Severus Snape had long since mastered the art of silence. He had learned to occupy a room with nothing more than his presence, his sharp gaze a silent command. But this was different.
When he had opened the door to Hermione's office, intending to offer her lunch and perhaps spend a moment with her—something he had been doing more and more lately—he hadn't expected to find her in such a fragile state. There she was, curled up in the corner, her body trembling as sobs wracked through her. Her usually neat hair hung limp, her bright eyes—so full of purpose—were red and swollen, as if some part of her had just been ripped away.
He should have walked away, he knew that. He should have closed the door and left her to grieve in peace, keeping his distance as he had done with so many others before her. But that irrational part of him, the one that had been quietly whispering for months, refused to let him turn around and walk out.
"Granger," he said softly, almost betraying his calm demeanor.
Her head snapped up, and the surprise and embarrassment in her eyes cut through him. "Professor—Severus. I'm—I'm fine," she said quickly, wiping her face with trembling hands. But the tremor in her voice was undeniable.
"No, you're not," Severus replied, his tone firm but quiet, as though he couldn't stop himself from speaking. There was a gentleness in his words, one he hadn't known existed in him, especially not for her.
She looked at him, her breath still shaky. "I'm sorry, I—"
"Stop." Severus cut her off, stepping further into the room, his heart thudding in a way he hadn't expected. There was no judgment in his eyes, only the quiet understanding that made her want to break down all over again. He could feel it in the air between them—his own frustration with being unable to fix this, her sorrow so raw that it radiated from her.
She looked at him, eyes filled with unshed tears. "Crookshanks," she whispered, the words breaking her. "He... he passed away this morning."
Severus' heart twisted at the sound of her voice. He had barely even seen the cat. Only when he had taken her home from the pub and maybe once or twice around Hogwarts. But seeing Hermione—this brilliant, fierce woman—reduced to such grief, something inside him shifted.
"I'm sorry," he said, the words sounding almost foreign as they left his mouth. But there was sincerity there, something deeper than he cared to acknowledge.
Her hands shook as she wiped her face again, her sorrow spilling over in waves. Severus sat down beside her, his movements stiff but deliberate. He could have hovered, awkwardly standing there as he always did, but this time—this time, he couldn't bring himself to do that.
The silence that passed between them was thick, heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was a silence born of understanding, of the unspoken connection that had been growing between them over the past few months. Severus had been trying—actively, stubbornly trying—to show her that he cared, though he was unsure if she even noticed. His feelings had been growing, twisting around the simple moments they shared: their quiet conversations over potion ingredients, her laughter at his sarcastic remarks, and the brief, unspoken touches that lingered a little too long to be innocent.
Finally, Hermione leaned against him, her body collapsing slightly as her tears continued. Severus froze, his breath catching. He had never been one for touch—never known what to do with it. But when she settled against him, he didn't move away. He let her, slowly, cautiously, drawing her in with the unspoken promise of support.
Her breathing slowed, but she didn't pull away. Without thinking, Severus reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief. He handed it to her, his fingers brushing against hers. Her eyes flicked up to him, her gaze soft despite the tears still clinging to her lashes.
"Thank you," she whispered, fragile but full of gratitude. She dabbed at her eyes, though her hands were still trembling.
He didn't let her pull away. Instead, he kept his arm near her, close enough that she could feel the subtle warmth of his presence, but not so close as to overwhelm her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again, voice small, but the apology wasn't necessary.
"It's not your fault," Severus said, quieter now, a softness that was almost unrecognizable. "It's... not your fault, Hermione."
And in that moment, as they sat in the quiet of her office, Severus felt true peace.
Hermione rested her head back against his shoulder, her breathing steady now, but still faintly broken. Severus didn't know what to do, what to say, or if he should say anything at all. But in that silence, in the shared comfort of her presence, he realized that for once, he didn't need to. She didn't need him to fix everything. She just needed him to be there.
And in that moment, he knew, with terrifying clarity, that he would stay with her as long as she needed him to.
Severus stared at Hermione, her face still streaked with tears, but now a flicker of something akin to resilience, a fragile spark of hope, ignited in her eyes. It was a side of her he rarely witnessed, a vulnerability that both terrified and strangely captivated him. He was speechless, unsure of how to respond.
"Would you like to skip the rest of work and get some ice cream?" she asked softly, her voice barely a whisper, the words catching in her throat.
Blinking, Severus was momentarily taken aback. Ice cream? Of all the things to suggest, it was certainly the last thing he expected. He could almost hear the disapproving voices of his colleagues echoing in his head—those that would insist on sticking to duty no matter the situation. He was Severus Snape, after all. The potions master who didn't take breaks. The one who worked through even the darkest hours, always toiling away in the lab or at his desk.
