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Hermione had long since stopped noticing how low the fire had sunk. The last of the staff had drifted off to their quarters nearly an hour ago, pleasantly buzzed or outright drunk from their festivities, leaving her alone in the dim, smoky warmth of the over-decorated staff room. She was curled in a squashy armchair in the corner, feet tucked beneath her, shoes kicked neatly to the floor. A mug of what had once been hot apple cider, now cold and forgotten, rested on the little table beside her. She didn’t spare it a glance. Her attention was fixed on the essay spread open across her lap, quill tapping lightly as she read.

Snow fell steadily outside the tall glass windows, but she ignored it. It was Christmas evening and she really ought too get to bed after such a long day of celebrating with the staff, but she wanted to make a dent on the mid-term essays while there were no students around to interrupt.

She didn’t hear the door open, nor the soft thud of boots or the faint sweep of robes across the floor. What she did notice was the sudden, unpleasant weight dropped unceremoniously into her lap.

Hermione started, staring down at the wad of grey fabric now draped across her parchment. She pinched the corner between finger and thumb, holding it away from herself. A bedsheet—at least, it resembled one—though in its current state, that was generous. Something sticky clung to the weave. Thick, viscous. Tinged with blood.

Her nose wrinkled.

She looked up to find Severus Snape standing before her, arms folded, expression carved from stone.

Before she could speak, he did, low, steady, and brimming with disdain.

“Imagine my surprise when, after a long day spent being dragged into numerous holiday celebrations against my will, I returned to my quarters at last, only to discover my bed commandeered and converted into a maternity ward by none other than your mangy cat.”

Hermione stared at him, mouth slightly ajar.

“…Sorry—Crookshanks? Maternity ward? But that’s… that’s not possible. Crookshanks is male. He can’t have kittens. You must have the wrong cat.”

Snape stepped neatly back as she attempted to thrust the sheet back into his hands.

“I assure you, it is your cat. She has been invading my personal space since you were a student, and she was quite pleased when you returned to teach so she could resume terrorising my sanctuary.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and dropped the sheet to the floor. She straightened at once, suddenly aware of her curled, overly casual posture, and slipped her feet back into her shoes.

“Again, there’s been some mistake. I mean, I suppose the kittens might be his, but he couldn’t have given birth to them. Is there a mother somewhere you’ve missed? Perhaps he’s only babysitting.”

Snape arched a brow. “Have you ever actually checked?”

Hermione spluttered. “Checked? What—that—well, no, he’s—he’s quite fluffy—and anyway, the shopkeeper at the Menagerie clearly called him a he!”

Snape let out a sharp, humourless sound. “Ah yes. Because shopkeepers are famously qualified to sex magical creatures.”

Her cheeks warmed. She opened her mouth to retort, but Snape lifted a hand, cutting her off.

“I can see you won’t be convinced by my word alone. Very well. Come, then, and see for yourself.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, searching for the trick, for some sort of punchline. His expression gave nothing away beyond that taut impatience she knew far too well. She gathered her essays, tucking them briskly into her satchel before swinging the strap across her shoulder.

“Fine,” she said, clipped. “Lead the way.”

Snape turned in a swirl of robes and swept out of the staff room without another word. Hermione followed, confusion mounting with every step.

Once the door closed behind her, she hurried to keep up as Snape swept down the corridor, his stride far longer than hers and his temper evident with every click of his boots. The castle was quiet at this hour, the sconces burning low, shadows pooling in the corners. Her shoes rapped sharply against the flagstones each time she had to half-jog to close the distance he created.

She cleared her throat. “This still doesn’t seem possible. If Crookshanks were female, wouldn’t I have noticed a heat cycle at some point over the last decade?”

Snape stopped so abruptly she nearly ran into him. He turned just enough to look at her, the corner of his mouth twitching in disbelief.

“Tell me, Granger,” he said, voice soft in the way that was somehow more cutting than if he had raised his voice, “isn’t this the sort of thing the ‘brightest witch of her age’ might have deduced? Have you truly done no research on your own familiar’s magical breed?”

Hermione bristled. “He’s only half Kneazle. It didn’t seem… relevant.”

“Half or whole, the biology remains consistent.” He resumed walking, forcing her to hurry after him once more. “Kneazles do not operate on the same reproductive cycle as mundane house cats. They do not yowl, they do not spray, and they do not come into heat in a way you would recognise. When a Kneazle wishes to reproduce, she simply does. Discreetly. The father can be anything from a common stray to an another Kneazle to anything in between, but the resulting offspring will always carry at least the base magical characteristics of their Kneazle lineage.”

Hermione mulled that over as they descended another flight of stairs. It made a surprising amount of sense, but she wasn’t ready to concede.

“All right,” she said slowly. “But what about Sirius?”

Snape’s shoulders went rigid. “What about him?” he spat.

“Well… he spent quite a lot of time with Crookshanks in his Animagus form during my third year. You’d think he’d have known if Crookshanks was female. Shouldn’t he have been able to smell it, at least? He was a dog, after all.”

Snape stopped again, this time with a sort of pained deliberation. He faced her fully.

“Are you truly asking me,” he said, each word clipped with restraint, “to place my trust in the observational powers of Sirius Black? A man who spent the better part of his adult life outside of Azkaban living in a cave, eating rats, and bonding with a hippogriff? Forgive me if I do not consider him an authority on magical zoology. Or basic perception, for that matter.”

Hermione opened her mouth, closed it again, and decided she couldn’t argue with that.

They rounded a final corner. Snape came to a halt before a dark wooden door reinforced with iron bands.

“We’re here,” he said flatly, and pushed it open.

Snape’s office was exactly as she remembered it: dim, spare, and vaguely oppressive in the way only Severus Snape’s workspaces could be. The same heavy desk. The same bioluminescent jars. The same lingering smell of ink and alchemy. There was also a distinct lack of any holiday decorations, but Hermione barely had time to register the familiarity of it before Snape strode straight through, turning toward a door on the right as though she weren’t even there.

She followed him into a small sitting room and nearly stopped dead.

Every inch of wall space was consumed by bookshelves, each one packed so tightly it looked as though the volumes might spill out at any moment. Some shelves bowed with the sheer weight. Books were stacked horizontally atop vertical rows; piles accumulated on end tables, on the floor, on a low ottoman near the hearth. It was overwhelming and magnificent in equal measure.

Hermione felt her breath catch. Merlin, she could live in here. She would sleep on the floor like—well, like a cat if it meant unrestricted access to this room.

But now was… decidedly not the moment to ask.

She tore her gaze away as Snape crossed the room in just a few strides and pushed open another door. Darkness waited on the other side.

His bedroom, she assumed.

It was at that moment that her thoughts stuttered.

