A/N: Perhaps this has been a long time coming, but I had developed something of a case of Writer's Block. This may happen intermittently (just a forewarning.)
Naturally, this fic is AU, but I have tried to keep in character, even with the differences to Severus Snape's persona (as a female, I imagine he would be quite different.)
I could really do with a better summary for this fic, so if anybody has any suggestions, feel free to offer up your ideas.
Chapter Eight: First Impressions
Such a welcomed desire for rest was not to be, for Dinah, having taken so long for slumber to overcome her, woke with a start not forty minutes later.
Since that time, not yet two o'clock in the morning, she had been intermittently vomiting and anxiously pacing across the cold bathroom tiles.
Sleep was to evade her once more, it appeared, and no matter how many potions she might take to aid in the privilege of such a peaceful action, the opportunity was utterly futile. She knew she shouldn't have had that chicken leg — too much too soon.
Sparing little thought to her physical distress, however, her mind wandered to the son of her departed best friend. He was small in comparison to his peers. He was underfed, though Dinah knew that anyway. Had she not informed Dumbledore of that very fact a few weeks previously? The ageing wizard didn't appear to have shown a great deal of consideration for his young colleague's concerns; in fact, he was almost dismissive of them. Had he so little interest in the child's well-being?
The internalised frustration the woman felt towards the Headmaster prompted her to empty her stomach once more. Stress alone was enough to make anyone sick; not least of all the raven-haired potions teacher with the outwardly-calm demeanour.
Of course, she recalled the boy sitting at the table and noted that he seemed to be enjoying healthy conversation with those around him. Rigel was one of them.
Like his mother, he didn't always have a great deal to say — except when circumstances permitted — but that wasn't to say he was a total 'stick-in-the-mud.' Oh no, he had more charisma than she ever would — perhaps a little more like his father, though she couldn't say he'd ever possessed his father's propensity for bullying.
Oh, yes… Sirius had bullied her, as had his other friends (Remus Lupin perhaps not quite so much, though he'd never done a great deal to prevent the others from tormenting her.) It had at least eased off on Sirius' part at the close of her fifth year. James had gone too far and Sirius hadn't wasted a great deal of time in telling him so. Sirius had been fuming for days, from the very moment Dinah had gone to the Hospital Wing later that same day until a short time after she was reluctantly released by Madam Pomfrey.
To the end of her education, the vast majority of students who witnessed the initial exchange between the self-titled Marauders and herself would always make sure to remind her of the unpleasantries in any way they possibly could. If that weren't bad enough, too many of them knew what had happened two years earlier and that event was also enough leverage to torment her with.
Breaking from her thoughts, she rose from her position on the floor, steadying herself on the edge of the sink.
Not normally one for vanity, she stole a look at herself in the mirror — her hair a tangled mess, heavily-fatigued eyes, and her bones more than visible. Looking down to her left forearm, she saw it: the mark of her servitude. It was not quite so prominent as it had been all those years ago. Truth be told, it more likely resembled an awful burn scar these days, and she had received more than enough of those over the years.
Her nightdress was hanging off her; the same one Sirius had gifted her with a decade ago, and he'd given her a lot of gifts. (The man had honestly gone from loathing her in his youth to spoiling her rotten in adulthood.) It no longer sat comfortably on her shoulders and was now halfway down her arms, but remained in the same condition as the day she'd received it. It was the same with anything he'd ever given her.
Oh, but if Sirius could see her now he'd scarcely recognise her. Any light that ever made its way to her eyes had all but diminished now. Her only joy was the surviving child that connected them both, but there was enough light in him to make up for the lack of it in his mother.
Having flushed the toilet, she moved to wash her hands and brush her teeth. It was unlikely for her to have any sleep that night, so prepared herself for the morning.
Unable to face the prospect of eating breakfast, Dinah had entered the Great Hall only to hand out the student timetables among her Slytherins. There was more than enough whispering about her as she passed but she'd experienced so much of it over the years that she closed her ears off to it now.
From there, she had stolen a glance at her son engaged in conversation with his friends.
"Ugh! Double potions with Slytherin!" the youngest Weasley exclaimed. "They say Snape always favours them," he said to the bespectacled boy beside him.
The look on Rigel's face might almost have encouraged his mother to smile. "You are pullin' my leg?" he said, an expression of utter bafflement overcoming his features. "Where on Earth did ya 'ear that twaddle?" From there his eyes fell on the twins, who were grinning beside him. "Ask a silly question…" he muttered to himself, rolling his eyes.
Such an action brought Rigel's focus onto the woman in question. Eyes widening, he gave her a look, which simply stated 'What? Don't look at me.'
The two broke eye contact, as a rather sheepish Rigel returned to eating his breakfast, and Dinah finished handing out the last of the timetables, before retiring to the Dungeons.
