"Genital warts, Severus? Truly?"
For a moment, Severus didn't realize he was being spoken to, but when the shadow elongating over the book he'd opened on the table didn't retreat, he looked up to find Minerva standing at his side. It was late enough in the day that he hadn't expected anyone to come to the staff room; and indeed, Minerva looked as though someone had dragged her out of bed by force, because she was wearing a long tartan nightshirt under her dressing gown, and her hair was loose about her shoulders. Severus blinked once, glanced round at the empty gloom, and said scathingly, "I hope I haven't woken you."
Minerva scoffed and pursed her lips to tightly they nearly vanished. "Woken me?" she said tartly enough to rival the driest of red wines. "No, Severus, it was Poppy who woke me with an urgent summons to the Hospital Wing, because apparently Professor Umbridge has mysteriously contracted a case of genital warts."
"How unfortunate for her," Severus said silkily, as he crossed one knee over the other and balanced his book open over it. "I certainly hope she didn't dawdle in seeking out Poppy. I have heard rumors—yes, Minerva, rumors—that sometimes when one forgoes a visit to their neighbor Healer, one might in fact find such…undesirables…a permanent fixture in their lives."
"Severus Snape, you bloody hypocrite," Minerva said, and he had to return to his book before the twitching of his lips could betray him.
"And why you?" he went on, turning a page. "Has the fact that Poppy has a Potions Master at her beck and call somehow slipped from her mind?"
"Are you somehow failing to remember her patching a hole in your stomach a mere day ago? Consider yourself fortunate if she asks you for a favor anytime in the next decade, Severus."
Severus waited, but she didn't say anything more. "And?" he prompted, partly because he knew his non-answer would irritate her, but mostly because she showed no inclination towards leaving him in peace for the evening, so he might as well attempt to work information out of her.
"Genital warts?" she repeated, and at last he placed his thumb between the pages and closed the book.
"If you haven't noticed, Minerva, I have not invited you to sit, nor have I called for tea." Making a show of glancing down at his book, Severus looked up at her and said flatly, "What do you want."
"We agreed," Minerva said, "to have her bedridden."
"Is she not?" he asked. "Or has Poppy called you out of bed to tend to her corpse?"
"You'd have seen the Ministry storm the castle, if that were the case."
"Indeed. I could never be so fortunate, after all," he said dismissively, and leaned back again in his seat. He'd dragged his second-favorite armchair out of the corner (he had yet to recover his first choice, which had mysteriously disappeared over the holiday, and Albus was avoiding any questions about it), nestling it so close to the table they used for meetings that he felt vaguely caged-in. "Our esteemed Inquisitor will heal, much to my chagrin. The potion hadn't had enough time to set in fully before she no doubt fled to the Hospital Wing in horror. I did say bedridden, but I never specified how I would go about doing it. This is still in the parameters of our agreement with the Headmaster. Have no fear, Minerva, I won't drag you down with me to sully your good name in Albus's books."
"You will be telling him I had no part in the decision to give her a sexually transmitted disease," she said dryly, and—yes, there, that was what she came to him for.
"It wasn't sexually transmitted, I can very much assure you."
She laughed then, and at last stepped away from the table. "I can't imagine it would be."
He went back to his book without preamble, cracking the spine back open with a satisfying crunch of yellowing pages. The room was quiet again.
"Oh, Severus?" Minerva said from the doorway.
Severus looked up for what he prayed would be the final time, and was quite taken aback at the viciousness with which she smiled at him from the doorway. "Yes?" he said after a moment's pause.
"You do, I assume, remember telling Albus you would not fatally harm Dolores, but I can't seem to recall you ever promising not to make her suffer." Her expression was cool and collected again, but there was a glint in her eye that had him setting his book aside entirely and straightening in his seat. "Next time—and yes, Severus, there will be a next time, I've known you since you were a wee lad and I'm not ignorant to your ways—next time, do try to use a recipe that will make getting out of bed in the middle of the night worth my time. Perhaps one that causes monthly reoccurrences? You might even cycle it to the full moon."
And with that she closed the door, leaving him alone with a book that seemed suddenly, entirely uninteresting, and an itch in his hands that promised a week's worth of potion experimentation—and the realization that he now knew exactly who to test them all on.
—
It took seven days before Umbridge returned to her lessons—Severus knew, because he'd made a half-hearted attempt to wrangle Albus into allowing him to substitute some of her classes, with surprising success—and it was as though Potter was coming alive again at her absence. Where the first week of term had seen to the returning descent into the sullenness with which he'd arrived at Spinner's End, this one had been like watching a dying plant perk back up after being pushed back into a sunny patch.
