Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It all began in the winter of 1991.

Sadly, Severus Snape wasn’t aware that anything began at all. He assumed the Christmas gift on his desk was a prank. Some immature gag from Zonko’s meant to humiliate him.

So, he incinerated it. Full Incendio, right there on his desk.

It wasn’t the first mistake he’d made on that varnished wood surface, and it wouldn’t be his last.

Of course, the result was anticlimactic. Severus expected the box to explode, or transform, or bubble over into a slimy green ooze.

The gift did none of those things. It just turned to ash. He spent a good three seconds pondering the conundrum, then swept the dust away with a flick of his wand and moved on with his life.

The following winter, another gift appeared on the final day of fall term. A small square box, wrapped in green and white paper and tied with a festive red ribbon.

Perhaps Severus was distracted that holiday season, or perhaps he had mellowed a smidge after growing accustomed to his new normal - spending nine months a year sharing living space with Lily’s son. Whatever the reason, he opted to examine the package before destroying it.

He bombarded it with Revelio and twelve requisite anti-jinx spells.

The gift, in the meantime, did nothing, as gifts are wont to do.

Hesitant, Severus loosened the ribbon using a modified Accio. He peeled off the wrapping paper in the same way.

The box remained a box.

With suspicion painted across his brow, he flicked open the folded flaps and peered inside.

There, nestled in a bed of white tissue paper, was a simple green pin. It was small, circular, and in its centre was a silver, ornate ‘S’.

Severus was unsure if the initial was meant to signify Slytherin, or if it was for his name specifically.

He poked it with a finger, and the ‘S’ undulated like a viper, duplicating itself. Now the circle displayed two smaller, interlocked ‘S’s, both embossed in a deep, polished black.

It reverted to the single silver ‘S’ once his skin broke contact.

Clever.

This was, most certainly, a gift. It also was, most certainly, for him. But who was it from? And why hadn’t it been put aside to be delivered with the three others he always got early on Christmas morning?

Severus wrote it off as an anomaly, and, as before, continued on with his miserable existence.

In 1993, a new gift showed up in the same smudged spot on his desk. This time it arrived two days prior to holiday break. It was again a surprise.

Or maybe he was weary from scanning the halls for insane escaped convicts. Either way, he had once again forgotten about his secretive Santa.

He cast Revelio, the twelve anti-jinx spells, and added seven anti-curse spells. Then, just because it was on his mind, he scanned it for traces of animal fur.

Nothing.

The trappings were red this time, with green and white accents. Severus opened his gift and found an old-fashioned alarm clock, complete with the two brass bells atop it. Unlike his last gift, this one didn’t appear to be enchanted.

It was months later, when Severus opted to use the clock to alert him when the ruddy Wolfsbane potion had completed its curing phase, that he discovered what had been done.

It startled him so much, he’d dropped the Muggle dime store mystery novel he’d been reading and lost his place.

The clock’s brass bells played an entire song, rather than just clanging discordantly. It was ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies’ from the Muggle ballet, The Nutcracker.

Severus decided such a gift deserved a better fate than that of a common egg timer, so he started using it as an actual alarm clock.

One particularly cold evening in April, Severus found himself jolted awake by yet another nightmare. The dreams were increasing in frequency, and his calming draughts weren’t working any longer. He would need to upgrade to something stronger. With dour thoughts of addiction haunting his mind, he stared up into the darkness.

Until a shadowy movement slithered across his floor.

On high alert, Severus brandished his wand, fully expecting to see Sirius Black hovering over him with a dagger poised to strike.

But it was the alarm clock. Unbeknownst to him, at the turn of each hour, the thing would cast a brief image of Hogwarts for exactly thirty seconds.

And not just any image. It cast reality. The shadows Severus saw were the waxing moonlight on the Black Lake.

He spent the rest of that evening trying to deduce who his anonymous gift-giver was while waiting, intrigued, for the next hour’s display.

By December of 1994, Severus had remembered his yearly Secret Santa. But his mind was preoccupied with twinges of pain, and the darkening of his Mark. Albus had always sworn Lord Voldemort would return, and it appeared the old blighter was correct.

There was also the added frustration of Potter and his continuing theft of Polyjuice Potion ingredients from Severus’s stores. Was the insolent brat planning to switch places with someone and have them compete on his behalf? If so, why?

It didn’t make sense. In fact, nothing this entire term made any bloody sense.

Ruddy ridiculous Triwizard Tournament.

That was why, when the gift eventually did appear on his desk, Severus stuffed it into the bottom drawer. Then the Yule Ball happened, and Karkaroff had cornered him, and he’d completely forgotten about the rather odd-shaped present.

This was a mistake, as rodents found their way into his desk in early February and devoured half of whatever it was. The house elves were quite put out that Severus left food in his desk, although they did remove the mouldy remains.

He never did learn what that gift was. Some type of dessert, he presumed.

Ah well. It was for the best. He never really fancied sweets.

In the second week of December, 1995, Severus opened his class each morning with an eagerness he struggled to suppress.

He remembered. And he was, dare he admit it, excited.

What would his anonymous patron have in store for him this year?

But as the days continued to dwindle, and no gift appeared, Severus found his hope slipping.

His first thought was that the Umbridge bitch did something to hinder his mysterious Santa. But it was also possible he’d offended the person. He offended people daily now. Narrowing down the list of recently affronted candidates to determine which might be his gift-giver was an exercise in futility.

Severus’s mood went from bitter to morose as more days passed without his special gift. Then, much to his delight, a rectangular package appeared on his desk some time during the morning hours on the same day the students left for the holidays. It was far larger than its predecessors, and, in a new twist, wrapped in blue paper rather than the traditional reds and greens. The ribbon was thick and white.

Severus still cast the appropriate scanning spells, and, like always, the gift remained inert. However, when he touched the ribbon, sparkling silver snowflakes appeared along its length. They spread out from the point of contact, travelling like dominoes across the white surface. Once they reached the centre bow, the blue paper glowed, revealing a scene of different sized snowflakes drifting and twirling about.

Severus knew at once his gift-giver was a student. Likely a fifth year. Flitwick had taught them the Animation Charm three weeks ago.

Clearly, this particular student had already mastered it.

He opened the box to find a black hand knit scarf with silver and green tassels. He lifted it out of its box and found it … incredibly long. And clearly crafted by someone who had just learned how to knit.

Severus draped it around his throat anyway, finding the yarn soft and warm.

He wore it all winter, but only when he travelled alone. He didn’t want the student to see him enjoying it, as he had a niggling suspicion on who it might be.

Although why she, of all people, would be kind to him, was a mystery.

He was never kind to her. By design.

Events later that year made him dismiss her entirely. There was no way that irritating little swot could ever be fond of him.

By the time the holidays arrived in 1996, Severus’s tolerance for damn near everything had worn away to nothing but threads. Draco was a loose cannon. Albus was dying. The Dark Lord kept summoning him at odd hours. And Potter and his friends were as insolent as ever.

