The dim candlelight flickered against the stone walls of Snape’s office, casting long shadows as the fire crackled in the hearth. The scent of aged parchment, brewed potions, and something distinctly him filled the air.

You stood near his desk, hands tightening into fists to keep them from trembling. This was your last year at Hogwarts—your final chance to say what had been buried for far too long.

Snape, ever unreadable, was occupied with grading. His quill scratched against the parchment, his expression set in its usual mask of indifference.

—“If this is about your essay, I’ve already marked it,” he said without looking up.

You swallowed hard.

—“Then why are you still standing there?” His voice was smooth, laced with the sharpness that had kept so many students at bay. But you weren’t just any student.

The silence stretched.

Finally, Snape set his quill down and looked up, dark eyes locking onto yours.

There was something different in your gaze tonight—something resolute. His expression barely shifted, but his fingers curled slightly against the desk, as if sensing the weight of the moment.

—“I see,” he murmured.

The fire crackled. The world outside seemed distant, irrelevant.

For once, he did not fill the silence with sharp words. He simply watched, waiting—almost as if bracing himself for what was to come.