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Always Leads to You
If I wanted to know who you were hanging with
While I was gone, I would've asked you.
They met again after years of being apart. At Hogwarts, on the train.
He was wearing his mother’s far-too-large coat when they first met in the park at Cokeworth.
Now, he's wearing her robes—far too shapely to be meant for a man, but no one notices.
She does, though. It seems it’s all Hermione does since she’s been thrown into this time.
She notices him. She always does. Because everything, after all, started with him,
and the prophecy he overheard.
He was so innocent as a child: malnourished, filthy, skittish—
like an abused animal, suspicious of every act of kindness extended to him.
He’s with a girl. Red-haired. She knows the woman: Lily Evans.
Sorted into the same house as Hermione.
He looked at her. She looked away.
It’s not her business to know who he befriended after she left him in that neighborhood.
It's the kind of cold that fogs up windshield glass
But I felt it when I passed you
There's an ache in you, put there by the ache in me
They were in their second year. The air was cold.
It was the start of fall—September.
It fogged up the windshield of the carriage where they sat.
The Marauders were there. Snape, too. He was looking at her again.
She didn’t want to look back, but Lily invited her into the carriage.
James and Sirius were at it again with their antics. One look from Hermione shut them up.
Remus remarked on her uncanny power to control the two,
while Peter shyly offered her a snack.
Lily kept chastising the boys. Hermione tuned her out.
Eyes lifted from the book she was reading, she met his gaze—
boring into her soul as if searching for answers.
She wrenched her eyes away.
No. She can’t afford to get too close.
He’s so inquisitive. He always senses when she’s hiding something.
He doesn’t know she’s planning to use him—
to build a future where Harry can have both parents,
and never suffer the Dursleys.
It’s her mission, now that she knows she’ll never return to her own time.
She stood up. He did, too.
He took snacks from the tray, offered some to Lily.
Hermione passed by him on her way out of the carriage, muttering something about the loo.
Her robes brushed his. Cold. He radiated coldness.
He tensed when he realized she was near.
Their gazes locked—twelve years old.
One already too wise for her age. She’d seen him die—
watched him drown in his own blood.
And no doubt she would see it again, because what are wars without sacrifices?
Her gaze turned cold. His grew sharper.
She left the carriage.
They exchanged no words,
but the ache lingered.
He had once been her quiet listener—
when she ranted about magic, Hogwarts, science, math, and stars.
He's no good either,
because though the air between them was cold as the wind outside,
there was ache in his eyes too—
a pained confusion,
a thousand unanswered why’s.
But if it's all the same to you
It's the same to me
When she returned, they never addressed it—
the coldness, the ache, the longing.
She doesn’t want that mess.
Friendship is always messy in teenage years,
but it’s worse when you knew each other as children,
grew apart, and never explained why.
Why she left.
Why she agreed to be taken.
Why she broke her promise to stay by his side forever.
She wonders—did she add to the weight he already carried?
Does he resent her?
No.
He looks like he doesn’t care.
He has new friends now.
He treats them the way she treated him.
There’s merit in that.
At least he learned the kindness she gave him.
If it’s like that, then it’s fine.
If he can ignore the ache, why can’t she?
Besides, she doesn’t need to explain—
can’t, actually. She’s under a vow.
So she acts indifferent too—
so she doesn’t look pathetically lonely,
surrounded by people who are dead in her own time.
She will never belong here. She will never get used to this.
So we could call it even
You could call me"babe"“Lily” for the weekend
He loves Lily Evans.
Anyone can see that.
James is infinitely jealous, even though Lily already chose him.
Hermione completed her mission.
There was a war. Severus became a spy.
After he took the Mark, Dumbledore told him the future—her future.
Severus accepted the role with quiet grace.
He was told about the prophecy.
He gave everything up—for Lily.
It was always her.
So foolish of Hermione’s heart, then—
to choose him.
Foolish, when he looked at a woman long married, now pregnant with another man’s child.
Foolish, because she and Snape worked closely during the war,
and she was there—
there when he thought he’d die,
there when he confessed his only regret was not telling Lily how he truly felt.
Maddening.
Fucking foolish.
To feel for him—deep affection, maybe even love.
She could have chosen anyone.
Sirius? A rascal, but funny and loyal.
Remus? So fucking adorable.
Peter? Same.
But no.
She chose the man she felt a deep guilt for—
the man she viewed as a sacrifice,
the boy she once left behind.
She wondered if it was guilt, an obsessive need to make it up to him.
It wasn’t.
It was the innocent touches—
fingertips brushing when he handed her something.
It was his voice, soothing her nightmares.
It was his hands—
lighting fire in her veins,
intoxicating her without a single drop of alcohol.
At the victory ball after the war, she was drunk.
Of course she was. She’s nothing without liquid courage.
She’d just stutter otherwise.
She wanted a taste.
Just a taste.
Before she left everything behind.
She doesn’t remember what she said to make him agree.
He just looked so lonely,
when he should have been celebrating.
But he looked like he was dying—watching James and Lily dance.
It was his place.
The one from their childhood.
His father never home. His mother always locked away.
He’d bragged about magic there.
