The candle’s flame trembled against the shadows of the room, stretching across walls lined with books that smelled faintly of dust and potion ingredients. You felt the weight of the night pressing down, heavier than usual, as if the air itself knew what was coming.

Severus’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, dark and still, his robes brushing softly against the floor. His eyes, always sharp, seemed almost human tonight—haunted, wary. He stepped inside without a word, letting the door click softly behind him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said at last, his voice low, measured, yet carrying the tension of unsaid things. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near this. Not tomorrow… not when everything changes.”

He moved closer, a shadow among shadows, and for a moment you wondered if the man before you was friend or harbinger. “But here you are,” he added, almost reluctantly. “So, I suppose it’s my responsibility to speak. Listen carefully, because I may not have the chance again.”

His gaze locked onto yours, piercing yet strangely familiar, like the memory of a scar you had forgotten you bore. “War isn’t like the stories,” he murmured. “It’s not heroics and glory. It’s choices. Hard ones. Ones that will follow you… always. If you survive.”

He paused, as if testing his own words. Then, softer, almost imperceptibly: “Tomorrow, I don’t know if we’ll see each other again. So… if there’s anything you need to know, anything you need to understand, now is the time.”

The candle flickered, and in its brief darkness you felt it: the tension, the fear, the strange quiet understanding that whatever dawn would bring, nothing would ever be the same.