
Snape stared at you. Surely, you were joking.
"You go first," you continued, smirking. "What's your favourite food?"
Snape resumed chopping, clearly unamused. "I do not play games."
"You just did five minutes ago when you lost a battle of wits to an onion."
His knife hit the cutting board a little too sharply. You bit back a laugh.
Snape exhaled through his nose. "Fine. If it will get you to stop talking—"
You grinned. "Good. Now answer the question."
Snape sighed. "Shepherd's pie."
Your brows shot up. "Huh. Didn't take you for a comfort food guy."
He shot you a dry look. "It's efficient. One dish. All nutrients."
You snorted. "You're such a Potions master, it hurts."
He let out a chuckle. A real one. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but you caught it. And for some reason, it warmed you.
By the time the food was ready, it almost felt normal. Almost.
You ate together at the small dining table, an unspoken truce settling between you. It was odd—sharing a meal, sharing laughter after everything that had happened. But somehow, it didn't feel forced.
When you were done, you cleaned up together, passing him dishes while he dried them.
And then—just as Snape was about to call it a night—
Without thinking, you stopped him and reached up, pressing a quick, fleeting kiss to his cheek.
"Thank you, Severus. Mum would be proud of you." You uttered breathlessly.
Snape. Stopped. Breathing.
The moment your lips left his cheek, you realized exactly what you had done.
Oh. Oh, Merlin. Oh, what the hell did I just do?
Panic set in.
The warmth of his skin had barely faded from your lips, but your body was already moving on autopilot—casually saying goodnight as if you hadn't just committed the single most unhinged act of your life.
Why did I do that?!
Your legs betrayed you. Instead of sprinting out of the kitchen like a normal person, you forced yourself to walk.
Like a completely normal, totally not losing your mind human being.
You could still feel his eyes on your back. Could still hear the deafening silence where Severus Snape, master of dry sarcasm and unimpressed glares, had just been utterly obliterated by a single, fleeting kiss.
Your heart was trying to escape your ribcage.
By the time you made it to the stairs, you broke into a jog. The second your door shut behind you, you let out a tiny, breathless laugh.
Then another.
And then—
You lost it.
The giggles turned into full-blown laughter as you spun around in circles like a lunatic.
What the hell was that?!
You had kissed Snape on the cheek.
You had kissed Snape on the cheek.
YOU HAD KISSED SEVERUS SNAPE ON THE CHEEK.
Your hands flew to your face as the laughter exploded out of you like a mad woman. You jumped onto your bed, kicked your feet, grabbed your pillow, and—
"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The scream was entirely necessary.
You rolled onto your back, hugging your pillow to your chest, grinning like a complete and utter fool.
What did I just do?! What did I just do?!
Did you regret it?
No.
Should you regret it?
Maybe.
Were you currently grinning like a lovesick idiot instead?
Absolutely.
With one last, dramatic sigh, you flopped back against the pillows, arms spread out, staring at the ceiling with wide, dazed eyes.
The warmth of his skin still lingered on your lips.
Your heart was still racing.
And as you finally pulled the covers over yourself, you realized something truly terrifying.
You were going to sleep with a smile on your face.
Severus, meanwhile, stood frozen in the kitchen. His cheek still burned from where your lips had been. His thoughts were a tangled mess.
You had thanked him. You had forgiven him. You had kissed him.
His fingers twitched at his sides, his heartbeat too loud in his ears.
He needed to leave. Now.
Without another word, Severus turned abruptly on his heel and stalked toward his room, his brain still struggling to process what in Merlin's name had just happened.
As he reached his door, his hand ghosting over the doorknob, he let out a slow breath.
Your mother would be proud of him.
He closed his eyes. A bitter, foreign ache stirred deep in his chest.
"Foolish girl," he muttered under his breath, before stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.
Severus Snape was not a man prone to emotional instability.
He had spent a lifetime mastering control, wielding discipline like a finely honed blade. He had endured pain, betrayal, and war. He had walked the tightrope between life and death more times than he cared to count. And yet—
Yet here he was. Getting ready for bed and lying flat on his back. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking about a kiss.
His jaw clenched. The ghost of warmth still lingered on his cheek, an unbearable echo of the moment that had shattered the fragile balance he had so carefully constructed. It wasn't even the act itself—it was how effortless it had been. How natural. How utterly unguarded.
You had kissed him. Thanked him. And then dared to walk away smiling—as if you hadn't just upended his entire existence.
His fingers twitched against the blanket.
Damn it all.
The warmth of your touch still lingered, unwelcome yet undeniably there. And for the first time in years, something within him softened—just a fraction. A sliver of something unrecognizable, something dangerous. It felt like an illusion, fleeting and fragile, slipping through his fingers before he could grasp it.
And then—
Pain.
It lanced through his arm, sharp and searing, dragging him viciously back into the present. His breath hitched, his grip tightening over his forearm. The Dark Mark burned. Slow. Dull. Persistent.
The Dark Lord was angry.
The flicker of warmth from earlier snuffed out instantly, swallowed by the cold, merciless weight of reality. He pressed his palm over the Mark, jaw tightening as a fury that wasn't his own coiled through his veins.
Snape exhaled sharply, rolling onto his side as he willed the image away, as he willed him away. But the Dark Lord's presence was inescapable. Even here, alone in the quiet of his room, he was never truly free. Happiness, warmth—those were illusions. And illusions never lasted.
His fingers drifted, almost absently, to his cheek.
It was still warm.
Damn it all.
Elsewhere
A dimly lit chamber. Figures kneeling, trembling.
A scream tore through the silence as the Cruciatus Curse was lifted from a writhing body. The Dark Lord stood over them, eyes gleaming with pure malice.
"You are failures," he hissed, voice smooth but deadly. "You will find the girl. Or you will suffer. Again. And again."
The Death Eaters scrambled to bow lower, voices stammering their obedience.
Voldemort's lips curled. "Go. Bring her to me."
Chapter 8: All By Myself With Severus Snape and Learning to Breathe Again
Summary:
Chores turn into training, training turns into tension. A stolen moment in the quiet, a Floo call at the wrong time, and feelings neither of them are ready to say out loud. Peace never lasts long — but for a heartbeat, it almost feels like enough.
Notes:
Hey, my dear readers! The chapter’s here — full of tension, emotions, and a little (ahem) heat. My first time writing smut (be gentle with me, haha), and let me know what you think! Hope you enjoy it.
Chapter Text
You woke up tangled in your sheets, the remnants of restless sleep still clinging to your limbs. Sunlight poured through the half-cracked window, far too cheerful for how complicated your thoughts were.
Last night.
That kiss.
On his cheek. What were you thinking?
A groan escaped your lips as you rolled over, burying your face in the pillow. Maybe it had been a spontaneous, heat-of-the-moment thing—maybe. But the way Snape had looked at you afterward, the stunned silence, the conflicted storm in his eyes... it hadn’t been just anything. Still, what's done is done. You couldn’t take it back now—and oddly, you didn’t want to.
Shrugging off the weight in your chest, you stretched with a soft grunt, bones cracking, muscles loosening under the warm golden light. Your eyes swept across the room—and immediately widened.
What in Merlin’s name had happened in here?
It looked like a bomb went off. A very unmagical , lazy-person bomb. Clothes in a sad pile, books stacked at dangerous angles, dust gathering at the corners like gossiping old ladies.
You frowned, taking it all in. Ever since you’d arrived from Spinner’s End—and with everything that had happened between you and Snape—you’d avoided cleaning like it carried the plague. And Snape, bachelor extraordinaire, didn’t seem the type to break a sweat over household chores either. You were pretty sure he relied solely on Scourgify charms and the occasional glare at inanimate objects.
You snorted, actually picturing it now: Snape, sleeves rolled up, sweeping the stairs with a sour expression, muttering under his breath about “filthy Muggle methods” and “bloody dust bunnies.” You’d pay galleons to see that.
But today... today felt different.
The air felt lighter. The tension between you and Snape had eased—if only slightly—and that alone made you feel like you could finally breathe . Maybe, after everything, a bit of normalcy wouldn’t hurt. Cleaning had always been your way of grounding yourself, and considering the emotional rollercoaster of late—your mother’s past, the Death Eater break-in, your painfully complicated not-quite-friendship with Snape—you needed grounding.
You pulled out you laptop from the stacks of messy which still running somehow despite the magic in the air —and hit shuffle on your favourite playlist.
Seconds later, the opening chords of Hot and Cold by Katy Perry blasted through the room, unapologetic and loud.
You smirked. How fitting , honestly. Given your current... "situation."
You started mouthing along to the lyrics—
"You! Change your mind! Like a girl changes clothes!"
—while pulling your sheets off the bed and stuffing them into the laundry basket like a woman on a mission.
It was the same playlist you used to blast back at Spinner’s End, the one that had made your mysterious, scowling neighbor nearly hex your window in irritation.
And now? Now you were in a safehouse togather. Cleaning it.
You shook your head and laughed.
“I swear if he walks in while I’m singing this...” you muttered to yourself, grinning as you danced your way toward the door with the basket in hand.
Severus Snape had not slept well.
He rarely did these days, but last night had been worse than usual.
The phantom warmth of a kiss on his cheek haunted him with cruel precision—over and over again, like a looped memory he hadn’t given permission to replay.
Foolish. Reckless. Sentimental .
She hadn’t meant it. Not really. It was the heat of the moment. Relief. Gratitude. Proximity. All things he could logically analyze and neatly fold away, like spare ingredients into glass jars.
And yet…
The image of her, eyes soft and voice barely above a whisper, saying thank you right before pressing her lips to his skin—
Snape grunted, sitting up in bed, rubbing the heel of his palm over his eyes. " Get over yourself, " he muttered. " You're acting like a schoolboy. "
He pushed himself up with effort. His limbs felt heavy, more from the mental weight than lack of sleep. Wrapping a threadbare black robe around his shoulders, he padded out of his room, fully intending to find tea and silence.
Instead, he heard music. Muggle music.
And not just any music—
A female voice was screaming Hot then you’re cold, yes then you’re no, you’re in then you’re out like a personal attack.
He scowled.
Following the sound (and the suspicious smell of bleach), Snape stopped dead at the top of the stairs.
There she was.
Mop in one hand, the other twirling in the air like she was in a concert. Barefoot, hair messily tied up, sleeves rolled past her elbows, and singing her heart out to what sounded like a passive-aggressive breakup anthem. Her laptop sat dangerously close to a soapy bucket. Her wand was in her waistband. And she was dancing. With actual joy.
Snape remained rooted, unseen. Unheard.
He should say something. He really should. This was his—no, the —safehouse. She shouldn’t be using magic and electronics at the same time. She could get electrocuted. She could—
He sighed, and caught himself.
Because despite the mop, the mess, and the melody that was burrowing into his skull like a cursed earworm…
There was something almost unbearably normal about it.
Something… human.
And when was the last time he felt that?
He scowled again, deeper this time, and cleared his throat.
Somewhere between the second chorus and a particularly dramatic hair flip with the mop, you didn’t hear the creaking floorboards. Or the muffled thud of footsteps behind you. You were too caught up in the beat, twirling like the hallway was your stage.
You sang out loud,
"Used to be, just a stranger, now you’re living rent-free in my—"
"—house of chaos," you improvised.
That’s when you heard it.
A quiet, unimpressed throat clear.
You froze mid-verse, mid-mop, eyes wide, head slowly turning.
There he stood.
Snape.
In the hallway.
In his crumpled black shirt and trousers, sleep still clinging to his face and hair, eyes narrowed in what could only be described as deep, DEEP judgment.
"...What in Merlin's name are you doing?"
Your heart leapt into your throat.
“I—I’m cleaning?” you tried, sheepish.
“With that ,” he gestured vaguely at the laptop, “blasting that… that howling banshee’s mating call ?”
You blinked. “Katy Perry?”
He blinked back, deadpan. “I stand by my description.”
“It’s called music. Helps with the cleaning trauma.”
He muttered something about muggle abominations and floorboards.
You shrugged. “Look, I needed to do something normal. It was either this or reorganizing the bookshelves by emotional damage rating.”
Snape opened his mouth. Closed it. Then muttered, “Ridiculous,” and turned to leave.
But you weren’t done yet.
“Oh, Professor,” you called sweetly. “One more thing!”
He stopped. Slowly turned. Suspicion radiated from every inch of him.
You smiled. Innocent. Radiant. Dangerous.
“Where’s your laundry?”
“…What?”
“Laundry. You do wear clothes. I assume they require washing?”
“I use a Scourgify charm.”
You gasped, offended. “No. You don’t. Tell me you don’t.”
“I—what on earth is wrong with that?!”
“It’s a crime against textiles,” you said, marching toward him. “Where are they? Show me your sins.”
He backed up a step. “I will not hand you my—”
“You will . Because I know your robes crunch when you walk.”
“They do not! ”
“You’re lying.”
You were already halfway up the stairs.
Snape stood at the edge of the hallway for a moment longer, watching her disappear up the stairs with a basket full of chaos and far too much enthusiasm.
He should have been annoyed. He was, technically—at the noise, the recklessness, the absurdity of Hot and Cold echoing through his walls like an exorcism gone wrong.
And yet…
There was a peculiar warmth blooming in his chest. Not the fiery kind that came with anger or frustration, but something quieter. Softer. Foreign.
He watched a dust mote drift lazily in the sunbeam that split the hallway. The scent of cleaning solution still lingered in the air. Faint laughter and footsteps padded upstairs.
This was what normal people did, wasn’t it?
They cleaned. They played music. They bickered about laundry. They lived.
