The Assistant || Severus Snape x Reader ||

Chapter 5: Opening Up

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A/N - Just a reminder, this story isn't completely canon with the HP series! Some details are modified for the sake of the story.

"Two sugars, right?"

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The next few days went by, and you weren't speaking with Snape.

What happened with Neville's tutoring session was inexcusable, and you were still annoyed. The ultimate silent treatment was your consequence of choice, and it was a game you could normally play all day long. Even during your Advanced Potions class, you refused to answer questions aloud. He had really pissed you off, and you wanted to make sure he knew it. 

As angry as you were, you found it more and more difficult to give him the cold shoulder. You craved conversation and interaction with him. It was only a matter of time before you cracked...or before he gave in first.

Professor Snape obviously had noticed your behavior, and unbeknownst to you, he also had a desire for verbal interaction. It was evident that you were upset, and while he would never admit he was wrong, he knew how to get himself back on your good side.

"I thought you wished to make conversation while grading." His deep voice bellowed from where he sat across from you.

The scratching of your quill ceased for the brief moment you took to shoot him a knowing look, before returning to grade Hermione Granger's Potions test. It was dead quiet in the teacher's staffroom, and the silence was (as you had mentioned it previously) painfully awkward. You had wished there was another professor in the room to break the tension, but alas, it was early in the morning and no one was stirring yet. It made grading so monotonous and dull when nothing was said, but that put a dent in your "deny Snape any and all attention" plan. 

"I suppose you've grown to prefer quiet grading?" He asked, knowing good and well you hadn't.

You huffed dramatically, setting Hermione's perfect (as expected) test into the pile of tests that had been graded. You plucked an ungraded test belonging to Ron Weasley.

This one would take a while.

"No, but I don't have any desire to speak to you." You grumbled, already marking Ron's first answer wrong.

Snape gave himself an internal victory. This was progress. He wasn't looking at you, but listening to every word, gauging your expressions.

"All because of Mr. Longbottom?" He pressed on.

"Neville didn't do anything wrong. You're just a prick." You snapped back.

His head shot up at that. The second the words left your mouth, you regretted it. There was no need for you to disrespect him like that. He was still your professor no matter how irritated you were.

"[Y/N]," He said sternly. "Regardless of how unhappy you are with me, I won't allow that sort of language to slide."

You sighed. He was right. You stopped your writing once more and looked to him.

"You're right. I'm sorry," You apologized, suddenly feeling much calmer. "But in order for Neville and the rest of your failing students to get better, it would be best if you stayed out of the way. Unless you're requested by myself or the student."

Reasoning with him was often an uphill battle. You wanted this assistant thing to work because you had already gotten a glimpse of how it could work. But he needed to be fair and give as much effort into this as you were. Professor Snape, for once, wholeheartedly agreed. Now that the issue was settled, the conversation took a more casual turn.

"The first Quidditch match is this weekend." You announced proudly.

"Yes. All the Houses have been training especially hard this year." Snape elaborated, making a displeased face at one of Seamus Finnigan's answers.

Everyone knew Quidditch was a huge deal at Hogwarts. You had seen Snape at a few of your matches over the years, but you wondered just how into the sport he really was. He surely had probably never played a day in his life.

"I can't say I'm surprised. Especially with the big upset last year." You said, standing to stretch your legs for a minute.

There were about ten tests left to grade, but considering you didn't have to be anywhere, you had time to spare. There was a counter on the back wall of the staffroom where professors and staff were enabled with coffee, tea, and other treats. 

"Coffee?" You asked, approaching the countertop.

"Please." He answered simply.

"Two sugars, right?" You replied.

"Mmhm." He confirmed.

You couldn't help but smirk. You had memorized his coffee order. You really had been around him a lot.

"How is your knee holding up these days?" He asked, referring to an injury you sustained your second year playing Quidditch.

Your hand stopped stirring the sugar into his coffee. 

He remembered that? It had ended up being a bigger deal than anticipated, but the fact that he remembered was surprising. This was, by far, the most comfortable conversation you'd ever had with him. It was rather nice. You resumed with preparing his coffee.

"Only hurts when it rains," You admitted. "Pomfrey says it's a miracle I was able to get back on the field, so I have to be careful. I didn't think I'd ever play again after that."

You handed him his coffee, sitting back down to finish grading Ron's test. He barely passed it.

"Is that your biggest fear?" He questioned, sipping his coffee.

"Not playing Quidditch? I mean, I love it dearly, but it's not my boggart or anything, if that's what you're asking."

He was listening intently, suddenly not interested in grading anymore.

"What frightens you the most?" He asked.

He was directly, but indirectly asking what your boggart was. It was a very personal question and not many people were the most comfortable answering. You likely would've been fine with it, but your mind went blank at the question. 

What was your biggest fear? You hadn't ever had the liberty to discover your boggart, so you had no clue. Was losing Quidditch for good the thing you were most afraid of? The flip inside your stomach pushed towards no. Perhaps you had yet to discover your biggest fear.

"Well...what about you? What are you most afraid of?" You asked, turning the question on him.

For the slightest moment, a flicker of sadness crossed his face. He knew what it was. He had carried it with him for over a decade. It was protected within his heart, disguised with the cold, hard, and hateful demeanor he had worked so hard to maintain. He wasn't quite ready to let that shield go. It made him feel safe, although miserable at the same time. He was reluctant to speak, which you took as his most polite way of refusing to answer.

This conversation as a whole was a step in the right direction, so you didn't pry. You both resumed grading, changing the subject. You pushed through grading, sighing with relief when you finished the last test which happened to be Neville's.

Much to your delight, he passed his test.