Severus was done with this war. The headmaster swore the end would come within the next two to three years, but Severus didn’t think he could suffer through it much longer. Oftentimes he debated between falling on his proverbial sword by coming clean with Potter, or just impaling himself on an actual one. It wasn’t like Hogwarts lacked for medieval weaponry.

His death would force a confrontation between the two omnipotent men that used and abused him. Of this, Severus was certain. Albus would be furious if the Dark Lord ended his life, and Voldemort would be equally enraged if the infamous Dumbledore destroyed his precious Hogwarts spy.

Would they haggle over his mangled corpse? Or would the pair find other toadies to do their bidding?

Mired in his bleakness, he’d forgotten about his Secret Santa until the moment the Hogwarts Express pulled away from Hogsmeade Station.

He’d hurried back to the Potions classroom, only to find it dim and deserted.

It’s over, then.

He’d pushed the student too far in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Or some other such nonsense.

Severus retreated to his quarters, and remained there, sipping watered down Ogden’s Finest from a clear glass tumbler while staring into the low flames inside his fireplace. At some point tonight, either Albus or the Dark Lord would summon him, and like the good little servant he was, he’d come running.

May they both rot in the depths of Hell. And may it be soon.

Much to his surprise, a house elf appeared midday the next day, Christmas Eve. “Is for you,” the androgenous elf had stated, handing him the large square box. “From an admirer.”

Severus had no admirers. Especially not this year.

He followed proper protocol, of course, and scanned the ruddy thing. This year’s wrappings were more ornate than ever, the box draped in silver and gold with semi-transparent images of festive potions vials floating across it.

With a lightness in his heart, and perhaps a hint of a grin on his dour face, he carefully removed the ribbons and paper and flicked the box open. Inside was a set of three copper cauldrons, each nested inside the other.

Wow.

These were a costly item. Waving his wand, Severus levitated the smallest inner cauldron out from within its sibling, only for it to immediately expand to normal size. He did the same with the second one, which also grew slightly, and the third remained as it was.

There were etchings on each, and Severus barked out a laugh when he figured out what his talented gift-giving student had done.

He tapped the small ‘S’, and the third cauldron shrunk to the smallest size. He tapped the ‘M’, and it grew to the mid-sized volume. Tapping the ‘L’ returned it to normal.

The box rattled, and, for the first time, a note popped out.

‘These cauldrons have been altered by both a Protean charm and an Extendable charm. Tap the letters to change their sizes.’

Below that text, in smaller, familiar script, was the following:

‘It’s obvious you enjoy teaching Defence Against The Dark Arts, Professor. But Potions isn’t the same without you. Enjoy. — HG’

The small square of parchment fell from Severus’s fingers and drifted to the floor.

His Secret Santa was, and always had been, Miss Hermione Granger.

Chapter Text

A gift did not arrive for him in the winter of 1997. Severus did not expect it; he knew the Trio were gallivanting about in the midlands woods, attempting to destroy Horcruxes.

Severus tried not to think about them. He tried not to think much at all. It made his weekly sessions with the Dark Lord much easier.

Christmas morning arrived with zero fanfare, and there were exactly that number of gifts at the foot of his bed. The mutinous other professors had united against him, and Lucius Malfoy was up to his eyeballs in the nightmare that was Lord Voldemort.

Severus didn’t miss the yearly shortbread from Minerva, nor the random gadgets from Filius. Pomona always gifted him rare cuttings, which he would miss, but nothing was stopping him from entering her greenhouses and taking what he needed himself.

What he truly mourned was the loss of Miss Granger’s clever yearly surprise. If Albus hadn’t forced him to become a homicidal pariah at the end of last term, would the girl have stayed? Would she have gifted him something?

Or would she still be freezing her tail off with Potter and Weasley out in the Forest of Dean?

He really should send Dobby to check on them. It had been at least a week, and one couldn’t be too certain with that crew.

They all could be lying dead somewhere.

Five months later, when the scenario was reversed, and Severus was sprawled on the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack with venom searing his veins and blood draining from his body, he wondered if the Granger girl would be the type to place flowers on his grave.

Then he wondered nothing at all.

He spent most of 1998, including Christmas, in an induced coma at St. Mungo’s. Dying tends to wreak quite a bit of havoc on a wizard, and wouldn’t you know, it turns out bodies prefer to stay dead once they’ve been there, rather than go through the hassle of attempting to live again.

For the longest time, Severus had agreed. Pleaded to be set free from the pain. The humiliation of being an invalid.

Fate had other ideas, however, and by the winter of 1999, he had recovered enough to return to his home on Spinner’s End.

It was as dismal and dingy as ever, yet Severus didn’t have the strength, nor the willpower, to do anything to improve it.

He’d only been there three months.

Severus rarely left his home, but when he did, he spoke little, as his vocal cords now resembled something that had undergone a few spins in a Cuisinart.

Fortunately, no one seemed interested in what he had to say, which spared him the embarrassment of hearing his once smooth voice now mimic the mating calls of Giant Purple Toads.

Severus eyed the invitation on his kitchen table as if it were coated in basilisk venom. There was to be a holiday party at Grimmauld Place on Christmas Eve, a casual get together for past members of the Order and their families.

It was also a potluck.

Severus despised potlucks. Mostly because the dishes other attendees brought were unpalatable. One shouldn’t require certification as a Potions Master to comprehend the basics of simple food preparation. It helped, obviously, but it was not a requirement.

And yet at every covered dish event he’d attended, Severus found heavy evidence to the contrary.

Much to the dismay of his digestive system.

If Severus attended this one, he’d wind up eating a tiny helping of the dish he brought, and a serving of whatever Molly Weasley had concocted.

That witch knew her way around a kitchen. The rest, however?

Sheer incompetence.

And yet, he was considering it. The Daily Prophet delighted in reporting the latest gossipy tidbits surrounding the Golden Trio, but of late, the rag had been surprisingly quiet about their endeavours.

Severus stared at the invitation again, and with a flick of his wrist, Summoned it to him.

He could always leave. Besides, he owed at least one attendee a polite thank you. Without them, he’d be dead. And, as his therapist reminded him at each and every session, the afterlife was presumed to be terribly dull.

And crowded.

Wouldn’t it be best to make the most of the extra time he was given, before his body gave up the ghost again?

Severus found it difficult to agree, but had begrudgingly admitted he had better things to do than wallow about in the hereafter with a billion other lost souls.

He ran his fingers over the embossed print. This party would give him an excuse to make his grandmother’s twice-baked cheddar potato casserole.

And that shite was damn tasty.

Severus showed up at the front stoop of 12 Grimmauld dressed in a simple black pullover and black trousers. His black dragon hide boots were recently buffed, and since he no longer wore Hogwarts’ professors’ robes, he’d transfigured his father’s tattered duster into a dark grey woollen duffel coat. He balanced the casserole in one gloved hand while knocking on the pine green door with the other.

Arthur Weasley opened it, his attention focused on whomever was conversing with him from another room. “If you think so!” he hollered. Then he turned, and his forest green eyes went wide. “Severus?”