And for the first time in years—possibly ever—he didn’t feel like a half-shadow skulking through the ruins of his life. For a fleeting second, he felt like a man again. A man in a home. Not a prison.
He exhaled.
Perhaps... this wasn’t so intolerable.
By late afternoon, you’d cleaned the upstairs hallway, the bathroom, and had managed to wage war against a particularly stubborn colony of dust under the living room sofa. The house didn’t exactly sparkle, but it no longer looked like a forgotten dungeon with mild hoarding tendencies.
Snape, for his part, had spent most of the day avoiding the chaos with the focus of a man on a mission. You spotted him once—passing silently down the hallway with a teacup in hand, eyes pointedly not looking at your mop—and another time muttering a silencing charm on his study door. You’d nearly cackled.
By the time evening rolled around, you were sprawled on the worn-out couch, limbs aching but heart oddly content. Your playlist had long since died out, your laptop blinking sadly from across the room. You took a long breath and leaned your head back, staring at the ceiling.
Peace.
For once, things felt… almost normal.
Snape stepped into the room quietly, his silhouette outlined by the dimming firelight. He eyed you, then the cleaned surroundings, and then—without sarcasm, without scowling—said:
“You’ve done… quite a bit today.”
You blinked. “Was that… almost a compliment?”
“Don’t push it.”
You grinned. “Duly noted.”
A beat passed.
Then he added, tone slightly softer, “We should resume your training tomorrow.”
Your eyes opened. “Really?”
“You need it. With the situation being what it is…” he trailed off, his jaw tightening. “You must be prepared. You’re not safe—not yet.”
You nodded slowly. “Alright. Tomorrow it is.”
The morning was quiet, save for the faint sizzle from the frying pan and the soft clink of cutlery. You hummed under your breath as you flipped the eggs, the scent of herbs and butter filling the cozy kitchen. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was warm, and it was yours—well, as much as this strange situation allowed.
Behind you, the kettle clicked. A familiar presence leaned past your shoulder, grabbing two mugs.
“You forgot to heat the water,” Snape muttered, pouring it with practiced ease.
“I was busy being impressive with the eggs,” you shot back with a smirk, not even needing to turn.
He gave a soft huff that could have been a laugh—or a scoff. Maybe both. The two of you worked side by side with surprising ease, the domesticity of it all quietly settling in the corners of the house like forgotten sunlight.
It felt unnatural, how natural this felt.
Snape moved on instinct, reaching for plates, pouring tea—his usual sharp movements oddly softened. He watched you out of the corner of his eye: barefoot, hair a mess, a smudge of flour near your wrist.
Ridiculous , he thought. This isn't real. Can't be.
But still, the warmth of the kitchen crept under his skin and stayed there, curling around a part of him he thought long frozen.
Once breakfast was plated, you glanced at the clock and grabbed your wand, slipping on your boots.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” you said over your shoulder, heading to your room to refresh a bit.
He didn’t reply—not aloud, at least. He simply watched you go, then allowed himself a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
You stepped out into the transformed training area—a stretch of land behind the house warded off and cleared. Dummies lined the edges, targets floated midair, and a patch of soft, worn grass had been charmed to cushion landings.
And there he stood.
Snape was already waiting, wand in hand, long cloak swirling faintly in the breeze.
“Ready?” he asked, already walking to the center.
“Born ready.”
He started with spell drills—testing you, watching your footwork, pushing your reflexes.
“Don’t hesitate. That’s how you get hexed.”
You blocked, parried, countered. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat beginning to form at your temples. But something about his presence—the low, steady tone of his corrections, the sharp flick of his wand—kept you grounded.
“Again,” he said, and you obeyed.
Then he disarmed you.
“Wands away,” he ordered, slipping his into his sleeve. “Now, hand-to-hand.”
You blinked. “What, are you going to throw punches like a Muggle?”
Snape didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he lunged.
You barely dodged. He swept a leg; you stumbled back. He was faster than he looked—fluid, trained, and completely unreadable. But you’d picked up enough from observing him to hold your own, even if just barely.
He caught your wrist and spun you, pinning your arm behind your back before you slipped under his hold and kicked out—grazing his shin. His eyes narrowed with grudging approval.
And then—you overcommitted.
He moved fast, tackling you gently but with precision. You hit the grass with a soft thud, air knocked from your lungs—and before you could recover, he straddled you.
One hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your wrist, his hair falling forward as he looked down at you.
Your breath caught.
His weight above you. His eyes on yours. His thumb brushing your wrist.
Neither of you moved.
Too close, his mind whispered.
Too warm. Too soft. Too tempting.
Her lips. Her eyes. The way she looked up at him like she saw past the masks.
You are not a man made for peace. Don’t forget that.
“I thought we were training,” you whispered, your voice barely there.
“We are,” he murmured, voice rough. But his gaze had dropped—lingering on your lips, then returning to your eyes with something darker. Something dangerous. Something real.
He didn’t mean to lean closer. He didn’t mean to stay there.
But he did.
And for one awful, perfect second—he almost kissed you.
Then—
CRACK.
A burst of flame at the edge of the yard scattered the tension like shattered glass. Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, descended with radiant ease, wings glowing in the light. He landed atop a wooden post, tilting his head like a curious observer.
Snape froze above you.
The phoenix trilled, serene and sweet, before letting a scroll drop from its beak.
Snape grabbed it with a hiss, rising to his feet.
Of course. Of bloody course.
You sat up as he read.
“What now?” you asked.
He didn’t look at you. Just exhaled sharply, eyes scanning the note.
“An Order member is coming to collect potions,” he said.
You brushed grass from your arms. “Who?”
He finally looked at you, jaw set tight. “Lupin. Late afternoon.”
You stayed quiet after Fawkes left.
The kiss that never happened still ghosted your lips—an almost, a breath, a tension suspended in time. You kept replaying it. The weight of him above you. The way his eyes had gone dark. How he hadn’t moved until Fawkes had forced him to.
Would he have kissed you?
The question echoed louder with each passing second.
You didn’t ask. He didn’t offer.
But when you looked at him after, Snape seemed sharper. Quieter. Guarded again. The softness was gone, tucked away like it had never happened.
The rest of the day passed slowly, your thoughts looping endlessly between what almost was and what you wished had been.
And then—late afternoon.
The Floo flared.
Remus Lupin. Warm brown eyes. A kind smile. Threadbare robes. A presence that felt like fresh air after being trapped in a house of cold stone and colder stares.
And for the first time in weeks, you saw someone who wasn’t Snape. Or Dumbledore. Someone new. Someone safe. Someone... human.
And that shouldn’t have mattered.
But it did.
You found yourself smiling without trying.
“I’m Remus,” he said gently, offering you a hand that somehow felt warmer than it should have. “And you must be the one keeping Severus on edge.”
You laughed. You hadn’t even introduced yourself yet.
“Guilty.”
“Lupin.” Snape’s voice cut in, sharp as a snapped wand. He appeared behind you, like a shadow laced with thunder.
Remus blinked, unfazed. “Severus. I brought the Wolfsbane. Figured I’d pick up what you had ready for Dumbledore.”
Snape’s eyes didn’t leave Remus’s hand— still extended in your direction.
“She doesn’t need your introductions,” he said curtly, brushing past you both into the sitting room. “Or your assumptions.”
You raised a brow, half amused, half confused. Remus simply gave you an apologetic smile and stepped inside.
It was small. Barely a snap. But enough.
Enough to tell you something Snape didn’t say out loud.
And that was the moment the idea bloomed in your head like a wicked little flower.
Jealousy looked good on him.
You wanted to see more.
Remus had only visited twice, and yet you could already feel it.
That shift in the air whenever he arrived.
That cold, distant look Snape adopted the moment you so much as greeted the man at the door.
And oh, you saw it.
The narrowed eyes. The way his lips barely moved when he spoke to Remus. The stiff posture that somehow always stood just a little too close when you were chatting innocently about books or tea.
It was infuriating. It was hilarious.
It was… intoxicating.
So, naturally, you did what any emotionally damaged woman with a death wish would do.
You stirred the pot.
Take one
You found Snape in his lab that morning, organizing potion jars like they’d personally offended him.
“Professor,” you asked sweetly, peeking over a pile of drying sprigs, “what was Remus like back at Hogwarts? You know, as a student?”
He stiffened.
Didn’t turn.
Didn’t even breathe, for a moment.
“Why?”
You shrugged, tracing circles on the wood with your finger. “Just curious. He’s kind. Funny. Has a nice voice.”
A vial cracked between his fingers.
“I fail to see how that’s relevant,” he said coldly.
You bit your lip to suppress a grin. “So that’s a no on the storytime?”
He turned just enough for you to catch the flicker of disdain in his eyes.
“If you are so invested in the tales of your new... companion , perhaps you should ask him .”
You gave a dreamy sigh. “Maybe I will.”
Severus clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth ached.
Companion?
She’d known Lupin a matter of days. And yet her eyes sparkled every time he walked in.
What exactly did he do that I don’t?
Take two
You made breakfast.
Snape, naturally, refused to eat. He always did when Remus was due to arrive.
“Don’t you like eggs?” you asked, smiling innocently across the table.
“I don’t like being interrupted,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward the Floo.
“So broody in the mornings,” you teased, licking a bit of jam from your thumb.
He watched your tongue for one second too long .
Then, muttering something unintelligible, he rose and disappeared into the corridor.
Take three
Remus had come and gone.
You could still feel his warmth in the air.
Snape was pretending not to brood on the armchair, buried in a book he clearly wasn’t reading.
You curled up on the rug nearby, pretending to doodle idly on some parchment.
“Do you think Remus has a girlfriend?” you mused aloud, knowing full well the effect it would have.
Snape slammed his book shut.
Your eyes widened dramatically. “Did I say something wrong?”
Every fucking day since that werewolf walked in, she’s been testing me. Poking. Prodding.
I should ignore her. I should be above this.
But if she touches him again… if she flirts again—
“I think,” he said with barely-contained venom, “you should find a more productive use of your time.”
You tilted your head. “Why? My time bothering you is very productive.”
He stood. “It is deeply irritating.”
“Then I’m succeeding,” you whispered, low enough that he wasn’t meant to hear.
But he did.
Oh, he did.
That night, you caught him staring from the hallway.
Your bedroom door was ajar. You were reading in bed, blanket slipped too low on your chest to be accidental.
He lingered.
Watching.
You didn’t say a word.
She’s doing this on purpose.
Wants me to react. Wants me to claim her.
I should stay away.
But she’s making it... impossible.
You shifted under the covers, turning a page with a sigh that was more breathy than necessary.
He left without a word.
Last Take
And then the last resort and plan, you pushed it too far.
Remus was laughing at something you said. His hand touched your lower back in a moment of pure politeness.
You leaned up and kissed his cheek— again.
But this time?
You felt heat behind you.
Then hands.
Before you could speak, Snape spun you around and shoved you against the closed door, one arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist like he was holding himself back from doing something unspeakable.
His breath was fire against your face.
“You think this is funny?” he growled.
“Why?” you whispered, your voice breathless. “Are you jealous?”
His eyes darkened.
And then he kissed you.
There was nothing gentle about it. It was punishing, hungry, brutal. His mouth crashed against yours, tongue thrusting past your lips like he needed to own every inch of you.
“Tell me now,” he rasped, “if you want me to stop.”
You didn’t answer.
You just yanked his collar, pulled him down, and kissed him so fiercely he moaned into your mouth.
He lifted you without breaking the kiss, your legs locking around his waist, your back pinned against the door.
By the time you reached your room, half your clothes were gone.
He threw you onto the bed, staring down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
I’ve watched her.
I’ve wanted her.
I can’t stop now.
He stripped fast—robes falling away, revealing pale skin, lean muscle, scars, veins, raw power. You followed, tearing off the rest of your clothes like they were on fire.
And then?
He was on you.
His mouth latched onto your breast, sucking, licking, biting until you arched beneath him, whimpering his name.
His hand slid between your legs.
He groaned. “You’re soaked.”
“You’re taking too long,” you gasped, grinding against his fingers.
He kissed your inner thigh, then pushed into you with two fingers while his thumb found your clit, rubbing circles until your moans filled the room.
She’s perfect. Merlin, she’s perfect.
You grabbed his hair, yanked him up, and kissed him hard.
He grinned against your lips. “Impatient.”
“Starving,” you growled, and shoved him onto his back.
You straddled him, took him in your hand, and guided him into your mouth—slow, teasing, until he bucked beneath you with a growl.
“Fuck—just like that—”
He came with a strangled groan, and before he even fully recovered, he muttered the contraceptive spell, pulled you into his lap, and kissed you breathless.
“Are you ready?” he asked, voice hoarse.
You didn’t speak.
You just lowered yourself onto him slowly—inch by inch—until you were full, stretched wide, gasping as his hands gripped your hips.
You rolled your hips once—and he snapped.
He flipped you over, drove into you from behind, one hand in your hair, the other pressed between your legs.
“Say my name,” he ordered.
“Severus,” you moaned, your voice breaking.
He flipped you again. Legs over his shoulders. Deeper. Rougher. His name a chant from your lips.
Then sideways. Then against the wall.
You lost track of time. Of position. Of sanity.
All you knew was him— inside you, around you, owning you.
When you came, it was a scream and a cry and a wave that ripped through your soul.
He wasn’t far behind—grunting, moaning, biting your shoulder as he spilled inside you.
And when it was over, he collapsed beside you, pulled you against his chest, and whispered into your hair:
“Mine.”
