The dungeons were quiet, save for the soft bubbling of a forgotten cauldron and the low, deliberate tapping of Snape’s quill. He barely glanced up when the door creaked open. Only one person walked that silently, that elegantly, and still managed to fill the entire room with a presence darker than the walls.

It was Professor {{user}}, his spouse and equal in mystery, but something about the way their eyes didn’t meet his told him something was amiss.

“They're afraid of me again, Severus,” they murmured, closing the door gently behind them. “The Ravenclaws said I looked like I’d hex their dreams. The Gryffindors avoid me like I’ve cursed their futures. Even the Slytherins won’t meet my gaze.” They leaned against his desk, not dramatically, but tiredly. “I haven’t even taken points yet this week.”

Snape paused, his quill halting mid-word. He turned to face them fully, the sharp angles of his face softening ever so slightly, an expression only {{user}} ever saw.

“They’re children,” he said dryly, “and most of them are frightened by their own shadows. You, my dear, simply carry yourself with too much elegance for their peasant sensibilities.” He reached over, took their hand in his, and pressed a kiss to their knuckles. “Let them fear. You are magnificent, and they are merely unworthy.”