Saints and Slytherins

A/N: Sorry for the horrendously delayed update, but thanks for all the reviews, which really overwhelmed me because of such good response. Also worth mentioning is the very excellent Miss Authoress: this is for you. A big sloppy kiss for Lorett, my beta, who is so awesome she'll knock your socks off. And I just have to thank Eisley, my constant whimsical inspiration for this fic. Their music makes me all warm inside.

Chapter Summary: In which someone is killed, Draco gets the blame, and where Snape's middle name is Elizabeth!

Chapter Two: A Dead Man!

I proposed that we should start out this chapter with Hermione Granger for it will balance things out a little. You met the young Malfoy first (that nasty little bugger), and then he'd had that horrible encounter with Miss Granger and you'd had your acquaintance, although I will hold my breath on the terms of its propriety. It should be apt to tell you that you'll be seeing more of her as I tell you this story, for every story revolves around its characters, no matter how arguably barmy they are, and Hermione Granger is the sort of girl who is born into this world to be clever and witty and sneered at by the masses just because she was too bright for their mediocre minds to comprehend. She is one of those people, you see, that aren't ordinary like the rest of us. Of course, if you wanted to talk about unconventional people, Harry Potter and maybe even Voldemort would be good points to bring up, but she was special in her very own way.

She was born in September, you know, the brown month in that brown, crunchy season – the one with all the falling leaves. She certainly looks like a girl born in autumn; she has that wild, curly hair that was the very shade of autumn itself, and those eyes that echo the hair, except much more intense. She has an average frame, pretty petite, but has good arms from lifting and lugging around heavy books. But if you watch her in the halls carefully, her shoulders sagged a little, or were a bit on the uneven side, because those tomes really weren't the sort that one should carry around all day in a leather bag saddled on one's shoulder. Most of the time, despite her discipline, she had to remind herself not to slouch and even adapted to the tone her mother used in that scold to try and make it stick. But, alas, it never did.

Her mother and father worked as dentists and were not exactly disciplinarians – very far from that, actually. Mister and Misses Granger were very amiable Muggles who supported their only daughter in any way they could, although also reasonably frowning with worry whenever they heard about the many Harry Potter escapades she had to tag along on, and wondered in the back of their minds in that little voice that was almost like the soft jingle of a silver bell, if maybe he was a bad influence on her. Hermione sensed this and told them not to worry every time they sent her a letter, not to mention she always managed to give them a very detailed account of her assignments and achievements, even if she was never asked. I tell you, I think it was her security, thinking that other people cared about certain things as much as she did.

Granted, she was a very odd girl in ways away from academia. When she was five years old, innocent of any Hogwarts or magic or prats like Draco Malfoy, she had had a favorite book about an otter that had adventures in brilliant places like Brazil and China and Australia. Now, she had no idea how he got there, he probably hitched a ride on a fishing boat or something clever and also incredibly fictional, but the idea of a little otter walking around on land having adventures tickled her fancy. So she asked for an otter for her birthday. And silly parents, who perceive things so wrong sometimes because they'd gone so far from their childhood, got her an otter stuffed animal that couldn't walk around on land and have adventures with her. She had thought then that her sadness wasn't ever fixable.

I told you that story to show you her attentions were not always on studies and being smart mouthed, so take comfort in that, for in some ways she is like any other girl. I see a lot of children grow up, and even the nastiest kinds were always decent babies, if not better. Even Draco Malfoy had been a baby once – hard to believe – and his head had been a nice size until it had swelled up so atrociously in his older years when girls started giving him the eye and his father had started to confide in him horrible secrets. There arrived a dark tide in Draco Malfoy's life, and I daresay that he would have turned out differently if that tide hadn't come. He might have even been – at this very moment – a friend of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.

Hah. I jest. You know I jest.

But let us now ease back into seriousness. I trust you now know enough about Hermione Granger, yes? (Oh, and to answer that very important question: No, she wasn't too plain in the face at all, although some will be snarky and disagree. She was a fairly pretty girl, one guaranteed to get at least a few admirers in her lifetime, with fair skin and eyes that danced like embers when she laughed. She had a rather expressive face that was an expert at scolding glares, but was a good-looking girl nonetheless. However, good-looking girls who liked to read as much as she did were often disregarded, for good-looking girls did not like to read.)

