#professor sharp x mc | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

animasola86 · 1 month

Text

A Demonstration of Power and Support

Notes: This is a continuation of Scars and Peace and Comfort, but can be read individually.

Pairing: Aesop Sharp x f!reader (with a face scar)

Genre: Fluff/Smut // Words: 6.3k // [READ ON AO3]

Synopsis: He gave you confidence, you gave him a bad case of jealousy.

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Size difference. Age gap. Established student/teacher relationship. Jealousy. Rough sex.

A Demonstration of Power and Support

There it was again. That giggle that made his blood boil and his trousers tighten. Looking up from his desk, he saw you laughing with the boys you shared a potion station with. You were happy, smiling, giggling, enjoying yourself, and seeing you like that should make him happy too, but it wasn't you he was glaring at, it was those boys who kept engaging with you, smirking, joking, flirting.

He knew there'd be a downside to your newly acquired confidence. Others would notice it too. And even though he was proud of you for wearing your scar with so much pride now, it pained him to see you with other men, other boys, who would look at you the same way he looked at you, and he hated them and he hated himself for not being able to control his emotions better.

He called you out by your name, the formal way he hadn't called you in so long. You stiffened immediately, the giggle dying in your throat as you turned around to him, a deep blush on your cheeks. “Focus on your potion!” he told you sternly, his gaze dark, his usual demeanour, really, but it made your stomach turn because he was never like that with you. Never, not even before you were more than student and teacher.

You lowered your head, and he saw your lips quivering. “Yes, professor,” you said docilely. “I'm sorry, professor.”

His heart broke a little when he saw you so defeated, the happiness wiped straight from your beautiful face as you returned to your cauldron, staring into it, as you forced yourself not to get too emotional over his unexpected outburst.

You even ignored the boys around you now. Despite feeling bad for calling you out publicly, he watched with grim satisfaction how his students returned to their work. There was no more giggling.

After class, he sat at his desk, sunken over essays and other papers, when he heard quiet footsteps echo through the empty classroom. “No office hours today,” he said gruffly without looking up. He was definitely not in the mood to deal with any stupid questions right now.

“I'm sorry,” a timid voice replied, and he looked up quickly to see you standing a few feet away from the table, your hands clenched in front of you, your eyes glued to the floor. You were about to turn around again, your face sunken, hurt by his rejection, but he quickly extended a hand towards you.

“Wait...” he called with a heavy sigh, hating himself even more for being... who he was.

You looked up at him, biting your lip before you slowly walked closer, staring at his hand. Your eyes finally met his, dark and intimidating, and you hesitated before you placed your small hand into his larger one.

He quickly closed his fingers around it and pulled you towards him. A gasp escaped you, and your eyes widened slightly. You stopped next to his chair, shoulders still slumped, as you awaited another lecture.

But he just squeezed your hand gently, his dark gaze wandering over your face. He was tempted to raise his other hand and caress your flushed cheek and your scars, but he was well aware that his classroom might be empty, yet the door was open, and despite wanting to show everyone who you belonged to, he couldn't. He never could, not here, not anywhere in public.

And that was what hurt the most.

“I'm sorry,” you said again, your voice so quiet and fragile. “I didn't mean to... disrupt your class...”

He groaned, rubbing his tired eyes. “Please, forget about that. I shouldn't have called you out like that. I'm sorry,” he added, looking up at you from his seat as his thumb rubbed over the back of your hand. “I suppose I'm just... grumpy today,” he added, a twinkle in his eyes as he recited the word you had called him before, in good fun though.

You weren't always this meek around him, especially when the two of you were alone. And he loved that about you. You were never intimidated by his gruff nature, you even teased him about it on occasion. But when you were in his classroom, you were just another student, and he admired you for it, admired the shift when everyone else poured out and you were finally alone with him.

When nobody was watching, you couldn't stop yourself from touching him, throwing your arms around him, pressing yourself against him, your tiny body moulding to his bigger one.

But now you were different, barely able to look at him as you stared at your hand in his. He saw the struggle on your face, and he sighed.

“Do you... still want me to come over tonight?” you whispered timidly, your voice shaking.

He grabbed your other hand then and made you look at him in surprise. “Of course, sweetheart,” he said softly, frowning at you. “I'm always looking forward to seeing you.” He exhaled loudly again, cradling both of your hands between his long fingers. “Don't let the gruff exterior fool you.”

He saw your lips twitching before you smiled shyly at him, your cheeks bright red.

A sudden noise from the door made him turn his head, and when he noticed the boy standing there, waiting for you apparently, he slowly, inconspicuously, let go of your hands and leaned back, clearing his throat.

“That'll be all,” he said loudly, throwing you a gaze you hopefully didn't interpret as another scowl, and you turned your head away for a moment, then nodded in understanding.

“Thank you, professor,” you played along, and he gave you the hint of a wink as he watched you go, his eyes roaming your small form, before you joined your classmate and were gone from his view.

Feeling his stomach tightening at the sight, he sighed deeply and rubbed his bearded chin. He really should have known better than to allow himself to be this affected by a student...

‎

When you sneaked into his quarters after dinner, he was waiting in the large armchair by the fireplace. As soon as the door opened and closed by invisible hands, he stood with a deep groan and slowly walked towards your disillusioned form. You had barely lifted the charm, when he grabbed your shoulders and pulled you against his broad chest.

You gasped but were quick to wrap your arms around his waist and press your cheek against him. He held you close and kissed the top of your head.

“Thanks for coming,” he growled quietly, making you lean back enough to tilt your chin up and look at him, a confused frown on your beautiful face.

“Of course,” you whispered, your eyes scanning his hard face. You were about to raise a hand and touch his rough jaw, when he closed his hand around your wrist and took a step back.

“Come with me,” he said and pulled you along to the large fireplace.

You looked towards the entryway to his bedroom, then up at him in confusion. “No massage tonight?” you asked quietly.

“No,” he grunted. “I've taken my potions, I'm fine...” He knew he didn't look fine, face tense, deep shadows under his dark eyes, jaw clenched. But unlike you, he knew he was tense for a different reason, and he could no longer wait to relieve that growing tightness.

He stopped in front of the fireplace and put his wand to the stone ornament in the middle of the mantelpiece, and with a low rumble, the secret passage behind it opened. He extinguished the fire and bent down slightly to traverse the tight space, holding out his hand to you.

You grabbed it, a mixture of confusion and excitement grazing your delicate features. Once you were on the other side of the fireplace, you noticed the staircase in front of you. “What is this?” you asked curiously, but he just dragged you after him, up the stairs, surprisingly fast despite his limping walk.

You reached a small room, and for a moment, you just stared. There were easels all around, with drawings and sketches of landscapes and buildings, charcoal, quills, brushes and other drawing equipment lying on all kinds of surfaces, bookcases and shelves lined the walls, and the spaces between them were filled with murals of mythical creatures. There were wooden dummies standing and sitting on the furniture, and a wood carving station at the other end of the room. But the most prominent feature was the large, sturdy looking table in the middle, long and wide like a small bed, and it was completely empty.

But not for long. While you still looked around the small space in awe, so many questions on your mind, he had stepped behind you and picked you up on his arms, and you shriek-laughed in surprise. You knew he was strong, despite the state of his body, but he had never carried you like this before. There was a certain warmth pooling in your cheeks, and elsewhere.

To be fair he didn't walk long before he set you down on the edge of the large table. For a moment he stood there, towering over you, his eyes dark and his face set, and you looked up at him with your heart racing and your lips trembling, and (shamefully) your core throbbing.

He licked his lips then and stepped closer, his hands gently prying your thighs apart as he stepped between them, pushing your skirt up tantalisingly slow. His calloused fingers glided over your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

You felt dizzy when they reached your centre. His fingertips teased against the fabric of your undergarments, poking and prodding, and he hummed deeply when he felt a wet patch forming. “Excited, aren't you?” he whispered and leaned over you until his breath ghosted your flushed cheeks. Not sure if he wanted an answer or not, you just nodded, chewing on your lips nervously.

He gave you a dark grimace, lowering his head, and when you felt his fingers pushing the thick fabric of your underwear deeper between your folds, he pressed his lips to yours for a heated kiss that quickly left you breathless for multiple reasons. Your heart was racing as your eyelids fluttered shut, his tongue very demanding tonight as it slipped into your mouth and tangled with yours.

You moaned against his lips as he started rubbing the pad of his finger between your still cloth covered lower lips, teasing against your entrance and brushing against your clit. More mewls left you when his free hand grabbed the back of your head, gripping your hair and pulling you closer to him as he kissed you like he might have never kissed you before. He barely left you the chance to breathe, and in his iron grip, you couldn't turn your head away.

Feeling light-headed, you just succumbed to the sensation, kissing him back with as much fervour as you could muster, while he kept moving his finger against your throbbing centre, the chafing fabric creating a friction that burned deliciously. A deep whimper escaped your throat, and he finally leaned away, his lips looking as swollen as yours felt. Licking them, you looked up at him, the blush from your face quickly spreading all over your body.

He straightened up fully, in all his intimidating glory as he glowered down at you. His eyes remained on yours as his hands slipped under the waistband of your underwear and slowly pushed down, and you almost didn't notice the small tug when he asked you to lift your rear. You did, your shaking hands clawing at the edge of the table as you watched him pull your bloomers down your legs before they were unceremoniously tossed aside.

Your chest rose and fell quicker when he spread your legs even further with his hands firmly on your upper thighs, his fingers almost completely circling them while his thumbs rubbed against your sensitive skin. A cold breeze wafted over your exposed mound, your clit throbbing in anticipation. He tilted his head when he looked down, his eyes roaming your body.

You almost shrieked when he suddenly pulled a stool closer, the scraping sound cutting through your tense nerves like a stab to the heart. Pressing your lips together to keep your noises down, you watched him sitting down on the stool, and now he was really looking at you. His elbows pressed your legs apart as he stared at your sex, fully on display for him.

Squirming slightly, you felt a little uncomfortable with him inspecting you like that, not that he hadn't seen it before, but never with such intensity. You let out a little squeal when he moved one of his hands to gently cup your mound, his whole palm pressed to it, covering it, and when he looked up at you, the familiar warmth was back in his eyes. You breathed a little easier when he reached his other hand up and caressed your cheek with the back of his fingers, coaxing a shy smile from you.

He loved seeing you like that, confused, embarrassed, submissive, and highly aroused. Holding your gaze for another moment, he rubbed his hand over your wet folds, gathering your slick on his palm. When he finally bent a finger and slipped it between your lower lips, he watched you closely, and as a soft squelching sound rang in his ears, he saw you writhing in discomfort, frowning slightly, but it made him smile at you, and your embarrassment was quickly forgotten.

His finger moved between your folds before he dipped it gently into your entrance, and you accepted him easily with how wet you were. A soft moan escaped you, and he saw how you tightened your grip on the table, your knuckles turning white. He pushed the finger in as far as it would go, feeling your walls clenching around it, then withdrew it and added another finger. Your breath hitched at the slight stretch, but he kept going, slowly pumping his fingers in and out of you, twisting and turning them until he curled them in a come hither motion – and caused you to yelp and squirm against his hand.

With a dark smile, he pressed against that sensitive spot again and again, watching you twitch on the table, your lips parted and trembling, soft little mewls falling from them. And then he pushed his thumb against your clit, hitting your pleasure points in tandem, and you lost it, thrashing your head back, your thighs convulsing against him, your noises tumbling out of you without control. He stood then, his hand still gripping your cunt tightly as he leaned in to capture your mouth, swallowing your moans and cries as you climaxed hard around his fingers.

Your release coated his hand, and he slowly eased his grip, rubbing your insides softly while you came down from your high. Kissing you gently, he watched you with eager eyes, taking in every single twitch, and when he leaned away, you were breathing hard and shaking badly. He pulled his fingers out of your clenching cunt and raised them to your face.

Despite your haze, you slowly unclenched your trembling hands from around the edge of the table and cradled his wet fingers between them before you brought them to your mouth, and when you started licking your slick off his skin, you held his gaze, and the hunger within your eyes made his erection strain against his trousers.

His breath hitched as he watched (and felt) your small tongue flicking around his long fingers, licking up every single drop of wetness, you even put them into your mouth, hollowed your cheeks and sucked on them hard, and he was tempted to press them deeper, watch you really lose control when you would gag around them, struggling to breathe, but instead he tugged at them and you released them with a wet pop. You almost sighed in disappointment when he lowered his hand that was glistening in your saliva.

He wiped it on his leg and licked his lips, slowly tilting his head before he nodded at you, a simple, curt nod, and when his eyes left yours to look down at where his groin pressed against the table, holding your spread legs wide open, you nodded back and moved your small hands towards the buttons of his trousers. You were quick as usual, and when his hard erection sprang free from its confines, he saw your eyes widening slightly as you blushed even deeper.

The same way that he had inspected your cunt earlier, you were now looking at his cock, taking in every single detail, from the springy darkened head to the bulging veins and impressive length and girth of it, and you felt a new wave of moisture seeping out of your waiting hole. The sheer necessity to have him inside you made you squirm on the table, needy little mewls escaping your throat. His desire to be inside of you was equally high, but he only let out a deep grunt when your hands closed around his shaft and stroked it almost roughly.

You writhed on the edge, slowly scooting closer, eager to connect with him finally, but he grabbed your wrist and stopped you. Looking up at him with your lips parted in surprise, he took in your youthful face, the innocence edged into your soft features, but your eyes and the way your lips quivered told a different story. And he could have stared at you for a very long time, despite the throbbing need resting in your hands, but in the end the carnal lust won.

He pried your hands from his cock and grabbed your waist, and without much effort he flipped you on the table, made you lie down on your stomach with your legs hanging off, your surprised yelp squeezed out of you as he gripped your hair and pressed your cheek into the cold wooden surface. Then he grabbed your ankles and brought your knees up, causing your rear to rise in front of him, your skirt bunched up on your lower back, exposing every glistening fold to his viewing pleasure.

You were barely able to adjust to the new position when you felt his hard member slapping against your wetness. Your hands found the opposite side of the table just in time when he pressed his tip against your entrance. Bracing yourself, you felt him pushing in, slowly, carefully, but as soon as your walls clenched around his head and pulled him in more, he snapped his hips against you hard and buried his entire length inside you. The deep thrust pushed you over the table and the sudden stretch coaxed a shrill shriek out of you.

He held onto your ankles, his body flush with the edge of the table, caging you in, holding you in place, as he started pulling out and pushing back in, out and in, in and out, slow and deliberate, over and over again, and you mewled under the constant friction, your body melting into the table. Once he found his rhythm, his big hands wandered to your tiny waist, closing around it, his long fingers grazing your stomach, and then he really started to pound into you.

Your noises grew louder, as did the wet squelching sounds as your pussy fluttered around him, muscles clenching, a burning warmth gathering inside you. You sank your nails into the old wood, holding on for dear life as his pelvis smacked against your cushioned arse in quick succession. His own grunts filled your ears, adding to the tension building up in your belly, those deep vibrations pushing you right over the edge.

You cried out when your walls clamped around him, that tight coil within exploding into a thousand tiny lights that made your entire body convulse against him. He felt your orgasmic contractions, and despite the soreness in his leg, he kept fucking you through your release, your juices helping in easing your tight passage, but he still strained to keep his rhythm. His fingers dug into your soft skin, and he felt a bead of sweat running along his temple.

He might have overdone it tonight, adding that certain potion to the many others he had to take on the daily to soothe the pain, but his desire to dominate you properly had been too strong. Seeing you with those boys had made him incredibly jealous, not that he would ever admit to it or even tell you so, but he had felt it in his gut, and the moment you had stepped over his threshold, he had known he had to show you that you'd never need anyone but him.

At least for as long as you were blessed with each other's presence.

Closing his eyes, he continued his relentless assault on your clenching cunt, your moans and whimpers giving him the necessary strength to move even faster and harder and deeper, and each time he smacked against your cervix, you would yelp and mewl and convulse in his iron grip on your waist.

It didn't take long for you to come once more, your limbs twitching uncontrollably as your juices gushed past the tight grip of your walls while his cock kept pistoning in and out, squeezed by your orgasm, and finally he felt his balls tighten, that painful tension in his stomach easing when he gave you one last deep thrust before he came inside you, painting your insides with his seed, marking you as his.

He groaned and stilled against you, holding you pressed to his pelvis as he leaned over you slightly, his weight making your knees quake before they slipped from beneath you, and you slumped to the table, legs hanging off bonelessly, gasping for air as his body pushed heavy on yours, his cock gliding even deeper, twitching and throbbing inside you.

You felt dizzy and were still seeing stars when he eventually leaned back, easing the vice-like grip of his fingers on your bruised waist. You didn't care. You felt more bruises blooming in and on your body, so it didn't matter either way. The releases he allowed you were worth the rough handling.

And apparently he wasn't done yet. While he slipped out of your tight cunt, with your combined juices seeping out of you and down your legs, you admired his stamina and wondered how he was able to even stand so straight and tall after the unusual exertion. He almost never took you like this, you usually found positions that wouldn't strain his stiff leg, but he had been weird the whole day, and as long as he seemed fine with this, you couldn't care less.

Your mind was spinning, the sensations still whirling in your head (and throbbing in your sex), and they jumbled about even more when he suddenly flipped you onto your back again, your limp legs flopping over the edge of the table as you blinked up at him.

He stood tall and intimidating between your twitching thighs, his hands rubbing along your hips as his dark eyes roamed your face and body. While you tried to sit up, leaning on your elbows despite the shudders crushing through your body, he didn't wait long to continue your adventure. Your eyes snapped to his still erect cock, and you blinked in confusion. He had just emptied himself inside you, how was he still that hard?

It didn't matter in the end when he grabbed his length and pressed it against your entrance once more, easily slipping inside, the loud squelching noise as he pushed his seed back into you causing goosebumps to ripple over your bare legs. The stretch made you inhale sharply, but you quickly adjusted, and not a moment too soon as he started grinding his hips into you, every slam hitting your bruised cervix.

You let out a pained whimper every time he did, but the more he moved inside you, the more pleasure you felt in the motion. Your whole body was on fire, and you wished you wouldn't wear all these layers of your uniform as sweat coated your skin and drenched your clothes. You felt him moving slower until he stopped completely, deeply buried within your warmth.

When you looked up at him, his already very dark eyes were so black and intense, you felt cold shivers running down your spine. Swallowing hard, you tried to sit up more, your hands propped up behind you, but you wanted to touch him, feel the tension in his muscles, the strength in his grip. Ease the darkness away that seemed to grip him tightly tonight.

But you couldn't move, couldn't say anything, you felt like a bunny cornered by the big bad wolf, pinned down by his big paws (and massive cock), rendered unable to even breathe as he stared down at you. A meek little whine escaped you as he suddenly leaned over you, one arm propped on the table next to you, the other hand extended to brush his thumb against your cheek as his fingers slid into your hair. You felt the rough pad following the protruding lines of your scar all the way over your eye to your split eyebrow, and you quickly closed your eyes to allow him the motion.

He moved it back down, the touch gentle but also firm, and when he gripped your hair, you yelped and your eyes flew open again. He held you in place like that, staring straight into your soul, and you felt yourself melting into his gaze.

Seeing you so submissive, surrendering to him so completely, made his heart race. There was a dark shadow creeping around the edge of his vision and deeper into his very being. He had never felt this possessive before, never this demanding. He'd never been this rough to you, either, and by watching your lips trembling, your hair clinging to your sweaty forehead, your whole body quaking against and around him, he knew he had been a little too rough.

And still he was far from regretting anything. He couldn't. He wasn't done yet.

His hand tightened around your head and pulled you closer to him, and as soon as the strained mewl left your throat, he had claimed your mouth and kissed you deeply. You hummed against him, despite everything kissing him back with fervour, your hands finding his arm as you held onto him while he gripped your hair.

As he slipped his tongue between your lips, he started moving within you again, slow, deliberate thrusts, and your cunt replied in full when it started clenching around him. He swallowed your moans and whimpers before he let you catch your breath and kissed your cheek, then your scar, licking up the sweat from your temple, until he pulled your earlobe between his teeth and nibbled on it, his stubble scraping over your soft skin. Your breaths were loud in his ear, and a deep shudder crashed through him as a particularly sensual mewl slipped from your swollen lips.

A grunt escaped him, and he bit your ear playfully before leaning back fully, staring down at you darkly. “Get your tits out,” he commanded roughly, still rolling his hips into you as you scrambled to prop yourself up on your elbows after he had let you go rather unceremoniously.

Despite the vulgar tone you had never heard him use before, you quickly fumbled with the buttons of your shirt, your fingers shaking badly, but eventually you pushed all those layers aside and freed your small breasts.

His big hands closed around them, kneaded them anything but gently, and you whimpered quietly, squirming on the table. He rolled your nipples between his fingers, then pinched them so hard you let out a surprised yelp.

His gaze was dark, jaw clenched and eyebrows furrowed. After a few moments of groping your soft mounds, he let them go and grabbed your hands and placed them on your chest. “Play with them,” he ordered, and you did, fondling them much more carefully, easing the aching his touch had left.

He watched you grimly, his hands moving back to your waist, fingers digging into the bunched up fabric of your skirt, before he slammed his hips against your pulsing centre in harder motions again. You cried out when his cock pushed against your battered cervix, but he kept going, giving you those slow but powerful thrusts that went deep and left you breathless.

Your fingers clawed at your breasts in support, your breaths as erratic as your heartbeat, as he pushed you up and down the table, your bare bottom scraping over the wooden surface every time he pulled you into the snap of his hips.

You wanted to watch him, observe the strain on his weathered face, how his eyebrows furrowed in dark concentration, how he gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw, the deep rumbles escaping his throat the only audible sign of his exertion, but you soon succumbed to his pounding strokes as your eyes rolled back and you sank your fingernails into your own soft mounds while you clenched tighter around him.

He looked at you, your tiny body so fragile before him, the state of it absolutely feral with your open shirt, your small hands holding onto your breasts, your hair stuck to your sweaty skin, your lips raw and quivering, your eyelids fluttering, while he slammed his cock into your spluttering wetness, your legs limp and boneless as they bounced against him with every rough impact.

Despite the immense pleasure this brought him, he felt horrible, for the way he treated you, for how he spoke to you, for his own stupid jealousy. As if it was your fault that those pesky boys suddenly noticed you, if anything, it was his fault for giving you the confidence to walk about proudly, with no care in the world, especially not about those lines that grazed your cheek.

The worst part was that you didn't give him any reason to be jealous. You had come to him after class, with your head hanging, confused by his bad mood, afraid of his rejection. And you still wanted to see him, spend the night with him, be with him despite everything. And all he wanted was to prove to you that he was the only one you'd ever need, when in reality you seemed to already know that.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he stilled inside you, eased his rapid rhythm, and when he looked at you again, you were still barely able to meet his gaze. He moved his large hands around your limp body and lifted you up, pressed you to his chest, held you close, save and protected, before he started moving again, slow and gentle, not as deep so he wouldn't hurt you any more, and not as fast so he wouldn't overwhelm you.

You slowly came to in his arms, fingers clawing at the front of his waistcoat as you tilted your chin to look up at him. Your eyes were glazed over and your pupils dilated, you looked utterly spent already. He leaned down and kissed your sweaty forehead, and you smiled softly at the gentle touch. Another reason why he absolutely did not deserve such a sweet little girl: you were too forgiving (and not a girl per se, not anymore, he had made sure of that).

He shifted you in his hold, one hand under your rear, the other flat on your back, fingers curling around your shoulder. The new position seemed to wake you up more again, and you slowly wrapped your legs around his hips, holding onto him, trying to take some of your weight off his arms, not that you weighed anything in his eyes, you were a mere doll in his hands.

Still you gripped his broad shoulders and started moving your hips against him, meeting his gentle thrusts with more fervour than he would have expected of you in your somewhat battered state. He couldn't help but underestimate you sometimes, given your age and size, though that usually made him admire you even more when you proved him wrong, because you were more resilient than he thought, stronger, braver, and needier.

And by how tight your cunt clenched around his cock, you were very needy at the moment. Together you found a fast rhythm, as you bounced against him and he snapped his hips upwards, he was so focused he didn't even notice the dull ache in his leg, and when you started mewling again, he closed his eyes and smiled, savouring the sweet sounds as he drove you closer to the edge.

You and himself, to be exact, because when you suddenly convulsed against him, your legs holding him in a death grip while you sank your fingernails into the thick layers of his clothes, you grabbed him by the cravat and pulled him right along into the blissful abyss.

Crying out loudly, you came around him hard, your muscles contracting, squeezing him, and he twitched with you, embracing you tightly as he groaned and grunted, his hips giving you jerky little stabs before he pushed deep and stopped, pressing your tiny body against his, holding you in place as he erupted inside you, filling you with his hot seed once more. You moaned into his chest as you spasmed against him.

He felt his strength waning and collapsed onto the stool next to the table with a pained growl, your frame still cradled on his lap, still impaled by his softening length. You wrapped your arms around his neck and leaned against him, both of you slowly coming down from the high that made your head spin and his heart race.

“Are you okay?” He was the first to speak, even though his voice sounded raw and gruffer than usual.

“I wanted to ask you the same thing,” you whispered back, slowly looking up at him, your cheek resting against his shoulder.

His dark eyes met yours. “I'll be fine,” he said, too tired to smile. “Did I hurt you?” he then added, not too tired to frown at you.

You shook your head. You'd be sore tomorrow, for sure, but you usually were when you'd been with him, and you'd become quite used to it. Maybe you even liked it (a lot, you liked it a lot). It was a constant reminder that this big strong man had accepted and invited you into his life, and you'd do anything to keep it that way for as long as possible.

He watched you closely, definitely doubting your reply. But he didn't press it, he only pressed you, closer to his chest. You inhaled deeply and smiled at him, slowly raising a hand to move your fingertips over his strong jaw up along the ragged lines of his scar and back down again. The sound of his beard scraping against your skin sent shivers down your spine and made you clench around him.

Shifting beneath you, he exhaled loudly. Despite your weak state (and the growing desire to do it all over again), you noticed the strain in his movements. He was in pain, that much was clear. And you felt guilty for not seeing it earlier. Before he could move, you loosened your limbs around him, grabbed his shoulders and stood on shaking limbs before you lifted yourself off him. Your walls protested, clinging to him, but then he slipped out of you, and you sighed deeply at the loss.

Leaning against the table (because you'd fall over otherwise), you held out your hands to him, and even though he usually refused that gesture out of pride, he grabbed them and let you help him pull himself to his feet. As soon as he stood, you wrapped your arms around his midriff and held him close (and steady). He rubbed his hand over your back, his other arm propped on the table for support.

While he tried to find his bearings, you quickly tucked his spent cock away again and buttoned his trousers. You didn't care how you looked, though, so you left your shirt wide open. The cold breeze on your heated skin felt nice, and you were sure he didn't mind the view.

