Chapter 1

He never thought of himself this vain.

To be positioned in front of his rarely-used mirror for the sole purpose of seeing his own appearance, is a sort of vanity that he would have, prior to this morning, mocked one of his students with relentless ardour for.

Who, not in possession of excessive pride, would need to be affirmed by an object? The depths of miserable in which one must be, to run their eyes in this careful manner down a reflective object, only to be soothed into believing that their appearance is outstanding, to have their ego caressed so…

It's unbecoming of him, simply put.

And truthfully, it's debasing of him.

He, Severus Snape, is now reduced to a man who seeks to view his reflection in an object that will not affirm him, unless he chooses to see it affirm him. He has sunken so low that he now requires to see the silent opinion of something unable to think for itself.

The disgrace.

He swears -eyes closed and breath held- only this one time he will succumb to the base need for vanity. Never again after this. It's for a cause, he reminds himself as the motivation to open his eyes once again. Perhaps not a reasonable cause, but a cause it remains.

Magic, just what in the world did he expect to see in this thing? Shorter hair? Robes of a different colour? It's disturbing to him, really. This damned thing cannot even be fed a love potion to paint him a better picture, to enhance him in an attractive way even to his own eyes, and he thought it wise to stand in front of it?

He is fool.

There is no difference in his appearance.

Of course, he could charm it to respond to him, he could use it -for at this point, he needs it- but then what? Wouldn't all of that only be a step lower from being pathetically desperate? No, this thing can do nothing for him, he sees. It's a cold lifeless object, and while it can show him his own reflection in a way that he would never be able to on his own, it remains what it is.

It, unlike him, is unable to feel the dull sting being disaffirmed. He, so very different from it, has a heart and would have found it pleasing to hear that for his very first lesson as the new Defence teacher, looks the prepared part. Between them, there is absolutely no recompense; from the mirror comes no display of mercy for his feelings, just as from him, there gives no trickle of gratitude.

They've reached a point where they've had enough of each other, he thinks.

Swiftly turning away from his own image, he promises himself that there will be no repeat of this foolishness.

26Chapters

What he couldn't achieve when he looked upon his reflection this morning before classes began, he struggles to control at present. The fight to get a hold of himself, train his particularly singular emotion and then keep it contained inside the prison of his private knowledge, is proving to be much too tiring when opposed with the simplicity of letting himself be.

Right when it does not suit him to, he really does go out of his way to put himself through needless battles. If he were simply to allow himself to smile to at her lacking subtlety, he would not be battling with himself this way. Surely by putting himself through these few seconds of struggle, he's shaving years from his own existence, when truthfully, it wouldn't be a terrible thing to express his mirth.

What is there not be tickled by?

Most certainly not the deliberately slow manner in which she is putting her books away. Nor the quiet excuse which she passes to her friends, informing them that she will catch up with them as soon as she finished. Tact is not an acquaintance of hers, clearly. So what of it then, if he does smile? Do the rules of emotion not extend to him as well, by virtue of being human?

Outside of briefly catching sight of her at the feast last night, this is the first time that he is really seeing her and as such, some allowances can be made, can they not? In his mind, he had in any event entertained a private meeting between them. After all, he too could have left the class in a hurry as soon as it was over, and yet he lagged.

Whether or not he did that to get her to notice him and then remain, has no bearing on the matter, of course. But say that does have a bearing on the matter, he must admit that it's an oddly peculiar feeling, mildly startling even, wanting her to notice him.

It's a feeling made of hopeful desire, the sort that seeks to end in satisfaction. And therein, he could suppose, lies the reason behind his struggle to maintain a composed face. If not that, then he prefers wholeheartedly to assign the blame to the incident with the mirror this morning. For not getting what he wanted from the mirror, he is going through the day, using any manner to appease the satisfaction that the object couldn't give him.

This day does not belong to him, he is beginning to accept.

It's no matter anymore, nonetheless, not that he cannot permit himself to smile. Already, her feet are leading her to him regardless of his expression or lack thereof. Strongly, he suspects that he could have been scowling and still, she would have found a way to find him by himself. Smile or not, she is evidently not deterred from approaching him with her eyes thoroughly looking over his standing form.

'Professor Snape,' she says, her eyes coming back to his face.

'Miss Granger,' he pronounces, testing in a manner.

It's that in his mind, there is a world in which she's able to take cues from him, without needing further explanations. As she has done so in the past, he expects a certain level of comprehension for his forms of addressing her. Surely, she understands that he's telling her to speak whatever is on her mind.

