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Chapter Text

YEAR 1

Hogwarts – 01 September 1991

It was only a dream, he told himself, but the very moment he jerked awake, gasping for air, he knew the thought was a lie. What haunted him night after night was far more than a simple dream. They were memories—shredded, distorted echoes tearing their way up from the depths of his subconscious, scorching him like heated iron. Memories burned into his soul as if it were parchment, and the scars they left were not the faint traces of nightmares long forgotten. They were deep, merciless grooves that would never fade. The scars on his skin he could still bear; the ones within him were intolerable, driving him to the brink of madness every night. And so, whenever he finally slipped into uneasy sleep, he already knew he would soon wake again—drenched in sweat, heart pounding furiously, overcome with the bitter certainty that he no longer commanded himself.

He cursed the years he had spent relying on Dreamless Sleep Potion. What had once granted him relief and a sliver of forgetfulness had long since ceased to work. His body had grown used to the drops as though they were poison he had grown addicted to, and the first night he woke despite the potion’s effects, gasping as though drowning, he understood he had deceived himself. He was no longer merely a prisoner of his dreams, but a prisoner of his own foolishness—and that knowledge was almost more bitter than the dreams themselves.

Severus Tobias Snape lay tangled in the rumpled sheets of his dungeon chambers, the blanket thrown aside, hair damp and clinging to his skin, heart beating so fiercely he feared it might rupture. With iron discipline he forced his breath into rhythm—lips pressed together, lungs drawing and releasing air slowly, deliberately—using a technique he had once encountered in the Muggle world. He mocked the source, yet it worked; it brought his body back under control. His mind, his heart—those he had given up on long ago.

Fragments of the dream drifted away like smoke when he tried to grasp them. Only one sharp sensation remained—love. A word that stabbed deep into his chest. A word long forbidden to him, a word he despised. It had offered nothing but pain. And yet it lingered, hunted him, caught him unguarded—and of course she had been there, Lily. Always Lily. He hated himself for being unable to banish her from his nights, for hearing her voice still echo within him though she was long gone. Her laughter mingled in his dreams with the cruel, triumphant mockery of James Potter, the man he had hated all his life.

A dull sound—half curse, half strangled groan—escaped him as he lowered his head, dark hair falling over his face like a curtain. He felt his mood sink further still. This day would grant him no respite. He would have to look into the eyes of the boy whose name tasted like poison on his tongue. Harry Potter, son of James and Lily, a living reminder of everything he had lost and everything he despised. As he formed the name in his mind—soaked in disgust and fury—flecks of uncontrolled green light sparked from him. Magic forcing its way out. He clenched his fists, willing himself not to lose control.

And yet, as much as he feared and hated the boy, a forbidden corner of his mind wondered whether the child had inherited his mother’s eyes—that vivid, entrancing green that had captivated him even as a young boy. Or whether he bore the hated features of his father, the lips that had curled in mocking smiles when Severus lay humiliated in the dirt. He knew he could not bear to see James Potter in that child—not for a single moment. And so he stood torn between fury and a cruel longing.

Like an addict he reached for the bedside drawer and pulled out the small, frayed book that was more precious to him than all the gold in the world. He opened it with a tenderness no one would ever believe him capable of and drew out the photograph that filled him with equal measures of joy and pain. There she was—Lily, nine years old, alive, laughing, dancing, eyes bright, her red hair fluttering around her face like fire. Beside her stood the thin, awkward boy he himself had once been—young, hopeful, smiling because he still believed in a future that would never come. He let his gaze linger so long he almost felt himself slipping back through time.

At last he tucked the photo away and pulled out the only thing left to him of the woman she had become—the obituary, the proof of her death. He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together, suppressing the scream burning in his chest. He swore he would never cry again. He had shed everything within him long ago. What remained was nothing but the cold, merciless emptiness that followed him like a shadow.

Soft crackling drifted into his chambers—too measured, too magical to be mere fire—and before he fully registered it, he heard the unmistakable voice. Deep. Velvety. Infuriatingly gentle. A voice that soothed and irritated him in equal measure, its softness grating against his sharp edges like water smoothing stone.

“Severus,” Dumbledore spoke, sounding almost as though he sat in a chair beside the bed, “are you awake already? Forgive me for the early disturbance, but it is of some importance that I see you as soon as possible. Once you are ready, please come to my office. I will be expecting you.”

Nothing more. No long explanations. No unnecessary elaborations. Just the calm statement that nevertheless filled the room like a command wrapped in velvet. Severus rolled his eyes in annoyance. There was no point ignoring the summons, however much he wished he could.

He snorted, threw back the blanket, and shuddered as the cold dungeon air swept across his skin. Barefoot, wearing nothing but black boxer shorts, he trudged into the bathroom. He braced his palms against the basin and looked at his reflection—pale, severe, hollow, the eyes dark as bitter wells, raven hair hanging messily into his face, high cheekbones, thin lips, scars tracing his torso like the map of a lifelong war.

The mirror stayed silent for a breath, then rippled with derision.

“Merlin, Severus,” it purred mockingly, “you truly look as though you spent the night in a coffin.”

He shot it a dark, unimpressed look. The mirror glinted with mischief.

“A little sunlight wouldn’t kill you—though in your case, one could never be too sure.”

He snorted coldly and stuck out his tongue at it.

“How mature,” the mirror sighed.

Severus reached for his toothbrush, dipped it into the glass, and spread the sharp, herbal toothpaste over the bristles. He brushed with controlled, almost pedantic precision, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth.

“You could scrub until your hand falls off,” the mirror crooned, “that smile will never be pretty. Yellowish, crooked—and yet you manage to slice through every syllable you speak like razor blades.”

A low growl rumbled in his throat as he brushed harder, as though he could scrape its words from his teeth. He rinsed, gargling deliberately loudly.

“Lovely,” the mirror chirped, “with that look on your face, one might think you were preparing to interrogate a student.”

He wiped his mouth, shot it a deathly glare, and muttered, barely audible, “Do shut up.”

He reached for the shaving foam.

He coated his face, the foam settling over dark stubble like a white mask. The mirror giggled.

“Oh, the feared professor—lathered like a dandy. Preparing for a masked ball, are we?”

He ignored it. He lifted the razor and dragged the blade with ritualistic precision across his skin. The only sounds were the scrape of metal and the distant fire.

“You’ll never look soft as a peach,” the mirror sang, “death sits far too deep in those features. But at least you’ll meet it well groomed.”

He hissed sharply and continued shaving with exacting discipline.

When he finished, he shot the mirror a cold look. “One more comment,” he murmured, “and I’ll turn you into a toilet.”

The mirror snickered. “You’d never manage without me.”

He slammed the razor on the basin’s edge.

He stepped out of his shorts and entered the shower, turning the water to its hottest setting. The cascade struck him with steady force, washing away the sweat, the dreams, the trembling. He closed his eyes, breathed in the steam, let the heat loosen the tightness in his muscles.

At last he shut the water off, murmured a drying charm, and stepped from the shower fully warm and dry.

He dressed in silence—satin shorts, white undershirt, white linen shirt, black waistcoat, tailored black trousers, belt, robe, and finally the sweeping black cloak. Layer by layer he donned his armor, hiding the scars, hiding the boy once dancing in the grass beside Lily, hiding everything but the cold, disciplined figure the world knew.

He stood before the mirror one last time—not the man who woke from nightmares, but the professor, the shadow, the authority.

Then he took a handful of Floo powder, stepped into the fireplace, and spoke in a low, steady voice:

“Headmaster’s Office.”

Green flames swallowed him.

And so began Severus Snape’s first day of the new school year—one he despised already, long before he stepped into the corridor.

Chapter Text

A green jet of flame flickered to life, burning bright and hot for a moment before it swallowed Severus’ figure and spat him out a heartbeat later in the Headmaster’s office, where he stepped out of the fireplace with the typical dusty smell of Floo powder in his nose, straightened his cloak over his shoulders in one single, fluid movement, and acted as though this had been nothing more than a mundane step through a doorway. It was a practical means of travel, especially within the walls of Hogwarts, whose countless staircases and endless corridors could easily rob one of breath, and even though Severus would not admit that the long walks sometimes exhausted him, he still considered this method highly efficient.

“Good morning, Albus,” he began in that monotonous, dark voice that revealed no hint of emotion, “you sent for me.” His eyes drifted appraisingly over the old man who, as always, sat enthroned behind the massive desk, hands resting on the Daily Prophet, while the silver-white hair flowed in soft waves over his shoulders and the long beard, tied with a simple band, fell like a stream of light down his chest. Albus’ eyes, those piercing blue eyes, kind and yet unfathomably penetrating, lifted from the paper to Severus, and for a moment Snape thought he could see something in them that even his Occlumency could not grasp.

“Ah, Severus,” said Dumbledore in his gentle but firm voice, “I am pleased you came so quickly.” He lifted the newspaper slightly so that Severus could see Rita Skeeter’s large headline, and the corners of Severus’ mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Look at this. She simply could not resist. Now everyone knows that Harry Potter is coming to Hogwarts today.”

Severus’ expression darkened the moment the name was spoken, but he remained silent, and Dumbledore continued, “The poor boy has only recently learned who he truly is, and already the public is descending upon him. Hagrid told me that he was harassed in the Leaky Cauldron by crowds of curious witches and wizards—people who overran him, bombarded him with questions, handshakes, congratulations. Hagrid said the boy remained friendly, greeting people politely, without ever giving the impression the attention was going to his head.”

“How touching,” Severus murmured dryly, sinking into one of the chairs in front of the desk, crossing his long leg over the other with typical nonchalance while his fingers clenched the armrests.

Dumbledore slowly set the newspaper aside, his gaze sharpening, and added calmly, “And yet, Severus, believe me, his life is anything but touching. He lives with the Dursleys, his only remaining family, and they treat him as though he were a stranger in their home, as though he deserves nothing but disdain. A cupboard under the stairs was his room until recently—imagine that. He wears his cousin’s cast-off clothes, and every day they make sure he feels unwanted.”

Severus’ eyes narrowed, a faint trace of surprise flickering in them, but he said nothing, his lips merely pressing into a thinner line.

“He looks very much like his father,” said Dumbledore, and at that Severus’ expression twitched as though someone had stuck him with a needle. “Hagrid was almost startled by it.”

“Of course,” Severus replied with a soft hiss, his voice so low it sounded almost dangerous. “A second James. Exactly what the world needed.”

Dumbledore placed the newspaper aside, folded his hands, and looked at him over the rim of his half-moon glasses. “I see you are not enthusiastic.”

“Not enthusiastic?” Severus let out a sharp laugh so dry it made the room feel colder. “I call it a catastrophe. A child already celebrated as a hero before he has even properly held a wand. And now also the face of his father. What a delightful combination.”

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, then smiled at him gently, almost fatherly, and Severus felt his teeth clench until his jaw ached. “I know what is going through your mind, my boy,” the old man said—and Severus’ eyes flashed dangerously, for he hated that address—“but I assure you, he has Lily’s eyes.”

Severus’ gaze shot upward, dark, mistrustful, nearly hostile, but Dumbledore did not look away. “You will see for yourself, Severus. Give the boy a chance. He deserves one.”

“Deserves?” The Potions Master’s voice was now a dangerous growl. “Deserves to come to this school to be celebrated like a messiah? Deserves to be fed all the tales written about him? Or does he deserve to fall under my supervision and learn that fame and greatness are nothing without discipline and respect?”

Dumbledore looked at him calmly, hands folded on the desk, as though nothing could shake him, and his voice remained firm, yet carried by that unshakable gentleness that drove Severus mad even as it shamed him. “Perhaps all of that, Severus. Perhaps hostility, perhaps bitterness, perhaps merely the inability to let go. But more than anything else, this boy deserves protection. And who could give it to him better than you?”

Severus laughed bitterly, a joyless sound, dry as sand in his throat, and repeated the word slowly, savoring its irony: “Protection.” He tasted it like a bitter pill he had to swallow, and after a moment he closed his eyes, for he already knew what would come next. “You want me to protect James Potter’s son,” he said finally, quietly, but with a sharpness that betrayed the barely contained fury beneath it.

“I want,” Dumbledore replied without hesitation, firmly, “you to protect Lily’s son.”

And there it was again—the one argument that shattered everything inside him, that burned down every defense, every carefully constructed barrier, and Severus cursed the old man for daring to speak her name in that tone. They had discussed it so often—on long nights when Severus had returned, broken, marked, but determined to be useful; nights filled with arguments, silences, accusations, swearing, blame. And always, always it was Lily’s name that silenced him.

“Lily,” he murmured at last, barely audible, feeling guilt wrap around his chest like an iron chain. “Always Lily.” He clenched his hands into fists, knuckles pale, and his gaze drifted unsettled over the shelves full of books as though he might find an answer there Dumbledore refused to give. “And I—I am to endure the disgrace of seeing the imitation of James Potter before me day after day, just to preserve the memory of her?”

Dumbledore remained silent for a moment; only the fire crackled behind him. Then he looked up, meeting Severus’ eyes over his glasses—penetrating, almost sorrowful. “Not to preserve her memory, Severus. But to protect her legacy. You promised me once, and you know as well as I do that you are not doing this because I ask it of you—but because you could not bear not to.”

Severus pressed his lips together. He wanted to argue, to shout, to force the old man to admit the truth—that it was a burden, a curse, nothing more. But deep inside he knew Dumbledore was right, as always, and he hated him for it.

Severus’ hands tightened into fists; he stared silently at the polished desk, at the fine grooves in the wood, at the tiny reflections of light on Dumbledore’s silver instruments. Then he lifted his head, his voice once more controlled, icy, each syllable like a drop of poison. “I will try… Headmaster.”

Dumbledore nodded, his smile unwavering, though he heard the weight in Severus’ voice. “That is all I ask, Severus. Try. For Lily.”

Severus did not answer. His black eyes fixed on a golden instrument on Dumbledore’s desk, ticking in slow circles, though he barely saw it. Albus’ words still hung in the air as Severus fell back into memories he could not fight—memories of the narrow hallway of his childhood home, peeling wallpaper, the stench of stale beer seeping through every crack, and his father’s heavy voice, a furious roar that cut through him whenever the man drunkenly stormed through the house, slamming doors, throwing bottles, shouting for him as though he were an intruder, not a son.

He hardly heard Dumbledore continue. Everything inside him tightened, for Albus knew exactly which wound he had touched. “Lily’s eyes,” Severus thought bitterly. “As if that were any comfort. Eyes change nothing. Eyes do not bring her back. Eyes do not turn James’ offspring into a different child.”

“Severus?” Dumbledore’s voice called him back to the present—gentle yet firm—and Snape raised a gaze so cold it pierced even the old man for a moment.

“I am only remembering,” he said slowly, dangerously calm, “how deeply the past leaves its marks. And that anyone who resembles James Potter gives me no reason to believe in anything good.”

Dumbledore nodded slightly, as though he had expected this response. “And yet,” he replied quietly, “it is precisely the scars of the past that can teach us not to repeat the same mistakes.”

Severus knew too well what it meant to grow up in a house that was not a home but a prison, whose walls offered no safety but exhaled coldness, whose air was thick with cheap alcohol and the weight of unspoken threats. While other children knew comfort, he had learned that a wrong word, an unguarded look, or simply existing was enough to provoke his father—a man who felt neither affection nor pride, only hatred and bitterness. Tobias Snape, a Muggle who despised magic as though it were a stain, a poison that had tainted his family.

Severus had learned early that his powers were a curse, not a gift—at least in that man’s eyes. Day after day Tobias made sure he knew he was unwanted, a bastard unworthy of being called a son. He took pleasure in making his life as hard as possible—locking him in the cellar, dark, damp, full of rats creeping through the cracks—while his stomach twisted with hunger, for Tobias forbade Eileen from giving him food or water. And when she did anyway, bringing him bread or fruit in the cover of night, she paid with beatings that left her bedridden for days.

Severus remembered her quiet sobs behind closed doors, the scratches on her face, the shadows beneath her eyes deepening with every passing year at his side. Even as a child he wondered why she had married this man—why she had given her heart to someone who hated her magic so much he forced her to break her wand, stripping her not only of defense but of the last spark of strength she possessed, until she became nothing but a shadow of herself.

And yet, as dark as his childhood was, Severus was not weak. He learned to survive. He hid hard bread, dried meat, bottles of water in crevices of the cellar. He whispered to the flames of a candle he conjured when locked inside, swearing he would one day be stronger than anyone—stronger than his father, stronger than all who had humiliated him. And while Tobias drank himself into decay, Severus fed the growing fire within—anger, hunger for power, for knowledge, for a justice that was not about being loved but being untouchable.

The day Tobias died surprised him little. He had almost expected it—yes, he had longed for it. When he heard the man had fallen drunkenly down the stairs and broken his neck, Severus felt no shock, no sorrow, no emptiness—only cold satisfaction, as though Merlin himself had finally passed judgment. He shed no tears, telling himself over and over it was nothing more than a deserved punishment for years of violence, mockery, and contempt endured by him and his mother.

But while he never missed his father, the death of his mother weighed heavily. She had been the only person who loved him—quietly, brokenly, silently. And when she died months later, weakened by years of oppression, Severus was left alone—without family, without anyone to catch him. And that loneliness pushed him into the wrong arms—toward those who promised him power but offered only the abyss.

His so-called friends—Lucius Malfoy with his lazy façade, Bellatrix Lestrange with laughter already steeped in madness, the faces that surrounded him and made him feel included, though deep down he knew he was nothing but a tool they would discard once he ceased to be useful.

Those were not friends—they were jackals. And yet they were all he had.

And as he now thought of the Potter boy—raised among Muggles who hated him, belittled him, locked him in a cupboard—he had to admit the boy had at least something he himself never did: he had a roof, clothes, food. He was not entirely alone, but held within a system that, however cruel, kept him alive. Severus had nothing but darkness, the stench of alcohol, fists, and silence.

And yet, he thought bitterly, perhaps it was precisely pain that bound them—shaped differently, but pain nonetheless. Harry Potter, the child believed by many to be spoiled, yet unloved by his own kin; and Severus Snape, the despised son of a drunk and a broken witch, who sought refuge in false friendships only to learn they were a bargain with his own soul.

“And yet,” Dumbledore’s voice echoed in his mind, “it is precisely the scars of the past that can teach us not to repeat the same mistakes.”

Severus’ lips twitched—a flicker between contempt and pain—and he thought that mistakes did not repeat because one failed to learn but because the world never offered a choice.

Finally Severus rose. His cloak swept behind him like a dark wave as he pushed the chair back with slow, controlled steps. No further glance at the Headmaster, no unnecessary word—only the firm grip on the backrest, the tense lift of his chin, and the silence like a wall between them. He turned toward the door, the heavy heels of his boots echoing on the stone floor, and inside him the memories churned—cellars, false friends, Lily, James, everything that had been and would never return.

Just as his hand closed around the doorknob, Dumbledore’s voice sounded—calm, tinged with a warmth Severus found unbearable. “Severus,” he said, the name lingering in the air, “I know what the past has taken from you. But I hope that one day you will not only remember—but reconnect. Someday.”

Severus froze, back straight, hand still on the cold metal. For a heartbeat he seemed about to respond—but then his jaw tightened, he opened the door sharply, and stepped out. The dull thud of the door closing behind him was his answer.

Dumbledore sighed quietly, reached for the Daily Prophet, smoothing the pages, and though Severus had left only coldness behind, a glimmer of hope still shone in the old man’s eyes.

Chapter Text

“Severus, at five o’clock the students will arrive, and as we have already discussed several times, I would like you to make yourself useful in advance at the station in Hogsmeade,” Dumbledore had said to him, with that unbearably gentle yet no less unshakable voice he mastered so perfectly that it smothered any objection at its source, “see to it that Harry arrives here safely, and afterwards you may take your seat in the Great Hall, keep an eye on the boy as you promised me, and we really don’t need to go over this topic yet again, I am relying on you, my boy. Besides, I would be very pleased if you could prevent him from ending up in the papers again, so keep him away from trouble, you understand me.”

Added to that had been that unbearable wink, a smug, roguish little play of the eyes that, coming from anyone else, might have passed as a harmless joke, but from Dumbledore meant nothing other than: “I know you hate it, but you will do it because I wish it.”

“Of course, Headmaster, as you wish,” Severus had replied, and while he forced himself into a curt, stiff bow, the simmering inside him had been barely containable. ‘Of course, as you wish, old man, why not with a dance and a smile as well, as though I were your obedient lackey.’ With his cloak billowing he had turned away, choosing the door this time and not the fireplace, because he had decided that he would not once again peel himself out of the flames like some half-singed relic, covered in powder dust that would ruin his cloak and transform his hair into a pitiful grey.

As he descended the stairway, the stone gargoyle behind him sinking back into immobility, he thought to himself that this day could hardly have started in a more miserable fashion, and he knew at the same time that this exact thought sounded like an invitation to fate to prove the opposite. Dumbledore had explained the procedure to him in such a pedantic manner as if he were a student, and Severus hated nothing more than being treated as though one had to explain to him how to breathe. ‘Coffee, the only thing that can still save me now, coffee as black as my soul, and if Minerva punishes me again with that look of hers, then so be it, perhaps next time I should offer to have it sweetened with vinegar, that suits her character better.’

The Great Hall was still empty, and when he reached the chair at the staff table, he let himself sink into it, reached for the steaming cup and drew in the scent, bitter, biting, almost comforting, if one could speak of comfort in his world at all. He hated the early hours, he hated the people who at that time stumbled through the corridors with silly, grinning faces as though they had been feeding on a clown. And he hated the fact that he was forced to show himself in company instead of disappearing into his laboratory, where at least he was the master over poison and antidote. Two colleagues had dared to wish him a good morning, but the very first look at his face had silenced them, and he had lost himself in thoughts about Potter, that unbearable boy he was now supposed to accompany like a guard. ‘My burden, my curse, and as if that were not bad enough, Dumbledore even acts as though it were an honour.’

“You look as though you spent the night with a horde of trolls,” Minerva’s voice suddenly sounded, dry and in that familiar tone only she could manage without him reacting at once with icy irritation. Slowly he raised his head, fixed her with a sharp look that would usually silence any student, and replied silkily, “If I had the choice between a night with trolls and a conversation before my first coffee, Minerva, I would always choose the trolls.”

A barely noticeable smile flitted over her lips, one he would not have tolerated from anyone else, but with her it had almost become a habit, a quiet ritual between them. “Oh Severus, your company in the morning truly is a gift. I only wonder why the coffee hasn’t long since run away from you.” He took a sip, let the bitterness sit heavily on his tongue and thought: ‘Because at least it knows when to keep quiet.’ Aloud, however, he said, “Unlike certain others, coffee possesses the virtue of silence, and that makes it an extremely pleasant companion.”

She raised an eyebrow, her eyes sparkling behind her glasses, and he knew she enjoyed this dance just as much as he did, even if he would never admit it openly. “You really should try a smile sometime, Severus. They say it prolongs life.” He set the cup down with a soft clink, turned his head just a fraction and let a smile flash, one that was anything but friendly, but still a concession for her. “Why should I wish to prolong my life if it means spending yet more years in the company of incompetent students and inconvenient colleagues?”

“Inconvenient colleagues?” she asked sharply, though not hurt—rather challenged—and he saw the amused glint in her eyes that calmed him more than he wanted to admit. “I hope I do not belong to that group.”
He raised an eyebrow and let the words sound like a dagger, even though he secretly valued her. “If the shoe fits, Minerva, then wear it with dignity.”

She snorted softly, not offended but amused, and Severus reached for his cup again, inwardly almost content, because he knew this was her game—a game he respected because she was the only one who dared to meet him in this way. ‘A little skirmish like this in the morning,’ he thought, ‘almost as invigorating as the caffeine itself, and perhaps Minerva is the only reason I endure breakfast among colleagues at all.’

The morning dragged on painfully, and he would gladly have buried it in the quiet depths of his laboratory, between phials, cauldrons and the gentle symphony of bubbling and hissing, but when the clock struck half past four, he knew he could no longer evade his duty. With a jerk he rose, his cloak swishing behind him, and he set off for Hogsmeade, where he saw Hagrid already from afar—shapeless, awkward—as he tried to keep a crowd of squealing first-years together.

These little monsters were waiting for their boat ride across the Black Lake, which they, in childish naivety, considered a magical adventure, and Severus wondered why he had to endure this theatricality year after year. ‘Would it not be simpler to Apparate them straight into the Great Hall and strip them in one stroke of the illusion that life at Hogwarts was anything other than discipline, work and punishment?’

He kept, as always, to the shadows, where he attracted less attention, for he knew how students reacted to him—and to be honest, he enjoyed that stunned silence his presence provoked. It was loud, it was hectic, it was disgusting, and the chatter about trivial crushes and supposed romances pierced his temples like a knife. ‘Merlin’s hairy balls, if I have to hear one more time who is snogging whom, I’ll tear someone’s head off.’ These brats behaved as if the most important question of the century were whether Miss Puberty Number One would finally let Mister Pimples kiss her, and they giggled as though someone had poured a barrel of alcohol into them. ‘If they knew how little their hormone-soaked foolishness interests me.’

The only thing that truly appealed to him about it was the prospect of catching some of them after curfew, catching them in flagrante and, in a cold voice, deducting points until the laughter died in their throats. ‘Yes, that would grant me a certain satisfaction—the sudden freezing of their expressions, the frantic straightening of clothing, the panicked look when they realized their fun had come to an abrupt end.’ How wonderfully quiet it became then when one only had to whisper his name. “Professor Snape,” in a trembling voice, as though he were some spectre. A title they spoke in that moment with real fear, not with their usual defiance.

He listened to the cacophony of voices and could not fathom how much pointless noise could come out of such young throats. ‘How can a single generation manage to be so loud and so empty at the same time?’ Probably a law of nature. They talked and talked, but none of it meant anything. ‘If they put half of that energy into their homework, I might have a class that didn’t fail at the most basic principles of Potions. But no, they would rather drool over trivial nonsense and forget that the world was bigger than their tiny, overblown teenage drama.’

And yet, he had to admit to himself, he enjoyed it when this babble fell abruptly silent the moment his shadow fell over them. ‘That brief flicker of real fear in their eyes is sometimes the only consolation on days like this.’ A quiet, malicious pleasure spread in him at the thought that his mere appearance was enough to shatter their pathetic cheerfulness.

Finally his gaze fell on Potter, from behind to be sure, but that was more than enough, for there was nothing about this boy he wished to see from the front. ‘Later,’ he told himself, ‘later it will suffice to endure him; until then I will not inflict this upon myself.’

Then Hagrid’s broad shoulders moved up beside him, bringing with them a smell of damp leather, tobacco and wet dog that forced its way into Severus’ nose, and the half-giant’s deep voice boomed far too loudly amid the deafening bustle of students. “Ah, Professor Snape, there they all are, safe and sound, and Harry too—I’ve got him right with me, no need for you to worry.”

‘No need to worry—as if I had ever wasted even a single second of my life worrying about Potter,’ Severus thought with cutting scorn, looking only sideways at the man whose eyes shone with exaggerated warmth. Aloud, however, there escaped him only a frosty, “How reassuring.”

“He’s lookin’ real good, ain’t he? Grown a lot, Harry has,” Hagrid continued rapturously, chest swelling with pride as though he were personally responsible for Potter’s growth. Severus’ eyes narrowed to thin slits, and his voice dripped with icy coldness. “Yes, astonishing that he has not starved or drowned despite all your care.”

Hagrid laughed good-naturedly, apparently unable to recognize the barb, and slapped his own chest with one great paw. “Ah, Professor Snape, you’re jokin’, eh? I know you don’ like to admit it, but I reckon you’re quite fond of him really.”

Severus’ lips twitched barely perceptibly, a hint of contempt passing over his face, and he thought bitterly: ‘If I ever sink that low, Hagrid, do me the favour and kill me with one of your pumpkins.’
Instead he said smoothly, “Your powers of observation are, as ever, impressive. You should teach Divination.”

“If yeh like, yeh can head back to the castle already,” Hagrid went on, voice still jovial and overly hearty as he scratched his beard with his huge hand, “I’ll bring the little ones across in the boats, like every year. Got it all under control, no problem at all.”

Severus’ lips drew into the faintest line, not a smile, but bearing the bitter note of a man who knew he no longer had to endure this nonsense. ‘Babysitter, I am not his damned babysitter, and if this day has already been ruined for me by Dumbledore, then at least not also by you.’

“Then my presence here truly is superfluous,” he said softly, almost velvety, yet sharp enough to leave his conversation partner in uncertainty.

Hagrid nodded eagerly, apparently incapable of distinguishing between irony and sincerity, and Severus allowed himself the quiet pleasure of offering no clarification whatsoever.

“See yeh later in the Great Hall then?” Hagrid asked undeterred, his voice full of naive expectation.

Severus looked at him through narrowed eyes and let the poison of his words drip, “To my utmost regret, yes.”

With one last scornful glance at the goings-on that bored him more with every passing second, he turned away, his cloak snapping sharply behind him, and made his way back up to the castle.

He swore to himself that this day would be the last on which he gave Potter more attention than was absolutely unavoidable—not knowing how bitterly wrong he was and that fate was already preparing, in its cruel, mocking way, to teach him otherwise.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger, a young girl of eleven, almost twelve, with bushy, curly brown hair that fell untamed over her shoulders and large honey-brown eyes that looked curiously around, stood somewhat uncertainly in the middle of a long line of other children who were just as nervous as they waited in front of the mighty doors of the Great Hall. She pressed her hands tightly together so as not to show how much she was trembling, and her gaze darted restlessly around, over the high stone walls illuminated by candelabras whose flickering light cast long shadows over the ancient paintings that looked down at the first-years with measured eyes. No trace of lamps, no trace of electrical wires or switches—nothing she knew from her previous life. ‘The magical world really is stuck in the last century,’ she thought in quiet amazement, and at the same time a shiver of fascination slipped down her spine as she realized that this was now her new reality, a life so very different from anything she had known.

As she stood there, feeling the thudding of her heart like a secret metronome pulsing through her fingertips, she smelled the warm scent of wax and stone, heard the muffled call of an owl somewhere in the distance, and for the briefest breath felt as though an invisible door inside her had opened—one behind which the word “belonging” no longer sounded like a wish but like a possibility.

She was not used to any of this; at home she had every convenience, every technical device one could imagine, but now, surrounded by these stones and candles, she felt as if she had been transported into another time. Only a few weeks ago she hadn’t even known she was a witch—a real, genuine witch. Her parents, both highly respected dentists, had never had the slightest connection to magic, and when the letter from Hogwarts reached her, they had been completely stunned at first. Hermione remembered that moment clearly, the trembling expression on her father’s face as he read the letter aloud, and the incredulous blinking of her mother, who immediately assumed it had to be some kind of bad joke. Only the appearance of Professor McGonagall at their door, in those dignified robes, with a stern expression and yet a voice that allowed no doubt, had convinced her parents that Hermione truly was meant to become a witch. McGonagall, as Hermione later learned, always visited children from entirely Muggle-born families in person, for only then could they truly grasp that the wizarding world existed—a letter alone would never have been enough.

In retrospect she still saw the faint trembling of the teacups on the living-room table, heard the sharp clicking of McGonagall’s heels on the parquet, felt the entire room tighten with expectation, and she remembered how, between two breaths, her old world had suddenly grown a shade brighter, as if someone had redrawn the edges of reality with colour.

From that day on, everything inside Hermione had shifted. Suddenly so much made sense—all the strange things she had unintentionally caused in the past, the books that had sometimes seemed to fall into her hands by themselves, or the moments when she had known she was different from everyone else. Now she understood why she had never been invited anywhere, why the children at her old school had avoided her, why she had never felt truly at home. ‘I was never just odd,’ she thought, ‘I was always different—magical.’

From that thought grew a quiet, precious defiance that warmed her like a smooth stone hidden in her pocket, for if “different” could mean “right” here, then perhaps all her earlier awkwardness had simply been waiting to become direction.

And now she stood here, her heart a mixture of excitement and growing pride. She had worked through the list of school supplies obsessively the moment she received it, devouring every book not just once but several times, each time leaving notes in the margins as if by sheer study she could burn the secrets of magic into her memory in advance. She wanted to become a great witch; she wanted to be someone special, just as her parents were in their world—only now, it was an entirely different world for her, and in this one she was determined never to let anyone tell her she didn’t belong.

She murmured definitions, formulas, and terms in her mind as if they were both talisman and rhythm, and every keyword she had written in the margins now seemed like a small, bright flag on a map that would lead her into a land she did not yet know but desperately wanted to explore.

A nervous buzzing went through the rows; children whispered, some tried to look brave, but Hermione recognized the fear on their faces just as she felt it in herself. ‘If I don’t pass the test,’ she thought with a jolt of panic, ‘will they send me back? Back to that old world where I was a freak?’ The thought was unbearable; she could not fail—she must not disappoint herself, let alone the professors who would be watching the newcomers with vigilant eyes.

She forced air deep into her lungs, silently counted to four, held her breath, then released it slowly, and with each number the inner sea calmed a little, as though counting alone could tame the waves of fear.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the great double doors opened, heavy and with a resonant groan that swept like a drumbeat through the lined-up bodies. A murmur ran through the crowd, and then the warm light of the Great Hall spilled over the first-years. Hermione stepped forward cautiously, her eyes widening, and for a moment she even forgot to be nervous. Four long tables stretched across the hall, filled with students of all ages; heads turned toward them—some curious, some bored, some amused. Hermione felt the weight of their gazes on her neck, and yet she couldn’t help but look upward.

It was as if the room itself possessed a breath that flowed in and out with every flicker of candlelight, and she hardly dared blink for fear the sight might disappear like a dream.

Above them floated thousands of candles whose flames flickered gently and bathed the hall in golden light. The ceiling above seemed to have vanished, replaced instead by the star-studded night sky, and Hermione’s heart leapt. “The enchanted ceiling,” she whispered reverently to the girl beside her, who was staring upward just as spellbound. “I’ve read that it’s enchanted to always reflect the sky outside.” The girl only nodded, and Hermione’s voice sounded like the awed whisper of a child who realizes for the first time that it is allowed to dream.

A thin, almost invisible thread of excitement stretched between them, and Hermione thought that perhaps friendship begins just like this: with a shared wonder greater than any single word.

The children walked between the long tables to the end of the hall, where another table stood on a raised platform, placed crosswise, and Hermione knew at once: “That must be the staff table.” She soaked in every detail, not wanting to miss anything, and tried to catch a glimpse of the adults seated there over the sea of heads. But she was small—too small—and could not see much clearly, only that a single stool stood before the platform, and on it an old, battered hat.

The hat looked as though it had swallowed stories and gnawed through centuries, and Hermione wondered whether objects that old might possess memories of their own, hidden in their seams and stitches.

Professor McGonagall’s voice rose, stern, clear, yet reassuring. She explained that there was no exam in the usual sense; the hat lying before them would decide the houses. Hermione breathed deeply, her heart still pounding like a hammer in her chest, but at least she knew she would not be sent back immediately. ‘A hat is deciding my fate,’ she thought with a hint of disbelief. ‘Why a hat? Why not something else?’ But she remained silent and waited.

A hat, she thought, fighting a nervous smile, and if an article of clothing is going to decide my path, then perhaps it’s time to hand my doubts to the wardrobe.

Children were called one by one, each sitting on the stool as the hat was placed on their head, and a murmur rippled through the hall each time a new house was declared. Then finally, after agonizingly long minutes, her name rang through the hall—“Hermione Granger.”

Her name sounded strange and large in the room, as though it no longer belonged solely to her but had become a word others heard and weighed expectantly in their hands.

Her legs felt like rubber as she stepped forward, each step a small battle between fear and exhilaration. She sat down, her feet dangling freely, and Professor McGonagall gave her an encouraging nod before placing the hat on her head. It smelled of old leather, of dust, and of something faintly like mildew, and Hermione grimaced inwardly. But then—a voice.

The world shifted slightly, as though someone had turned down the volume of the hall and turned up the volume of her thoughts.

“Ah, Hermione Granger. What a lovely name, what a clever mind. Muggle-born, yes? And yet—so much hunger, so much ambition, so much thirst for knowledge. I like that.” Hermione’s heart raced, her thoughts tumbling over each other. ‘A hat speaking to me—this is absurd.’ But the voice continued unfazed, “I see courage, oh yes, and remarkable loyalty. But also ambition, immense discipline, a desire to prove yourself. You are versatile, girl, you could achieve much—in Slytherin most of all. And what is this? Your soul—so pure, so clear—it shines, yes, it shines brighter than any I have ever seen. You are exceptional, Hermione, something I have rarely encountered in all these centuries.”

For a moment she thought she felt the warmth of an invisible flame on her skin, and she held her breath, because the word “exceptional” resonated inside her like a bell whose tone lingers long after the hammer falls silent.

“No!” Hermione’s thought was like a cry. ‘Please not Slytherin. I want Gryffindor. Or Ravenclaw. Please.’ The hat chuckled softly in her mind, a warm, mocking chuckle. “Ah, you think you know what is best for you? Slytherin would make you great; it could give you everything. But you resist. You have a strong will, Granger.” She bit her lip, her hands gripping the stool, and she whispered silently: ‘Not Slytherin. Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Please.’

She felt her will gather inside her, not defiant but steady, as though a line had been drawn that must be respected, and she held onto it like a rope.

“Then Gryffindor,” the hat declared at last, loud and triumphant, and the word echoed through the hall. A roaring applause rose, loudest from the Gryffindor table, and Hermione exhaled, relieved, almost overwhelmed by the wave of joy washing through her.

The relief was so real it tingled in her knees, and she realized that the world, which moments ago had seemed frighteningly vast, suddenly felt a little closer.

She stood, removed the hat, placed it back, and glanced briefly at the teachers. Her gaze caught on one man. Black, greasy hair hanging in strands around his face, dark, unreadable eyes, a sharp nose, high cheekbones—and that distant, forbidding aura that cloaked him like a mantle. He raised his head, and their eyes met.

The moment stretched, thin as glass yet so taut she almost thought she heard it hum, and she did not know whether it was fear or curiosity that stole her breath.

Hermione’s neck tingled, goosebumps spread across her skin, and for an instant it felt as though his gaze pierced straight through her, down to her core. She felt pinned, shivered—and then came a sensation, warm, protective, almost like an invisible cloak wrapping around her. It did not frighten her; on the contrary, it soothed her, as though she had suddenly found an anchor amid the sea of strangers.

She could have sworn the noise of the hall stepped back, and in that small quiet the thought formed that some strangers feel strangely familiar long before one knows their name.

She forced herself to break the eye contact, turned away quickly, and hurried to the cheering Gryffindors. ‘It must have come from the hat,’ she told herself, ‘some sort of magical echo.’ The thought calmed her; she accepted it and pushed it into the corner of her mind. And when moments later the name “Harry Potter” rang through the hall, that strange feeling had already faded so much she had nearly forgotten it.

She sat down on the bench, still hearing her own name like a distant memory amid the tangled voices, and thought that the first evening in a new place must always be like this: a fabric of fear, hope, and a quiet, persistent glow one cannot name and yet carries along.

Chapter Text

Completely different, however, was the effect on Severus Snape, who sat as if turned to stone in his place at the staff table, his hands clasped together beneath the tabletop, while his gaze wandered unfocused across the hall without him truly seeing anything, until it suddenly halted, as if someone had struck him at the back of the neck. The moment he raised his head and the girl – Granger, something with Granger, or so he thought – looked at him, it was as if a bolt of lightning had shot straight through him, as if the world had shifted for the span of a single breath and torn a crack into his chest. Heat spread in the pit of his stomach, not a pleasant warmth, but a blazing burn that threw him off balance, and a shiver, cold and hot at the same time, raced from the roots of his hair all the way down to his toes.

'By Merlin’s damned, filthy underpants,' it raged inside him as he dug his fingers into the fabric of his robes, 'what in the hell’s cauldron was that just now?' He forced himself to breathe more deeply, as though he might tame the frantic restlessness that made his heart pound in his chest like a wild animal gone berserk. 'Am I dying?' he asked himself mockingly, half afraid, half contemptuous, and at once the old reflex stirred, to make fun of himself. 'How fitting, Severus, to die of a ridiculous heart failure of all things during a Sorting Ceremony – the students would never forgive you for ruining the grand spectacle with your demise.' Yet no matter how hard he tried to drive his inner voice back into its customary cynicism, the feeling remained, warm, throbbing, inexplicable, as if someone had set a string deep within him vibrating, a string he had not even known existed.

He wanted to look away, to shake his head, to banish this revolting revolt of his body back into the shadows, but the name that rang out through the hall a moment later tore him from his confused thoughts. “Harry Potter.” Merely hearing that name constricted his throat, and when he saw the boy step forward, everything inside him froze. The throbbing in his chest fell silent for a moment, driven out by the sudden shock that hurled him back into his youth, into images he hated and yet could never escape.

The brat looked like James – messy hair, that accursed, self-satisfied posture, even the features of his face seemed copied like some bad joke of nature. Severus’ lips drew into a hard line as he fixed his gaze on him, and only when the boy raised his head did the eyes hit him. Lily’s eyes. Green, clear, painfully familiar. And in that second it was as if someone had driven a dagger into his chest and twisted it with relish. The boy clutched his forehead with a look of pain. 'You look like your father,' he snarled inwardly, 'but your eyes… your eyes belong to her.'

He pressed his palms more tightly together so as not to lose control, and for the briefest of moments he pictured himself as the one who would force the boy to his knees right here with a single spell. 'Welcome to Hogwarts, Potter – Crucio.' The mere thought brought a sharp, cruel smile to his lips, but it died at once when he noticed a splash of liquid on the table. His wineglass had been knocked over, the ruby-red contents spilling across the tablecloth, and he turned his head only to see Quirrell beside him, nervously muttering as he tried to apologise.

“Sorry… very clumsy… the mummy…,” stammered the gaunt man, pale as chalk, with that disgustingly sweet, musty smell wafting from his turban. Severus drew in a breath despite himself, regretted it in the same instant, because his trained sense of smell seemed to pick up every note of that stench. 'By all that is holy, if I have to listen to that and smell it all winter, I will bury myself in the dungeons,' he thought as he cleared the mess away with a curt flick of his hand and granted the man no more attention than strictly necessary. He already knew that this Quirrell would cost him more nerves in the coming months than any student had ever managed.

His gaze slid back to Potter, and the old, familiar fury surged up in him, hot and corrosive, like acid running through his veins. It was almost a relief to return to that fury after he had just been forced to grapple with that other, foreign feeling. Hatred was familiar to him, hatred he could control, he could tend it like an old acquaintance, he could hone it and wield it as a weapon, just as he always had. Only that warmth, that inexplicable throbbing Granger had triggered in him – that was dangerous, because he knew no antidote for it.

He sat there staring into nothing while the celebrations roared around him, the students’ laughter and the teachers’ voices like an unwelcome buzzing in his ears, and he swore to himself that he would get through this evening just as he had survived all the evenings that had demanded more of him than he would ever admit. Yet the longer he sat there, the more often his gaze wandered back, away from Potter, over to the Gryffindor table, where the little girl now sat among cheering students, her hands folded nervously in her lap, as if she herself could barely believe she was here. 'Granger,' he murmured in his thoughts, 'Hermione Granger.'

And he cursed himself for being able to remember her name.

When at last the feast drew to a close and the students streamed out in droves, the prefects gathering their groups, he rose mechanically, almost like a marionette whose strings someone was tugging roughly, bowed his head slightly at Dumbledore’s final, pompous words, which stirred nothing but resistance in him, and turned to leave with a sharp sweep of his robes, as though with that one gesture he could shake off the sickly-sweet spectacle of the past hours once and for all. He had to get away, immediately, he had to smother this heat inside him, this unpredictable throbbing, this disgusting, revolting weakness at the root before it became even more dangerous than it already was and he, in some unguarded moment, betrayed himself.

The corridors lay still and dark before him, lit only by the occasional torch whose light drifted sluggishly over the cold stone and cast long, ghostly shadows that shifted with each of his movements, as if they were watching him, mocking him. Only the soft echo of his footsteps resounded between the ancient walls, hard, relentless, an acoustic proof of his solitude. Every step sounded as though it carried him deeper into himself, into that abyss that had held him captive for so many years and which at the same time offered him the only familiarity he still knew.

He paused for a breath in front of his door, raised his hand, let the protective spells, woven around his privacy like invisible layers of distrust and caution, collapse one after another, pushed the heavy oak open with a dull creak and stepped into the only world in which he truly felt safe: the silence of his dungeons, sealed off from everything that breathed, laughed, or tried to assail him with false warmth.

With a sigh that escaped him so quietly he regretted it at once – for he otherwise never allowed himself to hint at weakness, not even when no one could hear him – he reached for a bottle of Firewhisky that had been waiting for him in the corner of his private bar like an old, reliable ally whose effect had never yet failed him. He poured himself a full glass, the amber liquid gleaming in the flickering candlelight like molten gold, and he sank heavily into the armchair before the fireplace, whose black leather had long since learned every line of his body. A sharp snap of his fingers was enough to rouse the fire; it flared up, crackling, leaping high and throwing red embers into the room, as if it had only been waiting for his signal.

He drank, deeply, greedily, far too quickly, as though he could wash away the thoughts that had settled in his head like a swarm of bothersome flies, and with every swallow he hoped to burn the images from his mind – Lily’s eyes, staring at him from the face of that damned boy and tearing open the heart he had believed long since turned to stone, Granger’s gaze, honey-brown and inexplicably warm, that had struck him like a stab from a dagger, so unexpected and yet so precise that in a moment of madness he might almost have imagined he deserved to be looked at in such a way.

But they did not vanish. Not Lily’s eyes in Potter’s face, not Granger’s gaze, not the feeling that something within him had come to life again that he had believed dead. Not even in the pleasant warmth of the alcohol, which otherwise reliably smothered any thought that threatened to drive him into dangerous regions of his soul. No, not this time.

And when, much later, long past midnight, in the early grey hours when even the castle was quieter than usual, he closed his eyes, it was once more those honey-brown eyes that haunted him, that would not let him go, that had burned themselves into his innermost self like a secret spell. They burned brighter than the flames in the fireplace, more relentless, more uncontrollable, and when he finally slipped into a restless sleep, it was only to wake again bathed in sweat, his body soaked, his breath catching, his fingers clamped into the leather of his armchair.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with an unsteady hand, muttered a curse at Merlin, at himself, at everything, and stared into the embers of the dying fire, which, unlike him, really had gone out. And he knew he would find no more peace that night, because he had felt something he could not define, something that frightened him more than any curse, any battle, any monster he had ever faced.

He could not bear it any longer; the sleep he had laboriously coaxed into coming with alcohol had been nothing but a farce, an alternation of brief, feverish fragments of dream and abrupt awakenings that each time left him with a racing heartbeat, as though he had just fled from a Dementor. Around five in the morning, the embers in the fireplace long since dead, the room filled with the heavy, biting smell of Firewhisky mingling with the cold stone, he hauled himself upright, almost staggered, and let loose several curses on his way to the bathroom, loud enough for them to be hurled back at him by the walls. He dragged his black shirt over his head, stared into the mirror and saw a face that repulsed him more than it seemed familiar to him: hollow cheeks, shadows beneath his eyes darker than the cloak he usually wore, and that expression, that eternal expression of grief and bitterness that had burned itself into his features like a brand.

Lily. Her name flared up, again and again, merciless, and this time it was worse than on so many nights before, worse because he had just seen it in the eyes of that cursed boy, worse because at the same time another pair of eyes refused to let him go – warm, inquisitive, far too innocent and yet piercing. “Hermione Granger,” he murmured, as though speaking the name could break the spell that had, incomprehensibly, settled around him. He twisted his mouth as if he had tasted poison and growled a sharp “Idiot,” directed at himself, before splashing cold water over his face.

But that did not help either; the images clung to him like pitch, and so he turned to the only remedy that brought him any relief at such times. He fetched his training clothes, a simple black shirt and a pair of trousers he had owned for years, slipped into them, laced his shoes and left his chambers without so much as a backwards glance. The corridors were deserted, only the sound of his footsteps accompanied him, and when he finally left the great Entrance Hall behind and stepped out into the damp morning air, the stillness of the grounds wrapped around him like an icy blanket.

It was that hour just before dawn when the world still hangs between night and day, the birds silent, the lake cast in a pale grey as though it were holding its breath. Snape drew in the air, felt it slide cold through his lungs, and stretched, slowly, deliberately, because bitter experience had taught him how mercilessly the body reacted if he forced it into motion without preparation. The memory of his first run in the summer, of the days when he had barely been able to walk for the pain, was still fresh. Back then he had cursed every muscle whose existence he had not even suspected.

Now, however, he was stronger, more defined, his body harder than in previous years, and as he stretched his arms and bent his legs, he murmured the words with which he reined himself in. 'Bury it, Severus. Bury it deep. Close the drawer. Lock it. And throw the key away, for Merlin’s sake.' A bitter smile twitched at his lips, devoid of any joy, and then he set off, first at a brisk walk, then faster and faster until he fell into an even running pace, at which only the rhythmic thud of his feet on the ground, his breath and the distant heartbeat of the castle itself mattered.

He ran along the lake, whose surface gleamed dull in the twilight, and with every step he tried to push his thoughts away. But they forced themselves back in, with every movement that made his blood pump faster. First Lily, her laughter, which he missed so much it drove him half mad. Then Potter, the living betrayal of her memory. And finally, unbidden, unwelcome, that other, foreign warmth – Hermione Granger. Those eyes, large, inquisitive, honey-coloured, which in a single night had breached the carefully constructed bastion he had built around himself.

He snorted, clenched his teeth, forced himself to maintain the rhythm and pressed the words into his mind as if chiselling them into stone. 'Not her. Not now. Not ever.' But the pressure in his chest did not ease, and for a brief moment, as he leapt over a root and had to draw in a sharp breath, an almost childlike panic swept over him. 'Am I falling ill? Am I cursed? Is my damned heart about to give out?' The questions echoed in him as he continued to run, unrelenting, as though he were challenging fate to strike him down.

When he finally returned to the castle, the sun just beginning to creep tentatively over the hills and tint the sky pink, he cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself, for under no circumstances did he wish to be seen – not like this, not in this state. Unseen, he slipped back into the dungeons, tossed his sweaty things carelessly into the laundry basket and stepped under the shower, letting alternating cold and hot water rain down on his body until his skin burned. Yet even then, with his eyes closed, he still saw them, those honey-brown eyes that pursued him like an inescapable prophecy.

He dressed, slowly, almost mechanically, like a man trying to reclaim each gesture as part of the control he had lost during the night. Black shirt, dark waistcoat, the long, heavy cloak – his second skin, his armour. When he looked into the mirror, there was no trace left of the desperate, sweat-soaked man who had stood there barely an hour ago, only the familiar image: Severus Snape, unapproachable, sharp, with those cold eyes that could make students tremble. 'That is how it should be,' he murmured in his thoughts, 'that is how it must remain.' Everything else had to be buried, deep beneath layers of discipline, anger and sarcasm.

With long strides he left his rooms, his robes billowing behind him, and took the familiar path up to the Great Hall. The corridors were still empty, only the occasional house-elf scurried past or a tame rat slipped away into the shadows. It was the hour he could bear the best – when the castle slept, or rather: when it was just waking. No students, no noise, only the echo of his steps and the certainty that for at least a few minutes he could be alone with himself and his bitterness.

When he entered the hall, it was almost empty. Only the candles above the long tables were already flickering, and a few plates were set out, on which the first dishes were beginning to appear. Severus headed for the staff table, sat down in his usual place, reached for the silver pot and poured himself a cup of coffee. He closed his fingers around the porcelain as if it were an elixir of life and drew in the bitter scent before taking the first sip. The warmth slipped down his throat, and for a brief moment he felt as though his heartbeat had returned to an even rhythm.

'Before my first coffee – do not speak to me,' he thought with a sardonic twitch of his mouth, 'or else – Avada Kedavra.' A dark joke meant for himself alone, yet it helped him push the rest of the night, if only for a heartbeat, into the background.

The minutes passed; he drank in silence, stared into space or let his eyes drift briefly over the front page of the Daily Prophet, which he had unfolded with an impatient flick of his hand. He believed not a word of it, too many lies, too much sensationalism, and yet – it was a distraction, nothing more, a sort of background noise against which he could set his thoughts.

Then, just as he took the last sip of his second cup and rose with a barely audible sigh to leave the hall, it happened. He turned the corner, his cloak flaring sharply behind him, and collided with something small, warm, alive. A muffled “Ow” sounded, and when he lowered his gaze, he saw – to his dismay, yes, almost to his horror – the little Granger girl sitting on the floor, her schoolbag half open, books and parchment scattered around her like a rain of knowledge.

She raised her head, those far too large, honey-brown eyes looking up at him, and she stammered softly, almost breathlessly, “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t see you, I was so lost in thought.”

Severus’ expression darkened automatically, his brow furrowed, his gaze turned narrow, and yet – he did nothing. No sharp words, no house points deducted, not even the relieving hiss he would usually have spat at any student who dared to stand in his way. Instead, he turned away without a word, let his cloak sweep behind him like a dark wave and strode off with quick steps, away from her, away from what his heart was doing in that moment.

For it was hammering. Unbearably. Each beat a thunderclap in his chest, accompanied by that revolting, unsettling throbbing he had been unable to rid himself of since he had felt her gaze in the night. 'Damn it,' shot through his mind, 'now it’s back. Now it’s stronger.' His hand slid to his chest of its own accord, as if he could soothe his heartbeat, press it down, but it did no good.

Panic flared, raw, unchecked. 'I am ill. I am going to die. At thirty-one – what a ridiculous end for someone who has devoted his life to Dumbledore. Many thanks indeed, Merlin, you old bastard.' Bitterness burned in him as he quickened his pace, almost running, until he stood before the hospital wing. But he froze, his hand already on the doorknob, his breath short, and a voice inside him screamed, 'No. Do not show weakness. Not in front of Pomfrey. Not in front of anyone.'

He jerked his hand back, turned away and stormed down the corridors, deeper, farther, away. He needed someone. He had to talk to someone, now, immediately, before he completely lost his mind.

Chapter Text

The corridors of the castle lay still and dim before him, only the dull light of the torches flickering restlessly across the ancient stone walls as his steps echoed in a rapid, sharp rhythm, as though an invisible hand were driving him forward. He paid no attention to the portraits craning their heads curiously after him, nor to the whispering that followed him like a faint draft, nor to the students who, some distance away, were still slipping through the corridors in murmuring clusters—every one of them instinctively kept their distance the moment they heard the hard strike of his heels, for his stride was quicker, more determined, more cutting than usual. He looked like a man who had no time to lose, whose patience had already been exhausted hours ago and who considered every further breath an imposition. His cloak billowed behind him like a black banner, its edges snapping sharply with each step, and the cold air in the corridors could not prevent the heat of displeasure from rising in his face.

“Lemon sorbet,” Severus snarled aloud, and the grotesque gargoyle guarding the closed entrance to the headmaster’s office stirred with a grinding sound, as if that single word had reluctantly roused it from a deep sleep; its stone lips slowly twisted into a half-hearted grin that, in Severus’s eyes, looked far more mocking than it had ever been intended to be, and at last the heavy block turned sluggishly aside to clear the way to the staircase that spiralled upwards as though alive. Severus climbed the steps, his cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders like a dark, rustling wave, taking them two at a time, as though he meant to outrun time itself with his fury, and he knocked with barely concealed impatience—hard and loud—on the tall door whose carved wood sent the dull blow echoing through the tower. From within, an excessively friendly, far too loud “Come in” sounded, a voice that had always struck Severus as a peculiar mixture of jovial grandfather and calculating puppeteer, an invitation that had never once seemed unfeigned to him.

He opened the door with a jerking motion, stepped inside, and his cloak swept after him like a threat that left no doubt as to his mood, before he slammed the door shut with such force that even the silver instruments on the shelves trembled for a moment. “Albus, I need to speak with you, it is…” he began, his voice cutting, sharp and taut with tension, but he was abruptly interrupted by that unbearably gentle voice that had, for years, soothed and provoked him in equal measure, because it never lost its weight and yet always disarmed him.

“Severus,” Dumbledore said calmly, raising his hand barely noticeably, as though he meant to smooth the charged atmosphere in the room with a single gesture, “sit down. You look as though you have had a night that is better left unspoken. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, perhaps? Or straight to a Firewhisky?”

Severus’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes narrowing to slits in which anger and suspicion were reflected. “I need no tea and certainly no pity,” he replied hoarsely. “I need answers.”

“Then sit and ask the question that troubles you,” Dumbledore answered simply, his voice free of any irony, yet still bearing that undertone that always gave the impression he had long since had the answer ready. With a casual motion of his hand, he indicated the chair in front of his desk, while the silver devices on the shelves ticked, purred, and flickered softly, as though they were witnesses to a familiar performance.

Only reluctantly did Severus sit down, his face marked by a mixture of cynicism and resignation, and as he turned his gaze away, he already knew that what was to follow would have to be unpleasant, perhaps even humiliating. ‘Welcome back to first year, schoolboy Severus Snape,’ it echoed bitterly in his head, the sarcasm gnawing at him so loudly that he almost moved his lips to speak it aloud. ‘I should stand up now, walk out, slam the door, brew myself a potion and leave it at that. But no—instead I sit here like a pathetic little schoolboy, waiting for fatherly life lessons I have no desire to hear.’

A barely audible sigh escaped him before he looked at Dumbledore, whose eyes, as always, sparkled kindly and at the same time bore that piercing seriousness that made Severus feel as though he were being seen through to his very core. It was as though the old man were once again trying to penetrate his soul, his thoughts, all the corners he had spent decades carefully sealing away. He knew that Albus crossed this boundary only when Severus allowed it—and yet, each time, there was that faint fear that he might reveal too much.

“Well?” Dumbledore asked quietly, but with the insistence of a man who did not like being kept waiting. “You are not here to tell me trivialities.”

“Listen, Albus, something has happened and I do not know what is going on,” Severus began at last, his voice deeper than usual, tinged with a trace of desperation he despised in himself. “I cannot explain it, but I have the feeling… that… yesterday something happened that should not have happened, and that I am slowly losing my mind. At first I thought someone had hexed me—I trust those students with anything, especially those damned Weasley twins. But a diagnostic spell revealed nothing; apparently I am perfectly healthy—at least as healthy as my… history allows.”

He pressed his lips together, paused briefly, then continued more quietly, “Then I considered a heart attack, which at my age would not be out of the question. But it is different… I do not know how to explain it…”

“Then say it plainly,” Dumbledore replied curtly, his gaze unshakable.

“A student will not leave my mind,” Severus burst out at last, fixing Dumbledore with a look in which fear, anger, and refusal battled irreconcilably. “I do not know why. And I do not know what it is supposed to mean.”

“I see,” Dumbledore said slowly, his voice thoughtful. “You speak of Potter. It is Lily’s eyes that torment you.”

“No, Albus,” Severus forced out, this time rough and almost hoarse. “It is not the Potter boy… it is… Hermione Granger, a little Gryffindor girl. Albus, I swear to you, I harbour no intentions that ought to trouble you. You know I would never—never—cross that boundary.”

“I know that,” Dumbledore replied soberly, without hesitation. “Otherwise we would not be having this conversation.”

Severus ran his hand irritably through his dark, lank hair, which fell back into its neglected order at once, as though mocking his resistance. He rose, began to pace restlessly, his steps long, erratic, like those of a caged predator. ‘This is madness. I am mad. Perhaps I should simply march into the Forbidden Forest and offer myself to the Acromantulas as food—that would at least be an exit with dignity,’ he thought.

The minutes stretched, and every moment of Dumbledore’s silence drove him closer to the brink of insanity. Again and again, his gaze drifted to the old man, who stood with folded hands, lost in thought, and Severus’s patience, never one of his virtues, began to fray. ‘Speak, damn it, old man. Say something. Do not let me stew.’

At last Dumbledore raised his voice, as calm as before. “I have a suspicion. But you must listen to me before you tear me apart.”

“Just do it,” Severus hissed, sitting down again, his movements jerky, nervous. ‘He is enjoying this. He is enjoying seeing me squirm. Old fox.’

“Severus, I must look into your memories—into what you felt,” Dumbledore explained firmly. “Only then can I gain certainty.”

Severus’s face twisted as though he had bitten into a bitter fruit, and he said, “If you touch even a single thought too many, Albus, you will regret it.”

“I will touch only what you show me,” the old man replied calmly.

Severus closed his eyes even before he felt the intrusion and began, with the almost desperate meticulousness of a man who knew that a single misplaced glance could reveal everything, to sort the drawers of his mind. Memories of the Dark Lord—into the farthest chamber, bolted with rusty iron chains and secured with a ward that even Albus could not easily break. Lily’s face—he locked it away in a chest with trembling hand, double, triple sealed, for the mere thought of it made him reel. And the countless dark fragments of his life—the humiliations, the mistakes, the blood—he stacked them like old, reeking rolls of parchment, shoved them onto a shelf that he set alight in his mind so that only ash remained, unreadable, unusable.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried, one memory he could neither hide, nor disguise, nor destroy: Granger’s image as she had looked at him the previous evening—sharp, questioning, unexpectedly deep. That image lay exposed, glaring, like a single tome on an empty table, almost challengingly placed beneath Albus’s gaze. Only that. Only that did he permit. Everything else he sealed with the fury of a man who knew his innermost self was not meant for foreign eyes.

The next moment Severus felt the presence, a gentle yet unyielding pressure that entered his thoughts. He opened a drawer, made especially for this purpose, and Dumbledore looked inside, probed, examined—and stepped back again after minutes had passed.

They looked at one another in silence, Severus’s nerves stretched to the breaking point. But Dumbledore remained silent, stroked his chin thoughtfully, and twirled his beard. ‘He is playing. He is playing with me like with a chess piece. If he does not speak soon, I will set his carpet on fire.’

Then Dumbledore suddenly murmured, half to himself, half into the room, so quietly that it sounded like a private monologue, “This is very interesting… very interesting indeed.” He pushed his glasses higher up his nose, nodding faintly, as though speaking with an invisible counterpart. “I have not seen anything like this for decades… no, perhaps never in this form.”

Severus’s expression hardened, his fingers digging into the armrests of his chair. ‘Speak to me, old fool, not to your beard,’ he thought irritably, and it cost him all his self-control not to say the words aloud.

At last Dumbledore snapped his fingers, and an ancient book sailed down from a high shelf into his hands. He blew across the cover, dust swirling up, and Severus’s thoughts screamed, ‘How can anyone treat books like that! Had he done that to one of my copies, I would have cursed him.’

Dumbledore turned the pages slowly, searching, his brow furrowed with deep lines, and after what felt like an eternity, he closed the book and exhaled heavily.

A mixture of impatience and a dull sense of oppression stirred within Severus, as though he had waited too long for a verdict he did not want to hear. His heart beat faster, not only from anger, but from a peculiar restlessness he could scarcely grasp himself. Part of him wanted to spring up and leave the room before the inevitable could be spoken; another part remained glued to the chair, driven by a feverish anticipation he would not admit to. It was not only irritation; it was fear—the fear of what the old man knew, and of the fact that he would voice it with a calmness that would drive him mad.

“Get to the point,” Severus growled. “What did you find?”

When Dumbledore looked up, his voice was calm but firm. “Have you heard of a soul bond?”

“Yes,” Snape shot back, the word sharp, laden with resistance.

“Then you know what it means. I am convinced that is exactly what has happened to you,” Dumbledore explained quietly.

For a moment, Severus lowered his gaze, and a bitter thought gnawed at him like a rat that burrows even through the thickest walls. ‘A bond, a tie, a chain—what ridiculous irony. Have I not spent my whole life freeing myself from chains? From my father, from my childhood, from the Dark Lord, from my own mistakes? And now some cosmic game is meant to bind me to someone without my being asked?’

“A soul connection?” Severus’s voice sounded cutting. “Albus, do not talk nonsense. After everything I have endured—do you really believe any soul would willingly bind itself to mine?”

“Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant,” Dumbledore replied. “You have felt the symptoms. You know I am right.”

“Symptoms?” Snape spat. “If you call heart palpitations, dizziness, and the feeling of going insane symptoms, then by all means. I call it the beginning of the end.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said calmly, “it was not an attack. What I saw suggests that your soul has bound itself to Miss Granger’s. That is a soul bond—rare, powerful, inescapable.”

“Granger?” Snape repeated tonelessly. For a heartbeat, Severus was as if paralysed, and then a roaring filled his ears as though someone had struck the blood from his veins in a single blow. ‘A child. A stranger. Someone whose name I barely know, and yet he claims my soul is chained to hers, as though some mocking fate had nothing better to do than push me even further into the abyss. What a farce. I, bound to a girl who likely does not yet know what awaits her in this world, let alone who I truly am. What have I done to have such a burden laid upon me?’ He felt the anger gathering in him, hot, wild, and yet underlaid with a coldness that stole his breath.

With a force that made the desk tremble, he brought out, “She is a child, Albus! A student! You know I would never—never—lay a hand on her!”

“I know that,” Dumbledore replied curtly. “Otherwise we would not be speaking.”

“Then break it! Banish it! Tear it out of my head!” Snape snapped at him, his voice trembling with rage, as though he meant to force the impossible into being with sheer fury. His hands twitched as if he wanted to reach for his wand, and yet he knew he would have no weapon against what Albus was putting into words here.

Dumbledore was silent at first, running his hand over his long beard with almost torturous deliberation, studying Severus as though weighing how much truth a person could bear before breaking. “Severus,” he said at last, softly yet unshakably, “it cannot be undone. No spell, no curse, no ritual of magic can dissolve a soul bond. It ends only with death—and even then, the trace remains. It is not something one chooses. It is something that is.”

Snape let out a bitter laugh, a sound that was sharp and hollow at once. “So I am damned,” he growled, his eyes narrowing into black slits. “Bound to a child who—if she ever learns what you are telling me here—will feel nothing but revulsion. A child who did not ask for it, no more than I did, and whom you are now, in a single breath, chaining to my cursed life.”

“Not chaining, Severus,” Dumbledore replied calmly, “connecting.”

“Connecting?” Snape snorted contemptuously, leaning across the desk until his face was only a hand’s breadth from the old man’s. “Call it what you like—shackle, bond, or destiny. In the end, it means only one thing: this girl is as condemned as I am.”

“Or she will understand you,” Dumbledore countered seriously. “Perhaps more than anyone. This is not a punishment, Severus. It could be a chance. She is not to know about this until her seventeenth birthday, Severus. From that day on, she will recognize the soul bond on her own.”

“Salvation?” Snape laughed bitterly. “From myself? I have never been a good man, Albus, and I never will be.”

“Perhaps that is why it happens to you,” Dumbledore said calmly.

“Nonsense!” Snape spat. “When that girl is seventeen one day, I will be thirty-six. What is she supposed to do with a burned-out man like me? What is she supposed to do with someone whose hands are full of blood and whose heart turned to stone years ago? If you are right, Albus, then it means nothing except that this girl is damned—damned with me. And I swear to you, she deserves better.”

“We shall see,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “The connection exists. Whether you accept it or not changes nothing.”

“I accept nothing!” Snape sprang to his feet, pacing through the office like a trapped animal. “My life is a sequence of mistakes. And now I am to bear this as well? No!”

“You already bear it,” Dumbledore replied unshaken. “The only question is how.”

“Open the door,” Snape hissed. “Let me go. I have no time for fairy tales.”

“These are no fairy tales,” Dumbledore replied, and with a gesture, the lock sprang open.

Snape grasped the doorknob, half turned, his eyes black and full of venom. “If you are right, Albus, this is the cruellest joke the universe has ever played.”

He was about to leave, to shake off the words, when Dumbledore’s voice sounded, soft yet inescapable. “I wish for you, Severus, that you will one day realise that this is not a burden, but perhaps your only salvation.”

Snape paused in the doorway, motionless as a statue, his back straight, his breath shallow, and in his eyes burned a fire of rage, pain, and something he himself could not name. He spoke no further word, swept back his cloak, and disappeared from the office with long, thunderous strides, while Dumbledore watched him go as if he knew that this was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger entered the Potions classroom, and her eyes swept across the high, dark stone walls with the alert curiosity of a child who seemed eager to absorb knowledge, the walls dimly illuminated only by candles. The room seemed, at first glance, like a crypt—gloomy, mysterious, filled with a scent that tasted of old parchment, burnt herb, and a hint of metal—yet there was a certain fascination in this heaviness.

The rows of seats were arranged in strict order, the back ones already filled with students whispering in a noise level that buzzed through the room like an annoying hum. At the front rose the teacher’s desk—massive, threatening—placed in such a way that whoever stood there could oversee everything: every student, every movement, every secret little gesture. To the right of it stretched a long table on which various types of cauldrons stood in neat rows like soldiers in a silent army; from some of them already rose smoke in oddly shaped plumes, as if they wanted to welcome the newcomers in a quiet way—or warn them. On the opposite side, an inconspicuous door led into an adjoining room, hidden, mysterious, perhaps a storage room or laboratory, though to Hermione’s eyes it remained closed for the moment.

On each student’s desk also stood a cauldron, beside it carefully sorted utensils: mortar and pestle, small phials, neatly labeled vials of ingredients she had only ever read about in books but had never held in her hands. Her hand closed more tightly around the strap of her schoolbag, and as she walked down the central aisle, she thought with a silent, unwavering determination ‘I’ll sit at the front, the back rows are for those who chatter and waste the lesson. I’m here to learn.’ With this thought she sat down at one of the front tables, arranged her bag, and straightened her back.

This was her very first Potions lesson, and a tingling sense of anticipation pulsed through her. She had read that the Potions master was the youngest professor Hogwarts had ever trained and housed, a genius in his field, whose name, however, was scarcely mentioned in the books—only fragmentary hints, vague suggestions that left more questions than answers. But Hermione was convinced that she would be able to learn immeasurably much from this Professor Snape, perhaps even more than in all other subjects. Young professors, she had told herself, were less narrow-minded, more open, they brought fresh air and didn’t see the world as rigidly and ossified as the older ones. ‘How wrong I will be…’ she thought, without knowing it yet, and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment, the quill ready to capture every word of the lesson.

Her thoughts drifted briefly back to yesterday’s class with Professor McGonagall, who, with her strictness but also her clarity and sparkling gaze, had won Hermione’s heart within the shortest time. After just one hour of Transfiguration she had already achieved her first successes, and the feeling of truly being part of this world had settled firmly inside her. With a satisfied sigh she placed her quill down, smoothed the edges of the parchment as though even the preparation were a form of respect. Next to her sat Harry, who seemed surprisingly calm, his gaze lowered to his own parchment, while Neville on the other side gave her a shy grin, as if he wished to cling to her confidence.

Suddenly a deafening bang tore apart the charged anticipation as the dungeon door was flung open with such force that it crashed against the stone wall. All heads snapped around, a murmur rippled through the rows, and Hermione’s heart leapt. There, in the doorway, he stood—the man who had caught her eye last night at the feast, whose gaze had pierced her as he had looked at her as though he had seen something in her that she herself did not yet know. His cloak billowed dramatically around him, sweeping with his movement like the wings of an oversized bat. ‘Oh no… did I really just think that?’ She imagined she could hear the echo of the twins laughingly calling him the dungeon bat. But she immediately shook the thought off. Inwardly she thought, ‘No, I mustn’t be so shallow. I want to form my own opinion.’

Professor Snape strode forward, each step echoing through the room, his posture tall, his face unmoving like a mask, and when he began to speak, it was his voice that captured her. Deep, dark, a baritone so full and sonorous that she felt each sound vibrate within her. It was a voice that both soothed and frightened, that worked like a spell, and Hermione caught herself thinking, ‘I could listen to him for hours, even if all he spoke were numbers or recipes.’

“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations here,” he began, his voice lowering to a dark stream that filled the room. “And so I expect very few of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. However—the few among you who possess the predisposition—I shall teach how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses, how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death.”

The classroom had fallen dead silent. Some students looked at him with genuine fear, others with bored expressions, others again seemed not to be paying attention at all. Severus let his gaze sweep over the faces, taking a certain satisfaction in the mixture—fear, insecurity, arrogance. ‘So it should be,’ he thought, and as his eyes moved to the front, they stopped. Potter. In the first row. Next to little Granger. Severus’s expression remained unchanged, but in his head there was a roaring. ‘Merlin, you owe me more than just one favour. What have I done to deserve this?’

He saw Potter writing on his parchment without listening to him. Slowly, like a predator, he approached, his cloak brushing across the floor, and his voice fell like a sharp knife, “Mr Potter… our new… celebrity.”

The boy jerked upright, dropped his quill, and looked at him. And Severus felt it like a blow to the chest. Lily’s eyes. Green, alive, familiar and yet unbearably foreign in this face that reminded him of everything he despised. With a coldness he had trained into himself over the years, he asked the questions, fully aware the boy could not answer them. ‘Of course not. He’s his father’s son. A show-off, a braggart, not a thinker. How could he ever name the Draught of Living Death?’

But then, suddenly, Hermione’s hand shot up. Straight, precise, full of certainty. Snape ignored her, his lips curling almost imperceptibly as he thought, ‘She has no idea. Eleven years old, Muggle-born—what could she possibly know? She needs the loo, nothing more.’

He continued to focus on Potter, drilled into the boy’s ignorance with the full sharpness of his voice and the precisely chosen questions, but when Potter dared, with a mixture of youthful innocence and an arrogance that reminded Severus of his father, to reply cheekily, “Ask Hermione, she seems to know,” a surge of heat flared in him, striking him like a blow to the chest. Never before had a first-year student dared confront him so blatantly, and in that moment the blood roared so loudly in his ears that the rest of the classroom blurred. His eyes narrowed to slits, and when his piercing gaze shot toward little Granger, who had straightened in shock, he spat the words with the coldness of an executioner, “Take your hand down, stupid girl.”

The girl froze, her large brown eyes widening, and in them a hurt expression appeared—so open, so naked—that it threw even him momentarily off balance. She lowered her hand slowly, as if he had struck her, and colour rushed to her face as she dropped her gaze, ashamed, nearly humiliated. Yet Severus, who moments ago had been filled with fury at Potter, felt in the midst of this triumph an inexplicable sting, a flicker deep inside his chest that he neither understood nor wanted to understand. His gaze lingered on her longer than intended, taking in the disappointment in her features, the question in her eyes as to why he had dismissed her so harshly, and he forced himself to brush it off with a bitter inner smile. ‘Amusing,’ he thought, ‘how easily a child can be offended.’

But as he turned away, something happened that he normally allowed only rarely in class—with trained, almost casual ease, he pushed his consciousness into her mind, only for a fraction of a moment, a brief glance, but what he found there made him halt as though struck.

She knew the answers. Not just any answer—not at the level of a child who had picked up a line by chance—but with a precision, a clarity that surprised even him. ‘Draught of Living Death,’ the words chimed like a bell in her mind, so clear he could almost hear them aloud. ‘Why is he ignoring me?’ she wondered at the same time, in a tone neither defiant nor arrogant but genuinely hurt—and then, like a stab, a fleeting thought appeared that struck him unexpectedly, making him catch his breath: ‘Why does he look at me like that?’

With a sudden twist Severus turned away, his cloak whipping through the air as if he could shake off what he had just seen, as though he could rip the image of this unusually bright, answer-hungry mind out of his own. ‘Wretched brat,’ he thought harshly, ‘that was no accident. She truly knows more than she should—far more than a child her age ought to. But… we shall see what you are really capable of.’

The lesson dragged on relentlessly, for him like a thick, slow current tugging at his nerves. Again and again Hermione’s hand shot upward, as if driven by an invisible force, full of unwavering eagerness, and every time he ignored her with the same coldness he demanded of himself, as though it were a game in which only he knew the rules. Instead, when he deemed it necessary, he slipped briefly into her mind, read her thoughts, tested them, and each time he found a clarity, an iron discipline, a thirst for knowledge that irritated him as much as it provoked him. It was as though he were not wandering the thoughts of a child, but already those of a young woman whose intellect was sharpened like a blade. And he hated that he even noticed.

When the double lesson finally ended, he gathered his notes with practiced strictness, his face unmoved like a mask, granting the class no gesture of kindness. Only to her, little Granger, did he deliver a label that would hit like a precisely thrown dart. His voice—quiet, cutting, with that cold mockery that belonged so naturally to him—sliced through the silence, “Know-it-all.”

She flinched, the expression on her face wavering between hurt and defiance, and he turned away as though he could not care less about what he had caused. No points—certainly not for Gryffindor—and least of all for a girl who had dared to irritate him more in a single lesson than he wished to admit.

As he slammed the classroom door shut behind him, his cloak roared around him like a dark storm, and he felt the suppressed tension pulsing in his shoulders as he strode through the dungeons, as though movement and hardness might shake off the discomfort that had taken root inside him like a parasite. ‘Damn it,’ he thought bitterly, ‘I will not be thrown off balance by the eyes of a child. I have endured worse, dragged myself through years of war, through torture, blood, and betrayal, and now I sit here wrestling with myself because a girl knows too much and dares too much. Ridiculous. Pathetic.’ Yet the more he repeated these words within himself, the less he believed them, and instead a gnawing unease crept upward, one he could not suppress.

Dumbledore’s voice—calm, inescapable—echoed within him as though the old man had carved his words into his flesh with a spell: “Soul-bond. Salvation. Not a burden, but perhaps the only chance.” Severus clenched his teeth as he walked through the dark corridors, and he heard himself laugh inwardly in a hollow, scornful way so empty that he silenced it at once. ‘Salvation,’ he repeated mockingly, ‘yes, certainly, my salvation—and that on the back of a child who has no idea into which whirlpool she has been dragged. Damned is not only I—damned is she as well, if even a spark of truth lies in Dumbledore’s tales.’

When he finally reached his chambers in the dungeon, the heavy oak door fell shut behind him, and for a heartbeat he remained in the stillness, listening to the pounding of his heart beating restlessly against his ribs as though to remind him that it was still alive, even though he no longer knew whether he wanted to be. He reached for the bottle of Firewhisky that had been standing on the table for weeks, and without bothering with a glass he took a long, burning swallow that slid down his throat like a flame. Another, and another, until the heat seemed to melt the cold stone inside him, if only for a moment.

But the images did not fade—not the cold, clever eyes of little Granger, who looked at him with an expression as though she wanted to know more, see more, understand more than she should, nor Dumbledore’s words, which wrapped around his consciousness like iron chains. “I don’t want to,” he whispered into the darkness of his room, “I don’t want to and I will not.” Yet as the alcohol thickened his thoughts and he sank heavily into the armchair by the fireplace, he suspected that this was a battle he could not win.

And so he sat there, the fire crackling, the bottle emptying, and in his thoughts burned two images that would haunt him even into sleep—Dumbledore’s eyes, full of unbearable certainty, and those honey-brown eyes of a child who should never have been destined to play the role fate intended for her in his world.

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, a piece of news reached Hogwarts that wrapped the castle in a flickering murmur that seeped even through the thick walls and centuries-old spells, and even though Severus pretended not to want to listen, every single word reached him and carved itself into his consciousness like a knife. The Daily Prophet had reported on its front page that there had been a break-in at Gringotts, not just anywhere, but of all places in vault seven hundred and thirteen, whose number was emblazoned in bold letters above the article, yet without any indication as to whom this vault belonged or what treasure had been kept there – a blank spot that did not make anyone suspicious, because no one even realized that this information was missing. No one, neither students nor teachers nor the nosiest gossip witches in the country, knew that this vault belonged to Dumbledore. Only Dumbledore, Hagrid and Severus knew the truth, and only in their minds did this number carry a weight heavier than any headline of the Daily Prophet.

The wizarding bank was considered untouchable, its depths threaded with ancient protective enchantments, secured by goblin magic that remained alien and inaccessible even to the best wizards, and guarded by creatures mentioned only in legends, by dragons that crouched in the darkness and waited only for the unfortunate intruder. But Severus knew, even before the paper landed on the breakfast tables, that the break-in was, at its core, meaningless, because Dumbledore had had the vault emptied days before, and with a carefulness that was his alone: he had not entrusted the stone to just any messenger, but to Hagrid, the Keeper of the Keys, whose loyalty and sheer size would have deterred any attacker foolish enough to cross his path.

The stone no longer lay in the underground depths of Gringotts, but in Hogwarts itself, hidden within the walls that for generations of students had been nothing more than an old castle, but in truth were the mightiest bulwark against the darkness.

Severus had not been surprised when Albus had confided in him what Hagrid had been carrying under his coat. No gold, no jewelry, no relics, but something infinitely more valuable than anything a vault could hold: the Philosopher’s Stone, Flamel’s creation, the fabled crystal in which the very essence of alchemy itself rested. It bestowed upon whoever possessed it two things – gold that could be multiplied without end, and far more than that, the Elixir of Life, which promised healing and immortality for as long as the supply lasted. Such an object was not merely a treasure, but a temptation, an invitation to all those who greedily reached for eternity, and it was precisely this thought that kept Severus from sleeping on restless nights.

For as much as he admired Dumbledore’s foresight, he also knew that a break-in at Gringotts was never a coincidence. Someone must have known, someone must have tried, and the fact that the stone had already been removed was less a victory than proof that the danger was drawing closer. Voldemort – the name echoed in Severus’s thoughts, even though he did not speak it, for he knew how easily words could summon ghosts. Who else would have the courage or the desperation to challenge goblin magic and go after a vault at Gringotts? Who else but the one who had already cheated death and desired nothing more than a return in bodily form?

Severus remembered all too well the moment when Albus had taken him aside and explained to him that the stone now lay within the walls of the castle. He himself had been given the task of weaving a protection, a riddle, a barrier that only a true master of the potion-making arts could penetrate, and even though he had outwardly accepted the assignment with cool self-assurance, inwardly he knew that he was thereby taking a part of the fate of the entire wizarding world onto his shoulders.

By the time the news officially arrived in Dumbledore’s office, Severus was already on his way there, because he knew he would be summoned as surely as night followed day. With quick, soundless steps he slipped through the corridors, his cloak like a black shadow skimming over the floor, and when he reached the staircase to the stone gargoyle, he muttered the password that seemed as childish to him as every password Albus ever chose, and yet it opened the way with the grinding of ancient stone. The steps carried him upward, turning, slowly, and inside him grew an unease that he did not wish to name, for he knew it was more than mere caution; it was the premonition that something had been set in motion that could no longer be stopped.

“Severus,” greeted him the calm voice the moment he stepped into the room, and the scent of fresh tea and hot wax rose to his nose while the many silver instruments on the shelves clicked and purred as if they were breathing. “Sit down. I fear the situation demands your full attention.”

Severus let himself drop heavily into the chair in front of the desk, crossed his legs, folded his hands and looked at the old man with his black eyes, which flickered restlessly although his face remained motionless. “Gringotts,” he said simply, almost spitting out the word as if it were a curse.

Dumbledore nodded slowly, stroking his beard. “Indeed. It was vault seven hundred and thirty. My vault. You know what was kept there.”

“I know,” replied Severus coolly, though the hardness in his voice could not conceal that his chest felt tighter than he wanted. “The stone. But it is no longer there. You had Hagrid fetch it before the fools made their attempt.”

“Quite so,” Dumbledore confirmed softly. “A stroke of luck. Or rather, a necessary step. I swore to Flamel that Hogwarts would be safer than any bank, and I intend to keep that promise.”

Severus leaned back, raised the glass of tea that had appeared in his hand at a gesture from the old man, and let it rest against his lips without drinking. “And yet,” he said slowly, “the break-in means that someone knew. Someone knew the stone was there. And if he did not happen to come an hour too late but deliberately broke into an empty vault, then that means he wanted to send us a message.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flashed, light blue, piercing. “You do not speak it aloud.”

“I do not speak it aloud because the mere thought is enough to turn my stomach,” growled Severus. “But we both know who would be foolish enough to defy goblin magic and open a vault at Gringotts. Not a thief, not some dark wizard, not an adventurer. Only one.”

“Tom,” said Dumbledore simply, and the sound of the name echoed like a cold gust of wind. “He is still searching for a way back. And the stone... it would be his surest.”

Severus pressed his lips together and set down the glass he had not touched. “If he were to get his hands on the stone...”

“Then we would not have just one war,” Dumbledore interrupted him gently, “but an eternity of wars. But it is here, Severus, hidden, protected. The barriers stand, every single one of them – including yours. I rely on them to hold. Your task is not to secure it again, but to be watchful.”

Severus furrowed his brow, leaning forward slightly. “Watchful for what, Albus? A student? A teacher? Or for the sky itself falling on our heads?”

Dumbledore returned his gaze without blinking. “For both, Severus. The stone is safe, but not untouchable. And I fear the greatest danger does not come from outside, but from within. Keep your eyes on Professor Quirrell.”

Severus’s brows drew together dangerously, his lips twisting into something that was not a smile. “Quirrell? That stuttering fool who trips over his own robes at every opportunity? You cannot seriously believe that he...”

Dumbledore raised a hand, almost in appeasement, but his voice remained serious, carried by a tone that left no room for doubt. “Severus, consider this: Quirrell was gone for an entire year, supposedly travelling to gain ‘practical experience’. Who knows what he saw during that time, whom he met, what influences he fell under. When he returned, he was changed – conspicuously nervous, fidgety, fearful to the point of absurdity. Do you really believe that is merely a tic?”

Severus’s eyes narrowed, the words seeping into him like poison, slowly, inevitably. He remembered how Quirrell had nearly knocked over the salt cellar at every meal, how he had stumbled over simple student questions, how he would run a nervous hand over his turban as though trying to conceal something beneath it. He had always dismissed it as ridiculous theatrics, but now that Albus spoke of it so calmly and soberly, he could not help but give the thought serious consideration.

“Hm,” made Severus, a sound deep and mistrustful, and his fingers drummed restlessly on the armrest of the chair. “Indeed... his behaviour is too conspicuous to be genuine. A façade built so flimsy it practically begs to be seen through.”

“Exactly so,” Dumbledore nodded, and his gaze hardened. “And that is why we must not let him out of our sight. I believe he knows more than he claims,” Dumbledore continued softly. “And I believe he is playing a game that is too big for him. You are suspicious by nature, Severus – I ask you to use that suspicion wisely. The stone is hidden. But Quirrell must not be allowed a single step closer.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed, his anger giving way to a dangerous calm. “Very well. Then I will not only keep my attention on the protective barriers, but also on our nervous colleague. And if I am right, Albus, then it will not just be a game he is playing, but high treason.”

“Then make sure he fails,” said Dumbledore simply, and for a moment the full weight of the future yet to come lay in his eyes.

Dumbledore studied him for a moment before he asked, seemingly casually, “How are you getting on with Miss Granger?” Dumbledore asked in a tone that was far too casual to be truly casual.

Severus’s head twitched almost imperceptibly. “Miss Granger?” he repeated, he said curtly, as if to gain time, while his expression already betrayed that the question affected him more than it should.

“She is exceedingly bright,” said Severus at last, coolly, the words as precise as a scalpel.

“Exceedingly bright,” remarked Dumbledore in amusement, his eyes sparkling as though he had discovered a particularly pretty irony.

Severus’s gaze narrowed. “She soaks up knowledge like a sponge,” he said unwillingly, “a little... compulsively.” He twisted his mouth. “Obsessed, one might say,” he added cuttingly.

“That reminds you of someone, does it not?” asked Dumbledore softly, his voice mild and curious, like that of an old man who already knows the answer and merely wishes to hear the other say it.

Severus’s expression hardened at once. “If you are suggesting that this child—this first-year—is some sort of mirror...” he began, Severus snarled, before he broke off because anger and discomfort tangled together in his voice.

“She takes in every scrap of knowledge,” said Severus then, bitterly, as though forced to explain himself. “The way I did, back then.” He gave a quiet snort. “Satisfied?” Severus growled.

“That was not all I was hinting at,” said Dumbledore mildly, his voice warm and old and far too gentle for Severus’s liking. “I was thinking rather that bonds sometimes form long before one recognizes them,” he said softly, “long before one can give them a name.”

“Stop,” hissed Severus at once, sharply, with an undertone like a blade. “If you attempt to dress up some sentimental nonsense about... threads... or any other mystical rubbish—”

“I am speaking of nothing mystical,” said Dumbledore calmly, his voice as smooth as a still lake. “Only of those rare connections that arise when two souls are looking in the same direction,” he added, almost in a whisper.

Severus tensed like an animal about to spring. “Albus,” he growled in warning.

“Yes, Severus?” asked Dumbledore with an innocent mildness that could not possibly be sincere.

“Stop grinning,” said Severus dangerously softly.

“I am not grinning at all,” protested Dumbledore in a feigned innocent tone while his eyes gleamed treacherously.

“You are thinking something,” Severus snapped, “and I know it is nothing I would like.”

“I am merely thinking that you find Miss Granger remarkable,” said Dumbledore in a tone that was both gentle and full of implication.

“I do not find anything remarkable about her,” Severus shot back at once, the words as sharp as whip cracks. “She is a child. A talented one, yes, but still a child.”

He leaned forward. “And if she reminds me of anyone, then only of the unfortunate boy I once was,” said Severus quietly and bitterly, “greedy for knowledge because it was the only thing no one could take from me.” He exhaled. “That has no deeper meaning whatsoever,” he growled defensively.

“Of course not,” said Dumbledore quickly, the softness in his voice so silky it was almost provocative again.

Severus narrowed his eyes. “I am serious,” he said harshly.

“I know that, my boy,” said Dumbledore soothingly and raised a hand.

“Then stop smiling like that,” demanded Severus brusquely.

“I am only smiling because I am pleased that you see Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore softly, with that warmth that always tested Severus’s patience.

Severus clenched his hands into fists. “I see her abilities, nothing more,” he said sharply. “And if you use the word ‘bond’ in my presence one more time, Albus, I guarantee you—”

“All right, all right,” said Dumbledore quickly, raising both hands slightly like a general seeking to avoid an unnecessary battle. “I shall refrain,” he promised gently.

Severus expelled the air audibly, as though he had won a fight whose rules he had never accepted.

When Severus later walked back through the dark corridors of his dungeons, the torches cast long shadows across the rough stone walls and his thoughts circled in his skull like restless bats. He had had a strange feeling about Quirrell from the very beginning, an instinct that warned him even before he had reasons for it. That nervous stutter, the bowed head, the fidgety movements – it all seemed like the exaggerated mask of a man who was hiding too much. Severus had learned to trust his intuition, for it was what had kept him alive during the darkest years, and now it whispered to him incessantly that Quirrell was not what he pretended to be.

He thought of the stone, of Flamel, of the Elixir of Life and of what Voldemort would do with it if he ever held it in his hands. An immortal being, sustained by dark magic – the thought alone made his skin prickle as though he were once more standing amid those battles he longed to leave behind him.

And then Dumbledore’s words, which echoed within him like a burden: “Quirrell must not be allowed a single step closer.” He knew what that meant – he was to watch, he was to protect, and, if necessary, he was to destroy.

Once in his chambers, he closed the door, laid on his protective spells and immediately reached for the bottle of Firewhisky that was more familiar to him than many a human being. He poured himself a full glass, drank deeply, the alcohol burning harshly down his throat and through his chest, and he hoped it would wash the weight of the images from his mind – the thoughts of Voldemort, of Quirrell, of Dumbledore’s unshakable gaze that always seemed to see straight through him.

But as the bottle beside him grew emptier and the hours grew longer, he knew that while the whisky flooded his body with warmth, it did not drive from his mind the eyes that had haunted him since that first lesson – honey-brown eyes, inquisitive, clever, far too young. Hermione Granger.

Severus stared into the fire, which cast flickering shadows across the walls, and he swore to himself that he would bury all of it inside him – the stone, Quirrell, Voldemort, Dumbledore’s trust, her eyes. But he already knew he would lose this battle, and so he kept drinking until the world sank into a dull silence.

But as the silence grew deep enough that even the crackling of the fire sounded like a distant echo, Severus sank heavily back into the armchair, the tension like cold iron in his limbs, and he barely noticed how his fingers clenched around the armrest before exhaustion overtook him with a relentlessness against which even his will was powerless. He wanted to stay awake, to keep thinking, analyzing, controlling, as he had done all his life, but his eyelids grew heavy, heavier, until they finally lowered, while his breath cut through the stillness in restless, uneven strokes.

In half-sleep, somewhere between consciousness and darkness, they returned.

Those eyes.

Honey-brown. Warm. Awake. Far too clear for someone like him. They pierced him like needles, like an unspoken accusation, like a spark that refused to die even in the blackness.

Severus murmured something unintelligible, a low, irritated fragment of sound, as though trying to shake off the vision, but the eyes remained, burned, pursued him more persistently than any memory from the shadows of his past. Far too young. Far too clever. And with a gaze that saw him—truly saw him—on a level he did not allow.

He opened his mouth halfway in sleep, as though wanting to answer something, to push something back, but his body sank only deeper into the armchair, whose cushions held him like an invisible hand that forced him not into rest, but into truth.

And as the fire slowly died down and the room grew darker, he saw them again—those nasty, damned, far too alive eyes—until he eventually fell completely asleep, trapped in a dream in which they were closer to him than any other human being, and yet impossibly distant.

Chapter Text

The first weeks of the new school year slipped by at a pace that surprised even him, and yet Severus’ mood felt duller and heavier with each passing day, for inevitably that detested date drew nearer, the one that had burned itself indelibly into his soul – Lily’s death anniversary, Halloween.

For the students it was a day of celebration, a day of exuberance, on which classes were shortened, on which the corridors were filled with childish shrieking, carefree laughter, and an overflowing joy that always felt like mockery to him, while he silently marked the day for what it truly was: the day his world had shattered. Hogwarts, however, celebrated, as it did every year, with a feast where the tables overflowed with food, where the children squealed and swooned as though there were no pain in the world, and Albus had already urged him repeatedly to restrain himself and not deduct any points at least on this evening – a demand Severus acknowledged with nothing more than a curt snort, for he found it entirely inappropriate that one should hold a feast of gluttony on the day of his darkest memory.

His gaze swept across the hall as he took his seat at the staff table, and he felt the heaviness in his chest, a weight that seemed to grow stronger every year. Normally, he would have wanted to go to Godric’s Hollow on this evening, to that grave he knew better than his own future, and remain there in silence and bitterness. But this time, Albus had assigned him another task, one he could not refuse – he was to keep an eye on Quirinus Quirrell, that nervous, twitchy colleague who, since the beginning of the year, had left an impression Severus could only describe as wrong. He had sensed from the very start that something was amiss with him; it was in the way the man could never keep his hands still, in the way his eyes darted restlessly in every direction, in the way his voice threatened to crack every time he spoke. And yet, Albus had brushed aside Severus’ objections during his hiring, as he often did whenever he pursued a plan no one but he understood.

Severus’ eyes drifted almost involuntarily along the length of the staff table in that moment, and he abruptly realized that the seat to his right was empty – Quirrell’s seat. On the one hand, he felt an immediate, almost physical relief that he was spared, for tonight at least, the nauseating stench of that pathetic turban, which exuded a mixture of mothballs, mold, and something unspeakable that filled Severus with disgust every time the man sat beside him. On the other hand, a sharp thought shot through him: that very absence meant he could not keep an eye on the suspicious colleague, could not interpret a single one of his movements, no twitch of his hands, no flicker in his eyes, no nervous tug at his lips. It repulsed him to lose control in this regard, and inwardly he cursed that this man was not under observation on this particular evening.

'Maybe I can still manage it after the feast,' Severus thought darkly as he slid the knife through a piece of roast. 'Maybe I can at least visit her grave late in the night.' But the thought felt weak and meaningless even as it formed, for he knew Albus’ assignment would take precedence.

His eyes swept across the student tables, and he registered every movement, every small gesture with his usual sharpness. Potter, of course, who sat beside the redheaded Weasley like a perfect copy of his father, his mouth full of food, so greedy that Severus growled inwardly, 'Disgusting. Hopefully you grow as fat as a fattened pig.'

Then his gaze froze as he noticed an absence that struck him completely unprepared, as though someone had suddenly plunged a dagger into his chest: Granger. The little witch who had, in the past weeks, irritated, provoked, and unsettled him in ways he refused to admit even to himself – she was not in her seat. At first, it was only a fleeting thought, a dry acknowledgment of one missing figure among countless faces, but in the next breath that observation transformed into something that pressed upon him with almost physical force.

His heart tightened involuntarily, as though an invisible fist had seized it and squeezed it mercilessly, and a question shot through his mind, one he cursed at once and yet could not silence: 'Where was she?' He blinked, attempted to redirect his gaze to the feast, to the students, to anything that might help him reclaim control – in vain. For the more he tried, the stronger the pressure in his chest grew, a weight that became heavier with every second, wrapping around his ribs like an iron band and leaving him barely able to breathe.

It was sadness, raw, naked sadness, a feeling he had repressed, fought, and buried for years, and which now surged over him with unforgiving force. It felt terrible, cruel, unfitting, like a blow to a wound he had believed long scarred over, and he had no idea where it came from, knew only that it was suffocating him. A single thought seared itself into his consciousness as his breath grew heavy and his fingers closed tightly around the knife on the table: What if she is in trouble?

'What does this mean?' he thought as his hands curled unconsciously into fists, the knuckles standing out white. 'Is it her? Is she sensing danger? Damn it… why do I know that?' But before he could think further, before he could sort the questions or even hope to find an answer, a deafening bang tore open the doors of the Great Hall, the sound striking through him like a thunderclap, and Professor Quirrell burst inside, his face a mask of panic, eyes rolling, lips trembling, while he shrieked in a cracking voice, “Troll! Troll in the castle! In the dungeons!”

For one single tense heartbeat the hall fell into unnatural silence, as though even time had frozen in shock – and then a tumult erupted, echoing deafeningly through the high vaults: piercing screams, benches scraping, panicked students pushing hysterically through one another like a startled herd, a chaos that only froze when Dumbledore’s thunderous command for silence crashed through the uproar.

A barely perceptible nod from the headmaster was enough, and Severus sprang from his seat, his cloak swirling behind him as he strode rapidly out of the hall, heading toward the troll’s supposed location. The dungeons were his domain; he knew every niche, every shadow, and as he rushed through the passages, he wondered feverishly how a troll could have possibly breached the castle’s barriers. 'That requires magic far beyond student level,' he thought. 'Knowledge that very few possess.'

But no matter how thoroughly he searched, he found no trace, not the faintest indication that the troll had been anywhere near this place.

And as he continued onward, the feeling in his chest grew more urgent with each second – it was no longer merely a dull pressure. It grew into a furious, uncontrollable force that tightened around his lungs as though an invisible fist had gripped his very core, and he did not understand what was happening, understood only that this was not his own fear consuming him so mercilessly, but something foreign, something external, something that washed over him like a wave and made him stagger. It was fear – raw terror – so intense that he felt cold, as though ice flowed through his veins, and yet instinct told him it was not his fear – it was hers, it was Granger’s fear flooding into him as though it had found a direct path into his chest.

'Damn it, what is this? Why… why can I feel her?' he pressed inwardly through clenched teeth, and suddenly the suspicion that she was in danger became so loud, so undeniable, that he had no choice but to run faster, faster, until his boots hammered the stone steps and he took them two, sometimes three at a time, as though he could reach her quicker that way, as though he could quell the force crushing his chest by sheer speed.

He felt his heart racing, his hands clenched into fists, and still he did not slow, even as he cursed inwardly, raged, shouted at himself: 'Why do I care, damn it? Why should it matter to me that this girl is afraid?' But no answer came, only the relentless, gnawing certainty that he had to find her, that he could not leave her alone.

Professor McGonagall crossed his path, and breathless, in a voice harsher than he intended, he forced out a terse “Upstairs!” before pushing past her, his cloak snapping against the walls like whipcracks. He heard Minerva panting behind him, trying to keep up, but he was already far ahead, driven, hunted by a terror that was not his own and which nevertheless threatened to drive him mad.

Then he heard the screams, and with a violent shove he forced open the door to the girls’ bathroom – and in that instant the weight fell from his chest, the crushing force collapsing like a wave, for there she stood, tears on her cheeks, but alive. Before her lay debris, shards, and the massive unconscious body of a mountain troll, and beside her Potter and Weasley, breathless, filthy, but unharmed. He stared at her, taking in every detail of her face, and his heart twisted as he saw the reddened eyes and wet lashes.

Minerva burst in behind him, breathless, demanding an explanation, but before Potter or Weasley could utter a single word, Hermione stepped forward, her voice trembling yet resolute, “It was my fault, Professor McGonagall. I thought I could handle it alone. I’m sorry.”

Severus broke into her mind effortlessly, as though opening a door that had been left ajar, and what he saw made his core contract: he saw the girl sitting collapsed on the bathroom floor, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders trembling because Weasley’s cruel jabs had cut her so deeply she could no longer bear the world around her, and how she had hidden here to cry unseen. He felt her despair flow into him, that sense of exclusion, of shame and hurt, and he felt as well the tremor in the floor as the troll lumbered into the room – heavy, foul, deadly, a creature that could have crushed her within seconds. She was not here to act heroically, not here to foolishly test her abilities; she was here because she was wounded, because someone had torn her down with childish cruelty, and because of that she had nearly lost her life.

He saw Potter and Weasley enter the bathroom, saw the panic on their faces as they discovered the troll, and how they, in a burst of desperate courage, struck the monster down in the final moment. But what shook him more than the audacity of the two boys was the scene now unfolding before his eyes: Hermione Granger, with tear-stained eyes and trembling voice, taking the blame upon herself, claiming she had tried to face the troll alone, merely to spare the boys any punishment.

'You stupid, foolish child,' he seethed inside, 'you could have died, and all because that red-headed imbecile drove you into hiding to cry in peace.' Fury, so hot it robbed him of breath, blended with a relief that made him tremble, and as he looked at her, he recognized in her willingness to protect others and conceal her own vulnerability a frightening resemblance to Lily – a reflection of kindness and self-sacrifice that was both familiar and abhorrent, for it stirred memories he had chained down for years.

He swallowed hard, almost painfully, as he watched Minerva McGonagall, stern, upright, her gaze blazing yet touched with a hint of sentiment, actually awarding points to Gryffindor – five measly points that, in his eyes, were nothing but mockery considering what these three children had just risked – and his insides boiled, his mind howled, 'Five points? For this hair-raising, irresponsible recklessness, for this foolishness that nearly cost her life? I would have deducted two hundred, at least, and justified it coldly, for stupidity must never be rewarded!' But he kept silent, held his lips closed, because he knew there was no place for his words here, and he merely stared, with an expression no one could truly decipher, at Hermione Granger, whose face was still reddened and tear-swollen as she left the bathroom with the two boys, her head slightly lowered, her shoulders raised as though she physically bore the weight of the blame she had chosen to carry. As she passed him, she lifted her gaze to his, and for a single, stretched heartbeat she stared at him and he stared back into those beautiful honey-brown eyes.

Severus remained behind, his cloak whispering over the floor as he walked toward the unconscious troll, whose stench filled the air and whose massive body lay sprawled across the tiles like a shattered mountain. He knew it fell to him to clean up the remains of this spectacle, to contain it, to seal it, as though he were not already burdened enough. But in the doorway, half in shadow, half in wavering light, stood Quirrell – jittery, pale, drenched in sweat, his hands trembling so visibly Severus could see each nerve twitch. So obvious, so blatant, it could scarcely pass for fear, and Severus thought bitterly, 'A Defence teacher who shakes before a troll like a schoolboy. That is not weakness – that is mask, that is façade, badly played and worse concealed.'

In that moment he swore to himself that he would not let this man, this walking contradiction, go unwatched for a single breath – that he would track his steps, examine his gestures, weigh every word on a scale until he uncovered what game Quirrell was playing within these walls, and at what cost. And as he sealed the troll with a heavy spell, while his thoughts raced without pause, a bitter truth emerged that wrapped itself around his chest like an iron band: Potter. Quirrell. Granger. Three names, three burdens, three tasks forced upon him this year by fate and headmaster alike – three shackles that would bind him, test him, drive him to the brink of his strength. His lips curled into a sound that might, from a distance, have passed as a smile, but was in truth only the expression of his deep, black humor, and he thought grimly as he listened into the silence, 'All good things come in threes, or so they say, but for me it means nothing except that I will find no peace this year either – not on a single day.'

Chapter Text

It had grown late on this exceedingly turbulent Halloween, a day that had demanded more of him than he would ever admit aloud, a day on which he had worn, as so often, the face of the unreachable, cold professor while chaos raged inside him. All traces of the devastation the troll had left behind had been erased; the shattered stones were repaired, and the protective wards that spanned the castle like an invisible net had been renewed and reinforced twice over, as if everyone sensed that these walls no longer served only as shelter but had become a target as well.

Severus was tired—not the usual tiredness that called for sleep, not the dull heaviness after a long day of work, but a leaden, relentless exhaustion that reached deeper than any night could ever ease, a weariness that had settled into his bones, into every single fibre of his soul, born from years of fighting, hiding, betrayal and guilt, a weight he had carried for so long that he no longer remembered how it felt to exist without it. And yet, despite this heaviness, despite the urge to simply close his eyes and lose himself in the darkness, he could not turn away, could not resist, for something within him pushed him to do one more thing, something he never skipped on this day, because he had to go there tonight, had to say something important that could not be left unspoken, no matter how tightly Dumbledore tried to bind him with duties, tasks, and the endless burden of his plans.

But this time, there was something new—something that frightened him more than exhaustion, something that tormented him far more deeply: the pain he had felt there in the Great Hall when he noticed that little Granger was missing. That sadness had struck him without warning, like a knife driven straight into his heart, and it still had not let him go. It had not been his own sorrow—he knew that with a certainty that chilled him. No, it had been hers—her pain, her fear, her despair, wrapping around him as if her emotions belonged to him as much as his own breath. And that pain had tormented him, had burned through him from within, so fiercely that he believed, for a moment, he could not draw another breath.

'Damn it, girl,' he thought bitterly as he walked down the steps toward the castle gate, his cloak pulled tightly around him, 'what are you doing to me? How can you—an eleven-year-old child—tear open something inside me that I have kept locked away for years?' He clenched his teeth, his gaze hard, yet inside him a storm raged. He should not have felt it—not her, not her pain—yet he had, and the memory of it now pricked at him like a thorn refusing to leave his skin.

He continued his way, each step heavy, each sound of his boots echoing on the stone like an accusation. He knew where he had to go; he knew whom he would visit. Yet tonight he carried more within him than usual—not only the weight of the guilt he owed Lily, but also this new, unwelcome bond that clung to him, cruel and inescapable, a bond he despised because it weakened him, because it forced him to feel what he never wanted to feel again: another person’s pain.

He moved forward, his long black cloak whispering over the cold stone steps, the sound like the fluttering of wings, as he crossed the threshold of the castle gate. The night lay cool and dark ahead of him, the wind cutting coldly across his temples, and just as he was about to take the first step onto the path leading to the Apparition point, a voice sliced through the silence. It rose from the shadows, old and brittle, yet carrying a firmness as unshakable as steel—a voice he had heard for decades, whether he wished to or not.

“You are going to visit her?” asked Albus, stepping out of the darkness as if he had stood there for a long time already, waiting, foreseeing, like one who knows the game before it begins. His hands were clasped behind his back, his long beard shimmering faintly in the starlight, and his eyes—those piercing eyes—glowed in the half-dark like two tiny flames that saw more than they should.

Severus came to an abrupt halt, the step he had just begun freezing mid-motion. He turned his head slowly, as if it cost him effort to meet Albus’s gaze. Yet he did it, allowed that familiar eye that had known him since youth to pierce through him, and he answered not with words but with a single, barely perceptible gesture—a short, clipped nod, a concession that held more weight than any spoken explanation.

“Very well, my boy,” the older wizard replied, and in those few words lay a warmth that both comforted and tormented Severus. Then Albus stepped closer, placed a hand on his shoulder for the briefest moment—so light it was hardly more than a breath, yet so heavy that Severus still felt the weight long after the hand had vanished. It was a gesture that offered both burden and reassurance, a reminder that Albus trusted him, while binding him at the same time.

Then Dumbledore walked past him, effortlessly, as though he himself were part of the wind drifting through the night, and disappeared into the darkness, his footsteps barely audible until nothing remained but the cold air and silence.

Severus exhaled audibly, the sound like the release of a burden he had carried for years, a sigh heavier than words. Then he continued on his way, his steps hard and determined on the gravel, his shoulders straight as if held up by sheer willpower, and moments later, with a soft pop, his figure dissolved into the night, carried away into the darkness that awaited him.

The night over Godric’s Hollow was clear and cold, the sky stretched like a velvet curtain full of shimmering fragments over the small village, and every breath Severus took turned into a white cloud that lingered for a heartbeat before the cold swallowed it. He walked the narrow road, the silence around him so tangible it felt alive—no children’s laughter, no scuffling footsteps, no shrill calls of “Trick or treat” as in previous years. Only darkness wrapped around him, and his own footsteps echoed dully across the pavement. He was alone, utterly alone, and for him this solitude was no burden; it was almost a comfort, for it allowed him to sink into his thoughts without interruption, to surrender to the weight that brought him here, year after year, step by step, to this place he could have found with closed eyes, a place he knew like the lines on his hand—the path to her, to Lily.

When the iron gate of the cemetery rose before him, a sadness so overwhelming, so raw and merciless washed over him that his breath faltered. Instinctively he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, as if it could shield him from the cold growing inside him. With a silent spell he released the old lock; the gate opened with a creak, and he stepped through. The ground was damp, the grass wet and cold beneath his boots, and as he lifted his wand, a soft Lumos brightened the darkness, the faint light falling upon the grave that lay like a quiet memorial in the night—a stone that met him year after year with the same unyielding hardness.

It was well tended, as always—so well tended that he knew someone else came here, someone who held her in their thoughts with the same care and the same pain. Yet he had never seen that person, only the traces of their devotion: today, a vase of white lilies, fresh and flawless, their scent barely subdued by the cold. Severus stepped closer, knelt down, his knees sinking into the damp grass, and he placed his long, slender hand upon the cold stone, tracing the engraving, the letters he had followed so often that they had burned themselves into his memory like a curse.

His voice, when he spoke, was barely more than a whisper—hoarse, brittle, as though he had to force it through an ocean of pain. “I am so sorry, Lily,” he began, his head bowing low. “So endlessly sorry that I could not save you. You deserved life, you deserved better than this. Your son needed you—your love, your warmth, your strength. And I… I needed you. I am sorry for what I did, for my blindness, for the anger and vanity that ruled me, for the words I threw at you that drove you away. I know I will never forgive myself. I carry guilt heavier than anything else, for through my actions, through my words, through my blindness, you were put in danger. And yes, Lily, I know it. I bear my share of the fault that your son grew up without parents. I took from you the most precious thing a person can have—life—and nothing I ever do will make it right.”

A tear—so rare that even he barely recognised it—slipped from his eye, traced a cold line down his cheek like the edge of a blade, and fell onto the stone, vanishing there as though it had found its rightful place.

“I must tell you something, Lily,” he continued after a long pause, his voice thick and strained. “Something I barely understand myself. Recently… recently there is someone. Albus says she is my soulmate. A word that angers me, a word that torments me, yet I cannot escape it. She is a student, Lily. A classmate of your son. I never wanted this. I never asked for this. Yet it came for me like a curse that cannot be broken. She resembles you so much—in her courage, her drive, her stubbornness, in that unshakeable way she stands up for others even at her own expense. And sometimes, when I look at her, when I see her eyes, that fire in her, it feels as if you yourself stand there, as if fate has sent me a cruel illusion to mock me. But she is not you, Lily. She is different, entirely herself, and that makes everything even harder because I do not know what to do with her, what I am allowed to feel, what I am meant to feel.”

He fell silent for a moment, and the stillness around the grave pressed against him like a cold weight. The chill settled deeper than his skin; it felt as though the night itself squeezed his ribs, closing in, holding him still. The wind moved through the cemetery, rustling the branches of the dark trees, sharpening the air until each breath stung. He lowered his head again, drew in a trembling breath, and it shook in his chest like something long buried that clawed its way upward. He had locked this feeling away for years, sealed it behind iron bars in a dark corner of his heart to keep it from crushing him—yet now it rose, relentless, undeniable.

“Perhaps I will not return,” he said softly, his voice so raw that it seemed out of place in the clear, cold air. “Perhaps this conversation is truly the last of its kind.” The simplicity of the words made them cut even deeper, striking a part of him that had not endured a blow in a long time. “I say this because something inside me moves. It pushes me. I cannot ignore it.” With every sentence, the pressure within him grew—a formless impulse, heavy and insistent, searching for a breach in the dam of his restraint.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the gravestone; the cold marble steadied him. Its rough surface pressed into his skin, grounding him, anchoring him in this place as though the stone itself held him back from breaking apart. The pressure in his chest grew, yet he did not retreat from it. He allowed it to expand, to settle, because resisting it served no purpose anymore.

“I am beginning to let you go, Lily,” he said, and his voice deepened, gaining a truth he could only allow in darkness. “This step tears something open inside me. It hurts. It burns through every fibre. It pulls at me all the way down to the deepest parts.” The pain spread like an old fracture breaking anew, and he felt every line of it. He drew another breath, slow and rough. “Yet I take this step.” Each breath tasted of metal, frost, memory.

He lifted his gaze, and the wandlight lay softly over his features, making them harsher and more vulnerable at once. His eyes looked darker, deeper, as though every emotion etched itself into them.

“Your place in my heart remains,” he said quietly, the words gentler now, like a confession meant only for the night. “This place is no longer a wound. It is part of what shapes me, a piece of the past I carry. You are with me, and still I move forward.” The sentence echoed in his throat—a sound both comforting and painful because of its truth.

A thought drifted into his mind—warm, insistent, refusing to fade. Its warmth startled him, for it felt misplaced in this night, yet it pressed deeper into him, pushing for acknowledgment.

Hermione.

The little Gryffindor who forced her way into his awareness again and again with her stubbornness and her sharp mind. She was everywhere—her drive, her eagerness, her piercing gaze that often saw more than was good for her. A girl who had no idea how far her pain had reached him today. A pain that did not even belong solely to her but to that small, frightened moment inside her that had believed itself in danger. A soul whose thread brushed against his, quiet and unavoidable, weaving itself into him without permission. A slender thread, thin yet unbreakable, forming a bond he had never asked for.

He felt her like a pull deep in his chest, a place he rarely acknowledged. Not loud. Not overwhelming. Yet present. Constant. Impossible to deny. A soft burning that caught his breath.

His voice lowered, growing firmer, as though he anchored himself anew.

“I move forward, Lily. This step does not pull away from you. It leads me out of the shadow that has surrounded me for too long.” His fingers slipped from the stone; the movement hesitant, as though he first needed to convince himself that he could bear the distance. The cold imprint of the stone faded from his skin, leaving behind an emptiness, as if he had released a support he had relied on for years. “I keep my word. I will look after Harry. I stand by him, no matter how difficult he makes it. This part of your life stays with me, and I carry it with the same resolve as everything else.” That resolve was not steel but a quiet ember, glowing steadily inside him.

