Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/729999.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Severus_Snape/Serra_Lillas_(OC)
  Character:
      'Erus'_William_Tasgall_(OC), Harry_Potter, Ron_Weasley, Hermione_Granger,
      Professor_Giles_Prelati_(OC), Lucius_Malfoy, Drusilla_Malfoy_(OC),
      Severus_Snape, Serra_Lillas_(OC), Draco_Malfoy
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-21 Updated: 2013-04-26 Chapters: 6/? Words: 39142
****** Tasgall's Angel ******
by HazyDaze
Summary
     After years of private study under an accomplished apothecary, Serra
     Lillas must leave everything she knows and loves to attend Hogwarts
     School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a seventh year transfer. To her
     dismay, the only instructor capable of matching her talent is also
     the most hated teacher in school: the cold and cruel Professor Snape.
     Unwillingly taken in by a strange, seductive aura about the girl,
     Snape finds himself caught up in the unraveling mystery of Serra’s
     ancestry and a battle against a dark destiny she may have no control
     over. Can he step up to the challenge, or will his desires get the
     best of him?
Notes
     This story takes place on an alternate timeline starting at the end
     of book 5 of the series. So, although Harry and the crew are in
     seventh year here, nothing after book 5 has taken place.
     As far as classes and scheduling goes, I did take some liberties.
     After O.W.L.s, students zero in on taking classes suited for what job
     they will be pursuing, so I figured they might have a wider selection
     of classes to choose from (i.e. the regular Potions class plus the
     more specific classes of Poisons and Healing Draughts for those with
     the time and inclination to take them).
     While I am aware that the Harry Potter series is British, I am not
     British, and if I tried to be for this story it would sound quite
     ridiculous, I'm afraid. So I've not really gone there. I apologize in
     advance to all you who are British for all the times you'll be saying
     to yourself while rolling your eyes, "That's not right at all." I
     know the spellings will be a big part of this, but I don't know the
     British spellings for much more than 'colour' and 'neighbour'. I
     decided the all-or-nothing approach was best and since I don't know
     'all', I opted for 'nothing'.
     I'm hoping to do weekly updates (Thursdays). I already have part of
     it done, so updates should be pretty regular. I'll post a per-chapter
     rating, if I remember. Though the full-story rating is 'explicit',
     this chapter is fairly tame.
     The only characters I own are the ones you don't recognize. All the
     rest belong to the talented JKR.
     This is my first time posting any of my writing anywhere, so please
     don't bite...hard, anyway. ;p
***** Prologue *****
How strange it all was here in this place: a veritable labyrinth of drafty
corridors, narrow rickety stairs, winding, twisting stairs, doors in the walls,
doors in the floors, windows overlooking the vast forest that bordered the
castle, windows overlooking the great black lake that must be a least a
kilometer deep, windows looking out from rooms that Serra could have sworn were
completely surrounded by other rooms.  It was too strange to be possible.  Then
again, with magic nearly anything was plausible and this Hogwarts place was
clearly steeped in it.
It was quickly becoming obvious to Serra that she was starting this school with
a huge disadvantage — not the strict curriculum or the fact that she did not
know a single other student, though those were relevant concerns.  No, simply
finding her classes would prove to be a challenge in itself.
With a sigh Serra plopped down in the hallway across from one of the many
pictures that adorned the walls.  This one bore an old blue robed wizard
standing idly beside a large, muggle style piano.  He smiled and tilted his
grey head in a genial nod.  She smiled back weakly, ran her fingers through her
long dark hair, and scratched the back of her head absently.
“What floor am I on?” the girl asked in quiet exasperation, and to her
surprise, the man in the picture answered back.
“Sixth floor,” he replied.
Eyebrows arched, Serra asked, “Do you know how I can get down?”
“That way” — the man pointed to the left — “will take you to a spiral staircase
that will take you down to the second floor.  Just follow it all the way down.”
“Thanks.”  Serra cast the elder wizard a grateful smile and headed off in the
direction he indicated.  From where the stairs landed it was not too hard to
make her way to the beautiful marble staircase that led down to the cavernous
entrance hall.  This she recognized, having just arrived at this very place
only hours ago with her godfather and master, William Tasgall, known to the
wizarding world as ‘Erus’ Tasgall, an ancient title bestowed upon the brilliant
apothecary two decades before by the Minister of Magic himself.
Master Tasgall had been more like a grandfather to the young woman than
anything.  He had been a dear friend of her parents for many, many years,
sharing with them the ache of not being able to conceive a child.  So when they
had finally adopted little Serraphina from a muggle orphanage at age four,
Tasgall was nearly as delighted as the new mom and dad and had taken Serra
under his wing.  Not a day went by that she did not visit him and inevitably
spend hours at his little cottage playing his assistant.
Thirteen years later they had decided the time had come for Serra to experience
life at a normal wizarding school before going out into the world on her own,
for she had just last month come of age.  The official schooling would also be
beneficial as she prepared for her N.E.W.T.s, which were crucial in applying
for jobs on the outside.
Although every student at this school had started soon after turning eleven,
Serra’s overprotective parents had not wanted to send her away for ten months
at a time, reluctant to let go of the child they had so longed for.  The
Lillas’ decided their daughter was getting quite a decent education from the
highly respected Erus Tasgall and the Hogwarts acceptance letter they received
the summer of Serra’s eleventh year went unanswered.  Until now, that was, and
as Erus Tasgall knew the headmaster of Hogwarts personally, here she was —
— standing breathless in the vast entrance hall wondering how in the world she
was going to manage this.  Never one to give up lightly, Serra surveyed the
large foyer in search of her next area of exploration.  Directly in front of
her were the huge oak doors that led outside.  To the right was the Great Hall,
where the students had their meals, and a corridor on the left opened into
several classrooms.  On either side of the marble stairs on which Serra stood
were smaller staircases leading downward.  She decided on the closest, the one
on her right.
It was colder down here.  The long stone hallways were lit with flickering
torches — not a window in sight.  Gloom was thick in the chilly air.  Serra
shortly discovered a partially opened door.  Peeking inside she saw rows of
tables.  The biggest one at the front held a large black cauldron.  Serra’s
heart sank.  This must be the potions classroom, but how utterly different it
was from her papa’s warm sunny cottage where she had spent years brewing
countless formulas by his side.
Then the new comer caught sight of something that brought a whole new interest
to the bleak room.  The shadow-veiled walls were lined with rows and rows of
glass jars, each containing various curiosities.  There was a heart, perhaps
from a pig, suspended in murky green liquid.  That was a small frog all
stretched out as though leaping in what looked like a bone preservative.  Yes —
Serra saw on closer inspection that much of the skin was loosely hanging from
the pristine skeleton.  This one held what appeared at first to be a long,
flattened stem, but was actually an elongated forked tongue coiled among
itself.  Here was a palm sized serrated leaf in amber liquid; there was the
backbone of a small creature, still dangling slimy nerves; there, three great
black leaches in a putrid orange syrup.
“What are you doing in here?” asked a low voice from behind her.  Startled
Serra whirled around to face a tall, sallow faced man with a hooked nose.  He
had greasy black hair that hung to his shoulders and cold, hollow eyes that
gave Serra the impression of staring into bottomless pits.
“Hello,” she greeted pleasantly, though this wizard looked thoroughly
unfriendly, “I was just admiring you specimens.”
The man’s black eyes followed Serra’s nod to the shelves she had just turned
from.  Then his brows lowered in suspicion.
“Who are you?” he asked.  “Why are you not in class?”
“I’m not a student,” said Serra, unimpressed by the icy manner of the stranger
before her.  “Not until next year, at least,” she amended, “and I’ve been given
permission by the headmaster to look around and familiarize myself with the
school.  Who are you?  Are you the potions master, Professor Snape?”
“I am,” the professor said coldly.
Serra cocked her head and examined him again, a tiny smile turning her lips. 
This man certainly did fit Master Tasgall’s description of the surly Hogwarts
potions master, though Serra could not say she was pleased to discover him
right.  Professor Snape glared at the girl as though her inspection of him was
some titanic liberty not to be taken by a lowly student.
“My name is Serra Lillas,” said Serra.  “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, I
expect.  I’ll be taking all of your classes.  I am well versed in potions.”
Looking supremely unconvinced Snape said, “We shall see.  I have very high
standards for my classes, Miss — Lillas, was it?  Where do you attend school
now?”
“I don’t.  I was home educated.”  Her casualness did not reflect Snape’s
obvious disapproval, for he sneered.
“Home educated?” he repeated mockingly.
Affronted, Serra’s hackles rose.  “That’s right,” she said in hot defiance,
“and I can make anything you can.”
“Shall we see then?” said Snape with a smirk.  He crossed the room in a billow
of black robes and pulled a small book from the cupboard in the corner. 
Holding it open with one hand he began reading off the potions as he walked
back to her.
“Formula for Underwater Breath.”
“I’ve made it,” Serra replied scathingly.
Snape did not look up.  “Draught of Living Death.”
“I’ve made it.”
“Oblivious Unction.”
“Made it.”
He eyed her over the binding.  “Wolfsbane Potion.”
Here Serra raised a brow skeptically.  “You don’t teach students to make that,”
she said, “but yes, I’ve made that too.”
The professor snapped the book shut and spat, “You are lying.”
“Try me!” Serra dared.  She glared ferociously at Snape and he stared back, his
eyes boring into her.  Serra was surprised to experience the familiar sensation
of someone slipping into her mind.  This man was performing Legilimency on
her.  He was very good at it too, she had to admit.  A novice to the procedure
would not realize what Snape was doing; indeed that he was doing anything but
staring them down.
“You’re very good at that,” Serra remarked.  “Obviously you’ve seen that I’m
not lying.  My master is one of the foremost apothecaries in lycanthropy
research; learning to brew Wolfsbane was a large part of the syllabus.”
Snape withdrew his Legilimens.  The slightest hint of interest began to show on
his countenance.  “And Legilimency?  Was that also on the syllabus?”
An ironic half-smirk curled Serra’s lips and she glanced aside.  “I’ve had
experience with that branch of magic.”
“Obviously.  Who taught you?” Snape asked as he returned the textbook to the
cupboard.  His tone had changed somewhat, as if he had decided that this new
student could possibly be worth his valuable time after all.
“My master is William Tasgall,” said Serra, perching on a stool at the nearest
table.  The potions master turned slowly to look at her once more.
“Erus Tasgall?”  And when Serra nodded he said, “I was not aware Erus Tasgall
tutored students.”
“He doesn’t,” Serra explained, “only me.  He’s my godfather.  I was practically
raised at his house.”  She smiled in fond remembrance.  “You might say I spent
thirteen years apprenticing under him.  But since this is my N.E.W.T. year he
thought I should be at a real school.”
Snape sat stiffly on the edge of the table across from Serra.  “What about
O.W.L.s?”
“I took my O.W.L.s at Durmstrang.”
“What was your potions grade?” Snape rephrased coldly.
“Oh!”  Serra gave a little laugh, deaf to Snape’s disdainful tone. 
“Outstanding, of course.”  Serra’s eyes returned to the lines of jars against
the walls while the professor examined her silently.
“Do you really find those interesting?” he finally asked.
“Yes, I do,” said Serra, as if it were unthinkable that anyone would not be
utterly fascinated by dead animal bits suspended in various colors of mucus-
like potions.  “Some of these are quite rare, like that albino puckrat.”  She
stood and brushed down her robe.  “I’d better head back now.  It was nice to
meet you,” she said, flashing Snape a twinkling smile.  He did not return it
but did grant her a slight nod before she left.
 
 
After spending the night in a Hogsmeade inn, Serra returned to the huge school
the next day with Master Tasgall.  They walked slowly up the long road to the
castle gates and Serra shared with her godfather her thoughts about her
upcoming year.
“I’m a little nervous,” she admitted to the grey haired man ambling beside
her.  She had barely left her master’s side for thirteen years.
“Nervousness is not a bad thing.”  Tasgall had a strong but quiet voice.  Serra
always found it comforting and today was no exception.  She tightened her arm
around her papa’s and leaned her head against his shoulder.  It was a gesture
he would never accept from anyone else save for the girl who had been the
closest to a granddaughter he had ever come.
“What if they can’t teach me as well as you?” Serra asked absently as she
admired the beauty of the tree lined road that bordered the great black lake
below the castle.
“I have heard good things about the Potions master here, the man Snape,” said
Tasgall.  “Albus says he has extraordinary talents.  He will be a good master
for you, I believe.”
Serra gazed up into Tasgall’s wrinkled face, feeling a sudden rush of
sentiment.  “You’ll always be my master,” she said in soft defiance.  The old
man’s mouth twitched as he tried unsuccessfully to suppress a pleased smile and
Serra planted a kiss on his leathery cheek and said with a grin, “I know you
love me.”
The man harrumphed, his face growing stern.  “You are delusional, my girl.”
They were nearing the gate now, flanked as it was with large winged boar
statues.
“Anyway, Professor Snape doesn’t seem nice at all,” said Serra with a scowl.
“Niceness is not a prerequisite for knowledge.”  Tasgall took a deep breath,
which Serra knew was a sign of more to come.  Sure enough, he went on, “Albus
did say that Snape has quite a nasty reputation, more so than I had heard.  But
you must remember that harshness is often rooted in bitterness, and bitterness
in deep hurt or regret.  Albus hints that Snape has both in his past.”  Tasgall
turned his jade green eyes on the young woman at his arm.  “You were very lucky
to have people who loved you to carry you through your heartache.  Perhaps this
man did not.  Imagine where you would be in fifteen years without that, never
having dealt with that pain but only burying it deep inside.  Imagine how it
would petrify your heart and drain you of happiness, like living day in and day
out with a dementor.”  He patted Serra’s hand.  “You are a kind-hearted
creature.  If you are keen to win him over — which would make for a more
pleasant year — perhaps you might bestow some of that upon him.  Don’t be too
hard on the man.”  Tasgall looked toward the gate and added with a small wink,
“but don’t let him walk all over you either.”
The gamekeeper, an impossibly tall and wide man named Hagrid whose face was
nearly hidden by bushy black hair opened the gates and greeted them heartily. 
Serra only partially listened as Hagrid and Tasgall conversed as they made
their way to the huge wooden doors of the castle.  Tasgall was asking about
wolves in the forest, but Serra was mulling over his words about the
professor.  She wondered about Snape’s past, if indeed something had happened
to create such hostility in him.
The first order of the day was a visit to the headmaster’s office.  This was a
circular room at the top of a rotating spiral staircase.  It was full of small
silver instruments of various natures, emitting small puffs of smoke and soft
whirring noises.  There were portraits covering the walls and a beautiful
scarlet phoenix on a golden perch.  In on a shelf behind the large desk sat the
most worn and tattered hat Serra had ever seen.  This was used to sort first
years into the four Hogwarts houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and
Slytherin.
“William, my old friend,” Headmaster Dumbledore greeted as they entered, “and
young Serra Lillas, welcome back.  I trust you had a good night?”  He beckoned
his visitors to sit opposite his desk in two winged armchairs.
“Yes, quite,” Tasgall said with a genial smile.  He nodded to Serra to have a
seat before taking the other.  Serra’s gaze fell on the headmaster with his
waist length white beard and hair.  She had examined him thoroughly the day
before and he had not minded in the least.  Indeed, he seemed rather pleased
with her curiosity.  Dumbledore had a kind, trusting face with sparkling blue
eyes behind half-moon spectacles.  He had a very long nose that looked as
though it had been broken many times.  Serra had heard a great deal about this
wizard, said to be one of the greatest of the age, and was pleased to be going
to the school under his care.
“Good, good.”  Dumbledore turned to Serra with a twinkling smile.  “This is an
exciting day,” he said.  “Never in all my years at Hogwarts have we had the
opportunity to sort a Seventh Year and I am quite interested to hear what the
Sorting Hat has to say about you.”  Dumbledore stood, his long purple robes
swinging around him as he carried the hat around the claw footed desk where
Serra sat and placed it on her head.  “Please speak aloud,” he said.
Was he talking to her?  Serra glanced doubtfully at Tasgall, who was looking
just as interested as the headmaster.  Suddenly the hat spoke in a voice that
Serra heard in her mind as well as her ears.
“What have we here?  Oh, a Seventh Year … how very interesting … Lots of smarts
— a prize for Ravenclaw … loyalty to grace Hufflepuff … but you will find your
friends in Gryffindor!”  The hat yelled the last house name and Dumbledore
beamed as he removed it and placed it back on the shelf.
“Excellent,” he said, nodding.  “Gryffindor Head of House is Professor
McGonagall and it so happens that you will be seeing her momentarily to work
out your schedule.  She will be most interested in you, I’m sure.”  Dumbledore
smiled again.  It seemed to Serra he did that a lot and she liked it.
Professor McGonagall’s office was on the first floor.  She was a strict looking
woman with black hair pulled back into a bun and square glasses.  Quite the
opposite of Dumbledore, Serra wondered if this woman ever smiled.  She ushered
Serra and her master into her office and immediately set to work on Serra’s
class schedule.
“I see you’re mainly interested in Potions and Herbology,” she said, gazing at
Serra through beady eyes.
“Yes ma’am,” Serra replied politely, sitting stiffly in the straight back chair
opposite McGonagall’s desk.
The woman nodded and glanced down at the parchment in her hand.  “We offer
three seventh year Potions classes: Advanced Potions, Healing Draughts and
Poisons” — Serra grinned excitedly and stole a glimpse at Tasgall —  “which are
you interested in?”
“All of them,” Serra said promptly, and then added hesitantly, “I can do that,
right?”
“Yes, but you only need one to quality for a N.E.W.T. in Potions.  Most
students just take Advanced Potions.”
“That’s alright,” said Serra.  “I’d like to take all of them.”
The professor peered at the young woman over her square spectacles.  “Have you
met Professor Snape, the potions master?  Each of these would be with him.”
Serra had a feeling that Professor McGonagall was subtly implying that no one
in their right mind would willingly take three classes with Snape.
“Yes, I’ve met him,” Serra replied, a subversive smile creeping over her lips.
“Very well, all three Potions.”  Professor McGonagall’s quill scratched as she
wrote while she spoke.  “Both Herbology courses?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s a heavy load right there,” McGonagall said, looking up at Serra once
more.  “Are you certain you can handle that?”
“Of course she can,” Master Tasgall spoke for Serra in a stern voice.  “And
she’ll also be taking your Transfiguration class.”
McGonagall seemed taken aback by Tasgall’s sudden involvement but carried it
well.  With a brusque nod she said, “Very well,” and returned to her writing.
“What about Astronomy?” Serra asked her master in undertone.
“Bah!” he scoffed with a wave of his hand.  “They won’t teach you more than
you’ve learned already — thirteen years of staring at the stars.  If you’re
afraid you’ll forget I’ll send my star atlas with you.”
Serra could not help but smile at her master’s confidence.
“Here you are,” McGonagall said tartly, handing Serra a slip of parchment. 
“This is a tentative schedule of next year’s classes.  You will receive your
book- and supply-list by owl post over the summer holiday, and final schedules
are handed out at the beginning of the school year.  Now” — McGonagall stood
and rounded her desk — “I hear you are Animagus?”  The slightest hint of
excitement showed on her sharp features.
“Yes,” Serra acknowledged as Master Tasgall gave a knowing bow and raise of his
head, as if expecting this very moment.  “I change into a black jaguar.”
“May I see?”
Not even a second later Serra’s figure was replaced by that of a large jet
black cat with chocolate brown eyes, sitting regally with its long tail
twitching idly.  The stern professor did not bother to hide her delight at this
appearance and a smile turned her thin lips.
“Very nice,” she admired, strolling around Serra-the-jaguar.  “Very nice
indeed, especially for such a young wizard.  How many years has she been able
to make a complete transformation?”
 “Since she was twelve, I think,” Tasgall replied and the jungle cat nodded in
agreement; “So about five years now.  It would have been much longer, but the
ministry was adamant that she not begin her Animagus training until she reached
eleven years of age.”  Tasgall clearly believed himself to be a better judge of
his goddaughter’s capabilities than a bunch of stodgy old wizards shut up in
the Ministry of Magic.  “Of course, I skirted that ludicrous restriction by
teaching her the theory of the transformation when she was nine, and then
moving into partial transmogrifications — paws, tails, that sort of thing,” he
said, waggling impatient fingers as though these first few preparatory years
were little more than a ministry-mandated nuisance, while Professor McGonagall
looked ready to give Tasgall a stern sermon on why such strict laws existed.
“I don’t doubt you won’t be too impressed with Serra’s in-class work,” Tasgall
went on, indifferent to the professor’s increasingly shocked expression.  “It’s
not her best subject, not by any stretch, and mastering the Animagus shift has
been the hardest undertaking of her schooling thus far.  It took Serra a full
year to successfully transform — going by the ministry age guidelines, mind you
— but since then she has been an invaluable asset in my lycanthropy research. 
In her jaguar form she is able to communicate with our wolves better than I
ever have.”
“With all due respect, Erus Tasgall,” McGonagall finally said; “for a twelve-
year-old to master a complete Animagus transfiguration is an enormous feat. 
Why would you discount —”
“Oh, she is brilliant in some areas — I give you that,” Tasgall interrupted;
“but this is not one of them.  She had more help than you would believe.  Don’t
let this one triumph fool you.”
“Even so!” McGonagall admonished.  “I’m certain you will do exceedingly well in
my class, Miss Lillas,” she then said to Serra, who had jumped back to her
human form.  “I look forward to it.”
 
