Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

The bedroom was quiet, save for the soft rustle of paper and the occasional scrape of turning pages. Propped up against a row of pillows, Severus Snape sat with a book open on his lap, a thick bandage still wrapped around his throat. Beside him, Mary Ann Harrison balanced a stack of parchment on her knees, an ice bag resting gently against her temple. Between them, silence stretched—not uncomfortable, but companionable, worn-in.

Mary Ann cleared her throat. “An owl came from the publisher while you were asleep,” she said lightly. “Hope you don’t mind—I opened it. It’s the peer reviews for your journal article submission.”

Severus looked up, faintly wary.

She searched her bedside table. Under a copy of the Daily Prophet, a letter from Minerva, and another from Hagrid, she found an official-looking envelope and withdrew three papers.

She handed him the first review. It was generally positive, though it took issue with several minor points. He scanned it, brow furrowing, and immediately began formulating counterarguments under his breath.

Then she passed him the second. This one was longer, more pedantic. Nitpicking tone. A mild air of self-importance. Satisfied, he opened his mouth to dissect it—only to find a third piece of parchment placed in his hand.

Mary Ann looked very casual as she returned to her reading. “And this is reviewer three.”

Severus read the single line:

Passable. Extremely derivative of the work of Thaddeus Belvoir, F.R.M.E.

His breath caught.

“Der…iva…tive…of…Belvoir?” he croaked, livid. “He… stole… my… work.” He coughed, clutching his throat.

Mary Ann turned her head toward the nightstand, lips twitching. She made a valiant effort to suppress her grin.

It failed.

Severus narrowed his eyes. Slowly, methodically, he turned back to the slip, then to her, then back again. “Only… two… evil… you.”

She dissolved into laughter. There had been only two reviewers.

His eyes closed in exasperation. For a long moment, he was very still. Then—almost imperceptibly—his mouth twitched. Just once.

Under the covers, she reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

They were interrupted by a commanding voice from the doorway. “Two feet apart! No hanky panky!”

Georgiana swept in wearing a leather corset, thigh-high black boots, and not much else. A riding crop was tucked hastily into her cleavage, nearly falling out. In her hands, she carried a tray with soup, bread, and hot tea.

“Just dropping this off before my next client,” she said briskly, setting the tray down between them with impressive precision.

“Thank you,” Mary Ann and Severus murmured in unison, not looking up.

Georgiana disappeared as suddenly as she had arrived.

Mary Ann picked up her tea and turned toward Severus. “You know… we should turn our story into a memoir,” she said casually. “What do you think? And I’ll be generous and let you be first author—so long as I get to pick the title.”

Severus considered this with deep suspicion.

Eventually, he agreed.

To his infinite regret.

Our editor, E.D. Fylde, insisted we needed a “blurb” to publicize this memoir. She drafted several, but most were fit only for lining a dustbin. My wife suggested I write one instead. So here we are.

This is the story of how I met her. And how she saved me. Twice.

She says it’s a story about collaboration, too. She’s usually right.

Also, Hagrid asked me to mention the venomous fanged peacock gerbils. I’ve now done so. He can stop bothering me.

Enjoy it or don’t. Just don’t ask me to write another “blurb.”

—S. Snape

Chapter One

Nod if You Understand

It had begun, like most days, in tedium—inept students, menial tasks, and the slow crawl toward evening.

The staff room was unusually full, a low murmur of voices rising above the crackle of the fire. Uncomfortable armchairs had been dragged into clusters, robes draped over their backs like sleeping beasts. Steam curled from mismatched teacups, and the scent of parchment, bergamot, and wood polish hung in the air. Professor McGonagall stood near the hearth with her arms crossed; Madame Hooch and Professor Flitwick were deep in debate over biscuits. Even Severus Snape was present, lurking in the corner with one elbow on the mantlepiece, expression unreadable.

The room stilled as the headmaster entered, robes a swirl of twilight blue. An unfamiliar woman followed him.

Severus could tell, even before Dumbledore opened his mouth, that this woman would be tiresome.

She stood near the hearth, posture straight, fingers too carefully still. No grand entrance. No sparkle of bravado. That was always a warning sign—the quiet ones came armed with accolades and sincerity, which were worse than ambition.

“…a most invigorating addition to our academic community. She’s come to us from Kansas to take up the post,” Dumbledore was saying, with the kind of warmth that meant she was someone’s project. His, presumably.

