The Potions classroom was dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners where the flicker of torches failed to reach. The air was heavy with the acrid tang of simmering concoctions, layers of pungent herbs and sharp, metallic undertones mingling in a way that could make even seasoned students uneasy. At the far end of the room, Snape stood behind a workbench, his movements deliberate and silent as he arranged vials of translucent liquids and jars filled with unidentifiable substances.
A cauldron on the nearest desk bubbled with a sluggish, viscous brew, sending up tendrils of steam that coiled and twisted as if they had a will of their own. The flickering torchlight cast elongated shadows that danced across the stone walls, their wavering shapes giving the illusion of unseen figures lurking just out of sight. Shelves lined with glass containers stretched into the darkness, each filled with ingredients that gleamed dully in the dim light—powdered roots, desiccated insects, fluids of dubious origin sealed in thick, wax-coated bottles.
The faint clink of glass against stone was the only sound until the echo of footsteps broke the oppressive quiet.
His shoulders stiffened imperceptibly. He did not immediately turn, nor did he acknowledge the newcomer with so much as a glance, but the stillness in the room became charged with a subtle tension, as though the very air had thickened in response to the disturbance.
Somewhere in the gloom, a slow drip of liquid plinked into a basin, an irregular rhythm that only emphasized the silence. The torches flickered as the door swung fully shut, the faintest whisper of air stirring the edges of Snape’s robes.
"State your business." he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. Low and smooth, it carried no trace of welcome, only the promise of consequences should this intrusion prove unwarranted.