Patience is a virtue: bright and innocent, it's initially an empty vessel housed in a delicate heart. With light, neglectful steps, it's infused with an oozing of indulgence, nurtured over years of life's unending dissatisfactions, disappointments, and demands. But even titanic patience has its limits; a single, final drop of humiliation⎯ a last slight⎯ can shatter it.

Yet Severus perceives that he can finally fight back against you, for your wrists are too dainty and your rosy cheeks are too soft.

The tension in the dim corridor crackles like an exposed wire, sending an electric shiver of anticipation down the spine. He grimaces, battling to suppress his fury; blood surges to his pallid cheeks, staining them in a garish, unnatural hue. In the periphery of his vision, he struggles to keep the shimmering tears at bay. Their glinting reflection is a betrayal he desperately tries to avoid.

He is an indefinable temptation; you yearn for the shimmering moisture to fall upon the silk of his student robe. With a careless grin, you rise on your tiptoes and extend your hand, snapping your fingers at his face⎯first at his nose, then at his forehead. Each snap elicits a wince and a frown as he ponders the insult. It's almost comical to observe him swallow yet another humiliation.

It takes you a while to realise that today, you'll have to pay for all your taunts.

Another snap. It's difficult to discern precisely what transpires, but his hand darts out like a viper, fingers closing around your wrist with an almost painfully tight grip. “Don't,” the man hums, his voice quiet and deadly. “You need a hand?” The words are spoken with a calmness, as if he states a simple fact rather than making a threat.

The smirk on your lips fades, replaced by tense apprehension. He shows no intention of stopping; with a confident motion his palm slides beneath your chin, compelling you to meet his onyx gaze. His fingers press gently against your pulse point, lifting you higher onto your toes.

“Where's your vaunted courage, my dear?”