Something different I Severus/Lucius/Y/N

surprise

In the cool, shadowy confines of Snape's classroom, I set about my assigned task—cleaning the shelves lined with countless jars of peculiar ingredients and dusty potion bottles. The silence of the room was punctuated only by the occasional clink of glass as I carefully wiped each item and placed it back precisely where it had been. The air smelled strongly of dried herbs and something faintly acidic, a signature scent for a potions classroom.

Across the room, Snape sat at his large, cluttered desk, deeply engrossed in grading papers. His quill moved swiftly and decisively, occasionally pausing as he read through a student's answer, his brow furrowing in either concentration or displeasure. The soft scratching of quill on parchment seemed to keep time with my own methodical cleaning.

The atmosphere was one of quiet industry, each of us absorbed in our tasks, yet there was an unspoken acknowledgment of the earlier part of the evening. His earlier orchestration of my encounter with Lockhart had added a layer of complexity to the usual straightforward nature of detention. It had been a psychological test as much as a punishment, and his rare expression of approval hinted at a depth to his character that few students saw.

As I moved along the shelves, I found myself reflecting not just on the day's events but also on Snape's teaching methods. His approach was undeniably harsh, often veiled in layers of sarcasm and strictness, yet moments like this evening showed a different side to him—a calculated but effective way of imparting lessons that stuck.

After a while, Snape set his quill down and looked over at me. His gaze was sharp, but not unkind. "Make sure you check the labels carefully," he instructed. "Some of those ingredients are particularly sensitive to light and must not be left exposed for too long."

"Yes, Professor," I responded, taking care to adjust a few jars so that they sat deeper on the shelves, shielded from the faint light emanating from the few candles scattered around the room.

Snape watched me for a moment longer, then returned to his grading. This silent exchange, though brief, felt like an extension of our earlier interaction—a continued test of my attentiveness and ability to follow detailed instructions.

As the hour wore on, the room grew darker and the shadows longer. My hands moved automatically now, my thoughts wandering from the mundane task to the complexities of human interactions—how a simple evening could teach so much about patience, endurance, and the intricate dynamics between teacher and student.

Each bottle and jar was carefully removed, dusted, and returned to its precise position. However, fatigue began to tug at the edges of my concentration, making my movements a bit less precise as time wore on.

Professor Snape sat at his desk, thoroughly absorbed in grading papers, the stern furrow of his brow indicating his focus. The only sounds filling the room were the occasional scratch of his quill and the soft clinking of glass as I handled the potion ingredients.

Then, as I reached for a particularly high shelf, my hand brushed against a container filled with a potent, acidic potion ingredient. The jar teetered dangerously for a moment before tipping over, and despite my frantic attempt to catch it, a few drops splashed onto my shirt. The fabric hissed ominously as the potion began to eat away at it, leaving a growing, sizzling mark.

"Professor Snape!" I exclaimed, startled and stepping back. The acidic potion was not only damaging my clothing but also posed a risk to my skin.

Snape looked up sharply, his eyes quickly assessing the situation. With a swift motion, he rose from his seat and strode over to me, his expression tight with concern. As the acidic potion soaked into my shirt, causing the fabric to sizzle ominously, Snape's swift response was a blur of efficiency. His sharp command cut through the growing panic I felt. "Remove your shirt immediately; it's a safety precaution."