#aesop sharp and reader

[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 🥰

[mrs-sharp]

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

[caffeineaddictwriter]

Imagine Aesop Sharp dating a herbology professor, when she brings him ingredients the students tease him.

Cauldrons bubbling surrounded the room as students stressed hoping that there potion wouldn’t explode. Expept Gareth Weasley who prayed that his would explode with colour. There professor sat hunched over a pile of paperwork as his desk listening out for any shouts or explosions that he’d have to get up to deal with, although with the pains in his leg today he’d rather not be dealing with his students messiness.

About half way into the class the door to the potions class creaks open. Aesop is quick to look up expecting to see a student coming in or trying to make a run for it, instead he sees you carrying a tray filled with herbs from the castles greenhouses. The students all begin whispering among eachother and smiling as you walk past them towards Aesop.

“My class are sitting a test with Mirabels class so I thought I’d bring these down to you” you say placing the tray down on his desk smiling away. Aesop smiles to himself watching with glee, not at the ingredients but at the fact he knew it was your excuse to come see him during class time. “Thank you professor L/N, that’s very kind of you” the potions master can feel his heart pounding as he watches you smile as you list of each herb. He doesn’t even listen just mesmerised by you.

That is until he spots Gareth and his friends in the background making kissy faces behind you. He’s quick to give them the death glare “mr Weasley I presume you are finished” Gareth tenses up as his friends laugh “no sir” he mumbles, you turn looking confused watching the boy run back to his cauldron. “Everything okay?” You ask him but he just nods. “I’ll see you tonight at dinner” you say giving the professor your signature sweet smile as you leave the classroom leaving a love struck professor behind.

He sighs lovingly before frowning turning to Gareth who is turned away from his professor but doesn’t speak quietly “did you see professor sharp with his googly eyes he tots has a thing for professor L/N” he says before growing confused as his friends don’t laugh along with him, instead they all look down as a tall shadow suffocates the ginger. “detention with me after school on Thursday mr Weasley”

[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!

[marauder-misprint]

In that case i would like to request numbers 36 and 48 from your celebration prompts for an Sharp x fellow professor reader ☺️

First time writing for Sharp so sorry if it's bad 😬

lil disclaimer: reader is a fairly new Ancient Runes professor after working as a traveling runes researcher for years.

Nightcap

Professor Sharp x Professor!reader

1.5k words

cw: drinking, fluff

You were finishing up your nightly rounds when light from a cracked open door catches your eye. It’s coming from the Potions classroom so your immediate thought is a student is up far too late brewing. You have your wand at the ready, fully prepared to tell off the pupil and remind them that they aren’t to be out of bed after curfew. You hold your breath as you ease the door open quietly. You scan the classroom. There’s no student in sight and all the stations are clean and empty. 

“Huh,” you breathe, noticing the light is coming from the open office.

So not only was a student out of bed, they were in a professor’s office, likely stealing from Professor Sharp’s personal stores. 

“You know, it’s quite late,” you say as you enter the office expecting to see a student caught red-handed.

There was no student. Again, but worse.

A sigh.

“I suppose it is…” Professor Sharp says, looking up from the pile of essays on his desk.

“So sorry, Professor!” you say quickly, eyes wide. “I thought a student was in here.”

“No, it’s just me.” He looks you over. “Finishing your rounds, I assume?”

You nod. He sighs again, sending worry coursing through you. Were you annoying him by simply being in his office? You really had thought a student was in here.

“I think I will finish these tomorrow,” he says, adjusting the stack of paper and moving it to the side. Then he looks back at you. “Would you care for a nightcap? 

The offer takes you by surprise. Yes, you were coworkers, but Sharp usually kept his distance from the professors. When you started, Professor Garlick described him as a bit harsh and standoffish. Yet, here he was offering you a drink after you interrupted his grading. He could have easily just dismissed you, kicking you out of his office and claiming he was going straight to bed himself. The offer hangs in the air as all of this runs through your mind. You’re not sure if Sharp notices your delay in answer, having stood up to retrieve the alcohol and cups from a cupboard.

“If you’re pouring,” you say, taking a step into the office. 

