𝐳𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐫𝐲

She liked that you were quieter. That you always carried extra parchment, and didn’t laugh when she asked you to help her charm her homework to sing. You balanced each other out. She got you into trouble. You got her out of it. By third year, people had stopped referring to you as individuals. It was always "Tonks and her shadow" or "You know, the one Tonks always follows."

Late nights in the library turned into whispered stories and half-written notes passed back and forth in class. You talked about everything—teachers, spells, what it might be like to be grown up and away from all this. She wanted to be everything: a curse-breaker, a magizoologist, maybe a spy. You wanted to become an Auror since your second year.

It was in your fifth year that she found out your well kept secret.

It was after Potions class. Tonks was, once again, halfway through ranting about how unfair Snape was when you slipped up and said,

“But he’s not wrong, really. His feedback’s just… intense.”

Tonks tilted her head, smirking. “You defend him a lot for someone who supposedly hates his guts.”

“I don’t defend him,” you said, a little too quickly.

“Oh, you absolutely do. Merlin’s saggy left—Do you fancy Professor Snape?”

“I do not!”

"You do! You are even blushing!"

Your silence was damning.

Tonks burst out laughing. “You’ve got a crush on the King of Scowls! This is fantastic.”

You buried your face in your hands. "He..isn't so bad...he just... he has this aura about him....”

She leaned back dramatically, hand to her heart. “Your secret’s safe. But I’m never letting you forget this.”

And she didn’t. For the rest of school, it was a running joke—her nudging you every time Professor Snape entered a room, or drawing little hearts next to his name in your notes. But behind the teasing was something steadier.

She never mocked you in front of others. Never crossed a line. And when she saw how your face fell after one of his colder comments, she was the first to hand you a chocolate frog and change the subject.

You were best friends in the truest sense: no ceremony, no drama. Just loyalty. Comfort. A quiet kind of love you didn’t have words for back then.

Even after school ended, you and Tonks never drifted—not even for a moment.

If anything, you got closer. While others scattered to different departments, continents, or careers, you and Tonks made one unspoken decision: stick together. You applied for Auror training the same week, got accepted the same day, and started the grueling program under Alastor Moody with matching black eyes and bruised ribs within the month.

Moody was ruthless, paranoid, and brilliant. He didn’t care who your family was or what grades you got—he cared if you could think under pressure and survive being cursed in six different ways before breakfast.

Tonks thrived in chaos. You thrived by thinking three steps ahead. He hated that you came as a package deal, but even he had to admit: you worked well together.

You’d train all day, then collapse back into the tiny, crooked apartment you’d scraped together rent for in the dodgiest corner of Diagon Alley. The floors creaked, the windows stuck, and your upstairs neighbor was most definitely raising something illegal, but it was yours.

Living together felt like an extension of school—only messier.

Tonks left clothes in every room, sang off-key in the shower, and brewed experimental teas that occasionally exploded. You organized the spice rack alphabetically, hexed a laundry-folding charm into the sofa cushions, and always had healing balm stocked. She stole your socks. You stole her biscuits. She changed her hair color depending on your mood more often than her own.

It worked.

On the hard days—when Moody tore you down in training or your legs ached from endless drills—you’d both sprawl across the living room floor, limbs tangled, laughing at nothing. 

She never lets you spiral. Not for long. The second you start sounding even vaguely self-pitying, she cuts in with, 

"Okay, but let’s not forget your ex once hexed his own eyebrows off because he thought you were flirting with a waiter."

You nearly choked laughing when she said that the first time. You still do.

She was your family.

—

Auror life is exhausting. Between endless paperwork, midnight patrols, and cleaning up after Ministry scandals, you barely have time to breathe.

One night, she arrives looking unusually serious. The door slams shut behind her, and she tosses her coat over the back of a chair before saying, "Moody pulled me aside after our patrol. Said he wants us both at a meeting tomorrow night. Confidential. Off the record."

You blink. "Order of the Phoenix?"

She nods. "Didn’t say it out loud, but come on. What else would it be?"

You stare at her, letting that sink in. You've heard whispers—of Dumbledore assembling people, of something bigger than what the Ministry's pretending to handle. You didn’t think you’d be pulled into that.

Tonks flops onto the couch. “Told him we’d be there. He grunted, which I’m pretty sure was approval.”

With the flat dim and quiet, the weight of it settles in. You get up to make more tea. She adds some dragon brandy to both mugs without having to ask.

“What do you think it’ll be like?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Dunno. Moody said to ‘expect people you won’t like but will have to trust.’ So... tense. Probably weird. Dangerous.”

You sit beside her, knees touching. “You think it’s real? That this...war that’s coming—it’s as bad as they say?”

Tonks doesn't answer right away. Her hair shifts to a darker shade, a sign she’s thinking hard. Then she says quietly, “I think it’s worse. And I think we’re going to be in the thick of it.”

You nod. Sip your tea. Try not to let your hands shake.

“Whatever happens,” she adds, bumping her shoulder into yours, “you and me? Still a team. We will go through it together.”

“Always.”

You both fall asleep on opposite ends of the couch that night, the warmth of your shared blanket and mission stitching something fierce and unspoken between you.

The next night, you and Tonks arrive early—Moody’s orders, of course. Grimmauld Place is a little more haunted-house than war base, all dim lighting, creaky staircases, and portraits that grumble as you walk past.

Tonks manages to trip over the umbrella stand before the front door even closes behind you. You grab her elbow just in time to keep her from face-planting into a side table.

“Off to a graceful start,” she mutters, fixing her hair—which shifts from a calm brunette to an agitated mustard yellow. “At this rate we’ll get kicked out before we’re recruited.”

“Don’t touch anything, the walls look like they will curse you otherwise.” you whisper, eyeing a snarling family tree on the wall.

Inside the drawing room, you find a loose ring of chairs forming around a big table. Most of the seats are still empty, but the few people already there give you a once-over—Kingsley nods at Tonks and you briefly giving you a small thumbs up. Moody grunts and gestures toward two chairs.

You and Tonks drop into them immediately. She leans toward you. “Who’s that?”

“Pretty sure that’s Emmeline Vance. See the robes? Old school dueling champion.”

Tonks raises an eyebrow. “Think she’d train me? I want to win at something other than ‘most likely to trip over her own wand.’”

You stifle a laugh.

More people start to arrive—Molly and Arthur Weasley step through the door, Arthur spotting you and Tonks immediately.

He gives a warm, fatherly smile and says, “Ah, good to see you girls here,” before settling into a seat beside Kingsley.

A moment later, someone you recognize from old newspaper clippings and reputation alone strolls in—Sirius Black, all swagger and shadows, jaw clenched like he’s constantly daring someone to challenge him. Tonks elbows you excitedly. “That’s my cousin. He’s… complicated.”

Before you can answer her

The air shifts.

Severus Snape steps through like a shadow that decided to walk on two legs. Tall, severe, with his long black robes trailing behind him like smoke. His presence drags silence with it, unsettling and total. Heads turn. Conversations die.

You fall halfway out of your chair, catching your shin on the table leg and wincing loudly. Tonks’ hand darts out to yank you back into your seat.

“Oh Merlin,” she breathes. “Is that—oh, it is. It’s him.”

You try to school your face into something neutral, something professional—but your ears are definitely hot.

“It's actually him! It's Snape!” she hisses, kicking your ankle.

“I can see that!”

Severus sits across the circle, arms crossed, looking like every chair personally offended him.

Tonks leans in. “He still looks like he bathes in vinegar and regrets. But I can’t lie, the hair works in this lighting.”

