Notes: This is the first chapter of what will eventually be a much longer Snape x Reader/OC fic. Dream Sequence is a muli-part Snape/Original Female Character fiction, told in the 2nd person, which also sort of makes it a Snape/Reader fiction. To read more about Dream Sequence, please check out "rose0jam" on tumblr. Un-betaed because I'm afraid to let anyone I know read this. Oh god here we go.
Your name is Gwendolyn Goode. You've been at Hogwarts for a grand total of two weeks, and you are already entirely disenchanted with the wizarding world. Of course, it was all terribly captivating at first; growing up in a muggle home, it would have been impossible not to be completely enamored by the allure of floating candles, the quaintness of owl post, or the sophistication of using inkwells and quills. But much to your dismay, it also quickly became clear how completely impractical all that garbage was turning out to be. You were quite certain you were developing tension headaches from the eye strain caused by the lack of proper lighting basically everywhere in the castle. Owl post was only truly convenient if you, you know, owned an owl, and didn't have to wait for days for a school owl to become available. And inkwells…
It was a stupid inkwell that started this downward spiral into the wizarding world of contempt. Your fellow Hufflepuffs had assured you that there were special charms that could prevent inkpots from breaking or leaking, but that didn't really help you because you didn't know any of them yet! It hadn't even crossed you or your mothers mind to purchase the more expensive self-filling quills or shatter proof inkwells at the start of term. There was already so much to buy that cutting corners on writing implements seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. How naive you both had been.
A mere two weeks into your first year at Hogwarts, and you found yourself staring into a pitch black void at the bottom of your messenger bag, the result of your bargain bin inkwell shattering and bleeding its eldritch contents into every piece of parchment it could gorge itself upon. The planner where you kept track of all of your assignments? Ruined. Your Transfiguration and Charms textbooks? Deceased. Your very first potions essay that was due on Monday? Utterly obliterated.
Well, okay. Maybe it wasn't as bleak as all that. A prefect had come to your rescue, and she was at least able to salvage your text books and your bag through some extensive and delicate blotting charms, though everything sported deep grey stains that would never fully fade. The potions essay was a total loss however, and the older student encouraged you to attempt to re-write it before it was due, if you valued your life. Which was totally reassuring and definitely not alarming whatsoever. Though the current Potions Master had only been under Hogwarts employ for two years, he'd already developed a reputation for being an utter horror. And though you absolutely refused to be intimidated by anyone, you'd convinced yourself that re-writing the essay was purely for the benefit of your grades, and not to save your own hide from your churlish professor.
There was still the issue of the damn inkwells though, and you decided it was time for some good old fashioned muggle ingenuity. You had done just fine using real pens your entire life. Why had you been suckered into doing things the old fashioned way in the first place? Social pressure? Your hippie-dippy mother had raised you a rebel ("Stick it to the man, honeybun!"), so that was no issue. Being judged was the least of your worries. The list of school supplies you'd received along with your acceptance letter hadn't said you couldn't just use muggle implements, so you probably wouldn't be breaking any rules. Your only fear was maybe they just wouldn't… like… work, within the magical walls of this topsy turvey school. But damn it, you were so over all of this nonsense that you were willing to take the risk.
So, with a begrudgingly borrowed quill, as well as a begrudgingly borrowed owl, you wrote to your mother in a desperate plea for regular muggle school supplies. Ball point pens, composition note books, a ream of loose leaf paper. For the hell of it you requested some colored pencils and highlighters as well because what did you even have to lose at this point? Muggle primary school felt like a breeze compared to the discombobulated aggregation of scrolls, bottles and feathers you had to juggle around now. Let the Slytherins roll their eyes and preach their supremacy; muggles certainly knew how to make some aspects of life easier.
And your mother, bless her heart chakra, did not disappoint. You nearly cried with relief when you saw one of the schools great grey owls swoop into the Great Hall on a Saturday morning, weighed down by a large parcel that was clearly intended for you, if the tie-dyed scarf encasing the bundle was any indication. The owl has been particularly ornery for its efforts, and you happily shoved the Hufflepuff table's entire tray of sausages toward the creature, who seemed at least partially placated by the offering.
