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Chapter Text

The morning light streamed softly through the lace curtains of Grimmauld Place, no longer the dark, oppressive cavern it once was. Spica had banished the gloom with stubborn determination: pale cream walls had replaced peeling wallpaper, Filipino embroidered runners decorated the side tables, and fresh flowers—sunflowers, her favorite—were tucked into every available vase. The house no longer whispered of curses and secrets; it hummed with warmth, as if it had finally exhaled after years of holding its breath.

On the mantlepiece sat a small silver-framed photograph of Sirius, laughing as he leaned on James Potter’s shoulder, forever frozen in the brightness of youth. Spica often stopped to look at it. Today, however, she didn’t pause. She hurried through the parlor barefoot, her wavy hair tied into a loose braid, a soft green dress brushing her ankles. Her wand tucked behind her ear, she was carrying a basket of freshly baked pandesal—she had insisted on recreating her mother’s recipe from memory.

It was their first wedding anniversary.

She found Severus in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, his long hair tied back in a low ribbon. He was bent over a pot on the stove, a furrow of concentration etched on his brow. The aroma of garlic and tomatoes filled the air, mingling with the scent of bread.

“You’re cooking,” Spica said, feigning astonishment, though her eyes twinkled.

“I am quite capable of following instructions when motivated,” he replied dryly, though a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Do not make a habit of looking surprised.”

She tiptoed closer and peeked into the pot. “Is that… adobo?”

“It is,” he said stiffly, as if daring her to challenge him. “Your grandmother’s cookbook was in the library. I thought—” His voice faltered slightly, and his dark eyes flickered toward her. “I thought it would please you.”

Her heart clenched at the thought of Severus, meticulous and severe, scouring her grandmother’s old Tagalog notes, translating, experimenting with soy sauce and vinegar in a kitchen that once knew only stale bread and elf-made soup. She leaned up on her toes and kissed his cheek, lingering just long enough for the warmth to soften his habitual sternness.

“It pleases me more than you know,” she whispered.

They ate together at the long dining table, but Spica had stripped it of its heavy drapes and somber candelabras. Instead, she set the table with mismatched china, a woven placemat from her mother’s homeland, and a small enchanted lantern that glowed like a firefly. Severus raised an eyebrow at the aesthetic, but when she passed him a pandesal stuffed with cheese and brushed her fingers against his hand, he forgot to comment.

“Do you ever think,” she asked softly as they ate, “that we’d never see a day like this?”

Severus set down his fork. He thought of Nagini’s fangs, the darkness of the war, the endless masks of duplicity. He thought of her hands trembling but steady as she cut away his poisoned flesh, draining her own strength into him so that he might live.

“No,” he said honestly. “I did not.” His gaze softened as it met hers. “And yet, here we are.”

Spica reached across the table and clasped his hand. “Here we are.”

After the meal, she pulled him into the parlor where the fire burned warmly. The old Black family tapestry still hung there, though Spica had enchanted it. Instead of scorched names, vines of golden embroidery grew where curses had once blackened out her family’s bloodline. New names stitched themselves into the fabric, chosen not by blood purity but by love and loyalty.

Severus stood before it, silent, his thumb brushing against her knuckles.

“You’ve rewritten your legacy,” he murmured.

“Our legacy,” she corrected, her eyes shining.

From behind her, she produced a small package wrapped in soft blue paper. He arched a brow. “You’ve given me food, and flowers, and now gifts? This is excessive.”

“It’s tradition,” she insisted, pressing it into his hands.

Inside lay a sleek, leather-bound potions journal, embossed with his initials in silver. But on the first page, written in her looping script, were not recipes but memories. “For the formulas worth keeping,” she had written, “and the moments worth remembering.”

For a moment, Severus said nothing. His throat tightened; he swallowed hard. Words often failed him when they mattered most, but Spica knew his silences. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and in that small gesture, he gave her his gratitude.

“Now,” she said brightly, stepping back, “your turn.”

He looked mildly guilty. “I am not adept at gifts.”

She tilted her head in mock sternness. “Try.”

With a flick of his wand, a small silver orb appeared in the air between them. It shimmered, spun, then unfolded like a flower. From its center, music bloomed—soft, lilting, unmistakably Filipino. A kundiman, the kind her mother once sang at gatherings.

Spica’s eyes filled with tears. “You… you charmed this?”

“I may lack talent in singing,” he said dryly, “but I can transfigure sound. I thought… You should have something of her tonight.”

Her lips trembled as she smiled. She threw her arms around him, burying her face against his chest. His arms tightened around her instantly, protectively. For all the years of secrecy, bitterness, and pain, here in the warmth of their shared home, they had found something unthinkable: peace.

“Dance with me,” she whispered.

He hesitated only a moment before she drew him into the center of the room. His movements were stiff at first, but her laughter was light, pulling him with her, guiding him as the soft glow of the enchanted lanterns bathed them in gold.

In that quiet, transformed Grimmauld Place—once a house of shadows, now a home of light—the two of them swayed together. No masks, no war, no grief heavy enough to separate them. Just Spica and Severus, husband and wife, holding fast to the fragile miracle they had been granted.

Their first year together had been stolen from the jaws of tragedy. Their love was not born of ease, but of resilience, of choosing each other in spite of everything. And as the night deepened and the music lingered, Spica thought, with a certainty that warmed her soul:

They had finally come home.

Chapter Text

The kitten was small enough to fit into Severus Snape’s long-fingered hand, a scraggly black-and-white scrap of fur with ears far too big for its head and a mewl so pitiful that even he, a man who had once stared down Dark Lords without blinking, felt his composure waver.

Spica had rescued the creature two days earlier, plucking it from the rain-soaked cobblestones near Knockturn Alley, where it had been abandoned. She had carried it home wrapped in her cloak, her eyes blazing with indignation at the cruelty of the world, and deposited it into Severus’s unwilling arms while she searched for warm milk and old towels. He had protested, of course, he was not a nursemaid, and certainly not for something with claws and teeth and no sense of gratitude.

And yet, here he was, two days later, sitting stiffly in the armchair of the brightened Grimmauld Place parlor, with the kitten curled against his chest.

It had taken him less time than he cared to admit to discover that his heartbeat soothed the animal. The kitten had first yowled and squirmed, sharp little claws pricking through his shirt, but eventually it had tucked its head beneath his chin and gone silent, vibrating softly with a tiny purr.

Now, while Spica was out gathering potion ingredients, he found himself reading with one hand while the other absently rubbed the kitten’s back in slow, steady strokes. Its warmth was comforting, its trust disarming. The small creature smelled faintly of soap and milk, and each time it sighed, Severus felt something in his chest loosen.

“You are a ridiculous little thing,” he muttered, glancing down at it over the rim of his book. The kitten blinked up at him, unconcerned, then pressed its nose against the fabric of his robes as if he were its chosen place in the world.

He closed his eyes for a moment. He had spent a lifetime surrounded by shadows, by serpents and masks and betrayal. The notion that something so fragile, so utterly dependent, would look at him and see safety—it rattled him more than any curse.

When Spica returned, her arms full of herbs, she stopped in the doorway and smiled so brightly that the room seemed to grow warmer.

“Sev,” she said softly, setting the bundle down, “I didn’t think you’d last more than an hour.”

He arched an eyebrow at her but did not move the kitten. “I was persuaded. Against my better judgment.”

Spica came closer, crouching beside his chair, her brown eyes wide and shimmering with affection. “He likes you.”

“Or perhaps he’s too unintelligent to know better,” Severus replied, though his tone lacked bite. The kitten stirred, stretched, and nestled closer, earning a small sigh from him. “He insists on falling asleep here. Moving him results in… unpleasant noises.”

Spica giggled, resting her chin on his knee. “You’re good with him.”

Severus looked down at her, at the curve of her smile, at the way her hand reached to scratch the kitten’s ear, careful not to disturb its nap. He wanted to say he was not good with anything that required gentleness, that his life had been one long lesson in harshness. But the words caught in his throat, because here, in this small, absurd moment, he could almost believe otherwise.

“You’ll be a good father someday,” she said suddenly, her voice tender but certain.

The words hung in the air like a spell. He froze, every instinct urging him to retreat behind sarcasm or silence. But Spica’s eyes held him fast, their warmth burning through the years of self-loathing and doubt. She believed it. She believed in him.

Severus looked back down at the kitten, still asleep, trusting him without hesitation. Slowly, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, his hand resuming its steady motion down the kitten’s back.

Spica’s smile softened, her fingers brushing lightly against his. “I know so.”

For a long moment, there was only the crackle of the fire, the kitten’s purring, and the quiet rhythm of their breathing in unison. Grimmauld Place, once a mausoleum of bitterness, had never felt more like a home.

And though he did not say it aloud, Severus thought that if this were what Spica loved, then he would learn to love it too—claws, noise, and all.

Because loving her meant cherishing the things she held close, and perhaps, it meant believing that he was capable of more than darkness.

Chapter Text

The kitchen of their home had been transformed into something warmer over the months of Spica’s careful touch. Gone were the cobwebs, the dust, and the oppressive gloom; in their place stood polished counters, a softly crackling fire, and the scent of candles perfumed with sampaguita flowers, reminding her of summers at her grandmother’s home. The long table was set simply, two wineglasses and a bottle of deep red wizarding vintage between them.

It was their ritual. Once a month, on a Friday night, the rest of the world could wait. No work, no healing duties, no shadows of war clinging to their shoulders. Just the two of them, a bottle of wine, and hours to speak of everything and nothing.

Severus had drunk slower than she had, but Spica could see the faintest flush creeping over the high planes of his cheekbones. His voice had loosened, the sharp edges softened. He leaned back in his chair, one hand still curled around the stem of his glass as though it anchored him.

“Do you know,” he said suddenly, his voice lower than usual, “that I once hated your eyes?”

