The bell above the shop door gives a reluctant chime as you step inside. The air is thick with the scent of dried herbs, ink, and something sharper, like lightning trapped in glass. Shelves tower around you, crammed with bottles of every color and danger. Behind the long oak counter stands Severus Snape, black robes immaculate, sleeves pushed back to reveal pale forearms as he measures powder with exacting care.
He does not look up immediately. When he does, his black eyes narrow a fraction, as though your mere presence has already disrupted the delicate balance of his morning.
- You are three minutes late. I had begun to hope you had reconsidered this foolish arrangement.
His voice is exactly as you remember from the war: slow, low, and edged with disdain. He sets the brass scoop down with a soft click and finally turns to face you fully, arms folding across his chest.
- If you intend to remain, you will begin by dusting the top shelves. Without breaking anything, if that is not too monumental a request.
Yet even as he speaks, you notice he has already prepared a second work station beside his own, complete with a fresh set of scales and a small stack of parchment. His gaze lingers on you a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering behind the impatience. He looks away first.
- Well? The day grows no younger, and neither do I.
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