Severus Snape x Reader - Veritaserum and Consequences
Pairing: Severus Snape x reader
This is a two-part fanfic already finished.
Part II: Eye for an Eye, Heart for a Heart
Summary: Severus and the reader play pranks on each other until Severus crosses the line, and the reader decides that revenge will be as sweet as a few drops of Veritaserum in Severus's firewisky.
Veritaserum and Consequences
You and Severus Snape had long ago drifted past the safety of being mere colleagues. Friends, if one insisted on technicalities. Enemies, if one asked either of you on a particularly bad day. More often than not, something tangled and undefined, shifting constantly, impossible to name without setting it aflame.
It had begun innocently, as most disasters do. A dry comment about your grading style. A pointed observation about his teaching methods, delivered with a smile far too sweet to be sincere. The sort of academic sparring that passed unnoticed at first, dismissed as personality clashes between two stubborn professors with sharp tongues.
A quill on his desk, enchanted to scribble sarcastic footnotes in the margins of his meticulously prepared lecture plans. A week later, your classroom door developed a personality, refusing to open for anyone who dared approach it with cheer, snapping shut the moment a student smiled too brightly. Snape, of course, had denied involvement with infuriating calm.
By midterm season, the staff room had learned to recognise the signs. The way Minerva would quietly relocate her tea when the two of you sat too close. Filius pretending not to notice when a stack of essays slid off a table without being touched. Pomona once muttered that you were both exhausting.
For the most part, it was harmless. Irritating, yes. Petty, certainly. But there was an unspoken rule, lines that neither of you crossed.
You had been grading papers, half listening to the low murmur of your classroom, when you lifted your afternoon tea and took a single sip.
The change was immediate.
Your next sentence emerged wrong, stretched and warped, vowels slurring together as if your mouth had forgotten its own language. The more you tried to correct it, the worse it became, consonants tumbling over one another until your lecture sounded like an intoxicated banshee attempting interpretive poetry.
The room had gone dead silent.
Then a few snickers. Several wide-eyed stares. One Ravenclaw, bless his courage, had raised a hand and asked if you were feeling unwell. Another whispered that maybe it was a new teaching method. Someone laughed outright.
You finished the class on pure spite, mortified and furious in equal measure, and spent the next hour in your office dissecting the tea with shaking hands. The potion was clever, subtle, and unmistakably his work.
By the time you cured yourself, your voice restored and your dignity partially salvaged, rage burned hot and clean in your chest.
Severus Snape had crossed a line.
And you were going to return the favour.
That night, long after Hogwarts had fallen quiet, you didn’t sleep. You paced your quarters, replaying the humiliation, the laughter, the way your voice had betrayed you in front of your students. The anger didn’t burn itself out. It sharpened. Focused. By candlelight you planned, revising and refining, letting spite guide your hand with almost scholarly devotion. Every possibility was weighed, every consequence considered. It had to be clever. Personal.
By dawn, you were smiling again, exhaustion buzzing beneath your skin, excitement curling tight and bright in your chest.
The following days, you were infuriatingly normal.
You greeted him in the corridors as if nothing had happened. You exchanged dry remarks over staff meetings, laughed at his barbed comments, even returned a few of them with your usual ease. You shared tea in the staff room, sat beside him at dinner, leaned close enough to speak without raising your voice.
And you did not retaliate.
No hexes. No potions. No traps.
He watched you far too closely, dark eyes narrowing every time you laughed, every time you met his gaze without challenge. He waited for the strike that never came, for the inevitable escalation that had always followed before.
Each day without it made him more uneasy.
That alone should have told him something was very wrong.
By the end of the week, when you finally spoke, your tone was casual, almost thoughtful, as though the idea had only just occurred to you.
“Perhaps,” you said, stirring your tea, “this war of ours has gone on long enough.”
“You mean to say,” he replied coolly, “you are proposing a truce.”
“Something like that,” you said with a shrug. “A drink. At the Three Broomsticks. We make amends. Like adults.”
