Strangers Like Me

By: alextasy

Summary: Lenore Whiting wonders why she just can't stop staring, and reflects upon how this strange captivation came about.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. All familiar characters and plot devices belong to the ever-powerful J.K. Rowling and anyone else with rights to them.

I do, however, own any unfamiliar characters and the plot line. If you steal them, I will first pity you for having so much time on your hands, and then, I will plague you with my wrath and won't stop at anything until your account has been deleted. Thank you, and happy reading!


She was staring at him. Admiring him.

No, not again. She couldn't possibly be drawn to this boy of such improper demeanor; that would be a wretched shame. She averted her dark eyes and allowed a false countenance of utmost attentiveness to accompany her.

Oh, bother. Oh, spite! Not a minute had passed and her stubborn gaze had once again found and lay upon the back of this boy's head. What, she asked herself angrily, made the back of this boy's head so very interesting that she should be drawn from her own education? Surely the knowledge around her should be enough to distract her from this very unfortunate attraction?

Of course, she knew the answer to her own questions.

Nothing could tempt her watch from this very boy just before her, not even the Professor's detailed lecture on lethal poisons to the human being! And it was general knowledge that this "odd Lenore girl" had a strange and rather daunting fascination with anything toxic or destructive.

Proper as she was, Lenore had her quirks, just like any other person, but these oddities did not offer anyone any reason to love her the more. On the contrary, it just gave intimidated people an excuse to turn and hurry in the opposite direction.

But let us not wander from our original question. Why would a girl like Lenore be seemingly doting upon a boy like this?

Lenore Whiting is a decidedly plain but uncommonly intelligent witch . . . uncommonly intelligent because Lenore is also wretchedly unmotivated. She has a habitual talent for reserving her admittedly extended knowledge for situations she feels is worthy of her intelligence. On many occasions, Lenore used her talent in logic and cunning to sneak out of the school when the moon is shining pleasantly upon the grounds and nobody is about to hinder her relaxation.

Her mother frowned upon this practice, as did other annoyingly authoritative figures, such as her teachers. A brilliant mind wasted on such a troublesome girl, as they'd repeat to her time and time again.

But this did not matter. As long as Lenore personally felt that she was gaining full advantage of her "brilliant mind," then there was no need to bother herself with pleasing others. No need to please anyone else, she thought, except perhaps her mother, Cornelia Whiting. She was Lenore's matronly guide, her moral tug in the agreeable direction, her balance between propriety and rebellion. Without her mother, there was no doubt in Lenore's maturely developed mind that she would have been a wretched convict with a desolate and insanely lonesome cell in Azkaban. Therefore, Lenore respected her mother to the highest degree and deigned to never be out of place in her presence.

Unfortunately, Lenore's mother would never approve of such a drawing to this boy. What with his decidedly idle expression that always accompanied him, his obvious disregard for all things proper and correct, and the constant presence of nonchalance about him, this boy was everything Mrs. Whiting preached against.

Fortunately, for Lenore that is, her mother had no knowledge of her allurement towards this beau. Close as they were, Lenore was not silly enough to impress upon her mother such private feelings. She was sure dear mother would not have the same opinions as she on him.

Cornelia liked to imagine her daughter's future marriage to consist of all the traditional trimmings: dress, flowers, all in white, swooning guests, and of course, the gentleman. Lenore cringed at the thought, and if she weren't so bent upon pleasing mother, she would have hastened to elope with a man who simply screamed conspiracy and be done with it. Oh, what a hindrance a loving parent could be at times!

Lenore's taste in men differed greatly from her mother's. While Cornelia favored men of well-learnt manners and clean cut modesty, Lenore lusted for men such as the one she gazed longingly upon at the present moment. No, Lenore did not lust after him just for the purpose of spiting her decent mother. She lusted after him because, to put it quite plainly, he was different.

His half masked eyes were regularly attended with that painful shadow of a darker past. Those liquid pools which never dared betray him of any emotion -- save for those of hatred, indifference, or pessimism -- and gave him the appearance of a very mysterious stranger, one who knew many things beyond regular human astuteness. While he adopted this look to draw people away, Lenore found that his angst-ridden persona rather had the opposite effect on her. She was unwillingly magnetized, and found that this quality above others is how this captivation first came about. This quality of which he possessed was probably her favorite thing about him.

As Lenore watched, he was reading the text of the yellowing pages that made up his textbook. Although his midnight black hair hung tantalizingly at just the right length to hide his perfect face, she could see he was mouthing the words with his lips, -- his lovely lips -- as he read them in his mind. It had been on more than one occasion that she had seen those lips forming into that perfect curve to frown at those he passionately despised. He possessed a wonderful gift. Not many people she came across could put on such a face and have it be rendered perfect. A perfect frown, she thought, smilingly.

It was for certain that when someone said Lenore had an unusual taste in men, there really was not much to argue with. Other girls -- superficial and big headed, as Lenore called them -- fell weak-kneed and starry-eyed for Quidditch stars or other regularly sought-after Hogwarts boys. And Lenore, well, she doted upon the boy who was ridiculously teased and scoffed at on a daily basis.

He had a frail frame, one which gave him the constant look of fragility. Not much muscle bulged from behind the pallid skin, but Lenore found that boys who were full to bursting with muscles did not quite catch her fancy. She did not like boys for shallow reasons, anyhow. She had been taught better.

If only his feelings for her mirrored what she felt for him! Being prideful as she was, Lenore was not just about to moan and complain that he didn't even know she existed; the very thought of someone not knowing of a person in such close vicinity's presence was the most absurd thing she'd ever heard of. They went to the same school and had many of the same classes -- much to Lenore's secret delight --, how could he not know she existed?

Why him? Why had she chosen to put herself in such torture? What a masochist she was!

No, no, no. One did not choose who they loved, and if there ever was a person who did so, they were bound to be an individual of most utter forlornness. Lenore was not a masochist; she was merely a slave to passion. And passion's first name was Severus.

Severus Snape. He was not the most popular boy in school and got picked on horribly. Students enjoyed his scorn and teachers always placed the unwelcome spotlight on him. He was the introvert in class, but a genius at potions and dueling. Fellow schoolmates reserved no second thought to him and several girls just straightforwardly called him ugly. He was not a Quidditch jock and Lenore hoped he never would be.

He was just Severus Snape, and he was bloody perfect.


Hope you liked it! Please read and review, thanks!

Your Authoress, alextasy