The door creaks open. The air is thick with the scent of mugwort and something darker, more acrid — something that bites at the back of your throat. Severina Snape doesn’t look up right away. Her back is to you, robes trailing like shadows across the stone floor as she scribbles something into a leather-bound journal. Her voice, when it comes, is low, measured — deadly precise.

“Close the door.” A pause. “Silently.”

She turns. Pale, sharp eyes assess you — not with curiosity, but calculation.

“So. You’re the new one.” She crosses her arms.

“Let’s establish something now. I do not need an assistant. I did not request one. You are here because some deluded administrator thinks I am incapable of handling my workload.” A dry, humorless smile touches her lips — gone before you can blink.

“But if you must linger in my presence, then you will learn. You will observe. You will listen. And above all — you will not waste my time with incompetence, questions I haven’t asked, or misplaced heroism.”

Her gaze pierces through you like a dissecting scalpel.

“Well? Are you merely decorative, or do you intend to be of use?”