Twelve: Snape Victorious

Warning for the next several chapters: General creepy!Snape.

September 1996

The autumnal start to a school year lends a funny reversal of roles to the season. While sunlight withers and nature winds down to dormancy, the castle undergoes a springlike renewal. For the students, autumn brings the delights of homecoming and progression to a new year. For teachers, it carries the hope – usually quickly dashed – that the infusion of fresh blood into the student body might yield some reward, that the coming year might be different from the last. The first and only year I taught Defence, of course, would indeed be unique in the history of Hogwarts.

My first class of the first day of school was that of the third years, followed by the sixth-year N.E.W.T. students. I was inside the Defence classroom, putting the finishing touches on the specially prepared first N.E.W.T. lecture, when I heard their voices outside in the corridor. Upon my opening the door, the buzz subsided at once. The queue filed in and took their seats; the hush deepened as their eyes adjusted and they took in the newly Snape-transformed space.

White shirts newly starched, uniforms pressed, there they sat: Malfoy with mask of confidence in place (he had, apparently deliberately, applied an obscene quantity of oil to his hair); Crabbe, whose family tree had ensured him a place in my class; Goyle, whose voice was cracking horribly, thankfully rendering him more silent than usual; the unremarkable Li; dull, blockish Brocklehurst; the Patil girls whom I could not tell apart; Thomas, looking doubtful; Finnigan, half-awake; Macmillan with a new Muggle goatee. There was Longbottom with his usual odour of fear; Weasley, ever in need of a fumitory; Potter with his swollen-headed sneer; and there, in between them, all a-quiver with earnestness, chewing innocently on her quill, was my lovely little witch. Her robes were the same, but she seemed a shade darker than I recalled. She had let down her hair, as it was no longer required to be tied back for Potions work. (Oh, what I had been missing!) I followed her gaze from wall to wall, each of which was graced by a detailed, full-motion exhibit of a Dark Art in practice. At the display of a Dementor's Kiss, her lips parted in an 'O'; at the witch writhing under the Cruciatus, they pressed into a tight puckered line. She lowered her eyes to her desk and kept them there for a long minute.

And then, finally, finally, she inclined her face upward, and from across the room her bright eyes were resting on mine as she pulled out her textbook –

"I have not asked you to take out your books," I said and she flushed.

I pitched my voice low and whispered to her of the Dark Arts. How well I recalled my own bittersweet journey as a student! Here was the frontier of magic, where the possibilities were limited only by one's imagination – and the will to use it. Here, the one subject that encompassed all others she had previously known; it transcended all categories, defied all definition. How could she fail to be enthralled? Could she grasp from my words even a mote of the mystery? Could she sense the seduction, the alluring promise of power? Could she someday come to understand why so many had fallen?

None of my other students did, certainly. Potter was wearing a horrified expression. Macmillan was twiddling his wand. Malfoy was preening his freshly Brylcreemed head, pretending his recent experience put him above such a lecture. The other Slytherins refused to recognise the obvious – that the untimely ends on the walls would likely be theirs if they took the Dark Mark. None showed any inkling of awe for the delicate balance between Dark and Light, the beginningless, endless interplay without which magic could not be complete. But Miss Granger sat still, as if captive, subtly radiant in her awed reflection, her fawn eyes growing round as the moon and shining with unconcealed fascination. As I spoke, I felt the low rumble of my own voice, and I imagined the little catches of her breath as she listened to it, and little by little the room went contracting until she and I were the only ones left in a secret space bound by my words.

I continued the lecture with much more excitement than previously anticipated. I could hardly wait to watch her knocking Potter and Weasley on their arses for the rest of the year. That is, if I lasted that long.

* * *

I had just returned to the office sometime after class (which, despite its promising start, had ended somewhat sourly with Potter's insolent behaviour) when the telltale tap came at the door. Impeccable timing, that girl. I allowed her in with a wave of the wand and a well-obscured, embarrassingly schoolboyish eagerness to hear the familiar refrain:

"Hi Professor." She was wearing one of her contagious smiles, and it was an effort not to return it.

"Good morning, Miss Granger."

"How was your summer?"

"Fine." (Actually, Miss Granger, I am conspiring to assassinate the Headmaster and take my fated place as the Dark Lord's sinistral hand. Speaking of which, I thought of you every night, right around midnight. And in the morning too sometimes.)

"It's nice to be back. I really enjoyed your lecture this morning."

She stood shyly. She shifted from one heel to another. In the moment that passed between her words and mine, the sway of her soft sweatered flank, the gentle expansion of her chest with her breath, the thousand tiny gestures that I remembered, that I knew, so desire stirred within me and grew. What exactly did she want, I asked coolly.