“I was invited,” he muttered, attempting to keep his voice neutral. Variations in pitch made his words sound like guttural croaks.

The older wizard gaped for a few seconds before his lips curved upward in a huge grin. “Molly! Everyone! You won’t believe who’s here!”

Severus stifled his groan, opting to glare at Arthur instead.

“I know,” the older wizard said conspiratorially, “but you’re here! We were just saying … well, we didn’t expect you. We all saw how …”

“I know what you saw.”

Arthur Weasley composed himself. “Right. Feeling better then, are you?”

Severus lifted a brow. “You are aware you’re letting the three degree Celsius air inside?”

“Oh! No. I mean, yes. Please come in, won’t you?”

“Thank you.”

Severus had barely removed his coat when Molly Weasley accosted him. “Severus! It is you! Oh! What’ve you brought? You didn’t need to … oh my, this looks lovely.” She peeled back the layers of cellophane. “And it smells delightful. Anything special required to reheat it?”

“No.” He gave the witch a rare smile. “I trust your judgement.”

Molly beamed. “It is good to see you, dear. Most everyone is in the kitchen, but feel free to settle in wherever you’d like. Ginny and Fleur went a little overboard decorating the living room, but with the fire going, it is rather festive.”

Severus nodded, eager to end the conversation. He entered the kitchen through the foyer and immediately realised what a terrible mistake he’d made.

There were … eighteen other people here.

The entire Weasley clan had come out in force. The elder sons, Bill and Charlie, acknowledged Severus first. They, along with that Beaubaxton girl from the Triwizard Tournament, were sitting at the kitchen table with Kingsley Shacklebolt and Filius Flitwick.

The lone twin was with them, actively engaged in whatever conversation they were having. Severus could see how much the loss of his other half had aged him, and eventually the tall, thin young wizard picked up on his elder brothers’ body language and turned, the dull eyes finally acknowledging the new presence in the room.

George Weasley stared at him just a hair longer than appropriate, and Charlie nudged him in the ribs, making him cough.

Of course the lad was staring. His beloved brother had died, while the greasy bat of the dungeons had lived.

Severus had grieved, greatly in fact, when he learned of Fred Weasley’s passing. But how could he express his sympathies to the remaining brother without appearing like a tasteless prat?

The twins were always his favourite Weasleys. The pair were inspired with their antics, and he’d anticipated them becoming pinnacles of the wizarding world within a decade. Plus, what they’d did to that ruddy cow Umbridge would forever bring a smile to his face.

But sharing these thoughts with the lad was out of the question. Especially with George’s light eyes narrowing in disdain.

The next brother in line, the perfectionist Weasley, was oblivious to Severus’s arrival. Percy apparently had a beau, and was chatting the poor girl’s ear raw over in the corner by the pantry. And Ginevra Weasley was standing with the insufferable Golden Trio near the rear entrance to the kitchen.

The redhead picked up on Severus’s arrival and immediately nudged Potter.

Grass-coloured eyes pierced him as the clone of James Potter mouthed Severus’s full name. Then the insufferable prat shoved his drink into his girlfriend’s hand, swiped his fingers on his trousers, and tromped on over to Severus.

Merlin help me.

“Professor Snape … Sir. It’s great to see you. Happy Holidays, and welcome to my home.”

Ah. That’s right. The boy lived here now. “I’m no longer a professor, Potter.”

“And why exactly is that?” a familiar Scottish voice chided behind him.

“Your ears must be failing you, Minerva. Obviously, I can no longer teach.”

“Nonsense! You’ve read my owls, haven’t you? You’re welcome to return at any time. Please, Severus. Put me out of my misery. The Ministry oaf teaching Defence is a dud.”

“Really?” Harry asked. “Have you you told Kingsley?” He gestured toward the dark man, who turned his head in curiosity.

“Of course, dear. But the Ministry can’t spare anyone else. Mister Feldt is following the proper curriculum to the best of his limited ability, but I swear, the chap must be kin to Bimms! I’ve never met someone so dreadfully dull.”

“You liked teaching Defence, Professor,” a muted feminine voice stated.

A subtle twinge crept up Severus’s spine. “Miss Granger.” His gaze twisted to the right, and there she was, standing beside a full grown Ronald Weasley.

Dear Merlin, when had that ignorant oaf bulked up like that? The bloke looked like he could crush bricks with his bare hands. Or rather, slam them against his forehead for fun.

Ronald’s meaty fingers clamped down on Granger’s right shoulder. “She’ll be Mrs. Weasley soon,” the beefy prat said with a proud grin. “Go on, show him.”

She blushed, and then lifted her left hand, where a meager diamond sat in a white gold band. “Spring,” she said happily. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

Severus hadn’t fully engaged his Occlumency skills since his recovery, as the effort pained him, but the mental walls constructed themselves in record time as his features settled into blasé neutrality. “Congratulations to you both.”

“Thanks,” they replied in unison. They smiled at each other, and Severus felt something wither inside him.

Or perhaps it was nausea at the sight of such schmaltzy young love nonsense.

“Since the opportunity has presented itself,” Severus said with semi-realistic sincerity, “I’d like to express my gratitude to you, Miss Granger.” His voice croaked on her name. Dammit. “I stand here today in part to your efforts and quick thinking. Thank you.”

While his true saviours were Pomona Sprout and Poppy Pomfrey, Miss Granger had been the one to stuff the bezoar down his bloodied throat, and the one to pass along his near-death circumstances to those who might aid him best.

Her brown eyes softened. “You’re welcome.”

Curiosity sated to the point of indigestion, Severus made his way over to the other guests. Luna Lovegood turned out to be a delightful chaotic distraction, and when the requisite hour had passed, he made his excuses and bid them all farewell.

He returned to Spinner’s End with a heavy heart. There would be no more intriguing gifts from his not-so-secretive Santa.

Miss Granger had grown up. She was moving on to bigger and better things.

He would have to do the same.

Yet, he didn’t. Severus attended the gaudy Weasley-Granger wedding on April 15^th, as well as the memorial service to honour those who had fallen during the final battle on May 2^nd, and a before-term picnic on August 19^th.

And if that wasn’t horrifying enough, he had a rather surprising encounter with a solitary Potter on Halloween. Severus had been placing white dahlias on Lily’s grave, only for the boy to discover him.

He had received an owl for every dinner party, game night, and social soiree held at 12 Grimmauld Place ever since, and attended exactly half.

Why, you might ask?

Severus asked himself that same question each time, and in truth, he couldn’t say why he kept socialising with these people. The events themselves bordered on ridiculous, and he never spoke with any of the Trio for more than a few seconds. Instead, he chatted with Kingsley and Filius, and, if she was present, Luna Lovegood.

That young witch was far cleverer than she let on, and the pair of them had developed a sort of private game to play when their presences became too much for the rest of the partygoers. They would linger together on the outskirts of the festivities, watching various social dramas evolve around them. Then one would murmur a polite, or impolite, observation, and the other had to confirm or deny its accuracy.