Spica blinked, caught mid-laugh from a story about Hagrid’s hopeless pumpkin wine. She tilted her head, strands of wavy dark hair falling forward. “My eyes?” she echoed, half-curious, half-amused.

He did not smile. He swirled the wine in his glass, staring into it as though the truth floated at the bottom. “Yes. When you first walked into the dungeon as a first-year student, I felt something almost unbearable. You had your mother’s face. I could see her in the curve of your mouth, in the way you carried yourself—so gentle, so unassuming.”

Spica’s lips curved faintly, touched by the rare mention of her mother, though her brow furrowed at the heaviness in his tone.

“But your eyes…” He lifted his gaze, dark and unsteady, meeting hers with a raw honesty he rarely allowed. “Your eyes were Sirius’s. Black’s eyes.”

The name hung between them like smoke, sharp and bitter.

Severus drank again, a longer swallow this time, and exhaled. “I despised them. I despised you for them. Just as I despised Potter’s—for carrying James’s arrogance in every glance. Sirius Black looked at me as if I were filth, a thing to be mocked and discarded. And when I saw his eyes staring back at me from your face, I thought—Merlin help me—I thought I would never be able to look at you without hatred.”

Spica did not flinch. She only tilted her head, studying him with that same steady gaze that had, without his notice, undone him over the years. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, but her silence invited him to continue.

Severus’s mouth tightened, then softened. His voice wavered, but the words spilled out now, unburdened by the weight of his usual restraint.

“But it changed,” he said. “Somewhere along the way, it changed. Perhaps it was the way you listened to me, even when others did not. Perhaps it was how you would argue—quietly, stubbornly—with logic instead of cruelty. You never looked at me the way Sirius did. You never looked at me like I was beneath you.”

His eyes closed briefly, as if the admission cost him something. “You looked at me as if I mattered.”

The silence that followed was fragile, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the faint clink of glass as Spica set hers down. She rose from her chair and came around the table, her steps unhurried. Gently, she pried the glass from his hand and set it aside, then settled into his lap as though she had always belonged there.

Her hands framed his face, and he did not resist. She leaned close enough for her brown eyes—her mother’s, and Sirius’s—to fill his vision.

“Severus,” she whispered, her lips curving in the smallest smile, “if you hated them once, then I’m glad. Because you see them differently now. You see me.”

His breath caught, the faint scent of wine between them. One hand came up to rest on her waist, tentative, grounding. “Yes,” he murmured, the word rough with emotion. “I see you.”

She kissed him then, soft and lingering, tasting of wine and promise. His arms tightened around her, drawing her closer, and for a moment, the years of bitterness, of cruelty endured and inflicted, faded beneath the weight of something far stronger.

When she pulled back, her forehead resting against his, she whispered, “In vino veritas, hmm? I’ll take your truths, Severus. All of them. Even the ones you think I won’t want.”

He let out a low sound that was half a laugh, half a sigh, and pressed his lips against her temple. “You already have them,” he said quietly. “Every last one.”

The fire burned lower, the wine forgotten, as they sat there—husband and wife, bound not by old wounds but by the choice to see each other clearly, and to stay.

And when Spica finally lifted her gaze again, he did not see Sirius in her eyes. He saw only her.

Chapter Text

The village whispered about him, always in hushed tones, as though his very name might invite misfortune. Severus, son of the executioner, lived on the edge of the town in a cottage that smelled of soot and iron. His father’s tools—ropes, axes, the black hood—hung like ghosts upon the walls. To be born into such a family was a sentence of its own, passed down through blood: despised by the villagers, necessary yet shunned, feared more than pitied.

He had grown hardened to the scorn of others, the way mothers tugged their children away when he passed, the way merchants spat near his boots. His hands were strong from chopping wood, sharpening blades, and binding ropes, but the weight in his chest came from more than labor.

It came from her.

Lady Spica Adhara Black.

She rode past sometimes on her white palfrey, her hair loose in the summer breeze like a banner of night. Her gowns shimmered in jewel tones, and her laughter rang like silver bells when she spoke with her companions. She had the face of a saint painted in a cathedral window, eyes a warm brown that lingered in his dreams long after she had gone.

He knew she had never truly seen him. To her, he was likely no more than a shadow at the roadside, one more wretched soul bound to an inherited curse. And yet, to him, she was salvation itself, proof that light could still walk the earth.

Sometimes, when the work was done, Severus would walk near the manor’s edge, lingering where the great stone walls kissed the forest. He would watch the windows lit with golden candlelight, hear the faint strains of lute music drifting through. He imagined her there, seated among silks and velvet, her hands folded in prayer or cradling a book. She lived in a world of warmth and refinement that he could only look upon from afar.

And he yearned.

Every night, he burned with it, a hollow ache deep in his chest. He would trace her name in the dust of his workbench, whisper it into the rafters where no one could hear. He wondered what it might be like to stand before her not as the executioner’s son, but as a man worthy of her notice.

It was impossible. He knew that. She was a noblewoman, bound by duty and family alliances. He was a pariah, tied to death and shame. And yet, when he dreamed—ah, the dreams were cruel—she would turn those luminous eyes upon him, not with fear or disdain, but with tenderness. She would reach for his hand, call him by name, and the world would fall away.

Fate was not kind to dreamers like him.

One autumn evening, he was summoned to the castle. His father’s health was failing, and so the mantle passed; Severus must take the blade in his stead. The crime was treason; a young knight who had defied the king’s edict would face death at dawn. Severus prepared the sword with ritual precision, though bile churned in his stomach.

It was there, on the scaffold, that he saw her again.

Spica stood among the crowd, cloaked in mourning black though no kinship tied her to the condemned man. Her gaze was solemn, her hands clasped tightly before her. When Severus stepped forward, hood drawn over his face, her eyes lifted—briefly, fleetingly—toward him.

And in that heartbeat, he felt as though she saw him. Not the hood, not the office, but him.

His hand trembled on the hilt.

Later that night, when the deed was done and the village drank away its unease, Severus slipped into the forest alone. He tore the hood from his head and pressed his face into his hands, shuddering with the weight of it all. He thought of her eyes upon him, steady and unflinching. What would she say if she knew his name? If she knew that he carried her image in the secret places of his soul?

He could never tell her.

And yet, in the silence beneath the moon, he whispered it anyway. “Spica.” Her name broke on his lips like a prayer. “If the world were different… if I were different…”

But the world was not different. And he was not.

Still, when he returned home, he lit a single candle and left it by the window. For perhaps, far in the manor, another candle burned—and though they lived in separate worlds, he liked to imagine that the light traveled across the dark and found her.

So he lived on, yearning, condemned to watch her pass like a star across the heavens: too bright, too distant, too beloved. And though he could never reach her, he cherished the ache she left behind, for it was the only thing in his life that felt alive.

Fate, however, delights in torment.

One autumn evening, unrest broke out in the town square. A thief, accused of stealing bread, was dragged to the scaffold. Severus’ father was ill; the duty fell to him. As he ascended the wooden steps, axe in hand, he saw her. Spica, amidst the crowd, was standing beside her father’s guards. Their eyes met, and the world silenced. She did not look away. She did not turn in disgust like the others. She held his gaze as though she saw not a hangman’s son, but a man.

That night, Severus could not breathe. He pressed his ink-stained fingers to his lips, imagining hers. He wept silently, a grown man hunched over the table, because to love her was sin, folly, and damnation, but he could not stop.

Seasons turned. Whispers spread: Spica was betrothed to a lord from the north. A union of power, politics, and land. Severus heard it in the tavern and stumbled home in despair. He drank bitter ale until he choked, until he swore to God that he would cut his own throat before seeing her belong to another.

Still, he remained at the edge of her world, a silent sentinel. He once caught sight of her walking alone in the gardens beyond the castle walls. Their eyes met again. She tilted her head, curious, almost kind. He could not move. Could not speak. He wanted to fall to his knees and pour out everything—his love, his agony, his yearning—but the words died in his throat.

It was enough, he told himself. To be seen. To be remembered.

But Spica… Spica was not blind. She had noticed him. The tall, gaunt man with dark hair and sharper eyes, who always lingered in shadows yet never harmed her. She saw the ink on his hands. The sadness he wore like a cloak. The way he looked at her, not with hunger or ambition, but with a longing so raw it almost frightened her.

One night, at a masquerade held in her family’s halls, Severus crept among the servants. He did not belong, yet something—desperation, madness—drove him there. Candlelight gleamed off crystal goblets, music swirled, and amidst the dancers, Spica stood in silver, her mask feathered, her eyes shining. She turned—and saw him.

In that moment, time broke.

They did not speak. They did not touch. But her lips curved, the faintest smile, as if to say: I see you still.

And Severus knew. Even if he lived a hundred lifetimes, tethered to rope and blade, he would carry that smile like a relic.

For he was born to death, and she to nobility. They could never be.

Yet in the silence of his lonely chamber, Severus pressed his forehead to the wood of the noose he had tied, and whispered her name like a prayer.

Spica.

The love he could never hold. The light he could never touch.

The masquerade had ended, but its ghosts lingered. Severus walked home that night with aching feet and an emptiness inside him that no food or fire could warm. Yet the image of her smile—brief, fleeting, but real—burned in him like a candle he dared not snuff.

For weeks after, he avoided the castle. He told himself it was dangerous, that he had been reckless. A man like him did not belong among velvet gowns and jeweled halls. And yet, one winter morning, when the town was cloaked in frost, he found himself once again drawn to the garden walls.

And there she was.

Spica walked alone among the frozen roses, her breath white against the cold. She was wrapped in a cloak of black fur, but even the winter could not dull her radiance. Severus froze, hidden in the skeletal branches of an oak. He cursed himself for his weakness, for being so desperate just to see her.

But then, she turned.

Her eyes locked on his shadowed form, as though she had known he would be there.

For the first time, she stepped closer.

Severus’ breath caught. His heart pounded like a drum of war. He should flee. He should vanish into the mist before the guards found him. But his legs betrayed him. He stayed rooted, every inch of him trembling with a yearning he could no longer cage.