The words hung heavy in the cold air, and even the wind seemed to still, as if listening. The cemetery grew darker and quieter, as though the night itself created space for his vow.

Behind all this honesty lay another thought—quiet, barely formed, yet alive. It pulsed like a second heartbeat, faint but steady.

A girl with brown curls.

A trembling pain that had shot through him as though it were his own.

A bond that had slipped unnoticed into his life.

A bond he had not chosen.

A bond that remained.

He exhaled, and the night absorbed his breath. The white cloud drifted upward and dissolved in the darkness, as though the cemetery itself claimed his secrets.

Slowly he picked up a small stone from the ground, turned it between his fingers, cast a spell, and the stone transformed into a red rose, deep and bloodlike, as if grown from his own heart. With steady hands he placed it among the lilies—the red glowing in the pale wandlight like a drop of blood on snow. For a final moment he rested his hand on the stone, tracing the name he both loved and cursed, then he rose. He turned, his cloak sweeping heavily through the silence, and he walked away, his shoulders straight, his gaze fixed ahead, without looking back, because he knew: one backward glance would bind him here forever.

And so he left the place, his figure swallowed step by step by the night, as though the darkness wished to keep him, unaware that in the shadow of the church an old man stood. His long white beard lay hidden in the dim light, his hands calmly folded behind his back with the composure of one who had waited not minutes but an eternity. His eyes, ancient and unbearably knowing, followed Severus’s retreating form with a quiet sorrow that glowed in the pale light like smouldering embers beneath a layer of ash. He did not call out; he did not step forward; not a sound passed his lips. Yet he had seen everything, heard everything, understood everything—so completely that the night itself seemed to hold its breath. He remained there, motionless, a silent witness carved from the darkness itself, until even the last echo of Severus’s footsteps faded and only the cold, the moonlight, and the weight of unspoken truths remained.

He waited until the silence settled again, then stepped out of the shadows like an old spirit that had always been there. His step was slow and deliberate as he approached the grave where Severus had knelt moments before. The white lilies stood upright, wrapped in silver moonlight, and between them glowed the rose—the deep, heavy red heart the younger man had left behind, a piece of truth he could no longer hide.

Dumbledore stopped before the stone, inclined his head slightly, and placed one hand on the cold marble as if greeting two people he had loved.

“You heard him,” he said softly, his breath forming a small white cloud in the darkness. “So much… he has not shared with you in a very long time.”

His gaze drifted down to the rose. His fingertips touched the velvety petals with almost reverent gentleness.

“He told you that something within him is shifting,” he murmured, and the night accepted each word like a familiar sound. “Something inside him is moving, overwhelming him, frightening him. And this girl… Hermione Granger… steps into that place.”

A faint smile crossed his face, one filled with sorrow and hope.

“You know what weighs on him. He fears loss. He fears mistakes. He fears hurting someone again.” A quiet sigh escaped him. “But you also heard what he could not bring himself to say. She means something to him. He feels her. She brings light into a place he long declared dead.”

His eyes returned to the engraving, to the names that had shaped an entire world.

“He believes he has no right to closeness, to warmth, to a heart that sees him,” Dumbledore said gently. “He carries burdens that would have broken others long ago. His heart deserves rest, and I hope with all that is left in me that he will find it.”

A gust of wind swept through the lilies, making the rose tremble softly.

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore whispered, “this girl is the one who will lead him there. Perhaps she is the step out of his shadow.” A small, warm smile touched his lips. “I hope so. For him. And for you.”

He lingered a moment longer, his hand resting on the cold stone like an old friend touching a familiar door. Then he straightened, his cloak shifting heavily in the wind, and the night closed behind him as he disappeared among the graves, while the r ose and the lilies glimmered in the moonlight like two heartbeats not yet ready to fall silent.

Chapter Text

The library had always been a place of comfort for Hermione Granger, a refuge where she could completely lose herself without anyone disturbing her, without having to feel that she was too much or too little; here she was simply herself, embedded in the endless rows of knowledge and stories that she eagerly absorbed. The tall shelves, the smell of parchment and ink, the muted silence that was broken only by the occasional rustle of pages, settled over her like a soothing blanket. There was nothing more beautiful for her than to bury her nose in books, devouring them line by line and recording everything with meticulous care in notes that she then repeated aloud so that her memory would take in the information like a second skin. In these moments she forgot how often her parents had affectionately called her “little swot” at home with a smile, forgot the feeling of standing strangely out of line in the Muggle world; here she was not an outsider, here she was someone who stood in her element. She loved to test herself, to recite what she had read by heart, as if with every word she became stronger, cleverer, more independent. Every mistake she discovered while repeating was not a failure to her but an incentive to do better the next time, and each time she could recite a passage without error, a quiet, proud triumph flooded her. Here she was in her element, and the fact that Hogwarts had a library whose size and facilities surpassed anything she had ever known was for her almost as valuable as the lessons themselves. Sometimes she even believed that these shelves understood her better than many people, because they never made her feel too loud, too eager, or too intense.

And yet a shadow lay over all her enthusiasm, for the Restricted Section was closed to her, a place that drew her like light draws a moth, but which she was not allowed to enter. Just the sight of the barrier, the heavy chains and the strict signs made her heart beat faster, as if there were a boundary behind which her true world only began. Only the older students who were already in the final years of their education had the privilege of entering those shelves whose books were so saturated with magic and secrets that even their sight alone made her heart beat faster. She often remained standing at the edge, her fingers close to the wood without touching it, as if a single touch could betray her, and imagined what kinds of spells, theories, and dark tales were hidden there. She sighed softly when she thought of how much knowledge was still denied her, and at the same time she swore that one day she would stand there, confident and without fear, and read every single one of those books. In her mind she saw herself older then, taller, with a prefect’s badge on her chest, her head held high as she pulled one book after another from the shelves and no longer had to curb her curiosity.

She loved her classes with the same hungry intensity, because every subject opened a new corner of the magical world to her, yet there was one lesson that drew her more than all the others; down in the cool dungeon, between rows of simmering cauldrons and the sharp, familiar scent of crushed ingredients, she felt a focus that bordered on reverence, and even though Professor Snape’s remarks could be cutting and his standards merciless, there was something about this dark, distant man that fascinated her so much that she caught herself wanting to prove herself in front of him more than in front of anyone else.

The weeks since that chaotic Halloween, on which a troll had almost ended her life and at the same time sealed the beginning of an unexpected friendship, slipped by for Hermione Granger like a dream that kept making her marvel whenever she woke in the morning and asked herself whether it was truly real. The shock of that night still sat in her bones, yet it was overlaid by something new, a warm amazement that from this fear something had arisen which filled her heart. She was happier than she had ever thought possible, happier than she had imagined herself in long, lonely summers between overflowing bookshelves in the Muggle world, because she finally had people at her side who did not mock her, did not respond with exasperated eye-rolling when she talked too much or was too eager, but who made her feel welcome. When she sat with Harry and Ron at the table in the Great Hall, it sometimes felt to her as if she had landed in one of those novels she used to devour, only that she now no longer looked at the page from the outside but stood right in the middle of the story. Harry Potter, the boy whose name filled stories whispered in the farthest corners of the world. And Ron Weasley, who at the beginning had been so mercilessly cruel in his mockery that she had fled, humiliated, into a toilet and dissolved in bitter tears, were now her companions, her friends, her small, strange family. Sometimes she still started when she thought of how closely she had skimmed past this friendship, how close she had been to remaining just as lonely in this castle as she had been in some hours at home.

Since that evening they no longer left her side, and although they were an unequal trio – Harry, marked by his fate, Ron, the loyal, sometimes clumsy but unshakably steadfast companion, and she herself, the clever, overzealous, fearless Hermione – they were bound by something that was stronger than any doubt, any quarrel, any disparity. This bond felt to her like a spell that worked quietly yet unbreakably. “I suppose that’s what you call fate,” she murmured softly to herself, a smile on her lips, as the quill glided over the parchment and formed notes in orderly lines, and a warm glow came into her eyes that did not come only from the candlelight. In that moment she was certain that she was exactly in the right place.

For a long time, or so she had believed, she would have wished for a girl friend, someone who talked with her about the things that supposedly occupied girls, about clothes, cosmetics, the whispering about boys, the latest gossip in the castle, and she had always thought that only in this way could she belong. She had often imagined what it would be like to walk back to the dormitory with a girl at her side, to laugh together, to share secrets, just as she had read in books about boarding schools. Yet in truth she now knew that none of this really interested her, that she rather found her world in books, in great ideas, in riddles and spells. When she watched the girls in her year gossiping and giggling, she noticed that her thoughts kept wandering to formulas, incantations, and solutions to problems. And so she was glad, even grateful, that she had these two boys at her side, that she could experience adventures with them that had nothing to do with superficial giggling but with courage, solidarity, and a bond that was not so easily torn. She liked their directness, their imperfections, their quarrels and reconciliations; all of this seemed more real to her than any forced smile in the common rooms.

On this evening, however, she sat alone. Harry was outside on the Quidditch pitch; he could not afford to miss practice, and Ron, who would have loved to be on the team himself, had gone with him, as he always did, full of enthusiasm whenever it came to the sport he adored and of which he dreamed of being part himself one day. Hermione, on the other hand, had chosen the way to the library, as she so often did when she sought quiet. The tall shelves rose up around her like guardians of wood and paper, and only the soft scratching of her quill on parchment and the gentle rustling of pages were the sounds that filled the room. The warm, flickering light of the candles cast calm shadows across the tables, making dust motes dance in the air like tiny, sluggish stars. Gradually, one after another, the remaining students left the library, their voices and footsteps faded in the corridor until a silence settled over the hall that wrapped around her like a soft, protective cloth. She listened to the slowly fading sounds and felt how with every door that closed a piece of the world outside stayed back. This was exactly how she liked it best: undisturbed, alone and free of all the giggling, free of the superficial chatter that she never understood, free of curious glances – just she, her books, and the feeling of finally being completely and utterly with herself in the midst of this vast collection of knowledge. Her heart grew calm in this silence, her breathing even, as if the room were embracing her.

At some point, however, when the candles were only flickering weakly, her head grew heavy and sank onto her arms, and she fell asleep, exhausted from the long day. The letters in front of her eyes had blurred together, the lines had drawn themselves out until her gaze had given in. But suddenly a tingling shot through her, a feeling like cold breath on the back of her neck, and she started up, her heart pounding up into her throat as she turned around with a quick movement. The sudden movement made the chair creak softly, her pulse thudded in her ears so loudly that for a moment she overheard every other sound. The aisle behind her lay in shadow, empty, still, and yet she was certain that someone had been there, that someone had touched or stared at her. Her fingers moved over the spot on her neck; the goosebumps made her shiver, and in a hoarse voice she whispered, “Is someone here?” The queasy feeling in her stomach grew stronger, and she wondered whether she was already imagining ghosts or whether Peeves was playing one of his usual pranks. A thought that calmed and unsettled her at the same time, because Madame Pince would have hated any disturbance here, and Peeves knew exactly how to drive the strict librarian into a rage. The image of the furious librarian, who went after troublemakers with glittering eyes and a sharp voice, flickered before her inner eye and mingled with the dark emptiness behind her.

Severus Snape, hidden in the shadow, flinched when he heard her voice, sharper and clearer than it should have been, because he had been sure that she could not perceive him. The sound of her whisper cut through the silence like a fine blade that slipped directly under his skin. He had concealed himself with a Disillusionment Charm, after all, and also cast a Silencing Charm on himself so that no sound could betray him. The habitual care with which he had protected himself had given him a sense of control that now began to crack. The fact that she still sensed something made him shiver. Was this the curse of that damned soul bond Dumbledore had spoken of? Was it possible that already now, far too early, she had some inkling of it? It must not be, it should not be – and yet she had reacted, so clearly that it unsettled even him. A thin, cold strip of fear slid down his spine, mixed with a rebellious resistance to everything that escaped his will.

Yet he was not here because of her. He had entered the Restricted Section to look for a book that was missing even from his extensive collection, a work he urgently needed, and he had not had the slightest intention of encountering a student – least of all this one. The mere thought of Granger in the context of his carefully planned nocturnal research made him snort inwardly. Granger, the little, tireless know-it-all who had already driven him into a rage more than once because she talked and talked and talked as if there were no end. Her hand shot up as soon as a question was asked in the room, and he could hardly bear the tense expectation in her face when she hoped to give the right answer. Severus curled his lip at the memory of how he had already thrown her out of class because her prattling drove him mad, and he had to admit that the pout she made then amused him in a strange way. That offended pursing of her lips, the sparkling defiance in her eyes that announced she would be even better prepared next time, burned itself into him more than he liked. But he would never, under any circumstances, grant her the pleasure of knowing anything of the sort about him.

As he now went to walk past her, he paused. She had fallen asleep over her books, her face half hidden, her curls wildly scattered across the parchment, and for a moment he stood there, staring at her, unable to tear his gaze away. In this unguarded posture she seemed younger, more vulnerable, almost… peaceful, and that very sight irritated him more than he wanted to admit. Something in this image struck him without his being able to name it. He even sat down on a chair opposite her, motionless, strengthening the charm on himself even more in order to remain invisible, and let his gaze wander over her notes. The density of her notes, the neat handwriting, the little marginal remarks that already went beyond what was required, reminded him of himself in a time when he had still believed that knowledge could compensate for every weakness. Unavoidably the corner of his mouth twitched up in a rare, almost imperceptible smile, for as always she was far ahead of her classmates, writing down things that some N.E.W.T. student would not have been able to explain. A faint, reluctant recognition stirred inside him, which he immediately pushed down again.

Yet as much as it held him captive against his will, the sight of this girl, sitting there with tousled curls, her head slightly bowed and a persistent determination over the books that she probably loved more than anything else in this world, as much as the inexplicable urge to stay longer almost paralysed him, he knew that he could not stay. The realisation that his gaze was resting on her for too long felt like an alarm blaring in his head. With a barely audible sigh he gathered the few volumes he had taken from the Restricted Section, slipped them into the shadow of his cloak and drew himself up to his full height, soundless like a ghost that left no traces. Every step was calculated, the hem of his cloak glided over the floor without making the slightest noise, and he moved as smoothly as if he himself were part of the shadows that protected him. The air around him seemed to thicken as if it wanted to swallow his retreat.

He had almost made it, was already so close that he could hear her even breathing, the faint scratching of the quill she still held between her fingers in her sleep, when it happened – she drew in a sharp breath, a sound that cut so suddenly into the silence that his heart involuntarily skipped a beat. Her gaze, which had just been sleepy and tired, flickered restlessly as if an invisible current had touched her, and her hands froze in mid-movement as if a breath had passed through her which she could not interpret. He held his breath, watching how she moved minimally, turned her head slightly, furrowed her brow as if listening for something only she could feel. Every muscle in him tensed, ready to react at the slightest movement, and yet he remained as if rooted to the spot.

He did not know what it was. She did not perceive him with her eyes, for his spell wrapped him in perfect disguise, and she did not hear him, for no sound betrayed his presence. It was something else, something he cursed, something he had not seen coming. She sensed him. Not as a man, not as a teacher, but as a presence, as a shadow that was in some inexplicable way connected to her and that, even in complete invisibility, left a trace in her inner self. This thought struck him with a force that felt as if someone had laid an invisible hand around his heart.

Severus remained still, his muscles taut like tendons, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on the girl sitting there and yet carrying something inside her that raised her far above her age. 'Damn,' he thought bitterly, 'she must not feel me, she must not even suspect me. Not yet.'. And yet he knew in the same instant that it was already too late. The bond had already stirred, quiet and relentless. A part of him wanted to dismiss Dumbledore’s words as the fantasy of an old man who saw patterns and signs in everything. Another part drew parallels, whether he wanted to or not: Lily, her eyes, her defiance, her courage, and now this girl with the wild curls, who sought refuge in libraries and threw herself into learning with a stubbornness that seemed painfully familiar to him. He asked himself how many steps still separated him from a mistake that could be greater than anything he dared imagine, and how long he would be able to keep this connection hidden before it revealed itself in front of everyone. Instinctively he pulled his Occlumency shields higher, layer by layer, as if he were closing iron shutters in front of a window behind which a storm was raging. He did not want to feel her emotions in his head all the time, wanted to banish her pain, her uncertainty, her youthful turmoil from his inner self again and push them back to the place where they belonged – into her own heart, far away from his. Within him grew the resolve to keep his distance, to avoid any unnecessary closeness, to judge her harshly, to slow her down, to put her in her place in order to protect himself, and at the same time he knew that every sound, every look, every breath of fear near her would reach him whether he closed his eyes or not. The resistance in him was real, the wish to deny this bond as well, yet beneath it a quiet, relentless curiosity was at work that demanded answers: What if Dumbledore was right, and what if this very child one day would be the only reason why he did not sink completely into the dark?

Hermione herself did not understand it. Suddenly there was a smell, a mixture that seemed so familiar to her without her being able to say where from. Sandalwood, smoke and a hint of fresh mint – a strange mixture she had never consciously smelled before, and yet it seemed to her as if she had already sensed it once, somewhere deep inside herself. It was not an unpleasant scent, on the contrary, she liked it, it had a calming and at the same time exciting effect, like a secret one would like to explore. It settled over her senses like a warm blanket for a heartbeat and tore itself away again the next moment. But just as suddenly as it had come, it vanished again as if it had never been there. What remained was an empty pull, as if someone had opened a door and then immediately slammed it shut again.

Confused, she raised her hand to her forehead as if she could thus drive away the invisible heaviness that had settled in her, and rubbed her temples in a nervous, almost childish gesture that surprised her because she was otherwise always intent on maintaining her composure, on appearing more grown-up than she actually was. The tiredness kneaded her thoughts soft, and at the same time something was swirling inside her that could not be named. Her gaze fell back onto the carefully kept notes in front of her, onto the neatly drawn lines and the densely written pages that had just seemed like a bulwark against any uncertainty, and she forced herself to pick up the quill again and fill the parchment with new lines. The familiarity of this movement calmed her a little; she clung to the routine like to an anchor. Yet as much as she fixed her eyes on the letters, as much as she tried to repeat the sentences in her head, to learn them, to internalise them – the thought of this smell did not let her go, it was there, persistent, like a fleeting trace that one cannot see yet also cannot erase.

She could not say why it occupied her, why it made her heart beat faster when she tried to conjure it up again in her mind, and why her stomach felt queasy and warm at the same time. A part of her wanted to analyse, categorise, explain the feeling at once, another part enjoyed this state of not knowing, no matter how much it confused her.

“What was that?” she asked herself silently as she skimmed line after line without the words making any sense any more. It was as if she was no longer truly reading but only gliding over the surface of the letters. Had it only been imagination? A dream born of overtiredness because she had pored over books for hours? Or had someone in fact been standing beside her, invisible, unreachable, and then gone again? She shook her head almost imperceptibly, tried to shake off the thoughts, but she did not succeed. The impression remained, quiet and stubborn, like a shadow at the edge of her consciousness, and as she continued reading, she knew deep inside that this had not been an ordinary evening in the library.

Chapter Text

Severus hurried with long, ground-eating strides down through the cool, damp corridors of the dungeons, and while his cloak swept behind him like a living wave, he cursed himself inwardly with a sharpness that was harsh even by his own standards, for he had very nearly maneuvered himself into a situation that would have been not only foolish but downright self-destructive. The air was heavy with stone moisture, it lay on his skin like a dull, clammy pressure and seemed to weigh on his thoughts even more, as if the castle itself wished to show him how close he had been to crossing a boundary he should never even have brushed.

In his mind he already heard Minerva’s rasping voice calling him to account with a reproachful look: “Severus Snape, kindly explain to me why one of my lion children was chased by you in the library?” And at once he pictured the headlines that would settle like sticky cobwebs in the minds of colleagues and students, headlines no one would ever be able to remove once they had been spoken: the dungeon bat, the Dracula of Hogwarts, the man who ogled innocent Gryffindor girls at night. The thought of the whispering gossip of the students crawling like a poisonous fog through the corridors — muffled voices falling abruptly silent at his approach — made him clench his hands into fists.

The bitter aftertaste of that idea burned on his tongue, metallic like blood, and he ground his teeth so hard he feared they might break. Each step echoed angrily through the corridors, as if even his stride wished to shake off the shame, and yet it clung to him like a shadow that had eaten its way into his skin.

“A pedophile,” he spat inwardly, and the word alone made him shudder as if someone were running icy fingers down his spine, “that’s what they would brand me as, and I’m not that, by Merlin, I am most certainly not that!” His heart beat faster, not only out of anger but also out of the bare realization of how narrowly he had danced on the edge of the abyss — so narrowly that a single misplaced breath would have been enough to send him plummeting into a void from which there was no return. One unguarded moment, one breath too close at the wrong place, one tiny misunderstanding — and everything he had painstakingly built over years would collapse like a rotten house of cards breaking under the first whisper of suspicion.

Finally reaching his chambers, he extinguished the protective enchantments with an angry flick of his fingers, as if he meant not only to sweep away the magical barriers but also his own frantic, tumbling thoughts. The room seemed narrower than usual, more oppressive, as if it too had turned against him. He dropped heavily onto the couch, the leather groaning under his weight like an old friend silently sharing his misery, and with a sharp, irritated rasp he hissed, “Accio firewhisky!” Immediately a half-full bottle with amber gleam and the accompanying glass floated through the air as if they already knew they were needed, landing softly on the table before him.

He grabbed them, poured without measure as though punishing himself for even thinking about it, and the first burning mouthful ran over his tongue, down his throat, igniting a heat that burned pleasantly against the iron coldness lodged in his chest. The taste was sharp, almost cutting, yet he let the fire flood him willingly, as if its burn could wash away everything gnawing at him.

The burning was pain and solace at once, and as he emptied the glass in one swallow, he felt for a fleeting moment something like peace, a false, fragile peace that shattered the instant he dared breathe again. But peace was not what he sought — he sought numbness, forgetting, the muffled silence in his mind that felt like cotton and pushed everything that hurt too much into a distant blur. So came the second glass, then the third, and as he drank, he exhaled theatrically heavily, as though he could blow the chaos inside him away like dust on the spine of an old book.

He knew perfectly well he would regret it tomorrow, that his head would throb and his insides rebel, and that not even Pomfrey’s strongest anti-hangover spell could prevent him from cursing the day — but that was a problem for tomorrow, not for this one.

With a jerk he stood, his body swaying only faintly, for even drunk he possessed more self-control than some colleagues did sober, and he strode purposefully into his laboratory, past shelves filled with phials and jars whose contents glowed and shimmered mysteriously as if they were watching him. His gaze slid over the labels, and though his senses were clouded, he recognized each one, every tiny bottle, every small scratch in the glass — his domain, his refuge, the only place where he could endure himself.

Until he found the small, unremarkable bottle bearing the inscription “Sobrius.” He picked it up, turned it between his fingers, and a thin, almost tired smile flitted across his lips, a smile that ignited like a spark and vanished just as quickly. “Better safe than sorry,” he murmured and set the phial on his bedside table like a silent insurance before returning to the living room, accompanied by the soft clinking of glass that commented on his steps.

He lit the fireplace with a snap of his fingers, the fire flaring brightly, devouring the logs and bathing the room in a play of light and shadows, a shifting pattern that oddly soothed him. He sank into one of the armchairs, glass in hand, and this time he drank more slowly, sipping cautiously as if challenging his own thoughts rather than smothering them. Thoughts drifted in and out, tormenting, confusing, like stray dogs one could not chase away, and again and again they circled the same question: What was to become of him? What future was left for him? Was there one at all? Or was he doomed to lose himself in a circle of guilt and obligation?

He thought of the girl — Granger, no, Hermione, as he admitted to himself in weak moments — and the pain rose in him like a tide capable of breaking walls of stone. Not because he felt anything improper for her — Merlin forbid — but because something within him reacted, an echo, a faint, ominous resonance he could not silence. He did not want to be bound to a student, did not want to rob her of the freedom to shape her life, did not want to be the shadow that chained her to him. She knew nothing of it, and perhaps that was for the best. Why should she ever look at him? What did he have to offer besides scars, inside and out, besides bitter sarcasm and an ugly truth that even he sometimes found crushing?

No, he was anything but a man one could love, a thought that stabbed him like a knife even though he refused to admit it.

He emptied the glass and got up; sleep called to him, and he wanted to give in, wanted to let the day sink into darkness as if it had never been. Severus sank into a restless sleep, and as soon as he closed his eyes, he found himself in a room that was familiar and yet foreign — the library, but shrouded in an unreal twilight, as if woven from fog, the books seemed to breathe, the shelves to whisper, as though the place itself were holding its breath.

And between the shelves she sat, Granger, her hair wild, her eyes wide, and she was not looking at a book but directly at him, as if she had been expecting him, as if she knew every step he had taken, every thought he had formed. He wanted to avert his gaze, but he couldn’t, for she rose, so small, so young, still nearly a child, and yet she moved with a calm that made him shudder, as if she were older than time itself. Slowly she stepped closer, each step a blow against his heart, which beat far too fast, as if it wanted to burst, as if it were desperately resisting its own existence.

He wanted to retreat, to wrap himself in his usual mantle of coldness and defense, wanted to cut apart what seemed inevitable, but he stood petrified, unable to move a single muscle. Her steps were barely audible, yet they thundered in his skull. And then she raised her hand, so small, so innocent, and placed it on his cheek, her fingers cool and yet filled with a warmth that burned into him like a beam of light into deepest darkness. A feeling so out of place and yet so real it stole his breath.

His throat tightened, he felt his breath hitch, his heartbeat hammering in his temples, and he could have sworn the heat of her touch was searing its way into his innermost self, a burning imprint on his soul.

“Don’t run away,” she whispered, her voice so soft, so pleading, that it went through bone and marrow, “please… don’t run.”

It sounded like a plea and a command, like begging and accusation, all at once, and he was powerless to resist.

The weight of her words lay heavier upon him than any curse, and for a moment he believed he might drown in her gaze, collapse in her nearness — until a violent jolt tore him from the dream as if he had been thrust into icy water. With a hoarse gasp he shot upright, sweat on his brow, breath heaving, and his heart racing as if he had truly run, been chased, hunted.

Cursing, he grabbed the prepared phial, uncorked it, and gulped down the foul potion that tasted like bitter bile on his tongue but washed away nausea, pain, and dizziness within seconds like a cleansing spell. “Severus, old boy, you should add an herb to make that damned brew more tolerable,” he muttered, grimacing as he glanced at the clock whose hands moved mercilessly onward as if mocking his unrest.

He pressed his fingers to his eyes as if he could erase what he had seen, but it remained, relentless, like a curse that could not be lifted. “What the hell was that?” he thought, feeling his throat go dry as he followed the thought further. “Her. Of all people, her. Granger. A child, a twelve-year-old. And in my dream she comes to me, puts her hand on my face as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if she had every right to. And worse… I let her.”

He breathed heavily, the words fermenting inside him like poison, and the more he thought them, the more a sense tormented him that he had crossed a line he should never have touched. “Why does it feel as though I really felt her warmth? Why does that imprint still burn on my skin as if she were truly there? Damn it, Severus, you’re a fool, a weak, miserable fool. She’s just a girl, a lion cub, clever, outspoken, infuriating, and you are… you. Black, used-up, old, soaked with guilt to the bone. And yet — why does that image frighten me more than any nightmare of the past years?”

He ground his teeth so hard his jaw hurt, his hands curling into fists, knuckles white. “Don’t run, she said. Don’t run. Why would she say that to me? Why does it echo in me as though it’s more than a dream, as though it’s a call I cannot ignore? Damn it, Dumbledore spoke of soul bonds, of things weaving before one understands them. But that must not be. Not with her. Not with a twelve-year-old.”

He straightened, staring into the darkness of his bedroom, and the cold of the stones around him seemed less icy than the storm raging within him. “I must not allow that. I must not even think it. And yet… it feels as if something inside me breaks when I try.”

It was far too early, and yet he was wide awake as if the potion had freed not only his body but also his mind from its grip. A thought took shape: run. The fresh air, the rhythm of steps, the rush of blood — it would clear him. He hesitated, but not long; then he swung his legs out of bed, went to the wardrobe, grabbed his running clothes, dressed, and cast a quick glance in the mirror as he passed. “Your arse may be firm, Severus, but you really should get more sun,” he commented sarcastically to his reflection before making himself invisible with a Disillusionment Charm and leaving the castle.

At the shore of the Black Lake he lifted the spell, stretched, and then set off, fast and steady, step by step until his breath deepened, his heart hammered in a steady rhythm, and the world around him fell silent. Only his breathing, only the beat of his feet on frozen ground, only the wind brushing his face. For an hour he was free — free of students, free of Dumbledore, free of himself, free of that strange, restless feeling that had followed him for days like an invisible shadow.

And yet, the moment he returned, the world crawled back into him with all its weight, into every joint, every fiber.

Longbottom, that walking classroom nightmare, had nearly blown up the entire dungeon yesterday. Severus remembered all too clearly how the smell of burned hornweed hung in the air, how sparks had shot from the cauldron, how the heat of the failed brew had nearly reached the row of desks. It had taken seconds for him to cast the spell that prevented the explosion — seconds in which he had cursed the boy’s idiocy, seconds that had cost him years of his life.

With billowing cloak he had marched toward Longbottom, who stood with trembling hands and ashen face, and his voice had split the dungeon like a thunderclap.

“Longbottom!” he had roared, so loudly even the Slytherins had flinched. “Are you completely out of your mind? Can you not read? Or have you decided to reduce your entire class to rubble? You fool!” His voice had made the walls tremble.

He had stepped close to the boy, his eyes black with fury, his voice now lower, dangerously quiet, each word dripping like poison. “Did you think for even one second about what you were doing? One piece too much of that ingredient — and the cauldron would have blown up in your face. You wouldn’t just have scorched your own miserable skin, but that of your classmates as well. Do you want blood on your hands, Longbottom? Want corpses on your conscience before you even master the basics of a healing draught?”

The boy had turned pale, his lower lip trembling, and Severus had pushed further, his voice cutting like a blade. “You are a danger, Longbottom, nothing but a walking catastrophe! If you had even an ounce of sense, you would know you cannot brew by instinct but by instruction. But apparently even that is too much to ask!”

Then, with a sharp snort, he had ended it. “Five points from Gryffindor — and consider yourself fortunate I’m not dragging you straight to the infirmary so Madame Pomfrey can examine whether you possess a brain at all.”

Longbottom had sobbed, fat tears running down his cheeks, and he had left the classroom with hunched shoulders. For a moment there had been absolute silence, every student barely daring to breathe. No movement, no rustling, only the heavy stillness of a class in mortal fear.

And then she had been there — Granger — with her unshakable morality, her raised voice cutting through the tension like an arrow, and that look full of indignation that Severus still felt burning in his skin.

“Professor, that’s unfair! Neville only wanted—” she had begun, but he cut her off immediately, his voice a venomous growl echoing through the dungeon.

“Enough, Miss Granger! I have no need for lectures from a little know-it-all who thinks she can tell me how to conduct my class. You are unbearable, truly unbearable — every blasted time you must open your mouth even when it is none of your concern.”

He had stepped closer, his eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a cold line. “Ten points from Gryffindor — and that solely for your unsolicited know-it-all attitude.”

A murmur had gone through the rows, but no one dared to say anything; all stared into their cauldrons or at their parchment. Granger, however, had flushed, with both anger and disappointment, her lips trembling, but she stayed silent, her fingers clutching her quill, and the look she gave him was one he would not forget — a look that stung because he knew he had wronged her.

But the truth was: it had not been her who had angered him. It had been Longbottom, his incompetence, his nearly lethal negligence that had driven him into a rage. But she had been the one to open her mouth at the wrong moment — and he had punished her for it, harsher than he had intended.

Since then she avoided him, and to his own damnation he had to admit it hurt him more than he had expected. The less he saw her, the more he longed for her presence. It was madness. Pure, unadulterated madness.

As he crossed the courtyard on his way back, the morning cold in his lungs, he suddenly felt he was not alone. He cloaked himself in invisibility at once and then saw her — in a window alcove, small, focused, surrounded by a warming charm, a book in her lap, her head bowed over pages full of secrets. The cold winter air drew a faint mist around her, and for a moment she looked as though she sat in a quiet bubble, shielded from the world.

He stepped closer, glanced at the title, and when he saw she was studying “Potions and Brews by Arsenius Bunsen,” his mouth twitched — almost a smile, an unintentional, treacherous twitch.

But then she lifted her head, her eyes seeming to look straight in his direction, and she sniffed the air, her nostrils flaring as if searching for something. “She can smell me,” shot through his mind, and panic seized him. A sudden, irrational panic he had not felt since his youth.

Without another thought he turned away, nearly fled, as if an Erumpent were charging behind him, fled because the mere idea she might notice him in that moment drove him to the brink of madness.

“Damn it, Severus, what are you doing?” he snarled inwardly as he hurried through the cold corridors, the folds of his cloak trailing behind him like black shadows until he finally burst through the door of his chambers and slammed it shut behind him.

“Because of some small, annoying brat you endanger yourself, because of a Gryffindor who gives you nothing but backtalk you lose the control you’ve built for years, layer by layer, until nothing could penetrate — and now one look from her, one sentence, one bloody act of defiance, and you plunge yourself into chaos.” His steps echoed on the stone slabs, he threw his shirt carelessly onto a chair, tore open the buttons of his jogging trousers as if he had to escape the tightening pressure inside him, and kicked off his shoes so hastily they thudded against the wall.

And yet, as much as he tried to tell himself otherwise, as much as he fought her in his mind with words full of mockery and disdain, deep inside he knew the truth, a truth he would never speak aloud: it was not just the cursed soul bond that drove him to seek her nearness, that made him feel when she cried, when she was afraid, when she was desperate — it was something else, something far more dangerous because it came from within himself. Something he refused to name.

He felt the memory of her face torment him, of that disappointment in her eyes when he took points from her though he knew her brew had been flawless.

He stood under the shower for a long time, far longer than necessary, the water hot, almost burning, streaming over his shoulders, his back, his chest, and he pressed his hands against the cold tiles as if he could pin down the chaos inside him, silence it. The water roared over his hair, his shoulders, and yet it washed nothing away — not the guilt, not the pain, not the thoughts that circled unrelentingly around her.

He closed his eyes, let the water run over his face, drop by drop, and still the thought of her did not fade. It crawled back into his consciousness like a snake, sinking its fangs where he was weakest, refusing to let go.

“You are a fool,” he murmured softly, barely audible, his voice broken by the steam and his own anger at himself, “an old, foolish fool who lets himself be thrown off balance by a twelve-year-old.” And yet he felt it was no lie, that he was no longer free of her, that she meant more to him than he would ever admit — and that he had no idea how he would ever escape this pull.

Chapter Text

The morning of the match had something so electrifying about it that even someone like him, who would never stoop so low as to show even the faintest trace of excitement openly, felt that tingling that ran like a thin, vibrating thread from his chest through his entire body and had accompanied him since the first minutes after waking. It was an underlying, quiet, yet persistent throbbing that seemed to stem not only from his heart but from a memory as well – a memory that reminded the unwilling part of him how much he loved this damned game, even if he always denied it outwardly. Inside him there was a fire, small, controlled, but undeniably real, and he could feel it the way one feels the first pulse of a spell before speaking it aloud.

He remembered, unwillingly and yet unstoppably, his own school days, those bitter, humiliating hours on a broom when he had once again been forced to realize that he simply lacked the talent for flying, that he would never – damn it, never – rise into the air as elegantly, as effortlessly, as naturally as the naturals in his year. He had clung to that narrow piece of wood, his fingers cramped, his shoulders rigid, his knees painfully tense, and yet he had never been more than a mediocre, stiff speck in the sky.

And still – and there lay the irony of his life – he had studied every movement, every maneuver, every dive and every abrupt turn with almost pedantic, fanatical analytical precision, as if by pure observation he might one day become the player he so wished he could have been, the player he never could be, never would be. A dream that had become nothing but dust. A dust that, nevertheless, had never entirely disappeared from within him.

And now, many years later, he was the teacher who sat silently in the stands, his expression carved from black stone, while inside him his blood flowed faster whenever a Seeker went into a dive, whenever a Beater deflected a Bludger with an acrobatic swing, whenever the players hunted one another in that dangerous ballet. No one except Albus, perhaps, suspected that Severus Snape was in truth a passionate Quidditch fan – and, he swore to himself every single damned year, no one would ever hear it from his mouth.

And yet today he felt more than just that hidden, hard-to-tame passion. Today there was a quiet, bitterly tense hope that Slytherin would bring home the victory, as they had done almost as a matter of course in recent years. Hope and pride were dangerous – but he felt both.

His face, of course, betrayed nothing as he passed the Gryffindor table on his way to breakfast, and yet he allowed his eyes – for one tiny, impermissible moment – to rest on the golden child who drew upon himself all those exaggerated hopes, dreams and raptures of the Great Hall. Potter.

“Good luck in the match today, Potter,” he said, his voice cold, sharp as thin ice, almost biting, and yet – unwilling, hated – with a barely perceptible glimmer in it that the boy could not decipher, “even though your opponent is Slytherin.”

The boy stared at him like a deer in the light of a spell, big, round eyes full of surprise, as if he had genuinely never considered that Snape of all people might wish him luck. It was ridiculous, but typical for Potter – everything always had to surprise him, even the obvious.

Severus tore his gaze away, sharp and quick like a drawn dagger, but his eyes slid, inevitably – almost by instinct – to the other side of the table, and then they met brown eyes that held him pinned.

Granger.
Of course Granger.
Hermione, with that far too serious, far too sincere expression that had irritated him, provoked him, and in rare, inexplicable moments… done something else to him, something he did not want to name, for years. And then there was that smile.

A smile, for Merlin’s sake.
Not a shy, uncertain smile, not even one of those overly polite ones she sometimes distributed. No – damn it, no – it was a warm, honest, almost radiant smile meant entirely for him, as if he had just done her a personal favor by directing that remark at Potter.
A smile that irritated him. Confused him. Unsettled him. Why in all the demons’ names was she smiling like that?

His eyes narrowed reflexively, a twitch he could not suppress, and he turned away abruptly as if the air at that table had begun to bite him. His robes swept behind him like a black warning, and he disciplined himself inwardly not to look back again, not to make the mistake of catching that gaze a second time.
And yet – he felt it on his back.
Hot. Unrelenting. Persistent as a flame.

Then – a stab. Anger, hot and sharp, shot through him so quickly and inexplicably that he could barely breathe. Why? Why in the world was he reacting like this? Why was there this impulsive, irrational fury because Granger… had smiled at him?

He pressed his lips together, lifted his head, and in the next breath met the kind, all-too-knowing gaze of the old man at the staff table – that cursed sparkle in Dumbledore’s eyes that always saw everything, always commented on everything, always understood everything he would never have spoken aloud.
Severus returned that gaze with an iciness that could have frozen even the castle tower.

“Good morning, Severus, excited about today’s match as well?” Albus asked cheerfully, far too cheerfully, and Severus only snorted as if he could deny the very existence of the sound, let himself drop onto the bench beside him, and reached for the coffeepot as if his life depended on it.

“Miss Granger has not taken her eyes off you,” Dumbledore whispered to him in amusement, and Severus’s lips thinned to a narrow, almost colorless line.
What was supposed to be amusing about that would remain hidden from him for all the centuries of his existence.

“Good morning, Minerva,” he growled sourly past Albus, and the woman who sat beside them like a falcon in human form nodded kindly to him while she savored her coffee.

“Why so sour, Severus? Afraid of losing?” she teased him, one eyebrow shooting up so outrageously arrogantly that he felt briefly nauseous.

He shot back sharply, “Keep dreaming.”
But Minerva would not be Minerva if she did not strike back immediately: “Shall we make a bet?”

He raised one eyebrow, as elegantly, precisely, and lethally mocking as only he could manage. Inwardly, however – and this was the part he always carefully hid – he was quite amused that Minerva had the courage to use his own weapons against him.

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes gleaming mischievously, and in her voice lay that challenging timbre he both despised and… yes, admired. Damn it.

“Very well, Severus,” she said with a sugary calm that instantly irritated him to the core, “if you are so sure your snakes will win, then I propose a small stake.”

He pulled his mouth corners back just noticeably, as though tasting the bitter aftertaste of a botched potion.

“Oh really? And what do you have in mind, Minerva?” he snapped, his voice full of sleek sharpness.

Minerva, unimpressed as ever, only sparkled brighter. “A bottle of Ogden’s Best, Severus. If Gryffindor wins, you provide me with that treasure. If Slytherin wins, it’s yours.”

For a moment there was silence between them, a silent, vibrating moment in which even the sounds of the Great Hall seemed to grow quieter.

Dumbledore cleared his throat in amusement. Severus’s eyebrow wandered a little higher, dangerously slowly. The thought of that amber drop, that sinfully good whiskey which belonged to his few vices, flickered within him like a forbidden promise.

“So, you actually drink whiskey?” he retorted sharply, leaning in just slightly as though to verify that he had heard correctly – or whether she was making a fool of him.

“Oh yes,” she replied brightly, “if you would join our little Saturday gatherings just once, Severus, you would have long known that I can hold more than you suspect. And believe me, you would cut an excellent figure – at poker, for example.”

He snorted softly. Poker. Him. An idea so absurd that it almost became tempting.

She smiled slyly. “Your gaze is so impenetrable that even Albus would not know in a game whether you’re bluffing or holding the best hand at the table.”

Albus chuckled, that high, irritatingly youthful chuckle that pushed Severus to the brink of despair every single time.
“That is quite true, Severus,” he said, eyes sparkling, “I myself would not dare to bet against you.”

Severus slowly raised his cup, sipped the far too hot coffee, and barely visibly twisted his face as the drink burned his tongue.

He was angry. Amused. Irritated. And something else he did not wish to name.
Outwardly, however, he remained the living, unbending statue he had to be. Only a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed that he hovered between homicidal rage and amused resignation.

Albus laughed again, and Severus would gladly have thrown every single licked lemon drop into his beard.

“What a glorious bet!” the headmaster remarked enthusiastically. “Severus versus Minerva, whiskey versus pride – I daresay the entire school would pay admission to watch that spectacle.”

“Pride?” Minerva replied. “My dear Albus, I do not bet out of pride, I bet out of conviction. Gryffindor will win, and Severus will pay. It’s as simple as that.”

“Ha,” snarled Severus, “the day your Gryffindors triumph over my Slytherins is the day I voluntarily join one of your dreadful Saturday gatherings.”

Minerva’s eyes lit up like those of a predator. “Oh, I shall write that down at once,” she said, “for nothing would please me more than to see you at a poker table. I am quite sure you would be a devil with the cards.”

“He bluffs constantly, my dear,” Albus put in dryly, “mostly just with his face.”

Minerva spluttered with laughter. Severus almost choked. Albus was in top form. Severus was on the verge of cursing someone.

“One more word,” he hissed, “and I will throw your lemon drops into your beard.”

Albus’s eyes only sparkled with laughter. Minerva was already triumphant.

Severus narrowed his eyes, a silent duel of looks stretching between them like an invisible thread. Then he spoke, deep, toneless, final: “Agreed.”

The match began, and as every damned time when the players mounted their brooms and rose into the air, something deep in his chest transformed. It was not a soft, pleasant feeling – he could not afford such a thing – but rather a hard, vibrating constriction inside him, as if each beat of his heart became a little faster, a little louder, though he would never admit it. His breathing shallower, barely visible, barely audible. Only he noticed the minimal tension in his chest, that latent burning under his skin when the first movements swept across the pitch. No one but him – and it would remain that way – knew that Quidditch was for him a sort of silent pull he never got used to, no matter how many years passed.

The Quaffle flew across the field with such speed that even his sharp, trained eyes sometimes struggled to keep up. The Bludgers whizzed through the air, dangerously close to heads and arms, so close that a single mistake could permanently damage a life. And the players – damn them, those children – fought for every single second, every inch of air, every chance that opened up. Quidditch was no game. It was war in the sky. Brutal, unpredictable, merciless.

That was exactly why he loved it.

But then – a moment, a blink, a barely perceptible quiver in the order of things – Severus frowned. Something was wrong. Something was off. He felt it before he saw it, that ominous tickle in his instincts that had proved vital for survival even back in his own youth.

Potter, that flying brat who believed himself untouchable, suddenly clung in a cramped grip to his Nimbus. The broom vibrated beneath him, not normally, not like wind or speed – no, it was a malicious, deep tremor as if the broom wanted to throw him off, shake him loose, get rid of him.

A curse. Without any doubt. Severus’s eyes narrowed immediately, sharp as the blade of a knife, and his mind switched over, slipped seamlessly into that mode in which his thoughts became faster, clearer, and at the same time darker. He began muttering counter-spells, his lips barely moving, his voice so quiet that even Minerva beside him could not hear it. He focused on Potter, on the broom, on the magical tear in the pattern of the field.

But the spell – damn it all – held. Stubborn. Tenacious. Resistant like living poison that refused to be driven out.

And then – heat; at the same moment screams mixed into the soundscape of the match. Someone shouted that he was burning, perhaps a single student, perhaps several; the voices mingled and became a heaving carpet of panic rolling over the stands.

He looked down at himself – and saw flames. Flames licking at his dark robes, eating along the heavy fabric, curling through the folds, hot, greedy, unrelenting. They reached for his trousers, his leg, his dignity.

For one single moment he froze, not from fear – never, not in his life would it have been fear – but from pure, clear, horrifyingly lucid rage.

How could it be that he, Severus Snape, master of the subtle arts and certainly not a man for ridiculous incidents, suddenly stood in flames in the middle of a Quidditch match like a careless first-year in Potions class? The fury that flared inside him burned hotter than the fire itself. He stamped out the flames, fast and precise, each movement sharp as a knife stroke, and although the alchemically reinforced fabric of his robes prevented worse, the acrid smell of scorched fibers still rose into the cold air. One revealing spell later he realized which foolish little spell had hit him. “Lacarnum Inflamari.” A single bitter word followed in his thoughts: Damn. And as his gaze swept across the field, he asked himself with increasing sharpness who in all hell had attempted to set him on fire.

Hardly had he extinguished the fire and brushed the remnants from his robes when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Potter had regained control. The Nimbus stabilized, suddenly obeyed again. And only seconds later the boy flew in a steep dive across the pitch as if he were chasing death itself. The Golden Snitch shimmered like living light between his fingers.

Potter seized the Snitch, lost control of his broom in the very next moment, plummeted from the air, and crashed roughly into the sand, still clutching that damned little golden piece.

A deafening cheer erupted, Gryffindor practically exploded, and Minerva leapt up beside him like an oversized cat in a victory pose. Her arms shot into the air, her shriek rang high and sharp in his ears. “Thank you for the whiskey, Severus!”

He ground his teeth so hard that his anger crackled in his jaw.

He raged inwardly against everything: against Minerva, against Potter, against Gryffindor, against the entire damned school wing.

He swore he would never again bet with this woman. Never. For as long as he lived.

But Minerva leaned over to him in triumph – and of course, of course she had to twist the knife: “And don’t forget, Severus, you also just agreed to join our next poker night. I wrote it down!”

She grinned so broadly that even the gargoyles on the ceiling would have been ashamed. She laughed, clear as a bell, bright, childlike, and at the same time full of malice – so much so that even Albus choked and a lemon drop almost became deadly.

Severus’s expression darkened; he looked as if he might cast Avada Kedavra and push her from the tower if he were allowed, and at the same time he knew inwardly: she was right. Damn it.

But while the roar surged through the stands, Severus let his gaze wander once more across the pitch and wondered – with ice-cold precision:

Who had wanted to knock Potter off his broom?
And even more unbearable:
Who had wanted to set him – Severus Snape – on fire?

The Gryffindor tower nearly shook that evening under the boundless jubilation of its inhabitants, a din that ate its way through the old walls like an unleashed storm. The victory over Slytherin had turned the entire common room into a single madhouse, as if an overdosed euphoria potion had been sprayed into the air, intoxicating every student down to their fingertips. Red and gold banners whirled everywhere, some moved by wands, some by little wind charms cast by enthusiastic first-years. The crackling fireplaces cast a warm, jubilant light through the room that bathed every surface, every wall, even the children’s faces in a golden glow.

One after another they shouted, laughed, whooped, clinked their butterbeer mugs together so that an almost continuous clatter filled the air. The entire tower lived. It swayed. It vibrated.

And in the midst of this tumult, on one of the sofas near the blazing fireplace, sat the three children who had grown into an inseparable trio over the past weeks. Harry, Ron, and Hermione – a unit the school now took for granted.

Harry, still pale from his fall but with the proud, childishly exhausted bearing of a warrior who had won the small personal war of the day, held the Golden Snitch in his hand. He kept turning it over as though he could not believe that this little fluttering thing truly belonged to him, that he had caught it, that he had done it.
His fingers closed around the Snitch carefully, almost reverently. The wings beat weakly, tired from the struggle.

Ron, on the other hand, seemed on the verge of bursting with excitement. He practically tumbled over his own joy, thumping Harry over and over on the shoulder so hard that Harry flinched several times and still smiled. Ron’s voice could be heard nonstop – louder than many of the other voices combined – and he was constantly prophesying Slytherin’s downfall, triumphantly declaring that they should not even dare to dream of the cup this year.

Hermione sat on Harry’s other side, and although her lips formed a polite, almost practiced smile, she seemed… stiffer. More reserved. Not as swept up as usual.
Her heart was pounding restlessly, faster than it should.
Her thoughts were too loud. Too much. Too heavy.

Because while Harry and Ron reduced everything to the match – victory, jubilation, triumph – Hermione’s thoughts circled in a tight, oppressive loop around something else.
Around him.

Around Professor Snape.
Snape, who had been on fire.
Snape, whom she – without thinking – had set alight herself.

And the guilt that now lodged like a burning lump behind her ribs was hotter than any fire she had ever conjured.

“I’m telling you, it was Snape,” Ron exclaimed excitedly, leaning so close to Harry that Harry’s glasses almost bumped his forehead. “I saw it clearly! He was muttering something! He cursed the broom! He wanted you to fall!”

His voice was shrill, overexcited, and full of outrage, yet tinted with a triumphant undertone, as if he had personally just solved the great riddle of the evening. Harry nodded slowly, visibly undecided, his eyes narrowing slightly, an expression that betrayed how ready he was to believe Ron. For him it fit Snape, who emanated an uncanny darkness, seemed distant and carried something hostile in every movement.

Hermione straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and searched in her own voice for a firmness she was only barely managing to maintain inside, as if she were raising a shield to conceal the uncertainty behind it. “You don’t actually know that.” The words fell heavily between them, like stones sinking into a simmering cauldron. Ron stared at her in surprise and annoyance, as if he could not believe she dared to contradict his judgment, and Harry also looked at her with a slight frown.

“Oh, come on, Hermione,” Ron went on, now with the offended tone of a boy who felt personally attacked, “you saw it yourself! He was brooding and muttering, and as soon as you set him on fire—”
Hermione visibly flinched.
“—Harry was flying like a god again!”

Those words hit her harder than Ron realized. She swallowed, feeling a hard knot forming in her stomach. She had indeed set Snape on fire, had hurled the flame in pure fear for Harry, without stopping to think whether he was truly the right culprit. She remembered how the flames had licked up his robes and how he had extinguished them with a quick, almost elegant motion. And yes, the curse on Harry’s broom had vanished at exactly that moment.

Even so, she wondered whether that really was proof or just a coincidence that had merged into a dangerous picture at the wrong moment. And if it was not coincidence, what did that mean?

She bit her lip and forced herself to continue speaking even as her throat tightened. “You don’t know,” she repeated more quietly, softer, almost desperately. “You have no proof. And I…” Her words died away. “I just can’t imagine Professor Snape doing something like that.”

Her hands folded in her lap, her fingers digging more tightly into each other, and suddenly she became acutely aware of each of her nails as if they were small warning signs. She thought of Snape with his arrogance, his aloof bearing, his cutting sarcasm, and that often unbearable presence that filled any room. And despite all those traits, she could not shake the question of whether a man like him would truly have been willing to knock Harry Potter out of the air in the middle of a Quidditch match.

Ron laughed bitterly, loudly, and sharply like breaking glass. “The little model student defending the worst teacher in all of Hogwarts, of all people! Wake up already, Hermione! He hates us! He hates all Gryffindors! And if he’d had the chance to knock Harry off his broom, he would have taken it!”

The harshness in his words struck her like a blow, less because of Snape and more because of Ron’s unshakable conviction and his complete refusal to consider any other thought.

Harry remained silent and continued to look at her, and in his gaze lay a quiet, piercing doubt that carried an unspoken spark of questions. The expression cut into her heart like a thin blade and showed her how deeply her stance unsettled him inside.

In that moment she finally fell silent, because she had no words left. She did not know whether she was right. She only knew that something deep inside her refused to condemn Snape.

While Ron talked on and Harry’s thoughts hung wordlessly in the air, Hermione withdrew inwardly. She leaned back against the sofa, let her gaze sink into the flames that sent sparks upward like small, golden confessions.

Her thoughts drifted away from the tower’s jubilation, from the victory and from Harry’s Snitch. In her mind she saw Professor Snape again, his robes wrapped in flames, his eyes in that moment cool and sharp, without hostility, with a brief flicker that reminded her of surprise, of wounded dignity, and of a hard-to-grasp emotion whose depth still echoed within her and touched her more than she could admit.

And so one insistent question remained, lodging itself stubbornly inside her no matter how loudly the tower roared: Was she truly the only one who sensed in Professor Snape something that did not fit the image everyone else had of him?

Chapter Text

Christmas was finally at the door, a holiday that meant nothing more to him than an annoying reminder of sentimentalities from times long past. And yet, this year it brought him an unexpected kind of relief, because most of the students would be leaving. The castle would grow quieter, the corridors emptier, the halls free of giggling voices, exploding cauldrons, and incompetent hands that destroyed everything he put in front of them. Only a few would remain, and he had already been pleased, because not a single one of his Slytherins was among them; his common room would be deserted, a thought that filled him with a strange sense of satisfaction. But his displeasure returned immediately when he learned that Potter and the youngest Weasley offspring would be staying at the castle. Severus swore that this could only mean trouble; two Gryffindor boys without supervision were a walking catastrophe.

All the more astonished was he when he noticed in the Great Hall that Hermione Granger, that little know-it-all lioness, had packed her things. So she was one of those who would be leaving. And indeed, he saw her shortly afterwards at the Hogsmeade station, standing there with her suitcase in hand, her hair tousled by the cold winter wind as she said goodbye to Potter and Weasley. He watched as she leaned forward, shook both their hands, spoke words of farewell that he could not hear, but from the warmth on her face, he could see they were sincere.

He stood, as he so often did, in the shadows, unseen, while the students hugged each other laughing, while the clouds of steam from the train rolled across the platform. And then she lifted her head, as if sensing something, as if she instinctively knew he was near—which, of course, was impossible. Her eyes wandered through the crowd, and for the fraction of a second they met his, a look so unexpected that it pierced him, deep, burning, painful. He knew she had not forgiven him for the point deduction and the mocking ‘Know-it-all’. And yet, against all logic, she gave him a brief, almost uncertain smile. As if she wanted to say that there was more between them than words or points could ever express. ‘Nonsense, that is not meant for you,’ he thought to himself.

And yet he remained rooted to the spot, wanting to watch her a moment longer as she climbed into one of the compartments, wanting to hold on to that look, longer than a heartbeat. But the train was already moving, slowly at first, then faster, until it disappeared behind the snow-covered hills. And with it disappeared the girl who occupied his mind far more than he would ever admit.

A sudden emptiness spread through him, an emptiness that struck him physically, so tangible that he had to swallow hard. Severus cursed inwardly at this damned connection that chained him to her, though she knew nothing of it and must never know.

The black-haired man was still standing at the Hogsmeade station long after the Hogwarts Express had vanished, after the last wisps of steam had dissolved into the icy winter wind and silence had returned. A silence that was not peaceful, but cutting, cold, like a knife driven between his ribs. He asked himself why he had even remained standing there, why he had followed that train with his eyes as though a part of himself were attached to it. Yet he could not bring himself to simply turn around and walk away. He had to allow this feeling, this emptiness that now overwhelmed him, even though he despised it. For he knew that it was nothing but the product of that accursed soul bond that chained him to this child as though he were a dog on an invisible leash.

With a sound that was more a growl, he finally turned away, his cloak whipping around his legs. He made his way back to the castle along the snow-covered path. Filius Flitwick hopped beside him, a small wizard, always eager to start a conversation, and Severus knew what was coming next—the eternal friendliness that, right now, cut through his skull like a blade of ice. “Hello, Severus, I wanted to—” Filius began, but Snape simply lengthened his stride, leaving the tiny colleague behind in the snow, and heard only the mocking “Lovely chatting with you, Severus, as always” that followed him, upon which he pressed his lips into a thin line and remained silent, because words would have betrayed him.

Arriving at the castle, he was enveloped by the silence he usually cherished. But this time it carried a heaviness he could barely endure; it was not the tranquility that usually gave him freedom, but a pressing absence that seeped into his bones. And he had to admit to himself that he felt her, that little girl—not only when she was present, but also now, in her distance, as though something was missing that he did not even want to have. And he cursed the magic that had stretched this net around him, in which he now floundered like a trapped insect.

The first day of break passed exactly as he had expected. He buried himself in his laboratory, brewed potions, let the cauldron boil and the steam rise as though he wanted to dissolve into it himself, and for a few hours he indeed managed to forget everything. The heat of the fire, the clinking of glass, the rhythmic stirring—it was his comfort, his remedy, his escape. But when night fell and he sank exhausted into his bed, the emptiness returned, heavy, all-consuming, and he cursed it again.

On the second day it grew worse; he felt as though he could not breathe, as though he were drowning, even though he was breathing. He suspected it was the bond, suspected it was her, whose absence expressed itself in him as physical pain. Furious, he hurled a goblet against the wall, watched the shards glitter, and finally whispered into the emptiness, hoarse and broken, “Damn it, I can’t take this anymore. Bloody hell!”

Thus his feet carried him, almost of their own accord, to Dumbledore’s office, and before he knew it, he murmured the password “Jelly pudding” to the stone gargoyle. When he entered, Albus looked at him with that unbearable expression of gentle amazement, as though surprised that Severus had come willingly. “How lovely, Severus,” he said mildly, “would you like tea?”—and reluctantly, almost growling, Severus accepted.

It took a long time until Severus found the words; he wrestled with them, swallowed them again, but finally they broke from him, quieter, rougher, as though he had remained silent for too long: “Albus, I am losing my mind. I seek her presence constantly, and when she is not here, I feel it even more. It is as though something is missing inside me, and without her… without her I feel as though I am suffocating.”

Albus tilted his head slightly, regarding him from behind his glittering half-moon spectacles with a calm that simultaneously soothed and enraged Severus. “You fear the truth, Severus,” he said softly. “But what you feel is not a sign of weakness. It is the bond that ties the two of you together, and it is stronger than you think.”

Albus brushed his shimmering silver hair from his forehead, and a barely noticeable smile crossed his face—a smile with something mischievous in it, something that made Severus wary at once. “Severus,” he said quietly, “this bond enforces closeness. Two people connected by such magic can only endure great distance for a short time. You and Miss Granger belong to those rare pairs whose souls grasp each other long before their minds understand it. Distance acts upon you, Severus, like a storm tearing at your heart.” He raised his eyebrows with a calmness that was almost provocative. “I did not mention it. It would have complicated everything.”

Severus’ head jerked up, his eyes narrowing, his breath cutting like a blade. “Of course you didn’t mention it,” he hissed, his voice flat and full of resentment, “you failed to mention many things, Albus. Tell me, what comes next? Another little surprise? One more detail you forgot?”

Albus folded his hands, the picture of gentle forbearance. “I forgot nothing, Severus,” he said in a mild tone that only fueled the Potions Master’s anger. “I chose a time that would not tear the truth from you completely. Now you see what this bond truly means.”

Severus’ gaze hardened, as though someone had poured cold steel into his irises. “Of course you see it. You stand above it, as always,” he spat. “You bear no such bond. You feel no restlessness, no pull, no damned pressure in your chest that splits your ribs apart the moment the girl is out of reach.” The word girl dripped from his lips with burning bitterness, even though he had long since realized that it no longer sounded innocent once spoken in connection with him.

Albus tilted his head slightly, and something between seriousness and warmth glided through his expression. “You are right, Severus,” he said gently, “I do not bear a soul bond. I cannot feel the depth of this state. I can only see the effects.” A mischievous, almost cunning sparkle flashed in his eyes. “Perhaps I should have mentioned that two souls with such a bond attract each other like two stars that circle ever closer. Perhaps I should also have mentioned that their separation always feels like a mistake the universe tries to correct.”

Severus let out a noise that was almost inhuman, his fingers gripping the armrest more tightly. “Of course you didn’t mention that,” he shot back. “That would have been far too simple. You call it a bond? It is a damned chain rope! I am fettered, Albus. I need her to…” He broke off, closed his eyes briefly, breathed heavily. “To feel whole. Do you hear what I am saying? I, Severus Snape, dependent on a child. It is grotesque.”

“Grotesque it is not, Severus,” Dumbledore replied with a firmer voice, “it is magic. Ancient, deep magic. You have always fought against bonds in your life, isolated yourself, built walls—but such walls cannot hold back a bond like this. And deep within, you know this.”

Severus’ fingers dug into the wood so fiercely that it creaked. “And what do you suggest? That I Apparate to London, knock on her front door, and explain that I am the teacher who desperately needs their daughter to keep his sanity intact? Have you lost your mind?” His voice was sharp like a blade slicing through the air, yet beneath it lay a pain that could no longer be denied.

Albus remained silent for a moment, weighing his words carefully. Then he said calmly, almost fatherly, “No, Severus. You must not appear to her—not in the form she knows. She is too young; she would not understand, and you might frighten her. But if you are suffering, seek her presence in a way that does not harm her. Observe. Be there without being seen. Sometimes it is enough to know the other is breathing.”

“Observe,” Severus repeated tonelessly, tasting the word as though it were bitter on his tongue. “You mean like a shadow, like a thief in the night.”

Albus’ eyes glimmered, not mockingly but with unshakeable calm. “A guardian, Severus. Not a thief. There is a difference you will feel.”

Severus closed his eyes for an instant, feeling the storm in his chest, that dangerous flicker of hope he hated because it made him weak. Finally he rose abruptly, before he lost his composure altogether. His cloak swept behind him, cracking across the carpet, and he rushed out without another word. But deep within, he knew that Albus had given him the only remaining way forward.

He stormed out of the office, the door slamming shut behind him, and as his steps echoed down the cold stone staircase, he seethed inside. ‘A guardian,’ he sneered inwardly. ‘As though I were some cursed shadow, a ghost lurking at windows. I, Severus Snape, reduced to the guardian of a child who does not even like me.’ He growled, but the anger soon shifted into another, more uncomfortable feeling—longing. He felt her even now, though she was many miles away, like a dull pull in his chest, a tug drawing him away from the familiar walls of Hogwarts.

His cloak whipped around his legs as he strode through the corridors, and in his mind raged a battle as old as he was: duty against desire, self-control against this damned bond that had torn down every wall in him. He despised himself for even considering it, despised himself for not simply dismissing the old man’s words. Yet the more he cursed himself, the stronger his certainty grew: he would go. He had to go. Without her, he was no longer whole, and he hated acknowledging that, hated it—but he could not change it.

“Perhaps Albus is right,” he murmured softly into the empty corridor. “Perhaps it is enough to know she breathes, that she laughs…” He pressed his lips together as though swallowing a bitter pill. He had long known he would cross the line—and that it might cost him everything—but the thought of doing nothing was worse than any risk.

Later that evening, he stood at the edge of Hogwarts’ protective enchantment, the snow crunching beneath his boots, and with a sharp crack he Apparated away. The pressure of Apparition released, and he stood in a quiet side street in London, Hampstead Garden Suburb, where the houses sat in tended gardens, still and muffled as though wrapped in wool. Winter was cold here too, but not hostile, and his breath rose as a white cloud in front of his face.

With a deep breath he closed his eyes, let the transformation take hold, felt his bones shrink, feathers sprout, his body bend—until he stood there in the form of a raven, black-blue and gleaming in the pale moonlight. A single flap of his wings, and he rose, carried by the cold air that brushed his feathers, and he knew he was going too far, knew he was risking everything, and yet he flew, higher, lower, until he reached the garden, the small house with the hydrangeas in the front yard. He landed heavily but steadily on the windowsill.

Behind the glass he saw the light, warm and golden, and he knew she was there. And for a moment, just for that moment, he felt whole again.

He crouched low on the cold windowsill, his claws digging into the wood while his breath—though in this form he scarcely had any—raced through him like a pounding drum. He barely dared lift his head, but his gaze, black and sharp as a blade, slid across the glass. And there he saw her—saw the girl who tormented him and sustained him, saw her walk into the kitchen, where her mother stirred a steaming pot. And her smile—that damned, innocent, bright smile—cut through his chest as though someone had gripped his heart with bare hands and squeezed.

He watched her speak, her hands moving lively, watched her laugh at her mother. Though he knew he could hear no sound through the glass, he believed he knew what she said, as if the bond whispered every word to him. And he hated it, hated it with a fervor that nearly choked him—that he needed her so much, that he was so dependent on every small change in her expression.

His eyes drifted to her parents, moving around her with a natural ease that hurt him, because he knew he had never had anything like that, never would. And yet in that moment, he was desperately grateful that they protected her, that they gave her that warm home he had never known. He shook his head, feathers rustling softly, but the pain remained—gnawing, burning, devouring him from the inside out. Severus did not know what was happening to him.

And then, as though she had sensed him, she suddenly lifted her head, her eyes—large and dark, full of unrestrained curiosity—wandering to the window, directly at him. In that moment, it was as though someone had shot a beam of pure light through him, so overwhelming he forgot to breathe for a heartbeat, forgot who he was, forgot that he was a grown man, a former spy, a murderer, a lost soul—he was only that feeling, raw, painful, sweet and cruel at once.

A smile, barely noticeable yet unmistakable, crossed her lips. Severus felt the ground vanish beneath him, felt himself sway though he clung to the wood. He knew he had to flee, now, immediately, before she saw deeper into him, before she read what she must never see. With a sudden beat of his wings he launched into the air, flapping wildly as though fleeing an invisible enemy. Only high above London’s rooftops did he find the strength to breathe. He cursed himself in a thousand ways—for having done it, for fleeing to that place, for drinking her in like an addict who could not stop.

‘Damn it, little Gryffindor,’ he gasped in thought as he left the city beneath him, ‘you will destroy me yet, and the worst of it is that I allow it.’

He flew back to Hogwarts—he needed a clear head. Night had settled over the landscape, but the darkness gave him no rest, no cover—it only mirrored his chaos. When he landed in his chambers, he transformed back, black feathers disappearing, bones stretching, skin tightening until he stood again as Severus Snape. He stood in the middle of the room, breath heavy as though he had just fought for his life. He uttered a sound like a growl, flung his cloak into a corner, and paced the room in agitated steps, as though he could walk off the unrest within him. But he knew it was in vain—that this craving for her, this damned need, would not leave him.

He lasted three days—three agonizing, endlessly long days, in which he buried himself in his laboratory, brewed potions until his hands were covered in cuts and his eyes burned. But even the bubbling of the cauldrons, even the sharp scent of dragon scales and the hiss of essences could not drown out the fact that he needed her, that inside he screamed for a glimpse, for that feeling that only her presence gave him. On the third day it hit him like a wave, dragging him under. He left everything behind, threw on his cloak, and Apparated back to London without sparing a single thought for caution.

The jolt of transformation into the raven felt familiar now; the pain in his bones was nothing but a background murmur. His wings carried him surely, as though they had waited to be used again. He landed once more on the sill, his body tensing as he looked inside. This time it was her room that opened before his eyes—the bookshelf reaching the ceiling, the desk orderly yet crowded with notes, quills, parchment. And there she sat on her bed, wrapped in a sweater far too big, a book on her knees, her lips moving slightly as she formed the words while reading. He felt his chest widen painfully, as though he were about to burst open.

He wanted to stay, just watch, imprint that image—but then it happened, quicker than he could react: the window opened, she turned her head, her eyes fixed on him. Before he could take off, he heard her whisper, so quietly it sounded like a dream: “I thought you wouldn’t come back.”

Severus froze. Every instinct screamed for him to flee, but he couldn’t—her voice held him, as though she had wrapped invisible threads around him. She opened the window further; warm air flowed out, carrying her scent—warm, clear, like paper and something sweet, magnolia—that had haunted him for weeks. Her hand reached out, cautiously, almost shyly, and before he understood what was happening, her fingertips brushed his feathers.

It was as though someone had struck him with a spell, a blow, a tear ripping through his soul. In that moment he felt everything—felt her, felt that damned bond that no longer just gnawed but wrapped him completely, filled him, carried him, and he gasped inwardly because he knew he was lost.

“Who do you belong to?” she whispered softly, laughing gently. “You’re no ordinary bird, I can tell. You were here a few days ago already. You look at me as if you understand me. Who sent you?” Her voice was full of warmth, full of childlike curiosity, yet at the same time so serious, so clear that it pierced him to the core.

He wanted to leap up, fly away, cut that connection before it grew stronger—but her hand still lay on his feathers. And that touch—gentle, innocent, yet like fire—held him, made him remain where he was, because it felt like relief, like a breath after endless suffocation.

“You are beautiful,” she murmured, almost to herself, and he closed his eyes because it was too much, too close, too dangerous. With a sharp motion he tore himself free, spread his wings, leapt from the sill, and flew into the night without looking back. Yet he knew that her image, her voice, her touch would follow him, haunt him, torment him.

High above, where the cold night air filled his lungs, he let out a harsh, joyless laugh—bitter, full of self-loathing—and murmured in thought: ‘You will destroy me, little Gryffindor… and I will offer no resistance.’

Chapter Text

Severus had sworn that he would avoid seeking out that girl again under any circumstances. He had despised himself for what he did, had torn himself apart in endless inner monologues and poured his guilt into curses and self-loathing. And yet none of it had helped, for no sooner had the morning broken than he had set himself in motion again, as though he were driven, unable to resist his own urge. And he hated it, he did not hate her, but he hated the bond that chained him, that made him into a shabby, miserable man who did nothing but pursue a child who would despise him if she knew the truth.

He had tried to find answers, had rummaged through Dumbledore’s collection, had leafed through the deepest shelves of the library, through old, dusty tomes hardly any student had ever held in their hands. And yet – nowhere was it written how one lived with this curse, how one controlled this bond, or even weakened it. There was no instruction, no recipe, and within him grew the certainty that there could not be one, that he was doomed to live with this desire until it either broke him or killed him. Any outsider, he thought bitterly, any Auror, any student, any accidental witness would throw him into Azkaban without hesitation if they saw even a fraction of what he was doing. And perhaps he would deserve it, perhaps he belonged there, behind the iron gates, where he would no longer run the risk of seeking her closeness like an addict seeks his drug.

The window opened, gently, as though an invisible hand had held its breath beforehand, and in the next moment she stood there, a small, warm light in the darkness, looking at him with those amber eyes that glowed with so much kindness, so soft, so warm, that something trembled in his chest, a slight crack along a line he had thought carved in stone for years. That look struck him every time like a secret sunrise. There was no suspicion in it, no questioning, no glimmer of calculation. Only warmth. Only that quiet, incomprehensible tenderness she radiated into the world, even on days when she hid all her own fears beneath her small ribcage.

When she looked up at him like that, her gaze glistened like liquid honey in candlelight, every nuance of her iris reminding him of autumn, of golden leaves, of windy afternoons in the hills around Spinner’s End, of things he had unlearned early and which she nonetheless effortlessly stirred up in his innermost self. She possessed a talent for illuminating his darkest corners without meaning to, and that struck him deeply. Every time her gaze found him, he felt something inside him melt, something that had long lain cold, an old, quiet piece of his heart that desperately hoped never to awaken again.

She smiled, so radiant it felt like a warm blow to his chest, and he felt a pull in the old wound he called life. A smile so pure he could hardly bear to look at it without feeling his armour crack. Her breath formed a small cloud before her face, and within it her smile trembled like a gift he did not deserve.

“Hello Raven, how lovely, you’re here again,” she whispered, and her voice wrapped around him like a blanket. In those words lay a joy that asked for nothing, that simply existed, only for him, and when her amber eyes sparkled as she said it, he felt, for a single dangerous moment, as seen as he never wanted to be and yet could never forget.

He swallowed as though he suddenly had a human throat and voice again, and a pain he did not know burrowed into him, because she meant it honestly, because that smile was pure, simply real. No one gave him such a thing, no one in this cursed world. He knew he did not deserve it, and yet he drank it in as though he could live off it.

‘If she knew,’ he thought, ‘if she knew who hides behind these feathers, if she knew it is me, the despised dungeon bat, the bat of Hogwarts, her mocker and tormentor – she would scream, she would slam the window shut, she would never look at me again.’  That thought alone made him weak, made him greedy to steal a few more moments, just as he had spent his life stealing other things.

“Your eyes remind me of someone,” she said suddenly in a quiet voice, and her hand, small, slender, delicate, stroked over his feathers again, so carefully as if he were something precious.

The touch coursed through him like a barely perceptible current, a tender impulse that sank deep into his chest while the air between them vibrated as though it could catch every smallest feeling.

He wanted to leap up, he wanted to flee, but instead he froze, turned his head and looked at her, at this face that was still a child’s and yet carried something that reminded him of Lily, that innocent warmth, that natural purity.

Her gaze, wide and open, wandered over his feathers like someone who suspected a secret without being able to name it, and he felt caught, as though she had stripped away the protection of his disguise for a heartbeat.

He scolded himself, insulted himself in thoughts, told himself he should leave, that he should not let her touch him any longer, not linger in this closeness.

It was a silent pleading with himself, an almost panicked attempt to regain the control that always slipped away from him whenever she simply stood near him.
And yet he remained, because he knew he found this peace nowhere else. A peace that never belonged to him, a stolen fragment of a life he was never allowed to lead, and yet he always returned because he was chained to her.

Then she said something that almost knocked him off the sill: “You know, you smell like sandalwood.”

The word hung between them like an unspoken revelation, quiet and yet powerful enough to shake him to his core.

Her brow furrowed, she studied him with that penetrating gaze that had appeared to him like a blade even in the dungeons. A gaze that pierced through layers no one had ever touched and that now came dangerously close.

“I’ve noticed it before, at school. I thought I was imagining it. But no – it’s you. It comes from you. So you’ve been near me before.”
The innocence of her words made them all the sharper, as though she had accidentally broken through his carefully drawn boundaries.

Severus felt his shields tremble, felt his breath fail him for a split second. A fleeting crack in his mental walls let the cold of realisation in.

Sandalwood. She had noticed.
She associated it with the raven, something in her subconscious was tying threads together, and that was dangerous, that was bloody dangerous.

One more thread, and she would understand that the raven was not some animal, but him, the man she saw daily in class and whose closeness she accepted at this moment without suspicion.

Before he could escape, she made a gesture that froze him again: she beckoned him inside. A quiet, almost impatient lift of her fingers that hit him like a spell stripping him of his decisions.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked softly, serious, and her lips curved into a tiny, almost mischievous smile. A smile carrying a warmth he must never allow himself and which nonetheless drew him in.

“It’s cold. I’m freezing. Either you come in, or I close the window. But then… then you’ll be outside.”

The words struck him at a depth he should never have allowed, as if his fate hung on that window latch.

It was madness, pure madness, and he knew it, every part of his mind screamed for him to turn back, spread his wings and dive into the night again, but still – he flew, he did the unspeakable.

The wind beneath his wings seemed to warn him, yet her gaze pulled him in, unstoppable, irresistible, like a current no spell could banish. With a soft rustle he set his claws on her desk, among open books, stacked parchment, and hastily thrown notes in which her neat round script mingled with scribbled marginalia. Each of those concentrated strokes of ink told of her diligence, her will, her world built always of knowledge, duty, and passion.

He remained there, motionless as a dark statue, and that alone was a sacrilege, so absurd, so unreasonable he wanted to despise himself for it. A man like him was not allowed weakness, not longing, not closeness to a girl who furthermore had the heart to like him without knowing who he was.

His eyes roamed the room, which smelled so much of her – of ink, of paper, of chalk, of the faint touch of magnolia that lingered in her hair.

It was a scent that wrapped him with relentless gentleness and granted him a breath of air he had never asked for, but that was now dangerously familiar.

Of girlhood and childhood and something intangible, and he drank it in like a drowning man gulping air. Within it lay pain, an almost addictive hunger reminding him of how long he had been alone.

He took in every detail, the posters on the walls, those unmoving Muggle pictures of laughing faces, the green surfaces, rich and deep, painfully reminiscent of his own house, as though she had chosen that shade to torment him, and he felt an absurd, desperate smile rising in him, so fleeting he had to press it down immediately lest it betray him.

The room was an image of her – orderly, lively, untamed and clear at once – and amid this little universe he felt like an intruder longing for warmth he had no right to claim.

Then she spoke, casually, without lifting her head, as she opened a heavy book and took the quill in hand, and her voice cut through his chest like a dagger, though the words seemed harmless. Her tone was calm, but within it lay a hint of weariness, a spark of determination reminding him of how tireless she was.

“You know,” she murmured, “I have a teacher who is stricter than all the others. I want to impress him, but it’s hopeless. No matter how hard I try, he never gives me full marks. So now I’m studying a bit more for his class.”

The rustling of the pages sounded like a confession whose weight she was unaware of, and he felt the words burn deeper into him than any curse.

Severus stared at her, his black eyes boring into her profile. Part of him wanted to turn away to protect himself from the truth, but he remained as if bound. Inside him it was as though something loosened, as though a long-sealed wound broke open. Her dedication struck him harder than any attack, a quiet blow against all his self-contempt. He felt as though he were suffocating and laughing at once, crying and staying silent at once, and none of it could he allow himself.

His chest rose shallowly, briefly, as though even his breath feared being too loud. She was talking about him. About him, whom she no doubt thought incorruptible, cold, cruel.
About him, who took points from her every week not because she deserved it but because he could not bear that her morality, her blazing diligence, her unwavering innocence knocked on his door.

Part of him wanted her to stop seeing him in that light, but another part clung to that spark proving he existed in her thoughts.
She wanted to impress him.
She, the little Gryffindor, the little know-it-all.
And he could never tell her how much she already did, how much she had already thrown him off course.
His heart clenched, a silent, desperate resistance to a truth he could never accept.

He stayed as long as he dared, lingered in that quiet, secret reverence, drank in every breath, every movement, every small gesture until fear seized him again, that cold, merciless voice reminding him of his role. The moment slipped through his claws, precious, dangerous, unrepeatable.

He rose heavily, flew to the window and gave a low croak, almost like a farewell that tore at his own heart. The sound was raw, broken, an instinctive noise betraying his inner fracture, though she would never understand it.

She followed him with her gaze, placed her fingers on the latch, turned once more toward him. Her gaze rested on him with a warmth he did not deserve and which struck him nonetheless. In her voice, scarcely more than a whisper, lay a warmth that burned him to death. “Send my greetings to your owner.”

The sentence drifted through the room like a promise, innocently meant and yet so close to the truth he felt for a moment as though she could hold his heart in her hands.

The words hit him like a blow. He flew off, high into the cold night, and as he left London’s rooftops behind, it pulsed in his mind:
Owner. Does she know? Does she suspect?

When he returned to Hogwarts, it felt as though the air had left him. Before he even reached the dungeons, he stood before Dumbledore, who gave him a look that revealed too much. “I know where you were, Severus,” the old man said softly, “and I do not judge you.”

And that only made it worse.
Because Severus Snape judged himself.

Severus slammed the door to his chambers so hard that the dull echo rumbled through the dungeons like distant thunder. Without removing his cloak, without sparing a glance at the chaos of parchment, potion ingredients and half-emptied vials on his desk, he strode with long, urgent steps to the cabinet in the corner, unlocked it with a sharp, almost hissing spell and grabbed the bottle that had kept him company more often than he liked in recent years – Ogden’s Best, rich, burning, almost numbing. The only solace he had ever allowed. With one hand he tore out the cork, filled a glass to the brim, and before the aroma could even unfold, he had already downed it, letting the fire burn in his throat as though it could banish the cold that had been stalking him for days.

He sank into his heavy armchair, the glass still in hand, his fingers clenched tightly around it. He knew he was doing exactly what he had sworn in that moment when he had left the Grangers’ home – he drowned himself in alcohol, because it was the only thing that could drown out the gnawing pain, that pull, that damned bond, even for minutes. “You miserable fool,” he muttered hoarsely, little more than a growl, as he poured himself another, “you pathetic, wretched cur…” The words were for himself, for the man who turned into a raven only to sit on a child’s windowsill, who had fallen so far he no longer knew where the ground ended.

He took another sip, slower this time, and let the glass sink as his head fell back against the chair. Images rose before his inner eye as though burned into it: the smile she had given him, so open, so honest, so undeserved; her small hand stroking over his feathers, gentle, almost reverent; and her words, which had struck him more deeply than any curse: Send my greetings to your owner.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his lips together until they turned white, and within him a storm of anger and self-hatred raged. Anger at Dumbledore for letting him run into this madness with his cursed kindness instead of stopping him; anger at magic itself for binding him with chains he could not break; and above all anger at himself, because he, Severus Snape, Professor, Potions Master, former Death Eater, master of Occlumency, had no control, because he was addicted to something he must never possess.

“You have to forget her,” he growled, speaking it aloud as though he could cast a spell on himself, “you have to rip her out of your head, you shouldn’t see her again.” He swore it, drank to it, swore it again, and yet knew, even as he spoke the words, that it was a lie, that tomorrow he would feel the urge again to spread his wings, cross the skies over London, until he sat at her window like a black shadow she could feed and stroke.

The alcohol did not numb him enough, not this time, and while he let the glass sink, he reached for the second bottle, as though he had to force the battle. He hated himself for comparing the girl to Lily, hated himself for finding something like salvation in Hermione’s presence, hated himself for being so weak, and yet… deep within him was a part that no longer wanted to exist without this bond.

When he finally sank into sleep, dazed, the glass still half-full in his hand, he whispered with his last voice, barely audible: “Damn you, Granger. Damn you.” Yet even in his dreams she did not leave his side.

He sank deeper into the chair, the whisky crawled like liquid fire through his veins, his muscles slowly giving way, yet his mind searched for hold, one last desperate attempt to escape the darkness which at last seized him and dragged him, without resistance, into the world that always struck him at his rawest place, where no protection existed, no armour, no poison, no mockery. The blackness pulsed, a breathing abyss, and in the middle of it formed a small circle of light, hardly brighter than a candle flame, and there she stood, small, delicate, no more than twelve years old, her hair falling softly over her shoulders, her gaze keener than that of any human he had ever taught, and those eyes fixed him with a calm that touched his core as though she read him like an open book.

“Why?” she asked, her voice echoing through the darkness so clearly he thought the space itself would tremble, for every syllable struck something he never wanted to reveal, “why are you so harsh with me? Why do you feel something dark when you look at me?”

He wanted to recoil at once, wanted instinctively to throw that cloak of mockery and cold defence over himself that he never shed in waking life, yet here no protection existed, here only naked truth, and his thoughts stumbled while his lips refused to form even a single familiar word of defence. “Because you…” he began, but his voice broke, raw from the darkness that had lain in his chest for years, “because you remind me of things I’ve pushed into the depths, of feelings that have no place left in me, of someone who will never return.”

She took a step closer, her small face lifting to his, her brow slightly furrowed, not with fear, rather with genuine desire to understand, and before he could evade, before he could lower his head, she placed her hand on his cheek, her fingers warm like living light, and something in him wanted to flinch and yet remained trapped, like an animal suddenly realising that the cage stands open but the courage to run is missing.

“I did nothing to you,” she said softly, without accusation, “I never hurt you. Why do you push me away?”

His breath trembled, something choking rose in his throat, something he had buried for years and which now rose unbidden from the depths. “Because you see too much,” he forced out, the words like shards of glass in his mouth, “because you see every mask I wear, because you touch things in me that I must keep locked away. You ask why I react this way. You ask questions I cannot bear. You stand there looking as though you have every right to demand answers, and you do have that right, and that is what tears me apart.”

Her fingers moved almost imperceptibly over his cheek, a motion so delicate it felt like guilt, and she looked at him with an expression carrying knowledge beyond her age. “I only want to understand,” she whispered, her breath brushing him as though it flowed directly into him, “why you flee every time you see me. Why you breathe so heavily when I ask a question. Why you become so silent. Why you seem as though you are losing something important to you.”

Severus closed his eyes, for the gaze of this child cut him, because her words struck places he hardly knew himself. “Because you are brutally honest,” he pressed out, “because you are smart, too smart, and I fear that one day you will see so deeply that you realise how little of me is left. And because you touch something in me that I cannot lose a second time.”

She tilted her head, her expression softer, her voice sinking to almost a breath. “Something like what?”

He forced himself to look at her, for looking away served no purpose here, and as her hand still rested on his cheek, he felt something more painful than any wound he had ever carried. “Something like hope,” he got out, “something like light that I do not deserve.”

She stepped even closer, her forehead almost touching his. “And why can you not bear that?”

The answer came like a confession he would never dare utter, so raw he cut himself on it. “Because you are so innocent,” he said, and the word burned in the air like a curse, “and I am not. I am everything you should never have seen.”

Her gaze remained calm, unwavering, and she whispered, “Yet I see you.”

In that moment a pain tore through him as though someone had grabbed his heart and squeezed, and he jolted awake, gasping, his forehead damp with sweat, the taste of whisky sharp on his tongue, his heart racing against his ribs as though trying to escape. The dream shattered instantly, yet her words clung to his mind like wet ash.

‘Yet I see you.’

And he knew that sentence would not release him for a long time.

Chapter Text

On the evening of the second of January, on that deceptively quiet winter evening on which Hogwarts lay deeply buried in snow and the wind, for a few brief hours, behaved as though it wished to grant the ancient walls a false moment of respite, Severus Snape sat reluctantly in the staffroom. His mouth a thin line, his expression petrified, and an inner displeasure simmering within him. He cursed in a silent storm every single step that had led him precisely into this situation. He was bound to a bet he had entered in a moment of mental derangement—or rather, in a split second of careless overestimation of himself.

For Minerva McGonagall had—with the sharp elegance of a Scottish queen who already knew her opponent would fall to his knees—made him wager that Gryffindor would lose Potter’s first Quidditch match. And because Potter of course—as always—had ignored all natural laws of bad luck with the insolent ease of a child who does not grasp what abyss hides behind good fortune, Severus now had to attend this “social evening”, which Minerva, with a smugness she called “tradition”, clearly revealing how much she enjoyed his torment.

“A man of honour keeps his word, Severus,” she had declared, in that tone that was simultaneously instructive, amused, and faintly provoking, while steering him into the room with a movement lying somewhere between a gentle nudge and ruthless determination.

“Honour, yes,” Severus had snarled, making no attempt whatsoever to conceal his growing despair. “Voluntary self-mutilation, no.”

“Oh, stop complaining,” Minerva had waved off, her eyes sparkling with unspoken schadenfreude. “Today is your… social début.”

Severus had refrained from reminding her that he had played cards at similar events years ago—though always with the quiet wish to be struck by an incurable curse rather than having to remain in such a large group a second time.

Albus Dumbledore was already seated at the round table, a glass of tea in his hand that was tea only in name, for the whisky content had long since claimed dominion. His eyes glimmered like two cheerful stars hidden behind a veil of age-old wisdom, gentle irony, and alcoholic serenity. Flitwick was chuckling merrily, already beyond the border of sobriety after a single sip, and swayed his feet, so small they barely dangled visibly above the floor, while his lips produced incomprehensible syllables that danced cheerfully through the room.

But it was more crowded than usual—social horror in concentrated form.

Sinistra leaned unmistakably too close to Severus’s chair, her perfume heavy and overwhelming in the air, with a flirtatious smile on her lips that was so unambiguous that Severus closed his eyes for a moment, as though he needed to rearrange reality before he could continue to exist. “You look… dangerously attractive tonight, Severus,” she breathed in a tone that was apparently meant to sound sensual.

He turned his head minimally, just far enough for his cold gaze to hit her like an ice-tipped arrow. “I always look dangerous,” he replied, silky and cold. “The rest is projection.”

Sinistra giggled delightedly, as if he had whispered a poetic declaration of love to her, and Severus felt an uninvited desire for a wrecking ball flare up inside him.

On his other side, Trelawney clung to his arm like a damp-smelling curtain of incense, sweat, and visionary despair.

“Your aura is particularly dark tonight, my dear,” she whispered with ethereal drama.

“That is called a bad mood,” he muttered and pushed her arm aside with two fingers—a gesture so tentative and polite that it was immediately punished, for she moved closer again in the same instant, as though bound to him by a sticky curse.

Sprout and Minerva crouched together, whispering in delighted complicity, chuckling over secretly prepared mischiefs, and throwing Severus those looks that acted like silent but unmistakable announcements that he would suffer as much today as a toad under a botched herbal tea experiment.

Madam Hooch, on the other hand, had reached after two sips of whisky the state in which she proclaimed with absolute conviction, “I see everything! Crystal clear!”
…only to immediately confuse her own cards and shift her chair so far back it looked as though she meant to shove herself out of the circle.

Then the game began—and Severus unfurled that ability which, had he been honest with himself, was as natural to him as breathing: he took his opponents apart. Not through cheating, not through luck, but through an analytical precision that was almost impolite.

He laid down cards like someone who had not only considered the universe but had mapped it twice entirely, and was now creating a new order out of sheer under-stimulation. Minerva stared at him as though the man before her was not her colleague Severus Snape but a rare, dangerous predator that had strayed into the world of house teachers by accident.

“You are cheating,” she murmured, though her voice betrayed more uncertainty than conviction.

“I never cheat,” said Severus smoothly, in that tone of injured dignity that was simultaneously cold and merciless. “I am simply better than you.”

Minerva blinked—irritated, impressed, and visibly one breath away from flipping the table.

“By Merlin,” she murmured eventually, “he has talent.”

Severus won. Ceaselessly, he left no move unconsidered, executing them with a methodical precision that left no doubt he completely dominated the table. Ruthlessly he implemented one strategy after another, dissecting Minerva’s approach as though he had long taken apart her thoughts down to their components. He memorised each micro-reaction, recognised every insecurity, every fleeting nervousness, every reach for the glass and every breath that dared reveal which card she held. With cool, almost untouchable consistency, he dismantled her—factual and precise, almost surgical in his observation and execution.

This was no confrontation. It was a lesson, a demonstration of his analytical sharpness, and even Minerva knew at this point that she was playing a match whose outcome was no longer in her hands.

“Well,” she said and raised her whisky glass, her eyes sparkling with honest admiration, “I always knew Severus Snape is a gifted card player.”

Severus blinked, genuinely surprised by the openness of this statement. “You… suspected!”

“But of course,” she said, triumphant like a general after a victorious retreat. “You think analytically, possess an Occlumens’ soul of steel—and wear a facial expression like a granite wall. Who would be more suited?”

She toasted him with calm, deep appreciation. “To your first evening with us, Severus. And to the fact that you have played us straight into the ground,” she said.

Severus raised a brow, and though he remained outwardly as stony as ever, he could not prevent the warm, unfamiliar feeling of her recognition settling inside him like a secret glow beneath the layers of his usual ice.

Albus laughed contentedly, nodding benevolently at him. Sprout drummed joyfully on the table.

Hooch attempted another drinking song, which at least had a rhythm this time.

Sinistra smiled as though the star chart of her life had been newly aligned.

Trelawney clung to his sleeve as if she had to protect him from a vision.

Flitwick snored peacefully, small, content, and completely disconnected from the world.

And for the first time that evening, Severus felt something so close to silent, sovereign triumph that he almost allowed it.

___

Punctually at the start of the spring term, the cold settled in, as though winter had only waited to strike once more with full force. Storm, ice, and snow lay over the castle, which, with its high walls, blazing fireplaces, and magically reinforced windows, became the final refuge for all who endured inside. Outside, the wind howled around the towers like a pack of hungry wolves and made the storm shutters rattle with a dull crash, so that no one of sound mind even considered lingering in the snowdrifts and icy gusts longer than necessary.

Dumbledore had ordered the house-elves to keep the fires burning in all fireplaces without interruption, day and night. And so the castle was filled with a nearly deceptive coziness, as though the world beyond the walls—with its biting cold, frozen lakes, and bare, storm-bent trees—no longer existed. Only a day after the students’ return, life resumed its accustomed rhythm, classes began, and the old pulse took hold once more, quickly erasing the memory of the Christmas holidays.

Severus Snape, too, found his way back into a rhythm, a routine to cling to from week to week, although his inner self remained restless with every step he took, like a caged animal that did not feel at home in its own motion. He had resolved not to seek out Hermione Granger every day anymore. He told himself he needed to maintain measure, must not fall into something that would ruin him completely. And yet he could not bear being without her. He visited her, if only in his Animagus form, the raven who could flit unobtrusively and unremarked through her life, so that he could be near her without her knowing who he was, without lowering his guard.

In the classroom, however, utmost caution was required. No reaction, no look, no tone could betray him, and what gnawed at him most was that she had barely looked at him since that incident with Longbottom. She was hurt, he knew it, because she had told him—not Severus Snape, but his other self, the raven to whom she confided her heart without knowing whose ear she reached. She had told him she was furious that he kept docking points from Gryffindor without reason, that he was unfair, that she could not bear how he treated Harry, though the boy had never done him harm. She suspected—clever as always—that a personal grudge lay behind it. And how he hated that she was right, how he hated that with her curiosity, her persistence, her constant urge to see truth, she always hit the mark.

Of course he would have liked to tell her the truth: that he would gladly have helped the boy, that he had done it for Lily’s sake, that despite Harry’s resemblance to James, he saw in him someone who deserved more than he ever gave him. But his role was a leaden weight, his role as Head of Slytherin, as someone who had to fit into every darkness like a chameleon.

Kindness was not in his nature, he knew that better than anyone. And merely because Hermione believed him unjust, he could not simply begin to soften and wrap Potter in cotton. Not he, not the man whose mask as the harsh, cold teacher had to remain intact. It was quite enough that the other teachers treated Potter gently—someone had to be the counterbalance, and he, Severus Snape, had been born to play that role.

Albus had repeatedly stressed that the Dark Lord was not truly dead, that it was possible he might return one day. And so Severus, much as he doubted that idea, had to keep up the image of the merciless Slytherin, so that should that day ever come, he could continue his role credibly. In truth, he did not believe the Dark Lord would return in full power, but he also knew Dumbledore was rarely wrong. That thought alone made him keep his eyes and ears more open than he liked. Thus he carried his secret further, kept his Animagus form hidden, known only to Albus. Severus was grateful that Hermione never asked too many questions, never probed too deeply into who he was, allowing the weeks to drift by in a deceptive equilibrium.

But one evening in late spring, that equilibrium shattered when the unthinkable happened: Potter, Weasley, Malfoy, and Hermione were given detention. Severus, already fearing the worst, learned to his relief that Minerva had decided they would serve it with Rubeus Hagrid rather than Argus Filch, that repulsive, frustrated Squib who enjoyed nothing more than humiliating students through degrading tasks simply because he himself could never wield a wand.

Severus was more than relieved not to have Hermione delivered into that man’s hands, for he knew how Filch indulged his sadisms, whereas Hagrid, though simpleminded, was kind-hearted, allowing at least some trust that they would remain unharmed. But to his fury, he later discovered it was a punishment that led the children into the Forbidden Forest. At night. In the cold. Into that wilderness he himself entered only with caution. Yet he was powerful—not a child.

He could not understand why they were sent there, why Minerva, usually the embodiment of reason, had made such a decision. He would never have expected Hermione, whom he considered sensible, to allow herself into a situation so close to real danger. But now it was too late, and so he could do nothing but roam the corridors restlessly as the hours passed. Then finally, shortly before midnight, he encountered Hagrid, who stumbled into the castle, panting, pale-faced, with the children in tow.

Severus needed only one glance to see something had happened. Malfoy and Potter were pale as death, Weasley looked terrified. Hermione—to his infinite, if unexplainable relief—looked unharmed, though tense. Hagrid stammered he had to go to Dumbledore immediately, and Severus only nodded, sending Malfoy back to the dormitory with icy strictness, before stepping into the Headmaster’s office himself, where Hagrid was tremblingly reporting.

It was already late, the torches on the walls flickered in the draught of the old corridors, when the heavy door swung open and Hagrid stumbled in, his boots slapping the stone floor still caked with mud, and he audibly struggled for breath while the children pressed in behind him. “’m sorry, Professor Dumbledore, ’t was a real mess out there,” he burst out, wiping his beard with one enormous hand, words tumbling from him faster than he could sort them.

“Unicorn, Albus! Imagine that—a beautiful, silver-white creature, lying there in the middle of the forest, blood everywhere, the children almost trippin’ over it, an’ then… an’ then a figure, dark!” Hagrid boomed, his voice shaking with excitement as he gesticulated wildly, as if that could make the horror more tangible.

Potter, Weasley, and Hermione stood silently behind him, their faces pale, eyes wide, and Severus’s gaze drifted involuntarily to her—to Hermione. He exhaled silently in relief that she truly was unhurt, though the terror in her face felt like a blow to him.

“Hagrid,” Dumbledore began calmly, his voice so gentle it almost worked like a counterspell, “please, slowly, my boy. Tell us exactly what happened.”

“Exactly?” Hagrid scratched his beard, nodded hastily, and kept panting. “Well, we were out there, jus’ checkin’ things, an’ there it was, dead as a stone, the kids all shocked, Draco screamin’, Potter forward, brave as ever, credit where due, an’ suddenly there it was—the figure, like a shadow, crawlin’ over the unicorn an’ drinkin’ like a man dyin’ o’ thirst!”

Severus felt a chill crawl down his spine. He stepped closer, eyes narrowed, voice cutting quietly: “You are telling me someone drank the blood of a unicorn. Out there. Under all our noses?”

“Exactly, Professor Snape, swear on me beard!” Hagrid cried, striking his chest. “If Firenze, the centaur, hadn’ stepped in, that shadow would’ve gotten Potter too. The boy would’ve been done for, that he would!”

Severus’s gaze flicked to Harry, who still looked pale, then back to Albus, whose eyes behind his glasses sparkled like ice in fire.

“There is only one explanation,” Dumbledore murmured gravely, and Hagrid blurted, “Said the same, Professor, no one does somethin’ like that with a heart left in his chest. Anyone killin’ unicorns has long turned to the darkest magic.”

“Yes,” Severus confirmed, his voice like cold metal, “whoever drinks unicorn blood lives cursed, half a life, a wretched existence—and does so only when desperate to survive at any cost.”

Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment, nodding barely, and Severus sensed in that gesture an unspoken acknowledgement, a hint he understood before Albus said the words. The Headmaster then turned to the half-giant gamekeeper, whose face remained pale, and spoke with gentle but unmistakable authority, “Thank you, Hagrid, you have done what was necessary. Please take the children back to the Gryffindor tower and make sure they arrive safely.”

At that moment Severus’s gaze wandered over the small group and halted when he saw Hermione, whose face was marked by fear she tried hard to hide, though her eyes revealed more than words ever could. For a fleeting instant, their eyes met, and the intensity of that moment breached his carefully constructed walls, causing him—without wanting to—to open a sliver of his Occlumency shields. What he found there was not childlike fear, but deep, trembling uncertainty, paired with a longing for stability, for protection, for an anchor in a storm she did not understand. It jolted him, struck him like an unbidden blow, and he immediately closed his shields again, harder, denser than before, as though he could erase the echo of her feelings before they burned themselves into him.

Hagrid nodded hastily, murmured another incomprehensible “Yes, Professor,” and lumbered out, the children in tow, their faces pale and eyes wide, until the door closed behind them and the two men were left alone.

“There is only one who would sink so low,” the Headmaster said at last, his voice deep and weighted, each syllable falling like lead.

“Albus, that is madness,” Severus burst out, though his own voice sounded more brittle than he wished, “the Dark Lord is dead.”

“Dead?” Dumbledore’s gaze was hard as stone, his eyes behind the glasses cold and clear as a frozen lake. “Vanished, Severus, not dead. He seeks a way back, and this… this was only the beginning.”

Severus closed his eyes for a moment, unable to bear the weight of those words, feeling the past rising within him—screams, blood, the smell of burnt flesh, Lily’s face—and forced himself to open them again so he would not sink into that memory.

Albus nodded, his eyes cold and clear behind the half-moon glasses, and Severus knew, before the words were spoken, where the Headmaster’s thoughts led. “It can only be connected to the Philosopher’s Stone,” he rasped, “whoever it was is seeking the Elixir of Life, seeking immortality, and after the break-in at Gringotts failed, this was the next step.”

Severus left the Headmaster’s office with a face as unmoved as the cold walls surrounding him, and yet something trembled within, as though Albus’s voice had torn loose something he had buried for years. As he descended the spiral staircase, winding like an iron helix into the shadows, he felt the frost of the night seeping through the cracks, merging with the cold within him until he no longer knew where one ended and the other began.

He stepped onto the next stair and felt himself nearly lose balance as something soft struck his boot. He inhaled sharply and lifted his gaze—and there he saw the amber eyes, wide and startled, Hermione, who appeared out of breath as though she had climbed the entire tower in one go. Her fingers clutched her scarf as if she needed something to anchor her inner unrest.

“Professor Snape,” she breathed, her voice trembling slightly, “I wanted to intercept you.”

Severus stopped. His voice sounded calm, yet a dark undertone slid beneath it, a shadow he did not suppress. “Miss Granger, you are wandering the castle alone at night. That is unwise.”

She shook her head quickly and raised her chin just a little, the way she always did when gathering courage. “I came directly from the Gryffindor tower. I needed to talk to you. It is important.” She drew a deep breath, her words softening, as though she breathed worry into the corridor. “Harry’s scar is burning. Since the exact moment we saw the dead unicorn. It has not stopped. I thought you should know.”

Severus watched her quietly. His expression remained calm, hard, too calm, and yet something stirred within, a slight tension he barely kept in check.

“You could have waited until morning,” he said. His voice fell heavier, slower than he meant it to.

“I was afraid it was something significant,” she whispered.

He nodded curtly and began moving. His steps echoed softly in the corridor. She followed him quietly, with short, quick movements that revealed how tense she was. The torchlight cast flickering patterns over the stone walls and across her face, which seemed almost vulnerable in the warm glow.

She spoke no further as they walked side by side. Her silence lay between them like a thin veil swallowing every word before it could form.

Severus brushed against her thoughts—not deeply, only in passing, a reflex born of duty and a strange, unwilling concern. But that brief contact was enough.

He saw the flames.

His burning robes, the rising heat, the shock on her face, the spark from her hand, her spell that had struck him. He saw her tension, her determined expression, the moment burned in her like an echo in the dim light of the stadium.

A cold stab shot through him.
A fine, quiet anger crawled beneath his skin, sharp as a blade pressed between his ribs. Not loud, not blazing—rather a thin, cold fracture running through his chest.

He did not know why she had done it.
He only knew she had done it. And she walked beside him unaware of what rose in him.

He asked no question.
He sought no explanation.
He spoke none of it aloud.

They reached the entrance to the Gryffindor tower. He stopped and turned to her. His mask lay flawlessly back in place, as though it had never wavered.

“Five points deducted,” he said quietly and low. “Because you wander the castle after curfew and endanger yourself.”

She blinked, surprised and hurt, yet she met his gaze. Her voice turned into a thin, fragile thread. “I understand.”

Severus nodded briefly. “Go to your dormitory at once.”

Then he turned away. His movement was too quick, almost defensive, as though he needed distance before something within him broke loose he did not wish to name. His robe swept harshly over the steps.

He had lowered his Occlumency shields for a moment. He felt her tears, though he faced away from her. He felt them like fine needles settling into him, quiet yet painful. He walked on, step by step, deeper into the darkness of the corridor. The dark-haired wizard carried his anger like a silent shadow he could not shake. And beneath that anger lay something that struck him far more deeply: the burning thought that his soulmate had attacked him.

What he did not know: he could have found the truth in her mind if he had not recoiled as though from an open wound.

His steps echoed dully in the corridors of the lower floors, and he pulled his robes tighter, not because of the cold creeping through the walls, but because of his need to close himself off, to harden his body, while his mind was in a state that felt like a battlefield, a place where memories and doubts clashed without ceasing. The words he had thrown at Albus—“Dead”—now felt like a desperate attempt to hold shut a door that was already groaning on its hinges, a last bit of defiance against a truth he did not want to accept. Albus’s gaze, clear and unwavering like a blade, cut through his façade, and the suspicion that the old man might be right gnawed at him like a poison that made every movement heavier.

As he reached the familiar walls of the dungeons, another heaviness settled upon him: the smell of cold stone, damp earth, decay, and old potion fumes, a mixture that had surrounded him for decades and yet offered no comfort. It reminded him of who he had become, not who he had once wished to be. He closed the door to his office with a deep creak, lit the torches with a brief Incendio, and watched as the light cast long, flickering shadows over the walls. The shadows looked like distorted fragments of his own past, too near and yet unreachable.

He threw his robe over the chair, went to the cupboard, and took out a crystal bottle whose contents shimmered in deep red. It was no ordinary Firewhisky, but a refined mixture of his own making—stronger, faster, more reliable when sleep abandoned him. He filled a glass, set it on the desk, heard the faint clink, and stood motionless for a moment. He did not lift the glass to his lips but stared at the liquid as though expecting an answer reflected within it.

“Not dead,” Albus’s voice echoed in his mind, and he clenched the glass so tightly it trembled under his hand. If Albus was right and the Dark Lord lurked somewhere in the shadows, then it meant all his sacrifices had been insufficient. Lily’s death, his immeasurable remorse, his vow—all of it had not been enough to save the world from falling into ruin again. The thought ate into him, leaving marks that burned like acid.

He raised the glass and took a sip. The burning taste ran like fire down his throat and gave him a moment of life that almost frightened him. He set the glass down as though it had betrayed him and sank into his chair. He pressed his forehead into his hand, closed his eyes, and listened to the crackling of the torches and the distant drip of water in the stone. They were the only sounds in the dungeon, and yet it was louder inside him than ever as Albus’s words echoed through him.

Then another thought stirred, quiet and persistent, rising against his control. He had just seen Hermione standing before him, pale and nervous, her voice trembling as she told him about Harry’s burning scar. He had brushed her thoughts, that brief contact showing him more than he wanted to endure. The flames she had unleashed, her spell that had set his robes on fire, her tense expression, the determination in her eyes.

That memory gnawed at him, like a spark lodged within. A spark burning only because she was his soulmate, though she knew nothing of it and he barely admitted to himself what it meant.

In the silence settling heavily over the room, the thought came to him that she was in danger. If the Dark Lord returned, no one would be safe. Not Potter, not the castle, not the children. And not her.

He tore his eyes open as though the thought had exposed him. He rose abruptly, began pacing the room. The half-full glass remained on the table, untouched and yet full of unspoken truth.

He needed distance.
He needed control.
He needed silence.

But inside him gnawed a feeling that grew stronger the more he tried to push it away:
Something could happen to her.

Chapter Text

The events escalated at a pace that caught even him off guard, he who usually calculated everything, and Severus cursed himself inwardly for not having reacted sooner, for having overlooked the signs, for not having acted more harshly against Quirrell long ago. He should have known, he should have seen it, but now the mess was made, the catastrophe complete, and there was no going back. Quirrell was dead, killed by Harry Potter, and if Albus was right, then it had not been raw power or a spell, but—Severus almost had to retch when he thought of the word—the power of love. A magic entirely foreign to him, a force he had never possessed, never understood, and certainly could not explain to himself.

He remembered with a sharpness that almost hurt physically those encounters at the beginning of the school year when Quirrell had come down into the dungeons with his pitifully wobbling figure, his trembling hands, and that miserable stutter that every student had seen through in no time at all; yet what had truly bothered Severus at the time had not been the sight itself, nor even the wretched way the man kept fidgeting with his turban—it had been that smell that hit him every time Quirrell entered the room, a smell so disgustingly familiar and yet so elusive that he had instinctively pushed it aside.

It was as if the very turban exuded the fumes of a body that had not seen a shower in weeks, perhaps months, as if hair lay trapped beneath it, rotting in stale dampness, greasy, unwashed, threaded with a sweat that could not have come from an ordinary man. There had been a sickly-oily note to that stench, mixed with something dully burnt that reminded him of old oil and fermented herbs. It had scratched in his nose, burned in his throat, and often he had felt the impulse to turn away in disgust, because it had almost made him retch.

He had dismissed it with malicious amusement, had thought to himself that the pathetic man was not even capable of keeping his own head clean, and he had despised him for it, as he despised everything that was weak and negligent. But now that Potter, lips pale and eyes glowing, had reported what he had seen, Severus suddenly understood that this smell had not been a coincidence, not the result of poor personal hygiene, but the emanation of horror itself that had hidden there—the shadow of the Dark Lord, nesting in the other’s flesh and wearing him like a garment.

And as he admitted this realization to himself, his throat constricted, because he had to know that he should have seen it, should have smelled it, should have interpreted it.

He rubbed his left forearm, slowly, almost mechanically, where the Dark Mark was indelibly burned into his skin. And as his fingertips moved over that spot, so familiar and yet so foreign in its emptiness, a burning thought shot through him: Why had he not felt anything? No twitch, no tingling, no ominous pulsing of that dark magic that had branded him all those years like a searing mark and turned him into the Dark Lord’s tool, no signal that could have warned him that the old power he had long believed broken still lurked in the world.

He, who had spent his entire life training himself to read the subtlest vibrations of magic, who had learned to recognize even the faintest flicker of a spell from within the shadows, had sat blindly beside the enemy, had taught lessons, held conversations, shared meals without the slightest suspicion that the serpent itself hid in the body of a man barely an arm’s length away from him. This realization burned like poison through his thoughts, and with every breath the feeling of humiliation grew—the feeling of having failed, worse still, of having failed in precisely the area in which he had always considered himself infallible.

His fingers stilled on the skin that looked pale and flawless and yet carried within it the memory of the burning mark, of the throbbing sign that had once dictated his every movement, every breath. It was as if he could still feel the phantom fire even though there was nothing there anymore, and it was precisely this nothing that gnawed at him, because it mocked him, because it whispered to him that he had been blind, deaf, and powerless when danger had lurked right under his nose.

Guilt and anger, blended into a rumbling storm, spread within him, and he could not rid himself of the bitter taste of this defeat—the defeat that had not occurred on the battlefield, but inside him, in the moment when he noticed nothing where he should have seen everything.

He poured himself the third Firewhisky of the evening, let the liquid burn as though it might wash the shame and failure out of him, and tried to sort through the last hours. But every time he closed his eyes, he heard that scream again—clear, piercing, full of panic—Hermione’s scream for help.

He had been on patrol when the call struck him like a dagger. Without thinking, he had run, his robes billowing, his heart beating faster. He had eventually found her distraught, her chest heaving, her lips forming broken fragments of words. “Ron… hurt… chessboard… Harry…” she had gasped out, barely able to breathe. Instead of comforting her, he had had to snap at her, stern, harsh, so that she would start talking at all. A part of him hated himself for it, yet it had been necessary.

Without hesitation, he had sent a Patronus to Albus, then ran himself, sprinting up the stairs, which, as always, had their whims, taking them at full speed, making jumps where a single misstep would have meant certain death. Only later did he notice that Hermione had followed him, that she, smaller, weaker, yet unwavering, had run after him, even though he had wanted to leave her behind.

He was the one who had put the three-headed dog, Fluffy, back to sleep with the harp, the one who had plunged down through the trapdoor, who had kept the Devil’s Snare under control, and just as he had solid ground beneath his feet again, she appeared.

He had thrown his head upwards and seen her clutching the edge of the trapdoor with trembling fingers, her face flushed, her breath uneven. And before he could stop himself, it burst out of him, sharp and hard like a curse: “No!”

She froze, her large brown eyes widening as though he had stabbed her with a dagger, and for a fraction of a second he saw in them not the overly eager, overly outspoken student he saw in his classroom every day, but simply a child—small, vulnerable, far too young for what lurked behind that door.

He pressed his lips together, forced himself to lower his voice, and before he fully realized it, her name slipped over his tongue, soft, almost unfamiliar. “Hermione… you stay here.” His voice, moments ago still full of sharpness, sank to a rough, urgent tone, almost pleading, and he continued, more slowly, as though he had to weigh each word: “You go back, immediately. Run to the hospital wing, tell Poppy that I will be coming with injured.”

She stared at him, unable to break eye contact, as if she were searching his eyes for a reason, for an explanation as to why he suddenly sounded so different, why he spoke her name as though it was not just a word to be spat out mockingly, but something that carried weight.

Severus’ fingers twitched unconsciously, and he raised his voice again—not cutting this time, but with that kind of sternness that allowed no contradiction, even though his chest felt tight and heavy. “Hermione… go. Now.”

She had looked at him, too long, too deeply, until he brought her back to order once more, and then she had nodded, whispering only a single “Be careful, Professor,” before she disappeared. He had been relieved, almost painfully relieved, that she had obeyed his order, that she had not remained below, where he knew death was lurking.

Yet scarcely had he collected himself again when he found Weasley, motionless, bleeding, wrapped in Hermione’s cloak, the only proof that she herself had been there, that she possessed more courage than was wise for her. A quick spell showed that the boy was stable, though unconscious, and Severus had sent him off to the hospital wing before storming on.

It had been a sequence of riddles, traps, trials that did not stop him, barely slowed him, until he finally stood in the last chamber, where Quirrell lay dead on the floor, marked, disfigured, and Potter unconscious with the Stone in his hand. Severus had taken the Stone, not out of greed, but out of duty.

Severus stood in the half-dark of the chamber, the air smelling of cold stone, of old, stale magic that vibrated under the skin like a barely perceptible hum. Potter lay unconscious beside him; he was just about to tend to the boy when something else seemed to call to him. A silent pull, barely explainable, that inexorably urged him deeper into the room. He followed the pull. There it rose—the tall, artfully framed structure whose frame gleamed gold even though no light shone here. It was a mirror, so large it almost touched the ceiling. Severus knew, the moment his eyes fell upon it, what stood before him.

It was the Mirror of Erised.

Severus had read about it, cryptic records, dark references in the archives, rumors that it was not merely an artefact but a window into the truth of the soul, an image of that longing one could scarcely name for oneself. And yet it had always been a legend, something that lay beyond his tangible sphere of influence—until now. That Albus possessed this mirror, that he kept it hidden here, in the depths of the castle, was new to him. It filled him with a quiet but dangerous kind of anger burning beneath his skin. Of course—Albus and his secrets, Albus and his games, Albus, who never said what he knew, instead weaving everything into a net of half-truths.