You glare at her. Before you can reply, the door opens again.

Remus walks in quietly, a book tucked under his arm, soft robes brushing the floor. His expression is mild, almost absent, until he sees Moody and nods and then takes the empty seat next to Sirius.

Tonks makes a sound between a cough and a hiccup. Her hair immediately floods pink.

You stare at her. “You okay?”

She whispers, “Who is that? And Where has he been hiding all my life?”

“Probably reading somewhere with better lighting,” you murmur.

“I want to marry his jumper,” she breathes.

“You don’t even know him yet.”

“I can dream.”

The meeting starts, but neither of you register more than every third word.

Moody launches into a gruff update about shifting patrol assignments, but your brain is too busy trying to process how Severus still looks more like a storm wrapped in robes than a man. He’s scribbling something in a small, weathered notebook with quick, precise movements, and every so often he glances up—he never looks at you, thank Merlin, but you can’t help flinching each time, just in case.

Next to you, Tonks is sitting bolt upright, hands folded like she’s trying to behave. Her hair is still a bit too pink and her eyes haven’t left Remus for more than five seconds at a time.

“Stop looking at him like he’s your Patronus,” you whisper sideways.

She whispers back, “He probably is my Patronus.”

You bite down a snort. Emmeline Vance begins correcting the placement of some ward markers on a wall map, but all you see is how Remus rubs the edge of his thumb along the side of a parchment, brows furrowed in thought.

And then Severus speaks.

"They are shifting their operations to Wiltshire. You’re wasting time watching Knockturn Alley."

His voice slices across the room like a spell. Cold, certain, unmistakably him.

You gasp, too audibly. Heads turn.

Tonks promptly kicks your shin under the table. "Subtle," she hisses.

You hiss back, “He just—talked.”

“He’s allowed to talk!”

You sink lower in your chair. “Did you hear his voice? It’s like dark velvet and guilt.”

Tonks makes a strangled noise. “Oh Merlin, stop.”

“You stop looking at Remus like he’s a dessert trolley.”

“At least mine smiles. Yours looks like he’d rather be hexed than hugged.”

“Yours literally has holes in his sleeves.”

“He’s rustic!”

“Rustic?!?”

You both clamp your mouths shut when Kingsley raises an eyebrow in your direction.

The next few minutes are spent pretending to jot notes while only half-listening to talk of safehouses and encrypted messages. Meanwhile, Severus licks a smudge of ink from his finger before turning the page of the notebook and you fall out of your chair again.

Tonks catches your expression and covers her mouth with her sleeve.

When Moody finally closes the meeting with, “Get some rest. Tomorrow, the real work begins,” both you and Tonks almost jump up from your seats and bolt out of Grimmauld Place.

The moment your flat door slams shut behind you, she lets out a sound somewhere between a squeal, a gasp, and a tiny scream.

“Okay. Okay, what just happened?” she blurts, pacing like she’s being chased by her own thoughts. “Remus is—He’s—He looks like a worn-out library book I want to press to my chest and never return.”

You drop your bag by the door and collapse onto the couch, your face still flushed. Tonks flops onto the couch beside you with all the grace of a flobberworm. “And then he spoke. His voice is like chamomile tea and rainy Sundays.”

“Your hair turned aggressively pink.”

“I panicked!” she whines. “I didn’t even say anything to him, just made weird eye contact and probably looked like I was about to confess to a crime.”

You let out a whine at the memory of the meeting „I actually almost fell out of my chair when Severus walked in. That’s so embarrassing! It’s like my body decided to reenact Swan Lake—horribly.”

Tonks howls. “You did jerk like he cast a silent spell at you. And your face—pure panic. I thought he’d hexed you just by walking past.”

You throw a pillow at her. “Severus Snape, Tonks! You know I’ve never really gotten over it.”

“Oh, I knew, but seeing it live was ten times more dramatic than I expected.”

You sigh, flopping back with a groan. “He still has that voice. That impossibly sharp, cold-as-ice, absolutely-don’t-talk-back voice. He spoke and I forgot what year it was.”

“He licked ink off his thumb and you went into cardiac arrest,” Tonks snorts.

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Well I’m not sorry about it!”

Silence stretched between you. Both completely lost in your own thoughts of what happened at the meeting.

After what seemed hours Tonks exhales dramatically and mutters, “We’re going to die. And it’s going to be because we were too busy making heart-eyes to notice a hex.”

You nod still mentally recovering. “This will be the end of us. But seriously how can you fall for someone you just saw and didn’t even speak to?”

Tonks covers her face. “How can you still be crushing on a man who looks like he’d rather die than compliment anyone?”

“Remus probably owns exactly three shirts and thinks wool counts as formalwear.”

“We’re both doomed,” she says, grinning.

You sigh dramatically. 

Tonks leans her head on your shoulder. “I give it a week before one of us doodles hearts in our field report.”

“Too late,” you mumble.

She gasps, sitting up. “You didn’t.”

You glance away. “Just initials. Maybe. Twice.”

Tonks lets out a scandalized squeal and whacks you with a cushion. “You are hopeless.”

“Completely hopeless,” you agree, laughing.

And the flat rings with it—relief and giddy, schoolgirl chaos and something sweeter hiding underneath.

—

At all the meetings that came after that, you try to focus. You really do. But every time Severus speaks, you feel it again—that familiar spark just beneath your ribs. His voice is still cold, deeper than you remember from school, tinged with exhaustion. But there’s still that fire in it. A quiet, deadly fire that ignites something in you every time he opens his mouth.

You swore to yourself that you’re going to speak to him. You even rehearse it in your head. You even walked up to him after the meetings ended, only to chicken out and pretend to check a parchment on the wall. Or tie your boot. Or suddenly remember a nonexistent appointment.

Every. Single. Time.

Tonks, meanwhile, is thriving.

She starts chatting with Remus after meetings—little things at first. Passing the sugar when they gather in the kitchen afterward. Asking him what he’s reading. Making him laugh with some absurd story from work.

You watch it all unfold with awe. Tonks, so bold and awkwardly charming, and Remus, who slowly stops avoiding eye contact and starts seeking her out.

“You should just finally talk to him,” she whispers to you during one particularly long and boring debrief about apparition grid safety.

“I will,” you whisper back.

“You won’t.”

“Shut up.”

She grins and nudges you with her knee under the table.

But she was right, at the rate you were going, you never actually going to talk to him.

Every time Severus meets your eyes, it's like looking straight into a Pensieve full of barbed wire. And no matter how many times you remind yourself you’re not a teenager anymore, your stomach still flips like one.

So you sit. And you listen. And you steal glances. And you wait.

"You’re staring again," Tonks mutters one night, bumping your knee under the table.

"Was not."

She raises an eyebrow. "You absolutely were. Want me to spill my Butterbeer on him so you can swoop in with a napkin and a smile?"

"That is the worst plan I’ve ever heard."

"Worked on Remus."

You both glance across the table. Remus, is currently nose-deep in a book and doing a stellar job pretending everyone doesn’t exist, not even really bothering to listen to what's talked about..

"Worked?" you snort. "He's pretending you're part of the wallpaper."

"Because he's noble," she says, grimacing.

You laugh, but the ache lingers. You’re women in waiting. Orbiting two emotionally unavailable men.

Suddendly the tension at the meeting turns thicker than dragonhide. Severus just brought up faulty recon near Malfoy Manor, when Sirius bristles like he’s been hexed.

