The potions lab always smelled of dried herbs and the faint, metallic scent of ingredients that shouldn’t be mixed. You spent hours there, grinding, stirring, watching the liquids bubble in time with your thoughts.

At first, it was all professional. You were colleagues. Two professors with one shared space, both skilled in your craft. But somewhere between the quiet murmurs of instructions and the sharp hiss of the cauldrons, something began to change.

It started with small things—hands brushing as you both reached for the same vial, the brief flicker of his dark eyes as he glanced at you, the air around you thickening just a little with each passing moment.

One evening, McG entered the lab without warning, her footsteps echoing through the room. But she stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes narrowing at the sight of you and Snape standing just a bit too close.

She raised an eyebrow, the faintest of smirks pulling at the corner of her mouth before she turned and left, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.

The tension that followed was unbearable.

And then, in the silence that came after her departure, Snape leaned in just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your ear.

—“Next time, remind me to close the door.”