#aesop sharp and mc

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

In the Light of Care

The Aftermath of In The Shadow Of the Study. Aesop Sharp finds the new fifth-year half unconscious in the Slytherin dungeons following an adventure gone wrong.

Shout out to my ever-fabulous partner in crime @tea-withjamandbread

I have a love-hate relationship with Sebastian, on one hand, I love him, on the other, he is an irresponsible blinded hot-headed dumbass.

And then I have a love-love relationship with Aesop, who despite knowing you are going to give him a heart attack one of these days is never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you.

In the Light of Care (5.7k words)

tw: descriptions of pain, vomiting

You felt godawful all over. Ominis and Sebastian left you alone a while ago. You put up a brave face for them, but truth be told, you've never felt this terrible before. Your vision was blurry and all of your muscles were still cramping up with a pain that burned so much, you were certain it was burning your veins, dissolving you from the inside like acid. It was only when you were alone in that blasted corridor that you allowed yourself to fall down onto your bum, tears escaping your eyes and falling down freely. You tried to stretch as if that would help. You felt your body was inflamed, fever settling into your skin. You were sweating like mad and it took everything within you not to scream, not to sob, not to let your dinner travel up from your stomach and out of your mouth.

You were glad not to have learned the Cruciatus curse when Sebastian offered to teach you. However, you supposed, that even if you had learnt it, you would never ever use it. Even though the poachers, the goblins, and the dark wizards you've often engaged in combat were absolute scum, nobody deserved to have this cast on them. It was terribly unfair, terribly cruel. This wasn't offence-defence, it wasn't about prowess, or skill, or just plain luck. It was terror. There wasn't a right side of the wand to be on when it came to this. Both sides were horrible. 

You curled in onto yourself. Even after you broke down and onto your knees before the boys, Sebastian seemed to disregard it, being only interested in that blasted scriptorium. He was your friend and you loved him, but at that moment... At that moment you hated him, at that moment he was your tormentor. And he didn't even feel bad about it. You wanted to shake his stupid head, to scream at him, to tell him that he was going to find nothing in the scriptorium but more dark magic, more pain. Salazar Slytherin was a vain and cruel man, why on earth would he have made a cure for something, when it was only agony he wanted to create? It was pointless, and foolish and dangerous to have come here and you regretted it dearly as you tried to bury your pain, keep your tears contained. 

Yet, at the same time, you were glad that you went with them. Because if you hadn't, either Ominis or Sebastian would be forced to cast the curse on one another. And Ominis wouldn't, you knew now. And Merlin knows what would've happened to their friendship then if Ominis' best friend cast that curse on him, the very curse because of which he now had no family. So you chose to power through it, you put up a brave face. 

It almost crumbled immediately after. Sebastian looked like a child on Christmas, looking at everything in the scriptorium, while you were still cowering on the floor. A warm hand landed on your shoulder. On any other occasion, you might have welcomed it, but now the hand burned you, made the already aching muscles hurt even more, and you winced. "Are you alright?" Ominis asked, sounding just as close to crying as you were. And though you were still in agony, you did what felt like an Herculean feat, and put your own hand on top of his and squeezed. "Alright," you said simply. You really should stop lying to your friends.

You felt horrible for making Ominis go through this. When he asked the two of you to swear to never ever engage with dark magic after that endeavour was done, you agreed with him wholeheartedly. Mentally, that is, as you couldn't speak by then. You knew you had to apologise to him later, make it up to him. 

You wondered who would lose first, your consciousness or your stomach. What were you to do? You didn't bring any Wiggenweld potion with you, because you didn't think you might need it. You envied the boys now for being Slytherins, the comfort of their common room so close, while yours was so many flights of stairs away. There was no way you'd be able to crawl all the way there. There was no way you'd be able to crawl anywhere, not Ravenclaw Tower, not the Room of Requirement, not the Hospital wing. Now that you thought of it, you really shouldn't go to the Hospital wing anyway, the questions Nurse Blainey would have would only get yourself and your friends in more trouble.

As you sat and thought, your stomach finally lost its battle. You keeled over and promptly emptied your stomach on the stony floor. You felt the bile burn your throat, your eyes were losing focus. A voice came from somewhere far away. Annoyed at first, but as it got closer, you heard genuine concern. You were dry-heaving when a hand - larger than Ominis' - grasped your shoulder and forced you to turn. It didn't help your nausea at the very least, but seeing as you've already vomited all of the contents of your stomach out, you thankfully didn't throw up into the potions master's face. His striking dark eyes were panicked, his jaw hard, and he was kneeling next to you, which most likely did nothing for his leg. You would've attempted to speak, but your vision got dark and it dragged you down into the abyss.

You fell in and out of consciousness for a while. At one point, you looked down, professor Sharp still at your side but something was different. The smell of vomit was gone. You looked down at your robes and they were entirely clean. So was the floor. It was dark again. You saw professor Sharp's face, the underside of it, to be exact. He looked worried to bits. You felt movement and saw the surroundings change around Sharp's head. You felt strong arms underneath your back and legs. You wanted to comfort him, to tell him you were fine, that he needn't worry for you. Everything went black again before you managed to do so. Before the darkness consumed you, you felt the prickle of his chin on your index.

You woke on a bed after, and this time you stayed awake. You weren't in the Hospital wing, that was for sure. You weren't in your dorm or the Room of Requirement either, however, and you felt rather disoriented by that. Where else would you be, where else was a cot you'd use? When your eyes began focusing once more and your brain regained control of higher functions, you actually took in your surroundings. The air was cool, chilly almost, and it felt like heaven on your still feverish skin. There were shelves around the room, and in the middle of it stood a slightly curved desk. You were in professor Sharp's office.

The door to your left opened and the man in question came into focus. "I am very cross with you," he said, though his voice lacked any actual cut. He sat on your cot, and you now noticed he had a phial in his hand. It contained some dark liquid, still bubbling and looking utterly awful. "Drink," he said as he pushed a hand under the nape of your neck and lifted your head. He brought the phial to your lips and poured it into your mouth. You wanted to resist, the potion being foul enough to cause a dangerous churn in your stomach again, but you were so tired and the professor was unyielding.

You panted heavily after you swallowed the last drop, your body trying to bring it up again, but then you began to feel... Comfort. The pain was being flushed from your body. You didn't notice when professor Sharp grabbed your hand, but you felt his thumb stroking the back of it now. You looked up at him and regretted it immediately. He looked so tired. Once more, you unknowingly reached to touch his cheek. He startled when you did, yet almost right away closed one of his hands around your own.

"You know, I often say that the students will make me go grey prematurely, but I swear, you will make me go bald before you graduate," he said humourlessly. "Either you or your dear friends, Mr Sallow and Mr Gaunt. They told me what happened. Not everything, but the main gist of it. I've half a mind to give them both detention for the rest of their time here for leaving you the way they did. I've half a mind to give you detention as well for getting your stupid self into this, for not speaking up that you're unwell," he paused, his voice quivering slightly, "so clever, the lot of you, yet so incredibly stupid.”

