𝐚𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐝𝐞l , wormwood.

SEVRSSNAPE  :  independent  writing  blog  for  severus  snape  of  the  harry  potter  series.  a  mix  of  book  and  film  canon,  with  expanded  headcanon  influences  and  other  meta.  written  by  jenn,  she/her,  21+.  please  check  out  my  rules  before  approaching.  more  TBA  here  as  i  go.  **

@proditeur​  said  :   " sev. sev! sev. sev? sev. sev. "

he’s  JERKED  out  of  his  thoughts,  as  sharply  as  a  feint   ━━   pulled  back  here,  forcefully,  into  the  reality  of  the  almost  smiling,   deep  set,  bemused  eyes  of  REGULUS  BLACK.  away  from   the  long,  orange  locks,  turning  a  corner  and  floating  away,  out  of  sight   but  never  of  mind  ━━   to  the  gryffindor  common  rooms,  no  doubt.  the  unmistakable  exit  of  lily  evans.   

the  name,  however  . . .  HER  NICKNAME,  RATHER . . .  remains  poignant  and  here  and  almost  comical,  now   ━━   sounds  jarring,  admittedly,   in  his  ears  from  anyone  else  . . .   as  if  she  were  as  present  as  five  moments  ago  but  sharper  and  more  embarrasssing.  only  this  time,  it’s  low  and  deep,  and  said  in  the  timbre  of  a  man.  

SNAPE  turns  around.  he  feels  hot;  his  chest  is  heavy  with  sharp  embarrassment.  SEV.  in  anyone  else’s  voice,  it  sounds  small.  at  least,  though,  this  is  regulus.  it’s  embarrassing,  but  not  quite  a  threat.  not  a  pointed  assault.  it’s  a  joke.  maybe.  and  that’s  something  severus  can  hesitate  with.   

“  . . .  ”  

snape  stuffs  his  hands  in  his  robe  pockets.  his  black  eyes  dart  like  scattering  tadpoles  at  regulus,  and  then  down  at  the  floor.    

dumbledore: u need 2 tell harry the truth it’s up to u 

severus: i would literally rather DIE — 

snape: honestly how dare you you knew harry potter was going to have to die literally five books ago and you leave ME to tell him 

dumbledore: i thought it would be a good development opportunity for you

Harry’s     head     has     been     aching     all     day     in     anticipation     of     his     meeting     with     Snape.     He’s     tried     the     usual     remedies     (     pills,     potions     —     nothing     touches     it     )     and     even     made     the     mistake     of     inquiring     Hermione     for     a     cure     (     “oh     harry,     I     think     this     might     be     caused     by     stress…”     “yeah,     you     think?”     ).     But     nothing     has     touched     it.     Instead,     he’s     settled     for     the     conciliation     that     he’s     only     a     few     days     away     from     a     winter     break     that     will     be     spent     entirely     out     of     the     reach     of     Snape     and     his     nasty,     intrusive     grasp…. 

 He     enters     the     room     without     fanfare     after     knocking,     forcing     each     leg     to     make     one     step     after     the     other     as     he     turns     to     face     his     instructor.     Harry     already     feels     a     prick     of     anger     somewhere     dead     within     the     meat     of     his     headache.     The     lesson     is     hopeless,     and     they     both     know     it. 

 “Yes,     professor,”     he     mutters,     attempting     to     drain     away     the     hatred     in     his     voice.    

The  side  of  Snape’s  mouth  twitches,  again,  in  the  silent  response  to  Harry’s  statement.  He  is  STILL  otherwise;  his  unmoving,  unrelenting  stare  from  over  the  bridge  of  his  large  nose  enough  of  an  indication  --  his  faith  in  his  mentee  is,  as  per  usual,  unchanging  and  less  than  favourable.  Practically  null,  in  fact.  