Because she was, quite literally, about to walk into Severus Snape’s bedroom. She had never been in any Hogwarts professor’s private living quarters, not as a student and not now as a colleague, and yet somehow she’d ended up at the door of the last man on earth she would have expected.

Heat crept up her throat at the thought.

She’d always respected Snape, even when he’d made a sport of ignoring her existence. He was a war hero, though only a fool or a Gryffindor at their most daring would ever bring that up in his hearing. He was brilliant. Cunning. Terrifyingly intelligent. There was a particular calibre of mind required to deceive Voldemort for years on end, and Snape possessed it in spades.

He was, quite simply, one of the most powerful wizards alive. Perhaps second only to Dumbledore, and that was debatable, in her opinion.

Even Voldemort had failed to kill him in the end. The so-called Dark Lord had never anticipated that Snape would walk into the Shrieking Shack already dosed with antivenin and a blood-replenishing draught. That bit of foresight had cost Voldemort his victory and saved Snape’s life.

And since the war… he had changed.

He had filled out. The sallow, sunken gauntness had vanished. His hair, still black and still thick, hung clean and straight to his shoulders. His skin retained its fair cast, but there was colour in it now, a living warmth rather than the greyish pallor he’d once worn like armour. His nose remained prominent, as sharp as something carved from marble; she’d once privately compared it to a Michelangelo statue she’d seen in Italy during a childhood vacation with her parents and winced at herself for noticing.

His shoulders were broader than she remembered, likely thanks to the less oppressive robes he now wore. His waist was narrow. He stood a full foot taller than her, an irritating fact she found herself aware of more often than she should have been.

And then there was his wit. That razor edge he wielded with effortless precision. He didn’t insult her outright anymore—not often, at any rate—but his tongue still had the ability to strike a target across a room with unerring aim. It shouldn’t have been attractive, but sometimes she caught herself wondering what it might feel like if he ever turned that attention toward her as a woman and not as an exasperating former-student-turned-colleague.

Not that it mattered. The idea was absurd. He would sooner fancy a blast-ended skrewt than Hermione Granger.

Ahead of her, Snape stepped into the darkness without pause, vanishing from view.

Hermione took a steadying breath, mentally scolding herself to get a grip, and followed him inside.

The room wasn’t completely dark, but with only the low, late night fire burning in the hearth, it took her eyes a moment to adjust. At first she saw only shapes and shadows. She resisted the urge to glance around—she doubted Snape would tolerate even the barest hint of snooping—so she focused on the centre of the room where the outline of his four-poster bed slowly came into view.

As the dim light settled, she noticed the bedding was rumpled near one of the pillows, pulled into a small, chaotic nest.

And then she saw Crookshanks.

Smug as sin, looking utterly self-satisfied, the familiar bundle of ginger fluff lay on his—her, Hermione corrected with a mental stumble—side with six tiny, wet-nosed kittens lined up against her belly. They kneaded blindly, suckling with soft, rhythmic insistence. And it was unmistakably Crookshanks. No other cat looked quite the same.

“Oh my god,” Hermione whispered. “You were telling the truth.”

Snape shot her a pointed and slightly offended look, but she didn’t bother responding. She stepped toward the bed instead.

“Crooks, you clever thing,” she murmured. “You did all this on your own?”

Crookshanks answered with a deep, rolling purr.

Hermione moved closer until her knees brushed the mattress. She hesitated, seeking permission before extending a hand. Crookshanks didn’t protest, so Hermione stroked a single fingertip down the velvet-soft head of one of the kittens. Its tiny ears twitched back and forth as it suckled, and Crookshanks’ purr grew louder.

A quiet clearing of a throat behind her made her jump upright.

“Right. I’ll just, erm… put them in a box and take them back to my rooms, then.”

Snape grunted, which she took as agreement. She patted her pockets and found a spare scrap of parchment. With a muttered spell, she transfigured it into a small box, slightly crooked, but serviceable. When she glanced at Snape, he was already eyeing it with clear judgment.

“I don’t suppose you have a towel you’d be willing to part with for the evening?” she asked. “Otherwise I’ll need to go back to my rooms to fetch one.”

He rolled his eyes and crossed the room to a narrow door she hadn’t noticed. He vanished inside for a moment and returned holding a soft grey towel, which he handed over without comment.

“Thank you,” she said, spreading it inside the box.

She turned back to Crookshanks. “Right. Sorry, Crooks, but you can’t stay here.”

Gently, she lifted each kitten from Crookshanks’ side, settling them into the makeshift bed. Crookshanks gave Hermione a deeply offended look before standing, shaking herself out, and stepping into the box with regal resignation. Hermione placed the final kitten beside its mother and exhaled.

Lifting the box carefully, she turned to Snape. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

He gave no reply she could decipher, so she carried the box out, back through his sitting room, through his office, and into the corridor beyond.

She had no idea what she was supposed to do with six part-Kneazle kittens.

But at the very least, she could get them settled in her rooms.

The next morning, Hermione yawned so hard her jaw popped.

She had been up far too late reorganising her sitting room, transfiguring a crate into a kitten pen, layering it with soft blankets, and double-checking the heating runes to make sure the new family would stay warm. By the time she’d finally crawled into bed, she was fairly certain she’d never get the smell of Crookshanks out of her hair.

Still, she had managed. Crookshanks and the kittens had been settled safely in their little space when she’d collapsed into bed.

Or so she thought.

Hermione rubbed at her eyes and shuffled into her sitting room.

Empty.

The pen was still there. The blankets. The tiny indentations where kittens had slept.

But no kittens.

No Crookshanks.

She blinked. Then blinked again.

“Oh, you’ve got to be joking.”

She dropped to her knees, checking under her sofa. Under the side table. Behind her armchair. In her wardrobe. Even, with a rising sense of dread, the bathtub.

Nothing.

A suspicion—irritatingly logical, horribly likely—began to form. She groaned into her hands.

“I really don’t want to go down there again.”

But she already knew she would have to. And before breakfast, no less.

Hermione tugged on a robe, tied her hair back into something vaguely respectable, and made the trek to the dungeons. The corridors were still fairly cold at this hour, the torches still burning low and bluish, and each step only deepened the pit forming in her stomach.

She raised her hand to knock, but the door swung open before she touched it.

Snape stood there, holding a box.

Inside was Crookshanks and all six kittens, nestled on a fresh grey towel.

His expression could have curdled milk.

“Granger,” he said in a voice that suggested this greeting was a personal sacrifice. “I was awakened at three o’clock this morning by hungry, mewling creatures crawling across my bed, just in time to witness your cat leaping onto it with the final one dangling from her mouth.”

Hermione winced. “Ah.”

“I do not know,” he continued, “how she managed to bypass my upgraded wards created specifically to keep her out. I do not particularly wish to know. What I do know is this: I value my sleep. I expect you to ensure this does not happen again.”

