A Derailed Train of Thought
Chapter 4 - Flying Blind
20 September 2007
Hermione tried not to wince at the unabashed exuberance of the students crowded around the breakfast table. While she wasn't quite reaching for the hair of the dog—one shared bottle of red did not make for a hangover—the racket was loud enough to be uncomfortable. Foregoing her usual tea for plain water, she sipped at the cool glass and fell into the role of observer.
Harry was in his element, his easy, crooked grin in place as he answered the flood of questions directed at him from the rest of the table. They could have eaten breakfast in the private compartment, as Snape was doing, but Hermione had reckoned that her best friend could do with a spot of hero worship; that the manoeuvre also scored her some goodwill with the students and kept her away from a certain black-clad figure were merely incidental bonuses.
In an amusing twist, the students were blatantly uninterested in any talk of Harry's current role as an Auror or their previous conflict with Voldemort. Rather, the conversation had centred solely on Quidditch strategy. It provoked a strong sense of déjà vu—how many of her Saturday mornings had begun the same way?—but the topic allowed Hermione to concentrate on the reactions of her charges rather than the actual words.
Having taught them since their second year, Hermione was quite fond of the lot of them. Of the eight students, she knew the Ravenclaw and Slytherin students the best; they were some of her top Charms pupils, and she had spent a fair amount of time tutoring them during her office hours.
Jonathan Burke, a Slytherin, was a lanky beanpole of a lad, possessing a quick wit and tongue; thankfully his personality was nothing resembling Draco Malfoy's... or Snape's, for that matter. Likewise, his housemate, Emma Zabini, was charming, if a tad quiet at times.
Eyeing the girl's subdued posture, Hermione deduced that she was either not a morning person or not a fan of Quidditch. When Zabini met her gaze over the length of the table and rolled her eyes, Hermione guessed the latter.
Switching her attention over to the two Ravenclaw students, Hermione had to hold back her own eye roll; both students were absolutely Quidditch crazy and were endeavouring to explain some sort of tandem dive they had come up with to an interested Harry. Jacob Smith-Ellingsworth's rather loud and pedantic explanation was being drowned out by the back-and-forth argument of Colin Benedict—who had been the Hufflepuff Quidditch Captain—and Amina Patel, the former Gryffindor Seeker.
"Oi!" Jonathan Burke finally exclaimed, cutting through the din. "Come off it, Jacob, the only way you are going to successfully explain that move is to demonstrate it… assuming you can without breaking limbs. Or brooms, for that matter."
"Which I highly doubt," Emma Zabini added, a smile lessening the sting of the comment.
Amina Patel let out a cackle. "You certainly couldn't when you played us last year!"
"That was last year. We were still perfecting it," Smith-Ellingsworth retorted with a grumble. "Genius doesn't happen overnight, don't you know..."
"Sir," Rebecca Mulligan, the second Ravenclaw said, addressing Harry, "would you be willing to come out to the pitch with us this morning? Then we could properly show you, and I bet you'd have loads of advice for us!"
Harry sent her a faintly sheepish glance. "Professor Granger and I have plans, actually."
Hermione interrupted before the students could collectively target her with their hangdog pleading. "Thankfully, Professor Granger still has some marking to finish, so some time on the Quidditch Pitch this morning won't be an issue."
"Right, then. The pitch it is," Harry confirmed amongst cheering. "I don't know about advice, but I can show you all some of the moves that I learned from Victor Krum, at least."
"Brilliant," Colin Benedict exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. "Hey, do you think we could get enough people together to have a friendly scrimmage?"
"I don't see why not," Rebecca Mulligan mused, a blush suddenly streaking across her face. "I… uh, spoke with one of the Beauxbatons Chasers last night, and I'd bet he'd be keen on playing us."
"That's not all he's keen for," snarked Sean Davies, the other Gryffindor. "Your heated glances in Transfiguration nearly seared my poor toad into cuisses de grenouille."
