Professor Snake Sucks
Leon arrives at the dungeons an hour later - but at what cost? Really, was it worth it?
No, not at all - because Shakespeare didn't even know that which existed outside of his own corridor! The unhelpful bloke! (Haha, British slang!)
In the end they had found a loose child to assist them. It had taken ten minutes to explain consent to Shakespeare, and fifty minutes to correct him every other sentence about how it would be eloquently replicated in the way of bards. How doth one describeith such a suggestion? Suggestion! As if it were optional!
In contrast, it had only taken a minute for Leon to snatch a child on a bathroom break, and a minute more to be led down to the dungeons. Down the East hall, take a left at the end, take the winding staircase down, down, down below the Black Lake, head right, then left, then all the way down until the corridor splits-
And Leon forgot the rest, really - but they've made it somewhere. After shooing the child away they loitered outside the subsequent door until, well, now.
They stare at the door, pensive. The potion they want to attempt to brew will no doubt take hours, and seeing as it's already 3:37pm the endeavor will go on well into the night. Ah, but on the other hand, do they really want to interrupt a class and potentially piss Professor Sna(kp)e off?
They grip the straps of their backpack, contemplating. Perhaps the delivery will soften the blow. Or maybe he's (She? They? Oh the irony - presuming a gender with absolutely no information. It truly is a man's world, all potent and festering. An inherent programming even they cannot escape.) Or maybe - maybe they could stop acting like an idiot and turn their brain off and just do the damn thing.
With that, they step forth and push the door open. Heads turn at their arrival - as silent as it was - and Leon pauses. Scours the new room and the twenty something children in it.
There's a great deal of fermented and preserved specimens along the walls, so vast - in fact - that the supply spills onto the floor. They notice those familiar cathedral ceilings, concrete columns for support, low lit lanterns - not open flames. A living magic hums in the gold trim along the walls. It's a chaotic kind of clean, cluttered but purposeful. Their exhale, woefully frigid even indoors, steams from them like smog.
The kids sit at long rectangular tables at varying levels. They notice three descending platforms before a throat is unhappily - and really, how does one make it sound unhappy? - cleared further in. Leon locks eyes with an incredibly unimpressed man dressed in black. Black frock, black robes, black trousers, boots, hair - sleeves that swallow his arms and brush the tips of his knuckles. It's fundamentally modest and yet somehow so very sibylline. He looks like a dreary muggle vampire.
Above all, though, they note how utterly displeased he is to see them.
"And what, pray tell.." a low, arduous baritone drawls from his depths, "gave you the impression that you could waltz.. into my classroom.. during teaching hours?"
Heavy set brows, a contemptuous disposition, Professor Sna(kp)e carries an ancient kind of regality. He's intimidating even across the room - and Merlin's beard! How can he speak so slow and low and still seem so dignified?
In their elongated (stupefied) silence a slanted brow rises upon his face. Never have they felt so judged. Never! It's only been five seconds!
"I'm here to make a delivery on Hagrid's behalf." They explain. It comes out as a murmur, and they expect to look down and see themself donning first year robes. They clear their throat, shift their stance.
"..Sir." They add, an afterthought.
They notice he had been in the middle of writing the recipe for Forgetfulness Potion on a chalkboard. How ironic. This must be a first year class - and ah, yes, how fitting for them and their tumble from stability.
"And you thought it prudent to deliver these goods now? With no.. prior consult?" He inhales sharply, "Tell me - how is it that a muggle has bypassed the wards and managed to make it ontoschool grounds?"
Some of the children (the gall!) are brave enough to snicker. Professor Sn(ot! Snot!! Fucking snotter!)a(pk)e silences them with a withering glare.
His t's are sharp enough to cut, his vowels soft enough to enchant. Each word follows a rolling, pointed pause that rumbles like a natural disaster. Such a beautifully poisonous way of speaking, it is. Beautiful enough to have Leon disregarding the blatant derogatory accusation.
I owe Hagrid, I owe Hagrid, I owe Hagrid.
But really, what are they supposed to say to that? They understand, suddenly, why Hagrid's list was so abhorrently irrational. One doesn't even have to try to piss this guy off - and using muggle as an insult?? Merlin's beard!-
"I'm a new hire."
"My.. surely the school's standards haven't fallen so low. It seems an audience with the Headmaster is -" he scowls as he eyes them, enunciating sharply, "required. There seems to be a.. disconnect within your most basic. Human. Functions." Those eyes, that voice - all speaks to the fact that Leon has successfully been recognized as nothing.
