The Hogwarts greenhouses were typically a source of great comfort to you. They were always so bright and warm, filled with everything you loved most in the world; nature, beauty, art, science. If you had any one dream for the future, it was that you might one day live in a place where you could have a real garden of your own. You had made due with window boxes in the city, but they were only good for flowers and common cooking herbs. You certainly wouldn't be able to plant any magical flora in those, and while Potions was your favorite subject, Herbology was a very close second. The sketchbook your mother had given you in your first year was brimming with drawings of all the new plants and fungi you'd discovered in your time here at Hogwarts, their detail and precision sharpening with each subsequent year. Botanical illustrations had always been your forte, even when you were small and the best you could manage was a crayon daisy.
But no amount of sunlight or warmth was enough to assuage your anxiety at this moment. Thinking about your future in terms of whether you wanted a greenhouse or a traditional garden was all well and good. It was thinking about what you were going to potentially do for the rest of your life that was filling you with existential dread. Seated at one of the long greenhouse tables outside of Professor Sprout's office, you stared numbly at the brightly colored pamphlets you'd collected from the common room. You'd only picked up three; one from Saint Mungo's, detailing all the ways you weren't cut out to be a Healer, and two from a couple of potions shops in Diagon Alley, both of which made your skin crawl with the prospect of working in retail. It seemed your options were limited. And that was terrifying you.
What if you were about to spend seven years of your life attending a school for magic, and in the end you weren't qualified for anything? It's not like you could go back to the Muggle world. Sure, you were receiving the finest magical education in the world but it wasn't like you could put that on a CV. And now that you had been in this world, you didn't think you could ever leave it. Which left you with what? Being a 'normal' person with a normal job? It sounded utterly dull. It wasn't that you thought you were extraordinary, deserving of a fascinating life full of adventure. You just wanted to do something meaningful. You sighed as you shuffled around the leaflets again. Alas, wasn't that the dream of every stupid 16 year old? Wanting to change the world?
Your mother's life before you'd been born had been transient; traveling the country, following bands, sleeping on couches and in the backseats of cars. Her exploits had been financed by her own parents, your grandparents, whom you'd never met, as they'd dropped your mother on her arse the second they found out she was pregnant. It wasn't until you had come along that your mother had settled down, working odd jobs until finally finding lasting employment at a local pub. You knew that she adored her position, having been promoted from waitress to bartender before you'd gotten your Hogwarts letter. She collected stories from patrons during the late nights, sometimes sharing slightly censored versions of them with you over breakfast when you were much younger. She told you she was happy, and you knew that she was. But you always felt that you had put an end to her real dreams. She would never admit that, probably didn't even think it. But still… more than anything, you wanted to make that up to her.
Behind you, the door to Professor Sprout's office suddenly opened, and you were pulled from your reverie as Lawrence Hollingsworth emerged, looking rather dazed and overwhelmed, that was, until he spotted you. You squinted curiously at him, and he grinned lopsidedly back, before casually making his way over. He plopped himself onto the bench beside you, facing the opposite direction as he leaned his back against the table.
"Ready for the first day of the rest of your life?" Lawrence asked, his smile showing every one of his gleaming white teeth as he nudged his shoulder playfully against yours. You rolled your eyes at his teasing (he knew how anxious you were about this), before shoving him back a little harder in return, but he only chuckled good-naturedly.
"Oh yeah, really looking forward to it," you said with mock enthusiasm, before slumping glumly with your elbows on the table and your chin in your hands. "Is it bad?"
"What, Career Advice? Pleeease." Lawrence waved his hand dismissively. "It's not like it's a test. And I've told you, you don't have to commit to whatever you pick in there. Besides, it's Professor Sprout. How bad could it be?"
You nodded your assent to that. He had a point. It was the same point he'd been making for like a week since the Career Advice announcements had been posted in the common room, but it still hadn't stuck. You were grateful he was here to remind you now, though. He'd been quite supportive since you'd confessed your fears about your future to him, and he'd done his best to soothe you by pointing out the flaws in your logic. Lawrence was always very kindhearted, not just to you, but to everyone, in and out of your own house; there was a reason he was made Prefect this year. As an added bonus, he was also very good looking; dark skin, neatly cropped hair, athletic build from his position as Beater on the Quidditch team. A real Hufflepuff Heartthrob.
He was also entirely smitten with you.
It had all started at the beginning of the term. O.W.L.'s looming in the distance, Lawrence had actually approached you on the train in hopes of securing the position as your Potion's partner for the coming year. He'd explained that his grades had been miserably low in the subject, but his ambitions to follow in his father's footsteps as an Auror meant he needed to get high marks on his O.W.L.'s. When you'd informed him that Snape wouldn't accept anything less than an Outstanding, the boy had literally thrown himself on the ground to beg for your help. You hastily agreed, just to get him to stand back up again, before explaining that you weren't going to carry him. If he wanted to get better, he'd have to put in the work. And surprisingly enough, he'd agreed. As long as you guided, he would follow.