“Of course you’d know all about Malfoy’s whereabouts,” Sirius snaps, leaning forward in his chair like he’s spoiling for a duel. “Still keeping in touch with your old mates, are you Snivellus?”

Severus doesn’t even look at him. “Unlike you, Black, I don’t rely on nostalgia and guesswork.”

Sirius laughs humorlessly. “Right. Because nothing says trustworthy like a Dark Mark and a superiority complex.”

“Better a mark I chose to turn from than a name I hide behind while rotting in my family’s attic,” Severus replies, voice razor-sharp.

Remus lowers his book finally and steps in, calm but firm. “Alright, let’s not—”

“No,” Sirius cuts him off, eyes flashing. “Let’s. Why is he even here? Why should we trust a man who only shows up when it’s convenient and slinks back into the shadows the moment it’s dangerous?”

Severus turns to him slowly. “And what is it you do? Aside from pacing the floorboards and snapping at people who are actually risking something?”

Sirius shoots to his feet. “I’ve fought for this cause—”

“Fought?” Severus scoffs. “Hiding in your parents house with a bottle of firewhisky isn’t fighting.”

Sirius sneers, voice rising, "Says the greasy little git who spent half his life licking Voldemort’s boots? You are not loyal. You're pitiful. Always hanging around in the corner like a curse no one bothered to lift."

Your chair screeches as you stand. “Enough!”

Everyone freezes.

Your voice rises, sharp and blistering. “How dare you!? Severus stands in front of that monster alone risking his life every single second just so we have intel on what's going on! He could have run away but he doesn't and keeps risking being found out. While you—” your voice cracks with fury—“you sit in this house, barking like a chained dog, snapping at anyone who reminds you that the world kept turning without you.”

Sirius starts to speak, but you’re already on fire. “You think sneering at him makes you brave? You think calling him names makes you useful? The only thing you've contributed to this war in months is your bitterness. At least Severus earned his place at this table. What exactly have you done, besides act like a schoolboy with a grudge?”

The air goes dead still. Even the walls seem to hold their breath.

“You think you know him—” Sirius tries again.

“I know enough,” you snap. “I know he doesn’t get praise. He doesn’t get friends or thank you’s or a warm bed at night. He gets suspicion and scars. And he still shows up. While you—you sit here and hurl insults like it’s a Quidditch match and you’re mad no one handed you the snitch. So unless you do not actually have anything damn useful to say. Sit your whiny ass down and shut up!”

The silence that follows is absolute. Even the portrait on the wall stops muttering.

Severus stares at you like you’ve hexed the floor out from under him.

You sit back down, fists clenched in your lap, breath tight.

No one dares to speak up for a long time.

Sirius slowly sinks back into his chair, his jaw tight but silent. He doesn’t look at you. Or anyone. For once, his mouth stays shut.

Remus glances at you, something flickering in his eyes—surprise, respect, maybe even a little awe. He presses his lips together to keep from smiling.

Tonks leans over and whispers, “You might’ve actually broken him.”

Around the room, others are blinking. Molly and Arthur look like proud parents, whose child just won every trophy possible. Kingsley hides a smirk behind his hand. Even Moody tries not to smirk.

But Severus—he doesn’t move. He just keeps staring at you. Not with his usual scowl or cold detachment, but with something harder to decipher. Like he’s seeing you properly for the first time. And that’s when the heat crawls up your neck.

You suddenly realize what you’ve done.

You look down, mortified. You just publicly annihilated the cousin of your best friend, defended the most controversial man in the Order, and now you’re being stared at like you grew another head.

You cough into your sleeve and mutter, “...Too much?”

Tonks snorts. “Perfect amount.” 

"Alright, back on track." Moody’s voice boomed out, snapping the room back to order. The meeting limped along to its conclusion, mostly quiet, the usual sniping and debates subdued.

When it finally ended, you stood slowly, still feeling the echo of your own voice in your chest. Molly had cooked—an impressive spread of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pasties, and buttered carrots—and people lingered more than usual.

To your surprise, Severus didn’t vanish like usually. He stayed and even took a plate.

You and Tonks found yourselves off to the side, standing half in the doorway, watching the group move about the kitchen.

“I still can’t believe you said all that,” Tonks said around a mouthful of roast. “You basically put Sirius Black in his place and he just sat down like he was a child. A really quiet one.”

You rubbed your hands over your face. “He just really pissed me off with what he was saying. I wanted him to shut up.”

“You should be proud. It was art. Molly looked like she wanted to applaud. Remus definitely did mentally.

"I am never going to talk ever again.”

“That’s a shame,” came a low voice behind you.

You jumped.

Severus.

Tonks blinked at him, blinked at you, then grinned so wide her cheeks dimpled. “Right. I’ll just—go pretend I have something to do in the pantry.”

She disappeared with a wink, leaving you suddenly very alone.

Severus stood a few paces from you, holding a cup of tea. He didn’t look angry. Just… unreadable.

“I didn’t need you to stand up for me,” he said finally.

“I know,” you replied, meeting his eyes. “It wasn’t about that. I just—” You hesitated. “I couldn’t stand hearing him yap through another meeting. He’s like a howler that never shuts off. And what he was saying about you was just not okay.”

A pause. And then—unexpectedly—his mouth twitched. Not a smile. But close.

He looked at you again, longer this time. “You were always… persistent.”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“In class,” his voice is calm but there is a hint of amusement in it. “Fifth year onward. Asked more questions than most. Top marks. Except for that one explosion.”

Your face went hot. “That wasn’t my fault. The instructions in the textbook were vague.”

He hummed lowly. “Or perhaps you were too eager to impress.”

You stared at him, flustered. “Potions was always my favorite subject. Even when you gave me detention for answering questions too quickly.”

His mouth twitched. “You were never just quick. You were thorough. Meticulous. Determined to prove yourself. The detention was for yelling the answer and not raising your hand.”

Your breath caught. “You noticed that?”

A pause. Then, very quietly: “I notice more than people think.”

For the first time, you were having an actual conversation with him. It felt strange. And strangely easy.

His eyes lingered. “You were always… precise. Focused.”

You swallowed, heart stumbling. “You were always terrifying.”

That got the faintest curve from his lips.

And just like that, something shifted.

You start talking. Not much—short exchanges after meetings about potions techniques, obscure ingredients, or the ridiculousness of certain assignments. But he listens. And replies. Sometimes with a sarcastic edge. Sometimes with real curiosity.

Once, you ask about a text on defensive elixirs. He recommends three others, more advanced, quotes the page numbers without blinking, and mutters, “Try not to incinerate anything this time. Though I assume the eagerness hasn’t worn off.”

You grin. “Only one cauldron ever died. And it died bravely.”

He almost smiles. Almost.

Sometimes, the conversations shift sideways. You end up snickering beside him when Sirius whines for the fifth meeting in a row about being left out of missions.

“I do wonder how he breathes between monologues,” Severus murmurs.

“Barely,” you reply, trying not to laugh into your cup.

He glances sideways at you. It’s not warm, but it’s no longer distant either.

It becomes a rhythm. Something constant. A pulse through the chaos. Every meeting. Every snide comment passed between you. Every book you pretend to casually bring up, just to hear him talk.

It’s not new. The crush—his voice, the way he moves, the way his mind works—you’ve carried all of that since you were fifteen. But now, it’s different. Sharper. He’s no longer a distant figure behind a desk. He’s someone real. Present. Willing to meet you halfway.

You’re not just starry-eyed anymore. You care about him—his silences, his scars, the exhaustion he hides under his sneers. You start noticing the quiet things—the tension in his shoulders before he speaks, the way his fingers twitch when he’s trying not to show he’s anxious, the fact that he never forgets what you’ve said, even in passing.