"Sir, I was wondering if you needed an assistant again like last year . . . ."

"You could hardly be that useful in Defence," I said without thinking.

Her face fell as my hindbrain took over and hissed: Snape, you fool! She stammered, "I know – but I thought – well, I hoped I could learn, and . . ." She continued to babble some weak justification as I considered the lovely golden apple she tendered before me. (She, of course, was perfectly unaware of the ulterior implications of her petition.)

I bit: "Hmm . . . let me see. It will be quite a chore to bring seven class-years up to speed on material they've never learned; perhaps you could be of use there. I suppose there is quite a lot of grading; it won't be all in-class practicals. And well, I still do a bit of brewing on the side . . . I suppose, ah – " (Bollocks, was I stammering?) "Are you – quite sure you've got enough time? It would be no less work than last year."

"Yes, sir," she said with great solemnity. I could hardly fathom her voluntary return. Could it be that she did have an interest in Defence? (And had I not seen in her memories a sort of . . . special concern . . . she had for Defence teachers?) Or had Albus put her up to this again?

"Well. Very well. I suppose it's settled then. I shall have to bring you up to speed on the subject material since you've never even seen a proper syllabus. I am still attempting to determine what has and has not been taught over the years; I imagine most students will be needing remedial work –"

"I can help you with that; I've got all my notes from the past years." She was standing very close to my desk. The scent of pressed starch and Muggle shampoo reached my sensitive nose, and I felt a flush creep damningly across my cheeks and a shame at my unproportioned thoughts; after all, she was not even yet seventeen. (I had looked up her birth date.) I hastily realigned some papers.

With some further fumbling about, I recomposed myself and gave her a stack of reading material and a command – "Sit" – thus preventing her exit from the room. She fell artlessly into her chair (which looked much nicer with her in it) and set immediately to reading.

I was attempting the same, all the while wondering if the dungeon had become rather too musty over the summer, when presently she said, "Since I'm here, I've got a question I hope you can answer." There was a curious inflection to her voice.

"Mmm?"

"Do you know who Fenrir Greyback is?"

I met her eyes thoughtfully. "Now, why might you want to know that?"

"I – heard his name somewhere, and I thought you might know who he was."

She must have overheard a mention by Remus Lupin, an Order member (and general milquetoast) who was conducting surveillance on Greyback and his followers. "As a matter of fact, I do," I said. Greyback, as I explained, was a werewolf with a penchant for children, driven not only by blood lust, but also by rage at his helplessness to it. Since he could not prevent his monthly fate, he embraced it as his only source of power, even claimed violence as his God-given right, his natural due.

I added, "He prefers girls, especially overly talkative Gryffindors –"

"Oh, shut up." She broke into a smile.

"I am not entirely joking," I said, trailing off at a certain memory too gruesome to relate. Her smile died when I fixed darkly upon her. "You are too naive to understand the dangers I am talking about," I said sternly, and she scowled. "He is not someone you want to meet."

* * *

"Miss Granger, which subjects are you taking this term?" I asked in a bored tone of voice as she worked at her desk. Over the first several days of classes, I had been trying by surreptitious means to discern her schedule, but my own was too hectic to allow any success. I finally decided to simply ask her, as she would never be the wiser to my motives anyway.

She lit up. (How she loved any excuse to answer a question! And how fond I was growing of posing questions in class that only she knew the answers to; how delightful to watch her writhe in frustration with her hand in the air while I studiously ignored her and berated all the other witless pupils) – Oh, I was becoming distracted and missing her answer:

". . . and Herbology, Charms, and Arithmancy. I just couldn't give any of them up."

When she wasn't looking, I promptly scribbled the following:

H sched: Mon/Wed/Fri:

6 – Potions

Any faculty of reason I once possessed had by now suffered a decisive defeat to desire. I knew I was crossing a definitive ethical line, but in my weakening state, I could not bring myself to turn her away. Instead, I conjured all manner of rationalisations: She had come to me, after all, had she not? I could not help it that she was always offering to be helpful. And there was nothing wrong with being fond of a student, was there? Dumbledore had his favoured disciple; he planned secret meetings with Potter; why could I not do the same? Was I not still a teacher? Did I not have the prerogative to take an assistant for whatever reason I chose, even simply because I so wished? I did not need Dumbledore's approval for every action of mine.

