#severus.

It had been a warm solstice, she supposed for English standards, and there was some lingering warmth even in the charmed air inside Malfoy manor. Even after a short time spent with them, she can identify the specific brand of their events with its heavily curated list of guests, all with a similar background, certain to be the subject of an inspirational spread in the society pages of the Prophet. Class, tradition and elegance are their keys, she thought, out of reach for the average reader, but not so far it creates explicit animosity.

She knew right away when he stepped through the door, that he was an exception to that rule. She’s watched him for a bit, in between laughing and dancing in the center of the room, and there’s something in the set of his shoulders that screamed discomfort to her; his dress robes worn with what she guesses at to be disdain. The song played by the string quartet changes into something slower she can’t quite get a hold on, and his appearance is more interesting than chasing the music. She drifts to the sides of the room and grasps a flute of one thing or another on her way there.

“Not interested in dancing? I’ve heard it was this or an enchanted harp.”

Potter’s mind has the sophistication of an infant. It squeals and whines, each haphazard artifact a toy in a cot out of which Severus plucks a singular strand of thought quite...

painful.

I am more like him than I care to be.

It’s a uniquely Potter way to exalt oneself to heights only one other wizard has ever surpassed while crying for pity. Generational, this affliction, and, like lycanthropy, ...incurable by magic.

❝Don’t—-❞

Severus digs

❝—flatter yourself. If you and the Dark Lord had a speck in common, you’d have had me on my knees in-this-very-room at the first intrusion.❞

turns a fork

❝Resist.❞

Twenty years too late, he’d rather think. Time— is a perfect circle. Though, of course, to Lupin, its waxing and waning must be a torturous guarantee. How deserved.

And uncomplex. Such a being as Lupin requires no Legilimency to divine the punishment—without protest on its part—fits the crime. One of affiliation, in this case. Inaction.

Quite the Gryffindor trait.

❝Murmurs of a Defence Against the Dark Arts class being cancelled at the last minute... four. Days ago.❞

“Kill Voldemort. Fuck Grindelwald up, and marry Severus off to someone who actually cares.”

I like you // I love you // You’re one of my best friends // You’re like family // You are family // I dislike you // I hate you // I’d kill you if I got the chance // I want you to like me // I’m scared of you // I would adopt you // I’d date you // I’d sleep with you // I’d marry you // I’m worried about you // You confuse me // You’re annoying // I pity you // I respect you // I trust you // I feel protective of you // I’d invite you with me to parties // I’d lend you my money // I’d borrow your money // You’re good-looking // I’m suspicious of you // I’m hiding something from you // You’re fun // You’re boring // I’m upset with you // You’re nice // You’re mean // I’m envious of you // You’re smart // You’re stupid // I look up to you // I think you’re a better person than me // I think I’m a better person than you // I want to apologize to you // I wish I’d never met you // I never want to forget you // I want to get to know you better