Nostalgia was drowned in satisfaction—
as he slammed her against the door and kissed her breathless.
Hard. Needy.
They ended up in his bed.
Clothes thrown off with the clumsy grace of drunks.
Then he pointed his wand at her—
changed her hair, changed her eyes.
She didn’t care.
Maybe that was what she’d said to make him agree.
For once, she wanted to know what it felt like
to be the woman Severus Snape loved.
He held her delicately,
touched her like glass,
worshipped her body with soft lips and a wicked tongue.
He whispered "Lily" when he finished.
She was already throbbing with the afterglow.
It sobered her up.
She waited until he rolled away,
until his arm rested over her belly,
until his soft snores filled the room.
Then she left.
Quickly. Without ceremony.
Not caring if he woke as she fumbled back into her clothes.
She wouldn’t get pregnant.
Muggle contraception.
She’s no saint.
But she was glad—
glad she hadn’t lost her virginity in a one-night stand
where the man inside her was thinking of someone else.
‘Tis the damn season, write this down.
I'm staying at my parents' house.
It was already a year after that. She hadn’t seen him again—afraid he might remember, and worse, what he might think of her. Of how desperate she had been, like a filthy whore for him.
That doesn’t mean she didn’t remember.
Didn’t tremble.
Didn’t feel the heat of that night all over again when she received another invitation to the Victory Ball and marked her calendar to attend—
Only to scratch the mark off when she realized he’d be there. And so would Lily. And James. And Sirius. And Remus. And Peter.
She just couldn’t look at them.
Not now.
She was too ashamed of herself.
She was staying with McGonagall—the one she treated as a mother. The one who hadn’t changed.
McGonagall let Hermione cry her heart out after that night.
Listened, as Hermione berated herself again and again for her foolish decisions.
Told her it didn’t make her a whore.
It made her a person in love, doing foolish things for scraps of attention.
Maybe she was.
Why had she clung to him anyway?
And the road not taken looks real good now
And it always leads to you and my hometown
But there are times when she’s just so alone.
After her work at the Ministry of Magic—
She’s on her way to becoming Ministress of Magic.
One of the war heroes.
But it’s draining.
And she doesn’t know anyone there the way she knew them when she was Hermione Granger in her own timeline.
The people she once saw as trusted adults are now her age.
And she is one of them.
She will never meet Harry Potter as The Boy Who Lived again.
When those times come, she curls up in front of the fireplace of her small apartment.
No cats—she could never replace Crookshanks.
No books.
Just the thought of him.
The darkness of his eyes—the iris and pupil almost one.
The contrast of his pale skin, pinkened when he’s cold or flustered—
Lily's teasing always the cause.
He smelled like potions ingredients and ink.
Sometimes books and tea.
Sometimes the woods and snow.
The corners of his lips, twitching at the smallest hint of a smile—always for Lily.
How he caressed her that night.
Whispered obscenities in her ear.
And the tears would fall when his voice—cracked with desire—
whispered Lily’s name into her skin.
A reminder of how utterly alone she was.
The McGonagall she knows isn’t the same.
She’s not the woman who watched Hermione grow up in war before she was even an adult.
She’s an old witch who sees an adult Hermione, hardened by battles she already fought.
They all thought she was strong. Instincts sharp. Always prepared.
They forget—she’s done this before.
In those moments of weakness, she Apparates from her apartment.
Walks the damp streets of Spinner’s End.
Always stops just before turning into the alley she knows too well.
Too cowardly to take those few steps that lead toward her hometown—
Toward him.
So she leaves.
Never looks back.
I parked my car right between the
MethodistOrphanage
And the school that used to be ours
She stepped out of the car.
How did they end up here?
Her, in her fancy muggle car.
Him, in her passenger seat.
There’s the orphanage where she was raised.
Where Dumbledore found her.
Where he discovered her not-so-secret time travel—
Well, not secret now.
His house is just a few steps away.
Why are they going there again?
They’re not drunk this time.
It’s been years since that first night.
Years since she abandoned being a witch.
Since she showed her face in the wizarding community.
It was all too lonely.
Everything reminded her of what she lost.
The muggle world, at least, was foreign. New.
Here, they didn’t know she fought a war—twice.
They didn’t know her best friend from her old timeline is now her godson.
They didn’t know she mourns a friendship that never even existed here.
She worked and studied, got a medical degree, and became a laboratory supervisor.
She thought she’d never see a familiar face—
Until she interviewed someone for the vacant MedTech reliever position.
Mostly night shifts.
It was him.
He didn’t hand over any documents—she knew they were forged.
She knew him.
Lily still wrote. Still mentioned Severus alongside James and Harry.
He worked in the Ministry now, mostly in Research.
Taught Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, back when she was in the Ministry.
She resigned the moment she heard he was thinking of joining the Ministry.
James told her.
It had only been a few years since that night.
She dropped everything.
Went full muggle.
The holidays linger like bad perfume
You can run, but only so far
I escaped it too, remember how you watched me leave
But if it's okay with you, it's okay with me
It was nearing Christmas.
She forgot.
He was working in her lab.
Observing.
Experimenting with a mix of magical and muggle chemistry.
