The dim glow of the Leaky Cauldron's flickering oil lamps barely cut through the haze of pipe smoke and the cheerful din of earlier patrons, now reduced to a few stragglers nursing their final drinks. Severus sat stiffly at the corner table George had claimed as his own, the remnants of a shared bottle of White Rat Whiskey glinting in the lamplight. His long fingers curled around his glass, swirling the clear liquid as he fixed George with a pointed glare.

"This," Severus began, speaking in a low and unimpressed manner, "is a terrible idea. As are all your 'celebrations,' if you must know."

George, leaning back in his chair with a grin that was far too relaxed for Severus's taste, raised his glass in a mock toast. "Ah, but what would we do without your sunshine, Snape?"

He scowled, but the edge was softened by the slight flush on his pale cheeks. He was tipsy, and he hated that George's ridiculous antics had managed to draw him into this state yet again.

Hermione had left hours earlier, claiming a looming deadline for one of her campaigns, though Severus suspected she just wanted to escape George's insistence that she stay for "one more round."

"You're sulking," George observed, pointing at Severus with his half-empty glass. "Admit it. You miss her too."

Severus shot him a fierce look. "What drivel are you spouting now?"

"Hermione," George started. "I see the way you look at her when she's explaining her matrix nonsense. It's like you're listening, but also trying to figure out if she's mad or brilliant. Spoiler: it's both."

Taking a measured sip of his drink, Severus made sure his expression was unreadable. "Your drunken ramblings are as tedious as ever."

George snorted. "You're deflecting. But that's alright. I've got time."

"Why do you insist on dragging me to these absurd gatherings, Weasley? Surely, there's no enjoyment for either of us in this." Severus raised a brow, his patience thinning.

The redhead's grin faded slightly, replaced by something softer, quieter. He stared at the whisky in his glass for a long moment before answering. "Fred and I used to do this. After every new product launch, we'd hit the pub, have a laugh, and stay until the place was practically kicking us out. It was our thing, you know? A way to celebrate, to remind ourselves why we started it all in the first place."

He said nothing, though Severus' scowl softened.

His eyes flickered upwards, George's expression turning earnest. "It's stupid, I know. But when Fred…" He trailed off, swallowing hard before forcing a smile. "Well, when he was gone, I didn't want to stop. Felt like I'd be losing another piece of him if I did. So now, I make everyone come. Hermione hates it—she thinks I just want to get plastered—but it's not about the drinks. It's about the people."

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and unspoken. Severus regarded George with a newfound understanding, his usual sharp retorts tempered by the vulnerability in the younger man's voice.

"You're sentimental, Weasley," Severus said finally, lacking its usual bite.

George laughed, the sound a little strained. "Guilty as charged."

Draining the rest of his whisky, Severus set the glass down with deliberate precision. "For what it's worth, your brother would likely call you a sentimental idiot."

George grinned, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and grief. "Yeah, but he'd say it with love."

Leaning back in his chair, George drank the last of his whisky before setting the glass down with a satisfied thud. "Alright, enough about my sentimentality. Let's talk about you and your Victor-Hermione situation."

Severus stiffened, narrowing his eyes. "There is no 'situation,' Weasley."

"Oh, but there is," George countered, wagging a finger at him. "You've been writing to her for months now, Snape. Months. And don't think I haven't noticed how invested you've become. You could've let it fizzle out at any point, but here we are, still playing postal games like it's 1895."

Severus's jaw tightened. "The arrangement suits us both. There's no need to complicate matters further."

"Except it's already complicated, isn't it? You're halfway to smitten with her, and she's clearly charmed by Victor. So what's your endgame here, mate?" George leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as his grin widened.

"I don't have one," Severus snapped. "And I have no intention of pursuing… anything."

George rolled his eyes. "You're scared."

Severus's glare could have made ice sweat. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh, I'm not," George said, unfazed. "You're terrified. Because if you meet her as Victor, the charade falls apart, and if you approach her as yourself, you think you'll be rejected. So instead, you're stuck in this limbo, writing letters and pretending it's enough."

The Potions Master didn't respond, his fingers tightening around his empty glass.

George sighed, his face softening into something kinder. "Look, mate. If you're that scared of meeting her as Victor, then why not try wooing her as yourself? No disguises, no letters. Just you."

"And what, pray tell, do you expect me to do? Show up with a bouquet of roses and stammer my way through some declaration of affection?"

"Don't be daft," George said, laughing. "You're Severus bloody Snape. You don't do roses; you do intellectual debates and brooding charm. Just… start small. Talk to her, spend more time with her. Merlin knows you already have plenty of common ground."