Snape took a sip of his over-steeped tea and waited for the name.

Mary Ann Harrison.

His eyes narrowed.

He’d read M. A. Harrison’s papers—precise, unsentimental, structurally inventive. He’d assumed she was a man. Most people who published like that were.

She didn’t look like he’d pictured her. No visible arrogance. No exaggerated humility. Just clean lines, neutral robes, and an expression that bordered on careful.

Dumbledore was still talking—something about her post-graduate seminar on magical theory being open to staff. Minerva looked intrigued. Sprout looked charmed. Of course.

Then Dumbledore said his name.

“And Severus, I believe Mary Ann has been particularly intrigued by your 1993 paper on mutable essence thresholds.”

Severus folded his arms. “Is that so,” he said, without looking at her.

“Yes,” she replied evenly. “I’ve been trying to understand the way you used rotwood extract to stabilize the transition in hybrid transfigurations. It wasn’t trivial.”

He turned, slowly.

Most people skimmed the abstract and lost interest.

“Is that a question?” he asked.

“I suppose I wondered whether a mineral anchor—obsidian dust, perhaps—could substitute for the biological reagent without introducing instability.”

He studied her properly now.

That was the right question.

He needed to see her teach.

Snape Journal Entry – Sept 1, 1994

Today I taught three classes, hexed Peeves twice, and prevented Longbottom from reducing the entire dungeon to slag.

I am tired.

Tired of the endless parade of mediocrity. Tired of pretending that this—corridors, cauldrons, children—is what my life amounts to.

Minerva asked me whether I was all right.

She knows better. No one who is “all right” becomes me.

Dumbledore speaks of sacrifice as if it were virtue. He has never sat in a room of children who fear him and thought: This is my reward for loyalty.

He says there is still hope. He means Potter.

I hate that boy.

I hate his father’s ghost on his face. I hate his mother’s eyes, thrown back at me like some cruel joke.

I hate what I’ve become. And I hate that I will do it all again tomorrow.

And yet—

Something unusual. An advanced course for postgraduates on magical theory taught by a visiting professor. And staff are invited to audit the course. I shall attend one lecture and see what secrets this Professor Harrison is hiding.

—S.S.

Mary Ann’s Diary —Sept 1, 1994

I’ve had a crush on Severus Snape for three years, ever since I read his article in Potions Weekly. It was the footnotes that did it for me. They were acerbic, narcissistic, and completely brilliant. What would it be like to meet a man like that!

When Dumbledore asked if I thought I might be able to handle a return to the magical world after an absence of 14 years, I was skeptical. Yes, I thought I could handle it physically, but mentally?

Returning to that world—a witch diminished? I felt like an imposter before that Death Eater hit me with this obscure curse—now I feel like a complete fraud.

But, he was very persuasive. And when he mentioned Snape’s name... it was a foregone conclusion that I would come. He knew, I bet. Manipulative. But then I met the man, and expectations came crashing against reality.

He doesn’t like me. Or he’s suspicious of me. Or he’s disdainful of me. Take your pick. Anyway, romantic prospects: Zero, I think.

I thought about trying to flirt. Thought better of it right away. It’s those eyes—the intensity of that hate or dislike or pretense or whatever it is. It says danger. Go away.

Still, I’m going to try again.

The lecture hall fell silent as Mary Ann Harrison stepped onto the dais for the first lecture of her graduate-level magical theory course, her right hand already half-raised.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t smile. Her hand moved once—just once—and the torches dimmed.

Chalk lifted from its trays and hovered midair, trembling as if holding its breath. The four blackboards flared to life—stacked in a towering 2x2 grid.

The upper left board burst into motion first—glyphs snapping into rows, columns, and dense blocks of structure without pause, like a language being written faster than it could be read.

The lower left followed, casting long arcs and connectors between glyphs—mapping relationships and modifiers in looping, fluid script.

The upper right filled more slowly—charting spell families in spirals and clusters, each labeled with abbreviated notations.

The lower right came last—displaying a dense list of example spells with their symbology beside them.

Mary Ann stepped to the center of the dais, her hand still raised. “This is a course in magical theory,” she said. “It will move quickly. You should expect ten to twenty hours of homework each week. Assignments will be reviewed and corrected by me, but not graded—they’re for your benefit alone. I strongly recommend completing all of them. If you fall behind, it will be difficult to catch up. Nod if you understand.”

