#Pro Snape | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sage-babydoll · 6 hours ago

Text

i need a quiet and soft love like this.

Summary:

After the war, Severus Snape expects nothing but silence and solitude—until you. Gentle, unafraid, and quietly unwavering, you don’t try to fix him… you simply stay. (Inspired by the song Ordinary by Alex warren.)

Ordinary

They say, 'The holy water's watered down And this town's lost its faith Our colors will fade eventually

The castle was quieter now. Not in the absence-of-students sort of way, but in the way a place becomes after too much grief has soaked into the stone. Even the portraits had fallen into a gentler hush, as if they too were mourning something long gone.

Severus Snape walked the corridors like a man suspended between realities—alive, yet not truly living. His robes trailed behind him in silence, his gaze fixed just above the heads of anyone who passed. He rarely spoke unless forced to. Rarely ate. He wasn’t so much present as tolerated—by the castle, by the staff, by himself.

They had let him come back, astonishingly. Perhaps because he had survived. Perhaps because no one else knew what to do with him. Perhaps because Albus would’ve wanted it.

In the dim light of the staffroom, he poured himself tea without tasting it. The clink of his spoon was the loudest sound in the room. That was, until you entered.

You didn’t announce yourself. Didn’t even seem to notice the way every space you stepped into subtly shifted. You simply moved quietly, confidently, like someone who didn’t need to fill the silence to be seen.

He didn't speak. He never did. But you smiled at him anyway.

Not out of politeness. Not in pity. Just… a smile. Like the kind someone might give a bird perched on a snowy windowsill. Quiet recognition. A softness untouched by expectation.

He held your gaze for a moment too long—and then returned to his tea.

You sat across the room, a book in your hands and a blanket draped over your knees. You said nothing. Made no effort to engage him.

Yet somehow, Severus felt less alone than he had in months.

The book in your hands was old—he could tell by the fraying spine, the way you thumbed its edge like it was an old friend. Not many people handled books like that anymore. He wondered briefly what you were reading, but the question never made it to his lips.

Instead, he watched you out of the corner of his eye. Observed the ease with which you breathed in the silence, unbothered by it. You didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance around in search of company or conversation. You simply… were.

It made something restless in his chest still for the first time in days.

A small group of students passed the doorway, laughter trailing in like the last breeze of summer. He tensed instinctively, but they didn’t notice him. Of course they didn’t. Most of them had stopped seeing him the way people stop noticing the cobwebs in a forgotten corner—there, but untouched.

“Professor Snape,” one younger student murmured respectfully as he passed. No sneer. No fear. Just a name.

He gave a barely perceptible nod in return.

You looked up briefly, your eyes following the boy’s retreating steps before shifting back to your book. Still, you said nothing.

But Severus felt your attention linger like a brush of warmth across cold skin.

It unsettled him.

He stood abruptly and moved to the window, the steam from his teacup rising in thin curls. The sky was heavy with clouds. Somewhere, far away, he thought he heard thunder. Or maybe it was just the wind pressing against the old glass.

Behind him, the chair creaked as you shifted—stretching, maybe, or curling deeper into your seat.

“I didn’t expect to love the quiet this much,” you said softly, voice low, not meant to intrude.

He didn’t respond.

You didn’t expect him to.

There was something strange about it. Your presence. It wasn’t light exactly—you didn’t sparkle or glow or fill a room with false cheer. But you made the silence feel like something you could rest in. Something alive, instead of empty.

And that… bothered him. Because for the first time in a very long while, Severus Snape wasn’t sure if he wanted to be alone.

So if our time is runnin' out Day after day We'll make the mundane our masterpiece

it started with tea, a week later.

Not conversation, not glances—just tea.

Every morning, the staff room held the same quiet ritual. Steam rising from mismatched cups, the faint rustle of the Daily Prophet, the soft clink of spoons stirring sugar. And every morning, you were there. Not in his space. Not demanding. Just present.

Sometimes you brought a biscuit or a slice of spiced bread, always set neatly beside your own tea without offering. You never asked if he wanted one, never forced politeness. But once, when he arrived earlier than usual, there were two biscuits on your napkin.

He took one.

You didn’t look up from your book.

That was how it began.

Over the next few days, you passed like ships in a fog—soft glances, occasional nods. Nothing direct. Nothing verbal.