You remained close to him when he started walking, slow and careful, each step coaxing a quiet groan out of him. You knew you weren't of much help, he couldn't really lean on you with how tiny you were compared to him, but you still steadied him, and even if he would never admit to it, he was grateful that you did these things so nonchalantly. There was no pity, just support, unwavering support. He held onto you as you both left the hidden room and descended the many steps down to his quarters where he knew you'd take good care of him after he had taken so good care of you.

“By the way, what is that room?” you asked quietly, curious eyes looking up at him.

“My... hobby room,” he replied hesitantly, his voice rough and low, vibrating through him (and you). “But I haven't been up there in a while,” he added, his dark eyes boring into yours.

“Found a new hobby, eh?” you concluded with a smirk that warmed your cheeks – and surprisingly so: his too.

His arm tightened around you, his lips twitching slightly. “Possibly.”

NEXT PART: A Demonstration of Pride and Pain

End notes: In the end, our grumpy old man is just another ambitious, possessive Slytherin that struggles with his jealousy, right?

(Also to clear things up because I tend to be really vague about these things in my writing: he "enhanced" himself (via an unnamed potion) that night to last longer to show her that she doesn't need those young boys who might be better suited for her, she only needs him, and of course, she already knows that, but still adores it when he dominates her like that. Because who wouldn't...)

And on another note: his secret hobby room, right? I just can't see him walking up all those stairs, or even crouching through the fireplace, but then again he has to brave all of Hogwarts' staircases too, so what's one more or two or three? And I know the room might just be an Easter egg like display for some concept art or whatnot, but I can totally see him drawing and sketching and whittling away in there, just sitting and working with his hands, because what else can he do, hm?

Seriously, the more I write for him, the better I get his character, and it intrigues me more and more, and I feel I've only scratched the surface still.

Edit: I have now written a fourth part (see link above!), and I am thinking about more (and maybe you could do that too? I am open for ideas/requests!). So stay tuned, and thank you so much for reading my little Sexy Times with Sharp Series.

[ MORE SHARP SMUT ] [ MASTERLIST ] [ AO3 ]

#aesop sharp #aesop sharp smut #aesop sharp x reader #aesop sharp x mc #reader insert #fem reader #female reader #hogwarts legacy smut #professor sharp #professor sharp smut #professor sharp x mc #professor sharp x reader #professor aesop sharp #fluff #smut #mysmut #daddy sharp

99 notes · View notes

aesopsharpmybeloved · 7 months

Text

Afternoon Picnic

#aesop sharp #my art #professor sharp #hogwarts legacy #drawing #digital art #artists on tumblr #aesop sharp x mc #professor sharp x mc

141 notes · View notes

illneverbesorry · 1 month

Text

Don't Stand So Close To Me

Don’t Stand So Close to Me - Part 1

Warning; - Mentions of thoughts/attempt of Suicide, Teacher-Student relationship.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5,

__________________________________________________________

He hadn’t meant to hurt you so by pulling away, but he could already see the suspicion in the eyes of your fellow classmates. Now all he could do to try and ease his own broken heart was to watch you from the shadows in silence.

Now a 7th Year, you’d truly bloomed and blossomed into an even more beautiful rose and that was part of the problem. Aesop found it harder and harder to hide his affections for you, from his eyes lingering far longer that appropriate for a teacher to the constant half smile that graced his lips when he so much as heard your name even now, months on from the moment he ruined his own life.

Sadly, in Hogwarts, rumours can become cemented into the minds of even the staff if its spread with enough conviction. Whispers started with the words ‘Teacher’s Pet’ and Aesop knew it wouldn’t be long before even Black would take notice. He was left with only one choice if he was to save your reputation, he had to sacrifice his heart.

***

“We can’t go on like this Y/N” he whispered one night into his drink while you were curled up on the sofa with a book in his private chambers. Your head snapped up so fast you feared your neck would break

“What?” you whisper back in fear, you’d dreaded this moment, always fearing that one day he’d come to his senses and move on from the young, inexperienced fool you were.

“There’s already talk of a relationship between a teacher and a student and fingers are being pointed all over, its only a matter of time before they figure it out. Best to just end things now. Its best for both of us” he said turning towards the fire so you couldn’t see the tears glistening in his eyes.

“You’re just giving up? After everything? Don’t you love me anymore?” you tried to fight back the tears, but you couldn’t hide the tremble in your voice.

“Like I said, this is for the best. No point delaying the inevitable” he dances around your question, knowing he couldn’t lie to you.

“Please just tell me” you begged, moving to stand behind him, wanting nothing more than to wrap your arms around him and take comfort.

“No” Sharp simply answered, you took that simple word as your answer – his love for you was now gone, when in truth he was simply refusing to answer it at all. But he knew it was the escape clause he needed. He wouldn’t ruin your life any more than he had already.

With a gasp of anguish, you grabbed the few things you had kept there and made your way to leave his room for the last time, casting a disillusionment charm you whisper as you step out of the door “I’ll never be sorry”

You never hear his reply of “Neither will I” before he burst into tears and fell to his knees.

****

Everything had started so innocently; he can remember the chill that ran up his spine even now, when in your 6th year Poppy Sweeting came bounding up to him crying that you’d gone to astronomy tower in a zombie like state. Sharp knew what you planned to do before Miss Sweeting could even finish her sentence. Flooing as far as he could and running the rest of the way his leg be damned.

How he’d reached you in time he’ll never know, but he thanked Merlin that you were still gripping the railings and hadn’t heard him rush over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist he tugged you away from the ledge. You’d begged and screamed for him to let you go, but he just held you firm falling to the floor with you in despair. You cried for hours, sat on that floor, your face buried in Aesop’s chest. You were so young, too young to have lost so much, so quickly.

You followed him aimlessly when later he led you to the dungeons, the place that would become your sanctuary from that night on. He made you tea and he just listened. You poured out your heart and pain, you hadn’t had anyone just listen to you before.

Fig was a great mentor but you always felt you HAD to please him, do what he wanted. You never felt like you could ever really talk to him, especially about your magic. Such a gift as he saw it, not the curse you’d come to see it as.

Sebastian was the same, he saw your magic as this Holy answer to his problems. The Keepers saw you as their saviour. You were so much to so many people. You felt you had no choice but to use this magic to help the wizarding world. Saving hamlets from spiders, dispatching ashwinders and poachers, saving beasts and most importantly saving the school from Ranrok and goblin rebellion….but it was never enough, there was always more and you were so tired.

So Sharp became what no one else was to you, a lifeline. The one thing you could cling onto and tell him how you felt, how scared you were, how angry you were. You told him everything, and it took him all of his strength not to find those four abandoned frames in the map chamber and burn their remains. How dare they put so much onto your shoulders?! Apparently, it was too much for the four of them to handle but they were fine with dropping it at the feet of a young woman.

You both dropped into a routine, you’d meet every evening for tea, you’d help tidy the dungeon and just relax. You wouldn’t always talk, sometimes just being in each other’s presence was enough to ease two wounded souls.

Then the worst possible thing that could have happened to Sharp did so, your 17th birthday.

He didn’t know what he was thinking getting you such a gift. Hardly something appropriate for a man of his age to be getting a young woman, let alone a teacher for a student. But he’d seen it in a boutique window and he could almost see the smile on your face and had to buy it. It was a golden locket probably the most expensive gift he’d ever bought anyone but he couldn’t pass it up. It was perfect.

He wrapped it and hidden it in his desk draw ready for your nightly visit. He felt almost giddy, he knew he was getting in too deep and the fact that you were now of age would only make things harder for him. You most likely saw him as another father figure like Fig, the very thought made his heart ache but it was probably for the best. He was a broken man, permanently injured and scarred, what would a young woman like you ever see in him. A gentle knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts, he smiled despite his dark thoughts and called you in.

“I have something for you” Aesop spoke after a while of jovial conversation about your day “Happy Birthday Y/n”

You sat slacked jawed staring at the box in his hands, you hadn’t expected a gift from him, the thought that he’d carefully picked it out for you gave you butterflies. You gently take them gift smiling brightly at him, tearing into the paper and gasping as you saw the contents. It was stunning, something you always wished you could have bought yourself.

“It’s beautiful! Will you help me?” you asked taking the locket from its velvet box. Moving slowly Aesop took the chain from your hands and fastened it around your neck. You bit your lip when you felt his finger graze over your skin. “How does it look?” you ask turning to face him.

“Perfect” He answered but his gaze never left our face, wanting nothing more than to commit this intimate moment to memory.

Smiling up at him you reached up on your tiptoes and kissed his cheek, your lips gently brushing over his scar. You heard his breath hitch and froze, you slowly looked up at him. You saw reflected in his eyes what you knew was in yours and took the leap pressing your lips against his. Sighing contently Aesop wrapped his arms around you pulling you close. That one sweet kiss would be the start of his downfall.

***

Smiling to himself in the shadows of the clock tower where he watched you and your friends become reacquainted after the summer. He missed you so, even after breaking both your hearts the rumours didn’t stop. He’d lost you for nothing and he doubted you’d ever forgive him for betraying your heart as he did. Turning to walk away, he didn’t see your eyes snap up to the rafters watching him leave, your fingers idly playing with the locked around your neck as your heart called out for his.

_______________________________________________________

Please let me know what you think? i havent written in forever and am hella rusty so sorry for any mistakes! LOVE!

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #aesop sharp #professor sharp #aesop sharp x reader #aesop sharp x mc #aesop sharp imagine #reader insert #x reader #fem reader #x you #professor aesop sharp #hogwarts legacy mc #hogwarts legacy fanfic #professor sharp x mc #hogwarts legacy fandom

18 notes · View notes

expectodragons · 7 months

Text

Bitter Water || Chapter 6

✦ Summary: Guided only by a thin paper trail and a promising job offer, Catherine Hart returns to the school of her youth. Taking on the mantle of Beasts professor, the young witch must find a balance between her lessons and her continued search of the Highlands. Especially when under the watchful eye of the Potion Master. ✦ Pairing: Aesop Sharp x Female MC ✦ Word Count: 15,500 ✦ Rating: Mature, 18+ only - minors do not interact. ✦ Tags / Warnings: Age difference, colleagues-to friends-to-lovers, dual POV, language, mild injuries, slow burn. ✦ Story Playlist: Listen here ✦ Read on: AO3 || Tumblr (continue below)

The merriment of the holiday season had faded like warm breath on a window pane and all that remained was the bitter sting of January’s fury. It doused the valley in snow drifts higher than one’s knee. Pointed icicles threatened to plunge down upon anyone who dared walk under an archway or a line of barren trees – frozen in the silence like toy soldiers amongst the desolate winter landscape.

While Catherine found herself eternally grateful for her late Christmas gift from the potions professor, even the furious heat from the warming charm in her new gloves did little to battle off the wretched chill of the stinging wind.

She hurried through her morning chores each day – finding comfort at the Fire Crab’s enclosure more often than not, though she certainly didn’t dare to stand too close. As though she needed another third-degree burn marring her skin.

Most days the courtyard remained empty apart from the students coming to and from her class. Sometimes, she would spot the bright robes of the quidditch teams as they made their way across the snow-packed path to the pitch. In a world washed out by white and gray, the blur of color was a welcomed sight.

As she fed or groomed the Unicorns and Kneazles, she would sometimes find herself lost in the practice runs and mock games of the teams.

On one particular morning, before the sun had even fully risen, Catherine was out braving the cold. Wrapped up in the warmest clothes she could manage, her eyes alone peeking out from the soft fabric of her scarf. The last of the Mooncalves were out in their paddock, prancing through the snow when she approached with their breakfast.

She checked over all sixteen of the furry big-eyed creatures. Nora’s bandages would need changing by afternoon from the looks of it. And Harold would require another bout of supplements lest he fall ill again.

“Yeah, go on then,” she says softly, patting the head of June – the newest member of the cluster.

They disappear off into their covered enclosure – likely refusing to come out until their lunches are brought about.

With a flick of her wand, the large woven feed sack floats out from the shed and levitates across the yard to the unicorn’s paddock, where five usually stoic creatures were just beginning to rise from their slumber.

“Come on, come on. Before I catch my death, thank you.”

Sometimes, she missed the temperate weather of the lower continents. As much as she had complained of the overbearing direct sunlight during her time in the Golden Coast and Cairo, she would give just about anything for a warm ray of natural light these days.

As she begins portioning out their specially mixed feed into the long wooden troughs, she hears a distant shout from the neighboring quidditch pitch.

“Come on, Parson!”

The Gryffindor team had been out practicing before even Catherine roused to tend to the beasts. She had watched the whirl of red robes ducking in and around the stadium’s towers with a belated interest. They stood a decent chance at the Cup this year if their training was anything to go by. That was, until…

“Watch out!”

She barely has time to lift her head up when a noticeable thump crashes into the top of the classroom’s wards and bounces off into the canopy of trees before slamming down onto the forest floor.

The young professor slashes the warding in an instant and takes off towards the small figure crumpled near the bottom of a towering Scots Pine.

With her scarf now tugged down to her neck, she asks in a harsh breath, “Are you alright?”

The girl tries to roll to her side but lets out a rather pathetic moan.

“Okay, easy now.”

She takes a quick visual assessment of her positioning – nothing twisted, nothing noticeably broken – before she eases out the girl’s legs. Now fully on her back, the young player lets out a long breath, her hands resting on her chest as she stares up at the empty canopy above her.

“I’m fine… I think. Just… wind knocked out of me.”

Catherine pulls up onto her knee, staring down at the student.

“No wonder, flying like you just did.”

The girl’s eyes roam across to her, a thin smile on her face, “New broom.”

With a nod, she extends her hand out to the prone player.

“Think you can stand?”

Another jerk of her head and then Catherine’s hauling her up onto her feet. She casts a wary eye upon her, almost expecting a sudden injury to emerge. After a moment, the girl reaches down to grab hold of her forgotten broomstick – a flush creeping across her cheeks that the young professor assumes isn’t from the sharp sting of the wind.

“I… I better get back.”

“As long as you think you can manage.”

She mounts the broom, looking momentarily hesitant before she gives herself a reassuring nod and kicks off.

Catherine watches her go – swaying back and forth through the trees before she dips down over the crumbling castle wall toward the pitch. With a shake of her head, she walks back over to the paddocks and finishes up her rounds.

It just so happens that she’s walking back to the castle at the same time the Gryffindor team is trudging along – likely heading back in an attempt to grab breakfast before classes were due to start.

“The hell are we gonna do?”

A blonde-haired player lingers back alongside a stout boy who strides forward with an air of confidence.

“She just needs more training – one on one.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do. Are you sure we can’t convince Miles to –”

“That’s a null and void conversation. Don’t even bother.”

Her eyes travel through the group – counting them all off – before she realizes one sole player is missing from the troop. She glances back at the pitch and spots a tiny blur of red still circling the stadium.

As the team heads inside, Catherine pauses near the frozen fountain.

It’s a split-second decision that has her wandering through the snow drifts away from the warmth of the castle.

Standing in the middle of the field, she watches the young girl fly lap after lap – her eyes never straying far from a small glittering winged ball of gold. Only once she’s able to nab hold of it, does she even look down to see the bundled-up witch in the center of the pitch. She swoops down just a foot away from the professor.

“So, you’re the new seeker then.”

The girl’s fingers tighten around her broom’s handle as she gives a quick nod.

“Teller, well, his Mum and Dad weren’t too happy with his last grading report before Christmas and they had Professor Weasley kick him off the team. And no one wanted to try and take on the position – he’s been on for the last five years now, you know. And, well…”

“And here you are?” Catherine surmises.

She nods again.

The young witch stares down at the third-year – spotting a familiar look in her nervous features. A soft smile graces her face as she beckons the girl forward – the two beginning to walk back to the castle together.

“You know… I was Gryffindor’s seeker in my seventh year. Never even played the game before they had me doing laps at try-outs.”

She can feel the sudden gaze at her side, “Really?”

“Mhmm. Plenty of talented players, people who knew every bit of trivia about the game – all the tactics and high-profile people on the National Leagues. Felt like I was a Porlock in a sea of Graphorns.”

Catherine glances down, spotting the curious look on the girl’s face.

“What… what did you do?”

Staring forward, toward the approaching castle doors, she replies, “I put my heart into it. Studied everything I could between classes, and started following the big teams in the papers each week. And practiced. Every free moment I could spare.”

A contemplative look befalls the young student’s features. A frizzled brow and a scrunched nose.

“I don’t know if that’d work for me.”

“Why not?”

With a steadying breath, she finally says, “I know all the moves. I follow the Harpies and the Tornadoes every play. It’s just… when I get out there with the rest of my team, I just…”

Her expression grows distant and a brief moment of understanding crosses Catherine’s mind. At last, they climb the steps to the Bell Tower. But before she can push the door open, the professor pauses.

“You know, as a fellow Gryffindor and an ex-player, I would have every right to offer my… wisdom, should your captain welcome it?”

A smile, slow at first but soon stretched wide in awe, greets her.

“Would you?”

She smiles down at the girl in return.

“I’m sure something can be arranged. Miss…?”

“Parson. Laura Parson, professor.”

Aesop peers up from the cauldrons currently resting under a stasis charm in a secluded corner of the classroom at the sound of a gentle rapping of knuckles against the door. He finds himself fighting to contain a smile as the young woman crosses the room, beaming back at him in return.

Though classes had resumed on the fifth, he had scarcely seen the Beasts professor since her arrival back from her winter holiday in France. There had been passing words in the staff lounge, of course. A curt greeting when they happened to cross paths in the tapestry corridor. But a full conversation had been waiting in the wings ever since that last chaperoning trip to Hogsmeade together in December.

“Hello again, properly,” she smiles as she crosses the flagstones.

He watches as stray snowflakes fall from her hat and the shoulders of her cape, toppling to the floor as they leave a melted trail of droplets all the way from the door to where he stands.

“It has been some time,” he admits in his gruff tone of voice.

“Well, hopefully, what I have here will more than make up for that!”

His eyes flicker down to the bright white of her smile as she licks her chapped lips and unceremoniously deposits her leather bag on his desk. Aesop folds his arms across his chest, peering down at the pouch as she begins to pull two small containers out.

“My fifth-years just sorted these this afternoon. Don’t worry – the Gryffindors collected them while my Ravenclaws handled the actual grinding.”

He doesn’t even attempt to smother his smirk as she easily pokes fun at her own House. Grabbing hold of one of the jars, he holds it up to the candlelight and examines its contents with an assessing dark eye. The Unicorn horn was a fine white powder with barely a blemish to be found within the granules.

“It was quite lucky, actually,” she continues on, unprompted. “I noticed the beginnings of shedding Saturday evening and sure enough, this morning I had three unicorns rubbing against the fencing trying to rid themselves of their own horns. Two weeks early, at that! I just hope the other two hold on long enough for my other fifth-years to get a chance at it as well.”

Sharp gives a hum of acknowledgment as he sets the container down, “My compliments to your teaching skills, Hart.”

That makes the young witch quirk her brow as a roguish smile graces her pale features.

“Oh?”

“Clearly you’ve instructed your students well. Perhaps better than even my own attempts…” he trails off, considering the state of some of his older students under his tutelage and their inability to properly slice, dice, and grind ingredients after several years of instruction.

“Ah, that. Well, I merely explained that part of their grade for this quarter was dependent on how well their potions professor found the quality of their ingredients. That might have done the trick.”

He feels his own brows rise at that.

“I mean,” she begins twisting her fingers together as her blue eyes leave his face to gaze down at the floor.

“Creature handling is usually thought of in such limited terms, but there are so many different aspects to it that I think some of my students forget. Like harvesting byproducts for potions, or rehabilitative work, even healing situations – there’s a whole branch of veterinary work out there. It’s not just all – ”

She flaps her hands out for a moment, trying to tie together her next words as if they were an invisible item just out of reach, “– pet the Puffeskein, play with the Kneazles, and earn an Outstanding. You know what I mean?”

A half-smile graces his lips, “I believe so.”

She stares up at him then with this… unreadable expression on her face. It makes him feel both put on the spot by it and equally lost in the warmth of its intensity.

And then she smooths her hands over her trousers and says, “And on that note, I do actually need to go groom some Kneazles right now.”

Collecting her bag and resettling her powder-blue hat upon her head, Aesop watches as she prepares to leave and he finds some inner part of himself reaching out – a phantom hand trying to grab hold of the invisible strings that lay between them like dust in the sunlight. They had not shared a common space and been able to fill it with familiar conversation in so many weeks that he was reluctant to see her walk out the classroom door just yet.

Just like Mirabel, Abraham, and Dinah, he found himself drawn to her presence and welcomed the warm interactions they shared together. He could not say that for many other members of the faculty. There was just something about her that made him seek out her candor. Finding a smidgen of pride bubbling up in his chest whenever he managed to pull a genuine laugh from her lips.

“I never did thank you.”

That makes her pause mid-step as she slowly twirls back around, her face struck with an air of curiosity.

“For your gift,” he clarifies.

A rather amusing blush crosses her cheeks as she looks toward the adjacent brewing station before she meets his eyes once again.

“I know it probably seemed a bit out of place from what you usually get, or what I assume you usually get.”

He smiles down at her, resting his hands behind his back, “All the more reason I enjoyed it as much as I did.”

A swell of pride swoops through his chest at the smile she bestows upon him. And he finds himself falling down a path of rambling thoughts before he can even blink back to awareness at his surroundings.

“I assure you, Hart, it was a welcome change from the stacks of brewing books and paperweights that are typically sent my way over the holiday. I must admit, I found myself looking through the portraits well past the midnight hour that evening.”

Slowly, she lowers herself onto a stool – swiping her blue pointed hat from her head, her eyes never leaving his – as if in a trance.

“Which was your favorite, if I may ask?”

Aesop ponders this for a moment as he joins her at the empty station – this was their shared free period at the end of the day, there was little more to do now besides grading papers – with his right foot resting on the spindle of the stool and his left foot placed on the ground beside the corner of the station.

In his mind, he can see many of the images from the book in near clarity. A few notable favorites, some less so. But finally, he settles on an answer.

“A Bar at the Folies-Bergère by Manet.”

And then he blinks and he finds himself focusing in on the lazy smile on the woman’s face as she stares up at him with another unreadable thing flickering around in her crystalline blue eyes.

Clearing his throat, he asks, “Out of curiosity, do you have any opinions on the art movement?”

She straightens up, resting her hands on the table as she leans forward with this ringing air of excitement, “Yes, absolutely! While I’m partial to Monet’s Water Lily Pond, I actually favor more of Van Gogh’s work.”

“Really?” he asks, leaning forward as well – drawn in by her enthusiasm.

“Yes, his Starry Night –”

Aesop gives a playful groan, rolling his eyes for the full effect.

“Why does that not surprise me, Hart?”

Her brows pinch together, clearly taken aback, “What?”

“A typical museum-goer could point to a handful of classical renderings. The Mona Lisa, or Girl with a Pearl Earring, or… Liberty Leading the Peoplefor example, and claim it to be their favorite simply by having such a limited range of exposure to the arts.”

She bites the corner of her lip and gives a little roll of her shoulders that makes it seem as though she’s preparing for a battle on an artistic plane. He finds himself even more intrigued.

“Okay, Sharp,” she begins, leveling him with a steely gaze.

“I was about to say my favorite Van Gogh is Starry Night Over the Rhone, even though it’s typically overlooked by the more famous Starry Night painting. I find the subdued colors more appealing, for a start. And his work with the lighting is impeccable: the way he has the stars reflect off the water. And the texture! It practically jumps off the painting to the point where I feel like I could actually touch the waves as they were truly there on the canvas.”

Slowly, a curved smirk rises from his lips as he folds his hands together into a fist on the countertop.

“All right, that’s a marginally reasonable answer. But you can’t deny the fact that Van Gogh wasn’t actually an Impressionist painter.”

With an audible groan, she rakes a hand through her ice-blonde tresses, “At the beginning of his career he was! Almost every Impressionist moved onto the Post-Impressionism movement beside Monet.”

“And if I might say,” she jabs her finger on the table for emphasis. “Impressionism in itself uses color as a way to represent landscape and how light affects it. Post-Impressionism just uses color to convey emotions. You can’t tell me that Over the Rhone is a post-impressionist landscape.”

“And yet, as a whole, it is Monet who is frequently accredited with the first movement. While Van Gogh is solely recognized in the post-movement,” he surmises.

“Actually,” she interrupts. “Manet is the sole founder of the movement. Does Le Déjeuner sur l'herb ring any bells?”

Aesop finds himself momentarily stunned by the graceful way the French title falls from her lips before he grins – pressing forward with another retort. He hadn’t enjoyed a conversation this much in ages.

“Which further shows your inability to accept the fact that your precious painter is not in fact a part of the Impressionism movement itself. Merely inspired by the true artists in Paris. Was it not Van Gogh himself who admitted he was completely unaware of the style until he visited the city in 1886?”

“Well, yes, but –“

“And while one could argue that an artist’s style is capable of changing over time, perhaps it can be said that Van Gogh was never a member of the original movement, merely a user of the muted Dutch palette of the time.”

Hart shakes her head in disbelief, muttering to the table’s surface, Merlin give me strength, before she fixes her gaze on Aesop and starts back up.

“Well, one could say, that Monet became stagnant in his process of painting hazy pastel landscapes while the rest of the artists in the original Impressionism movement moved on with the times and adapted their styles accordingly. Which isn’t to say I don’t enjoy some of Monet’s work, because I do – but the point I’m trying to make is –”

A flicker of fight dies from his lips as he finds his curiosity piqued.

“And which paintings would those be?”

He watches as she exhales through her nose, the frightening height of her argument brought back down to a respectable level for polite conversation – though he almost immediately misses the blaze of determination in her eyes.

“Woman with a Parasol and Bordighera.”

With a quirk of his lip, Aesop adds in an easy, soft sort of tone, “I find myself partial to Van Gogh’s Almond Blossoms and Café Terrace at Night.”

They both stare at each other for a breathless moment before Hart tips over with her wide smile and ringing laugh – one that Aesop finds himself quick to replicate with his own low chuckle.

“So,” she wipes a stray tear from the corner of her eye, her face still flushed with laughter. “What I believe we’re both agreeing to is the fact that we’re capable of enjoying many artists despite their reported in or out status within the Impressionism movement?”

Shaking his head, unable to hide his smile, he says, “I believe so.”

He looks at her then, truly looks at her. At the near-permanent smile on her face, the flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes, and something else. Something he can’t quite put a name to – there, in the depth of her expression when she blinks and looks up at him – her closed smile growing impossibly wider.

“So…” she breathes out, giving a little shake to her head as an errant curl falls across her cheek. “Is your stance firmly settled on just Impressionism, or do you have varying opinions on other eras?”

