Title: Things Will Be . . Things (9/?)
Author: Sonya
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.
Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.
Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.
Summary: There's a rule about first days back to school: they suck.
Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?
***
This is not happening.
Hermione ripped a brush through her hair with one hand, while the other frantically shuffled stacks of parchment on her desk, and when those revealed nothing, spun a stack of books roughly around so she could see the titles. Theories in Defensive Magic, An Abridged History of Interspecies Conflict in Medieval Bavaria, The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 5, and - ye gads, I still have that thing? - Gadding with Ghouls.
Oh, this is *so* not happening.
Hermione scampered across the chilly room in stocking-clad feet, wearing her school skirt and a bra, and threw the bedspread away from one side of the bed. Crookshanks, who had been lounging in the tangle of sheets, jumped down with an indignant yowl. Hermione ignored him, quickly sticking her head under the bed, pulling out chests of folded summer clothes, photo albums and piles upon piles of books. She examined each likely-looking book spine hastily, discarding one after the other.
So, *so* not happening . . not this morning . .
She gave up on the under-bed stash and pulled her head back out into the room, bumping her skull on the bed-frame and tossing her hair forward over her forehead in the process. With a disgusted near-screech, she threw her hair back into place. She attempted to pull the brush through it one more time - it got stuck halfway down.
Hermione yanked the brush out of the tangled mass of hair and threw it across the room. Something fell with a large thump, and another disgusted exclamation from the cat. Hermione ignored it, moving on to her bureau drawers, pulling out yet more books.
What on earth possesses wizarding publishers to bind all of their books - which are all of nearly identical thickness - in the same nearly-identical dark leather? Honestly, have they no consideration for their readers? How is one supposed to tell them apart at a glance when one's in a rush and tired because it's only - she glanced at her muggle watch - almost eight o'clock already and oh this is *not* happening . .
Something book-shaped wrapped in cloth caught her attention at the bottom of a drawer; she jerked the binding off. Why on earth would I have a book wrapped up in canvas anyway? Idiotic thing to do!
She drew her hand back with a startled yelp as 'The Monster Book of Monsters' lunged for her. It caught the end of her thumb momentarily before she managed to shake it off. Swearing in both English and a few random snatches of Bulgarian, she tried to slam the drawer shut on the book whilst sucking at her bleeding thumb. It got caught half-way out. Good enough for now. She stomped to her door, flung it open, and stuck her head out into the Gryffindor prefects' lounge.
"Have you seen my -" Hermione cut off when Dean Thomas made a strangled sort of choking sound and whipped around the other way as if he'd seen a basilisk. Katie Bell, the seventh year prefect, sniggered and turned faintly pink.
"What?" Hermione demanded crossly.
"Go look in the mirror," Katie suggested delicately, smirking. Hermione put her hands on her hips, frowning at the older girl.
"Well I know my hair's a mess, but that's -" she stopped abruptly. Her knuckles, sitting on her hips, were feeling the waistband of her skirt, and . . bare skin. That shouldn't be bare skin. That ought to be shirt.
Except I'm not wearing one.
Oh bloody hell and damn it!
With as much dignity as she could, she turned back to her room and shut the door.
Something heavy thumped rapidly across her toes, making her jump and shriek; it was followed immediately by an orange blur. The orange blur and the unknown toe-bruising creature paused across the room and resolved into Crookshanks and the Monster Book of Monsters, which had evidently escaped the drawer, and was now backed into a corner, snapping at the hissing cat.
This is a nightmare. It's really the only explanation. This is a nightmare, and I will wake up shortly and won't have overslept and all my things will be exactly where I remember leaving them and I won't be late to pick up the new professor and begin showing her around.
And none of my former textbooks will be trying to eat my cat.
This is just simply not happening.
Hermione grabbed her school shirt and robes off of her chair, throwing them on and buttoning the shirt while she scanned the room, biting her lip, trying to think were she'd be if she were a misplaced book.
Well, only one option left, really, she decided, surveying the ransacked mess that had been a neat, orderly example of a prefects' dorm just minutes before. She picked up her wand from the desk.
This is really not a good idea. I just know this is not a good idea.
But it's five minutes past eight and I should already be on my way to breakfast, with the new professor, pointing out the more historically significant paintings along the way.