Severus stepped closer, slowly, almost reluctantly, as though he feared that what he was about to behold could disarm him. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor, and the nearer he came, the stronger the pull grew. Like an invisible current drawing him in. He wanted to resist, wanted to tell himself that he must not show weakness, not now, not here, yet his eyes lifted almost of their own accord, capturing the reflection that was not a reflection at all, but something else, deeper.

He had believed Lily would await him, that he would see her face, perhaps young, perhaps full of reproach, perhaps gentle. Or he would see power, status, maybe even a life without shame, without betrayal. But instead it was different, so very different that his heart skipped a beat.

Not Lily.

Not fame.

Not the power he had so often cursed and yet coveted.

He had thought he was prepared, that nothing in this mirror could shake him. That he was already too hard, too cynical, too scarred to be surprised by the abysses of his own inner self.

And yet—as he saw the image in the mirror, as he saw her, not as a child, not as the student he saw sitting at the desks every day, something stirred deep within him. He saw her as a woman, mature, radiant, at his side; she reached up to his shoulder. Her dark brown hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders. And in her arms she held a child—it was his child, he knew deep inside that it was his. Then it felt as though someone had torn his heart from his chest and set it back in again, only to force it to beat in an unbearable rhythm that nearly made him stagger.

He whispered her name, little more than a breath that slipped from his lips like an involuntary confession. “Hermione,” he said, and the moment this word faded into the room, he felt a strange heaviness flow through him. It resembled a deep, vibrating echo rising from a place in his chest he had kept sealed for years. While his eyes remained fixed on the woman in the mirror, he felt a silent storm within him, as though a fate were being shown to him that already lay in his veins, even though he had never chosen it. Even though he knew that as a child she could not have access to it, that her innocence could not yet bear such a burden and that he himself was the last person one would trust to deserve such a bond.

He kept staring at the image in the mirror, which greeted him with a tranquility that nearly shook him. For the adult woman he saw there carried an aura that reminded him of something that had always slipped from his grasp. A quiet radiance that united strength and kindness. While he could hardly classify this sight, he felt a silent admiration lingering in his thoughts like a restrained breath. In the very same instant, he felt in the depiction of the child in her arms a barely bearable pull, a delicate impulse that touched something in him he had never expected—something that felt like a gentle, incomplete hope. An idea of something that might be called affection, which he immediately locked deep inside himself so that it could not claim any space he could not control.

He raised his hand, slowly, almost against his own will. His fingertips approached the cold glass and he felt a strange mixture of resistance and desire rise within him. A striving to comprehend the image presented to him and at the same time the necessity to maintain distance, because the child she represented in the present needed protection, clarity, boundaries. Severus knew that any sign of closeness he showed would set something in motion that she could not bear and which he himself could hardly grasp, even though the bond between them was already working in its depths and kept reminding him that his future was intertwined with hers like two lines emerging from a single origin.

When his fingertips finally touched the glass, a cold jolt flooded him, a hard, silent chill that spread through his hand and climbed up his arm like an inexorable current. The mirror remained motionless, and he felt that this moment was inscribing itself into him like a truth that left him unchanged and yet completely changed at the same time. “I carry something that is greater than myself, and I do not know how to live up to this bond,” he thought, and this thought fell into him like a stone sinking into a deep well, while the mirror cast its own silence over the scene as though all that could be said had already been said.

Yet inside him it echoed on, like an echo that could not be driven out—this longing he had never been allowed to live, the warmth of a family, the closeness of a woman who did not despise him but stood at his side. And not out of duty, not out of calculation, but of her own free will. It was an image that both filled and tormented him, a pain so sweet he could barely endure it.

He, who had armored himself with cold all his life, felt for a moment what it would be like to lose her without ever having had her.

This idea proved to be a crueler impulse than he had ever imagined, as a hot pressure rose within him, tightening his chest and plunging his thoughts into a trembling unrest. Anger mingled with this feeling, a silent current directed against himself, because in the mirror he had recognized a longing that flared up within him like an involuntary confession, even though he had buried it deep in the shadows of his being for years. Beneath this taut surface lay a hunger, old as a memory from a time he could barely name, a need for belonging that yearned for a place where he did not exist alone anymore, while his life had always been shaped by distance. The thought that then pushed itself into his awareness struck him with precise force: “She has no reason ever to like me, since I am for her the man who speaks with sharpness and reacts with rejection, a figure who intensifies her insecurity and offers no protection a child would seek,” he thought. Immediately the realization settled in him that the future shown in the mirror existed like a shining point far off in the distance. An image full of warmth, which at once gave him hope and mercilessly reminded him of his limits.

He remained standing before the mirror for one more breath, while the echo of his own thoughts spread through his head like a heavy reverberation. He felt a fine constriction tugging at his throat, as though the mirror had found an old crack in his inner façade with this single image. The realization he had just allowed gnawed at him, deep and persistent. The sight of the adult Hermione in the mirror left a lingering resonance that almost drained him of strength. Yet Severus forced himself to straighten his shoulders, very slightly, like a silent shaking off of what he must never show outwardly. A brief, sharp thought rose within him—“Enough,” he thought, and this resolve broke the mirror’s spell with a hardness that helped him close the inner door once again.

His fingers slowly loosened from the cold frame, and he turned his gaze away, as though severing the line of sight would also ease the pressure inside him, while he stepped aside, away from the image that had both tormented and drawn him in. The air in the room suddenly felt different, a bit clearer, a bit harsher, and the silence behind him felt like a closed book whose pages he never wanted to touch again.

Then he turned his attention to Potter, whom he lifted and drew close. He carried the unconscious body in front of him like a lifeless puppet. With quick steps he had hurried through the cold corridors, the gravity of the events like an invisible burden on his shoulders. Severus reached the turn in the hallway just as Albus appeared there. The sight of the Headmaster, with that calm, almost translucent gaze that always seemed to see what others concealed, struck him like a blow. Harry’s unconscious body hung heavy at his side, so that Severus instinctively tightened his grip to keep the boy from slipping. Albus stepped closer without a word, his movements calm and precise. He placed one hand under Potter’s shoulder so that the weight was evenly distributed, while a faint flicker in his eyes betrayed that he already suspected more than Severus wanted to tell him.

They set off together, a slow, steady march down the long stone corridor. The silence between them felt like a thin veil that could tear at any moment. Severus could barely ignore the tension in his neck, as the mirror still echoed like a shadow within him. Only after a few steps did he break the silence in a tone that allowed for no nuance. “Quirrell is lying dead in the chamber,” he said, and the words carried such sparseness that any further explanation was unnecessary.

Albus inclined his head slightly without slowing his steps. The dull gleam in his eyes showed that the news did not surprise him, even if a faint trace of regret passed over his features as he replied. “It saddens me, though I suspected his path would lead in that direction,” he said quietly, casting a scrutinizing look at Harry, who hung limply between them.

Severus fixed his gaze ahead, as if he did not want to be caught by the expression on the Headmaster’s face, and his voice took on a clear, cutting firmness. “The curse that clung to him ultimately carried out its own sentence. There was no other outcome for this evening,” he said. He felt the words ordering his thoughts as the door to the hospital wing drew near.

Albus fell silent for a moment, as if taking in the sound of their steps on the stone. Only when the light from the large windows began to brighten the corridor did he tilt his head slightly. “Is there anything else you wished to tell me, Severus?” he asked in a tone that exerted neither pressure nor restraint, but simply hung in the air like an open hand.

Severus did not stop walking, yet he felt the Stone in the inner pocket of his cloak, and a faint metallic sound betrayed that something heavy lay there. His words came calm, controlled, as precise as a knife stroke. “I have the Stone with me,” he said. “Quirrell was unable to take it. I will give it to you as soon as I have laid the boy down.”

A faint flicker passed through Albus’ gaze—neither relief nor surprise, more the confirmation of an outcome he had already foreseen. He nodded slowly as they took the last steps towards the hospital wing together. Severus felt the weight of the Stone against his chest, as though he were carrying something that was more than mere mass, something that, in the wrong hands, could have shaken worlds.

When they reached the hospital wing and the heavy doors opened, it was not Poppy whom Severus first registered, but Hermione, who rushed toward him with a speed that hardly seemed to fit her slender frame. Her breathing was uneven and her eyes were wide with shock, as though she had covered every step to this place without a single thought for herself. A thin, bloody line cut across her left cheek, a narrow tear that lay like a hasty shadow on her skin. The flush of her cheeks revealed that she had been running, probably through half the floor, perhaps even through the entire castle, driven by an impulse Severus only understood the moment she stood directly in front of him and her voice broke over itself. “Professor Snape… are you alright?” she said, without casting so much as a glance at Harry, whom he carried in his arms.

Her words hit him like a gust of air coming from an unexpected direction. For a single flickering moment, he felt something inside him slip out of balance, because he had not expected anyone, on this night, to spare a thought for his well-being. Least of all this child, whose heart should have been lying wide open for someone else. For the boy who hovered unconscious before her. His gaze slid over the bloody scratch on her cheek, and as he lowered his head slightly to look at the injury more closely, a thought groped its way through his consciousness: “Of all people, she is the one asking me this question,” he thought, “even though Potter may just have lost the world.” This realization struck him with a warmth that he immediately locked deep inside himself so that it could not take up any space he could not control.

He stopped, still holding Potter in his arms, and simply looked at her in silence, his black eyes fixed on hers, deep and unreadable, as though he could answer solely with that gaze what he could not bring himself to say in words.

She held his gaze, her brown eyes full of concern and at the same time full of unwavering determination, as though she wanted to force him by sheer will to finally give voice to words he did not dare to speak. He felt the seconds stretching, felt the silence between them becoming heavier than any sound, heavier than any noise in the world, until it echoed painfully within him. And yet he remained silent, because he knew that anything he said in that moment would betray him, that even the most banal word could bring his wall crashing down. That wall that had protected him for decades, and so he allowed only their gazes to remain locked together, as though they were chained to one another. Severus found in that both comfort and torture.

Then he finally tore himself away from her and handed Potter into Poppy Pomfrey’s care. He felt the impulse to pull himself out of this room with all his might, away from the voices, away from the eyes, away from her.

It was as if fate itself deliberately threw itself in his path. For it was she who almost knocked him over when he turned around. It happened too hastily, too recklessly, and he was the one who caught her, who grabbed her small figure by the arm before she could fall. In that moment, when her skin brushed his, unremarkable and yet burning, it was as though something within him was ignited, as though all the darkness he carried inside him, all the guilt etched into his bones, all the failure that had haunted him for years was lifted from him for the fraction of a breath. As though the mere touch of this girl had the power to bear the weight of his existence, a weight he himself could barely shoulder anymore.

She looked up at him with that stunned openness. She looked at him directly, without the usual restraint, without her usual cautious weighing. She said something so simple and yet so infinitely heavy at the same time: “Thank you.”

And she looked at him with exactly that smile he had just seen in the Mirror of Erised. That impossible, painful image of his deepest, unfulfilled desire. In that moment Severus knew that he was lost, that he had long since fallen without wanting to, without noticing it, lost to a dream, to a longing, to a desire that should never have been born. Lost to a wish he was never allowed to have and that would nonetheless follow him from now on like a shadow.

Chapter Text

Severus stood at the tall window of the Headmaster’s office, his arms rigidly crossed behind his back, his gaze fixed on the Black Lake, whose surface looked dark and heavy in the twilight. Outside, the wind swept through the bare trees and pushed the waves against the shore. Behind him, Albus spoke in that calm voice that often stirred more in him than he ever wished to admit. “What an eventful year, Severus, I have not experienced anything like it in a long time,” said the Headmaster gravely, and in his eyes lay that faint sparkle that both irritated and unsettled Severus in equal measure.

Severus’ expression shifted only barely before he turned toward him. “Eventful, yes,” he replied in a tone that swayed between scorn and exhaustion, “so eventful that I swear, if anything like this ever happens again, I will refuse my service, resign—or throw myself off the Astronomy Tower, just so I never have to endure it once more.”

The corners of Albus’ mouth twitched as though he were suppressing a laugh, yet he merely inclined his head. “You exaggerate, Severus.”

“Exaggerate?” he snapped, his voice sharp, cold, and vibrating all at once. “Not at all. You saw the chaos, Albus. You saw how close it was. And believe me, I do not intend to be put into that position again. Once is enough.”

The Headmaster remained silent for a moment, watching him with a calm, almost penetrating expression before he answered softly, “And yet you stayed.”

Severus’ gaze darkened; he pressed his lips together before replying in a low, almost toneless voice, “Because I swore I would.”

Albus let his hands fall, his eyes still resting calmly on Severus, while the latter turned back toward the window, as though he might find answers in the black water outside that eluded him within this room.

“Because I could not do otherwise,” he said, this time with more weight, pressing his fingers so firmly against the cold windowpane that his knuckles turned white. “And yet I failed, Albus. I could not protect Potter.”

His voice was hard, but beneath it lay a fracture, barely audible, one that only someone like Dumbledore could perceive. “I did not listen to the signs the girl told me—Potter’s scar. I lost sight of him, I did not notice how he slipped past me, how he put himself in danger. He could have died, and I— I would not have been able to stop it. I am supposed to be his guardian, and yet he lay there, unconscious, nearly broken, and I could do nothing except pick up the pieces.”

He drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to suppress the tremor in his chest, but bitterness dripped from every word as he added quietly, “I failed. Once again.”

Dumbledore remained silent at first, letting the words hang in the air, as though he needed to grant them the weight they deserved. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, warm, and carried by an unshakeable steadiness. “No, Severus,” he said calmly, “you did not fail. You did what no one else could—you intervened, you found them, you prevented disaster from taking its full course. Harry lives, Hermione lives, Ron lives. And this did not happen in spite of you, but because of you.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the candlelight deepened the lines of his face and made his eyes shine brighter. “You believe you did not protect him because he slipped out of your control. But Severus, you cannot shield him from everything that waits for him in this world. No wizard, no matter how powerful, can. What you did was bring him back when all seemed lost—and that, my boy, is true protection.”

Albus’ gaze narrowed slightly, his voice dropping lower, almost fatherly. “I know how difficult it is for you to accept this, because you see only your guilt and never your worth. But I have seen it, Severus, for many years. You carry burdens no person should bear alone, and still you stand here. That is strength. Your strength.”

He laid a hand on Severus’ shoulder—light, almost gentle. “Do not fall prey to the illusion that you must be perfect to be enough. You already are—more than you believe.”

Severus looked away, the darkness outside offering a welcome excuse to withdraw from the warmth of Dumbledore’s words. Yet the hand on his shoulder remained. Against his will, he noticed that he did not shake it off immediately. His lips pressed into a thin line, he forced his breathing to stay steady, yet the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed the internal conflict he could not conceal. For a breath he did not look like the strict professor, not like the cold man, but like someone who, for a fleeting moment, allowed the weight of his burdens to show. Tired, vulnerable, almost too human.

Albus let the silence settle, let the heaviness sink in before he finally withdrew his hand, so gently as though he wished to leave not even a trace of pressure behind. When he spoke, his voice sounded almost casual, as though discussing the weather or the Great Hall’s menu. “Do you already know what you will do during the holidays, Severus?”

Severus had been trained too long in the art of deception to take that tone at face value. Too casual, too precise. It was a trap, he knew it instantly. He reacted instinctively, as he always did when someone attempted to pierce his defences. Slowly he turned back toward him, his movements controlled, as though he refused to give Albus any satisfaction, and he raised a single eyebrow with perfect precision. His gaze—black and sharp as obsidian—pierced the Headmaster. Within that silent, hostile elegance lay a clear message he needed not speak aloud: Don’t you dare intrude upon my innermost thoughts, old man.

Dumbledore met the piercing gaze with the composure of someone long accustomed to enduring the anger, defensiveness, and barbs of others without so much as blinking. Instead of retreating, he returned Severus’ sharp look with a faint smile, one not born of mockery but of quiet certainty, as though he understood exactly why Severus reacted so—and had accounted for this flare of defence long in advance.

“Your looks are deadlier than any curse, my boy,” he said calmly, almost amused, yet with an undertone of warmth that softened the sharpness, “and yet they have never prevented those who dare from seeing into your heart.”

He folded his hands again, looking at Severus with unshakable calm as he added gently, “I did not ask about your holiday plans to pry. I asked because I suspect you do not yet know yourself how you will endure the coming weeks. Miss Granger. You will visit her, won’t you?”

Severus’ expression hardened. He pressed his lips together as if he could hold the answer back, but at last it escaped him in a sigh. “I do not know, Albus. I only know that she will travel to France with her family. A holiday home. Four weeks. So I will likely travel to France as well. I will not go to Spinner’s End—I refuse. I… I need to be near her, whether I wish it or not.” His voice sounded harsher than he intended, yet beneath it lay a weakness he could barely hide.

Albus nodded slowly, his eyes softening. “Severus, my boy, I understand how confusing this must be. You bear a weight no one else understands, and yet you are not made of stone. I see how difficult it is for you to accept that. But believe me when I say: if anyone can manage it, it is you.”

Severus scoffed, as if to push the comfort aside, but his heart tightened. If anyone can manage it… He so often felt like the last person capable of managing anything at all.

“Miss Granger is a remarkable young witch,” Dumbledore continued, serious and warm at once. “She has achieved things that are extraordinary for her age. She was the one who solved the puzzles, the Devil’s Snare, the potion. She is talented, Severus. I can only advise you to guide her. You have seen for yourself how gifted she is in Potions.”

Severus turned back toward the window, his gaze drifting into the dusk where the castle towers loomed dark against the violet sky. His voice was rougher, deeper than usual when he asked bluntly, “And how do you imagine that, Albus? Do you truly believe the child would voluntarily come to my dungeons? To me, the terror of the students, the dungeon bat who has spent a year doing everything possible to humiliate her? You are naive if you think she would remain in my presence a moment longer than the timetable requires.”

“Now now,” Dumbledore answered softly, with that patient, gentle weight that so often made him seem unshakeable, “it is not as dire as that, Severus. You underestimate what lies within that girl—and how she sees you. She values you more than you believe. I have seen her thoughts, felt how deeply she respects you.”

Severus was barely listening. He spun around as though struck, his black eyes flashing dangerously, and yet within them lay not only anger but raw despair, a pain barely contained. “Respect?” he snapped, his voice so sharp it sliced through the air. “She is friends with Potter, Albus! With Potter, that arrogant brat who enjoys hero status in her heart while I am nothing to her but the enemy making her life miserable. And then this cursed soul bond you claim is a blessing!” He clenched his hands into fists, stepped toward Dumbledore as though to hold him accountable, and his voice sank into a dangerous growl. “You say that is not terrible? Do you know what it does to me? I feel like a foolish teenager—torn, weak, exposed.”

Albus said nothing, letting him speak, and the silence worked like an invitation to open the wall even further.

Severus drew in a deep breath, as though forcing the words out of himself, and his voice lost its biting tone, becoming duller, heavier, almost fractured. “I am not a good man. I have never claimed to be. I have blood on my hands, choices behind me no one can forgive. And this… girl, this Gryffindor, this daughter of two Muggles, will not change that. She cannot change it. I will always be what I am.”

He broke off, gathering himself, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost a whisper filled with unfamiliar sincerity. “But if you believe I should try… then fine. But not now. Not while she is still so young. Only when she is ready, when she wants it herself. And if she says no, Albus, then that is her right. I will accept it. I swear it. I will not pressure her, not manipulate her, not frighten her. I will give her the choice, even if it tears me apart.”

He remained at the window, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders stiff, as though trying to force the words back inside that he had just revealed. Dumbledore was silent for another moment before speaking more softly, in that tone full of warmth and gravity. “That, Severus, is what distinguishes you from all the men you despise. You grant her freedom—and that is true strength, not weakness.”

Dumbledore kept his gaze on him, longer than before, a thoughtful, gentle scrutiny in his eyes, as though attempting to pierce through layers Severus did not even admit to himself. Finally, the old man lifted his chin slightly. “What did you see in the Mirror?” he asked, softly, with that dangerous persistence born of experience.

Severus’ head jerked almost imperceptibly, a reflexive attempt at defence. “That is none of your concern,” he said curtly, his tone sharp as polished metal. Dumbledore remained silent, standing there calm and patient, and Severus felt the pressure of his gaze in the room—sober and warm at once.

The silence stretched until it nearly hurt. Finally, he exhaled—slowly, heavily, as though breaking a spell. “I saw…” He stopped, began again more quietly. “I saw the adult Hermione.” The word adult sounded hoarse. “With a child in her arms.” Another pause, a sharp intake of breath. “I stood next to her. It sounds like nonsense.” His hands clenched tighter together as though he wished to tear those images apart.

Dumbledore inclined his head with an expression full of understanding. “The Mirror shows no future,” he said, his voice gentle, almost like cloth placed upon a fresh wound. “It shows desires, hopes, possibilities of the heart. No prophecy, no judgment. A mirror revealing hidden longing. What you saw was neither a promise nor a mistake. It was a glimpse into the depth of your own truth.”

Severus’ breath hitched for a moment—almost imperceptibly—yet he forced himself to compose, raising his shoulders as though he could push the words out of his body and restore the cool distance of the room.

But Severus turned his head away, as though unable to bear this judgment, and his voice was cold again, controlled, stone-like. “Was that all, Headmaster?”

Dumbledore nodded, though his blue eyes sparkled with unspoken thoughts. Severus turned abruptly, his robes sweeping behind him like the shadow of a dark bird gliding through the office.

He did not see the smile Dumbledore sent after him—no mockery, no triumph, but a quiet, almost fatherly smile full of understanding and hope. Hope that the connection between this tormented man and that brilliant young witch might one day grow into something greater than either of them could yet imagine.

The door closed with a dull thud, and Severus left the tower’s passage behind him step by step, his robes billowing around him like black wings. From the outside he looked as he always did—untouchable, unshakeable, the cold shadow-man. Yet within him turmoil raged like a storm, more violent and merciless than he would ever admit.

He had not told Albus—could not tell him—but he had felt it for months, since that fateful first bond that had forced him toward her against his will: the unbearable longing for something he had never possessed. He, Severus Snape, the man who had known only darkness, scorn, and contempt, longed for something so weak, so laughable he could barely bear it even in his own thoughts—longed for a person who would take him as he was.

Not like Lily, whom he had once loved and who had fled his darkness; not like Albus, who had always seen him as a tool and a pledge. Someone who would not recoil from the hardness in his eyes, from the sharpness in his voice, from the scars on his soul. Someone who would touch him without disgust, who would stay—not out of pity, not out of obligation, but because they wanted him. Him, as he was, with all the dirt and shadows he carried.

He hated himself for the thought, hated himself for the weakness he felt in it. Yet he knew it was already too late, that he was already lost, because she—this child, this girl who should have meant nothing to him—had already touched something within him that no one else ever had.

As he descended deeper into the darkness of the dungeons, the silence broken only by the faint echo of his steps, he spoke no word, yet inside him a silent vow resonated—desperate and obsessive all at once: he would protect her with everything he had, whether she knew it or not. Even if it destroyed him.

The final week of the school year rolled over the castle like an unstoppable wave sweeping away everything in its path. Voices swelled into a chorus, laughter mingled with hurried footsteps, doors slammed, trunks swallowed books and clothes as though eager to consume all the restlessness. Owls fluttered excitedly through the corridors, and amidst all the chaos Severus Snape stood like a foreign body—dark, motionless, his nerves stretched thin. He watched the children running, cheering toward freedom. Two months of sun, warmth, and family idyll awaited them. In his ears, their laughter sounded like mockery, for to him summer meant nothing but emptiness, a sound that reminded him of the loneliness clinging to him like a second skin.

Yet as much as he despised the tumult, as much as he mocked the superficiality of youthful euphoria, one thought gnawed at him more persistently than any noise: he needed to know exactly where the Grangers were travelling. He needed it like someone gasping for air, because the thought of not being near her robbed him of sleep, suffocated him. So he did what he had done far too often in the past months, and hated himself for every second he lost control: he left the dungeon behind, pushed himself as a black raven from the window, spread his wings wide. He felt the cold current of the air beneath him, and with strong strokes he carried himself up to the Gryffindor Tower, settling silently on the window ledge, his talons sunk into the old stone, his black eyes unmoving yet full of anticipation.

And there she was, as always when he sought her. He cursed and blessed fate at once for granting him this sight: Hermione Granger, kneeling before a half-packed trunk filled with books, parchment scrolls, and quills, all chaotically mixed, while she spoke with Padma Patil, who laughed beside her. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she weighed what else to pack. Then she turned her head in his direction, and when she finally saw him, her face—serious and focused—transformed into a brightness so unwavering that he wanted to look away and yet could not.

She jumped up, ran to the window, and pushed it wide open, the morning air streaming in. She beckoned him inside, almost impatiently, but he remained outside, motionless, his feathers black as the stone he perched upon, stubborn in his silence, as though wishing to remind her with that single refused step: I remain what I am—shadow, distance, darkness. “You can come in,” she laughed, tossing a glance at Padma. “This is Padma, she doesn’t bite.” Padma giggled, waved goodbye, and pulled her trunk out. The moment the door clicked shut, a stab of relief went through him, because he had her to himself now—no witnesses, no laughing companion.

Hermione returned to the window, stepping closer, her voice softer, more confidential, as though she instinctively sensed that one did not speak loudly to a creature like him. “We’re travelling to France,” she said, and every word sounded like a melody he absorbed. “Far in the south, by the sea. My parents have a house there; we go almost every summer. Four weeks of sun, warmth, salt in the air… I’m very much looking forward to it.” She spoke, and while doing so she raised her hand carefully, as though not wanting to scare him. She stroked the tips of her fingers across his feathers, so gently that he closed his eyes, and for one fleeting moment he allowed that touch to chase away the cold within him, allowed himself to feel what warmth might be if it truly belonged to him.

“You know,” she continued as her thumb brushed lightly over his dark feathers, “sometimes I feel like you understand more than you show. Sometimes, when you look at me like that, I think there’s something behind those eyes larger than I can grasp. But maybe I’m imagining it.” She smiled—not an immature grin, but a smile full of sincerity, full of affection, almost grown. “It’s nice that you’re here. That you’re keeping me company. I know it sounds strange, but you’ve been like a friend to me this year. Someone I could trust things to without speaking.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, as though she did not wish the confession to escape too loudly into the world. “You were closer to me than you think.”

She held out her arm—an unspoken invitation—and he hesitated only for a heartbeat before leaping onto her slender wrist, feeling the light pressure of her skin beneath his talons, and she laughed softly, warmly, before her expression grew serious again. “Tell your owner… thank you. Thank him for sending you to me. You meant more to me this year than words can express. Maybe it sounds childish, but it’s the truth. You were a piece of home for me in all the chaos. For that, I thank you.”

She stepped to the window with him, lifting her arm, and the wind rushed through her hair, making strands dance. He looked at her so intensely it hurt, as though he needed to imprint her face in his mind because he knew the memory would be the only thing carrying him through the summer. Then he spread his wings, pushed off with force, and rose higher, farther. The sky was wide and bright while behind him her voice, scarcely more than a breath, was carried into the wind: “See you soon… Professor Snape.”

But Severus did not hear it anymore. The wind pulled her words away while he was already rising, far from her room, far from her smile. And so what she called after him remained unspoken between them, a secret she shared only with the silence.

Chapter Text

YEAR 2

Summer stretched like chewing gum, and for the first time, Hermione did not experience the holidays as a longed-for break but as a test that demanded patience and strength. Because as much as she enjoyed the days with her parents, as much as she delighted in sun, sea, and freedom, a pull remained inside her, a feeling of longing she could hardly explain, one that would not loosen its grip on her. She longed for Hogwarts, for the steady rhythm of schedules, for the familiar narrowness of the library. She longed for Harry’s laughter and Ron’s thoughtless remarks. And, least of all admitted, for the dark figure that had slipped into her heart like an indelible shadow: Professor Snape.

Even the thought of it should have made her shudder, because who in their right mind would allow such a thing? He was sharp-tongued, cold, a man who practically invited others to despise him. Yet there was something in his eyes she had never been able to ignore: pain, yes, but also longing, a flicker that revealed more hidden beneath the black layers than he ever wished to show.

That he was the raven who had visited her, she now knew with a certainty based not only on evidence but also on intuition. At first it had been the scent, that hint of herbs, smoke, and something metallic she had recognized. Perhaps the way the bird had looked at her, too long, too piercingly, for it to be mere animal behavior. And then his eyes. She had felt no fear, not even when her heart whispered the truth to her. Another girl might have run, might have asked someone for help. But Hermione did not experience his presence as a threat; she experienced it as familiarity. She knew he only entered her room if she wanted him to, he never pushed, he watched, he listened, he stayed. That was enough.

There was, however, one event that confirmed her suspicion with an intensity that turned every assumption into certainty. She had been walking through the castle, as she so often did, losing herself in corridors she already knew by heart, and eventually she reached a room that appeared completely empty. In the center stood a huge mirror whose frame looked so old that centuries seemed to bend within the metal. On its surface stood a strange inscription: “Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.” She did not understand what it meant, had never seen such a language, yet something about it pulled her closer, as if the mirror itself were drawing her toward it.

She held her breath for a moment, because the air in the room changed, as though an invisible presence directed her attention to something she was not meant to overlook. Her own reflection appeared there, first clear, then flickering, then shifting into a strange transition between her childish and her grown self. Hermione felt a fine pressure building in her chest, a mixture of anticipation and a quiet fear that did not feel dangerous, rather like a deep, restless knowledge. A pale shimmer enclosed her like a delicate, living magic. A raven sat upon her shoulder.

Hermione felt her lips curve into a grin, a spontaneous reflex of recognition and astonishment, as though her body had understood faster than her mind. The sight struck her with warmth and familiarity, as if the mirror were speaking out a thought she had long kept hidden beneath the surface. In the next moment the bird in the reflection transformed into Professor Snape, who placed his hand on her shoulder as if he had always been standing there, calm, assured, with an expression she rarely saw in him. The contact in the mirror felt oddly real, so close that her skin actually warmed at that spot, as if the mirror world had briefly opened its boundary.

A heartbeat later he became the raven again. The image swung back and forth between the two forms as though the mirror were a stage finally showing her what she had already suspected but never dared to think aloud. Each shift struck her like a small pull in her chest, with a clarity that frightened and comforted her at the same time. The mirror did not only show her a picture, it showed her a feeling she could no longer push away.

It became abruptly clear to her that she had carried the truth deep inside her already. She had noticed it in the scent, in the atmosphere that followed immediately when he entered a room. Once, in class, he had passed so close behind her that she instinctively thought the raven was in the room. Only when she turned did she find the professor standing there, his gaze sharp, his cloak like a shadow in the light. She had believed the bird belonged to him.

During a lesson on animal essences, she had taken the opportunity. She pretended to leaf through her book in boredom, set her tone casually, almost indifferently, as she asked, “Do you actually use your own animal for demonstrations, Professor,” she said.

He barely lifted his gaze, only a brief, very controlled flicker of his eyes showing that the question had reached him. “I do not own a pet,” he said, his voice calm and terse, as though he were measuring every fraction he revealed. The answer sounded plain, yet Hermione sensed a small weight in it, like a boundary that slid between them.

This brief exchange confirmed what the mirror had already shown her. Hermione now knew with final certainty that he was the raven. She had already suspected it inside her, yet now it stood clear, firm, without need of further explanation.

The realization brought new questions she could not shake. She wondered why he came to her, why she of all people was the one he kept returning to, why he seemed so much quieter in his raven form than in class, where every sentence was laced with severity and distance. These differences did not fit together and made everything even more perceptible.

He never entered her room unless she had explicitly invited him, whether through a quiet word, an open window, or a small signal only he recognized. He never simply appeared; he never pushed. He waited until she let him know he could come in. He watched, he listened, and he stayed in that closeness that did not overwhelm and still held something calming. His presence was tangible without dominating the space.

She remembered the first time she had touched his feathers. They were soft as velvet, warm beneath her palm. A jolt had gone through her, not painful, but clarifying, as if her body recognized through that touch that she was safe, that everything would be all right.

She knew in that very moment that she must never speak of this knowledge, that she must never tell anyone what she had realized. Not her parents, not Harry, not Ron. Least of all Professor Snape himself. The realization that he was the raven who had visited her at night she carried like a secret glimmer inside her, dangerous and precious at once. If he ever discovered that she had seen through his secret, he would consider it a crossing of boundaries, an intrusion into a world he shielded from every gaze—perhaps even from his own. He would withdraw, silently, permanently, and she knew the thought of that loss would hurt more than anything else.

She felt at the same time that she did not understand what was happening to her, although one thing was completely clear, because his nearness made her feel sheltered, safer than any other place.

---

France was beautiful, the holiday home on the Côte d’Azur a paradise of bright walls, blooming oleander bushes, and the salty scent of the nearby sea. She loved the small coves, the calanques, reachable only on foot or by boat, surrounded by cliffs, the water deep blue and clear. Her father had rented a small yacht, and they went out almost every day, anchoring in hidden bays where the world seemed both smaller and immeasurably vast. Yet as much as she enjoyed all of it, there was a quiet throb in her heart whispering that a part of her was missing. Hermione realized how confused she was, because this feeling grew stronger the longer she thought about it.

On one of those days, the sun already burning high in the sky by morning, her neighbor Izabel had invited her to the beach. They were the same age, got along wonderfully, and so they ran laughing through the heat. They found a spot in the shade of a gnarled tree, jumped squealing into the water that wrapped their bodies in refreshing coolness. Hermione let herself float, looking up into the blue sky—and then she saw them. Three black birds, circling high above. Her heart leapt, and even though the thought was ridiculous, she had to smile. No, he could not possibly be here, in France, in the summer heat.

Izabel lay on her stomach on her towel, feet kicked playfully in the air. She rolled a little pebble between her fingers while watching Hermione with that curious sparkle she always had when she wanted an answer. “Tell me, Hermione,” she began eventually, barely able to hold back a grin, “isn’t there anyone you like? A boy maybe? Or at least someone who’s nice?”

Hermione almost choked on her sandwich. She coughed, blinked indignantly at her friend, and repeated, shaking her head, “A boy?” Her voice sounded as though Izabel had asked if she planned to fly to the moon.

Izabel laughed, let the pebble fall into the sand, propped her head in her hands, and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Well, I’m just asking. There’s a boy in my class who’s really cute, and he’s carried my bag twice already. I think he likes me. And I… I think I like him too.” Her cheeks reddened slightly, and for a moment she looked so proud and excited as though she had revealed a monumental secret.

Hermione pressed her lips together, smoothed the butter-paper carefully with her palm, and shook her head. “I really do not have time for that,” she replied, trying to soften the sharpness in her voice. “Most boys our age are silly, they never think about anything, they play all day and talk nonsense. I have other things on my mind.”

“Always just books, books, books,” Izabel teased, rolling onto her back with a sigh, arms folded behind her head. “You’ll see, someday there’ll be someone who makes you laugh, and then you’ll tell me everything.”

Hermione wanted to object, maybe even make a pointed remark about immature boys, but instead a thought shot through her head, so fast and so sudden she wanted to banish it immediately: Professor Snape. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw his face in her mind—those severe, dark features, the voice that echoed inside her, the gaze that challenged her every time, as though he wanted to see how long she could withstand it. She felt herself growing restless, and even while she wondered where this came from, she scolded herself in the same moment. Good grief, Hermione, he is your teacher, much older, distant, stern, and he probably despises you—how can you even think such a thing for one second?

“So the way you’re looking right now there’s definitely a boy, you’re all red in the face, Hermione,” Izabel said softly with a mischievous sparkle that made every comment of hers cut just a little deeper.

Hermione felt the heat rise even more in her cheeks as she cleared her throat and whispered, “Maybe.” A single, betraying word that instantly felt like a stone on her tongue, and so she waved her hand quickly, as if she could erase that slip of the tongue by sheer force. She was berating herself internally for this impulsive weakness, which Izabel of course noticed. Before Hermione even had time to breathe again, Izabel pointed laughing toward a movement nearby. “Look at that, they’re so bold, they’ll probably steal our food any second,” she said.

Hermione turned her head and froze inside. There, on a rock at the edge of the beach, sat three ravens, close together, their heads tilted, their black eyes fixed unwaveringly on her. Two seemed greedy and restless, fluttering, stretching their beaks as if they could already taste the bread. But the third… the third was different. Its feathers shone so deep and black that they seemed to swallow the light. Where the sun touched him, a shimmer lay over him, a bluish flicker she had seen before, when a streak of moonlight caught black hair.

She forced herself to show no reaction, tore off a piece of bread, and tossed it toward them casually. The two ordinary ravens immediately plunged onto it, fluttering and quarreling noisily. But the one remained still, unmoving, his eyes fixed only on her. Hermione knew in that moment, as surely as she had ever known anything—he was it, Professor Snape.

Severus, hidden in feathers, felt the weight of this closeness heavier than he wished to admit. He cursed himself inwardly for being unable to control the urge that drove him to her again and again, as though bound by an invisible leash pulling him toward her against all reason. She must never suspect it was him, must never understand that the raven she often let in at night was not a random shadow but her professor, pursuing her like an addict feeding on mere proximity.

To veil this truth, he had prepared, had found two half-wild birds he had painstakingly accustomed to his presence with food. Two greedy, untamed creatures that accompanied him like dim henchmen, making sure his own presence did not stand out. They served their purpose; they fluttered, croaked, threw themselves at every crumb like the beasts they were. He could hold back, maintain the appearance of a random flock. Yet even within this masquerade he felt exposed, as though she could see through any disguise, straight into his core. But that was impossible.

When she tore the bread and threw it into the sand, as if he were an animal being fed scraps, a pang of irony stabbed him like a knife. She, his little Gryffindor, who had feared him in the dungeons with wide eyes and a trembling lip, fed him here like a pet. As if he were nothing more than a feathered beggar. For a moment he wanted to take off in disdain, leave the scene behind. Yet he stayed, because he could not, because the look in her eyes bound him even when she did not know who he was.

“Five points from Gryffindor,” he sneered in thought, his inner smile bitter and painful at once, “because you, Hermione, dare treat me like an ordinary raven.” But beneath that mask of mockery lurked something else, something he did not dare name: the burning desire not to be just a shadow in her world, but someone who might one day receive not just a piece of bread but a portion of her attention, her trust, perhaps someday even her heart.

Day after day the pattern repeated. He flew, he observed, he waited until he could see her, and then he pulled away. France meant nothing to him, not the sun, not the warmth, not the sea—they were all irrelevant. Yet he stayed, only because of her. He gained color in his face, a tan unfamiliar to him. He knew Albus would laugh at him if he ever found out. Yet he did not care. Because as long as he was here, he could be certain nothing would happen to her.

Severus sat in a Muggle café, his long, slender fingers curled around a cup of black coffee whose steam rose into his eyes as if trying to obscure his sight. The chatter of tourists, the clatter of dishes, and the sweet aroma of croissants and jam surrounded him. He wondered why he had even settled here. Perhaps to forget, perhaps to drown out his thoughts. Yet his thoughts refused to be silenced; they returned again and again to the same point: to her. Hermione. And with that, to the unbearable question of whether she could ever accept him, ever understand, perhaps even more. At the same time he hated himself for this foolish weakness he had believed long buried.

He lifted the cup and drank deeply, as if he could trade the bitterness of the coffee for the bitterness in his chest. At that very moment he heard giggling. Two women at the next table, both young, both heavily made up. One with striking red lips, the other with long, shiny hair and a low neckline, cast glances at him. Not shy ones, but direct, challenging. The brunette tilted her head slightly, made a small unmistakable gesture inviting him to her table. A silent offer that asked for nothing but his presence.

He could have gone. He could have fled into the company of these two. Into a distraction that required no depth and carried no meaning. Fled into a smile that asked no questions. For a moment he seriously considered simply standing up and taking those few easy steps that would have led him to their table, into the shallow game of looks and hints that other men would seize without hesitation. He was no monk; he had had women, had used their bodies, had experienced the heat of shared nights, had lost himself in foreign skin when loneliness grew too loud. Yet since that damned soul bond, all of it had been erased, worthless, as if the magic in his chest had made everything else useless. It had been over a year since he last touched a woman’s body. Although his flesh sometimes cried out for closeness, for warmth, for the simple act of forgetting, he knew he could not anymore, that no other hand, no other lips, no other body could satisfy him, because he was already bound to her. His body remembered desire, yes, but his heart, his mind, his painfully broken inner self longed for only one person—her.

So he remained seated, because he belonged to someone else—bound not by choice but by fate, by a damned soul bond he hated and needed at once. With a short motion he placed coins on the table, stood up, turned away, and left the women behind. Without a word, without another glance, he stepped into the glaring sunlight that felt like mockery. He knew he had lost the battle against himself yet again.

Later, when the sun had already passed its zenith and the air shimmered heavy above the rooftops, he returned in his raven form. His wings carried him with that effortless strength now more familiar to him than any step on human feet. Severus flew where his heart guided him without resistance, to the Grangers’ house. To that place he knew almost better than he wished. There he found her, as he always did—with a book in her hand. This time lying in a hammock stretched between two trees. Her hair was saturated with the golden light of the sun, making it look like a burning shimmer that danced in the wind, making her appear unreal, alive, and unreachable at once.

He lingered on a branch, his talons gripping the wood tightly. He stared down, his insides swaying between conflicting emotions, between the burning longing to glide down to her and the bitter sense of reason that forced him to keep his distance. He could not help thinking that she was incorrigible, this little Gryffindor, this little know-it-all. The girl who even during holidays found nothing better to do than bury her nose in a schoolbook while other children her age swam, laughed, were carefree. Still, this very image, this unshakable seriousness, this passion for knowledge, stole his breath and held him captive so he found no courage to turn away.

He did not dare draw nearer, risking that she might notice him, might read in his eyes what he must not think, must not feel. So he stayed, as he so often did, in the shadows, in hiding. A silent guardian who contented himself with the simple fact that she breathed, that she laughed, that she was unharmed. It was enough to see her like this, to take this picture into himself, the way one holds a last breath in the chest to avoid suffocating in dark moments. He knew he would need this image when he returned to his dungeons, to the endless silence of the stones, to the dull thud of loneliness awaiting him there. The longing that screamed in his soul had been quieted for now. So he spread his wings, pushed away, and flew some distance until he reached a sheltered place where no curious Muggle eyes could see him. Severus transformed again and vanished with a soft pop, back to Hogwarts, back to his shadows.

Yet the image he carried of her remained within him, burned deeper than anything he had ever seen. He knew with bitter, merciless clarity that it would never fade, that it would accompany him in every hour, in every breath. That it would be his comfort and his torment all at once. And within this certainty lay a truth he could no longer deny: he would follow her, again and again, wherever she went. Whether he wanted to or not, because as much as he fought it, as much as he cursed himself for this weakness—she had already become a part of him. Inseparable and irrevocable.

Chapter Text

Oh, how he despised him, that miserable pretender, that vain peacock who, with a single toothy smile, sent every mother and daughter into raptures. As if they had fallen under the influence of a poorly brewed love potion. What was his name again? Ah yes, Gilderoy Lockhart. The man was no teacher, he was not even a charlatan with skill, he was a boil, a carbuncle on the body of the educational system, a repulsive smear among all the venerable volumes ever written on Defence Against the Dark Arts. But Severus could not prevent the simple thought of him from stirring a mixture of disgust and raw anger inside him, enough to make him physically shudder.

What, in all the gods of magic, had Albus been thinking when he let this fool into his castle. As if Hogwarts did not already hold enough dangers in its ancient walls, he had to unleash this vain, useless rooster on the students as well? Why could he, Severus Snape, who demonstrably possessed more practical experience and knowledge of the Dark Arts than Lockhart would ever cram into his hollow skull, not simply take the position? Ah yes, Albus had explained it, of course, Albus always had an explanation, a justification, a sly little argument that came in that sweetly mild voice of his. And it said that, should the Dark Lord return, it would be too obvious a sign if he, Severus Snape of all people, were to take the post. “Too close, Severus, too much mistrust, too much suspicion,” he heard the voice in his head, and he would have loved nothing more than to clench his fists and tell the old man to his face that it was called Defence, not Submission, not Admiration, not “Chatting about one’s own exploits.”

With a look that could scarcely have been darker, Severus stepped out into Diagon Alley, his black cloak sweeping just above the warm cobblestones as his gaze moved from shop window to shop window. Finally, he stopped in front of Flourish & Blotts, and what he saw there made him gag inwardly. In the window, neatly stacked, the ridiculous, overblown covers of all those unspeakable works of Lockhart gleamed in the afternoon sun. Each one bore his smiling, radiant face, each one posed like a circus magician rather than a wizard who had anything of substance to contribute. Severus tilted his head back, sent an inaudible plea to the heavens, half ironic, half earnest, begging that Merlin himself might drop a boulder from the sky right here and now to put an end to this spectacle.

That a man with such a hollow skull, with less sense than a lovesick hippogriff, with so much superficiality and yet so much audacity, made a fortune from it, that entire generations of students would be forced to buy and read his scribblings, was an insult to anyone who had ever written a serious book. Severus remembered all too well that summer evening when Lockhart had stood in Dumbledore’s office, upright, gleaming, with a smile so self-satisfied one wished to knock it off with a well-placed curse. Severus had stood silently beside him, studying the man, and his sense of people—one that had never deceived him—had revealed within a few breaths that this Gilderoy Lockhart possessed less substance than the sediment at the bottom of a failed potion.

While Severus still stared at the stacks of those books with pressed lips, he noticed the bustling activity around him. Crowds of families with their children, all excited, all busy, and to his dismay he realised he had chosen the worst possible day for his errand. Diagon Alley was overcrowded, voices echoing off the buildings, the shouting and laughter of students as they bought new wands, robes, and books. His already irritated stomach clenched even more when suddenly a group of young women, accompanied by giggling girls, rushed past him, all with sparkling eyes fixed solely on the shop window containing Lockhart’s books. “Autographs!” one squealed, “He’s here, he’s signing!” And in a heartbeat the crowd stormed inside.

Driven by a mixture of reluctant curiosity and masochistic self-punishment, Severus followed at a slow pace, his hands buried deep in the folds of his robe, through the door. He pushed between the shelves, eyes alert, and then, to his misfortune, he heard a voice he knew all too well. A shrill, uncontrolled tone he would have recognised among hundreds: Weasley. Naturally. Nothing could ever come easy.

But before he could roll his eyes, another blow struck him—not through his ears, but through his nose. It was that scent that hit him unprepared, that faint, sweet-clear hint of magnolia drifting through the air.

“Damn,” he thought, his heart stumbling, “she is here.” Panic flared, which he immediately had to suppress, and without a second thought he cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself, vanishing from every eye that might search for him. He pressed himself tightly against a shelf, as if he could hide his very weight from the world.

The aisles were narrow, and he knew they would inevitably move past him. Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley were directly before him, chatting, completely unaware that their teacher stood invisibly barely an arm’s length away. He shifted aside, tense, to avoid brushing them with his shoulders, and heard her say, “Ron, he’ll come, Harry’s probably just gotten out the wrong fireplace, don’t worry—oh, look, there he is.” Her voice, so clear, so certain, sliced straight through his nerves.

She was about to rush forward, but then she froze. Her heart stumbled, and she turned her head, searching, scanning between the rows.

Severus saw the colour rise in her cheeks as though an invisible breath had touched her. Invisible as he was, he remained still, motionless, though inside he was seething.

She was certain he was here, very close, even if she did not see him.

And in that single moment, he almost wished she would find him, pin him down, expose him, just to keep this strange bond between them from hovering like a phantom. But he stayed hidden, and eventually she turned away, left the shop, her steps hasty, almost fleeing.

Outside she threw her arms around Harry, greeting him exuberantly. The reunion briefly dispelled the flickering feeling burning inside her. She noticed Harry had grown, felt genuine joy, and together they went back into the shop where Lockhart was already signing books, handing out autographs, shining, gleaming, ridiculous.

Harry received his complimentary copies, letting the crowd shower him with admiration, children and adults alike staring at him with wide eyes as though he were not just a student, but a legend.

Hermione, standing beside him and watching it all, felt an odd mixture of pride and discomfort rise in her. She had devoured Lockhart’s works, page by page, chapter by chapter.

She had laughed at his anecdotes, marvelled at his adventures. A part of her had to admit that she admired this man, superficial as he seemed—maybe for the glamour, maybe for the smooth words, maybe for the feeling of entering a world where courage was always rewarded and danger always defeated. It was a crush, a light intoxication, the kind girls her age often felt, harmless, fleeting, like a summer rain that freshens the grass and evaporates moments later.

But as she watched Lockhart’s radiant smile and heard how he charmed the crowd with his syrupy voice, she knew deep inside that it was nothing compared to what truly burned within her. Because there was another man, dark, stern, unapproachable, even downright hostile. And yet he drew her in so powerfully she could no longer deny it. Professor Snape, who made her life difficult, who used sharp words and cold eyes to cut her down, was the one who held her attention. Not Lockhart’s polished façade of heroism, not the gleaming white of his teeth, nor the shine of his golden quill—but the shadows surrounding her professor, the bitterness in his eyes, the darkness wrapping him like a second skin.

Yes, he was awful to her, an unbearable, biting man who seized every opportunity to belittle or publicly humiliate her. And yet she could not help but lose herself in thoughts of him again and again. It was no longer a question of whether she liked him—she knew it, even though she could tell no one. A silent sting pierced her at the thought, because she was sad she had to keep it all to herself. Every person needed someone to confide in, but in this case it was impossible. If she uttered even one word, they would fire her professor, interrogate him, perhaps even imprison him. That must never happen; she would never allow it, even if it broke her.

But there was something deeper than anything she had ever felt for anyone, something she could not explain away. It was as though he saw her in a way no one else ever had, as though he pierced through the layers of facade and effort and knew exactly who she was, even if he would never admit it.

As she stood there, watching Harry with shining eyes and hearing Lockhart’s voice behind her, she felt it more clearly than ever: she liked him. This dark, unfriendly, complicated man who drove her mad in the dungeons. She liked him, despite everything—perhaps because of everything. And she knew she was crossing a boundary she should not cross, yet she could not stop, and for the first time she admitted the feeling without excuses, without explanations, without embellishment.

The mood of the day darkened when Malfoy arrived—Draco, who looked like a mirror image of his father. And then there was Mr Malfoy, tall, handsome in form, but cold as ice. This man radiated a dangerous superiority that instinctively frightened Hermione. The encounter ended in a wild confrontation between Mr Weasley and Mr Malfoy. And then came the scuffle in which Mr Weasley faced the arrogant Lucius Malfoy. Hermione said quietly but sincerely to Ron, “You should be proud of your father, he really gave old Malfoy a good beating.” She admired the loyalty and courage of the man defending his family.

Draco shot her a contemptuous look as he passed, his chin raised as though carved from pure arrogance. “Watch yourself, Granger,” he hissed mockingly, “people like you never know when to keep to their place.” His voice was thin with venom, his eyes pale with disdain.

He turned to leave, his cloak sweeping behind him like a dismissive gesture. And then something happened that could not be explained. Draco collided with something invisible, a barrier hidden from every eye. His body stopped abruptly as though someone had grabbed him by the collar—and the next second he lost his balance entirely.

He stumbled forward, his arms flailing in empty air, and then crashed to the floor. A dull thud, a sharp gasp escaped him. From his lip trickled a thin red line of blood down his chin.

“Damn it!” he snarled, this time hoarse and vulnerable, not the least bit superior, as he pushed himself up with trembling hands. His pale fury looked suddenly childlike, almost ridiculous, because the elegance he so desperately wished to display shattered in a single moment.

Hermione remained silent, but something in her vibrated. That had not been an accident. Something had come between him and the exit. Something invisible that reacted only when Draco hurt her. She did not dare turn around. She did not need to. She knew who had done it.

From the shadows, where no eye sought him, Severus watched the scene with attention sharper than any blade. Draco’s voice, that venomous hiss, barely touched him. The boy was a copy of his father, puffed up, empty, an image of arrogance without substance. But what he had said to Hermione made something in Severus’s chest twitch—a brief, dark impulse that came almost automatically.

He saw her take the words, saw her lips press into a line, saw her swallow them with iron control. Part of him admired that, another part felt an unexpected burn that Draco dared to speak to her like that.

The blond peacock turned, strutting as if the world belonged to him.

Severus’s magic slid like an invisible knife through the air, precise, cold, aimed at a single target.

The boy hit the unseen wall with force Severus had measured exactly. No bones would break—only his pride. Draco’s body immediately lost balance. The fall was ugly, a wet smack, then the sharp crack of a lip splitting open.

Severus watched him with an unreadable face, though inside something hissed and twisted. Say something like that to her again, he thought, the words in his mind sharp as a stab.

When Draco rose, cursing and humiliated, Severus’s gaze slid to Hermione. He should be ashamed. He should control himself.

As he remained invisible and his magic faded like a retreating wave, he knew exactly what was true: he would do it again. Every time someone hurt her. Every time someone took something from her. Every time she suffered. Because she had long become something he could no longer carve out of his heart, no matter how much he wanted to.

When the chaos subsided and the air calmed, only the aftermath of the scene remained. An uneasy feeling settled in Hermione’s chest, a weight she could not shake. She wanted to dispel the tightness, the constriction the moment had caused in her, and so she wandered through the rows, letting her fingertips glide over the spines as if searching for a hold, for quiet comfort in printed words. Her thoughts drifted, she breathed deeper, tried to banish the image of Malfoy’s cold eyes—and then she smelled it: sandalwood. Stronger, nearer, almost insistent, as if the scent had deliberately moved toward her. The smell was warm, dry, familiar, with a dark undertone that belonged only to him. Hermione did not freeze, but her breath caught for a moment, because she instantly knew what this scent meant. He was there. Somewhere between the shelves, invisible, hidden, like a shadow refusing to step forward and yet so close she could almost feel the warmth of his presence on her skin, as if someone placed a hand in the air just beside her arm without touching her.

A tingling pull wandered down her neck. Not fear, but a gentle, stirring recognition. She sensed him with an awareness deeper than any she could name. It was as if her body reacted faster than her mind.

Again she asked herself the same question she had carried for days: 'Why did he not reveal himself? What held him back when he sought her so often? Why visit her as an Animagus? Why stand so frequently in her vicinity, a silent shadow who came when she needed him and vanished the moment she turned?'

The closer the sandalwood scent drifted, the more a thought pulsed in her, a restless flicker of fear, longing, and something she hardly dared name. She knew he was here, maybe only a few steps away, perhaps standing with folded arms in a dark aisle, perhaps watching her with an intensity she was glad not to face head-on.

And the most absurd, illogical, unreasonable part of her was the one that longed for this feeling—this closeness, this scent, this presence no one else could evoke.

He was here. She felt him. And she did not understand why he wanted to stay yet remained hidden.

She had felt his presence almost constantly these past days, even if invisible. Perhaps it was because she had been surrounded only by Muggles, and the magic in him—his magic—flared like a beacon in her awareness. It did not frighten her; on the contrary, she longed to know the truth, to solve this riddle. But the moment she formed that thought, the scent vanished, extinguished. A deep, inexplicable sadness filled her. But she comforted herself with the certainty: in two days she would see him again, at the castle, at Hogwarts, her true home.

Now that the scent had faded, she felt her inner balance sway. Her fingers still clutched a random book spine, as if she needed something solid to keep from breaking. The room was not empty, but it felt as if it were, because the warmth he had brought for a moment was gone. She stood among shelves lined with knowledge, yet of all the answers books offered to every question in the world, none revealed why he watched her, why he stayed, why he vanished the moment she wanted to turn.

Hermione’s chest rose and fell in a rhythm that betrayed how deeply the brief moment had touched her. Part of her wanted to run after him, even if there was nowhere to find him. Another part longed simply to breathe again without his scent, his closeness, his enigmatic presence stirring something inside her she could hardly define. But she could not. The emptiness his disappearance left filled with a warmth she could not push away and a longing that felt stronger than before.

In two days she would see him again. Two days that felt like an eternity. Two days filled with anticipation and unease. Two days until she would arrive at Hogwarts, where the shadows were long, the walls cold, the corridors familiar—and where he was. The thought of meeting him again made her heart beat calmer.

Two days until the world made sense again. Two days until the longing was no longer just sandalwood dissolving into nothing.

Severus himself felt something he could not put into words. Her presence, her nearness, even when she could not see him, worked like a healing potion on his aching limbs. It was like a warm current against the darkness in his chest. Yet anger gnawed at him. He had seen how she had swooned over Lockhart, that pretender, that dilettante. It sent his blood boiling.

Jealous? No, certainly not, he told himself with a harshness bordering on desperation. He merely despised Lockhart, that was all, nothing more. But his heart beat faster, wilder, and in his mind flashed images, brutal and dark, scenes in which he silenced that peacock, broke his voice, knocked the teeth from his smug grin.

“No, Severus, calm yourself, you’re losing it,” he muttered in his mind as he strode quickly through Diagon Alley, tearing himself from the crowd and apparating back to the castle as though he needed the shelter of its walls before his own fury consumed him. “This damned soul bond… I am so tired of it,” he spat inside himself, full of bitterness, full of resistance. And yet he knew in the same breath that he lied, because as much as he fought it, as much as he cursed it, he enjoyed this bond. It kept him alive; it was the only reason his heart had not frozen entirely in the dark—and he would never admit it, not even to himself.

As he stepped through the castle gates and the familiar quiet enveloped him, a layer of calm settled over him. But it was deceptive, fleeting, like a veil over glowing embers. His steps echoed through the cool corridors, and he breathed easier when he reached the staircase leading down to the dungeons, the place more a home to him than anywhere else.

He descended the steps, grateful for the chill embracing him while the summer heat pressed down outside. “Then stop dressing so tightly,” mocked a voice inside his head, but he ignored it. Down here it was bearable, down here he belonged.

He opened the door to his chambers, dropped the protective charms, flung the door open and listened to the echo drift through the halls. He went straight to the bar, poured himself a large glass of Firewhisky, downed it in one swallow, and felt the burning heat in his throat. “Calm down, old boy,” he muttered, “it’s only Lockhart.” But his heart knew it was not just about him.

He poured a second glass, slower this time, and carried it into his laboratory. The work with cauldrons, the smells of potions, the quiet of shadows—those would help him survive the evening. In two days the silence would end, and the ruthless everyday routine would begin again. Then she would finally be here again, Hermione, that little know-it-all who, with her unbearable cleverness, her unwavering nature, and her much too sharp mind, filled the dungeons as if they belonged to her. She would again walk through the corridors, ask questions, enter his classroom with that burning gaze. Finally.

Chapter Text

Severus did not visit Hermione again in those two days, he held himself back deliberately, even though it tore him apart inside. Because he knew that he missed her, that he needed her voice, her presence, even in the innocent shape of the raven, like air to breathe. Yet he talked himself out of it, as he always did.

He threw himself into work. He refilled the potions Poppy had requested, arranged cauldrons, checked his supplies, brewed new elixirs, prepared the first lessons for the coming week with meticulous precision. He spoke with Albus several times, about Lockhart, about the recent events, about those things that occupied him inwardly without him ever voicing them. Work was distraction, work was duty, work was the only cloak that could muffle his thoughts.

Yet he was glad when the day came on which the new school year began, because today Hermione would return. As much as he resisted it, the agonising waiting would come to an end. The day passed in a swirling stream of voices, footsteps, luggage, fluttering owls, and nervous first-years. The corridors filled with life, children pushing, whispering, laughing, loudly recounting summer experiences, fleeting romances, or trivial adventures. Severus’ ears were already ringing before lessons had even begun. He felt impatience growing within him.

Then it happened, he sensed her before he saw her. Her magic washed over him like a warm wave that stole his breath. He walked past her, gaze fixed straight ahead. But he inhaled deeply, because through her mere proximity he could feel whole again. In that one moment, for the first time in weeks, he felt complete, healed. He hated himself for how deeply it affected him.

During the welcome feast he scanned the student tables. Potter and Weasley were missing. He noticed at once how uneasy Hermione was, her eyes gliding restlessly through the hall, she looked around, embarrassed, her hands folded in her lap. Again and again she glanced toward the staff table, toward Lockhart, whose exaggerated grin he could hardly bear. She narrowed her eyes as though she were trying to see through something, then let her gaze wander on—over Flitwick, Sprout, Sinistra—until her eyes landed on him.

Their gazes met for only a heartbeat. Brief, yet unmistakable. He felt at once that she wanted to tell him something—no word, only a silent signal, a pressure behind her eyes impossible to overlook. For that one blink of an eye he allowed his Occlumency shields to drop.

The effect came immediately. Unease. Tension. Something was wrong. She was not merely worried, she was alarmed.

He lifted his gaze just slightly as if to look more closely, yet he turned away and stared at the golden plates before him to avoid attracting notice. Within, however, he was already alert. Potter and Weasley were missing—and Hermione Granger had just confirmed that this circumstance was anything but harmless.

In the next moment Argus Filch entered the hall at a stiff march, his pitiful figure hunched, Mrs Norris trailing behind him as always. Severus despised that animal almost as much as its master, both equally sly, equally repellent. Filch bent down toward him, so close Severus could feel the foul breath that made him nauseous. He held his breath, inhaled only through his mouth while the caretaker whispered to him.

“Professor Snape,” Filch wheezed, bowing with a flushed face, “I must report that those two boys—Potter and Weasley—have finally turned up. And they have injured the Whomping Willow, yes indeed! They’ve really done damage, the little hooligans.”

Severus’ face twisted into a mask of dark contempt. He raised his gaze, let it sweep over Dumbledore, and sent him a sharp Legilimens signal: “Potter is here, so I’ll deal with him.” Then he stood so abruptly that his chair nearly toppled. He strode down the centre aisle with sweeping steps, without looking back once, yet he felt Hermione’s gaze burning between his shoulder blades.

His footsteps echoed against the stones, he walked—no, almost ran—toward the dungeons. Naturally Filch had brought the boys to his office, as always, because he knew full well that Snape was the strictest of them all and because Filch secretly delighted in the fear of students. Severus’ fury swelled as he flung the door open, and immediately the tirade crashed down upon the boys—sharp, loud, merciless—so that they flinched.

“Sit down,” Snape said, his tone leaving no doubt that this was no offer. His black silhouette seemed larger than usual, as though anger expanded him.

The boys sat. Hesitantly.

“Well.” Snape crossed his arms, his robes rustling like a dark warning. “You will surely wish to explain to me why a flying car was seen over Muggle roads this morning.”

Weasley swallowed. “We had to get to Hogwarts, Professor.”

“Had to,” Severus repeated with a sharp emphasis, as if Weasley had chosen an especially ridiculous word. “I am curious how this compulsion came to be. Was it a life-threatening situation? Burning buildings? Attacking Death Eaters? Dragons? No? Then kindly explain this suicidal stunt.”

Potter lifted his chin. “We had no way to get through the station barrier. The barrier—”

“The barrier blocked your way, so you steal a car,” Snape said with dangerous calm. “Brilliant logic. Genius. I wonder if you ever finish a single thought before you hurl yourselves into disaster.”

Weasley turned red. “We thought it would… be better than not coming to school at all.”

Snape leaned forward. “You alerted Muggles. Drew countless pairs of eyes. Broke the Statute of Secrecy. Violated wizarding laws that even first-years would not ignore. And now tell me, Weasley—” Snape fixed the boy with an icy, piercing stare “—whether you understand what your father is dealing with now.”

Young Weasley blinked. “My… father?”

“Yes. Your father,” Snape said sharply. “Arthur Weasley. The man whose car you stole. The man who must now explain himself before the entire Ministry. The man who is likely being told that his son does not understand the Statute of Secrecy and that he, as a Ministry employee, is hardly a role model.”

Weasley’s face crumpled. Snape pressed on: “Did you think about that? For even a single moment? About the consequences for him? The humiliation, the trouble, the interrogations that surely await him now?”

Weasley shook his head, subdued. “We… we didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mean to,” Snape said softly, but cutting. “You only meant to help yourselves. You did not think. You abandoned your sense like two idiots who believe a reckless action counts as a shortcut.”

Potter glared at him. “We didn’t have bad intentions.”

“No bad intentions,” Severus repeated. “Only boundless stupidity. You could have broken your necks. Or worse—you could have cost me even more work.” His mouth twitched. “Believe me, I would have gladly dumped you at the school gates and sent you home with a note: ‘Unable to survive a simple morning without a suicide attempt.’”

Potter looked ready to object, but Severus continued: “You are lucky.” His voice turned bitter. “Professor Dumbledore is here. He is always here when Potter messes up.”

The door opened. Dumbledore entered, calm like a quiet light in a storm.

“Severus,” he said gently. “The boys—”

“The boys broke laws.” Snape let the words fall like stones. “And they dragged Arthur Weasley into trouble they cannot even comprehend.”

Potter lowered his gaze. Weasley looked as though he wished to sink through the floor.

Dumbledore sighed softly. “Still, I see no benefit in punishing them in the way you suggest.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Of course not. Potter is spared. As always.”

Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment, then turned to Harry and Ron. “You have made a mistake.”

“A mistake,” Severus muttered with rotten venom in his voice.

Dumbledore raised a hand. “You will have to work hard to regain trust. For today… be grateful that things ended mildly.”

The boys nodded silently.

Severus looked at them as though he would gladly hurl them out of the nearest window. “Next time you intend to make a decision,” he said in a deep, dark tone, “think of your father’s face, Weasley. Think of how he stands before the Ministry today and must account for your stupidity.”

The redhead turned chalk pale.

“Out,” he said quietly but unmistakably. As the door closed behind the boys, Snape stood motionless for a moment, hands clenched into fists, breath harsh in his chest. Those two good-for-nothings had not only thrown the Ministry into turmoil, they had also made Hermione worry. She worried about everyone and everything, and those two fools had taken advantage of it, without sparing a single thought for what it did to her.

The thought that Hermione had suffered because of them burned in his chest like acid. His anger took on a new, sharper edge.

“Idiots,” he thought. “They don’t deserve even a flicker of her concern.”

The door had barely closed when Snape heard a quiet rustle behind him. Dumbledore still stood in the room, hands folded behind his back, his eyes in that unbearably gentle blue.

“Severus,” the headmaster said calmly.

Snape tensed his shoulders. “If you are here to tell me I am overreacting, you are wasting your time.”

Dumbledore stepped closer, studying him for a long moment. “I am here to speak with you. Not about the boys… but about you.”

Snape’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “I do not require moral supervision.”

“No,” said Dumbledore, “but perhaps you need a reminder that your anger is not directed solely at the boys.”

Snape blinked, his brow furrowing. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Dumbledore regarded him with a gentleness more provoking than any accusation.
“When you reprimanded them for whom they caused distress… you were thinking of someone specific.”

The blow struck hard and unexpected. Snape felt a spark of heat flare in his stomach.

“I think about the school rules,” he said curtly.

“Of course.” Dumbledore smiled faintly. “Yet I doubt the school rules have brown eyes and the habit of tugging at the sleeves of her jumper when she is nervous.”

Snape froze.

His jaw tightened. “You are meddling in something that does not concern you. It is bad enough that this little know-it-all has more of a hold on my thoughts than I prefer. I do not need your commentary as well.”

Dumbledore’s lips twitched, his tone remained calm, though the amused undertone was unmistakable. “I merely comment on what is noticeable, Severus.”

Snape pressed his lips together. “What is noticeable is that you amuse yourself with matters I do not find amusing.”

Dumbledore answered gently: “I am aware.”

Furious, Severus left the office, his black cloak lashing like a furious wave against the stone walls as his steps hammered across the floor. He was so caught up in his own rage that he nearly collided with the figure waiting outside the door. Only when he snapped at them, his voice a single cutting whip, “Get out of my way, you foolish girl!” did he realise whom he was speaking to.

In the instant Hermione’s eyes met his—wide, startled, darkly gleaming in the candlelight—he realised with brutal clarity what he had done. His stomach twisted painfully. He forced his voice into something calmer, though it was little more than a fractured façade. “Return to the feast, Miss Granger. You do not belong here.”

But the girl did not move, she did not immediately retreat as he was accustomed from students, no, she stood there as though rooted to the spot, looking at him with a gaze that struck him to the core. It was a look as though her eyes were drilling into him, searching for an answer in his face that he could never give. She lowered her head briefly, biting her lip. Then came her quiet, almost uncertain voice: “I just… I was worried, you know, Professor… after the two of them didn’t show up on the train, I informed our new professor about it.”

Severus’ breath faltered, and for a tiny moment something like a twitch flickered in his chest, an unwelcome stirring that felt dangerously like guilt. But in the next heartbeat his anger ignited again. Not at her—not at this girl who saw too much, felt too much—but at Lockhart, that pompous peacock, that ridiculous fool who had not even bothered to send word that two students were missing. Because of this glaring incompetence Arthur Weasley was now in the line of fire, Muggles had seen the car, the Ministry was investigating—all because this self-absorbed rooster was too incapable to look beyond the shine of his own teeth.

Severus’ fury, hot and merciless as always, found the wrong target. He unleashed it on her, on her who stood at the wrong place at the wrong time, and he heard his own voice, deep and hard, as he spat the words with ruthless sharpness: “I said back to the feast!” And then, each word a hammer blow between them: “You. Foolish. Girl. Now.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, he saw how they turned glassy, how tears gathered within them—unbidden, vulnerable. He cursed himself in that instant, but it was already too late. She turned away sharply, so quickly her hair lifted like a veil through the air. She ran down the corridor, her hurried steps carrying her away from him, away from the harshness he had hurled at her. Only the echo of her footsteps remained, and the bitter taste of guilt in his mouth.

Severus stood motionless, his cloak hanging limp over his shoulders, and the anger that had blazed through him moments before dissolved into a foul aftertaste. “A brilliant start to the new year,” he thought bitterly, the sarcasm sour on his tongue. “Now I’ve snapped at her as well, bloody perfect.” He tilted his head back as though he could pass the weight of guilt onto the ceiling of the gloomy corridors, closed his eyes and breathed deeply—in, out, in—trying to regain composure, yet it helped little. Inside him her gaze echoed, those eyes, so wide and so hurt. He knew he would not forget them soon. “Severus, you are a fool,” he muttered inwardly, a self-condemnation that stabbed like a cold blade as he finally moved on, drawing his cloak tighter around himself and seeking the darkness of the corridors to escape his own mind.

Days passed. Two weeks went by, and much remained the same. New students, as incapable as their predecessors, old students who had learned nothing, some as stupid as bread, others even more dim-witted than flobberworms. Potter kept to himself, and Severus was grateful for that. But Hermione—he noticed instantly—spoke up less often, avoided his gaze, kept her distance, as though she wished to maintain it. He pretended nothing had happened, carried on teaching as usual—strict, merciless, full of sarcasm and point deductions. But at night he felt the urge, stronger than before.

He managed two weeks, then he could endure it no longer. Seeing her only in class was no longer enough. One evening he rose in his raven form, glided through the darkness toward Gryffindor Tower and tapped gently against her window. It was late, almost midnight. He feared she might already be asleep. But then he heard the rustling of curtains, footsteps, quick and light, and at once the window opened.

“I thought you’d forgotten me,” she said quietly, and to his surprise she lowered her head and blushed. He did not understand why. Her eyes gleamed in the dim light, but her expression was not as joyful as usual. She returned to her bed, sat down. He remained outside, unsure, until she pointed at the mattress. He relented, fluttered inside, and settled down. Gifts lay everywhere—paper, cards, sweets, books. She picked up her wand, murmured a spell, and he immediately sensed her magic filling the room—a Silencing Charm over the bed.

“These are presents,” she explained simply as she continued unwrapping. “It’s my birthday today.” He glanced at a card, recognised the number, and realised: she was now thirteen, a teenager. So young, so innocent, and something bittersweet stirred inside him.

He remained silent, watching her closely as she opened parcels, folded cards with care, and arranged everything with meticulous precision. The silence was not unpleasant, rather familiar. Then she lifted her gaze, and for the first time in weeks she held his again—long, searching—until he remembered she could not see him, that he was only the raven. She sighed, stretched out her hand, and gently brushed over his feathers. He let it happen, felt the warmth flowing through him, and stayed still.

For one breath it seemed as if the world consisted only of this touch, of the gentle rise and fall of her chest, of the way her fingers trembled in his feathers, as though searching for something she could not name. He wished he could tell her he was there, that she was not alone, but all he could do was move a little closer so she could feel his presence.

He sensed something was wrong. She suddenly withdrew her hand, pulled the blanket up, and lay down. He had to hop aside quickly to avoid being pushed off the mattress. He flew onto the bedside table and watched her. She looked at him—sad, so sad he could hardly bear it. At last he turned away and flew out the window.

He did not hear her whisper “Good night, Professor.”
Nor did he see her struggle with herself.

Inside, Hermione lay awake, the darkness of the dormitory settling over her like a heavy curtain. Yet she found no comfort, no rest, for her thoughts circled endlessly around him. Around the man who had become so familiar to her over the past months, without him ever saying a single word about it directly, around the one to whom she had entrusted everything—her worries, her small joys, her secrets—in the quiet certainty that he, however closed-off he seemed, was listening. And now she kept hearing it again in her mind, those two words he had hurled at her like a curse on the first day of school—“Foolish girl.” They cut deeper than she ever would have imagined, deeper than she would ever admit to anyone.

She turned restlessly onto her side, pressed her face into the pillow, and before she realised it, tears ran down her cheeks. Hot, bitter tears she tried with all her might to hold back, yet the more she tried, the more unstoppable they became. It was not only the humiliation—it was the feeling of betrayal, that someone whom she had quietly made into her confidant could belittle her so harshly, so coldly, so mercilessly. She did not understand it, she did not understand him, and yet she felt this inexplicable connection that, despite everything, did not fade, like an invisible thread stretched between them.

Sobbing, she pulled the blanket tighter around herself, her breath coming in uneven bursts, and the silence of the dormitory only deepened the loneliness she felt in that moment. His words still burned in her heart, she still saw his face before her—hard, closed, inscrutable. And at the same time that flicker in his eyes she could not interpret. At last her eyelids grew heavy, the tears dried, and she drifted into a restless sleep. Her dreams were filled with deep-black eyes piercing through her and ravens circling silently above her with outstretched wings.

Severus sat alone in the dimness of his dungeons, the chair creaking under his weight. He leaned back, his gaze fixed on the flickering shadows cast by the fire across the rough walls. He felt something come over him that did not originate within him, something that settled over his chest like a foreign weight—heavy, inexplicable, almost crushing. He knew at once what it was, he had not shut himself off from it; his Occlumency shields were not raised. He felt her—that damned connection binding him to her, that forced him to share in her mood.

It was sadness—pure, unfiltered, dark yet gentle—a current flowing through him. It was not his own despair, but hers. Severus pressed his lips together, unsure what to do with it. He did not know the cause, he could not see into her mind from here, nor did he wish to. But this feeling struck him in the heart, making him falter as if he stood on uncertain ground.

He rubbed his forehead, muttered a curse that faded into the room. Bitterly he thought that he had enough of his own demons without having to feel hers as well. Yet this was how it was, this damned magic showed no mercy. All he knew was that she lay somewhere above in the castle, that she was unhappy without him knowing why, and that he could not bear it because her pain washed into him like a cold wave.

For one breath he closed his eyes; in that moment he forgot all shields, all bitterness, and he thought quietly, without meaning to: “Little Gryffindor… whatever troubles you, stop it. I cannot endure it when you feel like this.”

But the darkness did not answer, and so he remained, alone with the knowledge that he could do nothing but share her sorrow silently—just as invisible and unexplainable as the flames flickering before him.

Chapter Text

Oh, Potter, that incorrigible, defiant brat who, with an almost supernatural talent, always managed to place himself at the center of chaos. Even if he probably had no idea how he did it, the effect remained the same every time—he attracted everything like a magnet. Trouble, calamity, attention, admiration, and Severus Snape had been sick of enduring Potter and his self-righteous existence since the very day those green eyes had stared into the world. Today was no exception. He let his gaze drift across the Gryffindor table, saw the greedy smacking of lips, the unrestrained cheerfulness of the students during the Halloween feast, and yet—the golden boy was missing. He shone with absence, and Severus’ brow furrowed deeply, for when Potter was missing, it could only mean one thing: trouble.

It did not stop at Potter. Weasley and Hermione, the inseparable shadows of that boy, had also disappeared. Severus’ suspicion immediately took shape; he knew these children well enough by now to know that their disappearance was no coincidence but a symptom of mischief. He already felt his stomach clench with the realization that he would soon be sweeping up the mess those three were bound to leave behind. He had celebrated too early when, for a brief moment, he believed the feast might end without incident. Because only an hour later he found himself on the second floor in the midst of a crowd. Students screamed, pushed and whispered. When Severus forced his way through the mass, he saw her—Mrs. Norris—petrified, stiff, motionless, hung high on the wall like a cruel trophy.

Filch lunged at Potter, his face contorted with pure hatred. “Potter!” he spat. “I knew it! It was you! You petrified my Mrs. Norris! You bring misfortune wherever you appear!”

Potter stared at him. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t you lie to me!” shrieked Filch, his hands trembling. “You think you’re better than everyone! Just like your father! All of you spoiled, inconsiderate—”

Severus stepped between them, his coat a black lash in the air. “Enough, Filch,” he said, icy cold. “Potter has nothing to do with this.”

Filch glared at him. “Of course you defend him! Everyone protects him! But I’m telling you, Professor—the brat did it. I can feel it!”

Severus leaned forward slightly, his voice deadly quiet. “If you continue to accuse Potter without evidence, I will inform Dumbledore that your judgment… is deteriorating.”

Filch’s lips quivered, but he fell silent.

Severus’ cold eyes darted from the cat to the red letters spreading across the wall as if written in blood: The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware!

A shudder, involuntary and unwelcome, crawled up his spine. Not because he was afraid, but because he knew that words alone were never enough to plunge a school into terror. They were a promise of more, of darkness that was only just beginning.

Potter stood there, wide-eyed, his companions trailing behind him. Severus’ gaze slid past them—searched—and found Hermione, who quickly looked aside, bowing her head as if she wanted to vanish into the stone floor. A faint, barely perceptible sting shot through his chest. Since her birthday, he had not seen her in raven form; she avoided him. And in class she had grown quieter, more reserved, as if she were consciously keeping him at a distance. She raised her hand less often, and every time he did not see it shoot upward, something invisible grated inside him. He hated the silence between them, yet he relied on the soul bond to remain where words failed—a faint glow that reached him even when she was not near.

Severus could have sworn the three knew more than they admitted. And yet, when he used the opportunity to probe Potter’s mind, he saw nothing—nothing except a ridiculous ghost party, some place where these children had wandered while everyone else feasted in the Great Hall. So he was left with the bitter certainty that he could not expose them, even though every fiber of his being screamed to do so.

Dumbledore, ever the benevolent savior, dismissed any punishment, sending the children away without consequences. Severus felt the anger simmer within him, unheard, unused, trapped in the endless spiral of injustice that always spared Potter.

He would have loved to assign them detention—hours upon hours with Filch in the musty shadows of the castle corridors.

The fire cast long shadows on the walls as Severus stood before Dumbledore’s desk. The situation in the castle was tense, dangerous. And yet the air held a strange mixture of seriousness and that typical, unshakable calm of the headmaster.

“The Chamber has been opened,” Dumbledore said, his voice quiet but firm. “We both know what that means.”

“We also both know who is at risk,” Severus replied immediately. “I will protect Potter as always. That much is obvious. But…” He inhaled, squared his shoulders. “…I must protect Hermione first and foremost.”

Dumbledore’s gaze softened, warm with understanding. “Your soulmate.”

Severus’ eyes narrowed slightly, more out of discomfort than denial. “Yes… she is bound to me. Whether I want it or not.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “I understand your concern, Severus. And I share it.”

A moment of silence followed.

Then Dumbledore asked with gentle but pointed curiosity, “How is she? You are closer to her than anyone else. You will feel it.”

Severus exhaled sharply. “She is… sad.” The word came heavily. “Unsure of herself. She hardly speaks in class anymore. And she avoids me. Obviously.” He looked aside, irritation at himself gnawing deeper than he wished to show. “She can barely look at me. When I enter a room, she tenses. When I speak to her, she flinches. It is…” He shook his head. “…it is difficult.”

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, a small smile touching one corner of his mouth. “Severus… did you do something?”

“No,” Severus said instantly, indignant, almost too quickly. “Of course not.”

“Hm.” Dumbledore’s smile widened, unmistakably amused. “Severus, I’ve known you for over twenty years. When a girl avoids you, nine times out of ten you’ve done something which you believe was harmless.”

Severus’ brow furrowed dangerously, but the expression carried less defiance than the obvious struggle not to incriminate himself. “I… may not have reacted ideally,” he forced out eventually, each word dragged from him against his will. “I was annoyed. She… and I—” He broke off, biting back the words before they became too honest. “—phrased it too harshly.”

Dumbledore’s brows rose slowly, and the slight, knowing smile on his lips said everything. “Ah. So you did do something.”

Severus’ expression darkened. “I did not shout at her.”

“No, Severus,” Dumbledore said mildly, “you merely snapped at her, as you would call it, and that is, in your eyes, entirely harmless.” His smile grew by a hair. “For a thirteen-year-old girl, it is not.”

Severus twisted his mouth as though he would rather drink a glass of undiluted wormwood essence than continue this conversation. “You exaggerate.”

“No,” Dumbledore replied in that friendly, exceedingly dangerous tone, “but you did snap at her. And for someone like Hermione Granger, that carries more weight than you believe.”

Severus wanted to retort, but nothing came to mind that did not sound like an excuse.

Dumbledore folded his hands. “You tend to underestimate the impact your words have, Severus.”

“Hm,” Severus grumbled.

Dumbledore regarded him with an almost fatherly kindness. “Severus… the child is thirteen. She is in adolescence. She feels too much, understands too little, and reacts accordingly.”

Severus snorted softly, a sound between frustration and weakness. “Adolescence,” he repeated bitterly. “Wonderful. What a delight.”

Dumbledore chuckled quietly. “For you, certainly.”

Severus massaged the bridge of his nose, as if pressing down could stop his head from exploding. “The bond… binds me. And when she is afraid or suffering, it is… hard to endure.”

“A high price for a deep connection,” Dumbledore said gently.

“I do not need poetry,” Severus growled.

“No,” Dumbledore replied pleasantly, “but you do need patience. And understanding that young girls sometimes run from things.”
He winked. “And sometimes they run from a man who rumbles like a brewing storm.”

Severus snorted again, quieter this time, almost resigned.

A few days later he witnessed Gryffindor, that detestable, smug house, winning against Slytherin once again. Not narrowly or fairly, but in the usual insufferably heroic way that damned Potter embodied. Potter flew like a madman across the field, with a recklessness toward his own safety that one might almost call bravery—if one did not know it was in truth foolish self-overconfidence.

Yet even by Potter’s standards, something felt off in the air, a disturbance sliding like a cold sting between Severus’ ribs. The boy wasn’t merely reckless—he seemed hunted, as if he were not flying but fleeing. Something was wrong. The magic of the match felt unbalanced, as though an invisible force tugged at the threads of events.

Then Severus saw with his own eyes how the Bludger—a ball that possessed enough force to knock the breath from any student—struck the boy full-force in the arm. A blow that would have shattered the bones of any grown man. But Potter kept flying, flying as if his life depended on it, flying as if nothing could stop him. And while Severus was still forming the thought that such an injury could not possibly leave him unscathed, he watched the brat, face contorted with pain, reach out for the golden Snitch anyway. He caught it, fell from his broom, and held the Snitch triumphantly aloft.

As if matters weren’t already unbearable, Severus had to watch Draco Malfoy—his supposedly precious Seeker, the one Lucius had forced on him—tangle himself in the goal hoops like an incompetent first-year who had only just learned how to sit on a broom. Severus knew that with this miserable performance he lost every shred of credibility in the eyes of the other houses, that the Slytherins laughed behind his back because he had allowed himself to be bought by the son of a man he secretly not only despised but had come to hate with all his being.

Lucius Malfoy, with his oily voice, flattering words, and obsessed eyes that never truly smiled, had suggested Draco as Seeker. And in the same breath he had mentioned a donation to the Quidditch team, a set of the latest Nimbus brooms. Severus, who despised nothing more than betraying his principles, had nodded, kept a straight face, even forced a smile when Lucius sent Narcissa’s regards and invited him to dinner. An evening in which Severus felt as if he were auctioning off his soul piece by piece to the highest bidder. He had done it not because he wanted to, but because Albus had demanded it. Because politics and maintaining power mattered more than honesty or dignity.

He hated it. He hated Lucius with every fiber of his being, hated Draco for his arrogance and incompetence, hated Albus for his eternal game with chess pieces. And most of all, he hated himself—because he had become part of this farce. Because he had allowed himself to be used, had let them buy his integrity with a few Nimbus brooms. The shame clung to him like a second skin, smothering him every time he remembered the forced smile.

And then, as if the universe took particular pleasure in tormenting him, Lockhart appeared—that ridiculous peacock who actually believed he was meant to stride into the crowd of students like a self-declared hero and personally “heal” Potter’s injury. Severus had to press his lips together so tightly that they turned white to keep from laughing aloud when the idiot raised his wand with a theatrical gesture that was more show than magic, sweeping it over Potter’s arm. And indeed, the result was not healing but a catastrophe so grotesque it bordered on comical.

The bones vanished. Just like that. Not broken, not misaligned, not scarred—simply erased. Potter lay there with a limp arm that resembled an empty rubber tube more than a human limb. Severus, much as he despised the boy and enjoyed every humiliation he suffered, felt a twinge of pity. For the pain that awaited him now was not one he would wish on his worst enemy.

Skele-Gro—he knew exactly what it meant. He had brewed it more than once himself, knew its vile taste, the burning sensation that crept like glowing needles through every bone as it slowly, painfully slowly, regrew. Potter would spend nights in agony. Nights in which he would writhe and scream. All because a fool like Lockhart believed a charm would repair what he only made worse.

Severus, who usually savored moments like this, felt nothing but bitterness this time. A bitterness directed not only at Lockhart but also at himself, because he had to admit that in this madhouse of a school, he might be the only one who truly saw the chaos, even though he realized every time that he was too weak to change it.

He normally relished moments like this, yet now felt only bitterness—a bitterness not solely aimed at Lockhart but also himself, for admitting that he was the only one who saw the chaos of this insane school, despite knowing he was far too weak to change it.

Shortly thereafter he entered the hospital wing, which smelled as always of disinfectant, warm air, and that faintly sweet scent Pomfrey stubbornly used in her potions. His steps echoed softly on the stone floor, and his cloak weighed heavily on his shoulders as he approached with a small, thick-walled crystal bottle in his hand. He had ensured the pain potion was exceptionally strong, far more effective than the standard mixtures used for bone regrowth, because otherwise Potter would not endure the coming hours and nights without hysterical screaming. Preparing it had cost him more effort than necessary, because he wanted the mixture as stable as possible.

Pomfrey approached, hands on her hips, and he handed her the potion with a curt comment that Potter would otherwise beg for morphine every hour. In the same moment he sensed that familiar, faintly vibrating magic—that unique resonance that always, despite everything, told him she was near. It struck him like a warm breeze loosening something in his chest, though he neither permitted it nor understood it.

Hermione was there. Hidden behind one of the tall curtains, presumably with Potter, who was wallowing in self-pity over his limp rubber-arm bones. Severus knew it without needing to see her. The magic of his soulmate was unmistakable.

He straightened a little, felt his posture stiffen, and deliberately spoke louder than necessary. “The potion is stronger than the standard mixture. I added an extra set of stabilizing herbs,” he said in a voice that sounded almost casual. “It should reduce the pain significantly.”

Pomfrey nodded and disappeared toward Potter’s bed, while Severus used the opportunity to glance sideways. A narrow gap in the curtain revealed part of the hospital bed. Hermione stood there, one hand on Potter’s blanket, the other gripping the curtain fabric as if holding herself upright. Her eyes searched for him, and for a fraction of a second their gazes met.

Something flickered in her face—surprise, perhaps something else he could not immediately identify. A tiny moment, scarcely longer than a breath, in which she truly saw him.

Then she moved quickly, pulling the curtain shut, the fabric swallowing her reaction so thoroughly that Severus wondered whether he had imagined that fleeting expression. Yet the magic lingering in the air remained—warm, familiar—and he realized how much he had missed that contact.

He had hoped that the potion he’d improved for Potter—and thus indirectly for her—might smooth things over a little. A small step, a quiet sign, an attempt to ease the chaos he had caused.

But once the curtain fell, the same distance spread between them again, heavier than the bottle he had brought.

He finally turned, his cloak rustling lightly over the tiles, and left the hospital wing with the unpleasant sense that all his efforts bounced off her like rain against cold stone.

He was not getting any closer to his soulmate. Hermione ignored him—in raven form, as a professor, as anything he could possibly be. She avoided him in lessons, looked right through him. Even when he tapped at her window in raven form, the glass stayed cold and closed. This silence between them, this strained nothingness, made everything unbearably heavy. Heavier than he would ever admit.

And then came the day when his frayed patience finally snapped. It was not enough that Gryffindor drove him to madness with endless antics—no, now his lessons collapsed into absolute chaos. And in a manner so ridiculous it bordered on absurd. Goyle, that poor, mentally under-equipped boy, had managed to blow up his cauldron in such a spectacular fashion that the Swelling Solution rained down like a sticky, viscous shower across the entire class. Severus, who at first thought his head might explode with rage, found himself forced to administer counter-potions to almost half the students. Faces, arms, hands, and legs swelled like inflated tubes until they were nearly unrecognizable. He ripped open drawers, rummaged frantically through cupboards, counted bottles he had intended to ration, and knew even then that his stock was evaporating at an alarming rate. Students waddled across the floor like overinflated balloons, whining pitifully.

The scene was so absurd that even Severus, for one heartbeat, realized how ridiculous it must have looked. Yet his fury remained unshaken, because he knew—felt—smelled—that this was no foolish beginner’s mistake. It was something else, something deliberate, something aimed at sabotaging him and his class. Severus bent over each cauldron, letting his cold eyes inspect every drop, searching for the decisive clue that would reveal which of these incompetents had dared challenge him.

And indeed, after endless minutes of searching, during which he held the entire class under his merciless gaze, he found the evidence. Nothing more than a blackened, half-charred scrap, but unmistakable to him: a firework. Someone had thrown it into the cauldron to cause an explosion. He held the torn remnant between two fingers, lifting it high so the students fell silent, their frightened eyes fixed on him. He felt a near sense of satisfaction as silence dropped over them like a suffocating veil.

“Look at this!” His voice cut through the room like cold iron. “One of you pathetic bunglers believes himself clever by attempting to sabotage my lesson. I promise you this—I will find the culprit.”

But the satisfaction dissolved as quickly as it came, because when he cast the identification spell, which should have revealed the owner’s name, the charred scrap burst into dust. It was now so destroyed that no magical trace remained, and with it his hope of exposing the culprit publicly shattered at the moment he desired it most.

Later, in the quieter hours when the torches in the dungeons burned low, Severus retreated into his storerooms to restore at least some order. He checked shelves, counted bottles, compared numbers with his lists—and suddenly froze. A gap. Exactly where Boomslang skin should have been. Not a few grams, not a small miscalculation, but an amount impossible to overlook.

He stared at the empty space, feeling his stomach clench, because it was immediately clear this was no mistake. Someone had helped themselves. Deliberately. Knowingly. Leaving no trace.

The realization frustrated him more than any concrete suspicion. He lacked a name, a face, a clue. Only this open gap mocking him. He closed the cabinet with a sharper movement than intended and felt his anger rise, because someone had meddled in his domain without him noticing.

The walk back to his chambers felt longer than usual, his steps echoing across the stone floor, and when he closed the door behind him, the sense remained that something was slipping from his grasp—something he normally held firmly.

He ended up alone in his chambers, a glass of firewhisky in his hand, the liquid burning warmly in his chest, numbing his anger for a brief moment. He sat in the darkness, closed his eyes, and another thought pushed forward—Hermione. How she avoided him, how she evaded him, how quiet and serious she had become in his classes, and how it was his fault.

“Stupid girl,” he had said. Albus had been right—he had hurt her. And Severus knew the words had struck deeply, too deeply perhaps, and he, too proud, too stubborn, too cowardly to ask forgiveness, remained behind knowing he had created the distance himself.

He sat there for a long time, glass in hand, darkness like a heavy curtain around him, and the thought of her gnawed at the edges of what little self-control he had left. Stupid girl. He knew that one careless word had caused a crack—finer, deeper, sharper than it should have been. He also knew it would never fade unless he smoothed it out. A task at which he was abysmal.

When he finally rose and set his glass aside, it was not reason that guided him. It was the bond—that faint pull, a barely perceptible pulse against his chest. A call he could no longer ignore. Not now.

Without further thought, he allowed the familiar tug of transformation. His shape shifted, bones shrinking, feathers sprouting, the world sharpening and broadening at once. Seconds later a large, black-gleaming raven sat upon the windowsill of his chambers. He beat his wings once, pushed off, and glided into the cool night air of the castle.

The path to the Gryffindor Tower was etched into him like instinct. Each wingbeat was purposeful, each current carrying him closer to her. He landed on the stone ledge outside her window and saw the warm light flickering within. His heartbeat—smaller and faster in this form—still felt strangely human.

He raised his beak and tapped against the glass.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Nothing.

A fourth tap, longer, almost insistent.

When she heard the familiar soft tapping at the window, Hermione felt a brief sting in her chest, a strange pull she neither wanted to welcome nor found herself able to ignore. She drew the curtain aside and saw him sitting there—the large black raven that had been following her like a silent shadow for months.

He saw the movement inside, heard the faint rustle of fabric. The window opened slowly, cautiously, and Hermione peeked out, her face half in shadow, half lit by the candlelight behind her.

A soft, weary comment slipped from her lips as she pushed the window open, cold air rushing against her face. “You never give up, do you?” she said, half to the room, half to him. “Fine… come in,” she added, too polite to leave him outside—and because she did not actually want him to leave.

The raven hopped inside, shook himself slightly, and looked at her. That gaze was the worst of it. Too attentive. Too unmistakable.

Hermione truly had no idea what he wanted. Why he came. Why she mattered enough that he appeared at her window at night. And at the same time she understood it. He watched her. Somehow he always did. But understanding did not make it easier to bear.

Cold air drifted through the open window, so she closed it quickly before the girls’ dormitory chilled. Then she sank heavily onto her bed, drawing her knees to her chest as if bracing against something invisible. Her chest felt tight, as though the day still clung to her.

And when she saw him sitting there again, as if he had every right to be in her room, as if she had something he needed or expected, the question rose within her once more—one she had carried for days: 'Why me? Why do you, of all people, have to make my life difficult when all I do is learn, function, and try my best? Why are you here? What do you want from me? What did I ever do to deserve this from you?'

Her raven took a few steps closer, not pushy, almost as though he wanted to be near her without imposing. Which made it somehow worse.

She rubbed her eyes, exhaled deeply, and the words slipped out without thought: “I’m in a bad mood.” Her voice sounded rougher than expected, and the small huff that followed was more a broken sound than a laugh. “I’m in a bad mood because a teacher is making my life hell. And I don’t even know why.”

The raven moved closer to her, slowly, cautiously. Then he tilted his head and rubbed it briefly against her hand—just long enough to make it clear it was no accident.

Hermione froze—surprised—and then, slowly, a small, weary smile appeared on her lips. Her fingers touched his feathers, hesitant at first, then softer, more stroking. She saw him close his eyes for a single breath.

He lowered his Occlumency shields briefly. And then he saw it—the echo of what she truly felt. Her gaze grew glassy, and he used that moment. For just one heartbeat he opened the connection to her mind, diving in like a dark wingbeat into cold water.

He saw it immediately.

Those words he had spoken in irritation: Foolish girl.
How they had struck her.
How they echoed.
How deeply they had hurt her—far more than he ever intended.

He withdrew instantly. She continued stroking his feathers, gentle, steady, almost comforting, completely unaware that he saw more than he ever should have, and that this brief glimpse burned into him the reality of what he had done with a single careless word.

Shame and helplessness twisted inside him, a knot of guilt and something he refused to name because it felt too dangerous. And while she stroked him like a simple creature seeking her comfort, he realized he could not stay. Not in this room, not so close to her, not in this moment when he finally understood how deeply he had hurt her—and how utterly unprepared he was to handle it.

He had to leave.
Immediately.
Because each heartbeat by her side tightened the pressure in his chest, and the bond pulled at him, urging something he could not allow.

The raven let out a soft, low sound—a brief, almost raspy noise with an origin far too honest to be mere animal instinct, a sound that felt like an apology even if he would never admit it. Then he spread his wings, hesitated for a breath—just long enough for her to blink in surprise—and hopped onto the windowsill. She followed and opened the window.

Cold night air rushed in, hitting his feathers, and before she could ask why he had come or why he left so suddenly, he pushed off and disappeared into the darkness. The faint trembling of the bond remained, reminding him of her.

Two days later Severus stood again at the front of his classroom, his robe sharp as a blade, every movement precise and controlled, while snake root simmered in the cauldrons and the heavy scent of metal, herbs, and a healthy dose of student despair filled the air. He let his gaze sweep across the class slowly, that silent threat in his eyes unmistakable, and finally announced in a tone that allowed no argument, “An announcement. Today’s potions will be graded.”

The groan that followed he ignored as effortlessly as Potter’s sudden pallor, Weasley’s panicked stare into his cauldron, or Malfoy’s crumbling arrogance. Yet when his gaze passed over the rows, it lingered briefly on her—not long, only a heartbeat, but long enough to see Hermione tense immediately, straighten her back, and focus with exaggerated precision on slicing the snake root. Her fingers worked meticulously and yet so strained that her nervousness was impossible to miss, and he felt clearly that he bore responsibility for it, though he had no idea how to smooth things over now.

The lesson dragged on, cauldrons bubbling, students cursing, and Severus pacing silently between the tables, as menacing as ever, without truly helping anyone. Shortly before the end, the students trudged forward one by one to submit their finished potions, and when Hermione approached, he recognized immediately how tightly she held the vial—too tightly for glass—and how visibly her heart hammered up to her throat. Her steps were soft, yet each one seemed a small battle. She placed the potion with meticulous accuracy in front of him—no spill, no tremor—then turned immediately to leave, her shoulders raised as if bracing for another blow.

He could have let her go.
He could have stayed silent.
But before pride could stop him, he said, in a calm, unhurried voice, “At least someone here knows how to brew a proper potion.”
No warm praise, no encouragement—nothing that would normally be considered a compliment. Merely a dry observation. Yet he lifted her vial slightly, and despite the neutral tone, the meaning was clear.

Hermione paused. Not long—just a moment. But he saw her fingers twitch subtly, as though a pressure within her eased without her knowing how tight it had become. She did not turn, did not speak, simply walked on—but her eyes carried a faint shimmer one could easily miss without looking closely. Meaningless to everyone else. Not to him.

He watched her for a brief, discreet moment—long enough to recognize that this single sentence had done more than he would ever admit aloud. He sensed clearly how a warm spark of joy rose within her, a bright, timidly glowing core that blossomed from the simple thought that she had finally done something right in his class. A moment that meant more to her than any spoken praise ever could, because this almost imperceptible sign of his satisfaction had already exceeded what she believed she could expect from him. This brief, gentle jolt through the bond struck him more unexpectedly than he cared to admit.

Somewhere deep within him, a cautious thought stirred, one he had almost forgotten: Perhaps not everything between them was lost.

Chapter Text

Thus the next weeks passed. Ever since Mrs Norris’ auction, everything had remained quiet, a silence that lay over corridors and classrooms like an unexpected veil and even dampened the usual escapades of the students. An almost deceptive calm had settled over the castle, and for a brief moment Severus allowed himself the thought that this school year might, for once, be less exhausting. He was gravely mistaken, because the calm was only the prelude to what inevitably had to follow.

Of all people, Gilderoy Lockhart, that walking peacock who called himself a professor, had the wretched idea of founding a duelling club. Severus knew with bitter certainty that trouble was unavoidable. Rolling his eyes, he noted that the dandy had scheduled a large gathering for Friday evening in the Great Hall, supposedly for all those students who wished to practise the noble art of the duel. In truth it was nothing more than yet another pretext to bask in the limelight which, in his opinion, already shone on him far more than excessively. Whether through books, through crude self-promotion or through the adoring sighs of pubescent schoolgirls, it was all the same. He felt like vomiting.

It was Thursday evening, and Severus was in his private chambers, marking the last miserably scribbled essay of a fifth-year. It was such a botched piece of work that one had to wonder whether the student in question had ever listened to a single second of the lesson. He already felt the urge rising again to pour himself a generous Firewhisky when there was a soft knock at his door. It was such a tentative knock that it sounded almost like the ticking of a clock. With the typically dismissive sharpness in his voice, which came as naturally to his lips as breathing, he called, “Enter,” without even looking up. He firmly hoped it was a student with something as trivial as a forgotten Potions recipe or a stupid excuse to present, whom he could drive away with just a few words.

But when the door opened a crack and Lockhart’s beaming, grinning face shone at him, an inner curse shot through him so loudly that he almost thought the stones of the dungeon walls must be able to hear it echo. That bitter, acrid taste of disgust rose in him, the one that always appeared when his patience was driven to the surface with unavoidable relentlessness. “By Merlin, send me Fiendfyre, but spare me this man,” he snarled inwardly, while outwardly he maintained the mask of controlled disinterest. A mask he had perfected over decades to ensure that his inner world would never become visible to others.

Had he said nothing at all, Lockhart would most likely have gone away again, so much did the self-adoring fraud, for all his vain self-confidence, seem to respect him. A respect he had not earned through knowledge or skill, but solely through the dark aura that surrounded Severus. Unfortunately fate was not kind that evening, and Lockhart began to speak in that overzealous tone which made the hairs on the back of Severus’ neck stand up like needles every single time. “Professor Snape, what a delightful surprise to find you still awake,” he began in that excessively jovial sing-song voice, as if he were at a society ball and not in the damp depths of the dungeons.

What followed was an never-ending torrent of bragging, stories bursting with absurd feats of heroism that fuelled Severus’ cynicism afresh with every passing second. There was talk of supposedly slain trolls, of villages he claimed to have saved single-handedly, of vampires he allegedly had driven off with superhuman skill. All of it entirely fabricated, of that Severus was certain. While the words of the conceited babbler fluttered around the room like annoying midges, he seriously wondered whether this man had ever cast a spell correctly or whether he was simply a particularly cunning impostor who thrived like a parasite on the stupidity, naivety and gullibility of others. At some point there was only a rushing in his head, a monotonous sound that condensed into a uniform “blah blah blah” that almost sent him to sleep, if not for the quiet rage that kept him awake.

Only when Lockhart suddenly and unexpectedly mentioned the true reason for his appearance did Severus prick up his ears. He straightened, without consciously intending to, a little in his chair, like a cat that hears a faint rustling in the undergrowth. “Well then, Professor Snape, might you consider doing me the honour of serving as my assistant tomorrow evening?” Lockhart asked, baring his dazzlingly white teeth. They were so flawless, so bright, that Severus would most gladly have jabbed them with a firm strike of his wand, just to check whether there was any real dentine beneath that glaring sheen or whether this too was merely another artificial product, a symbol of the façade that entirely made up this man.

Severus hesitated for only the briefest instant. A barely measurable fraction of time in which his mind weighed the pros and cons. Then he curled his lips into a mocking smile that only the initiated could correctly interpret. “But of course, PROFESSOR,” he replied, dripping with irony, each syllable honed as sharp as a knife. “It would be an honour to stand by your side with help and advice.” Inwardly, however, he laughed raucously, so loudly that it echoed through him like rolling thunder. Because he looked forward to the spectacle that would mercilessly expose this fraud before everyone’s eyes. A part of him, a dark, ever-lurking part, positively longed for this triumph.

He dismissed Lockhart with an unmistakable “Until tomorrow, PROFESSOR,” the emphasis so sharp that even the vainest listener would have to realise that the conversation was over. Lockhart actually withdrew, almost strutting backwards out of the room as though he wanted to turn his exit into a performance as well. Severus snorted softly, a sound barely audible, yet a furious satisfaction vibrated inside him. “Lucky you, you slimy peacock,” he thought, “that you are finally leaving.”

The next evening came more quickly than expected, and when Severus entered the Great Hall, he noted with disgusted astonishment that Lockhart was at least capable of decorating. The long tables at which meals were usually taken had been pushed aside, the benches carefully moved so that the centre of the room lay clear. There a platform had been raised that suited the occasion more than the venerable dining hall. As the students streamed in, the air filled with the ominous mixture of chatter, giggles, shouts and scuffling feet, which sounded like a huge, bustling swarm of insects whose humming made the high ceiling tremble.

It took a long time, far too long, before Lockhart himself appeared, and Severus, who endured the noise with his lips pressed tightly together, wondered whether the cacophony was in truth part of the staging so that his colleague could arrange his grand entrance more effectively. And indeed: when the double doors swung open and Lockhart stepped into the hall, the screeching subsided a little, though it did not fall silent. In Severus’ eyes the peacock practically stumbled up the steps to the dais, but in his own vain imagination it must have been a royal procession. With swaying hips, a smug smile and bouncing curls, he presented himself as though he had just conquered the catwalk of a wizarding fashion magazine. Severus could only shake his head inwardly. “A puffed-up rooster,” he muttered in his thoughts and nearly laughed at the bitter sarcasm of it.

He observed the girls in the front rows, how they cheered him with rapturous looks, how they exchanged glances and giggled as if they were witnessing the appearance of a god. Severus rolled his eyes with such exasperation that he almost feared they might stick in that position. “Hormone-driven silly geese,” he thought bitingly, “a little more of this and they will start to drip all over the floor.” The mere thought that a grown man gathered a whole army of childish admirers around himself in such a cheap way made him clench his teeth inwardly. He wanted to throw up.

He forced himself to breathe deeply in order to keep his anger under control and paid no attention at all to Lockhart’s empty boasting. He let the words bounce off him like water off an oily surface. But then he suddenly heard his own name, hurled crystal clear out of the endless stream of self-promotion. Immediately he lifted his head and fixed Lockhart, who nodded at him invitingly. Severus rose in a fluid motion and, in an instant, silence fell over the hall. Every student’s eyes were on him. Severus felt how this sudden quiet, this expectation, filled him with an almost triumphant satisfaction. With long, firm strides he mounted the steps, proud and relentless like a shadow that had risen from the depths of the dungeons. For a brief moment he actually felt like a model on a catwalk, albeit one whose repertoire contained only pitch black and bat wings instead of glitter and glamour.

Lockhart and he now stood facing each other, wands raised, and Severus’ gaze bored into the eyes of his “colleague.” What he recognised there was fear, uncertainty, an emptiness that made him grin coldly inside. A grin that did not appear on his lips but burned deep within him. “I knew it,” he thought with cutting triumph, “a charlatan, a nothing, and in a moment I will expose you before everyone.”

“On three we disarm, I will count, Professor, one… two… three!” Lockhart had just begun to raise his wand in an almost dancing motion when Severus was already ahead of him. With a precision born of countless hours of practice, battles and duels, his wand snapped forward. His voice cut through the air, dark and booming, full of authority and coldness. “Expelliarmus!” A bright red bolt shot from the tip, driven by such force that it sliced through the air like a whipping blade, struck Lockhart full on and hit him with a power nobody in the hall had anticipated.

The self-absorbed professor was literally torn from his feet, flying backwards like a poorly tied-up puppet in a high arc. His arms flailed helplessly, his robes billowed, until he landed hard on his backside with a loud, graceless crash. A dull thud echoed through the hall, followed by a loud murmur.

The Slytherins cheered, their shouts rolling like a wave, some clapped enthusiastically, and even a few students from other houses offered applause, although somewhat more reserved, afraid that too much approval might call into question the authority of their supposed idol Lockhart. Severus, however, stood unmoved, his wand loose in his hand, his black robes clinging unyieldingly to his body and his face as motionless as if carved from stone. Inside, however, he was grinning, grinning so broadly that in his imagination he could have filled the entire hall with it. “Well then, White-tooth,” he sneered inwardly, “that was the simplest of spells, and you fly like a beginner. Want more? Shall I show you how a real wizard fights?”

His gaze flicked to the side for a moment and he looked into Hermione’s face. She stood in the front row, her expression still marked by shock, lips slightly parted, eyes wide. While most of the other students still stared after Lockhart, her eyes had remained fixed on him. For the fraction of a second this surprised him, and it made something inside him shudder. But he immediately wrapped himself again in his iron mask, the mask of the unapproachable, strict professor that never slipped, no matter how violently the storm raged inside him. That he had seen in that moment how her youthful infatuation with this ridiculously self-absorbed cockerel collapsed in on itself like a badly brewed potion hit him harder than he had expected. It was clear: his words, his demeanour, his pointed remarks about Lockhart’s incompetence had extinguished the shine in her eyes that she had briefly shown for that man. He registered exactly how the small spark of admiration she had harboured for this vain peacock shattered. Instead of satisfaction, the sight left only a dull ache, a mixture of anger and something indefinable that he did not wish to name. It bothered him that she had ever seen even the slightest thing in Lockhart – and it bothered him almost as much that he had been the one to destroy that short, naive spell within her.

Meanwhile, Lockhart had scrambled back to his feet, awkward but with a pasted-on smile that made him look even more pathetic. With agitated hands he brushed the dust from his robes, smoothed the folds of the fabric as though he could undo the fall by doing so. With a practised motion he shook his hair so that the blond curls gleamed again as if nothing had happened. Then he laughed loudly, a laugh so false that Severus nearly rolled his eyes. “He has lost his mind,” he thought dryly.

With large steps Lockhart strutted towards him, every movement exaggerated, like a peacock spreading its tail to demonstrate its supposed grandeur. “Very good, Professor Snape, excellent!” he cried effusively. “Naturally I knew what you were up to, I simply did not wish to hurt you. The students must see how such situations are handled elegantly, after all.” His voice was loud, jovial, dripping with deceit. Severus raised only one eyebrow, let the man chatter and finally replied coolly, “If we are to hold a duelling club here, PROFESSOR, then the students should learn how to block spells instead of listening to fairy tales.”

The extra emphasis on “Professor” cut like a knife and made Lockhart visibly flinch, though he tried to cover it up at once. With a hectic nod he agreed, stammered something about a “brilliant idea” and turned away. Immediately he busied himself pairing students off as though he himself had made the suggestion. Severus folded his arms across his chest, watched the spectacle and noted with sullen certainty that it could only end in chaos.

The students shouted, giggled, laughed, tried clumsily to position themselves opposite one another. Some even tickled each other with their wands as if they were toys. Severus’ lips pressed together even more tightly, and the lines around his mouth deepened into sharp grooves. As so often, he was the one who had to maintain order while Lockhart turned everything into a show.

When he saw Hermione Granger of all people being paired with Millicent Bulstrode as her opponent, his features hardened even more. He knew that Miss Bulstrode was brutal, unfair and anything but squeamish. Her build, her manner – this was not a fair fight, and he already felt in advance that he would have to intervene if necessary.

Indeed, it did not take long before he noticed an uproar. A sudden shriek, a jeering roar from the middle of the hall. With a cutting “Silence!” which he amplified with the Sonorus charm, his voice cracked through the room like a whip. Instantly the chaos died away, as if an invisible hand had been laid across the students’ throats. With both elbows he forced his way ruthlessly through the crowd, which parted before him. What he saw then made him boil inside: Millicent Bulstrode was sitting on Hermione, pinning her to the ground while the latter struggled desperately yet had little chance against the physical superiority.

Bulstrode had already raised her knee to drive it with brutal force against Hermione’s throat. A fuse blew in Severus’ mind, so abruptly and violently that it felt as if a black fire was burning inside him. His first, uncontrolled impulse was to raise his wand immediately and tear the girl away from the little Gryffindor. But he forced himself, as he had learned to do all his life, to remain calm. Self-control was his greatest weapon. He knew that an outburst of his fury would expose him before the students. Yet his voice, when he spoke, was soaked with such cutting coldness that it sliced through the air like a dagger, so sharp and unyielding that the words alone froze the room.

“Miss Bulstrode,” he began with a hissing undertone that made the silence after the tumult feel even more ominous, “would you be so kind as to get off our little know-it-all before Professor McGonagall flays you alive herself?”

Then, with a sharp movement of his head, he turned to Hermione, his black eyes hard and unyielding like obsidian glass that admitted no light and gave no spark of warmth. “And Granger – five points from Gryffindor for inciting a riot.”

He said it so drily, so mercilessly, that there could be no doubt: it was not just a punishment but a humiliation, a blow before everyone’s eyes to put her in her place. Yet beneath the surface, hidden behind his iron mask, another thought gnawed at him. He had seen how she had fought beneath Bulstrode’s weight, how she had struggled desperately yet stubbornly, how she had not given up although any other student would have long since surrendered. In her gaze he had seen the flame he recognised only in the strong – in fighters, in survivors.

He liked that flame, as much as he hated to admit it.

Hermione got back to her feet, but her look struck him like a dagger: full of anger, full of hurt. It was the look of a lioness who refused to be broken. As much as it tempted him to acknowledge this fighting spirit in her, he cursed the necessity of having to chastise her in front of everyone. He knew he had hurt her, that his words had hit home. But he could not do otherwise, not here, not now. He would make it up to her, somehow.

Yet the evening took an even more ominous turn. For when Draco Malfoy, in his desperation to turn the already lost duel around, conjured a snake and Harry Potter, Lily’s son, suddenly proved able to speak to it in Parseltongue, Severus’ blood ran cold. He stood frozen while his mind raced. Parseltongue? Potter? Lily’s son? It could not be, it must not be.

And yet the strange, hissing language echoed through the hall. The snake turned menacingly towards another student. Severus stepped in immediately, his wand rising on instinct, and with a hard voice he said, “Vipera Evanesca.” The spell dissolved the creature into a shower of sparkling embers before it could strike. But the damage was done: the hall was in an uproar, students whispered, muttered, exchanged frightened glances.

Potter had already rushed off, followed by Hermione and Weasley. Severus knew that this event would act like a smouldering fire within the castle walls. Everyone now wondered whether Potter might actually be Slytherin’s heir, whether he was the one who had attacked Mrs Norris. And although Severus knew it was not in Potter’s nature to do such a thing, doubt gnawed at him. He would have to speak with Albus.

Later, back in his chambers, he sat alone, and the silence pressed on him more heavily than any noise. He cursed himself for having come down on Hermione so hard. The image of her wounded look, full of anger, full of disappointment, haunted him, gnawed at him, drove itself into his conscience like a thorn. Once again he had messed everything up. Once again he had destroyed what he had painstakingly recovered.

In his raven form he flew to the Gryffindor tower shortly afterwards, his wings carrying him noiselessly through the cold night. In his beak he held a book that was meant to comfort her, perhaps to strengthen her. A small, foolish attempt to make amends. He landed on the stone window ledge that had already become familiar to him. He tapped gently at the glass with his beak until, after a brief hesitation, she pushed the curtain aside and opened the window a crack.

