A;adkpafkogjeg. Dudes. I've been waiting for a very long time for this fic to be posted. So I just need to tell you that if you are in HP fandom or if you're not and you like Snape, you should go read this fic. It's about Snape returning to Hogwarts to teach at the end of the first war, written by the extremely talented ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tofsla . It's got one of the best Snape characterizations I've read in a while, and is funny and sad, and all the good things.
To demonstrate, here's a snippet:
tofsla . It's got one of the best Snape characterizations I've read in a while, and is funny and sad, and all the good things. To demonstrate, here's a snippet:
"Such touching concern," he says -- indifferently, he hopes, but he suspects that he sneers. Sneering implies that he is irritated. He is irritated -- but it would be nice not to show it. "Has Dumbledore set you to be my minder?"
"I'm sure you're quite old enough to mind yourself," she says, tart. It is not, precisely, a denial. Of course not. "However, one must help one's colleagues however one can. I am quite certain," she says, "that you would do as much for me, were it noted," she says, "that I had missed dinner three nights in a row."
It is an art, the way she speaks; that carefully placed emphasis that can make one feel eleven years old again. Too grubby and too surly to pass muster. Too Slytherin, quite possibly. He scowls. Regrets scowling. Blank, blank, blank. "Of course."
Her eyes flick over him, note the dust that smudges his robes and his hands, his scuffed boots. No, certainly not fashionable. What is one meant to do with fashion in a storecupboard? Still, something about the whole does not meet with her approval, he feels.
"I'm sure you're quite old enough to mind yourself," she says, tart. It is not, precisely, a denial. Of course not. "However, one must help one's colleagues however one can. I am quite certain," she says, "that you would do as much for me, were it noted," she says, "that I had missed dinner three nights in a row."
It is an art, the way she speaks; that carefully placed emphasis that can make one feel eleven years old again. Too grubby and too surly to pass muster. Too Slytherin, quite possibly. He scowls. Regrets scowling. Blank, blank, blank. "Of course."
Her eyes flick over him, note the dust that smudges his robes and his hands, his scuffed boots. No, certainly not fashionable. What is one meant to do with fashion in a storecupboard? Still, something about the whole does not meet with her approval, he feels.
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