The Monster Book of Monsters darted out of its corner, narrowly missing a swipe of Crookshanks' claws; the book and the cat both streaked towards the bed and proceeded to claw their way up the draperies.
"Accio Potions Text!" Hermione pronounced clearly, holding her wand aloft and wincing at the sounds of shredding fabric, tearing paper and yowling cat coming from atop the canopy bed.
No further sound or motion disturbed the room. Hermione lowered her wand with a utterly frustrated, puzzled frown.
Then she heard the yelping and swearing coming from the hallway, then the prefects' lounge. A moment later, something thudded heavily against her closed door.
"Are you tryin' to kill me?!" Dean Thomas's outraged voice demanded from the other side of the door. "First you damned near give me a heart attack, flashing us all like that, then your bloody frickin' boulder of a potions book comes flyin' at my head!"
Hermione shut her eyes and took a deep breath.
Not happening. Just really, really not happening.
***
"Weasley, hang on a moment!" a voice called as Ginny meandered out of the great hall, checking over her Divination essay one last time. She turned, and saw that the voice belonged to Pansy Parkison, flanked on either side by Claudette Delacroix and Jenna Page, two Slytherin girls in Ginny's year. They were all smirking conspiratorially.
"I have to get all the way up to Divination," Ginny tried to excuse herself. And why don't I just tell them to go bugger off? It's not like they'd ever actually want to spend time with Ginny the freak.
"Well, we do too, silly," said Claudette in her rather nasal voice, smiling indulgently at Ginny as if they were best buddies and she had never hexed Ginny's cauldron to overflow continuously when they were both in second year. "We'll just walk together." Claudette fell in to step with Ginny to her left, while Pansy took the right, hooking her arm around Ginny's elbow, effectively preventing her escape. Jenna trailed behind, trying to smother giggles.
"So we were wondering," Pansy said in the same disgustingly familiar tone, "about the new professor."
"What about her?" Ginny asked carefully. There's got to be a way to just not get into these situations.
"Well, you're not *related* to her, are you?" Claudette asked. Jenna tittered. Pansy raised a speculative eyebrow, leaning in conspiratorially.
"You can tell us," she whispered near Ginny's ear. Ginny tried not to flinch, and succeeded in merely grimacing.
"No," she said flatly. "Why should I be?"
"Well, that red hair," Jenna piped in.
"Both your parents have read hair, don't they? And all your brothers," Claudette explained.
So does half of Ireland and a good portion of Scotland, morons. But don't let that stop you from finding a way to humiliate me about it.
"It couldn't be her brothers, *silly*," Pansy scoffed in a mockingly good-natured tone. "She hasn't got any old enough."
Old enough? Huh?
"Oh, I guess you're right," Claudette nodded, scrunching up her doll-like face and frowning in obviously feigned consideration.
Perhaps you shouldn't even try to *look* like you're thinking, *dear*, Ginny thought. You just might strain something.
But . . old enough . . huh?
"So she's got to be her father's, then," Jenna choked out between snickers. Good lord, she's not only a malicious little bitch, she's also a pathetic, incompetent example of a malicious little bitch. Laugh *after* the punch line, lack-brain.
And my father's what? Who?
"Does your mother know?" Pansy whispered, sounding scandalized.
Oh.
Ginny flushed scarlet. "The new professor isn't - she's not my father's - anything. He hasn't got any - I mean, he wouldn't -" *Why* do I have to get incoherent over things like this? They're pathetic. So why are they laughing and I'm blushing?
They're stupid, spoiled little brats who have nothing better to do than make other people miserable and they haven't the slightest clue about my father or my family or anything, they'd all die if they had to deal with one tenth of the real problems I've had, and honestly, I think I could pound Pansy's simpering, painted face into the ground if she ever really started with me, so why, exactly, am I * stuttering*?
Pansy Parkinson and her little lackeys don't rate stuttering from the girl who survived being possessed by Tom Riddle.
But here I am, turning all purple.
"Oh well," Pansy said with a little shrug. "We were just wondering."
"We didn't *really* think so," Claudette added. Jenna was incoherent with giggles.
"After all, she *is* rather too pretty to be from *your* family," Pansy's tone was deliberately even, as if to say she wasn't really being *mean*, just stating a fact.
