double-edged wand - serationality - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: golden

Chapter Text

Love from the west
Grinning mad, light blue and golden
Found at my best
I'm a sucker for your glowing

Golden - Hippo Campus

https://open.spotify.com/track/4vBIr27NcRFBNpyIxLHZuB?si=e2b05584cc244248

Hogwarts, Last Day of Sixth Year

The classroom was awash in a luminescent glow, emanating from the cauldrons simmering with Draught of Living Death. The potion demanded an alchemist's precision and a poet's soul—qualities Severus Snape possessed in spades, and which he insisted upon in his students. A slip of the wrist, an errant breath, and the iridescent liquid could become nothing more than muddled swamp water.

Severus Snape's expertise was captivating, a force that left you nothing short of entranced. His voice alone, deep and resonant, seemed to possess a potency all its own, mirroring the powerful elixirs he so masterfully created.

The clock on the wall ticked away the final moments of your sixth year at Hogwarts, a year that had been punctuated by countless late nights in this very classroom.

Both you and Snape seemed to find solace in the sanctity of potion-making, each cauldron you brewed together weaving a thread into the tapestry of your unspoken bond. Today was no different. Even though the Hogwarts Express was due to depart in mere hours, you found yourselves immersed over the same cauldron.

Snape's eyes would flicker with a rare glint of approval, an intimate accolade you treasured, as you skillfully followed each step, mirroring his precision. You didn't need to say it aloud: these quiet, shared moments in the underbelly of the castle were sacred.

Being at his side as he brewed was like witnessing alchemy in its purest form; every stir and incantation he made seemed less like instruction and more like an intimate second language only the two of you spoke. The experience was mesmerizing, each moment further anchoring your admiration and longing for the enigmatic Potions Master.

Snape's hand moved like a shadow over your cauldron, adding a petal of a Sopophorous bean at just the right moment. Your eyes followed suit, your own hands deftly slicing, stirring, and simmering. The room filled with a scent of elusive nostalgia—like old parchment mingled with winter air and something darker, earthier, a fragrance that put you on the edge of a forgotten dream.

"Nearly there," he whispered more to himself than to you, as his eyes darted from your shared cauldron. The liquid inside had begun to shimmer, its surface like a mirror reflecting moonlight, its deep silver hue dancing with wisps of midnight blue. "Now, slowly add the powdered root of asphodel."

As you carefully sprinkle the powder into the concoction, you can almost feel the potion sigh in contentment, the colors deepening into an abyssal shade of azure that seemed to absorb all the light in the room.

"Perfect," he intones, surveying your work with eyes that are almost, but not quite, warm. He clears his throat and wipes his hands on a nearby rag.

You pause, locking eyes with him as you lean on the counter, an amalgam of satisfaction and yearning suffusing the air. "That means a great deal, coming from you.”

He nods and begins taking notes, barely pausing. After passing your Potions OWLs with flying colors, one of the few that actually did well, Snape took you under his wing at the beginning of your sixth year. Your past in Potions was nearly flawless, an iridescent feather in your academic cap.

A year of after-hours sessions with him has unfolded like chapters in an arcane tome—each meeting a lesson, each potion a parable. He offered some of his precious free time, molding you, urging you towards a realm of expertise that few can navigate. In the silence of the dungeon, amidst fumes and flasks, you've become his protégé.

“Your skill, expertise, your infuriatingly high standards—I want to strive for that level of mastery." you say with a voice tinged with genuine admiration and perhaps a hint of vulnerability. “You’re the reason I’m pursuing Potions.”

You gulp.

You've learned over the many late nights spent in this room that Snape is not a man given to sentimentality. There's no indulgence in reminiscing or overt displays of fondness. His approval comes in the form of curt nods and the absence of reprimand, an emotional economy where silence is the highest currency. It's in this taciturn landscape that you've found your footing, reading the subtle shifts in his demeanor as one would a complex potions recipe.

It's a delicate dance you've perfected over the past year: when to press on, when to hold back. Though Snape was impenetrable, he was a riddle you yearned to solve, a safe haven you craved to reach.

You've learned how to read the unspoken language that is Severus Snape, to understand the intricacies of his nature. These after-hour sessions spent studying advanced potions have been the highlight of your year. Not only for the knowledge he's shared but for the charged, unspoken understanding that's grown between you.

You also know that the longer you babble, the longer you’ll lay awake in bed, drowning in a sea of regret for every word spoken. Your fingers deftly begin logging the weights of potions ingredients, a welcome task that spares you further potential embarrassment. Yet, even as you focus on your task, you catch a glimmer in his eyes, an almost imperceptible flicker as he watches you, a cryptic Morse code you’ve become adept at deciphering.

He pulls a glass phial from the depths of his robes and carefully siphons a small amount of your perfectly brewed concoction. "You've done well. This has been an instructive term, I trust?"

His praises were rare but felt like a sip of Felix Felicis, filling you with warmth and pride.

"Fishing for compliments?" you reply, a sardonic edge to your voice as you reach across him to extinguish the flame beneath your cauldron.

There's a pause, a chasm of a moment where time itself seems to hold its breath. His dark eyes lock onto yours, and the ghost of a smirk washes over his lips, like a wraith, brief and insubstantial, yet indelibly imprinted on the canvas of your mind.

As he steps back, you can't help but be captivated by the subtle grace of his movements, the commanding presence he exudes without even trying. There's an odd dichotomy to Snape; he is both your mentor and a tantalizing enigma, an unfathomable depth you wish to explore.

In this moment, your eyes drift to the austere line of his jaw, to the way his long, dark hair curtains his face as he leans over your shared cauldron.

Your heart pounds at the unbidden thought—what would it be like to truly understand him, to touch upon the mysteries lurking beneath that inscrutable facade? The air between you feels heavy, laden with words unsaid and potions unbrewed. For just a fraction of a heartbeat, his eyes meet yours, and in that silent exchange, you feel both exposed and understood.

The room suddenly feels warmer, your concentration frays, but the allure of that hidden depth makes it all so inexplicably worth it.

"Actually, that reminds me," you transition cautiously, reaching across his body for a jar of dried knotgrass. "My father is pushing for me to consider the Auror program next term." You carefully weigh the material and make a note on Snape’s inventory notebook.

Your thoughts drift back to the evening dinner conversation at home.

Your father, his silver-streaked hair a testament to years of Auror service, and eyes that have seen too much, had urged you to apply. "They're rolling out the Goldhawk Initiative this year, an elite Auror training program," he had said, his eyes lit with the kind of passion only a former Auror high up in the Ministry could muster. "Actual Aurors and ex-Aurors train you. It's a fast-track to service, a chance only given when the stars align, or so they say. It's a rare opportunity. I want you to have that chance."

Your father's legacy is monumental, a testament to decades of tireless devotion to the wizarding world's protection. He had been a key operative in some of the most crucial missions against the Dark Arts, his name whispered in awe in certain circles and with dread in others.

The walls of your family home are adorned with commendations and artifacts, silent witnesses to a lifetime of battles fought and won. Yet, behind those accomplishments is a man of profound wisdom and quiet strength, who reads you bedtime stories from ancient tomes and laughs freely on Sunday mornings. His approval means the world to you, but it's also a daunting standard to live up to.

Snape arches an eyebrow, skepticism curling around his words. "Ah yes, the Goldhawk Initiative. The prestigious 'wandslinging exhibition' held once in a blue moon, glorified spell-dueling seminar that materializes every few decades when the Ministry feels particularly magnanimous. It's a shortcut to Ministry glory, or so they claim." he sneers.

Your smile fades, and you find yourself defending the program. "Well, my father insisted, so I applied. Just to appease him. I doubt I'll even be considered; I lack the requisite OWLs." You pause, lifting a brow, as if daring him to comment further. "You should know, the program has produced some of the most legendary Aurors and Curse Breakers."

His eyes seem to darken a shade as he mockingly asks, "And do you wish to become an Auror or a Cursebreaker? Do you so dream of joining their vaunted ranks?" His voice is dry, like the pages of an old, forgotten spellbook, as though he already knows what you're about to say.

"No," you respond. "I owe my passion of Potions all to you. I meant that.”

You hadn't intended to lay your cards on the table so explicitly, yet the words spill out like an overturned cauldron of truth. Your heart feels precariously unguarded in that moment. There's a pause, one that stretches just long enough to scrape at your nerves. Have you misstepped?

"Your gifts are far too valuable for the brutish ethos of the Auror Office," he finally says, his voice softening just a fraction, but enough for you to notice. “Don't squander your education in the pursuit of someone else's legacy." His words, though cryptic, had struck a chord.

The struggle to carve out your own identity while living in the shadow of greatness is a recurring theme in your life, but always Snape seems to believe that you can be something different—something more. Something entirely you.

In that instant, it dawns on you—Severus Snape wants you here, in the realm of Potions, in the sanctuary of cauldrons and vials. His unspoken endorsem*nt is a luminous gem in the treasure trove of your academic life, a moment that pierces through the layers of his emotional armor.

This awareness fuels a flicker of hope that this bond forged in the cauldron’s flame isn’t just about mentorship. You cautiously entertain the idea that the intimacy of these late-night brewing sessions hold meaning for him just as they do for you. You dare to think that perhaps, like you, he sees these sessions as an intimate alliance.

It feels like you've successfully brewed the most intricate of potions, understanding the subtle balance of its ingredients: his pride, his reticence, and perhaps, just perhaps, a fragment of something more personal.

Elated by this discovery, you already know that this will be the sole mental reel that will play in your mind throughout the entire journey to King's Cross, a film comprised of stolen moments and fervent daydreams.

In your imagination, you hear the rhythmic chugging of the train's wheels seeming to echo his name, blurring the scenery outside into an impressionistic painting of your own yearning.

Your thoughts are always inextricably bound to Snape, anyway. Over the last year, you’ve found yourself dwelling on the most minute details: the cadence of his voice, as smooth as a finely brewed Draught of Peace; the peculiar yet mesmerizing hue of his eyes, somewhere between obsidian and a starless night; the way his robes swish around him as he moves, dark fabric flowing like an extension of his aura.

All you can do is nod, acknowledging his indirect but meaningful support, and you feel a pang of regret for ever mentioning the Auror program. Had you kept it a secret, the balance you've so carefully maintained might not have teetered. But then again, in revealing the opportunity and rejecting it before him, perhaps you've brewed an even stronger elixir of trust between you two.

And as Head of House, he’s responsible for informing you over the summer of your admittance to the program.

You muster the courage to break the ensuing quiet. "Thank you for an incredible year. You didn't have to mentor me, but you did. It's something I… really value." You catch yourself before you tumble into further sentimentalities and sling your bag over your shoulder.

He contemplates you for a moment, as if mentally flipping through the pages of a particularly complex potions manual, and then nods. "Should you get selected for this... ostentatious boot camp of sorts," he muses, "expect an owl from me."

"Snape," you can't help but smile, a blend of fulfillment and yearning suffusing your core. Snape is a walking, talking labyrinth of complexities. Occasionally though, you unearth a stray piece of the puzzle. "I've already decided. Potions is my path."

He nods again, this time in a manner that suggests he's resigned himself to the idea. You can see he won't press the matter further, at least not now. You also think you catch a faint smile on his face from the side.

With a soft word of gratitude, you make for the door, intuitively knowing it's your cue to exit.

As you step through the doorframe for the final time this academic year, you can't help but sense that the portal you've crossed is more than just physical—it promises to beckon you back into the enigmatic world you've begun to inhabit. His world.

Roughly an hour after you've left, Snape is left alone, shrouded in the familiar quiet as he concludes his organizational efforts in the classroom that has served as both sanctuary and battlefield. The room, now absent of your presence, is steeped in a silence that feels both profound and hollow.

Summer looms ahead, not as a reprieve, but as a tense interlude in a life perpetually pulled between Dumbledore's schemes and the Dark Lord's malevolence. He scoffs. The prospect of any peace is a cruel illusion.

As Snape stands alone in the dimming classroom, bathed in the warm hues of a golden sunset, his thoughts involuntarily turn to the hour that had just passed. The sunlight had filtered through the window, casting delicate, shifting patterns of light and shadow across the room.

He can't help but remember how your presence had filled the space, a stark contrast to the solitude he now faced. The sun's last rays had danced gracefully across your face, bestowing upon you an ethereal radiance that painted a vivid portrait of beauty.

The sunset, like a masterful backdrop, had framed you in its golden embrace, etching the memory of your enchanting presence deep into his mind. In that moment, the world seemed to pause, and Snape found himself captivated by the simple, yet breathtaking sight of you in the waning daylight.

You. You glow too. Every time you enter his world, whether in the dimly lit potions classroom or under the floating candles of the Great Hall, there's a radiance about you that captivates him. It's not just your physical beauty, though that is undeniable, but a deeper, inner luminosity that sets you apart.

You’re a spark, and he burns.

He closes his eyes and breathes in the remnants of your essence lingering in the room. It was as if your very essence had become intertwined with the essence of the place, and in that quiet moment, he found solace in the lingering traces of your presence, a testament to the lasting impression you had made on his world.

When he opens his eyes again, his gaze falls upon the workstation that had so often been your shared space. Among the scatter of meticulously maintained notes and formulas lies his inventory booklet, flipped open to a seemingly inconsequential page. Nestled in the corner of an otherwise empty page is your hand-drawn cauldron, its frothing brew spewing playful tendrils of steam, each plume embellished with carefree hearts.

A swell of complex emotions rushes through him, both confusing and strangely comforting. A flicker of a smirk crosses his austere face, a transient break in his perennial armor. It fades as quickly as it appeared, leaving only a residue of something intangible but deeply felt.

With a crisp movement, he tears the page from the booklet and stuffs it away into his bag, a clandestine memento of the year that was. A fleeting smirk graces his lips, as evanescent as a wisp of potion steam.

Amid this solitude he hears the distant, almost mournful whistle of the Hogwarts Express leaving Hogsmeade, that carries with it the reality of your absence. His heart, so often safeguarded behind walls of cynicism and reserve, can't help but sink just a fraction.

It's a poignant reminder that for the next few months, the intriguing protégé that is you will be missing from the corridors of Hogwarts, and from the secluded classroom where magic—in many forms—had come to life. Shaking off the feeling as uncharacteristic sentimentality, he makes his way to the door, each step a retreat from a room suddenly too empty.

With one last lingering glance, he departs, each step carrying him toward the tumultuous unknown that is Spinner's End. The door clicks shut behind him, echoing in the empty room.

Late Summer at Home

Snuggled in your cozy reading alcove, beams of sunlight pour through the window, casting a warm, golden glow over the pages of your book. The novel in your hands is a special one—it's your mother's latest work. She’s a renowned author of young adult fiction, her storytelling an alchemy that turns ink and paper into entire worlds. As her daughter, you enjoy a unique privilege: the chance to compare her final masterpieces to their initial drafts.

It's like tasting a dish at different stages of cooking, discerning how the flavors deepen and meld over time. It's like observing a complex potion at various stages of brewing, each draft revealing new layers of magical essence, much like additional ingredients alter and enrich the final elixir.

It's like being privy to hidden layers of a Potions Master, each shared glance and whispered counsel revealing nuances of a complex personality, akin to discovering a secret ingredient that fundamentally changes the brew, yet leaves it inexplicably more captivating.

It's like being captivated by Severus Snape in varying shades of light and shadow, each interaction revealing new facets of his enigmatic soul, much like turning a crystal in your hand to appreciate its complex geometry.

Okay, you admonish yourself silently, cheeks tinged with a cheesy flush.

No more romance novels for the rest of the summer.

Just as you're lost to the romance unfurling on the page, a shadow flits across your peripheral vision. Your eyes dart to the far window of your room and land on the unmistakable, growing silhouette of a dark owl. Your heart leaps into overdrive, recognizing that raven-black plumage—it's from Snape.

Nearly tripping over the rug, you race to the other window and seize the letter from the owl's talons. As you unroll the parchment, your eyes trace the elegant script. Snape’s handwriting is a thing of art: refined, sharp, and somehow intimate in its formality. Each loop and curve sends a little thrill down your spine, as though his fingers had brushed against the paper just for you.

Enough of the romance novels. Focus.

"Congratulations.

You've just been admitted to what will undoubtedly be the most glorified gym class of your life.

See you in September,

Professor S. Snape."

Your heart flutters, caught in a crossfire of emotion and elation as your eyes scan the elegant slant of Snape's handwriting. The thrill of acceptance into the Goldhawk Initiative mixes strangely, but not unpleasantly, with the lingering undercurrent of your long-standing infatuation with your Potions Master.

The ink on the parchment might as well have been laced with Amortentia for the effect it has on you. With a surge of daring, you seize a parchment and quill, penning a retort that you hope mirrors his own brand of dry wit.

"Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.

Jury's still out on whether you'll make the cut for my magical dodgeball team.

See you soon."

You fasten the note to the owl's leg and watch as it flits away into the distance. Soon.

As the owl unfurls its wings and ascends into the sky, a foolish grin stretches across your face. You're not sure if it's the euphoria from your acceptance into the program or the tactile intimacy of Snape’s handwritten note. No, scratch that, you're fairly sure it’s the latter.

Bounding downstairs, you announced the news to your parents. The neighborhood was summoned later that evening, Butterbeer was poured, and a small celebration unfurled under the twinkling night sky.

Meanwhile, at Spinner's End, Snape carefully sets down a generously poured glass of firewhisky and unfolds your note. His usually stoic visage surreptitiously shifts to reveal a hidden smirk, so slight it would be missed by anyone who didn't know to look for it. Someone like you.

Shaking his head in a blend of amusem*nt and incredulity, he tucks your letter into the same drawer where the doodle resides. An inexplicable sense of anticipation fills the room, a crackling energy that lingers in the air long after he locks the drawer.

He imagines you gracefully moving through the room, a natural around the workstation. There's an ethereal quality to your presence, like a delicate, fragrant breeze that carries the promise of a blooming garden. Your eyes, like twin pools of liquid silver, seem to hold a world of secrets, and your laughter, a melodious symphony, resonates in his ears through the evenings.

It's a glow that he can't quite explain, one that draws him in like a moth to a flame, and in those moments, Snape finds himself inexplicably enchanted by your presence, a living masterpiece painted with the vibrant colors of life.

A book lies open in his hands, its contents rendered momentarily irrelevant. Though his eyes skim over the printed words, his mind is elsewhere, caught in a haze of anticipation. A haze of youunder the damned golden hues of the setting sun earlier that day.

For better or worse, the upcoming term already promises to be anything but monotonous.

Chapter 2: gold rush

Chapter Text

Gleaming, twinkling
Eyes like sinking
Ships on waters
So inviting, I almost jump in

gold rush - Taylor Swift

https://open.spotify.com/track/5BK0uqwY9DNfZ630STAEaq?si=e845b1b62b214c40

Hogwarts, Start of Term Feast of 7th Year

The Great Hall hums with a contagious energy, as if each stone and banner absorbs the spirited chatter of students. Your circle of friends sits close, their robes crisply pressed, faces bronzed by the sun's glow.

The Hall itself stands as a beacon of enchantment. Candles levitate in a mesmerizing dance above you, their warm glow caressing the atmosphere below. Scents of sumptuous feasts-to-come mingle with the nostalgic aroma of old books and polished wood, creating an olfactory tapestry that tugs at the deepest corners of your memory.

Above, the ceiling unfurls a spectacle of celestial beauty. Stars twinkle with uncanny realism against an obsidian sky, punctuated by wispy clouds that meander with dreamlike slowness. The air, thick with the texture of anticipation, feels like liquid magic against your skin.

Yet your gaze keeps veering toward the side entrance that will soon fill the room with the presence of the Hogwarts professors.

As you sit there, surrounded by the faces you've grown to know over the years, a different kind of weight settles over you. This is your last year, your final sojourn in this magical fortress that has been your second home.

NEWTs echo in your mind, as well as the complex incantations you'll soon be required to master. But the exams are just a part of the tapestry, threads woven into a year that promises to be unlike any other.

The feast feels altered when you realize this will be your last. The gleaming plates and goblets, the fluttering House banners above—they all seem to tug at your heart. The sensations of excitement and sentimentality coalesce into a profound moment of reflection. This is the threshold of your future, the brink of adulthood in a world that needs you to be both cunning and ambitious, of course, but also wise and courageous.

Finally, the side door at the front of the hall creaks open, and one by one, the faculty files in. Your eyes scan the procession until they land on Snape—his presence a gravitational pull as potent as a well-crafted Amortentia.

A memory flits through your mind: an after-hours lesson when you brewed the potent love potion under his watchful eye. When the time came to identify its scent, the potion seemed strangely odorless. You couldn't distinguish any particular fragrance.

It was a baffling phenomenon that confused you until realization struck—you couldn't smell the Amortentia because Snape was standing right next to you, effectively becoming the potion's elusive scent.

So you lied, panicked and flushed, you improvised, blurting out a wildly random assortment of smells: thunderstorms, a crackling fire, freshly baked wheat bread, and lavender. Snape's eyebrow had shot up so high you worried it might take flight, his expression of bewildered amusem*nt.

The corners of your mouth lift involuntarily into a subtle grin. As if guided by some arcane sensitivity, he scans the crowd and his eyes meet yours. In that fleeting moment, time seems suspended, and you notice a softening in his usually stern gaze, as if layers of his formidable defenses have momentarily receded.

Your grin broadens, radiating an ineffable warmth that fills you.

Dumbledore rises, his eyes twinkling in a fashion that could give the enchanted ceiling a run for its stardust, and the hall settles down. "Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed faculty and cherished students, we gather here on this auspicious eve for more than our customary Start of Term celebration. Tonight, we set the stage for futures both dazzling and uncertain." His voice deepens, laden with gravitas as the students hum with an electric charge of intrigue.

He waves his wand ever so subtly to amplify his voice. "The Ministry of Magic has bestowed upon us the immense honor of launching the Goldhawk Initiative within these very walls." Dumbledore pauses for effect, letting the words hang in the air as the hall bursts into a crescendo of whispers and conjectures.

"This elite program," he picks up, "is no mere extension of your academic journey. It is, in essence, a forging of character, a crucible that challenges the very sinews of your magical abilities and ethical resolve. The Goldhawk Initiative brings the life of an Auror into immediate focus: those chosen will be our future defenders against the Dark Arts, ambassadors of justice, and paragons of magical ingenuity. Such a path is not to be tread lightly, for it is as rewarding as it is perilous."

The room falls into a rapt silence, hanging onto each mellifluous word, aware that this program promises much more than prestige—it offers a destiny.

Dumbledore's gaze sweeps the hall before settling back on his notes. "The selection for this prodigious opportunity could not have been more challenging, but I am pleased to announce the three fortunate souls who will embark on this unparalleled journey."

Names are read off. Cedric Diggory, a Hufflepuff, Ben Hammond, a Gryffindor, and you.

The crowd explodes in applause and cheers. You feel your friends' enthusiastic pats on the back as ecstatic squeals fill your ears. But what makes your heart swell is the sight of Snape, who had barely acknowledged the previous students, clapping—eyes locked on you.

"As for their mentor," Dumbledore's voice deepens, imbued with a unique blend of reverence and delight, "allow me to introduce your new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Auror Aesop Sharp."

A man in his early forties emerges from behind the faculty line, his presence commanding attention even among this distinguished crowd. His brown hair, streaked with modest hints of gray, frames a face chiseled by years of fieldwork and close calls. A beard complements his rugged features.

His ensemble is a deft mix of casual and formal—a three-piece suit layered beneath a brown overcoat, the ensemble completed by a light brown vest, a white shirt, and a brown tie. The overall look suggests both authority and approachability, which strikes you as the perfect balance for an Auror turned educator.

The room buzzes with impressed whispers. Girls lean in closer to one another, their faces flushed, as they share giggles that suggest they’re practically drawing hearts around his name already. The boys exchange glances of wide-eyed respect, regarding him as if he just walked out of an action-packed wizarding comic.

The name 'Aesop Sharp' travels in murmurs, growing louder like a spell gaining potency, affirming that the man standing before them is no ordinary professor, but someone exceptional—a hero in his own right.

Your thoughts briefly wander to the Gilderoy Lockhart fiasco a few years back, and you can't help but wince. Lockhart's self-absorbed preening still haunts your dreams, and you sincerely hope Sharp won't pull out a set of glittering, autographed quills anytime soon.

As he walks up to join Dumbledore, you notice a slight limp in his left leg, undoubtedly a silent testament to battles fought and sacrifices made.

His eyes sweep over the student body before they lock onto yours. The smile that spreads across his lips is warm, yet it holds an undercurrent of knowing. You're hooked, your curiosity piqued, and your excitement for the year ahead magnified tenfold.

"Thank you, Headmaster," Aesop says, his voice confident yet inviting. "I look forward to guiding our young talents through the perils and opportunities that await them. May we all rise to the challenges of the coming year." With a nod and a congenial smile to the students, especially toward you and the two boys, he takes his seat.

Your eyes shift to Snape, curious about his reaction to this newcomer. Snape's face is its usual mask, but his eyes narrow ever so slightly as they follow Sharp to the other side of the table, as if scrutinizing a complex potion that had suddenly altered in hue. The flicker of his gaze toward Aesop is fleeting but laden with subtle scrutiny, before returning to its original focus—you.

Dumbledore's voice booms through the hall, announcing the first-year students' arrival, and you watch them shuffle toward the Sorting Hat. From your distant seat, you wonder if you appeared as timid when you were a first-year.

As the Sorting Hat belts out its god-awful song, your mind drifts back to your own first year—awestruck and nervous, you had no clue what path you'd take. Now, sitting here in your seventh year, you know in your heart that it's potions. And that certainty, that passion, you owe largely to Snape.

A pang of sadness sears through your heart at the thought of leaving him and this formative chapter of your life. Will he keep in touch? Will your paths cross in a way that allows you to exchange letters, filled with discoveries and challenges in potion-making? Something more?

These thoughts stir a somber chord deep within you, but you chase them away, not allowing them to settle, not yet. Another student is sorted, the hat's mouth snapping shut as it announces their new house, and the hall erupts into either cheers or polite applause.

Tales of summer adventures, both in the magical and Muggle realms, fill the air with laughter. When the festivities finally conclude, your gaze instinctively seeks out Snape's.

Catching his eyes, he arches a brow—a silent question hanging in the air. Responding with a subtle eyebrow raise of your own, you receive a slight nod in return, as if sealing a tacit agreement. With that unspoken exchange, you find yourself bypassing the path to your dormitory, instead veering towards the all-too-familiar haven of the potions classroom.

Before you can fully descend into the sanctuary of the dungeons, a voice halts your steps on the staircase. "A word, if I may?" The voice carries the gravelly resonance of maturity, tinged with a certain allure.

Turning, you find Aesop Sharp leaning against the stone balustrade. "Congratulations on being selected for Goldhawk," he begins, offering a slightly folded parchment. "Aesop Sharp." He introduces himself.

Up close, the rugged lines of his face, his scar, and the depth in his brown eyes are even more compelling. A hushed whisper flutters through the clusters of students passing by; their eyes dart between you and the new professor with thinly veiled excitement.

"Thank you, Professor Sharp," you say as you take the parchment. It's your new class schedule.

In addition to your existing NEWT-level Advanced Potions, NEWT DADA, and NEWT Herbology -- NEWT Charms, NEWT Transfiguration and designated time blocks for Goldhawk training have been inserted. You find yourself wondering if you'll have time for anything else—especially your private brewing sessions with the man waiting for you in the dungeons below.

"The Initiative," Sharp continues, eyes keenly observing your reaction to the schedule, "is a departure from any educational endeavor you've experienced. It's not for the faint-hearted. You'll be stretched—mentally, morally, emotionally, magically."

His words, deliberate, loom with a certain gravity, casting shadows of complexities. Intrigue prickles at the edges of your consciousness, prompting questions you instinctively sense it's not yet time to voice.

"It sounds like a challenge I'm prepared to face," you reply, a blend of eagerness and caution tinge your voice.

"Your father will be proud. He never backed down from a challenge. And you shouldn't either," he adds, adjusting his stance.

The reference to your father hits a sentimental chord, but also solidifies your resolve. “Absolutely, sir," you agree, now more than ever committed to living up to both your family's legacy and the nebulous but pressing expectations before you.

"Can you run a 5k?" he suddenly interjects your thoughts.

"I—what?"

"Can you run a 5k in decent time without stopping?" he clarifies, his brown eyes examining you intently.

"I—no?" you respond, utterly bewildered by the abrupt shift in conversation.

"Better start now." he smiles, turning around to walk away.

Your eyes scan your new, crammed class schedule. As if the added NEWTs and whatever this Auror training entails weren't enough, it seems that now a 5k run is also on the agenda. You suppose it really will be a glorified gym class .

"I…I'll just get up half an hour earlier," you mutter, almost to yourself, pondering the density of your final year at Hogwarts. Whatever happened to senioritis?

"Good girl," he says over his shoulder, and the words send an unexpected thrill zigzagging down your spine, eliciting a combination of excitement and… Nothing you really want to think about on a packed staircase. Your eyes widen, not expecting the electric charge those simple words would deliver.

There's a beat where you both lock eyes, as if mutually acknowledging the weight of the path you're about to embark upon and… whatever that was.

Abruptly, Sharp nods and pushes away from the balustrade. "Look for my owl," he says, striding away, leaving you standing in the wake of his comment with flushed cheeks.

As you descend the stairs to the potions classroom, a sense of exhilaration courses through you, awakening your senses to the very air, which smells curiously of elderberries and freshly-cut parchment. The atmosphere grows noticeably cooler, dampness tickling your skin as the stone walls give off an intimate ambiance.

Your heart races as you pull open the heavy wooden door, half expecting to find Snape amidst a maze of steaming cauldrons and delicate phials. To your surprise, the room is devoid of its typical alchemical paraphernalia—no simmering brews, no intricate setups. Just Snape, alone.

The moment you lay eyes on Snape again, your heart does a little fluttering dance that it reserves solely for him. It's almost like spotting your favorite constellation in the night sky after months of cloudy evenings.

His stern demeanor softens ever so slightly. Perhaps it's your imagination, but you'd like to think he's pleased to see you.

You can't help but think of the note he sent you over the summer, now almost as worn as a beloved childhood storybook. How many times had you unfolded it to read by the flickering Lumos before bed? Or sneakily peeked at it during the day, as if those carefully penned words could somehow hop off the parchment and give you a hug?

Seeing him now, you feel as though you've been reunited with a piece of your soul, and it's all you can do to keep from beaming like a lovestruck schoolgirl. To be back in his orbit, humbled to be in his universe—the pull is as strong as ever.

It's kinda gross, your attraction to this man. But you've fallen hard.

"You're here," he states, almost teasingly. "Congratulations again on your selection to the Initiative ."

"Thank you, Professor," you reply, your smile widening. You can tell from his tone, the slight downturn of his lips, that he's not entirely thrilled about the entire ordeal.

Your thoughts flicker to the last day of your sixth year, a conversation you'd had with Snape in this very room. He had strongly advised you to stay centered on your Potions studies, all but discouraging you from venturing into other magical disciplines.

Was it jealousy? You couldn't say for certain, but you recall the intense focus in his eyes, the fervency in his voice, as though he wished to keep his favorite pupil within the sphere of potion-making. As you stand here now, feeling the weight of his gaze, you hope that fervency translates into some form of jealousy.

It doesn't unsettle you; on the contrary, it adds an electrifying charge to the air—a challenge, a mystery you're eager to unravel. You decide to push.

"So, what do you think of Sharp?" you begin, settling yourself atop a workstation in front of him. "Do you know him? One of the boys at dinner this evening mentioned he was a Slytherin back in his days."

Snape's eyes narrow slightly, his mouth pulling into a taut line. "Yes, I knew of him. He left Hogwarts when I was still a novice to these walls. Slytherin alumni who made his way to a profession glorified for its—how should I put it—ostentatious sense of heroism?" He walks over to the workstation in front of you and leans against it, crossing his arms.

Your gaze locks onto Snape's again, and although he doesn't say it, you sense a flicker of disdain—not specifically for Sharp, but perhaps for the whole glorified business of being an Auror.

The words from dinner time echo in your head: One of the boys at your table had offhandedly mentioned that Snape likely despises Sharp, given the rumors that he was once entangled in the Dark Arts and had been a Death Eater.

Your thoughts whirl, weaving facts and whispered rumors together. It's an open secret, this hushed-up stigma that serves as a persistent stain on Snape's reputation. You had dismissed it then, but there’s a possibility it could make sense.

If the rumors hold even a shred of truth, it offers a deeper explanation for Snape's apparent disdain for Aurors and Sharp in particular. It's not just about whispers; it could be an ingrained ideology, a complex tapestry of history and personality. But there’s no way the man standing before you, who you’ve shared late night conversations with for a year, could be capable of such things.

You have to admit, though. This newfound understanding only adds to the enigma of Severus Snape, making him all the more intriguing and, if you dare admit it, all the more irresistibly charming.

Breaking your reverie, he speaks. His voice drips with sarcasm, each word pronounced meticulously as if to savor the irony. "Aurors, always chasing after the dramatic. The seekers of attention and accolades. They're nearly as enamored with their own exploits as Gilderoy Lockhart was with his own reflection."

Your eyes widen and a laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. "Oh my god, I thought the exact same thing earlier! Stop!”

To your astonishment, the corners of Snape's mouth twitch upward ever so slightly, and you could swear you hear a suppressed chuckle. It's a rare, surprising moment that sends your heart skittering like a bubbling cauldron, and suddenly, Snape's allure reaches a new peak. You've always known he's attractive, but at this moment, his magnetism is palpable.

You pull out your new schedule and slide it over to him. "Take a look at this madness," you say. "I met Sharp on the stairs, and he gave me my new schedule."

Snape's eyes trace the crowded lines on your new class schedule. "I presume you've considered how these new commitments will affect our extracurricular endeavors in potion-making?"

His words hang in the air, less a question than an expectation—tinged with layers of careful self-preservation that can't entirely mask a hint of personal concern. His underlying message is clear: will your newfound responsibilities detract not only from the art of potions but also from the time you've been spending with him?

Inside, a subtle thrill courses through you, a pleasing wave of warmth. You sense his thinly veiled jealousy, and it brings a secret, delighted smile to your heart.

"I'm hardly concerned about a glorified gym class. He’s even added a 5k to the curriculum. So if you think running in circles will keep me from brewing a perfect Draught of Living Death…" you quip, eyes twinkling with mischief as you lay the sarcasm on thick.

A subtle smile tugs at the corners of Snape's lips, so faint you'd miss it if you weren't looking. "Is that so?"

"Yes," you say, pushing your luck just a bit. "If you want to spend more time with me, you're going to have to lace up those running shoes, Professor Snape."

The atmosphere in the room thickens with tension and intrigue, both of you knowing well that the undercurrents of your banter carry more weight than mere words.

"You're a clever little owl, aren't you?" Snape smirks. There's an unexpected playfulness in his words and expression, a Snape-ish version of a wink and a nod that sets your pulse racing faster than any 5k ever could, all delivered with that rare smirk and an undertone that's almost affectionate.

It’s enough to make you pause, lips parted. In that moment, you swear your heart explodes in your chest, scattering fragments of unspeakable joy through the dark recesses of the dungeons.

"Your clever little owl, you dungeon bat," you say, boldly, the words escaping your lips before you even realize they've escaped. The audacity of your remark hangs in the air, and for a heartbeat, you wonder if you've gone too far.

There's a moment of silence, or at least it feels like a long one in the midst of your nervousness. You're expecting a sharp retort or a disapproving glare from Snape. You expect him to reject your remark completely, but to your surprise, he obliges your comment with a smirk in a way that catches you off guard.

He leans in slightly, his voice low and almost conspiratorial. "You have a sharp wit, I'll give you that," Snape replies, his words carrying a hint of amusem*nt. He stands from his desk, and you instinctively take your cue to leave. "But do be careful where you aim those barbs. You might find that this dungeon bat has fangs sharper than you expect."

There's a subtle challenge in his tone, a tacit acknowledgment that your comment hasn't gone unnoticed, and he's more than capable of matching your verbal sparring. All the pages of your new, intimidating class schedule and even the shadow of your Auror training don't stand a chance against the intoxicating potential of what just happened here.

You nod in response, still caught in the whirlwind of emotions from your unexpected exchange. As you turn to leave, you're momentarily disoriented, your mind racing while your body moves on autopilot. You reach for the door, but Snape is quicker. He holds it open with a surprisingly gentle gesture, and in your haste, you brush up against him.

The brief contact sends a jolt through you, and you can't help but steal a glance at him. His eyes, as dark and enigmatic as ever, seem to hold a glimmer of something deeper. Is it curiosity? Interest? Or perhaps, something more complex that you can't quite decipher.

With a final nod, you wish him a good night and step into the corridor, leaving the potions classroom behind. Your heart races not only from the unexpected encounter but also from this newly opened door to the mystery that is Severus Snape.

You make your way back to your dormitory, eager to discuss the Goldhawk Initiative with your friends.

Upon your return, you're met with a joyous surprise in your common room. The upperclassmen have gathered to celebrate your selection for the program. Laughter and congratulations fill the room, and the night turns into a lively party, the perfect way to kick off your seventh year at Hogwarts.

Hours pass in a blur of fun and camaraderie, and it's well past midnight when the Head Boy finally intervenes, reluctantly shutting down the festivities. You bid your friends goodnight, your head buzzing with excitement, and make your way to bed.

On your pillow, you find a note from Professor Sharp. It instructs you to rendezvous with him tomorrow at 3pm, marking the commencement of your first training session.

After Dinner, Snape

Snape’s walk from the Great Hall to the potions classroom has never felt shorter. Tonight, with the promise of seeing you again, it feels almost instantaneous.

Nervousness gnaws at him; he wonders if his near-subliminal communication across the cavernous Great Hall was interpreted correctly by you. The messages were coded, camouflaged amidst casual glances and almost imperceptible nods. Still, if anyone could decode his silent cues, it would be you—perhaps knowing him better than anyone else in these stone walls, save for Albus Dumbledore.

He enters the classroom, he wandlessly closes the drawer of his desk that safeguards your drawing from last term. That drawing, once torn from an inventory booklet and now a treasured relic, had followed him home this summer, resting in a hidden drawer in his seldom-used writing desk. A stolen glance at the art had been his guilty indulgence, each view bringing a perplexing mix of comfort and confusion.

As he was leaving Spinner’s End for the start of the current term, trunk in hand and door half-closed behind him, he had turned abruptly, walked back in to retrieve the piece of parchment. The hand-drawn cauldron, frothing with tendrils of steam adorned by carefree hearts, had been a whisper of something lighter in his otherwise gloom-ridden life.

He stares at his desk as he leans against it, wrestling with emotions he's not supposed to have, ones he considers dangerous and indulgent, especially towards a student. It's a complicated tapestry of affection and conflict, warring within him.

A stern voice in the back of his mind reminds him of the impropriety, but the pull is undeniable, compelling in its intensity. For a man skilled at occluding his thoughts, even he finds it difficult to barricade these rogue feelings.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he reminds himself to maintain the stony facade that has always been his armor. But as the creak of the door hinge announces your entrance, he can't help but feel a softening around the edges of his guarded heart.

Then, there you are, framed by the doorway as if an apparition stepping out from a dream.

You lock eyes with him, and in that moment, his eyes betray more than he would ever admit—relief, yearning, a tinge of vulnerability. It's a vulnerability he'll never openly admit to, but in this moment, it's as potent as any potion he's ever brewed.

Time seems to slow, and Snape's carefully constructed walls waver. Your presence alone punctuates the room, filling the corners with a warmth that no fireplace can offer.

It’s as if you bring with you an intangible blend of scents and sounds that's unique to you—notes of parchment, ink, and that lavender-infused shampoo you prefer. A sense of completeness settles over him, a realization that the hollow space left during the summer months has been filled once more.

He clears his throat to congratulate you on being selected for the Initiative, but not before he thinks, not for the first time and certainly not the last, how wonderfully dangerous it is to feel this deeply for someone when you've spent a lifetime perfecting the art of feeling nothing at all.

Chapter 3: clouds

Chapter Text

I forget this and that
I forget about the sh*t that doesn't matter
My memory could be erased
And I'd still be thinking 'bout your face

clouds - borns

https://open.spotify.com/track/03v70ZBxmcPX3RWAZMzqaW?si=b36691d5ad9e4ac1

The early morning mist clung low to the grass as you ran through the Hogwarts grounds, wrapping the castle and its environs in an ethereal veil. The earth beneath your feet was dampened, releasing a fresh, earthy aroma with each step you took. Wildflowers flanked your path, their hues still muted in the soft, pre-dawn light, as though the world itself was hesitant to awaken fully.

The castle becomes a distant blur as you embrace the solitude of your new routine. Each footfall on the dew-kissed grass creates a rhythm with your heartbeat, making the vast Hogwarts grounds feel intimately personal. The morning air is crisp, carrying the tantalizing aroma of nearby flora, a verdant symphony that refreshes your senses.

You circle the Black Lake, the early morning sun finally breaks through the horizon, turning the water's surface into a shimmering expanse of molten gold. The view alone feels like a small reward. Maybe you could do this, after all.

Optimism fills you. Sure, you're no natural runner, and though you aren’t unfit, the 5k goal still feels miles away—yet somehow, attainable.

As you jog, you realize you're near Snape's office. Making a spontaneous decision, you divert from your path and approach his window embedded within the stone walls of the castle. You catch sight of him through the glass, engrossed in something at his desk.

Sensing a presence outside his office—or perhaps annoyed by the sudden obstruction of the rare stream of sunlight that graces his workspace—Snape looks up from his desk. You smile at him, and wave. Setting aside the parchment he was scrutinizing, he rises and approaches the towering window with an arched eyebrow.

His silhouette, initially just a shadow, gains form as the hazy morning sun illuminates his features. With cautious hands, he unlatches the 10 ft window, pushing it outward into the crisp air, leaning against the rugged stone and crosses his arms.

"Quite the athletic endeavor, I see," he says.

"Getting a head start on my glorified gym class," you reply, panting lightly. The rising sun casts a glow on your skin, making you appear otherworldly.

Snape’s eyes are on your flushed face and the perspiration along your forehead. "And here I thought you'd still be buried in a potions textbook at this hour."

You chuckle. "Even future Potions Masters need cardio."

"Utterly essential for all the arduous stirring and ingredient-chopping," he retorts with a frown, but the sparkle in his eyes gives him away. It's as close to playful as Snape ever gets.

A smile pulls at your lips, a delightful little secret shared in the quiet morning air. "Well, one must be prepared for all eventualities."

"And is that your mantra for the day, then?"

"You could say that," you say. "Although, my most immediate priority would be a shower."

Your eyes flicker downward, acknowledging your present state—somewhat unkempt and more openly vulnerable than you've ever allowed yourself to be in Snape's presence.

Sweat cascades from your neck, tracing a shimmering path down to your collarbone and further between your breasts. Each inhalation you draw contours your already toned abdomen, revealing a subtle play of muscles.

You're suddenly consumed with curiosity, wondering if he's drinking in these details, whether his dark eyes catch the nuance of your physicality. Although, his eyes have met yours the whole time.

As you look back up, you catch the faintest dart of his eyes that tell you he’s followed your gaze down your physique before snapping back to your eyes. His expression remains inscrutable, but you sense a subtle change in the energy between you. It's as if he hopes you didn't catch that moment—but you did.

It lingers in the air like an unfinished sentence.

Clearing his throat a bit more forcefully than necessary, Snape recalibrates his poise. But even in that forced moment of composure, you sense the fractional shift.

"Indeed. I wouldn't want you to be late for your...esteemed gym class."

"You wouldn't want that, would you?"

Holding his gaze, a flood of feelings – admiration, desire, and a fair bit of fear – surface. You let it morph into a delicate dance of eyes. The urge to suppress these feelings is in vain; they're already part of the atmosphere between you.

You instinctively lean in closer and you find your eyes involuntarily mapping the contours of his face and the cut of his robe.

It seems to activate your fight or flight, as you find yourself turning away, resuming your run. The air carries the residual energy of your very brief encounter with Snape. Your little detour has added something new to the morning's sensory palette: the intoxicating mix of anticipation that only Snape seems to evoke.There’s a lingering sensation that Snape's gaze might still be tracing your retreating form.

Gods, you hope he’s still watching.

It's like a secret ingredient added to your daily brew of life, and it makes everything taste just a little bit richer.

By the time 3pm rolls around, you're practically vibrating with excitement and dread. You find your way to a spacious, underground chamber you've never seen before at Hogwarts. Waiting in the middle of the room is Cedric Diggory.

Background thoughts fill the air: You recall sharing a Charms class with him in both your third and fifth years, but his claim to fame had blossomed outside the classroom. The Triwizard Champion from a humble family who walked away with a thousand Galleons. He's also the same person who barely escaped with his life during that fatal tournament, witnessing firsthand Voldemort's return.

And considering the fact that he’s standing before you for an intensive Auror fast-track program, the experience only seemed to have steeled his resolve rather than deter him. He possesses an aura of quiet, but intense resilience.

Cedric greets you, his eyes twinkling. "Are you as clueless as I am about what we signed up for? Because, honestly, I'm a bit terrified.” His words are tinged with that characteristic wry smile of his.

"Same here, it's all a bit mysterious," you echo. "My father did mention good things about the program, but he's been rather cryptic on the details. You know how veteran Aurors can be. It’s very possible that he doesn’t know, actually."

"Your father? He's done some incredible things in his time. Makes sense you'd be following in his footsteps," Cedric says. He sighs, shoulders loosening as he does. "My parents weren't exactly thrilled about me signing up for this. After my close encounter… Y’know, two years ago, they were hoping I'd opt for something less... life-threatening. But, that’s exactly what drove me to this.

Pretty ambitious for a Hufflepuff, you think, secretly admiring his fervor.

You explain that you’re really just doing this to appease your father. You feel a twinge of guilt for potentially occupying a spot that others, like Cedric, might have genuinely aspired to. To your surprise, Cedric doesn't appear to be bothered by any of it.

The chamber door creaks open and Ben Hammond strides into the room with an air of casual authority that's both slightly endearing but really, mostly grating.

Ben stands just a bit taller than you, but his demeanor suggests he's towering. With curly brown hair, a neat beard, and piercing blue eyes, he is both observant and oblivious. You've known him distantly over the years, running in similar Hogsmeade circles recently. He's the guy who'd loudly critique a bartender, awkward tension be damned.

"Ah, so we're the elite few, then?" he comments, rather more loudly than the intimate setting seems to call for. "Or are we the guinea pigs?"

There's an innate lightness to him—a certain joie de vivre that can't quite be dampened, even by his own lack of sensitivity. The way he scans the room, stakes out his spot, and stands there, you'd think he's already mentally claimed the space as his own.

"What do you mean?" you ask, arching a brow, glancing briefly at Cedric before returning your focus to Ben.

"You haven't heard?" Ben starts, conspiratorially. "Rumors that this whole Goldhawk thing might be some experimental sandbox for the Ministry. New spells, unconventional tactics, magical vows with god-knows-what consequences."

His voice drops lower. "We could be the Ministry's lab rats in a magical little maze."

You can't help but wonder if there's some truth to his words, and if so, what that could mean for all of you. Maybe it’s Ben being Ben. He’s a stark contrast to the circ*mspect manner most people employ in unknown circ*mstances.

"Good to meet you, Ben," Cedric offers politely, though you notice a slight tightening around his eyes. Clearly, he's already picked up on Ben's particular brand of candor, a trait you'd find admirable if it weren't often teetering on the brink of arrogance.

"Anyone else concerned that Sharp's the one leading us? His past is sketchy, right? Top Auror, then he lets himself get ambushed, partner's dead, and now he's got a limp and a teaching gig? Like?" Ben rambles on, seemingly unaware of the tense atmosphere he's created.

You and Cedric share a concerned look, more worried about Ben's tactlessness than Sharp's history.

"Ya, this whole thing is off. I’m just here for whatever chaos is going to ensue," Ben continues. You wonder if he simply hates silence, the way he goes on.

Minutes later, Aesop Sharp strides into the room. His features are worn but resilient, like leather toughened by years of exposure. Sharp's eyes sweep the room, settling briefly on each recruit. "Good afternoon," he intones.

"Today we focus on theoretical foundations—magical law, Dark Arts identification, and strategic thinking. Practical combat comes later. Survive theory, then we'll see if you're worth the physical exertion," he declares. His voice is a co*cktail of authority and caution, as though every syllable is a well-calculated move on a celestial chessboard.

Before you can fully absorb his words, he adds, "Your social calendars—wipe them clean. Commit to this fully, or leave now." An eerie quiet fills the room, each recruit submerged in their own sea of contemplation. As for you, your thoughts drift to Snape and your cherished brewing sessions. Can they fit into this unyielding new regimen?

Ben—whose presence has always been like a wildcard—pipes up. "Sooooo, no room for social life? Guess we’re not hitting the Three Broomsticks with you anytime soon?" His words, infused with a casual audacity, hover awkwardly in the room.

Then Sharp fixes him with an icy glare that could freeze fire. "Perhaps you misunderstand, Mr. Hammond. This is not a casual endeavor. If you're here for levity, the door is that way." His voice is tinged with a severity that makes the temperature in the room seem to drop a few degrees.

An Oath of Secrecy parchment circulates the room. As your eyes trace the ancient runes inscribed in dark ink, you can't help but wonder what sort of magic is woven into the script. Is it as binding as an Unbreakable Vow? You hesitate before you finally sign. In your peripheral vision, you see Ben’s expression falter before he signs his name onto the parchment.

Sharp launches into the day's lesson, a no-nonsense dive into magical law. "Ignorance of the law excuses no one," he says, eyes briefly locking onto Ben, who squirms under the scrutiny. "Especially not Aurors."

Sharp activates a series of enchanted slides that materialize in the air, vivid images and text hovering before you. The first chart displays an array of dark artifacts—literature, cursed objects, and more. Each carries a backstory laced with malice and imbued with dark magic. The room's walls seem to close in as the atmosphere grows taut with seriousness.

"Never underestimate the power of a cursed object," his wand flicking to the image of a cursed locket. "Some might drain your soul piece by piece, while others could unleash unspeakable horrors. The point is to never let your guard down. Do not touch anything you aren’t intimately familiar with. When in doubt, your wand’s your best friend."

Sharp's words awaken a fragment of wisdom from your father that surfaces from the depths of your memory. "If an object feels heavier in your soul than it looks, be wary," he had once told you. "Dark magic has a way of burdening not just the physical senses, but the very essence of your being. Trust your instincts; they’re the best curse detectors you have."

The words are eerily apt for this moment, a paternal whisper that finds its way into a chamber filled with the chilling paraphernalia of dark forces.

Ben blurts out, clearly unable to contain his curiosity, "Soooo how are we supposed to know it's cursed in the first place?"

Sharp is visibly exasperated. "Mr. Hammond, the whole point of this training is to instill in you the ability to recognize such threats. We are not here to deal in the obvious; we're here to cultivate awareness and skill. The answers won't be handed to you on a silver platter."

Ben looks at him, dumbfounded. You wonder what goes on in that head of his. You hear Cedric chuckle under his breath on the other side of him.

Sharp rolls his eyes. "What I mean, Mr. Hammond, is that your senses, your magical intuition, and your strategic thinking should work in concert. You'll learn to feel the malevolent aura, see the telltale signs, perhaps even smell or hear something unusual. And of course, there are various revealing spells one might employ. But none of this replaces the need for vigilance and critical thinking. If you're asking for a checklist that will easily identify a cursed object, you're in the wrong line of work."

As he continues his lesson, you find yourself completely enthralled by his intensity. You find yourself wondering about his past—the unspoken experiences that lend a weighted hand to his every word. What could have hardened him so? What trials had he faced? His leg? His scar? His countenance carries both the burnt pages and badges of a storied history you can only guess at.

And then there's the undeniable fact: the man is rather handsome. There’s the conventional charm, but also his energy that makes it difficult to look away. Perhaps it's the way his eyes lock onto each recruit as if challenging them to rise to his level, or the firm set of his jaw as he speaks about dark artifacts and dangerous magics.

You find yourself to actually be drawn into the depth of the subject, even more so because of the man teaching it. It's not just a lesson on the Dark Arts; it feels like a glimpse into the complexities of Aesop Sharp himself. And definitely not just a glorified gym class.

Ben starts to formulate a retort, but one glance from Sharp silences him immediately.

"As we delve further into Dark Arts identification," Sharp continues, his wand deftly sparking and outlining a grotesque shape in the air—The Dark Mark—, "there is one sign you must all become intimately familiar with. This is not just a tattoo or an emblem; it's a brand, a binding commitment to darkness."

The room goes quiet, and you find yourself unsettled by Sharp's lingering glance. His eyes lock onto yours for a moment longer than necessary before he continues.

Your thoughts involuntarily drift to Snape and those illicit corridor rumors that have always circulated about his possible affiliations with the Death Eaters. If they were true, he would undoubtedly bear this mark. Yet, you've never seen him in anything other than long sleeves, even in the heat of summer.

Clearing your throat, you ask, "Is there a way to remove or conceal it?"

"No," Sharp responds immediately as he meets your gaze with an intensity that makes you slightly uncomfortable. "Once you bear the Dark Mark, it's a part of you. Unchangeable and indelible."

Confused, you can't help but wonder why he seemed to anticipate your question. There’s a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"The Dark Mark is not just ink on skin; it's a magical contract, an allegiance that etches itself into the soul of the one who bears it. No charm or potion can remove or hide it. That is intentional. Remember, when you see this mark, you are likely facing an enemy committed to darkness at the cost of their own soul."

Your thoughts further entangle as you consider the whispers, the insinuations that have perpetually veiled Snape in a haze. Even your own father once casually mentioned that Snape was "a man with a dark, complicated past," leaving it at that. It was a subtle confirmation, or perhaps an acknowledgment, that the rumors encircling the Potion Master were not entirely unfounded.

What did your father mean by "complicated"? Did it involve the Dark Arts, an illicit group, or something far more personal? And if it did, could it possibly extend to a Dark Mark?

No, no chance.

Sharp pauses, as if savoring the weight of the room's collective apprehension before he continues.

"Let me make something abundantly clear: those who bear it have no desire to remove it. They've committed not just to a mark on their skin but to a life steeped in malevolence and cruelty. People with such conviction do not seek redemption; they've made their choices and stand by them, inflicting irreversible pain onto others. Never make the mistake of believing that such individuals can easily be swayed from their chosen path. A mark like that isn't just a brand; it's a herald of malevolence, an insidious promise for darker days."

Your father's words return to haunt you. A man with a complicated past . Complicated doesn't mean irredeemable, does it? Could a past marked by dark choices be a prologue to a future of change? Or, as Sharp seemed to imply, do certain choices bind you forever, pulling you inexorably down a one-way path? Sharp said himself, a mark as sinister as the Dark Mark leaves no room for ambiguity; it represents a willing commitment to malevolence.

There had always been an aura around Snape—something heavy, like a dense fog that obscures more than it reveals. But within that fog, you'd glimpsed traces of vulnerability. Moments where the stern face and biting sarcasm fell away, even if just briefly.

Were those instances a manifestation of something deeper, perhaps a struggle surrounding you from within, or were they masterful deceptions, designed to cloak a darker reality? Your mind wrestles with the unsettling idea: could someone you've spent time with, someone you've scrutinized from various angles yet never fully understood, be such a person?

As Sharp moves on to other topics, you try to focus, but his earlier pronouncements reverberate in your thoughts. The disquiet has evolved into an internal maelstrom, your earlier convictions clashing with the harsh doctrine he’s laid down. You feel caught between two conflicting tides: your own idealistic hope for redemption and Sharp's stark warning against such naive aspirations.

"Your jobs," Sharp says as he moves to the next slide, "are not just to combat dark magic, but to understand it. To look it in the eye and acknowledge it for what it is. The moment you underestimate its potential for devastation, you become its ally rather than its enemy."

Could the same be true for people? And if so, where does that place Snape?

Questions swirl in your mind like a cauldron's volatile brew. But unlike a potion, the answers are not forthcoming, and certainly not as clear-cut.

The slide changes, and now you're staring at vials of illegal potion ingredients—unicorn blood, human bone dust, and the heartstrings of endangered magical creatures. "These ingredients are illegal for a reason," Sharp points out, his voice tinged with obvious disdain. "Possession alone could land you in Azkaban; usage could corrupt your very essence."

Your eyes instinctively light up at the mention of potions. Sharp catches your subtle change in demeanor and his eyes meet yours for a second. It's as if he's taking mental notes. And yet, you can't shake the feeling that his gaze lingers on you with an additional layer of scrutiny, as if trying to unravel a mystery you're not even aware you're part of.

"Knowing your enemy is half the battle," Sharp advises. "The other half is understanding how to use this knowledge to counteract the darkness. Knowing the specific incantation for a cursed object could save your life, recognizing an illegal ingredient could prevent a catastrophe, and identifying someone’s darkness could stop devastation before it's too late."

"Understanding the darkness will make your light shine brighter," Sharp reaffirms, his gaze sweeping the room until it locks onto yours. For a lingering moment, it feels as if his words carry a meaning intended specifically for you, though you can't quite pinpoint why. The weight of his gaze imprints those words deeper into your soul, filling you with both curiosity and an unspoken sense of responsibility.

It’s as if he was warning against wolves in sheep's clothing, those with well-disguised malevolence lurking beneath a benign facade. Could he be hinting at something more specific, more personal? But why would he? He shouldn't know about your association with Snape. It’s your first day. You’re just being crazy.

The logical part of your mind argues for skepticism. Sharp's cautionary words were likely a general advisem*nt, a prudent reminder meant to stoke vigilance in a class of young, budding Aurors. Yet, another part of you—a part tinged by a natural, indefinable sense of foreboding—wonders if his warning has broader implications, perhaps some as-yet-unrevealed layer of meaning.

What did dad say about intuition?

The internal tug-of-war within you is even more exhausting than Sharp’s three hour lesson. The world of Dark Arts is a labyrinthine landscape.

As you collect your belongings and begin to navigate your way out of the underground chamber, Aesop Sharp unexpectedly falls into step beside you. He leans in slightly, his voice tinged with that particular brand of dry humor you're beginning to associate with him. "I didn't scare you off, did I?"

You can't help but chuckle at the comment, momentarily distracted from your earlier reverie. "No, sir. It was really informative," you assure him, then glance down at the rolls of parchment you're holding—each one brimming with notes from the three-hour session. You gesture to them and add, "But are all lessons going to be this... thorough?"

Just as you're beginning to wonder if you've stepped over some unspoken line of student-teacher decorum, he changes the topic. "You perked up during the discussion on potions. Have a particular affinity for them, do you?"

Your laugh is genuine as you reply, "Yes, actually. I have a brewing session planned for tonight. All legal ingredients, I assure you."

"In the Hogwarts lab?" His eyebrows ascend ever so subtly, and you feel the weight of unspoken questions.

There it is.

The nuance isn't lost on you.

"Yes, I… have an arrangement with Snape," you say cautiously, studying his eyes for any flicker of judgment or curiosity. "He lets me use the lab, here and there. In return, I help him brew potions for the Hospital Wing."

"Intriguing," he responds, his face unreadable but the word heavy with unspoken layers.

Changing tack, you add, "I wanted to thank you for today's class. It's a lot to take in, but it's exciting."

His stern countenance softens, just a touch. "You're holding your own, considering this is day one. The Goldhawk Initiative isn't for those who shy away from challenges."

Feeling emboldened by his words, you respond, "Thank you, Auror Sharp. I'm committed to seeing this through."

"I never doubted that you are," he affirms with a nod. For a split second, his eyes flicker as though he wants to say more, but instead, he adds, "Send my regards to your father."

You part ways, the words from Sharp's lesson claw at your subconscious as you head to the Great Hall for dinner, threading a complex web of thoughts that hang heavier than you'd like to admit.

It's like being caught between two equally powerful spells, one urging you to trust your instincts about Snape, the other whispering to tread carefully, to question and re-evaluate. You're balanced on the edge of a magical sword that could tip either way, and the emotional vertigo this produces is anything but pleasant.

You try to shake off these conflicting feelings, dismissing them as mere byproducts of a challenging lesson on dark forces. But despite your best efforts, Sharp's words have planted a seed, one that threatens to grow into an unwelcome thorn bush in the garden of your thoughts.

As you ponder this, you're painfully aware that the lesson may have already wormed its way into deeper recesses, threatening the certainty with which you've always regarded the people and ideas you thought you knew so well.

Chapter 4: state of wonder

Chapter Text

Trying to keep my head above water
Then you go and pull me under
Crazy thing I know I'm down for
Stuck in this state of wonder

state of wonder - Anthony Russo

https://open.spotify.com/track/4BrYTZfpZzeNAGbJ7kh2Z0?si=504be90038fa44fe

The weeks meld into a tapestry of endless incantations, the musky scent of aged parchment, and the bracing tang of morning air tinged with the loamy earthiness of November. Your life has become a cycle of meticulous spellwork, sweat, and cauldrons filled with simmering, volatile brews. Under the Goldhawk Initiative's regimen, your muscles hum with a newfound rigor, and your mind seems to have sharpened itself on the whetstone of knowledge.

The morning 5ks have evolved into more than just a physical endeavor; they've become a necessary, yet soul-satisfying, ritual. Your first footsteps each morning mark the gentle cadence into the most intensive year of your life. The air is usually crisp, heralding autumn, but lately, an unseasonable warmth clings to the dawn. The route is always the same, a loop around the castle grounds, but the real highlight is when your path veers to Snape's window.

During the initial days of this morning ritual, a sense of thrill would flood your veins as you approached the window. A tap on the glass would summon him, like a sorcerer calling forth a spirit, and his shadow would fill the window—an ethereal silhouette backlit by the muted light of his study. The world would fade away, leaving just the two of you in this pocket of quietude.

It became a routine of it's own; a nod, a glance, and then you would find yourselves engrossed in conversations that sometimes stretched for thirty minutes, each word imprinted on your heart, each pause bursting with unspoken emotion.

However, things had slowly shifted. It's as if a silent agreement had been reached over time, a communion that couldn't be pinned down in words. At the end of your run, you’d catch sight of the open window before you even reached it, a gesture that was like a warm embrace for your soul.

The emotion that then cascaded through you was more intricate than simple happiness; it was affirmation, acknowledgment, and your heart would dance a ballet within your chest. Seeing the opened panes, your feet would gain wings, and you'd find yourself nearly sprinting toward that portal of shared silence.

And then there were mornings that held their own unique magic. During the final stretch of your run, you turned a corner to Snape’s tower. Your eyes lifted to find him already standing there, leaning with a casual elegance against the rough-hewn stone of the window frame, his arms folded in an almost relaxed manner. The way his dark eyes locked onto you from a distance sent shivers down your spine. Anticipating you. Expecting you.

It was a subtle but monumental shift, one that turned the ground beneath you into something more akin to clouds. It was as though the universe had aligned in some indescribable way, filling the space between you with something ineffable yet palpable.

Each time you approach that window, it’s feels like crossing an invisible boundary, transcending the realm of casual acquaintances into something more.

Your thoughts drift back to that one particular morning, a playful whimsy coloring the memory. As you'd approached, the usual breathless exhilaration filling your lungs, you had thrown caution to the wind and quipped, "You know, next time you could greet me with a cold glass of water or something. Wouldn't want your favorite visitor to die of dehydration."

For a moment, he'd looked as if you had presented him with a particularly challenging riddle. Then the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly—an almost imperceptible response—and he'd rolled his eyes. But there was a flash in his gaze, a fleeting glimmer that told you he found your audacity more endearing than irritating.

With a voice steeped in dry wit, Snape finally responded, "A cold glass of water? Really, is that the best you can do? You're setting the bar quite low, you know.” he paused, smirking. “Next, you'll be asking for a towel and a full breakfast spread."

Though his words carry the expected note of sarcastic disdain, you catch a flicker of amusem*nt deep within his eyes. It's as if he's enjoying this little game, this fledgling connection that's somehow managing to take root against all odds. And that glimmer of enjoyment, hidden though it may be, makes your heart do more than soar—it practically takes flight.

It was a minor incident, a short-lived exchange. Yet it stood as a milestone in your evolving connection, a delightful digression in the carefully choreographed dance between you two. A touch of lightness in the encompassing dark; a moment of levity that made everything seem a bit more bearable, even if just for that breath of time.

From that day onward, your heart didn't just dance when you approached his open window—it soared. It was a subtle but monumental shift, one that turned the ground beneath you into clouds. It was as though the universe had aligned in some indescribable way.

Your nocturnal potions endeavors with Snape have also been consistent. Almost every night, the Potions Classroom, with its ancient stone walls and shelves of curiosities, continues to be your haven. Despite the chill that often clings to the air, there's warmth here, an unexpected balm for your weary soul.

Night after night, you find yourself engrossed in brewing with Snape, the meticulous steps becoming a sort of meditative dance. Each evening, you arrive, your muscles knotted from the relentless pace of the day’s training, and yet, you always leave feeling inexplicably rejuvenated.

During tonight's session, you're particularly aware of the ache in your shoulders and hamstrings, a tension that seems to have cemented itself into your very bones. It’s a lingering reminder of a grueling training session with Auror Sharp earlier in the day. Rather than focusing on combat or magical maneuvers, he'd put you through a relentless series of non-combat, full-body High-Intensity Interval Training workouts. It was a curveball that caught you off guard.

He'd arranged a series of obstacles outdoors, forcing you to toggle between explosive bursts of physical exercise—leaping over hurdles, climbing ropes, and performing a litany of burpees—and moments of stillness that demanded intense focus, such as threading a fine line of magical energy through the eye of a needle. Every fiber of your being had been called into action, both magical and physical, each pushing the limits of your endurance.

"Even a wand won't save you if your body isn't agile enough to keep up," Sharp has said, as you wiped sweat off your brow and gulped air like a fish out of water. His words were stern but true, each syllable accompanied by a paradoxical blend of gruffness and concern that had somehow become Sharp's signature tone with you.

By the time you'd finished, your muscles had felt liquefied, and your lungs seemed to have forgotten how to inhale without burning. The fatigue had seeped deep into your bones, settling particularly in your shoulders, like a weight you couldn't shrug off.

So, as you stand there in Snape's dungeon, the physical discomfort is a silent companion, a quiet reminder of the day's trials and of the ever-mounting pressures to excel in two different yet eerily similar worlds.

Snape, with a discerning glance that misses nothing, comments, "Your posture suggests that of a hunchback. Has Hagrid had the misfortune of stepping on you?"

Your laughter spills forth, a bright note that surprises even you. "No, it's just been a long day."

The subtext hangs in the air, as palpable as the aroma of the brewing potions. Both of you know that the real culprit of your exhaustion is the Goldhawk Initiative, yet neither of you give it voice. Over time, you've learned the contours of your conversations with Snape, mapping out safe territories and treacherous grounds. Goldhawk has silently but mutually been categorized as the latter. You don’t bring it up.

Instead, you discuss other things, like Muggle literature. You quickly learned that anything Muggle related was a subject that never fails to provoke an interesting reaction from him. Your fondness for F. Scott Fitzgerald, for instance, makes him visibly cringe, although he counters your enthusiasm with his own suggestions—usually works of a darker, more existential nature.

Snape's disdain for F. Scott Fitzgerald is almost palpable, as though the mere mention of his work is an affront to his sensibilities.

"Ah, yes, the Muggle who revels in tales of romantic disillusionment and squandered privilege. How... charming," he sneers one evening when you enthuse about Fitzgerald's literary flair.

The exchange is almost comical, like an unspoken battle of wits and tastes, an academic jousting that's become a staple of your nocturnal sessions. He refers to Fitzgerald's works as "delusional dramas," dismissing them with a wave of his hand as though they were inconsequential potions gone awry.

"If you find virtue in reading about human follies decked in tuxedos and flapper dresses, by all means, continue. But consider, perhaps, that the world—magical or otherwise—has graver concerns than champagne-soaked tragedies."

The irony of Snape, a man deeply entangled in the gravest of worldly matters, discussing literature with you is not lost on either of you. But it's these little skirmishes, these exchanges of contrasting tastes and worldviews, that add an extra layer of depth to your already complex understanding of him.

Despite his critique, you can't help but find amusem*nt in his elaborate dismissals, which, you suspect, is partially why he offers them in the first place. It's as though he too relishes the intellectual tennis match your interactions have become—a volley of words and glances, each one escalating the game yet revealing something deeper.

And then there's the topic of London—its history, its hidden gems, its ceaseless metamorphosis. Snape's knowledge of the magical history behind the city is unexpectedly extensive, a revelation that brings a more worldly context to the man you've been so determined to figure out.

You realize the tiny bridges you're building, step by step, over the yawning chasm of unsaid words and unexplored territories between you. You relish that you can be a space where he can let down his guard, if only a fraction, and simply be.

You like to think these seemingly trivial topics are not just idle chatter; they're a slice of time where a softer shade of Severus Snape emerges, if you know where to look. The man hidden behind the veneer of sarcasm and stoicism is, you suspect, enjoying this ongoing dialogue just as much as you are.

After a particularly impassioned discussion about London, you notice the room has gone quieter than usual. The only sounds are the crackling of a magical flame beneath a cauldron and the distant, watery echo of the pipes running through the dungeon walls. In this comfortable lull, your mind starts to wander.

As you meticulously stir the potion before you, your attention wavers. You find your eyes fixed upon Snape's forearm, where his robe sleeve has ridden up just a fraction, revealing a sliver of pale skin. Your mind races with the implications of what might lie hidden beneath the fabric—a Dark Mark, perhaps, a sign of an allegiance that would turn your fragile understanding of him to ashes.

Professor Sharp's cautious words come floating back into your consciousness, clashing discordantly with the intellectual camaraderie you've just experienced. The room seems to close in a little, as if echoing the constriction in your chest, and the atmosphere turns inexplicably dense. Your fingers twitch, a subconscious yearning to either pull the sleeve and reveal the truth or to push the troubling thoughts away, back into the corners of your mind where doubts lurk.

You look over at Snape, who is carefully annotating a potion's recipe, his brow furrowed in concentration. Could this man truly harbor intentions dark enough to warrant Sharp's veiled warnings? Or is the precariousness all in your mind, the natural consequence of a world filled with too many secrets?

Your gaze lingers, caught in a silent struggle between the man you've come to know in these nocturnal sessions and the specter of who he might truly be. The intrigue and caution swirl within you, like the layers of a complex potion—each ingredient capable of changing the outcome in unforeseen ways.

Finally, you tear your eyes away, focusing once again on the potion in front of you. The intimacy you've built in this dungeon, constructed of shared knowledge and the cadence of quiet conversations, feels suddenly precarious. It's a fragile bridge, and raising such questions would be like lighting a match beneath its wooden planks.

Your father's words drift back to you: "Trust but verify, especially in times like these."

A thought insinuates itself into your consciousness like a wisp of dark smoke curling around the edges of a bright flame: Should you consult your father about Snape's loyalties? The question grips you, a spider of doubt weaving its web in the back of your mind. It strikes you that if anyone would have a nuanced view of Snape, it would be your father. He was in fact the one who confirmed Snape’s “dark, complicated history.”

Whatever that meant.

You've been writing to your father about the Goldhawk Initiative often. Despite the limitations, your dad's letters are drenched in pride, and he eagerly devours every permissible detail you can share about your Auror training. His own storied experience in the field surfaces in the form of invaluable tips and tricks, which you've incorporated into your training to great effect.

In one letter, he fondly mentions your mentor: "Sharp and I crossed wands in service years ago—stellar Auror, that one. You couldn't be in better hands, believe me." The seamless blend of past and present, the old guard meeting the new, adds another layer of depth to your training and your growing sense of purpose.

Maintaining a close relationship with your father has its merits, but you recognize that asking him about Snape would be like stepping into a minefield. Your dad has an uncanny ability to read between the lines, as well as a natural curiosity, and you worry that merely broaching the subject could set off a chain of concern. You fear it might introduce a level of complexity that you aren’t ready for.

If Snape did have a past your dad disapproves of, or if your father simply grew curious and reached out to Sharp to cross-reference details, it could cast undue scrutiny on a relationship you're still trying to understand yourself. It's a blend of caution and healthy paranoia, a delicate balancing act of trust and discretion, that keeps you from raising the topic—for now.

And so, standing there amidst vials and parchment, the comforting and yet deceptive aroma of brewing potions around you.

The questions remain, unanswered, intermingling with the facts and the fictions until you're unsure which is which. The space between you and Snape feels charged now, waiting for the next step in this intricate dance of trust and suspicion. Inside, you're standing on a precipice, looking over a chasm filled with both trust and doubt.

Just as you're lost in this turbulence of thoughts, you glance up and find Snape's eyes meeting yours across a cluttered table of potion ingredients. His gaze softens for a split second, and then it happens—a rare smile graces his lips.

The simple gesture acts like a Patronus against a Dementor, driving away the cold shadows of doubt that had begun to encroach upon your thoughts. Your heart, a moment ago heavy with the gravity of unanswered questions, now feels as though it's floating, caught in the unexpected buoyancy of that fleeting smile.

As quickly as it appeared, the smile vanishes, and he turns his attention back to his notetaking, leaving you with an inner warmth that belies the cold stone walls of the dungeon. The complexities and uncertainties remain, but for a moment—just a moment—you feel as though the precarious bridge between you has been fortified, the edges of the abyss less menacing than they were mere seconds before.

Navigating the rigors of academic life under Sharp's tutelage has evolved into one of the most exciting journeys you've ever embarked upon. The tactile thrill of mastering a complex incantation, or the visceral satisfaction of receiving a rare, curt nod of approval, fills you with a deep sense of achievement.

The atmosphere of the training chamber is a blend of cold stone and hot intensity, an unspoken urgency as you practice increasingly complex wand movements under Auror Sharp's vigilant gaze. The air feels electrified, punctuated by the whizzing of spells and the clash of invisible forces. His teaching style is intense, almost visceral, as if he's chiseling away at your inadequacies to reveal the battle-hardened Auror within you.

With only three students in the program, there are moments when it's just you and him—Cedric and Ben's commitments tend to pull everyone in different directions.

During today’s one-on-one session, Sharp puts you through an exceptionally challenging drill in the castle's underground chambers. The exercise? Locate and neutralize a cursed object among an array of seemingly mundane artifacts.

Sometimes, your mind occasionally drifts towards Cedric and Ben, wondering how Sharp's mentorship manifests for them. Is his guidance as tailored, his praise as infrequent yet resonating, his smiles as sparing but potent? While you're confident that he would hold you accountable for any lapse in performance, just as he would with them, an intriguing notion simmers beneath the surface – a hopeful sense that the dynamic between you might be singular, unique in a subtle yet significant manner.

The thought that you might be different in his eyes, even if only for these stolen moments, becomes its own enchantment—one that leaves you floating on air, charged with anticipation for the next lesson and the next exquisite sliver of that exceptional connection.

Every time he acknowledges your improvement, the very core of you thrums with a gratification so intense it borders on euphoria. It's as if you've tapped into a hidden reserve of latent magic, ignited by his expectations and stoked by your desire to meet them. Sharp's praises don't just stoke your ego; they act as a crucible, refining your raw abilities into something far more potent. It leaves you hungry to ascend yet another rung on this challenging but immensely rewarding ladder.

Ghostly shafts of light infiltrate the room through narrow cracks in the stone walls, casting an eerie glow on the objects laid out on a long wooden table. The room's low light casts menacing shadows, making even the most ordinary objects seem sinister. Each item seems benign on the surface, but you know that one of them is imbued with dark magic.

Your mentor stands off to the side, his gaze as sharp as an executioner's blade, watching your every movement as you survey the table. Your hand trembles slightly around your wand, its tip glowing with an incandescent blue light as you mutter incantations so arcane that they'd stump even the most dedicated N.E.W.T-level students.

Just as you're about to confidently point your wand at a deceptively quaint locket, your focus shatters. Maybe it's the pressure of the situation, or perhaps it's the haunting ambiance of the chamber, but the grip on your wand slips. Your heart leaps into your throat as the locket trembles ominously, threatening to unleash its nefarious magic.

As it does, you catch the faintest whiff of dark magic, a chilling sensation that snakes its way up your spine like a tendril of cold mist. It's elusive, yet viscerally real, a whispered promise of the malevolent forces lurking just below the veneer of the mundane.

The room seems to tighten around you, as if the very walls are closing in, suffused with an unsettling energy that pricks at your senses like thorns. It's a chilling glimpse into the abyss, one that makes your skin crawl, and your soul shudder—dark magic in its rawest, most unadulterated form.

In that hair-raising moment, Sharp is a blur of motion and magical prowess. He's beside you almost instantaneously, his wand an extension of his own steely will. His arm darts out, his hand pressing firmly against your sternum. With an incantation so fluid and rapid it's barely audible, he neutralizes the looming curse.

His hand lingers a second longer than strictly necessary, and you find yourself pinned by the weight of his touch, the solidity of his presence. A jolt of energy passes between you, vibrant and taut—a string pulled too tight, a chord struck but not yet released.

The rest of the room seems to unclench, as though exhaling a breath it didn't know it was holding. His wand move was so advanced, it exists beyond the boundaries of textbooks or standard magical education—utterly nameless yet astonishingly effective.

As you stand there, frozen in the aftermath of the narrowly-averted magical calamity, your heartbeat throbs in your ears. You're acutely aware of his closeness, of the palpable tension that thickens the air like mist. You can almost feel the raw, unspoken emotions circling around you, swirling in the dark, magical residue that fills the room. The intimacy of the moment leaves you breathless, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, of his unvoiced thoughts.

Your breath comes in uneven, shallow gasps as you retreat, breaking the spell of proximity. The loss of his touch feels both like relief and a deprivation, as if you had been holding your breath underwater and suddenly found air, but missed the quietude of the depths. Your eyes don't leave his, and you sense a kind of mutual acknowledgment—some unspoken dialogue that neither of you will likely ever vocalize but exists just the same.

The intensity of the moment lingers, a testament to the razor's edge upon which you'd both just balanced. Sharp collects himself, restoring the professional distance that was compromised.

"Close call," he says, voice steady but imbued with a raw texture you hadn't noticed before. "We have much to review."

He picks up the deactivated cursed locket, examining it momentarily before tucking it away. As you both turn to exit the chamber, his robes brush against your legs—a fleeting touch, but one that sends tiny electrical shocks through you, rippling up your spine and lingering like an afterimage on your skin.

"In this line of work, the margin for error is nonexistent," he tells you, his voice as cold as the chamber's air but filled with an undercurrent of caring—perhaps even concern. "Your technique was adequate, but adequate isn't sufficient. You need to become the spell, feel its energy coursing through you, become one with your wand. Only then will you master this level of magic."

He kindles a renewed fervor to meet—and exceed—his expectations. You glance up to find his eyes locked onto yours, the usually steel-like gaze softened ever so slightly, hinting at the unspoken trust building between you two. And for a brief, ephemeral moment, you glimpse the powerful witch you're becoming, sculpted by the very challenges that threaten to unravel you.

"Tomorrow," he begins, holding the ancient door ajar for you to pass, "we'll dive into counter-curses. You'll need to be prepared for anything."

As you move through the doorway, your senses are viscerally heightened with his presence just steps behind you. It's as if the air between you is a magnetic field, charged and almost humming with a tension that is both new and familiar. His proximity sends a shiver across your skin, as though your very cells are responding to his nearness.

Once you're both in the corridor, the door shuts behind you with a soft thud, sealing the magical tension of the chamber within its stone walls. For a moment, both of you walk in silence, the only sound the echoing of your footsteps on the flagstones.

Finally, he clears his throat as you both navigate the winding passageways of the castle.

"Despite the momentary lapse in concentration earlier, your performance today was commendable. Your intuition in identifying dark artifacts is keen, and your skills in containing their inherent malevolence have shown significant progress. I have no doubt your father would be filled with pride, as indeed, you ought to be for yourself."

Your chest tightens, a mixture of pride and vulnerability converging within you.

"Thank you, Professor. I've been writing him about my training. He's thrilled, to say the least," you reply, a small smile pulling at your lips. “I didn’t know you two worked together.”

Sharp's eyes meet yours, his expression turning momentarily introspective. "Indeed, your father and I crossed paths during our service. We found ourselves in some tight spots, not unlike the one we found ourselves in today."

This newfound information feels like a missing puzzle piece sliding into place, deepening not only your understanding of your mentor but also stoking the embers of intrigue you've been feeling for him.

As you navigate the torch-lit corridor alongside him, the confined stone walls seem to hold their breath, as though eavesdropping on your burgeoning curiosity. The sconces flicker with every step you take, casting animated shadows on the flagstones.

"Have you been an Auror for a long time?" you begin, fishing for an opening into a past he keeps guarded like a vault.

"A good number of years, yes," he answers, his voice betraying neither pride nor regret. Just a statement of fact.

"And was my father already an Auror when you joined? Or did you two sort of come up together?"

"He was already in the field," Sharp admits. "He was something of a benchmark for new recruits. Exemplary, but not one to flaunt his abilities."

"Did you ever consider another path? Or was becoming an Auror always the goal?" you ask, hoping to tease out some personal insight before diving into potentially delicate territory.

A momentary smile plays across his face, softening his otherwise stern demeanor. "I suppose I've always had a knack for seeking trouble, or perhaps it's the other way around. Becoming an Auror seemed like the best way to meet it head-on."

Emboldened by his slightly more relaxed tone, you press on. "So, what kind of missions did you and my father work on?" The question hangs in the air like an incantation, unlocking a mystery you're eager to delve into.

Sharp hesitates, his footsteps slowing as he weighs his response. "We did what needed to be done," he finally says, his eyes meeting yours briefly as if searching for the right balance between openness and discretion. “Classified.”

His words feel like a curtain pulled back just a sliver, enough to tantalize but not to reveal, and you find yourself more intrigued than ever by the man and the unknown world he shared with your father.

As you both reach the end of the corridor, pausing at a junction that will take you to separate destinations, you share a final glance.

"Same time tomorrow?" Sharp's voice is like a cool balm, its clarity anchoring the electric charge still buzzing in the air between you two.

"Certainly, thank you, Professor Sharp," you reply, each syllable like a stepping stone, helping you traverse the river of emotions swirling beneath the surface.

You catch sight of Harry Potter across the way, his presence like an undercurrent pulling at your attention. He's in quiet discourse with Cedric Diggory; their faces are canvases of earnest conversation. Harry's eyes intermittently flicker toward you, then to Sharp.

"I should really owl your father; it's been too long," he muses, his eyes flickering down the dimly lit corridor as if the words for such a letter are already floating there in the shadows, waiting to be caught.

"He'd appreciate that. Might even give me a small reprieve from documenting our every training session for him," you say, lips curling into a smile that lights up your eyes.

"Until tomorrow," Sharp utters. The emotional alchemy of the moment, encapsulating praise, history, and an unspoken sense of camaraderie, lingers in the air, more tangible than any spell you've cast so far.

As he strides away, the fabric of his robe whispers against the stone floor, a sound that has become oddly comforting. You've also grown accustomed to the uneven rhythm of his footsteps, the subtle hitch in his gait that speaks of a past filled with trials and battles.

The instant he vanishes around the corner, Harry breaks away from Cedric, crossing the distance to you. Each step he takes seems to add another layer of curiosity, another question mark to your labyrinthine existence at Hogwarts.

"Hey, you’re with Cedric in the Goldhawk Initiative, right?" he asks. The air seems to shift, charged with a certain gravity that Harry tends to carry with him.

"That's me," you reply, flashing a tired but genuine smile.

"It's pretty cool, you know, considering…" Harry's voice trails off, clearly aware that he's stepping onto potentially sensitive terrain.

"Things are pretty grim these days," you add, the air thickening as you allude to the dark shadow Voldemort is casting over the wizarding world.

The summer had been a hotbed of alarming news: Death Eaters wreaking havoc, a spate of unexplained disappearances, and even a change in Minister for Magic from Cornelius Fudge to Rufus Scrimgeour—all signs that the magical community was bracing for an inevitable storm.

"Yeah," Harry agrees, his expression turning somber. "They really are."

For a moment, you both stand there, the weight of the world seemingly pressing down on your shoulders. Harry shifts from foot to foot, his eyes momentarily darting to the ground before meeting yours again.

With an almost comical sense of awkwardness, he makes a subtle body gesture, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Great Hall. "You, um, heading the same way?" he asks. You nod, and the two of you begin walking together, the tension slightly lifting as you match his stride.

"So I've heard it's quite an intense program, Goldhawk. How's it working with Professor Sharp?" Harry ventures cautiously, obviously treading around the delicate subject of the war's influence on academia and life in general.

"He's truly remarkable—stern but profoundly insightful. The way he teaches us is almost... intuitive, you know? As if he's not just teaching spells, but a deeper understanding of magic itself." you elaborate, a sense of pride filling you as you speak of Professor Sharp. "Apparently he and my father even served together.”

Harry's eyes widen and you can feel his attention zero in on you, undiluted and pure. "Wow, that's absolutely fascinating," he says, awe lacing each syllable. "I heard your dad was a top Auror, but learning under Sharp too? That’s like Auror royalty, right?"

The question is so earnest, so genuinely playful and curious, that you find yourself pausing, touched by Harry's sincere fascination. It's not every day that you find yourself holding the attention of the Chosen One.

"Yeah. He's technically a retired Auror now, but he still works for the Ministry. He’s involved with the Auror Office, more so as a consultant" you say, a wistful smile tracing your lips.

The air between you thickens with a newfound sense of respect, an implicit understanding that you're both part of a world that demands more from you, and yet offers splendors that others could scarcely dream of.

Harry shuffles his feet a bit, his gaze meeting yours hesitantly. "Umm, so what exactly do you, you know, learn in Goldhawk?"

You can't help but notice the awkward charm in his curiosity. "It's a bit of everything," you say, feeling your passion for the subject start to take over. "Advanced counter-curses, incredibly complicated spellwork, dark artifacts, illegal paraphernalia... It's like a mix between an intense gym class, some of the most complex charms you could think of, all wrapped up with law enforcement strategy and theory."

Harry's eyes widen, practically shimmering with genuine interest. "Wow, that's honestly incredible," he says, clearly impressed. "It's really cool to know there's a group focused on that, especially this year."

Seizing the opportunity, you playfully lean in, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "You know, rumors were flying around about something called Dumbledore's Army last year. Sound familiar?"

You'd heard whispers, of course—rumors that a group of students, led by Harry, had defied Umbridge and her terrible regime to teach themselves defense against the dark arts. At the time, you'd thought it was the epitome of bravery and ingenuity, something desperately needed given the circ*mstances.

Harry grins, not even attempting to look innocent. "It was... necessary at the time. Not just because of Umbridge, but because people needed to learn how to defend themselves."

Nodding, you feel respect settling in. "That's admirable. Especially given the current climate, we need that kind of initiative more than ever.” You pause for a moment, an idea forming in your mind. “If you're still involved in that, I'd be more than willing to help out. With what I'm learning, we could really make a difference. People do need to know how to defend themselves, after all."

For a moment, Harry's gaze locks onto yours, his eyes searching as if piecing something together in his mind. He doesn't say anything, but the atmosphere shifts subtly. It's as if some unspoken understanding has passed between you, a mutual recognition of shared values and the hint of a path yet to be walked together.

Harry's face breaks into a smile once more, but this time it's different, more profound—as if he's just discovered something valuable he hadn't known he was looking for.

"That's an incredible offer, really," he says, excitement palpable in his voice. "We aren't officially running the DA anymore, but who's to say there aren't other… groups, y’know, avenues where we could use that kind of expertise?"

Harry's expression shifts subtly, a thoughtful gleam entering his eyes. "Do you plan on becoming an Auror?"

You pause, momentarily ensnared in a labyrinth of your own ambitions and fears. "It's a possibility, I suppose," you finally say, sensing that you're rambling a bit. "I've always had a knack for Potions, but with the dark forces gathering... who knows, really?"

Harry's face lights up at the mention of Potions, as if a realization had hit him. "Oh, you won't believe the textbook I have for Potions this year. It's got these notes, tips, tricks—really advanced stuff. It's like, been revised by someone who was brilliant at Potions. Scribbles all over the place."

"Really?" You're genuinely intrigued now. You think back to the Advanced Potions textbooks you had in your sixth year, the tattered purple covers with the silver foiled cauldron steam. "That sounds fascinating. I'd love to see it sometime."

"Yeah," Harry says, his eyes meeting yours, a warm, inviting glow in them. "You know, we’ve all been heading over to the Three Broomsticks quite a bit lately. You should join us."

You figure “we all” refers to the famous Gryffindor trio. You share a few NEWT classes with Hermione Granger, and haven’t really crossed paths with Ron Weasley. But, you know of them.

You gracefully accept the invitation, already excited about the prospects of deepening this newfound connection.

"Brilliant! It's settled then. Looking forward to it."

After parting ways with Harry, whose thoughts about possible ventures still echo in your mind, you make your way to Snape's office. Opting to skip dinner in the Great Hall, you and Snape had agreed to meet earlier than usual. The potion you're tackling tonight—an Elixir of Enhanced Perception—demands hours of meticulous preparation and careful tending. The goal is to finish before the witching hour, trading the warmth of the dining hall for the allure of alchemical mastery.

The moment you step inside the dimly lit classroom, a palpable sense of relief floods over you, as if the room itself is a relief for the day's complexities. Snape looks up from a parchment littered with scribbles, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes light up with what you can only describe as anticipation.

"Punctual as always," he remarks, his tone imbued with what you've come to recognize as his unique brand of warmth. He's already set out two cauldrons, signaling not just your welcome, but your contribution. It's a small gesture, but in it, you feel recognized, valued.

Snape pulls out a stool for you—another first in a growing list of small courtesies he seems to reserve just for you. As you fasten your apron, you feel his eyes on you—a steady, penetrating gaze that has an almost tangible weight. The intensity of his scrutiny stirs a blend of vulnerability and warmth, causing a slight flush to color your cheeks.

Unable to sustain the eye contact any longer without revealing too much, you scrunch your face playfully and divert your attention, busying yourself with gathering the next set of ingredients. You catch him smirk on your peripheral vision.

You reach for the dragon scale, fingers steady, while Snape adjusts the flame beneath his cauldron to a perfect simmer. The challenges ahead are numerous, the initial stages of the potion complex and unforgiving. Yet here, in this quiet space filled with vials and ancient texts, guided by a man who's fast becoming a cornerstone in your life, you feel more grounded than ever.

With a measured nod from Snape, the brewing begins, and the world outside this room fades into insignificance.

Three and a half hours later, a twinge of hunger starts to distract you from the potion at hand. As if on cue, the door creaks open and a house elf wobbles in. He’s balancing a tray piled high with classic breakfast fare: fluffy pancakes crowned with a pat of melting butter, scrambled eggs that look like culinary clouds, and two steaming mugs of coffee that fills the room with its inviting aroma. He walks over to you and you nod at him in thanks as you take the tray, still unsure of what just happened.

Your eyes flit to Snape, widening with the dawning realization. Your playful comment about a glass of water suddenly echoes in the air, unspoken but heard.

Snape looks up, feigning a bewildered innocence that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I suggest you eat before it gets cold." he says nonchalantly, his voice laced with a gravity that almost, but not quite, conceals his amusem*nt. He takes over your task of handling the horklump juice, to your surprise. “Go.”

You tuck into your nostalgic dinner, feeling an odd sense of home in this unexpected moment. Your eyes lift involuntarily, meeting a scene you never thought you'd witness. There's Snape, one sleeve casually rolled up, deeply engrossed in his notes—or so it seems. But then you notice it: not just a smile, but an actual grin, teeth and all.

The emotion emanating from that smile is unmistakable: it's brimming with subdued joy and private triumph. This is not a smile for his scholarly annotations; it's too vibrant, too infused with life. It's a rare, candid flash of the man behind the mask, a man you've been privileged to discover piece by guarded piece.

He's reveling in this small but significant gesture as if he's savoring a cherished secret or a beloved memory. In that moment, the barriers between you seem not just permeable but nonexistent.

With each passing second, the room feels lighter. You both proceed with your tasks, but it’s as if you've traversed an unmarked border, finding yourselves on a newfound plateau of intimacy.

Chapter 5: affection

Chapter Text

You're taking what you want right from me
Wrapped up in so much life, it's just the way you hold me
Oh, I'm looking for affection in all the wrong places
And we'll keep falling on each other to fill the empty spaces

affection - between friends

https://open.spotify.com/track/4LyIHEDbAWDeKV0JbVZae9?si=c6b248a0db2945a0

The world outside Severus Snape’s office window seemed to glow softly, as if lit by the slow burn of chemical reactions taking place in some distant crucible. The outlines of ancient trees and the ethereal lake shimmered in the pre-dawn light, a landscape of shadow and promise.

Yet lately, it was always your silhouette that enchanted him, breaking his absorption in esoteric texts or the labyrinths of his own thoughts. There you were—dashing toward his tower with a fervor that made your usual grace almost combustible. He noticed a certain liveliness, a newfound spring in your step that seemed to come alive the moment your eyes found his distant form.

Severus couldn't help but ruminate on this simple yet confounding revelation: your apparent thrill in seeing him was a catalyst for his own sense of being.

Your late-night sojourns to the dungeons for brewing sessions had amplified the air of mystery. He watched you stir potions with a focus and artistry that echoed the deft strokes of a master painter. Each flick of your wand, each controlled swirl of your stirring rod was like a brushstroke on a canvas, painting an ever-complex masterpiece of intellectual intimacy and unspoken affection. In those moments, you were not just an apprentice; you were a co-conspirator in a silent alchemy that seemed to transmute the very atmosphere.

A surge of gratitude washed over him, filling the silences of his usually steely existence. Each footstep you took toward him felt like a gift, a sacrifice of your time that meant the world to him. And in those moments, Severus Snape felt uncharacteristically whole.

Every footfall that reverberated across the ground as you ran toward him seemed to send an equivalent tremor through his own sense of restraint. With each stride you took, he felt his cautious demeanor inching perilously closer to the precipice of abandon.

The world outside his window, always so monochrome, now danced with nuances he had never thought to look for before, but most astonishing of all was the realization that this richness, this added dimension, was all because of you.

A battle raged within him; every rational fiber of his being waged war against the urge to cast aside years of self-imposed isolation. The idea of greeting you not with his usual stoic nod but with a fervent, enveloping kiss the moment you reached his window became an almost irresistible impulse. It felt as if you were galvanizing him into an act of romantic daring, as audacious as it was heartfelt.

And as he looked at you—transforming each day into something more complex, more bewitching, he realized you'd kindled something equally transformative within him. The sight of you was breathtaking, but the sensation that swelled within him was even more staggering.

Because of you, Severus Snape found himself standing on unfamiliar ground, gazing into a mirror so refreshingly different that he hardly recognized the man reflected in its depths. The tightly-bound script of his life had been rewritten, each new line an exploration, each new chapter a revelation—and all because you had run toward him, pulling him, unknowingly, into a future that seemed to sparkle with untold possibilities.

As you finally arrived at his tower, your cheeks glowing, a soft hue painted by the brisk morning air, an unnameable emotion pulled at his insides. It was as if his heartstrings were woven of gossamer and you'd inadvertently strummed them, producing a tone too subtle for words. Could it really be that the mundane sight of you running could unravel the emotional self-control of a man as guarded as he? And the disconcerting yet exhilarating answer echoed back from the void of his consciousness—yes, but only if that someone was you.

Time seemed to blur when you arrived at his window. You'd linger there, the two of you suspended in the hushed conversations that graced the dawn. What felt like an eternity was still never quite enough. Whether discussing your latest achievements in other classes, sharing snippets from letters received from your family, or making inquiries into his latest potion innovations, the subjects of your conversations varied.

You'd even inquire about his well-being—had he eaten breakfast? Did he require assistance in grading those towering stacks of student essays? Occasionally, you'd mention that confounding Muggle author you were so enamored with—an utter waste of ink and paper, in his opinion. Yet, none of this mattered.

What did matter was that you were there, carving out the first moments of your day to share them with him. The sincerity of your presence was an unspoken promise that however the world - your world - changed, you would remain a constant.

In particularly long conversations, you'd sit on the window ledge, throwing your legs over the side with casual grace. Each time you did, Severus had to hold in a wince, silently lamenting the apparent discomfort you seemed so willing to endure just to be near him. Your bare legs would rest against the cold stone, skin contrasting with the unyielding surface. Yet, you made it look as natural as breathing, your back against the stone wall, legs laid out as if this were your private sanctuary.

The way you adapted to the discomfort, making his personal space your own kind of comfort zone, was a subtle reflection of the same stubborn endurance that characterized his own life. It was another layer to the intricate tapestry of who you were, and like everything else about you, it left him captivated.

Snape wasn’t the only one in this castle with you on their mind. The drivel of his daytime students about the Goldhawk Initiative and its participants - you, Diggory, and the infuriating Gryffindor boy Hammond - filled the classrooms with a pervasive drone. They spoke of you as though you were some sort of action figure or icon, which, while not entirely misplaced given your undeniable authority, severely understated your complexities.

How banal their conversations seemed in contrast to your complex web of thoughts, your aptitude, your unspoken questions that he so longed to answer, if you would only ask.

The silver lining to this monotonous drivel was that it made him realize: he alone was granted the privilege to see you in full dimension, not as a hero of some tale but as a multifaceted individual with depth and subtle vulnerabilities. And for that, he was profoundly grateful.

And then, he supposes, there's Sharp.

Aesop Sharp seemed to be a constant background hum, his annoyingly charming presence so often near you—too near for Severus' peace of mind. Aesop Sharp, in particular, was a constant yet unwanted chord in this composition, always hovering too close to you for Snape's comfort.

He had heard, through the grapevine of classroom whispers, the stories that circulated about Goldhawk. It was a collective endeavor yet peppered with individual exploits. All three of you and Sharp, enduring grueling obstacle courses under the unforgiving sun; Diggory assisting Sharp on some nebulous mission; Hammond afflicted by an unspeakable curse.

And then there were the rumors about your training. All this he could listen to, even feel a sense of pride that others recognized your talents. But what he didn't want to hear, what he would choose deafness over, was any account of your solitary moments with Sharp.

Does Sharp see you the way he does, understand your intricacies and contradictions? Snape doubted it. And he guarded that doubt like a talisman, because admitting it would also mean acknowledging how deeply he had let you get under his skin. It was a double-edged sword of vulnerability he wasn't ready to wield. Could Sharp ever comprehend you as he did?

No, he decided. Aesop Sharp might hover in your periphery, but he would never penetrate your core, never understand the gravity that pulled Severus Snape irrevocably toward you. And so, Severus held that thought close, a quiet fortress against the unwelcome intrusion of another man into his concealed world.

Would Sharp, could he, arrange something as intimate as breakfast for dinner—something Severus did, just for you?

He recalls that recent evening like the spelling of his own name. It was during that evening of brewing that he first sensed your lingering gaze on his forearm. He tried to dismiss it as a figment of his overwrought imagination. But your scrutiny persisted, your demeanor subtly shifting. A sinking feeling enveloped him, akin to the physical pull of the Dark Mark. He felt laid bare, as if caught in a spotlight. His mind raced, skirting around the truth he loathed to acknowledge.

But then it crystallized with an almost painful clarity. You weren’t the naive student you once were; your auror training had familiarized you with a darker tapestry of magic—magic beyond the sanitized curriculum of Hogwarts. You had been up close with cursed artifacts, you had probably even touched them, guided by Sharp's hand. Your training had likely exposed you to the realities of Dark Marks and other symbols etched in infamy.

A nauseating wave of realization and guilt crashed over him, each surge colder and more bitter than the last. It was as though the phantom weight of the Dark Mark pressed heavily upon his forearm, summoned into aching existence by your perceptive eyes.

This newfound knowledge twisted his insides, filling him with a dread that was almost tactile, like a dark fog seeping into every pore. For if you could recognize the possibility of something as dark as a Mark on him, what else might you intuit about his fractured past? That notion was unbearable, an existential torment he could hardly articulate even within the solitude of his thoughts.

A new layer of unease settles over him, a ghostly shiver tracing the path of an Unbreakable Vow made in the depths of summer. With Narcissa Malfoy as witness, the promise had felt like a chain, each word a weighty link. Even now, it lies there, a spectral tether coiled around his conscience, complicating the already tangled web of loyalties and secrets.

If the Dark Mark is a blemish on his soul, then the Vow is a haunting melody, a constant, lurking refrain that whispers of other loyalties, other promises. What would you think if you knew? What could you think? The Vow adds another layer of murkiness to an already opaque situation, another secret to hide, another reason for you to turn away.

Severus seized an opportunity for distraction when he heard the gentle rumble of your stomach. How adorably, painfully human you were. It was a grounding, humbling sound that pulled him back from the brink of his spiraling fears. How could someone so ethereal also be so gloriously ordinary? It was a dichotomy that left him perplexed and, for a moment, enchanted.

Grasping at this small fragment of distraction like a lifeline, Severus saw his chance to veer away from the dangerous path his mind had taken. Claiming a need to fetch something from the ingredient storage—a flimsy excuse, but an excuse nonetheless—he seized the moment as an opportunity for reprieve. He whispered instructions to a summoned house elf to bring you that breakfast-for-dinner you both had once whimsically spoken of, hoping to serve a momentary diversion, both for you and for his treacherously wandering mind.

When the elf later entered with a plate of breakfast foods—an intimate indulgence orchestrated solely for you—he experienced a blend of hope and vulnerability. Your eyes met his, and he wondered - was this breakfast for dinner too daring, too telling?

His questions were answered by a slackening of your tense shoulders, a smile that played on your lips like sunlight filtering through a dense forest. You were at ease, and this trust fueled an emotion he'd seldom felt. Severus looked down, seemingly engrossed in his manuscript, and let the corners of his mouth stretch into a toothy grin. An emotion as elusive as powdered moonstone gripped him—pride.

He had done this. This breakfast for dinner, a quaint inside joke that transformed reality, melted his apprehensions like snowflakes on warm stone. The enigma that had built up between you seemed to unravel. In this secluded alcove of his world, now shared with you and filled with vials of potions and a silence brimming with unspoken words, a new elixir seemed to brew—an understanding so intricate yet simple, it defied articulation.

As Severus ascends the stairs toward the professors' viewing stands for the first annual Quidditch match between Slytherin and Gryffindor, his thoughts are a tangled web of indifference and mild allegiance. Quidditch, as a sport, barely registers on his scale of interests. Yet the very idea of Slytherin besting Gryffindor imbues him with a particular sense of dark satisfaction.

His strides are swathed in a black overcoat, complemented by that woolen charcoal scarf—the scarf that holds an esteemed place in his wardrobe solely because of your unexpected drunken endorsem*nt. That memorable accolade happened last year during a Hogsmeade trip he was chaperoning alongside Hagrid.

There you were, practically pirouetting down the main road, adorably disheveled and joyously inebriated, looking like you'd tried to duel a bottle of Firewhisky and lost, splendidly.

"I absolutely lllllloooove that scarf," you had slurred, eyes twinkling like you'd just discovered a new star, or better yet, a new potion ingredient. Your roommates had arrived just in time to prevent you from any further voluble admiration, tugging you away with a mix of exasperation and amusem*nt. Yet, you managed to swivel around, shooting him one last effervescent smile that made his heart do something entirely uncharacteristic—it fluttered—before you vanished back into the convivial chaos of the Three Broomsticks.

Upon reaching the Professorial stands, his eyes are instantly drawn to a flash of yellow fabric. Cedric Diggory. And there, right next to him, are you and Aesop Sharp. A sliver of warmth pierces his cold veneer at the sight of you occupying a place so near him. But then it dawns on him—the grim reality of sitting through a match, watching you interact with Sharp.

Just as he's reconciling himself to this agony, your eyes meet his, and your lips curl into a smile that dissolves his internal ice. To hell with the scarf—your smile provides a warmth that no fabric could ever replicate. You wave. Sharp, Hammond and Diggory follow your gesture with cursory acknowledgments. Snape usually opts for the seclusion of the back rows, yet today you break ranks, stepping over benches, abandoning your prime second-row seat—and Sharp—to join him.

As you take a seat beside him, he can't help but think once more of your grounded, adorable humanity—leaving behind the clamor of your group to share this space with him. It's humbling and heartening, and for the first time in a long while, Severus feels a sense of belonging.

Throughout the match, your laughter is his personal triumph. Aware of your penchant for his candid commentaries, he doesn't hold back, throwing out sharp, sarcastic observations that send you into fits of giggles.

"And there goes Gryffindor's Seeker, the Chosen One himself, soaring through the sky with all the direction of a Confundus-charmed Bludger," he remarks, his eyes not leaving the field but keenly aware of your reaction.

Your laughter erupts into a melody of giggles that warms him more than any heating charm ever could. He doesn't even need to look at you to know that you're clutching your sides, struggling to breathe through your amusem*nt.

"It's almost like Gryffindor is pioneering a new form of Quidditch—where the aim is not to catch the Snitch, but to evade it," he muses. This particularly snide comment about Gryffindor's lamentable game strategy earns him an incisive glare from McGonagall from the row below.

At this, your eyes go saucer-wide with incredulity before laughter washes over you again, this time so compelling that you nearly lean into him, your shoulder precariously close to his. He stiffens for a mere second before allowing himself a rare, unguarded smile.

Whatever admonishments or vexations he's to hear from Minerva later will be inconsequential; in this moment, ensnared in the spell of your laughter, it's all irrefutably worth it.

