The American Assistant (Y/N x Severus Snape)

Chapter 4 - First Day of Term

Your time table appeases you - you are teaching higher year potions. You don't mind teaching the younger students, but first years often treat potions as science projects. They never truly grasp the art behind it. Your first class of the day is with the fourth years. As you approach the potions classroom, you hum to yourself, holding a tall cup of coffee in your hand. You sip on it, coming to a slow halt, seeing the Gryffindor and Slytherin students against the wall beside the classroom. They're talking amongst themselves, holding their potion books in hand.

"Good morning, kids." You greet warmly.

The students turn their heads at you and welcomingly smile.

"Good morning, professor Reynolds." They say.

You take a sip of your coffee, approaching Harry Potter. You nod at him, noting he is tall for a fourteen year old. You're five foot seven and he is already an inch or so above you.

"Everything was alright then, after I was stunned into a tree?" You ask, with a laugh.

His eyes wicked green widen behind his ocular glasses.

"That was you?" He asks.

You nod again, laughing. Granger and Weasley look at you curiously.

"Yes, that was me. My apparel was quite different during the world cup and it was dark." You murmur.

You typically wear long, witches tunics during working hours - they're comfortable and your mother always sported them and you seem to be missing her today. You wish she could see you here, in freaking Hogwarts of all places, being an assistant to the schools most loved professor. She'd probably laugh at you and tell you to stick it out.

"We told the ministry you were innocent, but they didn't believe us." Granger explains.

You look at her now - her wild hair and semi larger teeth suit her. She looks intelligent and you briefly wonder why she isn't in the blue of Ravenclaw.

"That's alright. I appreciate you trying. They cleared me, eventually. Did you learn anything more about why they were there?"

You watch all of the students begin to form into line. You turn, looking behind you, seeing Professor Snape taking long strides towards the class. He is lacking readable emotion and doesn't bother staring at you, or the students, not even offering a good morning. He waves his hand over the classroom door, unlocking it, and swings it open swiftly. The students silently file in and take their seats. You take a step to enter as well, but Snape's hand comes up to your arm, halting you.

"Keep your introduction and assisting explanation brief. I expect you read the list of your duties." He says, shortly.

You pull your arm out of his grasp, then raise a finger to him. He eyes it, then goes back to glaring down at you.

"Do not touch me in such a manner, Snape. I am a well versed teacher - of course I've read my damn job description. I've offered an apology to you and you've rudely declined. You need to treat me with some respect as I have and will continue to do with you." You say, evenly.

It isn't like you to rise so quickly to anger. You suppose your Thunderbird is coming out: intelligent, but temperamental. Snape leans down to you and lowers his voice.

"Be. Brief."

He swings into class and makes his cloak brush against you, striding up to the top of it, standing at his podium. You shut your eyes and inhale, then strut in. You gently shut the door behind you and begin to introduce yourself.

Not much happened in any of your classes today, besides the potion syllabus and explanation of how the grades will be balanced. You've made yourself at home at the dark wooden desk in the back of the room - you think it hasn't been used in a while since it was covered in dust. Snape has sit at the desk at the front of the room all day, so he mustn't care you sit here. The chair is on wheels, faded, and lumpy, but it's pleasant enough. As the last students of the day slip out, you stand, beginning to pack up your quill, ink pot, and parchment. You slip it into your weathered satchel and pull it onto your shoulder. You glance up at Snape, seeing him with his quill in hand, his hair covering the sides of his face. He's staring down at whatever he is writing, but his hand isn't moving. You see his chest and back inflate with air and he exhales slowly. He appears to be stressed, but what from? The first day is always easiest. You slowly stride to him, gripping the strap on your bag, stopping a few feet in front of his desk.