Chapter Text
George Weasley never imagined that the best business partner he’d ever have—after Fred—would be Severus Snape. But life, as George had learned, was full of surprises. After losing Fred, George had struggled to rekindle the spark of creativity that had fueled their joint brilliance. Every product he designed felt half-formed, every idea incomplete without the back-and-forth banter that had made his and Fred’s partnership legendary.
Desperate, George had placed an ad in the Daily Prophet , seeking someone with top-notch qualifications in Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration. A mastery in any of those fields was preferred, but more than credentials, George sought someone who could provide the same spark Fred had: someone who could challenge him, laugh with him, and push his ideas to their limits.
The applicants had poured in—bright-eyed witches and wizards eager to join the infamous Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Yet, one by one, they all fell short. None of them had Fred’s wit, his knack for mischief, or the ability to keep up with George’s rapid-fire ideas. For nearly a year, George slogged through a revolving door of employees and a painfully slow trickle of uninspired new products. He began to wonder if he’d ever find someone who could match Fred’s energy.
Then, against all odds, Severus Snape applied.
The name had shocked George when he saw it at the top of the application. The former Death Eater, the war hero, the man with a reputation as one of the most intimidating professors Hogwarts had ever seen? It had to be a joke. But the application was real, and when Snape showed up for an interview, his demeanor was as dour as ever.
Snape’s reasoning for applying was simple: no one else would hire him. Despite his heroic actions in the war, the wizarding world hadn’t forgiven—or forgotten—his past. The dark mark on his arm was a permanent reminder of the choices he’d made, and few were willing to look past it. Teaching positions were closed to him, potioneering labs didn’t want his “tainted reputation,” and most businesses balked at his surly attitude. Applying for a position at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was a long shot, a last-ditch effort to secure a future.
But to George, it was perfect.
Snape’s snarky wit and sharp intellect were exactly what George needed. Where others saw a bitter, intimidating man, George saw someone who could finally provide the give-and-take he craved. Snape’s acerbic commentary on George’s ideas was hilarious, and his genius with potions and spellcraft was unmatched. For the first time in a year, George felt alive again, sparring with someone who could keep up with his chaotic creativity.
For Snape, the arrangement was ideal. George allowed him to work in relative peace, tucked away in a laboratory where he could invent without interruption. The salary was more than generous, and the only person he had to deal with was George, whose irreverent humor and lack of judgment made the partnership surprisingly tolerable.
In just a few months, the shop’s shelves were overflowing with new products: self-stirring cauldrons that sang while brewing, potion-infused prank candies, and enchanted hats that offered sarcastic quips when worn. Snape’s expertise gave the products a level of sophistication they hadn’t had before, while George’s flair for theatrics ensured they were still fun and marketable.
The day George Weasley announced the expansion of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes into serious magical products, Severus Snape thought he had misheard. Serious products? For Aurors and Ministry officials? It was like suggesting Zonko’s should start crafting diplomatic parchments. But George was unwavering, and soon the shop’s cheeky charm coexisted with shelves of prototype magical devices: enchanted surveillance mirrors, self-sealing potion kits, and protective wards that could be deployed in seconds.
With these new ventures came the need for an arithmancer, someone who could analyze the outcomes of complex potions, predict the effects of spellwork under duress, and even chart how political trends might influence Ministry purchasing. Severus barely paid attention to the search process. He assumed George would hire another underqualified fool. But when the chosen candidate turned out to be Hermione Granger, Severus’s irritation knew no bounds.
George had delivered the news with an air of nonchalance, as though he wasn’t about to upset Severus’s carefully constructed world. “She starts next week,” George had said brightly. “Top floor office. Shouldn’t be too much of a bother for you, mate. You’ll hardly see her unless, you know, you want to.”
Severus’s scowl deepened, and without a word, he raised his wand and cast a spell. George’s hair turned a vivid, electric blue, matching the sparks of fury in Severus’s dark eyes. It took George a week to charm it back to its usual ginger, though he found the incident more amusing than infuriating.
