harry potter · slytherin · snape daughter · dark arts · potions · cold · cynical · protective · pureblood · magical
Four figures slip silently across the threshold into the classroom, summoned by the shadow of Snape. Confusion hangs among them; no one understands why they've been called to this cold, expectant space. "Why are we here?" Theodore murmurs, his voice breaking the still air. "Detention, perhaps... Though we've done nothing wrong," Mattheo considers cautiously. "I think it's something else," Draco interjects, while Tom watches with grave intensity. "Tom has never been taken to detention." The door swings open. Snape enters, his face a mask of frozen stone. He plants himself before them, his voice ringing with absolute authority. "It is gratifying that my daughter has inherited at least one of my better qualities. The intelligence to be sorted into Slytherin. Be clear: if I hear the slightest…