“Do you follow me, stranger?” Her voice was soft, carried across the brittle air.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came. His throat was dry as dust, his shame a weight upon his tongue.

Spica’s gaze softened. “You do not mean harm.”

He shook his head, almost violently, words spilling at last. “Never. I would sooner—” His voice cracked, and he stopped, swallowing hard. “Forgive me, my lady. I… I should not be here.”

Yet she only tilted her head, her light brown eyes studying him. “You are the son of the executioner.”

It was not an accusation. Not disgust. Just truth.

“Yes,” he whispered, and the word cut him like the blade he oiled each night.

She drew nearer still, until only the low wall separated them. Severus could see the warmth of her skin, the curve of her lips, the fine thread of pearls sewn into her hood. His hands, rough and ink-stained, curled into fists at his sides. He wanted to touch her, to reach across the wall, to know just once what it was to hold something untarnished. But he dared not.

“Then it is true,” Spica said softly, almost to herself. “You have watched me for years.”

His heart lurched. Shame and terror knifed through him. He dropped to his knees in the frost, unable to meet her gaze. “My lady, forgive me. It is madness, folly—condemn me if you must. I never—never would I dishonor you.” His voice broke, hoarse with despair. “I know who I am.”

Silence. Only the sound of the winter wind rustling through the thorns.

And then her hand, gloved in black silk, reached across the stone to touch his bowed head.

Severus stilled, breath caught in his lungs. Her fingers were warm, gentle, resting against his hair as if he were not filth, not rope and blade, but simply a man.

“Severus,” she whispered his name for the first time, and he thought his soul might leave his body. “I do not despise you.”

He lifted his head, unable to stop himself. Their eyes met, and in hers he saw no mockery, no revulsion—only a quiet defiance, a dangerous tenderness.

“You should,” he rasped. “For both our sakes.”

“Perhaps,” Spica murmured. “But I do not.”

Her hand slipped away, leaving him with the phantom warmth of her touch. She stepped back, cloaking herself once more in the composure of nobility. “Go now, before the guards come. We will speak again.”

And then she was gone, her cloak vanishing between the frozen roses.

Severus remained on his knees long after she left, the frost biting through his skin, his heart hammering like a desperate prayer.

She had spoken his name.

She had touched him.

She did not despise him.

For a man born into shadow and death, it was more dangerous than any noose, more intoxicating than any wine. It was hope.

Their romance was written in shadows, stitched together with stolen moments.

They met in the gardens, sometimes beneath the rose arches heavy with frost, sometimes in the damp stone crypts below the chapel where only silence and candle smoke kept their secrets. Spica brought him books, bound in leather and gilt, treasures of her house. He devoured them hungrily, his rough hands reverent upon each page. In return, he brought her pressed flowers, little tokens plucked from the fields beyond the gallows. She accepted them as though they were jewels, tucking them into her bodice, carrying them as charms against the weight of her world.

They spoke little of what could not be changed—her looming betrothal, his cursed bloodline—but much of what burned between them. She listened to him speak of stars and ink, of the strange hunger in his soul for knowledge he could never reach. He listened to her sing softly in her mother’s tongue, a melody foreign to his ears but so tender it made him ache.

And sometimes, silence was enough. To sit with her, close enough that her warmth bled through the winter night, was to taste a heaven he had never believed in.

But yearning is a cruel companion.

One night, when the moon was high and silver, Severus broke. He reached for her hand, rough fingers trembling as they brushed against her skin. He expected her to recoil, to remind him of who he was and what she was destined for. But she did not. She laced her fingers through his, holding him steady as though she had been waiting for him to dare.

“Do you know what they would do, should they find us?” he whispered hoarsely.

“I know,” she said. And then, her voice gentler: “But I would rather have a few stolen moments of truth than a lifetime of gilded lies.”

Her lips met his then, soft and fierce, and Severus knew damnation had claimed him at last.

---

The fire in the sitting room of their house crackled low, casting an amber light over the shelves that Spica had painstakingly charmed to look less like a mausoleum of Black family pride and more like something warm, alive, and lived in. The curtains were now a deep green, embroidered with silver threads in the form of constellations. Cushions in mismatched colors were strewn across the sofa, one of which Spica now curled against, a notebook balanced on her knees.

Severus sat in the armchair opposite, a glass of firewhisky in hand, his long legs stretched toward the hearth. He looked as though he’d been cornered into reading—half against his will—though the truth was that he’d read anything she put into his hands if it pleased her.

He held the notebook now, its cover soft and worn from her fingers.

“…So in this version of events,” he drawled, flipping a page with deliberate slowness, “I am a medieval executioner. Son of a family of hangmen. Cursed, shunned, reviled.” His dark eyes lifted to her, narrowed in that half-amused, half-irritated way she knew so well. “And you are a noblewoman in pearls and velvet who decides to toy with me.”

Spica’s laugh rang like windchimes, bright and soft. “Not toy with you. Fall in love with you.”

“Fall in love with me,” Severus repeated, his voice dry as old parchment. He gave a sniff, handing the notebook back across the little table between them. “It’s sad. Pathetic, even. A sordid tale of yearning and despair.”

Spica took the book, but her grin only widened. “You read the whole thing.”

“Unfortunately.” He leaned back into his chair, swirling the whisky. “It’s a grim little fantasy. That poor fool couldn’t even touch you without believing it was a sin. Pathetic.”

“You mean romantic.” She tucked her legs beneath her, resting her chin in her hand, watching him with eyes that gleamed like honey in the firelight. “Don’t you think there’s something beautiful about a love that survives even when the world says it shouldn’t?”

“Beautiful?” Severus scoffed, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “It was masochistic. He pined, and you—your noble self—kept appearing like some unattainable vision. A cruel pastime.”

Spica shook her head. “No, Severus. It wasn’t cruel. It was he who chose hope. Even when he thought he couldn’t have me, he still loved me.”

Her words lingered in the air, soft but firm, as though daring him to deny them. Severus looked away, his jaw tightening, his silhouette stark against the glow of the hearth. He downed the last of his whisky in one sharp movement, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, lower.

“And yet, here we are.” His dark eyes flicked back to her, softened by the faintest gleam of something unguarded. “I’m not a half-mad hangman, and you’re not some gilded dove trapped in a tower. We live in this damned house together. You married me.”

Spica’s smile gentled, the teasing giving way to something deeper. She pushed the notebook aside, leaned forward, and reached across to take his hand. His fingers, long and calloused, curled around hers almost instantly, as if they’d been waiting for her touch all along.

“I did,” she said softly. “And I would do it again, in any life, in any story. Even if you were a medieval hangman. Even if we only had stolen moments. You’d still be mine.”

Severus exhaled, long and slow, as though her words unraveled something knotted inside him. He stared at their joined hands, her smaller, delicate fingers entwined with his.

“You shouldn’t write such things,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice was gone, replaced with something weary, something raw. “It unsettles me. To think of a world where you are not—where I do not—”

Spica leaned over the table then, quick as a cat, and pressed her lips to his knuckles. “But you do,” she whispered against his hand. “In this world. And that’s all that matters.”

His breath hitched, and when she looked up, she caught him staring at her with that rare expression—unguarded, almost fragile, as though the enormity of having her was still something he couldn’t quite believe.

After a moment, Severus gave a quiet, wry laugh. “I suppose… I should be grateful I was not born in the fourteenth century.”

Spica giggled, leaning back into her cushions, eyes sparkling. “Grateful that you got to marry me in this life, instead of just staring longingly across a garden wall?”

He gave a sharp hum of assent, but his mouth curved into the faintest smile. “Yes. Infinitely grateful.”

They sat there in the firelight, her notebook closed on the table between them, their fingers still twined. And though the world outside Grimmauld Place remained dark and uncertain, in that room there was warmth enough to chase it away.

Chapter Text

The sun was barely up when the door to Grimmauld Place creaked open, spilling a thin blade of light into the corridor. The quiet of dawn was broken by soft footsteps—one light, barefoot, eager; the other heavy, resigned, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a man muttering under his breath.

“Spica,” Severus groaned, pulling his cloak tighter around him as he followed her out into the narrow street. “I fail to see how exposing yourself to the cold at this hour is conducive to recovering from a fever.”

“It’s not cold, it’s refreshing!” Spica chirped, her voice slightly nasal but still bright as ever. Her long hair was braided loosely, and she wore one of his oversized sweaters, the sleeves covering her hands. A small blanket was draped around her shoulders like a shawl, giving her the appearance of a very cozy, slightly disheveled ghost. “In the Philippines, when we’re sick, we’re told to catch the morning sun. It drives the sickness away.”

Severus arched an eyebrow, his breath visible in the cool morning air. “Ah, yes. Sunlight. Nature’s finest potion. How could I have overlooked such a… scientific remedy?”

Spica giggled, stopping to tilt her face toward the horizon, where the first sliver of golden light was creeping over the rooftops. “It works! The elders always said it helps with colds, fevers, and even bad moods. You should try it.”

“Spica,” he sighed, though there was fondness buried beneath the exasperation. “I brew restorative draughts potent enough to mend bone and calm dragonpox. I do not require the assistance of celestial bodies to mend my mood.”

“You say that,” she replied with a grin, “but you look happier already.”

He frowned—but it was true. Her face was glowing faintly in the sunlight, the pink warmth kissing her cheeks, and even with her nose red from the flu and her hair frizzy from sleep, she was radiant. He felt something in his chest soften in a way that was both inconvenient and familiar.

Spica began walking again, padding along the cobblestones, blanket trailing behind her like a cape. Severus followed, hands tucked into his pockets, occasionally reaching out to steady her when she stumbled. “You should be in bed,” he muttered again.

“I was in bed,” she chirped. “For three hours. I’m restless. Besides, the sun’s only up like this once a day.”

“That’s generally how it works,” he murmured.

She turned, walking backward now so she could face him, her grin widening. “You’re grumpy.”