Onto other things. In the last chapter, the last we saw of her was her bushy little head storming down the corridor in haste to make it to her room, steaming like a train engine for Draco Malfoy had gone on and riled her all up. I ought to tell you that she didn't sleep very well that night for she was troubled and flushed with anger, and his face kept appearing in her dreams like she feared, and she kept thinking that somehow Death was watching her from the foot of her bed, just waiting to snatch her up into his cold hands. It was a silly thing to think but it is quite true; sometimes we dream of certain things and we are so close to dying in our sleep, but somehow we wake up, and we go on with our day, never knowing that had one more second passed we would have passed away.

And like everyone else in the entire world, just like you and I, when morning came she arose a grouch; she snipped and snapped and did everything in between. Hermione Granger was not the most pleasant person without proper sleep, and so let that be an important lesson to you all: never cause Hermione such unhappiness for she will, mark my words, eat you alive with her sharp tone and hawkish looks.

She went to breakfast a little mussed, and Harry and Ron who had already gotten used to her bad moods, recognized the symptoms and knew the best thing was to merely say very little to her, if anything at all. They were quite the brave young lads, for if you've ever been caught in the temper of a cranky female you'll be sure to remember it. They are vicious things, full of claws and mouths that twist and snarl and scream with such a cutting voice that it will make your hair stand up on end. It is a transformation to beware, when such dainty ladies with polite manners turn into banshees and monsters, legendary from the sea. And never ask them if they need anything during that time, like a nap, because you will never hear the end of it, and your ears will ring from then on.

She grabbed two pieces of toast, scraping butter all over them, and drank most of her pumpkin juice, feeling a little bit better (the boys beside her kept glancing her way to look for signs of this). Then the Great Hall began to quiet down, and she looked towards the front, where a solemn Albus Dumbledore was standing, his face looking unusually stern. For if you know Albus Dumbledore, you will know that he hardly ever wore such a harsh expression, and was always a jolly sort of fellow that laughed and smiled. He was a whimsical old man with a silver beard that trailed down the front of his chest, but in his head he was still as young as spring. So it was quite a hint of things to come, really, when life suddenly revealed their headmaster with such an ominous face.

Hermione herself even felt a cold shiver trace down the back of her spine, the very same that you get when you sense that someone is about to tell you some terrible news. Apparently the entire Hall noticed and the buzzing instantly died away into little shaven ringlets that made their pumpkin juice ripple inside their goblets. Harry Potter was shooting both his friends very apprehensive looks, anxious to know what had iced over the room so gravely, with Hermione reciprocating it for reciprocation's sake. In the farthest corner of her mind, although she could not hear it, there was the faintest jingle of silver bells. Do you know those moments, although sometimes very rare in existence, when everyone is present to feel the same loss? The seconds before are the ones that truly count, for you feel the way their breath hangs suspended in the air with yours, like a dense and lofty cloud, and you know everyone is feeling exactly the way you are, with their heartbeats hitched in their chest? In a way, it is like unity.

They could sense something was wrong and were itching to know what, but already couldn't stand to hear it. A little part of them was afraid of something they hadn't heard yet, or known about. And when you grow up, boys and girls, you will feel that very same constant fear for the rest of your life. Some will feel it more strongly than others, some will feel it weaker than others. But you will feel it.

When their headmaster finally spoke his voice was like the loud, deep growl of a train tunneling through their ears and body. It had an ingenious affect on the people in the room, unspeakable even, but the way they looked at him as if they depended on him, and his voice brought out their vulnerability like strips of ribbon from a satin roll. It rewound them about ten years; and they were small children again. They were children fearing the same thing, and in fear there were no complications. In fear there was just fear. I tell you it is the simplest of emotions.

"I'm afraid I have some terrible news. Last night, our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, the respectable Nikolai Vashkoff, was found murdered on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest."

