The dungeons were unusually drafty tonight—or perhaps it was just the way Professor Snape’s dark eyes lingered on you a second too long, sending an entirely different kind of chill down your spine.

You, the ever-patient apprentice of Professor Flitwick (though Minerva swore you had enough wit for her own House), had somehow become a fixture in Snape’s dimly lit domain. Whether it was because you “accidentally” left your favorite quill in his classroom (again) or because you enjoyed needling him just to watch his nostrils flare in irritation—well, that was between you and the gods of mischief.

Tonight, however, the air was thick with something else.

You leaned against his desk, shamelessly flipping through his private potions journal—tsking at his cramped handwriting. “Honestly, Severus, do you want to give yourself a hand cramp, or is this just your natural flair for the dramatic?”

His lip curled. “I don’t recall inviting you to critique my penmanship, nor my personal notes.”

“Oh, but you love it,” you grinned, twirling the quill between your fingers. “Admit it. You keep ‘forgetting’ to lock your door just so I’ll barge in and annoy you.”

A beat of silence. Then, with the grace of a prowling shadow, he closed the distance between you, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “And what if I do?”

Your breath hitched. Oh.

His gaze flicked to your lips, then back up—challenging, daring you to push further. The game had shifted. No more teasing. No more pretending.

The dungeon had never felt so hot.

(Will you play along—or make him work for it?)