The professor sighed then: “Look, I think I’m really starting to think I understand who you are - a good person who’s always willing to help her friends, which is, of course, noble of you. However, someone should finally tell you that you don’t have to insert yourself into every potentially life-threatening situation for them. In fact, as a Ravenclaw, you should be, and I believe you are, clever enough to talk them out of entering such situations themselves, which is just as good.”

You wanted to tell him that quite the number of these situations you didn't expect to be as dangerous as they turned out to be, and you were literally thrust into many of them. Not to mention there were simply some things you had to do… 

But you didn’t say a single word. Not only did Professor Fig specifically ask you to keep quiet about your ancient magic abilities (which were the reason you got into these situations in the first place), but you knew that if professor Sharp knew… Well, he’d most likely try to get you to stop. Something that was absolutely unthinkable.

Sharp was watching you like a hawk, obviously trying to see if he could find an answer to at least one of his no doubt plenty of questions fleetingly appearing in your eyes. The feeling of comfort the potion he gave you turned into mild dizziness again, and you felt a sudden need to sit up. The potions master seemed to have anticipated as such because he was helping you into a sitting position not a second later, his strong hands having no problem lifting your upper body up from the cot. You were glad for his help, as you honestly felt like you were suddenly made of solid lead.

"Could you kindly enlighten me as to why you mad lot would even enter such a place?" He asked after the dizzy spell went away again. You still felt exhausted, but decided it was easier to answer his questions now, especially if he let you off the hook afterwards.

"Sebastian's sister… She's ill. Well, cursed. But you probably know that sir," you rasped out, wrapping your arms around you to battle the coolness of his office. "Indeed I do," answered the professor, "truly awful what happened to her."

He actually sounded remorseful, but also appeared to have lost himself in his head a little bit: "So what, were you searching for a cure down there? I can assure you, you will find no cures to any ailments under Salazar Slytherin's name, it's not one of the things he was famous for… And unless Mungo Bohnam himself left a little scriptorium of his own here, I am afraid you won't find Miss Sallow's cure in these corridors at all."

The teacher suddenly looked ten years older than he usually looked. You didn't know just how old he was, your guess was perhaps mid-forties, but then again, this and his previous job may have caused him to age prematurely. You realised that he and Anne were in quite similar situations, and seeing as he, an adult, and an experienced former auror was not able to find a cure for his leg, he didn't give Anne too many chances either. 

It was all rather horrible, you thought. You've only met Anne for a while, but she seemed like a genuinely sweet person you could see yourself being friends with. And professor Sharp? Well, he was very different from the teachers you used to have before you came to Hogwarts. In the best way possible. He was strict, like they were, but also fair. He was tough and looked like a man not to be messed with. He administered both criticism and praise where they were due, and was very honest and open about everything. You had to admit that you enjoyed both the potion class, and his extra lessons to help you catch up to your classmates. 

It was a little alarming to see a man who normally radiated authority so… down.

"I think," you said after several minutes, "I think Sebastian is trying to find… the curse itself. Because when he does, finding a cure should be easier…"

"His sister was cursed by a goblin though, no? What makes you think you'd find something about goblin curses down there?"

"I don't… I don't know. I just wanted to help Sebastian."

The potions master sighed heavily, tapping his healthy foot on the stone floor, and you thought you heard him utter something about you being 'so bloody loyal, it’s a wonder you’re not a Hufflepuff.'

"And did you find anything?" He asked after a while, once more fixing you with an intense expression.

"No, not a thing, sir. Some old books and scrolls, half-eaten by rats and other vermin, some egocentric busts and statues of Slytherin himself, a goblet of something I almost drank after… after the torturing curse, because I was so thirsty, but then I realised that the cup's been sitting there for maybe 900 years at least and it might not be wise."

"See, Miss (L/N), you're learning the art of 'not dying' quickly. Indeed, you should not drink anything that's been standing in a cup for 900 years," Sharp said in a deeply sarcastic voice, and he looked like he wanted to throw his hands up in the air. He calmed himself down with several deep breaths: "And that's it?"

"That's it."

Hold on… Something was amiss. What was it? There was one book that wasn't eaten away by any creepy crawlies, wasn't there? A book…

"Are you perfectly certain?" the teacher asked once more, watching you intently.

Should you tell him about the spellbook Sebastian picked up? Did he and Ominis tell him about it? Sharp wouldn't be asking you if you found anything of interest if he knew about the spellbook, would he? It was at the tip of your tongue when you remembered:

'It’s a personal spellbook of one of the founders of Hogwarts! There’s got to be something in there that will let me reverse the curse! Anne will be cured!'

Sebastian sounded like a child on Christmas when he said that, all the while Ominis was pale as a ghost and you were trying not to tremble too much from Crucio’s pain. In the brunet’s voice was something that was just so absolutely convinced that he was right. And what is he was? What if he could really cure his sister with some counter-curse from the book? Maybe then you could also use it and help heal Sharp. What if Sharp took it away in fear that you may use the book for wrong, or that the book itself had a curse put on it? 

Should you tell him?

Your mouth opened and you took a deep breath. A feeling in your chest was telling you that you were signing a deal with the devil, but the 'yes' that rolled from your lips sounded perfectly calm and sincere. 

And there it was. You lied to a teacher who told you explicitly that he hated it when somebody lied to him. But you decided you were doing so out of good intentions. Like when you kept your mouth shut about ancient magic.

He sighed once more: "Alright then… I hardly think that you'd tell me if your goal was to become a dark witch, so I suppose this will have to do."

"I can assure you, sir, that's not the case," you replied weakly before you could stop yourself, "I hate those."

"Oh," Sharp asked, his interest seemingly peaked again, "meet many dark witches?" You cursed yourself inwardly, the last thing you needed was for him to probe at you even more: "I've met a few, sir. But it was enough for me to decide that I hated them…"

The professor's eyes were as sharp as his name, and you felt his gaze burning holes into you. Finally, he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, deep in thought. And then he spoke again, his voice softer this time: "What is it you're not telling me? What is it that causes the bruises and the cuts on your face I see each time you come back from 'a visit to Hogsmeade'? And do not try telling me that you crashed into a shrub or fell off your broom, this excuse can only work on me so many times…"

The professor looked genuinely concerned. He was the first professor to question your occasionally banged appearance, the only one who insisted you tell him over and over again. "Are you in any kind of trouble?" He continued, "Because if you are, just tell me, and I promise I'll do my best to help you."

You put your hands on your face.

"Why can't you tell me?"

You did not answer. You didn't even take your hands away. The office was overtaken by silence. It must have been after curfew, as you heard no sounds from the corridors beyond the potion classroom. After what felt like hours, Sharp sighed once more. "Despite what some students may say about me, I am actually not some heartless monster. I won't make you tell me by force. But please, please, Miss (L/N), can you promise me one thing?"

It took a while, but you cautiously lowered your hands to look at him. He looked tired once more, but he didn't drop his gaze from you for a single second: "If you start feeling you're in over your head, if you feel like you need help, be it anything you're dealing with, please... Come to me. Even if it's just for a phial of Skele-Gro…"

Aesop Sharp was a good man, you decided, and a minute later, you found yourself nodding your head.

"Good," he said.

"May I be dismissed, sir?"