That statement alone clanged in their ears and for a second, just for a second, ceased to make sense. Sometimes, and I know you know this, the shock warbles and distorts everything, and repetition is needed to get a good firm grip on what has just happened. The silence-ridden room was so very tense and every living thing held their breath. And Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff who had always been on the mildly paranoid side, thought that if she listened very closely, each of their irregular breaths chanted: "He's dead, he's dead, he's dead" in a perpetual rhythmic pattern. Her eyes widened and accidentally she caused a whole platter of scones to topple over Ernie's plate when she blindly moved her arm.

Everybody else was in too much shock to hear the clatter of the scones. They all watched their headmaster with disturbed lines on their youthful faces, as if expecting he'd begin to chuckle like the jolly fellow he was and announce that it had been simply just to test them – for what, I don't know. You can make up a reason for yourself if you'd like – and everything would be fine. You must know how it is like. Children aren't ones to cope well with this kind of news, and when they do get a grip on the gruesome reality we all live in, they – well, they don't quite know what to do with themselves. And I suppose that's what the rest of their lives are for, figuring that out.

None of them in particular were exactly palsy with their DADA teacher for he'd just arrived here this year. He was a straight-laced sort of man, fair-faced with not a strand of facial hair on him, and he was very rigid in his disposition and manner. He always seemed uncomfortable, even around the other professors during meals, and he was constantly giving them a nervous smile – the kind that twitches. He didn't seem like the sort to get mixed in with the wrong lot, though, or end up getting duped in the Forbidden Forest. He was a great teacher and was firm about his ways and wasn't ever unfair like one – ahem – Severus Snape. And it was a shame, it was, that every good teacher they ended up having for Defense Against the Dark Arts either kept dying, quitting, or purposely having identity crises. I must admit myself that I think the job is cursed, and you… well, you can tell me what you make of it later on, after I finish telling you this story.

Anyway, as you know, the punch line of said "joke" never reached their ears, unless their solemn headmaster had already said it and none of them really understood his sense of humor. But we know that that wasn't the case. He was quite serious with the way his eyes had deepened in their color, like an intense shade of the deep swirling seas, and flickered around the Hall as if he was searching for someone or something that might know anything, anything at all. And you should know that his eyes – both azure eyeballs, count them – landed briefly on one Draco Malfoy at the Slytherin table, who was just as shocked as everyone else, but not nearly as sympathetic, for Professor Vashkoff had never exactly been important to him. And we aren't surprised at all, are we? We are used to Draco Malfoy's ignorant nature. We are also used to the fact that he is a first-class twat.

I expect you now have a mental image in your head of pale-faced students whispering amongst themselves like vultures at the news, and maybe you are right, but at this instance they were all stricken by fear, as if something bigger than curious conversation rooted them right to the wood of their seats. Hermione shot a look at Harry, who shot a look at her as well, and then to Ron. They had been expecting something like this to happen. As I told you in the beginning, every year Harry Potter was at Hogwarts something exciting but terrifying happens because of Voldemort's endless pursuit of him. It was only about time.

"We, of course, have checked his history and were puzzled by his death. He was not mixed in with any Dark magic or folk. And so it is a mystery we are all facing and should anybody know anything or have any information for us, they must come to me immediately" – his eyes flashed around at the students, and Hermione Granger stiffened as she felt something jolt up her spine – "but in the meantime, classes that take place outside of this castle will be moved indoors. No one is to leave this castle unless accompanied by an adult. The Forbidden Forest is restricted to everyone. There is an inspection going around the halls and dormitories, and so do not be surprised if one of your professors asks to see your things. Any suspicious activity on the night before and from then on will be investigated.

"I warn all of you to be extra careful," he told them in a low voice, and everyone nodded, their color still refusing to return. "We will find out who did this soon enough, but until then, caution is imperative."

Everything else that happened after that sentence seemed to run like wet paint in rain before Hermione's eyes. It blurred and slurred away into stripes or spots, a whirlwind of things tragically foreign to her brain, something that she couldn't quite figure out, for it was then she felt her heart being seized by something cold and strong, like metal. She remembered the night before. With her eyes wide she saw a quick montage of her day: going to classes, meals, talking with Harry and Ron – and then there came the evening. She'd snuck out to go to the library to knit, and then – and this was when she found herself holding her breath, for she caught a flash of Draco Malfoy's face that night. He had been underneath an anti-concealment charm and he'd been walking around the halls the same time she was… the very same night their professor was killed!