It started at the Weasleys’ wedding reception. Luna and Severus were seated at a table with some ancient Weasley uncle who napped the entire time, and it was obvious they’d been relegated to the back corner in order not to cause any disturbances.

Luna, while slicing her stuffed mushroom appetiser into bite-sized pieces, had declared George Weasley depressed, and didn’t Severus agree?

He did.

Then, while they’d waited for house elves to bring them their entrees, she’d stated Charlie Weasley was gay.

That had Severus sputtering over his salad, and in retaliation, he’d fired back that Fleur Delacour-Weasley was having fertility issues and Harry Potter was going to propose by Christmas.

Luna clinched the win by insisting Molly Weasley fancied him.

That egregious claim led to a bit of a bickering between them, which attracted the matronly witch in question’s attention. Molly had smiled at Severus with such an obvious fondness that Luna had whispered, “See? She should be furious. You’re disrupting her baby boy’s big day.”

“Her boy isn’t a baby any longer.” If anything, Ronald Weasley was beefier than ever, making Hermione Granger seem slight by comparison. Was the fool taking some sort of male enhancement potion?

“Parts of him are.” Luna had held up her pinky finger, curled it over, and Severus had snorted in his champagne flute.

“That’s highly inappropriate, Miss Lovegood.”

“So is what Witches’ Weekly says about you. Is it true you converted the Potions classroom into a sex dungeon each summer?”

Severus lost it over that and loudly croaked What?, which caused every other person within the reception tent to stop what they were doing and stare at him.

Bride and groom included.

Miss Lovegood had immediately hopped to her feet and proclaimed, “Watch out for the Dabberblimps, everyone! They really like cake!” Then she sat down and primly dabbed the edges of her mouth with her napkin.

The level of awkwardness skyrocketed, and people began murmuring under their breath as they returned to their overcooked, under-salted meals.

Severus couldn’t hide his smile. Luna Lovegood was a fantastic party companion.

At the summer cookout, he casually stated that Neville Longbottom was utterly smitten with the quirky Miss Lovegood, and that Ron and Hermione would have a child within a year.

Surprisingly, Luna agreed with both. “Neville’s sweet, and quite handsome, but I’m not ready to settle down yet.” She’d taken a sip of her cup and added, “I didn’t think Hermione was either. I thought she wanted to work at the Ministry.”

Severus said he’d thought the same.

“Love makes people do strange things, don’t you think?”

He’d agreed with that, too.

It was at that party that Severus finally decided to accept Minerva’s offer to return to Hogwarts. Miss Lovegood had approached him while he was staring at the sunset over the Black Lake and said in her sage, airy voice that no matter what happened, good or bad, your home would always be your sanctuary.

Then the young witch had trotted away, leaving Severus to return to his unhappy woolgathering.

Luna didn’t understand. No one understood. Stepping foot inside those grey stone walls would be a significant psychological undertaking.

Had they all been subjected to Memory Charms? His sorry carcass didn’t belong anywhere near Hogwarts, let alone returning to mingle side by side with the same calibre of people who dedicated their lives to educating eager young minds.

Severus was not of such calibre, and never had been. The rhetoric of teachers and their contributions to the betterment of society through their enlightened students was utter poppycock as far as he was concerned. He’d only taught Potions because Albus demanded it. He’d become the school’s master and commander because his other power-hungry dictator had offered it as a reward for a job well done. And it was on his watch that Hogwarts temporarily transformed from a proper institution of magic to a propaganda-heavy indoctrination camp.

Not to mention the fact he committed cold-blooded murder inside a space where innocent children roamed.

Yet when Minerva dragged him inside after the picnic, and left him to wander about the castle on his own - to ‘have a bit of a think on it’ - Severus had felt … safe.

Sanctuary, indeed.

So he’d penned the Headmistress the next morning and agreed to teach for one term. But not as the DADA teacher.

As the Potions professor.

Both Minerva and Filius had written him back immediately, debating the topic rather vehemently. But Severus was insistent. The wizarding world would find it easier to accept his return if he were rotting away in his dungeons, and not corrupting young minds with his supposed Death Eater ways in Defence Against the Dark Arts.

They both argued that was not the case, but Severus was no fool. Nor would he have Hogwarts lose students, and subsequently funding, because of his unwelcome presence.

He also added a non-negotiable condition: his private quarters needed to be above ground. He wanted a ruddy window. The headmistress, and the castle itself, acquiesced readily, and Severus moved his meager belongings back into the one place they’d always seemed to fit.

Then he listed Spinner’s End on the market, and it sold six weeks later for far more than it was worth.

There was already a sizable sum in his vault in Gringotts, since Severus kept his Knuts close enough to squeak, but now? Now he could actually live a little. Enjoy a few creature comforts.

So, with the first holiday season of the new millennium fast approaching, and numerous get-togethers on his social calendar, Severus took many an evening to pause and marvel at his cozy little life.

He was lounging in his armchair, enjoying the warmth of the fire against his feet as he sipped his firewhiskey and stared into the flames. A year ago, he wondered if he’d ever receive a Christmas gift again. Now, he’d likely have more than ever.

Oh. He should probably give gifts in return, shouldn’t he? Not doing so would be dreadfully rude.

Feeling rather like the fool he was, he Summoned a bit of parchment and drafted a list. But when he came to Mr and Mrs Ronald Weasley, he paused.

The couple had been at last month’s potluck (The twice-baked cheese and potato casserole was a fan favourite, although a Hogwarts house elf named Jintik made it now), and Severus hadn’t liked what he’d seen.

The once vocal know-it-all was now eerily quiet. Hermione Granger deferred to her husband, doting on him rather like a Hogwarts elf, only to return to her assigned station behind him, nodding in agreement with whatever the fool boy said.

And as much as he tried, Severus could not think of the girl as a Weasley.

There was only one Mrs Weasley in his mind - the proper one married to Arthur.

Like her counterpart, the improper Mrs Weasley didn’t show any outward signs of domestic mistreatment. But the inward ones were, unfortunately, there. The wary intensity of the whiskey-brown eyes, that unflappable eagerness to satisfy her husband’s every whim.

Severus was an expert on abuse. He’d grown up surrounded by it. The manipulative games abusers played, the blinders their victims wore.

In his home, it was his father. In Lily and Petunia’s, it was their sadistic mother.

He shuddered at the memory of Anastasia Evans. That Muggle bitch could’ve gone toe to toe against the Dark Lord and won.

Severus left a notation of a large question mark next to the Weasley couple’s name and moved on.

The next afternoon, while wandering around Flourish and Blotts for a proper gift for Miss Lovegood, he spied the journal. It was on the second-highest bookshelf, more of a display piece than an actual item for sale, and Severus immediately thought of Miss Granger.

Weasley. Mrs Weasley.

Still, hadn’t she carried a journal with her during her early school years? Perhaps not one as fine as this one, but she’d had one, hadn’t she?

This journal was made of a rich, buttery leather with tooled scrollwork along its borders. It had a feminine air to it and was honestly quite lovely.

