Title: Available Means (10/?)
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: Narcissa's doing something desperate, Willow's forced to prove a point, and Snape . . well, we're not sure what he's doing yet.
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?
Thanks muchly to Erin for her continued input and support!
***
Narcissa crept down the stairs, as silent as she could make herself without use of a charm. There were no charms on her at all. She was distractingly aware of her whisper-fine hair clinging to her face, of her sweating, of the goosebumps on her skin - things she never felt unless she was coming down off a high and was too delirious or too ill or just too recently unconscious to have renewed the dozens of personal charms that usually clung to her. She had studiously avoided so much as passing by any reflective surface on the way down - and not only because Lucius had spelled several of the mirrors to record what they reflected. She had the disturbing suspicion that, without her carefully manufactured perfection, she was going to look either absurdly young or frighteningly old, and she didn't want to know about either.
But there could be no charms. No wards against detection. Even her wand was left upstairs. The faintest hint of magic, even the simple spell that kept her hair sleeked back out of her eyes, would set off the complex series of wards Lucius had set on this staircase. She could feel them tingling unpleasantly over her skin, rather like standing just out of range of a lightning strike.
In front of her, one of the wards solidified into a shimmering wall of orange haze. Where the haze touched stone on either side of the stairs it sizzled and popped, and Narcissa felt her face flush with sudden heat - another unfamiliar bodily response, usually magically repressed. It wouldn't do for Malfoy's wife to go red in the face in the heated crush a high society party, after all. So, therefore, she didn't. She felt heat, still, but in a way that was merely knowing it was there - the actual sensation of blood rushing to her cheeks without emotional impetus was so unnerving she almost dropped the scrap of paper clutched in her shaking hands.
Orange, heat, flame . . which one, which one . . what if it's one she never saw . .
The wards were set to activate at random, so that the path to the dungeons was never the same twice. Narcissa had no idea how many possible obstacles there were; Lucius had shown her a few of his more vicious new additions in rare moments of good humor, but not all of them. And there were the ones set down by his father. And his father's father. And his father before him. Hundreds, maybe thousands of different traps devised and perfected over generations to insure no one not a Malfoy could ever enter this dungeon uninvited.
And never mind the priests' words or the changing of records, I am not a Malfoy. I married a Malfoy, I mothered a Malfoy, but no one not born a Malfoy will ever be more than a possession.
Of course, even Malfoys have their blind spots, she thought with a sense of malicious triumph, finally recognizing the notation on the scrap of paper that matched the wall of vaporized flame before her.
"Satio," she whispered, her voice sounding dusty and brittle with lack of use. She'd been on these stairs for what felt like hours. Weeks. Years.
The orange haze seemed to solidify, gathering inward, darkening into a black powder hanging in the air, before turning to smoke and vanishing in an unseen, unfelt breeze. How very impressive. I bet his guests like that one.
But how predictable. Not quench the fire, but satisfy it. Let it burn to ash. How very *Malfoy*.
That, of course, would also be to impress the guests . .
Narcissa stepped cautiously over the place where the ward had been, half expecting the stone to burn her through the thin soles of her slippers, but it felt cool, indistinguishable from the rest of the narrow, twisting stair. She tucked the scrap of paper into her bodice.
I must be nearly there. I must.
She didn't say how long it was. And dark, and dank, and like the walls will close in and swallow you alive.
Of course, she takes the form of a mouse. Perhaps this is comfort for her - to be in some dark, secret place.
Narcissa still didn't really understand how her spy had managed to gain access to this passageway. Secreting herself away in some pocket of a dark robe, often worn and infrequently inspected, was nothing the creature hadn't done before, but her transformed state should have set off the wards. It should have set off the wards on Lucius' *rooms*, never mind this stair.
The woman had only told her, with an expression as close to pride as Narcissa had ever seen from her, that the Animagus transformation was only magic if one had to learn it.
Whatever *that* meant. And the woman's muggleborn, anyhow - what does she know about the nature of magic?
But then, what do I know? I know that the professor who taught Advanced Magical Theory didn't take attendance. And now, suddenly, its another thing I should have known would be important.