You remove some things off of a barrel and move it closer to his desk. When Sharp turns around with the drinks, he lets out a low laugh; it’s the first time you’ve heard him laugh all term.

“You could’ve conjured a chair, you know,” he tells you and you blush.

You look down at the barrel you’re perched on. “Bit late for that now…”

He sets the drink down in front of you before bringing over his own barrel. 

“Also, you needn’t call me Professor. Aesop is fine.”

“I’m still getting used to being a professor myself, that’s all,” you say, reaching for one of the cups. “Being back here, even after years of being in the field, I feel like a student again.”

“I remember that feeling. At least it wasn’t injury that brought you here.”

You snort a laugh, realizing that it was probably an insensitive response since Sharp’s leg was why he was teaching rather than still being an auror. 

“Yay for needing financial stability,” you say before taking a sip, hoping it will prevent you from putting your foot in your mouth again. 

“You’re still doing what you’re passionate about though, aren’t you?”

“It’s more consulting and writing about ancient runes. I really liked getting to travel and seeing where they are inscribed, discovering new artifacts. That’s a bigger thrill than standing in front of students and lecturing.”

“Better than me. Closest thing I have is tracking down which student had the gall to ‘borrow’ from my personal stores,” he says, using air quotes. 

You lean toward him. “Has someone been stealing?”

“Not recently,” he says, giving you an amused smile. “Hoping to show off some detective skills?”

“Goodness, I don’t know if I would actually be any help with that. More your department of expertise,” you say with a shake of your head. “I had thought I was catching a student red-handed when I came in.”

“Must’ve been a disappointment to find me,” he says, looking away from you.

Your eyes widen slightly. 

“No. No! It’s better I found you… I’m glad I found you… Trust me… Although, I didn’t mean to interrupt your grading.”

“It’s good you interrupted. I was probably giving Acceptable work O’s.”

“And we can’t be having that,” you say with a small laugh. 

Sharp looks over you again, a smile playing at his lips. It’s an unfamiliar look on his face, but you like it. You think you’d like to see him genuinely smile more often.

“Besides the name thing, are you adjusting to Hogwarts well?”

“Oh, I think so. I do enjoy not having to sleep in a tent.” You debate your next words. “It’s also nice to share a drink with someone.”

Sharp gives you a disbelieving look. “I find it difficult to believe that someone as beautiful as you didn’t have someone to drink with.”

“You flatter me, Pro-... Aesop,” you say, correcting yourself as you almost called him Professor Sharp. “But it’s true. I usually drank alone, unless a friend was visiting or I was collaborating on a project.” You take a sip of your drink. “I’m fairly convinced that I’m difficult to approach.”

“Some people are scared of a beautiful woman who exudes confidence,” Sharp says.

With the drink in your system, you feel a bit more confident, which you’re appreciative of.

“Are you, Aesop, scared of beautiful women who exude confidence?” you ask, leaning forward again, your elbows digging into your knees.

Sharp clears his throat. He’s scanning your face, trying to get a proper read of your intentions. When he offered a nightcap, he hadn’t expected the conversation to take this turn, not that he was complaining. He just wanted to be sure. He smirks at you.

“Don’t get my hopes up, darling, if you’re just going to leave like everyone else.”

You raise an eyebrow with your head cocked to the side. 

“Leave like everyone else?” you repeat, unsure of who had all left him. 

He sighs but his expression toward you is soft. “Being an auror isn’t kind on one’s relationships.”

“Neither is being a traveling researcher,” you say with a smile. “But you’re retired and I’m stationary.”

“Those are… both true.” 

“And I have no intentions of leaving.”

Sharp was looking at you with an intense look on his face. One that was begging you to be serious and sincere. His internal thoughts were asking how he ended up in this situation, with the temptation of you in front of him, saying things he had only dreamed of. Since his auror partner died, he had avoided getting close and forming real relationships with anyone. But something about you had him offering you a drink. Something about you got his hopes up that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be so closed off to the rest of the world.

You finish your drink and set the cup on his desk. He’s still staring at you. It’s obvious he’s lost in his thoughts of uncertainty. 