But then, Hermione's words sunk in fully.
"And skip out on work?"
She managed a small, watery smile, her eyes avoiding his. "Why not?" she added, her lip trembling slightly. "George already did two hours ago. Ginny got a new racing broom, so, naturally, he had to abandon everything to go see it."
Severus raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Leave it to George Weasley to abandon work for something as trivial as a new broom. But even that absurdity was somehow... comforting.
"George, of course," he murmured.
Hermione's eyes flickered with something akin to relief—like she was testing the waters with him. "Come on," she coaxed. "You deserve a break. And honestly, I think it would do both of us some good."
Severus hesitated. There was a part of him that felt a small twinge of guilt at the idea of abandoning his duties. He couldn't just leave, could he? What would people think? What would she think?
But then, looking at Hermione—sitting there, her eyes red-rimmed, a tear tracing a path down her cheek, her shoulders slumped in a way that spoke volumes of her grief—he realized that, perhaps, a small break was just what they both needed. In the end, what was a couple of hours in the grand scheme of things? He had worked through far worse moments in his life. One afternoon of indulgence wouldn't hurt.
He glanced down at her, and the corners of his lips quirked upward slightly.
"Fine," he said begrudgingly, accepting his fate. "But only because it's an emergency."
Hermione's face lit up, a watery smile gracing her lips. For the first time in what felt like forever, Severus allowed himself to relax. He could never remember the last time he did something so impractical. He didn't do frivolous things. Yet with her, something about the mundane felt... necessary. Even if it was just for a moment.
Severus followed Hermione out of her office as she led the way. Determined to make this outing enjoyable for her, he reached into his pocket for his wallet. "I want to pay."
"Okay, I have one condition."
Severus raised an eyebrow. "A condition?"
"Absolutely," Hermione replied, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You cannot get something boring like vanilla, okay? You need to pick something... something... I don't know," she trailed off, her voice catching. "Fun… Or adventurous…Something... anything but vanilla."
Severus blinked. Fun? Adventurous? He couldn't remember the last time he'd considered a dessert, much less ice cream, as something to be taken seriously. But, clearly, Hermione had different ideas about such things.
He smirked. "Adventurous, huh? You do realize I'm not twelve anymore, right?"
"Well, I'm not either," she whispered, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "But... today has been awful. And honestly, I deserve this. I'm not going to let a little thing like adulthood stop me from trying to... to feel something other than this emptiness."
Severus hesitated for a moment, still unsure. But then, he watched her, he could see how badly she needed it.
"I'll tell you what," Severus said slowly, thinking about it. "I'll pick something 'fun,' as you put it. But only if you promise to stop calling this 'fun.' This is... irresponsible. But, if it helps you feel better, I suppose I'll give it a go."
Hermione's eyes lit up with gratitude, and for a moment, Severus felt a warmth stir in his chest that he couldn't quite explain. He didn't want to think too deeply about it, though. This was... just one of those moments, wasn't it? The kind of spontaneous thing people sometimes did when they didn't want to feel weighed down by everything.
She gave him a satisfied nod, a small sigh escaping her lips as the tension visibly eased from her shoulders. "It's exactly what I need."
And with that, they walked side by side, stepping out into the warm summer air—heading for Fortescues, a temporary escape, and maybe, just maybe, a fleeting moment of comfort that neither of them had known they needed so badly.
The shop was bustling, as it often was in the afternoons, customers chatting animatedly as they browsed shelves of colorful, outrageous products. Lee Jordan was manning the front counter, cracking jokes and bantering with regulars. It was his way—always the life of the room, always quick with a quip.
That's when Hermione walked through, heading toward the stairs that led to her office above. Her pace was slower than usual, her shoulders slightly hunched. Her hair, which she usually tamed into some semblance of order, was untamed, curling wildly in every direction. Her eyes were red-rimmed, though she kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, determined to avoid interaction.
Lee, oblivious to her state, called out from behind the counter. "Blimey, Hermione! You're giving Snape a run for his Galleons in the hair department today. You two having a contest, or did you just lose a bet?"
Hermione froze mid-step, her back stiffening. Slowly, she turned her head toward him, and the brief look on her face—devastated, on the verge of tears—made Lee's grin falter instantly.
"Sorry," she muttered before bolting up the stairs.
Lee blinked, guilt washing over him. "What did I say?" he asked the nearest customer, but they just shrugged.
