Heavily-perfumed swirls of silver vapor drifting around the classroom, Severus Snape still glowered at his students. They were the best of the best, the small group that had moved on the study for their N.E.W.T. in Potions, but this lesson always got on his nerves. It wasn't that it produced explosive results or resulted in a bunch of melted cauldrons, the usual casualties of Potions class. This was the one lesson that always got to him. In the eight - now nine - years he'd been teaching, this was the potion he'd learned to hate the most. "What does it smell like to you, Professor Snape?" asked the Hufflepuff to his right. "We're asking everyone." Her partner, a serious-looking Ravenclaw, nodded along.

Normally he would have sneered the question away, but she was asking out of pure curiosity. She really had surveyed the class. He'd overheard her asking the Gryffindors at the next table a little earlier, and the Slytherin and Ravenclaw nearest the supply cupboard when she went to fetch more peppermint. "Well, I'll tell you if you brewed yours properly." He stepped over to their cauldron, noting that the potion itself was the right shade of mother-of-pearl pink. Spirals of steam were rising off of it. Inhaling deeply, he immediately stepped back as if he'd been trampled by a hippogriff.

It was perfect. It smelled exactly like the moment Pandora - now Pandora Lovegood - had captured in a photograph so long ago, the moment when he and Hazel had just left the Three Broomsticks, the moment he'd so longed to kiss her. And it smelled just like the moment he actually had. "Very good," he managed, looking between the two. "Five points to Hufflepuff and five points to Ravenclaw."

"But sir, you didn't answer the question," they objected together.

He could feel everyone staring now. Across the room one group had bewitched their cauldron to stir itself so they could pay attention to him. One of the Slytherins had accidentally poured way too much moonstone onto his scales but hardly noticed as he listened in. "Linen, lavender, and Butterbeer," he said quietly, instantly setting off a flurry of whispers. He was one of the most closed-off professors they'd encountered. What could all of that add up to?

"Maybe it's Madam Rosmerta," whispered the Slytherin who'd now dumped half of his moonstone back in the vial.

"It can't be, she's got the strongest rose perfume on the market," his companion shot back. "Maybe it's -"

"You have five minutes left. I want a vial - clearly labeled with your names - on my desk, and then you are dismissed," Snape declared, sweeping up to the front of the room again.

He spent the next hour going through each vial, marking them on the sheen, the spirals of steam, and how much they reminded him of what he had missed for so long now. By the time he was done and grades were recorded, he decided he wasn't hungry, opting to go right to bed.

Every time he fell asleep, he'd dream of her being there with him. A lot of the time he'd roll over, thinking he was awake, but there she would be, smiling at him and looking like she had the day he'd last seen her in the courtrooms of the Wizengamot. She'd reach out for him, kiss him on the cheek, and tell him that she was so proud of how far he'd come. She'd play with his hair or trace delicate circles around the scars on his back, whispering that she missed him, she cared about him so much, she didn't understand why he'd stopped writing, that he was a good person, after all, and she missed him dearly.

He came to crave sleep, but when he woke up alone, the deep sense of melancholy would set in again. The dreams about her were balanced out by the nightmares, horrific images of the things he'd seen and done, things he never wanted to share with anyone. He hated the roulette wheel of it all, so he either hardly slept or brewed up a Potion for Dreamless Sleep. It was dangerous, though, something one could become dependent on if they were intent on escaping the nightmares. So he tried not to take it until he woke from a nightmare.

He told no one about the dreams, but he suspected Dumbledore knew. Dumbledore had encouraged him to write to her after his trial. He'd tried. But deep down he knew that he was bad for her, that she could do better, that she deserved better. She deserved better people in her life than him. So he slowly stopped answering her letters. Dumbledore noticed, but he'd said nothing when the owls had stopped. Nowadays they only arrived on his birthday, carrying a card from across the country. He never answered.

That night he fell asleep quickly, Amortentia fumes still swimming in his brain but a sense of sadness and longing lodging itself in his chest. "Sev." He blinked, trying to clear his head. She looked almost real. She certainly felt real, balanced on top of him and wearing next to nothing. "Sev."

"Hazel, you -"

"Shh." She bent down to kiss him. That definitely felt real too. "It's alright, Sev."