Ben Hammond fluidly rises from his seat, leaving a vacancy in his wake. The boy makes his way to a solitary row, positioned inconspicuously to the side yet still centered within the middle stands. Cedric Diggory, almost a perfect foil to Severus in his easy charm, mouths a hurried apology to Sharp and trails behind Hammond.

As he takes a seat, Diggory's eyes flit back and forth, in search for the perfect moment—when Severus's gaze is seemingly averted and consumed by the game. Satisfied that the opportunity has presented itself, Diggory locks onto your eyes, extending an inviting mental hand in a clandestine signal that beckons you over. You arch a brow in his direction and then glance at Severus, the timbre of your voice feather-light as you tell him, "I'll be right back."

Feigning a preoccupation with the Bludger’s current path of destruction, Severus's eyes stubbornly stay on the game. Yet his peripheral vision is acutely tuned to your movements, refusing to relinquish the sight of you gracefully descending the stands. His pulse seems to sync with each step you take. Diggory hands you a flask.

You uncap it and take hearty swigs with the two boys. A peel of your laughter floats up towards him, weightless yet loaded, a sound that darts and weaves its way through the caverns of Severus’ psyche. How disarmingly, heartbreakingly human you seem in that slice of time, sharing a flask, sharing a laugh, sharing your life with others, even if they aren't him.

Each note of your laughter lands like a spell, one part soothing balm, one part stinging hex.

Amidst the cacophony of the Quidditch match, Snape's world narrows to a frame—a slice of life where you laugh, share a flask with two boys, your face already awash with alcohol’s influence. For a moment, time seems to slow, humanity distilled in your laughter. He found himself swallowed whole by the simple humanity of it all, of you.

As you live this ephemeral moment, a knot tightens within Severus. It's as if you're radiating life, spinning it into the air around you, while he is bound by the invisible chains of his past, a man eclipsed by shadows. For each joyful note you express, he can only offer silence. Still, that silence is filled with an unvoiced yearning, an unspeakable hope that you'd soon return to his side, reclaim your seat, and once again, laugh—only this time, because of him.

You were nearing graduation, ready to embark on a journey that might take you light-years away from the cobblestone walls and spell-infused atmosphere of Hogwarts. The thought filled him with a mixture of pride and profound dread.

But it was in moments like these that he allowed himself the indulgence of contemplating you—of imagining what it would be like to be the one sharing that flask, that laughter, that slice of life with you. Who was he fooling? These stolen fragments of time when his thoughts veer toward you, considering all the "what-ifs"?

These weren't mere 'moments of indulgence' or occasional flights of fancy; they've become a habit, almost second nature.

You had become a gravitational force in his life, pulling at him with an intensity he hadn't felt in years. The corners of his consciousness were embroidered with imaginings of you—moments both potential and impossible.

A glance falls on his left forearm, skin marred by the Dark Mark. Your eyes had ventured there once, questioning and probing. To placate you, he had purposefully bared his other arm—the unmarked one. The relief on your face was both a victory and a wound. You're no fool; you know he has two damned arms. So what would happen when you inevitably delve deeper, peeling away the layers of ambiguity to see the man underneath?

It's a terror he can't escape—the notion that his own darkness might eclipse the light you bring into his life. Worse yet is the more existential question: If you leave, who is Severus Snape then? Losses define him, each one like a cut to the soul. To add your name to the list of those he's lost—it's a thought too unbearable to entertain. Your presence has become entwined with his sense of self, so tightly that losing you would tear a hole too vast and dark to fathom.

The crowd roars, a goal scored or some such triviality, but he's miles away, anchored only by thoughts of you. You, who stand like a beacon in the labyrinthine depths of his mind, illuminating the otherwise dark corridors of his soul.

You ascend the stairs and stand before him upon your return. The closeness of you, standing mere inches away, is almost unbearable.

In this proximity, every detail of you becomes achingly clear—the subtle fragrance that trails you, the soft lilt in your voice, the nuanced expressions that dance across your face. The sunlight frames you, casting golden halos around the loose strands of your hair. He thinks about how easy it would be to reach out and close the gap between you, to seize this shared quietude and transform it into something ineffable. Each second that ticks by amplifies his yearning.

"I'm going to join the others for a bit," you announce softly, adding that if it weren't for Sharp and your association with your group, you'd be sandwiched among boisterous Slytherin students, struggling for a decent vantage point. Understanding passes through him like a shadow crossing the sun. Of course, he nods. You have a point. Your place isn't permanently next to him, as much as he wishes it were.

He inhales sharply, tucking his hands a little more tightly into his pockets, and the world rushes back in, filling the silence. But even as the Quidditch game regains its noisy prominence, the resonance of that nearness lingers, ghosting over him like a spell he's both unwilling and unable to break.

As you leave, he watches the delicate sway of your steps, the grace with which you move down the aisle. The sensation that he's letting something precious slip through his fingers is hard to shake off. Then you're laughing, your voice tinged with joy, filling the space next to Aesop Sharp and Cedric Diggory. A grimace etches its way onto his face.

Snape attempts to refocus his attention on the Quidditch match. The Slytherin Seeker is closing in on the Snitch, a feint that could earn them the win. But what is a Slytherin victory to him now? His eyes inevitably drift back to you.

As he watches you from the distance of a few rows, Severus experiences a mixture of yearning and subtle relief. When your laughter echoes in response to Sharp's commentary, it lacks the intangible yet palpable connection that had colored your reactions to him. With Sharp, you laugh, yes, but there's a missing element—no mutual leaning as if drawn by some invisible force, no piercing eye contact that momentarily freezes time, delivering a silent but potent message.

With Snape, each bout of laughter had felt like a whispered secret, a cherished moment folded into the pages of a book only the two of you were reading. It was as if each chuckle was a key, unlocking doors to unspoken understandings and shared emotional landscapes. The absence of that unique resonance fills him with an unexpected void, as if a page from that secret book had been torn away, leaving a stark emptiness in its wake.

Still, the realization offers a glimmer of solace, enough to pacify the green fires of jealousy that had begun to ignite within him. Seated there, his neck graced by the charcoal scarf you'd once complimented—an article of clothing that now felt like an emotional amulet—he experiences a complex tapestry of feelings. He feels simultaneously close yet achingly distant from you, as if existing in two parallel universes, near enough to observe but too far to touch. It's a small comfort in the grand tapestry of emotions he's navigating, but for now, it's enough. Just barely enough.

A comfortable warmth envelops you as you sit in a cozy nook at the Three Broomsticks with Harry sitting across from you. You’re both nursing your semi-frothy mugs of Butterbeer that have been dwarfed by the open potions textbook between you. With his quill poised above the page, Harry follows your guidance through the intricate steps of concocting the Draught of Peace. The air is filled with the buzz of concentration and the easy rapport you've built over the last few weeks.

In the past few weeks, you've come to consider Harry a close friend, a development that unfolded in unexpected spaces—quiet library corners shrouded in the scent of parchment and ink, dimly lit corridors where your footsteps echoed like whispered confidences, and sunlit courtyards where animated conversations were punctuated by the occasional laughter of passing students. Each interaction seemed to peel back another layer, revealing not just the famous Boy Who Lived but an intelligent, caring young man with whom friendship came easily.

You've grown fond of his friends, too. Ron's eyes would light up like the evening sky at your tales of Auror training, hanging onto every word as if you were recounting the legends of old. His childlike enthusiasm for the tactical details was both innocent and endearing, a refreshing contrast to the often grim realities of your job.

Hermione, ever the intellectual, relished the theoretical aspects. The two of you found common ground in your shared fascination for the Dark Arts, often huddled over books and exchanging heated discussions as if engaged in a magical form of chess, each move more insightful than the last. You genuinely enjoyed their company, looking forward to these unexpected but delightful friendships.

Your camaraderie with Harry was solidified after the recent Slytherin vs Gryffindor Quidditch match. You had been sitting with Snape, who was, as always, an incomparable companion. His sarcastic commentary had you in fits, his wry humor acting like a balm to your soul. You couldn't help but remember how he wore that charcoal scarf you'd admired, how the fabric subtly framed his stern face, adding a touch of vulnerability you found impossibly endearing.

After Gryffindor's win, Cedric had dragged you over to congratulate Harry. Your heart had swelled seeing Harry approach, his face flushed from the match, an awkward yet endearing smile on his lips. The first words that spilled from his mouth were an apologetic "Sorry," a nod to your Slytherin allegiances. The absurdity of his politeness in that triumphant moment had you nearly doubled over in laughter.

The friendship that blossomed between you and Harry was neither planned nor predictable, but it was one of those delightful anomalies that made life at Hogwarts so uniquely enchanting.

As you guide him through the complexities of the Draught of Peace, you point to a margin filled with the Half-Blood Prince's scrawling handwriting. "See this note here about adding the hellebore petals before the powdered moonstone? I actually think we could improve the brew's potency by reversing the order."

Harry's eyes meet yours as he contemplates this. "Reversing the order, you say?" The tip of his quill hovers above the parchment, ready to annotate.

"Yeah, I've found it's better that way. Adds a certain... crispness to the potion," you reply, feeling a tiny thrill at the way your joint understanding of potion-making has fostered this rich friendship. Harry nods and scribbles the note down next to the Half-Blood Prince's own wisdom.

To Harry, this textbook, and your shared explorations of it, promise a future where he might excel in potions well enough to qualify for the NEWT level. For you, it feels so intimately familiar, with the added excitement of uncharted territories within a subject you already love.

Over the weeks of poring over this particular textbook, you've come to recognize a kindred spirit in the annotations of the mysterious Half-Blood Prince. There are moments when a vague or brief note penned by the enigmatic author suddenly clicks, filling you with an exhilarating "aha" sensation. These are new revelations, perspectives on potion-making you'd never considered before, and you relish each one like an explorer discovering an uncharted island. Even though you occasionally find yourself slightly disagreeing with—or slightly improving upon—the Prince's suggestions.

Just as you're about to flip to the next chapter, the door of the Three Broomsticks bursts open with a flourish. In storm Ron and Hermione, already in the thick of a heated argument. As they get closer, their voices growing in volume and their faces flushed, you catch Harry's eye across the table. It's a look that speaks volumes—a mutual rolling of the eyes as he says, "Here we go again."

"Ron, I can't believe you're still entertaining this—this farce with Lavender," Hermione huffs, throwing her hands up in exasperation as she slides into the seat next to you.

"It's not a farce, Hermione! Lav-Lav is—"

"Don't call her that, please," Hermione interrupts, grimacing. "I can't take it seriously."

You suppress a chuckle at Hermione's candor, marveling at Ron's complete obliviousness to the deeper emotional current between them. It's almost endearing how clueless he is. Almost.

"Look, Hermione, you're my friend and all, but you can't just dictate who I date," Ron retorts, but you can hear the hesitation in his voice.

Hermione narrows her eyes, as if sizing up a particularly tricky Arithmancy problem. "I'm not dictating, Ron. I'm advising. There's a difference."

You catch Harry's gaze again, and you both share a knowing glance. If Lavender is a fleeting tune stuck in Ron's head, then Hermione is the soundtrack of his life—whether he realizes it or not. And from the impatient tap of Hermione's foot to the awkward scratching of Ron's head, it's clear to anyone with eyes that these two are dancing around something far more significant than mere friendship.

Though you usually prefer the subtleties of potion-making and the quiet intrigue of arcane lore, there's a part of you that finds this painfully obvious emotional equation amusing. Two bright young wizards, skilled in so many arts and subjects, yet blind to the most fundamental magic of all—the one brewing between them.

You take a sip of your Butterbeer, grinning inwardly at the drama unfolding before you, perfectly content with your position as an observant spectator. Ron and Hermione may not have figured it out yet, but the potion they're unwittingly concocting has a name—love. And when they finally realize it, you'll be there, perhaps offering a toast with a goblet of Amortentia.

As Ron and Hermione bicker on, something about their veiled affections makes your thoughts drift back to Severus. A momentary flashback paints your mind—the way his eyes lingered a little too long on you when you were sharing laughs with Sharp; the tightness around his mouth, a little too restrained to be purely coincidental. The green glint that you thought you saw in his eyes, was it akin to the flicker of jealousy you saw in Hermione's gaze whenever Ron mentions 'Lav-Lav'?

Severus, the always-composed, always-inscrutable Potions Master. Could he also be as blind to his own feelings as Ron? Severus is a maestro of subtlety, a guardian of his own emotions. Yet, could it be that he is as unable to decipher the potions of the heart as Ron is to decipher Hermione's increasingly obvious hints? Your mind begins to run parallel lines between Severus's carefully masked jealousy and Ron's obtuse approach to what is plain to see.

You start to wonder, for the first time perhaps, if the feelings you've been so cautious to label might actually be reciprocated. The thought leaves you with a sense of vulnerability you're not used to but also a flicker of hope that you can't help but entertain. Just like Hermione, who is so openly frustrated with Ron, you wonder if you should take a more direct approach with Severus. He is, after all, not a boy but a man—more equipped to handle the nuances of emotion, you hope.

You sip your Butterbeer thoughtfully. The human heart, you muse, is more complex than any potion, more unpredictable than any spell. It's a puzzle that even the most adept witches and wizards struggle to solve. As you sit there, sandwiched between two tales of unspoken affection, you can't help but think that perhaps the most magical moments are born when someone finally musters the courage to speak the truth. And maybe, just maybe, it's time for you and Severus to have your moment of truth too.

Or maybe the Butterbeer has finally caught up to you.

“Were you able to ask Sharp about my question? Regarding the possible sentient properties of cursed objects?” Hermione asks, her voice tinged with the unquenchable thirst for knowledge that defines her. On her behalf, you asked Sharp during your theory training yesterday if the magic within them somehow transgressed the material limits, and affected the very fabric of the soul or conscience. (Ben Hammond looked at you like a deer in headlights.)

You pause, recalling the rich texture of your conversation with Sharp. "So, yeah. He said that cursed artifacts aren't just loaded with dark magic—they carry the very essence of the curser's darker intentions, or even a fragment of their soul. It's as if these objects are imbued with a far-reaching malevolence that's stitched into the artifact's magical framework, making it part of a greater tapestry of evil. He says it can go even deeper than that, with intention. I forgot what he called it, specifically.”

Your eyes catch Hermione's with a knowing look, signaling you have more to contribute. "You know, I had a close shave with a cursed object during one of our training exercises. My grip on my wand faltered just as I was about to neutralize it."

Ron leans forward, almost knocking over his Butterbeer. "Blimey, what happened then?"

"Sharp swooped in at the last moment, of course," you continue, "but in that split second when my wand slipped, it was like I could feel the object reaching out—its darkness was so palpable, almost sentient, clawing at the edges of my soul. It felt like something, or, someone, was there. Reaching out to me. It felt like drowning, and then being yanked back to the surface just in time."

Harry's eyes meet yours, lingering on the weight of your shared experiences. He speaks carefully, his words coming out in a more grounded tone. "When I destroyed the diary, it wasn't like shredding paper. It was more like...I was cutting away a piece of something much bigger. Something old, and evil. It was as though I'd pulled a dark thread in a much larger tapestry, like I'd tugged at the very fabric of evil itself."

Ron pipes up, oblivious in his straightforwardness. "Well, that's because it was cursed, mate. Cursed things are bound to feel heavier and more dodgy."

Hermione sighs, a dash of endearing frustration coloring her words. "Yes, Ron, but there are degrees of cursed. What they’re describing transcends just a simple jinx or hex. It's like they're talking about the DNA of darkness itself."

You and Harry share another electric glance, your minds racing down parallel tracks. "It's almost as if," you muse, your voice hushed with awe and trepidation, "these cursed artifacts act as both a microcosm and a conduit—a fragment resonating with the same malevolence that birthed it, yet with an agency of its own."

Ron blinks.

Harry meets your gaze, his expression serious yet slightly mystified. "So you're saying it's like a part of something bigger, but it's also doing its own thing? Like it's both a piece and a player in a really dark game?

Hermione nods solemnly, her eyes filled with a mixture of dread and curiosity. "It's not just carrying evil; it's also propagating it, both a symbol and an instrument."

The atmosphere in the Three Broomsticks becomes almost palpable, as if you've collectively brushed against a profound and ancient truth. The resonance of your words hang in the air, threading through the warm, smoky haze of the pub, binding you all in an unspoken covenant of shared wonder and caution.

Your mind races as you consider the depth of what you've both touched upon. "Think about it, Harry. If these artifacts can act as conduits for some larger malevolent force, what if that force isn't just an abstract evil? What if it's something more personal—more intimate?"

Harry's brows furrow as he considers your words. "You mean like, could it be connected to a specific person? Someone pouring their own darkness into it?"

"Exactly!" you exclaim softly, careful not to attract unwanted attention. "And what's more personal than one's soul? What if these artifacts hold fragments of someone's very being? Someone who's figured out how to divide their essence to give these objects a life of their own?"

Harry leans in closer to the table, mind buzzing. "Okay, let's rehash. If these cursed objects are indeed fragments of someone's soul, then they would have to act as more than just malevolent forces. They'd have to have a kind of self-preservation, right?"

Hermione, her mind clearly at work, interjects, "That would explain why cursed objects are so hard to destroy. It's not just a dark spell; it's a fragment of a soul resisting its own destruction."

Harry's eyes widen. "When you put it that way, it's almost exactly how it felt when I stabbed Tom Riddle's diary. It was like destroying more than just an object—it was as if I was severing something deeper, more fundamental."

Just as the three of you begin to piece this mysterious puzzle together, the pub door bursts open, and in comes Lavender Brown, bee-lining towards your table. "Won-Won!" she sings out.

Hermione's eyes could not roll any further back into her head. "Ron, you said she wasn't coming."

"I swear, Hermione, I didn't invite her! She must've just... sensed I was here."

Hermione stands, clearly fed up. "Well, I've had enough sensing for one day. Goodbye." With an obvious eye-roll, she makes for the exit. Ron chases after her, running past a stunned Lavender in the doorway, leaving you and Harry to your weighty discussion.

Once they're out of earshot, Harry picks up where you left off. "So if we go along with this theory, we're talking about something that’s more than just cursing an object. We're talking about tethering a piece of one's soul to it.

“That's... that's a horrific kind of magic."

Harry's eyes narrow, lost in thought as he mentions the ring. "Dumbledore destroyed a cursed ring last year. When he described it to me, it wasn't just a simple curse. It was more... insidious. It tried to corrupt him from the inside out, like the diary did with Ginny. The diary wasn't just enchanted; it was like it had an awareness. It completely took her over. I’m saying, like, a piece of Tom Riddle's very essence."

Your brow furrows, the new piece of information sparking a deeper connection in your mind. "Wait a second. If we're talking about an object possessing a piece of someone—a fragment of their very soul, let's say—then it adds up. The diary's actions were far too calculated to be the result of just a charm or spell. I mean it literally tried to open the Chamber of Secrets again. It had a purpose, an intent that's too complex for mere dark magic."

Harry nods, "Exactly! It's almost like they're multiple centers of operation for the same will. Each cursed object carries a piece of that dark intent, that 'soul' if you will, and acts to further its goals."

The room's atmosphere grows thick with the weight of your theory, the pieces fitting together with frightening precision. "And if Tom Riddle could do it with a diary, what's stopping him from doing it with other items? If he fears death as much as it seems, he'd create multiple fail-safes."

Harry's face turns an ashen shade, “Like a ring.”

"Which means, there could be multiple of these… soul vessel? I don’t know. A safeguard against mortality."

The horrifying realization settles over you both, like the first fall of snowflakes heralding a long, cruel winter.

“Dumbledore had… had told me once that Tom Riddle was consumed by the fear of death.”

You look at Harry, both of you equally putting together the last pieces of the insidious puzzle.

Harry's eyes narrow, desperation subtly lacing his tone. "We really need to bring this to Dumbledore."

You lean back slightly, recalling Severus' irritable remarks about having to stand in for the absent Headmaster. "Isn't Dumbledore away? No one seems to know his whereabouts."

The unspoken tension of the situation lingers, your shared concern underlining the urgency.

You feel the gravity of the moment settle between you. "Let's take it to Professor Sharp. Sharp's the next best thing. I mean, he’s the one who taught me about this in the first place. If we can make the connection, so can he. We need to dig deeper."

Harry looks at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of dread and determination. "Alright, let's do it. Let's talk to Sharp."

The profound implications of your discoveries hang in the air, both an invitation and a warning. But for the greater good, it’s a journey you're willing to undertake.

You and Harry rise from your seats, leaving behind the cozy atmosphere of the Three Broomsticks. Outside, you find Ron and Hermione engrossed in yet another heated argument. Rolling your eyes, you seize the moment to interject.

"Can you two just get over the fact that you're obviously obsessed with each other, for the sake of everyone's sanity?" Your tone is pointed, leaving little room for argument.

The words hang in the air, but they do the trick. Ron and Hermione exchange a flustered glance, and the atmosphere somehow lightens. Your walk back to Hogwarts becomes a tranquil journey through a peaceful snowfall, the world around you softened and hushed.

The tranquil moment shatters as a piercing scream cleaves through the crisp night air, ripping apart the snowy serenity. Instantly, you and Harry lock eyes and, as if propelled by the same urgent force, break into a breathless sprint towards the source of the terror. Ron and Hermione are a half-beat behind, their faces twisted in a mix of fear and resolve.

Skidding to a halt, the four of you are met with a horrifying scene: Katie Bell, suspended in the air, her body convulsing in agonizing spasms, eyes wide and unseeing. Below her, an ornate package lies ominously on the snow-dusted ground.

"I warned her! I told her not to touch it!" her friend wails, her voice tinged with hysteria, her eyes swimming with impending tears.

Just then, Hagrid bursts onto the scene, a looming silhouette against the snow. "DON'T TOUCH THAT!" he bellows with a ferocity that rattles your bones, pointing at the forsaken package. "Only by the wrappings, got it?"

With giant arms outstretched, Hagrid cradles Katie's twitching form, her body still quivering as if charged with some malevolent energy. Your eyes lock with Harry's once more, a wordless exchange thick with meaning. This isn't just any curse; it's a calculated menace, a live wire of malevolence sizzling in the snow.

As Hagrid whisks Katie away, the weight of what you've witnessed settles like a stone in your gut. In that moment, it becomes chillingly clear: the cursed artifacts, the shadowy powers behind them—they're not just dangerous, they're a sprawling, insidious network of evil. And they've just shown how far they can reach.

Chapter 6: details

Chapter Text

But I don't wanna talk about it
'Cause if I talk about it
Then you'll see I don't, I don't
Know what to do about it
What to do about this feeling that I don't want
But I'll keep it all to myself
If you spare me the details

details -Maisie Peters

https://open.spotify.com/track/0fhCPfwzobrm2kyDqcJ9vV?si=0e89451b46a2448b

Hogwarts, Start of Term Feast of 7th Year - Sharp

Amidst the Great Hall's celestial ceiling and floating candles, Dumbledore announced the new instructor for the Goldhawk Initiative. Aesop Sharp sat next to the staff table, his eyes scanning the students below him. The invitation to spearhead this specialized training at Hogwarts was a far cry from retirement—a path he'd been eyeing after an injury had made his Auror days numbered.

He knew why the Ministry had pivoted to this initiative; Voldemort was back, Death Eaters were resurfacing, and even the youngest generation needed to be battle-ready. It was the Ministry's reactive response to the chaos unleashed by dark forces, and they'd deemed him the man to lead the charge. In many ways, he agreed.

Sharp's gaze swept over the Hall once more. Yes, Dumbledore could make his speeches and flaunt his proverbs. But Aesop Sharp had a job to do—a duty that aligned with the pragmatic core of his being. As the applause thundered and the students fixed their eyes on him, a rare sensation settled in his stern demeanor—anticipation. For the first time in years, he felt an excitement for the challenges ahead, and, perhaps more tellingly, for the opportunity to mold the next generation of defenders.

In a world teetering on the brink, his gruff exterior masked a truth he'd never openly admit: He took genuine pride in the young minds he would shape, especially yours.

Among the stacked applications for the Goldhawk Program, yours seized his focus like a lodestar. You. The daughter of Fitzgerald—the daring, boundary-defying Auror he had not just respected but intimately known in another life. Sharp still remembers bonding with Fitz over fleeting romances, and knew him when the man had first been enchanted by the woman who would become your mother.

Fitz had been more than a mentor; he was a confidant, a co-conspirator in the labyrinthine trenches of law enforcement. Ah, the wild jaunts and morally dubious escapades they'd navigated—skirting the fringes of legality, dancing on the razor's edge of ethical imperatives. Nights of unspoken deeds shrouded in secrecy, whispered rationalizations lingering in smoky rooms. "We did what we had to do," they'd repeat to themselves—a chant, a salve, an absolution that never fully took.

Eighteen years later, seated amidst the grandeur of the Hogwarts staff table, Aesop Sharp was a man who made decisions, often cutting like his namesake through the Gordian knots of moral ambiguity. And yet, even he couldn't answer the gnawing question: Had the ends truly justified the means? The wizarding world had been their purported stage, but the roles they'd played and the lines they'd crossed—they were still points of disquiet in his otherwise resolute mind.

Years later, those memories hovered in the background like indistinct specters, each a fragmented piece in a mosaic of choices that Sharp still mulled over during solitary nights.

Operations they'd deemed crucial at the time now festered as open questions in his conscience. Covert interrogations that had crossed ethical boundaries, questionable alliances with characters best left in the shadows, and certain missions—missions where the objective had been more vendetta than justice. The kind of tasks that leave an indelible ink stain on the parchment of one's moral ledger.

Those deeds were locked away in a vault of silence, a place he seldom ventured, yet whose presence he could never truly escape.

When his gaze met yours across the crowded expanse of the Great Hall, he was struck by an unbidden recollection—the same perceptive look your father had worn when mapping out enemy terrain, and these days, more aptly, the gentle yet unyielding gaze your mother used to cast upon Fitz. It was a gaze that said she understood the layers of the man she loved, the good and the complicated, and loved him still. Finding that same duality in your eyes, Sharp wondered if it were a sign. A sliver of redemption, maybe, or a chance to make things right in a world gone terribly awry.

Cedric Diggory and Ben Hammond filled out the trio he'd selected for the Goldhawk Initiative. Cedric was the easy choice—a brilliant student, and the Triwizard Champion to boot. He embodied the values Sharp considered essential: courage, intelligence, and a moral compass that didn't waver under pressure. Ben Hammond, however, was a bit of a gamble. His understanding of the world's tactical intricacies intrigued Sharp. It was a rare quality, one he thought would prove valuable in their perilous endeavors.

Yet, in the quiet recesses of his mind, Sharp reflected on his selections. With the clarity of hindsight, he realized he'd been spot-on about you and Cedric; you both exhibited qualities far beyond your years. Ben was more of a mixed bag—annoying at times, but undeniably talented and trainable. All three of you, though, had rekindled a purpose in him, a burning conviction that perhaps the next generation could succeed where his own - he and Fitz - had faltered.

The way you moved in training, weaving between opponents, casting spells with not just power but an artistic flair—it was mesmerizing. Your actions carried a hypnotic fluidity that fused grace and force into a singular, captivating ballet. Sharp had seen many talented wizards and witches in his years as an Auror, but you stood out.

It wasn't merely the keen intellect that illuminated your eyes as you unraveled intricate puzzles, puzzles that would leave even seasoned Aurors scratching their heads. Nor was it just the unyielding resolve that tightened your jaw during physical exercises, a level of focus that reminded him of the intensity one needed to successfully complete the rigorous Auror training program. What captivated him was how you harmonized these elements—strength, wisdom, finesse—all gracefully combined in a way that made you irreplaceably unique.

And that was the crux of his internal quandary. The realization hit him one day, like a Bludger to the chest: he found himself dangerously close to being attracted to you. It was a bewildering, almost unsettling revelation that made its presence known on a restless night, catching him off guard like an unforeseen hex. Fitz's daughter, beautiful and brilliant in ways that rivaled her father's most remarkable qualities, was also drawing the gaze and stirring the emotions of Aesop Sharp.

"That's messed up, even for me," he mused to himself, shifting uncomfortably in his own skin as he pondered the labyrinthine maze of emotions and ethics he now found himself navigating.

It was the type of disquieting thought that made him put down his glass of firewhisky with more force than he intended, the amber liquid sloshing precariously close to the rim. He found himself rising abruptly from his chair to pace the confines of his chamber, as if he could physically escape the entangled web of feelings and duty he was enmeshed in.

And then there were those fleeting moments during training, when his gaze would linger on you for just a second too long, appreciating the agility with which you executed a spell or the adept way you dodged a curse. Each time it happened, he'd catch himself, mentally chiding his own lack of professionalism and reining in his thoughts with the stern discipline he'd honed over years of Auror service.

But even as he did, the uncomfortable truth remained, lodged in the back of his mind like an inescapable splinter: the line between professional admiration and personal interest was becoming perilously thin, and navigating it was proving to be the most complex challenge he'd faced in years.

Sharp had learned through whispers in the castle's stone corridors about your closeness with Severus Snape. Frankly, it had been a bit unsettling. And when you confirmed this association after your first Goldhawk session, he was torn. On one hand, your openness implied a level of trust that he couldn't help but feel flattered by. But at the same time, he questioned your judgment in being so forthcoming. Did you divulge personal matters so easily to everyone, or was this a rare instance? Do you always share with people you’ve known for approximately 3 hours and 3 minutes, total? Perhaps a lesson on discretion was in order.

Sharp knew that in their line of work—a line you seemed keen to join—holding one's cards too openly could be more than just problematic; it could be fatal. Especially when the name in question was Severus Snape. A man whose past was mired in shades so dark, they were almost opaque. Severus had once run with the Death Eaters, and had once been a sworn enemy before his role shifted into something far more ambiguous.

That you were close to such a complicated figure planted a seed of unease in Sharp's mind, nestling there among his already tangled thoughts about you. It was a seed that promised to grow into a full-fledged dilemma, one he wasn't quite sure how to cultivate just yet.

Still, knowing that you, a student he was coming to view as exceptional, would choose to associate so closely with Snape—a man who had done unspeakable things—gave him pause. Sharp had been privy to confidential files and closed-door meetings in his time as an Auror, details that weren't for public consumption.

He remembered the whispers that had circled the Ministry when Snape had defected from the Death Eaters. It had been a contentious issue, subject to intense scrutiny, with multiple testimonies standing between Snape and Azkaban. Although it was Albus Dumbledore who had vouched for Snape's change of allegiance, thus leading to his exoneration, many in the Auror department, Sharp included, remained skeptical. The evidence had been strong enough to keep the Potions Master out of prison but not strong enough to erase the stain of his past from the minds of those who had seen the files, who knew the extent of his previous affiliations.

A man who had once branded his arm with the Dark Mark, who had sworn fealty to the darkest wizard of their age, was now someone you, his promising student, chose to be close to.

It was a disconcerting dichotomy that Sharp found difficult to reconcile with his emerging respect for you. The knowledge added another layer of complexity to an already convoluted emotional landscape. Just how closely should he be watching you? And what did your choice of companions say about your own complexities, your own murky depths? It was a question that loomed larger with each passing day, even as he struggled to push aside the more personal, unsolicited feelings that you were eliciting within him.

Hell, he'd even put you to a little test. You had claimed your brewing sessions with Snape were for the benefit of keeping Madam Pomfrey's hospital wing supplies stocked. He decided to approach you after training one day. "How's brewing for Pomfrey?" he had asked, purposefully omitting Snape's name to see your reaction. You'd looked momentarily confused, your eyes narrowing in thought before you said, "Oh, right. It's going well, thank you for asking." The brief moment of hesitation, that flicker in your eyes, told him you were likely more vigilant than he'd initially assessed.

And then there was that peculiar episode during the Quidditch match. You had climbed the stands, positioning yourself beside Snape for a brief period. You were up there for only a short while before descending back to your spot. Sharp couldn't quite put his finger on it, but the sight had left an impression on him that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.

He found himself contemplating whether Fitz knew about this close association you had with Snape. The correspondence he'd been having with your father was friendly, focusing on your commendable progress and the general goings-on at Hogwarts. They'd even reminisced, albeit superficially, about old times. Fitz had been pleased, even proud, to hear about your accomplishments.

But Sharp hadn't brought up your relationship with Snape—should he? He pondered over this while recalling the shadows of their own shared past, a past punctuated by morally ambiguous decisions and deeds best left unmentioned. And so the question hung in the air, unanswered but persistently palpable: how much did your father know, and how much should he?

As Sharp sifted through his thoughts about your associations, he found himself hung up on the tiniest details—the way you tilted your head when listening intently to Snape, or how your eyes would catch the light in a particularly enchanted way when you were deep in magical theory. He found himself replaying these moments like a loop in his mind, each repetition leaving him increasingly unsettled.

It was as though he were solving an intricate puzzle, and he'd been staring at the pieces so long that he'd failed to see the picture they formed. Until the image crystallized, unbidden and undeniable: was this jealousy he was feeling?

From that point, it was as if a dam had burst within him, a rush of awareness flooding his senses. His attentiveness to your actions, the way your presence lingered in his thoughts, the subconscious tallying of the time you spent with others—it all cascaded into this torrent of realization. He couldn't escape it. Suddenly, everything was illuminated in a stark new light. Even his stoic, disciplined mind couldn't discount what was happening.

It wasn't just the dangerous allure of a forbidden connection; it was the magnetism of something deeper, something he hadn't allowed himself to entertain in years. And like a man finally coming up for air, he knew there was no going back. The undercurrents of his emotions, once safely buried, were now a riptide, pulling him into uncharted waters. And as unsettling as it was, a part of him was ready to surrender to the current.

The enigma deepens, however, when he considers his own emotional terrain. Jealousy is oddly selective, a fact he realizes only when he observes you with others. When you glide through the castle corridors, laughing softly at something Cedric says, a quirk of your mouth that makes Diggory's eyes light up like fireflies, Sharp feels nothing—no surge of envy, no tightness in his chest.

When you're crossing wits with Ben, your eyes narrowed in righteous anger, Sharp experiences a mix of amusem*nt and admiration. You're like a tempest in those moments, furious and dazzling, and it calls forth the conductor in him, guiding the storm rather than quelling it. The rawness of your spirit—so much like your father's—elicits a smile.

Even when he spots you deeply engrossed in a textbook with Harry Potter, who has the world hanging on his every word and gesture, Sharp's pulse remains steady. His eyes don't narrow; his jaw doesn't set.

But with Snape—it's an entirely different symphony of sensations. He and Snape fill similar roles in your life, just in different realms—Snape with potions, himself with Auror training. He's grappling with the unsettling notion that perhaps Snape is privy to the same intellectual rigor, the same vibrant curiosity, the same unguarded moments that he's been savoring in his own time with you. The furrow of your brow when you're deep in thought, the arch of your wrist as you perfect a difficult spell, the gleam in your eyes when a challenge is met and bested.

But he knows—God, he knows—Snape might be privy to these slivers of your personality, these micro-revelations that Sharp has hoarded like precious stones. And if Snape shares in this treasure, it's likely he also grapples with an emotional complexity that mirrors Sharp's own sentiments.

How could he not? After all, you're the epitome of desire—youthful, beautiful, astoundingly intelligent, and incredibly witty. A full package that no man, not even Severus Snape, could possibly overlook.

Sometimes, it gnaws at him even more to consider that you're entirely aware of your allure. That perhaps, in your incandescent intelligence, you know exactly what you're doing. It's both exhilarating and agonizing to think that these traits, these aspects that make you so compelling, are not his alone to experience.

In this realization, Sharp senses the tone of his thoughts shifting, growing sharper, more territorial.

Competition has never sat well with him. In the hazardous world of Auror life, being second-best was a harbinger of danger, sometimes even death. That sense of preeminence—of being unparalleled—had been hard-wired into his psyche. His time in the field had bred in him an insatiable desire to be the best—to be irreplaceable. And the idea of sharing that intricate, intellectual dance he'd developed with you? Unthinkable.

The revelation churns something darker within him, an unyielding, competitive spirit that doesn't care for sharing. The stakes are different now, but the intensity? That hasn't changed one bit.

He cannot share the unique rapport he's cultivated with you than he could willingly step aside for an enemy.

And in this moment, as if a dark fog lifts to reveal a precipice, Sharp grasps the magnitude of his feelings. He's standing at an emotional cliff's edge, staring down into the churning depths and recognizing for the first time the powerful, almost gravitational pull you've come to have on him. No longer just a student, not merely the child of an old friend—you've become a complex constellation of desires and challenges that he hadn't planned on navigating but now can't possibly imagine steering away from.

For the past several mornings, Sharp has made it a point to walk down the length of the Slytherin table, as if he's surveying the Great Hall, but his real focus is always you. He stops to say hello, a lingering pause that has grown into a subtle but deliberate ritual. As he makes his way toward you, he’s keenly aware that Snape’s dark eyes track him from the head table—a clandestine surveillance he finds increasingly satisfying.

Today, the satisfaction reaches new heights. He reaches the Slytherin table and finds you already engrossed in a particular report, your eyes scrutinizing the richly watermarked parchment, a manifestation of bureaucracy and secrecy. It's a classified Ministry document, one he assigned himself. He had to pull quite a few strings to get his hands on this, but it was worth the trouble. Only someone of your intellectual caliber could appreciate its complexity.

"Morning," he murmurs, low enough to be an intimate whisper over the breakfast chatter. "Hard at work already?"

You look up, smiling as if his arrival is the missing footnote to the document before you. "Just reviewing the classified. There's a section I'm not quite getting. Would you mind helping me?"

It's an invitation and an opportunity that he can't pass up. Sharp slides into the empty seat beside you, intentionally positioning himself so that his back is to Snape. A tactical move, meticulously planned. Snape can only watch you now—your facial expressions, your laughter, the little tells that reveal you're genuinely pleased by his company. The glow that lights up your features when you're engrossed in a shared intellectual quest.

"What's tripping you up?" he asks, peering down at the document.

"It's this section here," you point with a slender finger, "about the Gideon Grimoire. It mentions 'protective encryptions,' but doesn't specify the kind of magic they're warded with."

Sharp finds himself irrationally pleased that it's a challenging question, one that warrants his expertise. "Lumerian ciphers. Ancient and very obscure. Meant to confuse anyone who tries to decode the spells in the Grimoire."

Your eyes widen with interest, then narrow as if you're storing this interaction in a mental vault.

He leans in closer than strictly necessary to examine the file, his arm almost, but not quite, brushing against yours. Your proximity is electric, a pulsating energy that both focuses and blurs his senses. And in this subtle orchestration, he knows he's hitting all the right notes, watching your face brighten, eyes sparkling. It's a silent message, executed with perfect precision, that he’s got you in that moment.

He helps you navigate through the arcane terminologies and veiled implications, and in that process, he's irresistibly drawn to the radiance of your intellect. You're not just bright; you're luminescent in your curiosity and understanding. He's acutely aware that Snape is somewhere behind him, a presence lurking like a shadow—but in this moment, he doesn't care.

And that's the thing. He's not doing this for the satisfaction of knowing that Snape is scowling into his morning tea—though the thought does elicit a certain guilty pleasure. He's doing it because he's drawn to you, fascinated by your brilliance and ensnared by a desire he can't yet quantify.

He punctuates the academic discussion with another joke, his words a calculated brew of seriousness and levity. When you laugh, the sound is mellifluous, disarming—a harmonious note that turns the air itself into a resonant field.

"Keep up the good work," Sharp says, locking eyes with you once more as he gathers himself to leave. "I have high expectations for you, as you already know."

"And I have no intention of disappointing," you reply, a spark in your eyes that says more than words ever could.

Sharp rises, a newfound sense of possession warming his veins. "I'll hold you to that. Enjoy your breakfast," he says, finally pulling away and rising from the seat.

His eyes catch the reflection of Snape's face in a goblet across the hall. The Potion’s Master sneer is a masterpiece of loathing and disdain. Sharp can't help but revel in it, the bitter icing on the cake of his morning. But the heart of it, the molten core of his intent, is not the discord with Snape—it's the undeniable pull he feels toward you. And that makes all the difference.

Severus Snape may have laid claim to your potions intellect, your brewing skills, but in this domain—the uncharted territory of whatever is blossoming between you and Sharp—the Potions Master has no jurisdiction.

The soft scratching of quill against parchment fills Sharp's quarters as he meticulously crafts a letter to your father, Fitz. The ink flows across the parchment, encoding words that speak of pride, accomplishments, and promises for the future. Just as he's searching for the right phrasing to truly encapsulate your most recent achievements, a shrill cry interrupts his thoughts.

A tawny owl comes barreling through the window, almost reckless in its urgency. The bird drops a rolled parchment onto his desk, its beak trembling around the frayed edge of a crimson ribbon. The wax seal imprinted with the McGonagall crest—two lions rampant—is broken with a swift flick of his wrist. As he scans the terse lines scrawled in Minerva's angular handwriting, his eyes widen.

Student injured offsite.

Dark influence suspected.

Your expertise is needed.

Transfiguration Classroom.

M.M.

His eyes scan the parchment and note a second name addressed: Severus Snape.

Adrenaline surges through his veins, dispelling any vestiges of calm. The unfinished letter to your father slips from his consciousness as his boots hit the stone floor.

His boots echoed sharply against the stone floors of the castle as he made his way to the Transfiguration classroom. Each step was a blend of apprehension and resolve, pulsating with a focus that drowned out even the whispers of the castle's resident ghosts. His mind, trained for situational awareness, ricocheted between possibilities—dark artifacts, cursed locations, malevolent spells—and he couldn't shake the nagging thought of your involvement.

Pushing the door open with more force than strictly necessary, he stepped into the room. His eyes flickered from face to face—McGonagall's stern and furrowed brows, Potter's characteristic wide eyed determination, Granger's anxious intellect, Weasley's defiant posture—and you.

The second he found you, a tsunami of relief washed over him, temporarily silencing the symphony of worst-case scenarios that had been building in his mind. You were safe, standing between Harry and Hermione, untouched by whatever darkness had prompted the urgency. But why were you there?

"Sharp, you've arrived not a moment too soon," Minerva announces, her voice tinged with seriousness, her eyes narrow slits of concern. Just as she's about to elaborate, the door eases open again with an eerie creak. Snape glides into the room, his robes trailing behind him like dark wisps of shadow, his face a hardened mask of inscrutability.

"Ah, Severus, timely as always," Minerva nods towards him. "We face a conundrum that eludes easy solutions, and two minds adept in the Dark Arts are better than one.” She pauses, looking grim. “One of our own was attacked in Hogsmeade.”

The atmosphere in the room grows palpable with a combination of suspicion and anticipation. Sharp's gaze flickers back to you, locking onto your eyes. The subtle tilt of his head is a silent invitation, a wordless cue.

You step forward, meeting his gaze with a blend of urgency and trust. It tells him everything he needs to know: he is here, you are safe, and together, you'll unveil and confront whatever malevolent force has infiltrated this sanctuary. He nods subtly, granting you the space to take the lead.

With a deep breath, you begin unraveling the tale, "We were walking back from Hogsmeade and we heard screaming. We ran to it and saw Katie Bell suspended in the air, convulsing violently before collapsing. There was a necklace on the ground that apparently Katie had found in her bag and touched.”

The moment Sharp's gaze lands on the object ominously resting on Minerva's desk, a primal tension coils within him, reverberating with whispers of hidden dangers and malevolent forces. His eyes, honed through grueling years of Auror training, instantly discern the subtle indicators of its sinister nature; his instincts blare an unmistakable alarm: this is a cursed object.

The pendant hangs with an eerie stillness, as though time and air dare not interact with it, for fear of becoming tainted themselves.. It's more than just a necklace—it's a well of dark energy, compressed into an innocuous form, yet pulsating silently with an aura that envelops him like a shroud. This aura resonates, pressing heavily upon his very soul, and evoking memories of cursed artifacts he had encountered in his Auror days.

The necklace's malevolent aura reaches beyond its mere physicality, penetrating his being with an unsettling familiarity. Its twisted metal and unsettlingly inert pendant are telltale signs, resonating with a silent, dark malevolence that unsettles him deeply.

It's an experience that bypasses rational thought, clawing directly at the primal core of his psyche. He grasps the staggering gravity of what lies before him on an intrinsic, almost cellular level. If his instincts are to be trusted—and they seldom lead him astray—then they are dealing not merely with a malevolent artifact, but also with a dark wizard of formidable power. The mere thought that such malign influence could breach the walls of Hogwarts—and come so perilously close to you—fills him with a disquieting urgency.

Minerva punctuates his contemplation with new information. "I've conversed with the young lady accompanying Katie. According to her account, Katie was devoid of the necklace whilst at the Three Broomsticks. It only materialized after her brief absence to the lavatory. Intriguingly, she seemed intent on delivering it to Dumbledore. A calculated attempt at sabotage seems likely."

The immediacy of your question snags his attention like a lasso. "Is it cursed?"

"Would you care to render a judgment?" Sharp asks, motioning toward the dark artifact. “As a Goldhawk member, she’s had a number of run-ins with identifying and neutralizing cursed objects.” he informs the group. In his mind, he can't help but marvel at your quickness to grasp the gravitas of the situation. An unspoken pride swells within him.

With a gulp of nervous resolve, you step forward. With a flourish of your wand, you gently levitate the ominous object, scrutinizing it carefully. It feels as though the room is holding a collective breath, as Sharp steps back from Minerva’s desk. He stands next to Snape, who is also looking at the necklace curiously.

The air grows thick with anticipation as you speak, "Cursed objects often act as conduits for malevolent magical effects. This particular artifact appears designed to function as a proxy assassin. Upon contact, it likely triggers a lethal spell, possibly akin to the Killing Curse."

A murmur of astonishment circulates around the room. Your eyes lock onto Sharp's, and you nod ever so slightly, confirming your initial inquiry. "Yeah, it's cursed."

Sharp and Snape, two masters of the Dark Arts in their own rights, exchange a look before both turning toward you, questions spilling from their lips in a strange duet. They ask you about the details of the curse, the intended victim, and other potential counter-spells. It's almost surreal, this moment of collective deduction, each feeding into the other's expertise.

"Brilliant deduction. Can you elaborate on how you identified the spell bound to the necklace? Any signs of its magical origin?" Sharp asks, his eyes fixed on you with keen interest.

You glance briefly at the levitating necklace, then back to Sharp and Snape. "Well, the magical signature emanating from the necklace is both dark and sophisticated. It carries elements of Eastern European dark magic, perhaps even akin to the styles seen in Durmstrang."

Snape, eyes narrowed in thought, cuts in. "And what about counter-spells? Do you have suggestions for safely containing it?"

Drawing your wand, you direct it at the necklace, encasing it in a translucent magical shield. "A simple Protego Horribilis should suffice for containment, at least temporarily. To permanently neutralize it, however, we'd need to perform a series of complex counter-curses."

The room, for Sharp, seems to fade into the background, focusing into this unique moment where expert minds converge. As he listens to you answering, articulating complex magical theories with an ease that leaves even seasoned wizards impressed. The clarity and confidence emanate from you as you answer, a confirmation that not only does he find himself dangerously close to admiration but, more vitally, he has every reason to.

"Intriguing. Do you think the curse is adaptive? Could it possibly change or get stronger over time?" Sharp asks.

Shifting your gaze between the two men, you answer. "It's possible. Dark curses of this complexity often have fail safes to adapt to basic counter-curses."

He realizes how perilously close he is to feeling more than just admiration for you. It's a realization that simultaneously fills him with a sense of wonder and a profound urgency, as if each word you speak adds a new layer to an increasingly complex emotional landscape.

Snape interjects, his eyes narrowing as they scrutinize the levitating necklace. "Cursed objects of this caliber are not mere novelties. They're specifically tailored for devastating harm. It wouldn't be a stretch to suspect it of harboring an Unforgivable Curse."

Sharp picks up on Snape's thread. "And not just any Unforgivable Curse. The degree of sophistication involved here suggests it could deliver a personalized curse, something tuned to the intended victim."

"Right. The object likely senses the magical signature of its target and adapts accordingly. It's an insidious piece of work—intelligent, even. A trap designed not just to kill but to confound and mislead." you analyze.

As you carefully lower the necklace back onto Minerva's desk, surrounded by a magical barrier to prevent any further incidents, Sharp senses an immediate change in the room's atmosphere.

Harry can't contain himself. "But Katie couldn't have been the intended victim, could she? She's harmless."

Sharp offers a thin smile. "Which may suggest that this was a case of misdirection or, more worryingly, a trial run for something even more sinister."

The air turns colder, almost as if the dark tendrils of magic entwined within the cursed object are grasping for something more—someone more.

“Do you think she was… Imperiused?” you ask, worried. He nods.

Then, abruptly, Harry's voice pierces the tense silence. "It was Draco Malfoy!"

Sharp's eyes flicker, momentarily bewildered. Time seems to halt; even the portraits adorning the walls appear taken aback. The fervor in Harry's voice makes him question what he knows, or thinks he knows. Minerva's eyebrows shoot up, a picture of incredulity, mirroring the sentiment in the room. But it's Snape's reaction that cements the seriousness of the accusation.

"Your evidence?" Snape's voice is low, nearly a growl, as his eyes narrow in a way that could make even a lion reconsider its next move.

“I just know,” Harry retorts, as if that's evidence enough. Sharp feels your body tense, wincing at the boy's audacity.

Snape's response is a repetition, a slow, disdainful drawl. “You. Just. Know.”

The room remains a battlefront. Standing there like a hawk surveying the terrain, Snape shifts his gaze to Harry. "Accusations like that need to be backed up. Do you have any concrete proof, Potter?"

Harry hesitates, his eyes darting between Snape and Sharp before finally landing on you. "I... I've been keeping an eye on Malfoy. He's up to something; I know it!"

As you stand there, all mulling over the implications of Harry's brash accusation and Snape's contempt, a change comes over Snape. His eyes go cold, his lips curling slightly in distaste as he turns toward Harry.

"Once again you astonish with your gifts, Potter. Gifts mere mortals could only dream of possessing." Snape's voice drips with disdain, the words like venom. "How grand it must be to be the Chosen One."

"That's enough. Harry, Ron, Hermione, I suggest you all head back to your dormitories immediately."

"As for you two," she turns to Snape and Sharp, her eyes softening only a fraction, "stay behind. We must get in touch with Dumbledore right away. We have much to discuss."

You exchange a quick glance with Sharp and Snape before leaving the room. In their eyes, you see a mirror of your own unsettling thoughts: that perhaps the year ahead holds darker and more convoluted challenges than any of you had anticipated. Harry's suspicions add a new layer of complexity to the dangerous puzzle forming around you all.

You've always known that Harry and Draco were more than just schoolboy rivals; their enmity runs deep, sewn into the very fabric of their Hogwarts experience. And you were well aware of Harry's unsettling encounters with Lucius Malfoy, Draco's father, a man whose affiliations with the darker aspects of the wizarding world are more than just rumors. But Harry's blatant declaration—that Draco, young as he is, might be entrenched in such malevolence—is a revelation that sends a chill down your spine, a shiver that competes with the lingering tendrils of dark magic emanating from the cursed necklace.

His accusations, lacking in evidence but emotionally charged, linger like a storm cloud, making the stone halls of Hogwarts seem a shade darker than usual. Just when you're about to turn towards the library to dive into some research, you hear hurried footsteps echoing behind you.

"Wait! Can we talk?" Harry's voice calls out, tinged with a desperate urgency.

You pause and turn, allowing him to catch up. His glasses are slightly askew, his eyes filled with an expression that’s almost jarring on his face. "What's going on, Harry?”

The corridor feels as if it's holding its breath as Harry speaks, each word carving its own space in the atmosphere, heavy with implications. "Over the summer, I saw Draco at Borgin and Burkes," he starts, his voice tinged with a gravity that draws you in. "It's a dark magic shop in Knockturn Alley. He was... different. Shifty, like he was burdened with secrets, and a paranoia that seemed to darken the very air around him."

His words hang suspended, taking root in the complex tapestry of your thoughts. "And he's been isolating himself," Harry continues, "even from his closest friends. I've noticed he vanishes from the Marauder's Map. It's like he steps into a void, and I can't track where he goes. He's concealing something, I can feel it." He takes a deep breath, steadying himself.

Your brows knit together, a storm of conflicting emotions brewing within you. "Harry… claiming Draco to be a Death Eater? Do you think Voldemort would really enlist a 16 year old?"

Harry leans in closer, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that feels almost tangible. His eyes, a vivid green, seem to pulse with a fervor that he yearns to transmit to you. "I don’t have all the answers. But I remember you once told me that Sharp believes there’s nothing as reliable as one's intuition. Mine is sounding alarm bells, warning that we're standing on a precipice and that there's a perilous chasm below us we need to investigate."

The gravity of his conviction strikes you, pulsing through the tense air between you two. Harry's sincerity, the earnestness in his gaze, battles with the rational part of your mind warning you of the dangers of a baseless witch hunt. A fluttering, like a moth drawn to a flame, dances in the pit of your stomach. It grips your soul, leaving you teetering on the edge of a precipice—uncertain, yet consumed by a burgeoning sense of urgency.

You find yourself relenting. "Fine. I'll go down this path with you." you say, feeling a mixture of trepidation and resolution surging.

His eyes gleam, clearly relieved.

As you both start to move, you can't help but pepper him with questions, striving to gather as many threads of his suspicion as possible. "When did you first notice Draco's odd behavior? Have you told Ron and Hermione? Do you think he's working alone?" The questions tumble out in a torrent, each one laden with the weight of your newly-shared mission.

"We need to gather all the clues we can," you stress, "look for patterns, connect the dots."

Harry nods, answering as you both navigate the labyrinthine hallways of the castle. He tells you about his first suspicions, his attempts to speak with Ron and Hermione, his frustration at feeling so isolated in his beliefs.

Harry's eyes are a whirlpool of emotion as he takes a deep breath, each inhale pulling him further into the unfolding drama. "There's more. On the Hogwarts Express, I snuck into the compartment where Draco was sitting. He was talking in riddles, something about a 'plan' and 'no turning back.' Something about not coming back next year. But he sensed—I don't know how—that he was being eavesdropped on."

His face turns a shade redder, whether from embarrassment or the lingering frustration you can't quite tell. "He petrified me right then and there. Kicked me in the face and hid me under the invisibility cloak. Left me like a discarded piece of trash."

Harry hesitates for a moment, his eyes searching yours, as if gauging how much more he should share. "Listen," he finally says, his voice dropping to a softer, graver tone, "I've known Draco for years. He's always been a right prat, but lately...lately, he's different. It's like he's stepped over some invisible line from being mean to just downright evil."

It's more than just teenage animosity now; it's a burgeoning terror that threatens to engulf not just him, but potentially all of Hogwarts. But if Harry is right, and if Draco is indeed slipping down an irreversible path, then the stakes are unimaginably high.

"I get it," you reply, holding his gaze, "and it's terrifying. But we have to be smart about this. If what you're saying is true, then we're not just dealing with schoolyard rivalry anymore. This is something else, something much worse."

Harry nods, his eyes solemn but filled with a newfound resolve. "Then let's be smart about it. Together… But, we're not alone in this.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously? Who are these people?"

Harry seems to hesitate, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before he looks away. "You haven't heard of this?"

The way he says it gives you pause; it's like he's holding something back, puzzled that you haven't already been let in on the secret. You let it slide, figuring that whatever he's implying, it must run deeper than he's willing to divulge at this moment. You have to earn that trust first. "No, I haven't, but I'm intrigued."

“There are others who are in on it, trying to get to the bottom of things. It’s… complicated. Not just Draco but everything.

You notice Harry subtly gauging your responses, as if he's trying to determine how much you can be trusted or what your reaction might be to what he's going to say next.

“It’s a group of us. The Weasleys, some… other people from the first wizarding war.” he is hesitant, you can tell. "Just... Don't tell Sharp, okay? He can't know about this. Not yet, at least," Harry says, his eyes seeking assurance in yours.

Your mind races at the implications but also at the trust he's putting in you. "Alright, it's a secret," you agree, a little thrill of subterfuge making your pulse quicken.

Harry pauses and looks at you earnestly. "I think you should be a part of it, really. Come by over the holidays. Meet everyone. You'd be an incredible asset, and it's important you know what's going on."

Your heart speeds up a little at the gravity in his voice. This isn't just about solving a mystery; it's about becoming part of something much bigger. You acknowledge the weight of the decision. "Alright, I'll be there. Count me in for the holidays."

Just as the words leave your mouth, a familiar voice interrupts the atmosphere—you hear Snape. Both of you stiffen, and it's as if the air itself is thickening, warning you of the brewing danger. Harry glances in the direction of the voice, then back at you. "Go on, we'll speak soon. I have a feeling that neither of us wants to be caught here."

You nod and start fast-walking away, your mind already buzzing with the magnitude of what you've just agreed to. But just before you round the corner, you look back. Harry's still there, lingering. For a moment, you wonder what he's up to, but then you remember: you both have secrets now.

The Potions classroom is a study in deliberate design, a realm of unwavering order that stands as a testament to the exacting standards and meticulous habits that define Severus Snape. Diagrams and formulas claim their territory on the blackboard, each crafted with strokes of chalk optimized for maximum efficiency and clarity. Jars brimming with arcane ingredients stand in regimented rows, labeled meticulously and placed for effortless access. Every instrument, every measurement tool, is strategically positioned, as if even the slightest misalignment would undermine the sanctity of his world.

Then there's you.

You sit there, a study in casual discord, with your bag tossed nonchalantly on the opposite side of his meticulously organized workstation. It’s as if he could draw a defining line to where your half of the workstation ends and his begins.

Your shoes are carelessly placed beside his desk, as if declaring your own form of rebellion against the restrictive bindings of footwear. Parchment papers scatter across the table, each covered in a mix of illegible scribbles and eloquent phrases. Under any other circ*mstance, this lack of order would be a sacrilege in his sanctuary of precision.

Yet, when it comes to you, he finds himself willing to make exceptions. It's as if your presence adds a new variable to his tightly controlled equations, one that doesn't disrupt but rather enriches. Your particular brand of chaos doesn't clash with his order; instead, it offers a form of contrast he never thought he'd tolerate, much less appreciate. You exist as an independent variable in his formulaic world—a delightful enigma he can neither predict nor entirely comprehend.

He can't pin down why, but you fit into his world in a way he doesn't fully understand. You, with your keen understanding of potion ingredients, sorting sprigs of asphodel with a dexterity that echoes his own. It's as if you've taken an implicit vow to respect the sanctity of his regimented universe, while still existing as an independent variable—a wild card he can neither predict nor control.

Perhaps this is why, when he meets your eyes—those eyes that absorb the world around you with both wonder and a haunting sense of understanding—he feels an odd sense of equilibrium restored. It's a momentary connection that doesn't require words; it's an unspoken agreement between two individuals who navigate the world so differently yet find a strange form of synergy in one another's company.

For a fleeting moment, the weight of expectations, judgments, and unsaid words lift, replaced by an inexplicable comfort he struggles to define. He sees in you a rare capability to traverse the dichotomies he himself has always found constricting.

In that quiet exchange of glances, he wonders if you recognize this uncanny balance between you, too. Are you, like him, drawn to the edge of an enigma, one that neither of you may ever fully solve, yet find inexplicably captivating? The thought nudges at the perimeter of his carefully guarded consciousness, momentarily disarming him, yet leaving him intrigued in a way he hasn't been in years.

Your voice snaps him back to the present, to the ongoing debate about F. Scott Fitzgerald. The passion in your voice, the animated gestures, and that unwavering belief you seem to hold for your argument—it's all disarmingly endearing. You're attempting to win him over to an author he'd just as soon leave unopened, but the manner in which you do so stirs something uncharacteristically tender within him.

"Do you not see the beauty in the tragedy? In the unfulfilled dreams, and the yearning?" you ask, almost rhetorically, as if your words were laying down a challenge not just to appreciate a story, but to acknowledge the complexities of life and emotion themselves.

And in that moment, watching you so fervently defend the depth of 'privileged despair,' as he'd earlier coined it, he can't help but wonder—does this intense effort to sway his opinion reflect deeper sentiments? Could this repeat, earnest endeavor to win him over, signify that you harbor feelings towards him that go beyond mere scholarly respect? The thought stirs a mix of caution and curiosity, of disbelief and, if he dares admit it, hope.

He almost smiles at the audacity of the notion. Could you, who stands there fervently arguing for the merits of one-dimensional Gatsby and Daisy, feel something for him—a man often perceived as the embodiment of the tragedy you find so compelling in fiction?

For Snape, who has spent a lifetime swathed in calculated indifference and emotional armor, this novel feeling of uncertainty is both unsettling and, inexplicably, exhilarating. And as you continue to advocate for Fitzgerald's tragic heroes with a fervor that could only be rivaled by your earlier sorting of asphodel, Snape finds himself teetering on the edge of a new, uncharted emotional landscape.

"So you're captivated by F. Scott Fitzgerald's relentless whining about the tragedies of the affluent, then?" He arches an eyebrow, accentuating his disdain as he relishes the subtle flicker of amusem*nt in your eyes.

“You’re look at it one dimensionally.” you retort. “ The Beautiful and Damned captures—two people so entangled in each other, regardless of their wealth and status, yet never fully able to close the gap. It's like they're always dancing on the edge of something momentous, something life-changing, but they're too trapped in their own flaws to ever truly connect. The essence of a doomed relationship. It's tragically beautiful, don't you think?"

Upon hearing your musings on Fitzgerald, a torrent of realization crashes over Snape. The parallels between the characters in the novel and the unfolding dynamic between the two of you is unsettlingly clear. He wonders if you see it too, if you're offering this as some veiled commentary on your entanglement with him.

Cautiously, he ventures a question, his voice tinged with an emotion he can't quite name. "And do you believe that two flawed and vastly different people are inevitably doomed? Do you truly think they're condemned from the start, unable to transcend their own limitations?"

It's as though he's laid his cards on the table, exposed but still veiled, asking for an answer that will either open a door or close it forever.

"Perhaps," you say, a soft smile lifting the corners of your mouth, "but only if they're both willing to work on it—to accept the other's flaws and still choose to stay. It's about mutual effort, not fairy tale endings."

Snape arches an eyebrow, "Ah, mutual effort. How quaint. I don't, as a general rule, believe in fairy tales or star-crossed lovers pining away on either side of a moonlit balcony."

The wry observation hangs in the air for a moment, a brief respite in a conversation that has been marked by a deeper, unspoken intensity. It's as though you both tread on a fragile surface, wary of the cracks that could appear with the slightest misstep.

"So you don't find the narrative of star-crossed love and crumbling illusions to be a timeless tragedy?" you counter, a playful lilt in your voice that only sharpens his focus.

"Timeless? It's more tedious than tragic," he scoffs, unable to resist a small smirk at the chuckle his comment elicits from you.

Each laugh you release, each time your eyes sparkle with genuine amusem*nt at his sardonic quips, feeds a strangely gratifying warmth in him—a warmth that he hastily categorizes as irrelevant before it can unfurl into something more distracting. Yes, irrelevant. Yet, it feels anything but.

"Tedious? Really? I suppose you'd rather read essays on potion-making and the intricacies of cauldron temperatures," you tease, a mischievous sparkle in your eye.

Snape narrows his eyes but there's a flicker of amusem*nt there. "At least those subjects have practical applications. Unlike existential crises written on the backdrop of 1920s American excess and wealthy crybabies."

"I have an eclectic taste," you defend yourself, carefully selecting another asphodel sprig. "I happen to enjoy a range of interests, thank you very much."

Your fingers lightly brush over the petals, drawing his gaze momentarily to your hands. The way you deftly handle each ingredient, with an appreciation that borders on reverence, never fails to catch his attention. It's one of those small, seemingly inconsequential things that he finds utterly captivating about you.

And for a moment, just a moment, the line between teacher and student, between the known and the unknown, seems perilously thin.

"Ah, experiences," he drawls, pausing to look at you as though considering a new puzzle. "And it seems identifying cursed objects has become one of your strong suits."

You can't help but smirk a little. "Was that a compliment?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," he warns, his eyes narrowing in a way that serves both as a caution and a veil for the thoughts churning within him.

He watches you pause, asphodel sprig held mid-air, your eyes betraying a flicker of unexpected warmth. Something about you has been gnawing at the corners of his consciousness. You've been trained by Sharp, and yet you're different. You engage with the world as if there's a complicated puzzle to solve, not merely a litany of enemies to subdue.

As you excitedly dive into a detailed account of your recent training sessions with Sharp, your words blur into the background of his thoughts. Severus Snape finds himself uncharacteristically drifting back to a moment he'd rather not dwell on—the evening he saw you standing in the Transfiguration classroom. You were flanked not only by Potter and his band of misfits but also by Aesop Sharp.

He remembers the chill that ran down his spine as Minerva McGonagall began her explanation, a gnawing question plaguing him: What business did you have here, entangled in whatever dangerous nonsense was afoot?

Then he saw it—the cursed necklace, now suspended in the air by your charm. In an instant, his experienced eyes recognized the insidiousness of the object, the dark malevolence emanating from it. Draco, the foolhardy child desperate for validation, had failed again. Snape's instincts were correct, as always, soon confirmed when he heard that the object was meant for Dumbledore.

But what arrested his attention, what made him involuntarily hold his breath, was you. He watched as you examined the necklace with a level of expertise that exceeded any Dark Arts instruction Hogwarts had to offer. Your eyes scrutinized the enchanted object as if deciphering an ancient, forbidden text, picking apart its complexities with an eerie familiarity. Snape noticed the glances exchanged between you and Sharp—glances that conveyed a mutual understanding, a shared language of the shadows. Sharp looked at you with an approving nod, as if he had known all along that you would decipher the mystery.

In that fleeting moment, Snape felt you slipping away. Not in any overt, measurable way, but a feeling—an imperceptible shift that lodged itself in his gut like a splinter. There you were, veering into a dangerous path that he himself had walked, yet remaining tantalizingly out of his reach. For a man who had built his life around control and prediction, the unpredictability you brought into his sphere was disquieting.

Snape's gaze sharpens, refocusing on you as you continue to talk about your Auror training. He's suddenly more aware than ever of the distance that's opening up, the distinct worlds you each inhabit. And yet, there's an inexplicable pull, a magnetic force neither can fully understand. As you wax eloquent about defensive spells and combat techniques, he can't help but wonder: What would it take to pull you into his orbit, to keep you from drifting further into the shadows?

What would you do if you discovered that he himself was the very shadow you're slipping into?

Snape tunes back in, your words gradually solidifying from background noise to the foreground of his attention.

"—even covered runic translations, even deciphered arcane scripts that date back to Merlin himse—”

"Uh-huh," he mutters, a half-hearted acknowledgement that barely conceals his irritation.

“—then there's the physical training—stamina charms, combat spells, you know, the basics.” You continue, undeterred. You list off these mechanics, and he mentally ticks off each point, growing increasingly impatient.

"We've also started applying magical theory to counter-curses. Soon we'll be getting into more complex stuff like soul marks, blood magic, the Dark Mark and even—"

"Enough." He erupts, slamming a jar of lacewing flies onto the table with such force that it rattles the delicate glassware nearby.

You're stunned into silence, your eyes widening as they meet his, along with a deafening silence.

"Do you honestly think I want to hear about your escapades with Sharp?" His words are wrapped in a venomous tone, as cutting as shards of glass. "Squandering your time in this ludicrous hybrid of a Charms class and a gym session—a training scheme fit for egoists."

As he speaks, Snape realizes he doesn't even have full control over his own words. They're just... manifesting, fueled by a blend of irritation, concern, and an emotion he dares not name.

"You—galavanting around with Aesop Sharp and the rest like you're a band of thrill-seeking adolescents," he continues, emphasizing each name as though it were a personal affront. "Do you lack the sense to understand the detriment you're causing yourself by not focusing on more serious studies?"

You look at him, clearly taken aback by his sudden vehemence.

"Or are you suddenly so taken by foolish wand-waving and silly incantations at the hands of Aesop Sharp, ever more a charlatan than an educator?"

His voice, usually so composed, wavers ever so slightly. And in that moment, it's as if the room itself holds its breath, waiting for what comes next. His eyes fixate on yours, and they're not just dark—they're an abyss, complicated and deep.

The moment hangs in the air, a discordant note in the symphony of tensions that usually colors your interactions with him. Slowly, almost as if the motion is painful, you set down the pestle you've been using, your gaze dropping to your hands. He watches as your fingers tremble and you take in a shaky breath, and another, your focus stubbornly remaining on the tabletop.

Snape's initial blaze of irritation doesn't extinguish so much as recede, like molten lava cooling into rock. His eyes, however, are still ablaze, a maelstrom of raw emotion he's not entirely sure how to process.

Finally, you look up at him, and he's taken aback by the sheer vulnerability in your eyes—a sadness that pierces through him, leaving him disoriented and confused. "I was... just excited to share. With you."

The raw honesty of your words chokes the air, squeezing the walls of the room as if they too are struggling under the emotional weight. The corners of his mind are tangled in knots, wrestling with the profound revelation your confession holds. You, eager to share your passions and triumphs, chose him as the outlet for your enthusiasm? Among everyone who orbits your life—your friends, your mentors—you wanted him to know?

Yet as he grapples with this newfound awareness, the room blurs. He squints, re-focusing, and his heart sinks. There are tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over—dampening the spark that usually dances there when you're both engaged in a particularly absorbing debate or when you've succeeded at a complex potion. The sudden appearance of these tears feels like an indictment, each droplet a reproach that he can't quite shake off.

Before he can summon a response, you're already haphazardly packing your belongings, avoiding his eyes as if they're cursed. "I'm late for... something," you murmur, almost as if you're convincing yourself more than informing him, and with that, you head towards the door.

"Wait," he calls, the word softer than the earlier vitriol, as if it's an admission of something he hasn't yet fully understood. Yet you keep walking, each step a widening gap between what was and what might never be.

"Wait." This time the word is forceful, slicing through the room's tension like a sharp blade. Even as the word leaves his lips, he realizes he didn't mean for it to cut so deep.

The harshness of his call makes you flinch—a slight but unmistakable shudder that ripples through your body, a corporeal response he can't ignore nor undo. It's a gut punch, an involuntary sign that his words have impact, that they wield a power he never wanted to exercise in this manner. And then, you're out the door, leaving a void in the room that his presence alone can't fill.

And as you disappear from sight, he's left grappling with the unsettling notion that something crucial has just slipped through his fingers—imperceptibly, perhaps, but the nagging feeling is there, stubborn and unyielding.

Chapter 7: wondering

Chapter Text

I've been trying not to think of this as something tragic
'Cause our two paths might cross again
Crazier things have happened

And I realize lightning strikes just once, not twice
And shooting stars are burning rocks

So I spend weeks inside, drowning in these dreams of mine
And wondering if I'm worth your thoughts

crazier things - Chelsea Cutler ft. Noah Kahan

https://open.spotify.com/track/3K7vPyMCcecKRotnu08MMP?si=40751989d3e54125

Ever since Snape's tirade, the passing weeks had carried an unspoken weight, growing heavier as autumn waned into winter. Each morning you found yourself battling the impulse to run by his window, your feet itching to veer off the path and cross that invisible threshold. But you couldn't.

The crisp morning air turned frigid, a fortuitous shift in weather that provided you a convenient excuse to stay indoors as you entered December. Snowflakes became a more consistent presence, silently blanketing the ground and freezing your footsteps in place. Yet you knew, deep down, the flimsy excuse wasn't really about the running.

It was about that moment when your usual route forked into two paths, which cleaved your heart anew each day. A right turn would take you past Snape's window, the glass pane that once promised a secret kind of communion; a left would steer you back into the castle, just… away from him.

Each time you had to steer left, it felt as though your heart shattered, the fragments scattering like frostbitten leaves in the wind. Your muscles tensed, your breathing grew shallow, and your chest constricted as if an invisible hand were tightening its grip around your heart. It wasn't just emotional turmoil; the dilemma manifested physically, in the very fibers of your being.

How you longed to close that distance, to settle the discord between you, to see the barriers crumble under the weight of unspoken words and unshared truths. But you also knew that self-respect had its price. You couldn't chase an apology that might never come; you wouldn't. To run back to him now would be to admit that your self-worth was tethered to his whims—that he could lash out and wound you, and yet you'd still come crawling back, eager for any crumbs of his regard.

The first time you took that left turn the morning after his blow up, away from the corridor that led to Snape's office, was an agonizing ordeal. The stone walls of the castle seemed to close in around you, their usual sense of comforting constancy replaced by a haunting mockery. Each step was an arduous feat, as if you were trudging through a bog of your own reservations. When you finally pivoted, steering your course away from his window, you felt a fragile triumph surge within you.

It was small, almost insignificant—akin to a single star daring to shine in the dark expanse of your inner turmoil. Yet, even that tiny glimmer was insufficient to dispel the overwhelming shadow of heartbreak that draped across your soul like a velvet cloak of sorrow.

You found your way back to your dorm, each step like a mile, each heartbeat like an echo of the love—and a distorted semblance of self-love—you were still grappling with. Your mind painted vivid canvases of the moment when Snape would realize you hadn't come.

Would his brows furrow ever so slightly, a minute quiver of his lips betraying his stoic facade? Would he, even for a fleeting moment, feel the hollowness you felt every single day? A pang of guilt struck you at that thought; your heart, for some incomprehensible reason, broke for him. This imagining was enough to almost make you turn on your heels and dash back to him.

Yet, why should it? He was the one who had wounded you, who had torn the fabric of trust between you. Thankfully, a stronger (by a hair, if you’re being honest) force held you back—a grip of your own dignity.

No, you wouldn't be the one to go crawling back.

Reaching your room, you had shut the door softly behind you as if fearful that any louder sound would shatter the delicate shell of your resolve. You sank onto your bed, a battlefield of tangled sheets that were a far cry from the pristine orderliness you once maintained.

Watching the clock on the wall, you counted the minutes, each tick mocking your fragile courage, filled either with a sense of accomplishment or at least the bittersweet complexity of proximity. For nearly half an hour, you sat frozen on your bed, watching as the slender hands of the clock traced their slow arcs. Your mind remained a barren canvas, wiped clean of all thought, yet periodically marred by haunting images of Snape and the echoes of laughter you once shared.

And then, when the hour passed, when the time came when you would have usually returned from Snape’s window, you allowed yourself to break. Your tears came unbidden, a salty river that flowed freely into the fibers of your pillow. Alone in the muted light of your room, you sobbed, your cries an uncanny blend of sorrow and guilt. Guilty for not showing up for him, and yet equally guilty for feeling beholden to someone who had torn you asunder.

You lay there, in the dim room, a torn soul on a lonely bed, trying to stitch together the fragments of a heart that had been so carelessly shattered, and yet, which still foolishly yearned for the very hands that broke it.

The first time you decided to skip your brewing sessions with Snape, the day spiraled into an agonizing cycle of muted emotions—both familiar and eerily foreign in their quiet devastation. Gone were the comforting constants—the cauldron's bubble, the spellbinding aroma of potion ingredients, and the enigmatic steadiness of his gaze. Your dormitory felt like a landscape haunted by what could have been, as insubstantial as morning mist.

Your days now started and ended with an unblinking stare at the clock, bookended by sadness. In the morning, your eyes had sought the indifferent face of time, as if it could somehow validate your decision. It ticked on with clinical detachment, each second amplifying the hollowness blooming within you.

As evening fell, you found yourself cocooned within the unwelcome walls of your dorm. The time once filled by the intricate art of potion-making now loomed like an uncharted abyss. Your days seemed to have morphed into distorted echoes of their former selves, reflecting only regret and yearning.

Every minute dragged on painfully, made unbearable by the lack of Snape's poetic utterances, his artful wand movements, and the layers concealed within his gaze. The timeframe that used to be a sanctuary of intellectual rigor now sat empty, it's quiet filled only with the haunting silence of all you had left unsaid.

You knew this was a scar that wouldn't fade overnight, a lesson in emotional calculus where the sums and differences of your choices would continue to haunt the margins of your days.

You'd scorn yourself each time you'd entertain the idea of justifying a return to him, piecing together imagined scenarios in which you'd be the one to extend the olive branch. Then, you'd jolt back to reality, reminded that you were not the one who owed amends; it was him. The quandary grew increasingly complex whenever you found yourselves in shared spaces—the classroom, the Great Hall, the winding corridors.

You'd become hyper-aware of him, your senses amplifying his presence as if he were the epicenter of your universe. Each time, you'd catch yourself thinking, "Today is the day. He will apologize. He will make things right." And each hopeful moment that ended in disappointment chiseled away at your heart until it felt as though you were becoming numb to the hope, and to the pain it wrought.

Well, with each passing day of unfulfilled hope, you'd come to a grim realization: you had let Severus Snape break your heart at least 15 times now.

You loathe how your thoughts continuously circle back to Snape, like a moth entranced by a flame that's already scorched its wings. It's infuriating, this love-sickness that's become your unwanted companion. You've dated in the past, engaged in relationships that held laughter and shared secrets, but none had the intensity that you found with him.

With Snape, the emotional stakes were perilously high, a dangerous game of vulnerability where you managed to chip away at his stony walls, uncovering layers of complexity that few ever witnessed. The silence you shared with him wasn't merely a lack of sound; it was a solitude that spoke volumes. Conversations laden with subtext, spoken and unspoken, filled the small spaces around you like a magical aura, binding you closer with every revealing exchange.

You know it's not healthy, being this fixated, this swallowed by your own hurt, but it's as if you've drank a potion with no known antidote. In those stolen moments, where the world seemed to vanish, leaving just the two of you in its wake, you felt seen in a way that was soul-deep, and losing that leaves you adrift in an ocean of emotions with no land in sight.

The bitterness of the whole situation twisted inside you like a knot you couldn't untangle. You had wanted to share a part of yourself with him, simply. And he had scorned it, dismissing it as a "ludicrous hybrid of a Charms class and a gym session." How could he be so selective in his derision? It was baffling.

You knew diving into the topic of Goldhawk was risky; it was an area both of you had silently agreed to steer clear of since the start of the school year. But when he praised you for identifying that cursed object and diagnosing what had transpired with Katie, he had cracked the door open just wide enough for you to think it was safe to walk through. So, you took a small leap of faith, because it seemed he had invited the topic, even if indirectly.

You'd been open about your appreciation for F. Scott Fitzgerald, subjecting yourself to his snide commentary on 'The Beautiful and Damned,' and that was tolerable. Even enjoyable, in a combative sort of way. But to share your passion for Goldhawk and receive such vitriol in return? It didn't add up.

Now you're left with nothing but regret, a ceaseless cycle of going over the details, picking apart every word and silence. You loathe how it's all turned out, how he's the reason for this painful rift. You hate the emotions that flood you, the questions that plague you, and the vulnerability that he's laid bare. Most of all, you hate that you still care.

And so you found yourself in this frigid season of your life, wrestling with the cold both outside and within—a chill emanating not just from the changing weather but from the icy barriers that had sprung up between you and Snape. And as the snow continued to fall, piling up on the ground like a visible measure of your growing distance, you couldn't shake the thought that you'd lost something irreplaceable, something that, despite the frost and the hurt, had once been warm.

The weight of your emotional exhaustion hung heavily on your shoulders, compelling you to seek refuge in busywork. Hogsmeade trips with Harry, Ron, and Hermione became a frequent outing, the laughter and chatter filling the void where your thoughts would usually drift toward him—toward Snape. Extra training sessions with Sharp were a welcome distraction, the physical rigor drowning out the nagging ache in your chest. Spellwork practice with Cedric, and even assisting Ben Hammond in theory—anything, really, to keep your feet from betraying you and leading you back to that damned classroom, where you would willingly lay down your pride at Snape's feet.

Your quill found its way to parchment more often, penning lengthy letters to your father. And each time an owl would return, the content look on your dad's face was evident even through ink and paper. You'd found out that he'd been in talks with Sharp. It warmed you to think that, in some mysterious way, you had threaded these two influential men in your life back together. Sharp's presence had now taken on a new layer, an invisible string tying him to your world in a way he was tied to no one else's.

With Christmas just a week away, a cautious optimism begins to stir within you. You know that the holiday break offered something special—the chance to curl up with your mom's latest draft of young adult romance. The intoxicating blend of fluff and a dash of angst was often the best salve for a wounded heart. Could fiction mend the cracks that reality had inflicted? You were willing to entertain that hope, however faint it flickered.

Yet, even as you embrace this glimmer of optimism, the haunting vacuum left by Snape's dismissal still weighs heavily on your thoughts. It is a burden you carried with you into a runes lesson with Sharp and the boys. Each ticking second seemed to underline the dwindling days to the holiday break, counting down like a timer.

Sharp directs his wand and now the air is filled with a series of swirling dark symbols—Runes and Sigils that are strictly outlawed. "These symbols might look like random scribbles to the uninformed," he says, "but they're potent catalysts for dark magic. If you see these during an investigation, you're likely dealing with an adept Dark witch or wizard."

Deep within, you understood that the emotional and existential questions nagging at you wouldn't stay confined to Hogwarts. They'd follow you home, relentlessly, weaving themselves into the fabric of your everyday life, demanding to be faced, reckoned, and hopefully, resolved. And so, as you sat there deciphering runes, you clung to the tentative hope that the upcoming break would give you what you needed: a stitch in time, a patchwork of comfort, enough to bring you back to Hogwarts sewn back together, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

As Sharp continues, he gestures towards a particularly ominous-looking rune that seems to draw light into it like a dark void. "Take this one, for instance, the Nidhogg Rune, named after the mythical serpent that gnaws at the roots of Yggdrasil, the world tree in ancient Nordic lore. This rune is believed to be a magical amplifier, sucking the vitality from its surroundings to fuel Dark spells."

He takes a moment to pace around the room, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in. "Runes like these are often etched into objects or even tattooed onto a Dark wizard's skin, making them more potent. They're not just symbols; they're reservoirs of Dark power, tapping into ancient magics that predate even Merlin."

Your gaze shifts to a smaller rune, almost inconspicuous in its complexity. "And this," Sharp points with the tip of his wand, "is the Heka Glyph. Named after the ancient Egyptian concept of magical authority, this rune is used to bind or control magical creatures, often against their will. During the First Wizarding War, it was employed to manipulate Inferi."

As he speaks, you can feel the room becoming more tense. Each symbol, each rune is a gateway to an unfathomable depth of forbidden magic, and the weight of that knowledge sits heavy on your shoulders. You exchange another glance with Cedric, this time a look of mutual concern. Both of you understand that the line between the Light and the Dark could sometimes be as thin as understanding which rune to use—or avoid.

As the last of the forbidden runes disappeared from the air with a whisper, Sharp sheaths his wand and looks over at the group. "Remember, understanding these symbols isn't about glamorizing dark arts; it's about arming yourselves with knowledge. Knowledge, in this instance, could be the thin line between life and death."

Cedric and Ben thank Professor Sharp and hurry to their next class. You file that wisdom away, adding it to the mental repository that has significantly grown since you started training.

"Are you heading out?" Sharp's question interrupts your thoughts as you gather up your belongings.

"Yeah, actually, I'm off to the library. Trying to get a jump start on some research," you answer, falling into step beside him as you both venture down the dimly lit corridors.

"You've really been diving headfirst into the lessons, haven't you?" Sharp begins, his face beaming with something like pride. "That spellwork of yours—last week when we were practicing counter-spells against Boggarts, you not only successfully disarmed it but also employed an advanced Obscuring Charm that even some Aurors struggle with. You went above and beyond, and it didn't go unnoticed."

"Thank you," you reply, feeling a flush of pride but also slightly uncomfortable. For some inexplicable reason, you can’t shake off the notion that there was a shade of pity in his praise.

"However," Sharp pauses. He locks eyes with you, concern and curiosity coalescing in his gaze. "Am I wrong in sensing that, at times, you're here but not entirely?"

Your stomach tightens. Sharp was vigilant, it was one of his most striking qualities. You'd seen his astute observations during training exercises, and in the way he masterfully dissected complex magical theories. It would be naive to think he couldn't see through your half-truths. But at this moment, you were at a crossroads between vulnerability and self-preservation.

"Just swamped with end-of-term work before the holiday break," you say, your words a fortress around your true feelings. Your thoughts drift, orbiting around Snape and your unresolved feelings. But you hold back, masking it all with a half-smile, hopeful that he didn't see through the fragile veneer of your composure.

"If there's anything I can help with, let me know," Sharp offers. "I'd hate to see you drowning in schoolwork."

"Well, you're not exactly alleviating the workload, are you? Between the three essays for DADA, and those Auror simulations filled with near-death experiences, you're practically the architect of my academic downfall," you quip, eyes twinkling as you playfully nudged the conversation. Your laughter comes easier this time, unburdened and genuine.

His laughter resonates like a warm chord, filling the hallway with an air of camaraderie. "Touche. But you're handling it spectacularly," he beams, his eyes twinkling.

As you stroll alongside Sharp, a serene ease envelops you, a feeling that seems to stem from the effortless, light-hearted exchange you just shared. Rather than wading through a tumultuous sea of intellectual sparring, it's as if you're meandering through a tranquil stream where wit and laughter ripple freely.

Every joke and jest doesn't feel like a calculated move in an intricate chess match but more like a natural echo in an ongoing, pleasant dialogue. Gone are the locked gazes of a strategic standoff, replaced by an exchange that leaves you feeling buoyed rather than battle-worn.

For this fleeting moment, you find solace in this new simplicity, thankful for a pause from the emotional whirlpool that often tugs at you. It's as if life has offered you a brief, but sweet, interlude—a chance to draw a deep, restorative breath before plunging back into the complexities that await.

You realize that this gentle give-and-take of conversation, this light-hearted camaraderie, was perhaps just the thing you didn't know you needed, an antidote to the thorny complexities of life.

"So, what book are we hoping to procure from the library this evening?" he inquires.

It takes a second to shift gears in your mind. Harry and you had been back and forth about cursed objects—those… cursed-object-soul-vessels, to be specific—and you wanted to present Dumbledore with a well-researched case.

"I'm interested in doing some independent research on cursed objects.”

A whimsical smile graces his features. "What? Nearly having your soul siphoned into a cursed locket during our field exercise wasn't sufficient?"

Your cheeks flush; you can’t help but admire the light, charming manner with which he usually posed the question. It was banter, yes, but not the kind that had you on edge, always ready for a duel of wits. Sharp is kind and the antithesis of soul-crushing tension.

"Apparently not," you shrug playfully. "I'm just keen to delve deeper."

"Would you like access to the restricted section, then? It could offer insights that are far more in-depth than what the standard curriculum at Hogwarts covers," he proposes, the offer weightier than the simple words he used.

As you both stop by the library entrance, Sharp reaches into the inner pocket of his robe and withdraws a small roll of parchment and a quill. With a few swift, fluid strokes, he scribbles down a permission slip, his hand moving confidently across the parchment as though even this simple act was done with purpose and precision. He folds it neatly, looks up, and catches your eye, passing the parchment to you with a sense of shared understanding.

Your eyes widen in a blend of excitement and gratitude as you accept the folded paper. "Really? This is incredible, thank you, Sharp."

"No need for thanks," he says, tucking the quill back into his pocket. His eyes meet yours, full of a warm encouragement that seems to lighten the air around you. "Now, go unravel some mysteries."

He flashes you a smile that holds both earnestness and a twinkle of shared adventure, gesturing gracefully towards the library's foreboding, and now inviting, entrance. As you step forward, parchment in hand, you feel profoundly grateful for this man who, in his own nuanced way, makes the complexities of life just a little more navigable.

"Would you want to join me?" you ask, almost before you even have time to think about it. "There's bound to be something even you haven't seen yet, and I wouldn't mind the company."

His face lit up, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a smile. "I'd be honored. Just promise we steer clear of the 'Ways to Summon Uncontrollable Dark Creatures' shelf. I’ve had one too many run-ins in my time."

You chuckle, the sound lighter than it had been in days, even weeks. "Deal. But I get first dibs on anything related to cursed objects. Fair?"

"Fair," he agrees, his grin infectious. The warmth of the exchange feels like finding a patch of sunlight in a long-shadowed forest.

As you and Sharp approach the heavy, gilded door leading to the library, your steps imbued with the lightness of mutual understanding, a sense of foreboding pricks at your peripheral awareness.

Snape materializes in the corridor, as if summoned by the undercurrents of your turbulent emotions. He was heading toward you—toward both of you—and in that instant, it feels as if the castle's walls had closed in, leaving the corridor impossibly narrow.

Your heart sinks into a pit of sudden dread. This would be the first time you encountered him outside the formalities of the classroom or the communal space of the Great Hall. Your pulse quickens; your eyes widen involuntarily. You endeavored to maintain your composure in front of Sharp, but as Snape drew closer, your expression wavers—your lips part as if to speak, hesitating, and ultimately settling into a quivering stillness that was neither a frown nor a smile.

He's not even looking at me, you thought, anguish mingling with a sharp bite of incredulity. How could he not?

"Professor Snape," Sharp greets him with a curt nod, embodying the sort of neutral courtesy that one reserved for distant colleagues or superiors. Snape returns the nod in kind, his eyes locking briefly with Sharp's. Yet his gaze never wanders your way. Not even a glance. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.

As he passed, the air grew colder, as if the very molecules recoiled from the tension. He didn't look back. He never looked back.

The moment hangs heavy between you and Sharp after Snape's departing figure recedes into the distance. Your chest tightens, but then you exhale, as if pushing out the toxic emotions that had briefly flooded your senses.

For a moment, Sharp looks as if he were about to speak, perhaps to offer some form of consolation or inquiry, but instead, he simply says, "Shall we?"

You nod, mustering a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes but was genuine in its effort. "Please."

Sharp gallantly holds open the ancient, wooden door for you. As you pass through the threshold, you feel his hand lightly touch the small of your back, guiding you in with a gentlemanly ease. The fleeting contact sends a warm sensation skimming across your skin, momentarily anchoring you to the here and now.

You walk in together, his hand retreating as the door swung closed behind you. The lightheartedness of the exchange, the simple act of inviting someone into a space you cherished—it felt like you were dipping your toes back into a sea of normalcy after what felt like ages.

A sense of ease settles in. This wasn't a charged battle of wits or a heavy silence laden with things unsaid. Instead, it was easy. It was straightforward, a gentle ripple rather than a torrential current. And for the first time in a long while, that felt like enough.

The narrow aisle between the towering bookshelves feels almost like a secret passageway, sequestered from the rest of the world. Encased in centuries of arcane knowledge, the scent of aged parchment, ink, and enchanted leather enveloped the space, a fragrance that was both old and forever young.

With a playful glint in his eyes, Sharp reaches out to a particularly menacing-looking tome. Its cover is a masterful blend of what look like dragon scales and old leather, textured and alive under the library's subdued light.

"Think this one's a biter?" He muses, holding it up so you could see the title: "'How to Tame Your Thestral: An Unseen Guide.' Riveting, wouldn't you say?"

You can’t help but chuckle, finding yourself increasingly charmed by his quirkiness. You lean against the bookshelf, the rough grain of the ancient wood imprinting on your skin through your robe, grounding you in the moment.

"Well, if it decides to take a chunk out of you, don't say I didn't warn you," you tease, watching as his fingers cautiously flirted with the cover.

With a grin that reaches his eyes, Sharp opens the book. It lets out an almost inaudible, discontented sigh but thankfully kept its bite to itself. "Ah, a pacifist Thestral book. Who would've thought?"

His demeanor, the lighthearted way he engages with even the strangest of subjects, made the hour you'd spent here feel like mere minutes. It was refreshing to be around someone who could make a potentially perilous library expedition feel like a delightful romp, an invigorating journey through the pages of forgotten lore and magical miscellanea.

"What an odd place," you muse, pulling out titles to show Sharp, like 'Potions for the Paranoid,’ ‘Hexes for Home and Hearth,’ and 'Charms that Charm Charms.'

"Ah, how could we ignore this classic: 'Unveiling the Veil: An In-Depth Analysis of the Ethics Behind Invisibility Spells?'" Sharp says, lifting the heavy tome with a mix of reverence and irony.

"You've stumbled upon moral philosophy in the restricted section? Truly groundbreaking," you laugh, your eyes meeting him as you both share the joke.

The laughter seems to brush away the lingering cobwebs of unspoken complexities and confusions, each shared moment feeling like a subtle cleansing of the air. With this newfound clarity, you allow yourself a real, unguarded look at Sharp.

His face is illuminated by the soft, indirect light that filters through the labyrinth of towering bookshelves. The way it frames him softens the academic sternness he usually wore, rendering him in tones of vulnerability and quiet warmth. For the first time, you consider the man standing in front of you not as a mere counterpoint to others you've known, but as his own vivid tapestry of qualities—delightful, thoughtful, real.

Capturing your gaze, he momentarily freezes, as if he too sensed that the universe had contracted, enveloping you both in a bubble of unsaid understanding. The walls of books seem to close in, not in a claustrophobic manner, but as if the world had momentarily shrunk to just this space, this moment, these words.

It was as though the air crackled with a latent spell, a kind of magic that neither of you had cast but had conjured nonetheless.

"Find anything that piques your interest?" Sharp's voice carries a softness as he looks at you over the pages of a dusty book. The corner of his mouth lift in a knowing smile, and for an instant, something felt different—like a subtle click of a lock you didn't know needed a key.

"Yes," you answer, your voice tinged with a genuine warmth that surprised even you. "This one looks promising." You gesture to a timeworn tome on the lower shelf, its binding etched with arcane symbols. As your eyes lock with his again, it becomes increasingly evident that you were talking about more than just the leather and parchment before you.

As Sharp leans down to assist you, his hand momentarily grazes against yours. The touch was fleeting, seemingly accidental, but it felt as though a jolt of energy had coursed through you, lingering like the remnants of a spell.

"Let's take a look, then," he says, lifting the tome with ease and setting it upon a reading podium at the end of the narrow aisle.

You move to stand beside him at the podium, keenly aware of the warm proximity between you. The limited space meant you were almost shoulder to shoulder, and as he begins turning the book's time-worn pages, you can’t help but feel an almost magnetic pull toward him. His forearm is just inches away from yours, and every so often, as he reaches to turn another page, his arm would lightly brush against you. Each contact feels like a tiny burst of starlight, quickening your pulse and adding a lovely sort of complexity to the unfolding moment.

The atmosphere is lighter, yet still rich with a new sort of tension—a tension that neither of you are eager to dispel. You find yourself reveling in the connection, an inexplicable sense that something meaningful had been unearthed, something that wasn't confined to the parchment and ink of ancient texts.

For the first time, you consider allowing yourself the luxury of pondering about him in a way that transcends mentorship, even friendship. It’s like a budding flower of emotion and curiosity, and you find yourself hesitantly wondering what it might be like to let that flower bloom.

Sharp starts flipping through the pages, pausing to linger on another entry. "Ah, and here we have Cursed Mirrors. These are not your average vanity mirrors; they trap the souls of those who gaze into them for too long. Mostly used for imprisonment of enemies. Kind of like the magical world's answer to 'picture keeps the soul' but in a more literal sense."

"That sounds both poetic and terrifying," you quip. "Imagine getting stuck while checking yourself out."

He chuckles. "Not the kind of eternal reflection one hopes for.”

Sharp's fingers delicately turn each ancient page, almost as if he was respecting the weight of the secrets they held. "Ah, here's one that's peculiar: the Hand of Glory. Nasty business, really. It's said to render the holder invisible to everyone else."

A light laugh escapes your lips. "Might come in handy during exam season, don't you think?"

He grins, his eyes twinkling like stars in the dim, enchanting light of the restricted section. "Perhaps, if you want to creep everyone out. It's literally a severed hand. Not exactly something to show off at dinner parties."

His humor is effortless, and you find yourself enchanted by how easily he navigates from serious to light-hearted. Then, as he flips through a couple more pages, his demeanor subtly changes. "Now these...these are veering into some seriously dark territory. Soul magic, they call it. Using dark spells to bind a fragment of a human soul to an object."

At the mention of 'soul magic,' a shiver courses through you, not of fear, but of keen interest. This was, after all, what you had come to find. For a moment, you had nearly forgotten your original intent, lost in the ease and warmth of Sharp's company.

"Fascinating," you say, choosing your words carefully to hide your true level of interest. "The depths some wizards will go to achieve… I don’t even know what. A semblance of… immortality or power?”

"Exactly," he murmurs, seemingly unaware of how close he had come to revealing your concealed quest. "It's rumored to be the darkest of arts. Not many know how it's done, but they say the consequences are disastrous."

Your eyes meet, and the atmosphere shifts, as if charged by some unseen current.

Finally, his eyes dart back to the book and he finds a passage, pointing at it but holding his breath for a beat before sharing it.

Leaning forward, you have to get on your tiptoes to peer over his shoulder at the text. The proximity to him becomes magnified, every small sensation heightened: the mild scent of cologne mingled with the musty aroma of old books, the way your torso subtly brushes against shoulder as you lean in closer, and the resonance of your own heartbeat, as if affirming a new, undefined closeness.

"Soul-bound relics, often disguised in plain sight, yet carrying the weight of a fractured existence." you read aloud.

Sharp's fingers pause in their journey through the heavy pages, as though he sensed something significant was about to be revealed. He glances over at you for just a second, meeting your eyes before returning to the text. In that moment, his visage shifts. No longer just the charismatic companion, he now resembled a scholar, a seeker of truth on a mission, eyebrows slightly furrowed in contemplation, lips parting ever so slightly in concentration. The juxtaposition is startlingly attractive, and you found yourself lost in the sight.

He carefully turns another page, his eyes widening a fraction as they scanned the text. "Ah, here it is... the term they use is 'Horcrux.' It says here that creating one requires the act of murder—the ultimate violation of nature, splitting the soul, and anchoring a fragment into an object."

Your breath catches in your throat at the gravity of the words. Horcrux. Murder. The darkest of dark magics. The room seems to grow colder, or perhaps it was the realization of what you'd been pondering in an academic sense now feeling so palpably dark.

His voice interrupts your rapt attention. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it? How much dark magic is lurking in plain sight, masquerading as something benign?"

"More than we'd probably care to admit," you whisper, pulling back slightly to meet his gaze, your heart pounding in a mix of thrill and a newfound vulnerability.

As Sharp closes the tome with a solemnity that seems to mark the end of a chapter—both literal and metaphorical—he looks up. "But understanding the dark aspects of magic is the first step to combating them," he says. His voice, usually marked by its even-tempered demeanor, now holds a hint of something more intimate, a quiet acknowledgment of the undercurrents that have been pulsing between you.

"The more we know, the better prepared we are, but some things... some things you can't unlearn… or undo," he adds. His eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that immediately sends your mind racing back to specific classroom discussions, ones that tread a razor-thin line between ethical and unethical, light and dark.

That look, so laser-focused, brings an involuntary thought of Snape. Your mind drifts to a particular lesson in your first auror training with Sharp—the one about Dark Marks. You had questioned the possibility of hiding or removing the marks. It was a seemingly simple question, but Sharp's immediate, almost premeditated response had stayed with you, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness each time you found yourself in Snape's presence.

Why had Sharp been so prepared for that question? Why did he answer in a way that seemed designed to sow a seed of wariness in your mind?

And now, here you are, caught in another complex web of unspoken dialogue and implicit cautions. Your thoughts keep circling back to Snape and those echoing classroom moments. You sense a caution in his gaze whenever the topic of your association with Snape even vaguely surfaces. Each veiled warning, every loaded glance that Sharp offers, seems to build on the foundation laid in that very first lesson.

It's as though Sharp senses something dangerous—or at the very least, complicated—about your association with Snape. He's neither overt nor confrontational about it; rather, he leaves these breadcrumb trails of caution, these signposts that point to a more complicated landscape. It's like a puzzle, and you've only just realized that he might have been handing you the pieces this whole time.

This awareness tugs at you, insisting on its own importance. While the realization isn't concrete, it has enough form to stir unease. Is Sharp's caution born from some higher understanding of Snape's complexities, or is it a reflection of his own beliefs about dark magic and the cost of delving too deeply into its shadows?

It's not a conclusion, but it's a connection you can't deny—a thread in a much larger weave that you've only just begun to see.

"In any case, I think we've ventured deep enough for one evening, don't you?" Sharp finally says, breaking the silence, but his eyes stay on yours for a beat longer.

There seems to be a question in that lingering gaze, unspoken yet palpable—like he was trying to decode something within you, or perhaps invite you to explore something new. As if he is questioning whether the depth you'd both just shared in the Restricted Section was, in some mysterious way, a beginning rather than an end.

As the two of you head for the exit, Sharp suddenly pulls out a book with a title so solemn it was almost comical: "Incantations of Imminent Doom: A Scholarly Review." He arches an eyebrow and looks at you, "Thinking of some light bedtime reading?"

You chuckle. "Only if I can pair it with '101 Ways to Overcome Existential Dread in the Wizarding World.'" you say, holding up another book.

"Ah, a delightful duo for insomnia," he banters back, placing the book back on its shelf with an exaggerated sigh of regret. "I suppose I'll stick with ‘The Infinite Abyss: Meditations on the Unfathomable Nature of Dark Magic.'"

You laugh again, this time a little louder, and your laughter seems to bounce off the walls, filling the otherwise somber chamber with unexpected levity.

You snatch open his book to a random page and started reading a passage in a mock-dramatic tone, "'The shadows we cast are but pale reflections of the eternal night that awaits us—'"

Sharp tries to stifle his laughter. The moment is pure magic, but not the kind you'd find in any of the books around you. The air between you feels as if filled with a million tiny, glowing orbs of happiness. You are both scholars, yet in that moment, you are also two people connecting in a world that often felt disconnected.

"Time to head to dinner?" he suggests, a subtle reluctance coloring his words. You nod, suddenly aware of the hunger that had started to gnaw at you—not just for food but also for more moments like this.

As you walk through the corridors with Sharp, the atmosphere subtly changes from one of academic pursuit to something more personal and undefined, he turns to you. "How are your other classes treating you?"

In this new context, infused with the glow of a shared secret world among ancient tomes, the question takes on a dimension that was surprisingly intimate. And you find yourself eager to continue exploring whatever this was, both within the books that surrounded you and within the unfolding narrative between you and Sharp.

"Great, actually," you reply, the corners of your mouth lifting in a small, appreciative smile. "It's a lot of work, but it feels rewarding."

"And your sessions with Professor Snape?" Sharp's tone remains casual, but his eyes meet yours, searching for something more. The question seems to hang in the air a bit longer than it should.

"Good," you say, almost too quickly. As the words leave your lips, you wince internally. You hadn't brewed anything with Snape in weeks, and the lie felt like a physical weight in your stomach. You were intentionally vague, the sting of your own dishonesty a reminder of the complicated layers of your life.

Sharp seems to pick up on the pause that followed, filling the silence with an unexpected compliment. "You're doing exceptionally well in Auror training. The tactical finesse you displayed in that simulated ambush last week was outstanding. You disarmed the illusions, protected your teammates, and navigated the chaos flawlessly. Even your father would have a hard time beating that."

The words land softly, but their impact was immense. Coming from Sharp, who was never frivolous with praise, the compliment felt both validating and stirring. A flush of warmth colored your cheeks, a physical manifestation of the fluttering sensation in your chest. Could he see it, you wondered? This newfound vulnerability that had blossomed between syllables?

"Thank you, Sharp," you finally manage to say, your voice tinged not just with gratitude, but also with a burgeoning sentiment you couldn't yet define. "Hearing that from you means a lot."

As you step into the Great Hall, its enchanted ceiling twinkling like a far-off galaxy, you feel the contours of your inner world shift ever so slightly. The evening had peeled back layers you hadn't known existed, revealing not just new chambers in the library, but new chambers within yourself. Doors once sealed shut were now ajar, their thresholds promising unexplored terrain that beckoned both your curiosity and, perhaps, a sliver of your heart.

Just before you and Sharp part ways at the entrance, your eyes instinctively drift toward the head table. There's Snape, engrossed in conversation with Professor Flitwick. Your heart aches a little at the sight. There was a time when a simple look exchanged across this vast room would have been a secret conversation all its own—a meeting of the eyes that spoke volumes in a language only the two of you understood. But those days seem suspended in time, like dust motes floating in a shaft of sunlight, beautiful but untouchable.

You exhale softly, acknowledging the void that has slowly crept into a part of your heart once solely occupied by Snape.

As you and Sharp exchange a final smile and murmured thanks, you can't help but feel a newfound sense of poise, you begin to make your way to your usual spot at the Slytherin table, your eyes tracing the familiar faces and settings around you.

Just then, Harry Potter strides into your path, his eyes locked onto yours with an urgency that mirrors the intensity you feel bubbling within you. For a moment, you both halt, nearly colliding, as if stopped by an invisible force field that neither of you had the power to break.

"Your timing is impeccable," you say, the words tumbling out of you as your eyes lock onto his.

Harry exhales, as though he's been holding his breath, "I've been looking everywhere for you."

You nod vigorously, excitement filling your veins. "I’ve got so much to tell you. I think I've just figured it out—Horcruxes.” you say, lowering your voice. “Sharp and I, we stumbled onto something, something big."

Harry's eyes widen. "You told Sharp?"

"No, no, it's not like that. He let me into the restricted section. We were looking around, and we literally just stumbled upon the information. But it's important, Harry. It could be the key."

"Dumbledore's back," Harry cuts in, clearly eager. "He wants me to come to his office after dinner. I told him that I want you to come. Y’know, to discuss everything we know—and now this new information too."

"Okay, sure. Perfect," you agree, feeling the weight of what lies ahead, but also a sense of exhilaration you hadn't felt in a while.

As you finally take your seat at the Slytherin table, your mind is a whirl of emotions and newfound knowledge. It's odd how the universe works, you muse.

