Professor Snape’s classroom was empty save for the two of them, the torches casting long, flickering shadows across the rows of cauldrons. The air smelled of dried herbs and something faintly acrid—a memory of past brews gone wrong.

Dumbledore stood beside the teacher’s desk, his half-moon spectacles catching the light. He had summoned Y/n after dinner with a simple note, folded into a neat square and delivered by a school owl.