Chapter 2

On Friday after dinner, Potter entered my classroom, downcast.

I understand completely. I don't want to resume these lessons any more than he does. It's pointless to adopt impassivity, so with a flick of my wand, the door closes.

He sets his bag down against the wall and waits for me.

"Potter."

"Snape."

I don't harp on his disregard of addressing me appropriately. It'd be pointless. Insults will fly. Veins will pop. Spells will be cast.

It is going to be hell on earth.

I sigh.

"I don't like this any more than you do, but…" Albus bloody Dumbledore bribed me and I really would like to get my hands on what he's offering. "The headmaster put in a special request that we…try again. With that in mind, I think a different approach will be necessary."

"Yes Sir."

That's better.

"I trust you remember what occlumency is."

"I do."

"All right. Today, we will not…attempt at any spell work. Instead, I'm sending you to the library. I want a five foot essay on my desk with a works cited to be given next week."

"FIVE FEET?!"

"Potter, that's not that bad. Do some research and write me the damn essay."

"Five feet isn't bad to you because you're assigning it! I've mountains of other homework to do!"

He's on the urge of strangling me. His hands are curling and uncurling. He's teeth are gnashing. His eyes are flashing.

I resist the urge to smirk.

"It's not as though you have copious amounts of detention on top of everything this year, Potter. I'm letting you use this hour to begin your research and select the best sources."

"I've enough to do without you shoving more homework down my throat!"

"Five feet isn't that bad, you brat!" I snap. "Think of it this way: You've a day for research, five days for five feet of parchment, and another foot for your works cited. It's not that bad."

"You…"

"Get your ass to the library."

"You know what? Screw you!" he seizes his bag and marches out.

I'm a little taken aback that he actually dared to swear at me. A little impressed, but still.

I poke my head out the door. "Potter!"

"What?!" he yelled back.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor. And detention." He flips me off. To be honest, I'm having a lot of fun. More than I probably should. "That's another ten points and another detention."

"You a—"

"I wouldn't finish that thought unless you want a whole week of detention."

"I BLOODY HATE YOU!"

I close the door.

"Like I care," I mutter.

However, I do care.

Why do I care?

#

I don't understand why what Potter's verbal confirmation would bother me so much. It's probably because I've given the brat a lot of my time in and out of class whether he knew it or not.

That must be why.

And he's my enemy's son, to boot. And my best friend's son, but that tends to be overlooked a little more often than not when I think about it.

Saturday night, I'm grading some more badly written essays that make my eyes want to bleed.

"WEASLEYS!"

I look up, startled. I remove my reading glasses (which I never needed until recently when my eyesight began to go bad. I conjectured it was from all the reading I do and from years of brewing potions without eyewear.)

I stand and go to the second corridor.

"Argh!" I groan, covering my nose.

Filch has already plugged it with a swimmer's nose plug. He turns to me, but I'm already running out of the corridor for fresh air.

"Bloody hell! What is that odious stench?!" Minerva shrieked.

I cast a bubble charm on myself and return. "I believe, Minerva, that is a dung bomb."

"Id waz thoze Weedsly dwinz!" Filch shrieked. "Adgain!"

"I'm sorry Argus, but…have you any proof?" Minerva asks.

I fight down a smile.

"I don't need proove, who elze could id have been?"

"Peeves, perhaps."

"Peeves doezn't uze dung bombs! Do zomeding adbout thiz! Can't you or zomeone elze ad leazd get rid of de zdench?"

"Flitwick might be able to," I suggest.

"I will get him, then," she said, running. I return to my chambers.

Now, Minerva and I could easily get rid of the stench on our own. It wasn't that we couldn't do something about it. We just didn't want to.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Ladies and Gentlewizards: the one school on earth where teachers do not actually give a rat's ass about pranks. We just look like we do. If they get out of hand, we'll do something about it.

But most of the time, our answer is, "eh, nah."

We see it as the student's practicing. Like they should be.

Filch screeches for me. It seems Flitwick passed the task to me. I will get the little man for this! Big little man, I mean. Flitwick could take me on and knock me on my ass if he chose without a second thought.

#

Why the hell would Potter's hatred of me, which I am fully aware of without him shouting the very words around, disturb me so much?

Monday passed.

Then it was Tuesday.

On Wednesday, Potter and his friends walked in the room and sat down in their usual spots.

I glance at my lesson plan for them: blocking and shield defenses.

Short lecture, pair them up, start a war in the classroom and try to manage complete chaos for an hour.

"Today, we will be reviewing defensive spells," I begin. My eyes hit Potter. He's staring at me. I pause. What am I waiting for?

I look away.

"I already expect you've learned these spells. Get into groups of two, one Gryffindor and one Slytherin," there's a collective groan, "in five minutes and begin a duel. Minor hexes and jinxes only! Malfoy! I mean that!" I snap at him.

Malfoy pouts, but nods his head. Sadistic little whelp.

I've been trying. I really have. His father's as much a menace as he and it seems it might be too late to teach him proper respect.

He and Potter lock eyes. There's one group.

Others are still forming groups. Five minutes pass and after another minute, the dueling begins.

But my eyes don't wander the room. I'm locked on Potter and Malfoy.

Malfoy's decent enough to get in the class, so I know he's good, but his footing…needs work.

Potter, on the other hand, is excellent. Form, casting, footwork—much different from the clumsy twelve-year-old I knew from Lockhart's disastrous dueling club.

I should know. I was there solely for the sake of knocking Lockhart on his ass. It was quite satisfying.

That day, I was the most popular teacher among the male student population for sure. But never again.

I haven't really seen him duel after that, though it's clear he was in several duels since. Probably when he went on his suicidal missions or was whisked away by Voldemort.

Potter's eyes are fixed on his opponent. They aren't filled with loathing for Malfoy, but focused. He anticipates Malfoy's next move, blocks, then attacks, putting enough force to do some damage, but not so much that it breaks through Malfoy's shield.

He knows where he is. He knows what he is doing.

Fingers curled around his wand as he waves in the proper motions to block or attack, all perfectly executed.

Potter's undeniably auror material…pity he isn't as good at potions as he could be. He'd make a good auror. Well, he is in Potions class with Slughorn, so he can easily become an auror if that is his choice.

The bell rings, signifying the end of class. I call for a halt and dismiss them.

They leave, breathing heavily and labored, for their next class, whatever that may be.

I have an hour of freedom before I take on the first years.

So I head to my bedroom and jump into the shower, letting ice cold water drench me.

Ah.

I understand now.

Everything from my treatment of him to his bothering words makes sense.

I'm so fucked.