People Watching.

Chapter Thirteen.

The next day, Harry walked into Defense Against the Dark Arts rather late.

"Sorry I'm late, Professor Lupin, I—" Harry began.
But it wasn't Remus who looked up at him from the teacher's desk; it was Snape.

"The lesson began ten minutes ago, Potter, so I think we'll make it ten points from Gryffindor. Sit down."
Harry didn't move.

"Where's Professor Lupin?" he asked.

"He says he is feeling too ill to teach today," said Snape with a twisted smile. "I believe I told you to sit down?"
Harry stayed where he was.

"What's wrong with him?"

Snape's black eyes glittered.
"Nothing life-threatening," he said, looking as though he wished it were. "Five more points from Gryffindor, and if I have to ask you to sit down again, it will be fifty."

"Remus, Flitwick's wonder— Oh. Forgot. He's not here," (Y/n) mumbled. She eyed Harry, who was standing up. Harry looked over at (Y/n) for help. "Later," she mouthed. Reluctantly, Harry slowly walked to his seat and sat down. Snape looked around at the class.

"As I was saying before Potter interrupted, Professor Lupin has not left any record of the topics you have covered so far—"

"They've done boggarts, Red Caps, kappas, and grindylows," answered (Y/n), who had a free period during the Gryffindors' Defense Against the Dark Arts class and would often pop in. 

"Please sir," added Hermione, "and we're just about to start—"

"Be quiet," said Snape coldly. "I did not ask for information. I was merely commenting on Professor Lupin's lack of organization."

"He's the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had," said Dean boldly, and there was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the class. Snape looked more menacing than ever.

"You are easily satisfied. Lupin is hardly overtaxing you— I would expect first years to be able to deal with Red Caps and grindylows. Today we will discuss—" Snape flicked through the textbook, to the very back chapter, which he must know they hadn't covered. "—werewolves," he said, sending a cold smile at (Y/n). 

"But, sir," said Hermione, seemingly unable to restrain herself, "we're not supposed to do werewolves yet, we're due to start hinkypunks—"

"Miss Granger," said Snape in a voice of deadly calm, "I was under the impression that I am teaching this lesson, not you. And I am telling you all to turn to page 394." He glanced around again. "All of you! Now!"
With many bitter sidelong looks and some sullen muttering, the class opened their books.
"Which of you can tell me how we distinguish between the werewolf and the true wolf?" said Snape.
Everyone sat in motionless silence; everyone except Hermione, whose hand as it so often did, had shot straight into the air, and (Y/n), who was rocking back and forth, seemingly working up some kind of courage to tell Snape off.
"Anyone?" Snape said, ignoring Hermione. His twisted smile was back. "Are you telling me that Professor Lupin hasn't even taught you the basic distinction between—"

"We told you," said Parvati suddenly, "we haven't got as far as werewolves, yet, we're still on—"

"Silence!" snarled Snape. "Well, well, well, I never thought I'd meet a third-year class who wouldn't even recognize a werewolf when they saw one. I shall make a point of informing Professor Dumbledore how very behind you all are..."

"The 'student aid' has told you where this class currently is, the students themselves have told you where they are, Professor Lupin has his textbook marked with where his class is," (Y/n) snapped, ticking off her fingers. "Has the grease from your hair built up enough to clog your ears? How many times do they need to say they haven't reached werewolves yet and, for your best interest, I very much think Professor Lupin should teach that subject. Because you seem to lack a basic understanding of listening skills," (Y/n) said in a sickly sweet, very mocking tone.
The Gryffindors glanced back at her. Hermione, impressed and with her hand still in the air, looked back at (Y/n) with wide and horrified eyes. The others wore looks of admiration, glee, or gratefulness.
Snape was furious. His face looked purple and the glare he wore could definitely kill someone. Not (Y/n), though, because the sweet, mocking smile she wore was enough to challenge him. Snape broke their stare-off and marched to his desk, furiously scribbled down a note and gave it to (Y/n). She scanned over it.
"There was no name-calling, Professor," she said. "But I guess I will go to— Professor McGonagall?" she paled. "She's not my Head of House!"