When you walked into the Great Hall, looking at Snape had filled you with a nostalgic sadness, a palpable absence. But the minutes spent in the library with Sharp, and now this urgent errand with Harry, have sparked something different—a renewed sense of purpose that fills the gap left by your complicated feelings for Snape.

And as you sit there, contemplating the enchanted ceiling above and the magical world that surrounds you, it strikes you how strangely beautiful it is—that life, with its swirling vortex of emotions and unexpected turns, still has the power to surprise you, to fill voids you didn't know needed filling, and to offer you paths you hadn't seen before. Funny how things happen, indeed.

Chapter 8: cellophane

Chapter Text

She’s always had a soul like cellophane
Walked right through me like a spring rain
She’s always running from her troubles, the trouble is I love her
Won’t ever love another one cold as her

second night of summer - borns

https://open.spotify.com/track/6Ov2pt0TfDeSdNHfdlcKpq?si=6e9b908eb01e42e6

Severus Snape stands at the front of his dungeon classroom, his eyes narrowed into slits, glaring at the witless children who fumbled with their cauldrons as if they were instruments of dark sorcery—too much for their limited understanding. Even as he administers a scathing reprimand to a Hufflepuff student whose potion had curdled into something horrifically unrecognizable, his mind roamed elsewhere— to you.

Yes, you, with your sudden coldness and calculated distance, almost as if he were some kind of pariah.

Rumors whispered through the castle—the students, the faculty, and Merlin knows who else— that Snape was angrier than ever because he'd been passed over for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position once again. How tragically misguided they were.

Oh, the sheer audacity of it all. It would almost be amusing, if it weren't so bitterly irritating. Severus Snape, longing for the affirmation of a title? As if he were some first-year brimming with naiveté? They didn't know the half of it, the wretches. The Defense Against the Dark Arts may be cursed, to everyone's knowledge. But he had willingly stepped into the ring, fully aware of the grim fate that might be awaiting him. He had done so for reasons they couldn't possibly fathom, for a game whose stakes reached far beyond the walls of Hogwarts.

How easy it would be to indulge in the smallness of their imaginations, to let them think him petulant and thwarted. But that would be to dishonor his own complexity, the labyrinth of obligations, and secrets he navigated every day.

It would be to dishonor you, too, the root cause of his current tempest. The students could prattle on with their theories, fueling the rumor mill that ground endlessly through the halls of Hogwarts. They would never understand the agony of watching you pull away from him, of losing the one glimmer of light in the bleak caverns of his existence.

Snape let them believe he coveted the Defense Against the Dark Arts position like some shiny trinket, a child yearning for a toy just out of reach. They couldn't comprehend the depth of his sacrifice or the heaviness of his soul, weighed down not by thwarted ambitions, but by the aching, gnawing void that your absence had carved within him. In that light, what did it matter what anyone else thought?

No, their ignorant musings couldn't touch him. But you could, and you had—like a stone skipping across the dark waters of his life, you had touched him briefly and sent ripples cascading into hidden depths he had long forgotten or chosen to ignore. And now, in your absence, in your silence and your avoidance, those ripples were turning into waves, crashing against the fragile walls he had built. They thought he was a storm? They hadn't seen anything yet.

So, let them talk, let them whisper their theories and concoct their fantastical tales about why Severus Snape was the human embodiment of a bubbling cauldron, about to explode. They didn't know, couldn't know, that it wasn't a job title that stirred him into this maelstrom. It was the complex and unacknowledged web of emotions, expectations, and disappointments that had ensnared him. And you, unwittingly or not, were the spider at the center of that web.

You were a satellite now, drifting farther and farther away from the pull of his gravity. Every glance you refuse to offer him, every meal you hurry away from, is an agonizing, incremental widening of the chasm between you. The reality of your detachment is a daily, persistent gnawing, almost as if you've taken a Severing Charm to the tenuous thread that had once connected you both. And it leaves him to wonder—what has done this? What poison has been dripped into your ear, turning you against him?

The culprit is clear in his mind: Sharp. That self-righteous Auror, who waltzed around as if his past sins were washed away by his newfound sense of duty. Had he been filling your head with idealistic nonsense? Hadn't Snape warned you about the perils of trusting too easily? You were so malleable, so ready to listen to any honeyed words that promised greatness, that perhaps you didn't stop to consider the reality he'd been trying to impart to you. How sensitive you were to hearing the truth, to having the lens of naivety shattered.

Of course you were. You were always too open, too willing to embrace a future filled with possibilities, no matter how deceptively wrapped they were in false nobility.

The stinging clarity of one specific moment invaded his thoughts, despite his numerous attempts to dismiss it. The castle's corridors had seemed to mock him, their stone walls impenetrable, trapping the memory like an insect in amber.

It was an ordinary day, banal in all its details—except for that one incendiary moment when he had glimpsed you and Sharp standing together, outside the library.

As he'd approached, the sound of your laughter had perforated the usual silence, a lilting note that twisted something dark and ugly within him. The way your eyes had sparkled, meeting Sharp's in an easy camaraderie, had been a lance of ice straight to his core. There was an intimacy in that moment between you and Sharp—an intimacy that he had never been privy to, nor ever wished to witness. It was as if you'd found a patch of sunlight in the gloom that was often Hogwarts, and he wasn't a part of it. The realization was a punch, visceral and sudden, that coiled his insides into knots of fury and, worse, longing.

As he'd walked past, Sharp had offered him a curt nod, which he'd returned with icy formality, his eyes locking briefly with the Auror's. He'd nodded, a gesture so restrained it bordered on disdain. But when it came to you, he'd looked past you, through you, as though you were nothing more than mist. It was a petty act, and he knew it, but in that moment, his pride had commandeered his actions, drowning the undercurrent of emotion that always simmered beneath his surface when you were involved.

As he walked away, a frigid wall of silence had risen behind him, thick enough to be cut with a blade. Yet, even as he had moved beyond that scene, the roots of bitterness burrowed deeper into his being. A vicious cycle of resentment and regret that he couldn't, or perhaps wouldn't, disrupt.

It all began that inauspicious evening in his dim-lit classroom, each flickering candle casting shadows that danced across the walls as though anticipating the fracture about to occur. You had been prattling on about the Auror training program, a subject you ought to have had the sensibility to avoid.

Hadn't you both navigated around that topic for months, a mutual unspoken understanding hanging between you? It was a sore point for him, a festering wound that would never fully heal, and your continual talk was like salt to the injury. The audacity was insufferable, and your naïveté maddening.

But it was when you mentioned the Dark Mark as part of your Auror training that his resentment ruptured into open fury. How dare you? How unimaginably audacious you were to blurt out the words, as though that cursed mark was just another topic for idle discussion? To be listed as just another topic in your training?

Had you forgotten that momentary, piercing gaze you'd aimed at his forearm just a few evenings prior, as if your eyes had the power to sear through the fabric of his robes, exposing him in all his tormented complexity?

His carefully selected words of that evening, each one chosen with the cold precision of a scalpel, had been intended as a reality check for you. You are the one that chose to defy the unspoken protocol, to be blind to the nuanced layers of their relationship and the fraught topic it represented. Your blatant disregard for this was a profound betrayal, an irreverence for the careful boundaries he had erected.

Did the truth discomfit you so? Had the unvarnished reality he presented been too unsettling, its reflection too harsh for your youthful eyes?

The betrayal stung like a potion gone awry, flung back in his face. You didn't just reject him; you rejected the hard-earned wisdom he had vulnerably, reluctantly offered you. Against better judgment, he had extended the rare gift of his tutelage, only for you to squander it as though it was nothing. To be so ungrateful, so wilfully blind—it was enough to make his blood seethe, a boiling cauldron of indignation and wounded pride.

Oh, how foolishly you misunderstand; your flight from him is a flight from the truth, and he knows, deep within the labyrinth of his carefully guarded emotions, that your denial would be your unmaking.

The morning after he'd laid bare the uncomfortable "truth" for you, your usual perch by the window was conspicuously empty. That spot had become a constant in his mornings—a fixed point he'd come to expect, perhaps even rely upon, like the first rays of the sun breaking the horizon. But on that morning, the clock ticked mercilessly onward, each second a tiny weight upon his increasingly impatient demeanor.

As the seconds turned into minutes, a subtle tension began to coil tighter within him, like a serpent readying to strike. The clock's hands were moving both too swiftly and not swiftly enough, its ticking growing louder in his ears—a cacophonous drumbeat that only intensified his sense of impending disappointment. The empty space by the window seemed to mock him, a physical void that reverberated painfully with the emotional one widening within him.

When the realization finally dawned—that you're not coming—it hit him like the cold, harsh sting of a Dementor's presence. It was a sensation not unlike having a rug pulled out from under him, an emotional free fall into a well of dissatisfaction and, if he dared admit it, an unnameable sadness. The walls of the castle, usually so indifferent to his moods, seemed almost oppressive now. It was as if they too were closing in on him, echoing his own shrinking world where certainties like your presence at that window no longer hold true.

Rushing down the corridors, his robes swirled about him like dark storm clouds, shadowing his turmoil as he headed to a staff meeting. The words and incantations he muttered were more curses than spells, his voice tinged with an ire that he can't quite direct at anyone specific—because the person they're meant for wasn’t there. And wouldn't be, it seemed.

It's a bitterness that still lingers, a mental aftertaste that makes him all the more acerbic as he steps into the classroom each day.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for your abysmal ineptitude!" The words erupt from him, drenched in an anger that is about so much more than a potion gone awry. The room fills with the foul stench of the failed concoction, a scent that feels almost appropriate—a manifestation of the foul mood that clings to him.

"If you cannot differentiate between asphodel and wormwood, then you are a waste of space in this classroom!" Each syllable is a barb, each word a missile aimed not just at the quivering student before him, but at the void that has settled heavy in his chest.

Now, following that incident, he debates within himself whether to attend dinner this evening. He replays the harshness of his own words, the chill that fell over the classroom, the flicker of something that looked almost like fear in the students' eyes. He feels a hollowness, a frigid cavern where once there might have been some sliver of enjoyment in teaching.

Is it worth it, he wonders, to walk into the Great Hall and be confronted with your strategic absence? To see you tucked away at the farthest reaches of the Slytherin table as if distance could act as a shield between you and him?

The decision crystallizes in him with the finality of a setting potion. No, he won't go to dinner. He can't bear another public display of your growing detachment. Best not to see you, best not to endure another stinging reminder of your absence.

And now, a hapless Gryffindor in his current class had mixed a Forgetfulness Potion so terribly it had almost become a Confundus Concoction. Normally, this level of incompetence would earn a cutting remark, a biting jibe designed to spur improvement. Today, it unleashes something darker.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor! If you're trying to bewitch yourself into idiocy, Mr. Davis, I must congratulate you on your imminent success," he sneers, his eyes flashing ominously. The classroom plunges into icy silence, the students exchanging furtive glances as though they were hostages in a volatile situation.

So, he resolves to skip the meal, to avoid that fresh wave of disappointment that would inevitably crash over him the moment his eyes find the empty space where you should be.

That first missed evening brewing session with you had been a symphony of anticipation and disappointment. You had been missing from your customary window spot for two mornings. Nonetheless, he'd anchored himself at his desk that night, the ink on the parchment morphing into indecipherable runes as his eyes compulsively flitted to the ancient clock on the wall.

When the hands of the clock had crawled past the midnight hour, he'd hurled his quill onto the desk. The gesture, impulsive and uncharacteristically expressive, had failed to disperse the knotted emotions that tightened like a noose around him. He'd retreated to the relative solitude of his chambers, where sleep remained a wily fugitive, chased away by his restless thoughts.

Now, he finds himself in a similar posture, alone at his desk under the dim light of his sconces, surrounded by scrolls and assignments waiting for his biting remarks. Each tick of the clock punctuates the room like a small detonation, magnifying the aching emptiness that you've left in your wake. He grips his quill tighter, as if he could write you back into his life through sheer will, but the nib merely scratches against parchment, creating inkblots rather than enlightenment.

He quashes a rising tide of futility and resentment with a mental snarl, reasserting to himself that he does not care. The words are his armor, though they feel more like a paper shield against an oncoming storm. When the clock stubbornly indicates the lateness of the hour, he lets the quill fall from his unsteady grasp, landing with a soft clatter that seems deafening in the enveloping silence.

He retreats to his chambers, the inky darkness mirroring the shadow that your absence has cast over him. As he lies there, the mantra "I don't care" reverberates through his mind. But each repetition feels less like a statement of indifference and more like a spell that has failed to conjure its intended reality. Deep in the recesses of his guarded soul, amidst walls fortified by years of mistrust and isolation, he knows the irrefutable truth—that he cared far too much.

As you and Harry stand before the stone gargoyle that serves as sentinel to Dumbledore's office, Harry leans in and murmurs the incantation—"Fizzing Whizbees." Almost as if understanding the urgency of your visit, the gargoyle springs to life, parting like an ancient guardian granting access to sacred ground. The hidden spiral staircase materializes, and the moment your feet touch the first step, it starts to rotate upwards. A tingling sensation flutters in the pit of your stomach, giving you the eerie impression that you're not only ascending physically but also spiraling into a different plane of existence.

Though your prior interactions with Dumbledore have been largely limited to the bureaucratic aspects of the Goldhawk Initiative, Harry quickly fills you in on the more personal journey he's been navigating under the Headmaster's guidance. His words spill out in a torrent: disturbing visions that haunt him, nightmares that fracture the peace of his sleep, and a feeling of psychic violation. The sensation is like being bound to the Dark Lord with an invisible yet palpable tether—one that each activation makes tauter, stripping away Harry's sense of security and leaving him increasingly vulnerable.

It becomes evident that this unsettling metaphysical connection is not a footnote but rather a cornerstone in the research Harry has been conducting with Dumbledore. The Headmaster's focus isn't solely on shielding Harry; it extends to decoding this ominous conduit, aiming to glean insights into Voldemort's machinations and perhaps even turn them into vulnerabilities.

Just as Harry finishes explaining, the staircase comes to a gentle halt, and the door before you swings open as if awaiting your entry. For a moment, you're enveloped in a wave of anticipation, aware that you're on the threshold of something momentous—perhaps even perilous. Yet the sensation is electrifying, filled with the promise of discoveries that could be both unsettling and enlightening.

Stepping into Dumbledore's office is like crossing a threshold into an entirely different world. Awe sweeps through you like a tidal wave, saturating your senses. The room is a circular masterpiece, its high ceiling cloaked in darkness, suggesting an atmosphere of profound and timeless magic. Walls are adorned with portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses, their painted eyes flicking towards you with a mix of curiosity and discernment. Shelves upon shelves are filled with leather-bound books, ancient scrolls, and mysterious artifacts, imbued with a palpable aura of wisdom and magical significance.

The air is subtly fragrant, laced with the comforting aroma of old parchment, ink, and a curious hint of what you think might be lemon drops. It's almost intoxicating. Intricately designed, silver instruments whir and spin softly on Dumbledore's desk, their purpose elusive but fascinating. The atmosphere is like a sonnet of magical history, intellect, and the inexplicable, and for a brief moment, you feel dwarfed by the sheer grandeur of it all.

Your eyes meet Harry's, who is watching you with a small grin. He can tell you're captivated by the room's enchantment. But amidst the grandiosity, behind an imposing mahogany desk, sits Albus Dumbledore. His eyes meet yours, twinkling like stars encapsulated in deep, endless sapphires. In that instant, you understand that the soul behind those eyes is as extraordinary as the room that surrounds him.

The weight of the situation settles over you like a cloak as you take your seat. This isn't just any room; it's the nerve center of a resistance against an unspeakable evil. And Dumbledore isn't just any man; he's the embodiment of wisdom and tenacity in a world that desperately needs both. The feeling is at once overwhelming and reassuring. You're in the eye of the storm, where complexities are untangled and heroes are forged.

As you sink into the plush chair before Dumbledore's grand desk, you feel his gaze on you. This isn't a cursory glance; it's a probing scrutiny that feels like it's evaluating not just your academic credentials but also the intricacies of your soul. It's a gaze that both unsettles and affirms, as if you're simultaneously a question and an answer in a much larger equation.

"Ah, our rising star from the Goldhawk Initiative," Dumbledore begins, his voice rich with the timbre of wisdom honed over countless years. "Mr. Sharp informs me that your talents are expanding impressively. You're becoming a force to be reckoned with."

The room, already imbued with an atmosphere heavy with history, magic, and wisdom, seems to intensify in its focus, drawing your thoughts inward. It's as if Dumbledore's words have amplified both the pride swelling within you and the magnitude of the responsibilities that lie ahead.

He pauses, and the light in his eyes takes on a new shimmer. "Your father, I imagine, is extraordinarily proud of your achievements."

"My father?" you blurt out before you can stop yourself. "You know him?"

Dumbledore's eyes grow momentarily distant, as if recalling a chapter from a book long closed. "Indeed, we crossed paths often during the First Wizarding War. He was an Auror of great skill and unwavering integrity."

You seize this fragment of history about your father, tucking it away like a treasured heirloom in the sanctuary of your heart. It becomes another piece of the intricate puzzle that is you—a puzzle that's gaining both complexity and definition under the gaze of Albus Dumbledore.

"Harry, I believe there's something you wish to discuss?" Dumbledore finally turns his penetrating gaze toward Harry, whose expression turns markedly serious.

"Yes, Professor," Harry starts, a note of caution coloring his voice as if he's delicately selecting each word from an unseen spectrum of options. "I was updating her on the psychic link I seem to share with Voldemort. Snape's been giving me Occlumency lessons to block it out," he adds, his eyes flicking briefly in your direction as he mentions the Potions Master.

"Snape?" The word escapes your lips before you can filter it, tinged with surprise. "He's skilled in Occlumency?"

Harry nods affirmatively. "Yes, he's been coaching me to guard against the visions and the dreams. It's inconsistent, though. Sometimes the link weakens; other times it feels like a door's been thrown wide open."

A whirlpool of emotions engulfs you at the mention of Snape's name. Intrigue, certainly—his expertise in such a specialized field of magic adds yet another layer to the enigmatic man. But the intrigue is tinged with an unsettling sense of vulnerability. You can't help but perk up a bit at the mention of his name, a reaction that doesn't go unnoticed by Dumbledore, though he offers no visible response.

Just as swiftly, a pang of heartbreak nudges its way into your thoughts, as if it had been lying in wait just outside the room and had seized this opportunity to intrude. Snape's very name has become a complicated tapestry of feelings that you're still untangling, and the room—already thick with portents and secrets—somehow feels even heavier.

"During her Auror training, she stumbled upon something critical," Harry resumes, momentarily diverting his gaze toward you as if ceremonially handing you the conversational reins.

You feel every pair of eyes in the room lock onto you, and suddenly you're teetering on an unseen fulcrum, your words holding the power to influence outcomes still veiled in mystery. Under Dumbledore's unwavering scrutiny, you sense it's time to reveal what you and Sharp have unearthed. An unsettling blend of urgency and apprehension propels you forward as your hands clasp together tightly in your lap.

"In my Goldhawk training, Sharp and I touched on the subject of cursed artifacts—objects that are more than merely enchanted. They exhibit a stubborn resistance to neutralization or even destruction," you initiate, the gravity of your statement permeating the room like thick mist.

You take a measured pause. "Sharp hinted at something more ominous. He indicated that there are far darker facets to explore within the sphere of cursed objects. These aren't mere trinkets imbued with a spell; they almost seem to possess a will, as if soaked in another person's very essence. They don't just persist; they desperately cling to existence."

The room plunges into a palpable silence, as though holding its collective breath, waiting for you to unravel the implications of your unsettling discovery. Dumbledore's eyes remain steadfastly on you, a mute but potent encouragement to carry on.

"This led me to wonder," you resume, your voice tinged with a hesitant sense of awe, "could these objects actually contain fragments of a person's soul? As if their malevolent essence has been poured into these artifacts, endowing them with a semblance of sentient life?"

Before you can expound further, Harry cuts in, "That was the moment it all fell into place for us. The diary and the ring you destroyed last year, Professor. Your description of the ring didn't portray a simple curse; it was malevolent, insidious. It sought to corrupt you in the same manner that the diary had possessed Ginny. That diary was no mere enchanted object; it seemed to encapsulate a shard of Tom Riddle himself."

You look to Harry for confirmation, for that mutual understanding that this theory isn't mere speculation but a terrifying likelihood. He meets your eyes, solidifying the trust that has grown between you in this high-stakes quest for truth.

Taking a deep breath, you add, "After that, I went to the Restricted Section. Sharp knew I was doing research on cursed objects and he let me in, but I didn't tell him any details. I was looking for anything that might explain these nearly indestructible cursed objects. Y’know, possible ties to someone’s very being."

You pause for a moment, capturing Dumbledore's gaze with an air of determination. "After spending hours sifting through ancient tomes and dusty manuscripts, Professor Sharp and I stumbled upon a reference to something called a Horcrux," you continue. “A Horcrux, according to that text, is an object in which a dark wizard or witch has hidden a fragment of their soul for the purpose of achieving immortality. To create one, the wizard must commit the most heinous act: murder. The act of killing rips the soul apart, allowing a fragment to be sealed into the chosen object."

The room seems to freeze as Dumbledore locks eyes with you, then Harry, his gaze deeper and more penetrating than ever before. The air feels heavy, laden with the gravity of your revelations.

"It appears we are venturing into perilous waters, indeed," Dumbledore mutters, almost to himself. "Your discovery may be more significant than you realize."

He rises from his chair and walks over to the towering bookshelves, pacing quietly. Silence fills the room, so potent it's almost like a tangible entity. Dumbledore stretches out his wand, summoning a book from a lofty, dust-covered shelf. The ancient tome looks as though it's lived through centuries, its pages yellowed and fragile.

With rapid yet reverent motions, he leafs through the book, finally halting at a particular page. His eyes scan the archaic script, and then, as if hit by a jolt of realization, he looks back at you and Harry. His gaze is laden with a gravity that nearly takes your breath away.

The atmosphere in the room shifts irrevocably. You feel a lurch in your stomach, as if the very foundation upon which you stand has been yanked away, replaced by a churning void of dread and urgency. Whatever comes next, you sense that it will alter the course of this war—no, the course of your lives—forever.

Dumbledore's eyes remain fixed on the pages of the timeworn book for another lingering moment before he clears his throat and begins to read aloud. His voice, tinged with both gravity and a sorrowful sort of wisdom, reverberates in the hallowed silence of his office.

Dumbledore's eyes flit back and forth across the aged parchment in his hands, before he looks up and begins to speak. "The tome further elaborates on the dark art of Horcrux creation, noting that each Horcrux serves not only as a safeguard for the soul fragment, but also as an amplifying conduit for the caster's dark magic. The more Horcruxes one creates, the more divided but also more anchored their soul becomes—each acting as a bastion of their unholy will."

His gaze lifts to meet yours and Harry's, instilling in you both a sense of urgency you've rarely felt before. "Moreover, it says that destroying a Horcrux requires means as extraordinary as the magic that brought it into being. Mere destruction of the object is not sufficient; the piece of soul itself must be eradicated. Failure to do so might mean that the fragment could seek out another vessel, or return to its master."

Your skin prickles at the gravity of what you've all just discovered. It's as if you've opened a door to a new realm of darkness, one that will require all your courage, cunning, and strength to navigate. Your thoughts churn like a storm, questions clouding your mind. Beside you, Harry exhales audibly, his face a mirror reflecting the tumultuous thoughts that must be racing through his own mind.

"So," you begin, your voice tinged with both awe and a creeping dread, "the diary and the ring... they were Horcruxes? Fragments of Voldemort’s soul?"

"And if they were Horcruxes," Harry chimes in, almost tripping over his words in his rush to voice the burgeoning thoughts, "then that means... Voldemort could be immortal until they're all destroyed?"

Dumbledore slowly closes the ancient book and places it back on his desk. "You are both astute. The diary and the ring were indeed Horcruxes. The nature of their curses, their resistance to destruction, and their ability to influence or corrupt are the traits that set them apart from mere cursed objects."

Your thoughts ricochet wildly. "But how can we be certain? Are there signs, symptoms we should look for in other potential Horcruxes?"

Dumbledore's gaze grows even more serious, if that's possible. "The answer, unfortunately, is not straightforward. These dark artifacts are exceptionally difficult to identify. Often, it requires a deep understanding of magic most foul, or direct experience with the object, to recognize one."

The implications unfold in your mind, filling you with both dread and resolve. You look at Harry, and in that moment, the gravity of your shared responsibility solidifies. This is bigger than you, bigger than any of you, and the path ahead is fraught with dangers you can't yet comprehend. Yet, you understand that it's a path you must walk, no matter where it leads.

Dumbledore glides back to his ornate desk and, after whispering an incantation that causes a concealed drawer to pop open, takes out a small, dusty box. Setting it down carefully, he opens the lid to reveal the diary and the ring. As soon as he lifts the lid, you feel it—an oppressive wave of malevolence emanating from the artifacts. It's suffocating, much worse than anything you've felt before.

Your thoughts flashback to a training session with Sharp, a day when he'd placed a genuine cursed object on a table in front of you. It had felt as if your soul was being siphoned off into the object, a deeply unsettling sensation. But this—this is worse. Your eyes dart away; you can't bear to look at them for too long.

Harry, standing beside you, suddenly speaks up. "You feel it too? That darkness? When I first found the diary, it was like—like it was trying to reach into me. It's not the same now that it's destroyed, but there's still… something there. A lingering presence."

Casting a look over your shoulder, you catch Dumbledore leaning against a bookshelf, his eyes hidden behind the half-moon spectacles. He seems absorbed in an ancient tome, yet something about his stance tells you he's acutely attuned to your conversation. It's a thought that hovers at the edge of your awareness, unformed but increasingly insistent.

Finally, Dumbledore returns to the desk, his hands full of a stack of ancient, leather-bound books. He sets them aside and mutters an incantation while waving his wand in complex patterns over the objects. His brow furrows, eyes sharpening in concentration. A series of symbols and arcane words appear in the air, flickering like fireflies before vanishing.

"Based on the results, though I admit my experience with such dark artifacts is fortunately limited," Dumbledore says, his voice laced with gravitas, "I can say with a reasonable degree of certainty that these were Horcruxes."

Your stomach drops. "So he didn't just make one Horcrux... but two?"

Harry's eyes narrow, as if recalling something important. "Professor, you mentioned that Tom Riddle had an intense fear of death, that he was consumed by the idea of immortality, right?"

Dumbledore nods, casting a contemplative look between the two of you. "Exactly, Harry. And given such an extreme obsession, we must entertain the idea that Voldemort may have taken additional steps to fragment his soul. The likelihood that he has created more than one or two Horcruxes is distressingly high."

You feel a chill, as though the room itself recoils at the implications. If there are more Horcruxes out there, your journey has only just begun, a journey that promises to be dark and fraught with peril. Yet, as you stand there in Dumbledore's office, amidst the ancient tomes and the wise old eyes that seem to see right through you, you know it's a journey that you must undertake. And so must Harry.

Harry's voice cracks with a blend of desperation and frustration. "How are we supposed to figure out how many there are? This could be endless!"

Dumbledore pauses, his eyes growing distant as if plumbing the fathomless depths of his own thoughts. The room falls silent, aside from the subtle whir of the magical instruments scattered about. The gravity of the situation thickens the air.

"Tom Riddle was an exceptional student," Dumbledore finally says, pulling you from your thoughts. "In his time at Hogwarts, he formed a particularly close relationship with one of his professors—Horace Slughorn."

Dumbledore suddenly strides towards the corner of the room where a pensieve sits on an intricately carved wooden pedestal. "Throughout the years, I've attempted to gather information, memories from others, on Tom Riddle, to understand the origins of his darkness.”

The bowl itself appears to be made of pure, gleaming crystal and gives off a faint, magical luminescence. Its surface ripples gently, as if a soft breeze is continually caressing it. He starts picking up tiny, glass vials filled with silvery wisps of memory, each carefully labeled and sealed with wax. Setting them down with great reverence, he arranges them around the pensieve, as though setting up a sacred ritual.

As you and Harry move closer, you can't help but glance at the labels on the vials. 'First meeting with Tom Riddle,' 'Ollivanders,' 'Yule Ball 1942,' the labels read. It's a historical tapestry of moments, each one captured in ethereal silver, each one potentially a key to the puzzle that is Voldemort.

"While many have willingly given their memories regarding Tom Riddle," Dumbledore continues, his voice infused with a sense of urgency, "you’ll notice Professor Slughorn is notably absent from this collection. He has always been... reticent, avoiding all discussions about his former student. Completely reluctant to hand over any memories he has. This reluctance, I find deeply suspicious."

Dumbledore locks eyes with both you and Harry, the weight of his gaze almost palpable. "It's quite likely that Professor Slughorn knows something crucial."

Harry exchanges a glance with you, his eyes reflecting your own swirling mix of fear and determination. This missing piece, whatever Slughorn is holding back, has the potential to drastically alter the course of your search, and perhaps even the war.

Dumbledore's expression becomes even more inscrutable. "I must leave tonight to seek out Professor Slughorn. It is crucial that we get to the bottom of this. Remember, you mustn't tell anyone where I have gone."

Both you and Harry nod, his words amplifying the solemn atmosphere of the room, transforming it from a simple office into a war chamber of sorts. "We understand, Professor," Harry says.

As you lock eyes with Dumbledore, a fleeting, unspoken understanding passes between you. Though this office has always felt like a sanctuary of wisdom, you now realize it's more than that—it's a threshold, a starting point for a treacherous journey into the unknown. Surrounded by the relics and knowledge of centuries past, the room takes on a different quality. It feels like both the entrance and the exit to a complex maze, one built from hidden truths, looming threats, and sacrifices that await you and your comrades.

This space, once a haven, now feels like the staging ground for a battle—one that stretches far beyond its ancient walls.

Harry clears his throat, pulling you from your thoughts. "Hold on, I need to talk to Dumbledore for a moment."

You nod and begin to make your way to the antechamber that leads to the Headmaster's office, leaving Harry and Dumbledore to their private discussion. As you wait, you can't help but feel the gravity of the situation enveloping—heavy, but also imbued with a sense of purpose.

Your musings are shattered when you hear raised voices emanating from Dumbledore's office. Harry's shouting, his words tinged with frustration and urgency. "They're up to something!" "I heard it myself!" "He's in on it too, he can't be trusted!"

Dumbledore's response is muffled and indistinct, yet it holds a tone that sounds almost like a reprimand. Harry fires back, "But, but, but... Fine! But there's still something going on with Draco, and we need to figure it out! He said he was chosen for something!"

Your heart pounds as the tension escalates. Whoever Harry's talking about, it's someone you both know, and the implications could be disastrous. If Draco Malfoy is involved, and he's been "chosen" for something, it likely bodes ill for everyone at Hogwarts.

The quiet that settles in the office is punctuated only by faint murmurs. Though you strain to hear, Dumbledore's words are an unintelligible low rumble. Then, Harry takes a deep breath, and you catch the words, "Yes, she's good. I trust her."

Your heart skips a beat. Are they talking about you? Before you can delve further into that thought, their conversation becomes too soft to hear again.

The door to Dumbledore's inner sanctum creaks open and Harry steps out, his face a blend of frustration and determination, as if he'd fought a battle and neither won nor lost, but simply reached an impasse.

Dumbledore follows, appearing in the doorway with the eternal twinkle in his eyes slightly dimmed, clouded by something you can't quite put your finger on—contentment, perhaps, or maybe even approval.

"Ah, there you are," he says, his voice always containing that note of ancient wisdom you find both reassuring and daunting. His face is almost preternaturally calm given the emotionally charged exchange he's just had with Harry.

Harry murmurs something about heading to his dormitory, and bids you a goodnight.

You look up, meeting his piercing eyes. "Is everything okay?"

"Ah, the nature of 'okay' is quite subjective, don't you think?" Dumbledore muses, peering over his half-moon spectacles. "In times of great struggle, the definitions of 'okay' and 'not okay' often blur."

Your mind lingers on his words, and you find yourself nodding. Yes, the lines are blurring, the contrast between good and bad becoming an unsettling gray.

Dumbledore meets your eyes and replies, "Challenging times lie ahead. Your friend Harry is passionate about doing what is right, even if the path is mired in difficulty."

Feeling the words sink into you, you nod. They resonate with a frequency that aligns with your own, silently weaving you into this intricate and perilous tapestry of events yet to come.

"I hope the evening's revelations haven't weighed too heavily on your shoulders. These are complex times, even for those of us who have seen much," Dumbledore adds, his voice steeped in a wisdom that comes from years of navigating a world much more complex than it appears.

Under his piercing gaze, you feel momentarily exposed—like a book he can easily leaf through. His eyes are like twin beacons, cutting through a thick fog, illuminating hidden thoughts and unspoken emotions.

"I'd be lying if I said it wasn't overwhelming," you confess cautiously, "But I suppose that's how we grow, isn't it? Navigating through the complexities."

As Dumbledore's gaze meets yours, his eyes seem to illuminate with a certain knowing, as though your words had merely given voice to his own thoughts. "Life is a tapestry of contradictions," he murmurs. "Our most profound insights often spring from our deepest confusions, and our greatest victories are borne of our most daunting challenges."

A reflective hush envelops the room. Dumbledore's words have shifted something within you, opening up new avenues of understanding, new vantage points from which to view the enigmas that lie ahead. His eyes hold yours, and in that moment, you feel both burdened and inexplicably liberated, as if caught in a web of complexities and dichotomies.

Breaking the meditative silence, Dumbledore rises and wanders through the room, his fingers lightly brushing over the ancient books that line the shelves. "Power, in essence, is akin to fire," he continues. "In the hands of the sagacious, it can bring light and warmth. Yet in the grasp of the foolish, it transforms into a calamitous force."

He pauses, his eyes lingering on a mysterious orb perched upon a nearby table, as if it holds a universe of untold possibilities. "The choices we make carve the path we walk. And remember, abstaining from choice is a choice in itself—one that can leave us at the mercy of the unpredictable winds of fate."

You contemplate the multifaceted meaning of power in your magical world—how it can be wielded through wands, spells, or even soul-bound objects. A silent promise forms between your gaze and Dumbledore's. You would strive to be counted among the wise.

Is speaking with Dumbledore always this… heavy? Taxing on the mind?

You wonder how Harry does it.

Just as you're about to articulate your thoughts, Dumbledore seems to find what he's looking for in your quiet contemplation. His eyes, those uncanny windows to unspoken truths, lock onto yours. Subtle but discernible, a shift occurs in his expression. You sense that you've crossed some invisible threshold, passed a test that was never announced but deeply consequential.

"Ah, our world is a rich tapestry of complexity and paradox," he finally says, his eyes twinkling—the familiar luminescence of a man pleased with a newfound understanding. "The parts we choose to play in it are equally complex, requiring both loyalty and wisdom. Ambition and bravery.”

It is at this precise moment that Dumbledore reaches for a silver plate of lemon drops and offers you a piece, a gesture so surprisingly mundane in the midst of these esoteric exchanges. You take one, popping it into your mouth. The candy's zesty tang stands in sharp contrast to the weight of the conversation, causing you to momentarily ponder the complex tapestry that is life itself—where wisdom can coexist with the simplest joys.

"Before you go, would you be so kind as to tell your father I said hello?" Dumbledore adds, as though the depth of the universe could pause for casual greetings.

"Of course, Professor," you reply, still absorbing the many-layered implications of this evening's revelations.

"Good night," Dumbledore concludes, his voice soft yet laden with an unspoken gravity, as if finalizing a pact that needs no words, only the silent allegiance of souls who understand what's at stake.

As you make your way out of his office, Dumbledore's last words hang in the air. You feel almost certain that this conversation was a precursor to something larger, something that could determine your role in the unfolding battle between light and dark.

And while the nature of that role remains unclear, Dumbledore's concluding expression told you everything you needed to know: whatever the coming challenge, you have, in his eyes at least, proven yourself worthy of facing it.

Chapter 9: nine

Chapter Text

Your footsteps echo down the deserted corridor of Hogwarts, a path you've walked countless times. But these days, it feels different—like you're navigating an entirely new maze. With every step, the stinging memories of Snape flood back, each one a cruel reminder of the yawning void that's taken his place in your life.

It's been over a month. Over a month since words were exchanged, eyes met, or experiments performed in that dimly lit dungeon. He doesn't call on you in class anymore. Not even barbed remarks or piercing questions designed to make you falter. He won't even grant you that.

Instead, he ignores you, as if you've become nothing more than an empty chair, a shadow amongst the rest. The only acknowledgement you receive is a curt nod or an indifferent exhale as he assesses your cauldron during Potions. Each nod feels like an emotional guillotine, each exhale a muffled scream in the silence of your shared estrangement.

You wonder about him incessantly, a perpetual stream of unanswered questions flooding your mind. Is he covering for Dumbledore during his absence? Is he still brewing, the fumes and vapors mingling with his thoughts in that underground lab? What occupies the time slots you used to fill, the moments you'd glimpse his silhouette through the window of his office?

For someone who now scrutinizes the clock in the morning and at night, mourning the missing appointments of your shared but separate lives, you can't help but wonder how he fills his time when the world slows down. What secrets does he keep in those quiet, unspoken moments? And why does it matter so much to you to know?

You find your thoughts drifting to the upcoming holiday season, to Christmas. What does Severus Snape do for Christmas? You've shared so many hours, so many furtive glances and challenging discussions, but the realization washes over you that you don't actually know much about him. Does he celebrate the holiday in some form, perhaps savoring a glass of finely aged Firewhisky beside a roaring fire? Does he take a moment to decorate a tree with ornaments that hold significance only to him?

But the more you ponder it, the more likely it seems that he'd spend the day immersed in his research, perhaps perfecting a complex potion or unraveling an arcane spell. Maybe he relishes the solitude, the empty hallways and the silence that descends on the castle when most are away. Maybe even an empty home.

The image of home unfurls in your mind like a warm blanket, a refuge from the cold and complexity that engulfs you at Hogwarts. You can already picture your dad, effortlessly working the room with his charisma, playing the gracious host to distant relatives and family friends at the annual Christmas party. He knows how to create an atmosphere where everyone feels welcomed, loved—something you sorely need right now. Your dad makes everything bearable, his very existence a beacon of warmth in a frigid sea of doubts and questions.

Since your return to Hogwarts for your seventh year, the thought of your father's former life as an Auror, a life both Sharp and Dumbledore have spoken of with respect, looms in your thoughts. The letters you've exchanged have been a new channel for connecting, the words bridging the gaps of time and distance. Why hadn't you asked about his days in the field when you were younger? There's so much to discover, so much wisdom he holds that you're only beginning to appreciate.

And then there's your mom, a source of endless support and creativity. You're eager to read the drafts of whatever literary endeavor she's currently nurturing, her words often serving as an emotional balm. Between the two of them, you harbor a flicker of hope that the shards of your shattered heart might be pieced back together.

At this point, you'd do anything for that kind of solace. Anything to escape the ache that relentlessly gnaws at you, whispering reminders of a partnership that was once your anchor but is now your turmoil.

And you can't help but wonder, in the back of your aching mind, whether Snape feels it too.

Whether he wonders, just like you.

Whether his silence is as loud as yours.

And why, why can't you simply accept that some questions may never have answers?

Your feet carry you to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, where Professor Sharp holds sway, a realm over which he exercises both authority and mystery. You've been studying under him for almost four months now as part of the Goldhawk Initiative, an experience that has been more fulfilling than you initially thought it could be.

Yet, Snape's evident disdain for your involvement in the program, his dismissal of what he seems to consider your misplaced sense of nobility, gnaws at you incessantly.

It's as if his opinion has inserted itself into your joy, tainting it with a sense of shame, a feeling that you shouldn't be deriving pleasure or pride from something he so obviously disapproves of. Even though Sharp's tutelage is one of enlightenment and empowerment, Snape's shadow somehow casts its darkness there, making you question if you truly belong. His contempt holds a strange kind of court over your thoughts, battling against your own sense of achievement and twisting your emotions into a complex knot that you struggle to untangle.

The classroom door swings open with a soft creak, and Sharp steps out into the corridor. His eyes meet yours, their gaze penetrating yet strangely tender, as if they hold the power to gently extract you from the tangled web of your thoughts.

"Ah, there you are. We have an offsite training session today," he says. His voice carries a serious timbre, yet the sound of it oddly comforts you.

Yet, you square your shoulders. For all the shadows crossing your heart, this is simply not the time. You look at Sharp, nodding. "I'm ready."

As you step into Sharp's classroom, your eyes are magnetically drawn to him. He moves with a graceful assurance, grabbing a dark brown coat from the back of his chair, draping a scarf around his neck, and pulling on a pair of gloves. Each action is conducted with a sort of smooth confidence, yet even as you watch him, a voice in the back of your mind suggests that Snape would probably scoff at the casual ease of it all.

How he'd probably make a disdainful comment, reducing your new endeavors to folly.

Sharp looks up, locking eyes with yours, and for a fleeting moment, his smile holds something more—a nuanced glimmer that vanishes almost as quickly as it appears. It's a blink-and-you-miss-it expression, yet it leaves you intrigued, teetering on the edge of two different worlds.

He'd instructed you to come first thing in the morning for what he called a “different type of training session." The ambiguity of his words leaves you uneasy. The last time you engaged in a “different” type of training, you nearly had your soul devoured by a cursed necklace. And yet, the apathy that's settled over you makes you almost indifferent to the risk. Snape's disapproval has eaten away at your enthusiasm like acid on metal.

The two of you make your way down the corridors, Sharp's boots echoing softly against the stone floors. You try to ground yourself in the here and now, leaning into the small talk he initiates about the complexities of defensive spells, the characteristics of dark creatures, and even the Quidditch match scheduled for next, right before everyone leaves for Christmas. It all seems trivial, irrelevant in the grand scheme of your concerns, but you realize that staying present is the only way to navigate through the emotional quicksand threatening to consume you.

You arrive in Knockturn Alley, the dark underbelly of the wizarding world, with Sharp leading the way. The atmosphere is a living entity, malevolent and thick, clinging to you like a second skin. Every cobblestone underfoot, every shadowy nook and cranny, screams of dark secrets hidden away from prying eyes. Your heart is a frenetic metronome in your chest as memories of your dad's warnings echo in your mind. "Avoid it at all costs," he had said, his voice tinged with a gravity you hadn't often heard.

Your eyes dart around nervously, taking in the gnarled wood of the shops and the people who drift through the shadows like wraiths. Despite the disquiet clawing at you, you're tethered to some semblance of safety by Sharp's resolute form ahead. It's strange to think of him as a lifebuoy in this sea of moral ambiguity, but he is your teacher, and for a moment that's comfort enough.

As you delve further into the narrow, serpentine pathways of Knockturn Alley, every step feels like a plunge into an alternate dimension, a realm detached from morality and order. The air itself seems to suffocate, heavy with the smell of old books, unknown potions, and something vaguely metallic—like the taste of fear. Echoes of hushed conversations reverberate through the mist-laden air, the words indistinct but their tone unmistakably ominous.

"Do you know why Knockturn Alley exists, and why the Ministry has yet to shut it down?" Sharp asks. His eyes remain fixed on a particularly gruesome object in a window—a necklace that seems to pulse with an inner malevolence—but his tone is academic, as if he were lecturing in the classroom and not in this den of iniquity.

You mull over his words, feeling their weight settle into the pit of your stomach. "It serves a purpose? A way to keep tabs on dark activities?" You're not entirely sure of your own answer. Caught between your dad's cautionary tales and Sharp's intellectual curiosity, you grapple with the emotional and ethical dissonance that Knockturn Alley has thrust upon you.

"Exactly," he confirms, finally turning to meet your eyes. "In a perverse way, Knockturn Alley is a form of... regulation. Dark activities and transactions are contained in one area, making it easier for authorities to monitor. It's almost like the wildlife reserves for dark wizards and witches, wouldn't you agree?"

Your gaze drifts away from his, absorbing your surroundings once more—shops with window displays that leer menacingly at you, hidden alcoves where illicit transactions are perhaps made under the veil of secrecy. The entire place feels like a haven for the socially unacceptable and morally corrupt.

Cauldrons sit bubbling in open-air stalls, their contents unknown but undoubtedly nefarious. Cloaked figures browse through shops that sell sinister talismans and banned spellbooks, the material items of a life led in the shadows. It's a place designed for anonymity, every face either hooded or averted, every pair of eyes narrow and distrusting. The murmur of voices is low, the atmosphere heavily tinged with a sense of danger that's both thrilling and chilling.

"So we let a den of darkness operate out in the open because it’s easier to control," you start hesitantly, pulling yourself back into the conversation as you grapple with the moral quandary he's laid before you, "doesn't that mean the Ministry is complicit? If they know what's happening and do nothing to stop it, aren't they just as guilty?"

Sharp regards you intently, gauging the gravity of your internal conflict. "Ah, the perennial question: Do the ends justify the means? It's a question every Auror has to face at some point in their career. We often tread a fine line, you see, taking morally ambiguous actions for the greater good."

As you follow Sharp deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of Knockturn Alley, the atmosphere becomes palpably darker. The claustrophobic passageways are lined with shops peddling disturbing wares: bottles filled with dark, unidentifiable liquids, mannequins clad in cursed garments, and moving pictures capturing the eternal torment of ensnared souls. Each unnerving sight and sound attacks your senses, dismantling the comfortable world you once thought you knew. A shiver of unease snakes up your spine, sharpening your senses to an almost painful degree.

As you traverse this unsettling landscape, you become increasingly aware that you're being watched. Eyes from hidden corners and shadowy doorways follow your every move, making you acutely aware of how you and Sharp stand out amidst the usual patrons of this grim alleyway.

Dressed in his scholarly attire of coat and scarf neatly arranged, he resembles an academic embarking on a field trip into this heart of magical darkness. Meanwhile, your Hogwarts robes announce your youth and inexperience, singling you out as a fledgling sorcerer still navigating the ethical minefield that is the adult magical world.

Your contrasting appearances make you and Sharp glaring anomalies in this environment. The attention you draw feels like both an affront to the darkness around you and a tantalizing hint of the world beyond these stifling walls. You feel conspicuously out of place, a living embodiment of indecision and palpable discomfort in a place that seems to have no room for either.

Your gaze instinctively lingers on the cart, a subtle flicker of fascination crossing your features as you spot the potion ingredients and colorful liquids. It's as if, amid the foreboding atmosphere, you've stumbled upon a fragment of the magical world you hold dear. Sharp catches the change in your expression, a small, knowing smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

"Stay put for a moment, will you? I need to evaluate the cart's wares, see if there's anything instructive for our lessons. Also, it's best if I assess the vendor's intentions before we engage further." With a brief, reassuring touch on your arm, he moves away, and you can't help but feel a small thrill at seeing him in action, even if it's just for a moment.

That comfort vanishes as you suddenly feel invisible eyes caressing your back. It's as though the temperature drops a few degrees, the alley seeming darker, more foreboding. Taking heed, you turn around and notice not one, but two figures lurking in the recesses of a dim alcove. Gaunt and menacing, their eyes lock onto you with predatory interest. A shiver trickles down your spine, each hair standing at attention in visceral alert.

"You look lost, love," one of them sneers, the malevolence in his voice sending a chill straight to your core. The words themselves feel like an invasion as he steps closer, breaching the boundaries of your personal space as though it's his by right.

Resisting the frigid wave of vulnerability that attempts to wash over you, you lock eyes with him. "Get lost," you snap, allowing a defiant edge to color your voice, masking the internal turmoil that churns beneath your calm exterior.

Turning on your heel, you strive to put distance between you and the lurking menace. But the haunting patter of footsteps that echoes your own stirs the air, quickening your pulse and weighing down each step you take. The temptation to call for Sharp tugs insistently at your thoughts, but you hold back, reluctant to betray any semblance of incapability. Your fingers curl around the wand in your pocket, drawing from its familiar form a sliver of comfort—however fleeting it may be.

The second man's smirk unfurls like a predator sensing vulnerability, eyes gleaming wickedly as he taunts, "Oh, look, she's got some fight in her. Playing hard to get. Makes it more fun, doesn't it?" The very timbre of his voice turns the air thicker, more suffocating, as though laced with malevolent magic.

Your senses hyperfocus on the immediate threat and your own voice bursts forth, breaking the tension with a resounding, "I said leave me alone!" It's a surge of terrified audacity that silences even the whispered incantations and scuffling footfalls—the grotesque lullaby of Knockturn Alley—that had previously colored the atmosphere.

Just as you maneuver to round a corner, your mouth parting to call for Sharp, the more menacing of the two lunges. It's a sudden, desperate motion, his fingers splayed wide, reaching for you like a predator starved for contact. You're hit with the chilling realization that he's not just following—he's committed to capture.

Just as the predator's fingers stretch out, angling for a cruel touch, Sharp appears—almost as though summoned by the impending threat. With a sinuous, calculated motion, he yanks you into his orbit, his arm wrapping around your waist with a force that borders on bruising. Your feet almost betray you, stumbling into him due to the suddenness of his arrival.

However, it's not his sudden presence, but the closeness of it, that leaves you struggling for air. Suddenly, the world contracts, confined to the shield of his arms—a bastion as unyielding as enchanted steel, yet as comforting as the embrace of home.

Sharp's eyes lock onto your assailants, their usual icy detachment now smoldering with an intensity that slices through the lingering tension like a blade.

"I suggest you two find a new hobby," he rumbles, his voice laden with a concoction of dominance and threat so potent it's unlike anything you've heard from him before.

His words hover in the thick air like an unspoken curse, prompting a flicker of shared realization between the two men—they've severely miscalculated.

Before they can absorb the gravity of their error, Sharp cuts through the silence, "I don't recall stuttering." His voice simmers with a cold, calculated rage that brooks no misinterpretation. "I'll say it once more for clarity: disappear."

His ultimatum lands with the weight of a final judgment. The men exchange one last, sobered look, as though sealing a silent covenant to heed Sharp's unambiguous warning. In a hurried, almost pitiful retreat, they melt away into the labyrinthine shadows of Knockturn Alley, their ominous air dissipating as abruptly as it had materialized.

As his eyes meet yours, the icy barriers that once fortified them dissolve, giving way to a molten warmth. "Are you alright?" he inquires, the timbre of his voice imbued with a note of genuine concern.

The arm that had once defensively encircled your waist now subtly shifts its weight, becoming less of a barrier and more of an invitation. As you continue to face each other, his hand glides smoothly, as if magnetically drawn, from your waist to rest on the curve of your lower back. With a touch both gentle and firm, he anchors you securely to him, maintaining the intimate enclosure of his arms around you.

In this instant, your heart feels as if it has sprouted wings, soaring within the hollow chamber of your ribcage. Your emotions whirl in a maelstrom, fueled by the almost feral protectiveness he's unveiled. This raw, untamed connection broadcasts on a frequency you'd never dialed into before. Yet here you are, swept up in its tempestuous pull, leaning into him as if guided by an invisible, gravitational force.

This magnetism that courses between you isn't the slow-burning ember that takes time to ignite into a full-fledged fire; rather, it's a wild spark, quick to leap into a blaze. It's electrifying and immediate, as if jolting through your veins like a bolt of lightning. Standing so close to him, cocooned in his warmth, you feel a certain kind of dangerous allure.

It isn't a slow unraveling of layers, nor a cautious dance around each other. This is kinetic, pulsating—a connection that feels as though it could either illuminate the dark corners of your world or set it ablaze. It doesn't promise the slow comfort of safety; it vibrates on the edge of risk, skirting the boundaries of what you thought possible. And wrapped in this cloak of almost-armor, you find that you're not afraid of the fire.

A small, appreciative smile begins to curve your lips, as the lingering adrenaline electrifies your skin and sends your heart pounding. "Yeah, I'm fine," you whisper, your voice tinged with a hint of shyness. Your eyes, anchored to his, leave no room for doubt as you add, "Thank you, sir."

In response, you hear a sharp intake of breath from him, as if he's capturing a piece of the charged atmosphere around you. His eyes deepen, glowing with a warmth reminiscent of lingering embers, and for an infinitesimal moment, his hand on your lower back subtly tightens. His exhale unfolds like an eternity, and you find your own body unconsciously synching with his—inhaling and exhaling as if in a shared rhythm.

"You managed that well," he notes, his voice carrying undertones that further heighten his magnetic allure. "But remember, not all threats can simply be walked away from. Sometimes, confrontation is the only path to safety."

Finally, after a stretch of time that feels both endless and far too short, he speaks. "That potions cart we passed—you might find it interesting." His voice is steady but tinged with a tone you can't quite place, as if he's shifting gears but hasn't entirely left behind what just transpired.

You allow him to guide you towards the cart. Every fiber of your being is awash with a sensation of kinetic potential, as if you're on the cusp of something exhilarating. And in that moment, guided by Sharp's protective presence, you feel invincible.

The weathered wooden cart is crammed full of an eclectic range of potions and potion ingredients. A blend of alluring and dangerous aromas fills the air—some tantalizingly sweet, others acrid and unsettling. The cart's proprietor, a witch with sharp eyes and a calculating smile, watches you both closely but says nothing, sensing that her wares have already caught the eye of a discerning customer.

Sharp leans over to pick up a small vial filled with a deep crimson liquid that pulsates as if it has a life of its own. "Ah, Bloodfire Elixir," he comments casually, holding it up to the dim light, where it seems to glow with an ominous luminescence.

Then, with a barely perceptible shift in his stance, he moves closer to you—so close that you feel the heat emanating from his body. As he leans in, you catch a whiff of his distinctive scent: an invigorating blend of freshly cracked black pepper, warm cedarwood, and a subtle undertone of earthy vetiver. The aroma is complex and magnetic, much like the man himself, and it fills the air around you, making the space between you feel even more intimate.

His voice lowers to a whisper, each syllable infused with an intimacy that feels like it's being woven directly into your soul. "This can accelerate magical potency under the right conditions. Highly illegal, of course," he confides. The warm caress of his breath against your ear sends a shiver down your spine, while the faintest touch of his nose against your hair sets your skin ablaze with anticipation. The closeness of him engulfs you, as if he's pulling you into a secret world where only the two of you exist.

In that electric, charged instant, the world's complexities fade away, leaving a vacuum filled solely by the nearness of Sharp and the tension that crackles between you, almost palpable in its intensity.

Effortlessly, his fingers glide the vial back to its designated spot on the cart. Meanwhile, his other hand resumes it's reassuring presence at the small of your back, his motions seamless and deliberate, as if relishing those stolen moments of proximity. His gaze soon shifts, landing on a jar of dark orbs that appear to throb with a hidden, pulsating energy.

"Nether Pearls," he pronounces with a neutrality that belies their dark nature. He leans in again, and the act feels far from innocent. His lips almost touch your ear, filling the scant space between you with a heat that promises knowledge both arcane and intimate. "Absolutely volatile when combined with certain elements. Such things are left unspoken in a standard Potions class—unsurprisingly, they're quite banned."

The illegality of the potion, coupled with the intimacy of his proximity, fills the air with a palpable tension. Each word he whispers feels weighted, pulling you further into an inexplicable allure that makes you feel both vulnerable and protected.

As Sharp's gaze shifts away from the ominous orbs, his eyes catch on another, equally obscure item—neatly tucked at the back of the cart, away from casual observers. He reaches over to retrieve a small vial filled with a luminescent, cobalt blue liquid.

"Aetherial Essence," he confides, holding the vial delicately between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were a fragile secret. "Incredibly rare and potent. Can enhance spellwork to unfathomable degrees. A controlled substance, naturally."

Your eyes widen in awe as you gaze at the vial, captivated by its ethereal luminescence. "No way," you exclaim. A fleeting recollection dances across your mind—something you'd read once in a heavily-restricted tome at the back of the library. You never thought you'd encounter it in the flesh—or in the vial, so to speak.

"I've only read about it," you confess to Sharp, your voice tinged with a reverence that matches the gravity of the ingredient. "I never thought I'd actually see it."

The acknowledgment seems to fuel something within him; perhaps it's the shared thrill of discovering something extraordinary, or maybe it's the tangible delight in your eyes. Either way, it's enough to tip the scales.

"Yeah?" The corners of his lips twitch upward ever so slightly, a grin beginning to form. He reaches into his robe, pulling out a small pouch of coins and hands it over to the suspicious-looking shopkeeper. The shopkeeper eyes the both of you warily but takes the coins and nods, sealing the deal.

"Our little secret?" Sharp suggests, passing you the vial with a mix of confidentiality and implicit trust.

Your eyes light up at the clandestine gift. "Thank you," you say, leaning further into his shoulder. Taking the vial from his hand, you slip it carefully into an inner pocket of your robe, right over your heart. It's as if you're storing a part of this charged moment close to your core.

He looks down at you, his gaze warming further, protective yet possessive, as if he's just claimed some new territory—a thrilling shift from mentor to a man who sees you not just as a student, but as something more.

By now, the boundary between curiosity and chemistry, knowledge and intimacy, seems to blur. Every whispered word from him ignites a spark that zings through you, as if you're a potion yourself—one on the verge of boiling over.

As you both move to leave the cart, you catch the shopkeeper's eyes on you—a piercing, suspicious gaze that seems to question your very presence near such forbidden wares. Normally, this would unnerve you, but right now, ensconced in Sharp's enveloping aura, you find it difficult to care about anything other than the magnetic pull between you two.

Sharp guides you into a less-traveled alcove of Knockturn Alley, veering away from the occasional witch or wizard skulking about. For a moment, he stops and turns to face you. The maze-like walls of the alley seem to close in, making this pocket of space feel like a secluded world of its own.

"Considering what happened earlier," he starts, his voice tinged with a grave sort of sincerity, "would you like to leave, or shall we continue?"

Something in the way he asks, as if genuinely valuing your comfort over the allure of the dark and mysterious, nudges you toward a decision. Emboldened, you meet his gaze. "I want to stay," you say, surprising even yourself with the assertiveness in your voice.

For a brief second, his eyes flash—another kaleidoscopic jumble of emotions you can't quite pin down—but then his hand envelops yours, holding it just long enough to send a ripple of warmth up your arm. Slowly, his touch shifts back to your lower back, a subtle but possessive gesture that makes your heart skip a beat.

With that, he leads you down the winding cobblestones, until the looming façade of Borgin and Burkes comes into view. The shop stands there like a dark poem, its windows filled with enigmatic artifacts that seem to whisper curses to those who dare to look. An involuntary shiver courses through you, a chill that seems to tap into some primal fear.

Instinctively, you move closer to Sharp, and in that simple act, the unspeakable tension between you somehow feels both more complicated and perfectly simple. And so, you step into the macabre theatre that is Borgin and Burkes, the two of you bound by an attraction as complex and compelling as the dark world you're navigating.

Sharp opens the door, allowing you to step in before him. The door creaks closed behind you, sealing off the cacophonous outside world. The atmosphere inside is tinged with a heavy, almost palpable sense of foreboding. A peculiar combination of scents—old books, cold stone, and something metallic—fills the air. Items of dark allure are displayed with an air of casual disregard for their malevolent potential: shrunken heads, cursed daggers, and obscure relics with histories steeped in secrecy and dread.

As you peruse the myriad of unsettling curiosities, Sharp leans in, his body just a breath away from yours, once again cloaking you in his personal space. "Borgin and Burkes," he murmurs, his voice low enough to remain unheard by the shifty-eyed shopkeeper eyeing both of you from behind the counter, "is a veritable institution in Knockturn Alley. Specializing in Dark Arts objects, it caters to a certain clientele who appreciate the...less wholesome aspects of magic."

"Like what?" you find yourself asking, a hint of both curiosity and trepidation coloring your voice.

In response, his hand subtly drifts from your lower back to point at an aged piece of parchment encased in a glass frame. "That," he says, his voice dropping even lower, "is a cursed contract. The ink is made from the venom of a Basilisk, and the paper itself is woven from the strands of a banshee's hair. Once you sign your name, the contract is not just legally binding—it's soul-binding."

"Who would even use something like that?" you ask, unable to hide the trembling note in your voice.

"People desperate for power, or foolish enough to think they can outwit the magic bound to it," he explains, his words a whispered caress against the curve of your ear, sending tingles down your spine. "Breaking the terms would lead to consequences far graver than any court could ever impose."

"Over there," his voice drops to a murmur, his warm breath caressing your earlobe as he gestures toward a dusty shelf laden with small, elegantly carved wooden boxes. "Those are Memory Boxes, enchanted to trap the memories of those who touch them without a proper counterspell. They're often used for interrogations or to keep secrets locked away."

The concept sends a shiver rippling through you, as though the mere mention of such an object could compromise the sanctity of your own thoughts. The boxes themselves look deceptively harmless—exquisite pieces of artistry that hide a much darker purpose.

"Why would anyone need to trap memories?" you question, the tremor in your voice betraying your unease.

"Memories are currency in certain circles, potent and perilous. Trapping someone's memories can render them vulnerable, shape their realities, even control their actions," he whispers, his words grazing your ear. "People who seek these don't play by any rules."

Your mind is awhirl with a mixture of dread and a perverse kind of fascination. It's as if the dark enchantments surrounding you both act as a mirror, reflecting and intensifying the complex, magnetic force field that Sharp seems to have created around you.

"So, these are all real? The items here?" You ask, your voice quivering slightly, not just from the darkness that pervades the place but from the intoxicating closeness of Sharp himself.

"Most are. Some are replicas or items of similar nature," he says, his voice tinged with an ambiguity that mirrors the shadowy world you're exploring. "But all carry the essence of what they represent—a power that's both beguiling and dangerous."

As he finishes his sentence, his hand returns to your lower back, sending a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the artifacts in the room. The cauldron of emotions within you seems to boil over. Here, surrounded by objects of dread and allure, the tension reaches its crescendo. You find yourself utterly spellbound—not by the dark enchantments that fill the room but by the enigmatic man beside you, revealing the darker shades of the magical world, and in doing so, pulling you closer into his own orbit.

Exiting Borgin and Burkes, the door creaks shut behind you, sealing away the room of darkness and enigma. You sense the shopkeeper's piercing eyes on your back as you leave, a predatory gaze that seems to challenge your very presence in this hidden corner of the magical world.

"God, to think that places like this just… exist. They're so accessible—anyone could walk in," you murmur, almost to yourself, as you step further into the dim light of Knockturn Alley.

"Accessibility often disguises itself as a temptation, a test of one's character," Sharp replies, his voice tinged with a complexity that seems to mirror Knockturn Alley itself.

Sharp then turns to face you, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. "I've learned, sometimes painfully, that there are very few absolutes in this world. The divide between light and dark isn't as distinct as we'd like to think," he says, his voice so rich with gravitas that it seems to drown out the rest of the world.

"When you become an Auror—or even just as an adult—you find that life is a series of choices, and not all of them are clear-cut. What matters is that when you do make a decision, you make it for the right reasons, not because it's the easy or convenient path."

The air around you feels heavy, laden with the complexities of the choices that define both the light and dark in the magical world. His words, laced with sobering candor, hang between you, a nuanced tapestry woven from the complexities of morality.

"You say we have to make choices for the right reasons," you finally venture, your voice softer than before, as if cautious not to disturb the fragile equilibrium of the moment. "But how do you live with those choices afterward, especially when they fall into that gray area?”

Sharp's gaze meets yours, a world of unspoken experiences reflected in his eyes. His shoulders seem to carry the weight of those choices, a quiet burden that he's learned to bear with an aching sense of dignity.

"You wrestle with them," he replies, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. "You reflect, you second-guess, and sometimes, you carry the weight of them as a constant reminder. The doubts, the 'what-ifs,' they're inescapable. But if you let them consume you, then the choices you've made are rendered meaningless. And above all else, you have to forgive yourself, however long that takes."

His eyes linger on you a moment longer, as if cementing the gravity of his message, before he continues. "There have been operations where we've torn families apart, where we've used curses I’d rather not admit to, and where we've even let minor criminals walk free to bring down larger threats. Or at least, minor in the big picture,” he shrugs. “In those moments, one has to ask: is this worth it? Do these actions serve the greater good, and at what cost?"

As he speaks, you're aware of an invisible thread weaving its way between you, spun from the most intimate kind of understanding. It's as if your journey down this shadow-laden path has become a metaphor for the morally ambiguous decisions that haunt the adult world you're about to enter. And as you lock eyes with him once more, you find a certain solace in the complexity, comforted by the realization that even amidst life's murkiest choices, there can still be moments of startling clarity.

You look at him, and for the first time, you truly see the layers behind the academic demeanor, the stern glances, and the complicated lessons.

"Has it always been this way for you?" You hesitantly ask, your voice tinged with both awe and a sense of vulnerability. "Being an Auror, I mean. Were there moments when you questioned your own actions?"

His expression softens, as if he's flipping through the pages of his past, choosing which chapter to reveal. "Your father and I have been through countless operations. We've seen the light and dark of human nature, often blurring together, challenging our core beliefs," he says cautiously, as though weighing each word. "And yes, there have been times when I've questioned my actions, my decisions. But those moments of doubt have often led to deeper understanding, even if the path there was laden with turmoil."

If Sharp, who has always seemed unshakable, can question himself, then perhaps your own inner turmoil isn't a sign of weakness, but a rite of passage into a more nuanced understanding of the world. You briefly wonder what it must have been like for your father, another seasoned Auror, to navigate the moral maze that Sharp describes. It adds a new dimension to your perception of him, and a strange kind of comfort washes over you.

"Thank you for sharing that," you say softly, touched by his unexpected candor. "It's… crazy to realize how complex the world can be. But if that leads to a deeper understanding, then perhaps that's the first step toward making some type of difference, right?"

Sharp smiles, a genuine smile that lights up his usually stern visage. "You're on the right path," he says, "and that's all anyone can really hope for."

Walking beside him, you notice the two of you are closer together than before, your shoulders occasionally brushing as you navigate the alley's narrow pathways. Whether this intimacy is born of the alley's constriction or some magnetic force is unclear, but it brings you a quiet sense of pleasure nonetheless.

For a moment, it's as if you're standing on the edge of an abyss, gazing into the unfathomable complexities and moral compromises that the future demands. Your stomach churns with uneasy anticipation, but the man beside you—your mentor—offers a glimmer of reassurance, a hint of light in the overwhelming darkness of the world, and perhaps, of Knockturn Alley.

His eyes lock onto yours, the gaze no longer icy or detached, but filled with compassion. "That uncertainty you're feeling, that questioning—it's a good thing," he says, and you feel your pulse quicken at the sincerity in his voice. "It means you're grappling with the complexities of the world, and that, my dear, is the first step toward wisdom."

Chapter 10: afterglow

Chapter Text

I blew things out of proportion, now you're blue
Put you in jail for something you didn’t do
I pinned your hands behind your back, oh
Thought I had reason to attack, but no

I don't wanna do, I don’t wanna do this to you
I don’t wanna lose, I don't wanna lose this with you
I need to say, hey, it’s all me, just don't go
Meet me in the afterglow

afterglow - Taylor Swift

https://spotify.link/AAqOv7D6lDb

The winter air crisply embraces the Hogwarts courtyard, painting each exhale with visible puffs of warmth as you sit nestled on a stone bench. Snowflakes meander down from an overcast sky, each one joining its companions to cloak the cobblestones and enchanted evergreens in a pristine, white shroud.

Despite the chill, the atmosphere is electric with laughter and camaraderie. Harry, Ron, Cedric, and a few familiar faces are deeply engrossed in a spirited snowball fight. Their guffaws and playful shouts reverberate through the open space, a harmonious counterpoint to the hushed serenity of the falling snow. Beside you, Hermione's eyes flit keenly from one airborne snowball to another, even as her mind seems to hum with questions and ponderings, making the atmosphere a complex but comforting blend of mirth and thoughtfulness.

As you watch the snowball fight unfold, a warmth that has nothing to do with the weather envelops you. For the first time in a long while, you feel an effervescent lightness bubbling within. The looming holidays promise a much-needed respite, and you find yourself cherishing the unexpected composition of your 7th year—Goldhawk training, a newfound circle of friends, and a genuine sense of purpose lacing through your days. The shadows of battles yet to come may darken the horizon, but for now, they feel distant, even abstract.

Your mind drifts back to your recent visit to Knockturn Alley with Sharp. You'd thought, perhaps, that the intensity of the experience might have left some awkward rift between you. You've become all too accustomed to life's little twists, especially after the Snape debacle, expecting to find the rug yanked out from under you when you least expect it. Yet, that wasn't the case.

The subsequent training sessions with Sharp have been nothing short of invigorating. There's a newfound understanding, a unique alchemy of trust and respect, that now colors your interactions with him. Whether it's the solitude of these one-on-one lessons or the shared secret of that illicit ingredient that sits like a talisman on your nightstand, something unspoken but deeply felt has solidified between you two.

You lean in closer to Hermione, your breath forming visible puffs in the cold air. "Knockturn Alley was fascinating, and not just in a dark, creepy way. The shops had things you'd never find anywhere else—like potions ingredients that are practically unheard of."

Hermione's eyes widen with academic curiosity, "Really? Like what? I've read that some highly restricted magical artifacts can be found there, but I always assumed it was mostly dark objects."

You laugh softly, "Well, you're not entirely wrong. Dark objects are all over the place, but there's also a wealth of obscure magical elements. There were vials of Phoenix Feather Elixir and even Aetherial Essence, if you'd believe it."

"Aetherial Essence? That's highly regulated!"

"Yes, exactly!" you say, excitement coloring your voice. "And Sharp got it for me, as a sort of... learning aid."

Hermione's eyebrows shoot up, "Oh, that's just borderline risky. Only Sharp would think to turn something like that into an educational experience."

As you continue talking, Cedric leaves the snowball fight, brushing melting flakes from his tousled hair, and takes a seat next to you. "Knockturn Alley," he says, excitement evident in his eyes. "I've heard the people there can be really dodgy. I’m going with Sharp over the holidays."

Your thoughts flicker back to that pulse-quickening moment in Knockturn Alley—the shadowy figures lurking a little too close, the creeping unease. And then how Sharp had appeared, effortlessly pulling you out of their reach with a blend of urgency and grace.

"Let me tell you, it's not all just enchanted knick-knacks and dusty spell books," you say, chuckling. "You'll want to keep your wits about you. There are definitely some unsavory characters lurking around. Two of them tried to follow me, one even tried to grab me. Thank God Sharp stepped in."

Hermione gasps, her eyes widening with a mix of horror and fascination. "The more you talk about it, the less it sounds like my sort of field trip."

A laugh bubbles out of you. "Oh, but, think of the obscure texts, the alchemical ingredients! It's a scholar's paradise—if you can get past the aura of evil wafting through the air, that is."

Cedric joins in with a hearty laugh, his eyes meeting yours for a beat, sharing in the absurdity. "An aura of evil, you say? Now you're speaking my language!"

Hermione rolls her eyes, half-smiling despite herself. "Oh, great. Just what I always wanted. Academic pursuits with a side of impending doom."

The atmosphere feels buoyant, laughter lingering in the crisp winter air as you sit among friends, the world's weight lifted, if only for a little while.

Just then, Harry wanders over, catching the tail end of the conversation. "Wait, did you say you went into Borgin and Burkes?"

Ron, who had been trailing behind Harry, adds, "Blimey, you actually went in there?"

"Yeah, I did," you reply, your curiosity piqued by their expressions.

Harry's voice takes on a serious note. "Over the summer, Ron, Hermione, and I spied on Draco. He was inside Borgin and Burkes with his mother and a few others. He seemed really interested in a cabinet of sorts."

Your eyes meet Cedric's. Without needing to verbalize it, he catches your drift. "Cedric, maybe you should take a closer look when you go. See what you can find out. Sharp might even know something about it. He knew lots about almost everything there."

Cedric nods firmly, "Absolutely, it's worth looking into."

As you discuss Knockturn Alley’s fares with your friends, a quiet thought nestles itself in the back of your mind: What if Harry's suspicions about Draco being a Death Eater actually hold water? You glance at Hermione and Ron; their faces wear the perpetual skepticism they've always shown whenever Harry broaches the subject. It gives you pause. But then you remember: they've never set foot in Borgin and Burkes. They didn't feel the suffocating sense of malevolence that hung in the air, didn't see the kinds of items that were for sale.

"Getting a bit nippy, isn't it?" Ron suddenly comments, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"Should we move inside?" Hermione suggests, looking slightly relieved at the idea.

You all agree, rising from your stone bench and leaving behind the snow-dappled courtyard. Your footsteps echo as you enter the Great Hall, where the atmosphere shifts from winter chill to enchanted coziness. A magnificent Christmas tree towers in a corner, its branches heavy with glimmering ornaments that cast soft, twinkling lights around the room. Golden snitches flit above your heads, their wings leaving ephemeral trails of sparkles. Festive wreaths hang from the walls, enchanted to exude faint, inviting aromas of cinnamon and pine.

Most of the student body has already departed for the holidays, making the Great Hall feel expansive yet intimate. You take seats at one of the long tables, the magical ceiling mimicking a clear night sky, stars twinkling as if approving of your little group's determination to savor these last moments before parting for the break.

"So," Harry begins, breaking the comfortable silence. "How's everyone spending the holidays?"

The conversation picks up naturally from there. As snow continues to fall outside castle walls and friends linger in shared laughter and hushed conversations, you embrace this snapshot of normalcy, knowing it’s both ephemeral and invaluable. You’re grateful for the lightness of this moment. You store it away like the vial on your nightstand—a moment of clarity and ease, a promise of things to come.

Just as you're all lost in your thoughts, contemplating the holidays and the days beyond, a girl you don't recognize approaches the group. She looks somewhat hesitant but determined, clutching a small, festively wrapped package in her hands.

"Um, Harry? Hi, I just wanted to give you this. Merry Christmas," she stutters, extending the gift toward him.

Harry looks taken aback, his cheeks turning a shade pinker, almost blending in with the warm hues of the Great Hall's holiday decorations. "Oh, um—thank you," he stammers, accepting the package with an awkwardness that's almost palpable.

You glance at Cedric, who's caught the whole exchange. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, no words are needed. Both of you are clearly thinking the same thing: oh boy.

It wasn’t until you began spending more time with Harry around the castle and Hogsmeade that you noticed just how many girls wanted the attention of The Boy Who Lived.

The girl gives a small, nervous giggle before quickly retreating, leaving Harry holding the festively wrapped package like it's a live grenade. Ron starts to laugh but stops himself, probably thinking about how he'd feel if the roles were reversed.

You can't help but chuckle to yourself. While the moment is awkward, it's also endearing and just another reminder of how even in a world filled with dark magic and complex quests, there are still simple, everyday embarrassments. And somehow, that thought brings you comfort.

After an hour, Cedric stands, announcing that he needs to head out. "Well, see you all after the holidays," he says with a warm smile. One by one, you all exchange hugs, the simple act fortifying you a bit more against the uncertainty that lies ahead. You watch as Cedric exits the Great Hall, his form growing smaller until he vanishes beyond the threshold.

Harry turns to you, his green eyes meeting yours earnestly. "Everyone's really looking forward to meeting you at the Burrow after Christmas," he says.

Ron chimes in, "Just a heads up—my dad is a bit obsessed with the whole Goldhawk thing, so brace yourself for an onslaught of questions."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued but still a bit wary. "So, who exactly will be there? Who is this group?"

Harry hesitates for a moment, as if gauging how much to reveal. "It'll be easier to explain everything when you meet everyone. Trust me, it's a lot to take in."

You're about to press for more details when you catch Hermione's eye. She gives you a subtle look, one that says, 'Trust him.' So you do.

"Alright," you agree, though a twinge of nervousness still flickers within you. The idea of meeting a group of people who are actively fighting against dark forces is intimidating, to say the least. But it's Harry, and if there's anyone you'd walk into an unknown situation with, it's him.

Harry grins, clearly relieved. "You won't regret it," he assures you.

In this moment, as you sit there in the glow of the Great Hall's holiday enchantments, the uneasiness takes a back seat. You're about to enter a whole new chapter, one filled with unfamiliar faces and undisclosed plans. But you're not stepping into it alone; you're surrounded by friends, by people you trust. And really, what do you have to lose?

As the evening wears on, you part ways with your friends, each of you swallowed up by the maze-like corridors of Hogwarts. You're lost in thought, your mind drifting to the upcoming holidays and the mysterious meeting Harry spoke of. It's a rare, quiet moment for you, especially given the turbulent events of the past few weeks.

As you're meandering your way back to the Slytherin common room, you hear frantic footsteps echoing in the stone corridor behind you. Turning around, you see Harry rushing toward you, his face flushed and his eyes wide with panic. He’s practically dragging Ron around with him, who seems to be in a complete state of wonder at the sight of the... castle walls?

"Thank God, I found you!" Harry says, out of breath and almost tripping over his own feet as he rushes towards you. "It’s Ron. He's gone completely off the rails! You've got to help!"

Your eyes widen in alarm, darting over to Ron. He looks like he's floating on a lovesick cloud, his eyes glazed over, a dazed smile plastered on his face. "Oh, he's really far gone, isn't he?"

Harry huffs, exasperated. "You've no idea. That gift I got earlier? It was full of chocolates, and Ron—being Ron—ate a bunch of them."

The words "Of course he did" almost slip off your tongue, but you restrain the chuckle threatening to bubble up.

"They were laced with some sort of love potion and now," Harry continues, his brows knitted together as he grabs Ron by the sweater, "he's absolutely smitten with Romilda Vane. Romilda Vane! Like, he's rambling on about wanting to write love poems or something!"

You raise your eyebrows. "Romilda who?"

"The girl who gifted the chocolates. And trust me, it's worse than it sounds." Harry warns.

It's all a bit comedic, but the look on Harry's face pulls you back to the severity of the situation. Harry starts steering Ron—who's spouting some nonsense about moonlight and stars—toward the dungeons.

"He's not just lovestruck; he's talking like someone who's been hit with a Confundus Charm. We have to go to Snape-"

A shiver of apprehension zips down your spine at the mere mention of the Potions Master. You suddenly stiffen, your voice taking on an edge of urgency. "No, not Snape. We're going to Sharp."

Harry nods, relief washing over his face like he's just escaped a close call. "Yeah, not keen on facing Snape right now either."

You quickly redirect, leading the trio down a dimly lit corridor adorned with paintings of somber witches and wizards. Your thoughts race, a lingering unease settling in your gut. After everything that had transpired—after finally experiencing a semblance of peace—seeing Snape right before the holidays is the last thing you want. His presence would only churn up a past you're trying hard to leave behind.

"Sharp will know what to do," you reassure yourself, pushing aside the tendrils of dread that snake through your consciousness.

Harry nods, grateful for the alternate route, as he periodically tugs Ron back into formation. Your pace quickens, but Ron keeps trying to wander off, murmuring dreamily about needing to find Romilda, who apparently shines brighter than the evening star.

"Ron, stay with us, mate," Harry exclaims, pulling him back with a harsh tug, as if he's reeling in a daydreaming kite on a string.

Your steps hasten, Ron's whimsical chatter filling the air like some surreal love poem. The promise of an antidote, and the avoidance of a dreaded confrontation, propel you forward as you race to fix yet another magical mishap.

Stepping into the quiet ambiance of Sharp's Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom feels like entering a sanctuary, and you're swept with relief when you see the light spilling out from beneath his office door. You rap your knuckles against the wood, nerves tingling in anticipation.

The door swings open to reveal Sharp, who looks up in surprise as his eyes find yours. Clad in a crisply ironed white collared button-down shirt and tailored slacks, he looks utterly handsome, exuding an aura of effortless elegance that steals your breath for a moment. Your gaze flits to meet his, before his eyes shift to the spectacle over your shoulder.

Ron, enraptured by some unknown reverie, floats in behind you, his eyes glazed over with infatuation. Sharp's eyebrow arches, a question forming on his lips before you dive into the explanation.

"Ron ate some chocolates, and now he's, well... enamored with a girl named Romilda Vane. We were hoping you might have a solution."

Sharp exhale and gestures for you all to enter. "Come in."

Ron promptly takes a seat and begins mumbling poetic phrases, most of which sing praises of Romilda's unparalleled beauty.

"Her eyes, like sparkling sapphires, are the compass by which my heart navigates," he sighs dreamily.

Harry rolls his eyes, muttering a frustrated, "Ughhh, this is unbearable," under his breath.

While Sharp begins rummaging through a few drawers and magical paraphernalia, you take a moment to formalize introductions. "Oh, by the way, this is Harry Potter, and Harry, this is Professor Sharp."

The two exchange courteous nods, a mutual understanding passing between them; both clearly well-acquainted with the peculiarities of the wizarding world.

"As much as I'd like to help, I don’t have my setup here. This is really more Snape's domain." Sharp mentions, pausing in his search. He catches your expression of disappointment mixed with dread, and clears his throat. "But let's see what I can manage."

The suggestion of involving Snape still leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, and you silently root for Sharp to find an alternative solution. Your thoughts vacillate between worry over Ron's ramblings and a quiet appreciation for the commanding yet gentle way Sharp moves around his office.

With a final glance between Ron, Harry, and you, Sharp straightens and strides toward his desk, laying out a selection of ingredients. "I don't have the necessary ingredients on hand, but I have a few ideas. Let's see if we can't sort this out ourselves."

And just like that, a renewed sense of optimism fills the room, momentarily overpowering the scent of ancient spell books and magical herbs that line the walls of Sharp's office. He begins mixing a few ingredients around in a vial.

Sharp's hands work deftly, but each concoction he tries on Ron seems to have no effect. The room is filled with the aroma of diverse potion ingredients — lavender, mandrake, and essence of dittany among others. Harry glances from Sharp to Ron, clearly wishing he could will a solution into existence.

In a move no one was expecting, Ron suddenly grabs Sharp by the front of his shirt, his eyes searching Sharp's with a sincerity that is both startling and oddly amusing. "Professor Sharp, do you believe in love?"

Sharp's eyes widen, caught off guard. "I—well—"

Harry groans loudly, burying his face in his hands. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, Ron!"

You can't help but let out a chuckle, hand over your mouth, your eyes twinkling with a blend of sympathy and amusem*nt. This situation is absurd, but Ron's grandiose declarations have a comedic quality you can't ignore.

"I'm serious," Ron continues, eyes narrowing as he refuses to let go of Sharp's shirt. "Have you ever been so completely enraptured by a girl that she consumes your every thought? She's like the melody to a song you never knew you needed but now can't stop humming."

As Ron pours out his heart, you notice a subtle change in Sharp's expression. There's a brief hesitation in his movements, his eyes lingering just a moment longer on you than they should. His body language seems to tighten, as if pulling inward to contain an emotion he's not willing to show.

Harry interrupts Ron's poetic monologue, "Ron, you don't even know Romilda Vane!"

"But I do, Harry! In my heart! Love isn't about how long you've known someone; it's about how deeply you feel, how much you're willing to sacrifice!"

The atmosphere in the room shifts. Sharp's eyes flicker toward you again, and for a second, you catch a glint of something — a hidden depth you can't quite fathom. Suddenly, the room feels smaller, the space between you and Sharp charged with a tension you hadn't sensed before.

“What in the world are you sacrificing, Ron? Besides your sanity!” Harry exclaims.

Ron's fervor seems to escalate, his words spilling over one another in a torrent of unchecked emotion. "Unrequited love is a tragedy! A soul-crushing misfortune that grinds one's spirit to dust! Yet even so, you can't give up, right? These feelings cannot be kept a secret!"

Those words hang in the air, heavy with implication. You feel your own heart skip a beat. It's as if Ron, in his love-potion-induced delirium, has unwittingly mirrored something more complicated, something that lies between you and Sharp. The moment becomes crystalline in its clarity.

Harry interrupts him, rolling his eyes. "That's because you literally don't know her, Ron."

"But that's just it, isn't it?" Ron exclaims, his eyes almost manic. "If it's meant to be, we'll find our way to each other! It’s destined to be!"

Sharp smirks, straightening his shirt. "Well, Mr. Weasley, your philosophy is quite compelling," he manages, his voice tinged with a hint of amusem*nt.

As he returns to his desk, abandoning his potion attempts for now, his gaze momentarily collides with yours. No words are needed; the atmosphere is already thick with unspoken thoughts, and you're left wondering what may come of this whimsical, bewildering evening.

Sharp's eyes meet yours. "I think it's clear that my potions are not sufficient for this particular problem. Perhaps it's time to consult someone more… adept in the matter."

The regret in his expression is palpable, as if he understands the undercurrents of what seeing Snape might mean for you.

“Thank you for trying, Professor Sharp," you say, feeling a delicate moment of sincerity settle in the air between you.

Harry looks at you with a kind of mischievous resignation, "Well, are you ready for this?"

You draw in a breath, mustering up a semblance of enthusiasm. "Yup."

Harry grabs Ron by the arm, steering him towards the door. "All right, mate, off we go."

"Where're we going?" Ron asks, his eyes still glazed with an odd combination of confusion and excitement.

"We're taking you to see Romilda Vane," Harry says, half-pulling Ron along, who lights up like a Christmas tree at the words.

"Romilda Vane? Really?!" Ron exclaims, suddenly energized and somewhat coordinated.

While this unfolds, you turn back to Sharp. "Thank you for your help, Professor. If we don't see each other before, have a great holiday."

"You too," he says, his voice tinged with an indescribable warmth. "You're a good friend."

As you move towards the door, Sharp opens it for you, his hand lightly touching your lower back as you pass, sending a tingle up your spine. For a split second, you lock eyes and there's an electric pause, one that speaks volumes.

"Thank you, Professor. Take care," you say, taking a step into the corridor.

As you walk away, you glance back to see him leaning against the door frame, watching you with an unreadable expression. The silent connection between you stretches, elastic, before finally snapping as you turn away to catch up with Harry and Ron.

Harry's still tugging a relentlessly rambling Ron down the corridor, his patience wearing thin but his grip firm. "Come on, you git."

The dimly lit corridors of the dungeons loom ahead, each torch flickering as if sensing the tension that grips you. As Harry pulls Ron along, you can't help but feel a growing knot of apprehension tighten within you. Every step towards Snape's office feels like a step into a past you're desperately trying to distance yourself from.

You almost consider telling Harry he's on his own, leaving him to deal with Ron's potion-induced absurdities. But then Sharp's words echo in your mind: "You're a good friend." It stiffens your resolve. Perhaps this uncomfortable encounter is a necessary step towards closure, a way to prove—to Snape, to yourself—that you can rise above, that you can move on as seemingly effortlessly as he did.

Finally, you arrive at the dark, ominous door that leads to Snape's office. Harry glances at you before knocking, his knuckles rapping sharply against the wood. Both of you step to the side, waiting in a silence thick enough to cut through. You exchange a look, both wondering if Snape might not be there after all.

Just when you start to feel a glimmer of hope, the door flings open with a dramatic flourish. Snape's eyes lock onto Harry first, his lips curling into that familiar, disdainful sneer. Then his gaze shifts to you, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, the world seems to pause.

To the casual observer, Snape's expression might appear unyielding, a mask of emotionless composure. But you notice—oh, you notice—the subtle flicker of emotions that cross his eyes, like quicksilver. His posture stiffens ever so slightly as if caught off guard. Then his shoulders draw back, as if bracing for impact. It's as if he's looking through you, into you, and you wonder whether he even notices the lovesick dunderhead directly in front of him.

It's a language you understand, one you've learned to read during the countless hours spent in potion labs and secret conversations. You knew him, probably better than most in this castle, and you recognize these minute changes for what they are. His guardedness isn't merely a wall; it's a veil. And in that fleeting second, you're reminded of how deeply you were once able to read him, speak with him, just be with him.

It's a connection that lingers in the spaces between words, in the undercurrent of emotions that flash in his eyes before he guards them again. And for that singular, vulnerable moment, it feels as if he's laid bare before you, all defenses momentarily forgotten.

And then Ron shatters the silence, "THAT'S NOT ROMILDA!"

Your lips part, taking a deep breath before explaining, "Professor, Ron ingested what we believe to be love potion-laced chocolates. We thought you might be able to help."

For a moment, Snape hesitates, his eyes still locked on yours. It dawns on you that this is the first time you've spoken to each other in almost two months.

"Regrettably, it appears you do require my particular set of skills," Snape says, his eyes finally breaking away from your gaze to survey the boys next to you. Slowly, Snape steps aside, gesturing for you all to enter. Harry and Ron walk in first, Harry nearly shoving a still-rambling Ron into one of the seats.

Your breath catches as you take those few steps past Snape into the room. As you pass him, you inexplicably slow your pace, and for a sliver of a second, you feel the space between you charged with an almost electric tension. You could swear you see his shoulders tense just a fraction more, his jaw tighten ever so subtly. Snape seems frozen at the doorway for a moment, as if grappling with invisible threads of the past, before he finally closes the door behind you.

Snape begins to interrogate Ron about what he's eaten and where he's been, and you find yourself lost in their conversation for a moment.

"It's like a fairytale, really—a tragedy!" Ron enthuses, still animated despite Harry finally pushing him into a chair.

"Tedious, more like," Snape mutters without lifting his eyes from the potion he's meticulously crafting.

You can't help but catch your breath at the term "tedious," a word that was a cornerstone in your debates with Snape about the very essence of literature and, more specifically, the works of F. Scott Fitzgerald. While Ron looks perplexed by Snape's curt response, your mind can't help but race back to your impassioned discussions with the Potions Master.

You remember defending Fitzgerald's depictions of flawed love, his explorations of characters who were like two souls so entangled yet eternally distant. You recall Snape's sardonic retort that your fascination with such subjects was more "tedious than tragic." Now, the echoes of that conversation drape the room like a heavy tapestry, an unwelcome but vivid reminder of your complicated past with him.

As you sit in the seat where you used to brew potions side by side, an acute sense of nostalgia creeps over you. The scent of potions ingredients hangs in the air, each vial and cauldron a silent witness to the years of bittersweet interactions that have unfolded between these walls.

For a fleeting moment, Snape's gaze shifts from his cauldron to meet yours, and then to the seat you're in. He pauses momentarily, as if also recalling the very same memories that are flooding your senses. But he quickly regains his composure, turning his attention back to the potion.

You watch as he skillfully completes the antidote for Ron, then sets it down on the table with an air of finality. The way his fingers move with practiced ease around the delicate glassware, the wit that escapes his lips with every rebuttal to Ron's nonsensical ideas, and his ability to be both exacting and intuitive in his craft—you'd almost forgotten how much you'd admired it all.

Your heart sinks a little; if only emotional wounds could be healed as deftly as Ron's current malaise. Yet as you absorb the lingering tension in the room—something that neither of you can readily acknowledge—you realize that some elixirs are far more intricate, and some remedies, no matter how deeply desired, remain persistently out of reach.

As Snape and Harry embark on a somewhat elaborate ruse to coax Ron into drinking the antidote—you find yourself merely an observer. Yet, your eyes aren't really on their antics or even on Ron's gullible reactions; they're on Snape.

Harry leans in toward Ron with an exaggerated whisper, "Listen, mate, you'll want to drink this. Snape says it's a love potion developed from the scales of a Chinese Fireball dragon. Makes you irresistible, it does."

Snape rolls his eyes, not even trying to hide his exasperation. "Yes, that's precisely what I said."

Ron's eyes widen in disbelief, then narrow as he looks at Snape. "Really?"

Snape lets out a heavy sigh, "If you must know, it's a complex concoction that requires skillful brewing. One might say it would make the drinker... rather appealing."

Harry nudges Ron, "See, what did I tell you?"

Your lips twitch in amusem*nt as you watch the scene unfold. Snape, the epitome of begrudging participation, and Harry, fully embracing his role as enabler of ridiculous ideas. The contrast between them is almost comical, yet the undercurrent of shared purpose—however absurd—seems to bridge the divide, if only for a moment.

You've been wrapped up in your Auror training, relishing the fast-paced world of magic law enforcement, the thrill of chases, the untangling of complex dark magic. But amidst the grand excitement and palpable danger, there hadn't been much room for the kind of intellectual exchange you had once so frequently enjoyed with Snape.

Your most profound revelations, your deepest conversations—many of them had occurred right here, in this classroom, in late-night brewing sessions with this complex man. Life didn't always have to be a sequence of breathtaking highs and gut-wrenching lows. There was a different kind of magic in the stillness of this room, where the only things to crack were complex riddles of human behavior and the subtleties of advanced potion-making, not real-life criminal cases.

A sudden realization washes over you: you miss this. Not just the learning, but the teaching—the sharing of thoughts and perspectives, the debate and rebuttal, the exchange of wisdom for enthusiasm. Most of all, you miss the synergy you had with him, how together you'd make something far greater than the sum of its parts.

Snape turns to Harry, his tone shifting to one of subdued urgency. "Potter, keep an eye on Weasley. The potion he ingested was potent. If he starts showing any erratic behavior or signs of emotional instability, bring him back here immediately."

Harry nods, his eyes serious. "Will do, Professor. Thanks for your help."

Snape gives a curt nod. "See to it that he gets some rest. The antidote should reverse the potion's effects, but sleep will expedite the process."

As they start to leave, Ron looks confused, still processing what just happened. "What in Merlin's beard...? These girls are going to be the end of me."

Your lips curl into a knowing smirk, and you meet Snape's eyes one more time as you prepare to exit. Your facial expression drops slightly.

"Thank you, Professor," you say softly, your voice tinged with a melancholy that only you and he would understand.

The tension between you is palpable, but you see a glimmer of something indescribable in his eyes—a fleeting recognition that echoes your own unspoken sentiments. Then the moment passes, and he inclines his head, his voice devoid of emotion. "You're welcome."

Your eyes flit to the clock on the wall, its hands pointing to an hour that once meant hours of shared conversation and brewing in this very room. The world around you has changed, but this room remains a time capsule of days gone by—a past life that feels both achingly near and impossibly distant.

It feels like a physical blow. Snape stores away his potions, and Harry nudges Ron, now sobering quickly, towards the door.

Before you know it, you're left standing on the threshold, casting one last lingering glance over the room—over him.

Snape meets your gaze briefly, and for a moment, you wonder if he feels it too—the weight of all the things that had once been, and all that could never be again.

You tear yourself away, stepping into the corridor and pulling the door shut behind you. It clicks softly, a sound that echoes louder in your heart than it does in these ancient, stone walls. You realize then, even amidst the heart-pounding adventure of your Auror duties, what you truly miss—the profound conversations and revelations that once occurred between those dungeon walls, with the man you're leaving behind.

You see Harry and Ron in the distance, shuffling toward Gryffindor tower. You hear Harry recounting Ron's love-drunk escapades to him. Ron's voice trails behind him, clearly still bewildered.

"Mate, I don't even know her!" you hear Ron exclaim frantically, which makes you chuckle.

As you turn to round the corner and leave the evening behind, your thoughts are a whirlpool of emotions you're not quite ready to unpack.

The last 15 minutes feel like both an instant and an eternity, and you're overwhelmed by the bittersweet notion that despite everything, you're back at square one.

"Tell me, what's more tedious—enduring the theatrics of young Weasley's tragicomic love life, or the deliberate silence that has existed between us for these past two months?"

Snape's voice arrests you again, dripping with an acerbic wit that's unmistakably his. As you turn around, you catch Snape leaning against the wall outside his classroom, his posture a carefully constructed blend of casual and imposing. His eyes meet yours, capturing you in a moment of startling, raw sincerity, and it's as though invisible chains have anchored your feet to the floor, making the notion of walking away utterly unthinkable.

His words hang in the air, a challenge cloaked in snark. A range of emotions flood you—relief, nostalgia, confusion—but mostly a sense of being inexplicably seen. He's thrown the question into the space between you, a space charged with a history only the two of you share.

You don't know how to respond, or even if you can, but what you do know is that the charge between you is palpable. You realize this is it—the crux, the fulcrum, the precarious moment upon which everything else hinges. It's a line in the sand, hastily drawn but impossible to ignore. It's as though the universe has stilled, waiting for your answer to tip the scales in one direction or another. And in that suspended heartbeat of time, you feel a resurgence of all the complexities, the unsaid words, the unresolved tension that's built up between you two.

Whether it's an end or a new beginning, the next step is yours to take.

Compelled, you move closer, each footfall echoing softly in the dim corridor. His eyes are locked onto yours, and there's a discernible tension in the air, one that holds both anticipation and an almost disquieting intimacy.

Yet, as you come closer, you notice something in his eyes that diverges from what you're feeling—a glimmer of something unreadable, something you can't quite decipher. You feel like you're teetering on the edge of some great precipice, both metaphorically and emotionally, as if one more step could either plunge you into the abyss or grant you wings to soar.

It's then he adds, his voice laced with an icy sort of disdain, "Or is it that you find the infantile game of deliberately avoiding me the more tedious affair? It would be more fitting for a child in a schoolyard than an Auror-in-training, don't you think?"

His words cut through you, turning the tables so that you're the one under scrutiny, your motivations laid bare. It's a challenge, an accusation, and an invitation—all rolled into one.

For a moment, disbelief mutes you, leaving you stunned by his audacity. But then the silence cracks, shattered by your rising indignation. In two swift steps, you close the gap between you, glaring up at him with a fire that could rival the potions boiling in his cauldron.

"Excuse me? If you're going to lay blame, Professor, perhaps you should examine your own actions—or lack thereof."

His eyes narrow, every bit as piercing as you remember. "Actions that were predicated on your own choices, I should note."

Your eyes flare with a mix of hurt and anger. "If you have something to say, then say it. But you'd better believe that an apology is the least I'm expecting."

He scoffs, his face unyielding. "An apology? For what, exactly? Do disengage from these fanciful notions. Reality awaits."

Your voice rises, no longer concerned about who might hear. "Reality? You want to talk about reality—"

Before you can finish, his arm snakes out, grasping your elbow firmly, and he pulls you into the classroom. The door slams shut behind you, sealing the two of you in the dim, potion-scented air. Gone are the corridors, the ticking clock, and the world beyond these stone walls. Here, it's just you and Snape, in a space that's as charged with history and emotion as it is with magic.

"All right," you seethe, yanking your arm free, "if it's reality you want, then let's have it. No more dodging, no more deflecting. Say what you've got to say. You started this. This is your fault.”

His eyes lock onto yours, and the air feels heavy, as if saturated with the gravity of the moment. And for the first time in months, it feels like you're both standing on the edge of something that neither of you can turn back from.

Snape looks at you, his eyes a guarded fortress. "So, the fault lies with me for not spoon-feeding you the realities you ought to have recognized yourself? You place blame on me for wanting nothing to do with your frivolous acts of nobility? For not indulging in your fantasies of grandeur and heroism?"

The dim light from the flickering torches casts a sallow glow on Snape's face, accentuating the lines etched by years of concealed emotion and dutiful restraint. You square your shoulders, looking directly into his coal-black eyes, trying to see past the curtain of his obvious disdain

"Fantasies of grandeur? My pursuits are my own, and they're not open to your judgment," you snap back, feeling your cheeks flush with a heat that matches your growing anger. "Why do you care so much about what or who catches my attention, if it's all so beneath you?"

For a moment, something flickers in Snape's eyes, a brief lapse in his carefully maintained facade. "Do not twist my words. It isn't the object of your attention that concerns me, but the diversion of it from where it could be most productively applied."

"You mean applied according to your impossibly high standards?" you counter, your voice scaling an octave higher in disbelief. "Or is the real issue that you can't tolerate me finding value in something—or someone—that isn't scripted in your limited doctrine of what constitutes a meaningful life?"

He flinches, ever so slightly, as if your words have physically struck him. It fuels your growing courage.

"If you have an issue with me, Snape, then out with it. Don't cloak it behind your high-minded ideals or some notion that I'm squandering my potential."

Snape seems to consider his next words carefully. But instead of speaking, he merely arches an eyebrow, as if throwing down a silent gauntlet.

"That's what I thought," you say, your voice tinged with bitterness. "You talk about truth, but you're not willing to face your own."

For a moment, you think you've overstepped, but then you catch the change in his eyes. The guarded skepticism shifts, ever so slightly, into something more primal. His gaze turns predatory, and it feels like the air in the room has been sucked away.

"Have you ever considered that you're so insufferably obtuse in that your continual fascination with trivial pursuits might just be a glaring oversight of something more substantive?" His gaze is unyielding, a wall of obsidian through which no emotion seems to penetrate, yet the implication hangs heavily in the air between you.

Your heart pounds in your chest, the atmosphere growing dense, almost suffocating with the weight of your emotions. Each of his words is like a carefully aimed arrow, designed to sting and provoke, but you catch the flicker of something else, a flame carefully controlled. It's less of a rebuke and more of a veiled challenge, fraught with resentment but laced with something much more complex.

But you understand, too well, the language of Severus Snape. You understand the subtext, and the awareness of it surges through your veins like liquid fire. His language is one of obfuscation, where genuine concern is masqueraded as disdain, and anything akin to affection is concealed behind a facade of irritation.

"If you wanted me, you should've just said so, you assh—"

You don't get to finish. In a fluid motion that defies his typically stoic bearing, Snape swiftly closes the gap between you. His hand cradles the nape of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair with a surprising gentleness that starkly contrasts the storm raging in his eyes.

And then his lips crash onto yours in a desperate collision that serves as both surrender and conquest—a single, electrifying moment that releases months, if not years, of pent-up tension. His hands find the sides of your face, pulling you closer, as if to erase any remaining distance or doubt. With the urgency of a man starved, his mouth claims yours, his tongue exploring, demanding, seeking. Your hands instinctively rise, gripping his arms for anchorage as you delve deeper into the kiss, letting go of any semblance of control.

The shift is subtle but discernible. What was a cataclysmic meeting of lips evolves into something even more profound—a seismic event that shakes the foundation of everything you've known, felt, or dared not to admit. It's as if the air around you has thickened, brimming with the tension of unspoken words and suppressed emotions. His lips soften ever so slightly, allowing for a tender vulnerability you hadn't dared hope for.

And as his mouth moves against yours, the revelation hits you with piercing clarity: There's no going back from this moment, from this irrevocable unraveling of all that had been left unsaid.

Eventually, he pulls away, but only far enough to look you in the eyes. His gaze is intense, filled with a multitude of emotions that he's never allowed himself to show before. It's a look you've longed to see but feared you never would—a raw, unguarded expression of want, need, and perhaps something more.

The classroom seems impossibly small now, as if it's contracted to fit the world that's suddenly been reduced to just the two of you. It's a revelation, this moment—a raw, unguarded unveiling of emotion that's so intense it's almost frightening. But you don't look away. You can't. Because you've always suspected, deep down, that beneath that hard exterior was a reservoir of feelings, as deep and complex as the potions he brews. And now, here it is, laid bare between you.

Your fingers clutch the fabric of his robes as if holding on to a lifeline. He hesitates for a moment, the tension in the room like a tangible entity. Then, almost as if making a conscious decision, he leans in again.

This time, the kiss is slower, as if he's savoring the sensation, exploring new territory. His lips glide over yours, softer now but equally insistent, a slow burn that's as consuming as the initial blaze. Your grip tightens on his arms, pulling yourself into him as if magnetized. You feel him respond, his hands moving from your face to your waist, pulling you into him so that every line and curve of your body is pressed against his.

As you kiss him back, there's a sense of rightness, as if all the fractious arguments and unspoken tension have led to this single, perfect point in time. It's a slow dance of lips and tongue, a mingling of breaths, each second stretching into infinity as you lose yourself in the complex tapestry of flavors and sensations that is Severus Snape. It's an experience that defies description, like trying to capture smoke with your hands.

You know only that when he finally breaks the kiss, leaving you both breathless and slightly dazed, the air between you has changed.

Caught in the embrace, your breaths come in labored, uneven gulps that mingle in the space between you. Foreheads resting against each other, the silence is its own language—a quiet so profound it hums with meaning. You part your lips and the word "Snape" hovers on the tip of your tongue, but before you can voice it, his grip on you tightens, almost imperceptibly, as if willing you to remain silent.

And so, you comply. Cocooned in the circle of his arms, the fabric of his robe coarse yet strangely comforting against your skin, you rest your head on his chest, your eyes drifting to the meticulously organized shelves of potion ingredients across the room. There's a strange sort of peace in this, a silent communion amid vials of dragon's blood and jars of mandrake root, as you drift deeper into contemplation.

Your mind stumbles over the jagged landscape of your past interactions, or lack thereof—each barbed comment, each cutting glare. How much time had you wasted embroiled in pointless arguments, in games of evasion? It's an aching realization that punctuates the bitter irony of it all: your final year at Hogwarts, and you've squandered two entire months with this man on utter foolishness.

As if sensing the tears building up in your eyes, your mood darkening, he moves. His fingers gently lift your chin, compelling you to look into his eyes. The severity you so often associate with him is absent, replaced by something softer, yet no less intense.

"Is this where you tell me you regret the lost time?" Your words are laced with an undercurrent of self-mockery, and fragility.

He hesitates, his eyes narrowing, clearly grappling with the unfamiliar territory of vulnerability. "Regret is a waste of time," he finally says, but the hardness in his voice doesn't reach his eyes.

"So is silence," you whisper, sniffing as a tear slips down your cheek.

His thumb tenderly brushes away your tear, the touch lingering on your skin like a whispered promise. Lifting his gaze to meet yours, he leans down and kisses your forehead with an almost reverent softness. Then the tip of your nose, followed by your cheek, each caress more poignant than the last. Finally, his lips find yours in a gentle kiss that's as much an offering as it is a vow. You smile, your grip around his torso tightening in a silent affirmation.

In that moment, the air between you shifts once more, suffused with a newfound sense of resolve. All past grievances seem to vanish, swallowed by the vast expanse of what now stretches before you—an uncharted journey, illuminated by the luminous promise of discovery, understanding, and perhaps, something infinitely sweeter.