Hermione nodded quickly. “Yes. Absolutely. Of course. I’ll—I’ll reinforce my containment charms and—”

“I will be holding you to that.”

Hermione accepted the box gingerly, trying not to meet his eyes. Crookshanks purred smugly from inside, clearly delighted with herself.

“Thank you,” Hermione said quietly. “For, er… returning them.”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose as if staving off a headache. “See that it does not happen again.”

“Right. Yes. Of course.”

She turned to go. Then paused.

“Er—”

He looked up with obvious reluctance.

“If she managed to bypass both of our wards… I’m not entirely sure how to prevent this from happening again.”

His eyelid twitched. Just slightly.

“Granger,” he said, “you’re an intelligent witch. I expect you’ll come up with something.”

She bobbed her head, clutching the box to her chest, and retreated with as much dignity as could be managed with seven cats in her arms.

Behind her, Snape shut his door with the quiet resignation of a man who knew with absolute certainty that this was not the end of the matter.

The week that followed was, Hermione would later decide, the most humiliating and baffling of her academic career.

Every single morning, she woke to an empty box.

Every single morning, she marched down to the dungeons, clutching her robe closed, hair growing wilder by the day.

And every single morning, Snape’s door opened before she knocked, and he thrust the box of cats at her without a word before closing the door in her face.

There was no scolding and no commentary, just a deeply weary take them and a slammed door.

Hermione tried everything. Layered containment wards, Muggle-style latches, repelling charms, location locks, even a complicated keyed ward scheme she was certain would hold.

Nothing worked.

Crookshanks bypassed them all, and with no sign of magical disturbance.

Hermione even stayed awake one night, setting alarms at half-hour intervals. She still missed the moment they vanished. One moment the crate had been full of small sleeping bodies. The next: empty.

By the end of the week, Hermione dreaded the morning trek more than her third-year double-length classes.

But then, when the kittens were just over a week old, something changed.

She approached his door expecting the usual curt exchange.

But today Snape opened the door without the box.

He stood there, looking at her in a way she couldn’t quite read. A mixture of resignation, irritation, and… defeat, perhaps.

He finally said, “You might as well come inside.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh. Er—right.”

She stepped in as he turned and walked deeper into the quarters. He didn’t bother with the office; he led her straight through to the sitting room and dropped heavily onto the sofa with a sigh so deep it seemed to come from his bones.

He rubbed at his temples. “This cannot continue.”

Hermione perched gingerly in the armchair he gestured toward.

“I agree,” she said. “But… I’m afraid I’m completely out of ideas.”

“So am I.” Snape exhaled through his nose. “I have attempted to observe her in the act. It is impossible. By the time I hear the kittens, all six are already on my bed. And she always looks insufferably pleased with herself.”

Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably. Crookshanks had always been a rather proud beast. 

“I attempted to stay awake all night,” he continued. “Twice. She waited until I succumbed. And staying awake indefinitely is not an option. I do, unfortunately, have classes to teach here in a few days.”

Hermione hesitated. “What do you suggest, then?”

Snape lowered his hands and regarded her with the air of a man about to say something he found personally distasteful.

“The kittens have approximately seven more weeks before they are fully weaned.” He paused. “I am… amenable… to allowing them to remain in my rooms during that time.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Do not make me repeat it.”

She swallowed a smile.

He continued, tone firm, though without its typical brusqueness:

“But I cannot take on the care of all seven creatures. If they are to remain here, you will come by to feed the mother and check the kittens at least twice a day.”

Hermione nodded quickly.

“You will be granted access to my wards solely for this purpose,” he added sharply. “Do not abuse my hospitality.”

She felt heat bloom in her cheeks, largely because she’d been trying so hard not to glance at the towering shelves of books surrounding them. Before she could reassure him, he spoke again, sounding resigned:

“You may peruse anything in the sitting room library while you are here, provided the books do not leave my quarters.”

Her mouth parted in startled gratitude.

Snape went on, tone sliding back toward his usual dryness:

“Since I cannot prevent them from staying here, and since I do not believe it wise to allow Crookshanks to continue hauling six kittens down several flights of stairs every single night, this arrangement is the only sensible alternative. Once they are weaned, you will find them appropriate homes.”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “I will.”

“And,” he added, pointing a finger, “you will make every effort to encourage her to settle somewhere other than my bed. If she must remain in my quarters, she can at least refrain from waking me by depositing kittens on my chest at four o’clock in the morning.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. “I’ll do my best.”

Snape closed his eyes briefly, then opened them with a groan. “I’m afraid that will have to be enough.”

She nodded, heart doing something traitorous in her chest.

Crookshanks had forced this arrangement on them, quite literally dragging them together.

But, Hermione thought as she glanced at the rows of books and then at Snape slumped against the sofa cushions…

…it could be worse.

Much worse.

That evening after dinner, Hermione paused outside Snape’s chambers and smoothed a hand over her robes. She technically had access to his wards now, but it felt unforgivably rude to simply let herself in. So she knocked.

The door opened a moment later. Snape looked down at her with an unreadable expression before giving a short jerk of his head toward the sitting room doorway and stepping aside.

“Good evening,” she offered.

He didn’t bother replying.

Once she’d crossed the threshold, he said, “They’re in my bedroom. Find a more suitable space for them. Preferably in the sitting room.”

Hermione nodded. He’d already turned back toward his desk, so she continued alone.

The sitting room was quiet, the fire crackling low. She hesitated at the bedroom door, glancing over her shoulder. He hadn’t followed her through. 

Inside the bedroom, the hearth burned warmer than it had the night the kittens were born, casting steady amber light across the room. She could see everything clearly now: dark wooden furniture, grey bed hangings, grey upholstery. The decorations were minimal, almost austere—very Snape—but the contrast to the crowded chaos of his sitting room surprised her.

Her eyes caught on the book at his bedside. Curiosity tugged at her; she tilted her head just enough to see the title—

No. Absolutely not. She shook herself. She was here to move cats, not snoop.

Crookshanks blinked up at her from the blankets, tail flicking. The kittens wriggled, tiny paws kneading blindly.

“Right,” Hermione whispered. “Work to do.”

She conjured another box and gently transferred the kittens inside. Crookshanks followed with a dignified hop from the bed, tail high, and trotted after Hermione into the sitting room.

She stopped short.

Snape had come in while she was gone. He occupied the chair nearest the hearth, book in one hand, a mug of tea in the other. He didn’t look up.

Hermione swallowed, then began scanning the room for a suitable kitten location. There weren’t many options—too many books, too little floor space—but then she saw it: a mostly empty shelf toward the bottom of one bookcase.