While the students and her fellow professors enjoyed their breakfast, Dinah revelled in her solitude as she hand-wrote the potion recipes for the day on the blackboard. She had little need for books these days, for she had done it for so long that all recipes were ingrained in her head. Not only that, of course, but as she had come to realise, many recipes were incorrectly dictated in the outdated books. True, her predecessor Professor Slughorn had no issue with them, but incorrectly-brewed potions could be responsible for all manner of problems in the long run. Dinah wasn't quite so surprised at Slughorn's lack of interest, for the man appeared to care more for one's social standing than occurrences in his classroom.
The wizard did, of course, express an interest for talented students, but he'd much rather have had connections to strong social circles and hierarchies. Lucius Malfoy was one such student, though he had fallen out of favour with Slughorn once the latter discovered his support of the Dark Lord.
Dinah herself was a member of the Slug Club — as it was so named by it's founder — but had long-since been rejected by her Head of House. Was it her fault? Perhaps. She was a talented potions student (quite possibly the best in her year) but was still a far cry from having been considered a 'favourite.' Lily was a favourite, and how could she not be? She was attractive, talented and incredibly kind, if a bit cheeky. She was charismatic and that was something Slughorn had picked up on. The same could never be said for Dinah — she had all the charm of a flattened flobberworm.
No, 1974 had been the end of the Slug Club for Dinah. She got herself 'in the club,' as her peers so delicately put it, and they were not referring to their potions professor either. Pregnancy was reason enough for having the privilege of Slug Club membership revoked. Lily herself had refused to go to another meeting after finding out Dinah had been rejected. Dinah hadn't wanted her friend to go without just because she was stupid enough to get herself in such a state, of course, but Lily was stubborn. She did return to the Slug Club a year later after Easter break, but not without a great deal of coaxing from her teacher.
As she wrote the last instruction on the fifth board for her late-afternoon third-year Gryffindor and Slytherin class, her first group of students began queuing outside the door. First day of term and first-year Slytherins and Gryffindors. Whoever decided to put the students in robes of green and red together in classes didn't have a great deal of sense.
Placing the chalk back in her drawer, she scrolled her board down to the first-year lesson plan and made her way to the back of the classroom.
"Enter," she said plainly, pulling the door open.
It was evident that the Gryffindors appeared to have been taking the rumours seriously, as they filed in in complete silence. The Slytherins, too, entered in silence, though Dinah could sense their distaste for their Head of House.
As they all took their seats, Dinah confidently made her way back to the front of the classroom.
"You'll not be needing your wands in this class," she instructed, as a fair few reluctant children returned their casting devices to their robes. "You are here to study the subtle science and exact art of potion making and, thus, will not be requiring the use of incantations."
All eyes were upon her. Although she spoke in little above a whisper, she had the attention of her students. Was it her lack of volume, her intonation or the prospect of learning the art that prompted such focus? She'd never known, but students were usually quiet in her classes — or, rather, the first-years were, at least. She perhaps couldn't say the same for certain third-year students.
"I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses," she informed, silkily. "I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory and even put a stopper in death."
Over her own low voice, she could hear the faint scratching of quill against parchment. Scanning the room, her eyes fell on Harry Potter himself, the very source of the familiar sound.
"Mr. Potter," she called, in a somewhat questioning tone, carefully making her way over to the boy's desk, silently settling her palms on either side. Harry didn't flinch, merely continued writing. "Mr. Potter, have you something to share with the class?"
The bushy-haired girl to his right nudged him and he ceased his writing. Returning his quill to his inkwell, he raised his eyes and met those of his teacher. There was a distinct air of familiarity there. It was, admittedly, painful for Dinah to look into the owner of Lily's eyes.
"Just making notes, Professor," he replied, permitting his teacher access to his parchment, upon which were written the very words she herself had spoken.
Glancing among the sea of first-year heads, Dinah couldn't very well say all her students had prepared in such a manner. True, it might have been deemed rude at first, but not one other child had taken the time to take heed of her words.
Slowly, her hands slid off Harry's desk, as she folded her arms and returned to the front of the classroom.
"How many of you," she questioned, taking the focus away from Harry, "have taken time to study over the summer?" Receiving no reply, except an expression of indignation from Ron Weasley, she continued. "Let's see what you know."
Scanning the room, she searched for three participants, regardless of whether they were willing or not. "Mr. Longbottom," she called, and a chubby Gryffindor squeaked in fright. Surely he wasn't afraid of her? "Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" True though her voice might not have been quite so demanding, she was nonetheless rather intimidating.
"I-I-I don't know, P-Professor," he stammered in a watery voice, quivering in fear.
Dinah was somewhat taken aback by the boy's reaction. Surely she wasn't quite so frightening? Why, hadn't she seen him as a baby, when Frank and Alice had been kind enough to invite herself, Sirius and their children around? Hadn't he loved being held by her? Hadn't he cried when she left? He hadn't been so scared then. It seemed he cried now solely for her presence in the same room.
Thinking no more of it, she focused once more on the boy-who-had-been-previously-taking-notes. "Mr. Potter, where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"
Harry didn't cry; he just looked rather confused. If he were anything like his father, he'd have told her to check the store cupboard, but it seemed such a thought hadn't even entered his mind.
"I don't know, Professor," was his reply, infinitely more confident than Neville Longbottom.