Severus shook his head, muttering something about idiotic ideas, but George pressed on.

"Think on it," George advised, leaning back again. "And don't forget, her birthday is in a few days. Get her something good. I expect to see you at the party."

"I have no intention of attending that circus," Severus said flatly.

"Why not?" George asked, feigning surprise. "Afraid of running into Harry? Or is it Ron you don't want to deal with?"

Severus glowered. "Both, if you must know. Potter will undoubtedly be insufferable, and Weasley... I've had my fill of his sulking for one lifetime."

"Oh, come on. You can handle them. Besides, it's Hermione's birthday. If nothing else, you can lurk in the corner with a drink and make sarcastic comments to me all night." George smirked.

Severus raised a skeptical brow.

"Look," George continued, now more serious, "you mean more to her than you think, Snape. Showing up would mean a lot to her, even if she won't say it outright. And who knows? Maybe you'll have a good time."

When Severus didn't respond, George let out a dramatic sigh. "As your best friend, I'm telling you, you'll regret it if you're not there."

"You are not my best friend," Severus drawled, fixing George with a pointed glare.

George waved off the comment with a flick of his hand. "Details. As your best friend, I demand you get her a present that shows you pay attention. None of this 'generic' rubbish. It better be something personal."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are insufferable."

"Yeah, but you tolerate me," George said with a wink as he stood up. "See you at the party, mate. Don't be late."

With that, George sauntered off, leaving Severus alone with his thoughts, the faint hum of the nearly empty pub, and the distinct feeling that he had been thoroughly outmaneuvered.

That was the conversation that led Severus to sulk in the shadows of 12 Grimmauld Place, a glass of firewhisky in hand, watching Hermione light up as she moved effortlessly through the crowd of her friends. She looked radiant, her curls bouncing as she laughed at something Ginny said, her cheeks flushed from the attention lavished upon her.

Severus had deliberately arrived late, hoping to avoid most of the festivities. It had been George, of course, who spotted him almost immediately and swooped in like a hawk on a particularly irritable mouse.

"Ah, Snape! You made it!" George exclaimed, shoving a ridiculous pink party hat onto Severus's head before he could protest.

He froze, his hand halfway to his wand. "Weasley," he growled, "remove this abomination from my person immediately, or I will—"

"Relax," George interrupted. "You're blending right in now. Look, it matches the balloons."

Severus glanced toward the obnoxiously cheerful balloons floating in the corner, all in varying shades of pink and gold. His scowl deepened. "This is a crime on par with Potter naming his progeny after me."

George burst out laughing, slapping Severus on the back. "See? This is why I like you. Always good for a laugh."

And then George was gone, disappearing into the crowd before Severus could retaliate.

So there Severus stood, cloaked in his signature black robes, scowling fiercely beneath a pink party hat, all because of Hermione. Just for her.

His dark eyes tracked her every movement, noting the ease with which she navigated the party. She was entirely in her element, chatting animatedly with Harry and Luna, her hands fluttering as she explained something with her usual fervor. Her joy was palpable, infectious, and he hated how much it affected him.

Then, as if the universe sought to punish him further, Ronald Weasley loudly declared, "Alright, everyone, it's time for gifts!"

Severus inwardly groaned, wishing he'd had the foresight to leave even earlier. But it was too late now; the group was gathering around Hermione, and he found himself moving a reluctant four centimeters to the left—just enough to join the circle without fully abandoning the safety of the shadows.

Hermione sat at the center of the room, a soft flush on her cheeks as she waved off the announcement. "You didn't have to get me anything," she protested lightly, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her excitement.

The gifts were, unsurprisingly, typical of her friends' understanding of her preferences. A thick tome on obscure magical theories from Luna. A set of ornate, charmed quills from Ginny. Several vouchers to Flourish and Blotts—one of which bore the unmistakable messy scrawl of Harry Potter.

She opened each gift with a mixture of delight and gratitude, her face lighting up with each thoughtful gesture. Severus couldn't help but notice how her fingers lingered on the spines of the books, how she ran her thumb over the engraving on the quills.

"Thank you, everyone," Hermione said with a warm smile as she finished. "This is all so thoughtful. I really appreciate it."

It was Luna who spotted Severus's forgotten gift hidden somewhat under the coffee table. "There's one more."

As if Christmas had come early, George's entire facial expression grew wider as he looked between the gift and Snape. Clapping his hands together loudly, and drawing everyone's attention, he spoke. "Hold on, hold on! We're not done yet!" His grin practically splitting his face in two.