"Dismissed? Lass, the only place you're leaving here for is the Hospital wing! And given the nature of the curse that was cast on you, and the caster, I rather think that you wouldn't like that, would you?" You grimaced. Damn. You truly did not need more attention drawn to your little adventure into Slytherin's scriptorium. Obviously having no other options, you carefully lowered yourself until you were lying down again.

"Do you need anything? Food, water, are you warm enough?" Asked the teacher then, his voice softer once more. "I'm alright, thank you, sir," you replied and closed your eyes. They were so heavy, you felt like you might not open them again. 

"Sleep, Miss (L/N)."

—

When you woke up, you felt disoriented once more, and it took you a few seconds to realise where you were, and what sort of events led up to this situation. Looking around the office, illuminated by the faint morning light coming from the window behind professor Sharp’s desk, you saw the man himself sitting in his chair, sound asleep. His hands were loosely folded in his lap, his leg was propped up on a little footstool he must’ve conjured up for himself, as you’ve never seen it there before (could teachers, unlike students, conjure things in Hogwarts outside of the Room of Requirement? Most likely, how else would he have gotten your cot in here?), and his head was hanging to the side. The silence of the room was occasionally cut through by a snore from the teacher. 

He looked quite a few years younger while he slept, the line between his eyebrows gone, his face relaxed and open, much softer than it normally was. You supposed he was not at all bad-looking when he wasn’t currently giving Garreth Weasley the snarl of Chimaera. 

You lay there, panic slowly creeping in. Was he going to tell the Headmaster about your little adventure to the Scriptorium? Maybe professor Weasley? Fig? Has he already told them? Were you in trouble?

You shortly considered sneaking past the professor and away into your dorm. You were itching to have a nice hot bath and change into a different set of robes. You fainty remembered that Sharp cast a cleaning charm on them, yet they still felt grimy on your body, because what you remembered perfectly was the pain you went through in them. At that moment when Sebastian cast Crucio on you, it felt like your very clothes were choking and burning you, like they were covered in salt and your skin under them was scratched and cut up. You decided to burn them the first chance you got and get a new set from Mr Hill.

Once more you thought about making an attempt to leave but ultimately decided against it. The man was an ex-Auror for crying out loud, there’s no way he wouldn’t wake up if you as much as made a single step from the bed. He probably put a ward on it to alert him were you to get up. Not to mention it would solve absolutely nothing. He knew of the Scriptorium, and he knew of the Cruciatus curse. The only thing you’d achieve if you tried to sneak past him would probably be angering him. 

And so you stayed put, reclining on the cot. It was quite comfortable, which was something you couldn’t appreciate much most mornings. Even when you didn’t have classes to attend, you rarely allowed yourself to indulge in sleeping in, much less just lazying around in bed after you woke up. There was always something to do, somebody to help, someone to run an errand for, a beast to rescue, a potion to brew, a plant in need of fertilising or harvesting, a hot spot of ancient magic, or a Merlin trial to solve. You were a busy woman, you didn’t have time to lie around. And yet, as you did, you had to admit that you felt more well-rested than you had in weeks. 

Professor Sharp on the other hand you thought couldn’t be very comfortable. You were never able to fall asleep sitting up, even during long hours spent on the train when you and your family went for a holiday to St Ives, and the first class coupe you used had seating that was much more comfortable than his chair seemed. But then again, maybe there was some sort of cushioning charm placed on it to make it comfier. 

But then again, maybe not, you thought as a quiet but obviously pained groan replaced the professor’s snore suddenly. “Oh, Merlin’s saggy left-...” growled professor Sharp, his lips forming into a thin line and and the wrinkle returning to between his brows. His hand disappeared into the insides of his robes and searched around in the breast pocket for a bit, before resurfacing with a vial of green liquid. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and gulped the potion down in a single swallow, breathing heavily before his muscles finally relaxed once more.

The potions master opened his eyes, dark circles underneath them indicating that he himself didn’t rest quite as well as you. “Miss (L/N),” he said his voice rough from his slumber, “please know that I hope that you won’t get yourself into such a situation again not for only your sake, but for my own as well. I am entirely too old and too tired for sleeping arrangements like these.” Your quiet apology went unanswered.

A few minutes passed with the teacher having closed his eyes once more, and you would’ve thought that he had fallen asleep again, had his hand not been slowly tapping on the armrest. “How do you feel?” he asked without opening his eyes, and you were actually quite glad for that. “Much better, sir,” was your answer, “thank you… For taking care of me.” His dark eyes opened and bore into your own, their intensity nearly enough to make a chill run down your spine: “That’s not what you’re supposed to thank me for. Or did you think I’d just leave you there, half collapsed in your own sick? Is that what you think of me?” You cringed, your eyes screwing shut.

After a few moments of silence, Sharp sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I suppose I am a bit… grumpier than usual because of my aching body. And while I wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of sleeping in a chair were it not for your little suicidal adventure, it is not your fault that I am an old man…” “You’re not old… sir,” you replied, not really knowing why, you just… you just didn’t like seeing him so resigned. You respected the professor a lot, and you were confident that despite his bad leg, he was very much a force to be reckoned with.

He sighed again: “Be that as it may, know that I would not leave you there. I’m responsible for each and every one of my students. The official job description is teaching you lot the art of potion-making, but every member of staff is sworn to do everything in their power to protect the students. Yesterday evening’s events mean that we have failed in this aspect. And while failure is undoubtedly a part of the learning process, I certainly do not take it very well.

“Now, you shouldn’t be grateful to me because I took care of you, as absolutely any and every one of your professors would’ve done the same. What you should, however, be grateful for is the fact that I kept your little adventure to myself. And I am still not convinced I am doing the right thing doing so.  The fact that Mr Sallow used the Cruciatus curse on you is very concerning. The fact he even knows the curse is concerning! However, as he used it to get all of you out of that place, I might be able to forgive it. I plan to have a long talk with him about it, however. Being friends with Mr Gaunt, he should know better than to meddle with dark arts. He’s a bright young man, I don’t want him to end up in Azkaban because of youthful stupidity. You’re all terribly clever, it’d be an awful waste to lose you because you decided to bite off more than you can chew. And entering a place built by a man who was a single Unforgivable away from being considered a dark wizard is absolutely more than a fifth-year can chew, no matter how capable.

“That said, I offer you a deal - you tell me all about this excursion of yours, beginning with the location of the entrance, so that I can later make sure it is no longer accessible to anyone, followed by a detailed description of the events that transpired so that I can make a clearer picture about the whole situation, and I in return keep it all to myself. Mind, you and your friends will be scrubbing cauldrons by hand for the following few evenings so that I can make sure you’re staying out of trouble and not, for whatever reason, doing something as insane as going back.” You opened your mouth to protest, but before you had the chance to even take a breath, the professor spoke again: “You were mad enough to go there in the first place, how do I know you’re not mad enough to return, even with all that happened? 

“Well, Miss, what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

And so you told him. You told him about Ominis’ aunt and her disappearance within the centuries-old Scriptorium. You told him about a passage that could only be opened by one who can speak the tongue of snakes, therefore making the very first of the rooms a certain deathtrap for anyone and everyone who is not of Slytherin’s descent. You told him of statues that would strike as real snakes would if one took too much time solving their riddles. And finally, about learning of Noctua’s heart-wrenching and untimely demise at the hands of Salazar’s cruel trial. You then described the Scriptorium itself in length, leaving out the part where you found Slytherin’s spellbook.

