Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Umm... Another fanfic that I have written for my own entertainment. 

I have 23 chapters written so far, but they have to undergo some heavy editing before uploading.

Also, heavy m dash user here, all hail dashes.

I try to stay close to the lore, but sometimes I make up stuff.

Slow burn, occasional angst—and happy ending because he deserves it.

As always, votes and comments are very much appreciated.

Enjoy~

P.S.

[f/n] = first name

[s/n] = surname 

Chapter Text

The first time you truly see Severus Snape, it's past curfew on a Wednesday in October.

You're fourteen, clutching a borrowed copy of Theoretical Foundations of Runic Anchoring that's three years above your level, and you've just discovered a contradiction in Chapter Seven that's eating at you like an improperly sealed hex. The library's closed. Your dorm-mates think you're mad for caring this much about theoretical minutiae. But you need to know if the author's keystoning principle actually holds under recursive ward conditions, or if—

You round the corner toward the staff wing and nearly collide with him.

He stops. Frowns. You watch his brain catalogue you: Ravenclaw. Fourth year. The one who asked that question about counter-clockwise stirring patterns last week. "It is after hours."

"I know," you say, because lying to a professor seems exponentially more stupid than being direct. You hold up the book. "But I found an error in Gamp's runic anchor theory and I can't sleep until I know if I'm right or if I'm missing something."

His expression doesn't change. But a brief flicker passes through those black eyes—assessment, maybe. Curiosity.

"Show me."

You end up in an unused classroom, the book spread between you on a desk scarred with decades of carved initials. You explain the problem. He listens without interrupting, which is novel—most adults start talking over you the moment they think they've got the gist.

When you finish, he's quiet for a long moment.

"You are correct," he says finally. "Gamp's foundation assumes a static matrix. He fails to account for temporal drift in layered wards."

Relief floods through you. "So it's not just me."

"No." He taps the page with one pale finger. "Though few readers would catch it. The mathematics are deliberately obscured."

"Why?"

"Because admitting the flaw would undermine forty years of subsequent theory built on faulty ground." His mouth twists, just slightly. "Academia is not as rigorous as it pretends."

You like that he doesn't condescend. Doesn't pat you on the head and send you off. Just... talks to you like you can keep up.

Because you can.

"There's a monograph," he continues, "by Yaxley—the elder, not his son—that addresses the temporal anchor problem. It was published in Practical Wardcraft Quarterly, 1959. The library has it in restricted, but I can arrange access if you're genuinely interested."

Something twists pleasantly in your chest. "I am. Genuinely."

"Very well." He stands, robes settling around him like shadows consolidating. "Return to your dormitory. I will leave a note with Madam Pince."

You gather your book, suddenly aware that you've been alone with the new Potions Master for twenty minutes and he hasn't once made you feel small or foolish or like you're wasting his time.

It's intoxicating.

"Professor?" you say at the door.

He looks at you.

"Thank you. I'm—" You offer your full name. First and last. "Just in case you need it for the library note."

"Miss [s/n]." He inclines his head a fraction, filing it away with the same precision he probably uses to memorize potion sequences.

Chapter Text

"Why do you even like Potions?" Priya Farrell asks—she's your best friend, same year as you, Ravenclaw through and through, with a wicked sense of humor and an encyclopedic knowledge of Hogwarts gossip. She's watching you ink notes on the properties of powdered moonstone with the kind of focus most people reserve for Quidditch match outcomes. "Snape's horrible."

"He's exacting," you correct. "That's different."

"He's a Death Eater," she hisses, quieter. "Everyone knows. My parents said the only reason Dumbledore hired him is because he turned spy or something—that he's only here because Dumbledore vouched for him at his trial. But that doesn't make him safe."

You've heard the whispers. Seen the way some students—especially the Muggleborns—watch Snape with barely concealed fear. The rumors about the Dark Mark hidden under his sleeves. His past allegiance to You-Know-Who. The fact that he only switched sides at the very end, and only because... well, the rumors vary. Some say blackmail. Some say cowardice. Some say Dumbledore has something on him.