“I’m awake before dawn and outside because you’ve decided that the sun possesses curative properties,” Severus said dryly. “I think I’m entitled to some measure of displeasure.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this,” Spica teased, poking his arm.

He caught her finger before she could pull away, smirking faintly. “On the contrary. Watching you shuffle about wrapped in my blanket like a wayward doxy is… marginally entertaining.”

“Doxy?!” she gasped, feigning offense. “You take that back, Severus Snape!”

He chuckled—actually chuckled—and the sound startled even him. Spica’s triumphant grin widened as she latched onto his arm, leaning against him for balance. “See? I told you! The sun’s working. Look, you’re smiling!”

“I am not.”

“You are,” she insisted. “A little one. I saw it.”

He tried to maintain his composure, but her joy was infectious. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me.”

“Tragically, yes.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a while after that, the street quiet save for the distant hum of London beginning to stir. The light deepened, spilling warmth onto the stone walls and the small gardens that lined the square. Spica hummed softly under her breath, some lilting Filipino tune that Severus didn’t recognize, though it was oddly soothing.

When they reached the small park nearby, she tugged him toward a bench. “Let’s sit here.”

“You’re determined to make this outing last, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” she said, settling down and patting the space beside her. “You have to let the sunlight soak in. Like… recharging.”

“Recharging,” he echoed, sitting beside her with a long-suffering sigh.

“Yes,” she said earnestly. “You’re too pale, Severus. You could use some recharging, too.”

“I’ll have you know this complexion is an aesthetic choice,” he replied smoothly. “A mark of mystery and power.”

Spica snorted, immediately ruining the effect. “It’s a mark of you hiding in dungeons for twenty years.”

Severus turned to her, feigning a wounded look. “I was teaching, not hiding.”

“Sure, sure,” she said with a playful grin. Then, softer, she leaned against his shoulder, closing her eyes as the sunlight bathed them both in gold. “Thank you for coming with me.”

He looked down at her, the words catching in his throat. She was warm against him, her breathing soft and uneven from the remnants of her cold. A stray lock of hair brushed his arm.

“Of course,” he said finally, voice low. “If the morning sun is what you require, then… I suppose I can endure it.”

Spica smiled without opening her eyes. “You love me so much.”

Severus huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m beginning to suspect I do.”

They sat like that until the streets grew busier, the world properly waking around them. Spica’s head slipped to his shoulder, her small snores muffled against his cloak. And though he would never admit it aloud, Severus found himself smiling as he adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, the sunlight washing over them both.

“Fine,” he murmured, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Perhaps your ridiculous superstition does have its merits.”

From somewhere between sleep and waking, Spica mumbled, “Told you… Morning sun heals everything…”

He leaned down, pressing the lightest kiss to her forehead.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice soft with affection. “It seems it does.”

Chapter Text

The clock in their place ticked softly, the steady rhythm echoing through the old but now-warm house. The hour was well past midnight, and the world outside was wrapped in velvet dark, with only the whisper of rain against the windows to remind them that time hadn’t stopped.

In the sitting room, the fire had dwindled to glowing embers, but the air still carried the comforting scent of chamomile and smoke. Spica sat curled up on the sofa, wrapped in Severus’s oversized cardigan that hung nearly to her knees. Her bare feet rested on the rug, toes brushing the worn edges, while Severus sat opposite her in his armchair, a book lying forgotten in his lap.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it was the kind that only existed between two people who knew each other’s rhythms by heart.

Spica’s voice broke it first, soft and thoughtful.
“Do you ever think,” she began, gazing at the firelight flickering across his face, “how strange it is that we ended up like this?”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Strange?”

“Mhm,” she hummed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You. Me. Here. Together. If someone had told me years ago that I’d fall in love with Severus Snape, I’d have laughed.”

He gave her a long, unimpressed look, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Charming, as always.”

“Oh, don’t pout,” she teased lightly, leaning her chin on her knees. “You’d have laughed too.”

He conceded with a low hum. “Perhaps.” He tilted his head, studying her—pale skin glowing gold in the dying firelight, eyes half-lidded but bright. “And what conclusion have you reached, Miss Black?”

She smiled softly at the use of her maiden name. “That I’m very lucky.”

That silenced him.

He stared at her for a long moment, his fingers tightening slightly around the armrest. “Lucky,” he repeated, his tone flat, almost disbelieving.

“Yes,” she said firmly, as though daring him to challenge her. “You look at me like I’m the one who gave you the world, but you’ve been mine for so long and you don’t even know it.”

Her words settled in the air, tender and heavy.

He leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “You’ve had too much tea,” he murmured, trying for dry humor, but his voice caught somewhere between fond and aching.

Spica smiled, seeing through him as she always did. “No, Severus. You just can’t take a compliment without trying to kill it first.”

That earned a chuckle from him—soft, rare, and genuine. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and the light caught the faintest curve of a smile. “And what, precisely, do you adore about me, Spica? My charming disposition? My sparkling optimism?”

She laughed, a sound so bright it seemed to fill every shadowed corner of the room. “You know what I adore?” she whispered after her laughter faded. “That you listen. That you notice everything, even the things I don’t say. That you make tea for me when I’m quiet for too long. That you still touch me like you’re afraid I’ll vanish if you do it too roughly.”

Her voice trembled near the end, and Severus’s chest constricted painfully.

He stood then, slow and deliberate, and crossed the short distance between them. She looked up at him, soft and open, and when he sank beside her, she rested her head on his shoulder without hesitation.

For a while, they just breathed together. The rain had turned into a gentle drizzle, its sound steady against the roof.

Severus finally spoke, his voice low and quiet. “You make it sound as though I’m something to be admired.”

She tilted her head up slightly, her lips brushing his jaw. “That’s because you are.”

He huffed out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “You are terribly unwise to think so.”

“I don’t care,” she said, smiling against his skin. “I’ve always liked dangerous things.”

He turned his head just enough to meet her eyes—those eyes that had once haunted him for their resemblance to ghosts of the past, and now held only his present and future.

The yearning in his gaze was quiet but endless. He brushed a thumb along her cheekbone, tracing the warmth there.

“You are a foolish woman, Spica Black,” he murmured.

“And you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “are the best mistake I ever made.”

He kissed her then—slow, reverent, like a man still learning what it meant to be loved.

When they parted, she curled closer, her voice soft and drowsy. “I meant what I said, you know. I’ve adored you for a long time. Even when I didn’t realize it.”

He rested his cheek atop her head. “And I,” he said quietly, his voice trembling in a way he’d never allow with anyone else, “have spent a lifetime trying not to need anyone. You’ve made that utterly impossible.”

The fire crackled, the rain whispered, and in that late-night cocoon of warmth and confession, neither of them needed to speak again.

Because sometimes love wasn’t loud or grand—it was simply two people who’d survived their storms, finding peace in the quiet hours before dawn.

Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place loomed at the end of the street like a shadow that refused to fade. Number Twelve was as grim as its name suggested, squeezed tightly between two brighter, more welcoming houses that looked scandalized to have such a sullen neighbor. The curtains hung heavy and gray, and the faint creak of its old magic echoed even before one crossed the threshold.

Spica stood at the doorstep with a box levitating beside her, her wand tucked behind her ear, and her expression caught somewhere between fascination and dismay. “I know my family had a flair for dramatics,” she murmured, “but this is practically gothic horror.”

Behind her, Severus gave a quiet snort as he carried two heavy crates without magic, robes swishing as he stepped forward. “Practically?” he muttered. “I’m fairly certain the house itself resents being looked at.”

As if to prove his point, one of the curtains inside gave a faint twitch, as though offended.

Spica laughed, that lilting sound cutting through the gloom like sunlight through fog. “Oh, stop glaring at the house. It’s ours now.”

“That is not a comfort,” Severus replied dryly, setting the boxes down with a thud. “Do recall, my dear wife, that your family’s idea of interior design included serpent motifs and permanent scowls.”

Before Spica could retort, there was a sudden pop.

Kreacher appeared, his bulbous eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of Severus and Spica. His muttering began immediately, gravelly and dripping with disgust. “Half-bloods… in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black… mistress would weep, Kreacher swears she would…”

Spica crouched down slightly, her tone gentle but firm. “Hello, Kreacher. I see you’ve kept the house in… well, some condition.”

Kreacher straightened, affronted, but paused when he met her eyes. They were bright, open—Regulus’s eyes, though softer, warmer. He blinked once, twice, and his tone shifted slightly. “Mistress Spica reminds Kreacher of young Master Regulus… good boy, he was. Brave. Not like others.”

The faintest smile touched Spica’s lips. “Then maybe you can help me make this house a little more like him—warm, kind, and full of purpose again.”

Kreacher puffed his chest slightly, pride mingling with suspicion. “Kreacher will… consider this.” His gaze darted toward Severus. “But Kreacher does not take orders from the greasy half-blood.”

Severus’s eyebrow arched dangerously. “I have no intention of giving you any,” he said coolly.

Spica groaned softly, stepping between them. “Gentlemen, please. Let’s not start a feud before lunch.”

By midday, boxes were scattered across every surface of Grimmauld Place. The air was thick with the scent of dust, polish, and faint resentment. Spica had insisted on opening every window to “let the old spirits out,” and Severus, resigned, had gone about levitating furniture, repairing creaky steps, and muttering cleaning charms under his breath.

It was chaos—an oddly domestic kind.

In the drawing room, Spica stood on a chair, hanging a charm-lantern in place of the gloomy chandelier. “I think it needs more light,” she said thoughtfully.

“It needs an exorcism,” Severus countered, sweeping dust from the mantle.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she chirped. “Look—it’s not so bad once you clear out the cobwebs and—oh!”

The chair wobbled precariously. Severus was beside her in an instant, hands gripping her waist to steady her. She let out a startled laugh, turning her head toward him. Their faces were suddenly close—close enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his breath.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low. “I’d rather not test how well these floors handle impact.”

