Getting the Hang of Thursdays

Chapter 15 - Who was left?

By Hayseed

Day Two Hundred Ninety-Nine

Severus put on his best disgusted face as he stood in the doorway. “Gentlemen,” he snapped, “I would have thought that some of you would like to make an effort to arrive in your classes on time.”

Tousled heads poked out from under bedclothing and he heard not a few sleepy groans as they roused themselves. “Professor Snape?” one of the boys asked in a rusty voice, cracking with sleep.

“Indeed,” he said coldly.

Another boy, whose name Severus was inwardly startled to realize he couldn’t recall, frowned openly, scrubbing at his eyes with closed fists. His hair stood on his head in a multitude of spikes that his mother probably found endearing -- Severus had the perverse and sudden urge to douse his head with water. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, yawning halfway through the insolent question.

“Inspection,” Severus said shortly, striding into the center of the room.

“But,” the same boy said in a voice that bordered on protesting, “you’ve never given us an inspection before.”

He took a menacing step toward the boy’s bed and the child’s eyes rounded. “Does that matter?” he asked in a quiet tone. “In fact--“ Wildly, Severus guessed. “--Jones, I think we can start with your trunk.”

Either Severus had gotten his name right, or the boy was sufficiently cowed and wouldn’t have corrected him for anything -- he didn’t actually care which one it was, as the end result was the same. Eyes still the rough size and shape of saucers, the boy tumbled out of his bed and began fumbling with the latches on his trunk.

Leaning down, Severus made a perfunctory rummage through the trunk, letting a couple of photos featuring cheekily gesturing naked women pass without comment -- there was really only one trunk he was interested in. “Sufficient, Jones,” he said. “Now... I think Pritchard is next.” He glanced around the room. “Where is Pritchard?”

One boy grimaced, another pair glanced at each other, and for a single horrifying moment, Severus wondered if he’d gone to the wrong dormitory. But then one of the more alert boys wrinkled his nose and said, “Pritchard? He wakes up early. I don’t know where he goes.”

As he calmed down, Severus looked around the room more carefully and saw that, indeed, one of the beds was empty. It was also neatly made and utterly devoid of any personal touches -- remembering his own time in the Slytherin dorms, Severus knew that most boys, himself included, had left various books and things lying around, beds unmade, clothes strewn across pillows, that sort of thing. A Transfigurations book beside his left foot and a Quidditch poster pinned over the dozing head of one boy told him that things had not changed much, despite Pritchard’s pristine living area. Approaching the trunk at the foot of Pritchard’s bed, he gave it an experimental prod with his foot, hiding his wand in his sleeve so the students would not notice as he waved it at the thing.

Severus nearly jumped out of his skin as the wards pushed back at him. The Dark Lord’s best safe house had nothing on Pritchard’s trunk. Recognizing a few of the wards, he realized that if he’d attempted to open it, he probably would have required a trip to the Infirmary.

What on Earth had happened to result in wards like these?

With a sigh, he forced himself to turn away from Pritchard’s bed -- he’d committed himself now, and, even though he wasn’t going to be able to accomplish his goal, he wasn’t about to undermine his authority as Head of House for so much as a second. He would just have to deal with Pritchard later. “All right, Ashcroft,” he barked, turning to the most unworried looking boy in the room. “Open it up.”

One hour, eight trunks and two confiscated boxes embossed with ominous ‘WWW’ logos later, Severus decided that Pritchard could wait. There was no need to disrupt his class, just to interrogate him. Besides, it wasn’t as if Pritchard was at fault here.

Severus honestly hadn’t realized how much he’d been letting things slide over the past few years -- since You-Know-Who’s return, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind.

And there it was. He’d let Albus drag him into all of that Order business so deeply that it was consuming the rest of his life. Severus knew how Harry Potter took his tea and what Lucius Malfoy wore to supper, but he hadn’t realized that one of his Slytherins was an obsessive, compulsive social outcast. Had he lost touch with everything? Had Albus Dumbledore and You-Know-Who blinded him that effectively?

To think, Severus hadn’t even thought about it. Albus had simply asked him if he would continue all of those years ago, and he just did, without even blinking twice. Lucius Malfoy called, and Severus came to heel like a damned dog.