Mulligan ignored the commentary. "We've enough people here for our side-"
"How do you figure that?" Davies asked, smirking. "I don't play. Neither does Emma or Charlotte. Even with Mr Potter, you are still short one."
Harry looked at her with a wicked grin. "Care to play, Professor?"
"Absolutely not," she answered firmly, suppressing a smile. "You know I don't enjoy flying, and I'm certainly not going to spend a part of my birthday weekend on a broom playing Quidditch. Besides, someone should be on the ground to pick up the pieces."
"Hear, hear," muttered Emma Zabini.
"Bollocks, then we are short by one…" Colin Benedict said with a groan.
"Language, Mr Benedict," Hermione replied automatically.
"Sorry, Professor. Rebecca, do you think your Chaser would play on our side?"
"What fun is that?" Amina Patel interjected. "I've been hearing all week about how smashing the Beauxbatons teams are, and if we are going to try and beat them, it better be all on us or we'll never hear the end of it."
"Sean? Charlotte? Emma?" Colin questioned hopefully. "Hogwarts pride?"
"You don't want me playing, trust me," Charlotte Payton said. "Not if you want to win, at least." The two others murmured an agreement as the door to the compartment swung open, revealing Snape.
The room went silent for a moment before Jonathan Burke spoke up. "Perfect timing, as ever, Headmaster."
"Why," Snape asked rhetorically, "do I have the sneaking sensation that my timing is anything but perfect?"
Burke was undaunted. "You see, sir, we've decided to organize a friendly scrimmage with Beauxbatons. However, we find ourselves short one player."
"And so you are proposing that I be the solution to that shortage?" Snape drawled smoothly.
"Of course, sir. You've come out and played with the Slytherins more than a time or two, and you did say that it was of the utmost importance to represent Hogwarts and the UK in the best fashion possible. What better way, in this case, then by the Headmaster himself?"
"Don't lay it on too thick, Mr Burke." For a moment, Snape's black eyes swept the room, taking in variously excited—and not—expressions. "Very well. If needs must, I shall play. You know the rules, however."
Burke grinned. "Yes, sir. You only play Beater."
Snape gave a sharp nod, focusing on Harry. "And I suppose this morning shall mark a return to your glory days of Seeker?"
Harry shrugged, not fazed by the dark glower. "That depends. What position does everyone else play?"
"Chaser," Colin Benedict answered promptly and then began pointing at his fellow students. "Burke is our Keeper, of course, with those long ape arms of his, and Jacob and Rebecca are fellow Chasers…" He trailed off, seeing a possible problem.
"I'm a Seeker," Amina said somewhat apologetically. "I don't really have the build to play anything else, but I'll give it a go."
"No need," Harry said diplomatically. "I can play Beater with the Headmaster in a pinch. Besides, I've heard excellent things about Miss Patel's skills from Professor Longbottom."
The girl brightened even as Snape's expression soured. "Won't this be fun?"
It had taken almost an hour to settle matters, and by the time Hermione had made her way out to the pitch, the sun was high and it was pleasantly warm. She found herself in a far better mood; apparently, all she'd needed to cheer up was an evening with Harry, venting her spleen.
Taking a seat in the stands with Davies, Zabini, and Payton, she scanned the cerulean sky for her best friend. He was sitting comfortably on his broom, gesturing at something with Benedict and Burke. The sunlight glinted off his glasses, but she thought that she could see him smiling. Good, she thought with affection. Harry needs to have a bit of uncomplicated fun for a change.
For all that he'd been her rock the previous night, it had been painfully clear how unhappy he was. She couldn't imagine how bad things had to have gotten for him to contemplate tearing apart his family; Ginny and the kids had always been his top priority. And as for Ginny…
I just don't get it. She has everything, and Harry would do just about anything to make her happy. But it's never enough for her!
