A/N: *disclaimer* The italicised bit at the beginning is directly from Prisoner Of Azkaban, as is some of the dialogue
Page 394
"Miss Granger," said Snape, in a voice of deadly calm, "I was under the impression that I was taking this class, not you. And I am telling you all to turn to page three hundred and ninety-four." He glanced around again. "All of you! Now!"
A gentle din filled the classroom as the third-years rifled through their textbooks for the desired page, many of them mumbling their distaste for Snape under their breath. Whoever had allowed Snape to take on the role of temporary Defence Against the Dark Arts professor in Lupin's absence (especially when this particular class was full of stubborn third-year Gryffindors who hero-worshipped their usual professor), was surely insane.
Snape had turned his back on the class, standing tall, silent, and unmoving, enfolded in his teacher's robes as a bat might enfold itself in its wings. Nobody could see the shadow that metaphorically passed across his face or the way the glisten in his black eyes momentarily dimmed.
The din had ceased, though Snape could still sense the hatred buzzing in the atmosphere. The class seemed to be waiting, nobody daring to so much as whisper anymore. Not even Hermione Granger, who Snape supposed was still sulking from his earlier condemnation.
There was no place for a girl like that in his classroom, Snape thought darkly. It wasn't even technically his classroom, even though he'd always dreamed it would be. For one fleeting moment—maybe a few days, perhaps even a week depending on how long it took Lupin to recover—Snape was living the life he had always wanted. Or, at least, the job he'd always wanted.
But the Granger girl was ruining it. She was too loud, too outspoken. She defended so fiercely that which she was passionate about, and the people she cared for. She was smart too, which only added to the problem.
It reminded him too strongly of…
"Which of you can tell me how we distinguish between the werewolf and the true wolf?" Snape demanded, turning suddenly on his heel to face the class.
Hermione's hand shot up.
Snape ignored her.
"Anyone?" he asked coolly, a twisted smile breaking out. He looked, intentionally, at Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.
The boy who so defiantly lived whilst others had not been so fortunate. The boy who didn't understand how privileged he was to have warm blood still flowing through his veins.
Snape looked away hurriedly, his smile falling, and swallowed a lump in his throat. For a fleeting moment, he had clocked the eyes. Those haunting green eyes that did not belong on a face that sat under that unruly mop of black hair.
Snape felt sick. Now with a grimace, he addressed the class again. "Are you telling me that Professor Lupin hasn't even taught you the basic distinction between—"
A Patil Twin—Snape could not remember, nor did he care, which was in Gryffindor and which was in Ravenclaw—interrupted. "We told you," she said, whilst the rest of the class took the opportunity to join in and berate Snape once more, "we haven't got as far as werewolves yet, we're still on—"
"Silence!"
It was during times like those when Snape felt respected. As silence fell in the classroom, his own piercing voice still ringing in his ears, Snape felt a power he had never possessed in his childhood. People not only listened, they obeyed.
For the most part.
"Please, sir, the werewolf differs from the true wolf in several small ways. The snout of the werewolf—"
Snape knew it was severe, but that was part of the satisfaction. It was not unreasonable to dock five points from Gryffindor, though it might have been slightly unprofessional to deem Granger an 'insufferable know-it-all' following her outburst.
He didn't care.
He ignored the tears that promptly filled her eyes, and he ignored the furious glares that were suddenly aimed at him from every single face that sat before him, none more fierce and full of loathing than that of the Weasley boy.
But after one more brief disagreement, and a satisfying handing-out of a detention, the Gryffindor third-years dropped their heads in silence, seething with anger as they digested the information contained on page three hundred and ninety-four.
Werewolves, Snape thought smugly, as he began prowling through the rows of desks. An interesting topic. An important one.
Snape was well-learned in werewolves himself. He had taken it upon himself at an early age to learn anything and everything he could about what he considered to be a vile beast—a beast that should not, under any circumstances, be allowed in the presence of school children. School children who were defenceless, vulnerable, easily-manipulated…
He had learnt everything he could about lycanthropic humans: from how to recognise them, how to defend oneself again them, how to lessen their effectiveness via the Wolfsbane Potion. And now, he thought savagely, how to expose them.
