𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓡𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓟𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼: ǟ ʀɛǟʟɨȶʏ ֆɦɨʄȶɨռɢ ȶǟʟɛ ✤ ֆɛʋɛʀʊʂ ҳ օƈ

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑈𝑛𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑡

Spiraling down, down, down, the cold air fluttered through her heaving lungs. A black cloak flapped by her side, and the professor's hand clamped her wrist so tightly, that if she held her wand, it would've dropped from her grasp.

They swept down steep stairwells, down into the dungeons. On they hit floor, he gave her no time to catch her breath, and dragged her across corridors and past dormitories. Never slowing until they reached the potions classroom.

As soon as they entered, with a flick of his wand, the doors slammed and locks latched. Snape swirled around.

"Have. You," He began circling her. "Lost. Your. Dignity?"

"No, no sir," she managed. Her chest heaved up and down rapidly.

Midnight eyes swallowed her concentration, her confidence. Charcoal black strands feathered across his gaze, shadows accenting his hooked nose. His flexing knuckle echoed, but still she dared not look away.

Beating hearts filled the silence. Blood rushed through her veins. The more he entranced her with gaze alone---no magic---the more blood ignited every vein in her body with adrenaline.

A black wooden tool reflected in his glassy pupils. His wand. Then her eyes lowered, trailed down his arm . . .

Inches from her face, the ebony tip hovered. She blinked.

"You thought you could see her memories undetected?"

Felicity kept silent.

"Dunderhead. Insolent child." He spat.

"I'm not a child!" She hissed in a low voice, a tone very like his own.

Potion bottles lost their glint, and his shadow seemed to shroud the classroom. Her eyes darkened with it. In the low light, they glimmered black.

His lean frame loomed before her, making all else disappear. "What, an immature teenager?"

Then, uncharted knowledge flew from her tongue again. "I'm. Eight." She punctuated the last word in classic Snapeish fashion. "Teen."

I know I am 15. Yet simultaneously, I am 18.

I am.

I am.

These thoughts manifested through her mind effortlessly, as if an uncharted sliver of her soul hailed from a place not so distant.

A wicked smirk shaped his features. He raised his wand, casting a common auror spell, bathing her forehead in golden light. "Biologically, fifteen," he stated.

He swept past her nonchalantly, the golden glow leaving her forehead as he passed. "Mentally-aged, I wonder . . ."

Felicity's jaw jutted outward, and she crossed her arms. "Professor Umbridge is a despicable character who'll . . ." In all her fury, she scoured her mind thoroughly and deeply for information. She erased all thoughts, all emotions except the unexplained rage triggered by that mere simpering smile.

Snape crossed his arms and leaned back against a desk ever so slightly, as if inwardly amused.

". . . who'll teach us nothing of defense of the Dark Arts! Nothing but canned Ministerial theory peer-reviewed until it reeks of political undertones!"

"Must you state the obvious?" Snapped the professor, glaring at her.

Felicity's fury may have blinded her, but like Luna suggested, it'll have served her well to be more observant: his lips curled upward ever-so-slightly. A smile. Derived from agreement? Flattery?