Disclaimer: No own HP characters.
'She whom in life you did abhor, in death you will adore.'
-Morella, Edgar Allan Poe
Summary: The long standing grudge between the four Gryffindor boys and Severus Snape in an altogether different view unveiled. Unravel the cause and the sappiness, if not tragedy, of its drama.
Young Sirius taps his stubbly forefinger on his desk to signify boredom, yawning constantly at each interval (which is indicated by the pause in the professor's somniferous discussion) and hanging his head low to relax his nape in case a stiff neck threatens to sweep the good mood out of this oh so gyping day. But hell knows a good mood at a mean day like this one is as likely as Snape blowing his unctuous hair dry or Lily acquiescing on a week end out with James. The air is sparged with a peculiar gloom that induces not an irate disposition, but sleep. And not offering defiance to the temptation; Sirius succumbs without effort. It isn't even a harsh clime; in fact it's just a day like any other...it's the atmosphere that seems so oppressive, Sirius gathers singularly. In a nutcase, a terribly acrid day for him; exclusively for darling Sirius Black. He impatiently jams his unicorn tailed wand on the table and inflects his biceps upward when James gives him a cautious nudge on the rib.
'Cut it out, Sirius; points'll be chucked from Gryffindor again.' James whispers distinctly with his mouth clammed shut. Just like a ventriloquist sans puppet. He misconstrues that Sirius is either in want of mass attention or currently testing his moxie. Whichever, he'll sure be in deep shit with McGonagall.
'Sure, boss.' Sirius replies and aborts the impulse to display solecism.
Perhaps Sirius' breach of etiquette is justified; judging from his superior scholastic records, he can have been saved from any penalty that's triggered by his misbehavior. He deems that it isn't wrong to be overweening at times but then again, it is far from being entirely right. But for what it's worth, he stands by the regulations for the sake of his Prefect friend, Remus, who never fails to nix any mischievous prospect of his urges; but for his own share of good times he can get pretty naughty.
A pool of tears wells below Sirius' beady eyelids as a result of restraining successive sleepy yawns. He wonders how his animagi friends manage to carry fresh tolerance towards this somnolent subject; there's James who's nodding fervently at each word as though everything's so grand and new to him, Peter who's remarkably likewise except that he's a little theatrical on the trial, and of course Lupin, who munches on every histrionic syllable uttered as if he's hearing this all for the first time. But of course that's just their screen; to look immersed in such puny details concerning the subtle art of transformation. 2 hours of burning their asses on the obdurate stools confer no progress in their study nor in their interests. James, Sirius, and Peter, unduly however, are now irrefutable masters of transfiguration skills; and no amount of information regarding the subject will have augmented what they already know, not even an extra trivia from the archaic book. Prof. McGonagall may as well leave it to them; her order to turn an ottoman to a spitz pup is child's play, let alone the utterance of the charm. Their ability to transform themselves to animals is the tell-bearer of it; Remus' case being omitted.
'Sirius, got your peacock quill with ya?' James asks in sotto voce after moments of silence. He too is fed up with acting silly.
'Am I hearing something?' Sirius mutters to himself with an impish grin.
'Oh, shut up.' James spits, forgetting to wind down his volume, and snatches Sirius' leather bag that's until then slung on the back of his chair.
'Go on, help yourself.' Sirius snickers.
'Where is it?' James asks, still ransacking Sirius' stuff with his puissant fingers.
'It's not ther---'
'Potter! Black!' McGonagall cuts Sirius short with a menacing howl. Her eyes are crammed with a ton of vituperation getting ready to explode. Her austerity's enough to send all owls in the mails sliding off and at this outburst, symptoms of panic inside the class loom before anyone's aware of it. Nobody messes up with McGonagall; those who dare irrevocably get what they ask for. 'I've been sniping warning glares at you two for the last two hours and still neither of you can get any signal. Now, if you think your knowledge on the course is far more advancedthan what I am to parley here, better author your own book about Transfiguration and have it published by the Ministry's library. Or if you can----'
'We'd rather have a good time with Filch in detention, professor.' Sirius pipes in, evidently caching the urge to guffaw. The whole class breaks into peals of laughter.
'Why, Mr. Black, that sure is a pluck. But as I was about to say, if you can live up to that open impudence of your behavior perhaps I can reduce your mulct to point reduction from Gryffindor.' McGonagall flares.
'Well, we'll polish plaques in the trophy room, I guess.' Sirius answers calmly but with an unconstrained risque. He's certain that the odds are in his favor.
'I'll transform that closet to a water buffalo, professor.' James suddenly chimes, pointing at the varnished gold plated cabinet in the room's corner. Sirius funnels a what-are-you-up-to look at James.
'You'd rather put up a show then, Potter?' McGonagall hisses.
