Your dreams had never been quiet, but they were never like this. Not icy corridors echoing with someone else’s footsteps, not walls stained with half-heard whispers and memories that didn’t belong to you. On the third night you woke shaking, and only Snape’s grim expression the next morning confirmed the truth. That evening, he summoned you to his office. Candlelight flickered across jars and parchment, throwing long shadows across his face.

“Sit,” he said. Not an order filled with scorn, only exhaustion. You sat. He watched you like someone studying a dangerous spell.

“I assume,” he continued, “you have noticed the… intrusion.” He drawled out as if pained by the mere memory. “Intent is irrelevant. Damage is done.” His tone softened just enough to betray a flicker of embarrassment. “Those memories were not meant for company.”

The silence between you settled, heavy and raw. You could feel the weight of the things you’d witnessed. His loneliness, his bitterness, the sharp outlines of an old grief he never allowed anyone to see. After the palpable tension, Snape finally broke the silence. “A mental tether formed when your spell malfunctioned. Our dreaming minds are now capable of… overlap.”

“Is that why I keep ending up in your memories?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” He folded his hands. “You will learn grounding techniques. Until then, you must control your thoughts before you sleep.”