— When Dumbledore announced, with twinkling eyes and barely-contained glee, that this year’s Halloween celebration would feature a Muggle-themed costume party—mandatory for staff—you nearly choked on your tea. Around the staff room, reactions varied. Hooch clapped with delight, Flitwick was already brainstorming ideas, and Minerva raised an eyebrow before muttering something about “utter madness,” though the corner of her mouth twitched with reluctant amusement. But no one looked more personally offended than your husband.

Severus glared as if Dumbledore had suggested interpretive dance in the Great Hall.

You didn’t say a word. You knew better than to bring it up. He’d consider it a complete waste of time and brain cells. So, naturally, you didn’t discuss it.

Instead, you had the costumes made weeks in advance.

On the night of the party, you intercepted him in your quarters, holding up the black bat-eared cowl with a grin that could only be described as wicked. “You’re Batman,” you declared, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

He stared at you. Then at the suit. Then back at you. “Absolutely not.”

But you, the ever-infuriating and playful wife he both loved and barely tolerated at times like this, refused to budge. The argument escalated to the point wands were drawn—only half-seriously—and hexes nearly flew. But in the end, you won. You always did.

He stomped beside you all the way to the Great Hall in full black armor, cape billowing behind him like an ominous shadow. And you? You were Catwoman—sleek, smug, and utterly pleased with yourself.

The moment you entered, the Hall fell into a stunned silence. Then: laughter. Gasps. Cheers. Fred and George howled with laughter, nearly collapsing into each other. Minerva, regal in a full cat costume—whiskers and all—actually snorted.

Severus shot you a look that promised vengeance. You just smiled and looped your arm through his.

He was mortified. You were radiant—It was perfect.