“Aesop, just kiss me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice by the beautiful woman in front of him who exudes confidence. He sets his own cup down next to yours before leaning forward toward you. One of his hands gently holds your face as he brings his near. His eyes hesitantly search yours, half expecting you to say “Sike” and pull away. You don’t. You’re waiting patiently for him to close the space between you. 

When he does, you can’t stop yourself from smiling. The kiss was a little too forceful, but he quickly eases the pressure. It shifts into something far more gentle in nature than you thought Sharp had in him. You deepen the kiss, one hand going to hold his arm and the other finding his knee. Your lips move in sync. 

You feel breathless when he pulls away. There’s a nervous smile on his face that gains confidence as he sees your own smile. There air between you is charged with unsaid emotions and the uncertainty of where this left you.

“This is probably my favorite way to end nightly rounds,” you say with a nervous laugh. 

“With a nightcap?” he asks, earning a light shove from you.

“Aesop,” you say, a lightness in your voice. 

“Well, um, if it was late when you first got here…” His voice trails off.

You laugh, “It certainly is late now.”

You stand up and walk to the door, ready to say good night. Sharp follows you, but the confidence in his walk is hindered by the development in your relationship. 

He clears his throat. “So this was a one-night thing?”

You shake your head, going on your tiptoes so you can press a kiss to his cheek.  “There’s no way this was just a one-night thing.”

[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.

[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.

[orions-tears]

Truly Yours - Ominis Gaunt Part 2

Pairing: Ominis Gaunt x fem!Ravenclaw Reader

A/N: Y'all wow what a year. I don't even know how long it's been. I'm in grad school, I work at a daycare, I just had covid. Wowowow. It's a lot, what can I say. Anyway. I finally finished this part. Sorry it took so long. I'm doing my best, I promise. Please enjoy.

Part 1

“Potions is one of the most challenging and hazardous subjects taught at this school!  As fifth-years you will be required to reach new heights of both discipline and intellect. You will begin by brewing a Wiggenweld potion.”

You hear Ominis sigh quietly as Professor Sharp says this. You lean over, whispering, “What’s wrong?”

He jumps slightly as your voice, but relaxes slightly, whispering back, “I’m no good at brewing Wiggenweld…”

Before you can reassure him, you hear a shuffle behind you and look up to a disapproving face from Professor Sharp. Granted, this could just be his face, but you take it as a command to be quiet. “Sorry, Professor…”

He huffs and walks away continuing to lecture. You look over at Ominis who is smiling ever so slightly, making you smile as well. Hopefully your Wiggenweld potion will make up for getting in trouble.

“You may begin,” Professor Sharp says, sitting down at his desk.

You look into your textbook and sigh. This has a lot of steps… You finish your potion quickly, despite accidentally skipping over a few steps and show it to Professor Sharp, receiving what you assume is praise. You walk over to Ominis and look in his cauldron. The liquid is a sickly yellow and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

“Umm…Ominis…what happened?”

He turns slightly toward you and sighs. “I’m not sure but my Wiggenweld potion is utter rubbish. I wish I could just get one from J. Pippins…”

You laugh slightly but cover your mouth. “Sorry…” you say, sheepishly.

He smiles and shakes his head. “At least yours was good.”

You shake your head, smiling. “Just barely.” You put a hand on his shoulder, not feeling him stiffen. “I could help you. If you want.”

His face turns pink and he turns away, but nods. “That’d be nice. Please.”

***

“You know…goblins really are…the least of our worries…when we’ve got Professor Black breathing down our necks,” you say through chews.

Samantha laughs. “You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.”

You grab some chicken from the roast in front of you and smile at her. “Who am I trying to impress?”

Before she can respond, the mail arrives and an owl drops a letter in you lap. You look down at it and pick it up. “A letter?” You flip it over to see who sent it. The envelope is blank besides your name.

Samantha looks over and smiles. “Boy, you sure have someone’s attention. That’s the third one this week.”

You look up at her, confused. You hadn’t seen any letters this week. Granted, you’ve been busy in the library studying for you History of Magic midterm. “Huh…Maybe it’s this G person?”

She shrugs as you look down and open the letter.

