Story Title: The Destructive Temptation
Author: Hawk Martin
Disclaimer: Don't own Severus or Harry Potter, but if I did, do you honestly think I would admit it?
Dedication: To…uh…coffee, 'cause tea sucks so much.
A/N: I wrote this a while ago, but only now did I decide that I'd post for whatever sick reason I haven't quite understood yet. Yet, it has an rp character of mine—Liz Whitney. She was in several others of my stories, not a Mary Sue, and if you need the profile I'm pretty sure it's in the author's note for 'The Fall'. If you want to check out the fics of mine that she is in, here's a list: Smiles and Reflections, Fairy Tales, Hell's Blessing, The Fall, Bitter Musings from a Sarcastic Soul, A Burn of Surrealism, and Perfect. Otherwise…enjoy.
Summary: "…They had been perfect for each other, and yet, perfection is not immortality and death pays no attention to the masterpieces wrought by humanity. Even masterpieces as beautiful as love."
Notes: None, actually. Go and be merry.
Rating: PG-13. Simply 'cause I don't want immature brats reading my shit. Ha. Ha. Ha. No, really.
Warning: When speaking to a feline known to have murderous tendencies, make sure you're the one with the machete.
"Have a heart that
never hardens, and a temper that never tires,
and a touch that never hurts."
Charles Dickens
Severus was a man who did not experience certain things—love, romantic sentimental nonsense, and, above all, jealously. Severus was a man who did things the way they should be done, believed things he knew to be true, and ignored those who were merely complete prats. Severus was a man in control, in charge, and quite dangerous when it came to anything that involved Gryffindors and house points.
Severus…was a man who was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.
"Miss Whitney, if you insist upon torturing all those around you, would you please do it in a less destructive manner?""Define destructive…Professor."
"Destructive; adjective. 'Causing or wreaking destruction; ruinous. Designed or tending to disprove or discredit,'" Severus stated wearily, raven eyes glaring down at the class with the usual sneer dancing across his lips. How he hated Gryffindors. Loathed them. The Potter boy did not know the meaning of a good comb; the Weasley dolt constantly looked on the verge of sneezing; and all of the rest of them were so indistinguishable that occasionally he found himself mistaking Granger for Longbottom, an occurrence that gave him much pleasure.
"If you all would kindly shut your mouths, I will continue teaching the lesson, seeing as how I am the teacher and you—"
"Are the mindless students silently awaiting your guidance?" Liz finished with a smirk. Snape nearly growled at her, mouth twisting into a snarl. He hated that smirk. He hated that smirk more than he hated her father's smirk, and Severus had thought that nearly impossible.
That is, until Elizabeth Whitney had strolled arrogantly into his life. If there was ever a moment that Severus doubted his sanity, he blamed it on her.
Elizabeth Whitney was, as far as he could tell, the female version of the Weasley twins with more charm, less red hair, and an Irish accent that gave off the impression she was constantly drunk. She was, unfortunately, every inch of her father and quite a bit more to make up for lost time. And—as if her presence wasn't agonizing enough—she was in Gryffindor. She was arrogant, sarcastic, charismatic and valiant. Severus refused to accept the fact that he had practically raised this girl.
"Miss Whitney, you are hardly silent." There it was again—the smirk. Aggravating—simply aggravating. He was beginning to be convinced that her entire family was conspiring against him, purely to drive Snape to an early retirement. He refused—absolutely refused to take this sitting down, et cetera, et cetera, and would just have to strike back at them ten-fold.
Then he realized that the greater part of the Whitney clan was dead. He wasn't quite sure whether to be relieved or a bit distraught. Samuel Whitney had been known to be quite resourceful, even in death.
Severus began to hope that Liz never died, just so that she was never given free reign to walk through walls. Merlin only knew how much the world would regret that.
