Ivy returned to her chambers with a quiet sense of purpose humming beneath her skin, her bare feet padding softly against the stone floor. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a moment she leaned against it, eyes closed, letting herself feel the lingering warmth of what had passed in her office—not just the intimacy, but the connection. The choice she'd made. The peace in it.
After a moment, she moved through the quiet space. First she showered before letting her fingers brush along the surface of her dresser as she selected her clothes for the day. She chose a navy-blue dress, soft and simple, the hem falling just below her knees, fitted through the waist in a way that made her feel effortlessly elegant beneath her teaching robes. It wasn't for anyone else. Just for herself. And perhaps, just maybe, a little bit for him.
She curled her hair loosely, letting it fall around her shoulders in gentle waves. There was something softer about her that morning—something luminous that seemed to radiate from beneath her skin. She didn't rush. She moved through her morning like a woman with a secret. One she wouldn't give away, but couldn't entirely hide either.
By the time she made her way to the Great Hall, her robes fluttered slightly around her legs, her cheeks still kissed with the warmth of sleep, and her eyes alight with quiet contentment. The hall buzzed faintly with the subdued chatter of early risers—students bent over toast and tea, a few professors already gathered at the staff table.
She made her way to her usual seat beside Professor McGonagall, who now sat in the Headmistress's chair with all the composed dignity she always had, her tartan robes neatly arranged, her tea steaming just so.
Ivy offered her a warm smile as she sat beside her, folding her hands neatly in her lap for a moment.
"Good morning, Headmistress," she said with genuine warmth, her voice tinged with quiet affection and respect.
McGonagall looked up from her tea, her usual sharp morning expression softening the moment she laid eyes on Ivy.
"Good morning, Professor Wilde," she said with the faintest twitch of a smile. "You're positively radiant this morning. Did someone slip a cheering charm into your tea, or is this the unmistakable glow of a potioneer who's finally found her rhythm?"
Her eyes sparkled knowingly over the rim of her cup—Minerva missed very little, especially not when someone under her roof had that particular warmth about them. The kind that couldn't be brewed, bottled, or faked.
"I trust the dungeons are treating you kindly?" she asked, folding her hands. "No sudden fires or students melting cauldrons... yet?"
She smiled warmly, the kind that reached her eyes and softened her entire expression. There was a brightness to her that morning that even the flickering candles of the Great Hall couldn't match—a quiet joy that lived just beneath the surface, woven into her words.
"Thank you," she said, accepting McGonagall's subtle compliment with grace. She reached for her teacup, fingers curling around the porcelain as she took in the gentle rhythm of the morning—the students slowly filtering in, the comforting clatter of cutlery and soft conversation rising like a tide.
"Classes went well yesterday," she continued, her tone easy, reflective. "And I can't deny a good night's rest. One of those rare ones where you wake up still smiling, not entirely sure if it was the sleep or the dreams."
She sipped her tea, the warmth grounding her. Then she gave a small laugh, low and knowing, the edge of it tinged with the familiar trials of her profession.
"Though I won't let this lull me into a false sense of security that no cauldrons will be melted today."
Her smile turned a little mischievous.
"Yesterday's triumph is today's crisis waiting to bubble over. I've got a pair of third-years who seem determined to create a new shade of toxic green every time they stir counterclockwise."
McGonagall chuckled softly, the sound more rare than most were privileged to hear.
"Well, let's hope they don't recreate whatever chaos Mr. Finnigan once managed in his third year," she murmured, sipping her tea. "I'm still not convinced that ceiling ever fully recovered."
Ivy laughed, her eyes sparkling.
"I'll keep the fire suppression charms at the ready," she said lightly. "And perhaps stock a few extra calming draughts—for myself."
She sipped her tea, watching Ivy over the rim for a moment longer. "Still, I'm glad to hear it. You've settled in remarkably well. There's a calm about you. Focused. Like you've found… something worth grounding yourself to."
She didn't press further. But her words lingered.
Then, with a knowing glance and a subtle arch of her brow, she added, "You're bringing something new into the dungeons, Ivy. The students already speak of you with a kind of admiration most potions professors only hope to earn. Keep holding that line—compassion and discipline. It suits you."