She looked pale and tense, her movements had something jerky about them, as if every gesture were an added effort. Her eyes did not sparkle as they did on good days, her gaze lay heavy in her face as though an invisible weight had dragged it down. Even before he laid the book before her, he heard the sound of her voice. Rough, tired, full of that thinly spread irritability that sometimes settled on her when overwhelm and exhaustion flowed together. This irritability robbed her of calm, made her shoulders narrow and her breaths tight.

“You know,” she muttered quietly without even forcing herself to look directly at him, “I am in a really bad mood today and I do not want to hear anything. Not from you, not from anyone. I do not want you. Not today.”

Her words were quiet, almost cautious in volume, yet they hit him hard. Cold, firm, like an unexpected blow. Nothing about this sentence was loud or aggressive. It was precisely that quiet sharpness that sank deep into him. Something in his chest, a small remnant of hope, gave way in that moment.

He drew the book back a little, then laid it down after all – mechanically, almost soundlessly – and retreated in one swift movement. His wings spread, his feathers rustled barely audibly. The flight looked light and effortless, yet every beat felt heavy, as if with each metre he drew more and more weight into his chest.

I am sorry, Hermione, he thought silently as the wind stroked his feathers. I never meant to hurt you. I truly wanted to help you. This thought burned in him because she could never hear it. He knew that, in this moment, she had no access to what was going on inside him. He also knew that he could not yet explain to her why, despite his harshness, he felt this constant urge to protect her, that she was his soulmate.

Hermione stood at the window as he flew away. The raven receded quickly, his black body becoming a smaller and smaller dot in the grey light of the sky. Her throat tightened so violently that her breath hitched for a moment. Tears pressed behind her eyelids, first faintly, then with a force that frightened her. She pressed her lips together firmly as though she could keep the tears in check that way. The pressure in her chest grew nonetheless.

A single tear broke free and ran down her cheek, warm and shameful. Another followed. Her shoulders trembled slightly. She cursed herself silently for reacting like this at all. Her heart ached because the situation made no sense. The raven was often gentle in his gestures, silent, watchful, almost kind. The man who inhabited the same body was complicated, irritable, hard to grasp. This contrast put her in a state that made her both angry and helpless at once.

She did not know why it hit her so deeply. It had only been a brief sentence, yet her day had already been hard enough. The fall in the duel, the aches in her shoulder and hip, Millicent’s brutal attack, the laughter of the other students – it had all accumulated inside her. Professor Snape had always brought her calm as a raven. Those visits had been her support because, in that form, he did not hurt her with words. That support broke away today.

She raised her hand and brushed her wet cheek, slowly, as if she could organise the pain with that gesture. The tears kept flowing regardless, softly, almost silently, until her chest once again rose and fell more evenly. She felt confused, angry, disappointed and vulnerable all at once. None of it fit together, yet all of it was there, all at the same time, all heavy.

Her thoughts jumped back to the moment he had disarmed Lockhart. The way Professor Snape had cast the spell, the precision, the composure, that clear superiority. She had absorbed every fraction of a second of it. She had enjoyed that duel because it showed her what he was truly capable of. That moment had wrung respect from her, admiration, something larger she could not grasp.

She shook her head, forced herself to step out of this spiral of disappointment and bitterness, and let her eyes glide over the title: Duelling for Beginners by Herbert Haudegen. Despite her anger she could not help but smile, if only for a heartbeat, as she imagined him in his raven form carrying this book in his beak, entirely without his usual snide remarks. She drew the curtains around her bed, sat down cross-legged, pulled out her wand and whispered, “Lumos.” A soft yet bright light filled the space, just strong enough to study the book without tiring her eyes.

The hours slipped by, and the more she read, the more she lost her sense of time and place, so deeply did she absorb every word. Only well after midnight, when her weariness grew heavier than her will to turn another page, did she extinguish the light, set her wand aside and reach under her bed. Her fingers found the small phial, cold and smooth, in which a few dark hairs lay, carefully preserved. Millicent, she thought, you will unwittingly open the way for us.

She had brewed the Polyjuice Potion, secretly and with an effort that had nearly frayed her last nerve. 'A month of patience and precision' , she thought proudly, and it has succeeded. She had not procured the ingredients without risk; some of them they had taken directly from Snape’s stores. A deed that still made her heart race whenever she thought back on it. But it had been necessary, and no one but the three of them knew. In the girls’ bathroom where no one ever goes, not even the bravest, because Myrtle haunts there – that is exactly where they managed it.

She put the phial back, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 'Tomorrow will be the day we drink it, and I will become Millicent, whether I like it or not.' The thought made her shudder. At the same time it filled her with the satisfaction of knowing she had the courage to attempt something far beyond what anyone could reasonably expect of a second-year. 'We will do it, we have to do it, we have to pry information out of Malfoy.'

Then she reached for the book again. She pressed it tightly to her heart without thinking about it, it happened entirely on its own. The weight was familiar, the leather warm from her hands. The pressure against her chest released something in her that had been locked up tightly all evening. A new tear rose, carefully tracing its path downwards, first warm, then burning. The silence around her made the pain louder.

'I admired you so much today,' she thought as she hugged the book even closer. 'I wanted to tell you how impressive you were, how easily that spell against Lockhart came to you. I wanted to show you that I saw it. I wanted to say something kind to you because I respect you, perhaps even more than that. I wanted to have the courage to do it.'

A second tear followed, then a third. She did not wipe them away because there was no point in fighting this pressure.

'I revere you, Professor Snape. I know how unreasonable that sounds. You are harsh, cool, difficult, often unfair. Still my heart beats faster when you move or when your voice fills the room. I do not understand my feelings. They hurt anyway.'

Her arms tightened around the book, as if she needed something tangible in order not to sink completely into this inner turmoil. Her breathing grew heavier, her fatigue blending with the exhaustion of the entire day.

'If you only knew how much I revere you. If you only knew how much I wanted to praise you today. If you only knew that I feel safe with you, even though you often hurt me.'

A final tear broke free and ran over her chin, dropping onto the book’s cover. She held the book even closer, almost as if she wanted to prevent the pain from overwhelming her. Her chest rose slowly, sank again, and sleep finally claimed her, quietly, exhausted, with the book still pressed tightly against her heart.

Chapter Text

It was one of those evenings on which Severus Snape swore that life would bring him to his knees one day if he did not draw a final line himself beforehand. Because he simply could not believe how often he had already lost faith that this school, these children, this entire damned existence could not possibly become more absurd.

Just when he thought the limits of absurdity had been reached, a Patronus appeared before him in the late evening hours, flickering silver, its message unmistakable. The sender alone made him groan. It was Poppy Pomfrey, who never called for him without reason, who never asked for help over a trifle, but only when she had reached the limits of her own abilities.

Reluctantly, yet without hesitation, he rose, for he knew that Poppy did not call on his assistance out of mere whim, but because something had occurred that even her experienced hands could not handle. With his cloak billowing, he strode through the silent nighttime corridors, illuminated only sparsely by flickering torches. Each of his steps echoed with a sense of foreboding that clung to him, as though his instincts already knew that nothing ordinary awaited him there. After only a few minutes he reached the hospital wing and pushed open the heavy door. He crossed the room and turned around the curtain behind which the emergency lay hidden – and it struck him like a blow to the stomach.

There sat a creature as grotesque as it was pitiful: a humanoid cat, slumped over, its fur matted, its posture marked by pain and shame. He nearly laughed because the sight was so absurd. Yet he was not a man who laughed in such moments, he was Severus Snape. His laughter was never for the weak, only for the ridiculous. So he stepped closer, examined the figure, and only when his gaze bored into the eyes did he recognize her.

And the recognition made his inner composure tremble. Because the little cat in front of him was Hermione. That alone was enough to set something vibrating in him he had not wanted, because his body reacted, his magic hummed, as though the force she emitted involuntarily touched his own. His carefully constructed Occlumency shields faltered in that moment, just enough to feel a hint of closeness.

“Miss… Granger?” he asked incredulously, and he could not say anything else because the surprise rendered even him, the master of control, speechless. 'What the hell, how?' shot through his mind as his eyes remained fixed on her.

Poppy was immediately at his side, words spilling out hastily as she explained in quick sentences how she assessed the situation. “My potion isn’t working. The feline genetics dominate, likely due to an incorrect base substance or contamination. Her vital signs are stable, but we must reverse the process slowly, otherwise we risk internal injuries,” she explained.

Severus barely heard her, unable to tear his gaze away from the girl staring at the floor, tears running down the fur of her cheeks.

He waited for her to look at him, and as though she had heard his unspoken command, she raised her eyes. In that moment he slipped briefly into her thoughts, for her resistance was weak, her shields nonexistent. He sensed a single clear word: Polyjuice. Instantly his mind snapped awake. Where the hell had she gotten that from? Without further thought, without giving her any room, he stated in a factual tone, “I will assist you, Miss Granger, though it will take several hours to brew the antidote, and it will also take time for you to regain your normal form. The coming days will not be pleasant for you. Poppy, I believe a stronger pain reliever will be necessary, because Miss Granger will be anything but pleased when her body reshapes itself. And your own potion will not help, Poppy, because this is no ordinary transformation.”

He cast her a narrow look before continuing, “This is a Polyjuice-induced transformation that was mishandled. Conventional measures are ineffective.”

Poppy nodded, visibly relieved that he had taken the lead. “Thank you, Severus, for taking care of this.”

He spoke calmly, almost businesslike, as though it were a routine medical procedure. Yet inside, he was in turmoil. Without risking another glance, he strode sharply out of the hospital wing. His steps were harsh, his cloak billowed, and in his gut churned anger and worry alike. 'That unbearable, incorrigible, know-it-all brat, he thought furiously, what gives her the right to take Polyjuice? Where did she get that potion? Who in the castle, for heaven’s sake, gives such a mixture to a second-year? And who was she trying to become?'

It disappointed him beyond measure. He had expected better from her, especially from her, little Hermione, who read everything, who buried herself in rules and studied every book down to the smallest detail. 'Cat hairs – even she should have known that’s impossible, it says in every beginner’s book in thick letters: never use animal hair for this potion!' The mere thought made him snort. 'The pain must have been unbearable, and yet she was foolish enough to try.'

He almost stormed into the direction of his dungeons, dissolved the usual protective enchantments from the doors of his private chambers, and went straight to his laboratory without wasting a second. He could not bear the thought that this girl was in pain – even though he cursed himself for admitting it. With one motion he swept glass containers aside, sorted ingredients, ripped corks from phials, let knives flash and mortars grind. All with the precision of a man who knew not a single second could be wasted.

Meanwhile Hermione sat slumped on her hospital bed. Tears streamed endlessly over her furred face and inside her churned shame and pain. The agony of the transformation had been severe, burning, pulling, stabbing in every bone. Yet that was not why she cried. 'He saw me like this' , she thought in despair, 'Professor Snape saw me like this, I am so pitiful.' The humiliation gnawed deeper at her than any physical pain.

She could hardly imagine what he now thought of her. And McGonagall – she too had seen her best student covered in this fur, and the horror in her eyes had been almost unbearable. 'If only I hadn’t agreed to this stupid plan, hammered through her mind. Because deep inside she already knew that Malfoy could not possibly be the Heir of Slytherin. He is far too cowardly, far too boastful to do something like that. He has brains, I know that, but he doesn’t use them. He’d rather surround himself with Crabbe and Goyle and have them roar and threaten for him instead of acting bravely himself.' No, it wasn’t Malfoy, she was convinced of that.

Yet everything remained confusing. Harry heard voices no one else could hear. He spoke to a snake as though it were natural. And now the students avoided him as if he were the Heir himself, as if he were dangerous. 'He doesn’t deserve to be treated like this', she thought. And yet the question forced itself on her, Could he be? She rejected the idea immediately, for it did not fit Harry. 'No, something else is behind this, more than we can see'. With that feeling of unease and mistrust, she eventually fell asleep, her brow still damp from tears.

That night Severus brought Poppy the freshly brewed antidote. He approached the hospital bed quietly and discovered Hermione curled up in a twilight sleep, the fur on her cheeks marked by pain, the muscles beneath her skin twitching restlessly as though her body fought against an invisible force. He remained standing for a moment, exhaling as though he had to battle something within himself. Then he handed Poppy the phials and spoke with a subdued voice, “She is to receive one spoonful every two hours. Not more, not less. The potion dissolves the false structure layer by layer, a faster approach would overload her tissue.”

Poppy nodded gravely, set a spoon ready, and threw him a grateful look as he was already turning away. A barely audible rustle of his cloak, and he left the room.

Severus returned late that night, and he did so under a Disillusionment Charm, hidden in the shadows. Because he needed her, because he could not go without her nearness, even though he refused to admit it to himself. And because he could not bear the idea that she suffered without him knowing. Dumbledore had been right when he said that Severus could feel the pain of others when his shields were not closed, and that was exactly what he allowed now. He felt how she tossed and turned, feverish, shaking with pain. And so he kept changing the cold cloth on her forehead, placing it with a gentle precision entirely uncharacteristic for him.

It took days until the fur began to soften, and each of those days was filled with pain for her. He hoped she would learn from this, that one did not play carelessly with potions, least of all with a brew of this complexity. 'This impertinent brat', he thought each time he wiped sweat from her brow, 'so clever and yet so foolish.'

When she opened her eyes one night after a terrible nightmare, a scent filled her senses so familiar she recognized it instantly: sandalwood. 'He is here', she thought, 'my Professor Snape is here'. And she immediately scolded herself, 'Not yours, you stupid cow, but still…' She remained completely still, not daring to keep her eyes open, yet she was certain he was near. The scent was so intense, almost tangible. Rather than frightening her, it soothed her, gave her the feeling that she was not alone, that everything would be alright. She knew he sat only a hand’s breadth away, invisible yet unmistakably present. 'Why do I feel safe, sheltered, when he is near?' she wondered and found no answer. So she closed her eyes again, this time falling asleep without nightmares.

A good ten days after the disastrous transformation, Hermione was finally allowed to leave the hospital wing. The moment she entered her dormitory in the Gryffindor tower, she stopped in surprise, for on her bed lay a small package, carefully wrapped in shimmering green paper and tied with a silver ribbon.

“That arrived for you this morning, Hermione,” said Parvati with a delicate smile that revealed both joy about her return and a trace of curiosity.

“It is really wonderful to have you back, Hermione. How are you feeling?” Lavender asked, her voice both concerned and warm.

Hermione took the package into her hands, examined it closely, then set it aside with the firm intention of opening it later in the evening when she was alone. Already she suspected who it might be from. A faint yet inward smile crossed her face.

She talked with her roommates for a while longer, who bombarded her with questions, and together they later went down to the common room.

Harry and Ron were already waiting for her below. Harry pulled her into a tight embrace without hesitation, an embrace full of unfiltered relief. “Hermione, I’m really glad you’re back,” he said, looking at her with a serious expression. “I’m sorry you had such trouble because of us… and that you had to suffer like that.”

Hermione placed a hand on his arm and answered softly, “It’s alright, Harry. We all knew it wouldn’t be without risk. What matters is that we can make progress now.”

Ron stepped closer, scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, and looked at her with a crooked smile. “You gave us quite a scare, Hermione,” he said, sounding unusually serious. “It’s good to see you back on your feet. Hogwarts feels wrong without you.”

Hermione gave him a warm smile that made his ears turn red. “Thank you, Ron. I’m glad to be back too.”

Harry cleared his throat lightly. “Say… have you seen Snape? On the hospital wing, I mean.”

Hermione blinked in confusion. “No. Why?”

Harry exchanged a quick glance with Ron, who immediately pretended to be fascinated by the floor. “We heard he was there quite often. Someone saw him going in and out repeatedly. Especially at times when you were the only patient there.”

A brief silence followed. Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise but feigned ignorance. “Oh really?” she asked softly.

A barely perceptible shiver ran down her back, followed by a warm, secret tug deep in her chest. Professor Snape had visited her often. The thought flattered her so much she struggled to conceal it. She had sensed him only once, only that fragmentary moment between pain and consciousness – yet it seemed there had been far more of them.

After a short exchange they made their way together toward the Great Hall, and Hermione found herself almost longing for dinner.

At the Gryffindor table the usual chaos reigned, conversations overlapping, plates clattering. Seamus Finnigan once again attempted a Muggle joke. The punchline seemed to hang lifelessly in the air until Hermione, patient as ever, explained why it was supposed to be funny. When the others finally understood, the table erupted into loud laughter, so exuberant that even the teachers took notice.

“The Gryffindors are remarkably lively this evening. How do you assess that, Minerva?” asked Dumbledore, his gaze wandering over the students with an amused smile.

“Sometimes I wonder whether these children will ever cross the threshold into adulthood,” McGonagall replied dryly while chewing thoughtfully on her roast.

“Do not worry,” Dumbledore answered with serene cheerfulness, “time will catch up with them as well. Who knows what tasks the future may hold for them.” He spoke as he savored a spoonful of lemon sorbet.

Beside McGonagall sat Severus, silently staring at his meal, which he found unappealing tonight. Minerva noticed immediately. “You seem unusually quiet, Severus. What troubles you?” she asked with a faint, almost amused undertone.

“Come to my lessons, Minerva,” he growled, pulling his coat tighter around himself as though shielding against the memory, “then you can see with your own eyes what torments they subject me to daily. It begins with simple concentration issues and ends with experimentation devoid of logic. A particularly memorable example is Miss Granger, who transformed herself into a half-formed feline creature with a faulty Polyjuice potion. Not only did I have to endure her pitiful meowing afterward, I had the entire hospital wing screaming because everyone believed Hogwarts now housed a new magical creature.”

He raised a brow as though even he could barely grasp the absurdity. “So if you wish to witness such events up close, be my guest. You are always welcome to attend my lessons. The world of self-proclaimed geniuses who believe a few books can replace years of experience awaits you.”

McGonagall smiled thinly. “It is our task to draw the best from this inability and shape them into wizards who can stand on their own. Even though it is, admittedly, a laborious process.”

Severus narrowed his eyes at her, yet Minerva only shrugged as though saying her patience outstripped his.

Severus was nervous, and that alone enraged him. Because he detested losing control. He could not stop thinking about whether Hermione had opened the package he had sent her. Or whether it still lay untouched on her bed. Whether she had opened it and disliked it so much she chose silence. Or whether she liked it but simply did not consider saying anything.

This state of not knowing drove him nearly mad, because nothing unsettled him more than uncertainty. 'If she opened it and dislikes it, then she may have already set it aside, and if not, then it lies there waiting, and perhaps she will never open it', he thought bitterly, and the thought gnawed at him. He had considered it carefully, weighed what he could do after finding her once again in such a humiliating state. He had decided it might be some small comfort to give her something that strengthened her. A quiet admission that he had behaved like the worst bastard.

He knew he had not done it without ulterior motives; nothing Severus Snape ever did was entirely without calculation. Yet in this case it had been more than calculation. It had been the desire to remedy something of the harshness and scorn he had poured over her. Even if she must never know it came from him, it had been his attempt to give her a spark of dignity back. 'Tonight I will fly to her again in my raven form,' he swore to himself. 'I will check on her, I want to see how she is, and I secretly hope she does not reject me, that she at least tolerates me, even if she does not know it is me.'

But for now work still lay before him, work he could not ignore, no matter how much he wished to. Essays did not grade themselves, and he cursed the fate that forced him to waste hour after hour on the intellectual rubbish of his students. 'It is a disgrace', he thought, 'that I must squander my time on this while dozens of complex recipes wait on my shelves to be handled by a capable hand.' The only thing that offered him a sliver of satisfaction during grading were the biting comments he scrawled in the margins when correcting his students’ grotesque mistakes. His favorite judgment had become the large crimson T for Troll. He had recently stocked up on new red ink and was full of dark anticipation at the idea of using it liberally.

In class as in grading he could vent his rage, though only within limits that kept him out of trouble. Dumbledore watched him closely and would quickly rap his knuckles if he went too far. Even so, Severus never missed a chance to unleash his sharpest barbs on the Gryffindors, which always triggered a heated exchange with Minerva, who gave him no leniency.

He remembered well Minerva’s voice, always carrying that insufferable Scottish-edged calm, as though she held every moral advantage in the world:

“It might be helpful, Severus, if you refrained from using your infamous red ink today,” she had said.

He still heard the sentence as though she stood beside him. Of course. The lioness mother, the supposed voice of reason, trying to persuade him for decades to take his “pedagogical responsibility” more seriously. As though she had the faintest idea what he endured each day.

He had replied politely in tone yet cutting in content – an art he had perfected. “I am merely doing my duty, Minerva,” he had said before placing the large red T with almost ceremonial precision on a completely botched parchment. “When your protégés achieve the level of a half-stunned troll, it would be negligent not to mark it.”

He remembered the exact moment Minerva’s lips had pressed into that thin Prussian line.
“Your ‘markings’ are pure provocation. You provoke them on purpose.”

Tact, she had demanded. From him of all people. Tact for a horde of headless Gryffindors.

He remembered how he had laughed inwardly before replying – outwardly deadly serious:
“I possess tact. I merely distribute it with great selectivity.”

Minerva had insisted: “Of course. And by some miracle never in the direction of a Gryffindor.”

He knew how his patience had thinned to a fragile thread then. They had had that argument countless times, always ending with the same implacable stubbornness.

He had finally delivered the verbal dagger he now recalled with a hint of satisfaction:
“It is not my fault your students struggle to distinguish between a cauldron and boiling chaos.”

Minerva had snorted. A barely audible sound. Yet for her it had been an outburst.
“Severus Snape, one day your sharpness will cut you,” she had said.

He remembered turning away then, so he would not roll his eyes. If she only knew, he thought even now, how often that had already happened.

Severus sat at the staff table, the students’ voices rushing around him like a constant stream, though he barely perceived them as he drank a sip of wine and let his thoughts drift far from the noise. Finally he rose in one fluid motion, caught Dumbledore’s eye, and received a barely perceptible nod of dismissal. Severus walked down the center aisle of the Great Hall in long, even strides, and when he passed through the heavy doors, his cloak surged behind him like a dark wave.

Sitting in his office, he shook his head, unable to fathom the level of incompetence he encountered daily. 'From which winding of the brain did this fart of thought escape?' he asked theatrically as he recalled what he had just read. The only essay that had been truly good was – naturally – Hermione’s. Yet he would never admit that, least of all to her, so he had marked it at ninety-eight points. She would never receive a hundred from him, not because her work did not deserve it, but because he was Severus Snape and she a Gryffindor, even if she were in truth his soulmate.

The remaining essays were a disaster. Not a single student seemed capable of correctly writing down a simple Levitation Potion. Instead of noting the sequence of three times seven measures of basilisk venom correctly, most of them simply wrote twenty-one, as if the order had no meaning. 'Of course the total is twenty-one', he thought irritably, 'but anyone who blindly dumps that into a cauldron produces a potion whose fumes are so toxic they would wipe out the entire castle within minutes.'

He read Finnigan’s paper and rubbed his forehead. “One takes twenty-one measures, stirs them in. Chop a spider…” it said, and Severus growled. “By Merlin’s filthy underpants, chop a spider as well. Have these children completely lost their minds?” He snorted quietly and thought with malicious satisfaction, 'Enjoy the burning hairs, Mr. Finnigan, you fool.'

Hour after hour he scribbled comments onto the essays, biting, sarcastic, merciless. Only when his fingers tired did he put down his quill and stretch. He cracked his joints and swept his hand over the desk, letting the parchment stack itself.

He had no patience left for this nonsense. 'None of these children think' , he thought as he rose, 'except her… of course… Hermione.' Yet that thought did not soothe him but pushed him deeper into the brooding he despised. 'But what am I to do with this girl?' he wondered. She was angry with him, and he did not know how to fix it. Could he even fix it? He had never been good at such things.

A shadow of memory drifted across his heart, heavy and old. 'I do not want to lose someone again because I am incapable of human kindness', he thought, knowing at once that this was his greatest fear.

Whether he liked it or not, he had invested more in this girl than was wise. He despised himself for this weakness, a weakness he had never allowed in any other area of his life. And yet it was she of all people who made him weak in a way he had never believed possible, because in the quietest, darkest corners of his soul he sensed she was more like him than he could bear. His soulmate. Damn it. And still he would never admit it.

If only she knew how many thoughts he had because of her – more than he had ever granted any other person.

Chapter Text

Severus had risen into the air in his raven form. The black wings traced silent arcs through the night, the castle below him lay like a sleeping fortress, illuminated only by a few torches that flickered in the wind and cast long shadows. He landed with a smooth beat of his wings on the windowsill of the Gryffindor tower, dug his claws into the cold stone, and peered with sharp eyes into the dormitory. Yet what he saw was nothing—darkness, deep darkness that told him the students had already crawled into their beds. For a moment, he felt a knot tighten in his chest. The thought shot through his mind “Is she already asleep? Am I too late? Bloody hell”, he growled inwardly, because it was barely ten o’clock, far too early, and still the tower was already silent.

He did not want to wake her, did not want her to see him in a moment of weakness, so he closed his eyes and let the shields sink that he had placed around his mind. He listened for the faint frequency that always guided him. Severus sensed after only a few seconds that she was awake. Her mind was restless, her thoughts not trapped in sleep. So he tapped softly with his beak against the glass. Almost immediately something moved in the room, and a moment later the window swung open silently.

“Hello,” she whispered, her voice soft, gentle, almost as if she had expected him. Before he could react, she murmured a Muffliato over herself and the room, a precaution that astonished him once again—she was young, yet she thought faster and more carefully than many adults. She gave him a small smile, one that struck him as though the night itself grew a little brighter. Without another word she went back to her bed, her movements quiet, almost floating, and gestured with one hand to the spot beside her.

He followed the gesture, fluttered in with quiet wings, and perched on the bedframe just beside her. There where the shadows were thick and he remained little more than a dark outline in the dim light. The curtains closed behind her, she cast a Lumos, and the small flame at her wand tip bathed the space in a warm glow. His gaze immediately drifted to the little parcel on her bedside table. When he saw that it still lay there untouched, he felt his throat tighten. She had not opened it yet. Everything was still undecided. An invisible pressure settled onto his chest, expectation squeezing the air from his lungs. Because he did not know whether he had made a mistake, whether this gift was too much or too little, or whether she would understand it at all.

Hermione noticed his gaze, followed it, grinned a little, and took the parcel into her hand as if she had been waiting for this very moment. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she loosened the silver ribbon while she began to speak casually, her voice a familiar sound in the quiet. “...and then Seamus told a joke most people didn’t understand. I explained it, and after that everyone burst into laughter.” Her eyes sparkled at the memory, and Severus, who tried very hard to remain motionless, felt that this simple sentence meant more to him than he wanted to admit: she was laughing again. After the days of pain, after the humiliation he had been forced to witness, she now sat here and spoke of a moment of happiness.

The wrapping paper came off layer by layer, green paper neatly folded, and at last a small wooden box lay in her hands. She turned it over, her brow furrowed, as her gaze flicked briefly to him, as though she wanted to check whether the raven beside her showed any reaction. Yet he remained still, unmoving like a statue of black feathers.

He only watched as her fingers found a hidden indentation.

With a barely audible click, the box sprang open, and when she looked inside, her eyes widened.

“Circe…,” she breathed, “is it what I think it is?” Her voice was soft, reverent, almost incredulous. She reached in, took out what lay inside, and examined it in the wandlight. On her palm rested an oval emerald, set in delicate silver and held by two protective hands. It glittered on a fine chain as though it carried its own light.

She closed her fingers around it, and at once she felt a soothing warmth flow through her palm. A kind of pulsing that spread through her body and reached her heart. A smile, gentle and full of wonder, passed over her face.

The raven tilted his head slightly, the black eyes gleaming in the wandlight.

He continued to watch her in silence, tense, almost breathless, as she unfolded the small note that had lain at the bottom of the box.

“I am a Protego Duo and will always stand by your side. If you need me, call for me.” She frowned, reading the words aloud several times as if to be certain she had understood them correctly. She murmured that she had never heard of such a thing. Her gaze lingered on the shimmering green of the stone, and her mind began to work in its usual way: “Maybe I should go to the library first thing tomorrow… I’m sure I could find something about this type of spell there.”

Then she placed the chain around her neck, the emerald now resting against her skin. Severus saw her smile widen, saw the hardness of the last days fall away from her. In that moment he knew he had done the right thing. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she whispered, her voice vibrating with honest admiration.

He looked at her for a brief moment longer, lowered his Occlumency shields for a fraction of a second. Severus felt a wave of sincere joy emanate from her, so pure and unguarded that it nearly overwhelmed him. Because the feeling was more than he could bear, he decided to leave. Silently he fluttered from the bedframe, rose into the air, and slipped out the window into the night. He did not hear her quiet “Thank you, Professor. But why?”

As he flew into the darkness, he felt a burden lift from his shoulders. Even though he knew he still could not tell her the truth, she now carried protection with her, and he carried the certainty that he had given her a smile, even if only for a moment.

When crafting the amulet, he had ensured that it was more than simple protection—if she touched the stone in a moment of danger, a shield would form, stronger than an ordinary Protego, and any magical or physical aggression would rebound upon the perpetrator with equal force. It was not an empty promise but a product of complex construction that required a partner stone—hence the name Protego Duo—and naturally he possessed that matching counterpart, which would instantly alert him if the bond was activated. It soothed him to know she would not be entirely alone if the worst came.

“I do not want anything to happen to her, especially when I am not there,” he thought into the quiet of his mind.

He had no idea how mistaken he would be.

Severus had hurried like the other teachers when the message reached him. Another attack had occurred. He stormed down the corridor with quick, almost thunderous steps, not knowing who had been struck this time. Yet a faint, gnawing suspicion clung to his neck, freezing his blood. A suspicion he tried to suppress as he pushed the door to the hospital wing open. The sight hit him like a blow to the chest, for there, on the bed, she lay—Hermione, his student, his constant annoyance, his unending fascination, his soulmate—motionless, stiff, turned to stone like a macabre statue. She held a mirror in her hand, as though she had frozen mid-defence at the very moment she faced her fate.

For one instant, his breath failed him, his throat dry as if he had swallowed sand. He had to clutch the black fabric of his cloak to reassure himself he was still here, not trapped in a nightmare born of fear. His gaze instinctively searched for the emerald he had given her. But he found nothing, no sign of green shimmer around her neck. A rumbling anger, mixed with guilt that carved into his chest, surged within him. “Of course she isn’t wearing it,” it raged in his mind, “why would she, why trust an anonymous gift?”

He stepped closer, his long cloak rustling over the stone floor, and bent over her, studying her rigid face, still etched with tension. Her eyes were wide open, so alive and yet so dead. He had to summon all his strength not to reach out, not to brush his fingers against her cheek, as though touch could bring her back, as though he could call life back into her body. But he did not. He stood there, pressing his lips together until only a thin line remained. He felt bitterness rise in him like bile.

“You foolish, brave, incorrigible girl,” he spoke to her in his mind, “you should have been warned, you should have been protected, and I, damn it all, I could not prevent it.”

He heard Poppy Pomfrey beside him speaking, words that washed over him like noise—mandrakes, maturity period, three weeks—but they did not reach him, he did not hear them, because his gaze stayed fixed on Hermione, because his heart tightened with every breath until he could barely maintain the façade that shielded him from others’ eyes.

In that moment he swore he would find the culprit, swore it with the same mercilessness he used to dose poison in a potion. And if he had to search every hidden chamber of the castle, stone by stone, spell by spell, he would do it. But for now he could only take in her image—see how she lay there. Petrified and helpless, while he himself remained alive yet powerless, and that contrast burned like a curse in his chest.

The night had long since settled over the castle, the corridors had sunk into silence, even the last voices of students lingering in the common rooms had faded. When Severus closed the heavy hospital wing door quietly behind him, his cloak swept through the space like a dark wave; he cast a Disillusionment Charm and a Muffliato, not because he believed anyone would disturb him, but because he could not bear the thought of anyone hearing his words. Words he should never speak aloud, words he kept hidden deep within himself, behind the shields he only let fall for her.

Slowly he approached her bed and removed the Disillusionment Charm from himself; the moonlight fell through the tall windows and cast a silvery shimmer across her petrified face. In that shimmer she seemed almost as though she were sleeping, peaceful, innocent, and yet he knew it was a cruel deception. For in truth she was trapped, stiff, turned to stone like the victim of an ancient curse. He sat on the chair beside her bed, rested his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands for a moment. A confession of exhaustion he would never have shown another soul, before he lifted his gaze again and looked at her—this unmoving figure that shook him more deeply than any knife to the gut.

“Hermione,” he began softly, his voice rough, as if speaking cost him effort, “I ask your forgiveness. I should have known everything would turn out differently than I imagined. I tried to protect you, was so certain the amulet would be enough. Why didn’t you wear it? I am sorry I could not keep you from this misfortune. Now nothing remains but to wait three weeks. In that time I will be here as often as I can. But first I must ensure the Chamber of Secrets is finally found. I will come back, I promise you.”

His voice nearly broke on the last word, and he clenched his hands until the knuckles turned white. His gaze traveled across her petrified face, the open eyes that no longer saw. He felt himself torn apart inside, as though an invisible hook pulled at his chest.

“Three weeks,” he murmured bitterly, “three damned weeks.” He fell silent, looking at her for a long time. In his eyes lay something he could barely endure himself, because it exposed him—an alloy of anger, longing, and that relentless worry he could never admit.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice barely more than a whisper not even the walls should hear. “You must stay strong, little Gryffindor. Hold on.” For a moment he remained like that, unmoving, while the moonlight washed over both of them like cold silver. Then he rose, his cloak rustling softly as he turned away, and he left the hospital wing as silently as he had come, with an oath in his heart he would never speak aloud.

She lay motionless in this prison of stone, unable to move even a muscle. Yet her consciousness was wide awake, clearer than ever, as though her body had shut down only to open her mind all the more. She heard every sound in the room, every creak of the floor, the murmur of the night, and then the faintest whisper of a cloak that told her he had come. She could see him, but could not turn her head, could not blink. She sensed him before he spoke, felt that it was him—his presence, dark, familiar. Like a shadow settling over her. She listened with a feverish longing that nearly tore her apart.

When he breathed her name, gently, almost broken, a shiver coursed through her, seizing her heart with such force that inwardly she wanted to cry out. Yet no sound passed her lips, no movement, only that desperate inner pressure that went unheard. She heard him ask for forgiveness. The words were so strange, so incompatible with the image she had always had of him, the strict, unreachable professor, that her heart tightened and blossomed at once, like one contradictory beat.

She wanted to call out to him that it was not his fault, that she had not worn the chain, because she had been careless. But her voice was trapped, sealed in glass, and so she wept inwardly, silently, and each tear she could not shed burned all the more. It was as though something inside her tore apart, because she had never imagined him as someone who mourned.

His voice, dark, compressed, filled with bitterness as he cursed the three weeks, made her tremble inside. She wanted to comfort him, wanted to tell him she could endure it, that she was strong enough, that he did not need to suffer. Yet she could not, she was imprisoned in silence, and her thoughts struck back like blows against an invisible wall.

When he leaned closer, when he called her “little Gryffindor,” she felt her chest fill with a warmth she did not understand. A warmth mixed with longing and pain, and she would have given anything to look into his eyes, really look, not just through the stiff lenses the petrification spell had left her. She wanted to tell him she heard him, that she heard everything, every word, and that it touched her more deeply than he could ever imagine.

But it remained an inner cry, a silent plea reaching no one. In her mind it burned—she screamed at him “Professor, please hear me, I know what dwells in the Chamber of Secrets!” Yet no sound escaped her lips, no movement revealed the urgency of her thoughts. When he turned away, when the sound of his cloak faded, she wanted to rise, run after him, hold him back so he would not leave. But she lay there, trapped, and the only thing she could send after him was a silent prayer that he would return, as he had promised.

In the darkness, in the cold of her paralysis, she repeated his words over and over, like an incantation keeping her alive: “You must stay strong, little Gryffindor. Hold on.”

Two weeks later Severus Snape was summoned to the hospital wing. He knew even before he pushed the heavy double doors open that chaos must be raging inside, for already in the corridor he heard a flurry of agitated voices. Hasty footsteps, the clatter of bowls and vials, the characteristic creaking of Poppy’s cabinet doors that never opened quietly. The sight that greeted him as he entered confirmed the impression: Potter lay on one of the beds, pale but conscious, Weasley stood beside him in a dirty shirt with a few scratches. Around them stood students, teachers, and even Albus with an unusual agitation entirely out of place in this otherwise orderly hall.

A basilisk—a cursed, ancient basilisk—had been roaming through Hogwarts, had actually harmed people. No one had dared believe the boy when he spoke of voices only he could hear. Severus felt something twist inside him, a mixture of anger at his own blindness and at the ignorance of everyone else who had refused to see the danger. Of course, Potter had heard Parseltongue, the whisper of the giant snake that no one else could perceive. “The Chamber houses a monster”—the words from the old legends echoed in Severus’ mind. As much as he resisted it, he had to admit Potter had been right. He despised acknowledging it, yet in this moment it was unavoidable.

Weasley, the boy with the freckled skin and oversized heart, had at least possessed the sense to fetch help. He had escaped with only minor injuries. His sister, however—Ginny Weasley, the little one with the open gaze—she had opened the entrance to the Chamber, unknowingly, without control. She had been used by a force older and more dangerous than she could have understood. And then there had been that incompetent fraud Lockhart, whom Severus referred to as a “colleague” only with the deepest cynicism. That pathetic charlatan who, trying to portray himself as a hero, had swung the Weasley boy’s broken wand and inflicted a backfiring spell on himself—ridiculous and dangerous in equal measure. He had been sent straight to St Mungo’s, and Severus felt nothing but contempt—he had known from the start the man was a fraud, incapable of brewing a simple potion or performing a spell without humiliating himself.

But Potter lived, Potter was in his right mind, much as it pained Severus to admit. It calmed him against his will, and as the voices quieted, as Poppy began restoring order and the boys who had just faced mortal danger finally settled, he was called by Minerva and finally by Albus’ gaze to the Headmaster’s office.

“Please sit, Severus,” Dumbledore said with a serious undertone, gesturing to the armchair before his desk. Severus sat slowly, crossed his legs, and accepted the teacup that drifted toward him as though carried by an invisible hand. With a brief nod he thanked him, inhaled the spicy mint scent, sipped carefully, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh Merlin, with a dash… peppermint liqueur… heavenly,” he thought dryly. Such things indeed soothed the nerves.

Albus leaned back and began without preamble. “Severus, you have surely heard what happened in the Chamber.”

Snape looked at him for a long moment, his expression controlled. “Potter claimed a spirit emerged from a book—Riddle,” he replied sharply.

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Indeed. Voldemort attempted to return—in the form of a memory bound into a book that Ginny Weasley carried. When asked, she did not know where she had received it. I searched her mind and traced the trail to Lucius Malfoy. He must have slipped it to her in Diagon Alley. I do not believe he knew the book contained a fragment of Tom’s soul.”

Severus’ eyes narrowed, but he remained silent. Albus continued: “We must assume there are more such fragments seeking to return. Voldemort stirs, Severus. I need you. Keep your eyes open, and your ears as well. Reestablish contact with Malfoy, win his trust as before. You are Draco’s godfather—that is an advantage we can use.”

“You truly believe he will return?” Severus asked sharply. “I have not sensed him since his fall. Not even with Quirrell, though he sat beside me. Should I not have perceived him? And if he were strong enough, he would have summoned his followers long ago. I was his confidant, Albus—I would be among the first to sense it.” A bitter undertone coloured his voice.

“And you think this is linked to the Philosopher’s Stone?” His question was terse. Dumbledore shook his head. “No. Quirrell was a host, but this here is only a fragment. I must search ancient records to discover how Riddle did it. This was no ordinary magic. It was Dark Magic of unfathomable depth. Yet until we know more, one thing is certain: we keep a close eye on the boy.”

Albus’ gaze rested on him, probing. “What troubles your mind, Severus?”

Snape turned toward the window, letting his gaze drift out. “Will the Ministry be informed, Albus?”

“And who would believe us?” Dumbledore countered calmly. “Fudge will not lift a finger. He retreats whenever discomfort looms. We cannot expect help from outside.”

Severus massaged the bridge of his nose, considering. Then: “I will do what I can. I will regain Malfoy’s trust. I already have a plan.”

Albus leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “And that would be?”

“Through Draco,” Severus said quietly. “I will win him, send him small tokens. He writes to his father often. That opens the door to Lucius. I am already invited to dine at Malfoy Manor. Narcissa may be the key—she has always favoured me, and Lucius obeys her in everything. If she does not turn me away, I will soon be welcome again.”

Albus’ expression brightened. “Excellent, my boy. Slytherin to the core.” Severus barely reacted, accepting the praise.

“And Potter?” he asked. “Is he safe among the Muggles?”

Dumbledore nodded. “An ancient protective charm lies over the house. Until he comes of age, he will be safe there. I would have preferred to place him with the Weasleys, but they are traveling to Egypt over the holidays.”

Severus exhaled deeply. “Let us hope next year brings fewer catastrophes. I have already endured enough excitement for two lifetimes.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said gently, “she will be revived in a few days. Only five more. You will have her back.”

“Thank you, Albus,” Severus replied softly. “I will manage. I only regret not realizing it sooner. You said Hermione figured it out? That is why she had the mirror with her? Clever girl.” A shadow of pride touched his words.

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, very clever. I must also speak with you about the coming school year—but that can wait.”

Severus shifted the topic. “When will Hagrid be released?”

“As soon as possible. It is a disgrace he was accused again. Yet he carries giant blood; it shields him from the Dementors.”

“And Potter,” Severus continued, “he slips past me every time. I know he has an invisibility cloak, but even my detection spells bounce off.”

“The boy is not foolish,” Albus replied calmly. “He has courage, wit, and he slew the basilisk—with Gryffindor’s sword. Fawkes brought him the hat, and in the greatest need, the sword chose him. Is that not remarkable?”

“Remarkable, yes,” Severus growled, “but he remains a thorn in my side. I must play my role, and it wears on me. He could have it easier if I were more lenient… not that I would be.” The last words were so quiet they nearly disappeared.

“You could be harsher on yourself, Severus,” Dumbledore said gently. “I know you loved Lily, but—”

“Do not speak of her, Albus. You know nothing,” Severus cut him off, voice sharp. Albus lifted his hands in peace.

Severus continued, voice heavy: “I carried the prophecy. It could have been anyone else. I am at fault that Potter’s parents are dead, that he has suffered. Lily would have been a wonderful mother.”

Albus looked directly at him. “No, Severus. You are not to blame. You neither betrayed nor killed them. You chose the right side at the right time. And should we face Voldemort again, you are our most important man. You will be our spy, and because of you we will win.”

Severus was silent for a long moment, swallowed, then nodded briefly. “Yes, Albus.” He took the second cup—now Earl Grey—and sipped. Both men fell silent, lost in thought, and the stillness between them hung heavy with unspoken agreement.

Chapter Text

The days that followed passed far more slowly for Severus than he would have liked. Every hour dragged perceptibly, and even simple tasks felt heavier than usual. Together with Pomona Sprout, he stood in the greenhouses processing the mandrakes. The plants lay there like misshapen, shriveled bodies in their pots, wriggling nonstop. Their shrill noises were unpleasant even through several protective spells. The earthy, pungent smell lingered so stubbornly in the air that Severus could still sense it hours later, even after he had showered. The scent reminded him that not even his experience and skill spared him from dealing with such unpleasant ingredients.

On top of that came the monotonous repetition of each work step, which exhausted him mentally even more. Nothing about the task challenged him. Everything was routine, and this very routine stretched time even further, as if the day were endlessly elongating.

After meticulous, repeated, almost pedantic checks, the antidote stood finished before him. The liquid shimmered distinctly, and he knew it would be administered within hours to those who had been petrified in the hospital wing for weeks. He checked the consistency multiple times, compared the color with previous records, and noted down every intermediate step with painstaking accuracy—not because he had to, but because he refused to allow himself even the slightest negligence. This was not an ordinary healing potion. This potion would determine whether people woke again or remained trapped in paralysis forever.

He felt no desire, however, to be present during the revival. He was certain that his presence would raise questions about his intentions or emotions, questions he did not want to answer. So he stayed away and wandered restlessly through the long, dark corridors of the castle. Only when the voices in the hospital wing grew quieter and the general unrest subsided did he return.

His footsteps echoed in the halls, and the longer he walked, the heavier the air around him seemed to become. The thought of stepping into her presence again occupied him more intensely than he would ever have admitted.

A Disillusionment Charm cloaked him, his outline melting into the darkness until he was little more than a shadow. Soundlessly he approached her bed and sat on the too-hard chair, its wood pressing uncomfortably against his back. He did not register it. None of it reached him, because his entire focus rested on her face.

Her pallor struck him like a blow, a sharp, quiet hurt he instinctively pushed away yet could not fully suppress. The utter stillness of her hands—usually restless, alive, brimming with thought—made something inside him tighten.

He sat rigidly, hands clasped, as if he had to restrain himself from making any unnecessary movement. Every breath she took, faint as it was, pulled his attention toward it; every unmoving moment made his brow tighten almost imperceptibly.

About two hours after the potion had been given, the first reactions began. One after another, the petrified students stirred. Fingers twitched, eyelids fluttered, and the first breaths returned. The atmosphere in the room shifted noticeably. Severus felt relief, which he immediately suppressed by curling his hands briefly into fists.

It was a controlled reflex, an attempt to smother the emotion rising inevitably within him. Even now, his face remained expressionless, though his insides reacted differently.

Hermione was breathing again. That delicate, barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest felt to Severus like a quiet, unexpected ray of light in a room that had remained dark far too long. He watched every movement as if he needed to confirm that his exhausted mind was not deceiving him. But it was real: rhythm. Life. Proof that the potion had begun to work.

Madam Pomfrey bustled around the ward, but Severus’s attention only brushed past her. He watched her hand out the restorative potion—the one he had brewed—and a faint yet sharp pang of responsibility went through him. The mixture contained everything they needed now: nutrients, fluids, a carefully measured dose of painkiller. He had experienced in his own body how cruel muscles felt when awakened after forced paralysis. He knew the pulling, the burning, the trembling. He did not want Hermione to feel it—at least not more than necessary.

Sir Nicholas still hovered unchanged above the floor, unaffected, for ghosts lay beyond the reach of his craft. But Severus lost sight of him immediately, because his thoughts inevitably returned to the narrow bed where Hermione lay.

He noticed how his chest eased slightly with every breath she took. As though his own body had only now understood that he no longer needed to fear losing her. A feeling he refused to name crept warm and intrusive under his skin—and yet he allowed it, for just a moment.

Pomfrey muttered soft reassurances as she worked, but Severus barely heard her. His focus was entirely on the one bed where he remained unmoving, as though the rest of the room had ceased to matter.

The hours passed. Night settled over the hospital wing, and the moonlight fell in thin strips through the windows. Severus stayed close. Eventually he drifted into a light, restless sleep, still hidden by his spell. He slumped in the chair, head bowed onto his chest.

His sleep was shallow, broken by twitches and uneasy thoughts. He tolerated it only because his body had rebelled against the past few days.

A soft sound suddenly tore him awake. Not a clear word, more a faint, barely audible noise. To anyone not on guard, it would have gone unnoticed. Severus straightened immediately and listened.

A second sound followed. A weak whimper. It came from Hermione’s bed.

He reached her in a few swift steps. Her face was contorted, as if she were dreaming uneasily. Tiny beads of sweat dotted her forehead, and her lips moved as though she were trying to speak. He took the vial of restorative potion Poppy had prepared and carefully let a few drops fall into her mouth. The effect was immediate. Her face relaxed. Her breathing steadied. The whimpering ceased.

He observed every change closely, almost automatically, like someone trained for years to interpret even the smallest reaction. Only when her breathing stabilized did the tension slowly drain from his shoulders.

Severus placed his hand briefly on her forehead. Her skin felt warm. His heart quickened, and he felt unmistakably how deeply the moment affected him. He did not allow himself the thought for long.

He withdrew his hand abruptly.

“Tomorrow the world will look different, little one. Good night. I hope your dreams remain peaceful,” he whispered so softly the words were barely audible. The nickname slipped out unintentionally, and he immediately felt irritated with himself. The realization made his expression harden briefly. He knew he had to be more careful. Feelings were a risk he could not afford.

He stood, turned, and left the room. His footsteps were quiet. He knew he had to go before the situation unsettled him further.

As the door closed behind him, he dropped the spell and took a deep breath before stepping into the night corridor and regaining his composure.

When Hermione opened her eyes the next morning, she felt as though a heavy layer were falling away from her. The fog in her mind receded slowly, and she gradually recognized the familiar outlines of the hospital wing. The white vaulted ceiling arched above her. The long rows of beds stood quietly, bathed in the soft morning light streaming through the tall windows.

Her body reacted strongly to awakening. Every muscle felt as though it had fought for hours against something unseen. A dull, slow ache lay in her arms, legs, and neck. The stiffness of the past days had left its mark, and each breath reminded her how unnaturally long she had been frozen in a position no human could endure.

Despite the heaviness and the pain, one clear thought rose in her mind. Quiet, unremarkable—and yet it struck her fully.

She was alive.

She turned her head. Her eyes needed a moment to adjust to the light. Then she recognized Harry and Ron sitting close by her bed. Both had deep circles under their eyes, proof they had barely slept. Yet they smiled. Their smiles were honest and warm, tightening her chest in an unexpected rush of emotion. Harry leaned forward. His voice nearly cracked with relief as he said, “There you are again.”

He nudged Ron with his elbow, as if he needed to confirm she truly was awake. Ron grinned broadly. His ears were red, as always, and he nodded vigorously. “Yeeeah, ’Mione, I’m really glad you’re back,” he managed, sounding like someone who had regained something very important.

“Boys… what happened while I was gone?” she asked. Her voice was brittle and weak. The words were barely a whisper and seemed to vanish into the large stillness of the room.

Harry and Ron took turns explaining what had happened. As Hermione listened and her eyes widened, she noticed something else. A scent. Warm, spicy, familiar. Sandalwood. The fragrance wrapped around her subtly and reminded her of something she couldn’t quite name but definitely recognized. She had sensed it during her paralysis. Back then she had thought it was part of a dream. But it had not been imagined. It had been real.

And it was real now. She knew it with a certainty she couldn’t explain: he was here. Not visible, not audible — but unmistakably present. The thought made her smile. A small, barely noticeable smile she hid before Harry or Ron could notice.

“You really figured it out,” she said when Harry finished. Her voice was slightly stronger now, as if she had drawn a bit of strength from their words. “I was so afraid no one would understand what was happening. Luckily you found the note. I wanted to show and explain everything to you. I knew I was in danger. But I needed one more moment. I had to return to the dormitory to change. And I thought of a mirror. It was the only way to avoid the basilisk’s gaze. And yet… when I held it around the corner, it was already over. I couldn’t move anymore. It was… terrible.”

Her voice trembled. The memory shook her briefly. Ron leaned forward quickly. His motions were hasty and awkward, as though he wanted to help without knowing how. “’Mione… I’m sorry. Did you… did you hear what Lockhart tried to do? He wanted to Obliviate us and make himself out to be the hero. And you used to like him.”

A weak, tired smile touched her lips. “Not for a long time, Ron. I realized he was a fraud. On the day Professor Snape corrected him.”

Her tone was calm, but there was a hint of quiet pride. Not only because she had seen through Lockhart—also because Snape’s name now held a different weight for her, something she could not openly express. Harry grimaced, his expression wavering between confusion and stubborn annoyance. He laughed dryly, shook his head, and said, “Yeah, that was… something. Even though I can’t stand Snape.”

Hermione wanted to reply, perhaps with a factual rebuttal or one of her typical comments about Harry’s prejudices. But at that moment she sensed the scent again. Stronger. Closer. Sandalwood, warm and unmistakable. He was still here.

She had to be careful. She couldn’t reveal anything—no smile, no reaction.

What would he have done if he had known she had been fully conscious when he spoke to her? That she had heard every word, including his apology?

And that she had sensed how sincere he had been?

She lowered her gaze and stayed silent. She listened with half an ear as Ron excitedly explained that his family would travel to Egypt in the summer because they had won prize money. Harry nodded, adding details. Both spoke at once, excited and animated. Hermione’s attention drifted. The scent lingered. Warm, spicy, so vivid it nearly overwhelmed her thoughts. It was present like a constant undertone impossible to drown out.

As she accepted the letter from her parents that Ron handed her and recognized their familiar handwriting, she instinctively knew that the one she could not see was very much paying attention to its contents. She felt it without knowing how.

She placed the letter beside her so he could easily read it. She continued to listen as Harry and Ron spoke, though their words blurred into background noise. Still, she wondered again why her. Why he remained near. What about her could be significant enough that Severus Snape, the strict and often feared professor, watched over her every night and perched as a raven on the tower ledge. She searched for a logical explanation but found none. The only certainty she had was that he did not mean her harm. And for that moment, that was enough.

It was the morning of their departure home. The sun hung low, casting pale light through the windows of the Gryffindor girls’ dormitory. Open trunks, clothes, books, and belongings lay scattered everywhere. The girls moved between the beds, chattering, packing, sorting. The room was chaotic but lively, filled with anticipation for the holidays ahead.

Hermione had awakened early — far earlier than the others. She had kept quiet so as not to disturb anyone and had instead looked out the window. The new day carried a bright, clear shimmer, and for a moment she had hoped her many thoughts would settle. The feeling did not last long.

Then came a tapping on the glass. Sharp, insistent, pulling her instantly back to alertness. When she looked up, she saw a large brown owl on the windowsill. Its eyes were sharp and focused, as though it knew exactly whom it sought.

“Lavender, please get up and open the window,” Parvati mumbled sleepily into her pillow. Lavender pushed herself upright reluctantly, yawned, and shuffled to the window. She examined the owl curiously as it swooped in with a pronounced hoot, landing straight on Hermione’s bed. Its talons scratched briefly against the blanket before it lifted the leg that held a parchment.

Hermione’s heartbeat quickened. She recognized the seal immediately. The Hogwarts crest in deep red wax was unmistakable.

“Oh, you’ve got mail for me?” she murmured, her voice slightly too high, tension slipping through. She opened the small drawer of her bedside table, retrieved the bag of owl treats, and gave the owl two pieces. It accepted them immediately, cracking them loudly in its beak while standing calmly as Hermione untied the string holding the parchment.

The parchment now lay in her hand. The seal gleamed in the morning light as though demanding her attention. Hermione could feel the curious gazes of her roommates. Lavender even leaned forward slightly, as if she could divine the contents.

Before any of them could comment or ask, Hermione slipped the letter into her bag unseen and stood. The motion was calm but firm, and the others retreated a bit.

She continued packing, closing her trunks, listening to the soft chatter around her. Her expression remained neutral, giving nothing away. Inside, however, a mix of unease and anticipation grew stronger.

Only after the others left the room and their voices faded in the corridor did silence return. Hermione sat back on her bed. She drew a deep breath, reached into her bag, took out the letter, broke the seal, and unfolded it.

The words that greeted her stole her breath:

> Dear Miss Granger,

for the coming school year an expansion of my research work is planned, which requires the assistance of a suitable assistant. After careful examination of all potential candidates, I have come to the conclusion that you are the only student whose professional competence, work discipline, and resilience meet the requirements of this project.

The Headmaster has been informed of my decision and has approved it. Your Head of House has also been consulted and supports the proposal. Your task would be to assist me twice weekly—within the constraints of your schedule—with experimental work and documentation.

After completion of your schooling in 1998, you will, upon successful participation, be awarded the Potions Mastery. This would make you the youngest holder of this title in Britain since the beginning of recorded history. I trust you understand the significance of this opportunity and that it aligns with your academic interests.

I await your reply by owl.

Professor Severus T. Snape
Potions Master

Hermione stared at the lines as though unable to believe they were real. It felt as if her mind had faltered, rearranging the words wrongly. Her heartbeat quickened — surprise, joy, uncertainty colliding. This was no ordinary offer. It was something that could change her entire future. A Mastery straight after graduation, without the usual years of preparation. She understood immediately what it meant. A leap ahead almost no one had ever been granted. A step into a life she had never dared imagine, yet instantly recognized as possible.

She pressed the parchment to her chest briefly. A sound escaped her—half joy, half relief. No one was left to hear it. She jumped up, pacing the room, holding the parchment aloft as her thoughts spun wildly. “Oh Merlin’s beard, this is incredible,” she whispered breathlessly. She could not stand still; her hands trembled with excitement. The sudden surge of energy stripped away all restraint.

Only then did she notice movement at the window. A dark shape perched on the sill. Black feathers glinting faintly in the morning light. Deep, watchful eyes fixed unmistakably on her. The raven. Her Professor Snape. Her heart reacted instantly, as if it had waited for this. She gripped the parchment, hurrying to the window.

“Look,” she exclaimed, her voice almost breaking with excitement. “I’ve been given the chance to earn my Mastery. Isn’t that wonderful?” She laughed, spun once in place, and held up the parchment as if to make sure he truly saw it. It mattered to her—sharing this moment with him—no matter how irrational it seemed.

The raven did not move. But his eyes sharpened. She felt he understood the significance and shared her joy, even if he could not show it. His silence was not cold—it was attentive, observant.

“Thank you for your friendship,” she said softly once she had calmed. She brushed a hand gently across his feathers. The touch was brief, careful, unsure whether she was allowed. “Have a wonderful summer, Raven. See you soon.” She grabbed her trunk, left the room still buzzing, and knew his gaze followed her until the door shut.

He stayed on the windowsill. Hidden behind the raven’s feathers, he watched her go. His thought was brief and clear. ‘See you soon, little Gryffindor.’

Severus had spent the day in his office. As always at the end of the year, he sorted his cupboards, inventoried ingredients, and reviewed old parchments. The routine was familiar, yet his movements seemed tenser this year, as though his mind kept drifting. He knew she had to make a decision, though he had little doubt what it would be. He had observed her long enough to know how fiercely she pursued knowledge, how focused she worked, how committed she was. It was obvious to him she would not decline. Even so, he noted a certain anticipation in himself. He waited for her answer despite being convinced he already knew its contents.

Evening had advanced when loud wingbeats struck his window. A large owl landed on the sill, spreading its wings. Severus stood, his cloak whispering over the stone floor, and opened the window. The owl immediately extended its leg, bearing a neatly rolled parchment. He untied it, tossed the owl a piece of dried meat, and closed the window. His movements were calm, yet a faint tension in his expression betrayed his heightened focus.

He broke the seal and scanned the lines. At the very first sentence—“Dear Professor Snape, thank you for your trust in me. Of course I will gladly accept this unique opportunity.” —he felt something inside him loosen. A tension he had ignored but that had nevertheless lingered over the past days. She had accepted. It did not surprise him. Yet a quiet relief flickered through him, one he refused to acknowledge.

He continued reading.

“I look forward to the coming time and to working with you. Respectfully,
Hermione J. Granger.”

His brows drew together as he reread the “Respectfully.” It felt formal, almost overly correct, yet he sensed more behind it than mere politeness. He imagined her sitting over the parchment, brows knit in concentration, searching for the appropriate wording. The blend of earnestness, diligence, and respect irritated him and impressed him in equal measure.

Then the single letter caught his eye. J. Hermione J. Granger. He examined the letter again. He had never noticed the “J” before — not on any list, exam sheet, or official document. He wondered whether it was a second given name, a matrilineal name, or simply an oddity she had kept to herself.

He leaned back, holding the parchment as though it were more delicate than his usual correspondence. Candle shadows flickered over the stone walls as he pondered whether the “J” mattered. He told himself it did not. Yet his mind lingered on it. It was a detail he could not dismiss.

“Respectfully,” he murmured. Not mockingly—thoughtfully. He rolled the parchment and placed it in the top drawer of his desk. Not with his regular letters but in a place he selected deliberately. A place he intended to keep in sight.

He took his teacup and drank it slowly. As dusk settled over Hogwarts, he already knew what he would do next. He would prepare his journey to Spain. That was where Hermione would spend her summer, as he had learned from her parents’ letter. And he had no intention of leaving her unobserved.

He stepped to the window and looked into the twilight. Moments later, a large black bird rose into the air. Wings cutting through wind, he soared over the castle towers and vanished into the evening sky. The raven flew because he knew she awaited him. Because this was the beginning of a new closeness — one he could no longer evade and one he—if he were honest — no longer wished to.

Chapter Text

Severus had spent the entire summer repeating a bitter litany in his head, one that was based on a clear self-deception and that he recited to himself over and over with almost compulsive persistence. He wanted to believe that his regular journeys to Spain had been an expression of a duty derived from his position as teacher, mentor, and guardian, and he made an effort to accept this explanation as the logical consequence of his responsibility. The idea that rational conscientiousness drove him into the sweltering heat of Madrid seemed to provide him with a stable justification that he could present to himself, even though he felt how baseless this justification was. The more often he repeated the sentence in his thoughts, the more clearly he recognised how little it corresponded to the truth, because his journeys across the Pyrenees and the risk they entailed only made sense if there was a personal motive at play, one that was stronger than any professional obligation. The fact that he found it hard to bear not seeing her and not having access to her closeness lodged itself in his consciousness and could no longer be pushed aside, even though he resisted it. In a dark corner of his mind, he realised that he had inwardly begun to refer to her as his “better half,” a term that seemed both ridiculous and dangerous to him, so that he flinched inwardly every time and despised himself for the thought.

The realisation that this term already existed reached him in a moment of quiet clarity, in which he noticed that something fundamental within him had shifted, even though he had long resisted it. The change did not show itself in grand gestures, but in a simple, unobtrusive recognition that she was influencing him and that this influence was moving him in a direction he had previously considered inaccessible. He noticed a form of patience developing in him, one he rarely granted himself, and he sensed, in those parts of his personality where bitterness had once dominated, a surprising emptiness that now made room for something softer and more uncomfortable. He was not yet ready to give this new feeling a name and considered it sensible to observe the development for the time being, since any premature classification seemed like a mistake to him.

That summer, he no longer showed himself to her in the familiar shape of the raven that had accustomed her to his presence the previous year through nightly visits at her window. The form now seemed too conspicuous and too risky to him. Hermione had also, unintentionally, made him aware of another possibility. The Polyjuice Potion offered him a solution. For weeks he had guarded ingredients in the Hogwarts dungeons, stirred mixtures, and monitored every phase. He documented each step meticulously. In the end, a perfected brew was ready, allowing him to slip into the skin of an inconspicuous young woman. This appearance fit in with the countless tourists of Madrid and attracted no attention. In this foreign shell he now accompanied Hermione through the streets of the city, walking beside her. She followed, with shining eyes, the shadows of the cathedrals, breathed in the dusty scent of old alleys, and walked along the banks of the Manzanares. Every time she laughed or excitedly explained what she had seen or read, he experienced a conflict between pain and a light that invigorated him. Her mere existence tormented him and strengthened him at the same time.

At the same time, he tried to fulfil his duty and prepare for the coming school year. He read plans, checked inventories, and corrected old recipes. Yet every return from the sultry streets of Madrid to the dark and silent corridors of Hogwarts intensified the impression of emptiness and cold. The castle seemed permeated by a silence that reminded him of her absence every second. Today’s appointment with Albus added to his inner resistance. The visit felt like a waste of time to him. He wanted only one thing. He wanted to go back to her. He wanted to go back to her closeness. He wanted to go back to the sun that existed for him only through her presence.

With the determined stride of a man who had no patience for detours, he crossed the corridors, his black cloak rustling in heavy waves behind him, and when he stood before the stone gargoyle, he spat the password “Mäusespeck” out almost like an insult. The spiral staircase began to move at once, and he climbed the steps so hastily that he skipped two at a time until he reached the top, not even pausing to observe etiquette, as he flung the office door open with a forceful shove, as though he were master of the room and not a guest.

“Hello, my boy” came Albus’s unshakably friendly voice, as though Severus’s brusque entrance were nothing more than a small quirk, and the old wizard rose, walked leisurely around the massive desk, and gestured with a casual yet commanding movement toward the Pensieve in the corner. “Come, I must show you something” he said. Albus started moving at once, as though he meant to lead the way, and Severus followed him, wondering what Albus was up to this time.

Severus’s eyebrows drew together suspiciously, his lips tightening into a thin line, but he remained silent, taking only one of those long, soundless steps forward that always hinted that he despised his surroundings and obeyed them anyway. “Now then” Albus said, and before Severus had time for a sharp word of resistance, he bent over the silvery shimmering surface, and the pull of the memory dragged him down into the depths.

He suddenly stood in this office once again, though not as himself, but as an invisible observer who had been drawn into the current of a memory that Albus was deliberately placing before his eyes. The room seemed familiar and at the same time strange, like a place he had entered countless times that now appeared in the muted light of the past. He recognised Minerva immediately, as she sat stiff and upright in one of the armchairs, lips pressed into a thin line and hands folded. Her face showed a tension that suggested she was forcing herself to remain composed in order to get through this conversation without visible uncertainty. Next to her sat Minister Fudge, smug and puffed up, with his fingers interlaced over his stomach as though he fancied himself a decisive figure. The nervous twitch of his moustache, however, showed that he did not feel equal to the situation.

Then he saw Hermione.

She sat straight in her chair, her hands pressed firmly on her knees as if she were keeping her own body in check so that insecurity gained no ground. Her eyes appeared serious and attentive, and when she began to speak, her voice was calm, clear, and carried by a pride that did not stem from arrogance. He could not immediately name the source of this tone. “I know what this means for me, Professor Dumbledore, Sir. I have spoken to my parents. They agree. The new school year brings many subjects. I want to take them all. Since the option exists, I will accept it” she said.

The words stayed with him, and he felt his breath catch as his heart gave a sharp, hurried beat. He had not expected her to sound so sure and so grown-up. She was almost fourteen, and yet she displayed a clarity that impressed and unsettled him at the same time. He wondered how someone at that age could already have developed such determination.

Albus leaned forward slightly. His voice, normally mild, took on a distinct sharpness. “Miss Granger, you know what you are getting yourself into. Long days. Journeys through time. It will be dangerous. No one may see you. No one may know” he said.

Each word hung heavy in the room. Severus noticed his hands unconsciously clenching into fists as his gaze remained fixed on Hermione. She nodded firmly, as if the task were for her nothing more than a concrete challenge. “Yes, Professor” she replied. Her tone was clear and without hesitation, which struck him harder than he expected.

Minerva shifted uneasily in her chair. The lines around her mouth deepened, as though she wanted to object. She remained silent, however, until Albus addressed her directly. “Minerva, the final word lies with you. Do you believe Miss Granger is up to it? In addition to the mastery training” he asked.

A heavy silence arose. Severus watched as Minerva first looked at Hermione, then back at Albus, as though seeking confirmation. Finally, she nodded, visibly reluctant, and said quietly yet firmly: “Yes, Albus. If anyone can do it, it is her. If it does not work, she will stop. Without consequences.”

“Then it is decided” Dumbledore said with calm finality. At that moment, Fudge rose, leaned forward, and held out his small, damp hand to Hermione, as though he himself were making the responsible decision. Severus felt a wave of aversion to this man that, for a brief moment, took his breath away.

He still could not tear his gaze away from Hermione. In the midst of these older people, she seemed as though she naturally belonged in their circle. Clever, brave, and convinced of her path, yet at the same time he detected in her expression a shadow of weariness that would inevitably settle in once the strain increased. A familiar fear rose within him, one he would never admit to anyone. The fear that she might overextend herself. The fear that she might break. The fear that he would be the one who should have prevented it.

The image dissolved, and Severus was yanked back into the present with a jarring pull. He was once again standing in the office with its tall shelves, the golden light reflections of the candles, and the smell of old parchment hanging in the air like a heavy layer. Even before his senses fully grasped that the ground was solid under his feet again, his anger erupted unchecked.

“Albus, you cannot be serious” he thundered, and the words echoed off the stone walls. Then a torrent of tirades burst from him, sharp, loud, and unbroken, as though he had been waiting for hours for the chance to finally explode. “By MERLIN, Albus, have you completely lost your mind” he hissed. “A bloody Time-Turner. For a child. Have you lost all reason? Time travel is one of the most dangerous things our world has to offer. This is madness, this is irresponsible, this is… for Merlin’s sake, this is insanity!”

He continued in the same breath. “Whole realities can fall apart. Whole lives dissolve if you make a single wrong move. I know the risks and do not even fully understand them. What, in the name of all gods, do you think will happen if Hermione Granger makes mistakes with it? She will be fourteen. FOURTEEN! An ambitious, clever, but impulsive girl. It is enough that an adult wizard can fail with a Time-Turner. And now you want to put that burden on her? Have you locked your sanity in your desk? Merlin’s beard, Albus, what exactly are you thinking? Do you want to have her torn to pieces? Do you want to break her neck? Do you want her to fall out of time and end up in nothingness?”

His voice almost broke. “This is not a school project. This is not a game. This is damned, uncontrollable time magic. If you had suggested this to me as a student, I probably would have exploded before I even touched the sand in the hourglass.”

He went on talking, unstoppable, for a quarter of an hour. Every argument was rolled over by the next wave of words. Anger, desperation, fear, everything blended into a voice that became so loud that the portraits on the walls broke off their conversations.

Albus let him talk. He sat still and almost unmoved, his hands folded, his gaze calm and clear, as though he were watching a storm he himself had predicted. His composure only intensified Severus’s fury.

Only when Severus’s voice turned hoarse and a raw burning began in his throat did Albus intervene in the conversation. That moment was enough, however, to propel Snape into his next attack.

“What about her mastery training” Severus continued, no longer quite as loud, but still with biting sharpness. “She is overloading herself. You are driving her into exhaustion. I do not want her to collapse. I am giving up my plans in order to protect her. That should serve as enough of a warning.”

He was breathing heavily, yet his gaze still burned like a streak of flame. “By MERLIN, Albus, I swear to you, if that girl is lost in time under your responsibility, I will tear your office apart stone by stone.”

“Ah” Albus murmured, and smiled slightly as he regarded Severus with a look that was at once amused and assessing. “A noble intention on your part, Severus. You feel something for the girl.”

Severus’s head snapped around as though someone had slapped him. “Albus—” he began.

“Stop. Now I will speak” Albus said, and his voice cut through the room with unusual sharpness, while his raised hand made it clear that he would tolerate no contradiction. “You are concerned about her. That is good. You are trying to play down this concern, to turn it into something you can control. You want to package it as duty, boredom, or weakness. That does not fit what I see.”

Severus snorted. “I am concerned because you want to send her into the abyss, not because of any emotional—”

“Severus” Albus interrupted calmly. “Your concern would not be so intense if there were not more to it.”

“More?” Severus’s eyes narrowed. “How do you arrive at this absurd assumption? It is simply reason, Albus. Respect for a brain that ought not to be wasted. The girl is capable, yes. Brilliant, perhaps. And very exhausting. But feelings? For a student? Please.”

Albus regarded him for a long moment, then said in a quiet but firm voice: “Your soul person is good for you. She is changing you. You seem calmer and more level-headed than before. The inner resentment that has accompanied you for years is losing its force. You listen where once you would have bitten. You think where you once would have drawn a knife immediately. You appear more balanced, Severus. Those around you notice. I notice.”

Severus pressed his lips together and brushed the words aside with a curt movement of his hand. “I appear more balanced because I have had to put up with an unbearable number of fools for months. Not because—”

“Severus” Albus interrupted again, this time with a tone that left not the slightest space for discussion. “It fits with what you are experiencing. You are growing. Not because you are consciously trying to, but because she has this effect on you.”

Albus took a step closer to him, and his voice lowered into a calmer but more insistent tone. “Look at yourself. For years you have lived in your dungeons, wrapped in bitterness, anger, and the weight of old mistakes. Today you are sitting here talking about the well-being of a child. You are setting aside your own plans, not out of a sense of duty, but out of genuine concern. That shows strength. Your heart was not dead. It was locked away. This girl is setting something in motion within you without intending to.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “I simply call it annoyance. A constant, loudly talking annoyance.”

“You underestimate her” Albus replied. “Her soul is young, yet it carries maturity. She possesses strength you did not expect. She holds a mirror up to you. Not only to your mistakes, but also to what can grow within you.”

Severus snorted derisively. “A mirror I do not need. I know my mistakes. They are part of my everyday life.”

Albus raised his hand slightly. “For years you believed your path was predetermined. You saw yourself as a shadow-walker, as bearer of old guilt. Through her, another perspective arises. A future that offers more than work and duty. She forces you to cross boundaries. She gives you a reason to think differently. She lets you grow because your soul responds to her.”

Severus turned away and walked to the window. His movements seemed tense, as though he had to get rid of energy that burned too hot under his skin. “Yes, Albus, I accept the bond” he finally said roughly, as he brushed his fingertips over the cool stone surface. “But nothing more. No feelings. No sentimentalities. She is a know-it-all, a chatterbox, a difficult little Gryffindor. She thinks she can save the world with knowledge. She talks without pause. She questions every rule. She always thinks she knows better. She drives me insane.”

Albus folded his hands. “You speak as if all of that were negative.”

Severus half turned, his eyes narrowed. “She clings to books. She even corrects professors. She asks questions no one wants to hear. She treats morality like a scientific constant. A childish misconception in a world full of power and deception. And still she forces me to listen. She forces me to show patience. She forces me to give in where I should have exploded long ago. The girl gets into my head. I cannot stop it. I hate it.”

“No” Albus said calmly. “You hate the possibility that you might feel.”

Severus’s gaze hardened. “I do not want weakness. She is a weakness. She is young and impetuous. I am old and worn. I am not suited to see her as anything other than what she is. A student. My student. Nothing more. If you think I seek comfort in this connection, you are mistaken. I will not let myself be saved by a Gryffindor.”

Albus was silent for a moment, then said gently: “You are afraid.”

Severus froze. “I am not afraid.”

“Yes” Albus said quietly. “You fear vulnerability. You fear someone might reach your heart. I see it clearly.”

Severus clenched his jaw. His voice sounded rough as he said: “If fate forces me to tolerate her at my side, then I will. Only tolerate. Nothing more.”

“Hm” Albus murmured softly.

The headmaster knew more than Severus cared to admit. He trusted that time would bring the truth to light. Finally, he lifted his gaze and said: “My boy, you can resist, you can belittle it, you can ridicule it. It does not change the fact that this bond is changing you. You call her a know-it-all and a chatterbox. At the same time, there is truth in your complaints. She throws you off balance. She asks questions no one else asks you. You need this friction.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Friction is the last thing I need in my life.”

Albus smiled slightly. “I call it growth.”

Severus rolled his eyes again. “I call it a headache.”

Albus stepped closer. “You call her a weakness. I call her a strength. Her ideals may be young. Yet they carry power. You have locked away your heart. This girl is the first crack. She forces you into a reaction that is human. That is what makes her valuable.”

Severus’s fingers twitched on the windowsill, a faint sign that the words had hit home.

“You fear vulnerability” Albus said. “You believe it makes you easy to attack. I tell you: your strength has never lain in your hardness. It has always lain in your ability to feel, despite all the pain. You see danger in that. I see your salvation.”

He cast a long look at the large grandfather clock standing on the wall beside the bookshelf. The heavy pendulum swung back and forth in a calm, even rhythm, as though it embodied the unshakable order of the castle, an order that was not thrown off balance even by Severus’s outbursts and Albus’s admonitions. Albus followed the pendulum’s movement for a moment, as if checking how much time had passed since the beginning of the conversation and how much patience Severus still had left before he finally lost his temper. The silence stretched until he lifted his gaze again and fixed it on Severus with an expression that was both friendly and commanding, as though to make it clear that the next sentence would allow no discussion.

“Severus” he said calmly, yet with a tone that left no doubt that he intended to end the conversation. “Go to Miss Granger. I have detained you long enough. We will see each other at the start of term.”

Severus gave a brief nod, a short, controlled movement that was little more than a formal conclusion to the conversation, brushed his hand across his chest in a gesture of farewell, and finally turned toward the door, his gaze sweeping once more over the room as though to make sure Albus would not stop him again at the last moment. He took a firm step forward, opened the door with a movement that was a little too energetic, and stepped out into the corridor, where the cool, still air met him at once and eased the pressure in his chest by a fraction. As he walked along the first passage, a thought formed, clear and dry, almost like an order to himself: “Get away quickly before the old man comes up with more ideas,” and he unconsciously quickened his pace, as if sheer speed could keep Dumbledore from pulling him once more into a conversation that demanded more of him than he was willing to give.

He pushed the thought that was forming in him immediately down into the depths. He knew, however, that it could not be completely shaken off, because it carried too much weight to be suppressed. Albus had touched a point that he would never have made accessible to anyone, neither to the old wizard nor to any other person. What this girl set in motion within him belonged to him alone. It was an inner space no one was allowed to enter without breaking him in the process. With a brief, almost unwilling movement, he smoothed the crease from his sleeve, as if he could also erase the trace the conversation had left inside him. He would never admit how deeply she affected him and how strongly this inconspicuous closeness worked on him. He knew long since, without saying it aloud, that something inside him settled the moment she was within reach. This state felt unfamiliar to him and yet granted him a clarity he refused to acknowledge. Every time he walked away from her, a sense of emptiness groped through his chest, reminding him that silence was no protection as long as his heart had grown used to a sound he did not wish to admit. This sound made him warmer than he liked.

He would defend this fact against the world with teeth and claws. No one was allowed to find out that he felt safer in her presence than within all the walls he had built around himself. No one was allowed to know that a darkness stirred within him that her presence shaped into something brighter. No one was allowed to see that without this light he felt a loneliness he could not fight. It settled into him like a truth. He would never speak it aloud, not today, not tomorrow, not in front of Albus, not in front of any person. He could only keep walking, step by step, with the certainty that he had to go to her, because the world began to fall silent without her.

Chapter Text

YEAR 3

Dementors on the Hogwarts Express, right in the middle of students, trunks, cats, owls, and everything that had previously been linked to safety. Everything she had only ever known from books, class notes, or cautionary tales had suddenly taken on a concrete shape that forced itself upon her with terrifying force. The horror she had always regarded as something distant, something that existed in the history of the magical world like a dark chapter, had in an instant become an immediate threat, something she felt with every fibre of her being. She understood in that moment that no carefully acquired knowledge, no definition, and no thorough treatise could ever have prepared her for what it felt like when such a creature appeared within arm’s reach and every inner certainty collapsed.

The cold had burrowed into her, so quickly and so deeply that she felt as though her own blood were freezing, while the presence of the Dementors not only darkened the air inside the compartment but wrapped her body in something like an icy shell. She felt how the cold did not remain on her skin but crept into her bones, into the marrow, into every dark corner of her mind, as though an alien will were reaching for her memories and clinging with merciless force to everything that had ever given her comfort. Every warm image, every cheerful memory, every feeling that normally created light within her was torn away, as if someone had without warning opened the door to a bottomless abyss and placed her right before it, with no chance of finding any hold.

Loneliness struck her in that minute with a force that robbed her of breath and settled over her like a heavy cloak. The dull weight of that emptiness pressed against her chest so intensely that her heart beat both painfully tight and achingly fast. It felt as though the darkness filled every single fibre of her body and pushed out every trace of warmth. The world suddenly seemed narrow, sharp-edged, cold, and so empty that she struggled to perceive the space around her at all.

Only the thought of Professor Snape kept her from sinking down in that second. She forced herself to focus on something real, tangible, solid, and his image came to her at once. His weight when he stood beside her, his presence, that black hair that never quite lay right, and those eyes, dark, almost black, alert to every last corner of a room. The mere thought of him brought a barely perceptible glimmer into her heart, a small spark that was enough to push back the worst of the cold. She held onto that, locked it inside herself like something forbidden that no one must ever see. Because if anyone ever found out that she had a crush on her professor, they would most likely send her straight to St Mungo’s. After all, he was the most unpopular teacher at Hogwarts, feared, mocked, saddled with the wildest nicknames—Dungeon Bat, for example.

She was still shivering as the memory of those minutes rose in her, and she ran her hands over her forearms as though she could wipe the invisible cold from her skin. At that exact moment, the man beside her, calm and composed like someone who knew situations like these, handed her another piece of chocolate. The gesture appeared simple, yet to her it felt like a small fragment of rescue amid chaos. She took the chocolate with both hands, let it melt slowly on her tongue, and felt the warmth spread cautiously, as if testing whether it was safe to stay.

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry said in a faint voice. He looked as though someone had thrown him straight into a snowstorm.

“You’re welcome,” the man replied calmly. His voice had a rough yet warm undertone that in that moment worked almost like a counterspell and loosened the trembling in her bones.

He straightened, adjusted his jacket, and said in a tone devoid of any drama, “I will check on the other compartments. There are surely more students in need of assistance.” He opened the door and stepped into the corridor, without haste and yet with a confidence that made them feel not entirely defenseless.

Ron stared at the door as it closed behind him and furrowed his brow in confusion. “Who on earth was that, anyway? He drove the Dementor away as if it were a bothersome cloud of dust.”

“Professor Lupin,” Hermione answered without hesitation. Her gaze slid to the worn leather case in the corner. “The tag says R. J. Lupin. That’s his luggage.”

Ron scratched his head. “He doesn’t look like someone who can just blow away a Dementor. Totally shabby.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why he can,” Hermione replied. “One doesn’t need to look frightening to be dangerous. And honestly, Ron, you really should have learned by now not to judge a book by its cover.”

Harry raised a hand slightly as if to slow the conversation. “What subject do you think he’ll teach?”

Hermione looked from the suitcase to her friends. “I find Defence Against the Dark Arts most likely. Lockhart is out of commission. The subject needs a replacement urgently. A wizard who can repel a Dementor won’t be assigned to the greenhouses.”

Ron grimaced. “At least it’d be more exciting than Lockhart’s rubbish.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, and a small smile flickered across her face.

As she spoke, she described once more to Harry and Ron how Professor Lupin had driven back the Dementor. Her voice sounded calm, but the memory made her pause for a moment. The magic she had seen went far beyond a standard spell. It was not a loud attack, not the raw force that characterised certain spells, but something based on deliberation, control, and deep understanding. The thought of being taught by this man overshadowed for a moment even the fear that still trembled inside her like a lingering shadow.

Even so, the fear remained. Hogwarts was her second home, the place she associated with safety, and the thought that Dementors could appear near it cast a grey veil over all other emotions. Matters grew even heavier when she thought of Sirius Black. His name was like a silent shadow woven through the conversations of adults. He was at large, and because of him the Dementors had searched the train. People claimed he had hidden in the Scottish Highlands, but no one explained to her why they believed that. Mr and Mrs Weasley had even withheld the Daily Prophet before the children had a chance to glance at the front page.

Hermione thought briefly and bitterly, “It’s time adults understand that they cannot protect us children from everything.”

The rest of the journey passed more quickly than she had expected. The cold lingered like a shadow in her body, yet the train sped through the landscape outside, which drifted by in complete darkness until the familiar lights of Hogsmeade appeared on the horizon and she reclaimed a first feeling of safety.

With every metre the train travelled, Hermione’s anticipation for the new school year grew, and in her mind it set off a long list of expectations. She thought of new subjects, of challenging projects, of quiet hours in the library, and of those rare moments when Professor Snape allowed her into his laboratory so she could experiment under his supervision. She looked forward to her fourteenth birthday, only a few weeks away, and remembered clearly how she had crossed the gates of Hogwarts for the first time at the age of eleven. She had been small and excited, both reverent and ambitious. Now that feeling had faded. She knew who she was, and that certainty gave her strength.

She considered herself more mature than many of her classmates, and that thought filled her with a quiet pride she did not hide because for her it was simply a natural expression of her character. While she followed her thoughts, she barely noticed the train coming to a halt and the doors opening. The crowd flowed in all directions, voices spread like a loud buzzing. Only when she saw Hagrid, waving with outstretched arms, looking like a living lighthouse amid a chaotic harbour, did she realise how glad she was to see him again.

“Hagrid!” she called and pulled Harry and Ron with her as if afraid the giant might slip out of sight.

“Hermoine! Harry! Ron! Good ter see yeh again!” Hagrid roared, his booming voice sounding as though each word came from a massive chest filled with pure joy. The students climbed into the carriages, which began to move as if by themselves, and the familiar route to Hogwarts let Hermione’s heart beat calmer.

The castle welcomed them with its familiar glow. The Great Hall shone in warm candlelight, and the voices of the students spread in powerful waves, accompanied by laughter, shouting, and excited conversation. The noise was far from orderly — loud and full — yet to Hermione it felt like a familiar sound that enveloped her without effort. The first evening always had something ceremonial about it, unusually structured and almost ritualistic, even for those who had been at the school for several years. For Hermione, beginning her third year, the evening felt like a new chapter of her life unfolding before her.

Her gaze wandered across the high, vaulted ceiling that seemed almost to sparkle in the light of the floating candles, then across the long house tables. At last her eyes searched instinctively for the staff table. Many teachers had already taken their seats, yet the two she awaited most were not present. Neither Professor Snape nor Professor Lupin could be seen. Her heart skipped a beat when the side door opened and both men entered the hall at the same time. They looked like two opposing poles.

Professor Snape moved with long, controlled steps, his black robe wrapped tightly around him, his face harsh and forbidding as if he had just tasted an especially bitter potion. Lupin, however, looked pale and exhausted, yet his expression retained a calm that he kept despite his drawn appearance.

Hermione’s gaze lingered on her professor. She thought briefly, “He hasn’t changed at all,” and bit her tongue to keep the thought from escaping. His appearance felt familiar, almost expected. Strict, closed-off, with an unreachable distance that both irritated and fascinated her.

Dumbledore’s voice sounded, clear and filling the hall. Hermione listened attentively as he spoke of new beginnings, responsibility, and communal growth. The atmosphere shifted abruptly when he addressed the presence of Dementors. Her fingers clenched the edge of the table unconsciously, and the thought shot through her head, “What was he thinking? These creatures do not belong anywhere near a school.”

Harry and Ron exchanged alarmed looks, and Ron whispered to her, “This has to be a joke, Hermione. Right? Dementors on the grounds?”

“I don’t think he talks about such things for fun,” Hermione replied curtly, forcing herself to remain calm.

Her eyes slid once more to the teachers while she sought orientation. Professor Snape was looking at her. His eyes were dark and so unfathomable that she immediately lowered her head because she could not withstand his gaze for a single second. If she tried, he would inevitably notice how hot her face had become.

The feast appeared on the tables and filled the hall with smells that created a mixture of comfort and overwhelm. Hermione reached for food because her stomach was empty, yet after only a few bites she noticed that Ron was eating at an almost unnerving speed.

“Ron, please,” she said sharply. “Show some manners. You eat as if you’ll never see food again. Watching you makes me want to stop eating altogether.”

Ron looked up, his cheeks packed full like those of an overwhelmed rodent. “’S-sorry, ’Mione,” he mumbled, and several pieces of meat flew out of his mouth and landed dangerously close to her plate.

“That is truly disgusting,” Hermione said and shifted her plate aside as if she needed to protect her food.

Harry tried to remain serious at first, but his face twisted until he burst into loud laughter. The laughter came so suddenly that he choked and had to cough.

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed in alarm, leaning forward and placing her hand on his back. “Breathe.”

Harry gasped for air and forced out between coughing fits, “I’m sorry, but Ron’s face… you should have seen it…”

Ron grabbed his goblet, drank quickly, and said, slightly offended, “You two are cruel. Both of you.”

Hermione shook her head. “We are not cruel, Ron. We simply have functioning eyes.”

Harry wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Hermione’s right. You eat like a pig.”

Ron stared at both of them, set down his cutlery, and said clearly this time, “You’ll miss me when I starve.”

“It will take longer than until Christmas,” Hermione replied dryly.

Harry laughed again and had to take a deep breath to stop himself from collapsing into renewed laughter.

For a brief moment, everything felt normal. Yet the thought of the Dementors remained in the back of her mind. A sense of danger hovered like an invisible shadow over the table while the feast continued in the warm candlelight, and the students tried to settle into the familiar atmosphere, even though this year had begun with an uncertainty already taking root in their minds.

The meal passed, accompanied by conversations about the holidays as students told each other what they had experienced. Hermione announced with noticeable pride that she finally had a pet: a cat, half-Kneazle, half-ordinary feline. She told her friends that after much pleading her parents had agreed, and she seemed so content that it resembled a personal achievement. Her eyes brightened as she spoke the name. “He’s called Crookshanks,” she said, smiling briefly before continuing to describe how wilful and clever he was.

Ron grimaced at the name alone. “That… that walking furball,” he burst out, straightening and crossing his arms. “He’s after Scabbers. My poor rat will never sleep again as long as that thing is near you.”

“Ron, don’t exaggerate,” Harry said, not looking up from his plate. “Scabbers has slept almost all day for years. Maybe he’s immune to stress.”

“That’s not funny, Harry,” Ron retorted. “The cat looked at me as if he wanted to pre-cook Scabbers.”

Hermione glared at him. Her brows drew together and her voice gained a sharp, vibrating undertone. “Oh Ron, he’s being misunderstood. Crookshanks is very smart, an extraordinary animal. Your dislike doesn’t mean he is wicked by nature.”

Ron snorted in annoyance. “He’s ugly, Hermione. He’s so ugly it physically hurts to look at him.”

“Maybe you should have your eyes checked,” Seamus said from across the table. “I didn’t think he looked that bad. He just… looks sturdy.”

“Sturdy?” Ron exclaimed. “Seamus, he looks like a collapsed doormat!”

Hermione answered instantly. “Ugly is not the animal, Ron Weasley. Ugly is the way you talk about him. Anyone who judges everything by appearance has understood nothing in life so far.”

A murmur went through the Gryffindor table. Some students turned to look; others fell silent. Ron’s face turned dark red, his ears glowing. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and tried to explain. “I only meant he looks odd. And the name… who calls their cat Crookshanks? That name is just…”

“He already had that name before I got him. And I see no reason to change it,” Hermione interrupted at once, her voice trembling. “He is old, he has been through a lot, and he deserves a home. He fits with me because he is just as peculiar as I am. You don’t have to like him, but you can respect him. I don’t complain about your rat being old and fat.”

Neville raised his hand cautiously, as if trying to mediate. “Well… I think Crookshanks seems like a good cat. A bit scruffy, but somehow… nice?”

“Neville, you’d suggest even a rabid dragon looks nice,” Ron muttered.

Ron’s eyes widened. “That’s unfair! Scabbers is not fat, he’s… well… maybe a little round, but he hasn’t had an easy life either.”

“You see,” Hermione said, “we see our animals differently. So at least accept that Crookshanks has a place by my side.”

Some students giggled, others exchanged curious glances. Finally, Ron raised his hands as though ending the argument. “Fine, Hermione. I get it. I’ll accept your Kneazle cat, but he must not nibble on Scabbers.”

Dean chimed in with a grin. “If Scabbers ever decides to move instead of just lying around, he might actually manage to escape.”

Ron shot Dean a sharp look. “Very funny.”

Hermione’s expression relaxed again. She took a deep breath and nodded. “Alright. But don’t underestimate him. He isn’t malicious; he’s an animal with character.”

Harry joined in, relieved the tension had dissolved. “Why are we talking about pets when I haven’t even told you what happened to me?” He straightened slightly and described with a hint of pride how he had accidentally inflated his aunt.

Seamus coughed into his drink. “You did what?”

“Inflated her,” Harry repeated as if it were entirely normal. “She’s floating somewhere over Surrey now.”

Lavender stared at him open-mouthed. “That can’t be… legal?”

Hermione stared at him in shock. “That was irresponsible, Harry. Exactly the kind of thing that gets students into trouble. You could have been expelled for underage magic in front of Muggles. Do you even understand the risk you took?”

Harry’s face hardened, and his voice lost all trace of cheerfulness in an instant. “I don’t care what could have happened. She insulted my parents. She deserved it, Hermione. Every word.”

Parvati whispered quietly to Lavender, “I never thought he’d snap like that.”

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, and her voice was now sharp. “That is not how you talk about your family. Not even when they behave terribly.”

“Yes, it is,” Harry snapped back, his expression suddenly older than his years. “If someone mocks the dead, then yes.”

Hermione wanted to respond, but his tone made it clear the conversation was over. Harry turned away, stared at his plate, and pushed potatoes around with his fork. Ron lowered his shoulders and shot Hermione a warning look that told her to give Harry some space. The atmosphere at the table grew quieter, though much more subdued, as students continued eating in silence, each of them mulling over the words that had remained in the air.

Meanwhile, at the staff table, somewhat apart, sat a man whose thoughts were as dark as the cloak he wore. Severus Snape was in a mood one could barely call a mood anymore. It was more a dense, sulphurous cloud of bitter gall brewing within him and making every breath heavy. Dumbledore, the old fool, had brought Remus Lupin back to Hogwarts—a werewolf, one of the hated Marauders, one of his arch-enemies. A relic of those years when Severus had felt humiliated by them day after day.

It boiled in him at the thought. James Potter, dead, yet living on in that brat with the glasses. Peter Pettigrew, also dead, but still hated in his memory. Sirius Black, now free, somewhere out there, a murderer, a traitor. And now Lupin, the friend of that pack, here in the castle under the same roof.

Snape’s lip curled slightly. “An Avada would be a relief,” he thought bitterly and closed his eyes for a moment as though trying to shake off the thought. A few seats down, Flitwick leaned toward Sprout and whispered something that made her laugh quietly. Snape heard it, and his gaze narrowed further.

“You seem to be in good spirits, Severus,” McGonagall said dryly as she leaned slightly toward him. “For the first evening of the year.”

“If that is your impression, Minerva, you should have your eyesight examined,” he growled softly without looking at her.

She raised an eyebrow. “Charming as ever.”

A sharp breath escaped him. “I do not understand why they brought him back. There are enough capable wizards who do not carry a… particular problem around with them.”

McGonagall folded her hands. “He is a good teacher, Severus. And he deserves a chance.”

“A chance for a Marauder,” Snape hissed, quieter this time. “Fascinating.”

“You could see it as an opportunity to let old wounds rest,” she said dryly.

“I brew Wolfsbane for him,” Severus hissed. “Rest is not a word that exists in this context.”

He felt Minerva take a deep breath, but she said nothing more. Snape did not bother to interpret her expression. His gaze remained cold on the tabletop.

Dumbledore stirred his pudding as if he had heard nothing. But Snape knew he had caught every word.

Beneath all the bitterness, something else gnawed at him. Sirius Black was free. And Severus knew with oppressive certainty that sooner or later this man would seek out Potter. Potter was seldom seen without Granger. If Potter fell into danger, so would she.

He clenched his hands into fists. “Not this time,” he thought and felt a cold, singular resolve form in his chest. “Never again. Neither the boy nor she will come to harm. I swear it by Merlin.”

As the atmosphere in the hall calmed, plates clattered more softly and conversations dwindled. As he considered the threats ahead, another image pushed into his thoughts. Hermione, eyes glowing over a cauldron, her voice full of enthusiasm whenever she discovered an ingredient no one else noticed. Her hands steady, precise, confident. A rare moment. A brief instant when he could forget who he was.

He flinched and pressed his lips together. “Why, by Merlin, do I keep thinking of that girl? That cursed soul connection.”

Suddenly, someone tapped on the table beside him. It was Flitwick. “Professor Snape, are you alright? You seem a bit… absent.”

Snape turned his head slowly. “I am perfectly fine,” he said tonelessly. “I am simply enjoying this wonderful evening.”

Flitwick blinked in confusion. “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

The Great Hall emptied gradually. The hum of voices faded. Groups of students rose, younger ones giggling and whispering, older ones moving with the tired grace of those who had experienced this ritual many times. The stream of students poured into the corridors. The torches cast long, flickering shadows across the stone walls.

Severus rose as well. His face remained carved from granite. As soon as he stood, the voice of the Headmaster sounded beside him—quiet, yet so firm Snape had no choice.

“Severus, a word in my office, please,” Dumbledore said without looking up.

An inward groan rose in Severus’ throat, but he kept it silent. He looked toward the door, took a sharp breath, and followed the Headmaster with long strides as the crowd of students parted before him.

“A late-night audience,” Snape thought darkly. “The old man grants me no moment of peace.” He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, as though its folds might protect him from the conversation to come.

When they reached the stone gargoyle, Snape halted for the briefest moment. In front of the office doors stood Minerva McGonagall—upright as ever, hands clasped, lips pressed into a thin line—and Cornelius Fudge, who puffed up self-importantly and adjusted his green bowler hat as though preparing to step into a spotlight.

He raised an eyebrow. “Minister Fudge,” he said with a minimal bow. “What a… late honour.”

Fudge cleared his throat and waved dismissively. “Yes, yes, important evening, important business. Duties of office and all that.”

Snape thought drily, “Another Ministry performance. And I get to endure it.”

He nodded briefly to Minerva and Fudge, offering no warmth whatsoever.

Dumbledore spoke the password, “Fizzing Whizzbee.” The gargoyle leapt aside. The staircase began to move, carrying them upward as though into another secluded world. The tall, round office with its shelves of books, silver devices, and the faint rustling of the phoenix welcomed them.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his eyes bright and focused. “Please, have a seat,” he said.

Minerva sat stiffly, Fudge lowered himself into a chair with the self-satisfaction of a man who enjoyed being seen. Severus remained standing. He stepped into the shadows near the window, folded his arms, and observed the scene with a dark glare.

“We will wait a moment longer,” Albus said as though he had planned every second of the evening. “She should be here any moment.”

Snape grew wary. “She?” he asked with quiet sharpness. “Whom are we expecting?”

“You will see shortly,” Dumbledore replied calmly.

No sooner had he spoken than a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Dumbledore called.

The door swung open.

Hermione Granger stepped inside.

Her stride was firm—no stumbling, no hesitation. Yet there was something in the way she lowered her gaze slightly, a mixture of respect and inner determination that made her appear older than she was. Her robe was simple, her hair as unruly as ever, yet her posture was composed.

Severus felt his heart make an involuntary, barely noticeable but irritatingly distinct jump. He pressed his lips together at once. “Nonsense,” he thought. “Pull yourself together. She is a student. Nothing more.”

Still his gaze slid to her, unavoidably, like a reflex. Hermione closed the door, stepped forward, and stood straight—not overly formal, but with a bearing that showed she knew why she had been summoned.

“Of course,” Snape thought darkly. “The Time-Turner.”

Fudge polished his little case theatrically, as though about to perform a coronation. Minerva watched Hermione closely, her eyes critical but tinged with hidden pride. Dumbledore radiated that unfathomable calm that sometimes drove Severus mad.

Snape remained in the shadows, unmoving, grim, yet inwardly unsettled. His fingers twitched once before he forced them still again. More intensely than he liked, he waited for what would come next.

Chapter Text

“Please take a seat with us, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore instructed her. His friendly smile once more carried that typical glow that always gave the impression he had thought through and internally arranged every single step of the coming minutes several times over. Hermione followed his request without hesitation, sat down in the seat assigned to her, and folded her hands neatly in her lap. She now sat between Fudge and Minerva. The Minister presented himself unmistakably as the man who considered himself the most important person in the room, which could be seen in the way he pushed his chest slightly forward and in his decorative hand movements. Minerva, on the other hand, appeared alert, serious, and at the same time filled with a quiet, warm attentiveness that was never loud yet remained clearly perceptible.

Dumbledore explained the reason for this meeting in his calm, evenly measured manner. Each of his words seemed carefully chosen. It was as though he wanted to make Hermione aware of the significance of her decision without unnecessarily unsettling her in any way. Fudge nodded at predictable intervals, cleared his throat at the points where he apparently felt obligated to do so, and made a visible effort to maintain an impression of authority.

After the Headmaster had finished his address, Fudge opened a small casket with an overly demonstrative movement. The brass hinge snapped softly, and he slid the little box toward her with a gesture that seemed almost theatrical. “Miss Granger, in light of your exceptional performance, the Ministry has been willing to issue you this,” he declared. His voice wavered between a patronising undertone and a self-satisfied pride that made it very clear he was happy to shift the importance of this moment onto himself. “A Time-Turner. Naturally, only under the strictest conditions. You now bear responsibility for an artefact that is granted on very rare occasions.”

Hermione felt her heart beat faster at once as she carefully accepted the small casket. A bright pride was reflected in her eyes, clearly accompanied by nervousness. She knew she had been granted a privilege that, in the long history of Hogwarts, had been offered to very few students at all.

As she examined the Time-Turner, she became aware of a scent so familiar that her body reacted involuntarily. It was a cool blend of herbs, fine smoke, and a hint of metallic sharpness that, over the last few years, had become an unmistakable signal to her. Her head turned almost of its own accord toward the window.

Professor Snape stood there.

He was not leaning, he was not sitting. He stood as an unmoving pillar in the half-shadow, his arms tightly crossed, his cloak heavy over his shoulders. The shadows seemed almost to close in around him, as if they were part of his very form. His gaze rested on her – dark, focused, penetrating. In his eyes lay an attentiveness so precise that it seemed he could analyse her every reaction and perceive each unspoken thought.

Hermione held her breath. For a brief moment, she barely noticed the others in the room at all.

“How does he do that?” she wondered inwardly, feeling a fleeting flutter of unease. “And what role does he play in this decision?” She knew the question made sense, because nothing Snape did or did not do happened without a reason.

A quiet and at the same time surprising thought slipped into her consciousness. It calmed her. “It is good that he is here.” Although she immediately asked herself why she thought that at all.

Snape did not move. His gaze did not leave her. Hermione forced herself to look back at Dumbledore, yet the shadow at the window remained tangible. He was like a silent observer who knew more than anyone had put into words.

“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore continued, and his voice now took on a firmer, almost official edge, as though he consciously wished to structure the moment and emphasise the weight of his words. “I trust that the task ahead lies within your capabilities. You will have a great deal to accomplish. Should something slip beyond your control at any point, be it your schedule, the amount of work before you, or simply the resilience of your body, then please contact the teaching staff without delay. Professor Snape will be your mentor in Potions this year. He will serve as your point of contact and instructor. You will spend many hours in his laboratory throughout the school year. It is important that you take this into account from the very beginning.”

Severus Snape detached himself from the shadow. The outline of his black cloak looked like a sharply drawn line in the candlelight, and his face remained expressionless as he stepped forward. His voice sounded hard, precise, and devoid of any ornament. Yet there was a barely perceptible undertone that made it clear the subject was not indifferent to him. “Miss Granger, I expect absolute honesty. If you notice that your strength is waning, if your concentration falters, or if you experience physical signs of exhaustion, inform me without delay. We will be working with substances that can have healing properties, yet at the same time carry dangerous side effects if handled incorrectly. A small mistake can have severe consequences. I am aware that you are ambitious. Ambition, however, does not replace caution or professional discipline. If I entrust you with responsibility, then I assume you will fulfil it with the same care that I myself apply. Do you understand me?”

Hermione lifted her chin. Her heart was racing, yet she endured his words without backing down. Her voice remained calm and clear as she answered. “Yes, Professor Snape. I promise I will do my best. I will take the responsibility seriously. I will not disappoint you.”

Something flickered in Professor Snape’s eyes for the briefest fraction of a second, something impossible to define. It might have been surprise or a brief moment of quiet acknowledgement. The expression was so fleeting it vanished almost before one could truly register it. In the very next breath, his face returned to its familiar, closed, stern composure. He inclined his head only slightly, a curt nod that seemed almost brusque and yet carried more weight than many words. This nod was neither reprimand, nor warning, nor an expression of his usual sharpness. It was a silent sign that he had taken her answer into account and took it seriously, even though he would never state such a thing aloud.

Hermione felt a mixture of relief and new resolve spreading within her. That brief moment meant more to her than she had expected. It felt greater than any other teacher’s rewarding gesture because it came from Severus Snape, who hardly ever showed recognition. She accepted this moment as a personal promise to herself. She was determined to prove to him what she was capable of. She wanted to show that his trust, however restrained and unspoken it might be, would not be in vain.

The thought that it was precisely he who granted her this opportunity further strengthened her will. He was strict, unyielding, and rarely patient. For that very reason, his decision to train her constituted a test. It was no favour, no random opportunity. It was a deliberate choice. Hermione recognised that clearly. No one else had ever been given access to this form of training. She was the first. In that fact lay both pride and responsibility, and both weighed heavily.

She swore to herself in that moment that she would not treat this task lightly. No mistake, no carelessness, and no lack of courage would be allowed to keep her from making the very best of this new commitment. Hermione knew this was a step that would shape her life. And she was ready to take it.

When the conversation finally drew to a close, Hermione exhaled deeply without consciously realising it. It felt as though she had not had a single real chance to breathe throughout the exchange between the adults. That exhale did not reflect relief alone because the main topic had been concluded. It also contained a new, faintly vibrating sense of expectation she could barely place. She had rarely felt so clearly that a new school year could mean more than mere routine. What lay ahead was not simply another year full of homework, timetables, and exams. Before her stretched a chapter full of challenges, full of opportunities, full of mistakes she would have to learn from, and full of moments that would demand more of her than any experience before. This awareness accompanied her as she rose, held the Time-Turner tightly against herself, and left the office. In some undefined way, she knew that this object would not simply make lessons easier. It would feel like a piece of life she had to carry and take responsibility for.

Severus Snape, however, remained standing in the shadow of the room after the door had closed behind her. His thoughts turned at once to the small golden device now in her possession. The Time-Turner represented a tool that offered great possibilities and at the same time a danger no one must underestimate. Snape knew exactly how heavy the responsibility was that she now carried. He was aware she would only gradually grow fully conscious of the scope of her new assignment. Equally clear was the fact that she would now be regularly under his direct supervision. Weeks and months of intensive work in his laboratory awaited her, filled with tasks that required logical thought, precise execution, and absolute concentration. They would spend many hours together, often without the protective anonymity of a classroom. This thought occupied him longer than he cared to admit. It was unfamiliar, brought a sort of inner tension with it, and at the same time something that felt almost like expectation. He shoved this feeling aside, however, because it irritated him.

The first week went better for Hermione than she had imagined. The Time-Turner, which had inspired great awe in her beforehand, integrated surprisingly well into her daily routine. She quickly discovered in which situations it was most practical to use it and which routes in the school posed a risk because one could easily appear in the same place twice in quick succession. She also noticed which moments were suitable for disappearing completely unnoticed. Harry and Ron occasionally seemed confused when she suddenly appeared in places where no one would have expected her. Yet they did not ask any awkward questions. This fact made it easier for her to conceal her additional hours without tangling herself in excuses. She felt a secret joy over how well her planning worked out and sensed her confidence growing.

The following Friday drew nearer, bringing with it her first private lesson with Professor Snape. The closer the appointment came, the more tense she became. Inside her, a feeling formed that resembled the taut creaking of a string just before it rings out. She looked forward to the knowledge she would gain, and at the same time she felt a restless nervousness. She imagined what those lessons would be like. Snape would not behave as he did in normal class, where he stood before the entire group. She wondered whether he would be just as strict when they were alone as he usually was, whether he would comment sharply on every small mistake, or whether he might behave differently in a one-to-one working context, perhaps even quieter, more matter-of-fact, or more patient. The longer she thought about it, the faster her heart beat. She had to remind herself inwardly to calm down and said silently to herself, “You will manage. You have seen that he can be different, if you look closely.”

To clear her mind, she sat down at the open dormitory window that evening. The air was cool and fresh, and the stone frame against her forehead felt pleasantly cold. She let her gaze wander across the lake. The sky arched clearly above the grounds, the stars looked like scattered, fine dust. The lake reflected the light of the almost full moon in long, shifting streaks. Her roommates were already asleep, and only the occasional rustle or soft snore broke the silence. This moment belonged entirely to her. She inhaled deeply. The stillness calmed her, gave her space to order her thoughts, and for a brief instant she felt as though the world might stand still if only she wanted it long enough.

Yet she was abruptly torn from her calm. A dull thud against the window ledge, followed by a sudden rustle of strong wings, made her start. Before she could even grasp what was happening, something large and dark landed right beside her on the stone. A short, startled sound escaped her, and her hands clenched around the cold frame. Only when she recognised what it was did some of the tension leave her body, and a relieved, quiet laugh took the place of fear. The black raven. Her raven. Her Professor Snape.

“You really frightened me terribly,” she said, her breath still slightly uneven, one hand rising to her chest to steady her heartbeat. “Please don’t do that again. I almost lost my balance, and from this height the fall would hardly have been pleasant.” The reproach in her voice was clear, yet at the same time a small, warm smile appeared on her lips that she could not suppress.

The raven regarded her with dark, gleaming eyes. The moonlight reflected in them like in polished stone. Hermione tilted her head slightly to the side as though checking whether he understood her words. “Your wings would definitely not be able to catch me if I fell. Or am I mistaken?” She shook her head slightly and at the same time felt how familiar this strange conversation had already become.

It did not take long before the first words spilled out of her. The silence beside the raven was so pleasant that she allowed herself to speak without much restraint. She told him about her summer, in detail and in calmly flowing sentences. She described long afternoons spent reading in her parents’ garden, small trips into town, and the few moments in which she had truly managed to switch off. Then she spoke of the Time-Turner she now wore and of the mixture of pride and tension this object stirred in her. Finally, she mentioned in passing that she would turn fourteen in a few days. To her own ears, the number sounded strangely large, and she did not know whether she actually felt older or simply sensed more responsibility moving closer.

Over time, her sentences grew shorter. Her voice lost volume and took on a softer tone. At some point she fell completely silent and gazed out into the night. The light of the almost full moon lay on the lake and turned it into a glittering surface that looked like still water made of liquid metal. As she stared into the distance, a hint of sadness settled on her features. The thought of the past weeks touched her more deeply than she had expected.

During the holidays she had often stared out of the window, hoping to see some sign of her feathered visitor. She had expected that at some point she would hear the dark flutter of his wings or spot the familiar shape on the windowsill. But Professor Snape had not come. Not once. That fact had occupied her thoughts more often than she wanted to admit to herself. The idea that he might have forgotten her had hurt her, and she did not know why. For precisely that reason, it felt oddly comforting that he was here now. He sat at her window, silent and watchful, and seemed as though he knew exactly that she needed him in this moment.

Her eyes grew heavy. Tiredness spread across her face, and she barely noticed how hard she fought against it. Her head finally tilted to the side, and her body surrendered to exhaustion.

Severus grew restless at once. He hopped a little closer to her, shook himself, and flapped his wings lightly as though he wanted to wake her gently.

She did not respond, however. Finally, he stretched his head forward, tapped very gently against her hand with the tip of his beak, and repeated this movement several times until her eyes opened again. She did not respond, however. Finally, he stretched his head forward, tapped very gently against her hand with the tip of his beak, and repeated this movement several times until her eyes opened again.

A sleepy, warm smile appeared on her face. “Thank you,” she murmured softly. She lifted her hand and stroked once, carefully, over his dark feathers. The movement was calm and gentle, almost tender. He remained still, yet reacted with a barely perceptible twitch, as though an unexpectedly deep feeling rippled through him. For a brief moment he stayed motionless, before spreading his wings wide and rising into the night. His shadow slipped away from the windowsill, was swallowed by the moonlight, and merged with the sky until he could no longer be seen.

Back in his quarters, Severus laid his cloak over the back of a chair, ran a distracted hand over his face, and then rubbed his temples while his gaze wandered over the heavy wooden desk, on which parchment rolls, carefully labelled notes, and several locked boxes containing delicate ingredients lay. The past two years unfolded in his head like a heavy echo, and he realised just how much they had changed him. The realisation struck him anew each time, even though he stubbornly refused to admit it openly. In former days, he had consistently pushed this connection away, had tried to suppress or belittle it. Now he had to concede that certain truths could not be repelled forever. Perhaps he, too, was entitled to a trace of happiness. A faint thought, so inconspicuous that he barely wanted to allow it. Perhaps a little inner peace as well.

He had found all of that precisely in this girl. Even though she had no idea. Even though she was far too young. Even though he had forbidden himself a thousand times over to drift toward her in thought. She mentioned that her birthday was on the nineteenth of September, he recalled, while restlessly running his fingers across the desk. The old split in his conscience followed at once. The sober, cold part of him asked why he should even consider giving her anything. He was her teacher. Nothing more. The other part remained stubborn and refused to be pushed aside. He would give her something. He had known that for a long time. Just as he had the year before, when he had crafted the Protego Duo for her.

His gaze fell on the calendar. A Sunday. No lessons. A day without time pressure, without curious eyes. A day on which she could accept a gift in peace. He pressed his lips together and sternly scolded himself. Why did he allow this? Why did he give in, even though it annoyed him every time he realised he was thinking about it at all? “Stop thinking, Snape. Stop,” he told himself silently.

Yet it was a useless admonition. He had long since known he had lost.

In the afternoon, when his duties allowed it, he left the castle, walked across the grounds to the Apparition boundary, and disappeared with a dry crack, reappearing in Diagon Alley. His path led him almost automatically past Flourish and Blotts, and right there, in the shop window, he saw the quill that immediately caught his eye. An emerald-green feather with a deep black tip. Elegant, precise, clear. It was an object that appeared stern in his own style, yet at the same time beautiful in a way Hermione would appreciate. Without further hesitation, he entered the shop.

The shopkeeper, a round man with strikingly red cheeks and an apron that was just a little too small, stretched across his stomach, recognised Severus at once, even before he had fully stepped inside. The man straightened a little, as if preparing to welcome a particularly important customer, and said with exaggerated politeness, “Good day, Professor. May I assist you?”

Severus did not remain standing in the entrance a second longer than necessary, but crossed the floor in two long strides straight to the window display and pointed briefly at the emerald quill presented there. “I would like this quill in a box,” he said matter-of-factly, his voice utterly devoid of emotion, his gaze barely resting on the shopkeeper for a moment.

The man nodded busily, picked up the quill, and wrapped it with surprising care in soft tissue paper before opening a slim black box and placing the quill carefully inside. While he worked, he observed Severus from the corner of his eye, and his mouth twisted into a knowing, slightly mocking smirk. Finally, he passed the box over the counter and said in a tone that seemed at once friendly and curious, “A beautiful gift, Professor Snape.”

Severus turned his head slowly toward him, his dark eyes narrowing for a moment, and raised one eyebrow just enough that it was almost imperceptible. “On what basis, if I may ask, do you assume that this is a gift?” His voice sounded cold and precise, as if every word cut through the air like a sharp blade.

The shopkeeper did not let this tone unsettle him. He placed both hands on the counter, leaned forward a little, and replied in a voice so dry it was almost comical, “Because in all the years you’ve been our customer, you have never once asked for anything to be wrapped. Not a single time. This quill is made from the feather of the emerald-breasted broadbill of Borneo, extremely rare, difficult to obtain, and its tip will last a lifetime. One does not give such a piece to just anyone if one is indifferent. That is why I assume it will be well received.”

Severus said nothing. His gaze rested on the man for a brief breath, as though assessing how much he truly understood. Then he took the box, paid the sum curtly and without a word, and turned toward the door without the slightest delay. He left the shop as quickly as though every additional moment spent there were a waste of time. For a very short, barely perceptible instant, however, the faintest hint of a smile played around his lips. It was so fleeting and so restrained that it looked almost like a reflex before it disappeared completely in the next moment.