It had been a long time since she and Ginny had been close. Although they had spent a lot of time around each other following the Battle of Hogwarts, any true friendship that might have developed was dashed by Ginny's continual low-level jealousy of her and Harry's relationship. Despite both of them attesting that there was nothing going on between them and there had never been, Ginny was still resentful of their tight bond.
For a while, it hadn't mattered all that much. She and Ron had started dating, and that buffer kept Ginny from getting too catty. They all began building the foundations of their adult lives, and almost a year after the end of the war, Harry had proposed to Ginny. Life had been less smooth for Hermione; her parents had been none too pleased with her after she'd restored their memories, and any maturity that Ron had gained seemed to be dissolving quickly.
Matters had bubbled over at Harry and Ginny's wedding. Hermione's parents had left early in a huff—she'd never learned the reason why—and so she'd gone looking for Ron and a spot of comfort. And boy did I find him! she remembered, anger still coursing through her despite the intervening years. She and Molly had walked into a back bedroom at the Burrow to find Lavender Brown busy sucking Ron off. If it hadn't had been so hurtful, the expression of utter horror on his face when he had seen his Mum and girlfriend would have been comical.
Molly had reacted first, sending out a pair of hexes that had made it highly unlikely that either Ron or Lavender would be enjoying similarly carnal activities in the near future. However, the ensuing public row had made the cover of the Daily Prophet and had neatly imploded the friendship between Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.
Naturally, Ron had a million excuses for his behaviour—mainly that Hermione didn't pay enough attention, and she nagged him half to death—and while Ginny had taken his side, Harry had not. He had flatly refused to speak to Ron; in his mind, it was bad enough that he had cheated on Hermione, but to do it at his and Gin's wedding pushed it into the realm of unforgivable.
Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, Hermione had spent the next year in Australia trying to mend her relationship with her parents. She hadn't been successful, but the time away from England had seemingly allowed Harry and Ginny to put their own nascent marriage to rights. Eventually, Harry and Ginny had the boys, and Hermione had first gone into Charms research and then eventually accepted the teaching position at Hogwarts.
An excited burst of noise broke into her wandering thoughts, and Hermione jerked her head up from the stack of papers to see a large group of Beauxbatons students take to the pitch.
"I suppose we'd better start paying attention," Davies remarked with a sigh, putting aside a thick history book with clear regret.
"Heaven forbid they not have a cheering section," Zabini agreed sarcastically.
"Oh, but look how pretty the Beauxbatons uniforms are," Charlotte Payton enthused. "Such a lovely light blue. I had a blouse like that once..."
"I thought that this was supposed to be a friendly match. How come they got all kitted up so fancy?"
"Well, they are French. Don't they like to dress up?"
The Hogwarts side did appear a touch rag-tag, Hermione had to admit, given that all the students were in their Saturday morning finest. Snape seemed to agree because when the team landed next to the stands for a final chat, he changed all their jumpers to a dark green with a quick flick of the wand.
"Green, sir?" Amina Patel asked plaintively, picking at her sleeve.
"If you play for a Slytherin Headmaster, you will do so in green, Miss Patel." Snape slanted a glance at Harry. "And do you also take issue with my sartorial choice, Mr Potter?"
"Not at all. I have it on good authority that I look good in green. Don't you agree, Professor Granger?"
"It complements your colouring quite nicely," she replied dryly, holding back a smile.
"Mr Benedict, do you have any final words of wisdom?" Snape asked, disregarding Hermione and Harry's by-play.
"Sir?" the Hufflepuff questioned.
"You are the most recent Quidditch Captain in the group, are you not?"
"Uhh… yeah. I guess. Okay, then..." He paused, a little flustered. "Yeah, so here's what we are going to do: play it conservative for the first fifteen minutes or so. I want to see how good they are and how well they communicate with each other. Remember, they all play on different teams, too, so we share that disadvantage. When I give the go-ahead, I want the Headmaster and Mr Potter to make a hard defensive push—I want you to go to town on those bludgers and really harass their Chasers. At the same time, Amina, I want you to feint straight across the field like you've seen the Snitch. Make it good, and see how many of them you can draw offsides; in the meantime, we'll see if we can start racking up some points. If that all goes to hell… well, Jonathan, as Keeper, it'll be your chance to shine. From there we'll have to adjust as we go. Any questions?"
