home (reader at hogwarts)

fifty nine

you sit in the your father's quarters, staring out the bay window with your knees to your chest and draped in a thick dark green woollen blanket minerva had knitted your father several years ago.

you look out at the frosty grass in his back garden and at your broom as it stands abandoned post a fierce flying session in the cold, leaning on the brick wall.

were the brick walls even real?

was the garden even real?

or were they a magic illusion of the castle.

come to think of it, you weren't completely sure.

"y/n, your boots-" your father tuts, scraping his feet on his way in from the garden. "look at them."

you do, grinning at the brown slathered across the bottom and up the sides. what did he expect?

winter was here, it was almost christmas for christ's sake.

"well, a girl's got to explore." you reply.

"in a bog?" he grumbles, waving his wand and putting them out to be washed.

you laugh.

"it's almost chrismas." you say.

he hums.

you wait for more.

there is nothing but the crackling of the fire and the sound of your father removing his leather gloves.

scrooge. you think

"are we staying here?"

"we must." he replies. "we can't leave, not with quirrel here."

and don't call me scrooge.

you burst out laughing.

"you can't read my mind all the time!" you gasp.

"i can't help it when you-" he stops. "you don't tell me anything."

"you know i can't." you whine.

severus ignores you and kneels by the fireplace, getting his hands warm.

you slide off of the window and wrap two arms around him. the warmth of both him and the fireplace beside you envelop you and you sigh.

"i'm sorry, okay?" you mutter. "if i tell you it'll mess everything up."

you pull away.

"everything?" he asks.

"everything." you insist, your best serious face on.

severus lets his arms flop to his side and shakes you off.

"nobody likes you." he says. "go away, i'm busy being a- busy, i don't know- human."

you grab the nearest pillow and throw it at him and he turns around and grins before heading into his office, where you can hear, even after he's closed the door, the faintest tinkering of potion making and the scratching of a quill on parchment.

even on the weekends, your father is busy preparing school work. if he didn't bully them, the students would definetely admire him.

you take one last look in the mirror, rub a smudge of grey under your eye and put on a pair of shoes to head out to the great hall, where you're sure you'll find one of your friends out there.

heading down the teachers corridor you turn right and make eye contact with a curly haired red head with beady brown eyes and a splattering of freckles not too dissimilar to ron's.