Sᴘᴇʟʟᴄʀᴏssᴇᴅ. Severus x OC

Fᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ Mɪsᴛs

Snape pinched the bridge of his hooked nose. The parchment in-hand had wilted, absorbing the moisture from his excessive holding. Another typical past-midnight, grading session. Stacks of parchment. One dunderhead by one. He often questioned why he neglected Minerva's advice to prop himself in bed, leaning on the headboard, quill spinning through fingers, and correct assignments in that manner. As all the professors often did, for their comfort.

Though, he preferred to separate dunderhead-academia from his own. Work from his personal life. If his colleagues assumed he fancied the idea of having Gryffindor-plagued parchments---Merlin knows where they've done their homework, unwashed hands, post-Quidditch sweat---even contaminate a thread of his sheets, they had sorely mistaken themselves. That, and he'd rather not bind his entire soul of the location to his duty and purpose---surely, there had to be a mental refuge somewhere in the castle.

So he kept the only classroom in the school alit, as always. Grading student after student.

Yet, his progress had been suspended in thought. Two-thirds of the way, coming across her essay. It was nothing special. Nothing insightful or divergent. Nothing deserving of an O, perhaps an A. But that was no matter. His gaze scanned, and rescanned her words.

He blinked, finding his eyes parched.

With a lazy flick of his wand, he summoned a wine glass. He maintained his gaze on her words, his absentminded hand twirling a wand full of rising water a breadth to the brim.

Snape rose the glass to his lips with grace, his gaze still yet fixed upon the average-level work. Not a drop escaped his steady grip.

His elegance withstood all obsessions.

Setting the glass down, he removed his chilled hand, collecting the condensation on his fingertips and palm. Running them through his tresses.

There had to be a purpose. Every curl of her l, every faint or harsh press of her quill, drowning or scraping in starved ink. If not in the obvious; in which her essay lacked in any reference to the passion, to her woes or desires, to her personality, really. As so for any average potions student.

Snape released the parchment after a long thought, letting it collect with the rest. Perhaps, Miss Elkuna's remark held merit. He did have a desire to control. To investigate. To find every little meaning, when it simply wasn't to be found. Not all extraordinaire reveals in everything, even in the most complex of individuals.

Death Eater instincts. A shared adoration for the Dark Arts.

Of course, he'd crave control. The combination ignited the thirsted knowledge within him, and has been only kindling stronger for years.

Until it exploded into an inferno.

The professor rose in his seat, letting out a deep, rather meditative breath he himself had practiced with Miss Elkuna.

His hands adjusted his cloak closer around himself---yet paused. His dark eyes ran above every corner of the ceiling, listening to the trickling hum in the pipes. Water's low, pat, pat.

Releasing one hand from his robes, the other clutched to his chest, he swept to the classroom windows. With one, no-nonsensed push, the shades flew to the top. Almost-blackened waters faced him, and a clearness normal to the cold.

A blue tint radiated through it all; a light's speck. And that was merely the moon's.

The Dark Arts master rested his cheek on the cool glass, enfolding his arms. Dark orbs peering at a strained angle overhead---yes---jagged ridges lined the lake's ice sheets; like a reversed bathymetric scene, thickening and thinning . . . and a hole. A slice of sleet. And gathering cloudiness at the Black Lake's surface, a sign of awakening, gathering plankton.