His mind whirling, he taught his first class robotically, not even paying attention to what he was doing as he delivered his lecture from memory and intervened absently in students’ mistakes before they could even make them. Here he was, doing a job he hated and doing it poorly because the same person who had insisted that he teach in the first place was utterly preventing him from going about his duties.

He ought to quit. He ought to just storm into Albus’ office and hand in his resignation, from Hogwarts and the Order. Let Albus and that blasted Potter worry about the Dark Lord on their own.

As he ordered his clearly concerned students out the door -- one of them even timidly asked him if he was feeling ill -- Severus abruptly remembered the time-loop and suppressed a snort. He wasn’t ever going to have to worry about Voldemort ever again, was he?

“Voldemort,” he whispered to himself after the room was empty. “Voldemort,” carefully enunciating each forbidden syllable, the word feeling exquisite as it tumbled off his tongue. Severus directed a sneer at the ceiling. “Voldemort,” he said a third time, “you sick fuck -- I hope you can hear me. I’m glad she broke the Time Turner -- I’m glad that I’ll be able to die without ever having to kiss your damned, stinking robes ever again. Do you hear me, Vol-de-mort?” he spat.

Suddenly ashamed, aware of his semi-public surroundings, he glanced around the classroom. It was still empty, thankfully. Severus decided to poke his head out into the hallway, just to be absolutely certain no one had been around to overhear his brief descent into madness.

Voices floated down the corridor. Angry, unrecognizable voices. Slowly, he made his way up the hall, wand in hand. Rounding the corner, he saw a group of four boys standing in the next hall of varying ages -- Graham Pritchard was one of them. Severus paused, tucking himself carefully behind the wall, listening to the exchange.

“...it back,” Pritchard was saying in a prim, unhappy voice.

“Or what?” one of the boys asked, laughing shortly -- Severus noticed with a start that it was Ashcroft, one of the students whose trunk he’d searched earlier. In fact, all of the boys had Slytherin crests on their robes. “Will you get your daddy to come and ward it for you?”

“Please...” Pritchard said softly. Severus doubted that the other boys could hear the agony in that little voice.

“Better yet,” Ashcroft continued, smiling angelically, “I bet he’ll tell old Snape on us, won’t he, boys?”

“Snape won’t care,” third-year Theophilus McCaslin said with a gleeful smirk -- that was a face Severus recognized, if only from countless detentions. “Even if he actually believes the little shit.”

Pritchard did not speak. He just continued to look up at Ashcroft, the clear leader of the small group. Severus could not see his expression.

“What about, though,” Theodore Nott, a seventh year with whom Severus’d had little trouble, despite his background, “my dad says that Professor Snape is a... well, you know...” He made a nervous gesture with one hand. “I wouldn’t want to cross a De -- one of them.”

Ashcroft merely rolled his eyes at Nott. “Oh, please,” he said dismissively. “If old Snape got his head any further up Dumbledore’s arse, he’d lose a shoe.”

“Still,” Nott protested. “I don’t want to--“

“Leave, then, Teddy,” Ashcroft said, flapping a hand at him -- his other hand was still holding Pritchard’s bookbag. “If you’re too prissy, like fairy boy Pritchard, here.”

Something shifted in Pritchard’s stance and Severus almost intervened, then and there. Perhaps he should have. But there was something that held him back. “I’m not,” Pritchard said coldly, voice finally losing its usual tremor. “I’m not.”

“Not what?” McCaslin asked with a laugh. “Not a pussy little queer boy?” Even though he was a full year younger than Pritchard, he easily had about eight inches and fifty pounds on the slight boy -- McCaslin grabbed a fistful of Pritchard’s robes and pushed him up against the wall, almost gently. Severus saw that Pritchard’s feet were dangling off the ground.

“Philus,” Nott said sharply.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he replied, not taking his eyes off Pritchard, who was still oddly silent. “I won’t do anything to your girlfriend here, Teddy. Much.”