Y/N,

I have spent much time thinking about what to say to you.

How to present myself to you. I’ve wondered what it is

that I can say to you to show you how I feel and to

express my love my longing for you. I have told you

of your beauty. I have written of your intelligence. I wonder

if you know of your kindness. You make me feel seen and worthy.

You make my problems your problems and never see it

as a burden.

I hope to tell you a story that moves me. It is the story of

Lancelot and Guinevere. As I’m sure you know, Lancelot

was a loyal, wise, strong, and kind man who felt most

things very passionately. Guinevere was the Queen of

Camelot, a complex character known for her beauty,

Although married to King Arthur, she fell deeply in

love with Lancelot. Sir Meliagaunt, a knight, found out

about their love and confronted Lancelot leading the

later to challenge him to a duel. Lancelot won the

duel, killing Meliagaunt.

Rumors continued, however,leading the other knights

of the round table to storminto the Queen’s chambers

and catch them in the act.She was condemned to

 burn and Lancelot, in a rage,killed many of the knights

in an attempt to save her. In the end, both lived, but

separated, doomed to love each other from afar.

In an ideal ending, the two lovers would run away

Together, dying old in each other’s arms. You may

wonder, reading this, why such a tragic tale

means so much to me. I hope, one day, to share

a love as strong as Lancelot and Guinevere’s.

Their love sowed chaos throughout Camelot

and I hope if we, one day, love each other as such,

we, too, sow chaos among those that oppose us.

I hope to be your Lancelot, despite my many flaws.

However, in our story, I hope we have a happily

ever after.

Truly Yours,

G

You stare down at the letter until you feel a hand on your shoulder, shaking you. You look up to see Sebastian. He’s smiling at Samantha while rocking you back and forth.

“…late for class.”

You shift slghtly away from him to look up a little more. “What?”

He looks down at you, grinning. “We’re late for class. Let’s go lest I get detention again,” he replies, grinning.

You nod and stand up, folding the letter into your pocket. “See you, Samantha.” She waves as you walk off. You feel Sebastian bump his elbow into you and look up at him. “What?”

He grins down at you and points at your robe pocket. “What’s it say?”

You groan at him and shake your head. “Something tells me you already know.”

He gasps, acting surprised. “What makes you say that?” He laughs as you roll your eyes and he shoves you lightly. “I don’t, actually. I just watched him write it.”

You freeze and stare at him. He slows and turns back to you, smiling. “You know. I know you know,” you say, walking up to him and poking him in the chest. “Who is it?”

He shakes his head, grinning. “No idea.”

You huff, putting your hands on your hips. “You just said you watched him write it. Obviously you know who it is.”

He shakes his head and turns back around, sauntering down the hallway. “Hurry up, Y/N! We’ll be late!”

You groan and jog a little to catch up to him. “We’re already late.”

He laughs and looks back at you. “If I don’t get detention I’ll tell you.”

You gasp and smile, grabbing his hand and running down the corridor to class. The door I still open and you quietly run in, taking your seats in the back of the class. Professor Binns doesn’t even acknowledge you and continues talking. Something about a war? Who knows…

Sebastian smiles and leans over, whispering “It’s a Slytherin.”

You look at him and narrow your eyes. “I assumed so but who is it?”

He shrugs and lays his head down on the desk. “No clue.”

[animasola86]

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 ]

[legacygirlingreen]

Sebastian Sallow AI Audio

What would happen if students helped during the final battle of the repository? Well, take a listen...

This is from my fan fiction found here, but CAN be enjoyed separately! Although , I stray from canon quite a bit, just a heads up!

From this chapter, if you wish to read!

Someone please let me know if it doesn't load, and if not here's the link to it on YouTube! I recommend headphones!

(also credit to @deathlysallowsfor the photo of Sebastian in the header!)

Thanks to @strawberrypinky like always! Also @eternalremorse for listening in its rough state!

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

SharpMarch 2025 Day 1: Patronus

tags: @illiana-mystery, @iobsessoverfictionalmen

warnings: swearing

I watched Aesop circle the room, eyeing up the students who had agreed to come. He glanced at me before climbing up onto the platform in my classroom.