“I think she was rather impressed with you, angel,” Master Tasgall commented
later as Serra attempted to navigate the halls to each of her classes in turn. 
“And I think she was rather unimpressed with you,” Serra laughed.
“The woman needed to be set straight.  You saw the look in her eyes, like you
were her next great Transfiguration prodigy.”  Tasgall shook his head
indignantly and then added in warning, “but she will be on the lookout for a
large black cat roaming the grounds.  You will need to be careful of being
spotted if you ever venture into those woods” — he cast Serra sidelong glance
—  “and I trust you will, at least once a month.”
“Of course,” Serra agreed blandly.  They had just passed the Charms corridor on
the third floor.  She made a mental note of its location before heading up the
next set of stairs to the fourth floor where the extensive library could be
found.  She had peeked in there the day before to find it full of students
quietly devouring books under the watchful eye of a thin, irritable looking old
woman Serra guessed was the librarian.  One baleful gaze from this shriveled
witch made Serra anxious to be gone from there as soon as possible.
“Are you committing this to memory?” asked Tasgall sharply as his goddaughter
inspected a statue on the fifth floor of a rather confused looking wizard with
gloves on the wrong hands which bore the inscription ‘Boris the Bewildered’.
“Yes, I am,” Serra answered lightly, ignoring his harsh tone.  She took one
last look at the figure and then headed down the hall to another staircase
leading still higher in the castle.  “Are you?” she shot back at Tasgall with a
teasing grin.
“No,” he said simply.  “I will not be the one fumbling around this insane
castle come September.”  He laid a wrinkled hand on Serra’s shoulder, which she
knew to be reassurance of his faith that she could manage on her own.
The stairs from the fifth floor led almost directly to another marble staircase
that took the wanderers to the seventh floor, where the Gryffindor common room
was meant to be.  They passed an absurd tapestry of a wizard with a bunch of
trolls in tutus that appeared to be attempting ballet, and a little later a
bust of the famous wizard Paracelsus.  Serra took a left turn at the next hall
and finally came to a stop in front of a large painting of a fat woman in a
pink dress who was reading a book.
“This must be it,” Serra said, looking the huge picture over.  The fat lady
looked over her book expectantly.
“Password please,” she said.
“This is the Gryffindor common room entrance?” Serra asked.
“Of course,” the fat lady said indignantly, preening her hair.
“Thank you.”  Serra turned to go and the woman in the picture seemed offended.
“Not even going in?”
“I don’t know the password,” Serra said with a shrug as she walked back down
the hall with Tasgall.
“Of all things,” the fat lady huffed.  “Disturbing me for no reason …”  Over
her shoulder Serra saw the woman duck into her book once more.
With little difficulty Serra retraced their steps down t o the first floor, and
from there she followed the somewhat familiar route down to the entry hall.
“I want to go see the dungeons again,” Serra said, pausing at the foot of the
stairs.  Tasgall surveyed her thoughtfully as if judging her motives.  It
recalled to Serra her first meeting with Professor Snape and she said, “You
know that man used Legilimency on me yesterday.”
“Professor Snape?” Tasgall asked, raising his grey brows.
“Yes.  He thought I was lying about being able to brew Wolfsbane.”
Tasgall chuckled.  “If only he knew.”
Serra blushed and rolled her eyes, remembering clearly the reason she had
learned to brew the complicated potion at such a young age.  “Anyway, that’s
all the more reason for me to learn Occlumency.  It’s not fair.  It’s bad
enough that you do it,” she said with a disgruntled expression, “and now I’m
going to be fighting that man.”
Master Tasgall stared up at the high ceiling thoughtfully.  “You may be right
this time,” he finally agreed.  “I will give you lessons over the summer
holiday, and perhaps Albus has someone on his staff who could continue to teach
you during the school year, if you can handle it with your heavy load of
classes,” he taunted.
“I think I’ll manage,” said Serra with a wry smile.
“Now, my angel, shall I accompany you to the Potions dungeon to play mediator
between you and the horrid Professor Snape?”
“No, I’ll take him on myself.”
“Good, good,” said Tasgall as if he expected no less.  “I will go speak to
Dumbledore about those extra lessons.”  With a nod he turned and headed back up
in the direction they came from.
The dungeons were just as gloomy as before, bearing the air of ancient
catacombs.  Serra came across the black haired professor in a smaller room
adjacent to the Potions classroom she visited the previous day.  She stepped in
the doorway with a quiet smile, rapping lightly to announce her arrival.  Snape
looked up at her from where he sat at his large desk.
“You again?” said Snape, rising with phantom-like smoothness.
“Yes,” Serra said.  “This is my last day to visit.”
“A pity, I’m sure …” Snape said idly.
Serra’s jaw dropped slightly in surprise at the professor’s snide comment and a
grin spread across her lips.  Snape gazed intently at the girl, weighing her
reaction as if unsure if she was being impertinent.
“I’ve gotten my schedule,” said Serra, not hesitating to meet the cold dark
eyes.  “I’ll be in all your seventh year Potions.”
“That is not a task many would undertake,” said Snape.
“I’m up for the challenge.”
The two faced each other for a long moment, a lively half smile on Serra’s face
as the professor surveyed her with mild consideration.
“In that case,” Snape said softly, “you will not mind if I test your talents.” 
His thin lips curled into a smirk.
“Of course not,” Serra replied.  “What would you like me to do?”  She was
rather anxious to prove herself to this hard man, as he seemed rather anxious
to see her fail.
“I want you to brew Wolfsbane for me, right now.”
Serra met Snape’s malicious leer with one of her own.  “Don’t trust your own
Legilimens?” she asked calmly.
“I would prefer to watch you myself,” said Snape in smooth tones.
“You prefer to watch?” Serra repeated slyly with a slight cock of her head.
There was a flicker in Snape’s eyes, a glimmer of vague curiosity, and he
replied, “Indeed.”
Serra smiled.  “I haven’t got any supplies.”
“Feel free to use my personal stores,” said Snape with a careless wave to the
cupboard in the corner.  “You will find everything you need.  Will you be
needing the formula?” Snape asked as Serra strolled past him.
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
This obviously was not the answer Snape had been expecting, for his forehead
creased in suspicious wonder.
“Wow, these are yours?” Serra asked, her wide eyes taking in stocks of
ingredients and potions stacked neatly on shelves clear to the ceiling.  As she
scanned them slowly, Snape came up behind her.
“Surely Erus Tasgall has a much larger collection.”
“Well, of course, but this is still much more than I was expecting to find
here.”  She inspected row after row of jars of all sizes, carefully selecting
the ones she would need for Snape’s assignment.  Snape found himself
appreciating his new student’s admiration of his stores, and her hushed
comments only enforced her knowledge as she poured over particular ones: “… oh,
wow, Banded Sea Krait venom — that’s hard to come by …”
A small pile of Wolfsbane elements sat on the floor beside Serra.  She turned
to Snape.
“Shall I make it in here?”
“No, across the hall,” said Snape.  “I have a class.”  A bell sounded
throughout the castle.  “It will not be too distracting to prepare it while I
teach, I trust,” though Snape looked as though he sincerely hoped it would be.
“No, I shouldn't think so,” Serra replied, taking the professor's derision in
stride.
“Good.  You may use my desk in the front of the class.”  Snape's thin lips
curled, obviously pleased with himself for making the girl brew such a
difficult concoction in front of twenty pairs of strange eyes, but Serra only
nodded.
As she began setting up in the large Potions classroom she had visited the day
before, students dressed all in the same black Hogwarts robes slowly began
filling in around the empty tables.  They stared curiously at Serra and she
flashed them all a pleasant smile before settling down to the task at hand,
arranging one large cauldron and two smaller ones beside it, laying out knives,
scales and cutting boards.  The dragon skin gloves Serra had borrowed from
Snape were much too loose, and after a quick glance around she shrank them with
a whispered “Reducto” and began chopping monkshood root.
The tardy bell rang and Professor Snape strode in, silencing the low murmur of
voices as if each one had been smothered beneath his billowing robes.  Serra
stole a glimpse at the hushed students.  A few of the poor things looked
positively terrified, as if awaiting a death sentence.  What a beast this Snape
must be, thought Serra.  Then the professor met her eyes and Serra quickly
returned to her work.
Soon all the cauldrons were stewing their separate potions and Serra's
concentration was occupied maintaining each one and adding the proper amount of
ingredients to each at exactly the right time.  Still, it was difficult to
ignore the caustic remarks of Professor Snape as he prowled among his students
like some great predaceous bat.
“Mr. Creevey, are you trying to kill your classmates with your dismal potion
making abilities?” said Snape to a small, skinny boy whose cauldron had begun
hissing as it emitted toxic looking sickly yellow fumes that Snape quickly
siphoned up with his wand.  Suddenly the potion vanished and Snape walked away,
adding coldly, “No marks for you today.”
The Creevey boy looked devastated as he gazed down into his empty pot.
Meanwhile Snape had stopped at another table, clicking his tongue as he ladled
thick, fuchsia liquid from the cauldron of another student.
“What is this, Miss MacDonald?”
The girl glanced nervously between the potion and Snape, and said meekly,
“Shrinking Solution?”
“Indeed …”  Extending the ladle toward Miss MacDonald Snape said silkily,
“Perhaps you would like to sample this to see if it has the desired effect?” 
The sinister smile on the professor's face made one wonder if shrinking was the
‘desired effect’ Snape was hoping for.  Miss MacDonald shook her head and
pressed her mouth shut, petrified.
Yes, the man was proving to be a truly forbidding representation of the
species.  His cruelty seemed to know no bounds, but though Serra was appalled
by Snape's harsh, vindictive nature, there was an enthralling mystery about him
that Serra found intriguing.  Her thoughts returned to Master Tasgall's words. 
What had this man endured?  What in his past had so influenced him?  Was there
any humanity at all in that hard shell?  Serra did not sense Snape to be evil,
but he certainly enjoyed dominating through fear and belittlement.  It was a
quality that awoke in Serra her fiercely rebellious spirit.  Just let him try
to dominate her …
Without realizing it Serra had been staring at Professor Snape across the
chilly classroom.  Feeling her eyes, Snape deliberately tilted his head to meet
Serra's intense gaze, wondering what the young woman was thinking to cause her
to look at him so.  She gave him no hint, giving an almost coy half-smile
before bowing to her work once more.
But Snape continued to examine Serra over the heads of his students.  The young
woman had long, nearly black hair cascading down her back.  It glinted with
Serra's every movement and was in marked contrast with her light skin, pale as
Snape's but creamy with a tinge of pink.  She worked diligently, the desk
neatly arranged to accommodate each stage of the intricate brew she was
preparing.  Snape could not help mildly approving of her skills as she moved
among the three cauldrons with the ease of a dragon handler catching a mere
newt.  Yes, he grudgingly admitted, the young woman had talent, but Snape
refused to be impressed.  If this girl expected special treatment due to her
advanced abilities, she would be sorely disappointed.  Twisting his features
into a scowl Snape turned his attention back to the class.
One double potions period later, as the students were scrambling out of the
dungeon, Serra presented her new professor a cauldron full of perfect Wolfsbane
potion.  Snape merely glanced at it indifferently.  Serra took no offense,
having been expecting just such a reaction, but the testimony to her level of
proficiency was evident in that black pot, even to this severe man.
“Can you make it?” Serra asked, taking off Snape's shrunken gloves.
“Of course,” said Snape.
Serra Vanished the Wolfsbane and pushed the cauldron in Snape's direction.
“Show me.”
Snape cocked his head slightly, strangely un-affronted at being ordered about
by this calm young woman.
“You don't believe me?” asked Snape smoothly.
“Maybe I like to watch too,” said Serra with a sly turn of her lips.
What gall she had to address him in such manner, thought Snape.  Of course,
this Serra Lillas had not spent the last six years under his strict tutelage,
but never had Snape failed to incite fear, or at least extreme dislike and
mistrust, when encountering new people.  He was by far the least favorite
Hogwarts teacher, and even the other staff members trod lightly in his
presence.  But the reaction of this young woman was the exact opposite.  In
fact, with those large, sparkling eyes and taunting smile, she appeared almost
to be toying with him.  The perception normally would have provoked deepest
loathing in Snape, but this woman certainly had proven herself to be more than
the usual dunderheads he interacted with.  If Snape refused her challenge, she
would certainly think he could not do it.  She would think him a liar for
saying otherwise.
Snape stared at the girl thoughtfully.  Did it matter what she thought?  No. 
Why, then, was he even considering it?
“Come on,” said Serra softly, and her voice had lost the audacious edge. 
“Headmaster says you've got amazing talent.  Show off for me.  I've proven
myself worthy of your teachings; now prove yourself worthy to teach me.”  Serra
looked Snape straight in the eye, absolutely sincere.
There it was, Snape realized.  She would have no respect for him as her Potions
master unless she saw Snape had talent that rivaled her own, and from what
Snape had seen of this Miss Lillas, her desire was completely grounded.  Never
had any of his students shown the capabilities this young lady had displayed,
not even that know-it-all Granger.
“Very well,” said Snape, accepting the cauldron.  “Clean these utensils”  — he
motioned to a stone gargoyle fountain in the corner —  “and I will set up in
the back.  Someone will need to oversee my next class.  Surely you will be up
to the task, with your so remarkable abilities?”
Serra was nonplused.  “I’ve never taught in my life,” she said, giving Snape
exactly the answer he wanted to hear.
“This is your chance then.  Their assignment is on the board.”  (He waved his
wand and suddenly it appeared there.)  “The bell will ring … now.” (And it
did.)
Soon students began filing in.  Serra was relieved to see they were much
younger than the previous class, probably first years.
“Be seated,” said Snape, striding down the aisle toward Serra.  “Your
assignment is on the board.  Miss Lillas here will be overseeing you work. 
Samples to the front desk when you are finished.”
Every pair of eyes fixed on Serra, and she smiled and gave a little nod.
“Get to work, now,” said Serra, beginning a slow patrol among the tables.
These students were making a relatively simple antiseptic serum.  The formula
was easy enough, but Serra quickly learned how very little these children knew
of Potion making.
From the shadowy corner of the room Snape watched her smugly, but what he had
intended to be a lesson in humility turned against him when Serra once again
stepped up to the challenge, and, quite unknowingly, gave Snape yet another
taste of just how knowledgeable she was in his area of expertise as she quietly
corrected the students’ work.
“Your flame is too high,” Serra murmured to one boy; and to another, “Chop
those roots more finely before you add them …”  “Slowly, slowly,” she said,
grabbing the hand of a brown haired girl who was stirring her potion with the
fury of a miniature cyclone.  For not ever having taught before the young woman
was doing an excellent job, thought Snape.  She did not lord her knowledge over
the pupils but simply guided gently, nudging them in the right direction.
Disaster struck near the end of the period in the form of a melted cauldron. 
Snape was pleased, having hoped something of this nature would happen.  The
dunce of the class had managed somehow to turn his solution into a vile
smelling acid that was slowly liquefying everything it touched.  Serra flew to
the boy and immediately Vanished the offending potion, leaving only the
globular remains of his cauldron.
“What’s your name,” she asked the anxious, straw-headed boy.
Snape paused to watch the interaction.
“W-Walters,” the boy said meekly.
“Tell me what you did wrong, Walters,” said Serra quietly.
Walters peered at the formula on the board with beady eyes, examined his ruined
cauldron, glanced back up at the board, and then up at Serra.
“T-too much frog spawn?” he said hesitantly.
“Over too high heat,” Serra added, “and you forgot the yew sap.”  She tapped a
tiny bowl of thick, yellowish goo.
“Oh …”  Walters looked very downcast, but Serra patted his shoulder
encouragingly.
“Don’t worry; you’ll do better next time.”
There was a snicker from two tables down and a hard faced boy muttered, “Fat
chance.”  A flush rose to Walters’ light cheeks.  Incised, Serra directed her
wand at the offender.
“Say that again,” dared Serra calmly, and the boy’s eyes widened when no sound
emerged from his open mouth.
“Now get back to work,” Serra snapped.  “Time’s almost up.”
The first year class was not a double lesson, and after the dismissal bell
sounded Serra perched on a stool across from Professor Snape to watch as he
completed his Wolfsbane.
His skill was immediately apparent.  Mesmerized by his fluidly precise
movement, Serra observed in silence as a seed of admiration for the professor
took root and began to grow.  Snape worked with ease and dexterity.  Like
Master Tasgall, he seemed to sense when the next ingredient should be added,
when the next stir should be made.  She had met scare few others besides her
papa with such instinctive talent, and Serra was in awe.
Acutely aware of the girl’s scrutinizing eye, Snape grasped the small cauldron
of pale green liquid and made ready to pour it into the other small cauldron of
muddy brown.
Aghast, Serra said, “Are you really going to do that?”
He stopped, only slightly impressed that she had caught the purposeful mistake
on his part, and said, “What would happen if I did?”
“It would explode,” said Serra.  “This one is water based and that brown one is
an acid.”  She shrugged.  “It’d be a shame to burn off all that hair,” Serra
teased lightly.  “… and your eyebrows … and your skin … and my skin …”
“Shut up,” said Snape, and Serra grinned, having just been strongly reminded of
her beloved master.  She did as she was told, however, and continued to watch
quietly.
“Teachers are not permitted to use jinxes on the students,” said Snape a while
later in reference to Serra silencing the boy who had poked fun at Walters.
“I am not a teacher,” Serra replied carelessly.  She began collecting
ingredients that would no longer be needed.  “Anyway,” she added, “you’re not
very nice to them.”
“I don’t get paid enough to be nice,” said Snape coolly.
“I don’t get paid at all,” Serra countered, “so how am I supposed to act?”
“Your payment,” said Snape sardonically, “will be the knowledge you glean from
my vast stores of wisdom.”
Serra laughed softly.
“And your payment will be basking in the light of my sunny disposition,” Serra
retorted, adding with emphasis, “five days a week.”  She flashed Snape a
brilliant grin which he returned with a dark glare.
Oh yes, Serra thought mirthfully, either Professor Snape would learn to like
her, or he would come to truly hate her.  Either way, what fun it would be.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     All Harry Potter characters and places belong to JKR; only the plot
     and the characters you don't recognize are mine.
     This chapter is just a bit racier in parts and might merit a teen &
     up warning, but it's not all that bad.
A tiny jingle announced the entrance of customers to Flourish & Blotts, but the
harried associate did not even glance toward the door as he shouldered his way
through the masses of shoppers already inside, several of which presently
scanned what Serra recognized as the same Hogwarts book list she herself had
received.
“Honestly, Papa,” she complained as her master led her straight into the thick
of it, “I don’t see why we’re even doing this.  I already have all of these
textbooks at home.  Why waste money buying them all over again?”
“I won’t have my godchild going to school with used books looking like a
pauper.”  Erus Tasgall pushed two chatting girls out of his way, ignoring their
annoyed looks and grumbled retorts at his gruffness.  “Read me that list
again.”
Serra examined the parchment in her hand and began reading off the titles. 
Each one was familiar to her.  “Seventh Year Herbology I, Extended Edition;
Delicate, Demanding & Deadly: Delving Deeper into the World of Magical Botany;
Advanced Potion-Making for the Accomplished Student — oh, Papa, come on!  We
finished that book years ago!”  Before she could crumple the sheet Serra’s
master snatched it from her hand.
“Good grief, child,” Tasgall grunted, looking over the parchment himself. 
“With all this whinging it’s no wonder Joseph and Margret want to be rid of
you.”
“Or perhaps they just fear what will become of me under the tutelage of a
bitter old man,” Serra countered sharply.
“As if my influence could possibly corrupt you anymore.”  They had reached a
shelf of Herbology texts and Erus Tasgall selected the needed titles.  “You’re
doing an excellent job of showing the patrons of this fine establishment just
what a spiteful little thing you really are.”
Indeed, quite a few people were sneaking peeks at the bickering twosome, but
Serra only rolled her eyes.  “Oh please, I could never hope to live up to the
level of orneriness you’ve achieved.”
To this Erus Tasgall harrumphed and shoved two Herbology books at Serra.  “Au
contraire, my angel,” he said, offering her the slightest of winks; “you could
indeed, if you start now.”
 
A short while later they stepped into the street, now laden with a pile of
brand new textbooks.  The day loomed unseasonably warm, but even with the heat
the wizarding community was out in full.  Never before had Serra seen Diagon
Alley so busy; Master Tasgall purposely avoided visiting these shops just
before the start of a new school year for this very reason, and now Serra
understood why.  Not only were they jostled continuously as they made their way
to the next store, but the noise was astounding.  All around rose the babble of
voices: old friends catching up, new friends making acquaintances, parents
discussing the upcoming year.
Tasgall led Serra to Madame Malkin’s shop for an hour-long fitting for the
standard Hogwarts robes, then to the Magical Menagerie where Erus Tasgall had
one of the associates produce several different cats for Serra to examine.  She
dutifully fawned over each before gently insisting that she really did not want
a feline companion to care for at school.  Slightly put out, her master
continued on to the wand shop to have Ollivander perform a full inspection of
Serra’s wand, ensuring it to be in perfect working order for her classes.
By the afternoon Serra’s skin prickled with sweat beneath her long robe and the
books in her pile of new school items had been joined by quills, several
scrolls of parchment, scales and measures, a week’s worth of robes, and —
“Have you finally gone completely mad?” Serra demanded, rising from the bench
where she’d been resting in the shade of an awning while Erus Tasgall perused
the next store.  The elderly man lurched over to Serra and heaved nine
cauldrons — smaller pots nesting in the larger — into her arms: the full size
range required for the three seventh year potions classes she had signed up
for.
“I must have to be spending my day with such an ungrateful wench,” he growled. 
On top of the cauldrons Tasgall began stacking the other items until Serra’s
head disappeared behind the mountain of supplies.
“We have cauldrons at home!” Serra cried, her voice muffled by the black
Hogwarts uniforms now crammed in her face.  She took the opportunity to rub her
temples against the fabric, soaking away the sweat beaded there.
“Those rusty mop buckets you use?” Tasgall scoffed, gripping Serra’s upper arm
to haul her across the cobblestone to the apothecary; “the ones with the warped
bottoms?  They’re a safety hazard.”
“They are not rusty!  Ugh —”  Blind to her footing, Serra tripped on the
cobblestone street, nearly dropping the precarious mound in her arms.  But her
papa held her tight and steadied her load, making certain all was well before
continuing on.  “And they’re not warped, either,” Serra added lamely.  “You
know very well that Kadin burned hearts into the bases so I would always think
of him while I worked.”
“Yes, I do; Steps,” he warned, guiding his pupil up the stairs into Slug &
Jiggers.  “I also know that he left several such reminders in your textbooks,
which is why you need new supplies.”  Taking the overflowing cauldron pile from
Serra, he dropped it with a thump onto a chair just inside the apothecary door
and turned back to her, cupping one side of her face in his wrinkled hand. 
“This is a new start for you, angel.  No remnants of the past need follow you
to Hogwarts.”
Sullenly Serra nodded, her heart suddenly aching for the past she was to leave
behind.
“Now,” Tasgall said briskly, passing the required equipment list back to Serra
along with a small shopping basket, “you gather the regents you need while I
stock up a bit on my own stores.”
Apothecaries held the top slot on Serra’s list of Favorite Places to Explore,
and Slug & Jiggers always lived up to her expectations.  Meandering slowly down
the aisles among other customers she admired nearly every product on the
shelves, steering clear of the jars of creepy dead spiders while filling her
basket with ingredients from the parchment list.  She gazed upward at the
bundles of dried herbs, flowers, claws and feathers hanging from the exposed
wood rafters, and down at the large horns lined carefully along the bottom of
the shelves; navigated around huge barrels of wasp stingers and vats of lizard
entrails.  Not even the foul smell of the place lessened her enjoyment.  The
familiar voice conversing with her master as Serra headed to the cashier
brought an even bigger smile to her lips.
“Good afternoon, Professor,” Serra greeted warmly, placing her full basket on
the counter beside Tasgall’s collection of items being rung up.
Professor Snape did not smile back — Serra was beginning to think he actually
wasn’t capable of forming a genuine smile — but he turned and nodded genially
in her direction, addressing her with a formal, “Miss Lillas.”
“Gather your things, angel, and,” in response to Serra gathering her sweat-
dampened hair into a twist atop her head, “let your hair back down.”
Professor Snape cast a quick, curious glance at Erus Tasgall for such an odd
command, but Serra simply stared at her godfather imploringly and said “It’s
really hot, Papa.”
After a moment of contemplation, Tasgall sighed and acquiesced with a short
nod.  “Severus,” Tasgall added to the black-haired man beside him as Serra,
long hair now neatly bound and displaying her slender neck graced with dewy
curls, tucked the newly purchased potions regents into her stack and hefted the
whole huge mass into her arms again, “Do stop by the Leaky Cauldron once you’ve
finished your business here so we might continue our chat.  I’ll buy you a
drink.”
 
