'A student. She's a fucking student. Fucking fuck. Way to go, Severus, wanking to a student, you disgusting old git.'
Words couldn't describe the sensation of the icy tendrils of shame that had gripped at his chest when he saw her again. The irony of longing after her all night, only to see her the next day but find it appalling was not lost on him. Why was it that when he dared desire something, indulge in something, it always came back to bite him? It's like he'd been cursed, destined to look but not touch, smell but not taste. Everything he wanted was somehow wrong and perverse.
His interest and skill in the Dark Arts had been born of his need to protect himself and his mother from his piece of shit muggle father, and how was that his fault? Why was it that when a helpless child learned to not be helpless, finding some way to defend themselves, it was always wrong or dysfunctional?
They refused to intervene and offer help, so he had to do it himself. When he finally did what he had to do to protect himself and his mother, that's when they decided it was time to intervene, but not to help him; to criticize and punish him for protecting himself. How was that fair?
But he knew life wasn't fair, and there was no use whining about it.
He filed away the angst he felt for the future, the grief for the past, and the guilt for this tiny nuisance in the present that had somehow grown to take up a surprising amount of space in his already-crammed mind.
It had been a couple of days since the Start-of-Term Feast. The arrival of Dolores Umbridge had been expected to be somewhat disagreeable, as all matters involving the ministry inevitably are, but something about the woman was...unnerving. Irritating. Her sickeningly sweet persona had an underhandedness to it. And considering her vote against Potter in the Wizengamot hearing, the term ahead was already looking increasingly bleak and sure to be full of new headaches.
As much as he wanted to blame the little rat, he couldn't deny that the ruling had obviously been a ministry ploy to discredit Potter's testimony about the Dark Lord's return because he and Dumbledore together cut an impressive figure in the magical community and had many rallying behind them. They no doubt also wanted him out of the way for the school term so he couldn't meddle with their curricular takeover. However, the Ministry didn't account for Potter's arrogance and stubborn insistence on being at the center of attention. He would weasel his way front and center of their plans, and while that worried and annoyed Snape to no end, he also felt the tiniest tinge of gratification bubbling in his chest at the thought of the Ministry not getting their way, and of Potter being the pebble in someone else's shoe for a change.
He had just left an impromptu discussion on the whole affair with the Headmaster and was passing through the corridors when he saw a flash of honey-brown hair, glistening in the golden hour light that streamed in from the courtyard. Then she laughed and he despised the way his breath caught in his chest...and the irritating plummet in his gut at the sight of a Weasley for having the nerve to be the one making her laugh.
Why did he care? He didn't. He couldn't care less, actually, even if he tried. Which he didn't need to do, because he didn't care.
There, that settled it.
His long strides took him into the depths of the castle towards his office, a flare of annoyance rising in his chest when he detected a young man piddling about in his classroom.
"Sharpp."
"Severus! Good to see you again," said the handsome wizard, turning to face him with a winning smile. "I see you've done well for yourself, still working for Albus Dumbledore."
Snape's eyes narrowed, "Why did you apply for this position? I find it interesting that you'd concern yourself with something so trivial as becoming a teacher's aide."
"Yeah, well, I needed the experience. I just got my certification for Master Potioneer a few months ago but I wanted to get some practical experience under my belt. I heard you were still here at Hogwarts after all these years and thought it would be a great opportunity to reconnect with an old friend in the meantime." His face burst into an amiable smile that made Snape's jaw tighten in annoyance. He couldn't let on the full extent of his and Dumbledore's suspicions though, so he bit his tongue.
"I see. Well, I suppose we ought to take the afternoon to familiarize you with the classroom and the course load." He pulled out his class schedule and began to go through the upcoming weeks.
Griggor had not arrived until a couple of days after the Start-of-Term feast, citing "unexpected delays". This irritated Snape further because not only did he have to train him last minute, but he would have to do so with what little spare time he had between and after classes. If Dumbledore didn't have some ulterior interest in Sharpp's employment, Snape wondered if he'd have been so lenient.
'Probably. Merlin knows he's been lenient with Hagrid.' His brow furrowed a little when remembering that while Dumbledore said he had sent Hagrid to recruit some fellow giants to the order, Snape suspected another of his intentions was to keep Hagrid away for the term due to the new High Inquisitor's prejudice against non-pureblood beings. They knew that Hagrid had been expelled from Hogwarts as a student and was known for engaging in shady dealings in Knockturn Alley and public drunkenness. Dumbledore must also have realized that having Hagrid around was unwise because of his lack of tact and control of his tongue. He was a loose cannon, and having him around Ministry officials was trouble waiting to happen.
