MMLF's General Drabbles
Drabbles unconnected to AlwaysSnape weekly challenges.
Title: The Art of Being Wrong
Characters/Pairings: Severus Snape
Rating/Warnings: General
Summary: Severus Snape finds himself being wrong
Severus Snape hated being wrong, especially in the evening and especially in his private dungeon. There, he was barricaded by scores of potion vials on wooden ledges, books huddled on shelves, cauldrons that bubbled and hissed, with a green fire crackling at the other end. It was heaven: the worst place on earth to be wrong.
It was a Gryffindor Potions essay that had caused tonight's mortification. To be precise-- for he loved precision-- an essay by Granger. First name began with an h or something. Hermione Granger.
In his first Potions class that year, he had assured Slytherin and Gryffindor students alike that he could teach them everything if they weren't dunderheads. But he had spoken with a quiet confidence as he watched the sea of clueless faces. Barring Draco Malfoy, there was no sign of intelligent life. Another group of dunderheads, then.
To nobody's surprise, he had spent the majority of this evening in quiet triumph as he marked pitiful essay after pitiful essay. His favourite grade was a Saturday detention at eight for poor work. Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson had earned these honours first, Goyle especially for plagiarising The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. To be fair, Goyle wasn't the only one.
By the time Snape reached Granger's essay, his quill was poised to strike again. So what if she had brewed an effective cure for boils? Draco had done the same.
The fact that Granger's parchment was filled with a neat hand didn't bother him either. She had probably padded her essay with fluff like all First Years, or she too was a plagiarist.
Alas, neither explanation was true! With increasing mortification, Snape was forced to give marks, no matter how hard he tried to deduct them. He was forced to express the most perverse emotion in his opinion: astonishment. He was even forced to admit that a Gryffindor might not be the usual dunderhead.
Merlin forbid!
He stabbed his quill on his desk, leaving red blotches as ink seeped from the nib. Well, well. At least this Granger girl wasn't a Potter disciple. That would explain her intelligence. Provided Granger didn't convert to Potter worship, he was duty bound to push her a little, introduce her to new challenges. For all of her intelligence, Granger had a bookish understanding of Potions. She needed more creativity.
Of course, the next time that Snape taught Potions, he saw Hermione Granger enter, deep in conversation with Potter and the Weasley boy.
Oh well.
Hope never lasted long.
Snape, how your hopes are dashed 😹😹, it's now your job to save Granger from that rascal Potter 😼
Title: Riddle in the Walls
Characters/Pairings: Tom Riddle
Rating/Warnings: General
Summary: Tom Riddle and the Basilisk.
Tom Riddle, enigma of Hogwarts. Tom Riddle, greatest Legilimens the Wizarding World had ever known. Tom Riddle, descendant of Hogwarts founder Salazar Slytherin.
The tall boy dressed in night black and emerald robes was pressed against a stone wall, watching fat drops of rain spatter and slither down a window pane. Others would have winced at the odour of rusty iron and lichen; they would have hesitated to press their ears against the damp stone walls.
Not Tom. Damp, cold, and murkiness appealed to him in general, all the more so considering what lay deep within these castle walls.
A beast of a serpent with gleaming, jet-black coils, and eyes with the power to kill. A beast that could only be summoned by Tom Marvolo Riddle, the one who had gone further than most in resurrecting Salazar Slytherin's dreams.
Yes, Tom Marvolo Riddle: Master of the Basilisk.
He pressed his pale ear against the stone with bated breath. For a moment, complete silence.
And then he heard it.
Masster...
The voice was cold as steel and reverberated through his skull. The sound of raindrops was obscured for a moment, and only returned as a feeble echo.
I am here. Tom's thin lips barely moved, but he knew the beast heard. He did not speak English, but Parseltongue, the tongue of serpents. It was just one of many gifts he had inherited from Salazar Slytherin.
Come... come to me...
A thrumming sound from within the castle's bowels made him jump. His pale skin was flushed for a moment, his eyes affected by a flash of surprise like lightning briefly splitting clouds. But he recovered quickly. Salazar himself never feared the beast under his control. Tom, on the other hand, had taken risks.
The hissing grew louder, making his ears ring, but he only leaned closer. A cobweb from the ceiling brushed his nose, which he neither saw nor felt. His mind had wandered back several nights, when he had sat in Headmaster Dippet's office, doing his best to appear concerned and grieved over the death of dumpy Myrtle Warren.
Professor Dumbledore had been there, his auburn hair gleaming in the weak candlelight, but his blue eyes exuded a far stronger light. Dumbledore had paced Dippet's office, his boots making a steady click-click on the stone floor. It was like a pendulum of judgement, and Tom would be lying if he claimed he hadn't clenched every muscle in his body, even though he was confident of escaping undetected as pudding-face Myrtle's true murderer.
Silly old bint, gazing into the eyes of a Basilisk.
Meanwhile, Dippet had promised him a trophy if he claimed Myrtle's death was a freak accident.
Tom smiled.
But when he remembered Dumbledore's eyes again, his smile vanished. That man... Shrewd didn't even begin to describe the professor. Tom still lay awake at night remembering those piercing blue eyes.
As if sharing his thoughts, the Basilisk spoke again.
Rip... tear... KILL.
The stone wall throbbed now, each slab bending and trembling. Tom's fingers tingled. Sweat trickled down his sharp nose. No beast, not even the dreaded Basilisk, could resist a Slytherin's call.
Then he heard muffled protests further down the corridor. A growl, voices that pleaded, voices that ordered. He heard scuffles and knocks. It must be that disgrace, Hagrid, the only boy foolish enough to be caught with a monster at the very time that numerous pupils had been attacked, one fatally. Hagrid was indeed the perfect scapegoat for Myrtle Warren's untimely death.
Dumbledore was right, though; how could Dippet seriously believe that discombobulated giant responsible for a perfect murder? All who embraced wizards with impure blood paid for that decision with the weakening of their mental faculties.
But no matter.
Tom turned back to the wall and stroked a stone with his slender finger. It wasn't affection, wasn't tenderness, or so he told himself. It was a command, but one given with what he could vaguely describe as joy. A controlled joy that made his thin lips quirk upwards and his black eyes gleam. Thanks to Hagrid's expulsion, the school would appear safe again, and he could spend his holidays here at Hogwarts.
The hissing died down.
For the remainder of that rainy afternoon, Tom Riddle and the Basilisk shared a companionable silence while Hagrid's wails echoed all the way outside.
