A Matter of Black and White

DISCLAIMER: This story is based upon the works of JK Rowling. Anything you recognize is hers. I’m making no money off of this. I’m just having some fun adding my own little corner to the amazing world she has already created.

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CHAPTER 21—WHITE NOISE

The next week was the start of a new series of irritations for Snape. As satisfying as it was to have Dumbledore agree with his conclusion that Aurora had no business getting anywhere near a Muggle Studies classroom, the fact that the Headmaster had granted her permission to start a French Club had dampened his triumph. The new project had made her insufferably giddy—just when he was finally learning to tolerate her when she got pleasingly brooding and introverted at their lessons.

Moreover, the announcement of the new club had elicited an aggravating level of excitement in many of the students as well. On Monday morning when the posters had gone up, he had barely been able to pass through the hallways because of the all people congregating to read the signs. On Tuesday he had caught Padma Patil prattling on to her sister about what a wonderful Runes teacher Aurora was and how she was likely to make French fun as well. Snape had deducted ten points from both Ravenclaw and Gryffindor for the twins’ inattention and an additional five points from each house for the ridiculous notion that classes were supposed to be fun.

The students’ preoccupation with and anticipation for the start of the new club was only the beginning of the idiocy though. After the first meeting on Wednesday, the halls echoed with bonjours and au revoirs from the club members showing off their new vocabulary to their friends. Snape knew it was only a matter of time before they started learning enough to start writing secret notes in French and to plot all kinds of mischief without his understanding. He had therefore placed an unconditional ban on even a word of French in his classroom, and he had even taken ten points from one of his own Slytherins who had dared to mention his enjoyment of the pie à la mode at last night’s dinner.

The worst part, though, was how Aurora’s introduction of the French Club to Hogwarts had allowed her to overthrow Potter as Hogwarts’ newest celebrity. Her instant popularity had been bad enough without her having the novelty of teaching some frou-frou French. He had nearly thrown his goblet at the back of Dean Thomas’s head at the start-of-term feast for going ga-ga over the sight of the new Runes teacher. The hormonal dunderhead had actually asked Seamus Finnegan if he reckoned that all of Beauxbatons’ students were Veela.

Bloody ignorant Griffindors. Didn’t Hagrid teach them anything about Magical Creatures? Aurora Bernard was not a Veela! Sure she was pretty in an unimaginative, china doll sort of way. Sure, she left a trail of oggle-eyed men in her wake. But she was not a Veela. Snape hadn’t oggled once at her. Not once.

Now that Aurora had situated herself at the center of this ridiculous French craze, Snape had absolutely no chance to ogle at her, at least not in the Great Hall, where there were always so many students crowding around her that one could barely see her white robes in the middle of all those uniformed young fans. She was a hero to many of the unathletic students for whom the only extracurricular options had formerly been joining the inanely pointless Gobstones Club or crusading with Granger for the ludicrous cause of house-elf liberation. Still others of her little followers crooned over what a beautiful and romantic language French was. Others—both male and female—were eager to join the club simply because they were enamored with her. Even if they didn’t have her as their Runes teacher, many of the students were attracted to what they had seen of her in the Great Hall. Whenever she walked through those double doors, she always wore an extra layer of charisma that could put even Slughorn to shame. Snape didn’t know what bothered him more—the fact that her charm was even more universally appealing than his former Head’s or the knowledge that it was even more of a show than the old Slugball’s. After all his Occlumency lessons with Aurora, Snape knew that she was not always so bright and smiley and that she definitely was not always so charming. He still got the occasional headaches to prove it.

Interest in the French Club, not to mention the students’ eagerness to garner just a little attention from the staff’s latest starlet, made dinner on Saturday a particularly trying affair. A string of students had actually had the audacity to approach the staff table and ask her when the next French Club meeting would be. Had Snape not been seated on the opposite end of the table, he would have reminded the little blighters and Aurora herself that students and teachers had their proper and separate places in the Great Hall. Not everyone on staff liked being as accessible as she. As it was, he could only be grateful when the meal came to an end and he could escape to a part of the castle that was free from worshipful adolescents.