"Now, turn to page 332—and do try to use the right book this time, Mr. Weasley," Snape added with a malicious, though highly amused leer. As the rustling of dusty pages filled the room, Severus watched each student quietly, reflecting upon each of their lives, their futures—as he always did. These were his students, regardless of his infinite disgust towards them, and the sacred responsibility he carried for each of them was nearly sickening. This was a generation that would grow up to know death on a daily basis; this was a generation that would realize hatred before love, that would know anger before there ever was a moment of peace. Remembering Sam, his own childhood, Severus bit back a sigh and continued on with the lesson. They listened, and they ignored, but they were there regardless. His students.
Merlin help him.
Snape spent the next thirty minutes or so crisply lecturing his class about the rather obvious importance of a lengthy attention span and what a decent cup of tea would resemble, in comparison to Ron's example: an androgynous rat. Soon, the bell rang and the impossibly ignorant beings began to scurry out of the room—to lunch, to go off and snog hopelessly with a complete stranger, to go find their futures.
Their futures.
Severus curled his lip at the last thought, nose bent over several mounds of lesson plans. He refused to notice slim figure standing in front of his desk, patiently watching him with a comfortable posture and amused grin that mocked him quietly. After a moment, Snape paused and said calmly, "Miss Whitney, I am not giving you a detention for your inexcusable rudeness in class merely because I do not want to spend any more time with you. Please take your astonishment and leave."
"Now, if that isn't love, Professor, I have no idea what is."
"I'm sure Mr. Weasley and just about every other male with a working set of bullocks would love to show you. Now terminate your incessant prattling and leave me to work in peace."
"You're staring at a piece of paper, desperately hoping that I vacant the room so you may prance around in peace like the metrosexual we all know you to be."
"You offend me—I do not prance, Miss Whitney."
"I beg to differ."
He glared at her, barely holding back his tongue to damn her sixty house points down. He paused and continued on with his "work"—he would not admit that she was correct—and ignored the fifteen-year-old girl. Reminiscing, Severus remembered when she was barely taller than his midriff, young, and smirking not only because she had destroyed his entire closet and several other of his possessions, but because she was…content. He mentally slapped himself—now he was getting sappy. And Severus Snape was not a man who experienced such sloppy emotions.
"You know, you're rather cute when you glare."
"You're beginning to wear upon my nerves, Miss Whitney."
"Like a puppy…"
"Dare I ask what kind of puppy?" He asked the Heavens above, and all those that were up there cackling, taking much amusement in his torment.
"…I've forgotten the name."
"Brilliant."
Liz smirked and sat down across from his desk, obviously entertained by their little spat. They had many; early morning, at breakfast, in the middle of the night when he heard an explosion just coincidentally coming from her room…
"Perhaps you'd like to remind me of why you're here."
"Well, you see, Professor, when a man and a woman love each other—"
"Stop right now." She half-laughed at his quickness to answer, eyeing the slightly rosy color emulating from his white cheeks.
"Do I make you squirm, Professor?" Severus was suddenly reminded that was he was, in fact, a man as caught an awkward glance at her rather beautiful presence that left him in a state of guilty awe. But he was a teacher, and she was a student, and he was a man that didn't feel such things towards students.
Particularly Gryffindors.
Snape couldn't help but think that Sam would be proud, however. Liz was everything Sam had wanted for his daughter: a Quidditch Chaser, a brilliant charmer, and quite a good-looking one …everything Sam had been.
…Right until the end.
"Your haircut, Miss Whitney, makes you look even more like a tomboy than usual."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Why must you insist on looking like a man?"
"…You would prefer me skipping around in skirts, giggling like a blooming lunatic, and pouncing on every shirtless boy I see? Because, you know, I see quite a few."
"You would merely add to the surplus population."
"You sound like Scrooge."
"'Bah humbug.'"
"My God, and you even look like him! Whatever would Charles Dickins think?"
"That the Irish should be locked away, most likely."
She laughed, lightly, and Sev found himself inclined to listen. It had been…years since Ceri had died, a pain that had never really righted itself. He had loved her—Ceri, that is. They had been perfect for each other, and yet, perfection is not immortality and death pays no attention to the masterpieces wrought by humanity. Even masterpieces as beautiful as love.
