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Assistant: Title: Broken Silence
        Author: WitchImage WitchImage 
        Chapter: 1/79 
        Summary: After being expelled from an American school, you are relocated to Hogwarts for your seventh year. Two nights before commencement, you meet a tall, dark stranger in a local pub. Passions flair, and the two of you find yourselves entangled in a heated one night stand.Only afterwards, when you reach your new school, do you find out the stranger is your Potions Master, Severus Snape.Despite your professor’s guilt and reluctance, the two of you are drawn to each other, both in body and mind. A hesitant friendship begins...but neither of you are happy just being friends.A Severus Snape x Reader romance.
        Contents: Chapter 1: Destructive Decisions
    

    


  

  
  
    
     I was just bony hands as cold as a winter pole. You held a warm stone out, new flowing blood to hold.
  "Pink Bullets" - The Shins
  "EXPELLED."There’s ringing in your ears. The envelope drops to the floor, and you vaguely hear Lysander hooting for a treat, but your vision is blurry — save for the jet black squiggles on the letter’s cream colored surface. Only that one word is decipherable, bold and steady, a taunt. Expelled.This is it. They’re kicking you out.You blink, try to breathe, and move your eyes across the writing, as if doing so will make the bad news better. “We regret to inform you… ”Now there’s a rush of anger.  No they g@dd@mn don’t. You’ve been a thorn in your headmaster’s side since first stepping over Salem’s marvelous marble threshold, and they’re only too happy that you've finally f@ck@d up enough to be let go.It  was a f@ck-up; there’s no way around that. You screwed up big this time, huge, and your mom’s going to be absolutely furious. Salem School for Witches is one of the best magical academies in the country, after all. So much for that opportunity.But you weren’t  trying  to get expelled…you’d simply stopped caring. You ended your sixth year having done all the required coursework and taken the tests, and you’d recently come of age. Sneaking up to the towers after curfew to get drunk didn’t seem like the Worst Idea in the World at the time…but maybe attempting a fire spell while absolutely wasted was. Many a witch and wizard have died from attempting to create fire out of newspaper and thin air, especially the drunk ones. Widespread, documented cases of that very occurrence. Yep. Swear to god.Ok, alright, so it’s not the most volatile spell, which only makes your botched attempt all the more fascinating and embarrassing.A third of Salem’s tower wall was blasted away, which instantly attracted a lot of attention to a very incriminating scene: ten broken bottles of firewhisky, four passed out, slightly singed students (three of whom were boys), a number of less-than-legal items...And you. Swaying and bewildered, standing over it all, smoke still streaming from the tip of your wand.You were suspended immediately, long-term action pending. But it’s not pending anymore. Expelled. Jesus. What is your mom going to say?Heaving a sigh—close to tears but too stubborn to admit it—you slump downstairs with the letter in hand. This is going to be a fun conversation.Severus Snape isn’t exactly looking forward to the next academic year.Last term was straining, to say the least. That mess with Black’s escape from Azkaban, not to mention the werewolf’s presence on the grounds...Snape is tired, mentally and emotionally from it all, and summer has flown; suddenly it’s cresting August, and Autumn leaves will soon start to fall. But will the subsequent year be any better, any calmer, any less  frantic? Definitely not. No, instead the castle will be teeming not only with the Hogwartsian mass of dunderheads, but with insipid French and hostile Bulgarian dunderheads as well.Oh yes, and Karkaroff will be there too. Bl@@dy  excellent. It seems, nowadays, that the harder Snape tries to forget his past and everyone in it, the more often they spring up out of the woodwork to taunt him. And of course, Harry Potter, the most glaring taunt of all, is the catalyst wherever trouble goes. Ah, but that brings up the one and only bright side to the Triwizard Tournament being held at Hogwarts this year: at the very least, amidst the hullaballoo these ludicrous games will generate, Potter will not be the center of attention. At the very least, Snape will be able to occupy his thoughts with something other than the dark occurrences surrounding Lily’s son. And perhaps the boy’s incredible ego will take a blow from it. Perhaps he’ll even manage to keep his foolish little nose out of other people’s business.No, that last is entirely too much to hope for.The shrill whistle of the teapot shakes Snape from his reverie, and he closes the book he abandoned on his lap, rising from his worn-leather armchair to head for his cramped kitchen. He’s prepared a brew—already sitting in a strainer at the bottom of his teacup—that might help him sleep, recover some of the energy he’s lacking. Pure and simple rest is the strategy this week, now that his lesson plans are complete. Next Monday he’ll be Apparating into Hogsmeade, and if he’s as fatigued then as he’s felt for the entire summer, things might go sour rather quickly.Snape watches steam drift up from the flow of water he pours into the mug, the vapors of the heated herbs already soothing his overactive head. He raises the cup to his nose, breathing deeply, trying to infuse the concoction with the power running through his fingertips. The world of potion making can be extremely specific, with drastically different results from something as small as stirring clockwise as opposed to widdershins. But he likes the subtleties, and he likes that