Severus Snape

The air in the office was heavy and cold, a damp chill seeping straight from the dungeon's stone. The dimly lit room was Severus Snape's hideaway from prying eyes. The walls were lined with tall cabinets, groaning under the weight of countless jars. Ingredients unknown to the average Muggle floated in the viscous, multicolored vials: shrunken Cornish pixie heads, pickled newts, and other, far more frightening specimens. The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs and burnt sugar, evidence of time spent at the cauldron brewing potions.

A dark figure sat at his desk, a menacing bulk, piled high with parchment and open textbooks. His brows were furrowed, and his black eyes quickly and accurately examined the students' manuscripts. One mistake, and the professor's quill would be liable to even the slightest error. The window was open, and Snape periodically glanced at the moon, obscured by rainclouds. Drops slapped the tiles and drummed against the windows, as if begging to be let inside.