𝐔𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥

Why do you hate me?

A series of images flashed before her eyes. Multiple people turned towards her in fragmented motions; places she'd never seen, conversations she'd never had nor heard. She knew that she was seeing different scenes from different times, but not only that; she was feeling emotions that weren't hers to feel.

I didn't know he was capable of feeling anything besides contempt.

She recognized a frowning Minerva from one of the fragments, so she tried to concentrate on that specific memory. They were in the garden at what seemed to be around 5 pm, under an enormous oak Blanche had seen before.

"Severus, please." was saying Minerva. She felt her heart, his heart, dropping. Why did those words resonate so much? The memory vanished.

Then students, books, people she didn't know, people she'd swear she'd already seen or known. Scary men, students, the former Headmaster Dumbledore, his hands gently cutting ingredients. Anything and everything was flashing like bolts, vanishing in the dark as she tried to reach for the memories. She saw herself sitting in the Great Hall at the staff table, being under the impression of recognizing an unknown someone and a deep, deep discomfort. Se saw herself glancing at him with an impenetrable expression, feeling an inexplicable lump in her throat. And then nothing. She was herself again, shut out from his mind.

Severus was bent over the table with his left hand in his hair, petrified. He looked at her with wide eyes, a hint of what looked like fear, or even desperation, in them. His other hand was still gripping her left wrist with force, to the point that his knuckles were white. Blanche was speechless, shocked by his reaction.

He let go of her arm, trying to regain his composure. He was panting. Blanche had crossed a line, and she knew it.

"Why do you hate me?", she finally let out with an uncertain voice.

She expected him to reply in his usual stone-cold tone, but he didn't. He looked at her dead in the eyes for a few seconds, still trying to catch his breath, with his hair scattered in his face; and then, he just said: "... I don't know". His voice cracked, as he looked down at the sheets scattered all over the table.

He was looking exceptionally human, for once, and the enjoyment she got from provoking him vanished in thin air.

"I'm sorry", she tried to say, but he stopped her with a gesture, muttering something under his breath. She tried to comprehend what he was murmuring, but his voice was too soft. "What?"

He put his hands on the table, without looking at her. His whole aura had changed in an instant. "I said... get out", he growled.

"The credits", she replied, with all the audacity she managed to scrape together.

"Get out... AT ONCE!" he screamed, hitting his quill with a sharp blow. The ink spilled all over the table, soiling the paper with black blotches.

Blanche flinched. She didn't think he was capable of producing a sound so loud. She understood now, for the first time, why the students found him to be so intimidating. He was towering over the desk, disfigured from anger, trembling with rage, right in front of her.

I will not let myself be intimidated by angry men.

"I will not tolerate this behavior, Snape", she said dryly, immediately flooded with rage, "we are not kids and you are not a manchild. Control yourself."

Snape seemed to come back to his senses. He looked down at the black mess without a word, closing the hand he used to hit the quill in a fist. "Go," he said, and after thinking for a few seconds, he added, in a whisper: "...please."

Blanche, still fuming, was taken aback by this display of common courtesy. "Give the credits, and I'm out the door in a second," she replied once again. Snape nodded faintly, still looking at the table.

Blanche stormed out of the room, finding out that three students, including Morton, were pressed against the door eavesdropping.

"You three just dug your own grave." she hissed at them, pushing them aside. They never learn. Why do I even bother?

She almost ran across the corridors, enraged, outraged even. The students moved out of her way in murmuring crowd wings, but she couldn't care less if she tried. He was a manchild, he was an arrogant, frustrated man with apparent anger issues; she found herself hating the man while she was strutting towards her room. Why did he absorb so much of her attention?

He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve anything.

Finally, she stopped in front of her room. She didn't even recall how she got there, and she didn't care.

She opened the door, trying to calm down.