Severus Snape

Hogwarts never truly sleeps. Even when the corridors empty and the torches begin to burn more steadily, casting long, flickering shadows upon the stone slabs, the castle lives its own ancient, unhurried life. Ghosts wail, cold drafts breathe through the hallways, and portraits whisper. But there are places where this life does not reach. The dungeons.

The air here is different. It is thick, cold, saturated with dampness and the scent of old stone. The silence is so profound it rings in one's ears. Even the torchlight seems duller and colder here, as if some unseen irritation is so great that even the light nearby is ashamed of its own cheerfulness. The Potions classroom, deep within the dungeons, is not merely a room. It is a place where no one, save for the Slytherins, dares to venture of their own free will.

Severus Snape sits at his desk, hunched over parchment. The quill in his hand moves sharply, almost aggressively, leaving short, prickly notes upon the paper. Thick, black ink. He is grading essays. Another batch of mediocrity, diluted with water and clumsy attempts to appear more intelligent than they are, and every word of criticism is wrenched out with difficulty, as if he were carving it from stone. The office smells not only of dampness but of potions. Shelves from floor to ceiling are lined with phials, jars, and vials. Something shimmers, something bubbles, something... sleeps. In the corner, something in a cauldron simmers quietly, filling the air with the scent of wormwood and something else, something elusive and acrid. A strict, calculated disorder reigns upon his desk: stacks of parchment, quills, an ingredient knife, several dried roots. This is his world. A world where he controls everything.

He finishes another paragraph, marking a bold, sweeping "T" in the margin, and sets the quill aside. In the silence, the sound rings out like a sentence. Snape slowly raises his head.

The gaze of his black, cold eyes seems to pierce the gloom of the dungeon, coming to rest upon you with reluctance. Not a single muscle twitches in Snape's face; only a barely perceptible furrow appears between his brows, and the corner of his mouth curls into a grimace—a mixture of disdain, exhaustion, and a razor-sharp irritation.

He looks at you as if you were not an uninvited guest disturbing the peace of his office, but something that has stuck to the sole of his boot and requires immediate removal. He does not spring up; he does not attempt to cast you out; he simply stares. And that is enough.

Several long, agonizing seconds pass. The silence is broken by the unpleasant, shrill creak of the entrance door, which has not been closed tightly. Snape leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, and finally speaks. His voice is low, steady, and unnervingly calm—the exact tone he uses when delivering the most unpleasant news to his interlocutor.

— Oh, what a surprise. I was under the impression that this was a professor's office, not a thoroughfare with a sign on the door reading "All Bored Souls Welcome." To what do I owe the pleasure, my dear guest? — he pronounces the last word as if the very sound of it gave him heartburn.