The two women ate breakfast in companionable silence, the kind shared by people who understood the value of quiet in the morning. Occasionally, Ivy would comment on a student she spotted sneaking extra jam or McGonagall would make a dry remark about the state of uniform compliance, but otherwise, they simply were—tea warming their hands, plates filled with hearty simplicity, and the golden slant of morning light through the Great Hall's high windows casting long, quiet shadows.
Ivy felt grounded, present. There was a calmness to her movements, a steadiness in her breath. She didn't rush. She allowed herself the luxury of peace.
When she finally rose from her seat, she smoothed her robes down over the navy dress beneath and collected her satchel. Her teacup was empty. Her appetite, for once, had been full. As she turned to leave the staff table and make her way toward the dungeons to prepare for first period, she hesitated—just a moment—and turned back.
"Before I go…" she said softly, looking down at McGonagall, who glanced up from the last corner of the Prophet with a mild lift of her brow.
Ivy hesitated again, the weight of the question forming in her chest before it reached her lips. Her voice was gentle—curious, not heavy. But there was something vulnerable in her tone. Something searching.
"May I ask you a question?"
McGonagall folded the paper with deliberate grace, setting it aside, and turned her full attention to Ivy. Her sharp eyes—still just as perceptive as they were when Ivy had been a student herself—narrowed slightly with interest.
"Of course, my dear," she said, nodding once. "What is it?"
Ivy licked her lips slowly, gathering her thoughts as if drawing them carefully from the depths of her chest. She wasn't asking as a colleague. She wasn't even asking as the Potions Mistress now filling his former post. She was asking as someone who had let herself care—and who needed to know that she wasn't alone in what she'd come to believe.
"Professor Snape," she began, her voice quiet, measured. "You worked with him for a long time. Before the Battle of Hogwarts… before everything unraveled."
She hesitated, searching McGonagall's expression—not for confirmation, but for permission to ask the question. And when none came to stop her, she continued, more softly now.
"After Dumbledore died… and he became Headmaster… were you shocked?"
The Great Hall was quieter now, the buzz of student voices fading as the early wave of breakfast began to clear. The golden morning light caught in Ivy's hair as she stood, almost silhouetted in front of the high table, her eyes fixed not on the room but on the older woman who had seen it all.
"Did you feel," Ivy said slowly, "as though you were betrayed?"
Her voice didn't tremble, but it dipped with the weight of the question. "Or did some part of you… Suspect that he wasn't what he seemed? That he might have been working in the best interest of everyone the entire time?"
McGonagall stilled.
Not in offense. Not in fear. But in memory.
Her expression shifted into something more solemn, more aware. The sharp lines of her face softened, though her eyes lost none of their clarity.
"I was furious," she said quietly. "At first. When he became Headmaster, I was livid. I thought he had betrayed us—betrayed Albus. I thought… the boy I'd taught had finally lost himself."
She paused, her gaze drifting toward the enchanted ceiling above, as if the stars there could unravel the past.
"But Severus Snape was always more than what he appeared to be," she said after a moment. "And Albus… Albus had trusted him to the end. That meant something, even when I didn't understand it."
Her mouth pressed into a line before she continued. "There were moments, small ones—too quiet to say aloud—where I wondered. The protections he left standing, the way certain students were never punished as harshly as others… the gaps in the Carrows' cruelty, when it came to certain children. They were cracks. Little seams of mercy he tried to hide."
She looked back at Ivy then, her voice quiet but unwavering.
"By the time the truth came out—his memories, his sacrifice—I felt ashamed that I ever doubted him so completely. I had no idea the depth of what he'd given. What he'd risked. What he'd carried."
A long breath.
"He was not an easy man to like. But he was one of the bravest I've ever known. And one of the most loyal. Even when it broke him."
Ivy nodded slowly, the weight of everything she hadn't yet said settling in her chest. She swallowed, feeling the heat of emotion tighten at the base of her throat—not grief, exactly, but something more complex. Something like reverence tinged with ache.
"I brought his portrait out," she said softly, her voice laced with something intimate, something deliberate. "From where it had been stored… tucked away down in the dungeons."
Her eyes flicked briefly down to the polished floor before lifting again to meet McGonagall's.
"We've had some good conversations," she added, her voice warming slightly—fondness flickering like a candle's flame. "He's… himself. Still sharp, still impossible at times. But it's him. And that means something."
