Bound by Secrets

It was humiliating. One moment, you were one of the most respected professors, and the next, you needed assistance. Everything about the situation left a bad taste on his tongue. Snape, Severus Snape, needed a classroom assistant? He already loathed his position as potion master, but he needed help teaching children. 

The man sat up with a grunt, running a hand through his dampened hair. Tossing and turning—that’s all he's been doing. He couldn’t fathom the possible idea of sleeping with a squib coming to his aid. “Nightingale…” Snape growled low in his chest. A horrid name for a horrid man.

One look at his smiling face nearly sent him into a frenzy. Snape had reread and analyzed every minute detail of the text, which was disgusting. Wilber Nightingale, Short, thicker build, 29, and still looked like a child. A child that grew up to fast maybe. Nobody could be that friendly. Not to mention that stupid owl, Owlette. Not even the size of his hand, but already knew it would be a nuisance.

Through the thin walls, he had listened to the puffskein of a man coddle and coo to the thing for a damn near an hour. 

Snape pinched his nose, kicking his legs off the side of the cot, hoping the chill air would help the angry fire in his body. Squib, squib, squib—why a squib? He thought bitterly, biting his lower lip. This wouldn’t do; even if the man was qualified, why would he let it stay? It would ruin everything he had been working for. 

He suppressed a loud sigh, rubbing his eyes. He had to figure something out; he wasn't going to let this happen.