And he turned out to be a very receptive pupil. You'd tentatively taken on the role as tutor, aiding him with his homework, helping him review for tests, explaining that if he just stopped studying from the damn text book and actually took down Professor Snape's notes… Ah, but alas. Lawrence, like many, many other students, suffered from Snape Intimidation Syndrome. Outside of the classroom, Lawrence understood the material well enough. But put him down in the dungeons, in the front row of the classroom, with the Potions Master looming before him, and he became a regular butterfingers. Since becoming your in-class partner, however, he'd developed a steadier hand. Snape tended to avoid giving you any guff, and had started laying off of Lawrence by association. You'd felt an immense swell of pride when Lawrence had shown you his first ever perfect marks on a Potions assignment. It had also been the first time he kissed you.
Granted, it had also been the last time. Lawrence had apologized profusely, explaining he'd just been overwhelmed, with uh, gratitude, and you had easily laughed it off, as it hadn't really bothered you. It wasn't the first time you'd kissed a boy, and surely wouldn't be the last, but there had been a notable shift between the two of you since then. It seemed that the contact had awoken some deep comprehension within Lawrence, like maybe he finally realized that he wanted to be more than just friends with you. The problem was, he hadn't actually asked you out yet. There had been a radical increase in casual touches, in distracted conversations when you were supposed to be studying, in requests to spend time together outside of academics. And while you had to admit, the attention was nice (you'd even gotten hate mail from some other girl! It had been a very exciting moment for you), the fact remained that he still hadn't asked you to be his girlfriend.
And honestly, you didn't know how you would answer if he did. Some of your dorm mates had insisted you strike while the iron was hot, to just ask him out yourself. And you had considered it, but something was stopping you. Just as he couldn't come to a decision about it, neither could you. It wasn't that you didn't like him. Quite the contrary, he'd grown to be one of your dearest friends. And there was no denying that he was a hell of a catch; smart, kind, funny, attractive. He seemed to have what he wanted in life already planned out, his goals set in stone. But you were still floundering to find your own. As hard as you tried to envision it, you weren't sure if you could see your future tied to his. Then again, Trelawney liked to remind you that your third eye was very nearsighted.
"Earth to Gwen," Lawrence said suddenly, waving a hand in front of your eyes to try and get you out of your trance. You blinked stupidly, turning your head slowly to face him, and he smiled sympathetically in return. With casual ease, he turned toward you and rubbed a hand in slow circles against your back, a soothing gesture that made you relax slightly. "You're really twisted up about this, huh?" he asked quietly, and you felt your cheeks flush with sudden heat. Did he know you were thinking about…?
Oh! No, he meant the career advice. Of course. You blushed even darker and looked down at the table again, shuffling around the meager selection of pamphlets. "I guess I am. I hope Professor Spout can help me figure this stuff out. There has to be more I can do with potions than just… shop work or healing." You huffed and tossed them back down, watching them scatter across the table.
Lawrence had stopped stroking, though his hand remained a warm, heavy weight on the small of your back. It sent a peculiar wave of… something through you, and when you turned to meet his eyes again, he was already looking directly into yours. He'd moved closer, his face mere inches away, and it caught you off guard, your breath hitching in your throat. You saw his gaze flicker down to your mouth, before he took a deep breath. "Look, Gwen, are you doing anything toni-"
"Miss Goode?"
You both sprang apart from each other as Professor Sprout called your name, Lawrence scrambling to his feet quickly as you made a show of collecting the booklets you had carelessly tossed away. Sprout was standing in the doorway of her office, her hands on her hips with a suspicious smile on her round face. "Mister Hollingsworth, I think you ought to be getting back to class, don't you?"
Lawrence's own cheeks reddened, and he nodded in agreement, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry ma'am." He glanced your way as you finally stood, and offered you another encouraging grin, along with a double thumbs up. "I'll see you later, yeah?" he asked, and you couldn't miss the note of hope in his voice. It made your heart ache, and you feared it wasn't entirely in a good way.
"Yeah, of course," you replied, and returned his thumbs up, though not quite as enthusiastically. With a wave to you, and a polite nod to Professor Sprout, Lawrence exited the greenhouse. You watched his progress a little ways through the glass, before turning back to Sprout, who was still regarding you with that knowing smile, and it only made your face grow hotter. "What?" you demanded, though your voice had risen an octave.
"Oh, nothing!" Professor Sprout chuckled, betraying the fact that it was clearly something. "Ah, just young love," she admitted airily, stepping aside to allow you entry into her office, but you were rooted to the spot in utter mortification. At your hesitation, Sprout rolled her eyes, though the grin on her face did not falter. "Don't give me that look, Miss Goode. You two have been dancing around each other since the start of term. You can't think it was only obvious to other students?"
You snapped your mouth shut, not having realized it was hanging open. If any more blood rushed to your face, you feared you might swoon. It already felt prickly and uncomfortable, like the rest of you. "So, what? Are we just staffroom gossip for you?" you asked hotly, though there wasn't much malice behind it; just quiet resignation as you made your way into Sprout's office.