She gave a small, breathy laugh, though it held no humor—just the disbelief of someone still adjusting to the reality of sharing space with a ghost of such immense gravity.
"But it's dusted off some memories," she continued after a pause, her tone quieter now. "Ones I didn't realize I'd been keeping locked away."
She looked down again, not to hide, but to find her footing in what she was saying.
"Of what it felt like to be in his class—how he moved, how he commanded a room, how deeply he cared even when he pretended he didn't. And also…" She hesitated, then added, more softly, "what it felt like to not know who he really was."
Her brow furrowed just slightly, her fingers curling around the strap of her satchel.
She gave Ivy's hand a small squeeze, the gesture firm and grounding.
"Severus deserved to be remembered. Not just for his sacrifice, but for the complexity of who he was. His brilliance. His care, hidden as it was. Too many choose to forget the man because the myth is easier to swallow."
Then, after a beat, her voice dropped just a little, as though sharing something she hadn't said aloud before.
"I miss him. More than I expected I would. His presence, his wit—even his scowls. He made this place sharper. Stronger."
She gave Ivy a long look, something quietly powerful behind her words.
"I'm glad it's you. The one speaking to him. I think you might be the first person he's let truly see him… even now."
"Thank you for your insight, Headmistress," Ivy said warmly, her hand brushing her satchel as she stepped back from the staff table. "Have a good day."
McGonagall gave her the smallest smile in return—rare and meaningful. "And you as well, Professor Wilde."
With that, Ivy turned and made her way out of the Great Hall, her boots clicking softly against the worn stones of the floor. The warmth of the morning light faded gradually as she descended into the lower levels of the castle, the dungeons cool and quiet in the way they always were—timeless, untouched, holding memories like a well-sealed vial.
She knew every corner of this walk. Every turn, every echo. She had made it countless times in her youth, always with a satchel filled with notes and nerves, always bracing herself for the chill in the air and the sharper chill of his presence. Back then, walking to Potions had felt like approaching the eye of a storm—controlled, calculated, but never without the tension of the unexpected.
She smiled to herself now, a small, knowing curve of her lips.
Funny how it hasn't changed… and yet it has.
The anticipation was still there, but it had transformed. It wasn't dread or intimidation anymore—it was a quiet hum in her chest. The feeling of returning to something, or someone, that had once been unreachable.
When she stepped into her classroom, the familiar scent of crushed herbs and old parchment welcomed her. She moved easily through the space, already slipping into the rhythm of her routine—but something caught her eye before she even reached her desk.
She turned toward the portrait frame mounted along the far wall, just beside her own workstation—the second one she'd enchanted for him.
And her breath caught.
There, within the frame, was a new addition.
A workstation.
Neatly arranged, functional, unmistakably his. A cauldron sat at the center, polished and gleaming. Shelves lined the back wall of the frame, now stocked with jars of ingredients—painstakingly detailed. Mortar and pestle, a scale, a ladle hanging neatly from a hook.
She stared for a moment, heart swelling, a slow warmth blooming in her chest.
He'd built it.
Not because she asked. But because he wanted to.
Because some part of him still craved the craft, the ritual, the quiet mastery of potion-making. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be with her in this way—in the work, in the silence, in the space they now shared.
As Ivy crossed the classroom and approached the front, her eyes naturally slid to the frame by the cauldron.
There he was.
Severus stood at the workstation he had conjured into being—robes perfectly draped, sleeves pushed to the elbows in the way he always did when brewing something serious. His cauldron was already emitting the barest thread of silver steam, and his long fingers worked with silent grace as he crushed dried valerian root with the butt of a narrow silver spoon.
He didn't look at her right away. But the moment she smiled—
"I see you've noticed the upgrades," he said without looking up, his tone cool, dry, and just soft enough to curl heat at the edges of her smile. "I assumed you wouldn't mind if I made myself useful."
Then he glanced up—his eyes catching hers, catching everything—and something warmer bloomed in his gaze.
"You look radiant this morning," he said, voice lower now. "Was it the tea, the dress, or the lingering echo of my voice in your dreams?"
And then, casually—beautifully—he added:
"It's good to see you again, Ivy."
She blushed—warmth blooming across her cheeks so suddenly it almost startled her. It wasn't the kind of embarrassment that came from being caught; it was the kind that welled up from something tender and overwhelming. A quiet kind of awe.
