Snape sat in his armchair. A good book and a calming cup of herbal tea were meant to bring this day to a reasonable close. Rarely had he allowed himself to be drawn into such an emotional confrontation as he had that afternoon with McGonagall. The last time might have been when he had tried to talk Dumbledore out of asking him to kill him. But this was different. What had come over him? His anger had erupted, completely uncontrolled.
For twenty years, discipline, rationality at any cost, and suppressing emotion had been his survival strategy. Yet today, in McGonagall's office, decades of repressed feelings had exploded. He no longer had to keep to his principles; he was a free man, bound to no one—finally able to do as he pleased. And in the very moment that realization took hold, McGonagall had appeared, treating him exactly as he had been treated his entire life: as a tool to be used because he had no choice.
He took a sip of scalding tea, set the cup back on the table, and began to read. The biography of an old Potions Master was supposed to send his thoughts traveling far from his new, unwanted reality. But a few pages in, he realized his eyes were only skimming the words, and he had absorbed little of the content. His mind was on its own journey. Hadn't he just gone over every detail of his emotional outburst point by point? He shook his head at himself. Again, the argument replayed in his mind—McGonagall's patronizing tone, her dismissive manner. Since his rescue, she had not visited him even once. A curt "Glad you're back" at the lunch table was all she had managed—just like all the others.
The newspapers were filled with sensational accounts of his dramatic rescue, but it was never about him—only about the fact that he had been saved. He was either made irrelevant or turned into scandalous gossip. One headline still echoed in his head: "He loved the mother and hated her son – the true reasons behind Severus Snape's life as a double agent." All of it true, and far from condemning anyone's reaction, he could hardly blame them. And yet, ever since the final battle, he had felt a growing need never again to be used for someone else's cause. If he had to leave his old life behind, then he would at least try to start a new one.
He drew the book closer, but his eyes refused to look at the letters.
Then there was Granger—yes. He could see her standing in front of him, blocking his way. She had politely asked for an appointment with him. No matter; she, like McGonagall, had only wanted to persuade him to stay at Hogwarts for selfish reasons. She had had tears in her eyes. Voldemort had made many people cry, and Snape had witnessed it countless times—tears of fear, pain, and horror. Granger's tears were different: they were of human disappointment. Merlin, she had even suggested he kill himself! Rational, precise Miss Granger. He could not fully interpret that moment, only that she had been just as out of control as he had been with McGonagall earlier.
His eyes returned to the printed page. Since Voldemort's death, he clearly had too much time on his hands. Never before would he have dwelt on such trivial matters. Which was better now, he wondered, draining the rest of his cup as if the tea could wash away his excess thoughts. Then, finally, he let himself sink into the next chapter.
---
Hermione shook her head as she slung her bag over her shoulder and left her room, a bottle of wine in hand. She had to be completely mad. The entire afternoon had been spent recovering from Snape's display in the Great Hall. Ron and Harry had done their best with their usual Snape-bashing to sway her, urging her to finally write him off as a hopeless case.
The walk from Gryffindor Tower down to the dungeons felt longer than ever. Why was she doing this? Why did she keep putting herself through it? Every single one of Ron and Harry's arguments was perfectly reasonable. Snape was a nasty piece of work, no doubt about it. Perhaps he had plenty of reasons to be the way he was, but there was no excuse for not at least trying to treat others more fairly. She was on the verge of committing herself to St Mungo's for mental instability. And yet, guilt hit her the moment she thought of the last words she'd hurled at him. She had told him to kill himself! What on earth had gotten into her? No matter how much he had provoked her, she should have controlled herself. She owed him an apology—at least for that.
The damp, cold scent of the dungeon air filled her nose, and her pulse quickened. Her courage faltered again as she stopped in front of the door to Snape's private chambers. She was wildly out of place here.
Her hand knocked before she could change her mind. He would almost certainly send her away with a few cutting words—if he bothered to open the door at all.
It was silent, and after what felt like an age, she heard footsteps approaching. The door opened painfully slowly. Snape stood before her, looking surprised.
"Good evening, sir," she forced out.
Hermione didn't dare meet his eyes. Instead, she held out the wine bottle. Before he could speak, she rushed on, hoping to head off his refusal.
"I… I thought we could share a glass of wine. I'm sorry about what I said earlier—about the potion… I didn't mean it the way it sounded."