Whisking your spoils down to the Hufflepuff common room, you were overjoyed to see that your mother had answered your prayers and then some. Retractable pens in three different colors, a composition book for each class, paper, pencils (colored and graphite), assorted highlighters, a brand new planner, and a black velvet covered sketch book. You ran your fingers over this last item fondly. While everything else had likely come from a discount store, probably on sale after the school year began, the sketch book was clearly a luxury, one you intended to cherish. You hadn't thought to bring one through the whirlwind of discovering you were a witch, but now that you were here, your fingers were already itching to commit your newest discoveries to paper. You wondered if you could charm the illustrations to make them move.
In addition to your new supplies, your mother had also tossed in some sherbet straws, a jar of licorice allsorts, and inexplicably, a bag of crystals. You couldn't help but roll your eyes at your mother's proclivities, especially now that you knew there was such a thing as real magic, and not just the kinda fake sounding wiccy magik that your mother had been dabbling in since she was a teenager. You vaguely wondered if there was any stock in her beliefs. Sure, muggles couldn't perform the kind of magic you were learning now, but did amethyst really offer protection? Did citrine attract success? Did agate soothe anxiety? Would the overwhelming scent of patchouli wafting from this little bag of trinkets attract a lover? You bristle and roll your eyes at the thought, but tie the pouch around the strap of your school bag anyway. If nothing else, it was a memento from your well-meaning mother, and you would cherish that as well. You were already looking forward to Christmas (Yule?) just so you could see her again. Mere words on paper did not do this new life of yours justice.
And speaking of words on paper, with your new arsenal of muggle writing paraphernalia, you sallied forth to re-write your potions essay. Maybe it would be even more polished this time around. This seemed doubtful, since it was practically a throw away essay on safety standards, basic ingredients and core disciplines of the craft. Every essay was probably going to be a carbon copy. But still… re-writing the thing was hardly a chore. Potions was shaping up to be your favorite class thus far because frankly, it was easy.
You'd been a little baffled to see so many students around you struggling to brew, when the entire process came quite naturally to you. The cause of the dissonance presented itself when you realized that there was a high probability that none of the other children around you had ever cooked anything in their lives. Maybe their parents cooked everything for them, or worse, their parents had used magic to cook and completely bypassed any practical kitchen skills. Your mother had you scrambling eggs by the time she deemed you tall enough to safely work the stove, and your skills progressed from there with abandon. Though potions making was a more exact science, the basic similarities between brewing, baking and cooking remained the same, and for some reason, you felt like this gave you an edge.
After a 'productive' weekend of re-writing essays and notes, organizing your new school gear and gorging yourself on licorice, you strode into your Monday morning Potions class with an air of confidence that was probably misplaced. Your second draft essay had turned out particularly good, though that could have just been that sweet, sweet muggle ink talking. It even looked better on the weathered old parchment than the quill scratching ever had. No unsightly drips or ink bleeding. Just smooth lines accentuating your own pretty penmanship. Though you were a little miffed about having to write on old parchment with your new pens, you didn't dare risk lined paper in fear of breaking some rule you didn't know existed.
After taking your usual place in the third row, you extracted said parchment scroll from your stained bag and winced as it wrenched itself from your fingers to be whisked away across the room, settling with the rest of the homework piled up on Snape's desk. The man's back was turned on the class as he wrote the days assignment the old fashioned way on the black board, and you had to wonder how he did that. It was the same every time homework was due. You'd be lucky if your fingers weren't paper-cut to ribbons by the end of the semester.