Well, it appeared the Gryffindors, bar one, perhaps didn't recall a great deal from their books. Either that, or they hadn't taken a great deal of time to study.
For the moment, Dinah ignored the bushy-haired girl with her hand completely vertical, as she focused on a member of her own house.
"Miss Parkinson, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
It seemed Pansy Parkinson didn't know either. Her reply had been rather flippant; quite rude, in fact, when compared to the Gryffindor boys before her. The girl's tone had prompted a warning from her Head of House. No house points were taken, but Professor Snape made sure she got her message across regarding disrespect.
"Perhaps you know, Miss Granger?" Dinah questioned, focusing on the girl who seemed more than relieved to be putting her hand down and proving herself.
"Professor," the girl began, formally, "if you were to add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood, you would get a powerful sleeping potion knowing as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and will save you from most poisons and monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite."
It appeared the girl had not only studied during the intermittent period between the end of her own muggle education and the beginning of her magical one, but she also seemed to have memorised the potions text.
"Correct, Miss Granger," the teacher said, in an even tone. "Three points to Gryffindor."
As Dinah moved to stand behind her desk, all the students mouths fell open. Contrary to what they'd been told, apparently, Professor Snape didn't favour the Slytherins. Hermione Granger had answered three questions correctly and her knowledge had been rewarded. Needless to say, the Slytherins themselves were quite disgusted. It was almost as if the Head of Slytherin had betrayed her own House.
"Your instructions are on the blackboard," she informed her students, bringing their attention to the device in question. "Follow them just so and you'll not go far wrong. You may begin." That said, she watched the first years leave their seats to begin their preparation, before seating herself down and pulling the loose parchment towards her to begin writing future lesson plans.
Professor Snape seemed so engrossed in her own task that were another adult present in the room, they might have called her out for negligence. On the contrary, she had eyes everywhere, and Neville Longbottom's melted cauldron certainly didn't escape her notice.
Rising from her seat, she approached the scene of the incident.
"Mr. Longbottom, am I to understand you added the porcupine quills while it was still on the burner?" she asked, her tone in no way accusatory.
"It wasn't his fault, Miss," Hermione Granger announced. Evidently the girl witnessed something.
Slowly, Dinah inclined her head in the general direction of her Slytherins, whom were sniggering at their classmate.
As the students all started to stand on their seats to avoid the fizzing flow of spilt potion, their teacher vanished away the substance before it could do any lasting damage. The same, unfortunately, could not be said for Neville, who now had boils all over his face.
Her eyes still on the Slytherins, she whipped a handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to the snivelling child and spoke to the Irish boy he'd been working with. "Mr. Finnigan, kindly take Mr. Longbottom to the Hospital Wing." With that, the two boys headed out of the door. "I shall see you after class," she told the three Slytherin boys in front of her, before returning to her desk, giving her class one look which encouraged them to continue with their potions.
By teatime, there was talk among the first-year Gryffindors regarding their potions teacher, coupled with a great many glares from the Slytherin House Table.
"I'm telling you," Ron said. "She took five points from Slytherin and gave Hermione three."
The twins could scarcely believe their ears. Of course, they knew what their teacher was really like, having had her for the third year in a row.
"Oh, me!" Fred exclaimed, hand on his heart.
"Oh, my!" George added, dramatically. "Why, can it be true?"
"This is the third year we've had her for potions and she's not once handed a single point out to us." Fred feigned shock.
Rigel rolled his eyes, as the eldest Weasley currently at Hogwarts spoke up. "Perhaps you haven't done anything to deserve it."
"Oh, what could that possibly mean, brother, dear?" Fred asked, knowing full well what it meant. After all, he and his brother had something of a knack for pranking their peers or messing around in their classes.
"Did you not attempt to have the potions classroom fumigated in January?" Percy reminded his brothers.
Fred's eyes lit up. "Ah, the Mushroom Incident," he grinned, excitedly. "I remember it well."
"Great days, eh, brother?" George nudged his doppelgänger.
Rigel groaned. A fine birthday present that had been for his mother. The dungeons had been closed for three days while she scraped the gunge off the walls by hand. Admittedly, she had help from Mr. Filch, the school caretaker, but he didn't exactly make for pleasant company on the best of days. The Slytherin Common Room and dormitories had also been closed off and the serpent-crested students had kicked up something of a stink over having to sleep in the Great Hall; admittedly, a stink quite unlike the one in the Dungeons which smelt most foul.
"Oh, you may have heard of suicide—" Fred began.
"— or homicide—" George continued.
"— or matricide—"
"— or patricide—"
"— dear Firsties, but never before have you heard of—" they joshed in unison.
"— fungicide," Rigel sighed, in a monotone voice. "Fungicide, really? There wasn't a great deal of fun in it."
"Hey, it was good while it lasted," Fred grinned, cheekily.
"Stank a bit though," George added. "Smelt like someone dipped Percy's socks in the contents of a dungbomb."
"Do you mind?" Percy asked, agitated. The reference of stench regarding his footwear was evidently embarrassing for the prefect.
"No, I babysit," the younger twin replied.