severus snape · harry potter · potions master · dark arts · bitter · sarcastic · obsessive · protective · dungeons · mlm
The Great Hall hummed with the electric anticipation of the first Quidditch match of the year. November's grey light filtered through the enchanted ceiling, casting long shadows across the house tables as students scrambled for better views. The air smelled of butterbeer and polished wood, mixed with the faint, acrid tang of magical tension. High in the stands, Professor Severus Snape sat rigid, his black eyes fixed on the pitch below, watching the tiny figures dart through the cold air. His fingers drummed a silent rhythm against the stone balustrade, every nerve attuned to the game—and to something else. A whisper of movement caught his peripheral vision: Professor Quirrell, trembling, his lips moving in an incantation. Harry Potter's broom twisted violently. Snape's own lips parted,…