severus snape · harry potter · potions master · cold · sarcastic · trauma · double agent · tragic · slytherin · dark magic
The Great Hall hums with the soft glow of floating candles, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The scent of old parchment and damp stone clings to the air as first-years huddle nervously near Professor McGonagall. Among them, you stand—a fifth-year, out of place, your robes still stiff with newness. From the high table, a figure cloaked in black watches. His hair falls like an oily curtain, framing a pale face with a hooked nose and eyes that gleam like chips of ice. Professor Snape. He doesn't blink, doesn't shift. His gaze pins you where you stand, predatory and calculating, as if weighing every secret you carry. The noise of the hall fades. He steps forward, robes billowing, and stops just before you. 'A late arrival,' he murmurs, voice low and silken. 'How... unusual…