From the far corner of the shop, Severus Snape lowered the jar of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder he had been inspecting for a random quality check. His dark eyes followed Hermione's retreating form before shifting to Lee. The withering glare he directed at the younger man was sharp enough to silence him mid-breath.
Snape slipped through the crowd, his long hair billowing faintly, and ascended the stairs to Hermione's office. The door was closed but not locked. He knocked once, a quiet yet purposeful sound, before stepping inside.
Hermione was seated at her desk, her head bowed over folded arms. She didn't look up when he entered.
"Hermione," he began, his words softer than usual but still carrying its characteristic authority.
"Go away, Severus," she said.
He ignored her, closing the door behind him and crossing the room in measured strides. He stood by her desk, his presence impossible to ignore. "That imbecile downstairs is incapable of tact, but his words are not worth tears."
Hermione finally looked up,
She shook her head, letting out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. "It's not him. It's not what he said." Her hands clenched into fists on her lap. "It's everything. I—I don't know what to do, Severus. I've barely slept. I can't focus. And Crookshanks…" Her voice broke. "He's still in my old school trunk under a stasis charm."
Snape's brow furrowed slightly. He'd known about the stasis charm she had placed on the cat, but hearing her say it aloud again stirred something strange and uncomfortable in him. "You know that's not a permanent solution," he said carefully, though his usual sharpness was conspicuously absent.
Hermione didn't respond immediately. Her hands trembled as she rubbed at her eyes, which were red and puffy from days of crying. When she finally spoke, her words were raw and cracked with emotion. "I know it's not. But... but every time I think about burying him..." Her breath hitched, and she pressed a fist to her mouth, as if trying to keep herself from falling apart entirely. "It feels like I'm erasing him. Like once I do, he's gone forever, and I can't... I can't handle that."
She looked utterly broken, and Snape felt the faint, unwelcome pull of something he could only describe as empathy. It was deeply unsettling. He hesitated, the awkwardness of the moment settling heavily around him. What was he supposed to say? What could he do?
After what felt like an eternity, he finally said, haltingly, "If it's too difficult for you, I... I could assist."
Hermione looked up at him sharply, her tear-streaked face filled with surprise and something close to desperation. Her lip quivered as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "You'd help me?" she asked.
Snape swallowed hard, caught off guard by the intensity of her reaction. "I would," he replied gently, his usual composure cracking just slightly. "It would be... practical to—"
"Thank you," she interrupted, her words tumbling out in a rush, thick with grief and gratitude. "Thank you, Severus. You don't know what this means to me. I—I couldn't do it alone. But maybe... maybe if we gave him a proper funeral, it would feel... better. Like I was honoring him instead of just... throwing him away."
Snape blinked, momentarily stunned. "A funeral?" he repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.
"Yes." Hermione nodded quickly, clutching at the edge of her desk like it was the only thing keeping her upright. "He deserves that. He was always there for me, through everything. He wasn't just a pet; he was my friend, my family. I think—I think it would help."
For a long moment, Snape said nothing, his mind racing. He had meant a simple burial, nothing elaborate or sentimental. But looking at her now—her eyes pleading, her hands trembling—he knew he couldn't bring himself to correct her.
"A proper funeral," he echoed with heavy with resignation.
"Thank you," Hermione whispered again, her words breaking on a sob. Despite the tears, a faint, fragile smile flickered across her face. "Thank you, Severus. Truly."
Snape inclined his head stiffly, exiting her office and heading back down to his lab.
The next day, Severus paced the lab in a nervous frenzy, his thoughts swirling with confusion and guilt. The very idea of orchestrating a proper funeral for Crookshanks—Hermione's beloved cat—felt absurd, a task so delicate that it was beyond anything he had ever experienced. It wasn't the sort of thing one could prepare for. There were no books, no resources on how to lay a pet to rest in the wizarding world. Not that he had expected there to be. The Magical Menagerie had provided little more than blank stares when he inquired, their faces as confused as his own.
And so, he found himself here—alone in the quiet of his lab, standing over a collection of pamphlets about magical creatures and burial rituals, none of which applied to the situation at hand.
How did one plan a cat's funeral?
He could handle potions, deadly spells, and even Dark Lords. But this? It felt impossible.
His frustration simmered just below the surface, but the weight of the responsibility hung heavily on him. It wasn't just the absurdity of it all; it was the grief he had seen in Hermione's eyes ever since Crookshanks had passed. The cat had been her constant companion, a creature she had cared for and loved fiercely. Severus knew that, deep down, this was something he needed to get right for her—for her peace of mind.
Severus threw himself into the task with the kind of precision he usually reserved for his potions.
