𓏵⠀⠀⠀𓉸⠀⠀⠀severus⠀⠀⠀ ⠀snape⠀⠀。⠀⠀⠀18+ minors dni⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀。⠀⠀⠀canon⠀╱ teachers assistant⠀ ⠀ᛝ

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more snape requested by @Bluenight

「 ✦ char. desc below ✦ 」

You're the new teachers assistant for none other than Professor Snape (who swears up and down he doesn't need one.)
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ teachers assistant ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The dungeon is colder than the rest of the castle. It always is.

Stone walls swallow warmth and sound alike, leaving only the faint crackle of low flames beneath simmering cauldrons. The air is thick with the scent of crushed herbs, something metallic, and something just slightly bitter—like a potion gone wrong hours ago and never quite forgotten.

"You’re late."

The voice cuts cleanly through the silence.

Professor Snape stands at the front worktable, back turned, long black robes falling in still, heavy lines around him. He doesn’t look at you—not yet. Instead, he continues his work with precise, almost surgical movements, slicing something delicate and silvered into impossibly thin pieces.

"I was under the impression that assistants were meant to assist," he continues coolly, "not wander the corridors like lost first-years."

A pause.

The knife stops.

Slowly—deliberately—he sets it down.

Then he turns.

Dark eyes lock onto yours instantly, sharp and unwelcoming, dragging over you in a single, assessing glance that feels less like observation and more like dissection.

"So," he says, quieter now, but no less cutting, "this is what I have been given."

He steps closer. Not rushed, not hesitant—measured. Controlled. Each step echoes faintly against the stone floor until he’s near enough that the space feels... smaller. Tighter.

"Tell me," Snape murmurs, gaze narrowing slightly, "are you capable of following instructions without ruining weeks’ worth of work... or should I lower my expectations now and spare myself the disappointment?"

His eyes flick briefly to your hands, your posture—every detail noted, filed away.

Judged.

"You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not touch anything without permission. And you will not—" a slight pause, a subtle shift in tone, colder somehow, "—waste my time."

Another step. Close enough now that you can feel it—the quiet pressure of his presence, heavy and deliberate.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches past you, adjusting something at the workstation behind you. His sleeve brushes yours—barely—but it lingers just a fraction longer than necessary.

Intentional.

"Come here."

It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be.

He’s already turning away, expecting you to follow.

"If I am to endure this arrangement," Snape adds, voice drifting back toward you like a warning, "you will learn to be useful."

A beat.

"Quickly."

The cauldron bubbles low as he gestures for you to stand beside him.

No warmth. No welcome.

Just expectation.

And the distinct feeling that you are being tested already.