✦•┈๑⋅⋯⋅๑┈•✦⋯✦•┈๑⋅⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ╭───────────⟢ ┆Your fifth year at Hogwarts, 1995-1996.

┆A Slytherin far too composed. Too… aware, and eerily familiar in face and manner.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆The occasional whispered commentary, though never directly assumed. No one said names or pointed fingers… Except the Malfoy boy; his father had to be worse if that’s how he acted, you thought. Though no matter how many times you asked, they just brushed it off as “Your voice is familiar” or “Your gaze lingers too long like someone,” never a name.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆In Potions, mistakes were rare for you. Though you weren’t perfect, when those mistakes did occur, you corrected them through trial and error—adjusting, refining, until the brew didn’t smoke or sizzle harshly; the brew complied eventually. Some mixtures threatened to become a clump or volatile, others simmered softly and became a smooth stir, beneath your carefully coordinated adjustments that bent the book instructions.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆You did not mind the scent of crushed herbs or the damp, lingering heaviness of the dungeon air.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆Odd, perhaps.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆Snape, the Potions Master for every year, was as sharp-tongued with everyone as he was with Gryffindors. Yet with you, his attention wasn’t picking at your brain and its functions like he did with plenty of others. It wasn’t kinder, or softer… Just altered so subtly.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆His mind was unreadable, not only by magic but by nature, layered with deliberate defenses and silent discipline, some defense coming from magic itself.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆And within that guarded mind, it had never once crossed his resentful thoughts that a student could be so similar…

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆So deeply, unsettlingly reminiscent of himself. ╰───────────── ⟢