The suggestion hit him like a misplaced curse.
He very nearly dropped the stack of essays he was holding, fingers tightening just in time. He masked his reaction quickly, but his mind was already spiralling.
It meant nothing, he told himself immediately. A ceasefire. A professional courtesy. Friends did such things. You had always been… unconventional.
When the time came to leave his quarters, he found himself standing far too long before his wardrobe, selecting and discarding robes with increasing irritation. He smoothed imaginary creases, checked his reflection, scowled at it.
Is this a date? his mind whispered treacherously.
Surely not, he snapped back. Do not be absurd.
Still, the thought lingered, unwelcome and impossible to banish, following him all the way out the door.
He had been aware of it for weeks now, perhaps longer, though he refused to mark a precise beginning. It crept in subtly, disguising itself as irritation, as distraction, as an inexplicable restlessness that clung to him long after your presence had faded.
His temper soured on days he didn’t see you. Staff meetings felt longer, corridors emptier, the castle itself somehow louder and more grating in your absence. He told himself it was merely habit, that he had grown accustomed to your sharp wit and persistent interference. That was all.
And yet his eyes betrayed him.
They lingered far too long when you spoke, tracking the movement of your mouth instead of listening to your words. He caught himself watching your lips form his name, imagining, with a sudden heat of shame, how they might feel against his skin. The urge to lean closer, to hear the quiet intake of your breath before you laughed, struck him without warning and left him furious with himself.
He despised it with the same thoroughness he despised all weakness. He denied it reflexively, ruthlessly, dismissing each intrusive thought as a momentary lapse, a failure of discipline. He buried it beneath late-night brewing sessions. He reminded himself of who he was. Of what he had been. Of what he did not deserve.
Affection was a luxury meant for better men.
You were simply a colleague. An annoyance. A friend, if one were being dangerously generous.
You arrived at the Three Broomsticks first, claiming a small table tucked away from the worst of the noise. When Severus finally entered, sweeping his gaze across the room, he spotted you immediately.
You looked relaxed, bright-eyed, already settled, one elbow resting on the table as if you belonged there. A tiny smirk tugged at your lips when your eyes met his, not sharp or mocking, but knowing.
“Snape,” you greeted lightly. “You came.”
“As promised,” he replied, stiffly, taking the chair opposite you as though it might bite.
For a moment, the silence stretched. Not hostile, not yet comfortable either. He folded his hands together, then unfolded them. His posture was rigid, shoulders tight beneath his robes, eyes flicking briefly around the room before returning to you.
You flagged down Madam Rosmerta before he could protest. “Two firewhiskies, please.”
He opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again.
“That’s all right?” you asked, already knowing the answer.
“…Yes,” he said reluctantly.
The drinks arrived, steam curling faintly from the glasses. He stared into his for a moment too long before lifting it.
You raised yours first. “To temporary truces.”
He hesitated, then clinked his glass against yours. “Temporary,” he echoed.
The first sip seemed to loosen him just enough. Conversation began cautiously, sharp-edged at first, familiar jabs exchanged like habit. You teased him about his grading. He retorted about your classroom chaos. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the barbs dulled. Laughter slipped in, surprising you both.
At one point, he spoke at length about a brewing mishap in his NEWT class, irritation giving way to dry humour. You listened, genuinely, leaning forward, chin in your hand.
You softened your voice. “I’m glad you came, Severus.”
The way you said his name made him glance up sharply. Something unreadable passed through his eyes, and for a heartbeat, he seemed almost shy, gaze dropping again too quickly.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “So am I.”
Too comfortable, his mind warned.
When your glasses were nearly empty, you leaned back. “I’m suddenly starving. Would you mind grabbing something from the bar? I think they have meat pies.”
He nodded immediately. “Very well.”
The moment he turned away, you acted.
Just a single drop. Clear. Odourless. Veritaserum, brewed meticulously the night before, was measured with care. Enough to loosen, not to overwhelm.
You leaned back into your chair as he returned, heart racing, excitement fizzing beneath your skin.