As a gateway between the magical shops of Diagon Alley and the muggle world
just beyond its front doors, the Leaky Cauldron drew a great many customers. 
Today it swelled with more visitors than usual and Tom, the old barman, busily
served up drinks.  He tipped his bald head in Serra’s direction when she called
out to him in greeting as she strolled to a table.  Tasgall waited at the bar
for a butterbeer while Serra sat, pulling out her journal, a quill, and a
jellybean-sized pebble.
Besides brewing potions with her master, writing was Serra’s favorite pastime. 
For this purpose she carried with her at all times a small, leather-bound book,
worn from years of use despite the reinforcement spell meant to increase its
durability.  Serra’s journal contained not only the records of her days,
thoughts, opinions, and ideas — the very content that one would be expected to
fill a journal with — but also hid in its pages, more than anything else,
stories that Serra had written, a majority of which centered around quite
descriptive erotic encounters; stories she had combed over again and again,
adding details, changing this sentence or that, fine tuning them until each was
a miniature work of carefully constructed literary art.  What these stories
truly meant to Serra could be understood only by another writer who had poured
their very being into a well of ink and transferred it onto parchment through
means of the written word.
Serra’s stories reached a far deeper level than many, however, each one based
on real experiences between her and her fiancé, Kadin.  With Kadin out of her
life now, Serra determined to remember as many as possible, recording them to
be read and re-read whenever she wished to relive those beautiful moments. 
After depositing the mountain of merchandise in her school trunk, Serra had
stripped off her sweat-soaked clothes and climbed into the shower.  There under
the streams of hot, soapy water another rendezvous had sprung to her mind,
begging to be captured on a page of her journal.  So now, sitting in the bar-
room, Serra took up her quill, folded the book out flat in front of her, and
began to write.
Images from that sweet evening played in her thoughts like a movie.  The memory
of Kadin’s hands, slender and rough; his lips hot against her skin; his —
“You a Hogwarts student?”
The inquiry rudely jerked Serra from her fantasy.  A young man with white-blond
hair sat down beside her.  Very little aggravated Serra as much as being
interrupted while writing, especially during such intimate recollections as
this one.  Still looking down at her journal, she discreetly dabbed away the
tears that had formed, tears that always formed when her thoughts lingered too
long on her past lover.  Then, lifting her head, Serra gazed placidly at the
intruder.  He was taller than her and rather handsome, she supposed — in a
thoroughly un-Kadin-like manner — with sharp features and pale grey eyes.  He
was vaguely familiar, but Serra could not pinpoint where she might have seen
him before.
“I saw you with Snape,” the teen continued, apparently tired of waiting for her
to respond to his last question.  At the mention of that familiar name Serra
brightened.
“You know Professor Snape?”  Closing her journal, Serra turned toward the
newcomer, now very much interested in what he had to say.
“Sure, Snape is my Head of House at Hogwarts.  I’ve not seen you there before,”
he said, sizing her up a tad lecherously.  “I know I’d remember someone as
pretty as you.”
Serra laughed lightly, brushing off the young man’s flattery.  “I was not aware
Professor Snape held such a position.  Which house does he head?”  McGonagall
headed Gryffindor, Serra’s house, and Serra found herself mildly disappointed
to be out of the running for whichever house Professor Snape headed.
“Slytherin,” the visitor said haughtily.  “The house to be in.  I’m Draco
Malfoy.”  The blond teen extended a hand in Serra’s direction and she took it. 
No wonder he looked familiar — the Malfoy family held high status among the
wizarding community and the head of the Malfoys, Lucius, contributed thousands
of Galleons to a great many ministry funds as well as several private
projects.  Serra had grown up hearing from her parents and papa how corrupt the
Malfoy’s were, but the highly esteemed family seemed to have a serious anti-
tarnish spell on their name because scandals that involved a Malfoy never
stayed long in the press.
“I’m Serra Lillas.  Nice to meet you.”  Serra had to extract her hand from
Draco’s, as the young man seemed reluctant to release it.  “I’ve been
homeschooled all my life, but this year I’m attending Hogwarts.”
“Homeschooled, huh?”  Draco gained points in his favor by not acting as though
this made Serra inferior to him somehow; rather it appeared to make the young
man even more interested in her, like a new, unique specimen to be studied
closer.  He flicked her a salacious wink. “I’m glad I decided to attend
Hogwarts this year instead of transferring to Durmstrang.”
Serra, having taken her O.W.L.s at Durmstrang, could not imagine why anyone
would choose to transfer to that particular school.  The dank dungeons at
Hogwarts only shadowed the chilly stone castle which housed Durmstrang
Institute, and Headmaster Karkaroff was a grade-A creep.  Serra considered
mentioning this, opted against it, and instead focused on the school she and
Draco would be attending.  The two chatted about what year they were in — both
seventh — and Serra put up with some braggadocios talk regarding Draco’s
performance on his house Quidditch team (she felt it would be rude of her to
point out that she had absolutely no interest whatsoever in Quidditch).  Then
Master Tasgall arrived at the table with three drinks, handing one off to Serra
and casting a withering glance in Draco’s direction.  Draco took this as his
cue to leave, inviting Serra to meet up with him in the evening since they both
had rooms at the Leaky Cauldron for the night.
“That’s the Malfoy boy, isn’t it?” Tasgall asked gruffly as he settled into a
chair across from Serra.
“Yes, Draco Malfoy.  He noticed me in the apothecary talking to Professor
Snape.”  Tasgall opened his wrinkled mouth to speak again, probably some
comment about Serra having ignored his command to keep her hair down and so
attracting unwanted attention, but Serra quickly added, “Oh, and there’s
Professor Snape now!”  Indeed, her new potions master came through the door
just at that moment and Tasgall swallowed his unspoken reprimand.  Before he
could change his mind, Serra had popped the small pebble she had earlier taken
from her pocket into her mouth, biting down on it with her back teeth.  Quill
out, journal open, she was lost again in her writing by the time Snape arrived
at their table.
“You finally got that thing fixed, did you?” Tasgall asked, but his
goddaughter’s only response was the slight, rhythmic nodding of her head to an
unheard beat.  “She has this music rock,” said Tasgall, now addressing
Professor Snape, explaining why Serra did not answer.
“You mean ‘rock music’?” Snape asked with the air of correcting a student who
had just given a particularly stupid answer.
Tasgall paused in the act of passing a drink to Snape and scowled at the
professor.  “I’m old, not senile,” he snapped, and Snape flushed slightly. 
“Music rock,” he said again, sharply enunciating each word.  “It’s an enchanted
rock.  You bite it and it plays music only you can hear.  Serra picked it up
from the junk shop but it’s been broken for a while now.  She’s a whiz at
potions but ask that girl to charm something and you’d think she’d never held a
wand in her life.  Never mind.”  Tasgall waved a hand impatiently.  “All
prepared for the start of the year, are you?  Serra’s quite excited to be
studying under you.  Of course, we’ve already covered all the books on your
class lists, but Dumbledore assures me you will have more challenging lessons
prepared for Serra.”
Snape pursed his lips as Tasgall went on, resentment toward the new student
across from him building in his chest.  The girl was busy writing in a small,
leather bound book, still shaking her head in that ridiculous way muggles had
when listening to their portable music players.  The school year hadn’t even
started yet and already Snape’s time was being wasted on her.
“I am the only master Serra has ever studied under,” Erus Tasgall was saying
now.  “She’s never left home without me by her side, and I admit to being
concerned for her wellbeing at Hogwarts.”
Snape rattle off the obligatory assurance, “I’m certain she will be fine,”
irritated at having to do so.  “She seems competent enough.”
“Oh, she is quite competent,” Tasgall agreed, gazing at his pupil still
scratching away in her journal.  “But she’s suffered an immense tragedy earlier
this year and I worry how she will handle being away from home for the first
time in light of it.”
“Tragedy?” Snape repeated, wondering what little upset might count as a
‘tragedy’ to a child so coddled as this, and though thus far Tasgall had spoken
in normal tones he lowered his voice to respond to Snape’s inquiry.
“Her fiancé was murdered quite brutally.”
Shocked, Snape opened his mouth to ask how, or why, but Tasgall waved that
impatient hand again making clear no more would be said on the matter.
“I know Serra will be attending Hogwarts with hundreds of other pupils and
learning under many other professors, but I cannot help but feel I’m turning
her over into your care,” Tasgall went on, now staring straight into Snape’s
eyes.  “Watch over her for me as her new master.”
Her new master?  Past tragedy or no, Snape would not take on such
responsibility.  This misunderstanding must be corrected immediately.  “Miss
Lillas will simply be a student of mine,” Snape stressed.  “I will not even be
her Head of House.”
Tasgall refused to accept this.  “But you will see Serra every day; you will be
the closest thing to a master she will have there.  She seems to admire you and
I daresay you will replace me in her life — temporarily, of course.  Watch over
her for me, Severus; do me this favor.”
Faced with such a pointed request from the best apothecary in the wizarding
world, Snape found it difficult to respond with an unequivocal no, though he
very much wanted to.  However, Serra chose that moment to drop her quill, part
her lips and daintily pluck the small stone from her mouth before excusing her
way into the conversation.
“Shall I order us some dinner, Papa?” she asked, tucking her journal beneath
her robe and glancing around the room.  “Or perhaps we should go somewhere
else.”  The pub had become even more crowded as shoppers escaped the afternoon
heat, hauling bags and tottering piles of packages to whichever empty table
afforded itself.  Swarms of customers hid the bar and Tom could be heard
snapping orders to his young assistant.
“Yes, angel, go down to that steak and chips place we like and save us a
booth.  I’ll be right there.”  Tasgall patted Serra’s hand as she stood.  Serra
gave Professor Snape a small grin, and striding away she heard Tasgall telling
him, “There is much more we need to discuss, Severus.  Won’t you …”
 
 
 
Evening had finally set in.  Outside, Diagon Alley emptied steadily and
shopkeepers tidied up in preparation for the morrow’s rush of business.  No
vacancies would be found tonight at the Leaky Cauldron, and upstairs in the
first floor hall Snape stood before room 14 hoping Erus Tasgall wouldn’t be in,
wanting no more undesirable chores pawned off on him in regards to Hogwarts’
newest seventh year.  But when the door opened and Hogwarts’ newest seventh
year ushered Snape into the small sitting room, he could do nothing but stare
at her.
The robe Serra had worn in the heat of the day had been discarded, replaced by
a long, black dress that might have been nightwear.  The narrow shoulder straps
held up a bodice that dipped low between the young woman’s breasts, a sight
that caused an uncomfortable rise below Snape’s belt.
“Master Tasgall stepped out for a moment,” Serra explained, closing the door
behind Snape.  She glided past him to take a carafe and glass from the mantle,
pouring Snape a drink like a seasoned hostess.  Snape took the glass from
Serra, his fingers tingling where they brushed against hers, and immediately
took a swig.  The burn of fire whisky came as a welcoming distraction from the
piercing awareness that the two of them were utterly alone, he a man and she
very much a woman; no one around to condemn them for whatever they might decide
to do to pass the time, that just beyond the doorway to his left a pair of beds
waited, either one suitable for —
What the hell was wrong with him?  Severus Snape did not react like this to
pupils, no matter what they wore.  These days he saw girls dressed more
provocatively on shopping trips with their parents — he’d seen several today,
in fact.  Yet here he was suppressing a massive hard on when faced with a young
woman wearing what could have passed for a gown at a school dance.
Unaware of Snape’s stiffening plight, Serra sat across from him at the small
table beside the fireplace.  Her hands rested on the arms of the chair, one leg
crossed over the other.  Snape’s eyes traveled down her neck and over the
curves of her bare shoulders; then he deliberately looked away, taking another
large drink and examining the single painting on the wall — an unremarkable
centaur print.
“I heard your conversation with Master Tasgall today,” Serra began quietly. 
She had not looked away from Snape; those large brown eyes examined him as
thoroughly as he attempted to examine the dull wall art.
“You heard?” Snape next turned his attention to the worn mantle, inspecting the
trinkets it held with what he hoped was an adequate impression of boredom. 
“You were supposed to be listening to music with that rock of yours.”
When Serra laughed the sound was so becoming Snape could not help but glance at
her.  “I still haven’t figured out how to fix it yet.”  She shrugged and went
on somewhat hesitantly: “Papa asked you to watch after me —”
“But you don’t need a guardian,” Snape completed scathingly, regaining his
composure at such a childish turn in conversation.  “All grown up and able to
handle yourself?”  It was an attitude Snape had become too familiar with,
having dealt with it numerous times over his years as a professor: teenagers
with the mindset that they know better than every adult in their lives,
insisting they are old enough to manage themselves without help from anyone. 
Serra’s hackles rose at Snape’s comment, as he knew they would.  She stood up,
seemingly grievously offended, and took a step toward him.
“Erus Tasgall has mentored me for thirteen years,” Serra said, her voice low
and cold as she gazed down at Snape with mild derision.  “If he thinks I need
someone to watch over me at school then I accept his judgment.  I do not second
guess my master.”
Heat burned in Snape’s face from Serra’s unexpected response.  Now Snape stood,
rising a full head above the girl who had just chastised him in the way he had
meant to chastise her.  “You have a new master now, Miss Lillas.  Shall I be
treated with the same respect?”
“You didn’t seem too keen on the idea of becoming my new master downstairs,”
Serra countered.  She hadn’t retreated from Snape in the least and the
closeness of her body called to him, nearly as undeniable as the gravitational
pull of an immense planet.  Something was very wrong here — Snape felt it in
the urges he fought to subdue: to touch this young woman, to hold her, to
caress and kiss her; yes, even to rip that gown off her body, spread her legs
and drive his throbbing rod into her again and again until he exploded with a
crux of pleasure.
The door opened, and at the sound of the latch turning both Serra and Snape
turned to see Erus Tasgall step into the room.  Tasgall’s sharp green eyes took
in the two of them, quickly running up Serra’s body and then jumping to Snape,
standing close enough to Serra to have been dancing with her.  Snape was
surprised — but vastly relieved — to find his hands still down at his sides and
that his robe hid what he felt was a very obvious erection.  At the same time
he was unsettled by how thoroughly unaffected the young woman with him
appeared, as if she herself were completely oblivious to the sexual tension in
the atmosphere between them.  Could this all have been a one-sided battle on
his part?
“What is going on here?” asked Tasgall.  He shut the door — rather hastily,
Snape thought — and dropped an ancient-looking tome on the tiny end table just
inside the room.
“Just hashing out the details of our future working relationship,” Serra said
calmly.  Snape sincerely hoped he looked as collected as his student rather
than the hound dog he felt like, desperate to jump a bitch in heat.  He must
have, for Tasgall didn’t look twice at him.  Instead the old wizard stared at
Serra, roughly jerking his chin downward while keeping those eyes locked on
hers.
“You forget yourself, girl.”  Tasgall’s voice cut like flint and Serra
flushed.  “Put your robe on.”
“Yes, Papa,” Serra murmured soberly.  Without another glance toward Snape,
Serra swept from the room leaving Snape to wonder what had just happened.
“Severus.”  With Serra gone, Tasgall reverted to the semi-business-like manner
he’d held in the pub earlier.  “Thank you for coming tonight.  I apologize for
not being here sooner; I had a last minute errand to run.  Been looking for
that one for months now.”  He motioned to the text by the door.  “Serra has an
impertinent streak in her — gets it from me, I’m afraid.  I do hope she wasn’t
too hard on you.”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” said Snape smoothly, trying not to remember the
hardening effect Serra had indeed had on him.
“Good man.  You look like you could use a refill.”  Tasgall extended an arm
toward Snape’s nearly empty glass and Snape noticed for the first time an
enormous scar on the man’s left hand.  The warped, thickened skin covered
almost the entire palm.  Noticing Snape’s stare, Tasgall flexed the hand and
said enigmatically, “The perils of having Serra as one’s charge.”  He refreshed
Snape’s glass and took Serra’s seat at the table.  “Now then, I would like to
begin where we left off earlier.  However, I’d prefer to wait until Serra
leaves for her little date.”
“It’s not a date,” Serra yelled from the next room.  Tasgall shared a furtive
smirk with Snape as Serra continued angrily, striding through the doorway, her
robe open down the front and flaring like wings at her sides: “You’re a rotten,
delusional old man.  Or maybe you want this to be a date.  Shall we marry a
Malfoy into the family?”  Now Serra leaned down to pull her sandals on and
Snape got a fabulous view down her front; he bit the inside of his mouth
firmly, and the pain drove from his mind the lustful fantasies that had
suddenly sprung up — most of them, anyway. 
“If he is the man you want who am I to tell you ‘no’?” Tasgall replied lightly
in the face of Serra’s scowls.  “Serraphina Malfoy … has a certain ring to it,
yes?” 
Serra glowered furiously and stuck her tongue out at her master, a tongue
bearing a small silver stud.
“Don’t do that to the boy,” Tasgall grumbled, leaning over the table to fill
his own glass; “Then you’ll never get rid of him.”  To Snape’s surprise, Serra
giggled, her glaring countenance breaking at once into a grin which Tasgall
shadowed with just a twitch of a smile. 
“You’re a bit early, aren’t you?” asked Tasgall, peering at a silver pocket
watch as Serra finished getting ready, brushing fingers through her long hair
and gathering her journal.  “Didn’t he say 8:30?  Or do you think he’s already
down there, desperately yearning for your presence?”
“Oh, most certainly.”  Serra’s eyes widened conspiratorially.  “He definitely
had that air of lovesickness about him.  I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s
waiting at the top of the stairs with chocolates and a bouquet.”
“Poor bugger.  Someone ought to warn him what he’s getting into.”
“Ha ha.  Did you attempt a wittiness potion again?  ‘Cause it still needs
work.”  Serra stooped by her papa’s side, planting a kiss on the old wizard’s
cheek.
“Shall I kiss my new master goodbye as well?” the young woman asked, dark eyes
sparkling flirtatiously.  Snape’s eyes narrowed and he backed away from her
slightly, frowning sternly though his brain screamed at her to do it, to kiss
him full on the lips and even slip him a bit of that tongue she’d flashed
earlier.
“Be gone with you, girl,” Tasgall growled, as if he could read Snape’s mind and
was angry at what he saw there.  “You want to scare Severus off so quickly? 
And close up that robe,” he added as Serra, giggling again, headed toward the
door.
“Yes, Papa,” came Serra’s obedient response before she disappeared into the
hall.
Tasgall stared after his goddaughter, all levity evaporated from his thoughtful
gaze.  Snape took the moment to reflect on what an odd association this elderly
wizard kept with the girl, from the callously harsh remarks to the bizarre
rules regarding Serra’s attire and hairstyle.  Theirs seemed the true
definition of a love-hate relationship, with fighting and insults melting into
laughter at the flick of a wand.  It seemed, at least on Serra’s part, that the
‘hate’ side of the love-hate relationship rang no more true than a magician at
a muggle magic show.  Tasgall’s enmity flowed far deeper, if one were to
believe the rumors about the man being one of the meanest, most ornery wizards
in all Europe, his unmatched potion-brewing abilities being the sole reason any
sane person would chance interacting with him.  However, whatever weak spot
Serra might have worn in Tasgall’s heavily reinforced armor clearly did not
extend to anyone else, for any vestiges of friendliness the man held with Serra
were not to be found when Tasgall turned back to Snape.
“Are you familiar with wand folklore, Severus?” Tasgall asked pointedly; “or
the magical qualities of various woods and their uses in wands?  Surely one
cannot become a professor, a potions master, no less, without learning such
things?”
“The magical qualities of woods, yes,” Snape replied, feeling a prick of
displeasure at having his teaching qualifications questioned.  “Wand folklore I
am not so well versed in, but I studied it briefly.”  Snape set his glass on
the table, the need for alcohol as a distraction gone now that Serra in her
lust-inspiring dress was absent.  Where, he wondered, might this line of
questioning be headed?  Surely Tasgall did not expect Snape to be an expert on
so many subjects.
“What do you know of flying rowan?” the elder wizard continued, eyeing Snape
heavily.  “You do know what flying rowan is, don’t you?”
“Of course.”  Snape’s irritation heightened.  “A rowan tree found growing as an
epiphyte on another tree is referred to as ‘flying rowan’.  Wood from such a
tree bears the intensified magical properties of not only the rowan itself but
also those of the tree it is found growing on.  Rowan wood is said to grant
special protection against malevolent beings such as demons; flying rowan would
possess heightened protection, as well as integrating the magic of the host
tree.”
“Correct.”  If Erus Tasgall was impressed at all by Snape’s knowledge, he did
not show it.  “Now if, as Ollivander is so fond of saying, the wand chooses the
wizard, what might it suggest if such a wand chose a young witch as its
mistress?”
Interest peaking, Snape raised an eyebrow and examined Tasgall for any signs of
foolery.  Flying rowan wands were exceedingly rare items.  “Serra?” he asked,
disbelieving.  “A wand of flying rowan?”
“The epiphytic rowan of an aspen, bequeathed to her at the age of four, long
before she might have dabbled with dark forces enough to merit the necessary
protection of such a wand.”
“Children are not permitted to own wands until they reach the age of eleven,”
Snape spat, the hole in Tasgall’s tale suddenly becoming clear.  Just what was
the old man trying to pull here?  He felt a new surge of resentment toward
Serra and her trickster master, and the sly expression blooming on the old
man’s wrinkled face only reinforced it.
“That is the law, yes,” Tasgall admitted; “but I received special dispensation
from the Ministry so that I could begin training Serra immediately after she
came into my care as a student.  When you are the best apothecary the world has
seen rules can be bent for you — even broken.”
Snape thought Tasgall had never appeared colder, or crueler, than he did at
that moment, as if stricter rules than the Appropriate Age of Wand Ownership
had been broken on his behalf before; as if he were confident they would be
again.
“Tell me about aspen,” Tasgall ordered sharply, daring Snape to slip up and
display his stupidity for this great master to ridicule.  Snape bristled at
being spoken to like a dunce child receiving remedial lessons, but at the same
time certainly did not want this man to think him stupid.
“Aspen is also known for its protective qualities, specifically concealment and
shielding from both physical and magical harm.  Ancient lore says that aspen
cuttings allow spirits to return from the dead, that aspens themselves operate
as portals into the Faerie realm, but these attributes are overlooked in modern
teachings.”
Erus Tasgall examined Snape with just the slightest hint of approval, and Snape
hated that he felt buoyed by this scrap of appreciation.  He determined not to
show it, gazing placidly at the old wizard across the table from him as he
absently tapped his fingers on his glass.
“The rowan, imbibed with the magical properties of the aspen,” Tasgall stated
slowly, thoughtfully, staring not at Snape but beyond him; “given to one little
girl adopted from a muggle orphanage; ordinary in all ways save for the amazing
aptitude for the brewing of potions, and that … something.”  Curling the
fingers of his left hand in on themselves, Tasgall stroked the scarred palm,
still staring past his guest in a ruminating trance.
“I don’t want to send her away,” Tasgall snapped suddenly, green eyes fixing on
Snape’s black ones as if Snape had accused Tasgall of wanting to be rid of his
goddaughter.  The heat and severity in his speech was unnerving.
“It’s not safe for her out there,” he continued forcefully.  “There’s something
about Serra, you see.  I don’t know exactly what, but it’s there.  Something
has left an aura — no, not an aura,” Tasgall corrected himself, and now the
elder was so engrossed in his sermon that, had not Snape already interacted
with and deemed the man competent, Snape would have been concerned for his
sanity.  “It’s more like a shadow.”  Tasgall nodded, agreeing with himself on
the correctness of the new word.  “Yes, like something has left a shadow on
Serra — something not human,” he stressed.  “We can sense it; you’ve sensed it
already, I don’t doubt.  It makes us —”  Tasgall stopped short, his face
reddening, fingers rubbing furiously at the scar on his hand.  “— gives us
thoughts, desires —”
Snape stared at Erus Tasgall curiously; it appeared the old man was ashamed,
and in Snape’s mind a light flashed, illuminating what must be going on here. 
Perhaps Tasgall, watching the young girl in his charge grow and change into a
shapely young woman, had begun struggling with impure thoughts regarding her;
and, unable to accept this as a natural conflict that happened in nearly every
such situation, Tasgall had instead created this fantasy of Serra being
afflicted with some other-worldly curse that caused all men in her vicinity to
be overrun with lustful imaginations.
It explained everything, of course, from the unusual strictness of dress
Tasgall insisted on to Tasgall’s stringent request that Snape watch over Serra
— to protect her from being taken advantage of by those poor boys at school who
might unwittingly fall prey to Serra’s preternatural feminine wiles.
“So you are sending her away to avoid these … desires?” Snape added a delicate
inflection to the word, raising an eyebrow as he said it.  The smoldering fury
overcoming Tasgall at this not-so-subtle accusation blazed in his eyes as he
bored into Snape’s mind and Snape jerked back, taken off guard by the sheer
intensity of the other wizard’s Legilimens.  How dare he invade Snape’s mind
uninvited?  How dare he?  Snape was about to demand just this when Tasgall shot
him down with a violent, yet precisely controlled verbal trouncing.
“You are a fool.”  Tasgall spoke carefully, frigidly; having just reviewed the
professor’s previous conclusions, Tasgall spat his own judgment back at Snape. 
“I have lived three times longer than you, boy.”  The inflection Tasgall used
was not delicate at all.  “I know of love, of lust; I know the fleeting heat of
catching a peek of a young woman’s bosom and the hotter burn of treasuring that
image in the dark of night while you’re alone in your bed and randy as a
stallion in spring.”  Snape felt his face redden, both from the demeaning tone
in Tasgall’s voice and the intimate moments of which he spoke — as well as from
guilt for the glimpse down Serra’s dress Snape had gotten earlier, though Snape
felt confident it would not lead to any follow-up nocturnal amusements.
“I also know that such thoughts can be relentlessly ignored, batted away no
matter how many times they fly at you.  And,” Tasgall’s voice lowered, the old
man leaning toward Snape to make absolutely certain the hook-nosed professor
caught every syllable; “I recognize the supernatural power behind a lust that
attacks so constantly and so fiercely that one must use physical pain to
assuage it.”
Tasgall paused here and Snape couldn’t keep from glancing at that horrific scar
again.  Tasgall noticed the look but did not acknowledge it.  He appeared
preoccupied with examining Snape as though reappraising his opinion of the man
he had chosen as the interim teacher for his dearest pupil.
“Serra is my daughter,” Tasgall finally said, lifting his chin slightly, giving
Snape the uncomfortable impression of being looked down on.  “I would no sooner
entertain inappropriate fantasies about her than I would strangle away her life
with my bare hands.  I stress to you the need to guard her not as a covert
alibi for my own shortcomings, as you so wrongly assume, but simply for Serra’s
own safety.  And I send her away not because I cannot deal with this orphic
mystique about her — that was dealt with long ago — but because Serra needs to
be free from the constant reminders of how her life was supposed to be before
the death of her love.  She doesn’t want to go either, but she must.  She needs
a fresh start.  She needs —”
Snape never found out what else it was that Serra needed, for at that moment
Serra herself stormed back into the room, slamming the door shut behind her
with an exasperated huff.  The centaur picture rattled against the wall, and
all the mantle trinkets shivered as well.  Tasgall turned in his seat,
attention abruptly jumping from Snape’s dressing down to his clearly irritated
goddaughter.
“That spoilt, selfish, narcissistic, perverted wanker!” Serra snarled, each
word louder than the last.  She scanned the room, obviously hoping to find
something on which she could take out her anger.  Snape found the display
rather amusing after the girl’s earlier haughtiness with him, but Tasgall
quickly stood, evidently seeing no humor whatsoever in Serra’s outburst.
“What happened, angel,” Tasgall asked immediately.  “What did he do?”
“He read my journal,” Serra exclaimed, holding the small book in her
outstretched hand as if willing Draco Malfoy to appear in the room so she could
beat him with it.  “I was writing while I waited for him to show and that
creepy little bastard snuck up and read it over my shoulder!”
Fully expecting Tasgall to spit out some quip about how Serra ought to have
left the journal, with its apparently invaluable contents, here in their room
rather than taking it downstairs where just such a thing might happen, Snape
was thoroughly stunned to hear Erus Tasgall address the impudent girl’s
complaint with absolute seriousness.
“What did he read,” Tasgall demanded gently; “Do you know?”
“Of course I know — he read it out loud, right in my ear.”  Serra glowered,
locking eyes with her master, and Snape experienced another jolt of surprise
when he realized that Tasgall was using the very same magic he had so rudely
used on Snape before — peering into Serra’s mind by means of Legilimency — and
Serra was granting him total access.  Even more surprising was the grave tone
in which Tasgall spoke upon breaking the spell.
“You stay away from that boy, angel,” Tasgall said quietly.
Serra nodded, her anger still roiling furiously.  “As far as I can,” she
agreed.  Without even a glimpse in Snape’s direction, Serra retreated from the
two men’s presence, locking herself in the next room.
Snape looked at Tasgall.  Tasgall was already looking at Snape, more somber
than ever.  “Watch out for him,” Tasgall stressed, and then clarified: “Draco
Malfoy.  Keep that boy away from her.”
Snape nodded, though he felt none of the impending doom Draco would surely
bring down on Serra which Erus Tasgall, with his oh-so-heightened
sensitivities, plainly saw.  Tasgall had given a pretty speech, yes, and Snape
himself had had moments of barely controlled passion during his short time
spent with Serra, but his issues stemmed from too long a hiatus in certain
bedroom activities and would be quickly cured by a stop at the Knockturn Alley
brothel.  No supernatural lust here — just plain old biological imperative.
And a crackpot old wizard with severe over-protection issues.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     All Harry Potter characters and places belong to JKR.
     No warnings for this chapter; we're still in the clean parts. ;)
     If any of you UKers out there spot any glaring "Americanisms" in the
     characters' chatter, feel free to point it out.
The days had passed too quickly.  On the morning after her disastrous get-
together with Draco Malfoy, Serra had woken up to find her parents in the
sitting room of their quarters at the Leaky Cauldron chatting with her papa. 
Margaret, Serra’s auburn-haired mother, had had an important patient requiring
near constant care, but the worst of that poor soul’s illness was past now and
so she and Serra’s father, Joseph, were finally able to join their daughter and
Erus Tasgall at Diagon Alley for a few final days of family time before Serra
shipped off to Hogwarts and out of their lives for ten long and lonely months.
Serra loved her small family dearly, and all the more so because she remembered
life at the orphanage back when she lived as a ward of the state with no one to
protect her from mean-spirited children or heavy-handed adults; no one who
loved her or truly cared for her.  The day the head nurse of the three-and-
four-year-olds led Serra into the cozy parlor — the room where the adopted
children went — had been one of the best of her life.  The couple waiting in
that parlor wanted her, and the little-girl Serra thought they must be the most
wonderful people ever.
The just-come-of-age Serra still thought this, and leaving the people who had
chosen Serra to become part of their family seemed an impossibility.  Not that
Serra had never been away from her parents before: at least twice a year she
took trips to various parts of the world.  But on these trips Master Tasgall
had always been at her side.  This journey, the longest one yet, she must face
alone.  The prospect made Serra want to curl up and cry like the little child
she had been when Joseph and Margaret first rescued her from that institutional
orphanage.
Now on the verge of goodbye Serra sat on a bench at King’s Cross, a trunk full
of new clothes and school supplies at her feet, a new owl in a cage to her left
and a new broomstick across her lap.  Though still early, Platform Nine and
Three Quarters already held a moderate crowd of families loading their children
on the red Hogwarts Express.  Serra and her mother rested near the last train
carriage, as Serra planned on occupying the very last compartment for the trip.
The trip.  Her stomach churned at the thought and Serra anxiously looked away
from the train.  She propped the broomstick against the bench so that her lap
was free for wiping her sweaty palms on the black Hogwarts robe she wore.
The broom handle gleamed in the morning light and Serra found herself examining
it rather than continue meditating on how drastically her life was about to
change.  Serra’s father, upon gifting it to her, had gone on excitedly about
how it was the latest model — a Nimbus something-or-other — capable of going
zero to crazy fast in an absurdly short amount of time.  It had been rated in
some popular broomstick magazine (Serra herself couldn’t imagine reading an
entire magazine devoted solely to broomsticks) as Most Easily Maneuvered, a
plus in Serra’s book since it meant she was less likely to fly into a tree if
she ever decided to ride the thing.
But its other attributes were less appealing.  For instance, the broom’s
ability to stop on a Knut only conjured images of being thrown off the thing;
if she must own a broomstick at all, she would rather one that picked up speed
slowly and stopped even slower, but apparently the Nimbus company held a
different opinion on what made for a quality broom.
Serra’s father knew his daughter didn’t particularly like to fly, which was why
he had thus far put off purchasing a broomstick for her.  What he did not
understand — what Serra had always been reluctant to express to him in light of
Joseph’s unabashed enthusiasm for all things Quidditch — was that Serra
absolutely hated flying.  Speed frightened her; heights frightened her, and
heights viewed while speeding along at a breakneck pace, ensuring a violently
terrifying death which one could contemplate for many seconds as one fell back
down to solid ground, screaming and helpless after losing one’s sweaty grip on
the shiny handle of a brand new Nimbus, were an absolute nightmare topped only
by spiders on Serra’s list of Things to be Avoided At All Cost.   But Serra was
headed to Hogwarts, and Hogwarts had a much-celebrated Quidditch tournament
among the Houses, and Serra’s father had finally seen his opening to draw his
little girl into the exciting world of flying sports.  Serra had showered her
dad with all of the expected hugs and kisses for the gift, but she knew full
well that it would spend its year at Hogwarts as a playground for dust bunnies
under Serra’s bunk.
Being the more practical of Serra’s parents, her mother had bequeathed Serra
with the creature occupying the bench with her — her very own fine-feathered
mail carrier.  Arguing with Margaret had always been easier than disagreeing
with her father, but the protest Serra started to voice against this new useful
pet — that she already owned an owl and didn’t want another one — fell flat
when Serra realized that she did not, in fact, already own an owl.  Her parents
did, of course: a tawny barn owl named Frigg with a white heart-shaped face and
a gentle nature; but the owl Serra always thought of as ‘hers’ actually
belonged to Master Tasgall.  Tasgall’s was a grey striated bird whose beak hid
behind a mass of feathers, giving him the look of some sort of tentacle-mouthed
alien fowl.  Serra had affectionately nicknamed the fellow ‘Dracula’ for the
way he tended to shrink up when threatened, drawing one wing across his body
like a vampire cape to cover his underbelly while his birdie-head contorted
into an evil-looking glare.  While Dracula appeared fearsome in this state, he
actually bore a rather shy and docile personality.
In contrast, the owl in the cage beside Serra was cross and irritable; as a
human he would have trumped even Tasgall in crabbiness and out-and-out
hostility.  He was a beautiful bird, Serra had to admit: a black and white
Strix owl with a white belly striped with black, and shiny black back and wing
feathers which also crept up his head.  Smaller speckled feathers outlined the
black around his beak and huge onyx eyes, fading out at his little owl temples
and reappearing to curve downward from his forehead like two perpetually
scowling eyebrows.  Serra felt certain that those angry birdie brows had been
hand-picked to fit the owl’s crotchety personality by some keen avian imp.  In
memoriam of her sweet Dracula, whom she’d been forced to leave back at Master
Tasgall’s house, Serra spitefully named the new owl Vlad the Impaler.
Just now Serra flicked dried cricket treats through the cage bars at Vlad, who
angrily snapped them from the air with loud clicks of his beak.  When one treat
pelted the bird’s belly, Vlad hooted derisively at his new owner, and Serra,
threatening to pluck him bald and turn his feathers into a pillow if he didn’t
shut up, fished the dead bug from the bottom of the cage and threw it at him
again.
More than ever Serra burned inside with resentment at having to leave home for
this boarding school, and the feeling only increased when her mother, sitting
beside Serra opposite the petulant owl, began a running commentary of people-
watching.  Normally Serra quite enjoyed this, as her mom made witty, humorous
comments on the wild hairdos or appalling fashion styles of passers-by (all in
good fun, of course, as neither Serra nor her mum possessed the slightest sense
of haute couture).  However, since arriving at Diagon Alley a few days before,
Margaret’s people-watching comments instead focused on all the handsome school-
aged males milling past, pointing out their pleasing attributes and pressing
Serra to voice her own opinions on the suitability of each one.  Clearly her
mother expected Serra to find a new love interest during her stay at Hogwarts,
like some academic version of that muggle fairytale of Cinderella going to the
ball to meet the prince and live happily ever after, and her mom was the fairy
godmother determined to make it happen.
Well, Serra was not Cinderella, and no Prince Charming awaited her at Hogwarts
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the real ‘fairy godmother’ of that story
muggles were so fond of telling their little girls to fill their heads with
unrealistic expectations of everlasting love — just a regular old witch after
all — had been hauled to trial before the Wizengamot and currently rotted away
in Azcaban for performing magic in front of a muggle.  And said muggle, instead
of snagging Prince Charming, had alienated the poor man with her ravings of
magical dressmaking and carriages transformed out of gourds.  So much for
‘happily ever after’.
Serra sighed quietly, jamming the baggie of owl treats into her pocket.  None
of the boys her mother pointed out sparked anything in Serra.  She looked, but
she felt nothing for them whatsoever — no quickening of pulse or  glimmer of
curiosity, not even for the brawny young man with the blue-green eyes and thick
lashes that stood out so startlingly against his golden tanned skin, a
combination that had caused Serra to first become enamored with Kadin so many
years ago.  Of course, that was the problem: no one could possibly live up to
Kadins memory.  Serra simply could not imagine herself with anyone else and
begrudged the fact that her family wanted her to move on.
From the crowds on the platform Serra’s father and godfather appeared. 
Joseph’s face displayed a silly grin and he held up yet another package.  His
giddiness mirrored that which he’d shown before presenting Serra with the new
broomstick, and Serra immediately began steeling herself to receive more
Quidditch-related gifts — maybe a full set of Pride of Portree robes,
Scotland’s team of which Serra’s father had been a fan for as long as Serra
could remember.
When she opened the package, though, she found not a pile of deep purple fabric
with the customary golden star but a large black leather case.  Across the side
facing toward Serra were dozens of small silver knobs and metal-bracketed
labels, rows upon rows.  Gripping one little knob, Serra pulled it up,
revealing it to be the stopper of a glass vial, one of more than a hundred. 
The vials were only half as deep as the case; the backside contained a
duplicate set.  Serra stared up in wonderment at her father’s enormous smile
and saw that even Tasgall’s lips were turned up slightly.
“You were concerned about how much space your potions and regents took up, and
how you’d ever keep them organized in our old miniaturizing pocket,” Joseph
explained excitedly, pulling several apothecary jars out of a second bag; “so
William helped me pick this out for you to take instead.  Here —” he put a
large wad of gillyweed in Serra’s hand “— put it in one of them.”
Obediently Serra withdrew one of the new vials from the case and carefully took
the top off.  Peering dubiously into the tiny phial, its opening no wider than
her finger, she acted to drop the mass of ropey greens into the container.  To
her delight the gillyweed shrank rapidly and disappeared through the mouth of
the jar.  It reemerged just as easily when Serra upturned the vial into her
hand.
“Each bottle will hold up to thirty-two ounces, except for the top row on
either side which hold sixty-four,” Serra’s dad touted energetically.  “They’re
practically dripping with charms, too: anti-shatter, preservation, anti-tip and
slide proof, so if you lean the case over they won’t fall out all over the
place … what else?”
“This is amazing!” she exclaimed, truly enchanted.  “Thank you so much!”
“I took the liberty of augmenting the meager supply you packed,” Tasgall added
gruffly, motioning to the pile of regents Joseph had unloaded.  “And you’ll be
able to mail order whatever you like while you’re there, too, so at least you
won’t be completely devoid of quality components.”
Setting aside the case, Serra jumped up and threw her arms around her papa,
recognizing the harshness in his voice as the only way he could express his
heavy heart at having to send her away.  Her eyes prickled with tears as she
hugged him fiercely and he hugged her back just as hard.
“Hey, now, it was my idea,” Joseph laughed, spreading his arms for his
daughter.  Serra laughed as well and turned from Tasgall to her father, burying
her face in his warm chest and breathing in the familiar scent of his
aftershave.  When a sob broke from her throat, Joseph held her tighter.
“Come on, now, big girls don’t cry,” he said, sniffling himself.
Serra felt her mother’s hands on her back.  Margaret’s cheeks were already wet
with tears when her turn came to hug her daughter.  She spoke softly into
Serra’s ear, gentle words of encouragement and confidence, and Serra knew for
sure and certain that if she came back home ten months from now unattached to
any of the many young men Margaret had pointed out and still heartsick over her
dead fiancé, her mother would still be there loving her unconditionally.
Finally Vlad, offended at such overt displays of affection, began hooting
loudly and repeatedly from his cage, effectively ending the tearful goodbyes.
“Oh, yes, I got you one more thing …”  From beneath his robe Serra’s dad pulled
a folded purple cloth, and when he draped it over Vlad’s cage Serra giggled at
the gold star displayed on the front.  The Portree Prides were being
represented after all.
“Take care, honey,” Joseph said fondly.
“And send us owls every chance you get, dear,” her mother added.
“I will.  I love you both.”
Tucking her new storage case and broom under her arm, Serra grabbed her trunk
in one hand, hung the bag of regents over her other arm and hooked Vlad’s
covered cage under the fingers of her free hand.  So laden, she trundled to the
scarlet steam engine that waited to carry her off to a new start.
Before Serra stepped aboard, Erus Tasgall, who had walked his goddaughter to
the edge of the platform, caught the young woman’s cheek in his scarred palm
and leaned over to give her a brusque kiss on the forehead.
“Love you, angel,” he muttered hoarsely.  His brilliant green eyes were
glistening and Serra had to turn away quickly to avoid breaking down all over
again.
“Love you, too, Papa,” she whispered, and with one last smile to her dear
master, Serra boarded the train.
 