Four days later, the time had come. Hermione’s fourteenth birthday began early in the morning with a soft bump at her bedside table as her roommates placed their presents there. She woke, rubbed her eyes, and blinked sleepily at the neatly arranged parcels that shone in gentle colours as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains.

With a surprised sound, she pushed herself upright, slowly sat up in bed, and brushed the tangled hair from her face while her sleepy gaze wandered over the row of parcels, lined up neatly on her bedside table and gleaming in the slanting morning light. For a moment she simply sat there, as though she needed to sort the sight before her mind could grasp that all those gifts were truly meant for her. Finally, she leaned forward, pulled the nearest package toward her, and began opening the parcels one by one, each rustle of paper sending a small wave of anticipation through her.

From Lavender, Parvati, and Ginny she received a shared gift. It was a book on Arithmancy, its cover gleaming in a deep, rich blue whenever the light moved across it. She ran her hand over it briefly, smiled with pride, and felt genuine joy that her friends knew so precisely how to make her happy. Then she opened the next parcel, which contained a small pouch with neatly tied cords. Inside was money, carefully and almost lovingly prepared by her parents, along with a folded letter in a familiar handwriting that reminded her instantly of home and sent a warm pang through her heart.

Harry and Ron had got her a gift voucher for Flourish and Blotts, which she acknowledged with an honest, grateful smile. The thought of being able to buy another book or something else useful without the slightest trace of guilt felt like a small freedom that would sweeten her entire day.

Only then did her gaze fall on another package. It differed clearly from the others. The shape was narrow and elongated, the paper deep black, neatly folded, and sealed with a single silver ribbon. There was no card. No name. No hint as to who might have sent it. That alone made her heart beat faster, and for a moment she simply paused, as if she needed to gather herself.

Her fingers began to tremble slightly as she loosened the ribbon. She drew the band carefully aside, opened the paper with unexpected gentleness, and placed it neatly beside her as though it, too, were something valuable. Beneath it lay a slim box, covered in black velvet and so plain that it seemed elegant for that very reason. She rested her hands on the lid, took a deep breath, and opened it slowly, almost reverently, as though she needed to prepare herself for whatever she might find inside.

The soft sound that escaped her was a spontaneous expression of genuine surprise. Inside the box lay a quill, emerald green, its surface gleaming faintly as though it could absorb and reflect light. The tip was black, finely worked and perfectly shaped, so that she understood at once that this was no ordinary writing instrument but something special, something rare, chosen with great care.

“Wow,” she whispered, her voice sounding more sincere and softer than she had intended. The word balanced exactly between astonishment and admiration.

In seconds, Parvati and Lavender were beside her, as curious as cats that have discovered a new object.

“Hermione, it’s beautiful,” Parvati exclaimed in delighted amazement, leaning so far forward that her dark hair nearly fell into the box.

“That is certainly not an ordinary quill,” Lavender remarked, her voice taking on one of those rare reverent tones. “It looks expensive. Very expensive, in fact.”

Lavender folded her arms and let her gaze roam over Hermione’s face. “Who is it from?” she asked with a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and a hint of excitement.

Hermione did not answer at once. She drew the box a little closer to herself as though creating distance, and laid her fingertips very gently on the smooth, rich green feather. The quill felt cool, but not cold, and she stroked it in a slow, controlled movement, as though the object were more delicate than it appeared. As she did so, a small smile formed on her face, deeper this time, calmer, and it remained there without her noticing.

She knew. Without a note. Without a word. Without explanation. This gift bore his signature. In the choice. In the quality. In the shape. In the severity concealing something beautiful. In the elegance that required no adornment. The quill was a silent sign, an unspoken recognition, and she understood it even before she could think about it.

Hermione turned the quill, and there it was:
H. J. G.
Her heart swelled.

“I think I know who it is from,” she said at last, softly, almost more to herself than to the others. Her friends exchanged glances, but she did not allow the thought to go any further because it felt too great, too delicate in that moment.

When she raised her head, without truly thinking about it, her gaze wandered to the window. He was already there. Her raven, large, black, and perfectly still. His gleaming eyes were fixed on her, alert and watchful, and the morning light reflected in them like on smooth stone. Hermione held his gaze for several heartbeats, and the feeling that grew inside her was hard to name. It was neither fear, nor surprise, nor simple joy. It was something else. Something quieter. Something that made her chest tight and warm at the same time.

The raven finally lifted his wings, spread them wide, pushed off from the windowsill, and disappeared in a wide, unhurried flight until his body shrank to a small black dot and was lost in the sky. Hermione watched him until he could no longer be seen.

Her smile remained.

Severus had the quill engraved with H. J. G. on purpose.
He had only recently discovered that Hermione’s middle name was Jean—an inconspicuous detail, yet one he kept with unusual care. It was no accident, no oversight. He wanted the initials to be complete.

Chapter Text

Two days later, the moment had arrived when Gryffindor and Slytherin were to attend Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures class together for the first time that school year. Hagrid had since been officially appointed as a teacher and seemed noticeably excited, almost as if he were about to take an exam himself. He shifted his weight repeatedly from one foot to the other, tugged in short, almost impatient movements at his red-and-white polka-dotted handkerchief, and dabbed his forehead with it while his bushy eyebrows twitched rhythmically. His gaze wandered repeatedly over the assembled students, as though he had to make sure no one was missing and everyone was ready. This awkward busyness, which contained no hint of posing, brought a broad, warm grin to Hermione’s face, because she recognised in it exactly the kind of honest effort that had always especially touched her.

“Right then,” Hagrid began at last, clearing his throat, his voice initially a little too loud as it rolled across the grass. “Today I’ve brought yeh something proper. Nothin’ that just slithers round or’s all slimy.”

Hermione responded immediately with a sincere nod. “We’re ready, Hagrid.” Her tone carried a clear, knowledgeable encouragement that felt like an unspoken assurance that she would support him if he faltered.

Hagrid needed a brief moment to find an even flow of speech. His voice wavered at first between a deep rumble and an overly loud break, like an instrument that still needed tuning. Harry, Ron, and Hermione helped him unconsciously by asking targeted questions, making supportive comments, or signalling through short, clear reactions that they were following. This gradually stabilised the lesson. When the students realised that today’s lesson did not involve Flobberworms, which were merely slimy and boring, but impressive, living creatures, the atmosphere changed noticeably. The group suddenly appeared more attentive, shoulders straightening, gazes sharpening, and the students’ steps taking on an alert, expectant quality.

Hagrid then led them to a fenced-in enclosure. The gate, whose hinges were old and heavy, gave a soft, drawn-out creak as he opened it. Behind it stood several hippogriffs. Hermione stopped involuntarily, struck speechless by the sight. The creatures had large, noble eagle heads with eyes that conveyed a mixture of vigilance and judgement. Their yellowish irises appeared calm yet could flare sharply within a heartbeat. Their powerful wings gleamed in the light, and the flight feathers seemed as though they were dusted with a trace of metal. The horses’ bodies displayed strong, defined muscles that hinted at how swiftly and forcefully they could move even while standing still.

“Listen carefully,” said Hagrid, raising his hands as though to claim everyone’s attention with a simple gesture. “Respect’s what matters with hippogriffs. Bow first, then wait. If the hippogriff bows back, yeh can go up to ’im. That’s important.”

A Slytherin student raised his hand with a mixture of boldness and provocation. “What happens if it doesn’t bow?”

Hagrid narrowed his eyes slightly. “Then yeh’d better be quick,” he grunted. The students laughed briefly and nervously, because the remark sounded both amusing and unsettling.

The hippogriff Hagrid intended to demonstrate first was called Buckbeak, though Hagrid, in his good-natured way, affectionately referred to him as “Beaky.” The name sounded strange on one hand, endearing on the other, and Hermione had to hold back a comment, finding the contrast between the huge, majestic creature and the diminutive nickname rather striking.

Harry stepped forward first. He took the task seriously, bowed neatly, and waited motionlessly. Hermione whispered to him reassuringly, “Stay calm, Harry.” Ron added, half serious, half amused, “If he eats you, I’ll tell McGonagall you were brave.” Harry shot him an irritated look, then refocused and held the bow.

After a moment, Buckbeak examined him carefully, lowered his head, and accepted him. Relief moved like a silent jolt through the group, and Hagrid said with audible pride, “Good lad.”

The calm did not last long. Draco Malfoy stepped forward, his posture clearly revealing that he considered himself the centre of attention. “Honestly,” he began loudly, “such a beast.”

Hermione warned him instantly, her tone sharp. “Malfoy, don’t!” But it was too late.

Buckbeak reacted at once, exactly as a proud hippogriff would. He emitted a warning hiss and lashed out at Draco. The movement was swift, precise, and unmistakably a reaction to Draco’s lack of respect. Draco cried out theatrically and clutched at a small, barely bleeding scratch. “My arm! That… that monster attacked me!”

Hagrid took a step forward immediately. “He warned yeh, boy. Yeh provoked him.”

Draco ignored this explanation and instantly slipped into the role of the victim. “My father will hear about this,” he said, his face pale, making it clear he intended to exploit the situation.

A formal procedure was initiated within a short time. Officially it was directed against the creature; unofficially it targeted Hagrid. Ministry officials demanded documents, explanations, and justifications. Hagrid appeared increasingly overwhelmed, as though he had to defend himself for something he had not caused.

That evening, he sought Hermione’s support. “Hermione,” he said, his voice unsteady, “yer so good with writin’ an’ explainin’. I don’t want ter say anythin’ daft.”

Hermione answered calmly and methodically. “We’ll stick to the facts. We’ll bring witnesses. We’ll present what happened. We’ll exonerate Buckbeak where there is no fault.”

Hagrid looked at her with a grateful expression. “Yer a good person.” Ron stood behind her and whispered softly, “She’s also a bit frightening when she sounds like that.”

Hermione then worked for several hours straight, creating summaries, looking up precedents, and organising every relevant aspect. The piles of documents grew, and her concentration was pushed further and further, yet she persevered. The unease returned again and again, though, because she knew something was coming that occupied her mind even more than the trial: her first private Potions lesson with Professor Snape.

Friday finally approached, and when the morning of the decisive day dawned, Hermione felt a tension within her that had accompanied her for days already. In the bathroom she stood before the mirror for a long time, trying to tame her unruly hair, which—as usual—did exactly what it wanted. She reached for the brush several times, only to realise quickly that every attempt to bring order into the chaos would meet with limited success. “Hopeless,” she muttered in frustration, took a breath, and tied the chaos into a somewhat smooth, loose braid that at least gave the impression of control. Then she slipped into her jeans and the black top she had laid out beforehand and tucked her hoodie under her arm, wanting to be prepared for the cold of the dungeons.

She paused for a moment in front of the mirror, studying her own reflection, which revealed a mixture of tension, anticipation, and nervousness. “You can do this,” she said quietly, as though she needed to remind herself that this lesson was not a punishment but an opportunity. Her expression barely changed, but she imagined she saw a silent nod in the reflection, as if her mirror self agreed.

Then she hesitated, her fingers brushing the fabric of her sleeve as she looked herself over again—more carefully this time, as though some new standard had awakened within her. She wondered if she looked good—not in the general sense she never paid attention to, but in a way he would see her. The thought struck her unexpectedly, almost sharply. She had never consciously wanted to look good for Professor Snape; he was far too unapproachable, too stern, too dangerous for such vanity.

Yet today she felt a tiny pang of uncertainty that made her wonder whether her hair was neat, whether her face looked too pale, whether he would even register her gaze. The thought was new, foreign, far too much, and she pushed it away quickly—though it clung to her stubbornly like a warm, embarrassingly familiar shadow.

The walk to Professor Snape’s office felt shorter than usual. She stopped before his door, took two deep breaths, then raised her hand, which felt much heavier than the simple act of knocking required. She knocked. The answer came immediately—deep, controlled, and so precisely spoken it felt as though he had already known she would be there at that exact moment. “Enter.” His tone left no room for hesitation or insecurity.

Hermione opened the door carefully and stepped inside. “Good evening, Professor Snape,” she said softly, and as she closed the door with great care, she made sure not to create any unnecessary noise. The silence in the room felt sensitive, almost tense, and she did not want to disturb it with a careless movement. Her fingers gripped the fabric of her hoodie more tightly than she realised, because the firm hold gave her stability. Slowly she approached the desk where her professor was still writing, the quill gliding smoothly over the parchment. She did not dare clear her throat or speak again until he looked up. She knew instinctively that patient silence was better in his presence than any hasty attempt to gain attention.

Several seconds passed with only the scratching of the quill to be heard. Professor Snape left her standing there without granting her even a glance until he completed his sentence. Only then did he slowly set the quill aside, lift his head, and look at her.

For a fleeting, dangerous moment, his awareness detached from the parchment, and there she stood: his soulmate, dressed in jeans and a black shirt—simply, like someone who did not try to impress. In her hand she held a hoodie she would not need, as the warmth of the laboratory filled the room like a steady, dry ember. His eyes swept over her in the reflexive pattern with which he absorbed and sorted every impression of a person in a split-second.

Delicate features, a little pale, likely from nervousness; bright amber eyes meeting his far too openly. He felt his throat tighten, swallowed hard, and tore his gaze away with the discipline of a man who had spent decades learning to conceal his reactions.

“Well then, Miss Granger,” he began at last. His voice was calm, free of sharpness, carried by a composure that felt almost unfamiliar. “Today marks a new chapter in your young life, and I shall observe with great interest how you meet this new responsibility.”

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione replied at once. She hoped her voice sounded as confident as she intended, though she felt her heart beat slightly faster. “I will do my best.”

Her professor looked at her for a moment longer than she expected. Something in his gaze she could not quite interpret.

He stood, his movements fluid and controlled. His robes rustled softly across the floor as he walked with measured steps toward the back wall. Hermione followed him. He placed his hand on the cold stone. It seemed a simple gesture, yet a deep, barely audible pulse of magic travelled through the air—old and heavy—and triggered a soft mechanical click. The stones began to shift as though following a familiar command. Behind the opening appeared a narrow passage lit by several torches whose light cast restless shadows across the walls. The air smelled faintly of soot, old stone, and a hint of herbs.

“After you, Miss Granger,” he said with a short nod that revealed no emotion.

“Thank you, Professor,” she whispered, bowing her head respectfully and stepping into the passage. The floor swallowed the sound of her steps, and the torches crackled softly. The corridor was cooler than the room she had left, and the combination of dimness and enclosed space made her more aware of her breathing. She walked on until she reached a heavy oak door whose surface was marked with deep grain.

He stepped close behind her, and his presence felt unmistakably weighty. He placed his hand on the door, and again it opened with a deep, groaning sound that echoed down the passage.

The room beyond made Hermione pause, because what she saw did not align with anything she had heard or imagined about Professor Snape. The room felt noticeably warmer and more inviting than the rumours of his supposed coldness suggested. The walls were almost entirely covered in tall bookshelves filled with books. Their leather bindings gleamed softly in the firelight from the fireplace opposite. The floor consisted of dark, polished wooden planks that barely creaked, as though someone had ensured the room remained quiet. Before the fireplace stood a seating arrangement of black leather—a wide sofa and two matching wingback chairs. A thick, light-beige carpet lay before them and muffled footsteps further. A small side table held a simple glass carafe.

On the wall hung a portrait of a woman with sharply defined features whose severity and pride resembled Snape so strongly that Hermione immediately knew who she must have been, even without explanation.

The fire cast warm, golden light across the room, wrapping the furniture in soft shadows. Hermione felt part of her tension ease. The room seemed unexpectedly homely. “Cosy,” she thought briefly, and immediately scolded herself for using such a word to describe Professor Snape’s private retreat, feeling almost impertinent for attributing such warmth to him.

“Impressed?” Snape asked without turning around, his tone so casual that she was unsure whether it was truly a question or more of a statement.

“Very much so, sir,” Hermione said, startled by how calm and honest her voice sounded. “I did not expect this.”

For a brief moment, something flickered at his lips—a fleeting expression so quick she was not sure whether she had truly seen it or whether the firelight had played a trick on her. It was no open reaction, but enough to show that he had heard and not entirely dismissed her words.

He turned away and moved again with the quiet, controlled precision that defined him. His black cloak glided over the floor like a shadow that moved with him without delay. He inclined his head toward an inconspicuous door hidden between two tall bookshelves. His movements were so purposeful that Hermione immediately knew she could only follow without hesitation or question. The room belonged wholly to him, and every step he took seemed so self-assured that she made an even greater effort not to leave the wrong impression.

He opened the door with a soft incantation, and even before she stepped inside, Hermione sensed a shift in the air. It grew denser, more concentrated, filled with the combined scents of herbs, old stone, and a faint metallic undertone that made her think of energy or restrained power. Without a word spoken, she understood that this was where he truly worked—not the warm living area in front, but this space, the core of his profession and perhaps of his nature.

“Go ahead,” he said curtly, gesturing for her to enter.

Hermione stepped over the threshold and paused to take in the room. She made a conscious effort to remain quiet and respectful, knowing this was not a place for careless questions or uninvited movement. The room was smaller than the living area, yet it felt neither cramped nor oppressive—only more intense.

A dozen cauldrons of varying sizes and materials were arranged, from simple pewter to heavy, precious gold cauldrons. The shelves along the walls were filled with laboratory tools: cylinders, pipettes, mortars, scales whose needles trembled faintly as though reacting to even the slightest motion.

Alongside them were jars and vials, neatly labelled, containing ingredients whose names sounded to Hermione like danger, power, and precision: powdered ashwinder egg, billywig sting, troll dung, dittany essence, syringa resin.

In the centre of the room stood a large distillation apparatus on a massive table. A deep blue liquid bubbled in the glass chamber, dripping into a yellowish concentrate.

“Well then, Miss Granger,” he began. His voice was calm and controlled, carrying a tone that felt less strict than significant—as though he wanted this moment to stand clearly. Hermione stepped further in and stopped again. Her breath caught.

She was overwhelmed by his private laboratory.

He observed her for a moment, as though he had expected exactly this reaction. Only then did he continue, softer now, yet with a solemn clarity. “Welcome to your first private Potions lesson.”

For a barely perceptible second, Severus paused; the sight of her wide, astonished eyes struck him more deeply than he had anticipated, and something stirred quietly in his chest—warm, familiar, unexpectedly clear.

He walked past her, placed a hand on the rim of a large heavy cauldron, and looked at her with an expression that almost seemed as though he were entrusting her with something. “Today I will show you the Wolfsbane Potion.”

He stepped to the table and let his fingers glide over the labels of the prepared ingredients, as though checking the order one last time. “The Wolfsbane Potion is one of the most difficult recipes,” he explained calmly. “It is complex and can become dangerous if handled imprecisely. Every step matters. Too little wolfsbane will make the potion ineffective. Too much aconite will be lethal to the werewolf. This is not intuition, Miss Granger—it is precision down to the last drop. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione replied quietly. She held the quill so tightly that her knuckles whitened.

“The ingredients are rare and difficult to obtain,” he continued, laying the first roots side by side. “Therefore, today only I will brew. You observe. You touch nothing. You do not speak unless prompted. At any objection, you leave at once. Are we understood?”

“Yes, Professor,” she said. Her voice remained steady despite her inner tension.

“At the end, you will weigh the quantities yourself. Any deviation—small or large—results in a written essay. Not as a punishment, but as a method to eliminate sources of error. In potions, a slight inaccuracy can cause the same harm as a mispronounced spell.”

“I understood, sir,” she replied, lowering her head slightly while her eyes followed his hands attentively.

He gestured toward the empty space beside him. She stepped there without hesitation, laid down her parchment and quill, and let her fingers briefly glide across them, almost gently, as though arranging something precious. The quill was the one he had given her for her birthday, embossed with the initials H. J. G. She did not know it was from him. His throat tightened. For a moment he imagined what she might say if she knew, and the thought struck him harder than he expected. He wanted her to know. He wanted to see how she reacted, but then scolded himself for the thought.

Then he began brewing. He explained each step of the ingredient order, spoke briefly about the necessary heat, and demonstrated what the steam should look like when the potion developed correctly. “Counter-clockwise stirring,” he said. “Slowly, with steady pressure. Once the steam clears—not before, not after—you stir three times more firmly. Follow that instruction.”

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione murmured as she wrote, striving not to miss a single detail.

“Watch the colour,” he explained further, lifting the vessel to catch the light. “If it turns steel-grey, the potion is ruined. If it remains silvery, you have reached the exact point of stability.”

Hermione nodded briskly, her eyes fixed on every motion, trying to absorb the interplay of ingredients and instruction fully. She realised how much knowledge lay in these steps—knowledge impossible to learn from books alone. His private lessons existed on a completely different level from regular classes. The Wolfsbane Potion alone made that clear. It was complex, demanding, and not usually practiced even in advanced years. Here she learned something reserved for trained masters, and she knew he entrusted her with far more than he said aloud.

He slid a tiny tin toward her. “Zero point zero nine grams,” he said calmly—a quantity that allowed no margin. She inhaled slowly, adjusted the scale, worked with the tweezers, and measured with utmost care until the number matched exactly. No deviation, no trembling needle. She looked up, waiting for his judgment.

He inspected the result, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. A short silence followed. Then he inclined his head and gave a brief nod.

Hermione held her breath; warmth spread through her chest, almost like relief. She stayed outwardly composed, though inside she felt a small triumph. He had noticed her precision. He had acknowledged it.

Time passed as she wrote and listened intently. The torches in the corridor had long since burned out, and night hung heavy outside the unseen windows, but she fought to remain alert. The professor explained the cooling phase and the exact pace of the swirling motion needed to prevent the active components from settling.

Her concentration faltered. The lines on the parchment blurred, though she tried to keep writing. She blinked repeatedly, but fatigue won. Her head tipped to the side, and before she could even think of straightening up, she had fallen asleep.

He noticed instantly. Her head dropped abruptly as her body lost all tension. The speed surprised him. He straightened slightly and checked that she sat securely enough not to fall from the stool.

Severus paused. The words he had been about to speak stuck in his throat. He watched Hermione in silence, his hands resting on the table’s edge as though he needed the support to prevent himself from revealing too much of what was going through him. For a moment he considered delivering one of his usual scathing remarks. Sarcasm was his safe zone. Sarcasm protected. Sarcasm created distance.

“Of course, Hermione,” he thought. “Your first lesson with me, and you choose this opportunity to demonstrate how riveting my explanations are. You fall asleep.”

The thought sounded sharp, but he quickly realised how little it served him. His mind shifted to a more factual place. He knew how she worked. She used more hours than any other student. The Time-Turner doubled her workload. It doubled her responsibilities and daily strain. Two complete schedules pushed her to limits many adults never reached. She was only fourteen yet showed a determination he valued highly.

He observed her for a moment. A familiar, quiet stirring rose in him—an emotion long dormant. Her presence affected him in ways he did not like to articulate. His soul felt whole in her proximity. Her magic reached him in a fine impulse, barely perceptible yet unmistakable. This gentle wave touched him on a level he allowed no one else to reach. She gave him something he had long considered lost.

He looked at her face. Fatigue smoothed her usually tense features. She looked young, exhausted, far removed from the controlled student he usually saw. Part of him wanted to roll his eyes and think, “Know-it-all Hermione, always ready, always dominating every class, and now she just falls asleep.”

Another part of him rejected that reflex. That part existed quietly and steadily within him. It noted: “She gave too much today. She meets duties harsh for her age. She carries a burden that demands more of her every day.”

He breathed slowly, as though gathering the scattered pieces of his thoughts and feelings into a clearer order, helping him assess the situation while maintaining an inner distance that had once come easily. The thought he eventually formed was sarcastic, fitting his usual tone, though beneath it lay a warmth he struggled to keep hidden. “If you do not fail at Potions, Miss Granger, you may fail at your own exhaustion. I wonder which end you would prefer,” he thought, aware that the sharpness of these words sounded far gentler within him than they would have if spoken aloud.

He stepped closer, slowly, intentionally, as though not wanting to miss any detail of his perception. His gaze moved over the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the exhaustion that no longer hid itself now that her face had released the day’s tension, showing a quiet vulnerability that struck him unexpectedly. Then he lifted his hand, hesitated longer than intended, and placed it on her shoulder. The fabric of her shirt felt soft, yet that impression vanished immediately as a weak pulse of energy passed into him upon contact, travelling up his arm and into his chest—a quiet, nearly imperceptible impulse, yet distinct enough to make him pause. He sensed the connection between them, a connection he often resented, one that unsettled him, though it also stabilised something within him long weakened. The touch lasted longer than he intended. Only when he realised how much he was allowing did he withdraw his hand, the motion controlled, almost harsh, as though he wished to erase any trace of the closeness.

“Miss Granger,” he said quietly. No response.
“Hermione.” Still none.
Finally, with sharpened tone: “Granger. Now.”

She jerked upright, instantly alert, as though someone had triggered an alarm inside her head. Her cheeks flushed, the imprint of her arm visible on her skin—a clear sign of her exhaustion. “Oh, Professor,” she stammered. “I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know how that happened. I really didn’t mean to.”

Snape clasped his hands behind his back and looked at her with an expression hovering between mockery and a muted hint of amusement she likely would not have recognised. “Is your beauty sleep concluded, Miss Granger?” he asked. His voice remained sharp enough to maintain authority, yet held no injury. “I am aware that my lectures are demanding. Your decision to fall asleep during your first private lesson with me nonetheless surprises me. This form of feedback is unfamiliar.”

She blushed deeper, her gaze drifting to the side. “Professor, please, it was—”

He raised his hand. “Enough. The Wolfsbane Potion will not run away. We are ending this session. Return to Gryffindor Tower before you fall off the stool. That would involve unnecessary paperwork.”

“Yes, sir,” she said softly. She packed her things, striving for order, though her movements were unsteady, her breathing betraying her tension. The disappointment in herself sat heavily—she wanted to impress him, to avoid any misstep. Her ambition battled with the fatigue that had taken away her control. The strain of the day pressed on her chest. She was close to tears but held them back with great effort, focusing instead on arranging her parchments and maintaining composure.

She paused at the doorway and turned back, cautiously, as though gauging how far she could go. “Professor… I am truly sorry. Please believe me—it wasn’t your explanations. I was too tired. My day was too long.” Her voice softened. “I never meant to give the impression that I don’t take you seriously.”

Severus did not look at her, keeping his gaze on the steaming cauldron, yet he heard every nuance of her words and recognised her sincerity clearly and unmistakably. In that moment he loosened his Occlumency shields—only slightly, only long enough to catch a faint trace of her emotion.

The impression struck him clearly. Her sorrow lay open—deep, heavy—a mixture of exhaustion, self-doubt, and her desire to do everything correctly. She fought tears she refused to show.

He closed his mental barriers again at once, calm and practiced. The brief glimpse was enough. He knew what the Time-Turner demanded of her. He knew the weight she carried each day. The realisation cut more sharply than expected and changed his approach in a single quiet thought: he needed to ease this unnecessary burden from her. He did not want her to leave with this feeling. Harsh criticism would only increase pressure she already endured. He considered briefly, gauging his options, and chose a response that would steady rather than crush her.

“Thank you for this evening,” she added. “It was… truly educational.”

She turned away, placed her foot on the first step, and just as she crossed the threshold, he spoke—without looking up, without moving, in a voice that sounded almost imperceptibly softer than he had intended. “That was very good today, Miss Granger.”

Hermione froze, holding her breath. The door was already half-closed.

“Thank you, Professor,” she whispered, descending the stairs with an expression that showed his words had struck her far more deeply than any punishment ever could.

Chapter Text

“Wow. He said that that was good. He meant me. He really meant me when he said I did that well. I’m good… oh, holy Merlin… Professor Snape praised me. He actually praised me,” Hermione thought, and her head was so full of this one sentence that she kept pushing it through her thoughts again and again, as if she had to check whether it had somehow entered her ear incorrectly. The thought felt so unfamiliar that she almost grew suspicious, yet her inner voice, which was usually critical, strict, and cautious, was practically skipping this time, almost giddy, and kept nudging her. “I absolutely have to mark this in my calendar. Maybe even with a star. Or two.”

How exactly she then made it up to Gryffindor Tower and later into her dormitory was something she would not have been able to explain to anyone afterwards. Her feet did move over the staircases and corridors, but her head was so far removed from reality that she barely noticed where she was walking. She seemed almost to herself as if she were under the lingering echo of a spell that let her float through the corridors. The fact that no one stopped her, even though curfew had long passed, escaped her completely. Even if she had thought about it, it would only have been a brief thought, appearing somewhere at the edge of her consciousness and fading again immediately. Everything else was overshadowed by a single sentence.

Her heart was beating faster than usual, almost uncomfortably, but not painfully, more like a sign that something inside her had grown larger. That sentence of praise lay heavy and warm in her chest, as if someone had placed a piece of glowing coal there that frightened and strengthened her at the same time. She felt it clearly: she was capable of something, and someone whom she never would have expected to acknowledge it had actually said so. She was not just the swot who studied nonstop. She had achieved something that even Professor Snape had had to acknowledge.

When she finally reached her bathroom, she only then noticed how warm her face was. She changed slowly, folded her clothes neatly on a chair, and let cold water run over her heated skin. The coolness seeped in soothingly, yet the thought of his unexpected praise remained untouched by it. It sat so firmly in her mind that she simply could not get rid of it. As she dried herself off and slipped into her nightgown, she repeated it again, quietly and uncertainly, as if she were making sure the words would not disappear. “That was very good today, Miss Granger.”

With this sentence in her ear she climbed into bed. She pulled the blanket up to her chest, turned onto her side, and felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fireplace or the blanket. She closed her eyes and held on to the sentence as if it were a talisman she must not lose.

Sleep came almost instantly, deep and heavy and without a single image. An undisturbed, merciful darkness that wrapped around her completely, while her last clear thought was: “He praised me.”

The next few days pushed Hermione back into the ordinary school rhythm with such force that she barely found time to take a calm breath even once. Everyday life neither allowed itself to be impressed by praise from Professor Snape nor softened by it. Assignments piled up, schedules shifted constantly and collided with one another, and the patience that usually carried her through the day like a solid framework grew increasingly thin. Almost as thin as parchment that lies too close to an open flame. Harry and Ron made everything even harder because they appeared in practically every free minute with a new request or question.

“Hermione, can you just—”
“Hermione, do you happen to know—”
“Hermione, I’ve got a problem with—”

It did not stop, as if the two of them had agreed to dump everything they were supposed to do themselves onto her. What had begun as small, harmless questions quickly developed into a mixture of demands and expectations, and at some point her own name sounded in her ears like a constant pounding that gave her a headache. She barely found time to eat, to read her own assignments, or to sleep, and every day devoured another piece of her patience.

When Hermione finally entered the Great Hall that evening, exhausted and with a stomach that had been complaining for hours, she was so hungry that her vision almost went black. She dropped onto the bench, reached gratefully for the full plate, and had already lifted her fork halfway to her mouth when Ron was already leaning over the table, beginning in his impatiently demanding tone.

“Hurry up with your food a bit, Hermione. You still have to look over my essay in a minute. If I don’t get it finished today, I’m done for.”

She opened her mouth to say something in response, maybe at least to mention that she also had assignments of her own, but Ron did not even wait; instead he calmly reached his long arm across the table. He grabbed her potatoes and shoved them into his mouth in one single, utterly shameless move. He went on talking, his mouth full and without the slightest hint of a bad conscience. “Really nice of you, by the way, that you—”

That was when her thread snapped.

“This is the absolute limit!” Her voice cut through the room so loudly and sharply that several students flinched. “Do you not find it rude yourself, behaving here like a ravenous wolf? You could at least ask before helping yourself. You selfish arse.”

Ron froze, his mouth half open, Harry blinked in confusion, and the conversations around them fell silent in waves. Hermione felt the heat rising inside her, but this time she did not hold it back.

“And by the way,” she continued, slamming her hand on the table so that the goblets rattled, “I am not your personal lackey. You are old enough to handle your material and your bloody homework on your own. If you constantly rely on me to do it for you, you learn absolutely nothing.”

Harry raised his hands cautiously. “Hermione, calm down now—”

“No, Harry. I am not calming down. Not today.” She grabbed her books, stuffed them forcefully into her bag, and buckled it shut. “I have a life as well. Surprise.”

“Hermione… we just wanted—” Ron was still struggling for words.

“You wanted me to do your work,” she cut him off. “At least call it what it is.”

The last words cracked through the room so clearly that even some Slytherins snorted in impressed amusement. Blaise Zabini leaned over to Malfoy with a broad grin and murmured loud enough to be heard: “It was about time.”

From the Gryffindor corner a few fifth-years clapped. From the Slytherin table came gleeful laughter. A few older students whistled loudly, and although all of that registered with her, it was only muffled background noise for Hermione; in the foreground stood her need for air and distance.

At the staff table, on the other hand, Dumbledore slowly leaned over towards Severus without taking his eyes off the scene. In a calm voice he murmured so quietly that only Severus could hear: “Hermione has fire, Severus. Strange how two souls can sometimes carry the same tone,” he said softly.

Severus’s expression did not change, yet his gaze remained sharply fixed on Hermione, and a tiny muscle beside his jaw tensed briefly.

Hermione slung her bag over her shoulder, lifted her head perhaps a fraction too high, and marched towards the exit of the hall without another remark. Her steps were hard and rhythmic, and she felt her emotions like pressure in her chest. She felt used, tired, and drained, and she knew that what she needed now was something other than company or conversation: fresh air, coolness, silence, and a few laps around the castle, just far enough that it did not break the rules.

Severus’s expression did not change, yet beneath the surface something restless flickered. When Hermione left the hall in anger, he allowed his Occlumency shields to drop for a brief moment. In the second he did, her emotional state hit him clearly and directly like a shove to the chest. She needed air. Distance. Calm.

He rose without a sound and glided out of the hall noiselessly, his eyes immediately fixed on her; in his back he still felt Dumbledore’s calm, knowing gaze, which needed no comment to make its meaning clear. He cloaked himself in a Disillusionment Charm. Her steps led her into the courtyard and further along the stone paths, and Severus kept the distance exactly wide enough that she would never notice him but close enough that he could intervene at any moment. The sky was drawing over, and the presence of the Dementors that hovered around the castle lay like a cold breath over the grounds. She could not stay outside for long. Not in this state, not on an empty stomach, not alone.

At some point Hermione slowed her pace and stopped, and in that moment it seemed as if a warm thought flowed through her. She did not know how or why, but she felt it clearly: she was not alone. He was watching her, protecting her without intruding. In the air there was a barely perceptible scent, a familiar hint of sandalwood that suddenly calmed her. It was the same scent she had noticed on him, and it settled over her anger like a soft, invisible cloth.

She smiled faintly, almost embarrassed by how much she liked that thought.
She knew he was there.
She knew he would not leave her alone.
And she knew that no Dementor in the world could harm her as long as this scent lingered in the air and he was standing somewhere behind her.

When her heart had calmed and the night crept across the courtyard, she finally turned around, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and walked back towards the castle. She did not want to risk trouble, least of all with the teachers. And she did not want him to have to remain outside any longer because of her.

Behind her, something moved in the shadows, soundless as a breath, until the door fell shut behind her. After that, the courtyard was empty again. Only the sandalwood scent lingered in the air for a moment.

Later that evening, when she was alone in the common room studying with tightly focused concentration, a scream from upstairs tore apart the quiet she had painstakingly gathered around herself. Ron came thundering down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, his face contorted with rage, a blood-soaked sheet in his hand, which he practically shoved into her face. “Your bloody shitty monstrosity of a cat-kneazle-creature has eaten my rat Scabbers! I knew it—I knew this would happen! Damn it, Hermione, why can’t you keep a better eye on that beast? This is your fault—you and that stupid animal! I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. All you care about is books and studying—I’ve had enough! And you don’t want to help Harry and me anymore either.”

Hermione stared at him, unable to speak at once, reaching for words and finding only breath. “No, that isn’t true, Ron; Crookshanks doesn’t do things like that, and I very much doubt he even left my dormitory at all today—” She got no further. Ron flung a tuft of reddish hairs to the floor, right at her feet; the gesture was accusation and verdict at once. She lifted her gaze again, searching his face, yet all she found there were harsh edges. “I hate you,” he spat, and that hit her more deeply than anything he could have thrown.

In her eyes there was something that hovered between disbelief and pain; she knew, in that second, that friendship which had still seemed self-evident yesterday was like thin glass today—and shattered. Ron kept ranting, then stormed off, his head as red as his hair. Harry remained for a moment, gave her a pitying, almost apologetic look, and then followed him, and Hermione stayed behind: silent, defiant, with a single tear slowly running down her cheek. “How could it come to this?” she asked herself, because she had believed that they could tell each other anything, could trust each other.

She thought for a long time and in the end arrived at the only conclusion left to her: Crookshanks had not done it—she simply did not believe it. Later, in the dormitory, Crookshanks jumped onto her bed and pressed himself against her; she pulled him tightly to her and cried into his fur, and his purring was the soft, very simple promise “I’m here.” When there was a tapping at the window and the raven came, she did not open; she was crying so bitterly that she did not hear him.

When Hermione did not open and the room behind the window remained quiet, Severus stayed sitting on the ledge for a while longer. He tilted his head slightly, listening, yet heard nothing but irregular, muffled sobbing. He waited longer than he cared to admit. Finally, he rapped again, a bit more firmly.

When there was still no reaction, he spread his wings slightly and then folded them again, undecided. A mixture of concern and dissatisfaction stirred in him because he could not speak to her, could not check on her, could not intervene. He could only remain seated and listen.

“Why will she not open?” he thought, and the thought bothered him more than he was willing to admit. He stayed another moment until he was sure that she was asleep or at least trying to be. Only then did he push himself off the window ledge quietly, fly a short distance into the darkness, and disappear noiselessly in the direction of the castle. The impression of her tears, however, remained like a residual shadow in his thoughts, a feeling he could not easily shake off.

Over the following days she carried with her a quiet, hard-to-bear melancholy, a kind of dull shadow that would not be dispelled, no matter how much she tried to flee into tasks or books. She had no energy for social contact, and the very thought of having to enter the common room made her flinch inwardly, because she knew Harry and Ron would be there and that every glance, every word, even a chance encounter, would feel unpleasant and heavy. With both of them everything had suddenly become complicated, tense, and brittle, as if an invisible crack had run through a friendship that had until then seemed unshakable.

The library, usually a refuge where she could study for hours without distraction, had also become unsuitable, because the two of them showed up there just as often as she did. “The probability that they will turn up there is too high,” she thought soberly, pressing her lips together. “And I simply cannot take another scene at the moment.”

So she retreated to the one place where hardly anyone stayed longer than necessary: the girls’ bathroom with Moaning Myrtle. The place was cold, uncomfortable, and smelled of old pipes and damp stone, yet it offered one thing above all: quiet, shielded from curious eyes and uninvited questions.

That day she went there again, sat down on the cold floor without much thought, pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around them, and let her forehead sink onto them. The grief she had kept under control for days broke out of her quietly but unstoppably, and her shoulders shook in small, regular movements. “Why was Ron so cruel?” she murmured into the silence, the words little more than a trembling breath. “We’ve been through so much together, and he still talks to me as if I no longer mean anything to him.”

Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the Protego Duo pendant, as if she had to hold on to it so she would not completely lose her footing. Minutes passed, perhaps more, before she realized she was no longer alone. She did not lift her head at once, too exhausted to react to anything foreign. “Let whoever wants come,” she thought bitterly. “I do not care.”

Then a scent reached her, dry and warm, that spread inside her at once as if someone had opened a window. Sandalwood. Familiar. Calming. Her heart beat faster, uncontrolled and completely out of place. “He is here… why of all people him? How does he know I’m here?”

She slowly raised her head — and there he was.
Professor Snape.

He had crouched down, right in front of her, and was watching her calmly, without a threatening posture, without the sharp intake of breath that usually heralded a lecture. He said nothing. No reproaches. No judgements. Only that sober, serious attention which, surprisingly, did not feel disparaging but almost as if he were accompanying her through this moment without commenting on it.

This unfamiliar, almost silent care was enough to bring back her tears, this time less from pain than from an overwhelming mixture of relief and confusion. She was no longer alone.

At the same time, Severus was in his office, bent over a miserably written essay by a second-year that in his mind already carried a large, final “T”, when his emerald suddenly began to glow, not timidly, but bright and pulsing.

The pulsing was sharp and insistent, as if the stone wanted to alert him without any detours.

“Damn,” he thought at once, perfectly clear and without any exaggeration. “She is calling for me.”

He did not hesitate for a second. No weighing of options, no wavering. Only one factual, concise thought: act. Immediately.

He sprang to his feet, the chair tipping backwards, parchments sailing through the air, and his cloak swept around his legs like a black shadow. He flung the door open and hurried with quick, determined strides down the corridor. The emerald guided him without wavering, as if an invisible thread had been stretched between him and her.

In front of the girls’ bathroom he stopped, placed his hand on the cold door, and pushed it open slowly. His steps were muffled, almost soundless, as if instinctively adjusted to the fragile mood he expected beyond.

The sight that greeted him made him stop mid-movement.

Hermione sat slumped on the stone floor, her legs drawn to her body, her face buried in her hands. Her whole body shook, and although her sobs were muffled, they cut into his awareness sharply enough that he clenched his teeth.

He raised his wand at once and sent a diagnostic spell over her, efficient and matter-of-fact, without any delay. No injuries. No curse. No poison. Her body was intact. Her mind was not.

For a brief moment he lowered his Occlumency shields—a step he otherwise took only in an absolute emergency. The force of emotion that hit him was stronger than he had expected. Pain. Loneliness. Overwhelm. The burning feeling of betrayal.

“Emotional,” he thought tersely, and then, with mounting annoyance, “Weasley… you idiotic boy.”

He had to fight very consciously for the span of a single breath not to take a step back himself, because the sight of her despair struck him with a force for which he had not been prepared and which unsettled his inner balance for a moment. His first thought was sharp, concise, and completely free of any sentimental frills. “Damn,” he thought, “she is suffering.” That simple sentence, formulated soberly, hit him like a command to act.

A rational part of him, the part that had trained itself for years in self-discipline and distance, strongly advised him to give her space. To keep his distance. To withdraw again before he reached a closeness that was neither professional nor sensible. He knew how quickly such situations could get out of hand when emotions were involved. Yet his feet did not obey that rational voice. Instead, they remained firmly on the cold stone, as if bound to the floor by invisible fetters.

He finally crouched down, slowly, every movement controlled, until he was at eye level with her. He did not want to startle her, did not want her to feel cornered. He waited a moment, perhaps a bit longer than necessary, to steady himself before he raised his hand and carefully touched her chin with two fingers. He did it with extreme gentleness, just enough that she had to lift her head and look at him, without the gesture appearing demanding.

Her eyes were reddened, full of pent-up tears, visibly exhausted, vulnerable, and the expression in them made him hesitate briefly. It hit him more strongly than he liked. It was no childish tantrum, no dramatic exaggeration of some trifle. It was real pain, real exhaustion. Severus felt an unpleasant pressure rise in his chest, which he would normally have blocked at once with a mental lock.

“Stand up, Miss Granger,” he said then, his voice sounding unusually calm. The usual sharp, lecturing undertone was almost entirely absent, which irritated him himself. “The floor of a bathroom is not an appropriate place. Come.” He made sure that his words sounded neither mocking nor condescending, but rather like a matter-of-fact yet clear instruction that was meant to give her support.

She did not react immediately. She only blinked, as if she first had to comprehend that he was truly speaking to her and that his hand was indeed touching her. For a second it looked as if she wanted to say something, yet the words failed in her throat.

So he made a quick decision. He took her hand, enclosing her fingers with his, firmly enough to give her support but gently enough not to frighten her, and pulled her up in one smooth movement. She let it happen, more reflexively than consciously.

Suddenly she was very close to him. Much too close. Her body stood nearer than was appropriate in any professional context, and her breath actually brushed the fabric of his cloak. He felt the warmth of her skin, the slight uncertainty in her stance, and at once something inside him tensed, like a reflex warning him.

It was a moment that lasted barely the blink of an eye but held too many possibilities, because a part of him that opposed his own rules wanted to do something completely irrational at that exact moment: he wanted to give her support, did not want to let go of her hand but hold it more tightly, wanted not to suppress the impulse to comfort her but to allow it. He wanted to tell her that she was not alone and that what hurt her so deeply was not her fault. Yet all of that was dangerous, crossing lines, and in his life not provided for, and that was precisely why he withdrew, faster than his own mind could follow.

He turned away abruptly, almost hastily, like someone who instinctively needed to secure a boundary before he himself crossed it. Without another word he left the room, his steps quicker than he had intended. He closed the door behind him before either of them saw or said anything that could not have been undone later.

Hermione was still standing in the same spot, unable to move at once.

“How did he know I was here?” she asked herself. The scent of sandalwood still lingered in the air. The warmth of his fingers seemed still to cling to her hand.

It had to mean something that his nearness in particular threw her heart so out of rhythm, while any other teacher would have left her irritated or embarrassed in such a moment. And why was she even thinking about how he smelled? Or how his voice sounded when, for once, it was not biting?

“Holy Merlin… I’m crushing on him,” slipped through her mind. “I really am crushing on my professor.”

Her heart was racing, her mind tried desperately to insist on reason.
'He is your teacher.
Twenty years older.
He would never do anything inappropriate.'

She lowered her gaze to her pendant, which she was still clutching—and suddenly she realized why he had appeared so quickly.

She remembered how, in second year, when the matter of the pendant had still been new and mysterious, she had spent hours in the library researching until she had found an old volume in one of the remote, dusty shelves that reported on magical protective amulets. There had been a brief but precise passage on so-called partner stones—magical items that were connected to each other and sent an alert as soon as danger arose or someone experienced strong physical pain or emotional distress.

She looked down at herself, and a smile slipped onto her lips. She had unconsciously touched it and he had come. Her Professor Snape had come.

She took a deep breath and wiped her face. “Bloody hormones,” she muttered. “Pull yourself together.” Then she left the bathroom and went back in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.

Over the next few days she sought out the open grounds more often, especially the quiet corner near the large stone by Hagrid’s hut, because no one ever came by there and she could order her thoughts. She sat down, opened Ancient Runes, and tried to absorb the symbols and translations.

The Protego Duo pendant lay, as so often, between her fingers, yet this time it was neither accidental nor unconscious. She was gripping it very deliberately, more tightly than usual, because she wanted to test a theory that had been running through her mind for days. If she touched the stone, if her emotions became too strong, if she called him—would he really come? Would it really work?

She had barely begun to read when a shadow passed over her. A raven, black and glossy, landed right in front of her on the grass.

She flinched briefly, then a quiet, warm smile spread over her face. “Well, hello there,” she said softly. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the day?”

'It worked. She could reach him with the stone. She could call him, she thought, delighted.

The raven tilted his head, and the familiar hint of sandalwood hung in the air.

Hermione stretched out her hand, hesitantly, almost as if she were first asking whether he wanted that at all. When the raven remained still, she gently ran her fingers over his feathers. “Do you know how soft you are?” she murmured, and her forehead folded into that small crease she got when she was surprised. “You look so black and hard, but in truth you’re completely silky.”

Severus felt her touch, and for a moment it stung in his chest like something forbidden. “If you knew what you’re doing right now…” he thought bitterly and at the same time with a stirring he did not want to admit.

“I really have a lot on my plate at the moment,” Hermione sighed, and she withdrew her hand to rest it in her lap. “But… if you like, you can come to me in the evenings. Around ten. By then I’m usually in the dormitory studying. It might be quiet, because I do not talk much, yet… you know, your company would do me good.”

The raven cocked his head, and Severus thought with a hint of mockery, “She is inviting me without knowing it. Would she still say that if she guessed who I am?”

“It just really isn’t easy right now,” Hermione said quietly, her voice breaking briefly before she continued. “Ron is completely furious with me. He thinks Crookshanks ate his rat. He yelled at me, threw so-called evidence at my feet, said things… awful things. Things you do not say to friends.” She shook her head, her lips trembling. “But I don’t believe it. Crookshanks would never do something like that. He isn’t a normal pet, he is… he is special. And he liked the boys, so why would he suddenly…?” She broke off and bit her lip.

Severus felt the force of her sadness like a cold gust of air. “Weasley. A foolish, hot-headed child,” he thought sharply. “He has no idea what his words cause.”

Hermione lifted her gaze and looked into the dark, intelligent eyes of the raven, and there was something in them that calmed her, as if he had told her without words: it will be all right. A small, uncertain smile flickered across her face. “Thank you for listening to me,” she whispered. “It sounds crazy, I know, but right now you’re my only friend. And… I’m really glad you exist.”

The raven pecked lightly at her hand, a barely noticeable tap, more confirmation than pain. “If you only knew, little Gryffindor,” Severus thought before he spread his wings, rose into the air with powerful strokes, and climbed higher and higher until he was nothing more than a black speck against the pale sky.

Hermione watched him until her eyes lost the speck, and one thought remained burning inside her like a candle: “For the first time in days I feel like I can breathe again.” The pressure in her chest was not gone, yet it had grown lighter, like snow that slowly yields beneath the first rays of sun.

Chapter Text

Hermione rose after breakfast with a mixture of joyful anticipation and the familiar tension that accompanied her every school day. As she checked once more in the common room whether she had all her books and papers with her, she noticed that her hands were working restlessly, even though she had long known that she was perfectly prepared. She finally made her way to her first lesson, which, as so often during the week, took place with Professor McGonagall. In her strict tone and her unshakeable sense of justice, McGonagall was not only a figure of respect for Hermione, but also a kind of secret mentor. Hermione thought of this every time she asked herself how a responsible witch should behave.

The subject of Transfiguration was one of the disciplines in which Hermione not only excelled, but also felt deeply at home, much as she did in Potions. Nevertheless, she stood every time with a slight tugging in her stomach in front of the classroom door, because she knew that McGonagall tolerated no mistakes and commented immediately on even the smallest negligence. At the same time, however, it was precisely this strictness that made Hermione resolve every time to be particularly focused today. As soon as she felt McGonagall’s eyes on her, she was grateful that her teacher showed, when the work succeeded, a barely noticeable but precious flicker in her gaze, one that felt more powerful than any spoken praise.

After a double period full of tricky tasks, in which she had to transfigure a teapot into a bird, Hermione felt mentally exhausted and at the same time satisfied. Her first attempts had failed, the kettle had only twitched or made strange noises. Yet after intense concentration, she had finally succeeded in the transformation. When the bird had fluttered onto her desk, McGonagall had nodded curtly and said, “Very good, Miss Granger. Exactly like that.” That sentence still echoed within her now and confirmed that the effort had been worth it.

Hardly had the lesson ended, Hermione packed her things and hurried on, for her schedule now held a class she secretly looked forward to even more. Defence Against the Dark Arts was one of her favourite subjects. Professor Lupin conveyed the material in a calm, unobtrusive manner that allowed the class to approach difficult topics without fear.

Before she could arrive punctually, however, she had to use the Time-Turner as usual. She took the small golden device between her fingers, turned it carefully, and immediately felt the familiar, slightly unpleasant dizziness spreading in her head. She had long grown used to this sensation, even if it never completely vanished. Today, however, she accepted it almost calmly, for a certain tension mingled with her thoughts. The last time, Professor Lupin had announced in his warm, quiet voice, “Next time something very special awaits you. I promise it will be truly exciting.”

Hermione had wondered for several minutes afterward what he might have meant, but Lupin had given no further hints.

When she now entered the classroom, she immediately noticed that something extraordinary was indeed about to happen. The heavy wooden tables and chairs had been pushed aside, leaving an open space that seemed unusually empty and almost echoed when one walked across it. In the centre of this space stood a large, old wardrobe, its doors firmly closed. The surface of the wood appeared worn, and in some spots one could see deep scratches. Moreover, the air around the wardrobe vibrated slightly, a barely visible shimmer that immediately told Hermione that it certainly did not contain ordinary clothing.

Professor Lupin stood somewhat to the side, as always with his slightly bent posture, and turned to the class. His friendly eyes rested briefly on each student before he said with a quiet, encouraging smile, “Good day, everyone. I see you have already noticed the unusual setup.”

Ron whispered to Hermione, “If there isn’t a monster in there, I’ll eat my wand.”

Hermione gave him a warning look. “Perhaps you should have it de-charmed first,” she murmured dryly back. Ron only pulled a face.

Lupin continued, “Inside this wardrobe is a Boggart. As you know, it is a creature that assumes the shape of your greatest fear.” He raised a hand and added matter-of-factly, “That means today you will not only observe, but also confront your own fear. In a manner that is controlled and safe.”

Dean raised his hand cautiously. “Professor, will the Boggart attack us?”

Lupin shook his head calmly. “No, Dean. A Boggart does not attack in the classical sense. It merely attempts to intimidate you by reflecting your fear. You do, however, have the ability to defeat it. The spell you will need is called Riddikulus. It forces the Boggart to take on a form that appears ridiculous, so that its power fades.”

He paused briefly before explaining, serious but not threatening, “The key lies in not suppressing your fear, but consciously distorting it. Fear loses its influence when one robs it of its weight.”

Seamus cleared his throat and whispered to Harry, “I hope my fear has a sense of humour.”

Harry shrugged with a crooked smile. “We’ll see.”

Lupin looked around and said, “Very well. I will call you up one by one. We begin with… Neville Longbottom.”

Neville visibly froze, and Hermione involuntarily held her breath.

Neville swallowed audibly when his name was spoken. His shoulders sank slightly, and he ran a nervous hand over his robes as though trying to smooth courage into place that he could not find. “Professor… do I really have to start?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, even though he knew the question offered no meaningful alternative.

Lupin met him with a calm gaze. “Yes, Neville. And I will tell you why. You have already shown in my class that you possess courage, even when you do not always feel it. I trust you with this.” His voice remained factual, without unnecessary warmth, but steady enough that Neville exhaled deeply and managed a short, uncertain “Yes, sir.”

Ron leaned toward Hermione and whispered, “I’d rather have seen someone else go first. This is going to go wrong.”

Hermione replied in a quiet but clear tone, “Neville can do this if we don’t discourage him beforehand.”

Ron raised his hands. “Didn’t say anything.”

She shook her head. “Yes, you did.”

Neville stepped slowly toward the wardrobe, and Lupin positioned himself slightly to the side so he could intervene if something unexpected happened. “Good, Neville. Remember to hold your wand clearly and steadily. And above all: think of something you truly find funny. Not anything. Something that would personally make you laugh.”

Neville nodded frantically. “Uh… yes. I’ll try.”

“Open the wardrobe when you are ready,” Lupin said.

Neville stretched out his hand. It trembled slightly, and he pressed his lips together so tightly they almost turned white. With a jerk, he pulled the door open.

The change in the room was palpable as the Boggart emerged from the wardrobe. The air felt heavier, and several students automatically held their breath. Hermione felt her chest tighten.

Before Neville now stood a figure that, in the intensity of its presence, seemed frighteningly real: Professor Snape, tall and upright, his robes dark and sharply falling, his gaze cold and piercing. The Boggart’s voice, when it spoke, was a perfect echo of reality. “Longbottom. How unsurprising.”

Neville stumbled back a step. “Oh no…” he murmured, gasping.

Lupin called out calmly, without raising his voice but with firm emphasis, “Neville. Concentrate. You know what to do.”

Ron whispered in shock, “Merlin. He looks more real than the real Snape.”

Harry replied tersely, “I hope Snape never finds out about this.”

Seamus snorted quietly. “He will find out. He finds out everything.”

Hermione heard the comments, but her gaze remained fixed on the scene. She immediately noticed that, although the Boggart-Snape imitated every nuance of the real man’s demeanour, something was missing. A spark. Something human that defined the real Snape against his will. This version was empty. Only fear.

Neville raised his wand, his hand swaying. “Ri… Ri… Riddikulus!”

The spell emerged only weakly. The Boggart took half a step forward, its gaze sharpening.

“Longbottom, even your wand seems to flee in shame,” the figure said with cold clarity.

Neville’s eyes went wide. “I… I can’t do this!”

Lupin raised his voice slightly. “Neville. Do not look at him. Look at the point you want to change. Think of the image you imagined. Start now.”

Neville closed his eyes for a brief second, inhaled deeply, opened them again, and this time called much louder, “Riddikulus!”

The transformation came abruptly. The dark robes twisted as though someone had tugged them with force. The severe cloak shrank, the entire figure broadened and grew awkward. Within a heartbeat, the fearsome Snape was gone, replaced by a grotesquely dressed figure in a bright green Slytherin dress with white ruffles, an absurdly large vulture hat, and a red handbag that dangled from the wrists like a foreign object that did not belong there.

For a moment, absolute silence. Then the class erupted into laughter.

Ron slapped his knees and gasped, “I can’t believe it. The hat! That blasted hat!”

Seamus clutched his stomach and said between breaths, “If Snape came to class like that, I’d voluntarily show up on time every day.”

Harry shook his head, though he too was laughing. “Oh heavens… that’s too good.”

Hermione, however, stood rooted. She could not laugh. The scene struck her unpleasantly, because she instinctively felt that this crossed a line no one noticed but her.

Softly, almost inaudibly, she said, “This isn’t fair.”

Lavender turned to her, her face flushed from laughter. “What isn’t fair? Just look at him.”

Hermione pressed her lips together and replied in a controlled but firm voice, “I just think it’s… disrespectful.”

Ron, wiping the last tears of laughter from his eyes, turned toward her and looked at her unusually sharply. “Disrespectful? Hermione, are you alright? We’re talking about Snape. And you’re standing here defending that greasy git.”

Hermione spun around, completely surprised by his tone, and felt her pulse quicken instantly. “Ron, that isn’t funny,” she said, but he only raised his brows mockingly.

“Then don’t laugh. But don’t act as though he deserves anything else,” he snapped, his tone revealing he did not care in the moment whether he hurt her.

Hermione clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her skin. For a moment she felt the clear, concrete impulse to slap Ron simply to wipe the self-satisfied grin off his face. Yet she forced herself to remain still, because she knew otherwise she would do something she would later regret.

“You have absolutely no idea what you are talking about,” she pressed out, glaring at him.

Ron only shrugged. “Sure I do. About Snape. That’s all one needs to know.”

She did not reply, knowing the argument would only escalate.

Lupin clapped his hands and called firmly, “Very good, Neville. That was an excellent use of the spell.”

Neville exhaled shakily and managed only a toneless “Thank you,” his gaze still flickering between the ridiculous Boggart-Snape and his own trembling hands.

Inside herself, Hermione felt aversion to the boisterous laughter, and she knew that the others’ joy would be short-lived, because once Professor Snape learned how he had been made a target of ridicule, consequences would be unavoidable and painful.

“Hermione, it’s your turn,” said Lupin, pulling her from her thoughts. He gave her an encouraging look, which did little to help, for her heart was already beating faster than she wanted to admit.

Hermione stepped slowly to the wardrobe, which in that moment seemed as though it had been waiting only for her. The door burst open, a blast of cold air spilled out, followed by the Boggart, which formed itself at once. McGonagall suddenly stood before her, stricter than any memory Hermione had of her. The eyes looked sharper, the voice sounded harsher, almost wounding.

“You failed every exam,” said the Boggart-McGonagall, the tone so matter-of-fact it sounded like a simple statement. “You never achieved the performance I expected from you,” she said again, sharper, almost accusatory.

Hermione swallowed hard. “That isn’t true,” she got out softly, more to herself than to the Boggart, yet her voice trembled. Her stomach clenched, her knees weakened. The Boggart flickered again, McGonagall’s robes dissolving into grey stripes until Hermione stood before Professor Snape.

His familiar figure appeared colder than usual, his eyes dark like a sentence. The false professor leaned forward slightly.

“You were a mistake,” he said with that biting calm that made her blood freeze. “I should never have accepted you as an apprentice,” he said, every word hitting her chest like a blow.

Hermione inhaled sharply. “You don’t mean that,” she whispered, though the real Professor was not here and she knew the sentence arose from her own fear.

The Boggart jumped again. McGonagall appeared, then Snape, then McGonagall. The switching became faster, almost frantic, as though the Boggart did not know which fear ran deeper.

McGonagall: “You disappointed me every day.”
Snape: “You are not enough for my teaching.”
McGonagall: “I have lost faith.”
Snape: “I see no value in your training.”

Hermione stumbled back half a step. “Stop it,” she said softly, so no one else could hear. Her voice sounded broken, though she desperately tried to hold herself together. Her hands trembled visibly.

Lupin stared, stunned. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said very quietly, visibly shaken. “The Boggart is reacting unusually strongly to you, Hermione. This is not normal behaviour.”

“Great,” Hermione murmured bitterly, her eyes burning. “Just what I needed today.” A tear rolled down her cheek, though she tried to suppress it even as it fell. Everything hurt. Especially the false Professor Snape’s sentence, because she secretly harboured feelings for the real one and now felt as though the Boggart had taken her heart and crushed it.

Still, she raised her wand, though her fingers barely found purchase. “Alright… come on then,” she whispered to herself and took a deep breath.

“Riddikulus,” she finally said, this time loud and with as much strength as she could muster.

The Boggart instantly lost its form. McGonagall’s strict figure became a wobbly doll with an overly heavy tartan hat, Snape’s cold gaze became a ludicrously inflated cauldron that squeaked as it moved. Both wobbled uncoordinated beside each other until they burst into smoke with a loud pop.

Hermione lowered her arm. Her breathing came fast, her chest rising and falling visibly, yet she stood straight, though her body felt as though it would buckle like after a hard blow.

Lupin approached her slowly, as though giving her time. “You handled yourself fantastically,” he said calmly. “The Boggart struck at your deepest fears, yet you stood firm.”

Hermione wiped her cheek, attempted a smile, and failed. “Didn’t feel like it,” she said softly.

Lupin nodded. “Your feeling deceived you,” he said. “Your performance was truly strong, Hermione.”

After lunch they had a double period of Potions, and so it happened that the day on which all of Hogwarts laughed about Professor Snape in women’s clothing ended in a true disaster Hermione would never forget.

Gryffindor lost an incredible one hundred and eighty points within a few hours, Neville alone forfeited one hundred and fifty after he, terrified in the next Potions lesson, caused a cauldron to explode, flooding the entire dungeon in pink slime. As if that weren’t enough, in his panic he knocked over a second cauldron containing a half-finished Forget-Me-Not Potion, which spilled over the boots of their professor. Fortunately, they were made of dragon hide, resistant to the corrosive liquid. Snape had hissed, in an icy voice, “Longbottom! A single day without catastrophe is apparently too much to ask of you. One hundred and fifty points from Gryffindor.”

For Hermione, it was a day of tension and quiet foreboding that she too would feel the consequences, for that evening she had private lessons with Professor Snape, and the mere idea of facing him in such a mood made her heart heavy. She skimmed her notes from last time and prepared herself inwardly for punishment work, knowing that today she would hardly be as focused as usual.

A quarter hour before her lesson she made her way to the dungeons with heavy steps, taking care to arrive neither too early nor too late. When she finally knocked on the door to his office, there was no answer at first, which puzzled and worried her. “Professor Snape?” she called cautiously, but no sound came back. Only on the second knock did she dare to open the door a crack. She stepped in and found the office empty. Dark, almost eerie, until she noticed the open connecting door to his chambers, from which a faint but unmistakable wave of magic emanated. Hesitantly, she walked on, calling out with a strained voice, “Professor?” and no sooner had she stepped inside than the door fell shut behind her, accompanied by the dry, unmistakable sound of his voice, coming from the direction of the laboratory: “In the laboratory, Miss Granger.”

As Hermione entered the laboratory, she was immediately enveloped by the acrid scent of herbs, smoke, and something metallic, mixed with the light, warm aroma of sandalwood that she always noticed clearly whenever she was near him. The heavy shelves bowed under the weight of jars and bottles containing potions and ingredients, some shimmering in strangely liquid light, others appearing as plain as rainwater. Yet she knew that behind every liquid lay a danger or a secret.

“There you are, Miss Granger,” said Professor Snape without looking at her, as he bent over a cauldron stirring a liquid so thick it moved only slowly in a circle. “I had already wondered whether you possessed the courage to appear here after today’s… events.” His voice was velvety and dangerous at once, a tone that made Hermione flinch every time, even though she tried to maintain her composure.

“Of course, Professor,” she replied, her hands tightly gripping the strap of her bag. “It was agreed, and I… keep to agreements.”

He raised his head, released the stirring rod, and looked at her with those dark eyes that seemed so relentless that she involuntarily held her breath. “Praiseworthy. If all Gryffindors possessed this sense of discipline, my daily work would be far less… taxing.”

She swallowed, but did not dare to address the allusion to Neville. Instead, she stepped closer, pulled out her notes, and laid them on the table. “Shall I try the Wolfsbane Potion again, Professor?” she asked cautiously, almost shyly, though her voice also betrayed a trace of determined ambition.

He raised a brow. “If you believe yourself capable of performing the most elementary steps without another fireworks display of embarrassments, then go ahead.”

Hermione bit her lip, wrestled briefly with her pride, then nodded and began preparing the ingredients. She cut the leaves of the wolfsbane into precise strips, just as he had shown her last time. She noticed her hands trembled slightly—not out of fear, but out of tension, determined not to make a mistake under his eyes.

“Your knife handling is acceptable,” Snape murmured after a while as he watched her in silence. “But you hack. Slice, Miss Granger, with steady pressure, not like a troll trying to tear a piece of meat apart.”

“Yes, Professor,” she breathed and corrected her movements, more focused than ever. When she finally let the leaves slide into the liquid, it bubbled for a moment before turning the deep violet he required.

Snape stepped closer, looked into the cauldron, and murmured, “Perfect.”

Hermione froze, lifted her head, and looked at him in surprise. “Excuse me, Professor?” she asked softly, almost whispering.

He blinked lazily, as though indifferent to whether she had understood him. “I dislike repeating myself, Miss Granger, but since you appear to be hard of hearing: perfect. At least this part.”

A hot shiver ran through her limbs, and she felt her cheeks grow redder than they ever had in class. “Thank you, Professor,” she murmured, unsure whether she would ruin the moment if she spoke too long.

“Do not thank me. Thank your own meticulousness, if you ever learn to appreciate it.” He turned away again, reached for a new phial, and placed it before her. “Now, add three drops of asphodel solution. No more, no less. And if you dare to spill—”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to write an essay about it,” she blurted out, barely having thought it, and immediately bit her lip, realising she had actually spoken it aloud.

He turned his head—not abruptly, not coldly, but with that slow, measuring movement that made her feel he was taking her seriously. His eyes rested on her, dark, deep, and this time there was no bare mockery within them, but something deliberate, something that almost felt like recognition. “So you do know very well what to expect, Miss Granger,” he replied quietly, the words less cutting than usual, almost calm. “Yet why take the risk at all? You are not here to collect punishments, but because you are capable of more than most.”

She held her breath, let the three drops fall into the liquid with utmost care, and when the potion changed from violet to a clear, deep blue, a quiet sigh of relief escaped her.

He stood close beside her now, and this time it was not the proximity of a strict overseer, but that of a man who—against his will—felt how strongly her mind intertwined with his own. For a brief moment, he allowed the shields he always kept raised to fall, and there it was: that pulsing, that resonance between them, which irritated him even as it drew him to her like an almost unbearable bond.

Hermione seemed so tense that Severus felt it physically—a fine, sharp trembling in the air that made him instinctively alert. In her thoughts Severus saw the Boggart that had taken his shape, heard the words the illusion had spoken with his voice, and recognised the pain the scene had laid bare in her. The impact struck him harder than he expected, which is why he immediately broke the mental connection. In that moment he formed the concise, determined decision to do everything in his power to make her feel better again.

“The Wolfsbane Potion is no game,” he said after a long breath, his voice quiet, deep, almost intimate. “It belongs to the few elixirs that can safeguard life. A single mistake—and the creature it is meant to help suffers unimaginable agony. It screams, fights against its own body, unable to withstand the tearing apart.” He paused briefly before continuing, and this time it felt almost as though he was not speaking as a professor, but as someone who wanted to convey the meaning to her personally. “That is what it is about, Miss Granger. Precision here is no virtue; it is a promise. A promise to prevent suffering.”

As he spoke, he felt that she was the only one in whom he believed such a promise could actually be fulfilled. And that was what made her closeness dangerous—not for her, but for him. For at that moment he knew that she, whether he wanted it or not, had already taken a place within him that he would have granted to no one. A quiet, almost unbearable thought stirred in him: that it was she who fit him, that—no matter how he denied it—he was glad it was she whose presence touched his soul like only a counterpart, a soulmate, could. The next moment, however, he scolded himself for the thought, sharply and without mercy—she was only fourteen.

Hermione’s heart pounded, and for a moment she wrestled with herself, unsure whether she dared. An idea burned in her mind, impulsive, insistent, yet she knew all too well how risky it was to give it voice. Finally she took a deep breath and said hesitantly, “Perhaps… one could use plants that ease pain? African devil’s claw or frankincense? They have anti-inflammatory and calming effects.”

“African devil’s claw… frankincense… anti-inflammatory, calming.” Severus brushed his thumb across his lower lip, his gaze sharp and absent at once as he murmured, almost to himself rather than to her, “Interesting… that might work. Fascinating how far your mind reaches, Miss Granger…”

He closed the book, but left his hand on it for another heartbeat, as though giving his thoughts something to hold on to. Then he slowly lifted his gaze to her, a tiny, inexplicable glimmer in his eyes. “Unusual for a student to draw such connections. Your approach is… remarkable.”

He cleared his throat at once and continued more sharply, reining in his own voice. “Remember: every hypothesis is worthless if it is not tested. Nevertheless… I will consider it.”

Hermione beamed, involuntarily and warmly.

Severus raised his hand abruptly. “No reason for joy. You are still far from working on my level.”

“Of course not, Professor,” she said softly, yet she could not hide the joy that he had not only refrained from dismissing her idea but had actually considered it.

As they continued working, he watched her more often than necessary—each time only a second, but long enough to irritate him. She thought quickly, connected concepts he never expected of students. His own mind worked noiselessly. 'Why does this affect me so much? Why does she occupy my thoughts so deeply?' he wondered.

Time passed faster than she expected. When they finished the final step, the potion glowed with the dull, silvery shimmer he required. He stepped back, crossed his arms, and nodded faintly. “Enough for today. It has grown late, Miss Granger.”

“After midnight already…” she murmured, surprised and exhausted.

He reached for his cloak, swung it over his shoulder, and said with unusual calm, “I will escort you back. Should you be found in the corridors, it would lead to misunderstandings. And in this case you would bear no blame.”

Hermione stared at him for a moment, blinked, and nodded quickly. “Thank you, Professor… truly. For everything today.”

As she followed behind him, she barely noticed how closely she walked, close enough to sense his scent—warm, heavy, that familiar touch of sandalwood that made her heart beat faster out of nowhere. Her head was full of thoughts about the evening, about his words, about his unexpectedly gentle nod, so full that she did not notice he had suddenly stopped. She walked straight into his back. His body was warmer than she expected, firmer too, and for a moment everything inside her felt shockingly soft. Heat shot into her face, she stumbled back in embarrassment over the entirely inappropriate thoughts sparking through her mind. She flushed deep red, inhaled sharply, and gathered the next sentence that should follow. “Thank you for the interesting evening.”

He had distinctly felt the contact—her small impact against him was like an unexpected surge of warmth that broke his concentration for a moment. He suppressed the beginning of something dangerously close to a smile and forced his thoughts back into safe territory.

He looked at her for a long moment. His eyes softened—so briefly it might have been a trick of the light. A barely visible lift of the corner of his mouth. “It was a good lesson. Good night, Miss Granger.”

Before she could say anything, he was already gone, silent as a spectre swallowed by the darkness again. His steps glided over the cold stone, and as his cloak swept behind him, he felt a trace of warmth he should never have allowed.

Eventually he stopped, placed a hand on the wall, and lowered his head. He spoke softly, without intending to, a rough, barely audible self-address: “Damn it… you are unraveling my thoughts…”

He straightened, the shadows flowing over his shoulders like a second skin. 'She is clever. Too clever. And I… I praise her. I note her ideas. I listen to her. More than I should.'

A deep breath, a painfully honest admission: 'Because you are my soulmate, Hermione Granger… even if you must not yet learn it.'

The thought struck him harder than a curse.
Yet he did not retreat from it. He accepted it—as a truth that he had to bury: 'I want you safe. I want to protect you. From all harm. From pain. From that thick-headed Weasley who has no idea what he did to you with his words.'

Severus’ eyes narrowed, his hand forming a fist beneath his cloak. “One day,” he murmured roughly, “I will ensure no one hurts you again.”

He pulled his cloak tighter and let the shadows swallow him completely.
No one saw the fine cracks forming in his wall.
No one except himself.

Chapter Text

Hermione was jerked abruptly out of sleep when loud screams suddenly echoed through the corridors. So sudden and shrill that she shot upright in a single instinctive movement. Her heart pounded in her throat, and she needed a moment to even understand whether the sound was real or part of a dream. But hardly had her mind begun to function when she was already on her feet, barefoot, confused, and running almost blindly down the stairs from the dormitory into the Gryffindor common room.

Downstairs chaos had already taken hold. Sleepy, pale faces stared at one another, students stumbled down the staircases, some shouted excitedly over each other, and the unrest grew with every passing second. Hermione heard a girl crying somewhere, someone asked hastily, “What happened?”, another shouted, “Did anyone see anything?”, yet no one could give a clear answer.

She herself was still so dazed from the abrupt awakening that her thoughts only worked in fragments. Only when several teachers suddenly stepped into the common room — serious, tense, without a single unnecessary word — did the noise abruptly subside. Professor McGonagall arrived first, followed by Lupin, and all of them looked as though they were already preparing for the worst.

“Please remain calm and do exactly as we say,” McGonagall declared in a firm voice, sweeping her gaze through the room to make sure she reached everyone. Lupin whispered something to her, at which she gave a brief nod.

The students were instructed to gather, first-years with second-years, third-years with fourth-years, and only now did Hermione notice how much her hands were shaking. The teachers led them out of the tower, through narrow corridors that now seemed far more threatening than usual, and finally into the Great Hall, where sleeping bags and blankets had been spread out, apparently in great haste.

McGonagall explained curtly, “You will sleep here tonight. It is for your safety.”

Some of the younger students giggled nervously and looked around as if expecting an unexpected adventure, but the older ones clearly sensed that something was wrong. An earnest, almost oppressive tension hung in the air — something no one wanted to name, but everyone felt.

Hermione sat down on one of the sleeping bags, her gaze fixed on the teachers. Repeatedly she heard snatches of words whispered between prefects and teachers: “Longbottom… password… almost got in…”, and finally, clearer than anything else: “Sirius Black… attack… Weasley…”

Her breath stopped.

“Weasley?” she whispered in disbelief, and instantly one terrifying thought shot through her mind: 'Ron? What about Ron? Was he hurt?'

She half sprang up, frantically scanning the room until she spotted Ron among a group of Gryffindors. He looked pale, confused, but unharmed. The relief hit her so hard that her knees went weak, and she sank back onto her sleeping bag.

Yet despite the relief of seeing him safe, the tension of the past few days still hung between them — that painful argument about Crookshanks and Ron’s rat. She didn’t know whether she should approach him or keep her distance.

But Ron noticed her gaze.

He looked at her for a long moment, then lowered his shoulders as though releasing a weight he could no longer carry. Finally he stood up, walked over to her, and hesitated for several seconds before saying, “Hermione… so… I wanted… I mean… bloody hell, I really messed up.”

Hermione lifted her head. “Ron… I…”

He raised a hand as if to stop her and force himself to continue. “No, let me… please. I was unfair. Really unfair. I got completely worked up. Scabbers was old. Maybe… maybe he just died, you know? Heart or something.”

She felt the lump in her throat loosen a little.

“I was worried about you, Ron,” she said quietly. “Really worried.”

Ron swallowed, his voice softening. “Yeah… I saw that. And… I missed it. You know… this…” He gestured helplessly between them. “Us.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “Me too.”

At that moment Harry appeared beside them, apparently having spent the whole time swinging between worry and relief. He looked from one to the other and said with a warm, relieved smile, “Finally you’re talking to each other again. I thought I’d have to drag you together by the hair.”

Ron snorted softly, half amused, half embarrassed. “Yeah, yeah, alright…”

Hermione gave a faint smile. “It was about time.”

But barely had she spoken when another thought struck her — and she froze slightly.

“Crookshanks…” she murmured. “I saw him before going to bed, but… he wasn’t in my dormitory when I woke up. And the door was closed. He couldn’t have gotten out.”

Harry frowned. “Maybe someone opened it?”

“No.” Hermione shook her head, troubled. “I would have heard it. And he was… gone. Just gone. That’s very strange.”

Ron scratched the back of his head. “Crookshanks is tough. He’ll be fine.”

Hermione nodded, but the thought clung to her. Something about it didn’t fit.

For a moment the three of them simply stood there — relieved yet tense — but close enough again to look at each other without it hurting.

“Friends?” Ron asked with a crooked, cautious smile.

“Friends,” Hermione confirmed, feeling a portion of the heavy tension lift from her shoulders.

Harry grinned. “At last. Now I can breathe normally again.”

They sat down side by side on their sleeping bags, and though the hall was full of shadows, whispers, and unrest, Hermione felt — for the first time in days — that the oppressive loneliness in her chest eased a little… even if she suddenly realized that this night would hold several questions still unanswered.

Hermione’s thoughts drifted as she watched everything around her, and the longer she listened to the excited voices, the whispering groups, and the nervous glances of the teachers, the more a realization pressed itself upon her — one she could no longer ignore. She couldn’t help acknowledging that Ron could never have been Sirius Black’s true target. It makes no sense at all… 'Ron doesn’t look anything like Harry,' she thought, her brow furrowing in worry. 'And if Black really came to avenge his former master, if he truly intended to kill Harry, then he certainly wouldn’t have mistaken the person. He was known as a follower of You-Know-Who… not someone who accidentally attacked the wrong bed.'

This thought would not leave her, and in her head it spiralled onward, more logical with every turn: Ron and Harry are completely different, and Ron has absolutely nothing to do with Black. So why would Black attack him? And besides — if Black could break into the castle so effortlessly, he could have killed everyone in the dormitory in their sleep without anyone noticing. Which means… he wanted someone very specific. And he knew exactly who.

But before she could complete the chain of reasoning, the answer she sought was practically carried into the Great Hall — in the form of a violently sobbing, utterly distraught Neville Longbottom, accompanied by a downcast Percy Weasley. It didn’t take long for the entire group to learn what had happened: Neville, naïve and forgetful as always, had written the passwords for the Fat Lady on a piece of paper. And somehow that paper must have found its way into Black’s hands.

Hermione felt a painful twist of mingled sympathy and irritation. On the one hand she pitied Neville, who was clearly devastated and had never intended to endanger anyone. On the other hand her hands clenched into fists almost against her will. 'Because of him we’re all in this mess' , shot through her mind bitterly. 'How can he be so careless? Writing down a password? That’s… that’s practically an invitation!'

Neville stammered through tears, “Honestly, I had the paper right next to my bed, I swear! I just didn’t want to forget it again! I… I didn’t think that…”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head inwardly. She liked Neville, truly, she had often defended him, but even she could scarcely believe he had been so naïve.

Later, when everyone lay huddled in their sleeping bags and though the Great Hall was full of people, Harry, Ron and Hermione moved closer together and began to speculate in hushed voices.

“How would Black get the passwords if Neville says he left the paper in the dormitory?” Ron murmured, still pale.

“Maybe Black has a friend in here,” Harry whispered, his eyes alert, searching for danger everywhere. “Someone working for him. A student, maybe… or a teacher.”

Ron nodded eagerly. “Exactly, some traitor is helping him. For sure.”

As Hermione thought about it, she looked at the boys — and she knew what was coming. Harry’s expression changed exactly the way it always did when he formed a suspicion. Finally he lifted his head slightly and said, “What if it’s Professor Snape?”

Hermione reacted immediately, without hesitation. “No, Harry,” she contradicted firmly. “I think that’s completely wrong. Professor Snape is not evil. He works for Dumbledore, I know that.”

Ron interrupted at once, his tone carrying irritation, overwhelm and a hint of jealousy: “Oh please! You always defend that bat. You’re way too trusting!”

Harry nodded, less forcefully than Ron, but clearly in agreement.

Hermione bit down on her lip. She knew that any further discussion was pointless. They would never change their minds about Professor Snape — no matter how logical, factual, or well-reasoned her arguments were. And she herself knew deep down that there was more binding her to Professor Snape than merely his lessons or Dumbledore’s trust in him. But she could tell no one that.

So she remained silent — listening to the whispering hall and the soft rustling of sleeping bags as the night settled over them like a restless shadow.

When they were finally allowed to return to their dormitories the following evening and most students wandered back to their rooms in a daze, Hermione stopped abruptly, because waiting on her bedpost was the black raven who watched her with a direct, attentive gaze far more familiar to her than she cared to admit. Her heart skipped because she knew instantly that he was here because of the night’s events.

She smiled cautiously, hoping he wouldn’t notice her inner relief, and whispered, “You seem unsettled.” She watched his eyes closely, because she knew Professor Snape was behind them no matter how much he might imagine she spoke only to an unusually clever animal. The raven did not reply, of course, but he turned his head and glanced over her shoulder into the room with a scrutiny so reminiscent of Snape as a man that she understood his gesture instantly.

Hesitantly she extended her arm, and after a moment in which he studied her as if confirming something, he hopped onto her hand. The weight, the precise grip of his claws, and the controlled movements confirmed once again that she was not mistaken. She carried him to her bed, set him on her pillow, drew the curtains closed, and cast a quick Muffliato over the space.

“I know what happened,” she told him as she sat down across from him — a posture that would look odd to anyone who believed she spoke only to an animal. “I know Neville didn’t do it on purpose. Still… Ron could have been killed. Harry too.”

She shifted on the mattress, tension still taut under her skin. The events, the fear, and the knowledge that Black had truly been inside the castle weighed on her stomach like lead.

Then she told him in detail what the past days had meant to her: the endless tasks, the worry over Hagrid, the arguments with Ron, and the general unrest in the Gryffindor Tower. She spoke faster than usual, simply because she was certain he was listening.

Her voice grew quieter, but also more uncertain, as she admitted, “Everything is becoming a bit too much right now. I barely have a minute to breathe. And then there are Potions — I really like it.” She paused because her face grew hot.

“I love working in Professor Snape’s laboratory,” she then said, more softly. “It’s actually fun. And I think he takes me seriously now.” Her words came haltingly, but she wanted to say them. “He’s incredibly well-read and truly excellent at what he does. I know almost no one who can match him. Maybe Dumbledore, but no one else. And in the lab he’s different… more focused… somehow more approachable. There he seems almost like he enjoys explaining things to me. We talk a lot during lessons, and I’m pretty sure he tests my ideas and takes them seriously. That he sees me for what I am — not some Mudblood, but a young witch who can accomplish something.”

At that moment the raven pecked her sharply on the hand, and she jerked back. “Ow! Hey! What was that for — because of that word, right? Because of ‘Mudblood’, isn’t it?”

When he pecked her again, less sharply, she let out a soft laugh. “Alright, I’ll stop. But if you keep that up, I’ll end up making a pillow out of you.” She raised her wand in mock threat, knowing he’d understand the joke.

She took a deep breath and continued, “Malfoy screams that word at me constantly. And no matter how much I pretend not to care — it sticks. But just because my parents are Muggles doesn’t mean I’m worth less. Malfoy is nowhere near my level.”

The raven suddenly croaked — a hoarse sound that sounded so much like mockery that Hermione lifted her eyebrows. “That almost sounds like laughter,” she said, her expression softening. And of course it sounded like laughter — she knew Snape’s humour well enough by now to recognize it even in this form.

She stroked the dark, slightly rough feathers one last time. “I’d like to keep talking,” she murmured. “But I need to sleep. Tomorrow will be exhausting, and in the evening I have Potions. And being tired in Professor Snape’s class is really not a good idea.”

The raven lifted his head, studied her for a few seconds, then spread his wings and slipped soundlessly through the curtains and out of the dormitory. Hermione watched him until he vanished.

Severus felt the warmth of her touch lingering on him — a warmth he had not allowed himself to feel in many years — and the moment startled him more than he would ever admit. For a single brief instant it felt as though he could shake off all exhaustion, as though the burden of his days had vanished. But the instant the thought formed fully, the familiar heaviness returned — the weight that had clung to him for days and made him doubt every positive impulse.

He knew exactly where that heaviness came from. Even before the school year had begun, he had urged Dumbledore to acknowledge that Remus Lupin was anything but trustworthy. He had repeated himself many times — calmly, thoroughly, even putting it in writing. Yet Albus had dismissed every warning with a mild, almost soothing smile, as though Severus’ worry were nothing more than personal dislike to be ignored.

Severus remembered clearly how he had said, “You know exactly what he is, Albus. He is a werewolf, and someone who used to be close to Black and his entire group. And still you treat him like some harmless stray you can control with a good-hearted conversation and a bit of leniency.”

But Albus, as always, had his own justifications — calm, measured, spoken with that unsettling confidence Severus despised. And as always, Albus had the final word, leaving Severus with the familiar sense of not being taken seriously, no matter how often his assessments had proven accurate.

As an Animagus raven, Severus now flew in slow, even glides over the castle grounds to clear his mind — something he would have struggled to do in human form. The air was cool, dawn was slowly breaking, and the castle lay in an unnaturally subdued silence that felt almost wrong after the chaotic night. As he glided above the courtyards and outer walls, his gaze swept the ground below — more out of habit than interest.

But then he saw something that made him halt mid-flight.

Below him trotted two animals side by side — so unremarkable and yet so strange that he subtly adjusted his wings to slow down. On one side moved a large, heavy black dog with smooth yet tense steps. Beside it walked a cat with striking copper-coloured fur, her tail lifting rhythmically in the air as though she were entirely unimpressed by her companion’s size.

Severus watched them for several seconds, motionless, though inside one clear, sober thought formed: 'That is a strange sight. More than strange.'

He didn’t know why they were walking together, but the pairing was odd enough that he stored it away mentally. The dog seemed unfamiliar, and the cat strangely recognizable. He decided to consider it later, once he was human again and could think more precisely.

For now he continued his flight, though the image lingered in his mind — a detail that might matter later, even if he couldn’t yet say why.

And the farther he glided, the more he felt the inner tension return — the doubt, the mistrust, the uncomfortable sense that no one but him was willing to take the warning signs seriously.

Today he had another hour with Miss Granger — Hermione, as he privately preferred to think of her — and the very fact irritated him before she even entered the room. It was Tuesday, a day he normally kept strictly ordered, yet this time he had stood unusually long before his shelf of ingredients, weighing which potion would challenge her without overwhelming her. Eventually he had chosen the Restoration Draught, the demanding brew he had prepared during the turmoil of her second year for the petrified students, at a time when the entire school was on edge.

As she now studied the ingredient list in his laboratory, she did so with that familiar focused posture that impressed him far more than he liked to admit. She chewed lightly on her lower lip, a habit he had found himself noticing more than he should. For an instant the corners of his strict mouth tugged in something like a smile — almost — but he hid it behind the strands of hair falling into his face.

After several minutes she lifted her head, hesitant, her eyes expressing both respect and uncertainty. “Sir… I don’t know if I have enough experience for a potion like this,” she said carefully. “It seems much harder than Wolfsbane. Do you really trust me with this?”

Immediately the familiar impenetrable mask slid over his features. He straightened to his full height so she wouldn’t notice how her doubts affected him. “Miss Granger,” he began in that cool, decisive tone ingrained in him, “I would not assign you a potion of this complexity if I were not absolutely convinced that you are capable of mastering it.”

His dark eyes stayed on her — a moment longer than propriety allowed. Then his mouth shifted just slightly, barely visibly, yet enough that she might have noticed had she looked closely. “And now close your mouth — otherwise you look as if you intend to swallow the mandrakes whole.”

She flushed instantly, nodded quickly, and turned back to her workstation. He watched her in silence as she began: the precise slicing of the root, the slow stirring of the powdered willow bark, the controlled wand movement. He noticed her hands steadied once she found the rhythm of the work, and he had to admit he had seldom met anyone with such patience, willingness to learn, and genuine respect for the art of potion-making.

Later, as night had advanced and shadows stretched long across the walls while the potion still hadn’t reached the proper consistency, he broke the silence with a sharp breath. He stepped beside her, raised his wand, and cast a single precise stasis charm over both cauldrons.

“You should have been back in your dormitory long ago, Miss Granger,” he said curtly, though beneath the strict tone lay a nearly imperceptible note — one not tied purely to instruction. “At this hour no one sits voluntarily over a steaming cauldron — except you.”

With a casual yet elegant gesture he sealed the potions for the night, and the steam dissipated instantly. “Go now,” he continued, “and if you insist, you may resume your work tomorrow evening.”

He already knew — long before she said it — that she would return. And as had become almost a pattern, he escorted her silently the entire way back to the Gryffindor Tower. He walked a little behind her, enough not to crowd her, yet close enough to keep her in sight, and each time he wondered why this young witch could unsettle his boundaries with such ease.

Severus knew it: he enjoyed her presence more than he would ever admit — neither to her nor to himself.

The thought persisted. And it grew harder to ignore each day.

And so the day passed until night finally fell, and Hermione was by then so exhausted she barely understood how she had managed to get from one class to the next. The Time-Turner she had been using since the start of the school year had allowed her to take far more subjects than scheduled, yet it also made her days longer and more densely packed than anyone else’s. She now clung from one hour to the next, and although the chaos of her timetable was oddly satisfying and she secretly enjoyed how efficiently she could learn, she increasingly felt how much it drained her strength.

But she had grown used to using the Time-Turner. She grew more skilled each day at disappearing discreetly, stepping back, reappearing, and avoiding suspicion. The constant shifting between times felt almost more natural than a normal day. Still, the demands piled up: assignments, long meetings, responsibilities for various subjects, group projects, and the additional hours she demanded of herself. Each item consumed more energy than she wished to admit.

Despite her exhaustion she remained in the laboratory because she wanted to finish the potion, and she refused to appear as though she couldn’t handle the workload. Above all she did not want Professor Snape to doubt her. The thought applied far more pressure than she liked, and she felt clearly how her ambition and desire to meet his expectations pushed her to her physical limits.

With tense fingers she continued writing; she gripped the quill so tightly her entire palm hurt. Her eyes burned, and she had to force herself to keep the lines sharp enough to read. The trembling in her hands was becoming obvious, but she deliberately ignored it because stopping would feel like admitting defeat.

Every word she wrote demanded more concentration than she had left. Each breath felt heavy, as if she needed to remind herself to stay awake. The sounds in the laboratory — the muffled bubbling of the cauldron, the scraping of a stirring spoon, the occasional crack in the old stone walls — formed a steady background that only deepened her fatigue.

Her eyelids grew heavier, lowering repeatedly, and each time she forced them open. Yet the moments between nodding off and jerking awake grew shorter, and her resistance weakened. Finally her strength gave out entirely: the quill slipped from her fingers, the parchment drifted aside, and her head slowly, inevitably sank forward because she could no longer hold it up.

Her body had long since reached its limit — even if her mind still believed it could push on.

With pressed lips and an expression that for anyone else might have passed as pure strictness, though it held an echo of concern, he watched her succumb to exhaustion. The moment her head drooped and the quill left her fingers, he decided to let her sleep. He didn’t know why he didn’t assume his usual harsh tone — why he didn’t reprimand her or order her out of the lab immediately.

Instead he rose slowly, as though afraid to disturb the moment, and stepped to her table. For a moment he simply looked at her — slumped over parchment and notes, a curl resting on her cheek, the quill still loosely between her fingers, as if she refused to let go even in sleep.

He reached out, hesitated — that small voice insisting you should not do this, that proximity was dangerous, especially to her, that it wasn’t his place to catch a student simply because she had pushed herself beyond her limits. But that voice weakened when he laid his hand on her shoulder and felt how warm and exhausted she was.

Gently he lifted her. He was surprised by how light she was; in his arms she seemed almost fragile, composed entirely of willpower and drained determination. The walk through the dungeons to his private quarters was short, yet it felt longer because his mind was filled with contradictory thoughts: that he should not cross a boundary with a student, that all this was unwise and foolish, that he must not allow weakness toward her. And yet, as her calm breath brushed his shoulder, he felt something he had not experienced in years — a quiet, human urge for closeness, for the feeling that someone in his care was safe.

In his living room he laid her on the sofa as though she were something valuable, something that must not be damaged. He took one of the heavy blankets, placed it over her, and smoothed it gently — a gesture he immediately wanted to forbid himself because it seemed too familiar. Yet he did it anyway, almost mechanically, as though he had to tame the moment before it stirred too much emotion.

He stood there. Longer than he should have. She shifted unconsciously in her sleep, pulling the blanket closer, as though seeking warmth, and something inside him was touched in a way he barely understood. This simple closeness — unseen, unjudged — meant more to him than she could ever learn.

When she awoke many hours later, the dungeon was still; only a single candle burned, its flickering light revealing that someone had been deliberately keeping watch. The hard laboratory chair was gone, and instead she lay on a soft sofa, wrapped in a heavy blanket warm over her shoulders.

She blinked into the darkness and recognized the fabric against her cheek — dense, soft, and unmistakably not from the school’s supplies. It was his blanket. She inhaled automatically, catching the scent that clung to it: dried herbs, a hint of smoke, and the familiar note of sandalwood. The scent hit her instantly, making her heart race and a tingling spread down her spine.

She pulled the blanket closer, almost embarrassed by the desire to keep this warm, protective smell around her. 'Just one more moment,' she thought. 'Please, just one more moment.'

But just as she was about to close her eyes again, she heard a door open. The candle flickered as the air shifted, and soft footsteps approached.

Then his voice — calm, deep, unmistakable:

“Awake, Miss Granger?”

She jerked upright, the blanket slipping halfway off her shoulders, and her face flushed crimson. The thought that he had seen her like this — asleep in his private quarters, wrapped in his blanket — made her heart pound so hard she could barely breathe. And then the realization struck her like a curse: By Merlin… he had carried her here.

“Yes, sir — I’m sorry,” she stammered, her voice as small as her hunched posture.

Severus stood before her, arms loosely crossed. His expression was neutral, but his eyes observed her closely — too closely. In their depths lay something that did not quite fit his usual patterns: a hint of warmth he would likely extinguish immediately if he realized it was there.

He studied her for several seconds before saying, “You look better. Earlier you were notably pale. When did you last sleep properly?”

Hermione lowered her gaze, fingers clutching the blanket she did not want to let go. “I… I don’t know exactly, sir. These past days maybe just a few hours. I didn’t want to trouble you.”

He tilted his head slightly; a faint crack appeared in his stern façade.

“I told you clearly you are to inform me when your strength declines,” he replied — without sharpness, only with sober concern. “You are intelligent enough to understand that a mistake when handling toxic substances can be life-threatening.”

She nodded quickly, cheeks warming again. “Yes, Professor… I’ll be more careful.”

With that the matter ended. He turned away, and she heard his measured steps ahead of her. Her own followed hesitantly.

As they walked side by side through the quiet, torch-lit corridors, Severus felt how heavily exhaustion still clung to her. Her movements were slow, her breath heavy. He knew she was barely staying awake. He said nothing, maintained distance, yet inside he felt a strange calm — one that never came when he was alone. It felt right in a way that troubled him.

He cursed himself for it.

Hermione, meanwhile, hardly dared lift her gaze. His words echoed in her — not the sternness, but what lay beneath. He had asked. He had noticed her pallor. He had cared.

“He was worried,” she kept thinking, and each time her chest tightened and warmed at once.

When they reached the portrait hole, she stopped briefly, her thoughts a frantic flutter.

“I like him,” she thought, a quiet, painful pull in her heart.
“I like him more than I should.”

She knew he would turn away now, vanish into his shadows as always. But this time he had done something she would never forget:

He had carried her.
He had covered her.
He had watched over her.

And that knowledge alone made her heart race wildly.

“If he knew how much I admire him…” she thought, biting her lip, close to tears. “How much I value his intelligence, his discipline, the way he challenges me. How much I wish he would see me — truly see me — not just the ambitious Gryffindor.”

And then he disappeared.

“And I remain behind,” she thought, “once again full of questions, full of longing. But perhaps for now it is enough that he cared.”

Chapter Text

Hermione felt her body grow more and more tense during the hearing. Every sentence spoken in this stuffy room settled in her chest like a heavy stone. The men at the table struck her as cold-hearted bureaucrats who thought in rigid patterns, radiated authority outwardly and nurtured nothing but self-protection on the inside. The moment the verdict was announced, she felt hot blood rush into her temples. It felt as if her ribcage were becoming too tight. Her lungs worked faster, as though trying to brace themselves against a world that was ripping her apart piece by piece. The pressure in her head grew so intense that she thought she might have to scream just to keep from bursting apart inside.

She knew this verdict did not contain justice. Fudge had not made a decision that served the law. He had signed off on something politically convenient. These men had given the order to kill Buckbeak. She felt the anger in every fibre of her body. The heat of that anger burned through her like a fire that left no spark behind.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the papers she had prepared. So much work, so many nights filled with legal texts, witness statements and notes. She had arranged everything, checked each detail carefully, compiled every argument in a clear line. All that effort now lay in her fingers like worthless material. Fudge had barely glanced at it. The room had lost its colour for her in that moment. She heard voices, but everything felt muffled. The words of the committee drifted like empty shells above their heads.

Hermione did not feel her disappointment as tears or sobbing. The pain was silent and brutal. An inner tremor heavier than any crying. She had never felt powerless. Now she did.

As the hearing dissolved, she recognised Lucius Malfoy’s face in the background. That smug, arrogant sneer he barely bothered to hide. He looked at her as if she were an annoying obstacle. His gaze gleamed with a cold satisfaction that lodged itself deep inside her. As he passed, Draco—who accompanied his father—leaned down toward her ever so slightly. His mouth twisted, almost imperceptibly, but she saw it clearly, and the word struck her sharply enough to knock the breath from her lungs: Mudblood.

She felt a jolt run through her whole body. The heat of her anger shot upward again. Her first impulse was to straighten, square her shoulders, stand up to him. She was not the weakest person here. She was Hermione Granger. She had fought her way through tests others would have found unbearable. She had knowledge, courage, conviction. Yet in this moment, none of those things were available to her. Malfoy was not just a conceited boy. His father was a powerful wizard, one with influence, one who could steer decisions. That power stood like a wall between her and any reply she would have loved to fling at him.

She remained silent, even though her insides were on fire. The moment tasted bitter, burning in her throat. She pressed her documents tightly to herself, as though she could hold on to them while everything else slipped away.

Returning to Hagrid’s hut intensified the feeling of loss. The air smelled of wood smoke and animal feed, yet even this familiar mixture felt heavier than usual. Hagrid sat there, huge but collapsed. His skin was red and swollen, his eyes glassy, his hands fidgeting. The atmosphere in the hut settled over them like a blanket. His pain struck her more deeply than any verdict. He had tried, had done so with all his natural strength, had shown trust that was often greater than his caution.

Her anger remained hot, but it hardened into something solid, a resolve that anchored itself within her. She would not simply accept this. This fight was not over. This world needed to change. She would not stand by while injustice occurred.

Her gaze slid to Hagrid. His pain was immense, yet he trusted them. She knew this evening was not the end. Buckbeak would not be alone.

But there was also something positive: Ron experienced a small moment of happiness that afternoon, because Hagrid had found Scabbers again. Ron clung to his rat as though his entire peace of mind depended on that small, twitching body. Hermione felt a genuine sigh of relief because she was happy for him. She saw his shoulders relax a little, a trace of ease returning to his face, and murmured quietly, almost proudly because she had said it all along: “See? I told you. Crookshanks was innocent.”

Ron immediately looked at the floor, pressed Scabbers tightly to himself and muttered a guilty, barely understandable “Sorry… really, you were right from the start.” Hermione waved it off, because she no longer considered that argument important and because the day’s events had burdened them all enough already. “It’s fine, Ron,” she said more softly, so he would know she meant it. “What matters far more to me is that we’re friends again. We really have enough problems. We don’t need to make life harder for each other.”

Minutes passed slowly and wordlessly until a loud, sharp crack suddenly broke the silence. A water jug that had stood on the table exploded for no apparent reason into dozens of shards that scattered across the floor, leaving small wet spots behind. In the middle of the shards lay a small snail-shaped stone whose origin none of them could explain. Harry leaned forward to inspect it, but before they could deal with it, Hermione’s gaze drifted through the window outside.

There she saw Minister Fudge approaching the hut together with an executioner from the Ministry. In that moment Hermione felt a hard stab in her chest, a mixture of panic and clarity, because it was immediately obvious they should not have been there—no visitor, no student, no one.

Despite his sadness and broken expression, Hagrid instantly understood how serious the situation was. He stood at once and made a hurried hand gesture. “Off with yeh, all three of yeh!” he urged, his voice rough and rushed. “If they catch yeh here, there’ll be real trouble – an’ you most of all, Harry! Don’t yeh stay here a moment longer, d’yeh understand?”

Hermione felt her stomach clench, yet they knew they had no choice, especially for Harry’s sake. With a knot in their stomachs, they pulled Harry’s Invisibility Cloak over themselves, pressed in tightly beneath it and left the hut as quietly as possible. Each of them would have preferred to stay — with Hagrid, with Buckbeak, with the feeling of not simply walking away.

Up on the slope they stopped, well hidden in the tall grass. Their knees trembled at what was about to happen below. Their breaths came fast and uneven, and Hermione felt her heart contract painfully as she looked back down toward the hut.

She saw the executioner raise a heavy axe, and although she knew they could do nothing, she froze inside. The axe descended — a single swift, brutal movement, a metallic flash that felt like a final, cold and merciless end. Her throat tightened, and she felt as though her own body had to withstand the blow; nausea rose inside her.

But before she could process the moment, she heard a sudden sharp, uncontrolled scream beside her. It was Ron, so loud and shrill that Hermione flinched. She spun around just in time to see Ron wrench himself out from under the cloak.

He stumbled down the slope, half falling, half running, chasing after his rat, which had slipped from his hands.

“He bit me, Scabbers bit me!” Ron screamed, and the mixture of pain, anger and surprise in his voice was so clear Hermione did not even need to ask to understand.

Instinct drove Hermione. The moment Ron tumbled down the slope, she yanked Harry with her. Her legs began to move before she consciously thought about it. She heard Harry right beside her, his steps loud and heavy, his breathing fast and strained. The pace was fast, the ground uneven, and after only a few metres Hermione already felt her chest tighten.

From the corner of her eye she saw movement. Crookshanks emerged from the shadows. The cat did not run but moved calmly and steadily, tail slightly raised, completely unimpressed by the situation. Hermione felt again that gnawing unease she had carried for days. Crookshanks was behaving differently. That had started the evening Black had been at the castle and the cat had suddenly vanished from the dormitory.

She did not know what it meant, but one thing was clear: something was wrong.

A sound made her stop abruptly. A hard, dry crack somewhere behind them, as if someone—or something—had stepped on a branch. Hermione whirled around, her breath catching for a moment. Between the shadows of the trees she saw a dark movement. A black shape pushed forward, at first barely visible, then with a single swift leap fully into the light.

A large, massive dog burst forth. So suddenly that Hermione instinctively stepped back. The creature charged straight at Ron, and Hermione had no time even to speak. In the next instant the dog reached Ron. With a brutal jerk it grabbed him by the leg and pulled him down. Then Ron’s scream came, loud, panicked, utterly overwhelmed: “Help! Hermione! Harry! He’s got my leg! He’s dragging me!”

Hermione’s heart pounded so fast it almost hurt. “Ron, hold on, we’re coming!” she shouted back, her voice strained and much higher than usual. She and Harry ran without thinking.

The dog was already dragging Ron across the ground, its grip firm and relentless. Dirt and leaves whirled as Ron tried to grab hold of something. The dog pulled him straight toward the Whomping Willow. The tree reacted instantly, almost as though it had been waiting for movement: branches lashed wildly in all directions, striking the ground with dull thuds. The whole trunk vibrated as if the willow itself were enraged.

Hermione and Harry kept running, but the scene ahead grew more chaotic, more dangerous, more unpredictable with every step. Ron was being drawn closer and closer to the raging tree. She knew they did not have much time left.

Hermione shouted over the noise: “Harry, if it drags him in there, we won’t be able to follow!”

Harry gasped: “We have to try! Keep running!”

Hermione’s lungs were burning; she could barely breathe. The fear grew stronger the nearer they came to the tree. The willow lashed at anything that moved. Between the roots Hermione finally saw an opening. Her stomach clenched, because it was obvious Ron was being pulled inside. A thick branch swept past her head so close she had to duck. Another caught her face. The skin split. Blood ran warm down her cheek.

Harry shouted: “Hermione, get away from there, it’ll hit you again!”

Hermione shook her head sharply. “I know, but Ron needs us!”

More branches struck at them, hit their arms, grazed their legs, forced them off balance. Every movement of the willow seemed designed to keep intruders away. Hermione’s chest tightened as she searched desperately for a way through but saw none.

Then Crookshanks appeared again—much closer to the trunk this time. His red fur stood out clearly against the dark wood. The cat moved calmly and without hurry toward the tree, as if he had done this countless times. Hermione held her breath. A branch swung toward him but stopped abruptly, as if the tree recognised him.

Harry stared in disbelief. “Hermione, what’s he doing? That’s deadly!”

Hermione pressed her hand against her bleeding cheek. She did not answer. Her thoughts raced, but she voiced none of them. Crookshanks’ behaviour was too deliberate, too precise, and she sensed they would need the explanation later, though they had no time for it now.

The cat settled before a gnarled root, lifted his paw and placed it calmly on a very specific spot. The gesture was so precise Hermione instantly recognised that it triggered something. At that exact moment the willow fell still. No branch moved. The abrupt shift from furious motion to utter stillness felt unreal, and Hermione needed a moment to grasp what had happened.

“That can’t be real,” Harry panted. “How did he do that?”

“Later,” Hermione said tightly. “Ron comes first.”

They exchanged a glance, and without another word knew no second could be wasted.

“Go!” Harry shouted.

They hurled themselves forward. The branches remained still as they crawled under the trunk toward the dark opening in the ground. The entrance looked narrow and damp, and the earth crumbled beneath Hermione’s fingertips as she slid in first, carefully feeling her way down.

Harry jumped into the shaft behind her. The tunnel swallowed them at once, damp and musty, the floor slick from years of dripping water. The slope grew so steep they could barely keep their footing. Hermione’s hands groped at the uneven rock, but in the next moment she lost her grip. She stumbled, slammed into Harry, and they both slid a short distance before landing hard on the cold ground. Gasping, they pushed themselves upright, their limbs aching. With trembling fingers Hermione drew her wand, murmured “Lumos,” and a narrow beam of light pierced the darkness. It cast flickering reflections on the wet walls that enclosed them like a narrow throat.

Ahead stretched a cramped passage pressed into the earth, so low they had to stoop, so tight each step felt like pushing into a damp, claustrophobic space. The air was stale, the smell old and mouldy, as though no one had breathed there for years. From far away, no more than a muffled murmur, a voice reached her ear—so faint, so strange and yet familiar that Hermione stopped instantly. Her heart beat faster; her gaze shot to Harry, who had already moved ahead. But she had heard it. It was Ron.

“Hurry, Hermione!” Harry shouted, his voice hoarse and trembling with exertion. Hermione forced her legs to move, made her body obey, though every muscle strained against the pace. Her lungs already burned, yet she pushed herself and followed Harry as closely as she could, step by step deeper into the eerie passage that felt like the entrance to something that did not want to be entered.

With every metre the passage changed. The ceiling rose gradually, the pressure on their shoulders eased, and eventually they could stand upright again, though not without the unsettling feeling of being watched. The flickering wandlight cast dancing shadows on the wet walls, and an unsettling thought flickered through Hermione’s mind—that the shadows seemed to move, as though alive.

“I saw the path on the map,” Harry called over his shoulder without slowing. “It leads straight to the Shrieking Shack.” Hermione’s stomach clenched at the name, and before her mind fully grasped the implication, she already knew what it meant. The Shrieking Shack. The place everyone avoided. The place full of stories, rumours, fear. Her suspicion was confirmed as a thick wave of stale, dusty air swept over them, heavy and almost sticky, like the breath of a long-forgotten world.

They had arrived.

Dust lay like a grey veil over everything—floor, walls, remnants of broken furniture that might once have been belongings. The windows were boarded from outside; no light entered, and what their wands illuminated looked only more ominous for it. In the dust were tracks—fresh, dragging imprints clearly leading toward the creaking wooden staircase.

They exchanged a silent look. Hermione felt the tension in her stomach tighten. Wordlessly they continued forward, climbing the creaking steps carefully, each tread a nearly unbearable crack in the oppressive silence.

Harry leaned slightly toward her, his voice barely a whisper. “Ready?” Hermione nodded once, short and determined. Together they placed their hands on the doorknob; she felt the cold metal under her fingers. They opened the door slowly, almost soundlessly, inch by inch, without knowing what awaited them, only certain it was dangerous.

In the room they saw Ron. He was pale, sweaty and trembling, collapsed on a threadbare bed that looked ready to collapse under him. His hands clutched the dusty blanket, his eyes wide, filled with panic and relief at the same time as he recognised them.

“Run! It’s a trap!” he shouted, so loudly Hermione felt it in her bones.

Before she could understand, the door slammed shut behind them—hard and final. She turned sharply. From the dim light emerged a figure that sent a chill down her spine: Sirius Black. He was tall, gaunt, unkempt, with a hollow face and dark, unsettling eyes.

Hermione raised her wand automatically, standing beside Harry, her fingers slick with sweat. But Black only lifted his hand and said in a raspy voice, “Expelliarmus.”

A powerful spell swept through the room. Their wands were yanked from their hands and flung against the wall as though they meant nothing.

Hermione’s heart raced, pounding up into her throat. For a moment she felt frozen. Almost automatically her hand reached for the small pendant at her neck—the Protego Duo. She felt the familiar cold surface under her fingers, and a shiver ran down her spine because she knew exactly what that contact meant. The stone reacted to fear. It called to him. To Professor Snape.

The mere thought made her heart beat faster. She did not mean to summon him, yet her fingers clenched around the metal before she could think. The faint echo of that silent plea vibrated between her skin and the stone—a wordless cry for help released as she stood unarmed before Black.

Harry reacted completely differently. He screamed with rage, lunged at Black and grabbed him. Hermione followed without thinking, and together they forced Black to the floor—Harry with raw force, Hermione with trembling hands and taut concentration.

But amid the struggle, Hermione suddenly realised something was wrong. Black barely resisted. He did not even try to free himself. He could likely have thrown them off easily, even weakened. Still he stayed on the floor, without counterattack, without resistance.

Harry’s voice cracked with fury, words spilling out in an uncontrolled burst: “You killed my parents! You’ll pay for it!”

Black barely moved. His chest rose and fell quickly, as though every breath cost effort. There was no arrogance in his expression, no anger. Instead he looked exhausted, drained and utterly spent. His eyes did not resemble those of an attacker but of a man who had been on the run too long and had no fight left in him.

Hermione jerked when Crookshanks suddenly appeared, though she had not seen where he came from. The cat leapt onto Sirius’s chest without hesitation and settled there as if it were the most natural place in the world. Hermione gasped, baffled why her usually picky cat would choose this man, why he felt safe with him. But she had no time to pursue the thought, because the door opened again.

Professor Lupin entered, wand raised, his face serious and tense. For a moment Hermione hoped the situation might ease. But a new surge of suspicion struck her hard, because Lupin’s gaze at Sirius was not hostile—it was familiar, as though he had known him for years. She counted the pieces.

She felt her tension spike and called out, wandless but with iron in her voice: “I knew it! You’re his friend! And I know you’re a werewolf! And now it’s obvious—you brought Black into the castle. You let him in so he could kill Harry!”

Lupin examined her carefully, without aggression, his expression calm and steady, and his voice surprisingly gentle as he answered, “You are very clever, Hermione Granger, cleverer than many your age, but in this case you are wrong.”

“No, I am not!” Hermione shot back immediately, her throat tight with tension because everything seemed to fit. “You stood on his side all along. It’s the only explanation!”

Lupin took a steady breath and spoke clearly and plainly. “I did not help Sirius at all. Yes, I am a werewolf. That is true. But I take the Wolfsbane Potion regularly, and during my transformation I retain my mind. Professor Snape brews it for me. Without him, this would not be possible.” He looked at Harry, then Hermione, his gaze firm but not threatening. “I am not here to betray you. I am here because you need to know the truth.”

With a controlled movement he summoned their wands and returned them, raising his hand to stop Harry from charging Sirius again. “Listen to me,” Lupin said, serious and insistent, “that is all I ask for now. Listen, and then decide how you wish to act.”

From the shadows Sirius lifted his head with effort, his voice rough and cracked yet surprisingly clear. “Crookshanks helped me,” he managed, while the cat settled his weight on his chest again. “He recognised me. That clever cat… he led me to you.”

Hermione stared, momentarily speechless—because she knew Crookshanks rarely tolerated anyone, let alone trusted them. Her heart beat hard and unsteady, her mistrust still strong, yet the familiar grip of her wand gave her at least enough steadiness to remain standing; she cast Harry a quick sideways look and shook her head slightly to show him to wait until Lupin had finished speaking before acting again.

Severus listened intently, hidden beneath Potter’s cloak, while Lupin spoke. He absorbed each syllable with careful suspicion, ready to detect any flaw. His gaze drifted to Hermione. She stood slightly apart, breathing quickly. Red welts marked her face—likely from that damned tree—but otherwise she seemed unharmed.

In his robe pocket he felt the Protego Duo still pulsing faintly. Hermione had reached for him. For a moment his chest tightened. He wanted to respond. He wanted to stand before her. He wanted to protect her. But he could not do so in his human form. She could not know he was her counterpart. Not yet.

Hermione felt the room thicken around her as Lupin took a deep breath. The air grew heavier, denser, as though the room itself held its breath. She saw his eyes find Harry first, then her, then Ron curled on the bed clutching the blanket as though he feared falling through it. Something in Lupin’s posture revealed that he gathered himself before speaking, and even before the first word fell, Hermione sensed with a constriction in her chest that something was coming—something that could shift their world irrevocably.

“You three must listen to me. This is about Peter Pettigrew.”

The name struck her like a gentle blow, puzzling, out of place—a sound from a past that should have remained closed. Pettigrew. A name from stories, tragic accounts, a shadow of earlier days. Harry reacted instantly, impulsively, full of anger and certainty he had carried like armour since childhood. Pettigrew was dead. Black had killed him. Everyone knew it. Everyone.

But Lupin contradicted him—calm, almost sorrowful, as though each word pained him—and when he said Pettigrew had been alive all these years, Hermione felt something tighten inside her. A feeling between distrust and the premonition that a door was opening onto things one did not wish to see uninvited. Her heart sped up, unsteady, as she listened in silence.

