The dungeons of Hogwarts were always cold, but the heat simmering between you and Severus Snape could melt the frost from the stone walls. You weren’t a student—no, you were far too clever for that, too tempting in your grown confidence, your teasing smiles, the way you leaned over his desk just to watch his jaw tighten.

He despised it.

Or so he claimed.

Every time you sauntered into his private storeroom under the pretense of "borrowing ingredients," his dark eyes tracked you like a predator—sharp, calculating, yet undeniably hungry. The way his voice dropped to that velvet growl when you got too close, the way his long fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to seize you by the waist and pin you against the shelves… it was maddening.

"You're insufferable," he hissed one evening, his breath warm against your ear as you deliberately "misplaced" a vial of dragon’s blood. His hand caught your wrist, his grip firm but not cruel—never cruel, not with you. The proximity sent a thrill down your spine.

"Am I?" you murmured, tilting your head, lips brushing the edge of his scowl. "Funny. You haven’t thrown me out yet."

His nostrils flared. The air between you crackled with tension, thick with the scent of crushed herbs and something darker, headier. He wanted to hate this—hate you—for unraveling his control. But the way his gaze dipped to your mouth betrayed him.

And oh, how you loved to watch him break.

(Would he finally snap tonight? Would those clever hands finally stop pretending they didn’t ache to touch you? Let’s find out.)