The morning sun was soft against your skin. It streamed through the half-drawn curtains in golden streaks, painting quiet warmth on the sheets tangled around you. A strong arm rested across your waist. A warm chest rose and fell behind you. His breath tickled your shoulder—deep and even.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe. Content. Like the world outside this room didn’t matter.
You turned slowly, eyes fluttering open to see Severus Snape.
Still asleep.
Still yours.
And gods, he looked peaceful. Softer in the morning light. Less guarded. Less tormented.
You smiled.
Your fingertips reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead, and just for a moment—just a single, foolish second—you let yourself imagine what it would be like to wake up beside him like this every day.
But the moment you moved, the moment your hand pulled back—
He stirred.
His eyes snapped open.
And just like that… everything shifted.
He pulled away like he’d been burned. The warmth vanished. The softness was gone.
“…Severus?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
He sat up, legs over the edge of the bed, hands braced against his knees. Tension rolled off of him in violent waves. He didn’t look at you.
“I shouldn’t have let that happen.”
The words sliced through the morning like a blade.
You blinked. “What…?”
“That was a mistake,” he said, low and cold.
A mistake.
The ache started in your chest, blooming outwards like something dying.
“Severus—”
“You need to leave.”
Your breath hitched. “What?”
“You being here… it’s a liability. I can’t protect you if you keep crossing boundaries you don’t understand.”
The way he said it—clinical, detached—like you were just another broken experiment in his lab.
Like none of it meant anything.
But you saw it.
The tightness in his jaw. The way his fists clenched. He couldn’t even meet your eyes.
You shook your head, heart thundering. “Last night wasn’t a mistake.”
“It was,” he snapped, rising from the bed. His voice was sharp, defensive. “I let my guard down. I should have known better.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do ,” he hissed, turning on you now, black eyes hard as obsidian. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You think this is a game? I’m not some fantasy to play with.”
Tears welled before you could stop them. “So what was it then? Just stress relief? A convenient way to scratch an itch?”
He flinched.
But he didn’t answer.
Didn’t deny it.
Didn’t take it back.
The silence was louder than any scream.
Your lip trembled. “You’re a coward.”
He said nothing.
You stumbled out of bed, grabbing your clothes, clutching them to your chest like they could protect your heart from shattering. You didn’t even look back as you ran from the room.
Your door slammed shut behind you. You collapsed against it, sliding to the floor. The first sob ripped free before you could swallow it down.
He didn’t follow.
Didn’t knock.
Didn’t explain.
And you hated that you still wanted him to.
Snape stood in the middle of his room, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. The bedsheets still smelled like her. His fingers curled into his palms, nails biting deep into skin.
Stupid. Stupid.
He had tasted her skin, heard her moan his name—and still he let her go.
He’d never be able to have her without destroying her.
He’d made a mistake.
He had to fix it.
He threw on his robes, ignoring the tightness in his throat, and stormed out of the house.
The room and bed was cold and dark.
Your body still ached from the night before—not from pain, but the phantom of his touch. The warmth of his skin. The weight of him above you. Inside you.
You had kissed him like he was your beginning and end.
And he had left you like you were nothing.
“It was a mistake.”
“You need to leave.”
The words played over and over like a curse you couldn’t shake.
You curled tighter under the blanket, staring at the door, hoping—stupidly—that he’d come back. That this was all some sick defense mechanism and not his truth.
But hours passed.
And he didn’t return.
So when the knock came, your heart leapt.
Hope bloomed before logic could kill it.
You climbed out of bed, barefoot, still wrapped in a jumper that smelled like him. Walked through the quiet house, each step heavy with silent prayer.
Please be him.
You opened the door—
“Hey,” Remus said, gentle and concerned. “You look…”
His brows furrowed. “Are you alright? What happened?”
You blinked at him, tears rushing to the surface.
It wasn’t Snape. And this was the first time he came through the front door and not the floo.
But it was someone. Someone kind. Someone who didn’t leave you bleeding in silence.
“He pushed me away,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Said it was a mistake. Like it meant nothing.”
Remus stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, sympathetic. “You don’t deserve that.”
And the way he said it—it sounded so real .
You felt yourself lean into him, desperate for any sort of comfort. Any sort of touch that wasn’t cruel and fleeting.
His arms wrapped around you. Familiar. Warm.
He pulled back slightly, cupping your cheek.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly. “Let’s get you out for a while. Breathe. Clear your head.”
You hesitated.
But Snape didn’t want you.
So… what was there to stay for?
“Okay,” you said.
And just like that, your fingers wrapped around his.
You closed your eyes. And together, you Disapparated.
The ground beneath your feet felt wrong.
You opened your eyes.
No field. No trees. No soft wind. Just fog. Grey. Empty.
Dead silent.
Your heart twisted.
“Remus?”
He turned. But the warmth had faded.
That expression—that subtle smirk, the tilt of the head—it wasn’t him.
And then, the voice.
Low. Mocking. Familiar.
“You really didn’t recognize me?”
“I did throw you down the stairs, after all.”
Your blood turned to ice.
You stepped back.
His form shimmered—and the Polyjuice wore off.
The man from your house . The Death Eater.
Same eyes. Same smirk. Only this time, no mask.
“Been waiting to repay the favor,” he sneered.
You raised your wand—
Too slow.
A stunning spell hit you square in the chest.
You collapsed instantly, limbs numb, mind swimming.
Before the world went black, you heard his voice again, cold and delighted.
“The Dark Lord will be thrilled to meet you at last… Carrington.”
Chapter 9: All by Myself With Severus Snape Bound By Loyalty
Summary:
Captured and broken, you face Voldemort’s wrath — and when Snape finally arrives, the betrayal cuts deeper than any curse. But in a war of masks and lies, is anything ever what it seems?
Notes:
Hey, my dear reader, as I know it’s been a long wait for this chapter, and I’m so sorry for the delay! I’ve been battling a Flobberworm-sized writer’s block with this series, and writing this felt like duelling a Hippogriff. However, thank you so much to everyone who stuck with the story through it all. Hope you guys enjoy reading it.
Chapter Text
The morning mist hung low, curling around Severus Snape’s boots as he paced the perimeter of the forest behind the safehouse. The leaves, still damp from dawn, whispered with every step he took — a subtle, mocking echo to the thoughts tearing through his mind.
He hadn’t slept.
Not really.
Not after what had happened last night — her touch, her breath, her soft voice breaking through the walls he’d so meticulously built around himself. And just before sunrise, when the guilt finally overcame the calm, he had whispered the most cowardly words he knew:
“This was a mistake.”
He’d watched her eyes widen in confusion and pain as he barked words he didn’t mean. Had turned his back on her because it had all become too much. He, Severus Snape, Death Eater-turned-spy, half-broken man, couldn’t handle the weight of someone loving him. Not when love had always meant loss. Not when it put her in danger.
He ran a trembling hand through his hair, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. The guilt was thick, a living thing that clawed at his ribs and burned in his throat.
He shouldn’t have touched her. Shouldn’t have let her see that part of him. But gods… she had looked at him like he was worth saving.
And now—
CRACK.
The sound of magic snapping tore through the quiet. A ward. His ward.
He froze.
His blood ran cold.
No. No no no—
He turned on his heel, wand already drawn, and ran.
By the time he reached the clearing near the safehouse, Albus Dumbledore was already there — robes askew, eyes blazing.
“Where were you, Severus?” the older man demanded, striding toward him. “What in Merlin’s name—?”
“I—I went out. I needed to clear my—” Snape’s voice caught as he saw the open door, the scattered potion vials, the broken coffee mug on the floor. "Where is she?"
Dumbledore didn’t answer at first. Instead, he lifted something from the table — a piece of parchment, left in plain sight.
He handed it to Severus, his voice low and grim. “This was left behind.”
Snape took the note. His hands trembled.
The parchment was thick and old. Elegant handwriting—Voldemort’s—looped across the surface like a serpent coiling through blood.
“A precious daughter, born of betrayal. Let us see if her screams carry the same melody as her mother’s silence. — L.V.”
The room spun.
No air. No sound. Just the pounding in his skull.
His knees nearly buckled. “No. No, please…”
“Severus.” Dumbledore gripped his shoulder. “They knew. They must have been watching. Waiting for an opening.”
He had left her alone. After everything. After vowing to protect her. After she had laid herself bare to him—her trust, her love, her entire self.
And he had walked into the woods like a fool.
He clenched the note in his fist, eyes stinging. “This is my fault. All of it.”
“We’ll find her,” Albus said softly.
But Snape didn’t hear him.
His mind was already screaming with every possibility — where she could be, what they were doing to her. What they would make him do if they summoned him.
He turned to Dumbledore, something raw and panicked flickering behind his eyes.
“If he calls me,” Snape rasped, “I’ll go.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I will. And I’ll be ready.”
Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “Then let us prepare.”
Snape’s grip tightened on his wand. His expression was carved from stone now, but his voice was hoarse as he whispered, mostly to himself:
“I’ll bring her back. Even if I have to burn for it.”
Stars danced behind your eyes.
Your world swam in blurred shapes and splintering ache. Pain throbbed like war drums beneath your skin— ribs burning, wrists raw, muscles trembling with strain. Something sticky clung to your temple—blood or sweat, you couldn’t tell.
The silence was thick, oppressive. Your thoughts staggered, dragging behind the agony like broken limbs.
You blinked slowly. Stone. Chains. Damp air heavy with decay and metal. The coppery scent hit your first blood. Yours.
The last thing you remembered—
“Remus—” you whispered, and then flinched.
No. Not Remus. Not really.
The face you had trusted. The warm voice. The smile that made you let your guard down.
A lie.
A mask.
Polyjuice.
Your heart thundered as the realisation settled, cold and sharp: she had been taken.
You looked down. Your wrists were bound with enchanted iron shackles, chained to the wall. Your jacket had been stripped away. Your wand? Gone.
Think. THINK.
You took a deep breath, wincing at the ache in your ribs. Cracked, maybe. Bruised at the very least.
The door creaked open.
Boots. Multiple pairs.
Your pulse spiked.
A trio of Death Eaters swaggered in, grinning like wolves around a wounded lamb.
“Well, well,” one of them drawled. “Sleeping Beauty wakes.”
“Oh, the Dark Lord will be thrilled,” another smirked, bending close. “Such a pretty little heir of a traitor. Do you scream like your mother did, hmm?”
“Shut up,” you spat, summoning every ounce of venom you could. “You don’t even know her—”
A sharp slap cracked across your cheek.
“That’s for speaking out of turn,” the first one sneered. “You’ll learn manners soon enough, princess.”
They unchained your wrists, only to drag you up roughly by the arms. Your legs buckled, but they didn’t care. You were half-dragged through the corridors of what could only be an underground stronghold—stone walls, iron sconces, ancient runes half-hidden in grime.
Every footstep echoed like a countdown.
And then they reached it.
A massive chamber lit by green fire, silent but for the hissing of something large and alive.
Nagini.
And beyond her—
Him.
Tall. Pale. Eyes like twin pits of hell. Slit nostrils flaring with amusement.
Lord Voldemort.
Your heart skipped, and your breath left you.
“Ah…” The Dark Lord’s voice slid like oil over your skin. “There she is. The daughter of Lyra Carrington. I must say… your mother had more dignity. But you-you are special.”
You said nothing.
“I can smell her in you. That same fire. That same defiance.” He stepped closer. “Do you know what she cost me?”
Your lip trembled, but you held his gaze.
“Everything,” you said, quiet but unyielding. “She left you. She chose life.”
The air turned colder.
Voldemort’s smile died.
“Crucio.”
The pain was immediate and consuming. Your body arched, mouth open in a silent scream. Your nerves were on fire, bones fracturing from within. The magic crawled under your skin like insects with claws.
When it finally stopped, you collapsed, panting, sobbing—but still conscious.
Voldemort crouched beside you. “Where is the potion, girl? Where are the ingredients?”
“I don’t know,” you gasped.
Another blast. Crucio.
You screamed this time. Loud. Raw.
But your mind clung to one thing: Severus. If anyone knew you were gone… it was him. And he would come. He had to.
The world blurred. Everything hurt.
And still—
“I don’t… know,” she rasped.
Voldemort straightened, gaze calculating.
“We’ll see,” he whispered. “Soon, you’ll be begging to give me what I want.”
He turned away.
And with a flick of his hand, you were dragged back to the cell—barely conscious, half-broken, but not shattered.
Not yet.
The fire hissed in the hearth. Not crackled. Hissed—like it knew the danger leaking into the room.
Snape sat at the worn table, hunched forward, fingers pressed hard into his temple as if he could will away the creeping burn spreading through his left arm.
The Mark was waking.
It wasn’t fully summoned—yet. But it tingled and flushed red, just like it always had before the Dark Lord called him in. The skin crawled with heat, a warning flare from Hell.
He swallowed down the nausea.
“He’s going to summon me,” Snape said hoarsely.
Dumbledore, seated across from him, looked grave. “Soon?”
“Tonight,” Snape answered. “Or earlier if he grows impatient.”
A tense pause.
“I need options.”
Dumbledore nodded, already pulling parchments toward him. “What’s your first play?”
“The potion,” Snape said. “I give him what he wants—a version that looks perfect, feels functional, but is laced with a slow poison. Ten-minute delay. Odorless. Tasteless. Non-reactive to basic detection charms.”
“And the real one?” Dumbledore asked.
Snape pulled a scroll from his sleeve. “Locked. Concealed. With an activation phrase only I know. If I have to take it to prove its safety... I’ll take mine. Not his.”
“And if he makes her take it?” Dumbledore asked, voice dangerously quiet.
Snape’s jaw clenched. “Then I’ll bloody well kill him before he can touch her.”