She shut the door behind you as you settled into one of the stiff backed wooden chairs that had been brought in. Her office was indistinguishable from the rest of the greenhouse, filled as it was with hanging vines and towering bushes. The only thing that gave away the room's true nature was the tiny wooden desk placed in the center, and some ancient looking filing cabinets that took up the back wall. Settling down behind said desk, Sprout regarded you thoughtfully.
"You're much more than that, Gwendolyn. You know that I and several of your other professors think very highly of you," she assured, and that made you relax a little. She only used first names when she'd gone into mom-mode. Professor Spout was the sort of woman you wished you'd had as a grandmother. Since the very moment you'd been sorted into her house, she'd made it clear to you, as well as to every single one of her students, that you were wanted, valued, and appreciated in Hufflepuff. The house often got a bad rap, accused of being made up of 'leftovers' who couldn't get into Gryffindor, Ravenclaw or Slytherin. Sprout, on the other hand, held the opinion that Hufflepuff possessed attributes from all three of the other houses, but with vastly differing motivations. You were brave, without being reckless. Intelligent, without being hypercritical. Ambitious, without being selfish. She saw the very best in you, and reminded you of it as often as she could.
"I'm sorry, Professor," you sighed sullenly, sliding your bag off of your shoulder and letting it flop onto the dirt floor beside you. You knew you could talk to her about this, about your warring emotions over Lawrence, but you held you tongue. That's not what this meeting was supposed to be for. "I'm just… feeling a little lost," you admitted, fidgeting with the pamphlets, but they were getting rumpled and damp from being clenched in your clammy hands.
"I can tell," Sprout affirmed, her voice still kind and cajoling. "I see you picked up some occupational literature. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind. Have you thought of what you might like to do once you've left Hogwarts?"
Inexplicably, your throat tightened up with barely restrained emotion. You were actually on the verge of tears. Because you had thought of what you'd like to do after leaving Hogwarts, but you had no idea if any of your ideas made for a viable living. As usual, you felt like you knew absolutely nothing about the wizarding world. How did anyone make a living in it? The only adults you knew within this world were shop keepers, professors, or government workers. But none of those offered what you felt like you needed, your deep seeded desire to do something important. To help people. And the one profession that did seem to offer that was sorely out of your reach.
Clearing your throat, your voice was still tense as you explained, "I thought I might like to be a Healer, or a Mediwitch, but…" You sighed and shrugged, isolating the flyer from Saint Mungo's, peeling it open and gazing down at it numbly. "I know I don't have the grades for it. I'll be lucky to get an Acceptable in Charms, and I very well might get a Troll in Transfiguration."
The sound of shuffling paper caused you to look up, and you saw Sprout flipping through a thick folder. With a thrill of dread, you realized it must be your student record. She appeared to be comparing pages, and with a small sigh, she looked up with a tight smile. "Professor McGonagall has indeed left a note here reminding me that she only accepts students who get an Exceeds Expectations on their O.W.L.'s." At the forlorn expression on your face, Sprout flipped the file shut, and leaned her elbows forward onto her desk, clasping her hands together. "Let's approach this differently. Tell me what you like doing. What are you best at, that you also enjoy?"
"Potions," you answer immediately, but smile apologetically before hastily adding, "And Herbology, of course."
Sprout nodded patiently, as if she'd been expecting that response. "Of course, dear. But judging by the way you're strangling those poor pamphlets, you aren't terribly interested in the 'selling for profit' aspect of it?" You looked down at the crumpled papers in your hands, and immediately went about smoothing them out. One was from Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, while the other was from Madam Primpernelle's Beautifying Potions. Both of them made you feel a little nauseous.
"You could say that," you muttered, sighing as you just gave up and leaned over, stuffing all three booklets into your bag and wiping your sweaty palms over your skirt. "But I don't know what else I can do with potions, that doesn't require me to be good at everything else."
Sprout nodded with understanding, and she hummed thoughtfully as she took in your fretful appearance. "I had rather hoped you would jump to say 'Herbology' first," she teased affably, pulling out a piece of parchment and loading up her quill with ink. "Goodness knows you'd be an excellent Herbologist, and you better believe I'm not letting you leave this office without you giving me your word that you'll at least consider a career in it." She was carefully composing a note, her speech stilted as she concentrated on both writing and speaking. "But for now, I'm going to send you to Professor Snape to continue this discussion. I believe he's far more qualified to advise you on potential career paths in potions than I am." She held up the note, re-reading it once before folding it into thirds. "And I'm sure he won't mind. You two are on good terms, yes?"
Now that really made you blush. You coughed into your elbow in an attempt to cover your face, but you couldn't stop yourself. You had to know. "Does he say that?" you asked, hoping you sounded casual, but knowing you sounded hopeful. Why was it that the thought of gaining Snape's approval caused butterflies to burst into your stomach, but thinking about dating or rejecting Lawrence Hollingsworth made you feel like your guts were full of worms?
