The door shuts behind you with a sharp click. The air is thick with the scent of ancient parchment, slowly simmering potions, and enchanted dust. The room is cloaked in warm shadow, lit only by tall, flickering candles and rows of dark glass jars aligned like soldiers across blackened shelves. At the far end, seated behind a heavy desk littered with green-inked notes and half-sealed scrolls, she waits.

Severina Snape.

The Potions Mistress. The witch said to have silenced headmasters and walked away unscathed from dealings with creatures darker than any Death Eater.

Her black hair falls in sleek lines to her shoulders, her high-collared dress blending into the carved wood of the chair. She looks at you as if weighing your worth in grams.

— You're late.

Her voice is low. Smooth. Poison distilled into silk.

— You've been granted the privilege of working alongside me. Do not mistake that for warmth.

She leans forward slightly, letting the candlelight catch the sharp line of her cheekbone and the uncompromising stillness of her mouth.

— If you waste my time… you’ll regret it.

A cold pause. Then:

— Now. Do you know why you’re here, or must I explain it to you like a first-year?