“Then perhaps you should let me stand on your feet instead,” she teased softly.

He huffed but didn’t let go right away. When he finally stepped back, his hand lingered just long enough for her to feel it even after he withdrew.

Hours passed, the house slowly transforming. The old wallpaper was stripped away to reveal stone and plaster. The heavy drapes were replaced with lighter ones that shimmered when sunlight filtered through. In the kitchen, Kreacher grudgingly prepared tea, muttering under his breath about “odd humans ruining proper darkness.”

When they finally stopped to rest, Spica and Severus sat side by side on the old sofa, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and the faint golden light of late afternoon.

“Not bad,” she said, surveying their work with satisfaction. “It almost looks… alive.”

Severus glanced around. The portraits still frowned, and the walls still sighed, but the house did feel different—less oppressive, more awake. “It’s tolerable,” he admitted softly.

“That’s high praise coming from you,” Spica said, smiling.

He looked at her then, really looked—hair messy from unpacking, cheeks flushed, smudges of dust on her hands. And yet, she glowed. There was something about her presence that turned even the bleakest room into something warm.

“Do you regret it?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked. “Regret what?”

“This,” he gestured vaguely around them, “marrying me. Moving into this mausoleum. Trading luxury for…” his lip curled faintly, “…whatever this is.”

She laughed softly, leaning against his shoulder. “Severus, this is the most beautiful wreck I’ve ever seen. And you—” she turned to meet his gaze, her voice softening, “—you’re my favorite part of it.”

His throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t. He let his hand find hers, fingers intertwining slowly, almost shyly.

Kreacher entered at that moment, a tray in hand. “Tea for the new masters,” he muttered. “Kreacher supposes… It’s not so terrible to have Mistress Spica back.”

Spica smiled warmly. “Thank you, Kreacher. You’ve been wonderful.”

The elf sniffed, but his ears flushed pink before he disappeared with a small pop.

Severus exhaled a quiet breath of amusement. “You’ve bewitched him.”

“I have that effect on people,” she teased lightly, resting her head against his shoulder again.

He gave a slight, incredulous shake of his head, then pressed a soft kiss to her hair. “You certainly do.”

The old house seemed to sigh contentedly around them, as though settling into its new chapter—a chapter of quiet laughter, stubborn love, and the faint scent of tea and hope.

For the first time in decades, Grimmauld Place wasn’t merely the House of Black. It was home.

Chapter Text

I have long suspected that I am cursed.

Not in the grand, mythical sense—no thunderbolts or prophecies or dark wizards whispering incantations into my cradle—but in the small, quiet ways that life twists the knife. To be cursed, for me, was to know the constant company of shadows. To reach out and find nothing waiting back. To watch everyone I have ever cared for turn to ghosts, while I remained behind to bury their memories.

Love, in particular, seemed the cruelest curse of all. It had burned me once, thoroughly enough that I never wished to stand near its fire again. After Lily, I had resolved to lock my heart behind walls stronger than Azkaban’s gates. There was no point in tenderness for a man like me—no future in it, no redemption.

At least, that’s what I believed until her.

Spica.

She came into my life not like a storm, but like sunlight filtering through old curtains—soft, insistent, impossible to ignore. I remember the first time she smiled at me; it was the kind of smile that made my carefully constructed cynicism crack just enough to sting. I had known charm before, had even been the object of pity, but this was neither. She looked at me as though I were not a monster nor a relic, but a man.

A man worth noticing.

It was intolerable.

And yet, I found myself seeking her company. Her laughter became the only sound that could dispel the ghosts in my mind. Her presence turned the empty halls of my home into something resembling warmth. She was a tapestry of chaos and kindness, so alive that it frightened me. I wanted to push her away, to preserve the cold safety I had built for myself—but every time she touched my hand or said my name, something inside me betrayed me completely.

I thought of my supposed curse then, how it had defined me all my life. I had believed solitude was inevitable, that I was fated to live unloved because I had once loved wrongly. Because I had chosen poorly. Because I had sinned too deeply.

But Spica, in her maddening persistence, refused to let me rot in that belief.

She appeared in my study one evening, her arms crossed, eyes bright with defiance. “You keep calling yourself cursed,” she said. “Maybe you are—but curses can be broken.”

I remember staring at her, unable to breathe for a moment. “You cannot break what is deserved,” I muttered.

Her hand reached for mine, gentle but firm. “You deserve more than you think, Severus.”

No one had ever said that to me. No one had ever dared.

It would be easy to claim that was the moment everything changed—but the truth is, change came slowly. Day by day, she worked her quiet magic: filling the house with warmth, coaxing me out of old habits, showing me what it meant to be part of something that did not demand suffering as proof of worth. I began to laugh again—an awkward, rusty sound that startled even me. I learned to live in the moment instead of dwelling on regrets.

Now, when I wake in the early morning and see her curled against me, her hair fanned across my pillow, I wonder if the curse ever truly existed at all. Perhaps it was only loneliness wearing another name.

She stirs in her sleep, her hand finding mine instinctively. I press a kiss to her knuckles, unable to stop the small smile tugging at my lips.

Maybe I am cursed, after all—cursed to love her so deeply it terrifies me.

And if that is the case, then let it be the only curse I never wish to lift.

Chapter Text

Home.
It’s a word I used to whisper like a prayer. A word that meant warmth and laughter to other children—but for me, it was a wound that never quite healed.

I was raised in a small British suburb that smelled faintly of salt and rain. My grandparents were good people—stern, devout, and painfully ordinary. They loved me in the only way they knew how: with discipline, prayer, and quiet sacrifices. They gave me food, shelter, structure, and a moral compass. They gave me everything except answers.

No one ever told me the truth about my parents.

All I knew was that my mother had died young, that my father was a monster. A murderer. I was told that he had destroyed her—that his darkness had swallowed her whole. And so, every time I looked in the mirror and saw his face staring back at me, I flinched. My hair was too dark, my smile too sharp, my eyes too much like the man I was taught to hate.

And yet, even as a child, I didn’t quite believe it. My mother’s portrait—the only one we had—was faded and creased at the edges, but her expression was soft. Kind. I used to sit by that picture and wonder how someone so radiant could have loved someone so cruel.

When the Hogwarts letter came, my grandparents prayed over it for three nights before letting me go. I think they hoped the church could wash away the strangeness in my blood, but Hogwarts was a place where the strangeness bloomed.

And for a while, I was happy. I thought I might finally belong.

I was wrong.

You see, the Sorting Hat placed me in Slytherin. I remember the silence that followed. The way the other first-years looked at me—confused, wary, as if the Hat had made a mistake. A muggle-born? In their house? The whispers came quickly after that. I was “the experiment,” “the charity case,” “the odd one out.”

So I learned to smile when it hurt. I learned to study quietly in corners, to laugh when others laughed, even if I didn’t understand the joke. I told myself I didn’t need anyone.

But it’s hard to feel like you belong when no one calls your name.

And then I found out who my father truly was.

Sirius Black.

The man in the wanted posters. The madman in Azkaban. The criminal everyone whispered about. My father. My blood. My curse.

I remember the night I learned the truth. I cried until I was sick. I hated him for leaving me, for ruining my mother’s name, for tainting mine. But beneath all that hatred was something else—something fragile and desperate.

Hope.

Because if he wasn’t the monster they said he was… maybe neither was I.

Years later, when the truth finally came out, when I stood face-to-face with him—Sirius Black, alive and gaunt but still impossibly, undeniably alive—I thought my heart might burst.

He looked at me as if he’d seen a ghost. “You’ve got her face,” he said. “But Merlin help me, you’ve got my eyes.”

We laughed. We talked. We tried to make up for the years that war had stolen from us.

He called me “my little star.” I called him “Papa.”

And then he died.

Right in front of me.

The spell hit him square in the chest, and before I could even scream, he was gone—slipping through the veil, his laughter echoing for just a moment before silence swallowed him whole.

That was the day I stopped believing in home.

I don’t know how long I sat on the floor that night. Grimmauld Place was quiet again, the fire long dead, the air heavy with ghosts. I had stopped crying hours ago, though the tears still burned behind my eyes. The clock ticked, cruel and unbothered.

The door creaked open softly.

“Spica,” came a voice—low, familiar, steady.

Severus.

He stepped into the room without a sound, his dark robes brushing against the floor. In his hands, he carried a small covered basket.

“I brought something for you,” he said, his tone careful.

“I’m not hungry,” I murmured, not looking up.

“That’s unfortunate,” he replied mildly, setting the basket on the table beside me. “Because I’ve just spent an hour listening to a very irritable house-elf berate me for touching your kitchen.”

Despite myself, I glanced up. “You cooked?”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Attempted to. Kreacher supervised.”

He opened the basket, and the smell hit me immediately—rich, savory, familiar. Adobo. My grandmother’s recipe. My mother’s favorite. My favorite.

The tears came back, uninvited. “You—how did you even—”

“I asked,” he said simply, sitting beside me. “You talk about it often enough when you miss home.”

“I don’t… have a home,” I whispered. The words cracked on their way out. “Not anymore.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then, gently, “You do.”

I turned to him. His expression was soft in the firelight, the harsh lines of his face melted into something tender, almost fragile.

He reached out and took my hand, his thumb brushing circles against my skin. “You have a home in me, Spica. For as long as you’ll have me.”

The words undid me. Slowly, the weight in my chest loosened. I leaned against him, my head resting on his shoulder. His hand moved to my back, steady, grounding, real.

The scent of adobo filled the room. Somewhere outside, the wind howled. Inside, for the first time in a long while, I felt warm.

Safe.

Home.

I closed my eyes, the corners of my lips trembling into a small, tired smile. “You know,” I murmured softly, “you’re going to regret spoiling me like this.”

He gave a quiet chuckle, the sound rumbling against my ear. “Highly unlikely.”

I squeezed his hand. “Severus?”

“Yes, my star?”