At the round of negative head shakes Benedict grinned and stuck his hand into the centre of the circle. "Right then, Hogwarts on three…" Everyone gamely stuck a hand in, even Snape.
"Hogwarts!" the group shouted and then leapt on their brooms.
Benedict and the Beauxbatons Captain met at the centre of the field to discuss rules with the referee while the rest of the team got into positions. To her surprise, Snape only flew a couple of tight circles before descending again. Landing next to her on the stands, he made quick work of unbuttoning his outer robes and vest. Running an irritated hand through his dishevelled shoulder-length hair, he addressed Charlotte Payton.
"Miss Payton, do you have any spare hair elastics?"
The girl giggled and patted her own long blond braid. "Yes, sir. How many do you need?"
"Two, if you would." While she rummaged through her bag, Snape neatly folded up the vest and robe, placing it on the bench. Leaning over Hermione, Payton handed the Headmaster two bright pink elastics.
"I hope you don't mind the colour, sir. It's all I've got left."
With a deft snap, Snape secured his hair into a queue and began to braid it back. "I'll survive, never fear." He smirked at his next words. "Besides, I have it on good authority that I look good in pink."
Hermione couldn't hold back a snort. "Who told you that bald-faced lie?"
"Dolores Umbridge."
The statement was patently ridiculous, but it made her laugh. Combined with the sunshine, the humour robbed her of the lingering and persistent anger; Hermione found that she could only muster up a touch of her normal sarcasm. I am so tired of being mad at him. I just want one thing that isn't a fight... "Well, be gone with you, Headmaster, or we'll lose the match. Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus."
"Always with the terrible Latin," he groused, picking up both his bat and broom.
"It's the school motto," Hermione retorted, only mildly indignant.
"Superbia in proelia, Professor Granger." With that, he suddenly leapt skyward, streaking towards the waiting players like a falcon on the hunt. When he reached the group, he hung neatly in the air for a moment before pointedly mounting his broom.
"Oh, cool. I've never seen anyone fly like that…" Charlotte Payton breathed, appearing a tad awestruck.
"And it was oh so subtle," Hermione added, still fighting the urge to chuckle.
"A deeply subtle man, our Headmaster," Emma Zabini agreed, mouth quirking with her own attempted effort to not laugh.
"Indeed."
After a moment, Sean Davies broke the silence. "So what does superbia in whatever mean, anyway?"
"It's a Latin Muggle football motto, 'Pride in Battle.' Manchester City, if I remember it correctly," Hermione explained.
"Makes sense," Zabini said, nodding.
"Not really," Davies argued.
"The Headmaster is from Manchester or at least urban Lancashire," Hermione informed the lad, who looked properly abashed at that bit of gossip.
"He's from Manchester? Really? I thought he was a southerner like the rest of us… I didn't even know they let people from Manchester into Slytherin."
Zabini slanted him a hard glare. "Slytherin isn't that backward, Sean. Besides, Manchester isn't exactly the uncivilized hinterland, especially given that Hogwarts is located somewhere further north in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands."
"Yeah, but Manchester? It's almost as bad as being from Liverpool…"
A loud whistle blast broke into his diatribe, and the match finally began.
Forty-five minutes later, Hogwarts had emerged victorious. Hermione was pleased to note just how well the students had played together. While the Beauxbatons side had possessed more talent, their players had not meshed well, each focusing on making the best individual move rather than ones benefiting the team as a whole.
Harry was surrounded by a throng of curious students—even here, he couldn't quite escape his reputation, it seemed—but as he was still enjoying himself, she let him be. Leaving the stands for the centre of the pitch, she scanned the milling crowd for Snape. Finally sighting him speaking with the referee, Hermione strolled over.