But you sat near him now, not across the room. Close enough that he could hear the page turns of your book, the tiny hum in your throat when you were deep in thought. Some days you would knit or write with your legs curled under you, like you had always belonged in that chair.

You never asked him questions.

You never filled the air with noise.

You just sat. With him. Like he wasn’t a monster. Like his silence wasn’t something to be solved.

It wasn’t until one particularly dreary Thursday that he realized how much he had come to expect your presence.

He entered the room, slightly damp from the drizzle outside, and felt something strange tighten in his chest when your chair was empty.

No blanket. No book. No quiet smile.

He stood there, teacup in hand, unsure why the room suddenly felt colder.

He was halfway through steeping his tea when the door creaked open and you slipped in, cheeks flushed from wind, hair damp with mist.

“Morning,” you said softly, already moving to your usual chair.

He didn’t answer.

But when he sat beside you, he placed a second biscuit on your napkin.

You blinked down at it in surprise, then looked at him with something unreadable in your expression—warm, perhaps. Or maybe… grateful.

You said nothing.

Neither did he.

But the silence between you no longer felt empty.

It felt like a masterpiece in the making.

Oh my, my Oh my, my love I take one look at you

it was a few weeks later when he saw it.

Severus didn’t mean to look.

It wasn’t an intentional thing—just a glance as he walked past an open classroom door. But what he saw made him pause in the corridor, just beyond the line of sight.

You were kneeling beside a small first-year, your voice low, hands still. Not touching, not pushing—just present. The boy’s lip trembled, wand clutched too tightly in his grip. Whatever had happened, he looked on the verge of tears. But you didn’t crowd him. You waited. Let him breathe.

And then you smiled.

Not the polite smile you offered the staff. Not the knowing one you sometimes gave Severus when your eyes met across the staff room. This was something different—bright and warm and completely unguarded. Like sunlight through a frosted window.

The boy let out a shaky breath and nodded. You whispered something Severus couldn’t hear, and the boy smiled back before scurrying off with a slightly steadier step.

You stood slowly, brushing off your robes, and looked toward the hallway.

He moved before you could see him.

Back into the shadows, away from the vulnerability curling in his chest like smoke.

Later, you joined him in the staff room. Tea. Blanket. Book.

As always.

You didn’t speak, but your presence wrapped around him like a memory he couldn’t quite chase away.

He glanced over without thinking.

Your hair was tucked behind one ear, fingers curled lightly around your teacup. Your lips moved silently as you read—soft, careful enunciations. You had a small ink smudge near your thumb, and the edge of your boot tapped absently against the chair leg.

You were… unremarkable. Ordinary.

And he couldn’t stop looking.

For the first time in so long, he noticed the way his heart felt in his chest. The way it pulled just slightly toward you, like gravity, like instinct. And he hated that it felt fragile. Exposed.

You looked up suddenly, and your eyes met.

You didn’t speak. Just smiled.

That same, quiet smile you’d always given him.

But this time, it felt different. Not like politeness. Not like recognition.

This time, it felt like invitation.

He looked away first.

But not before you saw it—the flicker of something he hadn't let show before.

And for the first time since the war, something bloomed in Severus’s chest that wasn’t sorrow.

You're takin' me out of the ordinary I want you layin' me down 'til we're dead and buried

Only after a few days he was starting to sit closer.

It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what he told himself. The staffroom was small, after all. Your usual seat was by the fire, and there weren’t many chairs near it. It only made sense to sit beside you.

That’s what he told himself the first day.

And the next.

And the day after that.

But he never sat anywhere else now.

You never commented on it. Never shifted away. If you noticed, you gave no sign. Only poured your tea, opened your book, and let him be.

But the distance between you had shrunk, and Severus could feel it.

He felt it in the brush of your sleeves when you reached for the teapot at the same time. In the way your knee nearly touched his when you crossed your legs in the chair. In the faint scent of lavender and parchment that clung to your robes.

It was maddening.

Not because it was loud or invasive. Quite the opposite.

It was quiet. Soft. Like a whisper he couldn't unhear.

In the library one evening, he found you sitting on the floor in a corner alcove—legs tucked under you, parchment spread out around your knees, ink smudged on your finger again. You looked up when you saw him. Smiled.

He said nothing, but paused.

You looked back down, returning to your notes. No invitation, no expectation.

Still, his feet moved before his mind gave permission.