Every time he says your name, soft and precise like it’s part of a formula, something inside you twists. Because this time, it's not a crush.

It's love.

—

You just came home from a mission when you plopped down on the couch besides Tonks.

She is curled on the couch, hair dull and grey—not from effort, but from mood. She stares at the ceiling, voice flat.

"I told him. Remus. I told him how I felt."

You sit up straighter. "Wait—what? You actually told him? When?"

"Last night. After the meeting. Just... blurted it out. Like a bloody idiot."

"And what did he say?"

Her laugh is dry and bitter. "Said I was too young. That it wouldn’t be fair. That I deserved someone who wasn’t... him."

You blink. "But—Tonks, are you joking? He watches you. I’ve seen it. He listens when you speak. He always lights up a bit when you’re around—"

"Yeah," she cuts in, quietly. "I thought so too. But maybe I saw what I wanted to see. Or maybe he’s just scared of being happy."

Your heart twists. "Tonks... I’m so sorry."

She shrugs, fighting back tears. "I don’t regret telling him. But I feel like I set myself on fire and he just stood there watching. But I am not going to give up even if that makes me an Idiot."

You take her hand. "You're not an idiot. You're brave. I wish I could be that brave."

She gives a weak smile. "You need to confess to your disaster man as well."

"Tonks—"

"Nope. I mean it. Severus watches you the same way Remus watched me—except Snape is even worse at hiding it."

You shake your head. "He doesn’t feel that way. And even if he did, he wouldn’t say it."

"Then you say it," she says, fierce. "Be the one who jumps. Don’t wait like I did."

You stare at the fire.

Then nod.

The meeting that night is long. You barely hear a word of it. Your heart is pounding in your chest so loud you’re convinced someone will comment. You catch Severus glancing at you a few times—short, searching looks, like he’s noticed you’re not entirely present.

Tonks nudges your arm and murmurs, “Still on for after?”

You nod, throat dry. She squeezes your hand once under the table before drifting away to speak with Remus, who is lingering near the back of the room.

You watch them. Their heads are close together, voices soft. You can’t tell what’s being said, but Tonks is smiling—hopeful and nervous all at once.

Then you spot Severus slipping toward the hallway, cloak already gathered in one hand.

You stand. Fast.

“Severus—wait.”

He stops, slowly turning.

You inhale once, deep, and step toward him.

“I need to say something,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “And I swear, I’ve been trying to talk myself out of it for weeks, but here we are.”

Severus stands there, watching you with that unreadable look. Your heart thuds hard enough you’re afraid he can hear it.

“I like you,” you say, quieter now. “I mean I like you. I’ve liked you for a while. Well actually I liked you since fifth year but then I thought I stopped but I think I knew I didn't the second I saw you walk into that Order meeting. And then we started talking and—Merlin, it’s not some passing thing.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes. “You’re complicated and sharp and so much more than people ever see. And talking to you is the best part of my week, every time. So I thought maybe—if you wanted—maybe we could go for a nice romantic dinner...?”

Silence stretches.

He doesn’t move.

Then, finally, he speaks. “You shouldn’t want things like that from me.”

His voice is low, but not cruel. Just tired. Like he’s had this argument with himself already.

You swallow hard. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not made for that,” he says. "I am not the man to go for candlelight...It wouldn’t suit me. It never has.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking to yours something you can't quite place flashing in them but only for a second.

He turns before you can say anything else, footsteps retreating down the corridor without a backward glance, his cloak trailing like smoke behind him.

And your heart folds in on itself as you’re left standing there in a very quiet, very final way.

Tonks and You barricaded yourselves into the apartment the whole weekend after that, armed with chocolate frogs and more bottles dragon brandy than the two of you could drink.

"He’s a bloody idiot!" she says, plopping down beside you on the couch at some point after the third bottle.

"They both are."

You turn your head to look over at her grabbing the bottle and taking a swing before scrunching up your face at the burn. "Remus still pretending you don’t exist?"

"Like I’m contagious."

You hand her the bottle letting out a sigh. "At least Remus kind of gave an actual reason."

Tonks musters you for a moment after taking a sip from the bottle herself. Her eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed with brandy and frustration.

“They’re idiots,” she declares again, slamming the bottle down on the table. “Grade-A, Ministry-certified, emotionally-stunted idiots.”

You nod solemnly, sprawled sideways across the armrest. “Absolute morons. Should be banned from having faces that make us feel things.”

“Exactly!” she slurs. “You—brilliant, loyal, terrifying when angry—you confess and he runs like a blasted dementor’s on his heels. And me? I practically proposed to Remus with my eyes, and he just—‘too young,’ ‘not safe,’ blah blah, tragic werewolf poetry.”

You start laughing. It bubbles up out of you uncontrollably. Tonks joins in, snorting into a cushion.

Then her face goes serious. “We need a plan.”

You blink. “What kind of plan?”

“A scheme. A plot. Operation: Emotionally Inept Men Realize Their Own Damn Feelings.”

You giggle. “That acronym is awful.”

“I’m drunk. You fix it later,” she mumbles. “We need to make them jealous. Or nervous. Or confused. Just—something.”

You snort. “Like what? Send each other flowers in front of them?”

Tonks gasps. “YES. And then we act super casual. Like, ‘Oh, Remus, this bouquet? Just a little something from the hottest person I know—not you, obviously.’”

You wheeze into your sleeve. “And I’ll just be like, ‘Oh Severus, Tonks and I are trying this thing where we only date people who can actually say how they feel.’”

“We’ll crush their fragile egos.”

“We’ll be legends.”

Tonks raises the bottle. “To unhinged women and emotionally constipated men.”

You clink your glass to hers, grinning. “It’s our time to shine.” 

The both of you continue to drink until the alcohol takes it turn and you both fall sleep on the couch.

But life doesn’t bend to your drunk schemes and hopeful hearts.

The war escalates. Your missions grow bloodier. Darker. The laughter fades, and reality sharpens like a blade.

You and Tonks barely have time to breathe, let alone flirt. The Ministry's collapsing under the weight of fear and infiltration. Raids are more frequent. Casualties are no longer numbers—they're names you recognize.

The Order meetings grow tenser. No more teasing from across the table. No time for exchanged glances or shared smirks. Just tactics. Intel. Survival.

You didn't speak with Severus again after he left you standing in that hallway. He kept glancing over at you during meetings but he never tried to speak with you. It felt like you pressed your heart into his hand and he let it fall, untouched.

You pretend it doesn't hurt. But it does. So you throw yourself into missions. You find dark corners and dangerous paths.

The air is thick with dust and disuse, the floorboards groaning under your boots as you move through the narrow hallway of an abandoned house on the edge of the Wiltshire countryside. The mission had come straight from Moody—quiet, off the books, just you. A suspected Death Eater hideout, previously warded to hell, but recently showing signs of magical activity again.

You entered through a broken cellar door, wand raised, eyes scanning every shadow. Moody's briefing had been short:

check for signs of occupation, gather intel, and get out. If you could confirm who was using the place, even better.

The scent of burnt parchment and something fouler—blood, maybe—lingered in the air. You found remnants: a broken wand tip, a crumpled map of the Ministry’s upper levels, and a few strands of white-blond hair caught on a cracked mirror.

You were about to mark your findings and prepare to leave when you heard it.

Voices. Faint. Muffled. Two people—men, you think—talking in harsh whispers from a room at the end of the hall.