She cleared her throat. “Er… would it be all right if I moved some books from the bottom shelf up to the empty one above it? Just to make some room.”

His eyes flicked up briefly. He grunted assent and returned to his page.

Hermione set the box down and got to work, shifting the books carefully into their new home. Once the space was clear, she dropped to her knees and drew her wand.

A whispered charm extended the shelf’s depth. Another conjured a rigid half-wall along the front, high enough to keep the kittens contained, but low enough for Crookshanks to hop in and out. She conjured a soft curtain that covered most of the opening, leaving the centre slit open like a tiny doorway.

Next came the bedding: a pile of soft fleece blankets she unshrunk from her pocket, spreading them into a nest on the left side. On the right, she conjured two small bowls.

Only then did she begin placing the kittens inside, one by one. Crookshanks watched closely, yellow eyes unblinking, tail twitching.

Hermione gestured. “Your new nursery.”

The cat hopped in at once, sniffing each corner before settling herself close to the kittens.

Hermione smiled. “What do you think, Crooks? Acceptable?”

Crookshanks’ eyelids dropped half-closed and she began to purr.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

A quick tap from her wand filled the water bowl. She opened a can of food—Crookshanks’ favourite—and emptied it into the other, earning another loud purr. Hermione scratched her under the chin for good measure before standing and brushing off her knees. She vanished the empty box with a flick of her wand.

She turned toward the room again. Snape hadn’t spoken; he hadn’t even glanced over. He simply read, tea steaming faintly, expression unreadable.

“I’ll come back in the morning before classes,” Hermione said into the quiet room.

He gave the same short grunt and she took that as her cue to leave.

Hopefully, she thought as she made her way back to her own quarters, he might get some sleep tonight.

The following week passed in a rhythm Hermione hadn’t expected but found herself settling into with surprising ease, even with the end of the holiday break and the return of classes.

Every morning before breakfast, she made her way to the dungeons. She’d knock out of courtesy, and either enter quietly if he didn’t answer or murmur a soft hello as she crossed into the sitting room. Snape was often in his office at that hour, quill scratching methodically, parchment piled around him. He rarely looked up when she arrived, but she’d hear the faintest pause in his writing—a sort of silent acknowledgement—and that was enough.

Crookshanks would greet her with a chirrup, kittens tumbling over one another in the little shelf-nursery she’d built. Hermione fed Crookshanks, changed the bedding, checked their eyes and ears and tiny paws. It was orderly work, soothing in its way.

In the evenings, she came again after dinner. This time Snape was more often in the sitting room, book in one hand, tea in the other, legs stretched toward the hearth. Sometimes he would glance up when she arrived. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes they exchanged a quiet greeting. Sometimes not.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, a sense of shared space grew between them.

They didn’t speak much, but they didn’t need to.

It became routine.

At the end of that first week into the new pattern, she arrived in the evening and found Snape already settled in his usual chair. The kittens had begun toddling, bumping clumsily into one another, occasionally attempting to escape their enclosure. Crookshanks lay in the middle of them, purring contentedly.

Hermione had just finished her tasks and sat back on her heels when Snape spoke.

“Tea?”

She looked up, startled. He was watching her with a mildly expectant expression, already conjuring a second mug with a flick of his fingers.

“I—oh. Er—are you sure?”

He arched a brow. “You have not stayed long enough to examine any of the books. Am I to assume you are no longer interested?”

Hermione’s cheeks warmed. “No, I—of course I am. I just… didn’t want to seem overeager.”

He gave her a look so pointed she felt it in her knees.

Right. He’d known her for over a decade. She wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all him. 

He gestured curtly toward the shelves. “Find something interesting. Sit. Have some tea. Read for a bit. I assure you, Granger… I do not bite.”

Her flush deepened.

But she nodded, crossed to the shelves, and selected a volume, choosing at random to avoid appearing indecisive. She sat in the armchair opposite him, accepted the tea he wordlessly poured, and cracked open the book.

At first she read stiffly, too aware of Snape nearby. But the warmth of the tea, the kittens’ soft squeaks, and the steady sound of pages turning on his side of the room gradually lulled her into a comfortable quiet.

By the third night of this new ritual, she forgot to be self-conscious.

Soon, another week passed. The evenings grew companionable in their silence.

Then, one night, as she read, Hermione let out a soft scoff at something in her book. It was a small, involuntary noise she hadn’t meant to make.

Snape glanced up at once, one eyebrow lifting in inquiry.

Heat rushed to her face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“What are you reading?” he asked, tone even.

She held up the cover, trying not to fidget under his gaze.

Recognition flickered across his features. “Ah. Yes. That particular author is something of a headache. Convoluted reasoning. Rambles terribly.”

Hermione blinked. “Yes! Exactly. He spends three pages explaining a single theorem only to contradict himself two chapters later.”

Snape inclined his head. “His editor should be drawn and quartered.”

Hermione snorted, and then clapped a mortified hand over her mouth.

But Snape’s lips twitched. Barely. Almost imperceptibly.

She lowered her hand. After a moment of hesitation, she found the courage to say, “Well… how would you have structured the argument?”

An eyebrow rose. “Far more coherently.”

“Tell me,” she said before she could stop herself.

He set his book aside. She did the same. And just like that, they slipped into discussion: sharp, lively debate that sent thoughts sparking in her mind.

They challenged each other. Interrupted each other. Built on each other’s ideas. He was exacting, incisive, occasionally infuriating, but he was brilliant. Every counterpoint he made lit up some part of her brain that had been dim for far too long.

By the time she left his chambers that night, she felt almost buoyant.

It had been years since she’d had a true academic discussion with someone who not only kept up with her, but pushed her to think harder, deeper, sharper.

She wondered, quietly, shyly, if he would be amenable to more discussions like this.

She hoped so.

She very much hoped so.

By the time the kittens reached four weeks old, their enclosure was no longer even a formality. They scaled the half-wall in under a minute, tumbled through the curtains, and scattered across the floor like furry, magical marbles.

Snape endured this development with the air of a man accepting an unavoidable tragedy.

“If they must be loose,” he said one evening, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “then at the very least, my shelves will need to be warded.”

Hermione bit back a smile. She couldn’t help thinking she saw something suspiciously like fondness beneath all his resignation.

Crookshanks, clearly pleased, flicked her tail and nudged a stray kitten away from the hearth.

The food problem became apparent shortly after. They still drank only Crookshanks’ milk, but now they were fascinated by the bowls, clambering onto the rims and splashing in the water and canned food like they were new toys.

It was Snape who suggested a solution.

“Ward the bowls,” he said without looking up from his book. “Key them to Crookshanks.”

Hermione hesitated. “Won’t the kittens be able to get through them? They’re part-Kneazle too, after all.”