It should matter more than it does.

But you've sat across from him while he explained the ethics of potion-making, the responsibility of knowing how to brew both curatives and toxins. You've watched him handle volatile ingredients with a care that borders on reverence. You've seen the way he looks at students who waste talent or endanger others—not with cruelty, but with an expression that looks almost like... disappointment.

Whatever he was, he's trying to become a different man now.

You think.

"He's fair," you say finally. "Harsh, but fair. And he knows more about potion theory than anyone else in Britain."

Priya gives you a look. "You're going to get yourself hexed by a Gryffindor if you keep defending him."

"Then they'll get detention and I'll get to say I told them so."

The thing about Severus Snape is that he doesn't perform kindness.

Most adults, when they help you, want you to know they're helping. They smile, they make warm comments, they wait for gratitude like it's currency owed.

Snape just... does things. Leaves books on topics you'd mentioned in passing. Adjusts the difficulty of assignments when he notices you're unchallenged. Stays late after detention sessions to answer your questions even though he could just dismiss you.

He never acknowledges any of it. Never draws attention to the consideration hidden in his actions.

You notice anyway.

It starts small - you begin staying after class more often, asking questions that aren't strictly necessary but that you know will spark those rare moments when his expression shifts from cold neutrality to something almost animated. He's never warm, exactly. But when he's explaining complex theory, there's an intensity to him that's magnetic.

By December, you've developed a habit: staying late in the library, taking the long route back to Ravenclaw Tower that happens to pass by the dungeons. Sometimes you see him. Sometimes you don't.

When you do, it's never for long. A brief nod in the corridor. A comment about your latest essay. Once, he stops you to point out an error in your Potions homework before you've even turned it in - saves you from losing points the next day.

"You inverted the stirring sequence," he says, barely pausing as he sweeps past. "Clockwise, then counter. Not the reverse."

"Thank you, Professor," you call after him.

He doesn't acknowledge it. Just disappears around the corner in a billow of black robes.

Priya notices, of course.

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"That thing where you stare at the staff table during meals." She steals a roll from your plate. "Specifically at the Potions Master."

"I'm not—"

"You are. And look, I get it. He's mysterious, he's got that whole 'tortured gothic hero' thing happening. But he's also our professor and possibly a former Death Eater."

"I know that," you say, defensive.

"Do you? Because you look at him like—" She pauses, searching for words. "Like he's the most fascinating thing in the castle."

Your face burns. "He's just interesting. As a teacher."

"Uh-huh." Priya's expression softens. "Just... be careful, okay? I don't want you to get hurt."

You want to argue that there's nothing to get hurt over - that it's just academic respect, just appreciation for someone who actually challenges you intellectually.

But somewhere between October and now, that stopped being entirely true.

You're not sure when it shifted. Maybe it was the night he spent two hours helping you work through a theoretical problem that wasn't even on the curriculum, just because you'd asked. Maybe it was the way he looks when he thinks no one's watching - tired and sad and somehow still standing. Maybe it was the gradual realization that underneath all that harshness, he's trying so hard to be better than whatever he was before.

Or maybe it's simpler than that.

Maybe it's just the first time someone has treated your mind like something valuable. Has expected excellence from you not as a burden but as a gift - the assumption that you're capable of more.

Your parents love you, but they don't really understand your obsession with magical theory. Your friends think you're smart but a bit mad for caring this much about academic minutiae.

Snape just... gets it. Gets you, in a way that feels rare and precious and completely inappropriate given that he's your professor and you're fourteen and nothing can ever happen.

But your heart doesn't care about propriety.

Chapter Text

By fifth year, Ancient Runes and Arithmancy have stopped feeling like electives and started feeling like your real curriculum. You took them as early as you could, you're still one of the youngest in both classrooms, and you don't care.

Your ambitious timetable doesn’t escape Severus Snape’s notice.