Aesop bares his teeth in a wolfish grin, “I find Impressionism to be one of my least favorite movements, in all actuality.”

Her eyes bulge and a frown begins to form on her unblemished face.

“Not to say that I don’t enjoy it, obviously,” he makes quick to explain. “But out of several centuries worth of painting, I can hardly claim it to be my absolute favorite, now, can I?”

“Okay then,” she crosses her right leg over her left knee, leaning back to fold her arms over her chest. “Let’s hear it then. Where do your loyalties lie?”

“Baroque has its merits, of course.”

She scoffs, “If you’re interested in a darkened palette and exaggerated movement, I suppose.”

“You find fault with it?” he raises his brow, sensing another well-placed debate brewing in the downturn of her lips.

“Obviously.”

Aesop smirks, folding his own arms across his chest as he stares at her.

“Then, by all means, enlighten me. What era do you find more appealing?”

She seems to mull it over for a moment, as her tongue peeks out to wet her lips before she finally settles on: “Rococo.”

He chuckles, “You’ll argue against the merits of Monet but you find Rococo-style works to be just fine?”

With a shrug of her shoulders, she says, “I prefer the palette, for one. And the more natural movement. Baroque-era styling just feels so… dramatic; heavy. Whereas Rococo brings a more, I don’t know… easy-going sort of feeling. I suppose you’d also be so bold as to say that Classicism holds a special place for you as well?”

“Nat as much, but there are some portraits that I find… welcoming on the eyes.”

Hart gives a little nod, “And your thoughts on the Renaissance era?”

At that, he snorts, “Over-rated.”

“Oh, thank Godric,” she sighs, placing a hand over her heart as if she had expected him to tell her the worst sort of news. “You’re still capable of some common sense, that’s truly a relief to hear.”

Raising a lone brow, he dryly says, “I’m pleased to find that I’ve met your high standards.”

She lets out a short laugh, shaking her head as she says, “Hush. I was just afraid you would sit there and spew some snobbish nonsense to me about how that style is far superior to any other in the entire history of the world of art.”

“Decidedly not.”

She offers him a small smile then, flicking her gaze from his face to her hands on the countertop of the brewing station.

“So… if that’s not a favorite of yours, then what exactly would you say is?”

Aesop stares up at the curved stone arches of the classroom ceiling, pondering the question for just a moment, before he replies.

“Romanticism.”

Catherine blinks; once, then twice. Her mouth forms a curious little o shape before she presses her lips together and asks, “Really?”

“Is that somehow surprising?” he wonders, uncrossing his arms as he stares down at her – trying to place the pieces of the puzzle that was her expression.

“Well, I thought perhaps you would say something more… I don’t know, obscure? Like Tonalism or something of that nature. But, Romanticism, genuinely?”

He hums in return, finding his gaze lost in the dumbfounded look upon the woman’s face.

“Wha– uhm, what artists do you favor?”

“Well,” he lingers on this for a moment before finding the answers rather easily. “Friedrich, J.M.W. Turner, Eugène Delacroix – of course –”

“Of course,” she murmurs along.

He nods, “And, perhaps… John Constable.”

“Oh, his stuff is quite good,” she agrees.

“Indeed.”

They sit there for a moment in the draping silence of the conversation before several thoughts cross through Aesop’s mind. The first of which, he is quick to voice.

“You never said.”

At the lift of her eyebrows, he reiterates.

“Your favorite style.”

“Oh.”

Hart looks away, twisting her fingers together once again. He finds a desire to uncover the reason for the strange response. Leaning forward, offering a warm expression, he teases.

“Come now, Hart. Afraid I’ll tear apart your answer as you did mine?”

She looks up, eyes bright and alert, “No, of course not. It’s just… well, it’s not a common answer.”

He gives a little hum, “Consider me intrigued then.”

Readjusting herself on the stool, he can feel the light brush of the toe of her boot against his left knee – nothing hard, or discomforting. But a gentle press as she bounces her foot in thought.

“Have you ever heard of Ukiyo-e?”

Perhaps he had been expectant of too common an answer, some strange little movement of the American or Eastern European variety. But he has to shake his head in response, “I’m afraid I have not.

“It’s a, uhm, Japanese art style. Usually in the form of printed woodblocks. Two summers back, I was trekking through Imperial Japan, and I happened upon a village in the mountains. This muggle sutler had these blocks displayed out across a cloth sheet on the ground and I was just immediately entranced by them. The color, Aesop. It just pops off the wood. The lines were so crisp, I don’t even know how to properly describe it to you.”

She shakes her head then, giving a little laugh that seemed to stem from some sort of place of embarrassment, though for what reason he’s not sure.

“I actually have one on display, down in my room. It’s a copy, obviously.”

Aesop leans forward, steepling his index fingers together.

“How did your interest in the arts come about?”

Hart lets out a low breath, leaning back on the stool once again. Her gaze grows distant for but a moment before the electric blue of her irises meets his eyes.

“Traveling, in all honesty. Certainly didn’t have the time or funds to go to a museum when I was younger. And obviously being here at the school changed those prospects for me quite a bit as well.”

She absently chews on her lower lip, teleported back to the memories of her youth. And for a moment, Aesop is reminded of the clear and undeniable fact that the girl who was once his student is in fact a fine young woman now. He would have never imagined, nearly a decade back, that he would be sitting here with the new fifth-year having an in-depth conversation about art, of all topics.

“When I was assigned to an encampment in France, at the beginning of my tenure with the Ministry, they placed me with a man – Edmund Hughes.”

Aesop found the name familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it to any particular face in his mind.

“Anyway, we kept busy most of the days we were there. At the time, we were tracking down this aggressive Bretagne Vouivre Dragon that was encroaching far too close to a muggle town. Well, one night, we were stuck dealing with negotiators from the French Ministry who felt they were better equipped to handle the situation, even though the Department had requested our assistance with the matter in the first place. Uh, sorry. Anyway…”

She waves her hand as if to clear the memory from the air.

“Hughes knew we were stuck with our thumbs in our pockets, as it were, for likely the next week or so while bureaucratic dealings went on. Just up and decided – after downing a lovely French port of wine, of course – that we should enjoy the evening on our own terms. He rounded up our little team and we apparated to Place Cachée. Led us straight down to the Louvre.”

Hart gives another little bubble of laughter, “I had never stepped foot in a museum before that night.”

Aesop feels his own heart clench at the admission. Admittedly, his own upbringing had brought about many opportunities – perhaps a few that he hadn’t been completely grateful for at the time. Not necessarily a silver spoon sort of life, but well-off in many senses of the term.

A no-nonsense governess had given him his first introduction to the world of art at the tender age of five. He was well-versed in all the classical wizarding artists: Monsieur DeBlanc, Cetus Barringer, Andorra van Kemp. It was only thanks to his own natural pursuit of knowledge that he became acquainted with the greats of the Muggle world.

While wizards and witches had the astounding ability to create life-like moving portraits, the muggle world was restricted: forced to make a painting capture a single moment, a multitude of emotions. Aesop almost considered that feat more awe-inspiring than that of their wizarding counterparts.

“Have you been to many others since then?” He wonders, his tone softened by his musings.

“A few, if I’m given the chance,” she admits with the crack of a proper smile.

“Over your travels, have you ever found your way to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square?”

“I’m afraid I have not,” Hart sighs in admittance.

Aesop gives a half-curved smile in return, “You should go: if you find the time to do so. I find it to be an appealing institution dedicated to the arts.”

“Perhaps I should,” she gazes up at him under the flutter of her fair-colored eyelashes.

It was not unusual to find the Beasts and Potions professors walking together for dinner in the Great Hall most nights. In fact, it was a very common occurrence, one that the general populace rarely – if ever – took note of. In the same way, Professors Ronen and Weasley could be seen making the journey together during the lunch period. Or, in the opposite case of Professor Onai and Shah, who avoided each other like a severe case of Dragon Pox.

No, it could be said that the sight of Sharp and Hart walking into the Hall together right after the food graced the tables was nothing to pay much attention to.

But tonight, Catherine noted, several curious eyes followed their path as they breezed past the outer section of the Slytherin table. She only noticed it given the fact that she had looked away from Aesop to laugh in another chastising tone.

Their conversation from that afternoon had continued, nearly non-stop, well into the evening hour. When the final period bell had sounded for the day, they had both made attempts to resume their duties and go their separate ways. Until she made a follow-up comment to something he had said earlier in their little debate, and then they were both drawn back to the brewing station – tucked into yet another conversation.

And it hadn’t let up.

They were well past the point of reasonable small talk or friendly collegial conversation. But neither one of them seemed particularly interested in bringing an end to it. And so, it continued on, all the way to the Great Hall several hours after it had first begun.

“I find quite the inspiration from Delacroix’s printing techniques.”

She snorts, “You would.”

Sharp shoots her an amused look with another hitched eyebrow as they make it to the table, “Meaning…?”

Catherine presses past him as she finds her seat. Aesop pushes in her chair for her after she sits down before he moves to the vacant spot to her left. She stares after him for only a second more.

“Meaning…” she begins, portioning out bits of roasted garlic potatoes and rosemary-scented asparagus onto her plate. “That I find it fitting that you would see greatness in a French printmaker’s work.”

She can feel his curious expression gazing into the side of her face, though she thoroughly ignores it. There’s a bitter-sounding scoff of disbelief. She thinks she can even see the shake of his head – the billowing of his chestnut-colored hair.

“Is that all?”

Finally affording him a look, she continues, “An outdated technique is where you find your muse. You have an interest in older art movements, it’s truly not all that surprising.”

Aesop snorts, “I’m not sure I would consider it to be outdated if one could still find it in use within nearly every newspaper currently in circulation.”

She faces him then, “Printmaking, in itself, is not an outdated technique, Sharp. If it was, I most likely wouldn’t be calling Ukiyo-e a current favorite art movement. But as it is, that is a form of relief printing. Whereas what you’re referring to with Delacroix’s portfolio is lithography – a far older version of printmaking that is far less frequently in use than you’d like to believe it to be.”

With a huff of self-determined breath, she looks at her companion. There she finds the darkness of his eyes staring back at her, though there’s a warmth radiating from them that leaves her feeling less than discontent.

“And the reason you find printmaking – sorry, lithography, so foul is –”

“What I mean to say is,” she sighs, placing her spoon down and leaning towards him, “It’s rather silly that a Frenchman had taken up printmaking techniques when the near entirety of the artists in his country were devoted to oil painting at the time. Now, sketches I could understand. But where was he hoping to advance the realm of lithography?”

Aesop’s lips curve into a slight smirk, giving another shake of his head, and then he picks up his own cutlery once again, “I merely said I found inspiration in those particular works, Hart. Certainly, you can’t find fault in every statement I make.”

At that, she grins.

“I most certainly can, and will, if you keep making such ridiculous statements.”

There’s a lapse in conversation, but it lasts perhaps two bites worth of food more before it continues right back up again.

Her gaze rarely strays from the man next to her, if only for a moment to look away with a laugh spilling from her lips or to give another wry shake of her head. But, she is at least aware of the instant the noise in the hall begins to fade as the students lift themselves from the benches and begin to head toward the corridor once again.

“I believe,” she leans over to say with another tired smile. “That this is a conversation we’ll need to continue another day.”

Sharp seems to agree as he stands up and offers her a hand of help – one which she takes with a grateful look.

“Professor,” he bows his head, his eyes trailing back up to her face – focusing on her own eyes for just a second more – before he takes his leave of her, heading down the stairs and making his way out of the Great Hall.

Catherine watches him go for a moment more before she redirects her attention to the remaining faculty members. A memory of her ongoing lists of things to accomplish before the weekend jolts to the forefront of her mind when she spots Aragon pressing past Satyavati.

“Oh! Headmaster? Could I have a word, sir?”

The older man’s face lights up with curiosity.

It wasn’t a particularly common occurrence for Catherine to seek out candor with the Headmaster, if ever.

“Something I can do for you, Hart?”

Even though she was nearing thirty, standing before any sort of authority figure, like Aragon, still made her body awash with nerves. As if she was about to be on the questioning of a lifetime for some accused thing she had no part in.

“I was wondering, sir, if there were any particular rules in place that would keep an outside source – say… a professor – from assisting one of the Quidditch teams.”

That inquiry clearly takes him back, but it’s a smile that graces his face as he seems to ponder over the question.

“Well…” he drawls. “To the best of my knowledge, there aren’t any rules that keep a non-player from offering assistance to a team. So long as nothing is being done to give an unfair advantage in the form of, say… self-braking brooms or charmed uniform pieces that enable higher aerodynamics, for example. Or, obviously, the use of illegal substances such as Felix Felicis. No, I should think there would be nothing that would keep a professor from offering their help.”

He pauses for a second, giving her a bitten-down look of amusement.

“Any particular reason you asked?”

Catherine can barely contain the smile that wants to shine on her face, but she makes a valiant effort at it.

“Perhaps… sir.”

An appearance of understanding falls across his face and he gives a short nod, “Of course, of course. Send my regards to Mr. Spinnet, yes?”

He then gives her a gentle pat on the shoulder before he departs.

Schooling her features into something resembling a normal expression, she heads down to her quarts with a slight skip to her step. She had a letter to write.

Catherine rouses even earlier that following Friday, keen to finish her work in the classroom before her meeting time with Arthur Spinnet was set to take place. Bundled up in two pairs of trousers and a heavy woolen sweater, she collects her gloves and a warm hat before she ascends the stairs to the courtyard with her broom in tow.

Just as she’s finishing up her rounds with the Porlocks, she hears the familiar warble of voices across the grounds. Grabbing hold of her broom, she wanders over to the Pitch.

Spinnet already has the team working through a series of exercises up above the field when she arrives, while the young man stands contemplatively still in the center of the stadium.

“Merlin’s balls, Bell! My gran can fly smoother than that!” he calls out to a lanky-looking boy sailing by.

With a smile, she approaches the ambitious fifth-year.

“Mr. Spinnet.”

His eyes drop back down to the ground and he quickly uncrosses his arms, extending out a hand, “Professor! Thank you for meeting with me.”

She had shared a series of three notes with the Gryffindor boy over the past week. The first expressing her willingness to aid in any form of advice or training. The second was an agreement for a day that would best suit both parties. Catherine didn’t have a first period to teach today and she was already planning on taking the free hour to massage her sore muscles after whatever hell she went through at this early morning practice.

Taking on a vigil beside the boy, she watches the team up above. Their flying was fine, by all appearances. The two chasers and two beaters flew together in near synchronicity. It was the lone, small-statured player at the rear that seemed most out of place from the rest of them.

“I stand by what I said in my first correspondence, Mr. Spinnet,” she says, keeping her eyes trained on the players overhead. “It’s not just your new Seeker who needs a spot of extra help.”

He snorts, crossing his arms once again.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Professor. No offense, of course. But this team has been a solid front for the last three years.”

“Complacency in that idea is what is causing your stagnation, Captain. Take my word for the next two hours and we’ll see how everything plays out, as agreed upon. Yes?”

With a jerky nod, the boy shoves his fingers into his mouth and lets out a sharp whistle – alerting the players to make their descent. Once the group of six students lands and takes up a half-circle formation around her, Spinnet gives a vague the floor is yours gesture and backs up to join his team.

“Good morning,” she smiles. “I’m sure your esteemed Captain has informed you all as to why I’m here today. I come offering only advice and wish to impart a bit of time-earned wisdom upon you all. I think we can all agree, we want to see Gryffindor take the Cup this year.”

“Yeah!” two boyish voices holler at once, followed by several nods of enthusiastic agreement.

“All right then,” Catherine claps her hands together, pocketing her broom in the crook of her right elbow. “Let’s see how well you know one another’s positions, yeah?”

Several confused looks are spared her way as she assigns each player a new position. Spinnet, for his part, takes it all in stride – following upon the terms of her agreement to do this little training session with them today.

“You’re a good team – I’ve seen you practice these past few months. But a player who’s only capable of doing their position to perfection isn’t a team player. You need to know the moves of your fellow players. Anticipate how your next action affects them.”

Throwing a beater’s bat to Georgina Wilkes, one of the three chasers, she pairs her off with Cassius Diggory – one of the actual team beaters. Melinda Mason takes on the role of Keeper for Theodore Bell. While Laura Parson switches places with the team captain.

When she tosses the Quaffle into play, the ensuing match is chaotic – to say the least.

While the chasers merely have to score against a single Keeper and have no real outside interference, their technique is severely underpar. But this wasn’t an attempt to watch them fully succeed at another position, Catherine wanted to press home the point that every role on the team mattered. That they needed to work together in harmony if they stood any chance at winning.

Wilkes sends the bludger directly at Bell’s head, while Oscar Clark fumbles the Quaffle and watches it fall for several feet before Parson soars after it.

She lets them go on like this for several minutes – scoring only one singular goal in the process – before she calls them back down to the field.

“Well, that was entirely pointless,” Clark whispers to Bell.

“Was it?” she asks just as dryly.

When she’s met with a mixture of sheepish and questioning looks, she rests back on the handle of her broom.

“Mr. Clark, I would hope you would gain an appreciation for the skill it takes your Chasers to garner to successfully handle a Quaffle. Perhaps, instead of begrudging newcomers to your team, you could take a moment to offer wisdom.”

Referring to the conversation she had been privy to last week when he had been bemoaning his frustrations over the new Seeker to Spinnet, seems to make the boy blanch.

“A well-oiled team knows the intricacy of every team member’s position. If your strongest player is incapable of filling in for another, then what is the point of proclaiming you are the best team in the school?”

Giving them a purposeful look, floating to every player, she continues, “Yes, you succeeded in past years. You had wonderful victories. Don’t let that keep you tethered to mediocrity. I have watched the other teams practice – they all move in cohesion. While I can offer you tips and plays, I can not turn you into a perfect machine. That’ll be up to you to manage. But for now…”

Her eyes roam across the team until they land on Laura Parson.

“I think I agreed to teach your new seeker a move that no one else at this school knows.”

The girl’s expression immediately brightens under the glow of the morning sunrise.

After a beat, she asks, “How many of you follow the international teams?”

Bell slowly raises his hand, “Sure. I went to Sydney to watch the World Cup last year with my Da.”

A few similar nods follow his statement. Catherine gives a knowing smile.

“And outside of the largest sporting event in the game’s history?”

Silence meets her in return and she grins.

“Well, it looks like this might just be a new play for you all. Has anyone here heard of the name Josef Wronski before?”

She spends the next hour introducing Parson to the Polish tactic. It was only introduced into the world of the sport seven or so years back and hadn’t truly taken off in many places outside of its country of origin. Catherine had managed to catch a game when she was passing through the country on her way into the German Empire back in 1897.

It’s a different sort of freedom when she’s flying around the pitch with the team. While her flight times with the Hippogriffs last semester had been a liberating experience, with the wind whipping against her frozen cheeks today, she felt a determined thrill ringing throughout her body. An old sensation buried after graduation. Maybe she could convince Matilda to start up a faculty league.

“That’s it, Laura!” she shouts behind her as the girl gains speed on her. “As far as you can go, come on!”

It was a matter of zigging and zagging across the pitch before taking a sharp dive down to the field – almost to the point of crashing – before you managed to pull your broom up at the last possible second. The intention was to have your opponent crash or become so distracted that they didn’t notice the true location of the snitch.

Parson had been doing beautifully in replicating her moves and as she glanced back at Spinnet, the team captain seemed equally impressed down on the ground.

After touching back down beside him, she instructed the chasers on an old tactic that had worked for her team a decade ago. Apparently, it was one that Spinnet said had fallen out of use over the years and might just prove to be a game-changer against the other houses.

In the end, there’s a group of sweaty, exhausted, but completely exhilarated students who wave their thanks to her as they trudge back through the snow to the castle. Both Parson and Spinnet offer her another few words of gratitude, and the captain gently hints at having another possible training session in the future.

“We’ll see,” is all she says in return – beaming at the feeling of tired muscles and aching bones now plaguing her body. It wasn’t every day the twenty-eight-year-old powered through a full morning of training, after all.

With how many paces she was putting her broom through these past few days, Catherine found herself in Hogsmeade on a blustery Saturday afternoon to purchase a new set of flying gloves. While her Christmas present from Aesop had been a true treat for the winter weather, their grip wasn’t quite what she needed for early morning training sessions with the Gryffindor team. The frost had a nasty way of clinging to the handle of her broom before the sunlight managed to melt away the ice crystals.

The wizarding village was rather emptied out for a Saturday, though she placed the blame on the dismal weather entirely.

While the Christmas season had brought the joy of shopping for friends and loved ones which enticed several people to go out and peruse the local wares, January had no such draw.

In fact, most people would prefer to stay at home near the fire if given the choice.

And she would have too if it wasn’t for the need of new gloves and a particular desire to converse with the tavern boy at the Hog’s Head again.

Though, unfortunately, Aberforth had no amount of news to share with her. A sad fact that was piling up in her private life as well. There had been nothing from any of her contacts and she was trying to place it further from her mind – devoting her attention to classes, Quidditch training sessions, and art debates (of all things).

But the fact was, Catherine was desperate for a new lead in her case. Every new smuggled shipment could be her ticket. But almost all of the major operations on the northern coast of the country had ceased shipping – finding new, hidden, locations most likely to resume their trade.

Which did not bode well for her mission.

“Oh! Professor Hart, are you headed up to the Three Broomsticks as well?”

She whips around at the call of her name over the windy street. There, near Ollivander’s doorstep, stands Mirabel all bundled up in a thick cloak and a knitted pastel scarf. Her nose is as red as a rose petal as she offers up a stiff arm in a sort of wave.

“I wasn’t planning to, no. But I couldn’t say no to a warm Butterbeer right about now,” she smiles as she crosses the street to meet the other woman.

“Honestly, I was thinking just the same,” her words form a billowing stream of frozen breath.

With a nod, she finds her arm looped through the herbology professor’s who quickly leads them both up the road to the tavern in question.

The instant rush of heat once they step through the doors feels strong enough to melt the frost that clings to their outer clothes and hair. With an almost visible sigh of relief, the two women look toward one another before eyeing the vacant table near the roaring fireplace. If ever there was a place to thaw out in front of, it would be there.

For a weekend afternoon, the inn is surprisingly empty. Another thing she’ll blame the weather for. But with ripe pickings and fast service in return, Catherine can’t find much of a reason to complain.

“Helga’s heart,” Mirabel sighs after taking a sip of her steaming drink. “I feel as if I haven’t seen you since last month. Are you usually this terribly busy?”

Catherine gives a laugh as she wipes a bit of frothy foam from her upper lip. She didn’t want the news that she was assisting the Gryffindor team in their training sessions to become common knowledge. So, instead, she comes up with another easy answer.

“No, I’m afraid the Mooncalves have kept me rather busy as of late. I don’t know how they manage to injure themselves so frequently, and yet, here I am every day bandaging up one and forcing a healing draught down another.”

“So, is that why we never see you for breakfast?”

The blonde witch gives a slight shake of her head, resting her elbows upon the wooden tabletop, “That’s all thanks to my morning chores. Even if I have a first-period class, I’m still responsible for getting the creatures sorted out first thing.”

Mirabel gives a warm chuckle, “You sound so similar to myself when I first started on. I’m not sure even Matilda could pull me from the Greenhouses before or after any of my classes. There was always something to be dealt with before my students arrived.”

“I suppose plants and beasts are almost one and the same with the sense that they require a constant form of care.”

The other witch gives a soft hum of agreement.

For a short while, as they work through their mugs of Butterbeer, the two women converse on all matters of topics. From Mirabel’s current fascination with foreign tea blends to Catherine’s assessment of Mr. Macnair and how she believes the boy will surely fail her class.

Tucked into the warm corner of the tavern, the heat radiating off of the crackling fire, the Beasts professor feels truly at ease. Even when Professors Kearney, Weasley, and Kogawa walk in. With a wave of her hand, the three women join their comfy spot in the corner of the room.

“It’s rather brisk out there today, isn’t it?” Matilda comments, rubbing her arms as a sudden chill sends her body into a shiver.

“A good sort of cold though. Good for the lungs,” Kogawa smirks, resting her arm across the back of Catherine’s chair.

“So,” Roslin beams. “What are we gossiping about then?”

Catherine gives a roll of her eyes, though her sense of amusement does not fade, “We were just trying to figure out which of our students will be repeating a year and which will fail out entirely.”

Kogawa snorts, slamming her glass down, “If we’re placing galleons on it, I’d put them all on Mr. Collins. That boy still can’t hold an ounce of control over his broomstick. It’s been almost three years’ worth of remedial classes.”

Matilda, ever the mediator, gives a courteous thin-lipped smile, “Let’s save the betting for the next quidditch game, shall we?”

“Fine then,” the flying instructor sulks, crossing her arms over her chest. “But don’t be surprised when that boy’s held back for another round of third year.”

“Oh, that boy,” Mirabel sighs – rubbing a tired hand over her forehead. “I want so badly for him to take on my help. I’ve offered afternoon sessions and everything. He’s got a thumb as black as they come, I’m afraid. Even the Tentaculas shy away from him. Please tell me he fairs better in your class, Matilda.”

The older witch gives a sigh, followed by the slightest shrug of her shoulders.

“That bad?” Catherine muses, lifting her second mug of Butterbeer to her lips.

“Well,” the Deputy Headmistress smooths out her robes for a moment as if pondering the question with great consideration. “He’s not currently at a Troll if that’s what you mean. He… oh, I really shouldn’t say this, but… he’s quite on the edge of it, as it were.”

Roslin then gives a soft cough, which causes four sets of eyes to peer over at her.

“It’s just, well, if we’re referring to Benjamin Collins, I have him every Thursday as part of the choir. He has a real talent there – quite a natural actually.”

“Hmmm,” Chiyo hums. “Maybe all he needs is a recommendation to the Academy of Dramatic Arts?”

“Not the W.A.D.A, surely?” The Deputy Head says, fully aghast.

“Why not? If he can’t fly, and he can’t care for a plant, and he’s barely passing Transfiguration –”

“Poor sod,” the Beasts professor sighs with a shake of her head as she lifts her mug to her lips once again.

Matilda’s hazel eyes seek her out, almost imploring, “You don’t have him in any of your classes, Catherine?”

“No,” she snorts. “I get the likes of Adrian Macnair – ”

The mention of the seventh-year Slytherin’s name brings about a few curious reactions: pointed disgust, a compassionate grimace, and shock – which certainly said more than words could manage.

“– and Nereus Bulstrode.”

That name also pulls a similar reaction from her colleagues.

Even though she’d been teaching for barely even five months at this point, Catherine was all too aware of the fact that those particular boys were just barely scraping by in her class. No thanks to their own prideful egos that gave them a disturbing boost of assuredness that they knew more on the subject matter than the actual creature expert.

