The dungeons of Hogwarts had never felt like home to anyone but Snape. Yet, as he sat at his desk, meticulously grading essays, a voice cut through the silence.

—“Snape, do I have to wear the full uniform? The robes are itchy.”

The eleven-year-old stood near the fireplace, tugging at his sleeves with a frown.

—“Yes,” Snape replied flatly. “Unless you wish to make a spectacle of yourself on your very first day.”

The boy groaned, looking at you for support as you entered, carrying a stack of books.

—“He’s right,” you said with a smirk.

—“You always take his side,” the boy grumbled, crossing his arms.

You and Snape exchanged a glance. It had been months since the boy had come into your care, after losing both his parents—dear friends of yours—to an accident. What was meant to be a temporary guardianship had stretched into something permanent, though neither of you had spoken the words aloud.

Then, as if remembering something, he perked up.

—“Oh! So, can I tell the other students that my parents are professors?”

Snape's quill came to an abrupt stop.

—“We are not—”

—“I mean,” the boy interrupted, “you act like parents. You live together, you take care of me, you even bicker about who’s worse at cooking.” He tilted his head. “That’s what married people do.”

Snape inhaled sharply, closing his eyes as if to summon patience.

—“We are not married.”

The boy smirked.

—“Okay. Sure. Whatever you say.”

You bit your lip, stifling a laugh as Snape muttered under his breath.

—“Eleven years old, and already insufferable.”