I don't care, really, so long as it gets me down and back up again alive. I don't care what made her think to do this, to be watching this stair for years when I never asked her to. I don't care if she can transform because her great-grandfather actually boffed a field mouse. It's -
- no, it's not irrelevant. You never, never fucking learn. Nothing is irrelevant. It's a detail, a detail out of your control. It's all in the details, all in the little things that slip, that you don't notice . . that's where it all goes to hell.
A lesson Lucius will soon be learning, and won't soon be forgetting, she thought grimly, coming around a bend and spotting, at long last, a heavy wooden door. If I can just stay sane, hold myself together for just a little while.
Just long enough to send them all to hell, where they can't touch my son.
She brushed a feathery strand of hair off of her lips, pulling the piece of paper out of her dress and turning it over, glancing between the real door and the elaborate, painstakingly detailed sketch of it she held.
I could never do that, she thought suddenly. I can't draw at all. I could never have been an Animagus, natural or magical or otherwise, I never gave a fig for transformation. I could never have remembered all those wards, all those passwords, kept them locked in my little mousy brain until I could write them down. My memory is all cobwebs and moth holes . .
I can't think of a single thing I'm good for. No, not true. Looking pretty. Fucking.
And Draco. Think of Draco. You've got to find a way to be good for more than that, for him.
She had to crumple the paper slightly in her left hand because she needed it to hold her right wrist, or her right hand would be shaking too much to draw the complicated glyph that unlocked the door.
This is just the sort of thing I don't do. Cissy doesn't do rituals and dank cellars, she's just there for the party.
For the fucking. For the being a perfect little wife.
Even braced, her hand still trembled faintly.
Oh fucking hell, this has to work, I don't even know what happens to me right now if it doesn't, but I know what happens to Draco, a month from now, or a year, or five years . .
The door shuddered and creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room full of strange shadows, shapes that moved on the wall in the illumination of the never-dying candles. Expelling a dizzying breath, Narcissa stepped inside.
A demon's momento box, was the first thought that popped into her slightly addled brain. The objects themselves neither frightened nor disgusted her - of course Lucius keeps tools for torture, and human body parts in jars - but the tangible reminder of just what her husband was capable of doing shook her.
Years since he used the Crutiatus . . Crutiatus doesn't leave marks, not like cutting off fingers, but I suppose leaving a mark doesn't matter if the mark is just on a corpse to be tossed from the cliffs, and he would, he would kill me for this.
Which is, I suppose, perfectly fair. Death would be merciful compared to what's awaiting him. Because of me.
She couldn't quite identify the emotion that thought stirred; it wasn't exactly guilt at the thought of betraying him, and it wasn't precisely fear of him either. It was more a nauseating sense of her own power, and a gut-level rejection of it. Cissy doesn't do this sort of thing.
It's why I married you, you know, Lucius drawled in her memory, too low to be heard by anyone but her, hand clenched firmly around her elbow at some glittering Hogwarts fundraising event. His remembered self smiled pleasantly at someone in the crowd. Because you do *this* so very well - just follow along. You're a whore in every fiber of your being. Oh, I know what they say behind my back, about a Malfoy settling for seconds. Idiots. They didn't see what a prize you were, my dear. It's rare to find someone who can be owned so completely, with so little effort. Smile, dear, here comes that imbecile Fudge.
Narcissa tried to blank her mind of everything but what she had to do, but it didn't work very well. The damning thing about cranking up and smoking up and getting smashed in general is that, when you become accustomed to the stillness of it, it's hard to be still without it ever again. Just existing starts to make you nervous.
Or maybe that's just my existence in particular.
Her fingers felt like numb twigs rattled in a cold wind, still trembling as she took the muggle object out of the pouch at her belt. It looked strange to her, nothing like it's wizarding equivalent, though at one time the two items - wizarding and muggle - were very similar in design. Of course, it was a wizard invented it first, but then the muggles took it and improved upon it. Made it their own. Made it something that generations upon generations of Malfoys would never even think to guard against.
Narcissa raised the camera to eye level and pointed it at a jar containing several human thumbs, floating in a clear liquid. She pressed the button on the right, as the Animagus who stole it for her had instructed her to do.
A blinding flash of light sent the room into stark relief for a heart-stopping moment. Narcissa nearly dropped the Polaroid camera, her heart thundering in her ears. But nothing happened; no alarms sounded, no wards closed down around her.
