Author's Note: Saa... what can I say about this piece? It occurred to me, at some stage, that there had to be some kind of reason that Snape is head of Slytherin house. I mean, he may be a greasy bastard but he wouldn't've gotten the position if he was totally crap at it, right? Hence this. [huggles her Snape-plushie]

Disclaimer: Sure, I own Harry Potter. Uh-huh. That's why I'm rich and famous and why Harry died a 'tragic' and 'noble' death within the first few chapters allowing the story to be taken over by more interesting and worthwhile characters. Of course, duh.

Warnings: Uh, none that I can think of. Implied Snape/someone-anyone-really-I-know-who-but-it's-irrelevant, but it's so damn vague it's not even worth mentioning.

No Rest for the Wicked

(A Tale of the Slytherins)

By Loquacia Dee

       

We are not free and the sky can still fall on our heads.

-- Antonin Artaud, "No More Masterpieces"

He was not, he reminded himself later, looking for trouble.

He never was, really, despite what certain young Gryffindors may very well think about that matter. The truth, of course, was that he merely enjoyed walking the castle at night -- after all the children had retired to their rooms, if not entirely to bed. There was something about a school at night. Something peaceful, though not-quite-right, as if the building itself was sleeping now it was devoid of lessons and running footsteps. It had, he reminded himself, been like this every night for the past umpteen years -- ever since he'd been accepted into the faculty, and how long ago now had that been -- another fact which, had it been revealed to a certain trio, might have surprised them. To find that he was not the one disturbing their nocturnal sojourns, but they his and that perhaps that fact alone had irritated him more than anything else.

He was, if nothing else, an extremely private man.

This was, perhaps, why -- when he heard the small snivelling sounds from an empty classroom -- his first reaction was irritation. That evaporated, however, when he swooped noiselessly down upon the perpetrator, only to find one of his own first years -- a small, Muggle-born girl by the name of Caroline Joyce -- huddled in a corner, sobbing. He allowed his shoe to make a small noise on the floor to announce his presence, and was rewarded by a terrified yelp as Miss Joyce caught sigh of him, looming tall and foreboding, over her.

"Professor Snape!" She was almost trembling, trying not to show her fear and discomfort. "I... I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't be here, I just..."

"Hush," Severus waved her off. Crying first years were not a new thing -- if he was being honest, he may even have owned up to being one at some point. They were especially common so soon into the new school year. It was barely the second week; homesickness and culture shock was just beginning to encroach in earnest, now that the initial excitement was wearing thin. "Come with me, Miss Joyce."

She only nodded mutely, terrified, as he swept out of the classroom, headed back down to the dungeons. She practically had to run to keep up with his long strides.

"Professor," she asked quietly. "Am I in trouble?"

"Perhaps," was the reply. And then, "Do you like hot chocolate?"

"Um... y-yes, Professor."

"With marshmallows, or without?"

"Without, thank you." He could practically feel her trying to uncover what hot chocolate had to do with punishment for breaking curfew. She was still trying to figure it out when he brought them to a stop outside his quarters, opening the door with a wave of his wand and ushering them both inside.

"Do sit," he said, pointing to a large, soft-looking chair in front of the merrily crackling fire.

She complied, and took the opportunity to look around the room. This was not Snape's office -- which was cold and strange and filled with all sorts of ominous jars -- but rather the Potions Master's private rooms. They were spacious and warm, with the log-less fire and soft furnishings, the floor covered in deep, thick rugs emblazoned with exotic, middle-eastern designs. Almost ever single wall was filled -- floor to ceiling -- with rows of shelves containing books and scrolls... and no few strange things in jars, though these seemed somehow less frightening in the current surroundings. There were also a few photographs; some containing an older couple and another featuring a rowdy group of strange-looking 20-somethings one of which, Caroline realised, was the Professor himself -- albeit some years younger. A final photo frame was blank; its occupant obviously currently visiting elsewhere. She was just beginning to wonder who was missing from the scene, when Snape put something down on the small side-table beside her chair with a dull thunk. It smelled delightfully of chocolate.

She picked it up and took a hesitant sip as the stoic professor lowered himself into the chair across from her, placing his own mug of hot black liquid beside him. The chocolate, she discovered, was possibly the best she'd ever encountered.

"But of course," Snape had said when she told him, and why not? Brewing things was the man's speciality, after all.

He allowed her to take a few more mouthfuls before asking. "Now, why weren't you in the dormitories with the other pupils?"

Suddenly, not even the chocolate tasted any good, and she set it aside with a sniff as the reality of the situation returned to her.

"Well?"

Caroline was painfully aware of coal-black eyes regarding her thoughtfully. She swallowed, opened her mouth, shut it again, then said. "Um... I..." she twisted the hem of her robes between her fingers. "It's just that..." she stole a glance upwards.

