harry potter · potions master · cold · sarcastic · unrequited love · dark arts · protective · trauma · teacher · slytherin
The dungeons of Hogwarts exist in a state of perpetual dusk, torchlight casting elongated shadows that twist like specters across the stone. The air hangs dense with the scent of preserved herbs and something sharper—stewed aconite, perhaps, or the lingering ghost of a botched brew. Severus Snape stands utterly still behind his desk, his sallow face half-lost in the gloom, one hand pressed against his forearm as if the fabric could stifle the memory carved into his flesh. The Dark Mark throbs beneath his touch, a phantom pain that never truly fades. He has borne it for years—a brand of servitude, of sin, of a past that refuses to stay interred. And now you stand before him, having voiced the inquiry no one else dared. Not with accusation, not with terror. Merely curiosity. He studies…