She sat up again, moonlight reflecting off of her smile. Her hair was falling in her face, but she didn't seem to care very much. "You…" She'd collected a couple of scars by now, thanks to her adventures as an Auror. Not as many as his own, he thought. He slowly reached up, tracing one that ran down her ribs. Suddenly remembering the birthmark in the groove of her hip, he glanced down. Sure enough it was there. He'd spotted it one spring afternoon when she'd tried to take off her jumper, saying she was absolutely melting in the sun, and ended up tangled in the fabric. He felt a pang of guilt as he wondered what it would feel like under his fingers again. "You're not… real…"

"Shh, Sev, does it matter?" Something stirred in his abdomen, the burning temptation to pull her down and kiss her again as his hand reached her waist. But he didn't need to wait. She pressed herself to him, winding a hand through his hair. A soft moan escaped her lips as she pulled back for the briefest of seconds.

How many layers were there between them? He couldn't count, he couldn't think of a number. He couldn't think of much of anything. He could only focus on shedding layer after layer until there was nothing left at all. It was a lot to take in, every inch of skin, everything he'd seen before and everything he hadn't. They had never gotten this far, after all. "Can I..."

"You first," she answered, slowly starting to kiss down his neck, trailing down his chest until she stopped a little below his stomach.

"Hazel, please..."

"A bit attention-starved, are we?" she asked mischievously, looking up at him. "What do you want, Sev?"

"You, please, I want you, I need - agh!" The second she touched him he woke with a start, finding himself completely alone. Alone, tears dripping down his face, covered in sweat and - "Ugh. Evanesco." Despite the charm, he still felt filthy. He got up to shower, an immense wave of guilt washing over him as he stood under the water.

Dreams like that were rare, the kind of half-real dreams that crept up when the twilight of sleep mingled with the haze of a day full of Amortentia-brewing. He didn't mind the dreams of her lying there next to him, even if they made him feel guilty. He would wake from them with a smile on his face, at least until the profound sadness set in. But this, this made him feel disgusting.

It was something he hadn't done with anyone, but he figured if the two of them had ever gotten that far, she'd be soft and gentle and patient. She always had been when she'd reached out to kiss him. He wanted it to be her. He'd wanted it to be her since seventh year, since he'd woken up from a very similar dream alone in his Slytherin dorm room, right after they'd had their massive fight and he'd realized how much he truly did care for her. He'd wanted it to be her when they'd practically glued themselves together at the last party of the year. He'd wanted it to be her even as they said their goodbyes, knowing that they might never see each other again. He'd wanted it to be her even when they ran into each other months later, when it could have been... had it not been for James Potter's so-called pranks springing to mind. But he still wanted it to be her.

He loved Lily. He did. She was his best friend for years. Of course he loved her. But not like this. He owed her so much, owed her son so much. But this… this was different. He'd never wanted to kiss anyone else, he'd never wanted to do that with anyone else… He shook his head, trying to banish the thought, but it remained. Something must be wrong with me. Lucius has tried to introduce me to so many people… It was true. Lucius Malfoy had tried to introduce him to people at parties, but none of them ever made him smile like Hazel had. None of them inspired the longing to kiss them, to do anything else with them. You're broken, Severus. There's got to be something wrong with you.

No you're not. He could hear her voice as clearly as his own. There's nothing wrong with you. Some people are just like that. She'd reached for his hand, summoning a book from Ravenclaw Tower as they sat on the lawn. Look, it says it right here. Some people just aren't attracted to anyone, or to more than a person or two their entire lives. It's normal, Sev. At least for some people. You're not broken. There's nothing wrong with you. They'd only talked about it once, but she'd been a great comfort. They'd ended up lying in the grass together under their favorite tree. Hazel had tried to figure out how to string flowers together and eventually somewhat succeeded, placing a chain of them on his head until they spotted James and Sirius crossing the lawn.

As he stood in the half-lit bathroom he couldn't help but to allow himself to cry. He longed to embrace the woman he'd dreamt about so much. It made him feel absolutely vile, but he wanted to be able to kiss her again, he wanted to be able to do more than that… even if that never happened, he just wanted to hold her again. He wanted to go back to the days of laying out on the school lawn with her, the days that all smelled like linen and lavender and Butterbeer. He would've traded anything to have that again.

He could've sent an owl. But he chose not to, instead downing a Potion for Dreamless Sleep and praying that it would work. He was better off alone, and she was better off without him.

