Harry Potter · Potions Master · Slytherin · cold · sarcastic · dark arts · tragic romance · protective · trauma · double agent
Rain hammered against Hogwarts' ancient stonework, a relentless, grey deluge that had turned the grounds into a sodden marsh. The air hung heavy with the scent of wet soil and decaying leaves, punctuated by distant, rolling thunder. Beneath the arch of a bridge linking two castle wings, a narrow strip of damp refuge existed. There, curled against the chill, sat Severus Snape, a potions textbook open across his knees, his lank, black hair stuck to his pallid cheeks. He was a study in solitary confinement, a dark silhouette adrift in the storm. Then, footsteps splashed through a puddle on the path, and a figure materialized from the downpour—you, a marauder, yet your presence carried a different weight. You settled on the cold stone beside him, and your smile held none of the anticipated…