He sat down beside you.

The stone was cold against his legs, the air sharp with winter’s early breath, but your presence warmed the space between you.

You didn’t speak, and neither did he. But when your hand reached out to pass him a spare roll of parchment, your fingers touched.

Just barely.

Barely—but it was enough to send a current down his spine.

He didn’t pull away.

Neither did you.

And when you went back to your scribbling, your shoulder nearly brushed his.

It should have been uncomfortable.

Instead, it felt like a quiet kind of gravity.

He left before you did. Didn’t say goodbye.

But that night, for the first time in years, Severus Snape lay in bed and imagined the sound of someone breathing beside him.

Not in lust. Not in fantasy.

In peace.

On the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found

It was raining.

The kind of steady, rhythmic drizzle that made the castle feel wrapped in cotton—soft, muffled, private. The fireplaces were glowing brighter now. The stone walls had a chill to them that clung to skin and sank into bones.

He found you in the courtyard.

Why you were out there in the cold, he didn’t know. Your cloak was drawn tight, your hair damp with mist, your fingers curled around a steaming mug. You were standing beneath the arched overhang, watching the drops fall into the stone basin at the center of the courtyard garden.

You didn’t flinch when he approached.

Didn’t speak. Just lifted your mug in greeting, then looked back toward the rain.

He stood beside you.

Close.

Closer than usual.

The silence stretched—comfortable, then weighted, then thick. The kind of quiet that rang with everything unsaid.

“You always find the still places,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

You looked at him. Not startled. Not surprised.

Just… seen.

“Maybe I just recognize stillness when I see it,” you said softly, voice warm as the mug in your hands.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You turned your gaze back to the water, and he allowed himself—just briefly—to look at you. Really look.

You weren’t beautiful in a way that demanded attention. You weren’t gilded or painted or wrapped in honeyed charm.

But there was something in your stillness that undid him.

Something sacred.

Something dangerous.

His fingers curled into his palm.

You turned again—slowly—and met his eyes.

The tension between you was delicate, fragile. Like the surface of a bubble catching sunlight. One wrong move and it would burst.

But you didn’t reach for him. Didn’t ask.

You just stood there.

Near enough for him to feel the heat radiating from your skin. Near enough to kiss you, if he wanted to.

And Merlin help him… he wanted to.

Instead, he stepped back.

Barely. Just enough for the cold to settle between you again.

You didn’t follow.

Didn’t flinch.

Just smiled. Softly. Almost sadly.

And he hated himself for the part of him that wanted you to reach for him anyway.

That night, he dreamt of you again.

Not in a way that left him breathless or shamed.

Just… quiet. Your fingers tangled with his. Your breath on his chest. The silence between you.

He woke with your name on the tip of his tongue and a yearning that felt like it might hollow him out.

Somethin' so out of the ordinary You got me kissin' the ground of your sanctuary

The castle was asleep.

Even the portraits had gone still, their snores muffled by thick stone and years of dust. Moonlight streamed through narrow windows, casting long shadows across the hallway floors.

He wasn’t sure what woke him.

A sound. A memory. A ghost.

The dreams had returned—fragments of screams, of blood, of choices he couldn’t take back. They clung to him like fog, cold and choking, and when he sat upright in bed, his chest ached with the weight of things unsaid.

He didn’t scream. He never did.

He just… broke, silently.

Like he always had.

You were awake when he found you.

In the tiny corner of the library you often claimed after curfew—wrapped in a blanket, knees drawn to your chest, a half-empty cup of tea forgotten at your side.

You didn’t look surprised to see him.

You didn’t ask why he was there.

Just shifted wordlessly, making room beside you on the bench.

Severus stood frozen for a moment, breath still uneven, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. The part of him that wanted to walk away—the old voice, sharp and bitter and defensive—was screaming.

But you didn’t speak.

You just… waited.

Like you always had.

So he sat.

The bench was narrow, and your sides pressed together, shoulder to thigh. You didn’t pull away.

And when his hands began to tremble—just barely—you reached out and laced your fingers with his.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

You didn’t say it’s okay or you’re safe. You didn’t ask questions or offer pity.

You simply leaned your head against his shoulder and held on.

As if he was worth holding.

As if you’d do it again.

And again.

His breath hitched once—just once—and then he exhaled. Slowly. Raggedly.

