My first two weeks as Professor Snape's Apprentice started out well enough. He decided that I should brew the potions to help stock up the hospital for the start of term. All the potions were OWL level, and I could already make them in my sleep, even with being out of practice. I dutifully made cauldron after cauldron of Pepperup potion, Sleeping Draught, Strengthening Solution, Draught of Peace, and Invigoration Draught – anything and everything on Poppy's list that he decided I needed to refresh myself by making.

We were in his office when he taught me how to make Skele-Gro, the most advanced potion I'd ever made, under his watchful eye. It was here that we had our first problem.

"Wrong," Professor Snape said, as he carefully watched me pulverize the scarab beetles. "Give those to me before you completely ruin them like an idiotic First year." He grabbed the mortar and pestle from my hands. "You pulverize first with a pounding motion ten times, then by grinding counter clockwise until you achieve a fine powder, like so," he said, demonstrating the method to me. "This is what I get for taking on an Apprentice so far from her schooling," he said as he took a step back and returned the equipment. "Sub-par work."

I frowned into the bowl of coarsely ground insects. It was just like being back in school. Only worse, perhaps, since I was voluntarily here. Professor Snape always seemed to have the knack of making me feel about two inches tall, even though I'd always been a good student.

I continued with my task, grinding counter clockwise, until the results were a powder fine dust. Holding my breath as I held out the bowl, I showed the results to him.

"Correct," he said, nodding. "Now the cabbage."

I looked at the directions and saw I needed to slice them on the bias with a sliver knife, then chop them with a steel blade. I looked in my kit and realized my steel knife was in my room, in my little bag.

I swallowed and closed my eyes.

"I need to fetch the correct knife from my room," I said softly.

He stared at me. "What did you say?"

"I need to fetch the correct knife from my room." I said, this time a little louder.

"What was that? I couldn't hear any sound come out your mouth. Have I gone deaf, or have you become a mute?" Professor Snape asked. He sneered at me as though he were daring me to continue.

"My knife," I said slowly and loudly, "is still packed in my room. I need to go get it. Sir."

"Next time, you should come to work prepared," he said nastily. "Go to your room like the silly, unprepared little school-girl you are, Miss Weasley, and get your knife."

I sniffed and ran to my quarters before he could see me cry.

He hasn't changed a bit, I thought. Everyone thought him to be such a hero. The misunderstood poor Potion's Master really was a shit on the inside, just as he'd always been even after a year at St. Mungo's.

But then again, what good had St. Mungo's done me?

I found my Little Bag and opened it, getting my favourite knife. I looked at it lovingly, tracing the sharp edge with my fingertip, pricking it enough to break the skin.

Now, before you go back. Feel it.

I sat down on my bed and lifted my overlong skirts. There was a good spot on my inner thigh where I already had scar over scar from little, hidden cuts. I took a deep breath and gave in.

Free.

Oh, to be free for a few minutes. To feel something – anything! – and to be able to focus for a while other on something than my miserable life.

I sighed, loving the way the blood ran down my leg, slowly gliding to my knee. Scarlet on white. It was beautiful, in a maddening, intoxicating way only I could understand.

I felt real.

Present.

Profound.

A bare glimmer of movement caught my eye, making me realize I had not shut and warded my door in my haste to feel. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been that careless about hiding myself away while I indulged.

When I looked up, I saw Professor Snape was at the door, robes billowing behind him like he had just stopped mid run.

I swallowed. Very calmly, I lowered my robes, hiding my scarred skin from view, and cleaned the knife with a quickly cast Cleansing Charm. I quickly walked past him and out of the room, without speaking to or looking at him. I returned to his office and began slicing the cabbage, then chopping it as directed. He returned and slid up behind me while I was finishing, silently watching my work.

"That's better," he said. He touched it. "Maybe a little more finesse next time, but that's fine. Now on to the puffer-fish."

I nodded. Even though I knew he was staring at me, I would not meet his eyes.

Neither of us spoke about what he saw.

We made it through to the beginning of school without another incident.

When I sat at with him at the High Table for the Sorting and Welcoming Feast, he was once again the man from our interview - aloof, of course, but direct and even somewhat charming at times, especially when he spoke to anyone other than me.

I supposed I shouldn't expect any other behaviour from him. He'd been my teacher for six years and probably still saw me as the awkward eleven year old he'd met during my first year of school, not an adult and someone who might be worthy of his conversation or extra time outside of class.

As much as I hated to admit it, I'd grown a little lonely at Hogwarts. Professor Snape wasn't the only one of my former teachers who didn't seem to know what to do with me. If I'd been closer to my schooling, as most apprentices where, I probably wouldn't have noticed and would have at least had some of my close friends left in the Gryffindor House. As it was now, the older students who looked vaguely familiar looked at me as though I was a Blast Ended Skrewt.

As much as I didn't fit in at the Burrow anymore, I certainly didn't fit in here either.