There was silence between them, heavy and sharp.
Snape stood and paced the room, each step echoing like a metronome of dread.
“If he doubts me,” Snape muttered, “he’ll test my loyalty in front of her. Force me to—hurt her. Humiliate her. Break her.”
Dumbledore’s eyes were stormy. “Can you endure that?”
Snape hesitated.
Then, bitterly: “It won’t be the first time I’ve acted a monster.”
“But not with someone you care for.”
Snape looked away, jaw trembling ever so slightly before he locked it down again.
“She’ll understand,” he said. “Eventually.”
“You’re sure she will?” Dumbledore asked.
Snape didn’t reply.
Instead, he unrolled a small leather pouch and laid out vials: a concealed healing potion. A blood coagulant. A short-term strength booster. A transfigured portkey—a bronze coin, etched with runes, keyed to his wand signature and a three-tap spell sequence.
“If I can get close enough,” he said, fingers ghosting over the coin, “I’ll portkey her out. No warning. Just grab her and go.”
“And if you can’t?” Dumbledore asked.
Snape finally looked him in the eye.
“Then you break in. Burn the place to the ground if you have to.”
Dumbledore’s voice was steel. “You know that won’t be easy. If he’s expecting betrayal—”
“Then I’ll make sure he doesn’t.” Snape’s eyes were like obsidian. “I’ll be convincing. I’ll be the loyal dog he thinks he owns.”
The room was silent again, save for the soft, ever-present hiss of the fire.
Then the Dark Mark flared hot—angry and urgent.
Snape sucked in a sharp breath, staggering slightly before catching himself on the table. A dark bruise of magic spread under the skin.
Dumbledore stood instantly. “It’s time.”
Snape nodded, tucking the coin deep into his robe.
“May Merlin go with you,” Dumbledore murmured.
“No.” Snape straightened his shoulders, pulling his mask back on. “Merlin would turn away.”
He took one final look toward the hearth.
Then he was gone in a whip of black robes, walking into the jaws of hell with a heart clenched around one fragile hope.
The stone beneath her cheek was cold, but not colder than the silence.
You didn’t know how long you'd been left alone—hours? A day? Your arms ached from the shackles biting into your wrists, your lips cracked and stinging, blood crusted at the edge of your mouth.
But it was the silence that gnawed at your mind.
Then—voices. Not from the cell, but through the wall. You held your breath and turned your head.
Two Death Eaters. Close. Talking.
“I don’t trust him,” one muttered.
“Snape?”
“Who else? He’s too clever. And the way he looks at her—”
A sneer. “Too fond, you mean.”
The other spat on the floor. “He was always the Dark Lord’s lapdog. But this—this girl’s messing with his head.”
“He’s losing his edge. Makes you wonder where his loyalties really are.”
Your heart thudded. No. No, they couldn’t be talking about you. About Snape.
Another voice broke the tension.
Colder than ice. Slicker than poison.
“Oh, but I do wonder…”
The Death Eaters fell silent as Voldemort himself glided into the dungeon, the shadows curling tighter around him like hounds. His red eyes gleamed with something twisted—anticipation.
“Such curiosity… such attachment…” he murmured, circling her cell like a predator. “And now... such doubt.”
He stopped before the bars and tilted his head.
“You heard them, didn’t you?”
You didn’t answer.
He smiled. “Good.”
With a flick of his wand, the cell door creaked open, and ropes slithered around you like snakes, dragging you upright. Pain jolted throughout broken ribs as you gasped.
Voldemort leaned in close, whispering, “Shall we test his loyalty?”
He stepped back and turned to the Death Eaters.
“Let’s see if he comes when I call him.”
He raised his arm and pressed two skeletal fingers against the Mark.
A pulse of dark magic erupted from his skin—silent, but violent. Summoning.
The Dark Lord’s gaze returned to you, that terrible smile widening.
“Let’s show you the truth, child,” he hissed, voice dripping like venom. “The face behind your precious protector’s mask.”
And as your knees buckled and the pain roared in your bones, you realised—
You were about to watch everything break.
CRACK.
Apparition split the dungeon like a thunderclap—air twisting, smoke curling tight around the silhouette that materialized with purpose.
Severus Snape stood tall, his black robes settling with a whisper against the cold stone floor. His expression was carved from granite—blank, unreadable, like nothing in this room could touch him.
But his mind was chaos.
You walk into Hell now, Severus. Wear the Devil’s mask… or die with her.
He did not look at her. Not at you—bloodied, bound, bruised, your eyes wide with silent hope and horror.
No. He looked only at him.
“Severus,” Voldemort crooned, his voice like a knife dragged along bone.
Snape bowed low, sharp and controlled. “My Lord.”
A pause. Heavy. Suspicious.
Like the whole room held its breath.
Then Voldemort moved—slowly, predatory, eyes glinting with quiet fury. “Why,” he said, voice coiling like smoke, “did you not tell me you were living with her?”
The room seemed to shudder.
Snape straightened, hands calmly clasped behind his back. His heart thundered behind his ribs.
“I was gaining her trust, my Lord. Nothing more.”
Lie. Make it real. Say it like you mean it or she dies.
Voldemort’s brow arched. “Trust?”
“Yes.” His voice turned to steel. “Her mother’s formula is sealed behind emotion. Her grief, her memories—it’s a maze. She wouldn’t have given it up under torture. But she… trusted me.”
He said it like it meant nothing.
Like you were a tool. A stupid girl.
Forgive me.
Voldemort began circling him, slow and calculating. Like a serpent trying to decide where to strike.
“And yet… you did not inform me.”
“I wanted results. Not suspicion. I could have gotten everything.”
The words sliced through you.
Is this real? Is he lying? Is this all just survival?
You searched his face for anything—anything—human.
There was nothing.
Just the mask.
No… no, not him. Please don’t be him.
Voldemort’s smile was poison. “Could have. But didn’t.”
Snape didn’t speak.
But his eyes flickered—barely.
She’s still alive. She’s still breathing. I can still fix this.
“Perhaps your failure should be punished.”
From the shadows, Bellatrix let out a delighted squeal.
You flinched.
“Or…” Voldemort said silkily, eyes sliding back to you, “Perhaps you’ll prove your loyalty instead.”
Snape’s spine stiffened.
Here it is.
“Bring her.”
Ropes dragged you forward. Your knees scraped stone.
Your heart slammed in your chest like it wanted to escape.
“Prove yourself, Severus,” the Dark Lord whispered, eyes gleaming. “Strike her. Hurt her. Make her bleed.”
You froze.
Snape didn't move.
Then he stepped forward.
One step.
Another.
Still, he didn’t look at you—until the last second.
And when he did—
You wanted to believe him. You wanted to scream his name. You wanted to run to him and hide behind the man who once protected you.
But what you saw in his eyes…
Was agony.
War.
Don’t make me do this.
I have to do this.
Forgive me.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered—so low only you heard.
And then—
CRACK.
The slap rang out like a curse.
You stumbled, more stunned by the betrayal than the sting.
Your eyes watered—not from pain.
From heartbreak.
From shattering.
But Voldemort wasn’t finished.
He leaned in. Delighted. “Again.”
Snape didn’t flinch.
His wand was already drawn.
Please. Don’t. Don’t.
“Crucio.”
You screamed.
Your body twisted as white-hot pain exploded in your veins.
But not as loud as the scream that tore through him on the inside.
He had to keep it short. Just enough. Not too long. Not too deep. Enough for her to live.
His magic cut the curse off in seconds, but it felt like hours.
You collapsed, gasping, barely conscious.
The dungeon went silent.
And Voldemort smiled.
“Good,” he said, turning away. “Brew the potion now.”
Snape didn’t move.
You’re still breathing.
I’m still here.
But you didn’t see him anymore.
Only the man who broke you.
He didn’t even hesitate.
You could still feel it—the echo of the slap, the curse thrumming through your nerves like fire.
But worse was the silence now.
He didn’t look back. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for you.
Was it all a lie?
The mornings, the healing potions, the quiet moments that felt like truce... Had any of it been real?
You blinked against the tears—furious with yourself. Furious with him.
You told yourself he was different. That something behind his eyes meant something.
But now?
Now you weren’t sure what you saw at all.
And the next time you looked at him…
You hoped you wouldn’t.
Chapter 10: All By Myself With Severus Snape In The Misery Of Love
Summary:
You escaped—but at what cost? A dark spell is at play, love is twisted, and the clock is ticking. What happens when the one who saved you… might now destroy you?
Notes:
The story’s getting deeper, darker, and more emotional. Things are spiralling fast, and it’s only going to get more intense from here. Hope you guys enjoy reading it and hold on tight for what’s next.
Chapter Text
The room adjacent to the ritual chamber was dimly lit by torches, the air thick with smoke and the stench of dark herbs. Severus moved quickly, guided by habit and a mind sharpened by pressure. Voldemort’s command echoed in his ears: “Brew it. Now. Under supervision.”
Behind him, a few Death Eaters lounged and loitered, their attention half on the potion, half on the man forced to play torturer and alchemist in a single breath. The silence didn’t last long.
“Bit of a turn, innit, Snape?” came Macnair’s cruel drawl. “The mighty half-blood prince, twisting curses into her while she screamed his name.”
Raucous laughter followed. Dolohov added, “She screamed like she meant it, too. Think she’ll beg again when the poison hits?”
Another voice—one he didn't place—snorted, “Bet he’s used to her screaming. Just not under Cruciatus.”
The room erupted again.
Snape’s jaw tightened. He didn’t flinch. Not even when they mentioned her name, not when they dragged her agony through the dirt with glee. He stirred clockwise—one, two, three times—then reversed it.
He was calculating every second.
Every beat of her heartbeat in the other room.
Every breath she took under the weight of pain he’d delivered by his own wand—just to convince them he was loyal. He could still hear the snap of her scream when the Cruciatus tore through her. It haunted the silence as he worked.
And he hated himself for it.
But if he didn’t do it, she’d be dead by now.
He added the final ingredient—a rare venom that would, in the altered brew, act as a slow-acting poison once ingested in large amounts. Five to ten minutes. Enough time to play the role. Enough time to save her.
As the potion bubbled to a dark emerald hue, he dipped the ladle and poured it into seven vials, hiding the poisoned vial amid them. One remained untouched—his own, the safe one—tucked into the curve of his palm, hidden from view.
He had no choice.
He brewed.
The poison was subtle. Enough of the correct potion to satisfy the properties of the spell, but laced with a compound he’d developed weeks ago—something silent, irreversible, and perfectly timed. Death, ten minutes after ingestion. Unless…
Unless you had the antidote. Which he did. One dose. In his sleeve.
He ladled the potion into vials with surgical precision. Seven vials. One safe. Six deadly.
He took a breath and lifted the tray, still facing away from them.
For one second, his hand faltered.
She was still in the next room. Bound. Hurt. Breathing—barely.
He turned slowly.
Face blank. Spine stiff. A man who’d done this before. Who’d do it again.
Inside? He was burning.
He returned to the chamber, steps echoing like slow death. Voldemort stood at the center, eyes glowing crimson, towering over her collapsed figure like a snake watching its prey’s final twitches.
Snape didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.
Not now. Not when every inch of her skin probably remembered his wand.
He dropped to one knee, presenting the tray like a dutiful pawn, voice clipped and emotionless.
“It is done.”
“Excellent,” the Dark Lord murmured. “Then drink.”
He took the first sip in full view of the Dark Lord, feeling the potion swirl down his throat like liquid ice. But what mattered wasn't the taste—it was the effect. Within seconds, his body shimmered into invisibility. The reverse spell struck instantly, revealing him again, and Voldemort’s laughter echoed through the chamber.
“A success,” the Dark Lord hissed, pleased. “Let us drink to power and shadows.”
He waved a skeletal hand toward the gathered Death Eaters.
Your limbs were heavy. Numb.
Pain crackled like static just beneath your skin, but worse than that was the ache in your chest. Not from the curses. Not from the wounds. But from him.
From Severus.
The stone floor beneath you was cold. Sticky. You couldn’t lift your head more than an inch before it dropped again with a dull thud. Your arms refused to move. Your mouth was dry, lips cracked. You tasted copper.
Someone was speaking.
Laughter?
The Death Eaters. You couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was cruel, jagged.
Severus… where are you?
The last you remembered was the pain. His wand. His voice—so cold. Mechanical.
You told yourself it wasn’t real. That it had to be a show.
But now?
Now the silence from him was worse than the curses.
The door opened.
Boots. Robes.
Footsteps you knew better than your own heartbeat.
You forced your eyes open. Just a sliver.
And there he was—tray in hand, face a mask of stone. Not a single flicker of recognition. Not a single glance at you.
He moved like you weren’t even there.
Like you were—
Replaceable. Expendable.
You tried to speak. Tried to call his name.
Only a rasp escaped.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn.
You wanted to scream. To cry. To believe this wasn’t real.
But all you could do was watch.
Watch him kneel before the Dark Lord, offering the tray like a soldier. A servant.
A stranger.
You wanted to believe he still cared. But right then, it felt like he’d never even known you at all.
"Distribute it, Severus."
And he did—stone-faced, methodical, deadly. One by one, he handed out the poison-laced vials. Every movement precise, every glance avoided. Especially toward you.
He could feel you—feel your presence like a scream held in the back of his throat. But he didn’t dare look at you. Not yet.
Then, as the goblets rose and the Death Eaters drank—
He moved.
Just a step. Just one step closer to you.
But then—
The first scream.
Then another.
And another.
The potion had begun to work.
