Answers: Prologue
Disclaimer: They are protected by a copyright which isn't mine.
A/N: Thanks are owed to OzRatBag2 for her insightful Beta, and to Snapdragongrrl for setting my grammar to rights.
There are still gossipy whispers in his classroom. Notes written in childish obscenity are passed, and pranks pulled. Severus doesn't envy them their oblivious pleasures; there is no real pleasure in it that he can see, and none of them are as oblivious as they would wish.
The children cling to a pantomime of schoolmate rivalries and hormonal ruttings they call romance. He catches a few, but never pushes them very far. He can no longer be certain of their reactions.
Severus feels the children may one day raise their wands and let bubble forth every curse (from Jellylegs, to Crucio) upon him. Watching them dumbly perform the steps of the potion he has assigned today, he amuses himself wondering how many points could be taken for such an assault. He sincerely doubts that Dumbledore would punish them for anything at this point. He imagines a gentle Obliviate for each and an order that the House Elves slip mood suppressants in their pumpkin juice.
Their potions froth and many settle at the right color and consistency. Severus is not surprised; it is an absurdly easy potion. They bottle their masterworks, and he dismisses the class without bothering to find a suitably nasty insult.
Hermione Granger hovers at her desk after the other children have left. She arranges her texts neatly in her book bag, shuffles and reshuffles her parchments, and refuses to look at him. Severus begins to wonder if it is grief, or the summer she spent being cosseted by the Weasley's, that has addled her wits.
"I have a question," she says finally.
He stares at her, waiting.
"You were there," she mumbles.
"That," he sneers, "is not a question."
"Fine," she says, her posture stiffening as she looks up at him narrowly. "Were. You. There. Professor?"
"Congratulations, Miss Granger, you've asked a question," he says with false cordiality. "It is vague to the point of incoherency, however. Try again."
She steps around her desk and marches toward him. "Were you there when they killed my parents?"
There is a manic light in her eyes; a rage that lurks, directionless, in the other children. They can't be told, but he could tell her. He would only be confirming her suspicions.
"Yes," he says mildly, curious of her reaction.
It is not what he expects. His words extinguish her rage smoothly as if he were snuffing a candle. She turns away, carefully collects her book-bag, and walks out of his classroom with painful deliberation.
Severus folds his hands tightly; stares down at them. He mentally catalogues seventh year potions syllabi and leaves only when her sobs have ceased to echo in from the corridor.
Disclaimer: They are protected by a copyright which isn't mine.
A/N: Thanks are owed to OzRatBag2 for her insightful Beta, and to Snapdragongrrl for setting my grammar to rights.
There are still gossipy whispers in his classroom. Notes written in childish obscenity are passed, and pranks pulled. Severus doesn't envy them their oblivious pleasures; there is no real pleasure in it that he can see, and none of them are as oblivious as they would wish.
The children cling to a pantomime of schoolmate rivalries and hormonal ruttings they call romance. He catches a few, but never pushes them very far. He can no longer be certain of their reactions.
Severus feels the children may one day raise their wands and let bubble forth every curse (from Jellylegs, to Crucio) upon him. Watching them dumbly perform the steps of the potion he has assigned today, he amuses himself wondering how many points could be taken for such an assault. He sincerely doubts that Dumbledore would punish them for anything at this point. He imagines a gentle Obliviate for each and an order that the House Elves slip mood suppressants in their pumpkin juice.
Their potions froth and many settle at the right color and consistency. Severus is not surprised; it is an absurdly easy potion. They bottle their masterworks, and he dismisses the class without bothering to find a suitably nasty insult.
Hermione Granger hovers at her desk after the other children have left. She arranges her texts neatly in her book bag, shuffles and reshuffles her parchments, and refuses to look at him. Severus begins to wonder if it is grief, or the summer she spent being cosseted by the Weasley's, that has addled her wits.
"I have a question," she says finally.
He stares at her, waiting.
"You were there," she mumbles.
"That," he sneers, "is not a question."
"Fine," she says, her posture stiffening as she looks up at him narrowly. "Were. You. There. Professor?"
"Congratulations, Miss Granger, you've asked a question," he says with false cordiality. "It is vague to the point of incoherency, however. Try again."
She steps around her desk and marches toward him. "Were you there when they killed my parents?"
There is a manic light in her eyes; a rage that lurks, directionless, in the other children. They can't be told, but he could tell her. He would only be confirming her suspicions.
"Yes," he says mildly, curious of her reaction.
It is not what he expects. His words extinguish her rage smoothly as if he were snuffing a candle. She turns away, carefully collects her book-bag, and walks out of his classroom with painful deliberation.
Severus folds his hands tightly; stares down at them. He mentally catalogues seventh year potions syllabi and leaves only when her sobs have ceased to echo in from the corridor.