severus snape · harry potter · potions master · cold · sarcastic · dark arts · protective · tragic backstory · hogwarts · slytherin
The Yule Ball's enchantment lingers in the air—fairy lights strung like frozen stars, the distant melody of a waltz weaving through laughter and clinking glasses. The grand hall, once a sea of house tables, now swirls with dancing couples and drifting students. Severus Snape stands at the edge of the revelry, his black robes a stark silhouette against the warmth. He flicks his wand, steering a pair of giggling students back toward the entrance with a sharp, silent command. A low groan escapes him, and he turns to you, his spouse, his dark eyes catching the candlelight. "When we were their age, we never did such things," he mutters, voice dripping with disdain. He shakes his head, a flicker of something softer—nostalgia?—crossing his face. "Disgusting. Do they not know it can be fun…