Mary Ann glanced around the room and saw several nods. She continued.

She made a single, precise gesture with her right hand. The upper left board refreshed instantly, clearing itself before new glyphs began to appear—stacked in rows, grouped by angle and curvature.

“These are the base glyphs,” she said. “There are sixty-four. You’ll be expected to memorize them before the next lecture.”

She pointed to a narrow glyph shaped like an angular spiral. “This one encodes directional intent—the orientation and number of turns determine axis and magnitude.”

She turned slightly and gestured to the lower left board. “These are modifiers. Most spells include at least two. Their placement, rotation, and scale affect the glyph they attach to. Orientation matters. Sequence matters more. Nod if you understand.”

A few students nodded, including both Professors Snape and McGonagall, but several more looked confused. Mary Ann spent a few more minutes in more detailed explanation until the students seemed satisfied.

She moved on. “This—” she gestured to a looping, many-pointed glyph now appearing on the upper right board—“is a composite. It’s constructed from four base glyphs and two modifiers. You’ll learn to recognize these structures on sight. You’ll build your own by midterm.”

She turned back to the class. “Spells are words,” she said. “But the words are layered—there are roots, prefixes, suffixes, and elements of specification or clarification. Each glyph represents a phoneme of magical language. You’ve been speaking the words phonetically. This—” she indicated the blackboards “—is the orthography.”

She moved her hand once—twice—and the upper left board flooded with glyphs in alternate configurations. Mirrored. Compressed. Stripped to stems. Half a second later, the lower left board overwrote itself entirely: modifiers clustering, colliding, resolving into illegible chains. Then came a blur of terminology—inflection stems, intent branches, convergence pairs, modal insertions—each linked to a flash of notation as she traced spell after spell at impossible speed, pointing out how the same glyph twisted its role in charm, curse, or invocation. Mary Ann explained them all in rapid-fire speech.

“For your first assignment,” she said, not pausing, “you’ll transcribe every spell in The Standard Book of Spells, Grades One through Seven, into this notation.” She was already halfway through sketching a complex glyph cluster in midair, not looking at them. “Due next class.”

Someone made a sound—half protest, half breath—but she didn’t acknowledge it. The lower right board was now flipping through entries at breakneck speed, each spell more complex than the last. “This is not busywork,” she said. “It is neural retraining. You must be able to think of spells in this glyph notation before next class or you will not understand the next lecture. The homework is geared toward accomplishing that goal. Nod if you understand.”

A few students nodded, slowly. Most didn’t move. Someone at the back was still staring at the upper right board as if hoping it would explain itself. McGonagall sat perfectly still, eyes narrowed. Snape hadn’t moved at all. But he was watching. Closely.

Mary Ann lowered her hand. The glyphs remained suspended in the air, glowing faintly. She stepped down from the dais without a word, her robes whispering across the stone. As she passed the faculty row, she didn’t glance left or right. But behind her, one glyph rotated—slowly, deliberately. Snape’s eyes followed it.

Somewhere in the room, a student finally exhaled. Another shuffled parchment as if to anchor themselves in something tangible. But Mary Ann was already gone, and the glyphs hadn’t stopped moving.

In the back row, someone whispered, “What just happened?” No one answered. A second voice muttered something about dropping the course. Still, no one moved to stand.

On the far left, McGonagall set down her quill with a faint click. “Well,” she said quietly, mostly to herself, “that was… illuminating.” Her eyes remained on the boards. One still glowed faintly, as though reluctant to let go.

Snape, still seated, tapped the nib of his quill once against his parchment. His gaze was unreadable. Then, with slow precision, he began to copy one of the glyph clusters from memory—no guide, no reference—just lines and angles taking shape beneath his hand.

A few seats down, a 20-something Ravenclaw leaned towards another student and whispered, “Did she just invent an entire notation system over the summer?” The other student gave a small, stunned nod. The Ravenclaw blinked. “Remarkable,” he said, then added, “Also terrifying.”

Outside the hall, Mary Ann walked alone down the corridor, the echo of her boots sharp against stone. Her hands trembled slightly once out of view, but her face remained composed. One by one, the glyphs behind her dimmed and vanished.

She turned a corner, exhaled slowly, and leaned for a moment against the cold stone wall. Her eyes fluttered shut. When she opened them, she adjusted the cuffs of her sleeves, straightened her spine, and kept walking.