Their behavior had become so abhorrent that she found the need to split them up during the practical lessons. Usually with one sent to muck out a pen and the other sent to handle the feed.

Some people were considered naturals in the field of beasts. Others were more interested in the academic aspects of the class. Those two, however, she couldn’t quite pin down. And that thought kept her frequently on her toes whenever they were around.

Even with students like Mr. Kettleburn, she knew her animals were in safe hands. With Macnair and Bulstrode though… well, that was still to be fully determined.

“Oh, such awful boys,” Roslin frowns, downing a shot of whiskey with not so much as even a grimace.

“Talented,” Weasley placates. “But with wasted whims, perhaps.”

“Trouble’s more like it,” Chiyo mutters.

Catherine nods, tapping her glass against the flying instructor’s, “Here, here.”

“Now, now,” Matilda chides lightly. “It is our role as educators to guide them down a higher path. Not just forsake them to the wolves.”

“Wolves would be a merciful fate,” Chiyo snorts into her ear, causing Catherine to cover her mouth with her hand to avoid openly laughing.

“Matilda,” the music professor laments in a drawn-out whine, her accent coming out in longer grasps as she finishes off a third shot. “Ye can’t exactly fault us in our beliefs when someone like Abraham even finds nothing of promise to say about ‘em.”

“If it came from Aesop, perhaps it’d be more understandable,” Mirabel chimes in.

The young witch feels her brows rise as she quickly butts in, “Why’s that?”

From across the table, the redhead meets her gaze with a rather curious quirk on her lips, “Well, Aesop never speaks too highly of any particular student – even within his own house. It takes a true talent to get him to sing any sort of praise.”

“A certain Hero of Hogwarts, you might say,” Matilda grins none-too-subtly as she sips from her glass.

“Now that I find serious doubt with –” she starts to say.

“Oh no, it’s quite true. It must have been after the well…” Mirabel blinks, clears her throat, and changes her angle of approach. “After your fifth year. I think all of our opinions of you changed quite a bit, Catherine.”

At that, she stares down into the bottom of her mug where a thin layer of amber-colored drink resides.

Her silence must settle a little too heavily over the group because Matilda is quick to clear her throat, “So, what are the going bets for next week’s game? I want to know who’ll be going up against me this round.”

She drowns out the debate over the two teams – Gryffindor and Slytherin, quite the infamous match-up if ever there was one.

Instead, she shuffles the glass between her hands. Letting the warm drops of condensation slip between her fingers as she contemplates the earlier conversation. The title had followed her up until graduation, even trailing a little further on to her job at the Ministry. In fact, it had been some time since she had last heard the name being directed her way.

The name, that silly godawful name that the Prophet had coined twelve years back, had taunted her. She certainly hadn’t felt much like a hero in the aftermath of the repository battle.

Catherine raises her near-empty mug in agreeance when Matilda claims Gryffindor will be victorious, but otherwise keeps to her thoughts for the remainder of the meet-up.

So much has changed since then. Perhaps too much.

From a factory girl to a witch overnight. Destined to fight a war she didn’t know she was signing up for. Taking on a goblin rebellion at fifteen. Was it any wonder her professors looked at her differently after Fig’s memorial? They had been truly oblivious to her… extracurricular activities at the time.

Maybe they just thought she held promise – discovering magic so late on in life and having to work incredibly harder than her peers to catch up to five years worth of studies.

But no. She had just been fooling them all. Taking classes by day, a few supplementary lessons here and there to catch her up to speed, and then there she was taking down poacher encampments and goblin mining facilities by nightfall.

Was that the act of a hero or an act of reckless insanity?

Even after all this time, she’s still not entirely sure.

“We really must do this again,” Mirabel smiles as the five women finally push up from their seats, grabbing hold of their cloaks.

Matilda nods, “This was quite fun, really. Just us girls.”

Catherine hums in agreement as she wraps her blue cloak back around her shoulders. Pulling her chestnut-colored gloves from within her pocket as she braces herself for the bitter wind outside of the tavern’s sanctuary.

The swoop of wind catches her breath as the tip of her broom handle slams into the ground, rocketing her forward into a somersault that leaves her head aching and her bottom even worse off.

“Professor!” someone screams from behind her.

With a quick shake of her head, she brushes her tangled curls from her eyes and peers up at the triumphant smile of the young third-year floating just a few feet above her.

“You pull that off tomorrow, and you’ll be sure to win,” she smiles.

It takes a moment, pushing up onto her left foot before she manages to fully stand upright once again. Oh, there were certain to be bruises come morning.

“Are you all right?” Melinda Mason questions with a clear voice of concern.

Catherine supposes it would be rather unfortunate to be the cause of injury for one of your professors. But she turns and gives the girl a warm smile.

“I promise that I’m quite well, Ms. Mason. I have sustained far more grievous injuries in my time than a flying fumble.”

As Parson dismounts, holding the snitch in her tight grasp, the Beasts professor surveys the team with a pleased eye and a nod of approval.

“I think you’re all more than prepared for the game. But, if I may offer a final parting piece of advice?”

Spinnet nods quick and sure. The young captain had, admittedly, surprised her. She had expected a certain cockiness, perhaps similar to her own team captain back in her seventh year. But this boy was destined for something great in the future, she was sure of it.

“Never underestimate the power of deception.”

When she’s met with a sea of confused looks, she elaborates.

“If you come into the Hall acting like you’re the kings of the game, they’ll double down even harder to get you knocked out of the match. But, if perhaps, a rumor was to be placed around the school… your dismay at the prospects of your new player, or the state of your team without your old seeker? Then their guard will be lowered and you’ll have the higher ground when it comes to the actual game. They won’t know what hit them.”

Sly smirks and secretive glances finalize her words into a proper plan. To be fair, her advice had been intended to bolster the team, but it would also give her and Matilda a bit of advantage with the betting that was to take place in the faculty stands tomorrow.

But the Gryffindor players certainly didn’t need to know that fact.

Her advice clearly met the landed mark she had hoped it would, as when she appears in the Great Hall the following morning for breakfast – passing by the Slytherin table – she notes that the green team is looking particularly smug as they sit together. While the Gryffindor team is dispersed across the length of their table, looking thoroughly annoyed with one another.

Catherine knew it was an act, despite what the rest of the populace would believe.

She had watched the way that they had bonded these past few weeks during their training sessions. Parson had been accepted as part of the team and their synchronicity was almost unparalleled.

“Ah, Hart. What a rarity.”

Offering a smirk toward the potions professor, she takes her seat beside him.

“It would be a shame if I was ever fully predictable.”

She can feel his turned gaze upon the side of her face as she fills up her bowl with porridge and syrup. His black coffee steams in a mug beside her left hand, the aroma of roasted beans filling her senses.

“Would it be right to assume you’ll be attending the match today, or would that be too predictable?” he muses in a rich, gravelly tone of voice.

“No, in this case, it would be completely predictable. And rightfully so. I intend to watch the dismal expression that will crest your face when Gryffindor wins.”

His warm chortle feels like wading through honey.

“Oh, quite the optimist today, aren’t you?”

She hums in return, savoring another spoonful of her warm meal.

“Is it wrong to have pride in one’s house?”

“Maybe not. But if you have any intention of keeping your money purse full, perhaps you’ll avoid the betting pool this time around.”

Catherine lets her gaze fall upon his dark eyes for a moment, as she sighs, “Meaning…?”

Aesop scooches his dish forward, the plate nearly cleared of his breakfast, “Well, if you must know, word travels rather quickly through the castle; even in the dungeons. Though perhaps you don’t hear it all the way out there in your paddocks.”

She blinks, curious to see where this will go.

“The prevailing rumor seems to be that your team has had quite the trouble filling their seeker position after the holidays. In fact, I don’t even think they’re speaking to the poor girl,” at that, he points his chin toward the Gryffindor table where Laura Parson is sitting, dutifully, alone – pushing her eggs around her plate.

Playing the part exceptionally well, actually.

Catherine snorts, returning to her meal, “I never placed much faith in rumors, Sharp.”

“Yes,” he murmurs. “Of that, we’re quite in agreement.”

Their conversation takes a momentary lapse as the sound of owls hooting in the rafters takes their focus. The great birds swoop down over the tables, depositing mail and packages. A large gray owl drops a rolled-up Prophet onto Aesop’s empty plate. Nothing arrives for Catherine, much to her dismay.

She had been hoping today would be the day she would get another tip-off.

Pulling the twine free, she watches as the potions professor unfurls the newspaper. On the front page, a rather large moving image captures her attention – making her lean across the table, shoving her head beside his shoulder, to peer at the article.

SON OF MERLIN KILLER CAPTURED

There, on the front page, the repeating image of the distressed-looking man with his hands tied behind his back with shimmering strings of magic screams on the front steps of a dark shopfront. Beside him stands two stoic-looking Aurors in their work robes and the very familiar face of one of her dearest friends.

“That’s Natty!”

Sharp seems to scrutinize the image for a second more before he looks across the staff table.

“Mudiwa, you might wish to seek out your own copy of the Daily Prophet.”

The seer smiles, waving her hand in dismissal, “Bah, I already know all about that.”

“Of course,” Catherine groans – the woman probably knew about it weeks before it even happened.

“Natsai sent me a letter last night. She wished to keep me from happening upon it myself in the morning edition.”

Oh, well, that was slightly surprising.

“Shall we be expecting the wedding invitations soon then?” the young witch calls out to her.

Mudiwa merely offers her a knowing smile as she resumes drinking her tea.

Aesop offers her a bemused look before the two of them begin to read the article together. He at least has the courtesy to angle it to the right so she can see it without straining too far out of her seat.

“A man has been arrested in Knockturn Alley in connection to a series of killings that have plagued the Great London area for the past year, authorities announced in an interview with the press late Friday evening.

Robert Dryer, 38, was arrested overnight while “out celebrating,” said lead investigator Natsai Onai in an interview with the Daily Prophet with Minister for MagicVenusia Crickerly and Head Auror Simon Hendrick. He was discovered outside of The Golden Thestral pub in an inebriated state where he was heard, by passersby, saying he was going to “carve up every [redacted slur] witch this side of the Channel.”

Dryer is facing several charges in regard to the 47 bodies that have been discovered in the city baring what investigators called his “signature” – a series of dark runes that Dryer burned into all of his victims. The last victim, a Miss Eugenia Drood, 25, was found near the banks of the River Thames, which required the assistance of Obliviators after the local Muggle police force happened upon her branded body.

Aurors confirmed that he is the sole suspect at this time.

During the interview, Investigator Onai revealed that Dryer has lived in London for nearly six years. He has a criminal record, though Aurors did not reveal the details of his past crimes.

According to trustworthy sources, Dryer holds criminal convictions in both Scotland and England for charges such as: performing magic in front of Muggles, improper use of Horklumps, drunkenness in a public venue, and destruction of private property.

Minister Crickerly said that the public will now be able to move on without fear and that public safety is her number one concern after obtaining office.

“Let it be known, to the people of Great Britain, your world is safer now than it was yesterday. When the wizards and witches in our community work together with our law enforcement agencies, anything can be accomplished. The scrum of society will be cleaned off our streets and people will know peace once again.”

Dryer will be facing trial at a later date while he is held in Ministry custody. Head Auror Hendrick said that the Wizengamot is working to determine the charges against him.

Officials are still unsure of the extent of his intentions behind the killings but said his patterns were consistent.”

“Godric’s heart,” Catherine sighs in disbelief as she watches Natty’s stern, but clearly pleased, expression as she watches the other Aurors lug Dryer down the steps, over and over again.

“I’ll be surprised if he’s not sent for the Kiss itself after his trial.”

“Or,” Catherine nods. “If you don’t see one of the victims’ family members trying to enact justice beforehand.”

Aesop gives a sullen hum of agreement, folding the paper in two.

“What horrid business,” she finally settles on, pushing the paper as far away from herself as she can manage.

“But, he’s in custody now. At least tonight the people of London can rest easy.”

“And perhaps receive some justice in a few months’ time,” she adds.

Sharp gives a nod, “Indeed.”

Looking out over the hall once again, Catherine notices the empty seats dispersed across the tables as more and more students head out into the corridor.

“The match should be starting within the hour,” Sharp comments dryly, offering her a pointed look.

The change in conversation washes over her like a cleaning charm, pulling with it the awful images that the article had created in her mind.

Allowing a teasing smile to befall her lips, she looks over at him, “Well then… shall we?”

Sharp stands before she can even scoot her chair back, pulling it away from the table for her as he offers up yet another hand of assistance.

On the way out to the pitch, wrapped in a warm cloak and a fur-lined coat, respectfully, they pass by several students on their way to the stadium. With painted red and gold or silver and green faces, carrying felt flags, and large hand-made banners. She can hear cheers for both teams from large groups of teenagers.

“We are the Lions!”

“Mighty, mighty Lions!”

“We’ll kick your arse in!”

“Better flying Lions!”

“They really could do better than that,” she teases, looking over in Sharp’s direction to gauge his reaction.

The potions professor shakes his head, calling out over the large pack of students, “That’ll be twenty points, Mr. Bartlett, for the use of foul language!”

The boy in question flushes a brilliant shade of red as his friends all tug him in, ragging on him like he’s a triumphant gladiator in the ring and Sharp is nothing more than a maniacal Roman emperor.

“Twenty points, really?” Catherine gently pushes against his right arm. “Are you just trying to start a feud before we even get there?”

Sharp scoffs, glancing down at her, “I don’t recall hearing any Slytherins shouting profanities at the top of their lungs, Hart.”

No, they were more than likely setting up dungbombs in the Gryffindor stands before the match began. Or perhaps enchanting a cloud of rain to follow around certain students. Gryffindors, for their part, were loud and brash when it came to their gloating. Slytherins were far more subdued and tactful about their approach.

The path to the pitch is slick with ice. The recent snowfall masked the dangers, though many students were wise enough to press through the drifts along the sides of the path instead.

Catherine was barely that lucky, as she felt her boot glide across the frozen ground with absolutely no traction. Her heel lifted up and nearly sent her tumbling backward if not for Sharp’s quick hand flying out to catch her arm.

She stares at the blanket of gray sky above her as snowflakes begin to settle across the grounds. Her chest heaves with the exhilaration of almost falling when she looks over at her savior.

He chuckles as he pulls her upright, “Careful.”

She blinks once, twice at him before the embarrassment clouding her vision simmers.

“I do endeavor to be, Sharp.”

“Of course,” he smirks, offering his arm to her once again.

She lets her gloved fingers grip the fabric of his gray coat sleeve before they begin forward. The journey is slow-paced. Not just in thanks to the man’s noted injury, for once. But it doesn’t matter, as only a portion of the stadium is filled out when they arrive at the faculty’s section.

Together, they find a spot to sit in the center of the allotted seating, where a clear divide can be drawn once the other professors join them.

Rubbing her gloves together, Catherine pulls her cloak tight over her shoulders so it can drape across her knees which she presses together as the wind picks up over the valley. Beside her, Sharp radiates off a warm aura of heat that she finds herself leaning into.

They do not speak, as there is nothing further to stumble through. The silence is comfortable, as it usually is between them. And she can sense his gaze when he looks down at her over the bridge of his nose. She can feel the rumble in his body when he clears his throat, or the press of his foot against her own.

Slowly, one by one, familiar faces make their way up the stairs. With the majority of the staff choosing to sit beside Sharp, showing their clear favoritism in the betting pool this time around.

Next to Catherine, Matilda, Mirabel, and Mudiwa find a spot to sit. Maybe it would be more apparent where the outcome of the game was set to lie when the noted seer chose your team. But alas, she watches as the rest of the staff fills up the left side of the wooden benches.

“All right, all right,” Roland beams as he stands on the lowest level of the stands. “Let’s hear the bets, people!”

The blonde witch watches as her colleagues quickly place their easy bets for the match.

“Put me down for 10 galleons, Sterling,” Crestwell grins, leaning back on the bench as he nudges Waterford.

“And eight for me, please.”

Sharp glances down at her, “You still have time to switch sides, Hart.”

She fixes him with a sturdy glare before she calls out, “Forty galleons on Gryffindor!”

“Forty?” Sterling exclaims, furiously writing it down on his pad of paper. “Willing to risk it all today, are you?”

Catherine settles back on her seat with a knowing look at the stadium. She can feel Aesop’s warm breath on her left shoulder as he stares down at her with a scrutinizing eye.

“What do you know?”

With the most innocent of expressions, she looks up at the potions professor.

“Me? Why, nothing more than house pride, Professor.”

Sharp lets out a huff of breath, biting his tongue as he looks away, “That remains to be seen.”

“Mark me down for twenty galleons, Roland, if you would please,” Matilda says in a rush of excitement, looping her arm through the Beasts professor’s.

Perhaps Aragon had let his Deputy Head in on Catherine’s plans to assist the Gryffindor team after all. And what could a true lionheart like Matilda Weasley do if not place down a heavy amount of money on her house’s team?

Mirabel, noticing this, quickly adds twenty-five galleons to the pot and offers a cheeky wink at them both.

The other faculty members, sitting firmly on the Slytherin side of the staff tower, fix the three women with equal looks of bewilderment and – in Sharp’s case especially – suspicion. But Catherine merely holds onto Matilda’s arm as the student announcer settles into place.

“Welcome to the first match of the new year: Slytherin versus Gryffindor!”

Cheers of enthusiastic team pride ring out through the stadium and she can’t help but smile as the wind picks up – sending her blonde locks billowing backward – as fat snowflakes rain down on the pitch.

The dark green robes of the Slytherin team fly out first, in a perfect arrow formation as they glide past their house members down in the lower stands. Beside her, she can barely make out the predictions being laid out by the male professors, though Sharp remains oddly silent. With his arms fixed across his chest, he flexes his fingers as he watches the students slow to an easy glide in the center of the pitch.

What starts out as a dull throb of noise turns into raucous shouts as Gryffindor soars out onto the field in a surprisingly synchronized V-formation with Spinnet leading the charge.

They fly directly over the heads of the Slytherin team – earning more cries of excitement – before they turn into a left-flanked spiral, breezing past the Slytherins in the stands. They turn their heads away in a clear sign of disinterest as they zoom towards the opposite side of the stands where the noise level is at its highest.

Red and gold banners blur together as the student section cries out.

Catherine can’t help but clap in delight, sharing an equally excited look with Matilda who gives a quick shout of encouragement toward the team.

As Kogawa flies out into the center of the pitch – her light-colored robes barely visible against the beginning of a true blizzard – Sharp leans toward her. Lowering his mouth close to her ear so that his words can be heard over the noise.

“What did you do?”

She glances over at him with another doe-eyed blink, “Why, whatever could you mean by that?”

“Mhmm,” he murmurs, eyes trailing back to the start of the match.

The young witch beams when he pulls back, unable to contain her joy.

“And it’s an immediate fight for the Quaffle as Captain Cygnus Black secures the ball! Ooh, that’s quite a hit by Macnair – Gryffindor better watch their backs this match. The Slytherin team will not be holding back this time.”

Catherine can feel her breath catch in her throat as Black soars past, nearing the goalposts. But as the storm picks up, Bell swoops down and kicks the Quaffle away before it can make it through the hoop.

“Yes! Come on!”

“Spinnet’s in possession of the Quaffle now. Can the Gryffindor captain keep a better hold of it than Black? Here come Mason and Wilkes, forming a blockade on either side of their captain. Will Slytherin be able to break it down?”

Warrington and Macnair team up, smacking one of the bludgers at the trio of chasers, but Cassius Diggory flies up at the last moment and sends it right back at the two Slytherin beaters.

“Gryffindor scores! That’s ten points on the board!”

Matilda lets out a whoop of pure thrill at the announcement. Catherine can’t even look away to spy on her fellow colleagues’ faces as the three Gryffindor chasers begin tossing the ball back and forth between each other.

“Tabitha Walsh is on a collision course with Spinnet, and she – yes! She has the Quaffle. Quite the nasty concussion for the Gryffindor captain.”

A line of Slytherins careens down across the lower half of the pitch, avoiding the Gryffindors who were soaring much higher above them. But as they approach the goals, they’re slowly picked off one by one as Wilkes kicks Cygnus Black directly in the stomach – sending the poor boy spiraling into a freefall – with the Quaffle back in her safe grasp.

“And that’s another ten points!”

Blasts of ice and freshly fallen snow are tossed up into wide arcs across the stands as the players fly past – desperate to maintain a hold of the ball for more than a minute. Catherine’s cloak is coated in a thin layer of snow and flakes dangle from her eyelashes as she blinks furiously to see through the blinding white blizzard.

“Yes!” Aesop gives a sharp call, followed by thunderous claps as Slytherin makes their first goal of the game.

She glances over at him, at his newly decorated snow-white beard and hair. The flakes cling to the fur of his coat, though he doesn’t seem to mind as he squints to see through the storm.

“Third-year seeker Laura Parson has spotted the snitch!”

Catherine freezes in her spot as she watches the blur of red robes soar across the stadium at lightning speeds, with the trailing of green not too far behind her. And then, to the gasps of shock from the stadium, she takes an immediate nosedive next to the Slytherin’s central goalpost.

Swirling around the metal pole, she drops to dangerous heights with the Slytherin seeker immediately on her tail.

With a giant whoosh of snow flying up on either side of her, Parson pulls up at the last possible second. Even having a moment to spare as she looks behind her, just in time to see the other seeker slam into the ice-covered ground.

“Marcus Vance is out! And, what’s this? Has Parson lost sight of the snitch?”

An immediate grin of victory crosses Catherine’s face when she realizes that the young seeker had just played the entire stadium, as she leisurely glides past, offering a wave to the Beasts professor in the faculty stands.

“What on Earth –” Matilda begins, staring at her with wide brown eyes.

“That was the Wronski Feint.”

“Oh! How clever!”

“Yes,” Sharp sneers to her left, fixing her with a pointed dark gaze. “Very clever.”

Before she can form a proper retort, the announcer calls out yet another goal for the Gryffindor team.

“That was a close call for Parson! Macnair is not happy that their seeker’s been fooled.”

With bated breath, Catherine watches the back and forth as the two green-robed beaters send bludger after bludger at the Gryffindor team. Determined to strike one of them out of the match entirely. After Parson’s little play, the other team holds absolutely no punches back as the game becomes increasingly bloody.

By Gryffindor’s seventh goal, Spinnet is sporting a blooming purple bruise over his right eye and Wilkes has a massive seeping cut across her cheek. Bell gives a roar as he slams the Quaffle right back into play, repelling yet another attack from the Slytherins.

Warrington goes after the Keeper then, zooming past the rest of the players as he sends the next bludger directly at Bell. It slams into the boy’s helmet, tossing him back into the goal and he nearly slips off his broom.

Dangling by a single hand, Cygnus Black manages to throw the ball through the right-hand post before the Keeper manages to straddle his broom once again – a clear face of annoyance on his features as he claps his hands together, ready for another assault.

“That was a little too close for comfort,” Matilda worries her hands together, watching with a concerned gaze as Spinnet soars past Berle and Walsh – knocking the Quaffle from her hands.

“That’s eighty to twenty! It’s anyone's game now with the snitch still in play. Though how anyone can see it out there in all this mess is a mystery to this announcer!”

Catherine couldn’t agree more as the sky opens up with another torrential downpour of thick snowflakes that nearly whites out the entire pitch. Her body shivers against the bitter sting of the prevailing wind – even under the canopy of the tower. She holds onto Matilda’s arm even tighter as Mason goes careening past – having been hit with a bludger straight to the back.

The girl slams into a neighboring tower, ripping through the outer fabric, before falling several stories down to the ground. Her unconscious form topples out onto the snow-covered pitch. Both her and Matilda stand up then, peering over the edge of the stands with gasps of worry.

“Gryffindor’s now one chaser down, but Spinnet isn’t calling for a substitute! He’s barreling toward Black now with clear intent! Yes, ooh, that’s quite the hit! Another ten points!”

Blainey, down on the ground, bundled up in a thick red coat, levitates the seventh-year girl off the pitch on a stretcher as the match continues on above them.

“Kogawa has called on a foul on Macnair! That’s five points from Slytherin and the Quaffle is back in Wilkes’ possession!”

Blasting through one another, the chasers battle for the ball. The duo of Black and Berle manage to toss Slytherin ahead two more goals, while Diggory and Clark send an onslaught of bludgers at the opposing chasers. Their keeper, Rosier, ducks out of the way to avoid a particularly powerful swing, giving Spinnet another shot at the goal.

“Vance has spotted the snitch!”

Her gaze flies across the pitch just in time to catch the Slytherin seeker soaring after the tiny ball that even her own eyes can’t quite see through the whipping winds of the snowstorm.

Like a shot of lightning, Parson takes off after the boy.

“Come on, come on,” she mutters under her breath, standing up to watch as they travel across the pitch – circling the blue and bronze flag of one of the Ravenclaw towers.

Shoved together, side by side, the two seekers zoom past – sending up an arc of frigid cold winter air. Catherine cranes her neck to follow their path. Up and over the Slytherin goal posts, down into a near nosedive in the center of the pitch. Parson leans forward, her arm extended out.

“Warrington has sent a bludger at the seekers! Did he intend to knock out his own teammate? And there goes Black, soaring after them both – what on Merlin’s magic does he plan to do?”

Vance kicks at Parson’s broom, sending the girl off course for just a minute before she manages to righten herself back. Behind them both, Cygnus Black is flying at breakneck speeds to catch up to the pair.

Pulling her hands together to her lips, Catherine mutters a silent prayer.

Black slams his foot into Parson’s broom, giving her side a shove as well.

“In a never-before-seen move, Captain Cygnus Black has doubled up with the Slytherin seeker to nab the snitch!”

Beside her, Aesop and the rest of the faculty stand, watching as the Gryffindor team throws the Quaffle to the ground and zooms down in an immediate dive formation after the two players in green.

Vance jerks his broom to the left, before making a near 180° turn. Shouts of anger and determination can be heard from the cheers of the student section as Spinnet throws himself off of his broom and tackles Black in midair. Kogawa’s whistle blows, but no one on the pitch pays any heed to it. Diggory slams his bat into Vance’s broom, just as the rest of the Slytherin team joins the fray.

“Fucking hell,” Sharp swears from beside her and it shocks Catherine so much to hear the potions professor properly cuss that she swivels her head around to stare at the man.

He shakes his head in disbelief as Macnair sends a bludger at Wilkes' head, with the poor girl barely being able to twist her broom out of the way, just for the vicious ball to slam into his own teammate’s right arm. Tabitha Walsh gives a howl of pain as she loses grip on the handle of her broom – falling to the pitch as the madness of the other players plays out over the top of her.

Kogawa charges down to the mess – trying to grab hold of arms to pull the students off one another, but she gets kicked back much to the absolutely outraged look on her face.

And, on the other side of the pitch…

“Vance and Parson are in a sprint to the snitch! Not that the rest of their teams have noticed!”

