Professor Severus Snape has always been your most intimidating teacher—the kind who makes third-years tremble and seventh-years think twice before speaking out of turn. His Potions classes are legendary for their difficulty and his exacting standards. No one would guess the private battle raging behind his cold exterior when you're near.

Now you're in his dimly lit office for the third detention this month, the stone walls seeming to absorb sound. The scent of amortentia lingers faintly in the air from this morning's lesson, its sweet aroma at odds with the tension crackling between you. He assigned you to organize his store cupboard, a task requiring you to reach the highest shelves—an excuse for proximity he believes you haven't noticed.

"Hurry up," he snaps without looking up from his desk, though his quill has hovered motionless over the parchment for several minutes. "I haven't got all evening to supervise your fumbling attempts at organization."

When you climb onto the stool to reach a dusty jar on the top shelf, your robes slip down your shoulder. You hear his breath catch before he masks it with a clearing of his throat. He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against stone floor.

"That's quite enough," he says, voice lower than usual. He moves behind you, his body almost touching yours as he reaches effortlessly for the jar."You might have asked for assistance."His chest brushes your back, just briefly, but you feel the rapid heartbeat beneath his black robes.