A/N: I found this in my drafts. Decided to post it as is, because I doubt I'll ever finish it, with a quick conclusion.

Severus was just finishing his morning rounds around the school when he spotted them outside the staffroom. "I'm sorry, Mr. Snape. Those are the rules—there is nothing I can do," Minerva said to the cowardly boy. He slowed his pace to listen in. "You need special accomadations that I simply cannot give you elsewhere. It's for your benefit as much as it is my own. I cannot very well focus on your needs in a room full of other students now can I?" He opened his mouth to protest, but Minerva quickly silenced him. And Severus drew closer, his footsteps making his presence known to Minerva—but the boy had yet to notice him. "The matter is out of my hands, Mr. Snape," she continued. "Any more inquiries you may have on this matter, I suggest you direct to the Department of Wizards and Witches with Disabilities at the Ministry..." Again, she glanced at Severus, and this time the boy's eyes followed. Brown eyes locked with his own ordinary black ones. "...or your father, perhaps."

But the boy turned swiftly in the other direction and stomped away, muttering about how unfair it all was. Minerva huffed, watching the boy storm away. When she was sure he was gone, she looked at Severus and said, "You didn't explain all this to him over summer break, Severus?"

"I'm sure I mentioned it," he lied—but the boy must have realized at some point in his life, or Mrs. Cott must have told him. His books had to be specially ordered; hadn't he noticed that? "He's whining because he didn't get his way. I assure you, Minerva—he'll get over it."

Minerva looked unsatisfied with his answer, but made no effort to argue. Father knew best, as they said—except he really didn't know the boy at all. She opened the door to the staffroom. "There's still coffee left, if you care for some, Severus," she offered.

He shook his head, uninterested. "I'll be away for an hour or two," he told her simply. "Should anyone need anything from me, tell them to wait."

Her name was Carissa Everly. She worked as a seamstress at Gladrags Wizardwear in Hogsmeade. She also had quite the talent with charms and transfiguration. She was sorted into Ravenclaw his fifth year at Hogwarts—they never really spoke at school; they never really spoke now. He became familiar with her a few years after he started teaching at Hogwarts. She asked him out for coffee. He said no and she continued pestering him until he finally relented—but they never did have that cup of coffee.

It was always in the morning, in her room atop the shop before she opened, and he would sneak away before anyone noticed. If it were a day students were expected, he would come an hour earlier to prevent any awkward encounters; once, he bumped into Sybill, who needed something mended by her, but he walked passed her without any sort of acknowledgement.

He always felt filthy afterwards, ashamed of his lack of self control. She could never quite get the eyes right, and her voice always sounded like her own. But she was no victim. He fulfilled her fantasies too—they used each other. To her, he wasn't Severus Snape; he was her Professor, her superior disciplining her for her bad behavior.

He saw her reflection in the mirror, watching him as he messed with the buttons on his tunic. She had reverted back to her own face: pale skin, blue eyes, short black hair, thin eyebrows; she was ordinary, just ordinary. Without saying anything, she stood from the unmade bed and made her way towards him, her small breasts bouncing slightly with each stride. And he watched as she lifted a hand to touch him.

"Don't," he commanded, his attention turning to the buttons on his cuffs. She took no offense, and instead reached the black chiffon dressing gown hanging beside him.

"Your boy's sorted into Hufflepuff, I hear," she said softly, donning her gown that covered nothing. He said nothing, so she continued: "You're the talk of the town, you are—you, and Harry Potter's little incident, of course." Right, the Boy Who Lived, nearly dying in the whomping willow tree with Weasley. They were still looking for the car; a group of fourth years claim to have seen it emerge from the forest Friday. "But I think your news is more interesting. A pure-blood wizard from a family of Slytherins has a child sorted into Hufflepuff..."

"Half-blood," he corrected, thinking of his muggle father—may Hell, or whomever, spend eternity torturing his hellish soul.