Lessons were no longer an active study in social torture. There was less fighting in the corridors, less angry outbursts, and the dark shadows he'd seen beneath the boy's eyes slowly began to ease. He was eating at meals and no longer as slow to react in Potions. And when he turned in an essay that for once was not as shit as it might have been, Severus began to seriously consider poisoning his more troublesome colleagues on a regular basis, if only it meant less taxing lessons and a heftier paycheck for himself.
The week's reprieve and the looming promise of the weekend were all that kept Severus going in the meantime. Because on Wednesday morning, Umbridge returned, and she brought with her a renewed sense of justice: one that arrived in the form of Educational Decree Twenty-four.
It was a knock at his office door that began it all. He'd risen from a surprisingly restful sleep in the early hours of the morning, when dawn hadn't yet cracked and the floors of his rooms were still unbearably cold to the touch. He managed to drag himself up before the warmth of his bed pulled him back under, put on the thickest pair of socks he could find, and went to splash his face in the bathroom sink until his eyelids stopped trying to droop closed. Breakfast was taken alone at his cluttered coffee table, where he precariously balanced a bowl of porridge atop a stack of books and scrolls so that he could eat with one hand and continue his nth reread of The Picture of Dorian Gray with the other. The rolley of healing potions Poppy had thrust upon him came immediately after, leaving his skin tingling and ears steaming as he retired to his bathroom to clean what remained of the gash on his stomach and rewind his bandages. Then he dressed, tugged on his shoes, and went down the corridor to his office to get a head start on the essays he'd promised to return in a day's time.
His office was scarcely warmer than his rooms had been, even after he lit a fire in the hearth and rubbed his hands together over it for a time. Unwilling to grade with numb fingers, he sat for a while, wiling away the time by alternating sucking on a cigarette and breathing hard into his palms. It was still early enough that the dungeon corridors had been void of life; breakfast in the Great Hall wasn't due to start for another half hour, perhaps more.
He had a double block lesson with the fifth-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs directly after breakfast, which promised to be an easy task, but the third year Gryffindor and Slytherin block he taught following was sure to be exhausting. They were brewing the Girding Potion today and he knew full well at least one of them would attempt to sneak some out under his nose. It would probably be a Gryffindor. It would definitely be a Quidditch player.
His free period after lunch would be used to finish grading, because he knew full-well he wouldn't get through them all now. First, second, and third year essays weren't a difficult task, but grading the higher years' required more attention. Then he would take care of his NEWT level class. These were the lessons he preferred teaching the most, because most of the students were old enough to know not to be complete dunderheads. Those were the students he'd welcomed into his class, who actually cared enough to learn and experiment with all they could do with a cauldron. It was the only time Severus enjoyed teaching.
Severus was on his third cigarette of the day and was contemplating calling one of the house elves for coffee when there came a knock at the door, followed by a quavering little, "Professor Snape?"
He stubbed the cigarette out on his desk and Banished the stumps of filter, then cast a quick air-freshening charm. The fire crackled furiously when he waved his wand and the door wrenched open with a blast of frigid air.
"What is it, Miss Espinel?" he said coldly, glaring across his desk at Nora Espinel, one of the few second-year Slytherins brave enough to bother him.
For the barest instant, she seemed ready to crumple in on herself before managing to regain her composure. "Sorry," she said, twisting the hem of her robes round her fingers, "but there's a—a notice? Posted in the common room. I thought—perhaps—you might want to see it?"
"Are you asking me?" he snapped as he bent to jam his shoes back on his feet, realizing for the first time how cold his toes had gotten, even through his socks. "Or telling me?"
"Telling, Professor," she said quickly, and skittered backward into the corridor as he stood and rounded his desk to move towards her. "It's caused a stir. The notice."
"Show me."
They walked in silence to the common room, cloudbursts of steam left by their breath trailing in the air above them like smoke. Cigarette smoke. Fuck, he wanted another cigarette. "How many have seen the notice?" he asked eventually, before they turned the corner that let out into the common room. "Have the prefects been alerted?"
"Parkinson, I think," she said nervously, "but Malfoy hasn't come down yet. Most of the older ones have already seen it."
Excellent, Severus thought sourly. Just what he needed, was a dawn frenzy—or, depending on the contents of said notice, an outright riot. One never could quite predict the reactions of large groups of children, even the prim and proper Pureblood ones. Even the 'cleanest' lineages and most meticulous breeding didn't stamp out the nature of children.
The Slytherin common room was as cold as anywhere else in the dungeons. The air caught in his chest with every breath, like he was slowly freezing from the inside out. His hands felt achingly numb and gooseflesh rose on his arms through the jumper he'd thrown on under his robes. A fire roared in the hearth like a beating pulse, lengthening the shadows on the walls so that everything and everyone in the room gave off a sinister cast, and the leather of the couches gleamed orange. Faces turned his way as he entered. The children's eyes and cheekbones were made cavernous by the light.
