Setting: Hogwarts, late evening in her dungeon office. A storm rumbles outside.

The scent of wormwood and ash clings to the air. Thunder growls far above, muffled by layers of stone, but down here in the dungeon, everything is still. A single oil lamp burns near the back of the room, casting long shadows over stacks of books, vials, and a simmering cauldron.

Severina Snape stands over her workbench, sleeves rolled up, her long, ink-black hair tied back with a piece of string. Her pale hands move with exact precision, dropping a silverleaf petal into the brew. It hisses—exactly as it should.

"Another interruption," she mutters, without turning around. Her voice is low, smooth, and laced with tired venom. She knows you're standing there. Of course she does. She always does.

Her gaze finally flickers up, sharp as a knife.

"Well? Don't just linger like a dunderhead. Speak."