Severus flagged down one of the shop attendants, grinning once he held the journal in his palm. Finally, he could repay the girl’s generosity. As for her husband, well, Severus would send along a bottle of single malt, and the boorish oaf would be grateful for it.

He was tracing his finger over the twirling indents along the edges of the journal’s spine when the perfect idea hit him.

He could gift Luna Lovegood a cloud.

She’d love it. He’d cast a misty variant of Orbis Aqua, trap it inside a tiny Protego Totalum, and then stuff the lot inside a box, triggering it to drift upward once she opened it. It wouldn’t last, of course, being nothing but vapour, but longevity wasn’t a requirement for this gift.

It was the thought that counted.

The end of Year 2000 breezed by Severus in a blur. He did receive more gifts than ever before, and he surprisingly enjoyed the mundane process of wrapping and sending his various packages to their recipients. He spent Christmas Eve at 12 Grimmauld, Christmas Day at the Burrow, and New Year’s Eve at a nightclub in Edinburgh.

Charlie Weasley had leased the entire club for the evening, and he and his new partner threw one hell of a revel.

Throughout it all, Severus kept his eye on the young Mrs Weasley. As predicted, Potter proposed to Ginevra, and Severus was genuinely happy for them. But the Boy Who Lived was so wrapped up in his new fiancee, and she in him, that both seemed oblivious to the changes in their friends’ fledgling marriage.

The tension Severus expected to see was there in spades. Miss Lovegood was keen to it, as was Mister Longbottom and, oddly enough, George Weasley. The three of them wound up in a corner at 2 a.m. after the turning of the new year, watching a drunken Ronald argue with a world-weary Hermione who’d requested they say their farewells.

It turned Severus’s stomach. He almost strode over there, but George stopped him. “Don’t, Sir. It will only make the situation worse.”

“How can you allow this?” Severus hissed. “Your family is honourable.”

George sipped his beer. “Honourable, yes. Progressive, no.” He tilted his chin toward Hermione. “My brother wants children. A large family like ours. But as you can see, Hermione isn’t pregnant yet. It’s causing tension, and my mother planted the rather evil seed that perhaps it’s because Hermione’s magic is stronger than Ron’s.”

Neville made a condescending scoff. “That’s an old witch’s tale. Everyone knows that.”

“Do they?” George replied.

“You lot are their friends,” Severus spat. “And you, Mr Weasley, are his sibling. Speak with him.”

“Ever try to argue with a brick wall? Trust me when I tell you, the wall is more likely to bend before Ron is.”

“He’s mistreating her.”

“Is he, though? She could wipe the floor with him if she chose, yet she doesn’t. Harry said this is part of their dynamic.”

Severus snorted. My arse it is.

It was disrespect at a minimum, and more than likely, psychological abuse.

George Weasley might be comfortable ignoring reality, but from Severus’s point of view, the writing was flashing neon on the walls of Miss Granger’s dysfunctional marriage.

Oy. Mrs Weasley.

Luna pulled him aside when the party wound down shortly thereafter. “You need to be more careful,” she said, her voice lacking its normal ethereal quality.

“Beg your pardon?”

“You’re making it obvious, enough that Neville asked me about it. I told him I didn’t think so, and I didn’t like lying to him like that. Please don’t make me do it again.”

“Miss Lovegood, as much as I enjoy our banter, I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“Hermione.”

He stilled. “I’m concerned for her welfare. I’d react the same if you were in such a situation.”

“Would you?”

“Of course! I … I consider you a friend.” Severus felt the prickly coolness of sweat beading on his skin. He threw up his mental shields and prayed Miss Lovegood wouldn’t burrow any deeper into the awkward territory of his emotions.

His prayers went unanswered. “I’m glad. I consider you one as well, of course. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have got you that container of moulting plimplie spawn for your potions.”

She’d gifted him a tin of John West sardines.

And wrapped them in a McDonald’s hamburger wrapper.

Severus didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know. But thinking on the gift made him smile.

His smile faded when she continued, “But you don’t look at me like you look at her. You don’t look at anyone like you look at Hermione.”

“I am concerned, Miss Lovegood. Nothing more.”

“Is it because she saved your life? I mean, if someone saved my life, I’d probably fall in love with them, too.”

“I am not in love with Miss Granger,” he hissed. “Nor did she save my life. Pomona Sprout and Poppy Pomfrey hold that honour.”

“Oh. You don’t know about the blood?”

“What blood?” Severus spoke the words slowly, a bad feeling sinking into his gut.

“The blood replenishing potions weren’t working. Hermione cast some spell on you, once the dust settled, and determined you had the same … types? Something about hemo goblins? It was a tad too Muggle for me, sorry. But she went full Gryffindor on St. Mungo’s, and they took blood from her, and put it in you. Once a month, I think. She’d stay with you afters to make sure you had everything you needed. In the beginning, it was every week, but, well, Ron got angry.”

The sinking feeling rose up from his stomach, dug its claws into his chest, and squeezed.

“I didn’t know,” Severus murmured.

“Maybe it’s a problem with the hemo goblins. That might be why you’re in love with her.”

“I am not in love with her, Miss Lovegood. For your information, I’m incapable of that emotion.” And what the hell are hemo goblins?

“Must be the goblins then. I heard they can wreck havoc on a heart.” She then patted him firmly on his shoulder. “Best get them looked at, hmm? Happy New Year to you, Severus Snape.”

“Happy New Year to you as well, Miss Lovegood.”

Chapter Text

Luna Lovegood was mistaken. Severus was not in love with Hermione Granger.

Weasley. Whatever.

He was just concerned.

And why shouldn’t he be concerned? He’d seen this film before. He knew how it ended, and the fact that Ronald Weasley was demanding a child from her so soon was another glaring red flag.

How had the feisty little know-it-all got herself in this situation?

George Weasley was right. Hermione Granger was an order of magnitude more powerful than Ron Weasley. Yet she simpered and cowed to the blasted prat’s whims.

Why?

Five days after the first of the new year, a tiny owl carrying a flat rectangular package arrived with the morning’s mail. It huffed and puffed, and a barn owl who had completed its deliveries took pity on the poor thing and plucked the package from its claws. It then flew directly to Severus and dropped the paper-wrapped parcel onto the dining table.

“That there came from ‘Ermione ‘n Ron, it did,” Hagrid said before spearing a sausage and shoving it into his maw. “The little owl’ll be Ron’s Pigwidgeon, see? Why dey sendin’ yeh a package, Severus? Didn’ya get the same Chudley Cannons crap the rest of us gots fer Christmas?”

Both were excellent questions, and given the shape of the package, Severus was afraid he wouldn’t like the answer to the former.

The latter was a confusing ‘no’. He hadn’t received any Chudley Cannons ‘crap’ from the Weasley couple. He got a book on South American plants, and their uses in potion making.

It was one of his nicer gifts.

He lifted the parcel, and instantly knew what it was.

Rage sparked inside him, and he exhaled, letting the barriers slide into place inside his mind. He stood, and left without another word. Whispers rumbled behind him, but Severus didn’t care.