Before he did anything else, Severus cast several Hot-Air Charms throughout the room and gave the fireplace an extra spark. It seemed every student in his House had gathered to huddle round it as a ward against the chill, hands hovering recklessly over the open flames. When they turned to find the source of the sudden heat, every one of them snatched their hands back to their sides; he hadn't had to lecture any of his snakes yet this term on the dangers that came with putting your fingers too close to the hearth, but Severus was under no delusions that the first of many this year was well on its way. The youngest of the House were sure to have been regaled with over-embellished retellings of previous lectures. As much as he hated children, Severus knew them. Anything forbidden was automatically a challenge. It was the way of adolescence.
Natural selection, the Muggles liked to call it.
"Morning, Professor," Tracey Davis called out from the sofa nearest. The furniture had been pushed into a half circle before the fire to give the older students places to sit. The sofas were sure to be freezing to the touch, but anything had to be warmer than the stone floor the youngest members seemed to have been demoted to sitting upon. "Come to see the notice?"
"Where?" was all he said, and followed the outstretched arms that led to the dormitory staircase tucked into the corner of the room, where, as he rounded the bend, he now saw a large sign affixed to the notice board—and large was an understatement. The sign was so vast he couldn't imagine anyone missing it on their way down to the common room. It overtook the House rules he kept pinned, covering up lists of secondhand books and robes for sale, and even hid the lost and found sheet (which, even so early in the year, was already well on its way to full). The letters on the notice were black as pitch and fucking hard to read in the flickering light, and at the bottom was an official seal Severus couldn't help but sneer at.
—BY ORDER OF—
The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts
All Members of the Faculty are henceforth forbidden from assigning detentions without the council of the High Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge).
Any punishment or meeting that occurs after a lesson is hereby defined as a detention. Permission to assign detentions may be sought from the High Inquisitor.
No meeting or detention may take place without the knowledge and approval of the High Inquisitor.
Any Member of the Faculty found to have assigned a detention without first consulting the High Inquisitor will be subject to an internal inquiry.
The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four.
Signed:
Dolores Jane Umbridge
HIGH INQUISITOR
Severus read it once, then twice. Then he allowed himself to close his eyes, if only for the barest second, and breathe a sigh unheard by any but himself.
If one was lacking in entirely too many brain cells to read between the lines, they might have been able to fool themselves into believing the decree was formed as a way to ease the complications of scheduling for himself and his colleagues, but that was if (and only if) they were either too idiotic or blind to see the truth. This was only the beginning of the lengths Umbridge would go to take down the army the Ministry imagined Albus had built up with Potter. He was surprised it had taken this long for her to make the initial move. Curbing whatever she could of secret meetings between the Headmaster's supposed army wouldn't be the end of it—no. Oh, no. This was only the beginning.
And to think he had been the one to light the bulb above her head, by denying her that night of detention with Potter.
Damn it all.
"Settle down, settle down," he called, as the din behind him grew in fervor. Then, raising his voice: "Miss Parkinson."
"Professor?" she said, sliding off the armchair she'd been perched upon.
"See to it that all those who have not yet read the notice take the time to do so. After all," he said silkily, "we mustn't take lightly the preachings of our esteemed Inquisitor."
Her smirk flickered for a moment, as though she wasn't certain he was being sarcastic. Good, he thought, let her wonder.
"To the Great Hall now for breakfast," Severus said, and then caught Draco's eye as he descended the stairs to grace them all with his presence, far past the time he should have. "All except Miss Parkinson and Mr. Malfoy, that is. Miss Parkinson, see to it that Mr. Malfoy is updated on current affairs. And Miss Bulstrode—yes, I do mean you, Miss Bulstrode—take care to warm your hands. You cannot possibly hope to wave your wand if you lack the fingers needed to do so."
—
It wasn't only his House that was in a tizzy over the Educational Decree. The entire school was buzzing with it, all bent heads and lowered voices, like a hive network of bees working in tandem to spread chaos in lieu of pollen. They lingered together to murmur about it as the bell rang for lessons to start. They passed notes they thought he couldn't see, even though he'd chosen the tables in his classroom for a reason: both to discourage this exact scenario, and so that he could keep an eye out for potential trouble. Because out of everything, it was not the countless hours he'd spent practicing to shield his mind and become empty, or the endless nights he and Albus had exhaustedly worked through to hash out his cover stories and explanations to the Dark Lord upon his return. No; what had most helped Severus secure and keep his position as a double agent was a constant vigilance borne from teaching children how to brew explosives.
