Chapter Text
Hogwarts, September 1991.
Mornings at Hogwarts had a kind of stillness that Severus Snape had learned to despise. The silence of the cold corridors, the bittersweet scent of potions seeping into the ancient stones, the distant echo of youthful laughter — all of it reminded him how alive he still was, and at the same time, how little he belonged to any of it. The castle remained the same, unchanged through the years — but he had not. He had become a shadow among the very halls he once walked with anger and ambition. Now, he merely existed.
The memory of Lily Potter — once Evans — still pulsed in his heart, like a blind pain, burning through a wound that refused to heal. Severus Snape knew he would live with guilt forever: guilt for her death, guilt for his mother’s death, guilt for so many others who had perished because of a reckless, youthful ambition that had shaped not only his fate, but the fate of countless lives. There was no running from it now, because living itself had become his greatest punishment — waking up every single day and bearing the weight of guilt, most of all the guilt for the death of his beloved friend, Lily. She had been the one point of light in his darkness.
And now, that light was gone — leaving behind only shadows and gray.
No color. No warmth.
His mind was a cold and emotionless place, for even the hatred that once burned red-hot through his veins had long been extinguished. He was little more than an empty shell. He did nothing for pleasure — for he no longer believed he deserved any. And then, he saw her.
He felt… curious. Intrigued.
She was watching him with wide brown eyes, filled with warmth and a kind of fragile innocence. Eyes the color of dark chocolate — and they seemed to possess the uncanny ability to see straight through him, through his soul, through his pain.
Snape felt sick. That faint spark of irritation flickered back to life. That little girl, sitting so proudly at the Gryffindor table, overflowing with laughter and life — she had no right to look at him that way, to see him that deeply. She couldn’t possibly imagine the horrors he had committed, the atrocities he had witnessed, the blood that had stained his hands. He was no hero — never had been. He was one of the villains. Or perhaps worse, he was simply nothing.
She had no reason to look at him with curiosity, no reason to hold his gaze with such bright, eager eyes. For he had nothing to offer her. Nothing she could possibly be searching for in him. And after that long, suffocating feast, as he sank into the familiar mire of self-loathing for even thinking about such an innocent creature — for his broken, tainted mind had no right to — he finally lay down and tried to clear his thoughts. Anything to escape the unbearable noise of those foolish, excitable children, thrilled to begin another year at Hogwarts.
At thirty-two, Severus Snape found little meaning left in his miserable life. But why give up now?
He had thought of ending it, once — when Lily died. But he had not deserved such mercy. In time, he came to understand that he was meant to stay, to atone. To serve out his penance on earth. It was not much of a torture anymore, but it was punishment enough.
In his pajamas, lying in bed with the blankets pulled halfway up his chest, his thoughts drifted again to that girl — the one with the wild, bushy hair that seemed to defy any attempt to be tamed. He supposed she had tried, perhaps even fought against the curls, but the stubborn strands still fell in disarray around her thin shoulders. She wasn’t particularly striking — a pretty girl, yes, but ordinary, easy to lose in a crowd.
So why had she stood out to him? He couldn’t say. But something about her drew his attention like nothing had in years.
And it was both intriguing and dangerously unfamiliar — to have his attention fixed on anything other than his own misery. Even after that unbearable day, he knew he would have to teach again in the morning, yet he didn’t worry about sleep. Because he kept thinking of her.
And that — feeling something — even a strange curiosity, stirred something faint and long-buried within him. A tiny flame that reminded him he was still alive — trapped in a miserable life, yes. But alive nonetheless.
When his thoughts finally dissolved into a dark, dreamless fog, sleep took him. And for the first time in years, there were no nightmares of Lily, no memories of his days as a Death Eater or the servant of a dark lord. Only the image of the Great Hall, and those eyes — innocent, searching for something he could not name, yet that disarmed him completely.
She hadn’t spoken. Only her gaze, which seemed to ask, “Why do you hurt so much?”
As if she wanted to understand his pain. And he wasn’t ready for that — not for someone to truly see him as he was: broken and bare. She was the first person who had ever looked through the armor of indifference and bitterness he had so carefully built.
Why her?