She let him.
He said it was illegal. Didn’t care. He was desperate.
Breaking every law to find a cure for the new plague haunting the wizarding world.
Harry was one of the victims.
The Ministry wouldn’t act.
No wonder Lily stopped writing.
One quiet morning, in the stillness of the lab, he slipped.
Said he could kiss her and her brilliant little mind.
She asked if he meant it.
Blurted out that she could use a shag.
He looked devastatingly handsome.
The firelight catching in his eyes.
He asked: her place or his?
She said his.
Didn’t want her new muggle life tainted by old foolishness.
And here they are.
Again.
He watched her being taken from the orphanage by Dumbledore, years ago.
Watched her leave.
Didn’t say a word.
Maybe he forgot her the moment she vanished.
Maybe she tried to forget him too.
Just a boy from her hometown she taught kindness and friendship.
But that’s not what he was.
He was the first person who reminded her of home.
And now, home means him.
Severus Snape.
And it doesn’t make sense.
Nothing does.
Like now.
Entering his house.
Making awkward small talk.
Since when did he do small talk?
Since when did he ride in cars?
Since when did he look at her like he missed her?
They had tea.
Talked about his research.
In the middle of a debate, he kissed her.
Murmured that he loved how she challenged him.
Whispered into her neck how brilliant she was.
It’s always “brilliant.”
Never “beautiful.”
Still, she swallowed the disappointment.
Because at least now, he was fucking her as Hermione Granger—
Not as a poor imitation of Lily Evans.
It was wonderful.
Warm.
Heated.
Dirty.
His eyes were beautiful as they shimmered between her thighs.
His wicked tongue put to use.
And Hermione was gone,
Lost in the haze.
She wished it would stay like this.
That it would just feel good.
That she could pretend it was love.
That they loved each other.
That she was brave enough to confess.
Bloody Gryffindor.
Always wearing her heart on her sleeve—
Yet never quite brave enough.
Sleep in half the day, just for old times’ sake.
I won’t ask you to wait if you don’t ask me to stay.
She didn’t panic when she opened her eyes—he was still snoring softly behind her. Her eyes roamed the room. There, on the bedside table right in front of her, was a framed photo of Lily Evans in her teenage years.
Her stomach churned with disgust.
She sat up, collected her clothes, and hurriedly redressed—the Muggle way. She didn’t know where her wand was. She hadn’t used it in years. Probably in the attic, covered in dust.
She left without a word.
He was jolted awake by the sound of the door slamming shut. He reached for her, but there was nothing. Her side of the bed was still warm.
He caught sight of Lily’s picture.
His stomach churned with shame.
He sat up, pulled on his boxers, and lit the fireplace with a flick of his wand, hurling the framed photo into the flames.
Her side of the bed hadn’t even cooled off, but Lily Evans’ face was already burned away, and he was pouring himself a drink.
Thinking he’d ruined something so precious, so fragile, so good. Something so… so good he was addicted to it. Her scent would haunt him for years, just like it did after the first night they shared. He wanted Lily that night—but what stayed in his memory was her body, her breathy voice crying out his name, reaching her peak.
He wanted to pursue her, but she avoided him like the plague. He didn’t want to assume, but sometimes he felt like he was the reason she left the wizarding world and went Muggle.
So I’ll go back to
L.A.the wizarding world and the so-called friends
Who’ll write books about me if I ever make it.
She decided then—enough cowardice. It started with visiting McGonagall, now living in a quiet community near Hogwarts, assisting the new Transfiguration teacher. The old witch had been ranting about how Albus couldn’t find a replacement for Horace, who was retiring.
Hermione hinted she could teach Potions, but the position of Slytherin Head of House was out of her league. She would never be a Slytherin.
Soon after, an owl arrived at her apartment, confirming her suggestion was taken—someone else was filling the Head of House role.
It was Severus Snape. He returned as the DADA professor.
Great. Lupin was teaching Transfiguration now. Monthly staff lunches would now include Severus.
Lily always brought Harry. Hermione loved playing with him—he truly had his mother’s eyes.
Lily asked if she could interview them for the book she was writing about the war, to dispel rumors and finally tell the truth.
Everyone agreed. Even Severus, of course. It was Lily asking. When had he ever said no to Lily?
Hermione reluctantly agreed. She knew Lily wouldn’t force her to include everything—like the time she hunted Horcruxes with Severus, or when she tended to his wounds in her safehouse after he endured the Cruciatus curse.
And wonder about the only soul
Who can tell which smiles I’m fakin’.
Harry’s eleven now. Hermione is in her late thirties. He didn’t grow up like the boy she once knew. He behaved more like James and Sirius—with a touch of Lily’s kindness, Remus’ manners, and Peter’s generosity, and Severus’ grace.
She watched his Sorting Ceremony. Gryffindor, of course. One Severus couldn’t outweigh six Gryffindor influences, including herself.
She smiled the whole time—but mourned a friendship that once existed in a future now lost.
She thought no one noticed.
Not until she ended up in his bed again, on a weekend where the workload was unbearable and he looked far too delicious assisting her with brewing—his forearms and inner wrists utterly shameless. Merlin, he could seduce her without even trying.
