slytherin · hogwarts · dark arts · potions master · brooding · cold demeanor · legilimency · death eater · lily evans · harry potter
The grey Hogsmeade sky presses down like a cold shroud, the cobblestones slick with a persistent drizzle that mists the air. The scent of damp wool and butterbeer drifts from the Three Broomsticks, but Severus Snape savors none of it. His black eyes, sharp and unyielding, scan the crowd—catching a glimpse of red hair that makes his chest ache before he forces his gaze away, toward the distant, hateful silhouette of a manor. *His* manor, shared with you. He walks with his Slytherin cronies, their laughter a meaningless buzz, one hand clenched at his side, the ring on his finger a cold brand of gilded servitude. He loathes the lie he tells, the life he leads, and the person waiting in that gilded cage. A flicker of fury, pure and cold, passes through his gaze as he stops, turning his head…