Chapter 11: cherry wine

Chapter Text

Her fight and fury's fiery
Oh, but she loves
Like sleep to the freezing
Sweet and right and merciful, I'm all but washed
In the tide of her breathing

cherry wine - Hozier

https://open.spotify.com/track/1C042FLYy7rP3MfnkOcnha?si=2d05c108087a46c0

In the dimly lit staff room, the air heavy with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and parchment, Severus Snape sat apart from his colleagues, who largely ignored him—an arrangement he much preferred. A ceramic mug of black coffee sat on the table next to him, steam curling into the air like ethereal wands. Before him lay a small mountain of essays from his fifth-year students, filled with scrawls about the effects of moonstone in potion-making.

He took a sip of his coffee, its bitterness a fitting companion to the current state of his mind. This was the only time he allowed himself the luxury of sitting in a communal space; morning, when the castle was still waking up and conversations were sparse, limited to polite nods and morning greetings. Everyone still marinated in their own private worlds. Snape included.

Last night preoccupied his thoughts, as much as he didn't want to admit it. It was as if the events had been etched into the walls of his mind, unwilling to be scrubbed away no matter how much he attempted to divert his attention. Each essay he graded, every swirl of his quill, seemed to pulse with the unspoken energy of that encounter, demanding acknowledgement.

The memory loomed, refusing to be compartmentalized or shelved away into the recesses of his mind, where he typically stored inconveniences and emotional complexities. Even the bitter taste of his coffee, a usually reliable comfort, failed to ground him in the present moment. Instead, each sip seemed to underline the bittersweet enigma that was you, that had always been you, rendering his typical morning sanctuary a field of emotional landmines.

He had been in his classroom, meticulously putting away beakers and cauldrons, the bristles of his broom sweeping against the cold stone floor in a rhythmic cadence. Each sweep had dispersed tiny clouds of dust, momentarily illuminated by the flickering candlelight, as if even the smallest particles in the room wanted to say their goodbyes before the winter break. He'd always found a sense of peace in the routine, a sanctuary from the relentless complexities of emotions and relationships—until the knock had come.

The abrupt sound had grated on him, an irritating interruption to his solitude. He had half a mind to ignore it, to continue sweeping and hope the intruder would go away. When he flung the door open to see Potter and Weasley standing there, his patience frayed to its last thread. What could they possibly want now? He was on the brink of an acerbic refusal when he saw you standing next to them.

You were there, mere feet away, closer than you had been in over two months—had he been counting? A storm of feelings cascaded through him, every sensation amplified, every detail acute. Your presence had been both illuminating and painful. As usual. He remembered how his posture had stiffened involuntarily, a reflex of caution and perhaps vulnerability. In that moment, though it lasted only seconds, your eyes were a mirror to his own guardedness, and he had felt an inexplicable rush of yearning to cross that gulf between them.

When Ron shattered the silence with his lovesick exclamations, Snape felt like he'd been pulled back into the room, back into his role as the stern professor, back into the boundaries he'd so carefully built around himself. He remembered how you'd moved past him, your steps inexplicably slow as you entered the classroom, and he felt his own body tense further—again, against his will.

As Snape meticulously crafted the potion to cure young Weasley of his absurdities, his hands operating almost automatically with years of acquired skill, he was acutely aware of your presence in the room. It wasn’t just your physical proximity; it was the weight of all those tangled moments that hang in the air between you, each one as palpable as the potion ingredients that lined his shelves.

When Weasley began rambling about fairytales and tragedies, the word slipped from his lips before he could stop it—"Tedious." The term was deliberate, a test of sorts. Would you remember? Had you forgotten the countless debates where you would passionately defend the tragic undertones penned by F. Scott Fitzgerald? His eyes barely flicked up from his cauldron, but they found yours for just a split second, enough to see your reaction.

He noticed the subtle change in your demeanor, the way you held your breath as if caught off guard. Satisfaction mixed with an unsettling emotion he can't quite name swirled within him. You remember; of course you did. The word wasn’t just a word, but a shared language, a historical footnote in your complex relationship. It was a subtle acknowledgement that he has not forgotten, and nor, it seems, have you.

It wasn’t just the potion that was simmering; it was the air in the room, heavy with things unsaid, thick with the residue of shared history. As he added the final ingredients to the cauldron, his eyes fleetingly caught yours again. He realized you were seated in that familiar chair beside where you used to brew potions together, as if the space itself demanded to be filled by you and only you. For a moment, he hesitated, arrested by the gravity of it all. Of you.

And then he pulled away, his eyes returning to his work, his focus narrowing. The present demanded his attention, after all, and lingering in the past was a luxury he could not afford. With a final stir, the potion was complete, and the cauldron's contents told a story much simpler than the narrative developing in his heart. He ladled the antidote into a flask and handed it over, all while studiously avoiding your gaze. After all, some potions are easier to concoct than others.

Snape watched as Potter leaned into Weasley, spinning an exaggerated tale about the supposed effects of the antidote. Inwardly, he scoffed at the boy's audacity. When he heard himself credited for fabricating a love potion "developed from the scales of a Chinese Fireball dragon," he couldn’t help but roll his eyes, no longer caring to keep his disdain hidden.

He begrudgingly played along to the whole ordeal. The words left his mouth and he almost regretted them, but he corroborated the story, and Potter was quick to seize the moment, nudging Weasley with a grin. What ridiculous theatre this was—yet, it served a purpose, if it could get Weasley to consume the antidote and get them out of his classroom.

But it was not the boys that captured his attention; it was you. Throughout the charade, he was aware of your gaze on him. The slight twitch of your lips, silently sharing in the farce of the moment. For all of the tension and unsaid words between you, there's an undeniable connection that always seems to find its way to the surface, even in ludicrous circ*mstances.

His face remained stoic, but his thoughts betrayed him. You were still there, it seems, beneath the surface—just a girl observing a spectacle, but also so much more than that. A complex brew of history, sentiment, and unspoken words, much like the potion that, finally, Weasley agreed to drink.

Snape watched as Potter and Weasley made their way toward the door, his stern gaze trailing them. He gave the final directives, ensuring they understand the gravity of the potion's potential aftermath. It's a façade of stern professionalism, yet his peripheral vision couldn’t help but catch you, standing there, your demeanor a mixture of resolve and—what is it? Sadness?

"Thank you, Professor," you said, the softness in your voice dripping with a melancholy that pricks his heart like an insidious thorn. That melancholy—recognition drenched in a shared history, shared secrets, shared regrets. It was there, still lingering, still raw. For a split second, something akin to yearning flared up within him, mirrored in the depths of your eyes—a silent recognition of a past that was once rich and complicated, a clandestine tapestry of shared ideas and heated debates, weaved within these very walls.

"You're welcome," he managed to reply, a curt inclination of his head to preserve whatever dignity this moment had left him. But before he could delve into the maze of what-ifs, he found himself hollowed out by your gaze, which rested on the stark hands of the clock—hands that have spun their way into a present where your conversations are but a distant, echoing memory.

As you walked out, Severus Snape found himself standing in a void of silence, an emptiness that felt almost obscene in its suddenness. The room, cluttered with the relics of countless lessons and experiments, was a reminder of a shared past, of intimate intellectual exchanges and even moments of grudging respect. All of it had been overshadowed by an aching, palpable absence—your absence.

He remained there, staring at the door as though expecting—hoping—it would burst open and you'd come storming back in, fueled by some new grievance or revelation. He entertained the notion of going after you, of breaching the sanctity of his self-imposed isolation to keep you from vanishing into the corridors. But his own pride, perhaps his own fear, anchored him in place.

His eyes drifted back to the workstation—the beakers, the phials, the parchment filled with formulae, and he was suddenly overcome with a torrent of something unnameable. A curious blend of regret, resentment, and reckoning. The room felt much colder now, much emptier. The space that you had just vacated is more than physical—it's a void, an emotional chasm that swallows him whole.

He heard your footsteps fading, each step a hammer blow to his frayed emotional armor, his initial sadness festered, curdling into something far less palatable. Resentment. Anger. In a sudden movement, fueled by a torrent of frustration and regret, he slammed his fist onto the workstation. Glass vials rattled, one toppling over, its contents spilling across the table. But Snape barely noticed, his eyes dark, stormy pools of emotion.

His thoughts raced, fueled by the bitter gall of indignation. Was it not you who instigated this unspoken chasm between you? Was it not you who filled this room with ghosts, haunting echoes of your shared past? With every tick of the clock, his resentment solidified, hardening like a quickening potion.

"Childish," he muttered under his breath. "Avoiding, running away, just like always."

He casted one final glance at his workstation—the place where, just moments before, he'd slammed his fist in a volatile expression of frustration. His eyes darkened at the thought of your avoidance, your deliberate silence. He pushed away from the desk, irritation pooling in his gut, its corrosive tendrils wrapping around every logical thought.

As much as he wanted to believe that your exit validated his own impenetrable armor, a different kind of realization clawed at him. You had walked out, and he had let you. He hadn't uttered the words to make you stay; he hadn't extended the hand to pull you back. The agony of that truth is far greater than he anticipated.

His hands, so accustomed to the precise gestures of wandwork and potion-stirring, clenched into fists. The tension spiraled, rising like a serpent from the pit of his stomach, up through his chest.

With an intensity that surprised even himself, he found his feet carrying him to the door. "Absurd," he muttered under his breath, almost willing himself to turn back. Yet, as if propelled by some invisible force, he stepped into the dim corridor, pulling the door closed behind him. His eyes scanned the stone passageway, catching sight of Potter and Weasley retreating in the opposite direction and you, ready to turn a corner.

The rational part of him urged restraint, cautioning him against pursuing an emotional folly. But another, more irritable part insisted he had done nothing wrong—that you're the one playing the childish games here. And that's the part that won.

Tell me, what's more tedious—enduring the theatrics of young Weasley's tragicomic love life, or the deliberate silence that has existed between us for these past two months?

The words escaped his lips before he could rein them in, and there you were, turning to face him.

The tension between you was immediate, an electric charge that filled the air. His eyes locked onto yours, and for a brief moment, he saw it—the complex emotions that danced in your eyes, reflecting his own unsettling blend of frustration and longing. But most of all, he saw you. Somewhere still in there. He marveled at the potency of the atmosphere between you, how it can still, after all this time, draw him in like a moth to a flame.

Your silence hung heavy, a challenge in itself, until you finally moved toward him. His gazed sharpens, alert to every nuance in your expression, every flicker of emotion in your eyes. As you near him, however, he sensed a dissonance, a divergence in what you seem to feel and what he's certain he feels.

Choosing not to let this opportunity pass, he concluded that this was an ideal moment to test your mettle, to push you in that infuriatingly captivating way only Severus Snape could.

Or is it that you find the infantile game of deliberately avoiding me the more tedious affair? It would be more fitting for a child in a schoolyard than an Auror-in-training, don't you think?

His words were a surgical incision, designed to prod at your vulnerabilities, to shake you out of your stasis. To see if you were still there.

And it worked. The flame of your indignation rose, propelling you to close the distance between you and him, locking eyes as if preparing for a duel. The fight and fury in your eyes was undeniable—you've always had a temper.

You demanded an apology, and his eyebrows rose in incredulous disbelief. Apologize? For what? He’d done nothing wrong, nothing to warrant this unsettling tableau that has developed between you.

You stood there, eyes aflame, and he realized, perhaps for the first time, the volatile nature of the ingredients that constitute whatever it is that lies between you. Ingredients that, in his mind, have been measured, considered, and not found wanting.

Aware that your rising voice could attract unwanted attention, his grip tightened around your elbow, pulling you sharply into the classroom, away from prying ears. His words continued to pierce the air, icy as a winter's night and razor-sharp.

However, your words this time carried a different weight—part defense, part curiosity. Something about the way you stood there, flushed and defiant, had shattered an internal barrier he didn't even realize he'd erected. In that moment, he'd been hit with an unsettling epiphany: the essential ingredient he'd been so painfully missing all these agonizing months was the simple human willingness to engage—to risk, to feel.

This realization was made all the more poignant as he reflected on the torrent of earnest emotion you had unleashed. The acerbic jabs and bitter veneer he was accustomed to had given way to something far more intense, akin to a verbal duel. He had initially intended to corner you in that corridor, to force your hand into revealing your thoughts. But as the tension escalated, it became clear that you were doing the exact same thing to him—and effectively so. You were winning, and it left him disoriented, humbled, and strangely invigorated all at once.

Your incessant talk of truth had gnawed at the very marrow of his soul. Had he not been grappling with his own insufferable truth for months now? A truth defined by the way you could light up a room and how that luminescence struck him on a physical level. A truth defined by the whisperings of your Goldhawk training with Sharp, and how the corridors of Hogwarts buzzed incessantly with talk of your remarkable skills.

A truth defined by the way his heart shattered every time you deliberately avoided him—after class, in the Great Hall, in the labyrinthine passages of the castle. A truth defined by the gnawing emptiness he felt each time you turned your back, erecting an invisible yet insurmountable wall between you.

He yearned to touch you, to bridge the abyss of unspoken tension that had perennially separated you, but his own fears and inhibitions had perennially kept him walled in. It manifested as a knot in his stomach, a quickening of his pulse, and an almost unbearable yearning that no potion or flask could alleviate.

His words, wrapped in the cold exterior of judgment, masked a feverish subtext. A confession, but presented before you in the cryptic language he was fluent in: a blend of severity, yearning, and an intricate weave of emotions he'd rather not name.

Have you ever considered that you're so insufferably obtuse in that your continual fascination with trivial pursuits might just be a glaring oversight of something more substantive?

He watched as your eyes widened, catching the spark of realization that ignited within them. In that moment, he knew he had been as honest as he could be without uttering the words outright, exposing the undercurrents of his feelings for you to discern.

Your response was immediate and, to him, astonishing. You took his bait, accusing him of wanting you with a voice tinged in an incredulous sort of triumph. And the truth was, he did. Of course he did, you clever little thing. Clever little owl.

He'd harbored a fervor for you that both electrified and terrified him. In that defining moment, your words became the permission he never knew he needed, the catalyst that turned his hidden desires into undeniable action.

His eyes, always so guarded, met yours. And then, as if propelled by an invisible force, his long fingers moved to the nape of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair. The texture, softer than he had imagined, contrasted vividly with the potent storm that raged in his eyes. This was uncharted territory, a volatile potion of emotions that neither one of you had dared to stir until then.

His hands moved delicately from the nape of your neck to cradle your face, thumbs tracing the contours of your cheeks as if he were committing to memory a spell too valuable to forget. It was in that pause, that hushed and breathless moment, that his lips finally met yours. The contact was anything but soft or tentative; instead, it was imbued with a desperate intensity that shattered the long-standing illusion of his emotional invincibility.

That kiss served as a pivotal juncture, a breaking of dams and a shattering of walls he had meticulously built. With a sense of hungry urgency, his tongue delved into the deepest corners of your mouth, claiming each part as if he were trying to make up for years of yearning and pent-up emotion. The taste of you was intoxicating—a forbidden potion he had knowingly, regretfully denied himself too long. Your hands found purchase on his arms, grounding you both amid the torrential whirlpool of unleashed feelings.

As if swept along by an irrevocable incantation, every movement of his lips against yours became a wordless confession, revealing the depths of a longing he had struggled to suppress. Each brush of his tongue against the inside of your mouth was imbued with a fervor that both exhilarated and terrified him. It was as if each taste, each touch, was being etched into his very soul, lines of a spell he had never known but now could not—would not—live without.

Then, as quickly as the world had spun into chaos, it shifted again, settling into a reality he had never allowed himself to even fantasize about. This was no ordinary kiss; it was a seismic shift that shook the very foundations of his identity and everything he had ever thought to be true. Slowly, a tentative softness seeped into the mechanics of the kiss, his lips gentling against yours in a display of vulnerability he had long stifled. In that breakable, fragile moment, he knew he had reached a point of no return.

He'd crossed a line, toppled a wall, shattered a defense, but in that moment of exquisite vulnerability, a door to something infinitely more profound had been flung open. The immeasurable risk lingered in the air, its weight dissipating in the quiet morning light. As he sat alone, his coffee forgotten and cooling beside him, he replayed the scene in his mind's eye and knew, with unshakable conviction, that it had been a risk worth taking.

You had stayed in his classroom for another hour, cloaked in a spell of intimacy that words could hardly describe. There was limited conversation, but it was a silence filled with resonance. You filled the room with the soft sound of your laughter, punctuating the pauses between kisses. To him, it was the most enchanting symphony, a melody that tapped directly into the softest, most vulnerable corners of his soul. Each giggle that escaped your lips was a soothing balm to years of regret, each shared glance a subtle promise, each touch a silent oath.

Perched on the edge of the workstation you both had shared for countless lessons, you were elevated into his line of sight, granting him an unobstructed view into the windows of your soul. He braced his hands on either side of you, effectively closing the distance, but also making him feel remarkably exposed. Your eyes, shimmering pools of admiration, met his gaze unwaveringly. You, of all people, looking at him as if he were the only wizard in the world.

It felt like scrutiny, an inspection so intimate that it bordered on the magical. Every fiber in his being screamed at him to look away, to preserve the last shreds of his guarded exterior. But he resisted. Instead, he took the risk, allowing himself a momentary surrender to vulnerability, letting you see into the caverns of his soul that he had kept so rigorously guarded. In that instant, with your eyes locked onto his, he realized what courage truly meant.

When you finally spoke of lost time, your words carried the weight of an unbearable truth. With each passing day, you were another step closer to walking out of the Hogwarts gates and out of his life. Yes, he had realized that, and the thought gnawed at him constantly. But hearing you say it—feeling the weight of that truth in the curve of your smile and the sparkle in your eyes while being washed in the tide of your breathing—made it all too real.

He had tried to rebuff your sentiment with a gruff retort about regret being a waste of time. You countered—said that silence was equally wasteful—and it tore through him like a forbidden spell, slicing open the last of his reservations.

Sitting there, alone in the staff room with his coffee stone cold next to him, his quill absentmindedly sketching a cauldron—a replica of the one you doodled on your last day of sixth year that he had kept tucked away in his desk—he was hit with the full magnitude of his revelation.

As his eyes landed on that cauldron, he made a vow, not just to himself but to the universe, to whatever fates might be listening: he would never again squander precious moments on either regret or silence when it came to you.

The afternoon finds you settled in a cozy classroom, engulfed by the heavy, aromatic haze of obscure potions ingredients. Each component is housed in a glass jar, arranged like curiosities in a museum exhibit. Standing at the front of the room, Professor Sharp emanates an aura of a seasoned scholar. He’s deeply engrossed in a discussion about ingredients that are tightly regulated due to their connections with the Dark Arts—substances often confiscated by magical authorities. These are items you recognize all too well from your recent foray into Knockturn Alley.

Seated beside you, Ben Hammond diligently takes meticulous notes. Sharp had invited both of you for this impromptu Goldhawk theory lesson, a final meeting before everyone disperses for Christmas break the next day.

Normally, Sharp's eloquent discourse captures your full attention, his words flowing with the captivating grace of a well-penned spell. Today, however, his articulate soliloquy finds itself in a tug-of-war with the cacophony of thoughts relentlessly vying for your inner focus.

You're torn between two souls, both so compelling yet so different; each one offers an emotional journey that beckons you into its depths. This emotional puzzle is like a forbidden potion in itself—too complex to easily brew, too dangerous to imbibe without consequence.

These competing thoughts pull you back to your recent outing with Sharp in Knockturn Alley. You recall how every illegible sign, every shadowy face, and every hidden storefront seemed like an omen, subtly inscribing a narrative that was waiting to unfold between you. The atmosphere was electric, and the space around you felt as though it were contracting, pulling you closer to him. The way he'd saved you from those unsettling individuals, his arm encircling your waist with a sense of both ownership and protection. The connection was palpable, and you'd been unable to shake the sense that something new was blossoming between you.

As you exited his office following Ron’s mishap with the laced chocolates, Sharp’s hand resting on your lower back had sent electricity spiraling up your spine—a sensation that stayed with you, tantalizing and unresolved, only to be wholly eclipsed no more than an hour later by Snape's searing kiss.

Ah, that kiss. A cataclysm that not only reverberated through your bones but also coursed through your veins like molten fire, relentlessly igniting every nerve ending in its path. Your thoughts have been captive to its memory all night and morning, circling tirelessly around that singular moment as if bound by an invisible thread. Your lips still tingle at the thought of it, as if enchanted by some residual spell.

You can still feel the press of his body—solid, real, and so unexpectedly warm—against yours. His hands had been a narrative of their own, the one cradling the nape of your neck speaking volumes in its subtle grip; it was neither too tight nor too loose, but perfectly poised as if he had always known the exact measure of pressure to convey both desire and reverence.

It's almost as if your very cells had been marked by him, each one forever altered, craving the almost magnetic closeness of his presence. As if you were some sacred relic he was both discovering and treasuring all at once. It was as if you were something precious, something breakable.

In that moment, time had seemed to splinter, fracturing into shards of what was, what is, and what might be. Reality itself seemed to bend, as if the universe had orchestrated this narrowing of existence, folding intricate layers of time and space until nothing remained but the intimate cocoon encasing the two of you. You had been teetering on the precipice of a vast, unknowable expanse, and he'd been the gravity pulling you forward, compelling yet terrifying.

You remember how he had effortlessly lifted you onto the workstation that had witnessed your evolving relationship over more than a year's worth of late-night discussions and shared pursuits. This time, the air was void of lofty literary discussions or the familiar lilt of witty banter. Words would have been redundant, almost sacrilegious, as you delved into an exploration that was nothing short of groundbreaking. Each touch, each look, each kiss, each unspoken sentiment was a revelation in itself, unearthing new facets of a connection you had only started to fathom.

It was a landscape of raw emotion and repressed longing, breathtaking in its unadorned simplicity yet electrifying in the sheer intensity of its unexplored avenues.

Now, seated in Sharp's specially curated lesson, you can't escape the thought that he designed this lecture just for you. The classroom, with its heavy, aromatic haze of obscure potions ingredients, feels like a carefully curated stage set just for you. Sharp, leaning against his podium, shifts the topic to the ethics surrounding illicit potion-making and the grim allure of banned magical substances.

As he outlines the consequences and moral complexities of delving into these forbidden arts, you find that your heart has become its own kind of pendulum. It swings precariously between loyalty and longing, indecision teetering on the edge of desire. His lecture feels metaphorical, almost as though it's mirroring the ethical and emotional conundrum throbbing in your chest.

Every time you muster the courage to delve deeper into the crux of this problem, something within you recoils. It's as though a mental ward or a magical shield springs up, barricading you from the unsettling reality of the choices that lie ahead. This safeguard, be it your mind's defense mechanism or your heart's primal instinct, prevents you from immersing yourself fully in the emotional quagmire, sparing you momentarily from confronting the potentially painful decisions that loom ever closer.

And suddenly, as if a veil has been lifted from your eyes, you realize that your muddled emotions aren't just a personal struggle; they're veering into the territory of deceit. It's a haunting revelation, akin to stumbling upon a dark, hidden chamber in your own conscience. In maneuvering through the maze of your emotions, have you unwittingly become unfair to both of them? It's a discomfiting thought, one that percolates in your mind like a simmering potion.

But with whom are you being dishonest? Is it Sharp, the dynamic scholar and Auror who offers you a future teeming with excitement and adventure, whose newness in your life brings a zest that quickens your pulse? Or is it Snape, that intoxicating enigma of a man, a steady yet complex warmth, whose essence is akin to a dark potion—bitter, yet tinged with an indefinable sweetness, making him irrevocably indispensable?

You find that it's not about wanting to keep them both; that would be an oversimplification. It's the terrifying notion that making a choice would mean irrevocably shutting a door behind you—a door to a realm of possibilities you're not ready to leave unexplored.

Your life's swift current feels like a collage of incongruent pieces, each fragment demanding its own share of emotional bandwidth. There's the slow-burning tension with Snape, a tension that has accumulated over the stretch of more than a year only to shatter in a stormy fight, leaving you wading through weeks filled with attempts to sew the fabric of your fragmented expectations back together.

Then there's the unexpected emergence of Sharp, who appeared like a meteor in your night sky, filling the void with a wholly different sort of intellectual and emotional magnetism. Sprinkle in the surreal, almost dreamlike foray into Knockturn Alley, a journey that seemed like a portal into another, darker dimension of yourself.

And now, the resurgence of Snape, bursting back into your life's orbit like a supernova with a single, life-altering kiss that scorched its indelible mark on your soul.

The sheer velocity at which things have evolved leaves you disoriented, as if you're spiraling in a whirlpool of feelings with no ground beneath your feet. You're not giddy with euphoria, but rather dizzy from oscillating between the magnetic pull of Snape's longstanding complexity and the fresh, undeniable allure of Sharp. It's as though the metronome that usually maintains the rhythm of your life has suddenly lost its timing, throwing you into a spiral of internal disarray.

Amidst this chaos, you find yourself navigating an ocean of conflicting desires and unreadable signs, with you—adrift and unanchored—at its very core. It's a desperate quest for balance, and the more you reach for clarity, the more elusive it becomes. Yet even in this disorientation, you can't escape the pull of two men, Sharp and Snape, who have unwittingly become the poles of your emotional compass.

Caught in this liminal space between the world of what is and what could be, your attention splits as you sit in Sharp's class. Your thoughts—wayward and untamed—bring you to a quiet realization: the questions you're grappling with can't be answered by the incantations of logic or the alchemy of reason. Instead, they are the domain of the heart—a complex organ you're finding has its own indecipherable language, a code that not even the most skilled of wizards can crack.

As you're lost in your whirlpool of emotions, Sharp's voice finally pierces through the fog of your thoughts. "....or the Elixir to Induce Euphoria might seem intriguing, but their components often include restricted substances like the petal of a Moondew flower or the tear of a Phoenix. While mastery of such potions might signify considerable skill, possession or usage can lead to severe legal repercussions, not to mention the unpredictable and often dangerous effects they can have. Always be aware, the allure of the forbidden has led many a wizard down a perilous path."

His words, vibrant with the intensity of his passion for the subject, serve as a magnetic pull, briefly anchoring you back to reality. Ben raises his hand and asks, "What's the most effective counteraction to an illegal potion, if one is accidentally consumed?"

"A well-prepared bezoar for most instances," Sharp replies, "but, honestly, the best counteraction is precaution." He closes his book, signaling the end of the lecture.

As you pack up your belongings, a sense of apprehension knots within your stomach, heavier than any book or quill in your bag. The weight of your thoughts feels like an invisible lead cloak, adding a gravitas to each step you take towards the door. Sharp walks over, his eyes searching your face for some clue, some inkling of your internal turmoil. And though he hasn't mentioned last night—of which he truly knows nothing—you can't help but feel an unwarranted guilt hanging over you like an ominous storm cloud.

"You seemed a bit distracted today," he observes cautiously, the perceptiveness of his gaze almost unnerving. "How did last night go with Potter, Weasley, and that love potion? Is everything alright?"

Summoning a casual tone from somewhere deep within, you force a smile onto your lips and reply, "It went well, actually. We went to Snape, and he managed to concoct something for us. Ron was so delirious when we all walked out; it was quite the sight."

Something clicks behind Sharp's eyes at your use of "we all"—as if he's piecing together an invisible puzzle. If you left Snape's quarters accompanied by Harry and Ron, then surely, things couldn't have ended poorly. A subtle look of relief washes over his features, and his eyes light up, softened by something you can't quite put your finger on.

"I'm glad to hear that," he says, and graces you with a smile. It's a radiant, conventionally handsome smile, one that under any other circ*mstances would have your heart skipping a beat.

However, all it does now is amplify that gnawing feeling of guilt. Sharp, unsuspecting and open, has no idea about the emotional whirlpool you're spiraling in, and it feels like a betrayal, as if you're clandestinely robbing him of a truth he has no right to know. Even though no confessions have been made, no lines crossed, the weight of the unspoken and the unknown feels unbearably heavy.

As you both make your way toward the exit, the tiles underfoot echoing your steps, Sharp smoothly transitions the conversation. "Do you have any plans for the holidays?"

"Actually, yes," you reply, the warmth flooding back into your voice, washing away, if only for a moment, the complexities that plague your thoughts. Your need for lighter terrain is real. "My extended family is coming over, and I'm especially excited to spend time with my dad. You've spoken so highly of him about his Auror life. I have a whole list of questions to ask him now."

A slight pause punctuates the air between you. Sharp hesitates, his expression momentarily clouding as if contemplating the pitfalls and complexities of delving too deeply into histories better left untouched. But then he offers a polite nod, overcoming his momentary reservation. "That sounds wonderful. A time for family is a time well spent."

"And what about you? Any plans for your holiday?" You realize how little you actually know about his personal life, and the sensation unsettles you. Your curiosity feels as genuine as it is intrusive, leaving you to wonder if you should even feel guilty for wanting to know more about him.

"I'll likely be traveling to London to visit my family," he shares. Though he keeps it brief, his willingness to share even this small glimpse into his life adds a subtle but potent layer to the dynamic between you both.

For a heartbeat, time seems to pause as his eyes lock onto yours, burning with an intensity that pulls no punches—he is, without a doubt, taken with you. Guilt gnaws at your conscience once more, but to look away now would feel almost cruel, a betrayal of the genuine affection and respect that you do hold for him. And so, you hold his gaze, letting your eyes speak the words your lips dare not. In that stretched moment, the chaotic world around you narrows to this intimate scene charged with unspoken feelings and potential futures.

"Have a wonderful holiday, and thank you for everything, Professor," you say, pausing as you reach the doorway.

Finally, he nods solemnly, "You too. Enjoy your time with your family." His words carry a warmth that feels both inviting and haunting, given the complexities you're harboring.

He turns away then, the distance between you growing physically even as the emotional landscape remains as fraught as ever. You're left standing there, contemplating the intricacies and contradictions of your own heart as you prepare to step out into the wintery air, every snowflake a tiny reminder of the choices that await you.

After your lesson with Sharp, you find yourself darting back to your dormitory to freshen up. The shower feels more like a ritual, as you cleanse the day away, letting the warm droplets sluice over you like liquid anticipation. You spritz your favorite perfume on, breathing in the scent that always makes you feel confident–an amber vanilla with hints of cognac and praline that dries with a subtle sandalwood.

As you get ready, the absurdity hits you: you're essentially preparing for a date with Snape. Well, not a date, but something that feels tantalizingly close.

And then the inevitable question bubbles up, silly as it seems: What are you two? Is it too soon to be pondering this? Maybe. But the slow burn of the past year and a half must account for something, surely? The word "girlfriend" makes you shudder; it's too elementary, too surface-level to describe what's unfolding between you. Yet your thoughts race, tumbling over each other like quidditch players in a scrum. What would happen over the Christmas break? Would you see each other? Should you exchange gifts for a relationship—whatever it is—that's barely a day old? It's almost comical how you find yourself overthinking the entire scenario.

By the time you arrive at his office door, your robe is smoothed, your breath steadied. But nothing could prepare you for the sight of him. The door opens before you even complete your knock, revealing Snape. He's dressed in his usual, somber black, yet it’s his eyes that completely disarm you. They don’t possess their typical icy sheen. Instead, they’re ablaze with an indefinable emotion that quickens your heartbeat anew.

"Good afternoon," he murmurs, his voice infused with that subtle depth that always seems to vibrate straight through you. For a brief moment, your eyes lock and you both just... pause. A beat where all the potential words in the world couldn't quite express the silent understanding that passes between you.

"Good afternoon, Professor," you reply, the playful lilt in your voice unmistakable. As he steps aside to allow you entry, you can feel a grin forming on your lips. You try to suppress it, not wanting to appear too smitten, but the more you attempt to hide it, the more evident it becomes. He catches you blushing—a deep shade of crimson, probably—and the corners of his mouth twitch in response.

For a fleeting second, you could swear there's an actual smirk gracing his usually stern face. Your blush deepens at the sight, but you find that you don't mind, not when he looks at you like that. With a soft click, he closes the door behind you, sealing off the world outside. Suddenly, you find yourselves enveloped in this intimate space where time seems both infinite and breathtakingly short.

Yet, beneath the effervescent joy that bubbles inside you, a layer of hesitancy stubbornly clings. Last night was a dream—a tapestry woven of vulnerability, laughter, and stolen glances—but dreams have a way of dissipating in the light of day. Your thoughts are a carousel, spinning rapidly as you grapple with uncertainties. What if you set him off? What if you accidentally say something that could shatter this fragile bridge you've only just started to rebuild?

The notion that he might suddenly revert to old habits, pulling the rug out from under you and closing himself off, looms ominously in the back of your mind. It's an undercurrent of fear, subtle yet persistent, like the soft rustling of ancient parchment in a long-forgotten book. You can't quite shake it, but then again, you can't shake the feeling that this time, maybe, it's different.

The memories of last night seem to soothe your worried mind. The way he had emerged from the classroom, spitting icy words but revealing an emotion, a vulnerability that he never used to show. Because after all this time, you still know him, and now it seems he's letting you in.

In a quiet act of bravery against your lingering fears, you sit at the familiar workstation where so many potions have been brewed and secrets shared. Snape doesn't take his usual place across from you. Instead, he leans against the edge of the workstation, beside you.

Your eyes lock, and for a moment, all your worries about walls and defenses melt away. This time, there are no barriers, no walls of defense. Just an openness that both of you have earned. Your heart flutters nervously in your chest as he breaks the silence, his long fingers lightly tracing the curve of your jaw, a touch as rare as it is mesmerizing, drawing a warm smile onto your lips.

"So," he begins, his voice somehow softer than usual, "I trust your lesson with Sharp was... enlightening?" There's a hesitance in his posture, his shoulders subtly taut as if he's waging an internal battle.

It's the very question you hadn't anticipated but perhaps should have. The topic of your lesson with Sharp had previously been a minefield, one wrong step leading to a lengthy standoff between you both. You assumed it would remain an elephant in the room for the foreseeable future—something both of you would dance around to avoid the risk of another lengthy two month silence.

But his willingness to broach the subject now, while clearly struggling with the underlying tension, catches you off guard. It's a delicate attempt to bridge the gap, to understand the other aspects of your life, even if it seemingly pains him to do so. And in that moment, it becomes even more evident that things between you two have changed in ways more significant than you thought.

"Um, yes, it was… enlightening," you finally say, your voice just a bit unsteady.

As soon as the words leave your lips, you notice the way his eyes narrow subtly—a silent but precise reading of your emotions. You swallow, both touched and unnerved that he can perceive your unease so easily. The silence that follows feels loaded, as if hanging on the precipice of something momentous or perilous, and perhaps it's a bit of both.

"You don't have to do that," he remarks in his trademark monotone. You notice his shoulders stiffen slightly, while his eyes avert for just a fraction of a second.

"Do what?" you inquire, genuinely puzzled.

"Tread lightly.” he sighs. “I know I was—less than understanding—before. You needn't walk on eggshells around me now," he says, laced with a blend of vulnerability and stubborn pride. When he finishes speaking, his gaze returns to yours, visibly searching for some sign of… reciprocation? A flicker of acceptance, or perhaps, forgiveness?

The atmosphere between you seems to thaw at his concession, the tension dissipating like mist under the morning sun. It's a rare glimpse into the depths of Severus Snape, a man of complex layers, and it fills you with a newfound sense of warmth and trust. Though he may never utter the words 'I was wrong,' the uncharacteristic softness in his eyes and the hesitance in his demeanor speak volumes.

Your eyes soften as you wrap your arms around his neck, captivated by the sheer proximity of him. The significant height difference between the two of you makes you feel deliciously small but incredibly secure in his presence. The air that was fraught with tension just moments ago now feels electrified in a different way—more flirty, more daring—as if daring you both to cross that invisible line between decorum and something far more intimate.

"In that case, Professor," you venture, your fingers idly twining in the soft, dark strands at the nape of his neck. "Today's lesson was actually..." Your voice trails off, biting your lip in a playful display of hesitance. “Potions.” You tilt your face upward, locking your eyes with his, eager to catch every nuance of his reaction.

He rolls his eyes, but the twinkle of amusem*nt is undeniable, giving you the validation you sought. "And what could Professor Sharp possibly impart to you about potions?" His voice is rich with skepticism but also tinged with playful curiosity as one hand idly caresses your arm.

"You'd be surprised," you retort, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "We delved into darker potions, like 'Nex Atrum.' It melds the drinker's life force with the shadows, providing heightened stealth capabilities but making them sensitive to light. Apparently it’s a favorite among practitioners of the Dark Arts."

"Intriguing indeed. However," he muses, arching an eyebrow in a way that suggests he's far from impressed and ready to assert his superiority. “Did he cover counteractive potions? 'Lux Aeterna,' which restores the balance between shadow and light within the imbiber so that one does not have to endure such sensitivity?"

Your eyes widen in genuine surprise, and a giggle escapes your lips. "No, actually, he didn't.”

“Of course not.” he scoffs, yet his voice lacks its usual venom. It's tinged instead with a kind of theatrical disdain, almost a caricature of his usual sternness. "An utter travesty.” His hand drifts up your arm, fingertips brushing against your skin as if afraid to leave any space between you two untouched.

With a mischievous grin, you tilt your head upward to meet his gaze. "Well, perhaps you should be the only one teaching me potions," you suggest, your words laced with a playful challenge as your eyes twinkle with a spark of daring.

A smug look washes over his features. You're keenly aware of the effect you're having, and you revel in the slight shift in his demeanor, as if you've thrown down a gauntlet he's all too willing to pick up.

"Perhaps I should," he concurs, his voice dropping to a low, silken timbre. Leaning down, he places a series of unhurried, deliberate kisses along the curve of your neck. Each press of his lips feels like a sensual brand, subtly marking you as his own domain. His lips linger over your skin, as if in that moment, he's scribing a silent oath of exclusive tutelage.

"Silly girl, entrusting your education to anyone else," he murmurs against the sensitive skin of your neck, his words soaked in a confidence that you find irresistibly intoxicating. Yet his voice lacks any real severity; instead, it's melodramatically scornful, almost a parody of himself.

His hand travels from your arm, down your side, and finally rests at your lower back, pulling you closer in a silent declaration of his own fondness for this dance of words and touches. For a time, the world condenses into the space between you two, as he continues to pepper your neck with gentle, lingering kisses. Your thoughts swirl, a concoction of delight and depth.

In this exquisite bubble of time, you realize that, despite the uncertainty that loomed before, everything seems to be falling magically, blissfully into place. The banter continues to volley between you both, easy and effortless, like a duet sung by two people who know each other's notes by heart. Each sarcastic quip, each genuine smile, adds another layer to the connection you feel—strong, deep, brewed carefully over time.

Finally, as his lips continue their tender assault, curiosity bubbles within you. "What will you be up to over the break?"

His lips momentarily pause their journey, and he lifts his gaze to meet yours, incredulous. "You wish to discuss my holiday plans now?"

Giggling, you look up at him through your lashes. "I want to know you. All of you."

A smirk graces his lips as he resumes his affectionate kisses. "I suppose that's a conversation for another time. But what of you? Any plans?"

"Maybe a few," you reply, your voice tinged with playfulness. "Will I get to see you, though?" you ask, nervously.

His lips pause again, this time on your collarbone, as he considers your question. "I would very much like that," he admits softly, his words nearly a whisper against your skin.

"We'll figure it out?"

His lips pause their tender exploration, and his eyes lift to lock onto yours. "Of course," he says, his voice low and certain, a hint of devilish intent gleaming in his eyes. "I don't intend to waste any more time with you." As he speaks, his arms brace the desk on either side of you, effectively caging you within his dark, intoxicating aura.

The rest of the afternoon dissolves into a haze of deep conversation and soft touches. You tell him about your father's extravagant holiday parties, and how the Christmas season has always enchanted you, filling your childhood home with lights, laughter, and the scent of gingerbread and pine. As you talk, his lips curl into a knowing smile but he remains mostly quiet, listening intently.

When he does share, he mentions that Christmas was hardly celebrated in his own household growing up. The quiet sadness in his voice resonates within you, and your heart aches at the thought. Suddenly, you feel an overwhelming desire to give this enigmatic man everything you have, to fill the gaps in his life with light and love. He assures you that he manages well enough, keeping himself busy with what he vaguely describes as 'acquaintances.' Though the word hangs heavy in the air, you accept it, not wanting to probe too deeply just yet.

The day's conversation is interspersed with sarcastic comments and sharp retorts, adding layers to the intimacy of the moment. Together, you brainstorm when and how to meet over the break, drawing closer to each other with every spoken word and emotion, the magnetic pull between you growing stronger with each shared idea and plan.

Each time you make a half-hearted attempt to leave, it's as if an invisible tether pulls you back. Snape's arms wind around you with a certain possessive delicacy, his eyes searching yours as if to commit every nuance of this moment to memory. His touch feels like a brand, leaving invisible marks that claim parts of your soul you never knew needed claiming. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, subtle yet achingly sincere, contrasting beautifully with his usual stern visage.

"Leaving so soon?" he questions softly, his voice a rich timbre that vibrates straight to your core. “I just got you back.” he smirks, his arms fastening tighter around your waist from behind.

The enchantment of the moment makes it increasingly difficult to remember why you'd ever wanted to leave. "I really should go," you reply, your voice tinged with regret.

Snape leans down to your ear, his breath warm as he whispers, "You can go, but know this—you leave a part of yourself here, with me. As I do with you." His words are imbued with an unspoken promise, a vow for more shared afternoons, more whispered confessions, more everything.

Finally, with a lingering kiss that feels like both an ending and a beginning, he releases you. Yet even as you walk away, the warmth of his touch envelops you, as if he's wrapped you in an invisible cloak spun from his own complex threads of guarded affection and hope. You feel like you're floating as you head back to your dorm to grab your things before leaving for winter break. Your heart feels incomprehensibly full, pounding with the sweet anticipation of all that is yet to come.

And as you make your way from Hogwarts, setting off on your journey home, it hits you: you are irrevocably, beautifully entangled in something extraordinary. And so, winter break begins.

Chapter 12: buttercup

Chapter Text

Give 'em hell, give 'em teeth like you taught me
Tireless mess, seeking thrills, getting bitey
When I'm in doubt

I'll be fine, I'm alright, it’s my body
Gonna stick to my guns like you taught me

buttercup - hippocampus

https://spotify.link/tFfsmrvRtDb

As you sink into the plush cushions of the living room couch, the warm, golden glow of the chandelier above casts a soft light on the room, enhancing the coziness of the setting. The familiar scent of your home envelops you—a comforting blend of old books, the faintest hint of fireplace ash, and the lingering aroma of the evening's roast. The high ceilings lend an airy, expansive feel to the space, while rich, dark wood paneling on the walls and intricately designed Persian rugs underfoot add layers of sophistication.

Your eyes wander to the grand fireplace that holds pride of place in the room, etched with runes of protection and warmth. It's like the heart of your home—beside it, the mantle is lined with family photos and a small collection of magically animated figurines, each a miniature ode to various magical creatures. The bookshelves that line one wall have always been more than mere furniture to you; they're a repository of family history, lined with an eclectic mix of literature and magical tomes that tell silent stories of generations past and present.

House elves flit about in the background, their soft pops and twinkling movements part of the evening's tapestry, as they tidy up after your welcome-home dinner. You'd usually join them, earning cheerful protests for your attempts to help, but tonight, you're more content to sit back and bask in the comfort of your home. The evening with your parents had been a whirlwind of conversation, touching upon your life at Hogwarts, your newfound friends, and even your father's unabated enthusiasm for your Auror training under the Goldhawk Initiative.

Your mother's face beamed as you recounted tales of mischief, magic, and friendship, her eyes twinkling like stars whenever you mentioned your core group of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Cedric, and your Hogsmeade excursions. You couldn't help but notice how her eyes softened with a kind of wistfulness when she spoke about you taking life in stride and enjoying the simpler things. She always emphasized the importance of not growing up too fast, of relishing in the friendships and experiences that came your way.

Perhaps her advice sprang from her own history and the life she and your father had led—both having been plunged into the complexities and horrors of the First Wizarding War at a young age. Your dad, just a little older than Snape and Sharp—had seen things that might have aged him prematurely. You’re positive that all three men did.

It made sense then, this desire of hers for you to hold onto the lighter facets of youth for as long as you could. In a way, it felt like she was trying to offer you a layer of protection, a buffer against the adult responsibilities and challenges you'd eventually have to face. And in that moment, you cherished it—all of it—the stories, the laughter, the parental advice steeped in love and experience.

Your dad, however, steered the conversation towards Goldhawk and Auror training. You sensed his longing for you to embrace the path as he engaged you in animated discussions about your training, about Sharp, his old service buddy.

Your father's sheer enthusiasm for the field of Aurorship, and for Goldhawk especially, induced a twinge of guilt. You always knew your heart lay with potions; your dad had known it too when he'd suggested you apply for Goldhawk at the end of your sixth year. Yet, you couldn't deny the pure, exhilarating joy of going back and forth with him on Auror tactics and magical combat. It was a bonding experience, a new common language between you two, but the pleasure of those moments felt complicated—shadowed by the reality of your true ambitions and current emotional complexities.

Changing the topic to your Knockturn Alley adventure, you watched as a myriad of emotions flickered across your parents' faces. Your mom's eyes widened, a glint of nervous concern there. She seemed to instinctively reach for her wand, as if contemplating whether she could charm away any lurking dangers from your tale.

Your dad, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair, a slow grin spreading across his face. To him, your venture felt like a rite of passage, a necessary exploration of the darker, murkier corners of the wizarding world that every Auror-in-training should be familiar with.

"Well, you've got to see the nitty-gritty to appreciate the light, don't you?" he mused, a note of paternal pride coloring his words.

With adept storytelling, you walked the fine line of sharing just enough to assuage your mom's worry, while bolstering your dad's burgeoning pride in your Auror aptitude. And of course, you conveniently omitted certain details—like Sharp's hand casually finding its way to your lower back, or those charged moments shared in corners of shady establishments that felt like they could ignite the air between you. Those were intricacies of the trip you had no intention of sharing.

As far as your parents knew, Knockturn Alley had been an educational experience, not an emotionally complex one.

And yet, for the first time in weeks, you feel truly elated—unburdened even as multiple layers of guilt nip at your conscience. You're home. Your parents are happy and proud, and the pulsating undercurrent of your thoughts is still rhythmically tuned to Snape, to the mysterious allure of a man who'd opened up, even if just a crack, to let you glimpse his inner world.

As you sit in the embrace of the soft couch cushions, your eyes roam the living room, landing on the familiar accents of Slytherin green that define your home. Your father, a retired Auror and one of the heads of the Auror Office, has always been a proud Slytherin man, and it shows. The deep green hue of the velvety plush pillows and the stately velvet armchair serve as loving nods to his Hogwarts House, as if threads of his character are woven into the very tapestry of the home. Even the drapes, and the unbreakable emerald glassware in the dining room, stand as discrete markers of his lineage and legacy.

The way your home has been designed is not just about what meets the eye; it's a material extension of your family’s values and sense of self. These touches have always been more than just aesthetic choices; they're a testament to a heritage that values ambition, cunning, and loyalty—qualities your father has imbued into the core of your upbringing. You recall dinner table conversations where he would discuss the founding principles of Salazar Slytherin. However, teachings about blood purity were a sensitive topic for him; he was quick to disassociate from those elements, focusing instead on the traits of resourcefulness and ambition that he saw as the true essence of being a Slytherin.

All these elements—the green accents, the thoughtfully curated pieces of art, and even the crystal orbs floating near the ceiling that adapt their light to the time of day—come together to create a sanctuary that's both elegant and inviting, much like your family itself. It fills you with a deep sense of gratitude, even as a certain enigmatic professor continues to occupy your thoughts more than you'd like to admit, reminding you that this home, as perfect as it is, has always been a stepping stone to a wider, more complicated world.

As you sink deeper into the couch, your eyes lose focus on the present surroundings, journeying instead to that dimly lit classroom earlier in the afternoon where reality seemed to pause. The air had been thick with tension and a tinge of mystery, the atmosphere imbued with the scent of aged parchment and some ineffable aroma that was distinctly him—pungent potions mingling with a smoky woodiness. You recall the electric charge in the air when he stepped into your personal space, how the world outside that room ceased to exist.

Your thoughts settle on the moment his eyes, those unreadable black orbs, softened ever so slightly as they locked onto yours. You remember the sound of your own breath hitching as he leaned in, the feeling of anticipation that hung heavy before it was wonderfully shattered by the contact of his lips on yours. And oh, his lips—impossibly warm and incredibly skilled, their touch sending shivers cascading down your spine. A swirl of emotions had surged within you—apprehension, elation, desire—all coalescing into a heady co*cktail that left you intoxicated.

A soft, indulgent smile graces your lips at the memory. You can almost feel the weight of his hands as they had ventured to the small of your back, pulling you closer as if trying to merge two fractured worlds together in one stolen moment.

The thought scurries into the recesses of your mind as your father enters the living room. His footsteps are unhurried but assured, resonating with the same understated authority he's always carried. In his hand, a tumbler of firewhisky swirls like liquid amber, the golden liquid capturing the room's soft lighting and reflecting it in prismatic bursts onto the rich, dark wood flooring.

He navigates around the coffee table and gracefully eases into a sumptuous armchair of deep green velvet, which nearly swallows him as he reclines. He takes a moment to meet your eyes, offering you a warm, heartfelt smile that immediately lightens the atmosphere, before asking, "Happy to be home?" His voice is textured with genuine care and subtle undertones of curiosity.

"Absolutely," you respond, your voice tinged with warmth that mirrors your father's. Your heart swells, filled with gratitude, and a pinch of nostalgia. "It's so good to be home. School is a bit of a whirlwind these days, it's just nice to step out of it for a bit."

His smile deepens as he lifts his glass, taking a thoughtful sip of his firewhisky. The liquid glows in the light, momentarily stealing your attention before he speaks.

"Your mother and I couldn't be happier that you're back, even if it's just for a short while. She had her reservations about this year, understandably so. All the fretting about you diving into Auror training. Brought me back to the days before you came along.” he absentmindedly runs his pointer finger over the rim of the glass. “I told her not to worry. Sharp is an excellent man. You’re in good hands."

"Thanks, Dad," you say softly, your voice carrying the mixture of gratitude and a hint of unspoken understanding that defines your relationship. His finger stops its tracing and he puts his glass down onto the elaborately carved table, its wood dark and glossy.

"Sounds like Hogwarts has been quite the adventure for you lately," he comments. His casual tone is belied by an undertone of inquiry—subtle, yet unmistakable. Over the years, you've become well-acquainted with this style of his: the power of a carefully placed question masked as a comment to prompt thought without demanding an answer.

You appreciate this tactful nudge into deeper dialogue, a hallmark of his years in a profession where words weigh heavy and silence can speak volumes. The freedom to think, to measure your words, or to keep your own counsel fills the room as the fire crackles in the hearth. Your father has always been skilled at creating such space—a realm where you're free to share, think, or simply be.

As if sensing your contemplation, he continues. "Has Goldhawk swayed your plans for after graduation?" The question resounds with nuanced undertones.

Your gaze shifts away for a moment, settling on the flames that dance merrily within the grand fireplace. Finally, you turn back to him, exhaling softly. "It's not like I have to decide right now, do I?"

“I never thought I’d see the day that you’d be indecisive about anything.” Leaning back in his chair, he gazes at you with a knowing expression, one that's so typically him—soft, yet incisive. "I've known you long enough to recognize when you're holding back. You're not one for half-measures, my dear."

His words don't chide; rather, they carry the weight of a lifetime of knowing you, of seeing through your facades before you even realize you've put them up. It's a reflection of how deeply he understands you—this gentle prodding that comes not as a parent imposing expectations, but as someone who knows you might have already made a choice, even if you haven't admitted it to yourself yet.

Your father regards you with that signature knowing smile—kind but incisive. "You've always been decisive, even as a little girl. You'd make up your mind and stand your ground, the rest be damned."

"Just like you taught me," you reply, a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the fire before you. For a moment, the room is steeped in a comfortable silence, a shared understanding that fills the air like an unspoken language.

Truthfully, you've grown to love the intricate challenges that Auror training presented—the sweat and satisfaction mingling as you successfully decrypted a hidden message in a seemingly innocent letter, the rush of adrenaline when you identified a dark artifact before it could harm innocent lives. The air around you would pulse with an electric current as you mastered advanced defensive spells, the weight of the wand in your hand transforming from a simple tool to an extension of your own will and skill.

The feeling of accomplishment that surged through you whenever you excelled in your practical tests or completed a particularly knotty mock investigation was unmatched. It was as if each success etched a small but indelible mark on your very being, solidifying your identity as someone strong, capable, and independent.

As your mind continues to meander, it stumbles upon that particular memory, so vivid it's as if it happened just yesterday. When Katie Bell was cursed, you'd felt that distinct shift in the air, that palpable tension that always precedes something crucial. Standing there next to Sharp, Snape, the trio and even Professor McGonagall, you'd felt like a key player on a complex chessboard. When Sharp allowed you to examine the necklace, its dark aura almost pulsating deep within your soul, you'd felt that instant connection—the sort of arcane "click" that only happens when you truly understand the fabric of an object's magic.

Your eyes had darted over the necklace, your mind piecing together their dark intent, the clever malevolence that lay dormant until triggered. It had been a euphoric moment, unlocking the details of the curse, delving into its nuances as if solving a complex puzzle. The way your findings had contributed, albeit in a small but significant way, to their understanding of the cursed object— it was intoxicating. You'd felt an unspoken but deeply gratifying nod from everyone in the room.

In that moment, you'd not only felt accepted but also valuable, as if you truly belonged amidst these seasoned warriors and scholars. It had been a tantalizing taste of what your future as an Auror could hold: a blend of field action, intellectual challenge, and the potent thrill of tangibly making a difference.

Keeping your focus on Potions doesn't erase those experiences or achievements; it diversifies them, adds another layer to the tapestry of your life. Yet, the choice brings a subtle ache, a quiet lament for the path you are diverging from. The breadth of the Auror's scope, the depth of its impact, they both now sit like an inviting road not taken, just beyond reach.

Your father breaks the momentary lull. "As much as I love the idea of you following in my footsteps, my real pride is in knowing you're making your path, chasing what matters to you." Your eyes meet his, and you feel a surge of gratitude. "But, I have to ask," he leans forward, swirling the last remnants of his firewhisky, "Was Sharp not good enough to tip the scales?"

You explain to your father that your training with Sharp had been instrumental, of course. Under his guidance, you had honed your reflexes, your analytical abilities. But beyond the tactical skills, you'd learned to dig deep, to find that reservoir of courage even in the most dire circ*mstances. He was a fine mentor, but it wasn't about him. It was about you—about what you wanted and where you always saw yourself going.

“So, yeah. I’d be lying to you if I said that meeting Sharp—learning from him—hasn't made me reconsider, at least a little. You got me there."

He nods, as if the acknowledgment suffices, filing the information away in the ever-complex catalog of his understanding of you. You hadn't wanted to really think about Sharp and decision-making tonight, not when your thoughts had already been occupied with Snape, in whose presence you had felt a thrill of intimacy that seemed to redefine the way you understood your own heart.

"But," you venture further, "I've spent years focusing on potions, you know that. All of the diving into advanced studies way outside of curriculum. There's something about that work... it just feels right. I have Professor Snape to thank for that."

As your father absorbs your words, he seems satisfied, unaware of the double meaning you've woven into them. What you leave unspoken hangs heavy in the air, a sentiment understood only by you. You're not just talking about career paths; you're also sharing a sliver of your internal struggle regarding the complicated men who have come into your life.

"Snape, huh? Now that's something," he says, his voice tinged not with sarcasm but with genuine curiosity. The change is subtle, but it speaks volumes. As his eyes meet yours, they seem to probe, to question. Is he surprised? Disconcerted? Your mind scrambles to decode the layers in his gaze. While Snape is a figure shrouded in rumors and mixed reputation, what exactly intrigues your father so?

Having honed your skill in reading people at Hogwarts and under your both your father and Sharp’s guidance, you recognize the signs. His face remains inscrutable, but the nuances are there—a slight narrowing of the eyes, an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. Leaning back into the velvet chair, which emits a soft creak, he appears to be navigating a complex internal landscape, weighing what he knows against what he believes you're ready to hear. The atmosphere is laden with unspoken meaning, and your intuition, honed by years of training, thrums in recognition.

But what captivates you isn't the information he's withholding; it's the unexpected absence of any negative judgement behind his reticence. There's no disapproval or concern, just a deep, layered sort of knowledge and acceptance that leaves you with the realization that your father knows more than he's willing to share at this moment. 


"Does Sharp know?" Your father's words unfurl into the room, lacing the atmosphere with a subtle tension that tugs at your nerves. The question hangs there, unadorned yet heavy, like an oil painting that's intriguing but slightly uncomfortable to look at. "Know that you don't actually want to be an Auror?"

Your gaze reconnects with your father's, and the cycle of nuanced communication continues. "We haven't... explicitly discussed it," you cautiously answer, "but I believe he's aware of my involvement with Snape, at least on some level."

As you utter the words, a subtle tightening of your heart signals a fleeting thought of Sharp, who has been openly cautious about your interactions with Snape. How would your father, who clearly knows something deeper about your Potions Master, reconcile these diverging views?

"When I was your age, all I craved was the high-octane life of an Auror," your father begins, his voice tinged with a fervor that turns years into mere sentences. "The thrill of the chase, the sense of justice... It was like a siren's call, irresistible and all-consuming. The way you've talked and written about your work in potions over the last year reminds me a lot of that feeling. Like you've found your calling."

You nod, warmed by his passionate articulation. It bridges generations, careers, and even loyalties in a single span. "If it feels right to you, I get it, and I'm all in. You have my support," he adds, sealing the conversation with the weight of his approval.

"Thanks, Dad," you say, feeling as though a tiny yet significant fissure in the universe has just been healed.

Your eyes then drift to a glass-fronted cabinet adjacent to the bookshelves. Inside, a series of gleaming medals and plaques vie for attention. There's the Order of Merlin, First Class, its emerald-green ribbon framing a golden pendant—an honor that few wizards receive in their lifetime, a testimony to exemplary deeds of bravery or distinction. There are also several other Auror commendations, each one earned through years of steadfast service and undeniable valor. You know each of these accolades like you know the lines of your own hand; they're a part of your father's legacy, a testament to the path he's walked.

As you look at the cabinet, a different sense of understanding washes over you. These awards and honors, they aren't just markers of a path well-traveled; they are also subtle reminders of the love and respect your father has for you. He has never pushed you to chase after similar accolades, never pressured you to follow in his footsteps despite the legacy he's built. In a world that often equates worth with titles and public recognition, the absence of his insistence feels profoundly like an act of love.

You know that each award holds its own story of risks taken and sacrifices made—by him and by others. Aesop Sharp included. They serve as tangible milestones of a life dedicated to a particular cause, a path he chose and loved. But now they also reflect something more. They've become symbols of the freedom and support he's offered you to find your own way, to make your own choices—even if that means veering off the well-trodden path that led him to these honors.

Your gaze reconnects with your father's, and in his eyes, you see a quiet acknowledgement. He knows you see the awards, knows you understand what they represent, and knows you're aware that your choices may not lead to a similar cabinet filled with similar tokens. Yet he seems to say, without uttering a word, that it doesn't matter. Your path, however different, is one he respects just as much as his own.

A wistful smirk blooms across your father's visage, a touch of mischief glinting in his eyes. "Oh, to be a fly on the wall when you tell Sharp you won’t become an Auror." He lets out a genuine chuckle, warmth filling the room as he continues. "He's written so many glowing things about you in his letters; you'd think you were the next Merlin."

Your laugh mingles with his, but a flutter of unease fans its wings inside your stomach, a physical manifestation of your internal tug-of-war.

Your father's subtle reactions, Sharp's conspicuous absence of trust for Snape, and your own burgeoning involvement with the man—all these pieces of a convoluted puzzle. And as comforting as your father's support is, he may think he knows the full scope, but the situation—the delicate balance you're maintaining between your allegiances—is far more nuanced than he realizes.

"Yeah, I… I don’t even know where or how to start," you admit, finding solace in the casual candor between you and your father. "I mean, it's not like there was a binding contract saying I have to become an Auror after the training. There's no real expectation set in stone."

Your father nods. "You're right, and that’s okay. But I must say, Sharp will be quite gutted to hear it. He thinks you're incredibly skilled, a natural even. You give me a run for my money, according to him."

The words hang in the air, each one a polished gem of pride and subtle expectation. Your father has always been your greatest advocate, but now you sense that others see the potential in you, too. Yet as flattering as it is, it also adds another layer to your internal quandary, fueling the embers of your hesitation and uncertainty.

Your eyes lock onto your father's, searching for clues within the intricate mosaic of his expression. "Glad to know that others see promise in me," you say, your voice tinged with a mixture of pride and vulnerability. "But it's also a lot to live up to."

Your father picks up on the nuance, the hidden complexities swirling behind your words. "You've got time, but..." he begins, leaving the sentence hanging, his eyes flicking down to the empty glass in his hands.

"But what?" The air thickens with anticipation, and you find yourself leaning in slightly.

With an exhale, he speaks. "Well, you know that Sharp and I have been corresponding quite a bit since you've returned to school.” he pauses. “I invited him to join us for our Christmas party."

For a brief moment, your eyes widen, their startled luminescence echoing the chandelier's intricate dance of light. The annual Christmas event - the grand affair your parents orchestrate each year, second to their New Years celebration. It's a beloved tradition, a night of elegance and joy, filled with the laughter and warmth of family and friends. Always a highlight of the holiday season, always a time of unforgettable memories. However, your mind is a mental kaleidoscope set in dizzying motion by the prospect of spending Christmas in close quarters with Sharp.

Regaining a semblance of composure, you finally find your voice. "Oh," you manage to articulate, a single syllable that barely grazes the surface of the whirlpool of thoughts and feelings swirling within you.

Realizing the weight of his words, your father leans back slightly, his posture exuding that blend of casual authority that you've always associated with his former life as an Auror. His eyes, ever so perceptive, watch you closely, gauging your response before continuing.

"Sharp and I were partners back in the day, and lately, it's been good reconnecting with him. It seemed natural to extend an invitation."

"No, Dad, I get it, and it's totally fine," you assure him, mustering enough enthusiasm to make it believable. Though your voice doesn't waver, your thoughts are a whirlwind of emotions and calculations.

It’s only been a few days since you began exploring something secret, something potent with Snape. All the while, you've been conscious of the chemistry between you and Sharp. Sharp's feelings toward you have always been a silent undercurrent, an emotional subtext you've chosen not to confront head-on. But how do you act 'normal' around Sharp for an entire Christmas celebration, especially when something so decidedly not normal has been unfolding between you and Snape?

The realization sends a ripple of guilt and worry through your previously composed demeanor. Things finally felt blissful. Snape had even inquired—albeit with a trace of begrudging detachment—about your Auror training just days ago. The conversation had been civil, enlightening even, eventually leading to a magnetic closeness that culminated in fervent, stolen kisses within the clandestine corners of his dimly lit classroom. Those kisses felt like the signature on a pact, sealing your complicated but electrifying relationship.

But it was also a discussion about Sharp that had set the stage for a two-month hiatus between you and Snape. A lapse in communication that seemed like a chasm, filled with tension, second-guessing, and biting regret. Now, the very notion of spending Christmas with Sharp under the same roof—your family's roof—injects your pulse with a dose of trepidation. If a mere conversation about Sharp could cause such a rift, what sort of havoc would his actual presence wreak? The thought of Snape's possible reaction weaves a knot of dread and anticipation in the pit of your stomach.

"Do you want me to uninvite him? There's still time," your father offers, his tone even but attentive, ever mindful of your comfort.

"Of course not, I'm actually looking forward to it," you assure him, mustering a smile that belies the tempest of emotions whirling within you. "It's not that I have anything against Sharp; he's a good guy. It's just that I can't help but feel I might be… I don’t know, secretly wasting all of his time and effort?" You punctuate your words with a playful shrug, adding a touch of levity to an otherwise heavy conversation.

Laughing softly, your father lifts his glass as if to toast the inevitable chaos of life, even as you internally brace yourself. "You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, young lady. Just… Whatever you do, don’t bring it up during the Christmas party, got it? And if you do decide to drop a bomb, make sure I'm conveniently absent," he jokes.

You nod and join his laughter. You wouldn’t dream of it.

The air in the dimly lit room is suffocating, filled with the acrid smell of disdain and concealed intentions. Severus Snape pushes back his chair, its legs scraping against the cold stone floor, echoing his own inner friction. Fools, the lot of them—whether it's the Order's incessant debates that lead nowhere or the Death Eaters' reckless gambits that threaten to expose them all. He finds neither comfort nor camaraderie in these secret gatherings; instead, they only serve to inflame his ever-present irritation.

As he cloaks himself, the fabric feels like more than a mere garment; it's a layer of bitter irony, shielding him from prying eyes while underscoring the duplicitous existence he endures. Emerging from another chaotic Death Eater meeting, he can't help but reflect on the state of disarray that defines this dark fellowship. Their unity is but a charade, a veneer that barely conceals the anarchy simmering beneath. Their frenetic disarray cloaked in a guise of said unity, all shallow allegiances and even shallower understandings of the cause they claim to champion.

As he strides through the ostentatious corridors of Malfoy Manor, his eyes fall upon familiar faces that fill him with a mingling of revulsion and disdain. Narcissa Malfoy's eyes meet his for a fleeting moment, their glint betraying a labyrinth of exhaustion and layered fears. Lucius, in his usual extravagant attire, stands aloof, yet his posture reeks of the same faux confidence that contaminates the room. Bellatrix, ever the zealot, wears her madness like a badge of honor, her laughter grating against his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. The air is thick with a toxic blend of arrogance and desperation, as if each Death Eater vies to outdo the other in a futile race for the Dark Lord's favor.

As Snape continues to make his departure, his eyes lock onto Draco, the boy standing somewhat apart from the adults. When first joining the dark forces, the boy was cloaked in a palpable aura of youthful arrogance and misguided purpose. These days, there’s an undetectable fear in his eyes as he stands insecure in his own home. The moment their gazes meet, Snape feels the ghostly tingle of the Unbreakable Vow, an ethereal chain that binds them in a most unfortunate compact. How foolish the boy is, mistaking this dark stage as his moment in the spotlight, not understanding that he's been cast in a tragedy, not a triumph.

This is not destiny singling him out for glory; it's punishment for his father's failures, a debt called in from the sins of the previous generation. Draco may not see it, but Snape detects that truth in Narcissa's eyes every time she looks at her son. Unlike Lucius, whose eyes have become vacuous orbs, void of emotion or intelligence, Narcissa's eyes are a turbulent sea, stormy with dread and regret.

Continuing his inexorable trek toward the exit, he strides past a pair of nondescript Death Eaters, their stern faces barely veiling the avarice and desperation that clings to them like a second skin. The air around them feels oppressive, laden with an unsettling blend of moral decay and woefully misguided ambition—attributes so glaring they'd be laughable if not so egregious.

They part for him, a red sea of black robes and sinister smiles, paying him the deference owed to Voldemort's second in command. He can feel their eyes tracing his back, perhaps hoping to glean some secret knowledge or advantage. They are all of them—each and every one—so pitifully transparent. Their respect, such as it is, means nothing to him. It's the currency of fools, freely given by those who mistake fear for genuine allegiance. Snape can practically hear their whispered schemes and see the glint of unsheathed daggers in their eyes, all naively believing that their machinations might somehow elevate them in the eyes of their capricious master.

Oh, how he despises them. Their ignorance, their delusion, their blinding lack of foresight. In their huddled conspiracies and pointless stratagems, they are no more than pawns, just as expendable and interchangeable as the next. Each step he takes is a departure from this cesspool of idiocy, and as the door closes behind him, he silently swears that their laughter will never follow him. They are but a necessary evil in a grander scheme, one that they could never fathom. And it's a scheme he's tired of, tired of its never-ending cycles of destruction and rebirth, its ceaseless calamity.

But then he can't suppress a sardonic smirk as he considers the Order. Are they truly faring much better?

Ah, yes, the Order of the Phoenix—his ostensible allies in this grim affair. Dumbledore's absence has created a leadership vacuum that characters like Lupin, Moody, and Arthur Weasley are simply not equipped to fill.

Lupin, ever the empath, prioritizes compassion over strategic foresight. His tendency to assume the best in people is not only naive but also perilous in a war where a single mistake could cost lives. While Snape can admit that empathy has its place, Lupin’s refusal to curb it risks transforming a valuable trait into a dangerous liability.

Moody, on the other hand, is a study in contrasts: so intensely skeptical that he often creates chaos in his quest to prevent it. The man has a knack for suspecting the least likely culprits, creating an atmosphere of mistrust that threatens to pull apart the already frayed seams of their makeshift alliance. In war, trust may be a luxury, but suspicion can be an equally expensive indulgence.

And then there is Arthur Weasley. A man so engrossed in Muggle trivialities that he'd likely miss a dark curse if it were disguised as a rubber duck. Though Arthur is earnest and well-intentioned, his preoccupation with the inconsequential is an added frustration. It's as if he's examining individual brush strokes on a canvas while failing to see the ominous picture they create together.

And now the Order has even accepted Fred and George, those jesters, into its ranks.

It's as if he's found himself on a squad of woefully ill-prepared amateurs. Some fought in the First Wizarding War, yes, but many of them still cling to naive notions of heroism, as if bravery alone can win the day. They lack the grit, the ugly resolve that true warfare demands. All in all, it's a patchwork of mismatched talents and temperaments, rudderless without Dumbledore to steer the ship. Without his direct involvement, the Order has become a menagerie of misfits and quasi-competents. Just as aimless and reckless as the Death Eaters, albeit with the gloss of nobler intentions.

Yet, in this high-stakes game they're all involved in, good intentions can pave the road to ruin just as easily as malevolent ones.

At least with the Death Eaters, the chaos is expected; among the Order, it feels like an insidious infection, spreading unchecked through an already weakened body. Both factions, each claiming righteousness, are woefully inept, a tragicomic tableau that, were it not so dire, would almost be amusing. And so, he finds himself suspended between two worlds, both spiraling into chaos.

He scoffs quietly to himself. If only there were a spell that could bestow a modicum of common sense upon these fools, then perhaps he'd have a sliver of hope for the future. The thought is futile, of course, but momentarily satisfying.

As he exits the room and navigates the dimly lit corridor of Malfoy Manor, the flickering torchlight casts restless shadows that mirror the churn of his own thoughts. The discord within his mind dances in step with these illusions, each a reflection of the other's turmoil. He shakes his head, lamenting the state of affairs on both sides of this war. It's a chaos that's nearly as insufferable as it is inescapable. His every step feels laden, each footfall a descent further into an abyss from which there seems no exit.

Yet, what can he truly do about it? What power does he have to change the course of this war, or even the infighting within each faction? The bargain was struck years ago, a lifetime it seems. His soul, in so many words, was sold to Dumbledore, and his actions remain bound by the fetters of that prophecy. A shadow trading his autonomy for a purpose he had believed was greater than himself. He can almost feel the phantom weight of those binding oaths pressing down on his shoulders, as if to remind him that his life is not entirely his own.

He is essentially at the whim of this man, and by extension, at the mercy of a war guided by lesser hands. Yet, bound as he is by his promise to Dumbledore, by the weight of his own past actions, he's here—playing his role in a tragedy that no one seems capable of rewriting.

It's a waiting game now, an exercise in patience and grim determination. All he can do is wait for the chaos to reach its inevitable climax, hoping that when it does, the pieces that remain can form a picture less fractured than the one he now surveys.

As he sat in that Death Eater meeting earlier in the evening, forcing himself to maintain a facade of stern focus, his Occlumency skills were put to the test. He was covertly shutting off sections of his mind, especially when Nott and Mulciber were rattling on about some reckless plan to attack a Muggle settlement. They were as clueless as they were audacious, but he couldn't afford to show his disdain. Instead, his thoughts had voluntarily fled to the far safer ground of your smile, your laughter, the taste of your lips.

In the ceaseless turbulence that defines his existence, you stand like an oasis, your presence an anodyne to his daily discomforts. The very idea of you—your eyes shimmering with an untamed vitality, the contagious cadence of your laughter, the palpable radiance of your being—slices through the darkness of his ruminations.

It was his secluded sanctuary—the intimate confines of his classroom where time had stood still. There, he'd tasted your lips, savoring each nuance of your kiss as if it were a rare, intoxicating potion. The sensation had been far more potent than any draught he had ever brewed, the texture softer than the petals of a moon-blooming flora. Your laughter had filled the room like a whispered incantation, magical in its simplicity. You had kissed him with a curiosity and desire that left him disarmed, letting down centuries-old barriers if only for those moments.

The memory of how your lips had melded with his, tender yet urgent, swept through him like a spell, leaving an afterglow that outshone any Lumos charm. The feeling was akin to capturing a wisp of sunlight just as it pierced through a canopy of endless dark clouds.

It was a precarious thing, to let his mind drift while in the company of the Death Eaters, but he'd found a way to compartmentalize the risks. He had been unable, unwilling even, to occlude that fragment of his mind, even as he sat in the midst of enemies plotting the foulest of deeds. No, he needed that memory—your smile, your laughter, the taste of your lips—to sustain him, to fortify the crumbling walls of his resolve.

The notion of how this imminent catastrophe—another war—could touch your life is a door he simply cannot bring himself to open. To do so would be to tarnish the one unspoiled thing that remains to him, to drag it into the quagmire of impending doom and tragedy that fills his days.

Your recent proximity to Potter and his motley crew hasn't escaped his notice. A flicker of disquiet courses through him at the thought. Was your time with them merely a diversion during the weeks when you two were estranged? Or is it something more, something that ties you to the dangerous, foolhardy quests Potter seems hell-bent on undertaking?

The mere idea of you becoming embroiled in Potter's recklessness ignites a flame of indignation deep within him. The things he would do to Potter for so thoughtlessly endangering you, involving you in his antics with the Order—those thoughts are better left unexplored for now. What matters is the hope, the fervent wish, that you remain an outsider to the looming catastrophe, shielded from the ugly truths that he navigates daily.

While a part of him aches to protect you from the harsh realities that surround you both, he knows deep down that such calamities are inevitable, unstoppable forces in this world.

Yet, he fiercely resists the urge to place you in that grim backdrop. The idea of you caught up in the chaos is so incongruent with the light you bring into his life that he won't even allow the thought to linger. And so, for now, he compartmentalizes, holding onto the sanctuary that is you, as if by doing so, he could somehow shield you from the darkness that awaits.

As he finally steps out into the night, the world around him a cloak of shadows and secrets, he disapparates away from the exhausting charade of another meeting. Amidst the swirl of darkness and emerging stars, it's your smile that he takes with him, as if captured in a vial, its luminescence safeguarded within the deepest corners of his heart.

It's enough to dampen the disillusionment that has long been his constant companion, enough to breathe life into the embers of something he'd thought long extinguished—hope. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, or perhaps several, he finds himself looking forward to something. He dares not articulate what that something is, what form it may take, or what future it might augur.

Because in a world so defined by its brutal unpredictabilities, the only certainty he allows himself is the warmth he feels when he thinks of you. And for now, as implausible as it may seem given his life's path, that is something genuinely good. And it is enough.

Chapter 13: one for the road

Chapter Text

So we all get back to yours and you sit and talk to me on the floor
There's no need to show me 'round, baby
I feel like I've been here before
I've been wonderin' whether later, when you tell everybody to go
Will you pour me one for the road?

one for the road - arctic monkeys

https://open.spotify.com/track/6wNUBZNWFxdUGof6vkaykE?si=916817a4dc0c4ebf

House elves buzz with excitement, their little eyes twinkling like the stars outside as they dart around in preparation for the annual Christmas soiree. Leading the pack is Coppy, the spirited house elf who's been a part of your family for generations. Tonight, she is orchestrating the ensemble of elves like a seasoned sergeant. In fact, her attention to detail and command are so impeccable, they would give your dad's myriad of accolades hanging in the living room a run for their money.

Your mother, a vision of holiday grace, flutters about the main room as she directs the house elves in decorating. She's always had a knack for it and today is no different; the room transforms under her artistic touch, each element coming together to create a winter wonderland. Golden fairy lights shimmer along the walls, casting a warm glow on everyone and everything they touch. An enchanted gramophone sits in the corner, crooning a blend of wizarding and Muggle Christmas classics, the melodies imbuing the room with an air of nostalgia.

The centerpiece of the entire spectacle is, of course, the Christmas tree—towering and resplendent, its branches laden with twinkling lights, hand-crafted ornaments, and decades of family memories.

Your father, dressed in his customary ensemble for this yearly gathering—a black sweater with a red plaid button-down underneath—stands apart, engrossed in what could only be described as a "culinary strategy meeting." The sleeves of his plaid shirt are rolled up, a telltale sign of his intense focus, currently zeroed in on the drink menu.

The sight brings a chuckle to your lips. Even in the realm of Christmas celebrations, your father takes on the role of the strategist, coordinating with Coppy and the others to create a menu that's a blend of traditional and exotic dishes. This caters to the diverse palate of their equally diverse guest list, a testament to his high-profile role in the Auror office and your mother's flourishing career as a romance author. Together, they've cultivated an unique social circle that includes wizards and witches from all walks of life.

As you take it all in, memories from Christmases past wash over you. As a child, you reveled in being the center of attention during these affairs, prancing around in your holiday dresses and delighting in the sea of familiar faces. As you grew older, the prospect became more daunting— the awkward and confusing onset of teenage hormones making social gatherings less "joyful" and more like navigating a maze of scrutinizing faces, always expecting the best from the daughter of such an illustrious couple. But now, the dynamics have shifted once again. You're older, more confident, and these parties have taken on a new layer of enjoyment.

Your attire for the evening reflects your current life phase—mature, sophisticated, but with a youthful spark. You've chosen a dark red sweater dress, its fabric hugging you in all the right places, its long sleeves a perfect balance to the off-shoulder design that comes to a subtle v in the middle. The dress ties at the waist with a bow, the final touch that elevates the ensemble. Before running downstairs to help, you threw on black heels and the diamond and gold earrings—gifts from your parents to commemorate your acceptance into Goldhawk.

You're perched on a barstool at the kitchen counter, and your fingers pick at the supplies laid out for mini charcuterie cups, destined for the appetizer table. You've just popped a morsel of aged cheddar dripping with strawberry preserves into your mouth when Coppy skips over to you. Her eyes, normally twinkling, narrow ever so slightly at the sight of you snacking.

"Young mistress, do be careful! Such messes are ill-suited for your beautiful party attire," she chides, although her tone is tinged more with concern than reprimand.

You look down at your dress, then back at Coppy, and can't help but smile. "I suppose you're right, Cop. Wouldn't want to risk a fashion disaster before the first guest even arrives."

She catches your eye as you idle at the kitchen counter, trots over with a gleam of knowing anticipation. With a flourish, she presents a small cup filled with rolled prosciutto. "Your favorite, young mistress," she says with a wide grin that tugs at the corners of her drooping ears.

"You always know how to make my day.”

Coppy's eyes soften, gazing at you thoughtfully, and she reaches up to gently pat your hand. "Ah, you've grown so much. Makes Coppy feel like she's three centuries old just looking at you!"

"You're only as old as you feel," you quip back, sharing a tender moment.

"We elves are very excited, you know. We all think you're going to do great things, defending the wizarding world and all. An Auror in the making—a true credit to the family name!"

You take a moment, mulling over the thought. You glance up thoughtfully, meeting her eager eyes. "Or… crafting potions that could revolutionize the magical world, one drop at a time?" you offer, like an alternate ending to a well-loved tale.

Coppy smiles at you, her eyes twinkling like the countless ornaments adorning the grand Christmas tree. "Whatever path you choose, young mistress, you will excel, no doubt."

Before you can respond, Coppy turns her head sharply towards the living room, her eyes widening in disbelief. Then she whirls around, darting off to scold a pair of house elves who were precariously arranging a garland on the mantle. "Not there! A little to the right, you dolts!"

As you watch her scurry away, her stern directives becoming faint echoes in the bustling atmosphere, you find comfort in her faith in you. Whatever path you choose, Coppy's right. You'll make it something worth being proud of.

The first to apparate into the festively adorned room are your mother's artistic friends, a bohemian bunch with an eclectic style that never fails to captivate. Swathed in layers of velvet, silk, and embroidered scarves, they move with an ethereal grace. They're writers, painters, and designers—the type who pen novels in secluded cabins or paint canvases as big as walls. They always bring a wave of flair that feels like a breath of fresh air in the otherwise formal atmosphere.

Shortly afterward, the atmosphere shifts subtly as your father's colleagues from the Auror Office begin to filter in. Moony Flynn and Tessa Whitfield, Lead Investigative Analysts, are among the first to arrive. Clad in sharp, meticulously tailored robes that signal their high-ranking positions, they exude an air of authority, accented by the subtle gleam of magical badges and the aura of rigorous discipline. Both made a beeline toward your father, obviously looking to curry favor with the Deputy Head of the Auror Office.

Despite their slightly imposing presence, Flynn and Whitfield are genuinely affable. They carry themselves with an ease that's often lacking in people of their professional stature. But as they divert their attention to you, their eyes become a little too focused, their interest a little too keen. It's a shift you notice immediately, and you mentally brace yourself for the inevitable.

"So, doing big things in Goldhawk, are we?" Flynn says, the phrase more of a loaded statement than a question.

They're kind people, but it's clear they're here to talk shop as much as to celebrate. You had a feeling this question was coming sooner or later, but that doesn't make it any easier to field. Just as you're contemplating a polite but non-committal response, your father catches your eye across the room. The knowing look you exchange speaks volumes, and within moments, he's by your side.

Whitfield chimes in excitedly. "Should we get your Auror badge ready?"

"I wouldn't be so hasty, Flynn. With the talents she's showcasing at Goldhawk—she could be after your position before you know it," your dad interjects, voice laced with his famous charismatic charm. "Enough shop talk, I’m cutting you guys off. Drinks, now." he smiles, effortlessly steering the conversation away from your future career.

The Aurors are too busy currying favor with your dad to notice the subtle change of topic. They eagerly follow him toward the elaborate bar setup. Grateful for the maneuver, you flash him a subtle smile. Your dad winks back, ever your hero in the bustling realm of holiday parties and beyond.

You soon find yourself enveloped in a lively discussion with some of your mother's artistic friends about F. Scott Fitzgerald. The group is sharply divided, their opinions as vibrant as the attire they wear that make them resemble miniature sculptures. These are the people who bring stories to life, who pen novels and create art, their lives rich tapestries of imagination and experience.

What's especially thrilling is that you're not just the child in the room anymore; you're a welcomed part of this conversation among seasoned creatives. Your opinion holds weight, and the subtle nods and genuine smiles you receive make you feel validated and respected.

The dichotomy of views is deeply fascinating. One faction ardently praises Fitzgerald's lyrical contributions to American literature, lauding the intricate landscapes he paints with words. The other critiques his romanticized notions, arguing that his view of the world was tunnel-visioned, if not deeply flawed.

Whenever you found yourself in intimate conversations with Snape, you couldn't resist steering the topic toward F. Scott Fitzgerald, just to relish his acerbic wit. The blend of cynicism and literary critique that he'd unleash was nothing short of captivating. His sarcastic gems, aimed at dismantling even the most iconic literary figures, were both cutting and hilarious. This guilty pleasure of yours left you always amused and deeply intrigued.

“How could you not love him?” you continue, “I mean, he convinced an entire generation that reckless abandon and material excess are just byproducts of a life lived fully. A man who could pen the struggles of the human condition with one hand while reaching for a glass of gin with the other." Your mother's friends seem to delight in your light, playful criticism.

You listen intently as Lawrence, one of your mother's friends in the literary community who stands only a few years older than you, delves into a passionate discussion about Fitzgerald's "This Side of Paradise." Lawrence is an intriguing character—dressed in a paisley scarf, tweed blazer, and a pair of retro, round glasses that he insists were inspired by James Joyce.

"...and I truly believe," he's saying, "Amory Blaine is a portrait of disillusionment, a paradigm that resonates with many of this generation."

As he speaks, his words start to blur into the background when your gaze shifts across the room. You spot Professor Sharp engaged in what seems like an intense conversation with a few ex-colleagues from the Auror office.

The casual attire he's wearing is a striking departure from the brown three-piece suit and overcoat you usually see him in. This change feels like an invitation to a more private part of his life. Clad in a dark green quarter-zip that's meticulously tailored to his frame, he projects an effortless, casual confidence. Though he's shed his usual cufflinks and tie, the essence of the Aesop Sharp you’ve come to know remains. You’ve always found him undeniably handsome, and the subtle transformation only serves to highlight this.

"...consider it Fitzgerald's bildungsroman," Lawrence's voice filters back into your consciousness, but your attention is firmly rooted elsewhere.

As if sensing your gaze, Sharp looks up, his eyes locking onto yours. A subtle smile graces his lips, and it feels like a secret shared amidst the sea of people in your living room. Seizing the moment as your cue, you excuse yourself from the group.

With each rhythmic click of your heels against the floor, anticipation builds within you. His eyes are on you, yet his gaze is anything but overt; it's more like a soft caress, almost as if he's reading between the lines of your soul. And yet, you can't shake the feeling that he's subtly taking in the full picture of you tonight—your dress, your hair, the way you move. He's discreet, of course, but the intent is there, lingering like an unsaid compliment.

And then, you're there—standing before him. The clinking of glasses and chatter that fills the room seem to fade, leaving just the two of you in the middle of the floor.

In his hand, he cradles a glass of what you assume to be scotch. "Merry Christmas," he greets, his voice a blend of silk and gravel that seems capable of making even a simple holiday greeting sound profound.

“Merry Christmas, Professor Sharp.” you reply, a warm smile gracing your lips.

For a moment, you contemplate whether a hug would be appropriate. You've exchanged warm embraces with many others tonight, a standard greeting for a holiday gathering like this. But standing before Sharp, the dynamic shifts. The tension between you two feels so palpable, so charged, that you can't help but wonder if a simple hug could somehow broadcast it to the entire room—or worse, ignite something within you that you're not ready to confront.

Masking the decision behind his obvious boundaries as your professor, you decide against it. The air between you remains thick with this decision, a tension that's more magnetic than awkward, but unbroken all the same.

"When did you get here?" you ask, cutting through the momentary silence.

"About twenty minutes ago," he replies. "Have the Aurors been hounding you about Goldhawk yet?" he inquires, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

"Oh, they've practically got my badge ready," you chuckle, leaning into the jest. "I think they're plotting the office pool already on whether I'd outrank Dad within a year or not."

A genuine laugh escapes his lips, as he takes a sip from his glass. "Well, if anyone could give your father a run for his money, it'd be you."

A blush warms your cheeks at his compliment, and a soft giggle escapes your lips before you realize it. You can almost feel him savoring the moment. There's a charged undercurrent to the exchange, a layered tension that exists in the gap between what you each know and don't know about the other. For Sharp, the memory of Knockturn Alley looms large at the forefront of his memory. For you, there's an added layer of complexity owing to your newly evolved relationship with Snape.

Yet, even without full context, the chemistry is there. It's just the two of you, caught in a dance of words and glances, each relishing the mystery and possibility that the other presents. Until, that is, your father bursts into the scene.

Coming up from behind, he firmly grasps Sharp by the shoulders, breaking the spell woven between you two. Sharp turns, momentarily startled, but his expression shifts to genuine surprise and delight upon recognizing your father.

"Long time no see, old man!" your dad exclaims, his jubilant energy filling the room.

"Speak for yourself," Sharp retorts, momentarily shedding his suave demeanor as he clasps hands with your father in a hearty handshake that transitions into a friendly, casual hug. "You haven't aged a day."

Eyes flick toward the heartwarming reunion at the center of the room, a communal recognition of its significance. Your dad and Sharp effortlessly dive into a camaraderie thick with nostalgia, their banter tinged with the intimacy of warriors reliving past triumphs and losses. Their rapport, a language all its own, reveals an unfamiliar facet of Sharp—a lightness that contrasts sharply with the layered intensity you're used to. Observing this vibrant interaction between him and your ever-cheerful dad, you're struck by it really makes Sharp all the more charming in your eyes.

Your mom gracefully steps into the orbit of banter, excitedly greeting your professor. Sharp's features subtly soften as his eyes meet your mom's, each exchanging warm glances that convey years of friendship. A brief, sincere hug speaks volumes of their shared past.

It occurs to you that this could very well be the first time your parents and Sharp have seen each other since you were brought into the world. What you initially thought was a mere professional courtesy extended by your father is clearly so much more—it's the rekindling of an old friendship rich with history and mutual respect.

Any initial hesitations you had about inviting Sharp into your home for Christmas dissolve in that moment, overshadowed by the sheer rightness of the scene before you. You can't help but feel that, in some cosmic way, this was always meant to happen, like an overdue chapter in a book finally being written.

And as you take it all in, a thought crosses your mind: life, in all its intricate connections and serendipities, truly is a beautiful thing.

As Aesop Sharp navigates through the elegantly decorated room, awash in the warm glow of twinkling fairy lights and the soft murmur of intimate conversations, he can't shake the feeling that he's stepped into a time capsule. Old friends, dressed in their holiday finery, clutch glasses of champagne and butterbeer, their faces animated by years of shared history and camaraderie.

It's in this atmosphere of nostalgic indulgence that he finds himself accosted by one familiar face after another. Each one is eager to crack open the enigma that is Aesop Sharp, the man who traded his wand holster for lecture notes. "Why the departure from the field?" they probe, their eyes alight with a blend of genuine interest and veiled skepticism. Each time, he meets their inquiry with a practiced ease, offering the same concise reply: "It was time for something new."

Yet even as he utters those words, a part of him remains guarded, ensconced behind an invisible barrier. The easy response is a bulwark, defending against the darker, more complex truths he'd rather not explore. As the room buzzes with the familiar cadences of Auror jargon and jovial banter, Sharp allows himself to the quiet recesses of his own mind—where memories, both treasured and haunting, reside.

That ill-fated mission inexorably drifts into his thoughts, a specter that stubbornly persists even amidst the warm glow and merry twinkling of Christmas lights. They had thought they were invincible, that they had covered all their bases, only for that illusion to shatter in a gut-wrenching instant, along with his partner's life. The weight of a life lost and spells cast too late form a dark tapestry that continues to loom in his mind, an inescapable shadow that even the joys of this festive night can't completely banish.

But then, attention shifts, and the string of questions about you begin. It's like emerging from a dark room into sunlight, disorienting yet welcome. "So, how's Fitz's daughter doing? What have you taught her? Is she as good as he was?" they all inquire. Conversations are twined with speculations and genuine interest, as if you were a puzzle they're all eager to solve but only he holds the key pieces to.

He answers all of their questions, of course, in a manner befitting a proud professor. "Her prospects are tremendous—potentially one of the best to come out of the program." And while every syllable is steeped in truth, he knows these words are mere contours to the vibrant portrait that is you.

You. The moment he had laid eyes on you tonight, it was as if a switch had been flipped. The youthful student in Slytherin robes was nowhere to be found. Instead, you appeared resplendent in a dark red sweater dress that hugged your curves and exposed just the right amount of skin, an elegant touch that seemed to encapsulate your personality—graceful yet grounded.

The transformation was more than just sartorial; it was as if you'd walked right out of one chapter of your life and into another, all in the blink of an eye. It's not just the attire, though that's striking enough; it's the aura of maturity and complexity that you exude. You seem more womanly, more self-assured—qualities that make you stand out, even in a room full of accomplished witches and wizards.

He's brought back to reality by Flynn's insistent tone as the analyst addresses the group he’s currently standing with. "I'm telling you, the rumors are swirling that the Death Eaters are planning something big, something unthinkable—attacking an all-muggle community just to make a political statement..."

Under normal circ*mstances, Sharp would be all ears, his attention riveted on the intelligence Flynn was sharing. But tonight, his gaze has its own agenda, surreptitiously scanning the room for you once again as he lifts his glass to his lips. He's preoccupied, the gravity of Flynn's words waxing and waning like an intermittent radio signal.

"...absolutely barbaric... Auror office is already mobilizing...countermeasures in place..."

Then he finds you.

Across the way, you're plucking a charcuterie cup from a beautifully arranged table, your movements fluid and graceful. Without breaking stride, you head for the glass door that leads to the expansive balcony.

Sharp takes a calculated moment to scan the room. A mix of professionalism and discretion guides his actions; he ensures that the eyes of his former colleagues are either engaged in their own discussions. Satisfied that no one's attention is on him, he seizes the opportunity and navigates through the crowd. Holding his drink aloft to avoid any accidental spills, he quietly slides the large glass doors open, admitting him to the secluded haven.

Out here, in this isolated nook aglow with the warmth of moonlight and Edison bulbs, the world seems to shrink down to just the two of you. His eyes catch the elegant flick of your wand, igniting a fire in the outdoor fireplace. Embers leap and dance, casting playful shadows that only add to the atmosphere's enchanting aura. The flickering light forms a magical halo around you as you curl up on one of the plush outdoor couches, completely engrossed in your snack.

For a brief moment, he hesitates, utterly captivated and not wanting to mar the picture of peace you present. The way that dress hugs your frame as you sit there, cozied up, bare legs folded beneath you on the couch—it amplifies everything he's been feeling.

Then, as if snapping from a trance, he decides—f*ck it. Whatever delicate balance he's been trying to maintain shatters, and he strides toward you, his footsteps soft against the wooden planks of the balcony.

"Mind if I join you?" he asks, his voice a blend of certainty and caution, as if he's both sure and unsure of his question.

The moment you look up, your eyes widen, as if you've been caught in some clandestine act. But the instant you recognize him, the tension in your face dissolves, replaced by a softening of your features, an almost palpable relaxation. It's as though your whole body exhales—a subtle, yet poignant, transformation that strikes him as utterly adorable.

"Oh, sorry," you say, "I thought you were one of my mom's friends. They're lovely, but talking to them is like being in a literature class—like, exhausting."

He can't help but laugh, the sound a low, comfortable rumble that punctuates the quiet of the balcony. "No worries," he replies. "It seems we're in the same boat."

You gesture to the plush seat next to the couch you're occupying. Taking you up on your offer, he sets his drink on the small outdoor table between you and lowers himself into the armchair.

In the ambient glow of the firelight, you're nothing short of enchanting. The thought crosses his mind that he could exist in this singular moment forever, captivated by the way you cozily nestle against a plush pillow, the allure of your bare legs pulling his gaze more than he should deem appropriate. This fleeting snapshot promises to etch itself into his consciousness, a vivid memory for days, months, even years to come.

As he grapples with a mix of admiration and a yearning so potent it borders on blatant desire, he's acutely aware of the complex new layer this evening adds to your relationship. Though he hasn't been a professor for long, he's fairly certain that most don't find themselves at their students' family Christmas parties, alone in a cozy backyard by the fire, even if the student's father happens to be an old best friend.

Your eyes, sparkling with genuine curiosity, lock onto his. "Why haven't you and my dad seen each other for so long? You were close, weren't you?"

For a moment, he's caught off guard—something he's not used to—but it's not unwelcome. Rather, the vulnerability in your voice elicits a desire within him to open up past simple pleasantries.

"Yes, we were," he replies, pausing to choose his next words. "Your father and I, we've been through a lot together—war does that to people. It forges bonds that are incredibly strong but also complex. Your dad and I, we saw things, knew things, did things that changed us. Not just how we related to others, but how we related to ourselves."

As he speaks, he can't help but notice the way you rest your head against the plush couch cushion, your eyes fixed on his, absorbing every word. It's a simple, unguarded moment, yet its sweetness amplifies everything else, as if locking this instance into a cherished memory.

He glances at the fire before meeting your eyes again. "War changes a person, scars them in ways that aren't always visible. In the aftermath, we all needed to find ourselves again. And in that time, your father decided his path lay within the Auror office at the Ministry. I, for one, needed to step away for a while."

His voice softens as he finishes, hoping that his answer bridges the gap of years and gives you some understanding of the complexity of choices and pathways that have led them all to this moment.

"Thank you for sharing that," you say, your eyes not just hearing but feeling each syllable he'd just offered. “I can only imagine what it was like.”

There’s a comfortable silence between you as he watches as a thoughtful, gentle smile crosses your lips. "What were my parents like back in the day?”

He chuckles, grateful for the lighter turn. "Ah, your parents. They were quite the pair, even back then. Your mother had this way of making any room her own the moment she walked into it—kind of like you, now that I think about it. And your father? He was a master of pranks. I remember this one time, he charmed a stack of parchment in the Auror office to shout out limericks whenever someone picked them up. Took us a week to find and uncharm them all."

The stories spill forth easily now, as if the years and the distance have done nothing to erode the richness of those memories. And with each tale, each laugh, the emotional tightrope he's been walking feels less like a perilous balance and more like a bridge—each step toward you more inevitable than the last.

"Everyone's been asking about you, you know," he says, swirling the remaining scotch in his glass. "Some of these folks haven't seen the so-called 'legendary' Aesop Sharp in nearly a decade, and the first question out of their mouths when they see me is about you."

He doesn’t mind the inquiries. How do you summarize someone so intricate, so full of layers and nuances, to people who haven't had the pleasure of really knowing you? It's like describing a sunset to someone who's only ever seen it in black and white.

"Well, you've been quite the talking point also," you reply, a smile touching the corners of your mouth. "I've been getting hounded all night. Another reason to be out here, I guess."

He looks at you, admiration filling his eyes. "Well, it's no wonder. You're extraordinarily talented. Smart, capable. The Auror Office won't know what hit them."

"Thanks," you murmur, your eyes lowering as you credit him with a contemplative undertone that diverges subtly from your earlier energy. The shift, though minor, captures his attention immediately, leading him to wonder what could be clouding your usually radiant mind.

He watches as your eyes glance at the scotch on the small table between his armchair and your couch. "Would you like a sip?" he offers.

The corners of your mouth lift in a half-smile, a subtle expression that suggests you’re pleasantly surprised by the offer. "Thanks. My mom would be… less than thrilled if she caught me getting yet another drink tonight," you say, bringing his glass to your lips. He can't help but find the moment amusing, a glimpse of rebellion amidst the evening's formalities.

"That's cute, but honestly, I can't imagine you wreaking havoc in the drinking department."

As the word "cute" slips from his lips, he's acutely aware of its weight, a subtle but intentional flirtation that lingers in the air between you like a spell. And how utterly satisfying it is to see it didn't go unnoticed. He watches as your cheeks flush and your eyes flicker, as if sifting through layers of meaning. Your lips part ever so slightly, suggesting that you're both caught off guard and intrigued, as if you've caught the hidden note in his voice and are wondering whether to play along.

"Excuse me?" you retort.

"No, really. Whether it's your size, your age, or your overall experience with spirits, your mother might be onto something." he jests.

"I'll have you know I can outdrink Cedric Diggory at the Three Broomsticks any day, so like, I beg to differ," you shoot back, your voice filled with a faux indignation that makes you all the more endearing.

This fire in your eyes is irresistibly familiar. It's the same incandescence you exude whenever Ben Hammond spouts nonsense during Auror training, the kind that leaves everyone else in a state of awed silence and then stifled laughter. Oh, how mesmerizing you are when you're this spirited—like a spell he never wants to break.

"Cedric Diggory, really?" he replies, his laughter resonating with genuine amusem*nt. “That’s your benchmark?” he teases as you sip from his drink.

He's almost awed by the duality he sees in you—your youthfulness, your vibrancy, yet tempered with a depth and complexity that belie your years. And he marvels at how you can be so utterly enchanting without even trying, how you make an act as mundane as sipping his scotch feel like a revelation.

"Think you can handle being my new benchmark?" you ask. There's a daring edge to your words, a challenge that invites him to rise to the occasion. It's as if you've thrown down the gauntlet, and the air between you crackles with electric potential.

"You're full of surprises," he finally says. And in that simple statement, loaded with so much more than its surface meaning, he silently acknowledges the magnetism in your feisty responses that makes him want to push the boundaries further, to see just how much this electric charge between you can grow. But then, you beat him to it. You brilliant thing.

As you lean forward, the firelight playing off your features, your eyes lock onto him with a magnetic intensity. "Grab me another drink, Sharp," you command.

The way you say it—so full of fire, so unabashedly forthright—strikes him as both endearing and undeniably sexy. The sheer audacity of your command leaves a smoky trail in the air, fueling his already ignited senses.

As his lips curl into a knowing smirk, a thought flashes through his mind like a spark in dry tinder: You might believe you're the one giving orders now, but oh, how he relishes the thought of turning the tables on you, of showing you just how thoroughly he can take control.

He rises from his seat and nods, a playful contradiction to his less-than-gentlemanly musings. Every step he takes toward the bar feels strategic, like a chess piece moving into position. He revels in the delicious tension of the intricate game that's only just beginning to unfold between you two.

Stealthily making his way back into the house, he deftly prepares a pair of fresh drinks and shots, all the while keeping a low profile to avoid drawing attention. Carrying two fresh drinks and a pair of shots, he steps back out onto the terrace—only to find the atmosphere entirely transformed.

You're now surrounded by a small circle of individuals who look like they've been plucked straight from an avant-garde art exhibition and placed in the armchairs and couches next to you. As he approaches, you catch his eye and offer a swift introduction to the group and shift subtly to make room beside you.

How long had he been gone?

His eyes narrow slightly as he sits down and takes them in—free spirits, intellectuals, artists perhaps; certainly not the sort you'd find in an Auror's office. Their flamboyant clothing clashes dramatically with his own tailored, conservative attire. Certainly friends of your mother's, he assumes, irked not by the contrast of personalities but by the invasion of your intimate space.

"Thanks for saving my spot," he mutters, his words laced with a dry humor as he lifts a shot glass in a solitary toast to himself. Annoyance flickers in him, but he does his best to keep it from his face.

You're clearly not fooled. Leaning back casually against the sofa, you've been watching his every move, his every micro-expression. You sit up a bit, your body subtly pressed against his back, the warmth of your breath grazing his neck as you lean in close enough so only he can hear your response.

"In a crowd like this, you have to stake your claim," you whisper, your voice imbued with a flirtatious lilt. Your eyes sparkle knowingly, leaving him no doubt that you're fully aware of the undercurrents at play.

It seems the game isn't over; it's just shifted to a new arena. And he's more than ready to play.

You lean even further forward, close enough for him to feel the contours of your chest against him. A thrill courses through him that makes him lean back into you ever so slightly. Your arm snakes past him to reach for the glass on the table and your other hand lightly grasps his elbow for support as you maneuver around him, using it as an anchor.

He glances downward, catching your eye in the process. The suspension of the intimacy remains thick, punctuated only by the sound of you knocking back your drink. The subtle dance between closeness and distance leaves him almost breathless, and as you lower your glass, a satisfied look washes over your face—the kind of look he suddenly realizes he'd very much like to be the cause of, in a myriad of other ways.

The thought is almost too much, tantalizingly vivid even, and it threatens to ignite the already smoldering tension into full-blown flame.

As the evening reaches a crescendo, the atmosphere both inside and out on the terrace pulses with boisterous energy. Laughter and shouts echo from the house, mirroring the unrestrained conversations taking place around the fire, accented by the occasional obscenity. Even someone's unbuttoned shirt laying on a nearby armchair contributes to this escalating sense of abandon. A few guests decide to send firebolts at each other out on the grass, ‘just for kicks.’

Amidst it all, he watches you—the sound of your laughter and the twinkle in your eyes revealing your genuine enjoyment. Realizing you're this happy dissipates any lingering annoyance he had felt about the interruption of your earlier intimacy; seeing you content brings him an unexpected sense of fulfillment.

Now leaning back against the couch, you appear engrossed in the spectacle unfolding before you, a sense of calm amid the surrounding raucousness. Your dress has subtly ridden up, and as your legs extend onto the coffee table's lower layer, his eyes are drawn magnetically to your exposed thighs. They shimmer beautifully in the firelight, a forbidden spectacle that sends a jolt of electricity surging through him each time they graze his leg.

His eyes find yours, and it seems he’s been caught—yet again. A knowing smirk dances on his lips as he takes another slow sip of his drink, mirroring your equally mischievous expression.

"Get us another drink, Sharp," you whisper, your voice once again a sultry blend of suggestion and command. For all the evening's twists and turns, the wild energy and impromptu socializing, it's this stolen moment—your legs almost touching, that electrifying eye contact—that captivates him the most.

He returns with drinks and settles back into his seat. You're leaning forward animatedly, engaged in a spirited discussion about books with a man named Lawrence. Your back is partially turned to him, allowing an unobstructed view of your bare shoulders and the dip of your waist. He's struck by their delicate contours, and the intimacy of the moment isn't lost on him; he's so close he could reach out and touch.

It seems Lawrence has said something particularly hilarious, as you launch your torso forward and the sound of you two cackling fills the spaces between the shouts and chaos happening on the lawn. Amid your laughter and guffaws from Lawrence, your hand finds its way to Sharp’s knee behind you, anchoring itself there as if it belongs.

He takes a moment to look around, sensing that everyone is engrossed in their own world of intoxication and revelry. No one seems to be watching, but he's keenly aware that the stakes are high; one wrong set of eyes catching this intimacy, and he'd be in a world of trouble.

Feeling sufficiently reassured, he leans back into the plushness of the couch, easing into a pose of deliberate casualness. His left hand cradles his drink near his thigh, fingers lightly gripping the glass. His right arm languidly drapes over the back of the sofa behind you, just enough to convey a sense of casual ownership. It's a posture that's nonchalant on the surface but charged with a subtle tension—a balancing act he's perfected over the years.

Every part of him seems poised for whatever comes next, yet he can't help but luxuriate in the warmth of your hand, a secret touch in a backyard full of distractions.