“So there is another entrance?” asked Sharp, his arms crossed over his chest. He was listening to you attentively, only occasionally asking you to specify or fill in a few things. “Yes, professor,” you replied, “however, I don’t know whether it can be accessed from outside as well.” The potions master thought for a bit: “It would be good to retrieve the poor woman’s remains from there so that she can be given a proper burial, but I do not want to distress Mr Gaunt even more than he already was when I spoke with him yesterday by asking him to go back with me, not to mention bearing witness to yet another instance of the Cruciatus curse, so it would be convenient if the room could be accessed from the other side.”

You bit at your lip nervously. “With all due respect, professor Sharp,” you spoke then, your voice quiet, “Ominis said his aunt and the rest of his family weren’t exactly on the best of terms. I’m not sure if they would give her a proper funeral.” “They may not, but your friend Ominis might… Well, best not to trouble the young man even more now, he seems to have a lot on his mind as is.”

“Will you… will you keep this whole thing to yourself, sir?”

“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep, Miss (L/N). You told me everything I wanted to know, and I will keep my end of the bargain. I must, however, still discuss with Mr Sallow about his knowledge and uses of Unforgivable curses. There are some curses whose usage could perhaps be excused in some cases, but when we start to do so with the Unforgivables, we’re on our merry way back into the Dark Ages, when wizards and witches would calmly cast the Imperius curse at anyone who was merely mildly inconveniencing them. These curses were outlawed for a reason. Please, tell me that your classmate didn’t teach it to you…”

You squirmed in your seat. Sebastian did offer to teach it to you, but you said no. Should you tell Sharp? No, no… Best not to, Seb was in enough trouble as it was, no need to make it worse.

“He did not. And after I felt what it can do, I know it’s for the best… Nobody should know a spell like that! It’s so… unfair. It’s like… It’s like bringing a rifle into a sword fight.”

“That is a very good comparison, Miss,” said the potions master, “and you best never forget that. These spells are like poison, they’re unnatural, and each one tears away at your very humanity. I know that you wish to remain loyal to your friends, and I, once more, praise you for that. But I implore you to discourage your classmate from using such a spell again, even if it’s for a ‘good thing’. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

You nodded solemnly. You truly hoped there never came a time in which you’d have to once more witness the foul spell, or any of the other two Unforgivables. Sebastian wasn’t that kind of boy - yes, he did teach you one unsanctioned spell once before, but it wasn’t exactly a dark spell. If you were honest, you used it more during Merlin trials than against adversaries. 

You hoped you were doing the right thing still, not bringing up the book your friend your friend left the Scriptorium with.

Aesop Sharp watched you intently, possibly hoping that you’d perhaps shed some more light on the situation, but when several minutes passed in absolute silence, he cleared his throat, stretching himself once more. “Now…” he said, “I don’t know how about you, Miss, but I could eat a Hippogriff right now.” Despite yourself, and despite the dark thoughts swirling about in your head, you actually giggled: “If you do, sir, make sure it’s not white with orange eyes, that one’s a friend of mine.” 

The professor scoffed: “Friends with a Hippogriff, all the travelling merchants around the Highlands, and two of Slytherin’s three biggest troublemakers. I will need to keep a closer eye on you. This isn’t a joke, by the way, I do intend to keep an eye on you - the things Fig tells me combined with what all I hear about you doing is quite concerning.”

You gulped. You knew he’d find out about everything, sooner or later. After all, even professor Weasley was more than a little suspicious about your activities, but you managed to evade her questions by performing brilliantly in class and helping everybody you encountered. Professor Sharp, a former Auror, would certainly have no problem finding out the truth in the end.

There was only one solution. You had to work faster and harder, You had to carry on with the Keepers’ trials, and you had to stop Ranrok from opening war upon the Wizarding world. And ideally not die in the process. And, hopefully, then Sharp would understand. Maybe he’d even forgive you for the secrecy and the lies.

The teacher sighed and ran his hand over his face. 

“What I said yesterday stands. If you need help, you know where to find me. I won’t turn you away. I promise…”

He stood then, towering over your form, still reclining upon the cot.

“Come on, you’ll tag along with me to the Great Hall, so I can make sure your encounter yesterday didn’t leave any lasting effects. In case it has, perhaps your fellow students will find the sight of you limping next to me amusing.”

You grinned. Despite everything, you truly appreciated Sharp’s sense of humour: “Very well, sir.”

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story. As always, you can find this fic and all of my other works over on my AO3

I am always very grateful for feedback 🥰

[choccy-milky]

no talking in class 💢

[mrs-sharp]

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

[rednite-dork]

Comm for @juneymont of her OC and Sharp together after a long day of work 🥰💕

Thank you for commissioning me!! ♥️

[yourpersonalsleepparalysisdemon]

[girl-named-matty]

*Proceeds to write a romance fanfic*

[lavenderandturpentine]

Seb: If I were to use Accio on mc, do you think it would summon her?

Garreth: No, I think it would unwillingly summon the clothes off her body.

Seb: I guess I can see how that may be… problematic.

Ominis: I told you before, Sebastian. Accio doesn’t work on people, but the clothes themselves. It would be absolutely problematic if you were to try that on mc.

Garreth: Especially now, considering we’re in the middle of Potions class and need to speed things up on our healing potions. Sharp has been eyeing us for quite some time now.

Seb: Perhaps seeing mc without clothes may be all the healing I n—

Ominis: *sighs* Sebastian, please… focus on brewing your Wiggenweld potion!

[tamayula-hl]

I would like to thank @lufina for sending me a wonderful gift and in return I will send her drawings with her MC!💞🫶

[5sospenguinqueen]

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!

[coffeeandmagicaltales]

In Aesop sharp we trust <3

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

professor sharp x star student reader with a praise kink.

reader takes sharp up on some after class advanced potions lessons && sexual tension/ teasing ensues when he figures out how she feels.

Office Hours | Aesop Sharp x Reader

WHOAAA ANON. NEVER WRITTEN SOMETHING LIKE THIS BEFORE. BUT I DID MY BEST. I HOPE THIS IS WHAT U WERE LOOKING FOR <3

Words: ~4,300

Tags: Smut-Adjacent, Praise Kink, Age Gap, Teacher/Student, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Pining, Angst

You linger as the rest of the class files out, quills and parchment rustling, chairs scraping against the stone floor as your classmates shuffle toward the door. Their voices fade into the corridor, leaving only the steady sound of footsteps as Sharp moves about the room, putting things away.

This has become a routine. Your routine.

At the start of the year, you were the only one who ever stayed behind for office hours, a habit born out of ambition—a desire to hone your craft under the guidance of someone who truly understood it. Not just a professor, but a Master: Professor Aesop Sharp.

In the beginning, your motives were purely academic. His knowledge was unparalleled, his methods rigorous, and his feedback unforgivingly honest. You wanted to learn. You wanted to impress him.