Snape turned a page with deliberate calm. “Kneazle younglings have bursts of magic, yes. But it is uncontrolled. Unfocused. It will not interact with keyed wards the way an adult’s would.” His eyes flicked toward the kittens currently attempting to chew the corner of the rug. “Their attention spans are also… minimal.”

Hermione snorted.

Snape stood then, striding to one of his bookcases and selecting several volumes.

He returned and handed them to her. She looked down to find they were all specialized bestiaries: Breeds of Domestic Magical Familiars, A Kneazle’s Nature, Magical Creatures of Hearth and Home, and another whose title was partially rubbed off from use.

She devoured them in a single night.

Snape didn’t comment, but she caught the faintest gleam of amusement in his eyes the following evening when she quoted something from one of the books before she’d even sat down.

While they read, the kittens wreaked cheerful havoc, rolling, tumbling, and darting beneath chairs. Occasionally one would latch onto a robe hem and begin to climb, but both Hermione and Snape removed them patiently, setting them back on the floor only for the kittens to forget the entire endeavour seconds later.

It became normal. Strangely domestic. Comforting, even.

Which, inevitably, meant it couldn’t last forever.

The argument began, of course, with a book.

Hermione snapped it shut with a sharp thwap and glared at the cover as though it had insulted her directly.

Across from her, Snape looked up, one eyebrow arched in silent inquiry.

She rolled her eyes. “This author is impossible.”

Snape made a dry sound. “So I gathered.”

“No, I mean—listen to this.” She reopened the book and jabbed a finger at the page. “He claims that volatile potions react to ambient magic identically across all species. Witches, wizards, goblins, even magical creatures.” Her voice rose with her irritation. “That’s absurd. Human magical signatures alone vary wildly from person to person. How could he possibly believe—”

“He does not believe it,” Snape interrupted, “because it is not true.”

Hermione bristled. “I know it’s not true. That’s why I’m annoyed.”

“No,” Snape said, leaning back in his chair with infuriating calm, “you’re annoyed because you’ve misinterpreted his argument.”

Her mouth fell open. “Misinterpreted? How?”

Snape held out a hand. “Show me.”

She crossed the room and thrust the book at him, tapping the paragraph in question. “There. He says the reaction is identical.”

Snape scanned the section once, closed the book, and handed it back.

“He is referring,” Snape said, “to volatile potions in sealed environments. Cauldrons under airtight stasis. Not free-brewing conditions. In a sealed stasis, the potion does not interact with any signature at all.”

Hermione frowned. “That isn’t what he said.”

“That is exactly what he said.”

“No, he—look, if the context demands—”

Snape raised a hand. “Granger, you are attempting to apply real-world variable conditions to a controlled theoretical model. They are not interchangeable. This is potioneering, not divination.”

Hermione flushed and crossed her arms. “I understand the distinction perfectly well. But if he wanted clarity—”

“He provided clarity in the opening paragraph of the chapter,” Snape said. “You simply didn’t recognize it.”

That stung.

She launched into her counterargument: tight, logical, passionately loud to the point of shouting. Snape dismantled it piece by piece, methodically, almost gently. She tried again. He pointed out the flaws. She tried a third time, grasping at a clever angle she knew was weak even as she said it.

He skewered it instantly.

Hermione opened her mouth to argue again but stopped, frustrated beyond measure.

Snape stood abruptly, crossed to a high shelf she hadn’t examined yet, and selected a thin, well-worn volume. He pressed it into her hands.

“This,” he said, “presents the theory in more mundane terms. You may take it to your rooms, provided it returns tomorrow. Goodnight, Granger.”

Before she could respond, he swept into his bedroom and shut the door behind him with a decisive click.

Hermione stood there, book in hand, feeling thoroughly chastened.

She gathered the sleepy kittens, who had collapsed in a warm heap near the sofa, and returned them to their shelf-nursery. Crookshanks padded after her, tail flicking as if passing judgment on her debate performance.

Hermione picked up the new book, let herself out, and returned to her quarters.

She finished it before midnight.

…And she hated that Snape had been completely, absolutely right.

Now she didn’t know how she was supposed to look him in the eye the next morning.

Not after shouting at him. After losing the argument.

Not after learning from him in spite of herself.

She groaned into her pillow and wondered when, exactly, this had become so complicated.

Was she truly that desperate for his approval, even after all these years?

Yes, she thought grumpily as she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

And why shouldn’t she be? Snape was not the same man he had been when she was a student. He was far from it. That much had been obvious from the moment she’d stepped into his chambers five weeks ago and found not a tyrant, not a bitter shell of a man, but someone… different. Still sharp, still dry, still intimidating when he chose to be, but softened in ways she hadn’t expected. More human. More… present.

And over these past weeks, she had come to think of him as something dangerously close to a friend.

She didn’t want to admit it, but she wasn’t looking forward to the end of this strange little routine they’d built together. The kittens now had just over three weeks until they would be fully weaned. And then she would find homes for them and… what? What happened after that?

She couldn’t exactly keep showing up on his threshold every morning and evening. She doubted he’d tolerate her turning up purely for his books. The truth—one she admitted only in the privacy of her own mind—was that it wouldn’t be for the books at all.

It would be for him.

For the conversations. For the debates that lit her up. For the rare flashes of dry humour that caught her off guard and made her bite back a smile. For the way his eyes sharpened when he was interested, the way his voice shifted when he was engaged, the way he seemed, despite himself, to enjoy the back-and-forth as much as she did.

And, if she was being completely honest… because he was not difficult to look at.

Somehow, over the past weeks, his sharper features had softened in her mind. He was still striking, still imposing, but there was a handsomeness to him that she had not expected to notice… and now could not stop noticing. More than once she’d found herself wondering what it would feel like to run her fingers through his hair. More than once she’d caught herself staring, snapping her gaze back to her book before he looked up and caught her.

What would it be like if he ever looked at her with something other than weary obligation? What would it feel like if he wanted her company as much as she enjoyed offering it? If he looked forward to her visits as much as she looked forward to crossing that threshold into the soft warmth of his sitting room?

Well.

None of that mattered, did it?

Soon the kittens would be gone, and with them, her flimsy excuse to remain in his orbit. He would finally be free of her presence.

She could only imagine he was counting down the days.

Hermione arrived at his door the following morning  with the kind of dread usually reserved for dental appointments and classroom audits.

Her knock was soft, but the door opened a moment later all the same.

Snape looked exactly as he always did in the mornings: composed, alert, already dressed, already irritated by the mere existence of dawn. There was no sign whatsoever that she had shouted at him the night before, so she tried in turn to give no sign that she had spent half the night reading the book he’d given her, or that she now felt like her skin was two sizes too small.

“Good morning,” she managed.

He gave the faintest incline of his head and stepped aside, allowing her in.

