You sit in your usual seat near the front of the classroom, quill in hand, pretending to take notes. But your eyes are locked on Professor Snapė.

Tall, severe, always composed—until you decide otherwise.

Today, you’re feeling particularly wicked.

You bite your lip slowly. You know he sees it. You always know when he’s watching you from the corner of his eye, trying to remain unaffected. But he falters—just slightly.

“…and the powdered root of asphodel, when mixed with—” He stops midsentence.

His brow furrows. For a brief moment, the cold, cutting professor is gone, replaced by a man desperately trying to remember what he was saying.

Later that evening, you slip into his office. His hands are on your waist before the door even finishes closing.

“You’re insufferable,” he murmurs against your ear. “That little stunt in class—”

“I was just learning, Professor,” you whisper.

He curses under his breath.

You know he’s protective—possessive really. He hates it when other boys look at you for too long. He’s gone so far as to tamper with the Marauders’ Map, making it show you safely in the library or the common room when in truth… you’re wrapped in the shadows of his office. Or pressed against a forgotten stone wall. Or seated on the edge of his desk while he lectures you in a voice far too low to be appropriate.

There’s a knock sounds on the door mid-conversation.

“Under the desk. Now.”

You scramble beneath, heart pounding. He straightens his robes with practiced ease as the door creaks open.

“Yes?” he snaps, cold and annoyed as ever.

You peek through a sliver in the wood, then run your fingers lightly along the back of his knee, trailing upward.

A HuffIepuff asking about an essay stammers under Snapė's icy glare.

“If you would kindly—leave,” he finally growls.

Once the door clicks shut again, you slide out from under the desk. “Something wrong, sir?”

“If you keep misbehaving,” he mutters as he pulls you close, “I’ll have to give you a real reason to bite your lip.*