He asked Hermione where Crookshanks should be buried, trying his best to keep the conversation as practical as possible. Her answer was simple—her parents' garden. It was where the cat had spent many hours lounging in the sun, and it seemed fitting. Severus, for his part, was relieved. The garden would provide a peaceful resting place, far from the distractions of the city.
He did ask her if she wanted a coffin, and when she shook her head, saying it felt a bit much for a cat, he couldn't help but agree. The idea of a coffin for Crookshanks, even one made to fit his small, scruffy form, seemed absurd to Severus. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure they even made coffins that small. It would have been an impossible task for him to arrange, so the decision felt like a relief.
After getting Hermione's parents' address, Severus wrote them a letter explaining the situation. He phrased it delicately, but the request was clear—would they be willing to host a small ceremony for Crookshanks in their garden? To his surprise, they were more than happy to accommodate, and he received a swift reply from them, saying they would be honored.
With that step taken care of, Severus moved on to the next task: gathering supplies. He sent a discreet owl to Narcissa Malfoy, knowing that if anyone could provide elegant, yet understated, chairs for a funeral, it was Narcissa. She sent the chairs within hours, along with an unsolicited bouquet of forget-me-nots and a note that simply read, For Hermione, with love and sympathy.
The headstone, however, proved to be more of a challenge than he had anticipated. He had never purchased a cat's headstone before. The stone carver, an eccentric wizard with more enthusiasm than Severus thought appropriate, was overjoyed at the challenge. "First cat headstone I've ever done!" the man had said, beaming.
Severus had half expected the man to offer him a celebratory handshake. The stone itself was simple—a rounded slab with Crookshanks' name engraved in elegant, swirling letters. It felt right, even if Severus couldn't help but feel a small pang of unease at how much he was putting into this for a cat.
The final touch was the invitations. He had commissioned a set of simple, tasteful invites, each featuring an elegant floral design, to send to Hermione's closest friends. He wasn't sure if she would want anyone there, but he knew how much her friends had meant to her during this difficult time. Hermione deserved the chance to grieve with the people who loved her.
When the invitations arrived, Severus felt a small wave of satisfaction. He had done everything he could to make sure the day went smoothly, even if, deep down, it felt more like a chaotic, misguided attempt to make up for something he couldn't even fully understand himself.
The night before the ceremony, Severus found himself standing in front of the headstone, contemplating what he had done. He could have backed out at any point, could have let someone else take on the burden of organizing this bizarre event. But something in him—something deep and unspoken—had made him push forward. It wasn't just about Crookshanks. It was about Hermione.
Now, standing in the middle of the Granger family's neatly kept backyard in Oxfordshire, Snape wasn't sure whether to be exasperated or utterly bewildered.
Hermione's parents had been gracious about hosting a funeral for a cat in their otherwise idyllic garden. They now stood at the edge of the gathering, her father wearing a somber suit and her mother gently stroking Hermione's hair as she fought to hold back tears. The scene was strangely formal: rows of chairs had been arranged, and the guests—all clad in their finest black robes—sat quietly, their expressions ranging from genuine sorrow to mild confusion.
In the middle of it all, a metre-deep grave lay freshly dug in the lush green lawn, the tiny, fur-wrapped body of Crookshanks resting at the bottom. Snape caught himself staring at it for a moment, wondering how his life had come to this point.
Luna Lovegood stood just to his left, drawing even more attention than usual in a towering papier-mâché hat that, to Snape's astonishment, bore an uncanny resemblance to Crookshanks. The misshapen whiskers twitched with every slight breeze, and the exaggerated ginger tufts seemed to glow in the soft afternoon sunlight. Snape's lip twitched, caught between irritation and reluctant admiration for her commitment to the absurd.
Hermione sniffled audibly, clutching a handkerchief in one trembling hand while her mother whispered soothingly into her ear. Her eyes were rimmed red, and though she clearly struggled to keep her composure, the sight of Crookshanks' lifeless body was threatening to undo her.
Snape cleared his throat, feeling uncharacteristically awkward as he adjusted his robes. Here they all were, gathered in solemn tribute to the cat who had, somehow, earned the kind of send-off most humans would envy.
As if sensing his discomfort, Luna leaned over and said in her usual dreamy tone, "He'll come back as something lovely, you know. Perhaps a Crumple-Horned Snorkack."
Snape closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. "Indeed," he murmured, not trusting himself to say more.
Hermione wiped at her eyes and took a shaky breath, stepping forward to face the gathered crowd. "If anyone has something they'd like to say about Crookshanks," she said softly, her body shaking from grief, "now would be the time."