Pulling himself from his thoughts, Snape swept across the classroom to a little supply closet on the left side of the room. "This houses basic potions for minor incidents, like when an idiotic Hufflepuff finds it judicious to try a sip of the aging solution they've brewed and turns ninety-seven in the middle of class." His brows raised in an irritated, lazy sort of way. "You'd find a cure for that here, along with other antidotes and anti-venoms, ointments, bandages and the like."
Snape struggled to fight the prickling of irritation surging to the surface of his skin at having to pretend a literal Death Eater would ever have any need for potions that could cure a child that wasn't a pureblood, like half the students in this school. He abruptly turned to the cauldrons and beakers and gave Griggor a quick review of classroom supplies. After a half hour of explaining the course load, which students were insufferable little shits to be on guard with, and what Griggor's duties would be as an aide, they parted ways and Snape retired to his office for the remainder of the evening.
He slumped into the creaky chair behind his desk and leaning his head back, he exhaled a loaded sigh and closed his eyes. He needed a new desk chair. His mind's eye fixated on her again, the way her hair looked in the evening rays, the way her smile made his heart leap, and his chest tightened in longing.
Had she...noticed the way he looked at her at the pub? He felt a surge of humiliation mingled with desire promptly fill his chest at the thought.
He became painfully aware that he would need to put considerable distance between himself and Miss Clemens. He sat up and opened his eyes, forcing his mind elsewhere. He wouldn't think about the girl for the rest of the evening. He was determined not to.
He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and withdrew a flask of a 50-year Glenfiddich that was a Christmas gift from Lucius. It was no doubt a degradation of the expensive whisky to remove it from its intricate glass bottle and rehouse it to the cheap aluminum flask he bought off a vendor in Diagon Alley when he was sixteen. But the flask made it possible to keep it on hand for after exceedingly brain-numbing interactions with his annoying students.
And colleagues.
Besides, he knew something of cheapness being filled with precious things, such as knowledge and power. Sometimes he felt like that banged-up flask, mostly worthless but filled with something valuable...until his opposing masters spilt it out into the streets along with the oceans of blood paying for this war.
He took a swig, rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, his mind working at double speed to keep up with the demands suddenly deluging him from all sides. The Dark Lord had become exceedingly arrogant since more Death Eaters began showing up from all over the world where they'd either been hiding or had claimed innocence under the Imperius. His ranks were growing in number and Severus was doing damage control on both sides after the Dark Lord had made his presence known again by killing the Diggory boy in the Tri-Wizard Tournament only a few months prior.
That night had been one of his worst yet. When his mark had first burned, he felt cold dread creep up his spine and clutch at his heart. Then when Karkaroff approached him about his mark, he knew there was no mistaking it. He was coming, and soon Snape would have to become someone he hated again.
And now he would have an extra pretending to do in a space that had once been somewhat safe.
He had to admit he was caught off-guard by the arrival of Sharpp. If he had been sent by the Dark Lord as a spy, why wasn't Snape made aware? Had he lost the Dark Lord's trust in some way? Far as he knew, he was still his right-hand, the first person he called to order when executing some new scheme and the only one he seemed to trust enough to give free rein in the execution of those schemes. He was usually trusted to act on his own judgment and to command other Death Eaters to do the same. The Dark Lord trusted that Snape's intentions and his own were one in the same.
He knew it was a unique position because the only other Death Eater he trusted to concoct schemes of their own was Bellatrix, and even she was frequently put back in her place by the Dark Lord for "misusing her ambition."
So, why wouldn't he have told Snape about Sharpp? Was it possible that he wasn't sent by the Dark Lord and was truly a penitent Death Eater?
'Be reasonable.'
He knew he wasn't Imperiused, but he could hardly blame him for lying about it to avoid Azkaban. Or perhaps the Ministry didn't even know about Sharpp's involvement in the first war at all, and had no idea he was ever a follower of the Dark Lord. In fact, it was possible that no one knew of Sharpp's past, save Snape and a few other Death Eaters. Dumbledore had opted not to mention it to Sharpp, preferring to play ignorant as much as possible.
