Promises (Temporarily on Hiatus)

“Really Severus, do calm down; you’re making far too much of this.”

“Too much of this?” I inquired through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to slip some horrific poison into the drink I was currently preparing for the arrogant prick seated on my sofa. I didn’t, of course; that would be a waste of a perfectly fine snifter of brandy.

“Yes. It’s nothing really. We’ll be here less than a month, five or six weeks at the most.”

“Forgive me for not believing your overly-honeyed words. I’m not some complacent sheep you can beguile into doing what you want.”

“Yes, well-”

“And where do they plan on housing all of you? Certainly not with the faculty or students for that matter.”

“I haven’t the slightest.”

I glared at Lucius, my eyes narrowed in mistrust as he downed a glass of my best cognac. I nursed mine slowly and relaxed as the alcohol seeped into my bloodstream, warming me considerably. “How many of you will be… evaluating then?”

“The entire Board of Governors, I suppose. Stop scowling, Severus; it will be an entirely painless experience. We’ll observe a few classes, shadow some students, inspect the grounds. Nothing to it.”

“I don’t like it, Lucius. It’s unprecedented and unwarranted.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures. If you hadn’t killed the old man in the first place-”

“If I hadn’t killed the old man, your son would be in Azkaban in some dank cell, probably being buggered by his cellmate.”

Lucius refused to take the bait. “I just thought I’d warn you about all of this, Severus. Give you a chance to shape up.” His contempt was evident and it wasn’t long before he left me to brood. This term was going to be hell if Lucius Malfoy had anything to do with it.

--/--

Evelyn Harper was tapping her feet methodically on the stone floor of my office, her hands clenching shut, then relaxing, clenching, then relaxing in time with the agitating beat of her clicking shoes. I cleared my throat, and she reflexively snapped to attention. Her ash blonde hair was cut in a blunt bob that curled just under her chin, her fringe sitting just below her eyebrows; she kept flicking it out of her eyes in a rather obnoxious gesture. I set down the papers that were her application and steepled my fingers on the desktop.

Evelyn Harper’s revised University and Apprenticeship Application was a better example of her writing prowess: she scribed some of the best essays I had ever had the pleasure of marking, but the application was a bit flowery and precocious (much like the little gamine herself) and would have to be reviewed numerous times before it met Oxford standards. Oh, I knew all about her Oxford obsession; everyone with a pair of ears and a brainstem did. Harper talked about it constantly and was quite confident in her ability to charm the examiners and admission board into overlooking what few Es she had received on her OWLs.

“Miss Harper, there will be applicants from across the globe that will have higher marks than you do,” I attempted to inform her. “Grading, especially on exams, is one of the largest components when it comes to admissions. Oxford is not going to care if you were president of the Charms club or a prefect. They don’t even look at extra-curricular activities.”

“I don’t care,” she snapped back acidly. “Once they read my application and interview me they’ll look past all that.” The girl wouldn’t tolerate anyone questioning the validity of her dream.

“King’s College and Hull are wonderful schools, Miss Harper. They’d welcome you with open arms.” I pinched the bridge of my nose in consternation and felt a vague sense of impending doom as the witch fell silent.

“King’s College or Hull?” she hissed. “KING”S COLLEGE OR HULL!?” She looked and sounded like a banshee, arms flailing and eyes bright with indignity and rage. I was quite unaware of the fact that a human voice could reach such a shrill, whining pitch.

“ENOUGH!” I commanded, slamming my hand down on the desk, causing my quill to quiver in the inkwell. “Control yourself, Miss Harper. If you don’t want my help, I have other students that would kill to be in the position you’re in now. I won’t waste my precious time and energy on an impudent brat like yourself if you refuse to behave. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes. Sorry,” she said petulantly, watching me with those glimmering absinthe eyes. When I made no reply, she relented. “Sorry, sir.”

“That’s better. Now,” I removed my spectacles from the pocket of my robes and adjusted them on my face.

“Nice lenses, sir,” she mumbled cheekily, but fell silent when she noticed I wasn’t at all amused.

My eyesight had been declining as of late, my years spent in those dark dungeons having finally caught up with me, and I hadn’t gotten around to concocting the time consuming, complex potion that would cure my myopia.

“I’ve read your application and have come to the conclusion that…” I drifted off vaguely and watched the imp squirm in her seat and scoot forward as though willing me to continue.

Pleased at the fact that she didn’t whine or prompt me, I resumed, “You may have a chance getting in. I’d like to work with you, if you aren’t averse to the idea. I’d still like you to do a few drafts and tone down the smarm that pervades your otherwise coherent and well-articulated thoughts.” The girl was beaming at me. Now, I must confess that I rarely received such admiring and fervent gazes; normally I was met with fearful squints or pure, unadulterated hatred, but never adoration as bright as this.

“Thank you, Sir!” The prancing girl practically serenaded. “I, thank- I mean.” She had become positively incoherent with gratitude and pleasure, but vainglory soon clouded her features. I became agitated; she was proud of herself for something that anyone could do: write. Of course she did it better than most, but I felt the need to humble her in some way. At a later time. A later date. I wouldn’t spoil her mirth. Harper looked as though she were going to lunge at me, her slender fingers itching to enlace themselves behind my back, catching me in a rather inappropriate embrace, so I extended my hand in a gesture of accordance. Her cool palm grasped mine firmly and shook my entire arm up and down with so much vigour I was sure she’d dislocate my shoulder. Right before I was about to wrench my arm out of her vicelike grip, she stopped.

“Once again, thank you.”

“I’ve made my corrections on the parchment. I expect the revised paper on my desk by Friday.”

“But, sir, you assigned us that essay-”

“Good day, Miss Harper.”

The witch’s pink lips twisted, and she marched over to the door, satchel slung over her shoulder and parchment tucked under her arm. She sighed, as though the strain of remaining angry was too much an effort to maintain. I felt the corners of my mouth twitch in amusement at her “dramatic” exit. With a half-hearted little salute, Harper slid out of the room, leaving me to do as I pleased for the rest of the afternoon. A glass of vin de pays would go stunningly with my new record of Tosca.

Ah, the small joys of being a cultured individual.