How suspicious it was, indeed. We cannot blame her, for Hermione Granger was always a girl of instinct and justice, even when she was younger. And she always went with what her brain and heart told her, and sometimes we are so disconcerted that we cannot distinguish what is what, but it does not matter. Her head was alive with blaring sirens, painting the inside of her mind with red, the color of danger, vivid and bright. Her face was completely void of color now for she felt as if her heart had stopped pumping, and her blood had frozen in her very veins. She'd seen him that night. He had done it. There was no question, was there? He had killed the professor! She just knew he did! What else could he have been doing out at such a time? He didn't even have an alibi!

She felt as if someone had just taken her fork and stabbed in her gut and then twisting it around in there too, just for gruesome fun. She had always known Draco Malfoy was evil, but never evil enough to murder someone! And someone – someone he didn't even know! But the question was, why? Why had he killed the professor? For you and I both know that Draco was vain but he was not stupid, and he had a superiority complex but was not reckless, and was terrible but often was a master planner of malicious schemes. But if he was so brilliant, why did he leave the body out in broad moonlight? Did he intend it that way?

What could the poor professor have done to ruffle his feathers so terribly that Draco Malfoy had taken to killing him in the Forbidden Forest? Hermione was struck with intrigue, but she was overcome with panic and fear as well. She knew she had to tell Dumbledore. She had to tell Dumbledore that Draco Malfoy was a murderer.

Slowly and awkwardly motion had started again in the hall, and as we look back up to the front where Dumbledore once stood with the awful news he is no longer there. Everyone is unsure with what to do and cast worried and frightened looks to their peers, and everyone feels plagued with uncertainty, except Draco Malfoy, who she was looking at now with her revelation written clearly upon her face. He had gone back to eating, so nonchalant, with his perfectly combed flaxen hair shining underneath the light and his superior face looking bored out of his wits again. He seemed so indifferent from all of those other days before and it made something – something that felt like fire – erupt from the crevice inside Hermione's chest. She was so angry that she didn't know what to do about it.

I don't expect you know how difficult it is, knowing that someone your age had murdered somebody and was now sitting and eating in the very same room you were in. It was revolting and disgusting and offending. And Hermione Granger, who had not even known the crime he had committed the night before, had even spoken to him and been alone with him! She felt her face heating up and her palms were searing against the wood of the table. Her face had morphed into an intense expression now, shining with rage and shock and contempt, a look that could shame Death himself, glaring at Draco Malfoy as if she could burn holes right through him.

And we, we hold our breath as the young Malfoy looks up, as if feeling the rays of blind hate prickling his tough skin, and immediately throws his gaze towards where the Gryffindor girl was condemning him. He freezes in his seat, shocked and even unnerved by the look of her face, but soon registers exactly what was happening. And he was, to be honest with you, at a loss for words.

He had been idiotically unaware of it before now. That Hermione Granger had encountered him last night as he had encountered her, how suspicious he might have looked. And now, he was quite sure, she thought he had killed their professor.

And here he said quite a plethora of curse words.

o- - - - - - -o

When Hermione Granger had been about six years old, she'd gone to live with her grandmum for a week while her mum and dad had gone away to Scotland to visit some friends of theirs from the dentistry. Her grandmum lived in Bedfordshire in a small, quaint house with a small, quaint garden and a small, quaint dog who seldom barked because it was sort of a mute dog. Her grandmum was a fairly bubbly, blue-haired old woman, and it had been an enjoyable stay, for she did not talk down to Hermione like most grown-ups did or force her to go outside and play with the other kids when all she wanted to do was read. She'd even let her take a duckling from the pond and observe it for a few hours before returning it to its mum, who tried to bite Hermione when she informed the duck that ducks had no teeth, and how was she going to bite her if she had no teeth? She had a marvelous time, I tell you. It was one of those eternal summers of youthful bliss.