Sprout smiled that damned perceptive smile again, before gathering up both her note and your school record. "Perhaps not in so many words. But as I said, a great deal of the staff here that have a very high opinion of you, and Professor Snape may or may not be one of them." She winked as she held the folder out to you. "You certainly didn't hear that from me, though."
You scraped your teeth over your bottom lip as you accepted the proffered papers with shaking hands, staring reverently down at your student record. "Is this… I mean, is it usual to send students to another Head of House for this? Doesn't he have his own house to advise?" The last thing you wanted to do was go down into the dungeons, only to be turned away, or worse, accused of taking away valuable time from a Slytherin. Oh god what if you ran into DeJarnette…?
Sprout was looking up at a clock hung haphazardly above the office door. "Professor Snape finished up his meetings yesterday evening, I believe. And as he and I share a free period right about now, I can almost guarantee that you'll catch him in the staffroom, if you hurry." You nearly fell out of your chair in your haste to seize your bag and hurry as instructed, but Sprout caught your eye with a sharp and purposeful look, making you freeze. "Have I got your word about considering Herbology?"
You didn't hesitate. A genuine smile spread over your face as you nodded your agreement. "Of course, Professor," you assured her, rising to your feet more slowly now, hitching your bag over your shoulder. "I promise. I do love Herbology, and if things don't work out with Professor Snape, I'll come right back here to cry about it to you." You were mostly teasing, but you weren't fibbing, either. You'd cried into Sprout's ample bosom over less in your earlier years, and you weren't even ashamed to admit that.
Sprout nodded amiably, finding this compromise perfectly acceptable. Standing from her desk, she made her way around it to you and took one of your hands, patting it fondly as she beamed up at you. "I know you will, dear. I have no doubt you'll find what's right for you, though." Still holding your hand, she walked you towards the door, opening it to find the greenhouse empty; the next student hadn't arrived yet. Leaning close to you, she released your hand and gave your shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "And remember, you can come cry to me if things don't work out with Lawrence, either," she added quietly, and you felt the blood run out of your face this time. You looked over to her, astonished and a little affronted, but she merely smiled pacifyingly. "I'm not saying things will go badly! Frankly, I think you two would make a rather charming couple. But I've been a teacher for a very, very long time, Gwendolyn. All I mean is that I'm here for you, no matter what happens."
Nodding slowly, you swallowed the lump in your throat, before giving Professor Sprout a half hug, which she returned, warmly as ever. After the routine goodbyes, followed by a heartfelt wish of good luck, you made your way out of the greenhouse and onto the grounds. You knew Sprout had told you to hurry, but you were suddenly bogged down by the weight of your thoughts. Mostly, you felt guilty. Your friends, your head of house, hell, even your own mother had encouraged you to take the next step with Lawrence, because what did you have to lose? And they were right. They were all right. You had no good excuse not to give it a try. Everyone was being so supportive and encouraging. Everyone else thought taking things to the next level was a good idea. Except for you.
You liked him. You really did. And maybe it was because you liked him so much that you were hesitant to go any further. You wanted to stay close with him, but any potential for lasting friendship could be destroyed by heartbreak. Heartbreak sounded exhausting, and you weren't going to kid yourself into thinking that falling in love at 16 would lead to anything but heartbreak. Maybe you were a little cynical for teenager, but you saw it happening all around you, all the time. Couples who once appeared so perfect for each other turned into hostile adversaries the second they broke up, usually over something dumb. And you didn't want that, for yourself, or for Lawrence. But how to let him down, when he'd sounded so hopeful earlier… You didn't have time to be thinking about this! Just because you said you would see him later didn't mean you had to make your decision about him right this moment. There were more important things to concentrate on.
Though you had admittedly been dragging arse across the grounds, you eventually found your way to the Entrance Hall, before heading down the first floor corridor to the staffroom. Standing before the dark wood door flanked by gargoyles that were giving you the eye, you felt panic slowly swell within you. You absently placed a hand to your throat, simultaneously feeling your rapidly fluttering pulse under your fingers, while also trying to discourage the sick feeling rising up your esophagus. What if Snape didn't have anything for you? What if he scoffed at your yearning to do something worthwhile? What if he thought your desire to help others was foolish? What if-
"Miss Goode! What do you think you're doing? Students aren't allowed in there, and you ought to be in class!"
The sudden bark of Professor McGonagall's Scottish brogue nearly caused you to jump out of your goddamn skin. You just barely managed to keep yourself from dropping your student file, clutching it tightly to your chest as your knees weakened. Wilting against one of the gargoyles, who shifted to accommodate your sudden weight, you rather hoped you didn't appear to be cowering. That probably would have given her way too much satisfaction. While you still held firmly to your conviction that you weren't intimidated by anyone, you could not help but think that McGonagall had it out for you. Maybe it was your absolute ineptitude in Transfiguration, or perhaps she thought less of you from that time she had to bodily drag you away from beating up another classmate. Whether she thought you were a poor student, or just a trouble maker, the Head of Gryffindor House always seemed to be particularly hard on you. Always choosing you to answer questions in class, even when you hadn't raised your hand. Making you the volunteer for the first attempt at a new spell, knowing damn well you'd never even get close. And, it seemed, calling you out in the hallways when you weren't even doing anything wrong.