“You know,” Ashcroft said reflectively, slinging the bookbag back and forth in a lazy arc, a thoughtful look on his face, “I think Snape was looking for you this morning, Gra-ham.” He drew the boy’s first name out in an obscene drawl. “Asked about you and everything.”

Severus told himself to step out of the shadows. Screamed at himself. His feet would not move, and he continued to simply watch the oddly captivating scene, wondering what made these children so hateful. The glint in Ashcroft’s eye was disturbingly reminiscent of the glee on Lucius Malfoy’s face after a... busy night. Instead of intervening, he shuddered in his corner.

“It was awfully sweet,” Ashcroft continued, stepping forward and leaning close to Pritchard’s face, their noses nearly touching. As he swung the bag, it slapped gently against Pritchard’s thigh. “Maybe, Gra-ham, old Snape lets you suck his cock. Is it fun for you, Gra-ham?” His mouth widened in a grin that reminded Severus nauseatingly of Lucius Malfoy. “Tell me, Gra-ham, is it just old Snape you lust for, or will you do just about anybody? Because, you know, we’re becoming curious about our burgeoning sexuality, and maybe you’re in a position to--”

Pritchard finally began to struggle against McCaslin’s grip. “Put me down,” he said in what Severus thought was an attempt at an imperious tone. “Put me down this instant!”

“Oh, you’ll go down, all right,” said Ashcroft, chortling at his own feeble pun. “Teddy, do it,” he ordered.

Nott suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “Thomas, I don’t know,” he said, staring at his shoes.

Ashcroft whirled on the older boy, and Severus was struck with the absurdity of it -- a fourth-year ordering around a seventh-year as if he did it every day.

Maybe he did.

“You’re the one who’s studied the theory and everything,” Thomas Ashcroft was saying furiously, digging his pointer finger into Nott’s chest. “You’re the one who can do it proper. So, go on. Unless, of course, you’d like to bring Malfoy into this.”

Severus, naturally, had no idea what the boy was referring to. He was an utter failure, as a professor and as a Housemaster. He couldn’t even bring himself to save poor, stoic Pritchard from this monster of a child that he hadn’t even known existed until today. Pathetic.

Clearly unhappy with this course of action, Nott extended his wand, pointing it at Pritchard’s nose. “Imp--“ he began.

Before it could even register in Severus’ mind, he reacted, wondering even as he hurtled toward the boys why he had let it progress to the point where an Unforgivable was being cast. Wand in one hand, the other ready to begin snatching collars, Severus allowed his fury and incredulity to show on his face. “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted, bearing down on the group with all the wrath of a displeased god.

Nott paled, wand clattering to the ground. McCaslin casually let Pritchard slide down the wall until his feet were touching the floor once again. Only Ashcroft gave Severus an unrepentant stare -- even Pritchard looked somewhat ashamed. “Sir, I--“ Nott said.

“I don’t want to hear it, Mr. Nott,” Severus snapped. “You’ll be lucky if you’re not thrown into Azkaban, you stupid boy. What would your father think?” He let the perhaps unsubtle threat sink in and watched Nott gulp nervously, satisfied with his efforts. “And you two,” he continued, turning to the younger boys. “McCaslin, Ashcroft.”

The former boy had the good sense to look abashed, but the latter maintained his lazy smirk. “Sir?” Ashcroft drawled in a fair, if unconscious, imitation of Draco Malfoy.

“Do not think, for one second, that it would be wise to challenge my authority,” Severus said slowly. “I have no qualms about taking either or both of you to task. And believe me when I say that if you lay so much as a finger or cast a hex on a single student in the remainder of your time here at Hogwarts, I will personally snap your wands myself. With the headmaster’s full support. Do I make myself clear?” He punctuated his speech with a menacing glare at both of them.

McCaslin wilted entirely at this point. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled, shuffling his feet minutely.

But Ashcroft was not so easy. There was clear apprehension in his eyes, but his expression was carefully nonchalant. “As crystal,” he said evenly, turning as if to leave.

“Oh,” Severus said as an afterthought, causing all three boys to pause, “and, of course, you will all serve a month’s worth of detentions with, oh, I think Professor Hagrid will do. And it will be a hundred points from Slytherin for your gross infraction of too many school rules to count.” He let a beat of silence pass before delivering the punch line. “A hundred points each.”

