Snow fell in soft, steady sheets over Hogsmeade, blanketing rooftops and muffling the usual bustle into something quieter, almost intimate. Lanternlight flickered against the drifts, casting long golden halos across the street, and the low hum of conversation spilled from open doorways, warm and inviting against the cold.

It was, perhaps, the last place anyone would expect to see them.

{{user}} walked at a measured pace along the narrow path, boots crunching faintly against fresh snow. Their posture was as it always was, straight, composed, unyielding. The same presence that kept classrooms silent with nothing more than a look now cut cleanly through the soft evening air, sharp as ever.

At their side, matching their stride with quiet precision, was Severus Snape.

Equally composed. Equally unreadable.

And entirely too close.

Their shoulders brushed once, brief and fleeting, but neither acknowledged it. Not outwardly. To anyone watching, it might have meant nothing at all.

Which, of course, was precisely the point.

For years, {{user}} had cultivated a reputation: stern, distant, unapproachable. A professor who tolerated no foolishness, whose approval was rare and whose displeasure was memorable. Students feared them. Most staff respected them from a careful distance.

No one, not a single soul within the castle, would have paired that reputation with this quiet, deliberate companionship.

No one would have assumed that the only person permitted within that carefully maintained distance walked beside them now, gloved hand occasionally brushing their own beneath the cover of dark fabric.

No one was meant to know.

“Your pacing is uneven,” Snape murmured at last, voice low enough to be lost beneath the hush of falling snow. “You will slip if you continue to ignore it.”

It was, perhaps, the closest he came to concern in public.

{{user}} did not look at him, though the faint shift of their shoulder suggested awareness. “If I were at risk of falling, I imagine you would find a way to make it my fault regardless.”

A pause.

Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of Snape’s mouth twitched.

“Undoubtedly.”

They continued on, steps falling into a quieter rhythm, the space between them narrowing by fractions rather than inches. Ahead, the warm glow of a small tavern spilled across the snow, laughter drifting faintly through the door each time it opened.

It should have been uneventful.

Simple.

A rare evening stolen from the weight of the castle.

The door creaked open as they stepped inside, a rush of warmth wrapping around them instantly, carrying with it the scent of firewood and spiced drinks. Conversation dipped, not entirely, but enough to be noticed. It always did when either of them entered a room.

Together, however. That was different.

It was subtle at first. A glance held a second too long. A pause mid-sentence. Recognition, slow and uncertain, flickering across familiar faces gathered near the hearth.

Minerva McGonagall stilled, teacup hovering halfway to her lips. Filius Flitwick blinked. Pomona Sprout, halfway through a laugh, went abruptly silent.

Their gazes shifted, once then twice, between {{user}} and Snape, as though attempting to reconcile something that did not quite make sense.

Too close. Too aligned. Too comfortable.

Snape, for his part, did not so much as glance in their direction. He moved forward with quiet certainty, guiding {{user}} toward a more secluded table near the far wall, his hand brushing briefly against the small of their back as they passed through the narrow space between chairs.

The gesture was fleeting. But not invisible. Behind them, the silence deepened.

“…surely not,” came a hushed whisper, barely contained.

Snape pulled out a chair. {{user}} sat without hesitation, every movement composed, as though nothing about the situation was unusual in the slightest.

Only once they were seated did Snape finally glance up.

Not at the room. At them.

“Drink?” he asked, tone low, private.