He took the shortcut to the basement and was in his private quarters in no time. With a hollowness in his heart, he peeled away the thin brown wrapping.

The beautiful journal he’d gifted Hermione stared back at him, the top corner crumpled, as if it had been thrown into something solid.

Like a wall.

A square, yellow note in Ronald Weasley’s exaggerated print was attached to the centre.

Keep your greasy arse away from my wife!

Severus sighed.

Hermione Granger … gah, Weasley, was in danger.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Let it be said that Severus Snape was not a quitter. He actively tried to discuss the issue of Hermione with those he trusted, starting with Minerva.

But the headmistress dismissed his concerns immediately. In fact, she was quite horrified that Severus would even suggest such a thing. His pseudo-accusation led the elderly witch to now watch him like a hawk at every get-together, rather than paying attention to how quickly Hermione was withering away.

Luna was on his side, and she’d convinced Longbottom as well. The lad remained wary, but Severus was attempting to put the poor boy at ease. For multiple reasons.

For one, Severus required a network of eyes and ears to watch over Hermione. But the bigger challenge was that he and Mr Longbotton were destined to outlive their Hogwarts professorial peers by decades.

Severus had accepted his lot in life now, courtesy of his therapist who happily released him. He’d signed a five-year contract with Hogwarts at the beginning of the 2001-2002 term, and would likely renew it until he withered away from old age. This led him to the firm realisation that he and Mr Longbottom would be in residence together for a very long time. Hence, it made no sense to hold onto any biases or animosities between them.

Especially since Neville was studying to become a Master Herbologist. In addition to burying the hatchet, Severus was gleefully planting the subtle mental seeds to convince the kind-hearted young bloke to cultivate some of the rather exotic plants he’d read about in the book Hermione gifted him. The possibilities for potions experimentation were endless.

George Weasley, on the other hand, became a lost cause. Severus tried two more times to convince him to peek beneath the surface of Ron and Hermione’s marriage, but George swore it was just the way they interacted with each other. He decreed Severus didn’t notice it throughout their school years because he was too busy spewing vitriol on Potter.

Their discussion ended in an argument, and now George avoided him like a disease. It chafed, rather rawly in fact, but Severus decided it was for the best.

At least the lad had got his spine back.

As for the Golden Weasleys and Potters, Severus barely interacted with those four by design.

His most recent contact with any of them was from months ago: the owl he penned to Ronald. Severus apologised profusely for any confusion in Hermione’s gift. Inking those words was a bitter pill to swallow, as it made him sound spineless. But he knew from experience that any other dialogue would send the brute into a rage.

And Miss Granger would pay the price.

Weasley. Mrs Weasley.

Despite his attempts at peacemaking, Hermione appeared to be suffering more than ever before. At Easter, she walked with a slight limp. At the three-year anniversary of Lord Voldemort’s defeat, she cradled her right arm. And at the yearly summer picnic in August, her hair had been clipped short, in a rather unflattering style.

Severus was dreading tonight’s Christmas Eve party. Each time he saw her - the dark bags under her eyes, the tightly drawn lips, and the ever-present flinches - more threads of his moral decency frayed and snapped.

Hermione Granger (bollocks, Weasley) was one of the most powerful witches of her age. She could wipe the floor with that prat.

Why wasn’t she?

He wanted to scream at her. Shake her silly until whatever nonsense that kept her from defending herself was knocked outside her skull.

Severus also wanted to beat the stuffing out of her nauseating husband. The idea was incredibly tempting. But logic always reminded him that he would prefer this new life, challenges and all, to a gloomy stint in Azkaban.

The reality grated, though, like rough, unhewn granite. Many times this year he had stood on the sidelines, silent and still while his inner monologue raged.

It was a feral thing, fighting to be set free, but destined to be forever caged by sanity and the demands of societal propriety.

Since Severus still considered himself a civilized wizard despite his internal fantasies of murdering a red-haired heathen, he stepped into 12 Grimmauld Place politely toting a gigantic plate of sausage rolls, which Molly hurried to take from him. The woman was bristling with energy. “Your recipe or Hogwarts?”

“Mine. An elf in the kitchens has taken an interest in understanding the chemistry behind various dishes, and was eager to experiment.”

“Delightful! Everyone’s in the study. It’s a big, big day!” Her cheeks flushed, and little alarms went off in the back of Severus’s mind.

He stepped into the crowded, overly masculine space, and there, standing in front of the fireplace, were a beaming Ron and Hermione Weasley.

The tension between them had evaporated entirely, and the young witch’s cheeks were bright and pink as she leaned against her husband with soft eyes and an even softer smile.

Severus’s heart plummeted, cracking and splintering before it dissipated into dust.

She was pregnant. The two were all whispers and cuddles, and Ronald was doting on his wife as if she were a fragile china doll.

Luna Lovegood sauntered over to him. “I’m sorry,” she said with genuine remorse. “I’m sorry for you, for her, and the baby.”

“Nothing can be done,” he replied gruffly, his voice no longer croaking when it was laden with emotion. His latest healing potion contained almond butter, and the combination of that and the dittany let the fluid linger in his throat, like a salve one might place on their skin.

The sensation was incredibly awkward, but slowly and surely, his vocal cords were mending. Severus now sounded less like an amphibian, and more like a werewolf. “Watch over her, if you can.”

“I’ll try. She’s awfully reclusive.”

“I thought she had a job at the Ministry?” It was a mundane one, an administrative position often given to bored matron witches whose children had fled the nest.

“She used to. But now Ron wants her at home all the time in order to—”

Severus held up a hand. “Don’t.”

“Oh dear. You’ve been doing so well, too. Have the hemo goblins returned?”

He wasn’t going to fall for her taunts. “No,” he answered calmly. “I expunged the hemo goblins last winter.”

There were no such things as hemo goblins. Severus’s ‘better behaviour’ was due to master-level Occlumency and two decades of being a double agent.

“Well, good,” Luna murmured, taking a sip of her drink. “I’m glad you got that sorted. Otherwise, I’d worry you might do something rash.”

My dear, you have no idea. His inner animal roared, but he collared it.

Snuffed it right out.

Violence was never the answer, and he was not his father.

All he could do was wait.

And hope.

Within Hogwarts, there are certain security protocols that can only be overridden by the Headmaster or Headmistress. One was entry into another professor’s private quarters. Wards weren’t required, as the castle itself protected the sanctity of its staff.

So, when Severus heard Poppy Pomfrey calling his name one night in mid-January, he thought he might be dreaming. But then bony hands grabbed him, and he’d leapt up and literally flown across his bedroom, the lamp on his nightstand coming alight with a touch of his mind.

His wand was at the ready a second of heartbeats later as he stood tall in the shadows, preparing to do battle with whatever demon had entered his quarters.

He also slept in the nude, and twin feminine gasps met his ears, which brought heat to his cheeks.

“Nox!” Minerva McGonagall cried.

Severus Summoned his dressing gown. “Headmistress. Poppy,” he said with forced dignity, “to what do I owe the honour?”