'You're the Defence teacher,' she notes with what he can say is another rubbish attempt at a subtlety.

Though he nods to accept her observation, he is more interested in thinking about how well he noticed the miserable effort to conceal a smile. It formed, he saw it appear on her face, and then she attempted to smother it by drawing her lips together. Does she think him blind, unable to see what's in front of eyes?

'So…' she begins, her voice hesitant.

Because there's also a note of hesitation on her face, he waits in silence. His silence, he hopes she can read to mean that she has all the liberty to speak as she wishes. He wouldn't like to push her for anything, but in the event that she's unable to interpret him, a questioning look from him ought to help her along.

'It's just, Professor… There's a rumour that you've always wanted that post. Are you...?'

'Satisfied?' he supplies without thought.

What is there to think about when she's interested in knowing?

'Happy, I suppose,' she clarifies. 'That's what I was going to say.'

'I am,' he evenly replies, adding a sombre, 'I suppose.'

Even to his own ears, it sounds as though the post comes at a price. Can she tell, he wonders.

'Congratulations then, sir,' she offers, her smile not hidden this time.

To feel elation, so completely filling from within, he was not ready for. He is not ready for this new feeling of… It feels a lot like pride, very identical to unshakable self-worth and yet… Praise coming from her, unprovoked but ascertaining nonetheless, has him believing that he has accomplished much in the world. Her expressed sentiment on his job reshapes his view on it altogether; it's now an elevated post. Now that she's happy for him, the possibility of his demise does not seem impending any longer.

No, he was not prepared for this, though unwelcome, it is not. That must be the reason why as he softly studies her face, he feels the most insistent need to reciprocate. Now that she no longer seeks his approval, he finds that he is not hesitant to offer it when it occurs to him to. Beneficial or not to her pride, he cannot allow the moment to pass without his own congratulatory message to her. Not only is it right, it is also from a sincere place of giving.

'You're a prefect,' he congratulates with a finger pointed to her shiny badge.

'I was worried that I wouldn't ever be made a prefect,' she confesses.

And there she is, the Miss Granger of always; chatty and ready to offer up information at the mention of a word. It's quite a raw and natural reaction of hers, if he thinks about it and once again, he finds himself at battle over releasing a smile.

'The last school year was rather chaotic,' she continues, partially losing her light smile. 'I was expecting that I wouldn't be allowed to be a prefect, to be honest.'

He better say something now before he loses to a smile.

'You needn't have worried, clearly.'

His fellow teachers have always held her in high esteem. Over the years, that has never changed. In fact, he is willing to bet that her prefect badge has been stored in a glowing chest, just waiting for her to reach an age ready to pin it onto her chest.

'I worry all the time,' she tells him. 'There's so much to worry about. The Dark -You-Know-Who and the examinations next year. I don't feel prepared for them at all.'

'Doubting yourself.'

How easy it is to listen to her talk and then respond. If he can say, it's nearly thoughtless on his part -dare he say even a tinge natural. No, not difficult is the correct term. Yes, not difficult.

'I'm not,' she returns, somewhat irritated if her frown is what it should represent. 'I just worry. It's different.'

It's different indeed, which is why he remains mum. He does that, because no matter how much she might need to be assured, he can't tell her not to worry. Everyone should worry. Some more than others, but in the end, everyone should worry.

'Anyway, Professor,' she seems to compose herself, 'I wanted to tell you that I quite liked brewing potions, and so I'd like to continue with Professor Slughorn. He's the new Potions teacher.'

Would she care to repeat that?

'What did you say?' he wants to know, everything in him turning hard all of a sudden.

He would very much like for her to repeat what she said.

'I would like to continue brewing with Professor Slughorn.'

It's true then, she did utter those words.

It's true then, as well, that his hard reaction is appropriate. He is not amiss to give her a hard stare, to remove himself from her proximity and to bubble with indignation. She is the one amiss to be looking at him expectantly in that manner. Does she expect him to congratulate her on the decision? When she ignored him at the beginning of her fifth year and then willingly ended brewing at the end of the previous term, she has the gall to expect what from him?

'It sounds like you're asking for my permission,' he says for clarity, needing this to be as straightforward as it is able to be.

When her only response is the ever-infuriating silence right when it's not needed, it comes to him in full force how this girl has an irritating tradition of making him repeat himself.

