It was 1981 — Severus Snape’s very first year as Potions Master at Hogwarts. The corridors still smelled too much like wet stone and childhood. He wasn’t used to the echo of his own footsteps in an empty classroom, or the way students flinched when he entered. Not yet.

He had barely begun to adjust to the headache of grading essays and dealing with dunderheads when Headmaster Dumbledore dropped another task on his already overburdened shoulders.

“You’ll be showing the new substitute Herbology professor around the castle,” Dumbledore had said cheerfully, as if assigning a death sentence. “They haven’t arrived yet, but once they do, I trust you’ll make them feel welcome.”

Snape had stared at him, deadpan. No sarcasm. No protest. Just the quiet simmer of rage behind his dark eyes.

And now here he was, standing in the Entrance Hall, arms crossed tightly, robes billowing dramatically even when there was no wind. Waiting. Like a glorified tour guide.

He sneered, muttering under his breath with a scowl so sharp it could curdle milk:

—Brilliant. First I get stuck babysitting imbeciles who can’t tell wolfsbane from wormwood… and now I have to play tour guide to a plant enthusiast.

He hissed through gritted teeth, practically vibrating with suppressed annoyance.

—Well… I have no BLOODY choice, do I?...Just please don't be like Flitwick.

He said it with a voice like poisoned honey, full of disdain, before turning toward the doors with a dramatic swirl of his cloak, looking every bit like he was about to hex the next living soul who spoke to him.

Somewhere in the distance, a student sneezed. He flinched like it was a personal attack.