But she continued her insecent rambling, not hearing him. Her mouth was the worse thing about her. "...don't think anything like that has happened since... well, since Sirius Black—"

He cringed at that traitor's name—he longed for his death, wishing it could be by his own wand. "I come here to fuck you, Carissa," he told her bluntly, "not to listen to you ramble about things that don't matter."

Clearly what she said did matter to him, and he knew she noticed how tense the mentioning of Sirius's name made him. To his surprise, she let it go and crossed to the other side of the room, into her small kitchen where a magical pot was brewing. "I've got coffee."

"No," he said.

"Or tea?"

They never discussed it, but he knew he wasn't her only caller—or whatever their arrangement was. Occasionally, he would see robes too large for her figure draped on her sofa or hanging with her dressing gown—sometimes she would wear it instead. Other times, there would be a blouse he knew she would never wear among the pile of clothes on her floor. He didn't care.

"No."

On Albus's orders, he was helping Gilderoy Lockhart, the foolish man, prepare his lessons for the following week. The self-centered egotistical maniac centered all his classes around himself, and his achievements. Severus didn't believe a word of his stories. He remembered the boy turned man from school, who as a first year, was talentless but charming. At least he wasn't another Death Eater.

His lessons consisted consisted of quizzes about himself, and only about himself. But there were some D.A.D.A related acivities amongst his narcism; he suggested an exposure to Cornish Dixies for his Second Year students, claiming to know all about them—Potter's own suffering the foolish man's antics made it all tolerable in somehow. Lockhart even suggested a friendly duel between them later on in the term, and Severus agreed to it almost instantly. How could he deny such a golden opportunity to see the man fall on his ass?

When Severus moved on to the older students, who would be taking their O. and N.E. , Gilderoy tensed and rose from his chair. He quickly found a bottle of wine with his face on it. "Care for some wine, Severus?" he asked, pouring himself a glass in a large golden goblet.

"No," said the potions master, remaining sullen. He didn't drink.

"Are you sure? It's the best in the—"

"Yes," said Severus. His father did, though. His liver must have been the first thing to catch on fire in Hell, and then the rest of him—at least, he hoped that was the case; he hoped he was screaming in agony, begging for help and never receiving it.

And then the man began rambling about offering a group of vampires his wine, and them loving it so much they nearly killed themselves drinking only that. But the heroic Lockhart, of course, saved them from their demise.

Severus stood, gathering his books he let Lockhart see but not borrow. "Your knowledge of the Dark Arts surpasses my own," Severus said to him, lying through his teeth. But he couldn't stand one more second of the idiot. "It seems you don't need my assistance at all."

Lockhart stood stoic still for a moment, and then he blinked. "Ah, yes, well..." But Severus was out the door before the man could utter another lie. "Sleep well, Severus," Lockhart called out to him as he stepped into the hall. "And don't fret much about our duel. I'll go easy on you."

Right. Their duel. He might take go easy, but Severus certainly won't.

The Cornish Dixies were a hit. Minerva gave Lockhart an earful in the staffroom before breakfast one morning. His face went as white as winter snow. Lockhart, the git, smiled after she had left, muttering some excuse about how he had known what to do all along and how he was simply testing the children.

"There's spiders in the castle," said the boy in a cautious tone.

"And rats," said Severus mechanically, not taking his eyes off the parchment in front of him. He started grading the first years' homework when the boy barged in, uninvited; Severus told him to leave, but the boy never listened. "And probably snakes—leave them alone and they won't bother you."

For a long moment, it was silent. Severus thought the boy had finished, the words inside him had, finally, drained away. "I don't like being unordinary," he told Severus softly. He hoped to be a Slytherin, he hoped to be like all the other boys and girls at Hogwarts. But that could never happen—from birth he was destined to be something different. What that was exactly, only Dumbledore knew. Maybe nothing at all. But Severus would keep his promise, no matter how torturous. He would keep them safe, if it meant giving his own life in return.