Sharp sits in silence, watching the drunken spectacle on the lawn. Eventually, Lawrence seems to sense that perhaps he's a third wheel in a two-person play. He appears to offer you a knowing glance before excusing himself. Sharp watches as he vanishes into the lively crowd, his absence soon mitigated by his sudden and rather handsy interaction with another artsy-looking man. Ah, the evening's entanglements continue to unfold.

Pivoting slightly, your dress slips a bit further down, exposing more of your shoulder. Your eyes cast back over the smooth, bare skin and lock onto his gaze. The glint in your eyes is unmistakably mischievous, sweetly softened by the haze of alcohol.

"Hey," you murmur, your voice a co*cktail of sugar and spice that dances through the air.

"Hey there," he echoes, his own eyes narrowing to match your flirtatious energy. "You seem to be giving me a run for my money in the drinking department tonight." He gestures over to the array of empty glasses in front of you two.

Your smile morphs into a sly, knowing grin as you lean back against the couch, taking care to position yourself so that his arm, still draped casually over the back of the sofa, now practically embraces you.

"I knew I would," you proclaim, the words charged with a captivating blend of self-assurance and playful banter. In that moment, he can't help but notice the flush in your cheeks—a clear, if charming, hallmark of your intoxication. The flirtatious lilt in your voice confirms that the night's alchemy of firelight, laughter, and alcohol has worked its magic on you both.

Suddenly, raucous laughter and excited shouts from the lawn capture everyone's attention. Apparently, someone's conjured floating orbs that release unpredictable bursts of wind, sending everyone's robes and hair flying about in comic disarray. It's the perfect blend of wizarding skill and slapstick humor, fire and smoke, enough to draw even the most inebriated of partygoers off the patio and into the game.

Seizing this opportune moment, you swing your legs onto his lap. He raises an eyebrow at you, questioning your audacity. Your response is a picture of innocence, a gentle shrug as you nurse your drink. It's a game of show and tell now, and while you're showing coy innocence –a mix of casual ease and deliberate intimacy– he's telling himself an entirely different story.

Leaning against the corner of the couch, you're turned towards him, effectively making your worlds shrink down to this charged space between you. The weight of your legs on his lap, the playful look in your eyes, and your endearing tipsiness have him contemplating all manner of indecorous thoughts.

For a man like him, fluent in the language of desire, your posture speaks volumes, and he listens intently to every unspoken word.

His voice drops to a sultry whisper, barely audible over the rambunctious laughter and spell-fueled antics unraveling on the lawn. He gestures toward Lawrence, who is now theatrically dueling wands with that other man, both clearly in high spirits. "Sorry I scared off your friend over there."

Aesop Sharp knows he's not sorry. Far from it, actually. And judging by the look in your eyes—half-lit by mischief, half by the firelight—you're well aware of it too.

"Oh, you think you're that intimidating?" you retort, your words tinged with flirtatious irony.

The intoxicating blend of alcohol and tension winds itself tightly around him, awakening a desire to show you just how 'intimidating' he can truly be. It's a dangerous thought, one that might slip from fantasy to reality if the night continues along this electrically charged path.

He leans back slightly, locking eyes with you as if daring you to raise the stakes. "I have my moments. I think Lawrence picked up on that."

"Or maybe he thought we'd have more interesting things to talk about," you counter, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

The fabric of your off-shoulder dress slips further down, exposing even more of your soft skin to the firelight's glow. Coupled with the fact that one wrong –or very right– move on your part could allow him the slightest glimpse of your cleavage, he could certainly think of a plethora of 'interesting things' he'd like to discuss. In fact, it's a challenge to keep his thoughts solely on the conversation.

"And are we? Having an interesting conversation?" His tone leaves little room for doubt; he's moving onto a playing field where he sets the rules, and the transformation is beguiling. His thoughts take a turn toward the predatory, his inner alpha aroused by the chemistry between you.

He watches your lips curl into a smile so undeniably seductive it borders on sinful. The things he would do – could do – to you. But he doesn't lean closer; instead, he holds his ground, unyielding, making it clear he expects you to come to him. Holding back takes a conscious, almost Herculean, effort on his part.

"You tell me," you purr, and the magnetic allure in your voice tugs at him—hard. It does nothing to relax his already twitching co*ck underneath your legs.

As if to punctuate your statement (or somehow read his mind), you bend one leg, placing your foot casually atop his thigh. The action causes your dress to inch further up your legs, and for a brief, electrifying moment, he's nearly convinced that a quick glance downward would reveal far more than you intend.

Then again, with the way you're looking at him, perhaps it's entirely intentional.

"Oh, I intend to," he murmurs, not breaking eye contact, not closing what remains of the gap between you. He remains in place, emanating a sense of command that he knows you can feel.

His thoughts lean downright dangerous, as he starts to imagine the raw, boundary-pushing exploits he'd love to delve into. The escalating stakes of this intimate tête-à-tête make him wonder just how far you're willing to go, and how far he can push.

With a daring glint in your eyes, you lean in and throw down that verbal gauntlet: "Well, what are you going to do about it?" Your face hovers agonizingly close to his, the challenge hanging between you. He takes a sharp inhale at your proximity. His eyes drift momentarily from your gaze down to your lips, as though pondering the many delicious ways he could answer your question.

A feral impulse surges within him, every instinct screaming at him to claim what’s so tantalizingly near. His thoughts pivot sharply into territory that's all daring and dominance. Yet he keeps that undercurrent of ferocity in check—barely. The game's afoot, and your daring expression asks, silently but potently, if he's man enough to play.

It finds its unspoken answer in the taut lines of his jaw, and the stiffness of his shoulders. You needn't ask; oh, he's more than man enough, and the very fiber of his being thrums with an eagerness to demonstrate just how profoundly he can tip this scale in his favor. As he narrows his gaze, there's a steely resolve in his stare that promises you'll both be winners tonight—or perhaps, you’ll find a different, more intoxicating kind of defeat.

In this bewitched bubble of time, the weight of the alcohol you've both consumed pulls at the corners of reality. His vision grows foggy, less precise—yet paradoxically, you remain in vivid focus. Ordinarily, this moment—intoxicated as you both are, and quite literally in your parents' backyard—would give him pause, but the moral lines blur just like the periphery of his sight. The spirits coursing through your veins are obvious: your gaze a little too intense, your blinks a fraction too slow, your mouth curved in a sinful grin that seems to extend an invitation he shouldn’t accept.

But then his mind drifts back to Knockturn Alley, where he’d found himself with his arms around you. The look you'd given him then was innocent, nothing like the intoxicating gaze that now locks onto his. The comparison tilts the scales, and the walls he'd erected around his self-control come crashing down.

His eyes burn with a razor sharp intensity that promises—no, demands—something far more exhilarating than just tipsy laughter and whispered banter. What happens next will cross lines, shatter boundaries, but he finds he no longer cares. At this point, the only thing worse than giving in would be the torment of forever wondering what could have been.

And then—cruelly, almost theatrically—the torment actualizes. The sound of the sliding glass door and your father's voice slices through the electric tension, as if some cosmic playwright had just yelled, "Cut!"

"Sharp?" Your father's voice calls out. He steps onto the patio with a drink in hand, a smile on his face, the remnant laughter in his tone suggesting he's been enjoying the party just as much as everyone else.

Little does he realize, he's just deflated a moment so electric it could have powered Diagon Alley for a week.

Startled, you remove your legs from Sharp’s lap with an alacrity that would make a Quidditch Seeker proud, bringing your drink to your lips as if you’ve been simply sipping it all evening. He catapults himself to the opposite end of the couch as if repelled by a magnetic force.

Sharp feels a blaze of frustrated rage course through him, paired with another, more physical aftershock that quite frankly makes standing up—especially in front of your father, at least—a questionable endeavor.

He glances down at the throbbing erection betraying his trousers and a rueful confirmation crosses his mind: Standing up is certainly not an option right now.

He pivots towards your dad with a grin that masks a whirlpool of unspoken tension and desire. "Fitz! Taking a break from raising hell, old man?"

"Ah, just checking on the chaos out here. Where have you been, man? Too afraid I’ll outdrink you tonight?"

It's as if the universe itself is mocking him.

As they engage in casual banter, Sharp sneaks a glance in your direction. Your eyes are averted, but he can tell you're doing your utmost not to look like a deer caught in wandlight. He wonders what you're feeling right now, what you're thinking, and whether your heart is racing as much as his is.

"We were just watching Mellie’s friends nearly blow each other up on the lawn. Don’t think they’ll be joining the Auror Office anytime soon.” He painstakingly turns to you, and smiles. “Told her a bit about the wild stuff we used to get up to as well."

"Never a dull moment back in the day.” Your dad chuckles, still blissfully oblivious to the sexual tension he's so unwittingly neutralized. “Come on, Sharp, I want to introduce you to some folks."

As your father leads him into the house and half heartedly apologizes for whisking your professor away from you, Sharp's eyes meet yours one final time. A world of 'what-ifs' and 'almosts' exists in that stolen glance. Then, in a moment that feels both swift and eternal, he steps into the throng of people inside the house, leaving you on the couch in what seems to be disarray.

As he slides the door closed behind him, you both can't help but wonder: what the f*ck just happened?

Chapter 14: the greatest sum

Chapter Text

the greatest sum - the avett brothers

https://open.spotify.com/track/6eNBrRWfcMcZsXSREdHz82?si=90ffb35ec04546a5

You wake to a pounding headache that feels like an anvil dropped on your temples—a brutal hangover that promises to be your cruel companion for the rest of the day. The softness beneath you confirms you're in your own bed, but disconcertingly, you're still clad in last night's party dress. Your eyes flick to the side of the bed where your heels are neatly placed, almost taunting you with their propriety.

Your hair is a chaotic mess of curls, unruly from last night's styling products. You can't stand sleeping with hairspray in your hair; the sticky texture always feels unbearable against your scalp, especially on nights when you're too warm. It's a discomfort that rivals the pounding headache now laying siege to your skull.

Blinded by the light that manages to pierce through a sliver in your heavy, closed curtains, you groan and lift the plush white comforter over your head, seeking sanctuary in its soft folds.

How did you even get into bed? You sift through your murky memories, piecing together the night. Preparations, mingling, your father rescuing you from Auror small talk, discussing literature with your mother's friends by the bar—all while indulging an unknown, but certainly irresponsible, number of shots with them. And then, the patio.

The image of Aesop Sharp looms in your mind, not just sitting across from you, but sitting dangerously close to you, his eyes simmering with a heat that had you flustered and captivated. You feel a jolt of shame at how recklessly you threw caution—and perhaps your reputation—to the wind. Had you really done that? Draping your legs over him, all while situated in the vulnerable openness of your parents' backyard? Had you really let yourself be that audacious?

It's a stark contrast to your memories of Snape, who always carried himself with such intense reserve.

Snape.

A pang of guilt runs through you, not just for your behavior but for entertaining thoughts of another man in a way you usually reserved for him.

Yet, that unresolved tension with Sharp still thrums beneath your skin, a current of electric desire. Your thoughts speed up, racing past the moment your heart sank when your father emerged, oblivious and spirited, pulling Sharp away just as something—something—was about to happen. The way Sharp looked back at you as he was led away fueled a sense of longing and frustration that lingers even now. It felt as though a warm blanket had been ripped off of you in the middle of a wintery night. The thought reignites that ember of unresolved tension in your body, making it smolder anew within you.

Amidst the haze of memories flicking through your mind, you remember the crowd around you casting fireballs and flicking flames at each other outside—fireworks in miniature that mirrored your own internal chaos.

Shell-shocked, bewildered, sexally frustrated and more than a little humiliated, you had sprinted back to the lawn, eyes scanning for your new friend Lawrence. Once found, you dragged him to the bar, both of you pummeling shots until the memories became vague.

It was a mad attempt to dilute what had just transpired, to drown out the weight of the 'almost' that had been so palpable between you and Sharp. You had given in to the reckless abandon, and now, the morning after, you're left to sift through the fragments of your brazen actions and their lingering, complicated feelings.

You recall your vision getting heavier, every blink a blurry transition. One moment, you're on the lawn; the next, you're stumbling in the hallway, feet struggling to remember how they work. The world sways, and you're seized with a vertigo that feels like the ground is tilting beneath you. And just when you think you'll topple over in the middle of the empty hallway just before the stairs, a figure comes into hazy view—Aesop Sharp.

Suspense curled around you like a spell as he steps closer. With every blink, he's more discernible, coming into focus even as the world blurs around him. He's so close you can almost sense the warmth emanating from him, almost feel arms that may or may not be his enveloping you. But then—darkness. You remember nothing more, leaving you in a state of bewildered curiosity, verging on dread, as you lay there contemplating the aftermath of last night.

f*ck , you mutter to yourself, a soft exhalation muffled by the cocoon of your comforter. The idea of leaving your bed is laughably impossible right now, not that you ever want to leave this room again. Let Snape come here for a visit, you muse childishly. You could hole up in this room for the rest of your life, never having to go back to Hogwarts, Goldhawk training, or face whatever disastrous impressions you left last night.

You can't believe that your relatively fresh situationship with Snape has already been sullied by this alcohol-fueled debacle. You were worried about the events at Knockturn Alley ruining things, but this? This is a new low. And to think that getting all over Sharp last night seemed like a tantalizingly good idea at the time.

But the more you think about it, the more you find yourself zeroing in on the finer details of last night—the flirty repartees, the almost imperceptible shifts in posture, the lingering touches that lasted just a fraction of a second too long. Your interactions with Sharp had an undeniable undercurrent, one that you might have been willing to explore given more time and fewer inhibitions. Was the alcohol really the culprit, you wonder, or did it simply accelerate what was already set into motion?

The thought doesn’t bring comfort. In fact, your stomach churns, leaving you unsure if it's a prelude to vomiting. After a half-hour of contemplation, pushing the guilt to the corners of your mind, you cautiously sit up. Your stomach protests, but you manage to find a semblance of stability and change into loungewear.

Descending the stairs is a triumph of willpower over physical incapacitation. As you pass through the living room, your eyes unwillingly lock onto the spot where you first conversed with Sharp. You pointedly avoid looking at the balcony. Nope nope nope.

Your intention was to make it to the kitchen for some coffee, but your body has other plans. Abandoning the mission, you collapse onto the living room couch, shutting your eyes tightly as though that will halt the room's persistent spinning. Nausea surges again, making your insides roil. You're in enough pain to fantasize about casting a killing curse on yourself. You can't even muster the energy to get up for a Gatorade or whatever other electrolyte-packed option that might be hidden somewhere in your kitchen. Your potion ingredients are also pitifully depleted, thanks to two Snape-less months during which you had no motivation to stock up for brewing.

You're not even sure what time it is, who else is awake, or even what dimension you're in at this point. Helpless, you lay there. Your fingers find a blanket on the couch, and even that small movement sends your stomach into a whirlpool of regret.

Never drinking again , you vow, as if willing it into existence will somehow make it true—or at least make the pounding in your head and the twisting in your gut relent, if only for a moment.

You're jolted back to consciousness by the sound of the sliding glass door and a rush of cool air. You must've fallen asleep, although you have no idea for how long. Pulling the blanket up above your head, you allow just your face to peek out while the rest of the fabric forms a kind of whimsical hood over your head. You keep your eyes firmly shut, no desire to meet the day just yet regardless of where you are.

Footsteps approach, and you recognize the cadence—your father. You hear him chuckle at your hungover vulnerability and quite possibly how ridiculous you look, and though you adore the man, the sound grates against your already frayed nerves like sandpaper.

"Rough night, huh?" he says, his tone one of amused empathy."It's a rite of passage, you know. Seems you had fun, and that's what matters.” Your eyes remain tightly closed, as if sealing them shut could also block out your father's well-meaning but ill-timed commentary. Words feel like an impossibility right now, too costly to even contemplate forming. “Next time, we’ll make sure you have enough water and food to balance it out."

You manage a noncommittal grunt, eyes still sealed shut, your body refusing to comply with even the most basic social courtesies due to the hangover.

Another chuckle resounds, but this time it's different, not your father's. Your eyes dart open, your vision swimming and cutting through the fog of your hangover for one disorienting moment. Before you stand two figures, both wearing knowing smirks that mirror each other perfectly: your father on one side and, to your mortification, Aesop Sharp on the other. The room might as well have spun around you.

"Dad!" you blurt out immediately following your moment of realization, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over you. You pull the blanket back over your head, retreating into your fabric sanctuary. "You didn’t mention Professor Sharp was here?"

"Sharp stayed the night; the party carried on well into the morning," your dad says, amusem*nt coloring his voice. "Had you been coherent enough to join us for breakfast, you would've known."

"Oh my God," you mutter to yourself, then after a pause, you add, a little more audibly but still muffled by the blanket, "Good morning, Professor Sharp."

You're beyond mortified. You're in a whole new dimension of embarrassed, and right now, the blanket feels like the only shield between you and the judgment of the universe—or at least the two amused men standing before you; your dad and his friend that you’re pretty certain you were moments away from hooking up with last night.

"Good morning," Sharp replies. Though his tone is even, the edges of his words soften, perhaps by the same mix of emotions you're feeling.

"What time is it?" you finally muster the courage to ask.

"Two in the afternoon," he states.

"Two? Holy—," you trail off, unable to complete the thought.

"Anyone for coffee?" your dad chimes in, unknowingly breaking the tension for a moment.

"Uh-huh," you add, grateful for any excuse that allows you to avoid making eye contact.

Your dad walks away, and you're left staring at the blanket, completely frozen. Is Sharp still there? The uncertainty gnaws at you until you can't take it anymore. Slowly, you pull the blanket off your head and attempt to tame your messy hair. When you finally look up, there he is—looking down at you with a complicated mix of pity, amusem*nt, and something you've never seen from him before: hesitancy. And the very fact that you're the cause of that hesitation makes you wish you could vanish on the spot.

Your eyes lock, the weight of last night hanging palpably in the air between you. He's casually dressed in a dark short-sleeve t-shirt and sweatpants—grey, of f*cking course they’re grey—and you're momentarily distracted by how normal he looks. Your mind can't help but drift to how he might have looked first thing in the morning, at breakfast with your dad, fully rested while you were lost in the throes of your hangover.

His eyes narrow as if he's about to speak. To address the elephant in the room, most likely. Part of you wants to just rip off the bandaid, but then you realize you're still sorting through your own tangled emotions. You notice that aside from the obvious hesitancy, he otherwise appears composed, almost as if he's been spending a leisurely morning in your backyard.

He takes a seat on the armrest of the couch, his presence filling the room even as he attempts to minimize it. His eyes meet yours briefly, his gaze not judgmental but speculative, as if trying to decipher an intricate rune. You’re acutely aware of how close he is, the warmth that emanates from him, the scent of his cologne mingling with the morning-after air. It's intoxicating and overwhelming, a sensory overload that makes your head spin for entirely different reasons than before.

Finally, he breaks the silence. "How's your head?"

You respond, trying to seem nonchalant, "It's...surviving, to put it mildly."

He shakes his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. "Well, I think it's safe to say you lost our little drinking competition."

You glare at him, the audacity of his joke breaking through your fog of discomfort. With as much energy as you can muster, you grab a nearby pillow and hurl it at him. The tension breaks, if only for a moment, and it's almost enough to make you forget the complicated web you've found yourself entangled in. Almost.

"We do need to talk about it, you know," he states, his voice softer now but still carrying that underlying edge of seriousness.

Your gaze shifts to the ceiling, a sinking feeling filling your gut. Of course, you do. But why does the thought make you want to apparate to another continent?

“Not now,” he amends, catching your sigh, “but soon.”

There’s also a subtle flicker of something else in his eyes—a vulnerability that takes you off guard. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, a clatter emanates from the kitchen. Your father's voice calls out jovially, "Who wants cream and sugar?"

You seize the momentary distraction, breaking eye contact and cozying under your blanket as though it were a cloak of invisibility. You can practically feel the pause, the shift in atmosphere. It's a fragile ceasefire, like holding your breath under water, knowing you’ll eventually have to resurface for air.

Finally, Sharp breaks the silence. "Black, please," he answers, his voice so calm it makes the tension almost unbearable. You can't help but wonder how he can maintain his composure so effortlessly, especially after last night.

"Make it two," you muster, your voice subdued but no less steady. You want, need, something to ground you, and the bitter simplicity of black coffee feels fitting.

"Two black coffees coming up," your father's voice echoes from the kitchen, heavy with a sort of paternal mirth that both endears and embarrasses you.

You look over at Sharp, your eyes meeting for a fleeting moment before you curl further into yourself under the blanket. “Did we… you know?” you hesitantly ask, still feeling the aftershocks of the hangover.

His shoulders tighten ever so slightly; his ankle is propped on his other thigh in a posture that looks relaxed but feels anything but. “No,” he answers succinctly.

"Did anything happen?" you press.

Before he can answer, your dad reappears, juggling a few mugs of coffee. He hands one to Sharp and sits by your feet, handing you another. Gratefully, you sit up, finding yourself sandwiched between the two of them.

"Today's going to be a long day," you muse, taking a sip of the hot beverage. The bitterness hits your tongue, but it's the sort of bitterness you welcome, one that brings you back to your senses. You almost smile, appreciating the irony.

Sharp nods subtly, taking a sip from his own mug. As he lowers it, your eyes catch a glimmer of something akin to understanding. No words are spoken, but in that brief moment, a mutual acknowledgement of the complex situation between you two seems to hang in the air.

"I bet it is. The rest of us have been up since 8," your dad chuckles, cutting through the weight of the silence. "Granted, we were also in bed by 4am." His eyes meet Sharp's, a glint of pride reflecting whatever exploits had unfolded the night before.

As the afternoon unfolds, your dad and Sharp regale you with tales that span from the ridiculous to the awe-inspiring. Amid a particularly animated recounting of last night's shenanigans, the room erupts into laughter, dissolving any lingering tension. Both men clearly at ease, their shared stories open a window into a life filled with high-stakes adventures and unintended follies. You can't help but relish this rare glimpse into their world—a realm of accidental fires in potion shops and heroic Auror missions.

Amidst the raucous storytelling, you find yourself steadying, a clarity settling over you, thanks to the hangover concoction Sharp had thoughtfully prepared. His casual demeanor and your dad's natural charm momentarily divert your attention from the unresolved tensions that have been simmering between you and Sharp. But you remain keenly aware of each time his eyes meet yours; his body language tightens ever so slightly, a subtle but unmistakable sign.

This nuanced shift keeps you pondering the emotional undercurrents that last night's almost-events have stirred. The lingering uncertainty between you and Sharp remains a puzzle yet to be solved.

Then comes the revelation: Sharp will be staying until the weekend, invited by your dad to extend their nostalgic journey. As this news settles in, a new layer of complexity adds itself to your thoughts. On one hand, the prospect of having Sharp around longer delights you, further opportunities for candid conversations and storytelling surely on the horizon. On the other hand, it also intensifies the looming necessity of confronting whatever it is that's building between you two.

Yet for now, in this moment, the dynamic among the three of you is strangely comforting. You appreciate the casual rapport, the familial sense of warmth that fills the room. Your dad and Sharp, guards lowered, offer you a rare chance to forge deeper connections over shared stories and laughter, even if future conversations promise to tread less comfortable ground.

When your mom arranges for lunch in the backyard, you settle into your usual spot on the couch by the backyard fire pit and conjure a warm fire. Sharp chooses an armchair nearby, intentionally avoiding the couch you both occupied just the night before. The setting is familiar, the fire is warm, and the camaraderie should be comforting. But as your eyes catch Sharp's, your cheeks flush, and the air grows palpably thick with remembrance. You can't help but revisit last night's almost-moment—his arm almost wrapped around you, your bare legs casually resting on his, and the charged instant where a kiss seemed almost inevitable but was interrupted with palpable a record scratch.

The afternoon sun lazily dapples the backyard as you, your parents, and Sharp indulge in relaxed conversation. The topic naturally meanders from the party to friends, and inevitably, the prestigious Goldhawk Auror training program. Sharp is in the midst of recounting your deft disarming of a hex-trap during a recent training mission, his eyes alight with pride.

"She practically rewrote the book on counter-hexes," he gushes. Your mother's eyes practically dance with delight, utterly charmed by his words.

But your dad, who alone knows your lack of interest in an Auror career, catches your eye with an empathetic glance. You give him a subtle nod, signaling that it's fine to let Sharp continue. However, your dad attempts to steer the conversation, asking, "And how is she doing in your Defense Against the Dark Arts class, Sharp?"

"Excellently, as you'd expect," Sharp replies with a grin. "She's had the most Dark Arts training in her entire grade." Your parents seem elated, nodding approvingly.

"How are you doing in your other courses?" your father ventures. His eyes meet yours, aware as he is of your real ambitions.

"They're good," you hesitate, feeling the weight of all eyes on you and wondering if you should take the lifeline your dad has thrown you to shift topics. You decide to grasp it. "I've also been working on some extracurricular potions with Snape. It's all advanced, outside-of-the-curriculum stuff. It’s like, really cool, it’s more intensive this year than last year’s."

It feels almost sacrilegious to bring up Snape while sitting on this couch, in this intimate setting that still holds the imprints of last night's almost-moments with Sharp. But maybe it's a necessary pivot. Sharp grows quieter, his attentiveness seeming to wane as your dad delves deeper into your supposed collaboration with Snape.

A subtle twinge of hurt passes through you at his silence, but you can't fault him. You know the conversation about last night, about what you and Sharp are to each other, looms in the future. Whether discussing your potions projects will soften the eventual revelations, you're not certain. But for now, it fills the space, adding another layer to an already complicated relationship of feelings and expectations.

As the conversation turns, your mother pipes up. "And your other classes?" she asks, genuinely interested.

Before you can answer, Sharp takes the floor once more. "I heard from McGonagall the other day, actually," he begins, a smile forming on his lips. "She couldn't stop praising her skills in Transfiguration. Said she's one of the best she's had in years."

Your parents beam with pride, clearly smitten by Sharp's tales about you. While it's heartwarming to hear such high praise and watch them hanging onto his every word. Yet, for you, maintaining the facade starts to feel like a weight, gradually wearing you down.

"I'll be right back," you finally murmur, excusing yourself under the pretext of needing to freshen up—which is only half untrue. Despite the casual claw clip holding your hair, it's clear to everyone you still bear the remnants of bedhead, and the pajamas you're wearing are a dead giveaway you haven't properly begun your day.

You ascend the stairs to your room, your steps slow and heavy, a manifestation of the weight of the guilt you feel. As you place one foot ahead of another, a haunting sentence from the past fills your consciousness: " You leave a part of yourself here, with me. As I do with you." Snape's words—imbued with unspoken promises, untold stories—wrench at your heart, because they seem so at odds with what has transpired since you returned home.

The recollection is as vivid as a freshly-developed photograph, the delicate tracing of emotion and openness painting a vivid piece of art in your mind. The bittersweet pang of it all is almost too much to bear as you remember the lingering kiss that felt like both an ending and a beginning. And now? Now, you are simply entangled, confused, and awash in a sea of unresolved emotions.

Now, you find yourself in a world of 'almosts'—an unsettling purgatory between what is and what could be. With Snape, you had almost fully stepped into a new chapter, a new understanding of each other that transcended mentor and student. But that 'almost' had been paused for winter break, left hanging in the delicate balance of time and distance. And then came Sharp, another 'almost,' his lips almost meeting yours just last night on that couch in your backyard, setting off a different but equally complicated set of possibilities and regrets.

In a twisted way, you feel like you've betrayed Snape, even though the two of you were never formally anything—yet another 'almost .' You were supposed to leave a part of yourself with him at Hogwarts, a promise made without words, yet here you are, sitting on the precipice of another life-altering moment, another transformative conversation with someone else. The complexity of your feelings for Snape becomes an accusing backdrop to the emotional confusion you now share with Sharp. And so, you feel torn, as if straddling two diverging paths while being unable to fully commit to either.

Upon reaching your room, you find that the house elves have made your bed, the linens stretched taut and crisp, glowing softly in the afternoon light streaming in from your window. As if on cue, one of them extends a package toward you, wrapped in matte black paper with a shimmering gold ribbon.

"An owl arrived for you last evening, Miss. We thought best to keep the package safe until you were, ah, more clear-headed. Wishing you a pleasant afternoon and kindly rest before dinner," the elf says, offering a deferential smile before scurrying off to its next task.

Curiosity piqued, you sit on the edge of your meticulously made bed and carefully peel away the wrapping. It's a book—a work by F. Scott Fitzgerald, no less. The book in your hands is truly a masterpiece of its own—a special edition of 'Tender Is the Night' that speaks volumes of thoughtfulness. The leather-bound cover feels supple yet enduring beneath your fingers, aged just enough to carry an air of dignified wisdom.

You begin flipping through the book – the edges of the pages are gilded in a soft, shimmering gold that catches the afternoon light streaming through your window. The text inside is set in a typeface that harkens back to the era of Fitzgerald, lending each word an added layer of gravitas. Tucked within the pages is a card. Unfolding it, you recognize Snape's handwriting instantly—a stylized, almost old-world cursive that adds a layer of intimacy to the written word.

"You're the only girl I've seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming.”

Merry Christmas.

-S

As you sit there, holding the book and the handwritten card, your heart feels as though it's pulsing to an entirely new rhythm—a beat set in motion by Snape's sentiments. The quote from the book makes you wonder just how much time he must've spent picking it out, parsing through Fitzgerald's words to find the line that would echo the loudest in your soul. This coming from a man who has often derided the "sentimentality and frivolity" of such authors.

Yet, here it is—a concession, an uncharacteristic dip into the world of romantic literature (or, rather, "trivial romanticism," as Snape would snarkily put it), made all the more touching because it's so uncharacteristically him.

As you flip through the book, your fingertips lingering on the gilded edges of the pages, you can almost picture Snape in some dark, secluded bookstore. You imagine him rolling his eyes at himself for even considering a Fitzgerald book, scrutinizing the titles, weighing the implications of each choice, and ultimately selecting this one—special edition and all. A bemused smile touches your lips at the thought.

For a moment, the confusion, the ambiguity, the "almosts" that have characterized your recent days seem to fade into insignificance. Your heart feels full, saturated with a rich emotional hue that makes it difficult to even cast a wayward thought in Sharp's direction.

And then comes a new flurry of thoughts, a surge of urgency you hadn't expected. What on earth could you possibly give Snape in return? How do you reciprocate a gift that feels so carefully curated, so deeply personal? Your eyes dart around your room as if it might offer some inspiration, some guidance on how to traverse the emotional labyrinth that is Severus Snape.

Yet, even as questions spiral through your mind, the book on your lap serves as a grounding force, a point of luminous clarity amid the fog of uncertainty. Whatever else lies ahead, this much is true: You're entangled in something far beyond the ordinary, a connection laden with complexities and enigmas, but also a singular, undeniable beauty. And for now, that thought alone fills you with a sense of completeness that you didn't know you needed.

After immersing yourself in the captivating world of 'Tender Is the Night,' a gift whose sentimental weight still leaves your heart in a flutter, you find yourself summoned downstairs for dinner. Slipping into a charcoal grey V-neck sweater adorned with intricate white lace detailing along the back, paired with form-fitting leggings, you make your way down to join your family and Sharp for the evening's repast.

Before descending, you take a moment to send an owl to Snape, thanking him for the sweet gift and inquiring if you'll be crossing paths soon. Wishing him a Merry Christmas, you attach the note to the owl's leg and send it off into the evening sky. The presence of the gift adds another layer of complexity to what you are—or aren't—with Snape, leaving you with a blend of anticipation and uncertainty as you join the others for dinner.

Dinner is an engaging affair. Your parents steer clear of any Auror discussions, much to your relief. Still, your father couldn't resist asking about your recent visit to Knockturn Alley. For the briefest moment, you and Sharp exchange a tense glance. That trip had its charged moments, particularly Sharp's occasional hand on your lower back as you navigated the shadowy corners of the area's more clandestine stores. However, Sharp takes the lead in responding, glossing over any uncomfortable details. You're grateful, playing along effortlessly despite the turmoil still clouding your thoughts.

As the dinner conversation ebbs and flows around you, your thoughts inevitably drift back to the leather-bound gift on your bedside table. The few hours you spent engrossed in its pages revealed a narrative filled with intricate characters, each grappling with their internal struggles and societal complexities. It leaves you wondering, why did Snape choose this particular book for you? The exploration of fractured identities and the weight of societal expectations in the novel resonate so deeply with your own life.

This ambiguity churns a whirlpool of speculation in your already unsettled mind. It recalls the murmur of rumors about Snape's allegiances that you heard just a few months ago within Hogwarts' walls. There had been a moment, however fleeting, when you questioned the veracity of those dark, speculative tales. Now, you wonder: is this book a glimpse into Snape's enigmatic world, or is it a reflection of your own complicated life?

As you consider these thoughts, the novel's themes of identity and societal pressure gain new significance. They stir your curiosity about whether Snape, too, contends with similar dilemmas. It's as though he's handed you a puzzle with no definitive edges, inviting you to sift through the pieces. Your heart beats a little faster at the thought that he might have chosen it to communicate something he couldn't say out loud. Yet, you embrace the uncertainty, recognizing it as another layer of the complex magnetism that seems to draw you closer to him—an attraction you're increasingly unwilling to resist.

Snapping back to the present,you linger at the table just long enough to enjoy a decadent dessert—Mille-Feuille with layers of delicate puff pastry, interlaced with rich Madagascar vanilla cream. Then, excusing yourself under the guise of fatigue, which isn't entirely untrue given last night's indulgences, you retreat back to your room.

Allowing Sharp and your parents to continue their evening without you feels like the safest option. Ascending the stairs, you're already anticipating the comfort of re-immersing yourself in Fitzgerald's world—a world that now feels indelibly linked to the enigmatic man who has so fully captured your imagination.

In the soft glow of the living room, Aesop Sharp allows the aged whiskey to dance in his glass, creating ripples that catch the light. The atmosphere is one of genteel comfort: dark wood paneling, plush armchairs, dark green everywhere, and a smattering of fine art that lends the room an air of subtle sophistication. It's very much a setting that screams your parents – from the array of esoteric books on the mahogany shelves to the discreet hints of magic in the decor.

When your father had extended the invitation to stay at the estate for a few days over break, Sharp's acceptance was immediate. The gesture struck him as genuinely Fitz-like—gracious, open-hearted, almost effortlessly urbane. It also presented him with an irresistible opportunity: proximity to you.

Across from him, Fitz is discussing how you've secluded yourself with a book since the afternoon. The information deepens Sharp's intrigue. It's as if every day brings forth a new layer of you: the books you read, the attire you choose when you're relaxed at home, your tolerance for alcohol, even the subtle way your eyes shift from playful flirtation to unabashed desire.

And, not to be forgotten, that moment of pure, unadulterated shock, crystallized in your widened eyes and parted lips when your father interrupted what could have been a pivotal moment for both of you.

After Fitz had made all the necessary introductions –which were, in Sharp’s mind, not at all necessary– last night, he raced to the backyard, to reclaim the tension-soaked moment that was left unresolved between you. Unsure of what action he would take once he found you, he deftly wove between clusters of chattering guests, unintentionally stumbling upon a couple from the Auror office locked in an intimate embrace.

Mildly annoyed, he carried on, finally spotting you in the secluded hallway behind the kitchen. You were unsteadily swaying, your balance compromised by the evening's festivities. In that instant, his intentions became crystal clear: he would pull you into his arms and kiss you, f*ck the consequences. Casting a swift glance around to ensure you were unobserved, he took a determined step towards you. Just then, as if guided by fate's fickle hand, you staggered directly into his arms and blacked out.

Static reverberated in his mind as he held you, his muscles tensed, laden with the weight of what could have, should have, been. Casting aside all hesitation, he lifted you effortlessly, his arms cradling your body as you nuzzled up against him as he navigated his way to your bedroom. The last thing he needed was to be seen carrying you, a student, in such a compromising position.

Laying you gently onto your bed, he couldn't help but marvel at how you instinctively curled up, immediately seeking the comfort of your pillows even in your semi-conscious state. Your face was a portrait of serene innocence. Taking a moment to unbuckle your heels, he set them neatly beside your bed. As he looked at you one final time, a poignant mix of emotions washed over him: regret, desire, and a vague sense of impending complexity that he couldn't quite name.

Silently exiting your room, he rejoined the party, his thoughts lingering on the near-kiss, on the tendrils of electricity that still hummed along his skin.

Your fathers voice brings him back into reality.

"She's a keen reader, that one. Definitely didn’t get that from me," your father chuckles, then pauses, looking at him intently. "Has she… spoken to you yet?” Fitz takes a slow, deliberate sip of his whiskey before setting the glass back down on the table. The amber liquid shimmers in the room's dim light, mirroring the older man's thoughtful gaze.

Sharp feels the temperature in the room shift, as though the atmosphere has condensed, funneling its focus onto this very moment. "About what?" he inquires.

"About her plans after graduation," Fitz says, his voice softening as he leans forward in his chair, creating a sense of intimacy and slight gravity.

A brief sigh of relief leaves Sharp, quickly replaced by a furrow in his brow. "What's there to discuss?" he asks, his tone tinged with confusion.

Your father exhales, hesitating momentarily as he chooses his words with care. "Well, you know… She's had a longstanding interest in potions." he says casually. "She's exceptional at it. Always has been."

The words are gentle, almost tentative, as though Fitz is easing into a subject he knows could be fraught. It's clear he's attempting to bridge the gap between expectation and reality, one syllable at a time.

"I knew she’s the top potions student in her year. But, Goldhawk–she's on the fast track to becoming an Auror.” he watches Fitz’s face for any sign of confession. “You’re saying she doesn’t want to take it?"

“She enrolled in the program because of me,” your father confesses, exhaling slowly. "I know she's done remarkably well there, and… I had hoped it might sway her. But that… I don’t think that’s where her heart is."

Sharp's own heart descends like a stone in water as Fitz's words wash over him, though he manages to maintain a stoic exterior. A wave of disappointment festers within him, mingling with an undercurrent of confusion and frustration. He's been privy to your exceptional skills, your natural aptitude for leadership and strategy. The path he envisioned for you seemed so clear, so predestined. Now here is Fitz—your father, someone who should be a fellow champion of the Auror route—saying what Sharp feared but hadn't allowed himself to fully contemplate. The new revelation feels like a fissure in a carefully constructed future.

"That's a waste of her talents," Sharp retorts, his words tinged with vexation and disbelief. The entire topic has churned up a whirlpool of emotions and implications that leave him grasping for language. "She's brilliant, resourceful, good head on her shoulders…" he says, his voice steady but his thoughts awash. "Her talents could bring about meaningful change, in ways that perhaps we never could."

Behind each carefully chosen word is an unvoiced admission of the chance for collective redemption. For Sharp, it's not just about a job or a career. It's about the hope that your unique skills and moral integrity could provide a counter-narrative to their own complicated histories.

He continues, almost as if trying to persuade both Fitz and himself. “It's not just about her, it's about something greater. She has the potential to redefine the Auror Office. The good she could do..."

Fitz finally speaks, breaking the silence. "I understand, Sharp. I do. I had the same hopes initially, but I've seen how passionate she is about potions, how...happy it makes her. It's her calling."

The pause that follows feels heavy, pregnant with unspoken layers of meaning. The thought of you diverging from what he considered to be an almost sacred mission leaves him internally unsettled, almost as if a cornerstone of his future visions has been yanked away. He looks to Fitz, eager for some semblance of shared urgency, of collective understanding that he too sees the gravity of your potential—until your father casually breaks the silence with words that make Sharp's stomach drop.

Fitz leans back, relaxed in his armchair, swirling his whiskey. "Severus is even helping her out."

The name "Severus" jabs at Sharp like an invisible thorn. " Snape's moral fiber leaves much to be desired," he scoffs, disdain dripping from every word. "A Death Eater, how inspiring for the next generation.”

Fitz raises an eyebrow. "Don't you remember his trial?"

The question throws Sharp back into a chamber of memories he'd rather have kept locked away—Snape's trial. The atmosphere in the courtroom had been electric, crackling with skepticism and disbelief. Sharp remembers how every pair of eyes had been riveted on Snape, a young wizard carrying the weight of charges that would have buried most men in Azkaban's deepest pits. The dirty details of Snape's dark history were laid bare for all to see.

The entire courtroom had hung on a precipice, swaying this way and that with each new revelation. Testimonies came in like a torrent, each one adding a new layer of complexity to a case that seemed irrevocably damning. Then, the unimaginable happened: Snape was acquitted. His supposed double agency had tipped the scales, and a gasp—a collective inhalation of shock—swept through the chamber like a whirlwind.

Sharp had been jarred, his sense of justice unsettled, bordering on betrayal. For him, the verdict did little to exonerate Snape's past transgressions, and did little to wash away the indelible marks left by his crimes. His loathing for Snape rooted itself deeper that day, watered by his irreconcilable disbelief in Snape's alleged transformation. For Sharp, a Death Eater was forever tainted; no last-minute acts of bravery could erase years of nefarious deeds.

Every time Snape's name surfaces, it reignites a smoldering bed of coals within Sharp, each ember a testament to his undying distrust and disdain for the man. The very fact that you're associated with Snape has been a splinter in Sharp's consciousness, an incessant irritant every time he thinks of you—an individual he otherwise holds in high esteem. When he first discovered your closeness with Snape, his internal world erupted in a tempest of indignation and concern. He had paced, fumed, and ultimately bit back the urge to intervene, consoling himself with the belief that at least your father, Fitz, would share his reservations.

But now, sitting across from Fitz who seems to display an unsettling level of nonchalance about Snape's involvement in your life, that thin thread of consolation snaps. The older man's apparent indifference acts like fuel to the already roaring fire of Sharp's skepticism and disapproval.

"Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, as far as I'm concerned," he reaffirms, his words edged with a newfound layer of disbelief and vexation. He empties his whiskey glass, setting it down a bit harder than necessary.

"The man risked his life as a double agent. Doesn't that merit some consideration?"

"Risking one's life does not automatically cleanse a soul stained by years of malevolence," Sharp counters, his skepticism impenetrable as ever. "The trial revealed many things, but let's not forget it also exposed his transgressions—participation in the dissemination of dark arts, his zealous persecution of Muggle-borns, his unnervingly close advisory role to the Dark Lord himself…"

As Sharp enumerates these offenses, he realizes they merely skim the surface of a much darker iceberg. There's so much more he could say, and each additional crime that comes to mind only serves to fuel his mounting resentment. The unspoken list grows in his mind, each item exacerbating his indignation.

Fitz leans forward slightly, his expression sobering. "He was a double agent , Sharp. His information saved lives. Many of those saved were on our side. Don't those actions count for anything?"

"Count for what? A lifetime pass?" Sharp retorts, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. "How do we know he didn't feed false information to both sides to save his ass? That's the problem with these double agents, Fitz—loyalty is a currency, easily traded."

Fitz sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off an impending headache. " Severus Snape went through veritaserum questioning, wand core analysis, even the scrutiny of legilimency by experts during the trial. You and I were sitting right there when Dumbledore gave his testimony. The judicial system found him innocent of ongoing malevolent intent. Severus Snape, in the eyes of the Ministry, is a changed man."

Sharp is still unyielding, the memory of the trial continuing to haunt him like an incessant echo. "The system has been wrong before. How easily people forget. The man's fingerprints are all over some of the darkest days in wizarding history!"

"Severus has changed," Fitz asserts, locking eyes with Sharp. "If this brings her joy, then who are we to intervene?" His gaze is tinged with a finality that rarely colors his voice, a gravity that harks back to their shared days as Aurors, when that same look would steer Sharp back from crossing lines.

"She could do what we couldn't," Sharp concedes, a tinge of defeat in his voice.

"And who says she can't? But you can't claim to believe in redemption for us without extending that same belief to Snape," Fitz responds, his tone rising ever so slightly.

"She could do so much more," Sharp insists, as if trying to convince himself.

"And what if 'more' is defined by what fulfills her soul, not by what absolves our pasts?" Fitz replies softly, but with a piercing clarity. "You can't seek vicarious redemption through her, Sharp. Redemption is a personal journey, not a generational mandate."

As Sharp retakes his seat beside your father, the air around him feels as if it's thickened, weighted down by the newfound revelations coursing through him. While your father enthusiastically praises your mother's latest achievements, the words barely register in his consciousness.

Fitz's utterances, once mellifluous, now clash dissonantly in Sharp's mind, each syllable grating against his thoughts like abrasive grit on velvet. The discord jars him, pulling him further into the labyrinth of his own introspections.

What if your father has held back, hasn't spilled the full inkwell of Snape's history to you? Should he be the one to unfurl that narrative, to reveal the shadowy corners of a story you've only seen in partial light?

This itch of a thought grows into a nagging fixation, its intensity ratcheting up with each tick of the clock. It seizes him, drowning out all other considerations, until the weight of the decision he's contemplating becomes almost palpable, like a stone lodged in his chest.

He recalls the moments you two have shared—the whispered conversations in dimly lit corridors, the way you would question and challenge him in the classroom, the stolen instants in the restricted section of the library. That time you leaned over his shoulder, your breath feathering against the nape of his neck as you both peered at some arcane text. Your goddamn sex eyes flickering at him in the firelight as if he were the only thing that could satiate you.

Did you share similar, intimate moments with Snape? The very thought rankles him. It infuriates him that he could be paralleled with Snape in your life—someone so undeserving of you.

A fervent sense of protectiveness mingles with an unexpected surge of assertiveness, as if some dormant aspect of him has been awakened. It crystallizes into a compelling conviction: You deserve to know. You deserve the full story, unvarnished and unfettered.

It's in your best interest, he convinces himself. He should protect you, yes, but not from the truth—never from the truth. Not by cloaking you in ignorance. In the labyrinth of his mind, guarding you from the truth becomes tantamount to betrayal.

No, the truth would be his armor, and he would wield it, no matter how jagged or unyielding it might be.

He assures himself, the thought wrapping around his consciousness like a sacred vow. This is no longer just about redemption; it's about laying the cards on the table, about owning up to truths, unpalatable as they may be. And maybe, just maybe, in navigating these complicated corridors of honesty, both of you might find something resembling redemption, or at least, understanding.

Clutching "Tender is the Night" to your chest, you pad softly down the stairs, seeking the comfort of a late-night snack. The house is quiet, save for the ticking of the clock on the wall that reads just past one in the morning. Your steps slow as you reach the foot of the stairs and you notice the closed door to your parents' room—indicating their evening has concluded. But what truly arrests your attention is the figure sprawled on the living room couch.

Sharp sits there, a solitary figure enveloped in the dim glow of ambient light, seemingly lost within the amber depths of a whiskey glass. His back to you, his shoulders bear a weight that looks heavier than any physical burden. It's a posture of deep contemplation or maybe quiet despair. You stop in your tracks, teetering on the edge of indecision. Part of you wants to retreat, to dodge the awkward confrontation that seems almost inevitable.

But the last few hours you spent reading, ensconced in the solitude of your room, has lent you a certain clarity, a readiness to confront the elephant in the room. You're weary of circumventing this emotional landmine; it's time to defuse it before it taints everything else. You know you can't keep avoiding it.

Fortifying yourself with a deep breath, you resolve to push through the awkwardness. Taking those final steps into the living room, you softly call out, "Hey," as you approach him. The word slices through the silence, laden with all the questions you've yet to ask and the answers you're uncertain you want to hear.

As he looks up at you, his eyes seem to be a mix of emotions—a flicker of anger, a glimmer of sadness, and a persistent undercurrent of skepticism. For a moment, you waver, vulnerably wondering if you've made a mistake by venturing into this charged atmosphere. It's as if his eyes are dissecting your very intentions, weighing your presence in a space already dense with tension. You wait for him to say something –anything– yet he remains silent.

Okay then.

You move to the kitchen and return with a light snack. Just when you're about to consider this a lost cause and head back upstairs, his eyes catch yours, and for the first time, you see something that resembles a quiet plea in them. You're pulled into a moment of hesitation, standing at the edge of an unspoken chasm that his eyes are begging you to cross.

Suddenly, there's a subtle, yet deliberate, shift in his posture. He slides a fraction to his right, almost imperceptibly, but it's his next action that speaks volumes: his left arm extends, casually draping itself along the backrest of the couch. Though a small act, it's laden with unspoken meaning—a tacit invitation, a silent beckoning for you to sit beside him.Yet, buried within the labyrinth of his gaze, you detect a glimmer of yearning—an unvoiced plea—that adds another layer of complexity to this fraught atmosphere.

You take a deep breath, stepping over the invisible line that separates the two of you, and take the seat beside him. As you sit, his arm remains stretched across the back of the couch, almost encircling you—a gesture that emanates both protection and proximity. With a hesitance that slowly fades, you lean into the curve of his arm, allowing yourself to find comfort in the warmth of his nearness. Your legs stretch out gracefully across the couch, every muscle relaxed as you pull a velvety blanket up to your waist, encasing your limbs in its soft embrace.

Right now, you push away any thoughts of what this all means, especially where it concerns Snape. If Sharp isn't ready to discuss whatever tension has been building between you two, then why should you burden the moment with implications? For now, you let yourself simply be, existing within this pocket of peace beside him.

Nestled against him, you gently crack open the pages of "Tender is the Night," surrendering to the spell of its poetic tapestry. The room around you fades into a dreamy haze, and for a time, all that exists are the captivating worlds conjured up by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

After what feels like an eternity, Sharp takes a final, deliberate sip of his whiskey, draining the glass completely. Slowly, almost reverently, he lowers the glass, letting it come to rest in his lap as though it's a relic of the moment—something fragile that needs preserving. With a subtle shift, he reclines against the plush cushion at his back, allowing his eyes to gently close. It's an act that could signify either a resigned surrender or a muted form of acceptance.

As the clock hands pursue their path around the dial, time seems to yield, if only briefly, suspending you both in an ephemeral stillness. The texture of the moment—the closeness, the warmth—writes its own silent dialogue, filling the room with a palpable sense of understanding.

It's a comforting hush—a sanctuary where you both find reprieve, each cocooned within your individual maelstroms of thought.

Chapter 15: cinnamon girl

Chapter Text

There's things I wanna say to you
But I'll just let you live
Like if you hold me without hurting me
You'll be the first who ever did
There's things I wanna talk about
But better not to give
But if you hold me without hurting me
You'll be the first who ever did

cinnamon girl - lana del rey

https://open.spotify.com/track/2mdEsXPu8ZmkHRRtAdC09e?si=a001385149764f9b

The next two days felt like they were stitched together from diaphanous threads of comfort and curiosity. They unfolded in an almost surreal balance of normalcy woven with a looming tension that both you and Sharp, well, avoided. Discussions about Auror activities and magical theory became the hearth around which you, Sharp and your father gathered, a safe zone that helped to diffuse the awkwardness that lingered like a thin fog.

Sharp would often sit in the same room, alternating between his own reading and engaging in the conversations that arose naturally between you and your father. Even when you found yourselves alone, conversations flowed in a borderline normal cadence, each topic serving as a fragile truce between the two of you.

Perhaps this tentative ease could be attributed to what happened—or almost happened—the other night.

On this particular night, you lost yourself in the evocative prose of "Tender Is the Night”. For nearly two hours, you existed in your own little world, a literary sanctuary, while Sharp slumbered peacefully beside you.

When his breathing finally deepened into the steady rhythms of sleep, you sensed a subtle shift. His arm, once casually draped over the back of the couch, fell to rest gently on your side. Like a magnet, his hand gently found its home on your hip, pulling you subtly yet securely closer to him. In that moment, you let go of any lingering hesitations and simply existed—in his embrace, unburdened and content. Though, you couldn't escape the sense of yearning curled around your heart.

In that hushed moment, you didn't dare dissect what this closeness with Sharp meant for you, or how it complicated the already intricate dance between Snape and yourself. It felt as if you had stepped into another world—a safe haven where the regular rules of your heart and interpersonal relationships didn't apply. And so, you allowed yourself this serenity, this simple intimacy.

At least, that's what you told yourself as you cast aside any flicker of guilt.

You convinced yourself that this moment was confined to the couch, to the hushed hours of this particular night. It was a fragment of time to be cherished, then gently tucked away, not to spill into the light of the following day. The moment simply was—singular, isolated, to be left precisely where it unfolded.

You can go, but know this—you leave a part of yourself here, with me. As I do with you.

Snape’s voice seemed to float in your consciousness, paradoxically haunting and reassuring in equal measure. His presence seemed to reach you even here, across the miles and experiences. The words were imbued with a promise, a tacit claim over some uncharted part of your soul. It was a pull to return, an invisible tether that made separation seem like a temporary state.

By contrast, you felt the need to confine that moment with Sharp on the couch to its time and place—to leave it there and not carry it forward. You wanted the moment with Sharp to be a fleeting one, disconnected from the tapestry of your life, but the emotional imprint was hard to shake off. Could you really leave pieces of yourself scattered in such disparate directions? The contrast gnawed at you, creating a mix of longing and restraint.

Finally, around 3 or 4 AM, when your eyes could no longer bear the strain, you closed the book and sighed softly, inadvertently rousing Sharp from his slumber. As his eyes flickered open, they were clouded with the drowsy confusion that sleep brings—a softer, more vulnerable version of the man you'd become accustomed to these past few days. Then his gaze met yours, and the fog lifted. What replaced it was a look of unmistakable adoration, an unspoken recognition that laced his eyes with warmth. It was a silence that sang between you, speaking volumes where words would have fallen short.

He rose from the couch, stretching his arms languidly above his head. His dark v-neck rode up, unveiling a brief but tantalizing expanse of skin. You indulged your eyes in the sight before you—the stretch of his muscles, the casual allure of his outfit, the relaxed set of his posture. The gray sweatpants he wore defined his form in a way that your eyes couldn't help but appreciate.

And, if you were truly going to encase this moment in the past, then you might as well savor it. Your eyes roamed over the silhouette highlighted beneath the gray fabric, the ridge and its contours leaving little to the imagination.

With a graceful, unspoken invitation, he extended his hand toward you. You balanced the book under one arm and delicately placed your hand in his. The movements felt less like a choreographed routine and more like a fluid dance, one you were learning the steps to in real time. This unspoken communication, these stolen moments—they wouldn't seep into tomorrow, you promised yourself.

As you both silently scaled the staircase, each step seemed to resonate in the stillness, echoing in the corridor of the moment you were leaving behind. When you reached the threshold of your respective bedrooms, a charged tension materialized. His guest room was just adjacent to yours, and you couldn't help but wonder what this lingering magnetism meant. Could it really just be chalked up to late-night musings and exhaustion?

Pausing at your bedroom door, you both hesitated. It's as if you were both suspended in a moment of indecision, each acutely aware of the other's presence. You lingered there, an invisible string of unfinished business tugging at both of you. Clearly, something more remained to be said or done; there was a gnawing sensation that this interaction, this chapter between you, is far from closed.

However, your eyes met and the shared "Goodnight" was whispered more through the atmosphere than your lips. The second you crossed into your sanctuary, you felt as though you had both severed and sustained a lifeline. That thread of yearning seemed to connect you still, humming with the ache for something deeper—be it connection, communication, or an elusive 'something more.'

As the door clicked softly shut behind you, a peculiar silence settled around you followed by the sound of his door closing shortly after. You reminded yourself that the night was to be confined to the here and now, that the last word of this chapter had been written even while its resonance still thrummed within you.

Yet, when you leaned back against the closed door, your heart pulsating in the echoing quiet, a part of you resisted the idea of fully closing this chapter. Though the moment had passed, the story was clearly unfinished in the corridors of your heart. You lingered in the afterglow, reluctant to extinguish the nascent spark that had kindled between you. Now, the silence was no longer merely an absence of words; it was imbued with a latent promise, a quiet beckoning that left you pondering the significance of moments too weighty to be contained within the bounds of a single night.

The events of the past few days—of that particular night—would remain etched in your memory, just as you suspected they were etched in Sharp's.

The walls of the dining room are adorned with ancestral portraits and rich tapestries, standing testament to years of tradition and family history. The clinking of crystal and the settling of utensils gradually die down as lunch comes to an end. The fragrant aroma of the just-consumed meal—a blend of spices and roasted vegetables—still lingers in the air, mixing with the underlying scent of aged wood and freshly polished silverware.

As the house elves gracefully clear away the lunch dishes, their movements almost a dance, you sit back in your high-backed dining chair. The atmosphere is warm, the rich wood of the table complementing the soft glow of the chandeliers above. Sharp sits beside you, filling the room with an energy that even your parents have grown fond of during his stay.

Your mother delicately dabs her lips with a fine linen napkin, while your father enjoys a final sip of his wine, savoring the flavor before setting the glass down with an appreciative nod. House elves seamlessly carry away the last of the fine china, their silver trays glinting in the light as they vanish into the kitchen.

"Sharp, we've been absolutely delighted to have you," your mother says, her eyes glinting like cut diamonds as she smiles warmly at him. "We've truly enjoyed your company."

"The pleasure has been entirely mine," Sharp returns the sentiment, his voice laced with genuine gratitude.

Sharp seems like an integral part of this picture now, a new character in a long-standing narrative, and you find it both unsettling and comforting. Your parents' smiles, a bit brighter when directed at him, reflect their newfound fondness for your guest. The room seems to bask in a glow that wasn’t there before, as if it too, recognizes that something special is happening. You feel a sense of completion but also a budding realization that you'll miss this particular configuration of people when it inevitably changes.

"We've got a rather big New Year's bash coming up," your father chimes in, leaning back in his chair, eyes twinkling. "You’ll be there, won’t you? We’ll need the youthful energy you bring to these old bones."

"An even grander fête than Christmas?" Sharp quirks an eyebrow, oozing a brand of disbelief that borders on theatric. He briefly locks eyes with you, a shared secret twinkling in his gaze, before returning his attention to your parents. "Well, hopefully this time no one will engage in pyrotechnics in the backyard."

The room fills with light laughter, but his words spark a resonance within you. A fleeting flashback transports you to that nearly magical moment in the backyard—the closeness, the anticipation.

Listening to your parents express how much they'll miss him, you suddenly feel a dull ache in the pit of your stomach. It dawns on you that you, too, are not quite prepared for the vacuum his absence will create. But just as swiftly, you dismiss the thought, reminding yourself that moments like these are meant to be ephemeral, tucked away in the corners of time and space. You'll keep this one close, at least for now, as something to revisit in moments of solitude.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

Seated in your reading nook by the window after lunch, the comforting weight of "Tender is the Night" in your hands, you try to immerse yourself in the text. However, your ears seem to betray you, honing in on the shuffling and zipping noises drifting from Sharp's guest room. Normally, you'd close your door for a more solitary escape, but today, you leave it open. It's as though you're trying to capture these last few minutes of his presence, to stretch the moments and make them last just a bit longer.

Your eyes rest on the pages but absorb none of the words. Then, the sounds cease—replaced by a quiet that rings louder than any noise. Your heart dips ever so slightly, hovering in that stillness, almost as though it's waiting for something more.

After what feels like an interminable stretch of silence, he appears at your doorway, a bag hanging loosely from his shoulder, which he sets down near your door. His expression is a mix of emotions—as if parting is a decision he's just now reckoning with. It's a look you can't quite put into words, but it fills the space between you, communicating its message subtly.

You put your book down, marking your place with a finger, and look up at him. "Hey," you say, a single word laden with a world of unspoken sentiment.

He returns your half-smile, almost cautiously, as if testing the waters. "I hope I'm not interrupting you."

"No," you assure him, a mixture of relief and curiosity flooding your senses. "What's up? All packed?"

“Just about.”

For a moment, his eyes dart down the hall as if considering his next move. Then, almost as if making an internal decision, he steps into your room. It's a subtle but meaningful action that brightens something within you—this invisible line he's just crossed, both physical and metaphorical. Before you have a chance to dwell on its implications, he begins speaking.

"So, we were supposed to have a conversation about Christmas," he begins, his voice soft but earnest, tinged with a hint of nervousness. It's as if he's approaching the subject with caution, and you're all the more grateful for it.

"Certainly," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. A knot of anticipation and subtle unease tightens in the pit of your stomach.

There's an elongated pause, charged with intensity, as Sharp seems to carefully formulate his next words. He takes another step into your room and closes the door slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels like a tether. "It was… incredibly risky of us to let things unfold the way they did, out in the open like that. We were lucky everyone was too preoccupied with setting themselves on fire to notice."

He pauses, taking another moment to choose his words with deliberate care. "The fact of the matter is, I'm your professor, your Goldhawk mentor, your parents' close friend. And you are my student, their daughter." He lets the words hang in the air, heavy and pointed, and your heart sinks. The burgeoning hope that had dared to bloom within you seems to wither in an instant.

But then he continues, "At the same time, you're someone who has become very important to me. I can't deny the chemistry we have, the care that I have for you, and the tension that fills the room every time we're in each other's presence."

The room feels electrified as Sharp's admission sends your heart into overdrive, pumping wild beats of hope, fear, and longing. His eyes hold a hopeful vulnerability, and it's impossible to look away. Clearing your throat gently, you lock eyes with him, where you find caution mingling with genuine affection. In this moment, part of you wants to let go, to be swept away in the promising current between you and him.

Yet, even as you stand on the precipice of possible intimacy with Sharp, your thoughts drift to another emotional depth—your newly blossomed relationship with Snape. It's as if you're living in two emotional realms, each at odds with the other. These conflicting worlds seem incapable of coexisting without collision; a situation you're not ready to resolve. You feel torn, unable to fully immerse yourself in one reality without betraying the other, and this very idea of choosing fills you with dread. The sense of finality it carries is too much to bear.

That's what terrifies you: the closing of doors, the elimination of potential realities that you're not ready to forfeit. You can't escape the immediate emotional complexity that Sharp presents. You realize that navigating these treacherous emotional waters requires more than just raw honesty; it requires tactical discretion. You know that voicing your attraction for Sharp while holding back for Snape means you're walking a fine line. How can you be honest without giving too much away?

You're walking a tightrope of emotional precariousness. The balance between honesty and self-preservation has never been so fragile, and as you look into Sharp's eyes, you're reminded that he, too, is navigating this complex emotional landscape. How do you honor the immediacy of your emotions with Sharp without jeopardizing what you're building with Snape?

"Getting to know you outside of school and Goldhawk... it's made me like you even more, you know? You're different here; more relaxed, more you." you say, your words tinged with an earnestness that you hope will be both revealing and concealing. “There’s something here, and it scares me. Because I have no idea what to do about it.”

No longer can you hide behind ambiguity or silence; you've given voice to the palpable tension and ineffable connection that has been simmering between you. Your confession serves as the missing puzzle piece that makes everything terrifyingly real, solidifying in the space between you, too substantial now to be ignored or brushed away.

There's a momentary pause, a tiny sliver of silence, as you search for the right words to say next. "It’s so…. Complicated.” you admit, though only you are privy to its true meaning. “I mean, we're in a complicated place, aren't we? With school, with my parents... it's a lot to process." You give him a small, regretful smile, hoping to soften the edges of the unsaid implications.

Sharp nods, his eyes filled with a reflective intensity that mirrors your own internal struggle. "You're absolutely right, it is. Between your parents, school, our respective roles...” he sighs. “But the one thing I know for sure is that I care about you too much to be reckless with you. With whatever this is between us." His eyes meet yours once more, like two celestial bodies irresistibly drawn together by some unseen force.

"We need to figure out where to go from here, to navigate this carefully. The last thing I want is to jeopardize something that clearly has...meaning for both of us," he adds, the timbre of his voice carrying an emotional weight that's almost palpable.

"So, where does that leave us?" he asks, a blend of caution and sincerity in his expression, making you feel as though he's laid a fragment of his soul bare, while still fully aware of the delicate balance the two of you are trying to maintain.

Your mind is a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. You don't want to turn Sharp down, and yet, the guilt of not knowing what to say or do settles over you like a dark cloud. Two divergent paths have opened up before you, each laden with their own set of 'what-ifs,' and the choice is paralyzing.

You're keenly aware of the pressure building, as if you're standing at a crossroads with no signposts, faced with a decision but armed with no clear indicators on which way to go. You find yourself grappling for an answer, any answer, that could potentially cut through the complexity of the situation.

"I don't know," you finally say, your voice tinged with a vulnerability you can't entirely mask. Your eyes meet his, seeking some form of reassurance or understanding in the depths of his gaze.

As if on cue, he gracefully settles into the chair beside your little sanctuary, his form bathing in the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the room. His eyes lock onto yours, a blend of reality and some indescribable magic, serving as a crossroad where both worlds intersect.

"I get it," he says softly, his voice laced with understanding. "This is complicated for both of us, and the last thing I want to do is overwhelm you." His eyes are like deep wells of sincerity, allowing you to feel, if only for a moment, that you're not navigating these emotions alone.

With a fluidity that feels as natural as breathing, he reaches for your hand. The moment his fingers envelop yours, warmth floods through you, and his grip feels reassuring, like an anchor in the emotional storm you're navigating together.

He takes a breath before continuing, "We have to be smart about this, considering..." He gestures subtly towards the door, a silent nod to the presence of your parents and the complicated weave of relationships that frames this conversation. "The stakes are high, and it's not just about us."

Sharp pauses, his expression changing slightly, as if he's contemplating whether to share what's on his mind. Finally, he decides to forge ahead. "I won't pretend that this is easy for me. You're not just another person in my life; you're someone I care deeply for. And that makes this all the more challenging."

His honesty strikes a chord within you, and you're left wondering how to navigate these treacherous waters without losing something—or someone—precious.

He sighs, a blend of vulnerability and sincerity softening his features as he steps further into your space. “But despite the challenges, the complexities, it’s clear to me that the time we've spent together these past few days has been nothing short of significant."

His voice lingers on that last word, ‘significant,' and you can sense his restraint, the conscientious boundary he's placing on his own emotions, perhaps for fear of scaring you away.

Caught between a labyrinth of emotions and a burgeoning attraction that refuses to be ignored, you take a deep breath. "I really don't know what the right thing to do here is," you admit, your voice tinged with a vulnerability that mirrors his own.

You look into his eyes, finding in them a reflection of your own tumultuous feelings. "I'm torn," you continue, "Because part of me agrees that we have to be smart, all things considered. But another part of me doesn't want to just… dismiss what's happening between us. And that leaves me feeling...stuck."

It's a convoluted mess of emotions, a tangled web of risks and rewards, and you're at the eye of the storm, trying to find a path through it all. The weight of the situation is not lost on you, but for the first time, you feel a smidgen of relief in being able to voice your conflicting thoughts openly.

“Listen,” he begins, “I don’t want to overwhelm you. That is not my intention at all. We don't have to solve everything today. The fact is, we don't know what will be, but we also can't just ignore what's between us. But I'd rather tread carefully than pretend this doesn't exist."

Hearing his words resonates deeply within you, creating a mix of elation and torment. His raw sincerity, laid bare in an expression of unguarded emotion, pulls at your heartstrings with astonishing force. You’re almost in disbelief that this man—this warm, compassionate man—would allow himself such vulnerability in your presence.

You never considered him to be distant or aloof, but this level of open-hearted sincerity is a novelty that upsets your emotional equilibrium. This sincerity doesn't merely give you pause; it disarms you in a way you hadn't anticipated. While you've become used to navigating through layers of emotional defenses, your own included, his unfiltered vulnerability slices through your armor with surprising ease.

In doing so, he magnifies the emotional stakes, laying your soul bare in the process. It compels you to reevaluate not just him, but also the dormant fears and preconceptions you didn't even realize were part of your mental landscape.

Sharp's eyes remain locked onto yours, as if he's seeking something hidden within their depths. "You know," he adds softly, a mixture of vulnerability and wonder coloring his voice, "From the moment we met, I had this feeling that you'd be something special. I never imagined it would unfold like this." His lips curl into a smirk. “Even if you are a one-drink-wonder.”

You can’t help but chuckle, not just at his words, but at the situation you both find yourself in. Sharp is laying his emotions bare, his earnestness amplifies your own indecisiveness, making you feel both grateful and guilt-ridden.

Seizing the moment, Sharp gently lifts your chin with his fingers. His eyes meet yours, creating a charged connection before drifting down to your lips. The contact sends a shiver down your spine, electrifying your senses and unearthing a slew of unspoken sentiments. For a brief second, time seems to stand still, granting you the space to breathe, to think, to feel.

"Say something," he murmurs, his voice tinged with a quiet urgency.

You take a breath, and his thumb caresses your jaw softly as you gather your thoughts, anchoring you in the moment. It feels like walking a tightrope stretched over a canyon of emotional complexities. In this high-wire act of the heart, Sharp's earnestness serves dual roles: it's both the gust of wind threatening to tip you into the abyss, and the safety net stretched out below, promising to catch you should you fall.

"Maybe," you begin, cautiously selecting each word, "maybe the answer is just living in the question for a while." As the words escape your lips, a twinge of regret courses through you.

Your eyes lock with his, and for a moment his thumb halts its gentle caress along your jaw, freezing in place as if holding its breath along with him. For a fleeting second, a shadow of disappointment crosses his eyes, but he replaces it almost instantly with a look of understanding.

His thumb resumes its journey, but now you're acutely aware of how deeply you've waded into this emotional terrain. The glimmer of hope you've just given him feels like a tangible weight, settling ambiguously on your conscience.

This acknowledgment serves as a temporary shield. It keeps the door ajar with Sharp while not closing it on other complex facets of your life—particularly, the looming presence of Snape in your emotional equation.

Yet, amid this complexity, relief seeps into your veins. You're not prepared to fully close this door, not just yet. This temporary reprieve is comforting, but it's also tinged with a subtle sense of betrayal–not just to him but to yourself, to Snape–gnawing at the edges of your mind.

As you meet Sharp's gaze, a sense of inevitability washes over you; you've made the only choice you could, even if it feels like an inadequate solution.

Your mental debate abruptly halts when his thumb shifts from your jaw to your bottom lip. The transition isn't just physical; it's as if he's crossing an emotional boundary as well, one you didn't even realize existed. As he makes the deliberate touch, he exhales, infusing the moment with a commanding yet tender energy that dives deep into your soul and not just skimming the surface.

His gaze is invasive in the most intimate way possible. It's as though he's peeling back layers, peering into your emotional core with a clarity that leaves you exposed yet exhilarated. It becomes clear to you that this isn't just a touch; it's a declaration, a quiet testament to his uncanny ability to utterly dismantle your carefully constructed barriers.

A tingling sensation radiates from your lip, electrifying every nerve ending as it courses through your veins. That delicious shiver trickles down your spine, accumulating in a mounting wave of arousal that pools deep within you. It's as if he knows exactly how to remind you of all that he can do—all the emotions he can awaken, all the walls he can tear down. He's demonstrating his power, not in a domineering way, but with a finesse that renders you pliant and achingly receptive.

Just when you think you're about to lose yourself entirely in this moment, he pulls back slightly. A knowing smirk graces his lips, as if he's fully aware of the seismic impact of his touch. And you melt. It's as though he's made his point, setting your entire being aflame with a mere touch and a look, all while leaving you eager for whatever comes next.

He breaks the silence, his voice calm but layered with complexity. "So, are we agreed? Living in the question for now?"

In the wake of those words, an unspoken pact seems to settle over both of you, an agreement to dwell in this undefined space a little longer.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you nod. "Living in the question."

It's not a resolution, not a final landing point, but it is something—something indescribably precious that neither of you is willing to forsake just yet.

It’s a promise to linger in this nebulous realm just a bit more; to savor this sweet, maddening tension.

Severus Snape finds himself in a setting far removed from his usual haunts—a narrow, cobblestoned alley known as Cecil Court, or Booksellers Row among the Muggles. It's a locale steeped in literary history, its roots reaching back centuries, a book lovers sanctuary, a collectors goldmine. A place he’d never thought he would willingly set foot, and yet, there he stands.

The atmosphere is tinged with an almost scholarly air, as though the collective wisdom of countless volumes permeates the very stones. Walls of shopfronts are adorned with wooden signs, some hand-painted and others elegantly carved, beckoning the literate and the curious. Glass-paned windows offer glimpses into dimly lit interiors where tomes of various shapes and sizes are displayed like rare jewels. It's a sanctuary of intellect and nostalgia, a haven he might have found inviting in another life, under different circ*mstances.

He feels out of his element and yet oddly invigorated, knowing he’s only here for you. It’s as if the very act of choosing your Christmas gift brings him closer to some unnamed, yet profoundly desired, emotional destination.

In plain sight of a world he often disdains, he's forgone his customary dark robes for something less conspicuous yet equally somber: a black trench coat, a charcoal turtleneck, and dark trousers, all tailored to his lean frame. The garments are unremarkable to the casual observer, but to anyone familiar with his typical sartorial choices, the deviation is significant.

He feels strangely exposed, not by his attire but by the mere act of being here, amid the musty scent of old pages and worn leather bindings. His face is a mask of well-practiced indifference to anyone who might look his way, yet behind his obsidian eyes, there is a flicker of something—something that challenges his habitual stoicism. If one were perceptive enough to look past the stern facade, they would catch a dim light of vulnerability mingled with anticipation, an emotional layer he rarely allows to surface.

His hands, more accustomed to the cold grip of a wand or the delicate ministrations of potion-making, now hover tentatively over the spines of various books. Each potential choice is weighed not just for its literary merit, but for what it might reveal—about him, about his feelings for you, about the burgeoning 'something' that neither of you has yet dared to define.

Death Eater meetings take on a newly oppressive weight for Severus Snape this winter break. His commitments to the dark assembly have always been ironclad, a necessary evil to fulfill his complicated loyalties. Yet lately, they feel more like chains—chains that could very well prevent him from the one thing he suddenly realizes he yearns for: a simple, stolen moment in your company.

Dealing with the Dark Lord is an arduous task in itself, each meeting a taut string of volatile energies. But it's not just the Dark Lord he has to worry about; Bellatrix's eyes have been trailing him more often, her suspicions growing like an insidious vine he can't quite cut away. And then there's the Malfoy family—Lucius, with his elegant veneer barely hiding the strain, and Draco, increasingly withdrawn and secretive.

All these matters weigh heavily on his mind, yet here he is, in a Muggle bookstore, searching for a book that would touch your soul. The stark contrast between his dark engagements and this simple act is not lost on him. Despite the growing dread, the unyielding demands, and the suffocating secrets, the thought of seeing you again—whenever that might be—lights up the dark corridors of his mind, offering a respite he hadn't known he so desperately needed.

Despite his best efforts, he finds himself leaving the store empty-handed. Each book he had considered seemed to fall short, failing to capture the complex tapestry of emotions and thoughts he's grappling with. He's not even certain what he wants to convey to you, or whether he could ever fully lay his soul bare for your scrutiny. But selecting a book—a carefully chosen one—feels like a good first step, a stepping stone on an uncertain path that he's paradoxically eager and terrified to walk.

He steps out into Cecil Court, the little bell above the door offering a soft ding as he leaves, as if bidding him a subtle, melancholic farewell. The quaint and narrow alley lined with an eclectic array of shops. Antique bookstores jostle for space with shops specializing in vintage prints, rare maps, and esoteric curiosities. A chocolatier's window display lures passersby with mouth-watering confections, while a record store spins an old jazz tune that spills out onto the cobblestone walkway. Each establishment boasts its own unique charm, an oasis of specialized knowledge and hidden treasures.

As he walks, his eyes are drawn to the twinkling fairy lights and festive wreaths hanging from the ornate Victorian facades, their glittering cheer starkly contrasting with the tumultuous labyrinth of his own thoughts. Dumbledore's latest requests and the constriction of the Unbreakable Vow weigh heavily on him, acting as a grim counterpoint to the laughter and jovial chatter that fill the air.

Guided by some intangible force, he moves to another store across the cobblestone street—a cozy haven of oddities and rare finds. For a fleeting moment, he thinks he might like to bring you here someday. He imagines discovering each hidden treasure with you by his side. The thought is as fleeting as morning mist, dissipating quickly under the harsh glare of reality.

Who is he kidding? The world that you both inhabit is disintegrating, the encroaching darkness promising little more than conflict and loss.

As if awakening from a dream, he's pulled back into the tangible world. He moves through the store, his movements almost mechanical, as he mindlessly sifts through an assortment of delicate holiday ornaments. It's as though he's traversing a timeline where every possibility seems to culminate in catastrophe.

His mind shifts to you, pondering your place in this chaos. Protecting you in the face of such bleak certainties seems the only point of clarity in a blurred landscape of uncertainties. It's not a task he can chart or predict; it's a primal urge, one that defies the meticulous planning that characterizes the rest of his life. So lost is he in these ruminations that his fingers almost let slip a fragile glass bauble, catching it just in time with a startled tightening of his grip.

A flicker of movement catches his eye. A young couple tucked away in a corner of the store, enraptured in their private world of books and soft glances. Despite himself, an image of you, curled beside him in similar bliss, infiltrates his thoughts, making him stumble in his stride. Such scenes are distant stars in his night sky—beautiful but eternally out of reach. He quickly sequesters the idea into a shadowy recess of his mind.

The near mishap with the glass bauble and intricately-designed trinket before him serves as a jarring segue, drawing his thoughts to a sharper focus. Each, in his mind, the festive orb transforms into a taunting emblem of the normal life he finds increasingly desirable but woefully out of reach—especially when visions of you flit through his consciousness. As his eyes glide over ornaments that couples would hang on their trees, he's reminded of how far he's ventured into the emotional unknown. It's a stark contrast to the life he's known—a life dominated by dark oaths, betrayals, and unforgiving duties.

The bitterness is palpable; he knows, or at least believes, you'll grow to hate him. And why shouldn't you? He is, after all, destined to become the man who will kill Albus Dumbledore, the ultimate scapegoat and martyr in a war he never asked to be a part of.

The weight of the future bears down on him like an anvil. It promises no reprieve, only a bleak conclusion to a life steeped in tragic complexity. His fate is to be a man reviled, misunderstood—a complex figure reduced to the black-and-white caricatures that will surely populate the narrative of this tumultuous period. Whether by the killing curse, by Azkaban, or simply by the corrosive touch of a life ill-spent, he knows his end is likely to be a solitary one, and far from the tranquil scenes he’s momentarily envisioned.

He’s almost made peace with that. Almost. But what haunts him is the erosion of those finer moments, that he cannot prevent nor escape. It’s those dreams of something better that seem increasingly likely to remain mere figments of his tortured imagination. It's a destiny that allows no room for idyllic moments or soft sentimentalities.

This mundane task of selecting a Christmas gift grates on him, amplifying the discord between his dangerous commitments and the newfound vulnerability you seem to inspire. And it's within this tension, the overwhelming push-pull between his current reality and a future he hardly dares to contemplate, that he finds himself propelled towards the bookshelves. And so, with a sense of grim resolve, he pushes deeper into the store, silently hopeful that the next shelf may hold a piece of himself he's willing to give.

His fingers sift through book after book, the paper edges whispering minor disappointments as he scans the back covers. Each discarded volume deepens his nearly concealed disdain, echoing the futility of his quest. Just as he's poised to surrender, a gold glimmer arrests his attention. It isn't merely a book—it's an artifact. A resplendent collector's edition, leather-bound in a hue of midnight blue so dark it almost merges with his black trousers. Its title is embossed in opulent gold leaf: "Tender is the Night" by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Even the pages are gilded, giving the book an aura of lavish sophistication. The texture of the leather is sumptuous to the touch, tempting the fingers to trace the contours of its embossed cover. Ribbons of sapphire silk serve as bookmarks, and he can almost see you turning each golden page with delicate reverence. It's decadent. It's extravagant. And, as his fingers caress the luxurious binding, he can't help but think it's so utterly you.

He begins flipping through the gold-gilded pages. Fitzgerald. The man you've often waxed poetic about, whose stories you've insisted are 'transcendent'—a word he finds overly generous. With a resigned sigh, he opens the book, bracing himself for what he assumes will be the literary equivalent of a Gobstones match against a witless troll. "Fitzgerald Grant," he muses, with an internal eye-roll so pronounced it could rival one of his own classroom scowls.

But for whatever inexplicable reason—whether it's an attempt to better understand your fascination or a momentary lapse in his guarded existence—he finds himself pulled into the narrative.

It's as if each paragraph, each sentence, offers a fresh clue in unraveling the tapestry of your interests and inclinations. By delving into the words that have captured your imagination, he feels like he's drawing incrementally closer to the deeper, unspoken facets of your being. Understanding this book, it seems, may be a gateway to understanding you—a tantalizing and elusive goal that has snared his mind far more than he would publicly admit.

Before he knows it, over an hour has slipped through the sands of his tightly regimented schedule. The tale within the pages unfurls psychological complexities and navigates the vagaries of love, betrayal, and above all, the frailty of human character—echoing hauntingly with the circ*mstances of his own existence.

It's as if the book is a mirror reflecting the most intricate corners of his soul. Dick Diver's journey—fraught with complexity, despair, and a bitter struggle with inner demons—is a tapestry of duality. It becomes less a story on paper and more a parable of Snape’s own life. Here is a man also balanced on the precipice of moral choices, haunted by past actions, and defined by them yet not wholly confined to them.

People, the story whispers, are not simply villains or heroes; they are a nuanced blend of both, shaped and molded by the vagaries of circ*mstance, choices, and fate. It's his way of telling you that even those who start with the best intentions can falter. It’s an invitation into his inner world, a place teeming with shadows and light, sins and virtues.

In choosing to gift you this book, Snape realizes he's not merely sending you a piece of (what you would consider) fine literature. He knows he is doing something potentially perilous; subtly laying the emotional groundwork for the complexities of his own nature to be better understood.

By sharing Dick Diver's odyssey, Snape is subtly preparing you—and himself—for the inevitable unmasking of his darker past and present. He realizes that in his hands is the framework for you to comprehend that while he is a man fraught with demons and sins, he is also capable of love, intelligence, and perhaps even redemption.

In sharing this book, he dares to hope that when the inevitable darker chapters of his own life come to light, you might read them with the same nuanced understanding you'd offer Dick Diver.

As he stands to leave, the book seems to gain an intangible weight. It's not the physical heft of leather and paper, but the gravity of the emotional vulnerability it represents. Before leaving, he requests the cashier to wrap the book in matte black paper, tied together with a golden ribbon—a choice that's distinctly you, capturing the contrast of your multifaceted personality. Along with the elegantly wrapped gift, he pens a card, selecting his words with care, almost as if he's crafting an incantation. He tucks the card between the pages, a tangible echo of thoughts too complex to verbalize.

With a few perfunctory words exchanged at the cashier, he steps back out into the December chill. The diminutive bell rings a subdued farewell, marking a crossing of multiple thresholds, both concrete and ineffable.

And in this moment, amid the frosty solitude, Severus Snape—spy, Death Eater, professor—unexpectedly finds room for a notion he'd long consigned to oblivion: hope.

For the first time in what feels like an age, there's something on his horizon more captivating than the relentless exigencies of his dark life. While the prospect of meeting you during the winter break hangs suspended in a web of uncertainties, delicately balanced against his nefarious commitments, the mere thought of seeing you again at all kindles a fire within the icy expanse of his soul. It's a flame he's not yet willing to just snuff out.

The book is tucked securely under his arm, yet he finds himself gripping it just a bit more tightly—as if, by mere pressure, he could draw closer to the intoxicating question of 'what could be.'

And as he traverses the cobblestone streets, it dawns on him that the most powerful enchantments are crafted not from arcane words or the swish of a wand, but from the intricate alchemy of human connection, hope, and the yet-to-be-written possibilities that linger in the air like winter's first snow.

Severus Snape sits in his office at his home in Spinner's End, ensconced in an armchair that has seen better days but offers a comfort born of familiarity. A book lies open in his lap, its words blurred into indistinctness. His posture, usually so upright and controlled, betrays a subtle tension; his hand is frozen in the air, fingers gripping a letter, caught between reaching for the firewhisky and dropping against the armchair completely.

Beside him on a small table sits a glass of firewhisky, its amber liquid glowing softly in the warm light of the flickering fire in the hearth. The dancing flames cast restless, shifting shadows on the walls—shadows that seem almost sentient in their frenetic movement, as if bearing silent witness to the internal tumult seizing him. Next to the glass is an opened envelope, its contents spilled out like a whispered secret.

However, this isn't just any envelope. It's an artifact of undeniable grandeur, a statement of heritage and privilege. The front bears his name in elegant, flowing script, almost too delicate to touch. But the most striking feature is the wax seal on the back—a rich emerald green, imprinted with the Grant family crest. Below it, in equally ostentatious lettering, reads: "The Estate of Fitzgerald Grant."

In his hand, he holds a letter that radiates earnest sincerity and purpose, penned by your father, Fitzgerald Grant, Deputy Head of the Auror Office. The writing isn't just a perfunctory expression of thanks; it's a tribute to Snape's role in shaping your academic life, and by extension, your very future. The tone is imbued with the rare gravitas that comes from a parent's deep-rooted belief in their child's potential and the people who help cultivate it. Fitzgerald's words convey not just an appreciation for Snape's pedagogy but an acknowledgment that he’s has been instrumental in fostering your fierce passion for Potions—a passion that could shape the trajectory of your career in magic.

The letter concludes with an unexpected line that causes Snape's eyes to narrow, re-reading the words several times as if expecting them to change: "In gratitude for your invaluable mentorship to my daughter, we extend to you an invitation to our New Year's Eve gathering at the Grant Family estate."

The letter, with its weighty seal and momentous words, seems to hover in the air long after he has set it down, threatening to blur lines and unbind the tightly-wound threads of his carefully constructed life. Tucked into the book that rests on his lap is another note—yours. A simple, heartfelt thank-you for the gift he'd agonizingly selected, now serving as a cherished bookmark.

Just as he's about to lose himself in thoughts of what attending the New Year's party might entail, his eyes drift back to the elegant envelope and your father's carefully penned letter.

Then it hits him, like a bolt of lightning slicing through the dark sky of his thoughts.

The insistent knock on his door less than half an hour ago, the interruption of his reading, and most of all, the stack of mail that had been placed into his hands by none other than Peter Pettigrew, his unwelcome houseguest foisted upon him by the Dark Lord himself.

The blood drains from his face as he realizes that the rat had undoubtedly seen the luxurious envelope. And while he may not have glimpsed the contents, the family crest, the wax seal, and the distinguished Fitzgerald Grant estate imprint were all disparate pieces to a dangerous puzzle that Snape could ill afford to have assembled. He had practically served it up to Wormtail on a silver platter.

Snape doesn’t doubt that it was noticed and is currently being contemplated in the other room. The rat, of all people – who regards him with suspicion rivaling that of Bellatrix Lestrange, whose loyalty is as stable as a house of cards and just as easily toppled.

In that shocking moment, the room—once a sanctuary of solitude—transforms into a minefield of potential betrayals. Severus Snape's heart hammers against his ribcage, as if trying to escape the precarious reality he now finds himself in. Time grinds to a halt, each tick of the clock amplifying the gravity of the situation.

Because in the complicated chess game that is his life, Wormtail could very well be the piece that tips the board, spilling with it his secrets and destroying carefully laid plans.

Chapter 16: from eden

Chapter Text

Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago
Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword
Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know
I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door

from eden - Hozier

https://open.spotify.com/track/5aRZk9oWIYUB5alrTs8TTV?si=1a8fd057878d4f0d

The atmosphere was electric, a tangible buzz in the air that only heightened as the clock ticked toward midnight. Sharp stands amidst a lively group of Aurors, his drink in hand, clad in a tailored charcoal suit that seemed to capture every glint of the sparkling chandeliers above. His pocket square is impeccably folded, a calculated contrast to his rebellious hair, and the hint of an expensive cologne mixes effortlessly with the aroma of whiskey and champagne that filled the room.

His thoughts drift back to the New Year's Eve parties of yesteryear, hosted by Fitz and Mellie. Those were legendary gatherings, full of audacious bets, shameless flirting, pranks that defied the laws of magic, and dancing until the dawn's early light. The sorts of evenings where everyone seemed to exist in an amplified version of themselves, a momentary rebellion against the everyday restrictions and responsibilities that bound them.

And here he is again, now in the decadent splendor of the Grant estate, surrounded by a very similar cast of characters. Christmas had been charmingly intimate, a cozy affair in comparison to the uninhibited celebration that was already unfolding. If that was any indication, one can only imagine what this night had in store.

Fitzgerald stands beside him, chuckling at an Auror's raucous story as he swirls a tumbler of what could only be vintage Firewhiskey. The atmosphere is tinged with an irrepressible sense of expectation; the crowd growing rowdier as each layer of social decorum was peeled away. Sharp grins to himself, feeling the contagious energy.

Glancing at the ornate clock hanging above the mantle, he noted it was just a quarter past nine. The real party hadn't even started. The corner of his mouth tugged upward in a lopsided smile.

As he stands among the gathering crowd, Tessa Whitfield—an Analyst from the Ministry—keeps catching his eye from across their lively group. Her glances send a mix of playful and challenging signals, her laughter tinged with a special kind of vigor whenever they locked eyes. However, Sharp finds himself observing more than encouraging the situation. Tessa is undeniably setting the stage to make a move, and while he wasn't particularly keen on steering the outcome, he isn't averse to it either. Let her be disappointed later. Don’t ruin her night.

Sharp's eyes roam over the gathering, taking in the eclectic mix of personalities filling the room. Gone was the Christmas party's invisible dividing line that had initially separated the artsy folks from the Ministry's Aurors. Now the party is an amalgamation of sorts; a blend of bohemian intellectuals conversing with battle-hardened magicians.

There was Cecilia, a sculptor who spoke passionately about her recent chiseling techniques. He'd found himself surprisingly engrossed, even offering a couple of anecdotes about the precise spells used in Auror work.

Lawrence, the younger, openly gay fellow who had an encyclopedic knowledge of potion ingredients, is there too, along with his partner. Sharp remembered talking to them about the risks of black market potion ingredients, finding common ground in the most unexpected places. The barriers are down; everyone is mingling, laughing, and toasting the coming New Year.

Just then, he catches sight of you, and his internal monologue screeches to a halt. Your ensemble is something else entirely—a far cry from the cozy red sweater dress you wore for Christmas. Tonight you wear a black number, cut in a way that honors every curve. The dress is adorned with gold chains serving as straps, adding an edge of sophistication.

And that neckline—well, he doesn;t know what it was called, but it draped elegantly, allowing just the right hint of cleavage. Even the middle of the dress looks like it was designed to cinch your waist in some complicated, artistic way he doesn;t have the vocabulary for. But he doesn’t need to understand it to appreciate it. You look stunning, and the sight of you momentarily drowns out the clamor of the party.

He exhales, not realizing he'd been holding his breath. It looks like the night is not only going to be unforgettable but also downright distracting.

Sharp clears his throat and takes a sip of his drink, pretending to be engrossed in the conversation with Fitz and the others. He shouldn't be staring at you like this. Still, every rational thought is drowned out by a much louder, more primal thought: damn, you looked good.

His mind drifts to last week's conversation about "living in the question." It had been a necessary talk; that much he knew. The air between you two had grown thick with unsaid words and unexplored feelings. As the more seasoned adult—well, "adultier adult," as you'd probably call it—he felt the responsibility to steer the conversation, to find some sort of resolution.

But when you responded to his own vulnerable confession with that ambiguous phrase, it had thrown him off balance. In that moment, he was confounded, not quite sure where to navigate from there. Your words had given him pause, made him wonder if he'd misread the entire situation, despite the very clear admission of mutual feelings

So, he had tested the waters in his own way—his thumb grazing your bottom lip as he looked into your eyes. The flicker of desire he saw there, the slight parting of your lips, and the way your eyes momentarily clouded with something intense and unreadable—that was oh so satisfying. It told him more than any words could, reining him back from the edge of doubt.

A wry smile crosses his lips as he stands there amid the raucous laughter and clinking glasses, swathed in a blend of insecurity and assurance, of questions and answers.

He had you. Oh, he had you. That same look that clouded your face when his thumb had grazed your lip—he'd seen it before. It had been there, in the backyard on Christmas night, when the space between you had dwindled to nothing and a kiss seemed not just possible but inevitable. For days, he'd pondered the imagined sensation of your lips, the texture and taste, the utter intimacy of that almost-moment.

When you'd nestled into him on the couch, wordlessly seeking comfort after the row he'd had with your father, he'd felt that magnetic pull again. How easy it would've been to tilt your chin upward, to claim your lips right there, in the enveloping warmth of his arms. But he'd refrained. And as he stood there, he still couldn't quite articulate why. Perhaps it was the timing, or maybe it was the unresolved tension that made the almost as tantalizing as the act itself.

Perhaps it is that concept of "living in the question" you'd thrown at him that keeps echoing in his mind. You had a point; tension could be a beautiful thing, an electric charge that hovered in the space between two people. That very tension was what had kept him from spilling the beans about Snape. The time simply hadn't felt right; it would have disrupted the delicate balance you were both–barely–maintaining.

He has to admit, the thrill of the unresolved, the unspoken, has its allure. But even electricity sought release, an earthing point. How long could you both dwell in this state of 'almost' before it bubbled over?

Yet, feeling your bottom lip quiver ever so slightly under his touch, seeing your eyes betray that torrent of emotion—that had been enough. For now. And as he glances your way again, catching your eye as you search the crowd, your face breaking into a knowing smile, he is acutely aware of one undeniable fact: the night was still young.

Fitz leans in, his words becoming a low murmur that only Sharp could hear amid the laughter and chatter. "Whitfield seems quite taken with you," he says, eyes glinting with that familiar blend of mischief and camaraderie.

"Aye," Sharp grins back, savoring the taste of his Firewhiskey as if it could drown out the conflicting emotions within him. "But I don't need a wingman tonight."

"Oh, come now. You've clearly still got it," Fitz retorts, chuckling as if recalling some hidden joke from their past escapades.

In that moment, Sharp is both flattered and slightly tormented. The irony is too palpable to ignore—here he is, able to command the attention of a beautiful woman, yet utterly fixated on the daughter of his best friend. A bittersweet realization creeps over him; the world is offering him an array of vibrant experiences, and yet he feels tethered to one in a black dress.

Before he can dwell on it further, Fitz is whisked away, leaving Sharp alone with his thoughts. He decides to seek you out, his heart thumping in a rhythm that seems increasingly less his own with every step he takes toward you.

He weaves through the crowd, each face blurring into the next, until he finds you. There you are, glowing amid a sea of artists and poets, your mother's arm slung fondly around your shoulder. The sight of you hits him like a wave, drowning out the room's ambient noise and chatter.

Your mother catches sight of him and beams, pulling him into your circle with a flourish. "Ah, the man of the hour! Everyone, meet Sharp."

Pleasantries are exchanged, but Sharp barely registers them. His focus narrows to your eyes, meeting his across the circle. The world seems to shrink in that moment, condensing to the space between your gaze and his. There it is again—that charge, that question you'd both agreed to live in. Except now, it feels louder, more pressing, like a question mark etched into his soul.

Caught in this sphere of intimacy amidst a crowd, he senses both vulnerability and invincibility, as if the tension between you could either shatter him or set him free. He realizes that your gaze seems to sear into him, igniting a smoldering need he can't easily quell.

He watches, almost in a trance, as your gaze drifts slowly, deliberately down the line of his suit. Each second stretches out, becoming an expanse of time in which he's consumed by the curiosity of what might be coursing through your mind. He wants, almost craves, to see that glint of attraction behind your eyes yet again, to know that he's not the only one teetering on the edge of this… question.

Your mother pulls you into a side hug as she continues, "Sharp and Fitz were quite the dynamic duo in their Auror days. And now he's passing on that wisdom to this one!" She squeezes you a little tighter, her pride evident. But you look a touch embarrassed, suddenly the focal point of your mother's effusive praise and the attention of her circle of friends about your accomplishments.

For a split second, his thoughts drift to that heated exchange with your father. He'd been told in no uncertain terms that you didn't actually aspire to be an Auror, information that you yourself had not shared with him. It had sparked a lively debate between the two men until he'd reluctantly conceded, but the matter was far from settled in his mind.

Here you were, amidst a circle of people praising a path you apparently didn't want to tread. He couldn't help but wonder when—or if—you'd ever share that with him. The opportunity had presented itself the other day, in the charged atmosphere of your room. Then again, he'd also had the chance to ask, to steer the conversation that way. But neither of you had, and selfishly, he hadn't wanted to spoil that precious moment with a question that carried such weight.

A pang of disappointment weaves its way through his thoughts, a knotting of concern that tightens around his conscience. To him, you're forgoing something not just integral to his identity, but a path that he genuinely believes could be fulfilling for you as well. He's seen sides of you that others haven't—the way your eyes sharpen in focus when solving a complex problem, how your face lights up in genuine satisfaction when you master a difficult spell. These are moments that tell him, without a shadow of a doubt, that you have what it takes to excel in this field. That you like it.

An unyielding conviction settles in him, infusing his thoughts with a hint of possessive authority. He knows what you're capable of, he alone has witnessed firsthand the untapped reservoirs of your potential. He won't stand by and let you miss this chance, this calling that he's certain fits you like a glove.

And, perhaps most importantly, he's resolved that if anyone is going to unlock that potential in you, guide you into realizing the formidable force you could be—it's going to be him. There's an almost territorial edge to this thought, as if he's claimed this role, this influence over your future, as exclusively his. It's a heady feeling, laced with both concern and a deeply rooted desire to see you flourish, under his guidance.

As your mother continues doting over you to her friends, Sharp watches your eyes dart around until they land on him, seeking some form of refuge or even a humorous escape from the spotlight. It's a silent SOS, a call for comfort that he instinctively recognizes.

In that moment, Sharp's senses heighten. He feels that electric charge, that living question, buzz louder between you two. Your momentary vulnerability, your silent plea for rescue. With every subtle interaction, the undercurrent of 'almost' between you two grows more potent. He feels an itch, an urge to push the boundaries, to challenge the confines of the question you'd both been skirting. Perhaps the night is young, but truly, how much longer could you both remain in this liminal space before something had to give?

But perhaps, shortcuts only ever lead to shortcomings, he muses.

Your knowing smile, breaking through your momentary discomfort and locking onto his gaze once more, whispers that maybe, just maybe, you're both nearing that threshold. And as your eyes continue to communicate more daring thoughts, he is keenly aware: maybe, just maybe, it was high time to inch a little closer to an answer—or to whatever waited beyond the question.

Sharp gives you a subtle nod, a barely perceptible signal that says he’s got you covered, then turns his attention to your mother. "Speaking of the star of the show,” he smiles, glancing over at you, “Would you mind if I stole her away for a moment? There are some people I'd like her to meet," he says smoothly.

"Of course, darling! Go on," your mother replies, releasing you from the snug embrace with a knowing smile.

As Sharp guides you away, his hand naturally finds a comfortable place on the small of your back. There's none of the hesitancy he felt back in Knockturn Alley; it's as if the question between you two has clarified just enough to let him make this move.

He steers you toward the bar, and without asking, begins concocting a drink for you. A sweeter variation of Butterbeer, complete with an extra shot of something stronger. Two parties in and he already knows your go-to concoction. He thinks it's somewhat gross, this saccharine alchemy, but it's endearing in the way that you sip it.

"Thank you for the save," you say.

"Thank Merlin I was out looking for you," he replies, as if correcting you. The words are casual, but the underlying sentiment isn't lost on either of you. You can't help but light up, and he notices that tiny burst of joy.

He watches your expression lighten. "Two parties in, and I've got your drink down. I'm either incredibly perceptive or you're an open book."

"Or perhaps it's both," you offer, taking a sip of your drink, the tension visibly draining from your face.

"Your mother looked incredibly pleased over there. They're both exceptionally proud of you, you know," Sharp observes, his eyes trained intently on yours, keen to gauge your response.

"I suppose so," you concede, your voice tinged with a touch of uncertainty.

"It's a well-deserved pride," he assures you, putting down his drink to lean in slightly.

"Maybe. But it's a party, there’s so many people around, so it's kind of a given, isn't it?" you reply, sidestepping the direct compliment with a trace of evasion. “She’s dragged me over to at least twenty people already.”

Sharp senses it's time to venture into more profound territory. This is but the first step in a path he intends to guide you down—a path he's convinced you're meant to walk, even if you haven't realized it yet.

Seizing the chance, Sharp leans in a little closer, his eyes looking earnestly into yours. "You know, early in my career, I found myself working a case that nearly broke me. I thought about quitting, to be honest. Felt like I was chasing shadows." He looks away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts.

Your eyes meet his again, clearly intrigued. "What happened? Did you catch them—the shadows?"

He smiles at your engagement, a subtle sense of victory washing over him. "During the investigation," he continues, "I discovered a spell I never knew existed. It became the key to solving the entire case. That was the moment it hit me; being an Auror is an ever-evolving journey. You're always learning, always growing."

"It was a painstaking process, but that's the nature of our job, isn't it? To bring the obscured into the light. The satisfaction of solving it, the impact it had—that's when I knew I'd made the right choice." As he says this, he scrutinizes your expression, watching how your eyes start to soften, how your posture becomes less guarded. And he feels that familiar sense of triumph, not as an Auror but as someone who, for reasons he can't yet fully define, deeply wants you to succeed.

"The point is," he leans in closer, locking eyes with you, "you won't know your full potential until you're out there, throwing spells and chasing dark wizards—or better yet, outwitting them. It's a job that helps you discover facets of yourself you never knew existed."

When you don't immediately respond, he's aware of a flicker of doubt, a fear that he's pushed too hard, too fast.

"You really think so?" you ask, a glint of newfound hope shining in your eyes.

"Absolutely," he replies, the conviction in his voice unwavering. "You're doing incredible work now; just imagine how you'll excel out there, in the field, where it all really matters."

And as your smile broadens, he feels a sense of accomplishment mingled with relief. He's broken through, at least enough for now, and in that moment, the feeling is as exhilarating as any victory he's ever known.

Catching your eye for a moment, you glance toward the balcony and then subtly tilt your head in its direction, as if inviting him into a more private space. Sharp hesitates, feeling a sense of thrill and uncertainty mix within him. With a subtle nod, he silently concedes, signaling his willingness to follow you into whatever conversation—or confession—awaits him outside.

As you turn to walk away, his eyes involuntarily follow the tight dip of your waist, cinched perfectly by the black dress you're wearing. The gold chain straps glinting on your shoulders seem to catch and amplify the room's ambient light, exposing a tantalizing amount of skin. And those curls—his mind briefly drifts to the idea of seeing you walk into his classroom adorned this way, a vision of glamour and allure.

He catches himself indulging in these more primal thoughts, a wave of heat rushing over him as he follows you out to the balcony. With a mental shake, he tucks those thoughts away, reminding himself that now is neither the time nor place for such musings.

Maybe later.

For the next hour, you find yourself in a kind of sanctuary with Sharp in the backyard, away from the whirlwind of the party inside. You can't quite pinpoint what prompted you to lead him out here—a combination of factors, really. The flow of conversation, the desire for a brief respite from the party's chaos, and perhaps a touch of possessiveness when you noticed that Ministry analyst eyeing him from across the room.

You both lean casually against the balustrade, drinks in hand, people-watching at the guests mingling below. A few people make their way over to join you in conversation, but for the most part, it's just the two of you, conversing in a secluded bubble.

What adds to the pleasant ambiance is the absence of any allusion to the last heavy discussion you'd had about the nature of your relationship. You're enjoying the simplicity of going with the flow, savoring how easy Sharp is to talk to.

As he regales you with tales from his Auror days, you find your eyes lingering on him, fascinated not just by his stories but also by the man himself. Sharp, propping his elbows on the railing, appears lost in the recollections he's sharing. The evening light casts subtle shadows across his features, emphasizing the chiseled lines of his jaw and the stubble that adds a rugged contrast to his otherwise polished appearance. Your eyes drift up to meet his, and you're struck by how they capture the ambient light, lending depth to his already enigmatic persona.

In this moment, looking at him feels like a revelation, akin to discovering a beautiful but complex equation that promises a satisfying solution. Yes, Sharp is undeniably handsome tonight, but it's more than that—he's irresistibly captivating. His storytelling is dynamic, filled with a charisma that makes every tale feel like an adventure.

It seems like he's done just about everything under the sun, and each anecdote adds another layer to the enigma that he is. Speaking to him, you realize, becomes more and more exciting each time.

As Sharp wraps up a captivating story about a high-stakes operation involving Polyjuice Potion, dark wizards, and an underground speakeasy, he catches you looking at him. The tale concludes, but the words linger in the air, giving way to a moment of silent understanding between you two.

"What?" he asks, a playful smile curving his lips.

"Nothing," you stammer, caught in the act and suddenly a bit shy.

He leans in closer, eyes twinkling in the dim light. "You sure about that? Because for a second there, you looked like Ben Hammond after you tell him off."

The comparison to Ben Hammond, one of Sharp's more exasperating mentees from Goldhawk, instantly diffuses the tension. Both of you burst into laughter, the underlying seriousness of the moment evaporating, yet leaving a sweet residue of connection that neither of you can easily ignore.

The laughter settles, and a comfortable silence envelopes you both. Almost imperceptibly, you move closer to him. The atmosphere is thick with unspoken sentiments and possibilities. With your gaze fixated on the distant horizon, you find the courage to voice the question that's been nagging at the back of your mind.

"Can I ask you something?" Your voice is a soft murmur, almost drowned out by the ambient noise of the party.

"Anything," he replies, his voice even softer, creating an intimate sphere that seems to exclude all else.

"Why did you leave? And don't say it was for a change, like you tell everyone else. If you have all these stories and accomplishments, why did you leave the field?"

The question hangs heavy in the air. For a moment, he tenses, his jaw tightening as if he's holding back words, or perhaps memories. Just as you're about to backtrack and apologize for overstepping, he speaks.