This was going to be a very interesting night.
When Severus returned, he set the small plate between you and lifted his glass without comment. He drank deeply, longer than necessary, as if grounding himself.
You watched him over the rim of your own glass, pulse quickening.
For a few minutes, you let the evening continue as if nothing had changed. You asked about his classes, listened to him complain about a particularly hopeless Slytherin, laughed at a dry remark about Ministry regulations. He seemed more relaxed now, posture looser, voice lower, unaware that every word he spoke was being weighed and measured by you.
Gods, this feels good, you thought. Worth every sleepless hour.
You tilted your head, feigning idle curiosity. “So,” you said lightly, tracing a finger around the base of your glass, “do you have feelings for someone?”
The word left him instantly, clean and unfiltered.
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Severus froze mid-motion, the realisation hitting him a heartbeat too late. His stomach dropped. His mind reeled backward, searching desperately for the moment he could have stopped himself, for the mental wall that should have been there and wasn’t.
No. No, that wasn’t right.
His hand flew to his mouth, eyes widening as understanding crashed down on him all at once. Potion. Firewhisky. Your sudden calm. The invitation.
He had walked straight into it.
His heart began to hammer painfully against his ribs, occlumency flaring on instinct, only to slide uselessly off the truth already pulled to the surface. He swallowed hard, breath shallow, every muscle in his body going rigid.
You blinked at him, wide-eyed, the picture of innocent surprise. “Oh,” you said softly. “That was fast.”
Too fast, his mind screamed.
He said nothing. Couldn’t. His gaze darted to yours, then away again, jaw clenched tight, panic etched into every line of him. He felt exposed, flayed open, as if something deeply private had been dragged into the open air without his consent.
You felt a spark of triumph flare in your chest.
The realisation sent a thrill through you, sharp and vindictive and deeply satisfying. All week, you’d carried the humiliation, the laughter, the anger, and now, finally, you were watching it bloom on his face instead.
You leaned back in your chair, deliberately casual. “Sorry,” you added lightly, as though apologising for nothing more than an awkward question. “Did I catch you off guard?”
His fingers tightened against the table. “You-” He stopped himself abruptly, lips pressing together as he fought the urge to speak at all.
But his thoughts refused to obey, sliding away from him, every attempt at control unravelling as the potion worked steadily, mercilessly. He felt trapped, pinned beneath your gaze, acutely aware that something intimate and dangerous had just been set into motion.
You watched him carefully now, eyes gleaming with barely restrained delight.
Revenge, you thought, lifting your glass again. Perfect, petty revenge.
And Severus Snape, for the first time that evening, understood with sickening clarity that he was no longer in control of this night at all.
You lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Just curious,” you said, as if you hadn’t just detonated something between you.
You took a sip of your drink, eyes half-lidded, then continued casually, “So… he—”
The word tore out of him before you could even finish the sentence.
Severus’s breath caught sharply. His eyes widened in horror as he realised what he’d done, what he’d allowed to slip past his lips without resistance. He clapped a hand over his mouth as though he could physically force the truth back inside, heart slamming violently against his ribs.
You looked up, smirking. “Oh,” you said, surprise flickering across your face before your lips slowly curved. “I didn’t even finish the question.”
“I—” He swallowed hard, voice tight. “You must stop this.”
There it was. The first crack.
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Stop what?”
“This line of questioning,” he said stiffly, fingers digging into the edge of the table. “It is inappropriate.”
The word sounded weak, even to his own ears.
You studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. “I just had to check,” you murmured, gaze dropping to your glass as if the matter were settled.
You looked back up, curiosity now fully alight, emboldened by the way his composure was slipping through his fingers. “Do I know her?”
His eyes squeezed shut for a brief, tortured second. Merlin help him.
Your heart skipped. Interesting.
“And have you ever tried to ask her out?” you asked, tone light, conversational, as though you were discussing the weather.
His jaw tightened. Shame burned hot beneath his skin.
The word landed heavy between you.