Nott, straightening up from retrieving his wand, dropped it again, and if McCaslin’s shoulders slumped any further, he was probably going to topple over. Seemingly unaffected, Ashcroft took a few steps away from Severus, deliberately slamming his left shoulder into Pritchard’s, who staggered but did not fall. “Oops,” he said innocently. “I’m sorry, Gra-ham.”

“You have five seconds to get out of my sight, Ashcroft,” Severus snarled. The other boys hesitated as Ashcroft unhurriedly sauntered away. “That goes for all three of you. Pritchard, you stay put for a moment.”

The corridor emptied quickly, leaving a suddenly uncomfortable Severus and a still-pale Pritchard. Awkwardly, the boy bent down and picked up his bookbag. “Thank you, Professor,” he said quietly.

Blinking, Severus cleared his throat. “Are you injured, Mr. Pritchard?”

“Not really,” he said, with a slight shrug. “They didn’t actually cast any hexes this time.”

He winced inwardly and looked down at his shoes, not wanting to see the look in the boy’s eyes. “Good.”

It was so quiet that Severus thought maybe Pritchard had gone ahead to class, but, when he glanced back up, the boy was still standing in the hallway, his bag dangling in one hand, a strap trailing on the floor -- for once, instead of appearing prim and insufferable, Pritchard merely looked young. “Sometimes,” he began slowly, and Severus wondered how much mental effort this admission was going to cost him, “sometimes, they do cast hexes.”

Forcing himself to relax, he schooled his face into as neutral an expression as he could manage. “They do?”

“Not...” Pritchard’s face twisted and the bookbag slipped a few inches downward as his grip relaxed. “Not enough to get in trouble with the prefects. Malfoy doesn’t like Nott, so they can’t do... some things.”

Severus wondered what he should say. In the end, he said nothing.

The bag hit the floor again as Pritchard simply released it, grabbing fistfuls of his robes and giving them an agitated tug. “I love her,” he muttered. “But sometimes I wish...”

Holding his breath, Severus leaned forward.

Pritchard’s head twisted to the side, and very faintly, he heard the tiny whisper. “I wish Mum wasn’t a Mudblood.”

“You do realize,” he began slowly after a long pause, “that it would only be worse for you if I had a word with them.”

“I know,” he replied gloomily. “Dad said I should tell you, after what happened last semester, but I know that it wouldn’t help. The only thing that would...” Blinking as he trailed off, Pritchard shook his head like a dog, hair flying about his ears. “No,” he corrected himself. “I couldn’t -- I mean, that wouldn’t...”

“Neither can I turn a blind eye to your actions, Mr. Pritchard,” Severus reminded him in what he thought might be a gentle voice. “The best thing I can do is counsel you to perhaps make a few strategic alliances. Retaliation, I am afraid, could not go unpunished.”

“Alliances, sir?” he echoed. “Do you mean Malfoy, because I don’t think--“

Severus leaned back against the wall and cocked his head. “If you wish, Mr. Pritchard, but I was thinking of perhaps some students in your year. If only for the simple reason that you are less likely to be a target amongst a group.”

Pritchard looked dubious. "That sounds awfully--“

“I know,” he interrupted with a short nod. “But do not look on it as cowardice, Pritchard. Think of it as survival. I am certain you do not want to be expelled from school on the account of Thomas Ashcroft, and poisoning his supper or hexing him in the hall would end in such a fashion. You must learn how to cope.”

Stooping down, the boy hitched the strap of his bag over his shoulder, and Severus heard him mumble, “But Harry Potter...”

With only minimal eye rolling, Severus decided to be completely honest with the child -- it wasn’t, after all, as if he would remember it tomorrow. “I have little or no control over Harry Potter, Mr. Pritchard. And if he were under my authority, I would have thrown him out of Hogwarts many years ago. He is disruptive, belligerent, and an appallingly erratic student. But he is under the protection of the headmaster. I know,” he said to Pritchard’s opening mouth, “it isn’t fair. But, Mr. Pritchard, one of the many things that you will learn throughout your life is that rarely is life fair. In fact, I expect that you are in a fair way of knowing that already.” Perhaps he had said too much, but he found himself not caring.