What does one say to that?? No, really - what the fuck is someone supposed to say to that?? Laugh?? No - cry? Resign?? Shit their pants? Jump out the window? No - they're underground!-
".. Hagrid had made the delivery seem long overdue. I..." They physically hesitate, sounding so very strained, "Apologize.. for any inconvenience."
The Professor gives them a mirthless smile. It looks like a sneer.
"If only that meant something."
Damn him!
"Hah. Funny." Damn them!
A hush befalls the already silent room. Tightening their grip on their bag straps, Leon descends the final step down into the room. The pits of Hell. Ah, jeez, they need to leave. Abort, abort-
"Seeing as I'm already here, I might as well drop your stuff off." They peer around the room. They see no evidence of an office, nor a substantial lab. Perhaps there's a separate room for that? This seems more of an academic setting, rather than an alchemical one.
The students' eyes ping pong back and forth between the two adults. "Where would you like me to leave it?"
The way the Professor looks at them is comparable to the way one looks at garbage. He is silent for a moment, with his unfathomably black eyes, and then those molasses words dribble out.
"Leave it at the door." It's a dismissal. He turns his back, utterly disregarding their presence, "And be sure to see yourself out."
Leon's fingers curl until their knuckles turn white. One beat, two, and then that slanted brow appears over the Professor's shoulder.
"Today, if you will."
And somehow, Leon is able to root through their bag, pull out their beige wrapped gift, and tuck it near the door before quietly exiting. The door echoes with a soft click, and their hand lingers a second longer before falling off.
In a heavy silence they make their way back to the stairs, climbing back up, up, up to wind through the castle. They ignore Shakespeare's pestering, Filch's ruddy mouth sneer, some uppity blonde kid with a button - until they are promptly spit out onto the grounds.
There is a buzzing energy below their skin, a weight in their face. Time is of no importance as they march down the hill towards Hagrid's hut, and they throw the door open with such force that Hagrid jolts and knocks his head into the ceiling.
"Blimey!-"
"Professor Snake sucks!" They declare loudly, immediately pacing the space. Back and forth, back and forth - and their mouth opens and closes in tune.
Hagrid looks on with wide eyes, "Who?-"
"And the worst part is - is-" They throw their hands in the air, wild eyed, scrambling for purchase, "Is that he's also really fucking cool!"
☆
"Ah, I s'ppose that sorta predicament'll rattle anyone." Hagrid muses, hands stroking his beard.
Leon sips from their chipped mug, wincing at the burn on their tongue. Wordlessly, they cast a shoddy little tornado within the rim to clear most of the heat. Their next sip is just right.
"And the worst part is," they place their mug upon the table, lamely flicking some dirt off its surface, "I didn't even get to brew. I'm probably banned for life - and I didn't even give him my name, or step all the way into the room." They lull their head back to blandly stare at the ceiling, "And now I'll have to move all those trees with these puppies."
They raise their arm in turn, flexing and rotating their wrist to show off their meager bicep. Hagrid snorts tea down the wrong pipe, sputtering in the aftermath.
"Yeah, yeah - laugh it up." They mutter. Unbidden, half a smile tugs at the corner of their lip.
"Aye, I reckon those'll do some damage." Hagrid clears his throat loudly. The sound is wet. "I don't s'ppose you could just.. go'on down after lessons an' make amends?"
They crane their head back down to show off their raised brow.
"Apologize? For existing?" They cross their arms, tapping their fingers atop the exposed flesh, "Hagrid, I can't believe you'd say such a thing."
Hagrid, in all of his eleven feet of fortitude, rolls his eyes. He swipes a hand through the air dismissively, "Such a jokester, y'are. Surely you could just talk to tha Professor - why, I'm sure he'd be more accomodatin' outside'a class hours."
The great thing about Hagrid - aside from everything, really - is that he always approaches their problems as if they're dire. As such, he sighs and scratches his head, face all bunched up in thought.
"Well.. maybe.." He grimaces.
"I'm nothing if not hilarious." To stave their sudden restlessness, they juggle a galleon between their hands, "You think I could just work in the lab anyway?" Left, right, left, right. The gold catches the light, "I mean, worst case scenario he hates me forever and I always feel unwelcome in his presence."
Ah, wait, that actually sounds really bad. They don't want that! Their chair hits the ground with a clack, and they sag onto their elbows.