Snape crossed his arms and looked down at her without a word. She was sure he was savoring her humbled demeanor.
"May I come in? Just for a moment, please," she asked, mustering all her remaining courage.
Snape stepped aside without changing his expression. He had an uncanny ability to wall off his emotions entirely; Hermione couldn't tell if he was about to tear her apart or not.
He closed the door behind her but didn't offer her a seat.
Hermione stayed where she was. "Believe me, I wanted to respect your last wish."
Snape was the picture of calm. The afternoon's aggression had been replaced by a strange sort of self-assurance.
At last, he broke his silence, his voice as cutting as ever:
"I survived, Miss Granger—quite literally. All my life, no one has cared what I wanted—not even Albus, as I finally discovered in the end. So feel free to take your place among the many who have ignored my wishes—my father, Voldemort, Dumbledore, McGonagall… I'm sure we can make room for you. And with that, the matter is closed. Understood?
"Why I should have a glass of wine with you is, frankly, a mystery. And where you find the nerve to ask me is equally baffling."
He watched her like a hawk circling its prey.
Hermione refused to be baited this time. She kept her voice calm. "What are you afraid of, Professor?"
"A glass of wine never hurt anyone, and the modest company of one person even less so. Besides, I'm no threat to you—you can throw me out any time. You should allow some company; people don't bite."
"Perhaps I do," he shot back instantly, with a thin, dangerous smile.
His eyes were still searching her face, trying to discern her true purpose. Perhaps she had struck a nerve. She could feel his curiosity growing; his mind seemed almost hungry for the challenge.
"Once, I would have thrown you out for arrogance on the spot," he said.
"And now?" Hermione asked quietly. She knew she was treading a fine line.
"The absence of my double-agent duties has freed up ninety-nine percent of my mental capacity," he replied dryly.
They stared at each other in silence for a long moment. Then, at last, he unfolded his arms.
"Open the wine before I change my mind," he said sharply, motioning for her to sit on the black leather sofa. Fetching two glasses, he placed them on the table and sat in the chair beside her.
"What do you want? I'm not in the mood for conversation—never have been, if we're precise. I can happily do without social interactions like the one I had with McGonagall earlier. Most people flee after five minutes with me—or I leave because they bore me. You, on the other hand, seem to be building up resistance. Have you found another recipe in my notes? Or are you here out of some perverse act of self-punishment?"
Hermione poured the wine and handed him a glass.
"I've always tried to save you for very selfish reasons. You're a miserable git, but the best Potions Master in the wizarding world. I'd still be pleased if you deducted the twenty points you once threatened—by becoming my teacher again."
"Your persistence is remarkable, Miss Granger. You'd kill for knowledge, wouldn't you?" he said, almost amused.
"Will you stay at Hogwarts?" she asked, lifting her glass.
"Hogwarts… If I give that up too, I fear I'll make starting over even harder," he said, rubbing his eyes.
Hermione's tension eased. It could have gone much worse—after all, they'd been talking for several minutes without drawing blood.
"I still refuse to save Potter and Weasley from themselves again. Slughorn can have them—they'll need three times as long as you to catch up on missed work," Snape added.
Hermione almost couldn't believe her ears. Was he actually considering returning as a teacher?
"Does that mean you're staying?" she asked, a bit too eagerly.
"It means," he said slowly, "that you'll soon have private lessons with me. Don't celebrate too soon."
"Thank you," Hermione said with a small smile.
"Just because I'm alive doesn't mean I've become a better person, Miss Granger. You should inform that helper-syndrome-infested brain of yours."
She raised her glass once more. "To your new life—with some old components."
"You are, without question, the most persistent of those components," he muttered.
"At least you can shake your head again," she teased.
He seemed to still be weighing whether he had just made another great mistake in his life.
"Don't push your luck," he warned.
"I'll be going, then. Thank you for not sending me away immediately."
He walked her to the door.
From her bag, Hermione pulled out a small parcel.
"This is for you. For days like this, when social stress is on your heels again…"
She looked him straight in the eye with a small note of triumph.
"Happy birthday, Severus Snape," she said softly.
He stood there with a green gift wrapped in silver ribbon, staring after her flowing hair, his mouth slightly open, before he could even think of a reply.
.
END OF CHAPTER
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