"Overextending yourself, Miss [s/n]." He uses your surname always, crisp and correct.

"Learning," you counter.

You're in the dungeons, technically serving detention for a completely justified modification to a standard Shield Charm that Professor Flitwick actually praised but that broke a classroom lamp in the process. Snape has you reorganizing his store cupboard by volatility index and lunar phase sensitivity.

It's actually fascinating.

"Runes and Arithmancy," he says, not looking up from the essay he's grading. Red ink bleeds across the parchment like arterial spray. "In addition to your standard courseload."

"I like systems. Structure." You shelve a jar of desiccated nettles next to the hellebore, both new-moon-aligned. "Magic is just... applied mathematics, if you drill down far enough."

"That is a Ravenclaw answer."

"I'm a Ravenclaw."

"Clearly." He sets down his quill. Looks at you properly. "Why Runes specifically?"

You could deflect. But he's asking like he actually wants to know.

"Because wards are just... runes in motion. Spells frozen into architecture. And if you understand the language deeply enough, you can write your own sentences." You pause. "You can make people safe."

For an instant, his expression tightens—too quick to name.

"Safety," he repeats, "is an admirable goal."

He sounds like he doesn't quite believe it's achievable. You wonder what he's survived that taught him that. What he's done that taught him that.

You don't ask. You're fifteen, and some silences are too heavy to break.

But you file it away, this small crack in his armor.

Then his expression shutters completely, and he returns to his grading. "Finish the organization. You're dismissed when you're done."

No lingering. No further conversation. Just back to the cold professionalism that everyone else sees.

You tell yourself the earlier moment meant nothing.

Late November brings cold to Hogwarts—the kind that seeps through stone walls and settles into your bones. You return to the common room just before curfew. As you pass a cluster of Hufflepuffs studying near the stairs, their conversation drifts over.

"—gave me a T for Troll! A T! I worked on that for hours!"

"At least he read yours. Mine came back with just 'inadequate' scrawled across the top."

"Better than what that Ravenclaw girl got—what's her name? [s/n]? Her essay looked like something died on it. Completely covered in red ink."

You keep walking, face carefully neutral.

"Wait, really? I thought she was good at Potions."

"She is. That's the point. My brother's in her year—says Snape critiques her work more than anyone else's. Like, line by line."

"That sucks. I thought she was his favorite or something."

"Snape doesn't have favorites. He just has people he hates less."

Their voices fade as you climb the stairs to Ravenclaw Tower.

Priya's waiting in your dorm. She takes one look at you and pats the bed beside her.

"Heard them?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"The Hufflepuffs. The thing that died on your essay." She's trying not to smile.

"That's... probably just being harder on me because I can handle it." To be honest, even you are not completely sure anymore.

"Maybe." She's quiet for a moment. "But we both know you don't mind. That you'd take a thousand red-ink critiques if it meant he was paying attention."

Your face burns. "Priya—"

"I'm not judging. I'm just saying..." She gives you a look. "People are talking. About how much time you spend in the dungeons. About how you're always asking him questions after class."

"I'm just interested in Potions—"

"And that's what everyone else thinks too, which is good. They think you're just ambitious and Ravenclaw and obsessed with academics."

You don't know what to say to that.

"Just..." Priya hesitates. "I know you. That's all."

Your face burns hotter. "Does he know?"

"Snape?" She shakes her head. "You could probably set yourself on fire in front of him and he'd just assign you an essay on the proper applications of Fire Protection Potion. You're just... another student to him. A competent one, maybe. But that's it."

It should be a relief.

It feels like a knife.

Chapter Text

Half in O.W.L. year. Everyone's losing their minds.

You're not—because you like this, because pressure clarifies rather than clouds—but you watch your classmates fracture under the weight and feel a twist of sympathy.

You start running study groups. Unofficial, open-door. You camp out in unused classrooms and help people untangle Transfiguration theory, walk through Potions sequences, quiz each other on hex recognition.

