Chapter Text
December 1993 – Germany
Snape was not a Grinch—he simply found little to admire in the festive excess of places like Krummwinkel this time of year. The streets outside were already dusted with snow, lined with enchanted garlands that blinked in time to unseen carolers. The cold bit at his exposed skin, but he ignored it, his mind focused on the task at hand. It was the sort of atmosphere that set his teeth slightly on edge, a cheerful cacophony that grated against his habitual reserve.
He hadn’t been here in years. The last visit had been brief and deliberately blurred in memory. It hadn’t been for pleasure then, and it was certainly not now. If it weren’t for the rare wolfsbane ingredients, impossible to source locally and even more so amidst the unreliable international owl deliveries during the holiday rush, he wouldn’t have bothered. Lupin’s reliance on the potion was not his concern—at least, it shouldn’t have been. But Dumbledore’s offer of a few days’ leave was a concession Snape had learned long ago to accept without questioning the strings attached.
The apothecary stood tucked away just off one of the crooked alleys, its door recessed into soot-dark stone. Inside, a faint draft of bitter herbs and boiled roots greeted him. The shop was large—tall ceilings and deep shelves crowded with jars and bundles of dried ingredients. The few customers inside moved with the sluggish patience of holiday weariness, their murmurs blending with the quiet creak of wooden floors.
Snape approached the counter, already preparing the Latin names of his needed ingredients. The shopkeeper’s English was fractured and hesitant, turning their exchange into a slow, frustrating tug-of-war of inaccurate terms and vague gestures. After several fruitless attempts to clarify the proper cut of monkshood root, Snape’s tone grew flat and clipped. He sighed sharply and stepped away from the counter. If he was to find these ingredients before nightfall, he would have to take matters into his own hands.
Passing narrow shelves lined with dried leaves and jarred syrups, the faint scent of camphor and rusted tin followed him. The materials were sorted by type rather than use, a maddening system if one was pressed for time. Many jars were sealed with protective charms—standard practice, as potent magical ingredients often resisted summoning charms, especially those requiring delicate stabilization or prolonged fermentation.
Rounding the end of a tall cabinet, he saw her.
Amelia Winter.
He hadn’t expected to see her—hadn’t planned on the face returning so vividly after nearly ten years—but there she was. She stood on tiptoe at a high shelf, arms stretched above her head, reaching for the last jar of infused frost nettle—a stubborn ingredient, slow to refine and inconsistent in quality.
Her coat hung slightly askew, the edge of her boot precariously balanced on the uneven floorboard. Long, light brown hair tied messily, cascading past her waist like a curtain. From behind, she was all quiet urgency and graceful motion.
Snape paused briefly before stepping forward with his usual calm detachment. Reaching silently over her shoulder, he lifted the jar with ease. A subtle scent drifted toward him—soft wood tones, crisp green notes like cedar bark soaked in snowmelt—a delicate fragrance most overlooked, but one he could never miss.
She turned, murmuring “Danke schön—” before nearly colliding with him. Her hand rose instinctively to steady herself against his chest, fingers brushing the front of his coat. Her grey-green eyes widened behind her spectacles.
“Oh—Severus?” she said, blinking once. “It’s you.”
“Professor Snape would be more appropriate, Winter,” he replied evenly.
A faint frown crossed her face, but she smiled. “In this case, Mistress Winter—Potions Mistress now. Long time no see, Professor Snape.”
He studied her carefully, noting the faint dark circles under her eyes—evidence of long nights and hard work. Time had refined her; the softness of youth replaced by gentler contours and a composed gaze that no longer flinched.
Standing so close, her expression calm and assured, he had to admit—however reluctantly—that she was attractive. Not in a way that demanded attention, but like a well-brewed potion shimmering subtly under wandlight. Composed, subtle, impossible not to notice once known.
He said nothing, but for the first time that afternoon, his eyes lingered.
He quickly schooled his expression back to neutrality, though the faintest narrowing of his eyes betrayed a flicker of inner recalibration. Years had sharpened her into something deliberate—like a potion brought to perfect reduction.
“You’ve made a career of it, then,” he remarked.
“Not entirely unexpected,” he added, tone neutral—almost too neutral. “You had a particular knack for turning theory into precision.”
She tilted her head slightly, weighing whether to take it as praise. “High praise, coming from you.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“And you were absolutely intolerable about it,” she said lightly, a corner of her mouth twitching.
“That hasn’t changed.”
A silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, but dense with old familiarity. She held the frost nettle jar close, fingers tapping a rhythm he recognized from their apprentice days.
“You’re still brewing for Hogwarts?” she asked.
He inclined his head. “Among other obligations.”
“And I imagine you’re not here merely for frost nettle.”
His eyes flicked past her to shadowed shelves beyond. “No. I require rarer stock. And it seems I’ve chosen the one day the staff are trained exclusively in shoulder shrugs and incorrect labeling.”