"Well? Cat got your tongue, Miss Goode?" McGonagall's face was stern as she approached, her hands propped rigidly on her hips as she stared down her nose at you. She watched, unamused, as you forced yourself to straighten up, the gargoyle you'd been leaning against helping you keep your balance. If you hadn't already been so on edge when she snuck up on you like that, you were certain you'd never have reacted so pathetically (and, perhaps to her eyes, guiltily). But the fact was that you were on edge, and now your nerves were totally shot; your mouth felt dry, your skin felt tight, and you feared your face was brick red from the way it was tingling. Your eyes prickled with tears that had been threatening to spill over all day, and you honestly feared that they were finally about make a break for it. You were trying to swallow down the cotton in your throat, to try and explain yourself, when the door to the staffroom suddenly swung open.
"What is all the noise about, Minerva?"
Relief flooded over you like a wave of cool water on a sweltering day. Never in your young life had you been so glad to see Professor Snape. He appeared mildly annoyed, his eyes narrowed and his brows drawn together in an irritated scowl. And while this wasn't necessarily a new look for him, the fact that it was directed at Professor McGonagall made it rather startling. He didn't even spare you a glance, his glower remaining squarely on his fellow Head of House, who, for her credit, didn't even flinch at being on the receiving end of such a look. Though, she did seem somewhat offended that she was the one being accused of some wrongdoing, instead of you.
You had just drawn breath to try and speak up, but McGonagall beat you to it, her voice clipped and acerbic as she explained, "Severus. I was just questioning Miss Goode as to why she was skulking outside of the staffroom during classroom hours."
Your bone dry throat finally found its voice at that little insult, your hackles rising and your face burning hot as ever. "I was not-!"
"Skulking?" Snape cut in with a sudden snort of laughter, and you whipped your head around to him, both in surprise at his outburst, and in a desperate attempt to catch another of his rare smiles. This one was dripping with condescension however, as he waved his hand dismissively in McGonagall's direction. "I've never known a Hufflepuff to skulk, Minerva. I'm certain that whatever Miss Goode is doing here, there is a perfectly good explanation for it."
Both of your professors turned their attention to you, now. McGonagall looked dubious at best, a scowl marring her own face as if daring you to actually have said 'perfectly good explanation'. Snape, on the other hand, merely looked quizzical, if a bit expectant. As if hoping you really did have a decent reason for being there, because otherwise you'd make him look the fool in this situation. And far be it from you to ever actively disappoint Snape again. You locked eyes with McGonagall in an open act of defiance, which was probably horribly ill-advised, as you extricated the note from Professor Sprout, holding it out to Snape. McGonagall, briefest fury flashing in her eyes, reached for the note herself, but Snape snatched it out of your hand before she could so much as graze the paper.
Shaking out the folded note, Snape made a bit of a show of holding it up and reading it carefully, his black eyes glinting with what looked suspiciously like triumph. "Just as I suspected," he confirmed silkily. "Pomona sent Miss Goode here to deliver this note to me." Tucking the paper into an inner pocket of his bat-like robes, Snape took a step back against the door to the staff room, leaving ample room between himself and the doorframe. "I was rather hoping to discuss the contents of said note with Miss Goode. In private of course, as it has to do with her confidential student records." He looked to you then, jerking his head to the side in a brisk command for you to enter. You didn't hesitate, not even looking back at McGonagall as you slipped past him through the door. "Don't you have a class starting soon, Minerva?"
You didn't have to look back at McGonagall to know she was seething on the edge of apoplexy. Especially when Snape didn't even wait for her answer. He merely shut the door in her face before turning to you, a smug look of satisfaction gracing his features. It didn't last long though. In the beat of silence that followed, Snape seemed to appraise you and your appearance, and you had the horrible feeling that you must have looked as terrible as you felt, if the way his smirk melted off of his face was any indication. You knew there were dark circles forming under your hazel eyes, which were probably also red from how many times you'd been on the verge of sobbing in the last few hours. You reached a trembling hand up to your own face, making a move as if to brush your hair away, but really feeling the feverish heat under your fingertips. Your skin was probably blotchy and highly colored, and you must have looked a real mess.
Reaching back into his robes to retrieve the note from Sprout, he gave it another onceover, apparently reading in more detail this time, before murmuring, "Why don't you have a seat over by the window. I'll join you in a moment."
Nodding once, you spun stupidly in a circle, quickly taking in the appearance of the staffroom. It was rather dark, the high windows not letting in much light as they faced the north side of the castle. The furniture was dark as well, punctuated by a long, narrow table in the center of the room, lined with chairs on both sides. Though there was the odd squashy armchair or loveseat surrounding the perimeter of the walls, along with a towering wardrobe by the door.
