For those who asked – Round one, second half. The Foolery Continues. I hope that you enjoy, and please let me know what you think.

Chaos

Feedback feedback:

Alarun: Poor Snape is in for a very long run of frustration. I think you know what the potion is, he knows what the potion is, I know what the potion is, but… grin

Snaped_Again and Werecat99: More, as per request. Thank you.

Lina Lupin: I think he's in his very early thirties here.

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The Warming Potion Incident

Chapter Two

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"Now, Severus, I'm certain that Miss Mayborne will apologize for her little outburst…"

"I will no such thing! He got his robes in a twist over nothing!"

"A coerced apology is worse than an outright lie and I'll have none of it, Angus. Let Miss Mayborne consider the consequences of her rudeness and intransigence whilst cultivating a productive acquaintance with a scrubbing brush."

~

And so it was.

Emily was of a mind to hide in her four-poster with the curtains drawn and avoid dinner entirely. The loss of twenty-five house points was no small matter, nor was ten days of detention. She felt her disgrace quite keenly as she skulked her way back to Ravenclaw's tower.

Her dorm mates were, however, of another mind.

The second she came through the door into Ravenclaw's common room, there came applause and whistles of approval. Emily looked behind her to see who they might be cheering and was immediately surrounded by chattering Ravenclaws.

"You really told off Snape?"

"... told him to go straight to hell!"

"And here we always thought that she was the quiet one!"

"You all right, then, Emmy?"

"Dragged her out by the arm, her cursing him all the way."

"Wish someone'd had a camera...

"Good lord, what a dustup!"

"Didn't think you had it in you, Mayborne!"

Hot cider and a huge slice of apple gateau were proffered, and the most comfortable wing chair by the fire vacated for her use.

"But I lost points!" Emily was miserable with that – they'd narrowly lost the House Cup to Gryffindor last year because Eugenia Edelbert had hexed Laurel Hathaway for kissing Henry Kelly.

"We're still in second place ahead of Slytherin and Gryffindor," Ellen Bellwood advised, "Those two are tied for third, and are going to fight it right down to dead last of they don't quit dueling at the drop of a hat."

Eric Pangley, one of Ravenclaw's prefects, nodded his agreement and petted Emily's shoulder. "The whole school's been itching to see Snape taken down," the young man laughed, "they just never expected our quiet little Emmy to be the one to do it."

That night she had something resembling a guard of honor when she went down to dinner. The boisterous, chattering crowd made its way into the Great Hall and to the Ravenclaw table en masse. Hufflepuff and Gryffindor stood up to look and she could hear 'Oi! Mayborne!' being called from the other tables. Even some at the Slytherin table were craning their heads for a look, or pointing and whispering.

Emily was so embarrassed that she wanted to fall through the floor. She never wanted notoriety, all her life she had been 'the quiet one,' or 'the bookish one,' or 'the shy one' of her family and classmates. Other people pulled off the stunts and jokes, other people cut up in class, but not her – she was just Emily.

They moved to their tables as the teachers came filing in to the high table; Snape glowered at her as if all the fuss in the hall was at her instigation.

Once again, the irrational spark in her blood flashed to life and she drew herself up in imitation of Artemisia Malfoy at her most arrogant. Head high, shoulders back, Emily mimicked the gliding walk taught to aristocratic daughters by their governesses. She even managed an icy glare over the tops of her glasses before she turned to take her seat, flicking a sleeve of her black robe dismissively. The rest of the meal was spent fending off sweets and mumbling things she hoped were not utterly stupid when she was lauded for her behavior.

After desert, the uppers left the hall to pursue whatever interests they had until curfew. The lowers headed off to common rooms under the supervision of their prefects. Emily stayed in her seat, toying with the last of her lemon tart, preparing for the first of ten long evenings with Snape - from seven to ten, every evening for the next ten days. Everyone was pleased as punch that she had told him off, but she didn't see anyone offering to take detention for her.

"Well, lovey, quite the heroine tonight, aren't we?" Missy's hips bumped hers as she helped herself to a seat and some of Emmy's lemon tart. "Even some of we Slytherin are professing a sneaking admiration."

"Ah, Slytherin, where even the emotions are sneaking..."

"Oh, come now, Emmy! It could have been a lot worse." The blonde girl wound a finger in Emily's curls. "If you'd just have sat down and kept your temper, it all would have blown over. Marcella would have had a detention and you'd just have had to pay her back with a little tutoring."

"I didn't want to sit down! I wanted to pull that cranky buzzard's tail feathers until he squawked! The beastly, nasty thing!" Emily stabbed viciously at the tart, "The nerve of him, really! All over a little bottle of potion that offended his tender, virgin nose!"