She waited for some shift in the air, a tension, an accusation, a cutting remark.

Nothing.

He simply crossed to his desk, sat down, and picked up his quill.

Hermione swallowed. Well. Fine. If he wasn’t going to bring it up, she supposed she would have to.

She hovered a moment, then stepped forward and placed the book gently on the corner of his desk.

“Here,” she said, unable to keep the sheepishness from her voice. “Thank you for… providing clarity. You were right.”

Snape didn’t even glance at the book.

“I know,” he said mildly, dipping his quill into ink and pulling a stack of essays toward himself.

Hermione blinked at him. Of course he knew. Of course he wasn’t going to make this easy.

He still hadn’t looked at her.

Right. She wasn’t going to stand there like an idiot. She nodded to herself, smoothed her robes, and crossed quietly into the sitting room.

The kittens mewled at her arrival, Crookshanks chirring a greeting from the shelf-enclosure. Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She quickly worked through her morning ablutions and tried not to smile. His absolute normalcy this morning was so perfectly, infuriatingly Snape that she felt a warmth in her chest she refused to examine too closely.

She glanced back once before leaving.

He was still hunched over his grading, quill moving with brisk efficiency, entirely absorbed.

It was ridiculous how fond the sight made her.

Hermione bit back a smile and slipped out, leaving him to his essays and the quiet scratch of ink on parchment.

The next three weeks passed in a strange, warm blur, so gradual Hermione barely realised how much had shifted until she was in the thick of it.

The week after their small argument, the kittens were introduced to solid food. The resulting frenzy was spectacular.

They launched themselves at the dish with such ferocity that within seconds, they were completely covered in the canned pâté.

Snape stared at them as though personally offended.

“No table manners whatsoever,” he muttered.

Hermione laughed, and he shot her a look that implied she had utterly failed in her duties as a guardian of magical creatures. But later, when one kitten toppled headfirst into the bowl and emerged dripping gravy, she could have sworn she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

They didn’t argue again, but they still sparred intellectually. Heated debates flared and cooled in the space of an evening, and to Hermione’s astonishment, she even won a few. Each victory put a sharp, unreadable look in Snape’s eyes, equal parts irritation and something she almost dared call respect.

But as the days marched on, he grew… odd. Crankier. Shorter replies. More dramatic page-turning.

Even so, their routine deepened, despite the rapidly approaching expiration date. Morning visits, evening reading, quiet company that felt strangely… right.

And sometimes, when she settled into her chair, she felt his gaze linger. Once, she caught him mid-look: eyes tracing the curve of her cheek as she tucked a curl behind her ear. Warm. Searching. Different.

Her stomach flipped.

But he snapped his gaze away so quickly she doubted she’d seen it at all.

Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself that night. You’re imagining it.

Still… she wasn’t entirely convinced.

By the final week, the kittens were nearly weaned. Crookshanks looked ready to send them off with tiny suitcases.

Hermione felt the ache of something ending. Soon the kittens would be gone, and with them her nightly excuse to remain in Snape’s chambers. She would miss the warmth of the sitting room, the debates, the rare flashes of humour, the quiet comfort of his presence. She wondered if he would allow her to visit from time to time.

Snape seemed to feel the approaching end, too, though Hermione could simply be imagining it. Still, his moods grew restless. Abrupt. Sometimes almost soft—like the night he made her genuinely laugh over a ridiculous Prophet article—and sometimes shut tight, retreating behind walls she’d thought had begun to lower.

He wasn’t cruel. Just… conflicted, perhaps. And Hermione couldn’t shake the sense that whatever he was struggling with, it had something to do with her.

Before they knew it, it was time. Homes were found quickly. Five affectionate families for five impossibly charming kittens. But the sixth—the smallest, ginger and painfully sweet—remained unclaimed.

Hermione arrived at Snape’s quarters that evening exhausted and frustrated.

“I might just keep him,” she muttered the moment she stepped inside.

Snape looked up sharply. “Don’t be an idiot.”

She bristled. “Why not?”

He snapped his book shut. “Don’t act stupid, Granger. It doesn’t suit you. You read the bestiaries. Kneazles are not like house cats. Once the kitten reaches maturity, Crookshanks will not tolerate his presence. They will fight. For dominance. For territory. For your affection.”

Her cheeks burned. “Well then,” she began, flustered, “why don’t you keep the last one?”

He barked an incredulous laugh. “Crookshanks considers my rooms her territory too. She’d drive the kitten out immediately, likely out of the castle altogether.”

Hermione scowled. “There are documented cases of Kneazles coexisting—”

“Mates, Granger!" Snape snapped, his voice rising for the first time all evening. “Those instances involved bonded pairs who produced several litters over years. Not a mother and her grown offspring. Not siblings forced to share space.”

She stepped forward, heat rising in her cheeks. “And what? You think I can’t make it work? Do you doubt my ability to solve a magical problem?”

His eyes flashed dangerously. “I doubt nothing of your ability. You are a formidable witch in nearly every avenue you pursue.” He took one long stride toward her. “But in this, you will fail.”

“Oh really?” she shot back, chin lifting defiantly.

“Yes, really,” he growled. “You cannot magic away millennia of instinct from a highly magical creature, no matter the percentage of Kneazle present and no matter how ridiculously clever you are. To force a bond would be an abomination. An abuse of your magical power. And the only way you could accomplish it would be through dark magic.”

“That’s absurd—”

“And I’ll be damned,” Snape thundered, stepping fully into her space now, “if I stand by and watch someone I—”

He stopped short, jaw clenching.

Too late. The word hung there.

Someone I care about.

Hermione’s breath caught.

Their argument had driven them closer without either of them noticing, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. They were nearly chest to chest. She hadn’t realized how hard she’d been breathing until she noticed his breath catching, too.

Her head tipped back as his eyes locked onto hers.

Then…

His gaze flicked down… to her mouth.

The air between them thickened instantly. Her pulse slammed. His breathing went uneven, a muscle feathering in his jaw.

He didn’t move and he didn’t look away.

He just stared at her lips with raw, unguarded hunger, so fierce it made her knees weaken.

Oh God.

He wanted her.

And she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted it so badly it hurt.

So when he still didn’t move—caught in some desperate internal war—she made the reckless, unstoppable choice for both of them.

Hermione rose onto her toes, fisted both hands in his lapels, and pulled him down with a whispered, trembling breath.

His lips met hers.

For a split second, he went rigid with shock.

Then something inside him snapped.

He groaned—a low, guttural sound that sent fire straight to her core—and grabbed her as though he’d been starving for the taste of her. His hands slid around her waist, pulling her hard against him even as he surged forward.

Hermione staggered back a step, then another, breath catching as he followed without hesitation, mouth hot and insistent against hers. He pressed into her, guiding her backward with every desperate, consuming kiss.