The few students in the compartments of the last carriage looked curiously at
Serra as she passed.  Selecting the very last cabin, she scooted in and dropped
her load.  The chaos outside increased ten-fold when a shrill warning whistle
sounded; all up and down the train could be heard excited chatter, hailing
calls among friends, last-minute send-offs from parents and siblings, and a
symphony of owl cries to which Vlad irritably added his own song from under his
‘Prides’ shade.  With a lurch the Hogwarts Express rumbled slowly away from the
platform.  Past the window flew hundreds of faces waving goodbye.  Serra’s
family was not among them; she knew they had Disapparated shortly after Serra
boarded the train, not wanting to prolong the already agonizing farewell
process.  Still, Serra watched until the faces were replaced by houses rushing
by; then she went back to the pile of luggage.  Might as well get on with it.
Before transferring her trunk to the luggage rack, Serra rummaged around
inside, shoving various objects inside the blue tartan miniaturizing pocket her
parents had loaned her to make space for her new apothecary case and extra
regents.  She crammed the broomstick on the upper rack as well and had only
just gotten settled on one of the two soft couches lining the compartment when
a young man stepped in from the aisle to join her.
“Well, well,” Draco drawled lazily.  “Looks like it’s just you and me.  Thanks
for saving us such a cozy private room.” He sat uncomfortably close to Serra,
sharp features alight with a jaunty grin.  “Written any interesting diary
entries lately?”
“You never stop, do you?” Serra sighed with an exasperated roll of her eyes.
“Who needs to stop?  I can go as long as you want, sweets.”  Draco rubbed his
shoulder against Serra’s and she scooted further down the seat.  Surely this
couldn’t be the last compartment with any space available.
“Lovely,” she cooed sweetly, her saccharine voice morphing to venomous
loathing; “go now.”
“Aw, don’t be like that.”  Draco scooted along too, draping an arm around her
shoulders this time and leaning closer so that his breath tingled hot in her
ear.  “It’s a long ride; you can spend it on your knees, sucking my dick while
you play with your clit,” he murmured, butchering with his own crass words the
short excerpt he’d read from Serra’s journal.  He dipped his head, moving as if
to kiss her.  Another student appeared at the doorway of the compartment just
as Serra drew back furiously, curled her fingers into a fist, and punched
Draco’s face with all the strength she could summon in such a tight space.
The new young man, a rather skinny bloke with wild black hair, gave a single,
barking laugh and drew his wand, pointing it at Draco’s head.  Jaw agape in
shock from Serra’s rebuttal, Draco jerked around, whipping out his wand.  A
flaming patch shone on his pale cheekbone where Serra’s knuckles had made
contact.
“I think that was your hint to leave, Malfoy,” Serra’s defender said icily.  On
the bench, Serra glanced briefly at him, too preoccupied with being harassed to
recognize him; for otherwise she surely would have.
“Fuck off, Potter,” Draco sneered.  “Nobody asked you.”
“No, but she made it pretty clear she doesn’t want you here, and I don’t
particularly want you here either.”
Draco stood up, still glaring, and edged toward the door.  Staring up at him
stonily, Serra took out her own wand and aimed it at the blond teen’s chest. 
Wand work was not her forte but Serra knew a few hexes she would have gladly
used on him just then.  Unfortunately, Draco chose that moment to wise up,
sidling out of the compartment with his eyes still fixed on the other male
until he was out of sight.  Only then did Serra’s new visitor tuck his wand
into his back pocket.  He glanced at Serra.
“Good shot.  He’s a real ass, that one.”
Serra sniffed in agreement, rubbing her sore knuckles.  “Too right he is. 
Thanks for stepping in when you did,” she added as the young man ducked into
the corridor momentarily to haul in his trunk and bird cage holding a beautiful
white owl.
“No problem.  Mind if my friends and I join you?”
When Serra nodded affably he tucked away his trunk, and Serra took the time to
examine him more fully.  He wore loose muggle-style jeans and a tee-shirt, and
his dark hair was so unruly Serra wondered if he had bothered to brush it at
all today.  Then, as if he’d noticed her inspecting his mane, he quickly combed
it down with a hand.  Multitudes of fly-aways popped right back up, and Serra
decided it probably wouldn’t have lain flat even if he plastered it with triple
coats of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion.  Giving it up as a lost cause, he sat down
across from Serra.
“I’m Harry.”
“Hi, Harry,” Serra said with a smile she hoped he wouldn’t realize was actually
directed at his misbehaving cowlicks.  “I’m Serra.”
Suddenly a connection flashed in her consciousness, and the recognition she’d
missed earlier jumped to the forefront of her mind: Draco had called this bloke
‘Potter’.  That would make him —
“Wait — Harry Potter?  The Harry Potter?”  Serra could not help the amazement
in her voice; she’d grown up hearing about Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.  He
was the only person ever to have survived Avada Kedavra — the killing curse —
thrown by Voldemort himself at Harry when he was just a baby.
Harry managed a chagrined smile and Serra immediately wished she could take
back that last exclamation.
“Crap, I’m sorry.  That was stupid, wasn’t it?”  Heat crept up her slender neck
and colored her face.
“No, no, it’s okay,” Harry injected quickly.  “I’m used to it, really.  Here,
you can check out my scar and everything.  Look —”  He brushed the hair back
from his forehead, giving her a clear view of the zigzagging stripe that marked
the spot where Voldemort’s curse had struck him as a baby.
Serra, wishing she could be casual enough to act like it wasn’t that big a
thing (too late for that, she thought, humiliated), did indeed glance up to see
in real life the lightning-shaped scar she’d seen only in pictures and
caricatures.  She stopped just below it, however, when, for the first time, she
met the gaze of the young man who had boldly stepped in against Draco like a
medieval knight helping a damsel in distress.
“Your eyes …” she murmured softly.
“Uh … they’re just like my mother’s,” Harry said surprise lacing his voice. 
Serra understood his train of thought: how could this girl, no older than him,
possibly have known his mother?  Of course Serra knew of Lily and James Potter,
Harry’s parents who had died the very night he received his famous scar, but
any genetic likeness to them was the furthest thing from her mind right then:
though shaped differently, Harry’s eyes were the exact shade of green as her
papa’s.  Looking into them she could almost see Tasgall’s wrinkled features and
wiry grey hair.
“They’re the same color as my master’s.”  Smiling while homesickness splintered
her heart, Serra quickly turned to the window, swallowing hard to be rid of the
lump in her throat and trying to appear interested in the scenery flashing
past.  But looking beyond the glass only served to remind Serra that this train
was carrying her far, far away from her papa, whose startling green eyes were
mirrored so perfectly in the youth across from her; far from her parents, her
home.  And she wouldn’t return for nearly a full year.
As if sensing her ache and wanting to give her privacy, Harry looked around the
compartment, anywhere but at his travel companion.  This action on his part
caused a stubborn pride to well up in Serra’s chest.  It probably struck him as
strange, the possibility that Serra might be struggling with homesickness, she
thought resentfully; after all, this family separation was a yearly occurrence
for him.  Well, just because Harry Potter didn’t seem to mind leaving home did
not mean Serra had to be okay with it too.  But neither would she allow him to
see just how much it pained her.
Taking a slow, deep breath to settle her thoughts, Serra looked back at Harry
and asked calmly, “So where are your friends?”
“Oh — uh …”   Harry glanced back at the empty doorway.  “Well, I was actually
just supposed to be saving seats for them.  Ron and Hermione — er, they’re my
two best mates — are Head Boy and Girl so they’ll be up front with the Prefects
for a bit, I expect.  My girlfriend Ginny is a sixth year Prefect, so she’ll be
there, too.  And I don’t know where Neville and Luna —”
“We’re here,” a brown-haired teen gasped from the corridor.  Serra assumed this
to be the aforementioned Neville, since Luna sounded like a feminine name.  He
dragged in two trunks and after him a dazed-looking girl also entered.  This
must be Luna, although from the vague expression on her face Serra wondered if
maybe she had simply turned into the wrong compartment by mistake.
“Congratulations on making Quidditch Captain, Harry,” the new girl said, taking
a seat beside Serra (apparently she’d gotten the right compartment after all).
“Yeah, congrats, Harry,” Neville chimed in from behind Luna where he was
tucking away their trunks.  “And Ron got Head Boy!  Hermione was a shoo in, of
course, but Ron …” Grinning, Neville gave a massive shove on the one trunk to
make room for the other.
“I don’t think Ronald will make a good Head Boy,” Luna said matter-of-factly,
pulling out rolled up copy of The Quibbler from her robe.  Such a blatant,
unflattering comment, but none of the others in the cabin seemed particularly
perturbed.  “He’s not very nice or helpful to the younger students.”  Luna
spoke lightly, as if commenting on the weather, and then buried her head in the
magazine without waiting for a response.  Already Serra thought this girl might
be the strangest she’d ever met.
“I think he’ll do alright.”  Neville sat down beside Luna, leaning forward to
see past her to Serra.  “Neville Longbottom,” he said smiling easily.
“Serra Lillas.  It’s nice to meet you.”  To her right Vlad gave an angry hoot. 
Serra’s expression soured, but Neville only peered further down.
“That your owl?” he asked curiously.  On the opposite seat Harry’s pretty white
owl hooted also, her amber eyes fixed on the covered cage of the other bird.
“Yes,” Serra said through pursed lips.  She lifted the Prides drape to reveal
the black and white owl inside, his speckled eyebrow-feathers giving him a
fierce glare as he gazed around the compartment.  “Meet Vlad the Impaler. 
Isn’t he lovely?” she asked dryly.  “He’d make an excellent stuffed specimen.”
“Hey, he’s better than my toad,” Neville said, laughing as he pulled a large,
greenish-brown toad from the pocket of his robe.
“I’ll trade you,” Serra said promptly, dropping the cover back over Vlad.  Both
Harry and Neville laughed now, obviously mistaking her offer as an attempt at
humor.
“So, you’re new here, right?” Harry finally asked Serra, and when she nodded he
added, “You don’t look like a first year; are you a transfer student?”
Before Serra could answer they were all distracted by a loud commotion from the
corridor, what sounded like a cat fight accompanied by apoplectic hollers.
“Get — off — you — bloody — git!”
“That sounds like Ron.”  Neville glanced at Harry concernedly and the two of
them stood just as a tall, lanky redhead fell in from the aisle, struggling to
carry a birdcage while being scaled by a huge, orange cat.  This was Serra’s
first introduction to Head Boy Ronald Weasley.
The cage in Ron’s hand fell and rolled between the seats, scattering a confetti
of feathers and bird droppings, and the poor owl inside the cage — a tiny,
fluttering, puffball Scops — hooted shrilly as it bounced about its prison.
“Here, let me —”  Harry seized the writhing feline, extracting claws from his
friend’s back while Ron spouted a stream of expletives about what he wanted to
do with the animal.  Serra stared on, her eyes wide at the sudden pandemonium
and the rather colorful curses filling the air just now.
“Grab his basket!” Harry ordered Neville, trying to scruff the frenzied cat. 
Straightaway Neville darted into the corridor and returned with a woven, lidded
basket.
“This,” Ron declared heatedly, grabbing the cat from Harry and attempting to
force it into the basket, “is the worst” — he shoved with his knee, bowing the
animal’s back down even as all four paws dug into the rim — “pet” — one by one,
Ron pried each curved claw from the wicker — “EVER!”
Finally overwhelming the hissing mass of fur, Ron crammed it down in the basket
and slammed the lid on top.  “Hermione owes me big time!  Some damned third
year has a bleeding monster bird down there,” he complained to Harry,
collapsing in a sprawl on the bench.  “Thing must’ve been over a meter tall —
Hagrid would love it.  Crookshanks took one look at it and went completely
bonkers.”
Serra gazed at the newest cabin occupant amusedly.  He had blue eyes and
freckles, and despite the bedlam hailing his debut — or perhaps because of it —
Serra liked him immediately.
“SHUT UP, PIG!” Ron suddenly bellowed to the still screeching owl.  He grabbed
the cage with such force that Serra shrank back, expecting it to be flung
against the wall, but Ron only set it on the bench and dropped beside it,
huffing and covered in sweat.
“Stupid bugger,” Ron grumbled, directing his lessening rage at his tiny owl
now.  “I take that back; this might be the worst pet ever.”  He glowered at the
bird, which had already recovered from the tumble yet still zipped around the
cage squeaking like a manic bat.
“Let’s put him in here,” Serra suggested, motioning to the Portree Prides
bedecked cage at her side where her own owl now hooted angrily once more. 
“Maybe he’ll annoy my owl to death.”  She grinned darkly, a look Ron matched.
“Maybe your owl will eat my owl,” he added hopefully.
“He probably will.”  Serra grumbled, casting Vlad a look of black
contemplation.  Then she brightened.  “Hey, maybe your owl will poison my owl
and they’ll both die!”
“Brilliant!” Ron beamed.  “What’s your name?”
Serra introduced herself yet again, this time able to clarify that, yes, she
was new but not a transfer from another school.
 “I’ve been homeschooled all my life,” she explained; “but for seventh year my
parents decided it would be best to send me here.”
This fact seemed to peak their interest at once.  Serra wondered if in all
their six years of attending Hogwarts a student had transferred in, let alone a
student who had been homeschooled.  Harry, at least, looked like he’d never
realized wizards even homeschooled at all.
“Did you have to give up your membership in the Wizard School Rebellion League
to come to Hogwarts?” Luna suddenly asked intently, popping up from behind her
magazine.  “Or are you spying for them?”
“Did I — what?”  Serra replayed the words in her mind several times trying to
make sense of them, and finally looked around at the others seeking reassurance
that she really had heard what she thought she had heard, and perhaps some hint
as to whether or not she was actually supposed to answer.  “Is she serious?”
Across from Serra Harry nodded, choking back laughter.  Beside him Ron was
shaking, a hand pressed firmly over his nose and mouth, and Neville had doubled
over in silent sniggers.  Relieved to discover she wasn’t the only one who
found this line of questioning absolutely absurd, Serra turned back to Luna,
who went on, totally unaware of the humor the others found in her statement.
“It’s common knowledge that the WSRL keeps strict tabs on its members since
ministry-schooled wizards are considered brainwashed and corrupted.” She
continued staring at Serra docilely and added, “You don’t seem like a spy.”
“Uh … thanks … You don’t seem brainwashed and corrupted,” Serra replied
somewhat dubiously.
“Thank you.”  Luna smiled dreamily, retreating behind The Quibbler again.  For
a moment Serra eyed the girl uneasily, sincerely hoping the wacky blond’s
schedule kept her far from Serra throughout this school year.
Harry cast Serra a reassuring grin and then turned to Ron.  “Don’t you have
Head Boy stuff to do?”
“Eh, Hermione’s got it covered.”  Ron shrugged, still slouching lazily while
flipping his wand between his fingers.  “Her cat tried to skin me alive — I
think that deserves some recovery time. Say” — Ron sat up excitedly, changing
the subject — “did you all see Malfoy?”  ‘Malfoy’ seemed to be this crowd’s
preferred title for Draco.  Their collected opinion of him matched Serra’s own,
a point in their favor as far as she was concerned.
“He was in a right foul mood,” Neville nodded, his expression darkening.  “We
saw him jinx a first year for tripping in the aisle outside their compartment.”
“Did you see his face?” Ron went on.  “Nasty bruise right on the cheekbone.  I
bet that’s why he’s so angry.  Wonder what happened to him.”  Ron grinned with
satisfaction.  “Whatever it was, I wish I could’ve seen it.”
“That was Serra,” Harry laughed, gesturing toward Serra.  Neville and Ron
looked at her too, plainly impressed, and she shrugged, not bothering to
suppress a devious smile.
“No kidding?” Ron demanded, his eyes alight.  “What happened?”
“He wouldn’t leave me alone, so I hit him,” Serra said simply, and Ron howled
with laughter.
“Bloody brilliant!”  He clapped Serra on the back, causing her to flush
brightly, and then turned to Harry.  “I like this one; we’re keeping her. 
Cracked Malfoy right in the face!”
Serra chuckled quietly at Ron’s exuberance.
By the time the tea trolley came by a couple hours later Serra had relaxed
considerably.  Two more girls had joined the now cramped cabin — Harry’s
girlfriend Ginny, who was also Ron’s sister, her long, red tresses matching his
perfectly; and Head Girl Hermione, Ron’s girlfriend and owner of the ginger cat
that had mauled him.  Though the couplings caused a deep pang in Serra’s heart
and brought yet another lump to her throat, she successfully fought back any
emotional show.  There’d been enough of that for one day.
The two new girls differed greatly from Luna in that they were both completely
sane.  While Serra was not looking for a new circle of friends, she thought
there to be a high probability they would actually get on well.  This school
thing might not be so bad after all.
 
