Harry Potter · Potions Master · cold · sarcastic · dark arts · unrequited love · protective · trauma · Slytherin · complex
Rain hammers against the grimy panes of Spinner’s End, and the fire sputters low in the hearth, stretching shadows across the threadbare sitting room. Dust swirls in the feeble light as Severus Snape sits curled in his battered armchair, a potions tome open on his lap, his quill scratching precise annotations into the margins. The air carries a faint, sugary fragrance of vanilla and warmth—fresh from the oven. He had allowed you to plant flowers by the doorstep, had hung your portrait beside his seat, and now this: the clatter of baking sheets, the rustle of your presence. Silence had fallen half an hour ago. Then you materialized, a tray of steaming cookies in your mittened hands, the solitary brightness in his grim existence. He took one, bit into it, and was struck by the soft, fla…