Her heel bumped the base of a bookshelf.

A moment later her back hit the shelf with a soft thud, books rattling faintly behind her. She barely noticed; he was already pressing into her fully, his body flush against hers, his kiss deepening as though he meant to swallow every noise she made.

She gasped, and he chased the sound, catching her lower lip lightly between his teeth before sweeping his tongue into her mouth.

Hermione whimpered and he growled in response, pressing harder, deeper, pinning her gently but insistently to the shelf. She clutched at his robes, dragging him closer, trying to erase the bare millimetres that still separated them.

Then she felt him, pressed hard against her hip, hot, urgent, and unmistakable.

The realization jolted her with a burst of heat so intense she ground up into him without thinking, desperately seeking more contact.

That was the moment he tore himself away.

One second he was kissing her like he meant to consume her; the next he ripped himself back so suddenly she almost stumbled forward.

He stood halfway across the room, chest heaving, eyes wild with panic and something dangerously close to longing.

“I—” He swallowed hard, voice breaking. “This was—this was wildly unprofessional. It cannot—must not—happen again.”

“Severus—” she whispered, not moving, not breathing.

His head jerked toward her at the sound of his first name. Pain flickered across his features, raw, unguarded, and quickly shuttered.

“No,” he said sharply.

A cut of finality.

He turned away as if fleeing and disappeared into his bedroom, shutting the door with a soft but devastating click.

Hermione stood frozen in place, back still slightly sore from where the bookshelf had pressed into her, lips swollen, body trembling.

The scent of him clung to her.

Her mouth still tingled with the memory of his tongue.

Her skin still burned where his hands had held her.

What on earth had she done?

What on earth had they done?

It was a long time before she could force herself to move.

Longer still before she could leave his rooms and find her way back to her quarters.

She didn’t remember opening her own door, or climbing into bed.

She only remembered the way he had kissed her… like a man whose control had finally broken. Like a man who wanted her.

And the way he had run.

Snape was avoiding her.

The morning after the kiss, Hermione knocked on his chamber door as she always did. There was no answer. She waited a full minute before letting herself in as he’d granted her permission to do, but his office and sitting room was empty, and she didn’t dare breach the sanctity of his bedroom without permission. 

There was no book on the armchair, no mug on the small table, no Snape.

She fed Crookshanks and the remaining kitten, freshened up the blankets, and left within five minutes.

That evening, she tried again.

Still nothing.

Hermione didn’t linger. She didn’t browse the bookshelves, she didn’t make tea or settle in her usual chair. She performed her duties, quiet and mechanical, and left as soon as she could.

The next day brought more of the same.

And the next. And the next.

In the Great Hall, he ate with remarkable speed, head down, eyes never lifting. On the days he appeared at all, he finished within minutes and swept out before she’d eaten more than a few bites.

Once, they turned a corner at the same moment. He froze just long enough for their eyes to meet—a flash of something wounded, something panicked—before he spun on his heel and strode back the way he’d come, robes snapping behind him.

Hermione stood rooted, heart sinking slowly into her ribs.

So this was how it was going to be.

Nearly a week after the kiss—a week of silence, avoidance, and hollow disappointment—Hermione finally found a home for the last kitten.

Surprisingly, it was Minerva who took him.

The older witch had stopped Hermione on her way out of the Great Hall after breakfast. 

“I saw your flyers in Hogsmeade. Are you still searching for a place for the last kitten?” Minerva asked softly, eyes warming.

Hermione nodded and Minerva hesitated only a heartbeat.

“Tipper passed last year,” she said. “My quarters feel far too quiet these days. If he’ll have me… I should very much like to give him a home.”

Hermione nearly sagged with relief.

And so it was settled.

Minerva’s quarters were far from Hermione’s; Crookshanks and the new kitten would only cross paths in corridors or the grounds. Kneazles tolerated each other well enough in passing, so long as no one set paw into another’s territory, there should be no issues.

Hermione felt unexpectedly emotional watching Minerva cradle the kitten under her cloak, murmuring gentle introductions as she carried him off that evening. 

It was over.

And so Hermione made her final visit to Snape’s rooms.

She entered quietly, Crookshanks padding at her feet, and stood for a moment in the stillness. 

She moved automatically.

She removed the blankets from the shelf, shrinking them to tuck into her pocket.

She lifted the extension charm, dismantled the half-wall, unwove each ward with a steady hand until the shelves stood plain and ordinary again.

Finally, she moved the books on the shelf above back to their original place. 

Everything was back to normal, as if the last seven weeks had never happened.

Crookshanks wound herself around Hermione’s ankles, purring obliviously. Hermione bent and scooped her up, hugging the ginger-furred cat to her chest. Crookshanks butted her head under Hermione’s chin, and the movement nearly undid her.

Hermione turned in a slow circle, letting her eyes trace every familiar line of the sitting room. Snape himself, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

He had stayed away on purpose.

She knew it.

He knew she knew it.

And now he would return to find his rooms exactly as they had been before she’d ever stepped foot inside them.

Hermione swallowed.

“Goodbye,” she whispered, to the room, to the memory of warmth, to the man who wasn’t there.

With a quiet sigh, she turned and left.

A week slipped past without Hermione quite noticing. She forced herself not to dwell on the kiss, repeating all the reasonable excuses: it was only a moment; he had every right to regret it; perhaps it had proven to him that there was no spark. She could hardly blame him for that.

But then Crookshanks vanished.

Three days went by with no familiar ginger tail winding around her legs in the mornings, no weight settling onto her lap while she read.

And Hermione knew exactly where the wretched animal had gone.

She tried to ignore it, to trust that Crookshanks would return on her own.

But the thought of Snape finding her familiar in his rooms again, for days on end, made Hermione’s stomach twist. Whatever had happened between them, she wasn’t a coward.

So that evening, she went.

She raised her hand and knocked, bracing herself for him to ignore her again, but to her surprise, Snape opened the door almost immediately.

He looked weary, but not angry.

“I suppose you’re here for the cat,” he said, voice quiet in a way that startled her.

She swallowed and nodded. He stepped back to allow her inside.

“She’s in the sitting room.”

Hermione walked through, pushing open the door, not expecting him to follow.

Crookshanks sat primly on an ottoman as though nothing were amiss. But the moment Hermione approached, the traitor darted straight under the sofa.

“Oh, for goodness—” Hermione huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She heard a throat clear softly behind her.

Hermione spun, startled to find Severus standing in the doorway. He looked… uncomfortable. Flushed, but not with anger this time. Something in his posture seemed fragile, as though the wrong word might shatter him.

