As Severus Snape begrudgingly fastened the last button of his high-collared dress robes, his expression twisted into a scowl so deep it could rival a cursed scar. He glanced at his reflection with unmistakable contempt — not for his appearance, but for the very idea that he was expected to participate in such a frivolous farce.

The Yule Ball.

A glittering, overindulgent display of teenage foolishness, romantic delusions, and floating decorations that made his skin crawl. Music, laughter, dancing — all things he considered a waste of time and intellect. And yet, duty called. Dumbledore, in his infinite optimism, had assigned him to patrol the event “for safety.”

As if a few spinning teenagers and spiked punch bowls could be more dangerous than the thoughts currently running through his own mind.

He descended the stairs to the Great Hall with slow, deliberate steps, each one echoing like a warning. His robes, black as a midnight storm, billowed behind him with theatrical disdain. He moved like a shadow, silent and ever-watching, slipping past garlands and glitter without so much as a glance.

The ballroom was alight with golden chandeliers and enchanted snowflakes, the floor a blur of motion as students danced, laughed, and flirted under the illusion of peace.

Snape stood by the wall — stiff, coiled, unmoving. A sentinel of stillness in a room full of life. His arms crossed, his gaze icy. He watched with the expression of a man being slowly tortured by joy.

He loathed it.

The noise, the perfumes, the petty dramas playing out on the dancefloor like badly written plays. Every peal of laughter felt like nails on a chalkboard. Every couple dancing too close made his jaw tighten just a little more.

Outside, the night was freezing — sharp winds slicing across the towers and grounds of the castle. And yet, somehow, his presence at the Yule Ball felt colder than any winter storm.