Double Whammy

Hogwarts Castle stood at the end of the path, dark and brooding beneath the gleaming moonlight sky. The sparkling stars reflected upon the Black Lake in the distance, a loud splash and a flailing of tentacles breaking the glassy surface, confirming the rumors you had heard concerning a certain giant squid. 

You tucked the crumpled parchment within your midnight blue robes, their color nearly black in the deepening twilight, Headmistress McGonagall’s instructions no longer necessary. The heavy oak front doors opened before you, without a flick of your wrist or a word spoken, the cobblestone walls echoing with the excited mutterings of students. It must be dinnertime, you thought, suddenly nervous to make your grand entrance under the eyes of so many people. 

The Great Hall was unmissable, unmistakable; the voices engaged in conversation at their loudest here, the thick doors partially left ajar. You slipped through, hoping not to be noticed, a great hush falling over the assembled students like snowfall. Self-conscious and horribly anxious, you quickly strode to the long table where the professors were seated, slate-grey traveling cloak billowing like a ship’s sail behind you. 

A chair materialized at the table between two men—one with a smile stretched across his lightly tanned face, messy jet-black hair covering a faded lightning-bolt scar—the other, his thin lips pulled in a tight frown, inky-black hair cropped to just above his shoulders, beginning to grey at the temples. It was no secret who either of the two men was, their contributions to the Second Wizarding War now legend. 

You had placed a delicate hand atop the newly appeared wooden chair, about to shift it away from the table, when McGonagall’s Scottish brogue drifted over the hall. “Students, this is Professor Y/L/N, who will serve as a substitute for Professor Longbottom, while he is away on his honeymoon.” Several students giggled, whether at you or at the idea of Professor Longbottom on honeymoon, you did not know. You nodded in their direction, silently praying you were flashing them a half-smile rather than a half-grimace. 

You sat down at the table, Professor Snape staring straight ahead of him, one brow upturned, Professor Potter immediately jabbing a large hand in your direction. “Pleased to meet you, Professor Pot—”

“—Nonsense,” the man interrupted. “Call me Harry,” he spoke in a confident tenor, emerald green eyes full of joy. 

“Right,” you started, unmoored by the idea of being on a first-name basis with The Boy Who Lived, though he certainly was no longer a boy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry.” The man beamed. You moved to scoop a glob of mashed potato onto your plate.

“And this is Profess—” 

“Severus Snape.” Snape had clearly anticipated Harry’s introduction. He rolled his onyx eyes, displeased at his coworker, his hand rigidly remaining beneath the table. He nodded his chin, his short dark hair slipping into his eyes. You returned the tight nod.

“I suppose it’s useless for me to introduce myself now,” you nervously laughed, though there was no real humour in your voice.

“Indeed,” Snape muttered crisply, his deep baritone rough. 

“So, herbology,” Harry started, uneasily, obviously attempting to salvage a small part of the conversation. He fidgeted with the golden hem of his forest green robes.

“Yes, ehm, herbology,” You weren’t sure what exactly he wanted to know. “I’ll be teaching it for the next few weeks,” you finished, lamely, a soft exhale that could have been called a snort coming from Snape’s direction. The thin man was stabbing at a thick portion of meat. Harry suddenly looked a bit sheepish.

“Is that what you have your mastery in?” This was, at least, an actual question. You weren’t really sure why Harry was bothering to talk to you, your usual distaste with forced, socially mandated small talk abated by his genuine curiosity.

“I technically have masteries in teaching and history. I’m certified to teach most subjects, if I desire to.” Harry’s brows scrunched together.

“Is that common? Getting a mastery in teaching, I mean. I’ve only got a certificate.”

“In most of Europe, yes. Britain has lagged behind in educational laws, particularly those centered around teaching qualifications. Dragging anyone off the street to teach a course would technically be permissible.” You paused, examining the look of shock crossing over the young professor’s face, as if he were recalling the taste of a sour piece of fruit. “Ever since the end of the war, the Ministry’s been working at remodeling the standards.”