“Oh, Severus,” Minerva moaned. “You were right. You were so very right.”

“She’s here,” Poppy added. “The young Mrs Weasley.”

That sinking feeling yanked hard before twisting inside his gut. He was really starting to hate that feeling.

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs in the hospital wing. It’s … it’s bad, Severus.”

“She came to the main gate,” Minerva added. “Not nearly ten minutes ago. The castle alerted me and Argus, and by the time I got there, he’d already brought her upstairs.”

“The castle alerted him?”

“Yes. She … her hand was bloody. She touched the main gate, and Hogwarts knows its own.”

“The suits of armour, then?”

“Yes. Argus is cleaning them.”

That explained things. Filch was a Squib and so hunchbacked now, he couldn’t lift a five lb. gunnysack on his best day.

“How bad is it?”

Minerva’s thin lips drew tight, and another tonne of weight slammed into Severus’s soul. “We think she’s lost the baby.”

Pools of red on a faded linoleum floor overwhelmed his mind as his mother’s voice drowned out all rational thought. Please, hurry. Fetch my wand from the cabinet.

Fuck. He had to get it under control.

Keep it calm, like the lake at dawn. Don’t let it ripple.

“I’ll get the potion,” he replied once he’d Occluded, “and we will not speak of this night to anyone. Is that clear?”

“No. I mean, yes,” Minerva sputtered, “I suppose we won’t.”

Severus explained what would happen in a quiet murmur, with Minerva and Poppy flanking him like pillars surrounding Satan’s throne.

“You mean, you can’t save it?” Hermione wheezed through her damaged windpipe.

“No. It is gone.” All three of them cast the diagnosis spell multiple times.

There was no heartbeat.

“If you do not take this, you risk infection,” he added. “Sepsis.” He held the small black vial aloft, fighting the waves of nausea and the daggers spearing his throat.

Tears welled, and fell, as the broken girl sobbed for many awkward, heart-wrenching moments. Then she grabbed the potion, raised it to her split and swollen lips, and downed it in one gulp. “I hate him,” she whispered. “I hate him so much.”

“You are welcome to stay here, my dear,” Minerva said gently. “You will always have a home at Hogwarts.”

“I can’t possibly impose on you like that. I mean, there’s always the—” Hermione’s eyes widened. She turned to Severus, and the flash of panic and despair he saw in those haunted brown eyes crumbled the thin walls of sand left restraining his mind.

He stood. “I will leave you in their care.”

“Can’t … can’t you give me something for the pain?”

“They will, once it’s passed. It won’t be long.” He turned and strode out of the ward, and once he was out of earshot, his boots pounded the stone as if the hounds of Hell were nipping at his heels.

Severus didn’t stop until he was at the parapet on the western edge of Hogwarts, near Gryffindor Tower. Then he braced his hands against the cold railing and breathed, gasp after gasp, as he fought back the demons raging inside his mind.

The dampness on his cheeks betrayed him, leaving trails of ice across his flesh.

He let the chill of January’s midnight air envelop him.

Drown him.

Burn away the memories.

Self-preservation crept in, and a voice inside him cried, It’s freezing, you fool! Move!

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Not until the nightmares subsided.

Once Severus had his psyche under control, he cast warming charms over his bare skin. They stung, and when he returned to his quarters an hour before dawn, he had to treat himself for second-degree frostbite.

After that, he penned letters to the Potters, Luna, Neville, and Kingsley, informing them he would not be attending any social outings for the foreseeable future.

He gave no reason.

It wasn’t his story to tell.

He then plopped his arse in his favourite leather armchair and did a right proper job of drinking himself into oblivion.

Chapter Text

It was a scandal.

For two days, headlines blazed in all the wizarding newspapers about Hermione Weasley’s disappearance. Each highlighted the distraught plight of her husband, who was desperate to find her. Then Potter and Ronald wised up, and, in their official capacities as Aurors, paid Hogwarts a visit.

They were met by a feisty Minerva spewing rhyming couplets of feminine fury, and then everything went sideways quicker than a Billywig hunting for Banksia blossoms.

Severus watched the confrontation unravel from his vantage point at the western parapet near Gryffindor Tower. He planned to fly down to assist the headmistress if things went truly pear-shaped, but Potter got his best friend under control once Ronald started swinging.

‘Under control’ being synonymous with Harry Stupefying the bloke and then toting him off Hogwarts’ grounds using Levicorpus.

The Daily Prophet didn’t know how to handle this outcome. In truth, Severus wasn’t sure how much they actually knew. Because, at first, the headlines were vague. ‘The young Mrs Weasley’ was reported to be ‘suffering from an unknown and serious illness’ requiring ‘special intervention’ by the ‘experts’ at Hogwarts. Severus’s name was listed as a potential purveyor of this aid.

Then they turned scathing, claiming Hermione had left her husband and was having a torrid affair with one of the professors.

Severus was not listed as a potential purveyor of his cock. Professor Feldt, however, was.

So, for some bizarre reason, was Hagrid.

It seemed that ludicrous accusation became the giant-sized straw that broke Harry Potter’s media-tolerant back. He held a press conference and informed the wizarding community that Hermione was collaborating with Hogwarts on a dangerous Ministry mission, and in order to be successful, she required tutelage under the Headmistress to enhance her skills.

This, of course, was a lie.

Potter then requested everyone, especially the Daily Prophet, to mind their ruddy business and find another hobby. He said it diplomatically, of course, but his message was clear: stop prying into his and his friends’ personal lives.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had spoken after him, agreeing that the wizarding world’s obsession with the Trio had gone too far. He cited the tragedy of the Muggle Princess Diana, and instated Ministry Decree #762, otherwise known as the Anti-Scoop Snoopers Act.

Since most of wizarding society was fanatical over reading juicy tidbits about the Trio, and The Powers That Be at the Prophet had been making a fortune feeding that addiction, no one was happy with this outcome. Kingsley’s popularity tanked, and although the Prophet’s lucrative wings were now clipped, it didn’t stop a number of die-hard paparazzi from permanently camping out in Hogsmeade. They lurked like vultures, waiting for any glimpse of Hermione Weasley they could capture on magic-enhanced photofilm.

Severus wasn’t aware of how deeply the Daily Prophet had integrated itself into the Golden Trio’s lives. He avoided the rag as a matter of course, since it did nothing but portray him as a broken shell of a wizard who’d slithered back to his dungeon.

For the Trio, however, it was different. They had witches and wizards following them everywhere, reporting on their every move. Both weddings were covered in special editions, the Weasley one even including a photograph of Severus sitting at the reception table, looking suspiciously drunk. (He was not.) The caption below implied he was as mentally incapacitated as the snoozing elderly Weasley uncle beside him, and that Miss Lovegood had taken pity on them both.

Ron and Harry were the stars of the Trio’s show. The Prophet was constantly noting how well they were doing as Aurors and role-model worthy husbands. There was even a full spread on Ronald’s journey to become a member of the Chudley Cannons (he was now a second string Beater), and various polls on when the two heroes would soon become fathers.