The words fell into the room like heavy drops: He lives. He was here. He hid.

Hermione’s thoughts stumbled down this new path, searching desperately for footing among old information that suddenly felt brittle beneath her. Pettigrew, believed dead. Pettigrew, the victim. Pettigrew, the small frightened friend of Harry’s parents. And now Lupin claimed he was an Animagus—a rat. A rat. Right under their eyes, in their hands, in Ron’s bed.

Her gaze flicked automatically to Ron, who clutched Scabbers as though the creature were the only stable thing left to him. Hermione’s breath caught as Lupin explained how Pettigrew had left only a finger behind. How Scabbers had a missing claw. How the stories she had heard since childhood began to crack, fine and sharp as splintered glass.

Her knees weakened. Not from fear—but from the shattering realisation of what it meant. If Pettigrew lived, Sirius Black was no murderer. He had betrayed no one. He had spent twelve years in Azkaban, innocent, forgotten, despised, and no one had believed him. No one had even tried to hear him.

Her mouth went dry. Her fingers tightened around her wand as though it anchored her to reality before it slipped away.

If this is true… if this is truly true… then it means…

Harry’s parents. The betrayal. The foundation of his entire childhood. Everything he had believed.

And above all of it, a single quiet breathless truth pushing through the darkness:'He has a godfather. He has family. He is not alone.'

Hermione felt heat sting behind her eyes, though she had no reason to cry. But that thought reached for her, spread through her warm and aching at once—that Harry, who had been so often lost, so often without support, might have had someone who loved him before everything shattered. Someone who had come back not to run but to find him.

She heard Ron scream, heard the desperate thrashing of the rat in his hands, yet the sounds reached her muffled, like through a veil. Her mind was too full—too full—of possibilities, of images she had never imagined and that now assembled themselves unavoidably.

The truth Lupin told—piece by piece—formed into a picture that could not be wiped away. She saw James, Sirius, Lupin, Pettigrew—the Marauders, together. Brothers. Friends. Animagi running through the woods. Harry’s father as a stag, Sirius as a dog, Pettigrew as a rat. Lupin the werewolf, not alone, carried by friends who did not fear him.

And then the betrayal. Not by the man feared for twelve years. Not by the man believed a monster. But by the one who hid—small and harmless—right before them, in the shadow of their daily lives.

Something cold crept up Hermione’s spine, a shiver of outrage, disbelief, and a deep, piercing pain that had nothing to do with her but with the suffering of a man who had never been given a chance to speak the truth. If Lupin was right, then… then the wrong person had suffered. Then everything the wizarding world believed was a lie. Then no one had come to save Sirius Black, though he was innocent. No one had stood by him. No one had defended him. No one had believed him.

She felt pain in her chest, hot and burning, because she understood how unimaginably cruel that must have been.

Ron still refused to let go of Scabbers. His face was twisted, his hands rigid, as though someone were wrenching out his heart. Hermione’s gaze rested on him for a moment, and she felt pity—genuine, aching pity—because if all this were true, Ron had to accept that his pet was no pet. That he had carried the betrayer of his friends for years in his pocket and in his bed.

Lupin’s voice cut through the heavy fog of thought. It was firm, urgent, weighted, as he stepped closer and said:

“Give him to me, Ron. Let me prove it. Let us show Pettigrew his true form.”

Hermione inhaled sharply as though someone had compressed her lungs and thought, 'If he is right… if this is real… then everything we believed about Black will collapse.'

Severus had heard enough. Beneath Potter’s cloak his body tensed as Lupin’s words echoed in his mind. Pettigrew lives. Black is innocent.

The thought struck like a blow. Sirius Black—the smug, loud-mouthed, arrogant mutt who had mocked, humiliated and hunted him for years. Black, whose mere existence made Severus’s blood boil. Black, who had never taken responsibility for anything yet preened like a hero.

He was not a murderer? Not a traitor? It tasted more bitter than any poison Severus had brewed.

Black might have been many things—a bully, a fool, an overrated schoolyard brute—but betrayal belonged to a different breed of filth. A breed far more suited to a man like Pettigrew.

Severus’s eyes narrowed. His heart pounded against his ribs. If Lupin was right, then part of his hatred rested on sand.

He hated that thought. He hated it almost as much as he hated Black. He would find out whether it was true. And if it was… he would have to live with the idea that the mutt might be less guilty than assumed. A repulsive thought.

Then it came—the faint but unmistakably familiar tremor in the air. A breath of wind like a cold hand sweeping along Hermione’s neck, accompanied by that dark, heavy scent of smoke, herbs and sandalwood that made her heart beat faster every time. 'He is here, he came' , pounded through her mind, and in the same moment a heavy cloak fell to the floor with a single, almost disdainful movement.

The Invisibility Cloak flickered in the light before lying motionless in the dust. Above it rose the tall figure of Professor Snape, black, grim, with a presence that claimed the entire room.

For a heartbeat Hermione felt her throat close, felt herself instinctively recoil because he appeared so powerful, so unreachable she barely dared breathe. His cloak swept with every movement, the wand in his hand raised with effortless precision. His face was rigid, his eyes cold and piercing as he strode toward Lupin with swift, purposeful steps. In that moment nothing remained of the man who had patiently guided her in brewing. No secret flicker of understanding or gentleness.

Hermione flinched, her pulse racing, and the only thought echoing inside her was: 'Everything is going to explode now.'

Chapter Text

Only moments earlier, Severus had taken the Wolfsbane Potion in hand and made his way to Lupin’s office. He did not find the man there, but on the desk he discovered a piece of parchment he recognized at once. Potter’s map, which he should have confiscated long ago, yet had somehow ended up in Lupin’s possession. With grinding teeth he studied the lines upon it; he deciphered the delicate mesh of corridors and rooms and followed the names upon it. One after the other, until he saw himself marked in the office while Lupin’s name at the same time left the corridor and wandered toward the castle exit. And then there were the three Gryffindor names, there, where they absolutely should not have been. Severus felt anger rise within him like a maelstrom, hot and annihilating.

“Of course. Potter, Weasley and… Hermione.” The name burned in his head, and the thought tasted bitter. “I should have expected the three of them to get themselves into trouble again.” His grip around the map tightened, his knuckles turning pale as he fixed his eyes on the paths. And there was a name that shook him most of all. “And Black right among them. What brilliant idiocy.”

Everything suddenly made sense, and yet it did not feel reassuring. It was a hot, irritated flare in his chest, a mixture of anger and something else he did not wish to name. Hermione. He had thought her smarter. Someone who would not blindly follow criminals, least of all in the middle of the night, without support, without protection.

“I will deal with her,” he thought darkly as he pressed the map tightly against himself and hurried in long strides toward the Whomping Willow. His anger belonged to Potter, his anger belonged to Weasley; they were an endless source of headaches. Yet with Hermione it was different. He felt the worry inside him, sharp as a blade driven deep.

“What was she thinking?” it growled inside him. “She should possess more sense. She should know how dangerous this is.” The thought that something might happen to her made his steps faster, harder, shorter.

He left everything behind and rushed at full speed toward the Whomping Willow, his steps hard, purposeful, almost soundless despite the pace, because every muscle in him knew that every second might count. Yet when he reached the edge of the grove, he found nothing. No one. Only the cursed tree, which now stood motionless, as if it had long since retreated into innocent silence.

In that moment something vibrated against his chest. First faintly, then so unmistakably that Severus involuntarily held his breath. The partner stone. It reacted only when she had touched the Protego Duo. A sharp, unexpected pain shot through him, so fierce his knees gave way for a heartbeat. Yet he forced himself back at once into that rigid control that had carried him through his life. His face became the hard, inaccessible mask no one could decipher.

“She is calling for me,” he thought, and the thought cut deeper than any wound. “And I may not show her.”

His gaze swept over the ground, and there he saw it: a heavy cloth rising and falling faintly in the wind. Potter’s invisibility cloak. Severus’s eyes narrowed; an expression of cold, cutting contempt flickered across his face. “Of course,” he murmured, this time without patience and without the slightest surprise, and immediately crouched to descend into the passage, as if it were a place he had expected to enter for years.

The tunnel was damp, cold and so narrow that his robe brushed constantly against the walls, yet he moved with the smooth certainty of a man who was at home in such darkness. His cloak rustled softly behind him, almost like wings beating, and every step betrayed the purposeful, concentrated coldness that had accompanied him since youth. The further he went, the clearer voices reached him. Muffled, overlapping, yet distinct enough for him to know at once with whom he was dealing. Words that stirred his long suppressed anger like glowing coals settled heavily in his stomach.

He slipped through the gap in the door, silent beneath Harry’s cloak, and no one in the room noticed his presence. He stood suddenly among them, without a breath changing. His first glance belonged to Hermione. She was breathing quickly, shocked but uninjured, save for a few abrasions on her face that came unmistakably from the tree. A brief, barely perceptible pull of relief went through him before he shut down again completely.

Potter stood close beside her, also unharmed and out of breath. Weasley was alive, pale, trembling and with a leg injury. Severus’s eyes moved on, sharper, more focused—and stopped at two figures that made his blood heat instantly. Lupin. And Sirius Black. The mutt. The man he had despised for decades.

Severus froze for a heartbeat, invisible, the children right before him, the two men only steps away. Everything he needed to hear, he had heard. More than enough.

He straightened, pulled the invisibility cloak from his shoulders with one single controlled motion and let it fall to the floor. The sounds in the room ceased at once. The children’s eyes widened, Lupin and Black turned to stone.

Severus stepped forward, slow, determined, his gaze so cold that even the air seemed sharper.

“At last I have caught you red-handed, Lupin, and it will be my distinct pleasure to hand you and Black over to the Aurors myself,” Severus said, his voice trembling with pure rage. His eyes cut through the room like black glass. He was beside himself, and his heart pounded faster than he remembered.

He wanted to hear no explanations, no justifications, nothing that contradicted his conviction. With a short, commanding movement of his wand, he bound Lupin and Black. Invisible cords drove both to the ground, and Severus felt a hard, cold satisfaction rise in his chest, especially as Black struggled uselessly against the binding.

Lupin still tried, his voice calm. “Severus, listen. I’ll come with you willingly. Bring me back—but take Ron’s rat as well. You must believe me…”

Severus only laughed quietly, bitterly. “The Dementors await you, Lupin. And your friend will stand right beside you. I will see to it personally.” His gaze struck Black like a blow; pure disgust lay in it.

“Professor Snape, please…” Hermione began hesitantly, but he cut her off with a sharp look and an icy voice. “Not now, Miss Granger. We will speak later.”

In the next moment chaos erupted. Potter and Weasley, whose movements he noticed only from the corner of his eye, exchanged a silent glance, Hermione stood frozen between them—and then there were light flashes, blinding, unstoppable. Pain shot through him, the world tilted, and everything around him dissolved into darkness.

“Are you insane? You hurt him!” Hermione screamed, her voice full of desperation as she rushed forward. But Ron held her back, gripping her arm roughly. Amid shards and dust lay Professor Snape, unconscious, the double spell having hurled him like a doll against the wall. Blood marked a streak where his head had struck. Hermione screamed and fought Ron’s hold because she wanted to reach him, touch him, pull him back.

But now Sirius Black stepped forward, his voice rough, deep and shaped by years in Azkaban as he spoke. “I recognized Pettigrew, months ago, in the newspaper. It was a picture of Ron’s family in Egypt, and there, on Ron’s shoulder, he sat—the same man who betrayed us all, only no longer human but a rat.”

Sirius Black’s voice droned somewhere in the background, rough and strained, Harry asked questions, Lupin spoke, yet for Hermione all these words slid past her like water against glass, because nothing of what the men were discussing reached her consciousness, which refused again and again to detach from the one figure lying motionless on the floor.

Her gaze returned to Professor Snape again and again, as though something unseen bound her to him; she saw how his chest rose and fell only faintly, how the blood oozed at his head, how unnaturally pale his face appeared. A pressure rose in her throat, threatening to suffocate her, as she wondered whether he noticed what was happening around him or whether he drifted even deeper into unconsciousness.

The men’s argument grew louder, Pettigrew whimpered, yet Hermione heard it all as if muted, as though a spell had settled on her ears, separating her from everything except the one quiet, persistent thought circling in her mind like a mantra.

‘Please wake up, Professor Snape… please, please wake up,’ she thought desperately, her fingers trembling because she did not know whether she was allowed to move toward him or whether she would harm him by doing so, and because she felt she could hardly bear standing by helplessly any longer.

She heard Lupin say something about Pettigrew, heard Black snort, yet all these noises faded as her heart beat once, twice hard against her ribs, as though afraid to miss another beat.

‘Please wake up, Professor Snape,’ she begged in her mind once more, this time with an intensity that frightened her, because she felt how deeply she needed his presence, how much she did not want to see him like this—defenseless, lifeless, vulnerable.

“I must go to him,” raced through her head, “I cannot simply stand here while he lies there.” Without regard for Ron’s hand gripping her shoulder, she tore herself free, knelt beside her professor and felt her chest tighten painfully as her eyes traced the dark streak of blood on the wall, revealing the force with which he had hit. Her fingers trembled as she gently brushed his cheek, the unnaturally pale skin that still radiated a faint, calming warmth—just enough to let her hope. “Professor Snape… please hear me… I am so sorry,” she whispered, her voice little more than a thin thread in the stale air. As she spoke, she brushed shards and dust from him, helpless though it was, determined not to leave him lying there.

His breathing was shallow yet steady, and Hermione clung to that, as though it were the only light in the darkness. “He is hurt, but he is alive. He will wake, I know he will,” she told herself over and over, like a mantra that strengthened her as tears stung her eyes.

“Come on, girl, get away from him, he’ll be fine, it’s only old Snivellus,” Sirius’s voice rang through the room, full of bitterness and mockery, and Hermione spun toward him, her eyes blazing with indignation, her gaze so sharp it could have cut. She said with a vehemence that startled even herself: “How can you say that?”

Instead of focusing on Black, she bent closer over her teacher, her fingers gliding through his messy hair, which was matted with dust, and she whispered softly, almost imploringly: “Please wake up… please, Professor.” Her heart pounded so violently she believed he must feel it, and while Harry tugged at her arm and eventually forced her to retreat a few steps, she did not look away from Severus, not for a second.

Then Lupin stepped closer, his face marked by pain and inner conflict, and he said hoarsely, “We will not leave him here, Hermione. He comes with us.” With a slight movement of his wand he performed the Levicorpus spell, and Professor Snape lifted from the floor, floating motionlessly behind them, his head tilted slightly as if merely asleep. Hermione instantly moved to his side, her gaze fixed on him as they walked down the creaking corridor and back into the tunnel.

The walls were damp, the air stale, and the passage sloped steeply downward. A rocky ledge jutted out dangerously at head height, and Hermione’s heart skipped as she saw he was drifting directly toward it. Without thinking she lunged sideways, wedged her hand between stone and his head, absorbing the impact. Sharp pain shot through her fingers, yet she exhaled in relief when she saw he remained unharmed. “It does not matter if it hurts,” she thought, “as long as he takes no further damage.”

With her heart hammering, she stayed close to him, her eyes repeatedly checking his face as the group made their way step by step through the tunnel back toward the exit, one thought echoing endlessly inside her: “He will wake. He must.”

They had barely left the low tunnel exit when the silence was torn apart by a sound so raw and uncanny it echoed across the grounds. Hermione stopped abruptly as she felt her blood turn cold. A deep growling, a scraping, and finally a hoarse, piercing howl reached them, as if the darkness itself intended to show what lurked within it.

The sound was not human, not in the slightest, and although Hermione had heard such things only in theoretical descriptions in her books, she recognized at once what it meant. It belonged to a creature that had lost all control and succumbed fully to the transformation Professor Lupin had feared—and which had now unfolded without mercy.

She knew before anyone spoke a word:
Lupin’s illness had struck.

“Damn,” she heard Sirius growl behind her, his voice so rough it barely resembled speech, “he did not take the potion.” He sounded desperate and full of guilt as he hastened his steps. He called for the children to move faster. Hermione felt her heart speeding up, her hands trembling harder as she realized they were approaching not just any beast, but a fully transformed werewolf without reason or restraint.

The night air hit her, sharp and cold, not freeing in the least, for before they could fully straighten the next bone-rattling howl crashed over them. The moon, silver and merciless, hung in the sky. In its light the werewolf’s form emerged—tall, gaunt, its yellow eyes glowing, its jaws wide. Hermione inhaled sharply, her wand trembling in her hand, yet she knew none of the spells she mastered would be enough to stop him.

Beside her Sirius let out a roar, no longer the voice of a man but the deep barking of a massive black dog who hurled himself in front of them and sprang at the werewolf with bared teeth. The two creatures collided, claws and fangs flashing in the moonlight, the crash of their bodies echoing across the ground as they tangled in fierce combat.

Harry shouted. Hermione heard everything only faintly as she knelt down beside Professor Snape, who now lay motionless in the soft, damp moss before the Whomping Willow. The levitation spell Lupin had cast had dissolved with his transformation, and his body seemed heavier and more vulnerable than before, tightening Hermione’s chest as she looked at the pale line of his cheek. ‘Please wake up, Professor Snape. Please, we need help,’ she thought as her fingers trembled while she touched him gently, just to be sure he still breathed.

Another howl tore across the grounds, rough and piercing. Hermione flinched because the sound made their danger unmistakably clear, yet she did not move from Professor Snape’s side. She bent instinctively over him, as if her small body could shield him from something far too powerful. Harry called her name, Ron stood at the edge of the knoll with panic in his eyes, yet Hermione remained. ‘I will not leave. I will not leave him. I will protect him,’ she thought, her heart pounding so hard she felt dizzy.

The werewolf appeared before them in the moonlight—tall, with glowing eyes and bared teeth—and his presence sent a wave of cold through Hermione’s body, yet she did not move, she stayed beside her professor. Then Sirius in his dog form hurled himself between them and the monster again, a furious black mass absorbing the attack. The impact shook the grounds while the two beasts snarled and grappled.

At that moment Harry grabbed her sleeve, yanked her, rough and desperate, and Ron too reached for her, pulling her backward. Hermione resisted, because she could not tear her eyes from Professor Snape lying motionless in the moss, so unprotected it almost stole her breath.

Harry pulled harder, both hands gripping Hermione’s arms, rough with fear, because he knew how close the attack had been. Hermione braced herself against the force dragging her away, her eyes fixed on Professor Snape’s still form.

The werewolf broke free again, Sirius leapt after him, and the fight raged only meters away with a brutality that left no space for mistakes. Harry’s grip on Hermione tightened, Ron shouted her name, urging her to move. Each step Harry forced her to take felt like a betrayal because she left Professor Snape behind, helpless and unconscious in the moss. ‘Please hold on, Professor Snape. Please stay with me,’ she thought as Harry dragged her down the slope, away from the Whomping Willow, away from the fight, away from the man she wanted to protect.

The distance grew, moonlight flickered through the branches, and Hermione’s chest burned because she lost sight of Professor Snape while understanding that she would have died instantly had she stayed. The werewolf was too fast, too strong, too close. Harry and Ron pulled her further, step by step, while she inwardly counted every meter that separated her from him. ‘Please wake up. Please do not leave me,’ flickered inside her as she stumbled on, the cold shock of fear stealing her breath.

Then suddenly another howl rose, louder and deeper, from the direction of the forest. Lupin’s wolf form tore free from Sirius with raw, sudden force, as though the call had seized him and ripped every thought from him. His body swung sharply and in the next heartbeat he vanished with long, loping strides into the trees until only the rustling of bushes remained. Silence followed—heavy, oppressive—broken only by the ragged, uneven breathing of the black dog and the pounding of Hermione’s own heart.

Harry straightened faster than she did, his eyes sharp and determined, his voice pressed and urgent. “We have to follow him. Ron, go back and stay with Professor Snape!” The black dog pushed himself forward, staggering but determined, and Harry seized Hermione’s sleeve because she barely understood where to go. Harry dragged her with him as she stumbled over rough ground. Grass brushed their legs, cold wind cut her cheeks, and the pale moon hung above them, as if witnessing something unbearable. Hermione thought only: ‘Please hold on, Professor Snape. Please. I need you.’

The dog slowed, each step losing force, until he collapsed at the lake shore as if his last strength had left him. In the next moment his fur twisted, shrank, distorted, and Sirius Black lay there—pale, emaciated, exhausted—his chest rising heavily, unevenly, as if each breath fought for its place.

Harry dropped to his knees beside him, searching for a pulse with trembling fingers, and Hermione sank down as well because her legs could no longer carry her. Her breath burned in her throat, and amid all the fear, chaos and exhaustion a tiny spark of relief stirred in her.

But that spark died the instant the air changed. It was not the normal cold of night, not a mere wind passing across the lake; it was something heavy, dense, settling on her skin and sinking into her. Frost crept over the grass as though invisible fingers had laid it out, leaves cracked, and Hermione’s breath turned to thick white plumes. Her heart clenched painfully as an unseen pressure wrapped around her chest.

“Dementors…” she whispered, barely audible because her throat tightened.

The rattling sound that accompanied these creatures drew nearer—a sound that weakened her knees, a sound that reminded her of her helplessness. The black figures glided closer, floating in a wide, terrible wave that swallowed the horizon. Hermione’s fingers cramped around her wand, yet it felt heavy, strange, like a useless piece of metal, and she knew she could not produce a Patronus. Beside her, Harry lifted his wand higher, though his hand trembled, and he shouted the spell with a desperation that chilled her to the bone:

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

A blast of light shot forth—pale, unstable, flickering—and darkness swallowed it instantly, as if it had waited for this moment. Harry’s arm dropped, his breath faltered, his strength was gone, and the Dementors came closer, so close Hermione felt the icy pull tearing at her core, bringing tears to her eyes.

In that moment something inside her broke. Not loud, not visible, but deep and painful as the Dementors drew out everything that had ever sustained her. Images surged within her, chaotic and brutally clear. She saw her parents—warm, proud, smiling—yet the picture instantly darkened, wiped away as though torn from her mind. She saw Harry and Ron falling, their screams lost in nothingness, and her heart clenched painfully with fear. The cold dug deeper, and the thought of losing them all struck her with such force she could barely breathe. Another image forced itself forward, stronger than the rest: Professor Snape, injured in the moss, his chest rising faintly, so still he seemed ready to vanish any moment—and something in her screamed with panic.

‘I am losing them. I am losing him. I can do nothing,’ she thought, the despair constricting her throat.

Her legs gave out, her body sank heavily to the ground, and she felt how the cold drained every last bit of warmth from her, as if something invisible stripped her layer after layer of everything that had protected her. The world lost color, first at the edges of her vision, then everywhere, gray veils settling over all that had once mattered, her memories dissolving—first brittle, then like torn scraps of paper carried off by the wind. The hiss of her own breath sounded foreign, thin, almost suffocated, and the Dementors’ rattling filled her head as though it came from within.

Her head grew heavy, too heavy to lift, her muscles no longer obeyed her, and a dull ache spread across her chest—a feeling telling her she was about to lose everything. Darkness pressed in from all sides, pulling at her, reaching for her, demanding her, and she felt her thoughts weaken, grow quieter, unsure.

Yet one single point remained.

A tiny light amid the darkness, small yet stronger than everything resisting the cold. Professor Snape. His face—pale and injured in the moss. His presence, which she felt despite everything. His name, anchoring itself in her. This image did not dissolve; it remained, even as the world around her crumbled. She clung to it—desperately, almost childishly—because nothing else within her remained to sustain her.

‘Professor Snape… please…’ she thought, not clearly, not fully, yet with such intensity it spread like a spark inside her.

It was the last point of light that reached her.

Then she saw it.

A light. Sharp, silver, like a blade cutting through darkness.

Right beside her, a figure rose—first a core of light, then a body of pure silver, not blurred or flickering like Harry’s spell but sharply defined, as if darkness itself had made room for it. A raven, large and powerful, its contours smooth like metal, its feathers shimmering with cold brilliance. Its head tilted slightly, as if observing her. Its eyes glowed like two small silver sparks—calm, protective, alert—and Hermione felt a faint current of air as it stepped closer, so near she believed the tips of its wings brushed her shoulder.

The raven stretched its silver wings, slow and wide, the movement so steady and certain that amid her panic she could only stare. The spread wings formed a shield, wide enough to cover her completely, and where the silver touched the ground, frost receded as if the darkness could not withstand such brilliance. The Dementors’ pressure weakened—not vanishing, yet forced back—and the cold gripping her chest loosened enough for her to draw a breath.

Hermione looked at the raven, her vision blurring with tears and fading consciousness, and yet she felt something inside her calm, because this silver bird not only promised protection; it touched something within her she could not name. The raven lowered its head further, almost as if bowing toward her, as if acknowledging her, as if saying she was not alone.

A tremor went through her, the cold returned, stronger yet blocked by the silver light that kept the worst at bay. Her lips trembled; she tried to speak, though she doubted any sound would form. Still, a word shaped itself—soft, broken, full of fear and hope all at once: “Professor…”

Then everything went black.

Chapter Text

"This damned trio," Severus continued in his thoughts as he stood rigidly in Dumbledore's office. His gaze was fixed on the glittering instruments along the walls, pulsing in shimmering colors. As if even the room itself were judging him.

His head still throbbed from the outrageous attack that Potter, Weasley, and Hermione—especially her—had launched at him. She had taken part, and that wounded him more deeply than any curse could ever have done. How had she dared to raise her wand against him? And at the same time the thought gnawed at him that she had been caught between all fronts on this cursed night. That she could have been injured or suffered worse, and he knew he would never have forgiven himself.

In his mind, the events of the past hours overlapped into a single flickering image of chaos, moonlight, and treacherous shadows. Sirius Black—gone. The hippogriff—gone as well. Pettigrew—alive, not killed, not extinguished, but escaped like the slimy worm he was, somewhere out there, while Black now slipped through the darkness as an innocent man on the run. The realization that Pettigrew had been the true traitor gnawed at him like acid, for it called everything into question that he had believed for so many years. He felt his anger shifting; it did not grow weaker, only sharper, more focused. Black remained, in his eyes, a man he despised from the depths of his soul—someone who carried too much blood, too many memories in him to erase with a single "innocent," even if the facts now told a different story.

"You are thinking of all of them, aren’t you, Severus?" Dumbledore’s calm voice interrupted his thoughts, and Severus’ gaze detached itself from the instruments and slid briefly to the Headmaster before turning away again. "Black, Pettigrew, the hippogriff… and that which was unmistakable across the lake tonight," Dumbledore added softly.

"I am thinking that a wrongly convicted murderer must continue to live as a murderer, is now in hiding, and that an entire gaggle of incompetent Ministry officials understands nothing of any of this," Severus replied in a flat voice dripping with venom. "I am thinking that the man whom everyone believed to be the traitor turned out to be something else entirely, while the true traitor lives somewhere and laughs. That is the kind of justice we get to celebrate today."

He curled his mouth in the faintest of grimaces. "And we both know the Ministry will never believe us if we claim Sirius Black is innocent."

"They will not," Dumbledore said quietly. "They see only what they want to see." He raised his gaze a little and fell silent for a moment, his blue eyes tired, almost translucent in the flickering light. "It means that old shadows are stirring," he finally said, "that lies which lasted long enough eventually begin to fracture. You know as well as I do what that means."

Severus’ jaw tightened as he lifted his gaze again. "He will return," he stated tonelessly—without drama, without gesture. "The signs grow stronger, Albus. Tonight, Pettigrew’s escape, the unrest everywhere. It will not remain rumors forever. The Dark Lord is already gathering what belongs to him."

"I am of the same opinion," Dumbledore answered calmly, with that unshakeable certainty that soothed and irritated Severus in equal measure. "The question is not whether he returns. The question is when and how. The earlier we keep our eyes open, the better prepared we will be. I need you, Severus. More than ever. You know his ways. His signs. His mind."

Severus exhaled slowly, the sound almost a low growl. "You expect me to descend deeper into that muck again," he observed—not as an accusation, but as a sober description of reality. "I will keep my eyes open. Mine. And yours. In that order."

A barely perceptible smile tugged at Dumbledore’s mouth. "I trust you," he replied simply—without embellishment, without the light jokes he often used as a mask. "You will see what others overlook. You will hear what others ignore. You were his right hand. Now you are our sharpest blade."

Severus’ lips twisted into something not quite a smile, yet close to one—only in a much darker form. "Then I hope your blade has not dulled, Headmaster," he said quietly, "for when he returns, no one will be able to claim they did not see it coming."

Dumbledore, seated behind his desk and regarding him with that unshakable, almost gentle gaze, lifted a hand as if to soothe the sharpness of Severus’ thoughts. The old man spoke with a calm, even voice. "Do not blame yourself so much for what happened today, my boy."

Severus pressed his lips together, his fingers clenching in the fabric of his cloak. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper—so soft the old man had to lean forward to catch the words. "What would I be without her, Albus? What would I be without that girl? She is the only reason I still carry a spark of hope within me."

The memory cut sharply into his consciousness—how he had found Black, Potter, and Hermione unconscious at the lakeshore. How he himself had staggered from unconsciousness only moments earlier, the screams ringing in his ears, the pulsing sensation of the Protego Duo that led him unmistakably to her. He had run faster than his legs should have carried him. He had felt the cold of the Dementors and sent his Patronus to her. He had been startled when suddenly a raven emerged—not the familiar form of a doe.

But his thoughts had not gone far, for he had scarcely believed what he saw: a colossal beam of light illuminating the sky—a Patronus, enormous, brilliant, the shape of a stag, so powerful it scattered hundreds of Dementors like wilted leaves in a storm.

Severus’ voice grew rough as he stared at the dark windowpane, the Headmaster’s silhouette reflected in it. "Do you know who it was, Albus? Who conjured that Patronus?"

The old wizard shook his head slowly, with emphasis. The silver of his beard glinted in the flickering candlelight. "Whoever it was, Severus, he was well-disposed toward the three of them, and he was immensely powerful. I myself would very much like to know who could produce a Patronus of such strength—one that drives away an entire swarm of Dementors." He paused before adding, "How is your girl?"

Severus whirled around, his eyes flashing coldly, and he almost snarled, "She is not my gi—" But he broke off when he saw the amused knowing in Dumbledore’s eyes—knowledge that struck him like a dagger.

The old man inclined his head slightly, hands folded, and spoke with that gentleness that infuriated Severus more the more often he heard it. "Do not lie to yourself, Severus. That girl belongs to you in a certain way. You two share a connection she may not yet understand, but you are well aware of it. You allow feelings, whether you wish to or not, and I am not blind. I have seen how she lights up when she looks at you—you might not notice it, or you refuse to, not yet, but it is there. She is no longer a child, Severus, no eleven-year-old. Hermione Granger is clever. She has a lovely disposition. She would not turn you away if you revealed the other side of yourself. I am glad you mentor her, that you spend time with her, and that she accepts it. She is more like you than you admit—so curious, so restless, as you once were. When she leaves this school, she will be richer than most: in knowledge, in power, in… love. I am curious to see how she develops—how the two of you do."

Severus’ throat vibrated with suppressed anger, and he growled, barely master of his voice. "You have no idea, Albus, how burdensome this connection is."

But Dumbledore only smiled, and that was what drove Severus nearly mad—this unshakable calm. In his mind the curse flickered like a blade: "How about a Crucio, old man?"—and he imagined for a moment how the old wizard would writhe on the floor.

"Do not even think about it," Dumbledore suddenly laughed—bright and loud—and the laughter bounced off Severus’ anger like fire off cold stone.

"You would deserve it," Severus hissed. "You do not know what position this puts me in. I wish this connection had never existed. I must worry about that girl constantly—day after day, hour after hour. She is like air to me. No, do not call it love, Albus—it is dependency. Yes, I value her; she resembles me. She is brave, she is proud. And the simple fact that she dares to work with me tells me she has more in her than all the others I have ever taught. Yet you know what they call me, how they fear me—the former Death Eater, dungeon bat, ruler of the dungeons." His voice swelled into a dangerous snarl that filled the room.

Dumbledore remained unfazed, his voice quiet yet solid as bedrock. "Let fate decide, Severus. Things happen as they must. We have had this conversation before, and we will have it until you understand: she is good for you. Miss Granger is remarkable. She draws you out of your shell. Yes, the age difference is an obstacle—for now. But your time will come."

Severus’ eyes narrowed to slits, and in his mind he screamed: "You damned, wretched puppet master." Outwardly, he managed only a short nod—because he knew the old man was right once again, and nothing tormented him more than that.

His gaze sank. His lashes cast thin shadows on his cheeks. He wrestled with a question he had been pushing aside until it burned sharply in his throat. At last he heard his own voice—rough and dangerously soft, as if torn unwillingly from his depth. "Albus, I require your assessment regarding a change in Patronus magic," he said, a barely visible tension creeping into his shoulders, for the truth unsettled him and touched him in ways that brought him to the edge of comprehension, where even his heart paused for a beat because it no longer wished to obey the old rules.

Albus slowly raised his head. His gaze rested on Severus with a sharpness as fine as a scalpel, and Severus recognized the understanding of a man who saw more than words could express. "It has changed," Severus said. He did not speak aloud how deeply it had shaken him when, instead of the familiar doe that had accompanied him like a quiet echo of lost guilt for years, a raven had emerged from the shimmering silver magic—with eyes that felt like a foreign thought that had long been waiting for him and touched places within him he had never entrusted to any spell.

"A raven, Severus?" Albus said. His voice was calm, yet the way his fingertips brushed the armrest carried a trace of realization he carefully concealed, while something warm flickered in his gaze—something that tightened Severus’ chest.

Severus closed his eyes for a moment. The image of the raven flared up in his mind—powerful, determined, with a presence that pierced him to the bone because it spoke to him in a way that defied logic and yet felt familiar as a heartbeat aligning with his own. "A raven, yes," he said, his voice sinking low, as if speaking to the shadow of a secret that had haunted him since he had first seen its shape. "I wonder if it is connected to the soul-bond."

Albus inhaled quietly, as though a small puzzle piece had clicked into place. "It seems likely, Severus," he said. "A Patronus reveals not only what we are. It reveals what our heart is bound to." His voice carried calm clarity. "Sometimes it takes shape from feelings we scarcely dare to name. You visit Hermione regularly in that form, even if you refuse to admit it. Magic reacts to truth the heart already knows. Your Patronus reflects the bond you live in secret." His gaze deepened. "The girl means far more to you than you allow, and your raven reveals it with every feather. Magic changes when hearts begin to realign."

The words felt like a riddle that already knew its answer. Severus felt something stir inside him—something he did not wish to name, too vast, too dangerous, too inevitable, and yet forming a quiet hope he did not dare think.

Albus pressed his fingertips together and inclined his head. "May I see him, Severus?" he asked. "It would please me greatly to behold the raven with my own eyes." Warm light crept into his expression as patient expectation filled the room.

Severus froze. A thin crack ran through his posture—barely visible, yet deep enough to reveal his inner conflict. The request was reasonable; the answer felt like a confession he did not want to give. For a breath he stood completely still, as though listening to something only inside him. Then he lowered his gaze, and his voice left him like a heavy stone long carried. "Expecto Patronum," he said quietly.

From the tip of his wand burst a silvery raven—so sudden and powerful that the air in the office vibrated. The light spread like a wingspan born of another heart. The raven ascended, feathers sparkling like shredded moonlight, circling Albus before soaring high above the shelves and sweeping through the office as though testing the boundaries of the space it filled.

Albus clapped his hands in delight. "How wonderful, Severus," he said. "So much clarity, so much truth, so much heart in a single shape," he said as his gaze followed the still-glittering bird.

Severus stood motionless. He did not know what to think—for the sight evoked pride, fearlessness, unease, and an inexplicable intimacy, as though the raven carried a message he had only begun to understand.

Albus stepped closer, the silvery light reflected softly in his eyes, as though the Patronus had touched a rare side of him. "Severus," he said softly, his voice drifting through the room like warm air kindling between shadows, "I wish you could see what I see in this moment."

The raven made another powerful, sweeping circle above them, and Albus watched it before turning back to Severus. "Magic does not lie," he said. "It does not follow our fears, our caution, the walls we build. It follows the heart—even when the mind fights it." His expression softened, his hands folded before him as though easing the moment without diminishing its weight. "This Patronus is no accident, no spontaneous shift, no capricious whim of an overworked wizard. It is truth."

Severus’ breath was unsteady—almost invisible, yet unmistakable to Albus.

"It takes courage," Albus went on, "to allow a change we did not plan. Even more courage to recognize it." His gaze warmed, almost fatherly. "And you possess it—perhaps sooner than you think."

The raven descended, gliding almost silently past Severus as if brushing his uncertainty, soothing him, affirming him. Silver feathers dissolved into specks of light, glittering like thoughts that had not yet found names.

"Do you know what pleases me most?" Albus asked gently. "Not that the shape has changed, but that it is born from your innermost self—not from loss, not from guilt, not from shadow. But from connection."

A faint smile touched him. "A raven, Severus… a creature that knows loyalty and cleverness, and a heart that persistently returns to what it recognizes as its own."

Then Albus tilted his head, his voice growing quieter yet warmer, permeating even the cold air of the office. "Perhaps it is time to stop fearing that your heart is realigning," he said as the silvery raven came to a hovering stillness above them, as though awaiting an answer. "Perhaps it is time to acknowledge that some connections cannot be learned—they happen."

Albus laid a brief, almost fleeting hand on his shoulder. "And that girl," he said, "is no coincidence in your life, Severus. She is a signpost."

The raven dissolved into glittering fragments as his words echoed—soft, steady, unyielding—and Severus felt a single thought rise within him, one he could no longer suppress.

For a fleeting moment Hermione flashed through his mind—so young, yet with a determination that reminded him of long-lost years. A hint of Lily, yes, but not the same color, not the same tone; Hermione was far more than a memory cast over another face. Lily he had been able to let go—painfully, but finally—a chapter closed, even if the scars remained. Hermione, however, was present—unpredictable, alive. He felt within him a new, foreign trembling—not duty, not an echo of the past, but a dangerous, quiet pull he did not wish to explain.

At that moment he noticed movement at the edge of his vision. Dumbledore stood there as if waiting, hands calmly folded, gaze mild yet piercing enough to twist Severus’ stomach. The old man inclined his head in a barely perceptible nod—a knowing, unbearably gentle gesture that exposed Severus’ thoughts as if they hung in the air. He felt a single involuntary thread of emotion escape him, a weak spark slipping outward before he could contain it—the unspoken truth that the girl touched something in him he would never confess. That she was no echo of the past, no chess piece, but a point of light in his darkness—a disquieting and undeniable counterbalance.

"She is no echo like Lily, Albus. She is…" he said, voice hoarse, barely obeying him, "my soulmate."

But Dumbledore had already seen the spark. "Severus," he said softly—and the sound was neither mockery nor scolding but the ominous agreement of a man who knew too much.

Moments later Severus swept from the office, his cloak snapping behind him like a dark threat. Yet beneath all the churning emotion he felt a merciless pull in his chest, drawing him in one very specific direction. As much as he told himself he needed rest, needed distance, his steps inevitably carried him downward into the depths of the castle, past familiar corridors draped in the silence of night, until he stood before the heavy doors of the hospital wing.

The hospital wing lay still; only the faint clink of a vial somewhere on a shelf and the distant snort of Madam Pomfrey’s house-elves broke the silence settling over the room. Severus stood in the middle of it, hidden beneath the cool, subtle shell of a Disillusionment Charm that rendered him invisible even to the sharpest eye. Yet he felt more exposed than ever, for his gaze rested unceasingly on the narrow bed where she lay. Hermione—pale as parchment, eyelids closed, lips slightly parted, her chest rising in steady rhythm.

"How close you came to nothingness," he thought with a bitter tightening in his chest, "how damn easily you could have been torn from me—simply because you were, as always, in the wrong place at the wrong time." His gaze lingered on her face. It looked so still it stole his breath. A raw, harsh feeling stirred in him—one that would have set every Dementor aflame if it could have spared her pain.

He stepped closer—so quietly no sound betrayed him—and stood directly beside her bed. The faint warmth of her body reached him even through the charm. He picked up a cloth from the bedside table, hesitating as if to ensure he remained controlled, then gently wiped the damp beads from her forehead. The touch was careful, almost clinical—yet his heart reacted more fiercely than he allowed.

He withdrew his hand before revealing too much. "You must not betray yourself," he warned inwardly. "Not a word, not a gesture that shows how much she means to you. She must not know."

The slight trembling of her fingers beneath the blanket made him clench his fists. "What if the Patronus had not appeared? What if I had found her lifeless on the shore?" The thought froze his blood, and he turned his head away as if that could dislodge the torment from him.

His gaze swept over the shimmering healing potions Madam Pomfrey had arranged beside her bed, and biting envy rose in him—not against the healer, but against his own helplessness, preventing him from being at her side, offering her the safety she deserved. "You know you have the strength," he thought bitterly, "and yet here you stand like a shadow, unable even to speak her name once without revealing yourself."

His gaze sank to her again, and for a moment he allowed the facade to fall. "You little Gryffindor…" he whispered inwardly. "Always diving headfirst into ruin, and always I must watch you brush death by a hair. You will drive me mad."

Severus stood like that a long time—motionless, a silent sentinel in the dark. His gaze remained on her while his thoughts grew heavier. The form of his Patronus pressed into his consciousness—the raven, revealing far more than he wished. The raven, in whose shape he repeatedly visited her to ensure she still breathed.

One question bled into the next. Was there any future beyond this room, this breathing, this fragile thread stretched between them? What would happen if she realized one day that it was he who visited her as an Animagus? What if she rejected him—if she saw this connection as a burden, or shut herself off from it?

The thought struck harder than he expected. Every possible answer did something to him he wanted buried. He felt tension in his chest—the quiet pull of a feeling he refused to name.

Something in him wished to step closer, check her breathing, feel reassurance he denied himself. An unreasonable impulse rising from a depth he no longer fully ruled. And the more he tried to suppress it, the more sharply he felt the pull tighten like an invisible thread long stretched between them.

In the next moment he forced every trace of emotion back behind the inner doors locked for years. He straightened, tightened the mask around himself, and allowed no further thought that could betray him.

With a final glance—lingering far longer than was wise—he turned and slipped back into the shadows of the wing, his heart heavy, his mind torn, while a thought echoed through him like a silent threat: "One day, Hermione Granger, you will destroy me completely."

With swift, soundless steps he swept through the corridors back into the depths of the castle. The cold stone under his boots felt familiar, yet tonight it seemed to press down on him rather than bear him. Though he usually felt fortified in the dungeons, unreachable, tonight was different—because every shadow he passed conjured her face before him. Pale, exhausted, far too young, yet with a strength that unsettled and fascinated him in equal measure—something he would never admit.

Upon reaching his chambers, he let his cloak slide over the back of the armchair, poured himself a glass of Firewhisky, and stared into the amber liquid as though it might answer him. Yet all he found was the flickering reflection of his own exhaustion—this relentless inner conflict that pursued him.

He drank in long pulls, but the burning taste did nothing to ease the weight on his chest. When he set the glass down with a sharp sound, he felt the familiar truth pressing on him: that he, no matter how fiercely he denied it, was already trapped in a maelstrom with no escape—because that girl, his protégé, his student, his nightmare, and his only spark of light, was breaking him open piece by piece, and he did not know whether to fear or crave it.

When sleep finally overtook him, it did not fall gently but abruptly—like a man plunging into a lake of memories and unspoken truths. The world around him faded, turned to gray shadows that slowly, then with oppressive clarity, formed into a moonlit clearing, pale light spreading across the ground like cold breath. He stood there, motionless, unsure whether he dreamed or lived—and yet he knew, for she was there.

Hermione stepped from the darkness—not eerie, not threatening, but with that unyielding calm that drove him to fury in daylight and became a mirror in dreams he could not shatter. Her gaze rested on him—serious and soft—and in her eyes lay no accusation, only a deep knowing heavier than any guilt he had ever carried.

"Why do you run from me?" she asked, her voice not echoing but sinking into him—quiet yet powerful enough to pull apart his thoughts. "Why do you pretend not to see what lies between us?"

He wished to reply—sharp, dismissive, one of his familiar weapons—but his lips did not move. The words he usually hurled so effortlessly tangled in his throat like thorns. Wind rustled the branches, the dream seemed to breathe, and Hermione stepped closer—carefully, as if aware he might flee at a single sudden shadow.

"You treat it as if it were a threat," she said, the air growing heavier, denser with each word. "But you know it is not. You know it is something true—something real. Why do you refuse to acknowledge it?"

Severus felt his heart pounding against his ribs—far too loudly for a dream—and he could have sworn the earth trembled beneath him as she looked at him like someone trying to untie a knot he himself had pulled too tight. He opened his mouth, but only a thin, broken sound escaped—a nothing. Her gaze did not dim, did not waver—it only grew clearer, as though she saw him without any barrier.

"You are not afraid of me," she whispered. "You are afraid of what you might find in me."

And then the forest grew darker, the moonlight thinner, and something in him—a reflex, an ancient defense—pulled him backward, away from her, away from the question for which he had no answer, because she already knew the truth.

He jolted awake with a sharp breath, sweat on his forehead, his heart like a wild creature, and still he felt her voice echoing inside him—as though it had touched something that would never fall silent again.

Chapter Text

“…I wish you all the very best, Mr. Black,” Hermione said softly. Her voice was little more than a breathed promise that seemed to dissolve into the night. The dark man before her was marked by years in Azkaban, his hair resembled a matted mane, and he was so filthy he looked as if a second skin covered him. Despite everything, she smiled at him with a warmth that did not seem to match his neglected appearance in the slightest. He replied in a rough voice, “You are a very clever witch, Hermione Granger. We will certainly meet again. Take care of my godson for me, so he does not get himself into trouble.” For a moment, a gentle grin flickered across her face, barely more than a shimmer, and in the next heartbeat Sirius Black swung himself onto the back of the proud Hippogriff Buckbeak, whose wings gleamed in the moonlight. Together they rose into the darkness and disappeared into the distance, until nothing remained but the beating of wings in the cold night air.

“We have to go back, Harry, quickly,” Hermione urged breathlessly, and without another word they ran side by side back to the starting point of their risky journey through time. Each step driven by the knowledge that every second counted. Once they had returned to the present, Hermione explained to Ron and Harry in a serious voice, though her eyes sparkled, how she had managed this school year: that the Ministry had entrusted her with a Time-Turner, that they had used it to save two lives—Buckbeak’s and Sirius’—and that the most important rule of the journey had been the iron commandment not to encounter anyone, neither themselves nor others. They had followed that rule, and now it was done. “Then he’s saved?” Ron asked hesitantly. Harry and Hermione both nodded.

“This is going to mean trouble, don’t you think?” he murmured after a brief silence and looked at Harry. “The Invisibility Cloak, Harry, do you have it? Or is it still with Snape?”

Harry’s expression darkened immediately. “He still has it. I need to get it back,” he growled irritably.

“We really gave the bat a good scare, didn’t we?” Ron added with a grim smile.

Harry nodded, but Hermione stopped, glared at both of them with unconcealed seriousness, her voice now firm as steel: “You injured a teacher. You do realize that you could both be suspended for that?”

“It was self-defense!” Harry protested immediately, and Ron agreed with wild nodding.

“Think what you like,” Hermione retorted sharply, “but I will never approve of it.”

Ron pulled a face, glared at her and asked mockingly, “Do you like the bat now or what?”

Hermione’s eyes flashed dangerously, a spark that silenced Ron at once, and she countered dryly, “Are you jealous, Ron?” Yet she received no answer, only a defensive look, and he shook his head silently.

It had all been so insane, so confused. Together with Harry, she had turned back time at Professor Dumbledore’s urging. Yet by the lake, in the bitter cold darkness, they had seen that they had almost died.

And then she saw it. A silvery point of light appeared at the edge of the darkness. At first little more than a flicker, then it grew brighter, stronger, took on a distinct shape. Hermione froze as the Patronus revealed itself fully: a raven, large, clearly defined, with a presence that allowed no doubt.

It positioned itself over her unconscious self, wings outstretched like a shield of light. The cold retreated noticeably. The Dementor that had been about to bend over her recoiled as if struck and slipped back into the line of the others with a hiss.

Hermione’s heart skipped a painful beat. Not a romantic flare, but a sharp, clear recognition that stole her breath.

She knew this raven.

She knew exactly to whom this Patronus belonged. The way it stood protectively before her, the power it radiated—none of it surprised her. It only confirmed what she had long felt.

Professor Snape. He was here. Now. For her.

Harry beside her did not even notice the raven.

‘He’s protecting me. Not out of duty. But because I mean something to him.’
The thought struck her hard. Unexpected. Inescapable.

The raven remained by her side, silent, watchful, resolute—a protection that could not have been clearer.

And then came the great Patronus, but not as expected. Harry, who had called desperately for his father, had been the one who produced the saving figure with an “Expecto Patronum,” a mighty stag. It shone so brightly that its presence alone drove back the countless Dementors who had nearly consumed them.

Everything had fallen into place like a cycle, past and present in one, time itself a labyrinth they had walked through for a few brief moments.

The next day, Hermione stood at the door to the dungeons, her heart beating uneasily as she knocked on Professor Snape’s office door. At first there was no answer, and she was about to turn away. Then suddenly the door was thrown open, and there he stood—upright, dark, unreachable, with that gaze that cut sharper than any blade.

“What do you want, Granger?” he asked coldly, each word sounding like a lash.

“I… I wanted to check on you and ask how you are, sir,” she stammered softly, her fingers nervously intertwined. She hardly dared to look him in the eye.

“As you can see, I am standing upright before you. I am breathing. So everything seems to be fine. Anything else, Granger?” he snapped, cutting and filled with harsh distance.

Hermione’s heart tightened. “Um… no… then I’m relieved, sir. I was only worried, because the force of the Disarming Charm Harry and Ron cast at you was… was immense. I… I also wanted to apologize on their behalf, it wasn’t their intention to hurt you, and I’ve already spoken to them. Harry only wanted the truth—and now he has it. So if you’re well, Professor… then I’m glad. I… wish you a pleasant day.”

The words tumbled out far too quickly, halting, broken, as though she were tripping over her own thoughts. Before he could unleash a thunderous tirade, she turned abruptly. She practically ran down the corridor, and only when she was out of sight did the silent pressure in her chest ease, a pressure that had nearly made her cry.

He had been so cold, so distant, colder than she had seen him in a long time; he called her only Granger, not Miss Granger. She could not truly blame him, because she sensed that something lay between Professor Snape and Black that she could not understand, something old, dark, deeper than anything she could learn or read. The tension between him and Lupin was equally elusive. It felt as though she had stumbled into a chapter whose beginning she had never read.

Of course it wounded him that Black had escaped. Of course he wanted him back in Azkaban, even if she could not understand why that desire burned so fiercely within him. She knew only that she herself—unwillingly—had helped take that moment from him. He had seen that she and Harry had done something that was not “normal.” He would sooner or later figure out that she had used the Time-Turner, even if she did not know how he could possibly piece it all together.

Hermione pressed her lips tightly together as a soft, painful thought rose within her.

Perhaps he would never forgive her. Perhaps he would. She could not predict it, not decide it, because she did not understand Professor Snape—not his reasons, not his wounds, not his anger.

Still, within her remained a small, almost unreasonable spark that hoped that he would someday realize she had only done what she believed was right. And that he might, one day, release the anger she had never wished to cause.

Severus stood in the doorway, listening as Hermione’s footsteps echoed through the corridors, sharp at first, then softer as she moved farther away. He felt a pressure spread in his chest, one that did not break outward. Her words ran through his mind like thin needles he had wanted to ignore, until the truth within them pushed through. She had not attacked him, she had done nothing. It had been Potter and Weasley alone. He had hurt her again, had blamed her wrongly. ‘Shit,’ he thought, with a quiet bitterness he knew far too well. ‘Shit.’

He stood in the doorway a moment longer, his hand on the frame as if he needed to lean against something invisible that threatened to throw him off balance. The image of her face, that brief moment in which she had been disappointed but not angry, would not let him go. He had pushed her away, even though she… damn it, was simply Hermione.

Later, when she sat alone in her room, her raven fluttered suddenly through the open window, black and gleaming like a living shadow. This time he landed on her bed with an ease he had never shown before.

“Hello, Raven. Good that you’re here. I really need someone to talk to,” she greeted him and stroked his feathers, which shimmered slightly bluish in the light. “So much has happened these past days. I think Professor Snape is truly angry with me. He probably thinks I hurt him on purpose, that I cast the spell on him together with Harry and Ron. But that isn’t true. I wanted to prevent it, really. I could never hurt him. I… I like him far too much.”

Her voice faltered briefly, then she continued, softly, almost confiding. “All those events—the hut, the Dementors… even thinking about it makes me shiver. And yet I know that Sirius Black is innocent, that Pettigrew was the real traitor, that he is the one who betrayed Harry’s parents. And still… it pains me that Professor Snape refuses to see it. That he is in such conflict with Black and Lupin.”

The raven moved closer, nuzzled her injured hand, and Hermione laughed faintly. “Sweet how you worry. See? This happened when I tried to shield Professor Snape’s head from hitting a rock. Otherwise he’d have another scar now. But it’s fine again.” She patted his head, and while he watched her closely, she continued speaking, telling him everything that had happened. She only left out the part about the time travel. “I just hope he calms down… and that I can still attend his private lessons. It would be awful if not.”

Then she looked at him intently, her fingers playfully gliding over his feathers. “I’ve been thinking. I’d like to give you a name, if that’s alright with you?”

She watched as the raven stared at her, then she continued. “How about… Abraxas? It means ‘highest primordial being.’ I think it suits you.”

Her professor gently pecked at her fingers, fluttered excitedly on the bed, and Hermione laughed brightly. “Good, then your name from today on is Abraxas.”

And in that very moment when she spoke the name, Severus, who hid deep within that form, knew that he had never heard anything as beautiful as his new name from her mouth.

He had been given a name. By her. By Hermione. His Animagus name was from today on “Abraxas.” Severus could not help grinning; it had never occurred to him to call himself anything else. Which was no wonder—you only had to look at the Marauders… Moony, Padfoot, Prongs, Wormtail. Ridiculous nicknames. But his name, spoken from her lips, had weight, did not sound childish, but dignified. Beautiful.

“Severus… you are actually grinning. What has delighted you so much?” Albus asked with that mild tone that always sounded like a mixture of fatherly concern and cunning curiosity.

The school year was over, and Severus would follow Hermione—wherever she might go this year. He had to find out first; she had not confided in him. He had just been about to say goodbye to Dumbledore before leaving for holiday when the old manipulator came up with his theories and observations again.

“It is nothing, Headmaster,” Severus replied sharply, his familiar mask of coldness and severity slipping back into place.

“As you wish,” Dumbledore said with a slight, far too knowing smile. He suspected already that it had something to do with Hermione—the old man was many things, but blind was not one of them.

“We’ll see each other in autumn, Albus. If anything happens, send me a Patronus,” Severus added curtly.

“Oh, we will see each other sooner, Severus, because Hogwarts is facing an important year,” Dumbledore replied with that insufferably serene glint in his eyes, a glint Severus had always taken as a quiet assault on his patience and that irritated him today more than usual, “for today we received a letter from the Ministry. We are hosting the Triwizard Tournament.”

Severus’ eyes narrowed immediately, as if a blade had sharpened instinctively, and he straightened abruptly, as though he had to verify that his ears had not deceived him. “You cannot be serious,” he pressed out, his voice flatter and more dangerous than before, striding toward the desk and bracing himself heavily against it, as if the piece of furniture were the only thing keeping him from shouting that the world had collectively lost its mind.

“Of course,” he continued, now already in motion, with a bitter undertone steeped in weary resignation and even more steeped in Snape, “of course, Albus, more work comes our way now. By Merlin’s matted beard, we haven’t even scraped the remains of that… highly questionable Pettigrew debacle off the walls, and you believe it a brilliant idea to invite the next nightmare unasked. You know as well as I do that he will return—he, whose name still casts more shadows than a hundred Dementors. And you stand here and genuinely expect me to concern myself with this threat while simultaneously burdening myself with this… this folkloric suicide mission of a tournament?”

“Calm yourself, Severus,” Dumbledore answered gently, in exactly the tone Severus always interpreted as an attempt to treat him like a startled animal that one could coax with a bit of warmth back to the leash. “There is an age restriction. No student under seventeen will be allowed to enter. We expect talented young witches and wizards from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. You can set aside your concerns for Miss Granger and Mr. Potter entirely—the two of them are far from old enough.”

Severus let out a sound that was no real laugh but far more bitter and cutting. “This is meant to reassure me?” he asked with an undertone suggesting that even sealing off the castle entirely would not have reassured him in this moment. His gaze darkened, shadow-heavy like the deepest vaults of the dungeons, and for a moment it seemed as if the air itself vibrated with his irritation.

“We’ll speak again in mid-August,” Dumbledore stated, completely unmoved by the increasing darkness spreading across his professor’s face. “We will need at least two weeks of preparation.”

Severus paused for a heartbeat—long enough to show that he could very easily have fired off another cutting remark if he had wished to—yet he chose instead a single, blade-sharp nod that came so abruptly it seemed almost like a refusal to discuss the matter further. Without another word, which he would have considered a waste, his black cloak flared like smoke in the wind and he left the office before the old man could release another drop of optimism, which Severus would only have taken as a personal affront in that moment.

He had already brought the few belongings he would need for the holidays to Spinner’s End, a place that felt in his memory like a poorly healed scar that burned anew each time he returned, and as he stepped through the front door, he felt the familiar weight descend, that old suffocating sense of dust, bleakness, and past failures that settled over his skin like a gray film. He gestured for Lorely, the loyal house-elf, to clean the house, for dust had accumulated over the months like a second wallpaper upon every surface, and although he knew he rarely stayed here longer than necessary, he was annoyed with himself for letting it get this bad at all.

“You should finally renovate this hovel, old fool,” he thought sharply, half irritated, half resigned, because every room reminded him of how little of his childhood had ever been worth saving, and yet he returned here again and again, as if Spinner’s End were a duty he could not escape.

The suitcases in his pocket, shrunk with a simple charm and neatly stored, expanded on their own once they touched the floor, as if they were eager to escape their cramped prison, and Severus ignored them, for they were not the reason he was here. He called for Lorely, and the elf appeared instantly with a soft crack, her eyes wide and shining with relief.

“Master Snape! You is back at last!” she squeaked, bowing so deeply that her nose nearly touched the floor.

“Lorely,” Severus said, and though his words remained brief as always, his tone carried a rare, almost human warmth, “thank you for keeping watch here. I will be away for some time. Do not wait for me.”

She nodded hastily, almost reverently, and vanished with a gentle pop that seemed out of place in the abandoned house.

Severus did not stay a moment longer than necessary. He too disappeared with the sharp crack of Apparition, and with each second of transformation that carried him through the in-between, he left behind the weight of that house until he emerged in the well-kept neighborhood of the Grangers, where the air was clearer, the streets brighter, and the world far too friendly for a man like him.

He inhaled, pulled the sense of his human form inward like a cloak he set aside, and became again Abraxas, wings of shadow and silence, the name she had given him.

His wings spread, powerful and familiar, and with one strong beat he lifted into the air, following the path he already knew—toward her window, where her light burned, where a part of him always wished to return, though he would never speak it aloud.

Yet her room was empty, nothing but neatly packed suitcases on the bed, far too silent and impersonal to offer him any comfort. So he flew lower, searching the house window that led to the dining room, and landed there, for at that very moment he saw her. Hermione, lively as ever, laughing and gesturing with her hands as she sat between her parents, her mother’s arm loosely around her, her father relaxed in the large armchair, laughing as though this scene belonged to a world free of all heaviness.

She noticed him at once. Her eyes brightened in a way that always threw him off balance, and she lifted her hand to wave at him, without a second of hesitation as to whether it was appropriate. Her parents followed her gaze, and something tightened in Severus’ chest, strange and unwelcome, yet he remained perfectly still because any other reaction would have been out of place. She opened the window as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Come in,” she said calmly, almost casually, and he fluttered onto her shoulder, striving to conceal every sign of tension.

“Mom, Dad, this is Abraxas. He belongs to Hogwarts—I have no idea who he actually belongs to,” she explained casually and grinned at the raven as though she had caught him in the act of something.

“Hermione, you know how I feel about animals in the house. Especially ones with feathers. He is not staying here,” her mother admonished in a tone that clearly invited no debate.

“Mom, relax. He’ll disappear again anyway. He came here plenty of times last year, mostly at night. You just didn’t notice,” Hermione answered with a patient smile, while her parents stared at him as though encountering an unexpected zoological anomaly in their living room.

“Quite something,” her father murmured at last, somewhat amused. “But he’s a beautiful fellow. Tell me, how exactly do you know he’s a male?”

“Yes, how do you know that?” Severus thought sharply, fixing her with his gaze, the thought shooting through him so directly it surprised him how much that casual remark irritated him.

“It’s just a feeling,” she replied quickly, almost as if she had heard his unspoken question. “If he were female, he’d be far more temperamental, trust me.”

“Well, you might be right,” her father laughed and exchanged an amused glance with her mother, who promptly smacked his leg.

Then her father stood up, kissed his wife exuberantly in passing. Hermione laughed aloud at something Severus could not place. “I’ll leave you two alone—see you later!” she called, already leaping up and storming off toward the stairs with the raven on her shoulder as though it were the most normal thing in the world to carry a full-grown bird about, while her parents watched after her, half confused, half amused.

Severus clung to her shoulder as she ran upstairs, taking in everything he could glimpse in passing: the furniture, the layout of the house, the open doors, even the way the carpet lay. “The fireplace in the dining room—large enough for the Floo Network. Good to know,” he noted mentally, for one could abandon habits, but not vigilance.

“You already know my room,” she grinned as she flung open the door, and he fluttered forward to look around.

Severus immediately noticed that several things had changed. The walls were freshly painted, cleaner, more mature, no posters of things that had already irritated him last year; a larger bed, as though time had suddenly sped up, and the desk stacked with books from the magical world, not chaotic, but clearly well used. A faint, barely perceptible tug went through his chest, and though he would not call it a smile, his expression shifted subtly toward something that came close.

“She has grown up,” he thought, the sentence feeling more sober than he would have liked. “More mature. No child anymore. In a few weeks she will turn fifteen. Time is running.”

He fluttered from her shoulder to the desk, and she sat beside him.

“Curious? Don’t worry, these are just schoolbooks,” she laughed as she placed her hand on a stack that contained nothing unexpected anyway.

Severus looked at her longer than he intended, longer than would have been normal for any ordinary bird. Her amber eyes had tiny light flecks he found oddly familiar, and the freckles around her nose appeared more pronounced than he remembered.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she teased, her laughter warm and carefree. “I’m still the same as three years ago.” She winked as if it were a joke meant to amuse him.

He ignored her demonstratively and hopped onto the bedpost to continue inspecting the room, because to keep looking into her eyes would have been too conspicuous.

“We’re flying to Austria next week for three weeks, hiking. My father rented a cabin, totally secluded. Afterwards I’ll stay with the Weasleys. Ginny really wants me to stay until the holidays are over. My parents have a conference in the U.S. during that time. That’s nothing for me. All day long: teeth, teeth, teeth—I’d lose my mind.” She rolled her eyes and laughed briefly. “I’d rather be with Ginny, Harry, and Ron. Though… Ron is really making things hard for me at the moment. He’s behaving so strangely. Ginny keeps saying he’s totally smitten with me, but I see it differently. Ron is a good friend, yes, but that’s all. Sometimes he’s nice, sometimes he drives me mad with his stupid comments. Honestly, I don’t know how Ginny gets these ideas, but she won’t stop teasing me about it.” She shook her head and began sorting a stack of books.

Severus’ eyes narrowed as he watched her, and he felt a wave of aversion run through him. “Ronald Weasley. That uncouth oaf with the intellectual reach of a Blast-Ended Skrewt. And he seriously believes he can stake a claim on her? Ridiculous.” His claws dug harder into the wood, enough that it gave slightly. “A tuft of red hair, a Quidditch broom, and a questionable sense of humor do not replace intelligence. Or character.”

“You know, Abraxas, I don’t want to ruin things. Our friendship means a lot to me. Ron is Ron, that’s how I take him. But sometimes I think he wishes I… felt more. And I just can’t.” She sighed and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, only for it to fall loose again immediately.

Severus’ chest tightened more than he liked. “Of course not. Because you are wiser than he will ever be. Because you surpass him in every way. And yet you almost apologize for not returning feelings he has never earned.” The thought hit him so clearly he fell silent for a moment.

Hermione leaned back, folding her hands in her lap. “Still, it’s a nice feeling when someone feels that way about you, isn’t it? Even if you don’t feel the same.”

“Nice?” Severus echoed in his mind as though she had hurled a curse at him. “There is nothing ‘nice’ about it. It is foolish. It is inappropriate. And it is a testament to his lack of perception if he believes he could ever be worthy of you.” He shook his feathers and forced himself to calm down, as any visible reaction would have been too much.

“But Ginny is already excited that I’m coming. We want to study together and play a bit of Quidditch. I know I’m not very good, but it’s fun when I fly with her. And Harry surely needs support too. He always finds some new problem.” She smiled again, softer this time.

Severus thought only: “Potter. Of course. He must be mentioned too. One after another they line up, these boys who believe they have some claim to your time or your presence, and I am the only one standing in the shadow ensuring that none of them ever harms you.”

He fluttered abruptly back to the desk, pecked at a book spine, pretending that was his sole interest, while in his mind one single burning thought remained: “One day, Hermione, you will see that none of them truly sees you. Not in the way I do. Until then I must wait.”

Chapter Text

A week later, they had already arrived in Austria. The journey itself had been uneventful, yet now the part began that truly felt like a small adventure. They had decided to make do with only the essentials. They wanted to bring as little as possible, because they had to carry part of their luggage up the mountain themselves. Anyone who had ever climbed a narrow, rocky path with a heavy backpack knew that every extra gram eventually felt like a kilo.

Hermione had therefore packed with great care. She had chosen her clothing as light as possible, packed only a few personal items, and of course stored a potions book—well protected between layers of fabric. Added to that were Professor Snape’s carefully compiled notes, so she could continue her studies even during the holidays. A strong sense of duty stirred in her, and at the same time she was driven by the firm desire to develop further. She wanted to try new formulas, test small modifications, and develop her own approaches—ones her professor might one day acknowledge as genuine research.

That morning, they had handed three larger suitcases to a local farmer. His hands looked strong and used to hard work, and he grabbed the suitcases as if they weighed nothing. At the sight of him, Hermione had briefly thought of Professor Dumbledore, even though the comparison was based only on her first impression. The man’s beard was much shorter, his clothing plain and practical, and everything about him spoke more of everyday life on a farm than of magical authority.

However, the moment he began to speak, her impression changed. He spoke in a broad Austrian dialect. The sounds were, to her ears, harsh and soft at the same time—partly swallowed, partly drawn out. She did not understand every word, yet the melody of the language was so unfamiliar that a small, honest smile slipped across her face. In her own native language she would probably have described the sound as rather funny, and the thought of how someone might translate this dialect into English made her smile inwardly. Her reaction carried no mockery. The man simply fit this environment so well that his dialect felt like another feature of the mountains, as natural as rock, forest, and clear air. Even though she guessed some of the meaning only through context, she felt surprisingly quickly welcomed by the tone itself, as if this foreign sound told her in its direct, grounded way that she was allowed to simply be here for a while.

With great patience, the man had explained the route to them on a crumpled map. He had shown them which markers they needed to look out for. He had also clearly pointed out which paths they were better off avoiding, since some ended abruptly or were blocked by fresh scree. Only when he was sure they understood everything did he bid them farewell with a brief, almost fatherly nod, sending them on their hike.

The hut that was their destination lay at roughly 1,300 meters altitude. There was no lift, no rope tow, and no other helpful device that might have made the journey easier for them. Everything had to be done on foot. For Hermione, this posed no obstacle. She was used to relying on her own legs. Hogwarts had prepared her well in that regard—its many staircases, the high towers, and the constant up and down without any elevators or other conveniences had built her stamina. She was slight, yet physically resilient, and she secretly enjoyed showing her parents she could easily keep up. Sometimes she even walked a little ahead on purpose, to prove she was equal to the task.

The weather seemed determined to make this day a particularly intense experience. The sky was clear and blue, the sun shone relentlessly, and its heat made the ascent more difficult. Still, a light breeze occasionally swept up the slope, softening the heat and bringing brief moments of relief. Hermione felt awake, full of energy, almost buoyant as she tackled the first steep meters. She realized how much she had been looking forward to this time together. A break from Hogwarts and the worries that lingered constantly in the background felt good.

Pressed close against her back inside her rucksack lay the potions book she had intentionally packed. As she climbed, her thoughts drifted again and again to the formulas she wanted to try and the notes she had prepared for her professor. She wondered whether he would notice her progress. The thought sparked a quiet, warm flicker of satisfaction within her.

“Hermione, forgive us, but we can’t possibly keep up with your pace,” her father finally called after her. He was breathing heavily, yet laughing as he wiped the sweat from his forehead and shifted his backpack.

“Yes, sweetheart,” her mother added, also clearly out of breath, “remember that in everyday life we don’t have staircases like Hogwarts to keep us fit.” She tried to smile, though she could not quite hide her exhaustion.

Hermione slowed briefly, nodded in understanding, and waited a moment for her parents to catch up. Then she continued at a more moderate pace, though she had the feeling they were already close to their goal.

Her impression proved correct. After nearly two more hours of climbing, they reached a small rise. As Hermione reached the top and lifted her gaze, she saw the roof of the hut emerging above the treetops. Her heart beat faster. “There it is! Do you see it? We made it!” she called, raising her hand. Her voice sounded distinctly relieved. A few meters behind her, her parents stopped and smiled—tired, yet satisfied—because the end of the path was finally in sight.

Her father lifted his hand in greeting. Hermione reacted immediately, quickening her steps, then even more, until she was almost running the final meters, driven by her eagerness to see the entire building.

The house looked old. The wooden beams bore clear signs of wind, rain, and sun, yet they remained sturdy and gave the structure a calm, enduring appearance. Nothing was new—everything bore marks of use—and that condition gave the building a solid, reassuring character. Hermione stopped and let her gaze wander across the surroundings.

Before her opened a panorama that instantly captured her attention. The valley lay far below, the houses looked tiny from up here, and the paths resembled thin lines lost between broad patches of land. To the left stretched a dense coniferous forest, dark green and even, while on all other sides meadows shone in vibrant colors. Herbs and flowers grew everywhere. Their scent drifted in the air—subtle, yet constant. From far away came the occasional ringing of cowbells. That sound mixed with the clear mountain air that flowed cool and clean into her lungs.

Hermione stood still for a moment. The thought came easily: She would enjoy this view during their stay.

The house was built into the slope and adapted to the terrain. A balcony jutted forward—just enough to stand and gaze into the valley. A wooden fence marked the property. In one corner Hermione spotted a small sauna heated by wood. Next to it stood a round tub. She stepped closer, lifted the lid, and looked at the water inside—clear, cold, moving slightly because it was fed by a spring. Excess water flowed steadily over a notch and formed a thin trickle running down the slope.

Behind the house lay a pile of firewood. The pieces had been roughly cut to a meter in length and still needed to be processed. Hermione took in the scene and smiled. She liked the simple, practical design. Every task waiting here was manageable and would lead to a clear result—which she found comforting.

When her parents reached her, she had already gathered a thorough first impression. “It’s really beautiful here, Dad. You chose well. Please tell your colleague that too, the one who gave you the tip. I absolutely want to see what it looks like inside now. Where’s the key?” she asked, full of anticipation.

Her mother stepped to the window ledge, lifted the flowerpot, and took out the small key hidden underneath. She handed it to Hermione with a satisfied smile. “Here, you open it, sweetheart.”

The door creaked in a deep, worn sound that hinted at many past years. Sunlight fell across the small entrance hall as they stepped inside. They set down their backpacks, which thudded against the wooden floor, and their footsteps echoed in the small space. Hermione opened the next door leading into the main room and stepped in slowly, wanting to take everything in carefully.

She surveyed the room attentively. The small kitchenette stood beside a corner bench that looked cozy. To the right was a door leading to her parents’ bedroom. In the bathroom hung a handwritten note stating that the water from the spring was ice-cold. Warm water required heating the stove. Hermione pulled a playful face, though she knew the simple, practical setup suited the hut well—and that she would manage perfectly fine with it.

The living room was plainly furnished, clearly focused on comfort and function. A large oak table stood in the middle. A broad couch arrangement filled one corner and offered plenty of space for long evenings of games or conversations. A staircase led to the upper floor. Hermione immediately quickened her pace and hurried up the steps, curious what she would find.

At the top she stopped abruptly. “Oh, Merlin,” she exclaimed in surprise as she saw the shelf. It was several meters long and filled to the top with books. In front of it stood a comfortable couch clearly meant for settling in with a blanket and staying there a long while. Her mother had heard her exclamation and had been briefly alarmed, but when she saw Hermione’s delighted expression, she laughed.

“Look at this, Mom. Books and a couch. This is a little paradise for me,” Hermione said enthusiastically, running her fingertips along the spines.

The selection was large—children’s books, novels, non-fiction, and various older editions that had apparently been collected here over many years. Immediately she imagined herself sitting on the couch on a snowy evening, wrapped in a warm blanket while a fire crackled. As she pictured this, another thought pushed its way into her mind. She imagined someone sitting beside her—someone familiar, tall, strong, with black hair. She shook her head slightly, trying to push the thought away. “Stop it, Hermione,” she murmured. The thought remained.

Later, as she set up her room and placed her school materials neatly on her bed, she suddenly noticed a shadow gliding past the window. She turned at once. Her eyes widened when she recognized the raven. He clung to the windowsill with his talons and looked inside. In that moment she realized he had indeed followed her all the way here. The thought made her swallow hard—she had not expected to meet him at such a remote place.

She opened the window slowly. Her movements were careful and deliberate, their eyes locking. The moment felt strangely calm. Neither of them moved much. The silence lasted until the raven finally took a small step toward her and nipped lightly at her finger, as though testing whether she truly stood before him.

“Abraxas,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “You’re really here. By Merlin… I didn’t expect you to find me. This place is high up in the mountains. Last year you didn’t come to me.” Her words sounded amazed, almost incredulous. She could not believe it—her professor was here. Here with her, so far from home. And he revealed himself, even if only as a raven.

From downstairs her mother’s voice called, “Hermione? Everything all right?”

“Yes, Mom, everything’s fine,” she called back quickly, not wanting to raise suspicion.

Then she turned again to the raven. She leaned forward slightly and lowered her voice. “We have to be quiet. My parents wouldn’t like it if you showed up every day. My mother is sensitive to feathers. Magical things make her a little uneasy. She’s proud of what I can do, though she feels uncomfortable when she sees too much of it. That’s why I try to act normal while I’m here—like Muggles. I like that too. Look around. This place is beautiful. That’s exactly why I enjoy being Muggle-born. This landscape and this quiet mean a lot to me. I’m looking forward to the weeks here. I hope you’ll still come sometimes. I would be sad if you didn’t. You’ve become a real friend to me.”

Severus had lived through several days after the end of the school year that felt like agonizing emptiness. He had tried to fill this time with work or distraction, but none of it helped him escape the real problem. Every day without her stretched endlessly. Each passing morning made it clearer how deeply it tore at him that he didn’t know when he would see her again. This realization annoyed him and preoccupied him. It was difficult for him to admit that the absence of one single person could affect his state of mind to such an extent. After three days he Apparated to London but did not reveal himself.

Eventually he decided to use the prepared Portkey. It brought him directly to Austria, to the small village from which the Grangers would begin their hike. As soon as he materialized, he felt his chest tighten. That familiar pull spoke its own language. It was not pain, yet close enough to it that he instinctively tensed his shoulders. He lowered his mental shields slightly—just enough to perceive his surroundings. In that exact moment, her presence reached him. The sensation struck him instantly, sharply, with a strength that always forced a brief halt in his thoughts. It was something he could not explain, an inner trembling that felt as though someone inside him released a force he could not control.

Severus knew this sensation would come, yet its intensity surprised him each time. It slipped from his grasp. The fact that he had still not grown accustomed to it weighed heavily on him. This was a mystery—one of the few he could not cut apart with logic—and that made it dangerous.

He was prepared, as was his way. The Polyjuice Potion he had brewed gave him a safe means of moving unnoticed among people and remaining close to the Grangers. It was a sensible plan, yet his body sought a different form. The transformation into the raven granted him mobility, concealment, freedom. In that shape he felt safer because it allowed him to follow unobstructed without leaving traces. The black bird offered him a refuge no mask could.

He therefore accompanied the family mostly from the air. He flew from branch to branch, stayed in motion, observed everything with unrelenting attention. Sometimes he rose high above them to watch from a distance. He could not hear their conversations, yet that did not matter. What mattered was seeing every one of her steps and assessing whether any danger threatened her.

When the hut came into view, he noticed a pressure inside him ease. Tension had accompanied him for hours without his realizing it. The hut lay quiet, secluded, protected by trees and distance. No roads nearby. No strangers. No unpredictable disturbances. For him, it was the perfect situation. He could remain close without being discovered. In his raven form he became part of the environment, not an element that raised questions. That thought brought him, for the first time in days, a noticeable sense of relief. A kind of control that gave him the feeling he could withstand the coming days.

Then she noticed him and stepped to the window. He had intended to remain only a silent observer during the coming weeks. Yet now she stood there—framed by the window, her hair held back by a simple band that failed to catch a few strands—looking straight at him. No surprise, no uncertainty, only that open gaze that triggered a reflex in him he could not suppress.

She stood still and the moment stretched. He felt his feathered body tense, as though every one of his senses aligned on her at once. Her gaze had a clarity that unsettled him, and she looked as though she had expected this visitor, even though he had convinced himself that their encounters must seem random to her.

She pushed the window open a crack. Warm mountain air slid through his feathers, and when she smiled, he felt a jolt inside him. That smile struck somewhere no one should be able to reach. He did not understand why her eyes began to shine in that particular way, why they hit him harder than any sharp remark ever had.

Then she leaned in slightly and spoke softly, since her parents were downstairs. Her voice was gentle, calm, confidential. Her words reached him before he could shield himself. He felt something tighten in his chest when she addressed him by a name he had never chosen for himself, one that nevertheless felt strangely like a part of him.

She reached out and touched him carefully, so gently as though she knew he would react to every movement. Her fingers brushed the feathers at his head. That simple touch filled the small space between them with a closeness that overwhelmed him. No one had ever touched him with such calm tenderness that his reaction became almost impossible to suppress.

Severus remained still, determined not to show a single instinctive movement, though inside he had almost no control over his body.

To him, the moment felt more intense than he was willing to admit. The bond between them seemed to tighten, though she likely did not notice. The touch of her fingers triggered a physical response in him that surprised him—his feathers lifted slightly, and a brief involuntary shiver ran through him. The sensation lay uncomfortably close to weakness, and it irritated him.

He was dissatisfied with himself—for allowing a harmless, friendly gesture to provoke something he could not control. At the same time he realized that this moment exposed how deeply he lacked the feeling of being welcome anywhere.

The fact that she accepted him without hesitation weighed heavily.

He belonged to those who rarely received genuine appreciation. Perhaps her quiet affection struck him so deeply for that very reason. Perhaps he needed it more than he liked.

This realization frightened him.

Yet he stayed.

Because he could no longer leave.

In the following days a steady routine developed—one that felt strangely familiar to him far too quickly, though he resisted it. Each morning Hermione came outside with a book, found a spot in the garden, spread her blanket and sat down. She looked relaxed and entirely in her element, and that sight touched him each time more quietly and more deeply than he wanted to acknowledge.

Severus followed her regularly. Often he sat right beside her, close enough to feel her warmth, though he would never admit that he sought exactly that. She accepted his presence as if it were natural—sometimes shifting aside to give him space, sometimes positioning herself so that her parents couldn’t see them directly. This small detail did not escape him and left something within him that he cautiously avoided interpreting.

Sometimes he kept a slight distance, particularly when he noticed she was deeply absorbed in her text. Then he watched her from a place where he had everything in view, and this simple ritual calmed him more than he could express.

When she read aloud, he followed her words effortlessly. Her voice had a clear, pleasant sound that affected him in a way he was not used to. The melody of her sentences settled into his thoughts like a soft rhythm, smoothing the sharper edges of his mind. Several times he noticed his eyelids growing heavy in the warm sunlight, almost falling asleep as she read on. This effect irritated him every time—he rarely had moments in which his mind truly relaxed. Hermione managed, with only a few words, to release that inner tension, and the more often it happened, the more he realized how accustomed he had grown to it.

In the evenings he withdrew as soon as Hermione went to bed. He waited until her light went out—this final sign told him she was safe. Only then did he rise from the windowsill, spread his wings, and slip into the darkness that enveloped him like a familiar cloak.

He flew into the valley, took the remote paths he already knew well, and settled near the village. Under no circumstances could he appear there in his own form, so he resorted to a routine that had kept him safe for years. With precise, practiced motions he mixed the Polyjuice Potion and transformed into an unremarkable middle-aged woman whose face attracted no attention. The transformation was familiar to him and unpleasant at the same time, as it always carried with it that cold sensation of being foreign to himself.

In this guise he entered the small inn at the edge of the village—a place where people stayed who no one noticed and who had no reason to ask questions. He had rented a room for several weeks, paid in cash, and spoke as little as possible. The owner had glanced at him briefly, without suspicion, and handed him the key. That inconspicuous exchange was enough for him to feel safe.

This procedure became part of his daily rhythm—the disguise, the anonymity, the simple room at the inn, and the quiet that surrounded him—all helped him maintain a boundary he needed. In these hours he was forced to keep distance. The thought of Hermione still surfaced again and again, yet the distance kept him from acting impulsively.

It was a fragile balance, necessary to maintain control and manage a connection to her that challenged him far more than he had expected.

When the Grangers went on outings during the day, hiking together, he remained close without being noticed. He flew above them, keeping enough distance that no one suspected the raven was following a specific person. Sometimes he perched on a branch from which he could observe the family clearly, watching every detail of their environment to ensure they returned unharmed.

Every time Hermione ran laughing back to her parents or spoke with flushed cheeks full of excitement, he felt a pull deep in his chest—a sensation that struck him at the worst moments and unsettled him more than any danger. The feeling escaped his control, no matter how he tried to ignore it. His inner world reacted faster than his mind allowed, and this discomfort followed him like a constant shadow.

This daily routine felt like a brief peace—a peace he had not expected in this form. He enjoyed the clear days in the mountains, the silence of the forests, the steady breath of nature, which for fleeting moments made him forget how complicated everything was. Yet he knew the calm was fragile and could end at any time. Still, he allowed it as much as he could—there was no alternative except to stay vigilant and endure each day near her.

Weeks passed, and eventually the day of departure arrived. Hermione packed her suitcases with that focused calm he knew well, and he watched the moment she placed her last book into her bag. That unremarkable moment struck him unexpectedly deeply. Something inside him sank—a sense of loss that clung stubbornly. He knew she would travel straight from Austria to the Burrow, which limited his options and forced greater distance. Yet he immediately sensed that he would find a way, as he always did, because giving up was never among the choices he allowed himself.

In the evenings, when Hermione later sat in Miss Weasley’s room, he appeared regularly on the windowsill. Miss Weasley showed no surprise at the raven that appeared each night. Her indifference relieved him more than he admitted—it allowed him to remain near Hermione without interruption.

Hermione greeted him each time with a warm look and a quiet “hello,” which sank deeper into him than it should. She spoke to him in a calm, open way that she seldom used with others. He heard things she never said to her friends—thoughts she guarded carefully, as though too fragile to voice. He realized she trusted him in a way that filled him and unsettled him alike, making him question how much closeness was safe without crossing a line.

Over time it became more and more evident that Hermione’s thinking was changing. She asked more demanding questions, pondered connections that required a mature perspective, and often seemed so grown that he occasionally forgot how young she truly was. This development impressed him, moved him, yet also made him more vulnerable, as he repeatedly realized how quickly his feelings grew—faster than he could categorize them.

On a particularly clear day, when the sun shone over the wide garden of the Weasleys and the light sliced sharply across the grass, Potter, Miss Weasley, and the twins gathered at the far end of the yard. They tossed the Quaffle between them with playful ambition and loud encouragement, while the gnomes scurried about noisily, seemingly inspired to create chaos of their own.

Hermione had fetched herself a lemonade, the glass cool in her hand, and sat in a garden chair—leaned back slightly, watching the scene with the air of someone who had decided to enjoy a rare quiet moment. The summer day lay warm on her skin, her hair caught the light, and for a heartbeat she appeared so carefree that Severus, perched high in a tree, tilted his head because he so rarely saw that expression on her.

He sat in his raven form like a black accent against the bright green of the garden—motionless, sharp-eyed, watching every one of her movements. He told himself he was only keeping watch, as always. Yet the truth gnawed deeper—he was searching for something that was not his to claim, something that stirred whenever her attention drifted elsewhere.

Then Weasley stepped into her view—hands in his pockets, a crooked grin that was surely meant to appear casual. He positioned himself beside her chair, leaned slightly toward her, and began a conversation whose tone left no doubt about his intentions. Weasley was flirting. Gently, testingly, almost charmingly.

“Beautiful day, Hermione,” he said as he leaned casually against the back of her chair.

“That it is,” Hermione replied, lifting the glass to her lips while keeping her gaze on him.

“I wanted to ask if you’d like to go flying with me later,” Weasley said, his tone deliberately casual, as though he wanted it to sound effortless.

“Maybe,” Hermione said, a small smile at the corner of her mouth—one that irritated Severus because it looked like genuine interest rather than polite courtesy. “Depends on whether you let me keep up.”

Weasley laughed. “Happy to help you practice.”

“I believe that,” Hermione said, this time with a more open smile.

Severus felt something tighten inside him—an instinctive contraction he disliked. His feathers lay flatter against his body, his claws gripped the wood more tightly, his physical reaction quicker than his mind allowed. Jealousy struck him like a blow—irrational, unacceptable, intolerable.

As Hermione continued talking with Ron, she lifted her eyes—first because she sensed movement, then with sudden clarity when she spotted the dark bird on the branch. The raven sat there with that calm, focused expression she had grown familiar with, and a quiet shiver went through her. Her raven. The silent watcher who came more often than she admitted.

For a heartbeat she paused while Ron kept speaking, and she wondered what Professor Snape might think in this moment, hearing every word exchanged between her and Ron. She wondered whether he found it amusing, annoying, or simply irrelevant when Ron attempted this clumsy flirting—friendly but ineffective, stirring very little in her.

The thought of how Professor Snape reacted to these conversations sent a sudden pang through her. A warmth spread in her chest—uninvited and unapproved—and for a breath she wished she were talking to someone else instead… someone whose voice was deep and calm, whose gaze never truly released her, whose attention affected her more powerfully than was reasonable.

She wished she could flirt with him.

The thought hit her like a blow—hard and ill-timed—and she chastised herself immediately, knowing how wrong it was. Professor Snape was her teacher. Her protector in a strange, unspoken way. A man bound by limits that could never be crossed. Yet the feeling pushed forward—the realization that her thoughts had already gone too far.

She lowered her eyes back to Ron, smiled where appropriate, though inside something entirely different stirred—something she would not name—while her raven watched silently overhead.

One evening she sat on her bed with her legs stretched out, absent-mindedly braiding her hair. Her movements were calm, almost dreamlike. “Tomorrow is the Quidditch World Cup,” she said eventually, her tone making clear that the outing reflected more her friends’ enthusiasm than her own. She did it for them—for Potter, for the Weasleys. That sentiment shimmered softly in her voice, and Severus, observing her from the shadows, felt a small stab of something he struggled to categorize.

He had spent more time with her than planned—more than was rational—yet the thought of leaving was harder than he would ever admit. Still, he rose at dawn again, with a clear purpose and a tension that refused to ease. A disquieting calm sat within him—a feeling that told him he needed to stay close, that distance these days was not an option.

Mr. Weasley, Potter, the four younger Weasleys, and Hermione set off together. Severus perched high in a tree, talons anchored firmly in the bark, watching their departure with an intensity that bordered on painful. In the next moment he followed—silent, wings beating with precise strength—as they crossed the field and down the path.

Along the way the group met the Diggorys, and Severus recognized the boy instantly—Cedric with his polite smile and effortless ease. Traits that unsettled and fascinated Severus in equal measure.

He kept to the background as always, making sure no one noticed him—one mistake would reveal everything he worked so hard to conceal. When the group touched the Portkey, he moved—dropping, beating his wings sharply, reaching them unnoticed.

The jerk of the Portkey seized them all. Moments later they landed in a clearing. For a breath the world felt tilted and too bright. As the group steadied themselves, he soared upward again—wings outstretched, gliding along the treetops until he found a safe vantage point.

From there he surveyed the area. Voices mingled, flags fluttered, a shimmering sense of anticipation hung in the air. He knew he could not watch the match up close—it would draw too much attention. Yet he stayed within reach—close enough to intervene if needed.

A sensation worked deep in his chest—not a clear premonition, not a specific danger. More a stubborn pressure telling him that this day demanded more than passive observation. Strong enough for him to trust it.

To him, one thing was certain:

He would not be absent should anything happen. Hermione was down there. That alone was enough to keep every instinct in him wide awake.

Chapter Text

It happened as it inevitably had to. Although Severus had never seen himself as someone who read signs in the air or relied on diffuse moods, he could no longer pretend everything was normal this night. The darkness felt different. It did not merely lie over the campsite like a blanket, it pressed itself into every crack, every gap, like something with a presence of its own. The air was still warm from the day, but within that warmth lay a faint, barely perceptible current that made his skin prickle. It felt as though something in the background was tensing, as though the world itself was holding its breath and waiting for something that had no name yet.

He remained perched on the branch, claws sunk deep into the wood, and let his gaze slide over the flickering cones of lantern light, over colourful flags, over drunken figures who staggered past one another with loud voices. If someone had asked him directly in that moment, he would probably have answered coldly that he was imagining things. Internally, however, he felt how his thoughts aligned themselves and how the old reflex kicked in to register every inconsistency in his surroundings. ‘Something is not right here.’ The thought was simple, unspectacular, and it stayed.

He could not see it and he could not name it, yet he still perceived it. Long before the first screams rang out, a subtle trembling lay in the atmosphere, a barely audible humming that settled at the back of his neck, into the muscles of his shoulders, into the lower edge of his consciousness. An electric shimmer slid across the tent canvas, climbed up the poles, and hung like a barely visible veil over people’s heads, as though the night prepared itself to spit out something that did not belong here. His body reacted before he could consciously think about it. His shoulders grew taut, his neck tightened, his heart beat faster, not in the rhythm of panicked fear, rather in the alert tension that rose in him whenever danger hung in the air.

He was used to reading his surroundings, yet tonight they seemed to shift too quickly. A spell shot into the sky, others answered it, lights exploded in green, white and gold. Someone shouted, “Another round!”, someone else loudly complained about spilled beer. On the surface, everything appeared like a normal evening, yet it felt as though someone had laid a veil over the scene, a thin layer of expectation beneath which something lurked.

‘You are not imagining This.’ He sensed his inner resistance stir, that cynical voice that preferred to smother any feeling of foreboding. The pounding behind his breastbone did not fade, it persisted stubbornly, like a signal he could barely ignore.

This instinct, which had saved his life more than once, did not speak to him as a clear voice. No one seemed to perceive what was rising inside him.

At first, everything appeared to run along familiar lines. The noise after the match was loud but expected. Drunken singing, whooping calls, the rhythmic thumping of hundreds of feet weaving between the tents. The Irish celebrated in a way only the Irish knew how: exuberant, wild, uninhibited. The Bulgarians seemed irritable, restless, some muttered, which one might have dismissed as wounded pride. At first glance, nothing about it seemed unusual.

A thin shiver ran through his feathers. He saw nothing concrete, it remained instinct. Bare, naked premonition, like a shadow passing briefly across his thoughts.

He lowered his head minimally, as far as was possible in this form, and let his gaze sink downward. Between the rows he noticed a few hooded figures who disappeared into the crowd too quickly. It could have been coincidence. He had no belief left for coincidences of that kind. Not after everything. ‘Could it be? Are they here? If they are, if they truly are here and something breaks loose, no one will be prepared. Once again.’ The thought was not dramatic, it was an observation. That was his way.

And then hell broke loose.

The first scream sliced through the darkness so suddenly that for a heartbeat everything seemed to fall silent to make room for that sound. High, panicked, desperate, completely out of place beside the cheering that had filled the air just moments ago. A second scream followed, rougher, full of shock. After that, the mood tipped.

Severus’s head whipped around, his body tensed even further as his gaze attempted to locate the source of the cry. Nothing concrete, not yet.

Chaos did not begin slowly, it crashed down like a blow. Lights that had moments before glowed invitingly now flickered frantically. Tents tore, collapsed, canvas flapped as though trying to wrench itself free of its anchors. Smoke crept along the edges at first, then faster, filling tent lanes, sliding beneath fabric sheets, eating through anything in its path. The soundscape shifted from loud commotion to a roar of shrieking voices, falling poles, ripping seams and shrill curses.

“Run!”, someone shouted, this time without any trace of humour, with the raw panic of a person who understood that this was no simple brawl. Another yelled, “Back to the tent!”, a third, “Apparate, for Merlin’s sake!”, yet most no longer listened to anyone at all.

People reacted as people do when they realise too late what is happening. They ran. Many had no clear destination. Feet stumbled over guy ropes, bags, overturned chairs, over other bodies. Names were called but drowned in the noise, commands shouted that no one could correctly assign anymore. Children cried, adults screamed, and among it all the explosive howling of spells fired without control. The ground vibrated under the combined force of their flight.

Severus did not only register the change with his eyes, he felt it in his body like a jolt. The pressure in his chest intensified, his instincts tugged at him like a rope. He spread his wings further, pushed off and shot upward so fast that the airflow under his feathers felt like a brief tear. From above he gained a fleeting overview, but it helped little – the chaos was no single point, it was a field spreading outward.

He recognised tongues of flame that advanced rapidly, saw people fleeing in every direction, spotted Aurors here and there trying to erect barriers and still barely managing against the sheer numbers. Some apparated, others hesitated, afraid of materialising inside someone else.

‘This is no longer controllable,’ he observed. ‘So focus. You have only one goal.’

The screams thickened, overlapped until they merged into a single vibrating field of fear. Severus heard the explosions that tore open the night, each accompanied by a blinding flare, as though someone ripped brutal pieces out of the darkness to reveal burning light behind. Flames shot upward, reached for tents as though they had found their prey. They lashed across the canvas, devouring fabric, wood and rope, refusing to release anything until it collapsed beneath them.

The smell of scorched fabric, heat, singed hair mixed with sweat, fear and earth. The crackling of burning canvas twisting into itself, the splintering of poles that could not withstand such force. Curses hissed in all directions, some aimed, many uncontrolled, fired from hands that no longer stayed steady.

His breathing grew shallower, not from panic, but because the air grew thicker. His gaze kept darting in the same direction, where he had last seen the Weasleys, Potter and Hermione. Bodies pushed between, lanterns swung, shadows danced. It was as though someone kept reshuffling the image to deny him a clear view.

Severus’s heart clenched, not only as a reflexive reaction to danger, but with the sharp discomfort of a moment in which something essential was at stake. A thought broke through everything else, clearer and harder than the rest. ‘Hermione.’

It was not a well-formed thought, more like an inward blow, as if someone had carved her name directly into his chest. She was somewhere down there. Somewhere among fleeing bodies, fire, smoke and sparks. He did not need to exert himself to imagine her stumbling, searching for orientation, trying to find a path while flames came too close or canvas collapsed. The mere idea released something inside him that refused to be argued with. He saw her before him, not as a heroine, but as herself: with wide eyes, clever hands reaching for her wand, with that inner drive to impose order even when the ground beneath her burned.

For a moment, the air left him. It felt as though someone had shoved a hand into his chest and squeezed everything tight. He had learned to breathe through pain and ignore bodily reactions. His chest refused to fall back into that forced calm. For a second he stood at an internal point where only two options remained: act or freeze. He had never been made for paralysis.

Beneath him the noises merged into a steady drone – screams, spells, crashes, whimpers. Inside him a quiet but persistent rhythm formed. Not a fully formed sentence, more a recurring impulse that drove him without pause.

‘Find her. Now.’ His mind turned it into a mantra. It guided him, sharpened his movements and filtered out unnecessary impressions.

He knew his Occlumency shields normally protected him, helped him maintain distance and detach from impressions that cut too close. Tonight they felt like an obstacle. If he kept them fully raised, he could not reach what he needed. He needed the bond he usually locked away. He needed that inner connection he rejected whenever it became too distinct.

He sensed the old reflex rise, smoothing everything over, sealing himself, dampening the inner chaos. At the same time he realised that doing so would rob him of clarity.

So he let go. It felt like a fine but distinct pull somewhere deep inside him, as though someone had taken hold of a thread fastened to his core and drawn it taut, gently but decisively. No voice telling him where she was. Rather a feeling that his gaze should shift in a certain direction, his flight tilt at a certain angle, because something waited for him there.

The Protego Duo, the stone she had touched, stirred as well. It was as though something in that charm had remembered that her hands had lain in his magic at the same time. The protection turned into a kind of resonance, an additional pulse that did not come from his body and yet echoed in his chest. A foreign heartbeat within his own. ‘She needs me. I must get to her. I will find her.’

The moment he spotted her, it felt as though someone adjusted the focus. The rest remained blurred – flames, bodies, running shadows – but her outline, her movement sharpened. He let out a sound, a hoarse caw, without elegance, filled with pure instinct.

She was running, the Weasley girl at her hand, Weasley close beside her, all three breathless. Her hair clung partly to her forehead, the rest flew in wild curls behind her.

‘Look up. I am here,’ shot through his mind, though he knew she could not hear the words. The cry sufficed.

She reacted instantly. Her head whipped around, her gaze searched, found him and held on. She was pale, dirt streaked across her face, her eyes wide, yet fear had not fully claimed her. Something else lay beneath. Recognition. A brief flicker of “There you are” in her expression.

Her mouth opened slightly as if she wanted to speak, but the air lasted only for a harsh breath. Still he saw her focus gather. Not calm in the true sense, but sharper. He had given her a fixed point.

‘Good,’ he thought. ‘Hold on to it.’

Hermione kept running. The ground was uneven, littered with ropes, bags, fallen stakes, tents burned everywhere, sparks shot through the air. People screamed over one another, voices broke, someone called for a child, someone else for a partner. In her mind one part struggled to keep direction while the rest just tried to function. Ginny clung to her hand, fingers cold and clammy with fear, Ron stumbled behind, gasping, his face set in that strange mix of panic and stubborn endurance. Harry was somewhere in all of this. She knew he had been directly behind them, yet she saw him nowhere no matter how many times she glanced sideways. Every attempt to spot his black hair failed due to smoke, heads and flickering light.

She knew with strange clarity, in the middle of panic, that Professor Snape would come. That he would not leave her alone. The thought existed before she formed it. And he came, she heard his rasping call. He was her point of light in the chaos. Hermione aligned her run to him without hesitation. She pulled Ginny closer, practically dragging her, while Ron stumbled after her, swearing and yet keeping pace because he trusted her. ‘Lead us out of here, Professor,’ she thought, her gaze fixed on the dark shape in the sky. ‘Just show me where to run.’

Severus went into a dive. He landed on Hermione’s shoulder, harder than was pleasant. Her muscles tensed under the impact. She flinched, a gasp escaped her, betraying the pain of his weight and the grip of his claws.

He felt her body heat through the fabric, felt how her breath worked beneath him, fast and irregular but unbroken. His grip remained tighter than necessary. The thought of losing hold hit him unpleasantly.

“Thanks for the help, Abraxas,” she forced out between breaths. The name she had given him rang in his ears.

‘You have no idea who is guarding your back,’ he thought, one part relieved, another finding it almost unbearable.

She addressed the others without stopping. Ginny held her hand so tightly Hermione’s fingers protested. The girl’s gaze darted everywhere, as though searching for a direction that felt safe.

“But where the hell is Harry?” Hermione’s voice was tense. The question insisted on being asked, although she knew no one here could offer anything useful. The responsibility was hers regardless, and she felt its weight with every step.

Ginny swallowed. Her fingers cramped even tighter around Hermione’s hand, as if everything depended on that hold. Harry’s name hung like an invisible weight in the air, heavier than the smoke pressing into their lungs. From every direction someone shouted for him, voices breaking, searching, demanding. The panic of others lay like a pounding wave over everything.

“He was right behind us,” Ginny managed. Her words trembled, and Hermione sensed how close the tears were. Ginny kept looking back, as if she might break free any moment. She stayed with Hermione because Hermione ran.

“We have to look for him!”, Ron shouted. He sounded loud, almost too loud, as though volume could drown his fear. Hermione heard every crack in his voice. Still he had the will not to simply flee.

Hermione exhaled hard. Ron was right. Harry had to be somewhere in this chaos. Every step felt wrong without him.

“Yes. We’ll look for him,” she said without stopping. “Stay with me. We go back to where we last saw him.”

She forced clarity into her mind. No room for panic, no wild guesses. Only the next step. Find Harry.

At that exact moment Severus’s claws dug deeper into her shoulder. The pressure grew stronger, as though his hands – claws in this form – wanted to deliver a firm “Stop.”

Hermione flinched and pressed her lips together. She lifted her head and sought his gaze. For a moment she seemed to block out everything else, even the screams around them. Her brow furrowed slightly, her eyes narrowed.

He saw her make the decision to trust him, even though she did not know what he wanted to communicate. She stopped at the edge of the campsite.

‘Good,’ he thought. ‘Just this once. Listen to me.’

He stared at her, motionless, black, calm. No blinking, no shifting. She held his gaze. In that brief look lay silent understanding. Long enough for him to know she had realised she needed to wait.

Weasley almost stumbled into her, caught himself when she raised a warning hand. “What is it, Hermione?”, he read from his lips.

‘You learn,’ Severus thought.

He beat his wings and rose again. The thought shaped itself clearly within him, this time in words, so sober they seemed almost brutal.

‘One thing matters now: Potter. You get the girl out of here once you have found the boy.’

The cynicism he normally projected outward vanished. Only the cold core of a decision remained.

He did not know how late “too late” would be. He only knew every moment of hesitation brought them closer to it.

Potter attracted trouble like a magnet. The combination of his name, his existence, and his tendency to land in the centre of every dangerous situation made him the perfect target. And if the Death Eaters were here, the followers of the Dark Lord, they would sense him.

As he circled and searched for patterns within the chaos, the traces of the attack became clearer. Charred tent poles jutted like broken fingers into the air, canvas lay half ash, half dirt, the ground black and crumbly in places as though its top layer had been burned away. People scrambled to rescue belongings, grabbing at trunks or bags only to drop them again when the next explosion or scream drove them onward.

A man shouted, “Leave the stuff, run!”, yet no one seemed to listen. A child cried beside an overturned cauldron while its parents had apparently run in a different direction. Too many images like these.

‘You cannot save them all,’ he reminded himself. ‘So focus on those you cannot lose.’

This sight dragged an old memory to the surface, one he could barely push back. Nights he had walked through similar scenes as a young man, when screams, roars and the smell of burnt magic had lain thick in the air. His muscles remembered, his mind resisted stepping into the role he had once been forced to fill.

He had once stood on the other side, had cast spells that left similar images, or worse. That awareness sat inside him like a foreign object that could not be removed.

‘Part of it stays in you,’ he thought coolly. ‘No matter how much you believe you now stand on the other side.’

Then he spotted Potter. The boy stood gasping in an area less crowded than the rest. His clothes were dishevelled, his face smeared, eyes wide but clear. He was alive. That was the first, most important fact. The second followed immediately: Potter was not simply running, he was trying to speak, to orient himself. Of course he was.

Severus saw him straighten up, look around searchingly, obviously looking for Ginny and Hermione. “Ron! Hermione!”, he could read on his lips, even though the noise swallowed nearly everything.

Severus breathed inwardly, as much as was possible in this form. The pressure in his chest eased for a heartbeat. Then he heard other voices. Not from afar – close. Familiar voices.

‘Hermione.’ ‘Weasley.’

Of course they had run toward him. Of course they had left the safe edge of the campsite. Of course they had chosen the path back to where danger was worse.

He saw them emerging between two tent rows, still together. A brief flicker of relief went through him because they had not been separated. In nights like this, that could already be the difference between a chance and none.

‘You are a catastrophe as a concept,’ he thought, and still a part of his inner hardness loosened when he saw them like that.

‘You stubborn, impatient brat,’ he thought, without bitterness, more with familiar irritation and resignation. ‘Why can you not stay just once where I want you? In safety.’

He saw Hermione’s face, determined, overwhelmed, exhausted.

‘Because it is not in your nature to stay still when someone is in danger,’ he answered himself. ‘You are as unsuited to that as Potter is to behaving inconspicuously.’

Then he heard it, a deep voice. “Morsmordre.”

The word hung over the grounds, heavy and weighty, as though it had not merely been spoken but hurled into the night with force. The sky changed. Green brightness spread across the black, in a way he recognised instantly.

The Mark appeared – the skull, the serpent emerging from its mouth. ‘By Merlin, it is true. They are back. But who was it?,’ Severus thought.

His chest tightened as though someone had set a screw there and turned it mercilessly. His breath hitched, not because his lungs failed, but because his mind needed the moment to accept what he saw. This was a return, not just of a symbol, but of an entire section of his past he would have preferred to leave buried.

Old scenes rose in him – gatherings, masks, the unnatural stillness before an attack. For a heartbeat he did not see the campsite but other places, other nights.

‘You thought you could detach yourself from this,’ he thought harshly. ‘You were wrong again.’

He cursed inwardly, sharp and quick. ‘Bloody hell.’

He knew the effect this sign aimed to have. People needed no explanation. Many recognised it, and those who did not sensed instinctively that it announced nothing good. It was meant to provoke fear, but not only that. It was meant to awaken the sense of hopelessness, the impression that nothing was safe, no matter how grand or public the setting. A declaration.

He had once stood beneath that symbol, part of the side that sent that message. Today he stood elsewhere, yet its meaning remained the same.

‘They want more than to harm,’ he thought. ‘They want to remind the world they exist.’

He sank again and sought a position from which he could see Hermione. A half-destroyed tent pole gave him purchase. He landed and saw how she noticed him and instinctively took a few steps toward him – yet the moment was interrupted. Several wizards apparated nearby. Red sparks shot through the air, spells flew, orders collided.

“Stop!”, “Don’t move!”, “Who did this?”, they shouted all at once, their wands jerking nervously, some pointing far too close to the children.

‘Idiots,’ Severus thought. ‘You are more nervous than those you must protect.’

He let out a sharp, loud cry, not of panic but as a firm warning. Hermione reacted instantly. She grabbed Harry and Ron and yanked them down. A Stunner sizzled through the exact line their heads had occupied seconds before. A moment later all three would have been unconscious.

Potter gasped as he hit the dirt, Weasley muttered a curse, Hermione pressed her lips together. The Weasley-girl instinctively pulled her knees to her chest.

‘Well done, little Gryffindor,’ Severus thought as he regained balance with a wingbeat. ‘And you have no idea who just saved your life.’

He listened as the situation shifted. The wizards sought an explanation, a culprit, someone they could present so they did not have to admit they had lost control. They held out Winky, Barty Crouch’s house-elf, unconscious, holding Potter’s wand.

“There!”, one cried triumphantly, as though he had caught something rare. “She had the wand!”, another added, the relief of having a convenient scapegoat almost tangible.

Severus’s reaction remained cool. It did not fit. Too many details formed no coherent picture. An elf as the origin of such a spell? Convenient, easy to explain, but hollow. A being to whom one could shove a wand made a neat story. A dark wizard in the shadows posed a problem.

‘They could hardly have staged it more clumsily,’ he thought, the corners of his beak forming a silent trace of scorn. ‘An elf as the driving force behind such magic – whoever believes that wants an ending, not truth.’

He knew how Ministry officials behaved under pressure. They wanted results, not clarity. An elf with a wand was a result. An unknown Death Eater capable of casting the Mark was an open wound.

He heard Potter’s words, heard him report seeing masked figures. No one took it seriously. Too inconvenient, too dangerous, too much work. The crowd wanted a conclusion, not a nightmare with no end. “I saw them, they were…”, Potter’s voice was not brutally cut off, more politely brushed aside. A stiff-collared man patted his shoulder, forming words that looked like “You must have imagined it, boy,” then turned back to the elf.

Inside Severus the next step already took shape. He had to return to Hogwarts. To Albus. Not later. Now. Albus needed to know that the Mark had been placed deliberately in the sky. It was no whim of overexcited followers of the Dark Lord.

He could already see Albus’s face in his mind, the way the old man’s eyes narrowed when bad news arrived that surprised him scarcely at all.

Severus did not leave until he was certain Hermione, Potter and the Weasleys had cleared the immediate danger. Only when they arrived at the Burrow, when he felt the familiar safety of that home, did the acute tension inside him slowly ease. Not fully. A part stayed alert, but the sharp pressure dulled into a slower turning of thoughts.

He saw them through the window, in the warm kitchen light, pale, exhausted, alive. Mrs Weasley held Ginny tightly, Potter raked his hand through his hair again and again, Hermione spoke quietly, with the steadiness she had forced upon herself.

The rest of the holidays appeared outwardly calm. No further attack, no new Mark in the sky. Days passed as though the world wished to pretend nothing had happened. Inside Severus’s mind things looked different. He replayed the night again and again. The voices. The sign.

He laid out scenarios mentally, shifting puzzle pieces, wondering which of the old names had possessed the nerve or stupidity to cast the Dark Mark so openly. The list of possibilities was short, the conclusions unpleasant.

He paused on one name: Lucius Malfoy. The gesture, the symbol, the desire to demonstrate something publicly fit him. It was typical of Lucius to blend loyalty and vanity to create impact. It unsettled Severus that he had noticed nothing beforehand. No hints, no rumour, no movement in the old network. For someone like Lucius, such a display would have been a natural step to project influence and suggest that their former power might matter again.

The voice of the wizard who had cast the Mark remained in his memory. He knew it, yet it was not Lucius. That meant someone from the same circle had acted. Someone who knew exactly how to send a signal.

Severus thought back to earlier encounters with Lucius. The courteous tone always lined with calculation. The rivalry that never vanished despite shared advantage. Lucius possessed money, influence and a respected name. Severus had none of that, yet his position with the Dark Lord had often been stronger. Lucius had never borne that well. In many moments he had stood behind Severus and was aware of it. The thought that Lucius might know his current allegiance to Albus did not improve matters.

He finally pulled his gaze away from the window of the Burrow. Inside sat the Weasley-girl, Potter, Weasley and Hermione. The kitchen light outlined their familiar forms clearly. The moment was calm, yet he knew he could not cling to it. The situation demanded distance and a clear step forward.

He left the edge of the property and crossed the boundary of the protective charms. There he transformed back, stood motionless for a heartbeat as he checked his surroundings. Then he focused on Hogwarts, chose the familiar point before the castle doors, and apparated away with a sharp tear in the air.

Chapter Text

YEAR 4

The afternoon was sliding toward evening as Severus walked up the carefully maintained path leading to the entrance of Malfoy Manor. Gravel crunched beneath his boots, and the air smelled of roses, cold stone, and old money. The estate rose from the landscape like a monument to arrogance: white columns, richly ornamented windows, a roof that gleamed like polished slate in the dying light of day. The double doors opened soundlessly, as though they had been waiting only for him.

Narcissa Malfoy stepped forward like a figure from a flawless portrait that had suddenly drawn breath. Her blonde hair flowed in soft waves over her shoulders, her eyes cool and yet threaded with carefully controlled warmth. “Severus!” she called, and the exuberant joy in her voice was as unfamiliar as it was striking. She took his hands, holding them a moment too long. “How wonderful that you came.”

He inclined his head slightly, his expression impenetrable. “Thank you for the invitation, Narcissa. It has been a long time.”

“You are always welcome.” She stepped back, elegant like a hostess who knew exactly what effect she created. “Come inside. Lucius is already waiting. And Draco will be pleased to see you as well.”

The interior of the house opened like a labyrinth of wealth and cold. High ceilings, dark mirror-smooth wood, and heavy carpets that swallowed every step. The portraits along the walls watched him with pale, aristocratic faces, as if weighing his right to be here.

“Severus.” Lucius Malfoy stood at the far end of the foyer, dressed in black and silver, a living statue of elegance and calculation. The man knew precisely how to place himself in the right light.

“Lucius,” Severus replied calmly.

A tight, controlled smile appeared on Lucius’ lips. “There is a strange wind over the world. It is good to know old friends at one’s side.”

Severus’ mask sat perfectly. “Old friends invite one another when they have something to discuss.”

“Indeed.” Lucius turned, a fluid, almost theatrical movement, and gestured toward the dining room. “Come. We have much to speak about.”

The dining room was a palace within a palace. A crystal chandelier hovered above the long table of dark mahogany like a frozen sun. Silver cutlery glittered like blades, crystal glasses like solidified drops. It was a setting not meant to convey hospitality, but absolute power.

Two house-elves poured wine, deep red, heavy, rich with aroma. “A vintage I open only for special occasions,” Lucius remarked with that self-satisfied calm he had perfected.

Severus lifted his glass slightly. “Then I hope it is worthy of the occasion.”

“It will be.” Lucius’ laughter drifted briefly through the room, cool and controlled.

The venison ragout was served, steaming and refined with herbs that likely grew only in the hidden gardens of the estate. The scent was warm, a contrast to the icy elegance of the room.

Lucius helped himself, as though conversation were merely a casual accompaniment. “Unusual times, are they not? The Quidditch World Cup… an unfortunate incident, as the Ministry claims.”

Severus barely touched his food. “An incident that appeared remarkably precisely orchestrated.”

Lucius’ mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Messages are not always conveyed through words. Sometimes impressions are more effective.”

Severus understood the implication. A confession that refused to be one.

Lucius’ gaze lingered on him a moment too long, assessing. “You were there?”

Severus met the look without flinching. “I heard about it.”

A barely noticeable smile crossed Lucius’ lips, more satisfaction than friendliness. In his eyes lay a spark of undisguised pride. “The world is beginning to understand that old powers have not vanished.”

The door opened. Draco entered, with the posture of a boy trying to convince himself he was already a man. He inclined his head. “Godfather.”

Severus returned the greeting curtly. “Draco.”

He produced a slim-wrapped gift. “For your coming school year.”

Draco’s eyes lit up, briefly and honestly. “Thank you, Godfather.” He sat down, proud as a young falcon.

Lucius regarded his son with mild self-satisfaction. “Draco makes interesting observations.”

Draco straightened. “The school needs order. There are too many who do not belong to our world. Mudbloods who... ”

Pain stabbed through Severus, sharp and unexpected. Outwardly he remained still, but inside something flared, hot and restless.