"I had a partner. We were on an assignment—a critical one. We got ambushed." His voice cracks ever so slightly, weighed down by the gravitas of his confession. "I was severely injured, but my partner... he didn't make it. When I recovered, it became clear that I'd be chained to a desk for the rest of my career. So, I decided it was time to pass on what I know—to teach, to make sure the next generation doesn't make the same mistakes."

As he reveals this hidden facet of his life, your heart swells with a complex mix of emotions—admiration, respect, and a poignant sadness that urges you to bridge the gap that life's circ*mstances have placed between you. Overwhelmed, you find yourself at a loss for words. Yet, when your eyes lock with his, the emotional weight of the moment seems to lift, if only slightly.

"Your father tried to convince me to stay on," he says, almost as if he's confessing. "He told me I could bring about change from behind a desk in the Ministry, but I couldn't. I couldn't walk those corridors, sit at that desk, knowing I had to live with the fact that I was responsible for what happened to her. I couldn't bear it."

Your brows furrow in surprise. "Her?"

"Yeah," he nods, his eyes misting over momentarily. "Eliza Hawthorne. She was a bright young witch, fresh on the force. She was assigned to learn from me. I thought I had prepared her for everything, but in that crucial moment, I fell short."

Your heart sinks, witnessing the emotional toll his story carries. The man before you, affable and charismatic all evening, suddenly takes on a new dimension. He's not just a handsome face with a treasure trove of exciting stories; he's a man scarred by life's harsh realities, a man who bears heavy burdens, yet strong enough to carry on. Your throat tightens as you watch his fingers idly dance along the rim of his glass, contemplating whether to continue.

His voice catches for a moment before he speaks. "We were on a standard recon mission, tracking a dark wizard rumored to be peddling cursed objects. I told Eliza to stay put while I went ahead to scout the area. I thought I had prepared her for the potential dangers, drilled into her the importance of holding her position."

Sharp's jaw clenches, his eyes clouding with a haunted look. "But when I returned, she had moved, drawn by some noise or some hint of action, I'll never know. She was engaged in a duel. Before I could get to her, before I could do anything, she was hit by a curse. I managed to subdue the wizard, but it was too late for Eliza."

His voice falls to almost a whisper, burdened by years of unspoken guilt and sorrow. "I failed her, you see? I failed in preparing her for the impulsiveness that can often prove fatal in our line of work, the impulsiveness that I should have known to prepare her for."

As he speaks, an overwhelming ache seizes your heart, revealing the weight of a pivotal moment that has undeniably shaped his life in profound ways. In this moment, you wish you could turn back time, absorb some of his pain, and offer him the solace for a guilt that's haunted him for years.

"Sharp, you didn't fail her,” you say softly, laying your hand gently on his arm. Your eyes lock, each searching the other's gaze for a glimmer of understanding. “It's the nature of the field we're in—some things you simply can't prepare for, especially the unpredictability in others.” As you speak, you feel an almost palpable sense of relief settle over him, as if your words have unburdened him in some small way, even if only momentarily.

"You've been an incredible mentor to all of us. We're better because of you," you pause, holding his gaze for a moment that seems to stretch into eternity, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of what he's just shared. Then you continue, "Thank you for sharing that story, and a piece of yourself, with me."

The atmosphere between you feels a little lighter now, as if your words have alleviated some of the heaviness that clung to him. It's a subtle change, but one you both clearly feel.

As he rests his hand atop yours for a fleeting moment, you both look out into the crowd below. After a few quiet moments, realization washes over you, filling you with a sense of guilt you hadn't anticipated.

Could it be that he sees in you an opportunity to make up for what happened with Eliza?

The thought that he might see you as a vessel for his own redemption fills you with an almost unbearable weight. These past months under his tutelage, you'd been operating under the belief that this was about your future, your potential. But now, in a fleeting moment, it dawns on you that it could be just as much about mending a fractured piece of him. This revelation adds an unexpected layer of complexity to your relationship with him.

The burden grows heavier as you grapple with a secret you've been harboring: the truth that you don't actually want to become an Auror. The idea that your mentor, a man who has taught you so much and who you've grown to respect immensely, might be pinning hopes of redemption on you feels paralyzing. It's not just your path that's at stake, it's also the fragile repair of his own broken past. This added responsibility sits heavy in your chest, tangled up with your admiration for him and the wish to not let him down.

Even in the crisp air, your skin feels as if it's burning, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil within you.

Sharp senses the shift, turning his eyes to you with a look of concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just really cold out here," you lie, not wanting to expose the emotional storm that's suddenly whipped up inside you.

"Do you want my jacket?" he offers, clearly ready to provide whatever comfort he can.

"No, I think we should probably head back inside," you reply, not trusting yourself to navigate the complexity of emotions just yet.

"You're right," he says, smiling as he always does, but this time, it's tinged with a hint of something unspoken. He gestures for you to lead the way back into the warmth of your living room, back to the throngs of people that pull him aside almost immediately as you re-enter, leaving you for a moment to collect your thoughts, tinged with a melancholy sweetness.

As you re-enter the cacophony of laughter, chatter, and clinking glasses, the lively atmosphere feels paradoxically distant from the emotional gravity of the conversation you've just shared with Sharp. While the room buzzes with levity and casual conversations, you feel an emotional weight anchoring you, pulling you into a newfound depth of understanding for a man who had just been, up to an hour ago, an enigmatic mentor.

The party's energy, so effusive and light, feels almost like a caricature of happiness compared to the raw emotion and complexities you've just navigated. You spot Sharp across the room, pulled into a jovial group sharing anecdotes and toasts. Someone asks why he left his position to become a professor. "Needed a change," he replies with a practiced smile, the same answer he's offered to so many others, and a pang of emotion hits you sharply.

Hearing that response, so sanitized and simplified, makes you cringe inwardly. Now that you know the painful truth behind his departure, his words feel like a betrayal—not to you, but to himself. And as that understanding sinks in, so too does the gnawing realization that you are on the verge of shaking this complicated, poignant world you've just been let into. You're going to have to tell him that you don't want to be an Auror, and the weight of how this revelation might affect him—given everything you now know—feels almost unbearable.

Your fingers wrap around your glass a little tighter, your mind racing as you ponder the best way to navigate the complicated maze of emotions and consequences that await. It feels as if the room has contracted, leaving you little space to breathe as you come to grips with the emotional complexity of what lies ahead.

With a sense of urgency prickling at your nerves, you down the remainder of your drink in one fluid motion, as if the action could also swallow the complexity and emotional weight of the evening. The empty glass hits the table with a soft thud, and a newfound resolve courses through you.

Your eyes dart around the sea of faces, seeking Lawrence, a friend of your mom's who's around your age and your self-declared partner in crime for the evening. Right now, you need another drink and possibly an array of different shots, to take you away from the intricate emotional web that's been spun tonight.

As you push onto your tiptoes, craning your neck to scan the crowd, a sense of urgency fuels your search. You're so consumed by it that the sound of your father's voice catches you off guard, slicing through the animated conversations and ambient noise of the room, as he calls for you.

As you turn towards your father, you barely register his presence or his words. Your mind is still a swirling fog of emotions from your recent conversation with Sharp, and your eyes are on a different mission, darting around the room in an urgent quest to locate Lawrence. Even as your father speaks, his voice becomes part of the ambient noise, blending into the background as you strain to hear any sign of your friend's voice amid the din.

"There's someone I'd like to introduce you to," his words accompanied by a sly grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

It's in this state of distraction, eyes scanning and ears listening for something else entirely, that you fail to notice the figure standing beside your father, a person attired in an all-black suit that he melds seamlessly with the room's shadows.

Just as you're about to voice your confusion, to ask your father what he's talking about, the mysterious figure takes a step closer, emerging from behind your dad's silhouette. In that moment, it's as if your attention sharpens instinctively, zeroing in on what until now had been a peripheral detail.

The enigmatic figure next to your father starts to take shape in your mind, transitioning from a vague silhouette into startling clarity. Your eyes first catch the dark hair—somewhat longer, perhaps, than you remember, veiling his face just enough to add a captivating layer of mystery. Then, it's the all-black suit: impeccably tailored, it clings to his form in a way that lends an unexpected elegance to his typically austere demeanor. You're not used to seeing this man in such attire, and you certainly never expected to find him standing in your living room.

But then your gaze locks with his—those deep, bottomless black eyes that could belong to no one else. In that brief yet expansive moment, everything else—the noise of the crowd, your ongoing mission to find Lawrence, the emotional residue from your conversation with Sharp—all of it dissolves. Your focus narrows to a single, razor-sharp point, aimed solely at the figure before you.

Finally, as if a curtain lifts to reveal the last act of a long-anticipated play, the name crystallizes in the depths of your mind and you gasp:

"Snape."

Chapter 17: you know me too well

Chapter Text

Filthy impetuous soul
I wanna give it to you
Just to see what you’d do
'Cause I'm so drunk on you
Baby, you're all that I want
I want you all to myself
Oh, but you know me too well

you know me too well - nothing but thieves

https://open.spotify.com/track/1BpmL4NBhX2P7GxuoVtojI?si=a511e9791e004dc1

The moment Severus Snape steps through the grand, gilded doors, he's enveloped by a cacophony of laughter, chattering, and the tinkling notes of a grand piano. The air is perfumed with a fragrant blend of expensive cologne, champagne, and the faint, underlying mustiness that is distinctively magical. Chandeliers above twinkle like constellations, casting an ethereal glow that gives the impression of a night sky contained within four walls.

New Year's Eve decor—elegant streams of gold and silver, intricate charms floating mid-air—adorns the high ceilings and elaborate moldings of the room. It's opulent, borderline garish, and utterly uncharacteristic of any setting he's comfortable in.

Is this really the house you grew up in? The thought crosses his mind as he meanders through the grandiose setting. He personally remembers a home that was meager, constricting, stifling as a noose around his neck; not this sprawling mansion that reeks of new affluence.

No, his memories are tinged with the grays and browns of a modest, cramped house that felt like a prison—worlds apart from this expansive dwelling, suffused with a kind of glamour he's never personally known. The contrast isn’t lost on him; it's not jealousy, but perhaps a twinge of wistfulness for what might have been had his own circ*mstances been different. He simply feels like a spectator, an echo of familiarity in a landscape so foreign to his own experience.

He muses about how someone as profoundly layered as you could have been raised amidst such extravagant superficiality. He finds himself seeing you not just as a fascination but as someone who might understand the depths and contradictions that make up his own soul. He had pegged you as a paradox, sure, just as he.

Well. Maybe not just as he.

His eyes wander through the sea of suits and sequined dresses, men and women gliding across the polished floors as if partaking in some intricate dance. They seem lost in a world of joyous oblivion, a world that feels galaxies apart from his own. Clad in a meticulously tailored black suit—while not uncomfortable, per se—he feels as if he's masquerading as one of them. It's suffocating, this stark awareness of his otherness, as palpable as the weight of his wand against his thigh.

Yet, amidst the sea of glamour and hollow laughter, there is a singular beacon drawing him ever inward: you. His presence at this elaborate soirée hinges on the simple yet irreplaceable comfort of hearing your voice, of seeing your face amidst this crowded tapestry of strangers.

The last week has been a whirlwind of Death Eater obligations and sleepless nights. His only solace had been in stolen moments, face buried in the pages of some old book to momentarily escape the bleakness that his life had become. But even then, thoughts of you intruded, an unexpected respite that colored his gray world with a tinge of something inexplicably comforting. Tonight, he realizes, he is not here for the spectacle, but for the quiet solace of a single soul.

A sudden clatter of glass shattering against the floor jars him from his contemplative state.

Perhaps 'quiet' was an optimistic term for tonight's gathering.

As he's lost in his musings, a well-dressed man with a confident stride approaches him. "Severus Snape, is it?" the man says, eyes flickering with recognition.

"Fitzgerald Grant," Snape infers, taking in the striking resemblance to the photos he's seen in the Daily Prophet back in the day. Your father.

“It's high time we properly met. This little soirée seemed like the perfect opportunity. Your mentorship has meant the world to my daughter”

Snape takes in the man's demeanor, momentarily forming an assessment. Fitzgerald Grant is clearly in high spirits, perhaps fueled by the night's libations. He's extroverted, verging on effusive, and a touch too loud—traits Snape usually finds grating. But he tucks that thought away for now; after all, this is your father, and moreover, this overt joviality seems to be the general atmosphere of the evening.

"Certainly, the invitation was unexpected, to say the least," Snape says, his tone measured and imbued with a form of polite detachment.

His thoughts flit to Wormtail, who had glimpsed the envelope bearing the distinct Grant family crest and the words "Grant Family Estate." Though the actual invite remained hidden, the envelope alone had piqued unwanted curiosity.

As an excuse to leave tonight, Snape had spun a tale about needing to attend an Order meeting to gather intel on Dumbledore’s whereabouts, appeasing Wormtail's rising suspicion in the moment. Order meetings typically took place late at night, anyhow. The lie had done its job, at least for now.

Fitzgerald's enthusiastic proclamation rings in Snape's ears, a stark contrast to the man's own habitual reserve. "You should have seen my face when I saw you'd accepted! Let's find my daughter. I didn't tell her you were coming; it'll be a surprise," the man effuses, eyes alight.

But even as the man speaks, the words float past Snape, barely making an imprint on his thoughts. He's an outsider, standing on the periphery of a world that seems as foreign as the planets revolving in distant skies. He wonders how many more minutes—or seconds—he must endure in this overwhelming sea of strangers before he can rightfully withdraw.

Offered a drink, he subtly declines with a shake of his head. Undeterred, your father cavalierly grabs a glass from a nearby table and strides forward, leaving Snape with no option but to follow.

He carefully quells the instinct to survey the room for your face, opting instead to maintain his characteristic veneer of stoicism. However, beneath this impenetrable façade, the prospect of seeing you generates a discrete thrill, an emotion as perplexing as it is involuntary.

Then, through the swirling milieu of partygoers, he spots you. Clad in a black dress, your outfit defies simplistic categorization. The neckline softly drapes, drawing attention without demanding it. Elevated by a pair of heels that could only be described as elegantly daring, you're an ensemble of contradictions— demure yet provocative.

It's the first time he's seen you dressed this way, and the impact of it sends a jolt of awareness straight to his co*ck, a sensation that is as unsettling as it is electrifying. Your eyes appear distant, lost in thought, which only serves to make you look even more endearing.

Then your father's voice cuts through the air, calling out your name, and it's as if a spell is broken. Snape clenches his jaw subtly, bracing himself for the imminent shift from his internal musings to the reality of the interaction.

Taking a step forward, his eyes lock onto yours as you finally notice him. The expression that blooms on your face—incredible delight mingled with sheer astonishment—elicits a response so profound, he's momentarily convinced that his heart has ceased its function.

And in that fleeting second, amid the clamor and spectacle, all the discomfort and incongruity of the evening condenses into a point of irrelevance.

"Snape."

The single word tumbles through the caverns of your mind like an echo, reverberating in every empty space until there's nothing else. His smirk, a familiar but startling expression in this new context, dances across his lips. He stands before you, an oasis of surprising elegance in a black suit that seems to rewrite the essence of Severus Snape.

His attire disarms you—a departure from the billowing robes and high-buttoned collars that you'd become accustomed to. The suit clings to him in all the right places, outlining a figure you realize you've never truly seen. His eyes are darker, it seems, in the softer lighting of the room, and you suddenly realize how much you've missed those eyes—missed him.

You want to rush into his arms, feel the hard line of that well-tailored suit against you, but social norms and the eyes of unknowing onlookers hold you back. So you bounce slightly on your toes instead, a physical manifestation of the emotions threatening to bubble over.

Your father, Fitzgerald, exudes a warmth that brightens the room, his co*cktail-enhanced congeniality palpable. "Professor, it's a genuine privilege to have you here," he beams, the words rolling off his tongue with a practiced charm tinged by a hint of inebriation. "Your guidance has been invaluable to our daughter. This evening is, in part, a small token of our appreciation for your mentorship."

Snape turns his gaze to your father, those bottomless black eyes momentarily leaving yours. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Grant. It's not every day that one encounters a student as dedicated and naturally gifted as your daughter.”

You stand there, awe-struck as they exchange pleasantries. Your father, Fitzgerald, the epitome of charm, is bantering with Snape, the Potions Master who has been the focus of your… clandestine affections. Snape locks eyes with you briefly, and the corners of his mouth tilt upwards knowingly.

It's almost more than you can take. A grin you can't control stretches across your face, your eyes twinkling with a giddy light. The moment is so surreal, you'd believe you'd gulped down a vial of daydream potion if you didn't know better.

Your father sips his co*cktail thoughtfully, a flicker of satisfaction passing over his features. "I must say, your reputation precedes you, Severus.” He pauses briefly, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his features, almost too quick to catch. Then he continues, recalibrating his words. “to think you've been nurturing my daughter's talents—well, it speaks volumes."

Snape inclines his head, a hint of acknowledgment and perhaps even modesty gracing his stern face. “Her talents are, indeed, worth nurturing. However, the credit for her progress is equally hers."

Then you catch the way he's looking at you. Really looking at you. This is the first time he's seen you outside of your Slytherin robes, the first time he's seen you as you are. And you can tell, from the way his eyes sweep over you, that this is a revelation for him too.

Your father chuckles, setting his glass down on a nearby table. "Ah, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I suppose. My wife always says that she got her smarts from her old man!" He grins, looking at you. “Well, that’s a lie. She doesn’t. But I like to think she does.”

With that, your father places his hand warmly on Snape's shoulder, gripping it with his signature, hearty, masculine camaraderie. "Well, I ought to circulate. Can’t monopolize our guest of honor all night. Gotta make sure the other, less interesting guests are enjoying themselves, too. It’s been an honor.” he says, his eyes twinkling in a way that's endearing in its obliviousness. His other hand finds its place on your shoulder, a touch that serves as a grounding anchor. "And you," his gaze shifts to you, warmly affectionate, "Enjoy yourself, alright?"

With the easy grace only a man like your father could command, he steps away, melting into the crowd of well-dressed guests.

"Miss Grant, it seems your aptitude for potions has not only caught my attention but also garnered familial accolades," Snape turns to you, his voice as silky and resonant as ever, but laced with a subtext that only you could understand.

You can't help but revel in the covert little game the two of you are playing, each phrase a masquerade, each glance a secret pact. "It's a subject that has increasingly captured my interest, Professor," you reply, your eyes shining with the delicious irony of it all.

He smirks, fully aware of the duality of your words. "Indeed? One might think you're angling for extra credit, given your... enthusiasm."

With a slow, confident smile, you lean in slightly closer, your eyes locked onto his. "Extra credit? Perhaps, Professor, but you should know my enthusiasm isn't solely reserved for the classroom."

For a fleeting second, you see something flash in Snape's eyes—a mixture of surprise and something else, something darker and more electric. His breathing hitches ever so subtly, and you can't help but feel a thrill of victory.

As intoxicating as this dance of words and glances is—you find that you can't maintain it any longer. Not now. Your joy is a fizzing, effervescent thing, bubbling up and demanding release.

For a split second, your gaze locks with his, and an understanding unfolds. Both of you cast a quick, cautious glance around, ensuring that no eyes are on you. Assured, he follows your lead as you navigate through a back hallway, artfully steering clear of the sea of well-dressed guests who would make any private conversation impossible.

Walking backwards, you can't keep the grin off your face, your eyes drinking in the way Snape—dressed so atypically in that suit—looks in the setting of your own home. There's a surreal, dreamy quality to it.

As if sensing your scrutiny, he glances down briefly, absorbing the details of your outfit. You catch this perceptive look, one that's so clearly appreciative despite its subtlety. With a quick spin, you turn around and continue walking, adding just a hint of flair to your movement, just for him. As you glance back, you catch the intensity of his gaze, a look so potent it's as if he's absorbing every detail of you, and in that moment, you feel irresistibly, utterly desired.

Once the two of you are safely ensconced in the deserted kitchen, you finally let out an exasperated exclamation of delighted disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

"I received an invitation from your father," he begins, unbuttoning his suit jacket and leaning against the counter. "Considering our... unique circ*mstances, it was an offer I couldn't refuse."

You bounce on your toes, a spontaneous expression of your bubbling happiness. "I had no idea. I'm so happy you came."

His eyes, so often a guarded fortress, soften just a fraction. "Miss Grant, I would hardly pass up an opportunity to see you—especially in such a fascinating context."

At his words, you can't resist inching closer, all while he remains rooted in place. You've always found this dynamic electrifying, similar to the way he leans against his workstation in the potions lab, or perches on the edge of his desk in his office, allowing you the space to approach him, or rather, drawing you into his orbit.

"And what's the fascinating context?" you challenge, your voice tinged with playful curiosity.

His eyes narrow, arms folding across his chest as he appraises you. "A setting outside of Hogwarts, first and foremost. Then, there's the matter of your attire," his gaze travels deliberately over your black dress, lingering on the gold chains that serve as straps and the corset detailing that cinches at your waist.

"Dressed as you are tonight, you've achieved a transformation that goes beyond mere fabric and form.” A smirk crosses his lips as his gaze continues to travel deliberately over you, the intensity of his eyes palpable. “You are nothing short of spellbinding."

His words, delivered in that silken voice of his, strike directly at your core, sending a thrilling shiver down your spine. You step closer, a playful glint dancing in your eyes as you meet his gaze. In a voice laden with sultry undertones, you say, "Your talent for description is enchanting, Professor. A skill well-suited not only to potions but to, shall we say.... Other subtleties?"

His lips curl into a near-imperceptible smirk, his eyes flickering with an intensity that feels as if it could ignite the very air around you. His eyes are intense and probing. "Subtleties?"

You bite your lip playfully and reply, "The devil's in the details."

Snape's eyes narrow, a slight yet significant shift in his countenance that seems to fan the flames of your shared tension. "I find myself increasingly appreciative of these... details," he articulates, each syllable laced with an allure that only he could summon.

You're both acutely aware of your surroundings, the knowledge that this is as far as you can take it right now serving as a tantalizing barrier neither of you can cross. Yet.

"I'm so glad you're here. This holiday has been chaotic, but seeing you is the most wonderful surprise," you say, your eyes meeting him as your voice conveys genuine happiness.

Snape raises an eyebrow. “What made the holidays so chaotic?”

Your thoughts scatter, a flurry of realizations. Sharp is here too—another pivotal figure in your life. Another man who is under the impression he holds a majority role in your life. The gravity of the situation washes over you, each face in the crowded room multiplying into a series of possible confrontations and awkward explanations.

For a brief, irrational second, you fantasize about choreographing the night so that these two worlds never collide—a fanciful notion, as ludicrous as catching smoke. Maybe Lawrence could help you. Steer the two men away from each other like a game of chess for the next–you look at the clock in the kitchen–two plus hours.

Catching the shift in your demeanor, Snape tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Is something the matter?"

"Well," you hesitate. "Sharp is here too." You push the memory of your almost-kiss with Sharp to the back of your mind.

His expression changes almost instantly, becoming a curious blend of annoyance, surprise, and subdued indignation. "And what, pray tell, is Professor Sharp doing here?"

"Well, you know," you brush it off with a casual wave of your hand, "he used to be partners with my dad. He was at the Christmas party. It's fine. I'm not even sure where he is. Just wanted to give you a heads-up; you might run into him tonight."

There's a pause, a moment where the air between you thickens as Snape processes this information. Finally, he sighs. "Very well."

Your eyes soften at his reluctant acquiescence. Rising on your tiptoes, you bring your lips close to his ear. "Thank you for coming tonight, and for the book," you whisper sweetly.

A faint but genuine smile graces his features. It's as though he's reluctantly allowing himself to enjoy the situation, a subtle eye-roll of concession.

As you make your way through the crowd, you introduce Snape to an array of characters—most of whom are friends of your mother's circle–their eccentricities endearing to you, but clearly puzzling to him.

While he maintains an impeccable veneer of politeness, his features can't quite hide his discomfort. It's a subtle tightening around his eyes, a clench of his jaw, cues that only you pick up on. He may not quite get your mother's friends, but he's holding his own. Each raised eyebrow becomes a tiny shared moment between you two, and you find it adorable that he’s at least engaging.

His gaze wanders, absorbing his surroundings. You can see he's taking it all in—each piece of artwork, each burst of laughter from a distant corner of the room. Handing him a new glass of Firewhisky, you notice his shoulders relax slightly, the tension of unfamiliar social interactions dissipating.

"Look, I know this is a lot," you say, chuckling a bit. "But these parties have always been special to me. My parents throw two big ones every year. These parties are some of the fondest memories from when I was a kid."

"A curious tradition, but one I can see has its charms," he says, a touch of dry humor in his voice. Then his eyes narrow in that tantalizing way that makes your heart skip a beat. "No wonder you have an affinity for F. Scott Fitzgerald. You've been hosting Gatsby-esque affairs since you could walk." A smirk graces his lips, and for a moment, your whole world could be reduced to Severus Snape.

He moves closer, with that air of quiet confidence that only he possesses. You can't help but let your gaze roam over him in that finely cut suit. The difference between this and his usual Hogwarts robes is night and day. You've told him as much throughout the evening, whispering it in tones tinged with wonder and flirtation. He seems to savor your compliments, letting them linger like a fine wine.

"What has captured your attention so intently?" he inquires, his voice a low timbre that sends a thrilling shiver down your spine. His smirk widens, the predatory look in his eyes conveying an urgency that's barely restrained. He’s a study in tightly coiled power and you, on the other hand, can’t stop fidgeting with excitement and a hint of need.

"Perhaps the same thing that's holding yours," you reply, your words soaked in both adoration and anticipation.

As your eyes lock, it becomes abundantly clear that the suit is merely a veneer. The essence of the man inside it—the complex, captivating Severus Snape—is what truly holds your unwavering fascination. And in this stolen moment, you feel pulled toward him, yearning to close the gap.

But before you can act, you notice a subtle shift in his demeanor. His eyes, which were once soft and inviting, narrow infinitesimally, as if focusing on some distant object behind you. His body tenses, a rigidity replacing his earlier ease.

Feeling the charge of the moment dissipate, your heart sinks. Instinctively, your shoulders lose their buoyancy, dropping just a fraction, as you sense the imminent collision of your two worlds.

"Professor," the voice of Aesop Sharp slices through the thick air, as jarring as a dissonant note in an otherwise harmonious symphony. You maintain your gaze on Snape, intuiting a mixture of emotions that momentarily cross his features—slight irritation, veiled surprise, and a pure displeasure.

With a resigned step to the side, you find yourself quite literally and metaphorically caught between the two men who have separately captivated very large, and very different facets of your life.

Snape inclines his head, acknowledging Sharp with a veneer of icy politeness. "Professor Sharp," he says, the two words wrapped in a layer of tension. You glance down and notice Snape's hand tightening ever so slightly around his glass of Firewhisky, a subtle indication of the tension he's so expertly cloaking.

Sharp, unfazed, extends his hand, and as Snape takes it, your line of vision blurs to their clasped hands. You watch both men lock eyes, each donning an impassive mask that barely conceals the simmering undercurrents.

Feeling the urge to dissipate the tension, you interject casually, "I was just introducing Professor Snape to a few people." Snape's eyes flicker momentarily to you, his expression subtly questioning why you felt the need to explain yourself.

"I hope you’re finding the company to your liking, Snape" Sharp articulates, each syllable infused with a thinly-veiled skepticism that he doesn't bother to hide completely. His voice is a tone that conceals as much as it reveals. His eyes, a lively–yet overtly intentional–contrast to Snape's more guarded gaze, flash briefly with scrutiny.

Snape's response is a verbal counterweight to Sharp's extroverted buoyancy. "The company has indeed been enlightening," Snape retorts, his lips curling slightly at the edges as he glances at you. It's as if he's challenging Sharp to read between the lines.

"Indeed," Sharp says, maintaining eye contact with Snape just a beat too long. The weight of his gaze is palpable, turning a simple word into an arena of contest. "Our young protege here has been quite the star tonight. Aurors are singing her praises left and right. It's clearly the place for her."

You feel a nervous flutter in the pit of your stomach. You sense the territorial undertone in his words, his way of marking his domain in the unspoken rivalry for your attention. He takes a deliberate sip of his drink, sealing his point like the period at the end of a sentence.

Before Snape can reply, Sharp leans in a touch closer, adding with a seemingly casual, yet pointed, air, "Must be interesting for you, Professor, to find yourself in a room filled with Aurors." His voice is warm but edged with something that makes you instinctively tense, as if readying yourself for an inevitable clash.

You’re not entirely sure why.

Your eyes dart to Snape's. For a fraction of a second, you see it—anger that flashes like dark fire in the depths of his eyes. It's an emotion you've only glimpsed a few times before, and you recognize it instantly.

Whatever game Sharp is playing at, you find yourself wishing he'd stop.

Snape takes a moment, as if gathering himself before responding. “Curious indeed.”

His disdain for Sharp has never been a secret—he views the Auror as little more than an audacious showman, a man who had the audacity to turn your head away from Potions and into the world of law enforcement, leading to a two-month disconnect at the beginning of the school year.

Sharp's reasons are more elusive. Though you know he disapproves of Snape for pulling you toward Potions, you sense other, deeper, unspoken issues fueling his animosity—issues you haven't yet pieced together.

What's clearly visible in this standoff, however, is that neither man appreciates the other's presence in your life. And as they continue this subtle battle of wills, you find yourself wedged in a precarious crossfire, caught between two worlds that, until now, you had managed to keep wonderfully, disastrously separate.

However, as if on cue once again, your father bursts onto the scene with the kind of unbridled energy that only a few dozen drinks can bestow.

"Ah, there you are, sweetheart!" he exclaims, his voice wrapped in a buoyant lilt. “There are some folks from the Office that I want you to meet.” His face is flushed, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, his tie slackened in a loose knot. "They're working on something—regulations, spells, potions, dodgy whatnots. I honestly have no clue," he continues, letting out a hearty laugh. His gaze momentarily falls on Snape and Sharp and his smile drops slightly.

For a split second, his eyes lock onto Sharp, and something subtle shifts in his expression. His gaze lingers for just a moment longer than usual before he turns back to you, his tone now tinged with a hint of gravity. "Anyways… I wouldn't interrupt if it weren't important. Sounds like your cup of tea."

The awkwardness of the moment expands to almost farcical proportions. Here you are, caught in a social whirlpool with two men who would rather not be in each other's company, and a father blissfully unaware of the electricity he’s just waded into yet again. Swallowing hard, you nod, not wanting to draw your father into this inexplicable tension, let alone have to explain it to him.

You cast a final, apprehensive glance back at Snape and Sharp as you follow your dad's enthusiastic lead. Snape's eyes meet yours, and for a brief second, there’s a touch of something tender there—perhaps, or quiet reassurance. But as you're led away, you catch him eyeing Sharp anew, the fragile détente shattered. A quick glance at a nearby clock shows it's only just about 10:45 PM. Internally, you groan.

As you're introduced to the new group, their words about regulations and new initiatives start to blur together. You're mechanically nodding, offering polite smiles and chuckles in all the right places, but you're not really there. The lingering heaviness sits like a stone in your gut, turning your social performance into a balancing act that you're afraid might tip over at any moment.

And despite your best efforts, you can't even catch a sliver of a view of Snape or Sharp through the crowd. The sea of people becomes a frustrating barrier, a maze of festive attire and tipsy laughter that keeps your line of sight blocked.

A sense of foreboding washes over you as the clock ticks closer to midnight. Amidst the intoxicating blend of laughter and clinking glasses, one unsettling thought takes root in your consciousness: this is going to be one hell of a New Year.

As you're whisked away by your father, Snape casts one final, lingering look in your eyes until the last possible moment—a silent vow that whatever the outcome of this sordid little drama, he won't be relegated to the role of mere spectator. He is left in the presence of Sharp, an unwelcome chill amid the burning heat.

The abrupt collision with reality is jarring, but it doesn't extinguish his internal fervor; rather, it transforms it. His impassioned state caused by the flirtatious lilt in your voice, first stoked by the allure of your presence, now finds a new focus in a now razor-edged banter that ensues with Aesop Sharp.

The sheer audacity of it all—the unsolicited interruption, his feigned congeniality, that insufferable glint of arrogance in his eyes—grates on Snape like sandpaper against skin.

The man may wear a mask of casual assurance, but the Potions Master can perceive the petty motives simmering beneath the surface. Actually, Sharp might as well have worn a placard announcing his territorial ambitions, marking the battlefield for your attention and approval. Simply put, the man before him is nothing more than a performer on a stage of his own creation, where the price of admission is an inflated ego.

“Must be an interesting experience for you, Professor, to find yourself in a room filled with Aurors."

The words were designed to provoke, to spotlight his own role in your life. A puerile tactic. Unworthy of both the man and the moment.

To dare allude to his unspeakable past, especially in your watchful presence, is not just a personal affront but an unforgivable trespass that cuts through the fragile territory of his honor and your shared understanding. It is a calculated move designed to wound and undermine, pulling into the light those shadowy fragments of his past he'd rather remain buried.

The fire that you ignited within him refuses to be snuffed out; instead, it transmutes into a blaze of another kind.

"Tell me, Sharp," his voice silky but edged like a well-honed blade, "do you often find yourself wandering into battles you're ill-equipped to fight?" His eyes narrow, locking onto Sharp's with an intensity that could cut glass.

Battles, perhaps, like the ones that cost you your partner and your standing within the Auror Office?

Sharp smirks, not missing a beat. "I wander where I please, Snape. It's one of the perks of not having a history that haunts me."

Sharp knows just enough to be dangerous, yet he remains blissfully ignorant of the intricate layers of sacrifice and regret that make up Severus Snape, turning his provocation into a perilous game he doesn't fully understand.

“It's easy to play the role of the hero when you're not the one paying the price for your recklessness." Snape scoffs.He is well aware of the dangerous waters he navigates—a turbulent intersection between his budding, taboo, relationship with you and his chronic aversion to his overly self-assured colleague.

Still, he won't let this petty provocation go unanswered; his honor, whatever remains of it, won't allow it. And above all, he won't let Sharp taint the complexity, the delicate nuance, of whatever is blossoming between you and him.

No, this is far from over.

Severus Snape is not a man to forget or forgive easily.

Sharp's eyes narrow, the convivial facade cracking just a bit. "Some of us, at least, had the courage to face battles head-on, rather than skulking in the shadows. Talk about not paying the price."

Sharp may have thrown down the gauntlet, but he has no idea the kind of war he's incited.

Snape leans in, a sneer gracing his lips. "I've paid prices you couldn't begin to fathom, Sharp. How does it feel, to move from the role of Auror to educator, leaving behind a trail of failures?" Hesteps back, the veiled revelations and stinging barbs hang in the air between them, a battlefield that's far from settled.

Sharp grins, clearly sensing an opening. "A certain protégé destined for the Auror Office might beg to differ."

Snape's eyes narrow at the insinuation, a silent snarl forming behind his lips. How dare Sharp refer to you as his protégé. The gall of the man to claim any form of guardianship over your burgeoning talents. The audacity of the revelation threatens to crack Snape's icy exterior, but he keeps his composure.

They lock eyes in a silent battle of wills. Capitalizing on the moment, Sharp's grin widens. "In fact, that rising star and her family found my company rather enlightening over Christmas week.”

Each word lands like a calculated stab, aiming to unnerve Snape, to lay claim to territories both emotional and personal. The implication is crystal clear—Sharp was not just a visitor, but an intimate houseguest.

Sharp flashes a knowing smirk, and raises his glass to Snape before joining a group of nearby Aurors in conversation.

The man may believe he's seized the upper hand, but the night is young, and Snape has always been a man who plays the long game.

Snape stands in the corner of the kitchen, a glass of something strong and decidedly Muggle in his hand. He has just concluded a draining discussion with an official from the Auror Office about an upcoming interdepartmental collaboration—a dialogue replete with veiled threats and political posturing. He needs this drink.

On the bright side, the information gleaned from his terse conversation with the Auror official provides him with the perfect counterbalance to present to the Dark Lord. Wormtail, that sniveling rat, had been all too eager to share that Snape was attending an Order meeting this evening—information that is blatantly false. The detail serves as valuable collateral, a means to further prove his worth and secure his already precarious position.

The political game never ends, but for once, it seems the board is tilted in his favor.

His eyes narrow as he sees Aesop Sharp across the room, regaling a circle of younger Aurors with tales that are undoubtedly self-aggrandizing. The memory of the exchange at this very event prickles at him like an uncomfortable hex. Sharp has spent the Christmas holidays with your family, he said. As an intimate houseguest.

Snape's mind involuntarily spirals into an abyss of unwelcome implications. Has Sharp seen you first thing in the morning, your hair tousled, eyes still sleepy? Has he seen you in your nightclothes, garments not meant for the gaze of any man who isn't—Snape cuts that thought off sharply, irritated at himself for even going there.

Why hadn’t you told him? You've mentioned Sharp's presence, yes, but not the uncomfortable intimacy of his stay. Had it simply not been the right time to bring it up? Or was there a deliberate omission?

He spots you from across the room, your eyes scanning the crowd before finally locking onto his. Your face lights up in a smile, and for a moment, the rational part of Snape's mind suggests that maybe there is no insidious reason for your silence.

But as you begin to navigate through the throng of people, making your way towards him, the more visceral, illogical part of his psyche rises to the fore. He imagines you bumping into Sharp at the top of the stairs of your family home, sharing a warm, private smile; or perhaps you encounter each other in the ornate hallways, a brief but intimate exchange taking place away from prying eyes.

Maybe Sharp even sits on the grand couch he notes in the distance, where couples and friends are cozied up, enjoying close conversation. Each mental image serves as a separate twist of the knife, a reminder of the intimacy that could have existed between Sharp and you—intimacy that belongs to the sanctuary of a home.

With a flick of his wrist, he downs the remainder of his drink, setting the glass down a bit more forcefully than intended. The liquid burns on its way down, much like the turmoil roiling within him. In a room full of people, feeling as though he’s suffocating in layers of what seem to be unsaid truths and strategic omissions, that small glass feels like the only straightforward thing left.

As you approach where Snape stands at the edge of the chatter, your face is lit with a warm but slightly wary smile. "Hi," you offer, clearly curious about what transpired after you were whisked away by your father.

His jaw tightens noticeably, and he says nothing in reply. Instead, in a passionate, abrupt movement, he grasps your wrist and guides you through the kitchen, into an empty hallway. You look at him, puzzled. Even he’s surprised at his action.

"Your room. Now.” He hisses, curt in his delivery.

He releases his grip on your wrist for you to lead the way. For a moment, you hesitate, as you try to read the storm brewing within him. You turn and lead him up a staircase, away from prying eyes. As you both ascend, the chatter from the party below becomes increasingly faint, drowned out by the intensity of the moment.

This is a risk, a blatant crossing of boundaries he usually honors in public, but the simmering blend of anger and jealousy within him leaves him no other option. You've given him no choice.

Snape watches you closely from behind as you climb the staircase, his eyes drinking in the details of your form—the way your dress clings to your curves, the elegant lift of your chin, the restrained grace in your movements. Decidedly, it's not the time for such intemperate thoughts. You lead him to your bedroom, his thoughts still a maelstrom of inner dialogue he shouldn’t trust.

The instant the door latches shut, Snape moves with a predatory grace, cornering you against it. His eyes, those fathomless pools of obsidian, lock onto yours as if he could peer into your very soul, dissecting the emotions and motives concealed there.

"I’m told of a certain guest in your family home over Christmas. Tell me, was he as enlightening a presence here as he claims?" Snape's voice carries a subtle yet scathing edge, each word a veiled jab aimed at the incomplete truths you've shared. The sentence stands as both a statement and a question, laden with unspoken demands for an explanation.

“Has he so found his way so deeply into your family's graces that it slipped your mind to mention?" His face remains inches from yours, his breath a tempestuous mix of bitterness and something more volatile—jealousy.

"He was a guest of my father's," you say, meeting his penetrating gaze, “and stayed for a few days after the Christmas party. That’s all."

At the words 'a few days,' a scoff escapes Snape's lips, a sound filled with both disbelief and bitterness. He takes a step back from you, disentangling himself physically even as his thoughts continue to grapple with what you've said. On one hand, your explanation could be entirely plausible, innocent even. On the other, the omission feels like a betrayal, a crack in the foundation of whatever strange, complicated thing exists between you two.

You pause, locking eyes with him. "He was hanging around my dad the whole time. Nothing happened that I felt the need to inform you about." For a moment, he recognizes a quiet conviction in your gaze, as if you're silently daring him to challenge your words.

This is a man wrestling with conflicting impulses—the desire to know against the dread of confirmation, the need for control pitted against the unraveling coil of possessiveness and unspoken expectations. And though he doesn't articulate it, the weight of his gaze tells you that the complexity of his feelings cannot be unwound easily, if at all.

This is Severus Snape in all his complicated glory—a cauldron of repressed emotions boiling over, compelling him to seek answers he may not want, to confront emotions he's never allowed himself to fully acknowledge.

And as you stand there, pinned under the relentless scrutiny of his eyes, Snape's eyes never leave yours. He's searching for something—reassurance, perhaps, or an underlying hint of deception.

Then you approach him, each step laden with a hesitance that speaks louder than words, Snape finds himself caught off guard. He hadn't expected you to breach the invisible barricade of tension he'd erected around himself. Now here you are, standing face to face with him, your eyes a blend of sadness and trepidation as they search his. He stands rigidly, strands of his raven-black hair fall around his face and frame it like the curtains of a tragic stage.

Yet your face—gentle and earnest—looks up at him, pulling him momentarily out of his storm of thoughts. For an instant, he's disarmed, and in that window of vulnerability, you reach out to touch his arm. The physical contact is almost incongruous in its tenderness, striking a discordant note amid his wall of defensive scrutiny.

"Nothing happened." When you speak, your words thread through the tension in the room, aimed to soothe but also revealing an underbelly of vulnerability. “He was hanging out with my dad those few days. I was here,” you gesture to your bed and the intricately bound book on your nightstand, “wrapped up with the book you gave me.”

He draws a deep breath, eyes following yours. The haze of tension seems to thin for a moment, as if dispersed by the sheer force of your sincerity. But just as he teeters on the edge of letting go, a new thought winds its way into his consciousness, sharp and jarring.

"If Sharp was merely a benign presence, as you so claim, why did he see it fit to stake a claim on you tonight? Why the insinuation that he's suddenly a fixture in your life?" His gaze pins you to the spot, as if he's trying to peer directly into the core of your being, to lay your soul bare.

"You know how Sharp can be, probably just trying to get under your skin," you suggest, though Snape can tell you're carefully choosing your words, mindful not to imply too much familiarity with Sharp. "Yes, he's been a part of my life," you continue, your voice hushed yet firm. "But the truth is, no one holds the claim on me that you do. You're the one I want, the one I've been longing for since the break began. It's always been you."

Something shifts behind his dark eyes, a tumult of emotions racing across their depths. A scalding blend of desire and disbelief, jealousy and yearning all war within him, making him nearly tremble with the force of his own feelings. But it's as if he can't quite dare to believe your words, even though he yearns for them to be true. He needs confirmation, undeniable and irrefutable.

"Say it," he growls, the words coming out more as a plea wrapped in a command, with an urgency you've never heard from him before. There's a vulnerability there, barely veiled by the gruffness of his tone, a crack in his usually imperturbable facade that you've caused.

Snape is caught in a tug-of-war between his need for control and something more chaotic, more human. That 'something'—a thing he'd rather die than name—hangs in the air between you, unspoken yet screaming its existence.

And your words have become his crucible, the test that could either break him or make him whole.

"Say what?" The query escapes your lips, a reflex of genuine perplexity.

His voice, a low and urgent rumble, demands with a possessive intensity, "Say that you belong to me." Each word is saturated with a raw, unshielded need, a stark deviation from his characteristic restraint. "Say it because it's the truth, not because I've asked it of you."

The electricity in the room seems to pulse in time with your shared heartbeats, creating an atmosphere that's somehow both sacred and intensely intimate.

Your eyes lock onto his, and you gulp, aware of the weightiness of what he's asking—what he's truly asking. "I'm yours," the words come out a whisper but carry the weight of a far louder declaration.

The millisecond of silence that follows your declaration is shattered as his lips crash against yours, sealing your proclamation with a ferocity that leaves you breathless.

"That's correct," he murmurs against your lips, "no one else has any claim over you, certainly not some half-baked Auror who thinks too highly of himself."

Snape's thoughts storm wildly, finding outlet only through the vehemence of his touch, the fevered pitch of his kiss. It's as if his entire essence—months of silent longing, of unspoken tension, seconds of unbearable anticipation—is funneled into this singularity of a moment. For him, this is more than mere possession; it's the reclaiming of what he's considered irrevocably his, a territorial marking both psychological and ineffably emotional.

Snape moves his lips to the corner of your mouth and then down to the curve of your neck, leaving a fiery path in their wake. The sensation of his lips on your skin is almost too much, evoking a soft moan that escapes your lips before you even realize it. His breath, hot against your neck, whisper promises that words could never capture.

"You are mine," he growls into the sensitive skin there, the timbre of his voice a seismic grumble, laden with ownership and irrepressible desire. Each word is stamped onto you with another passionate kiss, like an incantation, a binding spell that allows no dissent. "Mine, and no one else's. Let that truth sear itself into every fiber of your being."

His words, imbued with a lifetime's worth of untamed yearning and restrained fury, reverberate through you, settling deep within your bones. The very walls of your room understand the seismic shift that has just occurred. You stand before him, your eyes alight with mischief and longing, and every movement you make seems calculated to draw him in further.

He leans in, his voice a low, compelling murmur. "You do not keep things from me," he warns, the statement laced with an undercurrent of possessiveness that sends a thrill down your spine. It's not a lecture, but a plea. In this moment, his warning is less about control and more about the depths of his feeling for you—a passionate insistence on transparency in the complex tapestry of emotions and desires that bind you together.

His fingertips graze the gold chain straps of your dress as you nod, your eyes wide. Even through the thin layers of cloth and decorum, he senses the magnetic attraction that radiates from you.

He observes, his gaze intense, as you gently guide his hands from your waist and neck, down to rest just beneath the hem of your dress.

"Don't make me beg," you utter, your voice a blend of command and enticement. It seems to be all you can muster at the moment. The implication sends a thrill through him, igniting a myriad of tantalizing possibilities. The sight of you, so boldly guiding his touch, the flirtatious curve of your lips, the sultry lilt of your voice—each nuance is a subtle stroke on the canvas of his burgeoning arousal.

In the subtext of your every glance and gesture, Severus Snape senses an enticing contradiction—a woman both refined by her upbringing and yet, he believes, capable of defying it under the right circ*mstances.

His mind unspools a tapestry of scenarios wherein he'd be the catalyst, the forbidden influence who coaxes you away from this conditioned elegance into a realm of liberating rawness.

To be the one who unravels that tight composure of yours, eliciting from you not polite laughter but gasps of unguarded delight, not calculated flirtations but spontaneous acts of passion.

The tantalizing possibility sharpens his focus and quickens his pulse, further fanning the flames of his already aroused state. It's as though a subterranean world of suppressed urges and hidden wants is waiting to be unearthed, and he's eager—perhaps dangerously so, if the pained erection underneath his trousers are any indication—to be the one holding the proverbial shovel.

His thoughts are reduced to restrained need and volatile desire, threading the line between decency and the thrilling prospect of breaking the rules.

Breaking you in.

To delve deeper, to really get to know you, in the most primal sense of the word.

"Are you certain?" he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper, tinged with both caution and yearning. His eyes never leave yours, as if challenging you to look away. To change your mind. To stop him.

You don’t.

Your affirmation comes with a nod, lips parting slightly as a breath quivers through you. "More certain than anything," you whisper, the words quaking with conviction.

He responds to your certainty with a decisive move, taking your hand and leading you towards the bed, an oasis of meticulously arranged sheets that stands on the brink of beautiful chaos. He sits, drawing you down into his lap, a deliberate, possessive gesture. For a fleeting moment, you both remain still, eyes locked in a silent exchange, fully aware of the precipice upon which you teeter. The air between you crackles with unspoken promises, each heartbeat a countdown to the inevitable surrender.

Snape's hand returns to your face, his touch bolder, more assertive. His fingers trace the contour of your lips, igniting a trail of heat, before sliding down to the sensitive skin of your neck. The intensity in his eyes deepens as he leans in for another kiss, one that engulfs your senses, leaving you yearning for more.

You surrender to the moment, leaning into him, your arms encircling his neck. Your fingers weave through his hair, each strand a lifeline in the tempest of your emotions.

His hands, decisive and yearning, roam along the lines of your back, coming to rest at your waist. He gently lays you down upon the edge of your bed, his gaze tender yet filled with a consuming desire, as if you were both the most precious and the most tantalizing thing he's ever beheld.

You watch as Snape removes his jacket, and you're acutely aware of the building tension in the room. Each of his movements sends a surge of excitement through you. His shirt remains on, but even this can't diminish the intensity of the moment as you watch the fabric of his shirt strain against his muscles as he rolls up one sleeve, his movement almost predatory.

The smirk on his lips isn't just a smirk—it's a promise, a silent declaration that he's about to show you a side of him reserved for this moment. For you. In the dim light, his eyes glint with a raw intensity that sends shivers down your spine, an anticipation building within you that's as wild as it is eager.

Laying there, every fiber of your being is attuned to him, your body tingling with a mix of nervous anticipation and deep, undeniable arousal.

Your heart pounds in your chest. There's mounting heat to your desire, a deep yearning that transcends words or thoughts. It's as if every part of you is reaching out to him, longing to bridge the gap between desire and fulfillment. You want him in a way that is all-consuming, an urge that eclipses everything else in your world at this moment.

The room seems to spin slightly as he moves closer, the distance between you shrinking with every step he takes. You're keenly aware of every inch of space he closes, every breath you draw, every beat of your heart, and the arousal pooling between your thighs.

The anticipation is almost unbearable, a sweet torture that you both prolong and yearn to end.

Snape's eyes, dark and intense, are fixed on you. You meet his stare unflinchingly, unwilling to break the connection, to miss even a fraction of a second of this electric interlude. His hand, steady and purposeful, trails a line down your side.

There's a hunger in his gaze, a fierce need barely kept in check as his hand continues its deliberate journey downward.

As his hand ventures further and his fingertips graze your slick entrance, Snape leans in, his breath a whisper against your ear.

"It seems, Miss Grant, you've been harboring quite the desire," he murmurs, his voice a sultry baritone laced with teasing provocation. "One might even say you're aching for me." His words, charged with a bold directness, send a shiver down your spine.

Snape's touch becomes daring, venturing into the uncharted territory of your soaking wet entrance with a boldness that's both thrilling and overwhelming. He gently pushes two fingers inside you, skillful and deliberate, exploring you with a finesse that leaves you gasping, a crescendo of sensations building within you.

The party and the rest of the world outside this room, this moment, ceases to exist. You're acutely aware of every breath he takes, every shift of his body as he hovers over you. His eyes, dark and intense, are fixed on your face, watching every reaction, every tremble, every whine, every whimper, every unguarded expression that you can't hold back. It's as if he's savoring every detail, committing to memory the way you respond to his touch.

"You, my dear, are so responsive, so eager," he continues, a note of satisfaction lacing his words. Each syllable is a stroke of fire, igniting your senses further. His words are a velvet caress, laden with the same mastery and control he wields in every aspect of his life. There's a commanding quality to his voice, an undeniable authority that resonates deep within you, echoing the fervor of his touch. "I've barely begun, and already you're unraveling under me."

His fingers continue pumping in and out of you, boldly claiming new territories inside you. You're on the edge, teetering on the brink of something all-encompassing, and it's all you can do to cling to his shoulders, desperate for the release that only he can provide.

There's an artistry to his movements, a deliberate intent to overwhelm and conquer. His hand, steady and unrelenting, keeps its tantalizing pace and suddenly draws out your desire, stoking the flames until you're consumed by the heat.

As waves of intense pleasure cascade through you, your body undulates beneath him, a physical testament to the overwhelming org*sm he's eliciting. Snape, ever the composed counterpart to your uninhibited display of climax, speaks in a low, steady cadence, guiding you through the cresting tide of your release.

In this moment, you are utterly unraveled, laid bare in the most intimate way before him. He is the steadfast anchor in the storm of your passion, a reassuring presence as you navigate the heights of your climax. And through it all, you're acutely aware that you've surrendered yourself entirely to him, willingly caught in the rapture he's masterfully orchestrated.

“That’s it,” he encourages softly, “let yourself feel it all, every wave, every pulse. You’re so beautifully responsive, so entirely mine.”

His words are a mixture of praise and endearment, each one uttered with a controlled calm that starkly contrasts your fervent response. He watches over you, a guardian of your ecstasy, ensuring that every surge of heat and pleasure is fully experienced and savored.

And as you come down from your release, caught in the tempest of his creation, you realize that this is exactly where you want to be—completely and utterly at his mercy.

As the intensity of your release begins to ebb, you lie there, trying to catch your breath, a sheen of satisfaction glowing on your skin. Snape smirks, a look of undisguised pride in his eyes as he slowly licks his fingers, savoring the taste.

“You are exquisite,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your face as he watches your expression intently. “Every response, every shiver under my touch, is perfection.”

“You're incredible," you manage to gasp out, still reeling from the experience. "That was... amazing."

Your heart is still racing, your body tingling from the aftershocks of pleasure. You watch him through heavy-lidded eyes, a sense of awe mingling with your deepening desire.

Then, to your surprise, Snape begins to undo his belt, the metal clinking softly as he drops his pants. You look at him, your breath hitching slightly, a mixture of surprise and anticipation lighting up your eyes. He catches your gaze, the corner of his mouth lifting in a devilish grin.

"Did you think I was done with you, my dear?" His voice is low and husky, a promise of more to come. "We've barely begun."

You lay there, a beautiful disarray of desire and contentment, as he leans over you, his eyes dark and full of intent. The promise in his voice sends a thrill down your spine, and you realize that this night is far from over.

Snape's hands move with a mixture of tenderness and assertiveness, gently pulling down the straps of your dress, peeling the fabric away from your skin. His eyes, dark and piercing, roam over every curve and contour of your body. The dress falls away to the floor, leaving you exposed, vulnerable, yet exhilarated under his intense gaze.

He touches you with a reverence that speaks volumes, each touch igniting tiny fires within you. His hands grasp and explore your breasts, leaving no part of you untouched, no secret undiscovered.

You watch him, your breath caught in your throat, as his eyes trail down to the edge of his briefs. The outline of his desire is unmistakable, and a jolt of excitement runs through you. Your knees involuntarily spread further apart at the sight of his hardness. You can see in his eyes that he's aware of the effect he's having on you, and it only fuels his ego further.

Reaching out tentatively, you touch him over his black briefs, the contact sending a thrill of power and desire coursing through both of you. His breath hitches at your touch, a raw, unguarded moment that reveals the depth of his need.

As Snape continues, his voice, low and husky, breaks the charged silence. "Tell me how much you want it."

As you watch him, a daring thought takes root, urging you to explore further. You grab the waistband of his briefs and pull them down his legs.

“I need it.”

You feel his hard shaft against your fingertips, followed by a steady stream of precum. With a boldness fueled by the electric atmosphere, your wet fingers trace a tantalizing path along his member, eliciting a visceral response.

“Take it.” He mutters under his breath.

You wrap your hand around him, and slowly begin pumping him. You’re well aware that he intended to take you, that he's driven by a singular goal: to bring you to heights of passion you've never known, a journey he's intent on navigating with a possessive intensity that's entirely his own. But you relish in this moment. Each stroke and touch sends ripples of reaction through him, his eyes flutter shut, a testament to the sensations you're evoking.

It's a dance of discovery, where you're leading him to the edge of control. You feel him pulsating in the palm of your hand, every twitch of his member in sync with low grunts escaping his lips.

The growl reverberates through you, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You begin to stroke him faster, setting a rhythm that is both instinctive and deliberate, guided by the magnetic pull between you.

You're captivated by his reactions above you, his muscles tensing under the strain of maintaining his poised position. Every grit of his teeth and flex of his arms is a display of controlled strength, a vivid contrast to the unbridled passion that had overtaken you moments ago. The way he hovers, a balance of power and restraint, only heightens the intensity of the moment.

It's as if he's battling his own desires, teetering on the edge between surrender and control, and you find yourself captivated by this raw display of his physicality.

But then, just as you sense him teetering on the brink, his hand moves—a swift, decisive action. He grabs your wrist gently yet firmly, guiding your hand away. The gesture, though restraining, is laced with an unspoken promise of more—of depths yet to be explored and boundaries yet to be pushed. His self-control, barely hanging by a thread, shatters as he positions himself between your thighs.

As he pins your hands above your head, a surge of exhilaration courses through you. The restraint, the controlled dominance in his actions, sends a thrill of anticipation tingling down your spine. You feel him push his tip inside your entrance and you look up at him with pleading eyes.

He watches your reaction, seemingly searching your eyes for any sign that he should stop. His restraint is palpable, every muscle tensed in an effort to maintain control, yet it's clear he's teetering on the edge, driven by the overwhelming desire to explore every inch of you.

But you crave the unbridled passion that you know lies beneath. You want the floodgates of his control to break open, to unleash the fervor you know he's capable of. You yearn for him to claim you fully, without reservations, in a confluence of desire that obliterates all else.

His hesitation is only met with a whine that so deliciously reverberates through the room, giving him all the reassurance he needs.

He pushes his hips further into you, each movement deliberate, a slow build of intensity that resonates through every fiber of your being. He begins thrusting, his head hanging low as growls escape his throat.

Each thrust sends waves of heat crashing through you. You're lost in the sensation, in the connection that pulses between you. The room is filled with the sound of your combined breaths, a sound that matches the escalating intensity of your encounter.

You're completely attuned to his rhythm, the powerful yet measured cadence that speaks of a man fully in control, yet teetering on the edge of his own restraint. Your focus narrows to him, and him alone; his breath, his gaze, the subtle shifts in his expression. There's an aching desire within you to see him unravel, to witness the composed Severus Snape come undone under the weight of his own passion.

His hands move to cradle your face, and your wrists escape his grasp so that you are able to pull him down for a kiss that is almost bruising in its intensity.

"You are my undoing," he whispers against your lips, as if admitting to a secret sin he had long harbored.

Each movement brings a wave of sensation that leaves you breathless, your body moving in harmony with his. The sensation is overwhelming, yet you crave more, driven by the desire to reach that pinnacle of shared ecstasy. You find yourself lifting and grinding your hips against his, your movements erratic and focused on the delicious friction against your throbbing cl*t.

The room is filled with the sound of your rapid breathing and the soft noises of your pleasure, each one a note in the melody that he conducts with masterful precision.

Snape watches you intently, his gaze almost analytical as he observes every minute reaction, every subtle shift in your expression. He savors it all, every moment of your unguarded vulnerability, the raw honesty of your desire laid bare before him. There's a sense of satisfaction, a predatory pleasure in his eyes as he indulges in the way your body responds to his touch. Each twitch of your muscles, each involuntary whimper that escapes your lips, is like a symphony to him, a testament to the profound effect he has on you.

As the intensity of your connection surges, the outside world seems to fade into the background. Yet, suddenly, a rising chorus of voices drifts up from downstairs, piercing through the cocoon of your secluded world.

For a brief second, the reality of the party, the gathering of people just floors below, intrudes into the sanctity of your private space. You both pause, momentarily drawn back to the world outside. Smiles and smirks exchange between you, an unspoken acknowledgment of the surreal juxtaposition of your passionate encounter against the backdrop of a New Year’s Eve countdown. It’s a brief, almost humorous interlude, reminding you both of the world that continues on, oblivious to the seismic shift occurring in this very room.

He grabs your waist with both hands, pinning you down to your bed, the sheets rumpled beneath your body as he begins thrusting nearly relentlessly into you. With every movement, every touch, you are both drawing closer to a precipice, a point of no return that neither of you want to avoid. Snape's face tightens, his eyes almost pained with the intensity of his emotions and the nearness of the inevitable climax.

The sounds of yelling and hollering crescendo into a unified countdown – a heralding of the New Year’s Eve moment.

10…

Then, as quickly as it came, the moment passes, and the urgency of your situation snaps back into sharp focus.

9…

The tension spirals, and you are both aware that you are fast approaching a moment that would irrevocably change you.

8...

You grab the sides of his face and nod at him desperately, a subtle cue that you were on the precipice of something monumental.

7…

One of his hands finds its way to your cl*t, and you try your best to savor the sensation of his thumb rubbing circles against you. Quickly, you find, you are no match for Severus Snape. Your breaths became shallow, matching his own in a rhythm that seemed as ancient as it was immediate. Each movement, each sensation builds upon the last, driving you closer to the edge.

6…

You're on the brink, teetering at the precipice of overwhelming pleasure, desperately seeking the final push to send you tumbling into blissful oblivion. You feel the pressure in your core reach its climax, and your body shudders beneath him.

5…

Overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, you finally crest the wave, your release washing over you in powerful, all-consuming waves. You cry out in uncontrollable pleasure, causing him to cover your mouth with one hand. Your body arches instinctively, a silent cry of ecstasy escaping your lips as you surrender to the sensations rippling through you. Each pulse of pleasure radiates outward, leaving you trembling and breathless in its wake.

4…

In response to your unabashed surrender, Snape's own pursuit of release intensifies. His movements become more urgent, more erratic, more primal, aided by your walls clenching tight around his shaft.

3….

The sight of your ecstasy, the sounds of your pleasure, they propel him forward, driving him to chase his own culmination. There's a raw, guttural quality to his breathing, a testament to the intensity of his desire.

2…

As he reaches the pinnacle, his body tenses, a deep, visceral groan escaping him. The release, when it comes, is powerful, a torrent of pent-up passion and longing that courses through him, leaving him both drained and profoundly satisfied. His control frays at the edges, revealing a vulnerability that is both rare and profoundly captivating.

His grunts and thrusts gradually cease, and you feel the tension in his body dissipate as he relaxes atop you. The room is filled with the sound of your intertwined breaths, heavy and satisfied. This intimate symphony, however, is soon overtaken by the distant cacophony of joyous shouts, kazoos, and the pop of champagne bottles from the party downstairs. The sounds of "Happy New Year" echo distantly, a reminder of the world continuing its dance just beyond the walls of your sanctuary.

As you both slowly come back to earth, catching your breath in the aftermath, you pull him into a kiss. It’s a kiss filled with all the fiery passion of the night, so intense that it causes him to stumble, collapsing onto you over the bed. Soft giggles escape your lips, a lightness in the air amidst the intensity of the moment.

"Happy New Year," you whisper against his lips.

There's a sigh from him, deep and content, and you could swear you hear a chuckle vibrate against your ear as he responds, his voice still husky from exertion, "Happy New Year."

This unfiltered, unrestrained version of him is profoundly beautiful. He shifts to lay beside you and drapes one arm over your stomach, gently pulling you closer to him. His usual stern features are softened now, lines of intensity giving way to a rare vulnerability. His eyes, often so intense and penetrating, are clouded with a mix of emotions, revealing depths you've only glimpsed before.

In this moment, you realize, you are privy to the true essence of Severus Snape, unmasked and raw. It's a sight that imprints itself indelibly in your memory, a revelation both profound and intensely moving.

And in that trembling, pulsating moment, you realize that possession has never felt so much like freedom.

Chapter 18: this is why we can't have nice things

Chapter Text

In the midst of the Auror crowd, Aesop Sharp stands somewhat aloof, a glass of firewhiskey loosely held in his hand. The group is animatedly discussing the latest developments in magical law enforcement – a daring raid on a suspected Death Eater hideout, complete with enchanted traps and a dramatic duel. But Sharp's attention is only half there. His gaze keeps drifting across the room, tracking one man in particular: Severus Snape.

And one young woman in particular, who happens to be his best friend’s daughter.

He pushes that thought to the side.

The conversation around him fades into a blur as Sharp watches you guiding Snape through the crowd, introducing him to a variety of guests. Most of them are your mother's friends, a colorful and eccentric mix from the artistic and literary circles.

He smirks, raising the glass to his lips. You aren’t introducing him to any of the Aurors.

Of course you aren’t, you’ve got no idea.

You're blissfully unaware of the irony, the absurdity of it all – Severus Snape, a man with a past shrouded in darkness, mingling with a bunch of Aurors? Like a wolf among sheep, and they're all none the wiser. It's almost laughable.

And you, none the wiser. It’s a silly thing, isn’t it?

Sharp can't help but sneer slightly. Here's Snape, the former Death Eater, now playing the role of a genteel scholar among your parents’ acquaintances. Those in the Auror office in attendance are but a generation too young to remember the name Severus Snape. What luck for the esteemed Potions Master.

The man who took the Dark Mark, who walked in shadows and whispered in the ears of the most dangerous of wizards, his hand in some of the wizarding world’s darkest days, now reduced to small talk about Muggle art forms and the latest wizarding novels.

But you’ve got no clue.

He watches as you laugh at something Snape says. A surge of protectiveness, mixed with a hint of something else, courses through him.

Snape might play the part of a changed man, but you can't erase the past. You can't simply forget the blood on your hands.

Aesop Sharp would know.

His gaze shifts, landing on your parents. Your father, Fitzgerald Grant, is holding court among a small group, your mother by his side, both of them the very picture of charm and grace. Sharp can't help but shake his head. Fitzgerald, his old partner, someone he once trusted implicitly, now seemingly blind to the dangers of Snape.

Fitz, ever the good cop, believes in redemption, in second chances. But some stains don't wash out.

Not ever.

Sharp's grip on his glass tightens, his knuckles whitening. He's seen too much, knows too much to let this go. But for now, he's just another face in the crowd, watching, waiting, and worrying about what might come next.

As the evening wanes, the anticipation of the new year fills the air. Sharp, however, is barely aware of the festivities around him. Despite all the countless drinks he’s thrown back with former colleagues, Sharp feels increasingly like an outsider, a ghost from a bygone era, watching a play where the actors are oblivious to the true nature of their fellow performer. Snape's ability to blend in, to charm and disarm, it's dangerous. And you, caught up in the midst of it all, are potentially in harm's way.

He's lost track of you, lost sight of Snape. He's surrounded by other Aurors, nursing his drink, his eyes occasionally flicking towards Tessa Whitfield, the analyst who's been eyef*cking him from across the room practically since the Christmas party.

As he watches for you, a resolve hardens within him. He needs to tell you, to warn you about Snape's past. It's not just a duty, it's a necessity. You deserve to know the truth, to understand the kind of man Snape really is. Maybe it's the Auror in him, the protector, or maybe it's something more personal – a desire to keep you safe, to steer you away from the path you're unknowingly walking.

He can't shake the feeling that something is amiss, that you're getting drawn into something perilous, something you might not escape from unscathed. The sight of you with Snape, the way he talks to you, looks at you – it's not right. There's something there, a hidden current he’s not at all sober enough to uncover, and it gnaws at him relentlessly.

The image of you standing next to Snape, your laughter ringing in his ears, it's almost too much to bear. The thought of you, so vibrant and full of life, being tainted by Snape's darkness, it's a thought that haunts him. If he sees you with Snape again, looking at him like he created the world, he doesn't know what he'll do. He may as well cast an Unforgivable on himself and call it a day.

God knows he and Snape are both familiar with those.

Where the hell are you two, anyway?

As the New Year's Eve party at the Grant Estate progresses, Sharp, fueled by a mix of alcohol and burgeoning jealousy, finds his attention shifting. Amidst his brooding over you and Snape, he can't help but return gazes with the blonde analyst across the room. She's attractive, no doubt, and in his current state — drunk and frustrated — she seems like an appealing distraction from the night's aggravations.

There's an uncomplicated allure to her, something that resonates with his current need for something, anything, to take his mind off the situation with you and Snape. It’s familiar. It’s straightforward. His gaze lingers not out of intrigue but out of a purely alcohol-fueled desire.

It's not about a deep connection or escape from his emotions; it's simpler, more primal than that.

He knows what he has to do. He'll tell you, warn you. It's the only way.

He knows the time is coming. Soon, he'll have to face you, tell you everything. And he can only hope that you'll listen, that you'll understand.

Because once he tells you, once the truth is out, there's no going back. And that's a weight he's not sure he's ready to bear.

Ten... Nine... Eight...

As the clock ticks inexorably towards midnight, the crowd's excitement crescendos into a unified countdown.

The numbers echo through the room, each one a thunderous beat in Sharp's ears. He's vaguely aware of the festive atmosphere, the shimmering lights, the clinking of glasses. But his focus is fractured, his mind a maelstrom of dark thoughts and unresolved tensions.

Through the haze, he sees Tessa Whitfield approaching, her steps deliberate, her gaze locked on him. She's a striking figure, her confidence and allure unmistakable even amidst the jubilant crowd.

Seven... Six... Five...

Sharp's grip on his glass tightens, the crystal cool and solid in his unsteady hand. His thoughts swirl back to you and Snape, to the concealed dangers and unspoken truths. If only he could make you see, make you understand the kind of man Snape truly is.

Deep down he knows it's not his place, not his right. He's just an old Auror, a man haunted by his past, by ghosts and regrets. Yet, he’s a man tormented by the need to protect you.

Four... Three...

Tessa is close now, her presence a sharp contrast to the turmoil in Sharp's mind. She's a beacon of light in his darkening world, a momentary escape from the ghosts that haunt him.

Two... One...

As the crowd erupts into a chorus of cheers and celebrations, Tessa reaches Sharp. She wastes no time, her hands finding his broad shoulders, pulling him into a searing kiss that slices through his thoughts like a bolt of lightning. It's a kiss that's passionate and consuming, a stark reminder of life's immediacy and vigor.

For a fleeting moment, Sharp allows himself to get lost in the sensation, the warmth of Tessa's lips against his, the feeling of being anchored in the present. The chaos of the party swirls around them, a whirlwind of joy and revelry, yet Sharp feels strangely detached, his mind still tethered to you, to Snape, to the burdens he carries.

As the kiss ends and the celebration continues, Tessa's hand slips into his, leading him away, who knows where. But away from the responsibilities that weigh heavily on his soul. Even as he follows, Sharp's thoughts linger on you, on the impending confrontation, on the truths that must be revealed.

But tonight, just for tonight, he allows himself this respite, this brief interlude of forgetfulness. Tomorrow, he tells himself, he'll face it all. Tomorrow, the truth will come to light. Tomorrow, everything changes.

The first rays of morning light filter through your curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. Still nestled under the covers, you lay awake, your mind a tumultuous sea, replaying the events of New Year's Eve a few nights ago. Memories of Severus Snape, his imposing presence in your room, and the unexpected passion that had ignited between you two hung heavily in the air.

The memories are so potent that you cannot stop smiling, despite yourself. It was only 9 am, and yet you felt like you were ready to explode with the intensity of the feelings coursing through you. The memory of his touch, his voice, the way he looked at you – it all swirled in your mind, leaving you in a state of euphoric agitation, eagerly awaiting the next time you would see him.

Whatever you’re feeling, you wish you could bottle it up and keep it at your bedside.

You vividly remember his towering figure, his dark suit stark against the light, airy neutrals of your bedroom. The morning light now makes your sheets glow, nearly perfect in their arrangement, but just nights ago, they were a crumpled mess following the fervor that had unfolded. You inhale deeply, the scent of your sheets mingling with the lingering essence of him, a fragrance that has been slowly diminishing with each passing day.

That night, after the height of your passion, you had spent a few more moments with Snape – kissing, touching, a dance of desire as time slipped away.

In those moments, you had felt deliciously small yet immensely cherished, enveloped in the intensity of his gaze. Lying there, you could do nothing but stare back at him, lost in a sea of emotions, as the muffled sounds of the party downstairs filtered through the walls. It was a silent communion, a shared understanding beyond words, as you lay entwined in the aftermath of your passion. The memory lingered with you, as poignant and stirring as the touch you could still feel on your cheek.

Rolling over, his image flashes vividly before your eyes: Snape, his usually impeccable inky black hair in complete disarray. He had whispered reverent praises into the stillness of your room, each word laden with a depth of emotion that made your heart swell. “You are remarkable... truly extraordinary,” he had murmured, his voice a soothing balm in the charged air.

Realizing your parents would soon be looking for you, you had somehow convinced Snape to stay hidden in your room while you slipped back into your dress and heels, descending the stairs. You quickly adjusted your hair in a mirror at the bottom of the steps, offering casual New Year's greetings to your parents, feigning surprise at having 'lost' them in the crowd. You played your part well.

While making your rounds, wishing everyone a happy new year, your entire being ached to return to your room. You searched high and low for Sharp, your gaze scanning the crowd inside and the balcony, but he was nowhere to be found. With a resigned sigh, you slipped away from the gathering, your heart leading you back upstairs.

Upon entering your room, there was Snape, a smirk playing on his lips as he lounged on your bed. He sat up, casually placing the book he had gifted you for Christmas back on your nightstand. He began his familiar, playful tirade against the author.

"Fitzgerald's overrated attempt at capturing the Jazz Age," he remarked dryly, his voice tinged with mock disdain as he pointed to the book for emphasis.

You couldn't help but giggle at his theatrics, the sound light and carefree in the otherwise quiet room.

“Have you forgotten that you chose this book?” you grinned. Walking over to him, you melted effortlessly into his arms. His embrace was a haven, a place where the rest of the world, with its complexities and uncertainties, seemed to fade away.

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“Perhaps I enjoyed the musings of Dick Diver.” he admitted casually, staring at the ceiling. “He’s…” he paused, his thoughts seeming to drift from him. You didn’t mind.

You remembered those last passionate kisses, fervent and seeking, before he apparated out of your room around 3 am, just as the party was winding down. He had promised to see you as soon as he could, and you had wanted nothing more than to follow him wherever he went.

Tearing yourself away from these lingering memories, you turned your focus to the day ahead. The thought of the Weasley family and the familiar embrace of the Burrow beckoned you, promising a gentle respite from the, though not unwelcome, bubbling emotions inside you.

The transition from the grandeur of the Grant Estate to the quaint, almost whimsical world of the Burrow, it feels like traversing two entirely different realms. The Weasley's home, with its crooked, haphazard structure, stands in sharp contrast to the symmetrical and imposing architecture of your own home, which now seems more like a castle. The Burrow, with its higgledy-piggledy layers and lopsided charm, exudes a character entirely its own. The surrounding area, lush and untamed, is a far cry from the manicured lawns and orderly gardens of the Grant Estate.

You only know about this gathering through Harry's brief explanations - a group of people including the trio, the Weasleys, and a few from the First Wizarding War, all united in a cause against… whatever is happening to the world right now. You’ve heard all of the horror stories from those in your father’s camp about the attacks in Muggle cities, wizarding neighborhoods and businesses alike.

And now, Harry has invited you to be part of the movement. Despite your apprehensions, a deep-seated trust in Harry, nurtured over the past few months, affirms that you are exactly where you need to be.

As you approach the Weasley’s home, feeling a blend of nerves and excitement, you notice a man waiting by the front door. His red hair is touched with grey, and his face is marked with lines that seem to have been etched by years of smiling. He extends a hand as you draw near.

"Hello there! I'm Arthur Weasley, Ron's dad," he says with a twinkle in his eye, shaking your hand warmly. "I must say, I'm quite a fan of your father's work in the Ministry. It's not often you hear me say good things about Aurors!"

You can't help but laugh at his jovial manner, responding, "Well, I'll be sure to pass that along to him, Mr. Weasley. He'll be thrilled to hear it."

Arthur chuckles, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "Please, call me Arthur. And no need for formalities here – we're a simple family. Now, let's get you inside. Everyone's eager to meet you!"

There's a certain infectious enthusiasm about him, a curiosity and kindness that makes you feel immediately at ease as he leads you into the Burrow. His every gesture, from the way he animatedly talks with his hands to the way he glances back to make sure you're following, speaks volumes about his character – a man deeply invested in his family and the magical world's quirks and wonders. Arthur Weasley, you realize, is the heart of the Burrow in human form.

Inside, the Weasley home is a bustling hive of activity and life. The interior is a delightful maze of rooms, each filled with enchanted objects and what appears to be clutter, but on closer inspection, everything has its place and purpose. It is a stark contrast to the orderly, almost sterile environment you grew up in. Here, magic is woven into the very fabric of the home, visible in the self-washing dishes, knitting needles clicking away on their own, and photographs chattering on the walls.

The air is rich with the smells of home-cooked food and the sounds of laughter and conversation. It's a chaotic symphony, yet it resonates with a sense of belonging and warmth that you have never experienced in the pristine halls of your family's estate. The Burrow is alive, each nook and cranny telling its own story.

As you stand in the midst of the Burrow's warm embrace, a woman emerges from the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour and hands wiping on a towel. Her vibrant hair and the aura of command she holds over the swirling utensils and dishes leave no doubt in your mind - this must be Molly Weasley, Ron's mother.

"It's so wonderful to meet you finally" Molly says with a welcoming smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine delight.

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. It's lovely to be here," you respond, feeling the warmth of her welcome wash over you.

Your gaze is inevitably drawn upwards to the crazy, intertwining stairs and the myriad of different rooms branching off in seemingly haphazard directions. The charming lopsidedness of it all captures your attention, filling you with a sense of wonder and awe. In this moment, surrounded by the joyful cacophony of life within these walls, you realize that this is what a truly magical home feels like.

Before you can continue, a flurry of activity catches your attention. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny come bounding down the lopsided stairs. You watch, half-amazed and half-alarmed, as they navigate the stairs with a practiced ease that leaves you wondering how they manage not to fall off.

They reach you in a rush of greetings and hugs. Ron's voice rises above the rest, "Heard about your parents' New Year's Eve party. Must have been quite the event!" he says in awe.

You detect a barely perceptible hint of annoyance in his tone, perhaps for not being invited, but you brush it off with a light laugh. You make a mental note to invite everyone to the Estate sometime soon. "It was... eventful, to say the least. But I'm glad to be here now."

Their laughter and chatter envelop you, the familiarity and camaraderie they share quickly extending to include you. In this moment, surrounded by new friends in a house that hums with life, you feel a deep sense of belonging creeping up on you again.

As you take a moment to absorb the warmth and chaos of the Burrow, Ginny mentions, "I think Harry's in the living room."

Ron, with a teasing glint in his eye, retorts, "Of course you know where he is."

Ginny scoffs, immediately crossing her arms. Hermione whacks his arm in mock indignation, eliciting laughter from you and a resigned sigh from Mrs. Weasley.

Just then, she interjects with a lighthearted chide, "Alright, that's enough, you three," and turns and heads back into the kitchen, her hands busy as she resumes her bustling preparations.

As they all head toward the kitchen, you wander over to the sitting area, drawn by the hum of conversation.

You hear a familiar voice, measured and calm, "It comes down to whether or not you trust Dumbledore's judgment."

“It’s just… She trusts him too! .. It doesn’t make sense.” Harry responds.

“Do you trust her?”

“Yes, but-“

You strain to listen more, but the background is filled with the typical sounds of sibling bickering – Ron's defensive explanations mixed with Ginny's sharp retorts, their voices rising and falling in a familiar rhythm. All you hear is Harry mention some type of vow.

Creeping closer, you spot a woman with striking purple hair lounging on a couch. Then, the conversation in the living room intensifies. The same male voice raises, "You're blinded by hatred!" followed by Harry's protest, "No, I'm not—", only to be interrupted again, "Yes, you are!"

In the midst of it all, Hermione's voice weaves in, trying to mediate the Weasley siblings with a tone of reason and calm, her words acting as a gentle buffer in the playful yet heated exchange but causing you to step forward once more, listening in on the man and Harry’s conversation.

“People are disappearing, daily. We can only place our trust in a handful of p—“

The voice is unmistakable – Professor Lupin. You haven't seen him since he left his post as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. You always admired him as a professor; he was kind, understanding, and had a way of making complex magical concepts accessible to everyone. His lessons were more than just instruction; they were a glimpse into a world of magical ethics and empathy.

“—fighting amongst ourselves, we’re doomed.”

Silence.

And more silence.

As you make your presence known, Arthur, Harry, Lupin, and a woman with purple hair turn to look at you. The silence is palpable, a stark contrast to the hushed arguing that filled the house moments ago but not unlike the silence that followed Lupin’s statement.

Harry is the first to break the silence, his tone filled with genuine happiness.

"You made it! I'm so glad to see you," Harry says, getting up to hug you, his usual awkward charm on full display. "Did you have a good holiday?"

“Likewise, thank you for inviting me. This place is so cool,” you reply, glancing around the sitting area. Despite its cramped appearance, there's a certain charm to it. In the corner, a small Christmas tree twinkles with magical lights, and around the room, various enchanted items buzz and whirl, each performing their tasks with a life of their own.

Your eyes meet Professor Lupin's, who is now standing to greet you. Just then, Arthur politely excuses himself, a slight chuckle escaping him as Molly's voice, unmistakably shrieking his name, echoes from the kitchen, calling him back to some domestic urgency.

"Hello, dear," Lupin greets warmly, his hands casually slipping into his pockets as he bounces slightly on the balls of his feet, a characteristic gesture of his. He gives you a thorough look, one that seems to take in everything at once. "It's been ages. How are things? I hear you’ve been getting yourself into all sorts of trouble.”

As he speaks, his eyes hold a mix of what could be either admiration or scrutiny. You've always known Lupin to be a perceptive man, his gaze often piercing yet kind, as if he's able to see beyond what's on the surface. It's a look that makes you feel both understood and slightly exposed, a testament to his insightful nature.

"Things have been well, Professor. I guess Harry’s told you all about Goldhawk.” You turn to face your friend and find you’re both blushing. “It's so nice to see you, especially after... you know," you reply, alluding to his departure from Hogwarts.

Lupin nods, a touch of melancholy in his eyes, "Ah, yes, well. All for the better. Anyway, this is Tonks," he says, introducing the woman with the purple hair who offers you a smile.

However, you can't help but notice how her eyes linger on the interaction between you and Lupin. She’s watching closely as Lupin's eyes light up with the familiar warmth and engagement he always shows.

There's a subtle shift in Tonks's demeanor, a slight edge that suggests, maybe even screams, jealousy. You find yourself wondering if Tonks realizes that this is simply the way Lupin is – attentive and kind to everyone he speaks with.

Regardless, you subtly shift back from Lupin and sit in an armchair.

Lupin begins to ask you about your time at Goldhawk and your aspirations to become an Auror. Now isn't the moment to delve into your internal debate about choosing between Potions and the Auror path, so you steer the conversation towards your training and experiences, particularly mentioning Aesop Sharp.

Lupin listens intently, his face lighting up with delight as you detail what you've learned about the dark arts. The exchange between you and Lupin grows increasingly animated as you delve into the intricacies of dark magic. You discuss various defensive spells and their effectiveness against different dark curses, with Lupin providing his own insights from the first war.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Harry, who seems thoroughly entertained by this exchange. His eyes flicker with amusem*nt and pride as he watches the conversation unfold, clearly enjoying the sight of his former professor and you in such a spirited discussion.

Meanwhile, Tonks, though trying to maintain a casual demeanor, appears somewhat agitated by the lively exchange. Despite this, there's a hint of admiration in her eyes as she listens to you. It's evident that she's impressed by your knowledge and passion, even if she is slightly unsettled by the attention Lupin is giving you.

Your conversation then shifts to recent developments in dark arts, and you share your observations from your training, discussing how certain dark spells have evolved and the importance of staying ahead in the battle against dark wizards.

You also touch upon the psychological aspects of facing dark wizards, a topic Lupin is deeply knowledgeable about.

You can’t help but feel like you’re being interviewed.

Lupin, noticing your puzzled look, gently shifts the conversation. "So, the reason you're here, I'm sure you're wondering," he begins with a knowing smile.

"Have you ever heard of the Order of the Phoenix?" he asks, his eyes searching yours for a hint of recognition.

You shake your head, "No, I haven't."

He nods understandingly. "The Order was formed during the First Wizarding War, a response to the rise of Voldemort. It was a secret society founded by Albus Dumbledore, dedicated to fighting against the Dark Arts and protecting the wizarding community."

As he speaks of Dumbledore, there's a note of deep respect in his voice. "I served in the Order alongside Harry's parents, the Weasleys… and a few others that are still around," Lupin continues, his gaze momentarily shifting to Harry. You catch a fleeting expression that suggests there's more he's holding back, but he gives Harry a reassuring nod before turning back to you.

"The first war was a time of great challenge and sacrifice," Lupin says, his tone somber. "Now, with the signs of dark forces rising again, the Order has come together once more. It's become necessary to reconvene, to stand against threats we thought were long gone."

As he talks about the resurgence, you can feel the weight of history in his words, a call to action that resonates deeply within you. You recall your first day of Goldhawk training, hearing Cedric share his reasons for joining the program after witnessing Voldemort’s return first hand.

Lupin leans in slightly, his voice taking on a serious tone. "Dumbledore has expressed a growing interest in you joining the Order," he reveals. "He wanted you to come meet everyone over the holiday, but he's currently on a trip."

You glance at Harry, understanding the unspoken reference to Dumbledore's mission regarding the Horcruxes.

Lupin observes you for a moment before asking, "So, what do you think?"

Your mind races with questions. "Does the Ministry know about this?"

Lupin shakes his head, "The Order operates independently. The Ministry, while fighting the same fight, isn't always aligned with our methods or privy to our actions." He pauses for a moment. “Best to keep separated, sometimes.”

"And what about the Aurors? What are they doing about all this?" you continue, trying to piece together the larger picture.

"It's... complicated," Lupin replies, a hint of frustration in his voice. "The Aurors have rules and regulations they need to follow. Their hands are often tied."

"So, we don't follow rules?" you ask, a hint of boldness in your tone.

Lupin smirks slightly, "Let's just say we adhere to guidelines. But rest assured, we're all on the right side of this fight."

You interject, "My father is the Deputy Head of the Auror office... Is he not supposed to know about this?"

Lupin pauses, considering your words. "Your father is likely aware of the Order's existence from the first war, but he may not want you to join, considering the risks involved. If you wish to respect his wishes, we completely understand."

You take a moment to ponder this. The idea of going against your father's potential wishes weighs heavily on you, but the call to action, the sense of duty that Lupin's words have stirred within you, is undeniable. The thought that Dumbledore himself, renowned as the greatest sorcerer of all time, saw something in you for this cause fills you with a mix of pride and responsibility.

Driven by this realization, you start asking more questions, “What kind of missions does the Order undertake? How can someone like me fit in? What about school?"

Lupin answers all million of your questions, delighted by your eagerness to be part of something larger than yourself, to play a role in the unfolding events of your world.

You ponder for a moment before asking, "Who else is in the Order?"

There's a brief pause which leaves you more than curious.

But why?

Better yet, who?

Lupin and Harry exchange a hesitant look before Harry speaks up, "Sirius Black was in the Order.”

Lupin’s eyes dart to Harry, and slowly his expression softens.

Your eyes widen in shock. "What? But isn't he a... like a psycho murderer?"

Lupin and Harry quickly jump in to clear up Sirius's story and reputation. "It's a common misconception," Lupin explains. "Sirius was framed. He was innocent, and a crucial member of the Order."

Harry adds, "Not many people know the truth. It's still a sensitive issue, and we're careful about who we tell."

As the reality of Sirius Black's innocence sinks in, you're left grappling with the revelation, your understanding of the situation deepening as you realize the complexity and secrecy surrounding the Order and its members. You now understand why they weren’t forthcoming about who exactly was in the Order.

Your gaze drops to the floor, lost in thought, oblivious to the questioning look Lupin casts to your friend and the nonchalant shrug Harry offers in response.

Armed with this newfound understanding of the Order, including the true story of Sirius Black, you feel a compelling urge to be part of it. Despite telling your father that becoming an Auror wasn't in your plans, this feels different. It's the same fight against darkness, as Lupin put it, but approached from a different angle. You're not entirely sure what 'different' entails, but your trust in Harry and your respect for Lupin solidifies your decision.

As you take in the warm, inviting atmosphere of the Burrow once more, a deep sense of belonging washes over you. Your gaze meets Harry's, filled with an eager, hopeful light, and then shifts to Lupin. In his eyes, you find an understanding, a recognition of the internal struggle that brought you to this decision. With a heartfelt smile, you affirm your choice, "I'm so in."

Lupin's reaction is immediate and joyful; his hands come together in a delighted clap, his face lighting up with enthusiasm. Harry's voice rings out in the room, "Yes!!" - a triumphant echo to your commitment. Lupin's eyes remain on you, radiating pride and admiration, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of your decision.

In the periphery, Tonks's subtle eye roll doesn't escape you, yet it doesn't detract from the moment. Lupin's attention is all on you, his assurance that you'll be brought up to speed with the Order's workings sounding both comforting and exciting.

Just then, Molly Weasley's voice rings out, announcing that lunch is ready. You hear the thundering sound of Ginny, Hermione, Ron, and the twins, Fred and George, making their way down the stairs. The group moves towards the dining table, a buzz of excitement in the air as Harry shares the good news.

Lupin, walking alongside you, reiterates his happiness at having you on board. "We're glad to have you," he says, a sincere smile on his face.

For the next few hours, you find yourself deeply immersed in a fascinating discussion with Lupin, Arthur, and Harry about the Order of the Phoenix. Lupin, always a keen eye for detail, methodically goes over the logistics, his words painting a vivid picture of clandestine meetings and carefully coordinated maneuvers. You imagine the hushed gatherings, the air thick with plans and strategies.

The various tactics employed by the Order come to life as Lupin speaks, and he also shares a history of the group and its members. With each story, you feel as though you're being pulled deeper into a world of bravery and secrecy. The tales of past missions, and stories from his school days with Sirius Black and Harry’s father, both triumphant and tragic, resonate with you, stirring a sense of awe and respect.

As Lupin outlines the roles everyone plays, and the strategic planning and level of coordination speak of a tightly-knit, highly efficient organization. Your excitement builds with each new piece of information, and you and Lupin begin noting areas where your skills could be useful.

Eventually, Arthur and Harry excuse themselves to the basem*nt to continue discussions on a side project, leaving you alone with Lupin.

You start to see Lupin in a new light, not just as a former professor but as a friend and mentor. He exudes a warmth and sincerity that's comforting, and you find his genuine, personable charm quite endearing. Observing him, you can't help but think that Harry's own awkward charm might mature into something similar to Lupin's approachable and easygoing nature.

You hang onto every word he says. This is exactly the kind of involvement you've been yearning for. This is more than just an organization; it's a large magical family bound by a common goal, and the prospect of being part of it is both exhilarating and humbling.

As you absorb the depth and complexity of what joining the Order entails, Lupin turns to you, his expression inquisitive. "How do you feel about all this?" he asks gently.

You take a moment to collect your thoughts before responding, "It's definitely different from my training at Goldhawk. I mean, the intensity and purpose are the same, but this," you gesture around, emphasizing the broader scope of the Order, "this feels like a whole different playing field. It's not better or worse, just... different."

Lupin, with a knowing look in his eyes, lets out a soft chuckle, as if he understands exactly what you mean. "That's precisely one of the main reasons we wanted you in our ranks," he says warmly. His eyes hold a mixture of admiration and sincerity, and you can't help but feel a surge of respect for him, making you all the more eager to work alongside him.

He then glances towards the kitchen, a gentle humor still playing in his eyes. "I suppose I've chatted enough to lead us right up to dinner time," he comments with a slight smile.

"Oh, thanks," you reply, a tinge of regret in your voice, "but I really should get home. My parents weren't expecting me to be out this long."

As if on cue, your friends emerge from around the corner. Their collective plea of "nooo, stay!" fills the room with a warmth that tugs at your heart. Despite their protests, you know you have responsibilities waiting.

"I'm sorry, I really have to go," you say, your words firm yet tinged with reluctance. "But don't worry, I'll see you all at school in a few days. We'll pick up from there, okay?"

Lupin gives you a nod full of understanding, his eyes reflecting respect and anticipation. "Look out for my owl. We have much to discuss, and I'm looking forward to it," he says, his voice imbued with a promise of the significant role you're about to play.

You can't help but feel a sense of excitement mixed with a bit of apprehension as you say your goodbyes. The promise of what's to come with the Order, the new connections you've made today, and the sense of purpose you feel – it all swirls in your mind as you leave the Burrow, a reminder of the new chapter that's just begun in your life.

You walk into your home, stepping into the familiar and elegant kitchen where the house elves are busily preparing dinner. The air is filled with the delicious aromas of cooking that immediately makes your mouth water. Coppy, the head elf, greets you with a cheerful nod. "Miss, please do tidy yourself up before dinner," she says in her high-pitched, earnest voice. With a smile, you agree, appreciating the homely routine.

You take in the bustling kitchen and you're reminded of the Weasleys' house, where magic was more visibly at play. Here, the kitchen is a picture of traditional efficiency, without pots and pans stirring themselves or ingredients chopping on their own. The difference is stark, yet both homes have their own unique charm – one steeped in traditional elegance, the other in magical whimsy.

Still buzzing with excitement from your day, you walk into the living room. It's clean and tidy —you couldn't even tell there was a rowdy New Year's Eve party here just a few nights ago. As you scan the room for your parents, your gaze is drawn to the sight of your father outside. He's comfortably seated on the patio furniture, a large fire crackling merrily beside him. A warm grin spreads across your face, and you eagerly make your way to greet him.

The thought of sharing your recent encounter with the Order with your father crosses your mind. You're still unsure about how to broach such a topic, especially considering his position in the Auror office. You had intended to ask Lupin for more advice on this matter but didn't get the chance. Another time.

As you slide open the door, a cool evening breeze brushes against your skin, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the house. "Hey, da-" you call out cheerfully, but your voice falters mid-greeting. The figure you had assumed to be your father, isn't him at all. It's Aesop Sharp.

Standing in the doorway, momentarily taken aback by his unexpected presence, you quickly gather yourself. After all, he has become a surprisingly frequent visitor to your home during the break, almost as much a fixture as at Hogwarts. Deciding to roll with the unexpected, you close the door behind you and make your way to the armchair next to him. Sharp, casually seated, looks up at you with an unreadable expression.

"Sorry, I thought you were my dad," you say with a small laugh. Sharp is lounging on the couch, one ankle casually resting on his opposite thigh, a glass balanced on his knee. He gives you a look that's hard to read, tinged with hesitation.

You launch into a light-hearted recount of your day, telling him about your time at the Weasleys with Harry and Hermione. "Ron was a bit bummed he didn't get invited to our Christmas or NYE party," you chuckle. "I'll have to make sure we invite them next time."

Sharp lets out a small scoff at your comment, which makes you tilt your head in curiosity. Before you can inquire further, he cuts to the chase, "Where did you run off to on New Year's Eve?" His tone is straightforward, but you sense an underlying intensity in his question.

In your mind, a whirlwind of thoughts races as Sharp poses his question. There's no possible way he could know about you and Snape, or even the fact that you both had slipped away together.

"What do you mean?" you ask, keeping your tone as nonchalant as possible.

Sharp gives you a look that says he's not entirely convinced, an expression that silently challenges your feigned ignorance. It takes all your willpower to maintain a façade of innocence, to not give away anything with your words or expressions. You remain silent, waiting for him to continue.

He takes a casual sip from his drink, maintaining eye contact. "You disappeared halfway through the night," he states matter-of-factly, as if observing a simple fact. His casual demeanor contrasts sharply with the probing nature of his observation, leaving you to carefully navigate your response.

"I went to bed shortly after the ball dropped…?" you respond, your words intentionally phrased as a question, laced with a hint of uncertainty. You fix your gaze on Sharp, adding a simple "Why?"

You're keenly aware that he's hinting at something more, and you want him to reveal his hand.

Sharp pauses, his eyes studying you carefully. His finger idly traces the rim of his glass, a contemplative gesture. After a moment, he speaks, his tone casual yet pointed. "Just curiosity. I seem to remember looking for you and Professor Snape that evening, precisely around the ball drop."

There it is. The moment hangs between you, laden with unspoken implications. Your mind races. How much does he know, or suspect?

You replay the evening in your head, wondering if there was a slip, a moment you weren't as discreet as you thought. But no, you were careful, weren't you? His statement, so casually delivered, sends a ripple of concern through you.

Instead, you focus on maintaining a neutral expression, not wanting to give Sharp any more fodder for speculation.

You respond with a measured calmness, "Professor Snape left before the ball dropped. He had another engagement for the evening." You catch yourself before adding any unnecessary quips about Snape somehow having multiple social engagements, opting to keep your reply succinct and to the point.

Sharp lets out another scoff, his tone carrying a hint of dry amusem*nt and you immediately react to the immaturity of it all. The childishness coming from this man certainly was not expected. "I can only imagine the likes," he remarks, the words edged with a touch of sarcasm, laden with a subtle insinuation that doesn't escape you.

It's clear he has his own ideas about Snape's social circles, and perhaps even about the nature of your interactions.

Feeling increasingly irritated by Sharp's demeanor, you decide to address it head-on. "What exactly is your issue with Snape?" you question, frustration lacing your voice. Sharp only shrugs.

“I understand there's competition at school, but your attitude towards him goes beyond that. You were the only one bothered by his presence at the party. What's your deal?" Your inquiry is direct, a blend of exasperation and genuine curiosity.

Sharp chuckles dismissively. "You think you know him, but you don’t. What’s your fascination with him, anyway?”

“What’s yours?” you retort. You know you’re being childish now, your defensiveness laid bare for Sharp in your own backyard.

“I know more about Severus Snape than you realize."

Your brow furrows in confusion and a growing sense of frustration. "Are you referring to the rumors? The ones around school? Forgive me, Professor , but that's hardly a basis for judgment."

Sharp leans forward, a serious look on his face. "Those rumors, as you call them, might have more truth to them than you're willing to accept."

Aware of the whispers and speculation that have always shrouded Snape, you've always approached them skeptically. "What, just because Snape isn't the open and friendly type makes him a bad guy?" you challenge, a hint of sarcasm in your tone. "So he's harder to get along with, does that make him evil?"

Sharp's response is swift and pointed. "Evil, that's one way to put it," he says, his words carrying a weight that suggests deeper knowledge.

"No chance,” you assert, growing increasingly frustrated with his unfounded criticisms. “You start teaching at Hogwarts for what, like, 4 months and you think you know everything? He’s a good guy, Sharp.”

In response, Sharp lunges forward on the couch, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that is almost alarming. The look on his face is fierce, bordering on scary, as if he's struggling to contain a storm of emotions within him.

Then, he snaps back, his voice laced with unmistakable frustration and a hint of anger. You smell firewhisky on his breath. "He's not, he never was, he never will be. Snape is one of the worst men in the Wizarding World."

The ferocity of Sharp's accusation leaves you momentarily stunned, his words echoing in your ears like a harsh, discordant note.

The revelation strikes with the force of a tempest. It's more than just shock; it's a profound sense of betrayal, a deep heartache that wells up from within.

You feel as if the ground beneath you has shifted, the world tilting on its axis.

"Severus Snape is a Death Eater."

Chapter 19: break even

Chapter Text

and I can see us twisted in bedsheets
august sipped away like a bottle of wine
'cause you were never mine

august - taylor swift

https://open.spotify.com/track/3hUxzQpSfdDqwM3ZTFQY0K?si=a05b3626b7994c8a

Severus Snape is a Death Eater.

As you step onto the Hogwarts Express, each movement is a delicate balance of reluctance and determined resolve. The familiar sights and sounds of the train, once a source of eager anticipation, now barely penetrate the heavy veil of emotions that enshroud you.

You find Harry and the rest of your friends in a compartment towards the back and the train chugs along, its rhythmic motion a stark contrast to the restive state of your mind. Your friends are a comforting presence, but still, you gaze out of the window, watching the blur of passing scenery.

Your focus is inward. The conversation with Sharp, revealing Snape's true nature, replays in your mind for the next few hours, each detail casting a longer, darker shadow over your thoughts.

You learned that Snape had always shown a troubling affinity for the Dark Arts, an inclination that seemed to set his path from a young age. He revealed that Snape's joining the Death Eaters was not a shock to those who knew him at school; it was almost an expected turn of events given his interests.

Sharp's recounting of Snape's trial resonates in your mind, each detail casting a longer shadow over your thoughts. He and your father had been present, witnessing the compelling evidence and damning confessions that unequivocally sealed Snape's guilt. The extent of Snape's involvement in the dark world was starkly exposed – a series of unforgivable acts carried out under Voldemort's command. This grim litany included espionage, orchestrating attacks on Muggle settlements, and the use of the most heinous curses known to the wizarding world.

Sharp had not spared any detail in describing the calculated attacks on Muggle-born families and members of the Order, each account adding to the mounting horror of what you were hearing. According to him, the trial had been unambiguous, with the evidence laid out against Snape being overwhelming and indisputable. This revelation, coming from someone who had been there, who had seen it all firsthand, made it all the more real and impossible to dismiss.

What didn’t reconcile in your mind was how he would still be teaching at Hogwarts, despite this trial. You could tell this brought Sharp instant frustration, by the resignation in his voice. Simply put, it was something Sharp never understood. He and your father weren’t allowed in the last few proceedings of the trial, and likely for good reason. Someone big, someone very influential in the Wizarding World had Snape acquitted. They vouched for him, something about redemption.

Apparently, no one had many details after that, and it was swept under the rug and forgotten about over the years. His words left you with more questions than answers.

The landscape outside your window blurs into mere streaks of color while your mind is engulfed in a storm of memories from just two weeks ago. The intimate moments shared with Snape, the soft murmurs of reverence and praise he whispered in your ear, the passion that seemed so genuine. Now, those memories are tainted, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

The man you had let into your bed, into your heart, feels like a stranger, his true nature casting a long, dark shadow over the warmth you once felt.

The cold realization that Snape's past is sullied and cruel stirs a sense of revulsion. It's not just a betrayal of your trust but a fundamental questioning of your judgment. The laughter and chatter of your friends around you feel distant, almost alien, as you grapple with the heartbreak and betrayal of discovering such a painful truth.

He wasn't merely a follower; his loyalty and activeness in the cause made him a significant figure, trusted by the Dark Lord himself. This detail had struck a particularly chilling chord with you.

At one point, the idea of feigning illness had seemed a viable escape from the daunting prospect of returning to Hogwarts. That notion had spiraled into a more desperate plan of dropping out entirely, a way to distance yourself from the pain and confusion that awaited you back at school. But each plan was discarded, the reality of their consequences too significant, and not at all logical, to ignore.

The decisive factor, the anchor that ultimately grounded your decision to return, was the promise of what lay ahead with the Order of the Phoenix. Despite the turmoil in your heart, there's a part of you that clings to the hope and purpose that the Order represents. It's this sliver of anticipation for the unknown, for the role you are to play in the larger fight, that propels you forward.

As the Hogwarts Express nears its destination, a knot of anxiety begins to tighten in your stomach, growing with every passing mile. The thought of seeing Snape again looms over you like a dark cloud. You haven't prepared for this inevitable encounter. You haven't rehearsed any words, haven't strategized any responses. This impending meeting, once something you might have looked forward to, now fills you with a sense of dread.

How do you face someone who's been both a mentor and a deceiver? A lover and an enemy?

You spent the rest of winter break isolated in your room, penning letters back and forth with Harry, Rom, Hermione, even Lupin. You remember you had triumphantly managed to stop crying for a few hours, when a letter from Ron came through informing you of the Death Eater’s attack on the Burrow. Then, you were back at square one.

It was a plausible excuse for your parents as to why you were sulking for almost two weeks straight, however. You were also avoiding your father, not wanting to open up a can of worms by confronting him about not telling you about Snape’s past. The fact that he kept this crucial information from you felt like a betrayal in itself, something that you emotionally weren’t ready for.

You hadn’t heard from him for the rest of the break. The last time you saw Snape, he had kissed you fervently before apparating out of your room in the dead of the night. You were sad, you were disillusioned, you were furious. Yet you continued to watch your window like a hawk, expecting at least one owl.

Death Eater duties, you figured.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, is Sharp’s voice repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I had to tell you” over and over that night.

Your ears perk up as you catch fragments of Ron’s conversation with Neville and Cedric, recounting details of the Death Eater attack on the Burrow. The words trigger a cascade of thoughts, but before you can fully process them, Harry’s voice cuts through your reverie. You snap to attention, hoping your internal struggle hasn't been as transparent as you fear.

Harry’s eyes meet yours with a look of concern. "Let's go find the candy cart," he suggests, his invitation a welcome distraction from your turbulent thoughts.

In the narrow passageway between compartments, Harry shares the news that breaks your numb trance. "Dumbledore is back," he says, his voice low but carrying a weight of significance.

Your eyes widen in surprise. "He is? When?"

"Yeah, he wants to see us tonight. After dinner," Harry continues, watching your reaction closely. "What do you say?"

A part of you latches onto this news as both a duty to the Order and a welcome distraction. It's also a convenient excuse to avoid seeing Snape tonight, to delay the confrontation that you're not yet ready to face. With a sense of resignation mixed with a faint flicker of relief, you nod in agreement to Harry's proposal.

Feeling a bit more grounded after Harry's news, you and he make your way to the candy cart. The familiar sight of the colorful sweets offers a small comfort. Together, you pick out an assortment of treats – Chocolate Frogs that hop excitedly in their boxes, a pile of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans with their unpredictable tastes, some Fizzing Whizzbees that promise a buzzing sensation, and a few packs of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum for good measure. You also grab a couple of Cauldron Cakes and a box of Pumpkin Pasties, their warm, spicy aroma reminding you of Hogwarts' feasts.

With your arms laden with candies, you head back to your compartment. On the way, you catch a glimpse of Draco Malfoy. He looks different – more gaunt and burdened than his usual, arrogantly poised self. There's a hollowness to his eyes that you've never noticed before. It strikes you, the weight of the war and its far-reaching effects, even on someone like Malfoy.

