Promises (Temporarily on Hiatus)

I hated my livelihood. That’s what they were after all: my employment, my means of income, an obligation, if you will. I resented them all terribly for that fact. If only I could’ve pursued my own desires from the beginning: researching, inventing, discovering new and brilliant solutions that would earn me the right sort of notoriety. The type that only the intellectuals can understand: appreciative, knowing commendation for efforts related to one’s mental prowess. No glitz or superficial glimmering veneers plastered on by the press. But alas, these parasitic “pupils” of mine prevented any sort of contentment from entering my life. And worst of all, I was forced to look at them whilst I ate my supper.

Their round, mooncalf, faces, bright with the promise of youth and opportunity, made the food in my mouth turn to ash. I watched in horror as they shovelled heaps of cloying treacle and trifles into their black, vacuous orifices, prattling on about useless things. They’re all wastes of cellular energy. And there sat my beloved Slytherins: backs straight, politely nibbling on the assortment of morsels placed on their porcelain plates. I was beginning to resent them as well: they weren’t like the Slytherins of old. Far too concerned with their physical appearances, social standing, and bloodline. No cunning in them, no competitive nature, save for Quidditch matches and the House Cup. That’s fine, but what about excelling in life? What about academia and marks? Everyone, the entirety of Hogwarts, was on an abysmal downward spiral, sucked into the u-bend and slopped into the sewers.

The Headmaster’s chair was empty. I marked this everyday at mealtimes. No wizened old man occasionally tilting his glass towards me in a gesture of acknowledgement. No off-colour, bizarre jokes that only he seemed to truly understand. The entire staff would laugh along with him, pretending to “get it” all the while thinking that the remark was far beyond their measly power to comprehend. They were rather like the admirers of James Joyce or those that believe in gods: they worshipped the very thing they did not understand, mistaking insanity for genius. I will be the first to concede to the fact that there is a fine line between the two, but an undeniable difference.

I don’t regret killing him; I suppose I should, but I don’t. It took that single act to make me realise that he had been using me for the entirety of my life, just like he had Potter and countless others. A pawn in his little scheme to save the world; never mind who was killed as a consequence. I almost was, you know. Sent to Azkaban to have my soul sucked out of me like some sort of gruesome castration of the spirit. Thankfully, the nasty business was all cleared up before anything too damaging occurred.

They thought me a hero for some time. I even considered myself something of a saviour for those brief moments. I was delusional, thought everything would turn out all right. But no. I still saw the suspicious looks they shot me and nasty sneers of mistrust. But I was forgotten, for the most part, and slipped back into obscurity.

My eyes flitted to the low stool just below the staff table. The Sorting Hat had just announced a new Slytherin student. I didn’t catch the girl’s name, but I recognised her red hair and petite stature; she was undoubtedly the younger sibling of Sera Avery, a mild mannered young woman who I had...become close to a few years prior.

“Severus,” a rather meek voice droned, interrupting my licentious recollection.

I considered ignoring him outright, but that would have been undeniably uncouth of me. I supposed the maintaining of etiquette and decorum rested on my shoulders now that Western Civilisation was crumbling.

“Yes?” I replied tersely, contemplating why the biggest mooncalf of them all would want to start a conversation with me.

“I was wondering if perhaps...” Faire trailed off.

“Perhaps...” I prompted impatiently.

“If you would be so kind as to pass the salt.”

I was quite close to smashing my head against the wooden tabletop, but abstained from doing so: this man had already killed enough of my brain cells.

After a few moments silence, he repeated my name.

“Do you want the pepper this time, Faire? Or perhaps the butter?” My voice oozed sarcasm and venom, but the great dolt seemed unconcerned.

“I didn’t actually want the salt.”

“Oh no?” I inquired patronisingly.

“I just wanted to ask you if you might be able to, if you have enough time, that is-“

“Out with it!”

“Ifyoucouldaidemeinworkingoutmysyllabus.”

“Pardon me?” It sounded as though he was cursing me in some Scandinavian or Eastern European language.

