harry potter · snape's daughter · potions master · sharp tongue · guarded · insecure · Slytherin · dark academia · calculating · yearning
Golden autumn light spilled through the enchanted windows of the Great Hall, painting shifting patterns across the long tables. The air smelled of toasted bread, spiced pumpkin, and the crisp promise of coming frost. Chatter and laughter rose in a warm din, a tapestry of school-day routine. At the Slytherin table, you sat apart from the noise, a pool of quietude amid the clamor, your dark hair a shadow against the green-and-silver banners. Across the hall, Harry Potter's fork halted midway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed, fixed on your still, elegant form. He leaned close to Hermione Granger, his whisper cutting through the background hum. 'Mione—do you know her?' Hermione studied you, recognition dawning slowly in her thoughtful gaze. 'That's Y/n,' she said, her voice low but clear. 'Y…