"Damn it." They mutter into the tabletop. Their galleon cracks against the stone to spin and spin, "Why does he have to be so cool? And happen to be the man dictating the access to the lab?"
"In all my years, 'ave never heard the Professor be referred to as such." Leon lifts their head to meet Hagrid's eye. His face is open, kind - a little humored, "Surely the circumstances ain't as bad as they seem. Professor Snape is as grievous as they come, no doubt, but he's just like you an' me when all's said an' done."
"Ah," they murmur, vapid, "now you're lying to me."
"Lyin'!? Why, I'd never!" He seems genuinely appalled at the notion, "My words aren' any more a lie than a Cornish Pixie is yellow! Jus' need some time, is all - an' you've got plenty of it."
He gives an encouraging smile, "You've done faced a Graphorn and lived! Blimey - if ya can do that, surely ye can work to gain the Professor's favor." His smile turns sheepish, knowing, "Ah, but perhaps ya should wait on the brewin'. Best not press his buttons so early, aye?"
Great, so they have done some sort of damage after all. It seems Snape is not so forgiving, even by Hagrid's biased assessment. Forgiving - as if they did something wrong to warrant his discord!
Sighing, they press their palms into their brows.
"What are we going to do about the trees?" They ask, "I had planned to replenish my magic first.. because - admittedly - my reserves aren't what they once were." They lean back in their seat, suddenly tired, "And seeing as that's not a problem I'll be able to fix as of right now.. well.." they grimace, "Is there a deadline on this thing?"
Hagrid sips from his cup - so hilariously small in his grasp. "Decided tha' the cleanup's best left in more capable hands for the time bein', with no deadline ta speak of." There's a twinkle in his eye, "Ain't a pressing matter so long as it's tended to eventually, as it were, so's I'll leave that to ya."
Leon blinks hard, once, "Wait, really?"
Hagrid nods, "Been wantin' to spend more time with the Hippogriffs, anyhow. Professor Kettleburn's goin' on leave soon. He had said he wanted a lesson on 'em before then, so-" Hagrid waves a hand up, "I ought'ta get it all in order."
"You have another Professor coming in during the middle of the year? One that hasn't met the creatures on the grounds? Isn't that a bit.." they try to think of a word, "you know.. messy?"
"Surely not! We've got a substitute for such occasions."
That seems kind of unbelievable. "There are Wizarding School substitutes?"
"Well, of course there are! Surely Ilvermorny was no exception."
They lean their head skyward once more. Teeter back in their chair, humming noncommittally. Huh. Some things are universal, it seems.
A companionable silence takes over the hut, then. A soft crackling from a real fire, the routine tack of Hagrid's mug, the thin flip of Leon's single galleon.
Truly, Leon would like to be in the dungeons as of right now. As manufactured as their constant social interactions are, there's a very real part of them that has been yearning for the solace that comes from brewing. The bubbling and popping, the jet-engine startup of the bunsen burner, the goosebump inducing swirl of a thick brew. The silence.
The solitude.
But as it were, the afterimage of stress weighs heavy on their mouth. They drag a heavier hand down their face, sliding back up to work a tension out of their brow. Despite the dramatic air of their earlier declaration, they really are hung up on their interaction with the Professor. The totality of the carnage they have to clear in the forest. The waning, flickering nature of their magic.
Their fingers press in tighter. Ah, life and all of its frivolity.
Hagrid places his mug down once more.
"..Hope ya don' mind.. been meanin' ta ask.. how is it that you've done'n got two wands?"
Leon's hand falls still. They count the lines of grain in Hagrid's ceiling.
Hagrid continues with a careful hesitation. It sounds clunky in his accent. "Jus'.. noticed the other day, s'all. Peekin' out yer bag, and then yer pocket."
Their free hand brushes against their abdomen. Their fingers meet the thin knit cotton of their tank top. Right. Their hoodie is on the floor.
Instinctive, the hand on their brow squeezes the bridge of their nose before roughly scrubbing their face once more. They finally peel their gaze from the ceiling to lean forward and rest their weight on their elbows. The tilted chair clacks against the floor. Their frame is not one of poise, but a deep rooted fatigue. Hagrid looks slightly surprised to see it.
"There is no Diagon Alley in America." They respond, and their arms overlap upon the tabletop. Their lean makes them look sinuous, "And you need a permit to wield a wand. An acceptance into Ilvermorny works as a permit, though, so the school has their own.. Ollivander of sorts."
