Four
After my last uncomfortable incident with the potions master from hell I was determined never to step foot in that classroom again. And then I realized that potions was a requirement for graduation. Damn this English school system. Why had I come here in the first place?
What an honor it had been. And such a wonderful opportunity to leave behind all the adversities I had suffered in America. Attending a top European school on full scholarship. This was my chance to get away from my parents, my "friends," and most importantly Michael, who had been the worst thing to happen to the world since the Plague.
Michael. I had dated him for five years. When I had hit twelve years old he had began pursuing me. I wish I had never met him. But I gave in after a year and we had started that farce of a relationship. I hadn't even been attracted to him. But over the course of five years feelings can change. And unbeknownst to me as my feelings for him grew his for me decayed. The final two years had been miserable. He had been miserable and had been determined to bring me along for the ride. That saying, how you always hurt the one you love? It works both ways.
And after five years he had told me that he didn't love me anymore. I had never made him happy and all those times he had promised to marry me and make me happy? Those had all been lies too. He was in love with a third year, and they were going to be happy, he told me. He had only stayed with me out of guilt, he told me. I wondered what had happened to us. Why had he pushed the issue so far just to break me in the end?
Oh well. It didn't matter. I was here now. This was my life now. Although I have to admit that it's not going much better than things were at home. I thought I wanted Snape. I really did. But now that my feelings are reciprocated I'm anxious. I've experienced firsthand the horrors of a broken heart and getting close to another man, let alone one who is almost twice my age, could only lead to another helping of pain and disillusionment. Right? I mean, hadn't I already decided two years ago that all men were eventually going to hurt you? So why was it so hard to flee from all of Snape's advances?
These were the questions with which I entered double potions block the next day. I hoped against hope that he hadn't read any more of my journal. I prayed that he would just give it back to me so I could go out by the lake and set it on fire. The feeling was mutual? What on earth had that meant? Did he really long for me the way I had longed for him? How could this be happening?
I sloped into the potions classroom with a huge group of Ravenclaw girls, hoping that Snape wouldn't notice me. He did. It figures. I spent the class copying lines, as usual. When Snape announced that class was dismissed I quickly gathered my things and attempted to slide out of the classroom without incident. I should have known it wouldn't have been that easy.
"Miss McMathewes, a word." I stopped halfway out the door, turned, and resumed my seat in the middle of the classroom. I did not make eye contact, no matter how desperately I wanted to. "In the front row, if you please." I sighed exasperatedly and picked my bag back up, trudged to the front of the room, threw myself onto a stool directly in front of his desk, and slammed my bag down upon the workstation. If he hadn't known I was in a foul mood before he would be sure to catch it now.
He stared at me. I stared at him. Was this what he had called me here for? A staring contest? Well, I hadn't had one since my second year but if that's what he wanted I had won then and I would win now. Bastard.
"Something in you has changed." No shit.
"Can't put anything past you."
He smirked. "Out with it."
"I think not."
"As your teacher it is my job to show concern for your mental and emotional well being. So spit it out and don't make me force a dose of Veritaserum down your throat."
I scowled. He wasn't going to pressure me into anything. "You weren't acting much like my teacher yesterday."
"It was what you wanted. You said so right in that infernal book of yours."
"It was what I thought I wanted," I corrected him softly. I couldn't bring myself to raise my voice, despite the fact that the rage was rising in my throat. "And speaking of my journal when can I have it back? Haven't you devoted it all to memory yet?"
"Who is Michael?"
I fiddled nervously with my left arm through the sleeve of my robe. My scars were beginning to itch. Had I written about Michael in there? I couldn't remember. "I'm pleading the fifth."
Snape looked confused. I remembered that he wasn't American, let alone an American muggle, and he would probably have no idea what the fifth amendment was, let alone the rest of the Bill of Rights.
"What's that," he asked quizzically. It was a bit disconcerting, but he actually did seemed concerned. I tried desperately to remember what I had written about Michael in that journal of mine. I hoped I hadn't given too much away.
"Never mind."
"What happened to you back home?"
Why these infernal deep questions? I know I hadn't written anything about my parents or my home life in that damned journal. What was he, some kind of damned psychic? Was he consorting with Trelawny on a nightly basis? Consulting the orb or whatever the hell she did with her spare time?
"I don't want to talk about it." My breathing was becoming quick and staccato and my eyes began to dart around the room, looking everywhere but directly at him.
I thought he'd continue to press me, but to my surprise and horror he seized my left arm and pulled the sleeve of my robe up to my elbow. I thought he'd gasp. Most people did. Instead his eyes simply narrowed and he drew my arm closer in order to get a better view of the messy pattern of scars that had been hacked into my arm. They really were ugly, even to me, and I had seen them for almost four years.