It's Priya who dares you.

"Ask Snape if we can use the dungeon lab on Wednesdays."

"Absolutely not."

"You're the only person he doesn't actively despise—”

"That's not true—”

"—and we need the space. The Gryffindors keep hogging the main labs."

She's right. You do need the space.

So you stay after class one day, heart hammering stupidly, and you ask.

Snape considers you for a long, uncomfortable moment.

"How many students."

"Ten. Maybe twelve."

"Subject focus?"

"Potions, mostly. Some Charms overlap."

"Will you supervise?"

"Yes."

Another pause. Then: "Wednesday evenings. Six to eight. The farthest lab. You are responsible for cleanup and any... incidents."

"Of course. Thank you, Professor."

You turn to leave.

"Miss [s/n]."

You stop.

"I expect," he says quietly, "that you will ensure no one does anything catastrophically foolish."

It's not quite trust. But it's close.

"I will," you promise.

You keep it.

The study groups are a roaring success. Word spreads. By April, you're running three nights a week, and Snape occasionally... hovers. Checks in. Corrects someone's knife-work with a scathing comment that somehow still manages to be instructive.

To everyone else, he's caustic. Unforgiving. He assigns detentions for breathing wrong, takes points for existing while Gryffindor, and has made at least three students cry this term alone.

With you, he's merely cold. Professional. He corrects your work with the same accuracy he'd use on anyone, offers no praise beyond the occasional "adequate," and maintains exactly the same distance he keeps with every other student.

There's no favoritism anyone can point to. No special treatment. Nothing.

And yet you can't stop watching him when he demonstrates a technique, can't stop the way your heart races when he says your name, can't stop wanting more even though there's nothing there to want.

Once, during a study session, a Ravenclaw fourth-year named Devyn botches a Wit-Sharpening Potion so badly that noxious yellow smoke fills the lab.

Snape appears within seconds, as if summoned by incompetence itself.

He vanishes the smoke with a flick of his wand, then turns to Devyn with an expression that could curdle milk.

"Tell me, Mr. Tunde," he says softly, "can you read?”

"I—yes, sir—”

"Then perhaps you can explain why you added Ground Scarab Beetles to bile that was still green." The last word cracks like a whip. "The instructions clearly state 'when blue.' Blue and green are not, contrary to what your performance today might suggest, the same color."

"I-I thought—"

"You did not think. Thinking requires a functional brain, which you have just demonstrated you lack. Ten points from Ravenclaw. You will write me twelve inches on the role of chromatic indicators in potion-making, specifically addressing what happens when impatient students ignore them, due Friday."

Devyn looks like he might cry.

You want to intervene, but you know better. Snape's wrath, once roused, is not easily redirected.

He surveys the rest of the group. "Anyone else planning to demonstrate staggering incompetence this evening, or may I return to my office?"

Silence.

His gaze lands on you for a fraction of a second—just long enough for you to catch something that might be expectation, or might be nothing at all—then he sweeps out, robes snapping behind him.

Priya elbows you. "Still think he's not that bad?"

"He's just trying to keep us from accidentally killing ourselves," you mutter.

"By traumatizing us instead. Very healthy."

But you notice that Devyn, despite his tears, doesn't make the same mistake again. None of your study group does. They're more careful, more precise, because they're genuinely afraid of Snape's cutting observations.

Fear as pedagogy. It's harsh, but it works.

You wonder if that's how he was taught. If that's all he knows.

Chapter Text

N.E.W.T.-level classes are smaller. More intense. You're in Advanced Potions, obviously. Advanced Charms. Defense Against the Dark Arts. Ancient Runes. Arithmancy.

You have no free periods and you've never been happier.

Snape's standards don't lower. If anything, he's harder on you than the others—but you've realized it's because he knows you can take it. He critiques your precision. Your efficiency. The aesthetic elegance of your spellwork, which is apparently a thing he cares about.

