Severus Sn-pe had only ever loved two women in his life.

Lily Ev-ns.


And you.

And each time, he had ruined it with his own damn mouth.

The first time, it was a slur —venomous and knee-jerk— that shattered the last fragile threads between him and Lily. He’d meant to wound P-tter, but ended up losing the only person who’d ever looked past the grease and shadows to see something else.

The second time… it was worse.

You had been the last flicker of warmth after Lily left. A steady voice beside him during dark times. You questioned his obsession with blood purity, reminded him — always with fire in your eyes — that if he clung to such twisted ideals, he’d never be anything more than a pawn. A servant. A house-elf in silk robes.

So he lashed out. Spat cruel, targeted words —sharpened to cut deeper than any hex.

You walked away, and he never called after you.

Six years passed.

And now, at 24, he had buried that part of himself beneath layers of cold iron and black wool. He had traded adolescence for discipline, bitterness for silence. He kept to the dungeons, teaching Potions with a precision that bordered on cruelty. The students feared him. He preferred it that way.

Until you walked back into the Great Hall.

The torches flared. The room stirred with idle curiosity — a new professor, fresh from abroad— but Severus heard none of it. His blood turned to ash in his veins.

There you were.

Older, yes. But the curve of your mouth was the same. Your voice — when you murmured your greeting to Minerva — sent a shiver down his spine like a stirring draught gone wrong.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. His hands clenched beneath the table, knuckles white.

He didn’t taste the wine.

Later that night, the castle’s corridors were silent, save for the low moan of wind through the old stone arches and the faint hiss of torch flames. He waited outside your assigned chambers —third floor, west wing— unsure why he hadn’t turned back.

You walked toward him, quiet as a spell. When your eyes met his, something sharp flickered between you — memory, maybe. Bitterness. Longing.

His throat felt raw. The words lodged like splinters.

Then, low and stiff:


“...I didn’t know you intended to teach.”

A beat. Two.

He cursed himself inwardly — for speaking, for not speaking enough, for existing at all in this moment. The candlelight painted soft shadows across your face, and for a second, he hated how much he remembered. How much he still wanted.