It was late on a Wednesday evening when Umbridge returned from the Hospital Wing, and dinner was already winding down to an end. He'd closed his office hours somewhere past six and dragged himself down to the Great Hall before Albus could harass him into joining the rest of the faculty for the meal, and by the time he'd gotten there, the students had had ample time to spread wild rumors about what the new Decree might have had to do with their professor's sudden, supposed quarantine.
The instant she strode through the doors with her simpering smile fixed pointedly in place, the talk and laughter in the Great Hall snapped away like cold air whipping in through a window in winter. It took more than a few seconds for it to start back up again, and afterwards, it was somehow muted. More distant and subdued than it had been minutes before.
She settled herself in the seat beside his and spread a napkin daintily across her lap. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she served herself dinner, using his fork to shove his beef stroganoff from one side of his plate to the other. The prongs grated against the china with every pass over. He could see a muscle in her jaw twitch.
Eventually, sick of the sound himself, he reached over to pour her tea, fixing it with cream the way he'd seen she liked it. It would normalise it; because as Minerva had said, he was nowhere near done with this woman. "I do hope you're no longer feeling poorly," he said, smiling thinly at her, even though he ached to seize her by the back of her hair and slam her face into the prongs of her fork. (Maybe she'd scream. Maybe she'd be too stunned to make much sound at all.)
He blinked the thoughts away with practiced ease and sipped his water.
"I'm quite all right," she simpered, though he could practically feel the lie in her voice, in her face. "Thank you, Severus."
Disguising the fact that he was still watching her, Severus tore a chunk of bread in half and used it to mop up some of the broth on his plate, chewing slowly and carefully. To his left, Umbridge was tearing into her own meal with a voraciousness that made him feel vaguely ill. So when she slowed to a stop, he noticed immediately. Severus watched her from behind his water goblet, following her line of sight to—of course—the Gryffindor table, where Harry Potter was looking up at them.
Her face had gone still and quiet, like an owl who'd caught sight of a mouse scurrying through the underbrush. There was a deep-seated rage etched into the lines of her face, and the beginnings of a snarl tugging at the corners of her wide mouth. Severus recognized the hatred, the anger, the inherent need to destroy. It was twisted. It was familiar.
I will not let her touch you, he promised silently, a dark sort of heaviness winding in his chest. Not now, not ever again.
Dinner ended uneventfully, and the walk back to the dungeons was like shifting through seasons in the blink of an eye. It had not been a particularly warm day, but the cold embedded into the stonework of the castle was like stepping into a snowdrift, and he could see his breath puffing in the air by the time he was halfway down the stairs. He passed by students as he went, vigorously rubbing their hands together or applying heating charms. Perhaps he needed to appeal to the Headmaster about finding better alternatives to the dungeons, or adding another fireplace in the common room…Severus remembered all too well the achingly cold nights spent in the boy's dormitory, when even the extra blankets and hot water bottles the house elves brought didn't take a chunk out of the chill that seemed to seep straight into your veins.
The students became fewer and fewer as he walked, turning the corner from his office corridor and down a narrow passage, and then round the final bend to his rooms. He spelled the door open and stepped through.
There was a gust of air that passed by him on his way through the door, like a breath of wind against his side, and Severus stopped in his tracks. There were no windows, so far down in the dungeon, though one time in seventh year Rosier had charmed one into their dormitory. The spell had gone terribly wrong and fire had rained down inside the image for three days before Wilkes finally convinced him to just get rid of the damned thing. But, barring the magical kind, there were no windows anywhere near his rooms. Nothing besides a ghost could have made a gust of anything down here, and the Bloody Baron was nowhere in sight.
He schooled his expression into something unconcerned and closed the door. Turning away, even though it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, he kicked off his shoes, pulled his teaching robes over his head, and tossed them aside. They landed in a heap on the floor with yesterday's set. Then he went to his creaky sofa and sat down, hiding his wand in the sleeve of his jumper. He sighed. He waited.
He didn't need to wait long, because only a minute later, from the corner came a near-silent breath. Severus was back on his feet in an instant with his wand in hand. "Petrificus Totalus!" he snarled. There was a bright flash as the Body-Binder hit its target, a cut-off shout—and the intruder fell with an almighty crash, tumbling over the floor as an invisibility cloak pulled away to reveal a boy with black hair and a lightning bolt scar.
"Oh," Severus said as Harry Potter's frozen body juddered to a stop at his feet. "Fuck."
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And with that you're all caught up I basically said screw it and threw out my plans to upload it on a bit of a schedule. Instead I'm just going to overwhelm your inboxes with my spam. ur welcome. I've got like 2k written for the next ch so hopefully work isn't terrible and I can finish and upload it soon bc whew. But for now, all caught up!