He always took her to bed. Always apparated her to his chambers, knowing by now that she didn’t like having sex in her own rooms.
She’d slept in, exhausted. He was already dressed when she woke, smiling, telling her the house elves had prepared breakfast.
“Is something bothering you?” he asked, once they were seated at their modest table—small, just enough for two, though the food laid out was more than enough.
“Hmm?” she hummed, spearing a sausage—then immediately remembered something sausage-shaped that belonged to the man across from her, who had thoroughly shagged her the night before. She blushed.
“You… seem downcast lately,” he murmured, his voice soft but deep, its vibrations nearly tangible.
She cleared her throat. “Nothing. It’s just… work,” she said, giving a small fake smile, hoping he’d drop it like others usually did.
But his eyes narrowed. “Don’t give me that, Hermione. I can tell when your smile is fake. I’m not like those imbeciles.”
She stopped eating. Met his gaze. Wiped her mouth, chewed and swallowed the last bit of sausage.
“I miss my cat. My friends. My Ma and Da. Everything about my own time—the future, which doesn’t exist now… I miss it all. But I can’t go back. There’s no way to travel to the future.”
The words came out in a rush. Her eyes blurred with tears. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. A sob tore from her throat.
He stood, moved to her side, pulled her up, and let her sob against his chest. He sat back down and perched her on his lap.
He loved how perfectly she fit there—not small, but small enough for him to tuck her head beneath his chin, her tears soaking into the crook of his neck. He rubbed her back gently.
She was right, of course. She could never go back.
So he bought her a half-Kneazle.
He’d asked Minerva about her past life, gone to Dumbledore to view memories, caught a glimpse of orange fur. Minerva had told him what it was.
It was their tenth time sharing a bed. Heated moments, soft caresses—but never a discussion about what they were. Still, it was beautiful. He was afraid to name it. Because if he did, it would be real—and if it was real, he’d ruin it.
He was content with this.
To—dare he say it?—love her like this.
To be used by her like this.
To be needed by her like this.
They didn’t need something real to have something this beautiful.
And the heart I know I'm breakin' is my own
To leave the warmest bed I've ever known
He bought her a cat. Her heart clenched—it looked so much like Crookshanks. A bit younger, but definitely the same shade of orange as Crookshanks. She gave him a ride on the Muggle roads then, with high speeds and all that. He likes being in the car, likes it when she rolls the windows down—strands that escaped his ponytail flying wildly with the wind—and the softest of smiles he flashes her always takes her breath away.
It was the summer break, and they both decided to stop being workaholics and start acting like teenagers, now that they’re forty. Oh, the irony of that. They spent most of their teenhood battling war, survivor’s guilt, and each of their own baggage.
That was the first time she brought him to her private chambers, the half-kneazle forgotten in the living room as they sneaked their way into her room, giggling like teenagers, talking about how they evaded a speeding ticket by placing a concealment charm on her car—it was Severus’ idea.
Her smile faded when he looked at him.
His smile faded at the look in her eyes. It was almost love, but she never really said the words.
His large hands cupped her face—it fit so perfectly in his flawed, full-of-scars-and-callouses hands.
She placed her hands on his chest—so small, so hesitant.
They shared what seemed to be their first soft kiss. No uncomfortable clacking of teeth, no tasting of blood from a bitten lip, no invading tongues. Just lips, sucking softly, molding against each other—and by far the greatest kiss she had ever shared with him.
It was her who pushed him gently on the bed, her who worshipped his body and just let herself feel, let herself express the love she had for this man—from his neck, his scarred chest and abdomen, to his sensitive collarbone that drew hisses and loud groans from those lips plump with her kisses.
She would trace every scar with her tongue, suck on it, and soothe it with a soft kiss—his hips buckling underneath her and nearly throwing her off. She would smile against his skin, continue with another scar until he whispered, “Stop,” with a broken voice, his eyes glassy as she met his gaze—and there was pleading. Endless pleases—for what, she didn’t know.
And so she would settle in his lap, their clothes already removed the moment they hit the bed—Hermione learning that spell wandlessly and nonverbally just for the sole purpose of stripping Severus faster.
She would guide his shaft into her core, already wet from all the sounds he was making. His breath would hitch in his throat the moment she sank in, feeling that familiar stretch and burn—he isn’t exactly a small man. He’s by far the biggest she has ever taken.
Her eyes were tempted to close, but he was still looking at her with that glassy, hazy look, chants of “You’re perfect, yes… Hermione, gods, you feel so good,” tumbling out of his lips as he gripped her hips, helping her ease into his length.
He is quite a sight, and she can’t admire that sight if she closes her eyes—so she fought with all her might, even though him hitting bottom and filling something inside her that hasn’t really been quenched unless he is inside her made her blink slowly, mouth hanging agape as she breathed heavily. Severus panted beneath her, muttering, “You’re taking it so good, love. You’re amazing.” The word love, uttered in his deep, beautiful voice, made her shudder and clamp her walls around him.
