FLUORESCENT ADOLESCENT ► harry potter ¹

007. The Boy Who Fell

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SCRATCH OF QUILS ON parchment filled the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom until Lyra barged in, her dark hair wild from rushing. "Sorry, 'Fessor Lupin! I was—" But she stopped short. Standing at the desk wasn't Professor Lupin. It was Snape.

Bloody. Fucking. Hell.

His menacing black eyes zeroed in on her, the disgust evident on his face. "Unfortunately for you, Miss Black, the lesson began nine minutes ago. Sit down."

Her annoyance flared, but she forced herself to bite back a retort. She looked around for an empty seat, and just as she settled in, Potter burst into the room, just as late as she was.

"Sorry I'm late, Professor Lupin, I—"

But Snape cut him off. "This lesson began ten minutes ago, Potter. Ten points from Gryffindor. Sit down."

Potter hesitated, and Lyra could practically hear the gears in his head turning. He was contemplating challenging Snape—a death wish, really.

"Where's Professor Lupin?" he asked, bold as ever.

Snape's lip curled, and his eyes gleamed with a dark satisfaction. "He says he's too ill to teach today. Sit down, Potter."

When Potter remained standing, Snape's patience snapped. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing life-threatening," Snape replied with a cruel smile. "Though I wish it were. Five more points from Gryffindor, and if I have to ask you again, it will be fifty."

Potter finally sat down, his face tight with anger. Snape, clearly pleased with himself, continued. "As I was saying before Potter interrupted, Professor Lupin left no record of the topics you've covered, but—"

Hermione Granger, predictably, couldn't resist. "Please, sir, we've done Boggarts, Red Caps, Kappas—"

"Be quiet," Snape snapped. "I did not ask for information. I was merely commenting on Professor Lupin's lack of organization."

Dean Thomas spoke up next, his voice bold. "He's the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had!"

A murmur of agreement swept through the room. Snape's eyes narrowed. "You are easily satisfied. Today, we'll discuss—werewolves."

A few groans filled the air, and Granger once again interjected. "But, sir, we're not supposed to do werewolves yet; we're due to start Hinkypunks—"

"Miss Granger," Snape's voice was deadly calm, "I believe I am teaching this lesson, not you. Turn to page 394."

Lyra flipped her textbook open, annoyance building within her. Snape's cruelty knew no bounds. She loathed how he preyed on the vulnerable. His voice cut through her thoughts. "Which of you can tell me how we distinguish between a werewolf and a true wolf?"

Lyra's rage was a living, breathing thing—hot and seething beneath her skin. Her grey eyes, usually calm and calculating, flared with a fierce light as Snape's sneering voice sliced through the classroom air. His face twisted into a mockery of concern as he shot down Hermione once again, his words dripping with cruelty and edge.

"The werewolf differs from the true wolf in several small ways. The snout—"

"That is the second time you've spoken out of turn, Miss Granger. Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all."

Lyra's lip curled into a snarl before she could stop herself. She felt the heat of a hundred stares on her back, but she didn't care. The words were out before she could swallow them, venom leaking from every syllable. "You're a pathetic excuse for a professor, Snape, you know that?" The emphasis she put on his name was mocking, dripping with disdain. "You asked a question and she gave you the answer. Or maybe you're just too dense to see that she had her hand up."