No, in the chaos of the other players trying to bludgeon one another to death, only Spinnet had managed to look up for a second – before Warrington slammed his fist into the captain’s head – to notice the two seekers.

“Yes, yes!” she cries, watching as the two robes of red and green blur together across the spray of blinding white snow.

But Vance slams into Parson’s side and the girl’s grip on her broom slips and she tumbles off the side, over a hundred feet in the air.

Catherine grips Aesop’s arm, slamming a hand over her mouth.

Laura feebly flings her arm out, kicking her legs as she tries to regain control over the broom, but Vance twists to the side – pressing into her once again, and then the seeker falls.

Matilda lets out a cry and Mirabel gasps as they watch the girl, with one hand still on her broom, fall for several feet.

The stadium grows silent as she careens to the ground just before she manages to righten the handle and twist her body in such a way that she straddles the broom once again.

Followed by many cheers from the Gryffindor stands, Catherine finally feels like she can let out a single breath of relief.

Parson flies down, managing to surpass Vance who is still several feet above her, reaching her hand out just in time to nab something from the air!

“After her almost death plummet, Parson has caught the snitch! Gryffindor wins, 270 points to Slytherin’s 65!”

Matilda immediately grabs her arm, pulling her off of Sharp, as she hugs the younger professor with nothing short of pure happiness.

Across the stadium, cheers of joy ring out. With the announcement, the scuffle on the pitch finally comes to an end with the majority of the players looking far worse than a normal game would cause. Kogawa has both Spinnet and Black by the arms, tugging them down to the ground before unceremoniously dragging them off the pitch with cries of discomfort.

But Catherine can’t stop smiling as Parson does a quick lap around the pitch, holding the snitch up like a trophy. When she comes past the staff’s tower, she does a little bow to the Beasts professor – which Catherine gives right back to her in return.

“So, you’re to thank for their sudden abilities,” Sharp muses in a thin voice as he peers down at her.

“Well, as far as the official rule book goes, there’s currently nothing in place to stop a professor from aiding a team. Didn’t you know?” she gives him a wink before she turns back around to Matilda to give a little squeal of delight.

In the end, Sterling dismally hands the three women forty-seven galleons, each. She finds it a little bit funny that Sharp gives her a bemused smirk as she pockets her winnings, but he says nothing further to her.

Together, Catherine and Matilda walk arm-in-arm back to the castle, following the roaring cheers from the crowd of Gryffindor students who swarm the victorious and bloody team.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

#aesop sharp x oc #aesop sharp x mc #professor sharp x oc #professor sharp x mc #aesop sharp fanfic #professor sharp fanfic #hphl fanfic #series: bitter water #my fic

11 notes · View notes

misssebastionsallow · 1 year

Text

So the concept of time magic and Professor Hecat’s situation opens the door for an interesting pairing that doesn’t squick me out: MC x Aesop Sharp where MC is an undercover auror who is tasked with investigating the ancient magic while acting as a bodyguard for Professor Fig.

MC can still be a young adult, say age 25 or so, so she never got to interact with Professor Sharp while he was an Auror, while likewise, Prof Sharp never instructed her as a student. Now she’s an adult in a 21 Jump Street situation and there’s still an age gap relationship but it sits much better with my personal comfort levels.

You could also investigate the angst where MC can’t share the secret about what’s she’s working on with Aesop because he’s retired, Aesop wanting to do more to help but being stuck behind his desk, and then both being conniving slytherins focusing on their goals. Maybe MC could heal Aesop’s leg with the ancient magic?

This headcannon is up for grabs and I would LOVE to see what writers do with it, I’m just an illustrator.💚

#hogwarts legacy #harry potter hogwarts game #aesop sharp #professor sharp #professor sharp x MC #professor sharp x oc #harry potter fanart #hogwarts legacy headcanons #professor sharp headcannon

5 notes · View notes

5sospenguinqueen · 7 days

Text

Professor Sharp: Sebastian Sallow did what?

Nurse Blainey: I wouldn't let him see MC because visiting hours were over, so he wasn't allowed to stay... So, he punched himself in the face and told me he was injured.

Professor Sharp: Well, you have to admire his dedication?

Nurse Blainey: He broke his nose!

291 notes · View notes

sallowsarchives · 1 year

Text

I spy a certain slytherin boy looking jealous 😏

2K notes · View notes

harrypotterandthefandomaccount · 1 year

Text

worthy of trust

pairing: sebastian sallow x fem!reader

warnings: sebastian being a jerk & calling you ignorant, angst, feeling like you lost a friend but he makes it up to you with a lil kiss

note: i've been obsessed with hogwarts legacy and the gameplay itself is just phenomenal. 39 hours into the game lol and still so much to do, so enjoy this sebastian oneshot. based on his questline, in the shadow of the mine i think?

important note: i do NOT support hate towards the transgender or LGBTQ+ community. JKR has made her stance very clear and i could not disagree and be disgusted with her more. this fic and future ones merely pertain to the character(s) in hogwarts legacy and to my knowledge, JKR had no part in the game. if you are still mad i play the game/write fics for hogwarts legacy, you can scroll past this. thank you!

you had no qualms about trusting lodgok since sirona ryan had known him for years, along with miriam. while the both of you had been albeit hesitant at first towards one another, he had proven his loyalty to stopping ranrok and was actively trying to be one step ahead of him - which is exactly what you, sebastian, and the others wanted.

however, when the opportunity arose to tell sebastian about lodgok, it all came flooding back to you - anne.

you and sebastian had just finished clearing out a cavern of arachnids, which quite honestly, was pretty exciting. you had even reminded him that well, spiders aren't insects.

"don't you start," he had responded, a small smirk on his face.

after finding the last piece to the tryptich and hoping to solve the mystery concerning isidora morganach, returning to the undercroft was the last step. you both were eager to see if the portrait piece would fit, and once it had been placed, you were able to breathe.

"please tell me you recognize the location in this bit of canvas," you said, turning around to face your slytherin partner in crime.

he sighed, "the good news is, i do, in fact."

your shoulders dropped, "and the bad news?"

sebastian turned to look at you, "we're in for more trouble."

you groaned, leaning your head back as Sebastian's eyes seemed to darken; gluing your attention back to your slytherin friend, he continued, "i know that coast. Ranrok has taken over a huge mine and the surrounding area. Marunweem has suffered for it. It's as bad as Feldcroft's become."

with a sigh, your eyebrows knitted together and you looked at the triptych once more. sebastian glanced towards you, "should we head there now?

you shook your head, "no, we should wait."

sebastian immediately questioned you, "why?

you gave a grimanced look, "all this time, we've been a step behind ranrok. I may know someone who could help us get head."

sebastian raised an eyebrow, "who is that?"

before you could even think about formulating your answer a different way, the words slipped out, "a friendly goblin named lodgok. he wants no part in ranrok's fight."

sebastian immediately became disgusted, angry, even. "a friendly goblin?" he started, "you know goblins cursed my sister to shut her up! said she should 'be seen and not heard.'"

you took a step towards sebastian as he stepped back. taking a breath, you nodded, " i do, but not all goblins-"

he glared towards you, "not all goblins what? have you forgotten feldcroft? have you forgotten the mine we just went through?"

you sympathized with him, no doubt. you knew how close the twins were, how much Sebastian loved anne and cared for her - but this fight against ranrok was against all wizardkind, not just anne. and you knew she would understand.

shaking your head, you tried to reason with Sebastian, "no, sebastian, i haven't. you're not listening to me."

sebastian scoffed, "why would i listen to someone so ignorant?"

ouch.

you knew sebastian could be mean, cruel, but throughout these months of knowing him, he has only been so kind, sweet and soft with you. there was never any malice towards you, no anger or disgust. towards the goblins and ranrok in conversations with you, but it was never directed. it was understandable that what happened to anne was hurting Sebastian as well, but this anger was now at you, and he was changing.

you already had reservations working with lodgok before sirona ryan said you could trust him, but there was something he wasn't telling you. but it wasn't a secret that jeopardized your working relationship with him, no. if it had been, you would have turned your back and not worked with him another day.

it wasn't ignorant at all, you knew that. a bit sketchy at first, sure, but not ignorant. lodgok had proven himself trustworthy and has helped you in being one step ahead.

you stepped back in surprise, "that was cruel. perhaps your uncle was right about you - you don't know when to stop."

sebastian glowered over you, stepping forward as his words were laced with venom, "oh, i do know when to stop. unbelievable."

taking a deep breath, you turned and walked out of the undercroft, ready to scream. you understood where Sebastian was coming from but the way he talked to you was so...angering. maybe you should have lied about who it was, about what lodgok was.

but calling you ignorant? okay, yes, this was your first year learning about magic and catching up to the rest of your peers, but you earned respect and knew - for the most part - what you were doing. you would never intentionally put Sebastian, anne, ominis, whoever in danger if you were not confident.

with a sniffle, you made your way through the dark arts tower to your common room, ready to just cry about how upset and angry Sebastian was. but before you could, ominis's voice stopped you, "coming from the undercroft, are we?"

you turned around, eyes glassy with unshed tears - albeit glad that ominis couldn't see them. you gave a small smile, "oh, yes. we were just discussing a painting we found."

ominis hummed, not entirely satisfied with your answer, "your voice is shaky. what happened?"

you let out a breath, "i - we can't talk about it here, ominis. too open."

he sighed, and with his free hand, he grabbed your arm, pulling you towards an owl statue inside a small window, before it turned around and you found yourself...well, inside a wall at hogwarts.

before you had time to question ominis of where you were, he asked once more, "what happened?"

you explained everything, just leaving out the parts where Sebastian was intent on not stopping to find a cure for anne, but moreso focused on the triptych. when you revealed who lodgok was, ominis cringed.

"oh, that's not the worst part," you said, wiping a stray tear, "he asked why he should listen to someone so ignorant."

ominis winced once more, "yikes."

you grumbled, "tell me about it. i want to cry because, well, i understand why he is upset but lodgok is a lead to stopping ranrok, to being one step ahead."

your blind friend nodded, "agreed, and if sirona trusts him, that's saying something."

you both stood in silence, the occasional sniffle from your nose giving ominis hints of how much this bothered you.

"give him time to cool off," he began. "anne is a sore spot for him, but he needs to understand that she won't be the only one cursed without your goblin friend's help. you made your way into his heart, those that he cares about. you'll be fine."

you nodded, trying to formulate your words, "thank you, ominis. i apologize for putting you in the middle of this, but it was nice to have someone listen."

ominis smiled softly, "of course, y/n. meet you at dinner?"

with a quiet, "yeah," you watched ominis make his way out of the secret room, and once again, you were left with screaming thoughts. sobs immediately racked your body, regret aching from your tears and sore throat. there was nothing left by the time you were done, face dried with tears as you composed yourself.

taking a breath, you left the room and immediately looked down, seeing a letter by the 'door.' on the top left was ominis's handwriting, but the letter itself was unopened: told you he's gone soft for you.

with a pained sigh, you picked up the letter and opened it, reading the words:

we need to talk. undercroft after dinner?

"merlin's beard."

dinner was not something you could stomach at the moment, and to be honest with yourself, you were sure it could come right back up as you made your way to the undercroft. with a wave of your wand, you opened up the clock-looking door and headed inside, anxiety eating you up like a full-course meal.

sebastian had his back to you, staring intently at the triptych until he heard the door open. his eyes met yours immediately, and he softened.

"hi," he said, biting his lip nervously as you made your way over to him.

"sebastian, i-" you began, but he shook his head. with a small smile, he grabbed your hands and held them against his chest, "it's ok."

your eyes welled up with tears, "but it's not, seb. i should've been honest with you and i wasn't. I'm sorry, you have every right to hate me."

sebastian was silent as the tears fell down your cheeks until he wiped them away with his thumb. you sniffled, looking up at him. he grasped onto your hands once more, "you were hesitant to tell me because you know how much i care for anne, for my sister. you listen to me and want what is best - that has always been you. I'm not mad at you, dove. I'm mad at merlin for making that our last option."

you gave a sad excuse for a chuckle as he smiled at you. he continued, "dove, listen to me. I'm sorry for what i said. i know you aren't ignorant; i reacted harshly about your goblin friend, but you understand why?"

you immediately nodded, squeezing his hands, "of course, seb. i know how important it is for you to find a cure for anne, and i would never jeopardize that if there was a chance lodgok could betray us. but he's good, honest."

sebastian grinned, and you continued, "i'm not mad at you either, y'know. you're good to me, seb, and i was just scared i lost you."

he held your face between his hands, thumbs softly rubbing over your cheeks as he adored you, "you could never lose me, dove. you are one of the few good things left in my life and i'd be an idiot to let you go."

you swallowed a sob as tears clouded your vision, but Sebastian hushed you, "it's okay, sweetheart. we're okay - i trust you. promise."

you nodded and gave a small smile, "i trust you too, seb. promise."

leaning forward, sebastian nudged his nose with yours, and you giggled as he mumbled, "there's my pretty dove." and with that, Sebastian sealed your lips in a kiss, your hands wrapping around his neck as he grounded himself on your hips.

maybe you should send lodgok a thank you card.

2K notes · View notes

mrs-sharp · 29 days

Text

Everytime you realise your favourite fictional character is... fictional.

277 notes · View notes

shadowtriovibes · 11 months

Note

Hi! I absolutely love your fics! I have a little request/idea. Sebastian finds out that MC has a little crush on professor sharp and all of a sudden can’t stand his favorite professor. (His small crush on professor garlick is totally different and super justified)

jealousy, you got me somehow

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 1.7K

Summary: Sebastian finds out about your little crush on a certain Potions master and all of a sudden can’t stand the man. (His small crush on Professor Garlick is, of course totally different and super justified.)

“You’re sure you won’t become too affected by Sharp’s dulcet tones and neglect something important?” he asks with a smirk. Annoyed, you huff and abandon your notes at your side. “You’ve been waiting several days to bring this up again,” you grumble. “I should’ve known I wasn’t safe.”

Sebastian first finds out about your little preoccupation when he innocently stumbles upon you studying with a group of your fellow Slytherin girls in a quiet corner of the library. Or at least, it was quiet until Nerida Roberts had started to derail your entirely legitimate conversation about the uses of Dittany for an upcoming Potions exam by bringing up Professor Sharp himself.

“He’s just so handsome,” she sighs dreamily. “How am I supposed to focus on what’s going on in my cauldron when he’s standing right across the room looking all brooding and roguish?”

Violet McDowell giggles and adds, “I could listen to him talk all afternoon and I wouldn’t learn a single thing!”

“I suppose that’s why so many seventh-year girls are still taking Potions even if they don’t need it for their N.E.W.T.s,” you murmur.

“Can you blame us?” Violet sighs. “You must admit, he’s quite nice to look at.”

“Of course I think he’s handsome,” you say with a scoff. “Just because I have a boyfriend doesn’t mean I can’t see the man.”

As if on cue, Sebastian comes around the corner carrying a large stack of books on defensive magic and spots the three of you huddled around your Potions notes.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he says with an easy smile.

Sebastian sets his books on the edge of the table and leans down next to you to steal a chaste kiss while he can. He’s seen relatively little of you this week while you both prepare for exams in classes the other doesn’t have, so not even your late-night study sessions have overlapped.

“Speak of the devil,” Nerida teases.

“Shh!” you whisper. “Enough now.”

“Not keeping secrets from me, are you?” Sebastian asks teasingly as he snags one of the empty seats.

“Of course not,” you demur. “By the way, have you got my Potions notes from last week? I think I mixed them up with yours from Ancient Runes.”

Sebastian chuckles and asks, “Trying to change the subject? I must have walked into something quite scandalous.”

“It’s nothing bad,” Nerida says teasingly. “We were just chatting about Professor Sharp.”

“Oh?” Sebastian asks, surprised. “What’s he done now?”

“Nothing,” Violet McDowell answers. “We were just saying that he’s easily the most handsome professor at Hogwarts.”

“He’s certainly your girlfriend’s favorite,” Nerida says with a smirk.

Sebastian raises a skeptical eyebrow at you, and sure enough, you’re blushing.

“Really?” he drawls. “You have a thing for Sharp?”

“No!” you whine. “I just – I really like Potions class, that’s all.”

“Of course you do,” Violet taunts. “So you can moon over Sharp during his lectures!”

You shoot Violet a threatening look and not-so-gently kick the toe of your boot against her shin underneath the table. She yelps and curses under her breath before indignantly burying her face behind her Potions textbook, and Nerida wisely avoids eye contact and doesn’t offer anything further.

After a beat, Sebastian clears his throat and says, “Well then, I, er… suppose I’ll leave you girls to it.”

He helps himself to one more kiss goodbye and you can tell by the significant look he gives you before leaving that this is not the last you’ll hear from him about your crush.

Sure enough, a few nights later the two of you manage to claim a loveseat by the fire in your common room where you can curl up against his side and revise your Potions notes one last time before your exam while Sebastian dutifully transcribes runic diagrams onto lengths of parchment.

“Are you feeling prepared for your exam tomorrow?” he asks you casually.

“I think so,” you answer. “It’s not a practical, so I can’t imagine it will be too challenging.”

“You’re sure you won’t become too affected by Sharp’s dulcet tones and neglect something important?” he asks with a smirk.

Annoyed, you huff and abandon your notes at your side.

“You’ve been waiting several days to bring this up again,” you grumble. “I should’ve known I wasn’t safe.”

“What?” he laughs. “I’m just teasing you, love.”

You narrow your eyes at him skeptically. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Well, it’s just… I don’t really know what you see in him, that’s all,” he murmurs, lazily turning a page in his Ancient Runes textbook.

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“I just think he’s rather foul,” Sebastian says plainly. “He’s impatient, meticulous, he’s clearly got a dark past and I truly don’t understand why all you girls think he’s obviously the most handsome man at Hogwarts. To me, he’s simply average.”

Merlin’s beard, you think. You knew Sebastian wasn’t a fan of Hogwarts’ Potions master, but you had no idea his dislike ran so deep.

“I think he’s a good professor,” you offer quietly. “He’s always been quite helpful to me, especially when I needed to master healing potions, and he saved my life in the Repository.”

“How generous of him,” Sebastian mumbles.

Angrily, you sit up a little straighter and pluck Sebastian’s quill out of his hand so he’ll look at you.

“And what about you?” you demand indignantly. “While we’re on the subject of good-looking professors, I happen to know that you turn into a stammering, blushing fool whenever Professor Garlick is nearby.”

You know for a fact that Sebastian Sallow is not an idiot, which is why it’s all the more frustrating when he tries to deny something you’ve known about for months.

“I do not!” Sebastian protests. “That’s – that’s ridiculous.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “You are not a subtle person, Sebastian, nor are you particularly good at being punctual, yet somehow you’re never late to the greenhouses.”

“W-well, I’m rubbish at Herbology so I like to make sure I won’t miss anything important,” he lies.

“Maybe you wouldn’t be quite so rubbish if you actually listened to the professor instead of staring at her chest for the entire lesson,” you grumble.

Sebastian goes bright red. Clearly, he had no idea you could see him doing that.

“Look,” he whines. “It doesn’t mean anything, I just think she’s nice to look at is all.”

“And I’m not allowed to think Professor Sharp is handsome?” you counter.

“It’s different,” he insists. “You actually like him, it’s not just an attraction.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you hiss.

“It means he’s a powerful wizard, a brilliant duellist and he’s a former Auror for Merlin’s sake,” Sebastian angrily confesses. “I couldn’t possibly measure up to that.”

You feel your heart break a little when you realize what this is truly all about – your love’s relentless insecurities, the same ones he’s battled for many years now.

Softly, you ask Sebastian, “Do you actually feel threatened that I might leave you for a professor? We’re seventeen, Seb.”

“It’s preposterous, I know,” he sighs. “But I just… I feel like I could never compete with him.”

“Sebastian,” you croon as you take your hand in his lap. “I want you to listen to me very clearly, alright?”

You wait patiently for him to meet your gaze before you continue.

“As you said, Professor Sharp is impatient,” you agree. “He’s also meticulous, and maybe he does have some darkness in his past. But you also said that he’s a brilliant duelist and a powerful wizard. Do you know who else has all those traits?”

Sebastian swallows nervously and squeezes your hand a little tighter.

“You do, love,” you say softly. “So perhaps the reason I’m fond of him is that he reminds me of you.”

“I’m not an Auror,” he points out a little sullenly. “And I’ve never saved your life.”

“Not yet you aren’t, but we both know that’s why you’re studying for Ancient Runes so much lately,” you say with a fond smirk. “And since I’ve saved your life plenty of times, I’m sure you’ll return the favor someday.”

Wordlessly, Sebastian tugs you against his chest and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m sorry for being such a prat.”

“Apology accepted,” you whisper into his chest. “And I love you too, you fool.”

He holds you close for a while after that, nose buried in your hair while you listen to his slow, even heartbeat through his uniform shirt. When he finally lets you sit up so that he can kiss you properly – not one of those chaste ones from the library – you find yourself halfway in his lap before you even realize you’ve shifted.

For Merlin’s sake, your notes are in a messy pile on the floor now.

You huff and try to climb off of him to gather them up, but Sebastian coaxes you back to him with a single finger on your chin, his eyes firmly fixed on your lips. By the time he’s kissed your frustration away, you can’t even remember what you were supposed to be studying for.

“We should bicker more often,” Sebastian says with a satisfied grin, his lips slightly swollen.

“On that subject, I was just wondering…” you ask him with a teasing smile. “Is there anything Professor Garlick has that I don’t? Should I be worried?”

“Absolutely not,” he murmurs as he flicks open the top button of your shirt. “Truthfully, you both have two very nice things in common.”

“You’re foul,” you tell him simply.

“I meant that you’re both kind-hearted and beautiful,” he says smoothly.

You’re positive that you know exactly what Sebastian meant and appreciate the compliment nonetheless. In fact, he’s being so sweet that you even let him undo a few more buttons while you can take advantage of your seclusion.

The next day during your Potions exam, while your female classmates are undoubtedly slipping in and out of pleasant daydreams about your alluring professor, all you can think about is Sebastian’s lips on your neck and his hand inside your shirt as he’d whispered all sorts of electrifying promises about what he’ll do to you after you turn in your parchment.

It’s a fierce struggle to focus on Dittany of all things with that in the back of your mind, but Professor Sharp is nevertheless pleased when you end up being the first to submit your completed exam and then promptly excuse yourself from the dungeons.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fic #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian x mc #sebastian x reader #professor sharp #aesop sharp #i know i'm supposed to be writing older requests and longer fics #but i was in a funk this weekend (hungover mostly lmao) so i needed to finish something short and sweet #so have some jealousy fluff!

502 notes · View notes

julietpricee · 3 months

Text

MC being deep: I usually solve problems by letting them devour me

Horny Aesop: From now on call me ‘Problems’

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fandom #professor sharp #aesop sharp #professor aesop sharp #aesop sharp x mc #daddy sharp #hogwarts #harry potter hogwarts game #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #aesop sharp smut #aesop sharp x reader #professor sharp x mc #professor sharp smut #professor sharp x reader

77 notes · View notes

animasola86 · 1 month

Note

I had the idea of facesitting with professor sharp but reader (or mc idk what you prefer) is hesitant

Thank you for the ask! I went a little overboard with this (as I often do), and I apologize for whatever I made this fine gentleman do, but I hope you still enjoy! (If anyone would like to request me with anything as well, please go on ahead! My asks are open!)

Fountain of Youth

Pairing: Aesop Sharp x f!mc

Genre: Fluff/Smut // Words: 4.2k // [READ ON AO3]

Synopsis: Aesop Sharp has tried everything to soothe the aches of his battered body, and nothing seems to work, but then he comes across a well of youth in the form of a young lover who is willing to feed him everything he's ever wanted, and more.

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Established student/teacher relationship. Size difference. Age gap. Oral sex. Facesitting. Fingering.

Fountain of Youth

They say having a young lover is good for body and soul, and he couldn't agree more. When Aesop Sharp decided to throw caution to the wind and indulge in a rather unusual and certainly forbidden kind of affair, he knew he'd do anything to keep his girl entertained. Not that she ever demanded it, no, she was far from requesting anything, she was the most selfless person he had ever met, and most of the time she was doing everything to keep him happy.

And how happy he was when she would indulge him. It had taken him a while to accept her generous offers, but now he couldn't live without them, without her, be it bouncing on his lap, hidden between his thighs under his desk, or simply pressed against him in bed, deeply connected.

And he wanted to give back, but the state of his body often forbade any activity that was more than sliding his cock into her tight heat. It pained him, literally and mentally, that he couldn't indulge her the same way she did him.

She didn't mind, of course. And she never complained, not even when she left his office or bedroom with a limp because her body had struggled to accommodate the immense size difference between them. She was so tiny in his arms, to be fair he was a giant amongst humans, figuratively, and still she seemed to thrive on it, embrace it and him whenever she could, no matter how much pain he caused her.

Then again she must be some sort of masochist if she spent her time with him rather than with the other seventh-years. He was still a grumpy old man most of the time, even though he wasn't that old, but next to her he did feel his age sometimes.

And yet they connected somehow, not just physically. He felt drawn to her, felt his heart beat faster when he saw her, when she smiled at him. When she'd touch him, his skin would tingle and his sore muscles warmed in anticipation, whether her small hands would massage them or not.

She radiated warmth, inside and out, and while he was very fond of feeling her tight little sheath envelop him in a perfect fit, he also enjoyed holding her small body in his arms, pressed to his chest, breathing in her lovely scent. And it didn't stop there, a smile, a look, a stolen glance across the classroom, and he felt at least five years younger when a strange sensation of heat gathered in his guts.

And somehow, he wanted more, wanted all of her.

One day, she was sitting on a shelf in his hidden hobby room and watched him whittle. She said she loved seeing him work with his hands, and while he knew she also loved having the same hands all over her body and his fingers knuckles deep in her cute little cunt, he also appreciated it when she observed him while he engaged in one of his other hobbies, apart from indulging her. He spent most of his free time sketching landscapes (or more recently her) or doing a little woodwork to keep his hands nimble (for her).

A little sigh escaped her, and he looked up at her, perched on the high ledge of the sturdy shelf, right next to one of those wooden dolls he sometimes made to gift (or scare) his colleagues. At least Abraham seemed to like them, while Mirabel seemed utterly scared by them. And his young lover certainly enjoyed their company too. He'd often catch her re-arranging them behind his back, telling him they must have moved on their own, and to be fair, sometimes he did think they had a mind of their own.

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” he asked and put the tools down, patiently smiling up at her.

“Yes, everything's fine,” she said quietly as she shifted on the shelf, her feet dangling off. He noticed that her skirt had ridden up slightly and her blouse was halfway unbuttoned, and by the way she pressed her thighs together, he knew everything was definitely not fine. A knowing smile grazed his lips.