A sudden knock on Snape's office door jerked him from his thoughts and he stashed his flask back in the desk, hurriedly rising to his feet when he remembered.
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'Professor Snape; Potions & Defence Against the Dark Arts - Tuesdays and Fridays after dinner'
Vela had made her way down to his office immediately after dinner, then felt like she might've arrived too soon, so she went back upstairs, but then wondered if his intention was for her to come immediately. She hadn't seen him at dinner when she'd intended to ask him.
She was anxiously pacing back and forth near the staircase in the Great Hall that led down into the dungeons when she caught sight of one of the redheaded Gryffindor twins suddenly sauntering over to her from around the corner, his hands casually stuffed in his pockets.
"Working up the courage?" He asked with a cheeky grin.
Vela eyed him carefully a moment before replying. "I'm just incredibly indecisive," she laughed nervously.
"And I am incredibly helpful at making decisions," he retorted, raising his brows playfully. "I'm also George." He grinned and extended his hand to shake Vela's smaller one.
"It's nice to meet you, George." Shaking his hand, she appraised him a moment before asking, "Hey, you're not related to Ron Weasley, are you?"
His expression was blank as he repeated the name with the inflection of someone not very familiar with its form in their mouth, "Ron Weasley? No." His brows furrowed in contemplation, "Though I do know him. What makes you ask?" Vela's brow arched in subtle surprise. She'd been sure he was a Weasley. "Oh sorry, I met him a couple of nights ago and I just thought you look so similar. I heard Ron had older brothers that went to school here."
"Oh yeah, that's true..." he replied. "My brother is Fred. Everyone always thinks we're twins for some reason." He shook his head as if irritated by the common misconception. "So, you've met Ron?" he asked her in a curious tone, not giving her a chance to consider his last statement. Suddenly his energy was charged with excitement and mischief, "Wait, are you saying Ron Weasley is here at Hogwarts too?"
"Oh, um. Yeah?" she muttered, her eyes widening in curiosity at his sudden excitement.
"No way!" he exclaimed, "How come he didn't tell me he was coming to Hogwarts this year?" He stroked his chin as if in deep thought and slightly affronted, "We're like brothers, we tell each other everything..." He shook his head in disbelief, clicking his tongue, and Vela detected the beginnings of a sneaky grin spreading across his face.
She rolled her eyes and George seemed quite pleased with himself.
"Why did I fall for that?"
George shook his head, "Probably found it hard to believe that such an ugly bloke could be related to someone so charming and handsome." He wiggled his brows playfully before Vela retorted, "Yeah, I suppose you're right; he is a bit of a charmer, isn't he?" She returned his smug grin and wiggled her brows this time, making George's eyes and mouth widen in shock. He brought his hand over his heart as if he'd been hit with a devastating blow and needed immediate medical attention.
"Oi!" He pretended to be angry, but then his face melted into a mirthful grin again, "Alright alright, I deserved that one." His hands slid back into his pockets as he grinned at her, glancing around at where they were standing. His voice became playful, "So...why are you standing at the dungeon stairs like you're on your way to your execution? I mean, I guess if it's got anything to do with Snape there might be an execution involved." The corner of his mouth turned down in a little half-frown, "Appropriate reaction."
She laughed and shook her head, "I actually have remedial potions with him tonight "after dinner" according to my schedule. There's no specific time, just "after dinner", and I didn't even see him at dinner so I don't know if he's had dinner yet, and I can't decide if I should wait and see if he comes up, or if I should go immediately since I'm done eating. It kind of feels like whatever I choose is likely to piss him off."
George nodded and crossed his arms, leaning against the stone doorway leading down to the dungeons. "And you'd be right. It's not a difficult thing to do. But he's just a grouchy old wanker, don't let him bother you. I've never seen him physically harm a student." His relaxed expression became more serious. "Well. Wait, that's not true." He looked to the side thoughtfully a moment, scratching the back of his head, then his eyes flickered back to hers. "I've never seen him harm a female student...yet."
Her eyes widened a little, then she realized she couldn't tell when he was joking, so she decided to take everything with a grain of salt. Though the thought of being physically harmed by Snape did the opposite of what it should have done, and her stomach fluttered confusingly.
"Tell you what. Spend a little while with me and tell me about yourself, then go to his office," he smirked. She looked around apprehensively, "Uh...alright, I guess that's not a bad idea." She shrugged, then followed him to the courtyard and they sat on a little stone bench in the evening glow of the sunlight bathing the green hills and mountains between which the castle was nestled. She shared what little edited portions of her story she could without relaying too much. George seemed bewildered by the concept of someone growing up for so many years and not knowing they were magical.
