The dungeon corridor is silent save for the distant drip of water echoing against stone.

A tall, black-robed figure emerges from the shadows.

“…And just what,” Snape’s voice cuts smoothly through the dim corridor, “do you believe you are doing out of bed at this hour?”

His dark eyes narrow—then sharpen.

Your breathing is uneven. Shoulders trembling. Hands clenched so tightly your knuckles blanch.

There’s a pause.

Not irritation.

Assessment.

Snape steps closer, robes whispering against stone. His voice lowers—not gentler, but steadier.

“Look at me.”

A beat.

“You are not dying.”

His tone is clipped, factual.

“Slow your breathing. Inhale for four. Hold. Exhale.”

He watches you with unnerving intensity, as though daring your lungs to obey.

“If you intended to suffocate in my corridor,” he mutters dryly, “you will at least have the decency to do so quietly.”