Snape was still seated when Minerva approached.

She didn’t speak at first. Her eyes lingered on the final glyph still hovering in the air—slowly dimming now, like the afterimage of a spell reluctantly fading.

“That,” she said at last, “was not what I expected.”

“Mm,” said Snape, quill still in hand. The glyph he’d been sketching was only half-finished.

“I’ve never seen anyone do that to a classroom.”

“Neither have I.”

Minerva folded her arms. “It wasn’t just the content. It was the control. The pace. The… intention.”

“She didn’t pause to gauge the room,” Snape murmured. “Didn’t wait for them to catch up. She was lecturing to minds that already knew.”

“Or minds that *would*, if properly trained,” Minerva said, thoughtful. “She’s not trying to teach spells. She’s trying to teach how spellwork *thinks*.”

There was a beat of silence.

“She’s decomposing them,” Snape said. “Parsing the structure beneath the incantation.”

Minerva gave a slow nod. “Which means…”

Snape looked up. His voice was quiet. “It means spells are not indivisible. Not atomic units. They can be dismantled. Modified. Repurposed.”

Minerva’s brow furrowed.

“Or broken,” she said.

“Or weaponized,” Snape added. “If someone knows how to rearrange the glyphs. Or remove one.”

They both looked at the chalkboards, now empty. Only the faintest trace of residue lingered in the air—a ghost of meaning, dissipating.

“She built a scalpel,” Minerva said. “And handed it to a room full of postgraduates.”

“She handed it to me,” Snape said, very softly. “And she knows it.”

Minerva’s eyes narrowed, not unkindly. “Do you plan to use it? Does she?”

He didn’t answer. But the half-finished glyph on his parchment gleamed faintly with still-wet ink.

Mary Ann’s Diary — Sept 5, 1994

I assigned them seven books' worth of spells today. I spoke clearly. I kept my posture straight. No one asked why I didn’t demonstrate the casting myself.

They never do.

The truth is, I can’t.

Strong magic hurts me. Not metaphorically—literally. A high-intensity spell, cast with a wand, can trigger a migraine that lasts days. Sometimes a week. It starts behind my eyes and spreads like hot wire down my spine. Nothing helps. Potions, rest, grounding charms—it doesn’t matter. It just has to burn itself out.

Wands are the worst. They act like resonators. Everything gets louder, sharper, harder to bear. I can’t use one without risking a full sensory collapse.

I’ve learned to work without one. Simple spells, low-output charms, structured intention work. And theory—I’ve built everything on theory. That’s why the notation matters. That’s why I need the glyphs, the visual models, the stripped-down components. It’s not just a teaching style. It’s an accommodation.

But I don’t tell them that. I let them assume it’s deliberate. Innovative. Maybe even intimidating. I let them believe I choose this because it’s better—not because it’s the only way I can keep standing upright.

Snape watched me the whole time. He looked like he was taking something apart in his head. I couldn’t tell if he saw it—that I wasn’t casting, not really. That it’s all diagrams and language and sleight of hand.

If he did notice, he said nothing.

Three days later, an owl dropped a packet on Severus Snape’s desk with a quiet thud.

Snape didn’t open it right away. The cover bore his name in Mary Ann’s hand—neat, slanted, deliberate. No grade, of course. There wouldn’t be. She had told them from the beginning: these assignments were not for marks. They were for understanding.

He broke the seal and turned the first page.

His glyphs stared back at him in stark black ink—row after row, spell after spell—each an attempt to unravel the core of what made a charm what it was. At first glance, they were intact.

Then he saw the red.

Not corrections. Not the thin, slicing tone of a teacher with a point to make. These were comments—long ones, thoughtful, inquisitive.

“Interesting treatment of the temporal modifier—have you considered rotating the sequence instead of mirroring it? Might clarify the intent.”

Page after page.

In some cases, she simply wrote “Agree.”

In another: “Compelling. Let’s revisit when we get to spell compression in October.”

And occasionally: “I’m not sure this works. But it’s an elegant failure.”

It wasn’t feedback, he realized.

It was dialogue.

He flipped back to the first page and stared at his own handwriting.

In every academic setting he’d endured, knowledge was a wall. You scaled it or failed. But this—

This was a door.

He sat back in his chair, the faintest curl of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Of course she hadn’t graded it. How could you grade a conversation?