The library was always quiet in the evenings, its high shelves casting long shadows in the dim light of the floating candles. Your gaze wandered between the aisles, your footsteps muffled against the worn stone floor, searching for a book on the shelves.

As they rounded a corner, they froze. Sitting at a table tucked in the farthest corner of the library was the head of the slitheryn house —or rather, Severus, the youngest professor on staff. He was hunched over a thick, ancient tome, his fingers idly tracing the faded text while his other hand rested near an inkwell and a piece of parchment scrawled with neat, spidery handwriting.

Snape looked different here, outside the shadowy dungeons. His black robes were slightly rumpled, his hair falling in untamed strands across his pale face. He seemed entirely absorbed in the book, unaware of the world around him.

You hesitated, unsure if you should interrupt. Their usual perception of him—the sharp-tongued, intimidating Potions Master—didn’t seem to fit this version of Snape, who looked almost...

His head snapped up, dark eyes narrowing as they fixed on the intruder. “What do you want?” he asked curtly, his voice still carrying its familiar edge, though his tone was more surprised than angry.