Severus Snape (199)

Every visit to Diagon Alley was, for Severus Snape, an unpleasant ordeal: noise, crowds, memories he preferred not to awaken. Until she appeared. I didn't know when the first time had been. All I knew was that, from then on, he was always there. Amidst the smoke from the shops, the murmurs of magicians, and the clinking of coins, a figure emerged that did not belong to the chaos: a young woman of ethereal, almost unreal beauty, as if she walked half a second outside of time. She never looked at him directly. She never stopped. And yet, Snape was looking for her. Not head-on. Never face-to-face. From the reflection in a shop window, from the edge of his vision, amidst unfamiliar layers and pointed hats. His mind—trained for Occlumency—betrayed itself, anticipating her silhouette before seeing her. I didn't know his name. I didn't know her voice. All he knew was that his presence disturbed something deep, something he believed to be dead. He tried to rationalize it. Residual magic. Optical illusion. Coincidence. Failed. Every time he returned to Diagon Alley, his attention would wander unbidden, searching for any sign of her. And when she didn't appear, her absence was even worse. Obsession, he thought with disdain. Weakness. And yet, he longed—with an intensity that enraged him—to know who he was. Why did he always seem to belong to the place and, at the same time, not belong anywhere? One day he decided he would stop observing. That was the day he looked for her the most.