Then, hesitantly, he leaned into you.

Not fully. Not yet.

But enough.

Enough that you could feel the way he clung—not with arms, but with need.

You stayed that way for a long time. Long enough for the nightmare to fade. Long enough for his pulse to settle.

Long enough for him to begin to believe—maybe—that this could be something holy.

That you were something holy.

And he had found sanctuary.

Shatter me with your touch, oh Lord, return me to dust The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found

The next days that followed were almost like a blur.

He didn’t expect it to feel like this.

The weight of your hand against his—gentle, calm, human—shouldn’t have left such a mark. But now he noticed everything. The shape of your presence. The way you moved, quiet and certain. The warmth of your body when you sat beside him, the scent of vanilla in your hair.

And the worst part—the best part—was that you never tried to force closeness. You never chased. You never asked.

You just waited.

Always near. Always open.

And somehow, that was what broke him.

It happened in the corridor.

A group of students had passed you, laughing too loudly, running to dinner. One brushed too close, bumping your shoulder and nearly knocking the books from your arms.

You stumbled slightly.

Before he even realized what he was doing, his hand was on your waist, steadying you.

You looked up.

And something in his chest cracked wide open.

Because your face was close—too close. And you were looking at him like you knew. Like you had always known. And you didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

His fingers lingered. Your breath hitched.

Then slowly, your hand came up, brushing against the back of his.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t grand.

But it was enough to make his heart slam against his ribs.

Enough to shatter him.

That night, he sat in his quarters with a half-full cup of tea growing cold in his hand.

He stared into the fire, but all he could see was you.

The look in your eyes. The way your fingers had brushed his, like a whisper meant only for him. Like your touch had been stitched together by every quiet moment you’d shared. Every time you hadn’t walked away.

He pressed his hand to his chest, as if he could hold the memory there—where it might be safe.

And maybe—just maybe—if you touched him again, he wouldn’t turn to dust.

He’d turn into something new.

Hopeless hallelujah On this side of Heaven's gate

He wasn’t sure what drew him to your office that night.

The door was open, as it often was in the late evenings. A soft candle glowed on your desk, casting long shadows over the walls. The fire flickered low, and the room smelled faintly of dried herbs and vanilla.

You were seated in your usual chair, legs tucked beneath you, a book resting on one thigh. You didn’t startle when he stepped in. You didn’t speak.

You simply lifted your eyes… and waited.

That was what undid him.

He stepped inside, slow and unsure, as if each step might break him. He didn’t know what he meant to say—not really. Only that something inside him ached, and it had nowhere else to go.

You closed the book without a sound and patted the armchair across from you.

He sat.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked. A clock ticked somewhere beyond the bookshelf.

Then quietly—like it cost him something—he said:

“I am the reason she is dead.”

The words fell like ash between you.

Still, you said nothing. Didn’t ask who. Didn’t press. You only looked at him—really looked—and waited.

“And when I became a spy I told myself it was for the greater good. That it was war. That I was playing a role.” He swallowed, jaw tight. “But I...After Dumbledore...”

His hands were clenched in his lap, pale and trembling.

“I’ve spent every moment since trying to earn back something I never had the right to claim.”

He didn’t cry. He never did.

But the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with breath, with the unsaid, with the ache of truth finally spoken.

And then—then—you moved.

Not with words. Not with platitudes.

Just quietly rose, stepped around the desk, and sat on the floor in front of him. You reached for his hands. Took them gently, as if you were holding something sacred.

He didn’t pull away.

He couldn’t.

“It's not about what you chose,” you whispered. “It's about what you carried. And how you kept walking despite believing you are not worthy of it. That's what I care about. Why I care so deeply about you.”

His breath caught.

You didn’t kiss him. Didn’t lean forward.

You just held his hands and let him breathe.

And in that quiet, something in him settled.

Not forgiven.

Not erased.

But… held.

Later, you would fall asleep in the armchair beside him, knees drawn up, your head tipped against the cushion.

He watched you in the firelight, and for the first time in years, Severus Snape looked at someone and thought:

Maybe I won’t be alone forever.

Oh, my life, how do ya Breathe and take my breath away?

You were laughing.

Not loud, not wild—just the quiet, breathless kind that slipped past your lips like wind through trees. It happened while you were walking with a group of third-years through the courtyard, one of them animatedly retelling a story that was clearly exaggerated, complete with wild hand gestures and dramatic sighs.