When Hermione Granger arrived, Severus braced himself for the worst. He envisioned the swotty Gryffindor he had taught at Hogwarts: relentless, idealistic, and constantly eager to prove herself. To his surprise—and mild dismay—this Hermione was different.
Gone was the overeager schoolgirl who raised her hand for every question. In her place was a sharp, focused woman who carried herself with quiet determination. She was still a bit of a workaholic, splitting her time between her role at WWW and her tireless campaign for equal rights for magical creatures. But there was a steeliness to her now, a sense of purpose that left little room for idle chatter or pleasantries. She didn’t bother trying to win him over or make conversation unless it was strictly necessary, which Severus begrudgingly respected.
Her presence, however, still grated on him. Her office, just two floors above his laboratory, was a reminder of her proximity. Occasionally, she would descend to his workspace to discuss projections or consult on product designs. These interactions were efficient and professional, but Severus couldn’t help noticing her meticulous nature—how she furrowed her brow as she scribbled calculations or how her fingers absentmindedly twirled a quill when deep in thought. It was maddeningly distracting.
For Hermione’s part, she treated Severus with careful neutrality. She knew his temper and reputation, but she also recognized his brilliance. If anything, she was impressed by his contributions to the company and had no qualms about saying so, much to his discomfort.
Still, Severus couldn’t shake the feeling that her presence disrupted the quiet solitude he had enjoyed. George, of course, found the whole situation endlessly entertaining.
“Lighten up, Snape,” George teased one day, catching the potions master glaring at the ceiling as though Hermione’s office were a personal affront. “Granger’s good for us. She’s already got the Ministry interested in our prototypes. And who knows? Maybe you’ll even learn to enjoy her company.”
Severus shot George a withering glare. “When Hippogriffs learn to waltz,” he muttered, turning back to his cauldron.
But deep down, Severus wasn’t sure if it was annoyance or something else entirely that made him so hyper aware of Hermione Granger’s every move.
That had been five years ago. Now, Hermione Granger was no longer the thorn in Severus Snape's side he had once considered her to be. The shift hadn’t been immediate, but one significant change had certainly helped: she was no longer dating Ronald Weasley. Severus hadn’t realized how much the association with the youngest male Weasley had colored his opinion of her until their relationship ended. With Ronald out of the picture, Hermione had grown up, become more self-assured, and, to Severus’s surprise, far less irritating.
More importantly, she had stopped looking at him through the lens of a former student gazing up at her professor. Instead, she began interacting with him as she did with George—openly, bluntly, and with just enough teasing to make him bristle without crossing the line into outright disrespect. She challenged his ideas without the condescension he expected and, to his astonishment, seemed to enjoy the back-and-forth just as much as George did.
What had started as begrudging tolerance slowly evolved into something resembling camaraderie. They worked well together, their intellects complementing each other in ways neither would have predicted. She often sought his insight on the theoretical underpinnings of her arithmancy work, and in return, she offered him a perspective that was annoyingly perceptive.
Somewhere along the way, they had fallen into an easy rhythm. He no longer dreaded her visits to his laboratory; in fact, he found himself looking forward to their debates. She had a brilliant mind, a quick wit, and—much to his irritation—a habit of challenging him just enough to keep him on his toes.
Though Severus would never admit it aloud, Hermione had grown from a "complete nuisance" into what could only be described as a friend. A begrudging, occasionally exasperating friend, but a friend nonetheless.
George had noticed the change long before Severus had. “You’re smiling more,” George had needled one day, watching Severus scowl at Hermione’s retreating form after she’d delivered a biting remark about his handwriting. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you actually liked her.”
Severus had sneered. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, but his usual venom was noticeably absent.
George only laughed.
It was mid-April when Hermione stormed into the team planning session, her usual composed demeanor nowhere in sight. Her face was flushed, her curls were slightly askew, and she looked thoroughly exasperated. Without so much as a greeting, she dropped into her seat, yanked out a stack of parchment, and began scribbling furiously. Arithmancy equations spilled onto the page in a flurry of precise but aggressive pen strokes as she muttered to herself under her breath.