“Honestly, Potter, did you never wonder how Lockhart was ever accepted? Did you really think that twat had a teaching certificate?” Snape had rejoined the conversation, his sallow face wearing a rather annoyed expression. 

Harry’s half-smile dropped, spine sagging at Snape’s chastisement. The fall of former Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Gilderoy Lockhart was well-known, even if all the details surrounding the incident weren’t.

The hall was fairly empty; only a pair of boys at the table before the red and gold banner along the wall remained, stuffing their mouths full of treacle and pudding. The sight was nearly enough to make you sick up your meal. 

Harry stood up, golden-trimmed cloak swirling. You joined him as the food at the professor’s table disappeared in a glimmer of winking dust. You turned to your left, but Snape was already gone, the side door at the end of the table swinging shut. 

“Would you like me to escort you to your quarters?” Harry offered his arm, kindly, a smile plastered back into place.

“Please,” you whispered, looking back to see McGonagall, speaking with the ruddy-faced half-giant Hagrid, send a small wave. 

“I believe Minerva’s put you in the dungeons,” Harry grimaced, the corridor ten degrees colder. “Not sure why—blimey, it’s freezing!” Harry shivered, the arm connecting to yours shaking. He was right—the dungeons were frigid, moss covering the ancient cobblestone walls that echoed with each hurried step the two of you took. 

“Here you are.” He was stopped before a blank wall, wood merging through the stone to magically reveal a new door, looking just as ancient as the rest of the school. “Put your wand hand on the handle.” Harry guided your left hand to the iron, the metal warm to the touch, glowing red before rapidly returning to its normal state. 

“The door will always respond to your magic now, no one else’s,” Harry’s voice became the same lecturing, droning tone he used in class. He caught himself before forging on, “Right—and Professor Snape’s quarters are just down the hall—if you need anything, that is.” Harry stood awkwardly to your right, hands fidgeting, eyes darting down the hall back to you. You felt bad for inconveniencing the man. 

“Erhm—well—thanks, Profe—Harry,” you corrected, voice unsteady, legs shifting uneasily. “Have a good night,” you quietly murmured. Harry smiled.

“Good night. See you tomorrow!” He backed away, turning in a swish of green and gold robes, leaving you suddenly alone in the seemingly massive corridor. The cold felt as if it had seeped all the way to your bones, your joints protesting as you uncoordinatedly lurched into your quarters. 

The walls were still the same grey cobblestone, a collection of lumpy midnight blue armchairs next to a roaring fire, and a black couch sat behind a chestnut sidetable. The floor had turned to wood—the slats creaking as you entered your new, if temporary, home, the temperature much more sensible than the wintery dungeon. 

A side room revealed a tiled bathroom with a tub the size of a small swimming pool, connected to a suite with a large canopy bed, a window revealing the swirling, murky depths of the lake. The sight was mesmerizing: a school of fish swimming up to the glass before scurrying away, a two-foot-long fish with a striking resemblance to a barracuda, jetting past. 

You let the velvet curtains fall, covering the disturbing sight of the Black Lake to prevent you from growing too engrossed, deciding to explore the kitchen for a cuppa. Shrugging out of your traveling cloak, you piled the heavy garment on an unused wooden chair, lighting a fire for the kettle with the tip of your wand. 

You had arrived at the castle less than twelve—hell, less than four—hours ago, and already it felt as if weeks had passed. Harry Potter might now be considered a friend, and you thought that Severus Snape, at the very least, did not consider you a foe. 

Tomorrow would be painful—a full day of acclimating students to your teaching style and proving you were no pushover when it came to discipline. You were teaching first, second, and fifth years, not at all looking forward to the inevitable misbehaving student who did not cover their ears in the presence of a mandrake. You suspected you might grow far too familiar with the Hospital Wing’s location before the day was out. 

The past week had been irritatingly awful—the second years were perfectly incompetent at following basic instructions, several students failing to cover their heads with the earmuffs, everyone surprised when bodies dropped in a dead faint. Exactly as you said they would. 

