The Secret Seduction of Severus Snape: Part III
Over the next few days, Snape watched Professor Wingebatte very closely, taking mental notes every now and then, whenever he saw fit. He had, however, been quite busy in starting his first lesson of the term, and didn't have much time to think about the new teacher, or why she made him so terribly nervous.
He'd noticed that the professor hadn't shown up for meals since the Sorting Ceremony feast, and she hadn't touched a bite of food, then, which meant she got her nourishment, elsewhere, though how, when and where…(and who…?) he could not quite figure out. He'd also realised that he never saw her in the hallways or any where other than the dungeons until after about seven o' clock. Coincidentally, this was when the sun began to set. He knew there had to be something peculiar about this woman…she was a vampire. He'd been nearly sure about it ever since they'd met…and he wouldn't let it go, no matter how much work he had to do regarding his classes. He found it unnerving, as he hadn't much experience with vampires, and this one seemed especially dangerous, though precisely why he could not say.
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One night, whilst correcting papers in his classroom, Snape was disturbed by she who had been plaguing his thoughts ever since she'd showed up at Hogwarts.
"Might I have a word with you, Professor?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe and crossing her arms. Snape refused to look up from his work.
"What is it?" he asked, flatly, continuing to scratch corrections onto the papers that lay before him on his desk.
Wingebatte walked toward Snape's desk, stopping when she'd reached it. "I've been wondering…" she began, placing her palms flat upon the desk. "You seem to have some sort of problem with me." Snape put his quill into the inkwell and looked up into the piercing green eyes above him.
"I know what you must be," he said in a hushed voice. He hadn't even thought of these words, they just seemed to have formed on his tongue and forced their way out of his mouth.
Her smile made his pale cheeks flush ever so slightly and he lowered his head, staring blankly at the homework he'd been correcting, but not really seeing it, at all.
"What I must be or what I am?" she asked, her voice ringing with a hint of humour that made him even more uncomfortable. Snape wasn't sure of how to answer, but he didn't have to.
"It really wasn't all that hard to figure out, was it?" she asked, smiling down at him, her green eyes flashing like a cat's. "Especially not for someone of your intellect. And yes, Dumbledore knows. He knew when I applied for the job."
"And why did you apply for the job?" Snape asked, looking back up at her.
"Why not? Actually, my specialty is potions…" she trailed off, looking around the dimly-lit room at bottles that lay in disarray on old, dusty shelves, black iron cauldrons lined up against one wall, innumerable beakers and test tubes inside wire racks. She looked at them as though they were old family heirlooms, a distant expression on her face as if remembering things long forgotten. "But obviously the position is already taken," she said with another smile that sent shivers down Snape's spine.
"Obviously."
After a silence that seemed to last for an eternity, Wingebatte spoke up, once more.
"But that is not all that I've come to you for."
Snape felt a stab of panic from deep within his chest. Did he dare to ask…?
"There is…something else?" he asked, looking up, being sure to keep his gaze hard as steel and just as cold.
"Yes, indeed. I have been informed that in addition to potions, you show great interest in the Dark Arts." Snape nodded and rested his head on his hand. An interest? That was a bit of an understatement. "Now there are a few things that I'm having difficulty remembering, and I was hoping perhaps you could aid me with them…refresh my memory, a bit." Beneath his stone facade, Snape was beaming like a schoolboy. He loved it when people came to him for help with anything dealing with the Dark Arts. At first he'd been defensive about it, as it was a rather tender subject.
Oh, I'm having trouble remembering what the Morsmorde spell does. Let's go ask this bloke, I heard he's a Death Eater; he must know! Snicker, snicker…
He didn't like it when students knew about his past and, to put it lightly, gave him "special treatment" because of it. But after some time and reassurance from the headmaster, he began to lighten up about it. He was, after all, an expert at anything to do with the Dark Arts, so naturally he was the person to come to if you had a question about it, even next to the DADA teacher. Some things can only be learned by experience, after all, and that is something of which Snape had a fair amount.
"Yes, what do you want?" he asked, straightening up in his seat and putting his hands on his knees.
"I'm having my students write a paper on the Unforgivable Curses." She paused a moment and looked Snape dead in the eye before continuing on. "But there seems to be one small thing I'm forgetting about the Avada Kedavra curse." She looked around the room, again and waited for Snape to respond.
Snape sighed. There was a lot of work to be done before morning and he'd been counting on a decent night's sleep. "What is it?" he asked, monotonously.
"I know that it was the principle killing tool of Lord Voldemort…" She spoke his name so clearly and without even the slightest hesitation that it caused Snape to raise an eyebrow. Perhaps she didn't think that it was necessary for her to use "you-know-who" or "he-who-must-not-be-named" in place of the actual name, and she was correct in that assumption. Snape really had no problem speaking the name, aloud, either, not even in front of his students. In fact, Dumbledore had encouraged him to use the correct name for years. But still, there was something about the way in which she'd said it that struck Snape as a bit strange. "…when he was in power. However, I cannot remember just how many witches and wizards fell prey to it. I know there is a documented number, but I simply cannot recall it."
"Seven thousand one hundred and three," he said as though he were announcing nothing more than the next day's weather forecast.
Wingebatte's emerald eyes flashed. "Thank you, Professor." And with that, she turned and left the room, her robes, which had been green that day, flowing behind her, leaving Snape once again in the sanctuary that only silence and solitude could provide.
