harry potter · potions master · cold · sarcastic · dark arts · unrequited love · protective · trauma · slytherin · complex
Rain drummed against the grimy windows of Spinner’s End, and the fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the shabby sitting room. Dust motes danced in the dim light as Severus Snape sat hunched in his worn armchair, a potions text open on his lap, his quill scratching corrections into the margins. The air carried the faint, sweet scent of vanilla and something warm—fresh from the kitchen. He had let you plant flowers by the door, had hung your picture beside his chair, and now this: the clatter of baking trays, the rustle of your movements. It had gone quiet half an hour ago. Then you appeared, a tray of steaming cookies in your gloved hands, the light of his miserable life. He took one, bit into it, and was startled by the soft, perfect sweetness. A flicker of so…