A/N: A big thank you to the two lovely people who reviewed. Every new review will be greatly appreciated!
As the school year went on, Snape had to concede that not even he was able to keep up with two obsessions (though he would naturally never call them that) at once if he still wanted to teach and sleep. Ever since Black's appearance in the school, he could hardly think of anything else, and so Miss Lovegood's problem ultimately had to take a backseat. Granted, he never once failed to accompany her when she came to fetch him, but his heart was no longer in it; in fact, on such occasions he often caught himself glancing around, scanning the shadows for a crouching Black, instead of looking for clues as he should have been. Fortunately, Miss Lovegood did not seem to notice, perhaps considering his frequent inspections of their surroundings as part of his search for the thief, who might have hidden nearby to relish her frustration.
Of course, that did not mean they never spoke about Black at all. After he had slashed the portrait of the Fat Lady, and later even sneaked into the Gryffindor dormitory with a knife, it was almost impossible to avoid the topic, as it seemed both students and professors rarely discussed anything else these days. Infuriatingly, despite Black's obviously murderous intentions, Miss Lovegood stubbornly continued to call him 'that nice Mr. Black', providing her own outrageous explanations for his behaviour, the tamest of which included Black destroying the portrait of the Fat Lady due to its infestation with Nargles. Eventually, Snape learned not to argue with her, preferring to keep silent whenever she launched into one of her latest theories, an indulgent smile playing at the corner of his thin lips. How anyone could believe in such utter nonsense was beyond him, and yet she seemed so unwavering in her beliefs one was almost tempted to accept them as fact. Not that he did, Merlin forbid, but perhaps some of her conviction of Black's misunderstood motives had rubbed off on him, as in moments of weakness he found himself wondering why Black, who had shown no restraint in killing innocents before, had not, during his three confirmed intrusions into the castle, laid a finger on a single student, despite having had ample opportunity to do so. Especially in the case of Miss Lovegood, who had been quite alone at the point of their encounter, completely unaware of Black's presence until she virtually ran into him, thus making her the perfect target. And yet he had not struck. Why? Why had he spared her? And, as if that were not enough, why on earth had he decided to act all nice by returning her underwear? Did Miss Lovegood have some special power that brought out the best in those who came near her? Was that why he, too, continued helping her even though his priorities had now shifted?
What was more, that was not where her influence over him ended, either. Very grudgingly, he recalled a lesson he had had with the Gryffindors sometime after Miss Lovegood had reminded him of Longbottom's Boggart. In said lesson, Longbottom had ruined his potion, as usual, and he had just been about to shout at him, also as usual, when he suddenly heard Miss Lovegood's voice in his head, as clearly as if she were standing in the room next to him.
'That someone must really be afraid of you,' the voice said. 'But ... how can they be? You're nice.'
In the weeks that followed, he often reflected on what exactly had happened after. All he knew for certain was that the insult that had been on the tip of his tongue never came. He merely gave Longbottom zero marks, asked him to clean out his cauldron, and then dismissed the class. All thanks to a voice in his head. A voice that made him see things in a way he had never done before.
When he took up the post of the Hogwarts Potions Master, he only did it because Dumbledore had asked him to. He did not really have a choice; it was either that or Azkaban. It had certainly never been his dream to teach a bunch of brats something most of them had no interest in learning, but as it was not in his nature to skimp his duties, he did the job as best he could. At first, it was really nothing more than that for him, a job. How surprised he was, therefore, to discover that, after a year or two of teaching, he had actually started caring. Caring whether his students followed his instructions correctly. Caring whether they remembered what he had taught them. Caring whether they passed their exams. Naturally, then, he tried to push them to perform to their highest standard. He could not stand slackers; he did not tolerate sloppy work. And so he handed out extra homework, and he shouted, and he mocked, all in the students' best interest, to make them give it everything they had. It had never even occurred to him that his methods might not work on everyone; after all, nobody had ever handled him with kid gloves, so why should he?
However, that was all before Miss Lovegood came along, because with her all his tried and tested practices seemed to fail. And then he heard her voice in his head just as Longbottom looked up at him from his botched potion, his round blue eyes full of fear, and at that moment it suddenly came to him that in his case he might have made another mistake. He had made no progress whatsoever with him during the slightly more than two years he had taught him, but he had obviously achieved one thing – the boy feared him above everything else, as his Boggart had shown only too clearly. A heroic accomplishment indeed. Why, had he not, not so long ago, established that only despicable beings such as James Potter picked on those who could not fight back? Could he perhaps have, somewhere along the way, stooped to the same level? As far as he could remember, Longbottom had never opposed him, thus falling into the same category of defencelessness as Miss Lovegood. Only a hypocrite would protect one while continuing to torment the other.
Having come to this realisation, he decided it was time to make amends. Step by step, in order not to arouse suspicion, he desisted from telling Longbottom anything harsher than 'zero marks again', sometimes even throwing in some parenthetical advice on where he had gone wrong. To his astonishment, it did not take very long before his change of approach started yielding unexpected results. Not only did Longbottom no longer flinch when he came near him, but his potions also gradually moved from the category of radioactive waste to something that was actually worthy of a mark. Inevitably, Snape started wondering whether this somewhat milder teaching style, though deeply uncharacteristic of him, could perhaps prove more effective with other timid students as well, if, of course, implemented gradually so that no one could suspect him of suddenly growing soft. He resolved to give it a try.