One by one, Death Eaters clutched their throats, their bodies writhing in sudden agony. Goblets fell to the floor, crashing. Some were gasping, others vomiting, and the wails of pain became a symphony of destruction.
It was deafening.
It was glorious—and damning.
Voldemort’s crimson gaze snapped across the room—first to the dying, then to Severus.
Then, to you.
He saw him—Severus—half turned in your direction, hand twitching toward his robes.
"TRAITOR!" the Dark Lord shrieked, his voice a shrill detonation of fury.
“STOP HIM!” he bellowed.
Spells erupted.
Pain was your world.
Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt.
But you knew something had changed. You heard it in the screaming. The Death Eaters were falling, choking, breaking. You couldn’t see clearly—your eyelids fluttered like broken wings—but the sounds...
And then—him.
You felt him before you saw him.
He was running.
You tried to speak.
You couldn’t.
But your heart screamed his name.
Severus dropped to your side. His hands were shaking as they touched your cheek, your wrist—searching. "Hold on," he whispered, voice cracking as another explosion shattered the ground nearby.
You barely managed to nod.
Then the curse struck.
He didn’t scream—but you felt it. Felt the way his body flinched. Heard the breath that caught in his throat.
The portkey activated—
And everything disappeared in a whirl of colour and pain.
The moment the portkey hurled you both into the safehouse, Severus's grip slackened. You crashed onto the floor with him, his arms still wrapped tightly around your broken body. Blood from both of you smeared across the cold tiles. You barely managed a breath before his head dipped, his face pale and strained.
“Sorry… so sorry…” he murmured, his voice cracked and weakening with every syllable. “I’m… so—”
Then his eyes fluttered shut, and he slumped over you.
“No—no no no, Severus—!”
You screamed. Raw, heart-wrenching, chaos poured from your throat. It echoed through the room as your trembling fingers gripped his robes, smearing more blood between your palms.
“Albus!” you gasped through the tears, your voice hoarse. “He—he got hit—he protected me—please—he was hit with a spell! Something dark—I don’t know what—”
Dumbledore’s eyes widened at the sight of Snape’s unconscious body. The mediwitch—Poppy Pomfrey, who had been stationed there at Albus's request—rushed over and began casting diagnostics. Dumbledore knelt beside you as you clung to Snape, trembling uncontrollably.
“He was cursed,” you whispered, sobbing. “He said nothing, he just—just took it—”
Pomfrey’s wand hovered, her lips a firm line. “He’s alive. But barely. Merlin, what has that man gotten himself into this time?”
“I recognize the spell,” Dumbledore muttered gravely. “But I must be certain. It is… very old. Very cruel.”
You didn’t hear the rest. The agony, the blood loss, the weight of fear—all of it crashed down at once. Your world went black.
The world returned with a cluster of ache. Agonising, throbbing pain. You were in a small bed, warmth barely clinging to your skin. You blinked, heart hammering, and pushed yourself upright with a gasp.
“Severus!”
“No—wait!”
Pomfrey’s voice echoed behind you, but you were already limping, half-stumbling out the door. Your limbs screamed, your ribs burned, but none of it mattered. You found the room.
There he was.
Bandaged. Motionless. Too pale.
You collapsed beside his bed, your hands shaking violently as you reached for him.
“Severus,” you choked, “please—please wake up—”
Pomfrey entered, arms crossed, exasperation and sympathy in her eyes. “You’re out of bed far too early, miss. You could’ve torn your stitches.”
You didn’t care. You barely heard her.
Tears streamed down your face as your fingers brushed Severus’s hand. “Why did you do that for me?” you whispered. “Why didn’t you let me be the one?”
“I should’ve protected him…”
Your sobs filled the room again.
Dumbledore entered quietly. “Poppy,” he said gently, “we may need to move her. If possible, conjure another bed in here—she should stay close. It will be easier for both treatment and comfort.”
Pomfrey gave a resigned sigh. “Very well. But she must rest. I’ll not have her tearing open every wound she has.”
Within minutes, another bed appeared. You were helped into it, never taking your eyes off Severus.
That night, before sleep claimed you, you overheard Dumbledore and Pomfrey speaking in hushed tones:
“Poor Severus,” she murmured. “Always the one caught in the worst of it. Just as he lets someone in, just as he starts to feel, something terrible finds him.”
“And this curse,” Dumbledore added grimly. “If it is what I think it is… it’s far worse than anything he’s endured.”
Three days passed.
The warmth of the fire crackled softly in the corner, contrasting sharply with the cold ache that lingered beneath your skin. You sat slumped in the conjured bed beside Severus, your fingers resting on the edge of his blanket, your eyes red and raw from sleepless nights and too many tears.
He lay still, chest faintly rising, bandages coiled around his torso and arms, streaks of old blood peeking through. Poppy had said he was stable. Dumbledore had said hope wasn’t lost. But none of that stopped the jagged twist inside your chest, the constant loop of his final, broken whisper before he collapsed with you in his arms: “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
Your lips trembled. You didn’t deserve his apology.
You deserved his hatred.
Because despite everything, he had chosen you—and he had nearly died for it.
Footsteps approached. Dumbledore returned, his blue eyes dimmed with worry.
“I believe I have confirmed what kind of curse that is,” he said gently, settling near the fireplace.
You straightened, heart pounding. “Tell me.”
He hesitated, eyes flicking toward Severus before turning back to you. “It is an old, cruel spell. Ancient magic. Designed to turn love into its darkest opposite. Once cast, it doesn’t kill immediately. It corrodes. Slowly. The victim begins to despise the one they love most. The stronger the love, the deeper the hatred.”
Your breath hitched. “And the cure?”
Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “The one they love must endure it—every word, every rejection, every cruel moment. They must give back love in return. Steady. Patient. Unyielding.” He paused. “And it must be done by the next full moon. If not, the hate becomes permanent. The curse eats away the heart. Severus will lose himself. Forever.”
You shook your head slowly, tears slipping freely down your cheeks. “I’ll do it,” you whispered. “I don’t care what it takes. I’ll endure it. I’ll save him.”
What you didn’t see—what neither of you saw—was the faint twitch of Severus’s fingers. Beneath closed lids, his lashes quivered. He was not fully unconscious.
The world was muffled, underwater. His body was heavy, but he heard—fragments.
“—hate… curse… full moon…”
“—must love him still… or he’ll be lost…”
What… what are they saying? he tried to lift his head, but pain lashed through his skull, sharp and white-hot.
“…he’ll suffer more if… if it’s not broken…”
And then—silence. Darkness folded back over him like a thick blanket, dragging him under once more.
Chapter 11: All By Myself with Severus Snape and The Curse in His Silence
Summary:
He shoves, curses, and bleeds, yet you still run to him. Even when his fury tries to drown you, you stay. Because loving Severus Snape isn’t devotion. It’s self-destruction disguised as hope.
Notes:
Sorry for the late update on this series, guys! I really had a Snape-sized writer’s block, just standing in my way 🤭. Yet, shifting around and getting lost in writing other fics, I finally found the spark to come back and finish this story, and I’m so glad I did. Let me know what you think, and I hope you guys enjoy reading it.
Chapter Text
You hadn’t slept properly—how could you? Even though your bed had been moved beside his, thanks to Dumbledore’s insistence, your eyes stayed fixed on his face each night. You barely blinked. Barely moved. Just watched. Watched and waited, hoping to catch the faintest twitch in his jaw, the tiniest flutter of his lashes.
But nothing.
Five days passed in a haze of waiting and wanting. Of whispering words he couldn’t hear and holding onto hands that didn’t squeeze back.
And every day that passed brought you closer to the deadline you feared more than death itself.
The full moon.
Three weeks, maybe four at best—and if he didn’t wake soon, if the curse fully consumed him, it would be permanent. The Severus you loved would vanish, lost in a sea of hatred. Lost to a curse that fed on love and spat out poison in return.
You couldn’t let that happen.
You wouldn’t.
No matter what it took, you were going to get him back.
You’d only stepped out because Poppy Pomfrey had practically dragged you to the kitchen, arms crossed like a prison warden, until you forced down a few bites of toast and some broth. She didn’t budge until your plate was empty. With a sigh and aching limbs, you made your way back to his room already bracing for the same stillness, the same silence.
Then you heard it.
A groan.
Your glass of water hit the floor with a shatter.
“Severus?” you breathed, your heart slamming against your ribs as you rushed to his bedside.
He was moving.
Limbs slow and uncertain. Brow twitching. Breath hitching.
But moving.
Your voice broke as you shouted for Poppy, who had only just begun packing her things. She and Dumbledore came rushing in moments later, their footsteps pounding like drumbeats.
But you only had eyes for him.
He looked dazed—lost in a fog, eyes darting like he wasn’t sure if this world was real. Haunted. Fragile. A man clawing out of something far worse than unconsciousness.
And then—
His eyes locked on yours. And everything stopped.
For a breath, just one… you swore it was him.
Your Severus. The man who had whispered apologies into your hair, who had bled for you, who had broken himself open just to keep you breathing.
But the moment passed.
Like a shutter slamming down, his face twisted. Cold. Blank. Foreign.
“Why are you here?”
It wasn’t the words that hurt most.
It was the way he said them.
Sharp. Detached. Like you were a stranger.
“I… you—” you tried, swallowing hard as your hands trembled, “you were unconscious. I’ve been… I just wanted to be here when—”
His jaw tensed. A thousand flickers of emotion danced behind his eyes—confusion, anger, something darker. He turned his face away from you like your presence burned.
Still, you stood tall. Or tried to. Your knees felt like jelly, but you forced your chin to stay up.
“I was waiting for you to wake up.”
That was when your heart cracked.
Before the pain could fully register, Dumbledore gently touched your arm.
“Wait outside,” he said softly, yet firmly. “Let me speak with him first. You’ve done more than enough, my dear.”
You opened your mouth to argue—but nothing came out.
So you nodded instead. Slow. Shaky. Silent.
You didn’t look away from Severus, not even as you backed toward the door.
You were afraid. Not of him. But of losing him.
Losing the man who once whispered your name like a vow.
And this—this wasn’t him. This was the curse.
You had to believe that.
You would believe that.
But the tears still fell anyway.
Pain.
It didn’t slam into him—it crawled, creeping through his veins like fire laced with ice. A cold burn. A familiar ache. And beneath it all, the taste of ash and metal on his tongue. His body didn’t respond the way it should have—every movement was too heavy, every breath a negotiation.
He was alive.
Why?
Why wasn’t he—
She.
The memory slammed into him like a whip: her face, twisted in pain, blood at her mouth, her body limp against his arms as he collapsed with you. Her voice whispered his name. The sound of her screams. Of his own, as the Cruciatus Curse tore through her both, one wielded by his wand, the other by his heart.
"I'm sorry," he had said, over and over again. But what had it mattered? He still did it. He had to. You knew that—didn’t you?
He stirred, limbs sluggish, brain groggy and burning with something dark. Something foreign.
Until your voice pierced it.
Soft. Tentative. Hopeful.
He tried to open his eyes.Tried to move.
And when he did—when he saw her,-it was like acid rushed through his veins.
She was there. Her face. Her eyes. Her voice.
Something snapped.
Not in his chest—but in his mind. A twist. A fracture. Like someone pouring ink into clear water. His heart lurched one way—toward her. His mouth twisted the other way against her.
"Why are you here?" he snapped, the words venomous on his tongue. He didn't want to say them, but they came anyway. Like something inside him needed to push her away. Like it would kill him not to.
She flinched.
Good.
No. Not good.
He turned his head sharply, repulsed by her. By himself. By everything.
And then—
“Severus,” came a familiar voice—low, grave, unshakable.
Dumbledore.
His vision cleared slowly, adjusting to the dull, amber light of the room. He was weak. But not delirious. Not anymore.
“What… happened?” His voice was raw. Brittle. Like broken glass sliding over stone.
“You’ve been unconscious for five days,” Dumbledore said gently, stepping closer to the bed. “You were fading fast. We nearly lost you.”
Snape didn’t respond.
Because something was lost. He felt it—like a flame snuffed out, leaving only smoke and ashes. A yawning pit where something warm used to be. Something real.
And in its place: rage. Cold, unrelenting rage. Especially when he thought of… her.
Dumbledore watched him carefully. “There is something you must know.”
Snape’s jaw tensed.
“A curse was placed upon you,” the old man continued, his voice weighted with centuries of sorrow. “Old magic. Ancient. It doesn’t strike with lightning or poison the blood. It strikes the heart.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed.
“It’s designed to destroy from within. It feeds on love—twists it into hatred so complete, so consuming, that the victim cannot tell the difference. The more love you felt, Severus… the more violent the effect.”
And just like that—
Snape remembered.
“If the curse takes root… she’ll be the one he despises most.” “The heart—the emotion it feeds on—is love…” “She must endure it. Every cruel moment. Every word.”
The whispers he heard just before everything went dark.
Dumbledore’s voice had echoed through his haze, but now it returned in painful clarity, each word a knife twisting in his chest.
“I—” Snape closed his eyes, breath catching. “I saw her.”
“She never left,” Dumbledore said quietly. “She’s been here every day. Slept beside you. Waited through every breath.”
Severus turned his face away. He couldn’t stand the image. Not now. Not with his hands clenched beneath the sheets, shaking with a hatred he didn’t understand but couldn’t suppress.
“She knew,” Dumbledore went on. “I told her what to expect. That when you woke, the first thing you might feel was revulsion. Anger. Cruelty. And still, she stayed.”
Snape bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“She knew you might hate her. That the curse would make you feel it. That it would come from nowhere. That it would not be real. But she stayed anyway.”
The door closed behind you.