Content that you hadn't been sliced up this time around, you set about your now standard pre-class procedure. After setting up your work station and collecting the day's ingredients, you pulled your unruly mass of blonde waves into a high ponytail in a vain attempt at keeping it away from potion fumes. Calling Snape 'greasy' was a common insult whispered between students, but you intimately empathized with the struggle. The second you bent over a simmering cauldron, your own hair frizzed out of control, and if it was a particularly steamy concoction, even in the chill of the dungeon your waves would be matted to your scalp and the back of your neck with sweat before class was over. After the first week of this, you told yourself you'd get up early to braid your hair into some complex plait before potions to save yourself from this agony, but those notions always went the way of the lie-in instead. Even with the ponytail, you'd be a slimy mess yourself before the period was over. You couldn't imagine having to deal with this all day long. No wonder the man was an oil-slick. Unless he greased it himself to keep it from frizzing out…? Now there was an image.
You bit your bottom lip to hide your grin, trying not to giggle at the thought and break the silence of the classroom as you extracted your notebook and (brand new!) pen from your bag. Flipping to the next blank page after all of your transferred notes, you gave the the black board a cursory glance, before bending over your notebook and poising yourself to copy down the day's recip- formula. You pushed your thumb down on the button on the back end of your pen…
And the resounding click echoed through the silent dungeon like a gun shot.
You'd forgotten… that these stupid things… made noise. Potions class was always hear-a-pin-drop quiet. And you'd just shattered that. Like an idiot. Several heads turned your way at once, and you suddenly found yourself very much at the unwanted center of attention. A droplet of sweat rolled down the back of your neck, and you couldn't blame it on the heat of bubbling cauldrons just yet. Your face was probably hot enough to brew the day's potion over. The gazes that had rotated your direction held an assortment of expressions, from bewilderment to disapproval to alarm. But none of them really mattered. In this solitary moment of utter mortification, the only significant regard came from your professor; glinting black eyes, an artfully arched brow, and mouth curved into an unimpressed sneer. You refused to be intimidated by anyone, but god, that look could make even the strongest resolve quake.
"Miss Goode," Snape admonished, causing all the eyes that were on you to snap back to him. And while you were grateful to no longer be scrutinized by your peers, Snape's direct attention was on you. And you really wished the castle would do you a solid and just open the floor beneath your stool to swallow you up, providing an escape from that disdain. But the castle was not so loyal, and the professor continued, his baritone as reproachful as ever. "See me after class."
It took several tries for you to get your tongue unstuck from the roof of your mouth before you croaked out a quiet "Yes, sir." When the professor found your assent satisfactory and he returned his attention to the board, your body collapsed like a wet noodle against the work desk as you buried your face into your arms. No public humiliation? No house points taken? Not even some cutting quip or poisonous jab? Just… See him after class? For what? He totally got off on belittling people in public. What sort of suffering could he possibly have planned for a private audience? And what were you going to be punished for anyway? It couldn't be just for disrupting class. That would have been a house point deduction at the very worst, along with a handy insult. Were you actually breaking school rules with your muggle supplies? Were they contraband? Oh god why didn't you just ask someone first?
You wearily raised your head as the lecture began, and finally got about to actually using the blasted pen that had gotten you into this mess to take notes. At least it hadn't been taken away… yet. You would enjoy it while you still could. Class continued as normal, and you chopped and stirred and simmered as required, but you felt as though you were on auto-pilot; not absorbing any information, just going through the motions and applying the bare minimum in terms of effort.
You weren't scared. You were just… anxious. What's the worst that could happen? You'd have everything confiscated and you'd be back to square one with a stupid bird feather and a few less house points for Hufflepuff. It was whatever else Snape was going to say that had your body buzzing with apprehension. You'd only been at Hogwarts less than a month, but even you were aware that most Slytherins thought they were superior, some of them by virtue of their blood alone. Was the grand leader of them all planning to mock you for your choice of muggle convenience? And, more pressingly, would you be able to hold your tongue if he did? 'Do no harm, but take no shit' was the most important virtue instilled upon you by your mother, but it usually just got you into trouble.