"Adequate results achieved through inelegant means are still adequate," he tells you once, vanishing your perfectly functional—but admittedly clunky—Softening Charm. "You are capable of better."

So you do better.

By Christmas, you're brewing N.E.W.T.-level potions without written instructions, just the underlying logic and your own adjustments. You're designing custom ward-schemes for theoretical scenarios Professor Flitwick throws at you. You're the student other students come to when they're stuck.

You're also—though you barely notice—the most sought-after person in your year.

Three different boys ask you to the Christmas Ball.

You say yes to one—a nice Gryffindor seventh-year named Callum who's smart and pleasant. The date is fine. He's a good dancer. He makes you laugh.

But when you see Professor Snape chaperoning from the shadows, black robes and sharp eyes and that permanent expression of vague distaste, your attention fractures.

Callum notices where you're looking.

"He's terrifying, isn't he?"

"A bit," you admit.

"My sister had him for Potions. She said he's the most unfair professor at Hogwarts—takes points for no reason, plays favorites with Slytherin, and generally acts like teaching is a punishment."

You want to defend him. But what would you say? That his harshness comes from expecting excellence? That underneath the cruelty there's someone who genuinely cares about keeping students safe, even if his methods are brutal?

You can't say any of that without revealing too much.

So you just smile and let Callum spin you away, and you try very hard not to look at the dungeons' bat for the rest of the evening.

After the ball, Priya drags you back to the dormitory.

"You spent half the night staring at Snape."

"I did not—"

"You did. Poor Callum. He's probably writing sad poetry about you right now."

You groan. "I'm a terrible person."

"You're a person with terrible taste," Priya corrects. She flops onto your bed. "Also, for what it's worth, Snape didn't look at you once. Like, not even when you walked right past him. He was too busy glaring at some Slytherins who were spiking the punch.”

"Good," you say firmly. "That's... good."

Noticed how hesitant you are, she squeezes your hand. "Look, I get it. You think he's brilliant, he challenges you, he sees how talented you are. But he's our professor. This can't go anywhere, you know that, right?"

Heat crawls up your neck. "I know. I know it's ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous to admire someone. But..." She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "I just don't want you to be heartbroken. He treats you the same way he treats everyone else—maybe a bit less terrible because you're actually good at potions, but that's it. I don't think he sees you the way you see him."

You know she's right. You try to tell yourself she's right.

Meanwhile, Severus Snape stands in the shadows of the Great Hall, deliberately NOT watching you dance.

He's perfected the art of not looking—of keeping his attention deliberately elsewhere, of never letting his gaze linger, of treating you with exactly the same cold professionalism he uses with everyone else.

You're sixteen. His student. That should be the end of any thought on the matter.

Yet he finds himself irritated by the Gryffindor boy's hand on your waist. Annoyed, he tells himself. Annoyed because the boy is clearly an idiot who barely scraped an A in any class and has nothing intelligent to say. The pairing is inefficient. Illogical.

That's all it is.

He doesn't think about how you looked when you solved that runic puzzle in fifth year. He doesn't notice the attention you receive from other students. He certainly isn't bothered by watching you dance with someone else.

He isn't.

The tightness in his chest is indigestion. The urge to assign the Gryffindor boy detention for some invented infraction is simply his natural inclination toward discipline.

Nothing more.

So he turns his attention to the Slytherin students attempting to spike the punch, assigns detention with perhaps more venom than necessary, and refuses—absolutely refuses—to examine why he's suddenly so unsettled.

Chapter Text

The spring term opens with an announcement: a visiting curse-breaker from Gringotts will be giving a career lecture to sixth and seventh years interested in applied magical theory.

You sign up immediately. Priya rolls her eyes but comes along anyway.

The curse-breaker is a witch named Theodora Wainwright—sharp-eyed, mid-forties, with weathered hands and scars that speak of close calls in ancient tombs. She talks about pyramid ward-schemes in Egypt, the ethics of dismantling protections that were meant to last millennia, the mathematics of curse-anchor dissolution.

