the day before you came - severus snape x reader

Chapter 1 - Our Last Summer

AN: Hey y'all! I'm so glad you found your way to the first work I'm publishing in a loooong time. I used to write a lot but then continued to just read these many, many wonderful stories because I lacked time and inspiration to write my own stuff. 

I was a big ass simp for Snaddy when I was younger and rekindled my love for him thanks to TikTok (positive that's the reason we are all here bahaha), so I started to write some stuff and here we are.

English is not my first language and I usually write in German soo I hope my writing doesn't lack quality because of this and hopefully makes sense!

And of course, disclaimer: Neither do I own any characters or storyline or stuff existing in the Harry Potter universe created by J.K.Rowling nor do I own any song or lyrics used in this fiction. I am just a simple woman and Snape x ABBA sounded fantastic in my brain.

So, shall we begin? Much love to all of you! (P.S.: Peep the image of our seggsy professor, isn't he a pwetty maaan?)

xx, meeblemaster

The summer air is soft and warm, and you sit on your balcony, a book of Rilke's Poems in your left hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. 

It reminds you so much of last summer in Paris, and you feel a dull aching in your chest, fogged up by the alcohol you've been drinking the entire day.

You couldn't lay a finger on when you've first started to have a cigarette right after you've woken up and a first of many shots after lunch, but it was a long time ago when it started to not concern you anymore.

The pain in your chest subsides as you take another swift sip of the amber liquid, and you sigh as it burns down your throat. The promising burn of oblivion.

You close your eyes, the book forgotten, and your mind starts swimming to the fondest memory you have, and god knows how often you've visited it the last months.

A silent tear falls down your cheek as you drift off to sleep and start remembering – or keep on, for you have never stopped thinking about him.

His soft, blond hair shimmered in the Parisian sun and you sighed happily, looking in his warm eyes with a sudden longing.

The air around you was filled with busy chatter and clattering silverware. It smelled like freshly baked goods, sweet coffee and flowers, and you felt so very content.

He guided his cup to his lips, careful not to spill the nearly overflowing china, and sighed when he tasted the florid note of the jasmine tea you both shared.

When the two of you have left the tiny bed and breakfast you stayed in, he's told you that he was on a mission to try every café you two passed strolling down the Elysée. You've just shaken your head at his determination and followed him cheerfully while your eyes have drunken in the new and sublime sight of the Parisian architecture and the lively hustle around you.

You've stopped at a cornered café and he's snatched the last outdoor table with a triumphant huff.

You rested your cheek in your palm and smiled at him.

His eyes twinkled gently, and he reached over to touch the tip of your nose. You loved it when he did that and although you'd always playfully crinkle your nose and softly swat away his hand, you felt strangely secure in these moments.

"I knew you would love Paris", he murmured and smiled at you. "La ville de l'amour, la ville des rêves."

„Always so dreamy", you teased him.

He chuckled.

„So tell me, don't you think that Paris is the greatest temple ever built to material joys and the lust of the eyes?" He gazed at you, a challenging twinkle in his dark eyes.

„And who could have said that, Sir?", you asked him provocatively. He laughed. You knew of his love for reciting poets, philosophers, dreamers, and he often tried to test your own knowledge when he was in an exceptionally good mood.

"Henry James."

"Well, as lovely as it sounds, I have to interfere. While Paris might be pleasant to look at, it appears to me that it is not another pretty city but a home."

"Ah, yes. Enclosed, curtained, sheltered, intimate. The sound of rain outside the window, the spirit and the body turned towards intimacy, to friendships and loves. Anaïs Nin."

You smiled at his approval and felt a warm twitch in the pit of your stomach.

The sun warmed your neck as you took a small gulp from the tea that tasted so much like Forever. His kind eyes rested on your lips and he murmured: "Your smile is just like Mona Lisa's."

You felt a soft flush on your face. "One might think you should have been an arts professor, not literature."

His own smile crinkled his wise eyes. "But we wouldn't have met and solely for that reason I would have died in quiet agony."

You snorted at his dramatic respond and rolled your eyes, but bit your lips longingly nevertheless.

"You're a hopeless romantic", was your bashful response.

"Romantic, yes, but hopeless? Never, with you."

After you finished your tea, you wandered through the city and sat down in the grass by the Eiffel tower as the night slowly arrived.

Your worries were far away as he stroked your hair, your head in his lap. The distant sounds of violins floated through the summer air, accompanied by the chirping crickets and buzzing conversations around you.

"God, it is so beautiful", he sighed after minutes of content silence between the two of you. You had your eyes closed and hummed.

"I feel so ... inspired, really. It is all so trivial, the life in Britain. It could never compete against Paris - breathe it in, it nourishes the soul."

You nodded at his words, chuckled and answered: "Even football seems bougie here".

But your thoughts were going a different, bittersweet direction: You'll still be the hero of my dreams, how dull your life in Britain may seem.

He laughed, openly and unguarded, the sound you've grown to love so much. His fingers wandered over your face, over the bridge of your nose and your lips. You kissed them softly and opened your eyes, only to meet his wonderous gaze.

"Do you know how happy I am that we have met?", he quietly asked you. You reached for his hands, squeezed them and smiled.

"I have no idea", was your cheeky response, and you threw him a gentle smile. "But I do know that I am immensely grateful to be here – with you."

He returned your smile and bent down to kiss you. The faint taste of jasmine tea lingered on his lips and you deeply breathed him in. He smelled like ink and sunshine.

"I love you, you magical creature", he whispered in your ear.

"Love you too." You nuzzled his neck and sighed happily. "These are memories that'll remain, I can feel it."

You open your eyes. The alcohol seems to take its toll and you bend over the side of your chair and throw up.

The acidy taste that creeps up your throat doesn't burn as strong as the memory of him. You groan at the sting as something cold grasps your heart and squeezes it painfully. You still see it all.

In retrospect, you knew there was always that fear that you were slowly dancing your last dance, even when you've felt the happiest you've ever been.

And the reality hits you again and again, a hard slap in your face:

You've had your chance. It was a fine and true romance.