'Are you?' he demands, finding himself stepping closer to her for this.

Extremely clear on what she means is what she needs to be. Any less than that, he will not tolerate. In kind, she will need to be very careful with what she chooses to tell him, because the consequences will not be welcome on her end.

'No, Professor,' she says through a deep frown, stepping back from him as well. 'I only thought that it would be the decent thing to tell you. It seemed more sensible than just going to Professor Slughorn without telling you anything.'

She thought-

Ha!

She really thought that she'd be doing him a service by telling him about her plans with Slughorn?

What he hears, is that she didn't think it was necessary to ask for his permission, because they never had an academic agreement that required to be passed on from one teacher to another. And the tone of hypocrisy in her words! Does she remember how many incidents they had to have before she came to her senses and finally came to brew? And what, only for a new teacher to come along and she jumped right into his fold?

The nerve of her to tell him about Slughorn, hoping for his support!

Surely, she knows all about Slughorn and how much he likes to collect trophies. What then, does she want to be labelled as a trophy? Has she sunken so low, to that stage that she needs to prove herself to every living wizard who presents themselves at Hogwarts? Just what merit does Slughorn have to his name, that automatically qualifies him for her brewing? How has Slughorn earned that right, when she's made him chase after her time and time again?

This is madness from her!

She's more sensible than this, for the love of magic. This, he would have expected from Draco or perhaps even Potter, not her. Precisely when between their last meeting at the Burrow and this very moment, did it occur to her, to treat him this way? What has he done to her that this is her repayment?

Possibly, if he looks at properly enough, if he could find a clue on her face… He ought to control himself, of course, but… His parents, wherever they are in the world of the dead, should be stung by a poisonous creature, to suffer some for bringing him into this existence, only so he could live through moments such as this one.

To be discarded so easily to the side for someone she barely knows… He is not prepared for this. Nor for this hollow feeling of… He feels rather barbaric inside, ready to shred anything without a second thought. And what that feeling is called, he does not care in the least.

'Aren't you going to say anything, Professor?' she tentatively begs with a wavering voice and waiting eyes.

His silence speaks nothing to her, does it? Also, why, in this blasted school, does she sound like she wants to cry when she's the one who made the choice? What gives her the authority to make him responsible for how she feels in the aftermath of her choice, when she's been in no way considerate of his feelings from the beginning?

'Professor?' she tries again.

Oh, the way in which he wants to snap at her! If only he could! The sound of her voice is doing no wonders for him. On the contrary, it's the stubborn reminder of who she is, and why all of this has him feeling precisely as he is. He cannot, simply will not, continue to remain here with her.

26Chapters

His following class, a third year group, is nothing but an infuriating bore to him. So absolutely unmotivated they are, not taking notes of what he's said, that in the middle of class, he caves into his urge and leaves them to themselves, not speaking a word to them about it.

A wise decision it may not be, but what more is he expected to do for a group that has no interest in learning about the importance of the dark arts? Besides, that class falling right after his small exchange with Miss Granger has done nothing to better his mood.

All throughout class, he could not keep the exchange from his mind, which is how he came to convince himself that speaking with Horace would free him from the exchange once and for all. And then it will all be behind him. It will be good riddance. He will no longer have to meet with her and then everything will return to how it always has been.

Or at least, he hopes so. He heavily hopes so.

As he enters the man's office, apart from the relief of finding him here, he's comforted by the idea that in a short while, the subject of Miss Granger will be behind him. And then he will stop feeling…

'Oh, Severus,' Horace welcomes him. 'It's so good of you to come and see me. Would you care for some mead?'

He did not come here in the mind to have a drink, however, with the invitation, he might as well. Normally, he wouldn't dare have a drink in between classes, but this morning, he might as well. The mirror and then Miss Granger just a little while ago have apparently set the tone for the rest of his Defence teaching days, so what of it, if he drinks to his destined path?

Horace, quite happy to receive any guest, no doubt for the reason that he now has an excuse to open a bottle and then brag about who sent it to him, shows him to one of his office chairs while he busies himself with retrieving them drinks. Though in no mood to entertain the man, he moves to the seat, heavily setting himself in it. The glass meant for him makes its way into his hand and before Horace can join him in the seat across, he has already poured all of the liquid down his throat.

'Oh!' Horace exclaims, surprised at the behaviour but still directing the bottle to refill his glass. 'Had a bad morning, did you?'

