Jon – 11:48 PM, Hogwarts Grounds
Snow crunched beneath our boots as we slipped from the shadows of the castle into the velvet black of Christmas night. The castle slept behind us—spires like frozen claws reaching toward the stars, lights dimmed, secrets silent.
We weren't dressed like wizards tonight. Jeans, boots, black shirts under leather jackets, and racing gloves that hugged our fingers like promises. We were Muggles tonight. Or something close. Not a wand in sight—just steel, speed, and rebellion.
"Step quiet," I muttered, tugging my coat tighter. "Filch is still lurking around with that damned cat."
Snape rolled his eyes. "That thing is more nosy than a Ministry intern."
We cut through the hidden passageway behind the tapestry near the fourth-floor armor gallery. A forgotten tunnel—a smooth, sloping path once used to smuggle contraband from Hogsmeade. Our breath fogged the air as we emerged behind the back wall of Zonko's Joke Shop, now dark and snow-covered.
Then I pulled the tarp.
Severus froze.
"...Bloody hell."
Beneath the tarp sat two beasts of metal and menace: a candy-apple red Jaguar XJ220—sleek, low, deadly—and a matte black Aston Martin DBS 1987, polished like obsidian, its curves whispering murder and class in the same breath.
He stepped closer.
"Jaguar XJ220. V6 twin-turbo. Top speed 212 miles per hour. Rear-wheel drive. Six-speed manual. This thing eats Ferraris for breakfast." His fingers ran across the fender like it was silk. "And this..." He turned to the DBS. "V8. Handcrafted. A relic of precision. The last great Aston before they sold their soul to design committees."
I tossed him a set of keys. "Pick your poison, Professor."
Snape caught them midair. Smirked.
"Jaguar. You take the DBS. Don't scratch it."
"Don't die trying to race me."
He slid into the Jaguar like he belonged there. A black leather coat against black leather seats. The engine roared to life, a growl that vibrated through my bones. I got into the DBS, started it with a purr that whispered promises of trouble.
We were off.
Severus – 12:30 AM, Scottish Motorway
The road curved like a lover beneath my tires. I hadn't driven professionally in years expect the first encounter with Jon—not since police chase in 1987 when I jumped a toll booth and disappeared under London.
But driving was like spellwork. Rhythm. Reaction. Control. Just like making a potion, one wrong move and you are dead.
Jon's Aston Martin stayed close, headlights gleaming like wolf eyes in my mirrors.
He came on the comm. "You're not bad for an old man."
"I haven't even shifted into fourth, you insufferable brat."
I pressed the accelerator. The engine responded with a scream.
Jon – 1:15 AM, North of London
We hit the edge of Muggle London, slipped off the M1. The city lights were a living thing—glowing, blinking, beckoning us forward.
"Ready to have some fun?" I radioed.
Snape: "Define 'fun.'"
I shifted gears. "You'll see."
We slid into London like shadows.
Severus – 1:30 AM, London Core
It began like a whisper and swelled into a war cry.
I heard the sirens building behind me—the shrill, desperate scream of law enforcement realizing they were chasing something they couldn't quite catch. Jon was close behind, but I took the lead. I needed to be free, to let go.
The Jaguar was a blade, slicing through the night. I wore the road like a second skin.
"Where the hell are you going?" Jon called through the comms.
"Into history."
I took a tight corner into Soho. Street lights flashed over the windscreen, painting me in golden blurs. I downshifted, let the back end swing wide, and drifted perfectly between a phone booth and a cafe terrace—sending a stack of holiday menus flying.
Gasps. Laughter. Screams. Cameras. Applause.
Two Muggle women in red coats on the corner cheered. One even threw her hand in a V-sign, her mouth shaped around a naughty compliment.
I gave her a wink as I shot by. Jon's voice crackled in disbelief.
"Did you just flirt mid-drift?"
"She was charming. Unlike your concern."
"I'm concerned you're about to turn this into a Bond movie!"
Jon – 1:35 AM, Covent Garden
He was a lunatic. A madman. A... damn poet with a steering wheel.