You made it through the rest of the class period without incident. After bottling the cure for boils you'd brewed (you shuddered when you realized exactly what it was you were brewing, mostly apprehensive about how its effectiveness would be tested next class and wishing you'd perhaps put in a little extra effort), you sluggishly tidied up your work station and tried to ignore the sympathetic looks you were getting from your fellow classmates. While your nerves felt steadier, you were still on edge, your mind churning with potential excuses and smart comebacks that you'd never remember to use once you were actually face to face with the issue. When the castle bells chimed that class was over, you carefully returned your text and note books to your bag, and remained firmly in your seat while the rest of the class filed out.
And then the classroom was empty and still, but for the ever present trickle of water from the gargoyle font in the corner. It was almost… peaceful? The calm before the storm? You sighed through your nose and allowed the perceived tranquility to bolster your resolve. You would not be shaken. Or stirred. You snorted at your own private little joke before sliding off of your stool and making your way back towards the professor's office.
Which… is where you assumed Snape was. You'd had your head down for so long you hadn't actually seen where he'd disappeared to. As you lightly rapped your knuckles against the ajar door, it swung open slowly, and you slipped through the narrow opening into what was clearly the most interesting room you'd seen in the castle thus far. It was probably a bad move to completely ignore the professor who sat bent over his desk, but as it seemed he was completely ignoring you, you took the opportunity to gaze at the ghastly assortment of creatures and plant life suspended in glass around the perimeter of the room. It was… horrifying. But undeniably fascinating. Like seeing preserved animals at a natural history museum, except that you had no idea what any of these things were. You'd just taken a step towards the nearest shelf in an attempt to read one of the hand written labels when-
"Miss Goode. How kind of you to finally join me."
Oh, right. You suppressed a shiver against the splash of ice water those words had cast down your spine, and you briefly closed your eyes to regather your wits. Okay, you deserved that one for getting distracted from the problem at hand, but how could you be blamed? There were slimy things! In jars! This was a kid-in-a-candy-shop moment for you! Swallowing thickly, you turned on your heel to face the professor, a contrite smile tugging at your lips.
"My apologies, Professor," you murmured, taking the few steps to stand before Snape's desk, hands clutching the strap of your bag as your fingers slid anxiously over the silky pouch of crystals tied around it. Summoning the boldness that your mother had nurtured, you finally lifted your eyes to meet his, and you were struck by the fact you'd never seen him this close before. And God, he was the oldest looking 23 year old you'd ever seen in your life. Maybe that was an odd first thought. You were only aware of his age because it was apparently notable that he was one of the youngest professorial appointees in the school's history. But looking at him now, you never would have guessed him to even be in his 20's, much less early 20's. He had a face made for currency, bold features that would appear almost noble, were they not engraved in a perpetual facade of mild annoyance and seething disgust. But you were also struck by the dark smudges under his eyes, the lines around his mouth and forehead, the weariness in his gaze. This was the face of a much older man, and that made you feel… some sort of way. You didn't have time to analyze the sensation before your reprimand began.
"Miss Goode," Snape repeated your name, leaning his elbows forward on his desk as he tented his fingers, looking across at you with a faint roll of his eyes, presumably at your apparent air-headedness. This was it though. He had your attention. "Concerning what happened at the start of class today. You're a half-blood witch, are you not? What happened, exactly, for you to feel the need to reject the long-standing wizarding custom of quills and ink?"
Your mouth fell open slightly, shocked that you'd apparently nailed exactly what you would be ridiculed for, but also taken aback by the delivery. You thought you ought to be offended at the implications of your blood status, but you quickly snapped your mouth shut with an irritated huff. Your brows drew together as you felt your hackles rise, and you had a bad feeling about what might come out of your mouth.
"If you must know, Professor," you dictated, wishing you could tone down your ire, but knowing you wouldn't. "I don't have any idea who my father might have been, and my mother was the muggle half of that equation. I wasn't raised with any such customs."
Snape at least had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable, his hands unfolding from their tent to rest directly on the desk, his eyebrow falling to a more conventional level as he leaned back in his chair. In your mind, you let out a triumphant whoop and gave yourself a gold star for managing to put a chip in that stone cold mask. But you also took pity. It wasn't like he could have known, and you appreciated the penitent look he was giving you. At least you took it for penitence. If nothing else, you were even now; he called you out for dawdling, and you merely returned the favor.