She rode him slowly, the muscles of her thighs straining as she lifted herself up, then down. Severus’ grip supported her, his eyes locked with hers, and he licked her lips—that reminded her. She leaned in to capture his lips with a kiss, and he moaned in her mouth, hips bucking, arms locking her waist into place as he drove up into her, hitting places that made her toes curl and whimpers leave her throat.
He flipped her over, laying her on her back, and slung the backs of her knees in the crooks of his elbows, nearly folding her in half and continuing his punishing pace. His pubic bone grazed her clit with every thrust, and she broke the kiss as she keened, reaching her peak—the building wave inside her finally crashing. He groaned on top of her, voice moaning her name, lips on her neck as he released inside her—and she shuddered.
He didn't fall asleep right away. He closed his eyes, evened his breathing, and pretended to sleep—but he was waiting for her to snore softly first. When she did, he opened his eyes and watched her sleep.
He traced the letters of his name in the exposed skin of her shoulders. She stirred but continued to sleep nonetheless. He continued to swirl the letter S with his index finger, his magic swirling, shining, and glowing against her tanned skin. It flared, the letters he traced glowing before disappearing like they were never there in the first place.
Oh, he’d love to sear his name on her skin, mark her as his in every sense—like the bite marks and hickeys he gave her, decorating her neck, the tops of her breasts, and her thighs.
But it could never be. She isn’t his to mark. He can’t own her—not as much as she owns him. He has no right, after he watched her leave and never begged her to stay all those years ago. He could’ve screamed the whys in his eyes. He could’ve fought against his oppressive parents and gone with her. She let him taste kindness—and now he’s addicted to it.
He was about to curl behind her and encase her in his arms when he caught sight of the moving photo framed on the bedside table. His breath caught. The warmth of the afterglow of an orgasm abruptly faded.
It was her. Hermione Granger, when she was merely a child, squeezed into the frame with two boys—one who looked so much like Harry, Lily's son, and the other was a ginger. He looked like a Weasley.
She looked at the Weasley boy like he was her world.
Severus felt his throat tighten and he cleared it softly so as not to wake her. He could feel his heart clenching. Perhaps… perhaps they were truly using each other the first night they ended up in his bed—him seeing Lily in her, her using his body to ease her loneliness.
Why had she chosen him, then? He wasn't exactly the type that screamed, I do casual sex. That’s more like Sirius—the man still single even now, playing the field and with no plans to settle down. Well, rumor had it he was waiting for Lupin to admit to being gay so they could be together.
Severus couldn’t care one bit. What he wanted was the witch slowly snoring on the bed—who he had hurt unintentionally.
He sighed, and despite the screaming of his body in protest, despite the warmth of the bed beckoning him to come back, he rose, donned his clothes, watched her naked form and tucked it beneath the blanket. He kissed her forehead, whispered how precious she was to him—and although it broke his heart, he left her rooms and went to his own chambers.
The thought that he’d left his scent in her pillows was the only thing that soothed the aching in his chest.
We could call it even
Even thoug h I'm leaving
She was crushed when she woke up in her own bed alone—the space he vacated was cold. He had left as soon as she fell asleep.
Did he regret it?
Did he think of her as some desperate whore? Did he think she was that easy? That he could just buy her a cat and she’d fold—worship his body and everything else?
Just how pathetic did she seem to him?
Did he feel how fucking lonely she was?
She didn’t dwell on the details. She simply avoided him like the plague, even though the half-Kneazle he brought her remained a constant reminder of his presence—and of her own desperation for any scrap of his attention.
He probably only meant to be there as a real friend. And she… she jumped to assumptions.
She brought him on a date ride.
She brought him to her rooms.
She worshipped him with her mouth.
There were questions in his eyes again whenever their patrol paths coincidentally aligned in the corridors. There was pain too—the subtle tension in his body when she scurried past him without a word.
She didn’t know what to make of that.
Why did he act like it hurt that she was ignoring him?
Wasn’t he disgusted by her desperation?
Her pathetic attempts to soothe the hollowness inside her, the delusion that she might mean more to him than just a friend?
If only he knew how crazy she was for him.
How she’d kept the pillowcase that still smelled like him.
How she’d placed it on her bed like an altar—like some raging lunatic forming a cult around the memory of him.
She cried herself to sleep holding that pillow close.
And cried harder when she realized the scent of him was fading—being replaced by her own, which repulsed her.
There was this one time. A lunch gathering turned into drinks at a Muggle bar—Sirius’s idea.
It had been a while since Lily and James had had fun. With Harry now at Hogwarts, they finally had some time for themselves.
The group agreed. Hermione tagged along reluctantly. Severus wasn’t supposed to be there anyway.
She was sipping her drink in a corner when he walked in—sharp angles, black shirt tucked into tight-fitting trousers that made him look so fucking irresistible.
He sauntered toward the group. Lily’s mouth fell open; she smirked and teased Severus about how James could never look that good in formalwear. James retorted about Severus wearing his grandfather’s clothes.
But Severus ignored them.
He had eyes only for Hermione, who stared at him like she was starving. He smirked. He could smell sex in the air tonight—and this time, he’d be damned if he let her walk away without addressing what they were doing to each other.
He was ready to fight.
To make this real.
He’d take every risk.