I stared at the desk. He stared at me. Neither of us said anything for a while.
"Who did this," he asked in a much softer voice than I had heard him use in quite some time.
"I don't want to talk about it," I answered flatly, no emotion to betray me. I continued to stare at the desk as if I could pour myself into it and avoid this confrontation altogether. He seized my right arm, then, and performed the same inspection. My right arm was the same.
"Where else did he cut you," he asked. He was beginning to sound angry. As if he would chastise me for Michaels actions. "Your legs? Your back? Anywhere they wouldn't be visible unless your robes were off? Am I right?" His voice was rolling into a dangerous crescendo.
"I suppose he hit you as well?" When he got no answer or any indication that I was hearing him at all he smacked his paw like palm upon the workstation.
"Damn it, Acacia! Why didn't you ever tell anyone? Poppy noticed you know. She told me there was something horribly wrong but she wouldn't tell me what." He softened then as the first tear fell silently from my eye and splattered upon the tabletop. I didn't sob or wail, but simply sat there and allowed the tears to flow for the first time in four years. Four long years. I desperately needed a cigarette.
I became suddenly aware that he was no longer holding my wrists in that death grip of his. I looked up and he was no longer at his desk. He was coming around the workstation with powerful strides, with purpose. I stayed where I was until he reached me, hoisted me to my feet, and wrapped me in his arms, covering me with his cloak.
It felt so good to be held. No expectations. No selfishness. Nothing but concern in that hug. It was freedom. I leaned into his chest and felt myself give that telling shudder that comes just before the floodgates are opened. He placed one tender hand on my head and stroked my hair, trying to comfort me. Comfort me? This was the oddest behavior he had exhibited yet. I gathered a fistful of his robes in each of my hands and just let go. We stood there, him caressing my hair and me just bawling like a silly child, for Merlin knows how long. It was I who broke the embrace first. I straightened up and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. He loosened his grip on me but did not let me go. Instead he placed a hand on each of my arms and held me at arms link, studying me.
I turned and picked up my bag and slung it over my shoulder, turned, and attempted to leave. No such luck. He pulled me back to face him, almost forcefully, and I looked into his eyes, so full of concern.
I didn't know what to say. But he did. "We can fix this," he told me with certainty in his voice. "This can be fixed."
After my last uncomfortable incident with the potions master from hell I was determined never to step foot in that classroom again. And then I realized that potions was a requirement for graduation. Damn this English school system. Why had I come here in the first place?
What an honor it had been. And such a wonderful opportunity to leave behind all the adversities I had suffered in America. Attending a top European school on full scholarship. This was my chance to get away from my parents, my "friends," and most importantly Michael, who had been the worst thing to happen to the world since the Plague.
Michael. I had dated him for five years. When I had hit twelve years old he had began pursuing me. I wish I had never met him. But I gave in after a year and we had started that farce of a relationship. I hadn't even been attracted to him. But over the course of five years feelings can change. And unbeknownst to me as my feelings for him grew his for me decayed. The final two years had been miserable. He had been miserable and had been determined to bring me along for the ride. That saying, how you always hurt the one you love? It works both ways.
And after five years he had told me that he didn't love me anymore. I had never made him happy and all those times he had promised to marry me and make me happy? Those had all been lies too. He was in love with a third year, and they were going to be happy, he told me. He had only stayed with me out of guilt, he told me. I wondered what had happened to us. Why had he pushed the issue so far just to break me in the end?
Oh well. It didn't matter. I was here now. This was my life now. Although I have to admit that it's not going much better than things were at home. I thought I wanted Snape. I really did. But now that my feelings are reciprocated I'm anxious. I've experienced firsthand the horrors of a broken heart and getting close to another man, let alone one who is almost twice my age, could only lead to another helping of pain and disillusionment. Right? I mean, hadn't I already decided two years ago that all men were eventually going to hurt you? So why was it so hard to flee from all of Snape's advances?
These were the questions with which I entered double potions block the next day. I hoped against hope that he hadn't read any more of my journal. I prayed that he would just give it back to me so I could go out by the lake and set it on fire. The feeling was mutual? What on earth had that meant? Did he really long for me the way I had longed for him? How could this be happening?
I sloped into the potions classroom with a huge group of Ravenclaw girls, hoping that Snape wouldn't notice me. He did. It figures. I spent the class copying lines, as usual. When Snape announced that class was dismissed I quickly gathered my things and attempted to slide out of the classroom without incident. I should have known it wouldn't have been that easy.