Over the next few days, Snape watched Professor Wingebatte very closely, taking mental notes every now and then, whenever he saw fit. He had, however, been quite busy in starting his first lesson of the term, and didn't have much time to think about the new teacher, or why she made him so terribly nervous.
He'd noticed that the professor hadn't shown up for meals since the Sorting Ceremony feast, and she hadn't touched a bite of food, then, which meant she got her nourishment, elsewhere, though how, when and where…(and who…?) he could not quite figure out. He'd also realised that he never saw her in the hallways or any where other than the dungeons until after about seven o' clock. Coincidentally, this was when the sun began to set. He knew there had to be something peculiar about this woman…she was a vampire. He'd been nearly sure about it ever since they'd met…and he wouldn't let it go, no matter how much work he had to do regarding his classes. He found it unnerving, as he hadn't much experience with vampires, and this one seemed especially dangerous, though precisely why he could not say.
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One night, whilst correcting papers in his classroom, Snape was disturbed by she who had been plaguing his thoughts ever since she'd showed up at Hogwarts.
"Might I have a word with you, Professor?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe and crossing her arms. Snape refused to look up from his work.
"What is it?" he asked, flatly, continuing to scratch corrections onto the papers that lay before him on his desk.
Wingebatte walked toward Snape's desk, stopping when she'd reached it. "I've been wondering…" she began, placing her palms flat upon the desk. "You seem to have some sort of problem with me." Snape put his quill into the inkwell and looked up into the piercing green eyes above him.
"I know what you must be," he said in a hushed voice. He hadn't even thought of these words, they just seemed to have formed on his tongue and forced their way out of his mouth.
Her smile made his pale cheeks flush ever so slightly and he lowered his head, staring blankly at the homework he'd been correcting, but not really seeing it, at all.
"What I must be or what I am?" she asked, her voice ringing with a hint of humour that made him even more uncomfortable. Snape wasn't sure of how to answer, but he didn't have to.
"It really wasn't all that hard to figure out, was it?" she asked, smiling down at him, her green eyes flashing like a cat's. "Especially not for someone of your intellect. And yes, Dumbledore knows. He knew when I applied for the job."
"And why did you apply for the job?" Snape asked, looking back up at her.
"Why not? Actually, my specialty is potions…" she trailed off, looking around the dimly-lit room at bottles that lay in disarray on old, dusty shelves, black iron cauldrons lined up against one wall, innumerable beakers and test tubes inside wire racks. She looked at them as though they were old family heirlooms, a distant expression on her face as if remembering things long forgotten. "But obviously the position is already taken," she said with another smile that sent shivers down Snape's spine.
"Obviously."
After a silence that seemed to last for an eternity, Wingebatte spoke up, once more.
"But that is not all that I've come to you for."
Snape felt a stab of panic from deep within his chest. Did he dare to ask…?
"There is…something else?" he asked, looking up, being sure to keep his gaze hard as steel and just as cold.
"Yes, indeed. I have been informed that in addition to potions, you show great interest in the Dark Arts." Snape nodded and rested his head on his hand. An interest? That was a bit of an understatement. "Now there are a few things that I'm having difficulty remembering, and I was hoping perhaps you could aid me with them…refresh my memory, a bit." Beneath his stone facade, Snape was beaming like a schoolboy. He loved it when people came to him for help with anything dealing with the Dark Arts. At first he'd been defensive about it, as it was a rather tender subject.
Oh, I'm having trouble remembering what the Morsmorde spell does. Let's go ask this bloke, I heard he's a Death Eater; he must know! Snicker, snicker…
He didn't like it when students knew about his past and, to put it lightly, gave him "special treatment" because of it. But after some time and reassurance from the headmaster, he began to lighten up about it. He was, after all, an expert at anything to do with the Dark Arts, so naturally he was the person to come to if you had a question about it, even next to the DADA teacher. Some things can only be learned by experience, after all, and that is something of which Snape had a fair amount.
"Yes, what do you want?" he asked, straightening up in his seat and putting his hands on his knees.
"I'm having my students write a paper on the Unforgivable Curses." She paused a moment and looked Snape dead in the eye before continuing on. "But there seems to be one small thing I'm forgetting about the Avada Kedavra curse." She looked around the room, again and waited for Snape to respond.
Snape sighed. There was a lot of work to be done before morning and he'd been counting on a decent night's sleep. "What is it?" he asked, monotonously.
"I know that it was the principle killing tool of Lord Voldemort…" She spoke his name so clearly and without even the slightest hesitation that it caused Snape to raise an eyebrow. Perhaps she didn't think that it was necessary for her to use "you-know-who" or "he-who-must-not-be-named" in place of the actual name, and she was correct in that assumption. Snape really had no problem speaking the name, aloud, either, not even in front of his students. In fact, Dumbledore had encouraged him to use the correct name for years. But still, there was something about the way in which she'd said it that struck Snape as a bit strange. "…when he was in power. However, I cannot remember just how many witches and wizards fell prey to it. I know there is a documented number, but I simply cannot recall it."
"Seven thousand one hundred and three," he said as though he were announcing nothing more than the next day's weather forecast.
Wingebatte's emerald eyes flashed. "Thank you, Professor." And with that, she turned and left the room, her robes, which had been green that day, flowing behind her, leaving Snape once again in the sanctuary that only silence and solitude could provide.