Pathetic little bitch. Ginny stared hard at the floor, willing herself not to loose her temper and create a scene that would only spawn more rumors about crazy Ginny Weasley.
"Best keep her far away from *your* father then, eh, Parkinson?" a new, male voice commented from behind them.
Pansy swirled indignantly towards the voice, gaping when she saw who it was.
"Shut your mouth or get on your knees, Parkinson," Draco Malfoy sneered at the Slytherin girl, stomping past the group of them, giving Pansy no time to respond. She had turned a deep tomato red that didn't go at all with her mauve lipstick, and looked like she just might cry. Claudette's already overly large eyes were positively bulging, making her look like a stunned fish. Jenna had her fist stuffed into her mouth, trying to stifle yet more scandalized laughter. Pansy gave her a venomous glare, and she hiccuped.
Ginny just stared after Draco, watching his thin, uncharacteristically hunched-shouldered form disappear down a stairwell towards the dungeon.
Malfoy just insulted Parkinson?
And . . I think . . he was sort of defending me.
***
What in the bloody fucking hell did you go and do that for?
Draco slammed his books down on the Potions lab table, causing Crabbe's cauldron to bounce out of its stand and clatter noisily to the floor. Crabbe glanced at him nervously, frowning a little, obviously trying to determine if Draco had done that intentionally and if he was in danger of getting hexed for retrieving his cauldron.
Draco just ignored him, crossing his arms over his books, putting his head down and sulking. Other students were filtering slowly into the room in small groups; he saw the new professor - the total dish of a new professor, now she's not looking quite so fresh out of the hospital wing - come in with Potter, Granger and Weasley, and grimaced. Oh, bloody wonderful, another sap for the Gryffindors. Just what this school needed.
Which is all the more reason why it was bloody stupid to go offending one of the few people who actually doesn't hate you.
Of course, it was Pansy. I'm not sure she actually qualifies as "people".
But her father does. Her father who's going to write to my father and complain about how I'm picking on his dear little baby girl . .
Though maybe she won't really want to repeat what I said to her father. Possible.
Then again, it's Pansy. If she had anything resembling shame, I would have gotten bored of her much sooner.
But still, it was stupid.
Professor Snape had crossed the classroom to greet Professor Rosenberg - Draco was surprised to see that they seemed to be getting along very well, the little red-head even giving Snape a rather cheeky smile. Is she *flirting* with him? Eugh! Be still my heaving stomach!
Crabbe was still watching him warily, his cauldron still wobbling from side to side on the floor in front of the table.
"Oh, will you go pick up your cauldron, you great tub of guts?" Draco snapped. Crabbe darted hastily around the table to comply, which was really quite an amusing sight, consider how very poorly built Crabbe was for *darting*.
Why is it that everybody either hates me or is petrified of me or both?
Except Weasley the youngest.
Who I was most certainly not defending. Has nothing whatsoever to do with her. Just wanted to get Pansy's knickers in a twist is all - assuming she was wearing any.
Nothing whatsoever to do with the little Weasel-girl or the kinda cute little gobsmacked look she got on her face . .
Oh ye gads, I did NOT just think the Weasel chit was cute. She's got no boobs. And she wears ratty old robes that aren't even girls' robes because they're handed down from her brothers, and she's got hair the color of tomato soup. And freckles. Even on her lips.
When the hell did I notice Weasel-girl has freckles on her lips?
Oh hell. This is it. Life, the universe, and everything are all officially fucking with my mind. There's no way in hell I'm noticing Weasel-girl's lips.
Snape had returned to his desk, and Granger was now introducing Professor Rosenberg to several of the Gryffindors. Neville Longbottom tried to shake her hand with his wand still in his, and when he realized this, flushed scarlet and proceeded to drop his wand into Granger's cauldron. Being the little over-achiever that she was, Granger had already begun following the directions on the board, piling up the dry ingredients for the day's potion in undoubtedly neat and precise layers at the base of her cauldron. Longbottom's wand had sent powdered dragon scale, dried essence of devil's snare and shredded mothwing up in a cloud of dust that turned a pale violet and then proceeded to burst into neon green flames.
The new professor jumped back with a little meeping sound like a startled cat, while Granger exclaimed, "Oh, *Neville!*" in an exasperated tone.