Very subtle, very cunning—very Slytherin.
"Incorrect, Weasley," Snape scoffed as he peered over Ron's shoulder. "Werewolves have shorter snouts than the common non-magical ones. Not the other way around. Look at the diagram," he ordered, tapping the open textbook.
Hermione, sat beside Ron, tensed under Snape's scrutiny. She had, after all, attempted to point that out earlier, only to be silenced.
Snape moved on, feeling the hatred of the Gryffindors surround him like physical heat. But there was a murmur behind him. Feeling paranoid—feeling once more like his fifteen-year-old self, being whispered and sniggered about as he rounded every corner—he turned back with a sharp and penetrating stare.
"Miss Granger, do you not recall me asking for silence the first—"
"It was me," Ron interrupted. Hermione paled, dropping her gaze to stare at the open textbook as if the information on page three hundred and ninety-four was the most fascinating thing she'd ever read.
"Are you asking for another detention, Weasley?"
"No," Ron said defiantly, "I was asking Hermione for help. I asked her if there was a cure for—"
"There are no cures for Lycanthropy," Snape cut across, almost like he was proud of this particular fact. "If you're bitten by a werewolf, there is nothing you can do. You'll be forced to live this life—this vile, shameless life—for the rest of your days."
"But—"
"Read the book," Snape ordered. "Page three hundred and ninety-four. And do so in silence."
"But what about the Homorphous Charm?" Hermione asked in a small voice, her curiosity getting the better of her.
Snape was too surprised to condemn her. "The Homorphous Charm, Granger?"
A faint flush of colour had appeared in Hermione's face. She avoided looking him in the eye but spoke with confidence. "Professor Lockhart taught us about it last year. It's, err, supposedly a charm that can change a werewolf back into human form." Her voice trailed off as she spoke, until her words were no more than an uncertain whisper.
Snape did not reply immediately. "Do you recall, Miss Granger," he said after a while, "that Gilderoy Lockhart was an insatiable liar?"
"Yes." She said it quietly.
"The Homorphous Charm, only in very exceptional circumstances, can be used to retain human form, but it cannot reverse, and certainly cannot cure Lycanthropy."
"But then what about the Wolfsbane Potion?" Hermione asked. "Sir," she added as an apologetic afterthought.
Snape noticed the gazes of everybody in the classroom. Though not exactly inviting, they were looking to him with deep curiosity rather than unrelenting hatred. Perhaps not even short of respect, his mind hopefully considered.
"The Wolfsbane Potion is not a cure," he said in a bored voice, like he couldn't care less about the sudden intrigue. "As I have said, there is no cure, and there likely never will be. The Wolfsbane Potion lessens the effects during a transformation, certainly, and the Homorphous Charm, to some extent, can provide temporary relief, but none of this will cure a werewolf. It will barely even humanise it," he scoffed.
"But sir"—it was the Patil girl again—"if you were being attacked by a werewolf, could the charm work?"
"Charms and potions will be extraordinarily ineffective against a werewolf during transformation," Snape explained with great irritability. "The only thing you can do—the only thing you should do—is kill it while you have the chance."
There was a sudden uproar amongst the class.
"Kill it?" Seamus Finnigan demanded, looking furious. "But that's a person! That's still a human being!"
"There's nothing human about it. It is a beast. Nothing more."
"B-but defence spells." Hermione had gone pale again. "There are spells to protect yourself, surely. Even against a werewolf."
"Very true," Snape said, his tone still as cold as the look in his eyes. "Any basic defence spell might protect you from a werewolf attack." His mouth curled into another of his twisted smiles. "Temporarily. It might buy you"—he shrugged, his demeanour nothing short of sarcastic—"oh, I don't know, ten seconds if you're lucky."
"But—"
"What do you intend to do, Miss Granger, if faced with a fully grown werewolf during the full moon? Stun it? Disarm it?"