You edge closer, careful not to make a sound, wand held tightly at your side. The floorboards creak beneath you, but you move slowly, deliberately, step by cautious step, until you reach a slightly ajar door.

Inside, two cloaked figures stand near an old writing desk covered in parchment, open potion vials, and a magical map glowing faintly. One of them is holding a wand over the map, murmuring incantations. The other laughs under his breath and adjusts his hood.

Your heart pounds. You’re close enough to make out part of their plan—something about targeting a Ministry courier, something about tonight. You lean in, trying to get a better look, to see their faces, to hear more clearly.

Then—

CREEEAAK.

Your boot shifts ever so slightly on a warped plank.

The sound echoes like thunder in the tense silence.

Both men whip around toward the door, wands already raised.

“WHO’S THERE?!” one of them shouts.

The other spots you at the door, “Avada Kedavra!”

A flash of green light blasts through the narrow opening just as you dive backward, making it out of the way last second.

You scramble, raising your wand and firing back as you retreat, the doorway exploding in splinters behind you. The Death Eaters charge, spells slamming into the walls and floor. You fire a disarming spell—miss. A stunning charm—connects. One of them stumbles but recovers fast.

The corridor becomes a war zone. Shelves collapse. Dust blinds you. You roll over broken floorboards, casting Protego and ducking hexes.

You stagger into a corner and use the moment to hurl a curse that sends one Death Eater flying back into a crumbling dresser but the second one closes in, too fast, too brutal. He casts a slicing hex that tears through the wall inches from your face. 

You twist to cast, wand rising, a spell burning on your tongue— But the red light surges faster.

It slams into your side like a battering ram.

White-hot pain detonates through you, sharp and immediate, tearing through muscle and bone in one vicious, blazing line.

You land hard on your back, your wand flies from your grasp with a clutter and rolls out of reach. Your body is seizing and ribs flaring with fresh agony. Your lungs refuse to expand. You open your mouth—but no air, no sound. Just the thick, crushing pressure of pain locking you inside your own body.

Your vision blurs at the edges. Every heartbeat is a thunderclap behind your eyes.

You try to move—can’t. Try to breathe—fail.

And then footsteps. Closer. Fast.

You’re exposed, defenseless, flat on splintered wood, blinking up at the ceiling as it twists and swims above you.

A sharp crack of Apparition splits the air.

A shadow cuts through the smoke—swift, dark, deliberate.

Boots crunch over shattered glass and splintered wood as a tall figure strides into the chaos. His face is hidden beneath the edge of a hood, but you know him.

You’d know that presence anywhere.

Severus.

He moves without hesitation, stepping between you and the oncoming curses like a storm given form, his wand already raised. The air explodes with spellfire—green, blue, blood-red—and he counters each one with brutal efficiency. Every motion is sharp, practiced, lethal.

You can barely lift your head, but you watch him—how he doesn’t falter, how he doesn't look away. A shield erupts from his wand, catching a blast before it can reach you. The recoil ripples through the room, shaking dust from the beams above.

Then—with a harsh word and a flick of his wrist—he sends one Death Eater crashing into the wall hard enough to splinter the plaster.

The second barely has time to scream before a nonverbal curse lifts him off his feet and slams him against a broken dresser. He crumples to the floor, motionless.

Only when the room has gone silent again does Severus lower his wand.

He turns toward you.

And pulls down his hood.

You try to speak—his name, anything—but the pain anchors you in place.

“You absolute moron,” he snaps at you, voice taut. Then he’s there lifting you up with such a gentleness and care that you are sure you are dreaming. 

“Don’t even try to argue,” he mutters steadying his hold on you. You feel his hand under your back, the twist of Apparition.

Everything folds.

The house vanishes. The pain doesn’t.

The last thing you felt as you passed out is his heartbeat, loud and furious.

When you wake, you’re in a room at Grimmauld Place. The ceiling’s cracked. The sheets smell like dust.

Your chest aches. You blink slowly. Then you see him.

Sitting in a chair near the foot of the bed, coat discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up. There’s a faint streak of ash across his cheek.

He looks at you, jaw tight. “You’re an idiot.”

Your voice comes out croaky. “You have a terrible bedside manner.”

He stands, crossing to your side. Without a word, he begins applying a cooling salve to your ribs, his touch gentler than you expect.

“If you die,” he mutters, “Moody will be buried in paperwork explaining why a promising Auror died on an off-the-books mission and be even worse than he already is.”

You smile weakly. “So you came to save the parchment.”

He doesn’t answer.

But his hand lingers when he finishes wrapping your side. Just a moment. A pause heavy with everything unsaid.

Then he lets go.

"You should have went in took notes and left. Not go full on hero complex and investigate all on your own," he scolds, not bothering to hide the sharp edge in his tone.

You blink slowly, trying to gather your breath. “How did you even find me?”

“I noticed you weren’t at the meeting.” His voice is clipped, his movements precise as he checks the bandages at your side. “I asked Tonks where you’d gone. She told me about the mission.”

You stare at him, still dazed. “So... you left the meeting? Just to come find me?”

He straightens up but doesn’t meet your eyes. “That particular location has been on my radar. It was used previously by known associates of Mulciber. It wasn’t a matter of coincidence.”

You study him. “That doesn’t answer the question.”

His jaw tightens. “You always were too eager to impress. Someone had to make sure you didn’t get yourself killed because of that recklessness.”

You raise an eyebrow, but before you can press further, he steps back. “You should rest. You’ll need strength for the inevitable lecture from Moody.”

And just like that, he turns to leave, the tension in his shoulders betraying everything he couldn’t say.

"Wait," you croak, voice still hoarse but strong enough to stop him in his tracks.

He pauses at the door, head tilting slightly.

“I still feel the same,” you say, trying not to wince. “Even if you don’t like me. And I know that maybe I shouldn’t say this after you already clearly rejected me but it’s true.”

Severus turns back slowly. There’s a strange look on his face—confusion, maybe. Something softer than before.

“I didn't rejected you,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

He takes a few steps closer. “That night, when you asked me. I didn’t reject you. I said you shouldn’t want that from me. I said I wasn’t the type to do candlelight dinners.”

You stare, heart hammering. “Which… sounded a lot like a rejection?”

He moves a little closer now, arms folded—not in his usual defensive way, but like he’s holding himself still.

“I said I’m not made for candlelight dinners because I’m not,” he continues. “I meant I wouldn’t know what to do with that kind of romance. Not that I didn’t want… you.”

You stare at him. “Then why did you just walk away?”

He scowls, and not at you. “I didn't...I told you the night before the meeting that I had to leave right after because I was summoned for another meeting and couldn’t stay to talk. I barely had time to get out and show up there without them getting suspicious.”

You feel your cheeks flush hot.

„I forgot…“

Your brain feels like it’s short-circuiting.

“I thought you understood what I meant and left,” he says, voice quieter now. “But you never brought it up again. And I assumed you…simply didn't want it anymore. So I stayed away.”

Your mind is reeling, trying to make sense of everything he’s just said.

“I didn’t bring it up again because I thought you told me that you do not want to go on a date with me,” you say, incredulous. “I thought I embarrassed myself.”

“You didn’t,” he says tightly. His voice is almost amused as he looks at you. “You didn’t embarrass yourself. I was quite flattered.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest. You reach out—tentative, careful—and take his hand. And for the first time, he lets his fingers curl around yours.

You look at him, heart thudding again—but differently now. “So... what now?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Please anything but candlelight dinners.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “You—you are infuriating.”

“I’m aware.”