He let me proctor the first class of the year by monitoring the potions preparation after he lectured. It was a 3rd year Double Potions with Slytherin and Gryffindor. After he left the room to gather more ingredients from his storeroom, I realized some things never changed when the class started to buzz with side conversation and threats of hexes being thrown. I went from table to table trying to quiet the students down, but I was not even remotely as commanding as Professor Snape.

Things went from bad to worse when a cauldron exploded just as he walked back into the room.

I, as well as the class, watched in mild terror as he looked from the mess that had stained the ceiling, to the students who were all still mid frenzy, some with wands raised, then to me. The cauldron that exploded had been sitting in front of me, and I was covered in hot, green slime.

"The next time I leave a room," he said in a very soft, controlled voice, looking at the students who were now wishing they had knew Disillusionment Charms, "I want it to be in the same condition in which I left it. You all have detention, tonight, so that you can have the pleasure of cleaning every single cauldron I can find. Class is dismissed. NOW."

They ran from the room in silence.

Professor Snape circled me, not saying a word. His displeasure was evident on his face.

"What, may I ask, did you first do wrong?" he asked.

"I didn't pay enough attention to this table," I said, wiping the muck from my face.

"Incorrect," he said. "What did you first do wrong?"

I thought for a minute as I pulled my hair back from the remaining slime. "I lost control of the class."

"Miss Weasley," he said, his voice as soft and slippery as new silk. "Listen to my question. What did you FIRST do wrong?"

This time I heard him. "I didn't command their respect, Sir."

He applauded me with a sardonic slow clap, then cast a special Cleansing charm over me, ridding me of the ruined potion.

"You'll have to teach me that spell, sir," I said as ran my fingers through my newly cleaned hair.

"Not until you learn how to control a class the second you walk into a room," he said, sucking on his teeth. He frowned. "You still look like a teenager in your overly large, dumpy robes and your hair loose and all over your shoulders. Do you really think they are going to take you seriously? Do you think that you even look like a serious apprentice wearing that?"

I knew I didn't, but my clothes were the best I had. Even though my father had a better position in the Ministry than he'd had before the War and all of their children were out of the house, money was still a problem for my parents. The bills from my stay at St. Mungo's had not been cheap, and they had debts from our schooling. I looked at my well mended but shabby second hand robes - too long, too large, and cheaply made.

I shook my head, biting my lip.

"That's another thing. You need to speak up. At this point you have to speak up. We've talked about this before, Miss Weasley. If you have no command over your voice, you will never learn to control a class," he said. He looked at his pocket watch. "We don't have another group for an hour yet. First years," he said with a nasty grin, "scare easily. Come."

I followed him out of the classroom and into his office. From there he walked into his own quarters.

"Stay there," he shouted, and I remained behind. He returned before I could even sit down, holding one of his frock coats in his arms, as well as one of his teaching robes. Both looked a little old, but well cared for. I knew those kind of clothes well, since they had covered me my entire life.

I touched the coat lightly with my fingers. The wool was finely made, and the cut and tailoring done by an expert hand. It was the kind of coat I would lust after in the windows of Madam Malkins, but never be able to afford. His teaching robes were similarly made. I realized that when I was in school we'd spent so much time making light of his appearance that no one had ever paid attention to the fact that he wore very good clothes, even if they did make him look like a bat.

"I have outgrown both of these," he said, smirking. He cast a charm over them and they shrunk until they would just fit me.

"Do you own a pair of opaque stockings?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Go to your room and put them on. And make your skirt fit. If you have one that's knee length, that would be better. Or, just wore a pair of plain black slacks. Though I generally don't prefer them on women anything is better than the sack you are wearing. White blouse with a high collar. And put your hair up. Then come back here."

I bit my lip and nodded, practically running to my office and into my quarters. I stripped my clothes off when I got to my bedroom and put on the stockings as instructed. They covered all of my scars, even though I had very few below my knees. In the back of my closet was my skirt from my Seventh year, which was knee length and still fit. I pulled on a white blouse, but frowned when I realized it was short sleeved. I had so many scars below the elbows … but, the jacket and robes would cover them for class.

Once more. You are here and safe. Feel it.

I shook my head and audibly said, "No" as I pulled my hair into a chignon and returned to his office.

"Good," Professor Snape said, giving me the coat, but he grabbed my arm before I could put it on. He examined the scars, the thin white lines on the upper part of my forearms, the glimmer of more on my upper arms. A few fresh cuts were visible.

"Why do you do it?" he asked softly.

I looked away when I realized I had tears in my eyes. His voice was kind, hurting me in a way that didn't cause me to bleed, though it was painful all the same.

"I don't know, sir," I said, keeping my eyes from his.

He knew I was lying. He needn't been a Legilimens to see through it.

"Why, Ginny?" he asked in that same, soft voice.