brewing can be vaguer, more shadowy, improvisational. This base sleeping draught, for example, has simply been thrown together with herbs from his store, and he is eager to discover its effects. What kind of sleep will it be? Dreamless? Vivid? Lucid? Deep?He tips the cup to his mouth.A shock of pain streaks through his left forearm, and it startles him so profoundly that he lets go of the mug. The tea crashes to the floor, spraying hot water and soggy herbs all over the shins of his dark slacks. Confused, angry and more than a little worried, Snape rips up his sleeve and stares, hardly believing his eyes.His Dark Mark. Is he imagining it, or is it darker now than it was a few days ago? Usually, it’s merely a scar, light even against his pale arm. But now...is it a bit more like a bruise?And the pain...was it simply some kind of nerve spasm, associated so deeply with the Mark that he saw something which wasn’t there? He can’t imagine—can’t even begin to imagine—that the snake was really just wriggling on his arm, moving its head in and out of the eyes of the death’s head. His Mark has been inactive since the Dark Lord’s fall—it never twinges, moves or even  itches.  So what the hell was  that  about?If he didn’t imagine it…he doesn’t want to think about the consequences. Does it merit a letter to Dumbledore in any case?Moving back into his study, tea-less, irritated and thoroughly unnerved, Snape grabs a dark bound notebook from his desk and sinks into a chair. No, the headmaster doesn’t need to hear about it every time he has a pain in his arm, but he thinks he should record the occasion lest it prove to be significant. Just the date, the time, a brief description…He looks down at his Dark Mark again. He used to like it, back when he first got it—foolish naivety of youth—but needless to say, now it is a stigma. It doesn’t allow you to forget. Snape has considered a particularly strong self-inflicted Obliviate countless times, just to erase memories of the past, but while the tattoo still mars his skin, he knows he will always recall.
   As you deserve. It should haunt you for the rest of your life. 
He sits in silence for a long moment, eyebrows deeply furrowed, telling himself everything is alright. It was a nerve pain or the like—if the same thing happened in his right arm, he wouldn’t think twice about it. And the illusion of movement in his Mark was simply caused by shadow, by the rippling of tendons under his skin. There is nothing to be concerned about...“Ah!" The sound of his own exclamation surprises him nearly as much as the sudden throb in his arm. He lurches forward in the chair, grasping the base of his elbow, focusing all his attention on the writhing snake, on the powerful—if brief—rush of pain. This is  not  his imagination.He flies quickly from his seat, upsetting the inkwell balanced on the armrest, and strides to the window to rip aside the curtain there. He furiously searches the dark skies, wondering if the sign will be there, too. But no movement mars the purple-blue of the clouds; no unnatural, magical light has been projected against the atmosphere to announce the presence of the once-proud Death Eaters. Snape lets the drape fall from his thin fingers and presses them against his forehead, eyebrows furrowed. He drops his gaze to his forearm, but the snake doesn’t move again.  What is going on? Things like this are not simply happenstance. There  has  to be a reason…Snape turns on his heel in a flash, a bolt of insight making him rush to where he discarded his morning  Prophet  on the side table.  What day is it? The front page news tells him what he needs to know. Of course. The Quidditch World Cup was today, the largest multinational collection of witches and wizards for four years. The perfect place to do a bit of terrorizing, ideal for attention loving Death Eaters wishing to inform the world that they are still among them.Was someone trying to call comrades? If so, the attempt was botched and greatly rushed—sloppy, but surely a sign of one of the Dark Lord’s supporters. Only they can summon each other. A deeply ominous feeling comes over him then, one that is becoming more and more frequent over the past months. Dread. Slow, creeping dread.Sneering despite himself at the smiling faces on the front cover of the  Prophet —wondering if there aren’t screaming, terrorized Quidditch fanatics somewhere in Britain—Snape throws the newspaper in the bin. He sits heavily at his desk, reaching for his quill and a long sheet of parchment, and starts to strategize exactly how he will phrase this to Dumbledore.“Just like your mum, always leaving things to the last minute.”You haven’t seen your father in person for five years, yet he still thinks he has the right to act as though you are close. When you stumble off the plane into Heathrow, for instance, he nervously fumbles toward you, this big goofy grin on his narrow face, and enfolds you in his freakishly long arms. That isn’t so bad, but then he starts cooing about how much you resemble your mother, how beautiful you are, how proud he is of your academic success thus far (you found a long time ago that school is one of your talents. It comes naturally, if you forget those unfortunate extracurricular mishaps.) Your father takes your talent as  his  personal strength, as though it reflects his astonishing paternal techniques.No…now, really, that isn’t quite fair…Most likely, he takes it to mean he’s an extremely gifted, mighty wizard, and he passed on this trait to his only child. The terrible thing is that you can’t entirely discount this. Your mother and relatives on that side are No-Majes, after all. You only have your father to thank for any raw, genetic power.
   Too bad he's never been interested in fostering a relationship with me. 