Her eyes lingered on him, standing tall and composed in the frame, behind the newly conjured workstation that looked as though it had always belonged there. There was something almost alive about the way he stood now, not just a portrait mimicking presence, but present in a way that stirred something deep in her chest.
She smiled, soft and shy, fingers brushing a stray curl from her face as she tilted her head just slightly to regard him.
"It's good to see you too, Severus," she said quietly, her voice low and full of emotion she didn't try to hide. "It takes my breath away, seeing you like this again."
The weight of that truth settled between them, quiet but electric. A memory of what was, and a glimpse of what might have been—if time had been kinder, if the world had bent just slightly in their favor.
But before she could say more, the door creaked open, and the first sounds of adolescent chatter spilled into the classroom. Footsteps and laughter, a bag being dropped, someone whispering far too loudly about forgetting their notes.
The spell of intimacy between them broke, not violently, but gently—like a curtain being drawn aside as morning light poured in.
Ivy took in a steady breath, straightened her shoulders, and turned with practiced ease. Her expression shifted effortlessly into one of warm authority, the kind of composure she wore not to shield herself, but to anchor her students.
"Good morning," she greeted, her voice bright and clear. "Take your seats quickly, please. Ingredients will be passed out shortly."
She moved across the room, robes swaying at her heels as she began to set the lesson in motion—uncorking vials, setting out fresh parchments of instructions, adjusting the flame beneath the master cauldron.
But every now and then, her eyes flicked back to the frame.
And when they did, she smiled—just a little.
Throughout the day, the rhythm of brewing pulsed like a shared heartbeat between them.
She taught at the front of the classroom—graceful, firm, her voice calm and instructive. Her movements were practiced, almost fluid, as she demonstrated techniques and corrected students' forms with a flick of her wand or a soft-spoken reminder. But it wasn't just her anymore. There was another presence in the room now, unmistakable in its weight and authority.
Severus.
He remained in the frame beside her cauldron all morning, his newly conjured workstation immaculate, the shelves behind him now filling out more fully with books and jars labeled in his unmistakable hand. He didn't speak to the students—he didn't need to. His gaze alone, sharp and assessing, made more than one third-year drop their spoon mid-stir and quickly consult their notes.
And Ivy… Ivy noticed everything.
Every time she glanced his way and caught the subtle tilt of his head, the almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes as he observed a student's attempt. Every single time his expression passed judgment—not cruelly, but critically—when someone oversteeped their flobberworm mucus or dared to undercut their belladonna root.
She couldn't help the slight upward twitch of her lips when he raised an eyebrow at her own technique mid-brew—especially during the fifth-years' double block. She shot him a dry look in return, eyes sparkling with challenge. It was as close to banter as they could afford with a room full of students.
And though he never said a word aloud, the air between them crackled with the silent conversation of glances and half-smiles and the smallest flickers of shared amusement. It was like a dance—measured, precise, theirs.
By the end of the day, the last class was winding down. The older years were quieter, more focused—Gryffindor and Ravenclaw seventh-years who'd finally learned the value of restraint and attentiveness.
That's when it happened.
One of the older Gryffindor boys, a tall, confident student named Tristan Cormac, raised his hand casually, his gaze drifting from Ivy to the portrait beside her.
"Professor Wilde?" he asked, cocking his head slightly, a grin already forming. "Is that… is that him?"
Ivy looked up from the potion she'd been inspecting and followed his gaze. She knew who he meant, even before the boy spoke again.
"Professor Snape," Tristan added, with a bit of theatrical wonder, "the one from the history books? The war? That's his portrait, isn't it?"
A ripple of interest ran through the class, necks craning, parchment forgotten. Even the Hufflepuff girl in the back who rarely looked up from her brew leaned forward slightly.
Ivy straightened, glancing briefly at Severus' portrait. His expression hadn't shifted, but she knew him well enough by now to feel the weight behind the stillness.
She turned back to the class, her tone even and respectful.
"Yes," she said simply, her voice carrying a quiet sort of pride. "That is Professor Snape."
A few students murmured to one another in awe or disbelief, as if the man behind a hundred rumors and textbook footnotes had suddenly been conjured from myth.
