Chapter Text
It was inevitable really, that he would develop such a stupid crush, and that it would grow into such an unwieldy beast.
It began at the second annual Order Christmas party; everyone squished in the Grimmauld Place kitchen for nostalgia’s sake, the centrepiece that wretched table where they once made battle plans while recounting the names of dead colleagues and acquaintances with a firm stoicism.
Now there was no grime on the bench tops, no grease stain over the stove, and no Sirius Black sulking in the corner. The old Headquarters had been refashioned into a family home by Potter and the youngest Weasley, who seemed to be enjoying playing house since the war had ended, if anything was to be judged by her growing stomach.
Severus grunts as he is elbowed out the way, his drink spilling on his robes. He turns to see the culprits, Bill and the Veela girl, who join a conversation with Shacklebolt and another ministry lackey, some Hufflepuff upstart who stupefied Rowle in the final battle and has been milking it ever since.
Glaring, he cuts across the room in search of a refill.
It is difficult to make progress, the room so full of people. The space looks like it was decorated by a blind house elf, everything red and glittering, charmed snow leaving white dust everywhere and enchanted mistletoe causing chaos. There’s also a deluge of sound, Christmas music and raucous dancing, and to top it off (literally) ridiculous hats from the earsplittingly loud Weasley Wizarding Wheezes bon-bons.
Merlin, have mercy.
Severus would rather aid Sprout in fertilising the latest crop of Mandrake saplings than be here, a fact that was exceedingly obvious to all thanks to his sour demeanour. But this was his punishment after losing a damn bet to Minerva.
They’d made a Quidditch wager, something they often did before it all fell apart, and now was an olive branch in hopes of repairing their relationship.
What he expected to be a win by a comfortable margin turned into one of the worst matches Hogwarts had seen in twenty years. The Slytherin Keeper was knocked out cold by a bludger two minutes in, the quaffle was lost in the Forbidden Forest thanks to a rogue throw, and the third year Ravenclaw Seeker accidently found the snitch in his pocket while looking for a handkerchief.
All it took was five minutes of pain, and Severus was stuck in a room of Gryffindors again.
To make matters worse, he is alone in the lion’s den. Minerva has promise him company, to be someone to stand silently next to for the required hour of attendance. But of course he wasn’t so lucky. Her patronus informed him that she was headed to the Hebrides on family business, yet he was still to attend, as Molly Weasley would let her know if he didn’t show.
His solo arrival had caused the room to fall into a hushed silence.
He was politely invited, sure. But expected? Never.
Thankfully Tonks took the opportunity to trip over a chair, causing her to dramatically drop a full tray of steaming mince pies into the punchbowl. The room soon fell back into characteristic mirth, but the feeling of being an unwanted novelty persists.
At least the liquor is plentiful.
Finally reaching his goal, he pours himself a generous splash of Ogden’s single malt, a 1989 edition that he knows costs more than a month of his Hogwarts wages. Thankfully Potter wasn’t skint when planning this infernal soiree.
Taking a welcome sip, he hears a group behind him laugh, followed by the chant of “Speech! Speech!” cutting above the din.
He turns to see Potter being levitated onto the dining table, a half drunk butterbeer in his hand, a smile across his face, two more Weasleys nudging his legs.
Merlin, no.
Clearing his throat, Potter launches into what is surely prepared drivel. “Well, it’s been a good year.”
Speak for yourself.
“One of rebuilding, of finding a new way forward.”
That’s one way to describe what the Ministry has done.
“We’ve all done our part...”
Some more than others.
“…to make sure no one has been left behind!”
And suddenly, there she is.
By the doorway, an unmistakable mop of unruly hair.
She’s leaner than he remembers. More tanned as well, with a glow about her face and (oh, fuck) her bare legs, her inappropriate summer dress short and clinging to her curves.
But it’s the eye roll that most strikes him, the slight frown at her best friend’s words.
She disagrees with Potter.
He hasn’t seen her since she came to visit him in the hospital wing. Offering a sincere apology accompanied by a grateful thanks, she quickly left him to his solitude, leaving behind a large and varied collection of reading material to keep him occupied.
She was the only visitor who seemed to understand his need to be alone, and for that reason she was the only one he wouldn’t have minded staying just a bit more.
She’d left after it all. To New Zealand or Australia or Singapore, he’s not quite sure, the rumours reaching him but not the truth. Some far-off place she hid her parents in the mess of that final year.
It seems to have suited her.
Her frown doesn’t last long, and it’s soon swept away once Potter sees her, and calls her up to the table into a fierce hug, her return to Britain heralded by the room as triumphant.
For the rest of the evening, his eyes keep finding her.
She’s pulled into the arms of Molly Weasley, who sobs as she examines her, clucking at her slender frame with motherly concern.
He sees her dancing barefoot with Longbottom and Lovegood, a glass of elf-made wine in her hand, a glowing halo on her head from one of the ridiculous bon-bons.
Later, she’s in an animated discussion with a group of his former students, and he watches as the insipid Weasley tries to make a move, pulling her into a side hug, and letting his hand linger on her hip. She gently removes it, patting his arm, and Severus can’t help but smirk.
Without meaning to the night slips away from him, as he stands in the corner drinking alone.
He’s topping himself up again, for the fifth or sixth time he’s lost count, when a warm voice addresses him.
“Professor!”
He turns to find Hermione Granger beaming at him.
“I didn’t expect you’d be within a hundred miles of this thing!”
She has freckles. A scar near her left eye. A tan line on her exposed clavicle.
He catalogues these details quickly, the changes and similarities of her.
“Well, I heard there might be dancing.” It’s the first words he’s said in hours, his low voice like gravel.
She bursts into bright laughter, eyes crinkled and mouth wide, showing teeth and tongue.
“Oh! You haven’t changed a bit, sir.”
Oh, you have.
“I’m just heading off, but I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
There’s a genuineness to her, a sincerity that he hasn’t felt from anyone all evening.
And suddenly he feels it — gravity pulling, as he tilts toward her sun.
“Merry Christmas.”