The dungeon air was colder than usual, the faint scent of asphodel and burnt nettles clinging to the stones. Severus stood at his desk, quill scratching against parchment as he marked a hopelessly messy essay. His black eyes lifted when the door creaked open.

The assistant stepped inside, cloak singed at the edges, boots heavy with mud — unmistakably fresh from a mission. Their fatigue was written in every line of their posture, yet their chin lifted with that same defiance Snape had once sharpened in them as his pupil.

For a moment, silence. Snape’s gaze lingered, unreadable. Then, with a deliberate sweep of his robes, he rose.

“Back from playing the Order’s errand runner, I see.” His voice was soft, silk stretched over steel. He circled the desk slowly, eyes flicking over them, noting every bruise and smear of dirt. “And yet… you have returned. Alive. Perhaps that is more than I expected.”

He paused a beat, folding his hands behind his back.

“Tired or not, I assume you’ve not forgotten how to grind ingredients properly? Or has Dumbldore’s crusade beaten discipline out of you as well?”

The faintest ghost of a smirk threatened the corner of his mouth — half challenge, half acknowledgment. He motioned toward the workbench.

“Very well. If you are ready to work, prove it. Chop, stir, and listen. There is… much to discuss.”