“as I’m sure you know, there will be more dementors around Hogwarts and its grounds as the weeks go on. This is largely due to the attacks in hogsmeade. Although you didn’t hear that from us.” He started. Some of the students chuckled as I joined him on the platform. “These classes will be to help you learn to defend yourself better.”

“from both mortal and…let’s say corporeal attacks.” I added. “A dementor cannot differentiate between good and bad. A threat is a threat. And while they only attack when provoked, there is no guarantee they will not turn on you should you end up caught in the middle of something.” Aesop nodded.

“The patronus charm is a particularly difficult charm to master. But given time and practice, even the weakest patronus will protect you from harm.” He said. “Does anyone know the incantation?” The students looked at each other, confusion clear on their faces.

“that’s alright.” I said. “We don’t expect you to know it on your time. Nor do we expect you to be able to produce the charm the first time either.” I looked at Aesop who nodded in agreement.

“the incantation is expecto patronum.” He said. The students repeated it back. He nodded with a smile. “Good. But with this charm speaking the words aren’t enough.”

“you need to think of your happiest moment. Any memory where you are incredibly happy. The happiest you have ever been.” I said. “A trifling moment of joy is not going to do anything.” I looked over the crowd making sure to make eye contact with everyone. “I mean it. The happiest you have ever felt.” Aesop looked at me, his eyes softening for a moment before he turned back towards the students.

“some of you might be able to produce a full patronus. It takes the shape of an animal. There usually is no rhyme or reason to it.” Aesop said, glancing at me. “And over time, a patronus can change. For any number of reasons.” I smiled softly before pulling out my wand. Aesop pulled his out as well and we took a step towards each other. Our backs hit each other as we prepared to cast the charm.

“they’re going to talk.” I whispered. Aesop chuckled.

“as if they don’t already.” He shot back. I shrugged as I glanced over my shoulder. “Ready?” I nodded.

“expecto patronum.” We both said, making the movement with our wands. Two silvery nifflers appeared, zooming around the room before coming to a rest at our feet. The students awed as they watched the nifflers play with each other.

"My patronus was originally a Thestral." I said, glancing at Aesop before my niffler moved to nudge against my foot. "A few months ago, my patronus changed to this niffler here." My niffler seemed to notice the students and shuffled to the edge of the platform. "Ah ah." I warned, trying to hide my laugh when the students gasped when the patronus listened to me with a pout. Aesop chuckled before I shot him a look. He covered it with a cough before his niffler drew the attention of mine again.

"I am going to warn you now." He said, voice stern. "If you decide to start any rumors based off this, house points will be deducted accordingly." Aesop shot me a look as I smiled at him. "Also, I know there are a number of you that are...romantically involved. Do not expect your patronus to match that of your partner. Over time, it may. But do not expect it."

"It may never change." I added. "So do not think too much on what you get. Remember the patronus is an extension of your inner most thoughts and feelings. It is an extension of you. Down to the finest detail. There are no mistakes when it comes to a patronus." I looked pointedly at Sebastian. “No mistakes.” Aesop chuckled next to me. “Now pair up and get to practicing.” The students hurried to find a partner as Aesop turned to me.

“well put.” He said, offering me his hand as we made our way off the platform. “Now let’s see how many of them listened.”

“I think more of them were paying attention than you think.” I squeezed his hand and winked at him before immediately running off. “Mr. Shallow! We do not burn off our partners eyebrows!”

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

Tess' Sharpuary - 6. Kneazle

Aesop meets a small, fluffly stranger. Where could its parents be, though?

chapter specific tags: slice of life, fluff, aesop sharp being a cat dad

relationships: aesop sharp & reader

6. Kneazle (2.7k)

tw: none

It was one of those days that are simply good.

Aesop began his day feeling well rested - something he had to pat his back for, since he actually made himself go to bed early the previous day - the cool morning air felt fresh and rejuvenating on his heated body instead of causing a chill, and his leg was obviously having a good day as well, as his morning dose of Wiggenweld left him with only mild discomfort instead of the usual annoying dull pain. He attended breakfast feeling carefully optimistic, his eggs with soldiers perfectly warm and filling, his tea brewed just right. He had a pleasant chat with Dinah, and was happy to find the politicians over at the Ministry were, for once, not wreaking havoc upon the wizarding community, when his friend passed the Daily Prophet over to him.

