Understanding
Once again I find myself in Umbridge's office, carefully writing in my neatest script "I must respect my elders." This time, instead of writing a thousand lines, she has decided I will stay until eleven o'clock. Three hours of pure torture, self-induced pain. And no slacking either. For all she seems totally engrossed in her needlepoint the cruel witch is all too aware of my actions, or lack thereof. I'm not counting, but I think that by 10:30 I have written well over a thousand. I am beginning to weary of the trite, meaningless phrase. Did I say beginning? I loathe it. Finally 11 o'clock arrives. Not a moment too soon, in my opinion. Madame Umbridge lazily puts her needlework away, another of those fluffy, gamboling kittens which seem ubiquitous in this room. Taking her sweet time she picks up the parchment covered in blood, my blood. It sits; dry now, looking like a queer brownish ink. Carefully she puts the sheets in her drawer, then turns to take my hand. At this moment, Professor Snape walks in, though she does not acknowledge him. He glares at me and I wonder what beyond existing I have done to anger him today. Meanwhile, the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts is examining my hand. Her touch is warm and dry, not the cool sliminess that, by all rights, it should be. Then again, I think irrelevantly, too much slime would ruin her embroidery floss. "Yes, dear," she says releasing my hand, "I think you have made great progress tonight." I look up at her sharply, perhaps a little too sharply since she continues, much to my regret, "but I still think one more evening will be necessary for you to really absorb your lesson. Be here tomorrow night at six o'clock." I scowl at the ground, picturing her face in the flagstones and imagining the pleasure I could take from stepping on them. Apparently I have become slightly lost in the contemplation of these happy thoughts, since she says, "You are dismissed, dear," in a slightly huffy tone, as though offended that anyone could ignore her so completely as to daydream in her presence.
Nodding, I head out the door, raising a hand to my mouth to stifle a yawn. The yawn reminds me of what time it is, ad the fact that it is after curfew. I freeze in the doorway, then slowly turn around, "Madame Umbridge," I begin warily, "have I your permission to travel the halls so late?"
At this moment Snape chooses to remind us all of his presence. "Ha!" he snorts, "a Gryffindor with some consideration for rules! Though you seem to have developed this concern rather late," he sneers, as only he can.
Actually, I think to myself, in a way, that comment was kind of funny, but after a quick glance at him, I resolutely turn my eyes to the toad that is Dolores Umbridge. She is staring at me and blinking, exactly as though she were a great, slimy amphibian. "After all, Madame," I prompt, "I shouldn't like another detention for breaking curfew." I say this in my best sugary sweet voice, the one I feel sick even thinking about. I also raise my eyebrows and purse my lips slightly in an imitation of polite concern.
"Professor Snape will accompany you back to your common room," she says at last. "That is, if you don't mind, Severus," she says in a tone that announces clearly that he will not mind in the least if he knows what is good for him.
"Not at all, Madame Headmistress," he says, with only a hint of ground teeth. "I presume that is why you summoned me?"
"Why, yes, Severus," she smiles fatuously then bats her eyes at him coquettishly. His nostrils flare slightly, I notice, but he forces himself to smile at her. The sight is grotesque and frankly frightening. He looks sort of like what I imagine a lethifold might after it has successfully slipped out of another victim's house.
"A pleasant evening to you Madame," he says, giving a shallow, but nonetheless courtly, bow.
"Perhaps you might like to return to share a cup of tea with me after you have finished escorting Miss Grey?" She looks up at him hopefully and once again bats her eyes in what she probably thinks is a flirtatious manner.
EEW! I think to myself, carefully keeping my face blank.
Apparently "Severus" (talk about an appropriate name!) shares my feelings on this subject since he quickly replies "Unfortunately, no, I am afraid duty requires that I patrol the halls this evening."
This is not what Umbridge wants to hear, and she pouts a little. "But Severus," she whines, "I am quite certain Hogwarts could forgive you if you were slightly remiss in your duties one evening."
"Nevertheless I could not forgive myself were I to shirk my responsibilities," he hesitates for the barest of moments, and then says, "I hope you will not think less of me for that, Dolores?" He tilts his head slightly to the side and lifts a hand.