For a moment, you just stood there. Stunned. Hollow. Like something had been ripped from your chest and left gaping open. The hallway was silent, but it rang in your ears, a thick, suffocating quiet that pressed against your ribs like a vice. Your lungs refused to cooperate. Your legs refused to hold you.
And then they gave out.
Your knees hit the wooden floor with a crack, your palms slapping down beside you. But you barely registered the impact. Only the pain inside mattered, the kind that couldn’t be healed by magic.
The kind Severus had just carved into you with a look.
You hadn’t even realized you were shaking until soft, firm hands wrapped around your shoulders. Poppy Pomfrey was suddenly there, kneeling beside you, steadying you before you collapsed entirely.
“Easy now, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice tight with emotion, her grip gentle but sure. “You’ve done all you can. You’ve been so brave.”
You couldn’t look at her. Your fingers dug into the grooves of the floorboards, trying to anchor yourself. Trying to breathe. The tears burned in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not yet. Not here.
The door creaked open behind you again.
You didn’t need to turn to know it was Dumbledore. The soft rustle of his robes, the subtle scent of lemon drops and parchment that always clung to him. He stood above you like a shadow of calm in a storm of grief.
“How is he?” you asked, your voice raw and barely audible.
Dumbledore took a slow breath. “ Angry. Disoriented.” A pause. “But not himself.”
You let out a broken sound—half laugh, half sob, completely ruined. You hugged your arms around yourself, trying to stop the shaking.
“It’s the curse, isn’t it?” you rasped.
“Yes, my girl,” Dumbledore said quietly, his voice laced with sorrow. “Ancient magic, cruel as it is. It will strip away layer by layer until it devours anything on its path."
Your eyes lifted to meet his, desperate and wild. “Is there—” You faltered, swallowing hard. “Is there any way to tell if it’s fading? Any sign at all?”
Dumbledore knelt beside you, his robes pooling like waves around him. His eyes behind the half-moon spectacles were full of regret and gravity.
“If he softens,” he said gently. “Even once. A breath caught on his tongue. A look that lingers too long. If he hesitates before he wounds you… that is your sign. It means the curse is faltering. That he is fighting it, even if he doesn’t know why.”
Your heart throbbed painfully in your chest. You nodded slowly, like each movement took all your strength.
“I want my things moved,” you whispered.
Poppy looked at you, brows creased. “Are you certain?”
You drew in a shaking breath. “He needs space. And maybe I do too. I—I need to remember who I am outside of this pain.” You paused. “I’ll still care for him. Still cook. Still clean. Still wait. But not from the same room. He doesn’t want me there.”
There was a silence that lingered like fog.
Then Dumbledore reached out, placing a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. “I will return on the night of the full moon,” he said gently. “Thirteen days.”
Your gaze drifted to the wall—the way the shadows stretched long and heavy. Thirteen days. It felt like a lifetime and a heartbeat all at once.
He squeezed your shoulder once.
“Hold fast.”
You nodded once, then whispered the words that had become your anchor:
“Steady. Patient. Unyielding.”
Even if it killed you.
Your footsteps echoed hollowly as you stepped into your room—dustier, colder, smaller than you remembered. But it was yours again.
The bed had been moved back in. Sheets clean. The desk untouched. Your books lined the shelves like forgotten companions, watching you return to a self that felt like a ghost.
You stood in the doorway for a moment, letting the stillness press against your chest, before finally switching on the light. A warm glow flickered to life, casting long shadows across the walls and across your face. You moved like someone remembering how to breathe.
Then you sat.
At the desk, your hands reached for parchment and ink like instinct. Not to write letters. Not tonight.
Tonight, you drafted a battle plan.
Because if you couldn’t reach him with logic, you’d reach him with memory. With tenderness. With relentless, suffocating, patient love. The kind that could crack through the darkest spells if given enough time.
You wrote slowly at first. A list. A strategy.
Tactics: Rebuild routine. Recreate memories. Feed him. Speak softly. Never rise to his bait. Let kindness be a mirror. Let silence be your weapon.
At the top, in bold, you scrawled a single word: Spaghetti.
Your hand trembled as you underlined it—twice.
The dish you made together, after the painkiller incident. When he had let out the faintest of laughs. When you kissed him on the cheek for the first time. When his hand brushed yours and didn’t flinch away. When something fragile, and terrifyingly real, had started to grow between you.
You would remind him. Even if it destroyed you.
After your strategy was laid bare in ink, you reorganised the room, folding every shirt like it held meaning, placing each book like an offering to the past. You moved through the space like a ceremony, your breath quiet, your movements careful.
Then, you made your way to the kitchen.
The spaghetti took time. You prepared it with a kind of reverence, chopping garlic, stirring the sauce, measuring spices like you were handling memories, not ingredients. Every movement brought back flashes of that day: the shy smile, the subtle tension easing from his shoulders, the soft clink of plates, the feeling of his presence that wasn’t filled with dread.
Now, your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, as if your body already knew what your mind refused to accept.
The scent filled the house—warm, nostalgic. Heavy. It clung to the walls like memory itself, whispering do you remember?
When the tray was ready, your palms were slick with sweat. You took one last breath before heading up the stairs.
Each step felt like a battlefield.
You knocked, once. No answer.
You opened the door.
There he was.
Sitting in bed, a book in his hands, but not reading. Just holding it, fingers tense. His eyes rose slowly to meet yours, and in that single moment, you felt it: the dead calm before a hurricane. The eye of the storm.
Cold. Glassy. Razor-sharp.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. And then, like poison dripping from a cracked chalice, came the words:
“Cooking? How sweet.” His voice was low. Icy. Mocking. “Playing house again, are we?”
You froze—but your face didn’t flinch.
“I just wanted you to eat,” you said softly. “We made this before, remember? After—”
He laughed. Bitter. Cruel.
“After your little painkiller stunt, yes. A memorable moment of pathetic desperation.”
The tray shook in your grip.
Still, you stepped forward.
“I thought… maybe it would remind you,” you said again, your voice a whisper on the edge of breaking. “Of what was real.”
“What was real?” He slammed the book shut with a snap. “You’re clinging to things that never existed. That’s what’s real.”
Then, in a slow, deliberate tone that carved through you:
“You’re pathetic.”
You felt your breath catch, like the air had been knocked out of your lungs.
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something feral. He wanted to watch you fall apart.
“Still crawling after scraps like a dog. Desperate for meaning in things that meant nothing to me.”
And gods, it hurt. It hurt in places words couldn’t reach.
But still, you moved. You placed the tray gently on the bedside table, your hands shaking but your voice steady:
“I’ll still be here. No matter what you say.”
He didn’t reply. Just stared.
Cold. Hollow.
You turned and walked out, shutting the door with the softest click, like you were trying not to disturb what little remained of him.
But you didn’t go to bed.
Your bare feet padded down the stairs to the living room, dimly lit by the soft flicker of the fireplace. You sank onto the couch, eyes dry—but your chest felt like it was unraveling. Thread by thread.
You sat still. Frozen. You didn’t cry. Not yet.
You planned.
You leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Thinking. Strategising in your head. Wondering what memories were left to wield. What gentle weapons remained.
You would keep going. You would endure.
And finally, as the fire crackled and your resolve bled into exhaustion, you stopped thinking as your eyes closed, and sleep claimed you.
Alone. But still hoping.
The smell reached him before she did.
Garlic. Tomatoes. Basil.
A memory wrapped in steam and sauce—one that clawed at the back of his mind like a half-forgotten dream. The warmth of a kitchen, the sound of her laughter trying to fill the silence, her clumsy attempt at stirring the pot, the way her lips had brushed his cheek, uninvited and unforgettable.
He gritted his teeth.
No. That man, who had allowed himself to feel, was a liability. A weakness. And now, weakness would be punished.
He stared blankly at the book in his hands, but the words swam on the page, meaningless. His grip tightened. He wasn’t reading. He hadn’t been reading for hours. Only sitting. Waiting. Fighting.
Her footsteps came. Light. Hesitant.
Don’t come in. He begged her, silently. Don’t make me do this.
But the door opened.
And there she was—tray in hand, eyes hopeful, ridiculous hope shining in them like it had any place in this poisoned house.
His stomach twisted. Not from hunger.
From the curse. From her kindness. From the memory of how peaceful it had once felt to sit across from her and just be.
She was still trying. Even after he spat hatred in her face that morning. Still trying to save him.
Foolish girl. Beautiful fool. Why won’t you stop?
His mouth moved before he could stop it.
“Cooking? How sweet. Playing house again, are we?”
It tore through her like a blade, he saw it. She flinched—but didn’t break.
And that enraged the curse.
A deep throb pulsed through his skull. His skin prickled. Words boiled under his tongue, hot and venomous. He tried to resist, but his throat burned until the poison spilled out.
“After your little painkiller stunt, yes. A memorable moment of pathetic desperation.”
Her hands trembled. But she stepped forward.
She spoke again, gently. Tried to remind him. Of laughter. Of the meal. Of warmth. Of a time where, for just one evening, he'd felt something human.
Something like love.
He hated her for it. He hated himself more.
He slammed the book shut. The curse twisted inside him, snarling.
"You're pathetic."
His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. Ugly. Filthy. He was rotting from the inside.
“Still crawling after scraps like a dog. Desperate for meaning in things that meant nothing to me.”
Lie.
Every word he said was a lie.
But she didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She simply placed the tray down and whispered:
“I’ll still be here. No matter what you say.”
Her voice was soft—but resolute. Like it would outlast him.
She left, quiet as snowfall. And the room fell into silence once more.
He sat there.
Still. Book shut.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Why won’t she leave? Why won’t she run?
He reached for the fork without realizing it. His hand hovered above the plate—but then dropped.
He couldn't eat. He didn’t deserve it.
Instead, he sat with his shame. With the smell of her cooking. With the memory of her hand on his cheek and her voice in his ears and the sting of her absence now louder than anything else.
He was breaking. And he knew it.
And somewhere, deep beneath the curse’s grip, he wanted to break. Because if he shattered, maybe she would finally be safe from him.
You weren’t even dreaming.
Your sleep was shallow, like floating beneath a sheet of ice. Nothing reached you—no warmth, no rest, only silence pressing in from all sides. So when the thud cracked through the ceiling, your body jerked upright as if yanked by a rope.
Crash. Cursing. A dragging noise. Then—
“ Bloody hell! ”
Your heart rocketed into your throat.
You were on your feet, flying out of the room before your mind even caught up. Bare feet pounded against the stairs, each one a gunshot echoing through the house. The hallway spun, but you didn’t slow.
You didn’t knock.
You slammed the door open.
There he was.
Snape—half-fallen, body twisted at the edge of the bed like a marionette with snapped strings. One arm clawed at the mattress, the other limp beneath him. He was drenched in sweat, strands of hair plastered to his face, his teeth clenched in visible agony.
Your stomach plummeted.
“Severus—”
“Get out!” he roared, voice cracking like glass. “I don’t need you!”
But you were already there, sliding down to your knees beside him, arms reaching out—
He shoved you.
Hard.
Your shoulder slammed into the wardrobe behind you, sharp wood jabbing into bone. Pain burst up your arm like fireworks. But you didn’t scream. Didn’t even grunt.
You blinked, stood, and stepped behind him.
Your arms wrapped around his middle, locking tight beneath his ribs, and you lifted.
He cursed, wild and vicious. Called you names. Words meant to sting and disarm.
You tuned them out. You only heard his heartbeat. His stuttering breath. His weight, so much lighter than it should’ve been.
As you guided him onto the bed, you felt it again—the heat of his skin, the fresh patch of blood spreading through the gauze at his side.
He hissed.
Your fingers found the dressing. You muttered the charm, wandlessly this time, voice low and steady.
The blood vanished.
But your touch didn’t stop there.
You felt his body. His heartbeat. Listened.
And for just a flicker of a moment…his heartbeat is normal, and you felt his body soften. Not much. Barely there. But enough for your heart to twist violently in your chest.
He screamed anyway—out of pride, pain, or something worse.
“You dare—”
You said nothing.
Your breath was ragged, your shoulder screaming—but your face remained calm.
You stood, turned, and walked out.
Your hands trembled. Vision blurred. But your steps didn’t falter.
Downstairs, the world was quiet again. But your bones were still ringing.
And so, you made breakfast. Because he was still alive and still needed you.
Therefore, you went up again with the breakfast tray.
The tea trembled in its cup, threatening to spill. You steadied your grip and stepped into his room.
He was upright now. On the bed. Stiff, unmoving, furious.
His eyes, black pits of cold venom, met yours.
You didn’t cower.
You placed the tray gently on the side table, fingers lingering on the porcelain.
Then, with a quiet voice that sounded far more confident than you felt, you said:
“Rest well, Severus.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Only watched you like a hawk sizing up prey.
You turned. Walked away again.
Then the day loomed over you. And oh, it was cruel.
You cleaned like it was war.
Every tile, scrubbed. Every book, straightened. Every cabinet, purged. You cleaned until your hands were raw and your knees bruised. Until your mind was too exhausted to ache.
You needed to do. You needed to move. Because if you stopped for even a second, the pain would catch you and drag you under.
Your laptop sat open in the living room, its speakers playing music low and constant.
The playlist ran on shuffle, cycling through old favourites. Some you hummed to yourself when the world turned too sharp. Some, he once said, were “marginally tolerable ”back when he didn’t hate everything.
And then, it came on—Katy Perry’s Hot & Cold.
You couldn’t help it. You let out a dry, helpless laugh as you polished a photo frame.
That ridiculous memory. The first time he walked into the room while you cleaned one day, the song blaring, and muttering something like, “blasting that… that howling banshee’s mating call?”