Missy laughed, "Lovey, I doubt any part of Snape should even be in the same sentence as the appellation of 'virgin' – unless you're speaking of his conscience, his ethics or his morals, all of which seem to be unused and still in the wrapping." Her voice suddenly took on a sticky-sweet tone, "Now, unfluff and be a good ickle Emmy for the big, bad professor."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Sometimes, you insane Malfoy, I dream of drowning you in your own cauldron."

~

The detention – though only three hours – seemed an eternity to Emily. When she arrived in the Potions classroom, Snape was at his desk – bottle of blood red ink at elbow as he graded papers. Snape simply made a curt gesture at a pile of cauldrons on the draining board of the basin.

Emily returned the gesture with the barest dip of her chin and went to scrub the damned cauldrons.

There were no sounds other than the scratch of Snape's quill on parchment, the running of water and the rasp Emily's scrubbing brush. The silence actually seemed to be a physical thing, so thick and heavy that it was like moving in quicksand. She did not favor the Potions Master with so much as a glance or a turn of the head, for all the world behaving as if she were here by choice and completely alone.

The hands on the clock stood at a quarter to ten when Emily laid the last cauldron on the draining board along with her scrubbing brush. The scratch of quill paused as she stretched the ache out of her lower back and rolled her shoulders, then  resumed as she turned to face the man behind the desk.

His attention seemed to be fully occupied by the papers, even though Emily knew it was not. Placing herself directly in front of the desk, she waited.

And waited.

She did not fidget, she refused to sigh, and the longer the minutes stretched, the more steadfast Emily became. The Mayborne family device was that of an oak on a field of silver – and like an oak, Emily's stubborn streak was more deeply rooted than most might imagine.

~

Severus Snape was genuinely puzzled.

He was usually a fair judge of disposition and character – to survive Slytherin it was not only a prerequisite to know your enemy, but your friends as well. Yet, despite years of honing his instinct, he seemed to have made a massive mistake in reading a mere girl-child.

Emily Rowan Mayborne, age fourteen. Ravenclaw fourth-year. She made good to excellent marks that she worked very hard for, but was not ostentatiously brainy. Her friends were few, but very close. In demeanor, she was quiet, bookish, and always seemed slightly distracted – other than the occasional flare of temper, she was one of his easiest pupils to handle. She did as she was told, when she was told, and seldom said much of anything that was not related to the class at hand.

Until this morning.

If one of the last things he had ever expected was a classroom that smelled like a whorehouse, the second-to-last thing he expected was for Emily Mayborne to be the instigator of such foolery. And the very last thing he could have imagined was the girl not only telling him to go to hell but also calling him a series of nasty names as he hauled her off to her head of house.

In his day that girl would have been switched until she howled – this Severus knew from personal experience, just as he knew the taste of every brand of soap sold in Hogsmeade by the end of his first year.

At least she had the integrity to refuse to tender a coerced apology, even if it would have reduced her detention.

Still, it was highly irritating to have her disrupt his perceptions of her. Severus expected the girl to skip dinner or come creeping in as meek as a mouse after having lost Ravenclaw such a hefty chunk of points. Instead, she had come in as proud as a queen – head high and with an arrogance better suited to someone many year her senior. Severus hadn't missed the cool glare and the dismissive flick of her robes, either.

When Miss Mayborne reported for her detention, it was with a detached indifference that he found purely infuriating. The scant nod of her head was barely acknowledgement of his station, and once her back had been to him she might as well have been here alone.

It would not do.

So, once she had finished the night's task, he made her wait.

And wait.

The girl stood in front of his desk a full fifteen minutes, neither moving or saying a word.

However, Miss Mayborne was far too young to have mastered her expressions completely, and if one knew what to look for, she was an open book. The careful breathing, the faint slash between her eyebrows, the tilt of the head all told Severus Snape one thing.

He was really pissing her off.

Carefully, he set aside the essay that he had just top-to-bottomed in red ink and turned his regard to his mutinous student. The clock struck the hour as he held her gaze, not looking away until the last chime faded into the cold air.

"Extinguish the torches on your way out, Miss Mayborne. Good evening." With that, he rose and swept down the steps from the dais to the door of his office, pausing, he turned. "And, Miss Mayborne? From where did you obtain that potion?"

The girl paused, one foot already in the hallway and regarded him with slightly upturned lips. Then she flipped her hand at the torches, snuffing them with a muttered "Incendiabdo," leaving him in the dark.

Round one, to Emily Mayborne, on points.

No. This really would not do at all.

~

The Foolery Continues…