“I…” He exhaled and straightened, though his shoulders remained tense. “I wanted to apologise for my behaviour these past weeks. I crossed a line, and I didn’t know how to respond. So I withdrew.” He stared at a point just past her shoulder. “It was cowardly. And unfair to you. I have come to value our friendship, and I fear I may have destroyed it with my impulsivity.”

Hermione blinked at him. “What are you talking about? I kissed you.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t stop it. If anything…” His throat bobbed. “I encouraged it.”

“I wanted you to kiss me back,” she insisted.

He closed his eyes briefly, a pained breath escaping. “It doesn’t matter, Hermione.”

Her heart stuttered at hearing her name on his lips.

“I am not a good man,” he continued, voice low and bleak. “You deserve better than what I could ever offer.”

She frowned. “Do I get no say in that? Am I not allowed to form my own opinion of you?”

His laugh was hollow. “Your opinion is biased. You see a fragment of me. A fragment permitted only because the men I once served are dead. The man I was before was steeped in darkness. Even before the war. Even as a student myself. I am twenty years your senior with blood on my hands that will never wash clean. I would only taint you.”

Hermione stepped toward him, anger rising. Not at him, but for him.

“You think we walked out of that war unmarked? None of us did. Everyone who survived carries blood on their hands. Trauma, guilt, loss… scars no one can see.” She took another step. “Does that make all of us undeserving too?”

He flinched.

“That’s different,” he argued. “Your scars were thrust upon you. Mine were chosen. I followed a madman. I executed orders no decent person would stomach. And even when I changed course, it wasn’t out of nobility. It was out of selfishness. Because of Lily.” His voice cracked on her name. “How does that make me good? It makes me weak.”

“No,” she whispered. “It makes you human.”

His eyes snapped to hers.

“Has there ever been someone Voldemort loved enough to change himself for at the fundamental level? Does Lucius and Narcissa loving Draco enough to betray Voldemort, does that make them weak? They changed because of love. People do.” She swallowed thickly. “And yes, sometimes the catalyst is one person. Sometimes that’s all it takes to realise the path you’re on is wrong. What matters is that you turned away from darkness before it was convenient. Before victory was guaranteed. You risked everything.”

She was close enough now to feel the tremor beneath his composure.

“You gave Harry the memories,” she said softly. “You revealed the truth. Voldemort fell because of it, and Harry lived because of it. How long do you intend to punish yourself for sins you have already atoned for?”

His face twisted, grief, guilt, longing, and disbelief all warring behind his eyes.

“Hermione,” he pleaded, voice breaking, “you are young. You haven’t seen enough of the world. You haven’t met enough people to know the difference between a decent man and a monster who once—”

She cut him off sharply. “I am best friends with the Boy Who Lived. The embodiment of the light. If anyone knows the difference between good men and broken ones, it’s me.” Her voice dropped. “And you are not a monster. Not anymore.”

He stood frozen, utterly undone.

She stepped into his space, so close he had to tilt his head down to meet her gaze.

“I know what I want,” she whispered. “And I think you know what you want too… even if you’re too scared to reach for it.”

The breath he drew in was shaky. His restraint frayed visibly, a man on the verge of either fleeing or falling.

Before he could choose the former, Hermione made the choice for both of them. Before he could speak, before he could retreat back into himself, she rose onto her toes once more and pulled him down into a kiss.

This time, there was no shock. There was only need.

He made a soft, helpless sound, hands lifting to cup her face, sliding into her curls, pulling her closer as though he could not bear even an inch between them. She pressed forward, and he backed up, step by unsteady step, until he hit the sitting room door with a muted thud.

But the moment his spine touched wood, he surged forward again, reversing their positions, turning her until she was the one pressed against the door. His mouth claimed hers with raw urgency, breath mingling, fingers trembling where they framed her jaw.

Her hands slid into his robes, brushing warm skin beneath, and he groaned, a sound that unravelled her from the inside out. His own grip tightened as her hands explored the contours of his chest and abdomen.

He broke from the kiss only long enough to look at her, eyes asking a question he didn’t quite know how to speak aloud.

Hermione nodded.

His breath shuddered.

And then, with trembling reverence, he took her hand and slowly guided her away from the sitting room door, toward the closed door of his bedroom.

A year later, it was Christmas once more and Hermione could barely remember the last time she’d slept in her own quarters.

They were technically still hers, of course—a tidy set of rooms on the fifth floor that she dutifully maintained—but they might as well have belonged to a ghost. The bed sheets remained perfectly crisp, the fireplace untouched, the air faintly stale from disuse.

She simply preferred the dungeons—which, by the way, were properly decorated for the holidays, much to Severus’s feigned annoyance.

She preferred the way the chambers there stayed cool during summer and warm in winter. Preferred waking without sunlight assaulting her eyelids at an ungodly hour. Preferred the peace, the dim quiet, the shelves crammed with books, the low-burning fire, and the deep stone stillness that never quite let the outside world intrude.

Preferred him.

Crookshanks, naturally, had made the transition long before she had. The ginger menace lounged about Snape’s quarters as though she were queen of the subterranean realm. She had commandeered the spot near the fireplace, the corner of Snape’s chair, and half of the bed, and seemed perfectly content never to return upstairs again.

Hermione understood the sentiment.

Severus, for his part, had surprised her endlessly. For a man twenty years her senior, he possessed startling stamina. Intellectual, emotional, and yes, physical. She didn’t dwell on the details—they made her blush too fiercely whenever she thought about the things he would do to her behind closed doors—but the compatibility between them was something she thanked the universe for more often than she’d ever admit aloud. It turned out his wicked tongue was good for far more than sharp, witty banter.

She had expected difficulty. Adjustment. Perhaps friction.

What she had not expected was… this.

A partner who met her fire with fire, her stubbornness with his own, her intensity with something that matched and steadied it. A man who challenged her mind, steadied her heart, and made space for her in a life that had once seemed carved from stone.

There were hiccups, of course. Small things, sharp things. He could be prickly; she could be exasperating. Tempers occasionally flared. Doors occasionally shut a touch too sharply.

But they always found their way back.

Always sought each other out.

Always returned to the quiet gravity that had pulled them together in the first place.

She had everything she’d ever wanted, far more than she’d known to ask for.

And Severus… she had never seen him so happy. Not in the war years, not in the years after, not even in the brief period of peace between wars she remembered from her student days. There was a softness in him now, subtle but unmistakable. A steadiness. A warmth that emerged only when they were alone, when the world’s demands fell away and he let himself be simply Severus.

Hermione smiled to herself as she curled deeper beneath the blankets, Crookshanks purring at her feet, Severus sliding an arm around her waist in half-sleep.

All of it—their home, their rhythm, their improbable joy—was thanks to a decidedly not male Crookshanks, and all the chaos that followed. 

She wouldn’t have it any other way.