He thought of Hermione.
Of her clarity.
Of her light.
Of something far greater than Draco’s paltry slogans.

He replied with smooth calm. “A school reflects its students. Sometimes it takes patience to change a system.”

Lucius smiled briefly, then turned to his son. “That will be enough for today, Draco. Go to your mother.”

Draco hesitated, then nodded. “Good night.” He cast Severus one last satisfied glance and left the room. The door closed behind him.

Severus still felt the burn beneath the surface, but he held it firmly in check.

After the meal, the house-elves served a golden liqueur whose warmth spread instantly through the body, sweet on the tongue, deceptively gentle in its effect, and Severus noted how Lucius accepted the glass with an ease that betrayed more composure than the evening before. The master of the house seemed relaxed, almost cheerful, as though he possessed knowledge others did not yet share, a secret that lent him strength and held his posture upright as he surveyed the room with a gaze that seemed to grasp everything.

“Dumbledore is losing his grip,” Lucius said at last, without warning, as though it were a neutral observation rather than an attack. “The Ministry is silent, out of convenience or fear. The rumors grow louder; they can no longer be contained.” He lifted his glass, took a small sip, and set it down only after a deliberate pause. “It is said the Dark Lord…” Lucius broke off, leaving the sentence unfinished, the words hanging between them like mist, heavy enough to fill the room without ever being spoken.

Severus did not react. His face remained unmoving, his gaze steady, his posture closed like stone, and even the warm alcohol did nothing to soften the cold with which he studied Lucius.

Lucius leaned slightly forward, lowered his voice until it was meant only for Severus, confidential, almost inviting. “When the time comes, I will need men who know when strength must show itself,” he said calmly. “Men who recognize where they must stand when the balance shifts.”

Severus answered without hesitation, concise and precise. “I am listening.”

Lucius’ lips curved faintly. “You will learn more when it becomes necessary,” he said. “For now we move in the shadows. Some of us are already active again. Carefully. Discreetly. You know Nott. Avery. Yaxley has also begun to cultivate old contacts.”

He paused, letting his gaze rest on Severus in scrutiny. “The Mark does not yet respond,” he continued. “But that is merely a matter of time. Signs rarely appear simultaneously. First the world whispers. Then it answers.”

Severus inclined his head almost imperceptibly. “Patience has never been the problem.”

Lucius’ smile widened, almost amused. “That is what I have always appreciated about you.” His gaze slid briefly aside, then back. “Tell me, Severus, quite apart from politics. Do you have a woman at your side these days?”

The question came casually, almost lightly, and yet curiosity lay within it.

Severus’ expression did not change. “No,” he said evenly. “I have no need for a fixed attachment. I occasionally visit appropriate establishments. That suffices.”

Lucius laughed softly, openly, a sound that loosened the room for a moment. “Ever the pragmatist. Some things never change.”

Shortly before midnight, Severus left Malfoy Manor. The cool air outside settled over his skin like a release after the heavy, overladen splendor of the house, after gold, marble, and unspoken threats. He Apparated back to Hogwarts, where light still burned in the headmaster’s office, a quiet sign that no one there truly slept either.

Dumbledore was seated there, as though he had known precisely when Severus’ steps would reach him. “You look tired,” he said calmly.

“It was a long evening.” Severus removed his cloak and drew a deep breath. “Lucius speaks of order, of coming times, of return. The attacks at the campsite were definitely a message, not chance.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly.

“Draco is already fully ensnared,” Severus continued. “Narcissa remains silent, but she follows her husband. Lucius wants me at his side.”

“And you?” Dumbledore’s voice was gentle, yet astonishingly clear.

Severus’ gaze grew dark and sharp at once. “I know where I stand. I know my place.”

The headmaster closed his eyes briefly. “Good.”

Severus turned to leave, but paused for a moment. “He underestimates me.”

Dumbledore’s reply came softly, almost a whisper. “He also does not know for whom your heart beats.”

Severus froze, for a single breath. Then he left the office soundlessly, his cloak like a shadow that knew exactly where it belonged.

The new school year began quietly at first, almost eerily so, like the stillness before a storm already gathering on the horizon, unseen but felt. Until the thirtieth of October, little occurred that truly unsettled the daily lives of students and teachers. Many had already settled into the deceptive security that it might be a year like any other. Then the atmosphere shifted abruptly, as if someone had thrown open a hidden gate and widened the world in a single stroke. On that first day of October, the two foreign schools arrived on the grounds of Hogwarts, venerable institutions whose very names inspired awe among students and staff alike. They were to participate in the Triwizard Tournament alongside Hogwarts.

For weeks, rumors and speculation had filled the corridors—who would come, how they would arrive, what talents and secrets they would bring. But now, as the enormous carriage and the ship became visible, it was as though a dream from fairy tales and legends had been hurled violently into the present.

Excitement surged through the student body, a storm of murmurs, shouts, and eager anticipation. Children pressed against windows, older students gathered on the staircases. It was as if the ancient castle itself vibrated in silent expectation. Hogwarts was no longer merely a school—it had become the host of one of the greatest and most traditional magical competitions in the world.

Yet the euphoria burned only briefly, like a flame that flares too greedily and then threatens to consume itself in its own heat. For scarcely had Albus Dumbledore, with his unshakably mild yet utterly firm voice, announced the conditions when a shadow fell over many faces. An age limit, immovable, non-negotiable. Only students of age would be allowed to compete; no one under seventeen would have even the slightest chance to place their name in the Goblet of Fire.

The prize was great—one thousand Galleons, along with fame and honor that would cling to the victor’s name like a second skin for life. Greater still was the danger, and the protection of the younger generation outweighed the foolish longings of those not yet mature enough to grasp what it meant to enter such battles.

Severus, who had observed the spectacle with folded arms and an impenetrable expression, found the decision overdue and entirely sensible. He knew his students’ abilities better than anyone. He knew their weaknesses, their naivety, the smooth façades behind which little substance lay. What appeared in the classroom as a brilliant display of curses and spells was in truth brittle glass that would shatter at the first real blow. They would be cannon fodder in the first task; of that he had not the slightest doubt. Even if Dumbledore, with all his prudence, had promised that no one would be seriously harmed, Severus knew that no competition of this kind ended without blood, sweat, and tears.

The competition was formidable. Beauxbatons’ students shone with elegance, almost otherworldly grace, and a sense of precision that Severus acknowledged with reluctant respect. Durmstrang, by contrast, seemed its counterpart: hardness, discipline, an almost martial aura that made clear at a glance that their training had been more battle than art. Their headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, was no stranger to Severus, but rather a shadow from a past that burned like a scar in his own history. A former Death Eater like himself, yet unlike Severus, Karkaroff had begged for leniency after his arrest before the Wizengamot, had given up names and sown betrayal to purchase his own freedom—a bargain that saved his life and forever discredited him in the eyes of the remaining survivors.

“Everything is prepared, Severus,” Dumbledore said at last, his voice as calm and deep as an unshakable lake at dusk, a sound that radiated composure even as dark clouds gathered over the world. He sat behind his desk, fingertips loosely pressed together, while the golden shimmer of candlelight glided over his spectacles. “Tomorrow we will announce who will represent Hogwarts in the tournament, and I have reviewed the tasks once more very carefully. We are asking the unthinkable of young people, more than one should reasonably demand of an unburdened mind.”

“Then you had best grow accustomed to it, Albus,” Severus replied in a tone like metal scraping metal, dark, sharp, irritated. His fingers drummed against the chair back, each contact precise like a strong heartbeat that betrayed how little patience remained in him.

Dumbledore offered him a mild, almost cheerful smile, utterly unmoved by the brewing storm in his words. “Before we venture into that storm tomorrow, I would ask you to review Poppy’s supplies one final time,” he said, leaning slightly forward as though listening to Severus’ breathing. “Your recent deliveries have already been exceptionally extensive, which I greatly appreciate, but a bit of additional caution has never harmed Hogwarts.”

Severus twisted his mouth, a movement between fatigue and contempt. “Of course they were,” he said sharply, born of too little sleep and too many hours at the cauldron. “I have barely slept, my hands constantly smell of dragon liver, and my evenings…” He stopped abruptly, lips pressing together as if he had just realized he was on the verge of betraying himself. “…are more tightly scheduled than usual.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, in a way that immediately set Severus on edge—this slightly tilted, knowing, quietly amused nod Dumbledore always used when he knew a truth Severus desperately tried to conceal. “Your evening flights?” he asked at last with feigned innocence, as though it were a harmless habit, a trivial hobby of no consequence.

Severus’ jaw hardened visibly. “It is necessary, Albus,” he said coldly. “The soul bond requires regular contact. In Animagus form I am inconspicuous. No one notices me.” He spoke the last words with such conviction that it sounded as though he were defending them to himself.

“You have talent,” Dumbledore replied warmly, almost with paternal pride, which only irritated Severus further. “A very impressive raven, Severus. Black as new-moon shadow, and just as elegant. It hardly surprises me that you chose precisely that form.”

Severus nearly snarled. “I chose it because it is practical,” he said sharply, intent on cutting down any hint of sentimentality.

“Of course,” Albus murmured, and a small, annoyingly sharp glint flashed behind the half-moon spectacles. “Entirely practical. Quite certainly.” His voice vibrated with restrained amusement, as though he knew exactly how little practicality truly lay in Severus’ nightly behavior.

Severus stared at him, suspicious and irritated, but Dumbledore continued in his unshakable calm:

“I find it… remarkable,” he began slowly, savoring each word, “how reliably you depart every evening. No delays, no exceptions, no spontaneous excuses. A remarkably conscientious raven.”

“This is not a leisure activity,” Severus growled, sensing the conversation edging dangerously close to a line he did not wish to cross. “I do only what is necessary. Nothing more.”

Dumbledore folded his hands, leaned back, and regarded him with a gentle amusement that reminded Severus of a man watching a restless dragon build its nest—knowing that every protest from the dragon proved the opposite of what it claimed.

“Severus…” he said at last, his tone warming slightly, “I can see how hard you try. You care. You make sure she is not alone. You stay longer than you must. You do more than the bond would require of you.” He inclined his head, as though offering Severus the chance to contradict him—but he did not. “It does you good. She does you good.”

“I do only what the bond demands,” Severus replied cuttingly, the words like knife blows meant to sever every implication.

But Dumbledore merely smiled, that roguish, gentle, ancient smile that had driven Severus mad for years. “Of course,” he said softly. “The bond. Nothing more.”

Severus felt the air in his chest constrict for a heartbeat, as though Dumbledore’s gaze had effortlessly pierced the thin surface of his controlled façade. He remained still, staring at a point somewhere between the folds of Dumbledore’s robe and the golden candlelight, and in that moment knew there was no sense in denying the truth any longer. “You are right, Albus,” he said at last, quietly, with a voice that did not soften, did not waver, but sounded like a confession cast in metal. “Of course you are right. But what exactly… would it accomplish to admit it?”

He raised his gaze, and for a moment a trace of the exhaustion he usually buried so deeply that even he barely felt it became visible. “I have a role to play,” he continued, firmer now, more resolute, yet with a bitterness that tasted like ash on his tongue. “Every feeling I reveal makes me vulnerable. And vulnerability… places me in danger, Albus. And her”—he hesitated, barely perceptibly, yet enough for it to flicker between them—“it would place her in danger.”

Severus lowered his head slightly, not in submission, but because the truth was heavy and he had to carry it on his shoulders. “If I admit how much she means to me, I lose the ground beneath my feet. I must remain hard. Distant. Strict. Anything else invites it to be used against me… or against her. She must not know. No one must know. It is entirely sufficient that you do.”

Dumbledore regarded him for a long time, with that look that held understanding and regret and a tiny, warm fragment of humor that regularly drove Severus to madness. But the old man said nothing more—perhaps because Severus had spoken what had long hung in the room, perhaps because there was nothing left to say to words that had come so close to the truth.

The next day he summoned Hermione to him after class, and as so often, the heavy wooden door closed behind the last students with a resounding thud that made the air in the classroom tremble. She stood before his desk, books still in her arms, her brow faintly flushed, as though she knew he had already been watching her. “Miss Granger, I must postpone our lesson this evening. You will receive an owl from me as soon as I find a new time.”

His voice was so even, so controlled, that it barely carried a trace of regret, and yet there was something in his gaze that could not be fully concealed—a hint of fatigue, of anger at himself.

“Oh… that’s a shame, Professor,” she replied, and there was a warmth in her tone that struck him more deeply than he wished to admit. For a brief moment he thought he saw disappointment flicker in her eyes, but he did not allow the thought to go any further. “I was really looking forward to it, you know, I wanted to... ”

“You are rambling, Miss Granger,” he cut her off, and the sharpness in his tone made her visibly flinch. “As I said: I have urgent business. By then you should long since be in your bed.”

She lowered her gaze as though he had struck her, nodded briefly, and turned away. He waited until the door closed softly behind her, and only then allowed himself to exhale audibly, as though a weight had lifted from his chest. Yet the thought that had lodged itself in his mind would not let go. “I was really looking forward to it…” Her words echoed within him like an echo that refused to fade.

Preparations for the evening were already in full swing. The Goblet of Fire would make its choice that night, and the champions required attention; the entire school was held in the thrall of this moment. Severus knew his duty demanded him, even if his heart would rather have led him into the quiet shelter of his chambers, to his worktable, or to that girl who tugged at him in a way he was not permitted to acknowledge. Albus would never have forgiven his absence. His presence was indispensable.

And yet—it weighed on him. Not for himself, not for his own longing for rest or closeness, but because he knew that she, too, had been looking forward to it. That it had mattered to her. It had been a long time since he had felt that someone genuinely anticipated his presence as a person.

The last time he had been at her side as a raven lay weeks back, on her birthday. He remembered it as if it had been yesterday: how she had sat on the bed, bent over a book, and how he had let the small parcel drop into her lap. A slim silver box, wrapped in a velvet-green ribbon.

He had seen her astonished look as she picked up the gift, how her fingers hesitated as they loosened the ribbon, almost reverent, as though she were unsure whether she was even allowed to open it. “For me? But… from whom?” she had whispered, and he had merely croaked, defiant and yet strangely nervous, because he knew he could never give her the answer.

‘As if anyone else in this room had a birthday, foolish girl,’ he had laughed silently, yet the mocking smile that formed in his thoughts was nowhere near as sharp as usual.

She had opened the lid, her brows first drawing together, then her face had brightened when she saw the contents: a hair clip, silver, simple yet elegant, engraved with her name in flowing letters that lent her a dignity she deserved. He remembered her soft, reverent “It’s… beautiful,” the way she had held the clip as though it were made of glass.

She had gone to the bathroom, taken minutes, and when she returned, she wore her hair pinned up, tamed by that very clip. Severus had looked at her and thought: “Beautiful.”

He had immediately struck himself down. “You fool. It’s only a hair clip. She is your student. Keep your cursed mind in check.” He had felt ashamed of the warm stab in his chest and told himself it was merely a practical gift. Nothing more.

“Thank your owner,” she had said, her voice gentle, almost tender, and her fingers had brushed over his feathers, unaware of whose skin and whose heart lay beneath.

And only a few hours later, as the Goblet of Fire flared to life and the tension of the tournament reached its peak, that feeling was violently and abruptly swept aside.

“Is this a joke, Albus? He is a child!” Severus’ voice rang sharply through the office. It was like thunder that made the shelves tremble as his fist struck the tabletop with such force that even the ink bottles quivered, blue droplets spilling across the parchment. His eyes were narrowed to slits, his robe taut across his shoulders, and rarely had he felt so close to losing control.

Dumbledore stood opposite him, hands folded, his gaze as calm as ever, and yet something flickered in the depths of his eyes that even Severus could not fully decipher.

“How is it possible that Potter crossed the age line? That is impossible! You yourself placed the enchantment around the Goblet, and no one—no one—under seventeen could have tricked it. And now this boy sits there and—” Severus broke off abruptly, because together with Dumbledore he was already moving toward the adjoining room where the champions waited.

There, amid tense silence, sat Potter. Slightly apart, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands, a picture of despair. When he looked up, Severus met a gaze he had not expected. No triumphant grin, no insolent arrogance, no trace of the smug child he so often saw. Instead, emptiness. Confusion. Almost fear.

“Potter,” Severus began, his voice sharp as cold iron, “I hope you have a damn good explanation. Did you ask an older student to submit your name for you? Or was the fame you already possess in excess through your past not enough? Did you have to thrust yourself into the spotlight again, at the expense of everyone who trusted you?”

The words were sharp as daggers, yet as they left his lips, Severus felt doubt gnawing at him. Something was wrong. That boy’s expression did not fit a deceiver. Swiftly, almost imperceptibly, he reached for the art he commanded so masterfully—Legilimency.

A brief, precise thrust, and he saw what he needed to see: no cunning, no lie, but genuine confusion, raw terror, the agonizing question of how his name had ended up in the Goblet.

“Albus,” Severus murmured softly, drawing Dumbledore slightly aside by the sleeve, “it was not him.”

Dumbledore looked at him briefly, and in that single, almost imperceptible glance lay agreement, as though he harbored the same suspicion. But before another word could be exchanged, a voice cut in, rough and impatient: “Severus is right, Potter could never have done this himself.”

It was Mad-Eye Moody, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, a man whose aura bore more scars than skin, whose magical eye roved incessantly through the room as though it sought to tear every secret from the walls. “The child would not be capable of placing such a Confundus Charm on the Goblet of Fire. Do not forget: this vessel is ancient, highly complex magic. No fourth-year tricks that. If something was at work here, it was Dark Magic.”

Severus’ gaze snapped to Albus, and he saw the flash in his eyes—agreement, concern, a silent threat. Yes, he thought it too. This was the work of darkness.

“Barty, what are our options?” Dumbledore asked at last, his voice sharper than usual, addressing the stiff man in the gray coat—Barty Crouch senior, representative of the Ministry. “Harry Potter is underage. He is neither prepared nor authorized to compete in this tournament. He must not be forced to face tasks beyond him.”

But Crouch’s reply was cold as granite. “I am sorry, Albus, but the Goblet of Fire binds anyone whose name it selects to a magical contract. That cannot be undone. The boy has no choice. He must compete.”

Dumbledore slammed his hands onto the table edge, his voice rising, uncharacteristically hard and threatening. “This is madness! There are three schools, three champions—that has been the rule for centuries. How can a fourth name emerge from the Goblet?”

“I do not know,” Crouch replied curtly, “but the rules are clear. The Goblet has spoken.”

Before the words had even faded, Madame Maxime rose, the imposing headmistress of Beauxbatons, her French accent dripping with indignation. “This is a farce! An absolute outrage! Hogwarts seeks to cheat, that much is obvious. A minor as champion? That is an affront to the traditions of this tournament!”

Igor Karkaroff immediately leapt to her side, his eyes gleaming with malice, his words dripping like poison. “A rigged game, Dumbledore. I should know. You always play by your own rules. Durmstrang will not make a mockery of itself—we will depart at once if this is not resolved!”

“You may depart if you wish,” Severus interjected coldly, his voice like a blade, “but Viktor Krum will have to remain. The Goblet has bound him as well.”

Karkaroff’s eyes narrowed to slits as he stepped close to Severus, so close that the crackle of old enmity could be felt in the air. Softly, almost only for him, he hissed, “You and I will speak again. The last word has not been spoken here, Severus.”

Severus returned the look unmoving, icy, and although a dark, seething fire burned within him, his expression remained as smooth and impenetrable as the surface of the Black Lake on a moonless night. Then, with barely a visible movement and a voice that was dangerously calm, he replied, “I look forward to it.”

Chapter Text

Hermione stood in front of the half-open window and could not keep still. She stepped back, then forward again, rubbed her arms, breathed too shallowly and too fast. She knew that all of this was pointless, this pacing back and forth. Yet she felt that otherwise she would not be able to bear the tension. She had to speak to him. She had to do it today. Not tomorrow, not someday. Today. She had touched the Protego Duo. She knew he would come. She needed him.

Not the lessons. Not the professional distance. She needed him. And she was not even allowed to admit that to herself out loud.

He had canceled the private Potions lesson. Once again. Because of the Goblet of Fire, this time. It had been a brief conversation, factual, distant, the way he always was. But this time it had hurt her. Deeply. She had been so looking forward to it.

And now she stood here, by the window, unable to sleep, unable to read, unable to think, because she was waiting for only one thing: for him to come to her. For her raven to come.

She knew that she was not allowed to tell anyone about it. Not the girls in the dormitory. Not Harry. Not Ron. And certainly not him himself. He must never learn that she knew who was hidden beneath the black feathers. It would be a betrayal of him, of the trust he gave her without knowing that he did so.

Hermione pressed her lips together because her chest felt too tight. What if he did not come today? What if he really was only focusing on his duties? What if she was left alone with all of this?

Then she saw something in the sky.

At first only a dot. Then a movement. A shadow that detached itself and grew larger.

Her heart skipped a beat, stumbled briefly, only to continue beating faster in the next moment, light, alive, as if it had suddenly found a new rhythm. There was a pull in her chest, a warm widening, as though something inside her were loosening that had been too tight for a long time. It almost felt as if something inside her were reassembling itself, like a puzzle piece she had never known was missing.

He made a smile rise inside her, tentative at first, then broader, unstoppable. With it came a bright, tingling feeling that spread from her stomach to her fingertips, a mixture of relief, joy, and an almost childlike excitement that overwhelmed her for a moment completely. Something inside her made a small, blissful leap.

Abraxas.

She recognized him immediately, because no one else flew like that. No one else moved with that mixture of discipline and quiet determination. And certainly no one but him would have sought the path to her window so purposefully, as if there were no other place in the world where he belonged right now.

Hermione braced herself against the window ledge because her knees grew weak. He was coming. He was really coming. Her professor. Despite everything. Despite his cancellation. Despite the chaos surrounding the Goblet of Fire. He was coming to her.

And in that moment she became aware of how much she had needed him. How much she had hoped he would appear. How desperately she had trusted in it, even though she was not allowed to have any reason to do so.

She straightened, forced herself to breathe, forced herself to calm down, because he must not notice anything. Nothing. No realization, no hope, no fear. She must never let him know that she knew who he was.

But her heart screamed nevertheless as he came closer. Her raven prepared to land. Hermione pushed the window open a little further, and the raven glided inside without haste, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to appear in her dormitory in the evening. His talons immediately found purchase on the sill, a soft scraping sound that had become more familiar to her than she wanted to admit.

She breathed out, this time truly relieved.
“You’re finally here. I already thought you had forgotten me,” she murmured, and she did not care if she sounded too open.

The raven tilted his head, as if accepting the greeting.

“Thank you,” she said more quietly. “Really.” She stepped back and gestured to make room for him. “Come in.”

He hopped down from the sill, beat his wings once, and flew straight to her bed. Not hesitant, not searching. He knew exactly where he was supposed to go. Exactly where he always sat.

Hermione followed him and drew the red curtains closed until the dormitory was completely shut out. Then she raised her wand and quietly cast a Muffliato. Better safe than sorry. She sat down on her bed, a little closer than usual, because today she could not bear any distance. He sat there, calm and attentive, and that alone was enough to ease part of the tension inside her.

“I’m really glad you came,” she said, and this time her voice was steadier. More honest. “I… need to tell you something. And I don’t know whom else I should tell.”

The raven barely moved, but his eyes rested on her, alert and direct. This kind of attention she would not have been able to endure from anyone else, but with him she felt no threat. Only… presence.

She drew her knees up a little and clasped her hands around them, because otherwise she would probably have rubbed her fingers raw. The day had been too much, the whole confusion surrounding the Goblet of Fire, the canceled lesson, the worry that had lodged itself firmly in her stomach.

“Something really happened,” she said, a little more quietly this time. “And I… I need someone who listens. Nothing more.”

She looked at him. And although she knew that he could not speak, not in this form, not in this setting, not as the man he was, she felt for the first time in hours no longer completely alone. Her heart calmed a little, simply because he was there.

Severus studied her attentively, as he was accustomed to doing. His gaze took in every detail, lingered on her face. Only then did he notice the pyjamas, the deep, muted green of the fabric.

His thoughts drifted to the moment she had touched the pendant. The Protego Duo; the resonance had reached him instantly, clear and unmistakable. A call that spoke beyond sensation. When he had lowered his Occlumency shields for a brief moment, her worry had reached him, her fear, open and direct, without any attenuation.

That feeling had settled in him, had made his chest tighten and pushed everything else aside. In that instant he knew that she needed help. Immediately.

He had acted. Everything else had become meaningless. The potion, the work, every obligation. A few seconds later he had taken on the form of the raven, risen into the night, and chosen the direct path, guided by a single goal. Now he stood here and examined her again. With every breath, the tension eased a little, because she stood before him, alive and responsive.

“Well,” she finally began, and her words came quickly, almost urgently, “I don’t even know where to start. Maybe with Harry, yes, I should begin with Harry. First just the most important thing: he did not put his name into the Goblet of Fire. He swears that he is innocent. And I believe him. You should see how he is being treated now, how people stare at him, whisper, almost brand him as a fraud. It’s terrible, and I have the feeling that only Hagrid and I truly stand by him. It hurts, Abraxas, it really hurts me to see him suffer like that.”

“Potter,” Severus thought sharply as he tilted his head to the side, “it is always Potter she worries about.”

Hermione continued speaking, the words almost tumbling over one another. “Ron… oh, Ron is terribly jealous. He claims Harry only wants fame and power, that he is selfish. I tried to talk to him, but he doesn’t want to hear anything, he blocks everything out. How can he possibly believe that Harry would do something like that? Harry always says he’s already lived through enough adventures for two lifetimes. He wants nothing more than peace, quiet, normality, but instead he now has to deal with this tournament, whether he wants to or not. Do you understand how disappointed I am in Ron? I believed that the three of us would stick together, but now… now everything is broken. And I had hoped the two of them would support me with my project, but I can probably forget that. I’m standing alone.”

“Teenage drama,” Severus murmured inwardly, “but there is more.”

“The students are making it even worse,” Hermione continued, and her voice took on a strained tone. “The Hufflepuffs naturally stand by Cedric; they claim Harry wants to steal the show from their champion. The Ravenclaws say he’s after glory, and even those who should know him twist the truth. And the Slytherins…” She broke off, shook her head, and whispered, “I don’t even want to talk about what they’re doing.”

Severus remained motionless, and the dark eyes of the bird reflected the flame of a realization he scarcely dared to admit to himself.

“And then,” Hermione continued more quietly, “there’s Harry’s scar. It hurts him, again and again, without warning. He said it feels like it did back then, when Quirrell was nearby, or Riddle. He remembers that pulling sensation, that burning. And on top of that, Harry has noticed that Professor Moody has strange objects in his office, things that constantly raise alarms. He spoke of a Foe-Glass, or something like that.”

Severus’ gaze drifted away from her for a moment, just briefly, just long enough for a sober thought. Mad-Eye Moody. The crazy ex-Auror. Paranoia on two legs, suspicious to the point of obsession, incapable of entering a room without mentally breaking it down into escape routes, sources of danger, and potential attackers. A man who saw enemies everywhere and far too often was right.

“And… something else caught my attention,” Hermione said at last, pressing her hands together as if she had to force herself to keep speaking. “I saw Professor Karkaroff earlier. I know it’s only rumors… or rather old court records I happened to find, but it’s said that he used to be a Death Eater.” Her voice dropped to a barely audible tone. “He looked… frightened. Not just simply nervous, but truly panicked. He ran through the corridors as if he were looking for someone or something, opening doors, peering hastily inside, closing them again, only to tear open the next one immediately. Every time he flinched at the slightest sound. When I came out of the library, he didn’t even notice me, even though I was practically standing right in front of him. I think he’s afraid. Very afraid.” She drew a shaky breath. “And when someone like him is afraid, someone who once wasn’t even afraid of You-Know-Who, then that means nothing good.”

Severus’ feathers bristled imperceptibly as a narrow fissure opened inside him between instinctive contempt and cold attentiveness. “Karkaroff,” he thought with an ugly tightening deep in his chest, “that cowardly traitor. If he is panicking, then something is boiling beneath the surface… something I need to know sooner rather than later.”

“And besides that,” Hermione continued hastily, as if she were afraid of losing the thread of her thoughts, “Professor Moody worries me. I’ve read a lot about him, really a lot—his capture reports, his tactics, even old Auror protocols. He’s supposed to be strict, paranoid, yes, but fair. But the Moody who is teaching here at Hogwarts… he doesn’t seem like the man from the files.” She shook her head, and an uneasy crease appeared between her brows. “He shows us the Unforgivable Curses. Right in class. He demonstrates them as if it were normal. That contradicts everything I know about him. He behaves… inappropriately, almost as if he wants to accustom us to something. Or test us. Or observe us. I don’t know which of those is worse.”

Severus’ dark eyes narrowed to thin slits. “Moody,” he thought with a bitter flicker of suspicious memory, “that decrepit Auror would never have toyed lightly with a Cruciatus in the past. And certainly not in front of children. Something is wrong with him. Something is very wrong.”

“Maybe… maybe I’m just imagining all of this,” Hermione said softly and stroked the raven’s feathers. “But something is rotten, Abraxas. It feels wrong, as if something were simmering in the castle that no one wants to see. Moody behaves strangely, Karkaroff has panicked eyes, Harry’s scar hurts, and no one seems to find that remarkable. Only me.” She drew a deep breath. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m inventing patterns that don’t even exist. Maybe I’m seeing ghosts.”

Severus’ eyes narrowed, a dark flicker of silent confirmation. “You see more clearly than most,” he thought curtly. “And no, you are not imagining things, little Gryffindor.”

Hermione almost whispered, “Something is wrong. And I wish someone other than me would notice it.”

The raven remained motionless—and Severus knew that she was right.

At last he fluttered toward her hand and touched it with a gentle peck, a small gesture that made it clear to her that he now had to leave. She understood immediately, because her fingers closed for a hesitant heartbeat around his feathers, as if she wanted to hold him back, before she released him with a look carried by worry and a hint of sadness.

In the next movement he glided out into the night, plunged into the cool darkness of the castle that streamed toward him like a familiar veil, and called, scarcely having reached the stone gargoyle, “Sherbet Lemon.”

The statue slid aside with grinding stone so that he could enter. The spiral staircase stretched out before him and the steps turned silently beneath him.

Without even the faintest hint of hesitation, he raised his hand and knocked on the heavy door of dark wood. He did not wait for an answer but pushed it open with a determined movement and stepped inside as if he had every right to do so. In truth, it had been years since he observed formalities in this office, because he knew very well that Dumbledore understood his urgency and would never reproach him for it.

“Severus, my boy,” the headmaster greeted him with that exaggerated warmth that both irritated and unsettled him, lifting his head and setting aside the parchment he had just been reading in his cramped handwriting, “what brings you to me at such a late hour?”

Severus did not allow himself to be distracted by that deliberately warm tone but stepped closer in a few quick strides. His cloak rustled over the carpet, and he began to report without preamble. Word for word he laid out what Hermione had confided in him; he described the argument with Ron, the hostility of the students that spread like a creeping poison through the corridors and common rooms. He spoke of the pain in Potter’s scar, flaring at irregular intervals, as if an invisible knife were slicing the boy open from within, and he mentioned the observations about Karkaroff’s behavior. About Moody, the irritating artifacts in his office that sounded alarms incessantly, his conduct in class.

Albus remained silent throughout, his gaze fixed on him, and the further Severus spoke, the more serious the old man’s expression became, until the blue eyes that so often shone with roguish sparkle and feigned lightness lost their glimmer and turned to ice. They grew cold and turned inward, as if they had to search in the darkness of memory for answers they did not yet dare to speak aloud.

“These are indeed extremely troubling reports, Severus,” Dumbledore finally replied in a soft, almost toneless voice, and it was this rare timbre that immediately alarmed Severus, because it revealed that even the seemingly all-knowing headmaster was deeply unsettled. “Especially the scar. Do you remember how it was in the first year? Whenever Voldemort was nearby, Harry felt the pain. That this is now recurring is of the utmost importance. As for Moody—he has always had a penchant for such things, that alone does not trouble me. But his behavior does. And the scar… yes, the scar is another matter entirely. Miss Granger has a remarkable gift for observation.”

Severus nodded slowly, the silence stretching between them like a thin wire, while the question burned inside him, hot, piercing, relentless—a thought that had pursued him for days and now broke through every boundary because it tolerated no further delay. He lifted his gaze, the shadows of his features sharpening in the candlelight, and his voice finally emerged, soft, almost careful, and yet edged with something that cut the room like cold steel. “Albus,” he said, “do you believe it will happen soon? That He will return, sooner than we suspect?”

The headmaster looked at him intently, for so long that the moment became a test, almost unbearable in its duration. Severus felt the pressure of that gaze, as if Dumbledore wanted to read him more deeply than he himself ever had, then he nodded gently, almost imperceptibly, and yet irrevocably. “Yes, Severus. I believe it will be soon. He was never entirely gone, even if many wished to believe it. Keep your eyes and ears open. You must reconnect with Lucius Malfoy, you said yourself that he wants you among his ranks. And Karkaroff as well, he is a former Death Eater, listen to him carefully, perhaps he knows more than he dares to admit.”

Severus pressed his lips together, a shadow passing over his face, heavier than the fabric of his cloak, while a quiet, almost inaudible fissure opened in his chest that had nothing to do with pain from old days. “So the hour is nearer than I had hoped,” he thought, the words cold, ordered, almost clinical. “The past breathes again, but this time it does not hold me captive.” Lily appeared in his mind like a faded image, calm, distant, an echo of an earlier life. There was no burning anymore, no pulling, no wound reopening. Only a quiet knowledge that she had remained part of his story, a warm point in memory that left neither shackles nor longing behind.

Severus breathed out slowly, felt something inside him straighten, not out of nostalgia, but out of a clear, razor-sharp realization. “The time to fight is coming,” he thought, “for what was, for what still remains.” A thought, brighter and more demanding than all memories, pierced the heaviness like a spark: Hermione. The girl who had robbed him of sleep for months, for years, since she had begun to appear in his world like an unexpected star that made his nights brighter and at the same time more restless.

She had become the reason for his morning runs, mile after mile through the gray of dawn, because only in the rhythm of his steps did he find a moment of peace before her face appeared before him again: intelligent, determined, with that unshakable loyalty that stirred something in him he had long believed dead. She moved into the center of his thoughts, displaced shadows that had once kept him company, and her courage, her fire, her restlessness led him to a single conclusion.

“For her I fight,” he thought, “for her and for the future she deserves.”

The old curse on his shoulders stirred, less as a burden and more as a reminder of what lay ahead, and his gaze sharpened as he stood before Dumbledore: ready, if it should be necessary, to go back into the darkness again, this time not alone and not for ghosts of past guilt, but for a young witch who, without knowing it, had already set his heart in motion.

Dumbledore regarded him for a long time, almost motionless, as if he were reading more in Severus’ silence than in any spoken word. The candlelight reflected in the lenses of his glasses, but his eyes were bright and unfathomably alert when he finally spoke. “The time is drawing nearer,” he said softly. “We know this from the signs that are accumulating.” He folded his hands, a slow, deliberate gesture. “People like you sense it earlier than others. People who have learned to stand in the shadows and find clarity there.”

Severus’ jaw tightened, but Dumbledore continued without releasing his attention. “You have long carried alone what is heavy to carry alone. The past does not bind you, Severus. It is a part of you, not a judge. What lies before you does not demand guilt; it demands strength.” His voice lowered, an unexpected calm seriousness in it. “You fight for reasons that draw from life, not from loss. You know this, even if you do not speak it.”

He looked at Severus as if he had already heard the unspoken name long before Severus dared to think it. “Who moves you, who guides your steps, who keeps you awake, is not a mistake. It is a sign that you stand for something again. Or for someone.” He raised his brows slightly. “In times like these, that is a rare blessing.”

Severus’ heartbeat constricted briefly, hard, unwillingly, but Dumbledore seemed to have expected exactly that. “Prepare yourself,” he said calmly, “but not out of fear, Severus. Do it out of responsibility. The fight is coming, and you possess more motivation than ever before to wage it.” His voice softened just a fraction. “Guard this motivation well. It is more valuable than you believe.”

He went down the steps of Dumbledore’s office, his cloak rustling over the cold stone. Each of his steps echoed like a blow against the thin wall of self-control he was still laboriously maintaining. Inside him, an entire web of thoughts and suspicions had long since drawn together, looping around his mind like snares.

“If Potter is telling the truth, and I have no reason to doubt it anymore, not after what Hermione stated with such conviction, then that means someone else put his name into the Goblet. With a precision that is frightening. Who would be capable of circumventing the ancient magic of the tournament? Who would have both the knowledge and the motivation?”

His mind ran through the usual suspects, one after the other:
Karkaroff, always too cowardly to act alone, but not to be underestimated when cornered;
Moody, ex-Auror, the new teacher, whose paranoia did not seem feigned, but behind whose walls another mask could easily be hidden;
Lucius, who outwardly played the respectable patron of the Ministry, but whose ambition and loyalty to old ideals had never fully died. And if it was Lucius, if he deliberately sent the boy into this trap, to what end?

Yet the more thoroughly he went through the possibilities of who could have thrown Potter’s name into the Goblet, how a possible plan was constructed and what goal lay behind it, the more persistently his thoughts returned to her. Again and again to her, with a force that unsettled him more than any political intrigue growing in the school’s shadows. The young witch who had waited for him that evening as if he were her only anchor in the midst of a web of mistrust, rumors, and latent threats. She became the center of a vortex that tightened ever more around his thoughts.

“Why me?” he asked himself, the words sharp like the draft pulling through the damp walls. The question returned at every turn, heavier, harder, until it lodged in his chest like a thorn that dug deeper the longer he thought about it. Hagrid gave warmth, Potter radiated courage, Dumbledore embodied serenity—qualities people were naturally drawn to. Qualities he did not embody even remotely.

He was Severus Snape, a man of edges and shadows, someone whose presence made students fall silent the moment his silhouette appeared in the doorway. Yet her soul had sought his, with a clarity that shattered every doubt.

“Perhaps she sees deeper than the others,” he thought, the pull in his chest sharper, almost unsettling. “Perhaps she sees through the hardness on my surface as merely the part that is easy to recognize, the part I have cultivated for years so that no one comes too close. Perhaps she understands that my aloofness is not emptiness, but protection, a wall built for reasons she instinctively understands. She looks at me as if she finds something beneath the shadows that still has value, something I myself can scarcely name. She is not afraid of what repels others. She is not deterred, because she does not judge by the mask I wear, but by what lies behind it.”

He felt that an insight had long been forming within him, old and new at once, quiet and yet unmistakable. Hermione was his soulmate, by an order that eluded any conscious decision. She must not know it yet. Knowledge of this kind carried weight, and her shoulders already bore enough for a heart of that age. But his feelings for her did not grow from that bond. They existed independently of it, born of observation, respect, admiration, and a familiarity that spread against his will.

His path led deeper into the dungeons; the corridors stretched, grew narrower, the air denser, as if it wanted to test him. His cloak brushed over the stone floor as her image became clearer with every step. Her gaze, that combative seriousness that settled over her features when she tried to penetrate the world. The candles above her bed that made her hair glow warmly. The way her hands rested, firmly clasped together, even though her voice remained unwavering. A strength he had rarely seen in anyone.

He stopped in the middle of the corridor, as if he sensed that this moment carried weight. The wall beneath his hand was cold, rough, an anchor in a realization that shifted his inner world. Thoughts of fate and danger pressed on him, but this time the weight felt like responsibility, not like the return of old scars. He was not standing before an echo of former losses. He was standing before a future he wanted to protect.

“She is my soulmate,” he thought, matter-of-factly, almost surprised by his own certainty. “This feeling runs deep and is stronger than I expected.” His breath caught briefly. “This connection means risk. People close to me have often stood in shadow and died.” The thought struck him hard, a sober, cold fact that cut through his chest like a memory that could not be shaken, but he did not shy away from it, because avoidance changed nothing and softened no truth.

He straightened inwardly again, slowly, with the deliberate effort of a man who had learned to order his thoughts before they overwhelmed him, and he sought the calm he needed to view the situation clearly without losing himself in old patterns. He dispensed with grand words, dispensed with dramatic explanations, because both would only distance him further from what mattered now. One single insight remained, simple, direct, non-negotiable.

“I like her, entirely independent of this bond.” The sentence formed within him with a clarity that left no room for doubt, and he felt how that thought gained weight because it arose from free will and not from any predetermined connection.

He drew a deep breath, and as the air lifted and lowered his chest, another thought formed within him, calmer and firmer than anything before, unwavering, final, carried by a determination that surprised even himself. He would protect her, in life and in death, because any other decision contradicted his nature and because he had long understood that she was safer in his hands than in those of anyone else.

Chapter Text

Thus time passed, and before he realized it, the day of the first task of the Triwizard Tournament had arrived. It was the 24th of November.

Inside the antechamber tent, a crowded, almost suffocating atmosphere prevailed, composed of the nervous restlessness of the champions, the muted voices of the teachers, and the rough, metallic taste of fear that hung in the air like an invisible fog. People stood so close together that every breath echoed, and outside, separated only by a thin fabric wall, the deep, menacing rumble of the dragon vibrated—making it unmistakably clear how little control they truly had and how narrow the line was between courage and recklessness, between success and fatal failure.

Severus stood slightly apart, his arms folded, his gaze directed forward as he monitored the tent and its occupants, categorizing the movements of the champions just as he did the subdued murmur of voices and the taut anticipation gathering between the ward lines. Dumbledore spoke calmly beside him about procedures, safety aspects, and time windows, and Severus replied briefly, routinely, with that divided attention that allowed him to register every detail in the room. His gaze swept over those present and returned again to Hermione, who stood somewhat apart, focused, controlled, fully in her role, her alert and appraising eyes fixed on the champions. He followed that line of sight automatically and noted how her attention lingered on Krum—matter-of-fact, interested, for a moment longer than a mere overview would have required. Why him of all people, Severus thought, feeling a sharp pull that made itself felt immediately. 'Foreign. Conspicuous.' No further explanation was really necessary. The thought came faster than he liked, carrying a sharpness he categorized before it could spread. 'She is analyzing. Of course she is analyzing. That’s what she always does'. And yet his gaze remained caught on her, and with it that unpleasant impulse arising from the simple fact that her attention was directed at someone else. 'Trivial', he decided. 'A reaction to competition. Ridiculous.' Still, something inside him tightened as he now examined Krum himself, more critically, more sharply than supervision required, and only with conscious discipline did he redirect his thoughts back to the tent, the champions, and the task before him.

Then he heard her voice—matter-of-fact, clear, precisely formulated—addressed to someone in the tent, and it struck him more sharply than he had expected.

He turned around faster than he had intended and saw Hermione standing beside Potter, so close that the sensation in his chest immediately condensed. She had one hand on the boy’s arm, leaned slightly forward, and spoke to him in a quiet, insistent voice, as though she could regulate his fear, stabilize him, give him the confidence he could not find on his own. Potter nodded uncertainly, and Hermione placed both hands on his shoulders again, her movements careful and at the same time naturally familiar, as if it were completely normal for her to grant him such closeness.

And then something happened that struck Severus with an intensity for which he was unprepared.

Without hesitation, she pulled the boy into a brief but firm embrace, her arms sliding around him, her head tilting slightly, and for a single moment there was a soft, warm expressiveness in her face that he had not seen for days.

Severus’s chest constricted so abruptly and painfully that his breath caught shallowly in his throat. He felt as though he had to blink twice to be sure he was not mistaken, but the image remained. It was real. It reminded him of something he had repressed.

He saw her hands gripping Potter’s shoulders. He saw how her brow smoothed, how her eyes no longer appeared hard or tired, but full of affection and genuine concern. He saw the familiarity she granted Potter—without reservation, without distance.

Affection she had given him only as a raven. He felt a cold, knife-sharp stab form in his stomach, a feeling made up at once of wounded pride, irrational jealousy, and bitter disillusionment. He told himself inwardly, almost angrily: 'Ridiculous. It means nothing. She is just worried about her friend.' But the attempt to correct his perception only made everything worse, because it changed nothing about the fact that she was holding Potter in her arms—and did not even look at him.

Then he heard a sound, so sharp and unmistakable that it seized his attention at once.

Click.

He spun around, and there she stood: Rita Skeeter, only a few steps away, a smile on her face so satisfied and hungry for sensation that it was immediately clear what she had just captured. The camera was still raised, her quill already hovering expectantly over the notebook, ready to turn the image into a story that would be as venomous as the woman herself.

She had captured exactly the decisive moment. Hermione’s arms around Potter.

Severus wanted to avert his gaze, away from that image that had driven itself like a thorn into his chest and remained there, no matter how hard he tried to banish it from his consciousness. But instead of leaving the scene behind, his gaze slid over to Rita Skeeter, who at that very moment lifted the camera a little higher, her fingers closing around the device in a greedy, almost possessive motion, as though she had just made the most valuable catch of her life. And as he watched her, he allowed himself a tiny, barely perceptible mental push forward—no attack, no full Legilimency, just a fine, precise touch to her thoughts, light as the breath of a draft and yet as targeted as a needle prick.

A scarcely noticeable impulse passed through him, a swift pull of his consciousness, and he was in her head, just deep enough to see what she intended and which stories were already forming in her mind, ready to be embellished even before they touched the parchment.

Her thoughts were a tangled, shimmering bundle of sensationalism and calculation, vibrating with greed, and they practically tumbled over one another with headlines, phrasings, lurid constructions that lined up like glittering poison darts. There were words such as: “Potter’s little girlfriend – the secret support of the Boy-Who-Lived!” and “Too young, too close, too intimate – scandal surrounding Gryffindor girl!”, followed by: “Exclusive photos! Intimate embrace before the dragon fight!” and the particularly vile thought: “Readers love romance, parents love scandals, the newspaper loves Galleons.”

Severus closed his eyes for a moment, not out of exhaustion, but because revulsion seized him so directly and unpleasantly that he had to shield himself for a heartbeat. But scarcely had he freed himself from that mental morass when he saw something else, something she believed far more deeply hidden—but not well enough.

He saw the memory of a beetle.
Black, inconspicuous, unremarkable like a speck of dust no one would notice.
The wings lay tight, glinted briefly before folding in.

A form she assumed to slip through keyholes, glide under doors, eavesdrop on conversations unfiltered, steal secrets.

An Animagus.
An unregistered Animagus.

Severus opened his eyes again, and there was a calm in his gaze that was more dangerous than any open threat. His body straightened a little more, the cloak drew tighter around his shoulders, and he set himself in motion, not hastily, not impulsively, but with that controlled, steely determination that made every step seem part of a carefully planned process in which no deviation was tolerated.

Rita Skeeter noticed his approach, and her smile widened instantly, cloying, false, like cheap perfume that first intoxicated and then dulled the senses. She lifted the camera slightly, let her shoulders sink in an artificially flattering gesture, and began to speak in that honey-saturated voice she always used when she believed she could wrap someone around her finger.

“Professor Snape,” she cooed, while the quill already hovered over her parchment as though it could hardly wait to act on its own. “How wonderful to encounter you here. Perhaps a word about Potter’s emotional support? A quote, just a small one?”

Her smile grew broader, smoother, and her eyes glittered calculatingly. “Or might our readers be more interested in how someone with your… past feels today as a supervisor?” she asked, inserting a meaningful pause. “A former Death Eater, so close to the action, so close to the boy who survived everything. That does make for a tempting perspective.”

“Stop immediately,” Severus said, and his voice was so quiet and at the same time so sharp that even the rustling of the tent canvas seemed to fall silent for a brief moment, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

She blinked, irritated, recovered, forced another smile—this time with a hint of uncertainty at the corners of her mouth, which he registered with satisfaction. “Professor, I—”

“I have looked into your head,” he interrupted her in a calm, matter-of-fact tone that expressed far more clearly than shouting that he had crossed every boundary anyone might have tried to set for him. “Only for a moment. Only as deep as was necessary.”

She turned pale—not dramatically, just in a tiny, subtle shift of her complexion—but Severus noticed it immediately and knew she understood that he had seen enough.

“You will publish nothing of what you just planned,” he continued, every syllable smooth and precise like a scalpel. “No photo, no insinuation, not a single scandalizing line about Miss Granger or Mr. Potter. No matter how high the profit for you might be.”

Rita began to object, but he did not let her speak.

“Listen carefully, Miss Skeeter,” he said, even more quietly now, and she automatically stepped back half a pace, as if pushed by an invisible hand. “Should even a single word appear that damages Miss Granger’s or Mr. Potter’s reputation, that distorts her friendship with Potter or forces her into a romance of your invention, then I will know. And as soon as I know, I will act. Quickly. Precisely. And you will curse that day.”

She opened her mouth again, but when she looked into his eyes, she closed it immediately.

Severus lowered his head minimally, a movement that was barely a nod. “I know that you are an Animagus.”

The sentence struck her like an invisible blow.

The tension in her body betrayed her; her breath hitched imperceptibly, her quill froze in midair as if it had turned to ice.

“Unregistered,” he added slowly, unmistakably, “and astonishingly poorly concealed.”

He stepped closer, not aggressively, but definitively, with the calm of a man who had long since passed judgment.

“If you approach Potter or Miss Granger in any form, whether as a human or as an insect, whether to spy on them, to eavesdrop, or to endanger them, I will find you. And I personally assure you, Miss Skeeter, that you will then discover why there are very few people in this country who make the mistake twice of crossing a Severus Snape.”

Rita swallowed. The smile vanished completely, as though it had never existed. Slowly she lowered the camera, her gaze slid away, and the quill dropped almost limply against the parchment.

Severus held her gaze for another moment, long enough to be sure the message had drilled itself deeply enough into her consciousness, then turned away, as calm, as controlled, as though he had just been speaking about the weather.

Hermione had seen none of it.
Nothing of the photo.
Nothing of what Rita had planned.
Nothing of the threat he had spoken in her name.

The tournament passed, and all had mastered the task. Potter was immediately brought into the tent serving as a provisional infirmary. Severus rose without hesitation and followed, for it was his duty to attend to the injured. After all, he was the one who brewed the salves and antidotes. Moreover, he wanted to see with his own eyes whether everything he had prepared was having an effect.

There, in the tent, he encountered Madam Pomfrey, who as always took command with a mixture of strictness and care. “The Hungarian Horntail’s stinger was in his thigh for quite some time, Severus,” she explained hastily while inspecting the wound. “Which salve do you recommend?”

She greatly appreciated that he produced the most effective preparations, and Severus bent over the injury with an objective gaze, immediately recognizing the typical signs: the barbs, the mild poison that worked in the body like the bite of an Acromantula.

“My green salve,” he replied curtly. “Use it. It contains an antivenin that I prepare in reserve.”

In his mind he saw Hagrid, speaking with exaggerated affection about his monstrous spider Aragog, whose venom had for years formed the basis of Severus’s most valuable potions and salves. Hagrid milked Aragog regularly and brought the precious venom in exchange for a fee.

“It also contains a ground bezoar and calendula for healing—simple, but effective,” he added, matter-of-fact, almost mechanical.

He did not notice at first that someone had stepped up behind him; he was too occupied with regaining his composure and keeping the paralyzing pressure in his chest under control. Only when he turned around, with the vague intention of leaving the tent and preferring the cold outside to another minute amid these oppressive people, did she suddenly stand before him—Hermione. She was so close that for a moment he thought she had stepped directly into his path, and the shock made him instinctively step back. But the movement was too abrupt. She lost her balance, a soft gasp escaped her, and without a clear thought his hand reached for her arm, firm enough to stop her before she fell to the ground.

For a moment they stood like that—he holding her, she clinging to him—and the tent around them seemed to retreat into muted silence, as if it wished to grant them an involuntarily intimate moment.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered at last, her voice barely more than a breath, and her fingers tightened for a fraction of a second in the fabric of his robe, as if she needed to be sure she had truly regained solid footing. Her cheeks were flushed, not only with embarrassment, but also with something he did not quite understand.

“Miss Granger,” he replied, and the tone came out sharper than the moment required—precise, distant, carried by that cool authority that had become a fixed shell for him in recent weeks. He perceived the nuance, the too-hard edge, the shortened ending, and accepted it, since corrections at this point would only have drawn more attention. Closeness meant risk these days, and this time demanded control. The tournament required presence, Dumbledore’s instructions bound his hours, old obligations pressed to the surface with growing impatience, and even the raven’s nocturnal visits had become rarer than Severus considered prudent.

He held her for another moment, checked her posture and balance, then released his grip in a calm, factual movement, as functional as any other action during his supervisory duty. His hand withdrew, controlled, without hesitation, without any indication that this touch had triggered far more in him than it was allowed to. A brief motion followed, clearly meant as closure, and he turned away, determined to deny the moment any further extension.

“Sir.” Her voice reached him and held him fast. Warm. Clear. Steady.

He paused for a breath, gathered himself, concentrated the discipline that had carried him through years of war, and then turned back to her slowly.

“Yes, Miss Granger?” His voice was back on track, calm, disciplined, firmly anchored in the role he had to maintain.

She smiled at him. Open, honest, her cheeks flushed, as if she had just decided something she regarded as self-evident. Her eyes held his gaze steadily, free of doubt, carried by that quiet affection that had crept into their encounters over the past months. There was no hesitation in it, no caution, only warmth, which she offered him without calculation.

“I just wanted to say,” she began calmly, giving him a space he would never have granted her, “it’s good that you’re here.”

The sentence struck him with a force that made him reel inwardly. His chest tightened, his breath faltered for a fraction of a moment, and behind the carefully constructed façade something broke open that he held down with iron resolve. It’s good that I’m here. Words so simple, so clear, and yet capable of throwing everything into turmoil. Inside him raged a storm of unspoken sentences, of the urge to tell her what place she had long since taken in his thoughts, how much her closeness steadied him, how much her mere presence brought order to a life otherwise made up of duty, danger, and silence. Each of these thoughts pressed outward, demanded a voice, demanded truth.

He locked them all away.

His face remained calm, controlled, the mask complete. No muscle betrayed the battle raging within him; no glance revealed how hard he fought to remain himself.

“Keep an eye on Potter,” he said matter-of-factly. “He tends to underestimate risks.”

A brief nod followed, precise, formal, unmistakably concluding.

Then he turned away before his gaze could linger on her any longer, before discipline showed even the smallest crack. His steps carried him off, even, controlled, while the thought of her smile lodged itself within him, constant, inescapable, like a breath he had held too long and that now weighed all the heavier.

That same evening Severus noticed Viktor Krum already during dinner, because the Durmstrang student repeatedly directed his gaze toward the Gryffindor table and showed conspicuous interest every time Hermione moved. This observation alone was not yet cause for concern. Many were curious about her, as she had appeared more frequently in recent weeks. The moment Hermione rose and left the hall, however, made Severus attentive. The fact that Krum stood up only moments later and took the same path drastically changed his assessment.

He set himself in motion slowly, adopted an inconspicuous pace, and waited until he reached a sufficiently empty stretch of corridor. Then he raised his wand, aimed it at his chest, and softly spoke the Disillusionment Charm. The cold liquid that poured over him like running rain merged with his clothing, with his skin, and made him vanish completely in the half-light. His breathing grew quieter, his steps even more controlled than usual. He followed them with the instinctive, sharp perception of a man who had learned to move invisibly through spaces.

The library lay before him, scarcely lit, only a few lamps burning between the shelves. Krum waited there, half in shadow, his hands buried in his coat pockets. The Durmstrang student appeared restless, scuffing his foot over the floor and repeatedly glancing toward the entrance. It did not take long before Hermione entered. She held several books in her arms and looked surprised to see Viktor in this secluded place.

Severus remained near a shelf, motionless, almost silent. The charm concealed him reliably and gave him the advantage of observing every movement of the two precisely.

Krum stepped toward Hermione, his voice taking on an unusually soft tone. “I waited because I wanted to tell you something, Hermione.” He searched for the right words. “I would like to ask you if you will go to the Yule Ball with me.”

Hermione’s face changed in a way that struck Severus immediately. A faint blush rose to her cheeks, her eyes widened—surprised, caught off guard in a tender, almost flattering way. She drew her shoulders up slightly, inhaled, and that tiny moment showed Severus more than he wanted to admit. Her voice was quiet, but clear. “Yes,” she said at last. “I would like that.”

The lump that formed in Severus’s throat came so suddenly that he involuntarily tightened his fingers around his wand. His heartbeat accelerated while a drilling pressure formed in his stomach, pulsing dangerously. The scene before him blurred for a moment because his mind reacted faster than his body. 'She had said yes. She had agreed without hesitation, without excuses.'

He waited until Krum had taken his leave and Hermione disappeared again among the shelves.

Then he abruptly raised his wand, released the Disillusionment Charm, and became visible again with a barely perceptible shimmer. The soft click of the magic already served him as a vent for his inner tension. He squared his shoulders and set off, with quick, hard-set steps and a cloak that flared behind him like a dark warning. As he passed Hermione, who was just sliding a book back into a shelf, he did not deign to look at her. No gesture, no hesitation. He left her standing there so abruptly and coldly that she turned after him instinctively, without understanding what had just happened.

He himself no longer perceived her reaction. The pressure in his chest left no room for a clear thought. Everything inside him was too tight, too hot, too much in motion.

He reached his office faster than he registered it. The door slammed shut with a dull thud. The anger surged up with an intensity that startled even him. He seized the nearest object, an inkwell filled with red ink, and hurled it against the wall with a jerking, uncontrolled movement. The glass shattered with a sharp crack, the ink spreading like an exploding stain over the stone—a chaotic pattern of color that came close to the extent of his fury.

Severus braced himself with both hands on his desk, his fingers dug deep into the wood, while his breath worked restlessly in his chest. Jealousy was a feeling he knew very well. It burned in the old way he remembered from his youth, when he had often fought against unattainable things. This pain was familiar and at the same time new, because it was now directed at a person he had never expected.

He closed his eyes and stood motionless, the heat in his face barely bearable. The realization that he had fallen stood unavoidably before him, and the sharpness of this admission made the room seem tighter, as though the air itself were pressing against him.

Hermione was just returning a book to the shelf when she heard the footsteps she recognized immediately. She turned halfway around, but Professor Snape passed her with long, firm strides, without looking at her, without a word, without the smallest sign of acknowledgment. The flapping cloak nearly brushed her knee, and yet he seemed distant and unreachable, as though an invisible boundary existed between them.

The brief glimpse of his face—hard and closed—burned itself into her and triggered a pulling longing that defied any clear categorization. Her body remembered his closeness, the quiet matter-of-fact way he usually occupied space, offered protection, showed presence. For days Abraxas had been absent—no nocturnal visit, no familiar sign in the dark—and this absence weighed more heavily than she had expected. Her heart constricted painfully as she stood motionless, watching him disappear down the corridor, and she understood with a clarity that stole her breath that it was his closeness she yearned for—quietly, urgently, with growing intensity each hour.

She missed the lessons as well. The Potions classes were officially postponed, for organizational reasons, but for her every cancelled lesson left a palpable void. Instead, he had given her books, handed over without comment, precisely selected, provided with terse notes. Reading for preparation, he had said, soberly, factually, as though it were a purely academic measure. She took this task seriously, worked tirelessly through the texts, read late into the night and early in the morning, noted, compared, repeated, prepared herself as though more depended on it than just the next lesson.

In doing so, she missed him painfully. The shared time in the dungeon, the focused silence, the controlled tempo, his voice giving instructions without ever becoming superfluous. She missed the scent of herbs that lingered in the potion rooms—fresh, earthy, familiar—and that other scent that defined him and had burned itself indelibly into her memory. Sandalwood. Warm, calm, steady. The mere thought of it made something tighten inside her as she continued reading, continued working, continued waiting.

Severus’s nights stretched into a sequence of silence and inner noise so unbearable that he finally gave in to the pull that had lodged itself deep in his mind. He glided soundlessly through the darkness, moved with that precision that had ensured his survival for years, and finally took his place on the windowsill of her dormitory, motionless, hidden in shadow. Through the glass he saw the dimly lit room, familiar in every detail, and remained perfectly still, did not knock, did not make himself known in any way. Every conscious approach carried danger. Every thought that opened too far posed a risk. His mind screamed for her, for closeness, for certainty, and at the same time he forced himself to restraint, since every uncontrolled impulse could draw attention. Attention meant danger. For her.

He sat there like an unmoving figure in the moonlight, keeping watch, without knowing whether this stance made him a protector or a man clinging from afar to something he had long since anchored deep within himself. The soul connection weighed heavily on him, demanded space, demanded acknowledgment, and he met it with iron discipline, since any false movement could have consequences. His thoughts circled around possibilities, threats, around all the calamity already taking shape, and around the one certainty he did not allow himself to voice: that every thought of her that slipped out of control could place her in someone’s sights.

In those minutes his gaze returned again and again to the closed window, and he noted how deeply this simple fact affected him. The glass separated, protected, kept distance, and yet it burned within him more fiercely than reason or duty justified. He remained seated, motionless, vigilant, kept the storm inside himself locked away and once again chose distance, because protection in these times meant holding oneself back.

Then suddenly the window opened. She stepped closer, leaned forward slightly, and looked directly at the windowsill.

Her gaze rested on him—calm, familiar, free of surprise. He remained seated exactly as he had come, allowed no movement that meant more than he could show. His eyes rested on her, attentive, still. Closeness without action. Presence without demand.

After a moment of silence she spoke again, her words coming more haltingly this time, as though she had to gather courage: “You know, Viktor asked me if I would go to the Yule Ball with him.” Hardly had the words been spoken when she jerked back sharply as the raven suddenly pecked hard at her finger. “Ow! Abraxas, what was that supposed to be?” She made a face, rubbed the sore spot, and stared at him half offended, half puzzled. “Don’t you like him?” she asked at last, a faint smile flitting across her lips, but her eyes searched his seriously. When he pecked a second time, not quite as hard, she understood the message. “All right then,” she murmured, “I’ll take that as a no.”

She took a deep breath, and then the words spilled out of her, as though she could no longer hold back what was inside her. “He’s really nice, don’t get me wrong. I first thought Ron would ask me, but… Ron is… well, different, strange, and too cowardly. And Harry... Harry wants to ask Cho, I know it, he’s into her. So in the end it was Viktor. He asked me, and I didn’t want to turn him down. He’s attentive, polite, very calm. He listens to me, he doesn’t push himself on me. Sometimes he just sits with me while I study, silently, and that feels… pleasant. Especially now, when so much is chaotic, it’s calming.” She lowered her voice, almost as if confessing something forbidden. “I think he likes me for who I am.” A brief, wistful sigh escaped her. “On the one hand, that’s nice, it’s flattering. On the other hand… mmhh… I like a different type of man. Someone who is… different. More mature. More serious. Stronger.”

At the end she spoke so softly it was almost only a breath, and she did not dare to look at him directly. In her mind a single, dangerous question throbbed. 'Could he be jealous because he pinched me?' she wondered silently, but immediately shook the thought off inwardly.

She lifted her hand once more, hesitantly, and briefly stroked his plumage. The black beneath her fingers felt warm, alive, familiar. For a moment her hand remained there, then she slowly withdrew it.

Again and again his gaze wandered to her, to that face, so calm, so peaceful. And each time that feeling flowed through him which he had only ever felt in brief, fleeting moments when she glanced at him during lessons or spoke his name. But here, now, it was no longer fleeting. It was strong, overwhelming, frightening—and at the same time so liberating that it both terrified and saved him.

He told himself that he did not deserve this feeling, and yet he enjoyed it. For the first time in a long while, he no longer felt completely alone. It was not fear that accompanied him, but the unfamiliar, the unknown, spreading within him and making him feel alive.

Yet the thought of Viktor Krum pierced him like a poison dart. She will go to the ball with that boy. The thought lodged itself, would not let go. And one question drilled relentlessly into his consciousness: “… ‘a different type of man. Someone who is… different. More mature. More serious. Stronger.’ What kind of man is that? If not Krum, then who?” Not knowing drove him nearly mad. He could have found out with a single glance, with Legilimency, but he resisted. He did not want to know. And yet he wanted it so badly that it tore him apart.

Chapter Text

“What was that supposed to be, Mr. Malfoy?” Severus rasped, his voice barely above a whisper and yet so sharp that it laid itself into the silence of the corridor like a blade. His gaze nailed the blond boy in front of him, who, as if this were a whimsical interlude, allowed himself a sneering grin.

“I wouldn’t know why you’re getting so worked up, Professor,” Draco replied with casual arrogance, tilting his head just slightly, “the teeth suit her, don’t they?”

“Where do you get the audacity to hex a fellow student?” Severus pressed on, his tone dangerously calm, the temper beneath it boiling just under the surface. For he knew that he could not afford an open escalation, not today, not with this name that lay like a shadow over every one of his decisions.

“Lucius would be in my office faster than I could say Quidditch,” he thought coolly while outwardly remaining unmoved, “I must not tear the boy to pieces, no matter how much my hands itch; I need Lucius, I need information, I need to know what is going on with the Dark Lord’s followers, and I have to hear it from someone who might know.”

He lowered his voice even further and drew Draco aside so that their words hung between the cold stones, barely more than breaths. In the same instant he was annoyed with himself, because he should have cast a Muffliato over them to exclude every unwanted ear.

At the end of the corridor, half in shadow, half in light, stood Hermione, her hands in front of her face, tears on her cheeks. Beside her Potter and Weasley, awkwardly talking at her; an image that meant both noise and silence to Severus at once, because the girl’s gaze was wide and wounded.

“She deserved it, the little ugly Mudblood,” Draco said now, in a tone that elevated every trace of smugness to an art form. Severus felt the blood hammer hotly at his temples, an old, familiar rage mingling with the cutting clarity he needed in order not to lose control. He would have liked nothing better than to slam the boy against the wall, but he forced himself to rein it in. Instead, he spoke to him: “…but she is still a fellow student, whether pure-blood or Mudblood. And in this school I make…” he inserted a dramatic pause, his voice sharper as he continued, “…no distinction…”

But he got no further, because in that moment his eyes caught Hermione’s gaze, wide and staring, frightened down to a depth that could not immediately be grasped. Her face was disfigured by the curse, her teeth grotesquely elongated, heavy and unnatural, grown down to the level of her chin, a sight that made even him freeze for a brief instant. He saw the pain in those eyes, the physical pain that grew stronger with every second, but also the other one, the inner one. The one that works silently, that names no place where it begins, and is therefore so much harder to bear because it attacks the self without explaining itself.

“I’ll help you in a moment, Hermione,” he thought, a silent, focused vow that settled firmly within him. “I’ll clean this up first, and then I’ll come to you.”

Then the crying broke out of her. It came suddenly and unchecked, a harsh, uncontrolled sob that she could no longer hold back. Everything she had until then kept under control with effort collapsed in on itself. Her hands shot upward, jerky and uncertain, as if she were trying to hide her face. In the next moment she turned away abruptly, disengaged from the situation and ran off, hurried and disoriented, driven by an inner pressure she herself could scarcely classify.

Severus remained standing. Just for an instant. That moment stretched because two reactions arose in him at the same time. One part of him wanted to follow her, immediately, without hesitation. Another part forced him to order, to control the situation, to secure the moment before it escalated. The weighing was brief and hard. Discipline prevailed. First he had to intervene here. Then he could follow her.

Severus turned to Draco. The boy had lifted his chin, his shoulders tense, his gaze shining with wounded pride and poorly concealed fury.

“This is ridiculous,” Draco snapped. “I didn’t do anything at all—”

“Enough,” Severus interrupted him at once. His voice lay deep and hard, precisely placed. “You will not speak now.”

Draco’s lips pressed together. His gaze flickered, sought support in defiance. “My father will hear about this.”

Severus stepped half a pace closer. Not a hasty step, not a threatening one. Just presence. “Your father will hear that you drew attention to yourself in the castle today,” he said calmly. “And that I reacted.”

Draco gave a short, sharp, offended laugh. “Because of her?”

“Because of your behavior,” Severus replied immediately. “You will return to the common rooms now.”

“I have lessons,” Draco threw in, his voice cutting. “And duties.”

“They have changed,” Severus said. “You will report to Mr. Filch. Today. Tomorrow. The day after tomorrow. Two hours each time.”

Draco’s face lost its color. “That’s absurd.”

Severus held his gaze. “If you are seeking attention,” he said slowly, each word clearly separated, “I will ensure that you receive exactly the amount of it that you demanded.”

For a moment Draco stood motionless. Then he lowered his gaze, turned abruptly and walked away, his steps faster than he had intended.

Severus waited until the footsteps had faded. Only then did he allow the tension in his shoulders to ease slightly. Control opened itself to a single thought that settled unfiltered within him.

'Hermione.
Crying.
Alone.
Hurt.'

Severus stood for another moment, his gaze directed into the dark corridor as if he could summon the girl back by sheer will, then he turned sharply, almost recklessly controlled, toward the dungeons.

“What just happened?” it hammered within him. “Why did she run off? Why, damn it, did she look at me as if I were the one who had spoken the curse?” Nothing made sense, and yet he knew that he could not afford to think before he had fully regained his cold composure.

Hermione, on the other hand, was burning, and the fire within her was not a pure glow but a mixture of rage and pain. A seething compound that consumed her from the inside and left her scarcely able to breathe.

“How can he be such a damn bastard?” it raged within her. The thought, so hot and unbearable, wrapped itself around her throat like an iron hand, so that she felt she might suffocate. She could not remember ever before having felt such a violent aversion toward him, a rejection that did not feel like cool distance but like physical nausea. Sharp and bitter, as if she had been poisoned.

Her thoughts did not shoot along clear lines, but in short, hard sentences that echoed in her head like hammer blows, leaving no room for nuances, no comfort of reason. “I never want to see him again. I will never go to private lessons with him again. Never, never again.”

Her thoughts raced like an unending caravan, a roaring traffic that knew no exits and no rest stops, and the more she tried to impose order, the louder the chaos became. “He said he made no distinction whether the teeth were long or short — so to him I am always like this. Am I really that ugly to him? Was that his judgment, wrapped in house politics?”

With every step she took, with every beat of her heart, her chest tightened further until she could scarcely draw breath. In the end, only the sobbing remained as the sole outlet, raw, unpolished, humiliating, and yet unavoidable. Tears ran down her cheeks before she even fully understood it, and she no longer understood the world, because she had believed—no, she had known—that between her and Professor Snape there was something special, a bond that was palpable, something like a silent corridor that existed only for the two of them. A connection no one else was allowed to enter. And now that corridor lay full of shards, sharp and glittering, as injurious as the mockery in his eyes.

“I will avoid him,” she decided in her despair, and the thought felt like a desperate vow. “I can’t do this anymore, it’s over.” And as she thought this, she felt something break within her, that quiet, load-bearing foundation, and now it lay in pieces. The loss burned like real heartbreak, deep, cutting, and non-negotiable.

“What is wrong with me?” she asked herself silently as she hastily wiped away the tears. New ones kept flowing, unstoppable and endless. “I’ve known for a long time that my heart beats for him—but since when is it this bad? Since when do I feel this deeply for my professor?” She let out a half-choked laugh that immediately dissolved into sobbing. “Bloody hormones,” she muttered hoarsely. “Bloody heart.”

Madam Pomfrey did what Madam Pomfrey always did: she repaired what could be repaired with magical skill and disciplined care. With cool, deft hands and the gaze of a woman who had pieced together broken body parts hundreds of times before. She gave her a potion that dulled the pain, that shrank the teeth until they looked like teeth again and not like grotesque spikes that had turned her face into a grimace.

But Madam Pomfrey could not dull the thoughts, not the agony in Hermione’s chest, not the storm of shame and longing that raged unchecked within her. In the end she was allowed to go, with a toneless thank-you on her lips. It was barely more than a breath as her legs carried her like stilts out of the hospital wing.

No sooner had she entered the corridor than she placed an Ignoring Charm on herself, her voice trembling as she spoke the formula. The tears were still too close, her face still too wet, her eyes too red. And she could not and would not endure an audience for this kind of weakness at that moment. No one should see her face, no one hear her sobbing, no one follow her gait, which would surely have betrayed her.

And of course, because life strikes with cruel consequence when one is most vulnerable, it was precisely at that moment that he came toward her. Professor Snape appeared at the end of the corridor, a shadow approaching with firm, controlled steps. His cloak billowed behind him as always, and his expression was unmoved, strict, just as she knew it. Panic rose within her, hot and paralyzing at once. Hermione knew that she could not endure him, not at that moment, not like this.

The sob that had built up in her chest burst forth in a single, loud tear that cut through the silence like a dagger. She saw him flinch, saw his head whip around, his gaze sweeping through the corridor, searching, drilling—and yet her small spell held, so strong that even he, the sharp-minded one, looked past her as if she were no more than a shadow. His gaze slid over her like water over stone.

Hermione held her breath, forced her legs to keep moving, managed to flee unseen into the tower, up the stairs, until she finally reached the dormitory. She slipped into the saving half-darkness of her bed, drew the curtains closed like a final bastion against the world. And there, in that narrow red cave, she let everything fall, held nothing back anymore. She cried, for a long time, so long that at some point she no longer knew a human being could even have so many tears. And every drop felt as if it were washing away another piece of her heart, until scarcely anything remained but pain and an incurable longing—the longing for him.

At the same time that Hermione left the hospital wing, Severus was moving with rapid, controlled steps exactly toward that place. Every step followed a clear inner target. Hermione. Concern had torn him from his work, had fully bound his attention and quickened his movements. Thoughts of duties or procedures receded as he paced the corridor. When he entered the hospital wing, his gaze immediately swept over the beds, methodical and focused, registering every detail. His focus lingered where she should have been. The bed was empty.

Poppy raised her head when she noticed him, a brief expression of surprise crossing her face.

“Has Granger already left?” Severus asked curtly and precisely.

“Yes,” Poppy answered just as matter-of-factly. “She left the hospital wing just moments ago.”

“Just?” he pressed.

She gave a small, apologetic shrug. “Not even two minutes ago.”

A destination was likewise unknown. The information was enough to realign the tension within him. His attention gathered, grew narrower, more urgent, ready to continue the search.

Later, Parvati and Lavender entered the Gryffindor dormitory. Their voices lay muffled beneath the cover of night; the laughter of the other Gryffindors had long since faded from the corridors. They took a few steps inside, then stopped. From one of the four-poster beds came muffled, broken sobs. The curtains were fully drawn. The two girls exchanged a look. A silent understanding settled between them, borne of the sense that a pain lay here that demanded restraint.

“Probably because of the teeth,” Parvati whispered softly. “The Slytherins were really mean.”

Lavender nodded at once, her brow furrowing. “Yeah, that makes sense. Malfoy was an ass again. Comments like that hit anyone.” She lowered her voice further. “We’d better leave her to herself. That’s the right thing.”

They were convinced they were speaking quietly enough. The words still reached Hermione. Muffled, distant, as if they were coming from another room.

Hermione lay tightly curled under the covers. The curtains created distance from the world, but the shame burned within her, sharp and oppressive. 'They have no idea', she thought bitterly. 'It’s not about my teeth. It’s not about Malfoy. The thought constricted her chest, pressed the air out of her lungs. It’s about him.'

This realization struck her again and again with full force. Her heart immediately began to race, restless and urgent. Tears ran down her cheeks uncontrollably. She pressed her face deeper into the pillow, clung to the fabric as if it could hold her. The sobbing returned, raw and tormenting, and could not be stopped.

“He hates me,” the thoughts hammered monotonously, over and over. “He thinks I’m ugly. He’s always thought that about me. And everything else, everything that came before, was just an act. A mistake. A performance I fell for. He was probably just mocking me as a raven.”

Her chest tightened painfully, as if something inside her were tearing. It no longer felt like a simple insult, but like a loss, as if something had been taken from her that she had scarcely dared to name at all. It was as though an invisible bond had suddenly been severed, and the pain rushed through her like an echo vibrating in her bones.

She turned toward the wall, not wanting to hear the voices of the two classmates as they carefully put away their things and then fell silent after a few moments. They had understood that it was better not to press her further. And Hermione was grateful—grateful that they accepted this false explanation, that they did not reopen the subject, that they did not ask deeper questions. The false diagnosis was easier to bear than the truth, which she herself could scarcely endure.

Alone, behind the closed curtains, she laid a hand on her chest, felt the hectic, restless pounding of her heart. “Why does it hurt so much? Why does he of all people hurt me so much?” It was not just anger, not just wounded pride. It was heartbreak, pure and merciless.

And while outside the castle slowly slipped into nocturnal calm, she lay there, the tears endless, the feeling of betrayal greater than she had ever imagined possible.

When later, deep in the night, the soft tapping at her window began—impatient, then pleading, then controlled again—she lay motionless, listening, clenched her teeth and did not move. Abraxas, her black visitor, the friend in feathers, knocked for a long time, and she ignored him with the practiced skill one has only when ignoring something one is desperately aware of.

“If I see him, I’ll scream at him,” she thought. “I’ll tell him what a bastard he is.” And in the same breath she knew she could not, because every word would betray her, would tear the thin veil behind which they both hid. So she remained silent, and the silence hurt her.

“The stone is vibrating,” Severus noted shortly afterward in his chambers, and the thought drove into the back of his neck like the cold tip of a knife. The small, inconspicuous object he had given her some time ago—a silent promise in silver and magic—burned against his palm as if it were a living thing, and the signal was unmistakable: she needed him.

“She needs help, damn it,” it shot through his mind. “And she’s ignoring Abraxas. But why is she ignoring Abraxas? Does she have such anger in her belly? Fear? What in all the world happened out there in the corridor?”

He did not understand it. No matter how he turned it over, he arrived at no conclusion that explained the sudden coldness. And so he did what he almost never did: he lowered his Occlumency shields by a hair’s breadth, just for a heartbeat, allowed what remained of the bond to bridge the distance, and was struck by a surge that nearly pressed him against the wall. Unbridled grief, a feeling of loss, raw and overwhelming, as if someone had opened a vein in his chest and poured the pain directly into his blood.

He sealed himself off again at once, braced a hand against the cupboard, breathed once, twice, and the coolness returned, while the afterburn remained within him.

“Damn it,” he muttered, reached for the bottle of Firewhisky without thinking, poured a glass, drank, and when the helplessness of not wanting to understand turned into rage, he hurled the glass against the wall, watched as the amber liquid spread in strands and droplets over the stone as if even it were too heavy for the air. A moment later he raised his wand and cleaned the damage with a curt motion, because he despised traces that were not necessary.

Sleep did not come. It avoided him as stubbornly as he sought it, because again and again those eyes stood before him, wide, wounded, shining with tears, and the look was one he knew, one he was forced to recognize: Lily, on that day when words had become weapons.

“No,” he thought, pressing his lips together. “This is not the same story, this is not the same guilt—but it is the same kind of pain.”

“I said nothing cruel,” he told himself aloud. “I reprimanded him, not her. I set boundaries, I did not cross them.” And yet the question lingered in the room, stubborn as smoke that seeps into fabric: “What exactly did she hear? What exactly did I not say?”

Severus sat down, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair, and stared into the dark corner where the silence was densest. “I will look into this,” he decided soberly and clearly. “I will find out where the rift formed, and I will close it—I must close it, for her sake.”

The footsteps did not announce him; they simply cut into the corridor, hard and confident, with the unshakable self-assurance of a man certain that doors would open for him before he even reached them. Lucius Malfoy emerged from the darkness of the dungeons, the silver of his cane catching the weak, flickering light of the torches, and his gaze, sharp as a drawn dagger, was already an attack long before the first word was spoken or the air adjusted to his arrival.

“Severus,” he said, cool, clear, provocatively distinct, a tone that left no doubt this visit was no coincidence. “We need to talk.”

Severus stopped before the door to his office, his hand resting calmly on the handle, without wasting a single movement that Lucius might have interpreted as a reaction. “If you want to complain about Draco,” he said, softly and flat as a dry cut through the silence, “you know the stairs upstairs. Dumbledore has clear rules.” It sounded so everyday, so bureaucratic, that the sentence almost seemed worthless, and that was precisely what gave it weight.

Lucius stepped closer, determined, far too close, and the artificial smile on his lips glittered like a finely honed piece of glass that could cut someone in the next moment. “Don’t take me for a fool,” he murmured, the smile remaining even as his voice grew colder. “You gave the boy detention. My son. Draco reported an incident with that girl, and you take the side of a piece of scum that should not exist in this school.”

Severus opened the door slowly, controlled, but did not allow Lucius to enter, an unspoken indication that this conversation was to take place on the threshold. “Dumbledore has ordered that infractions be punished. I follow his regulations.” The lie flowed smoothly and without any sign of emotion from his lips, and Lucius accepted it without resistance, because he trusted Dumbledore to hold rules so rigidly that even a Malfoy had to submit to them. That was precisely why the explanation seemed credible enough to end the discussion.

Lucius’ eyes narrowed to thin slits. “I gave Draco clear instructions,” he said, his tone firmer, more threatening. “This girl is a problem. A mud witch, arrogant, loud, without any natural boundaries. She needs a lesson, an example that embeds itself in the minds of her kind and remains there.”

Severus’ fingers twitched imperceptibly, tightened around the door handle, a barely visible tremor that only someone who had studied him for years would have noticed. Inside him rose a heat he had kept chained for a long time. Hermione. Her gaze. Her courage. Her willingness to trust him, though she had no guarantee that he would not use her words against her. All of it pressed against his self-control as if it wanted to blow apart the façade he had built over decades.

Lucius continued speaking, calm, factual, as if he were describing a simple household measure rather than the destruction of a young person. “You know how important these boundaries are. You know how dangerous it becomes when scum believes itself equal. Or have you forgotten what that Mudblood Potter did to you? A stain on your life, a mistake that nearly destroyed you.”

Severus raised his head very slowly, every movement precisely guided like a blade being aimed at an opponent. The calm on his face was so complete that it made Lucius fall silent for a fleeting moment. “I have forgotten nothing,” he said, and his voice sank deeper, calmer, in a tone that was neither threat nor plea, but rather the clear announcement that the boundary Lucius had touched was one whose crossing could have consequences.

Lucius smiled again, thin and self-satisfied, as if he had achieved the reaction he expected. “Good. Then stick to it.”

Severus’ gaze remained steady, a dark surface without any movement, while beneath his skin a burning impulse flared up, cold and hot at once, a voice within him whispering that a single Cruciatus would suffice. Brief. Efficient. Silent. A heartbeat, a jolt through this arrogant man’s body, a look of realization in his eyes, and the grin would vanish. For Hermione. For the girl who trusted him. For the girl who had challenged him in thought more than all his tasks combined.

But he did nothing.
He remained standing like a wall no blade could penetrate, a line he consciously did not cross.

“I act according to regulations,” Severus said calmly, “and Draco will learn that his name does not carry him out of every situation.” The sentence was plain, composed, unshakeable, and Lucius recognized in it a stance that was difficult to break.

Lucius’ face barely shifted. Not anger, rather cold calculation, as if he were seeing new ways to apply pressure. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Severus. A very dangerous one.”

Severus stepped half a pace forward, carefully measured, just far enough for Lucius to feel the loss of his space. “I choose my games myself,” he said, and the words struck with a clarity that required no argument.

Lucius retreated. Minimally. Almost imperceptibly. But Severus saw it and registered it as a small victory.

The torches crackled, a single spark broke loose, fell to the ground and went out in the dust of the dungeons.

“Good night, Lucius,” Severus said.

He closed the door in his face without any additional movement or word, as if the conversation had been nothing more than a routine now concluded.

Within him echoed the urge to have spoken the curse, a brief, swift spell, not out of old injury, but out of the instinctive need to protect Hermione and to show Lucius the boundaries he never wanted to accept.

He took a deep breath, long and controlled, and forced the heat back into the depths of his thoughts, where it would not immediately drive him to action.

For her he would remain controlled.
For her he would restrain himself.
For her, however, he would also kill if it became necessary.

He had removed his cloak and sat motionless at the desk, his hands folded, his gaze directed at a spot in front of him without really seeing it. The work lay untouched, potions, parchments, everything remained where it was.

His thoughts circled again and again. Word for word. He went through the conversation slowly, carefully. The tone. The pauses. The order of his sentences. He turned every formulation over, examined every emphasis, searched for a place where his words might have tipped. For something that might have sounded wrong. For something that had been sharper than he intended. He found nothing tangible.

He remembered the moment, her gaze, the abrupt shift in her posture. Something had happened. Of that he was certain. But the trigger remained hidden from him. No sentence leapt out, no thought could be grasped. Everything he had said appeared to him factual, controlled, unambiguous. And yet it had been enough to pull the ground out from under her feet.

Severus breathed out slowly and leaned back. The uncertainty gnawed at him, quietly and persistently. He did not know this kind of unrest. As a rule, he recognized mistakes immediately. Today, only this blank space remained. An uncomfortable feeling of responsibility without cause.

His fingers clasped more tightly together. Something had struck her. Not casually. Not superficially. Something fundamental. And the longer he thought about it, the clearer it became that it was less about what he had said than about what she had heard.

He reached no conclusion, only the certainty that this question would not let him go.

Chapter Text

The day of the Yule Ball had arrived, an event Severus accepted each year with an inward roll of his eyes and invariably filed under the category of “duty and waste of time.” Yet this time was different, and he sensed it long before he was willing to admit it to himself. Dumbledore, as was to be expected, had spared neither expense nor effort in transforming the castle into a glittering winter fairytale.

The Great Hall now resembled a gigantic ice palace, where everything sparkled, shimmered, and gleamed. Enchanted icicles of light hung everywhere, the walls were coated in a frosty silver that glowed with a strangely warm radiance. Between white floral arrangements and shimmering crystals, candlelight fractured into a thousand shards. For most, it was breathtakingly festive; for Severus, however, it was simply kitsch—an exaggerated spectacle that offended his sense of sobriety. But it was Dumbledore, and when the old man once decided that magic and excess should make the world more bearable for one evening, even Minerva, with all her severity, rebounded off him without effect.

In the center of the hall, a dance floor had been cleared, smooth and gleaming like polished ice, ready to thrust the students into the spotlight, whether they wished it or not.

Severus knew that Hermione would dance the opening dance with Viktor Krum. Instantly, something boiled up inside him—hot and uncontrollable—an envy he had neither anticipated nor welcomed, and yet one that asserted itself with brutal clarity.

Unbidden, an image forced itself into his mind. Hermione in Krum’s arms, drawn close to him, guided by slow music, her body aligned with his, her gaze fixed on him—soft, open. His jaw tightened, his hand clenched unconsciously, and it took effort to banish the thought.

He told himself it was meaningless. Yet the thought remained. And with it, the sharp, unpleasant awareness that someone else was touching her while he himself was condemned to keep his distance.

It troubled him in a way he did not wish to name, because he knew exactly which word was pressing forward: jealousy. He rejected the notion sharply, almost indignantly. He was an adult. He was her teacher. He had no right to such emotions, even if he was her soulmate.

“Ridiculous,” he snarled inwardly. “Such impulses are remnants of long-past years.”

And yet the thought could not be banished. Krum was eighteen, a young man, famous, admired, while Hermione was only fifteen—vulnerable, impressionable, at least in the eyes of a man who knew all too well the recklessness of youthful decisions.
“Boys that age are dreadful. I was dreadful at that age. So I will have to keep two eyes on them. If not three.”

The mere idea that Krum might want more than just a dance sent sparks flaring inside Severus, restless embers roiling without a place to settle. The longer he thought about it, the more unpredictable the feeling became, as though a tension were building inside him that was scarcely containable. He scolded himself in the very next breath, pressed his lips into a thin line, and murmured a bitter truth he wished he could believe: “I don’t care. She can do what she wants. She’s old enough. I was entirely on my own at fifteen.” His voice was scarcely more than a rough whisper, lost in the noise of the Great Hall. “I will simply sit here tonight, fulfill my duty, and retreat to the dungeons as quickly as possible. And if he kisses her, then that doesn’t matter either.”

These words were cool, strict, logically conceived—but the coolness did not last. It lasted precisely until the moment he saw her.

When Hermione appeared on the gallery above and slowly descended the stairs, the sight struck him with unexpected force. The light of the hall fell upon her, sharply outlining every movement, and for a brief moment Severus felt as though the air had been knocked from his lungs. His heart beat faster, stronger, uncontrollably. He had to consciously steady himself to maintain his composure.

He was immediately annoyed with himself, at the thoughts pressing in, at his body’s reaction, which slipped free of all discipline. Until that moment, he had never noticed with such clarity how pretty she was, how harmoniously posture, face, and presence aligned the instant she entered a room. For standing there was no longer the girl from class, quietly seated at her desk, focused, striving, trying to remain unobtrusive. Standing there was a young woman, self-assured in her bearing, present, grown in a way that eluded his sober gaze and yet reached him all the same.

And that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Her hair was no longer wild and unruly as on some trying days, but tamed, half pinned up with the clasp he had given her, a clasp he now recognized in all its simplicity amid the bustle of the ball. The remaining curls fell in soft, elegant waves down her back, framing her face so gently that he forgot to breathe for a moment. Her face, so often marked by fatigue or inner tension, shone this evening as though someone had coaxed light from a hidden source within her. She wore makeup—subtle, yet remarkably effective. A fine shimmer lay upon her lids, accentuating her eyes and making them appear larger, deeper, clearer, as though they suddenly held the power to pierce through any doubt.

And the dress… it was deep black, floor-length, possessed of a calm, self-evident elegance that robbed him of coherent thought for a moment. The fabric followed her movements fluidly, tracing her silhouette with restraint, and the deep cut of the back lent the whole a maturity that neither sought nor emphasized attention. It was no attempt to present something, no staging, no exaggeration. It was simply the consequence of what she had become, and therein lay the impact that struck him, unexpectedly and enduringly. It was a kind of beauty that did not obscure her youth, but rather refined it. For a fleeting instant, she appeared older, more mature, more graceful, as though she had stepped into another world.

Then she smiled.

That smile caught him unprepared, caused something in his chest to spring open—light, uncontrolled, almost ridiculous. His heart gave an involuntary leap, as though it had believed that expression was meant for him.

But in the next moment, Viktor Krum stepped past him—tall, self-assured, in the dark Durmstrang uniform that further underscored his presence. With a fluid, almost old-fashioned elegance, he offered her his arm. She took it without hesitation. Together, they turned toward the ballroom.

The smile was not for him.
… Not for him.
It was for Viktor Krum.

A stab shot through Severus’s chest so violently that his breath caught again, sharper, more painful this time. He watched Krum lean toward her, watched the boy touch her, a careful, guided movement that made Severus’s stomach clench. A rigid, cold taste settled in his throat, as though bitterness itself were preventing him from speaking. For a moment, he felt almost absurdly miserable, because in that instant she had eyes only for that Durmstrang student.

Worse was the reflex that followed.

A wish, nearly uncontrollable, struck him so suddenly that he clenched his hands into fists to suppress it. The wish to stand in Krum’s place. Just for one breath. Just to know what it would be like if she looked at him that way.

He berated himself immediately, harshly, mercilessly: “Nonsense. She hates you. She would never, never want to dance with you.”

Yet even that sentence gave him no peace.
He knew he was lying to himself.
He knew he was trying to protect himself.
He knew he had long since fallen.

So the evening passed, and although he was officially meant to keep an eye on all the students, every movement, every potential misstep, every trace of high spirits that could so easily turn into recklessness on a night like this, his attention in truth rested almost constantly on her. On Hermione.

He saw her dancing in the glow of enchanted candles, saw how her smile caught the light, saw her conversing with others, polite, friendly.

And then he saw her vanish.

Only for a moment had he not watched her, because he had been observing Potter. The boy sat at a table like a little bundle of self-pity wrapped in his own melancholy. Weasley was gone as well.

When Severus turned his attention back, Hermione was simply gone, as though the floor had opened and swallowed her.

An uneasy feeling, which at first sat in his stomach like a dull blow, swelled within a few heartbeats into a panic he neither knew nor could control. Krum was gone too. The thought struck him like a dagger.

'What if they were somewhere together?
What if the boy had his hands where they did not belong?
What if he had said something that hurt or unsettled her—or worse still, what if he was pressuring her?
Or worst of all, what if she had allowed it?'

The image of Krum’s hands, Krum’s closeness, Krum’s body in the half-light before her, pressing her against a wall, tore something inside him so violently that he nearly had to grip the edge of the table to keep from charging off like a jealous fool who had lost all restraint.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, he let his Occlumency shields drop. Just a little. Precisely. Only as far as necessary. The world shifted slightly—narrower, denser, warmer. Then she was there: her nervousness, finely vibrating like a quiet current beneath the skin; the warmth of her body, calm, alive; her heartbeat, accelerated yet steady, carried by anticipation and excitement. A clear, quick, warm pulse, free of resistance, free of pain, free of pressure.

That sensation told him everything he needed to know. It was enough. He reacted before conscious thought could catch up. In one fluid, practiced motion, he cast a spell over himself that rendered him invisible and inconspicuous, a concealment veil so fine and yet so effective that no one but Dumbledore would even notice his disappearance. Then he began to search.

He exhaled once, shallowly, and opened his mind again by the smallest margin. Just enough to find her trace, and he felt her immediately. Her presence was unmistakable, clear, bright, intense, like a familiar scent in an overly confined room. But what he felt struck him like a blow to the chest. The warmth was gone. In its place stood sorrow. Heavy, dense, bottomless sorrow, as though someone had wrapped a hand around his heart and squeezed until scarcely any air remained. Hastily, he sealed his mind again, because the feeling threatened to overwhelm him, as though it would drag him down with it if he allowed it even one heartbeat longer.

Then he heard it.

A soft, stifled sob, scarcely more than a tremor in the air, yet to him as loud as a cry for help. He followed the sound, drawing the Disillusionment Charm tighter around himself until his body was no more than a shimmering shadow at the edge of the space. Severus moved on, step by step, each driven by a fear he would never have admitted to himself.

And then he found her.

On a staircase leading to the upper floors, slumped on the third step, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking in a desperate rhythm that felt like a knife to him. Her shoes stood neatly side by side, but the rest of her body looked as though it might collapse at any moment under the weight of her emotions.

He stopped five steps away, gripping the railing just to be certain his legs would hold him, and looked down at her. A flood of questions rose in him all at once.

'What happened?
Did Krum hurt her?
Did someone injure her?
Who had driven her to sit here and cry while the whole hall danced?
And why hadn’t she touched her pendant?
Why hadn’t she sought anyone?
Why was she alone?'

At that moment, she suddenly lifted her head so abruptly that for an instant he thought she had seen him, as though she had sensed the direction of his gaze, the weight of his worry, the unrest emanating from him. Her eyes were red and swollen, tears had traced fine lines down her cheeks, a telltale sheen still lingering. She could not see him; he knew that. And yet she seemed to look straight at him, as though she sensed someone was there, someone who cared, even if she would never have expected it.

Then she slowly stood, laboriously, her shoulders slumped, yet her back remained astonishingly straight, as though even in pain she would not allow anyone to perceive weakness. She took a deep breath, wiped her cheeks, forced herself into composure, and walked toward the tower, step by step—exhausted, inwardly broken, yet upright enough to show the world she would endure even this evening.

Severus remained behind, invisible, unmoving, caught between anger, concern, and a feeling so vast he could scarcely name it.

Then he left the hall, which pressed upon him like a leaden cloak he could no longer bear, and stepped out into the icy night. Its cutting cold granted him a moment of clarity, yet failed to ease the weight in his chest. The oppressive feeling that had pursued him all evening clung to him like shadows that could not be shaken.

He left the hall as it increasingly confined him and stepped into the cold night. The low temperature helped him briefly order his thoughts, but it did nothing to relieve the pressure in his chest. The burdening sensation that had accompanied him all evening persisted and would not be shaken. The decision formed clearly and without hesitation. He had to go to her immediately. He had to know what had happened. If anyone had touched her without her consent, he would act. The thought alone was enough to quicken his steps. In that case, he would find the responsible party and hold them accountable.

Without further hesitation, he spread the wings of his Animagus form, pushed powerfully off the ground, and rose into the darkness above the castle. Severus let the wind course through his feathers as he gained altitude with swift, fluid wingbeats.

Severus held a narrow piece of parchment between his talons, neatly folded, still fresh. He had written it after observing her—quietly, attentively, with a concentration that had surprised even him. She had been beautiful in that moment. Open. Real. The thought would not be banished.

He knew the step was risky. Words left traces. Proximity did as well. And yet he had written—briefly, deliberately, without explanation, without signature. The note now rested calmly between his talons. He would later leave it on her windowsill, unobtrusive, precisely placed. Only she would know where it came from. A single glance would suffice.

He flew over the towers to Gryffindor Tower and landed on a windowsill, steady and calm, talons gripping the stone. There he remained motionless, letting his gaze sweep across the window, checking for light, movement, any small sign of activity. Waiting was part of him. Observing as well. Still, everything inside him was taut.

He stayed seated, forcing himself to calm, to discipline, to control impulses demanding action. Flying away brought no clarity. Intruding without cause did not either. He had to wait. Observe. Ensure she was safe. And yet the inner tension continued to grow—persistent, demanding—borne of the certainty that this had long ceased to be about mere supervision.

It did not take long. Only a few minutes, then the door to the tower room opened, so softly it was barely perceptible, and Hermione stepped inside. She closed the door carefully behind her and stood still at first, as though she needed to catch her breath. She turned her head exactly in his direction, to where he lingered in the darkness. She stared at him abruptly.

For a moment, he truly believed she would not come any closer—that she would deny him entry, that her hesitation would strip him of the closeness he had forbidden himself. For the incident with Malfoy still lay between them.

But then she slowly approached the window, opened it, came so close that he caught the sweet, youthful scent of her hair—a blend of magnolia and innocent warmth that abruptly tightened his throat.

She leaned on the sill, and in the movement she appeared so heavy, so exhausted, that he knew at once her composure was only a thin layer, ready to shatter at any moment. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, glinting in the muted glow of snowlight. He was so close he could have counted every freckle on her nose. That small, innocent detail, which made her so human and vulnerable, tore open something in him he had long believed buried.

And then he did something he would never have thought possible. He leaned forward, cautiously, almost reverently, and brushed the tip of his wing across her tears—a gesture so gentle it seemed as though he wished to wipe the entire weight of the world from her face.

The evening still lingered in her bones. Viktor’s closeness had changed gradually—at first she hadn’t noticed it, then it became unmistakable. He had stepped closer, looked at her longer. And then his hand touched her arm, and she immediately knew what he expected. Her body tensed, her breath shortened, and in that moment she knew she did not want to take that step—not with him. The thought of a kiss felt wonderful, but not with him.

And then Ron appeared. Loud, uncontrolled, filled with jealousy. His voice escalated the situation completely. Viktor tensed as well, and the mood tipped. She suddenly stood between two fronts, having chosen neither. Sharp, exaggerated words flew back and forth, laden with assumptions, and she realized with unpleasant clarity that her closeness to Viktor had been misinterpreted by Ron.

Ron shouted at her, and she shouted back—angry and hurt. He had ruined everything, and so it fell apart. Ron vanished, Viktor withdrew, and she was left alone with the remaining tension. She moved away, sought calm, distance, a place without questions. Only there did her body finally give way. The tears came quietly, less from sadness than from overwhelm and the painful knowledge that her heart had long since made a decision, even if she could tell no one.

Then she suddenly noticed a scent. At first faint, then unmistakable. Sandalwood. His scent. Her breath caught, and she looked around instinctively. Professor Snape was nowhere to be seen—no step, no shadow, no movement. And yet he was there. Close enough to be perceived. Watchful. Presence without visibility. The certainty struck her unprepared and made the tears swell again. The thought that he was watching over her once more, that he lingered nearby without revealing himself, further tangled her emotions. She did not know what it meant—his closeness, his attention, the way she felt him without being able to grasp him.

But now he was here with her. Her eyes lifted, and she looked at him, she met his gaze directly, those dark, vigilant eyes she had known since her first year and which had long become familiar. Abraxas. Professor Snape. The certainty settled and knocked her breath out of rhythm. She swallowed hard to keep the tears in check. The memory of the scene with Malfoy still lay between them, his harshness, his words that had struck her and continued to echo. The wound ran deep.

Still, she raised her hand. The movement was hesitant, driven by a need for closeness. Her fingers trembled slightly as they stroked over his black plumage—familiar, cautious. In that moment, relief outweighed everything else: that he was there, that he stayed, that he watched.

Her voice finally found its way out, rough from sobbing and gathered with effort. “Thank you. Thank you for being here, Abraxas. Truly, thank you.”

No sooner had the words faded than everything she had held back tore free, pouring out in a wave of pain and indignation. “Ron… Ron is such a bloody idiot.” Her voice nearly broke, trembling with rage and despair. “He made a scene just because I went to the ball with Viktor. As if that were shameful, as if I would immediately… snog him just because he was my date. He doesn’t know me, not really. I’m not like that.” Her shoulders shook, her fingers clawed at the windowsill as though she needed to hold onto something because everything else threatened to fall apart. “Viktor… he wanted to kiss me, I felt it. But I… I said no. I didn’t want to. Not with him. It didn’t feel right.” Her voice dropped to a fragile whisper, and she sobbed softly. “I want to wait. For the right one. Is that… foolish? I… love someone else.”

Severus remained silent, unmoving, his wings still slightly spread as though he himself were holding his breath. Her words burned into him, every single one. That she had not kissed Krum soothed him in a way that shamed him—a relief that made him feel even weaker, because he did not want to understand why it mattered so much. Earlier, the mere possibility that it might have been otherwise had driven him into a tension that nearly drove him mad. Now that weight fell away, only to make room for a new, equally unbearable question. 'Whom was she waiting for? Who was this “right one”? Whom did she love?'

His mind raged, clamored for logic, for distance, for reason. Yet something else—a darker whisper, older than any discipline—answered dangerously close to his heart.

“Bloody sentimental nonsense,” he hissed inwardly, and yet he could not deny how deeply it moved him that she confided in him—in him, whom she allowed only as a friend in the form of a raven.

Outside, snow began to fall again, slow, steady, the flakes heavy and soundless as they settled on the windowsill, cloaking the world beyond in milky gray. They still sat there, he beside her, she gazing absently out toward the lake, her fingers gliding almost mechanically through his feathers, so tenderly that he felt it more than he wished to. At some point, he noticed her hands growing ice-cold, her skin pale. He croaked softly, a sound half warning, half rebuke.

A faint, pained smile crossed her face as she looked up at him. “Yes, I know. It’s cold.” Her voice was quieter now, weighted with fatigue. “I’m going to change and go to sleep now. Ron ruined my whole evening. And I had been so looking forward to it… my first Yule Ball, a dance. I wanted it with someone I truly care about—a moment I imagined differently. But now…” She paused, drew a deep breath, then spoke more gently, almost tenderly. “Good night, Abraxas.”

One last time, her hand slid over his head—a gesture full of tenderness, as though she did not want to let the moment go. He tore himself away, spread his wings, and lifted off. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he saw her notice the small parchment he had left on the windowsill.

She noticed the note, took it with her, and went straight into the bathroom. The parchment lay clenched in her hand, as though she needed to assure herself it was real. She stopped before the mirror, drew a deep breath, and unfolded the note. Her eyes skimmed the lines—first slowly, then faster—until the meaning fully sank in. Then she read it again, and again. In that moment, her chest tightened, and tears broke free in an unrestrained rush. She braced herself against the sink, staring at her reflection as her body yielded beneath the weight of the words.

The mirror cleared its throat softly and addressed her, calm and resolute, as though it had anticipated this moment. It told her she was pretty, that she had always been, and that she judged herself more harshly than anyone else ever could. The words barely reached her, yet they lingered in the room as she wept, soundlessly, exhausted, until the first wave subsided.

Eventually, she wiped her face, changed, and left the bathroom. In the dormitory, she sat on her bed, drew the curtains, and opened the parchment again. Her fingers trembled as her gaze once more traced the lines, and her heart pounded so fiercely she had to hold her breath.

“You were, by far, the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight.”

Tears welled in her eyes once more. She lay down, pressed the parchment tightly to her chest as though it were a heartbeat she wished to preserve, and wept softly as her emotions tumbled within her, caught between pain and warmth, between closeness and rejection. She did not know where to put all that she felt. On one hand, he was so cold, so distant—a man who had built walls around himself, walls she kept running into. On the other, he sought her closeness in those rare gestures that meant infinitely more than words. As Abraxas, he was closer to her than anyone had ever been, and as a man, he was farther away than anyone else.

She knew he was unattainable. He was her teacher. Yet there was no defense against what she felt, no remedy, no antidote. Feelings could not be warded off, they could not be banished, and she could not help that she felt so deeply for him that her heart raced whenever she merely thought of him.

The mystery of Severus Snape. Would she ever solve it? Hermione sometimes wondered whether Professor Snape wondered whether she wondered to whom the raven belonged. Whether the thought ever brushed him—quietly, briefly—while he sat across from her or worked beside her in silence. She had long known who Abraxas was. He lived under the belief that this knowledge eluded her. This layered ignorance, this play of assumptions and unspoken truths, settled like a fine net over everything between them, rendering every encounter both familiar and complicated.

Later, when she drifted into an uneasy sleep, she dreamed she was dancing with him. Not with Viktor, not with any boy, but with him, her professor. They glided across the dance floor in a silence that spoke more than music ever could. Her hand rested warm and firm in his, his eyes held hers steadily, and it was as though nothing existed but this one dance, this single moment, this closeness.

In the dream, he drew her nearer, naturally, as though distance had never existed. She leaned into him, her head against his chest, felt his strong heartbeat and sensed his strength, calm, controlled, ever-present. His arms held her securely, firm enough to support her without confining her. She breathed in his scent, it was distinct and familiar, sandalwood, warm and steady—and that scent alone eased all tension within her. In the dream, closeness felt right, self-evident, as though her body had been waiting precisely for this. She was safe in his arms, protected from everything beyond, borne by a presence that demanded nothing and held everything.

It was beautiful, dreamlike, and she felt sheltered, safe, almost loved.

But when she awoke, the dream ended abruptly. She lay motionless, staring into the darkness of her dormitory, her heart still racing, her body briefly disoriented. The warmth, the closeness, the support were gone, and the emptiness struck without delay. Her chest tightened, as though something she had unconsciously relied upon had been taken from her.

The tears came again, silent and unstoppable, streaming down her cheek and soaking into the pillow. Her body reacted faster than her mind. She still felt the echo of his arms and the impression of safety that stubbornly lingered and now hurt because it had nowhere to belong. Her heart rebelled against this realization and refused to accept the transition from dream to reality.

'It was only a dream'. The thought formed clearly and mercilessly. No dance. No closeness. No support. Only the dark room, the drawn curtains, and the weight of what she longed for and could not have. The pain raged quietly within her, lodged in her chest, without direction, without resolution, and she lay awake until even the tears were spent.

Chapter Text

It was January 2nd, 1995. It was already very late—so late that the dormitory had long since fallen into a deep, almost tangible silence. One of those nocturnal periods of calm in which only the steady breathing of the girls, the rustle of bedding, or an occasional turn broke the darkness. Hermione lay awake, as she so often had in recent days, unable to still her thoughts, when suddenly—quite unexpectedly—a soft yet insistent knock sounded at the window.

She sat up abruptly, her heart skipping a beat before pounding all the harder, as though it might burst from her chest. 'Could it really be? Was it him? Had he truly come?' A brief, feverish moment of doubt made her freeze, unable to act as her thoughts tumbled over one another. Should she leave the window closed, leave him standing outside, or rather, fluttering? Should she continue to maintain the pretense of not wanting to see him, as she had resolved to do, so as not to let him come any closer to her? But before she could even form the thought to its end, her body had already decided, stronger than her will and faster than her mind.

With a hurried, almost angry motion, she tore apart the curtains of her bed, stumbled barefoot across the cold floor, and yanked the window open. And there he was. The black raven, proud and dark, his wings still slightly spread, his black eyes fixed unwaveringly on her. As though he had known she would open it. In that instant, such a sharp, painful sorrow stabbed through her chest that she would have liked to scream aloud and weep without restraint, but she clenched her teeth, forced herself to calm, and whispered hoarsely, “Pssst, not so loud, Abraxas… everyone’s already asleep.”

The raven did not lose a second. He fluttered past her without waiting for an invitation and settled directly on her bed, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He seemed so certain, as though he had taken this path a hundred times before, as though it were his place—not a visit. Hermione remained at the window for a moment longer, unable to close it, as though something hung in the air between them that must not be interrupted.

Finally, she withdrew, closed the bed curtains decisively, and almost automatically laid the familiar spells over them: Muffliato, so that no sound would escape. Only then did she sit down directly in front of him, her knees drawn up, her hands clasped uncertainly in her lap, and stared at him.

He returned the gaze without hesitation. It was that look which made her heart heavy and light at the same time. “We haven’t seen each other for several days,” she began after a while in a soft, hesitant voice that nearly vanished into the fabric of the bed curtains.

She pressed her lips together, bit down on her lower lip, her eyes glistening betrayingly. “I’m sorry. Truly.” She leaned forward a little, and when the raven gently pecked at her with his beak, an audible breath escaped her—almost like a small sigh of relief. “I’m fine,” she added hastily, as if to reassure him. “Please don’t worry.”

But her hands betrayed her; they trembled, resting restlessly in her lap until she finally laid them on his dark, soft plumage, slowly stroking it as though seeking support in the warmth of his feathers.

“I miss the extra hours,” she said quietly, her gaze lowered. “The training sessions with Professor Snape.” The name crossed her lips calmly, without bitterness, without reproach. “They were strict. Unyielding. And often I thought he demanded too much.”

Her fingers paused briefly, then continued their motion. “But they gave me structure. I knew I was being challenged. That I had to improve. That someone was watching closely.”

She drew a deep breath. “Since they stopped, it feels as though something is missing. Not just in my timetable.” A brief hesitation. “I learned more there than just potions. Discipline. Concentration. Responsibility.”

Her hand tightened briefly in his feathers, then relaxed again. “And yes,” she added softly, almost reluctantly honest, “I miss that time. More than I expected.”

The raven remained still. Watchful. He listened without any reaction, and it was precisely that silence which seemed to give her room to breathe on.

She continued speaking, softly and without order, shifting from thoughts to observations, from small worries to things that had occupied her without ever having been spoken aloud. Some things repeated themselves, others remained vague, but she did not stop, as though speaking itself had a structuring effect.

The raven remained still. He did not interrupt her, did not react to any of it, and in that lay something calming. He listened. Completely. Without judgment, without demands.

And while her voice gradually grew calmer and the words fewer, Severus sat motionless before her, absorbing every single one and keeping them with him as though they were something entrusted to him.

She fell silent again, and when she looked at him, there was an expression of weariness in her eyes—and something that was almost pleading. “Abraxas?” Her voice was gentle, nearly hesitant. “I don’t want to chase you away, but I’m really tired. They’ve been long days. I’d like to go to sleep now. Is that all right?”

She waited, sought his silent consent, and then added with more feeling, “But… I have a request. Stay a little longer, until I’ve fallen asleep. I haven’t seen you in so long, and… I don’t want to be alone right now. I want to feel your closeness—just for this one night, until I’m asleep. Would you do me that favor?”

Her eyes glimmered briefly, then she closed them, let her head sink onto the pillow, her hand still nestled in his feathers, and after a few minutes slipped into an even, peaceful sleep.

A few hours earlier, Severus had glided through the night as a raven. He could no longer endure the distance. He had perched on the windowsill of her dormitory and lingered there for a heartbeat. Everything within him had resisted this step, and yet he had knocked against the glass. And she had opened it.

That had been several hours ago. Severus stayed nonetheless. He took his place beside her head, stared straight into the darkness, while his mind questioned relentlessly: 'Why had she asked him of all people to stay? Why did she trust him? Why did she need his closeness?' It was an inner struggle that consumed him in that moment. He had scruples about remaining with her while she slept unaware. He simply sat there beside her, breathing the same air, sharing the space with her as though it were the most natural thing in the world. For the first time in his life—so it felt—he fulfilled a human being’s wish without recompense, without plan, without calculation.

He remained until he was certain she slept deeply and soundly, then rose quietly, left Gryffindor Tower as noiselessly as he had come, and flew back to his chambers. There, he poured himself a small drink, the glass shimmering amber in the candlelight. He stared into it for a long time, as though he might find an answer there. Thoughts, doubts, desire, jealousy, and anger drilled into him.

Then he set off. He had night duty, and the corridors of Hogwarts lay silent beneath his steps as he paced them routinely, every door, every staircase familiar. His thoughts returned again and again to a single window—brighter than all the others that night.

The dungeon corridor lay silent before him, only the dull torchlight vibrating over the stone. Severus took his way through the castle with the familiar heaviness of his stride. His head was full of small, everyday thoughts that he worked through mentally because they created order. He was tired—not more than usual, but just enough to find the silence of this corridor pleasant.

Then came the pain.

Suddenly. Sharp. A single impulse flared beneath his skin like an electric shock, racing through his sinews and drawing his attention without warning.

He stopped abruptly. His breath halted for a brief moment. The pain followed immediately with a second strike, steadier than the first—a rhythm beginning to establish itself, as though something were trying to make itself known. Severus closed his fingers around his forearm, eyes narrowing as he waited to see if it would subside. It did not. Another strike. And another. Distinct. Close. Impossible to ignore.

His thoughts cleared. The fatigue vanished at once. He knew what it meant, even though part of him had hoped never to experience this moment again.

He set himself in motion once more, faster now, his stride harder, more purposeful, as though the pain itself were driving him forward. He reached the gargoyle and spoke the password. And while the staircase turned, the next strike came—deep, steady. It was a sensation uncomfortably familiar to him, though it had lain dormant for many years.

The office door opened immediately, as though Albus had already suspected Severus would come at this hour.

Dumbledore sat at his desk, lifted his head, and studied him with a look that understood too much before a single word had been explained.

“Severus,” he said calmly. “What happened?”

Severus stepped farther into the room, his arm still slightly tense, his fingers gliding restlessly over the fabric of his robe. “Albus, it has begun,” he said, his tone plain, because no other language was needed for this moment.

Dumbledore’s eyes briefly moved to his forearm. “In what way exactly?”

Severus drew his sleeve back a little, not far, only as much as necessary. “A throbbing,” he said. “At first a sharp pain. After that, a rhythm. Not strong, but unmistakable. And it does not stop.”

Dumbledore stepped closer. “For the first time.”

“Yes.” Severus’s breathing grew slightly shallower. “I needed a moment to be certain. But it is clear.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, as though setting the words within himself. “How does it feel?”

Severus thought briefly, searched for a description that matched the truth. “As though someone were checking whether I am still there. It is not a pulling sensation, so not a direct summons. It is a strike.”

“When did it begin?” the old man asked.

“In the corridor, scarcely ten minutes ago.” The next pulse struck him, not violently, but precisely, and Severus barely twisted his mouth.

Dumbledore noticed. “Is it growing stronger?”

“It is steady,” Severus said. “Constant. It does not feel coincidental.”

“It never was,” Albus said quietly.

Severus let the sleeve fall again and closed his hand around his forearm—an instinctive pressure that gave him a measure of control. “I wanted to inform you immediately. I did not want to lose time.”

