🦇

sirius: three days later!

dumbledore: no one knew where you were, and your magical signature was off!

sirius: i owled snape!

*dumbledore looks at the snape*

MAY YOU NEVER LOSE YOUR HYPERFIXATION

snape: *chilling on a leaf*

bellatrix: wait

snape: *experiencing happiness for the first time in his life*

💌Severus Snape x Herbology Professor(or intern/new professor)!Reader

💭SFW: Fluff, kind of slowburn ish, Snape falling in love for you, Snape asks you out at the end, reader being kind of oblivious to Snape’s feelings, McGonagall not so secretly rooting for you 

A/N: This was a request I got a long while ago that I forgot to publish and then I accidentally deleted my entire inbox ago like a week and a half ago… oops. Still working on that Harry smut, energy has been finicky and I’m also running out of title names so…enjoy! Also I kind of made up herbs here so....I can't remember if everything mentioned is genuinely in Harry Potter. I got lazy, ok?

—

The last rays of sun filtered in through the greenhouse glass, casting long amber streaks across the rows of plants. The warmth of the day still clung to the air, mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil and fresh herbs. You were bent over a tray of dittany, carefully snipping the mature stems, fingertips smudged green and brown.

A faint click of the door opening broke the quiet.

“I assumed this time of day would afford me some peace,” came the familiar drawl, dry as ever.

You didn’t look up right away, too focused on trimming the final sprig just so. “It usually does. But Pomona let me stay late—she’s already gone for the evening.”

You turned then, wiping your hands on the edge of your robe. “If you’re here for your asphodel, I set aside a few roots. The good ones.”

Snape paused, half-shadowed in the doorway, robes billowing slightly with the breeze that followed him in. “You’ve taken to preparing them for me now, have you?”

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Well, you don’t like when the third-years mangle it. Figured I’d save us both the trouble.”

He stepped forward slowly, eyeing the basket of sorted roots with a furrowed brow that wasn’t quite irritation. You knew that look by now—it was his version of…appreciation, maybe.

“You’re far too accommodating,” he muttered, reaching for the basket.

You tilted your head. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”

There was a beat of silence. He didn’t respond, not directly. Instead, he took the basket and turned away, muttering something that might have been “Hmph. At least someone here is competent.”

As he pushed the door open, you called gently after him, “You’re welcome, Severus.”

He paused again. Just briefly. Didn’t turn back. But the door closed a little more gently than usual behind him.

— 

The last of the students had filed out in a flurry of parchment and scuffed shoes, leaving behind the usual aftermath—dried potions clinging to cauldrons, the faint scent of burnt lavender, and his patience hanging by a thread. Snape waved his wand with a practiced flick, vanishing the worst of the mess, but left the benches and shelves untouched.

He glanced at the time.

You were usually in the dungeons by now, carrying that blasted basket of herbs and trimmed ingredients like it was second nature. No fanfare. No knock. Just a soft rustle of robes and the gentle thud of the basket placed near his desk.

But the hallway outside was silent.

He paced once behind his desk, then again. Sat. Stood up. Adjusted the jars along the side shelf with more force than needed.

Ridiculous.

He had no use for distractions. Least of all ones that came in the shape of a professor too kind for your own good—offering him perfect snips of monkshood and bundles of fresh lavender, leaving little parchment notes in neat handwriting:

“Figured you’d want this batch—fresh from greenhouse three. ”

He still had yesterday’s note tucked under a stack of unused parchment, though he told himself it was only because he might need to reference it later.

Another glance at the time.

Then, as if summoned—soft footsteps echoed down the hall. A pause. The faint creak of the classroom door, opening just a bit.

Your voice, a quiet breath of warmth in the gloom:

“Sorry I’m late. I got caught up de-thorning the wandwood. Nasty thing today.”

Snape didn’t move at first. He just blinked at you from behind his desk, caught somewhere between relief and something far more irritating.

You stepped fully inside, brushing a stray leaf from your sleeve as you set the basket down. “I brought extra. Pomona said the next few weeks might be rough with the way the fluxweed’s reacting to the moon cycle.”

Still, he said nothing. Just looked at you. A little too long.

“…Is everything alright?” you asked finally, uncertain.

Snape cleared his throat. “Perfectly fine,” he said, voice clipped. “You’re late.”

You raised an eyebrow, more amused than offended. “Didn’t know you timed my deliveries.”

“I don’t.”

