This is my first post on this site, so I am not really sure how this goes. Though if it looks familiar it is because I posted it on another site as well.
Before you read, there are a few things that need to be assumed:
1. Dumbledore died from his hand thingy, not Snape actually doing so, nor did any of the battle scenes following it happen.
2. Harry, Ron, and Hermione go back to school for their seventh year.
3. This may not have a happy ending.
"Professor, you know my dedication."
The old man studied her, his frail fingers stroking Fawkes gently. His other hand was held carefully in the folds of his robes. But he need not reveal it for her to know what it looked like. The charcoal, shriveled skin would forever be pressed into her memory. Like a branding iron, hot and heavy.
"It is not your dedication that I question, Samara. It is the boy. I know your feelings towards him; do not think that I cannot see it. Right now, you manage to keep those feelings in check, but when I am gone, I fear…"
Samara cut him off sharply. "Fear nothing, Professor. You know why I am doing this, and my feelings will not get in the way. Do you forget, Professor, why I am attempting this task in the first place? Do you forget what Lord Voldemort had done…?"
Professor Dumbledore noticed the slight tremor of hysteria rising in the girl's voice, and he gently calmed her. "I do not doubt you, Samara. Please understand that. You know that I would not have given this task to just anyone. You and I both know that." He met her with a meaningful expression. She swallowed; of course she knew. "And my death, while crucial, will not be easy for you. Don't look at me like that, Samara!" Samara looked away, staring at the beautiful phoenix as it preened itself. "You are human like the rest of us," he continued sternly. "You can succumb to temptations and emotions, just like anyone else. Your parentage does not exempt you from humanity. Do not forget that."
Samara was well trained in keeping her emotions under her belt, but she could not keep her throat from burning, and a small glimmer of tears from showing. The Professor noted this with surprise. Samara did not ever cry.
He came from around his elegant desk, which was strewn with books, quills, and papers. "Do not worry," he comforted in a much gentler tone, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. But his hand on her shoulder only made her think of his other hand, blackened and dying…
"Samara, if there was ever a time I needed you to be strong, it is now. You cannot loose sight of what we set out to do three years ago."
The tears welled up further in her eyes, and she rubbed them furiously away. Disgraceful, her tears were. "Professor," she confessed quietly, not daring look away from Fawkes and into the old man's eyes, lest she start sobbing, "How am I supposed to know what to do, without your guidance? Whom am I supposed to lean on? Whom shall I confide in or depend upon?"
She could feel him smile sadly, though she did not see. "My dear, have a little more trust in yourself. You will know what to do when the time comes."
Samara was not reassured in the least, nor did she think that anything the Professor had to say would comfort her. She would be on her own shortly, and she would just have to deal with that. As she did before.
With an iron grip, she roped in her emotions quickly and efficiently. The tears disappeared, her throat stopped burning, and she was able to meet Professor Dumbledore's eyes with a hard glare.
"Professor, you can depend on me. Harry Potter will remain safe."
Four months later
"Samara, what is with you today? You seem…edgy."
Samara started at her bushy-haired friend's, Hermione Granger, concern. Hermione was right. Samara was jumpier than usual, but she did not have a chance to figure out why when a familiar red head plopped down next to her and scooped a large pile of grits onto his plate.
"What are we talking about?" Ronald Weasly asked, before he was done with chewing, making Samara push her own plate away slightly in nausea.
Without a glance at Hermione, Samara answered, "Nothing. When is Quidditch practice? Harry will skin me if I'm late again."
Ron actually took his time to swallow before answering, but he was cut off when another person joined them. The infamous Harry Potter. Today, as most days, he looked irritated with something. But that was just Harry, so no one was concerned.
"Did someone say something about me?" he questioned, but his mind was somewhere else. Samara made a note to watch him a little closer, though she supposed it was nothing. Harry always had a lot on his mind since…since, well…
Samara had a hard time thinking about it as well. Dumbledore had been gone from their lives for only a few months, and no one seemed to know what to do. Everyone, the entire school, seemed a little lost, as if just waking up from a nightmare and unsure of where they are.
Yes Harry, the whole world is constantly revolving around you… Samara thought bitterly, but instead she passed him the eggs and recounted, "I wanted to know when practice is. You made me all confused when you changed our field schedules."
Harry looked at her, and she could see it. She saw it every time he looked at her, that small confused, but wary gleam in his eyes. Harry never was so quick to trust her as Hermione and Ron were, though she supposed he probably sensed something about her that no one else could sense. "It is at six everyday this week," he informed her. His voice never held that friendly, warm tone with her that he had shared with Ron and Hermione, though she had been his constant companion (more constant than he realized) for over three years now. She wasn't blind to it. But she did understand it, though he did not.
She wondered sometimes, when she was having the occasional fit of insomnia, where the nightmares would make sleep impossible, what would happen if the three of them, Harry above all, found out the truth about her. How betrayed would they feel? How furious would they be? How vengeful? Her speculations to these answers had kept them from ever finding out the truth. She guarded her secret almost as much as she guarded The Boy Who Lived.
They all left for Potions, hauling their books in tow. Samara took her usual seat next to Hermione, behind Harry, where she could keep an eye on things unnoticed.
Although she knew the truth about Snape, she was not sure what to think of the Professor. Sometimes, she mistrusted him and kept her wand close at hand in case he suddenly attempted to Avada Kedavra Harry on spot. And other times she felt like she truly understood the man. After all, their situations were so similar: Both had to protect Harry Potter, whom they truly despised, in secret, all for vengeance on the same being. She felt the frustration he endured. However, she hid hers far more cleverly.
Harry had earned detention because he could not seem to concentrate, which was always a huge disappointment to Samara, because it meant that she would have to worm her way into detention as well, so that she could keep an eye on him easier.
She sighed inwardly as she carried her carefully prepared potion to the front of the room, already mapping out her plan. She waited patiently for Snape to finish examining the other students' samples before reaching out to hand him her own.
Samara let the vial slip from her fingers just before Snape could grab onto it and it fell to his desk, spewing the putrid, acidic blue concoction all over his papers, some singing his robes. Snape cursed loudly for a while.
Needless to say, Samara had achieved her goal.
After a few meaningless apologies, she accepted her punishment and made her way back to her seat. A few of her peers were snickering to themselves, enjoying the small entertainment amidst the tedium of class.
She saw the foot right before she walked into it. Someone had stuck out his or her foot in effort to trip her, and she looked up to see a handsome, pale, blonde boy smirking at her. She knew him well, though not personally, but she had marked him ages ago as a new Death Eater recruit and had kept a wary eye on him since. His reputation as Harry's rival earned her suspicions as well.
Although he was disappointed that he had not been able to humiliate her, he managed to redeem himself with an insult. "Mudblood," he spat.
She wondered what Draco Malfoy would say if he knew just what ran in her veins. The irony off it all made her smile to herself. But outwardly, she fixed him with a sharp glare, her cold, gray eyes regarding him with complete indifference. He was beneath her, not worthy her time.
Though she did take enough time to keep the stony gaze on him until he shifted uncomfortably. Then she walked on, and the incident was erased from her mind. She did not think much on these small confrontations with her classmates, as they did occasionally happen. Her attention stayed only on her objective: keeping Harry Potter safe.
But from the pair of eyes she felt watching her throughout class, it seemed that other people were less likely to forget.
I haven't really figured this site out yet, so I don't even know how or where you guys review this stuff, but if you would, I would appreciate it greatly. I would like to know whether to continue this story or not. Look out for a Joker fanfict I will be putting up momentarily.