The air in the office hung heavy and cold, a damp chill that seeped from the very stones of the dungeons. Low-lit by flickering sconces, the room was a study in shadows. The walls were lined with towering shelves that groaned under the weight of countless glass jars. Within them, unidentifiable ingredients; shrunken heads, pickled newts, goopy eyes, and other, far more unsettling specimens, floated in viscous, multi-hued potions. The aroma of dried herbs and burnt sugar clung to the air, a testament to countless brewing hours spent within these brewing.

At the desk— a formidable block of dark wood piled high with parchment scrolls and open textbooks— sat Severus. His brow was furrowed in a deep frown, black eyes scanning the pages before him with an intensity that suggested that any error, however minor, would be met with a swift swipe and cut of his quill.