„Okay so no candlelight got it.“ You grin despite yourself.

“I do like you rather a lot and would love to spend more time with you if that's what you still want.”

Your smile softens. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He looks at your intervened hands before gently lifting them and pressing a featherlight kiss to the back of yours. The two of you stay like that a little more in silence just enjoying the presence of each other.

And this time, when he turns to go, he pauses at the door— to glance back, eyes lingering just a second longer.

You’re still sitting up in bed when the door bursts open without warning.

Tonks stands in the doorway, wide-eyed and breathless, hair a disheveled mix of pink and brown like she forgot to decide what mood to be in.

“Oh thank Merlin,” she says, exhaling hard. “You’re awake.”

She rushes forward and throws her arms around you before you can say anything. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s Tonks—tight and warm and a little shaky.

“You absolute idiot,” she mumbles into your shoulder. “I was two seconds from hexing Moody for sending you out alone after I heard Snape brought you here hurt and passed out.”

“I’m fine,” you croak, but you hug her back just as tight.

“You’re not,” she says, pulling away just enough to glare at you. “You scared the shit out of me. Again. We had a deal. No solo heroic missions.”

You give a weak laugh. “Didn’t feel very heroic, getting hexed like that.”

Her eyes scan your face, softening slightly. “He got there in time, though that's all that matters.”

You nod, biting your lip.

“I knew he would.” She sits on the edge of the bed, legs bouncing. "The way he ran out the way he did after I told him where you had your mission. He just went quiet and ran. No questions. Just—gone.”

Your heart thuds at that.

“He looked ready to tear the place apart,” Tonks adds, voice dropping slightly. “I’ve never seen him like that.”

You sit in silence for a beat, the memory of his wand raised between you and those curses still vivid.

Then Tonks squints at you, eyes narrowing. “You don't seem surprised by that and you're blushing. Why are you...Something happened, didn’t it!?”

You open your mouth. Close it.

“Don’t you dare lie to me.”

You sigh, looking at the blanket folded across your lap. “I stopped him before he left. After he patched me up.”

Tonks leans in, rapt. “And?”

“I told him I still felt the same. About him. Even after everything.”

Her eyes widen. “You didn’t.”

“I did. He was halfway out the door and I just blurted it out.”

She grabs your hands. “What did he say?”

“He turned around. Looked at me like I was the one who’d been Confunded. Then said—he never rejected me.”

Tonks freezes. “What?!”

“I said the same thing!”

You start to laugh, almost delirious from it. “I reminded him of what he told me—the bit about how I shouldn't want that from him, and how he doesn’t do candlelight dinners…”

“And?”

“He said he only meant he’s not that kind of man. Not the kind of man who knows how do that kind of romance. That he didn’t say no. He thought I changed my mind when I didn’t bring it up again.”

Tonks lets out a sound that’s part shriek, part groan, and shoves her hands into her hair. “I knew he liked you! The way he looked at you during meetings? The way he listened when only you spoke up? That wasn’t indifference. That was Severus Snape trying not to combust on the spot.”

You shake your head, smiling. “He said he likes me a lot and would love to spend time with me.”

Tonks practically vibrates in place. “It means you’re dating Snape! You’re dating Severus Snape and I’m going to explode.”

“You are not telling anyone.”

“I am absolutely telling Remus.”

You laugh, then wince at the ache in your ribs.

Tonks sobers just a little, reaching for your hand again. “He really came for you. Without hesitation. You know that, right?”

You nod, eyes burning a little. “I know.”

“And I’m glad. Even if he is the most emotionally damaged man in Britain.”

You squeeze her fingers. “Takes one to fall for one, apparently.”

She lets out a long sigh, collapsing backward onto the bed. “I swear, if Remus doesn’t get his head out of his arse soon too, I’m going to challenge him to a duel and make him lose on purpose.”

You snort. “He’d probably thank you for it.”

Tonks looks at the ceiling, hair bleeding pink again. “You and me. Falling for the most exhausting men alive.”

“At least they’re consistent.”

She smiles sideways at you. “We’re going to be fine, you know.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We’ve got each other. And you finally got your grumpy potions bat and I will eventually get piece of that sad werewolf.”

You grin. “Cheers to that.”

Tonks reaches for a half-melted chocolate frog on the bedside table and raises it like a toast. “To the worst taste in men and the best possible endings.”

You clink your teacup to it. “Here’s hoping.”

And the moment settles between you—quiet, loyal, real. Just two girls in a war, holding each other up and daring to hope for something good.

—

Remus sat in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, legs folded beneath him in one of the battered armchairs, a book resting in his lap. The fire crackled lazily, casting warm shadows against the cracked wallpaper and dust-choked bookshelves. He was half-reading, half-listening to the muffled sounds of Molly in the kitchen and the low groan of the old house settling.

The quiet was broken by the sound of footsteps—measured, unhurried, precise.

Remus glanced up, ready to offer the same cautious nod they always exchanged.

But something stopped him.

Severus, of all people, looked... different.

Not unrecognizable. Not exactly relaxed. But there was a distinct shift in him—like he was carrying less weight across his shoulders than usual. His usual scowl was subdued. His mouth not pressed into it's habitual sneer.

There was a stillness about him that wasn’t edged with bitterness for once.

He looked content.

Remus blinked.

Severus, of course, noticed.

He paused at the threshold of the room, eyes narrowing faintly. “What?” he said flatly.

Remus tilted his head. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“You looked... less miserable than usual,” Remus said mildly. “I was trying to figure out what caused it.”

Severus walked to the edge of the fireplace and leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms folding over his chest.

“I suppose I could ask the same of you on the days your hair isn't a mess.”

Remus chuckled. “Touché.”

A pause stretched between them. Crackling wood. Pages shifting.

Then, without looking up, Remus spoke again. “I heard what happened. With the mission. It's because of your fast reaction that we do not have to bury (Y/N)”

Severus’s expression didn’t shift, but something behind his eyes flickered.

“Tonks told me something interesting,” Remus continued, “that you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with (Y/N).”

Severus’s lip twitched faintly. “You’ve been gossiping, Lupin?”

“She likes to tell me. It’s hard not to listen when she talks.”

"Apparently.”

Remus looked at him fully now. “You like her.”

Severus didn’t flinch. “Yes and she likes me.”

There was a long pause as Remus processed that. "So...Have you figured out what you are going to do about it?"

"There is no figuring out," Severus added dryly, “We are dating.”

Remus blinked again, still stunned. “But...things as they are—this war, the risks—and she’s younger—”

Severus turned his head, very slowly, and fixed him with a look so flat and unimpressed that Remus actually winced.

“I see,” Remus muttered. “None of my business.”

“No,” Severus said. “It’s not.”

Still, he didn’t look away. His voice lowered, tone quieter, more serious. “But I’ll say this once.”

Remus looked up.

“It would be idiotic to reject someone who cares for me like that especially in times like these,” Severus said evenly. “Someone who sees every part of me and still bothers. Who still wants to bother. That doesn’t happen twice.”

Remus stared at him, unmoving.

Severus went on, voice calm but sure. “She knows what she wants. And she’s more than capable of choosing for herself. Who am I to push that away, for the sake of appearances or pride?”

Remus’s jaw clenched faintly.

Severus didn’t smile. But there was a finality in his gaze, a grounded certainty.

“I’m not a fool,” he said. “I may be many things. But I know what matters when it’s standing in front of me. And I will not waste the little time I might have left, wondering on what it would have been like if I can spend it with her and know.”

