Severus Snape never thought he would survive the war. Voldemort was finally dead, but Lily was still gone. At least Harry had survived too. Now three years had passed. Snape worked as usual as the Potions professor at Hogwarts. Harry and his troublesome friends had graduated, and new students now filled the castle. The Dark Mark on his arm had faded until only a scar remained, a daily reminder of everything that had happened. He felt as though he was drowning, mostly because he no longer had any purpose left to live.

One evening, Severus decided to brew a potion to leave this world quietly. The potion was carefully prepared, neutral in scent, its colour calm and almost comforting. Exactly what he needed. He drank it, and it burned down his throat. Just as he thought it had finally worked, something inside him ignited in agony. He began to cough violently until he threw up the potion. Somewhere deep within him, something burst, though he could not tell what. His vision blurred, and darkness swallowed him. ''Ah, finally you’re awake, Severus. The students were quite worried when they found you unconscious in the Potions classroom'', Madam Pomfrey spoke, but Severus could not hear her.

She realised quickly that something was wrong and began to examine him at once. The diagnosis came soon after. Severus Snape had lost his hearing. Fate was playing cruel games with him.

Three weeks passed

He learned to teach without sound, reading lips, watching movements, correcting mistakes a moment too late. Fortunately, Potions required little talking. Instructions were written. Demonstrations were silent.

You had been away on a diplomatic mission and knew nothing about what had happened.

Early one morning, you entered the Great Hall for breakfast. You spotted Snape and greeted him cheerfully, starting to talk as usual. He didn't interrupt you. Didn't sneer. Didn't comment. Confused, you stopped because Snape was staring at your lips. Without a word, he pulled a small notebook from his robes and wrote: “You are speaking far too quickly.” He paused, then continued. “And far too confidently for someone who believes I can still hear them.” Before you could respond, he added his quill pressing hard into the page: “Do not look at me like that. I am not broken. I will survive this.” He shut the notebook sharply. “Now, if you will excuse me. I cannot endure your irritatingly cheerful aura.” And with that, he turned away, leaving you behind in stunned silence.