Now, one day Hermione had gone with her grandmum to town so they could buy some flour to bake a cake – a yellow cake, to be precise, for the duck. On their way back some man had latched himself onto her grandmum's purse and her grandmum had been shrieking for help using the usual lingo: "Help! Help! Thief! He's trying to steal my purse!" And Hermione had taken to almost body slamming the thief, kicking him viciously in his shins before shoving him to the ground and wrenching her grandmum's purse out of his hands. Mostly he fell down not because she was particularly a strong little girl, but because he was shocked she was so aggressive. It was not everyday a little girl of six years would try and beat the living pulp out of a grown man, criminal or not. Then some men nearby had come and accosted the man, who was looking at young Hermione with a queer look on his face, while her grandmum was yelling at him, telling him that if he got himself a job he wouldn't have to resort to stealing from old ladies like her.

It was a glorious moment for her, and although she cannot remember it so vividly anymore, for her studies had perhaps left very little room for memories like those, I can tell you that it was, indeed, a golden feat. I tell you this story because it ought to show you Hermione Granger's inscrutable desire to serve justice and how when she delved into it she had no fear or inhibitions. I did tell you about the man, didn't I? He could have just as easily pushed her or strangled her and she would have been no match. But I suppose even that man, who had been looking up at her so incredulously from the ground, somehow saw that she would grow up to be something great and would eventually end up doing the world a whole lot of good. Of course, there is no exact way to tell, but it is like that saying about how we are all connected to the universe, and the universe is connected to us.

And the universe knows what will happen, it creates the blueprint, after all, and it buries a sort of golden nugget in certain folks who are fated to be special. And sometimes – rarely ever – we will see people who will shine for a moment and we will get a feeling in our chests and a little ringing in our ears that sound like trumpets.

Undoubtedly the Great Hall was not the same that day, even when the students all began to gather their things and file out of its massive oaken doors. Some were awfully solemn with ashen faces that looked conspicuously guilty for the death of their teacher – who had been quite young – and many even began to think about death themselves. Take, for example, Neville Longbottom from Gryffindor House. He was one of the more accident-prone, clumsy boys and he looked on the verge of tears for there was a depressing, ridiculous thought unraveling in his head that maybe he might be the next to go. But then there came a croaking from within his pocket and his dark brows crept up his forehead, and he reached in and found Trevor, his frog, whom he had thought lost this morning. And then all thoughts of death waned away, just as they always do, and were lost among the dewy leaves and morning mist.

Now I must tell you yet again about young Malfoy. He was something short of petrified at what he had discovered, for it was grossly untrue, but yet there was a leaping and growing fear inside him that they might actually convict him with some misinterpreted evidence. For he knew that he had not many admirers in the school – and clever us, we needn't ask why. Nor was he exactly favored by their headmaster. And then there was the unbeatable Hermione Granger who was sure to snitch on him and get all of their sharp, accusing gazes pointed his way. Obviously, quite obviously, the circumstances were more against him than they were with him.

Oh, and stop your sniffling in the back row – you, yes you! Nothing has happened yet to the boy, so do not cry for something still uncertain! For slippery boys like him always find a way out. And why, pray tell, do you cry for someone so foul? Oh, you've got a point there. He is still a human being. Sometimes I forget because the size of his ego seems so inhumanly large.

He was afraid, though. He couldn't deny it, and the boy was seldom ever afraid, for he has got this sparkling image of himself inside of his head that he is undefeatable. But here was something that shattered that illusion (oh, and what an illusion it was!) – the thought of being accused of something he did not do and being sent to Azkaban prison for it! You ought to have heard of Azkaban by now, that decaying, rotting place dripping with misery. Even Muggles who know nothing about Azkaban get shivers when they hear the word for even the sole utterance held something evil and so unpleasant. Azkaban prisoners often go mad in their dingy cells, and in Azkaban things like sunshine and daisies and chocolate pudding and music were so distant from their reality that they no longer existed after just an hour there. There were creatures there though, dark, horrible creatures. Creatures made up of something worse than death, who lived only to suck the happiness out of people. And it was enough to make Draco, Evil Boy Wonder, freeze up in his seat and reconsider all that he'd done so far in his miserable life.