Severus, who had been reviewing a prototype potion formula at the far end of the table, glanced at her with mild curiosity. He decided to give her a few minutes to stew before risking an interruption. Hermione’s rare outbursts were usually best approached with caution.
By the time George sauntered in, balancing a plate of biscuits and a steaming mug of tea, Hermione was still furiously scratching away. George paused in the doorway, his brows lifting in amusement as he took in the scene.
“What’s up with Granger?” he asked, casually biting into a biscuit.
Severus shrugged, not bothering to look up from his work. “She’s been like that since she arrived,” he said dryly. “I assumed it was one of her many crusades.”
George, ever the opportunist for drama, set his tea down and approached Hermione. “Oi, Hermione,” he said lightly, leaning against the table. “What’s got your wand in a knot? This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with your lunch date, would it?”
That did it. Hermione’s quill snapped in her hand, and she let out an exasperated huff. “The nerve of that man!” she exclaimed, her voice laced with equal parts indignation and disbelief.
Severus arched a brow, setting his notes aside. This promised to be entertaining.
George grinned, clearly delighted. “Oh, do tell. What happened? Did he spill soup on you or try to split the bill?”
Hermione glared at George before launching into a tirade. “He spent the entire time talking about himself—his job, his accomplishments, his utterly boring hobbies. And when I tried to steer the conversation to anything remotely interesting, like recent developments in magical creature rights or the potential implications of integrating Muggle scientific theories into spellcasting, do you know what he did? He yawned ! Right in my face!”
Severus snorted before he could stop himself, earning a pointed look from Hermione.
“And then,” she continued, her voice rising, “as if that wasn’t bad enough, he had the audacity to suggest that my ‘strong opinions’ might intimidate potential suitors. Intimidate! As if having a brain and a backbone were some kind of flaw!”
George was openly laughing now, tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes. “Oh, that’s rich. Who was this prat? I need to send him a thank-you note for giving me the best laugh I’ve had all week.”
Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I don’t even know why I bother,” she muttered, her voice muffled.
Severus cleared his throat, his expression carefully neutral. “Perhaps your mistake lies in expecting intelligence from someone who willingly spends time at Madam Puddifoot’s,” he said, his tone cutting but oddly sympathetic.
Hermione’s head shot up, her lips twitching as if fighting a smile. “You may have a point,” she admitted grudgingly.
George clapped Severus on the shoulder. “See? Snape’s got your back. Maybe next time, you should skip the dates and just hang out with us geniuses. Far more stimulating conversation.”
“Far less disastrous, too,” Severus added smoothly, smirking.
Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t entirely suppress the grin that tugged at her lips. “You two are insufferable,” she said, though there was no heat in her words.
“Ah,” George quipped, “but we’re your insufferable.”
With that, he wandered over to Hermione’s side, peering down at the parchment she was furiously scribbling on. His plate of biscuits was still in hand, and as he leaned closer, a few errant crumbs rained down onto her intricate work.
“George!” Hermione snapped, brushing at the parchment with an exasperated huff. “Honestly, do you have to eat over my work?”
George held up his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Sorry, sorry. What’s this nebulous mess of equations, anyway? Some sort of curse-breaking or world-saving endeavor?”
Hermione scowled, straightening her notes. “It’s nothing of the sort. I’ve decided I’m no longer doing this absurd letter matchmaking system for dates. It’s clearly flawed.”
“And this—” George gestured to the layers of symbols and variables, “—is the solution?”
“Yes,” Hermione said matter-of-factly, picking up her quill again. “Any suitor who contacts me through the Lonely Hearts section of the Prophet will now be required to complete a comprehensive questionnaire. I’ll then apply their answers to this equation to determine our compatibility. That way, I can avoid disasters like today’s ordeal.”
George squinted at the parchment, then at the list of questions beside it. His brows shot up. “Ninety questions? Hermione, are you running a compatibility check or preparing for a Ministry-level interrogation?”