He had been young then, though, and a fool. Severus had realized by now that it was only the young who ever really true love. And yet, all of them were always too scattered to be able to hold onto it. Now older and wiser, he found himself no longer interested in the affairs of romance and regarded it all as mawkish nonsense reserved only for the suicidal and the French.
"Miss Whitney, you are still sitting in front of my desk."
"You are very observant, Professor."
"You haven't moved."
"Well, I did shift my weight from left to right, you know."
"You are still here."
"Are any of us really here?"
"What on Earth, my dear girl, could you possibly want?"
"That's a bit of a dirty question, Professor, but I could answer if you'd like…"
"No, on second thought, please don't." Severus paused, bemused as he sat back in his chair, onyx eyes meeting her own.
"You've grown up, you know."
"Quite a bit," She responded quietly, meeting his gaze. Her posture was atrocious, Snape reflected, and would probably result in her being stuck for the rest of her life in a semi-obnoxious position that allowing many children to be made, but most likely never "blasted out of the cannon," as Sam had so charmingly philosophized. He had been too much of his early life listening to that man.
"I suppose you would just like to talk, then."
"It only took you ten minutes and several insults to masterful writers to realize that."
He smiled; a wry and rare smile, and took a sip of his ever-warm tea. Tea, Severus had concluded after ten years of avid dedication, was the drink that could solve any problem—and would. While, in the midst of a heavy depression, he would occasionally turn to a glass of Chardonnay, there would always be tea in the morning to warm his stomach and clear his head. A bit of honey, five minutes of preparation and he was ready to deal with the hormonal, dramatic children of the day. And, on second thought, most of the staff as well.
"Tell you don't have a boyfriend yet."
"You'd be more relieved if I had a girlfriend?"
"I know you can't stand women, Miss—ah—Liz, so moot point."
"No, no boyfriend then. Do you have one?"
"I'm ignoring that question."
Liz grinned quietly as the sun's last rays began shine through the curtain's part, the shadows barely grazing her face. Severus reflected on a great many things in the span of several seconds before he continued on.
"And your grades?""They spell out the alphabet completely."
"You jest."
"'Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.'"
"Who on earth let you read Shakespeare?"
"Emma. She said that it would be better for me to quote one of the greatest writers of all time than one of the greatest guitarists."
"Guitar…?"
"Muggle instrument."
"That wooden thing with strings attached?"
"Mm-hm."
"Good God. You get more and more like your father every day."
"Pretty soon I'll be walking in with a wife and three kids."
"I hope not."
"You never know."
The conversation continued, dryly, but with a few innocent insults and the ever-present sarcasm of Liz as well as his own pessimism. They graced over current events until an argument broke out concerning Quidditch—Snape was convinced of its uselessness unless one was speaking of Slytherin; Liz considered this the worst kind of blasphemy. Thus, the feud ended with Severus calling her an "audacious, ignorant, Gryffindor with a head the size of Turkey and logic as incomprehensible as that of a Hufflepuff," while Liz retorted with calling him a "overconfident, greasy old git who didn't know moderation of pride even if it danced bare naked upon his front doorstep." Severus tried to reason with her that he didn't have a front doorstep, so perhaps that's why he would never be able to recognize it, but the point merely went to Hell.
And so, several minutes later after the onslaught of bashing of one another's houses, noses, and general consensus of breathing techniques, Liz and Severus sat. Quietly. Trying desperately not to smack one another.
"Perhaps Quidditch is an off-limits topic for us."
"I agree," she responded crisply and sighed, sitting back.
"The ball is coming up, Miss Whitney. Do you plan to attend?"
"I daresay, you are a bit old for me, don't you think?"
"My dear, I desire a woman who is a tad bit more…"
"…Greasy?"
"Greasier, Miss Whitney, and I am not in the least bit."
