Forbidden

18

Professor Snape has always been a man of icy precision, thoroughly dedicated to his craft. Everyone knew he wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, but truth be told, I couldn't picture him as anything other than our Potions Master. Over the years, through extra lessons and late nights spent assisting him in the quiet solitude of the dungeons, I began to see beyond the cold façade. He wasn't heartless—just misunderstood. And though he revealed very little of himself, I had the distinct impression that beneath the stern exterior lay a profound loneliness. Despite his reserved persona, I found comfort in those quiet evenings, absorbing the depths of his knowledge.

When I entered the classroom tonight, something felt different. No neatly arranged ingredients awaited me, no cauldron simmering softly over a flickering flame. It was just Professor Snape, seated behind his desk, lost in thought. His dark eyes fixed on one of the tall, grim windows, beyond which the Black Lake seemed even more foreboding under the weight of the lingering winter chill. The atmosphere in the dungeons felt colder than ever, the chill seeping into my bones.

I quietly set my bag on a desk, the soft sound breaking the trance that had held him. He blinked, turning his gaze towards me.

"Good evening, sir," I greeted him, my voice cutting through the stillness. "What potion are we brewing today? Should I begin preparing the—"

"We won't be making any potions tonight, Scarlett," he interrupted, his voice calm but firm. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Please, take a seat."

I obeyed, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on me. Something was off. "Sir, is everything alright?" I asked, concern lacing my words.

He offered me a small, rare smile—the closest thing to happiness I had ever seen him express. "Yes, everything is fine. I simply wished to speak with you about last week's... events." His tone was softer than I had ever heard it, almost gentle.

My stomach twisted as I remembered the Howler. I swallowed hard, my nerves betraying me. Snape seemed to notice and continued speaking before I could gather my thoughts.

"I want to tell you a story, Scarlett," Snape began, his voice unusually soft, "about a Slytherin and a Gryffindor..."

I leaned forward slightly, curiosity piqued, as he continued.

"Many years ago, there was a boy who felt utterly alone in the world. He had family, yes, but even then, he never truly belonged. That is, until he met a red-haired girl who, in her own way, felt just as different. But she wasn't different—no, she was just like him. They found solace in each other, spending countless days together before their Hogwarts letters arrived."

Snape paused, his gaze growing distant as if reliving the memory.

"When the time came, one was sorted into Gryffindor and the other into Slytherin. He didn't understand why this should change anything between them. But soon, she made friends within her house—friends who despised Slytherins. The boy, foolish and impressionable, allowed himself to be swayed by the rivalry, by the prejudice that divided the houses. He lost her. And to this day, he lives with that regret. Because eventually, that hatred grew into something far darker. War followed. And in that war... she was lost."

Tears glistened in Snape's eyes, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. I had never seen him so vulnerable, so... human. He broke eye contact, turning once more to the darkened window, his face illuminated by the dim glow of the Black Lake beyond.

"You must not let history repeat itself, Scarlett," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Otherwise, you'll end up just like me."

A Slytherin boy and a red-haired Gryffindor... The story hit uncomfortably close to home. My heart raced as the pieces fell into place.