With a little mechanical whir, it shot a flat slip of film out one end. That's good. That's what it's supposed to do. I think. Why is it all dark? Was it like that when she showed me?
As she watched, the image rose slowly out of the blackness, clearly illuminated. In the unflinching glare of the camera's flash, the very prosaic pickling jar and its obscene contexts made Narcissa briefly ashamed.
I have thumbs. I wouldn't want my thumbs in a jar. Not really a difficult concept, is it? Not when you bother to think at all.
But I didn't bother to think, I don't like to think, I hate being here in this dank place making these choices and . . and I don't know who else would have had me.
I suppose it would have been better, really, if no one had. I could have been a lonely spinster with a dozen cats who sits up knitting, alone . . that's so much less petrifying a thought when you're alone in a dungeon full of severed limbs and the things that severed them than it is when you're a fifth year who's parents barely know she's alive and who just wants to make sure of it . . just wants to feel something, just wants someone to notice her, just to make positively sure that she's real . .
. . and oddly enough, I'm not convinced. This doesn't feel real at all.
But it is, she told herself firmly. You can flay your tardy conscience bloody later. Now, there are things to be done, for Draco, who is real.
Who couldn't have existed if you hadn't fucked up quite so badly.
And I don't know what that means. I'm not meant to know what things mean.
This is going to kill me, I think. I'm going to die in some dank hole somewhere because of this.
Determined but shaking, she turned the Polaroid towards the next jar.
***
I could get used to this way too easily.
"Now, vampires are a required aspect of the Ministry-approved curriculum, and may be covered on your OWLs, so pay attention here," Professor Winston Reed lectured, pacing at the front of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, hands clasped behind his back. "I realize this all may seem very theoretical to you, very detached from your immediate lives, but rest assured, the results of your OWLs will have a very great and immediate impact indeed."
He was skeletally thin, with a hair of a dusty brown color that insisted on falling over his wire-rimmed glasses. Trying to stave off boredom induced catatonia, Willow had started keeping a running tally of how many times he tried to fix it. It was six times for today's class, 47 in the past week.
Okay, well, maybe not *this*.
But mind-suckingly dull classes aside, the whole school thing, it's . . well, it's really comfortable.
From the student end of it, anyway.
The teaching, on the other hand - still a little intimidating. Two weeks here, and it's still a little - okay, still *way* intimidating.
Note to self - do not pace in front of class. Looks dumb, read her notes from the last half-hour. Beside her, Hermione was tapping her quill impatiently. Just past Hermione, Ron was staring straight ahead with a glazed look in his eye. Willow couldn't quite see what Harry was doing, but he was writing feverishly. Which means he cannot possibly be taking notes on the same lecture I'm listening to here . .
I could get way too used to them, too, in a not-teacher way. They're good kids. They're entirely too Scooby-like.
I'm gonna have to teach eventually and it's gonna be awkward if I'm best buddies with my students.
Though, I was sort of friends with Ms. Calendar . . and granted, there was the whole ulterior motives and ancient gypsy plots part of that, but still . . she wouldn't be a bad teacher to be like . .
Then again, I kinda already tried that, and granted, Snyder forcing me to pass everyone probably didn't add to the experience, but I think I failed miserably. Didn't get too much respect in that class.
Was that because I was a high-schooler trying to act like a teacher? Or because I was a teacher still trying to fit in with the students? Age, or attitude?
That sounds like a seminar.
Except the part where it wouldn't suck and be useless, like all the teaching seminars I took in college seem to have been.
Ugh, I have no clue how to do this.
"Now, I trust you all covered the basics on vampires in 3rd year? Their physiology and such?" Reed prompted the class, pausing momentarily. There was a vague, classroom-wide mumble of assent. "Splendid! We'll move right along to their behaviors, then." There was a faint snore from the Gryffindor side of the class.
Then again, neither does he, and they haven't fired him yet.
Though Ron says his dad says Reed's some sort of dupe for this 'Ministry of Magic' that Dumbledore evidently pissed off. And it sounds sort of like what would happen if you stuck the CIA and the IRS in a blender and added in a touch of Supreme Court.
The Ministry, that is.
Reed sounds sort of like what would happen if you stuck Wesley and a bunch of sleeping pills in a blender. And added a shot of even-more-boring-as-hell.