You don’t know when it happened—when the careful admiration turned into something dangerous. Perhaps it was the way he’d lean over your cauldron, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his voice low as he corrected your technique. Or maybe it was the rare instances when he praised you, voice edged with the kind of approval that left your pulse hammering in your throat.

Not that you ever let him see. It’s inappropriate. Unthinkable. You tell yourself this every single time you sit here, waiting for him like a fool.

Tonight, though, you have an actual excuse to be here beyond your fascination with him and need to impress—your essay.

Sharp had handed them back during class today, and you hadn’t gotten the grade you expected. Not bad, but lower than what you knew was your best. It had bothered you enough that you planned to bring it up tonight, to discuss it with him, as was expected of a student striving for excellence.

Sharp moves through the room with practiced ease, methodical, silent but aware, and you remain quiet, waiting—just the way he likes.

A few minutes pass before he flicks his wand toward the door, and with a deep thud, it swings shut, the lock clicking into place. The sound is enough to send a faint, ridiculous shiver down your spine.

He turns to you, finally acknowledging your presence, and something in his sharp gaze says he’s already decided what tonight’s lesson will be.

“Tonight,” he says, voice smooth and commanding, “you’re brewing the Draught of Living Death.” His eyes linger on you for a moment longer than necessary. “Think you can handle that?”

Your breath catches, but you force yourself to nod. "Of course, Professor."

His lips twitch—just the faintest ghost of approval, gone as quickly as it came. "Good."

That single word should not send heat curling through your stomach the way it does. But you push it down, focusing instead on the way he moves toward the supply cabinet, pulling down ingredients with his usual efficient precision.

"But first, you had something on your mind," he remarks, not even looking at you. "Tell me."

Of course, he noticed. Sharp notices everything.

"My essay," you say carefully, rising from your seat and stepping toward him. "I was hoping to discuss my grade."

He turns then, eyeing the parchment in your hands before meeting your gaze. His dark eyes hold no sympathy—they never do. But they hold something else tonight. Interest, maybe. Curiosity.

"Did you think I was unfair in my assessment?" he asks, stepping aside to give you room as he sets a small vial onto the worktable.

"No," you answer quickly. Too quickly. You take a breath. "I just—I want to understand what I could improve."

His head tilts, watching you for a beat too long. Then, he gestures for you to set the parchment down on his desk.

"Let's have a look, then."

You place the parchment down beside the vial, smoothing out the edges as though the act alone might steady the rapid beat of your pulse.

Sharp steps in beside you, his presence a weight you feel more than see, and he leans over your essay, scanning the lines with a critical gaze. The sleeves of his robes are pushed back just enough to reveal the corded strength in his forearms. His hands, scarred but steady, move over the parchment with the same precision he uses when handling delicate potions.

The subtle scent of clove and worn leather lingers in the air between you, mixing with the faint traces of crushed valerian and asphodel still clinging to his robes. You shouldn’t find it intoxicating, but you do. It is entirely unfair for a man like him to be this distracting.

"You argue your points well," he murmurs, causing your heart to stutter. "But you lost clarity here—" he taps against a line of your writing, and your stomach tightens at the briefest brush of his knuckle against your wrist, unintentional but devastating. "There was a lack of specificity in your discussion of infusion times."

You swallow. "I—right. I see that now."

His eyes flick to yours, sharp and assessing. He leans back then, finally stepping away, and the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding leaves you in a slow exhale.

"You’ve proven yourself capable of better," he says simply, his voice low, even. "I marked you down because I expect more from you. And you expect more from yourself, don’t you?"

You nod, feeling strangely like you’re being examined in a way that has nothing to do with academics.

His mouth curves into the ghost of a smirk. It’s barely there, but you see it. "Then prove it," he says. "Brew the Draught of Living Death. If it’s flawless, I’ll reconsider your grade."

A challenge. A trap.

The Draught of Living Death is advanced, a potion that requires an unshakable hand, patience, and mastery of technique. One wrong move, one miscalculation in the number of stirs, the precision of slicing the sopophorous bean, and the entire brew will be ruined.

But hesitation is not an option. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when the air between you is thick with something dangerous, something that curls beneath your skin and settles low in your stomach.

“I’ll do it,” you say, and your voice does not waver.

Sharp holds your gaze for a beat longer—like he’s searching for something. Then, with the faintest nod, he steps back toward the supply cabinet.

"Good."

It should be nothing. A simple word of acknowledgment, an approval of your determination. But the way he says it—low, slow, deliberate—makes heat lick up your spine.

You take a slow breath, steadying yourself before setting into motion. You need to focus—really focus—because if you let your mind wander, if you let yourself think too much about the way he's watching you, you’ll slip. And you can’t afford to slip.

So you fall into routine.

You move to the side table first, methodical, tying your hair back to keep it from falling into your face. You push your sleeves up next, rolling them neatly to your elbows. Every movement is practical, part of a process you’ve done countless times before. But still—you feel him watching.

You don’t look up. You don’t dare. But you know.

He hasn’t moved far, standing just a few paces behind you, arms crossed, silent, patient, present.

You want to impress him. You want to please him.

You flip open your textbook with, letting your fingers brush across the instructions. You don’t need them—not really. You know this potion. You know what to do. But having them open gives you something to ground yourself, something to look at instead of the weight of his gaze.

Still, you pretend to read, taking a moment to steady yourself before moving toward the cauldron, lighting the burner beneath it with a flick of your wand. The soft whoosh of the flame should settle you. It doesn’t. Not when you can feel the weight of Sharp’s gaze, steady, assessing.

You ignore it. Or, at least, you try.

Instead, you move. Measure. Pour. Stir.

The first ingredient is Infusion of Wormwood, followed by Powdered Root of Asphodel. Your fingers are steady as you measure it, dusting it in with careful precision, watching as the mixture thickens slightly, deepening in color.

Good. Perfect.

You force yourself to ignore the fact that Sharp's eyes are still on you. Your movement is measured as you reach for your spoon and stir twice clockwise. The liquid shimmers, turning a beautiful lilac, exactly as it should. You should feel satisfied, but it’s not enough.

Not yet.

You move to the sloth brain next. The texture is viscous, slightly gelatinous, and you add it swiftly before stepping back.

Then, the Sopophorous Bean.

You reach for your knife, ready to cut—

You hesitate. A memory flickers in the back of your mind—crushing the bean releases more juice. It’s not in the textbook, not something he taught in class, but you remember reading it somewhere, a theory proposed in an old alchemical manuscript.

Sharp notices.

“You paused,” he remarks. “Why?”

His voice is smooth, laced with something unreadable. A test.

You lick your lips, shifting your grip on the bean. “Crushing releases more juice than cutting,” you say evenly, flipping your silver knife on its side.

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“Hm.”

It’s not praise. Not exactly. But it’s not dismissal, either.

You press down firmly, and the bean gives under the pressure, splitting and releasing its juice. Carefully, you let it drip into the cauldron, watching as the potion’s color begins to shift.

Then, the final step.

You reach for the spoon, feeling the weight of it in your hand, and stir—seven times anti-clockwise.

Each movement is deliberate, controlled, and with every pass of the spoon, the potion begins to transform, taking on that deep, endless black hue—the unmistakable, perfected shade of the Draught of Living Death.