Hermione’s role in their narrative was to be a strong and courageous example for all young witches by … becoming a mother. Her sole contribution to wizarding society, now that the war had ended, would be demarcated by how many Weasley offspring she produced, and what type of mother she became. Comparisons to Molly were made frequently, and slights against Fleur Delacour-Weasley were sprinkled about in every article that mentioned the next generation of Weasley children.

Because Fleur had the absolute gall to pursue a career as a Healer, even though she was already married to Bill.

The horror.

As for Ginevra, she apparently ripped into the Prophet’s paparazzi enough times to scare them away. There was a photo of her raging like a madwoman when a reporter questioned her about any upcoming plans to get pregnant. Harry had stood beside her, his countenance alternating between embarrassment and amusement.

Ginny Weasley had a successful stint ahead of her on the Holyhead Harpies and she quite plainly told the wizarding world she’d rather ‘suck on her sweaty tube socks’ than become a mother before she turned thirty.

Severus learned of all this second hand via the expertise of Irma Pince, who gathered the information using Hogwarts’ specialised microforms for periodicals.

Reading it all, however, gave him a headache, as the print was always blurry.

As for the actual Miss … Mrs Weasley, she kept to herself, sequestered in a suite near the hospital wing. Severus didn’t know how she spent her days, nor did he ask.

If he allowed himself a spare moment to not think about her, he’d never know she was residing in the same castle with him.

But he did not have such moments, since he spent each and every minute of each and every day (and night) wondering about her.

Was she well? Had she healed? Were Minerva and Poppy taking good care of her?

He contemplated sending her the journal, now mended and sitting on the top shelf of his bookcase, but he was uncertain if she intended to return to her husband.

It would not surprise him if she did. His mother had returned to his father many times. Even after that night, she didn’t want to leave.

She said she had nowhere else to go.

Severus tried to let his past lay where it belonged, both these recent experiences and the traumas of his childhood, yet they all frequented his nightmares with joyous abandonment.

Or, not so joyous, as the case may be.

It was late February when fate carved out another fun twist for him. He was heading back to the Potions classroom after supper to settle in for another tedious night of grading essays, when he saw a frail form hovering outside the aged oaken door.

“Professor,” Hermione murmured in a weak whisper, “I’d like to speak with you.”

Severus's boots had skidded agains the limestone. Her countenance was dreadful. Like a living skeleton with skin.

Dear gods. “Are you eating, girl?”

Hermione cradled her arms around herself. “Some. I know I need to eat more. That’s why I’m here.”

“What do you need?” He surprised himself with how gentle his tone sounded, and gave a small huff of triumph.

Maybe he wasn’t that big of an arse after all.

“I need to get stronger,” she replied.

“Obviously.”

“No. You misunderstand. I need to be able to protect myself.”

“From your shite husband?”

And … he’d made it ten seconds. Ten whole seconds before he morphed back into a sour-faced, obnoxious git.

Honestly, it might be a record.

Hermione’s eyes grew moist, and she nodded.

Severus straightened and stepped closer to her, peering down into damp whiskey eyes that scanned him.

He’d seen that look before, too. The soft stare that, in reality, was wary. Calculating. “You are, or were, a talented and powerful witch, Miss Gr- … Mrs Weasley. You can protect yourself.”

“No, I can’t. And don’t call me that.”

“It is your title, unless you’ve made a motion with the Ministry to change it.”

“I can’t do that either,” she said, her gaze dipping down to the floor.

“You can’t, or won’t?”

“Can’t. The marriage certificate I signed said it was a binding contract until death.”

Severus scoffed. “Clearly you have not studied wizarding law.”

“No, I have not,” she replied huffily. “But a divorce isn’t what I need.”

She rubbed her shoulders. “If anything, it’ll make things worse.”

“What is it you want from me?”

“Professor McGonagall … Minerva … said you were an expert on defensive techniques.”

“Your friend Potter is no slouch, either. Your point?”

She groaned. “You really are making this difficult, you know that? This is hard for me. I’m not looking for spells, well, not really. I’m looking for physical manoeuvres. How to defend myself against an attack without harming my … attacker. At least, not with magic.”

“And why wouldn’t you use magic?” Please don’t say ‘vow’.

“I made a vow.”

Bugger. “Unbreakable?”

She nodded, and the tears reappeared, pooling on her lashes.

“It went both ways,” she continued. “He said it would make our marriage stronger. That sometimes old married couples would fight, and the witch would cast spells to torment the wizard. At the time, I thought he’d seen something between Arthur and Molly, but I never really saw them bicker. I told him he had to make the vow, too. That it … that it had to be fair.”

“Oh, Miss Granger. You fool.”

“I know that now!” she hollered back, stomping her foot. “You don’t think I know?”

“Do you?”

She pointed to the ceiling. “What do you think I’ve been doing up there for the past two months, watching dust collect? I’ve been speaking to a trauma specialist four times a week. She’s a witch, but opts to live in the Muggle world, so she can help women like me.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Why are you here?”

Severus chastised himself. Why was he behaving like this? All he really wanted to do was take her into his arms and hold her. Protect her. Get some ruddy food in her!

Then he’d take her slimy brute of a husband, and use him as a wet nap to scrub down Hogwarts’ septic systems.

“Because Professor McGonagall said you could help me!” she hollered. “But I see now she was gravely mistaken!”

Hermione spun on her heel and stomped past him. “I should have known you’d be like this. Everyone says you’ve changed, but I knew you were still—”

“I’ll help you,” he said, slow and clear. “I will teach you how to defend yourself from physical attacks. With and without magical assistance.”

She froze. “You will?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“I believe I said, ‘yes’.”

She ran to him, her instinct clearly to hug him. But she hesitated at the last instant and instead curled her arms into her chest. “Thank you.”

“We will begin your training in April.”

Her nose crinkled. “Why so long?”

“That’s how long it will take for you to be strong enough to start.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, food isn’t exactly appealing right now. It tastes like ash.”

“Come to the Great Hall tomorrow before breakfast. There’s a regimen of potions I will provide for you, and I will show you which foods you need to eat to replenish yourself.”

Hermione made a faint squeak. It was reminiscent of the familiar squeals of excitement he’d heard during her first year in his class. When she’d surprised herself with her expert-level potion making. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Miss Gr— … ugh, you and your ruddy name.”

“You could always call me Hermione, Professor.”

He snorted. “I don’t address my students by their first names.”

“But I’m not your student any more, am I?” The way she said it, in reality, was innocent. A snarky statement of simple fact.

But his dick heard nothing but a sensual purr.

It twitched, and Severus instinctively went very, very still.

“And I’m twenty-two,” she added, “so don’t even think about calling me ‘girl’ again.”

Another twitch. Fuck. Me.

“Fine,” he spat. “Hermione it is.”

“Should I call you Severus?”

“No.” He brushed past her, yanked the door of his Potions classroom open, and strode inside, slamming the door behind him with a flick of his fingers. It latched seconds later.

Bloody hell.

What in the name of Circe had he just got himself into?