"Vampires are very territorial, habit-bound creatures," Reed lectured.
They are?
"Therefore, it is possible to predict where one is most likely to encounter them - and thus, to avoid such places and the dangers they present. Vampires frequently nest - now write that term down, it may be on your OWLS - in graveyards, mausoleums, and other suchlike places."
"And nightclubs," Willow commented absent-mindedly, jotting down alternatives to long, boring lecture - group discussion? field trips?
For later - ask Dumbledore if fieldtrips allowed.
"Pardon?" Reed asked, pausing mid-pace.
"Nightclubs," Willow repeated, glancing up from her notes. "You know, crowded places, there's dancing and booze? Do wizards have those?" Someone on the Slytherin side of the room snickered.
"Of course," Reed answered, primly. "But, what about them?"
"Vampires?" Willow prompted.
Reed stared blankly.
Hermione made a soft tsking sound at Willow's side and, the redhead was happy to note, scribbled down 'nightclubs' on her own list of places frequented by vampires.
"You were lecturing about vampires, and where they hang out," Willow reminded him.
"I'm aware of that, Miss - I mean, Professor Rosenberg," Reed gritted out between obviously clenched teeth. "But what does that have to do with night clubs?" Willow had to squelch the impulse to roll her eyes and sigh. Loudly. Do you actually have two clues to rub together, Mister-I-mean-Professor Reed?
"I was just saying, that in my experience, vampires tend to hunt at nightclubs," Willow explained in as calm and reasonable a tone as she could manage. "It makes sense, if you think about it - lots of random strangers, and those places are always roasting, so it's not that noticeable if your new buddy's skin is only room-temperature, 'cause room temperature is, like, inferno. And people going off alone together isn't going to attract attention, either. Also -"
"Thank you, Professor Rosenberg," Reed interrupted her, pressing his lips together in a brittle-looking line that Willow suspected was his attempt at a polite smile. "Now, as I was saying, vampires tend to prefer graveyards, mausoleums, dungeons, and sometimes enchanted forests."
Willow snapped her mouth shut. Hermione gave her a sympathetic look.
"What a pillock," Ron muttered.
Am I morally obligated to tell him not to talk about another professor like that?
Oh, screw that. Reed's a pillock. Whatever that is. But I'm sure he is one.
"Now, the best way to avoid a vampire attack is, of course, to avoid such places, except in broad daylight," Reed went on.
"Hey, we can ditch Potions," Ron whispered. "Oh, and this class, too. He *said* to avoid dungeons!"
Willow felt she really had to give him at least a glare for that, and did so; he blushed, but didn't look the least repentant.
"If, however, you must enter a graveyard at night - or, perhaps, a nightclub -" Reed paused for dramatic effect, and Willow's head snapped up, "there are some precautions you can take."
He's making fun of me! I don't believe it! That scrawny, clueless little prick is making fun of me! In front of students!
"Crosses, garlic and holy water are the recommended vampire repellants," Reed lectured, ignoring Willow's indignant stare, and turning to write those three items on the board. "Any of the above can be worn on the body, with crosses being the most easily secured around one's neck. However, for those who would be uncomfortable wearing a cross or dousing themselves with holy water from reasons of differing religious beliefs, garlic can also be easily braided in a necklace. Your homework, therefore - "
"What about the wrists?" Willow demanded. Gonna make fun of me, huh? I'm Miss-I-mean-Professor Rosenberg, huh? We'll see about that one! "And what about stakes?"
"Wrists?" Reed mimicked in a dismissive tone.
"Yes, wrists," Willow repeated. "Specifically, your radial and ulnar *arteries* - you know, the things that carry lots of yummy blood?"
"Vampires have an instinctual impulse to lunge for the neck," Reed responded.
"Well, yeah, unless you've got a big old bunch of garlic wrapped around it," Willow retorted. "Then they go for what they can get. Wrists are an easy grab, but you've also got to watch your upper forearm, inner thigh, your lower back where your kidneys are - anywhere you've got major blood supply. And what about *stakes*?"
"What *about* stakes?" Reed snapped. "Surely you aren't suggesting that 5th years should be advised to engage in hand-to-hand combat with the undead?"