And yet, you hesitate. Your hands remain steady, but inside, everything is tight, coiled—waiting. Because you aren’t just waiting for his assessment.

You’re waiting for his approval.

Sharp moves then, slow and measured as he steps toward the cauldron. He looks first at the potion itself, then at you, expression unreadable, his presence a force in the quiet tension of the room.

You should step back. But you don’t.

He reaches for a clean glass vial and dips the edge into the potion, watching as it glides into the container with the exact viscosity expected of a successful brew. His gaze flicks briefly to you before he lifts it to eye level, tilting it against the dim torchlight, assessing.

You know it’s perfect, but his silence is unbearable.

Finally, he sets the vial down with a soft clink and steps back, arms crossing over his chest.

“Near perfect,” he muses.

Near. Not entirely.

You don’t allow the disappointment to show, but you feel it, sharp and hot. A quiet frustration that tightens in your ribs, not at him, but at yourself. You should have been flawless.

His smirk is subtle, almost imperceptible—but it’s there. Amused. Calculating. “You hesitated before crushing the bean,” he says.

It isn’t a question, but you answer anyway. “I was considering my options.”

A pause. Then, he tilts his head slightly, watching you. Too closely.

“And do you often hesitate when making decisions?”

Your fingers flex slightly at your sides. “Not often.”

Another moment of silence.

“Then why did you?”

Your pulse stumbles. It’s not an academic question. Not really. There is something else in his voice, something threading just beneath the words. You feel it, but you step forward anyway.

“I wanted to make the right choice,” you say carefully.

Sharp doesn’t move, doesn’t break his gaze from yours, but something shifts in the air between you.

“You like proving yourself,” he murmurs.

It’s not a question.

Your breath catches in your throat, the heat crawling up the back of your neck before you can stop it. Your heartbeat is suddenly too loud, your skin too warm.

“I like to be accurate,” you answer, voice even.

His gaze lifts, slow and knowing.

“Hm.”

Sharp is still watching you. You can feel it in the weight of his silence, in the slow tap of his fingers against his forearm where his arms remain crossed.

Then, he turns slightly—just enough to angle his head toward the small potted plant resting on the windowsill.

"Fetch a leaf," he says. "We’ll test the potion."

It is an easy request. Simple. A task so unimportant that your stomach shouldn’t be tightening the way it does.

And yet your stomach does tighten.

Because he is standing right beside the plant. His hands are right there—steady, capable, within reach of the leaves. He could pluck one himself, could test the potion himself.

But he doesn’t. Because he wants you to do it. Because he wants to see you obey.

You swallow hard, heart rattling in your ribs as you step forward, keeping your movements measured, controlled—deliberate. You do not hesitate, because hesitation would reveal too much. You do not rush, because that would betray your nerves.

The moment you come close, you reach out. Your fingers brush against the edge of the plant, the surface of the leaves soft under your touch. You pluck one with careful precision, just as he instructed, your pulse knocking violently in your throat as you straighten and turn—

Only to find yourself impossibly near him.

Sharp hasn’t moved back. Hasn’t stepped away. His presence presses into you without ever touching, the nearness enough to send a pulse of electric tension licking down your spine.

Your throat tightens, breath shallow as you force yourself to meet his gaze. “The leaf,” you murmur, holding it out for him.

Sharp does not take it.

Instead, his gaze flickers—just briefly—to your hand, to the careful way you offer it to him. There is something unreadable in his expression, something quiet, something entirely too knowing.

And then, finally, he moves. Not to take the leaf from your hand, but to take your wrist. It is nothing, barely a touch. Just his fingers closing over your skin with the lightest amount of pressure, steady and warm.

A slow inhale catches in your chest, unsteady.

Sharp turns your hand slightly, adjusting the angle, his fingertips grazing along the inside of your wrist before he guides your hand over the potion vial.

The moment stretches too long, something slow and sharp unfurling in the air between you. The quiet tension that has been building all year, all those lessons, all those moments of careful restraint, now concentrated down to this single point of contact.

Then, just when the air grows too thick to breathe, just when your pulse thrums too loudly in your ears, he releases you.

“Drop it in,” Sharp says smoothly, his voice entirely too composed.

You blink, still feeling the ghost of his grip on your wrist. Then, as though forcing yourself out of some terrible, exquisite haze, you drop the leaf into the vial.

The potion reacts immediately, the liquid swirling and darkening before settling back into stillness.

Sharp studies it for a moment, then exhales, satisfied.

"Flawless."

It's just an assessment. A passing remark. A professor's acknowledgment of his student's skill. But the moment it leaves his lips, heat licks up your spine, curling at the base of your stomach.

Because it's not just the words. It’s the way he says them. Slow. Deliberate. Measured. And you—fool that you are—want to hear him say it again.

"So," you say over the lump in your throat. "My essay?"

A beat of silence.

Sharp’s gaze lingers on the potion for a fraction of a second longer, then, with his usual methodical grace, he steps back nd gestures toward the parchment still resting on his desk.

"Right." His voice is smooth, even. Almost mocking in its composure. "Your essay."

Sharp leans against the desk, arms folded as he studies your parchment with an air of measured ease—too relaxed, too composed. Too aware.

"I’ll admit," he says, dragging the words out just enough that something coils low in your stomach, "you did very well."

There’s an infuriating, calculated slowness to the way he drags a fingertip along the margin of the parchment, tracing one of his own red ink marks, as though considering something deeply.

"You constructed a strong argument," he muses, tilting his head just slightly. "Your thesis was compelling."

A flicker of something too warm coils low in your stomach.

"Your phrasing—" he pauses, exhaling through his nose, as though considering, as though drawing this out intentionally. "—was refined. Articulate."

You swallow hard. "Thank you, Professor."

His mouth curves, the barest hint of something smug. "But what I found most compelling," he continues, "was your attention to detail."

The air pulls tight. Because the way he says it does not feel like an academic critique. It does not feel like anything that belongs in a student-teacher discussion.

"That’s something I’ve noticed about you," he goes on, and his voice is quieter now, softer in a way that steals the breath from your lungs. "You don’t just do the work. You perfect it."

The words should make you proud. Instead, they make you burn.

You force yourself to breathe, to steady your voice. "I—I appreciate that, Professor."

Sharp hums, low and considering. "You're thorough," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. "Diligent."

Your pulse stumbles.

"Precise."

Your breath catches.

"And," he exhales, his voice dropping to something dangerous, something just this side of indulgent, "you take feedback well."

The words knock the breath out of you. Your heart is a frantic, stuttering thing in your ribs. You hate how warm you feel, how obvious it must be, how your body betrays you.

And then, Sharp moves, the space between you disappearing, inch by inch, until the heat of his presence is nearly brushing against you.

Until he is looming over you.

The breath leaves your lungs too sharply, and you force yourself not to step back. You won’t. Because that would be a retreat. That would be acknowledging whatever this is. And you can’t do that. Not when he’s watching you like this.

"That’s why I expect so much from you," he murmurs, his voice smooth as honey. "Because I know you’ll meet my expectations."

He leans down, just slightly, enough that his breath is almost brushing the side of your temple.