❛   I  can  assure  you,  Potter,  that  I  find  these  lessons  to  be  as  fulfilling  as  you.  ❜

He  moves  suddenly,  as  if  an  explosive  energy  lies,  all  but  contained,  just  barely  beneath  his  unmoving  demeanor.   His  robes  SWISH  around  him,  smoke-like,  as  he  closes  the  heavy  dungeon  door  behind  them;  it  shuts  with  a  loud,  hollow  bang.  Snape  then  moves  with  incredible  purpose,  quickly,  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  He  does  not  look  at  Harry  as  he  readies  everything.   

          You didn’t know I was here, Regulus thought to himself, eyeing the quick way with which Severus turned to him. In that he thought they were similar—people rarely noticed Regulus when he did not want them to, not because he wasn’t engaging or desired company but because his footsteps were silent and he moved so easily in and out of a space that people scarcely realized he was even there. It was different with Severus… people tended not to notice him at all.

          Regulus noticed. He noticed everything.

          He retrained his eyes on the top passage of the page he was on—but he wasn’t reading. People were more comfortable, he thought, when they weren’t being watched; when a person’s attention was torn between them and something else. 

          “—Tchaa,” he chuckled with a crooked, hidden smile. Yes, he thought, You certainly have plenty to be afraid of in here. Then he realized that part of what Severus needed to be afraid of was related to him and he wondered, as he always did, what his upperclassman really thought of that.

          “That’s very bold,” he noted regardless, dropping the book down to his lap and leaning his head lackadaisically against the back of his chair, rocking it side-to-side, “I agree with it, though. Only the unprepared ever have anything to be afraid of… and you’re more prepared than you let on, aren’t you?” 

          Regulus craned his neck and followed Severus’ direction with his eyes, to the reflection of Lucius’ proud gallavanting in the windows. “You ought to stop staring. It could go on for hours. It’ll only make you dizzy.” 

Black’s  sudden  intrigue,  his  talkative  demeanor,  his  way  of  reaching  out  &  communicating . . .  is  doing  more  than  making  Severus  a  touch  uncomfortable;  it’s  infuriating  him.  His  nostrils  flare;  this  is  apparent  in  the  gray  window’s  glass,  if  one  had  wanted  to  observe.  But  the  irateness  is  aimed,  unbeknownst  or  understood  even  by  Severus,  not  at  the  other,  but  inward.  WHY  HAD  HE  ALLOWED  ANYONE  INTO  HIS  HEAD?   

The  other  Slytherins  hardly  paid  Severus  mind  enough  on  the  best  of  days  --  the  rest  of  the  time  he  remained  as  invisible  as  a  black  phantom  in  the  shadows,  left  to  his  own  devices  of  experimentation  and  precision.  Just  the  way  he  liked  it.  Someone  like  Regulus,  a  figure  oftentimes  as  quiet  as  he,  but  with  a  certain  poise  and  strength  that  accompanied  only  those  wizards  born  into  wealth  and  nobility,   was  never  quite  someone  Severus  wanted  to  be  seen  by.     Too  risky.      Thankfully,  Regulus   made  this  easy;  he  had  really  never  made  any  kind  of  attempt  to  do  as  such.  The  two  coexisted  thus  in  a  certain  brand  of  silent  understanding;  I’ll  stay  out  of  your  way,  and  you’ll  stay  out  of  mine.  And  so  this  present  conversation  is  uncharacteristic;  Regulus,  offering  him  a  praise  --  calling  him  bold? 

Severus  does  not  like  people  acting  unpredictably  . . .  

Is  this,  perhaps,  another  cruel  joke?  Is  he  up  to  something  with  the  other  Slytherins?  Severus  considers  attempting  a  nonverbal  Legillimens,  and  brushing  against  his  mind  just  enough  to  get  a  sense  . . .  but  he  knows  Regulus  is  probably   prepared  for  such  things,  and  decides  not  to  attempt  it.  Sirius  Black  is,  of  course,  a  sworn  enemy  of  Severus,  but  Regulus,  the  younger  brother,  sorted  into  his  own  House,  has  admittedly  never  given  him  any  reason  to  fight.  He  is  a  different  kind  of  opponent.