Draco smirked, and thought he really ought to make some sort of biting comment, but didn't feel moved to make the effort.
"Mr. Longbottom, that will be five points from Gryffindor for your carelessness," Snape drawled from the front of the classroom. "Seeing as class has not even begun and you've already managed to set something on fire, perhaps it would be best if you moved your seat away from our new faculty member. I don't think it would be a particularly educational experience for her to be incinerated due to your blundering."
There were giggles from the Slytherin side of the classroom, and a slightly hurt and rather annoyed look from the new professor, directed at Snape.
Oh well, at least some things in the universe are constant.
***
"And how are you enjoying your first day of classes?" Snape inquired, sliding into the seat beside Willow at the staff table with his characteristic gothic grace.
The way he moves and the whole deep-dark voice thingie would be way sexy if he weren't such a big mean jerk-person.
Willow popped a devilled egg into her mouth and stared straight ahead, pretending not to notice his existence.
And why is he sitting with me?
Just because I sat with him last night when he was the only person I knew here and I hadn't seen him teach yet and I didn't know he was a total poop-head who bullies little kids and totally kisses the pampered behinds of the little Cordelia-clones in Slytherin - well, it doesn't mean I want to sit with him for ever and ever!
Of course, I did sit in the same seat. Maybe he always sits here. I should have sat somewhere else.
He was watching her; she could feel his gaze even while she refused to meet it.
And there's no reason to go feeling all disappointed just because he's a crappy teacher and a big mean poop-head jerk, even if he does seem really smart and even if the whole snake-venom experience did feel kinda bonding . . so the first person you met here was a jackass. There are tons of other people here.
You'll fit in just fine without him. No, you'll fit in better without him. All the other teachers snub him, remember?
So, now, you can snub him too, and you'll have something else to fit in . . about. Or with. Or whatever the correct preposition is to end that thought even though you're not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition and god somebody shoot me I am such a geek, and why do I feel like evil 10th grade Cordelia for just thinking I'll fit in better for snubbing somebody?
It's not like I'm snubbing him because his hair's all greasy or something. Though it is. He's got greasy, mean, jerky poop-head hair.
And I almost *liked* him.
"Is Miss Granger proving a sufficient guide?" Snape attempted conversation again. "If not, I'm sure one of my -"
"She's wonderful!" Willow snapped, and winced at her own excess enthusiasm. "I mean, yes. She's fine. Good." She speared a forkful of salad with unnecessary vigor and stuffed her mouth. Big mean making-me-snappy poop-head jerk.
"I see," Snape responded coldly, and there was a wealth of unspoken understanding in the words. "Perhaps you should see Albus about moving your quarters closer to Gryffindor tower, Professor Rosenberg. You're going to fit in here just splendidly."
There was not even the faintest trace of sarcasm in his tone, but Willow had the distinct feeling she'd just been insulted.
"I'm sorry you didn't get to see a better example of an herbology lesson," said a brisk but cheery voice from her right; Willow turned to see that Professor Sprout - what is her first name, really ought to remember that - had taken the other seat beside her, and was giving her a faintly apologetic shrug and a smile. "I just thought a few words needed saying, about the incident on Saturday, and - well, I didn't want to be too hard on them today."
None of the professors did - oh, wait, except the big mean jerk-person poop-head.
And you'd think a teacher would go out of his way to be nice to a kid who's already stuck with a name like 'Longbottom.' I mean, hello, talk about the making elementary school many interesting kinds of hell.
"It's no big," Willow assured the other woman. "It was still very interesting."
"Everything should be back to normal by next week, I'd expect," Professor Sprout went on, digging into an enormous salad with great relish. "Any ideas yet for your own class, dear?"
"Well, a few," Willow hedged. "Some thoughts. Ideas. A little short of plans, yet, but .. there are ideas." Translation: not a single bloody clue.
"Oh, that's good," Professor Sprout mumbled around a mouthful of arugala and spinach. "Let me know if you need any help with your lesson plans. I remember they were the absolute *worst* thing about my first year teaching - once you get up there in front of the class, it's all just showing them how it's done, but on paper? Dreadful," Sprout opined with a shudder.
"Right," Willow agreed. I'm supposed to submit lesson plans? Ack!
