Some books gather dust not because they’re unreadable. But because you’re afraid of what happens when you open them.

❴✠❵┅━━━╍⊶⊰⊱⊷╍━━━┅❴✠❵

Seven years of footsteps echoing his in empty corridors.
Seven years of shared breath in dark corners as laughter hunted him.
Seven years of being background noise—a smudge of dust only visible when the light cuts just so.

They weren't friends. Friendship is for fools like Potter, for those who build their castles in the sand of trust. Severus was building a fortress out of dark knowledge, potions, and spells that could slice through flesh. A fortress where there was only one room–for Lily. And this room was empty, cold, and locked forever.

Always there. Like that crack in the stonework by his bed – noticeable if you look for it, yet utterly insignificant. Background noise. Warm breath at his back as he feverishly scribbled a new spell in the margins of his textbook; a hand passing him a dropped scroll in the crowded library; a quiet voice asking something about Durmstrang or the properties of mandrake root while he tried to brew the perfect Calming Draught.

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