Chapter Text
The insufferable witch was at it again. Laughing. Not only had she gone and saved him, he now had to put up with her incessant presence, too. Not only had Minerva forced him back to Hogwarts, because of course she had, and made him Deputy bloody Head, and given him the job he'd always wanted, but she’d made her the Transfiguration Professor and Head of Gryffindor House. No one had done either job so young, including Minerva. She’d had to take N.E.W.T.s, but she still managed to get the best marks in the school’s history, despite missing more than a year of school and winning a war.
Because of course she bloody did.
The most infuriating part of all of it, was that she had never mentioned it. Not once. Despite the fact that he’d never actually thanked her, or apologised for the way he’d treated her. She would just sit beside him at each meal, greet him pleasantly, and not force conversation, instead allowing others to bring her into it. It wasn’t the Granger girl that he’d taught for six years. No. This one was a woman, a fully fledged witch, mature, comfortable and confident in her skin.
He fucking hated it.
Just like everyone else, she’d given him a pass. She, who had suffered because of him, and people like him. The Gryffindor Princess, perfectly golden.
At dinner, she finally addressed him. “Professor,” she began, turning towards him so he knew she was speaking to him. “I was wondering if I might pick your brain about something. If you have the time, of course.”
“Get on with it then.” He didn’t even look at her. On his other side, he heard Minerva chuckle, and he just knew it was directed at him.
“I was wondering if you’d done much experimentation with Chupacabras.” He almost dropped his fork. “I’ve been researching the different variations, and I’m curious about the use of their spines in potion making. I figured you might have attempted it, or at least read on the topic extensively.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?” His tone was even, unaffected. The way it always was.
“You’re a Potions Master with an interest in the Dark Arts. Rumour has it you’ve always wanted the Defence Against the Dark Arts post, and you teach it passionately. If anyone would have read up on it, it would be you.” Logical. Annoying.
He hummed. “What have you ascertained?”
Satisfied that she’d drawn him into the conversation, she turned back to her dinner. “I think they might be useful for blood curses.” He did drop his knife then. Granger continued as if he hadn’t. “Or perhaps their teeth. They do live on blood after all. Although I’m unsure what exactly I’d be adding with it. I’m in the initial stages, really, but I don’t want to waste my time if you think it pointless.”
“I wasn’t aware my opinion was so valuable to you.”
She scoffed. “Yes you were. You’re also aware that you’re brilliant. So might I have your opinion, please.”
“I think more than one potioneer has died in similar pursuits and people hate me enough without me encouraging a war hero to join them.”
For the first time, he saw her spirit beneath the calm exterior she’d created as she smacked her cutlery down on the table. However, she said nothing, taking a slow, deep breath before she calmly stood, a wave of her hand clearing her plate, and descended from the High Table, before striding from the hall.
“Was that really necessary, Severus?” Minerva scolded.
He huffed a humourless laugh. “Would you have preferred I tell her she’s most likely correct, and have her attempt to collect some?”
Minerva did laugh at him then. “Are you really so naïve? She already has some.”
“What?” His head snapped up. “How?”
The witch grinned at him. “Newt Scamander gave her his menagerie.”
Severus blinked. Then blinked again. “You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly. She’s been riding the kelpie. He kept his bowtruckles, but she’ll get them too, eventually. She spent the summer with him.” He’d heard enough.
Placing his cutlery down more carefully, he waved a hand to dismiss his meal before following the witch, stalking up to her office. Not finding her there, he tried her quarters instead, the door opening when he knocked, though he couldn’t see her. Looking around again, he realised there was an extra door, three where there were usually only two. Assuming her quarters were arranged in the same way his were, he knocked on the extra door, which sprung open to reveal stairs. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he descended.