 
 
Night closed in around Hogwarts.  The ceiling of the Great Hall slowly turned
an inky black color and twinkling stars appeared.  From his place at the High
Table, Severus Snape gazed over the four house tables and up past the hundreds
of floating candles lighting the hall to stare at those stars.  Beside him
Professor Sinistra chatted with the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,
a young man by the name of Giles Prelati.  Prelati looked as if he’d only just
left university himself, and Snape knew Dumbledore had been reluctant to hire
Prelati, not only because of his age but also because of his rather macabre
areas of expertise: Necromancy and Demonology.  But the fresh-faced youth had
been the only candidate willing to accept the position — rumored to be cursed,
and a rumor backed up by the fact that since Snape began teaching at Hogwarts
seventeen years ago no Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had taught for
more than a single year, and sometimes less than that, due to one unforeseen
incident or another.  A few of the past professors had even been killed.  Snape
idly wondered to what ruin this new young fellow would come by the year’s end.
A low roar of excited conversation suddenly rumbled at the back of the Great
Hall, marking the arrival of students.  Now to begin again, Snape conceded
bitterly: another year of attempting to impart knowledge to a lot of rowdy,
thick-headed children.  Already they were flocking in and dividing up among the
tables, laughing and messing about as they talked about their summer holidays
and the upcoming semesters.  The noise was outrageous.
Scanning the hall, Snape picked out Draco, arm in arm with his girlfriend Pansy
Parkinson and sporting a massive bruise on his cheek.  Snape made a mental note
to dock a significant chunk of house points from whoever had done that — Potter
being the likeliest candidate.  Always a pleasure to dock points from Potter.
Snape lifted a hand in acknowledgement when the Malfoy teen nodded in his
direction, and then continued perusing the crowds pouring in.  There was Potter
cavorting happily with his friends — still dating the one Weasley girl, Snape
saw with a vicious stab of jealousy.  Not jealousy over the girl, of course,
but over the insufferable boy’s popularity — just like his father James, with
whom Snape had held a deep enmity back when they had attended Hogwarts
together, especially after James began dating the woman Snape had been in love
with.
Clenching his jaw bitterly, Snape looked elsewhere just as Potter glanced up at
him.  He would see Harry in class soon enough, thanks to the headmaster’s
insistence that Snape alter his rule that no student getting anything less than
an Outstanding O.W.L. in Potions continued on to Snape’s advanced classes — a
change done purely for Potter’s benefit, Snape had no doubt, which made it even
more intolerable.  Snape had no desire to see those jewel-green eyes, her eyes,
in the face so remarkably similar to that of Snape’s most hated rival — a
blasphemous combination that would daily remind Snape of what he had lost and
James Potter had gained.
Finally all the students sat at their respective house tables, and Snape found
one specific student missing, even realized he’d been searching just for her
though he would not have been able to say why he wanted to see the girl who
recently became the thorn in his side.  Just the thought of the little wench
caused Snape to bristle.  Yes, he disliked her already with her teasing grin
and pretentious attitude, and he liked even less Dumbledore’s recommendation
from that very morning suggesting that Snape prepare extra, after-hours lessons
for the girl as well as altering her in-class assignments.  With such a high
maintenance pupil in his charge Snape felt the curse of the Defense Against the
Dark Arts position had migrated to his own.
Professor Flitwick tottered in front of the staff table to perform his duty of
placing the Sorting Hat before the student body.  The barrage of chatter
assuaged at this subtle signal.  Moments later the doors of the Great Hall
opened again and Professor McGonagall marched in leading the line of first
years up to be sorted.
And there she was, striding gracefully beside McGonagall: Serra Lillas, Snape’s
newest irritation.  She wore a blank expression, staring ahead as if she did
this sort of this every day and it bored her.  But when Serra met Snape’s gaze
at the staff table, her face brightened and she smiled at him like they were
old friends; Snape looked away.  From the corner of his eye he saw this only
served to broaden her grin.  Obnoxious thing.
The train of first years, McGonagall and Serra at the head, filed between the
High Table and the four house tables.  Serra’s gaze reverted back to the
straight-ahead stare, but she still wore a tiny, satisfied smile; the look of
one hiding an amusing secret.  And unbelievably, as she glided past, Snape
heard the softest of exclamations from his right, where Professor Prelati
perched on the edge of his seat all but ogling at the girl.  Upon turning for a
better look, however, Prelati’s expression was quite passive, and Professor
Sinistra on Prelati’s other side appeared not to have heard a thing.  Had he
only imagined the outrageously inappropriate response?
Slightly unsettled, Snape brushed the experience away, purposely choosing not
to speculate on the chances of Prelati’s barely-breathed ‘wow’ (if indeed it
had been uttered at all) being directed at one of the younger students in line
— though he kept the possibility in the forefront of his mind as something to
beware in the future.
As it always did at the start of each Beginning of Term feast, the Sorting Hat,
its mouth a tattered rip near the brim, began to sing:
 
                      Perk up your ears and heed my call
                      To the occupants of this Great Hall
                I see six years of old; to the one year of new
                 Put me on your head ~ I’ll tell you about you
 
Snape immediately tuned it out, catching only an errant phrase before his
thoughts returned to his newest pupil.  True, he had been impressed with
Serra’s talents upon first meeting her, but over the summer Snape did a bit of
research on the girl and discovered her to encompass everything he begrudged:
raised as the only child of doting parents, taught one-on-one by one of the
most sought-out potions masters in the world, surely living a life of privilege
and luxury, shielded from any hint of unpleasantness — everything Snape’s own
upbringing lacked.  Even newspaper articles about Tasgall and his apprentice,
curiously lacking any photos of the dark-haired girl, referred to her as
‘Tasgall’s Angel’, yet another sign of just how pampered she was — Erus
Tasgall’s special pet.
Well, Snape had no intention of continuing such favored treatment.  In fact, he
fully intended to bring Serra down a notch or two during her stay here at
Hogwarts.
The Sorting Hat was just finishing its song to a chorus of applause. 
McGonagall unrolled her parchment and began reading off names, each youngster
coming forward in turn to sit on the stool and try on the hat, which then
shouted out one of the four Hogwarts houses for that student to join.  Snape
clapped dutifully for each new addition to Slytherin, all the while still
smoldering over Serra.  She stood at the end of the line by McGonagall, her
long hair shimmering in the light of the floating candles.  Though Serra wore
the same black robes as all the other students, Snape suddenly remembered that
night at the inn, that low-cut gown …
Tipping his head away from Serra’s direction, Snape reined in his decidedly
indecent thoughts before mentally cursing the girl again; the wicked little
vixen who probably toyed with her suitors, stringing them along as they fell
all over themselves to please her only to be dumped like so much trash once the
thrill of conquest dwindled.  For such women Snape held a special hatred and
part of him felt certain that this one deserved every bit he had to offer.
The last of the first years stumbled down from the stage (Verity, Lucie) to
take a seat at the Ravenclaw table, leaving only Serra standing with Professor
McGonagall.
“And now,” McGonagall began grandly, waiting for complete silence before
continuing; “this year at Hogwarts we are very pleased to welcome to our
student body a young woman who up till now has been privately tutored by Erus
William Tasgall, the greatest apothecary of this age: Miss Serraphina Lillas.”
It was all Snape could do to keep from rolling his eyes.  Ridiculous
introduction.  Another hike to the pedestal Miss Serraphina Lillas had spent
her whole life on, looking down upon the unworthy masses beneath her.
“Miss Lillas joins us as a seventh year,” continued McGonagall, “but she shall
be sorted along with the rest.  Miss Lillas?”
Casting a quick glance over her shoulder at Snape — again with that
insufferable smile, he noted irritably — Serra took her place on the stool. 
Knowing that Serra had already been sorted two months before in the
headmaster’s office, Snape expected the hat to make quick work of her.  But
several moments passed, as though some debate were going on, some change in the
girl making the hat reconsider its previous placement.  Snape all the sudden
understood there to be a very real possibility that she might end up in his
house.  Was that the hold up?  Was the conniving brat begging the Sorting Hat
to place her in Slytherin so that more opportunities for her to taunt him could
afford themselves?  Snape knew the hat took into account the desires of the
wearer, and if that were the case —
“Gryffindor!”
The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers.  Potter’s group made a space for
Serra to join them, patting her on the back in welcome.  Of course what better
friend for her than the arrogant Harry Potter?  Snape noticed Draco watching
disgruntled from the Slytherin table, obviously unhappy at the outcome; Snape,
on the other hand, clapped along with the rest, feeling as if he’d just barely
escaped an awful sentencing.  When Serra looked at Snape again, he flashed his
most contemptuous smirk and raised his hands so she wouldn’t miss his
applause.  Her reaction fell short of what he expected, however, for Serra only
turned away distractedly.  The smile was gone, having left in its place an air
of profound disturbance; and Snape could not help wondering what the Sorting
Hat had said to affect her so.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     Again, only the characters you don't recognize from the book series
     are mine; all the rest belong to JKR.
     This chapter is quite tame. Hell starts next week, and then the fun
     begins. :p
A perfect, cloudless sky greeted Harry and Ron when they arrived at the Great
Hall for breakfast the next morning.  Hermione already sat at their table
beside Ginny and the new girl Serra, saving seats.  Ginny and Hermione chatted
animatedly as they ate, but Serra picked at her porridge in silence; her level
of comfort appeared to hinge inversely upon the number of people around her,
right now numbering somewhere in the hundreds.
Up at the High Table staff members conversed and occasionally glanced out over
the students.  For a moment Harry stared at the one professor he truly hated,
brooding over the fact that this year he and Snape would be butting heads
through two Potions’ courses instead of the usual one.  After signing up for
the five N.E.W.T. courses needed for acceptance into Auror training, Professor
McGonagall had pointed out that Harry’s schedule still included space for
Poisons.  Since the study of poisons and antidotes was specifically recommended
in preparation for training, Harry had steeled his resolve, choked back his
deep loathing for the Hogwarts potions master, and signed up for the class. 
Now, struggling with gnawing regrets over the decision, Harry reminded himself
that the extra studies would greatly benefit his future.  Achieving his dream
of becoming a Dark Wizard catcher would be worth the harassment waiting to be
endured in Snape’s dungeon classroom … right?
“Bloody hell — quit staring at that Prelati bloke,” Ron snapped with such
hostility that Harry looked at his friend to see what was the matter.  A
mutinous scowl darkened Ron’s face.  “He’s got enough of a fan club already,”
he grumbled irritably.  “Did you hear the fuss all the girls made over him last
night?  Bunch of nutters, the lot of them.  He’s not even that good-looking.”
Harry did indeed remember the commotion caused by the introduction of the new
Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.  He received more screaming cheers
than even their second year teacher Professor Lockhart; once famous for his
numerous wizarding escapades and modelesque looks, every girl in the school was
smitten over him — even Hermione.  Even though Harry considered Hermione rather
unlikely to be so easily taken in again by a handsome face, probably just the
thought of it had Ron on edge.  Therefore, Harry forgave his friend’s harsh,
ignorant demand.
“I wasn’t looking at Prelati,” Harry said, taking a seat beside Ginny.  He
immediately began piling a plate with bacon, eggs, sausages and toast.  “I was
looking at Snape.  I’ve got two classes with him this year, you know.”
“It’ll be good for your career,” Hermione stressed, ever the rational one. 
“Poisons are an important part of Auror training.”
Ron, however, snorted.  “Bugger that.  I’d rather eat four dozen Puking
Pastilles than spend more time with Snape.”
“Better extra classes with Snape than vomiting up your intestines because you
couldn’t tell the difference between pumpkin juice and Viscera Congé Cognac,”
Hermione declared haughtily, causing Ron, in the process of taking a swig, to
pale and replace his goblet on the table.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Harry muttered once the laughter faded; “You’ve
only got one class with him.”
“Of course I do.”  Hermione pushed her plate aside.  “There was simply no way
to fit in another course and still take Ancient Runes and Arithmancy.”
Just then the morning mail arrived, heralded by more than a hundred owls
swarming into the Great Hall.  Harry grinned upon noticing Serra look up from
her porridge in awe at the mass of birds.  He remembered how the sight had
startled him on his first morning at Hogwarts seven years ago.
“You’ll get used to it,” he assured her over the noise of the owls fluttering
about in search of their owners.  Hedwig flew down to the Gryffindor table, and
behind her Harry recognized Serra’s owl, Vlad.  Serra noticed him too (the
speckled feathers between his eyes which gave him a look of constant
disapproval also made him hard to miss), and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. 
Vlad carried something in his beak that almost resembled —
“Oh, you wretched bird!” Serra exclaimed angrily when Vlad landed beside her
plate and deposited his little parcel on the half-eaten piece of toast in her
hand: a headless mouse, freshly decapitated judging by the way blood dribbled
out.  Lavender and Parvati squealed, and all around horrified students stared
wide-eyed.  A first year girl hopped up and ran from the Great Hall holding one
hand over her mouth.  Even Harry’s stomach roiled uneasily, but Serra only
continued holding the rodent-topped bread, glaring at Vlad disgustedly.
“Heavens!  Get that thing out of here,” McGonagall ordered, catching sight of
the tiny corpse as she passed out the Gryffindor schedules.  Vlad scowled at
her and then turned back to his owner, inspecting her thoroughly as if ensuring
her to be properly offended before giving a satisfied hoot.  Then he snatched
up the open-faced mouse sandwich in his beak and took off again.
“And I thought Pig was bad,” said Ron, shattering the tension brought on by
Vlad’s morbid offering.  Even Serra joined in the laughter.
“He’s just trying to show off his hunting skills for you, you know,” Hermione
pointed out as Serra daintily mopped up a puddle of mouse blood from her
porridge bowl with a napkin.  “You should praise him.”
Serra cast Hermione a skeptical brow raise.  “You want me to praise him for
that?  I rather doubt any affection at all was intended in that gesture.”
“Maybe you just don’t have a good feel for his character yet,” Hermione
pressed, but Harry tended toward Serra’s side on this argument; Hedwig
frequently gifted Harry with dead things, but never anything nearly as gross as
Serra’s bloody, beheaded mouse.  That owl was just plain mean.
Later, after comparing schedules, Ginny gave Harry a quick peck on the cheek
before heading off to her first period Charms class, and Harry, Ron and
Hermione tramped down to the dungeons for the first Potions lesson of the
year.  Just behind them Serra strolled in the same direction, intently
examining her own schedule.  Noticing the new girl following in their tracks
Ron held back, falling in step with her while peering at the small sheet of
parchment she held open.
“Hey, you’ve got Potions with us.  Blimey — how many Potions classes are you
taking?” he asked, so clearly shocked that both Harry and Hermione glanced
back.  “You’ve got Snape every single day of the week!”
“I’m studying to be an apothecary,” Serra responded with a shrug.  She clearly
did not see why Ron made such a bother.
“But — but —” Ron spluttered, “it’s Snape!”
“So?”  Serra was beginning to look as irritated as her owl.
“So he’s a git!  Tell her, Harry!”
“I happen to think he’s brilliant,” Serra retorted coldly; “and I’m pleased to
be studying under him.”
Harry said nothing as Serra strode past them all to the door of the Potions
dungeon.  He had a feeling she would find out for herself soon enough.
Very few students occupied the dungeon for Advanced Potions, among them Draco
Malfoy, Harry was rather displeased to discover.  Malfoy congregated with the
three other Slytherins: Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and the Nott fellow,
whose name Harry couldn’t remember.  The Ravenclaw students also gathered to
their own table, and Harry, Ron and Hermione took the back table closest to the
door.  Serra, on Hermione’s prompting, sat with them also, leaving the lone
Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, at the front table by himself, directly in front
of Snape’s desk.
Perched on the stool across from Harry, Serra looked around the shadowy
classroom and Harry looked at her.  ‘Gorgeous’ had not been the first
description to come to mind when Harry encountered her on the train the day
before, but the new girl was rather pretty; more than that, he found the sight
of her to be pleasing somehow, like gazing into the hypnotic swirls of the
Pensieve waiting for a beautiful memory to take shape that would steal you away
to some enchanted past, perhaps an evening of whispered endearments and gentle
caresses …
What an inappropriate line of thinking for someone in a committed relationship,
Harry realized suddenly, averting his eyes from the new student while guilt
colored his cheeks.
At the table in front of theirs Malfoy turned in his chair and leaned over to
Serra, much to her (and Pansy’s, Harry noticed) displeasure.
“Hey, Lillas,” he whispered, grinning wickedly and ignoring the glares of the
three other Gryffindors.  “Wanna come to our table?  There’re no more chairs,
but you can sit on my lap.”
“Shove it, Draco,” Serra murmured back, and Malfoy chuckled.
“Shove it where?” he replied with a wink.
Harry drew his wand, ready to intervene, when Snape swept into the room.
“Wands away, Potter,” Snape ordered.  “There will be no fighting of any kind in
my classroom.”  Malfoy smirked at Harry and Harry dearly wished Serra would
punch him again.
“Do you know him?” Ron whispered to Serra, glancing quickly at Malfoy.  Harry
wondered the same thing; Malfoy certainly seemed familiar with her — or wanted
to be, anyway.
“Only enough to hate him,” Serra whispered back.
“Miss Lillas,” Snape broke in, his voice low but sharp.  “It appears you are
already having trouble adjusting to your new environment; talking during class
is not allowed.  Ten points from Gryffindor.”  Serra frowned at the professor
and Ron muttered a quiet ‘sorry’ to her, which got another five points docked.
“Perhaps you need more oversight to keep you in line,” Snape continued, his
thin lips curling unpleasantly.  Trade places with Macmillan,” he ordered after
eyeing the Gryffindor foursome.  Serra glanced about the room, her expression
blank since she had no idea who ‘Macmillan’ was until Ernie stood to give up
his spot.
“Much as I am certain you want to sit with the famous Harry Potter,” Snape went
on, “your master did not send you to this school so you could shirk your
studies by gossiping with the local celebrity.”
While Harry seethed over Snape’s disdainful description of him, Serra
obediently moved to the front.  Just as she placed her books down, the greasy
haired professor jerked the desk forward and the stack missed the table and
thumped to the floor.
“A bit clumsy for such a talented individual, aren’t we now,” Snape said with a
smirk, still pulling the desk closer to his own but now much slower.
“Yes, that was quite clumsy of you.” Serra replied smoothly, gaining even more
favor in Harry’s mind.  Ron’s eyes widened and Harry knew that he, too, was
impressed by this new girl’s boldness.  Harry would have given almost anything
to see Serra’s face at that moment as she and Snape locked eyes for a long
moment before the lesson began.  At last, here was a student Snape seemed to
hate just as much as he did Harry.
 