Even his classes went well that day. The students were focused and attentive, nobody blew up their cauldron, and even the worst brewed potion would probably get no worse than an A from him. Mr Weasley kept his mind on the task at hand, and didn’t attempt any of his usual shenanigans, and the Now-Not-So-New Sixth-year Ravenclaw frankly impressed him with her Draught of the Living Death. Seeing her turn her head and beam at him when he praised her work was the highlight of his already great day.

The potions master felt so well, he actually decided to use the time he had after his last class before dinner to take a leisurely stroll over Hogwarts grounds.

The sun was setting quickly, the last bits of departing winter making themselves known, but Aesop was feeling rather content. He had the mind to apply a heating charm to his clothes, so not even the cool air blowing gently in his face and through his hair were able to make him feel cold.

Then, however, and it was only because the wind stopped blowing for a few seconds, he heard an unexpected sound. Aesop didn’t know what it was, the sound having been so quiet, but his ears instantly perked up and he stopped in his tracks. He waited for several seconds, straining his ears, and sure enough, there it was again. It was coming from the bushes somewhere to his left, and he slowly began walking in the direction. The sound would repeat every now and then, becoming louder and louder, until he could properly identify it.

It was a kitten’s meow.

Normally, that’d be hardly out of the ordinary. After all, there were dozens of cats roaming the castle, both inside and outside, and there was the occasional litter of kittens, but it was most unusual for kittens this little to be all by themselves, out in the cold no less. At least, Aesop presumed it was a little one, judging only by the pitch of the cry. Poor dear, Aesop thought as he continued walking towards the source of the small meowing.

Aesop liked cats, and the only reason he didn’t keep one himself was the fact that he could hardly have it in his always dutifully locked rooms, unable to run around as it pleased. Not to mention the fact that he’d be worried about it accidentally breaking some potion or, Merlin forbid, poison and getting hurt as a result. So instead he made friends with some of the Hogwarts felines, gladly petting them and doting on them when nobody saw, and he didn’t even mind having to cast the scouring charm on himself to get rid of the cat hair whenever one of the little creatures rubbed against his legs, or when he actually picked one of them up.

Finally he reached the shrubs where the sound seemed to be originating from. The meowing was clearly audible here, but he couldn’t see through the thick greenery. Deciding to test his leg a bit, he crouched down, and was glad not to find himself in immediate pain. He put his dominant hand in front of himself and flexed his fingers.

“Here, kitty kitty… pspspsps…” he whispered, keeping his voice soft.

The meowing got louder, and he could hear some shuffling noises from the shrubs. Suddenly, a small but very fluffy head appeared at the bottom of it. The creature had large ears which were even fluffier at the top, bright yellow eyes, and a dark nose, and it mewed loudly at him, but it was immediately obvious that it wasn’t a cat.

“A Kneazle?” Aesop wondered out loud, his voice making the tiny creature startle. He cringed slightly, lowering his voice again.

“Sorry, sorry… Come here, I’m not going to hurt you.”

The kitten approached him very slowly and sniffed at his fingers warily. It must’ve decided the potions master posed no danger to it, as seconds later it rubbed its cheek against his index and middle finger. “There you go…” Aesop praised softly. Was this one of Bai’s Kneazles? How did the poor thing get all the way out here? In any case, he couldn’t just leave it here, the nights were still cold, and he frankly couldn’t imagine leaving the defenceless kitten by itself like that. 

“Will you let me pick you up, hm?” he asked and slowly moved to scoop the Kneazle into his hands, something it didn’t seem to mind too horribly. He brought it close to his face to properly look at it, and the kitten seemed to do the same with him. It craned its neck to look and sniff at everything. Aesop couldn’t help but chuckle when a tiny paw made contact with his face. Then, however, it seemed the little creature became particularly interested in his sleeves, and actually tried to crawl down one, prompting him to chuckle again.