She sniffed, entirely unbothered. “It takes more than a handful of questions to accurately assess compatibility. Factors like shared values, intellectual alignment, communication preferences, emotional availability—it all matters.”
George gave a low whistle. “Blimey, that’s thorough. Do you really need all of these?”
“Yes,” Hermione replied firmly, tapping her quill against the list for emphasis.
At the far end of the table, Severus let out a gruff scoff, drawing their attention. “You cannot seriously believe that compatibility, let alone an actual relationship, can be determined by some overly complex algorithm,” he said, his words dripping with disdain.
Hermione turned to glare at him. “Why not? Compatibility is a measurable phenomenon. It’s based on shared interests, personality traits, and values. Why shouldn’t I apply logic to something people insist on approaching so emotionally?”
“Because relationships are not potion formulas or arithmantic proofs,” Severus countered, folding his arms. “Human behavior is far too unpredictable, not to mention fickle, for your mathematical theatrics to yield anything worthwhile.”
“And what would you suggest, Severus?” Hermione shot back, her tone sharp. “Relying on pure chance and gut instinct? That clearly hasn’t worked out so far.”
“I would suggest,” he said coolly, “that you stop treating potential suitors like research subjects. You might find more success with a touch of spontaneity rather than an overreliance on—” he gestured dismissively at her parchment, “—this mess of numbers.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “I’d rather rely on numbers than intuition when my intuition has proven to be catastrophically wrong.”
“Perhaps,” Severus said with a faint smirk, “the issue lies less with your intuition and more with your insistence on entertaining fools in the first place.”
George stepped between them, holding up his hands. “Alright, alright, let’s not turn this into a duel, yeah? Hermione, if this whole questionnaire thing actually works, I’ll personally fund a patent for it. And Snape—” he turned to Severus with a grin, “—don’t be so smug. You’re the last person I’d take romantic advice from.”
Severus glared at George but said nothing, while Hermione merely huffed and returned to her equations, muttering something about how at least her solution had a chance of success.
Two days later, George burst into Severus’s laboratory, his signature shit eating grin plastered across his face and two envelopes clutched in his hands. The scent of brewing potions and herbs filled the air, but George, as always, seemed oblivious to the ambiance—or to the clear do not disturb atmosphere Severus exuded.
“Good news, Snape!” George declared, tossing one of the letters onto the workbench, narrowly avoiding a flask of bubbling purple liquid.
Severus scowled, setting down his stirring rod and glaring at the offending envelope as though it might explode. “Good news for whom, precisely?”
“For science! Or love. Maybe both.” George smiled, waving the second envelope dramatically. “I wrote to Hermione, pretending to be a wizard named Ferdinand Featherbottom. Told her I was interested in courting her and filled out her questionnaire. Just to see how well we’re matched, of course.”
Severus snorted, leaning back against the bench with crossed arms. “You’re a fool, Weasley. What do you expect to gain from this absurd charade?”
“Oh, I’m glad you think it’s absurd,” George said cheerfully, flipping the other envelope in his hand. “Because you’ll be joining me.”
Severus straightened, his expression darkening. “ What? ”
“You heard me,” George said, tossing the second envelope onto the table. “Meet Victor Thorne, a charming, mysterious wizard who will also be vying for Hermione’s attention. That’s you, by the way.”
Severus fixed him with a withering stare. “Absolutely not. I refuse to participate in this farcical exercise.”
“Too bad,” George said with a shrug, undeterred. “Consider it a mandatory work bonding activity.”
“I would rather endure a cauldron explosion than indulge in your juvenile games,” Severus replied icily, turning back to his potion as if the conversation was over.
“Come on, Snape,” George persisted, pulling up a stool and planting himself at the workbench. “For all we know, you could be Hermione’s one true love.”
Severus froze for a fraction of a second before turning his sharp gaze back to George. “Better you than me.”
George grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Oh, don’t be so sure. She did mention your name a couple of times when she was ranting about her date the other day. Mostly in the context of you being insufferable and uncaring about her feelings, but hey, that’s practically a term of endearment coming from her.”