“If she keeps that up we won’t have any house points at all,” Hermione
protested later as the trio made their way to the first floor for Defense
Against the Dark Arts.  They joined the queue outside the door.
“Come on, Hermione, cut her some slack,” Ron objected.  “Most of the points
Serra lost were for completely bogus reasons.  Snape really has it in for her,
doesn’t he?”  This question Ron directed at Harry, adding cheerfully, “Maybe
he’ll let up on you now.”
Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Prelati turned out to be nothing
like Harry had expected.  All the desks lined the walls, facing inward on a
large area in the center of the room.  On the floor of this middle space were
scrawled several elaborate circles — circles entwined with other shapes and
strange characters Harry didn’t recognize, though Hermione took such a sharp
breath through her teeth upon seeing them that it resembled a hiss.
“What?” he asked softly, unsure of why he whispered.
“Maybe I’m mistaken,” Hermione said doubtfully, shaking her head.  She selected
a seat near the door, stepping carefully around the marks on the floor, which
Harry now saw were not isolated to the room’s center.
“Of course you’re not mistaken.”  Ron rolled his eyes and dropped into the desk
beside Hermione, motioning Harry to sit next to him.  “Cough it up — what’re
all the scribbles about?”
Hermione glance about nervously as if concerned someone might overhear them. 
Then she said in a voice so low Harry only just barely heard, “I think they are
used to summon demons.”
Goosebumps prickled on Harry’s arms and his throat suddenly felt dry and
tight.  Ron shuddered.
“Are you sure?”
“Well, that one definitely is,” Hermione replied, pointing a one of the larger
circles in the clearing among the desks.  At the moment Malfoy was standing in
the center of that particular pattern, his eyes glowing with excitement like
he’d just found a huge amount of treasure.  It did not surprise Harry one bit
that Malfoy evidently knew these symbols.  The other students milled around
eyeing the marks curiously, but no one else showed any sign of understanding
their purpose.
On the shelves lining the back of the room rows of bottles gleamed, reminding
Harry of the specimen jars in Snape’s classroom and office; these held not bits
of animals but what looked like powder in various shades.  Innocuous enough,
Harry thought, but when Padma Patil from Ravenclaw reached for one, a voice
called out in warning.
“Do not touch those, please.”
Padma blushed brightly at the reprimand, not because of its harshness but
because of the one who gave it.  Professor Prelati stepped into the center of
the circle of desks and Harry instantly sensed a definite air of competence
about the new teacher.
“The first rule of Demonology,” Prelati said unhurriedly, sweeping the door
closed with his wand, “is ‘Do not summon what you cannot control’.  Everyone
take a seat.”
Hermione immediately raised her hand and Prelati silently acknowledged her by
meeting her eyes and nodding.
“Isn’t the presumption that one can truly control a demon merely a delusion?”
Hermione challenged, gaining her quite a few dirty looks from the other girls
in the room.  Prelati, on the other hand, only laughed.
“Touché.” The professor beamed at Hermione, gaining her even more dirty looks
from the other girls.  “You are correct, of course.  Ten points to —”  Prelati
arched a brow, examining the insignia on Hermione’s robe.
“Gryffindor,” Hermione replied giddily, her cheeks pinked, and Harry realized
Ron might indeed have good reason to be jealous of the new Defense Against the
Dark Arts professor.  Ron must have come to the same realization, for he
glowered fiercely, arms crossed over his chest.
“Demons are ‘controlled’ in the same way we might ‘control’ a dragon,” Prelati
went on, now turning every so often to address the full circle of students. 
“Dragons can be captured, caged, and even placated.  A dragon can never be
tamed, as you all know, but an experienced handler manages the beasts in such a
way as to make them appear tame.  Therein lies the key: one must never forget
the true nature of the creature; must never equate the absence of attack to the
presence of magnanimity.
“Now,” Prelati continued, every student in the room listening intently, even
Ron; “with dragons this is not too difficult to do, no?  Monstrous in size,
spikes, fangs, that nasty habit of shooting fire — not much there to encourage
fuzzy feelings.”  Prelati flashed a radiant smile at his students, and in it
Harry saw not one ounce of fakery.
“Demons, however …”  The professor’s eyes widened subtly, his voice taking on
an almost reverent tone, and his listeners leaned forward collectively.
 “Demons are cunning shape-shifters, more powerful than even the strongest
wizard although they almost always deceitfully downplay their abilities.  They
are masters of human sentiment, capable of putting on a brilliant show.  When
dealing with a demon it becomes all too easy to think of him as a part human
creature, like a vampire or werewolf — neither one irredeemable from their
animal natures.  One might come to truly befriend a vampire, to safely trust a
werewolf.  But know this —” here Prelati raised a finger, eyeing his class
gravely; “to place one’s trust in a demon is to open the door to your own
destruction.  There is no trace of humanity under their wicked exterior, for
the demon is evil through and through.”
Silence dominated the room when Professor Prelati finished his lecture.  The
subject of his speech alone would have commanded attention, but Prelati exuded
charisma that automatically drew others in.  Still, when he took a bottle
matching those on the forbidden shelves from his robes and unstoppered it,
suggesting a demonstration, a dozen assorted objections flew at him from all
directions.
“Now, now,” he chuckled, one hand raised defensively, “I would never expose any
of you to a dangerous situation.  I have a certain compulsion over this
particular demon which makes him … more willing to do what I ask.”
“What do you have on him?” Malfoy asked, his pale face aglow.
“To give the information would annul what little authority I do have over him,”
Prelati replied calmly, walking around the drawing Hermione had indicated
earlier.  The powder from the bottle poured like a liquid and flood-filled the
lines of the circle.
“What is that stuff?” Padma asked curiously.
“A combination of various elements that are needed to summon and contain this
specific entity.”
The bottle empty of its contents now, Prelati tucked it away in his robe and
slipped a ring on each of his middle fingers, rings that slid down no further
than the first knuckle.
“From this point on, no one must say a word,” Prelati stressed.  “Do not speak
to him even if he speaks to you.”
Tension filled the classroom and stretched everyone’s nerves tightly.  All eyes
were fixed on Professor Prelati except Ron’s, Harry noticed.  Ron’s attention
was focused on Hermione, who sat pressed as far back in her seat as possible
and right on the edge, as if preparing to make a break for it.  All the while
she watched Professor Prelati intently along with the rest, eyes narrowed, jaw
clenched, as he balled his fists and then knelt, palms flat against the floor
directly over the edge of the circle.  Ron glanced at Harry; Harry shrugged and
looked back to Prelati.
The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was murmuring an incantation of
some sort, still on his knees.  Then he stood, hands held together as if in
prayer, and uttered a series of sounds.  Harry guessed it to be a language of
some sort, though nothing like Harry had ever heard before — so unlike human
speech it sent chills down his spine.  Many other students shuddered also, and
when the chanting amplified exponentially, echoing like the room had suddenly
expanded into a vast cavern, Hermione covered her ears.
All at once smoke billowed up, whiting out the space within the confines of the
circular drawing from floor to the ceiling.  At the same time the atmosphere
grew icy and an unseen and unbearable pressure exerted itself from that murky
column.  Just as suddenly, it was gone; the haze dissipated and in its place
stood a very handsome, middle aged man in a suit.
Harry’s first impression was that this must be some sort of trick, for this
character looked completely normal — no glowing red eyes, forked tail or
horns.  It ignored the group of teens, staring only at Professor Prelati.
“Ita?” Prelati addressed the man, and Harry assumed this to be the being’s
name.  It answered Prelati in a different tongue, but not one so chilling as
the language Prelati used to summon the thing.  Harry didn’t know this language
either, but the professor obviously did, for he responded in kind: “Est is hic
iam?”
  Now the demon-man rotated slowly to take in his audience, gazing at each
person for several seconds in turn.   When he reached Harry, he grinned
slightly as if in recognition, and Harry’s insides shriveled.
Finally the creature turned back to Prelati.  “Non huic cella.”
Behind him Harry heard a soft scratching sound, and glancing back he saw
Hermione hastily scribbling on a sheet of parchment — the only student in the
room taking notes on the curious spectacle.
Prelati spoke once more in that indecipherable tongue.  When the being answered
(to Harry it sounded like ‘seek’) and Prelati nodded thoughtfully, parting his
hands, clearly about to dismiss the demon guest, Malfoy cried out angrily, “But
he’s just a man!”
Harry wasn’t the only one shocked by the sudden outburst; many gasped and
Prelati shot a quick glare at Malfoy.  Harry just caught a glimpse of a truly
heinous smile on the suited-man’s lips before he swiveled to face the speaker. 
Inside the barrier the creature shimmered, as if being watched through waves of
heat.  The human façade flickered and for a short moment a horrendous beast
could be seen, towering over the class.
It was massive: muscles rippling beneath grayish scaly flesh, fingers and toes
ending in enormous claws, ears like a bat — or had those been the horns Harry
had originally expected to see?  Great shadows hovered about its shoulders —
what Harry later realized were wings — and at the base of the spine sprouted a
tail tipped with a wicked barb.
Screams erupted from the terrified onlookers and the demon laughed.  Low,
resonating bellows echoed off the walls, filling the air with hellish
vibrations.
“That is enough,” Professor Prelati snapped, his voice barely able to be heard
above the cacophony although he still appeared quite calm.  He pressed his
palms firmly together, began uttering once more in that unholy tongue — now
quite befitting of the horror among them.  As smoke curled up from the floor
the demon whipped around, giving Harry and his friends a mercifully brief
exposure to its ghastly face — needle-like teeth, gleaming tusks and eyes that
glittered with diabolical hatred unmatched by anything Harry could ever have
imagined.
Iciness flooded the room along with the odd crushing sensation.  The cloudy
column obscured the frightful being, and when it vanished the demon was gone as
well.
Only when the sunlight streamed through the windows again did Harry realize
just how dark it had been only seconds before, as if that horrible monster
drove away the very light itself.  Now, however, the atmosphere was clean and
pure.  Harry found it easier to breathe, and all around him others were gulping
huge mouthfuls of air.  Only Prelati seemed unscathed.
“Fifty points from Slytherin,” he said, siphoning the powder from the floor-
drawing back into its container.  “To the others, I deeply apologize for that
display.  The true form of a demon is terrifying indeed.  Any nightmares you
suffer from this experience you may blame on Mister Malfoy.”  When Malfoy
frowned at the professor, Prelati added coldly, “It should have been a hundred.
“Now then,” Prelati said cheerfully, clapping his hands together; “shall we get
on with today’s real lesson?”
After the horrific demon summoning, the ‘real’ lesson garnered very little
attention; most student were simply too shaken to concentrate, including Harry,
and he was sincerely grateful that Professor Prelati opted not to give any
homework.
“I wonder what he was saying to that thing,” Ron speculated on their way down
to the Great Hall.  “Do you know what language that was?”
Harry shrugged.
“It was Latin,” Hermione muttered distractedly, looking over her notes from
class.  “And we’ll know what he said as soon as I translate it.”
“You speak Latin?” Ron blurted incredulously.
“No, I don’t speak Latin,” she snapped; “nobody speaks Latin anymore — it’s a
dead language.”
It was then that Harry realized just how upset Hermione still was.  Ron’s
eyebrows scrunched together angrily and he opened his mouth to deliver a biting
retort, but Harry interrupted before a full-on fight broke out between his two
best friends.
“Hermione, what’s the matter?  Are you worried about that demon?  Because
Prelati said it couldn’t rematerialize here without the powder and that circle
thingy.”
“Yes, yes, I know — the spells around Hogwarts keep demons out.  But the circle
wasn’t the only thing allowing it to fully manifest.  Didn’t you see his
hands?” Hermione demanded, clearly frustrated by the blank stares she received
in response.
“Prelati’s hands?” Harry ventured hesitantly.
“Of course Prelati’s hands!”
“Uh … what about them?” Ron asked.  Clearly, he, like Harry, hadn’t noticed the
professor’s hands at all through that awful display.
“They were bleeding.”  Hermione looked back and forth between Harry and Ron
waiting for the significance of her statement to set in.  When it didn’t, she
went on: “Those rings he put on were little knives; he cut his hands before he
laid them on the circle.  He used his blood to summon the demon!” she
clarified, her expression darkening as her friends finally began to
understand.  “I think he’s bound himself to that thing.”
 
 
 
The first day of term finally came to a close.  Serra lay in her bunk in the
Gryffindor girls’ dormitory, already having decided that she hated it here and
then suffering a change of mind both in the last twelve hours.
The whole school routine differed greatly from Serra’s life back home, and
while logically she understood and even expected this, the reality still
managed to overwhelm her.  Perhaps the most agitating change thus far (besides,
of course, the total lack of potions training) was that here within the walls
of this enormous castle she was never alone, unless she ducked into the loo or
the bathrooms.  As a solitary, unsociable individual who kept a grand total of
two close friends, neither of them her own age — or even her own species, some
would argue — being suddenly thrown into an environment with hundreds of other
children and teens where fraternization was expected and even encouraged might
be compared to swiping a lizard out from under a rock and tossing it into a
busy roadway on scalding blacktop with monstrous vehicles coming at it from all
directions: unsettling at the very least.
But Professor Snape — Serra’s new ‘master’ — that man singlehandedly instilled
in Serra the immense distaste she held for Hogwarts.
In Advanced Potions that morning not only had she cost her house a grand total
of thirty points, most of them due to blatant unfairness on Professor Snape’s
part, but she hadn’t learned anything new whatsoever except that the Ravenclaw
boy who sat behind her tended to breathe through his mouth quite noisily.  She
had been under the impression that Snape would be altering her assignments to a
level more on par with her skills, but this morning she’d been required to brew
a basic desensitizing solution, which she’d perfected three years ago; and
worse, Snape expected her to work directly from the textbook, not altering the
recipes in any way to procure a better product.
The third period Poisons lesson consisted of concocting a potion from a
selection of bacteria vials, brewing it in such a way as to increase the
toxicity of the chosen specimen.  Of the scant number of students in the class
(only three: Harry, Draco, and Serra herself) Serra had been the only one with
an end result that was actually poisonous — and then Snape had docked another
ten points from Gryffindor when Serra’s potion proved potent enough not only to
kill the mandrake tester, but to eat completely through the pot as well,
leaving a small crater in Snape’s desk.
But the project had been laughably simple for her, and that, in Serra’s book,
made the situation much more intolerable than Snape’s outright viciousness. 
Let him delve into his vast stores of cruelty; none of it would faze her, not
after growing up dealing with Erus Tasgall’s temperament.  But if Professor
Snape continued to deny her the teachings she had come for, he would find in
Serra a match to his own savagery.
 
By the time Transfiguration rolled around, things finally began looking up:
Harry shared with Ron and Hermione Snape’s spiteful subtracting of house points
for Serra’s too-powerful poison, and it was nice to hear their aggrieved
comments in her defense.  And when Draco, with whom she’d shared every class
this day, tried to sit directly behind Serra, the teen with the deep tan and
blue-green eyes her mother had pointed out at King’s Cross took that desk and
Draco settled instead for the seat beside Serra — not an ideal arrangement, but
a good deal better than having to put up with a year full of whispered come-ons
in her ear.
Professor McGonagall, after running through a quick roll call during which
Serra learned that the bloke behind her was a Ravenclaw named Anthony
Goldstein, had requested that Serra come to the front of the class and switch
to her Animagus form.  While it embarrassed Serra greatly to be gawked at like
a zoo exhibit, McGonagall awarded thirty points to Gryffindor for Serra’s
presentation.
The lesson also allowed Serra more opportunities to earn back the house points
Snape had robbed from Gryffindor: conjuring vertebrates from crates in back of
the classroom.  Transfiguration did not come easily to Serra, but vertebrate
conjuring had already been covered in her lessons back home; so she, along with
Hermione, was able to advance from mice to sparrows and even up to rabbits by
the end of the period.
At dinner, conversations all around centered on various experiences in Defense
Against the Dark Arts.  Serra listened to Ron and Harry tell the others at
their table about how Professor Prelati had summoned a demon and how Draco
Malfoy had made it angry (that part didn’t surprise Serra one bit).  From what
the younger years added, it seemed the professor had repeated the same
performance with every class of his that day, though only the seventh year
group got a glimpse of the demon’s true nature.  The other years bemoaned the
fact that all they witnessed was a short, unintelligible conversation between
the professor and his summoned creature, while the seventh years stressed again
and again how desperately they wished they hadn’t seen any more than that.
Serra left the table glad she wouldn’t be taking Defense Against the Dark Arts
at all.  Professor Snape was a loathsome enough creature to be dealing with.
Now, with her homework done and the worst experiences of the morning muted by a
nicer afternoon, Serra decided that maybe she’d been a bit too hasty with her
judgment on the school, and Professor Snape in particular.  Perhaps he hadn’t
had time to arrange for extra lessons yet.  It might take him as long as a week
to adjust to this new responsibility.  Yes, Serra concluded charitably, she
would give him a week.
Then she would give him hell.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     All Harry Potter characters and places belong to JKR.
     No warnings for this chapter, but we are coming to the end of the
     niceties. ;)
By Wednesday it became clear that giving Professor Snape a full week to change
his ways was far too magnanimous.  Not only did he not want to advance Serra’s
learning, he blatantly touted his own skills, brewing elaborate concoctions
during classes (under the guise of restocking Madame Pomfrey’s potion stores,
though no student could recall Snape ever using class time for such things),
all the while leering at Serra over his desk as if to say, “I could be teaching
you to do this, but I’m not.”
Finally, confronted with particularly inferior instructions for Blood-
Purification Infusion, Serra resolved to use her own method, whatever may
come.  She began the amateurish assignment, preparing the solution with the
altered formula she knew by memory.
Midway through the period Snape left his cauldron (filled with a vibrant purple
liquid that Serra, much to her irritation, couldn’t identify) to simmer,
meanwhile patrolling about the room to check on his students’ progress.  He
voiced his assessments only in degrading tsks until reaching Serra.
“Miss Lillas,” said Snape approaching Serra’s desk, “How much boar’s tongue did
you just add to that cauldron?”
A flush rose to Serra’s cheeks as she met the Snape’s hard gaze.  “Three
measures worth,” she answered.
“Three measures worth,” Snape repeated slowly.  “And how much does the textbook
say to use?”
“Two and three quarters,” Serra replied without looking at the book for
reference, “but —”
“But you arrogantly disregarded the textbook,” Snape interrupted.  “Do you
believe yourself to be smarter than the masters who wrote this book?”
“No, but —” Serra began helplessly.
“Do you suppose you can create a better potion doing it your own way?”
“Mine is better,” said Serra hotly, now glaring at the professor.
Snape scoffed and with a wave of his wand her cauldron stood empty.  “You will
begin again—”
“That’s not fair!” Serra cried.  “I’ve done it before.  This creates a much
better —”
“— and this time you will follow the book exactly,” Snape continued, his voice
raised to be heard over Serra’s objections.  “Careless experimentation is
dangerous.  Many lives have been claimed by such acts.”
“I wasn’t being careless!”
“Silence!” Snape barked.  “Ten points from Gryffindor and you will also write
an essay on the fatal outcomes of tampering with potion formulas.  Eighteen
inches, due tomorrow.”  He swept away, his robes fanning behind, leaving Serra
to fume over the unfairness of it all.
That evening, eighteen inches of paper before her, Serra quickly scrawled out
her rebuttal to Snape’s humiliating treatment of her.  She turned it in at the
beginning of Thursday’s Advanced Potions class and got right to work on that
day’s project.
Not long into the period the potions master strode up to her desk again, essay
in hand.  With no pretense he Vanished the contents of Serra’s cauldron and
unrolled the parchment, filled top to bottom with huge, looping letters.  He
cast a scowl in Serra’s direction and began reading aloud: “In all my years of
experimentation I have never had a disastrous outcome.  If I ever do cause
fatal damage to myself, I shall surely write about it then.”
A few snickers were heard throughout the class but a sweeping glare from the
hooked-nose professor quickly stifled them.
“You will rewrite this essay — twenty-four inches,” said Snape softly.
“Guess I’ll just have to write bigger,” Serra replied with a dismissive shrug.
Snape’s eyes flashed.  “If you do,” he said in a dangerously low voice, “you
just might find yourself the victim of a deadly potion experiment.”
Although the classroom now hung with an oppressive silence as if the other
students truly thought Professor Snape might actually do such a thing, Serra
was quite unimpressed.
“Oh yes,” she said staring up at him skeptically, “that would look really good
on any future job résumés: ‘Tampered with student’s potion as an example to
discourage against tampering with potions, resulting in the death of said
student.’”
Slightly raising one brow Snape added coldly, “‘Said student has learned her
lesson and will never again experiment with potions.’”
How Snape expected Serra to react, she didn’t know; but the grin that spread
across her face — a genuine, mirthful smile — clearly was not it, though he had
seen her respond the same way before to a snide comment made by Erus Tasgall. 
His eyes narrowed in suspicion but Serra only laughed.
“Alright, I’ll do your stupid essay — sir,” she said lightly, taking up her
scales.  “Twenty-four inches, single spaced, small font.”  She began measuring
out ingredients to restart her Vanished potion, considering the matter closed.
Strangely unnerved by her reaction, Snape gave her a baleful expression.  Then,
unwilling to let her off so easily, he said, “Ten points from Gryffindor for
cheek,” and passed on to criticize other students.
Luckily, in the two Herbology classes the day before Serra had earned more than
enough to make up for the points Professor Snape had docked (although the
penalties were not as unfounded as they first had been).  It felt good to be
fighting back against Snape’s treatment of her, and as a result Serra found it
easier to concentrate on her other courses which, in turn, made it easier for
her to gain points for her house.  House points meant very little to Serra, but
she realized them to be important to others, and though she did not go out of
her way to impress her classmates, neither did she wish to give them reason to
hate her.
Some people, however, hated her from the start.
The central members of this discriminating group were the seventh year
Slytherin girls.  Having been warned that a long-standing animosity divided the
Gryffindors from the Slytherins, Serra tried to steer clear, her attempts
frequently thwarted by Draco, who took every opportunity to seek her out and
murmur unsolicited (and often very crude) comments regarding her — or his —
anatomy and what he would like to do with it.  Apparently Pansy Parkinson
considered herself to be Draco’s girlfriend, and since Pansy seemed to be the
leader of this Slytherin girl-gang, Serra rightly surmised Draco’s unwanted
attention toward Serra to be the main cause behind their collective hostility.
Never one to tattletale (or to admit when she needed help), Serra dealt with
their attacks on her own, usually by running in the opposite direction.  Serra
knew that if it came down to a confrontation of wands she would almost
certainly lose; though excellent when it came to whipping up serums, draughts,
elixirs and other such brews, the reflexes needed for defensive spells simply
weren’t there.  Offensive spells were out of the question — backed into a
corner, Serra was more likely to throw a punch than even remember she owned a
wand to draw. Still, despite the daily harassment doled out by Pansy and her
little pack of banshees, pride kept her from turning them in to her Head of
House.  
 
Evenings at Hogwarts were spent either in the Gryffindor common room or the
library — roaming the halls wasn’t allowed.  As the Transfiguration assignment
from that morning proved to be quite complicated, Serra purposed to finally see
what the library had to offer in the way of help.  She found many students
doing just the same thing, slowly scanning the texts on any of a thousand
shelves or sitting around tables hunched over open tombs.  The librarian,
Madame Pince, stalked about staring suspiciously at anyone who dared touch the
books.
While doing a quick look-around for any of the Slytherin girls (or worse,
Draco) Serra spotted Hermione at one of the tables.  Several texts lay open
before her, and she appeared rather flustered, scribbling on a parchment one
moment only to consult one of the books and then cross it out again.
Serra’s first impulse was to ignore the girl and get on with her own work;
after all, she hadn’t come to Hogwarts to socialize and she was perfectly
comfortable on her own.  Besides which, she had never purposely approached any
of Harry’s group of friends yet — thus far they’d either invited her to join
them or they simply ended up together — and it might be awkward if Serra
suddenly moved in now. On the other hand, it might be good to branch out a bit,
and she could hear her mother’s voice in her head encouraging her to go over
there already.  That decided it.
“Hi, Hermione,” Serra greeted, softly so as not to attract the attention of
Madame Pince.  She forced a smile and pretended her heart wasn’t pounding like
a tap-dancing mountain troll, that she wasn’t choking at the thought of
initializing contact with someone her own age.
“Oh, hi, Serra.”  Hermione barely glanced up, but since neither did she wince
and shrink away at Serra’s presence like she actually was a mountain troll,
Serra stayed put.  She stole a peek at the nearest book in Hermione’s
collection.
“You’re doing Latin?”  Forgetting her shyness along with her own homework,
Serra pulled up a chair beside the bushy-haired Gryffindor girl.  “Can I help?”
Finally Hermione looked at Serra, her expression a mix of frustration and
curiosity.  “You know Latin?”
“Well, not fluently, but my master made me study it for two years.”  Serra
shrugged.  “A lot of spells are rooted in Latin.  What is it you’re trying to
do?”
“Translation,” Hermione said, passing the much-scribbled-on parchment over. 
“Latin to English, but I only heard the words, so I’m not certain they are even
spelled right, and Latin is such a beast to translate anyway without context
because practically every word has a dozen different meanings!”
“Well, this first one is easy,” Serra said straight away.  “‘Ita?’— Master used
that one on me all the time.  It means ‘Well?’ or ‘So?’  And this one —” she
pointed to a word on the second line of Hermione’s makeshift script “— almost
always means ‘her’.”
The two girls dropped into deep discussion over the paper between them, now
both pouring over the selection of books spread on the table.  Hermione filled
Serra in on the conversation Professor Prelati had held with his demon, giving
Serra a heightened interest in these cryptic sentences, as well as a touch of
giddy fright.
“And what’s more,” Hermione whispered dramatically, “I’ve spoken to a lot of
students about their experiences with Professor Prelati and in every class —
their first lesson with him — he’s summoned the demon and asked almost these
same things.  The only difference is that after our class he left out the last
question, presumably because he already knew the answer to that one.”
“He’s looking for someone.”  Serra murmured, gazing over the much-corrected
notes.
“Yes,” Hermione agreed gravely; “and he’s using that demon to help find her.”
 
Friday dawned cool and bright.  The morning Herbology II class went
exceptionally well, Serra and Neville (who possessed an impressive affinity for
the subject) working together to successfully harvest a Latvian Blazing Orache
without suffering a single burn.  Serra used her break to catch up on her
homework (the Transfiguration she’d slacked on the night before), and in third
period Herbology Serra even felt a little bit of camaraderie between Hermione
and herself as the two of them conveyed to Ron and Harry the translations they
had worked out.
“So the demon said he could sense her presence but that she wasn’t in the
room,” Harry repeated for clarification; “and then Prelati asked…”
“‘But she’s in this place?’”
“And the demon said ‘yes’,” Serra tacked on, carefully snipping a string-like
leaf off the massive Hairy Vriesea at their table so it looked like they were
actually working.
“We’re pretty sure he means Hogwarts,” continued Hermione, who really did seem
to be working as she spoke.  “Whoever she is, she’s at the school.  Should we
tell Dumbledore, do you think?”
Harry shook his head.  “Dumbledore already knows; I’d bet my Firebolt on it. 
He knows everything that goes on here.”  His pruning shears were suddenly
pulled from his grasp and Serra and Ron helped him wrestle them back from the
twining branches of the Vriesea, all of them taking several lashings in the
process.
“I just wonder what Prelati wants with her, and if he’s found her yet.”  Harry
rubbed at one of the many red welts rising on his arms.
“Well, if he hasn’t found her yet it narrows down the pool of possibilities,
doesn’t it?” said Hermione thoughtfully.  “First through fifth years have to
take Defense Against the Dark Arts, so they all would have been checked through
and rejected.  The only students able to opt out of it are sixth and seventh
years.  We just need to find out which sixth and seventh year girls aren’t
taking Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
As they pondered this new information Ron’s shears disappeared into the
Vriesea’s tangly maw and the grappling match began anew.
 
