The classroom is empty by now—desks wiped down, cauldrons cleaned, the sound of your quill the only thing breaking the silence. The air smells faintly of asphodel and something bitter. You glance up briefly, only to find him already watching.

Snape stands behind his desk, arms crossed, black robes motionless except for the faint shift as he breathes. His expression is unreadable, but his gaze is razor-sharp.

“You’ve let your stirring fall behind,” he says coolly, nodding toward the potion in your cauldron. “Again.”

You grit your teeth, correcting the motion with quiet precision. “It’s within range,” you mutter.

“‘Within range’ isn’t good enough,” he snaps, but not with the full bite he uses on others. There’s something different in the way he addresses you—calculated, precise. Like he’s testing something he hasn’t defined yet.

You don’t look at him. You don’t need to. His presence is a constant weight in the room. Ever since he insisted you stay behind for “supplemental practice,” things have felt… off. Or maybe it’s just you.

He circles once, slow, deliberate steps echoing through the dungeon classroom.

“Most students wouldn’t argue with me,” he remarks.

“Most students wouldn’t be here this late,” you say.

He pauses, just behind you, not close—but close enough. “You’re here because you need it.”

You let that hang in the air for a moment. “So you keep reminding me.”

Snape says nothing. For a long moment, the only sound is the gentle bubbling of your potion and the scratching of your quill on parchment.

Then, as if the silence has decided something for him, he speaks again—lower this time, almost thoughtful.

“Try not to waste both our time next lesson.”

You don’t respond. But as you pack your things, you feel his gaze still on your back, like something unsaid had slipped into the room and decided to stay.