Snape took a sip of his tea; infinitely patient.

"It's the other Houses," she finally began. "They... they say things. Mean things. About Slytherin. They say that..." and here she lowered her voice down almost to a whisper. "They say that You-know-who was from Slytherin. And all the... the Death Eaters... and that they hate Mu-- Muggles and do all sorts of horrible things to them... and... and I d-don't wanna b-be like that. I don't! I don't wanna b-be evil."

Severus took another sip of tea, regarding his young charge who was, once again, reduced to a pool of helpless tears. He could feel the vein in his temple begin to throb, but when he next spoke he made sure to keep the anger out of his voice. "'They' say these things, do they?"

"Y-yes, sir."

A sigh. "They are... partially correct." He steepled his fingers, gazing over them disquietingly from under a hanging curtain of hair still greasy from the day's work. "It is indeed true that both Voldemort and many of his supporters had their origins in Slytherin, yes." His arm itched. He ignored it. "However, what many people conveniently forget is that it was not solely the case."

Caroline watched him, both engrossed and petrified by the velvety monotone. She didn't think she could have moved if she'd tried. Finally, "Why?"

"Because. Someone needs to take the blame, and better us -- hidden away down here in the cold and damp of our dungeon -- than them." He smirked, and it was possibly the most frightening thing she'd seen; cold and humourless. "Have you ever wondered, Miss Joyce, why -- when one of Slytherin's primary traits is ambition -- that we live down here, in the dankest reaches of the castle?"

She swallowed nervously, shaking her head.

"It is to remind us, Miss Joyce, that no matter where we come from, no matter what we've done before, that we still have a very long way to go indeed before we sleep. And to ensure that when we, finally, rise above this place, we don't forget what it is like to be at the bottom. Ambition, Miss Joyce, is not a bad thing so long as it remains grounded in humility. Anything else is greed, and it is only when we forget this that things will go..." -- his eyes slid sideways momentarily -- "...badly. As they have done in the past. Do you understand?"

Another nervous nod.

"Do remember that, whatever the children from the other houses may say, Hogwarts itself was one of the most... ambitious ideas of its time. Such a dauntingly huge project; who but a Slytherin -- the Slytherin -- could possibly have the gall to go through with it?" Another small smirk, but this one was -- if not exactly warm -- then at least not so cold as the one before, and it may have been a trick of the light, but Caroline swore she could see a slight glint in the Professor's otherwise dead-black eyes. She returned it hesitantly before it vanished altogether; leaving no trace whatsoever of its passage. Snape lowered his hands, folding the long, thin fingers in his lap. "Besides," he added, the gravity gone from his voice and replaced with a hint of irritation. "There are idiots in every house. They're only noticeable because they tend to be... louder than your average student."

He rose from his chair in a swirl of black and green, the firelight dancing golden across the buckles and clasps of his heavy work robes. Sensing that her time was up, Caroline quickly downed the rest of her lukewarm chocolate and rose as well, still uncertain but with a somewhat newer resolve.

"And now I think it would be best for you to return to your rooms, don't you agree? I will, perhaps, conveniently forget your nocturnal sojourn this time. If, however, it happens again..." he let the intimation hang, and Caroline nodded.

"Yes, Professor." She allowed herself to be ushered out, only stopping at the threshold to ask, "Professor Snape?"

"Nn?"

"Thank you."

He gave a curt nod. "Anytime, Miss Joyce."

He waited at the door until he could no longer hear the sound of retreating footsteps before returning to the warmth of his room. The occupant of the formerly empty photo had returned, and was grinning at him with glittering eyes, mouthing something which looked suspiciously like 'Aawww'.

Severus just scowled at the photo balefully. "Oh, do shut up."

The photo's occupant just looked innocent. 'Who, me?'

"Irksome brat." He turned, not waiting for an answer -- already knowing what it would be -- before curling back up in his chair with a quill and a sheaf of parchments. Essays, lesson plans, internal memos, letters from parents... everything he'd put on hold for tonight to take the time to ensure that what had happened before would never happen again, despite the counterproductive efforts of the rest of the school. So much to do, and so little time to do it in. Not when every piece of his preciously limited free time was taken up with consoling yet another one of his students; preventing some new crisis. It was, after all, his job. Something he was in no way paid sufficiently for, yet something he felt obliged to do anyway simply because he was the only one who could. Who else, after all, had learnt the lessons of Slytherin House in such a painfully personal way yet still lived to tell of it? The mistakes of the past needed to stay that way.

But it was late, and tomorrow's lessons beckoned.

"No rest for the wicked, I suppose."

Across the room, on the shelf, the photo merely smiled sadly.

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