"I know," Liz responded with a shrug, fully agreeing with him—no strings attached. Sev was partially in shock, merely because he had spent the last ten years battling off hoards of first-years who all wanted to know—for their own malicious bets, he imagined—how many times he showered a week. And yet, Sam's daughter was simply accepting that he wasn't greasy without a second thought.
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's the fumes from the potions." She pushed a few strands of chestnut hair away from her face, leaving the usual bang—however—to dance beside her left eye. Severus noticed she had had her lip pierced, her ears were several times over, and there were heavy bags beneath her icy pupils. She looked tired, as Sam had, and deadened by the world's woes. No doubt the pain was still there from Sarah's death—her sister—and Snape was beginning to wish that they had been closer throughout her years at Hogwarts.
"I take it you and Mr. Weasley…"
"…Fred?"
"Yes, Fred. I take it you and Fred are…"
"Not like that."
"Of course."
"He's gay, Professor."
"…The female population will be most disappointed."
"But the quite a few boys will be happy, I imagine."
The clock rang several times over as five o'clock in the evening passed gradually. Students could be heard outside; hurrying off to dinner and whatnot, and Severus began to notice that the two had been talking for several hours. Talking, without actually saying anything. He knew those types of conversations very well.
After a fashion, the girl sitting in front of him paused, as if she wanted to say something but wasn't quite sure what it was or if it was even something she would want to say. Snape glanced up at her from the musty silence and smiled, quietly to himself, noting all her amusing habits.
"Professor…"
"Yes, Miss Whitney?" Liz shifted her weight, he noticed, as if she was nervous. And perhaps she was. Sam had always…
His thoughts fell short. Sam was dead. His daughter wasn't ever going to change that.
"…I…"
"My dear, you almost sound incoherent."
"Well, you see…"
"A-ha, so we are nervous. Perhaps Mr. Weasley doesn't fancy men so much after all..?"
"No, I…"
"You don't have a girlfriend, do you?"
"No…it's just…"
"Because, if you do, I certainly hope it's not that Lavender girl…"
"No—Professor, that's disgusting…"
"Yes, but someone has to marry her. Single Gryffindors is quite a dangerous prospect, you know…"
"…Yes, but the thing is…"
"What, Miss Whitney? Spit it out."
And so she did.
It was times like these that made Severus wonder how he got into situations involving snogging his arrogant, sarcastic, way-too-charming-for-her-own-good, fifteen-year-old student.
And then he remembered…and tried to forget.
He had raised this girl. Raised. And never—absolutely never—did he teach her how to snog— to use one's mouth like this. Which wasn't entirely to say that it was a bad thing—just that she had gotten a bit of practice. Quite a bit of practice. His hands slowly found their way up to her slender sides, where he could almost undoubtedly feel her ribs. Severus would've lectured her about proper eating habits as well…if he wasn't so busy at the time. He considered for a second about pulling away and actually proceeding to lecture her, but thought better of it.
Thoughts raced through his head as their lips…danced—was that the right word? It felt nice; that was the only way to explain it. She was thin and soft and fit right into his own body, but there was a voice in the back of his pompous head demanding that he put a stop to this immediately. He ignored the voice—listening to oneself talk was rather dull.
But she was fifteen.
And a Gryffindor.
And damnit, he had never taught her to kiss like this.
She kissed…chastely. Desperately. As if she knew she was going to die very soon, and was somehow searching for a reason to hold on. Severus responded quietly, somehow fitting into her rhythm—one could say. Except he couldn't. He had no idea what the hell was going on, nor did he care. And that frightened him.
He was supposed to be neurotic.
A few minutes later—Snape wasn't keeping count—they pulled away slowly and met one another's eyes. A chestnut bang hid the left side of her face, so he tenderly moved is calloused fingers up and brushed it away. This was nonsense—pure nonsense. He wasn't some romantic prat, prancing around and chasing some beautiful, but aloof heiress for the mere sake of love. He was an accomplished…Professor, and damnit, this was wrong.