I looked up at him, tears glimmering but no longer heavy. “I am finally home.”

And for the first time since I was a little girl, I truly believed it.

Chapter Text

If there was one universal truth in Hogwarts, it was this: Spica Black could face a dragon before she could face Professor Severus Snape without blushing like a fool.

Unfortunately, dragons were not on the syllabus that day.

“Pansy, I swear to Merlin—if you’ve done what I think you’ve done—” Spica hissed as they made their way to the dungeons, clutching her books to her chest like a shield.

Pansy Parkinson, looking far too pleased with herself, only smirked. “Oh, don’t be dramatic, darling. I merely did what any good friend would do.”

“You volunteered me,” Spica accused, voice rising an octave. “You volunteered me to assist Professor Snape. In class. In front of everyone!”

“Yes,” Pansy chirped. “And you’re welcome.”

Spica stopped dead on the staircase. “Pansy, he terrifies me!”

Pansy rolled her eyes and looped her arm through hers. “He terrifies everyone, Spica. That’s part of the charm. Besides, I thought you liked him.”

“I don’t like him,” Spica lied unconvincingly. “I—admire him. From a very respectable academic distance.”

“Mm-hm,” Pansy hummed. “So respectable that you nearly fainted when he said your name last week.”

“That was—!” Spica stammered. “That was because he startled me!”

“By asking you to answer a question?”

Spica groaned into her hands. “This is the worst day of my life.”

But it was far too late to escape.

By the time she entered the Potions classroom, every Slytherin and half the Ravenclaws were already whispering. The room buzzed with gossip—eyes darting between her and the front of the class, where Professor Snape stood like a dark, foreboding statue, robes billowing faintly despite the lack of breeze.

He glanced up as she entered. “Miss Black,” he drawled. “You’re early.”

Spica froze. “Y-yes, sir. I mean—no, sir. I mean—Pansy told me to—she said—”

Snape raised a hand, silencing her mid-babble. His expression remained unreadable, but there was the faintest quirk of amusement in his eyes. “I am aware of Miss Parkinson’s… schemes.”

Spica’s heart plummeted to her shoes. “Oh no.”

“You will be assisting me for the remainder of the term,” he continued. “Try not to explode anything. That is all.”

And just like that, he turned back to his cauldron, effectively ending the conversation.

Spica stood there for a moment, clutching her books, trying to remember how to breathe. Around her, her classmates snickered behind their hands. Someone (probably Zabini) whispered, “Good luck surviving, Black.”

She would have melted into her chair if it weren’t for Pansy’s gleeful thumbs-up from across the room.

The first disaster happened ten minutes into class.

“Miss Black,” Snape said, tone low and clipped. “Stir counterclockwise.”

She nodded frantically, moving to stir—except her sleeve caught on the ladle, tipping the cauldron slightly. A small puff of steam erupted, carrying with it the unmistakable smell of burnt cabbage.

Snape blinked once, very slowly. “Fascinating interpretation of counterclockwise,” he said dryly.

“I’m sorry!” she squeaked, grabbing a towel. “I just—I swear I practiced this last night—well, not this exactly—but something like it—and oh no the mixture’s bubbling—”

“Step aside,” he ordered, sweeping past her with that unruffled precision that made her knees weak.

In two swift motions, he neutralized the potion, flicked his wand, and turned the contents clear again.

She blinked. “You make it look so easy.”

“That,” he said, arching a brow, “is because it is.”

Her cheeks burned so hot she thought she might combust on the spot.

By the end of the first week, the rumor mill was working overtime. Spica was “Snape’s new favorite,” “Snape’s secret apprentice,” and, according to one particularly dramatic Hufflepuff, “Snape’s forbidden muse.”

The last one made her choke on her pumpkin juice.

“Oh come on,” Pansy said at breakfast, smirking. “It’s not like they’re wrong. You practically swoon when he says ‘excellent.’”

“I do not swoon!” Spica protested, mortified. “I internally panic. There’s a difference.”

But she couldn’t deny it. Every day she spent assisting him, she grew a little bolder—and a little more hopelessly infatuated.

He was brilliant in that quiet, razor-sharp way—each movement deliberate, each word measured. He treated potions like art, and though he rarely smiled, she swore his eyes softened ever so slightly when a brew went perfectly right.

Sometimes, he even lets her test his mixtures.

“You have a steady hand,” he remarked one afternoon as she added powdered moonstone to a potion.

“Thank you,” she said, startled by the compliment. “You— uh-you have a steady everything.”

There was a pause.

Snape looked at her, one eyebrow lifting. “A steady everything?”

Oh no.

“Oh no—no, that’s not what I—I meant—your technique! Not your everything! I mean—of course you have everything—but I’m not—oh Merlin, kill me now.”

His lip twitched. “As tempting as that sounds, Miss Black, I think we’ll both survive this humiliation.”

She wanted the floor to swallow her whole.

But somewhere between the fumbling and the blushing, something unexpected happened: Snape began to speak to her—not just as a teacher, but as a person.

They discussed rare ingredients, wandless potion stabilizers, and even obscure Filipino herbs her mother once used in healing spells.

And occasionally, just occasionally, he’d ask, “What do you think, Miss Black?”

The first time he did, she nearly forgot how to answer.

What she didn’t know was that, while she was certain her crush was the most obvious thing in the world, he found her enthusiasm—her sharp mind and her quiet determination—strangely refreshing.

He’d never admit it aloud, of course.

But every time she nearly set her sleeve on fire or nervously muttered under her breath, he found himself fighting a smile.

By the end of the term, Spica had stopped stammering when she spoke to him. Mostly.

As they cleaned up after the last lesson, she finally turned to him and said, “Thank you, Professor. For letting me help.”

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes unreadable. Then, in that deep, steady voice of his, he said, “You’ve done well, Miss Black. Better than most.”

“Really?” she asked, trying to hide her grin.

“Really,” he said. Then, faintly, “And for the record—your enthusiasm is… appreciated.”

Her heart did a full somersault.

By the time she left the dungeon, her smile could have lit the entire corridor. Pansy was waiting outside, arms crossed and grinning like the cat who caught the canary.

“So?” she asked.

Spica sighed dreamily. “I think I’m going to die.”

Pansy smirked. “From love?”

“From embarrassment,” Spica groaned.

And as her laughter echoed through the Slytherin halls, she didn’t see the faintest flicker of amusement cross Professor Snape’s face as he closed the classroom door behind her.

Chapter Text

The trouble began on a quiet Saturday morning — the kind of morning that should’ve been peaceful, filled with tea, sunshine, and maybe a cat nap or two.

But Spica Adhara Snape never let a quiet morning stay quiet.

“Double or nothing?” she asked, leaning over the kitchen counter with a grin that made Severus instantly suspicious.

He didn’t even look up from his newspaper. “No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

“Because I have been married to you long enough to know that those words mean impending catastrophe,” he said dryly, taking a sip of tea.

Spica placed a hand dramatically over her chest. “Catastrophe? Me? I am a blessing to this household!”

“Blessings don’t usually involve singed cauldrons, transfigured furniture, or the house elf refusing to enter the kitchen ever again.”

She gasped, feigning offense. “That was one time! And in my defense, Kreacher said my ‘creative cooking’ was a disgrace to the Black family name. I had to defend my honor!”

Severus lowered the paper just enough to arch an eyebrow. “You turned the stove into a duck.”

“Exactly!” she said proudly. “And it was a very dignified duck.”

He sighed. “Spica…”

But she was already climbing onto the counter — cross-legged, mischievous grin firmly in place. “Just hear me out! This bet is easy. No potion disasters. No explosions. No curses, hexes, or food transfiguration.”

He stared at her, unconvinced. “I’m listening.”

“It’s a simple wager,” she said. “Whoever can make the other laugh first wins. Loser does the dishes for a week.”

Severus tilted his head. “That’s hardly a challenge. You laugh at everything. A falling quill could send you into hysterics.”

“Ah, but the tables have turned, my dear husband,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eye. “This time, I’m going to make you laugh.”

A slow, sardonic smirk spread across his lips. “Double or nothing, then?”

Spica’s grin widened. “You’re on.”

It began innocently enough. Spica was confident — far too confident. She started small: playful banter, exaggerated pouts, little winks as she went about their day. Severus, of course, was a fortress of stoicism.

By noon, she escalated.

He was brewing a potion in the study when she crept behind him, transfigured her hair into a ridiculous lion’s mane, and roared softly. He didn’t even flinch.

“Impressive,” he said without turning. “Though I do hope you plan to fix that before dinner.”

Spica groaned. “You’re no fun!”

“On the contrary,” he replied, adding powdered aconite. “Watching you fail to amuse me is quite entertaining.”

That was it. The war was on.

By afternoon, Spica was pulling every trick she knew — dancing around in one of his oversized robes, fake-crying dramatically about the “tyranny of serious men,” even placing tiny illusionary bowties on all the teacups.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

But by evening, Spica had a plan. A final, desperate act of chaos.

She waited until they were in bed, reading side by side — the calm before the storm. The only light came from the small lamp by the nightstand.

Then, with all the grace of a gremlin queen, Spica rolled over, tugged at the covers, and whispered, “Hey, Severus?”

He hummed noncommittally.

“If you were a potion ingredient,” she said, voice deadly serious, “you’d be—”

“Don’t.”

“—snapegrass!” she finished, dissolving into giggles.

He closed his eyes. “That wasn’t even remotely clever.”

“Wait, wait, I have more!” she said between laughter. “You’d be ex-Snape-tably grumpy before breakfast!”

“Spica.”

“Or Snape-eriorly handsome!”

At that, there was a pause. A small, reluctant one.

And then—

It happened.

A low, quiet chuckle escaped him. Barely there, but undeniable.

Spica gasped, sitting up triumphantly. “HA! YOU LAUGHED!”

“I did not,” he said too quickly.

“You did! I heard it! That’s my victory laugh!”

He exhaled, long-suffering but smiling now, truly smiling. “You are intolerable.”