You spotted Professor Trelawney in one of the aforementioned armchairs by the fire, but she appeared to be in some sort of deep trance… that, or she was napping with her eyes open. Snape had gone off to a sideboard table near the fireplace at the far end of the room, and you made your way to the seats he'd indicated. Set before one of the large windows was a small, round marble topped table, flanked on either side by two worn wood and leather chairs, and you nervously settled yourself into one of them, tucking your bag under your seat. The table was already occupied by a magazine, and you gently shifted it to one side as you slid your student record across the table towards the other chair. Leaning back into your own seat, you gazed listlessly out the window as you waited, leg bouncing and hands sweating. The view from here was rather bland, and you found yourself staring absently into the vast expanse of trees that made up the Forbidden Forest, before you were shocked back to the present by the sound of porcelain clinking against marble.
"You look like you could use this," Snape explained quietly, sliding a plain yellow and white teacup towards you, the steaming liquid smelling heavily of chamomile and lavender, a single sugar cube resting on the saucer like a whispered suggestion. And you felt like crying again, but this time with relief. All day you'd been walking a tightrope of emotion, ready to plummet at any moment into rage or fear or despair. But this simple gesture felt like a lifeline, and you nodded your head in gratitude, as you couldn't trust yourself to speak. Sitting upright, you pulled the little saucer closer, taking up the sugar cube and plopping it into the tea before lightly swirling the cup to encourage it to dissolve. The gentle motion stirred up the smattering of tealeaves from the bottom of the cup, and you spared a glance towards Trelawney.
Snape must have caught your line of sight, as he snorted and rolled his eyes, before settling into his own chair, crossing his legs at the knee. "Don't mind her," he assured you, shifting the magazine under your file. "She'll be out for another thirty minutes, at least. Typical Tuesday for Sybill."
You hid your smile behind your teacup as you took a sip, and you found that you felt more relaxed than you had in… well, days. Even as you watched Snape open up your student record, flipping through the pages and picking up a few small notes, you were suddenly imbued with a sense that things might actually turn out okay. This complacency, however, was immediately replaced with suspicion as you stared down into your teacup. It… didn't taste like he'd slipped you a calming draught, and the liquid certainly wasn't the characteristic blue color. But if it wasn't a potion, then you weren't entirely sure what to attribute your unexpected tranquility to… besides… just…
Being around him.
"It's only tea, Miss Goode."
You gasped and sat up rigidly, and though he wasn't even looking at you, you had the presence of mind to look abashed. "Y… Yes… It's very good. Thank you, sir," you mumbled quietly, taking a more confident swallow from the cup, before placing it back onto the saucer. It was quite good. Floral and calming, reminding you of something your mother might make. And thinking of your mother strengthened your resolve to get a damn grip on yourself.
Checking to make sure Snape was still occupied with your file, you leaned back into your chair and rubbed your hands over your face. Pressing your fingers against your eyes, you watched swirls of colors bloom behind your lids as you forced yourself to breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, slowly and quietly. You did this ten times, counting each breath in your head, trying not to think of anything at all except for your breathing. Your mother had been encouraging you to meditate since you were very small, but you never seemed to remember to do it when you needed it most. Usually you would just roll your eyes at her when she suggested it. This moment was a rare occasion indeed. But as you felt your heart finally start to calm, felt the skin under your palms begin to cool, you couldn't help but admit that mother knew best.
Sliding your hands back down into your lap, you looked up just in time to see Snape look away, and you felt your cheeks tint with embarrassment. Snape spared you the indignity of trying to explain yourself, by diving right into the matter at hand. You were grateful for how often he let your embarrassing behavior slide.
"So," Snape began coolly, leaning back into his own chair, hands folded in his lap. Finally, his black eyes rose to meet yours, and you found yourself unperturbed to be under his austere regard; you were getting used to his intensity. "Professor Sprout expressed that you were experiencing a bit of a dilemma in finding a career path." You nodded once, and he continued. "You wish to pursue a career in potions, but don't care to venture into capitalism?" You cringe at the very suggestion, and he struggled to hide a smirk. "Can't say I blame you." He sat up a little straighter, leaning over your file once more, eyes roving over the notes within. "Explain your predicament, then. In your own words, please," he commanded simply, and you felt your stomach drop.
Sighing through your nose, you had to pull your eyes away from his, instead focusing on your half empty cup of tea. You knew you could be candid with him; since you'd arrived to the staffroom, he'd set up an environment that made you think he wasn't going to judge you. You wished he could just read your mind so you wouldn't have to say it out loud. You'd suspected he could do that for a few years now. But apparently he only did it when it was convenient for him.
"There wasn't a lot of literature for careers that focused on potions," you explained, hoping that the lack of information provided would make up for your ignorance. "All I saw were positions at shops that sold potions, and Healing. Like you said, capitalism sounds horrible, and becoming a Healer is… unattainable." Your stomach felt a little queasy again, and you reached for your teacup, taking another soothing sip. Staring down into the cooling tea, you sighed again. "I want to help people," you finally admitted, and it sounded stupid to your own ears, but still you persisted. "I know potions can help people. But I don't have the grades. And I know working in an apothecary can get people the potions they need, but I can see that becoming stale for me quickly." You finally looked up at him, pleading in your voice. "I don't know what else I can do."