“Besides,” he said, looking down at the floor and scuffing a trainer on the flagstones, “Harry Potter is special. He’s the Boy Who Lived.”

It took great effort to keep his voice level. “Only through an accident of prophecy,” he replied. “Else, he is no more or less exceptional than you or I. Or even Thomas Ashcroft,” he added as an afterthought.

Pritchard’s eyes were round and thoughtful as they met his. For a moment, Severus was absolutely certain the child was going to say something particularly profound. “I think it’s time for class,” he said.

Severus blinked, recovering himself. “Class?” he repeated, trying to mask his confusion.

Glancing down at his watch, the boy’s head bobbed. “In a few minutes,” he said. “We’re supposed to start.”

He made a quick decision. “Class has been canceled for the day, Pritchard. A number of ingredients necessary for today’s assignment were contaminated, and the Floo network is down,” he told him, falling back on his usual excuse.

Pritchard wrinkled his nose. “Canceled?”

“You’re free to go,” he said, nodding his head in confirmation. “I need to post an announcement -- I was distracted earlier.”

Expression suddenly unreadable, the boy took a step backward. “All right, Professor Snape,” he said. “Thank you, again.” As he turned to flee, he stepped on one of his shoelaces and, arms pinwheeling in a futile effort to regain his balance, Pritchard toppled forward, landing on his bookbag as he hit the floor. There was an audible noise of shattering glass, and Severus sighed.

Day Three Hundred Three

Severus looked up from his papers and gave the door a puzzled scowl -- had someone just knocked?

With a silent shrug, he turned back to his second years’ exam preparation, quill scratching against the parchment.

There. There it was again. Louder, this time.

A definite knock.

Perplexed, he laid his quill down neatly. “Yes?” he called.

“I... er... can I come in?” he heard Hermione’s muffled voice ask timidly.

If Severus had been a lesser man, he might have fallen out of his chair with shock. She knocked?

As it was, his lips pressed together tightly, preventing his mouth from dropping open, and he made an effort to lean back in his seat as casually as possible. “When have I ever stopped you before?” he asked her through the door.

“I... uh...” she stammered -- Severus wished he could see her face.

Abruptly irritated with her antics, he rose, strode to the door, and threw it open. Indeed, Hermione was staring down at the floor, her hands working nervously at her sides. “I was attempting to be ironic,” he told her flatly, “but I see that my efforts in that direction were largely unsuccessful.”

“I can go away,” she told the floor.

“If you like,” he replied, trying to sound indifferent. “For my own part, you may go or stay.”

“I just,” she continued in that same meek, quiet voice -- it grated on Severus’ nerves. “I just wanted to let you know that I would leave if you want me to.”

“You offer to leave every time you come here,” he said, stepping out of the doorway to allow her to walk in, if she wished. “I wonder at you coming by at all.”

She looked up at him suddenly, her cheeks stained a bright red. Her eyes sparkled oddly, unpleasantly.

Severus took a nearly instinctive step backward. “Are you... all right, Hermione?”

Her laugh was only slightly bitter. “I’m as sane as I can be, sir, if that’s what you’re asking.” After a moment, it was joined by a sardonic smile. “And I have no intention of attacking you, either.”

Deciding not to stoop to her level, he merely turned and walked back over to his desk. “Would you care for something to drink?” he offered, waving his hand at the brandy decanter.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you,” she exclaimed, entering the room and helping herself to a glass.

“I don’t mean for you to,” he said. “Was there something in particular that you wanted?”

With a small shrug, she slumped into her customary chair, swirling the brandy in her glass in a practiced gesture that unsettled Severus. “Not really,” she said. “Harry and Ron were complaining about the rain again, and I didn’t want to...” She cleared her throat and changed the subject entirely. “Are you going to hold class this afternoon?”

“I have not decided,” Severus replied, crossing out one word on his parchment and writing three in its stead. “If I held it, would you attend?”