Harry notices him too and his expression hardens into a glare, full of accusation and unspoken questions. There's a moment, brief and charged, where Draco meets Harry's gaze, then quickly retreats into his own compartment, as if evading more than just a look.

When you and Harry return to your compartment, arms brimming with sweets, the boys immediately light up with excitement.

Ron's eyes widen in amazement at the array of treats before him. "Blimey, having rich friends definitely has its perks!" he exclaims with a grin, playfully diving into a stack of Honeydukes' finest Chocolate Frogs. Laughter fills the compartment, a welcome sound that momentarily lifts your heavy inner state.

You take a seat beside Hermione, who is absorbed in a book, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Settling in, you lean your head against the cool wall of the train, letting your gaze drift towards the window. The world outside seems to pass by in a dreamy blur, a kaleidoscope of greens and golds as the Scottish countryside rolls by.

The train rounds a bend and Hogwarts Castle comes into view, its majestic spires and turrets piercing the horizon. The sight of it, so familiar and yet so fraught with new complexities, fills you with a bittersweet mixture of emotions. The castle stands against the setting sun, its stones aglow with the warm hues of twilight, casting long shadows across the grounds.

For a moment, time seems to stand still. The laughter and chatter around you fade into a distant hum, and all that exists is the enchanting view of Hogwarts, your second home, now a symbol of both refuge and uncertainty.

Drawing closer to the castle, you find yourself lost in thought, captivated by the sight of Hogwarts. It's a sight that once filled you with pure excitement and anticipation. Now, it's tinged with apprehension, a reminder of the challenges to come and the secrets that lie within those storied walls.

An hour later the train pulls into Hogsmeade Station. The reality of your return to Hogwarts, and all it entails, hits you with full force. The doors open, and you step out into the cool, evening air, a sense of trepidation heavy in your chest. The journey back to school, usually a time of excitement and reunion, feels like a somber march towards an uncertain future, one where the lines between friend and foe, truth and deception, have never been more blurred.

Two days after New Year’s Eve

Severus Snape, cloaked in the chilling embrace of night, stands amidst the shadows of Malfoy Manor, his every move a study in precision and control. Around him, the manor buzzes with the sinister energy of the Dark Lord's most loyal followers. Sly figures move through the grand halls, their whispers plotting impending chaos.

As the Dark Lord, his master, sits enthroned among this motley crew of the Wizarding World's most despicable characters, a look of malevolent pride plays across his features. He watches with cold amusem*nt as his servants conspire and scheme, orchestrating the dark symphony of their next move. Snape, ever the dutiful lieutenant, keeps a vigilant eye, offering his counsel when prompted, his mind a fortress of strategy and deceit.

Yet, despite the gravity of his surroundings and the weight of his role as evil’s second in command, his thoughts drift to you. It's a shock to him, how your image infiltrates his consciousness even here, in the heart of darkness.

Snape, a master of Occlumency, is well-versed in the art of compartmentalizing his thoughts. In the presence of Voldemort, this skill is not just a defense but a necessity. Yet, within his carefully guarded mind, he allows himself the luxury of thinking about you. This indulgence, however, complicates his mental fortitude.

He must tread carefully, ensuring these thoughts remain shielded, hidden in the recesses of his mind, where even Voldemort cannot detect them.

He navigates a precarious balance, permitting vivid memories of your body beneath him to simmer in his mind's background. This constant mental juggling, the effort to keep you safely ensconced in a corner of his mind while presenting a façade of ruthless composure to the world.

This balancing act of keeping his guard up while cherishing these memories is considerable mental strain. It's a test of his skills, requiring him to be constantly vigilant, ensuring that his emotional reflections on you remain obscured, tucked away behind a façade of impassivity. But for Snape, it's a worthy endeavor.

These recollections, intense and intimate, are a delicious torment that stirs a tumult of emotions he usually keeps tightly reined in.

The duality of his existence is never more apparent than in these moments. In the chaos of Malfoy Manor, in his world of deception and duty, as he plays his part in the sinister machinations of the Dark Lord, Snape's thoughts of you remain a secret refuge, a reminder of a world that is at once a source of strength and an unbearable vulnerability.

His eyes drift over to Bellatrix, who is animatedly reenacting some wild scheme she has concocted. Her fervor for chaos is as evident as ever, her gestures grandiose and her laughter chilling. Amidst this dark tableau, Snape's gaze meets that of Wormtail, his unwanted house guest, placed there by Voldemort himself.

Snape's mind briefly flickers back to the day Wormtail delivered an envelope to him – a weighty piece of mail bearing the large Grant family estate crest on the back. It had been an invitation from your father, thanking Snape for his mentorship towards you. He remembers the cold realization that Wormtail had likely seen the envelope, though, thankfully, it wasn't opened. It had been a close call, dangerously close.

And lately, it seems the rat has been taking extra time with Snape's mail before handing it over.

This recollection sharpens his resolve. He understands the precariousness of the situation, the thin ice upon which he treads. Any association with you or your family, especially given your father's prominent position, could draw unwanted attention from the Dark Lord.

He has been privy to whispers of audacious plans: attacks on the Ministry, as well as targeting Ministry officials. This strategy marks a new, bold and direct approach from the Death Eaters, unprecedented in its brazenness. The lower echelons of the group are eager to ascend the ranks, emboldened by the prospect of causing upheaval. The Dark Lord, in his insatiable thirst for disorder, seems less concerned with their success or failure and more intrigued by the sheer chaos they could unleash on the world. Strategy is but a fleeting shadow at Malfoy Manor.

To protect you, he makes a decision there and then – he will not send you an owl before the return to Hogwarts. His silent vow, to keep you out of harm's way, becomes a silent mantra in his mind, a commitment he intends to keep, no matter the cost. The risk of interception by Wormtail is too great, and he cannot afford to have any communication potentially lead the Dark Lord to your family.

He’ll deal with your attitude later. You’ll pout, he imagines. You’ll put your hands on his chest and your brows will furrow in frustration that he didn’t write.

He imagines a few ways to deal with you, actually.

Snape devotes every ounce of his mental strength to focus on the background of his mind, on that night in your room on New Year's Eve. As he stands there, a sentinel among the dark throng, he finds solace in this mental dance, a quiet rebellion against maintaining the facade of a loyal Death Eater.

The softness of your touch, the warmth of your presence, starkly contrasting the cold, calculating environment he currently inhabits.

In his mind, he’s still in your bedroom. His imagination shifts to the book he gifted you, 'Tender is the Night’ and the subtle joy he felt when he saw that you kept it at your bedside. For him, the book was much more than a mere gift; it was a silent confession, a reflection of his own inner turmoil and yearning for redemption.

The book’s protagonist, Dick Diver, a man fraught with complexities and inner demons, resonated deeply with Snape. Diver’s journey through despair, moral ambiguity, and the struggle against his darker nature mirrored Snape's own life. The novel, in its exploration of a character balanced on the precipice of moral choices, haunted by past actions yet not entirely defined by them, was a parallel to Snape’s existence.

In gifting you this book, Snape was doing more than sharing a piece of literature. He was subtly laying the emotional groundwork for you to understand the complexities of his own nature. By sharing Dick Diver's odyssey, Snape was preparing both you and himself for the eventual revelation of his darker past and present. It was his way of communicating that people are not merely villains or heroes but are instead shaped by circ*mstances, choices, and fate. It was a risk, a step towards unveiling the shadows and light, the sins and virtues that constituted his being.

It was also his hopeful gesture, a wish that when the darker chapters of his own life were unveiled, you might approach them with the same nuanced understanding you'd offer to Dick Diver.

With a subtle exhale to anchor himself in this brief escape, he reopens his eyes. His gaze meets that of his master, Voldemort, a reminder of the role he must play. Quickly, he masks his momentary lapse with a pleased expression, turning his attention back to the dark assembly.

In the shadows of malice, memories of your light are his clandestine solace.

The Great Hall is alive with the sounds of reunions and stories of winter break. The enchanted ceiling mirrors the twilight sky outside, casting a soft, dim light over it’s students. Yet, you feel a sense of unease. It doesn't escape your notice that Snape's eyes seem to find yours across the crowded room. You make eye contact with him just once, and in that brief moment, you could have sworn you saw a smirk flash across his face. A wave of nausea washes over you, the sight of his gaze unsettling you deeply.

The tables are laden with an array of dishes, the smells and sights typically inviting, but under Snape's unwavering gaze, you find it difficult to focus on the meal. You do your best to conceal your true feelings, engaging in conversation with your friends. Their laughter and stories are a welcome distraction, but the sensation of Snape's eyes burning into you makes it impossible to fully relax. Instead, you find yourself chatting more than usual, using conversation as a shield against the discomfort you feel. The effort feels monumental.

Your gaze shifts to Dumbledore at the staff table, and you notice him looking at you with a sense of urgency that's hard to miss. His eyes then move to Harry, conveying a silent message. The weight of his gaze, coupled with Snape's unsettling attention, makes the atmosphere at dinner almost suffocating. You don’t even dare look at Sharp, who you assume is eyeing you with utmost concern. You feel scrutinized and alone at the same time, in a hall full of people.

When dinner finally concludes, you quickly find Harry in the bustling corridors. Together, you weave through the throngs of students, a sense of urgency propelling you both towards Dumbledore's office. Harry leads the way, his strides long and purposeful.

You reach the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster's office. Harry utters the passcode, "Fizzing Whizzbees," and the stone guardian leaps aside, granting you access. With a mutual nod, you both ascend the spiraling staircase.

The door to Dumbledore's office opens, revealing the headmaster seated behind his desk, his expression somber and contemplative. The office, with its walls lined with sleeping portraits of past headmasters and shelves filled with ancient books and curious artifacts, feels unusually solemn tonight.

As you take a seat before Dumbledore, you're acutely aware that this is your first Order-related meeting. The reality of being involved in matters of such gravity, of being privy to secrets and strategies in the fight against the Dark Lord, is both exhilarating and daunting.

He regards you both with an air of grave seriousness, the twinkle in his eye subdued by the weight of the matter at hand.

"As you both are aware, and have admirably kept to yourselves," he begins in his measured, yet distinctly warm tone, "I have been away seeking out Horace Slughorn, a former professor at Hogwarts who taught Tom Riddle in his youth. My goal was to collect any memories he might have that could shed light on Tom's intentions, following your discovery of horcruxes."

He pauses, a hint of disappointment crossing his features. "Unfortunately, despite my efforts, Professor Slughorn was not forthcoming with the information."

Harry, sharing in the sense of frustration, interjects, "But he must know something important, right?"

Dumbledore nods solemnly. "Indeed, Harry. Slughorn has been reluctant to discuss these matters for over a decade. It's clear he's concealing something significant. His reluctance is... telling. We must continue our efforts to uncover the truth hidden in his memories. They may hold the key to understanding Tom Riddle's plans, and thereby, our path to thwarting them."

He begins to pace around the room with a confident yet cautious stride, his robes billowing slightly with each step. There's a palpable sense of apprehension in his movements, a reflection of the gravity of the situation at hand. To your surprise, he suddenly halts and turns to face you directly, his piercing gaze locking with yours.

You find yourself holding your breath, anticipating his next words. In your peripheral vision, you see Harry doing the same.

"I need you to speak with Aesop Sharp," he says, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "Tell him that the Order requests his assistance. You and Sharp will go to Slughorn to obtain the necessary information."

You nod, a mix of surprise and determination settling within you. Your mind races with the implications of this task, the anticipation lighting a newfound spark within you. Sharp, with his history in covert operations and secret missions, seems like a formidable ally.

Despite your recent uncertainties, if Dumbledore places his trust in Sharp, you feel inclined to do the same.

Dumbledore’s expression then shifts to one of intensified seriousness. He steps even closer to you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he emphasizes his next words. "Sharp will know exactly what to do," he states with a profound gravity. “Whatever it takes.”

The phrase is heavy with unspoken meaning, leaving you with a nagging feeling that there is more at stake than you fully understand. The gravity of Dumbledore's instructions is palpable, and you can't shake the feeling that there are layers to this mission that remain hidden from you.

You acknowledge Dumbledore's directive with a solemn nod, the direness of the situation etching itself deeper into your consciousness. "I'll speak to Sharp as soon as I can tomorrow, in between classes," you assure him.

Dumbledore nods in approval, a subtle yet significant gesture that conveys both his trust in your abilities and the importance of the task at hand.

The conversation then shifts as Harry begins to recount the details of the Death Eater attack on the Burrow. You listen intently, a mix of horror and concern washing over you as Harry describes the chaos and destruction that ensued. The three of you delve deeper into the implications of the attack and what it might mean for the ongoing war against darkness.

As the meeting draws to a close, Dumbledore stands, signifying the end of the night's discussions. "Thank you both," he says, his tone acknowledging the challenges that lie ahead.

Just as you’re about to leave, Dumbledore stops you with a gentle, "One more thing." His eyes, always so perceptive, hold yours with a warmth that momentarily dispels the chill of the evening's discussions. "Remus had high praise for you during your time at the Burrow. He was quite impressed."

You feel a flicker of pride amidst the turmoil of emotions. "Thank you, Professor," you respond, sincerity in your voice. "I’m honored and grateful for the opportunity. It means a lot to me."

Dumbledore smiles, a soft, knowing expression that seems to reach deep into your soul. "You possess a rare combination of courage and empathy," he remarks thoughtfully. "Qualities that shine brightly, even in the darkest of times. Remember that your character is your strength."

His words bring a momentary sense of solace, a balm to the inner conflict you’ve been wrestling with. Then, his expression turns more serious, his gaze penetrating. "The path ahead will test your mettle, challenge your convictions. The events to come may require difficult choices, but always keep in mind the greater good, the end goal. In our fight against the darkness, sometimes the ends..."

Justify the means.

His statement, profound and a little cryptic, lingers in your mind as you head to your dorm for the night.

Chapter 20: i could watch you a thousand times

Chapter Text

i could watch you a thousand times

row b, seat 13

half a ticket in the silver light

an entire universe between

b-13 - jump, little children

https://open.spotify.com/track/2MHmrm0M7J172zI8e24Lsw?si=a0Q8uX2DQWWiOAMEO9AIgw

For over an hour, Severus Snape has been moving through the Potions classroom with his distinct, formidable aura, his black robes dramatically billowing behind him. The classroom, usually a place where his mere presence commands an oppressive silence, feels different today.

The students work diligently, their fear of Snape's sharp critique ensuring their utmost concentration. The only sounds are the gentle bubbling of potions and the occasional clink of glassware.

As he makes his rounds between the workstations, his gaze often lingers on your station. Each time he approaches, hoping perhaps to catch your attention or elicit some reaction, you seem entirely unresponsive to his presence. Even when he pointedly criticizes your partner's less-than-satisfactory potion-making skills, your reaction is muted, your focus unwavering from the task at hand or note taking on your parchment.

This unusual indifference from you not only puzzles him, but it frustrates him. On a regular day, Snape is accustomed to a certain level of engagement from you – be it curiosity, challenge, or even the occasional frustration. Your usual dynamic, now a mix of mentorship and your secret rendezvous together, is conspicuously absent today.

He surveys the room, his sharp eyes scrutinizing every student's work with a critical gaze. The dungeon-like atmosphere of the Potions classroom, with its dim lighting and the earthy smell of various ingredients, usually feels like his domain, a realm where he is the undisputed master. However, your apparent detachment adds a layer of discomfort to the familiar setting.

The lesson progresses, and Snape continues his patrol, occasionally stopping to correct a mistake or offer a grudging word of praise. Despite the outward normalcy, Snape can't shake off the feeling of unease. The typical satisfaction he derives from instilling a mix of respect and fear in his students is marred by your evident disinterest.

He wonders what it will take to break through the wall you've built around yourself, your stubbornness, to regain the responsiveness he's grown accustomed to.

Responsiveness. He smirks to himself.

Snape's thoughts wander as he continues to monitor the potions classroom, his presence dominating yet secretly unsettled. He contemplates whether he's overanalyzing your recent behavior. Could his prolonged exposure to the Death Eaters have altered his perception, causing him to see slights and coldness where there might be none? It's a possibility he can't entirely dismiss.

Yet, certain events refuse to leave his mind. He distinctly remembers how you left dinner abruptly the previous night and, more importantly, how you hadn't shown up in the potions lab afterwards. A distinct break from your usual routine. The lab had been your sanctuary for extra practice since the end of your fifth year, a place where you often lose yourself in the art of potion-making.

He figured it would be second nature for you to show, especially after your recent, more intimate encounters with him.

He quickly rules out the possibility of guilt or regret on your part regarding what happened between you on New Year's Eve. The intimacy shared that night, the way your body seamlessly melded to his, revealing a pliant and passionate side of you, remains vivid in his memory. None of it hinted at any hesitancy or second thoughts. Certainly not.

A smirk slowly creeps onto his face as he reflects on these thoughts, a mix of amusem*nt and intrigue playing on his lips. Despite his frustrations and your apparent stubbornness, he can't help but find a certain pleasure in the challenge you present, a break from the monotony of his usual routine.

As Snape resumes his position at the board, chalk smoothly gliding across its surface, he continues to ponder your recent behavior. His voice remains sharp as he delivers a scathing critique to a flustered Hufflepuff, but his mind is elsewhere. Your current detachment might be an attempt to avoid drawing any attention to the two of you. Given the clandestine nature of your relationship, such caution would be wise and necessary.

You’re a clever little owl, aren’t you?

This idea, that you're deliberately maintaining a distance in the classroom as a protective measure, ignites a flicker of pride within him. It speaks to your maturity, your understanding of the delicate situation and the need for discretion.

But still.

Look at him, damned girl.

As the class nears its end, Snape steers the students through the final minutes with his characteristic precision and authority. His unwavering discipline never falters, not even amidst the undercurrents of his own emotional turmoil.

The room slowly empties as his students pack up their belongings and leave, the sound of their chatter fading into the corridors. Snape, however, remains motionless, his gaze lingering on the door through which you had exited. He notes with a hint of surprise that you left so swiftly, without a backward glance, leaving him in the solitude of the now silent classroom.

Leaning against the desk, his hands pressed flat against its surface, Snape's thoughts swirl with reflections on your behavior and the implications it might hold. Your absence, particularly the lack of any attempt to stay back for a conversation, puzzles him. It's a deviation from what he had come to expect, even before you two became intimate.

Had the idea of a discreet, "after-class discussion" not occurred to you as a safe way to communicate while you were back in the castle?

He wonders if maybe a conversation about how to navigate your relationship within the boundaries of Hogwarts was overdue. Was there a need for a more explicit understanding between you two?

Severus Snape is not meant for the logistics of relationships.

As he stands in the quiet classroom, another possibility slowly surfaces in his mind. Could your apparent coldness be because he hadn’t sent you any owls after New Year's Eve? He begins to consider this as the most likely explanation for your behavior. It had been a deliberate choice on his part not to write, a decision driven by caution rather than neglect.

Snape is acutely aware of Wormtail's prying nature. The risk of having any communication intercepted by him, and consequently drawing the Dark Lord's attention to you and your father's prominent role in the Ministry, was too great. In Snape's eyes, this silence was a protective measure, an essential sacrifice to ensure your safety.

This line of reasoning is not just the first plausible explanation for your current demeanor; it's one that aligns with the complex web of dangers and alliances he navigates daily. Your distant behavior, the way you've been avoiding him, must stem from a misunderstanding of his intentions.

In his mind, this silent approach, though painful for him as well, was the best way to shield you from the darker aspects of his life. Snape resigns himself to this conclusion, believing that your aloofness is a reaction to his necessary, yet unexplained, silence.

A slight chuckle, tinged with a mix of amusem*nt and resignation, slips out as Snape starts setting up for the next class. He has grown accustomed to your fiery disposition, the spirited essence that defines you. You're a feisty thing, indeed.

He finds himself envisioning your next encounter – the pouting of your lips, your brows knitting together in that uniquely adorable show of defiance as you look up at him. The image brings an involuntary, wry smirk to his face.

Through the time he's known you, Snape has become adept at navigating the tempestuous waters of your moods, understanding the nuances of your fiery spirit. It’s a challenge that, in a way, he relishes – the dance of wills, the push and pull of emotions between you two.

And these days, he knows exactly how to handle you.

For now, he resolves to let you simmer in your upset, seeing it almost endearing in its own right. With a final smirk and a resigned shake of his head, Snape redirects his focus to his potions and ingredients, ready to let this delicate game of emotions unfold in its own time.

In the bustling aftermath of his class, Professor Aesop Sharp is engaged in a discussion with a group of fourth year students about defensive spells. Students chatter with each other, their energy never wavering from the beginning of his class. His attention, however, shifts as you walk into his classroom. He offers a small, welcoming smile in your direction, still half-listening to the eager questions from the students in front of him. His expression, initially split between professional attentiveness and a subtle warmth, transforms into a more serious, contemplative demeanor.

The visits he made to your home since that emotionally charged night in the backyard have not been far from his mind. He had watched as you grappled with the harsh truths about Snape. His visits, under the guise of seeing your father, were more about ensuring your wellbeing.

He had provided comfort, an anchor in the tumultuous revelation of Snape’s dark past, knowing all too well the weight such knowledge carried. He couldn't ignore the impact his words had on you – the way they tore at your sense of reality. Sharp understood the turmoil you were in; after all, the revelations about Snape were not just about a professor but about someone you had grown close to, trusted, and cared for.

In Sharp’s eyes, your reaction was a natural response to an unprecedented situation. You are young, and have been shielded from the darker undercurrents of the wizarding world. This exposure to the grim reality, especially one so intimately connected to you, was a harsh awakening.

As he stands there, watching you, there's a sense of responsibility that weighs on him – a feeling that, in his attempt to protect you, he might have inadvertently caused more pain.

Sharp immediately picks up on the urgency in your demeanor, his seasoned instincts as both an Auror and a professor recognizing the seriousness behind your expression. Without hesitation, he dismisses the remaining students.

As the younger students file out, their curiosity evident, they cast lingering glances in your direction. Their whispers, a mix of admiration and speculation, echo softly in the room. Sharp can't help but feel a sense of pride at how your role in Goldhawk has transformed the way these students see you. Your involvement in such advanced and secretive training has clearly made an impact on your peers, elevating you to a figure of intrigue and respect within the Hogwarts community.

Once the classroom is empty, Sharp's attention refocuses entirely on you. The concern in his eyes is palpable as he steps towards you. "Is everything alright?" he inquires, his voice low and steady.

You give a quick nod, your eyes briefly scanning the room, a silent confirmation of the need for privacy. Sharp catches the subtle cue and gestures towards his office. "Let's speak in my office," he suggests, a note of seriousness in his tone. He leads the way up the small staircase, his mind abuzz with thoughts of what could warrant such urgency.

Sharp closes the door behind you, ensuring complete privacy. He removes his brown sports coat, hanging it neatly on the coat rack, and leans against his desk. His arms are crossed, his posture relaxed yet attentive. Sharp's eyes meet yours, probing for any clues as to what might have prompted this sudden visit.

"Did something happen in Potions?" he asks, aware of your schedule and the potential for any interactions with Snape to have sparked this urgency. His question is not just a formality; he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t concerned over the last hour and a half, knowing you were in Snape’s classroom.

"No, it's not that," you reply, your voice measured but carrying a weight of something deeper. "This is different. Potions was... fine, thank you." Your response, while brief, conveys a sense of underlying tension, hinting at the gravity of what you've come to discuss.

Sharp's eyes narrow slightly. The casual demeanor he usually maintains around students gives way to a more focused, intense presence. "What's wrong?" he asks, his tone now more serious, ready to listen and offer whatever assistance he can.

Anything for you, anyway.

You linger uncertainly by the door, pausing as you collect your thoughts. "I have a message from Professor Dumbledore," you start, your voice betraying a hint of nervousness. Sharp's expression, initially marked by mild curiosity, shifts to a mix of surprise and intrigue upon hearing Dumbledore's name.

A slight raise of his eyebrows betrays his piqued interest. "Indeed? And what does Dumbledore require of me?" he inquires, his tone now tinged with a blend of curiosity and cautious skepticism.

With a steadying breath, you forge ahead, and Sharp can already feel the weight of the words you're about to deliver. "It concerns the Order of the Phoenix. I've been invited to join, and Dumbledore has... a particular task for you," you explain, the significance of this request reflected in your earnest gaze.

Sharp's eyes widen in recognition. The name 'Order of the Phoenix' triggers a flood of memories from the First Wizarding War. He had always seen the Order as a grassroots movement, an underground alternative to the official Auror Office, yet led by the greatest wizard of all time.

His years as an Auror had given him a firsthand understanding of the perils and intricacies of such covert organizations. The Order, despite its honorable goals, often skirted the edges of legality, operating just beyond the Ministry's purview. This ambiguity, while necessary, carried its own set of risks.

The news of its revival, while not entirely unexpected in the current climate of rising dark forces, still startles him. What truly takes him aback, though, is your direct involvement. The thought of you, someone he has watched grow and excel, now entangled in the Order's secretive operations, gives him pause.

Sharp leans back slightly, processing this new information. The corners of his mouth twitch, as if he's piecing together a puzzle in his mind. "I see,” he says cautiously. “Does your father know about your involvement with the Order?"

Your response is measured, both of you are aware of the weight and implications of your involvement. You meet Sharp's contemplative gaze, the urgency in your eyes clear. "No, my father doesn't know about this. And I'd really like to keep it that way," you say, the plea evident in your voice. “This is... it's something I have to do on my own."

He's aware of the delicacy of the situation and the trust you're placing in him by sharing this information. After a brief pause, he nods in understanding, a silent agreement to your request. "Alright, I won't say anything to your father. You have my word," he assures you.

Sharp studies you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. The more he learns about your involvement, the more his worry intensifies, not just as your professor, but also as someone who harbors deeper, unspoken feelings for you.

While he respects and admires your courage and commitment, the thought of you facing the dangers that come with being part of the Order is distressing. He finds himself torn between his duty as a mentor, guiding and supporting you in this perilous path, and his personal desire to protect you, to keep you safe from the horrors he knows all too well.

The reality that you, his student and the daughter of a prominent Auror, are entangled in such dark and dangerous affairs weighs heavily on Sharp. But both of you know that to Sharp, you are so much more.

You are the intersection where his professional duties as a teacher and former Auror collide with the personal – a source of deep-seated conflict and, paradoxically, a beacon of hope. You are the one who challenges his convictions, the one who stirs in him a sense of redemption and the possibility of something more profound than the stark lines of duty and obligation.

You are the reason for his restless nights, the lingering thought in his quiet moments of reflection. The thought of you, caught in the crossfire of a war that is both political and personal, unsettles him profoundly, blurring the lines between his professional responsibilities and the unspoken, yet palpable, personal connection that has grown between you both.

As well, Sharp can't deny the personal truth that he's come to fancy you deeply. Beyond the professional respect and the shared dedication to a cause, there's an undeniable attraction, a pull towards you that goes beyond the bounds of mentorship or camaraderie. Your presence has become a highlight in his day, a personal longing that adds an additional layer of complexity of his mind.

"So, what exactly does the old man have you wrapped up in?" he inquires, a wry smile briefly flickering across his face, his attempt at humor tinged with genuine curiosity.

"He is entrusting me with a mission. Something important for the Order."

Sharp is transported back to the grim days of the war. The shadows of past losses and sacrifices loom large, coloring his perception of the present. The notion of you, someone for whom he harbors deep, unspoken feelings, being drawn into a similar vortex of danger and uncertainty, stirs a deep sense of protectiveness and apprehension within him.

He listens attentively as you begin to explain about the horcruxes, a topic that brings back memories of your joint forays into the restricted section. A part of him wonders if things might have been different had he known the full extent of what you were delving into back then. Would he have been so quick to assist, or would caution have prevailed?

He listens as you recount how you, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Cedric pieced together that the artifacts in Dumbledore's office were, in fact, horcruxes. His mind spins as you name off what seems like half of his student roster, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t genuinely impressed by the depth of your investigation.

He does his best to keep up as you explain Horace Slughorn, the former Potions professor. Sharp nods, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Slughorn, yes. I had him for Potions back in my day."

As you mention Slughorn's reluctance to share his memories about Tom Riddle, Sharp's expression changes slightly. A hint of shock crosses his features but he remains mostly neutral as you continue your explanation.

Sharp leans back thoughtfully, his expression reflective as he considers the significance of what you've just shared. "Ah, Slughorn," he says, a hint of understanding coloring his tone. "He's always had a knack for recognizing talent, sometimes to a fault," he remarks, his voice tinged with a mix of reminiscence and concern.

The prospect that Slughorn's memories could unlock crucial insights into the Dark Lord’s strategies, perhaps even his vulnerabilities, is both intriguing and daunting. The realization sends a shiver up his spine.

Sharp pauses, his gaze drifting into the distance as he absorbs the full scope of what you've told him.

After a moment of reflection, he speaks, his voice a blend of concern and respect. "You are… quickly becoming entwined in matters far beyond what I could have ever expected," he remarks thoughtfully. "But remember, caution is key. I need you to be overly cautious.” He pauses. “The path ahead is unlike anything you could have imagined from stories about the first war, and it's imperative you navigate it carefully."

He remains silent for a time, contemplating the significant challenges and responsibilities that lay ahead, particularly for someone as young and inexperienced as you. Memories of his own youthful sense of duty and the weight it carried come flooding back to him.

Breaking the silence with a renewed focus, Sharp's voice is steady, masking the internal turmoil he's grappling with. "What exactly do you need from me?" His eyes lock onto yours, a clear indication of his unwavering commitment to assist.

Anything for you, anyway.

You respond with a hint of uncertainty, the cryptic nature of Dumbledore's message evident in your words. "I'm not entirely sure," you confess with a slight shrug, embodying the ambiguity of the task at hand. “Dumbledore said you'd just know what to do to get the information from Slughorn," you continue, your gaze fixed on Sharp, searching for clues in his reaction.

Sharp's shoulders slump slightly at your words. He runs a hand over his face, a gesture that seems to stretch for eternity. He uses the moment to marshal his thoughts and maintain composure. His eyes, when they lift to meet yours again, are a swirling pool of emotions, reflecting the complexity of the situation.

Internally, Sharp is wrestling with Dumbledore's request, a turbulent mix of disbelief and apprehension churning within him. He understands the gravity and the potential ramifications of what he's being asked to do. It's a heavy burden, one that he finds both unsettling and disconcerting.

He is acutely aware of the need to shield you from the chaos and instability in your already fragile state, but the thought of drawing you further into this tumult is something he finds deeply troubling.

"Dumbledore certainly has a way with words, doesn't he?" he says, his voice steady.

Sharp gazes at you, absorbing the naiveté and unawareness that colors your understanding of Dumbledore's request. It's painfully clear to him that you are oblivious to the true depth and danger of what you've just asked of him.

"I need to have a word with the Headmaster about this," he states, his voice now edged with a firm determination. "To fully grasp what he's expecting from us. This is…” he pauses, searching for the right words, “complicated. I'll contact you as soon as I've got a clearer picture."

You give a nod of understanding, a visible weight lifting from your shoulders as you pass on the responsibility of this daunting task. For Sharp, however, this moment marks the beginning of a heavy burden, an immense responsibility that now falls squarely on his shoulders.

You leave Sharp's office with a sense of resolve, but as you walk away, his eyes linger on you, filled with a complex blend of admiration and worry. He stands there for a moment, watching your retreating figure, his thoughts racing with the weight of the task at hand and the potential consequences that loom large.

Sharp's mind whirls with possibilities, considering the various strategies and paths he might have to navigate in the coming days. Despite the myriad of challenges and uncertainties, your safety and well-being remain at the forefront of his thoughts. He is acutely aware of the responsibility he bears, not just in fulfilling Dumbledore's request, but also in ensuring that you, a person he has come to care deeply for, remain protected from the darker aspects of this mission.

As you disappear from view, he is left alone with his thoughts, a silent vow echoing in his mind – to safeguard you, even amidst the tumultuous and dangerous waters that you are both navigating.

Anything for you, anyway.

In the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, Professor Aesop Sharp's steps echo with a weight that feels heavier than ever. Each stride towards Dumbledore's office is laden with apprehension and a growing sense of foreboding. His mind races with the possible implications of Dumbledore's request, a gnawing fear that what he suspects might indeed be the grim reality.

Facing Dumbledore across the ancient, cluttered desk, Sharp finds the courage to voice a challenge, a rare moment of defiance against the venerable headmaster. "Are you not asking too much?" he questions, his voice tinged with a mix of incredulity and frustration. “Of me, of especially her, it's too–”

Dumbledore, ever the picture of serene wisdom, offers his explanations in a measured tone, speaking of the necessity of your involvement, the virtues of resilience and the testing of one's soul in the face of adversity. Hardening you like the others, testing your mettle.

Yet, Sharp's mind is only partially present in the conversation. Internally, he wrestles with the moral implications of what he's being asked to do, the potential cost to his own conscience. The notion of the greater good clashes with the personal cost, leaving him grappling with a poignant question that echoes silently in the chamber of his thoughts:

What about his soul?

The request to revert to methods he had long forsaken – for a cause he's only recently been introduced to, and a plan he's barely grasped – hits Sharp with an overwhelming force. Dumbledore's decision to involve you in this, knowing full well of the depth of Sharp’s commitment to your safety and wellbeing, adds a layer of betrayal to his shock.

As Sharp exits Dumbledore's office, the usually comforting corridors of Hogwarts seem foreign, offering no solace. His steps are heavy, each one echoing his turmoil as he retreats to the solitude of his chambers. The weight of the task he faces hangs over him, a daunting shadow that threatens to consume his essence.

In the quiet of his room, he reaches for a bottle of Firewhisky. His hand shakes slightly as he uncorks it, the sound unusually loud in the stillness. He pours a generous measure, the amber liquid catching the flickering light from the fireplace.

Settling onto the couch, he stares into the flames, but their warmth fails to penetrate the growing chill within him. The fire crackles and dances, a stark contrast to the icy dread that has taken root in his heart, a dread stemming from the realization of the grim task ahead and its implications for both his and your futures.

The one thought that rings clear in his mind, amidst the chaos of his emotions, is the daunting, inescapable truth:

He must torture Horace Slughorn.

Chapter 21: exile

Chapter Text

i think i’ve seen this film before

and i didn’t like the ending

exile - taylor swift ft. bon iver

In the dimly lit potions classroom, students hastily gather their belongings, eager to escape the tense atmosphere left in the wake of Snape’s sharp reprimand to a Hufflepuff student just moments ago. The classroom, with its shelves lined with dusty jars and the faint smell of various potions ingredients lingering in the air, feels even more foreboding than usual.

Snape, standing tall amidst the hurried departure of his students, has been acutely aware of your distant behavior these past few days. Observing your aloof demeanor over the past week, he attributes it to a youthful response to his post-New Year’s Eve silence.

In his mind, he interprets your behavior as a silent plea for his attention, perhaps even his affection.

You began gathering your belongings about ten minutes ago with a practiced nonchalance, your movements deliberately unhurried yet betraying an underlying eagerness to escape the confines of the classroom. Snape watched you the entire time, his sharp eyes missing none of the subtle nuances in your behavior. Your attempt at casual indifference is completely transparent to him, whether you realize it or not.

To him, there’s something surprisingly admirable about your unwavering stance, your quiet rebellion. This show of defiance is, oddly enough, quite impressive. Little do you know, his choice to not communicate was a calculated effort to shield you from Wormtail’s prying eyes, to keep your exchanges safe from interception.

When he calls out your name, he notes the instant you freeze in place, poised on the threshold of the classroom. For a fleeting second, he can almost sense your internal debate, the temptation to flee down the corridor. Yet, you turn back, a resigned sigh escaping your lips.

He observes the sympathetic glances of your classmates as they hurriedly exit the room, leaving you in a solitary stand-off with him.

Admittedly, he's been anticipating this moment all day, eager to confront and perhaps unravel your apparent attitude.

As you approach, your reluctance is as palpable as the tension in the air. Snape, crossing his arms, meets your gaze with an unreadable expression. His voice, cool and measured, cuts through the silence. “What seems to be troubling you?” he asks, his tone laced with a mix of inquisitiveness and authority.

Your answer is brief and evasive, tinged with a hint of impatience. “It’s nothing,” you reply, with a slight edge. “I need to get to my next class. We can talk later.” Your words are quick, your desire to avoid this conversation evident in every syllable.

Snape watches you closely, noting the subtle shifts in your body language and the guarded look in your eyes. He senses there’s more beneath the surface of your words, a complexity that piques his interest even further. You attempt to turn away from him.

Your reaction is instant; your eyes widen in shock at the unexpected physical contact. Snape's grip on your arm is firm but not forceful, his proximity unexpectedly intimate.

His voice, a soft murmur by your ear, carries a teasing edge that only heightens the tension. "I find your annoyance rather... captivating. Do continue," he whispers, his words laced with a subtle challenge.

You spin around, facing him directly. Your expression is a vivid display of frustration, your eyes meeting his with a fiery intensity. Snape, unfazed, maintains his composure, his smirk barely concealed, clearly intrigued by your defiance.

He leans in slightly, maintaining the delicate balance between provocation and genuine curiosity. "Could this be about my silence after our time together on New Year's Eve? My apologies, darling, I was… Preoccupied with other matters," he says, his tone smooth yet edged with a hint of sarcasm.

There's a calculated air to his words, a deliberate attempt to gauge your response, to peel back the layers of your apparent indignation and uncover what truly lies beneath.

Snape watches closely for any sign of a break in your facade, a flicker of the emotions he suspects are bubbling beneath the surface.

His calculated provocation, however, unleashes a vehement outburst from you. Your voice, tinged with bitterness, escalates in volume, catching him off guard.

"What, too busy with your fellow Death Eaters?" you snap, the accusation hitting him like a physical blow.

In that moment, Snape’s usual composed facade crumbles under the weight of your words. His heart sinks, a chilling realization taking hold. You are confronting him with a truth he cannot deny but isn’t ready to confirm.

The truth he has long guarded is now laid bare before you. The smugness that once played on his lips fades, replaced by a look of profound shock and vulnerability. He lets go of your arm instantly, watching you back away from him.

As if the space between you could shield him from the impact of your words.

Snape stands there, utterly speechless, as the gravity of the situation sinks in. He can scarcely believe that you are not only aware of his darkest secret but also confronting him with it so openly. The realization that his carefully guarded double life is no longer a secret to you sends a wave of shock through him.

He stands exposed, the complexities of his double life laid bare. The consequences of his actions, the truth of his existence as a Death Eater, have finally caught up with him, and the impact is written all over your face.

Your eyes, once fiery with accusation, now shimmer with unshed tears. The pain in your voice is palpable, a soft whisper that resonates with heartbreak. “I knew it,” you murmur. The raw emotion in your gaze is a mirror to the turmoil now etched across Snape’s face.

He stands in silent admission, a figure caught in the relentless tide of his actions, unable to escape the haunting echoes of a past that forever defines him.

The revelation cuts deep, the pain and betrayal evident in your eyes. Snape is left reeling, the walls he had meticulously built around himself crumbling under the weight of your words. The realization that you know his darkest secret, the one aspect of his life he had desperately hoped to keep hidden from you, is a crushing blow.

How much do you know?

It's a question that is swiftly answered by your continued accusations. As you continue, your voice quivering yet resolute, the gravity of your words hits him with the force of a tempest.

“You’ve done unspeakable things,” your accusation pierces the silence, its clarity cutting through his defenses. “I know about the trial, about the evil you were part of.” Your knowledge of his past, of the vile acts he once committed, is laid bare between you.

Snape’s typical arsenal of sharp retorts and deflections are rendered useless. The weight of his past, the horrors he has tried to bury, now resurface in your accusing gaze. He stands before you, a man haunted by his actions, his expression a blend of regret and deep-seated sorrow.

In the stark light of your revelation, he finds no refuge in denial, no solace in silence.

You don't hold back, relentless and unforgiving. You press on, each word saturated with the pain of betrayal. “You stood trial as a Death Eater, Snape,” your voice rises, a crescendo of hurt and disillusionment. “The things you’ve done, the lives you’ve impacted…”

Each accusation lands like a blow, and Snape finds himself retreating, both physically and mentally. He staggers back, the solidity of his desk against his back the only thing grounding him. He's rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by the barrage of truths you're hurling at him.

He stands completely motionless, a silent observer to your storm of accusations. What, indeed, could he offer in his defense? A futile attempt to rationalize the inexcusable actions of his past? To articulate the intricate web of circ*mstances that led him down this dark path?

His mind fleetingly toys with the notion of divulging the truth — the story of a friendship with a girl, fractured, of choices made in the shadow of profound loss and disillusionment. But such revelations, he knows, would sound outlandishly far-fetched, more like the fabrications of a desperate man than the candid confessions of a repentant soul.

There is a certain irony, Snape reflects bitterly, in the notion of defending oneself against charges so undeniably true. His life, a labyrinth of complex allegiances and clandestine deeds, offers no simple narrative for exoneration.

Thus, he remains silent, a stoic guardian of his own tormented history, fully aware that any words spoken now would only echo hollowly in the chasm of betrayal that has opened between you. There's no defense he can offer, no justification that would suffice.

Snape is certain he looks like a fool now. He is certain he can feel his mouth opening and closing, lips parting and sealing tight as you speak. The anguish etched across his features speaks volumes of a past riddled with choices shrouded in shadows and deception.

His eyes, usually inscrutable, now betray a depth of remorse and a harsh acceptance of the reckoning his life demands.

The torrent of your words washes over him, each sentence infused with a heart-wrenching blend of pain and sense of betrayal. “It’s been there all along, hasn’t it? On your arm?” your voice cracks, resonating with hurt. “Every potion we brewed, each moment you held me close… That mark was there the whole time, even in my room.”

Snape's mind is transported back to that New Year's Eve night. The memory, a stark contrast to the present, is vivid in its intimacy. The soft glow of candles flickering in your bedroom, casting dancing shadows across the walls. The warmth of your skin against his fingertips, the way your breath hitched in perfect harmony with his own.

Your eyes, then brimming with a mixture of wonder and affection, reflected a shared vulnerability, a tender connection fostered in secrecy and longing. The room had been alive with whispered confessions and gentle explorations, a sanctuary where the world outside seemed to fade into insignificance.

But now, the same eyes that once looked upon him with warmth are filled with tears, cascading down your cheeks in a relentless flow of hurt and disillusionment. Your voice, once soft and yielding in the closeness of your room, now trembles with the weight of betrayal and shattered trust.

He has a foreboding sense that those days are long gone.

The memories of your room, once a haven of mutual understanding and hidden yearnings, now stand in cruel contrast to the palpable chasm of unspoken truths and lost promises that has formed between you. It’s a stark reminder of the fragile nature of connections, how easily the warmth of closeness can be usurped by a cold void of misunderstanding and pain.

"Did you attack the Burrow?" The plea in your voice cuts through Snape, a sound he wishes he could escape. It's a heart-wrenching tone, one of desperation for truths he's powerless to give, for reassurances he cannot offer. The agony in your voice, begging for him to dispel the nightmare, is almost unbearable.

How he wishes he could.

You press on, each word laden with a raw, aching vulnerability. "I feel so betrayed, lied to..." The words resonate in the tense air, heavy with the weight of your shattered trust. Your voice falters, the sentence trailing into a sob. Snape can only watch, silenced by the depth of your pain and the irrevocable damage his secrets have caused.

It appears that everything he cares for is destined for heartache.

In his world, it seems that every cherished bond, every flicker of connection, is doomed to wither under the shadow of his concealed truths.

He realizes with bitter resignation that his existence, marked by shadows and secrets, is a path forever marred by sorrow and solitude, a relentless cycle of loss and despair. He is reduced to a mere man grappling with the piercing reality of his own duplicity.

With the cruel sting of betrayal gnawing at him, a single question looms in his mind: who divulged his closely guarded secret? Yet, even as he ponders this, the answer seems glaringly obvious. Aesop Sharp, with his pointed remarks and barely concealed disdain, comes to mind almost immediately.

Snape recalls the way Sharp's quips dripped with irony and insinuation that evening at the Grant Estate. The two men, locked in a silent battle of wills amidst the revelry, their mutual disdain thinly veiled under the guise of civility.

It seems ludicrous now, to think he hadn’t seen it coming. Sharp’s proximity to you, his former role as an Auror, and his obvious investment in you – it all adds up to a betrayal Snape finds himself anticipating in hindsight.

Sharp, that self-righteous, pompous ex-Auror, had been a thorn in his side since his arrival at Hogwarts. Snape had viewed him with a mixture of annoyance and dismissive scorn, seeing him as nothing more than a washed-up Auror clinging to past glories, boasting about his influence over you.

His closeness to you. Your family’s hospitality over Christmas.

But now, with the revelation of his role in your newfound knowledge, Sharp's image morphs into something more sinister in Snape’s mind – a manipulative interloper, exploiting his past and position to sow seeds of distrust and discord.

This newfound fury towards Sharp is tinged with a sense of betrayal not just towards him, but towards the world that seems to conspire against Snape at every turn. The revelation that it was Sharp who shattered the fragile peace of his relationship with you is jarring.

Sharp is not just a personal adversary, but the embodiment of all the external forces that continually thwart Snape's attempts at maintaining a semblance of control over his own narrative.

You stand before him, a mix of expectation and despair in your eyes, waiting for some semblance of an explanation, an apology, anything. But Snape remains mute, the eloquence that once defined him now a distant memory.

Finally, your patience wears thin, your voice bitter as you utter, "Yeah, exactly," a poignant encapsulation of your disillusionment. Snape's head droops slightly, a silent admission of the truth in your words, an acknowledgment of the irrevocable damage that has been done.

With a shaky breath, you choke out the hardest words he could bear to hear from you. "I can't... I can't do this anymore. I never want to speak to you again." The words are a knife to his heart, but Snape remains in a daze, barely registering them.

He feels detached from his body, as if he's observing the scene from afar, unable to fully grasp the reality of what's unfolding.

As you turn and march away, the sound of your footsteps echoes in the empty room. The slam of the door as you leave jolts him slightly, but even that sound seems distant, muffled by the shock and turmoil swirling inside him.

He stands motionless, a figure of frozen anguish, as the reality of your departure sinks in. He is engulfed in a haze of disbelief and sorrow. The room feels colder now, emptier.

He's left to grapple with the aftermath of his choices, the painful consequences of a life lived in shadows. The realization that he might have lost you forever weighs heavily on his soul, a burden he knows he'll carry long after your footsteps have faded away.

Lost in a sea of remorse, Snape realizes with aching clarity that in his quest to protect you from the darkness, to keep you pure, he has inadvertently drawn you into its very heart, a tragic irony that will haunt him in the silent hours of the night.

As you hasten away from Snape's office, the cool, damp air of the dungeon corridors seems to cling to your skin, a physical reminder of the chill that has settled over your heart. The stone walls, usually indifferent witnesses to the throngs of students, now feel oppressive, closing in on you as you navigate through the dimly lit passageways.

Your footsteps echo against the ancient stones, each step a sharp contrast to the turmoil swirling within you. You pass by the flickering torches, their light casting long, dancing shadows that seem to mirror the tumult of your thoughts.

The familiar route back to your common room, once a path of anticipation or relief, now feels like an escape route from the painful revelations you've just confronted.

You feel a mix of pride and inner chaos. The way you stood your ground, your voice ringing with bitter truths about his past, resonates within you as you turn the corner in the direction of the Slytherin Common Room. It was a moment of raw courage, a catharsis fueled by anger and heartache.

In that adrenaline-driven assertion of your strength and conviction, you felt empowered yet exposed, as if you had torn away a veil only to reveal a reality too harsh to fully grasp.

Emerging from the dungeons and entering the common room, the contrast is stark. The warm glow of the fireplace should offer a semblance of comfort, but it feels distant, like a remnant of a time before your world was upended.

The common room, usually a hub of chatter and laughter, now seems to exist in a different realm, one where the simplicity of student life continues unabated, unaware of the shadows lurking just beneath the surface.

Or in this case, down the corridor.

Your peers, engrossed in their conversations and studies, barely notice as you move through the room. There's an odd sense of detachment, as if you're a ghost drifting among the living, unseen and untouched by the normalcy that surrounds you.

Reaching the sanctuary of your dormitory, you finally allow yourself a moment to breathe, to let the mask of composure fall away. The walls of your room, adorned with familiar trinkets and memories, now feel like silent observers to your inner turmoil. You sink into your bed and draw the curtains.

The man you thought you knew, the man you dared to let close, the man you gave your body, was a façade covering a reality far darker than you could have imagined.

The mix of emotions is overwhelming – anger, betrayal, sorrow. Yet, amidst it all, there's an undeniable undercurrent of strength, somewhere deep down is a newfound resolve that has been forged in the fire of this painful revelation. You know it’s there, but a part of you doesn’t wish to move on from your hurt.

As you lay there, the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains, you can't help but think about the future. The path ahead is uncertain, fraught with challenges and dangers you had never imagined you'd face. But there's also a sense of purpose, a determination to stand up against the darkness that has crept into your life.

You mull over your last interaction with Sharp last week. Since that meeting, the communication between you has been minimal. It's not unexpected, considering the importance of the task at hand and Sharp's need for clarity from Dumbledore himself. Still, the lack of contact gnaws at you, leaving you with a lingering sense of unease.

As you ponder the situation, it dawns on you how unusual it was for Dumbledore to delegate such a critical task. Surely, an assignment of this magnitude would warrant his direct involvement. But then, you remind yourself of the enormity of Dumbledore's role in these troubled times. His leadership in the fight against the dark forces, his management of Hogwarts, and his myriad of other responsibilities make it clear why he couldn't personally deliver every message.

In the grand scheme of things, his decision to use you as a messenger, despite your novice status in the Order, begins to make sense. It's a role that comes with its own set of challenges and responsibilities, but one that you understand is vital in the current climate.

Lying there, you can't help but feel a mix of apprehension and determination about your role in the Order, especially with regards to the task involving Sharp. There's a part of you that wishes for more guidance, for a clearer sense of direction in this convoluted world you've stepped into.

But another part recognizes the trust Dumbledore has placed in you to execute this mission with Sharp, and the opportunity this represents to make a real difference.

The moonlight's soft glow casts shadows across your room, creating a dance of light and dark that seems symbolic of the path you're on. You're no longer just a student at Hogwarts; you're a key player in a much larger battle, one that extends far beyond the school's ancient walls.

The journey ahead will require all your courage and resilience. You aren’t sure you can muster the strength in this moment, but you know your duties with the Order will require all of your mental fortitude.

The fight against the dark forces, the pursuit of truth, and the struggle to protect those you care about – these are now part of your destiny. The innocence of your Hogwarts years is fading, giving way to the realities of a world much more complex and perilous.

With these thoughts swirling in your mind, you finally drift off to sleep, the challenges of tomorrow waiting for you in the waking world.

Sitting with Cedric in the courtyard, you find a moment of respite from the turmoil that's been your constant companion lately. Lately, you've been spending a lot of your time with Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Cedric, along with a few other Gryffindors. Their company offers a welcome distraction, a way to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the Slytherin common room.

Your friends in Slytherin tease you, suggesting that you think you're too cool for them now. The truth is, it's not about being cool; it's about coping. The dark, cold corridors of the dungeons, where the common room is nestled, hold too many reminders, too much emotional weight.

Snape is always too close for comfort. It's become a place where the shadows seem to whisper secrets you wish you'd never learned, a space where the air feels heavy with unspoken truths.

With Cedric and the others, you can pretend, if only for a while, that you're just another Hogwarts student, not a member of the Order of the Phoenix, not someone who's recently had their heart shattered beyond repair.

So, you find solace in the sunlit spaces of the castle, in the laughter and casual banter of your friends from other houses. You and Cedric lay sprawled on the grass, enjoying a rare sunny day in late January. The sky above is a deep, clear blue, offering a brief reprieve from the typical grey of winter. Around you, other students are scattered in small groups, seizing the opportunity to bask in the unexpected warmth.

A gentle breeze flutters through the courtyard, carrying a hint of spring's approach. It teases the edges of your robes and plays with strands of your hair. As you lie there, the dark clouds slowly gathering at the horizon seem distant, like a faint reminder of the colder days that are yet to return.

Cedric's eyes twinkle with a hint of mischief as he leans in, sharing his observation in a tone that suggests he's divulging a well-guarded secret. "Snape's been on a tear lately, even for him," he smirks, his voice tinged with a mix of amusem*nt and exasperation. "It's like he's set on making every class a living nightmare."

This insight into Snape's recent behavior isn't surprising, yet it resonates with a part of you that's still nursing the wounds of betrayal. Deep down, there's a vindictive satisfaction in knowing that Snape might be as unsettled and frustrated as he's made you feel.

Cedric continues, his expression a blend of humor and disbelief. "He's always been a git, but now? He's downright vicious. I misplaced a label the other day, and I swear, his glare was so intense I thought he might hex me into next week."

The image of Snape, more fearsome and formidable than ever, prowling the classroom with an air of dark intensity, springs vividly to your mind. You can almost see him, his towering presence amplified by his billowing robes, casting scathing remarks and withering glares at any student brave or unfortunate enough to catch his eye.

You scoff at Cedric's observation, the sound more bitter than you intend. The wound in your heart is still fresh, the pain raw and unyielding.

Good. Let him be miserable.

Cedric catches your expression and raises an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on his lips. "Woah, I thought you were the Potions prodigy?" he asks, a hint of jest in his voice.

You wave off his comment, trying to sound nonchalant. "No you’re right, he’s just been terrible lately," you say, your voice carrying a note of indifference.

Cedric nods, understanding your reluctance to delve deeper. "Well, I'm just glad I'm graduating soon. Can't say I'll miss the temper tantrums of the man in black," he quips, his light-hearted tone bringing a much-needed moment of levity.

His comment genuinely makes you laugh a little, a rare moment of amusem*nt in the midst of your tumultuous thoughts. In this instant, you're truly grateful for Cedric's presence, his ability to bring a smile to your face despite the chaos that seems to surround you.

Cedric's voice drifts through your thoughts as he recounts yet another argument with his parents about Goldhawk. Despite their reluctance, his determination to stand for what he believes in is admirable. You briefly wonder why someone like Cedric, so brave and committed, hasn’t been approached to join the Order of the Phoenix. He seems such a fitting candidate, but you tuck that query away for later.

It’s a question for another time, a time when your mind isn’t clouded by the shadows of betrayal and loss.

Leaning back on the grass, he breaks the silence with a thoughtful look. "This morning's Goldhawk training was something else, wasn't it? It was more cerebral than usual. I mean, usually, we're dodging spells and practicing combat, but today..." He trails off, his gaze distant as he reflects on the session.

You nod in agreement, recalling the unique nature of today's training. It was held in one of the lesser-used classrooms on the third floor, a space large enough for physical activity but secluded enough for the kind of mental exercises Goldhawk often requires. The room, bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the high windows, had an almost ethereal quality to it.

The training had focused on strategy and mental resilience. You were all tasked with solving complex magical puzzles under pressure, simulating the kind of high-stakes scenarios you might encounter in real-world situations.

The challenges were designed to test not only your magical prowess but also your ability to stay calm and think clearly in the face of mounting stress. It was a stark departure from the usual physical aspects of Goldhawk training, but no less demanding.

Cedric continues, "It's like Sharp’s preparing us for more than just physical threats, you know? Like, it's not just about casting the right spell anymore." His voice holds a note of admiration, mixed with a hint of concern. "Makes you wonder what he thinks is coming."

The shift in training focus is undoubtedly significant. Today’s training suggested a broader preparation, a need for readiness beyond the usual scope of magical defense.

As Cedric speaks, you maintain a thoughtful expression, giving the impression that you're equally curious about Sharp's intentions. To him, it looks like you're deep in contemplation. In reality, you already have an inkling of what's looming on the horizon. You already hold a piece of the puzzle that Cedric is unaware of.

Your thoughts briefly wander to the mission Dumbledore assigned to you. Sharp still hasn't approached you with any updates, but you trust that he will in due course.

On the bright side, the absence of Sharp's post-Potions class check-ins is a relief. It’s not that you don’t appreciate his concern – it's evident he cares deeply – but there’s only so much babysitting one can take before it becomes suffocating.

You wonder, with a hint of amusem*nt, if all this stress might be causing his hair to gray faster than usual.

Truthfully, each Potions class is a silent struggle, a relentless internal battle to maintain your composure and focus amidst the simmering tension. You find yourself in a familiar yet unwelcome situation, reminiscent of the cold silence that once existed between you and Snape.

Snape's apparent indifference, his deliberate avoidance matching your own, feels like a cold shroud, enveloping the room in a frosty detachment.

This return to a state of non-communication, this silence that has once again fallen between you two, is hauntingly familiar. It's as if the past months of connection, of shared moments and understandings, have dissolved into the ether, leaving behind only a specter of what once was.

You've become a mere shadow in his classroom, blending into the background, your presence seemingly inconsequential to him.

Yet, you can't help but ponder Snape's inner world amidst this renewed distance. Is he truly indifferent, or is there a turmoil brewing beneath his stoic exterior? The way he has been taking out his frustrations on the students suggests an inner unrest, you expected that much, but a storm that you once thought you had the ability to calm.

The more you reflect, the clearer an unsettling reality becomes. If Snape truly harbored any genuine remorse about concealing his dark secret, any shred of guilt for the deception, wouldn't he have shown some sign of it by now? Time has passed since your explosive confrontation, and the ensuing silence has been deafening.

The impassioned words you hurled at him, revealing your knowledge of his hidden life, seem to have evaporated into the cold air of the dungeons, leaving no mark, no acknowledgment from him.

The icy barrier that now exists between you both chills your interactions to a hollow formality. His unbroken silence, the absence of any attempt to reach out, speaks volumes. It slowly extinguishes the flickering hope that he might one day offer an explanation, an apology, anything to indicate that he valued what you shared. But nothing comes, and with each silent day, the hurt deepens.

His lack of response serves as a stark reminder that perhaps, for him, the allegiance to the Dark Mark, the life of a Death Eater, was always a priority over any feelings he might have professed for you. This realization pierces through you, a harsh awakening to the grim truth of a bond that now feels like nothing more than a fading shadow.

When you’re alone, you can't help but indulge yourself in what might have been a more direct… confrontation with Snape. Your mind replays scenes you wish you could have enacted.

It's a somewhat childish notion, perhaps less rational but more raw and hurt, but part of you wishes you had just forcibly pulled up his sleeve to reveal the truth for yourself. It’s a fleeting thought, born out of frustration and pain, a desire to confront the hard truth in the most direct way possible.

In hindsight, such an act would have been undeniably cruel, a violation of his personal boundaries. Yet, with the current state of things, where you both act as if the other doesn't exist, the idea of impropriety seems almost irrelevant.

Realizing that you've spent the last few minutes with Cedric in a daze, lost in thoughts about Snape, it's clear you're far from getting over him.

Your moment of introspection about Snape is abruptly interrupted as Harry approaches at an urgent pace, the Daily Prophet in his grip. This unusual midday update from the Prophet immediately signals to you that something significant, likely unsettling, has occurred. It’s a jarring shift from your reflective state, reminding you that the world outside continues its turbulent swirl.

You steel yourself for whatever news Harry is about to deliver, a sense of weary resignation washing over you. In these times, the concept of a calm, uneventful day seems like a distant memory, a luxury from a life that feels increasingly like a relic of the past.

Harry's arrival, marked by his visibly shaken demeanor, instantly alters the atmosphere around you and Cedric. "Death Eaters attacked the Ministry," he reveals, his voice heavy with the weight of this alarming news.

As Cedric hastily grabs the newspaper from Harry, his face mirrors the gravity of the situation. His eyes quickly dart over the front page, absorbing the details of this latest escalation.

Meanwhile, Harry's gaze, fraught with concern, rests on you. You can feel the weight of his apprehension, almost as if he's silently urging you to remain composed. Despite this, a sense of dread begins to creep in, a foreboding feeling that something more personal, more directly impacting you, might be revealed.

A sinking feeling begins to take hold of you, a premonition that something is terribly wrong.

Cedric's voice breaks the tense silence as he reads from the newspaper, each word resonating with the severity of the situation. "The Ministry has been attacked by Death Eaters. The head of the Auror office is missing," he articulates, his voice barely more than a whisper as he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.

The news lands with a devastating impact. The thought of your father, the deputy head of the Auror office, being so perilously close to this turmoil sends a wave of fear through you. Your expression, one of stark horror, is mirrored in the faces of Harry and Cedric, reflecting the shared shock of the moment.

There’s a strange numbness within you, a byproduct of the recent emotional rollercoaster, leaving no room for tears, only a hollow, sinking feeling.

"The attacks were on the Analyst and Magical Maintenance departments," Cedric reads, his voice tinged with disbelief at the seemingly random targets.

Harry interjects, his voice reflecting his perplexity, "But why those departments? And in broad daylight?" His question hangs unanswered in the air.

Cedric, scanning the article for more clues, can only offer a shake of his head in response, as if to say it's beyond comprehension.

Harry adds with a heavy tone, "Lupin's theory is that they're just sowing chaos. No real strategy, just spreading fear and disorder."

You listen in silence, a silent prayer for your father's safety. The thought of him being in the thick of such chaos is both terrifying and surreal.

Their discussion about the attack's motives continues, but your focus starts to drift as Hermione and Ron join, their faces etched with concern. Hermione's arms envelop you in a warm, comforting hug. "Everyone's talking about the ministry attack," she murmurs, her tone tinged with worry.

A glance towards Harry conveys volumes without words. You both recognize the gravity of the situation. The Death Eaters' bold moves only heighten the urgency of your task with the Order. The necessity of obtaining Slughorn's information is now more pressing than ever. You're almost certain Sharp, too, is acutely aware of the day's developments and the looming threat they represent.

With urgency etched on his face, Harry swiftly heads in the direction of Dumbledore's office. Meanwhile, you take a decisive step towards finding Sharp. Every second is crucial now.

Determination propels you through Hogwarts' echoing corridors, your thoughts fixed on the vital mission ahead. The burden of responsibility is palpable, pressing down on you, yet it's matched by a fierce resolve. You're committed to playing your part in the Order, to stand against the escalating menace of the Death Eaters and safeguard the wizarding world.

Severus Snape apparates to Malfoy Manor later that evening with a sense of urgency, the news of the Ministry attack pressing heavily on his mind. The Death Eaters, under the Dark Lord's orders, have been sowing seeds of chaos across the wizarding world, each act more random and unpredictable than the last. Their targets and methods vary, but the underlying command from the Dark Lord remains consistent and clear: to create chaos at every turn.

He had been aware that such an attack was under consideration, but the haphazard, aimless execution of it strikes him as recklessly dangerous. This isn't just another random act of terror; it's an assault on a central institution of the wizarding world, a move that could have far-reaching consequences.

He advised that the Dark Lord wait out any attacks of this caliber, and his counsel had fallen on deaf ears. Chaos was of the utmost importance, for one reason or another. It's a stark reminder of the unpredictable and volatile nature of the Death Eaters at its very core.

To Snape, this latest development is not just aggravating, but also deeply concerning, suggesting a frighteningly new level of audacity and disregard for strategy from the Death Eaters. The attack on the Ministry signifies a shift in the war, one that could escalate the conflict to new, even more dangerous heights that the troops are simply not ready for.

One that the Order of the Phoenix is certainly not ready for, either.

He quickly seeks out information from the lower-level Death Eaters about the details of the Ministry attack. They casually relay that they targeted the most accessible departments, ones they could easily overpower. The Aurors had made their way to these attacks and then, almost as an afterthought, they mention the kidnapping of the head of the Auror office during the ensuing chaos.

When pressing for details about the abducted official, his question is met with a chilling response. A Death Eater, face twisted into a sinister grin, offers no words, but the expression alone conveys a dreadful message.

The fate of the Ministry official is clear.

Snape’s initial reaction is a physical one, a tightening in his chest, a sensation that’s as unexpected as it is intense. His mind races, connecting the dots with a speed that leaves him feeling almost breathless.

Your father, the deputy head, is now thrust into a position fraught with danger, a target for those he has been opposing all his life.

With your father ascending to the head of the Auror office, your family inadvertently steps into a glaring spotlight of peril – a prospect that stirs a deep disquiet within him.

In the shadowed corridors of Snape's mind, a grim realization settles like a cold, unyielding fog. The peril now looming over your family – a family he has come to regard with a complexity of emotion he seldom allows himself to acknowledge, causes a deep unease. He is acutely aware of the Death Eaters' merciless nature, their voracious appetite for chaos, and the utter disregard for human life.

Faced with this grim reality, Snape acknowledges the necessity of his involvement, recognizing that this challenge transcends his complex web of loyalties as a double agent. This is no longer a mere matter of espionage; it has morphed into a personal endeavor, a silent vow etched in the depths of his being and far beyond the intricate dance of his double allegiances. It has become a deeply personal crusade.

Your clear disdain for him, the chasm of misunderstanding that has wedged itself between you, does not diminish the urgency of his resolve. To Snape, the prospect of any harm touching you, of the shadow of danger looming over those connected to you, is a scenario he finds himself unwilling to entertain.

In this darkened tapestry of war and secrets, he recognizes a thread that binds him inexplicably to your fate.

Thus, in a heart that seldom permits itself the luxury of sentiment, a fierce determination takes root. Snape, cloaked in his enigmatic persona, is driven by a force that transcends his role as a spy, as a professor, as a former Death Eater. The protection of you and your family, though unspoken and unseen, becomes an imperative that he silently swears to uphold, regardless of the personal cost or the treacherous path it may lead him down.

In this quiet vow, his actions, unseen and unacknowledged, become a testament to a complex, unyielding commitment to your safety in a world teetering on the brink of darkness.

In these moments, a resolute determination takes hold within Snape. Disregarding the personal sacrifices and the labyrinthine nature of his dual existence, he resolves to deploy every means at his disposal to protect you. This commitment transcends his role as a spy; it's an unwavering pledge to shield you and your loved ones from the encroaching darkness, irrespective of the personal costs that may ensue.

Snape’s footsteps echo in the foreboding quiet as he advances towards the dining room of Malfoy Manor. His mind, a battleground of strategy and anticipation, is acutely aware of the potential implications of this latest development. The underlying strategy of the Dark Lord’s chaotic orchestrations now seems alarmingly clear to him.

Crossing the threshold, he finds himself enveloped in the room’s sinister ambiance. It stands in stark contrast to the vibrant, glittering backdrop of the New Year's Eve party where he had encountered your father – a memory that now seems like a distant echo amidst these cold, shadowy walls. The room, with its oppressive air, feels like a tangible embodiment of the darkness that has crept into his life.

The grand table, a silent witness to countless sinister plots, lies ahead, its surface reflecting the scant light in a way that seems almost menacing. This is the heart of the Dark Lord's planning, a place where strategy and malevolence intertwine. Snape moves with a sense of foreboding, each step a measured approach into the lair of his master, where the fate of many, including your family, might be silently dictated.

In the dimly lit room, Snape's eyes narrow as they settle on the Dark Lord, seated at the head of the table. The Dark Lord's presence is chilling, his gaze penetrating, a cruel smile hinting at the sinister thoughts lurking beneath. Nagini, sensing her master's focused attention, slithers onto the table, her movements fluid and unnerving. Her eyes, cold and calculating, fixate on Snape.

Beside his master, Wormtail perches with an almost grotesque glee. Snape's gaze lingers on him for a moment, his mind piecing together the insidious puzzle. The sight of Wormtail, so near to the Dark Lord, drips with irony. The man's sycophantic eagerness is palpable, a nauseating display of what must be his newfound favor.

In his mind’s eye, Snape sees the letter from the Grant family, its grand, emerald green seal a token of a world so different from the one he currently inhabits.

His contempt for the man deepens, a bitter acknowledgement of Wormtail's ability to exploit even the smallest advantage in his perpetual game of survival and self-preservation.

Snape pauses, maintaining a respectful distance. “My Lord,” he intones, his voice carefully controlled. His gaze briefly sweeps over the room, alert to the undercurrents of danger that pervade the air.

Voldemort, reclining imperiously, turns his attention to Snape, his voice a slow, icy drawl that sends a shiver through the room. "Ah, Severus, punctual as always. Come, we have much to discuss."

Chapter 22: feels like this

Chapter Text

when it feels like this, like a light came on
and you look at me like I'm all you want
i’ve got everything at my fingertips
how can I resist when it feels like this?

feels like this - maisie peters

https://open.spotify.com/track/53Wsf11ElpPr1WAGtRQlcx?si=6n6FlvOQRcqG7qL6Rc1sEg

In the quiet of his office, Aesop Sharp leans back in his chair, his mind far from the stack of paperwork that demands his attention. The day’s earlier encounter in class keeps replaying in his head, the moment when a student casually mentioned "the attack."

No, he hadn’t heard about the attack. Unaware of the incident, Sharp had found himself besieged by a barrage of eager voices, each student vying to fill him in with every fragment of information they possessed.

As a storm of questions engulfed the ex-Auror, a feeling of surreal detachment washed over him. He found himself responding mechanically to each question, as if on autopilot amidst the chaos of inquisitive young minds. Yes, the Ministry had protocols for such attacks. Yes, Aurors were trained for these exact scenarios. No, the Death Eaters had never been this bold before.

Each question about protocols, past Death Eater activities, and the potential death of the head of the Auror office felt like a punch to the gut. It was a brutal reminder of the perils lurking beyond the castle walls, and of the young lives under his guidance who looked up to him for wisdom, direction, and most importantly assurance.

For Sharp, a man seasoned by years as an Auror and now a mentor to the next generation of defenders, the news was a jolt back to a darker time.

Having witnessed and endured unspeakable horrors during the first war, horrors that would haunt even the bravest of souls, Sharp carries a weight that's all too familiar. The vulnerability reflected in the eyes of his students today has only served to deepen the indelible scars left by those dark times.

In an effort to redirect the class’s anxious energy, he had them focus on practicing defensive spells. It was a practical choice, providing a hands-on approach to their concerns while instilling in them the importance of readiness. The classroom buzzed with activity, spells crackling through the air as students paired off, their stuns and counters creating a symphony of magical engagement.

His supervision was vigilant, but his mind wandered, grappling with the implications of the attack on the Ministry. The attack wasn't just another headline; it was a stark, unsettling shift in the wizarding world's landscape. And for Sharp, it was a grim reminder of the reality they all faced – a reality that was increasingly intruding into the safe haven of the wizarding world.

Now, as he sits alone, the questions from his students echo in his mind. Sharp leans back in his chair, his eyes closed, as he contemplates the weight of this new reality.

The knowledge that the Death Eaters had crossed a line that was previously unbreached. It wasn't just an attack; it was a message, a declaration that no place was safe, not anymore.

The sudden sound of the door creaking open jolts him back to the present. His eyes snap open to see you standing there, a palpable fear etched across your face. It's clear you've heard the news about the ministry attack, and the implications it holds for your father. The sight of you, so vulnerable, brings a wave of protectiveness over him.

He sees the tears welling up in your eyes, and he's reminded of the bond that has been quietly strengthening between you two. There's the memory of you crying on his shoulder over winter break, seeking solace in his embrace. He recalls the night you nestled against him on the couch, lost in the pages of a book, finding comfort in his presence.

As you stand there, tears threatening to spill over, Sharp feels a deep, unspoken connection. In these moments, Sharp can't help but feel an intertwining of fates, a connection that goes beyond mere mentorship or friendship. It's as if every shared moment, every tear, has woven a thread that binds your souls together.

The longer he waits, the more tears gather in your eyes, eyes that hold a depth of emotion that tugs at something in him. Hestands, moving around his desk towards you. You step further into the room, allowing the door to close behind you.

The sound of the door clicking shut seems to be the silent permission you needed. Almost instinctively, you rush into his arms, throwing yours around his waist in a tight embrace. He responds without hesitation, his arms enveloping you in a secure and comforting hold.

Your face rests against his chest, and he can feel the rapid beat of your heart. But there are no sobs, no tears dampening his shirt. It's not the overwhelming grief that brought you to him during the winter break. This time, it's fear, a seeking of solace in the midst of chaos. And Sharp, with his arms around you, understands all too well.

He senses the trust you've placed in him, the silent acknowledgment that he is your safe haven in this turbulent world. It's a feeling he cherishes deeply, knowing that in these uncertain times, you see him as someone who can comprehend and share your burdens.

When you finally speak, your voice is small, vulnerable. "I'm sorry."

For what? Finding a safe space in his arms? Pressing the warmth of your body against his?

Feeling the tension in your body gradually easing, he begins to gently stroke your back, a soothing rhythm meant to comfort. As your breathing steadies, he's surprised to find you still nestled in his embrace.

He shakes his head slightly, a faint smile of understanding on his lips. "No need for apologies," he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring in your ear, his face nestled in your hair.

He senses your fear, your need for reassurance, and he silently vows to be there for you, in whatever way you need. The simple act of holding you, providing a safe harbor in this storm of emotions, seems to strengthen an unspoken connection.

Anything for you, anyway.

As you step back, creating a small distance between you, Sharp feels a sudden emptiness where your warmth once was. His eyes linger on you, taking in the sight of your slightly tousled hair, the remnants of tears making your eyes glisten, and your lips, plump and inviting. There's allure in your vulnerability, a raw beauty that he finds himself drawn to.

He watches you, a mix of longing and admiration in his gaze, the urge to lean in and kiss away the lingering traces of sorrow almost overwhelming. You are both ethereal and profoundly real.

“We have to do something,” you finally say, your voice nearly breaking. “We have to go to Slughorn.”

As the words leave your mouth, your urgency seeps into the air, breaking the intimate silence that had cocooned both of you. Sharp's entire demeanor shifts; his body tensing as the dark cloud that had been looming over him becomes palpable in the room.

He breaks away from you, his movements deliberate as he crosses the room and leans against his desk, arms folded across his chest. His eyes meet yours, a hard edge to his gaze. "I suppose you’re right," he admits, his voice betraying a hint of reluctance.

Your puzzlement is clear as you regard him, your brow furrowing in confusion. "Have you spoken to Dumbledore?" you ask, seeking some semblance of clarity.

His reply is terse, a sharp contrast to the comforting embrace from moments ago. "I have," he says, his voice clipped. The brevity of his answer only seems to fuel your frustration.

"Why aren't we doing anything, Sharp?" you press, the impatience and confusion evident in your tone. “It’s getting worse out there.”

Of course you can't understand his hesitance, not when there's so much at stake.

Sharp stands there, his posture rigid, grappling with the weight of the conversation he's been dreading. For days, he's turned the situation over in his mind, each scenario more daunting than the last.

The recent attack on the Ministry only compounds the urgency and gravity of what lies ahead. He's caught in a tumultuous inner debate, torn between duty and the desire to protect you from the darker aspects of what they must undertake.

He knows what must be done, but the prospect of revealing the harsh reality to you, someone he cares deeply about, is a burden he finds difficult to bear.

It's a responsibility that weighs heavily on him, a decision that he knows will change the course of events, potentially altering both of your lives irrevocably.

He knows, in the depths of his conscience, that his path is not one of choice but of inevitability. His destiny was forged the moment Dumbledore entrusted him with this mission, a fate inescapable and binding.

He knows, with a foreboding certainty, that the actions he must take will shatter the image you hold of him. The Sharp you sought solace in, the man whose arms just offered you refuge, will soon become an unrecognizable specter, a stranger hidden behind necessary but harrowing deeds.

"There were several arrangements to finalize with Dumbledore before commencing our mission," he explains, his tone measured.

As you eagerly inquire, "Great, when can we start?" Sharp hesitates, a shadow of resignation crossing his features. It's a momentary lapse, revealing the inner turmoil he's been wrestling with.

Unbeknownst to you, those “arrangements” involved a strenuous debate, an ardent effort on his part to shield you from involvement.

He vehemently opposed Dumbledore's insistence on testing your resolve, on preparing you for the harsh realities ahead, realities he wished you could remain shielded from. He had even volunteered himself to replace your role in the Order, an act that further solidified his own destiny.

Yet Dumbledore was astute; he understood that Sharp's utmost capabilities would only surface if you were part of the equation. To Dumbledore, you were the necessary catalyst, the leverage, Sharp's proverbial carrot on a stick, spurring him on.

He finally responds, his voice carrying a weight that seems at odds with your enthusiasm. "After the weekend," he says, his gaze lingering on you with a complexity of emotions.

Your excitement bubbles over as you start bombarding him with questions about preparations.

But Sharp, more solemn than you seem to recognize, slowly shakes his head. "No, there's nothing you need to do," he replies, the gravity in his tone hinting at the unsaid truths and hidden burdens he carries.

You pause, the energy in the room shifting, and with a more measured tone, you express your anticipation. "I'm really looking forward to working with you, Sharp. It's one thing to train in Goldhawk, but being in action together... it's different," you say, trying to convey a mix of eagerness and earnestness, with the sweetest bite of your lip he’s even seen.

Sharp manages a faint, almost forced chuckle, more a huff of breath than a laugh. His gaze then lifts to meet yours, and in that moment, your bubbling excitement mellows. Sensing a change in the air, you instinctively take a step towards him, searching his expression.

As he looks into your eyes, with a heavy heart, he knows the forthcoming events might mark the final moments you'd willingly draw near him. This could be the last instance where he experiences the closeness of your presence, before the inevitable tide of his actions pushes you irrevocably away.

Sharp momentarily holds his breath as the distance between you diminishes. You, so close and so tangible, sends a ripple of tension through the air.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask, your voice a quiet curiosity in the stillness of his office.

He hesitates, his gaze drifting to a nondescript point on the wall. "Living in the question, I suppose" he replies softly, a hint of introspection coloring his tone.

Your response, a playful little smirk accompanied by a curious tilt of your head, breaks the intensity of the moment.

He faintly registers your next words, something about reassurance, something about fear, something about facing what’s to come, something about “being in this together."

Sharp can't help but marvel at your naivety, so beautifully untouched by the harsh realities he's all too familiar with.

Your untainted spirit, so full of youthful optimism, is like a gentle caress to his weathered heart.

In you, he sees a rare kind of purity, a soul beautifully unmarred by the shadows of the world, a beacon of hope in a world often too harsh.

He senses your gaze, searching, seeking something in his expression, a silent question hanging between you. His heart beats a little faster, a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. You seem to find what you’re looking for, and you return to Sharp's embrace, a silent seeking of connection.

In this prolonged embrace, there's a different quality that Sharp struggles to define. It's more than mere solace; it's a tender intensity, a shared vulnerability. In the gentle pressure of your arms around his waist, Sharp finds a tenderness that sends a thrill through him, stirring emotions he’s long kept in check.

Slowly, you nestle your face in the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin. He feels the warmth of your body, the softness of your hair brushing against his cheek.

Gradually, emboldened by your closeness, he allows himself a small liberty, pulling back slightly to gaze into your eyes. In that moment, the world narrows down to just the two of you. His breath hitches as he inches closer, ever so slightly. His movement is tentative, a cautious dance of proximity.

In the stillness of his office, time seems to slow, every second stretching into eternity.

The brush of his lips, the graze of his scruff against your cheek, is a hesitant exploration, a question posed in the language of touch. You, too, seem to hover in that charged space, the mere inches between your faces alive with possibilities.

Living in the question.

He feels the magnetic pull to inch closer, an unspoken invitation in the way you tilt your head, the soft parting of your lips. There's a delicate dance in the way you both move, a gentle convergence of desire and hesitation. His heart pounds a fierce rhythm, echoing in the silence that envelops you both.

There's a pause, a breathless anticipation, as you both linger in this space. Sharp's mind whirls with emotions - desire, fear, hope - all converging in this single, fragile moment.

As he leans in, his lips hovering just a hair's breadth from yours, there's a palpable sense of surrender. The barriers that have held him back, the fears and doubts, the inevitable hatred you’ll have for him, seem to melt away in the face of this undeniable pull towards you.

His eyes search yours for a final confirmation, finding a reflection of his own longing gazing back at him.

And then, in an exquisitely slow motion, your lips meet. It's a soft, tentative touch at first, a gentle testing of waters long uncharted. The kiss deepens gradually, a blossoming warmth that fills the space between you.

In this kiss, there's a sense of coming home, a recognition of something profound and beautiful that has been waiting to be acknowledged. It's a kiss of discovery, the softness of your lips, the way they part. The soft gentle, hesitant brush of your tongue against his.

The sensation of your hand cradling the back of his neck is an exquisite agony, a poignant reminder of the depth of connection he's found in you. The connection he’s soon to break.

He finds a sense of peace amidst the storm of his thoughts and duties, a poignant reminder of what it means to be truly connected to another person.

You pull away ever so slightly. The joy radiating from your face is palpable, a mixture of disbelief and elation that lights up your eyes. In contrast, Sharp's expression remains stoic, but his eyes betray a depth of emotion he struggles to contain. He draws you back into his embrace, initiating another kiss, this time with a fervor that speaks of urgency, of a desire to etch this moment into his memory.

This kiss is longer, deeper, a silent manifestation of the complexity of his inner world. He's acutely aware of how the impending mission could change everything between you two. In his mind, this could very well be a final act of intimacy, a poignant goodbye to the connection you share.

You, so beautifully responsive and tender in his arms. As your lips move in sync with his, a dance of passion and bittersweet yearning, Sharp is acutely aware of the contrast between your blissful ignorance and his heavy burden of knowledge.

He turns you gently, a fluid motion filled with unspoken desire. As you lean back, the edge of his desk becomes your only support, the solid surface a stark contrast to the soft surrender in your limbs.

In this dance of passion and melancholy, you're like a feather in his arms, light and delicate, swayed by the intensity of his touch and the depth of the moment.

For him, this kiss is a desperate attempt to capture a fleeting moment of happiness, a memory to cling to in the face of the darkness that looms ahead. It's a blend of desire and resignation, a kiss that is as much a farewell as it is a celebration of the connection you share.

His hands, once tentative, now grasp with a purposeful intensity, as if trying to etch this moment into memory, a fervent attempt to defy the inevitable tide of change that is on the horizon.

In this fleeting embrace, he holds onto a fragment of a dream, knowing all too well the harsh dawn that awaits you both.

Sitting on your bed at home, the serenity of your room feels like a stark contrast to the chaos that has engulfed the wizarding world. The attack on the Ministry, the murder of the head of the Auror office, has sent ripples of fear and uncertainty through everyone. Your father, now thrust into the role of head Auror, is at the epicenter of this turmoil.

The last few days have been a whirlwind of anxiety and dread. Dumbledore's permission to visit home for the weekend couldn't have come at a better time. Initially, your father had insisted you remain at Hogwarts, focusing on your studies, urging you not to worry about him. But how could you not?

With every sympathetic glance and whispered conversation in the Hogwarts corridors, every moving photograph of your father at the front page of every Daily Prophet in the Great Hall, you were reminded of the high stakes and perilous position he now found himself in.

Amidst the constant murmur of concern and the pitiful looks of sympathy, was more than you could bear. The whispers in the corridors, the somber glances, the well-intentioned but heart-wrenching condolences – as if your father was already a lost cause – were overwhelming.

His new role as head of the Auror office wasn’t just a promotion; it was a mantle of immense responsibility and danger, especially in these tumultuous times. The weight of this reality was ever-present, a constant shadow lurking in the back of your mind.

So, your father relented, perhaps realizing the futility of trying to keep you away during such a critical period. It was a relief, being able to come home, even if just for a short while.

Your friends, bless them, have been rocks of support, shielding you from unwanted attention and offering silent strength. But home, with its familiar walls and the presence of family, is the sanctuary you desperately needed. Here, in your own space, you can breathe. You can think. Thank Merlin for Albus Dumbledore.

And then, you suppose, there’s Aesop Sharp.

The memory is vivid: the initial tenderness of the kiss, a gentle exploration of mutual longing. The intensity grew, transforming from a cautious dance into a fervent declaration of passion. There you were, perched atop his desk, your hands tracing the contours of his chest, his hands tenderly caressing your waist.

The kiss was prolonged, filled with an unspoken urgency, a mingling of desire and desperation. It was as if the world around you both had faded, leaving only the two of you in a bubble of shared resolve. The moment felt charged with the weight of a looming quest, an "us against the world" fervor.

It had been simmering between you two, now igniting amidst the chaos engulfing the wizarding world. It was a moment of unity, a brief respite from the storm, a silent vow to stand together as the world beneath your feet threatened to crumble.

Every now and then, you find yourself unavoidably contrasting your intimate encounters with Snape and Sharp. The realization that you've been close to two of your professors at Hogwarts is a thought you try to sidestep, but the differences in your experiences with each are stark and compelling.

With Snape, your moments together were like a tempest, each encounter a crescendo of pent-up emotions erupting with intensity. Every kiss, every touch was laden with drama, as if drawn from a Shakespearean tragedy – passionate, tumultuous, and deeply entangled with layers of complex feelings.

In contrast, your intimacy with Sharp was of a different texture. It carried a gentler, more measured pace. There was a softness in the way he held you, a deliberate slowness in each touch, as if savoring every moment. With Sharp, there was a sense of calm amidst the storm, a lighter touch that seemed to offer solace rather than ignite the fire of passions.

This dichotomy leaves you torn, each relationship embodying a different facet of love and connection.

With Snape, it was about intensity and depth; with Sharp, it was about comfort and ease. Both experiences were profound, yet so inherently different, making your heart waver between two worlds – each with its own allure and complexities.

Nevertheless, you make a conscious effort to compartmentalize these thoughts, directing your attention towards fully embracing the moments spent with your family.

Arriving home, the change in your father was immediately noticeable. The new responsibilities thrust upon him as head of the Auror office had clearly begun to take their toll. You had always understood the pressures of his position when he was deputy head, but this was an entirely different magnitude of stress and danger.

Physically, the effects were unmistakable. His dark brown hair, previously speckled with grey, now seemed to bear even more silvery streaks, as if each day in his new role had added another. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than ever.

Yet, despite the visible signs of strain, he greeted you with the warmest of smiles and an embrace that carried all the comfort and reassurance of home.

Your mother has been a pillar of quiet strength amidst the turmoil. There's a serene resilience about her, a calmness that seems to anchor the household even in these trying times.

The familiar comfort of your favorite meal, prepared by the house elves, was a beautiful respite in the midst of recent upheavals. The perfect send-off after a weekend at home before heading back to the castle. The roast dinner, with its perfectly crispy potatoes, succulent prime rib, and honey garlic carrots, brought a sense of normalcy, however fleeting.

But as night descends, you sit on the soft, white linen sheets of your bed, a world away from the task of packing your weekend bag to return to Hogwarts soon. In your hands, tarot cards shuffle through your fingers absentmindedly, their familiar weight and texture offering a small, comforting distraction.

The deck in your hands is a thing of understated beauty, its cards an off-white hue that borders on a gentle peach. Embellished with delicate gold foiled accents, they catch the light in a way that brings the images to a soft, ethereal life. This is the Lucid Dreams deck, a second edition by the renowned St Soleil, known for its exceptional artwork and rarity, with only 100 decks in existence.

You recall the day you acquired it, on a trip to London with your parents. It was nestled in a quaint bookstore, almost waiting for you. The moment you saw it, you knew it had to be yours. Each card in the deck is adorned with dreamy, celestial figures, their forms intermingled with clouds and stars in a dance of otherworldly grace.

Ethereal clouds serve as a backdrop for many of the cards, creating a dreamlike atmosphere, while minimal gold accents add a touch of luxury.

It wasn't just a deck of cards; it was a piece of art, a magical tool that spoke to your soul. Begging your parents for it seemed like the only reasonable thing to do, and holding it now, you're reminded of why.

The combination of their beauty and the soft, luxurious feel of the cards makes shuffling the deck an almost meditative practice, connecting you to a world beyond the tangible.

Even though you really suck at Divination.

The cards in your hands move almost of their own accord, the ritual of shuffling them offering a kind of mindless comfort. Each card passes under your fingers, not with the intention of divination, but as a means to center yourself, to bring a moment of calm amidst the anxiety of upcoming events.

Tonight, upon your return to school, you and Sharp are set to embark on a pivotal mission: to uncover crucial information from Horace Slughorn about Tom Riddle – the Dark Lord.

There's a lingering sense that he is less than enthusiastic about this task.

His instructions to simply meet him in his office as soon as you returned to the castle were succinct, almost terse, but you trust there's a method to his approach. After all, he seems to have done this type of work before, and Dumbledore's confidence in him is clearly well-founded.

It’s Sharp. You trust him.

Two cards suddenly leap from the deck, fluttering onto your bed.

A vague recollection of Professor Trelawney's words about such occurrences echoes in your mind. She had mentioned that when cards leap out during a shuffle, it’s like they’re choosing themselves, a spontaneous revelation from the universe.

With a blend of skepticism and curiosity, your fingers hesitate for a moment before turning them over, revealing their faces to you.

Flipping over the first card, you find The Moon upright staring back at you. A sense of calm settles over you. How bad can The Moon be?

With a slight hesitation, you turn over the second card.

It's The Tower, upright. Your heart sinks.

You recall the sense of dread that fills your Divination class whenever The Tower made an appearance in a lesson. The exact meaning escapes you, but the memory of your classmates' fearful reactions is vivid.

You briefly consider reaching for the little booklet that came with the deck, curious about the exact meanings of the two cards. But then, almost defiantly, you decide against it, choosing the comfort of ignorance over the potential anxiety of truth. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself, attempting to brush off the unease.

However, Trelawney's voice echoes in your mind, a shrill reminder of the significance of such moments in Divination. Her words, filled with urgency and a hint of quirky mysticism, seem to scream at you, urging you to pay attention to the cards that made themselves known so spontaneously.

Resigned to the persistent warning in your mind, you retrieve the guidebook from the deck’s sleek box. Flipping through the pages, you locate the description for the Moon card. The words are concise, almost cryptic:

Illusion, hidden, subconscious, the unseen, the unknown revealed, fears, trusting intuition, uncertainty, confusion, secrets, complex.

However, as you look over the list again, its words fail to resonate with you. Each term on the page seems to mirror the vague, perplexing nature of the card itself.

Surely, the secrets and revelations in your life had already come to light. The card’s message seems more baffling than enlightening.

Puzzled but intrigued, you continue leafing through the booklet, your curiosity piqued. You find the page for the Tower card, the one that truly unsettles you, and you brace yourself. The description here is equally succinct, yet striking:

Sudden change, upheaval, revelations, awakening, destruction of old foundations, disaster, trauma, chaos, radical shifts.

The stark, ominous words send a shiver down your spine. Unlike the Moon card, the Tower’s message is clear, and its implications deeply unsettling.

You suck at this.

You sit back, confused and ready to call it quits. You’ve already had your upheaval, the void left by Snape's absence in your life. The cards' message feels as redundant as The Moon, and once again, mocking in its timing.

A sense of irony washes over you. The cards seemed to highlight what has already transpired – the turmoil and change brought by Sharp’s revelations about Snape. It's as if they're echoing the past rather than illuminating the future, leaving you with more questions than answers.

The notion that these cards are reflecting events already unfolded nags at you. Isn't tarot supposed to offer insights into the future or at least provide clarity on current situations? It seems almost comical to question this now, given your seven years of studying Divination. Yet, here you are, puzzled by the very tool that's supposed to shed light on your path.

You pause, trying to pinpoint the exact thoughts occupying your mind when the cards leaped from the deck. Was it the anticipation of returning to school? The routine task of packing? No, those were just the backdrop.

Your focus had been deeply entrenched in thoughts about the upcoming mission with Sharp, the uncertainty of what lies ahead in this new chapter of your life.

That’s when the realization hits you – perhaps the cards were trying to tell you something about the unforeseen changes and challenges awaiting you, not just reiterating the upheaval you've already experienced.

Without a second thought, you shuffle the deck once more, focusing intently. Your fingers move rhythmically, almost in a trance, as you sift through the deck. The room is silent except for the soft flutter of the cards, and you wait for another to reveal itself.

You don’t trust your intuition enough to do the whole “shuffle until it feels right and then pick from the top” thing.

Suddenly, a card springs free from the deck, landing gently on your bed. With a sense of apprehension, you reach out and flip the card over.

It's the High Priestess in reverse.

You vaguely recall its association with intuition and the subconscious. It's almost ironic, considering your actual struggle to understand all of these messages.

With three cards now demanding interpretation, you feel overwhelmed. Still, you open the guidebook, flipping directly to the section about the High Priestess in reverse.

Blocked intuition. Clouded insight. Doubts. Things are yet to be revealed. Cognitive dissonance. Superficiality. Confusion. Hidden motives.

You feel as if you may be missing something here, or perhaps there's an unwillingness to look beyond the surface. Almost as if it’s urging you to trust your intuition and seek deeper understanding.

But how does one begin to “trust their intuition”?

Deeper understanding of what?

With a sigh, you slide the deck back into its box and in its spot in your nightstand. Despite the brief dive into the meanings, there's a part of you that's hesitant, maybe even fearful, to delve even deeper into the tarot's revelations.

Your mind feels strained from the effort of divination, a discipline you've never quite mastered nor fully believed in.

Trelawney would be proud, you think wryly, but the prospect of uncovering more cryptic warnings or insights doesn't appeal to you right now. For the moment, ignorance seems a more comfortable companion than the perplexing prophecies of tarot cards.

You finish packing your weekend bag and head downstairs to say goodbye to your father in his office.

The office door creaks softly as you push it open, revealing the inner sanctum of a man who has dedicated his life to the wizarding world's protection and justice. The room is a testament to your father's achievements and legacy, a blend of Slytherin pride and Auror distinction.

The walls are adorned with accolades and certificates, each one a mark of his dedication and skill. Among them, awards for bravery and service, emblems of his esteemed career. His medals, symbols of honor and sacrifice, are displayed prominently, catching the dim light of the room.

Shelves line the walls, filled with an array of books ranging from advanced defensive magic to complex legal texts, interspersed with family photographs that add a personal touch to the otherwise formal setting. The photographs capture moments of joy and pride—a stark contrast to the current atmosphere.

In the center of this scene of success and dedication sits your father, an embodiment of the solemn responsibility he carries. He's turned away from the door, his head resting in one hand, a drink in the other, lost in thought or perhaps exhaustion. His posture speaks volumes of the weight on his shoulders, the burden of his new role as head of the Auror office.

The room is quiet, save for the soft ticking of an antique clock on the wall, underscoring the late hour. Your mother, ever militant about her sleep schedule, said goodnight and went to bed hours ago.

As you step in, the floorboards creak slightly underfoot. Your father, seemingly in a half-asleep state, stirs at the sound, lifting his head slightly to acknowledge your presence.

As you stand there, taking in the weary lines etched into your father's face, a pang of sorrow strikes you. The desire to stay, to be a source of comfort, clashes with the knowledge of your responsibilities at school and to the Order.

"Dad, I’m heading off," you say softly, your voice tinged with reluctance.

He musters a weary smile, a shadow of his usual warmth. "All packed up already?" he asks, attempting to keep the conversation light.

"Yeah, I had packed light for the weekend," you respond, trying to match his tone.

"That's great," he nods, his voice heavy with unspoken thoughts. "Excited to go back? I bet it's more fun there than all the quiet here."

You chuckle softly, a bittersweet note in your laughter. "Nah, I prefer the quiet, you know that." Your words are a gentle reminder of the simple joys you find in the serene moments away from the hustle of Hogwarts and the growing tumult of the wizarding world.

Your father's gaze softens, a mixture of pride and assurance in his eyes. Still, there's an unmistakable difference in him. He seems like only a fraction of the vibrant, upbeat man you've always known.

A tinge of regret washes over you. During the winter break, when life was still relatively normal, you were too consumed by your own heartbreak over Snape to fully engage with anyone. That wound, fresh and raw at the time, led you to wallow in isolation, missing out on precious moments with your parents.

At the same time, a sense of trepidation held you back from a conversation you felt you needed to have with your father. The revelation of Snape's past, a truth you had to learn from Sharp rather than your own father, gnawed at you. Then there’s the trial that both your father and Sharp witnessed years ago, the one that laid bare Snape's darkest hours.

You wondered why your father hadn't shared these crucial details about Snape with you. Yet, the uncertainty of whether you were truly prepared to delve into this uncomfortable part of not only Snape's history but the idyllic relationship you had with your father, left you hesitant.

So, you spent your break in the refuge of your room, wrestling with these unanswered questions and the emotions they stirred.

Unanswered questions.

The unknown.

Clouded insight.

Things are yet to be revealed.

As you stand in your father's office, the words escape your lips before you can fully grasp them. "Dad, why didn't you tell me about Snape?" It feels almost surreal, voicing the question that's been haunting you.

Your father's expression shifts from weariness to concern, his brows knitting together in confusion. "What do you mean?" he asks, his voice tinged with a mix of worry and curiosity.

You find yourself at a loss, struggling to articulate the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Where do you even begin?

How does one say, Dad, why didn’t you tell me that the Potions Master I idolized and also got into a short lived situationship with was a Death Eater?

How do you ask about the trial he observed – a truth you had to learn from someone else?

By the way, I made out with your friend.

The words seem to stick in your throat, a tangle of confusion and apprehension.

Your words, almost a whisper, hang in the air. "I know he's a Death Eater."

Your father pauses, his eyes searching yours. "Who told you that?" His voice is calm but there's an undercurrent of something else – concern, maybe surprise.

You try to fight the oncoming surge of frustration welling up within you. "Why didn't you tell me?" The question is more an accusation, hinting at a betrayal felt too deeply.

He remains silent, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that speaks volumes. In the stillness of the room, his gaze becomes a mirror to your own uncertainty, but you muster up the courage to press on.

"Dad, I found out about Snape... that you were even at his trial," you say, the pain clear in your voice, "from Sharp."

The word 'Sharp' seems to strike a chord. He exhales slowly, his face showing a mixture of understanding and regret. "Sharp told you," he acknowledges, more to himself than to you.

Tears threaten to spill from your eyes. You’re not seeking conflict with your father, but the need for answers, for some semblance of understanding, presses heavily on your heart.

Your father slowly rises from his chair, his movements deliberate. He walks to the door and gently pushes it closed. Then, he guides you to sit on the plush velvet green couch while he pulls a black armchair closer. Settling in, he crosses one leg over the other, taking a moment to collect his thoughts before speaking.

"I didn't tell you about Snape's past," he begins, his voice calm but firm, "not because I wanted to hide something from you or doubted your ability to handle it.” He looks into your eyes, stern, but calm. “It's because I didn't think it mattered."

You look at him incredulously, struggling to grasp his reasoning. He raises a hand, signaling for patience, and continues, "The Snape that Sharp described to you, the one he's clinging to, belongs to a past that is long gone. The man I invited into our home, the one you know, is not the same person from those days."

His gaze never leaves yours as he speaks, his words measured and thoughtful. "It's not about hiding the truth from you, but about acknowledging who someone has become."

You sit there, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions swirling within you. His words are an attempt to bridge the gap between the image Sharp painted and the Snape you've come to know.

You sit silently, processing the gravity of his words. They swirl around you, challenging your perspective, offering a different lens through which to view Snape.

"Look," your father says, leaning forward slightly, "you've always liked Snape, haven't you?"

A hesitant nod is your response.

"And you've worked well with him, you told me yourself. He's even gone out of his way to mentor you, to invest his time in you, am I right?" His tone is gentle, coaxing out your acknowledgment.

Again, you nod, more assuredly this time.

He pauses, letting the silence speak before adding, "Then shouldn't we judge him by who he is now, by the actions he's taking today, rather than holding onto a past that he's moved beyond?"

His question hangs in the air, resonating with a truth you're beginning to understand. He watches you carefully, then softly adds, "People change, you know. It's one of the few constants in life."

You're torn between the shock of Sharp's revelations and your father's perspective on redemption and change. The conversation has opened a new door of understanding, challenging you to see beyond the black-and-white narrative you've been presented with.

Your frustration and confusion bubble to the surface. "But, Dad, Sharp said Snape did terrible things. To Muggles, half-bloods... He was one of them!" Your voice rises, emphasizing the last words with disbelief and pain.

Your father nods, acknowledging the weight of your words. "Yes, he did. And as Sharp must have told you, Snape faced trial for his actions. He was on the brink of spending the rest of his life in Azkaban. But in the end, it was revealed that he had already defected."

The revelation leaves you more bewildered. "What do you mean?" you ask, softly. Sharp had obviously failed to tell you this, having stated that Snape influenced someone with power in the Ministry to acquit him of all charges.

Your father leans forward, choosing his words carefully. "It means, at some point, Snape turned his back on them. That decision, that proof, whatever it was, saved him from a life in prison. It's not a simple story of good and evil, black and white. People are more complex than that."

You challenge your father's explanation, your voice tinged with skepticism. "But people don't just walk away from the Death Eaters. Sharp said Snape was almost like the Dark Lord's second in command."

At the mention of the Dark Lord, your father visibly cringes but maintains his composure. "Yes, but there was substantial proof that Snape had truly defected," he explains.

"And what was that proof? How can you be so sure?" you press on, seeking clarity amidst the confusion.

"I don't know the specifics," your father admits. "The final proceedings of the trial were highly confidential. Only a select few were allowed to witness it, even the then head of the Auror office wasn’t privy to it."

You sense his effort to convince you, but your doubts persist. Sensing your growing skepticism, he adds, "Whatever that evidence was, it convinced the Wizengamot. It was enough to have him acquitted."

He leans in, his tone earnest and sincere. "There are some, like Sharp, who remain suspicious of Snape. But remember, the Wizengamot declared him a reformed man. That's the man who has been mentoring you. That's the man I welcomed into our home because of the positive influence he's had on you. It's important to see the person he is today, not just who he was in the past."

As you ponder his words, your father brings up Sharp. "Sharp's a good man, my closest friend. But he still sees Snape as the man he was at 22. That's not entirely fair. For some, no matter what Snape does now, they can't let go of their past perceptions."

As you try to reconcile the conflicting narratives, your mind races. Sharp's depiction of Snape, a master manipulator who swayed the Ministry to secure his acquittal, clashes starkly with your father's belief in Snape's genuine defection and subsequent exoneration.

You find yourself wrestling with doubt. Why would Sharp omit such a crucial piece of information?

You've come to trust Sharp deeply – the relationship you've built, the understanding that seemed to resonate between you, and the sincerity of his kiss all felt undeniably real.

Yet, at the same time, your father's words carry a weight you cannot ignore. His insight and judgment have always been your guiding light. The idea that Sharp, for all his virtues, might be blinded by past grudges is a bitter pill to swallow.

The clash of these perspectives leaves you in a tumult of confusion, torn between two men you deeply respect.

Actually, make that three.

Your thoughts drift to the Dark Mark and its heavy implications, but your father's voice brings you back. "I don't want you to suddenly fear Snape. You've always worked well with him, and he clearly sees potential in you. Don't let Sharp's story from a decade ago, one that even the wizarding court dismissed, change that. Can you promise me that?"

You hesitate, still grappling with the whirlwind of information and emotions. Finally, you nod, offering a soft, "Okay." It's more to ease his worries than a reflection of your own conviction. Inside, doubts still swirl, and you find yourself wrestling with the complex shades of truth and perception surrounding Snape.

Your father's face softens with relief as he rises to embrace you. "Always trust your instincts," he advises, though he chooses different words, words that resonate deeply with you.

You smile, replying with a heartfelt, "Of course, Dad." You urge him to take care of himself.

He responds reassuringly, "I will, don't worry. It's just a period of adjustment. Things will settle down soon." He stands, watching as you prepare to Apparate, a special privilege granted by Dumbledore for this occasion.

The sensation of Apparating is always a peculiar one – a rush, a squeeze, and then a sudden release. As you focus on your destination, the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions inside you seems to spin faster. Doubts, fears, unresolved feelings about Snape and Sharp, and your father's words all swirl together in a disorienting maelstrom.

For a fleeting moment, in the disorienting blur of Apparation, it feels as though these conflicting thoughts are physically tugging you in different directions. Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over, and you find yourself back within the walls of Hogwarts.

Chapter 23: mad world

Chapter Text

all around me are familiar faces
worn-out places, worn-out faces
bright and early for their daily races
going nowhere, going nowhere

mad world - tears for fears

https://open.spotify.com/track/0Qv7xi6uPSqH2k82tOkGSt?si=nrL8KpVGR-Srd_OnpiVZvQ

In the shadow-draped hall of Malfoy Manor, Severus Snape maintains a facade of impassive calm, seated at the elongated, ornate table. His gaze is locked on the Dark Lord, whose presence emanates a cold, malevolent aura.

The silence is occasionally pierced by Wormtail's nervous, high-pitched giggle across the table and the sinister hiss of Nagini, coiled menacingly at her master's side.

Snape's mind is an impenetrable bastion, fortified by layers of Occlumency, as he readies himself for the conversation that looms ahead.

The Dark Lord, a figure of eerie calm, begins to speak, his voice a chilling whisper that seems to resonate from the very walls of the manor.

"Severus," he drawls slowly, his red eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes Snape with a gaze that seeks to unravel secrets and shortcomings. "There has been an... interesting revelation, one that concerns you directly." he says, deliberately vague and loaded with insinuation.

Nagini, almost as if sensing her master's intent, uncoils slightly, her eyes fixed on Snape in silent, serpentine scrutiny.

Snape's gaze shifts to Wormtail, recognizing the source of this sudden, unnerving scrutiny. He knew it the moment he saw Wormtail's self-satisfied smirk upon entering the hall.

The sycophantic man is evidently reveling in his newfound favor with the Dark Lord. It's a shift in dynamics that Snape finds both contemptible and predictable.