"George, what are you up to?"

"Oh, just making sure the most important gift isn't forgotten," he replied innocently. He turned dramatically,his gaze landing on Severus, still lurking at the edge of the group, his pink party hat slightly askew. "Snape, don't tell me you forgot a gift for the birthday girl!"

All eyes turned toward him, and Severus's frown deepened. He muttered something inaudible under his breath, but George wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily.

"Come on, mate! Surely you've got something for Hermione. Maybe a potion? Or, I don't know, an essay on the ethical dilemmas of wizarding research? She'd love that!"

The group erupted into laughter, but Hermione shot George a warning look. "George, leave him alone."

But Severus, for all his irritation, wasn't about to back down in the face of Weasley's antics. He stepped forward, and with a deliberate flick of his wand, the gift from under the coffee table. It floated into his hand, and he handed it to Hermione without a word, his expression blank and unreadable.

Taking the package, Hermione's hands dropped a bit from its unexpected weight. "You didn't have to," she said softly, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"It seemed appropriate."

Hermione's attention returned to the gift and she began to unwrap it. Beneath the paper was an old Weasley Wizard Wheezes box, and inside, nestled in silvery tissue paper, was a pair of old brass swan bookends. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each swan elegant and regal, their wings folded in perfect symmetry. Hermione froze, her breath catching in her throat as her fingers brushed over the cool metal.

"Oh," she whispered. Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked up at Severus, her lips parted as if struggling to find the words.

Everyone stilled, watching the unexpected exchange with quiet curiosity. Even George, poised for another quip, held back when he noticed the shift in Hermione's demeanor.

"These… these are just like the ones my grandmother had. I loved them so much when I was little. I used to beg her to let me have them when I grew up, but when she passed away…" She hesitated, dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. "My cousin Dorcas got them. I thought I'd never see anything like them again."

Her fingers curled protectively around one of the bookends as if it were a piece of her childhood made real again. "Severus, this is…" She trailed off, shaking her head as a tear slipped down her cheek. "Thank you. I don't even know what to say."

"It was nothing," Severus dismissed. His dark eyes flickered with something unspoken as he crossed his arms, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. "I happened to see them in a charity shop window and thought you might like them. That's all."

Hermione shook her head, clutching the bookends a little tighter. "No, it's not nothing. This is… thoughtful. So thoughtful." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she offered him a tearful smile. "I love them."

"I'm glad they please you," he murmured, inclining his head as his gaze briefly met hers before darting away.

What Hermione didn't know, and what Severus would never admit, was the truth behind the gift. Those swan bookends had lingered in his mind ever since she'd written the story to Victor—about her grandmother, about the bookends, and how much they had meant to her. When he'd learned about the party, he'd resolved to find them, spending every spare moment combing through muggle charity shops and antique stores until, finally, he'd stumbled upon the perfect pair.

Hermione gently set the bookends down and stood, crossing the small space between them. Before Severus could react, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around him in a warm hug. He stiffened at first, clearly caught off guard, but eventually, he relaxed just enough to awkwardly pat her shoulder.

"Thank you," she whispered into his chest. "This means more than you know."

"It was a simple gesture," he replied as the faintest hint of color rose to his cheeks. "Nothing more."

As she pulled back, her face still flushed with emotion, George—never one to let a moment linger too long—cleared his throat dramatically. "Well, well, Snape. Who knew you had a sentimental streak?"

"Careful, Weasley. Lest I accidentally poison your next drink." Severus said dryly, regaining its familiar bite.

The party goers once again erupted into laughter, the tension diffusing as the party resumed its lively chatter. But even as Hermione returned to her seat, her smile brighter than before, she kept glancing at the bookends, her fingers occasionally brushing over them as if reassuring herself they were real.

Soon the group began shifting their attention to the cake that Ginny was bringing out from the kitchen. Despite his attempts to fade into the background, his presence was far too conspicuous.

It was Harry who dared to talk to him. Clearing his throat and leaning toward Snape, trying for a casual approach. "So, Professor—uh, Severus—what do you think of Grimmauld Place these days?"

Snape turned his dark eyes to Harry, one brow arching slightly. "It's slightly less intolerable now that it's not under Black's... distinctive influence. Though the décor remains depressingly grim."

"Grimmauld, grim. George is wearing off on you Sir." Ron said before realising his mistake in the honourific.

"Well, we've tried to make it more welcoming, though I suppose it's a work in progress." Harry looked down at his drink, obviously a bit nervous around his former professor.