"I don't know," I cried as I sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. "It makes me feel-it makes me feel," I started to hiccup.

"It makes you feel," he said. "You are a different woman than the girl I remember from the year I was …" he trailed off, his face looking pained. "You had fire then. Passion. Mostly for defying me," he said, smiling slightly. "What happened to that strong girl? What happened to your voice? Was it the mess over Potter or something else?"

"It was a lot of things," I said. I ran my hand of the scars on my left arm, remembering were I was and what I was thinking when each one was made. "But the worst was Harry. He was my first love. I thought he would be my last," I said. Then I spoke the truth I hadn't wanted to speak at St. Mungo's. "But I wasn't enough, not like Hermione. She challenges him like I can't. She makes him dream in ways I can't. I'm nothing," I said, looking at my hands. "I'm just the dregs."

I could hear his huff. "Would I have hired you if you were nothing?"

I laughed bitterly. "Your choice was me, or nothing, and you chose me," I said. "I'm better than nothing. It makes me feel amazing to know that, sir."

"Wrong, Miss Weasley. I told you that you were the only person brave enough to apply," he said. "It doesn't mean I didn't have fifty others who were trying to get this position by having their daddy or their uncles or their godmothers asking me. I chose you. Not nothing."

I looked up. His flat, black eyes were staring into me. What had taken the life out of them? Was it being beyond the veil as long as he had been prior to Madame Pomphrey bringing him back, or was it something else?

He must have been keen to my emotions, or they were written too plainly on my face, because he simply answered, "I too know what it's like to have your pathetic love-life, or lack thereof, being the topic of everyone's side conversation. And not being the better from it."

I remembered Rita Skeeter's horrific headline article: "Snape: Scoundrel with a Secret Love". When the alarm went out in Hogsmeade that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been spotted, she Apparated into the Village and transfigured into her Animagus form to sneak on to the battleground. We all thought it was a pity that she had not been squashed in the fight, especially after she flew into the Headmaster's office behind Harry and viewed Professor Snape's memories after he left. We were mortified for him - those of us who knew the whole truth about the man who was so private and restrained, having been controlled by two Masters for far too long.

My headline had fared no better. "The Boy Who Cheats: Ginny's Tragedy". Skeeter had taken to writing pure gossip columns by the time my relationship with Harry ended. She'd been disgraced after Hermione exposed her for being an unregistered Animagus, and though she didn't write hard news for the Prophet anymore, she developed a substantial fan base through writing for the Witch Weekly gossip column.

Harry hadn't cheated, that I know of at least, but the speed at which he and Hermione got engaged after our breakup left a considerable amount of speculation. It was one of the reasons for my little slip.

I pulled myself back into focus when the Professor grabbed the jacket and shoved it at me. "Put it on."

I did and buttoned up the twelve buttons up the chest and the eight buttons up each sleeve. My fingers were tired when I was done.

"Better," he said. He gave me the robes. I put them on as well, as he charmed the wall in front of me into a mirror. "See?" he asked.

I did see. I looked imposing in the more formal attire. Like I could command a room.

Perhaps.

"Muffliato," he said, pointing his wand at the door. "Now scream."

"Are you barking mad?" I asked.

He didn't notice my disrespect or else he just ignored it. "Scream, Miss Weasley. Scream with all your might. Get all of it out that you can. You'll feel better, and it'll help with the next class." He took a step back and waited.

"Ah!" I yelled. It was a feeble attempt.

"Louder."

"AHHHHH!" I yelled again, a little louder.

"Miss Weasley, Potter has left you for his best friend, you've cut yourself into ribbons, and you now have to work for me, the old greasy git who ordered the torture of you and your friends because I had no choice. You were involuntarily committed to St. Mungo's after a suicide attempt."

I looked at him in shock.

"Don't think I don't know about that, Ginny. I did my research on why you were out for so long." He stared at me, and for a second I thought I saw his eyes begin to glimmer.

"Let it out," he said softly.

I screamed then. I kicked the chairs, banged my hands at the walls, and knocked my hair loose from its pins. And it still wasn't enough. I screamed until strong arms were around me, holding me into a stronger chest. I could smell him, that scent that was unique only to him, and relaxed into his embrace.

As I calmed, I thought about how odd this all was. Me, in Professor Snape's arms, with him soothing me like I was a small child … or perhaps a friend. Though I wouldn't have called that, he really was the closest thing I had to one, outside of my family. He actually seemed to care about me, as absurd as that idea was.

But, then again, he was different. And so was I.

"Better?" he asked.

I took a deep breath and felt the calm that had washed over me like a soothing balm. I nodded, then caught myself and answered out loud. "Actually I am, sir."

"Good," he said.

Under his watchful eyes, I straighten my hair and robes until they were satisfactory. "Now, let's intimidate some first years."

I smiled and followed him back to the classroom.

First years, as it turned out, did scare easily.