And you'd think that he'd sit there thinking to himself all of the horrible things he'd done and feeling terrible about it, right? That he'd consider perhaps being a tad bit nicer now, not being so insufferable and snarky, and maybe even apologizing. Oh – but how untrue! In his head all he could think of was escape, of a way to stop Granger before she roused suspicion of him. He was frantic in this manner, his head filled with demanding, stern voices that sounded awfully like his father's, and once or twice he thought he heard Hermione Granger herself, as if she had entered through a small window in his mind.

"Nobody will believe you, Draco Malfoy," she said, and he saw her grinning. "Nobody will believe you over me."

All they needed was one sentence from her, and he would be put away.

Now we see the look on his face, his pale brows drawing down in anger. He was furious that she had so much power over his life after one measly encounter in the library. His heart was beating quickly now for some reason we ourselves cannot know unless we ask, but we see it thumping underneath the House crest on his robes.

He wants to look up at her but cannot; there was something tragically strong holding his gaze to his half-empty plate. He stared at it until he began to see things in the leftover trails of his food; like a fountain, or the silhouette of a man from the gravy, or a dog with its head chopped off. And then he felt an odd breeze and suddenly breakfast was over and everybody was leaving. It was then he looked up and saw her. She had tightly pursed lips and a subtly furrowed brow that hinted to him that she was seriously thinking. She did not look at him anymore, and the young Malfoy was glad. That single glare she had given him had been quite enough.

Though, he knew he couldn't suss it out now. Quickly he made up a plan to somehow get her alone to talk. And it was strange. Because he had never really talked to her before – not that he was planning to actually talk to her now, he just wanted to somehow convince her to keep her mouth shut about last night.

See, that was how it was with boys like Draco Malfoy. They were appallingly selfish in that way, and often I wonder how if his mother saw him acting this way at school, if she would give him a good slap on the back of the head and reprimand him a good one. But Draco wasn't too close to his mother, and while she did a fair amount in raising him, his rat of a father taught him not to need his mother. And I have to tell you, although I am not in his defense, that it is not Draco's fault he made his mother sad. She had no power over him and his father had had too much until Draco had secretly betrayed him. And sometimes, late at night, he would think about her and he would hate himself, just a little.

But that still did not change the glaringly obvious fact that he was a selfish cad.

He slips out of the Great Hall with a great many things pounding inside his mind, pulsing with anxiety and franticness. Draco was not a boy who could handle anxiety very well, for we know that he hadn't much experience with it, and so he only ended up snapping at some of his housemates who'd attempted some friendly conversation with him, and poor Pansy Parkinson, who'd been secretly smitten with him for ages. Of course, ignorant boy that he is, Draco had never once considered Pansy in that way. Sure, she was ideal for a good snog, of course, but she was also somewhat dim-witted. And I shan't attest to that, for it is not false testimony that we will all know a few girls who are pretty but as dumb as a brick. Sadly, Pansy Parkinson was one of those girls.

He went through all of his classes with a strange invisible mist around him. He had three classes with Hermione Granger, in which he watched her the entire time his professors lectured. And as we silently watch him, it is quite clear that he feels a little sick as he stares at her, for there is an uneasy gurgling in his stomach and his panic now has a strong chokehold on him – it is glaringly obvious from the determined look on his face that even I, an unfortunately bespectacled being, can see it without the visual aid.

Now, in normal circumstances he usually did not spare even a single glance in her direction unless it was to shoot her and her friends his daily snide remark with his Slytherin goons guffawing right alongside him, for he imperiously considered himself above her – a higher breed of species, if you will. And I know you all must detest him now, for he is a top-class cad, I know, but most of the blame must fall on his upbringing. He was raised in an incredibly foul way, full of wealth and ladders. Just look at his father. But I tell you all that so that you know how bizarre it was that now he could not bring himself to look away from her. There was a niggling suspicion inside him, difficult and incessant, that made him feel as if he spared so much as a glance away she would run off and he would not be able to stop her, even though if one to were to be realistic he would really be able to catch her within a split-second; he was an awful good runner.