"As for your question though, I…" You faltered, heat suffusing your face as you realized you had to admit that you were sort of an air-head. You sighed and looked away from him, chewing the inside of your cheek as you mumbled. "An ink bottle shattered in my bag a few days ago. It ruined a bunch of my text books and I even had to re-write the essay that was due this morning… So I had my mother send me some stuff…" you trailed off. Jeeze. It sounded so childish now that you were saying it out loud. But you still stood by your decision. You were decidedly over it as you turned your eyes back to his. "Just because something is traditional doesn't mean it's practical."
That earned you a new expression. A smirk! And not even the kind of 'gotcha' smirk you were used to seeing Snape don in the classroom as he caught some unwitting student in a tangle of words. He almost looked impressed with you, which was… concerning. The suspicion must have been evident on your face as he canted his head, lacing his fingers together as he leaned toward you once more.
"I couldn't agree more," Snape concurred, and he was clearly trying to suppress his grin from broadening as you blinked rapidly in confusion. You ceased fidgeting with the pouch of crystals dangling from your bag, your hands instead falling dumbly to your sides as you openly gawked. He… what? What? You had run through so many possible scenarios and outcomes of this particular meeting, and none of them had gone in this direction. It left you feeling unstable and stupid, but thankfully he didn't leave you floundering for long (though it was clear to you that he enjoyed watching you squirm). Getting a hold of his features, he leveled you with another discerning look, eyebrow popping right back up to its sardonic heights. "Do you have any in red?"
Your eyes widened slightly, though you managed not to let your mouth fall open like a dying fish this time. You almost couldn't comprehend what he was saying, what he was asking, because the entire situation felt surreal. Or like a set-up. You were just waiting for the punchline. Were you really not in trouble? Had he truly accosted you simply to get in on some of that (sweet, sweet) muggle utility? If writing essays with a quill was a chore, you couldn't imagine grading them. Hundreds of them. But, once again, you didn't have time to analyze. He was waiting for your reply, and if his eyebrow rose any higher it would fly off of his face. You had to bite the inside of your cheek once again to keep yourself from giggling at your own imagery. You'd certainly concocted a few good doodle ideas for your new sketch book.
Looking down at your school bag, you lifted its flap to begin the search for your stash of red pens, when a thought occurred to you. A devious little thought that… if you weren't going to lose house points for your disruption earlier, you'd probably lose them now. But it was your only chance, an opportunity you'd be fool to let go. And the worst that could happen was that he'd say 'no'. You ran your thumb over the corner of a bundle of loose leaf in your bag, and you didn't dare look him in the eye as you asked, "May I write my essays on lined paper?"
Snape's other eyebrow shot up to meet the first, a look of genuine surprise flickering across his face before he once again regained control of his features. Whether it was your audacity or your foolishness that had caused such a reaction, you thought you might give yourself another gold star anyway; collecting new Snape Facial Expressions was becoming a rather fun game. Your counter-offer didn't leave him as speechless as his initial offer had made you, but it did take him a few moments before asking for clarification, "Medium ruled?"
What you hoped was a triumphant smirk was actually more of an elated beam. Your daring had paid off, and you quickly whipped out a sheet from the sheaf in your bag, holding it across the desk for him to inspect. You hoped that brow quirk was in amusement instead of annoyance, but Snape snatched the paper from you with a quick flick of his fingers before setting it down on his desk and producing a battered wooden ruler from a drawer to his left. He wasn't fooling around. He checked the length of the page, even went so far as to measure the margins, and you wondered if he was putting on a show to make you squirm again. Because you were. Your smile had slipped down as you observed his scrutiny, fretting that your daring had, in fact, not paid off in the slightest and he was about to make a fool of you as you'd originally feared. But you needn't have worried as he tapped the page with his fingers, giving a slight nod of approval. "As long as you've got the inches, you could write on papyrus for all I care."