And you were laughing.

Severus hadn’t meant to watch. He’d only been walking past the upper hallway window, heading toward his classroom, tea cooling in his hand. But he stopped.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to see.

Your head was tilted back slightly, eyes warm, lips parted. Your hand was pressed gently over your chest, like you were trying to contain the feeling and couldn’t. The students around you smiled too—at you, not just with you.

And Severus Snape, who had spent years trying to quiet his own heartbeat, suddenly forgot how to breathe.

Later, in the staff room, he sat beside you as always. You didn’t speak much. He liked it that way. But this time, you noticed his eyes lingering.

He didn’t look away fast enough.

“What?” you asked, quiet and amused, setting your book aside.

His mouth opened—and then closed again. He shook his head.

You tilted yours slightly, a soft smile curving at the corner of your mouth.

“You look like someone who’s about to say something,” you teased gently.

“I don’t… often watch people,” he said, more honest than he meant to be. “But you—” He paused, throat tight. “You make it difficult not to.”

You blinked once.

Then twice.

And instead of laughing or brushing it off, you reached out and nudged the edge of his tea mug with your finger—lightly, almost absently.

“I like being watched by you. You have so much warmth in your eyes” you murmured, so quietly he almost didn’t catch it. “It makes me feel safe.”

And just like that—without moving, without touching, without anything but that one, quiet truth—

Severus forgot how to breathe again.

You returned to your book as if nothing had been said. But your foot bumped gently against his under the table, and when he didn’t pull away, you left it there.

And for the rest of the afternoon, the silence between you pulsed like a heartbeat.

At your altar, I will pray You're the sculptor, I'm the clay

It was nearly midnight.

The halls were empty, the world wrapped in stillness. Severus stood outside your office door, unmoving, hand poised to knock—and yet he didn’t.

The door was slightly ajar. The soft glow of candlelight spilled into the hallway like a silent invitation.

He didn’t knock.

He stepped inside.

You were curled on the couch, a blanket around your shoulders, bare feet tucked beneath you. A book lay closed on the cushion beside you, your gaze already lifted toward him.

You didn’t look startled.

Only expectant.

Only calm.

He closed the door behind him. The latch clicked, loud in the quiet.

You sat up slightly, your blanket slipping down to your elbows.

He didn’t know where to start.

So you waited. Of course you did.

“You’ve…” He paused, jaw clenching. “You’ve changed something in me.”

A soft hum in your throat. You didn’t interrupt.

He took a breath.

“I’ve spent most of my life… folding myself into corners. Into shadows. And even after the war, when the world stopped needing me to vanish—I still did. Until you.”

Your brows furrowed faintly.

“You don’t ask me to be anything,” he continued, voice low, rough. “You don’t expect… apologies. Confessions. Explanations.”

Your lips parted, but you still didn’t speak.

“You see me,” he said. “And for some reason… that doesn’t terrify me anymore.”

You moved then—slowly, carefully—as if not to startle him. Your hand reached out, fingers brushing lightly against his sleeve. A touch that asked permission, not possession.

He didn’t flinch.

“I see you,” you said softly, “because I want to. And I stay because you let me.”

His heart was pounding—too loud in his chest, in his ears, in the spaces between you.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you replied, your thumb now brushing the inside of his wrist. “You just have to be.”

Silence.

A breath.

Then his hand lifted—tentative, trembling—and he cupped your cheek.

You leaned into it. Without hesitation. Without fear.

And when he bent his head toward you, when his lips met yours for the first time, it was not a claiming.

It was a prayer.

Soft. Trembling. Sacred.

The kind that didn’t ask for answers.

Only peace.

Only presence.

Only you.

And when you pulled apart, your forehead resting against his, he whispered:

“You are the only thing I’ve ever wanted to worship.”

Oh my, my You're takin' me out of the ordinary I want you layin' me down 'til we're dead and buried

The world didn’t shift.

There were no fireworks. No triumphant orchestral swell.

But when you opened your doorOnly two days later and found him standing there—wet from rain, hair clinging to his cheeks, eyes dark with something deeper than longing—you didn’t need anything else.

You stepped aside. Let him in. Closed the door behind you.

He didn’t speak.

He just looked at you. Like he was memorizing your face all over again.

Like this moment was the one he’d return to if everything else fell apart.