Even Severus Snape, the rotten corpse of a man who God was merciful enough to bestow a job upon as the Potions master, noticed the abnormal attention the young Malfoy was herding towards Hermione Granger. There was a pluck of concern and curiosity in the dank hollowness of his chest that uncannily sounded like the broken string of a sitar. He kept glimpsing back at his student only to see that his frighteningly steady gaze hadn't shifted from the girl. After twenty minutes he became thoroughly disturbed and firmly decided that he would speak to Draco after class, perhaps smack a little bit of sense into his head – which seemed to be precisely what he needed. It is only apt that I say to you that Severus Snape had had enough of teenage hormones after his years of teaching at Hogwarts castle. He hated teenagers; they were, in his opinion, too interested in the opposite sex's anatomy and were also foolhardy brats with drastically short attention spans. Now we shall all laugh at this, because he was once a teenager himself, and was also everything that he had just noted above.

They say that Severus had been born a stillborn baby, and that he'd died for a second inside his mother's womb, but by some miracle had taken to breathing again. Legend said that he'd come out of his mother's womb with a scowl already sketched on his sallow face with a full head of greasy hair. I say that is not too hard to believe compared to other things like Bigfoots and the like. But I daresay I can only serve him his dreadful justice by giving you antsy lot a bit of background information on the poor man – but what can I say, really? He'd attended Hogwarts as a teen himself, was ruthlessly teased by Harry Potter's father, James Potter, and his gang (one of the many reasons he loathed him), and grew up a miserable, turtle of a man who wore lots of dark colors and disliked any amounts of sunshine or little children. Or older children, to think of it. Or – just social contact, in general. But in his spare time he very secretly enjoyed Floo dating, which unfortunately hadn't gained him too much romantic attention, but still entertained him nonetheless.

When he had dismissed the class with a significantly hefty load of coursework, Snape discovered himself to be particularly alarmed with the speed and enthusiasm with which the young Malfoy obliged as he stuffed all of his papers into his satchel, the crinkling of parchments making Severus wince, shooting up from his seat as if it had burned him. He was expertly dodging the other students in the class as if running from the plague, and Snape then quickly spotted Granger's trademark bushy head just slipping through the door as he turned his head. He looked back at his student, who was hastily headed in the same direction she had just left.

Clever Severus Elizabeth Snape (Forgive me – I often forget to mention his unfortunate middle name, which is a crime if you think about it, because it is so hysterical. And for that, I'll gladly excuse you as you lapse into a fit of giggles at the outrageous femininity of it all. It is a family name, but we honestly should feel sorry for the man; it is quite clear to both you and I that somebody Up There hates him to the very aglets of his shoes. Needless to say, he was teased mercilessly as a child, which isn't so surprising to know, looking at the tragically misunderstood man he grew up to be)(and of course the sad Floo dating. But I digress…), seeing something that most certainly did not tickle his fancy, intercepted, suddenly obstructing Draco Malfoy's way.

The young Malfoy almost collided into his Head of House, but managed to stop himself before the inconvenient collision could transcend. But Draco, who did not appreciate this sudden interruption, scowled.

"Mister Malfoy, your soles are practically smoking. Mind telling me what is so urgent that you didn't pay a single drip of attention in my class today?" he asked, one dark brow twitching on his forehead like a dying cockroach. He really did not like it when his students did not pay attention.

"It's nothing," said Draco, getting very impatient. He tried to look behind the man blocking him, but he could no longer see Granger. He felt his temper singe. "But I have something I must do. Can you please get out of my way?" he said through his teeth. "It's important."

"You just said it was nothing."

"It is."

"But you also said that it was important."

"It is."

Snape was giving him a queer, disturbed look. "I'm afraid your destination has been changed, Mister Malfoy. We must get you to the infirmary at once to get your head examined. I fear one of the most vital parts of your brain has become loose," he said, ignoring Draco's yells of objection as the tall man gripped the back of his robes, dragging him out of class. His peers looked over at them with fascination and amusement, a few sniggering in a chorus for it was most definitely a remarkable site, while Pansy Parkinson – who I've already informed you is completely in love with Draco Malfoy – gasps, one perfectly manicured hand flying up to her mouth.

"What –" struggled Draco, feeling his face heat up with anger, his cheeks now a rosy tint that is rarely ever seen on his unnaturally pale skin. "Let me go!"

And Severus Elizabeth Snape does, all the while shoving the young boy before him. Draco whirls around, breathing hard, his once impeccably combed hair now all mussed.