She laughed softly. “They’re worse around the holidays.”
He noticed a faint flush on her cheeks, a dusting of powdered burdock root on her sleeve.
“You still use this apothecary?”
“When I’m near Krummwinkel,” she answered. “I have a lab in Rothenburg now. Most of my brewing’s done there.”
He said nothing, though his stance subtly shifted, betraying no surprise.
After a moment, she tilted her head. “Want help finding your ingredients?”
He met her eyes, unreadable. “Assuming you still remember what you’re doing.”
“I do,” she said simply, then added with a dry smile, “though I can’t promise I won’t upstage your technique.”
He said nothing, but the faint narrowing of his eyes was perhaps the closest thing to amusement she’d get.
He stepped aside, letting her pass, the frost nettle still in her hand, neither eager to part with it.
As she guided him down another aisle, she asked, “What are you looking for?”
He recited the list with practiced precision: “Cornflower petals, dried. Moondrop stone, ground. Mandrake extract, stage one. Aged belladonna resin.”
She paused, one eyebrow rising. “That’s a wolfsbane base. For Lupin?”
He nodded sharply. “Dumbledore, in his endless optimism, brought him back to teach. Naturally, I’m tasked with ensuring he doesn’t dismember students monthly.”
Her surprise was brief, swallowed quickly by contemplation. She said nothing, just nodded and murmured under her breath as she strode toward the front.
At the counter, she spoke fluid, clipped German, more precise than Snape’s earlier attempts. The shopkeeper blinked, stammered, and hurried off.
Snape stood beside her, silent.
“Sometimes,” she said, brushing a strand behind her ear, “you just have to speak their language.”
He didn’t reply, though a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth softened his usual severity.
“Why are you helping?” he asked, voice low.
She shrugged. “Professional courtesy. And frankly, it’s miserable spending the holidays in irritation.”
Snape watched as she sifted through misfiled vials with surgeon-like efficiency.
After a pause he asked, “Why Rothenburg? I recall the Guild’s headquarters is in Munich.”
She glanced sideways, expecting the question. “Why not?”
“You turned down the Guild?”
His mind flicked to old memories—Slughorn boasting endlessly about his great-niece, the youngest Potions Master admitted to the Guild, a prodigy. That reputation preceded her still, though she no longer bore it like a badge.
She had been recruited early, youngest member ever—a rare honor Slughorn exploited for prestige. But ambition and innovation were not always welcome. Frustrated by their rigid standardization and dismissal of her experimental methods blending Muggle clinical approaches with traditional potion-making, she left.
Snape observed her quiet determination. The Guild’s loss was clearly her gain.
“Foolish,” he murmured.
She didn’t flinch. “Perhaps. But it’s mine.”
In his eyes was neither approval nor judgment—something like reluctant recognition. When she passed him a vial of mandrake extract, their fingers brushed, lingering a moment longer than necessary.
Neither mentioned it.
A fragile understanding had settled between them amid the scent of herbs and old parchment.
Then Amelia’s voice broke the silence, low and even, “Actually, my original research focused on integrating Muggle pharmacology and medical frameworks—how magical potions might be adapted, tested, or restructured using non-magical clinical methodologies.”
Snape’s eyes shifted slightly—not surprise, but the pause of a page turned mid-thought.
“The Guild didn’t approve,” she continued. “They said it diluted the purity of magical science. That it was a distraction. Unquantifiable.”
He made a faint sound, close to a scoff. “I can imagine.”
She looked up, curiosity flickering. “You don’t think it’s entirely foolish, do you?”
He considered her, expression unreadable. “The efficacy of magic does not depend on the validation of Muggle methodology.”
“No,” she agreed quietly. “But healing does.”
That gave him pause—quiet, but real. His eyes flicked away briefly, then back.
He said no more, but the weight of silence spoke volumes—neither agreement nor dismissal, but restrained skepticism.
Amelia didn’t press. She handed him the final vial—belladonna resin, aged and sealed in thick glass—and gave a small nod.
“I’ll let you decide if that counts as ‘diluted purity.’”
Snape took the vial wordlessly, but the way he looked at her—longer, more measured—said enough.
Outside, snow thickened against windowpanes, the wind whispering softly.
Amelia broke the quiet again, voice lighter, “It’s still early. If you don’t have other plans, you should come see my lab in Rothenburg. I think you’d find it… interesting.”
Snape’s brow lifted. “Your lab?”
“Yes,” she replied, a hint of pride touching her tone. “Most of my work’s moved there. Away from the Guild’s constraints. You might be surprised what I’ve been able to do.”
He regarded her carefully, then nodded once. “Lead the way.”
She smiled, genuine and faintly triumphant. “Good. The shop’s no place for long talks.”
Together, they stepped out into the soft twilight, the snow still falling in quiet sheets. Side by side, they walked toward Rothenburg, the night full of unspoken possibilities.