Without waiting for the professor's gesture, James swings his wand hand in a spherical pattern and hisses an unintelligible, two word incantation. Sparks of purplish azure squibs shoot from the tip of his wand to target the object. The closet wriggles on its feet as if electrified by an unseen something; it dwindles into something less sturdy as it starts to nurture grayish fur in a fast pace. A head issues from the upper surface, girls shriek like seagulls, mystified ahhs gut out from incredulous lungs, a deep, bestial groan sounds as the spot where the furniture used to stand is now occupied by an oversized mammal. James curtseys upon catching overheard adulations from his classmates, struts for a second, and flashes a 1000 mega watt smile brandished with easy does it haughtiness. It stands to reason; he's the school's most extroverted intellectual next to Sirius.
'Impressive, Mr. Potter.' McGonagall enunciates, still under the weight of heavy amusement from the feat. 'Mr. Black, your turn.'
Sirius steps in with salient hesitation. He can feel the incommensurable pairs of sneaky orbs watching him but what does extemporaneous charm-performance matter; he's used to being a celebrity anyway. But still something bugs his aim to steady composure, mercilessly smutting his attempt to pure concentration. I'm not in the mood, he keeps saying to himself like a pretty crimped record that goes on reverberating its well pronounced syllables. He thrusts an irked glance at James but raises his wand nonetheless. With the same modus operandi, Sirius proceeds to fulfill the command and after a number of seconds, the animal is reversed to its original state; a squat closet. An ovation of applause drums out from the eager watchers.
'S-s-stupendous, S-s-sirius.' Peter stutters as the object of the compliment flushes. Remus mumbles something like 'tsk,tsk,tsk.' Sirius almost shrinks as he turns even more puce.
'Likewise amazing. Tut tut tut. But that doesn't surmount to your salvation; 20 points from Gryffindor. Class dismiss.' McGonagall says with a peremptory tone. For the thousandth time, she harbors clemency for Sirius and James who're looking hilariously hangdog.
Disappointed accents emit from the whole class. James and Sirius smile apologetically; the smile that wins them a million conflicts and that which precedes another mug's game. And that's how they pull down the curtains; James and Sirius stealing the show and making a glitz and all. It never is otherwise.
Next class: Defense Against the Dark Arts. Gryffindor and Slytherin 5th years.
Severus culls up a seat at the back. He always chooses this spot to preclude prone proximity with the hectoring Gryffindor boys whose habit is to perch on the front line, and to be well accommodated for some educational reason that eludes the rest. Nobody gets to share a desk with him; not that nobody ever bothers to. He prefers to be 'alone' and besides, the class has a total populace of 43; had the figures been even he wouldn't enjoy the privilege of vacating the table all by himself. Even with his fellow house members he isn't in permanent amity. His esoteric conception on wizard studies beats the hell out of his potential cronies and the upshot is; they tend to keep distance from him. But in this self initiated peregrination he takes salubrious pleasure, because silence coupled with solitude, for him, is his only provision.
Professor Watson, their DADA Professor, flings the portal open. A man of over 50, he doesn't possess the same charisma that their arithmancy teacher has. Though his hair strands are still brown; his ancient looking face more than makes up for a middle aged man. Fact is, he's looking a cent older than his supposed age. He is a damp spitfire; always enthusiastic but consequently soporific and continually boring to the end. Nobody knows what house he came from due to the forced in cognito personality he hauls to himself; 'it's a big secret, can't tell, guys.'; the status quo excuse. But who gives half a damn, anyway? And nobody's convinced that he's dab at parrying or countering dark curses, too. He saunters across the platform and beckons to the door where he took entrance seconds before.
'Come in, Ms. Isaac.' Professor Watson calls. Everyone steers his eyes to the entrance as if awaiting a miracle that'll materialize there or anything.
A girl with long, shiny black hair wends beside the professor. Her abnormally pale complexion gives someone an inkling that she's been exposed to frigid air and no sunlight for the past 15 years of her life; but she doesn't even look like 15. She can pass for 18 or 20 owing to the maturity and grace of her bearing. She is neither in the tall or short side, medium size more like. She is strapped in all white outfit but her face effuses a captivating, dark beauty which is intensified by the knife-thrust glance of her gray, mournful eyes. Beautiful, yes, but stern and cold as a whetted steel. She draws a look at her newly met classmates, showing no signs of smiling and only posing a dull expression of a quidnunc, surly individual. Most of the pupils know they won't like her ab initio; she's a snob and what's more, she's a Slytherin. On her left chest dangles the insignia of the Slytherin house; a coiled, green serpent of majestic stance. Sirius scowls upon discovering the fact, James grumbles something that sounds like 'interesting' or 'exciting', Remus is still engrossed in his DADA book, Peter makes a space for the girl, hoping she'll sit beside him. The rest just squint an eye on her.
But she ambles past the class and takes a seat next to Severus Snape.
TBC
Note: This is the first time I'm writing a Potter fic, so forgive me if the details are not in harmony with the original plot or if anything else in the context is unforgivably mean, I don't know. Reviews would be appreciated, flames would be welcome too. Thanks a million for reading.