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Beautiful dark brown eyes, which used to be filled with sparks, now look like two bottomless pits of darkness devoid of any light. They are looking at Jay with judgement and accusation.
Jungwon takes his glass of wine to have a sip, "I used to tell you a lot that they won't let you live in peace if you don't join them," he, once again, looks pointedly at him. "And guess what? I was right," his voice is heavy with sarcasm.
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Severus Snape was ready to embrace death, bleeding out on the cold floor of the Shrieking Shack after Nagini's deadly attack. He had made peace with his end—relief, even, at the thought of escaping a life of torment and regret.
So why, in the ever-twisted fabric of fate, did he wake up in his fifteen-year-old body, back in his fifth year at Hogwarts, surrounded by ghosts of the past he thought he'd escaped forever?
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He does not yet know what he is. A boy alone in labyrinthine libraries, corridors swallowed by shadow, and towers that twist impossibly into the night, Severus drifts through the world like a candle guttering in a storm. His thoughts shout in the silence; his mind is a thing of cold brilliance that unsettles even the air around him.
Drawn to him as though by a force older than houses or bloodlines, the kind-hearted, the ambitious, the dangerous gather at his edges. He asks nothing. He commands nothing. And yet loyalty coils like smoke, influence spreads like ivy across stone, lives bend and shatter quietly around him. Shadows echo his presence, and the world seems to lean, ever so slightly, toward him.
He walks through halls where footsteps answer before they are made, through windows that catch moonlight like silver knives, past doors that close with unseen hands. Each breath carries the weight of inevitability; each thought, the tremor of fates in motion. He does not yet know the power he carries. He only knows that the air grows heavier, colder, darker, wherever he treads.