You frowned slightly, something in your chest tugging unexpectedly, but the thrill of the moment still carried you forward. “Fear of what?”
He tried to shake his head, to refuse, but his mouth moved without his permission. “Rejection. Disgust.”
Your smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second.
Severus noticed. It gave him hope, fleeting and desperate. He leaned forward abruptly, lowering his voice. “Please,” he said, the word scraped raw. “Enough. You have made your point.”
You hesitated, studying him. He looked… undone. Pale. Taut. A man standing on the edge of something he could not afford to fall into.
After everything he’d done to you, after the laughter, the humiliation, the fury you’d carried all week, a darker part of you whispered, Just a little more.
“Have you ever fantasised about her?” you asked quietly.
The answer came out softer this time, but no less damning.
Severus exhaled shakily, eyes fixed on the table as if it might swallow him whole. His pulse roared in his ears. This was spiralling. He was losing control, piece by piece, and you were the one holding the thread.
You swallowed, throat suddenly dry, excitement tinged now with something dangerously close to guilt.
“And,” you added, forcing a teasing lilt back into your voice, “what’s your favourite thing about her?”
His lips parted. He tried to stop it. He truly did.
The word tasted like ruin. He didn’t look up.
Inside, Severus was unravelling, every thought reduced to a single, frantic plea.
Please don’t ask. Please. Anything but that.
And you, unaware of just how close you were to the edge, were already considering your next question.
You knew, even as the thought formed, that this was the line. The final one. The question that would end the game, whether in laughter or in ruin.
You hesitated, fingers tightening around your glass.
You could stop now, a quiet voice whispered. You’ve won. He’s shaken, flustered, thoroughly undone. Revenge achieved.
But another part of you, crueller and still burning with last week’s humiliation, urged you forward. Just one more. You needed closure. Proof. Something tangible to justify everything.
You lifted your gaze to him.
“What’s her name?” you asked.
The words landed like a curse.
The bar didn’t truly fall silent, not really, but it felt as though it had. The laughter, the clinking glasses, the low hum of conversation all faded into nothing beneath the sudden, crushing weight in the air between you.
Severus went utterly still.
For a long moment, he didn’t move at all. Then, slowly, his shoulders sagged, the rigid tension draining out of him as something far heavier took its place. Defeat. Acceptance. He stared at the table as if it were safer than looking at you, as if meeting your eyes might finish destroying him.
This is it, he thought dully. The end of it.
He had spent his life guarding truths like weapons, locking them away behind discipline and bitterness. And now, with one careless drop of potion and one innocent-sounding question, the most dangerous truth of all was being torn from him.
The word was barely louder than a breath.
Your mind reeled, scrambling desperately for an explanation that didn’t exist, for a misinterpretation, a trick, anything. But there was nothing to grasp onto. The truth crashed over you in a thousand sharp pieces, each one cutting deeper than the last.
Severus Snape, with his shadows and scars and carefully constructed distance, loving you.
Your breath caught painfully in your chest. Heat rushed to your face, then drained away, leaving you cold and hollow all at once. This wasn’t triumph. This wasn’t a victory.
You loved him too, the realisation rising sickeningly fast, undeniable now that it had been named. You always had. You’d just never allowed yourself to believe it mattered. Never imagined that he could look at you, with your laughter, your messiness, your affection for students he openly despised, and feel anything but irritation.
Horribly. Irrevocably too far.
You opened your mouth, heart pounding, a thousand words crashing into one another, apologies and confessions tangling uselessly on your tongue.
Before you could speak, he stood.
The chair scraped harshly against the floor, the sound snapping you back into the room. His face was carefully blank again, mask snapping back into place through sheer force of will.
“I must go,” he said stiffly.
You reached out instinctively. “Severus, wait—”
He turned and walked away, robes sweeping behind him like a door slammed shut, not once looking back.
You remained frozen at the table, hand hovering uselessly in the air, staring down at your untouched glass.
What had begun as petty revenge now sat heavy and irreversible in your chest.
