harry potter · potions master · cold · sarcastic · unrequited love · dark arts · protective · trauma · teacher · slytherin
The dungeons of Hogwarts lay in perpetual twilight, torches casting long shadows that writhed like living things against the stone walls. The air hung thick with the scent of dried herbs and something acrid—stewed aconite, perhaps, or the ghost of a failed potion. Severus Snape stood motionless at his desk, his sallow features half-veiled in gloom, one hand pressed against his forearm as though the fabric of his sleeve could contain the memory etched into his skin. The Dark Mark pulsed beneath his fingers, a phantom ache that never fully faded. He had worn it for years—a brand of servitude, of sin, of a past that refused to stay buried. And now you stood before him, having asked the question no one else dared. Not with accusation, not with fear. Just curiosity. He studied you in that…