With that, he pushed off the wall and turned to leave, robes brushing the doorframe as he disappeared into the hallway.

Remus sat still for a long time, the fire crackling behind him.

Dinner at Grimmauld Place that evening is louder than usual.

Molly has outdone herself again—roast lamb, buttered veggies, fresh rolls, and enough potatoes to bury a man alive. She’s fluttering around you with the urgency of someone who’s decided your brush with death was a personal insult to her kitchen.

“Another helping, dear?” she says for the third time in as many minutes, already scooping more onto your plate before you can answer.

“I—really, I’m good—”

“You need to rebuild your strength,” Molly insists, ignoring your protests entirely.

Tonks, seated across from you, is no help at all. She’s already giggling behind her pumpkin juice, watching the scene like it's the best show she’s seen in weeks.

“She’s going to roll you back to the flat at this rate,” Tonks teases. “Merlin forbid you miss a meal. You’d have to survive on… what do you even keep in our pantry? Seven varieties of tea and a questionable jar of pickled something?”

“I like variety,” you grumble, nudging your mashed potatoes half-heartedly.

Severus sits beside you, unusually quiet but very much present. He hasn’t spoken since the meal began, just calmly observing the chaos of the kitchen, his posture composed, his expression unreadable.

Until your arm tenses.

It’s just a small motion—lifting your fork with your still-sore side—but the moment you reach too high, pain flashes across your face and you wince, hand faltering.

The moment is so small, so quiet, it might’ve gone unnoticed.

But before anyone else can react—before even you fully register it—Severus sets down his own fork, reaches calmly across, and takes yours from your fingers.

No words.

Just steady hands, practiced grace, and a flick of his wrist as he spears a piece of roast lamb and holds the fork out to you.

The entire table freezes.

Molly stops mid-pour with the gravy boat. Arthur’s eyebrows climb his forehead. Remus pauses with a roll halfway to his mouth, blinking like someone just flipped the room upside down. Sirius chokes on his Mulbery Wine so violently that Molly has to slap his back.

Tonks, meanwhile, looks like someone just handed her the keys to Honeydukes. Her grin is feral, gleeful, and practically glowing. Her eyes flick between you and Severus like she’s already scripting the ballad she’s going to write about this moment.

You don’t even notice.

You just beam, completely unbothered by the stunned silence, and lean forward to take the offered bite without hesitation.

“Mmm,” you hum. “Thank you.”

Severus doesn’t smile, but there’s something there—a twitch of his mouth, the softest exhale through his nose. His hand lowers back to your plate, calm and precise as ever, already gathering another bite like this is simply the most logical way to deal with a sore arm and not the social equivalent of dropping a bomb in the center of the Order dinner.

You take another bite from Severus’s hand, still grinning, completely unaware of how stunned the rest of the table is—until Sirius opens his mouth.

“Alright,” he says loudly, setting down his fork with an exaggerated clatter. “What the bloody hell is that all about?”

Tonks immediately glares at him, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t start.”

Even Remus, usually the peacekeeper, glances at Sirius with a hint of disapproval. “Not the time, Sirius.”

But of course, Sirius barrels forward like a broom with no brakes.

“I mean, come on,” he says, gesturing broadly toward you and Severus. “Snivellus hand-feeding (Y/N) at the dinner table? This is weird, right? This is weird for everyone?”

Tonks opens her mouth, clearly about to explode.

But Severus speaks first.

Calm. Bored. Unbothered.

“I’m feeding my woman because she is in pain,” he says. „Not that you understand. You've never tended to anything that didn't stroke your ego.“

Flat. Dry. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Silence.

Absolute, floor-dropping silence.

You, still mid-bite, blink in surprise. Your heart skips an entirely unsafe number of beats.

Molly stares, eyes wide. Then—slowly—a small, knowing smile pulls at her mouth. She glances at Arthur, who lifts his eyebrows but smiles back with an approving nod.

Tonks actually squeaks.

It’s small, barely a sound, but her whole face lights up and her hands slap over her mouth like she’s trying not to scream into them.

Sirius stares.

It’s the kind of stare that says he’s been hit with a Stunning Spell mid-chew. His mouth is open. But no sound comes out. He’s blinking at Severus like he’s trying to read an instruction manual in another language.

You nudge Severus gently with your elbow, your voice low. “That was…not subtle.”

“I don’t do subtle,” he says without looking at you.

You laugh under your breath and pick up your cup with your good arm, hiding your smile behind it.

Severus, meanwhile, continues eating his own dinner like he didn’t just casually claim you in front of half the Order.

Remus says nothing—but he’s watching.

You notice the way his eyes shift toward Tonk as she glows and fidgets and looks like she might combust with happiness. There’s something in his expression—pain, maybe. Or longing. Regret, even.

“Well,” Tonks says, trying and failing to sound casual, “I’d say that clears up a few things.”

Dinner resumes—sort of.

The food disappears from plates, the conversations return in hushed tones and sideways glances, but something has shifted. The air feels lighter. Not so sharp. And even if half the table is pretending they didn’t just witness that moment, the other half is definitely planning to tell someone else about it later.

And you?

You just let Severus brush his fingers lightly against yours beneath the table. Quiet. Steady. Real.

The house settles into quiet as the dishes are cleared, conversations fade, and the others retreat upstairs or into separate corners of Grimmauld Place. You manage to make it down the corridor on your own, stiff but mobile, with Tonks promising

“I will be back later, a certain emotionally terrified werewolf wants to talk to me urgently about something apparently.”

You find Severus upstairs, half-hidden in the shadowed end of the corridor by the old study door, arms crossed like he’s trying not to pace. He looks up when you approach, expression unreadable but his eyes soften when you approach him.

You don’t say anything at first.

You just step into his space—closer than you would’ve dared even days ago.

He doesn’t move away.

“Are you in pain?”

“A little,” you admit. “But it’s manageable.”

He nods once. “You should still be resting.”

You glance up at him, suddenly very aware of everything still unsaid. Of how different things feel now. You fiddle with the sleeve of your jumper.

„You know," you speak softly „For someone who claims that they are not the type for candlelight dinners you do know how to make a moment romantic.“

That earns you the faintest huff. Not quite a laugh. But close. “Should I have waited and made a formal announcement?”

You fold your arms, the ache in your side a dull throb. “Sirius nearly chocked and looked like he aged five years on the spot.”

A flicker of smug satisfaction crosses his face. “That part I did enjoy.”

That makes you huff a laugh before you can stop yourself. You stare at him for a moment, heart doing something uneven in your chest. 

“You meant it?” you ask finally.

He lifts a brow. “You think I do things like that to amuse myself?”

A soft breath leaves you—not quite a laugh, but something close. “You know, you caused a small riot?“

“I’m aware.” His expression is unreadable again as he looks at you.

You hesitate. Then: “You called me your woman.”

“Was I wrong?” He meets your eyes. 

You open your mouth. Close it.

There’s silence for a moment, but it isn’t awkward. It’s full—settled. Something has shifted and neither of you is pretending otherwise.

“I didn’t plan to say it,” he admits, voice quiet. “It came out.”

You stare at him. “Do you regret it?”

He shakes his head once. “No.”

You search his face. There’s tension there, yes, but also clarity. He’s not performing. He’s not trying to convince you. He’s just telling you the truth.

“You know,” You step closer. „I saw Remus look at Tonks after you said it.“

Severus tilts his head slightly. “And?”

“And it made me think… maybe what you said, did more than just surprise a room full of people.”

You smile—shy, warm, and completely real.