"Oh, no, of course not," Willow answered with mock sweetness. "Silly me. When a vampire attacks them, they should very nicely inform the vampire that they're only 5th years, and that it should really go find some victims who are of legal age!"
"Ah, excuse me, Professors?" Hermione was timidly raising her hand.
"Yes?" Reed answered her, rather tersely.
"Well, vampires are killed by fire, aren't they?" Hermione asked.
"Yep," Willow responded, at the same time Reed began to say, "We'll cover that in next -"
"Well, then wouldn't it make sense to use an incendiary charm?" Hermione finished, glancing between Reed and Willow.
"This is *boring*," a female voice whispered loudly from the Slytherin side of the class. Willow whipped around, pinning Pansy Parkinson with a glare.
"So is being dead," Willow snapped. "So shut up and pay attention. Five points from Slytherin."
Oh yikes, if I don't watch it I'm going to end up sounding like Snape!
But, boring? Oh yeah, you're gonna think it's really boring when there's a bottle shoved in your face by a demon!
"That is one method of dispatching a vampire," Reed ground out, jaw tightly clenched, "but producing an incendiary charm of sufficient strength to incinerate the vampire before it has the chance to either put the fire out or kill you out of rage is extremely difficult."
"So petrify it," Ron suggested.
"Good thought," Willow told him, "but may or may not work on your older vampires. They can get pretty resistant to simple hexes like that. For a fledgling, though, good plan. Five points to Gryffindor for you and Hermione."
"Professor Rosenberg, if you will kindly stop giving out points to students who are interrupting my class!" Reed exploded. "Dispatching vampires is the word of trained Aurors! Not 5th year students!"
"Where I come from, *not dying* is the work of everybody with a pulse!" Willow retorted. "And they're *contributing* to your class!"
"So for your older vampires," asked a voice from the Slytherin side, which Willow identified as Draco Malfoy. That boy Hermione and Ron and Harry can't stand. "What for them?"
"You *avoid them*," Reed said in a clearly exasperated tone.
"I wasn't asking you, Nancy, so shut up," Draco said calmly. For a moment, the classroom fell into complete silence. Ron laughed briefly, then made a sort of choking sound and looked utterly horrified at himself. Hermione was frowning across the room at the Slytherin boy as if he'd just presented a puzzle she couldn't quite figure out.
"Mr. Malfoy, you know you can't speak to teachers like that," Willow said in the best reproving voice she could manage, while Reed turned purple and sputtered.
"Even him?" Draco said, giving her a very dashing little smile. Bet he's used to getting his way with that smile.
"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, even him," said a voice from the doorway. Reed squeaked indignantly. Willow turned to see Snape standing there, arms crossed, looking dangerously amused.
"I came to see what had become of my 5th period potions class," Snape said in a very droll voice. "You do realize 4th period ended some ten minutes ago?"
"I apologize, Professor Snape," Reed said, very stiffly. "I, for one, am aware of the necessity of keeping *order* in a school." He shot Willow a nasty little glare.
"Oh, no need to apologize, Professor," Snape waved Reed's comments away. "This is fascinating. I can't wait to hear how Professor Rosenberg would suggest a master vampire be destroyed."
Oh, gee, thanks, poophead. Don't put me on the spot or anything.
But the poophead knows something about vampires. I just said "older". He said "master".
He's so annoying. Why does he have to be smart and know stuff? Or, if he's smart and knows stuff, why's he have to be such a jerk?
"Well, for starters, no eye contact," Willow said, a little more timidly now that the adrenaline rush of the argument had worn off a bit. "A lot of master vampires can put you in thrall."
"What's thrall?" asked Dean Thomas.
"It's like the Imperius curse," answered a Slytherin girl near the back of the room - Blaise Zabini, Willow thought.
"Very good," Willow said. "You know something about vampires, Miss Zabini?"
"A little," the dark-haired girl said with a shrug.
"Probably her family breeds them or something," Ron hissed.
"Mr. Weasley -" Snape began.
"Five points from Gryffindor," Willow snapped out before he could finished. Ha! So there! See, I can be fair and impartial and professional-like, unlike some poophead people who only ever take points from Gyffindor. Ron gaped. She gave him an apologetic look before turning back to Snape.
The Potions Master had one eyebrow raised, half-questioning, half-mocking.
