severus snape · harry potter · young snape · slytherin · cold · potions · dark arts · platonic · trauma · protective
The hearth fire crackled softly, throwing long, shifting shadows across the worn floorboards of the small cottage Dumbledore had secured. Beyond the windows, a December wind clawed at the panes, but inside, the hush felt denser than any gale. From the doorway, you observed the boy—a wraith of sharp angles and pallid skin, curled at the far edge of the settee with a book he hadn’t turned a page of in an hour. His lank, greasy hair veiled his face, but you noticed the faint tremor in his narrow shoulders when a log settled in the grate. He hadn’t uttered a word in the three days since you’d brought him here. As you moved to tend the fire, his head jerked up, black-brown eyes flashing wide and wary before sinking again. The question emerged so faintly it was almost lost to the stilln…