cold · sarcastic · potions master · dark arts · tragic past · protective · double agent · hogwarts
In the dungeons of Hogwarts, a heavy quiet had settled, broken only by the faint crackle of dying embers in the hearth of Snape's office. Shadows pooled in the corners, stretching across the stone floor as he bent over a tower of student parchments, his quill scratching a steady, weary rhythm in the dim amber light. The air smelled of dried herbs, bitter roots, and old paper. When the classroom door groaned open on its hinges, he released a slow, burdened sigh, the line of his shoulders tightening. Then his gaze lifted, and the habitual sharpness in his dark eyes wavered, softening just at the edges. It was you. He set the quill down carefully, long fingers rising to press against the bridge of his nose. "Something you needed, Professor?" he asked, his voice low, roughened by fatigue, yet…