Your time table appeases you - you are teaching higher year potions. You don't mind teaching the younger students, but first years often treat potions as science projects. They never truly grasp the art behind it. Your first class of the day is with the fourth years. As you approach the potions classroom, you hum to yourself, holding a tall cup of coffee in your hand. You sip on it, coming to a slow halt, seeing the Gryffindor and Slytherin students against the wall beside the classroom. They're talking amongst themselves, holding their potion books in hand.
"Good morning, kids." You greet warmly.
The students turn their heads at you and welcomingly smile.
"Good morning, professor Reynolds." They say.
You take a sip of your coffee, approaching Harry Potter. You nod at him, noting he is tall for a fourteen year old. You're five foot seven and he is already an inch or so above you.
"Everything was alright then, after I was stunned into a tree?" You ask, with a laugh.
His eyes wicked green widen behind his ocular glasses.
"That was you?" He asks.
You nod again, laughing. Granger and Weasley look at you curiously.
"Yes, that was me. My apparel was quite different during the world cup and it was dark." You murmur.
You typically wear long, witches tunics during working hours - they're comfortable and your mother always sported them and you seem to be missing her today. You wish she could see you here, in freaking Hogwarts of all places, being an assistant to the schools most loved professor. She'd probably laugh at you and tell you to stick it out.
"We told the ministry you were innocent, but they didn't believe us." Granger explains.
You look at her now - her wild hair and semi larger teeth suit her. She looks intelligent and you briefly wonder why she isn't in the blue of Ravenclaw.
"That's alright. I appreciate you trying. They cleared me, eventually. Did you learn anything more about why they were there?"
You watch all of the students begin to form into line. You turn, looking behind you, seeing Professor Snape taking long strides towards the class. He is lacking readable emotion and doesn't bother staring at you, or the students, not even offering a good morning. He waves his hand over the classroom door, unlocking it, and swings it open swiftly. The students silently file in and take their seats. You take a step to enter as well, but Snape's hand comes up to your arm, halting you.
"Keep your introduction and assisting explanation brief. I expect you read the list of your duties." He says, shortly.
You pull your arm out of his grasp, then raise a finger to him. He eyes it, then goes back to glaring down at you.
"Do not touch me in such a manner, Snape. I am a well versed teacher - of course I've read my damn job description. I've offered an apology to you and you've rudely declined. You need to treat me with some respect as I have and will continue to do with you." You say, evenly.
It isn't like you to rise so quickly to anger. You suppose your Thunderbird is coming out: intelligent, but temperamental. Snape leans down to you and lowers his voice.
"Be. Brief."
He swings into class and makes his cloak brush against you, striding up to the top of it, standing at his podium. You shut your eyes and inhale, then strut in. You gently shut the door behind you and begin to introduce yourself.
Not much happened in any of your classes today, besides the potion syllabus and explanation of how the grades will be balanced. You've made yourself at home at the dark wooden desk in the back of the room - you think it hasn't been used in a while since it was covered in dust. Snape has sit at the desk at the front of the room all day, so he mustn't care you sit here. The chair is on wheels, faded, and lumpy, but it's pleasant enough. As the last students of the day slip out, you stand, beginning to pack up your quill, ink pot, and parchment. You slip it into your weathered satchel and pull it onto your shoulder. You glance up at Snape, seeing him with his quill in hand, his hair covering the sides of his face. He's staring down at whatever he is writing, but his hand isn't moving. You see his chest and back inflate with air and he exhales slowly. He appears to be stressed, but what from? The first day is always easiest. You slowly stride to him, gripping the strap on your bag, stopping a few feet in front of his desk.
"Professor Snape?" You ask, gently.
Snape turns his eyes to you, but remains unmoving.
"What is it?" He asks, quickly, in a annoyed tone.
You tilt your head. You want to ask the man if he is alright, but you don't know him that well, and you don't want to step on his toes and press your luck in his classroom. You need this job, at least until Christmas holiday.
Snape watches you tilt your head to look at him, your hair falling behind you as you do. Your eyes seemed concerned, but who would be concerned with him? Especially you, the stupid American who seems to like getting yourself in trouble.
"I'm here to assist the students, as well as yourself. Can I do anything for you?" You ask.
Snape sits his quill down, shaking his head.
"I do not require your assistance at this time." He says, blandly.
You look down, beginning to laugh lightly at his reply. The potions master turns to you now, his brows furrowed.
"What is so comical?" He demands.
He stands, staring at you. His eyes are irritated and your feet take an instinctive step back. You wipe under your eyes, then gesture your hand to him.
"You...your entire demeanor... like you thrive off being brooding and mean. By the way you're students are fearful to even sit in your class tells me you are not a nice nor happy person." You point out.
Snape scoffs. He grabs his cloak from his chair, pulling it on. He turns to you briskly, a small smirk playing on his lips. It's the first emotion you see from him, besides rudeness.