I watched from behind as Severus launched into a hairpin turn, narrowly avoiding a row of taxis and sweeping the Jaguar sideways through a double-decker bus and an alley barely wide enough for a motorbike.
The man tilted his head at the corner, like it was an insult.
Then he blew past a police blockade.
"How is this happening?" I muttered. "How is Snape... the greasiest, grumpiest git at Hogwarts... a car god?"
Severus – 1:40 AM, Victoria Embankment
A helicopter spotlight swept overhead.
I slid the Jag around a median and burst through holiday barricades. Sleigh lights and tinsel exploded in a shower behind me. The noise was deafening. My pulse? Dead calm.
Two officers on motorcycles joined the chase. One tried to overtake me. I nudged him with a well-timed mirror tap—he spun out harmlessly, shouting in fury.
I smiled. "Don't challenge a driver with nothing to lose."
I spotted a group of clubgoers spilling out of a high-end bar. Four women—dressed for mischief, coats off, heels on. They turned at the sound.
I drifted the Jaguar in a full 360 spin across the wet asphalt around them. Water flew like a fountain around me. I stopped just shy of the curb. The girls screamed.
"Ladies," I said through the open window, charming.
They swooned. Literally. One fainted into another's arms.
"Call me," said the tallest one, holding up a phone with a sultry wink.
"Later, ladies" I promised. "Priorities."
I peeled away, rubber streaking the road.
Jon – 1:42 AM, Behind the Chaos
I slammed the steering wheel and howled with laughter.
"What—WHAT WAS THAT?! You just made 6 women fall in love in twelve seconds! You're not a professor—you're witchcraft with horsepower!"
He responded, smooth as butter:
"Potion masters know a thing or two about chemistry."
Another cruiser spun out trying to mimic his drift.
"Oh my God. You're going to kill me. And I'm going to die jealous."
Severus – 1:45 AM, Mayfair Backstreets
I took a hard right and slid down a cobbled alley, barely wide enough to breathe. A police van skidded in pursuit—but clipped a dumpster and flipped into a fruit cart.
Jon swore in the comms. "That could've been me!"
I grinned. "I trust your reflexes. Barely."
"SEVEN units are on us!" he shouted.
"Not for long."
I punched the gas and jumped a short construction ramp, landing in the middle of a Christmas market. I ducked past twinkling lights, dodged reindeer statues, and burst out the other side onto a main road—leaving shattered baubles and stunned onlookers in my wake.
Jon – 1:48 AM, Charing Cross
Snape's Jaguar disappeared into the distance like a black comet.
He was gone.
Then a cheer erupted ahead.
He reappeared, spinning out of an alley with a trail of sparkles still flying from his tires. A woman literally dropped her drink.
"This's not real," I muttered. "This is a fever dream. Snape is flirting, drifting, and redefining cool all at once."
Severus – 1:50 AM, Waterloo Tunnel
The heat was still behind us. Helicopter above, roadblock ahead.
"I've got a plan," I told Jon.
"Oh, good. That never goes wrong."
We split. I went down. An old freight tunnel entrance—sealed to the public.
I blew the doors open with raw magic through the steering wheel. Not subtle—but no one saw.
The tunnel was narrow. Wet. Echoing. I drove blind.
It was perfect.
The sound of the engine filled the world. My world. One of chaos, steel, noise, and speed.
And then... silence. We emerged two miles away. The police had no idea where we'd gone.
Jon – 2:00 AM, Camden Garage
He pulled into the shadows like a ghost, engine purring like nothing ever happened. I followed.
We parked. Sat in stunned silence. Then I looked over.
He was already checking his hair in the mirror. It was... perfect.
"You flirted, destroyed six police vehicles, a fucking chopper, embarrassed the entire Met, and came out looking like you stepped out of a bloody fashion magazine."
Snape raised a brow. "What? I had a good night."
"Remind me never to underestimate you again."
"You needed reminding?"
I shook my head.
He raised his flask.
"To wild rides and wicked reputations."
"To whatever the hell you just were out there."
The city had finally spat us out.