Snape's gaze flicked briefly to the twinkling banners and enchanted streamers overhead, his lips curving faintly. "Indeed. The... festivities are nothing if not enthusiastic."

Luna, who had been quietly examining the cake, piped up, "It's the nargle-free decorations. They really brighten a place up."

"I'll take your word for it." Snape gave her a sidelong glance, his expression carefully blank.

"Cake is ready!" Ginny shouted as she placed the cake with way to candle muggle candles on it in front of Hermione.

There was a flurry movement as everyone gathered around the cake. Hermione stood at the center, the warm glow of the candles casting a soft light over her face.

The group launched into an enthusiastic, off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday," their voices echoing through the old house. Hermione closed her eyes as she made her wish, her hair catching the golden light like a halo, and blew out the candles. The group erupted into cheers and applause, and as the last of the smoke curled from the extinguished candles, Neville piped up.

"What did you wish for, Hermione?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

Before Hermione could respond, Ginny smirked, leaning forward with a teasing glint in her eyes. "To shag that sexy letter buddy of hers, Victor Thorne."

Hermione's cheeks turned crimson as the room collectively turned to her in surprise. "Ginny!" she hissed, glaring at her friend, who was entirely unapologetic.

"Letter buddy?" Neville asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You've got a pen pal, Hermione?"

Hermione shook her head quickly, her voice a bit too high-pitched as she replied, "He's no one! Just someone I've corresponded with about research. It's purely academic."

Ginny raised a skeptical eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Purely academic, is it? Please. Every time you get a letter, you're grinning like Crookshanks used to when he caught a gnome. And let's not forget the time you actually swooned over his handwriting."

"I did not swoon!" Hermione protested, her words breaking slightly in her embarrassment.

"Oh, but you did," Ginny countered, turning almost dreamy as she clasped her hands to her chest in exaggerated imitation. "Oh, Victor, your penmanship is as eloquent as your words. Truly, you are the soul of intellect and wit!"

At this, Ron and George, standing on opposite sides of the room, both grinned wickedly.

"Victor, I love you," George began to sing, his voice overly dramatic.

"Victor, I do," Ron chimed in, clutching an invisible letter to his chest.

"When we're apart, my quill writes only for you!" they finished together, swaying as if serenading an invisible figure.

Hermione buried her face in her hands as laughter erupted around the room. "You're all insufferable," she muttered, though the corners of her mouth twitched despite her mortification.

Even Snape, lurking in the shadows, allowed himself a faint smirk at the chaos unfolding before him. He sipped his firewhisky, his dark eyes flicking toward Hermione, who was now trying—and failing—to fend off Ginny's relentless teasing.

"Don't let them bother you, Hermione," Luna said, serene as always. "If this Victor Thorne is as brilliant as you say, perhaps he's also a fire crab animagus. They're very compatible with witches who love books."

"Thank you, Luna," Hermione said weakly, though her glare at Ginny still held firm.

As the laughter subsided and the cake was sliced, Hermione finally managed to reclaim a shred of dignity, though the song would undoubtedly haunt her for weeks to come.

A few days later, Severus found himself standing awkwardly outside Hermione's office, a steaming cup of tea balanced in each hand. He was about to turn around and retreat when the sound of her exasperated muttering reached his ears.

She was hunched over her desk, surrounded by stacks of parchment and half-unrolled scrolls, her brow furrowed in concentration. The projection of yet another matrix lit up one wall, but today it shared space with charts and graphs outlining potential shifts in Ministry policy. She looked utterly consumed, her quill scratching furiously against the page.

He cleared his throat, and her head shot up, her tired eyes narrowing in momentary confusion before softening. "Oh, Severus. Sorry, I didn't hear you come in."

He held out one of the cups, his expression deliberately neutral. "They appear to have mistakenly given me two."

Hermione blinked at the offered drink, then at him. "Two Earl Greys?" she asked skeptically, tilting her head.

"Yes," he said shortly, praying she wouldn't question it further.

She studied him for a beat longer before accepting the cup. "Well, their mistake is my gain," she murmured, taking a cautious sip. Her shoulders relaxed almost immediately, and a soft hum of appreciation escaped her lips.

"Thank you," she said, a genuine smile breaking through her fatigue. "I needed this."

He shrugged, feigning disinterest, though he was watching her reaction intently. "It would have gone to waste otherwise."

"Of course," she replied, laced with amused disbelief as she gestured to the cluttered chair across from her desk. "Since you're here, perhaps you can help me untangle this mess."