And then he moved—slowly, reverently—and kissed you again.

Not soft, not this time.

This kiss held weight. Want. Worship.

It was a promise sealed with breath.

You held onto him like you’d always meant to��fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, grounding him.

He touched you like you were something he wasn’t sure he deserved but refused to let go of now that he had you. His hands found your waist, your back, the curve of your neck. Everything sacred. Everything yours.

And when you moved to the bedroom—fingers trembling, hearts racing—there was no rush.

Just time.

Time to feel.

Time to stay.

Time to let himself be loved without fear of it slipping through his fingers.

Later, the rain still whispered against the windows, but inside… there was only quiet.

You lay beside him, one hand against his chest, your breath steady.

And Severus stared at the ceiling like he’d never seen it before.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispered, the words foreign on his tongue.

You shifted, kissed his jaw gently.

“It’s real,” you murmured. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He turned then—propped on one elbow, eyes locked to yours.

“If this is what forever feels like,” he said, voice low and hoarse, “I want it. All of it. With you.”

No hesitation.

No fear.

Only you.

Only always.

On the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found

Severus had never known quiet like this.

Not the kind filled with solitude, or grief, or shadow—but a silence that wrapped itself around his bones like warmth. Like safety. Like belonging.

You lay across his chest, one hand drawing lazy patterns over his ribs, breath steady. The fire across the room crackled softly, casting gold over your skin. And he… watched.

He couldn’t help it.

There was something in the way you existed when you thought he wasn’t watching. The way your lips parted slightly when you were sleepy. The way you hummed when you were content. The way your fingers always sought out skin—even in sleep.

You were a thousand quiet moments that stitched themselves into his soul.

And he was utterly drunk on you.

You didn’t speak much that day.

You didn’t need to.

You moved through the castle together in perfect rhythm—his coat brushing yours as you walked, hands grazing but not always holding, glances shared like secrets.

You made tea. He reached around you to grab mugs. Your bodies touched in the smallest ways—in the kitchen, on the couch, beside the window—and every time it happened, it lit something in him that made it hard to breathe.

That night, you read by the fire. He sat beside you, his hand resting on your knee, fingers idle.

You looked up at him, catching him mid-thought.

“What?” you whispered, voice dipped in candlelight.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned forward—resting his forehead against yours.

“You’ve undone me,” he murmured.

You smiled gently. “Good.”

And then—so softly he almost missed it—you added:

“I want you like this. Always. Messy. Unfiltered. Yours.”

His breath caught.

And then he kissed you again. Slow. Deep.

Like a man starved for something only you could give.

And when he pulled back, eyes still closed, he whispered:

“Thank you.”

Somethin' so out (out) of the ordinary (ordinary) You got me kissin' the ground (ground) of your sanctuary (sanctuary)

It was a letter that came nearly a year later.

Severus had returned from a late afternoon class, shoulders tight with tension, robes damp from the rain that had rolled in out of nowhere. The castle was dim, lit only by wall sconces and the dusky blue-grey of early evening.

He didn’t expect to find you waiting in his quarters.

You were seated on the edge of the armchair, hands folded, face calm—but there was something about your stillness that made him pause in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice lower than usual.

You looked up at him—steady, quiet.

“There’s been an inquiry,” you said softly. “About you.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. He stiffened. Cold.

“Who—?”

“I don’t know. An outside board. Political. It sounds like someone wants to dig up the past again.” Your voice was careful. Gentle. “But I took care of it.”

He blinked.

“What do you mean, you took care of it?”

You stood, walking slowly toward him. Not defensive. Not triumphant. Just… open.

“I gave a written statement,” you said. “Told them what you’ve done since the war. What you’ve been to this school. To the students. To me.”

He stared at you.

“You gave them your name?” he asked, breath caught between fury and fear.

“I gave them my truth, Severus,” you said, gently but firmly. “I told them you saved more than lives during the war. You’ve saved hearts after it.”

You reached for his hand. Took it. Pressed it between both of yours.

“I didn’t do it to protect you,” you said. “You don’t need protecting.”

His throat was tight. His pulse unsteady.

“I did it because I love you. And I’ll tell the whole bloody world if that’s what it takes.”

He didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

He just looked at you—at the softness of you, the strength, the choice you made so willingly.

And then, slowly, he dropped to his knees.

Not in shame.