You really have no desire to be here with him at all. You haven't seen him regularly since you were five, staying in Britain when your mom moved you to America, and you stopped missing him long ago. It isn’t your choice to come to England. You’d much rather be home. But your mother was very firm.“You’re an adult now,” she said harshly when you told her about the expulsion. “So why are you still acting like a child? And you’re a witch! I don’t want to know what could happen if you become a delinquent, much less run around with a wand but no school to keep you grounded. I don’t want to do this to you, [First name], but you need to learn a lesson. I’m sending you to live with your dad.”At the time it felt like being put on death row. Now, with your dad chattering in your ear, it feels more like twenty-five to life. He hasn’t managed a single visit in over four years, refusing to use No-Maj technology or get on a plane, and you’ve gotten fairly bitter about it.But he has a point in the “last minute” thing. School starts in only a few days. You’ll barely have enough time to shop for supplies, much less get accustomed to England.You look over at your dad, who is grinning in a surprisingly endearing way; indeed, he hasn’t stopped smiling since you got off the flight. That was an hour ago, and after a brief lunch in a tiny tavern, you’re walking side by side down a cold, wet—but absolutely charming—lane lined with pubs and bookstores.  “I wanted to say goodbye to my friends,” is all you can think to say.Your dad’s smile falters as he looks down at you.“I’m sorry, love,” he says earnestly. “I know it wasn’t your choice to come here. Though I can’t say I don’t love seeing you.”“I know,” you mutter, totally at a loss. Your father really is trying; you can see that. But bitterness remains, coating the back of your throat, making your tongue sharper than it should be. You have to keep swallowing jabs at him. Much as you want him to understand your pain over his absence, you don’t want to blatantly hurt him.“And you’ll like Hogwarts, I think,” your dad continues, scratching the light stubble around his chin. He’s grown out his hair a bit, and it’s easy to see how closely the color and thick strands match yours. “I did. Best seven years of my life, really. If you get into Gryffindor, tell the fat lady hello from me.” His crooked grin tells you you’re supposed to giggle or something. Instead, you shoot him a blank look.“What’s Gryffindor, some kind of club?”He chuckles. “No, no. It’s a Hogwarts house…sort of an academic family. Didn’t have those at Salem, did you?”“No,” you reply sullenly. “It’s too small.”You arrive at a diminutive pub, shabby and dim-looking, squashed between two taller, more modern buildings on either side—not that London is particularly modern when it comes to architecture. The sign above the pub’s entrance proclaims that it is called the Leaky Cauldron, which seems rather conspicuous for a wizarding establishment on a No-Maj block. It’s probably hidden visually from them.Your dad steers you toward it as he continues to explain the stupid housing system. You aren’t particularly excited about it. “There are four of them: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin and Ravenclaw.” He pushes open the establishment’s grimy wooden door and ushers you into the dark barroom, lit only by candle and absolutely vacant, save for a hunched old barman polishing bottles. “You’ll probably be sorted into one for the year, so you have a dormitory to sleep in. I don’t know, really; I’m not sure what they do with transfer students.”You have to subdue some biting remarks about British educational naming conventions. Come to that, what kind of ridiculous name for a school is  Hogwarts?   There you go, being overly critical again.“Hallo, Tom!” your father hails the barman—bald, broken smile, thin arms. He raises the glass he’s cleaning in response, eyes darting curiously toward you. Your father wraps an arm around your shoulder, but you don’t lean into it. “This is my daughter, [First name]. She’s spending her seventh year at Hogwarts…kind of an exchange trip.”Well, at least he makes it sound good. If you put it like that, this whole experience almost seems impressive, like you’re choosing to study abroad as opposed to being expelled from one school and begrudgingly accepted by another. You wave at Tom; his smile gets softer. “Didn’t know they did that there,” he replies, his accent different from your dad’s… Cockney? East End? Are those the same? Is that even his accent?“Special exceptions.” Your dad winks. Special exceptions indeed. Your father’s high-paying, respectable job at the British Ministry of Magic has a lot to do with your acceptance; was he not alumni, made generous annual donations and kept on good terms with the headmaster, you probably would not have gotten in.“We’re just going for her school supplies now…only a few days till commencement, after all!” Your dad claps his hand on your shoulder, and you grimace at the nodding barman, who waves you toward a door in the back. You’re not exactly sure what to expect. Your father told you that you’re visiting a wizarding marketplace, all the stores clustered together, forbidden to No-Majes. In America—at least, in the large city you come from—magical shops hide behind mundane facades in plain buildings along the street; you can shop for jeans and get potions ingredients in the same trip. You have a feeling this will be quite the culture shock.Through the pub’s back door is a tiny courtyard surrounded by high walls, the dead thorns of scarce wild roses strung over the tops, shifting in the breeze. Moss creeps between cracks in the brick. You stand, arms folded across your chest to brace against the cold, as your dad approaches the far partition and taps it with his wand. Slowly, in response to his touch, the bricks begin to slide out of place, gathering themselves in a wonderful little enchantment to form an archway. You raise your eyebrows, impressed by the simple beauty of the ritual, and wait until the new doorway is complete.Then you get your first look at Diagon Alley.'
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