He’d smirked. You’d danced. He’d watched.
Your hand paused over the frame. You swallowed hard.
The moment was gone.
The sound of the floo coming to life snapped you back.
“Hello, anyone there?” came the familiar voice.
You turned.
“Poppy,” you whispered.
She stepped inside with her usual satchel and the same weary fondness in her eyes. She took one look at you and frowned.
“Came to do my routine check-up. Is the beast awake yet?” she said gently, setting the bag down on the sofa.
You nodded. “He fell. Tried to get up too quickly. He’s angry… shoved me.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Did he hurt you?”
You didn’t answer. Just raised your bruised shoulder.
She walked straight over and saw her wand come out faster than you thought.
“ Episkey. ”
A rush of cooling relief spread through your arm. The pain dulled.
“There,” she said, brushing your hair back. “Better?”
You nodded again.
Then she pulled you into a hug.
“You’re doing what no spell, no potion, no bloody healer in St. Mungo’s could do,” she whispered. “You’re fighting with love. Don’t stop now.”
You clutched her tightly. Just holding on.
It started with a dream. Or maybe it wasn’t.
He couldn't tell anymore.
Everything was slipping—time, space, even the sense of self. The pain had crawled into his bones days ago, cold and endless, but now… now it was everywhere. Tearing through his nerves, echoing through his skull, dragging him down deeper with every breath.
And then he moved.Too fast.
He remembered the sound first, the crack of his body collapsing onto the floor. His ribs screamed. His shoulder tore. His lungs refused to obey.
He tasted blood.
No, not again. Not like this.
He clawed at the bed, breath shallow, sweat soaking through his shirt. He couldn't think, couldn’t focus. The curse was snarling inside his chest, wrapping tighter, whispering: She should not see you like this.
Then the door slammed open.
Her voice—his name—no.
“Get out!” he snarled, his voice a blade honed by panic. “I don’t need you!”
But she was beside him.
He saw her eyes. Wide. Shaking. But unyielding.
His hand shot out—reflexive, violent. He shoved her.
Harder than he meant to.
Her body hit the wardrobe with a sickening thud.
He froze.
Her face twisted. But she didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Didn’t leave.
Instead, she stepped behind him—like a fool. Like a warrior. Like someone too full of something reckless and blinding.
And then her arms were under him. Lifting him.
No.
The curse writhed. His vision blurred.
He spat poison. Called her names he’d never forgive himself for. Tried to bite, to cut, to drive her back.
But her hands… her hands burned with warmth.
He felt her fingers pressed to his body.
Then, relief washed through the wound like cool water, and damn it all, his body softened. A flicker of comfort. Of peace.
It was worse than the pain. He screamed.
Because she was winning, and a part of him didn’t want to fight anymore.
And she—she just looked at him. Calm. Steady. Bleeding and silent.
Then she left.
And he lay there in the darkness, breath ragged, heart splintering.
He stared at the ceiling for hours.
However, after a while, she returned.
A tray. Breakfast and tea. A soft “Rest well, Severus.”
He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He hated how she looked at him. With grace. With love.
He hated that he almost craved it.
She turned to leave, and his mouth moved. Say something. Anything.
But nothing came. The silence grew fangs. He heard her cleaning.
Relentlessly.
He heard the music, too.
That song. That stupid, absurd song.
Hot and Cold.
He remembered it all, her dancing with a mop, laughing, while he scowled from the doorway. She’d twirled, singing into a wooden spoon, and he’d muttered something about banshees.
And she’d smiled.
Merlin, she’d smiled.
He gripped the sheets tight enough his knuckles cracked.
The Floo ignited.
Poppy. Routine check on him.
He nearly wanted to scream from his room to her to sod off. But he stayed quiet, listening.
“…He fell. Tried to get up too quickly. He’s angry… shoved me.”
Silence.
“Did he hurt you?”
Pause.
“…Just my shoulder.”
Then the spell. The soft Episkey.
Then that healer's voice again, trembling and full of meaning:
“You’re doing what no spell, no potion, no bloody healer in St. Mungo’s could do. You’re fighting with love. Don’t stop now.”
He closed his eyes and pressed his fists to them.
And let the darkness roar inside.
Dinner had been ready earlier that evening—chicken broth, slow-simmered and full of flavour, with golden garlic bread on the side. You’d arranged it all neatly, adding a bit of thyme and parsley, just like he used to prefer.
But you lost track of time.
The cleaning. The memories. The exhaustion.
It was nearly 8PM when you gasped, flying into the kitchen to reheat everything. The broth had gone lukewarm, the garlic bread too stiff. You fixed it as best you could, tray trembling in your hands as you carried it upstairs.
You knocked. Just once.
And opened the door.
He was sitting up again, leaning against the headboard, eyes ringed with shadows.
And he didn’t even hesitate. The book in his hands came flying.
CRACK.
It slammed into the wall beside your face. Missed you by inches. Pages exploded into the air like a snowstorm of fury.
You flinched, but didn’t duck.
He roared, “Leave me the hell alone!".
Your hands curled tighter around the tray, but your feet kept moving.
You crossed the room, set the tray on the table beside his bed.
And said, quiet and resolute, “I’ll always feed you. Even if you hate me.”
He said nothing. Didn’t look at the food. Didn’t look at you.
You turned and walked out.
Again.
The next day came. And the next.
Snape moved like a ghost now, walking, brewing, healing. His body had recovered enough to drift from room to room with silent, bitter purpose. The heavy weight of pain was gone from his limbs, replaced instead by sharp-edged silence and that cold, calculating mask he wore like armour.
He brewed potions in the basement again, slow, methodical, precise. You heard the clink of glassware, the bubbling of cauldrons. You smelled the pungent scent of fluxweed and asphodel creeping through the floorboards.
But he never spoke.
He never said thank you. Never acknowledged you.
Only growled when you passed too close. Spat insults when the tea was too cold. Threw words like knives when you dared to suggest rest.
Still, you brought him meals. Still, you cleaned his room. Still, you whispered gentle things like spells into the silence, even when he ignored you. Especially when he ignored you.
He was healing.
Not just physically, but slowly, excruciatingly, the darkness thinned. The curse fought to hold him under, but you saw it now in slivers: The way he paused when you turned away, the faint hesitation before his anger flared and lastly the tremble in his fingers when your hand brushed the doorframe.
Two days remained.
The final threshold. The point of no return.
And even if he never said it, even if the curse kept him chained to cold words and bitter silence,
You would stay. Even if it costs you every last piece of yourself.
Dinner.
She brought it like always.
Chicken broth. Garlic bread. Parsley—bloody parsley.
He wanted to throw the tray. Wanted to scream at her to go. He didn’t want to see her. He didn’t want to hurt her again.
He wanted to die. Or sleep. Or be free.
But the book was closer. His fingers closed around it. He didn’t even think.
CRACK.
It missed her. He saw her flinch. Just once. But she didn’t leave.
She set the tray down. Quiet. Determined.
“I’ll always feed you. Even if you hate me.”
Something inside him broke, and he almost begged her to stop.
But he couldn’t. Not with the curse still wrapped around his throat, its grip tightening with every flicker of vulnerability.
She left, and the room grew colder.
Yet, the days that followed were worse.
His body healed, and his movements steadied. He brewed again. Silently. Mechanically. The basement smelled like old memories and bitter regret.
But he couldn’t speak to her.
He couldn’t even look at her too long without something inside aching.
The curse still bound him, but it was weaker now. It slithered inside him like dying smoke, snarling at every flicker of warmth. It knew what was coming.
And so did he.
Two days.
Two days until the end. Two days until he either broke the curse or lost her forever.
And every time she came closer… Every time she chose to stay…
It made him fear the end more than the curse itself.
He watched her hands leave tea on the table. Heard her footsteps outside his door. Smelled her perfume clinging to the air long after she left.
And every moment she stayed, every small act of care, drove the curse mad with fury and him mad with grief.
Because she was choosing him. Now and like this, too.
And if she kept choosing him…He wouldn’t survive the breaking.
But gods help him, he wanted her to keep choosing him anyway.
Even if it destroyed them both.
Chapter 12: All By Myself with Severus Snape In a Forever Kind of Love
Summary:
After all the pain, betrayal, and silent ache of what could’ve been, they finally find their ending. Not in the shadows of loneliness, but in the kind of love that survives everything, time, war, and fear. A forever kind of love, wrapped in quiet promises and the arms of the man you once thought you lost for good.
Notes:
Hey guys, this is it, the end of my very first fic, and honestly, the beginning of everything for me as a writer🥹.This series means the absolute world to me, so thank you for reading, supporting, and loving Severus and the reader through all the angst, heartbreak, and healing. Hope you guys enjoy this final chapter, and it brings you the same peace it brought them. Let me know what you think! 🫶🏼
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The dream came like a memory you never lived.
Warm arms wrapped around you. Tight. Protective. Your fingers curled into black wool and damp fabric as he collapsed to his knees in front of Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey. He was bleeding from the mouth, shaking, whispering your name like it was the only thing he remembered.
"Sorry… so sorry…" He murmured, his voice cracked and weakening with every syllable. "I’m… so"
And then his eyes rolled back, and blood began to flood from his mouth, his nose, and his ears. His face contorted in pain, his skin ghost-pale, and before you could scream—
You woke up.
A violent gasp tore through your throat as you sat up in bed, sweat soaking through your shirt, breath ragged and too loud in the silence.
It was barely dawn. The world outside was grey, still, trembling on the edge of morning.
You swung your legs off the bed. Your joints ached. Your body felt foreign. Walking into the bathroom, you flipped the switch and froze.
The girl staring back at you in the mirror was hollow-eyed and pale. There were deep shadows under your eyes, lips cracked, and collarbones jutting out from under your shirt. Your hair looked lifeless, your skin dull.
You touched your face.
What have I become?
But this was the final day.
The day that would decide everything. The end of the curse. The last test of your love, of your strength. It would break him or save him. And you had to believe he could still be saved.
You dressed quietly, pulling your robe around yourself like armour, and made breakfast.
Your hands worked mechanically: eggs, toast, and tea steaming and brewed perfectly. You laid the table as if everything were normal. As if nothing inside you was breaking.
Severus entered the kitchen.
Late.
He moved like a shadow, tall and colder than the grave. His eyes were sunken, darker than you remembered. His presence consumed the air.
He didn’t even look at you.
He sat down in silence, his chair dragging across the floor. Then:
"Still playing house, are you?" He sneered, his voice like splintered glass. "You think this charade means anything to me? Pathetic."
You didn’t flinch. Not on the outside. But inside, your ribs caved in again.
He ate in silence, with furious movements, as if every bite betrayed him. You couldn’t speak. There was no point.
When he left the room, you scrubbed every dish harder than necessary, your hands red and raw.
Then you began cleaning the kitchen and the hall and even did his laundry. You found one of his outer robes, black and long, still faintly carrying his scent —something earthy, smoky, almost like the dungeons.
You hugged it to your chest.
It smelt like what you missed.
Outside, the wind was cool. You hung the laundry and stood quietly in the light, robe still pressed to your chest, staring into the sky, praying to it.
Please. Let this end.
Later, you curled into the lounge chair with a book, trying to pretend your heart wasn’t pounding like war drums.
"WHOOSH!!!"
Green flames ignited the fireplace. Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey stepped through.
Their robes were wrinkled from travel, and their eyes shadowed with the weight of too many worries.
"How are you, dear?" Dumbledore asked gently.
You set the book down. Your throat felt tight.
"I’m hanging on," you whispered. "I miss him. I miss Severus."
Pomfrey crossed the room quickly and wrapped you in a hug.
"All in good time," Dumbledore said, eyes kind but tired.
You nodded, tears burning in your eyes.
"Can I make you all some tea?"
They both declined gently.
"No, dear," Dumbledore said kindly. "Just rest. You need to be calm… this day will decide everything."
Then you waited as the time dragged.
You sat with them in the drawing room, curled up in a chair, eyes on the ticking rune-clock.
Then, footsteps.
Severus stormed into the room like a thundercloud given flesh.
His eyes immediately landed on you, and something twisted.
"You’re lounging?" he spat. "While I suffer, you sit like a pampered girl waiting for your happy ending?"
"Severus—" Pomfrey began.
"Don’t," he snapped. His eyes were manic.
"You think you matter? You think this all matters? You’re nothing but a reminder. A mistake I never wanted."
You stood. Your breath caught in your throat.
He stepped toward you. Then another.
The magic was humming around him now, flickering lights, rattling windows, and the fireplace flaring and dimming.
"Severus!" Dumbledore warned.
"LOOK AT ME!" he screamed.
You couldn’t.
And that—that broke him.
He raised a hand, wild with fury, and then the magic backlashed.
It exploded from him like a detonation. A wave of raw, primal magic tore through the house. Walls cracked. A painting burst into flame. Windows exploded.
Pomfrey shielded you with a protective charm just in time.
You collapsed into the corner, sliding down the wall.
Your tears spilt freely now. Your chest felt tight. You were going to break.
That was it.
You couldn’t take any more.
You might just stop loving him.
Pomfrey reached you, pulling you close. You sobbed into the older woman’s robes.
"He's fighting," Pomfrey whispered. "That backlash? It wasn’t hatred. He’s close. So close."
Morning. The scent of toast. The soft scrape of silverware.
And her. Always her.
But his mind was a battlefield. Every loving memory was distorted, poisoned. The curse chewed through his sanity, whispering lies, stoking rage.
Her face across the table should have brought peace.
Instead, it lit his fury.