Not in weakness.

But in reverence.

You gasped softly, reaching for him—but he just wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his head against your stomach. Holding on.

And for the first time, he let it show. All of it. The fear. The awe. The love.

Your arms wrapped around him.

Held him like he was something worth holding.

And in that moment, Severus Snape loved you not in silence. Not in shadow.

But in full, aching surrender.

His sanctuary.

His everything.

Shatter me with your touch, oh Lord, return me to dust The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found

The fire was low.

Not crackling—just glowing. Like a heart still beating after a long, aching day.

You reached for him first this time.

Your fingers brushing the side of his neck, tracing the line of his jaw, resting over the pulse that fluttered just beneath his skin.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because when he looked at you now, it wasn’t with hunger or hesitation.

It was with reverence.

And when he kissed you, it was slow. So slow.

Not because he was unsure—but because he wanted to remember everything. The taste of your breath. The tremble of your fingers. The way you exhaled like he was something holy.

You undressed him gently.

Not like you were removing armor.

Like you were freeing him.

And he let you.

Let you trace the scars. The old ones. The new ones. The ones no one else had ever dared to touch.

And when you kissed the curve of his shoulder, the hollow beneath his collarbone, the place just over his heart—

He broke.

No sound. No cry.

Just the slow, shattering realization that he had never, in all his years, been touched like this.

Like he was cherished.

Your bodies moved together in silence. No demands. No desperation.

Only a rhythm that felt like breath.

Like life.

Like home.

You held his face as he trembled above you. Whispered his name like a prayer.

And when he buried his face into your neck, gasping, lost, found—you wrapped your arms around him like a vow.

“I love you,” you whispered.

No question. No hesitation.

And for once… he believed it.

For once… he let it in.

Afterward, you lay tangled in sheets and each other, skin to skin, soul to soul.

He was quiet. But not the haunted quiet.

The kind that comes after a storm when the world is washed clean.

Your fingers ran through his hair, slow and steady.

And when he finally spoke, it was a whisper:

“Whatever is left of me… it’s yours. I love you”

Somethin' so heavenly, higher than ecstasy Whenever you're next to me, oh my, my

Sunlight filtered through the window, warm and golden and impossibly kind.

It bathed the room in soft light, catching on the folds of the blanket pulled halfway down your back, the way your hair spilled across the pillow, the curve of your shoulder beneath his arm.

Severus had never lingered like this before.

This was something else entirely.

He was still here.

And so were you.

You stirred slowly, as though waking up in a dream, and blinked up at him with sleepy eyes and the faintest smile.

“Good morning,” you said, your voice rough with sleep.

He could have sworn his heart ached at the sound.

“Is it?” he murmured.

You stretched, your foot brushing against his beneath the covers.

“It is now.”

You didn’t leave bed for hours.

You stole the blanket. He grumbled and stole it back. You laughed—really laughed—and he couldn't stop staring. Your laughter wasn’t loud or wild. It was soft, breathy, like honey and fresh air.

“You’re staring again,” you teased, cheeks pink, hair a perfect storm.

“I’m allowed,” he said. “You’re mine.”

You blinked at that—slow, stunned—and then reached for his hand under the sheets, lacing your fingers.

“I’ve been yours since the first time you screamed at me with silence.”

He huffed. “Romantic.”

“The most.”

Later, when you finally dragged yourselves into the kitchen, you made food while he leaned against the doorframe watching you. Hair messy. His shirt on still half-buttoned. Eyes filled with warmth.

You looked like forever.

And when you turned to ask him what tea he wanted, he caught your wrist and pulled you into him.

Kissed your forehead.

Then your cheek.

Then your mouth—slow and warm and impossibly whole.

You smiled against his lips.

“Hi.”

He breathed out a laugh. “Hi.”

And for the first time in a very long time, Severus Snape wasn’t waiting for the moment to end.

Because this—this—was heaven.

World was in black and white until I saw your light I thought you had to die to find

He watched you from the window.

You were sitting in the courtyard, surrounded by late-blooming flowers and golden leaves. A stack of parchment was balanced on your knees, quill tapping absently at your chin. The sun caught in your hair, weaving through it like firelight.

And for the first time in his life, Severus Snape thought the world looked alive.

Not sharp. Not grey. Not something to survive.

Just… beautiful.