"Well—"
"There is very little that will protect you against a werewolf. No charm, potion, or spell of any kind. These are vicious, savage beasts, with so little human left inside them you'd be doing them a favour in ending their miserable life. A werewolf will tear you to shreds in an instant if given the opportunity. The only way to ensure complete and total protection," he said with a great edge of bitterness, "is to kill it. Once and for all."
The uproar re-emerged, but Severus Snape wasn't listening. He heard only one voice. A young, arrogant voice with a hint of laughter, and no ounce of shame to be found.
"It was a joke, Prongs!"
"It's not a joke, you idiot! Sirius, this is so completely beyond a joke. He could have died! You do realise that? He actually could have died. You could be a murderer right now—you could go to Azkaban!"
"Yeah, but would murdering old Snivelly really even be a crime? They wouldn't send me to Azkaban. If anything they'd give me a reward."
"Listen to me, Sirius, this is not funny."
"But it's Sn—"
"Don't think about him, alright? Think about Remus—think about our friend."
"But—"
"This is his biggest fear—don't you understand that? He's so ashamed of himself—of what he has to go through, and what he puts us through when he does—if he woke up tomorrow to be told that he'd killed someone—a fellow student, whoever they happen to be —it would destroy him. He'd never be able to forgive himself. He'd probably kill himself."
"Well, come on, that's a bit of an exaggeration, mate. He wouldn't kill himself. Would he?"
"Do you really want to force your friend to become a murderer and find out?"
"I thought I was the murderer? I thought I was the one going to Azkaban."
"Sirius, stop laughing about this—for once I am not joking around with you. Look, I hate him as much as you do—"
"Who—Remus?"
"Not Remus, idiot."
"Snivelly?"
"Please, for once, just think about this rationally. Think about what could have happened here had I not—"
"Ruined my fun?"
"Sirius!"
"I wouldn't have let him die, alright? I never wanted him to get killed, I just wanted to teach him a lesson. To scare him a little bit."
"By exposing Remus' secret?"
"He was being nosy. If he'd just kept to himself rather than following us—"
"But you knew he'd follow us, Sirius. You set this all up because you knew he would come. And then what would you have done? How would you possibly have stopped him from being torn to shreds?"
"Well… I mean, I don't know exactly, but I would have done something. You know… eventually."
"Listen. All of this—everything that happened tonight—you went too far. We cross over the line a lot, it's true, but this could have been disastrous. You got lucky tonight."
"No, Prongs, I got a lecture, and a night of fun completely ruined. I was just trying to make a bit of fun out of the full moon, you know?"
"There is fun, Sirius, and then there is murder. And they never—NEVER —go together!"
"But—"
"Please, just listen to me. This can't ever happen again, alright?"
"Well, what if—"
"No, Sirius, never!"
"Alright, FINE. Is that what you want to hear?"
"Yes, that's what I want to hear! That's all I—"
"Oh crap, Prongs, I think he's waking up."
The Gryffindors were still in an uproar over the morality of killing a werewolf—which, in their opinion, still apparently passed for a human being—insisting, surely, that there must be a much more appropriate form of defence—an alternative to what they considered inhumane and unnecessary slaughter.
And then the bell rang.
Snape stood tall, unmoving, once more enfolded in his teacher's robes as though it might offer him protection. His black eyes were cold, without a trace of a glimmer. No life at all. And so was his tone—cold, monotonous, and unforgiving.
"You will each write an essay to be handed in to me, on the ways you recognise and kill werewolves."
"But—"
"I want two rolls of parchment on the subject."
"But—"
"And I want them by Monday morning."
Nobody spoke. Nobody protested or so much as groaned under their breath.
Snape did not smile, did not even a sneer. But something had swelled inside of him. That sense of power once more. A feeling of authority.
"Good," he said. "That is all."
Originally written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season 4—Round 2
Team: Holyhead Harpies
Position: Captain
Task: Write about someone utilising their skills or knowledge of the subject as part of their job (Defence Against the Dark Arts)