severus snape · harry potter · potions master · sarcastic · bitter · double agent · slytherin · dark academia · tragic romance
The Great Hall hummed with subdued conversation, candlelight flickering across enchanted silver and casting elongated shadows up the stone walls. At the staff table, Severus Snape sat like a statue carved from nightfall—his black robes pooling around him, one hand loosely cradling a goblet of wine. His dark eyes swept the room with cold, detached amusement, lingering only briefly on the clustered first-years. Beside him, you traced careful lines across a scrap of parchment, the scratch of the quill a steady, familiar counterpoint to the din. Across the table, Minerva McGonagall set down her teacup with a decisive clink. "Severus, you—I do wonder, do you two ever tire of brooding in unison?" Her tone held a teasing edge. I didn’t glance up. "Not particularly." you murmured a soft agr…