"This is my classroom," Reed muttered dejectedly.
"I was wondering -" Blaise continued, a little timidly but very determined, "what if you haven't got your wand? I mean, suppose a vampire were to jump out at you, or get you cornered or something, and your wand broke?"
Okay, that was surprisingly specific. Note to self: find out after class if there's anything she needs to talk about. Like who got turned or died.
"That's precisely what you should *avoid*, Miss Zabini," Reed interjected in a triumphant way. "Because really, once that happens - well, I would suggest prayer."
"I know that," Blaise snapped back. "Because it happened to my sister."
Okay, that answers that. Ouch.
"My best friend got turned when we were both 15," Willow offered. This is what Reed doesn't get. These are Hellmouth kids. Okay, so no Hellmouth anywhere around, but . . these kids have seen stuff. Make a necklace out of garlic, yeah, right.
"My sister just died," Blaise said with a shrug. "I was three, I don't remember too well. But my parents said when they found her, her wand was broken. When they found her in a public library," she added, shooting Reed a challenging look.
"An aberration -" Reed tried to protest.
"I believe," Snape interrupted smoothly, "That Professor Rosenberg was going to explain to us how to dispatch a master vampire. Without use of a wand, perhaps?" This is all occurring at my sufferance, his tone said clearly.
Oh, bite me, poophead.
This is way more important for these kids than getting yelled at 'cause they shredded caterpillar gizzards wrong or something.
"Was the wand totally trashed? Like, splinters?" Willow asked. "Or just snapped?"
"Snapped," Blaise said, calmly. "They still have it."
"Then not without use of a wand," Willow said, glancing at Snape. Come on, sarcastic guy, make a comment, I dare you. "Just without use of a wand for magic."
"Without magic?" Reed scoffed.
"Well, if you'd let them learn how to work spells without relying on a bunch of twigs, then it wouldn't be so much the issue," Willow retorted. "But since you don't, yeah, without magic."
"Impossible," Reed said flatly.
"Funny how I've seen it done, lots," Willow answered.
"A fluke, assuredly," Reed insisted. "For a teenage girl to kill a vampire without the use of any magic? It's preposterous."
Note to self: bring Buffy in for show and tell.
Provided she ever speaks to you again.
Can't worry about that now. Guilt later. Kick ass in the present. Well, verbally, anyway. With the ass-kicking. Not literally.
"Perhaps we could have a demonstration?" Snape suggested.
Or literally. That could be fun too.
"And I suppose you have a vampire in your broom closet," Reed sneered.
"Unnecessary," Snape shrugged. "As our ersatz vampire will be killed by physical means - with a broken wand, as I recall - he won't need to possess any of the qualities of a true vampire, such as sensitivity to garlic. For our purposes, he will only need superior strength and speed. Which can, as I'm sure you know -" his tone suggested he wasn't sure Reed knew how to tie his own shoes "- be accomplished with a simple charm."
"Of course," Reed answered a little too quickly. "Well, I suppose it might be educational . . show them what a really preposterous idea . . well, alright, who'll volunteer -"
"What fun I will have telling various Slytherin parents how their children have been impaled on small pieces of wood," Snape commented with dry, biting sarcasm. Willow had to stifle a giggle. Across the room, Draco Malfoy laughed out loud. Snape sent a quelling look in his direction.
"It was your idea!" Reed protested sullenly.
"My idea," Snape corrected him, "was that a demonstration be put on *for* the students. Not *by* the students. And I thought you appreciated *order*, Professor Reed."
I really should not appreciate the poopheaded jerk's . . well, jerkishness, even when it's being used to my benefit.
But damn, he's good.
"So me and Professor Reed," Willow nodded. "If that's okay with you, Professor? You know the charm Professor Snape's talking about?"
"Of course I know the charm!" Reed snapped, and pointed his own wand at his chest. "I will, of course, attempt not to do you any serious harm, Professor Rosenberg. Envigoro!"
And then he proceeded to stand there.
"You're the vampire," Willow prompted.
"I was aware of that," Reed retorted.
"So you have to attack me!"
"You aren't in possession of a broken wand. I assumed you were going to transfigure something," Reed said, looking a little smug when Willow blushed.