You're transfixed.

"Most people think curse-breaking is just Alohomora with extra steps," she says, levitating a demonstration ward-lattice above the desk. Pale-blue runic threads shimmer in three-dimensional space. "But it's architecture in reverse. You have to understand why a ward was built, how it thinks, before you can safely take it apart. One wrong cut—" She severs a support rune, and the entire structure collapses into sparking fragments. "—and you trigger every failsafe at once."

She reconstructs it with a lazy flick, then notices your intensity from the third row.

"You. Ravenclaw. What's the first rule of ethical curse-breaking?"

"Consent of context," you answer immediately. "If the ward was placed to protect something sacred or dangerous, you have to understand whether removing it serves a greater good or just serves you."

Theodora's eyebrows rise. "Someone's been reading ahead. What's your name?"

You tell her.

"Good answer. Most breakers don't think about ethics until they've accidentally released something cursed or culturally protected." She grins. "Come find me after if you want to talk Gringotts recruitment."

You do.

By the time you leave, you have a contact name, a reading list, and a suddenly crystallized vision of your future: fieldwork in Egypt or Peru or the Carpathians, dismantling curses, publishing theory papers that matter.

It feels right in a way that nothing else has.

You're so excited you nearly bowl over Professor Snape in the corridor.

"Miss [s/n]." He steadies you with one hand, then immediately releases you like you've burned him. His expression is its usual mask of vague irritation. "Do attempt to watch where you're going."

"Sorry, Professor. I was just—" You catch yourself before you start babbling about curse-breaking theory to someone who definitely doesn't care. "Distracted."

"Clearly." His gaze flicks to the pamphlet you're clutching—Gringotts International Curse-Breaking Division: Career Pathways. An unreadable expression crosses his face. "You are considering curse-breaking."

It's not a question.

"Yes. It's... it's exactly what I want to do. Wards and runes, but applied. Practical." You sound too enthusiastic. You don't care. "The mathematics alone—"

"Are considerable," he finishes. His tone is flat, but not dismissive. "The Egyptian tombs are particularly complex. Nested keystones with recursive failsafes. The Gringotts teams lose one or two breakers a year to miscalculations."

"I know. But that's because they rush. Cut corners." You clutch the pamphlet tighter. "If you're precise, if you understand the structure—"

"If." He regards you with that unnerving stillness. "Precision is not a trait commonly found in seventeen-year-olds."

"I'm sixteen."

"My point stands."

You should be offended. Instead, you're oddly pleased that he's engaging at all. "I'm precise. You know I am."

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly: "In potions, yes. Wardcraft is adjacent enough that the discipline should transfer." He adjusts his robes with sharp, economical movements. "You will need top marks in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Gringotts does not hire mediocrity."

"I have top marks."

"Currently. Maintain them." He starts to sweep past, then stops. Doesn't look at you. "If you're serious about Egyptian tomb systems, there's additional reading beyond what Wainwright likely recommended. Comparative analysis of Middle Kingdom versus New Kingdom layering techniques. I can provide references.”

Your heart lurches in a way that feels utterly inappropriate.

"Thank you, Professor."

He's already walking away, black robes billowing like he's personally offended by the corridor's existence.

Priya appears at your elbow. "Did Snape just... help you? Voluntarily?"

"He was being practical. I need the reference for my career path."

"Uh-huh." She links her arm through yours. "And I need to believe that you're not hopelessly gone on our very illegal, very inappropriate Potions Master."

"I'm not—"

"You are. But at least you're good at hiding it." She steers you toward the stairs. “Promise me you won’t put yourself in a position where he can really hurt you.”

You won't.

You probably can't even if you want to.

But the warmth in your chest from that brief interaction lingers far longer than it should.

Chapter Text

September 1984 rolls into your final year at Hogwarts.

Your course load is brutal: N.E.W.T.-level Potions, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy. You've dropped everything else to focus on the subjects that matter for curse-breaking.

