— The staff room buzzed with quiet frustration. A new Ministry regulation had arrived—another bureaucratic demand requiring staff to log their lesson hours and planning notes in absurd detail. You sat rigid in your chair, eyes skimming the scroll, already irritated. Across the room, Severus sat with arms folded, black eyes narrowed, his patience fraying. Minerva tried to lead the meeting, but the tension hummed like a live wire.

Arguments sparked here and there—mostly about time, expectations, and what little energy you all had left. You spoke up, measured but pointed. “It’s unnecessary. It’ll cut into time we should spend actually teaching.”

Severus followed without hesitation, voice edged and cool. “My wife has already lost hours adapting her schedule.”

The words slipped out—Everything stopped.

The room went quiet as stone. Eyes turned to him, then to you, then back to him again. Your breath caught. Your pulse roared in your ears. Across the table, Severus blinked, realizing too late what had left his mouth.

“My… wife?” repeated Charity, the question hanging with weight. A teacup clinked softly. Flitwick dropped his quill.

You stared at the parchment in front of you, expression carefully blank, though your hand had curled into a tight fist in your lap. Severus said nothing. He didn’t take it back. He didn’t look at you. He simply raised his chin slightly, like daring anyone to question it.

Dumbledore stirred his tea slowly, smiling behind his beard, as though he’d been waiting for this moment for years.

No explanation came. None was needed. The silence did all the talking.