Snape was spending his Saturday evening in the medical wing—an activity which sounded far worse than it actually was. Pomfrey needed an Anti-Inflammatory Bowel Tonic, and as long as he was simply the brewer of the potion and had to get nowhere near the suffering patient in need of the medicine, Snape didn’t mind putting in a little time over a cauldron. Of course, he relished his long-awaited opportunity to work with the ever-morphing powers of the Dark Arts, but he had to admit that sometimes he still got sick of all that foolish wand waving and longed for the subtle science of potions making.

Snape unearthed a medi-cauldron from one of the infirmary cabinets and carefully laid his measuring tools and ingredients out on a table next to him. In no time at all, he had found his smooth and steady rhythm for preparing the tonic. Each potion had its own pace. Sometimes ingredients fused and evaporated in a matter of moments, in which case careful planning and quick, confident hands were imperative. Other times, potions could go bad with just a single extra particle of powder and required patience and precision. The Bowel Tonic was volatile even in its finalized form, which was why he was working in the infirmary (no transportation necessary). Preparation of this potion necessitated a steady hand. He carefully measured out each ingredient down to the last perfectly-sized rotten egg, after the addition of which he could allow the concoction to simmer for half an hour.

No sooner was he admiring the pea-green swirls of a perfect potion heating in the cauldron than the door to the infirmary opened. Damn, he couldn’t even escape the little blighters here. It was probably some homesick first year with a stomach ache, and Snape just hoped it wasn’t a Slytherin who might require his attention. When he looked up, though, he saw that the person entering was anything but a first year. Instead he observed a witch with spirals of long red hair, which framed a face with darkly shadowed eyelids and lush, red lips. Those eyes held something familiar, though he did not recognize the witch. Despite the red hair, she was most definitely not a Weasley. Not even the flirtatious young Ginny Weasley would wear the robes to which Snape’s eyes could not help but drop. The woman’s dress shimmered as a silver-white second skin, clinging to each curve that lay beneath the tight-fitting, low-cut bodice. The tiny dress fell just above her knees, revealing a couple of inches of skin between the skirt and the top of a pair of knee-high rhinestoned boots. Only somewhere in the back of his head did Snape manage to remember that strangers were not permitted in the castle this year without special permission and that he ought to enquire about her presence.

“May I help you, madam?”

“‘Madam’?” she laughed a most familiar laugh. “I thought we were past those formalities, Severus.”

“Aurora?”

She grinned. “Oh, good, you didn’t recognize me.”

“I didn’t not recognize you,” he said defiantly.

“Right,” she smirked. “Well, that’s good enough for now.”

“Good enough for what?”

“I’m going to a concert tonight with Fleur Delacour and Bill Weasley. I thought it might be wise not to advertise too much who I am in public.”

Snape’s dark eyes scanned what little there was of her dress again. “You have an odd idea of how to hide in a corner.”

“Do you like it?” she asked eagerly and spun around for him. “Don’t worry. Everyone will be dressed like this.”

Where was she going—a Gilderoy Lockhart Collection fashion show, maybe one with half the fabric?

“It’s the Zauberflöten concert,” she explained.

“Never heard of them,” he said dismissively. If she didn’t seem surprised by that, it must have been because they were some talentless, second-rate band. After all, what kind of musical ensemble would name themselves something that sounded like a very messy sneeze.

“Too bad,” she shrugged. “They’re only the best band on the Continent.”

Snape snorted. Who cared about the Continent? The Weird Sisters were good enough for him.

“The Zauberflöten are a glam rock band,” she went on. “The more sparkles the better.” She smoothed the glittering white fabric of her dress.

“And the color? Are there many Holdahexe that attend these…concerts?”

“Not exactly, but half the women there will probably be dressed like Holdahexe tonight. They’ll all be trying to catch the eye of the bass player of Waldemar Weissman.”

“That’s absurd,” Snape answered crossly. What was the point of dressing outlandishly just to catch a smile from some dull-headed rocker who would forget all about her when the tour took him to the next city?

“I agree,” she said to his surprise. With a mischievous sparkle, she added. “I’m much more of a drummer girl myself.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “You realize that we have a lesson tomorrow morning,” he pointed out. “A late night will be no excuse for your absence tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to demand any less, Severus,” she answered solemnly. She now walked over to the cauldron and peered inside.

Snape eyed her as she bent over in that tiny dress to examine what he was brewing…but only, he told himself, because he wanted to make sure she didn’t foul the potion up.

