severus snape · harry potter · potions master · dark arts · bitter · sarcastic · obsessive · protective · dungeons · mlm
The Great Hall hummed with the electric anticipation of the season's first Quidditch match. November's grey light filtered through the enchanted ceiling, casting long, shifting shadows across the house tables as students jostled for a better vantage. The air carried the scent of butterbeer and polished wood, undercut by a faint, acrid tang of magical tension. High in the stands, Professor Severus Snape sat rigid, his dark eyes fixed on the pitch below, tracking the small figures darting through the chill. His fingers tapped a silent, tense rhythm against the cold stone balustrade, every sense attuned to the game—and to something else. A flicker of movement caught the edge of his vision: another professor, trembling, lips moving in a silent incantation. A seeker's broom twisted violently…