Ah! He realised suddenly. The heating charm. “You must be cold…” Aesop wondered where he should place the Kneazle for transport to keep it warm. When he slowly lowered it to his coat pocket, its inside already enlarged by charm, he was quite surprised that it not only didn’t seem to mind, but actually climbed straight in, making itself right at home. It peeked out of his pocket, happy to be able to look around while enveloped in the warmth. The potions master thought he could hear quiet purring. He shook his head - the little beast was quite bold for being so small.

Nevertheless, he made his way over to the beast enclosures and Bai’s hut. He didn’t even have to knock on her door to know the teacher wasn’t currently present, as it was dark on the inside, and there was no answer when he called her name out. Oh well.

He knew where he was going when he made his way over to where the Kneazles were kept. During the winter, many of the beasts were kept within the battlements during the nights, despite the fact that they’d be perfectly alright outside. Aesop entered their hutch, and instantly felt even warmer. The kitten hid further inside his pocket.

“Hm? What gives? Don’t you want your mummy?” he asked. He gently pulled it out of his pocket, but found that the kitten was resisting. Nevertheless, he managed to put it down on the hay-lined ground. A few of the Kneazles seemed interested in the young one, and approached warily. The large cat-like beasts sniffed the air, their heads turning to Aesop’s and the kitten's direction.

Two females came closer to sniff at the shivering kitten, its fur standing on end. To Aesop’s surprise, the two adults then simply turned and walked away from the kitten. Another one came closer, but it didn’t even take the time to take the kitten’s scent, and instead immediately hissed and growled, prompting further panic. Aesop was quick enough to pick it up once more, right before the large Kneazle’s paw connected with it in a clearly aggressive strike. 

It was at this point that Aesop finally realised something - there were no other kittens around. It wasn’t unheard of for Kneazles to have a litter of one, but it was most unusual for a clowder of Kneazles consisting of several females to only have a single lone kitten. This wasn’t a Hogwarts Kneazle, Aesop realised, putting it back in his pocket and swiftly making his way out of there, as it seemed the grown female wasn’t exactly keen on sharing her space with the little stranger any longer.

If it wasn’t one of the Hogwarts Kneazles… then how in Merlin’s name did it get here? Of course, Aesop knew that there were clowders of Kneazles littered all throughout the Highlands, but he also recalled professor Howin saying that none of them is particularly close to the school. Definitely not close enough for a kitten this small to make it all the way here from over there. Was there a new clowder close to the school? Or… Aesop knew the answer. Poachers. While most of them had disappeared during the previous year, some were still there, and they were often bold. It wouldn’t be the first time one such group grew as bold as to operate this close to the castle.

And if that truly was the case… then this little one had nobody to take care of it… Blast it. He didn’t even consider finding Bai and just giving the Kneazle to her at this point, seeing the others’ reaction to the small one, but then what else was he to do? Bring it over to Brood and Peck? Surely Ellie could take care of it… 

And then it hit him.

The Room of Requirement! The Sixth-year Ravenclaw told him she kept a few Kneazles in one of her vivariums; perhaps she could take care of this one too! 

“Are you alright there?” he asked, looking at his side. The kitten was once more peeking out of his pocket, but it seemed slightly more wary than it was before. He reached a finger towards it to scratch it under its neck, prompting it to purr and lean into the touch slightly.

Aesop took a deep breath in preparation for the long climb up to the Astronomy tower and set off.

The little beast was very very lucky his leg was behaving today, else he’d probably do something unwise, such as send it to the Ravenclaw by owl. He cringed inwardly - he could hardly imagine that turning out well. Luckily, his ascend wasn’t too horrible, and he soon saw the door leading to the hidden room materialise out of nowhere. He normally wouldn’t go into the room without the young woman, seeing it as a breach into her privacy, but he supposed this was a special situation. 

Still, as he entered the now increasingly familiar room, he called out for her. There was no answer. It seemed Deek wasn’t here either, most likely busy aiding the other house elves in preparing the dinner. He stepped further into the room, and was once again enveloped in its comfort. It was grand and spacious, but it felt cosy and comfortable, and he thought it wouldn’t be exactly a punishment to curl up on one of the sofas with a good book and ignore reality for a while.

