severushotcup

[severushotcup]

✧ severus snape moodboard ✧

After all this time?

Always

[severushotcup]

[severushotcup]

[severushotcup]

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter fourteen)

The alley where the meeting was set was a forgotten scar in London. Between the Leaky Cauldron and the old shop of cursed artifacts, there was a narrow lane, hidden by ancient magic — the kind that swallows people whole and spits out their bones.

Draco was already there.

Leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his black overcoat, wearing a smirk so practiced it could’ve been painted on.

“I thought you’d come alone, Granger,” he said, eyes fixed on Snape. “But of course... extra protection.”

Snape said nothing. His presence was quiet intimidation. The long coat billowed in the wind, and the tension in the air was thick enough to taste.

Hermione spoke first.

“What do you want?”

“A guarantee.” Draco pulled a small vial from his pocket. Inside, a silvery liquid shimmered, glinting like liquid memory. “Let’s call it... an alternative testimony.”

Hermione froze.

“You stole someone’s memory?”

Draco smiled.

“Let’s say I collected... an involuntary donation. From someone close to you. Enough to cast doubt in the courtroom on the morality of certain actions committed during the... grey period of the war.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re bluffing.”

“No, Professor. I’m saving myself. If my name comes up in the interrogations — and we know it will — I plan on dragging someone down with me. And let’s be honest...” Draco looked directly at him. “A former Death Eater, hidden away by a war-heroine? The press will have a field day.”

Hermione tried to steady her breath.

“What do you want in return?”

Draco tucked the vial away with a flourish.

“Your silence. And... a name. Just one. Someone within the Ministry who’s still involved with remnants of Dark Lord’s cause.”

“You want us to trade someone else’s name for ours?”

“Oh, come on, Granger... Isn’t that exactly what the Ministry’s doing to you? Besides, you’d be saving your own skin. What matters more to you — a supposedly dead ex–Death Eater, or some idiot who once followed You-Know-Who?”

Even now, Draco Malfoy couldn’t bring himself to say the name. He was a coward. Hermione would’ve bet he still had nightmares about Voldemort and feared his return — impossible as that was. She might have laughed at how pathetic Draco Malfoy truly was.

But he was threatening her.

And all she could feel was fury boiling beneath his smug little smirk.

Anger shot down Hermione’s spine like lightning. But Snape gently touched her arm — a subtle gesture. A warning.

Not here. Not now.

That night, the refuge was drowned in silence.

Hermione paced, boots sinking slightly into the cold stone. Draco’s letter, the trial, the stolen memory — it all spun in her head like ghosts refusing to settle.

Snape stood by the window, one hand braced on the sill, eyes fixed on the darkness outside.

“He has us,” she murmured. “And he knows it.”

“He has the illusion of control. And illusion is what has always sustained the Malfoys.”

She moved closer. She wanted to hold on to that — the hope that things would be okay. She wanted to believe Snape was right.

“And what do we do now? Let him destroy us? Or betray someone else to save ourselves?”

Snape turned his face, his shadow flickering like something caught between two worlds.

“There are no clean exits. There never were.”

Hermione drew a breath. Then:

“And if you were just... a man? What would you say now?”

He looked at her. The intensity in his eyes was fire barely caged.

“That I’m afraid.” And as if sensing the storm of thoughts flooding her mind, he looked deeper and said again, more quietly: “Afraid of losing you.”

She looked back at him. Her voice was barely more than breath:

“Then take me. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

The kiss was a collapse.

Nothing gentle. Nothing clean. Tongues and teeth, hands gripping like the world was ending around them. He pinned her against the cold stone wall, their bodies crashing with frantic urgency. She tore at the buttons of his shirt. He tangled his fingers in her hair as if trying to sear the memory into his soul. He knew this was dangerous. But she was too much temptation — even for a broken ex–Death Eater.

And everything came with it: guilt, war, fear, the trial, Draco, the Ministry’s pursuit — and the terror of losing her.

Hermione whispered against his lips:

“Don’t tell me this is wrong.”

And Snape, breathless, murmured:

“Everything in me is wrong. But you... you’re the only thing that’s right. You’re the only thing that makes me want to be alive.”

That night, they were no longer professor and student. Not fugitives. Not pawns in the Ministry’s dirty game.

They were just two survivors who chose — for a few stolen hours — to forget that tomorrow might destroy them.

And that was what condemned them.

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter thirteen)

Three owls arrived at the same time. One was intercepted by the refuge’s protective enchantments. Another was incinerated mid-flight by Snape before it could touch the ground.

The third… Hermione caught with her own hands.

The red seal of the Magical Commission pulsed against the wax. She read silently. Her mouth went dry.

“It’s real.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “The trial.”

Snape remained standing, hands behind his back. Tense. Still, like an obsidian statue.

“Date?” he asked.

“Four days from now.” Hermione looked up at him. “They’ll interrogate Harry, Ron, and me. Separately. With Veritaserum... and authorized Legilimency.”

He didn’t answer at once. Just stepped toward the window. The northern wind rattled the wooden boards. Outside, the world seemed still. But she knew better — they were surrounded by eyes.

At last, he spoke.

“Then we begin your training. Now.”

Hermione nodded.

The great hall of the refuge was emptied and prepared. Only two mats on the stone floor, wind-shielded candles, and isolation spells. Nothing could leave that space. No magic. No memories.

Snape knelt in front of her. His face was calm — but his eyes revealed everything.

“You will resist my intrusion. I will be brutal. Not because I want to be, but because the Ministry will be. And I must prepare you for everything.” He wanted to say it was because he needed to protect her. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was keeping Hermione Granger safe — because she was everything to him.

“Understood.”

“This isn’t a class, Miss Granger. This is survival.”

She lifted her chin.

“I learn fast. As you well know.” She tried to sound more confident than she felt — but she truly was a fast learner. Especially in Snape’s lessons, where each time he tried to crush her, she pushed herself ten times harder. But, as he had said himself, this wasn’t a classroom. This was real life.

He stared at her a moment longer than necessary. Then, without warning:

“Legilimens.”

The world flipped upside down. Hermione saw images from her childhood, shards of war, Harry wounded, screaming, fire — and then… Snape.

She tried to raise a mental barrier. Think of a steady sound. A neutral memory.

But he broke through. Entered.

And saw everything.

Her kissing his neck in the hideout. Her pain when he denied it the next day. The fear of being in love. The raw memory of the night she saw him touching himself — thinking of her.

Hermione screamed, shoving him out with a blasting charm.

Snape staggered back, breath shallow, almost wounded.

“You... you didn’t block anything.”

“I tried. You’re too strong.”

He stepped away, pacing in a circle. His fingers trembled. The memories he’d seen burned behind his eyes. Then he murmured, almost to himself:

“You… felt what I felt.”

“I saw you, Severus. I saw who you are when you think you’re alone.”

He froze.

“And still, I didn’t walk away.”

He looked at her with something between fear and rage. And desire. And guilt.

“You should have,” he said, voice cracking. “For everything I saw inside you... for everything you saw in me... Hermione, you should’ve run. I’m the worst thing for you. I’ll hurt you, even if I never mean to.” He needed to protect her at all costs — even from himself.

She stepped closer, slowly.

“And yet, you still call me by my name.”

He clenched his eyes shut. And in that instant, another crack broke the isolation spell.

A black letter shot through the air between them, landing at Hermione’s feet. That kind of magic wasn’t from the Ministry. It was dark magic — the kind only Death Eaters used. The kind that once belonged to the defeated Dark Lord’s followers.

Snape snatched it before she could.

He broke the seal. Read silently.

His voice, when it came, was soaked in venom.

“Draco.”

“What does he want?”

He handed her the letter.

“A visit to the Ministry could become an execution if we don’t take certain… precautions. A secret for silence. You know which one. Seek me before the hearing. Alone. Or the world will know the hero lives… and the Mudblood witch is hiding him. — D.M.”