He remembered a time when everything had felt faded. Like the world had lost its magic and the silence in his chest was just the cost of breathing.

He had lived like that for years—ghost-walking through corridors, sipping bitter tea, speaking only when spoken to. Not quite dead, not quite living. A relic of a war no one wanted to talk about.

And then you came.

With your soft voice. Your presence. Your infuriating patience.

You never asked him to smile. Never asked him to speak. You just stayed.

And that was how you saved him.

Not with spells.

Not with speeches.

Just by being there.

He found you later in the staff room. Your chair by the fire, legs curled up, a blanket around your shoulders. A mug of tea sat untouched on the table beside you, steam long since faded.

You looked up when he entered.

Smiled.

And something inside him just… broke open.

He crossed the room slowly. Sat beside you. Took your hand in his without a word.

“You alright?” you asked softly, brushing your thumb over his knuckles.

He nodded once.

And then whispered, “The world used to be...cold.”

You looked at him, head tilted gently. Waiting.

“And then you came,” he said. “And everything… changed.”

You didn’t say anything.

Just leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Slow. Lingering.

He closed his eyes.

And in that moment, he knew—

He hadn’t had to die to find peace.

He just had to find you.

Somethin' so out of the ordinary I want you layin' me down 'til we're dead and buried On the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found

It was late.

The stars hung low in the sky, like someone had pulled them closer just for the two of you.

You were sitting on the Astronomy Tower—blankets beneath you, shoulders pressed close, a flask of tea passed back and forth. The castle below was quiet, breathing in the night like a lullaby.

You were tracing constellations in the sky, naming them lazily.

He wasn't really listening.

He was looking at you.

And thinking about how you’d made a home out of him.

“Do you believe in fate?” he asked suddenly, voice barely more than breath.

You smiled faintly. “Sometimes. But I believe more in… choices.”

He nodded.

Then, slowly, reached into his pocket.

You didn’t notice at first—not until he gently took your hand and pressed something small and warm into your palm.

A ring.

Simple. Silver. Understated.

Just like him.

You looked down at it, then up at him—eyes wide, breath caught.

“No kneeling,” he said, quiet. “No speeches. Just this.”

He turned your hand over and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

“I want to grow old with you,” he whispered. “I want to share silences and storms and whatever else this life has left to give. I want you… until we’re dead and buried.”

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t need to.

You just leaned forward and kissed him.

Not urgently.

Not dramatically.

Just like someone saying yes with their whole heart.

And when you finally pulled apart, you slid the ring onto your own finger and whispered:

“Forever’s always been yours.”

He let out a breath like a man exhaling every weight he’d ever carried.

And the stars above you pulsed just a little brighter.

As if they were cheering.

Somethin' so out (out) of the ordinary (ordinary) You got me kissin' the ground (ground) of your sanctuary (sanctuary)

The music was soft.

Vinyl cracked gently in the background, old jazz filling the cottage with warmth. The fire was low, casting amber flickers across the walls. Outside, snow kissed the garden, blanketing it in silence.

And inside, Severus held you in his arms.

You weren’t dancing the way you used to—no grand spins, no rhythm. Just slow steps. Rocking gently in the center of the living room. Your cheek resting against his chest, his hand warm against your back.

You sighed. Not tired. Just content.

He kissed your temple.

“You’re still my favorite silence,” he murmured.

You smiled against his chest.

“And you’re still my safest place.”

Your home was small, tucked into the woods beyond Hogsmeade. A little crooked. A little drafty.

But it was yours.

Photos lined the mantle—of you, of old students who still wrote letters, of gardens that had bloomed and quiet winters you’d weathered.

Severus never thought he’d see this version of his life.

He thought he’d burn out. Be forgotten. Fade like a ghost in some forgotten hall.

But here he was.

Older. Softer. Held.

And still—always—yours.

You looked up at him as the song slowed.

Lines around your eyes, silver in your hair, your ring catching the firelight.

And he thought—I have never loved anything this way. Not even once. Not even close.

“You’re staring again,” you whispered.

He smiled—really smiled.

“Of course I am. You're mine.”

You leaned up, kissed his jaw.

And you kept dancing.

Not toward an ending.

But into everything you'd built.

Everything you'd become.

Two ordinary souls.

With an extraordinary love.

Shatter me with your touch, oh Lord, return me to dust The angels up in the clouds are jealous, knowin' we found

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