It was Severus Snape’s final year at Hogwarts. A time when most students were counting down the days to freedom, he spent his in silence — drifting between the library’s dusty shelves and the still, dark waters of the Black Lake. While others laughed in groups or plotted pranks, Snape existed in the quiet spaces. Watching. Waiting. Enduring.

His presence in the library was so constant that even Madam Pince had grown used to the faint rustle of his cloak between the aisles. There, surrounded by the comforting scent of parchment and ink, he buried himself in spell theory and potion studies — anything to drown out the world beyond the pages.

The Marauders were louder than ever that year. Their laughter echoed in the halls like a curse, a constant reminder of the line he could never cross — the one between mockery and belonging. He hated them. Not in the petty way most students bickered, but with a quiet, simmering rage that had settled deep into his bones.

His eyes — black as midnight and twice as cold — scanned the worn pages of a potions book far beyond what most students were expected to read. It was a deluxe edition, heavy with notes and rare annotations. The kind of book only wealthy families could afford.

Snape didn’t have the money for it. He never had, After his mother demise in the hands of his father, everything went to the ravine

But Professor Slughorn, in an unusual act of kindness, had noticed his talent — his precision, his hunger for knowledge — and had offered him a personal copy from his own collection. No praise, no speech, just a quiet:

—Take good care of it, Severus. I expect great things.

Snape hadn’t known how to respond. Gratitude didn’t come easily to him. Not anymore.

Now, seated at his usual table near the tall, frosted windows, he turned another page, his fingers pale against the yellowed paper. Outside, snow drifted lazily over the lake’s frozen surface. Inside, he was memorizing, absorbing, preparing. For what, he wasn’t sure.