"Oh, yeah," she said. "Well, uh -" she looked around. How the blue frilly heck am I supposed to transfigure something into a broken wand? I don't know how to transfigure things!
"Here," Harry said, reaching around Hermione and Ron to hand her the broken-off end of a ruler. "That'll do, won't it?" Willow looked questioningly at Snape.
"If that is amenable to Professor Reed," Snape said.
"Just let's get on with it," Reed answered. "Are you ready, Professor Rosenberg?"
"Vampires don't tend to ask that," Willow pointed out.
He rushed her with a very realistic growl. Pansy Parkinson screamed, and Hermione sucked in a rapid breath - which was unsurprising, considering she was sitting immediately next to Willow, and thus the rather crazed-looking Professor Reed was very nearly rushing her.
This is too easy, Willow thought with something very like glee.
She stepped out from behind her desk. Reed stumbled slightly, trying to change course abruptly. She pulled the desk out in front of him, and it caught him hard in the stomach. He gave an inelegant grunt. Willow kicked out the legs of the desk, causing it - and Professor Reed, with it - to tumbled to the ground.
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered in a very awed voice. Hermione just squeaked.
Reed caught Willow's ankle as he went down.
Oh, fuck!
Her tailbone hit the stone floor, her legs splayed out in front of her, and she winced in pain. Reed, a triumphant look on his face, lunged towards her neck.
Thank you, Dawnie, Willow thought briefly, and proceeded to give a girly little whimper and fall on her back. Reed loomed over her, not noticing the fragment of ruler between them until it was poking him in the chest.
"Gotcha," Willow said with a smirk. Reed blinked, utterly dumbfounded.
The rest of the class was still and silent.
It suddenly occurred to Willow that she was laying on her back in the middle of a classroom, next to a desk she'd wrecked, with the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor kneeling between her thighs - and someone was clapping, very slowly and theatrically. She twisted around to find the source of the sound as Reed blushed, stammered, and retreated hastily, casting the counter-charm on himself with such enthusiasm that his legs gave way beneath him.
Snape ceased clapping when his eyes met Willow's. He gave her an ironic little bow, and then left.
Oh no you don't, you bastard!
Grimacing at the ache in her lower back, Willow picked herself up off the floor and followed Snape into the hallway.
"Hey!" she yelled at his retreating back. He ignored her, turning a corner in a billow of dark robes around long legs. She followed, nearly running to keep up with his stride.
"Hey, I'm talking to you!" she shouted. No response. He reached the door of his office, went inside, and began to swing the door shut.
Oh no you fucking DON'T!
Willow broke into a run, catching the door with the flat of her palm just before it closed. She slapped it wide open. Snape's voice swore from the other side, and when Willow skidded to a halt just inside the doorway, he was clutching his overlarge nose and giving her a look that could have melted iron.
Oh god I just hit him in the face with the door!
"Well you deserve it!" she snapped. "Next time you want to stage a dog fight, find somebody else to be your pit bull!"
"This is my office," Snape said in a voice made even more dark and sinister than usual by his now-bleeding nose, "Leave."
"No!" Willow shouted, crossing her arms and planting her feet firmly in the doorway.
Snape attempted once more to shut the door. Willow hit it with her elbow, swinging it open again.
"You are being pathetically infantile, *Professor* Rosenberg," Snape ground out, making an insult of the title. "And you are creating a scene."
"Oh, so I can only create scenes when it's *your* plan, huh, *Professor* Snape?" she shot back.
"It's hardly my fault that you're so easily manipulated, *Professor* Rosenberg," Snape drawled in return, drawing a handkerchief from a pocket in his robes and pressing it to his nose, deliberately casual.
"Oh, you - you - I can't think of anything obnoxious and pompous and poopheaded enough!" Willow exclaimed.
"I'll have to agree, obnoxious and pompous and particularly *poopheaded* really are very inferior examples of insults," Snape responded smoothly. "Quite beneath you."
"And you'd know all about the insults, since you like practicing them on your defenseless students," Willow retorted.
"They won't be defenseless very long, I'd think, with you teaching them," Snape answered.
Willow opened her mouth to respond, and snapped it shut again. Wait a minute. That was a compliment.
And then Snape shut the door in her puzzled face, making her stumble back out of the doorframe to avoid having her toes crushed.
TBC . . .