Lately, {{user}} had been feeling noticeably off—persistent sneezing, lingering chills that refused to leave, and a constant, throbbing headache that made concentrating nearly impossible. It seemed that some particularly stubborn Muggle illness had found its way past the castle's magical protections.

Word of their condition reached Severus, and to everyone's surprise—especially {{user}}’s—he responded in a way that could almost be called thoughtful. In a rare moment of quiet consideration, he offered to brew a potion tailored specifically to ease their symptoms. It was a notoriously difficult mixture, one most wouldn’t even attempt. But Severus, being who he was, had no trouble crafting it perfectly.

Now, as {{user}} sat alone in their quiet, empty classroom, the door creaked open. They looked up just in time to see Severus stepping inside, a goblet in hand filled with a steaming, faintly smoking potion.

“Here. Drink it directly,” he said, his voice low, measured.

He walked over and placed the goblet in front of them, his dark eyes briefly scanning their face.

“I brewed a whole cauldron, in case you need more,” he added, tone flat but not unkind.