Her expression was unreadable. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

Frowning, he crumpled the entire sheet of parchment and tossed it into the dustbin. “It is a straightforward question, Hermione. If class were held, would you go?”

“I’m not sure,” she finally said.

“Then I think it’s best left canceled,” he said, not looking up. And then, unable to resist, he added, “Unless, of course, you enjoy the outcome.”

Severus heard a rustle, and Hermione’s reply was tight with anger. “You’re a real bastard, you know.”

“I have never pretended to be otherwise,” Severus said indifferently, starting to write on a fresh sheet. “Oh, and, eighty points from Gryffindor.”

She sounded closer -- had she moved? “If you want me to go, just say so.”

With a badly suppressed sigh, Severus looked up. Hermione’s nose nearly bumped into his forehead as he did so -- she had moved. “As I have said, Miss Granger,” he said with no small degree of exasperation, “your presence or lack thereof makes absolutely no difference to me. Although you are currently testing my patience severely.”

Something shifted in her face. “I’m sorry,” she said, letting out a breath he hadn’t been aware she was holding. “I don’t mean to be... it’s just... I’m sorry,” she repeated. After a long pause, she smiled sheepishly. “Do you realize that I spend more time apologizing to you than to anyone else?”

“A fact that I’m sure has weighed on my mind heavily,” he said in a flat, sarcastic tone.

“Maybe,” she continued, apparently ready to ignore him, “in the future, I’ll endeavor not to have a reason to have to apologize.”

He offered her a thin smile. “I’ve been told that some people consider having such goals a satisfying experience.”

The wariness in her eyes faded minutely. “Are you telling me that you have no goals? That you’ve never had any goals?”

“Oh, I have goals,” he replied, easily enough. “Just not those.”

“You wouldn’t tell me even if I asked, would you?”

Severus merely looked at her.

With a sigh, Hermione shook her head. “I’ll say one thing for you, Polly, you’re predictable, at least.”

He couldn’t decide whether that name -- That Name! -- was more insulting than the derogatory tone in which she said ‘predictable’ or not. In the end, he simply fell to attempting to calculate the number of points to deduct, realizing with a start that he’d actually lost count of the number of times she’d addressed him by That Name. “I have a question,” he said slowly, trying to mask his disappointment.

Blinking, she wrinkled her forehead in clear apprehension.

“Why...” he began, speaking carefully, “why are you able to address me so... informally when my given name seems beyond your grasp? Except, of course, when--”

Hastily, Hermione cut him off before he could finish his thought. “It’s easier, somehow,” she said quickly. “You can give someone a nickname even if you don’t really know them all that well -- like how Malfoy and Harry trade insults. They’re more nicknames than anything else. But calling someone by their given name... there’s a closeness there. Harry calls Malfoy ‘Ferret-face’ all the time, but I could never imagine him calling him ‘Draco.’”

Privately, Severus rather thought that he couldn’t imagine anyone calling Malfoy ‘Draco,’ except for maybe Lucius and Narcissa, and only then on particularly special occasions. “I see,” he said.

“I guess, though,” she said thoughtfully, “that if you’d prefer, I could stop.”

Severus realized two things in that moment. The first was that he had no real urge to tell her not to use That Name. And the second was that either he was going soft, or he was beginning to find Hermione Granger and her utterly insane antics far less obnoxious than he ever thought he would.

Day Three Hundred Six

“Hey,” Severus heard Potter say as he walked past the Gryffindor table on his way out of luncheon, “has anyone seen my Charms book?”

He paused and looked Hermione square in the face -- her apprehension was palpable.

“Where’d you leave it, mate?” Weasley asked.

“Do you think that if I knew, I would be asking you?” Potter countered, a nasty edge in his voice. “I wanted to get a start on the homework that’s due tomorrow, but I can’t find my book anywhere. The last I remember seeing it, I put it in my trunk yesterday evening. But it’s not there, now.”

Weasley shrugged and took a long draught from his goblet, making a horrible slurping noise as he did so. “Sorry,” he said as he swallowed. “Can’t help you.”

Resisting a perverse impulse to echo Weasley’s sentiment, Severus forced himself to walk by, tearing his gaze away from Hermione’s.