Hagrid looks ever so intrigued at the information. Leon nods to themself before rooting into their bag, draped lamely over the back of their mismatched chair, "There were four prevalent wandmakers in America. Johannes Jonker made.. mine."
They set a long, thin thing onto the table. Hagrid leans forward to stare, chair creaking. It looks like it's seen better days. Dark wood inlaid with scuffs and gouges, no brace, entirely seamless from grip to point.
"Ilvermorny got their hands on thousands of wands, so there was always one for each student. There hasn't been a living wand maker there in ages, though. Last I was there, they didn't seem too privy to hire one either."
Hagrid flicks his eyes up to them through his puffy lids, looking so genuine.
"May I?"
Leon quirks a smile. It looks a little wrong. "Go ahead."
Hagrid carefully picks up the wand, rolling it to and fro. It juxtaposes so comically in his hand. They watch with a sort of detached air as the wood swallows the light. Dull. That tattered thing of theirs, in his gentle hands.
Their lips momentarily curl down, only to smooth out when Hagrid lifts his head once more.
"What core's it got?"
"Wampus cat hair, if I remember right."
"It's a beaut, surely." He places it upon the table softly. Its contact releases a hollow note. "But if ya don't mind my sayin', well, it looks a little lonely."
A rueful smile graces Leon's face. Hagrid's eyes drop occasionally to the curve.
"You're probably right." They look down at it - that thing they used to care for. The thing that, frankly - after years of ruminating - deserves better than what they'd given it. Than what they still offer it. They reach forward to grasp either end. Spin it.
"I got this when I was fourteen. Used it every day, up until I hit nineteen."
"Fourteen?" He echoes, and then, "What happened?"
They rub a callused thumb along the edge, a nostalgic movement. A path taken many times before. Their mouth twitches briefly at the invasion of a splinter.
The sky is torrential, unforgiving in its pouring dredges. Wavering between freezing and outright boiling. Grasping the ground frantically, crisscrossed hands search for that which they've lost. There is an almighty snarl behind them, all carnal rage and vehement fire. They pant, seethe, tear the ground apart.
Why - why is it failing them now ? Why is it hiding the moment they need it most?
Teetering past the edge, eyes blown with panic, mouth heavy with a long-carried wrath, they leave their wand behind. They reach instead for their dagger, and they reach deeper for their strength.
In the end, though, that leaves them too - until all they wield is that sickening, rotting fucking grief.
They squeeze the wand momentarily - tighter and tighter and tighter before releasing. They drop it into the black of their bag.
"Ah, well," Leon ponders, a sole finger coming up to scratch their chin, "the core died. Tragic, really." They hum, "And I was something of a late bloomer."
Hagrid's brows raise, not a single shred of doubt upon his face at their words.
"Blimey, is that so? Why not recycle it?"
"It is so." They parrot, "And I'm sentimental." With an open palm, they jerkily Accio their primary wand. It slots into their hand easily, lovingly, and they loosely sway it before Hagrid.
"I had this one made after that. We fit better. Romeo and Juliet, tea and vinyl records - you get it."
"Can't say I do."
"Ah.." Leon purses their lips, tucks their wand into the side pocket of their cargo pants, "Nothing I can do about that."
Hagrid seems perplexed, hand on his chin and brows squinted, "Aye, y'said there weren't any livin' wand makers left at Ilvermorny," He attempts to peer over the table at their leg, "So's how'd ya get that'un?"
Their jaw sways momentarily at the question. Laboriously, they rise from their seat, stretching until their extremities prickle. They slouch in the aftermath.
"I uh.. just went to Ollivander." They respond. Hagrid doesn't seem to notice the thinness of their words, "He hooked me up. The wand chooses the wizard and all that." At that, their hand flippantly waves through the air. They lower to the ground, bag plopped before them.
"Pretty odd ta be on the receivin' end'a two wands," there's a loud grunt and an even louder scrape as Hagrid rises, "but there're odder things, I suppose. Take the sticky step fer example, or the Ice Vault."
Leon halts rummaging through their bag to knit their brows. Turning from their place crouched on the floor, they give Hagrid a confused glance.
"The what vault?"
Hagrid is suddenly dodging their eyes, frantically waving his hands through the air, collecting do-dads and bagging some suspiciously foul slop. His movements radiate his incredible need to flee.
