Chapter 36

The first-year Slytherins filed in to the dimly-lit classroom amid much hushed whispers. Many of them were in awe of their dark and imposing Head of House, and rumours were deliberately spread by the older Slytherins which had made him even more fearful. Some said he owned the Basilisk which was discovered in the Chamber of Secrets years ago. Some said he was the true heir of Slytherin and that he would arise soon, more terrible and fearful than Voldemort himself. Yet others said he was part-vampire, which is why he preferred the dank confines of the dungeon and also accounted for his porcelain white skin. The first years had listened with wide eyes to all of these tales, and their first meeting with the stern professor at their Sorting did little to diminish the strength of these rumours. Now they sat and waited, eyes peering into the gloom, for their first lesson in Defence Against the Dark Arts.

"The Dark Arts is a branch of magic which, thankfully, very few witches and wizards are courageous and skilful enough to exploit."

The disembodied voice of Severus Snape filled the cold air with authority as the children squinted, looking for their professor.

"Those who do practice such magic, however, will stop at nothing to achieve the kind of power of which true mastery of the Dark Arts promises. The price of using this magic is terrible: death, destruction and torture are the lifeblood of the Dark Arts. The threat of its use within our own society is, even now, very real.

"However, I am not here to teach you the Dark Arts. I am here to teach you how to recognise them and how to defend yourself against them. With me, you will also learn about a host of dark beasts, fearsome creatures and foul beings. You will learn how to dispel Dementors, guard against Grindylows, and even vie with Vampires."

At this, Snape stepped forward from the gloom to a collective gasp of fear. His skin, although usually pale, was now a ghost-like white and seemed to glow with a luminance all of its own. His black hair, which usually hung in chin-length curtains framing his face, was slicked back. His mouth was red, in stark contrast to the pallor of his skin, and he hissed, bearing his teeth and showing unmistakable pointed fangs. One child whimpered. Another farted.

Severus fought hard with the desire to laugh at the terror he was instilling. With a flick of his wand, his appearance returned to normal, and the small children sagged in their seats with relief. He walked forwards with a swish of his cloak, satisfied with his opening gambit.

Teaching DADA was satisfying to Snape on so many levels. Firstly, he could be more creative in his approach to his lessons. Secondly, the marking was much easier and less time consuming, giving him more time to focus on his own personal Potion projects. Thirdly, it was an almost effortless way to continue cultivating a persona of fear amongst the pupils. And fourthly, the correct teaching of the subject was an extension of his protection for the children. As much as he often carped on about dunderheads and dull-witted students, Snape was fiercely protective of his students and of all the knowledge he could imprint on them, defence against evil was, in his opinion, of the utmost importance.

Another few flicks of the wand, and a white screen rolled in front of the blackboard whilst the projector at the back of the room shuddered and rattled into life.

"Today we will be looking at the ridiculous and onerous creatures known as Hinkypunks. Turn to page fifteen in your text books."

The children scrabbled silently for their books whilst he allowed himself a small smile. He wouldn't hear a peep out of them for the remainder of the class, and he knew they would be riveted by everything he said. The poor kid who'd farted would probably be having nightmares for the rest of the term. Snape smiled further, turning and hiding his face behind his dark hair lest anyone see his merriment. One grin out of him could undo the whole act.

In truth, Snape had hated teaching for a long, long time. He'd realised eventually it wasn't teaching he hated; it was actually that he hated having to teach a subject which he had no desire at all to teach. Potions were a private passion of his, something he had been able to share with Lily, and a subject he was intuitively very good at. That was the way with Potions. You were either good at it and instinctively grasped its nuances and subtleties or you were bloody awful. In Snape's experience, 80% of students fell into the latter category, and it was mind-numbingly, jaw-grindingly, knuckle-whiteningly frustrating, not to mention dangerous. Defence, however, was like a walk in the park in comparison, and teaching it was natural and relatively stress-free.

After Voldemort’s death, he was free to choose whichever path he wanted. He’d fulfilled his Unbreakable Vow with Dumbledore, he’d been on the winning side in the war… he had, by all intents and purposes, complete free will for the first time in over twenty years. He could have travelled the world, run his own potion business, or focused on his own projects full-time. Yet he actually found he didn’t want to leave Hogwarts. It was his home. He’d fought so hard to protect the place, to leave after all that had happened would feel wrong. Finally, now, his peers and colleagues understood him, and whereas inevitable elements of the cranky, unapproachable and dour man remained, he was looked upon with fondness and high regard. He finally felt like he belonged, and it was a feeling he didn’t want to give up. Teaching DADA had been the icing on the cake.

This all helped him to heal after the events of the war. He was, comparatively, happy. Beginning a relationship with Sarah was by far one of the most frightening things he’d ever done, but it only served to make him even happier. Until Dumbledore planted the idea about picking at old wounds, and the whole edifice came crumbling down around his ears. He’d yet to confront him about that.

“She had to find out about your past sooner or later,” Albus told him later that same day.

Severus glowered up at the painting. “Having her walk in on a memory of me gang-raping a defenceless Muggle was not the way I’d wanted her to find out,” he spat sharply.

Albus winced at the term “gang-raping”.

“Of course, the Pensieve incident was most distressing for both of you.”

Understatement of the century, Severus groused to himself.

“But she still loves you, you know,” Albus continued. “She told me.”

“A man like me is not worthy of such love,” he muttered, cracking his knuckles absently. Now it was Albus’ turn to frown.

“Severus, your self-flagellation is both tedious and unnecessary. If you insist on pushing her love away, you will become a self-fulfilling prophecy!” The older man looked over his half-moon spectacles sternly at the younger one, who glared right back.

“If you don’t mind, Albus, I think I may just ignore that little gem of wisdom, as taking on board your helpful advice is what got me into this mess in the first place!” he hissed.

Dumbledore had the good grace to twinkle sheepishly at this.

“I will admit, my overzealousness to see you happy seems to have led to this unfortunate situation,” he began lightly. “But the truth is out now, and she’s admitted she still has feelings for you. Maybe it’s time for you to stop using Occlumency and try opening up for a change.”

If looks could kill, and Dumbledore weren’t a painting, he’d be dead twice-over.

“Maybe it’s time for you to stop poking your dead, painted nose into other people’s business!” he snarled, stalking out of the office and slamming the door behind him, leaving the portrait of Albus shaking his head sadly.