Your delighted smile returned, and you made no effort to hide it this time as you returned your attention to your bag, digging through its contents before producing two red filled retractable pens. You held them out with the deference one might show a bouquet of flowers, and suppressed a giggle as Snape rolled his eyes before snatching them from your hand. The gesture dampened your glee a little, but you still allowed yourself to smile at your own well played transaction. You watched as he gave the pen a satisfying click with his thumb, before he scribbled the nib in tight little loops against the corner of the paper to get the ink flowing.
"What is your next class?" he enquired, already scrawling out a note on the sheet of lined paper you had provided, though you had a difficult time making out his spindly handwriting, especially upside down.
"Transfiguration," you answered, tilting your head slightly as you watched the red lines form an address to Minerva McGonagall.
"She ought to appreciate the color palette," Snape murmured, and you suppressed yet another giggle. Was that a joke? Well okay no it was clearly more of a jab at the Gryffindor head if the return of his scowl was any indication. But still! It was funny. Especially coming from him. He finally straightened up, handing the sheet of paper back to you with a flourish, and you realized it was a pass excusing you for being late to Transfiguration. You took it from him gratefully, folding it in half to slip into the pocket of your robe.
Snape was already pulling essays from the pile of scrolls to begin grading with his (brand new!) red pen, and you fidgeted awkwardly for a few moments, wondering if he would dismiss you, or if you should just take the hint and leave on your own. Choosing the latter option, you gave his office one more wistful look, before turning to make your way out.
"Miss Goode?" he called, causing your footsteps to stutter just as you'd reached the door. You looked over your shoulder at him, his head still bowed over his work.
"Sir?" you asked quietly, feeling that restless buzz creep over your skin once again. What did he want now?
There was a pause, his attention still trained away from you, before he spoke. "That was a very Slytherin move you pulled just now," he commented, finally lifting his eyes to look you over appraisingly. "Five points to Hufflepuff. But don't press your luck like that again."
Your eyes widened, but you nodded your assent quickly, squeaking "yes sir" before you fled from the office. You only made it half way across the classroom before you burst into nervous giggles, the sound bubbling out of you as the tension receded from your body. What the bloody hell just happened? It was so glorious and nerve-wracking that you didn't know whether to laugh or cry, though your addled brain clearly thought that laughter was the answer. Your mind was racing, swirling with so much new information to examine about your boorish professor. You were just starting to compile a list of questions in your mind, when Snape's voice rang out through the dungeon and scared you out of your skin.
"On your way, Miss Goode!"
You hadn't shut the office door behind you, you realized, and you yelped out another startled "Yes sir!" as you dashed for the classroom door. If he didn't already think you were batty, he certainly would now. Your nervous laughter continued as you walked through the silent, empty dungeon corridors, rubbing your hand over your face as you tried to get a grip on yourself. What an absolute enigma of a man.
And yet, you felt an odd sort of kinship with him now. At the very least, you'd managed to endear yourself to him through a mutual disdain for some of the more unreasonable practices of the wizarding world. And you couldn't help but wonder where that came from. He wasn't utterly oblivious to muggle technology, like most pure-blooded wizards seemed to be. He knew what a pen was, how it worked. He knew what medium ruled paper was, had measured it himself. Was he like you? Raised more muggle than magic? That seemed unlikely for the head of Slytherin's house, but you were coming to understand that such bias was… well. It was just as bad as the bias you were criticizing Slytherin's for having in the first place.
You tapped your fingers against your brow, as if attempting to nail that epiphany down. It wouldn't do to make assumptions about anyone here, based on house or blood or any other label. You'd been wrong to pigeonhole Professor Snape as some jerk based on the derision of other students. Hell, he'd even given you a compliment, if being compared to a Slytherin could be taken as such, which coming from him, certainly was. You felt like you were on his good side now, and you were determined to stay there if you could help it. You already had an edge in potions. Now it was merely a matter of keeping it sharp.