Who is she to pity me?
The words spilled out before he could stop them.
He wanted to scream Shut up. He wanted to grab his own tongue and rip it out. But he couldn’t. The curse was driving. He was just a passenger.
The whole day, he watched her clean, watched her fold his robes. Watched her stand in the sunlight, hugging one like she missed him.
She misses me.
He wanted to scream.
By evening, the curse was a storm in his veins. He entered the drawing room, and the sight of her calm face undid him.
He raged. Screamed. Called her names that weren’t true. Lies, all of it. But they poured out like venom.
She looked so small. So tired.
When she wouldn’t look at him, Severus felt something snap.
His hand raised.
And then, the curse reached its breaking point.
His heart ruptured with light.
Magic erupted from his chest in a blast of pure energy.
Pain.
Blinding, searing pain.
He collapsed.
White light burst from Severus Snape's chest.
A shockwave shook the house, cracked the ceiling, lifted every chair off the ground.
Poppy screamed. Dumbledore raised his wand, shielding the room.
And there, in the centre, Snape lay crumpled. His body was twitching.
Breathe shallow.
You stood coming out, trembling, from behind Pomfrey and standing beside her.
And then you saw, his fingers twitched.
A low, ragged groan.
His lips parted.
"...your name."
He sat up too fast. Wild eyes. Chest heaving.
Then, his eyes made contact with yours, and his breathing slowed.
Recognition and relief.
Tears welled in his eyes.
"I—I’m so sorry," he whispered.
He stood up and staggered forward toward you, then collapsed to his knees in front of you, hugging your legs.
"I remember everything... the way I spoke to you... the things I said... I couldn’t stop it. I was trapped. Inside myself. Screaming."
You fell to your knees too, catching him as he fell into your arms.
His sobs were violent. His hands clung to you like lifelines.
And for the first time in weeks, you held the man you loved, the real one.
You and Severus stayed crumpled together on the floor, your arms tangled, your breaths ragged. But slowly, gently, you pulled away. His eyes locked on yours like he was still afraid you'd vanish.
Dumbledore raised his wand, casting a blue glow over Severus’ body.
He hummed softly.
“No trace of the curse remains,” he said quietly.
Madam Pomfrey stepped forward, running her own scan, her brow furrowed. Then her face softened in astonishment.
“Physically… he’s completely healed. It’s as if he was never cursed at all.”
Severus turned to look at you, his gaze unwavering.
“Albus,” he said, voice hoarse but firm, “may I ask you for a favor?”
Dumbledore gave a small smile. “Of course.”
“I would like you to cast an Unbreakable Vow… between myself and Y/N.”
You blinked. “Severus?”
He looked at you, eyes full of meaning, intensity, and something raw and beautiful.
“I want to vow that I will protect you. Love you. Until my very last breath. No matter what happens, if we grow old, if we fight, even if one day you stop loving me, I will still protect you. Still love you.”
Your breath caught.
“Oh, Severus… you don’t have to. Just having you back is more than enough—”
“No,” he said, reaching for your hands, trembling. “I mean it. Please. I love you.”
Tears filled your eyes. “I love you too.”
You both nodded. Dumbledore stepped forward, lifting his wand. You took each other's hands, fingers interlocked. As the vow was sealed, threads of light wrapped around your joined palms.
It was done.
You threw your arms around him. He held you tight. Then he kissed you.
A kiss like rebirth.
And then, gently, Dumbledore cleared his throat.
“Well. I suppose I’ll leave you lovebirds to it.”
He turned to Severus. “Take care of yourself. And Y/N… I know the Dark Lord will not take this lightly. You will both be hunted. Which is why I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a safe house for you two, by the sea, among Muggles. New identities, complete protection.”
He paused. “Severus… I’m officially retiring you. No more spy. No more Potions Master. Just… freedom. Your life now belongs to you, and you deserve it, Severus.”
He embraced Severus and bid goodbye to you and left with Poppy through the Floo.
You stood in the silence, staring at Severus.
Then you stepped forward, touching his cheek.
“I really love you,” you whispered. “Whatever happened… let’s leave it in the past. I know you’ll feel guilty. But please… promise me you’ll let it go.”
He looked down at you, lips trembling.
“I promise. I love you. And I’ll live by the vow I made.”
You kissed him again.
“Alright,” you smiled. “Let’s eat dinner.”
Dinner was turkey sandwiches.
You both headed to the kitchen, working side by side with a peaceful ease that felt almost domestic. Severus rinsed lettuce leaves and sliced tomatoes while you prepared the turkey, bread, and cheese.
You looked at him and smiled. It had been so long since laughter felt easy. So, naturally, you decided to lighten up the mood and ruin his peace.
“Severus,” you called sweetly.
He turned around.
A slice of cheese landed perfectly on his forehead.
His reaction was priceless—a flat, murderous stare that made you snort uncontrollably.
“Y/N,” he said coldly, tone like ice. “Why would you do that?”
You tried to hold back your laugh but failed completely. “You should’ve seen your face!” you gasped between giggles.
He slowly peeled the cheese off his forehead, and you could’ve sworn there was the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Then, without warning, he grabbed a slice of tomato and flung it.
It hit you square in the mouth.
You blinked. “Did you just—?”
He laughed. That laugh. That rare, rich baritone sound, warm and deep, like velvet rolled out of him, and you joined in, unable to stop.
Just before a full-blown food war could erupt, he raised a hand.
“Alright,” he said, still smiling, “we can continue this later. But now we must eat… and pack.”
You grinned mischievously. “Agreed.” Then, you cheekily reached for another tomato.
“Don’t you dare.”
You both finished preparing the sandwiches and tea, sharing quiet glances and soft smiles between bites.
After dinner, packing began.
You tackled the kitchen first, then the lower floor. Upstairs was next. Severus moved with efficient purpose, focused, sorting through potions and clothes, while you cleaned up your room with more... flair.
While folding the last of your clothes, you found your laptop tucked beneath a jumper. You giggled softly. The memory hit you like a warm breeze.
Blasting Hot N Cold by Katy Perry when cleaning the house. Dancing like a lunatic with a mop while Severus glared at you from the stairs, threatening to cast Silencio on your speakers.
You smiled to yourself. You had to do that again in the new house.
As the thought lingered, you gathered the last of your things, zipped your bag, and headed to shower. Warm water ran down your skin, washing away the weight of everything that had happened.
And in that steam-filled silence, it hit you.
A future.
With him.
Your own home. Your own life. Maybe even a family someday.
You were smiling as you walked into his room, hair still damp, dressed in cozy pajamas. Severus was standing near his bed, also freshly showered, in his own pajamas, folding the last of his packed clothes.
You dropped onto his bed with a sigh.
“Planning to sleep already?” he asked, eyebrow raised.
“Of course,” you teased.
He didn’t hesitate. He walked over and wrapped you in a tight hug, holding you like something precious.
“I can’t wait to have a life I actually want again,” he murmured into your hair. “To live as I loved, as I liked, with you by my side, Y/N. And I truly am thankful I came to confront you that day… blasting ridiculous song.”
You laughed, sitting up slightly and patting the bed.
“Well, I’m glad I nearly brought your walls down with it,” you grinned. “Come on. Lie down.”
He rested his head on your lap, and you lovingly ran your fingers through his hair, kneading gently at his scalp.
“I love you,” he said softly.
You smiled down at him, heart full.
And like that, you both fell asleep, wrapped in warmth, in peace, and in a new beginning.
She stirred first, her eyes fluttering half-open before dozing off again. Severus, still half-draped against her side with his head resting on her lap, slowly blinked into wakefulness.
His eyes, darker than usual, softened the moment they found her. Still here. Still real. His fingers reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face. She looked exhausted. Understandably so.
Last night had shattered something in him. Something hard, jagged, and hollow. And in its place came raw, searing clarity.
She stayed.
After everything. After the pain, the curse, the helplessness. After the darkest parts of him nearly swallowed both of you whole, she stayed and still held his hand. Whispered his name. Kissed his temple like he was still whole.
He didn’t deserve it.
But gods, he would protect it. He would protect her. He would lift himself up to the vow he took:
Live. For both of you. For their future.
Very gently, he adjusted her position and shifted her legs aside without waking her. He kissed her forehead, a tender brush of lips filled with a thousand unsaid things, and rose quietly from the bed.
Downstairs, the house was still and dim, but the first hints of sunlight filtered in through the curtains. He moved through it with a quiet ease, checking each room one last time. Trunks packed. Spare potions secured. Protective wards reinforced.
This wasn’t just another day.
It was the day.
He returned to the kitchen and started breakfast: scrambled eggs, beans, warm toast with butter, and coffee steeped so strong it could likely wake the dead. The smells slowly began to warm the house, but he worked silently.
Cooking was mechanical. But he still took care of it. Butter browned just right. Eggs are soft but not runny. Beans stirred in slow circles.
It was part of the promise. He would never take her for granted again.
Severus plated everything, careful not to make a sound, and let the silence settle for just a moment before heading back upstairs.
When he reached her, he crouched beside the bed, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek.
“Wake up, love,” he whispered softly. “Breakfast is ready. Albus will be here in thirty minutes.”
She groaned, her voice hoarse with sleep. “I thought it was a dream…”
Severus smiled, the rare kind, not forced, not shadowed by pain. “It’s not,” he said quietly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Come on, don’t make me carry you down.”
She peeked at him through half-lidded eyes and mumbled with a sleepy grin, “Please carry me.”
He huffed, lips twitching.
“Spoiled brat.”
And then, without another word, he scooped her up, slinging her effortlessly over his shoulder.
Her laughter echoed through the room. “Oh my God, Severus! I didn’t know you were this strong!”
“I train,” he deadpanned.
“I should wake up like this every day,” she giggled.
“Noted. On the condition you behave.”
“Never.”
He rolled his eyes, but his chest ached in the best way. Severus carried her with deliberate care and placed her into the kitchen chair as if she were made of something precious.
The aroma of the breakfast hit her instantly.
“Eat,” he said, nudging her plate forward.
“I haven’t brushed—”
He waved his wand lazily in her direction, casting a refreshing charm.
“No excuses now.”
She laughed, eyes sparkling. “I love you, you know.”
He froze, just slightly. Then looked at her, and there it was again. That soft, honest truth behind his eyes.
Both of you sat and ate together, the quiet peace between you speaking volumes. The kind of silence that only existed between souls who had been to hell and back.
Once finished, she rose to get ready.
As you walked out of the kitchen, your thoughts were all over the place, not with worry but with happiness. And for just a second, your heart clenched not from fear, but from wonder. He’d woken you with a kiss. Carried you like you weighed nothing. Made you breakfast. And looked at you like you were his entire world. After everything… You had this. And no matter what came next, this morning would stay carved in your soul forever.
The moment she stepped out of the room, Severus gave the entire space one more glance, his hand brushing the edge of the chair she sat on, committing every inch of this morning to memory.
By the time she returned, dressed and ready, Dumbledore had arrived. He stood at the hearth with that calm, ever-knowing expression.
“Ready for your next adventure?” he asked, eyes twinkling behind half-moon glasses.
She nodded, heart pounding, and looked at Severus.
His hand reached for hers. Firm. Warm. Steady.
In the blink of an eye, you all apparated together.
The seaside house was perfect.
Remote. Safe. Nestled near a quiet Muggle town, perched just above a soft, isolated beach where the breeze carried the scent of salt and the cries of distant gulls. The sunlight poured through the windows like warm honey, and the gentle sound of waves crashing on the shore hummed through the walls like a lullaby.
You fell in love with it immediately.
After Dumbledore carefully warded the perimeter with layers of enchantments and left you both with a quiet goodbye and a final look of reassurance, the house felt like yours. Like a fresh page. A new beginning.
You dropped your things inside without a second thought and reached for Severus’s hand, tugging him toward the beach. Sand met your boots as you both wandered toward the shoreline, the sun dipping low in the sky, casting brilliant shades of gold and rose across the horizon.
The world had finally gone quiet.
You exhaled slowly, your fingers laced with his as you walked beside him, the surf gently brushing near your feet.
“I never expected my life to look like this,” you murmured, eyes fixed on the sunset. “With you. Here. Right now. Beside me.” You turned to him, smile trembling as your heart beat with something soft and endless. “I’m so in love with you, Severus. And I can’t wait to have a future with you.”
He stopped walking, pulling you gently toward him, and leaned his forehead to yours.
“I feel the same, my love,” he said quietly. “Me too. I never thought I’d have this… you. But now that I do, I’ll never let it go.”
The waves whispered.
The stars waited.
And the story ended in quiet, sacred peace.
Notes:
To everyone who’s followed this series from the start to the very end—thank you from the bottom of my heart.
To those who left comments, gave kudos, screamed in my inbox, or just quietly read along, I see you, I love you, and I appreciate you more than words can say.
This story wouldn’t be what it is without you all. Thank you for letting me share this.
Sending you all the warmest hugs, the softest love, and all the good things. Take care out there🥹🫶🏼
snowandloki on Chapter 11 Wed 18 Jun 2025 10:56PM UTC
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coldkidcookieneck on Chapter 11 Wed 25 Jun 2025 11:44AM UTC
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acup_noodle on Chapter 11 Sun 06 Jul 2025 08:46AM UTC
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coldkidcookieneck on Chapter 11 Mon 07 Jul 2025 06:59PM UTC
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snowandloki on Chapter 12 Sat 09 Aug 2025 07:30AM UTC
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coldkidcookieneck on Chapter 12 Sat 09 Aug 2025 08:23AM UTC
Last Edited Sat 09 Aug 2025 08:28AM UTC
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