Hermione crushed the parchment in her fist. That blond bastard.

“He wants to bury us before the trial even begins.”

“Then we’ll be buried standing,” Snape said, lifting his eyes to hers. “But you must be ready. You will shield your mind, Hermione. Even if you have to hate me for it. I won’t let them touch what’s yours.”

She saw it then — in the depths of his eyes.

Protection.

The certainty that he would fight for her until the end, even if it meant destroying himself in the process.

And in that moment, between pain, memory, and desire held back by fear, she understood:

He already loved her.

He just didn’t know how to survive it yet. But neither did she.

And they'd have to figure it out — together.

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter twelve)

The new hideout was an enchanted ruin in the northern reaches of Scotland, shielded by ancient location spells — the kind of magic the Ministry had long forgotten how to trace. Hermione had to summon every scrap of wartime knowledge to break the seals. Snape could barely walk.

Blood still seeped beneath his clothes. The spell that struck him had pierced fabric and flesh.

"Sit," she said firmly, though her fingers trembled.

Snape obeyed without a word, sinking into a dust-laden armchair draped in cobwebs. His face was pale. Sweat trickled down his temple. Hermione knelt before him, gently pulling back the torn fabric of his shirt.

The wound crossed his shoulder and part of his chest — ugly, deep, and pulsing.

She touched his skin with her wand, murmuring softly:

"Vulnera Sanentur."

The flesh began to knit itself together, slowly, groaning under the strain of the spell. Snape made no sound. But his eyes were locked on her — as if the pain had left his body and settled somewhere far more dangerous.

When the spell ended, she didn't move away.

"Severus..."

"Don't say anything," he whispered, drained.

"You can't stop me from caring."

A heavy silence fell between them. Hermione sat on the floor, her back against the wall. For several minutes, there was only their breathing. Then, he broke the stillness.

"Mackmish won't stop. Nor will Draco."

"Draco saw more than he should have," she murmured, eyes lowered.

"Yes. He saw what's happening between us. And he'll use it."

"He might be bluffing."

"He's a Malfoy. They don't bluff. They calculate."

Hermione let out a shuddering sigh. She pulled a folded piece of parchment from her pocket and handed it to him.

"The Daily Prophet. It came out early this morning. I grabbed it from a stand before I came to find you."

Snape read the headline:

"Triumphant or Treacherous? Ministry Opens Inquiry into the Golden Trio"

His jaw clenched.

"It's begun."

"We were heroes when it suited them, when it saved their skins. Now we're a liability. Pathetic."

"You think they'll take it that far?"

"They want a scapegoat. And if they find out you're alive... and that I've been hiding you..."

"They'll destroy you. I don't care what happens to me. But you—"

"I do care," Hermione cut in, voice steel. "And that is the problem."

Snape fell silent.

She studied him. The hollowed face. The dark circles under his eyes. The way his chest still rose and fell with effort. And something inside her cracked — again.

"Last night..." she began, but he turned away.

"You touched me like you wanted to forget it was wrong. And I let you because I... I wanted to forget it too."

He closed his eyes. There was no sarcasm left. No retreat. Just exhaustion.

"I thought wanting you was my greatest mistake," he murmured. "But now I see my mistake is... needing you. That, above all, is unforgivable."

"Then stop fighting it — stop fighting us." Her voice was barely above a whisper, almost a plea. "I don't care what we're up against, as long as we're together. But don't push me away."

He looked up. For the first time since it all began, there was fragility in his gaze. A man stripped of armor. Only flesh, fear, and contradiction.

"I don't know how not to push you away."

Severus Snape had spent a lifetime driving people off to spare himself pain — so now, even though the thing he wanted most was to keep Hermione Granger near, he had no idea how.

She knelt before him again, gently touched his face with her palm. His eyes closed, as if her touch scorched him.

"Then just... let me stay. For today."

He didn't answer. But his fingers found hers and held on — not tightly.

Desperately.

In that forgotten shelter, buried far from the world, they were finally stripped of everything: masks, denial, distance.

And what remained between them was far too dangerous to live.

But far too real to die.

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter eleven)

The sound of crushed leaves crept closer.

Snape twirled his wand between his fingers, eyes narrowed, body hunched like a beast poised to strike.

Hermione stood beside him, casting protective enchantments around the hideout's interior — but they both knew: it was too late.

They hadn't been found.

They had been hunted.

"Three Aurors," he muttered. "And Malfoy with them."

Hermione swallowed hard.

"He led them here."

"Of course he did. It was only a matter of time." Snape shot her a glance. "Will you obey when I tell you to run?"

"I'm not a child." Her answer said what her lips did not: I won't abandon you — not like the others did. But she didn't say it aloud. Perhaps she hadn't yet found the courage.

"Then prove it. Know when to stop fighting."

Before she could answer, the containment charm burst through the front door.

"SEVERUS SNAPE! IN THE NAME OF THE MINISTRY!" Mackmish's voice thundered through the walls. "SURRENDER OR BE NEUTRALIZED!"

Snape laughed. Dry. Dangerous.

"You know what I hate most about Mackmish?" he murmured. "He always announces before he kills."

Hermione raised her wand, back pressed to the wall.

"I'm fighting with you."

"No."

"It's too late to send me away."

Snape said nothing. But she saw it — the shift in his shoulder, the way he placed himself between her and the door.

A shield.

The entrance erupted in light: bolts of red, blue, gold.

Hermione struck back with sharp precision. A flash of light knocked one Auror down.

Snape's wand cracked through the air like a whip.

"Confringo!" The spell blasted a chunk of the entryway, sending stone and shrapnel into the second Auror's chest.

Mackmish darted toward the side — Snape was ready.

"Sectumsempra!"

The scream came at once. A deep gash opened across Dawlish's shoulder as he stumbled back, collapsing.

"YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS, SEVERUS!"

"Get in line, John," Snape growled. "You'll have to wait behind half of Britain."

Hermione was already sprinting toward the side of the room, wrenching open a concealed trapdoor. Snape followed close behind. She dropped down first, he last, sealing the passage behind them with a charm of concealment.

The tunnel was narrow, earthen. An old enchanted drainage channel. Their breath mingled with the dust.

She wanted to speak — but he was bleeding.

"You're hurt. Your shoulder."

"Later."

"You could bleed out..."

He stopped. Turned. His face was streaked with soot, blood, and fury. But his eyes... were full of silent panic.

"I said later."

"Why are you protecting me like this, Severus?"

He grabbed her shoulders, breath ragged.

"Because... you got in. Inside me. Because now, if they take you — I go with you. And I don't... I don't know what that makes me."

Hermione stepped closer, even in the darkness. She wanted to soothe him, to say it would be all right — but even she didn't believe it.

"It makes you someone who cares. And that gives me the right to fight for you too."

He tried to speak. But his voice broke.

Then, with a swift motion, he pulled her to his chest, arms wrapped tight around her, clutching her as one clings to what they know they're about to lose.

It was the most silent, most desperate embrace of her life.

And she knew, in that moment, there was no turning back.

No escape that could divide them.

No lie that could save them from themselves.

They needed each other as surely as they needed air to breathe.

They were fused — mind and heart, indivisible.

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter ten)

Three days passed. Hermione hadn't returned to the hideout. And it consumed him.

Snape prowled the walls like a caged animal. He read, reread, burned scrolls out of sheer impatience. At every sound outside, he lifted his head, as if she might be there.

But she never came.

"Good," he told himself. "Better this way. Let her stay away. Let her forget me."

Then, on the evening of the fourth day, the door creaked.

She stepped inside. Hollow eyes. Pale. Hair tied back in a messy bun, shoulders taut like wound wire.

"Hermione...?"

"I need to speak with you," she said, her voice dry.

"Haven't we said enough?"

She moved closer, too angry for pretense.