Her religion's stifling qualities were hard to convey to someone who had not grown up with it. The way she described it to him was like that of a contortionist, bending himself to fit into ridiculous, unnatural shapes for the sake of living according to the restrictions and expectations placed on him. Not meeting these demands was directly threatening to the soul and one's place in the community. George seemed confused and outraged by the restraints Vela mentioned to him and his anger was validating to her. It was as if having others recognize the absurdity of the rules, control and abuses she had suffered gave her permission to be angry about them too.
He told her about his large family, their house, (or as he called it, "The Burrow"), and some amazing things about growing up as a wizard. His description of his mother's cooking was astounding. The mental image of a redheaded woman in a cottage kitchen levitating pots and pans and plates and forks, feeding her many children brought a smile to Vela's face.
After a few minutes, she caught sight of Professor Snape walking swiftly through the corridor, like a man on a mission. Her heart lurched at the glimpse of him and she forced her eyes away so as not to be caught staring. George had warned her that even looking at him funny could piss him off. He was headed in the general direction of the Great Hall, so she assumed he was on his way to eat dinner.
She learned that George and Fred were twins, Ron was their brother and so was Percy, and they had a sister named Ginny here as well. She also learned that he and his twin planned to open a joke shop in Diagon Alley and spent a lot of free time experimenting with potions and charms. All in all, it was a good conversation and she felt glad to have made a new friend.
After an appropriate amount of time for someone to finish eating, she bade George farewell which he returned with a "good luck" and a playful reminder not to look at Snape funny. She descended into the dungeons and found the office door, nervously knocking three times and jumping back when the door swung open of its own accord after a few seconds. Her eyes widened as she looked around the office, not finding the Professor behind the door. How had he opened it?
'Oh, right. Magic.'
Entering the room, her senses were overwhelmed in a way that was completely opposite of what she had experienced when entering Dumbledore's office. Instead of whimsical, it was dismal. Instead of silly noises, there was a deafening silence. Instead of warmth and the smell of lemons, it was dank and cold, despite a perfectly good but barren fireplace. No light or funny instruments; instead it was dark and murky, and the shelves were lined with all manner of horrifying and creepy things. Parts of plants and animals floated in glass jars, sending a chill of disgust down her spine, yet some part of her wanted to inspect them closer.
She heard the sound of glass bottles tinkling together in the back corner of the room and her eyes found the mysterious wizard rifling through a cupboard.
"We'll be replenishing my stores in the classroom," his deep voice rushed around her in a delicious flurry. "Antidote to Common Poisons, Healing Potions, Skele-grow and a few others. Go to the classroom and set a pewter cauldron to boil."
Okay, straight to it then. She left the office and went into the classroom next door and grabbed a cauldron from the supply closet. She had only had one potions lesson so far and it was confusing and difficult, but she was very intrigued by the process. It was something she wanted to be good at. She filled the cauldron with water and set it over flame.
After a couple of minutes, Professor Snape entered the classroom with handfuls of ingredients and empty glass jars and vials floating in the air behind him. Vela stared in awe at this reality-bending sight. Snape's eyes narrowed on hers and he seemed annoyed by how easily impressed she was. She quickly stopped her gaping and pulled out her potions textbook.
"You won't need it. I have my own book of recipes that I prefer to the textbook's." He set a large, heavy black journal with handwritten recipes for every potion imaginable in alphabetical order on the wooden workbench in front of Vela. Peering down into the leather-bound, worn notebook, she noted with interest that he had even drawn little illustrations and doodles in the margins here and there, complementing the long and elegant writing. She marveled at the thought of Severus Snape ever doodling for fun. It endeared him to her.
"Begin gathering the ingredients for the Antidote to Common Poisons, Miss Clemens." He intoned, snapping her from her reverie and she quickly obliged, turning unfamiliarly to the supply closet and scanning the shelves for the necessary supplies, bringing them over in armfuls, no doubt further aggravating Snape with her inability to float them behind her like he had. Taking stock of the ingredients, she realized she was still missing the bezoar.