*
When the dreaded morning of the first class arrived, he refused to face her again in the Great Hall. He skipped breakfast entirely, asking Mitsy — the house-elf assigned to his service — to bring him some toast and juice. He didn’t want anything heavy. His stomach was already tight with a nervous energy he refused to acknowledge.
He would not admit it. It was nothing. It had to be nothing.
He dressed, entered his classroom, and as the new students filed in, his eyes — almost against his will — searched for hers. And there she was. The girl — small, bushy-haired, her gaze too attentive — looked no different from the countless other first-years who arrived each year with naïve dreams and insatiable curiosity.
But something about her disarmed him again. A kind of premature seriousness, a studied calm that didn’t quite fit her age.
Hermione Granger. The name echoed in his mind like a dissonant note.
He remembered the name… but why? He didn’t know. Yet he somehow knew he would never forget it.
He hadn’t expected her to be placed in Slytherin — of course not. When the Sorting Hat cried, “Gryffindor!”, he felt no surprise. She looked every bit the eager, wide-eyed lion cub — full of courage, or perhaps of the Ravenclaw thirst for knowledge.
Either way, the little Gryffindor sat in the very front row, visibly nervous and anxious — perhaps even frightened.
That, oddly enough, calmed him a little. At least he wasn’t the only one unsettled by the other’s presence.
And though confusion churned inside him, his face remained impassive — the same severe mask he had worn for years.
During that first lesson, mostly dedicated to presenting the subject and his classroom rules, he noticed her taking notes — and felt a strange flicker of satisfaction at seeing her relax for the first time. She seemed to be adjusting to the atmosphere.
He then gave them a short theoretical exercise — an introduction to the art of potion-making. She didn’t disappoint. She was one of the first to finish and approached his desk, handing him a neatly written parchment on Cure for Boils, which would, he decided, be their next practical lesson. Experience had taught him that theory always needed to precede practice — especially with foolish, clumsy students.
He took her essay with practiced indifference — just as he did with everyone. But before he could stop himself, a question slipped from his lips.
“What is your name, miss?”
He knew, of course. He had the roll call. But he wanted to hear her say it.
She blinked, surprised, clearly not expecting him to address her at all, and stammered, “Hermione Granger, sir.”
“Very well, Miss Granger. Next time I assign a direct essay on the ingredients and brewing method of any potion, I expect a concise and objective answer — not the entire Bible. Consider yourself lucky for the warning; next time, I’ll deduct points from your house for such rambling.”
He didn’t know why he’d spoken like that — like the bitter, cruel bat everyone accused him of being — but perhaps it was for the best. If she hated him, if she kept her distance, it would be easier. After all, everyone hated him. He preferred it that way.
She shouldn’t look at him as though he were anything else. He had nothing to offer that bright mind of hers. And yet she looked so eager for any scrap of knowledge or attention he could give, so hopeful that it was almost unbearable. Deep down, he knew he would ruin it eventually — crush whatever she felt.
She was young and brilliant. He was broken, and everything he touched turned to ruin. He didn’t deserve the light she seemed ready to shine on him.
Miss Granger said nothing. She only lowered her gaze, embarrassed by the scolding, and left the room when dismissed. She looked so disappointed in him that it hurt. But it was better this way. Better now than later.
Snape returned to his desk, pretending to sort through the messy third-year parchments, though he barely saw the words. His mind kept circling back to the bright smile she had given him when she’d handed over her essay — eyes full of hope, expecting some small praise. Instead, she received only criticism and withered, like a flower starved of water.
As time passed, the other students handed in their work, one by one — most with fear in their eyes, a few with traces of anger. Gryffindors, no doubt, offended on their friend’s behalf. He didn’t care. He was used to being disliked — by his students, by his colleagues who chatted and laughed in the Great Hall while he sat apart. Only Minerva and Dumbledore ever tried to speak with him anymore.
The rest had given up long ago. He had driven them away, and they had let him. It was easier that way.
It was late when Snape finally finished his duties for the day. He lay down, drank a potion for dreamless sleep, and welcomed the darkness.
For one blessed night, he did not think of anyone.
Not even Miss Granger.