The letter slipped under his door was neatly folded in a plain white envelope. The only distinguishing feature was his name, written across the front in vivid green ink. The handwriting was clearly disguised, yet Severus Snape found himself at least slightly intrigued. He tucked it away in a pocket and forgot about it until after dinner, when he was securely nestled in the comfy armchair in his quarters, sipping a glass of firewhiskey and decidedly putting off grading his third-year essays. It wasn't until he shifted position and he heard the crackle of paper that he recalled it and the mysterious method of delivery.

Pulling it out and unfolding it, Severus realised it was written in the same style as his name. Handwriting neat yet sprawling across the page, it read:

Dear Sir,

I have started and restarted this letter I don't know how many times. It felt presumptuous to call you by your first name, yet calling you by your surname implied a more scholarly approach than I'm willing to take.

I'm sure that you will scoff at this letter, that is, if you even read it. Perhaps crumple it up and toss it in the bin. I don't mind if you do, sir, but please, hear me out.

I like you. I could even call it love. This isn't an idle schoolgirl's fancy, although I imagine you would see it as such. I've admired you almost from the moment I stepped foot through Hogwarts' doors. Though you have always been harsh, and sometimes even cruel, toward me and the other students, I fancy that I can see past that, at least a little. Your concern for our well-being and safety has shone through like a beacon, and I am drawn to your intelligence, your sense of honour, and who you are as a man. And well...I don't find you bad-looking, either.

The hand you have been dealt in life has been unfair, bordering on cruel, yet I have found that you have handled it with considerable aplomb and even grace. Snarky wit does not detract-in fact, although I have been on the sharp end of your tongue more than my fair share, I find that it enhances.

I expect no sort of reply or acknowledgement, but I wished to tell you my feelings. You may scorn, but I find that though my courage in other arenas has not been found lacking, I cannot ascribe my name to this and have you know who holds you in such high regard. As such, I am afraid I must remain,

Your secret admirer

Severus's first impulse was, indeed, to crumple it up and toss it in the bin, but he found his hand stayed, unwilling to mar the smooth parchment and crinkle the green penned lines.

He'd never had a letter from a secret admirer. Not a proper one, anyway. The prank James Potter had played on him seventh year hardly counted, did it? He'd been so flushed and eager, thinking Lily had written it-finding out it had been yet another Marauder prank had left him furious and thoroughly disillusioned by "secret admirers."

This one didn't sound mocking, however. The writer sounded sincere, albeit overly enthusiastic and with more than a tinge of hero worship. Severus knew damn well he belonged on no one's pedestal, but this girl seemed to have propped him up on such.

"I'm no one's hero," he spoke aloud, finally folding the letter back up and placing it back in his pocket. It felt like it belonged there, and who was he to argue? The war had been over for less than a year, but it felt like it had never stopped. He'd remained at Hogwarts, snake's bite scarred into his neck, walking with a heavy limp, but inside, he knew that he should move on. There was other work for a man with Potions skills such as his, with the knowledge he possessed. How could he move on when there were reminders everywhere? So many people had died. Dumbledore's office lay abandoned under a heavy shroud of silence. Minerva had taken up post as Headmistress, but had chosen to make her office elsewhere. It had felt wrong to take over that quietly nonsensical sanctity. The battle scars still shone on the castle's walls, covered as they may be by paintings and tapestries and even a hastily-applied coat of paint here and there. It was not something one could easily recover from, never mind an entire school.

The students who had missed out on their seventh year had been welcome to come back, but only a few of them had. Harry Potter, surprisingly, was one of them. Weasley had opted out, choosing to join the Aurors fresh from the Dark Lord's defeat. Hermione Granger, unsurprisingly, was also one of them. The bushy-haired swot had grown up, but she was still the same annoying bookworm she'd always been. Always with her hand up, enthusiastically babbling out an answer. Truth be told, Severus actually rather liked her tendency to spout off half the textbook with assorted supplementary reading. It reminded him of his own school years, and how excited he'd been when he knew the answer.

Still, it was not conducive to learning, only rote memory, when all you could do was recite textbook answers, and Severus always prodded her (albeit in his customary harsh way) to go further, to explore. Always question what the books tell you, never take anything for granted.

For a moment, he wondered if she could have written this secret admirer letter, but the thought vanished almost as soon as it had taken flight. After the way he'd treated her the past seven years, it seemed laughable. Most likely, it was some sort of ill-thought-out whim of an overly lovestruck child, and said child would be more than pleased later to remember she hadn't signed her name. There were spells that he could do to discover the author's identity, but decided not to. It was enough to know that at least someone out there seemed to think well of him, ill-advised though it may be, and as the semester slipped past, Severus took the letter from its customary spot in his pocket and read it more than once.