He stood up with a groan, straightened the old bones, and walked closer to her. At his height, his eye level was right between her legs, and he didn't hesitate to push them apart to stand closer to her. Inhaling deeply to take in her scent, and oh the sweet scent she was emanating, he quickly found the cause of it too: she wasn't wearing any underwear. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and watched him, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Her hands found his head, fingers caressing his hairline and scalp, and he tilted it to look up at her.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered gravelly, wiping sawdust from his hands before he hooked his arms around her legs to caress her soft thighs.

She licked her lips, a shy blush blooming on her cheeks. “I...”

“Use your words, darling.”

His deep voice caused her to shiver, and he felt the goosebumps as they rippled over her bare skin. While she still struggled to tell him what she needed (even though he already knew it quite well, but he liked to tease her a little every now and then), he leaned his cheek against the inside of her thigh, his beard rubbing against her flesh, and she keened softly.

He eyed her closely, patiently. When she finally spoke, her words made him shiver for a change.

“I want you to taste me,” she whispered, holding his gaze, and he saw that her pupils were blown with lust.

Giving her a warm smile, he turned his head and pressed his lips to her inner thigh. Then once more, and again, kiss after kiss until he reached her heat, and how warm she was. Warm and wet. His good little girl. He kept his hands on her legs, holding them open while he leaned closer, his eyes still on her flushed face as he took a deep breath, the scent of her arousal filling his nostrils. She shuddered visibly, biting her lip in a way that was both cute and sensual, which she knew drove him crazy.

Breathing a little rougher against her sensitive skin, he planted soft kisses along her lower stomach, moved back to her thighs, teased her by slowly inching closer to her folds. He took his sweet time, leaving a trail of fire along her soft flesh, and while she was squirming slightly on the shelf, growing impatient, he smirked to himself before he put his mouth to the hidden little bundle of nerves – and she gasped and jerked her hips against him.

He held her in a tight grip while he flicked his tongue up and down her nub, feeling it throb against him, while her wetness gathered between her folds. She had her hands on her mouth to muffle her noises, and he only needed to throw her a dark glance, tsking into her heat, and she lowered them, face fully flushed, lips quivering.

Leaning back only a little, he rasped: “I want to hear you, sweetheart.”

She nodded obediently, grabbing the edges of the shelf instead to steady herself. Her arms were shaking. Smiling at her, he focused back on her pretty little pussy. Kissing her mound, he returned to her clit, gently licking it, nibbling on it, and when he pulled it between his lips, she squeaked and squirmed in his hold, her thighs twitching against him.

More mewls escaped her when he started lapping along her lower lips, gathering her wetness on his tongue, tasting her, and he closed his eyes when he took it all in, her scent, her warmth, that sweet, sweet taste. He seldom indulged her like this, eating her out was not the best on his sore joints and muscles, his stiff leg always getting in the way of his enjoyment, but she sometimes found positions to make it easier for him.

He continued moving his tongue through her slit, parting those soft lips, nibbling on them, pulling them into his mouth, while she whimpered softly, her body twitching slightly. When he rubbed his stubbled chin against her soft skin, she gasped and let out a sweet little moan, and his eyes flew open as he watched her arch her head back, neck exposed, hair falling over her shoulders, eyes rolling back in delight.

She loved having his beard all over her, the sound alone, she said, could drive her right over the edge, and she would sometimes just move her fingers over his rough cheeks and mewl quietly while doing so. So he indulged her and scraped his chin along her inner thighs before pressing it to her clit and slowly shaking and nodding his head, feeling the convulsions before the moans left her pretty mouth.

He watched her closely, taking in every single reaction to his ministrations. She was close, he could tell, shivers and shudders and goosebumps rolling over her limbs, and instead of teasing her further, he returned his mouth to her clit, giving it a few hard sucks, and she unravelled right in front of him, shrieking softly when she came. He put his mouth to her folds and lapped at her wetness, gulping it down like a man parched, his tongue moving between her lips and dipping into her quivering cunt, her contractions clenching around the soft muscle as he pushed it deeper into her.

She moaned louder, the feeling of his stubble must be overwhelming for her as he pressed his face to her heat, his hands tightening around her legs as she started convulsing on the shelf. She came again, her noises echoing through the small room, filling his ears as much as her taste filled his mouth. He licked up her slick with long broad strokes, from her clenching hole to her throbbing clit, his own deep groans vibrating through her core, adding to the sensation he was sure.

Her hands gripped his hair then as she bucked her hips against his face, mewling and moaning, barely able to contain herself. He held her in his iron grip, fingers digging into her soft thighs, possibly leaving bruises at this point, but he kept going, addicted to her taste, to her juices, and she was very generous tonight.

Eventually he slowed his ministrations, gently kissing her puffy lips, giving her clit one last lick, before he leaned back, loosening his arms around her legs to bring one hand to her mound, softly rubbing it to calm her.

She was a quietly whimpering mess, her lips parted and quivering, her eyes hooded and exhausted as she finally came down from the highs he had given her. He grabbed her waist and lifted her off the shelf, gently cradling her in his arms as she leaned her head against his shoulder and smiled contently.

“Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely.

He smiled back and brought his wet lips to hers, and despite her spent state, she grabbed his face and returned the kiss in full, tasting herself in his mouth as her tongue slipped between his lips to meet his own. He carried her to the table and sat her down gently, still glued to her mouth, savouring her sweet taste, before he leaned back and sighed deeply. Pressing his lips to the top of her head, he hummed softly and whispered: “No, thank you.”

She watched him with her cheeks burning when he returned to his woodworking, feeling rejuvenated and ready to take on anything.

Like with any good, fulfilling beverage, he soon felt its effect dwindling, and after a couple of days, he was lying in bed, cuddled up to his young lover, and felt every sore muscle and strain and ache almost tenfold. He could barely move, and even though he never told her that he was in pain, she seemed to notice it nonetheless and tried her best to keep his body as relaxed as possible.

Right now, she had her small hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it expertly while she planted soft kisses on his broad chest, and he just lay on his back, not even able to raise a hand to return her touches. Clenching his jaw, he watched her, his eyes roaming her beautiful body, every curve and bump and hollow, taking it all in, how her breasts moved with every deep intake of air, how goosebumps rippled over her skin when he would hum or groan under the surprisingly strong grip of her hand.

He felt his stomach tighten when she moved her little mouth to nibble on the bulging veins on his shaft, her warm tongue lapping at his hot skin, cooling and warming it simultaneously. His breaths quickened, and he closed his eyes when he felt her lips closing around his tip, gently sucking on it, her tongue flicking against his slit.

Slowly he moved his hand up, his arm shaking slightly, and put it on her thigh, fingers closing around it almost fully. She leaned back and met his hooded gaze, licking her lips. Her eyes were warm and kind, a soft smile grazing that full, wet mouth. He tilted his chin up, giving her a little nod, and she crawled towards him and kissed his cheek, watching him closely, careful not to put any weight on him.

“Tell me what to do,” she whispered, her fingers rubbing along his stubbled jaw.

“I need to taste you again,” he said gruffly, his voice hoarse and strained.

She looked a little conflicted, wondering what to do. He wasn't capable of moving much, and she knew that. He was also about to ask something of her they had never done before, but he knew she wouldn't shy away from it, she was usually very open with trying anything new with him. She was a great student, and he had taught her well.

“Sit on my face,” he said bluntly and noticed how her eyes widened.

“Are you sure? Won't that hurt you?” she whispered, biting her lip.

“It'll be fine,” he rasped.

“H-how do you w-want me to... sit?” she asked quietly, her voice shaking.

He fought the strain in his arms and raised them to place his hands on her waist and guide her towards him. “Sit on my chest, then lean on your knees, facing the headboard. Grab it if you like, to keep your balance.”

She hesitated, but then slowly did as he told her, swinging her leg over him and positioned her knees on either side of his head, her expression still uncertain. Without him mentioning it, she kept her entire weight off him as she leaned on her knees, her beautiful cunt hovering right over his mouth. Her scent was intoxicating. His eyes roamed every inch of her sex, and by the way she squirmed, her legs trembling, he knew she was a little uncomfortable with him staring at her like that.

“You're beautiful,” he told her, his eyes moving up to meet hers. She leaned back slightly to be able to see him, a shy smile grazing her lips. His hands rested on the curve of her rear, gently pulling her closer, and she strained her thighs and followed the hint, gently pressing her folds to his face. A surprised mewl escaped her when his beard rubbed against her soft skin. He inhaled deeply, feeling her shuddering on top of him as he did so.

Pulling her even closer so he wouldn't have to strain his neck, he pressed his lips to her labia before his tongue darted out and licked along her slit. Her taste immediately filled his mouth, her little whimpers filled his ears, and when he closed his eyes, he lost himself in her completely. Lapping at the wetness gathering between her folds, he felt his body relaxing beneath her, his sore muscles warming, and he was able to really grip her plump arse cheeks, kneading them as he sucked and nibbled on her soft lips, pulling them between his teeth and into his mouth, coaxing all the sweet sounds out of her throat.

While he laved her wet skin, his nose kept brushing against her clit, and instinctively or not, she writhed against him, moving lower until he was able to give that sensitive bundle of nerves the same treatment as her folds. She moaned when he sucked on it, his tongue flicking against it, rolling it, and the more he abused her little nub, the more wetness seeped against his chin.

She was still only hovering above him, straining her thighs, her arms outstretched to hold onto the headboard to steady herself. Always so considerate of him. He adored her for it, but he needed her to really engage here, so he could really engage her.

“Sit down, sweetheart,” he hummed against her clit, licking it gently. She squirmed and moaned quietly, tensing on top of him.

“I don't want to hurt you,” she managed to croak out between breaths.

“You won't,” he assured her, his hand tightening around her bum to push her down on him. She still fought it, shuddering under the exertion. “Come on, darling, indulge me.”

She let out a shuddering breath, then slowly lowered herself. It wasn't that she weighed a lot, she barely weighed anything in his eyes, she was just a soft little creature made of sunshine and smiles after all, but when she finally sat down on his face, he felt it. Her lower lips parted around his mouth, and she shivered when his beard rubbed against her sensitive skin. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with her scent, feeling dizzy for a moment, a sensation that wasn't unpleasant at all, before he let his tongue dart out and lap at her soft skin, her wetness basically seeping into his mouth now.

His grunt against her sex made her squeak softly, and she seemed to really force herself not to move against him, still afraid she might hurt or suffocate him. But he had never felt better. He kissed and licked her inner folds, his tongue teasingly dipping into her clenching hole while his nose rubbed against her clit. Her mewls shuddered through her entire body, and he closed his eyes and pushed deeper, his tongue pressing past her entrance, licking at her soft walls.

She started twitching, her noises tumbling out of her uncontrollably, her wetness gathering on his tongue and his lips, and he barely managed to lap it all up before she gave him more. His fingers dug into her soft bum cheeks, teasing along the cleft between them, before he moved them back and hooked his arms around her thighs, holding her open as she started to clamp her legs together in anticipation of her approaching release.

Her arms fell from the headboard and rested next to his head, fingers clawing at the bedsheets, as her hips bucked against his face, and despite never having done this before, she was as usual a quick learner and despite her initial inhibitions not too shy to engage as well instead of letting him do all the work. While he lapped at her folds, sucking and nibbling, drinking up her juices, his groans mixing with muffled slurping and squelching sounds, she slowly gyrated her pelvis against his face, her moans so soft they soothed the aches in his body almost as much as her wetness running down his throat.

He felt light-headed, nearly delirious when her taste and scent took over everything else, and when her movements on top of him grew harder and faster, he let her ride it out, use his face to get her where she wanted to go, and all he could do was lap up her juices, his tongue alternating between stimulating her clit and dipping into her clenching cunt.

The moment stretched forever, and frankly, he could have lived in it for just as long, but then she gasped, spasmed, and cried out loudly as she forced her heat firmer against his mouth, really suffocating him now, before she arched her back and lifted herself only slightly, allowing him to breathe and get a perfect view of how she came undone right on top of him.

Her clit throbbed visibly, her glistening pussy fluttering, and before she could shower him in her juices, he had pressed her heat against his mouth, holding her closely as she convulsed against him, mewls and moans slipping from her, and he lapped and slurped up every single drop she gave him. She collapsed on top of him, spent and limp, her body heavy on his face, but he felt the effect immediately as her warmth filled his stomach.

Using his elbows to push himself up, he rolled her around, carefully placing her down before he grabbed her thighs and dove between them once more, the soreness of his body gone almost completely. He knew it wouldn't last long, but he wanted to make the best of it. She was sprawled on the bed, arms beside her head, legs twitching, chest heaving with her small breasts quivering, nipples perked up, while he lapped and nibbled at her folds, bent over her small frame.

Her taste was addictive, all-consuming, clouding his mind. He had no idea for how long he had licked her quivering cunt, but when a soft hand dug into his hair, he looked up, his dark eyes glazed over, and saw her watching him, her face flushed, her eyebrows slightly furrowed, her lips trembling. He leaned back reluctantly, but then he noticed how red and puffy her sensitive skin looked, and he could have kicked himself for not seeing it earlier. He had licked her raw.

Giving her mound a soft peck, he crawled up her body, caging her in on his hands and knees, while he looked down at her, licking his moist lips. Her small hands moved up and rubbed his cheeks, wiping her wetness from his face before she pulled him closer and kissed him softly. He shared her taste with her and breathed deeply into her mouth, slowly coming down from the high she had given him. She was dangerously intoxicating. She was his drug.

He rolled off her then, still kissing her softly, pulling her soft body against his while his hand moved along her sides until he dipped it between her thighs. Her skin was burning, radiating heat against his palm, and she winced when he touched her, but didn't fight it when he caressed her mound carefully, hoping his calloused fingers wouldn't make it worse. But her body adjusted by making her wet again, coating his fingers and her oversensitive skin.

She was a miracle.

Sighing contently, he released her mouth for a moment, looking deep into her eyes, almost getting lost in the softness of her gaze. His fingers dipped between her folds, teasing at her entrance, and she mewled quietly, her hands rubbing over his stubbled cheeks, and he could see how much the sound and his ministrations affected her as her eyes rolled back and her lips trembled and her body shuddered in nothing but bliss.

He swallowed her moans by claiming her mouth once more, pushing his tongue deep into it at the same time as he pushed two fingers into her warmth, the wet squelching sound like music in his ears. She bucked against him while he pumped his digits in and out of her, harder and faster and deeper, and when her walls clenched around him, she cried out against his lips, her thighs pressing around his hand as he stroked her through her orgasm.

It took him everything not to lean down again and lap at her juices, instead he let her wetness coat his fingers while he kissed her softly as she spasmed against him. When she relaxed in his hold, he continued to massage her soft flesh and watched her melting into the bed. Pulling his free arm around her, he held her close to his chest, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her breaths deep and soft before she slipped into unconsciousness.

His fingers remained buried inside her heat, and he was tempted to continue his ministrations, maybe even indulge in something more, use her willing body for his own release, but he refrained, ignoring the throbbing of his cock. Kissing her sweaty forehead, he snuggled against her, holding her in his arm and her cunt with his hand as he soaked his fingers in her wetness. Inhaling deeply to take in as much of her scent as possible, he closed his eyes and leaned into the warmth that radiated from her tiny body.

He might have stiff fingers and a sore wrist tomorrow, but he didn't dare to disconnect from her, from her warmth and those delicious juices, from her well of youth. He felt it rushing through his veins, like liquid fire warming his sore muscles and the aches of his battered body.

It was truly addictive.

End notes: Initially I was hesitant to write this, because I couldn't quite see Daddy Sharp here engaging in oral sex like that... but I guess, in the right positions, sure, why not! And I mean, the beard is an added bonus to that, so who wouldn't like that? XD

You know, I was never into the whole Daddy/little girl kink, I accepted it, I read smut with it, ofc, but I never felt anything but slight cringe for it... but this man, dude, why does it work so well with him? (I still refuse to let my protagonists call him Daddy though, nope, but the dynamic is growing on me!)

So, thank you for reading whatever this was! And thanks again for the request! It was really fun! (Give me more, please!)

MORE SHARP SMUT:

Scars

Peace and Comfort

A Demonstration of Power and Support

A Demonstration of Pride and Pain

[ MASTERLIST ] [ AO3 ]

#aesop sharp #aesop sharp smut #aesop sharp x mc #hogwarts legacy smut #professor sharp #professor sharp smut #professor sharp x mc #professor aesop sharp #fluff #smut #mysmut #daddy sharp

58 notes · View notes

aesopsharpmybeloved · 10 months

Text

The amazing @kelleig drew this fantastic piece of art for me, and I honestly couldn't be any happier with it! Thank you so much! I will absolutely order again.

Tap 'Keep reading' to view the full piece and the link to uncensored version ❤️

[UNCENSORED]

#art #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fanart #fanart #aesop sharp #professor sharp #aesop sharp x oc #aesop sharp x mc #mc is over 18 #professor sharp x mc #nsft fanart #screaming crying foaming at the mouth #throwing myself against a wall #i love this so much #aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa #🥵🥵🥵#commission #sharp's gherkin

108 notes · View notes

illneverbesorry · 15 days

Text

Don't Stand So Close To Me - Part 5

Warnings: Swearing, Teacher-Student Relationship

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5,

Over the following weeks your friends noticed the change in your demeanour, you smiled more, laughed easier and just generally seemed happier. Yet despite your improved mood, there had been little change in your relationship with Aesop. You both seemed to be stuck in this stalemate, neither of you seemingly brave enough to take any steps forward, but neither of you could stop the fleeting glances or secret smiles passed to one another across the classroom.

You entered the potions classroom to find no sign of Aesop anywhere, you take your seat and pull out your book turning back just in time to hear Garreth whisper "Oh bloody hell!" You snap your head around and see the 'illustrious' Headmaster strut into the room. Natty looks at you with a frown and a shrug just as confused as you were.

Your heart beats rapidly in your chest, had they worked it out? After all these months apart had they now decided to punish you? Had he been sacked? Were you about the be expelled?

"Silence!" Black called across the room "Professor Sharp is.... feeling under the weather therefore I will be taking over his class today." You release the breath you hadn't realised you were holding before concerning filled your mind, Aesop never took sick days.

"As my time is far too valuable to be stuck here all afternoon, I will be leaving you to your own devices. You are seventh years, I expect you to act as such, but just in case your potion stations have been locked." You touch the metal of your work station where the fire was normally roared to indeed find it stone cold

"Your Head boy is here so he will dismiss you at the correct time. Read, study, anything. Good day" Black marched out as quickly as he arrived. Everyone sat in shocked silence for a moment.

You racked your brain for an explanation as to why Aesop wasn't here, he's been in class ill before, Merlin…. he’d been here hungover...."what date is it?" You asked Natty

"It's the 16th, why?" You closed your eyes in realisation, today was the anniversary of Scarborough, the anniversary of his partner's death. "Oh, I forgot, I had some things on order in Brood and Peck. There're due in today" you smile at your friend and she seems to accept your answer.

You know that today would be hell for Aesop, he always found himself at the bottom of a bottle of booze on this day - even more so than usual. Last year he spent the evening lain on your lap with you trying to comfort him through the night, running your fingers through his hair whispering to him gently as the hours ticked by. Even though it wasn't your place anymore you still wanted to do something for him. You decided as you couldn't be there and hold him close, maybe taking him something would be more appropriate. Some food and a hangover potion would fit the bill.

Turning to Leander you decided it was time to leave, "Ok Head boy, say the words and let's all get out of here" the redhead looked startled by your sudden command.

"But Black said..." he began stuttering before you cut him off

"Black said you would dismiss us at the right time, I think it’s the right time.... don’t you Leander?" You smirked knowing he wouldn't go against everyone in the class who had also packed up their books ready to leave. "He isn't going to catch us, the headmaster has most likely already returned to his office and Weasley has classes all day" you smile knowing you've convinced him.

"Is it wrong that I wish my grades had been lower so I would have to go to divination next?" Natty asked walking you to a floo flame, you laughed at your friend's comments and were suddenly very glad the rest of your day was free.

"I certainly do not regret only getting Acceptable that's for sure, no NEWT Divination for me! It must run in your blood" you grimace for your friend having to take a NEWT class taught by her mother, but very happy your grade was below the cut off for the class. You hugged Natty goodbye and flooed to Hogsmeade to gather the ingredients you needed for Aesop's potion.

You knew you'd have to wait a few hours before attempting to deliver it to him as at this point, he was probably be brooding in his chair in front of the fire and he'd see you come in. You needed to wait till a little later when you know he move into his bedroom in his depressive state.

After gathering what you needed for your brew you made your way back to the Room of Requirement and set about getting the potion started. It wasn't a difficult potion; most likely deliberate given the fact it was normally made by witches and wizards who were a little worse for wear.

"Hello Miss Y/N, Deek is happy to see you. Deek believes the mandrakes are almost ready to repot" you smile over at the house elf that has become a good friend

"Thank you, Deek. I'll check on them later" you continued to stir your cauldron when your stomach made an embarrassing rumble, causing you to giggle to yourself.

"Can Deek bring you some food Miss?" Your heart melted at the thought, he was such a good friend.

"That would be wonderful Deek, would it be too much to ask for you to bring an extra sandwich? It's for a friend for later" with a smile Deek nodded and snapped his fingers and disappeared. He wasn't gone long before he reappeared with a wide selection of food and the sandwich you'd asked for. You thanked him wholeheartedly and tucked in while the potion brewed gently. Deek excused himself after a few hours to go help in the kitchens and you took the opportunity to bottle up the potion and make your way towards Aesop's room.

Casting your disillusionment spell you snuck through the waves of prefects and the odd Professor. You slowly crept to Sharp's door and pressed your ear against the wood, you heard no sounds in the Room but that meant nothing. You bit your lip and hoped you'd timed things correctly. The last thing you wanted was another argument when you'd just gotten back in his graces again.

"Alohomora" you whisper and the lock opens, you quietly and slowly push the door open enough to just peer your head around it. Thankfully you find the room empty, an utter mess but empty. Your heart aches at the sight of the room, bottles smashed, items thrown and even his chair had been knocked over. You stayed under your disillusionment but took your wand and cast a few spells tidying and repairing what you could.

You placed the sandwich and vial on his now clean table and walked over to the small desk in the corner grabbing a piece of paper and a quill and jotting a note 'Try to eat something x' you balanced the note against the vial.

"Y/N" you hear his voice callout from his room, he sounded scared. You moved quickly over to his bedroom to find him asleep and in the throes of a nightmare. He was tossing and turning and calling for you. You wanted to run to him and pull him into your arms but you knew you couldn't cross that line.

Tears filled your eyes watching him in distress, he calls your name again and you can take no more "It's alright my love, I'm right here, I'm safe" you call out hoping his subconscious would hear you and change his dream. You grip the frame of the doorway with both hands to keep yourself away from him. "I'm right here"

Aesop snaps his head up; you panic and rush away heading out of his room before he notices you’re still here. You know he'll realise you were in his room but better that than being caught red-handed. You hurry down the stairs from the faculty tower back to your common room.

Aesop turns his head towards the doorway of his room, he could hear your voice so clearly, it was strong and clear. It was a fast contrast to the version of you in his dream, lying in his arms on the ship in Scarborough bleeding out.

He reached for his bottle and annoyingly found it empty. He hissed in pain as he pulled his leg off the bed, standing with a sway and limping heavily towards his living room. Aesop stood slack jawed as he looked around the room, it was tidy. He specifically remembered ransacking it before falling into bed exhausted, glancing to the table he sees a plate and vial on the table. Shuffling over slowly he reaches for the parchment resting against the vial and sees your writing. His heart races, you were here, he could even still smell your perfume.

You'd brought him food and what he knew was going to be a hangover cure, after everything he’d put you through, you knew what day it was and still came and took care of him. He smiled despite his current state and dropped down on the sofa picking up the sandwich. He only wishes he'd have stayed awake so he could have seen you and made you stay.

#aesop sharp #aesop sharp x mc #aesop sharp x reader #fem reader #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fandom #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy mc #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #professor aesop sharp #teacher x student #aesop sharp imagine #professor sharp x mc #professor sharp x reader #professor sharp #slow burn

10 notes · View notes

expectodragons · 8 months

Text

Bitter Water || Chapter 1

✦ Summary: Guided only by a thin paper trail and a promising job offer, Catherine Hart returns to the school of her youth. Taking on the mantle of Beasts professor, the young witch must find a balance between her lessons and her continued search of the Highlands. Especially when under the watchful eye of the Potion Master. ✦ Pairing: Aesop Sharp x Female MC ✦ Word Count: 12,200 ✦ Rating: Mature, 18+ only - minors do not interact. ✦ Tags / Warnings: Age difference, alcohol consumption, colleagues-to friends-to-lovers, dual POV, mentions of past character death, slow burn. ✦ Story Playlist: Listen here ✦ Read on: AO3 || Tumblr (continue below)

The letter in her pocket had been a comforting weight during the flight across the Atlantic. Having received the invitation from the Deputy Headmistress herself during a short reprieve in the small encampment in the Andes Mountains.

She had been sat upon the stool inside her canvas tent that dreary morning, glossing over the notes from her Australian correspondent – occasionally comparing the details with her month-old letter from Natty. South America wasn’t where she needed to be from the looks of it.

A heavily creased map was pulled out and laid before her when a pleading hooting captured her attention.

That poor owl, how it ever managed to find her over such a great distance is still a mystery – as it sagged with pure exhaustion upon locating her in the great fog some fourteen-hundred kilometers above its normal flight range. He was rewarded with the entirety of her lukewarm meal and a soft space to sleep while she contemplated the generous offer.

As the North American expedition party had received foul news of visa denial from the British Ministry of Magic over an unruly Dragon Pox epidemic affecting the states just a week prior, Catherine’s current plans were rather up in the air. Which was quite fortunate for Matilda Weasley, it seemed.

And for her too perhaps, as she glanced back at the map on the table.

Her reply of interest was sent ahead to the local village post once the owl had finally regained his energy.

And then it was only a matter of days later, after capturing the poor shivering Fwooper who had been abandoned after a breeding program went haywire, that she was able to make it up to Columbia. The flight to Cuba had been uneventful, her broom sturdy in her grasp. Another owl had been awaiting her there, with a date and time written clearly in Matilda’s familiar penmanship. This letter she kept close to her person as she took off from the sunny island port.

Many individuals would have preferred to take one of the easily accessible Floo points, or even an ocean liner for such a long trip. But those methods of transport required luggage checks and that was something she was desperate to avoid for very particular reasons.

The following journey across to Cornwall had been a regretfully exhausting experience – even with the two Wide-Eye potions she had taken – as an unavoidable storm had sent her some kilometers off course which had left her a soaking mess by the time she entered the Celtic Sea. She had sworn off Muggle transportation ever since her first – and only – voyage on a steamship down to the horn of Africa.