There was no real satisfaction in being correct—not that it would have taken a seer to accurately foresee such a prediction—you thought, sitting in the one vacant booth, tight for one, but likely a squeeze for a couple, in the far corner of The Three Broomsticks. The older woman commanding the bar, tall, curvy, and despite her greying curls, effortlessly pretty, did not take long to arrive back with a butterbeer and shepherd’s pie, the dish nearly bigger than your head. 

You had gone to do a bit of marking; Professor Longbottom had left a sizable stack upon his desk before leaving. Yet, after ten minutes in, and having only corrected two students’ parchments, you decided the endeavor was hopeless. A drunken bar song had erupted at the far counter, butterbeer and firewhiskey sloshing dangerously out of patrons’ tumblers and onto the floor. The sentence incorrectly outlining the properties of gillyweed had not changed on your fourth read-through. 

A dark shape loomed in your peripheral, hesitating as it reached the corner. “May I sit here?” 

He was the last person you expected to see at a crowded pub on a Friday night. You silently nodded, watching as Severus Snape slid along into the booth, knobby knees knocking against yours. “Sorry,” he spoke so softly you had to strain your ears to catch it, wondering if perhaps you were the only living person in the world the formidable man had ever apologized to. The number had to be under a handful. You’d even bet ten galleons on it. 

Snape motioned to the bartender, who waved a short greeting in his direction. She seemed annoyed with the singing group of men, particularly when one dropped a half-drunk glass that shattered on the wooden floor. He propped a black leather satchel you had not previously noticed against the window, pulling from its depths a scrap of parchment and a black-feather-quill that looked far too short to comfortably fit in his hand. You shifted, moving to tuck your marking away undetected.

“Giving up, eh?” Snape asked, his silky timbre difficult to pick up with the continued singing. 

“Afraid so,” you began in your even, unwavering tone. “There’s no use with that lot.” Snape nodded, silently agreeing, before scribbling a few lines in writing closely akin to chicken-scratch. 

“I see Longbottom gave you the entire term’s worth of assignments.” You snorted, stunned he was even bothering to continue conversing with you. Snape took a deep sip of his beverage, onyx eyes glimmering with something mysterious over the glass.

“Indeed. You could say that again.”

“Perhaps, I ought—” But you would never know what Snape wanted to say, what he “ought” to do, for a collision between bodies beside the bins resting outside, beside the window, loudly rattled, audible even above the slurred singing at the bar. Voices, voices that were young and befitting school-age children, permeated through the thin pub wall.

You were already on your feet, bag shouldered, mournfully placing two galleons, more than enough to cover both yours and Snape’s half-drunk liquor and still-steaming meals. Snape followed you out the door, satchel tucked beneath his voluminous ink-black robes, trademark scowl firmly in place.

Two Gryffindor boys towered above a Slytherin, who appeared to be cowering among the toppled waste bins, one hand cradling a broken nose, red blood streaming down the front of his robes. The Gryffindors made to run when they caught sight of Snape, immediately crumpling in stature and resigning themselves to their fate, not bothering to foolishly attempt an escape. 

The black-clad man was seething, jaw clenched, brows crunched in fury. You approached the Slytherin boy, a first- or second-year, judging by his height, or lack thereof, the air turning white as you murmured, “Episkey.” The boy flinched, relaxing when he surprisingly discovered no pain lingered. The blood had stopped gushing, a whispered cleaning spell disappearing the mess from his face, though doing nothing to cleanse his ruined robes. 

“Does anything else hurt?” You asked, warily eyeing the boy’s hurried shake no with a pinch of skepticism. “Right, well, I think we shall still give Madam Pomfrey a visit.” The boy paled at that, right to the roots of his blond hair, though he said nothing.

Snape had gone translucent, glare unwavering as he stared at the boys. He had yet to utter a word while he watched you repair his student. “So,” he started, voice silky and dangerous. “Soo, what are you three doing in Hogsmeade, where no second years are permitted, hours past curfew?” 

The taller Gryffindor boy, brown-haired and gangly, blushed, the tips of his ears going red. The other, dirty blond, freckled, and stocky, schooled his face, only his brown eyes looking panicked. 

“Empty your pockets,” you spoke, tone steely, closely examining the misshapen lumps formed at the two boys’ pockets. 

