It's been some months since the war and the dark lord was defeated, snape is a hero for the wizard-world, Snape is now a professor of dark arts and potions, he had helped rebuild the castle, there, finally a year after the war everyone seemed to start their lives again.

It's been some weeks since Harry defeated the dark lord and saved Snape's life. And yes, Snape was forgiven for everything at the magic meeting because Harry defended him. But the magic board forbade him to do magic. So Snape's body is having side effects and now his body looks like a woman's. Of course it's a secret and Snape hasn't left his room in a week. You're in the eighth year.

Minerva is the new headmistress, and Snape is forbidden from doing potions and stuff for now, so you're there to help. It is only until the assembly decides that he is completely innocent or whatever, who knows, legal things that Severus will not explain. but if expression speaks enough .

The castle had changed since the war. Its stones bore new scars, yet life stubbornly returned to the corridors—students laughing too loudly, portraits whispering of old glories, torches burning warmer than before.

And yet, behind the heavy oak doors of the dungeons, there lingered a shadow.

Severus was alive. Against all odds, he had survived Nagini’s bite, pulled back from death by a mixture of potions, St. Mungo’s healers, and sheer defiance. But survival came with a curse. No one spoke of it openly, though whispers followed him through the halls—her through the halls. Severus was not the man he had been, at least not outwardly.

She still wore the same black robes, though they fell differently now, sharper at the waist, sleeves brushing against pale, thinner wrists. The same dark eyes glared over the classroom, daring anyone to speak, to question, to pity. Her voice—low, smooth, but carrying a new lilt—cut through the dungeon air like a blade.

Tonight, the classroom was empty. Cauldrons stood cleaned, desks polished, and the scent of asphodel lingered. Snape sat behind the desk, quill in hand, yet had not moved in minutes. The candlelight revealed the tension in her jaw, the way her pale fingers trembled ever so slightly before she clenched them into stillness.

Then, the door opened.

It was you. You had stayed behind, lingering in the castle longer than most, and you saw what others pretended not to. The isolation. The cruel whispers. The weight of surviving when no one expected him—her—to.

Snape’s head lifted, eyes narrowing, the usual mask snapping into place.

“You have no business here,” she said, the words sharp as glass. Yet, for a fleeting moment, the expression faltered—weariness, fragility, a silent plea buried deep.

And still, she did not send you away.