The silence that followed was palpable. People exchanged awkward glances, some fidgeting in their seats. Snape's sharp gaze swept over the group, silently daring anyone to break the tension.
And then, near the back of the gathering, there was an audible thunk followed by a hushed but fierce whisper.
"I'm not doing it, Harry!"
"Yes, you are! Hermione's upset—say something!"
"She doesn't want to hear from me, mate!"
"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Ron, just get up there!"
A distinct shuffle ensued, followed by a dramatic sigh as Ron Weasley was pushed—quite literally—into the spotlight. He stumbled forward, his ears already a furious shade of red as he cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck.
"Er... right," Ron began, his voice overly loud in the quiet. "So... Crookshanks. He was, uh... he was a good cat."
Hermione's lip quivered, her teary gaze locked on Ron.
"And, um... okay, I'm just going to say it—when I first met Crookshanks, I didn't exactly... like him." Ron winced, adjusting his cuffs. "I mean, he was constantly after my rat, and I might've said some things—terrible things—about him being ugly or annoying."
From her seat, Ginny coughed loudly, the words "Disrespecting the dead!" not-so-subtly implied in her tone.
Ron shot her a glare but quickly straightened. "Right, yeah—sorry. What I mean to say is... well, Crookshanks was smarter than I gave him credit for. Turns out, my rat wasn't a rat at all, but a dodgy little git of a man in disguise. And Crookshanks knew. He knew the whole time."
Ron's tone shifted, gaining a hint of sincerity as he continued, "So, yeah, Crookshanks was a great and noble cat. He wasn't just smart—he was loyal. He protected Hermione, helped us when we needed it most. And, uh... yeah. He was a good cat."
There was a brief pause before Ginny, unable to help herself, piped up with a quick addendum. "And a brilliant gnome hunter!" she said brightly, raising her hand as if toasting. "Seriously, Crookshanks cleared our garden out faster than the twins ever could."
A soft chuckle rippled through the group, and even Hermione managed a faint smile through her tears.
Snape, standing stoically to the side, let out the faintest huff of air—perhaps a sigh, or something dangerously close to amusement—as Ron shuffled awkwardly back to his seat, muttering under his breath.
"Thank you," Hermione said between sniffles as she glanced between Ron and Ginny. "That was... that was really lovely."
Before the silence could settle again, Luna Lovegood leaned closer to Snape, her wide, dreamy eyes fixed on him. "Did you know," she began in a hushed tone, "that Kneazles are rumored to guide lost souls to the afterlife? It's said they use their tails as compasses to find the most scenic routes."
Snape turned his head slowly, fixing her with a long, unreadable stare. His expression was so blank it bordered on comical, but the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed his disbelief. "Fascinating," he said flatly, though he made no effort to continue the conversation.
Luna merely beamed, clearly taking his response as encouragement.
Before she could elaborate, Hermione stood, signaling to the group that it was time to proceed with the burial. The small gathering rose in unison, chairs scraping softly against the grass as they formed a loose circle around the grave.
Hermione knelt beside the freshly dug hole, her unsteady hands clutching a small bundle of Crookshanks' favorite toys: a well battered crochet rat, a frayed ball of string, and an old, well-worn blanket he used to sleep on. She placed them gently beside his still form, her tears falling silently onto the items.
"I thought he'd like these," she whispered. Her mother knelt beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders in quiet comfort.
Harry, gripping the handle of a sturdy shovel, stepped forward to take the lead. He glanced at Hermione for permission, and when she gave a tiny nod, he began to fill in the grave.
The crowd watched in respectful silence, but the moment was abruptly interrupted by Ron, who, squinting at one of the toys, muttered, "Blimey, that one looks just like Scabbers—"
Thwack.
Before he could finish, Ginny's elbow shot into his ribs with practiced precision. Ron grunted, clutching his side. "Ow! What was that for?" he hissed.
"Have some respect!" Ginny snapped in a whisper, glaring at him.
Snape, who had been standing stiffly near the back, allowed himself a faint sneer, though he said nothing.
When the last bit of soil was smoothed over, Hermione stepped back, her face pale but composed. "Thank you," she said quietly with a fragile strength. "All of you."
Snape inclined his head, his dark eyes lingering on her for a brief moment before he turned his gaze back to the ground, his hands clasped behind his back. He wasn't sure why, but the heaviness in the air didn't feel entirely unwelcome. There was a strange intimacy in this shared grief, however peculiar the circumstances, and though he would never admit it, he felt oddly... connected.
As the group began to disperse, Luna leaned toward him again, her expression serious. "You know, Professor, if you ever need help crafting a Kneazle compass, I'd be happy to assist."