“Are you suddenly deaf, or slow as always? Move, Perkins, before I do it for you.” You did not approve of Snape’s insults, but this was hardly a time to argue. All three boys upturned their pockets; magical candies and brightly wrapped products decorated with a purple cursive “W” spilled to the ground before the red-and-gold tied boys. A half-empty coin purse and several vials, some large but empty, others stoppered, containing freshly picked potion ingredients remained clutched in the blond Slytherin boy’s hands.

Snape, still quietly angry at your side, stiffly reached for one of the larger, empty vials; the dregs of a light blue liquid pooled at the glass’s bottom. He uncorked it, lifting the neck of the bottle to his hooked nose, sniffing deeply until he held the object away, as if it personally had offended him. “Draught of Invisibility,” he muttered, baritone clipped and annoyed. “This certainly explains how you exited the castle undetected.” 

The Slytherin boy looked desperate, blue eyes glassy and trembling lower lip parted. He obviously had something he wanted to say, wanted his professors to understand, but just as he was building up the courage to speak, a dark-haired shopkeeper ran into the small clearing, wand drawn and dirty white apron untied at one end, flapping behind.

The man, barely older than twenty, panted as he skidded to a halt in front of the professors, thin hand grabbing painfully at his chest. “Thieves!” He pointed at the two boys, voice waspish and accusing. His pointed, freckled nose was scrunched up in apparent distaste, face still scarlet from the exertion of sprinting halfway across Hogsmeade. “This lot stole nearly fifty galleons worth of product from me! Who knows what they took from Honeydukes!” 

Snape’s fathomless eyes, black as pitch, flashed as he strode forward, bridging the gap between the young adult and the three students. He wordlessly accioed the mountain of sweets and joke products, a wrapper labeled “Fever Fudge” glinting in the dusky twilight glow. “They won’t be needing these,” he snarled, releasing his magic, the shop clerk struggling to hold all the stolen goods within his folded apron. 

“Boys,” you started, coldly, Snape raising his brow confusedly, as if he had forgotten you were still there. “What do you have to say?”

“Sorry,” The Slytherin and the dark-haired boy spoke in unison, the blond mumbling an apology a beat later, after an unsubtle nudge to the elbow by his compatriot. 

“Owl me privately, if further repayment is required.” The thin man was still irate, arms full of wrappers, looking like he wished to further argue, but one fierce glare from the Potions Master had him stumbling backward. 

“Of course.” He turned on his heel, gingerly ambling up the steep hill, up the main street of the tiny village. 

“Perkins,” Snape rounded on the boys, spine rigid with controlled rage, thin lips pulled into a tight scowl. “Explain.”

“Marcus and I were on our way to the common room when—when Matthews cornered us! He made us drink a potion and forced us to walk to Hogsmeade. He—” Snape held up his hand, his knuckles bony, fingers narrow and stained from working with ingredients all day.

“A likely story,” he growled sarcastically, the evidence gathered before the two of you providing a fairly convincing, unrelated narrative. “Fifty points each from Gryffindor, for being out-of-bounds and out-of-bed after curfew. Twenty-five points each for assaulting another student and—let’s say an additional twenty-five points for lying to a professor.” Snape sounded positively gleeful, long legs walking in the direction of the castle, the rest of you silently following in his wake.

“But—Professor Y/L/N, please! You must believe us! That’s not fair! Snape’s letting Matthews off the hook!” You took a deep inhalation of brisk, night air, nostrils flaring at the boy’s petulance. 

“First of all, Perkins,” you began, tone so icy and delicate you might have given Snape a run for his money, “I find it positively insulting you ask me to forget what my own two eyes definitely saw. Professor Snape’s been exceptionally lenient with the two of you. I would argue suspension, or, I daresay, expulsion, would not have been out of the question. Gryffindor is already in last place; I suggest you cease your whinging, lest I dock you—let’s see, if my maths are correct, Gryffindor’s house’s remaining forty-five points,” you paused, watching the blond’s face fall, satisfied the message was finally sinking in. 