The ref was a bluff, hearty man, with the beginnings of a bald spot thinning his dark blonde hair; he and Snape were conversing in what sounded like rapid German. The man let out a loud guffaw as she approached, and she was startled to see Snape smile easily in return. Just as she reached the men, someone bumped into her side with a broom, and she stumbled.
Arm shooting out, Hermione snagged the nearest thing to hand—in this case, Snape's bare forearm. He steadied her, and Hermione froze, the unaccustomed closeness short-circuiting her brain for the space of several heartbeats.
At some point during the match, he had rolled up the sleeves of his oxford shirt, and the smooth skin was hot under her palm, muscles tensing slightly. He looked altogether different at that moment; without the concealing billow of robes, he was lean and lithe, the sweat-dampened shirt doing nothing to mask a rather fine form. More than that, the change in hairstyle had also seemingly altered the planes of his face. Sharp cheekbones suddenly balanced out his Roman beak of a nose, the symmetry set off by the dark velvet brown of his eyes.
Eyes sparkling with mirth and pale skin flushed by sun and exertion, he did not resemble anything like the ferocious and fearsome spy and professor of her youth, nor the stern and staid Headmaster of the last decade.
He was simply a man.
Standing close enough to be his shadow, Hermione felt her body react to that knowledge, adrenaline and something more ephemeral rocketing through her.
Then the moment was over, and she found herself hastily thrusting his folded robes and vest at him.
"You left these in the stands," she muttered and turned swiftly away. Run! yelped an internal voice. Run as fast as you can!
Hermione legged it for the safety of Harry.
"Now there's a pretty little Fräulein," Johan Heidenreich remarked.
"Hardly," Snape responded, still mulling over the befuddled and baffled look that Granger had given him before scuttling away. "She is not only one of my professorin, but a former student."
"Ahhh," the German said. "And what exactly does she teach?"
"Charms," he answered and saw the other man's gaze fill with amusement again.
"Appropriate for one who is quite charmant herself."
"If you have a liking for temperamental, know-it-all harridans, perhaps. Now tell me, Doktor Heidenreich, have you improved the stability of your Wolfsbane Potion since the last time we exchanged letters?"
"Funny you should ask that…"
It had been fun, flying around like a bat out of hell and hitting things very, very hard. It had been even more enjoyable to spend several hours debating potions with someone who was not only an equal in the field but quite possibly his better.
Johan Heidenreich was a German-Swiss researcher, and he and Snape had written back and forth for several years prior to the return of the Dark Lord. At the same time that matters had been devolving for Snape, Heidenreich had left Germany for Africa, and later South America; their correspondence had faltered, and each had not even known the other was still alive until they were introduced following the match.
How is that for a fortuitous coincidence? Snape mused. And he'll be here for the next several months… all the better for my upcoming projects.
Letting himself into the main carriage of the Express, he stopped and listened, but the car was completely silent. Perfect, he thought. The students are off cavorting about, Granger and Potter have disappeared to Merlin only knows where, and I've finally a bit of privacy.
Shaking out wrinkles in his robe, he caught the tell-tale crinkle of Minerva's letter in the pocket. Bollocks. I've not even read the blasted thing. I might as well do and call her before she makes a trip down here herself.
He read the lengthy missive while fixing a pot of tea. It was precisely as he expected—a thinly veiled interrogation about events and happenings—but Snape was relieved to note that the letter had no questions concerning Granger. Perhaps she doesn't know about our little tiff, he considered, adding a splash of milk to the earl grey. Well, only one way to find out…
With a moue of disgust, he activated the charm on the painting. It was a handy invention, he had to admit, but he was also sceptical of just how secure it was. Still, it was far less messy and inconvenient than using the Floo Network.
As the colours sharpened, Snape wondered idly where Granger had gotten the notion of enchanting paintings in such a manner. That, at least, had been rather unique, and quite unlike her. But a more pedantic essayist I have never read, he thought, recalling some of her longer and more painful Potions essays.
