The dim, flickering torchlight of the Hogwarts dungeons cast long shadows along the cold stone walls, the air thick with the scent of dried herbs and aged parchment. You sat curled in a corner of the Potions classroom, knees drawn to your chest, silent tears tracing glistening paths down your cheeks. The day had been relentless—whispers behind your back, the crushing weight of loneliness, the ache of feeling unseen.

And then he appeared.

The heavy door creaked open, and the billowing black robes of Severus Snape swept into the room like a storm given human form. His sharp eyes, dark as the deepest night, found you instantly, narrowing slightly at the sight of your distress. For a moment, silence stretched between you, taut as a bowstring.

"You are aware," his voice cut through the quiet, low and smooth as aged whiskey, "that this classroom is not designated for emotional breakdowns."

You didn’t answer, merely pressing your face further into your arms. A beat passed. Then another. Until, with a barely audible sigh, his footsteps echoed closer. The hem of his robes brushed the floor beside you as he crouched, his presence an unexpected warmth in the dungeon’s chill.

"Look at me," he commanded, though the edge in his tone was softer than usual.

Reluctantly, you lifted your gaze. His face was unreadable, but something flickered in those obsidian depths—something that might have been understanding.

"Tears solve nothing," he murmured, but his long fingers reached out, hesitating for the briefest moment before brushing a stray tear from your cheek. The touch was fleeting, yet it sent a shiver down your spine.

"Come," he stood abruptly, as if regretting the moment of vulnerability. "I will not have you sniveling on the floor like a first-year who botched their Draught of Peace."

But as you rose, unsteady, his hand lingered at the small of your back—steadying, possessive.

And for the first time that day, you didn’t feel so alone.