Naturally, he knew that huge credit for his success with Longbottom went to Miss Lovegood for opening his eyes, but he would rather give points to Gryffindor than admit it to her. All in all, he was rather alarmed by how much he allowed himself to be affected by what she said. He noticed she had a knack for stating things that made him question whether his own view of something or other was, in fact, right – something that had, until recently, been purely Dumbledore's domain. He often wondered how she had gained that privilege, and eventually concluded that perhaps because her remarks were so preposterous it was impossible not to think about them, only to realise later that they had actually been spot on. Like in Longbottom's case or, as he had learned at the end of the school year, like in Black's case, though it took him all holiday (and many heated discussions with Dumbledore) to process it. He would, of course, never go so far as to call him 'that nice Mr. Black', but Miss Lovegood had certainly been right in believing he was no murderer.
The only area, besides her conviction of the existence of Nargles and other similar imaginary creatures, where he could not quite agree with her was her theory regarding himself. He could understand that from her point of view he might indeed seem 'nice', as she had put it, but that was only because she did not know he had an ulterior motive for helping her. Speaking of which, as the new school year started and he no longer had Black to worry about, he returned to his quest of hunting down Miss Lovegood's tormentor with renewed vigour. As if deciding that taking her clothes was no longer keeping the girl sufficiently frustrated, they now started hiding her school books as well, often causing her to come to lessons unprepared. Knowing what he did, he never punished her for it, of course, simply lending her one of the old books from the classroom cupboard without comment, but he imagined some of his less informed colleagues might not be so understanding. Therefore, when he saw Miss Lovegood looking rather dejected in his class one day, perhaps for the first time ever, he immediately jumped to the conclusion that it had to be somehow connected with her missing books, which is why he asked her to remain behind so he could inquire further.
"I noticed you did not have your book again today," he said, as kindly as he was able, when the door had closed behind the last student. "Have they taken anything else apart from that?"
To his shock, when she raised her face towards him to answer, he could see her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. "Just my Transfiguration book," she said quietly.
"I see," he said, discreetly dropping his gaze down to the papers on his desk to give her time to collect herself, should she wish to. "Have you informed Professor McGonagall as to the reason of your not being prepared? I am sure you remember I have advised you before that it is the only way to avoid being given bad marks unnecessarily."
"Actually, I didn't have Transfiguration today," she peeped, a tear finally spilling down her cheek. She wiped it away with the sleeve of her robes.
"In that case, there is no need to be sad," he said, starting to be somewhat confused by her odd behaviour. Her things had been taken many times before, so why should she suddenly get all worked up about it? "I shall come and help you find both books after dinner."
"It's not the books I'm sad about," she said, looking slightly amused by the idea despite her tears. "It's just that ... with Professor Moody we practised a spell, and it reminded me of the one that killed my Mum. And it just came back to me, the day she died. It wasn't pretty."
Snape was at a loss for words; he had not expected that. He had never been good in such situations, having always felt anything one said came out as mere empty phrases. "Is there ... anything I can do for you?" he managed finally.
She thought about his offer for a moment, then her eyes lit up as if she had remembered something. "I'd like a hug," she said simply. "It's what my Dad does when I feel sad."
Snape froze. If he had been caught off guard before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. How could she possibly ask something like that of him? Him, of all people? He could, though with difficulty, perhaps imagine Pomona Sprout comforting her Hufflepuffs in such a way, but he had always been careful to maintain an invisible barrier between himself and everyone else, thus hoping to prevent any potential attempts at emotional or physical contact. Could this girl be immune to it? Did she not see that she could not have chosen a more ill-suited person for her request? And so while a small part of him wanted to help her, to comfort her, as he could barely imagine what kind of emotional scars losing a mother at such a young age must leave, an infinitely bigger part was screaming at him that this was simply too personal and therefore something to be avoided at all costs, for after what had happened with Lily he had vowed to himself never to get close to anyone ever again, seeing as it would surely kill him if he had to go through such pain a second time. Especially when the first pain had never really gone away.
On the other hand, it would not do to hurt Miss Lovegood's feelings by flat out refusing her, so in the end he opted for a plausible excuse. "Being your teacher, I would hardly think that appropriate, Miss Lovegood," he said primly, hoping none of the emotional turmoil he was experiencing showed on his face, giving away his real state of mind.
Unfortunately for him, Miss Lovegood was not deterred. "Then you could hug me as a friend," she said readily. "That's how I like to think of you, when we're not in class."
Checkmate. Not only could he think of absolutely nothing to say to this, but he also felt strangely moved by her words, which he did not see how he had deserved. 'Nice', perhaps, but to call him 'a friend', surely that was stretching it a bit too far? Then again, when he thought about it, he realised that Miss Lovegood probably did not have any friends at all. Naturally, in Potions she did share a table with two other Ravenclaw girls, but that was obviously only because the classroom was not large enough for each student to sit alone. When he watched her at mealtimes, however, she always ate in silence, without ever turning to chat to her peers as most others did, and whenever he passed her in the corridors, she was, without exception, on her own. He thought he could understand, therefore, why she sought to befriend the only person who had ever been even remotely pleasant to her – himself.
He suddenly felt like hitting something in desperation; how fair was it that a person as kind and selfless as Miss Lovegood did not have a single soul to turn to at Hogwarts, when even he, socially awkward as he was, had had at least Lily until things had gone wrong between them, and later, though he would be hard-pressed to call them friends, also his gang of would-be Death Eaters who had, if nothing, accepted him for who he was?
Overwhelmed by pity for the poor girl and a wild urge to do something for her to ease her loneliness, to be, at least for the moment, the friend she had made him out to be, he finally threw all caution to the wind and, with a muttered "Very well, then", crossed the distance between them, knelt by her chair and, a little tentatively, as if unsure how exactly to go about it, wrapped her arms around her. Almost immediately, she curled up into his embrace, and he could hear quiet sniffles as she cried into his robes. Freeing one of his hands, he gently stroked her hair until, at last, her tears subsided, washing away not only her grief over her mother's death but also, inevitably, some of the barriers he had put up to protect his wounded heart. Curiously, though, at that moment it did not trouble him at all.