You spend your free periods in the library, cross-referencing runic stability theories with arithmantic proofs, building theoretical ward-structures in three-dimensional space using charm-work and pure mathematics.

The career counseling session with Professor McGonagall goes exactly as expected.

"Curse-breaking." She peers at you over her spectacles. "That's quite ambitious."

"I know. But I'm good at it. Wardcraft, rune theory, arithmantic proofs—it's all interconnected, and I understand the connections."

"The Gringotts teams are notoriously selective."

"I know that too."

She allows herself a small smile. "I have no doubt you'll be accepted. Your academic record is exemplary." She makes a note. "I'll write a recommendation letter. I assume you'll also want one from Professor Flitwick?"

"Yes. And..." You hesitate. "Professor Snape."

McGonagall's quill pauses. "Snape."

"He knows more about applied magic theory than anyone else here. And he's been..." You search for the right word. "Helpful. With references and guidance."

"Has he." It's not quite a question. McGonagall studies you with the same keen intelligence she brings to Transfiguration. "Very well. You'll need to ask him yourself, of course."

"Of course."

You wait until after class two weeks later, when the other students have filtered out and you're cleaning your workstation with more care than strictly necessary.

"Professor?"

Snape doesn't look up from the essays he's grading. Red ink bleeds across the parchment. "Miss [s/n]."

"I'm applying to Gringotts. For the curse-breaking program." The words come out steadier than you feel. "I need three letters of recommendation. I was hoping—if it's not an imposition—"

"I am aware of the requirements." He sets down his quill, finally looking at you. His expression reveals nothing. "You believe I would write favorably on your behalf."

"I... hope so. Yes."

A long silence. You're suddenly aware of how empty the classroom is, how the torchlight makes his features look sharper.

"Your potion work," he says finally, "is consistently proficient. You follow instructions with precision, adapt to unexpected variables with reasonable competence, and demonstrate an understanding of theoretical foundations that exceeds your peers."

It's the closest thing to praise you've ever heard from him.

"However," he continues, and your stomach drops, "you have a tendency toward over-complexity. You add unnecessary steps when a simpler approach would suffice. Elegance is not merely about achieving the desired result—it is about achieving it with minimal expenditure of energy and resources."

"I know. I'm working on it."

"See that you do." He pulls a fresh piece of parchment toward him. "I will draft the letter by Friday. You may collect it from my office."

Relief floods through you. "Thank you, Professor. I really—"

"That will be all, Miss [s/n]."

Dismissed.

You gather your things and leave, trying not to feel stung by the abrupt dismissal.

Behind you, Severus Snape stares at the blank parchment.

Egypt.

Of course it would be Egypt. As far from Scotland as one could reasonably get while still working in the field. Three-year minimum postings for junior curse-breakers, according to Gringotts policy.

He should be relieved.

You'll leave. You'll build a career thousands of miles away. You'll stop being his student, stop being his problem, stop being this persistent distraction that he's spent three years ruthlessly suppressing.

He picks up his quill.

Miss [s/n] demonstrates exceptional aptitude in theoretical and practical potion-making. Her understanding of complex magical systems, particularly in the areas of ward theory and runic applications, is beyond her years...

The words come easily—objectively accurate, professionally glowing. He catalogs your strengths with the same methodical care he uses for ingredient preparation: your analytical mind, your attention to detail, your ability to adapt under pressure.

He does not mention that you're one of the few students in seven years who hasn't looked at him with fear or disgust. He does not mention how your questions in class are the only ones that occasionally surprise him. He does not mention the uncomfortable fact that he's had to actively prevent himself from watching you work, from letting his attention linger, from treating you with anything other than the same cold professionalism he shows everyone else.

He writes a technically perfect letter of recommendation.

Which is what you deserve. What you've earned.

Even if it feels like signing your departure order.

He signs his name with a sharp stroke and refuses to examine why his hand hesitates before sealing the envelope.