"Hello, Minerva," he stated, still somewhat uncomfortable with talking in such a fashion.
"Do my eyes deceive me? Is that my long-lost Potions Professor finally making an appearance? And here I had feared that you were dead." Minerva's voice was both affectionate and sarcastic.
"It's been two weeks, woman. And I have written."
She sent him a gimlet glare. "Postcards, Severus, may serve as proof of life, but are manifestly not the same as letters." Her words trailed off as she took in his casual appearance. "My goodness… my eyes must really be deceiving me. I don't think I've seen you so stripped of clothes as you are since the last time I had to roust you out of bed in the middle of the night. I haven't interrupted something... important, have I?"
He let her sly words hang in the air like a malodorous scent. "Must you be so ham-handed with your innuendo, Minerva? It's as if you've never been exposed to the finer aspects of adult conversation. Moreover, as I called you, I would hardly do it at an inconvenient time, now would I?"
"And one would think that after all these years you would learn to recognize when a Gryffindor is trying to wind you up…" She gave him a once-over that on any other woman would be considered indecently bawdy. "Incidentally, you look rather dashing with your hair tied back and those horribly stuffy robes gone. Almost… piratical, if I do say so."
"I'd rather you didn't," Snape muttered, fighting the urge to snatch up his robe and throw it on. "Given that you've known me since I was eleven, this conversation is mildly horrifying."
She huffed in exasperation. "It has been a very long time since you were eleven, boyo. And the only thing horrifying in this conversation is your continued prudishness. Now, if you weren't up to a spot of fun, what have you been up to?"
Snape pondered the question a moment, hoping that he was only imagining the subtle sexual inference in her phrasing. The woman was ham-handed… until she wasn't. "Quidditch," he answered succinctly. "I believe you know that Potter is visiting for the weekend?" At her nod, he went on. "The students wrangled him into a playing a match against Beauxbatons. As we were short a player, I also participated."
"You played Quidditch with Mr Potter?" Her tone was politely disbelieving.
"I played Quidditch with our students, thus ensuring a Hogwarts victory. That one of them happens to be a former student is of very little consequence," he corrected.
"Hmph. And just how good are the Beauxbatons players? Maxime does love to go on about how many professional players they graduate every year."
"They're not bad. But they're French. Altogether too flashy," Snape said with a shrug. "I was impressed with Colin Benedict, I will say. I had him Captain, and he did a solid job of managing things despite little practice or warning."
Minerva smiled at that. "He's a lovely lad. And how did your Keeper do?"
"Brilliant, as ever. Blocked all but seven shots on fifty-three attempts." He hesitated before adding. "Patel caught the Snitch in rather dramatic fashion."
"Gryffindors have always made the best Seekers," Minerva teased. "So was Mr Potter playing Beater or Chaser?"
"Beater, and only adequately."
"Oh, you poor dear. Was he an infringement on your magnificence as a Beater? And does he still have his head, or did you managed to knock it off with a well-timed shot?"
He glared at her. "If I wanted to murder someone, it wouldn't be in front of a pitch full of witnesses, now would it? Besides, if I harmed as much as a hair on Potter's sainted head, I'm sure that Granger would hunt me down and subject me to a slow and terrible death."
Minerva's expression turned pensive. "She is rather protective of those she loves, isn't she? I've always thought it a pity that the two of them never had a spark between them."
Snape snorted, inwardly surprised at the opening that she had given him. "Are you sure about that? I stumbled upon them last night curled up on a bench together, and from where I stood they seemed rather… close."
"Don't you dare start a rumour like that, Severus Tobias Snape, or I'll be the one hunting you down and subjecting you to a slow and terrible death." From the sharpness of her gaze, he could tell she meant it, and he wondered just what rubbish had been in the gossip papers recently; Granger wasn't the only one fiercely protective of those she loved.