"No. We haven't. I spent three days trying to forget what I saw. What I felt. What you told me. And I failed."

Snape crossed his arms, his posture stiffening like armor.

"So what did you come for? An apology? Regret?"

"Stop pretending you feel nothing. I entered your mind, Severus. I saw you. Without your shield. Without your sarcasm. And the truth is — you want me. And I want you."

"You think you want me?" he snarled, stepping forward, eyes blazing. "You're confused. This is a delusion born of tension and war. It's need. Trauma. Illusion."

"Liar!" she cried. "If it were an illusion, it would've passed. But it lingers like fever."

Her fury burned brighter with every inch of his disdain. He was trying to make her seem like some silly girl in love with a shadow of authority.

Snape fell silent, breathing hard. He was fighting himself. Every second stripped another layer of resistance from him. There was no nobility in denying it anymore. Only pain.

"You think you know what you're doing. But you have no idea what I could do to you."

She stepped forward, her eyes locked on his.

"Then show me."

What followed was silence — ruptured, fragile — just before the inevitable surrender.

He grabbed her by the nape. Their mouths collided like a thunderclap, like steel drawn to steel.

His kiss was fury. Hers, hunger.

Amid muffled moans and desperate hands, their bodies crashed together. No tenderness. No permission. Only instinct.

Snape slammed her against the stone wall of the hideout, his fingers digging into her hips as if to prove he could still control something — anything. She moaned, clutching his shoulders with her nails.

"We shouldn't..." he whispered against her mouth. "Tell me to stop."

"We already started. And you know damn well I won't."

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the old desk. With a flick of his wand, scrolls and vials scattered across the floor. He laid her down, never breaking eye contact. There was fear. There was guilt. But above all, there was raw, undeniable desire.

Hermione wouldn't have guessed that only days before he had seemed so weak. Now he was resolute — her legs wrapped around him, and she could feel his heat, his strength, his scent.

Her breathing was heavy, thick with unspoken truths. They lost their clothes between kisses, between trembling hands and urgent mouths.

Every touch was a muffled scream, a silent plea that this never should have happened — and also that it never end.

They didn't make love.

They unmade each other.

And when it was over, lying among books and ashes, both in silence, Snape turned his face to the ceiling and whispered:

"Do you hate me now?"

Hermione answered without hesitation:

"No."

And that shattered him more than if she'd said yes.

--------------------------------------

The smell of burning still hung in the air — melted candles, dried ink, defiled longing.

Hermione stirred slowly atop the cold surface of the desk. The conjured sheet barely covered her, and her muscles ached in ways she could not name. Not from pain — but from the weight of what it all meant.

Snape stood, already dressed. Rigid. His back turned to her.

The silence was worse than any scream. And the thing she feared most was unfolding before her — He was regretting it.

"Are you going to pretend it didn't happen?" she asked, voice rough.

He gave no reply. Stood motionless, fists clenched.

"Look at me."

Nothing.

Hermione slid to the floor, the sheet slipping off her shoulders. She dressed quickly — not out of shame, but pride. Crossed her arms. Stepped closer.

"Did you use me?"

That made him turn. Slowly. His face unreadable, his black eyes fathomless.

"I used myself on you."

"That's not what I asked."

He inhaled sharply. For a moment, it seemed he might speak the truth. But then the mask returned.

"We never should have done that. It won't happen again."

"Oh, brilliant. That's it, then? Done? Scrubbed from memory?"

She paused, then, anger swelling.

"You really think you can just say 'Obliviate' and this all disappears?"

He turned away again, heading toward the shelves.

"It's not safe for you to be involved with me. This will destroy your reputation. Your future. You have no idea what this means beyond these walls."

"You can't just play with people's emotions, Severus. This is not a mission of yours, neither a game." — she cursed him internally, that man would drive her crazy.

Hermione strode after him, forcing him to face her.

"You're not afraid for me. You're afraid for yourself."

He bit his lower lip. His jaw trembled. But he didn't deny it.

Before she could speak again, a magical crack tore through the air.

They raised their wands instantly.

But it wasn't an attack.

It was a perimeter alert.

"Someone found the hideout," Hermione whispered.

Snape moved swiftly, pulling aside a magical curtain. His eyes scanned the outer field. A shadow moved — quickly, dark robes, silent steps.

"An Auror. Alone." He narrowed his gaze. "Shit. Mackmish."

Hermione paled.

"He's known for acting without orders..."

"He wants to catch a war spy," Snape muttered, casting a concealment charm toward the ceiling. "And maybe... break a witch along the way."

They had minutes. Maybe less.

Hermione grabbed his wrist.

"Run. I'll handle it."

"No."

"Severus!"

"I've run enough, Hermione."

And she saw. For the first time, she saw: He wasn't tired. He was hollow.

That night between them had been a gasp of life in a man who had already surrendered to death. And now, the weight was back.

"You're going to let them take you?"

"Only if they make you forget me first."

She raised her wand. Her hands trembled.

But before they could choose which madness to commit, the perimeter charm rang again.

This time — twice.

"Another?" she breathed.

Snape rushed to the enchanted window. Outside, another figure emerged from the gloom. It wasn't an Auror.

It was Draco Malfoy.

"He knows," Snape murmured. "He's hunting us."

Hermione clicked her tongue, thinking fast.

"We have to go. Now."

But burning hotter than the danger outside was the raw certainty between them:

They had crossed a line. And there was no return.

To run was to survive. To stay was to confess. But neither had time for regrets.

And no room left to deny what they had been — in each other's bodies.

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter nine)

The temporary refuge Hermione had arranged for Snape lay on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole, hidden among ruins protected by ancient enchantments. It was damp and dim, nearly windowless. He had never complained — perhaps because he knew he had no right to demand comfort.

She arrived near twilight, after the Ministry uproar had begun to settle. She didn't knock. She simply walked in.

Snape sat by the hearth, hands folded over his knees, silent. Clad in black as always, but now with the hollow look of someone who hadn't slept.

She stopped before him.

Silence.

"I saw you," she said. "In the memory."

He lifted his eyes. Did not move.

"I didn't want to," she went on. "But I can't forget it. It keeps echoing in my head — the why of it. It was impulse. Anger. I know it was wrong. But now... it's here. Lodged inside me."

He looked away, jaw clenched.

"Then say what you came to say and go."

"You desired me. No... you desire me."

Snape closed his eyes as if she had driven a blade through his chest.

"I tried... to forget."

"But you didn't."

"No." The word escaped like a forced confession. "And every time I remember, I hate myself a little more."

She drew a breath and stepped closer.

"Why?"

He looked at her — furious, ashamed, vulnerable.

"Because you were my student. Because I watched you grow up. Because thinking of you that way makes me feel like a filthy, cowardly bastard. And because you saw. You saw what no one ever should. What even I couldn't bear to face."

Hermione sat down in front of him. Too close. A battlefield between two bodies trying not to touch.

"That wasn't disgusting, Severus. It was human."

"You don't understand—"

"I do. Because I... I desired you, too. It wasn't logical, or safe. It just... happened. I hated feeling it. But I hated hiding it even more."

His eyes sharpened — pain, shame, hunger mingling in his gaze.

"What do you want me to say? That I dreamt of your body? That I lost control like some idiotic adolescent? That I touched myself whispering your name?"

She didn't flinch. Held his gaze. Steady.

"Yes. I want you to say it. I want you to stop pretending this doesn't exist."

"And then what?" he snapped. "You'll forgive me? Pity me? Pretend it doesn't terrify you that a man as broken as I am desires someone like you? Or will you run — as you should?"

He didn't know which answer he feared more, but he knew the last would ruin him.

"I'm not a girl. And you are not a filthy coward. You are one of the bravest men I've ever known. After all, it takes courage to spy on the Dark Lord."

For a moment, only the fire spoke.

