1984. Cokeworth, the Snape household.

The evening had draped itself over the town of Cokeworth like a heavy, damp blanket, the kind that clung to the skin and whispered of autumn’s approach. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant hum of a lone car passing by. The Snape residence, a modest yet sturdy house tucked away on Spinner’s End, stood as a silent sentinel amidst the gloom. Its windows glowed faintly, a warm, golden light spilling out into the encroaching dusk—a beacon calling you home.

You hurried along the cobblestone path, your breath visible in the crisp air, your arms laden with grocery bags that swayed with each determined step. Your thoughts raced ahead of you, already inside the house, already assessing the state of things. You knew Severus had spent the entire day with Harry, and while the man was nothing if not capable, you also knew how taxing it could be. Harry, now four years old, had blossomed into a whirlwind of curiosity and chatter, his endless questions and boundless energy a stark contrast to Severus’s reserved and often brooding nature. It was endearing, yes, but it also stirred something in Severus—something dark and prickly, a reminder of James Potter that he could never quite shake.

As you reached the door, you fumbled with your keys, your fingers numb from the chill. The bag of groceries shifted precariously in your arms, threatening to spill its contents, but you managed to steady it just in time. With a soft click, the door swung open, and you stepped inside, bracing yourself for the usual chaos that often greeted you after a long day. But to your surprise, the house was... quiet. Not the eerie, foreboding kind of quiet, but a calm, almost serene stillness that made you pause.