Fourteen years?, Umbridge sounded sinisterly amused, but it seems like much longer. Ron's lips rose involuntarily.
Tinkerbell would have had a hard time beating the reflective, white knuckled tension in the room. Hermione's faultless hearing, and frenetic, compulsory attention to detail heard what Harry's red blurred vision could not.
Umbridge and Snape smiled at each other, something that would have appeared mildly conspiritorial to some, but what Hermione knew to be an icy disregard, and some hate in Snape's expression, and a amiphibious gloat in Umbridge.
I see, she said, tapping her pink quill (which looked remarkably similar to the candied quills sold in the Hogsmeaded joke shop), that you haven't been here as long as some of the other professors. Hermione could see Harry grinning, enjoying this tete-a-tete with the two abbysmal adults, but she could not sink to his enjoyment. There was something about seeing Snape publicly defiled that made her queasy.
Perhaps you did not inquire into some of the ages of my other colleagues, professor, he finished, an audible grind of his teeth. Umbridge looked flustered for only a second, her peurile demeanor souring. She turned and walked towards the end of the classroom, jostling Hermione's table as she waddled, and spilling over powdered scarab.
Eight points, Granger, for being a nuisance and wasting materials, Snape leered. He stood expectantly in front of her, goading her predictable fury in the back of her head. She said nothing, but there was a glittering defeat in his eyes. Which, ironically, made him wage an ever more vicious batttle with the Gryffindor side of the classroom.
Harry's hackles rose instantly ; Hermione could smell his bloodthirst. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and shook her hand gently. She knew Harry's quicksilver anger.
Just let it be, she urged to him, under the pretense of scribbling into her notebook, don't bother him now. Not with Umbridge ready to pounce on you.
A/N: worth continuing?