Then, in a low voice, almost a whisper, he said:

"I touched myself thinking of you, Hermione. I imagined your skin, your mouth, the things I should never want. And then... I punished myself with shame and disgust."

She closed her eyes, reeling from the weight of his words.

When she opened them again, she was closer. She reached for his hand. A small gesture — but final.

He didn't pull away.

"And what if I said I did the same?" she murmured. "What if I touched myself thinking of you?"

His face twisted — pain and fascination warring within.

"This shouldn't be happening."

"But it is."

They stood on the edge. Two souls wrecked by a desire neither dared name.

She could feel the tension in him — taut fingers, ragged breath. The desire hadn't left. It was alive. Tangible. And still, he denied it.

"I'm leaving," she said, rising. "But don't think we're pretending this didn't happen. You're not alone in this mess, Severus. And I won't let you hide from me."

She had called him brave — but he had never seen anyone braver, brighter, or more piercing than her.

He didn't answer. He only watched her go.

But something inside him shattered. And something else began to form.

Three days passed.

Hermione did not return to the refuge.

And it devoured him.

Snape paced the walls like a caged creature. Read. Reread. Burned parchment out of sheer frustration. At every noise outside, he raised his head, half hoping she might appear.

But she didn't.

"Good," he told himself. "Better this way. Let her stay away. Let her forget me."

Then, on the evening of the fourth day, the door creaked.

She entered. Hollow-eyed. Pale. Her hair tied in a crooked bun, shoulders drawn like wire.

"Hermione...?"

"I need to speak with you," she said, voice dry.

"Haven't we said enough?"

She stepped forward, angry. More than she meant to be.

"No. We haven't. I spent three days trying to forget what I saw. What I felt. What you said. And I failed."

Snape folded his arms, body rigid, face a mask.

"So you came for what? An apology? Remorse?"

"Stop pretending you feel nothing. I was inside your mind, Severus. I saw you. No mask. No sarcasm. And the truth is — you want me. And I want you."

"You want?!" He surged forward, eyes ablaze. "You think you want. You're confused. Caught in this emotional illusion bred by tension and war. This is loneliness. Trauma. Delusion."

"Liar!" she shouted. "If it were a delusion, it would have faded. But it burns in me like fever."

Snape fell silent, breathing hard. He fought himself. Each second stripped away his final line of defense. There was no nobility left in resisting. Only pain.

"You think you know what you're doing. But you have no idea what I could do to you."

She stepped forward, eyes locked on his.

"Then show me."

What followed was silence. A breathless moment torn by surrender.

He pulled her by the nape. Their mouths met — like fire, like steel.

His lips were furious. Hers, starving.

Amid muffled groans and hands that no longer knew restraint, their bodies collided. No tenderness. No permission. Only need.

Snape pressed her against the stone wall of the refuge, fingers digging into her hips like a man desperate to control something. She moaned, digging her nails into his shoulders.

"We shouldn't—" he whispered against her mouth.

"We already are."

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the old desk. With a flick of his wand, scrolls and vials scattered. He laid her there, never breaking her gaze. There was fear. There was guilt. But above all, there was raw, irredeemable desire.

She parted her legs for him, drawing him closer. Breath thick, wet with words unsaid.

Clothes were lost between kisses, fingers, and shivers.

Every touch was a stifled scream, a silent plea that this never should have happened — and yet, never end.

They didn't make love.

They came undone.

And when it was over, lying between books and ashes, silent, Snape turned his face to the ceiling and murmured:

"Do you hate me now?"

Hermione answered without hesitation:

"No."

And that broke him more than if she'd said yes.

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter eight)

The main atrium of the Ministry of Magic had been transfigured. The once white marble floor now bore an ancient rune etched in scorched gold, its lines pulsing with living light — an archaic spell of truth detection. On the wall behind the judges' dais, a magical pyre burned with bluish-gray flames that flickered in time with the mounting tension in the air.

Hermione stood alone at the center of the circle.

Alone.

The galleries brimmed with watchful eyes. Auror Lupin watched her with sorrow in his gaze. Kingsley Shacklebolt — now Interim Minister — remained rigid, torn between duty and loyalty. Higher up, Draco Malfoy sat, eyes narrowed, observing the proceedings with barely veiled disdain and curiosity. She had no idea what was coming, no inkling of what Draco Malfoy was scheming by placing himself at the heart of the storm.

Harry and Ron were being held in separate chambers.

The Process of Ethical Restoration had officially begun.

The inquisitor's voice rang out, magically amplified:

"Miss Granger, you are to be subjected to selective memory review for the purposes of historical reconstruction regarding the events between April 30th and May 2nd. Do you wish to raise an objection?"

She lifted her chin, heart hammering.

"Yes. I do."

"On what grounds?"

"Right to mental privacy, guaranteed under the Wizarding Accord of 1762. I offer a full verbal account of the events — no Legilimency required."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"Have you something to hide?"

She did not answer. She didn't need to. It was never about the truth. It was about control — and what better way to control wizards than to master their memories?

At the far end of the chamber, cloaked in an invisibility illusion, Severus Snape watched. His breathing was shallow. Chest tight. Hands cold.

Will she use Occlumency? Is she ready? And if she isn't...?

What if she lets them in?

Perhaps he feared more what they would see in London than what they would learn of his survival. She could give them away his location, his very existence — even unwillingly. They would devour her alive. And yet, the thought of her being sentenced to Azkaban terrified him more than his own death.

The witch-judge raised her hand.

"Objection overruled. Legilimency is an authorized method of factual reconstruction under wartime protocols. It will be applied in a controlled fashion."

To the side, a tall wizard with silver eyes — a Ministry legilimens — raised his wand.

Hermione felt panic climb her spine like fire.

She tried to close her mind. To build walls. Labyrinths.

But she could feel the enchantment pressing in. He was entering. Far too easily.

Something's wrong.

Snape...

Her mind splintered.

The alley in London. The forbidden spell. The fight. She on her knees.

And then — the images of Snape. Not the recent ones. But the raw memories from the night before. Surfacing like predators in the water.

I can't let them see this.

High in the gallery, Snape moved.

He tore through the illusion. Shattered the concealment spells.

Gasps rang out.

"Cease the Legilimency. Now!" — his voice thundered through the chamber.

The inquisitor stumbled back, startled.

The crowd turned in shock.

"Snape?" "But he—" "He was dead!"

Snape descended the stairs like a storm about to ignite the world.

"Miss Granger was trained under my supervision to guard information crucial to magical security. Any attempt to forcibly penetrate her mind now would violate the post-war containment directives."

"You're defying the Ministry?" the judge asked, incredulous.

"I am defying ignorance masquerading as justice. And if you dare enter her mind again... you'll answer to me."

The silence that followed was suffocating — as dense as a Muggle gag spell.

Hermione couldn't breathe. She wanted to scream, to run to him, to punch him and embrace him all at once.

He came. For me.

Later, she found him in the dark corridors of the Ministry's east wing, while officials deliberated his fate.

"You revealed everything. Now everyone knows you're alive."

Snape leaned against the wall. Pale. Eyes black as ink.

"I couldn't watch it. You weren't ready. And they would have... seen too much."

She stepped closer.

"Why did you do it?"

He hesitated.

Then said:

"Because despite everything... Despite the shame, the desire, the loathing I carry for myself... I still care."

Hermione closed her eyes, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"I don't know what to do with that."

"Neither do I."

The tension remained — thick, almost unbearable — but something had changed.

Now, both knew what they had been trying so desperately to deny.

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter seven)

The atmosphere in the wizarding world, once filled with relief and reconstruction, had grown heavy.

The Ministry — under pressure from conservative sectors, influential families, and the ever-lingering fear of darkness returning — had initiated what they called the "Process of Ethical Restoration."

In practice, it meant a witch hunt.

And the target was now clear: Harry, Ron, and Hermione. The Golden Trio.