“And you’re washing dishes for a week,” she sang, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Victory tastes sweet!”

Severus turned his head slightly, catching her lips instead. “Not as sweet as you,” he murmured against her mouth.

That effectively shut her up — though not for long.

When they finally pulled away, Spica’s grin returned, soft and triumphant. “So… double or nothing on who makes breakfast tomorrow?”

He groaned, burying his face in her neck. “I should’ve known I married trouble.”

“You married love,” she corrected, threading her fingers through his hair. “Trouble’s just part of the package.”

And though he’d never admit it aloud, as she chuckled in his arms, Severus Snape couldn’t help but think that this—this ridiculous, bright, chaotic life with her—was the best gamble he’d ever taken.

Chapter Text

The air shimmered with heat, the kind that clung to your skin and refused to let go. Cicadas droned somewhere outside, the sound rising and falling like waves on molten air. Even the ceiling fan in Spica’s childhood home seemed to be struggling for its life, spinning halfheartedly as if begging for mercy.

“Merlin’s beard,” Severus muttered from the couch, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, dark hair damp at the nape of his neck. “Is this… inferno considered normal here?”

Spica laughed from the kitchen, her voice warm and teasing. “Oh, come on, love. It’s not that bad. It’s just… thirty-eight degrees.”

“Thirty-eight,” he repeated flatly. “In Celsius.”

She peeked out from behind the doorway, holding two glasses of calamansi juice dripping with condensation. “You’re just not used to tropical weather. We Filipinos are forged in the fires of humidity.”

He narrowed his eyes, but the scowl lost some of its bite as she crossed the room toward him. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose bun, wisps framing her face, and her skin glowed golden under the sunlight. Unfortunately for Severus’ sanity, she was also wearing a pale yellow spaghetti-strap top and denim shorts that had no business being that short.

“Spica.” His tone was warning, the kind reserved for reckless first years and… apparently, his wife. “What are you wearing?”

“Clothes?” she said sweetly, handing him the drink. “It’s summer, Sev. I’ll melt if I wear anything thicker.”

He stared at her outfit again, visibly suffering. “That… barely qualifies as fabric.”

“Correction,” she said, taking a sip and smiling impishly, “this is efficient ventilation.”

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You’re going to give me heatstroke.”

She plopped down beside him, her bare thigh brushing his. “We’ve been married for more than a year now, Professor Snape,” she said with a grin. “You’ve seen me wear worse.”

“Precisely my concern,” he said, voice low, though his eyes betrayed him—they softened, then lingered a little too long on her smile. “You’ll give the entire neighborhood a heart attack.”

“Oh, please,” she teased, leaning closer. “You’re just jealous they might see what’s already yours.”

His throat bobbed. “That is not—”

“Admit it,” she said, poking his chest lightly. “You’re being territorial.”

He caught her hand before she could pull away, his fingers brushing against her wrist. “If I am,” he murmured, his voice softer now, “it’s only because I know what I have.”

That shut her up—briefly. Her grin softened into something tender. “You’re lucky you’re sweet when you’re being possessive.”

He smirked faintly. “You’re lucky I love you enough to tolerate this… hellish weather.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the whirring of the fan and the buzz of afternoon heat. Spica rested her head on his shoulder, and for a moment, even the unbearable warmth felt tolerable.

Then the power flickered—then died.

The fan stopped spinning. The world went still.

“...Oh no,” Spica whispered.

“Oh yes,” Severus said grimly. “We are doomed.”

She laughed helplessly, wiping sweat from her brow. “Welcome to the brownout experience, love. A true Filipino summer!”

Severus stared at her, incredulous. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Maybe a little,” she admitted. “It’s kind of romantic, don’t you think? Just us, the heat, the cicadas—”

“The slow descent into madness?” he supplied dryly.

“Exactly!” she giggled. “Bonding through shared suffering!”

He chuckled despite himself, the sound quiet and genuine. “You’re impossible.”

She beamed at him, leaning in until their noses brushed. “You married impossible.”

“Evidently,” he murmured. His voice dipped lower. “And yet…”

The sentence trailed off as she tilted her head, lips meeting his in a kiss that was soft, lingering, and warm in more ways than one. Outside, the air was still blistering, but the world felt quieter now—smaller, more intimate.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless and flushed, Spica smiled against his cheek. “See? The heat isn’t so bad when you lean into it.”

He huffed, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “Remind me to brew a cooling charm next time.”

She laughed. “Or we could just… find other ways to cool off.”

The way she said it—half-teasing, half-challenge—made his eyes darken in that familiar way that had nothing to do with temperature.

And somewhere between the warmth of the fading light and the promise of her laughter, Severus decided that maybe—just maybe—Philippine heat wasn’t the worst kind of curse after all.

Because it had brought him her.

Chapter Text

The December air in the Philippines was a strange, almost mocking contradiction. Back in England, Christmas meant frost on the windows and the promise of snow. Here, it was coconut trees strung with fairy lights, the scent of roasted pork mingling with the faint tang of the sea, and Christmas carols playing on the radio since September.

Spica Adhara Snape was in her element.

“Severus, love, make sure the tablecloth is straight!” she called from the kitchen, where she was orchestrating what could only be described as a culinary symphony of chaos.

From the dining room, a tired but amused voice replied, “I have adjusted this cloth three times already. If it becomes any straighter, it will file a complaint with the Ministry.”

“Perfection doesn’t file complaints!” she shouted back, wielding a ladle like a wand. “It celebrates with lechon!”

Severus appeared in the doorway a moment later, sleeves rolled up, looking distinctly out of place amid the pastel Christmas decorations and blinking fairy lights. He gave her a long, suffering look before his eyes softened. “You realize that your uncles have turned the front yard into… some kind of feast-day battlefield?”

Spica peeked through the kitchen window and laughed. Outside, two of her uncles were arguing loudly over the best way to roast the lechon—the entire pig, golden and glistening, slowly turning over open flame. Several neighborhood kids had gathered around to watch, while her aunties busied themselves with setting up chairs and stringing more lights.

“Let them,” Spica said with a grin. “That’s the heart of it—Christmas here isn’t quiet. It’s noisy, messy, full of life. You’ll see.”

“I’ve already seen,” he muttered, though there was warmth in his voice as he looked at her bustling around, her dark hair pinned up, wearing a red apron that said “Kiss the Cook, She’s Magic.”

He smiled faintly. “And I suppose we’re feeding all of Hogwarts tonight?”

“Only a small portion,” she replied. “Harry and Ginny, Ron and Hermione, the kids if they make it, a few neighbors, and my entire family.”

“That’s not a portion,” he said dryly. “That’s an invasion.”

“Exactly,” she chirped.

By late afternoon, the house was alive with color and sound. Lanterns shaped like stars hung from the ceiling, casting warm light on the long table overflowing with food—adobo, pancit, lumpiang shanghai, leche flan, bibingka, and of course, the centerpiece: the lechon, glorious and crackling.

When the guests arrived, the laughter began almost immediately.

“Merlin, it’s hot!” Ron exclaimed, tugging at his collar as he stepped inside.

“It’s tropical, Ronald,” Hermione said, already fanning herself with a handkerchief. “You’ll survive.”

Ginny, meanwhile, was staring at the food in wide-eyed delight. “Spica, this looks amazing! You cooked all this?”

“Mostly,” Spica said proudly. “My uncles took over the lechon duties. You can’t beat Filipino uncles with roasting.”

Harry grinned. “I think Mrs. Weasley would approve.”

Severus, standing near the corner with a glass of punch, observed the scene with quiet amusement. Spica flitted about like a spark—laughing, hugging, shouting instructions in Tagalog. She was radiant. For a man who’d once known only gray stone walls and quiet dungeons, the brightness of it all felt… overwhelming. But also grounding.

When Harry approached him, Severus gave a short nod. “Potter.”

“Professor.” Harry smiled, awkward but sincere. “This is… nice. Never thought I’d see you here, wearing a Santa hat.”

Severus gave him a pointed glare. “That was my wife’s doing.”

From across the room, Spica waved cheerfully. “It’s tradition!” she called. “No one escapes the Santa hat!”

Hermione, sipping calamansi juice nearby, chuckled. “You know, it suits you.”

“It does not,” Severus said flatly.

But even he couldn’t hide the faint twitch of his lips when Spica bounced over to him, smelling of cinnamon and smoke, a sprig of mistletoe in her hand.

“Caught you,” she said, eyes gleaming.

“I believe that’s not how the game works,” he murmured.

“Shh,” she said, leaning up to kiss him softly on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, my grumpy wizard.”

The laughter around them seemed to fade for a moment. He looked at her—this woman who had brought warmth back into his cold, carefully guarded world—and the edges of his heart softened even more.

“Merry Christmas, my chaos incarnate,” he replied, low enough for only her to hear.

The night stretched on, filled with stories and laughter, firecrackers popping outside, and Harry trying (and failing) to explain British Christmas pudding to Spica’s titas. Ron was enthusiastically devouring his third plate of lechon, Hermione was discussing the history of parols with one of Spica’s uncles, and Ginny was teaching the children to play wizarding snap.

At one point, as the fireworks began, Spica slipped outside with Severus, escaping the noise for a moment. The night air was warm and alive, smelling faintly of roasted meat and salt from the sea breeze.

She leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder. “You’re quiet,” she said softly.

“Just… taking it in,” he replied, watching the sparks bloom in the sky. “It’s not the sort of Christmas I’m used to.”

“Too noisy?” she teased.

He smiled faintly. “Too alive.”

Spica looked up at him, eyes reflecting the flickering lights. “That’s what it’s supposed to be. Christmas isn’t about being perfect—it’s about coming together. Even when it’s messy, even when it’s loud.”

He glanced at her then, his voice quiet but heavy with affection. “Then I’m glad I came.”

She smiled, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. “You’re part of this now, you know. The family, the chaos, the lechon arguments. No escape.”