Final period Advanced Potions marked the drop-off to a steep decline down which
Serra’s boarding school adventure sped for several days, renewing her hatred
for the place.
On Snape’s desk at the front of the dungeon two baskets sat side by side. 
Serra, with an idea of what might be coming, dug into her miniaturizing pocket
where she had stashed her new potions case.  She found what she needed just as
the bell rang, signaling the start of class.
Professor Snape emerged from the hall and strode up to his desk, black robe
flaring behind him.  He took stance at the baskets, eyeing Serra in a most
unfriendly manner before grabbing one of the baskets and holding it up for the
class to inspect.
  “Who can tell me what these are?”  He stalked between desks displaying the
contents.  No one ventured to answer.  “Mister Malfoy,” he offered blandly
(what passed for outright warmth in Snape’s case), “what do you see here?”
“Uh, brown beans?”  Draco said diffidently.
“Very good.  Ten points to Slytherin.”  To the indignant gasps and grumbles
accusing favoritism Snape only smirked.  He returned to the desk and took up
the other basket, parading it around the room in the same way.  This basket
appeared to be filled with the exact same beans, yet Snape still asked, “And
who can tell me what these are?”
Serra immediately raised her hand.  Snape stared at her for a long moment and
then with a spiteful smile turned instead to Hermione, who also held up a hand.
“Miss Granger?”
Seething behind the placid expression she wore, Serra fixed her eyes on the
board while Hermione gave the correct answer (the deadly Calabar bean which was
indistinguishable from a common brown bean — no points to Gryffindor however). 
Loathing for the sallow professor roiled inside her, making it difficult for
Serra to feign serenity.  Snape would not even let her demonstrate her
knowledge, let alone help her increase it.
After scooping out a cup of beans from each basket while turned away from the
class, Snape ordered two students to pass out one bean from each cup to each
person; the rest of the period would be used to decide which of their given
beans the poisonous one was, just as Serra thought it would be.  She sat
silently, waiting to begin the test she knew she could pass, when Draco leaned
over her shoulder to deliver one of the needed legumes.
“If you don’t want beans I have two balls you can play with,” he whispered,
purposely pressing against her back.
Serra leaned forward, away from the hardness he obviously wanted her to feel,
and considered elbowing Draco in the aforementioned balls; instead she
whispered back, “I’ll take the beans, thanks.  They’re probably bigger.”
Scowling ferociously Draco skulked on and Serra took out her supplies; while
directly in front of her Snape also began setting out supplies to yet again rub
in Serra’s face her exclusion from the brewing of what looked to be a rather
intricate mixture.  This callous act only served to increase Serra’s
determination, and she buckled down to work.
Taking the utmost care to ensure no mix-up would occur, Serra first dotted one
bean with an ink blot and placed it on one side of the desk inside a heavy
circle drawn on a sheet of parchment.  The unmarked bean went on the opposite
side on a blank sheet of parchment.  Only then did she begin the analysis,
using separate knives to prick each bean, afterward immediately using the
sullied knives to stab two small green stems of Galapagos Carpet Weed she’d
taken out earlier.  The clean-bean knife showed no effect, but the ink-bean
knife caused the Carpet Weed to shrivel into a brown curl that looked rather
like a dried worm.  Serra made a mental note to thank her papa for sending her
off with so many more regents than the Hogwarts list called for, and then
stashed away the Carpet Weed, deciding it would be just like Snape to punish
her for having non-required regents.
Though Serra had her answer, she appeared to be the only one.  Various
murmurings could be heard, students trying any number of charms to distinguish
which bean was which — useless since the Calabar bean didn’t respond to the
usual disclosure spells.  At the next table over (back a ways from Serra’s
since her desk still remained where Snape had moved it on the first day, less
than a meter from his own) Draco awkwardly attempted to dissect his legumes,
and beside him Pansy busily diced, shaved, and crushed her poor beans in the
aimless manner of one who’s lost interest and now participated just for fun.
Near the end of the period Serra distinctly heard Hermione huff defeatedly,
“It’s simply not possible with the tools we’ve been given!”
Snape took that frustrated exclamation as his cue, leaving his potion on the
desk while he toured the dungeon inspecting the various methods employed.  He
skimmed over Draco and Pansy, barely glancing at their mutilated bean piles,
and stopped by Ron, whose progress Serra couldn’t see.
“Which is the toxic bean, Mister Weasley?”
Ron shrugged and replied, “This one?  Maybe?”
“Shall we test your competence then?  Open up.”  Snape’s lips twisted grimly. 
“Even if you guess, there’s still only a fifty percent chance you’ll fall into
a fit of convulsions before respiratory failure steals your breath away.”
Draco snickered — rather presumptuously, Serra thought, since he hadn’t managed
any better — and Ron only shook his head, muttering “no way”.
As had become his usual procedure, Snape stopped at Serra’s desk last, peering
down over his nose at the two sheets of parchment.
“And what has Erus Tasgall’s angel come up with?” he asked, making Tasgall’s
nickname for Serra sound derogatory.
“This one is the Calabar bean,” Serra stated boldly, pointing to the ink-
splotched bean on the marked parchment.
“You’re certain of this, are you?” Snape asked silkily.  “Confident enough to
put your answer where your mouth is?”
“Even if I guess I still have a fifty percent chance, right?”  Shooting the
spiteful professor a smug grin, Serra grabbed the bean from the opposite
parchment and popped it in her mouth.
“Foolish girl!” Snape bellowed, seizing Serra under the chin and pinching her
jaw painfully — but not in time to stop her swallow.  Realizing this, Snape
grabbed her arm instead and jerked her to her feet, obviously intending to drag
her to the hospital wing for immediate intervention.
“Calm down,” Serra said smiling grimly.  “I didn’t guess; I used Galapagos
Carpet Weed.”
Releasing her arm suddenly, Snape whirled Serra around to face him, looking
absolutely murderous when she pulled from her pocket the two bits of succulent.
“Detention, Miss Lillas,” he hissed furiously.  “And don’t ever pull a stunt
like that again.”
 
At supper the seventh year Gryffindor table laughed riotously over the
performance.  Ron especially delighted in retelling it over and over, acting
out Snape’s shock with ridiculous facial expressions.
“So Serra’s like, ‘hell, yeah, I’m sure!’”  Ron pantomimed hastily shoving
something in his mouth as those around him shrieked with glee.  “And then
Snape’s like, ‘You foolish girl!’”
The outrageous roar Ron used to describe this outburst caused even Serra to
dissolve into fits of giggles, though all the hullabaloo over her actions made
her uncomfortable.  She had eaten that bean out of defiance to Professor Snape,
not to become a standing joke at the dinner table.
Hermione, at least, wasn’t pleased.  “Ron, that’s no way for Head Boy to act,”
she snapped, throwing down her napkin angrily.  “I ought to take a point from
everyone who’s laughing.”
This cut the ruckus down instantly and Ron gazed injuriously at his
girlfriend.  “But you gotta admit that was brilliant,” Ron declared.  “I mean,
when’s the last time anyone ever got Snape like that?”
“No, I do not,” Hermione insisted.  “And it was a reckless thing to do.”
At this Serra flushed hotly, examining the simple golden plate holding her food
rather than face those around her.  Just when she’d thought she might have a
chance at making a friend …
Hermione continued defiantly.  “All Serra’s acting up costs all of us points —”
“Which she earns back in her other classes,” Ron interjected.
“It’s completely disrespectful of authority!  Not to mention that she very well
could have died if she’d accidentally eaten the wrong bean.”
Wonder how many points Snape would have docked for that? Serra thought wryly,
her wounded pride solidifying into an even stronger fortress around her heart. 
Then Harry spoke up, effectively wedging an access hole for himself in her
armor.
“Is it her disrespect you’re upset about, or the fact that she figured out
which was the poisonous bean and you didn’t?”
Serra glanced up to see Hermione glowering at Harry.  It had never once dawned
on her that Hermione might be jealous.
“You just wait,” Hermione finally said, turning to Serra.  “Snape is the worse
teacher to have detention with.  He’ll have you doing something wretched.”
As usual, Hermione was right.
 
The halls were empty and silent when Serra left the Gryffindor common room. 
She took her time, enjoying the quiet.  Though no longer bothered by Hermione’s
criticism, Serra decided to give up on the whole ‘reaching out’ bit of this
school experiment.  She didn’t need friendship here; school was for learning. 
If anyone didn’t like the way she handled Snape’s treatment of her, well bugger
on them.
So engrossed was she in her thoughts that Serra failed to notice the figure
mounting the stairs as she headed down, and skipping over the step she
suspected of being false brought her into a full-on collision with Professor
Prelati.
Serra gave a short cry of alarm and Prelati, looking up just in time to see the
girl careening toward him, only had time to gasp.  The stack of books and
papers Prelati carried went flying and both he and Serra tumbled back the way
he had just come.  Serra braced herself for impact, but instead something
caught her round the waist and she only swung in a tight semicircle, hitting
the wall with her shoulder.
Prelati, using quick reflexes that Serra did not possess, had managed to grab
the thin railing to stop his fall and impulsively threw his free arm around
Serra to catch her as well.
“I am so sorry,” Serra heaved, fighting to reclaim her breath and her balance.
“Never mind.  Are you okay?”  Prelati gazed at her with concern.
“I’m fine — I just wasn’t paying attention.  I’m so sorry,” she repeated.  Now
that the threat of plunging down the stairs had passed, Serra became aware
that, though they both stood quite stably, the Defense Against the Dark Arts
professor still held her firmly.  Even through their robes Serra could feel the
well-defined muscles in his arm.  Very strong for such a slender bloke.
“Happens to all of us,” Prelati said, smiling easily. He relinquished his hold
on Serra and she began helping him collect his scattered papers.  “You’re the
new girl, aren’t you?  The one who studied under Erus Tasgall?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“It was … don’t tell me … Lillas.  Miss Serraphina Lillas.”  Prelati smiled
again and Serra noticed that he was quite handsome indeed.  From his dazzling
sapphire blue eyes to his fine, aristocratic features; dark wavy hair and
absolutely flawless skin, Professor Prelati merited all the attention the girls
around school had been giving him.
“Right again.”  Serra smiled back at the professor and returned the sheets she
gathered.
“I haven’t seen you in any of my classes yet,” Prelati continued, staring
steadily into Serra’s eyes.  “When will I have the pleasure?”
“You won’t, I’m afraid,” Serra replied.  “I am not taking Defense Against the
Dark Arts this year.”
Professor Prelati looked sincerely disappointed by her answer, but then
shrugged and said with a becoming grin, “Well, if you’d like any private
lessons, you know where to find me.”
“Yes, sir.”  Serra gave him a quick nod, remembering her detention with Snape. 
Who knew what he would do if she were late?  “If you’ll excuse me, I have
somewhere to be.”
“As do I, of course,” Prelati said suavely.  He extended the arm he’d
previously held her by, and Serra went on her way.
She mulled over the odd meeting as she trekked down to the entrance hall.  Hard
to believe that was the man who consorted with demons.  Professor Prelati
seemed nice, if a bit intense as well.
All thoughts of the comely professor and his hellion advisor, however,
evaporated from her mind the moment she stepped foot in the Hogwarts dungeons. 
An atrocious scent intercepted Serra at that point, reaching its nauseating
claws clear down to her stomach and giving it a good, wrenching squeeze.  It
only grew worse as she advanced down the hall to the classroom, forcing Serra
to choke back dry heaves.  She’d met dead animals that smelled better than
this.
In the potions dungeon Serra practically had to wade through the noxious odor,
pouring off of several barrels of fish heads — spoiled, putrefying fish heads. 
Her dinner valiantly tried to make an encore appearance.
“Good evening, Miss Lillas.”  Snape rose from his desk just long enough to tip
her a mocking nod of gentility.  “I do hope the smell isn’t too bad. 
Regrettably I seem to have developed a bit of congestion and so cannot enjoy it
with you.”  His eyes glittered vindictively.
“Tonight you will be collecting eyeballs from these.”  He motioned to the six
barrels of festering chum.  “Hagrid was going to throw them out, but I
convinced him we simply could not be so wasteful, especially when we’ve someone
as gifted as you to salvage the good parts.  I shall be here to ensure you
don’t overlook any.”
Serra began the revolting task using a tool that looked similar to a melon
baller (she would never look at cute balls of melon the same after this).  It
turned out to be quick work once she got the knack of jamming the sharp, curved
spoon into the eye socket and giving it just the right twist.  The smell,
however, seemed impossible to get used to and Serra finally resorted to holding
her breath.
Soon enough Snape, who occupied the time grading essays, noticed this tactic
and took advantage of the situation by throwing out jeering snipes to which
Serra could not retort without taking in more polluted air.
“You must have lost close to a hundred points from Gryffindor,” said Snape,
leering at Serra from his desk at the front of the room.  “And not even a week
into term …”  He clucked his tongue softly.
Serra clenched her jaw in anger, not yet willing to stop holding her breath —
and so face the offensive odor of rotted fish — long enough to respond to
Snape’s goading comment.
“You’ll find that constantly losing house points won’t earn you many friends,”
Snape went on blandly.
“I didn’t come here to make friends,” snapped Serra, viciously ripping an
eyeball from its socket with a sickening schlep; “I came to learn Potions, not
that I’ll learn anything from you …”
“Temper, temper …” Snape chided softly, not looking up from his scrolls.  Serra
envisioned flinging the stinkiest, slimiest eyeball she could find right at
Snape’s wretched forehead, watching fish puss dripping down that hateful,
sneering face …
“Bastard,” she muttered.
“Dear, dear … such language,” said Snape, meeting Serra’s malevolent gaze. 
“Perhaps another detention will help you control your tongue.  I believe I have
a vat of armadillo livers just waiting for someone of your remarkable talent to
squeeze the bile from … Tomorrow night will do nicely.”
Now Serra pictured dousing Snape with the whole barrel of fish eyes.  Why in
the whole wizarding world, she wondered, had she left Master Tasgall for this
sadistic troll of a man?  With no sensible answer in sight, Serra decided it
must have been a moment of temporary insanity.
Two hours later the entire lot of rotting fish heads had been separated from
their eyeballs and Serra was looking forward to a hot, soapy shower to rinse
off the vile fish juice she’d been splattered with.
“Tomorrow evening, seven o’clock,” Snape reminded Serra, glancing up long
enough to flash her a snide, twisted smile.
“Yes, sir,” Serra replied stonily, nowhere near ready to leave the professor
unscathed after such a horrid encounter.  The perfect hex came to mind, a fake
fire spell she had learned from Kadin, if she could just match the incantation
with the wand movement …
  Clutching her wand tightly beneath the folds of her robe, Serra strode to the
door, murmuring the spell under her breath as she pulled it open.  There was a
loud gasp, and from the corner of her eye Serra saw Snape jump back in shock as
the surface of his desk was engulfed in flames.  It worked!  Suppressing a
laugh, she tore off down the hall fast as she could.
 
Freshly washed and wrapped in a fluffy white Hogwarts towel, Serra was still
laughing at the success of her spell and the startled expression on Snape’s
face at the spontaneous combustion of his work area when the very professor
himself burst into the room.  Serra was too stunned by his sudden appearance in
the girls’ baths to even be scared when Snape seized her upper arm, his black
eyes blazing like the flames on his desk.
“Though that was funny, did you, Miss Lillas?” hissed Snape.
“No, I thought it would earn me friends,” said Serra in quiet sarcasm, calmly
staring up into Snape’s livid face.
“It has earned you a week of detention,” Snape snarled, and his grip tightened
to further accentuate his anger.
“You’re going to bruise my arm,” said Serra, as if deaf to Snape’s
pronouncement.
In testament to just how concerned he was with Serra’s physical well-being,
Snape squeezed her all the more, perhaps hoping to feel bones cracking.
“If that’s all the damage you sustain after the next week with me, I will be
most disappointed.  I am your professor; you will learn your place at this
school,” said Snape.
“If you think you’re going to force my respect and submission through
domineering punishments, you will be most disappointed,” Serra countered.  “You
can put me in detention every night for the rest of the year, but you will
never make me respect you.”
“We shall see.”
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     So, late last night I was laying in bed when suddenly it struck me:
     "Hey, it's Thursday! Update day! Darn it!" In fact, it was so late by
     the time I realized it was Thursday that it may not have actually
     been Thursday anymore. Sigh.
     Anyway.
     This chapter is definitely MA/Explicit.
The common room Monday night was abuzz with chatter.  The main topic of
conversation seemed to be who would make this year’s Quidditch team, the
tryouts for which would be held the following weekend.  Not being much into
sports, this held little interest to Serra.  She also overheard a small group
of fifth year girls discussing a particularly difficult essay assigned to them
in History of Magic, and already her fellow seventh years were bemoaning the
absurd amount of homework they’d been given in their various lessons.  She also
noticed that the only one who seemed to be doing anything about this burden was
Hermione, who was sitting at a near-by table with Harry and Ron, pouring over
three different text books and busily scratching away on a roll of parchment.
From her chair in the corner, Serra gazed absently at the three.  It struck her
then how watching them reminded her of the trio she used to be part of, which
fate had reduced to two.  She thought longingly of her own boyfriend, how much
fun it would have been attending school with him instead of all alone, like she
was now.  So long did she gaze, lost in her memories, that Harry took notice,
and Serra was quite embarrassed to discover herself staring at him so
blatantly.  She flushed, but Harry only smiled.
“You have detention with Snape again tonight, right?” said Harry, causing both
Ron and Hermione to look over at Serra also.
“Yeah, at seven,” Serra replied with a nod.  “I’d better go soon.”  She stood
up and brushed down her robe.  “Wish me luck,” she added dryly, wondering what
disgusting task the potions master had planned for her tonight.
“Good luck.”
It wasn’t Harry who called after her, but Ron.  Serra grinned at the thought of
the look he must be enduring from Hermione right now.
The air in the dungeons this evening smelled blessedly pure — as pure as damp,
dungeon air could be, anyway.  Still, even if the project Snape had in store
for Serra to slave away at for the next few hours didn’t stink, there had to be
something unpleasant about it, guaranteed.  Fish eyes on Friday, armadillo
livers Saturday, milking poisonous vipers Sunday — whatever Snape threw at her
tonight, Serra knew she could handle it.
Upon entering the potions dungeon, however, her confidence shattered.
Spiders.
Barely suppressing a shudder, Serra stared at the four huge jars on her desk,
each of them filled to the brim with thousands of spiders.  Behind his own desk
Snape eyed Serra, a vicious sneer on his thin lips.  Serra met his gaze and
walked right up to the table, refusing to let him see even the slightest hint
of fear.  She wouldn’t let him win.
“Miss Lillas,” Snape said softly, “How nice of you to join me.  You are
familiar with the common garden spider, are you not?”  He motioned to the glass
jars and Serra gave a jerky nod, unwilling to look down.
“Our younger classes use them in several concoctions,” Snape went on smoothly. 
“They will be using them tomorrow, in fact.  But as you can see, the most
recent apothecary shipment has yet to be divided into individual portions.”
“Since when do you divide your regents into individual portions?” Serra asked,
her voice hard as ice to hide the quaking in her chest.
“Since we have you to do it.”  Snape smiled heinously.  “You will take these
jars” — he waved a hand over the large containers — “and divvy their contents
into these” — motioning to a box full of jam-sized glasses on the floor.  “It
should be an easy enough undertaking, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”  Serra had to force the words from her dry throat.  Steeling
herself, she took off the lid of the closest jug, but her heart quailed when
she actually looked down at the nightmarish creatures: fat, round bodies, tiny
heads, spindly legs and legs and legs …
“Where might I find gloves?” she asked, looking back up much too quickly with
eyes that were much too wide.
Snape gazed at her, his countenance morphing into the perfect likeness of a
demonic leer.  “Oh, I don’t think gloves will be necessary.”
Serra thought she might vomit right then.
Slowly, taking as much time as possible, she took all the smaller jars out of
the box — far more than could possibly be needed for any of Snape’s classes —
and lined them across the tables.  Only when every one of them sat out ready to
be filled did Serra return to the dreadful pots on her own desk.
Oh, God, no, I can’t do this, I can’t do this, Serra’s mind screamed.  Her
heart now lodged somewhere above her collar bones, choking out her windpipe and
making it hard to swallow.  Then, after glimpsing Snape’s gloating face, Serra
raised a hand to the open container.  She couldn’t stop the shaking, or the
tears that prickled in her eyes when her flesh touched the creepy beasts —
soft, smooth bodies and dry, scratchy thoraxes and legs.  They were dead, true,
but that didn’t lessen Serra’s horror at having to stick her fingers into the
jar and pull out a handful of spiders.
Four handfuls per jar times hundreds of jars …  Serra only managed by fixing
her thoughts on her papa back home.  She imagined him standing over her with
that no-nonsense scowl: no blubbering allowed.  She imagined that Kadin was
there with his best mate Gabriel and that they were both cheering her on.
Her imaginings came to an abrupt halt by something she didn’t imagine: the
eerie tickle of one of the spiders scuttling up her arm.  One of the ghastly
critters was alive!
Serra shrieked, jerking her arm back and flinging her hand back and forth to
lob the spider off of her.  The huge jar she’d been working from lurched over,
spilling an avalanche of spiders onto Serra’s robe and burying her feet under
an arachnid mountain.  Now utterly terrified, Serra leapt back, hitting the
desk behind her with enough force to knock it down.  Undeterred, she scampered
farther away, shaking out her robe and screaming all the while.
Snape watched this spectacle with a dark delight on his features, doing nothing
to intervene.  Only when Serra had backed completely to the door, still
twitching in fright and suddenly brushing now and again at random parts of her
body, did he speak.
“Have we a slight phobia of spiders, Miss Lillas?” he asked quietly, peering
across the jumble of arachnids carpeting the floor.
Still painfully shaken, Serra said nothing.  She knew she’d never live this
performance down, but she hadn’t been able to help it.  When that spider
started up her arm … She shuddered again.
“Clean up this mess,” Snape ordered.  “Then you will begin again.”
Serra stared at the professor in sick disbelief.  He was serious, of course. 
He fully expected her to reenter that hellish wreckage and start collecting
handfuls of spiders again.
Clenching her teeth painfully, Serra nodded once and stiffly marched back
toward the arachnid pile.  It took her several minutes to force her hands back
into the grisly mass, and this time she could not stop the tears from escaping
down her cheeks.
 
 
 
Snape sat at his desk in the potions classroom.  He looked forward to the
detention he was to oversee this evening; specifically he looked forward to
seeing Serra Lillas and her reaction to his latest chore.  How gratifying it
had been to witness the haughty girl break down in tears.  Well, she hadn’t
quite dissolved into sobs, no, but a few tears did spill.  It only took four
days to discover her secret weak spot, and how worth it!  Spiders, of all
things.  Such a silly fear, but one so easily exploited.
The past three nights featured the eight-legged varmints; after Serra’s
glorious collapse during Monday’s detention, Snape had gone out of his way to
acquire a hundred dried fire tarantulas, each larger than a dinner plate, from
which Serra spent the whole of Tuesday night scraping off hair.  Wednesday she
skinned the apple-sized abdomens of dozens of giant Kimura spiders under the
guise that the innards would be useful in several potions — and they probably
would be, though not in any potion Snape intended to make.
During these subsequent punishments Serra unfortunately held up quite well, but
underneath that collected exterior Snape knew she cringed.  He wanted her to
cringe.  He wanted her to shudder and recoil, to despise him and her experience
here at Hogwarts so much that she would leave.
Damn girl!  Damn Tasgall and his ludicrous warnings!  The subliminal effects of
the old man’s musings turned out to be worse than if Tasgall had just kept his
fool mouth shut, for that very night in the Leaky Cauldron had been the start
of the dreams: Serra in that black dress, taking off that black dress and
enticing Snape into various amorous encounters.  He would wake up desperately
humping the bed like a horny teenage boy, wanting her and hating her and
unbearably frustrated because he would not indulge himself while the image of a
student paraded in his mind’s eye.  Not every night, but frequently enough to
arise in Snape a fierce loathing for the girl.
The start of classes failed to bring about the change Snape hoped for — to see
Serra Lillas sitting among the other students, dressed in black robes and one
of them.  She was one of them, but at the same time she wasn’t, thanks to Erus
Tasgall’s insinuating inferences.  So Snape needed to make her less.  He wanted
no reason or opportunity to admire whatever abilities she might have.
But that damn girl had put up with every cruelty, every unfairness he
administered; even when the retaliations began Serra still managed to slip
Snape that wanton smile, like she secretly drew some amusement from their
confrontations.  It was a real-life representation of the dream smile that in
the dark of night dared Snape to hike up that black dress and take her — on his
desk, in his private chambers here, his bed back home … in whatever setting the
reverie imagined them.
Now, however … now that smile was gone.  Serra sat through her classes white-
faced and silent.  When she acted out — and she hadn’t stopped acting out: only
two days ago the conniving girl had turned his cauldron into a sieve, saying
only, “Professor, I think your cauldron has sprung a leak,” in a cold,
unfeeling voice.  Snape had turned around to see the Anti-Coagulate Serum he’d
been making spewing from tens of holes in the pot, and decided right then to
quit the ‘beneficial’ displays of his potion-brewing abilities during class.
But a new hardness reflected on the girl’s face when she acted out now, and
that Snape could handle.  Anger, resentment, hatred — all of these emotions he
could deal with.  They siphoned the passion from his fantasy encounters with
Serra.  Why, if this kept up he probably could handle a year of classes with
her.  Of course, if it did keep up, Serra would likely be expelled for
misbehavior, and that was fine too.
The probable outcome, Snape grudgingly acknowledged, was that Professor
McGonagall would step in on Serra’s behalf.  Minerva already freely made known
her opinion of Snape’s treatment of Serra thus far; she seemed to think his
continual docking of house points from Serra to be excessive, as if Serra’s
behavior hadn’t merited every single one.  It had been Minerva’s intervention
that kept Snape only docking house points thus far instead of assigning Serra
detentions right from the start, and it had been Minerva’s duty as Serra’s Head
of House to speak to the petulant girl about the unacceptable behavior earning
her such penalties.  But the meddlesome woman refused to do any such thing,
claiming that in Minerva’s class Serra was a model student and stating plainly
her belief that Snape himself must be exaggerating to get the girl in trouble;
though why he would behave so pettily, she had no idea.
The audacity!  If Minerva McGonagall could forgo her responsibility in
instructing Miss Lillas on appropriate behavior toward her instructors, Severus
Snape could ignore her opinions regarding Serra’s punishments and give the girl
detention every day for the remainder of her stay at Hogwarts — not long, Snape
guessed, if he kept to this particular vein of torment.
Of tonight’s detention task Snape was especially proud: milking venom from five
Guatemalan Hissing Spiders.  Five wire cages covered Serra’s desk, each one
holding its own vibrantly painted, eight-legged terror.  If dead spiders
frightened her, how might she react to these live ones?  Snape waited in
anticipation.  Perhaps she would scream again …
Serra arrived promptly at seven.  She opened the door and took one step inside
before really taking note of the arachnid visitors, which began hissing
fiercely upon seeing her, clicking their glistening chelicerae menacingly.  The
little color remaining in her cheeks drained away.  Serra stepped back,
catching the door as it swung shut.  Behind the gruesome quintuplet, Snape
greeted her with a broad, contemptuous smile.  Serra stared at him for a
moment, her eyes wintery planes of disgust.
“Fuck you,” she declared coolly, holding Snape’s gaze just a second longer
before she turned and walked out.
Snape, alone again with the vulturine spiders, watched the door close, brows
raised in consideration.  Then he grinned.  That had gone better than expected.
 