The justification was simple and cruel: three youths had succeeded where dozens of Aurors had failed. They had made decisions alone, used dark spells, infiltrated magical institutions, and played a part in Voldemort's death. Alone. Without supervision.

"Were they heroes... or criminals? Only memories will tell."

Thus it was announced: A trial. With legislative philosophers and Legilimens inquisitors.

Hermione sat by the fire in the chamber where Snape still lived. Her face pale, fingers interlaced, body rigid. He read a letter — the official summons, stamped with the golden seal of the Department of Magical Order.

When he finished, he said only:

"This is an institutional abomination."

She didn't answer immediately. After a few long seconds, she raised her eyes.

"Can you teach me Occlumency?"

Snape's brow furrowed.

"To resist the inquisitors' mental invasion?"

She nodded. She knew the theory, of course — but she knew she wasn't ready. They wouldn't show her mercy. That much was certain.

"I need to protect a part of my mind. A part that... happened in London. On the eve of the Battle of Hogwarts. I did things they won't understand. Things Harry and Ron don't fully know. Things I... still don't know if I understand."

Snape was silent for a long moment.

"You know what you're asking? Occlumency isn't an invisible shield. It's diving into your own mind — with someone else watching. If I teach you... if I enter... I'll see things you can't hide from me. Or from yourself."

"I trust you," she said — and for the first time, the weight of those words hit him like a silent spell. "Besides, if it becomes too personal, you can always pull out."

Snape stared into the fire for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"Tomorrow. After sunset. Bring your memories in order. Or they will betray you."

The next night, the chamber was dimly lit. A single candle trembled in the corner, and the scent of eucalyptus and old ink filled the air. Hermione sat cross-legged on a cushion. Snape was in front of her, wand in hand.

"Are you ready?"

She nodded. Nervous, but doing her best to hold onto confidence.

"Remember," he said in that low, steady voice. "You mustn't merely resist. You must redirect. Create labyrinths. Trick your own subconscious."

She closed her eyes.

He raised his wand.

"Legilimens."

Hermione's mind opened like a book that did not want to be read.

And he read.

A battlefield. Flames. An alley in London. A forbidden spell. Blood.

Hermione fighting two Death Eaters, completely alone. Wild-eyed. Casting spells no Hogwarts professor had ever dared teach. A desperate woman. Merciless.

And then — something else. Something Snape did not expect.

The memory shifted.

Hermione kneeling in an attic, eyes brimming with tears, trembling. A letter in her hands. A photo of her parents — smiling, unaware of who she was.

Then... another memory.

Hermione, standing before a mirror, bare from the waist up, touching her own body as if trying to remember she was alive.

The shame, the rage, the loneliness. All there. Raw, real.

And suddenly — his image.

Snape.

In the memory, she was thinking of him. His name murmured like a curse. Like a prayer for help. A desire she herself refused to admit.

Snape tore himself from her mind as if thrown out by force. The spell broke violently.

He stumbled two steps back, face pale, breathing like a man who had just surfaced from drowning.

"You..." he whispered, stunned. "You... thought of me?"

Hermione was motionless, her face stricken with tears — not of sorrow, but shame. And fear.

"I told you to stop if it became too much. But you didn't."

He turned away. He could feel her voice behind him — furious and betrayed — but all he'd wanted was to push her mind as far as it would go. He hadn't meant to see that. But if he had known... would he have done anything differently?

Then, he wielded the only weapon he truly understood: attack.

"You do realize," he said with a dry, scathing laugh, "there are far more interesting men out there. Younger. Good samaritans. Perhaps a bit less... socially repulsive."

"Stop."

"Or is this one of those masochistic fantasies — brilliant student, cruel professor?" His smile was pure poison. "Never understood that fetish."

Hermione was silent for a beat. Then fury began to rise, slow and burning.

Fury for having trusted. For having exposed herself. For him turning it into a bitter joke.

"Funny..." she said coldly. "That you think it was only a fetish." "And if that's all it was," her eyes flashed dangerously, "then you won't mind if I return the favor."

Snape's eyes widened.

But it was too late.

Hermione raised her wand with sharp precision and said, firmly:

"Legilimens."

Snape tried to pull away — but he was wide open. Defenseless. His mental walls still fragile from before.

And she entered.

A dimly lit bed. A warm night. Snape lying down, eyes fixed on the ceiling, hands trembling.

He tried to resist. Whispered to himself: "Stop. Stop. This is sick."

But then the image formed: Hermione. Shirt unbuttoned just enough. Hair loose.

Nothing explicit. But enough to set his mind ablaze.

His hands moved. Slowly. His face twisted in shame.

And later: the regret. The nausea. Curled in on himself, hours later, like a wounded animal, whispering:

"She's just a girl. You're a cowardly bastard."

Hermione broke out of the memory with a gasp — as if falling from a cliff.

Snape was already standing. His eyes burned with hatred.

"You invaded my mind."

"You mocked mine," she spat. "You humiliated me. I wanted to understand why. Now I do."

He stepped forward, like a shadow fueled by fury.

"That... you were never meant to see that. It was private." - he felt assaulted. But didn't she too?

"You don't understand! I didn't want that!" he shouted, shame crashing into rage. "I hate myself for it!"

It wasn't what she wanted to hear. That just the thought of having touched himself while thinking of her made him want to puke. She felt wrong. Ashamed. As though she were the one who crossed a line. Even though he had gone first.

She felt dirty. It was wrong. She should've done none of it. But for a moment, she had hoped — maybe some rules were worth breaking. For him.

She bit her lip. Disgusted with herself. With him. With everything they now knew about each other.

"Then we're both the same," she said. If he was going to make her feel filthy, she would drag him into the same mire.

Silence.

Heavy. Tainted.

Snape turned his back sharply, as though he could no longer stand the sight of her. This time, she had gone too far. But damn his hypocrisy. He had invaded her first — seen the most private, tender parts of her soul. He wasn't a martyr. Just a man. A hypocrite.

"Get out."

Hermione hesitated.

"Severus..."

"GET OUT!" he roared, voice cracking, somewhere between fury and collapse.

She left. But the air between them remained poisoned, even after the door closed.

That night, neither of them slept.

Hermione stared at the ceiling, trying to erase from her mind the image of Snape desiring her. Trying not to remember how much he loathed himself for it. Trying not to wonder why that hurt her so deeply.

Snape, alone in the dark, felt exposed. Violated. Mocked by his own reflection.

But more than anything — he felt something worse:

Desire. Still. And now... she knew.

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter six)

The days that followed were quieter than usual.

Not the comfortable silence from before — but the kind that carries weight. The kind filled with everything left unsaid.

Hermione and Snape moved around each other with careful choreography, like two bodies in orbit, avoiding collisions they both knew could be fatal. She treated him with clinical gentleness, as if trying to convince herself it was only that. He treated her with his usual sarcasm — but something in his demeanor had changed.

More tense. More alert. More... restrained.

At times, she barely recognized herself. Because unlike her former self — the one who would've hated the mere idea of breathing the same air as the insufferable Professor Snape — her present self recoiled at the thought of leaving him behind.

One night, she awoke with the distinct sense that something was wrong. And it was.

Snape had a fever.

"It's a delayed reaction to the potion," he murmured as she appeared in the darkness. "The dosage is flawed. Not surprising, given that its creator was far too distracted."

Merlin, she remembered how intolerable he could be — irritable and bitter. She was busy saving his life, yet somehow he still found time between life and death to criticize her.

"Shut up, Severus," she whispered, kneeling beside him, breathless.

He was sweating, trembling. She dampened a cloth and pressed it against his neck. His breathing was shallow.

"Keep still," she ordered.

Snape let out a raspy chuckle.

"You're always giving me orders, aren't you?"

She glared at him.

"You're burning from the inside, and still you find time for insolence?"

