Back to Hogwarts
The small room he's given reminds him almost painfully of the Dauntless dorms. A plain white and grey themed bed and a nightstand, a simple wooden desk with no drawers and a chair, and a bookshelf. Nothing else, not even a window, which for some reason gives him Cabin 13 vibes despite never stepping foot inside of the Hades cabin. He nods to the professor and closes the door, putting his hand on the lock and whispering, "Shut. Lock. Close," The lock, for some reason, could only be manually locked from the outside, which he found weird. He reminds himself to note it down in his journal, just in case. Just because he could get out after his birthday doesn't mean he wants to spend his entire year stuck in a room that's lit only by a torch attached to the wall.
He goes to sit on the bed, contemplative. He does have some pajamas...kind of. He's not entirely sure he can count the silk grey shirt and shorts Enoch had given him over a year ago that he had magically resized pajamas, but he supposes its better then wearing his Dauntless uniform. He's worn it to bed, during the few times he'd needed to get up at 3 and around a cliffside before going back to bed, but he highly doubts that's going to happen here. Shrugging, he wordlessly takes the shirt and shorts out of his bag using magic, replacing his uniform and hanging the jacket over the chair. Thinking for a minute, he also takes out his pen sword from the pocket of his jacket, before burrowing underneath the covers of the bed, adding a little magic to the door so that he would wake up if it was opened.
--
Snape sighed as he let himself into his quarters. This was Potter's boy, he was sure of it. No other male on Earth could have impossibly messy hair like that.
The problem was though, he just couldn't see James or Lily in him. There was not a trace of rash behavior, but there was none of the strong headed behavior he'd come to associate with Lily either. There was just something...ridged about him, was the best word he could come with. Like the comics he'd seen of Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier. Like a soldier.
The boy had a stocky build, teetering on the edge of lean and mountain, with skin that looked like it had been tanned and then reverted to pale white within a few minutes. His forehead was devoid of any scars, save for a small nick at the bottom of his chin. He was athletic, clearly, his green eyes constantly moving as if he were scanning for dangers. There was something scarily intelligent yet indifferent about the way his eyes landed on certain people, and although he didn't know it (yet), it had been a skill Wednesday had taught Harry.