Damn, I think, impressed, Greasy Git of the Dungeons or no, that man can turn on the charm. And she's lapping it up. It was sort of comical, I supposed, but still.
"Oh, Severus!" she croons, "You know nothing could make me think less of you!" His eyebrows quirk ironically for a moment. Perhaps those rumors of him being a Death Eater are true after all, I muse. But then again, Dumbledore trusts him, and that comment could be taken in a highly uncomplimentary way.
He bows again and sweeps toward the door. "Miss Grey," he beckons. Quickly I follow him, but not before I see the look of longing on Umbridge's face.
"You will speak of that to no one," he commands in a tone that brooks no discussion.
"Of course," I say inclining my head slightly. I wouldn't wish that witch on my worst enemy, I reflected. Well, maybe Voldemort, but then, he really doesn't fall into the same rules of common decency that most of humanity does. Besides, it could be interesting. Sort of like that episode of Celebrity Death Match I saw once on muggle telly.
I realize suddenly that he is examining me out of the corner of his eye and briefly struggle against making a smart comment. Discretion, however, is definitely the better part of valor when dealing with Professor Snape. "Your hand is bleeding," he says quietly.
"Damn," I mutter softly under my breath. I had forgotten that while watching that little scene with Umbridge. Hastily I pull my handkerchief out of my pocket and press it to the wound, or wounds, on the back of my right hand. Silently he observes me for a moment then says, "If you remain after class a moment tomorrow morning, I will give you some essence of murtlap." Maybe he is just doing it to get back at Umbridge, but at any rate I am grateful for his gesture.
I look up in surprise. "Thank you," I say softly. A look I can't decipher is on his face. Anger at something, though I don't think it is me. By this time we have reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, and I give the password and climb through the portrait hole. "Thanks again," I say, turning to look at him. He nods once, then turning in a swirl of robes he walks away. Nodding to myself I allow the portrait to swing closed and walk up to my dormitory. Another day done.
Once again I find myself in Umbridge's office, carefully writing in my neatest script "I must respect my elders." This time, instead of writing a thousand lines, she has decided I will stay until eleven o'clock. Three hours of pure torture, self-induced pain. And no slacking either. For all she seems totally engrossed in her needlepoint the cruel witch is all too aware of my actions, or lack thereof. I'm not counting, but I think that by 10:30 I have written well over a thousand. I am beginning to weary of the trite, meaningless phrase. Did I say beginning? I loathe it. Finally 11 o'clock arrives. Not a moment too soon, in my opinion. Madame Umbridge lazily puts her needlework away, another of those fluffy, gamboling kittens which seem ubiquitous in this room. Taking her sweet time she picks up the parchment covered in blood, my blood. It sits; dry now, looking like a queer brownish ink. Carefully she puts the sheets in her drawer, then turns to take my hand. At this moment, Professor Snape walks in, though she does not acknowledge him. He glares at me and I wonder what beyond existing I have done to anger him today. Meanwhile, the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts is examining my hand. Her touch is warm and dry, not the cool sliminess that, by all rights, it should be. Then again, I think irrelevantly, too much slime would ruin her embroidery floss. "Yes, dear," she says releasing my hand, "I think you have made great progress tonight." I look up at her sharply, perhaps a little too sharply since she continues, much to my regret, "but I still think one more evening will be necessary for you to really absorb your lesson. Be here tomorrow night at six o'clock." I scowl at the ground, picturing her face in the flagstones and imagining the pleasure I could take from stepping on them. Apparently I have become slightly lost in the contemplation of these happy thoughts, since she says, "You are dismissed, dear," in a slightly huffy tone, as though offended that anyone could ignore her so completely as to daydream in her presence.
Nodding, I head out the door, raising a hand to my mouth to stifle a yawn. The yawn reminds me of what time it is, ad the fact that it is after curfew. I freeze in the doorway, then slowly turn around, "Madame Umbridge," I begin warily, "have I your permission to travel the halls so late?"