Never again.

So, with her trusty broom, she made the long trek instead. Her hair was helplessly tangled from the gusts of stinging wind that pricked her skin with the sensation of pointed nettles. Her blonde locks hung in icy tendrils down her back, making her whole body shiver. Even the strongest warming charm couldn’t stop the shaking of her frozen fingers.

After two days of recuperation in the local inn, The Prickly Knarl, she had arrived at the meeting with not only the Deputy Headmistress but the new Headmaster as well.

Walter Aragon was nothing like his predecessor and perhaps that was all the more reason to giddily accept the position. A lover of beasts himself, their similar interest had sparked a three-hour-long conversation delving into the finer points of creature care and habitat protection. Their tea had grown cold and her face ached from smiling by the time she had signed the official job offer.

A warm sensation filled her stomach as she strolled down the steps of the Grand Staircase, striking up a conversation with Sir Nicholas over her new position at the school on the way to the Entrance Hall.

It had been over ten years since she had last stepped foot in the castle.

On more than one occasion, during her employment at Brood & Peck, she had spent time with Professor Bai Howin in her outdoor office – trading stories and information on local poachers and potential encampments. She even brought over a recently rehabilitated Diricawl or Kneazle from time to time. But her stint at the beast store was short-lived and her time away from Scotland grew with the flow of years. Though she kept in correspondence with Howin every other month or so.

But to be in the castle itself?

Her last recollection was that of a tearful goodbye on the day of her graduation held on a warm summer morning. Her exit from the castle was far calmer than her initial arrival at the magical school three years prior. Though the missing professor in the crowd of teachers forever left a sting in her heart.

As she crossed the courtyard, old memories seemed to come to life in her mind with every step. Thoughts of her first flying class and several rounds of Summoner’s Court with Ronen filled her head as Catherine headed for the classroom. The flags of the quidditch pitch flapped in the wind, reminding her of her short stint as Gryffindor’s seeker in her seventh year.

The vast sprawling hills and mountains felt like home.

She had climbed rocky cliffs in the Far East, swam in the swirling turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean, and even trekked inside a pyramid or two during her African expedition. But this? This was where her heart truly sang. Surrounded by the dew-covered grass, the tumbling breeze, and miles of undisturbed wilderness. The Highlands were everything she didn’t know she had missed during her time away, exploring the rest of the natural world.

With an even wider smile on her face, she takes off across the castle grounds, her hands digging deep into the pockets of her leather-hide trousers.

Even from a distance, in the grove of towering Scots Pine trees, she could tell that her specified repairs were in the works. The clang of hammers and the rumble of moving stone greeted her once she made it up the path’s small incline.

Though Bai had been more than happy to sleep near the outdoor classroom, Catherine had other plans for the space.

And the once towering hut was in the final stages of being fully disassembled piece by piece to make way for more enclosures. While there were four fully usable paddocks left over from her predecessor, the space was seriously lacking in her opinion. Part of the hut would be left behind for storage purposes: for feed, healing supplies, and grooming items.

Stronger cages would replace the old iron ones to contain more of the unsavory creatures she planned to introduce. Her sixth and seventh years were going to be in for quite a few surprises this school year if it all went according to plan (and if Matilda agreed).

All in all, her detailed ideas were being handled exactly as she had laid out to the Headmaster after her job offer had been signed.

She nods in approval, waving at the single house elf that was overseeing the unmanned construction instruments – he ducks his head bashfully with the given praise as she heads on to the castle.

The Bell Tower still maintains the indescribable musk of stale air and dusty artifacts. The dueling ghosts barely even pay her a glance as she passes through their wispy forms, making her way across the hall and down the stairs to the tapestry corridor. As her previous lodging was currently dismantled to the ground, she had made her second, and therefore last, request.

Though she had no desire to sleep alongside the creatures, she did wish to remain close enough in case of emergency. If she had learned anything since her first Beasts class some thirteen years ago, it was that magical creatures were nothing if not unpredictable. And with her new room being located just a few minutes walk from the paddocks, she felt more than comfortable with the arrangement.

The room in question had been emptied of all its previous statues. Though the hall outside had gained a few choice pieces: a Hippogriff, a Phoenix, and what appeared to be a badly carved Chimaera in place of the ghoulish-looking stuffed Trolls that had once taken up residence amongst the three woven tapestries.

The old storage space was far warmer than it once had been. Comfortable white and gold rugs covered the stone floor, and a newly conjured fireplace heated the area considerably with its crackling logs. Her paintings, which had been sent ahead from her personal vault in Gringotts, were now proudly adorning the walls, brightening the area even further.

Painted birds swoop past the lush Amazon rain forest, a lone Sphinx stretches out lazily upon the sand of the Egyptian desert, shimmering blue eggs clink together in an Antipodean Opaleye’s nest in the green New Zealand valley. She places the portrait of the sun rising over the sea above her bare-bones bed frame and feather mattress. A Kelpie jumps through the water with a gentle splashing sound as she adjusts the leveling of the painting.

Catherine carefully deposits the large leather bag near the end of the unmade bed – eyeing it with a hint of suspicion for just a moment before she gives a nod and goes to sort through her secondary luggage.

She spends the rest of her day removing items from her traveling bag, the one that was nearly full despite its expandable charm. Celestial blue and gold bedding is tossed against the wall in a heap – it was in desperate need of a good wash after being stored away for so long. But her various books and decorations made their way onto the shelves and cabinets. A large iron perch takes up residence next to the fireplace.

She fussed over the arrangement of her sitting area. Positioning the armchair this way and that until she finally just collapsed into the blasted thing and took a much-needed break.

A very kind house elf appeared but minutes later – with a tray filled with sandwiches, biscuits, scones, and a carefully placed lavender teapot. All courtesy of the Deputy Head who knew she would be up to her eyes in sorting out her chambers and classroom but didn’t want to disturb her at the present moment.

“Please send Professor Weasley my regards and tell her she can find me buried under a pile of unsorted clothes if she requires my presence.”

The house elf looked a little perplexed by the request but shrugged his shoulders and disappeared with a snap of his bony fingers.

After allowing herself the luxury of stuffing three cucumber sandwiches into her mouth and finishing off two blackberry scones – the jam sticking to her fingers, which she lazily licked off – she finally got back into the thick of it.

Only once the window near her sleeping area turned dark with the ebb of nightfall, could she stand back and declare her quarters finished. And with the low embers of the fire battling off the frigid chill of the dungeons, she conjured up a bath and allowed herself to slip under and soak in the steamy water until her tired muscles went lax and tingly once again.

In the morning, Catherine would check in with Matilda, look over the outdoor classroom’s progress, and possibly even head up to Hogsmeade for supplies. Perhaps she would even be afforded time to fly down to the coast to canvas some of the numerous caves. But for now, she closes her eyes, resting her head on the edge of the metal tub, and savors the feeling of returning home after so many years away.

Though she had arrived at the beginning of August, before school supply letters were even sent out, she was surprised to find only a few professors were currently settled into a routine at the school. When she was a student, it had never occurred to her to spare a thought for the personal lives of the staff. Was it silly to assume they stayed at the school year-round?

Only due to her proximity to him, she finds herself running into Professor Binns a little too often for her liking. Though she was entirely polite about the happenstance and would indulge him for a moment about his exhilarating plans for the upcoming school year in regards to Goblin-related topics.

As though Catherine hadn’t experienced enough Goblin-related battles for a lifetime.

“Personally, I always found the rebellion of 1612 far more interesting than the one in 1752,” was apparently the wrong thing to say, as she found herself on the opposite end of an hour-long argument over the worthiness of the later Goblin rebellion.

“Were it not for the quick and calculated planning of the wizard tailor Grimbald Weft, who, as you may know, was a wizard from the small community of Mould-on-the-Wold, a rather fascinating village known for its contributions to the agriculture of several wizarding towns in the later half of the 18th century –“

Madam Scribner was devoted to looking over each and every book in the library, dusting the old tomes, and sending up levitated feather dusters to clean off the large portraits on the second-floor balcony. The librarian had barely paid the new hire any attention when Catherine went wandering up to the upper level in search of books covering local cartography.

There was of course Matilda and Headmaster Aragon, though he was more prone to stopping by for the morning than staying for a full day at this point.

By the time letters were sent out during the middle of the month, more familiar faces seemed to appear in the halls. Her new colleagues blinked back their shock once they realized just who was set to replace Howin. Apparently, the news had been rather sudden when, back in early April, Bai had received a request to join an Eastern expedition set to observe and possibly relocate a new grouping of Yeti in Nepal.

Catherine herself had almost accepted the offer to join the group if it hadn’t been for her already set plans to head to the States with another team. Though those plans ultimately fell apart due to the Pox epidemic and now she was here. Fate had a funny way of working sometimes, she thought with a smile as she greeted a surprised Professor Ronen in the Transfiguration Courtyard.

“The Great Catherine Hart!” he chuckled, immediately swooping her up into a tight hug, “Can it be you have returned to us after all this time?”

The warmth in her body bloomed into a bright laugh as she pushed back her blonde plaited hair, “It would appear you were in need of a new Beasts professor and Matilda managed to get an owl to me in time. I couldn’t even dream of turning it down.”

They quickly caught up over a shared game of exploding snap in the staff room, leaving burnt card-shaped marks on the table, as Catherine regaled him with stories of her travels and he happily told her about his vacation to Switzerland with his wife, Margo over the summer break.

“We went sailing on Lake Geneva. Would you believe it, I tipped us right over into the water. You should have heard her admonishing me while I giggled like a schoolboy – “

“In the summer of ‘98, I had the misfortune of trying to single-handedly wrangle a wild herd of Abraxans from charging upon a Muggle town in Italy – “

For only a moment, at the beginning of her stay in the castle, when she encountered the Deputy Headmistress out after nightfall, did she feel entirely out of place. Speaking to her old professors, not in the place of a student, but as a colleague. Referring to them, comfortably, by name. Asking about matters she never would have broached prior to her employment.

Perhaps sharing correspondence with Bai over the years had made the transition more agreeable. As she was now content with calling out to Abraham about sharing a drink in Hogsmeade before the start of term as he headed up the stairs to inspect the state of his classroom.

At twenty-eight, though she had not experienced the world in its entirety quite yet (she still had North America and Antarctica to explore, after all), she felt competent in her position and her new role amongst her fellow professors. It would take time – she was sure of it – before she was fully submerged in the job, but for now, it was flowing exactly as it should be.

The staff meeting happens on the 24th, sometime before dusk. The time seemed to be intentional as she is greeted with several bottles of drinks awaiting the professors on a tray in the corner – seemingly to be distributed after the meeting.

She greets Matilda before taking a spot near the fireplace, watching as the others begin to trickle in one by one. Professor Garlick had been delighted to see her once she had returned over the weekend. Shah had given her a cordial greeting too. Kogawa had been elated to see her, immediately asking after her new broom model. There was of course the new Defense teacher as well.

Dinah Hecat had left four years prior, on her own terms, as the state of her slowly deteriorating condition began to catch up with her properly. Roland Sterling was a smartly-dressed wizard who met her with a very firm handshake when he properly introduced himself yesterday. He was young, three years older than her if she remembered correctly. But his skill was undeniable, or so Ronen had said when she asked about the placement over a game of gobstones during their shared lunch.

There were only five individuals on staff who were under the age of forty: herself, Roland, Nurse Blainey, Garlick, and Eunice Moore – the arithmancy professor who had scarcely left her classroom since she arrived Tuesday afternoon.

As it was an official meeting with her new colleagues, she chose to dress the part. Forgoing her usual work trousers and dragon-hide waistcoat in favor of a more modest navy skirt and white shirtwaist. Even her hair had received moderate attention this afternoon as she managed to wrap her braid into a carefully coiffed chignon.

She spies her reflection in the curve of a small silver trophy upon the mantelpiece and finds that she rather loathes how matronly she appears to look.

Noticing the slow uptick in chatter now within the room, Catherine hurriedly tugs at two tendrils of her hair – letting them drape gracefully along the frame of her face. Satisfied, she moves to grab a seat at the table before the meeting officially begins. She’s positioned near the end of the setup and Chiyo is more than happy to take the seat to her left as the other professors seem to get the idea and begin to fill the other chairs.

There was only one face she had yet to see during her time at the school as she reacquainted herself with the old halls. Everyone had been quite busy settling back in and preparing their lessons and whatnot. But he was the only one who had evaded her search thus far.

That very face is one of the last to appear at the meeting, grimacing as he makes his way into the room and around the table – taking one of the last available seats; the one on Catherine’s right.

Sharp eases himself into the chair with a pronounced wince and grit of his teeth, acknowledging Ronen across from him, before his gaze finally turns and he makes eye contact with her for the first time in ten years.

His dark brows hitch slightly, as his mind seems to map through some rather interesting equations by the looks of it before the smallest smirk graces the corner of his lips.

“Professor Sharp,” she says politely, inclining her head ever so slightly in his direction – wanting more than anything to start out on the right footing with her old instructor.

The Potion Master chuckles for a moment too short, glancing away before once again meeting her gaze, “Professor Hart, is it then?”

Her eyes gleam with pride, “As of the fourth of this month I’m officially a member of staff, yes.”

There’s a minuscule nod, his attention focusing on Aragon as he makes it into the room at last – with a bundle of unorganized papers and an apologetic smile on his thin face.

“Bai spoke highly of you,” his gruff voice says softly over the dying chatter of the others – his eyes still trained on the Headmaster. “I’m sure you will do her proud.”

Fighting off a smile, Catherine kneads her hands together in her lap, trying not to appear like the overzealous new professor she clearly felt like at the moment.

By the time she manages to get her pride under control from the small bit of bolstering and praise given by her former teacher, Aragon is already in the full swing of apologizing for his tardiness and exclaiming how excited he is to be taking on the monumental role of Headmaster after such an illustrious predecessor.

It takes nearly everyone’s self-control to not outwardly guffaw at the mention of the illustrious Phineas Nigelus Black.

The meeting itself is rather informative for her. Reminders of enforced rules, curfew times, and the importance of awarding and deducting a fair amount of house points. Several professors seem to draw their attention down to the blushing Defense teacher, who ducks his head to the side as if something has taken his interest across the room. She can tell there’s a story there as she catches Ronen’s playful gaze from across the table.

“I’m grateful to you all for submitting your budgetary requests so promptly this year,” Matilda says. “If you find any pressing concerns, you can speak to me privately after the meeting. Though I imagine this year we will find ourselves in a rather fortunate position in those regards.”

The unspoken bit at the end of that sentence seemed to be a not-too friendly reminder of the previous Headmaster’s rather horrendous budget constraints. Luckily for Catherine, she would be requiring only bits and pieces to fund her classroom. The creatures themselves were on loan, as it was. Even some of the food would be easily supplied by the Hogwarts gardens.

“As a reminder, our first Hogsmeade weekend will happen on the third of October this year. Expect to have the schedules delivered in a days time. I believe you will find the rotations to be more than fair. And on that note, the night shifts will be sent along as well. Exceptions to the patrol are the same as last year. Satyavati, you’ll be taking on the weekend shifts, as your classroom hours are impossible to work around. Also, Ranira, your arrangement still stands.”

She has to bow her head to avoid any attention during that particular part of the meeting. As staff patrols were not a thing prior to her fifth year. It appeared at the beginning of her sixth year, for whatever reason she can’t be sure.

Perhaps it had something to do with a fifteen-year-old sneaking out of the castle at every opportunity, going on secretive missions under the instruction of one professor, and single-handedly defeating the leader of a goblin rebellion in a hidden chamber under the school. Or maybe it had to do with students leaving their dorms to meet up with their sweethearts or stroll down to the Restricted Section, who could say for sure.

Whatever the reason, the teachers had all taken on the insufferable task of patrolling the halls of the castle every day of the week well past the midnight hour. And it seemed the structure had remained in place even after she graduated. Pity.

And then, of course, there’s a rather sudden introduction of her to the rest of the staff.

“As you all are aware, Professor Howin has taken an indefinite leave as she joins an excursion party into Nepal. I am pleased to welcome Miss Hart to our teaching staff. I can think of no one better qualified for the position.”

She inclines her head in acknowledgment, all too aware of the stares and encouraging smiles of her colleagues. Her own stomach turned with the swell of the spotlight.

“And I believe that about sums up everything,” The Headmaster claps his hands together. “So, in preparation for another year, let me welcome you all to get properly inebriated!”

With a resounding cheer, Aragon levitates the drink tray over to the table and pops the corks off several bottles, shimmering goblets and crystal glasses appearing just a moment later.

Mirabel circles the table almost immediately, wrapping Catherine into a tight hug – nearly jostling her wine as she does so. She smells of summer-warm marigolds and lemon verbena.

“Bai would be most envious of your new classroom,” she smiles. “I took a walk around the grounds just yesterday afternoon in search of extra mallowsweet for my first-years. It looks lovely, Catherine. Speaking of, you must come by the greenhouses – it’s been so long!”

Ronen wasn’t too far behind, clapping her warmly on the shoulder before clinking their glasses together. Even Aragon took his time going from professor to professor, landing into a lively conversation with her and Shah, of all people, about local creatures.

“You wouldn’t believe the luck I had when I was off visiting my sister over the summer break,” Shah had said. “I swear there was a flock of Auguries who followed us from town to town for the entire stay. Barely a clear day in the whole trip.”

“They are quite perceptive to the weather, you know.”

As she swayed between conversations and groups of chatting and drink-happy colleagues, she would catch the occasional gaze of the Potions professor from his spot near the unlit fireplace – looking perfectly content to remain in the cream-colored armchair with a small glass of amber-colored drink in his left hand.

He spoke to Armando Dippet for a short time as the man pressed past. As well as Crestwell and Waterford – the Muggle Studies and Study of Ancient Runes professors, respectfully. But the conversations were brief in comparison to the rest of the circles.

It was Kogawa, who told her all about the House point mishap of 1899 – all done with barely-contained giggling whispers as she partook in yet another bottle of wine.

The newly-appointed Defense teacher had been a little too eager to award his House points for every correct answer – racking up almost two hundred points by the end of the first month, while the other three houses seemed to lose points faster than they could make them up. It took a gentle intervention from the Deputy Headmistresses to set Sterling right.

As the atmosphere warms, the chatter rising and the laughs increasing, Catherine makes her way back around the long table – nearly tripping over her own feet as she bumps into the corner of it. Finding herself in the company of Sharp once again. He regards her with a single uninterested look. Seemingly content to swirl the amber contents of his glass, while a deep frown lays upon his rugged features.

Grabbing hold of one of the wooden chairs, she spins it around in her grasp and carefully settles herself on the seat – pushing her skirt to the side to avoid tripping over it. She sips from her goblet, watching with amused eyes as Chiyo starts performing a hap-hazardous jig with Roslin Kearney, the music professor, across the room.

“So,” she breathes out, catching the eye of the Potion Master once again. “Any advice for a new professor?”

A tell-tale smirk crosses Sharp’s lips as he settles back into the cushion of the chair and finally meets her eyes once again. He finishes off his drink, gaze momentarily distant as he conjures up a proper reply.

“While our departments vastly differ, some common advice would be to tackle the papers before they overtake your desk and your personal time. Fifth-years, by nature, are a nervous wreck come spring and you’d do good to take your grace with them. Third and sixth years are the true trouble of the populace.”

Sharp takes a moment to grab hold of the Firewhiskey on the table next to him, refilling his glass. He grunts with the effort of reaching back to place the bottle and for a second she allows herself to ponder what the extent of his pain is after a further decade.

“Conflict arises and you will need to act, despite every part of yourself that strives to be the better sort of professor.”

“Is that spoken from personal experience?” Catherine asks with a hint of toying in her voice.

It was strange, finding herself on equal footing with Sharp. With the others, it had come almost naturally. Perhaps it was his demeanor, that impenetrable stone-wall exterior of an ex-Auror and seasoned teacher.

His cedar eyes harden momentarily, “No.”

Stifling a laugh with another careful sip of her wine, she watches the way his dark gaze sweeps across the occupants of the room. Ever observant, ever on guard – always watching.

When he replies, his tone is even, bordering on wistful.

“Every new professor who has passed through these halls seems determined to be better than the best of them. By the end of the year, they’re yanking their hair out from students ignoring their every word, and using their kindness to their own advantage. Nip the distraction before it becomes a problem.”

She nods, “Duly noted. I appreciate the advice.”

Sharp huffs, tipping his glass back before finally depositing it on the table.

“I highly doubt you needed it.”

He grips the armrests as he moves to stand, an obvious whine of discomfort is held tight in his throat as he steadies himself slowly.

Catherine sets her goblet down on the staff table behind her as well, standing to move the chair back into its proper place – removing the obstruction from his path. She meets his gaze, head-on, with a gentle curve to her lips.

“But it’s still welcome, all the same.”

Sharp gives a curt nod, looking as though he wants to say something further, but he ultimately grimaces and says, tightly, “If you’ll excuse me, Hart.”

She ducks out of his way, watching as he exits the room with a quick wave toward Aragon as he goes.

Yes, it appeared that the limp had worsened considerably since her time as a student.

His back hunched ever so slightly as he moved, taking shorter steps as he forced his weight down onto his good leg. Only once his figure disappears from sight, does she return her attention to the party. Mirabel calls her over almost instantly, catching her eye from across the room, demanding stories of her travels as she strides over to meet her fellow professors.

“Well, when I was trekking across China three years back, I accidentally found myself in the den of a very cross Chinese Fireball – “

The party eventually winds down, with several professors claiming the need to retire for the evening lest they receive a truly awful hangover in the morning. It was only Monday, after all.

She giggles at the sight of Mirabel and Chiyo swaying through the courtyard, singing a local tune from the taverns no doubt. Matilda bids her goodnight, flushed and clearly a little tipsy before she makes her way toward the other side of the castle.

When the singing duo is out of earshot – headed for the Greenhouses by the looks of it, she finally sighs. Tugging at the pins that held her chignon together, she smooths out her braid as it lays upon her shoulder, storing away the hairpins into her pocket.

It was a truly wonderful experience that evening, connecting with everyone and feeling like she was on equal ground with her previous instructors. With a final glance towards the lingering darkness of Central Hall, she turns down the stone corridor.

Through the double doors, she’s hit with the familiar metallic scent of the potions hall. A lingering smell of boiled dittany, earthen ingredients, and charred cauldrons fills her senses as she spots the warm glow of the open classroom. Unable to help herself, Catherine peers into the room.

Apparently, Sharp hadn’t retired to the Faculty Tower for the night as she had initially thought.

Taking a step into the room, her low-heeled boots click against the cobblestone floor as memories float to the surface of her mind. Her first class some thirteen years ago, Garreth’s ever more adventurous exploding brews, the defensive lessons with Sharp that had left her both exhausted and equally invigorated.

Her fingers run across the rough surface of the table, edges chipped and cracked by potions gone awry, no doubt. She spots the chalkboards in the far corner of the room, already filled out with lesson plans in tightly-lined writing.

Essence of Insanity? The seventh-years would certainly have a time with that particular concoction. And what was it he had set up for his newest students? She paces towards the neighboring board and has to hold back a laugh when she sees Cure for Boils written at the top.

An immediate memory of her small stint as Headmaster Black comes to the forefront of her mind. That was perhaps the greatest Christmas present she had ever received – the look on poor Ominis’ face!

It’s the clearing of a throat that makes her turn away, eyes going a little wide as she catches sight of Sharp watching her from the open doorway of his office. He had removed his overcoat and was now clad in only his gray waistcoat and pressed undershirt.

For just the briefest flash, she has to remind herself that she is not in fact a student that had been caught out after curfew by the strict professor. No, now she was just a tipsy young teacher making a slight fool of herself in front of her esteemed colleague.

He merely raises a brow in her direction as she sheepishly makes her way over to him.

“Surely you’re not in need of more teaching wisdom already.”

She grins, feeling the warm flush of wine bubbling happily in her belly as she rests against the edge of the table across from him – nearly slipping as her feet seem to be reluctant to maintain her center of gravity.

“I think I’ll wait till after my first week to come crawling back for assistance.”

He smirks, a silent chuckle on his lips as he leans against the stone door frame, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Worried you’ll be in need of a particular potion come morning then?”

Another giggle escapes her mouth as she shakes her head.

“I don’t think I’ll be the one needing a hangover cure tomorrow. Abraham and Matilda on the other hand…”

“They hold their liquor far better than you’d expect,” Sharp admits softly, his eyes examining her features in search of something that’s apparently laid bare on her face.

A silence stretches for a beat too long between them. Catherine notices the way he has his left leg situated, resting his weight on the heel of his boot as opposed to flat down on the floor. The glimmer of something shiny, just behind him resting on the edge of his desk, catches her attention – like a Niffler to a jewel-encrusted necklace – before his words draw her back in.

“Then what, may I ask, are you doing here?”

Catherine blushes, brushing down her skirt with her sweaty palms for a brief second, “I apologize. I saw the light as I made my way down. I was drawn in by old memories I suppose.”

Sharp grits his teeth, adjusting his position again and she has half the mind to ask if he wants to sit back down but she ultimately holds her tongue.

“Ah, off to check on your beasts, no doubt.”

“Off to bed, actually,” she bristles slightly, tugging at the loose strands of her braid.

He looks her over once, an amused expression crossing his features as he says in a slightly chastising tone, “I believe the Faculty Tower is in the other direction, Hart.”

“I’m well aware of that, Sharp. But if you must know, my chambers are at the end of the tapestry corridor since Howin’s cabin is no longer standing.”

There’s a moment where his brows rise and his dark eyes flash. She barely misses the slightest downturn of his lips into a deeper grimace. Was he so repulsed at the thought of her quarters being in proximity to his storeroom? Maybe her time as a student had truly soured his opinion of her. Admittedly, her exploits had been the topic of conversation amongst the students and staff right up until graduation.

“Honestly,” she continues on. “I’ve been here for almost a month now. Maybe if you poked your head out of your office every now and then you would have had the chance to speak to me before tonight.”

Taking note of his rigid stature, Catherine eases her tone – realizing that the glass of wine and two shots of Firewhiskey might have been affecting her reaction to a simple inquiry.

“In the hall by the stairs, there was an old storage room – filled to the brim with statues. Matilda had the elves clear it out for me before I arrived.”

Sharp nods in understanding.

“I wondered what had become of the Trolls.”

“Nasty things, if you ask me,” Catherine says, pushing off from the table to pace back and forth while keeping her eyes on him. “Bit barbaric, honestly. If nothing else, it just frightens the younger students. It’s hardly teaching material, is it? But there is this lingering smell in the hall that I can’t seem to get rid of – which I blame entirely on dusty old stuffed trolls, to be clear.”