He wouldn’t let her go again.
He couldn’t stand the pain of making love to her, only to be avoided for months like what they had wasn’t real—like they hadn’t just confessed everything in soft caresses and desperate kisses.
She must feel something for him.
She wouldn’t have worshipped him like that otherwise.
Maybe it was just lust or admiration. But whatever it was, he wanted it. He’d take it. He wouldn’t dare ask for more.
Just let him love her.
They did end up in his bed, in Cokeworth—he couldn’t apparate directly to Hogwarts because of the wards.
It was the weekend. No classes. They could be anywhere, do anything.
He was already naked the moment they reached his rooms.
She was in his arms—legs wrapped around his waist, his hands cradling her ass and back.
Their lips met—hungry, devouring. His tongue found hers, and she met every stroke with her own.
It was hot.
Hard.
Messy.
He wished he could’ve been gentler, but she growled and flipped them over, riding him rough until he had no choice but to meet her thrust for thrust—his arm around her waist, the other hand working her clit.
She collapsed against his chest, panting.
Her heartbeat matched his—wild and erratic.
The words slipped from his mouth as he held her, her legs still straddling him, her walls fluttering around his spent cock.
"I love you, Hermione. Gods… I love you, witch. Stay, please."
He murmured it into her ear. She tensed. His arms tightened around her waist.
"Let me go."
Her voice cracked, her eyes glassy, her body tensed like a frightened animal.
He let her go. She scrambled to dress.
"Is my love so revolting that it sends you running? I thought you were sorted into Gryffindor," he snapped bitterly.
Her jaw clenched.
"You don’t love me. You love this—whatever this is, whatever we have."
"And what do we have exactly?" he demanded. "I want it—whatever it is. But what I feel… it can’t be contained in the word want anymore. I love you, Hermione. Every little thing—your touch, your scent, your sighs—everything. Please, stay. Even just for now. I won’t ask for more. If you want casual… we can do casual. But for now… can you stay?"
His voice cracked. He watched her face crumble in anguish.
She felt like collapsing. Or slapping him. Or slapping herself. Or just crying, because why now?
Why did he love her now?
Where was his love when she was burning in silence?
Where was it when she needed it most?
How could the same man who once looked at Lily Evans like she walked on water now say all the things Hermione had once begged to hear—when she was still that desperate?
She couldn’t deal with the storm inside her.
So she shut it down.
Slamming her mind closed with Occlumency.
Walls rising.
Calm, cold, controlled.
Her voice came out hollow, devoid of anything:
"Why would I? You didn’t stay when I took you to my bed."
No bitterness. Just truth.
Frustration flared inside him.
She was occluding.
He could feel the chill of it.
"You never asked me to stay," he said. "And you avoided me—like the plague—after we shared everything. You knew what I tasted like. I knew you. And you ran."
He was just as confused. Just as hurt. He felt used—and that would’ve been fine, if only she had stayed.
Is it too much to ask?
He knew he was contradicting himself. Saying he wouldn’t ask for more, yet pleading for her to stay.
But was staying really asking for more?
"You didn’t ask me to stay either. I think we’re even."
She murmured the words flatly.
"Goodbye, Severus."
She disapparated with a crack.
The word wait clung to his throat like stale bread.
His hand reached out—
Had he ruined it?
Had he ruined her—
By trying to make her his?
And I'll be yours for the weekend
'Tis the damn season
It wasn’t actually a goodbye—they still saw each other. Severus never dared miss any dinner invitations Lily extended to him; they were the only times he could see Hermione outside of classrooms, not surrounded by students and just within reach.
He was addicted to her. His heart clenched painfully, longing for her to smile at him the way she did when she praised her students. He always wished to occupy the chair next to hers at the Head Table, but she always avoided the empty seat beside him. She didn’t speak to him now. When they were partnered to guard the children during Hogsmeade visits, she remained professionally aloof.
It was always worse on weekends—no papers to grade, no dunderheads to rush to the Infirmary after miscasting defense spells—just a tumbler of firewhisky in his hand and memories of their bodies tangled together haunting his thoughts. The longing hit so hard it took his breath away, brought tears to his eyes, choked sobs from his throat. He’d kneel by the fireplace, mourning something that never truly was.
But he knew—she always owned him. On weekends, on weekdays, every day of every month of every year. He carried this ache with him, and it would only get worse when fall came around. It was the damn season—that time when they rekindled what they had… or what they never really had in the first place.
Time flies, messy as the mud on your truck tires
Now I'm missing your smile, hear me out
We could just ride around
They were older now. Everyone kept asking her when she would settle down, if she’d ever have kids. She never really thought she would. Now, thinking back, she realized she had been a fool that night—a fool to let cowardice win.
She pretended not to notice the longing glances he cast her way. Even Lily noticed once and brought it up to her.
One time they were talking about Lily’s book—the one she’d paused writing while raising Harry, now resumed.
“I wonder who he was with in the Forest of Dean,” Lily said, “Destroying horcruxes and all that. He always seems so intense when he talks about her.” She rambled on about what Severus had shared with her.
Hermione tensed. It had been her—she was with him.
