DEMONS ➤ HARRY POTTER AU

nineteen ; basil is a genius

She once said that hell would be a luxury; for anything would be better than idly sitting in the Potions dungeon, waiting to accept her fate of being an absolute failure with a caldron. The changing of colours, the chopping of plants she has never heard of and silly wand wavering, none of it made any sense. This was beyond fantasy, no, Wanda knew this was beyond madness. 

The words were written in latin, always latin. Words that did not roll off her tongue like everyone else's, and her mind was working twice as hard to put together sentences which only left her cheeks glowing red from the embarrassment of her pronunciation. She, a girl who learnt English from sitcoms, did not know latin. 

"Hey, you need to say the incarnation now." Basil said softly to her, "I would say it for you, but Snape is watching."

She wasn't lying, his black beady eyes seemed to never drop from her. It was creepy and one of a master of manipulation. She felt no pity for her professor, no desire to know his story, and why his eyes were a shade darker than anyone else, or the reasons his mouth muscles ached when he forced a smile. She had no sympathy for those who force children into a world of war. He was no better than the rest of them, expecting children to carry their burdens to better his own future.

He was no different than Albus. 

The thought of the despicable man made her blood run hot. Since she stormed into Albus' office,  no one had mentioned her actions or the red glow from her hands. Wanda knew they all thought it to be a trick of the light, she wanted to think them idiots, but how could she when the magic she held would bring masters of death to their knees.  

"I can't-" Wanda said hushly, "Please Basil?" She begged.

A deep breath left Basil's mouth, as he muttered the words under his mouth, praying silently that the embodiment of death itself would not not use this as an opportunity to embarrass the two Slytherins any further. They were wrong... as usual.

"Miss Maximoff," He begun dryly, "Why is Mr Octans... doing your spell-work?" He asked, his voice low and drawling on each and every syllable, "You're required to say the words," His lips curled, "Unless you have special provisions? Potentially your incompetence stems from your birth roots?"

The class room was silent, and it remained the same deafening silence as Snape seemed to be pleased with his small comment. Pleased, that he, a man over thirty years old, had the authority to bully a young girl like Wanda. 

With her mouth tightly shut, refusing to give him any glory in his harassment. She knew the other students turned their heads to see their potion professor belittle a Slytherin student. Instead of her reds glowing red, as he had desired, Wanda's fingers did. A small warning. The contrast of the dull, yet unusual, redness to the top of her fingers to the ghostly white knuckles as she clenched her fists.

"Do tell Miss Maximoff," he continued, "Where did you come from?"

Her eyes met to his. Forgetting to even watch her caldron, as the potion's warm orange colour had turned into a marmalade yellow; she would be marked a fail. But she did not care. The man played a dangerous game of talk, for someone who was a lapdog to Albus, as well.

She did not reply.

"Do students usually ignore their professors?"

Wanda's eyes snapped from Severus Snape to the man in the doorway, dressed in all black: black pants, black turtle neck, black blazer. His hair, just as black as Snape's, but ever-so-slightly less greasy. It was his eyes that killed her, sharp as a blade.

There was something dangerous about his green eyes. They screamed of not the gentle leaves in trees, but the weeds that cut your legs.

A voice so sharp.