Chapter Text
Ezra’s skin was always softly kissed by the sun breaking into the Hufflepuff girls’ room in the morning, every day, every year for the past six years.
As usual, a few minutes after waking up, she was already on her way to the Great Hall for breakfast, the most important meal of the day, as some wizards would say. Today was a special day: after four hours of class, all students would be free for the rest of the day because of Halloween. Though having a day off at Hogwarts was quite uncommon, it was a great opportunity for Ezra. She was looking forward to walking around the Hogwarts grounds and finding a good inspirational spot, whether for drawing, writing, or reading—anything was welcome.
Breakfast went smoothly: some apple juice here and some fresh eggs there. Even the conversations were entertaining today. The main topic was “What plans do you have for today?” A few classmates were attending some sketchy parties hosted by other students, others were planning on going to the feast taking place in the very same hall where they were eating breakfast, and some kept their plans a mystery. As the conversations came to their inevitable end, Ezra exited the hall on her way to her classes. She was more than ready. Today was finally the day she could dissolve in her own ink and her own mind without a tight schedule limiting her and her creativity.
The first class of the day was History of Magic. It had a bad reputation due to the teacher—he was a ghost, literally. This professor did not fancy teaching much, so the lectures were fatal to anyone who ever took the class. Still, it was not the norm for Ezra; she enjoyed listening, writing, and picturing everything in her mind as if it happened to her. All the ‘tales’ she could get to know and carry with her for the rest of her life, or at least the rest of the day if her memory didn’t cooperate.
Next, she had Herbology. Hufflepuffs enjoyed this class, and Ezra was no exception. A little dirt on the hands, some nice but indescribable scent in the air, and that calm, motherly voice guiding their every move. Perfect—a good and grounding time. She would never say no to this class. Too bad it didn’t last that long. One hour.
Third and final, Potions. Now, you would expect a Hufflepuff to hate this class merely because of who taught it, but Ezra didn’t. She very much liked every class; each one had at least one thing you could always enjoy. Potions had… potions, and don’t forget the knowledge! It was essential. Usually, if you made a good potion, it would have a great scent, though that’s not always the norm. There’s not a lot of consistency when it comes to a good potion; all were different and pretty much unique. A good potion could only be proven to be good if you drank it and it worked as intended, or if Professor Snape examined the color, scent, and consistency of the brew and graded you on it. Even though Ezra was not a Slytherin, she knew Snape had a good impression of her, or at least she was sure he didn’t hate her as he did her classmates. She always greeted him when she saw him, always answered his sudden questions, and, well, she didn’t have many friends, so there was no way she would be chatting or passing notes in class. Her whole attention was directed to Snape, always.
Today, she finished her brewing before the others, and there were still a few minutes left in the two-hour Potions class, meaning she could use those minutes to get a little creative. Carefully and without making a sound, she took out her sketchbook—a little, well-taken-care-of sketchbook, pocket-sized, you could say.
Snape noticed the motion and raised his head, taking a quick glance at Ezra and her now visible sketchbook. Since the beginning of her student years at Hogwarts, he had learned she fancied drawing and writing, and he had no problem with that, as long as she finished her work beforehand and didn’t disturb anyone while she did her things. The minutes flew by over the ink, and it was time to go. All the students rushed out, and she was dragged out by the rush, packing her potions supplies as fast as she could. Still, she forgot one thing—her sketchbook. She falsely remembered packing it up with her notebook.
With the classroom empty, Snape finally breathed after four hours full of moody teenagers. A day felt like a year. Lazily, he got up and took the student list, with all the names he would never remember after a few years, walking table by table while grading every potion. Everything was ‘normal’ until his eyes landed on what seemed to be a notebook. A dumb student must have left this behind.
Thirty minutes went by. The tables were empty except for the one that had a notebook he hadn’t read yet. Now, unoccupied, he took it curiously. It was covered with thick black leather and seemed old but well-taken-care-of. After inspecting the exterior, he was ready to look at the content, expecting to encounter the name of the owner, sure, but also hoping to see the notes from today’s class. Only a dunderhead wouldn’t have taken notes from today’s class and left the notebook behind.
Near the lake, in a forgotten kind of place, Ezra lay on top of a blue blanket, getting quite comfortable. After all, she was hoping to spend all day there. The grass was nice, the breeze was nice, the sun was nice—everything was in place. She was all ready to take out a book and read. She had already drawn a little in Potions class, so reading was now the priority.
Snape held the sketchbook carefully in his hands, flipping rapidly through the pages. The very first part of the sketchbook was full of half-done drawings—portraits of other students and even teachers: Professor McGonagall, Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick. Then there were drawings of landscapes, specifically Hogwarts landscapes. Whoever drew this was pretty skilled. As for the rest of the pages, he found something rather odd—they were full of him, portraits of himself. Not only drawings but also little notes about him and unfinished poems. He recognized the handwriting; it was Ezra’s… Ezra Guldemond. She had just left the classroom, hadn’t she?
His first reaction was confusion, followed by quite an uncomfortable feeling. All this time, Ezra had watched him with that much precision, and he didn’t even notice. He had been more preoccupied with the Potter boy and everything that involved, while someone actually and willingly watched him and decided to draw him—not only once but multiple times, with detail, even taking notes about him, about his physique and other aspects. Even though it was quite disturbing, deep down in his forgotten heart, it meant something, something that felt really nice, something that made him smile.
Snape wanted to return the sketchbook, and maybe someday ‘borrow’ it again, just to check on the drawings of himself, just to be sure everything went well, he told himself.
An hour and a half had passed by. Ezra was really invested in her reading—something about a man turning into a bug and being treated horribly by all his environment. It was a Muggle book, but it was really good. Ezra wondered why so many wizards had these superstitions or stereotypes about Muggles when their things were so good. Still absorbed in her thoughts, she didn’t quite realize the presence of someone else until their shadow became the reason she couldn’t keep reading.
“I’m reading, could you…?” She looked up, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion and a little anger.
“Seems like you forgot something in my classroom,” he said, extending his hand with the sketchbook in it.
Her mind still stirring in confusion, she took the sketchbook. She looked more than puzzled, not knowing what this was about, until she opened it. Her sketchbook, her sketchbook, in Professor Snape’s hands—how? She blushed in pure shame. Did he go through the pages? Did he find the drawings of him? Was he upset? Was he going to tell her Head of House about this?
“Be more careful next time. I do not intend to go all around Hogwarts looking for you again,” he said, turning on his heel and walking away, not even letting her speak again or thank him for returning it and not burning it at the mere sight of the thing.
As Snape grew further away, her eyes were fixed on him. How did this happen? How did she leave it in his classroom? Why his classroom? She went through the pages, just revising everything to be as she left them, until at the last few pages where her drawings of Snape were, she found something that she knew didn’t belong there—a note she knew she didn’t write. It was not even close to what her handwriting was or her type of parchment. It was a little piece of parchment with something written on it, stuck between the pages.
“Meet me in my office before dinner. There’s something to be discussed. - Professor Severus Snape”