He turned his face away, fever-bright eyes distant. And then he muttered:

"Insolence is what happens every time you touch me and pretend you feel nothing."

Hermione froze.

Her hand on the cloth. His eyes on her.

"You're delirious," she said coldly. But something warm stirred in her chest.

"I'm lucid," he shot back. "And tired of pretending not to notice the way your breath changes when you're near. Or how you look at me when you think I don't see."

She pulled her hand back. Stood abruptly.

"This isn't right."

"Of course it isn't," he said, still lying down. "It's absolutely wrong. That's precisely what makes it so... powerful."

It's wrong to want — but it feels so right. He didn't say it. But he thought it.

Hermione took two steps back, as if fleeing something about to consume her.

"You were my professor."

"And now I'm your burden."

"Don't say that."

Even burdened as she was by the confessions of a fevered Snape, she wouldn't let him diminish himself like that in front of her. He wasn't a burden. He was a man — a human being — who, despite his mistakes, had fought bravely against the Dark Lord and all his darkness.

She wanted to believe his words. If only he had the courage to say them when he wasn't burning with fever.

He sat up with effort, sweat dripping down his temples.

"You're what — twenty-something, Granger? And you have an entire life ahead of you. You're caring for a broken man, scarred, loathed by half the magical world. That should repel you. But it doesn't. Why not?"

She stepped closer again. Her eyes shone not with anger — but something worse: understanding.

"Because I'm scarred too. Because... I don't know where I belong either, Severus."

The way she said his name — low, intimate — made him shiver.

She was close now. So close he could smell the faint, clean scent of her hair. And for the first time, there was no pain, no sarcasm, no shield.

Only them.

And the forbidden space between, like a line of fire.

Hermione touched his hand. Their fingers intertwined in a gesture that wasn't romantic — it was human.

"I don't want this," she whispered.

"Neither do I."

Yet neither of them let go.

Desire is a silent creature.

It creeps along the skin.

And hides in the places that hurt the most.

They stared at each other for long, suspended seconds. Then — as if some force even greater than desire pulled them back to reason — she rose.

"You need to rest, get some sleep."

She turned before her will betrayed her. And walked to the far end of the room, without looking back.

Snape remained still, his chest rising and falling like a man who had just battled an invisible Patronus.

And he thought: She is too much light. And I am what remains when the light dies.

But he said nothing.

Because sometimes, the deepest confession is the silence of one who nearly crossed the line — and chose not to.

Yet.

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter five)

The Concealment Charm veiling the chamber where Snape remained hidden was ancient, intricate, and subtle. A tangled web of enchantments, spatial distortions, and magical silence.

But it was not perfect.

No spell is, when cast by one emotionally compromised.

And Hermione was.

That morning, when she had left the castle for only a few minutes to retrieve a rare mandrake from Professor Sprout’s gardens, someone had arrived.

A crack. A shift in the air.

Hermione felt it.

She sensed that the protective and cloaking enchantment might have stirred — someone might have attempted to breach it… or had Snape been foolish enough to try to flee, despite being far too weakened?

She didn’t know which it was. But fear trembled through her all the same, and she ran back, heart tightening with every step.

At the spiral staircase leading down to the chamber, she caught sight of a man’s shadow atop the hill of the outer courtyard. He wore the Ministry’s green robes. A magical detector glinted on his wrist — a recent invention, sensitive to hidden magic.

He hadn’t found the entrance yet.

But he was close.

Snape was already standing, wand in hand, as though he had known.

When Hermione appeared, breathless, he murmured:

“They’re coming.”

She nodded, pale.

“A man from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. With a tracker.”

“And you cast a secrecy charm laced with emotional instability?”

“I didn’t expect you to be... confusing me, Severus.”

He turned away sharply. But something in the way she spoke his name silenced him.

“We need to deactivate the chamber. Move you,” she said, slipping back into her practical tone. “But where?”

Snape met her gaze.

“There’s an old refuge beneath the Astronomy Wing. Salazar built it. No map of Hogwarts mentions it.”

“Can you walk?”

He didn’t answer. He stepped forward. Stumbled. Hermione caught him.

The touch was firm, necessary — but the effect on both of them was visceral.

“Lean on me,” she ordered, her voice trembling.

And he did.

Fifteen minutes of silence and shadow followed. They descended through forgotten tunnels, hid behind sentient tapestries, crossed hallways long abandoned since Dumbledore’s time.

Hermione realized something along the way: Snape trusted her.

Not out of kindness — but efficiency.

And that, from him, was rarer than praise. Perhaps he was finally seeing her as she was, not as the girl desperate for her professor’s approval.

When at last they reached the hidden refuge — a small vaulted chamber, its walls enchanted against detection — Hermione whispered the sealing spell and locked them inside.

The silence that followed was almost painful.

Snape sank down, breath ragged.

Hermione knelt before him, pulling a vial from her satchel.

“God, it’s too soon for this, too soon for you to have pushed yourself this far. Have you ever not been running?” she murmured, pressing a damp cloth to the wound he had torn open during the escape.

“I was born running, Granger. I merely learned to do it in more elegant circles.”

She looked at him, weary.

“You could thank me.”

“I could, yes. But you know my gratitude comes laced with insults. Let’s not ruin this almost-civilized moment.”

A silence, broken only by the faintest smile.

Hers.

He looked at her for several long seconds. Then, unexpectedly, raised a hand to her chin. Still smeared with dried blood, still trembling — but gentle.

Hermione did not flinch.

“Are you afraid?” she asked, not knowing if it was a challenge or a confession.

He took his time to answer.

“Not of dying.”

“Then of what?”

He swallowed hard.

“Of… feeling something. I cannot allow.”

There, the invisible marks they'd carried since the first touch became visible:

The gaze that lingered too long.

The body leaning, unconsciously.

The breath caught halfway in the throat.

Hermione placed her hand over his, still resting on her cheek.

“You already are,” she said, her voice low.

Snape pulled back. Rose abruptly.

“Leave. I need fresh air.”

“There is no pure air here, Severus.”

“Then take your purity with you and leave me with my demons.”

She didn’t argue.

But she didn’t leave, either.

She remained, seated against the opposite wall, as he paced in circles. Just thinking of the madness they were in — as if the tangle of her feelings for the sarcastic, bitter Professor Snape weren’t enough, now the Ministry was hunting them. But why?

Perhaps she knew the answer, though it made no sense. How could they have known Snape was still alive? Or maybe they've come for her...

The questions only grew, while the answers thinned into shadows.

Neither of them spoke again that night.

But they knew:

Something had changed.

Again.

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter four)

Routine was what kept them whole. Even the smallest break left cracks.

Hermione had left at dawn. She said only:

"I need to retrieve something from the Ministry. I'll be back before nightfall."

She seemed unsettled, but Snape himself was drowning in a whirlpool of confusion and thoughts — so he didn't notice the shift in her voice.

He merely nodded, eyes never lifting from his book. Yet the moment she disappeared through the concealment charm that sealed the chamber, the air thickened. The silence became deafening.

The hours dragged.

He tried to stay occupied. Read. Jotted down a few notes. Meditated.

But beneath it all, one thought echoed, persistent and poisonous:

She's not coming back.

Maybe she'd grown tired of playing nurse. Maybe she'd realized she was sheltering a man the world had discarded. Or maybe, a darker voice whispered, she'd finally told someone.

Or perhaps, he thought bitterly, she simply no longer cared.

Snape wanted to pretend it didn't bother him. But pretending was hard.

When twilight began to stain the underground chamber with a faint golden hue, a knot settled in his stomach—tight and unfamiliar.

It wasn't fear.

It was something dirtier. Abandonment.

When Hermione finally reappeared — sweaty, exhausted, clutching a folder of parchments — she found Snape on his feet, eyes gleaming like freshly honed blades.

"I've been gone twelve hours," she said between breaths. "What is it?"

