She knocks on the door precisely the minute she was told to be here. Well, at least she has some tact. I bid her entrance, and motion for her to sit. She does so promptly, purposefully avoiding my eyes. Strangely, she doesn't do so in the manner of other students; unlike other students, she does not bow her head to me, hiding her face. She looks in my direction, but refuses to look me in the eye. Her gaze hovers somewhere near my left shoulder instead.
"Miss Davis. You will look at my eyes and show respect when I speak to you."
I hate her confidence, how she looks so strong when it is obvious that I have the power in this situation. She turns her head slightly to me, but still does not look me in the eye. I must be more sharp to break this one.
"Miss Davis-"
"I heard you, Professor. I choose not to obey."
"And what harm does it do to you? You don't have a choice to disagree with me."
Now she looks at me directly, and in a steady, firm, but not loud voice, she says to me, "I have always, and will always, have a choice, Professor Snape. I know what you can do, and I refuse to obey."
Her tone infuriates me, but I must keep my face straight. What do Muggles call it? A 'poker face'? I must maintain my expression. This conversation is getting me nowhere. If she were younger, this would have been easier. Anyone below the fourth year usually starts sobbing in fear the instant I tell him to take his seat. But now Miss Davis is in her sixth year, and she has obviously decided to become an arrogant know-it-all teenager, as so many do. As if she has all of the answers in the world, as if she could beat any odds. Stupid child. She has no idea…
"Miss Davis, present your wrists."
She raises an eyebrow, still averting my gaze. "What will you do to them?" she asks. As if I was going to amputate her hands. Stupid, foolish child. Does she think I will eat her?
"Miss Davis, present your wrists- now."
She calmly rolls up her sleeves and holds out her arms. She wears a strange expression, a mocking, twisted smirk, as if she's saying, "Are you happy now, Professor? I've been a good dog." I take and hold them firmly, examining the tiny white lines on those bone-thin limbs. Some look almost superficial, as I had suspected, but a few look as if they were once deep and ragged. Near her elbow, I notice a hint of blue. It doesn't look like a bruise. I request permission to further examine her arm, and she pulled away.
"It's easier just to take the whole thing off," she says. I began to protest- I have no desire to see the… flesh of a student. And I have most certainly no desire to be laid off from my job. Before I can finish the first three words of my rebuttal, the garment is already removed. "Relax, professor. I wear several!" she says to me. "Do you really think I would expose myself like that? To anyone? Ha!" She sniffs and rolls her eyes. I should have guessed as much, come to think of it- she did always seem to wear a lot of clothing.
I see what that blue mark is now: her shoulders are covered in tattoos, swirls of blues and greys in the forms of faceless beings whose claws grasped out for another of their kind. I also noticed that they all wore masks similar to the Death Eaters. The notion bothered me. One of their hands was distorted- something so very fine that it took me a moment to see it. There was a slight wrinkle in her skin, just above the bicep.
"I'm not a museum exhibit, professor…" Her tone implies annoyance, but her expression is teasing, the light in her eyes a mischievous flicker. She says, "If you want to know something, can't you just ask?" Now she is more serious. What did I want? I suppose I just wanted to know where they came from. Not the tattoos, of course- those are trivial. I want to know about the scars.
"Miss Davis… I was merely curious as to where you acquired your scars. As you know, it is my job to ensure the health of my students. If you are in some kind of emotional distress, these," I motioned to her wrists, "are not the answers to your trouble."
I thought that sounded dignified enough, while using language she could understand. She made a jerking motion and bit her lip. For an instant, I thought she would break down- but she started laughing at me! I was appalled. How dare she have the nerve? "Miss Davis! Control yourself!" I shouted as I raised my hand to her. She stopped dead.
"Professor Snape," she hissed. "Why don't you control yourself, and put your hand down!" She slid out of the chair, backing away from me. Did I really want to strike her? Was I going to? I decided against it. A memory of my father occurred to me; I would not become him. Now she has her wand out, and from her stance I see her form. She isn't very tall, and likely never will be. Although she is very lean, I can see the outlines of her muscular structure- she has built herself up. I no longer wonder how she beat Crabbe during last week's fight. Even though she was smaller than he, she was faster- and with her muscle mass in the equation, he was short work.
She was still staring at me.
I saw her relax her shoulders when I lowered my hand.
"Now Professor, can't we converse like adults?" She forces a wan smile, still not lowering her wand. Very good move on her part. It shows me that she isn't as stupid as some of her peers, who seem to think that the second another appears as if he isn't a threat, it really means that there's no threat.
Still, I feel I must scold the girl. What was she thinking? Does she not consider how dangerous it is to cut her wrists, how she could accidentally commit suicide with the most minute slip? Or even worse, did she ever consider who could get hold of her blood and use it against her? "Miss Davis… Do not be a prat. There is no need to do something as daft, something as foolish and imprudent as hacking away at your own flesh as some means of relieving pressure. If you feel you must do something to manage stress, try taking up Quidditch."
She studies me as if I've grown a second head. Her next words were those that I completely expected: "I didn't do it." As if I was supposed to believe that. What she said after that, I believed even less, but the more she told, the more likely it seemed.