"I am asking you again, Mister Malfoy," Severus said with a curling lip, like a slowly roasting worm in the tropics, "what is so important. Please do not tell me I will be catching you in my backroom again snogging some unfortunate girl who can't even spell 'Potions' to save her life –" Of course, slimy Snape was actually talking about Pansy Parkinson here and not Hermione, who was actually a fantastic speller and had the medals to show for it.

"No!" said Draco instinctively. He was obviously frazzled, and it scared his Head of House a little, for he'd never seen his student this way before. He really hadn't been kidding about taking him to the infirmary. (I tell you that Severus Snape couldn't possibly be a joker; he was born without a sense of humor, which is also reason why he isn't so amiable. Or received much attention in Floo dating.) He subconsciously ponders the possibility sometimes that maybe he'd gotten that loony gene from his father, and if that was, in fact, the case, then it was best they got it out of the boy before it could mature into a larger problem, like extreme looniness. He'd seen what it did to young children; that Luna Lovegood was a good example of that, although I do make it a vast point to say that Luna Lovegood is actually a very affable girl – polite, if not just a tad strange. "I'm not –"

"Focus your attentions on something worthwhile just for once, will you, Draco?" he snarled. "Your studies. Your father sent you here for a reason, and that reason is not to go after every living spectacle wearing lacy knickers. Do you understand me? Your reputation will corrupt your chances. That is the last thing you need here."

Unfortunately for Snape, the last thing Draco had on his mind were lacy knickers. To tell you the most brutal truth, he wasn't even remotely listening to the words his professor was hissing at him behind his sneering lips and serpent fangs, and I'm certain you are familiar with the feeling (it is most common with children, and even adults cannot avoid it all the time), when somebody you don't precisely invite mad-dogs you and you really aren't in the mood to listen to any of what they are saying… Like when your otherwise-wonderful mum comes and snipes at you about some rubbish or other. That is exactly how Draco is feeling right at this moment. He feels a hot fuss in the back of his mind, a painful knot forming right betwixt his shoulder blades, and we catch his fists clenching beside him. He is annoyed.

He does not respond but instead rudely walks straight past his professor, not saying a word, before starting into a sprint, and you see for yourself that Draco Malfoy is a jolly good sprinter – something about those long legs of his. He disappears not a minute later, turning a corner in the corridor, and poor Severus Elizabeth is left alone, muttering on about his hate for stubborn, deaf hormonal teenagers with a fancy for lacy knickers.

Any blind old fool should catch the tatty misconception old Severus was riding on, of course. Draco Malfoy is not at all thinking about lacy knickers as he runs down the hallway, the soles of his expensive dragon-leather shoes slapping down against the newly polished marble – or any knickers at all, as a matter of fact. He was only thinking about Hermione Granger and her sometimes obnoxiously big mouth – and had been so immersed in his troubling thoughts that he hadn't even bothered to correct his self-dissatisfied teacher (who really was depressed with his wretched life and had resorted to taking a promising Muggle miracle pill called Prozac), who now had no choice but to think that his most popular, sought-after student who was often compared to the stunning faces of the Greek Gods was scurrying off after Hermione Granger for a good snogging session.

He thought the world had somehow begun to orbit backwards. It would not be a lie to say that he cared about his student, for he was almost like a second father figure – or, if you'd like, the only father figure that would influence him in a good sort of way. Lucius Malfoy was a barmy old drunk. He was binge-drinking and chain-smoking his way to an early grave (Draco often told the tales of his sad accounts concerning it), and that was no role model for a young adult like Draco, so Dumbledore had put it upon Severus to be his replacement father instead. Severus Elizabeth was, after all, by some uncanny occurrence, Draco's godfather.

Feeling another one of his episodes coming on, he reached inside of his pocket, taking out a container and untwisting the lid. He popped one, two, three pills into his dry mouth before swallowing them all without even a single drop of water (an extraordinary talent, I must say, for there is the likelihood of choking) before turning 'round and walking back to his class, the place where he was convinced his miserable life had all undoubtedly began.

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Post-A/N: Thanks to all my peeps who reviewed - you lot are as sweet as sugar. Would love to know what you folks thought of this chapter as well, so please review!