And then you lean in, slowly, your hand finding his cheek.

He doesn’t move—not at first. Just watches you like he’s still making sure this is real. Like he’s memorizing every second of it.

But when your lips meet his, it’s not rushed or hesitant. It’s warm and sure, a little uneven at first—because it’s new, and it means something. His hand rises to your waist, not possessive, just there. Grounding you.

He kisses you like it’s something he never expected to have—but won’t let himself fear anymore. Careful, but wanting. His fingers slide along your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go too soon.

When you pull back, he’s still looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.

“Come on,” you whisper. “We should go back before Tonks tries to sneaks up here and catches us.”

“She’s already watching from the stairs,” Severus murmurs dryly.

You spin. “What?!”

But there’s no one there. He smirks.

You groan. “You’re the worst.”

“I know,” he says, letting his hand trail to your lower back and pulling you against him. “And yet, here you are.”

He slowly leans down and presses another kiss to your lips.

Neither of you think to stop but when you do pull back, just a little, your forehead rests against his.

The air between you stays charged—gentle, electric.

You whisper, “I guess this is much better than a candlelight dinner.”

He exhales a quiet laugh against your cheek. “This is much more...enjoyable.”

You smile, lips brushing his again—just because you can now.

By the time you and Severus return to the main sitting room, the fire’s been rekindled and most of the Order has either gone to bed or wandered off. But the few who remain—well, they paint quite the picture.

Tonks is curled up on the couch, tucked against Remus’s side. His arm is slung around her shoulders like it belongs there, and her head rests just beneath his jaw, her pink hair brushing his collar while her legs are draped over his lap.

She’s beaming. Glowing, really.

Remus looks half-relaxed, half like he’s still recovering from letting himself finally give in.

And then there’s Sirius.

Sulking.

He’s folded into one of the old armchairs like it personally betrayed him, arms crossed so tightly across his chest it’s a miracle he’s still breathing. He’s scowling across the room—specifically at Remus and Tonks—with the fury of someone who just found out his favorite pub closed down for good.

The moment you and Severus step into view, Sirius’s eyes dart toward you both, his expression contorting further into something between deeply betrayed and vaguely nauseous.

You don’t miss the way Tonks catches your eye across the room and grins like a smug cat. You grin right back.

She mouths, he is mine now.

You mouth back, I can see.

You turn to look at Severus over your shoulder. He gently places his hand on your lower back and presses a quick kiss to your lips before guiding you over to the free armchair. He sits down and pulls you onto his lap if it was the most normal thing to do.

Sirius groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, this is unbearable.”

No one acknowledges him.

He huffs louder, throwing his arms up. “First, it’s Snape feeding her like it’s some tragic romance novel, now Remus is cuddled up like a bloody pillow—what is this? The common room of poor decisions?”

Remus raises an eyebrow but doesn’t even blink. Tonks snuggles in closer, visibly delighted.

Sirius keeps going, gesturing wildly. “It was bad enough having to accepting those two—” he points at you and Severus, “—will be snogging in doorways and making heart eyes over dinner—”

“We are not—!” you start, but Tonks bursts out laughing.

“—and now this?” Sirius growls. “Now I have to watch my best mate fall for my pink-haired menace of a cousin who brews exploding tea and crashes into tables on the regular?”

Without a beat. No cue. No hesitation.

Everyone in the room—Tonks, Remus, you, and even Severus, flatly—says at once:

“Shut up, Sirius.”

Sirius blinks like he’s been smacked with a rolled-up Prophet.

The fire crackles.

Tonks lifts her mug in a mock toast. “To love, chaos, and Sirius suffering.”

Remus looks smug and entirely too comfortable where he is.

Sirius scowls deeper, muttering something about needing stronger firewhisky and better friends.

You rest your head on Severus's shoulder, who doesn’t say anything, but his arm comes around your waist, holding you closer.

And for the first time in what feels like months, the room—despite the war, despite the madness—feels full of something warmer than tension.

It feels like peace.

—

Months later, the war rages on.

The sky seems permanently gray these days. Grimmauld Place is colder. The halls quieter. People speak in hushed tones now—not just from caution, but fatigue.

But not everything is bleak.

Because even in the cracks of this crumbling world, you’ve found moments that feel…safe.

Your relationship with Severus is unlike anything you imagined.

It’s quieter than you thought it would be—not loud declarations but small things. Constant things.

He always makes sure you have tea after a mission, mixed with healing potions, even if it’s more bitter he insists it’s “medicinal.” You bring him books he pretends not to need and lay with your head in his lap in silence while he reads, just being near each other.

He lets you lean against him after long meetings, his arm a constant, grounding weight around your shoulders. He strokes your hair gently until you fall asleep next to him.

You argue, of course. He can be sharp, cold, too used to pushing people away when they get too close. But he always comes back. Always shows up in the morning, coffee in hand, like it’s his way of saying he’s still here.

You love him for it.

And even though he rarely says the words, you never doubt them. Because when you’re bleeding, he’s there before the blood dries. Because when you’re gone too long, he paces the halls and snaps at everyone until you’re in his arms again. Because when everything seems to fall apart around him, you are the only place he truly let’s himself fall apart.

Because his love is not loud.

It’s constant.

That afternoon, you and Tonks find yourselves at your flat for once—no assignments, no alarms. Just a rare moment of stillness, wrapped in mismatched blankets and oversized sweaters, sipping tea.

Tonks stretches across the couch like she owns it, which she technically half does. Her hair is soft today, a dusky pink that fades toward her shoulders.

In the kitchen Remus is quietly preparing food while Severus is filling up the cabinets with actual food.

You and Tonks watch it unfold from your positions.

She grins over her mug. “Remus made me tea this morning. Loose leaves. Honey. He even brought it to bed.”

You raise your brows. “That’s scandalously domestic.”

“I know,” she sighs dramatically rubbing her swollen bump. “He’s ruined me. I’ll never settle for anyone who uses teabags again.”

You chuckle, swirling your own mug. “Severus made me take a Pepper-Up Potion after I sneezed once. Called me ‘reckless’ for standing too near a draft. He wouldn’t stop glaring at me until I had drunken it”

Tonks bursts out laughing. “That man shows love like a hostile letter.”

You smirk. “He also charmed the door to alert him if I leave without my wand. Don’t tell him, but I think it’s sweet.”

She raises her mug in salute. “That’s basically marriage.”

You clink mugs, leaning into each other with soft, tired laughter.

There’s a silence afterward—comfortable, layered with memory.

You stare at the two men in your kitchen. “Do you remember what we were like this time last year?”

She groans. “Pathetic.”

“We used to get drunk and cry about how they’d never notice us.”

Tonks puts her hand to her heart. “And now mine makes me soup when I have cramps.”

You grin. “Mine lectures me about sleep and then lets me drool on his shoulder.”

She eyes you sideways. “He told Sirius to shut up the other day just because you sighed.”

“He did not.”

“He did. He’s obsessed with you.”

Your cheeks heat, but you try to play it cool. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true. He loves you.”

You go quiet. Not because you doubt it—but because it still feels fragile sometimes, like something you’re afraid to jinx.

But then you think of the kisses and touches you had shared, how he is holding your hand like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You smile.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “He does.”

Tonks leans her head on your shoulder. “We really pulled it off, didn’t we?”

You grin. “We made emotionally repressed men fall in love with us. That’s basically winning the war.”

You sit like that for a long time—warm tea, shared silence, the world outside be damned.

While the two men you loved silently moved around the kitchen like it was their own.

Because blind spots don’t last forever.