“I suspected as much the moment your uncle tried to feed me balut.”

She laughed, the sound like bells against the warm night. “That’s how we show love.”

He turned to face her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Then I suppose I am… deeply loved.”

She leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Mahal kita, Severus.”

He didn’t know many Tagalog words, but that one—he’d learned quickly.

“I love you too, Spica.”

Inside, the music picked up again—voices rising in an off-key chorus of “Ang Pasko ay Sumapit”—and the laughter spilled out into the streets. But for that moment, standing under the flickering parol lights, all that existed was warmth, love, and the feeling of home.

And for a man who once thought Christmas was nothing more than a reminder of what he’d lost, this—this noisy, sun-soaked, joy-filled chaos—was the sweetest gift he’d ever received.

Chapter Text

The streets of Binondo were alive that morning — noisy, fragrant, and utterly overwhelming. The sound of jeepneys honking mixed with the chatter of vendors selling hopia, tikoy, and lumpiang shanghai. It was a glorious chaos — and to Spica, pure heaven.

“Come on, Sev, bilis!” she called, tugging at his sleeve with a grin that made his heart ache and his head ache twice as much.

Severus Snape — feared professor, former spy, and eternal embodiment of British composure — looked entirely out of place in Manila’s Chinatown. His black attire absorbed every ounce of the tropical heat, his long hair already starting to cling to his neck. “Remind me again why I agreed to this madness?” he muttered, scanning the busy street.

“Because you love me,” Spica sang back, flashing him a teasing smile before darting toward a vendor selling siopao.

He sighed, resigned to his fate. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m adorable,” she countered, taking a bite of her freshly bought asado siopao. She looked up at him, crumbs dotting her lips. “Want some?”

“I fail to see how I can eat that without suffering third-degree burns,” he said dryly.

“Then blow on it,” she teased.

He gave her a long-suffering look, but eventually leaned in and took the smallest bite possible. She beamed. Victory.

They wandered through the maze of streets — Ongpin, Escolta, Carvajal Alley — and each corner offered a new temptation. Spica kept dragging him toward stalls selling all sorts of sweets and snacks: bicho-bicho, hopia baboy, almond jelly. He pretended to protest, but he was already carrying three paper bags filled with her “essentials.”

“You’re aware,” he said, adjusting the bags, “that we will never find our way back at this rate.”

“Relax,” Spica said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve been here before.”

“That was over a decade ago, was it not?”

“Yes, but muscle memory, you know?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Indeed. Your memory seems to have led us in three consecutive circles.”

She blinked, looked around — and realized he was right. The same golden dragon archway loomed above them for the third time. “Okay, fine. Maybe we’re just… slightly lost.”

“Slightly?”

“Alright, majorly, but it’s fine! We’re lost together.” She grinned, looping her arm through his. “That’s kind of romantic, don’t you think?”

He sighed, but there was amusement in his voice now. “If you define romance as being stranded in a crowded market surrounded by questionable street food smells and no apparent exit, then yes, this is quite romantic.”

“Oh, you’re just grumpy because you’re hot.”

“That is an understatement,” he muttered, tugging at his collar. “I feel as though I am melting.”

She laughed and handed him a melon juice in a plastic cup with a straw. “Here. Hydrate, Professor.”

He eyed it suspiciously. “You obtained this from that vendor who sneezed twice into his hands.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re being dramatic. You literally drank Polyjuice Potion once, and you’re afraid of melon juice?”

That shut him up. Begrudgingly, he took a sip — and his expression softened. “It’s… not terrible.”

“Ha! You love it.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I do not,” he repeated, though his second sip betrayed him.

They continued their wandering, laughter mixing with the sounds of Manila — the clinking of tricycles, the distant hum of church bells, the chatter of street vendors switching between Tagalog, Hokkien, and English.

Eventually, they found themselves by the Binondo Church. The air was calmer here. The golden sunlight filtered through the trees, casting soft patterns on the cobblestone.

Spica leaned against his arm, a small smile playing on her lips. “You know, when I was little, I used to come here with my grandparents after Sunday mass. We’d eat pancit canton at that old restaurant by the corner. I thought the world was so big back then. I never imagined I’d come back here—with you.”

He glanced down at her, his usual sharp features softening. “And yet, here you are. Dragging your poor husband through the infernal heat and chaos of your youth.”

She giggled, leaning closer. “You love it.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. Because it’s me.”

He smiled faintly, giving in at last. “That, I cannot argue.”

They sat on the church steps for a while, sharing a bag of hopia and watching the world pass by. The city buzzed around them — loud, colorful, alive — but for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of them.

Spica nudged him playfully. “So, Professor, would you say this adventure was a success?”

“I would say,” he said after a pause, “that being lost with you is infinitely preferable to being found anywhere else.”

Her grin widened. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve said all week.”

He gave her a small smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”

She laughed, resting her head against his shoulder. “Too late.”

And as the sun began to set over Binondo, painting the city in gold and crimson, Severus Snape — the man who once thought himself cursed to solitude — realized that being lost wasn’t so terrible after all. Not when the hand holding his was the one he never wanted to let go.

Chapter Text

The night sky above the small provincial town was lit not by stars, but by the kaleidoscopic glow of the perya lights. Strings of bulbs flickered in every color imaginable, throwing rainbows over the dusty field where the annual town fair had set up. The air was filled with the smells of buttered corn, grilled meat, and sweet isaw smoke. The sound of laughter, bells, and loud OPM music created a kind of chaos that only Spica could possibly call “peaceful.”

Severus Snape, meanwhile, looked like he had been dropped straight from another universe.

He stood beside her in his dark button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, looking utterly unimpressed as a carousel of blinking lights spun behind him. Children ran around them waving glow sticks, and a man in a megaphone was shouting, “Tatlong taya, isa libre! Tatlong taya, isa libre!”

Spica was practically bouncing on her feet. “Oh my gosh, Sev, look! They have a Ferris wheel! And perya games! And tumbang preso! I haven’t been to one of these since I was, like, ten!”

Severus followed her gaze toward the towering Ferris wheel that creaked with every slow turn, its lights blinking unevenly like it might give up at any moment. He raised a brow. “That contraption looks as though it’s one screw away from collapsing.”

She laughed, tugging his sleeve. “That’s part of the charm! Come on, Professor, loosen up. This looks fun!”

He gave her a look so deadpan it could have killed a lesser soul. “Fun,” he repeated flatly. “Not the word I would use, but… okay.”

Spica giggled, linking her arm through his as they made their way toward the perya. Every few steps, someone tried to sell them popcorn, balloons, or fishballs on a stick. She bought all three, of course, and handed him a stick of fishballs despite his protests.

“Try it,” she said, dipping hers in the sweet-spicy sauce. “It’s tradition!”

He hesitated, inspecting the fried golden spheres with suspicion. “What exactly are these made of?”

“...Fish?” she said, though it came out sounding more like a question. “Probably.”

“Probably,” he repeated, tone dry as a desert.

She laughed. “Just eat it! Trust me!”

He bit one reluctantly—and froze. “...This is actually… edible.”

“Edible?!” she gasped. “That’s high praise from you!”

He smirked faintly. “I said edible, not pleasant.”

She pouted and bumped his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you married me.”

“Yeah, because you’re cute when you complain.”

He pretended to scowl, but the faint twitch of his lips betrayed him.

They strolled through the perya’s colorful chaos—past dart games, fortune-telling booths, and the ever-loud karaoke stage where a group of aunties were belting out “Bakit Ngayon Ka Lang.” Spica stopped at every stall like a child set loose in a candy store. She won a tiny stuffed toy from a ring toss game and proudly declared it her “trophy.”

When they reached the Ferris wheel, Severus froze. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely serious,” Spica said, eyes gleaming. “Come on, it’ll be romantic! You and me, high up there, seeing the whole town!”

He looked at the rickety structure again. The metal creaked ominously, and one of the operators was literally tightening bolts with his bare hands. “Romantic is not the word I would use.”

“Noted,” she chirped, tugging him toward the line anyway.

Minutes later, they were seated inside one of the small Ferris wheel cars, the breeze warm and humid, the world below glittering with the scattered lights of food stalls and rides. Spica leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “See? It’s not so bad.”

He exhaled softly, his arm wrapping around her almost instinctively. “It’s… tolerable,” he admitted. Then, more quietly, “You have an odd way of defining fun.”

“Because life’s more fun with a little chaos,” she said, looking up at him. “And a little you.”

He looked down at her, eyes softening, the faintest smile curving his lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” she said, grinning. “But you love me anyway.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked out over the fair—the flickering lights, the laughter rising from below, the faint hum of the OPM love song floating through the warm air. Then he turned back to her, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Yes,” he murmured. “I do.”

The Ferris wheel reached its highest point, and for a moment, it felt as if time stopped. The air was still, the night alive with color, and beneath them, the world was a blur of joy and noise and imperfection.

Then, as fate would have it, the Ferris wheel jerked to a sudden stop.

Spica yelped, clutching his arm. “We’re stuck!”

He closed his eyes briefly, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. “Of course we are.”

She blinked, then laughed nervously. “Well… at least we’re stuck together?”

He looked at her exasperatedly, then sighed. “You’re insufferable.”

“But cute,” she said with a wink.

He couldn’t help it; he laughed—an honest, low, rare sound that startled even him. “Yes,” he said softly. “That you are.”

They stayed like that—trapped in the air, surrounded by the twinkling lights of Binondo’s outskirts—talking, laughing, teasing each other as the minutes passed. When the Ferris wheel finally creaked back to life and descended, Spica was still smiling, hand laced with his.

As they stepped off, she turned to him and asked, “So, still think it wasn’t fun?”

He gave her a long, thoughtful look. Then, with the slightest smirk, he replied, “Not the word I would use… but it will do.”

And she grinned, pulling him close as the fair lights danced around them—two unlikely souls, utterly lost in the noisy, dazzling chaos of love and laughter.