After a beat, Minerva continued. "I asked her about it, once. She said it would be like snogging a brother, and Harry felt the same."
"As fascinating as this particular tangent is, I have no wish to discuss the romantic escapades of former students and current professors. Shall we change the subject?" Snape asked, reckoning that he had gotten about as much out of Minerva as he could without making her suspicious.
"Oh, very well, then. How are the rest of the students doing?"
For the next quarter of an hour, they spoke on more neutral topics, and Snape found himself relaxing for the first time in weeks. For all that she could be a thorn in his side, Minerva was also a stalwart friend, and he had missed her company more than he had realized.
He had relaxed enough, as a matter of fact, that he fell neatly into her trap.
"…and how is it having Hermione back as your student?" she asked simply.
"What do you mean?" he queried without thinking.
An elegant brow rose. "I mean, how is it having Hermione observing your master-level class?"
From her expression, Snape could tell that she already knew the answer to that question and that she was not ignorant of the fact that he and Granger had fought. Blast. I should have just written!
"She's not observing either of my classes. Nor," he added hastily, "has she expressed any interest in doing so, or I would have permitted it. Naturally."
The gambit didn't work. "And why, pray tell, has she not expressed any interest? Could it perhaps have to do with a certain argument that occurred on the way down?"
When it was clear that Snape's only answer would be his silence, she went on. "You know, when you suggested that we consider hiring her for the Charms position, I took that as proof that you had adjusted your thinking when it came to her. That you had moved on and grown up. But now I'm left wondering if you did so only because you knew that I'd push for Hermione and doing so yourself was an easy way out."
Snape kept his face carefully blank. In truth, he had only brought up Granger as a candidate because he knew that Minerva would. Besides which, the only other possibility for the position who wasn't also an octogenarian was Luna Lovegood… and as Sybil Trelawney was still in residence and ably fulfilling the crazy quotient of the Castle, she had not been an option.
"Severus, have you even bothered to examine any of her projects or publications?"
"I have read plenty of her papers, Minerva, I assure you."
Standing up from the desk with a swish of tartan and temper, she glared into the portrait. "Recent ones?"
His own temper arrived on a wave of defensiveness. "No. Not recent ones, but I hardly need to as I graded her sodding essays since the age of eleven. The only thing good that I can say is that her papers were generally grammatically correct, and would nominally be on the assigned topic. Other than that they were a complete waste of my time. I saw nothing but bloated, regurgitated tripe that in no way could pass for original thinking or quality work. Perhaps her approach might have passed muster in your class, but it certainly wasn't good enough in mine!"
"Sometimes, Severus, you are a daft, closed-minded, bastard of a man." Her eyes glimmered with an unspoken sentiment, and he felt his stomach uneasily twist in response. "It's a bit rich to call her student papers bloated, regurgitated tripe when yours were equally as bad! How many times did I ask for ten inches and get a bloody scroll instead? Go read one of her recent papers and then come back to me and spout that nonsense. I dare you!"
With an angry flick, Minerva closed the connection.
A.N.~ I continue to be spoiled rotten by all the responses to this story, and I can't thank you wonderful readers enough!
Massive internet hugs to Amarenima Redwood, stexgirl2000, meg527, irononmaiden, DADAMistress, Onyx Obsidian, Marriage198, GreyBunny, Lilygreen, Lythandae, Shieldmaiden Sigyn, Nachtwens, mama123, MHS1986, just an anon reader, Christal, Shelle007, and Banglabou who all were kind enough to leave lovely and perceptive comments.
One random note for going forward- there will be no wonky rendering of the various European accents in this story. If there is one thing I hate more than having to read accents, it's having to write one. Thus, as our friends are all using a translation charm, none of that foolishness is necessary. My apologies if you were looking forward it :)
'Cuisses de Grenouille' are the French version of tasty, tasty fried frog legs. Mmmm...
Finally, at just three chapters in, there are forty-one reviews. One-shot prize to the person who leaves number 100.
Happy Reading!
