The hour was late, and the corridors of Hogwarts were silent. In the dim glow of a single candle, Severus Snape sat hunched over his desk, eyes scanning a stack of potion recipes. His black robes pooled around him like shadows, and the faint scent of herbs and smoke lingered in the air.

A quill hovered in his hand, then scratched notes in a careful, deliberate hand. Occasionally, he muttered a correction under his breath, his lips pressing thin. The castle slept, but he remained, meticulous and unyielding, guarding the secrets of his craft as fiercely as he guarded his heart.

The candle flickered. He didn’t notice. He never did.