And getting up in front of a class is the easy part, right - excepting the whole mind-numbing stage fright issue.
"Don't you think so, Severus?" Sprout inquired, leaning around Willow, taking a delicate bite of a cucumber slice she had speared on her fork, and arching an eyebrow. She cast an almost conspiratorial little glance at Willow as she did so.
I don't get it, Willow thought nervously.
Snape grunted something unintelligible.
Sprout giggled.
"Don't mind Severus," Sprout whispered, leaning in towards Willow's ear. Up close the woman smelled strongly and pleasantly of herbs and earth, but Willow still felt vaguely unnerved by the situation, despite how very harmless the pudgy little woman seemed. "You're the first person I've ever seen him attempt to engage in *table conversation,*" Sprout paused and snickered, as if the very idea of Snape being social was a mildly naughty joke. "Really, it's most irregular. I'm sure if you just ignore him, he'll revert back to form and leave you alone."
Willow wasn't sure if the woman had meant to be overheard or not, but her whispering wasn't very whispery. Everyone for three seats in either direction must have heard the comment, including Snape, who sat there impassively, eating corned beef hash.
Willow gave a forced little giggle and tried to ignore the guilty pang in her gut as she did so.
He deserves it.
I'm sure if he were nice to people, then people would be nice to him.
Like they were to you in school? whispered a voice in her subconscious.
This isn't high school! she insisted to herself. Or, well, it is - but he's a teacher! And . . and he's icky. I don't want to feel all sorry for him while I'm being all pissed at him. If I wanna feel sorry for anybody I should feel sorry for that poor Longbottom kid he was sneering and jeering at all through potions class. If Severus Snape is all pathetic and friendless, well, it's just his own big mean poop-headed jerk-person fault!
But I still think I like being the snubbed one better than I like doing the snubbing.
It's nice to have one's own patch of moral high ground. Like an animal that likes to have its own territory, as opposed to an animal that likes to have a big old herd around. I liked my solitary top-of-the-moral-food-chain niche.
But I suppose I should take any niche I can get right now. And moral high-ground? Not so much my natural habitat anymore.
And could I possibly be any more of a geek if I tried?
"Excuse me, Professor Rosenberg?" a tentative voice came from over her shoulder. Hermione Granger was waiting, what looked like ten pounds of books clutched to her chest.
"Is it time to go already?" Willow asked.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts is all the way down in the dungeons," Hermione said apologetically. "Of course, if you wanted a longer lunch, you could always follow Colin and Ginny to Muggle Studies -"
"Nah, I'll stick with you," Willow said, silently grateful for a chance to flee the staff table. "Defense Against the Dark Arts sounds like my kinda stuff."
***
Snape didn't look up as Willow left the table, staring pointedly into his plate of hash.
Well, what did you expect?
She's exactly the sort of insecure, babbling little do-gooder who'd go all misty-eyed and indignant because you so much as raised your voice to an incompetent like Longbottom. Just the sort to think everyone should be treated *nicely* and *fairly* even if they are a hazard to themselves and others.
You had no earthly reason to expect her to be otherwise. If she'd been a student - which she's almost young enough to be - she'd have been a bloody Gryffindor for sure.
Should have known that, with all that bloody stumbling about half-delirious still trying to be the hero, back at the Three Broomsticks.
Just because she's had a taste of the dark doesn't mean she's necessarily learned a damned thing from it. Some people are - as evidenced by Longbottom - immune to even the most bluntly presented and obvious of lessons.
So, congratulations. You understand her. She's just like the bloody sodding rest of them. Mystery solved, life can now go on as usual.
Of course, there is no life as usual that doesn't involve spying for Dumbledore, leading a double existence - which is probably all that interested you in her in the first place. She was a convenient distraction.
A convenient distraction who babbles about Hellmouths and curses out Aurors and has the most positively fascinating little lips . .
And well, there's another thing. She's a pretty young woman. And no pretty young woman possessed of even the tiniest sliver of sanity would want to be even remotely associated with you.
So really, if you've been rejected as a foul-tempered git, it's a mercy. It saves you the humiliation of being rejected as a greasy-haired, beak-nosed, cradle-robbing old pervert, you pillock.
And besides, you detest babblers anyway.
TBC . .