“Didn’t he tell you?” she asked, voice rough, clearing her throat.
Lily shook her head.
“He said it’s up to her to name herself. That she’d recognize herself in his words, or something like that. Sev always talks in riddles.” Lily rolled her eyes.
Hermione only nodded absently.
She saw him again during a patrol that night. There was the ghost of a smile on his lips, like he was afraid she wouldn’t return it. She met his eyes, saw his widen, then passed him before he could say a word.
She missed that smile. It almost made her knees buckle, made her want to kneel before him and beg to be loved again, to do everything over—to touch him again, worship him with her hands and mouth, pour her love into every touch, every breath. But she was strong enough to pass him by. She wished she wasn’t so strong. Or maybe... she was just a coward?
She once took her car to visit her Muggle neighborhood—friends who didn’t know she was a witch. The passenger seat reminded her of him: his smile, strands of hair, his booming voice yelling out the window like an overgrown teenager. He loved cars. She always wondered why he never bought one.
And the road not taken looks real good now
After that visit, she kept driving—mindlessly, with no destination. Her head swirled with what-ifs. What if she had told him she loved him when he bought her the cat? What if she had confessed her feelings after their last night together, when he spilled his own?
That reminded her—the cat. It was alone right now, probably in need of company. But how could she care for a pet when she could barely care for herself? No excuse. She’d left the cat—she never named it—in Minerva’s care before the trip. It reminded her too much of Severus… and of Crookshanks. Nothing could replace Crookshanks, and it wasn’t this new cat’s fault that it had been brought by the man she both loved and loathed.
She slowed the car. The roads were becoming familiar. She didn’t pay much attention at first, but then she could almost name the streets. She hit the brakes. The road was empty, and it still reeked of poverty—just as it always had.
This road led to her hometown.
To the orphanage.
To where she had once awoken as an adult trapped in the body of an infant, in a different timeline.
To where she first saw him again, just a boy among other orphans, another mouth to feed in a place already stretched thin.
This road… led to him.
Her heart clenched.
She didn’t want to take it.
But she could feel it again—that pull, that fear, that doubt creeping in like ivy around her raging heart. Still, looking back at every interaction they’d had… he seemed just as desperate for her as she was for him.
The very thought made her feel drunk on hope. The clouds hung heavy as rain began to fall. She stepped out of the car. Entranced, she walked the familiar path toward him, heart hammering in her chest, a tug in her stomach like a string pulling her toward home.
Severus Snape and home in the same sentence still didn’t make sense… but it felt right. Sounded right. Almost perfect.
She couldn’t even remember the Severus from her original timeline—the war hero who died before the world could truly see his goodness. In this timeline she built with blood, sweat, and tears, the young man who had died at thirty-eight was now revered as a war hero alongside James Potter and the rest of the Order.
Sirius used to joke about Severus being the only snake in a group of phoenixes. Hermione had once quipped, “More like peacocks,” and they had all burst into laughter. They’d thought it was hilarious she’d said cock so confidently. Hah. They probably still thought she was a blushing virgin. They didn’t know the lioness had already tumbled with the snake—worst of all, in the snake’s lair.
She gasped as the rain poured harder, soaking her blouse, weighing down her jeans. Still she walked—past the playground, past the rickety swing where she once sat telling a younger Snape about magic, his dark eyes wide in awe.
She shivered, goosebumps blooming along her arms.
And then… she turned the corner.
He still lived there.
In that cramped little house where they’d once spent night after night entangled with each other, hungry for one another’s taste.
She wondered if he was inside now—or still at Hogwarts, buried in his books, maybe planning to steal from her ingredient stores again. She’d caught him more than once. The air between them had always been too awkward to confront it. Maybe he wanted to be caught. Maybe it was his way of trying to draw her in, to get even a small reaction… some sliver of their bond outside of shared lunches and teaching duties.
Gods, the things he did to get her attention.
And here she was, drowning in self-pity, never realizing a man had been trying—awkwardly, clumsily—to woo her all this time.
What a fool she'd been.
Maybe he wasn't the problem. Maybe it was her.
Because she wished he wasn't there—in his house, the one she was heading to right now.
She wished his wards weren't strong enough, that she could break into his bed and curl up there until she was soaked in his scent and it marked her, because she longed to be his.
Oh, the madness she was spiraling into—all because of that man.
Her wishful thinking wasn't granted, though. She saw lights from the outside.
The skies were gray, the evening drawing near, and the rain poured relentlessly.
It made sense, she thought, to turn on the lights and curl up with a book somewhere before preparing dinner for oneself.
She stood at the doorway.
The wards she passed tickled her senses, and his magic, washing around her, slightly soothed the longing—the aching of her bones for his touch, his smile, his everything.
She crossed her arms over her abdomen in a pathetic attempt at a self-hug, seeking warmth.
She heard the clicks of the lock.
The door swung open—and there he was, dressed in a white shirt and slacks, as if he'd just come from Hogwarts, having only just removed his many layers of robes.
His eyes widened a fraction, taking in her soaked form.
Excuses danced on the tip of her tongue, but none found voice.
His lips pressed into a thin line—clearly displeased—but he opened the door wider.