"Miss McMathewes, a word." I stopped halfway out the door, turned, and resumed my seat in the middle of the classroom. I did not make eye contact, no matter how desperately I wanted to. "In the front row, if you please." I sighed exasperatedly and picked my bag back up, trudged to the front of the room, threw myself onto a stool directly in front of his desk, and slammed my bag down upon the workstation. If he hadn't known I was in a foul mood before he would be sure to catch it now.
He stared at me. I stared at him. Was this what he had called me here for? A staring contest? Well, I hadn't had one since my second year but if that's what he wanted I had won then and I would win now. Bastard.
"Something in you has changed." No shit.
"Can't put anything past you."
He smirked. "Out with it."
"I think not."
"As your teacher it is my job to show concern for your mental and emotional well being. So spit it out and don't make me force a dose of Veritaserum down your throat."
I scowled. He wasn't going to pressure me into anything. "You weren't acting much like my teacher yesterday."
"It was what you wanted. You said so right in that infernal book of yours."
"It was what I thought I wanted," I corrected him softly. I couldn't bring myself to raise my voice, despite the fact that the rage was rising in my throat. "And speaking of my journal when can I have it back? Haven't you devoted it all to memory yet?"
"Who is Michael?"
I fiddled nervously with my left arm through the sleeve of my robe. My scars were beginning to itch. Had I written about Michael in there? I couldn't remember. "I'm pleading the fifth."
Snape looked confused. I remembered that he wasn't American, let alone an American muggle, and he would probably have no idea what the fifth amendment was, let alone the rest of the Bill of Rights.
"What's that," he asked quizzically. It was a bit disconcerting, but he actually did seemed concerned. I tried desperately to remember what I had written about Michael in that journal of mine. I hoped I hadn't given too much away.
"Never mind."
"What happened to you back home?"
Why these infernal deep questions? I know I hadn't written anything about my parents or my home life in that damned journal. What was he, some kind of damned psychic? Was he consorting with Trelawny on a nightly basis? Consulting the orb or whatever the hell she did with her spare time?
"I don't want to talk about it." My breathing was becoming quick and staccato and my eyes began to dart around the room, looking everywhere but directly at him.
I thought he'd continue to press me, but to my surprise and horror he seized my left arm and pulled the sleeve of my robe up to my elbow. I thought he'd gasp. Most people did. Instead his eyes simply narrowed and he drew my arm closer in order to get a better view of the messy pattern of scars that had been hacked into my arm. They really were ugly, even to me, and I had seen them for almost four years.
I stared at the desk. He stared at me. Neither of us said anything for a while.
"Who did this," he asked in a much softer voice than I had heard him use in quite some time.
"I don't want to talk about it," I answered flatly, no emotion to betray me. I continued to stare at the desk as if I could pour myself into it and avoid this confrontation altogether. He seized my right arm, then, and performed the same inspection. My right arm was the same.
"Where else did he cut you," he asked. He was beginning to sound angry. As if he would chastise me for Michaels actions. "Your legs? Your back? Anywhere they wouldn't be visible unless your robes were off? Am I right?" His voice was rolling into a dangerous crescendo.
"I suppose he hit you as well?" When he got no answer or any indication that I was hearing him at all he smacked his paw like palm upon the workstation.
"Damn it, Acacia! Why didn't you ever tell anyone? Poppy noticed you know. She told me there was something horribly wrong but she wouldn't tell me what." He softened then as the first tear fell silently from my eye and splattered upon the tabletop. I didn't sob or wail, but simply sat there and allowed the tears to flow for the first time in four years. Four long years. I desperately needed a cigarette.
I became suddenly aware that he was no longer holding my wrists in that death grip of his. I looked up and he was no longer at his desk. He was coming around the workstation with powerful strides, with purpose. I stayed where I was until he reached me, hoisted me to my feet, and wrapped me in his arms, covering me with his cloak.
It felt so good to be held. No expectations. No selfishness. Nothing but concern in that hug. It was freedom. I leaned into his chest and felt myself give that telling shudder that comes just before the floodgates are opened. He placed one tender hand on my head and stroked my hair, trying to comfort me. Comfort me? This was the oddest behavior he had exhibited yet. I gathered a fistful of his robes in each of my hands and just let go. We stood there, him caressing my hair and me just bawling like a silly child, for Merlin knows how long. It was I who broke the embrace first. I straightened up and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. He loosened his grip on me but did not let me go. Instead he placed a hand on each of my arms and held me at arms link, studying me.
I turned and picked up my bag and slung it over my shoulder, turned, and attempted to leave. No such luck. He pulled me back to face him, almost forcefully, and I looked into his eyes, so full of concern.
I didn't know what to say. But he did. "We can fix this," he told me with certainty in his voice. "This can be fixed."