"No - nothin', you didn' hear that from me."
"You have an Ice Vault?"
"Blimey, would'ja look at the time!" He sweats down at his wrist. It's entirely swathed in his duster, no watch to be seen, "Well, I ought to go. Work ta' do, Hippogriffs ta prep," Hagrid shakes an entire shelf when he bumps into it, fumbling to keep bottles from teetering off. He then steps back into the door, hits his head, and ducks low. He casts them a momentary glance, "Y'alrigh' ta hold down the fort? Rather," he rummages through his left pocket, still hunched, "why don'cha go'on an' get some dinner at the hall. 'Aven't seen ya eat in a fortnight, as it were."
"I haven't even been here a fortnight."
"Right, well," he tosses something their way. They catch it nimbly, "Give that to Sprout, would ya? Best be on my way then. Carry on."
And then he's gone. The door careens shut, echoing loudly against the frame. Leon firmly presses their lips together - to fight a momentary smile, perhaps - and looks down at their hand. It's a vial of Inudare Astrum seeds, glowing periwinkle and iridescent in their palm.
They're slightly (incredibly) impressed at the sight of it. Rotating it left and right, it dazzles the craters of their palm, the dark gaps between their fingers. Overflowing Stars, Hagrid had so carelessly thrown at them. An herb easily sold for a hundred galleons a gram. Easily one of the most revered ingredients known to wizardkind - outshone only - or perhaps equal to - Phoenix Tears.
And oh, yes - suddenly they're so inherently curious, and then even more sudden the feeling vanishes. They can't help but stare at the seeds for a moment longer, and then their hand sinks into their pocket. Releases.
Leon runs that same hand through their bedraggled curls, now unnervingly quiet in their solitude. They see that same storm behind their closed lids, the bone-rattling crack of thunder. That one that festered like a clashing of atoms. That watched, torrential as they-
Ah. They suppose they should deliver Sprout their package.
They drop their hand, stooping low to shoulder their bag before the door. Much like it had with Hagrid, it cracks shut behind them.
It's beautiful outside. Rolling hills, mildly overcast; the grounds are scattered with the undeniably careless touch that comes from natural growth. As their feet trod the perpetually dewy grass towards the castle, Leon thinks of that storm. That wand. Its betrayal, and their long-winding realization that it was not a betrayal at all.
They think of the dungeons, a bubbling cauldron, a sallow glower. They think of Snape and his unpleasant poise, and how in one singular moment he seemed to embody all that they had seeked - years and years ago. Grace. Confidence. An inherent hostility. Disregard for that which did not matter.
A cold, vapid film over the eyes. A contemptuous barrier wielded for cover.
They think and think, silent and flat-mouthed, and then boisterous laughter meets their ears. Their eyes raise. Children scatter, cracking fireworks and spells along the grounds. They grow closer and closer as Leon approaches, and then some start to take notice of Leon too.
Amidst the gaggling underage chaos, they see that short-haired boy sprinting towards them with resolute eyes. They see that storm in their blink once more, and then they straighten their slouch. Loosen their stance. Swallow an air of aloofness once more.
"There you are - you still have to take a picture of Tilly!" The boy is innocent in his righteousness, skidding to a sloppy stop before them. Leon's heels take them past, and the boy sputters at being ignored.
"Hey, wait!-" In a burst of speed he's at their side, "You totally disappeared earlier! I thought people weren't allowed to disaa- disas- aahspp-" His face tightens, annoyed at his butchering, "Disssasppuh -rr- Disasterrape-!" He spits out, "On school grounds?"
"Say," Leon muses, scratching an itch off their cheek, "Where's the Great Hall?"
"Huh!? Did you just ignore me?!" The boy jumps before them. Leon fluidly sidesteps, beginning to weave between students as the clusters grow larger. The boy follows at their heel. "That's not very nice, you know. Professor McGonagall gave me detention for-"
"Do you happen to know a Sprout?"
A confused, childish steam hisses from the boys ears. He's starting to turn red in the face.
"You're just like Tilly! You don't listen at all!-"
"Is Sprout a person - or, like, a thing?" They duck to dodge a wayward Tarantallegra spell. They hear an oof and a subsequent plodding of footsteps afterwards. Leon straightens, hums, knits their brows, "Is Sprout an actual sprout?"
"STOP IGNORING ME!!"
Finally stepping foot inside the chasm of a castle, Leon peers down the halls.
"Left or right?"