“That was right,” Dumbledore said. “You know the significance of this first signal. It is early. But it is unmistakable.”

Severus’s gaze wandered briefly through the room, as though seeking something to break the inner tension, but found nothing. “What do you expect next, Albus?”

“Further impulses,” Albus said. “Perhaps stronger ones. A condensation. We must remain attentive. A summons may follow.”

Severus nodded slowly, heavily. “I am prepared.”

“I know,” Dumbledore said. “You have trained yourself for this composure. It will help you now.”

Severus exhaled softly. “It feels strange, Albus. As though an old part of me were awakening. One I buried long ago.”

“It is not awakening in you,” Dumbledore said calmly. “It is awakening in the world. You merely feel the reverberation.”

Severus’s gaze sharpened. “Reverberation is enough.”

The next strike came. A calm, steady pressure beneath the skin. Soundless, yet unmistakable in its rhythm.

“It is beginning,” Severus said at last, without lifting his gaze.

Albus nodded slightly, his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes. It is beginning.”

Dumbledore regarded him a moment too long, his look calm yet unmistakably probing, as though he could tell from Severus’s posture alone that more was at work within him than merely the throbbing beneath the skin. “Severus, something else weighs on you,” he said softly. “I see it. It has nothing to do with the Mark. I do not ask out of curiosity, only out of concern.”

Severus lowered his gaze briefly, just enough to show how he suppressed an inner resistance that rebelled against any admission. “It is complicated.”

“Many things are,” Dumbledore said, and the gentleness in his voice did not sound like placation. “But complicated does not mean you must carry it alone.”

Severus exhaled slowly, as though making space within himself to speak the next words. “It concerns Miss Granger.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows slightly, an almost imperceptible sign of attention. “Hermione.”

“Yes.” Severus’s thumb brushed restlessly over his forearm. “A few days ago, there was an incident in the corridor. When I arrived, it had already happened. Draco had already cursed her.”

As he spoke, Severus did not remain still. He took a few steps, paused, turned, and resumed pacing, as though the room were growing too small for him. Dumbledore allowed him to move and followed him with a calm gaze. The restlessness was unmistakable. He had not seen Severus like this in a long time.

He paused briefly, as though weighing the next part carefully. “I confronted Draco. Factually. Without involving other students.” His gaze narrowed. “She must have heard something. I do not know what. I said nothing directed against her. And yet she looked at me as though I myself had cast the curse.”

A quiet breath. “Then she ran off. Crying.”

Severus now stood still, shoulders tense, his gaze fixed on a point that had nothing to do with the room. Dumbledore watched him closely. In that posture lay more unrest than in many an open confession.

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “And since then?”

“Since then her behavior has changed,” Severus said evenly. “Reserved. Distant. She avoids any conversation that goes beyond what is necessary.” A short, sharp breath. “I had already suspended the additional potion lessons at the start of the Triwizard Tournament. Too many obligations. Too little time.”

He began pacing again, a few steps back and forth, his hands now clasped behind his back, as though he needed to hold himself together.

He hesitated almost imperceptibly. “After the incident, I did not reinstate them. Not intentionally. This… interpersonal aspect does not come easily to me. I did not know how to address the situation without further complicating matters.”

“So you chose distance,” Dumbledore said calmly.

Severus nodded briefly without stopping.

Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment, without reproach. There was something else in his gaze—something gentle. He saw a man who worried, who bore responsibility, who reflected where once there had been only withdrawal. Severus noticed none of it.

“Severus, distance is often read by a clever, wounded young person as rejection.”

He stepped closer, waited until Severus unconsciously stopped. “It sounds very much like a misunderstanding. And misunderstandings rarely resolve themselves.”

Severus’s gaze remained serious. “She could refuse any conversation.”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Perhaps not. But silence creates certainty in only one way.”

He smiled mildly—not instructive, but understanding. “Speak with her. Resume the training sessions. Give her structure. Reliability. She knows that from you and values it.”

A brief pause. Dumbledore allowed it deliberately. “You do not have to be a master of words, Severus. It is enough if you are present and explain what happened.”

Severus was silent for a moment. His gaze dipped slightly, then lifted again. The restlessness ebbed, as though something had been decided.

“I will speak with her.”

Dumbledore’s voice was warm, almost relieved. “Good. Sometimes speaking is the safest spell we possess.”

And while Severus was already turning back toward the door, inwardly convinced he had revealed nothing of himself, Dumbledore remained there a moment longer and smiled softly—not because Severus had grown weak, but because he was changing, and because he did not yet see it himself.

On January 4th, Severus waited for the end of the lesson, his arms folded, his thoughts clearer than in the morning and yet heavy enough that every breath carried a decision. The students streamed out—murmurs, footsteps, the usual chaos—and he remained standing until the last cloak disappeared through the door. Then he lifted his gaze to Hermione, who, as always, was organizing her materials—only this time more slowly, more deliberately, her shoulders drawn slightly up as she briefly bit her lower lip and kept her gaze resolutely away from him, as though any accidental meeting of eyes might force a conversation she did not wish to have.

“Miss Granger,” he said calmly, without sharpness. “A word, please.”

She froze for a moment—so brief that perhaps no one but him would have noticed—then stepped forward, positioned herself before his desk, and waited, her hands at the sides of her book, her gaze fixed on a spot on the floor as though she had pinned it there to avoid the temptation of looking at him. Again that barely perceptible bite on the lip—a small, nervous detail that would have escaped him had he not been watching for every sign for days.

Severus clasped his hands behind his back, as though reminding himself to maintain posture. “There is a change,” he said. “Your training sessions in potion-making will now take place two days a week. Tuesday and Friday. We must make up for the missing material. There were several cancellations in recent weeks. I had an extraordinary amount to attend to. We will begin this week on Friday.”

Hermione nodded immediately, still without looking at him. “Yes, Professor.”

Her voice was calm, controlled—neither cold nor warm, simply a tone that revealed nothing. He observed her a moment longer, saw how her jaw tightened minutely, how she again briefly bit her lip as though holding back a response he was not meant to hear. He waited a heartbeat, just to be certain she did not wish to hesitate, but she remained silent—posture correct, distance almost textbook-perfect.

He could have said something then. A sentence. A question. A remark that might narrow the distance. It lay on his tongue as plainly as an unspoken spell, but he could not bring the words out. He did not know how to begin. He did not know which phrasing would not sound awkward. He knew only that her averted gaze, this silent withdrawal into distance, occupied him more than he wished to admit, and that any possible word risked worsening the situation.

So he said nothing.

“Good,” he said quietly and briefly. “That will be all.”

Hermione nodded again, gathered her things, and left the room without once looking at him, while he watched her profile out of the corner of his eye—searching, hoping, yet unsuccessfully. The soft sound of the door filled the silence she left behind.

Severus stood there for several seconds, unmoving, as though he first had to find his way back into his own body. He was a coward—he knew it. He could have asked why she avoided him. He could have explained what had happened in the corridor. He could have at least tried to bridge the distance. He did not, because he did not know how. Because he was a grown man who had survived countless dangers, yet failed at a simple conversation.

He exhaled—a slow, released breath.

“Friday, then,” he murmured to the empty room, and a barely perceptible pull at his mouth betrayed that he was looking forward to that day more than he cared to admit.

The dungeon lay unusually quiet that afternoon, although the Christmas holidays were long over and the school routine had fully resumed. The students were spread across classrooms, library, and common rooms, occupied with homework, practice essays, and the pervasive fatigue brought on by the first structured block of lessons after the holidays. Voices echoed softly through the upper floors, mingled with the scratching of quills on parchment and the occasional thud of hurried footsteps between periods.

In the lower levels, however, there reigned a steady, almost sterile calm such as only the regular school day produced. No excitement, no special occasions—only duty, routine, and expectation. Severus perceived this atmosphere consciously, registering it with an attention directed less at the surroundings than at the fact that everything had returned to its fixed place.

He had already prepared the materials for the lesson with care. The cauldron was polished, the ingredients precisely portioned and arranged in the order in which they would be needed. Every movement had been precise, every decision deliberate, as though control over details might also create control over everything else. The workspace was organized so that no room for improvisation remained.

The first private lesson after all that had happened.

When Hermione entered the room, she did so more quietly than usual—almost cautiously—as though she wished to produce not a single sound that might draw too much attention to her. Her scarf hung loosely over her shoulder; a few last snowflakes melted slowly in her hair, leaving damp traces on the dark strands. She stood for a moment near the door, uncertain, as though gathering herself inwardly before moving toward her usual place—her steps small, deliberate, almost tentative.

“Miss Granger,” Severus said—not harsh, not gentle, simply calm, his voice as even as the flame beneath his cauldron. “We will begin with a demanding potion. We are brewing Veritaserum. It requires precision. Any error leads to an unstable reaction.”

He slid an instruction sheet toward her—handwritten, neat, clearly structured, every step carefully thought out. She took it without looking at him, her fingers gliding slowly over the ink as her breathing lengthened minutely. A tiny sign of concentration, perhaps also a quiet relief that the lesson immediately descended into technical depth and left no room for personal uncertainty.

Hermione nodded. “Understood, Professor.”

They worked in silence for a while. Severus explained technical details, demonstrated specific cutting techniques, showed the correct temperature control, and had her observe the subtle reactions of the liquid to individual ingredients. Hermione worked cleanly, focused, with a precision that struck him every time, even if he rarely or never voiced it. She took pleasure in it—he could see that without effort: the way her hands moved swiftly and confidently, how she paused briefly when a color changed, or how she stood still for a slower breath when she recognized a connection between theory and practice. Yet she spoke hardly at all. No questions, no comments—only brief, factual confirmations. The silence lay heavy in the air, a silence filled with unspoken thoughts.

He attempted an approach, phrased objectively, yet with a faint undertone meant to build a bridge. “I hear you are quite occupied with S.P.E.W.”

Hermione stiffened for a tiny moment, barely perceptible to anyone who had not been watching her every movement for days. Then she continued cutting. “Yes, Professor.”

“Noble intentions,” Severus said, choosing his words carefully. “At the same time, the house-elves at Hogwarts seem unsettled. They avoid certain tasks out of fear of finding clothing. It unsettles them.”

Hermione lowered her gaze to her chopping board, the movement calm, yet heavier than before. “I know.”

“They have a good home here,” Severus said, his tone deliberately neutral. “These walls are not a place of exploitation. They work willingly. They regard it as part of their identity.”

“I understand that,” she said quietly, and though the words were calm, there was a trace of firm resolve within them. “I still think it’s important to think about it.”

Severus nodded almost imperceptibly. No confrontation—just an exchange, sober, respectful—yet she remained taciturn. Closed off. Unreachable.

The lesson eventually ended with an almost perfect result on her part. The potion was stable. The color exact. She had worked flawlessly. He was satisfied, yet it was a silent, unspoken satisfaction—one that found no form because she allowed no space for it.

He cleared away the last ingredients and tried another approach, his voice a little lower, a little more cautious. “I have begun some notes on a new line of research,” he said. “An area that might interest you. If you wish, I could show you some fundamentals after the lesson.”

He waited. A fine, barely visible flicker of hope tightened his posture—an expectation he scarcely noticed himself and yet could not conceal.

Hermione did not lift her gaze. “Thank you, Professor, but I still have quite a bit to do.”

The sentence was polite, respectful, yet so distant that it felt as though she had closed a door before he had even reached for the handle.

“Of course,” Severus said.

She packed up carefully, without haste, without looking at him even once, and left the room with a soft “Good evening” that dissipated like a fading spell.

The door clicked shut.

And Severus was left alone.

The silence of the dungeon did not feel soothing this time. It was a silence that pressed outward, as though to remind him that there was a boundary he could not cross. He felt the hurt first—a small, sharp sting that should have seemed ridiculous given his age, his position, his experience. Yet he felt it. Then came the anger—not loud, not glaring, but a slow burn gathering in his chest and tightening his breath.

He had tried.
He had held himself back.
He had tried to build a bridge.
She had walked past it without a glance, without hesitation.

He braced both hands on the table, inhaled slowly, then exhaled again, as though he needed to reorder control.

He was a grown man, an experienced Potions Master, someone most students respected. And yet a single girl was enough to leave him at a loss for words.

Chapter Text

Severus soon realized that he could not get Hermine to talk. Not because there were no opportunities, but because every single one of them fell flat, as though his words were bouncing off an invisible, smooth surface. He conducted her lessons as usual, with the same strictness, the same precision, the same razor-sharp attention. He corrected her work down to the smallest detail and tracked her progress with the sober gaze of a man who could read performance the way other people read faces. And on a professional level, there was nothing to criticize. On the contrary. She was precise, attentive, and her understanding of complex connections had not stagnated, but rather increased instead of decreased. Her potions were stable, cleanly executed, her theoretical derivations clear and logical. In that respect, everything worked.

Interpersonally, however, nothing happened.

She spoke only when it was necessary, and even then her words seemed like exactly measured drops, enough to meet the requirement, but never more. Her answers were correct, brief, without follow-up, without those small mental digressions she had once been unable to suppress and that, whether he wanted it or not, had always caught his attention. Her gaze avoided his so consistently that it could not be accidental, and when she did find herself forced to look up, it happened only for fractions of a second, matter-of-fact, controlled, immediately lowered again, as though she had called herself to order. No anger, no open rejection, no trace of defiance. Only retreat. Silent, disciplined, complete.

That made it harder.

Severus did not know how to begin. He mastered instructions, corrections, clear boundaries. He knew how to exercise authority, how to set structures and formulate expectations. Conversations about feelings, however, were not in his repertoire, and every possible opening seemed to him either inappropriate or clumsy—too direct or too vague, too much or too little. He did not want to make anything worse, did not want to choose words that could be misunderstood or set something in motion that he could no longer control. So he remained silent, stuck to the training plan, to what he knew. She accepted it. She functioned. And it was precisely that smooth functioning that would not let him go, because it did not feel like normality; it resembled a cleanly executed withdrawal, deliberate and final.

Eventually, he spoke with Dumbledore about it.

He described Hermione’s behavior precisely, described her withdrawal, her reserve, the missing willingness to speak beyond what was necessary, and concluded with a short sentence that carried more weight than he liked: “I can’t reach her.”

Dumbledore looked at him for a moment, let the words echo in the silence, then one corner of his mouth lifted. Not mocking—more amused, as though Severus had just revealed an unexpected, almost human weakness to him.

“That is interesting,” he said calmly.

Severus’ gaze narrowed. “In what way.”

“Well,” Dumbledore replied, leaning back in his chair, hands loosely folded together, “you are prepared to take on Voldemort without batting an eye, and yet a pubescent, highly gifted girl throws you off your stride.”

He chuckled softly, a warm, unobtrusive laugh.

Severus’ expression darkened at once. “That is not amusing.”

“It is,” Dumbledore said kindly, still smiling, “a little.”

“With all due respect,” Severus replied coolly, his voice smooth as polished stone, “I have no problem with humor. I have a problem with situations that slip beyond my control.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, tilting his head slightly, “there we are at the core.”

He leaned forward a little. “Severus, you are the adult. You are fully conscious, clear-minded, with decades of experience dealing with people, intrigues, and danger. And yet you recoil because a young girl is silent.”

“She is being silent on purpose,” Severus snapped. “And I don’t want to make it worse.”

“By being silent as well?” Dumbledore asked calmly.

Severus did not answer immediately. His gaze flicked briefly to the side, as if searching for a response precise enough to hold.

“You are avoiding it,” Dumbledore continued, now more serious, without any sharpness but with clarity. “You call it consideration, but in truth you are giving in. And that is something I have rarely seen from you.”

“I am not giving in,” Severus said harshly.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “You do not initiate any conversation. You explain nothing. You wait. That is giving in.”

Severus’ jaw tightened visibly. “I do not want to cause harm.”

“Harm is not caused by a calm conversation,” Dumbledore said. “Harm is caused by gaps in interpretation.”

He smiled again, gentler, almost fatherly. “Hermione is clever. Very clever. And clever adolescents think a great deal. Often too much. They fill silence with their own explanations, and those are rarely merciful.”

Severus snorted softly. “I am not an educator for emotional subtleties.”

“No,” Dumbledore said softly, “but you are honest. And reliable. That is enough.”

He stood, stepped closer, the movement calm, deliberate. “You may dare, Severus. You must, even. She is an adolescent. You are the adult. It is not her task to take the first step.”

Severus looked at him for a long time, assessing, as though weighing every word. “And if she blocks?”

“At the moment you are blocking as well,” Dumbledore said calmly.

He smiled wryly. “And it doesn’t suit you. To be honest, it looks… unfamiliar.”

Severus’s mouth twisted. “I do not take that as a compliment.”

“It isn’t one,” Dumbledore said kindly. “It is an observation.”

He laid a hand on Severus’s shoulder, a gesture that was neither pressing nor instructive. “Talk to her. Stay calm. Stay factual. And above all: stay.”

Severus exhaled slowly, as though loosening something that had settled unnoticed.

“I will try,” he said at last.

Dumbledore’s eyes glittered with satisfaction. “Very good. You see? The man who fights the darkness does not shy away from a conversation.”

Severus turned toward the door, his robe already in motion. “Spare me the pathos, Albus.”

Dumbledore chuckled softly behind him. “Impossible. But I will spare you further advice.”

Severus left the office with mixed feelings.

But even Dumbledore’s advice accomplished nothing.

Severus had followed it—at least in the form that was possible for him. He remained present, reliable, continued the lessons, maintained the structure. He created opportunities, left pauses in which a conversation could have formed, but she used none of them. Hermione arrived on time, prepared, focused, and left just as correctly. No outburst, no visible resistance, no moment he could have seized without it seeming like an intrusion. She was polite. She was disciplined. She was unreachable.

And at some point he had to admit to himself that patience alone was not a bridge, but sometimes only a pier that led into emptiness.

At the same time, preparations for the next task of the Triwizard Tournament began to consume him completely. Security concepts, protective spells, alchemical calculations, potions for stabilization and emergency measures whose very existence officially no one was allowed to know. Days and nights flowed into one another, sleep grew shorter, focus sharper. The Tournament was no longer a spectacle, but a risk, and Severus was one of the few who grasped it in its full magnitude.

Added to that were the visits to Malfoy Manor. At first sporadic, then regular. He moved there now with a matter-of-factness that surprised even him. The evenings were marked by muted voices, heavy curtains, and unspoken tensions. Lucius asked questions—probing, polite, never openly. Others listened. Severus answered thoughtfully, let slip information that seemed harmless, and concealed everything that carried weight. Every visit was a balancing act, every gesture calculated, every glance significant. The closeness to the inner circle became tighter, more dangerous, more necessary.

Hogwarts, teaching, even Hermione did not slip from his awareness, but they were overlaid, pushed back by a reality that tolerated no delay. There were moments when he thought he had to go to her, now, immediately, regardless of everything else. But then an inner alarm signal came, a duty, a reminder that he could not afford carelessness.

So the days passed.

The distance between him and Hermione remained, unmoving, unchanged, and the longer it endured, the more it settled into everyday life until it seemed almost normal. That unsettled him more than open confrontation ever could have.

The spring term moved forward and the next monstrosity was already waiting for him. And how could it be otherwise, of course it had something directly to do with his supplies.

When Severus checked the contents of his private cupboard that evening, he found that Boomslang skin was missing. And not in a small quantity, and it was not the first time that had happened. He paused briefly, checked the stock again, and confirmed the discrepancy. His first thought was Potter. The pattern seemed obvious, because already in second year the boy had brewed a potion together with Weasley that was far beyond their competence. Polyjuice Potion. An incident Severus had not forgotten. The conclusion suggested itself that Potter might once again have tried to help himself to something that was not his.

But that thought did not hold.

Back then it had not been Potter who had successfully brewed the potion. It had been Hermione. She had done the work—precise and structured, with a craftsmanship that was clearly beyond what one would expect from a student her age. But she had then harmed herself. Severus knew that there was no one at Hogwarts who would have been capable of brewing Polyjuice Potion cleanly. This realization inevitably led to an uncomfortable possibility.

He did not rule it out.

He did not want to speculate. So he confronted Potter first. Potter, who looked clueless as so often, proclaimed his innocence with a vehemence that only irritated Severus further. “I will not hesitate to prove it with Veritaserum, boy,” he snarled, and yet Potter stuck to his claim that he had taken nothing. There were no indications that proved Potter’s guilt.

That left only one person. Hermione.

When an opportunity presented itself in the next lesson and the students were in the room again, Severus decided on a step he had so far used toward her only in an emergency. He focused on her, gathered his mind, and pressed in controlled fashion into hers. He was not looking for details. He wanted a clear answer.

He had to know whether she had helped herself to his private stock.

But to his surprise he found nothing. No images, no thoughts that indicated theft. No Boomslang skin, no potion, no secret project. Only silence. It was as though her innocence was a clear surface on which he could find no purchase. He should have withdrawn immediately. That would have been the right, the sensible decision. But he did not.

“If I’m already here,” he justified himself inwardly, “then I want to know what moves her, why she avoids me, why she no longer speaks to me.” So he dug deeper, more cautiously, but with purpose.

What Severus saw did not please him. The images struck him more immediately than he had expected, and he realized that he was struggling to maintain the distance he otherwise imposed on himself in other people’s thoughts.

He saw Viktor Krum leaning toward her, closing the distance, clearly with the intention of kissing her. He saw Hermione’s reaction, clear and without distortion. She drew back, turned her head aside, withdrew from the movement. The rejection was unmistakable. It left no doubt. It triggered both relief and anger in him at the same time. He registered both soberly, even if his body rebelled against that objectivity.

The next image followed without transition. Potter, hugging her. Too close. Too long. A hug that went beyond what was necessary or appropriate in that situation. Then Weasley holding her hand, tight, possessive. Again Krum, touching her chin, pulling her head toward him, a gesture that claimed closeness without having asked. Severus’s reaction to that was violent and physical, revulsion, disgust, an instinctive desire to cut these images off. He forced himself to control, even though everything in him resisted.

Then the focus shifted.

He saw himself. As a raven. Abraxas. The perspective changed, and he recognized the scene at once. He saw Hermione’s hand gliding over his feathers, slowly, carefully, with a naturalness that stole his breath. He sensed how calm she was in that moment, how her tension eased, how she allowed a closeness that in waking life she granted no human being. It became clear to him that in that form she sought comfort in him. In him, without knowing who he was. A fact that struck him and shamed him at the same time. She found safety in a closeness he could not give her as a man.

Then came the image that hit him hardest.

The corridor. Draco Malfoy. The spell that struck her before anyone could intervene. He saw the moment from her memory, unfiltered. The jeering laughter. The sudden pain. The panic. He felt her desperation as her teeth grew uncontrollably, heard her screams, felt the tears running down her face, the feeling of exposure and helplessness. And then he saw himself.

How he arrived. How he looked at her. How he said to Draco, in a calm voice, without hesitation: “I see no distinction.”

In her memory, that sentence echoed. It was sharp. Final. And in that moment Severus recognized with brutal clarity that the sentence was wrong. He had not said that. But in her thoughts it was twisted. She believed he had said it about her—that he saw no difference because she was worthless to him anyway. And in that moment he felt her pain, her grief, the betrayal that had dug deep into her.

It was as though the curse struck him himself. He wanted to slap himself, wanted to scream, wanted to undo the moment.

“Damn it, Hermione,” he thought, “it wasn’t directed at you.” But that did not help her. It did not help anything.

He saw her later crying bitterly, that she wanted to quit the training just so she would not have to see him anymore.

It hurt. It was like back then. Like with Lily.

He pulled back abruptly, with a jerk, because he knew that if he stayed any longer, he would see more than he could bear. Had he dug further, he would have realized how much deeper it truly went, that she had a crush, that she had feelings for him she barely understood herself, that she wanted nothing more than to be seen and liked by him, and that she knew that he is Abraxas.

But that did not happen. Instead, he was left with the pain, the knowledge of the misunderstanding, and the tormenting question of how he was ever supposed to set it right again. She left the room after the lesson as quickly as always, and there was no conversation. Severus remained behind, furious at himself, furious at the world—and a little more broken than before because he was too much of a coward.

The first cautious harbingers of spring appeared: wet grass, bare branches, but air that smelled fresh and cool, as though it had been thoroughly washed.

The second task of the Triwizard Tournament drew closer, and with each day Hermione’s tension grew.

Only one day before the test did the decisive hint come. Opened in water, the egg revealed its message. The task would take place in the Black Lake. The champions had to dive down and retrieve something that was especially important to them. One hour of time. No more.

The next day Hermione and Ron were unexpectedly summoned to Professor Dumbledore’s office. The way there was quiet at first, but after only a few steps up the spiral staircase it became clear how much Ron was occupied by the situation. His steps were restless, his gaze slid searchingly over the stone walls, and finally it burst out of him. “Say, Hermione, do you know what we’re supposed to be here for? We haven’t done anything, have we?”

The words came hurriedly, carried by open nervousness. Hermione shook her head. She too could find no obvious reason for this summons, and the higher they climbed, the clearer her own unease became—an unease she did not let show.

When they arrived at the top, Dumbledore received them with his usual mild friendliness. He greeted them calmly, spoke their names, and motioned them to enter. The office lay quiet before them, orderly and familiar, filled with that atmosphere that demanded concentration and at the same time allowed no questions.

Dumbledore spoke for a long time. His explanations were meandering, jumping between thoughts, only gradually settling into order. Hermione listened attentively, concentrated on filtering out the core. Eventually it became clear what it was about. She and Ron were to be part of the next task of the Triwizard Tournament.

“You need not be afraid,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Nothing will happen to you. You only have to agree. I cannot tell you more at the moment.”

Hermione exchanged a brief glance with Ron. The decision was out of the question for her. She nodded and gave her consent without hesitation. In the moment the words fell, her perception shifted abruptly. The room lost sharpness, sounds grew distant, her body felt heavy, as though it no longer reacted properly. Her thoughts dissolved, one after another, until nothing remained to cling to.

The next thing she remembered was a harsh burning in her chest. A pain that spread suddenly and stole all the air from her. Her body reacted instinctively. She tore her eyes open. Her lungs cramped, demanded oxygen, and with an abrupt, violent jolt she broke the surface of the Black Lake.

Cold water ran over her face, into mouth and nose, as she coughed and gasped for air—uncoordinated, panting, without any rhythm. Her vision was blurred, everything seemed gray and blue at once, movement without clear contours. Her heart raced, her pulse thundered in her ears, and it took several seconds before her view slowly settled.

Then she recognized a face.

Viktor Krum.

He held her firmly, securely, in a grip that left no doubt that he knew what he was doing. His movement through the water was even, powerful, purposeful. He pulled her forward without stopping and without hesitation.

'What is happening here?' The thought came in disorder. 'Was that… was that the task?'

Her body felt heavy, cold, as though it no longer quite belonged to her. She did not know how she had gotten here. Only that she had been underwater. Too long. That someone had decided to leave her there until someone would retrieve her.

Viktor spoke. She heard his voice muffled, fragmentary, did not understand every word, only the tone. Calm. Determined. He said that everything was fine, that they would be there in a moment. She clung to that tone, because her thoughts had not yet properly taken hold again.

She liked Viktor. He was kind, attentive, had listened to her without interrupting or pressing her. She had always appreciated that. But there was nothing more. The excitement of the other girls, the swooning, the gossip because of his fame—she had never shared it. For her, he had simply been Viktor. Nice. Reliable. No more. In that moment it did not matter.

Her muscles barely obeyed her. The cold had struck deep into her limbs in one blow, made every movement sluggish, powerless. So she allowed it. She allowed him to pull her, to determine the direction, to bring her to the platform that emerged in front of her.

At last they reached the platform, enthroned in the middle of the lake like a small island. The deafening roar of voices reached her ears—cheers, screams, applause. The entire school was gathered there. Teachers, students, guests, all looking down at her.

Strong, warm hands reached for her, helping her climb onto the platform. She coughed, her teeth chattered uncontrollably, and she felt her legs give way beneath her. And then something happened that she would never forget: a familiar scent reached her nose, sandalwood, warm, sharp, unmistakable. Before she even lifted her head, she felt the magic. A powerful spell swept over her body, dried her in an instant, warmed her, flooded her with a feeling of safety. In the next moment, a thick, self-warming towel wrapped itself around her body.

She lifted her head and looked up at him and there he was. Professor Snape.

But before she could say anything, he turned away abruptly. His robes were dark and wet, heavy with water, and without a single word he disappeared into the roaring crowd with quick, almost fleeing steps.

Her heart stopped, then beat twice as fast. It had been him. He had taken care of her. Not Viktor, not the crowd, not some nameless helper, him, Severus Snape, her Professor Snape, the man who sometimes ignored her, sometimes hurt her, sometimes saved her.

And although she was exhausted, a small, barely visible smile flickered across her face. 'He was there' , she thought. 'He was there for me.'

But the world granted her no silence. “Hey, Hermione, what was that?” Lavender Brown suddenly stood next to her, eyes wide with disbelief. “Professor Snape pulled you out of the water! I’ve never seen him help anyone at all. And how did you get dry so fast? You were still soaking wet just now!”

Hermione only shrugged, not daring to say anything.

“Are you cold, Hermione?” Hagrid’s deep voice sounded behind her. As he examined her, he frowned in confusion. “Wait… you’re already dry!”

No one could explain what had happened. No one but her.

She pulled the towel tighter around her body, she remained silent and lowered her gaze. But deep inside her, it was as though a fire had been lit. He had cared for her in a way she would never have thought possible.

Gradually more figures broke through the dark, sluggish surface of the Black Lake, one after another, carried, dragged, or supported by the champions, coughing, freezing, exhausted in every movement, while the platform slowly filled with life, with voices, with the restless echo of what had happened beneath the surface. Hermione stood at the edge, the thick towel drawn tightly around her, the cold still in her limbs, the trembling an aftershock of the depths, yet the first shock had settled, and with it clarity returned—a wakeful, searching gaze that took in every detail.

Then Hermione saw them. Harry broke the water’s surface, his arm firmly around Ron, whose body hung heavy on him, exhausted and limp. Only a heartbeat later she recognized the second face at his side. A small, slender girl, blonde, motionless with exhaustion, her head resting against Harry’s shoulder. Gabrielle Delacour. Fleur’s little sister.

Harry dragged both of them at once, tense in every movement, carried by sheer willpower and a decision that had long since been made.

Something in Hermione’s chest released. Relief hit her hard, closely followed by pride. Ron was safe. Gabrielle too. Of course Ron. He was Harry’s person, his first friend. Family, without having to name it.

Then another thought pushed forward. Viktor Krum had pulled her out of the lake. She was the person they had taken from him. His treasure. She knew it. Viktor liked her. Sincerely. Deeply. That was exactly what made it complicated. Because that role felt wrong to her.

Her heart remained calm in his presence. Her thoughts did not drift to him when she was alone. When she thought of closeness, of safety, of that quiet, deep feeling of being understood, Viktor’s face had no place there.

She liked Viktor. But she did not want to be his treasure. The realization stood firm, clear and quiet, without drama, without doubt, like a truth that demanded no further proof.

The croaking roar of the crowd tore her out of that vortex. In a loud voice Ludo Bagman announced the result, and when Harry finally received second place in the scoring, cheers surged. Hermione clapped too, relieved, proud, and the trembling in her limbs seemed to vanish for a moment with the roaring applause.

In the evening, back in Gryffindor Tower, the mood swept over them all like a wave. The large fireplace burned, the walls echoed with laughter, cups clinked, voices overlapped. Harry was celebrated like a hero, Ron too, and even Hermione let herself be carried along by the exuberance, laughed, talked, breathed deeply.

In the midst of all the bustle, as she curled up in an armchair with the fire on her face, she knew that her mood did not come only from Harry’s success. Another thought, hidden but warm, knocked softly inside her. She remembered the strong hands that had pulled her from the water, the spell that had dried and warmed her skin, the scent of sandalwood that had given her a fleeting moment of shelter. Professor Snape. The man who tormented her more than anyone else had taken care of her, secretly, without any claim to thanks.

That thought would not let her go. And so it was not only the joy over Harry’s success that made her heart feel lighter. It was the memory that he—Severus Snape—had not let her fall. Not that day. Not in the floods of the Black Lake.

After the next double Potions lesson, in which he had treated her as usual with the familiar mixture of coolness, strict authority, and an almost imperceptible undertone of calculation, Severus waited with a hunter’s patience for the moment until the last student had left the classroom. At the very instant Hermione threw her bag over her shoulder, already half a step toward the exit to Potter and Weasley, who were stationed there like two reliable guard dogs, he addressed her in that deep, rasping voice that tolerated no contradiction. “Miss Granger. A word.”

She froze at once, as though someone had stopped time for her, and turned her head toward him so abruptly that he almost had to suppress a smirk. She signaled to her two friends that they should wait outside, and they reacted with looks full of pity, as though they were leading her straight to the gallows. They pulled faces that Severus immediately dismissed as theatrical and exaggerated, though it did not escape him that they were doing everything but giving Hermione courage.

Slowly, almost as if walking on eggshells, she came forward, and her gaze avoided him as though his face were a danger one must not look at directly. First she stared at the floor, then at her hands, which she kneaded so tensely in her lap that her knuckles stood out white when she finally reached the desk. Severus registered every one of these details; his razor-sharp mind stored them automatically while he casually cast the Muffliato Charm over the room and, with a single movement of his wand, locked the heavy wooden door, and he thought dryly in that moment, I hope it works. Merlin, I hope it works.

“Sit,” he ordered curtly, making an effort to take the edge from his voice, which he succeeded at only insufficiently, because it still sounded more like an order than a request. She obeyed nonetheless, sat stiffly on the nearest chair, back straight, hands folded in her lap, gaze fixed on the floor.

Severus clasped his hands, leaned slightly forward, and began to speak slowly, weighing each word carefully, as though they were part of a rare and dangerous recipe. “Miss Granger, something has come to my attention that urgently requires clarification.”

His black eyes clung relentlessly to her, watching every small movement, every breath. “I want you to continue attending my additional lessons. What happened in the corridor…” He paused briefly, noticed how she pressed her fingers together tighter and tighter in her lap, and then continued, “Well, I suspect that you heard something there that you misunderstood. I...”

But he could not finish the sentence, because with a sudden determination that even caught him off guard, she cut him off. Her voice was firm, but laced with a barely concealed tremor: “A misunderstanding? Really, sir? Don’t make me laugh. I heard it from your mouth!”

He blinked, surprised. The sudden outburst had hit him unprepared, the movement with which she sprang to her feet, the look that struck him, open, wounded, full of unfiltered emotion. For a brief moment he lost his familiar inner footing, felt something shift in him, felt the situation slip from his grasp. This closeness, this directness, this mixture of fury and pain reached him deeper than was comfortable, and that was precisely what unbalanced him.

He straightened, visibly gathered himself, sought support in the familiar structure of rules and order. His voice remained firm, controlled, free of mockery, carried by the need to steer the situation back into clear channels.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for your insolence in interrupting me!” he said calmly, with that matter-of-fact authority that otherwise gave him security.

The deduction served less as punishment than as the restoration of distance. A reflex. An attempt to regain control while inwardly he was still sorting his own irritation.

“I’m not eleven anymore, treat me like someone who can carry responsibility,” she continued, her voice rough with pent-up pressure. “I can hardly stand this anymore. I’ve been carrying it around for weeks, every day, every hour.”

She swallowed hard; the words now pressed outward unfiltered. “You know what I’m talking about…”

Her voice trembled now, but remained loud, firm, unbent. “I rack my brain, ask myself what I’m doing wrong, where I’ve failed again, how I have to adjust so that I’m good enough for you.”

A bitter laugh escaped her. “And in the end I’m standing there and realize I’m losing myself while you keep playing the cold-hearted teacher.”

Her eyes shone, her gaze stayed hard. “I want this training. I want this master’s title. And still I ask myself every damned day whether it’s worth it to feel so small in the process.”

Her eyes glittered in the candlelight like polished amber, yet in them glistened unmistakably tears she tried hard to hold back. Her magic crackled around her so tangibly that even the air in the room began to shimmer. And Severus, who usually let every stir slide off him with iron self-control, felt at once aghast and strangely drawn to her raw, untamed energy.

Her eyes burned; tears gathered, but she did not let them fall. Her gaze remained fixed on him, demanding, desperate.

“In that corridor,” she said more softly, the words heavy, each one like a blow. “Draco Malfoy hurt me. Really hurt me. My teeth grew, sir. It pulled, it burned, I could hardly breathe from pain and shame. Everyone laughed. I stood there and didn’t know where to put myself.”

Her voice rose again, now audibly shaking.

“And you come along. You see it. You hear it. And instead of intervening, instead of helping me, you put yourself in front of him and you even confirm him. You let him do it. You leave me standing there, exposed, hurt, at his mercy, as though I deserved it.”

A sharp inhale, as though she were forcing herself not to collapse.

“I felt so humiliated,” she said, quieter now, deeper. “So small. So worthless. As though everything I achieve, everything I earn for myself, means nothing to you at all. As though I’m just a problem to you, something you overlook or dismiss with a sentence.”

Her voice nearly broke, but caught again—sharp, raw.

“I come to your class every day and I wonder whether you respect me or despise me. And believe me, sir, that wears a person down more than any detention. More than any point deduction. I can hardly stand it anymore.”

She lifted her chin a little, her gaze now cutting, targeted, as though she wanted to hurt him on purpose. “And stop pretending,” she continued, her voice cold with disappointment. “You defend Malfoy. Always. You talk your way out of it, twist words, play the uninvolved one, and every time you agree with him.”

Her lips twisted hard. “You are a liar, sir. You won’t admit it to yourself, but deep down you are on his side. And I’m just what gets in the way.”

He stood up abruptly, rounded the desk with long, energetic strides, and stopped directly in front of her. Upright, threatening, the cloak flowing behind him like a dark wave, he leaned in until barely three centimeters remained between their faces. Severus’s voice dropped to a deep, dangerously vibrating tone. “In addition to the ten points, I am taking another fifty, Miss Granger,” he growled. “I can continue this game indefinitely until you finally listen to me. You impertinent girl!”

But she did not back away, and her shoulders stiffened defiantly. Her gaze was wild, fearless, and he had to admit that in that moment she reminded him of a small lioness ready to spring—untamed, dangerous—and he liked it, he liked the strength she threw at him so openly. No student had ever dared that before.

He forced himself to dampen his tone again, and said with firm calm, “Sit down. Now.” An order, this time with no room for argument.

She obeyed, reluctantly, let herself drop back onto the chair and crossed her arms tightly over her chest, a gesture that was both protective and combative. Her chin lifted minimally, and her eyes held his, sparkling, challenging, as if they wanted to skewer him, force him to look, to endure what she had just thrown at him.

Severus took a deep breath, and in controlled coldness he explained, “It was a misunderstanding. And I will show you.”

Their gazes locked, and in that moment he took the opportunity. With a concentrated impulse he opened access to her mind. The magic gripped, precise, controlled. Hermione gasped out loud in shock and tried instinctively to pull away. But his hands were already firmly on her shoulders. The grip was secure, supporting, not rough.

“Stay calm,” he said softly, almost soothingly. “It will only take a moment.”

Then she was in it.

Images flooded over her, unordered, raw. The corridor. The cold stone under her feet. Draco Malfoy’s jeering grin. The pain. The humiliation. And then Severus, stepping in, the situation already escalated, the attention directed at Malfoy. She heard his voice, heard every word, this time clear, complete, without distortion through fear or shame.

He spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, with that cutting precision that left no room. “…but she is still a fellow student, whether pure-blood or Mudblood.” A brief, deliberate pause. The voice sharpened. “And in this school I make no distinction.”

The sentence suddenly stood in the room, complete, unmistakable. No mockery. No derision. No attack on her.

The context arranged itself. The memory shifted. She saw what she had not heard back then, what pain had distorted. His words had been aimed at Malfoy. Exclusively at him.

Something in her chest moved. The hard, immovable pressure that had lodged there for weeks lost its weight. The tightness eased—barely perceptible at first, then more clearly.

When the connection released, she swayed slightly. His hands remained on her shoulders a moment longer until she was sitting steadily again.

A long, tense moment passed in which both were silent, black eyes fixed on amber ones, and the only sound was her unsteady breathing. Finally he turned away, returned to his desk and let his fingers glide over the smooth tabletop, as though he needed something to hold on to.

She remained seated, face flushed, lips trembling, her hands rubbing nervously together as if she could scrub the intensity of the last minutes out of her body. Minutes passed, each one sticky like an eternity.

Then she stood slowly, stepped carefully to his desk, kept her gaze lowered. “I… sincerely apologize, sir,” she said softly, her voice controlled, though a barely concealed tremor vibrated through it. “I… was in the wrong. I’m sorry that I insulted you and called you a liar.” She took a deep breath, and added, still without looking at him, “Then… shall we see each other this evening?”

Now she did lift her head and looked at him directly, her gaze fixed on him, calm, awake, not evasive.

He remained standing before her, posture calm, collected, gaze steady on hers. “Yes, Miss Granger. This evening. Eight o’clock sharp.”

Left behind, Severus folded his hands together, an almost imperceptible smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, a smirk he immediately forbade himself.

“This impertinent girl,” he thought, shaking his head, and a trace of warmth stirred in him that he had long since accepted as part of himself. He admired her strength, this uncomfortable, uncompromising honesty with which she stood up to him without yielding, without bending. Her fearlessness, her will to withstand him even when his authority stood like a wall before her, impressed him more deeply than he would ever admit. He knew he would secure her training, that he would guide her until she achieved her master’s title, because her potential carried weight and because her closeness touched something in him that had long since become part of his decisions.

Chapter Text

She came; of that Severus had never doubted. He knew her way of making decisions and carrying them out, without detours, without hesitation, once she had reached a conclusion for herself. Nevertheless, in the moment he perceived her in the doorway, a factual, sober question arose, one that had accompanied him for weeks and now lay clearly in his thoughts: whether their interaction would now settle again, whether she would return with that mental presence that had previously defined her teaching.

For she had indeed been there. Reliable. Punctual. Prepared. Technically flawless. But she had not engaged. That behavior had occupied him more than open resistance ever could have. It had been a deliberate withdrawal, clearly structured, consistent, without visible fractures.

Now she stood here.

“Good evening, Sir,” she said calmly. A hint of color lay on her cheeks, fine, almost inconspicuous, and yet it did not escape him. For a brief moment he wondered what had caused it.

“Good evening, Miss Granger,” he replied in the same calm tone, casting her a brief glance before already stepping to the worktable. “Today we are working with the toxin of the poison dart frog. We will discuss more later. For now, you observe.”

The worktable had already been prepared. In the glass safety capsule soon lay the secretion of the poison dart frog, carefully isolated and freshly obtained, in a state that demanded the highest attention. Batrachotoxin. A neurotoxin of extreme potency, lethal even in minimal quantities, unstable in its raw form and manageable only under strictly controlled conditions. Severus worked routinely and precisely, every movement deliberately placed, each phase of the process clearly separated from the next, as he bound the toxin, fractionated it, and stabilized it step by step.

Hermine stood a step away and observed him. Her gaze followed his hands, every movement, every change in the material, without intervening, without commenting, without interrupting the workflow.

He closed the capsule, checked the seal, and stepped back. Only then did he turn to her. At that moment she lifted her chin slightly. Her gaze remained clear, factual, and directed.

And then she asked a question. The first in weeks. It came of her own initiative and showed that she was beginning once more to engage actively in the work.

“And what do we do with the poison now, Sir?” she asked suddenly.

The sentence struck him more strongly than he had expected. That was exactly what he had missed. Inside him, relief spread, controlled and clear, carried by a quiet joy he did not allow to show. The tension of the past weeks loosened, piece by piece, replaced by the familiar feeling of collaboration, of mental alignment, of shared standards on both sides.

She was working with him again. Alert. Present. On equal footing in thought.

This moment meant more than any conversation before. It confirmed that she was back, at work, with herself, with that strength he had always admired. And with that realization, something returned in him as well, something he had been missing: the certainty that this shared work would endure.

There she was again, the interested student, Hermione, who did not wait to have every instruction chewed for her, but thought for herself, moved ahead, wanted to understand. This one question was more than merely technical. It was a sign. A quiet attempt to reconnect without saying so aloud.

Severus set the quill aside slowly, deliberately, took his time before lifting his head. He did not scrutinize her out of mistrust, but to make sure he was not mistaken. And yes, there it was, that taut attentiveness in her gaze, that quiet insistence on substance, on work, on challenge.

“Well… We will extract the individual components of the poison dart frog, Miss Granger,” he finally replied, calm and even, and he felt something settle within him, like a line slipping back into place. “From this poison, several highly effective substances can be obtained. These form the basis for complex potions in which precision and understanding are decisive.”

He stepped to the work surface, took a sealed vessel in hand, and noticed out of the corner of his eye how she leaned a little farther forward, involuntarily, interested, entirely herself. “I require certain amino acids from it for an ongoing research project,” he continued. “And you will do the preliminary work. Analysis, breakdown, clean documentation. No shortcuts.”

He allowed a brief pause.

“The past weeks have been… quiet,” he said at last, without looking at her, his gaze fixed on the vessel, as though he were speaking of a purely factual condition. “Today you finally ask a question again. That is a good beginning.”

He handed her the parchment and the instruments. “Show me that you are thinking along again.”

He took one of the parchments on the table as if it were a casual gesture and slid it across the smooth work surface toward her. His handwriting was clear, sharply drawn, without embellishment, every letter precisely set, as though he had allowed himself no margin even while writing. Hermine hesitated a moment before reaching for it. Her fingers moved carefully, almost tentatively. When she finally drew the parchment toward herself, Severus watched every reaction on her face attentively, without pressing her.

Her eyes moved line by line over the list. First her brow furrowed, a sign of concentrated processing, then her breathing deepened, became more audible, quicker. Finally an expression of astonishment appeared, visibly turning into unease. She lifted her head slightly, glanced up briefly, then back down at the parchment, as if to make sure she had not misread it.

“Sir,” she finally began, her voice calm but noticeably tense, “these are all extremely dangerous works. And they are all from the Restricted Section.” Her fingers tightened around the parchment as her gaze again skimmed the titles.

Dark Magical Poisons by Adlord Lonewood
Poisons and Their Uses by Caine Beowolf
Source of Power by Walpurga Hellbound

“I do not have access to these books,” she continued, more honest surprise than objection in her voice. “I have not been granted clearance for them.”

Severus answered calmly, controlled, matter-of-fact, as though merely arranging a necessary procedure. “These works are not located in the Hogwarts library either, Miss Granger. They belong to my private collection.”

He stepped a little closer, slowly, without pressure, yet his presence filled the room noticeably. “You will use these books only here. Under my supervision. You will not leave these rooms with them, and they will not be passed on.” He let a brief moment pass so the words could take effect. “The content of these works demands responsibility. In untrained hands they might produce effects that would be scarcely controllable. That is precisely why I work with you only here.”

His gaze rested firmly on her. “This work, however, means additional evenings, Miss Granger. Structured work. Clear procedures.” He continued evenly, as though explaining an experimental setup. “The additional appointment will take place on Saturdays. Without regular classes. Without disturbances. These texts demand the utmost concentration, mental resilience, and physical stability. You will arrive at these Saturday sessions prepared. You will eat beforehand and inform me the moment you notice even the slightest decline in your capacity to absorb information.”

He paused briefly, just long enough to be sure she grasped every word. “This work demands discipline. I will guide you through it. You work cleanly. Step by step.”

Then he asked calmly, without pressure, without raising his voice, “Do you understand?”

She nodded, but the uncertainty remained visible in her posture, in the fine tension of her shoulders and in the way her fingers continued to clutch the parchment tightly, as though it offered her support. Her gaze lingered on the list, as though the words carried a weight of their own, as though they might detach themselves from the paper at any moment and bring consequences whose magnitude she still had to assess. Only after several calm, controlled breaths did she slowly lift her head. Her voice sounded quieter than before, less certain, searching, almost cautiously probing, as she asked, “And… you truly trust me… with such dangerous books, Professor Snape?”

Severus’s black eyes rested firmly on hers. He answered only after a moment, deliberately letting the silence stand, assessing her posture, her gaze, the way she carried this question without lowering her head or seeking refuge in evasion.

His voice remained calm, deep, controlled, free of sharpness. “Miss Granger,” he said slowly, each word clearly placed, “my assessment of your abilities has brought you to this table.”

He took a small step to the side and leaned lightly against the table, his posture factual, almost casual, yet borne by a decisiveness that left no doubt about the gravity of his decision. “I select my students for additional instruction according to criteria that concern resilience, comprehension, and responsibility.” His gaze remained fixed on her. “You fulfill these criteria.”

A brief moment passed as he regarded her, evaluating, focused, as though confirming a conclusion he had long since reached. “You work precisely. You think ahead. You recognize connections early. You possess the ability to categorize dangerous knowledge and handle it responsibly.” His voice lowered slightly, gained depth. “This combination is rare.”

He straightened again, loosely clasped his hands behind his back, and for a fleeting moment allowed the thought that had accompanied him for some time, a thought he did not name yet accepted because it guided his decisions. “You are the only one, Miss Granger,” he continued calmly. “The first I instruct privately, and at the same time the last.”

His gaze held hers for one heartbeat longer, carried by an attention that went beyond mere teaching. “I am training you to be a master, because you are capable of it.” A brief pause followed. “No one else receives this training.”

The words lay calmly in the room, without embellishment, without exaggeration, and their effect was clearly visible. Something in her posture loosened, first barely perceptible, then more distinctly, as though an inner tension had relaxed whose existence she had only become aware of in that moment.

As she stood there holding the parchment, Severus recognized with sober clarity that this decision had been the right one and would endure.

Severus glanced at the clock on the wall. It was long past curfew. The thought struck him clearly enough to interrupt his work and make him aware of how long this evening had already lasted. Time had passed evenly, hour after hour, carried by concentrated work and the calm collaboration that was familiar to him and that he had missed in recent weeks. Severus straightened and looked toward her. Hermione was still standing at the table, holding the parchment and focusing on her notes. Her attention was entirely on the task.

Something stirred in him that he had missed. Her presence. That calm self-evidence with which she occupied space without creating unrest. The way she worked, the way she thought, the way she was present without demanding attention. In recent weeks she had been present, reliable, correct, dutiful. But precisely this form of closeness, this alert engagement, had been missing. And with it, more had been missing than he had been willing to admit to himself.

He broke the silence, lifted his hand slightly, and gestured toward the clock. “It is nearly curfew, Miss Granger,” he said calmly. “We will end the work for today.”

Hermione blinked, as though she first had to process the transition. The words seemed to pull her out of the concentration she had been holding onto. She stood motionless for a moment, the parchment still in her hands, her thoughts slower than the space around her. Then she lifted her gaze to him and nodded calmly. “So late already? Understood, Sir.”

Hermione began to fold her notes carefully and place them into her bag. She made sure the parchments lay neatly atop one another, that no corner was bent. Then she reached for the quill nib she had received from Professor Snape. She turned it briefly between her fingers, checked the tip, and laid it carefully with the notes. The shimmering feather followed last, separated from the other writing utensils, as though it were something of its own.

As she closed the bag, she lifted her gaze only minimally. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Professor Snape. He was still standing in his place, hardly moving, appearing lost in thought, his gaze not directly on her. She did not know whether he perceived her, but assumed that none of her movements escaped him.

“That he truly lets me read these books,” she thought to herself without looking at him. Then she slung the strap of the bag over her shoulder and straightened.

He stepped to the door and waited a moment until she stood beside him. “I will accompany you back to your tower,” he said matter-of-factly.

She took her bag and followed him without comment. Her steps sounded calm. Sure. The path through the corridors was quiet, carried by an order that had reestablished itself. Severus now walked beside her, his gaze directed forward, every movement controlled, and yet he was aware of how much this simple escort soothed him. These evenings had been missing.

As they left the dungeon together, he knew with sober clarity that this return meant more than functional teaching. He needed her. This girl. In a way he neither relativized nor explained, necessary to him like air to breathe. The soul connection between them had proven demanding in recent weeks, tense and difficult to sustain, yet it remained present, effective, immovable.

Hermione too felt something reorder itself within her. The constriction of the past weeks loosened, the cautious silence lost its weight, the constant weighing gave way to calm clarity. Everything felt right again. She had missed him so much, his presence, that undivided attention that challenged her and carried her at the same time. And only now, as they walked together through the corridor again, did she realize how much she had missed these evenings, this concentrated work, this feeling of being seen without having to explain herself. Stability lay between them again, firm like a foundation that had been tested and newly anchored.

Severus walked beside her with even steps, his hands loosely clasped behind his back, his gaze directed forward. He registered each of her movements, the soft rustle of her robe, the calm rhythm of her steps that once more radiated security. A quiet satisfaction spread within him, controlled, restrained, yet clearly perceptible. She had come. She had asked. She had opened herself. The distance between them had closed, cleanly, logically, in a way that promised endurance. This return to collaboration brought him more calm than he had admitted to himself.

At the entrance to Gryffindor Tower they stopped. The portrait of the Fat Lady cleared her throat audibly, scrutinized them both with an appraising look, and twisted her mouth into a knowing smile.

“Late hour,” she remarked drawlingly. “Young people quickly forget the time when the evening becomes interesting.”

The portrait swung open, warm light spilling into the cooler corridor. Voices from the common room drifted out muted, laughter, footsteps, the soft murmur of an evening drawing toward its end yet remaining lively.

Hermione paused briefly on the threshold. Then she turned to him, deliberately and composedly, as though she did not want to let this moment simply pass by. Her gaze rested openly on him, calm and clear, carried by a familiarity that had returned and felt natural. A small smile appeared on her face, restrained and sincere, and when he saw it, Severus felt something loosen within him. That simple expression struck him unexpectedly hard. Warmth spread through him, quiet and direct, and he realized how much he had missed precisely this smile.

“Thank you for this very interesting evening. And I thank you for the trust you place in me. Good night, Professor Snape,” she said softly.

An immediate reaction set in within him, one he had not anticipated and yet that reached him unmistakably. Her gaze met his openly and directly, without haste, without uncertainty, and this simple moment of farewell affected him more strongly than he had expected. He kept his posture upright, retained control over expression and body, yet perceived very clearly how warmth spread in his chest, calm and clear, as a sign that something between them had settled back into place.

“Good night, Miss Granger,” he said calmly.

She nodded and held his gaze a moment longer, deliberately, as though she wanted to imprint this image on herself. In the warm candlelight part of his face lay open, the rest remained in shadow, and precisely this contrast made her heart beat faster. He appeared tall, calm, wholly at rest within himself, a presence that occupied space without needing to fill it. His posture, his control, that quiet power emanating from him made something flutter within her, restless yet secure.

Then she turned away, slipped through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room, and the painting closed behind her with a soft sound. The moment now lay behind her, and yet she carried it with her, clear and vivid, as she stood still for a few steps and took a deep breath, her heart still beating faster than necessary.

Severus remained standing for a moment and directed his gaze once more at the closed portrait. His hands rested calmly behind his back, his posture upright, collected, as it always was when he was ordering something that occupied him inwardly. The corridor was quiet; only the distant echo of the common room lingered in the air. The farewell resonated within him, her smile, her voice, that brief exchange that had triggered more than he had expected.

Then he turned away.

He set himself in motion and walked down the corridor, his step even, controlled, the robe swinging lightly with each movement. The fabric followed him with its accustomed weight, spreading behind him and drawing together again, as though it belonged to that posture just as much as his composure. His heart beat evenly, calmer than before, as though this evening had clarified something that had kept him tense for weeks.

Without pausing, he disappeared around the next bend of the corridor, the cloak billowing once more, and then he too became part of the silence.

In the common room Hermione leaned briefly against the wall and let the sounds pass her by. Her heart beat quickly, strongly, perceptible down to her fingertips. The tension of the last hours fell away, making room for a clear, joyful feeling she had missed for weeks. The smile remained on her face, open and genuine, and this time it endured. She felt relieved, secure, back with herself. In this state she set herself in motion, calm and composed, carried by the certainty that order existed between them again and that this evening had done her good.

Hermione had already changed and was just about to go to bed when a soft, rhythmic tapping at her window interrupted her movement and made her pause involuntarily. Gryffindor Tower lay quiet, sunk deep into the night, the breathing of the other girls even, far from any unrest, and only the dim light of the candle on her bedside table cast soft shadows on the walls. She remained standing, feeling her heart beat faster because this sound was familiar and awakened an expectation in her that no longer surprised her.

“I’m coming,” she whispered softly, and an almost inaudible smile lay in her voice.

She went to the window, pushed the heavy curtain slightly aside, and looked out. Abraxas sat on the sill, dark plumage drawn close to his body, head slightly tilted, eyes attentive and alert, fixed on her. Her raven. Her professor.

A familiar feeling spread within her, calm and warm, accompanied by the wish to finally tell him that she knew who he was, that she had recognized him, that she had pieced together all the small clues. The thought remained unspoken. If I say it aloud, everything changes. This knowledge was allowed to exist on its own, without form, without consequence, because it was important to her and because she feared what an open word might unleash.

She opened the window carefully so that no sound disturbed the sleep of the others. “Come in,” she said softly. “I was hoping you would still come.”

Abraxas flew into the room with a few controlled wingbeats and landed on her bed, calm and sure, as though he belonged there. Hermione closed the window again, drew the curtains, and lifted her wand. “I’ll make it quiet briefly,” she murmured, then spoke clearly, “Muffliato.”

The room felt sealed off, muted, free of outside noises.

She sat down on the bed, drew her legs slightly up, and looked at him. Her face was still alert, her eyes lively. “The lesson today was really good,” she began and took a deep breath. “Like before. Maybe even better.” She smiled, openly this time. “I realized how much I missed it. This way of working. Being taken seriously. And he was so different.”

“Besides, he showed me his new research. I was allowed to see everything. The notes. The derivations. And he said that I should collaborate.”

A quiet pride resonated. “I’m allowed to read books that are otherwise kept under lock and key. Things not intended for students. He entrusts that to me.”

She shook her head slightly, almost incredulously. “I didn’t realize how much I missed exactly that. This feeling that my thinking matters. That I’m not just present, but truly belong. That he values my work.”

She continued, talking about the laboratory, about the work with the poison dart frog toxin, about the concentration, about the calm that had settled between them as they worked side by side. Her words came calmly, then more quickly, as though she wanted to hold on to every detail.

“These evenings are something special,” she said more quietly. “I feel right during them. As I am.”

Severus simply listened. Listened to the sound of her voice. He sat still on the bedspread and watched her attentively, let his gaze wander from the roots of her hair, which she had now braided into two neat plaits, over the fine baby hairs at her forehead, over the pale summer freckles on her nose, to the calm curve of her lips as they moved while she spoke, and to the small dimples that appeared whenever she smiled. Everything felt familiar. Everything felt properly placed.

She looked up at him. “Will you stay a little longer? You know, I’m so tired, it was a long day,” she asked calmly. “Just… until I fall asleep. It does me good when you’re here.”

He remembered that this was now the second time she had voiced this request.

Hermione lay down, turned onto her side, and directed her gaze at him. Her eyes rested openly on him, calm, trusting. She felt his attention, that quiet, alert presence that soothed her. Her Professor Snape. A small smile appeared on her face. “Good night,” she said softly.

She closed her eyes and began to stroke his feathers slowly, evenly, without haste, until the movement grew heavier, more irregular, and her hand finally slackened and came to rest on the blanket.

Severus stayed, as she had wished.

He lingered longer than was reasonable and watched her sleeping face, the relaxed features, the calm breathing. Her magic flowed unconsciously toward him, clear, warm, even, and reached him in a way that calmed him and ordered something that had been tense within him for weeks.

For this moment, everything felt right. Finally he moved, brushed her hair lightly with a wing, and rose soundlessly. With a few wingbeats he left the room through the window and vanished into the night.

In his thoughts a quiet sentence formed. Good night, little Gryffindor.

It was Saturday, and Hermione carried the thought of the evening with her all morning. Today she would read in Professor Snape’s private collection for the first time. Dark magical reference works she would never have had access to in the school library. And precisely that fact set a mixture of anticipation and tension working within her. She had gotten up too late, skipped breakfast, told herself that a little more sleep would do her good. Now, however, she sat at lunch with a hunger that made her more sensitive than she liked.

Ron ate as though he had not had a proper meal in days. Bacon, potatoes, bread disappeared in quick succession, accompanied by loud smacking and comments he made with his mouth full. With each sentence small crumbs and bits of grease came loose, flew across the table, and landed everywhere. One remained on Hermione’s plate, another stuck to the rim of her goblet, and when Ron choked again and laughed coughing, her stomach clenched. The mixture of smell, sound, and sight made her nauseous. She pushed her plate back a little and breathed shallowly through her mouth to steady herself.

Beside her sat Harry, and he looked exhausted in a way that immediately caught her attention. His shoulders sagged, his skin looked pale, dark shadows lay under his eyes, and the food before him seemed more of a burden than an invitation. Hermine felt her own excitement about the evening mingle with concern. The third task was drawing closer, and there were still no indications of what the champions would be expected to do. This uncertainty weighed heavily on Harry. Added to that were essays, deadlines, preparations, everything seemed to pile up, and he was barely keeping up.

Hermione placed her cutlery and hands neatly beside one another and looked at Harry, held his gaze until he reacted. “Harry,” she said calmly, with clear emphasis, “you have to eat. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

Harry slowly lifted his head, as though even this movement cost him effort. “I’m trying,” he muttered. His voice sounded tired, drained. “I still know nothing. Nothing at all. No hint, no idea what I’m supposed to prepare for. What if I overlook something important and a single mistake is enough?”

Ron waved his fork as though the conversation were an annoying interruption to his eating. “Harry, you’ll manage,” he said with his mouth full, and again a tiny strip of bacon flew across the table. Hermione flinched because the thing passed just barely by her sleeve. Ron did not even notice. “You’ve survived worse. The Tournament will be fine…”

Hermione slowly turned her head toward Ron. Her gaze struck him hard. “Ron,” she said curtly, clearly, “swallow first. And stop talking while you’re eating.” She gestured briefly to her plate, to the greasy spot. “It makes me sick.”

Ron paused briefly, looked at the spot, then at her, shrugged, and shoved the next bite into his mouth. Hermione pressed her lips together, forced herself to calm down, and turned back to Harry.

Ron suddenly grinned broadly. “You sound like my mum.”

Hermione shot him a look that silenced him briefly and refocused on Harry. As she spoke, her own evening ran as a quiet undertone: Professor Snape, his private books, the work she would be involved in, and the fact that he was granting her access to knowledge otherwise closed. And the thought of him himself, that dark, distant man.

Ron leaned forward and studied her with that knowing expression. “You’re completely somewhere else right now,” he said, this time with an empty mouth. “What are you thinking about?”

Hermione felt warmth rise in her. She straightened and collected herself. “Harry’s plan,” she said calmly. “And what needs to be done today.”

She stood up before Ron could ask further questions, gathered her things, and leaned briefly toward Harry. “Come after eating,” she said softly. “We’ll start immediately.”

As she moved away from the table, her stomach remained sensitive, the hunger noticeable, her worry about Harry heavy. Between it all lay that nervous flutter about the evening that had accompanied her all day and could not be pushed aside.

Later that day she bitterly regretted that she had not eaten anything. On top of that, the pain of her approaching period made every hour a torment, and her weakness drained her last energy. Yet, as always, she remained silent, clenched her teeth, and hid her discomfort behind the disciplined sense of duty everyone knew her for, only to feel inwardly that it wore her down more than she would ever admit.

That evening Hermione sat again at the heavy wooden table in Professor Snape’s laboratory, bent over a weighty copy of Dark Magical Poisons. Her brow was marked by a mixture of concentration and exhaustion, and the dim candlelight brushed her face and made the shadows of the tall shelves seem even denser.

Not even half an hour had passed since she had begun working her way through the dense, ominously worded texts when Severus heard a soft, barely perceptible rustle. It was the inconspicuous sound of fabric scraping over wood.

Even as Severus turned his head toward her, he registered out of the corner of his eye a sudden change in her posture. Hermione’s upper body tipped sideways off the chair, too abrupt and uncoordinated to be controlled, and in the same moment her body lost all tension. Her head sank dangerously toward the stone floor.

Severus reacted instinctively.

He pushed himself up from his own chair, covered the short distance with a quick step, and caught her before she fully fell. One arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders, the other caught her back and pulled her to him, resolute and precise. Her weight struck him heavy and limp, and at the same moment he turned to the side to absorb the momentum and bring her down to the floor in a controlled manner.

He knelt with her on the cold stone, held her tightly against him, felt her warmth through the fabric of her clothing, her shallow breath, irregular and barely deep. His gaze fell on her face, from which all color had drained, skin pale, almost translucent, lips dry, eyes closed, beneath the lids a fine, restless trembling that immediately caught his attention.

His hand lay firm at her back, stabilizing and secure, while his gaze captured every movement, every change, every sign of consciousness. The room around them remained still; the situation had shifted within a single breath, and Severus was wholly with her, alert, tense, ready to act.

Hermione lay in his arms.

The sight drove an involuntary pang into his chest, and without wasting time he summoned with a sharp, silent command a vial of Pepperup Potion from the shelf behind his desk. With a practiced, almost caring movement he lifted her head, supported it in the palm of his hand as though it were made of glass, and set the vial to her lips. He let the liquid glide into her mouth carefully, drop by drop. At the same time he massaged with two fingers the delicate spot at her throat to stimulate the swallowing reflex. He did it so gently it was almost a touch that did not suit him.

After several seconds that felt like minutes, he saw her throat move slightly, she swallowed, and shortly afterward her eyes opened slowly, heavily. The amber shimmer of her irises looked blurred as she stared at him, but it was enough for him to finally let out a relieved breath.

“You do not make this easy for me, Miss Granger,” he said with his usual sharpness, but the tone betrayed a concern he could not hide, even if he tried. “I expressly told you to arrive strengthened.”

She came slowly back to herself and first perceived warmth, then support, then that familiar, deep scent of sandalwood that surrounded her and wrapped itself around her senses like a protective mantle. Only then did she realize that she lay in his arms, close to his chest, held securely, without pressure, without haste. Her thoughts ordered themselves only slowly, but her body reacted faster than her mind, relaxed, allowed the weight, allowed the support.

She lifted her head a little, just enough to see his face. His dark eyes rested firmly on her, attentive, focused, wholly with her, and that gaze held her where she was. Safe. Carried. Her breathing grew calmer, deeper, and she realized that she wanted to stay, exactly as it was.

“What happened?” she asked softly, her voice still rough but calm.

As she spoke, she became aware of how securely his arms held her, how naturally, as though there had never been anything else, and for a silent moment this feeling pushed every other question aside.

Severus fixed her with a stern look, but the hardness of his words could not entirely conceal the hint of unease in his eyes. “You fainted,” he explained curtly. “I warned you. These texts are not toys. You should have told me immediately that it was becoming too much.”

“No, Professor… it wasn’t the text,” she replied haltingly, her voice carrying that stubborn tone he knew all too well by now. “I’m strong enough. I just… didn’t eat. And besides…” She broke off, and he saw her cheeks redden, saw her lower her gaze as though she wanted to sink into the floor.

He raised an eyebrow, and that mocking undertone crept into his voice that always provoked her. “Besides?”

A moment of silence passed before she whispered almost inaudibly, “Women’s problems.”

He understood immediately, had to swallow for a moment, so brief only someone watching him closely would have noticed, and then replied matter-of-factly, “I see.” But his black eyes rested on her for a long time afterward, examining, almost thoughtful, as though he wanted to grasp the pain she did not voice. Finally he summoned another vial with a casual, precise movement and handed it to her without taking his gaze from her. “Three drops daily, always at the same hour. It will help you.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, the flush on her face deepening, her voice scarcely more than a whisper, embarrassed yet grateful.

Severus rose and extended his hand to her, and when she took it, he helped her to her feet. The contact was brief but tangible, his hand firm yet careful, as though he wanted to avoid any unnecessary roughness. “That is enough for today, Miss Granger,” he said in an unusually calm voice, though a note lay within it that tolerated no contradiction. “You will now return to your tower and go straight to bed. Sleep is the only medicine you need now.”

She nodded, murmured another soft “Thank you,” and turned toward the door. He released his folded arms, straightened, and stepped beside her. “It is almost curfew, Miss Granger,” he said curtly, his voice once more as factual as ever. “I will accompany you back to your tower.”

She nodded silently and walked at his side. They left the laboratory in silence, their footsteps echoing in the dark corridors as the torchlight cast their shadows long and narrow across the stone walls. He kept some distance, yet his gaze slid to her again and again, evaluating, vigilant, as though to ensure she did not sway again.

At the portrait hole to Gryffindor Tower he finally stopped, his hands once more clasped behind his back. “As I said, go straight to bed, Miss Granger,” he said in a tone that sounded stricter than he truly meant.

She turned once more toward him, murmured a final “Thank you, Professor,” and then disappeared behind the portrait.

Severus remained standing for a moment, his cloak softly brushing the cold stone floor. Finally he turned away and allowed himself to murmur almost inaudibly, “That girl will be the death of me yet.”

Yet in the same moment he spoke the words, a realization struck him that he could no longer suppress. She was no longer the little, know-it-all girl who had entered his class at eleven, but a young woman, only fifteen, yes, but already dangerously close to a maturity that unsettled him. And he, Severus Snape, stood on the edge of a truth he never wanted to admit to himself, but could no longer ignore, no matter how hard he tried.

Chapter Text

Severus was still standing in the shadow of the vault, half concealed between pillars and cold stone, when he heard the hurried footsteps lashing down the corridor. They were too fast, too uneven, carried by restlessness and an urgency that tolerated no detour. A moment later he saw Potter burst out of the half darkness, head lowered, cloak fluttering as if he were running from something invisible. Severus did not need to observe him long to know what drove him. He knew this kind of movement. A flight forward, driven by panic, by the absolute need to rid oneself of something that had grown too heavy to carry alone.

Karkaroff’s words were still echoing in his mind, that muted, urgent talk about the Dark Mark, about changes, about signs that could no longer be ignored. “You feel it too,” Karkaroff had said, his voice lowered as if he feared even the walls might listen, “this throbbing under the skin, like a heartbeat that is not your own, Severus, it is getting stronger, day by day, it is getting louder, the Dark Lord is gathering his followers, he is tightening the strings again.”

Severus’ jaw tightened as he closed his eyes for a brief moment, more out of control than exhaustion. A bitter, sharp thought formed within him, directed at the boy who once again did what he always did. Potter ran to his friends. Potter spoke. Potter passed on things that were heavy, that were dangerous, that drew others into range.

And with that the next thought was unavoidable.

Hermione.

The name struck him immediately, clear and painful at the same time. She would hear about it. Perhaps not this minute, perhaps not tonight, but it was inevitable. Potter would talk. And Hermione would listen. She always listened. She connected things. She understood faster than others, often faster than was good for her.

Severus opened his eyes again and stared into the dark corridor through which Potter had vanished. A cold spread within him that had nothing to do with control. It was fear, unmasked and direct, a feeling he rarely allowed and even more rarely named.

What would she see when she heard about it?

The Mark. The past. The things that were attributed to him long before anyone asked who he had become.

Would she come to him again, would she be able to look him in the eyes with the knowledge that was now inevitably drawing closer. Would she stay?

The last weeks pressed in on him, clear and sharp. Her return to his laboratory. The first question after a long time. Her presence at the worktable. That calm, focused way in which she stood beside him again. Her training, which she had taken up with seriousness, with trust. This slow, arduous reapproach that had cost them both strength and had only just begun to feel stable.

And now all of it threatened to tip over, triggered by a boy who ran because he always did.

The thought of losing her tightened his chest. Fear of losing the one being that touched him, even when she herself knew nothing of it yet.

If she were to turn away from him, it would tear him apart.
Now, when she had returned.
Now, when she stayed.
Now, when she trusted again.

Severus finally turned away. His steps set into motion evenly, controlled, his cloak following him heavy and calm, just as it always appeared from the outside. Inside him, however, something was working that submitted to no discipline and obeyed no command.

Potter had run. And Severus knew with bitter clarity that this run would have consequences.

For him.

For her.

For something that had only just begun to find footing again.

Hermione sat between Harry and Ron in the warm but stuffy Gryffindor common room, the fire in the fireplace crackling softly, shadows dancing across the red walls. But despite the sense of security this place usually evoked in her, in this moment she felt as if she were standing at the edge of an abyss. Harry had just spoken words that weighed heavier than any secret he had ever entrusted to her before. They forced their way into her consciousness like cold iron, pressing down on her heart as if someone had violently forced the air out of her lungs.

Her throat was dry, her voice barely more than a whisper as she asked, her gaze fixed on Harry, “Are you really sure, Harry. Are you telling us that Professor Snape is a Death Eater.”

Just speaking those words sent a shiver through her that seized her from the inside. As if invisible hands had clamped around her heart. Her professor, the man who fascinated her, the man she admired, a follower of Voldemort. Her mind rebelled against the thought.

She knew he was versed in the Dark Arts, no one mastered them like he did. He was unyielding in his strictness, sometimes even cruel, and yet she could not admit to herself that he could ever be entirely evil. There was something in him that contradicted that.

Harry lifted his head, and his gaze was more serious than she had ever seen it, his green eyes dark in the firelight. And his voice, when he spoke, left no room for doubt. “One hundred percent, Hermione. I saw Karkaroff show him his Mark. Dumbledore himself confirmed it to me. Snape was a Death Eater, there is no question about that. But he changed sides. He turned against Voldemort, went over to Dumbledore, and has been on our side ever since. But I say once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. Snape said his Mark on his arm is hurting again. It burns, and that means only one thing, You know who is gaining power. Karkaroff confirmed it. No one must find out about this, you have to promise me.” His voice dropped, became so quiet it almost vanished in the crackling of the flames. “I also told Dumbledore that my scar hurts again and that I am having dreams, dreams of Voldemort. But even he cannot explain to me whether these dreams are real or whether they only come from my own mind. Even he does not know.”

Hermione felt her heart beating faster, each beat a dull echo in her chest. These revelations weighed on her like a burden that threatened to crush her. Professor Snape. A Death Eater. The words refused to anchor themselves in her mind, she rebelled against them, clung to every small sign that spoke against them.

She remembered his looks, his gestures that sometimes had made her see him differently, the rare moments in which he had not been merely the distant professor toward her, but a human being, vulnerable, full of contradictions, and he was her raven. Could this man, who wrapped himself so carefully in silence and sarcasm, really once have been a servant of the Dark Lord. Or was he still one. No, that could not be true.

She forced herself not to question Harry’s words. He never lied, especially not about things this serious. Yet inside her a storm of doubts, fears, and a strange, almost painful longing for clarity raged. Her gaze drifted involuntarily to the fire, the flames reflected in her eyes as she fought inwardly. If all of this was true, if her professor truly had this past. She had to hear it from his own mouth, she had to ask him herself, confront him with it, no matter what answer he would give her. She would not judge prematurely.

Friday came far too quickly, faster than Hermione would have wished. With every step she took through the cool, damp corridors of the dungeons, the uneasy feeling in her stomach grew stronger. As if an invisible hand were closing around her insides and squeezing them. She stopped in front of the massive wooden door, its dark surface shimmering in the torchlight. She gathered herself and took a deep breath before raising her fingers hesitantly to the wood. The dull knock echoed through the corridor, a sound that seemed much louder than it really was. And her heart began to pound even more wildly when she heard the familiar footsteps on the other side.

Then the door opened, and the tall, slender outline of Professor Snape appeared in the frame. “Good evening, Miss Granger,” he said calmly, his gaze lingering on her a moment longer than necessary. She passed him, into the dimly lit, almost reverent atmosphere of his private quarters.

“Good evening, Professor,” she finally managed, striving to sound polite. Yet she could not prevent her voice from trembling slightly. Hermione felt the piercing burn of his gaze on her back, so intense it almost seemed to pierce her physically. Warmth rose in her, and she felt her cheeks begin to glow.

“How are you today, Miss Granger.” His voice was calm, measured, and he gestured with a brief, precise motion toward the couch in front of his fireplace, as if it were self evident that she would sit there.

Surprised, she lifted her head, blinked in confusion, and asked cautiously, “Are we not brewing today, Professor.”

She sat down on the couch and looked at him. He sank into the wingback chair opposite her, and the firelight made his sharp features appear even more pronounced. With an impassive expression he replied, “Yes, we will. But before we begin, I would like to speak with you first.”

He folded his long fingers and placed them before him in a gesture of concentration, his eyes resting steadily on her. “I have seen that you have completed your notes on the books. I would like to review them.” A brief pause followed, the silence stretching between them, before he continued with unmistakable emphasis. “And beyond that, Miss Granger, I would like to know what is troubling you.”

The words struck her like a blow, so sudden and direct that she flinched involuntarily. Her heart raced, she nervously chewed on her lower lip as her thoughts desperately searched for a way out. 'Could he read her thoughts. Did he already know everything.' And before she could stop herself, the words pushed past her lips faster than she could hold them back. “You were a follower of You know who.”

Severus had felt it the moment she entered, that something was different. The fine vibration he perceived so clearly through the connection between them carried unrest, fear, a subtle constriction, and something else he could not immediately identify. He had cast only a brief glance into her mind, no more than a fleeting pass, and had seen the conversation with Potter. Of course Dumbledore had entrusted the boy with more than was good for him. And it was no surprise that Potter had shared the knowledge with his two closest confidants. But that Hermione, this girl, now confronted him so directly and unvarnished with it, surprised him.

For a brief moment he felt completely caught off guard, but he recovered quickly, straightened inwardly, and answered in a quiet but insistent voice. “Very well, so you have learned of it. Thanks to Potter, I presume.” His eyes fixed on hers, dark and penetrating. No twitch in his face betrayed uncertainty. “I will tell you about it, Miss Granger. But only under one condition. Everything you hear from my mouth now remains within my walls. I could also have you swear it, or bind you with an Unbreakable Vow.”

The weight of his words hung in the room, and the seriousness with which he spoke left no doubt how dangerous this truth was.

Hermione’s heart beat so fast it almost hurt, yet her voice sounded surprisingly steady as she replied, “I promise you, Professor Snape. I would swear it as well, if that would make you feel better. But I trust you.”

He held her gaze and felt that she was speaking the truth, without ulterior motive, without falsehood. This trust, so pure and unshakable, struck him deeply, deeper than he would ever have admitted. For a moment an unexpected sense of relief washed over him. He nodded slowly, almost thoughtfully, and then began to speak.

Hermione had drawn her legs up, her hands clasped together in her lap. Her gaze rested on the flames, attentive, collected, as if she had long sensed that this evening would not be an ordinary one. She appeared ready to listen, ready to receive, without pressing him.

Severus sat upright in his wingback chair, shoulders straight, hands resting loosely on the armrests. For a moment he too looked into the fire, not searching, but ordering, as if arranging thoughts that had long resided within him and now had to be spoken.

“You have questions,” he said finally, calmly. His voice was deep, even, free of sharpness. “And I consider it necessary that I answer them for you.”

Hermione turned her head toward him. Her gaze remained steady. “I want to understand, Professor,” she said quietly. “Everything you can tell me.”

He nodded briefly. Then he began to speak.

“There was a time,” he began, and this time there was nothing abstract in his voice, but something inevitable, heavy, accumulated over years, “when I joined the Death Eaters, driven by the conviction that there I would finally find significance, possess weight in a world that had always shown me how easily one could be overlooked, passed over, or crushed. And you see, Miss Granger, I was gifted, ambitious, and firmly convinced that power is the only protection a person can create for themselves.”

The fire crackled softly, as if carrying each word along.

“I come from circumstances in which weakness had consequences,” he said calmly. “These consequences ranged from blows to subtle punishment and were part of daily life.” He paused briefly. “I learned early that knowledge creates advantages, that fear enforces order, and that the world knows clear hierarchies.” His face remained unmoved. “A place outside these structures was not a realistic option for me.”

He leaned back slightly, as if rearranging the memory.

“The ideology of the Death Eaters offered me structure,” he said matter of factly. “It promised belonging, clarity, and an order in which strength was rewarded and doubt was considered weakness. And I approached it with the assumption that I could move within it, accumulate knowledge, gain influence, and secure myself, while telling myself that I retained control over my decisions.”

A brief breath broke the silence.

“That assumption proved fatal.”

Hermione did not move. He saw how attentively she followed him.

“I overheard a prophecy,” he said calmly, the words carefully placed, “incomplete, fragmented, and I passed it on, as I always acted at that time, quickly, efficiently, without looking to the end of the chain. And I delivered information to someone for whom death was a tool, a means to an end.”

The words lay heavy between them.

“When I became aware that this information threatened the life of someone who mattered to me,” he continued, now more slowly, with a weight that could hardly be concealed, “I recognized the scope of my action in full clarity, tangible, irreversible.”

He lifted his gaze and looked directly at her.

“I turned to Albus Dumbledore,” he said openly, “driven by desperation, by the desperate desire to intervene at least once more, and I asked him to protect the one I had put in danger. So I offered him the only thing I had left.” A bitter undertone resonated. “Myself.”

“I became his spy,” Severus continued, his gaze firm, unwavering, “driven by the realization that guilt demands action and that knowledge, once misused, can only regain weight through conscious counteraction.” His voice remained calm. “This task required patience, discipline, and the willingness to work in the shadows.”

Severus’ fingers closed firmly around the armrest.

“But that one person died.”

Hermione exhaled slowly.

The fire cast long, shifting shadows across the walls.

“Since that time,” he said quietly, “I have directed my actions against the man I once served, out of an obligation born of my own decisions, out of the knowledge that damage done entails responsibility that does not end.”

Hermione was silent for a moment. Then she asked quietly, “And you carry that alone?”

He nodded slightly. “I carry it because it was my decision.”

She leaned forward a little. “Why are you telling me this?”

Severus let his gaze rest on her for a heartbeat, and in that brief moment there was more consideration than strictness, more care than distance.

“Because it is important to me that you know what you are involving yourself with,” he said calmly. “Because I ask you to trust me, and trust without truth becomes fragile, no matter how carefully it is handled.”

He stepped half a pace to the side, as if deliberately leaving the space between them open.

“There are parts of my past that explain why I work as I do, why I set boundaries, and why I take responsibility seriously,” he continued. “You must know the origin of this stance in order to follow me as a mentor, to understand why I demand certain things from you and deliberately withhold others.”

His gaze remained calm on her.

“You are here because you possess talent, discipline, and a clear mind,” he said. “And because your path is not indifferent to me.” A barely perceptible pause. “Everything else has its time. Truth loses its value when it is spoken too early.”

A silent moment spread between them. The fire continued to burn evenly.

Hermione did not understand what he meant by everything else has its time, and the thought lingered within her for a moment like a quiet echo, without form, without clear meaning. Everything else, however, was crystal clear, the seriousness of his words, the responsibility contained within them, and the certainty that he was not telling her any of this to impress or manipulate her. She let the unspoken part rest, set it aside, and did not pursue it further, because for the moment it was enough to know that he was being honest with her.

Hermione lowered her gaze briefly, then lifted it again. “It is good that you told me yourself,” she said calmly. “Now I understand why you chose this path.”

Severus nodded once, more slowly this time. “It was important to me that you heard it from me.”

After a long pause Hermione lifted her head again. She had remained silent during his account, had absorbed every detail and interrupted nothing. Precisely this calm gave her next question particular weight. Her gaze rested directly on him, steady and clear, carried by a desire for understanding rather than curiosity. “May I see it? ”

Severus froze for a moment. The question caught him unprepared because it was precise and left no room for evasion. A part of him wanted to end the conversation, draw the boundary, and close the subject. That impulse quickly lost strength. He knew she would recognize the connections. She always did. Further avoidance would create distance where clarity was needed.

He studied her briefly, took in her posture, the attentiveness, the seriousness. Then he raised his wand and spoke a brief spell. The fastening of the robe on his left arm opened. He pushed the fabric back in a controlled motion, rolled up sleeve and robe until the Dark Mark became visible.

The sight triggered the familiar feeling in him. Guilt. Shame. The memory of decisions whose consequences had remained. This mark stood for a chapter of his life that was closed and yet still effective.

He held his forearm still as Hermione leaned forward to look at the mark. The Dark Mark stood out clearly on his skin. A skull, hollow eyed, from whose mouth a snake wound as if about to break free. The lines appeared sharp and final, black as if burned in, too precise to be mere ink. Beneath his skin lay a tension, a dull echo of magic that responded to touch and promised more than it showed. For him it was not a symbol but a connection, cold, demanding, vigilant, and he knew that in this moment Hermione was not merely looking at a mark, but at a part of his life he had long kept hidden.

Her hand lifted involuntarily, as if she wanted to comprehend the origin of this sign.

“Stop,” Severus said immediately, clear and firm.

Everything in his mind tightened. An absurd thought pushed forward, that the mark might sense who she was, what she was to him, as if it possessed a consciousness of its own, vigilant, lurking. The notion sounded mad, devoid of logic, yet it would not let him go. He wanted to take no risk. No pain, no reaction, no echo of this cursed connection was allowed to reach her. The thought that even a trace of it could harm her was unbearable.

She drew her hand back, visibly startled by her own movement. Warmth rose to her cheeks.
“I am sorry, Professor,” she said quietly.

A tense silence spread. Hermione gathered herself and lifted her gaze again. Her voice sounded careful, honest, free of sensationalism.

“Does it cause pain.”

Severus lowered his arm and inhaled calmly. His answer came controlled, factual, without softening.

“It has been pulsing regularly for some time. The intensity has increased. Mild pain accompanies this state. This reaction indicates an active change.”

He pulled his sleeve back down and concealed the mark. His gaze remained on her. “Your studies over the past weeks served a clear purpose,” he continued. “These poisons possess properties that can be analyzed, redirected, and neutralized.”

Hermione listened attentively.

“My goal is the development of an antidote,” he continued. “This knowledge is directed against connections that act more deeply than physical substances.” His voice remained calm. “This mark represents a magical anchoring. As long as it exists, a bond remains active.”

Hermione looked at him, visibly shaken.
“You want to break this bond,” she said quietly.

“I seek freedom,” Severus replied calmly. “This marking defines me before every encounter. It binds me to a past that is concluded.”

He held her gaze. He wanted to see her reaction. Hermione was calm. “That is the core of my work.”

Hermione was silent for a moment, then she moved a little closer. Her movement appeared deliberate. She placed her hand carefully on his forearm, just below the concealed spot. The touch was light and respectful.

Severus tensed involuntarily but did not pull away.

“I trust you, sir,” Hermione said calmly. “I will support you.”

Their eyes met. He saw that she meant it. He nodded slowly. “Thank you, Miss Granger,” he said quietly.

Severus was the first to move. He did not remain seated a moment longer than necessary. He stood up calmly and led the way toward the laboratory, his stride even, his posture composed, as if continuing a familiar workflow. Inside him it looked different, his heart hammered against his chest.

Hermione followed him without asking, her hand falling back to her side, her gaze attentive, alert, ready. There was no longer any doubt between them as to why they were now entering this room.

The laboratory was prepared. The work surfaces were cleaned, the cauldrons cold, the instruments arranged. Severus stepped to the central table, drew parchments from a drawer and laid them out. One after another he placed them neatly on the worktable, formulas, diagrams, structured notes whose content testified to precise planning and long preparation. He worked calmly, routinely, every movement deliberately set, while Hermione stood at his side and followed every action.

“The anchoring of the mark is not a simple curse,” he said finally without looking up as he examined a glass phial. “It is multilayered. Magical. Mental. Physical. It responds to intent, to bonding, to memory.” His voice remained factual. “A direct counter spell leads to instability. That is why I work with derivations.”

He ignited the cauldron, set the temperature, and began to weigh ingredients with exact precision. Moonstone powder, purified dragon resin, a solution of heavily diluted basilisk secretion, all in a sequence that allowed no margin. Hermione handed him instruments, noted values, asked questions that were precise and showed she understood the approach.

“The goal is a temporary decoupling,” he explained further. “Not removal. A loosening of the active connection. If successful, the mark loses its reactivity for a short time.”

He pushed his sleeve up and held his arm over the cauldron, without hesitation, without theatrical gesture. The liquid in the cauldron began to react, a dull, vibrating pulsing filled the room. Severus concentrated, guided the magic in a controlled manner, kept it tight.

The pain came immediately.

He barely contorted his face, but his breathing changed, grew deeper, more strained. The mark reacted, contracted, began to throb more strongly, as if resisting the intervention. The liquid in the cauldron darkened, lost its structure, and then collapsed within seconds. Severus pulled his arm back.

“Abort,” he said calmly.

He extinguished the cauldron, neutralized the substance, and sat down heavily on the chair for a moment. The method had failed. As it had every time before.

Hermione said nothing. She stepped closer, observed him, waited until he was fully composed again.

Inside him her words echoed.
“I trust you.”

The thought struck him with a force he could barely control. This trust had weight. These were not careless words. They came from her. From the one person whose magic was bound to his, even though she did not yet know that truth. To him this sentence meant everything. Recognition. Closeness. Bond. His heart reacted faster, stronger, than he wished, swelled with a feeling he had kept under control for years and that now found little space. He straightened again, looked at Hermione calmly, collected, letting none of the inner turmoil show.

After they finished the work in the laboratory, Severus deliberately took time for the conclusion, as if this part of the work too had to be treated with the same care as each experiment itself. He gathered the parchments one by one, smoothed them, checked the formulas, the notes, the fine corrections they had made together. He noticed how clear and structured her handwriting ran through his own. Then he sealed the phials, each one individually, checked the seals, tested the stability of the closures until everything was in its place. The results lay clearly before them. None of the tested combinations had produced a reaction, no change in the magical anchoring, no sign of loosening. Yet he felt no frustration. For him this had been a necessary step, a section that was complete, a boundary now clearly defined and thus opening the way for further approaches.

“That will suffice for today,” he said calmly and lifted his gaze to Hermione, who was still bent over her notes as if she did not want to leave the room, as if lingering longer might force an answer. “We have gathered sufficient data. Everything further requires preparation and distance.”

Hermione slowly straightened, closed the book she had been reading attentively with a deliberate motion, and held it in her hands for a moment as if to reassure herself that they were truly finished. “I will go through the calculations again,” she said seriously, focused, with that tone that showed she had fully assumed responsibility for the work. “Perhaps I will find an approach we overlooked.”

Severus looked at her longer than he had intended and realized how much this eagerness touched him. “Your approach was precise,” he replied calmly.

He accompanied her out of the laboratory, extinguished the remaining lights with a brief movement of his wand, and carefully locked the door behind them. The corridor lay quiet before them. Their steps quickly found a shared rhythm, even, familiar, unhurried. Severus walked upright beside her, his gaze directed forward, and yet he was aware of every one of her movements, the calm posture, the focused silence with which she was already back at work in her mind although the evening had long ended.

“You are continuing to work mentally,” he observed calmly.

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “I want to help. I want it to succeed.”

Again his heart hammered uncontrollably against his chest.

At the entrance to Gryffindor Tower they stopped. The portrait opened after a brief, routine comment about the late hour. Warm light spilled into the cool corridor. Quiet voices could be heard from the common room.

“Get some rest, Miss Granger,” Severus said calmly. “Concentration requires balance.”

Hermione looked up at him, and in her gaze lay gratitude, calm and sincere. “Thank you, Professor,” she said quietly. “For today. And for the trust.”

He held her gaze for a heartbeat longer than was necessary for a formal farewell. And he realized how dear this girl had become to him, without his ever having allowed that fact. Her seriousness, her loyalty, her clear willingness to bear responsibility, all of it touched him more deeply than he wished.

“Good night, Miss Granger,” he said calmly.

She stepped through the portrait and disappeared into the common room.

Severus remained standing for a moment, his gaze fixed on the closed portrait. A quiet feeling spread within him, controlled, heavy, and at the same time warm. He liked this girl. More than he should. More than he allowed himself. And precisely because of that he knew he had to protect her, even from things she did not yet know.

Then he turned away and walked down the corridor, his cloak following him calmly, while his heart beat heavy and at the same time strangely calm, carried by the certainty that she was at his side and wanted to remain there.

Chapter Text

The third task of the Triwizard Tournament was imminent, and it felt as though the tense anticipation ran through the corridors of Hogwarts like an electric crackle.

The school year was also drawing to a close, yet everything revolved around this single evening, around this final trial that would decide victory or defeat. Students and teachers alike whispered excitedly, placed bets, gathered in groups to discuss who would claim the cup and seize the glory for themselves.

Severus, however, was not interested in this childish spectacle in the slightest. He let the excited mood around him slide off him, because something entirely different weighed on him. Something heavier, darker, more disturbing. His Mark, that cursed sign of his past, had been throbbing for weeks. It was a rhythmic pulsing that grew stronger with each passing day, mocking him with the reminder that something dark and inevitable was approaching.

Even Igor Karkaroff, that cowardly bungler, had already sought him out several times, with a nervous glance, sweaty hands, and panicked whispering. Each time a little more agitated, a little more desperate, as though Severus might promise him a salvation that did not exist. He avoided him as best he could, sidestepped him in the corridors, withdrew from his hunted looks, because he knew that Karkaroff was not equal to the pressure, and he did not want to be seen in his shadow.

Dumbledore’s office lay bathed in the warm golden glow of floating candles, whose light clung softly to the walls and immersed the countless magical instruments in a muted shimmer. Gears turned quietly, glass tubes bubbled in a measured rhythm, and everything in that room seemed to be listening attentively, as though it knew more about the future than it was willing to reveal. Severus stood before the massive desk, his cloak still draped over his shoulders, as if he had only stepped in briefly. Yet his posture betrayed that an inner restlessness had him firmly in its grip. His gaze rested steadily on the headmaster, while beneath the fabric of his left sleeve the Dark Mark throbbed dully, persistent and demanding. As though it wished to remind him that sleep was a luxury he could no longer afford.

“Malfoy is keeping a low profile,” he finally said, breaking the silence, his voice controlled but sharper than he had intended. “He is not coming out with the truth. Not completely.”

Dumbledore regarded him attentively, his hands loosely folded, his gaze calm but alert. “Lucius has never played an open game,” he replied evenly. “Not even with those he pretended to trust.”

The corner of Severus’ mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “He is deliberately avoiding me,” he continued, while his fingers curled involuntarily beneath the cloak. “He avoids conversations, leaves letters unanswered, keeps his distance. And yet,” he added after a brief hesitation, “I sense that he knows more than he lets on.” His gaze darkened. “The Dark Mark is throbbing more strongly, Albus. It hardly lets me sleep.”

Dumbledore’s expression grew more serious, the faint glimmer in his eyes receding. “That is not a good sign,” he said quietly.

A brief silence settled over the room, carried by the soft hum of the instruments and the unspoken knowledge that time was working against them.

“Keep your eyes and ears open, my boy,” Dumbledore said at last. “I am doing the same.”

Severus inclined his head briefly. “As always, Albus.”

He remained silent a moment longer than mere reflection required, as though he first had to arrange his thoughts before giving them space.

Dumbledore studied him attentively, let the silence stand, then asked with quiet matter of factness, “How is your girl, Severus?”

Severus snorted softly, almost theatrically, a brief involuntary reaction in which fatigue, irony, and something very unfamiliar mingled. He lowered his gaze for a heartbeat, as if he needed to impose inner order before allowing the words.

“We have spoken with one another,” he said at last, more slowly, more deliberately. “At length and without evasions.” His gaze drifted briefly aside, lingered there, then returned, firmer than before. “She now knows my past. She knows the decisions I made and the paths that arose from them.” A short pause followed. “I told her that someone had died who mattered to me. That was enough. The rest belongs to a time that is concluded.”

Dumbledore said nothing, yet his attention rested entirely on him, calm, open, as though he were holding the space for the weight of those words.

“She knows who I was,” Severus continued, his voice now deeper, more composed, carried by a care that weighed every syllable. “She has seen the fractures, my guilt, my scars that remain.” His breathing steadied. “She accepted it, without evasions, without conditions. She stayed because she wanted to, because she decided that my past is not the measure of who I am today.”

A gentle, sincere smile appeared on Dumbledore’s face, free of surprise, borne by quiet certainty.

“That is good,” he said calmly. “Very good.”
He let the words settle before continuing. “I have always known she would act that way. She possesses the rare gift of perceiving people in their entirety, with all that was and all that may yet be. That is where her strength lies.”

Severus exhaled slowly, as if setting something internal aside in order to return to more familiar paths. “In terms of training, Hermione is making great progress,” he said, adopting the factual tone he knew and mastered from countless reports. “Her comprehension is exceptional, her grasp of complex connections precise, and she recognizes links before others even realize they exist.” An almost imperceptible smile passed over his features, fleeting and unobtrusive, more reflex than deliberate reaction.

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly in a calm, approving motion, and his voice remained gentle, carried by genuine attention. “She uses what is entrusted to her,” he said quietly. “And she grows with what is expected of her.” His gaze rested openly on Severus. “That is a good sign.”

Severus’ expression gathered, the tension shifting inward, as though he had followed the thought to its end. “Precisely because of that,” he said quietly, “I know what will happen when he returns.” The throbbing beneath his sleeve remained steady, a dull rhythm. “Hermione is Muggle born, intelligent, and visible because she remains true to herself.” His fingers tightened beneath the cloak. “She stands out, she is noticed, and she draws attention.”

He let a breath pass before continuing, his voice controlled. “Malfoy has already noticed her.” A brief moment followed. “His attention was on her.” His gaze hardened. “She was already in his sights.”

He raised his eyes, direct, unwavering. “I would defend her. To the death.”

For a moment even the soft hum of the instruments seemed to pause.

Dumbledore looked at him for a long time, without haste, without judgment. “What you have just spoken,” he said at last calmly, “describes very precisely what you feel for this girl, Severus.”

Severus did not answer.
And yet he knew that Albus was right.

When he left the office and closed the door softly behind him, the dull throbbing beneath his sleeve did not abate for a single moment. And deep within him spread that quiet, bitter knowledge that something greater was growing in secrecy. Something inevitable, whose taste already carried the flavor of doom long before it would take shape.

And then the day had come. The sun had long since sunk behind the towers, twilight settling like a veil over the grounds. In a few minutes, the final task would begin.

The maze on the Quidditch pitch, which they had outfitted with great effort using all manner of spells, magical creatures, and tricky riddles, lay dark and menacing before them. Only Alastor Moody knew exactly where the cup was hidden. And Severus’ instinct told him that it was foolish to leave that information in a single hand.

When the champions were finally sent into the maze and the crowd roared, Severus almost breathed a sigh of relief, at least for a moment. His gaze swept over the spectators, probing faces. And then he found her. Hermione. There she stood, beside Weasley, full of tension and worry, while she cheered for Potter.

He felt his insides tighten briefly, but he quickly turned his gaze away, letting it move on across the stands. He noticed Molly and Arthur Weasley, who were acting as a surrogate family for the boy here, and he could not prevent the bitter thought from stirring within him. “Of course, Potter is cared for everywhere as if he were the only one who mattered. It makes one want to retch.”

Minutes passed, and the crowd held its breath as events in the maze unfolded. Delacour was eliminated, as was Krum, but when Viktor was brought back from the maze, Severus saw something that made him pause. The boy looked strange. His face was pale, his eyes sunken and glassy in their sockets, as though he were under a spell, as though someone had manipulated him. The tasks in the maze were dangerous, yes, but never so much that they would leave a student in such a state. Dumbledore would not have allowed that. He knew it.

His gaze slid to Moody, and suddenly, for no discernible reason, an uneasy feeling crept over him, so cold and sharp that his shoulders stiffened involuntarily. He did not know where it came from, but his inner compass, that instinct that had never deceived him, sounded the alarm. Something was wrong here.

And then came the blow he had feared. A stabbing pain in his arm, so intense that sweat immediately broke out on his forehead. The Dark Mark throbbed, burned, pulled like a fever through his veins. His breath caught as the realization surged up within him. “No. This must not. Not now.” But he knew it even before he finished the thought. He was back. The Dark Lord had returned for good, and he was calling for his followers.

Panic spread like an icy undertow that constricted his heart. He reached out for Dumbledore, sent him a thought. “Albus. It is time.”

Severus stood on the grass below the stands, the headmaster looked down at him from the first row with serious blue eyes and asked only briefly in thought, “Are you sure?”

Severus nodded, a short, sharp nod that left no doubt.

At that very moment a loud bang sounded, cheers surged, and all heads turned forward. There on the grass two figures had materialized, two students, the Triwizard Cup lying between them.

Severus blocked out the shouting, his eyes narrowed to thin slits. Something was wrong. He approached, and then he recognized who lay there in the grass, slumped near the cup, his gaze turned away from the roaring crowd. It was Potter, on his knees, bent forward over a second figure. And only as Severus came closer did he realize that it was the Diggory boy, motionless, unnaturally still. Each further step sharpened the image, brought details into focus that etched themselves inescapably into his mind. The ashen skin, the soul empty eyes, the posture of a body in which no life was at work anymore. He knew that look too well. In that moment Severus recognized the truth with brutal clarity. Potter was hunched over the lifeless body of Cedric Diggory.

The crowd was still cheering, applause crashing across the Quidditch pitch, voices calling Potter’s and Diggory’s names, carried by the belief in a triumph that in that very moment had already been exposed as a lie.

Severus lifted his gaze and locked eyes with Dumbledore, whose eyes had lost their usual sparkle and were now fixed on Potter, serious and alert. In that moment Albus was already moving. He stepped closer to Severus, his voice deep, controlled, as he said, “They have killed Diggory, Albus.”

At that exact moment Potter jerked his head up, and the scream that tore from him cut through the air like a knife, raw, marrow shattering, carried by a fear that could no longer be restrained. He screamed the name again and again, desperate, beside himself, and the sound went through bone and marrow, making conversations break off, applause die away, movement freeze. Within a few breaths an eerie silence lay over the stands of the Quidditch pitch, as though someone had stolen the crowd’s breath.

Dumbledore turned away and walked with quick, determined steps toward Amos Diggory, who was already staggering out of the spectators. His face was tense, hope still unspoken in his features. Dumbledore laid a hand on his arm and spoke quietly to him, words no one else was meant to hear, words that carried a heavier weight. Amos’ face changed, color draining away, shoulders sagging as the meaning of what had been said reached him.

And then all hell broke loose.

The first screams rang through the crowd, panicked, disbelieving, as the truth spread like wildfire. Voices overlapped. People pushed forward, others retreated, and over everything lay a single thought that settled inescapably. Cedric Diggory was dead.

Severus’ gaze flew, faster than he himself wished to admit, back to the stands, to where the students stood pressed close together and chaos rolled over them like a wave. And there he saw her. Hermione. The girl who had occupied him for years more than he cared to admit. She stood frozen between Weasley and several other Gryffindors, her hands clutching the wooden railing before her so tightly that her knuckles stood out white, while tears ran freely down her cheeks. Her face bore an expression that hurt him more than he would ever confess. Naked horror, stunned fear, and in the midst of it that hint of vulnerability she so rarely showed. It was as though the world had been pulled out from under her feet in that moment. She stood there, forced to watch the unspeakable take shape.

And while his heart involuntarily skipped a beat, while he, without willing it, formed an inner vow that no harm must come to her, that he would, if necessary, employ every spell, every mask, every facade to protect her, the sober, cold clarity of his mind returned. She was safe.

At least here and now, on the stands, surrounded by hundreds of pairs of eyes, under Dumbledore’s protective magic, she was unreachable for the evil that had risen in this hour. That was the first thought he allowed, the only one that for a brief, painful moment sparked something like relief within him.

Hermione froze as Harry’s scream cut across the field, raw and full of horror, a sound that silenced everything else. She leaned forward, clutched the railing, and only now did she see what had happened. Harry knelt in the grass, bent over Cedric Diggory, whose body lay motionless, too still for a victor. The next scream caught her unprepared, made her heart hammer against her ribs, while around her voices died away, conversations broke off, and a silence formed that settled heavily and unreal over the stands.

Then the tumult broke out. People jumped up, shouted over one another, some screamed, others pushed forward, and Hermione felt Ron’s hand on her arm, heard his voice without grasping the words. Her gaze tore itself away from Harry and instinctively searched for another figure. Then she found her Professor Snape, who stood not far from Harry. His body looked tense, his gaze sharply fixed on the scene. And then their eyes met. And in that exchange lay more understanding than words could ever carry.

Hermione pulled herself free from Ron and began descending the steps of the stands, one after another, hurried, determined, driven by the single thought of reaching Harry. She saw Professor Moody coming from the other side and speaking with Harry. Upon reaching the bottom, she searched for him with her eyes, turned, took a few steps forward, and then she realized it. The place where he had just been lay empty.

A cold stab went through her body. Panic overtook her.

She turned, went straight to her professor, and said hastily, her voice firm despite the trembling inside her, “Professor, Harry is suddenly gone. He was just there. He was speaking with Professor Moody. We have to find him.”

Her professor froze for a breath, his head snapping around, his gaze searching the field, then the stands, and then Dumbledore. She noticed that something unspoken passed back and forth between the two men. And then Professor Snape looked back at her. He stepped closer and placed both hands on her shoulders. His grip was firm, present, and warm, and his voice sounded deep and calm, carried by a control that allowed no contradiction. “We will find Potter. You stay here. Do not move from this spot.”

Yet in the same breath, hardly had he grasped that certainty within himself when a new shock struck him. Potter was gone. The place where the boy had just been, broken and screaming over Diggory’s lifeless body, was empty, and the feeling that surged through Severus in that moment was so immediate that he barely registered the throbbing of the Mark in his arm. The crowd’s horror, the shouting, the chaos, all of it receded as the realization cut through him like a knife. The boy was gone, and wherever he had been taken, it could not be anything good.

“Where is Potter?” he threw at Dumbledore.

“Moody said he was taking him to the tent at the entrance. Poppy is there. She was supposed to examine him for injuries. Why?” Albus replied in thought.

“No, something is wrong,” Severus growled back. “Hermione just said that Moody was speaking with Potter here a moment ago and in the next second he was gone. I have a bad feeling. I will check.”

He rushed off and left Hermione behind, knowing that nothing would happen to her. The night’s cold cut like knives through his cloak. With every step he took, that inner emptiness tightened, a harbinger of the doom already announcing itself within him.

The tent at the entrance was empty. No sign of Potter, no indication that Poppy was there or that the hard faced, surly Auror called Moody was lingering with him. Only the faint scent of smoke and damp earth hung in the air, the rustling of the canvas sounding in his ears like mocking laughter.

His heart skipped a beat, an animal reflex shooting through his nerves. A flash of insight struck him. Never would Alastor Moody have led the boy away from Dumbledore’s side.

He knew what had happened.

“Albus, he is not here,” Severus called in thought, the words sharp and urgent, while his gaze continued to sweep over the empty space, as though sheer willpower might retrieve what had vanished.

The answer came immediately, calm and firm, carried by a vigilance that allowed no doubt. “Come to me.”

Severus moved without hesitation, forcing his way along the shortest path through the chaos that had by now fully erupted. Screams, hurried footsteps, agitated voices blurred into a dull background roar. Just before he reached Dumbledore, he looked once more toward Hermione and caught a last glimpse of her. She stood motionless, her hands clenched tightly together, her eyes fixed on him, full of fear for Potter. Severus did not slow his pace, only gave her a brief nod, a silent assurance. It could be no more than that.

Dumbledore was already waiting, Minerva McGonagall stood at his side, her lips tight, her gaze sharp. “Harry is missing,” she said quietly.

“We will find him,” he replied curtly.

Dumbledore raised his wand, spoke a short, clear incantation, and a bright, focused glow emanated from it. The air before them thickened, forming a fleeting image. It was a line of light that extended and then pointed inward with purpose, away from the field, toward the castle.

“He is in the castle,” Dumbledore said calmly.

Minerva drew in a sharp breath. “Then we waste no time.”

“Hold on to me,” said Dumbledore as he already stepped closer. “Here we go.”

Severus felt the familiar pressure as Dumbledore compressed the space around them, a moment of heaviness, of pulling, then the abrupt jerk that shattered all orientation. In an instant they stood inside the castle, before a door whose appearance Severus recognized immediately.

“Moody,” said Minerva tonelessly.

“Or whoever is pretending to be him,” Severus added.

He did not wait for further confirmation. He raised his wand, gathered the magic, and hurled it with precise force against the door. “Bombarda.”

The door burst at once under the blasting curse, wood and splinters flying aside, and in the same moment Dumbledore stepped forward, his wand already raised. “Incarcerous.”

Ropes of light shot forth, wound themselves around the figure on the chair, binding arms, legs, and torso with a speed that allowed no resistance. Severus stepped across the threshold, his gaze immediately fixed on the man writhing under the magical bonds.

“Alastor Moody?” he asked coldly.

Dumbledore’s voice followed, calm and firm. “Or whoever you are.”

And with that moment the house of cards began to fall.

The man jerked, screamed, writhed, his eyes rolling, but the ropes held, binding him to the chair like a fish in a net. Severus’ hand barely trembled as he took the next step. With a clean, clinically cold “Accio,” he summoned a vial of Veritaserum from his supplies, which in the flickering candlelight radiated a dim sense of impending doom.

The dungeon room was cool and smelled of damp stone. Moody sat bound to the chair, his gaze calmly lifted, as though he had long since abandoned hope. Severus Snape stood before him, the spoon with the shimmering Veritaserum in hand, while Dumbledore lingered silently at the edge of the room, Minerva stood tensely beside him, and Potter waited near the wall, pale faced.

“Open your mouth,” Severus said in a hard tone.

Moody obeyed without hesitation. The drop fell, Severus withdrew the spoon and waited for the serum to take effect. His gaze grew glassy, his shoulders sank slightly, as though he had ceased to resist.

“Your name,” said Severus.

“Barty Crouch Junior,” he answered at once.

Potter’s breath caught audibly.

In that moment the body on the chair began to change. At first barely visible, then unmistakable, the form began to shift, as though rebelling against a shape it could no longer maintain. The shoulders lost their breadth, the posture collapsed inward, the face drew in, grew narrower, sharper, stranger. The skin took on a sickly tone, the hair lost its dull color, until the image of the Auror Moody disintegrated and revealed something else.

Severus’ gaze narrowed. He recognized the pattern instantly. Polyjuice Potion. The effect was wearing off. The mask fell. He knew that face from posters. The man on the chair was not Alastor Moody. He never had been.

“How did you get here. Briefly,” Severus continued.

Barty lowered his gaze for a moment, then raised it again. “My mother exchanged places with me. That is how I escaped Azkaban,” Barty answered. “Polyjuice Potion. She died there. My father brought me home and put me under the Imperius Curse.”

“He controlled you,” Severus said quietly, the words sober, carried by the certainty of what that form of power meant.

“Yes,” Barty confirmed calmly. His voice remained even, his face unmoving, as though he were speaking of something that had long since become part of his existence.

Severus kept his gaze fixed on him, allowed no distance. “How did you escape?” he asked at last, factual, precise.

Barty lifted his head slightly. “Through a mistake,” he said. “Through Winky. The elf.” A fleeting twitch crossed his features, more memory than emotion.

A brief, tense silence spread, dense enough to swallow every sound.

“The Dark Lord?” Severus asked at last, and the title alone lent weight to the room.

The corner of Barty’s mouth twitched slightly. “He is back. He found me,” he said calmly. “He gave me a task.” There was something in his voice that resembled conviction.

“The Triwizard Cup?” Severus continued without looking away.

“Was a Portkey,” Barty replied readily. “Potter was to touch it. He was meant to die there.” The words came smoothly, without hesitation.

“And Moody?” Minerva asked, her voice firm, controlled.

Barty turned his gaze briefly toward her. “That was me,” he said. “For a year.”

Minerva’s voice dropped. “Is he alive?”

Barty nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Severus stepped back, his face closed once more. “That is enough,” he said calmly and turned to Dumbledore. “He is telling the truth.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, while a silence lay in the room that weighed heavier than any confession.

Severus stood there and felt anger rise like cold lava. How his hands grew heavy with a fury that knew only the desire for retribution. He imagined how he wanted to pass judgment on this traitor here and now, how he would kill him with his own hands for what he had done. For Cedric Diggory’s lifeless body, for Potter’s broken scream, for the innocence ground into the grass. Yet before the thought could turn into action, he forced himself to control it. This raw, immediate violence had no place here. The world now seemed too fragile to be damaged further by wild vengeance. The Dementors would mete out a punishment that he, Severus thought darkly, would likely find of suitably astonishing severity. For it was not swift death but a cast aside, cold sentence that tore the mind to pieces. That was what Crouch Junior deserved.

And yet something else weighed on his chest like a leaden stone, heavier than anger. The absolute certainty that the Dark Lord was back. And with him all those shadows from a time he had so desperately torn from himself. The Mark on his arm, which had throbbed so ominously in recent weeks, was no longer merely a sign. Now it was a call, a signal that left him no choice. Before him opened a door he had kept locked for decades. And now he had to step through it, had to change roles, reinvent the masochistic sequence of servant and traitor, of spy and duty. Only to prevent what was to come.

His breathing grew shallow, his mind sharpened to icy coldness, and within him tightened the quiet, devastating realization. He would have to return to the Dark Lord. But not out of loyalty, rather out of calculation, not out of hope, but out of necessity. A step he had feared all these years, now crashing down upon him with the inevitable force of a law.

Meanwhile Hermione still stood rooted to the spot on the Quidditch pitch, unable to tear her gaze away from the scene below on the grass, where Cedric Diggory lay motionless and his parents knelt beside him, the pain visible in their postures, raw and public. The image burned itself into her, could not be pushed away, left no room for distance.

Harry’s scream still echoed within her. Voldemort. Voldemort is back. The words hung in the air like a blow, heavy and final. And for a brief moment Hermione felt as though the world itself had paused, as though everything first had to comprehend what had been spoken.

Her gaze wandered up to the castle, seeking support in the dark contours of the towers. At that point she did not yet know what had happened. She did not know where Harry was. She did not know where her professor was. She only knew that she had seen the expression on Professor Snape’s face. That naked, unguarded moment in which all control had given way for a fraction of a heartbeat. She had seen how he pressed his arm to himself, instinctively, almost protectively.

Harry had said Voldemort was back.

Hermione understood instantly what that meant. The call had gone out. The man she called Professor Snape and Abraxas, whom she admired, whom she had long regarded as more than she admitted to herself, belonged to that circle. Her Professor Snape would be summoned by him. He would have to go.

The war had begun.

A queasy feeling spread within her as she realized that they had not yet managed to sever the connection to the Dark Mark. That realization struck her hard, made her dizzy. She thought of all the conversations, the work, the hope they had invested in it.

In her mind’s eye she saw him, how he would have to gather himself again, adapt again, slip again into a role that bound him to a man whose cruelty she knew only from books and reports. She knew what that meant. Deception. Danger. Loneliness.

Fear tightened within her, a clear, cold fear that left no room for illusions. Fear for her professor. Fear for the man for whom she had felt more for so long than she had ever spoken aloud.