He lowered himself into the chair with a resigned sigh, setting his own untouched cup aside. It wasn't as though he'd actually intended to drink it—he found her preferred combination of sugar and milk nauseating—but it had served its purpose.

As she began explaining her latest analysis, her hands animatedly gesturing to the graphs and notes in front of her, Severus allowed himself a moment to watch her. The lines of stress that had been etched into her face earlier were softening, replaced by her usual determination and fervor.

Her passion was infectious, and though the intricacies of political maneuvering were hardly his domain, he listened attentively, occasionally offering his insights.

When she paused to sip her tea and give him a grateful glance, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles. This simple gesture, this shared moment, was worth every ounce of effort—even if it meant enduring her abominable tea.

A week later, Hermione's office was filled with the scent of fresh lilies and lavender. The bouquet was enormous, arranged in a delicate glass vase that seemed entirely out of place amidst her clutter of parchment and books. George strolled in behind it, carrying it with a flourish and an exaggerated look of curiosity.

"Well, well, Granger," he teased, setting it down with a dramatic thunk. "Is this from some mysterious admirer, or is it just your keen sense of justice making the flowers grow spontaneously in your honor?"

Hermione rolled her eyes as she picked up the accompanying card, her brow furrowing as she read the elegantly penned note:

Congratulations on your success. Your dedication continues to inspire.

No name, no clue. Just the vague compliment. She turned the card over, checked the envelope, even inspected the vase. Nothing.

George leaned against the desk, grinning. "Secret admirer, obviously. I mean, who wouldn't be inspired by our resident champion of house elf rights? You're practically a beacon of moral virtue—and paperwork."

"Very funny," Hermione muttered, though her cheeks warmed faintly. "It's probably someone from the Ministry. Maybe even Kingsley."

George gave her a sly look. "Oh sure, because the Minister of Magic has time to swing by a florist between his meetings with foreign dignitaries. Right."

Hermione waved him off, but throughout the day, her gaze kept drifting to the bouquet. There was something about the gesture, the note, the flowers themselves—so perfectly chosen.

Meanwhile, Severus was enduring no small amount of grief from George, who had caught him slipping into the shop with the bouquet earlier that morning.

"Positively romantic," George had drawled as he lounged against the counter, watching Severus finalize the purchase with a faint scowl. "Lilies and lavender—do I detect symbolism here, or is that just your tortured poet side coming out?"

"Careful, Weasley," Severus had replied darkly. "Keep talking, and I'll enchant that mouth of yours shut."

George merely laughed, snapping his fingers as if struck by inspiration. "This is for Hermione, isn't it? Oh, it is! Snape, you devil, I'm touched."

Severus didn't dignify him with a response, but his pointed glare spoke volumes.

The flowers, however, were only half the effort.

The dinner meeting with Lucius had been Severus's more intricate maneuver. He'd approached Malfoy with the idea under the guise of a personal favor, ensuring the elder Slytherin believed it was entirely in his interest to meet with Hermione about her new bill.

"It could do wonders for your image," Severus had remarked smoothly. "Reformed aristocrat, championing progressive causes—it practically writes itself."

Lucius had smirked. "And you wish to involve me in this... altruistic endeavor, why, exactly?"

"A mutual friend of mine is leading the charge," Severus replied with a dismissive tone, "and she'll benefit from your cooperation. Consider it an opportunity to make certain... alliances."

The dinner was arranged at an exclusive restaurant, and Severus deliberately bowed out at the last moment, citing an unavoidable conflict.

"I trust you'll find the evening enlightening," he'd said with a faint smirk.

Lucius had merely chuckled. "Indeed. I'm curious to see how Miss Granger handles herself in the snake pit."

The next day, Hermione returned from the dinner, glowing with excitement over the progress she'd made. George caught her in the breakroom, grinning as she poured herself a celebratory tea.

"So, what's the verdict? Did Malfoy compliment your tireless efforts, or did he just sneer over his goblet of wine?"

Hermione laughed. "Actually, he was surprisingly cooperative. He even agreed to review the bill and provide input. It was... unexpected."

"Unexpected, huh?" George said, his grin growing. He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Almost as if someone softened him up beforehand."

Hermione paused, frowning slightly, but George didn't give her time to dwell on it.

"Anyway," he continued brightly, "congrats on winning over the big bad Malfoy. You're a force to be reckoned with, Granger."

In his lab, Severus pretended not to overhear Hermione marveling about how "productive" the dinner had been, though a flicker of satisfaction crossed his face when she called the whole evening "a surprising success."