When he couldn't sleep, Sev would walk around the castle. He'd struck up an odd friendship with Argus Filch that way, running into him late at night. But tonight he was on a mission. He found his way to a disused classroom, careful to lock the door behind him. An ancient mirror was propped against the wall, a mirror he'd found on one of his late night adventures. At first he'd seen himself talking to Lily. She was alive, she was smiling, and she promised she didn't hate him. But over time the image had changed.

That night, when stood in front of the mirror, at first he saw nothing. And then she materialized next to him. She was in the same dark robes she'd worn when he was on trial in front of the Wizengamot. But she smiled, reaching out for his hand. In all of the years that had passed, Hazel hadn't changed. She kissed his cheek, deciding to wrap her arms around him. She was absolutely beaming into the mirror, mouthing a couple of words. He wished he could've heard her say them. "I miss you, Sev. I love you."

"You can't. You don't." He sank to his knees, reaching out for the mirror. The cold glass was unyielding, nothing like the warm embrace that he longed for.

The image of Hazel sat down next to him as more people appeared in the background. The Potters, with their son. Marlene McKinnon and Emmeline Vance - Hadn't Marlene been dead for years? Pandora and Xeno, Hazel's old friends, with their blonde little girl. Even Lupin, standing in the background. Hazel's black dress had slowly faded to white, and now she had a sparkling ring on her finger. "I love you, Sev."

"No," he croaked, covering his eyes. When he looked up next, it was just the two of them. They sat together under the tree they'd studied under for years. They were older than the last time they'd sat under the tree together, but they were laughing all the same. He'd lid his head in her lap, Hazel casually playing with his hair as they talked.

Every night he would visit the mirror, and every night it would pain him. It hurt to look, but it also hurt to tear his eyes away. Late one night he sat there in his pajamas, crumpled on the floor and cautiously watching her in the mirror. "Severus?" Wrapped in a tartan dressing gown, Minerva McGonagall stared down at him. He was glad ti was her and not Dumbledore. Dumbledore would have chided him for being there, would have told him that it was despicable how he would do anything for hey and yet refused to write to her. "I was passing by and I saw the door was open... are you alright?"

He looked up at her, the tears in his eyes shining in the light of her wand. "Can you see her?"

Minerva looked into the mirror, taken aback. "Who? I see nothing but my husband... just as I did when Albus had the mirror moved here." The edge in her voice was undeniable.

"You don't see her?"

"Severus, this mirror shows each person something different. It shows you your deepest desire, the thing you want above all else."

"Oh." He put his head down again as another wave of sadness washed over him. Hazel. That was it. That was what he wanted the most. To see her one more time, to tell her he still cared, to embrace her one more time, to fall asleep next to her. That was what he wanted. The other images - of all of their friends - he supposed it was a real life with her that he wanted, a life where they visited their best friends on the weekends and holidays. But more than that he wanted to talk to her again, to apologize for everything.

Minerva put a hand on his shoulder. "I personally think it shows us what we've lost and what we want back in our lives the most. What do you see?"

"Hazel," he managed, not looking up at her or the mirror. Of course. They'd sat together whenever the Slytherins and the Ravenclaws had Transfiguration together. She remembered seeing them out on the grounds together and in the library at all hours. Albus had them on his list of students he was betting on getting together, and he'd considered taking bets once Horace had told them about their Amortentia. Minerva could only assume that the aspiring Auror had left him once she figured out he was headed for Voldemort. "I can never... I can't write to her. She deserves better people in her life than me."

"Severus, I think you'd find that she wants you back in her life. I know she still sends you birthday cards every year," Minerva said pointedly. "She's kept me updated on her life. I still have a lot of old colleagues in the Ministry. Perhaps I'll mention you the next time I write."

"No, she doesn't need me..."

"Alright, I'll just mention that you're doing well."

"I'm not." It was a rare admission, but she was the only quasi-parental figure he had left. "Please... don't tell her anything about me. She doesn't need to be bothered."

Minerva frowned, but she assented. "Very well, but Severus, sitting here every night will do you no good. You can still visit the mirror, but I recommend against spending all of your free time here. Plenty of very good people have gone mad because of it."

Years later he would tell Hazel about it, about the mirror and how he longed to have her back and about how he'd think of her every time the students had to brew up Amortentia. About the dreams it caused, about how he hated having them because they just felt vile and wrong because she probably hated him. She'd assured him it was fine, that potions did things like that to people, after all. And she'd given him that same mischievous smile, puling him in for a kiss and asking him if he was up for reliving his dream.