In our rearview mirrors, London glowed like an ember we had just stoked to flame and left smoldering behind. Now, the countryside opened before us like a midnight painting—rolling hills, wind-brushed fields, and a winding ribbon of asphalt that dared us to coast.
The adrenaline from the police chase still shimmered faintly in my bones, but it was a welcome hum now. Not chaos—control.
I glanced to my left. Jon was leaning comfortably back in the Aston Martin, one arm hanging out of the open window, hair tousled, face lit only by the faint glow of dashboard lights and stars above.
He smirked. "No more choppers, no more screeching. Just us and the asphalt, old man."
"You're the one who nearly drove into a fruit cart."
"You did a full flirtation and made women faint. Don't even."
I chuckled. It felt... strange. Easy. My face had practiced stoicism for so long that this rare muscle movement felt like magic in itself.
An hour passed in serene silence. Just the low purr of our engines and the moon following us like a loyal owl.
We pulled over on a cliffside turnabout, engines off, the quiet wrapping around us like a warm coat.
Jon jumped out first, dragging a cooler from his trunk.
"Beer?"
"Cigar?" I offered back, revealing a slim silver case from my coat.
We exchanged like seasoned outlaws. Two beers cracked open, two cigars lit like ceremonial offerings to the night gods.
We sat on the hood of the Jaguar, boots up, backs against the windshield.
The countryside lay before us in quiet reverence.
"This," Jon murmured, puffing lightly, "is peace."
"This," I replied, "is earned."
We drank slowly. Talked nonsense. Debated things like whether ghosts were technically freeloaders or tenants, and if centaurs had taxes. Jon, being Muggle-born, launched into a whole rant about how magical society seriously lacked proper appliance innovation.
"I'm telling you, man," he insisted, puffing on his cigar, "a magical fridge that doesn't need enchantments every other week would change everything."
"You want self-cleaning cauldrons, but you're still impressed by dishwashers."
"Hey, have you ever unloaded a Muggle dishwasher without getting blasted by hot steam in the face? It's like a training simulation for dueling."
I confessed that I once hexed a Muggle microwave because it kept making a noise I didn't understand.
He nearly choked on his drink. "You dueled a microwave?"
"It was persistent."
"And you call me the idiot."
We were laughing so hard our sides hurt.
After another round, I took a slow sip and looked toward the stars. "I've been thinking… tomorrow… I might ask Diana to lunch."
Jon immediately stopped mid-sip and turned. "Wait. What? You're gonna ask her out?"
I cleared my throat. "Yes. Well. Possibly. In theory."
Jon's grin grew wider. "Oh, this is gonna be fun. We're making a plan."
I raised an eyebrow. "You've had four beers."
"Exactly. Which makes me dangerously creative."
"Why does that sound like a threat?"
"Because it is."
So we began plotting.
We sketched out a completely idiotic proposal strategy on a napkin, and Jon dug from the glove compartment. It involved flower delivery owls, a staged potion accident in her bookshop, and my 'accidentally' saving her while quoting Shakespeare.
"She'll either kiss you or kill you," Jon declared.
"That's the usual response to my presence."
We went on for an hour. Every time I tried to be realistic, Jon dialed it up. He suggested enchanted chocolates that whispered compliments in her ear. He drew a diagram that showed me kneeling in the middle of a Muggle bookstore aisle holding a single quill.
"It's symbolic," he said.
"It's psychotic," I replied.
"Tomato, tom-ah-to."
As the fire in the sky deepened toward blue, Jon exhaled slowly and said, "You know, no one's ever going to believe this happened."
"Which part? The chase? The beers? The emotional counseling?"
"That the strict and stoic Potions Professor is the fantasy of modern women when he drives a car."
I turned to him, grinning wickedly. "Let them doubt. Fantasy is always more powerful when it's unbelievable."
Jon stared at me in stunned silence, then burst out laughing. "You practiced that line, didn't you?"
"Every morning in the mirror."
He raised a beer. "To tomorrow. To chaos. And to Diana."
I clinked his bottle. "To the madness of men in love."
And with that, we leaned back on the hood of the Jaguar, the stars overhead twinkling like spectators.