"You should have said something," he snapped.

Had he paused, had he thought for even a second, he might have caught the urgency in his own voice — might have softened it. The last thing he wanted was to sound needy of her.

But he did.

She stopped, caught off guard.

"I told you."

"You told me you'd be back before nightfall. That you'd return. And you didn't."

Hermione blinked. There was something off about his anger. It wasn't just frustration.

It was fear, poorly masked.

She set the folder down on a makeshift table.

"You think I would leave you? Now?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what to think, Granger. You astonish me daily. Saving the life of a man you detest, hiding him from the world, wasting your days in a mold-ridden cellar — what should I assume? That you've a taste for martyrdom?"

Her fists clenched.

"You think everything is about you?"

"In this case, yes. I'm the one in hiding. I'm the one declared dead. And I'm the one who woke today wondering if I'd been abandoned. By the only person who looks at me without pure contempt."

Silence shattered around them like glass.

Hermione drew a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice was low.

"I don't despise you, Snape. I just... I don't know what to feel about you. And that alone exhausts me."

His eyes widened — just slightly. But he said nothing.

She stepped closer.

"You think it's all sarcasm and resentment. But it's not. There's something here that..." — She swallowed hard. — "That even I don't understand. And you pretend not to see it."

He didn't move.

Hermione was close now. Close enough to smell the tea he'd drunk earlier. To see the thin scar at his neck. To notice that his eyes — dark as they were — were locked on her. And they held no anger.

They held something raw.

A thick, breathless silence hung between them.

And then — as if some magnetic pull drew their bodies forward — she moved half a step.

And so did he.

The air between them grew hot.

Hermione tilted her face upward. He lowered his.

It lasted only an instant. But it was almost.

She pulled away first. As though a spell had broken.

"I... I'll go put these away, I need to analyze some documents." she said, voice unsteady.

She turned her back on him.

It was too much. Too confusing. She was overwhelmed — by Snape, by the gnarl of emotions she didn't want to name, by the Ministry, by the ruins and grief the war had left in its wake. She was tired. Bone-tired.

Exhausted from everything.

Sometimes, she just wanted to run.

Snape stood frozen, jaw clenched, heart pounding like something inside him had burst — though he didn't know what it was.

The crack had opened. And both were afraid to cross it.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The next day, Hermione did not return.

No note. No warning. No excuse. She simply vanished, as though the “almost” of the night before had left a trail of shame too deep to scrub clean.

Snape woke, and for the second time in two days, he felt his old sense of control crumble.

But this time, he wasn’t angry.

He didn’t read. He didn’t write. He just thought.

Thought too much.

In one corner of the chamber stood an old mirror, dusty and neglected. Hermione had brought it, insisting he use it to observe the healing process. He never did. He’d always loathed his reflection — now more than ever.

But that day, he stepped toward it.

He looked.

The glass revealed a man aged by grief, by war, by memories that refused to dull. His hand lifted — almost unconsciously — to the thin mark at his neck.

And there, without intending to, he thought of her.

Of Hermione’s eyes — brown, but never the same. There was a fierce spark in them, a restless kindness. A brilliance that constantly challenged him. And now, a tension that made him feel things he should not feel.

"She is young."

"She was one of your students."

"She is... far too alive."

Shame crawled up his spine.

And with it, something hotter, more dangerous, something that scorched his throat. As if his body remembered things he had long since buried.

Desire.

Not only of the flesh, but of something deeper — something she embodied: Courage. Dignity. Persistence. She made him feel alive. And for a man like him, that was unbearable.

But if it was so unthinkable — why was it never enough? Why did he crave more? More of her voice, her presence, her touch?

"You are a broken man, Severus. You’ve no right to want a girl like her."

He turned away from the mirror, disgusted with himself.

Even as he acknowledged she had grown — become a woman, a striking one — he could not shake the truth that he had seen her grow. That he could not, should not, feel this way.

He wanted it to feel wrong.

Like everything else he’d ever done.

But this — Hermione — felt so damn right, it hurt to imagine the day she would stop caring. The day she would see him as the rest did:

A Death Eater who didn’t deserve to survive what the war had left behind.

Meanwhile, Hermione walked briskly through the narrow streets of Diagon Alley, her steps quick, her expression feigning normalcy.

She carried documents, yes. But what weighed her down was what she didn’t carry: Answers.

She found Harry outside an old bookshop, surrounded by dusty stacks of Order records.

“You disappeared,” he said at once. “Everything all right?”

Hermione hesitated. Offered a lopsided smile.

“Yeah. Just... tired. Needed some air.”

“And where’ve you been sleeping? Gryffindor Tower doesn’t look touched.”

She looked away.

“I’ve been staying in a closed-off wing. I need silence to sort the investigations. Still too many loose ends since the Fall.”

Harry nodded, though his eyes were uncertain.

“You seem... different.”

She swallowed hard. And thought:

"I feel different."

But said nothing. She changed the subject — began talking about records, confiscated wands, and the Ministry’s magical inventory.

Useful lies.

Shortly after, she slipped into a more uncomfortable, confidential discussion.

She began mapping a strategy — what they’d do about the Ministry’s quiet probe into events leading up to the battle in London — ensuring she kept her tone neutral, her words coded.

That night, Hermione returned to the cellar.

Snape was seated, a closed book in his lap.

The silence that met her was not hostile. It was simply too heavy for hostility.

She didn’t know what to say. Neither did he.

“I brought the new salve,” she said at last.

He nodded.

She stepped closer, and he undid the collar of his shirt so she could apply it to the scar. Her fingers met his skin — and a shiver passed through him.

Neither of them spoke of it.

But both felt it.

And for the first time in days, what lingered between them was not sarcasm.

It was vulnerability.

Hermione finished the dressing. But she didn’t move away.

She remained close — too close. And whispered:

“...You feel it too. Don’t you?”

Sometimes she thought her mind played tricks on her, convincing her she was imagining things. Snape liking her? Snape showing anything but scorn? Surely not.

But in his eyes, just now — she saw it. The same storm that raged in her.

Snape held her gaze. There was no answer.

But there was something else.

Something undeniable.

He could have touched her. She wouldn’t have stopped him.

But he didn’t.

Because the desire was real.

And they weren’t yet ready to face its consequence.

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter three)

Routine had become a silent theatre.

Hermione brought food, potions, clean clothes — and whenever possible, new books to keep her company while she watched over him. Snape remained mostly silent, either lying on the conjured cot or pacing slowly across the narrow stone chamber like a caged wolf. The damp stone walls of the Hogwarts dungeons muffled all sound from the outside world — down there, time and reality felt suspended.

He didn't yet have the strength to run.

She didn't yet have the courage to tell anyone he was alive.

Their coexistence was — at best — tense.

"You make an unbearable noise when you turn pages," he muttered one stifling afternoon.

Hermione, sitting with a book in her lap, slowly lifted her eyes.

"And you breathe with the elegance of a troll with a head cold, but I manage."

He arched an eyebrow. He was seated on a stone chair, arms crossed, the scar on his neck visible beneath the open collar of his dark robes.

"That sharp tongue ever gotten you into trouble?"

"Only with people who deserve it," she replied coolly.

Silence fell again — thick as smoke. Hermione couldn't decide what unsettled her more: their constant barbed exchanges, or the strange heat that lingered after each one.

Snape watched her too much.

Even when he didn't mean to.

And she noticed.

So did he.

On colder nights, she cast a warming charm on the room. Once, while feeding the magical fire, she felt his eyes on her back — studying her, as if trying to understand why, in Merlin's name, she still came back each day. Why she hadn’t simply let him die. But not even she could fully answer that. She could pretend all she liked, but she was just as lost — if not more — than Snape himself.

She turned sharply.

"Are you hungry, or just analyzing me like a Potions experiment?"

"Both options sound equally indigestible.."