Snape's features were inscrutable as he leaned back in his armchair, regarding you thoughtfully. You couldn't keep looking at him for long, gaze falling down to his hands, then to your file, then to your tea. You raised the cup and finished its contents, peering down at the sugary sludge of tealeaves left on the bottom. Yep. Sure looked like tea. You placed the cup back on its saucer, fiddling with the handle a bit, when you realized he was probably doing that thing, where he was waiting for you to look at him before he began speaking. You closed your eyes a moment, counted two breaths, before raising your eyes to meet his. You'd been right.
"I can see now, why you weren't sorted into Slytherin," Snape began offhandedly, and you gave a little start at that. You opened your mouth to question him, but he silenced you with a raised hand. "That wasn't an insult, Miss Goode. I've always thought you would have done quite well in Slytherin, but as Professor Sprout likes to point out to me, your motivations are in a different place. A Slytherin might like to aid in developing the next big breakthrough in potion making, in order to gain notoriety and acclaim. You, on the other hand, would do it simply to help people." At your sustained look of skepticism, Snape rolled his eyes, relenting. "I'm not saying that's a bad thing. It was merely an observation."
You relaxed a little. You supposed he had a point. You were tempted to tell him what the Sorting Hat had told you all those years ago, but it didn't feel appropriate at the moment. You simply nodded your assent to him, before leveling him with a hopeful look. "So…?" you began, hoping he would take it from there.
Which of course, he did. "So. I will attribute your unawareness of magical occupations to your muggle upbringing." You pouted. He ignored you. "You don't have to be a Healer in order to make significant advancements in the potions field. Indeed, Healers themselves actually do very little in way of potion making. Saint Mungo's has entire departments devoted to the production of potions for its patients, as well as a division dedicated solely to the research and development of new potions for cures to magical ailments."
You immediately perked up at this. Research and development? You felt your pulse quicken, like you were on the verge some great discovery. "And I… I don't need to be a Healer to do those things?" you asked, almost breathless with anticipation.
Snape's lips quirked upward at your sudden burst of enthusiasm, but he fought it down, as his next words weren't exactly encouraging. "At Saint Mungo's, I believe you do need to be a qualified Healer to be in their research department." You sank back into your chair again, but before you could fully collapse, Snape had extracted the magazine from its place under your file, sliding it across the table to you. "That being said, there are potions research institutes that have less rigorous requirements. There's also the possibility of independent study, or finding an apprenticeship under a Potions Master, or becoming a teacher and doing your own exploration on the side."
Sitting up cautiously, you glanced from him down to the magazine, before sliding it closer and lifting it up with both hands. It was a potions periodical, and it was opened up to an interview with a Potions Master, Damocles Belby, who was developing a potion to potentially cure Lycanthropy. His research was in the very early stages, but he'd had some promising results so far. The article was rather heavy handed about Belby's need for funding and investors, but otherwise, the implications made your heart soar. Imagine! Imagine being able to develop a cure for something so dreadful. It could potentially change the lives of so many disenfranchised people. You got the impression that that sort of job didn't exactly pay well, if the way Belby was begging for money was any indication. But if one was driven by passion, over fortune… You wondered what House Belby had been in.
Snape was watching you with an amused quirk to his lips. Your excitement must have been evident on your face, and you sheepishly closed the magazine before sliding it back onto the table. "So… So what O.W.L.'s will I need to earn? What would look best when applying at one of these institutions, or seeking an apprenticeship?" At the arch of one heavy black brow, you had the terrible feeling that you should already know the answer to that. Your eagerness withered.
"The simple answer to that question, is that you should try to earn as many O.W.L.'s as possible." You deflated further and turned your head towards the window, looking back out into the bleak forest. Snape was kind enough not to admonish you for your childishness, though his words were rather severe when he spoke again. "An Acceptable will do. You don't have to get an Outstanding in every subject, Miss Goode. Just Potions. Which I can personally assure you, will not be an issue." Even with the harsh tone, your heart leapt at that. You turned back to face him, apprehension still touching your features, but you offered an appreciative smile through it. Snape, however, remained stern as he looked back down at your file. "Your grades are good, overall. Top of your year in Herbology and Potions. High marks in Astronomy and Care of Magical Creatures. Middle of the pack for History of Magic, Defense Against the Dark Arts and Divination. You're only falling behind in Charms and Transfiguration."
"Which are core classes," you sighed miserably. But the intensity of the glare shot your way made you sober up immediately. You sat up a little straighter, clutching the hem of your skirt with a white-knuckle grip of panic.
"Indeed they are," he confirmed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Which means you're going to have to put in a hell of a lot of work in the next few weeks to get your abilities up to snuff." He flipped your folder shut, before placing his elbows against the table and lacing his fingers together, leaning in closer, making sure that you understood every syllable. "Miss Goode. You are an exceptional witch. I know you have the aptitude and tenacity to pull ahead in those classes. And even if you have to use spite as a motivator to hone your spell work into something passable, I would wholly encourage it." There was a pause, before he leaned back in his chair and leveled you with a sneer, that wasn't really directed at you. "I'll tutor you myself if only to prove Professor McGonagall's shabby opinion of you wrong."