The letter from the Grant estate, which Wormtail had so opportunely glimpsed at Spinner's End, now emerges as a piece in a treacherous game. Its distinct features – the luxurious weight, the elegant cursive spelling out his name, and the prominent Slytherin green seal of the Grant family – had made it stand out amidst his usual correspondence.

This letter, once an innocuous piece of mail, has transformed into a weapon in the rat’s hands, a means to curry favor with the Dark Lord. Snape internally curses the situation and Wormtail's sly maneuvering.

The prospect of the Dark Lord connecting Snape to the newly appointed head of the Auror office, and extending that link to you, sends a shiver of apprehension through him. This conversation has become a delicate dance on a razor's edge.

Snape's voice is steady, betraying none of his inner turmoil as he addresses his master. "An interesting revelation, my Lord? I am at your service to clarify any concerns you might have." His words are carefully chosen, a blend of deference and curiosity.

He is acutely aware that any misstep, any hint of deceit or concealment, could have catastrophic implications. It's not just his own safety at stake now; it's your well-being that weighs heavily on his mind. Every word he speaks, every move he makes, is with the thought of protecting you, despite the chasm of anger and hurt that currently separates you.

His commitment to your safety is a silent vow, unspoken yet fiercely upheld in the darkest depths of Malfoy Manor.

"Our Wormtail has uncovered something rather intriguing," the Dark Lord purrs, his cold, serpentine voice laced with a thinly veiled accusation. "A correspondence from the Grant estate. I was unaware of your... connection with the Ministry, particularly within the Auror office, Severus. Such a revelation from one so close to me.”

With every ounce of his being, Snape masks his inner turmoil with a facade of detached interest. He listens intently, though his mind is working overtime to formulate a plausible explanation that will maintain his role as the trusted second in command while protecting you and your family from the crosshairs of whatever sinister plans are in place.

“You understand how valuable this is, do you not?” his master asks with a tilt of his head. “Surely, my loyal lieutenant would not withhold such critical information." His red eyes bore into Snape, searching, probing for any hint of deceit or betrayal.

Snape's eyes narrow as he carefully crafts his response, acutely aware of the scrutinizing gaze. "My Lord," Snape begins, his voice steady but infused with a hint of caution, "the connection with Fitzgerald Grant is a relatively recent development. I have been assessing its potential value and planned to inform you once its full extent could be determined and utilized effectively. Of course, prior to the Ministry attack, Grant was merely the deputy head of the Auror office.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes, cold and piercing, remain fixed on Snape. After a moment's contemplation, he asks in his slow, chilling voice, "An interesting development indeed. But why, Severus, would you withhold such information from us?"

Snape meets his gaze with an unflinching resolve. "I advised against the attack on the Ministry for precisely this reason, my Lord. Acting upon my connection with Grant too early would have been counterproductive. My aim has been to build a strategic relationship with him, one that would benefit our cause significantly at the right moment."

Snape's words hang in the air, a calculated blend of truth and deception designed to assuage suspicions while protecting the deeper secrets he must keep.

The Dark Lord’s thin lips curl into a semblance of a smile, a mere shadow of approval flickering across his face. “Commendable, Severus,” he acknowledges in his icy, measured tone. Then, his voice drops to a more sinister whisper, "And how did you plan to use this newfound connection to our advantage?"

Snape, maintaining his composure under his master’s probing gaze, replies with calculated calmness, “My Lord, I have been nurturing this connection for a far more significant endgame. A rash move now could jeopardize a much more… advantageous play later.”

He pauses, letting the words sink in before continuing, "The recent attack on the Ministry, while impactful, was premature, as I had advised previously.“ he pauses, allowing his words to sink in. “The attack has invariably led to heightened defenses, both within the Ministry and the Order. And now, with Grant as the new Head of the Auror office, he will exercise even greater caution.”

“My plan was to orchestrate a larger scheme, requiring Grant's full trust. Acting on this connection too soon, especially in the aftermath of such an attack, could alarm him, potentially jeopardizing a valuable asset.” Snape’s words are a deft mixture of truth and deception.

His inner calculations are clear: he’s playing a high stakes game, not only a delicate balancing act designed to reassure the Dark Lord of his loyalty, but to buy himself precious time.

“Our best course of action, therefore, is to proceed with caution, nurturing this link until it can be leveraged at the most opportune moment." He advises.

Snape’s eyes shift towards Wormtail, his gaze sharp and filled with unmistakable disdain. “Such a plan, however, requires subtlety and patience ."

His incisive statement sends a palpable wave of fear through the rat, who seems to shrink under his contemptuous gaze. He turns back to his master, his expression composed yet firm.

He knows he must convince the Dark Lord of the need for a more measured approach, especially in the aftermath of the Ministry attack. This strategy not only reaffirms the value of the connection with your father but also suggests the necessity of starting almost anew, to rebuild the relationship and proceed with even greater caution.

Buying time.

Snape is acutely aware that this bought time is crucial for formulating a plan to ensure your safety. With every word, he weaves a narrative that serves to protect you, all the while maintaining his precarious balance as a double agent.

He feels the Dark Lord’s gaze pierce through him, an unspoken attempt at Legilimency. Snape braces himself, mustering every ounce of his mental strength.

He carefully curates the thoughts he allows him to access, a delicate balance of truth and omission, revealing just enough to be convincing while guarding the secrets he holds most dear.

The strain of the mental duel is immense, sweat gathering at the base of his spine beneath his robes. But he holds firm, a master of Occlumency, his mind a labyrinth too complex for even Voldemort to fully navigate.

At last, he withdraws, a grin of satisfaction spreading across his face. "Very well, Severus," he says with a menacing calm. "Keep me apprised of your progress. Your loyalty and insight are commendable. We must always consider the bigger picture, the grand strategy."

As his attention shifts to Wormtail, Snape relaxes ever so slightly. The rat’s face contorts in fear, his eyes darting between Snape and his master. "Wormtail," his voice is laced with icy reprimand, "your eagerness to impress leads you to hasty and foolish assumptions. Learn to discern between valuable information and mere trifles."

Wormtail nods rapidly. The Dark Lord's words are cruel, sharp like a knife's edge, causing Wormtail to emit a terrified squeal. "Yes, my Lord," he stammers, his voice trembling. "I-I apologize for my presumption."

Voldemort's eyes narrow, his disdain palpable. "Your zeal is noted, but do not let it cloud your judgment again. We cannot afford such carelessness."

A subtle smirk curls on Snape's lips. He savors the moment, witnessing not only Wormtail's blunder but also the Dark Lord's misplaced arrogance. It's a rare scene, where Voldemort, usually so calculating and self-assured, has leaped to conclusions. The Dark Lord and his towering ego, inadvertently ensnaring himself in his own overconfidence.

Even the mighty master, with his grandiose self-perception, isn't immune to the pitfalls of presumption.

Leaving the ominous atmosphere of Malfoy Manor behind, Snape's brief moment of satisfaction fades into the night. As he returns to the stone walls of Hogwarts, the gravity of his situation weighs heavily on him.

The encounter, while a temporary victory, serves as a brutal reminder of the constant vigilance required in his precarious role as a double agent.

The Dark Lord's paranoia is legendary, and Snape is all too aware that his position demands more than just verbal assurances of loyalty. In the back of his mind, Snape knows that Wormtail and others like him are watching, waiting for a slip, a sign of weakness.

He must prove his allegiance through actions, through performing deeds alongside the troops that align with the dark aspirations of the Dark Lord himself.

He resolves to demonstrate his commitment, to undertake tasks that solidify his standing within the Death Eaters. It's a distasteful but necessary part of maintaining his trust.

There is a pressing need to maintain his intricate dance of deception, to keep himself in Voldemort's inner circle. It's a role he loathes, but one he accepts as necessary to preserve his access to critical information, information that could be the difference between life and death for those he's come to care for - especially you.

The irony of his situation isn't lost on him. In his quest to protect you, his actions have driven you further away, breeding mistrust and resentment. The thought is a bitter pill to swallow, but Snape steels himself against the pain. The greater goal, the need to shield you from the horrors of this escalating war, eclipses his personal anguish.

He knows that if the Dark Lord’s gaze ever fell upon you, the consequences would be dire.

It's a scenario he cannot - will not - allow to unfold. His resolve hardens with every step, every shadow he passes in the hallways of the castle. He's prepared to do whatever it takes, to engage in whatever dark deeds are necessary, to ensure your safety.

Protecting you, it seems, means delving deeper into the darkness he's trying to escape. The personal cost is irrelevant. Your well-being is paramount.

In the quiet corridors of Hogwarts, Severus Snape accepts his fate: he will plunge into the depths of darkness, bear any burden, suffer any consequence, as long as it keeps you safe.

You may never know the extent of his sacrifice, the lengths to which he's gone to protect you, but that's a burden he's willing to bear.

In the deathly silence of the night, you flee from Horace Slughorn's house in Budleigh Babberton, your heart pounding in terror. Each step you take away from that dreadful place is heavy with shock and disbelief. The quiet streets around you seem to amplify the echoes of your rapid, desperate footsteps, as you try to escape the haunting memory of what just transpired.

Sharp's voice seems to call after you, but it's drowned out by the haunting echoes of spells still ringing in your ears and Slughorn's screams and pleas.

You quicken your pace, each step fueled by the singular urge to escape. Behind you, the night sky is intermittently lit with flashes of spells – reds, greens, blues – painting a surreal backdrop to the quaint town.

The stark contrast between the peaceful village and the violence that you've just fled from as quickly as you entered it, sends shivers down your spine.

Your mind races, replaying the horrific moments over and over. You struggle to reconcile the gentle, spirited man you met earlier with the victim of Sharp's ruthless interrogation tactics. The further you get from the house, the louder the ringing in your ears becomes, a relentless reminder of the chaos you've left behind.

Tears stream down your cheeks as you continue to flee the scene, each step punctuated by sobs that wrack your body. The night air feels heavy, suffocating, as if it's absorbing the weight of your distress and the gravity of what you've just experienced.

Overwhelmed by distress, you find yourself unable to focus enough for a safe apparition. Your only option is to flee on foot, running aimlessly towards a nearby neighborhood, hoping to evade any prying eyes. As you move through the dark, quiet streets, your breath comes in short, ragged gasps.

You finally slow down, finding a secluded spot away from the main path. Leaning against a cold, rough wall, you try desperately to steady your breathing. The cool night air does little to ease the turmoil inside you.

Each inhale is a struggle against the sobs that threaten to break free, each exhale a fight to push away the haunting images of the night.

In this moment of solitude, the gravity of what you've just experienced hits you full force. As you stand there, shivering in the darkness, you realize the true cost of the war that's raging – not just in the world outside, but within the very people you thought you knew.

The memory of Sharp's face, once a source of comfort, now haunts your every step. You recall his distant gaze when you first arrived at Slughorn's house, a coldness creeping into his demeanor that you couldn't quite place.

At first, you thought he was just intensely focused on the mission, but as the night unfolded, his transformation was chilling.

The image of Slughorn, a man brimming with life and warmth, collapsing helplessly to the ground plays over and over in your mind. The shock of witnessing such violence is overwhelming.

Your pleas, your desperate appeals to Sharp, fell on deaf ears. With each passing moment, he seemed to grow more distant, more callous, and dangerously resolute.

As you try to banish these images, the realization that the man you trusted, who had gently held you in his arms, could display such brutality, sends shivers down your spine. Sharp, as you knew him, had vanished, replaced by a stranger whose actions were as merciless as they were efficient.

The realization of your isolation grips you tightly. Trust, once abundant, now feels like a rare commodity, its scarcity leaving you stranded in uncertainty. You can't confide in your father; this burden is too heavy, too entangled in the complexities of the war. Dumbledore, the architect of this harrowing mission, is beyond your reach for comfort.

Each thought circles back to the same haunting truth: you are alone in this. The very people and places that once offered solace now seem distant, perhaps even complicit in the chaos that's unfolding around you.

The weight of this loneliness bears down on you, a tangible force that threatens to crush the resolve you've painstakingly built brick by brick.

The world around you blurs as your tears cloud your vision, your mind struggling to process the night's events. You feel a profound sense of loss – not just for Slughorn, but for the innocence you once held about the world you thought you knew.

In this moment of vulnerability, the world feels vast and cold, and the path ahead, once illuminated by trust and certainty, now stretches out dark, uncertain and dangerously unstable.

Each person you've let into your life, each connection you've cherished, has revealed a darker, more complex side, shattering your understanding of who they truly are.

You're completely overwhelmed, the image of Slughorn, once full of life and now a victim of unspeakable violence, burned into your memory. With every sob, the reality of the mission's brutality hits harder, leaving you feeling utterly distraught and betrayed.

And so, you stand there, engulfed in the cold embrace of the night, the stark truth resonating within you: In this world teetering on the brink of chaos, trust has become the most perilous gamble of all.

A singular destination pierces through the turmoil. With a heart heavy and mind clouded, you gather the last shred of your will and apparate, propelled by a desperate need for answers, to the one place that, against all reason, still holds a glimmer of sense in your world turned upside down.

Chapter 24: peace

Chapter Text

no, i could never give you peace

but i'm a fire, and i'll keep your brittle heart warm
if your cascade ocean wave blues come
all these people think love's for show
but i would die for you in secret
the devil's in the details, but you got a friend in me
would it be enough if i could never give you peace?

peace - taylor swift

https://open.spotify.com/track/7MbT4I8qGntX4fMdqMQgke?si=xyInZ_JKRuCbx9wHeKz2pA

In the thick of a chaotic raid, Severus Snape moves with lethal precision, his heart an unsettling mix of racing adrenaline and cold detachment. Cloaked in the sinister garb of a Death Eater, his identity concealed behind a mask, he is a shadow among the pandemonium.

Diagon Alley, once bustling and vibrant, now echoes with the chaos of destruction. The once-storied buildings, symbols of a rich magical heritage, are crumbling under the relentless onslaught. Amidst this scene of devastation, his troops and Aurors clash fiercely, their spells casting a sinister glow in the smoky air.

The night is alight with the brutal dance of combat, the sky above streaked with the menacing colors of curses and hexes. This place, a cornerstone of wizarding culture, has transformed into a tragic battlefield, its atmosphere heavy with the acrid scent of magic and the residue of war on the horizon.

Snape's actions are a delicate balance of subterfuge and self-restraint. While he outwardly mirrors the ruthlessness around him, his spells are meticulously non-lethal, a quiet act of defiance against the darkness he's forced to navigate.

His movements are a study in controlled precision, each spell a demonstration of his dark artistry, yet tempered with an underlying intent to avoid true harm.

He glides through the mayhem, a figure of sinister elegance, his powerful presence a testament to his dual role as a guardian in the shadows and a lieutenant under the Dark Lord's banner.

In one swift motion, he aids a fellow Death Eater, deflecting an Auror's spell with a flick of his wrist. The Auror, momentarily taken aback by Snape's sudden involvement, stumbles. Snape presses forward, his wand an extension of his will, his eyes a pair of cold embers behind the mask.

He embodies the terrifying allure of the Death Eaters - powerful, relentless, and unyielding. He is a figure of dark fascination, his every move an embodiment of the lethal dance of battle.

Severus Snape is a Death Eater.

As the Auror realizes the impossibility of victory and futility of resistance, he disapparates into thin air, leaving Snape, a dark figure of dread and power, amidst the smoldering aftermath.

While his fellow Death Eaters indulge in their dark revelry, celebrating their grim victory, Snape's mind is elsewhere, ensnared in a web of his own machinations. His participation tonight is nothing short of a meticulously crafted act, a grim performance under the guise of loyalty. It's a necessary evil, a role he plays to safeguard those he has, despite his reservations, grown to care for.

You, in particular, occupy his thoughts. In the shadows of his allegiance, amidst the raucous triumph of his comrades, your safety has become inexorably linked with his own fate.

Snape's gaze sharpens upon spotting several of his troop infiltrating Ollivander's. A crucial part of their mission tonight, beyond the chaos and destruction, is to secure Garrick Ollivander from his renowned wand shop. The shop itself has been reduced to windows shattered, doors blasted open, and a cobbled street marred with scorch marks and debris.

But there seems to be an unexpected development; an Auror, wand at the ready, is stealthily making their way towards the shop, unnoticed by the others.

With predatory grace, Snape moves towards the Auror. He moves like a specter, robes billowing, embodying the lethal elegance of a seasoned hunter in the shadows.

As he nears, he raises his wand, aiming with precise control and a chilling silence. He casts a powerful, yet non-lethal spell, striking the Auror from behind. The Auror collapses with a muted thud, subdued yet unharmed. Snape's dark gaze sweeps over the fallen figure before he shifts his attention to the shop.

Inside, the muffled cacophony of a struggle reaches his ears - the clash of wands, Ollivander's desperate pleas. He steps into the threshold, his presence commanding yet silent.

The once enchanting interior of Ollivander's Wand Shop now lies in ruins, its charm shattered by the raid's violence.

Dim candle light flickers in the cramped space, casting eerie shadows over the chaos. Shards of glass from the destroyed window glitter malevolently on the floor.

The air, dense with dust and the sharp scent of spell residue, still carries the faint, earthy essence of wood and magic, a ghost of the shop's former self.

The once orderly counter, where Garrick Ollivander would meticulously match wizard and wand, is overturned, papers and personal effects strewn about.

The walls, lined with thousands of wand boxes, bear silent witness to the struggle, disrupted from years of careful arrangement. Shelves that held wand boxes in meticulous order are now ravaged, their contents strewn across the floor amidst splinters of wood.

Standing in the ruins of Ollivander's Wand Shop, Snape's mind escapes the present chaos, drifting to a distant, more innocent time. He recalls the day he, a young boy with eyes wide in wonder, first entered this magical realm with his mother.

A fragment of time when life was simpler.

Eileen Prince’s face was etched with a bittersweet expression – happiness for her son's significant milestone, yet shadowed by an underlying sadness, a depth of emotion that young Snape couldn't fully comprehend then.

He remembers weaving through the shop, the same exact spot he now occupies, with Ollivander guiding him in the ritual of selecting his wand. The eager anticipation of feeling each wand's unique energy, now overshadowed by the weight of his current choices and actions.

His mother's face illuminates in his memory, brightened by a rare, genuine smile at the moment he found the one – the wand that seemed to choose him, resonating with his magical core.

Behind the impassive, cold facade of his mask, Snape closes his eyes, immersing himself in the vivid replay of that scene. He sees his younger self, brimming with a voracious hunger for knowledge, eagerly engaging with Ollivander about the wand’s characteristics and origins.

He remembers being captivated by the intricate design of the handle, his excitement fueled by the magical lore he had devoured in secret from the books his mother had tucked away. Now, his gaze lands on the same wand, held in his hand amidst the ruins.

The innocence of that young boy, once cushioned by the warmth of his mother's presence and the enchantment of the shop, feels like a distant dream, almost unattainable in this harsh reality.

This detachment he feels is profound; the memories appear as if plucked from another life, a story from a bygone era rather than chapters of his own history. The vibrant recollections seem more like pages from a forgotten book than fragments of his lived experience.

In stark contrast, his troubled youth, previously marked by hardship, now ironically shines with a nostalgic, almost Fitzgerald-esque luster when compared with the dark, convoluted path his life has since taken.

Snape's regard for the wand in his grasp shifts to something akin to contempt. The familiar contours and notches, once admired with a sense of wonder, now seem to mock him.

The disgust extends beyond the wand to himself, for allowing his life to become so mired in darkness that even this relic of happier times is an accomplice to his darkest deeds.

He steps into the back room of the shop. His gaze, cold and analytical, scans the scene. A small group of Death Eaters surround Ollivander, their presence menacing yet controlled.

Ollivander himself displays a fusion of defiance and fear. The usual serenity of the wandmaker is replaced by a raw edge of survival instincts.

Snape’s troops, scattered amidst the debris, turn their masked faces towards him, awaiting his command. They've achieved their goal — Ollivander is now their captive. With a discreet nod, Snape signals the withdrawal. The Death Eaters, as if in a choreographed sequence, begin to Disapparate, vanishing into the night with their prisoner.

As Snape steps out into Diagon Alley, the weight of his dual existence presses upon him, his burdens tangible. He is a dark conductor orchestrating the final movements of their malevolent performance.

Yet, in his heart, he knows the cost is a price he's willing to pay, again and again, to ensure your safety.

The last to leave, Snape takes a final, sweeping look at the destruction they’ve wrought. In the ruins of Diagon Alley, amidst the lingering smoke and debris, a memory surfaces unbidden.

He sees his mother, her hand clasping his own, beaming down at him as they navigate through the throng of bustling wizards and witches. She holds his new cauldron, freshly engraved with his name, a symbol of a new chapter in his life.

But there is no crowd anymore, no bustling marketplace filled with laughter and chatter.

There is no alleyway vibrant with life and color.

There is no mother, her smile long faded into the annals of his painful past.

Instead, amidst the ruins, stands a solitary figure – a young boy in a somber guise, a hollow imitation of a Death Eater.

In a moment of reflective solitude, Snape disapparates, leaving behind the desolation of Diagon Alley. The remnants of a lost childhood and the weight of his actions resonate in the haunting stillness.

Snape's mind is tumultuous as he returns to Spinner’s End. The debriefing with the Dark Lord had been grueling, lasting hours, filled with Voldemort's sinister satisfaction over Snape's performance. His master, with his cold, serpentine eyes gleaming, had expressed his twisted pleasure at Snape's adept handling of the mission.

To maintain his façade, Snape had feigned enthusiasm, bolstering his troops' morale by entrusting them with their new task of extracting information from Ollivander. They were to uncover the whereabouts of certain powerful wands the Dark Lord sought, and anything that might give them an edge.

He had artfully emphasized the strategic necessity of their interrogation, all the while internally recoiling at the thought of personally participating in the actual process, his conscience already heavy with the night's dark deeds.

Even in the quiet of his own home, physical exhaustion mirrors his mental fatigue. His muscles tense, a reminder of the night's encounters, the aches and strains from spells cast and deflected, while a deep weariness gnaws at his resolve.

Snape grapples with doubts about the sustainability of this existence, a life consumed by war and sleeplessness, where his life is reduced to a mere cog in a war machine, endlessly grinding on. He finds himself ensnared in a web of his own design, each decision dragging him deeper into a seemingly inescapable abyss.

The question of how much longer he can maintain this façade, endure the enveloping darkness, looms heavily in his mind.

How long until the lines between the person he is and the mask he wears are inevitably blurred?

He clutches a glass of firewhisky, poured haphazardly in the dark confines of his kitchen, the amber liquid barely offering solace.

He ascends the creaking staircase of Spinner's End, each step a resonant echo of a distant, yet vivid, childhood memory. The dull ache from the evening's exertions is exacerbated by the haunting recollections of a past long gone, yet never truly forgotten.

The creaking beneath his feet transports him back to a night years ago, when he and his mother, Eileen, had returned from Diagon Alley.

They had tiptoed up these very stairs, a practiced routine to avoid waking his drunken father, who lay in a stupor in the living room. Young Severus, filled with both excitement and trepidation, had pleaded with his mother to stay with him.

Truthfully, they had spent most nights together. There, in their shared sanctuary, they were each other's guardians against the night.

In his room, they had carefully stowed away his new cauldron and the wand that chose him, a beacon of his burgeoning magical identity. They had quietly explored the pages of his new books, their whispers creating a bastion of light and learning amidst the shadows that loomed just beyond the door.

The sound of his father's heavy, ominous footsteps ascending the stairs is as clear as if it were yesterday. Eileen had quickly concealed the book under the pillow, and they had feigned sleep, a survival tactic all too familiar.

His mother had nestled beside him on the bed, her arm cradling him protectively, her gentle touch combing through his hair. The relief when his father had bypassed Severus' room, collapsing instead into his own bed, elicited silent sighs of relief from mother and child.

In the safety of his mother's embrace, young Severus had found a rare moment of peace, her arm wrapped securely around him as they eventually drifted into a restless slumber.

Now, years later, Snape reaches his room, the echoes of that long-gone night still lingering in his mind. The firewhisky, his only companion, offers a bitter contrast to the tender memories of a mother's love and the sanctity of a childhood haven now forever lost.

He sits on the edge of his bed, methodically tending to his wounds, and he glances just outside his door. The house, once a chaotic jumble of mess and clutter, now stands in stark contrast to its past.

Gone are the smoke stains that once marred the walls, the detritus of a troubled childhood swept away with time. He has meticulously rid the house of almost all the old furniture, remnants of a life he yearned to forget.

However, amidst this purging, Snape has preserved the essence of his mother. Her favorite leather armchair occupies a place of honor in his study, her well-worn blanket still draped over it, as if awaiting her return. Her books line the shelves, their spines familiar to his touch.

In the spare bedroom, a space he hardly ventures into, her clothes still hang in the closet, as if frozen in time. The room stands as a shrine to her memory, a part of the house that remains inviolate, sacred in its untouched state.

For Snape, it's a room filled with echoes of a past he can never revisit, a room he can seldom enter, a tangible reminder of a bond forever severed by the inexorable march of time.

It's a part of the house, and his heart, that he dares not disturb, where the ghost of his mother's love still lingers, untouched by the world outside.

Engulfed in a cascade of somber reflections, Snape finds his home to be a mirror to his mother’s own captivity within these walls.

Now, roaming his house in the late hours, Snape surrenders to these memories. In a paradoxical way, he draws a twisted solace from these painful remembrances, a reminder of the stark contrast between then and now, yet underscoring how little has truly changed.

Descending the staircase wearily, hindered by the aches of his recent injuries, the sudden sound of a knock cuts through the silence of his home. The knocks sync with his heartbeat, both startling and sharpening his alertness in the post-midnight hour.

Wand at the ready, Snape approaches the door with the caution of a man long accustomed to danger. The door creaks open, revealing a sight that momentarily pierces his usually unyielding exterior.

Standing in the dim light, there you are, a poignant image of heartache and vulnerability. Tears carve visible trails down your face before him. Disheveled and distraught, your eyes, typically bright and determined, now mirror a storm of emotions, red and clouded with distress.

The sound of your crying strikes him deeply, each one like a shard of glass to his soul, both unexpected and heart wrenching.

In that moment, the walls he has carefully built around himself begin to fall as he hastens to open the door wider, allowing you into the sanctuary of his home.

Immediately and equally as unexpected, he finds himself pressed against the wall, enveloped in your intense embrace. He silently observes as you rest your face against his chest, the dampness of your tears penetrating his shirt. He discreetly winces, concealing from you the pain of his recent injuries, as you cling to him as if he were your lifeline.

There's a moment where he remains motionless, stunned by the suddenness of your arrival, his body tensing against the cool, hard surface behind him. Yet, as you press closer, seeking refuge in his arms, his rigidity gives way to a protective instinct.

He holds you, the contours of his body yielding to the desperation of your embrace. In this unexpected reunion, beneath the layers of pain and betrayal, a morsel of fragile connection is rekindled, offering a sliver of hope.

He gently closes the door with a nudge of his foot. As you stand against him, he feels the tremors of your sobs reverberating through his body. Each shuddering breath you take echoes in the silent room, filling the space between you, your attempt at words obscured by the depth of your distress.

In a gesture both tender and decisive, Snape deftly lifts you, your arms instinctively winding around his neck.Your tear-streaked face finds solace against his neck as he carries you to the study, his every step careful yet firm. Despite his own concealed injuries, there is determined strength in his hold.

Snape carefully lowers both himself and you onto the couch. You naturally find your place in his lap, your body melding to his as if drawn by a force beyond either of your control. The feeling is new to him, this closeness, this intimacy, yet it feels almost natural, as if you’ve always belonged there.

There's a certain rightness in the way you fit against him, an unspoken familiarity that belies the precarious situation and the silence that has existed between the two of you.

In the quiet of his study, with you nestled against him, he feels a sense of protectiveness he’s seldom known, a desire to shield you from whatever has brought you to his doorstep in such a state. He waits patiently, a silent sentinel, until your tears subside and you find the strength to speak.

A confession begins tumbling from your lips, “I… I joined the Order of the Phoenix… Dumbledore asked me to… and Sharp, he… we had to torture someone,” your words, hot and muffled against his bare neck, strike him like a physical blow.

Despite his instinct to comfort you, his hand, which had been tenderly stroking your hip, comes to a still. A surge of shock and anger courses through him, his grip on you instinctively tightening, a mix of protective instinct and an almost visceral disbelief.

Here he was, enshrouded in the shadows of his own duplicitous life, meticulously weaving a web of deceit to keep you unscathed, only to find you caught in the very tempest he fought so fiercely to shield you from.

All his efforts, all the risks he had taken, were to keep you from the war that now seemed to have engulfed you right under his nose.

Was it all for naught?

"Why on earth would you involve yourself with such an organization?" he demands, his words sharpened by a rising frustration and simmering anger. “Did you seek to court danger so fervently, or were you once again ensnared by the romantic notion of playing the hero?”

His eyes betray a hint of desperation, a man grappling with a reality that threatens to unravel the fragile threads of safety he thought he had secured around you. The notion of you, so courageous yet achingly vulnerable, thrust into the unforgiving maelstrom of war, weighs heavily on him.

How could Dumbledore have involved you in such a perilous task?

How could he have failed to see this coming?

The futility of his efforts is suffocating.

Your voice breaks as you attempt an explanation, "I'm sorry... I thought I was doing something good. We were just supposed to get information, but it turned into... into torturing an old man."

His expression tightens. “Something good?” he repeats, his voice laced with a bitter edge. “Is this what you call good? Stepping blindly into a den of horrors you were never prepared for?”

The betrayal he feels is almost palpable, not just towards you, but towards the very forces that have led you down this path. His mind races with a myriad of questions, accusations he yearns to hurl at those responsible for your current state.

You shift uncomfortably, moving from his lap to sit beside him. Though your voice wavers, there’s an underlying attempt at justifying your actions, a struggle to make sense of the chaos. “I trusted them, Severus. I never thought... I couldn't imagine the Order would resort to something so... so terrible,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

Snape's reaction is sharp, a cold edge slicing through his words as he narrows his eyes. “Trust? A naive and dangerous gamble, especially in an organization lurking within the shadowed corners of a war ,” he retorts, his tone laced with a caustic blend of derision and realism.

“The Order, with all its noble intentions, is but a group of amateurs fumbling in the dark. They are driven by a misguided sense of righteousness, often leading to more harm than good. It's a blind crusade, one that lacks the foresight and cunning required in this war .” His words, while cruel in their honesty, reflect the harsh truths he's come to accept.

Abruptly, you sit up, distancing yourself slightly as you confront him. Your gaze, sharp and questioning, meets his. “How do you know about the Order?" you challenge, suspicion threading your words.

He suppresses a scoff, almost amused by your question. His voice is laced with a bitter edge, his response tinged with disdain. "The audacity to question my knowledge, when you so naively threw yourself into the maelstrom of a war, is astounding,” he remarks coldly.

“You didn't answer my question, Severus,” you say, your words measured but resolute. There's an underlying strength in your voice, despite the hurt that his evasion has caused. "All you do is evade and belittle, mocking me for wanting to help.”

Snape's response is a dismissive eye roll, his features momentarily betraying his skepticism. He finds sardonic amusem*nt at your impassioned declaration, the complexity of his own entanglements casting a stark contrast to your ideals.

The notion of such youthful zeal, he muses, always seems to overlook the unforgiving nature of reality.

His posture shifts, a calculated lean back into the couch accentuating his casual disdain. "Help?" he repeats, his voice dripping with condescension. "By dabbling in affairs far beyond your grasp? You're a student, not a soldier."

As he settles back, his expression hardens, an edge lacing his words. "Or does a weekly training session with a failed Auror delude you into thinking you're something more?" His tone is cutting, each word sharpened with a mix of frustration and scorn.

Your voice, quivering with a mix of hurt and determination, cuts through the tension. "I'm trying to make a difference, just like Sharp. At least he's confronting the war, not just... just skulking behind layers of insults." The unfair comparison, borne from your tumultuous emotions, hangs heavily in the air.

This remark elicits a sharp retort from Snape, his eyes flashing with a blend of anger and wounded pride. "Sharp?" he snaps, the name a venomous hiss. "Is that your measure of valor? A man who throws you into the maw of danger without a second thought? You've witnessed the fruits of his heroism tonight, haven't you?" His voice is a harsh whip, each word striking with precision, aimed to shake your perception and confront you with the harsh realities you've faced.

With tears blurring your vision, your response is laced with a raw, biting edge. "Oh, the valor of Severus Snape," you spit out, the words dripping with a biting sarcasm. "And what would you call your service to the Dark Lord?" The accusation rings out, each syllable heavy with challenge and condemnation.

Snape's initial shock quickly gives way to a cold, simmering fury. Rising abruptly, Snape looms over you, an imposing figure radiating barely contained anger. His usual composure fractures, revealing a glimpse of the raw emotions he keeps hidden.

"You dare to cast judgment upon me, here, in my home, after seeking refuge here?" he seethes, his tone laced with a mix of indignation and bitterness as he backs away from you. “Do not lecture me on conviction when you have yet to face the true horrors of this world.”

He leans in, his expression a mix of contempt and frustration. “Do not presume to fathom the depths to which I’ve plumbed, what I have faced, based solely on the slanted narratives of a man like Aesop Sharp, whose grasp on reality is as tenuous as his grip on morality" he says.

“Your accusations are rooted in ignorance. The Order is not the untainted crusade you've romanticized.” He pauses, his eyes piercing, as if challenging you to refute his claim.

“Your naive reproaches," he concludes, "are but a mockery of the very complexities of this war." His final words hang in the air, a stark reminder of the gulf of understanding between you two.

After his harsh rebuke, Snape's gaze remains fixed on you, observing as bewilderment and silence engulf you. Your eyes, wide with confusion, seem to grapple for understanding in his severe truths, yet all he discerns is a profound lack of comprehension. Though a hint of realization begins to dawn in your eyes, it offers him no satisfaction.

Frustrated and conflicted, Snape turns away from your raw emotion, a rare display of agitation evident as he runs his hand through his hair. He stands rigidly, lost in his thoughts as he stares into the dark, cold hearth, struggling to steady his raging emotions.

He moves towards an old chair, his mother's, each step heavy with the weight of memories both bitter and nostalgic. The sound of your soft sobs breaks the silence, pulling him back from the precipice of his reflections, a stark reminder of the present and its pains.

You sought him out, a picture of vulnerability in need of solace, yet here you are, hurling accusations, challenging his principles under the guise of duty, all within the confines of his sanctuary. A part of him bitterly muses that he should have denied you entry, nipped this confrontation in the bud before it spiraled into this chaotic discourse.

Why did you choose to seek him out in this moment of vulnerability?

And why, must you always end up in this cycle of pain and misunderstanding?

Snape, every muscle tensed, stands like a sentinel as you cautiously stand and step closer to him. He is torn between a desire to turn away, to dismiss this cycle of torment, and a longing to embrace the very source of his turmoil.

In your approach, hesitancy and determination mingling in your steps, he is vividly reminded of the harrowing ordeal you've endured this night. The shadows of brutality and fear that now cling to you evoke in him a deep, resonating understanding.

He recalls his own initiation into such cruelty, the witness of his first torture, not much older than you are now.

Despite his seasoned soul, Snape can't help but acknowledge the profound effect such trauma can have, even on one so versed in the darkest corners of the wizarding world. This recognition, this shared understanding of darkness, gradually dissolves his resistance.

In this moment, he realizes there's nothing you could do that would make him turn you away; the bond forged in shadow and understanding too strong to break.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, your voice trembling. As he hears your apology, he involuntarily releases a deep exhale, a physical manifestation of his slowly diminishing resistance. "I shouldn't have listened to... to Sharp. I shouldn’t have made assumptions."

There is a softening in his gaze, a subtle shift from the stern, guarded professor to someone more reflective, perhaps even remorseful. He is torn between his instinct to maintain his defenses and an emerging sense of empathy, accusations be damned.

With a shaky breath, you confess, "I was wrong to use your past against you, to weaponize it. It wasn’t fair.”

He watches you intently, a silent observer to your struggle to speak. He wrestles with the impulse to fully lower his guard, torn between the possibility of genuine understanding and the habitual caution that has long governed his interactions.

"I... I spoke to my dad, he helped me see things more clearly," you begin, your voice balancing between newfound clarity and the remnants of uncertainty. "I wanted to talk to you, to mend things, when the time was right. But then... then I was with Sharp, and... and..."

Your words falter, choked by the nightmarish memories. Your eyes seem haunted, reflecting the raw pain and shock of the events witnessed alongside Sharp.

Snape stands in contemplative silence. He doesn't doubt your honesty, but he ponders the true depth of your understanding, the solidity of your convictions.

The emotions you display, raw and fluctuating, leave him hesitant, wondering if this newfound clarity is a permanent shift or a temporary response to recent traumas.

He contemplates whether this renewed trust in him, this belief in a change, is as fragile as a house of cards, vulnerable to collapse under another of Sharp's skewed narratives, another rewriting of history that could easily sway your perception once again.

Will this belief in his redemption withstand the resurfacing of his past, or will it crumble at the slightest echo of the man he once was?

Snape's tone turns icy, laced with bitter sarcasm. "So, you needed a heart-to-heart with your father to determine if I could be trusted? How utterly... enlightening." His words are razor-sharp, slicing through the air with an edge of scorn.

"What was I supposed to think?" you exclaim, a mix of frustration and desperation in your voice, taking a step back as if bracing for an outburst. "I asked you, and you said nothing! You could have said something, but you... you just let me walk away."

"Did you require irrefutable evidence of my so-called reformation? Perhaps a grand tour of every agonizing memory from my past? My trial, perhaps, where I laid bare the darkest chapters of my life for judgment by your blessed father and the illustrious Aesop Sharp? Should I have paraded my darkest moments for your sanctimonious scrutiny?" His words are a venomous cascade, each one a barbed reminder of the trust you withheld, the doubts you harbored.

In the midst of his internal struggle, your voice cuts through, softer now, tinged with a plea. "Please, just tell me the truth. That's all I've ever wanted."

The sincerity in your voice, the raw need for understanding, reminds him of the very reasons he's endured so much lately. All of the late nights spent terrorizing innocent wizards across Britain, all of the nights spent healing himself in the silence of Spinner’s End.

It's not just about duty or obligation; it's about you, about protecting you.

The hardness in his eyes melt into something more vulnerable, more human. He steps towards you, his movements hesitant yet deliberate. "The truth..." he begins, his voice barely above a whisper, "is more complex than you can imagine."

He takes a deep breath, as if gathering the strength to continue. He's torn between the need to protect you and the desire to honor your plea for honesty. He contemplates the gravity of what he's about to reveal.

Slowly, he reaches out to you, his hand hesitating in the air before gently settling on your back, offering a silent invitation for you to sit back down on the couch.

A part of him rationalizes that he's only bending the truth, not breaking it entirely. It's a delicate dance around the edges of his darkest secrets, but it's a risk he's willing to take for your trust.

"I am aware of the Order of the Phoenix," he begins, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of something unspoken. "Because I am, in fact, a member."

He stops, allowing the weight of his words to settle between you. It's a half-truth, a carefully constructed narrative that skirts around the darker shades of his past. But it's all he can offer right now, a sliver of truth in a life shrouded in shadows.

He intently observes your reaction. He can almost sense the waves of disbelief and bewilderment washing over you.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" you ask, your voice tinged with confusion. He sees the complexity of emotions playing across your face, reflecting the depth of your surprise and the myriad questions surely swirling in your mind.

If only he could provide answers.

In the silence that follows, he rationalizes that this disclosure, while incomplete, is a necessary step to mitigate your doubts, to prevent further allegations of deceit against him.

“It’s a complicated matter,” Snape replies, each word carefully chosen, his eyes momentarily drifting away, lost in the labyrinth of his own guarded thoughts. “There are layers to this war, to the allegiances we forge… or that are forged for us.” As his gaze refocuses on you, it's piercing yet shielded, a fortress of restraint against the tide of your own emotions.

“You should have just told me the truth instead of—” As you begin to voice your frustration, Snape interrupts, his tone firm yet tinged with a hint of resignation.

“Enough,” he interjects sharply. His eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that conveys a mix of weariness and finality. “The truth, as you demand it, is not a mere dichotomy of black and white. Did you think a mere confession would be a panacea? That the complexities of this war could be unraveled with a few simple words?” he asks.

“Did you expect me to bear some kind of righteous symbol for you to trust me? Would you have discarded me entirely if I were not a part of this Order?" His voice softens slightly, but the underlying sternness remains. “There are truths I must withhold, not from a lack of trust, but as a shield for your protection.”

His stance, unwavering yet burdened, reflects the weight of secrets untold, of truths too perilous to unveil.

Your response comes quick and impassioned, "Trust? You were a Death Eater, Severus! How could I possibly trust you as easily as one might a harmless creature? You owed me the truth about your past. Trust is a two-way street. Instead of letting me in, you let. me. leave."

"The truth of my past is intertwined with the Order," he confesses, his voice lower, burdened with an unsaid weight. "Revealing that to you would have exposed you to dangers I've been striving to shield you from, however misguided it might have seemed.”

His words hang in the air, a confession that reveals the depth of his internal conflict - the perpetual balancing act between honesty and safety, between vulnerability and steadfast duty.

You pause, taking in his words, your expression contemplative. After a moment, you speak up, "My father said that someone influential vouched for you, and you were acquitted." Your voice holds a hint of inquiry, more of a question than a statement.

Severus turns towards you, his demeanor earnest yet guarded. "That is true," he acknowledges with a nod. "But I cannot divulge any more than that. This is where the trust you speak of must come into play." His eyes meet yours, conveying a plea for understanding within their depths. "I ask you to trust in what I have revealed, and in what I must withhold."

He can only hope that the fragments of truth he's offered are enough to keep you close. His affection for you, though closely guarded, is a driving force behind his words. But now, his role in your life is more complex; it's not just about shielding you from the Death Eaters. He realizes that he must also protect you from potential dangers within the Order.

Snape, maintaining his stoic composure, addresses you with a grave intensity. "As we move forward, you must inform me about your assignments," he says, his voice a low rumble of earnest concern.

Your expression is tinged with confusion. "But doesn't Dumbledore share these details with the Order?" you question, seeking clarity in the intricate web of the Order's workings.

He gives a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "The Order operates in secrecy, often keeping its members in the dark. It's a strategy of Dumbledore's, though not without its flaws," he explains. "It is crucial for your protection, for me to know, so I can safeguard you against unforeseen dangers."

Your gaze holds his, searching, a quiet understanding in your eyes that he has come to recognize. There's a stillness, a moment where time seems to pause, as if you're both suspended in a realm of what he can only hope is acceptance.

"I am acutely aware that the journey to gaining your trust will be challenging, a burden that is entirely mine to bear," Snape says, his voice reflecting the weight of this realization. "But make no mistake, the thought of you in harm's way is something I cannot, and will not, endure."

He gently cups your face in his hands, his touch conveying the depth of his affections.

Moments pass, and as you whisper a soft "Okay," and he feels a profound sense of relief wash over him. As you hesitantly lean into him, he wraps his arms around you, feeling a shift within himself. The warmth of his embrace encloses around you, melting away the rigid tension that has gripped him.

He allows himself this brief respite, burying his face in your hair, a silent acknowledgment of the solace found in this shared vulnerability. It's a moment of rare surrender, one where he permits himself a semblance of peace amid the complexities of his existence.

In this tender moment of your return to his arms – to him – he perceives a silent affirmation that this embrace, a delicate fusion of souls, represents a trust slowly being mended and the acceptance of the limited truths he’s able to offer.

Dressed in Snape's oversized t-shirt, you stand in the quaint kitchen of his home, its tiles cool beneath your feet. Your gaze, heavy with the weariness of tears, drifts around the room, taking in the surroundings. Despite the kitchen's modest size and somewhat outdated appearance, there's a sense of profound peace that envelops the space.

As you look around, there's an unspoken comfort in the simplicity and authenticity of this place, a stark contrast to the complex world outside, a contrast that feels stabilizing.

The clock reads around three in the morning. You've spent the last hour learning snippets of Snape's childhood. Initially reticent, Snape had shared just enough to paint a picture of a sad, lonely upbringing, softened only by the presence of his mother. You sense there's more to his story, but his efforts to open up tonight are a significant stride.

You had somehow even coaxed him into showing you his mother's books and the artful trinkets she left behind.

Now, Snape busies himself with preparing a sleep-inducing tea for you. He adds a few carefully selected potion ingredients — valerian roots for their calming effect, a pinch of lavender, and a subtle hint of chamomile.

The delicate clinking of the teapot and the soft bubbling of the brew form a comforting background to this quiet, intimate moment in Spinner’s End.

Glancing up from the pot, Snape's features are softly illuminated by the dim light above the stove. In that moment, watching him, you find yourself reflecting on how deeply he has become a part of your life, pondering how you ever managed without him, not just once, but twice.

The guilt washes over you once more, but you know that vocalizing another apology might just provoke him. Perhaps, even prompting him to silence you with kisses like he did earlier in his study.

He had you pressed firmly against the couch, his body hovering over yours. His hands explored your body with an unexpected tenderness.
Your lips moved together in a dance of passion – all-consuming, and a rare display of his own fervor.

The way he looked at you, with both intense need and reverence, managed to both surprise and thrill you. Memories of those deep, intense kisses continue to linger in your mind. You can't help but giggle softly, recalling the details.

He looks over, raising an eyebrow quizzically. "I didn't know my brewing was so amusing," he remarks dryly.

Your smile widens as you reply, "No, it's not that. It's just... I love watching you." He gives you a look that says you're crazy, but you persist, "Really, I've always loved watching you. There's something about the way you move, the focus in your eyes..."

He shakes his head, half-amused, half-bemused, and turns off the stove as you continue showering him with affectionate observations. Pouring the tea into a sleek, black mug, he hands it over with a smirk. "Please, drink this; you are clearly delirious and in need of sleep."

Your laughter rings out again, lightening the room's atmosphere. Taking the mug, you blow gently on the steaming tea, the playful banter a welcome respite from the night's earlier tension.

You take a long sip from the mug and remark with a hint of mischief, "You know, for a potions master, your tea-making skills are surprisingly ordinary."

Your statement dances in the air, a playful twinkle in your eye as you lean closer to him.

“Ordinary?" He raises an eyebrow, his dark, enigmatic eyes locking onto yours. "Darling, I assure you, my skills are far from ordinary." His voice drips with a velvety charm that sends shivers down your spine, the promise of something thrilling hanging in the air.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he slides his long fingers around your waist, pulling you closer. You feel the warmth of his body against yours, and your heart quickens. Setting your tea down with care to prevent any mishaps, your hands glide up to rest on his chest, fingers tracing over the fabric of his shirt.

Snape's lips curl into a devilish smirk, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes. The room seems to close in around the two of you, the tension between you electric. It's a moment suspended in time, a dance of words and desire, and you can't help but be drawn deeper into his spellbinding presence.

Foreheads touching, you can feel the warmth of his deep, silky voice against your skin. "How much do you love watching me?" he asks, his question laced with a seductive charm that makes you weak in the knees.

You blink in surprise, your heart racing at the unexpected question. Your cheeks flush with a mix of nerves and excitement, and you can't help but giggle nervously.

"What?" You stammer, your laughter bubbling up as his intense gaze holds yours. Snape, with that trademark seductive smile of his, takes a step back, pulling you gently with him.

"You heard me," he replies, his eyes dancing with anticipation. Your heart pounds as you follow his lead, wondering where this playful game is heading.

"Severus, what are you doing?" you ask, your laughter still evident in your voice as he carries you up the stairs. You cling to him, afraid you two might lose your balance, but the laughter never leaves your lips.

He sets you down in his bedroom, your reflection meeting your gaze in the large mirror that stands in the corner. He wraps his arms around you from behind, his strong frame pressing against yours. His voice is a seductive whisper as he repeats his question, this time gazing at you through the mirror.

"How much do you love watching me?" His eyes hold a smoldering intensity that leaves you flustered and breathless. Your heart pounds with desire as you realize his intentions.

You find yourself rendered speechless as Snape's soft, lingering kisses trace a tantalizing path along your neck. The airy chuckles that escape his lips by your ear reveal his amusem*nt, and you can't help but blush, your flustered state only adding to the allure of the moment.

His hands, with a slow and deliberate movement, travel from your waist to your chest. A soft, whispered "Severus" escapes your lips, a mixture of desire and anticipation in your voice as you fight against the drowsiness creeping in from the sleepy concoction you sipped downstairs.

The room seems to spin with desire, every touch and sensation heightened by the enchanting scenario you've found yourself in.

He pulls away from your neck, his fingers grazing your skin as he eases you to sit on the edge of the bed. Facing the large, ornate mirror with its antique gold frame, you can't help but admire its intricate beauty as you catch a glimpse of yourselves in its reflection.

Severus kneels before you, his eyes never leaving yours. His voice is a soothing murmur as he says, "Just watch," and you can't help but be captivated by the scene unfolding in the mirror.

You feel a wave of arousal wash over you, even though he hasn't actually done anything besides kiss you. The combination of the mirror's elegance and the electrifying chemistry between you and Snape creates a heady atmosphere, leaving you breathless with desire.

You feel his fingers delicately trace a gentle line down the center of your knickers, the dampened fabric hidden beneath his loose t-shirt. You inhale sharply, anticipation coursing through your veins, and his grin widens.

His voice takes on a cheeky tone as he remarks “Already, darling?”

You try to push his hand away in mock indignation. However, your playful attempt to resist is swiftly countered as he grabs your wrist with a firm but gentle grip, holding it down at your side. There is a passionate intensity in the air, and you find yourself surrendered to the thrilling sensations and the magnetic pull of his desire.

As his fingers move your knickers to the side, your breath catches in anticipation, and your eyes remain fixed on the mirror, where you watch with a heated intensity. You admire the way his long sleeve shirt strains against his back in this position.

With a seductive and deliberate motion, you watch him dip his head between your legs.

He sweeps his tongue along your slick entrance, and you feel your thighs involuntarily flex each time he reaches your cl*t. The mirror captures every intimate detail, intensifying the arousal that courses through you.

You are completely lost in a world of ecstasy, the passion between you igniting a fire that burns hotter with every tantalizing touch, every pass of his tongue. Your needy whimpers begin to fill the room, echoing in the reflection as the sensations overwhelm your senses.

“Let me hear you,” he whispers against your wetness.

The pleasure overtaking you becomes intense, and you feel yourself getting wetter as he flicks his tongue across your cl*t. You find your confidence and begin moaning louder, echoing in the silence of his home.

All you can do is surrender to the overwhelming pleasure as he takes you with his mouth.

He indulges in your sinful moans, inserting the tip of his finger inside your entrance. The slight pressure and the flicking motion on your cl*t teases an org*sm on your horizon.

It's as though he's an artist, and you're his masterpiece, and you can do nothing but watch as he continues his intimate exploration.

His tongue laps up your desire as it drips, and your moans grow louder with each passing moment. The mirror reflects the intense passion that fills the room as Snape ardently snogs you down there, his movements leaving you breathless and lost in a world of ecstasy.

The intensity of the pleasure builds to a crescendo as Snape's finger fully sinks inside you. It's a sensation that electrifies your entire body, starting as a slow burn deep within and then spreading like wildfire as he languidly pumps his finger as if he has all the time in the world.

Your back arches, and you feel your muscles tense in response to the relentless motion of his tongue.

Your hand instinctively finds its way to his hair, fingers gripping the dark locks as you try to anchor yourself amidst the whirlwind of sensations. The mirror captures your flushed cheeks and the hunger in your eyes as you give in to the overwhelming ecstasy that's coursing through your every nerve.

With every flick of his tongue and every movement of his fingers, you feel yourself coming apart at the seams. It's a wave of pleasure that crashes over you, making you gasp and moan uncontrollably.

Your body shudders with the intensity of your release, and you can't help but whimper his name, your voice filled with satisfaction and longing as you reach the pinnacle of pleasure in this intoxicating moment.

As you catch your breath, Snape's movements gradually slow down until you're left basking in the afterglow of your release. He withdraws his finger, and a fleeting sense of loss washes over you, only to be replaced by the devilish, proud look on his face as he gazes up at you.

His eyes lock onto yours, filled with satisfaction and desire, though you're still trying to regain your composure. He presses his slickened finger against your lips, and your instinct takes over as you open your mouth and sensually suck on it, cleaning off the remnants of your pleasure. A smug smirk plays on his lips as he watches you.

He then sits on the floor at the edge of the bed, facing you in the mirror. With one leg outstretched and the other bent, a hand raking through his tousled hair, he throws his head back between your thighs, sighing with satisfaction.

Snape affectionately leans his head against your thigh, gazing at you with tenderness in the mirror. You reach down to touch the side of his face, your fingers tracing the contours of his strong jaw.

Reunited once more, the two of you are suspended in your own private realm of desire and intimacy.

In this moment, whatever may lurk beyond the walls of Spinner's End fades into insignificance.

Chapter 25: safe and sound

Chapter Text

don’t you dare look out your window, darling.
everything’s on fire

safe and sound - the civil wars ft. taylor swift

https://open.spotify.com/track/2RJnNdu4pb3MypbBroHU0T?si=qyB-gvIESi6sBbD1tDhSTw

As the soft morning light filters gently through the window, you stir from sleep. Your surroundings gradually come into focus, and you find yourself in the coziness of Severus' bedroom.

Shifting your focus to the warmth enveloping you, you find him curled up behind you, his tall frame snugly fitting around your smaller one. The gentle rhythm of his breathing against your back soothes your senses. His chin rests atop your head, highlighting the height difference, but in his embrace, you feel treasured and secure.

As you both had crawled into bed the previous night, he had carefully draped his black comforter over your shoulders, ensuring it was pulled up to your chin. It was a quiet gesture of care, making sure you were warmly enveloped and comfortable as you settled into sleep beside him.

Your legs are intertwined under the blanket, fitting perfectly together in a comfortable embrace. Lying there with him, you’re grateful he’s asleep behind you, unable to see the grin creeping onto your lips.

You lay there, savoring in the stillness, not wanting to disturb the peaceful slumber of the man curled around you. Instead, you savor this moment of quiet intimacy, content to exist in his embrace for a little while longer.

Though you’ve never given thought to what his bedroom might look like, you aren’t surprised to discover that it’s practical in nature. It’s simple and unpretentious, with the only notable decorations being the shelves of books that line the walls and a writing station with quills and parchment neatly arranged.

Your gaze falls upon the large mirror in the corner by the foot of the bed. It's a striking, antique piece with a gold frame, the same mirror that played a role in the passionate events of last night.

You can't resist snuggling even closer to him as the memory replays in your mind, nuzzling into his warmth, and your movement seems to rouse him from his slumber.

His reaction is instinctive, he tightens his hold on you, pulling you even closer into his embrace. Before you can react, his lips gently press against your temple, a soft and sweet morning kiss that makes your heart flutter.

As you turn towards him, a wave of warmth and affection envelops you. Watching Severus' eyes flutter open is an experience that takes your breath away. It's an incredibly beautiful sight, strikingly tender and real. The simplicity of waking up beside him, the gentle intimacy of the moment, is unlike anything you've known before.

His sleepy gaze meets yours, and in that instant, it becomes impossible to envision waking up without him.

"Good morning," Severus murmurs, his voice a gentle, soothing melody as he greets you. You respond by reaching up to softly press your lips against his. In response, his arms encircle your waist, drawing you closer into a tender embrace.

As you are pulled in, your legs naturally bend, your body fitting snugly against his. Your bottom rests gently against the top of his thighs, the two of you perfectly aligned in a cozy spooning position.

Breaking the stillness, his voice, still tinged with sleep, poses a question that grounds you back to reality. "Won't others be looking for you this morning?" he inquires thoughtfully.

It’s a fair question, and it sparks a swirl of concerns in your mind. The closeness in his embrace can't fully shield you from the reality of the outside world, where Aesop Sharp is no doubt wondering where you ran off to after fleeing Slughorn’s house, possibly even seeking you out.

The pain and turmoil of last night resurface, stirring a wave of sadness within you. The thought that Sharp might have already informed Dumbledore about the incident only deepens your anxiety about your standing in the Order.

Sensing your distress, Severus adjusts, sitting up against the headboard and drawing you closer into his comforting embrace. His hand gently strokes your back, offering solace as he lets out a sigh, acknowledging the complexity of your thoughts and feelings.

"I don't want to think about it right now," you murmur, sinking deeper into Snape's comforting embrace. He responds with a gentle kiss to the top of your head, a silent understanding of your need for respite.

Sitting up slightly, you gaze out the window, his hand resting reassuringly on your lower back. Through the pane, Spinner's End lies tranquil in the soft morning light. The neighborhood is still, almost suspended in time.

A light layer of frost clings to the rooftops, glistening like diamonds in the pale sunlight. The bare branches of trees stand as stark silhouettes against the sky, their gnarled forms adding to the overall sense of a quiet winter.

In the distance, the cheerful chirping of birds breaks the silence, heralding the slow approach of spring. Their lively songs offer a gentle contrast to the peaceful scene outside, a reminder of the world moving forward beyond this quiet moment, beyond his bedroom.

As you turn towards Severus, you're immediately captivated by the depth of his dark eyes. He gently pulls you on top of him, and you find yourself straddling his waist. His hands, with their confident touch, glide down your sides, exerting gentle pressure as they travel over your curves, ultimately resting upon your thighs.

The man beneath you is a juxtaposition of raw masculinity and a certain vulnerability. His raven-black hair is slightly tousled from sleep, and it frames his angular face in the most alluring way. Those obsidian eyes gaze up at you with a subtle intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

There’s a hunger in his eyes, a need that's so palpable, especially for a man who's just woken up.

With one arm casually propped behind his head, he watches you with undivided attention. You're still wearing his t-shirt, nothing beneath it but your bare skin.

His free hand ventures beneath the hem of the shirt, his fingertips lightly tracing a line up your side. They move with a deliberate slowness, the sensation sending a thrilling shiver through you.

As his fingers reach the bottom curve of your breasts, his eyes remain locked onto yours, a silent question hidden within their depths. Without uttering a word, you decide to respond in kind.

With a swift, confident motion, you remove the t-shirt, leaving you in nothing but your own skin on top of him.

Severus is a silent observer, his gaze locked onto you as if etching every curve of your warm, naked body into his memory.

His hands, which you find both tender and possessive, don't hesitate as he reaches out, cupping your breasts in his palms and rolling your peaks between his fingers.

The way he tends to your body, with deliberate and sensual movements, is as if he has all the time in the world. It's a heady combination of desire and reverence, an intimate exploration that makes your heart race and your skin tingle with anticipation.

Emboldened by this intimacy, you shift, sitting up slightly to grant him a tantalizing view of the pooling wetness between your thighs. You wet your fingers in your mouth and begin slowly teasing between your slick folds.

You watch as his lips part slightly, a hint of surprise flickering in his eyes.

In this moment, you know you have every ounce of his attention, his desire, his need.

His gaze is riveted on your little display, and you can see his unmistakable arousal through his sweatpants. It brings a smile to your lips, an involuntary reaction to the potent attraction between you. However, you can't help but hide it, a hint of nervousness creeping in.

Perhaps it's the newness of it all, the excitement of venturing into unexplored realms with a man as enigmatic as he is captivating, makes your heart race in unexpected ways.

Or maybe, it’s his trust in sharing such a crucial aspect of his life. His vulnerability in revealing his secrets to you deepens your understanding and appreciation of the complexity of the man staring up at you like you’re the only person in the world.

As you lean back slightly, continuing your sensual exploration, you grow more uninhibited. There is a sultry confidence growing within you as you slide two fingers down to your opening, and they effortlessly glide inside. Your boldness is met with Severus' swift response.

He grabs your wrist, his eyes bearing a mixture of warning and amusem*nt, "Darling, while your morning display of naughtiness is quite intriguing, I believe that is my role.”

His playful remark ignites a rush of desire within you, and without hesitation, you reach for his waistband, pulling it down to his thighs beneath you.

Despite his warning, you expose him, your fingers tracing delicate patterns along his impressive length. You wrap your fingers around him, feeling his growing arousal respond to your touch.

Severus' reactions are unmistakable – his breath hitches, and his eyes darken with desire as he continues to grow under your ministrations. A silent intimacy passes between your heated gazes, as you pleasure him with gentle strokes, savoring each electrifying second between you both.

With each stroke, you apply just the right amount of pressure, especially when you reach the sensitive head of his member. He feels wonderfully silky in your hand, and the sensation of his smooth, heated flesh beneath your touch elicit low, appreciative sighs from your lips.

As his grip on your other wrist wavers and loosens, you seize the opportunity to bring both your hands into play. You begin stroking him with two hands, employing a slight, twisting motion. Your touch remains gentle but thorough, and it seems to elicit an even stronger reaction from him.

Your desire simmers, and a part of you yearns for him to take charge, to let go of restraint and claim you in this moment. Yet, you find immense pleasure in watching his reactions to your caresses, how he responds to your every touch.

The dual sensation of your hands working together, covering every inch of his length, causes his body to tense and quiver beneath you. His chest rises and falls deeply with each heated exhale.

Severus' sudden and firm grasp on your breasts sends a jolt of sensation through you, intensifying your arousal. As you stroke him slightly faster, you're surprised that he allowed you to take control for this long.

Understanding that such opportunities may be rare, you release your grip on him, a wicked idea forming in your mind.

Severus sits up against the headboard, watching with keen anticipation as you take the initiative, positioning yourself between his thighs. With your arse in the air, you dip your head down to taste his tip with a seductive sweep of your tongue.

With growing confidence and a thirst for exploration, you continue to lavish your attention on him with your tongue, even leaving a trail of teasing kisses along his sensitive skin.

Each kiss and lick is a deliberate caress. You glance upward at him, eliciting a moan just from you two making eye contact.

You take his head into your mouth and begin to suck lightly, creating a delicious suction around him. The combination of your tongue's teasing, your lips' gentle pressure, and the wet warmth of your mouth seems to have a profound effect on him.

He responds with a deep, primal groan of pleasure, a guttural sound that escapes his lips. His muscles tense and tremble in response, betraying the intensity of the sensations coursing through him.

You savor every moment, every gasp, every quiver of his body as he succumbs to your touch.

As you take more of him into your mouth, eager to please, you try to accommodate as much of his length as you possibly can from his angle. Your head bobs up and down, creating a rhythm that drives Severus wild with desire.

He murmurs in a low voice, “You look absolutely perfect with those lips around me,” but is stifled by a groan as your hand begins to pump and stroke the areas you can't reach with your mouth.

The symphony of your mouth and hand working in harmony leaves Severus gasping for breath, his body trembling beneath you.

You find yourself captivated by the sight of him slowly unraveling before your eyes. It’s a sight you cherish, the way he loses control, the way every sound he makes echoes with desire.

With a handful of your hair, Severus gently but firmly pulls you up off of him, preventing himself from reaching the point of no return too quickly.

Your mouth leaves him with a delicious "pop" sound, and you're certain you hear a soft moan escape his lips as he regains his composure.

He repositions you, settling you on his waist as you straddle him. Without hesitation, he guides himself to your eager entrance, completely soaked with need.

You can feel the heat and pressure of his tip against your entrance, and every second seems to stretch into eternity as he slowly pushes himself inside you.

When he finally slides inside, there's an initial sensation of warmth and connection that floods your senses, like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.

A soft moan escapes your lips. You both lock eyes, and his mouth is slightly open, mirroring the expression on your face as you bask in the sensation of fullness.

You lift your hips and begin riding him in a slow rhythm, your movements synchronized with the rise and fall of his chest. As you gradually pick up the pace, his breaths become heavier, and with each descent, he stifles a moan, his control slipping away.

Every movement, every slide of your body against his, sends shivers of pleasure through you. The fullness of him inside you, combined with the rhythm you've found, creates a delicious friction that ignites your desire even further, making you feel alive and consumed by the moment.

You feel an exhilarating blend of power and vulnerability. The sensation of being on top, in control of the pace — in control of him — while also feeling his strong presence beneath you, is electrifying.

His breathing grows louder as you ride him faster, and you watch as he throws his head back in pleasure. His grip on your waist and curves tightens, and you lean down while sliding down his member.

With a teasing tone, you whisper, “Let me hear you,” echoing his words from last night when he was going down on you.

Your playful provocation ignites a fire in his eyes, and you can practically feel the switch flipping within him. It’s as if your whispered words have unleashed a hidden hunger, and he seizes control with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt.

Suddenly, he shifts your position, pushing you onto your hands and knees with your arse in the air and your head down on the mattress.

This change in position only intensifies the sensations coursing through your body, and he takes full advantage of it, driving into you with an electrifying force that leaves you gasping and clinging to the sheets.

Severus' voice is laced with desire as he murmurs, "I want to hear every exquisite sound you can offer, my dear. Do not hold back."

You can't help but moan and writhe beneath him. His relentless thrusts are passionate and primal, and you're lost in a whirlwind of desire.

As you lift your head slightly, you're met with a sinful view in the mirror. The reflection is nothing less than mesmerizing. It captures the intense passion of the moment as he pounds into you from behind.

He lifts your hips, angling himself even deeper inside you. The sensation is almost overwhelming as he delves into the depths of your desire, and you gasp at the sheer intensity of it.

His thrusts continue, and he murmurs, "You are so tight around me, like you were made for my co*ck." His eyes are locked onto the sight of your arse, watching himself fully sheathe inside you, reveling in the sensation of how you’re gripping him.

Your body stretches and molds to accommodate his every inch, and you're not sure how much more of him you can take, but the pleasure is irresistible, urging you both onward.

As his hips move rhythmically, he glances upwards, and your eyes meet in the mirror. Locked in a passionate gaze through the mirror, you both exchange heavy, heated breaths.

The devilish smirk on his lips sends shivers down your spine, and you can feel your org*sm building within you. You moan loudly with each slam of his hips behind you, unable to contain the pleasure he's giving you.

You go to rest your cheek against the mattress, surrendering to the intensity of his movements.

With a firm grip on your hair, he pulls you back up gently and leans down, his breath hot against your ear. In his deep, velvety voice, he whispers, "Watch. I want you to see how you make me lose control."

Severus pounds into you with deliberate force, each thrust designed to send shockwaves of pleasure through your body. His eyes narrow with focused intensity, brows furrowing as he maintains a steady rhythm. You're both on the precipice of ecstasy.

His free hand reaches down to your cl*t, and he begins to rub it in small, deliberate circles. His fingers roll gently over the delicate bud, never ceasing their mesmerizing touch, even as he continues to pound into you with fervor.

In the reflection of the mirror, your face is a symphony of ecstasy. Your eyes are wide and filled with a mixture of passion and desire. Your lips part as you moan in response to his skilled ministrations and the powerful thrusts that shake you to your core.

Your back arches as much as it can, and for a fleeting moment, you close your eyes, lost in the pleasure. However, Severus's commanding voice pulls you back, "Eyes on me, darling.”

In the throes of passion, his features are a blend of raw desire and controlled intensity. His dark eyes smolder with a fiery hunger as he watches himself disappear inside you, thrusting over and over into you, his lips parting with each powerful movement.

Severus, immersed in the intoxicating rhythm of your lovemaking, murmurs softly, “Your pleasure is the most beautiful thing I have ever witnessed,"

The sheen of sweat glistens on his skin and his breath comes in ragged, heavy pants as he loses himself in the exquisite pleasure of taking you from behind.

His voice is husky with desire between thrusts. "Look at you." With a possessive tug on your hair, he adds, "You are utterly captivating."

Your org*sm courses through your body like a tidal wave, an intense and electrifying sensation that seems to consume every inch of your being. Your knuckles are white from clutching the sheets and the edge of the bed, your body responding with urgency as you climax.

You can't help but cry out, a raw and uninhibited moan escaping your lips as your release washes over you.

As you clench and tighten around him, you can feel Severus twitching inside you, his movements becoming increasingly erratic. His pace falters, and it's evident that he's on the brink of his own climax.

In the mirror's reflection, you watch as his face contorts with ecstasy. His eyes squeeze shut briefly before flying open, and his lips part in a silent gasp.

With a shuddering release, he finds his own peak, his body trembling as he spills his desire inside you, the intimate act captured in all its intensity by the mirror's unforgiving gaze.

The ecstasy you've shared courses through your veins, leaving you breathless.

Severus, still inside you, experiences the same aftershock of pleasure. His face reflects the raw intensity of the moment, eyes flickering open to reveal dilated pupils and parted lips, gasping silently as he registers the depths of his own climax.

Eventually, he eases himself out of you, and you can feel a warm, intimate trickle as evidence of your passionate encounter. Gazing at the mirror, you observe him admiring his work, the remnants of your shared intimacy dripping from you.

He murmurs, "You are an exquisite sight, my dear. Such a delightful canvas for my desires."

Wandlessly, he vanishes the evidence, leaving you both in a state of post-coital bliss.

Severus leans down, pressing tender kisses to your shoulder and the back of your neck, his actions filled with affection. He gently pulls you into his arms, and you nestle against him, seeking warmth and comfort in his embrace.

In the soft, hushed that follow, the two of you engage in a soothing, quiet intimacy. Severus's touch is gentle and caring as he caresses your skin, whispering words of reassurance and affection.

"You did so well, darling," he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. "You've done wonderfully, as always. I cherish these moments with you."

His words carry a warmth that envelops you in a cocoon of love and appreciation, reassuring you that this connection between you means more than mere physical passion.

The morning unfolded with a serene coziness, the two of you entwined in the warmth of Severus's bed. Time seemed to slow as you enjoyed the tranquility of simply being together, lost in a world of your own. Eventually, you both ventured downstairs for a leisurely breakfast, savoring the quiet companionship.

You both agree that claiming you went straight to Hogwarts would be the safest choice, as mentioning going home was out of the question. You have no doubt that Sharp might have even gone to your parent’s home looking for you, though any direct inquiries with your father would raise suspicions.

It's a complex web of deception and misdirection. The entire situation is enough to make your head spin, but you trust Severus implicitly.

The afternoon finds you in his study, a room filled with the ambiance of quiet reading. The fireplace crackles softly, casting a warm glow across the walls lined with books.

He sits in his large, high-backed armchair, absorbed in a book, the epitome of a scholar in his element. You're nestled comfortably in his lap, legs casually draped over the chair's armrest, delving into a book you picked from his extensive collection.

The room exudes a sense of old-world charm and intellectual depth, the perfect setting for a peaceful afternoon spent in silent reading and shared company.

As you try to focus on the book in your hands, your mind is a whirlwind of recent events. The past twenty-four hours have been a rollercoaster of emotions and revelations.

The long weeks apart from Severus, learning about his past from your father, the harrowing experience of witnessing torture in Budleigh Babberton, discovering Snape's involvement with the Order, and finally, the unexpected solace of spending the night at his place – each memory flits through your mind, making it challenging to concentrate on the words before you.

Curled up in Severus's lap, the fire crackling softly in the background, you find yourself lost in thought rather than the pages of your book. The question of why Dumbledore insisted on Sharp specifically for the mission to retrieve information from Slughorn gnaws at you.

Sharp's capability for darker deeds, his tense demeanor when discussing his past – it all seems to point to something more.

Could this be a hint of what Sharp did as an Auror?

The notion is unsettling, clashing with your image of both Sharp and your father as celebrated, elite Aurors.

Yet, despite the logic lining up, there's a reluctance within you to fully accept this theory. It's a puzzle piece that fits too well, yet you hesitate to place it.

Seeking clarity, you turn to him, hoping his insights might shed light on Sharp's past.

"Severus, what do you know about Aesop Sharp?" you ask, eager yet apprehensive about the answer.

Severus looks at you, his expression carrying a seriousness that morphs into something that resembles a silent eye-roll. You're well aware of his disdain for your association with Sharp, especially given recent events. Despite this, you press on, seeking more information.

"No, really, Severus," you insist with a slight laugh, trying to steer him back on track from his dismissive remarks. "I mean, beyond the obvious, do you know anything specific about what kind of work he did as an Auror?"

He exhales deeply, setting his book down in your lap. His tone, laced with a touch of sarcasm, betrays his reluctance to give Sharp any credit.

“Aesop Sharp," he begins, "is what many might call a 'celebrated' Auror, though his rise and fall in the ranks were equally swift." There's a hint of disapproval in his voice, a sense that he knows more than he's willing to share outright.

After sharing his acerbic views on Sharp, Severus shifts his gaze to you, studying your expression with keen eyes. There's a searching quality to his look, as if he's trying to understand the motive behind your question.

You explain to Severus, your voice laced with uncertainty, "Dumbledore was specific about choosing Sharp for the Slughorn mission. It's like he knew Sharp would do whatever it takes, you know?"

Pausing, you grapple with the next question, a sense of unease creeping in. Finally, you ask hesitantly, "Was Sharp... a different kind of Auror? One that perhaps didn't always play by the rules? That did things... bad things?" Your question hangs in the air, revealing your struggle to reconcile Sharp's actions with the image you had of Aurors.

Severus ponders for a moment, his expression thoughtful, before responding. "As I explained last night, the world isn't simply black and white," he starts, echoing a sentiment your father also shared.

"There have been whispers that have existed beyond both your years and mine, rumors of a higher class of Aurors who operated beyond the conventional rules of the Ministry. Much like how the Order operates outside Ministry oversight, but these Aurors still worked under its banner, just not bound by the same regulations as their peers."

He pauses, giving you a searching look to ensure you're following, then carefully selects his next words.

"They were sanctioned to take... more drastic measures, if deemed necessary." His tone implies a complexity and moral ambiguity in these actions, leaving the implications hanging in the air. “The Ministry vehemently denies such claims. However,”

Severus offers a disclaimer, his voice measured. "It's rumored that Aesop Sharp was part of this elite class of Aurors, but details are scarce," he says. "It's an assumption, pieced together from his history, accolades, and involvement in significant cases."

He then adds, almost preemptively addressing a concern he senses from you, "As for your father, who served with Sharp, I cannot confirm if he was involved in similar operations."

You notice a hint of regret in his eyes, though whether it's for not having more information about your father or for sharing these unsettling details, you can't be sure.

You thank him for his honesty, his words leaving you in a whirlwind of thought about not just Sharp's past, but also your father's.

Your thoughts meander through the distinct differences and parallels between Sharp and your father.

Initially, they seem worlds apart: Sharp, the solitary figure who left his Auror career behind, and your father, who not only had a family but ascended to a prominent position within the Auror office.

Sharp's intensity and the unreconciled brokenness you perceive in him seem in stark contrast to your father's affable and loved persona.

However, as you delve deeper, you recognize the common ground they share. Years of service together, shared battles, and Ministry politics must have forged a strong bond.

The intense experiences they endured could have brought them closer, creating a camaraderie that's hard to comprehend from the outside.

Then there's the matter of Snape's trial. Both Sharp and your father were present for all of the hearings, except the last crucial one where a classified testimony changed everything. Their involvement raises questions.

Could your father, like Sharp, have been involved in the murkier aspects of Auror work?

The thought is unsettling, yet you can't ignore the possibility that the bonds formed in the field might have extended beyond what you've always believed.

“In the end,” Snape mutters, more to himself than you, “Aesop Sharp is but a glorified attention-seeker with a wand, believing himself to be the hero in a tale where he barely understands the plot.”

You stifle a giggle as he continues reading his book. It's evident that Severus harbors a deep-seated bitterness, particularly towards Sharp's version of his past that he shared with you.

Honestly, his resentment is justified, stemming from a personal history that has been, in his view, misconstrued and oversimplified by someone he clearly regards with contempt.

"Severus?" you break the silence with a gentle tone, causing him to look up from his book.

"Hm?" he replies, a hint of curiosity in his gaze.

You hesitate, contemplating whether to delve into another potentially loaded question.

Severus seems to read this hesitation in your expression, and with an eye roll he mildly threatens, "If you're going to ask me about Aesop Sharp again..." His playful yet exasperated tone indicates his patience for discussing Sharp might be wearing thin, but your curiosity leads you elsewhere.

You quickly interject, "No, no, it's something else." you pause. "Are you familiar with a Horace Slughorn?" you ask.

A flicker of confusion, then concern, crosses Severus's face. He sets his book on the side table, turning his full attention to you, his hand resting on your thigh.

"Why do you ask?" Severus inquires, his voice tinged with caution.

For a moment, you struggle with your emotions before revealing, "He was the man I was sent to get information from, the one Sharp was... torturing."

Severus's expression shifts to one of shock and deep concern. "Dumbledore mentioned he used to be a professor at Hogwarts," you add, pausing as the gravity of Dumbledore sending for the torture of a former colleague sinks in.

The thought of a headmaster, especially one as revered as Dumbledore, resorting to such drastic measures against an ex-professor, hangs heavily in the air, underscoring the complexity and darkness of the times you're navigating.

“Slughorn was indeed a professor at Hogwarts, during my time as a student,” he says, his tone reflecting a mix of contemplation and wariness. “He was known for his affinity for collecting certain types of students. I knew him, yes.”

As you ponder over the old professor, a thought strikes you. "Slughorn had information about the Dark Lord," you say, your voice tinged with curiosity. "He was apparently his favorite student. Mind boggling, isn’t it?"

Snape's interest is visibly piqued, his posture stiffening slightly. "What sort of information?"

You find Dumbledore's decision to withhold certain details from the Order peculiar, but then you recall Severus mentioning that Dumbledore often had reasons for his secretive approach.

Deciding to trust in Severus's understanding of Dumbledore's methods, you choose not to dwell on these doubts. There's an unspoken acknowledgement in your mind that, in this complex war against darkness, not every card can be laid out on the table.

There are quite a few people in the Order anyway, it seems.

“Dumbledore’s been collecting memories from people who knew the Dark Lord before... before he became who he is now," you explain, a bit perplexed.

You notice a subtle change in Snape's demeanor at the mention of memories. It occurs to you that perhaps Dumbledore acquired something similar from Snape when he left the Death Eaters—and you quickly continue the story.

You articulate how Slughorn has been the only one in recent years who's shown reluctance to share information about Voldemort, highlighting the oddity of his behavior. This peculiarity stands out, especially given the openness of others from the Dark Lord's past.

You pause, the weight of the revelation making you even more earnest. You feel Severus deserves to know this. If he is in the Order, he must be trusted, and you suspect he might be closer to Dumbledore than anyone else in the group.

Despite the wariness others like Sharp and Harry might feel towards him and the complexities you learned from your father, within the safe confines of Severus's embrace, your trust in him solidifies.

Sharing this with him feels undeniably right for a reason you can’t decide, Dumbledore be damned. You continue sharing pieces of the puzzle with Severus.

"At one point, Harry and I did some digging into a type of dark magic," you begin, your tone turning serious. "We brought our findings to Dumbledore, and he shared our suspicions. The Dark Lord may be using objects to hold fragments of his soul."

Severus listens intently, his expression a masterful facade of calm, but you notice something else flickering behind his eyes, an unidentifiable emotion. You assume his mind is racing, processing the implications of what you've just shared, and rightfully so.

Severus meets your eyes with a serious intensity. "Promise me," he implores, "that you will inform me if you are tasked with anything else." He's earnest, almost insistent in his tone.

Before he can continue, you cut in, affirming with a sincere nod, "Yes, Severus, I know. I promise you, I will."

You seal your promise with a gentle kiss on his lips, then snuggle back into his embrace. Yet, as you relax against him, you can't shake the feeling that his mind is elsewhere, his gaze distant.

The reality of the war surrounding you both feels more tangible than ever.

Severus Snape stands silently in the doorway of his bedroom, his body leaning against the door frame. His gaze is fixed on you as you begin to slip out of his t-shirt and back into your clothes.

The sight of you in his t-shirt seems to take on an entirely different allure. What was once an ordinarily simple garment is now a tangible symbol of his life momentarily entwined with yours.

It falls to mid-thigh, loosely enveloping you, revealing the smooth, creamy skin of your toned thighs. He finds himself wishing you wouldn't change, longing to preserve this intimate, domestic image.

And there, on your thigh, he notices with a mix of satisfaction and longing, a faint bite mark – a mark of their passion, a token of a shared moment that he wishes could linger forever.

As he watches you, a deep sense of something unfamiliar stirring within him. This closeness, this shared intimacy, is a rare allowance in his guarded life. He cannot recall the last time he watched a woman change out of his clothing. If he did, it would be wholly eclipsed by this moment.

The elegant curve of your bare back is revealed as you fasten your bra, a moment both intimate and ordinary, yet utterly captivating to him. As you pull on your sweater, he takes in every detail — the way the fabric falls over your frame, the gentle sway of your hair, the serene beauty in your simple actions.

When you turn to glance at him over your shoulder, there's a softness in your eyes that unravels him, a look that speaks volumes and leaves him feeling unexpectedly vulnerable and profoundly moved.

As the evening light filters through the window, casting a soft, ambient glow, Snape is acutely aware of how much he's relished having you in his space. In a matter of hours, you’ve bestowed an unexpected warmth upon the austere walls of his home that he hadn't known he was missing.

And now, having tasted this fleeting domestic bliss, the thought of reverting to the hollow quiet of his solitary existence seems more desolate than ever.

Despite the shared moments and growing intimacy, Severus can't help but wonder if your trust in him might be transient. He's always admired your maturity, how you stand out from your peers with a unique perspective on the world, carrying yourself with an elegance and charisma that belies your years.

Yet, in the face of recent upheavals, he notices a shift in you. The maturity that has always been so defining seems to be faltering under the weight of recent events—subtle cracks in that composed facade.

He’s wary of the faltering maturity, the fragility that seems to be creeping in. It’s a delicate situation, and he finds himself grappling with the need to protect you not just from the external dangers that lurk beyond his doorstep, but also from your own inner turmoil that threatens to overwhelm you.

No, this isn’t merely about physical safety; it’s about preserving your inner strength, ensuring that the upheaval doesn’t erode the very qualities that make you unique.

Severus watches you turn towards him, now dressed in your own clothes, and he offers a half-smile, a softening of his usually stern features. He moves to sit at the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed yet filled with an unspoken invitation.

With a gentle gesture, he beckons you over. As you settle into his lap, facing the large mirror in his room, his arms encircle you, a protective yet tender embrace.

He rests his chin on your shoulder, his gaze meeting yours in the reflection. You reach up, your fingers gently caressing the side of his face. He closes his eyes briefly, savoring the touch.

The sensation of your touch is something he hadn't realized he was so profoundly starved of until you came along.

The way your fingers softly trace his features, the gentle brush of your hand through his hair, each contact ignites a warmth in him he thought long dormant.

He recalls the afternoon, your insistence on reading in his lap, the comfort and ease of your presence. The way you wrapped your arms around his free arm while he cooked dinner, each gesture weaving a tapestry of affection that he finds both overwhelming and deeply fulfilling.

There's an aching sweetness in these moments, a yearning for something he never allowed himself to acknowledge until now.

The way you look at him, the softness of your touch – they make him feel seen, valued, something more than just the persona he presents to the world.

Each caress, each tender moment, convinces him, if only fleetingly, that he is deserving of this warmth, this semblance of normalcy, this softening of the harsh edges of his existence.

But reality waits just beyond the door of his sanctuary. Soon, you both must return to Hogwarts, to a war that brews within reality. There, his life fractures again into duty and deception, far from your touch that makes him feel whole, purposeful.

Severus braces himself for the challenging task of maintaining normalcy around Dumbledore. He must conceal the turmoil brewing within him, the resentment towards the old man for pushing you into a dire situation with a man you trusted.

His mind occasionally wanders to dark daydreams of confronting Sharp, but he knows he must suppress these thoughts. His self-control is more crucial than ever, especially after the recent events and revelations. It's a delicate act, balancing his inner turmoil with the facade of the composed and obedient professor.

As you sit together, your fingers tracing the contours of his face, Snape savors the feeling, engraving it into his memory. These moments with you offer him a glimpse of a life unburdened by war and secrets.

They remind him of what it means to feel human, to have a purpose beyond the machinations of Albus Dumbledore and the Dark Lord.

In these precious instances, he allows himself to yearn, to hope, even as the impending return to reality looms ever closer.

Chapter 26: apocalypse

Chapter Text

You leapt from crumbling bridges
Watching cityscapes turn to dust

Filming helicopters crashing
In the ocean from way above

Tell me why
You've been locked in here forever
And you just can't say goodbye

apocalypse - cigarettes after sex

https://open.spotify.com/track/0yc6Gst2xkRu0eMLeRMGCX?si=87d922131ada4a4a

"--was so mad, I think I was written up like, four or fi--"

Aesop Sharp's attention wavers like a flickering candle. Your father’s words are reaching his ears, but only in fragments. He watches as your father gestures animatedly, sharing a story from their shared past. It's a tale filled with laughter and camaraderie, the kind of reminiscing that typically brings a sense of warmth and nostalgia.

However, tonight, Sharp’s heart isn't in it.

As he sits there, a profound sense of emptiness grips him. The jovial stories and hearty laughter that used to make him feel alive now serve as painful reminders of a life that feels increasingly distant. He can't escape the haunting knowledge of what he's become, the choices he's made, and the darkness that now clings to him.

Again.

The firewhisky glass in his hand remains untouched, its amber contents reflecting the soft glow of the room's ambient lighting. It offers no solace, no distraction from the relentless weight that rests uneasily in his pocket.

Inside that pocket lies a small vial, clear as crystal, like a fragile vessel containing the stolen memories of a man he had ruthlessly tortured this evening. Could Aesop go as far as to think the man was innocent? Did he deserve it?

There are questions we ask, and answers we shouldn’t give.

The vial is deceptively small, almost insignificant in appearance, yet its significance weighs heavily on his conscience. The guilt gnaws at him, tearing at his very core like a relentless beast that refuses to be tamed.

It's an insidious presence that twists and coils within him, a constant reminder of the darkness that now clings to his soul. He can't shake the feeling of filth that clings to him, like an indelible stain etched into his very being.

As your father's laughter fills the room, Sharp’s isolation deepens, the stark memories of what he's become overshadowing the camaraderie of old.

A conflicted smile plays upon his lips as he meets your father's gaze, a facade of normalcy concealing the turmoil that rages within him. His eyes may hold a glint of amusem*nt, but it's a hollow expression that masks the deeper truth. In the depths of his mind's eye, he can vividly envision the stolen memories swirling around inside that vial, like ghostly apparitions haunting his every thought.

Each twist and turn of those stolen moments serves as a chilling reminder of the cruelty he's capable of, the depths to which he has descended in the name of loyalty and duty. It's a stark contrast to the man he once was, and the dissonance between his past self and the darkness that now envelops him is a weight that threatens to crush his spirit.

The memories within that small container are not just fragments of another's life; they are a haunting testament to the irrevocable damage he has inflicted upon another human being. It's a burden that he can never fully escape, a shadow that looms over him, a constant reminder of the choices he has made and the pain he has caused. Again.

Sharp’s eyes roam your father's study, taking in the accolades, awards, certifications, and photos that adorn the room, each a tangible representation of a life well-lived. The walls proudly display the fruits of Fitzgerald Grant's dedication and commitment, the certificates framed in oak hanging as badges of honor. Photos capture moments frozen in time, with your father smiling warmly alongside influential figures.

The office itself exudes an air of timelessness, furnished with antique oak pieces that have borne witness to years of diligent service. Leather-bound tomes line the shelves, their spines bearing the scars of countless readings. The soft glow of the fireplace casts flickering shadows, creating an ambiance of comfort and warmth.

Sharp's admiration for Fitzgerald Grant runs deep. Even during their shared experiences in the covert world of Aurors, your father stood out as a better man. They both engaged in actions that many would not stomach, working in the shadows to protect the wizarding world. However, your father's unwavering dedication to justice and the greater good set him apart.

Now, as they sit together in the dimly lit room, sharing stories of their past exploits, Sharp’s keen gaze can see the weight of his father's new position as the Head of the Auror Office. It's etched on your father's face, evident in the lines that crease his forehead, the newfound weariness that lingers in his eyes. The knowledge that there's a target on his back, just as there was on his predecessor, the man who had once trained them both, weighs heavily on him.

Despite the tumultuous times they find themselves in, they reminisce about those bygone days with a sense of nostalgia, as if the world isn't currently teetering on the brink of chaos. The room offers a brief respite from the harsh reality they must confront, allowing them to relive the moments when they were young and invincible, facing danger with a fearless spirit. It's a bittersweet escape, a reminder of how much has changed since those days, and the uncertainty that looms over their future.

Yet even in the darkest of times, Fitzgerald Grant remains a beacon of integrity and humanity, qualities that Sharp now finds himself yearning for.

His eyes fall upon a recent photograph of you on the wall, captured at the Christmas party just a few weeks ago. In the picture, you were clearly a few drinks in, your parents equally and happily intoxicated, all of you sporting wide smiles as you were pulled in for a photo.

As he gazes at your smiling face in the photograph, he can't help but feel utterly selfish for allowing his own emotions to take center stage tonight when it was you who had witnessed the gruesome events firsthand.

You, the whole reason for his visit to your parents' house tonight. He had immediately come looking for you, a nagging feeling telling him that you had sought refuge here instead of returning to Hogwarts. After a brief conversation with your father about just "being in the area," your father had kindly invited him to stay for a drink or two before heading back to school for the week.

Seeking out your father's company, after it was apparent that you were nowhere to be found, had been a desperate attempt to stave off the overwhelming loneliness that threatened to consume him. The presence of an old friend, someone who had known him long before they had crossed into the darkness decades ago, had offered a glimmer of solace. Someone that understood him.

But now, as he sits there, hearing your father's words drift in and out of focus, Aesop Sharp feels the pressing weight of his actions bearing down on him.

The torment within his heart is profound, a tempestuous battle raging within his soul. He foolishly believed he had left this life behind, that he could somehow cleanse himself of the darkness that had once defined him. But the memories within that vial, the torment he had inflicted, serve as an unshakable reminder of the man he has become.

Possibly, the man he’s always been.

His thoughts sink deeper with each sip from his firewhisky glass. He knows that he must find a way to rid himself of this tainted burden before it poisons him irreparably.

How did he get here?

He hadn’t followed your father into the Ministry, choosing instead to abandon the life of an Auror. His journey led him to Amsterdam, where he sought refuge in intoxication, but the haze of drugs couldn't drown out the relentless echoes of his haunting past.

Venturing to India, he harbored the hope that spirituality would provide the elusive answers he desperately sought. Amidst the ashrams and gurus and all those who promised solace, he yearned for a brief respite from the shadow that trailed him.

He had believed that by severing ties with the life of an Auror and immersing himself in these distant lands, he could cleanse himself of the sins of his deeds.

Yet, the past was a persistent specter, an unrelenting shadow that clung to him tenaciously. Regardless of the distance he put between himself and his former life, he remained ensnared by the inescapable web of his own history.

No matter how far he traveled, he couldn't escape himself .

Look at him, immersed in his own desolation in your father's office, a glass of firewhisky more expensive than the furniture in this room, his only companion.

In this moment of self-indulgence, he despises himself for losing sight of what truly matters – you.

The memory of your panicked departure still lingers vividly in his mind, haunting his thoughts with every passing moment. The guilt he feels for not being there to shield you from the horrors that unfolded gnaws at his conscience like a relentless beast, its claws digging deep into his soul.

His ears rang relentlessly against the cracked and weathered walls of the small, dimly lit home. The air was thick with tension and fear, and the room seemed to close in around him as he cast hexes with deadly precision. Each spell crackled through the stifling atmosphere, a malevolent symphony of magic and suffering.

The tortured screams of the man within, Horace Slughorn, reverberated through the cramped space, a chorus of agony that seemed to claw its way into Sharp’s very core.

Through blurred vision, he watched as you, tears streaming down your face, began to cry out in confusion and desperation. Your voice, tinged with fear and heartache, pleaded for him to stop, your words a haunting refrain that echoed in his ears.

Your words were mere whispers amidst the cacophony of violence that he had unleashed.

The realization that he had become the tormentor, the one inflicting pain on another human being, weighed heavily on his conscience, a suffocating burden that he couldn't escape.

The room itself felt like a prison, its walls bearing witness to the unspeakable acts that unfolded within. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows, painting a macabre work of suffering and despair.

As the cries of the tortured man merged with your pleas for mercy, Aesop Sharp found himself trapped in a nightmarish landscape of his own making. In this twisted realm, the lines between right and wrong had blurred to the point of obscurity, and the suffocating darkness threatened to engulf him whole.

It was a stark contrast to the memory of just a few days prior when he had kissed you in his office. In that stolen moment, he had tasted the sweetness of your lips, knowing deep down that it might be the last time he ever got to hold you close. Your eyes had shone with excitement at the prospect of embarking on your first mission, your eagerness to prove yourself written all over that beautiful face.

But now, as he sits here drowning his guilt in firewhisky, you creep into his heart. Those moments shared with you had been a precious interlude in the whirlwind of his tumultuous life. Out of all the women he had passed time with, it was you who had managed to imprint herself on his soul. He cherishes that stolen moment, for he knew that it was all that mattered now, a reminder of the person he had once been, and the person he had lost himself to become.

He fears for the person you might become, now.

The Order of the Phoenix.

A group he had once dismissed as idealistic amateurs in the first war, has shown more resilience and determination than he had anticipated. Back then, he and his fellow secret-class Aurors had operated on the fringes of the Ministry's rules, believing themselves to be the true protectors of society.

The Order's version of commitment to the cause makes him question whether they had been more alike than he had once believed.

The thought sends a shiver down his spine, a chilling reminder of the moral quagmire he now found the wizarding world in, the one that you are now caught in.

For weeks now, the weight of your secret had been pressing upon his mind. It was a burden that had grown heavier with each passing day, a constant source of anxiety. The knowledge that you had joined the Order was something he had grappled with ever since you had confided in him.

With your father now at the helm of the Auror Office, it was almost inevitable that the two organizations would cross paths, just as they had in the old days. Of course, your father wouldn't be meeting with you; he'd be meeting with Dumbledore, unknowingly sending his own daughter out on missions that could potentially lead to your demise.

Sharp can’t help but feel the weight of that responsibility, the fear that he might be putting you in harm's way, by way of your own father.

Perhaps he should tell your father, for your safety, for the sake of ensuring that you didn't end up in a perilous situation.

After all, you already despised him, and that hatred would likely persist for as long as you lived.

What difference would it make if he added one more layer to your anger?

But as the thought crosses his mind, he hesitates. The fear of upsetting you, of adding to your father's already considerable stress, holds him back. It is a choice between your safety and the potential consequences of revealing the truth.

And for some reason, he can’t bring himself to make that decision, to potentially disrupt the delicate balance of your already tumultuous world.

As the hours passed and the bottle of firewhisky dwindled to its last drop, Sharp and your father found solace in their shared stories, even if they were a temporary distraction from the looming chaos. They drank until the early hours of the morning, until they were certain that the sun would soon rise.

Finally, with your father's hand steadying him, Sharp stumbles out of the dimly lit study. He knows he can’t delay any longer. Without hesitation, he makes his way to Dumbledore's office, regardless of the late hour.

Time was of the essence, and the old man had already torn his soul apart anyway. Sharp had every right to show up unannounced in the middle of the night.

He stumbles into the headmaster’s office, the room a swirling mess through his drunken haze. The flickering candlelight casts eerie shadows on the countless books and curious magical artifacts that line the shelves. He catches a glimpse of Fawkes, the phoenix, perched regally in a corner, its vibrant plumage contrasting with the dim surroundings.

With unsteady hands, he slams the small vial containing the stolen memories onto Dumbledore's desk. The headmaster looks up, his piercing blue eyes gazing back at him through the half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. There's a sense of gratitude in Dumbledore's expression, but also a lingering hint of judgment.

Sharp doesn't care. He's done his part. He turns abruptly, stumbling out of the office and navigating the twisting corridors until he finds his chambers. Collapsing onto his bed, he succumbs to the darkness of exhaustion and intoxication, his mind finally finding respite in a dreamless slumber.

The Pensieve's silvery depths release you and Harry simultaneously, like a relentless whirlpool receding into oblivion. As your heads emerge from the magical basin, you both gasp for air as if you're being pulled back from the depths of a tumultuous sea. The vivid memories you had just witnessed swirl in your minds, leaving you breathless and shaken.

In the dimly lit, book-lined sanctum of Dumbledore's office, the ancient headmaster sits perched at the edge of his desk, a serene and knowing presence untouched by the tempest you're going through. It’s clear he’s already seen this memory, possibly more than once.

His eyes bore into both of you, as if searching the depths of your souls for traces of your reactions.

The room is imbued with a heavy silence, broken only by Dumbledore's calm and measured voice, which cuts through the tension like a blade through the night.

"What you both have witnessed is a confirmation of my gravest suspicions. Tom Riddle, before he became Lord Voldemort, indeed delved into the darkest and most forbidden of magics—Horcruxes."

His keen gaze shifts to Harry, observing the young wizard's reaction. Harry's face is etched with a mixture of disbelief and grim understanding, the weight of the revelation sinking in.

Dumbledore continues, his voice unwavering. "In the memory, Professor Slughorn mentioned the possibility of creating seven Horcruxes, a task that would require the ultimate act of evil. I fear that Voldemort may have indeed fragmented his soul into seven pieces, making him even more formidable and elusive than we previously imagined."

The following hour is a whirlwind of examining the destroyed Horcruxes - the Gaunt ring and Tom Riddle's diary. It's a lot to take in, especially considering that it feels like just moments ago, you were leaving Snape's home.

The complexity of the task at hand becomes increasingly apparent as you stare at the two powerful objects laid casually upon the large desk, and you find yourself grappling with the realization that this battle against the dark forces is much larger and more daunting than you initially thought.

Dumbledore's gaze lingers on you throughout the evening, causing an undercurrent of uncertainty courses through your thoughts. You can't shake the feeling that Sharp might have informed Dumbledore about your abrupt exit during the Slughorn task.

The unease nags at you.

However, just as you and Harry are preparing to leave, Dumbledore's words catch you by surprise. His eyes twinkle as he speaks, his voice carrying a warm and approving tone.

“Miss Grant, Professor Sharp has informed me of your excellent performance in your recent task. The Order is most proud to have individuals like you, within its ranks. Your actions reflect great courage and commitment."

His words, though kind and appreciative, leave you with a sense of discomfort. You look over at Harry, who hadn’t known about the mission you undertook, who now wears a proud smile in response to Dumbledore's praise.

You muster a smile, concealing your inner turmoil, and thank him for his kind words. You and Harry make your way out of the office, the echoes of his commendation still resonating in your ears.

As you descend the winding staircase that leads to the entrance, your eyes briefly catch the imposing statues that flank the entrance, their stern expressions seemingly guarding the secrets of the Headmaster's domain.

Walking down the corridor with Harry, you feel a mixture of relief and apprehension. He's animatedly asking about the mission, remarking on how cool it is that you were already part of one. You give him a small smile, not wanting to delve into the details but also not wanting to dampen his enthusiasm.

You're just about to change the subject to your friend and fellow Goldhawk peer, Cedric Diggory, when your heart nearly leaps into your throat.

There, at the far end of the corridor, you spot Aesop Sharp. He's clad in a dark brown overcoat, mid-step when he notices you and comes to an abrupt halt.

From this distance, you can discern a palpable weariness etched into his features. His gaze, once he locks onto you, is laden with unresolved tensions, questions, everything… The aftermath of your abrupt departure during the mission, a chapter that still remains unspoken between you both.

Quickly, you lead Harry to turn right into another corridor, your steps gaining momentum as you aim to put some distance between you and Sharp without raising Harry's suspicions. Navigating the corridor with urgency, you try to maintain an appearance of normalcy.

You and Harry continue to walk through the echoing corridors of Hogwarts, your conversation takes a more serious turn. Harry shares his mounting suspicions regarding Draco Malfoy and the mysterious vanishing cabinet. You’re hardly listening.

Once far enough from the corridor in which you spotted Sharp, the two of you delve deeper into the discussion about Draco, fueled by a shared determination to uncover the truth behind this puzzle.

As you talk, you can't help but wonder if Harry has been involved in any questionable activities for the Order as well. However, the way he speaks so enthusiastically about the Order and Dumbledore, it seems unlikely that he's been exposed to the darker side of their operations. It leaves you questioning why Dumbledore would keep certain members, including Harry, in the dark about such matters.

Thoughts about Lupin and others cross your mind, but then you recall that Dumbledore had explicitly instructed you to engage with Sharp on the mission, and only Sharp. It becomes evident that not everyone within the Order is privy to Dumbledore's more clandestine actions, like Snape had said, and it leaves you with a lingering sense of unease.

You and Harry part ways, and with eager anticipation, you make your way down to the dungeons, your heart set on seeing Severus. The prospect of reuniting with him after a short separation fills you with excitement as you head towards his quarters.

You wonder if you're being too clingy, wanting to see Severus so soon after parting ways this afternoon. You've only been apart for a few hours, but the impending return to classes tomorrow makes tonight the last truly free evening of the weekend to spend with him.

Thoughts of the various… activities and intimate moments you shared over the course of those 15 hours or so send your heart racing, and you find yourself walking a little faster.

Each memory of the day floods your mind, from the stolen glances in the Great Hall to the intimate moments in his quarters. You remember the way his lips felt against yours, the electrifying touch of his hands, and the intensity of his gaze. The anticipation of seeing Severus again, even after such a short separation, fills you with excitement and a longing to be in his presence once more.

Severus Snape broods in the dim solitude of his study, his mind a tempest of foreboding thoughts. Lately, every fleeting moment of peace—even when spent in quiet contemplation of his fraught childhood—has been shattered by some calamity.

The tension in the wizarding world and within his own life escalates ceaselessly, each incident a stark reminder for Severus that a climax is imminent.

The path he must tread, though long accepted as his inevitable fate, now torments him anew with your involvement.

Every advancement he makes for your safety seems undone by the next crisis. Just when he believes he might shield you from the storm, another tempest descends—this time, you arriving at his doorstep, distraught and shaken by a torture you witnessed, orchestrated by another professor whom he disdains.

These mounting pressures fray the edges of his already tenuous hold on his duties and personal desires, pulling him further into the abyss of his dark commitments while intensifying his desperation to protect you from the encroaching darkness.

He is in his potions classroom, unable to escape the torrent of thoughts about the weekend you spent together. Each detail of your interactions—your tears, your confessions, even casual remarks—plagues him with relentless clarity as he attempts to inventory his potion ingredients for the upcoming week.

Despite starting over numerous times, he's distracted, meticulously analyzing every shared moment to ensure he hasn’t overlooked anything vital. Any sliver of information that could help or hinder his efforts.

His efforts, for what, exactly?

To protect the Wizarding World?

To play second fiddle to the darkest wizard known to man?

To save you?

The stakes are alarmingly high; any missed detail could be detrimental, and the thought of failing to protect you is unbearable.

After you left Spinner's End, the intensity of his emotions propelled him back to his classroom where, consumed by fury and helplessness, he hurled a cauldron against the wall.

His anger seethed at the thought of Dumbledore allowing you to witness and partake in such brutal tasks. This act of violence against the cold, stone wall was a raw outpouring of his rage and a desperate attempt to regain some control over the chaos that now threatened to engulf both his duty and his desire to shield you from the darkening world.

Severus’ mind churns with conflicting emotions and strategic calculations, especially when reflecting on your recent visit to your father for validation of Snape’s character. The mere thought of Fitzgerald Grant, who is not only the head of the Auror Office but now a key figure in Voldemort's plans, haunts Snape.

He is acutely aware of the sinister undertones of the Dark Lord’s interest in your father—a man of significance in the magical law enforcement community and a Slytherin pureblood with a murky past of potentially dark deeds under the guise of noble intentions.

The connection disturbs him, not just because of the obvious danger it poses to you, but also due to the precarious position it places him in. Navigating this tangled web of political intrigue and dark alliances is a task Snape approaches with calculated caution. He knows that any misstep could have severe repercussions, not just for him, but crucially, for you as well.

His resentment lingers, not just because of the political complexities but also due to the irony of your trust in him being contingent upon the approval of a man who now, more than ever, is a focal point of the Dark Lord's machinations.

Severus stands, steeped in his own brooding thoughts, when a knock disrupts the solitude of his classroom. Sighing with a blend of irritation and reluctant hope, he wipes his hands on a cloth, half-expecting, half-wishing it might be you.

As he swings open the door, his expression softens at your quiet "hello." He steps aside, allowing you entry, then secures the door behind you with a definitive click.

You wander over to his cluttered workstation, scanning the scattered ingredients and his open notebook. Your fingers trace the lines of his notes before you frown slightly.

"These measurements... they don’t quite add up," you remark, your voice laced with concern. "May I try?"

With only a nod, Severus closes the distance between you, his eyes shadowed with a regret he cannot voice. He watches silently as you measure out components with precise movements, your hands deftly maneuvering scales and flasks. The ambient scents of dried herbs and potent potions fill the air, a constant reminder of the world you both inhabit—a world hanging on the precipice of war.

His gaze lingers on the delicate curve of your wrist, the careful tilt of your head as you concentrate, all while the grim knowledge of what the future might hold looms unspoken between you.

He recognizes the inevitable unfolding of events—the writing on the wall, its cryptic messages clear only to him. The language in which he can only decipher, the truths in which he is isolated in his burden.

He had once believed the path forward was set, unmistakable and unchanging, until your presence shifted everything. Each pivotal moment—his handshake with your father at your family estate, Wormtail intercepting that letter, the harrowing sight of Sharp's torture session—had recalibrated his course, plunging him back to a terrifying square one.

Yet, as he observes you now, precise and focused, he accepts this reset.

His fate might be sealed, but his new priority, undeniable and urgent, is safeguarding yours.

Each meticulous measurement you take, each stir of the potion, he sees not just the act, but the symbol: he will protect your future, no matter the cost.