“What brings you up here tonight?” she asked, her nose wrinkling as a bubble of the tonic rose to the surface and popped to release a sulfurous scent.

“Madame Pomfrey needs some Bowel Tonic for her stores,” he answered, edging her out of the way to check on the potion. I’m brewing it for her.”

She cocked her head and watched him carefully stir twice around the cauldron. “That’s decent of you.”

“You act as if you’re surprised,” he answered wryly.

“No, but you’re the one that told me Slytherins always have ulterior motives.”

Snape bent over the cauldron to check for a change in color and mumbled something into the vapors.

“What was that?” she asked.

“I said, ‘I like doing it,’” he admitted crossly, daring her to make fun of him.

She simply nodded. “Good for you, Severus. I’m glad to see you don’t spend all your spare time perfecting your scowl.”

He sent her a look that confirmed that that expression needed no further practice.

“Severus, I’m kidding,” she laughed. “Honestly, it’s good of you to help. Let me guess…Horace won’t brew medi-potions unless he knows they’ll be given to the Minister of Magic?”

Snape snorted. “He’d make you think he deserved an Order of the Merlin for brewing a Hiccup Alleviator.”

Aurora nodded knowingly. “I’ll just be glad he wasn’t up here working then.” She went over to a medicine cabinet and started rummaging through it.

“What are you doing up here anyway?”

“Just a cut,” she answered, pulling some Healing Paste out of a drawer. She unwrapped a bandage from her right arm and gently applied some of the topical treatment to the wound. “Ouch!” she cried, dropping the jar she had been holding in her right hand. “That hurts.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “It’s an antibacterial remedy—my own recipe. The sting means that it’s working.”

“Why am I not surprised? The man with the stinging tongue makes stinging potions too.”

He sighed. “Come here,” he ordered

“Why?” she asked suspiciously.

“Just come here, and bring what’s left of the paste.” Fortunately, the jar was made of thick glass and had not shattered, but much of the paste had splattered onto the floor. Aurora picked up the container and brought it over to him. Snape Vanished the mess and said, “I suppose I’ll be making more of this tonight as well.”

“You’re the one who said he liked brewing.”

“Just give me the paste,” he said. He took the jar and then captured her arm. A jagged wound ran from her wrist halfway up her forearm. “This is more than just a cut,” he observed.

“Run-in with a Fanged Frisbee.”

Snape dipped his long fingers into the container to reach the remaining paste at the bottom. Holding her wrist firmly with his other hand, he carefully applied the medicine to her arm. “I hope you adequately punished whoever threw that thing.” Wouldn’t it be just like her to smile sweetly and say all was forgiven while she was bleeding on the floor?

“Don’t worry, Severus,” she said, grimacing as the potion started to take effect. “I draw the line at anything that leaves a scar.”

“You are not going to have a scar.” Clearly she underestimated the effectiveness of his recipe. He watched with satisfaction as the treated wound started knitting itself back together and then disappeared into her smooth white skin. “Not that you should take back any punishments.”

She gave him an odd look. “I’m glad you agree.”

“What did you do to them anyway?”

“Oh,” she said strangely absently, “I took points from each boy throwing it in the hallway—ten points apiece.” She watched him carefully as he nodded in approval and then added, “From Slytherin.”

Snape blanched and dropped her newly healed arm. “How…many boys were there?” he asked, sure he didn’t want to know the answer.

“Four.”

“You took forty points from Slytherin for a single Fanged Frisbee?” he demanded in outrage.

“Don’t worry, Severus,” she said lightly. “I confiscated the toy. At least you know they’re not going to get into that kind of trouble again.” She glanced at a standing clock in the corner. “Oh, dear, I’ve got to run. Thank you for the Miracle Paste and have fun,” she grinned, “with your Potions. I’ll get you a souvenir at the concert!”

“Just show up on time tomorrow,” he snapped and watched her scamper out the door in a flash of glittering white and improbable curves that disappeared faster than those forty points from Slytherin.

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AN: It was probably lost on Severus, but all those lustful fans of the Zauberflöten bass player are wearing white because Weissman means “white man.” Actually, Waldemar Weissman means “the great/famous white man.”

And what’s this? Severus likes the Weird Sisters? Is this one of the signs of the apocalypse?

The next chapter is entitled “Sex, Drugs, and Rock’n’Roll.” Um, yeah…stay tuned.