Perhaps he was becoming the batty, old Potions Master after all.
"We kissed." Liz seemed intent on stating the obvious. He was tempted to follow it up with coincidentally noticing that the sky was blue, but he didn't think it would've been appropriate. And the sky wasn't blue—it was now a near black. And Merlin only knew that she would be nit-picky and all Gryffindor-like.
He sighed instead.
Severus Snape was not a lovey-dovey kind of person. He had trouble with loving himself, and he was supposed to be the most supercilious person in the school. Liz paused, staring up at him, and smirked. That damned smirk—how infectiously obnoxious it was.
"Must you smirk?"
"I can't 'elp it."
"I'm sure you can; you are simply doing this to infuriate me."
"Is it working?"
"Yes."
"Then I've got no problem with it."
"Well, I do!"
"Pompous Brit."
Severus grinned slightly, arms still around her. He was afraid to let go, afraid to admit that what they were doing was wrong. Had she been in Slytherin, there would be pity thrown around so he would only risk being thrown in jail or—if he was lucky—killed. But, because she was a bloody Whitney and a Gryffindor, he would most likely be castrated with a dull fork.
Snape knew for a fact that that was a painful procedure.
"I am in fact Irish, Miss Whitney."
"Prove it."
"Top o' the morning and all that blarney nonsense your people run around with."
"I'm offended—are you suggesting that my people are all leprechauns."
"No, I'm suggesting that your people all wish that they were leprechauns."
She rolled her eyes, still smirking. He had no idea how she was able to manage that: silently patronize him as well as charm him into her arms at the same time. She was quite possibly the most frustrating person to understand on the entire Northern Hemisphere.
"Miss Whitney, you are fifteen."
"I am."
"And I am thirty-five."
"You are."
"You are quite a bit younger than I."
"Twenty years," She nearly sung back to him.
"This is dangerous ground we are treading on."
"Like going across thin ice with Martha Stewart tied to our backs and John Rhys-Davies leading the way."
"Your…imagination is quite a disturbed one."
"I'm Irish."
"Good excuse."
She leaned up and kissed his bottom lip softly, the shadows playing idly across her mildly tan face. It had been a long, long time. The whiskers of his somewhat new mustache brushed up against her flesh, as he leaned down close to her cheek and stared deeply into her eyes.
"This is wrong," was all he could say.
"A lot of things are," she answered quietly.
They kissed once more, kissed until the night began, kissed until the world ended. He held her close, knowing that he was a teacher and that she was a student and it couldn't get any more black and white than that. They sat in silence in his office, together, alone, and talked. And kissed. And talked while kissing.
"Miss—ah—Liz?"
"Mm?" She answered noncommittally.
"You've turned me into a very pathetic man."
"Well, that's quite an accomplishment."
"I refuse to dote on you."
"Fair enough."
"You are still much too young for me."
"And you are much too old for anyone."
"I am not a romantic person."
"I would accept nothing less."
He glared at her. "You are not going to turn me into a romantic fool, chasing after you with all that mushy nonsense."
"And you are not going to make me a prick."
"Your I.Q. is much too low."
She ruffled his hair for that, rather annoyed at his insult—but, of course, in an even more exasperatingly cute away. Severus was beginning to hate himself for this. However would he be able to live with himself in love? There would be constant thoughts of things that were just unsuitable for his tastes: what she was wearing at any given time, what she wasn't wearing more importantly, and why did he lose the use of his knees whenever she decided to grace him with her unquestionably magnificent presence.
"You know you love me."
"Miss Whitney, you are the only person I know that can be charming, arrogant, and sarcastic at the same time."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
He smirked this time and leaned down to kiss her. Their lips met, their hands held onto one another, and everything was all right.
Severus was a man who did not experience certain things—love, romantic, sentimental nonsense, and, above all, jealously. Unfortunately for him, Severus Snape was also a man who never listened to himself in the first place.
"Love you, Sev."
Oh, Merlin.