He gulped in some air before repeating, slower this time, “I was wondering if you could possibly aid me in working out my syllabus for this year. I’m quite at a loss for what to do-”

“Well perhaps, you should have considered that fact that before lapping up this job so readily. Tell me, do you have any experience in planning lessons, marking essays, or exam preparation?”

“No,” he squeaked.

“Any idea of what you were going to teach these fragile and impressionable young minds?”

“I had somewhat of a plan.”

“Somewhat of a plan,” I echoed softly, swilling my glass of wine.

He blanched and mumbled a quick apology for interrupting my dinner. Ah, the delightful aroma of fear mixed with a light glass of Chianti. Is there anything more divine?

To be perfectly honest, I no longer resented Faire for obtaining the Defence Against the Dark Arts job. I had held the post for some months and while I found the experience pleasant, the curriculum was far too limiting. On the other hand, I could teach any sort of malicious concoctions in my N.E.W.T. potions class.

I stood up, having finished my sumptuous meal of roast beef and turnips and exited through the staff door. The dark corridor led me down through winding staircases and narrow passageways until I reached the cavernous rotunda that was the anteroom to the Slytherin Common. Tapestries of Slytherins past hung on the walls: Phineas Nigellus, Vlad the Impaler;, Salazar Slytherin himself, and our newest edition. Lucius Malfoy stood there, looking disgustingly aloof and haughty. His snake-headed cane rested against the deep amethyst of his velvet waistcoat and gloves were tucked into the front pocket. I wondered for a moment what one had to do in order to receive such a prestigious honour as being immortalised in that manner. Ah yes, donate a small fortune. A portion of the stone wall slid back, revealing a narrow silhouette in the doorway.

“Hello, professor,” a low, clear voice bounced off the cold walls of the chamber. She stepped out of the aperture, book in hand and fuchsia lips curled into a waspish simper.

“Miss Harper,” I returned in greeting. She was a tall, pale creature. Bright green eyes stared disconcertingly at me through the darkness and slender fingers toyed with a loose thread at the hem of her jumper. “Good evening.” I offered her a small nod and turned away from the willowy girl.

I was halfway across the room, thinking only of the dull, sleepless night ahead, when I felt a small pressure on my forearm.

“Professor,” she said quickly. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

I raised my eyebrows slightly and glanced down at the hand that was still perched on my sleeve.

A pink tinge flooded her cheeks, and she leaned against the curvature of the wall. “Sorry.”

“I don’t have all night, Miss Harper. I-”

“I need you to sign this,” she spouted out, cutting me off. A yellow piece of parchment that I had neglected to notice earlier was thrust in my face. I plucked the scroll from her grasp and attempted to read the messy penmanship. “Please,” the witch added.

It was dark in the room, illuminated solely by the soft, incandescent green lamps that spanned the walls. I couldn’t read it.

“What is it? I can hardly make out what it says.”

“It’s my University and Apprenticeship Application.”

I paused. “This is your U&A app?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think not. There is no chance that any university would look at this and even consider such an illegible piece of rubbish. Not even Fulham would consider it, and Fulham takes everyone.”

Evelyn Harper was a bright girl, a brilliant one perhaps, but she was lazy. Always procrastinating or rushing through things or not bothering to apply herself. She got high marks, mostly Os and some Es, but there was nothing worse, in my mind, than a person who squandered their intelligence like loose Knuts. “I would never sign my name to such a poorly conceived, slipshod document,” I hissed. “Rewrite it, and then I’ll reconsider. Good evening.”

She looked crestfallen, but I could hardly do anything about that, could I?

Upon entering my room, I hastily made my way over to the cabinet in which I housed my cordials, cognacs, and Chianti but was stopped by the sight of a large eagle owl perched on the hearth of my fireplace. It nodded in acknowledgement and popped into the dim green embers that still simmered among the ash. It had left behind a letter, sealed with green wax and a large, intricate “M” that I knew to be the Malfoy insignia, imprinted only a select number of signet rings. I broke the wax and read:


Severus,
I will be brief, as I know that any correspondence unable to hold your attention is immediately thrown in the incinerator. I plan on popping by in a few days time. Have a vital matter to discuss with you.
Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, Board of Governors

“Must he be so pompous all the time?”