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Snape watched intently as Granger adjusted her wand over the simmering cauldron. She had surprised him when she first pitched her idea, and he had found himself nodding along and ignoring a long list of reservations.
The challenge was too intriguing to ignore. She wanted him to purposefully sabotage potions as she tested the boundaries of a potential universal stasis charm. The final product could hold unstable brews in place for examination—a feat that St. Mungo’s research division awaited with eager anticipation and open vaults.
The charm demanded meticulous, calculated modifications to each cast, which meant his role was to disrupt the potions enough to keep Granger scrambling to stabilise them. The chaos he introduced provided a strange satisfaction, particularly in watching her attempts to tame hazards worthy of Longbottom.
He couldn’t help but recall the year’s litany of chaotic accidents. In a year that felt more like penance than celebration, they had a few moments of levity. There had been the day the Billywig flies escaped their confines, and Granger giggled madly as she gave a frenzied chase around the classroom. Then there was the incident with the shrinking solution, which left Granger hilariously pint-sized and glaring up at him from his palm while he struggled and failed to maintain his composure. And if only he could forget the bubbling mishap that led to a brief but spectacular explosion of vibrant purple foam, coating Severus in a sticky mess that took hours to clean. Each event had deepened his respect for her resilience, proving time and again that she could navigate the disappointment of failure with a blend of determination and unexpected humour.
For this, he endured the disruption to his otherwise quiet Saturdays, where the lab’s familiar silence was replaced by Granger’s incessant chatter and relentless self-talk. Her results—maddeningly consistent and clever—were almost enough to elicit praise.
“Watch the angle,” he murmured unnecessarily, letting his voice carry its usual, bored edge. “The mandrake will separate if the charm isn’t precisely balanced.”
Granger adjusted her wand by the barest of millimetres, a small, defiant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Honestly, Professor, I do believe you’ve grown to enjoy this,” she teased, meeting his gaze with unsettling confidence.
“Believe what you like, Granger.” He folded his arms, feigning irritation, though his gaze lingered on the potion that fought against the effect of the charm. Acrid green smoke curled from the cauldron. He added a pinch of hellebore, sending the potion into an angry sputter as Granger made the necessary adjustments.
"You’re still underestimating the heat,” he remarked, his voice thick with scepticism, knowing she would have a retort ready before the words left his mouth.
“Calculated risk,” she countered. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what that looks like?”
While overconfidence was often Granger’s most irritating trait, Snape could admit that her reckless arrogance had slowly morphed into a strong self-assurance that was well-earned, a product of countless trials and failures both during the war and in the months that followed. Severus enjoyed mocking Flitwick for his endless enthusiasm for his brilliant apprentice, yet here he was, feeling a swell of pride at Granger’s accomplishments and a frisson of gratitude for having been witness to them.
His lips twitched, but he quickly suppressed his amusement. “One mishap tomorrow and all that confidence will be for nought,” he warned, even as unfamiliar admiration tightened in his chest. It felt dangerously intertwined with attraction—a thought he buried beneath the thick red line separating teacher from student. Such sentiments could not be spoken aloud until long after she had left Hogwarts. If ever.
Granger didn’t falter, her determination evident in the familiar set of her jaw. The potion fumes grew thinner until the gurgling slowed, and the brew quieted, stabilising. If he looked closely, he could see the faintest glimmer of a stasis field maintaining the molecular suspension—a feat he would admit, in the privacy of his mind, was impressive.
Granger's crooked smile widened as she straightened, her eyes beaming in satisfaction.
He offered a nod and a slight quirk of his lips, which made her smile grow and his heart squeeze against his will.
They both knew this was their last session. There was no need to get... sentimental.
After a silent beat, Granger began to pack her supplies while he returned to marking essays, the quill scratching against parchment a welcome distraction. As she carefully stowed her materials, she spoke without looking up from her mane of frizzy curls.
“I’ll miss you sabotaging potions during summer trials,” she said, her voice light. He forced himself to keep his eyes on his work, avoiding what he knew would be a toothy grin. The brightness of Granger's energy seemed to fill the dim lab, and he preferred not to dwell on its impending absence.
He pretended not to notice the subtle shifts in her tone over the long months they worked together, how it grew more strained when she felt life unjust, how it trembled slightly when she recalled something painful, or how it vibrated and ticked up two decibels when she grew excited. He ignored the way his own pulse quickened in her presence, the pangs of frustration at their growing closeness. He pretended not to notice their shared silences either, comfortable but filled with the sharp pain of wounds only beginning to heal.
It was infuriating how her presence lingered in his mind, like the scent of freshly brewed potions that clung to the air long after they were stoppered. Not for the first time, he wondered how many days it would be before that phantom presence vanished.
He looked up, finding her standing across from his desk, her eyes open and honest. “So will I, Granger,” he replied, trying not to choke on the words. He strove to maintain an air of indifference while warmth crept to his cheeks.
She nodded, turning toward the door. He took a deep breath to clear his head as she turned back and cleared her throat.
“Professor,” she said quietly. Her voice wrapped around his lungs like a binding spell. “Thank you. For everything.”
His lips parted as if to say something, but he could think of nothing that would keep her here. You’re welcome sat on the tip of his tongue while Thank you screamed in his brain. He failed to articulate either response. He barely managed a nod.
She saved him from any embarrassment and shot him a bright smile. And just like that, with a wave and grin, she was gone, leaving him alone with a potion stilled by the charm for which she would earn her Charm's Mastery and move on from Hogwarts.
He rubbed his temples, staring at the now-empty doorway. The unfamiliar quiet of the lab settled over him, and he felt absurdly, terrifyingly alone.
Next term would be different without her presence—her persistent questions, her unending curiosity, her open mind and her equally open heart. He would miss all that and more--her indignant anger, her kind smile, her intelligent brown eyes.
He allowed the silence to settle, feeling her absence as sharply as the cauldron's edge. He was right to keep his churning thoughts to himself. She needed to stay focused for her final examination. One day, perhaps, they would meet again. He allowed himself a rare moment of hope, acknowledging that Granger, in all her tenacity, had a way of surprising him.
He jolted when a single knock sounded, and Granger ducked her head back in. He sat up straight, hoping his mouth remained closed no matter his surprise. “I’ll keep you updated on my progress," she chirped. "You’ll be ignoring my owls soon.” She darted out, and he smiled, admiring her confidence and finding the quiet a little less lonely.