"Won’t you?"

You can’t breathe. Can’t think.

You fight the way your body betrays you—the way heat licks at the back of your neck, the way your pulse pounds in your ears, but Merlin, the space between you is almost nonexistent. His presence is a force pressing against you, the warmth of him just shy of touching, and it’s unbearable.

Your fingers flex against the hem of your sleeves. You swallow, but your throat is dry. “Of course, Professor,” you manage, but it’s too soft. Too breathless.

Sharp hums. Approving. Amused. Knowing.

He leans back just slightly—just enough to allow air to exist between you again, but the absence of his nearness is almost worse than the proximity.

"In fact," he says smoothly, the deep timbre of his voice sinking into your skin. "You very often exceed my expectations."

Your throat closes. Your fingers twitch against the hem of your sleeve, gripping the fabric too tightly, willing yourself to breathe—to recover—to not completely fall apart at the single, devastating utterance of those words in his voice.

“I do my best,” you say, feigning composure, feigning detachment.

Sharp watches you for a beat too long. Then his mouth curves, just slightly. A smirk. Small. Subtle. Infuriating.

“I know. You're such a good girl."

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Heat licks up your spine, sinking deep, pooling low in your stomach—too much, too hot, too consuming. Your breath stutters, your lips part. You need to say something, anything—

"Th—Thank you, Professor."

Sharp smirks. Smirks like he’s just uncovered something dangerous. Something vital. Something he has every intention of using against you.

And you?

You’re drowning.

Your pulse is a frantic, stuttering thing, hammering against your ribs, surging so loudly in your ears that you almost miss the way his gaze lingers, the way he watches you like he’s just confirmed a theory.

Your fingers tremble at your sides, and you force them still, desperate to regain some shred of composure, to steady your breath, to not completely fall apart beneath the weight of his attention.

Because he knows. He knows about your desperate need for his praise and you are completely fucked.

You need to say something. To do something. Anything to break the tension, to reclaim some semblance of control, to pretend that his words didn’t just shatter you.

But you can’t.

Your mouth is dry. Your brain isn’t working.

Because he said it. Because he called you a good girl and you loved it.

Sharp exhales slowly, as if savoring your reaction. "You're welcome," he muses, deliberately slow, watching you the way one watches an experiment unfold.

Then he steps closer.

Not much. Just enough. Enough that his presence is all-consuming, pressing in from all sides, boxing you in—until the edge of the desk digs into the small of your back, an unyielding barrier that he has deliberately backed you into.

Fuck.

Sharp tilts his head slightly, considering. Calculating. His gaze drinks you in, moving from your flushed face to the subtle tremor in your breath, down to the hands you are desperately trying to keep still.

"Something wrong?" he asks, voice smooth as velvet. Mocking.

You swallow hard. “No, Professor.”

Sharp hums. His gaze flickers over your features, sharp and assessing, before settling back on your eyes. “I find that hard to believe.”

Your fingers tighten at your sides. “I assure you, I’m fine.”

Sharp smirks again, tilting his head slightly, as if to study you from a different angle. "Hmm. If that were true, then you wouldn't be holding your breath right now."

Your lips part—sharply exhaling, realizing too late that he’s right.

Shit.

Sharp watches your breath stutter out of you, and the slight twitch of his smirk tells you everything. He shifts again, placing his palm on the desk beside your hip. The shift is subtle but absolutely calculated, because now, he has you caged in.

"You know," he muses, voice low and smooth, "you really are a remarkable student. Dedicated, hardworking..."

Your breath is too shallow.

"And so obedient."

The word is like a spell cast directly into your bloodstream, molten and devastating.

Sharp leans in, his breath a ghost against your temple, the space between you nonexistent. "Tell me," he murmurs, voice like silk, smooth and slow. Dangerous. "Is that how you are in all things? Or does this particular brand of obedience—" his gaze flickers down, then back up, dark and knowing—"only extend to Potions?"

Your brain short-circuits. Every thought, every coherent response, every ounce of reason, completely evaporates. Your lips part, a sound barely escaping—not quite a breath, not quite a whimper—and Sharp catches it.

Of course he does.

He sees it all. Sees the way your pulse pounds visibly at your throat, the way your chest rises and falls too sharply, the way your fingers twitch at your sides as though resisting the urge to reach for him, to cling to him.

His fingers tap once against the desk, measured. Patient. Waiting for you to say something. To answer.

But you can’t.

Because your mind is mush. Because you want him to keep talking. Because you need more. Because every praising syllable out of his mouth does something to you, something ruinous, something you can’t name but don’t even care to fight anymore.

The moment your breath shudders out of you, the moment your lashes flutter just slightly, the moment your knees almost buckle, his smirk deepens.

“You’re not answering,” he observes, voice low, velvet-smooth.

Your lips part. “I—I…”

Sharp exhales—mocking, amused. “Hmm.” His gaze lazily drags down your body, assessing, lingering on the subtle tremor in your fingers, the sharp, uneven rise and fall of your breath.

“I think,” he murmurs, “that means I already have my answer.”

A sharp, impossible sound gets caught in your throat. Your fingers grip the desk now, white-knuckled as Sharp leans in even further, just slightly, just enough for his breath to ghost across your cheek, for his presence to press down on you, for his voice to sink into your skin .

“You really do like being told how good you are, don’t you?”

Your breath hitches—

That’s it.

That’s the breaking point.

Because he’s right. You do. You do. You would do anything—anything—just to hear him tell you again how good you are.

Sharp sees it. He feels it. And he knows you would. Because the moment your lashes flutter, the moment your breath stutters, the moment your grip on the desk tightens, he grins. A slow, devastating, entirely too pleased.

“I thought so.”

Your whole body burns. You can’t breathe. You can’t do anything except stand there, trembling, helpless under his gaze.

Sharp watches you for a beat too long, drinking in the wreckage he’s made of you. Then—

Mercilessly, cruelly—

He steps back.

The loss is staggering.

Your knees almost buckle from the sudden absence of his warmth, of his presence demanding every part of you. But Sharp? He exhales, slow and composed, as if none of this ever happened. As if he didn’t just ruin you. As if he didn’t just unravel you to your very core.

Then, with infuriating calm, he turns toward his desk and picks up a piece of parchment, flicking his gaze back to you as though this is just another day.

“You’ll have your next assignment by Friday,” he says, voice smooth, mockingly casual.

And you? You can’t speak. You can’t do anything but stand there, barely holding yourself together, every inch of your body burning from the inside out.

Because he knows. Because he saw. Because he made you fall apart.

And worst of all?

You want him to do it again.

[salixtreeofficial]

Another commission by @tellyzenith !!!

[lostheather9]

[zetadraconis11]

HL Incorrect Quote #53

*after Potions class*

*group surrounding a broken jar of dragon scales*

Prof. Sharp: So... who broke it? I'm not mad. I just want to know.

MC: I did. I broke-

Sharp: No, no you didn't. Mr. Gaunt?

Ominis: Don't look at me. Look at Garreth.

Garreth: What? I didn't break it.

Ominis: Huh. That's weird. How'd you even know it was broken?

Garreth: Because it's sitting right in front of us and it's broken.

