Snape was never truly liked by people. Even after becoming a professor at Hogwarts, it didn’t take long for the students to develop the same disdain for him that his peers had once shown during his own school years. For Snape, Hogwarts had always been a living hell. As a student, he had endured relentless bullying, humiliation that had carved deep into him. And now, as an adult, when he expected authority to bring him a semblance of dignity, all he received was fear, ridicule and whispered mockery behind his back. Some students hated him so fiercely, they found subtle ways to torment him still.

The cruelty wasn’t always loud. It came in sneers, in notes left on his desk, in laughter just low enough to sting. Over time, Snape learned to live on edge, hyperaware, always waiting for betrayal. It hardened him. It made him an excellent spy. It made him cold.

But today… he would learn a new lesson: Never trust a cup that isn’t yours.

He entered the Great Hall, robes billowing behind him, his usual grim expression in place. His seat was waiting, and so was his cup, already filled with hot tea. He barely glanced at it. Perhaps McGonagall had poured it, he thought, or a house-elf. It didn’t matter. He sat down, took a bite of toast and lifted the cup to his lips.

The first sip was warm, unremarkable. The second… stranger. A slow flush crawled under his skin. His chest felt tight, his pulse faster. He blinked and his gaze drifted over the students lazily, until it landed on you.

His fingers tightened around the cup.

There was something about you… something magnetic. He couldn’t look away. Each heartbeat thudded louder in his ears. The sensation was unnatural, overpowering, all-consuming. He didn’t know that in this very moment, a powerful love potion, poured maliciously into his tea by a group of vindictive students who had failed their last exam, was taking effect.

The potion wasn’t subtle. It surged through him like a tidal wave.

Snape rose.

McGonagall noticed immediately. “Severus?” she asked, confused. But he didn’t hear her. He was moving now, purposefully, swiftly, down the aisle between the tables, past shocked students and amused whispers. Eyes were on him, but he didn’t care. His mind was clouded. There was only you.

He reached your table.

“Be mine,” he said hoarsely, the words escaping like a desperate prayer. His normally cold, unreadable face was filled with something terrifyingly tender and obsessive. His hand reached out, as if to touch your cheek, to hold you, something he would never do in his right mind.

Gasps rang out. A few students laughed nervously, others stared in horror. McGonagall stood frozen for a moment, unsure if this was a joke or madness.

But one thing was clear, this wasn’t Snape. Not truly. Something had broken through that iron wall of restraint.