“Not that it is any of your concern, but Professor Snape is known to discuss his punishments with students falling under his house in private. Now, Professor Snape failed to assign the two of you detention, and I feel I must rectify the matter…”

The trek up to the castle was incredibly unpleasant. The boys trudged on ahead, the Gryffindors darkly muttering beneath their breath, likely cursing the punishment jointly doled out by their now most despised pair of professors. Matthews walked behind them, silent and surly as ever, blue eyes locked on the rocky ground at his feet. 

Snape and you fell into an easy rhythm, ambling up the path in the starlight. His skin looked less sallow, less sickly, in the open air and far away from the dungeon’s shadows. Your robes rippled around you, a fierce west wind beginning to set in, and you feared the coming of a howling storm. If Snape was worried, he did not express so outwardly—his dark eyes set on the horizon. 

You led the Gryffindors back up to their tower, the singing portrait displeased at being awoken from her nap, the frame swinging forward to reveal a bedraggled Professor Potter, dark hair horribly unkempt and sticking up in all directions. He wore a Muggle sweatshirt and black fleece sleep pants, his glasses askew, green eyes unfocused until he saw the guilty expressions the boys were wearing.

“Professor, we were—” 

“Out of bed, and out of bounds,” you interrupted Perkins smoothly, relishing the defeated look the boy wore. “And, guilty of property theft, I might add.” Harry’s eyes darkened, his usually jovial face suddenly serious and much older than his years. “Perhaps you would like to inform your Head of House just how many points you managed to lose for Gryffindor in one night. It might be a new record.”

The staff room was colder than the dungeons, the fire you lit half an hour prior only now developing a grouping of white-hot coals. You finished scratching at the lengthy bit of parchment when the door fell open, Snape striding over to the armchair adjacent to yours. 

You handed him the finished report, his eyes as dark as the night sky as he skimmed the page, brow absentmindedly quirked upward. A quill materialized between his narrow, stained fingers with a sharp pop. In a flurry of movement, he etched his name beside yours.

He stood, filing the incident report away for the Headmistress, while you gathered your things, intent on throwing yourself upon your feather-soft mattress as soon as you entered your chambers. You extinguished the staff room fire with an idle wave of your wrist, quietly exiting the room and wandering down the blackened corridor, the glowing light emitted at the tip of your wand your only source of light.

“Wait!” It was the most desperate sound you’d ever heard the solemn man make, Snape catching up to you in a few long strides of his lanky legs, black cloak billowing behind his back. His breath was uneven as he closed the gap, pressing something circular and cool to the touch in your palm.

“What’s thi—”

“For dinner. You didn’t have to—”

“It’s fine, really. I enjoyed your company, even if it wasn’t much of a dinner anyway.” You tried to give the coin back to the taller professor, but he broke away, angular face grimacing, as if in pain. 

“You can pay next time.” The words slipped far too fast and far too easily from your lips, Snape’s pale face turning ashen, brows drawn in confusion.

“N-next time. Right.” His normal deep baritone was unsteady and high- pitched. You feared perhaps you had trodden past some unspoken boundary.

“Unless—”

“No!” He yelled, looking sheepish as his voice sharply echoed off the ancient stone. “No, next time, next time would be…ideal.” You squinted at him, his expression still sheepish and slightly discomposed, his uncertainty suddenly endearing to you.

“Perhaps,” he licked his chapped lips, mouth unusually dry, “Perhaps next Friday would be amenable?”

“Certainly.” You had reached your chambers’ door, located in the frigid heart of Hogwarts’ dungeons, Snape uncomfortably shifting from foot to foot. “Would you like a cuppa?”

“I should not—”

“Please?” Snape looked at the darkness creeping in the distance at the end of the corridor, wordlessly warring within himself. He nodded, frowning. 

The evening passed in pleasant conversation. Snape spoke of his recent experiments—a new breakthrough in the Wolfsbane potion he was continuing to monitor and reproduce. He asked where you were going once Longbottom returned at the end of the month. It was around three in the morning and half a bottle of firewhiskey later that you realized you had become friends with Severus Snape.