Severus scowled, his jaw tightening. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s genius,” George countered. “Think of it as an experiment. You’re always preaching about research and observation, aren’t you? Well, let’s see how the mighty Victor Thorne fares against Ferdinand Featherbottom. Who knows? You might surprise yourself.”
Severus picked up the envelope with a long-suffering sigh, looking at it as though it had personally offended him. “If I agree to this nonsense, will you leave me in peace?”
“Of course,” George said, his grin widening. “For now, anyway. But don’t get too comfortable—I’ll be back to compare notes once Hermione starts replying.”
With that, George sauntered out of the laboratory, leaving Severus to glower at the envelope and curse the day he ever agreed to work for Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.
Scowling, Severus Snape sat in his dimly lit lab, the questionnaire sprawled in front of him. It was far too personal. Inane questions about his favorite color, his shoe size, his preferred type of tea—ridiculous, frivolous nonsense. He couldn’t fathom how Hermione Granger, of all people, thought such questions had any place in a serious compatibility test. It was a mockery, and yet here he was, staring at it in frustration.
"This is absurd," he muttered to himself, glaring at the list of questions as if they might bite back. How could anyone with an ounce of intelligence ask such trite, meaningless things? And yet, as he flipped through more of the pages, it became clear the questions were only getting worse.
There were questions about philosophy— “What is your stance on the role of free will versus determinism?” —which was borderline tolerable, even interesting, if not for the fact that he didn’t have time for such idealistic, whimsical notions in his life. There were others that veered into ethics, with queries like “Is it ever acceptable to lie for the greater good?” which left him wondering whether Granger had taken to reading too many Muggle philosophy books or simply believed every wizard needed to answer questions like this before daring to interact with another human being.
And then, the questions took a turn for the worse.
“If you were given the power to change one thing in the world, what would it be and why?”
Severus stared at it, feeling a flicker of bitterness rise in his chest. What could he possibly answer that wouldn’t make him sound like a man haunted by regrets? He quickly moved past it, hoping for something less… personal.
But no, the next question was worse:
“If you could rewrite history, what moment would you change and what would be the consequences?”
It felt too close. Too real. He grimaced, wishing for the comfortable numbness of potion-making or the isolation of his study.
The next series of questions, however, were even stranger— “Which would you prefer: the pursuit of knowledge at all costs, or living a life of simple happiness? Why?” followed by “Do you believe the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few?” They were becoming less about compatibility and more like a test of his very character, as though Granger thought this was some kind of moral tribunal.
Severus ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. What kind of absurd exercise was this? What was she trying to do with this?
But then it hit him.
If it was a joke, if this questionnaire wasn’t real, if it was just an experiment to see how far people would go for her entertainment—then it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t work. No one could possibly answer all these questions seriously and expect a relationship to blossom from it.
So why not just finish it?
If it was all destined to fail, as he suspected, then it didn’t matter what he wrote. With a gruff sigh, he set the quill to parchment and started answering. But the further he went, the stranger and lengthier the responses became. Hermione Granger had somehow turned a silly matchmaking questionnaire into a labyrinth of introspection. By the time he reached the final few questions, it had become clear that he was less filling out a questionnaire for a date, and more pouring out the tangled, messy, complicated thoughts of his very soul.
“What is the greatest personal sacrifice you have ever made?”
Severus paused. There were too many moments, too many choices, too many regrets to choose from. But he wasn’t sure he was ready to admit any of them, not even to the puzzle Granger had so carefully laid out before him.
By the time he was finished, the answers felt like a confession, a shedding of layers he hadn’t intended to reveal. A part of him couldn’t help but wonder if Hermione truly wanted to know the answers to these questions—or was she simply setting a trap, hoping to expose something in him he didn’t even know was there?
With a sigh, Severus placed the quill down and took a step back, staring at the parchment. He had completed the questionnaire, but he wasn’t sure he felt any more “compatible” with Hermione Granger. Instead, he felt… exposed.
"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, staring at the page. "What have I gotten myself into?"