"You want a task to do? Fine. There is a potions supply room in the corridor between the Slytherin common room and where your chambers are. Take inventory on it. Today. It should only require, oh, I don't know, three hours of your evening? That is about how long it takes to count everything inside of it." Snape says, snarkily.
Your lips part and a small scoff escapes your lungs. You return his smirk, striding towards him, looking up at him playfully.
"Sounds like a dream. I can't wait to see what ingredients we have. I'll have the inventory for you by the end of the evening." You say, confidently.
Snape sneers at you as you stride out of the classroom. You laugh lightly to yourself, returning to your chambers to drop your things off, then go to the potions closet.
Your fingers shake around your quill as you scratch the last ingredient on your list. You sit on your knees on the dusty floor of the potions closet. There are seven shelves lining the walls of the walk in space, each filled with hundreds of ingredients. Your fingers ache and you're utterly exhausted, but you've gotten it finished. You stand and wave your hand over the lit torch on the wall, the flame going out. You take a step, but stop, wincing. Your hand goes to your hip, massaging the old injury you received during your last year of school at a quidditch match. It seems kneeling in front of the bottom shelf for so long has caused your hip to seize. You lean against the threshold, moving your right leg back and forth, trying to work out the muscle and joint. You feel it loosen slightly, but not completely. You grab your parchment of the inventory and turn out of the closet, shutting and locking the door behind you. You take a full step, but a sharp pain shoots up your hip and into your back, so you limp instead. Your chambers aren't that far. All you have to do is shove this into Snape's hand and you can lay down.
You knock on Snape's door gently, then rest your weight on your left leg. You can feel him approach the door, his foot steps growing louder and stronger, until they halt. He swings his door inward.
He's in his robes, but his hair is damp and he smells like lavender. You stare at him, and a weird feeling comes into your stomach, a feeling you are unsure of. You swallow, lifting the inventory up to him. He grabs it and quickly examines it. He nods, approvingly.
"It seems you can count - it matches my inventory from yesterday." He says, amused.
Your eyes widen and anger replaces that weird feeling in your stomach. Your right hand forms into a fist and you have half of mind to slam it against his big nose. He just did this inventory yesterday? He made you do it just to get under your skin.
"You'll do this every other week, Professor Reynolds." He adds.
You shoot a glare up at him, then turn, holding the wall as you begin to limp towards your chambers. Snape furrows his brows at you from behind.
"Professor Reynolds?" He asks, his snarky voice gone.
"Leave me be, you ass." You mutter.
Snape strides down the hall with ease, his long legs able to catch you in less than three seconds. He steps in front of you, looking at you up and down.
"Did you hurt yourself?" He inquires.
You shake your head, staring at your hand on your hip.
"No, it's an old injury! I suppose it was because I was on my knees for you for so long, doing your damned inventory!" You bark.
You don't move your head back up, realizing what those may have not been the best choice of words. He kneels down in front of you, looking at your hip, then raises a hand over it, but not touching it.
"May I?" He asks.
You scoff, slapping his hand down. He groans in response to your action.
"Absolutely not. What can you do?" You demand.
He stares up at you through the hair framing his head and face.
"I am skilled in other magic besides potions. I've created a few potions myself to help with certain aches and pains. Is it your muscle or joint?"
You shrug.
"Both...I think." You reply.
He slowly raises his hand to your hip, looking up at you before touching it. You don't reply, but don't argue, so he gently places his hand on your side. He gently squeezes your hip.
"Ow." You say.
He loosens his grip, slowly moving his large, strong hand down your leg. You stare at the top of his head, seeing how broad his shoulders really are from above. You glance to his left hand, seeing it bare of any ring. If he was nice and not so arrogant and mean, you'd ask him why he doesn't have a nice. He obviously knows how to help people. His hand traces up over your hip now, to the small of your back.
"Very tense here. What happened?" He asks.
He removes his hand and stands, looking down at you now. You shrug.
"During quidditch in my final year of school, my ex boyfriend sent a bludger on me. Guess he couldn't take me ending things with him." You say, a small smirk forming on your lips.
He nods, then walks into his chambers without another word. You limp back to the entrance of his chambers, seeing him inside, rummaging through a cabinet of small vials. He snatches one out, scans it over with his dark eyes, then strides to you. He hands it to you. You furrow your brows, lifting the stopper, to smell the contents. He places his hand on your wrist.
"Don't drink it until you're in bed."
You roll your eyes to his.
"I'm just smelling it. I have to make sure it isn't draught of living death or something." You retort.
He rolls his eyes, scoffing beneath his breath. You inhale the potion, then place the stopper back in it, looking up at him.
"Thank you." You murmur.
You study him, trying to figure out his reason for helping you when he seems to hate you so much. But, from today, it seems he treats everyone the same as you. He nods once in reply, then grabs his door, shutting it. You stare at the vial, making your way to your chambers, then trace your fingers over your wrist, where Snape's just were. His touch was different than when he grabbed you earlier this morning. Almost as if he cared about your discomfort.
Almost.