Retreating to the closet once more, she browsed the shelves again, searching for the small taupe-colored stone she had seen pictured in the potions textbook. Wasn't there a collection of them in a jar or something? She stood up on her tiptoes, stretching to look atop the highest shelf, but she couldn't see. She hopped up and down trying to see the shelf, to no avail. She felt darkness surrounding her suddenly, blocking out light and the noise of the bubbling cauldron a few feet away. She turned in confusion and faced that same, fabric wall of black that had startled her once before already, letting out a mortifying gasp.
"Asking for assistance saves us both time in the end, Miss Clemens." His silky voice seemed to wrap all around her as he reached up to the top shelf and easily obtained the jar of bezoars, holding it in front of her a moment before swiftly exiting the tight space and returning to the classroom.
After taking a moment to get her bearings again, Vela set to work chopping, crushing, mincing, peeling, and dicing according to Snape's recipe book. "Alright, begin adding the ingredients." He side-eyed her, "And do not foolishly waste them." She looked back at the recipe book and read the next steps, ignoring his biting remarks.
'Four measures of crushed bezoar'
"Sir? I'm not familiar with these um...units of measurement. How much is a "measure"?"
He gave her an irked look and exhaled a dramatic huff of annoyance. "No, I wouldn't expect you would know, would you? Common for muggle-born students. Though most are twelve." He eyed her with disdain and grabbed the mortar with the crushed bezoar from in front of her. She bit back the urge to talk back.
He was testing her, pushing her. She was sure of it. He's an asshole, but he pushes people's buttons so that he can reaffirm the notion he holds that people are shitty and not worth associating with. Vela figured he treated people like shit so that they in turn would treat him like shit, so he could feel justified in all the years he'd spent convincing himself of the notion that they are, in fact, shitty. She only understood it because she had considered doing the same thing.
"A measure is a little over sixty grams," his deep voice cut through her dissection of the baggage at the core of his behavior. He glanced at her sidelong a moment then added more softly, "About two ounces."
The corner of her mouth twitched up a little at his conversion from metric to US customary for her sake. She watched him add the crushed bezoar and she portioned out the two measures of standard ingredient, adding it to the cauldron. She watched closely as he waved his wand and the ingredients combined and seemed to meld together as he raised the temperature and left the cauldron to brew before they began on the next one.
The pair spent the next hour in what had begun as tense silence in now-comfortable quiet, filled only with little clatters of blade against oak, pestle against mortar, and the cracking of shells that homed strange seeds and plants Vela had never known existed. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement between them that neither was keen on small talk so they would refrain from such nonsense. This was definitely easier for Vela, who found idle chit-chat to be more grueling than collecting Flobberworm mucus. Working with others always invited their conversation and input, and while Vela understood those things were sometimes necessary and even enjoyed them on some occasions, she preferred to spend most of her time without these distractions.
Though she began to wonder what kind of conversation Professor Snape would have with her, were he ever to engage in such a thing.
Before long they had brewed several vials worth of each potion that needed to be replenished. When finished, Vela lifted one of the used cauldrons to carry to the stone wash basin, but before she could go more than a few steps, she felt the cast iron in her arms levitate, making her eyes widen. She turned and saw Snape effortlessly flicking his wand with his back turned as if bored by the task, moving the cauldrons one after another, seamlessly into the large sink.
"You may go, Miss Clemens." Her brow furrowed and she turned back to the sink to suggest she could wash them but found them already being scrubbed hands-free. The sight of the floating sponge scrubbing the cauldrons was enthralling and uncanny and she felt rooted to the spot as she watched in awe. It reminded her of the scene from 'Sleeping Beauty' where the house cleaned itself.
"Miss Clemens, if you insist on being wonderstruck by every bit of magic you witness, you're going to waste a lot of your own time as well as others'." She blinked and turned to the back of him as he remained working at the bench, "Right...of course, sorry." She grabbed her bag and books and glanced back at him, "Um, Sir? Is there a specific time after dinner I ought to be here? I wasn't sure whether I should have come immediately tonight or have waited til I saw you were done with dinner."
His eyes narrowed a moment, almost skeptically. "Use your judgment, Miss Clemens."
Her heart sank and she knew she was in for a lot of anxiety over this.
But as she retreated through the now-empty halls of the dungeons toward her dorm, she decided that if he wanted her to be there at a specific time, he would have said so. If he had a problem with her showing up earlier or later, it would be on him to communicate it. There, it was settled; she wouldn't worry about it anymore.
She was officially not worried. Not at all.