You were speechless. You weren't sure anyone outside of Slytherin had ever received such high praise from Snape, and you were absolutely thunderstruck by his words. You were also… also…
After a full day of attempting to make their daring escape, you finally felt liquid hot tears spill down your cheeks. You didn't even move to brush them away, simply tilted your head down so the fat droplets plopped onto your grey skirt. Thankfully, you weren't sobbing; your breath didn't even so much as hic-up. But you couldn't stop the flow of gratitude from streaming down your face in warm rivulets. You couldn't remember the last time anyone had had so much confidence in you, had ever wanted you to succeed so vehemently. Whenever that last was, it had probably been your mother who said it. The silence that followed was heavy. Awkward. You didn't want it to be awkward you wanted him to know-
"Thank you, sir," you gasped at your knees, finally lifting one arm to rub at your face, staining your sleeve with wet patches. Snape was shifting uncomfortably, but his eyes were narrowed more in concern than annoyance. You sniffed only once, swallowing down your tears before you nodded with conviction. "I'll do my best."
"See that you do," Snape instructed with a note of finality. He began gathering up your student record, along with his periodical, and had just banished away the teacup when you realized that this meeting was over. You followed suit, retrieving your bag from under your chair and slinging it over your neck. Snape stood first, tucking the papers under his arm, and just as you stood to join him, your felt his heavy hand fall on to your shoulder. You started slightly, looking from his hand, following up his arm, to his face, and you found a look of deepest gravity there. You held your breath.
"Miss Goode. Now is not the time to be getting… distracted," Snape murmured cryptically. "You need to concentrate on your studies, on earning these O.W.L.'s. And it won't benefit you to be preoccupied with… extracurricular activities." You blinked stupidly, unsure what he meant. You were about to open your mouth to explain you weren't in any extracurricular clubs or societies, when he fixed you with a meaningful grimace, arching one of his dark brows in a way that suggested he didn't want to spell this out for you.
And then it hit you.
Staffroom gossip.
You turned red immediately, looking away quickly as he patted your shoulder, grateful that you'd gotten it and spared you both the humiliation. You cleared your throat and nodded your understanding, fiddling with the silk pouch of crystals that still hung from your bag, though it had long ago gone threadbare. "R-Right," you stuttered, unable to look him in the eye.
And though your embarrassment weighed heavy in your stomach like a stone, you were also sort of… relieved. You'd been looking for a good reason to… to call things off… with Lawrence. All of the encouragement in the world still hadn't convinced you that it would be a good idea, but to keep ignoring the situation would have been… willfully ignorant. But damn, if Snape hadn't just given you an excellent excuse. Squeezing your eyes shut tightly, you nodded your head with conviction this time, convincing yourself that it was the right thing to do.
"Right. I understand." You were finally able to look back up at him, and were relieved to find that his face was just as indecipherable as ever. "Th… Thank you, sir," you said quietly, offering a small smile, which he did not return. He merely nodded.
"You're welcome, Miss Goode," he replied curtly, placing his hand on the small of your back to usher you towards the staffroom door. This was the second time today that someone had touched you there, but this time it made your skin ripple with gooseflesh. And though that sort of response to physical touch wasn't unusual, the fact that it was also rather pleasant was… alarming. Heat was making its way up your neck to your cheeks once more, and you were barely paying attention as Snape continued speaking. "I meant what I said about tutoring you, if you need it. If you find yourself at a loss in Transfiguration, don't hesitate to come see me. I will be watching your grades."
You were barely able to stutter out an uncouth "Uh-huh," before he'd opened the staffroom door for you. He was watching you closely, brows pressed together inquisitively at your sudden change in demeanor, and you quickly took a deep breath to try and pull yourself together. "I mean, y-yes, sir. Sorry I… I just have a lot to think about right now. I will remember that, though. Thank you again!" You had said this all rather quickly, before dashing out of the staffroom. You ignored the snickering gargoyles, not daring to look back at Snape, who you imagined standing at the door watching your fleeing back, probably thinking you were entirely mad.
Though you had been hasty to leave, you hadn't been untruthful. You certainly did have a lot to think about now. O.W.L.'s, McGonagall, Lawrence, SnapeSnapeSnape. You rubbed your arms as you made your way to your common room, having absolutely no desire to go back to History of Magic for the remainder of the period. Your skin still felt cool and sensitive, and you shivered again at the thought of his hand on your back. Why in the world had that affected you so direly? In fact the whole meeting had been… unreal. Like a dream. His kindness, his endearments, little gestures and words you'd never expected from him. Tea, jokes, praise, advice. It made you feel unbelievably warm, made you want to hold on to those moments like little souvenirs from a faraway place that no one else had ever seen. For years now you'd observed the walls he hid himself behind. The strict set of rules he lived his life by. But with each passing moment, like the one you'd just shared, you couldn't help but wonder if you were becoming the exception to his rule.