He first waits for his glass to be appropriately filled and then after tipping it back down his mouth, shakes his head. Horace may interpret that to mean whatever he chooses, he doesn't care, but he's only done it clear his head, compose himself really, before getting onto his feet again.

'Hermione Granger,' he says, turning his attention to Horace.

With a puzzled expression, the older man looks at him, much like he is trying to recall something and then, 'I've heard that name before...' he appears to be thinking, 'Hermione Granger.'

'She's a prefect,' he supplies, now a bit curious as to whether the sixth years haven't had Potions yet, if he can't recall her.

Should that turn out to be the case, oh, he'll…

'Ah!' Slughorn finally realises. 'Harry Potter mentioned her when he came to see me over the summer. He said that she is quite the brilliant Muggleborn.'

Because he cares nothing for that, he waves it away along with the bottle and glass now floating beside him. Another thing, he knows of her through Potter, then?

'She will come to you to brew potions outside of class,' he says. 'I simply came to tell you that she has brewed before, should you wish to accept her.'

'Oh?' Horace wonders, but he is already beginning to leave.

There's nothing left for him anymore; his part has been done. Besides, the longer that he stays, he'll only be forced to remember that Miss Granger chose this man, and that without even meeting him in person. To remember that Horace's name alone was merit enough for her.

'Severus?' Horace calls after him just as he is nearing the door. 'How is Miss Granger?'

Horace being himself, is obviously asking if she's a prize that he can collect for future advantages. Particularly, he's not worried about that at the moment, although, he is not in the art of being used when he can help it. Whatever Horace wants to know about her, it will have to be through his own efforts, not through him. That's assuming that he can master his interactions with her.

'I wonder,' he returns as an alternative to not giving the man an answer.

And then he is out of the door.

He has a class to return to. Possibly assign them all detention if they so much as make eye contact with him.

Oh, he wishes that they would.

26Chapters

'Over there, Miss Granger,' Minerva instructs, her finger pointing to one of the few round tables.

The name itself isn't a surprise -she remains a student at the school still-, but damn it, if no one gives him the proper warning when they decide to invite her to the staff room while he's inside it, he will stop coming here. He will not allow to feel jolted when he least expects it.

Does Minerva know just how much he dislikes her at the moment?

She is crudely uncouth to do this to him. He'd been quite all right with not having to snap his head up to see this new addition in the staff room. Three days into the new term, three days after their exchange, and this is how she is thrust his way? Never mind the only other Defence class that she's had with him yesterday, because that yielded nothing. He made as though she wasn't there, just as she was the first to leave once class was over.

Minerva's committed a terrible sin, if she would care to know.

Her, on the other hand, finding that he has no other option, he watches. He watches as she walks over to the directed table, as she gets a stack of parchments there and as she leaves without once looking his way. Minerva stays, of course and he desperately wants to aske her what that was all about, only to chide himself for his curiosity.

What does what she does have to do with him? By now, she's already Horace's brewer. At least one potion, she must've created for Horace. That apart from whatever she has going on with Minerva. What is it to him that she's evidently taken to indulging all of the staff while ignoring him? It has nothing to do with him that she has absolutely no bone of shame in her body.

He has survived three days without speaking to her. Plus, he hasn't yet reached his limit for waiting.

26Chapters

Ire has been hiding within him all along. He failed to recognise his behaviour these nine days as a manifestation of that and he failed to confront himself about it. So unaware he's been, that it took seeing her happily laughing away with her friends at dinner to awaken him to the truth.

Seeing her go on about with her life, happily at that, and then realising as a matter of that she's completely forgotten everything, took the taste right from his food. Everything loaded onto his plate became unappealing to him in a matter of moments. It was then, deciding that he was wasting his time on food, that he abruptly stood from his chair and made his way down here to his chambers. Here inside his dwelling place, safe and alone, he can confront himself without an audience.

There's not much to scold himself for, he believes, for he really did nothing wrong in this situation. He didn't ambush her as soon as school began, no, he congratulated her on her achievements and then he advised her to not doubt herself. She, on the other hand, rather than being equally cordial, shoved it in his face that she could not be bothered to switch out one person for another.

It stung him to hear that with his own ears, does she know?

And then days went by with him secretly waiting for her to come back to him and explain herself or to apologise at the very least. She never came and the more that she stayed away, the more that he shut it off as perfect riddance. He did well in convincing himself that his life was no different. Also, that his expectation after her final letter arrived, had simply been an opportunistic latch at a time of sordid darkness for him. But no, he has been lying to himself.