She scoffed and returned to her chair.

That night, neither of them slept. And it wasn’t the cold that kept them awake.

─────────────────────────────

The sound of the silver spoon tapping against glass was rhythmic, precise. Hermione stirred the mixture without once looking up, as though meeting Snape's eyes might make her forget why he was even there.

He watched in silence from the cot, still pale, his eyes so dark they looked like overripe blackberries.

"This must be new for you," she said without looking at him. "Being treated like a patient, instead of a jailer."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "As charming as always, Miss Granger. No wonder you were every professor's favorite."

"Except yours," she shot back. "Never did understand what was so offensive about having the right answers."

"Your insufferable need for validation was more exhausting than useful," he replied, disdain dripping from each word.

Hermione slammed the lid on the vial.

"You still act like you have the right to judge others after everything you did," she snapped.

"Oh, yes," he said, slowly. "Because I conducted myself with such grace as a double agent infiltrating the most brutal regime of our time."

"Don't use that as a shield," she spat, now facing him. "You chose to become a Death Eater. You chose to torture students. You chose to humiliate children for years. You only became a spy when Lily became a target. It was never about us. Never about the world. It was always about you — always."

She realized, in that moment, that maybe she'd gone too far — but did it matter? He deserved it. Of that she was sure. Right? Right, she told herself firmly. She held her posture — hard, defensive, mirroring him.

Something flickered in his eyes — barely visible. But then the wall went back up.

"And yet, here I am. A beneficiary of the mercy of one of my former pupils.'"

Hermione stepped closer. Anger burned in her veins, stronger than fear.

"I didn't save you because I forgive you. I saved you because no one — not even someone like you — should die without the world knowing the truth."

"And what truth is that, Miss Granger? That the villain cried in silence? That the executioner shed one final tear of regret?"

She hesitated. Just for a second.

"No. The truth that you were human all along. And that's a hell of a lot harder to accept than hating you."

The silence that followed was deeper than any before.

Snape looked away, as if her words had cut deeper than any blade ever had. Hermione returned to her book, flipping it open again — but this time, she couldn't focus on the words. Her mind wandered.

What she couldn't explain — what she tried desperately to ignore — was the new sensation that bloomed every time he spoke. That voice, deep and rough from the wound, but still steady. The way he looked at her when he thought she wouldn't notice. The way their silences were no longer empty, but full. Tense.

She didn't like him. That was certain.

But she could no longer see him as the bitter man who haunted her school years. He was thinner now, with deeper lines in his face, and a seriousness so constant it felt carved into stone. But now — unlike before — there was no audience. No students. No masks.

Just him.

And her.

And something... strange.

One late afternoon, days later, he surprised her.

"Why do you still come?"

She looked up. He stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“You saved me. You’ve done your part. Why keep coming back?”

Hermione paused for a few seconds before answering.

"Because you're still alive."

"That's not a good enough reason."

She stared at him.

"I don't know, Snape. Maybe it isn't. But if you're so desperate to die, you could at least wait until you can stand properly, couldn't you?"

He pressed his lips together. Almost smiled.

"You're insufferable."

"And you're ungrateful."

They stared at each other for long, long seconds.

Something passed between them. Not affection. Not desire.

Recognition. Recognition of the other's presence, maybe even familiarity. Something to ease the hollow ache left in the wake of everything they'd lost.

A shared enemy: loneliness.

That night, Hermione barely slept.

She dreamed of him.

Not a romantic dream. Not erotic. Stranger than that.

Snape, sitting across from her, saying things she couldn't understand — yet they made her tremble. He didn't touch her. But he looked at her as though he could see all of her. As though he knew.

When she woke, he was awake too.

Sitting up.

Watching her.

The tension was building. They both knew it. Neither understood it. No one said a word about it.

[severushotcup]

Ashes and Silence

(chapter two)

The silence in the underground chamber was as dense as the stone walls surrounding it.

Hermione lay curled up in a hastily conjured chair. Her messy brown hair framed a pale face, and one hand still rested in the pocket where she kept her wand. She wasn’t truly asleep — just caught in that light, restless doze that only comes after days without rest.

Then — there was a sound.

Soft. Dragging. Almost a whisper: a breath, ragged and growing stronger.

Severus Snape moved his head.

The light was dim, and his eyes took time to adjust. The arched ceiling, the damp stone walls, the cold scent of the air — he didn’t recognize the place, but his whole body told him one thing: he was still alive. The pain confirmed it — a cruel proof that Nagini hadn’t finished the job.

He tried to sit up.

Failed.

A low groan escaped his lips, and his hand flew to the side of his neck. Bandages. Layers of thick cloth. The pain was pulsing, dull — but no longer fatal.

He should have died.

Then came the sound of quick footsteps. The creak of the chair.

“Professor?”

Her voice.

Snape turned his head with effort. And saw her.

Hermione Granger.

Even in the dim light of her wand, glowing faintly, he could see her — tired, pale, startled — but alive. Real.

He blinked.

“Granger.”

Not a greeting. A statement. An irritation.

Disheveled. Tense. Eyes wide — but steady. Alive.

His mind processed slowly. Her eyes met his.

Damn it, he thought. I’m alive. She saved me.

“Professor Snape,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “You’re awake.” Not a question. “Good.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he muttered, voice rough and hoarse. He tried sitting up again, but the pain pulled him back with a quiet hiss. “Don’t you have anything better to do than play nurse to lost causes?”

Hermione looked at him, hands steady around a potion vial.

“You should be dead.”

“And I would be — if you had the slightest bit of sense,” he snapped.

Hermione blinked. Even near death, he remained sarcastic. An ungrateful traitor. But her tone didn’t soften.

“I was about to give up,” she said, pulling a bottle from her cloak pocket. “Not that I’m surprised. You’re too stubborn to even die properly.”

He tried to scoff. It hurt.

“Where…?”

“Hogwarts dungeons. An old, sealed-off Slytherin wing. I locked everything. No one in, no one out. Just me.”

He was quiet. The potions still clouded his mind, but slowly the puzzle pieces returned. The boathouse. The snake. Potter. Death.

“You should’ve left me,” he said coldly.

“Maybe,” Hermione replied, stepping closer with the potion. “But I couldn’t. Like it or not, you’re alive because of me. Try not to spit on that.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. He wanted to reply with mockery, sarcasm — anything to turn the blade back toward her.

But he was too weak. And she — she didn’t look sorry.

She placed the potion in his hands. He hesitated.

“Planning to poison me, Granger?”

“If I were, I’d have done it before stitching your neck back together.”

She crossed her arms. Their eyes locked. After a long pause, he drank.

The potion burned as it went down. Part of him hated that it was perfectly brewed. She was good. Annoyingly good.

“No one knows?” he asked after a moment.

“No. Not yet.” She glanced at the floor. “I don’t know how to tell them. Or if I should. The Ministry’s still trying to sort the bodies. And you are…”

“… officially dead,” he finished, a dry, twisted smile forming. “I imagine that’s a relief to many.”

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But not to me. I needed to understand. I needed the truth. And you… you’re the only one who can give it to me.”

He went silent.

There it was. The real reason. She hadn’t saved him out of kindness or pity. She needed answers. Truth mattered more than vengeance.

Almost worse.

“Then here’s your chance,” he said, eyes sharp now, colder. “Find out whether the monster was worth saving.”

Hermione held his gaze.

“You’re not a monster.”

“Oh Miss Granger, spare me the sweet words. We both know what I’ve done. If I’m not a monster in your eyes… I wonder what I’d have to do to become one.”

Silence dropped between them like a curtain — thick, hot, filled with something neither of them could name.

She turned to arrange the potions.

He watched her longer than he meant to.

Still a girl, to his eyes — but not really. There were shadows under hers. A strange control in every move. She had changed.

And, to his deep discomfort, she was the only thing standing between him and death.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t sure he still wanted to die.