At this moment Snape chooses to remind us all of his presence. "Ha!" he snorts, "a Gryffindor with some consideration for rules! Though you seem to have developed this concern rather late," he sneers, as only he can.
Actually, I think to myself, in a way, that comment was kind of funny, but after a quick glance at him, I resolutely turn my eyes to the toad that is Dolores Umbridge. She is staring at me and blinking, exactly as though she were a great, slimy amphibian. "After all, Madame," I prompt, "I shouldn't like another detention for breaking curfew." I say this in my best sugary sweet voice, the one I feel sick even thinking about. I also raise my eyebrows and purse my lips slightly in an imitation of polite concern.
"Professor Snape will accompany you back to your common room," she says at last. "That is, if you don't mind, Severus," she says in a tone that announces clearly that he will not mind in the least if he knows what is good for him.
"Not at all, Madame Headmistress," he says, with only a hint of ground teeth. "I presume that is why you summoned me?"
"Why, yes, Severus," she smiles fatuously then bats her eyes at him coquettishly. His nostrils flare slightly, I notice, but he forces himself to smile at her. The sight is grotesque and frankly frightening. He looks sort of like what I imagine a lethifold might after it has successfully slipped out of another victim's house.
"A pleasant evening to you Madame," he says, giving a shallow, but nonetheless courtly, bow.
"Perhaps you might like to return to share a cup of tea with me after you have finished escorting Miss Grey?" She looks up at him hopefully and once again bats her eyes in what she probably thinks is a flirtatious manner.
EEW! I think to myself, carefully keeping my face blank.
Apparently "Severus" (talk about an appropriate name!) shares my feelings on this subject since he quickly replies "Unfortunately, no, I am afraid duty requires that I patrol the halls this evening."
This is not what Umbridge wants to hear, and she pouts a little. "But Severus," she whines, "I am quite certain Hogwarts could forgive you if you were slightly remiss in your duties one evening."
"Nevertheless I could not forgive myself were I to shirk my responsibilities," he hesitates for the barest of moments, and then says, "I hope you will not think less of me for that, Dolores?" He tilts his head slightly to the side and lifts a hand.
Damn, I think, impressed, Greasy Git of the Dungeons or no, that man can turn on the charm. And she's lapping it up. It was sort of comical, I supposed, but still.
"Oh, Severus!" she croons, "You know nothing could make me think less of you!" His eyebrows quirk ironically for a moment. Perhaps those rumors of him being a Death Eater are true after all, I muse. But then again, Dumbledore trusts him, and that comment could be taken in a highly uncomplimentary way.
He bows again and sweeps toward the door. "Miss Grey," he beckons. Quickly I follow him, but not before I see the look of longing on Umbridge's face.
"You will speak of that to no one," he commands in a tone that brooks no discussion.
"Of course," I say inclining my head slightly. I wouldn't wish that witch on my worst enemy, I reflected. Well, maybe Voldemort, but then, he really doesn't fall into the same rules of common decency that most of humanity does. Besides, it could be interesting. Sort of like that episode of Celebrity Death Match I saw once on muggle telly.
I realize suddenly that he is examining me out of the corner of his eye and briefly struggle against making a smart comment. Discretion, however, is definitely the better part of valor when dealing with Professor Snape. "Your hand is bleeding," he says quietly.
"Damn," I mutter softly under my breath. I had forgotten that while watching that little scene with Umbridge. Hastily I pull my handkerchief out of my pocket and press it to the wound, or wounds, on the back of my right hand. Silently he observes me for a moment then says, "If you remain after class a moment tomorrow morning, I will give you some essence of murtlap." Maybe he is just doing it to get back at Umbridge, but at any rate I am grateful for his gesture.
I look up in surprise. "Thank you," I say softly. A look I can't decipher is on his face. Anger at something, though I don't think it is me. By this time we have reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, and I give the password and climb through the portrait hole. "Thanks again," I say, turning to look at him. He nods once, then turning in a swirl of robes he walks away. Nodding to myself I allow the portrait to swing closed and walk up to my dormitory. Another day done.