 
 
With a shaky fist Serra knocked on Professor McGonagall’s door.  Her body still
trembled uncontrollably from fear and rage.  She’d had enough of that man and
his contrivances.
“Miss Lillas?”  McGonagall looked Serra over, instantly aware that something
was very wrong.  She stepped back and waved an arm, gazing at her anxiously. 
“Come in; tell me what’s happened.”
“I’ve just walked out on a detention with Professor Snape,” Serra said as soon
as the door closed.  Might as well get the most immediate concern out of the
way.
Eyes widened slightly in shock, McGonagall returned to her desk and sat
stiffly.  The shock quickly turned to disapproval.
“Miss Lillas, surely you realize that is grounds for suspension?  I have
stepped in on your behalf several times now in regards to your behavior in
Professor Snape’s classes, but with this —”
“It doesn’t matter,” Serra interrupted, causing McGonagall’s disapproving
expression to deepen.
“It most certainly does matter,” the stern professor ejected.
Serra shook her head, the trembling easing up as her decision solidified.  “No,
ma’am, it doesn’t, because I am leaving this school.  I will pack tonight and
take the train home tomorrow.”  She said this firmly, making clear that her
mind was already made up.  “As my Head of House I thought it only proper to
inform you first.  I shall visit the headmaster next.”
“Miss Lillas, don’t you think this is an overreaction to the situation?” 
McGonagall obviously did not take her statement seriously.  “Whatever happened
tonight, I’m sure we can work it out.  Perhaps suspension can be deferred this
once.  Professor Snape might require an apology, but I’m certain —”
Serra laughed harshly.  “An apology?  I will not apologize to that bastard for
anything!”
“Miss Lillas,” McGonagall gasped angrily, “Control your tongue and show some
respect!”
“Show some respect for whom?” Serra challenged just as angrily.  “Professor
Snape?  I have no reason to respect him.”
“He is your teacher!” McGonagall countered sharply, even standing to her feet
to accentuate her objection.
“No,” Serra rebutted, dropping her voice.  “For that man to be my teacher he
would have had to teach me something, and he has not.  My master discussed with
Headmaster Dumbledore the curriculum here, that the Potions courses were far
beneath the level I was at with Erus Tasgall.  Headmaster assured us Professor
Snape would alter my lessons, but he has not.  In fact, he has gone out of his
way to make my classes with him as miserable as possible.  I am tired of
playing along with his games.  I wish to become a great apothecary like my
master, and I am wasting my time here with that man when I could be studying
under Erus Tasgall.  I won’t do it anymore.  I am going home.”
The anger in McGonagall’s features dissipated and she crossed round her desk to
face Serra.  When she spoke her voice was almost kind.
“Serra, I know why Erus Tasgall sent you here; I know of your fiancé and the …
the way his death was discovered.”
Serra took a long breath and turned to stare at the wall.  She’d repeated the
lie of seventh-year ‘official’ schooling to so many people that it almost began
to sound true.  It was foolish, of course: no school could possibly teach her
more than the best apothecary in the wizarding world, the same man she’d
studied under for the past thirteen years.  As for N.E.W.T.s, she easily could
have taken them at Hogwarts without spending the year here, just as she had
taken her O.W.L.s at Durmstrang.  But the story was necessary unless she wanted
to go around telling people that she had so much trouble getting over her
fiancé’s death that her parents and master eventually decided a complete change
of scenery was needed.
Cue Hogwarts enrollment.
“Who else knows besides Headmaster Dumbledore?”  Serra couldn’t bring herself
to look at Professor McGonagall.  “Professor Snape?”
“No, only myself and the headmaster.  Professor Dumbledore encouraged Erus
Tasgall to tell Professor Snape since he would have you in so many classes, but
Erus Tasgall did not think sharing such sensitive information would benefit
your relationship with Professor Snape.  I happen to agree.”
More silence.  At least Snape couldn’t use that against her, Serra thought
gratefully.  Had he gone that route, Serra probably would have hit him.
“Do you really think Erus Tasgall will accept you returning home so soon?”
McGonagall asked gently.
Still inspecting the wall, Serra said nothing.  No, of course her master
wouldn’t accept this.  Neither would her parents.  Even Gabriel, the only other
friend she had besides Kadin, agreed this hiatus was the best thing for Serra. 
Even though he loved her and missed her dearly, he too would be disappointed by
the stalemate.
“Master Tasgall may not like it,” Serra finally replied carefully, “but he will
understand.  The current situation is not what we agreed upon.”
Now McGonagall was silent for many minutes, contemplating Serra’s answer. 
Serra felt the professor examining her, and she stood calmly and with as much
humility as she could submit.  With McGonagall, at least, Serra chanced a fair
judgment.
“You will not be leaving Hogwarts until Headmaster Dumbledore and I have
thoroughly discussed the options with Erus Tasgall,” McGonagall said at long
last.  “I will bring the matter to the headmaster tonight.  Rest assured you
will be informed as soon as a decision is made, likely by the start of next
week, I expect.”
Serra nodded, though this arrangement frustrated her greatly.
“Moreover,” continued McGonagall, “as your Head of House I, not Professor
Snape, have ultimate control over your punishments.  Any pending detentions
with him are cancelled until further notice.  While I understand your
resentment of his treatment of you, do try to restrain yourself from disrupting
class.  There is no doubt in my mind that you will receive N.E.W.T.s in all
your potions courses even without Professor Snape’s guidance; please allow your
fellow classmates the same opportunity.”
 
 
 
Stalking down darkened hallways, enraged; searching for that girl, that little
delinquent who made a fool of him by setting his desk aflame with fake fire. 
He came to a door, raised his wand to negate the password spell.  Light flooded
his vision when he barreled through; fuzzy, misted light. The atmosphere was
warm and humid.  Sudsy remains of a recent bath clung to the large, pool-like
tub in the center of the room.
And there was his prey.
Snape seized her arm and furiously whirled her around.  As Serra stared up at
him, stunned by his sudden appearance, Snape realized the arm he held was
bare.  Her shoulders were bare; tiny, glistening droplets still clinging to her
just-washed collarbones.  Only a white towel covered her body and that only
because she held it up with her free arm.
“Thought that was funny, did you, Miss Lillas?” he demanded, his voice so cold
it ought to have clouded his breath.
“No.”  The shock was gone from Serra’s countenance.  Her expression darkened
and her lips curved into a sly, knowing smile.  “I thought it would make you
hunt me down in the girls’ baths.”
The air suddenly seemed thicker.  Snape’s mouth filled with saliva as he looked
down at the barely dressed young woman who gazed up at him brazenly.  Instantly
sporting an impossible hard-on, his previous line of thought fizzled out.
Serra exuded something … something invisible, but somehow clearly there; Snape
watched it pouring off her skin, like the sublimation of dry ice.  It clung to
his hand where he clung to her arm; it skimmed down her face and neck, ran off
her shoulders; below the towel it hovered around her legs and feet.  In fact,
the only place it couldn’t be seen was where the towel covered her body and,
oddly enough, her hair.  Snape stared at this phenomenon, entranced at the
mystic beauty of the vapor that appeared to emanate from her very pores.
“You’re going to bruise my arm,” Serra murmured softly, her dark eyes
flickering momentarily down to where Snape still clutched her firmly.  “In
fact, if you don’t let go I might …”
With a coy shrug Serra released the towel.  It fell in a circle around her bare
feet, and Snape’s eyes fell with it, taking in the full length of her nudity. 
Now the strange mist about her took on a life of its own, reaching out in
tendrils to pull at his clothing.  Serra turned into him, clasping her body
against Snape’s as she lovingly watched the vaporous claws work their magic. 
His robe was gone; his shirt and trousers were being plucked at from all
around.
Snape had no more interest in getting away — if he ever had at all.  Releasing
his grip on her arm, he let his hands run over her smooth skin, down her back;
circling her waist and helping her when she rose onto her toes to reach his
mouth with her own.  She tasted mildly sweet, and Snape could feel the same
curious sublimation in her mouth, giving him a heady, drunken feeling.  As they
kissed he became aware of her breasts pressed against his chest, her slender
legs entwined with his: more clothing had vanished.
Serra, however, did not wait for the completion of the process, seizing the
band of his boxers and easing it down over his bulging erection.  He moaned
when a hand gripped his member, squeezing as it slid up and down the shaft just
once, leaving his groin positively screaming in hungry desperation.
“What are you waiting for, Professor?” Serra whispered, her lips now teasing
his neck while she guided his hand down between her legs.  “I’ve been a bad
girl …”
Oh, she was so wet.  Snape easily slid a finger inside Serra’s tight crevasse
and she whimpered, grabbing his hand and shoving the finger deeper with a
needful insistence that mirrored his own.
“You have been bad,” Snape murmured huskily.  He bent slightly, clutching the
backs of her thighs and lifting her off the floor.  Serra gasped, wrapping her
legs around Snape’s waist, and Snape carried her to the nearest wall, just a
few steps away.  He pinned her between himself and the tile, flashing a dark
smirk before bowing his head to her breasts, lips pinching her nipples, sucking
them into his mouth in turn, teasing her with gentle and not-so-gentle nips
until Serra urged his hips forward with her legs, anxiously rubbing his cock
against the delicate contours between her spread thighs.
“Let me have it, Professor,” she panted.  “Give it to me hard.”
His shaft slid into her as easily as his finger had, causing Serra to cry out
in pleasure.  She was so tight, so tight …  Snape thrust into her again,
watching her breasts bounce; and again, hearing her moans in his ear: yes,
Professor, yes, don’t stop, don’t stop …
Pumping his hips fervently, Snape ran his cock through her taunt embrace
repeatedly, bringing himself to the very limits of ecstasy, any moment now
ready to erupt.  He leaned forward, searching for her lips, gasping her name as
rapture overtook him …
… Serra, yes, yes—                                                       
 
“— Serra —”
The sound of Snape’s own voice woke him to darkness.  The girls’ bath had
vanished along with the girl.  Snape flopped over onto his back and groaned. 
His boxers were wet: what he’d refused to do himself his body had done for
him.  Damn it.  Damn that girl.  Damn it all.
He climbed out of bed, stripping off the soiled shorts and thinking that at
least now he would have a few nights’ peace.
 
 
The last person Snape wanted to see Friday morning was Serra Lillas.  At
breakfast Professor McGonagall informed him that, rather than being suspended
for ditching the previous night’s detention, as Serra’s Head of House she was
cancelling all further detentions for Miss Lillas and ordering Snape not to
take any house points from Tasgall’s little pet until Dumbledore told him
otherwise.  Snape listened to this pronouncement, his anger growing fiercer by
the second, determined to speak to Dumbledore and find out what the hell was
going on here.
So when Serra showed up at his office before first period asking permission to
use certain regents for an important potion she needed to brew, Snape’s answer
came without hesitation.
“No.”  He did not even raise his head, unwilling to look at the girl who
seduced Snape in his dreams.  “If it was such an important potion, you should
have brought some with you.”
“I did,” Serra snapped.  “I accidentally spilled it this morning.”  The
irritation in her voice at having to confess to such clumsiness lifted Snape’s
mood slightly.
“Well, then, I guess you’re out of luck,” he replied smoothly.  “Good day, Miss
Lillas.”
Serra stayed put.  Snape heard her fumbling through her books as if looking for
something, and then a sheet of parchment dropped over the book he pretended to
be reading: a note from Professor McGonagall, as Deputy Headmistress, ordering
Snape to allow Serra the use of whatever regents she needed.  Scowling, Snape
finally turned his full attention to Serra.
“Why didn’t you present the note first?” he demanded, rising from his chair.
“I rather hoped you might not be so petty as to need it.”  Serra stared at him
coldly, clutching her books to her abdomen in an odd manner, almost as if she
was in pain.
Snape shot her a scathing glare.  He hoped she was in pain.  A lot of pain.  He
jerked his head toward his potion cabinet.
“Get what you need and —”  ‘Get out’ had been on the tip of his tongue.  Then
inspiration struck, and Snape said instead, “bring it here.  You will not take
any regents from this room.  Whatever this crucial serum is, you can brew it in
here.”
Now Serra scowled, locking her eyes with Snape’s.
“Fine.”  She dropped her books in the chair across from Snape’s desk and began
gathering what she needed — cauldron, measures, scales and an array of
ingredients.  Snape declined to help even when it became obvious that Serra was
indeed in pain, though she vainly tried to hide it.  When she set up at his
desk, first chopping a large quantity of yarrow, Snape lounged in his chair and
watched.
Serra ignored him.
“You know,” he pointed out snidely after a thorough inspection of the regents
Serra laid out, “Madame Pomfrey has potions for menstrual cramps.”  The flush
that rose to Serra’s cheeks at this statement stood out markedly against her
white face.  Yes, she was in a great deal of pain, Snape realized with grim
pleasure.  Good.  She could spend the whole weekend doubled over with cramps
for all he cared.
“I know,” Serra muttered through clenched teeth.  “It doesn’t work for me.  Or
didn’t you notice the extra regents I’m using?”
Snape merely shrugged indifferently, for a long while watching her hands as she
worked.  They shook ever so slightly when she added various ingredients to the
simmering cauldron.  Then he realized he was looking for that strange vaporous
halo from last night’s dream and quickly averted his eyes.  Could that have
been what Erus Tasgall mentioned, that something about Serra?  If so, what was
it?  What caused —
Snape shook his head as if to shake the thoughts away.  How had he come to be
musing over the old wizard’s crackpot theories like they could possibly be
true?  Clearly his subconscious had added that bit in because of Tasgall’s
suggestion.
At the desk Serra’s potion was completed, or Snape assumed it must be since she
took long draughts straight from the ladle (her color improved almost
immediately).  When she finally began transferring the solution from the
cauldron to a bottle, Snape impatiently stepped in and used his wand to
complete the transfer, shoving the full bottle at Serra and ordering her to
leave.  He couldn’t stand her presence for one more minute.
 
Ignoring Serra during class ended up being the best way to get through that
afternoon’s Advanced Potions.  Since Snape held no more power over her
whatsoever — no docking points, no assigning detentions — there was little
reason to goad her; and without provocation, Serra ignored Snape as well.  The
silent standoff between the two lasted until the following Monday, when Snape
again caught the insufferable girl altering the in-class assignment.
“Miss Lillas,” Snape said coldly, staring down at Serra’s perfect potion with
skepticism; the whole class growing quiet and turning to watch in nervous
anticipation; “are you following exactly the instructions in the book?”
Anger etched across Serra’s face.  Grabbing a handful of scarab wings from the
pouch beside her, Serra looked defiantly up at Snape and continued looking as
she crushed them in her fist and dumped the lot into her cauldron.
“No, I guess not,” she said shortly.  The potion turned a venomous shade of
greenish yellow and drained right out the bottom of the cauldron, through the
table and onto the floor.
“Oh, damn, my mistake,” Serra added flatly, glancing briefly at her ruined
potion which was now hissing and spitting as it did its best to digest the
stone flooring.  She stared back up at Snape, ignoring the gasps from the
students around the room.
Snape’s eyes flashed angrily, but his face was still and calm.  Enough of this
blatant flaunting of his authority.  He spoke in a low, deadly voice.  “You
will clean up this mess, Miss Lillas, and then report to my office immediately
after class.”  Then he turned and strode away, furious at her insolence,
furious that he could not effectively punish her.  The lecture Snape began
dictating in his mind fell far short of what Serra deserved.  Filtch probably
kept something more suitable in his office — Snape recalled the cantankerous
caretaker mentioning thumbscrews and lashings at some point … 
Still, when Serra dutifully appeared in Snape’s office after the bell dismissed
class, lecturing was all he had to work with.
“You seem to think that you are special, Miss Lillas,” Snape began, standing
rigidly behind his desk; “that you are better than your fellow classmates.  But
you are not.”
Serra did not so much as flinch beneath the callous gaze of Professor Snape. 
“You're wrong,” she said in a coldly determined manner.  “I am better than them
and you know it.”  Sorting through her school texts, Serra pulled out her three
Potions books.  “I can make every one of the potions in your textbooks.  I
don't even need them — I have them memorized.”  She threw the books down on
Snape's desk and they skidded to a halt in front of him.
“I don't like you,” Serra went on, “and you don't like me, but that is a
childishly petty reason to discount my abilities, Professor.”
With that Serra stormed from Snape's office, nearly colliding with Headmaster
Dumbledore who was waiting just outside.
“Excuse me, I'm sorry sir,” said Serra in a tense, low voice, pausing to accept
his disapproval at her outburst, which he surely must have heard.
To Serra's surprise, and Snape’s supreme annoyance, Dumbledore merely smiled at
her through his white beard.
“Not at all, my dear,” said Dumbledore kindly, ushering Serra past before
stepping inside Snape's office himself.
Dumbledore closed the door and gazed steadily at Snape, who was positively
fuming over the audacity of Serra’s words and Dumbledore’s non-reaction to
them.
“Trouble with your new student?” asked Dumbledore redundantly, taking the chair
opposite Snape’s desk.  When Snape did not answer, Dumbledore said in a quiet
but clear voice, “I agree with Miss Lillas.  She has great talent which you
seem determined not to expand.  I would think you would be pleased to have such
a gifted pupil.”
"She is arrogant and impertinent,” said Snape angrily.  “She has no respect for
authority.”
“Fortunately, you are the only one who feels that way,” said Dumbledore with a
twinkle in his eyes.  “Minerva and Pomona are delighted by Serra's performance
thus far.”
Resisting a glower, Snape said, “They are too easy on her.  I have spoken to
Minerva about Serra's behavior and she refuses to punish her adequately.”
Dumbledore nodded slowly.  “And Minerva has spoken to me about your — ah —
concern for Serra's behavior.  Perhaps it is you, Severus, who is too easy on
the girl.  I recall suggesting, before the start of the year, that you arrange
extra lessons for Serra to further challenge her abilities, yet you have not
even considered it.  While the way Serra has chosen to lash out may not be
entirely proper of a student to her professor,” Dumbledore went on, “I admit I
can hardly blame her.  This — Potions — is what she desires to master.  She
gave up her position under Erus Tasgall, one of the best Apothecaries in the
wizarding world, to come here, only to find her capable Potions master not
willing to teach her any more than she already knows.”
Unable to refute any of this, Snape said nothing.
“She wanted to leave the school, you know, as I’m sure was your intention when
you began incorporating spiders into all of Serra’s detentions.”  Dumbledore
gazed at Snape with the slightest hint of reproach.
“You should let her leave then,” Snape declared harshly.  “Let’s not fool
ourselves: she will never receive here the level of training she would from
Erus Tasgall.”
“Perhaps not,” the headmaster tentatively agreed; “but there are extenuating
circumstances regarding Serra’s stay here at Hogwarts.”
“Why am I not privy to these circumstances?”
“They do not concern you.  If Serra herself wishes to inform you of them, that
is completely within her right, of course.”  Dumbledore stated this as if he
knew perfectly well the unlikelihood of it happening.  “For now, let us just
say that it is in Serra’s best interest to remain here, and as William’s friend
I intend to assist in whatever way I can.”
“I am not William’s friend,” Snape protested bitterly.
“So," said Dumbledore calmly as if Snape hadn’t spoken at all, “since Serra
only has disciplinary troubles in your classes and you are essentially the only
professor who will be able to advance her already remarkable skills, I am going
to make an unprecedented change to your status.”  Dumbledore paused to allow
these words to sink in before continuing.
“I have been communicating with William Tasgall about the situation, and also
Minerva, and the solution we have decided upon, although radical, I believe
will be for the best.  Therefore, I am officially placing Serra Lillas under
your direct authority.  She will remain in the Gryffindor house, but as of now
she is your charge.  You are free to discipline her in whatever manner you deem
fit.  Be as easy or as hard on her as you like.  But,” he added firmly, “you
may not suspend or expel her."
So thumbscrews are still an option, Snape thought rashly, along with chaining
her to the wall— this brought such vivid images to Snape’s mind that he dropped
his gaze lest Dumbledore see in his eyes the indecorous fantasy playing out
there.
 “William preferred that you tell her yourself,” said Dumbledore, his blue
robes swaying about him as he stood.  “You should do so tonight.”  He opened
the door and then looked back at the soured professor with a smile.  “And I
expect you to begin modifying Serra’s assignments, and to arrange those extra
lessons at least twice a week.”
That impudent girl, solely his responsibility, thought Snape scathingly,
watching Dumbledore exit.  Plus extra lessons with her.  As if it wasn’t trying
enough dealing with Serra already, now to be forced to spend even more time
with her.  
But wait — Snape had complete authority over her now.  Complete authority … The
phrase had a promising ring.  It was he and the girl — no one to mediate.  He
could give Serra detention every night of the week if he so chose, and there
was no one to override him.  He could go on making her hate him, erasing
completely that taunting grin. 
An evil smile stole over Snape's pallid features.  Perhaps this was not as bad
as it first seemed …
 
After dinner Snape summoned Serra back to his office.  In the hours that had
passed since his new appointment over her, he had become much more amenable to
the idea.  The first reward he expected to glean from this additional post was
witnessing firsthand the girl’s likely horrified reaction to the news.  Though,
of course, she would probably pretend she didn’t care … but he would not be
fooled.  Yes, Snape was now very much looking forward to enlightening Serra to
his change of station.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” said Serra coolly, when Snape had granted her
entrance to his office.  She did not sit, and Snape did not invite her to. 
Instead, he looked her over, again savoring the indignant outburst that was
sure to come at his disclosure, which he would happily counter with detention.
He smiled most unpleasantly.
“The headmaster has discussed your egregious behavior thus far with Professor
McGonagall, your Head of House, and Erus Tasgall.”  Snape paused, inspecting
Serra for the slightest hint of apprehension, but she remained quite impassive,
merely staring at Snape silently.  So he continued.
“The headmaster has, in accordance with the others, seen fit to place complete
power and authority over you in my hands.  You are,” he concluded, “entirely
and unequivocally under my control.”
This statement fell miserably short of causing the desired effect Snape had
hoped for.  In fact, it seemed to come as no surprise at all to Serra; he may
well have told her owls delivered mail.
“Do you understand what I’ve just told you?” he snapped.
Staring at Snape emotionless, Serra nodded once.  “Yes, I think I do.  The
others are stepping away.  Master Tasgall has given me over to you.”  The
slightest wrinkle showed between her brows, the only sign of distress on her
part.  Then it smoothed out and she said quietly, “It’s only logical, don’t you
think?”
Snape blinked once slowly and considered the young woman.  For once she was not
being sarcastic in the least; no coy smile played on her lips and no anger
sounded in her voice.  The change from her normal attitude was remarkable, and
somewhat unsettling.  It was almost like she had given up.  Snape found it a
bit disconcerting.
“If I must stay here — and it seems I must,” she injected dispiritedly; “You
are the only professor in this school who can advance me in my chosen area of
study,” Serra went on, softly but matter-of-factly.  “It is you I most want to
learn from.”
Well, thought Snape, if she truly wished to advance her talents, she should
never have left her master.
“You should go right back to Erus Tasgall,” said Snape coldly.
“I would,” Serra stated plainly, “but Erus Tasgall sent me to you.”
“I am not half as talented as he is.”
“You’re not half as old as he is,” countered Serra in a quiet voice.  “When you
have matched his age, you will have matched his talent also.”
Such an opinion from this girl came as an unexpected intrusion in Snape’s
ears.  Who was she to make such a statement to him?  As if he had come to her
for assurance of his abilities …
“You are brilliant, you know,” she added.
To this statement, Snape found he had no response.  It was not flattery, for
the almost naïve honesty was clearly evident in her manner.  It had the
unintended effect of favorably altering Snape’s impression of Serra Lillas,
however slightly, and also creating an awkwardness in him that he was not used
to.  It was not every day, or even every year, for that matter, that a student
so caught him off guard with a compliment — let alone the one student he’d been
making love to in his dreams for nearly three weeks now.  He was debating the
best way to handle it, either with a scathing retort on how she was not
adequately disposed to make such a judgment, or simply ignoring it, when Serra
took the burden away from him altogether by saying, “May I go now, sir?  I have
a lot of homework to catch up on.”
“Yes, you are dismissed,” said Snape with a curt nod.
Serra took leave with a gracious ‘good evening, sir’, and once alone Snape
pressed his palms together, staring at the charred logs in the fireplace and
contemplating the young woman.  The whole interview transpired very, very
differently than he had pictured.  The girl’s entire attitude toward him … it
had changed in some way.  She did not like this arrangement — had she not
stated flat out that she would rather return home to Erus Tasgall?  But, as she
put it, Tasgall had given her over to Snape.  And she did not second guess her
master.
So … did that mean he, Severus Snape, truly was her master now?  He had rashly
accepted the position before, spurred on by anger that night in the inn with no
intention of actually following through.  But now… had Tasgall — that conniving
old wizard — managed to get his way yet again?  Working up the proper amount of
indignation toward the scheming elder proved rather difficult just now,
however.  Something about the way Serra had interacted with Snape … the
sincerity in her face, the raw, genuine honesty … like she was ready to accept
his authority at last.
And yet, Snape felt less inclined than ever to subjugate her.
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