𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝑔𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝐿𝒾𝒷𝓇𝒶𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃 ||(A Severus Snape love story)

Fates cruelest hand

It was true I didn't get out much, but it wasn't all that bad

However, today was different. Today, I couldn't shake off the flutter of regret that danced in my body. 

It wasn't the prospect of cataloging the latest additions to the library or assisting students with their research that caused my unease. No, it was the impending date I had reluctantly agreed to with none other than Gilderoy Lockhart. But the thought of spending an evening in his company filled me with a sense of dread.

With a dramatic sigh, I embarked on the monumental task of selecting my outfit for the "date". I mean, I wasn't actively trying to charm the socks off him... was I? The chaotic mess that is my blonde, untamed hair seemed like a perfectly valid excuse to bail on the whole ordeal. But alas, I resigned myself to the inevitable fate

I dashed out of the library, determined not to be fashionably late, though I ended up being fashionably early instead. Lockhart spotted me and waved frantically from beside the carriage.

"Good evening, Lockhart," I greeted politely, extending my hand as he helped me into the carriage.

"You look positively exquisite tonight," he remarked, eyeing me as if I were a rare magical artifact.

"I look the same as always," I retorted with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, I'm just thrilled this is finally happening. I've been counting down the days," he said, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips as I stared at him, utterly Irked.

"Yes, so have I," I replied, though I couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret. He seemed oblivious, his hand finding its way to my waist, prompting an internal cringe.

After the ride, which felt like an eternity, the pub's doors opened, and the smell of alcohol took over my senses. Lockhart insisted on a table in the far back.

 "One just for us alone," he said, pulling out the chair for me. At least he was sort of a gentleman, I thought. The waiter came by, taking our order. Lockhart ordered a gin, which I took note of. I ordered my usual whiskey neat.

Lockhart jumped into his storytelling, and although I initially found myself mildly intrigued, I quickly concocted an excuse to flee to the laboratory, eager to evade his company.

 In front of the mirror, I gave myself a motivational pep talk, chanting "Just a few more hours, Calliope,"

Returning to the scene, Lockhart's smirk greeted me as I reluctantly resumed my place beside him. Despite my efforts to maintain a comfortable distance, his persistent attempts at physical contact left me continuously edging away.

the tales wore on, my interest waned drastically.

I hastily drained the last of my whiskey, seeking solace in its numbing embrace, but my escape was short-lived. Suddenly, a wave of dizziness swept over me, distorting my vision and leaving me feeling unsteady on my feet. 

Panic rising, I attempted to regain my balance, only to find myself faltering. In that vulnerable moment, Lockhart's arms caught me, drawing me uncomfortably close to him.

His voice, muffled and distant, reached my ears through the haze. "It appears the drinks have taken their toll on you," he murmured softly, his words a stark reminder of my own vulnerability.

But how could this be? I had only consumed one drink

My eyes closed before I could figure out what was going on.

—

I jolted upright, gasping, across the unfamiliar bed where I found myself. It certainly wasn't my own, that much was evident from the strange surroundings that greeted my gaze.

In a flurry, I scrambled to my feet, a sense of urgency flooding through me as I noticed the stark disparity between the attire I now wore and what I distinctly remembered from the previous night's wardrobe.

Before I could utter a word of protest or confusion, a voice interrupted my thoughts. "Oh, my dear, you're finally awake!" The voice, unmistakably belonging to Professor McGonagall, reached my ears from beside me.

"Professor McGonagall?" I questioned, my mind reeling with disbelief as she hurried over to me, her presence offering a semblance and comfort.

"Yes, dear, it's indeed me," she reassured, her gentle grip on my hands.

Before I could articulate my myriads of questions, she preemptively addressed the most pressing inquiry.

"Last night, I heard an unexpected knock on my quarters' door, and to my astonishment, I found you unconscious on the floor," she recounted, her eyes searching mine for comprehension. "Without hesitation, I brought you in and tended to your needs."

Gratitude surged within me, while my body gave her a well needed hug

"Did you see who brought me here?" I inquired; hope mingled with trepidation as she shook her head in response. "What do you recall from last night, Ms. Foxx?" she probed gently, unwavering memories flooded back, stark and unforgiving.

And then, clarity descended, igniting a fierce fury within me.

"That insufferable wretch!" I exclaimed vehemently, my anger propelling me towards the door as I stormed out of her quarters,