“Get inside—”
“I need you.”
Of all the things she could say, of all the words bouncing around her head, what escaped was the most truthful echo of her pathetic desperation.
She ducked her head, afraid to see the disgust on his face.
She missed the softening of his eyes, the bob of his throat, and the hitch in his breath.
His hands tensed, and then he wrapped an arm around her, guiding her inside.
“And I, you… But you must change out of those clothes right now, if you don’t want to catch a cold,” he said, scolding.
Hermione peered up at him.
His eyes shone with fondness as he wrapped a towel—one he had accio’d—around her.
“Here’s a change of clothes. You can transfigure it to fit you… I will wait, and then we’ll talk. I’ve been waiting for you to come to me, Hermione.
Please don’t make me wait long.
I need you just as much—maybe more—than you need me.”
He gestured toward the bathroom.
The desperation in his eyes mirrored the same aching she saw in her reflection.
She blinked, accepted the clothes, and made her way toward the bathroom.
Her mind raced as she methodically changed, transfiguring only the waistband of the sweatpants.
They smelled like him, and she let it drown her.
Later, they sat by the fireplace, surrounded by bookshelves cramped with volumes.
Her hand twitched, fighting the urge to run her fingers along the spines and trace the engraved titles.
“I’m going to be honest, Hermione.
I need you.
I want you.
I have loved you, and I still love you.
I am encased in your madness, witch.
I would do anything—even let my body be at your disposal.
If that’s what you’re here for, I only ask that you don’t run when I try to love you.
Allow me to express my feelings, witch, lest I burst, lest I spiral into madness with everything I keep inside.
If I’m not sane, Hermione, I fear I might lock you away—keep your beauty only for my eyes.”
He sighed.
His shoulders slumped, defeated.
He stood, took a few steps, then stopped in front of her.
Her neck craned up to look at him.
He slowly kneeled.
Took her hands in his—warm, while hers were endlessly cold.
His touch scalded and soothed. Perfect.
“I need you just as much as the magic coursing through my veins, Hermione. I cannot live without you.
Please… don’t push me away again. Don’t pretend I don’t exist.
Please, I beg you, my love—
Use me as you please.
Use my body to ease your carnal desires.
But don’t ignore me for days, for years.
I cannot take it. I will die, Hermione.
Death would be more merciful than this.”
He pressed kisses to the backs of her hands, to her palms.
His glassy eyes stole her breath.
Her heart clenched—she was hurting him.
She pulled her hands from his grasp and cupped his face.
She leaned down to kiss his tears away, gasping her words.
“I thought you didn’t want me.
I need you just as much as the air I breathe, Severus.
You never asked me to stay.
I thought I was just… just someone to ease the ache Lily left in your heart.
I’ve been searching for a home—a place to belong—because I don’t even belong in this time.
And I found it in you.
But I also saw how you looked at her.
The longing. The desperation.
You never treated me as kindly as you—”
“You never let me, witch!” he cut in.
“You pull away.
You run.
You escape to the Muggle world just to avoid my advances.
I don’t blame you.
I love with all of me.
It would have torn you apart to see me pine for a married woman who wasn’t you.
And yet, you still loved me.
I saw it—in your eyes, your touch, your sighs, your pleas.
I know, Hermione.
I’m not an easy man to love.
Your doubts are valid.
But let me spend my life proving my love to you.
Let me love you.
Let me show you how much I cherish you.
Please, let me.”
He was beautiful when he begged.
He was everything she had ever wanted.
How dare she say no?
How dare she deny him—or herself?
“Oh, Severus… I’m yours.
I won’t run away. I’m here.
I’ll still have doubts, and my fears will linger.
But Severus… you’ll hush them, won’t you?
You’ll erase them?
I’m putting my trust in you.
I’ve been hurting for too long.
I’m afraid of being hurt again…
But I won’t deny myself this—
This beautiful thing we have.
What kind of Gryffindor would I be if I let fear rule me?”
He chuckled at that.
“I love you, Severus.
I need you, want you—every part of you.
I’m just as desperate for your touch as you are for mine.
Please… don’t break my trust.”
Her voice cracked as she leaned in, resting her forehead against his, breathing in his breath.
She heard the hitch in his breathing.
“I won’t, Hermione. I swear upon my magic that you’re the only woman—
The only witch, the only creature—I will ever love.
And I won’t ask for anything else,
Only that you let me show you.”
Magic swirled, sealing his oath.
Her eyes opened as she leaned back to look at him.
His hands cradled hers against his face.
He tilted his head and pressed a kiss to her wrist.
Her own tears fell.
“I swear upon my magic,” she whispered,
“that you, Severus Snape, are the only man who will ever own me—
Body, heart, mind, and soul.
You alone.
I entrust everything to you.
May you not fail me.”
Her magic sealed the oath.
A growl tore from his throat as he pulled her up and devoured her lips, pouring all his love—and frustration—into the kiss.
Their interlinked oaths formed a bond, forged of soul and magic, strengthened by desperate love.
It pulsed with their heartbeats.
It breathed with every rise and fall of their chests.
It would stay, for as long as they lived.
Hermione had found her home.