He's been hiding how he truly feels.

It's not as though he did anything to her.

What about the meeting at the Weasley home, did that mean nothing to her?

What has he done to her, that she's shut him out so completely?

Without fully knowing what he's doing, he walks into the bathroom, immediately going over to his small potions cabinet. As usual, when in a bad mood, as he likes to appease himself with dramatics, he yanks the door open, to find the bottles in there perfectly labelled.

Her potions. He'd never label his own private potions.

Looking at them, breathing much too loudly, he can't fully decide if he wants to drain the potions or to shatter every single bottle with violent force. Usually, he wouldn't have qualms about which of the two to do, but tonight, he's unsure. If he can't make absolute sense of how he feels, how much more of what he wants to do? It's been nine days, damn it! By now, he's certain that she's already arranged to start with Horace on brewing, so how should he feel? On the one hand, that her brewing is a genuine want of hers is good to know, while on the other, he feels cheated. How could she do that to him?

He'll shatter the bottles, he suddenly settles on.

Acting fast so as not to change his mind, he gathers up two bottles, holding them firmly in his hands and then quickly lifts his arms high above his head to release them. Out of his firm grasp, they tumble onto the ground with a sharp breaking shatter.

Strangely, the shattering sound is calming to him. It's a sound that he's currently very familiar with, and because he can intimately identify with, he brings out his wand, gathers the broken pieces together into two separate bottles with it, only to violently let them down again. To watch them shatter as he listens to the sound of it happening, is something that he could spend all night doing.

Why? No proper meeting prior, and Horace easily gets what he had to fight with her for previously? How do some just get everything handed to them for naught?

Again, he repeats the wand movement for the shattering effect. Though the bottles do hit the ground and they do produce the desired effect, another distinct sound of a pop fills the air, momentarily distracting him. Immediately, he knows it's Lefa, but unfortunately, he does not care.

'What happened, sir?'

'Nothing that you can help with,' he rasps, refusing to look at the elf. 'Leave me, go.'

'Goodnight, sir,' Lefa bids before disappearing from his sight as he clears up the mess that he made.

He gets ready to repeat the wand movement, telling himself that he will keep doing this until he feels like himself again, but then another interruption calls his attention away from his task. It's the voice of the headmaster calling his name, and while he would like to ignore the man, he doesn't have the liberty to refuse him an audience. Begrudgingly, he clears up his mess, vanishing the potions all together.

As usual, he must prematurely tuck himself in and attend to business.

26Chapters

'You called, Headmaster?' he asks as soon as he arrives in the office.

'Yes, I was worried about you, Severus,' the man tells him. 'You left dinner rather quickly.'

He was called to talk about that?

'Surely, I'm not here concerning dinner?'

If there's a note of contempt in his voice, it is well deserved, if he thinks so himself.

'No,' Albus says, his head shaking to put emphasis on his answer, 'but as I said, I am worried about you. You haven't been yourself lately.'

Lately being inclusive of the day he cursed him to be the Defence teacher, along with damning him to a dark future, if one is to be for him?

'I have no idea what you are talking about, Albus,' he evenly denies, doing his best to maintain his composure.

He didn't expect that Albus would believe him in an instant, but neither did he want the man to look at him as though he were a young first year, who could be stared into spilling all of his secrets. Too much, he detests how Albus uses methods such as those to appeal to the more sentimental parts of someone in order to hear what he needs, which is why he will give nothing away.

'As you say,' Albus resigns at last. 'I suppose that I'm getting to the age of imagining things which are not there.'

'I suppose so,' he encourages.

At that, Albus chuckles, possibly knowing that he'll get nowhere with that line of talk.

'Have a seat then, please,' he offers by gesturing to one of the chairs with his hand. 'I would like to have a talk with you concerning Draco Malfoy.'

Entertaining the headmaster with a seat is something that he never wants to do, in the event that he probes for more than he ought to. He does it, nonetheless, seeing no other way around it.

'Are you sure that you are well, Severus?' Albus pries again, apparently having difficulty with letting it go. 'You know very well that if you need to express what is uneven with you, my office doors are always open.'

No, no, that offer is useless to him. He simply cannot rush to the headmaster with the matter of Miss Granger treating him as though he does not exist. What would he even say?

'I shall remember that,' he says only to appease the man, and then, 'Now, about Draco, Headmaster.'

'Oh, yes, Draco.'