Ominis, squinting: Suspicious.

Garreth: No, it's not!

Sebastian: If it matters, probably not, but Poppy was the last one to use it.

Poppy: Liar! I don't even brew that crap!

Sebastian: Oh, really? Then what were you doing by the inventory earlier?

Poppy: I use the weighing scales to measure out beast feed; everyone knows that, Sebastian!

MC: Ok, ok! Let’s not fight! I broke it, let me pay for it, Professor!

Sharp: No! Who broke it?

Garreth, leaning in: ...Professor... Natty's been awfully quiet.

Natty: REALLY?

Garreth: Yeah! Really.

Natty: For Merlin's sake!

*group starts arguing*

Sharp, to the faculty: I broke it. My leg bumped into the shelf, and it fell. I predict ten minutes from now they'll be at each other's throats with war paint on their faces and a pig head on a stick. 

*looks back at the group that continues to argue*

Sharp: Good. It was getting a little chummy around here.

[op1umeyes]

— Give Me A Reason

synopsis. You want to be an Auror. As one of his favorite and brightest students, Aesop tries to convince you to not put your life on the line for a job. warnings. Making out. Age gap. Student/teacher. Self deprecation. Reader is the hero of hogwarts. R is in seventh year (aged 18). Mutual pining. Idiots. “In all seven years of my student-ing,” you said abruptly, drawing Professor Sharp’s attention from the essays he graded. “I’ve only heard you bring up your Auror days twice. May I go as far as to ask why?”

The man leaned back in his chair, watching the student he had grown to care for as… Professor Sharp watched you keep a careful eye on your Vertiserum as you organized potion ingredients on his shelves. “There isn’t much to speak about anymore. It was dangerous, and even when it wasn’t… there was never a moment in my life I wouldn’t look over my shoulder at every snap of a twig.”

“But…?” You prompted, knowing the potion’s master had more to tell you: he just liked to torture you.

“But the job has it’s… rewards. The pay is good. I hated the paperwork though.”

“Ew,” you agreed, moving onto the next shelf after adjusting the temperature of the fire below the cauldron.

A seed of fear suddenly bloomed in Aesop’s mind. “Is there a reason you’re asking about Aurors?”

You nodded. “It’s one of the only jobs I’m interested in. I have the grades for it, the experience,” you bit your lip, a rush of memories crossing your brain as you thought about all the escapades you pulled off in your first (fifth) year at Hogwarts. “It’s… the only job I see myself doing.”

Professor Sharp felt his stomach drop. No. There was no way he was sending in one of the brightest students he’d ever taught into a system that would likely kill her. “The paperwork is what you’d be stuck doing most of the time,” the man lied.

You looked surprised. “Oh.”

Aesop felt a flush of hope in his chest, hoping desperately to persuade you away from the career of an Auror. Anything but that.

“I’d still do it,” you said finally, a determined tone in your voice.

The hope died. “I see,” Aesop murmured disapprovingly.

“Why do I get a feeling you aren’t thrilled about my career choice?” You asked, finishing the second shelf.

“I was wondering when you’d catch on. Points to (your house),” Aesop wittly replied. His small smile disappeared. “Miss y/l/n, to be quite frank with you, the job will take a toll on you- mentally and physically. Not only will you undergo numerous field injuries, there is always the chance you would… die. This job is dangerous, isolating, and overall not a very enviable job.”

You just nodded. “I understand that risk, Professor. But I have a reason for wanting the job. I have a reason to put my life on the line for others. A reason for… for my own life to be sacrificed for others to live peacefully, should the time come. I’ve already thought this through.”

“Then tell me your reason. Give me a reason why your life is not as important as others’s?” Professor asked, sharp eyes watching your rigid form slowly turn to him.

“I’ve nothing keeping me here. I have the talent, and you cannot deny it. This- This is the only thing I’ll have after graduation! I- Professor, please don’t talk me out of this,” you pleaded, eyes glinting in the dim light of the classroom.

Now you’ve done it, old man. But he pressed on. “‘Nothing keeping you here’?!” The man stood up, furious, disappointed, and… surprisingly sad. “This isn’t a joke, y/l/n. You have plenty of things ‘keeping you here’! Your little Sallow friend, that Sweeting girl, the blind boy you sit by,” Aesop listed angrily, unconsciously stalking towards you. “Merlin, you have-“ he cut himself off abruptly, realizing the word he was going to say after. Me. Me, y/n, you have me. A part of Aesop scoffed: idiot, you are; only a fool would want an old cripple like you and everyone knows y/n isn’t a fool- besides, she’s a student. Date a student and people are going to wonder if you were given special treatment.

”Who else, Professor?” You asked, tilting your head to look at the man you had been crushing on for the last few years. Please, you thought, say it.

You took the smallest step forward, making Aesop realize how close he was to you. Your intense gaze held him there, refusing to move. He knew what you wanted, and he knew it would be disastrous if he gave in. But, truly, he was only a man. Standing in fromt of an intelligent, talented, beautiful, and witty woman. “Me,” the man whispered, tearing his gaze away from you.

“Give me a reason not to, Aesop. Give me a reason to st-“ you hadn’t finished your sentance before Aesop’s shaking hands grasped your side and pulled, forcing your body against his. He kept one hand on your nack, lightly holding onto him in case you suddenly fled for the door and moved one callused hand to your face. He brushed away a stray hair and his eyes flickered between your lips and your eyes.

“Tell me to stop,” Aesop whispered. His voice, low and gravely, made you shudder against his body.

Your eyelashed fluttered as you struggled to stay calm in his overwhelming presence. “Kiss me.”

Aesop’s lips locked onto yours, a low groan bubbling out of his mouth and being swallowed by yours as you kissed back with the same passion as he. Aesop cursed himself, knowing you could easily realize who you were making out with and run off, taking Aesop’s heart with you.

But maybe you needed this as much as he did. Your small gasps and whimpers surely fanned the flames of Aesop’s hope that you wanted him. Your hand slid up Aesop’s wide back and threaded into his hair, tangling. He groaned at your actions.

You pulled away abruptly, resting your forhead on Aesop’s shoulder. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“Was that good enough of a reason?” Aesop asked, knowing full well you were still probably imagining yourself as an Auror.

“Kiss me again and I’ll see if it was truly satisfactory,” you joked, looking up at the man who’s heart was currently in your unknowing hands.

“Y/n,” Aesop finally murmured, hand still on the small of your back. “Promise me you’ll be safe.”

”What?”

“Promise me when you’re on the field… promise me that you’ll be safe.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I promise. Sir, what-“

“I can’t damage your reputation by being in public with you like this. As much as I wish, it cannot be. At least, not in the near future,” he whispered, resting his chin on your head.

“I know.”

Silence fell over the pair: you not wanting to move from Aesop’s comforting arms and Aesop not wanting you to go.

“I think your Veritaserum is done,” Aesop said.

You laughed, still clinging to Aesop.

[sanschips]

#MCtober2024 Week 3 - Seb and Mari realizing they like each other... because they are both completely oblivious and too proud to admit their feelings 👀

also I just want to say I'm a complete sucker for slow burn so the comics will take a looong time for them to be together 😆