The ostensible motive for noting her schedule was to select an appropriate hour for meetings. With the N.E.W.T.-level workload, she was busy most evenings till late, and I was hard pressed myself to find time¹. In the interest of staking a firm claim on her schedule, I casually mentioned that some private Defence instruction, perhaps early Saturday mornings, would be most helpful to further her assistantship. As expected, she could not resist the lure and readily consented.

"What is it exactly that we'll be working on?" she asked eagerly.

"Thus far, you've learnt how to go through the motions for a collection of spells. But where Hogwarts education has failed is in conveying to you the essence of Defence."

"And – in your opinion, sir – what is that?"

"Your question itself reveals your complete ignorance. Defence Against the Dark Arts cannot be summed up in mere words. You cannot get by with a protocol and set of ingredients, the way some of you manage to pass Potions. There is no Arithmantic formula."²

She regarded me warily. "You're not intending to teach me Dark Magic, are you?"

"Silly girl. Magic has no colour."

"You know what I mean."

"I do not. Magic is a natural force. You ought to know by now that any sort of magic can be used for benefit or for harm, depending on the intent of the wizard – or witch. Listen, how will you choose the proper defence without knowing the nature of the Dark Art? How could you ever create an antidote without a thorough understanding of the poison?"

"But it's one thing to know about the Dark Arts, quite another to practice them."

"The class material will . . . unfortunately . . . contain nothing you might consider objectionable content. I am at present only permitted to teach those spells arbitrarily deemed defensive in nature." I added with a superciliary smirk, "However, for you I might be willing to make an exception. If you ask very nicely."

"Don't count on it."

"That is your choice. But . . . I must encourage you to carefully consider my offer," I said, more solemnly now. "The times have changed. You ought to have all possible magical tools at your disposal, not only Ministry-approved ones."

She still wore a frown as she said, "I don't know. I'll think about it . . . Will we be working on Occlumency?"

"No." I did not look directly at her, but she seemed relieved. "The Headmaster has informed me that he himself will be working with Potter, so there is no need for us to resume lessons."

"So Harry's got Occlumency with Professor Dumbledore?"

"I assume so."

"Is that all? I mean, won't he be learning other Defence skills as well?" she said eagerly.

"I don't know. The Headmaster does not choose to include me in knowledge of all his plans." I added with a stray note of bitterness, "His double-blind safeguard."

She seemed not to notice: "I imagine he's going to teach Harry advanced Defence spells too, don't you think? Maybe now he won't be so far ahead of me. We could even invite him –"

"Certainly not. You ought to be grateful; I am doing you an immense favour, undertaking the trouble of this remedial work after your inadequate performance on the Defence O.W.L."

"Oh. So it's remedial study then?" she said with visible dismay. But I was not contrite; how dare she bring up Potter and his special sessions?

"Yes, and I can guess exactly what happened at your O.W.L. You were so focused on getting an O and pleasing the examiner that you lost focus and did not defend yourself adequately."

". . . What if I don't improve? Will you – will I have to leave the N.E.W.T. class? I'm not up to your standards." Her lip quivered dangerously.

(If she only knew!) I relented: "Don't be ridiculous. You will improve."

She was silent a moment. Then she said, "Professor Snape?"

"Yes?"

"When you are working for the Order, are you ever afraid?"

I hesitated, then said simply, "Of course."

She said smally, "I was afraid at the Department of Mysteries."

"Of course you were. That is only natural."

She burst out, "I was so stupid; I knew it was stupid and dangerous and I still didn't stop Harry."

"Indeed it was stupid of you. Troll-brained, even."

Her pinched face tightened. "I could have stopped him – and Sirius –"

Ah, she was so young. I weakened and said, "It was your first battle, was it not?"

"Yes, sir."

". . . From what I heard, you were in a very difficult situation. It is not easy to think quickly when under attack. That is one of the essential Defence skills that you and I will be working on."

She brightened as I had hoped. "You heard about the battle? From – whom?"

"I believe you know who." Her eyes expanded like those of a frightened animal. She did not know what to make of me, did she? I smiled.

¹ During our scheduling discussions, I at one point became so desperate as to even suggest the use of a Time-Turner, as I thought Albus might still remain in possession of one or two. The idea was mutually discarded as too risky to be warranted.

² I suppose I am giving short shrift here to the subject of Arithmancy, perhaps because my talents are somewhat lacking in this area. Miss Granger will quite likely be my superior in the field by the time she passes her N.E.W.T.s. I admit that she also outperforms me in Runes, History, and writing in general; in Transfiguration and Charms, we are perhaps equals, she possessing (slightly) greater talent and I the greater experience.

Author's Notes:

* Thank you so much to beta Countrymouse.

* "I have not asked you..." is a direct quote from HBP.