She feels a swell in her chest as she realizes Sharp is smiling softly at her little drunken ramblings. Not the best impression to make, of course. Coming to an almost immediate stop, Catherine smooths down her braid and offers up a timid smile.

“And I believe that’s my cue to head down before I begin telling you all about the Pixies I found hidden in a hole behind the tapestry of the wizard with the golden phoenix last week.”

He smirks in amusement, “An enthralling tale, I’m sure.”

Ducking her head with the surge of embarrassment running through her, she says a quick, “Goodnight, Sharp,” before she heads out of the humid classroom and makes for the spiral stairs. Her cheeks burn and her stomach lurches unpleasantly.

Well, at least she wasn’t the one singing drinking songs at the top of her lungs this evening, she tells herself. No, Catherine was quite looking forward to teasing Mirabel relentlessly for her rendition of “My Witty Witchy Lass” come morning.

In the safety of her chambers, she blames the slight racing of her heart on her excessive consumption and shamefully drunken encounter with an esteemed colleague that she was expected to work alongside of. She had to sort herself out before the students arrived if she ever wanted to be taken seriously. Both by them and her fellow staff members.

Aesop had been largely absorbed by his lesson planning this past week. Though many of the materials and units of study had remained relatively unchanged over the two decades of teaching the subject, he still enjoyed refining certain aspects every year or so. In fact, he had only just returned to the school – having spent the past month and a half in Northern England, where he had a residence.

The return to the castle had been entirely uneventful, but the minute he apparated outside of the gates, his chest ached with that familiar feeling. This was truly home for him, as he spent the better part of the year here. However, that wasn’t just it.

While many of his colleagues had a life away from the school, this was the central aspect of his life now. After he left the Auror Department, there was very little awaiting him in the ruins of the accident. Aesop had latched onto this opportunity when it presented itself just a year later. This is what he had.

And while he had enjoyed his time away, savoring in the simple life for a short time – the days where he could sleep in past seven and drink himself into a stupor without cause for concern – this was where he felt he had a true purpose.

Aesop spends most of his days preparing his classroom, detailing out lesson plans, and studying the incoming class listings. Headmaster Aragon takes the time to come down and introduce himself properly. And though Aesop likes the man – far more than his predecessor, of course – he finds the visit largely cumbersome toward the work he’s trying to accomplish.

“You know, Sharp. I must commend you, I regret I was a rather poor student when it came to potion-making. It must take quite a deal of patience to handle the different abilities of your students.”

He had merely hummed in affirmation, wishing for the man to be called away so he could return to the solitude of planning.

In fact, Aesop had found himself so invested in the preparation of his department, that he had scarcely seen another faculty member prior to the meeting. Abraham sought him out, of course, to share in the traditional evening round of Ogden’s Old before term began. And Garlick had managed to track him down as well to discuss their usual ingredient cultivation arrangement.

His days started late and his evenings dragged on well past the midnight hour. By the time he returned to his chambers, the rest of the castle was soundly asleep – the portraits had the annoying habit of loudly shushing him whenever he went to unlock his door.

Aesop’s thoughts had rarely strayed from the upcoming year and it was only with a distant curiosity that he even found himself thinking about Howin’s new replacement. It was with a small amount of shock that he found himself sitting next to his former student; the Hero of Hogwarts herself.

Though Bai had taken to reading her correspondences with Hart every time a new letter arrived, Aesop admittedly hadn’t considered the possibility of the young witch taking on the role.

When he found himself situated in the armchair in the staff lounge, just after Howin received the rare note from the well-traveled creature enthusiast, he would occasionally overhear the tales of her adventures. Tracking down Demiguise in the Far East, rehabilitating Fire Crabs from a poacher in Fiji, and a run-in with a Tebo in the Congo.

Her most recent correspondence from February outlined Miss Hart’s nearly fatal rescue of a Peruvian Vipertooth – much to everyone’s shock and horror.

The woman was clearly deep within the realm of reckless youthful adventuring. To see her, sitting at the staff table looking like a proper teacher, was rather unnerving. Though he greeted her without issue and spoke of Bai’s praises.

What he spent the remainder of the evening doing was pondering the question of why. Why she had forgone her travels to teach. Was it a promise to her beloved Beasts professor? Or perhaps there was a deeper meaning. As he refills his drink, he can’t help but watch the way she moves between their colleagues.

She fits in. That’s what’s strange about it.

Sterling had been a boisterous, but also oddly awkward, individual when he began teaching a few years back. It had taken the better part of a full term for the man to begin to work his way into the older teaching circle. And only thanks to the likes of Mirabel was he ever fully incorporated into their outings to the village.

But Miss Hart…

Aesop shakes his head, staring down into the Firewhiskey in his glass as she makes her way over with a timid smile.

He’s waiting for that same overzealous sort of conversation he had been on the receiving end of when Sterling was first introduced. That naive sense of higher experience than the rest of them. But she properly surprises him when she asks for advice, of all things. He searches her gaze and finds nothing but genuine interest and a twinge of nerves.

So, he tells her what he wished he himself had heard when he began working at the school. Though with her wealth of experience, he honestly doesn’t believe she’ll be in much need of his – or anyone else’s – words of wisdom.

Aesop excuses himself as the prospect of spending any more time in the presence of his drunken colleagues tends to render him rather uninterested. At best, he could reserve a tolerance for those moments during the monthly Hogsmeade outing, but no more than that.

It takes him a few minutes to cross the courtyard and return to his classroom – just a few steps too many for his leg’s liking.

He has every intention of downing a pain potion and finishing up a stack of late correspondences that had been sitting in his inbox since he arrived back at the castle. A handful of notes here and there from old associates at the Auror’s office, an invitation to a Ministry gala in the winter, a reply from Pippin about a rare plant he had come across in his studies over the summer holiday.

Were it not for the soft footsteps outside of his office door, the tittering laughter was enough of a giveaway. He takes a moment to stand before he heads to the doorway – watching as Hart looks over his prepared lesson plans on the chalkboards.

Perhaps she wasn’t aware that he was still there, as she seems to sway slightly when she moves along to the second board – completely engrossed by what she sees.

Only when he catches her attention does he realize just how tipsy the young woman is. Lost in the memories, she had said as her excuse for being in the classroom. And when she mentions the location of her quarters – well… it truly is his own fault for being completely unobservant.

He hadn’t taken the chance to stroll around the grounds before the students arrived back for the year. And perhaps if he had, he would have realized that the hut next to the Beast classroom was no more. If he had ever managed to go down to his chambers at a decent hour, he may have even seen her just down the hall. But to know that she was just a few steps away was rather unsettling.

Aesop had enjoyed the privacy these past five years. Kogawa had her rooms near her own classroom. And Moon was located out by the North Gate. Down here, he had enjoyed the solitude – the complete lack of students, in fairness. But now, it appeared that another member of staff had taken up residence just down from him.

When she bids him a rather quick farewell, he has to hide his chuckle – watching as she nearly knocks over a stack of cauldrons next to the door on her way out. He gives a tired shake of his head. The room seems quieter than it had been when he was alone: colder. Running a hand through his hair, he returns to his office and finishes off the replies as the clock strikes eleven.

The gold and rosebud-toned sky brought the promise of a gorgeous late-summer day as she began securing the wards around the Beasts classroom.

The familiar roll of incantations fell from her lips, and the surging sensation of her magic flowed from her core to the yew-carved wand – blue shimmers of spellwork slowly dissipated as she moved around the boundaries of the paddocks.

Her Flobberworms twitched on the table next to the covered pavilion, enjoying their morning cabbage and the warmth of the rising sun. While the Diricawls hooted from their enclosed paddock, madly disapparating and reappearing as they waited for their morning meal. At least the Jobberknolls seemed content in their large avian cage – swinging on their perches and peeking out from the branches of the oak tree. Bless the expanding charm, it was like a proper forest when you stepped into their enclosure.

Only once the wards are set in place and she feels firm in their strength, does Catherine begin the morning chores. The Fairies seem content to stare at themselves in the jeweled mirror today, so she passes them by in favor of her more impatient beasts.

The Hippogriffs are all pacing near the edges of their enlarged paddock when she approaches with two large buckets of dead ferrets – the smell alone makes her forcefully turn her head away. It didn’t matter how many times she had handled it over the years, some scents could just not be tolerated.

Their hooves are a thunderous symphony as they all push against each other in their eagerness.

“Come on now, back it up, back it up. Hey! I will show favoritism if you push it, Oswald.”

One by one they jump up to catch their breakfast, swallowing the meat almost whole before charging back in for another. Her fifth years were going to be in for an exciting first quarter, she was sure of it.

It’s the caw from a neighboring paddock that reluctantly has her moving on from Luann who had been pushing her beak into Catherine’s hand for more scritches.

“Yes, yes. I haven’t forgotten about you, I promise,” she informs the creature as she levitates over his specially primed meal.

“Spoiled little thing you are,” she coos as the raw steak flanks fly into the Griffin’s range.

While Matilda hadn’t been particularly keen on her bringing an XXXX-classified beast onto school grounds, Catherine had been adamant that her seventh-years were more than capable of interacting with such a creature. Not to mention, the insured promise of having more than enough protective wards and gear to keep everyone safe left no room for further argument.

And more importantly, Ominis had assured her that this specific Griffin was used to being around witches and wizards and was far tamer than any other he had encountered in Greece. Catherine hadn’t felt the need to ask why he was around Griffins in any capacity but chalked it up to the mysterious work that he never spoke of directly.

After checking in on the Knarls, Dugbogs, and Diricawls, and ensuring that the Fairies had their food laid out in dainty rose-gold porcelain cups, she makes her way over to the actual classroom.

Stored away in cabinets next to the chalkboard were her full lesson plans. All of which were meticulously written out earlier in the month. Bai had left her more than enough to work with and she was incredibly grateful for her predecessor as she eyed old copies of essay topics and test questions under piles of Jobberknoll feathers.

“Ah! I was hoping to find you here.”

Lifting her head from the parchment in front of her, Catherine offers a welcoming smile to the young Defense teacher as he comes up the path. His blue and gold waistcoat swirls and glimmers in the sunlight, his smile nearly blinding as he ducks into the covered classroom. He pulls off his matching navy cap, running a quick hand through his sandy blonde locks.

She straightens up immediately, untying her work apron from her waist. All too aware of what she likely smelled like after working, she casts a silent Scourgify on her muck-covered boots. Her dragon-hide gloves are carefully placed to the side as well before she addresses the man in front of her.

“And what can I do for you, Professor Sterling?”

“Roland, please,” he urges with another beaming grin. “And I was hoping I could compare lesson plans with you.”

“Oh?”

She grabs the wooden stool next to the cabinet and swivels to sit down on it as he leans against the table across from her.

“Howin was kind enough to let me know when she had particular creatures around, you see. A few were quite useful to my students these past years.”

Shuffling through her lesson plans, she nods with a smile, “Ah, I understand. Any beasts you were looking for specifically?”

At that, Roland digs into his waistcoat’s pocket and unfolds a small piece of parchment. His emerald eyes squint slightly as he tries to decipher his own writing.

“Pixies?”

She hums softly, dragging her finger across her plans until the name appears, “Looks like I have it set for my fifth years to begin studying them around the start of February. We’ll use them for about three weeks before we move on to Fwoopers.”

He hahs with delight, quickly scratching down the information.

They set about planning the timing around her introduction to Grindylows, Fire Crabs, and Kappas – the last one making him let out an involuntary cheer.

“The number of requests I made to Weasley last year to appeal for a single Kappa for my sixth-years – “

“Oh, I completely understand her reasoning, of course,” Catherine grins. “If Black was still Headmaster, I imagine I would be stuck with just a pack of Puffeskeins and Horklumps for my older students.”

Roland tucks away his notes, leaning on the table with his elbows, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

“No, Aragon is a considerable breath of fresh air in comparison. Lucky for you he seems to be invested in your department far more than the others.”

She blushes at the implication, quickly shuffling her papers back into a neat order. Hopping off the stool, she goes to file them back in their proper place. Speaking over her shoulder as she goes:

“I highly doubt that. Professor Onai said she could barely get him out of her classroom yesterday. He just wanted to discuss every little bit and piece of divination – broke her teacups more than once I believe.”

“And – “ she turns back toward her fellow professor, “He was down bothering Crestwell all day Tuesday.”

“Yes, so I heard in the lounge the other night. He has a… what was it again?”

“A motor car – they’re quite the rage in Muggle cities. I think Aragon was hoping to go for a ride in it, honestly.”

He chuckles, dipping his head down, “Now, I would pay good money to see that.”

Catherine hums at the thought, picturing the overzealous Headmaster not only removing the vehicle from its display case, but also trying to steer the petrol engine across the courtyard. Her amusing thoughts are quickly taken from her as Roland asks, quite abruptly –

“So, are you finished for the morning?”

At that, she blinks once before outwardly laughing.

She swipes a hand across her heated brow, “Hardly.”

Gesturing at the paddocks and cages, “I’ve just been waiting for them to finish their breakfast, you see. My Diricawls need grooming, the Jobberknoll cage needs mucking out, and the Dugbogs’ swamp needs readjusting – water temperature, you understand. Not to mention –“

She holds out her hand, wordlessly casting Accio as she summons her broom. It zooms across the yard before landing in her firm grip; her fingers flex along the handle with the muscle memory.

“My Hippogriffs and Griffin need to stretch their wings.”

Roland holds up his hands in playful defeat, laughing as he goes, “Well, I’ll leave you to it then, Hart.”

She gives him a curt nod as he makes his way back down the path to the West Tower entrance. After ensuring everything was back in its proper place, Catherine sets about unlocking the enclosures.

“Come on, then,” she whistles.

The Hippogriffs charge out of the paddock, down the hill towards the courtyard before they, one by one, take off into the air – stretching their wings as they soar above the school grounds. She watches with a trained eye as the Griffin takes his time trotting down the same incline. He turns back to seemingly watch her before he uses his hind legs to jump into a graceful arc – his wings expanding outwards as he glides.

After all the chores were checked off her list and a particular Jobberknoll’s wing was bandaged up, she takes to the sky.

It took a full hour to round everyone back up to their pens. Nigel, the single bronze-toned Hippogriff, required extra encouragement to land in the form of two delicious-looking ferrets. But she was eventually able to lock them in their secure little areas, wards safely back in place over the entire outdoor classroom – therefore preventing them from flying off on their own accord.

Back in the Bell Tower, she takes the stone steps two at a time as she enters the tapestry hall. A proper change of clothes was in order for her trek into Hogsmeade after all. But it’s the creaking sound of a door up the corridor that captures her interest first.

Professor Sharp enters the hall, his back to her, as he leans heavily upon a silver-headed cane. His head is tipped downward as he begins making his way down the corridor with a slow limp. At least it seemed he was taking in the last few days of moderate comfort before term, as he was once again devoid of his usual tailored jacket.

As she watches him go, she’s almost instantly reminded of her conversation with Sterling earlier that morning and she mentally wants to slap herself for forgetting to have a nearly identical talk with the Potion Master.

“Sharp!” she calls out, taking to a light jog as she hurries to catch up to him.

His back straightens before he turns to look at her. An unimpressed raised brow graces his face as Catherine comes to a breathless stop in front of him, a wide grin upon her lips.

“Sorry, I didn’t know when I’d have the chance to speak to you before the weekend.”

She glances at the door he had just exited from, expecting to see the potion store room, but that locked door is further down the hall and a question comes to mind, but once again she holds her tongue.

He’s staring at her when she returns her gaze to his. There’s the slightest tilt of his head as his earthen eyes put their full attention to her face. It’s nearly suffocating.

“You have a, uhm,” he clears his throat, carefully reaching his hand across the space between them, and picks a small downy gray-speckled feather from the top of her head.

He examines it for a moment – twisting it in his fingers. His lips turn up into the beginnings of a smile as she immediately flushes.

“That would be Napoleon’s,” Catherine says by way of explanation as she snags the feather from him with a sheepish smile and tucks it away into her trouser pocket.

At the amused raise of his eyebrows, she feels the need to elaborate.

“The young buck of my Hippogriff herd. I had them stretching their wings this morning and had to round them back up again. He’s the playful sort, wanted to race me, I think.”

The professor hums with that deep rumble of his before she remembers why she had called out for him in the first place.

“As I was saying, blame it on my inexperience, but I apologize for not getting with you sooner. I’m aware that you and Matron Blainey have an arrangement for brewing, as well as your work with Mirabel. If you have the time, I’d be amicable to discussing my own lesson plans with you.”

Understanding crosses his features as he inclines his head toward her, “That would be agreeable.”

“Perfect!”

Sharp begins striding toward the spiral stairs and Catherine quickly moves to walk alongside him.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your own planning session,” she realizes with a shade of embarrassment, having just thrust this upon him. Perhaps she should have made the effort to make an appointment with him first.

His cane clicks against the steps, his gait slowed by the ascent. Her eyes can’t help but travel to his left leg as he walks ahead of her. Had his foot always dragged the way it does now?

He hums in a thoughtful tone, gripping the head of his cane with whitening knuckles, “I’m merely awaiting the completion of several potions for the Infirmary at the present moment.”

“Ah, good timing then.”

The two of them enter the Potions classroom and she spots several cauldrons held under a temporary stasis charm – one that he immediately lifts upon entering the room. From scent alone, she recognizes the familiar Wiggenweld brew. Leaning over, she peers into the neighboring table’s cauldron set-up, ah. The antidote to common poisons, of course.

Her gaze lifts as Sharp settles into the chair at his desk, his cane hanging from the armrest by his right hand. She takes the unspoken cue and crosses the room, summoning a spare chair from one of the dimly lit alcoves to sit next to him.

As she settles onto the stool, Sharp takes hold of a teapot that had been left under a warming charm on his desk and begins pouring the contents into a white cup with intricate green and gold inlaid designs upon it.

“Tea?” he asks, not sparing a glance up from his current task.

She scoots forward on the stool, “If it wouldn’t be a bother.”

He nods, conjuring up a second cup from somewhere in his office. It floats past them on its own saucer which he snatches from the air, pouring once again.

Catherine hums her thanks as she takes a small sip of the warm drink – a herbal concoction that makes her face flush. She’s careful to move the cup away from her immediate reach as she grabs hold of the folded parchment from her trouser pocket.

“While I do have specific creatures that I’ll be rotating through throughout the year, it wouldn’t be terribly difficult for me to procure special ingredients if the need demanded it.”

“There are some – ” he admits, “that I find harder to come by during certain seasons.”

She nods quickly. Certain things, like Unicorn horn, could only be harvested at particular times of the year. Other creatures hibernated through the winter months and were nearly impossible to locate and disturbing them was only for the truly reckless.

“Well, you’re in luck then! I have several connections across the continent who would be more than willing to send a few things your way if your supplies were running low. Now, let’s see…”

He’s content with her current schedule of creature rotation. Flobberworm mucus, Jobberknoll feathers, Fairy wings, and Knarl quills would be available during the first quarter. Kneazle hair and Unicorn byproducts in the second – they’ll start shedding their horns by mid-January, so the timing will be just about right. Puffeskein and Thestral hair in the third quarter. And lastly –

His tone hardens significantly after she says it and her stomach drops with the sensation that she’s about to be on the receiving end of an infamously harsh Professor Sharp lashing.

She hadn’t experienced one of those since the spring of 1893.

“And what exactly are you intending to do with a Graphorn on school grounds?”

She can’t help but beam – she was no longer a student and his words didn’t create the desired effect he had likely hoped they would.

“Educate, mostly.”

Sharp rubs his temples, but she thinks she can spot the makings of what could be a smile under his hand.

“Salazar’s beard, Hart. I trust the Headmaster has at least been informed of your reckless intentions.”

“Of course!” She feels downright cheery now as she takes a sip from her teacup, “Mmm. He was very enthusiastic about the decision actually. Even Matilda was convinced of my plans by the end of the meeting.”

Feeling a twist of mischievousness creeping up her spine, she adds, nonchalantly, “I think the third years can handle it after all. Of course, we’ll be saving the Quintaped for my fifth years. And the Hebridean Black for the older students. They’re the tamer of the dragon breeds, you know.”

He lifts his head immediately, eyes widening before narrowing just as quickly.

The young instructor holds his steady gaze for a moment before ducking her head down with a ringing laugh. She has to cover her mouth with her hand when she sees the way he seems to sag with relief in his chair.

Oh, it was relieving to know that she could still give them all gray hairs even after all this time.

“Honestly, do you still take me for the reckless child I once was, Professor?”

Sharp sighs, resting his cheek in his right palm as he stares at her with a tired, but amused expression for a long-stretching moment.

“Do you wish for a truthful answer?”

“The cheek!” Catherine cries out, smiling brightly at the accompanying sound of his warm timbre of a chuckle.

The comfortable spell is broken by the sound of several alarms going off all at once. Her gaze draws to the cauldrons across the room in realization. The Potion Master hefts himself out of the chair, making his way to the finished brews with a grimace drawn upon his lips once again.

“Would you like some help bottling?” she asks, following after him.

He offers her a calculated look before answering in that usual gruff tone, “I believe I can handle the job. I’m sure you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Empty bottles fly out from a cabinet near his office, swooping past her before they land in neat little rows on the table beside him. She doesn’t want the warm camaraderie they had shared to end just yet. Stretching up onto the tips of her toes, she looks from him to the cauldrons and back again.

“Only a trip into Hogsmeade to set up orders with Ellie Peck, but that’s not particularly time sensitive.”

Sweeping her gaze toward him, tilting her head down and to the side to appear in his peripheral, she asks, “Do you not trust my ability to bottle and label Wiggenweld, Sharp?”

The ladle in his hand pauses, mid-air, as he sets her with a single raised brow that seems to say Honestly, Hart?

He huffs indignantly, returning his focus to the tedious task at hand.

“I merely assumed that your attention would be required elsewhere.”

Which is about as much of an invitation as she’s going to get. So, with a hidden smile of triumph, Catherine summons more bottles from the cabinet and begins working on the opposite table – scooping, measuring, corking, and labeling the antidotes.

There’s something comfortable about the process, similar to grooming the Kneazles or stocking the feed supplies. But while those tasks were usually done alone, in the heat of the afternoon sun, this particular task was done alongside another. Maybe it was the sense of companionship she had been missing.

It had been well over a year since her last long-stint with a group of fellow creature enthusiasts, after all. She had largely been working solo missions ever since her time in the Far East.

So, standing alongside Sharp, even though his interest in carrying on a conversation was null and void, felt oddly wonderful. Sparing him a glance as she begins sorting the bottled potions into an empty crate, she can’t help but feel the warm bubble of joy in her chest.

When the last of the cauldrons is emptied of its contents, parts of her hair have fallen out of her braid – loose strands curl around her ears from the humidity of the room, and she has to wipe the sweat from her brow.

By the end of it, they have a dozen or so boxes tightly lined with healing potions. She looks from the crates to the man before her and then the quickest glance down to his leg.

“I can take these up to Blainey if you want. I forgot how grueling it is to cross the castle with all these stairs. I certainly could use the exercise.”

Sharp actually rolls his eyes at that and she briefly wonders if she’s overstepped by insinuating that he couldn’t handle the journey up to the Hospital Wing on his own.

“Nonsense,” he says, flicking his wand at the crates, making them levitate beside him. “I have a connection to the Floo network in my chambers.”

“Oh,” is all she can say, quick to send a Levioso at her own stack of boxes as she moves to follow him out of the classroom – their brews trailing behind them.

And though there’s a moment where she wants to ask what the point is in traveling all the way to the Faculty Tower just to use the Floo, she bites her tongue. Particularly when Sharp turns to head down the stairs to the tapestry corridor instead.

She trails after him like a lost little Crup, past the potion storage cupboard before he stops in front of the second door – about halfway down the hall. He holds it open for the crates and for Catherine, who sheepishly slinks past him with a tight smile.

Oh, yes. This made much more sense.

Catherine takes in the living quarters of the Potion Master. Similar to the old room – the one that she most definitely had never snuck into during her time as a student – the dungeon chamber is decorated in warm red tones. A heavy scent of sandalwood caresses her senses as she spins in a slow circle, taking it all in.

There’s a folded partition screen to her right that seems to be placed to give the sleeping area an air of privacy. Stacks of books and papers adorn every surface. A small cart near the fireplace is decorated with several different bottles of ale and whiskey. Curiously, no portraits are adorning the walls this time.

Sharp strides across the room and she refocuses on her task – allowing the crates to come to a peaceful rest on the rug in front of the unlit fireplace.

As her colleague calls for the Hospital Wing, she slowly makes her way over to him – taking only a moment to glance at the writing desk across from her where several charcoal drawings seem to be haphazardly hidden away under a stack of dusty tomes.

When she looks back at Sharp, he’s on his knee in front of the fireplace, carefully sending on the crates through the harmless green flames. Realizing her situation, she moves to join him, passing along the crates one by one.

With the last one through, he dusts off his hands and looks over at her with a pleased glint in his dark eyes. She stands first, offering him her hand before he can even attempt to get up on his own. He seems momentarily reluctant, his eyes refusing to meet her gaze, but he eventually clasps his large palm in her smaller one and allows himself the assistance.

There’s a newly-formed grit to his voice as he continues to avoid her gaze, his eyes focusing on something just past her head.

“Thank you. With your help, I have reclaimed an extra hour to my day.”

“Of course,” she grins. “Two pairs of hands are better than one.”

Catherine allows herself a moment to take in his room once again. And then his attention is upon her and the brewing emotion in his eyes is enough to make her heart race.

“Well, best be on my way. I promised Sirona I’d stop by before term started and I fear I might have skipped breakfast to get everything arranged outside this morning.”

Sharp inclines his head, a small smile upon his thin lips, “Of course. I’m afraid I have the daunting task of finalizing my semester plans laying ahead of me this afternoon.”

She offers a chuckle, feeling her heart beat even out, “I do not envy you in the slightest. I’ll see you later then, I suppose – considering the proximity.”

He nods slowly, “Yes, I suppose we shall.”

With another parting word of thanks and goodbyes, she exits the Potion Master’s private chambers and heads down the hall to her own room.

How strange, she thought, as she switched into a clean set of clothes at last.

Perhaps he had made the move after having had enough of trying to tackle the tower stairs every night. The distance to his classroom was certainly ideal, much like her own request to have her lodging so close to her creatures.

When she heads into the main hall, she glances down the long corridor, half-expecting to see Sharp standing there again. But only the sound of the portraits chattering amongst themselves remains in his place.

Securing her worn leather traveling bag across her shoulder, Catherine makes for the stairs – looking more and more forward to the idea of having a warm meal and a good drink with a dear old friend.

Next Chapter

#aesop sharp x mc #aesop sharp x oc #professor sharp x mc #professor sharp x oc #aesop sharp fanfic #professor sharp fanfic #hphl fanfic #series: bitter water #my fic

12 notes · View notes