You only smiled, starting to turn to go. “Alright, then. I’ll be out of your way.”

But this time, he spoke before you reached the door.

“…I expect the same quality tomorrow,” he said, low and almost gruff. “If you’re planning to make a habit of it.”

You turned back, eyes bright with just the hint of a knowing smile. “Of course, Professor.”

And then you left. And he stood there for a moment longer than he meant to, listening to the echo of your footsteps as they faded down the corridor.

The kettle was whistling gently in the corner as you poured yourself a cup of tea, the clink of ceramic and quiet shuffle of parchment the only sounds in the room. A rare moment of peace between classes.

“Ah, there you are,” came McGonagall’s voice, crisp and familiar, as she stepped inside with a small stack of essays in hand. “I thought I saw you duck in.”

You smiled over your shoulder. “Just grabbing a quick cup. The third-years nearly destroyed my entire bench this morning trying to identify waterweed.”

She tsked sympathetically, setting her papers down and conjuring a second cup for herself. “Better yours than mine,” she murmured, then took a sip. “Though I must say—Herbology seems to be agreeing with more than just your students lately.”

You blinked, turning slightly. “…Pardon?”

McGonagall’s expression didn’t change much, but there was an unmistakable gleam in her eyes. “Severus has been… unusually tolerable these past few weeks.”

Your brows lifted. “Tolerable?”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she said, waving a hand. “I’m quite fond of the man in my own way, but I’ve known Severus for decades. He doesn’t do pleasant unless something’s caused it—or someone.”

Heat began creeping up your neck, but you busied yourself with stirring your tea. “Maybe he’s just been getting more sleep.”

“I highly doubt that,” McGonagall quipped, then added more softly, “He’s been speaking quite highly of the new monkshood you brought in. Very precise. And I’ve heard him recommend your tincture preservation methods to Slughorn.”

You blinked. “He… recommended me?”

“Mmhmm.” She glanced at you over her glasses. “So whatever it is you’ve been bringing down to those dungeons—it’s working.”

You chuckled nervously, pressing the rim of your cup to your lips to hide your smile. “It’s just plants, Minerva.”

“Yes,” she said, tone far too knowing, “and perhaps something a bit more human than that.”

And with that, she turned back to her papers, utterly serene, like she hadn’t just thrown your morning into a tailspin.

Your knuckles tapped gently against the heavy door of his office. It was half open—rare. Even rarer that the flickering firelight within actually gave the place a warm glow.

“Come in,” came that familiar, velvet-dry voice.

You stepped inside, arms cradling the satchel of fresh-cut lovage and yarrow. “Brought your request, Professor.”

“Must you always call me that?” he asked, barely glancing up from his parchment. “We’re both professors.”

You smiled faintly as you walked closer, noting the way his hand had paused mid-sentence. “Habit, I guess.”

Snape looked up then—really looked—and his expression softened almost imperceptibly. You didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered. You never did.

“I harvested the yarrow early this morning,” you added, laying the bundle gently across a cleared space on his desk. “Before the sun fully crested. It’s more potent that way.”

He nodded, fingertips brushing the stalks like they were something rare. “Of course you’d know that.”

There was something in his tone. Not sarcasm, not dismissive. Just… low, quiet appreciation. It made your chest tighten.

“You always bring exactly what I need,” he said after a beat, voice even softer now. “Even before I realize I’ve run out.”

You shrugged gently, watching him with careful eyes. “That’s what colleagues are for.”

But he didn’t answer.

Instead, he stood.

He didn’t loom the way others claimed he did—no, this was different. Hesitant. Like he was standing on the edge of something he hadn’t allowed himself to want in years. Maybe ever.

“I’m not…” he started, then stopped. Frowned. Tried again. “I don’t do this.”

You tilted your head. “Do what?”

He stepped closer. “This. Whatever this is between us.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’ve watched you flit about this castle with a smile that could undo the very seams of a man’s restraint,” he said, voice low. “And yet, you never seem to notice the effect you have. On me.”

A silence stretched. You felt it crackling between you like static.

And then, almost shyly—almost—he reached out, fingers brushing yours. Testing.

“If I were to ask if I might… take you to Hogsmeade. Not as a colleague. Not as a favor.” His eyes held yours. “But as a man very foolishly falling for you.”

Your heart soared.

You stepped closer, letting your fingers slip fully into his hand.

“I’d say yes,” you murmured. “Even if you are a little foolish.”

His mouth quirked upward. Just slightly. Just enough.