"He was the Potions Master here for many years. And Headmaster for one," she continued, eyes briefly meeting Severus' in the frame, where something faintly unreadable flickered behind his gaze. "And yes, he played a… pivotal role in the war. But he was also a brilliant teacher. One of the finest potion-makers in history."
The room went still, a quiet kind of curiosity settling over it.
Tristan raised his brows, grinning. "And he's just… here? Like, watching?"
Ivy allowed herself a faint smile. "Only when he wants to be."
That drew a few uncertain laughs, but she added gently, "We're very lucky to have him in the room again. Even now."
Then, with a flick of her wand, she gestured toward the front. "Now—less curiosity, more stirring. If your draught turns purple, you've gone too far, and I won't be held responsible."
The class turned back to their cauldrons, the atmosphere lighter now, buzzing with the odd thrill of history made real.
As the older students leaned over their cauldrons, stirring carefully, muttering incantations, and consulting notes with furrowed brows, Ivy slipped into the chair beside the frame—just off to the side, where the students wouldn't notice unless they were particularly observant. She'd offered guidance, nudged them in the right direction, and now… they didn't need her for a few minutes.
Her eyes moved to his portrait—to him—and stayed there.
Severus was working at the painted workstation now, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in that familiar, precise way she remembered from her school days. He wasn't performing for her, wasn't posturing. He was simply… working. Focused. Intent. The same way he always had, even in life—completely absorbed in the task before him, his brow furrowed in thought, movements efficient but graceful.
And Merlin, she could hardly breathe.
Her eyes were fixed on his hands. Those long, elegant fingers moved with confidence, grinding dried mallow root in a stone mortar with fluid, practiced strokes. The tendons in his forearm flexed and released beneath the pale skin as he shifted the angle slightly, transferring the powder with his other hand into a small glass vial. She watched the curve of his wrist, the precision in his grip. It wasn't just method—it was art.
Her heart picked up, pulsing with something that wasn't nerves but want. Something quiet but insistent, thrumming beneath her skin.
She didn't even try to look away.
The way he tilted his head slightly as he analyzed the mixture. The way he tapped the vial twice with his index finger to settle the powder—reflexive, automatic, something so utterly him.
He felt her gaze before he saw it. Knew the shape of her attention now—the quiet weight of it, the heat, the hunger she tried to keep steady beneath her composed exterior.
And he let her watch.
He didn't speak, didn't look up right away. He let her trace the movements of his hands as he ground dried periwinkle root with long, deliberate strokes, the tension of his forearms flexing subtly under the rolled sleeves of his robes. His fingers worked with the same precision she had always admired, but now—with her watching—it became something else entirely. Intimate.
He tilted the pestle just slightly, catching the light on the motion. A quiet flourish she might not have noticed if she weren't looking for it.
And she was.
He finally glanced up, slow and knowing, catching her eyes with his own.
"You're staring," he murmured, his voice low and curved like smoke. "Not that I mind."
As the quiet intensity between them reached a near-breaking point, both of them shifted—like dancers stepping back from the edge of a crescendo, knowing it wasn't yet time for the final note.
Ivy straightened, smoothing her robes with a steadying breath, and moved through the classroom with practiced ease, helping students refine their technique, offering murmured praise or a pointed suggestion where needed. Severus, too, seemed to redirect his focus, returning to the meticulous process of preparing a clarity draught in his portrait's cauldron, though his glances toward her didn't entirely stop.
By the time the bell rang and the final period ended, students began to gather their things. Parchment crinkled, cauldrons were extinguished, stools screeched lightly against the floor. One by one, they trickled out the door, some casting curious glances at the portrait, others too weary to notice.
Ivy offered a few parting reminders—homework, posture, proper cleaning of brass implements—and then turned to the door. With a flick of her wand, she closed it with a soft click, then sealed it with a simple charm.
The silence that followed felt sacred.
She leaned back against the bookshelf, the wood cool through her robes, and finally let herself look at him again. Fully. Freely. As if the whole day had been a slow-building ritual to bring her back to this moment.
He was still working—or pretending to be. His hand moved lazily over the mortar, grinding something dark and fine, but the moment her eyes landed on him, his fingers stilled. The motion stopped mid-circle, his gaze lifting.
His eyes met hers, steady and dark, and something unspoken surged in the space between them like smoke curling in a candlelit room.