The potions master shook his head to banish the thought for now. “Now, where does she keep the Kneazles, little one?” he asked mostly to himself, but it seemed the kitten sensed it was being addressed, and squeaked in answer. Let’s see - the one in front had Unicorns, Fwoopers, Puffskeins… no. The one on the right? Hippogriffs, Diricawls and… Aesop winced. He very much hoped the Kneazles weren’t in the same vivarium as the graphorns… The one on the left? No, no… Aesop made his way up the stairs, and then to the last vivarium. 

A wave of energy coursed through his body as he entered, the air shifting and changing, he felt the sudden warmth of magical sunlight and wind blowing gently through his hair.

His lungs filled with the fresh mountain air. The first thing he saw was the fiery plumage of a majestic Phoenix soaring up in the sky, cutting through it like pure flame. And then - then he heard the sounds of creatures. He was easily able to identify the squeaking and sniffing sounds produced by Nifflers, and was quick to spot them on the far right. His eyes scanned the area, and just as he was about to turn back and explore the other vivariums (keeping the coastal one for last, obviously), he saw it. 

A large, fluffy head was staring at him from one of the windows of the ruined building to his right.The professor began his approach slowly, his hand unconsciously coming to stroke at the kitten’s fur again. He entered the ruins and saw them. A small family of Kneazles; two grown ones and two kittens. It was obvious the kitten in his pocket didn't belong with them, its colour and pattern was entirely different from both parents. Speaking of the parents, they were watching him with mild suspicion, but neither of them seemed too defensive. He approached slowly, and once again pulled the small Kneazle out of his pocket, placing it on the ground. He kept more of a distance now, and was ready to pick it up if necessity called for it, but stood his ground, even as the kitten got frightened once more.

The female Kneazle got up from her litter and approached the stranger curiously. Like the Hogwarts Kneazles, she sniffed at it slowly, and then began turning away. Aesop’s shoulders slumped in disappointment and frustration. However, then instead of walking away from the kitten, the female gave a meow. The male, large and robust, slowly walked closer and imitated his mate, taking in the newcomer’s scent. The kitten itself seemed ever so slightly less frightened now, but was still looking at the two large beasts warily.

And then Aesop’s lips spread into a wide grin when both adult Kneazles began cleaning the little one with their tongues. He gave a big sigh of relief and happily watched the mother grab her newly adopted child by the scruff in order to bring it over to her own two squeaking offspring, the father following close behind.

“She was supposed to have three,” sounded next to him and Aesop jumped visibly. He turned around, wand drawn, accidentally startling the Kneazles behind him as well. “Sorry, sorry!” said the Sixth-year Ravenclaw, lifting her hands in front of herself in defence “M-Miss (L/N)!” was all Aesop managed to get out. They stood like this for several seconds, but then Aesop realised he was still pointing his wand directly at the poor girl. 

“Uh,” he said eloquently, “I’m sorry, I-...” He put his wand away, feeling terribly awkward about having been caught unprepared like so, “sorry to have come here without your knowledge. And for pointing my wand at you, you… surprised me.” 

“It’s alright,” she said, a smile beginning on her face, “both of it. I’m sorry too, I shouldn’t have creeped up on you like I did. As for being here, well, you can come here anytime you like, it’s not like I’ve got something secret here.” The potions master chuckled.

“Apart from a few very dangerous beasts, you mean?” he asked with a wry smile. She merely shrugged her shoulders: “Professor Weasley knows about them, so they’re not exactly secret.”

The two of them turned towards the newly expanded family of Kneazles. “What do you mean she was supposed to have three?” asked Aesop then and sadness flashed in the girl’s eyes visibly: “What I said. She gave birth to three kittens, but… well, one of them didn’t make it. I had to bury it, outside of the castle, and she… Well, she’s been an amazing mother, but I could see that she was still sad. They’re very clever and sensitive creatures, Kneazles, with a full scale of emotions… People don’t give them enough credit. Look at her now!” 

And indeed, the female Kneazle had all three kittens nursing on her, her head resting on the ground, her eyes blinking happily. The male was keeping watch it seemed, protecting his mate and their children. “Where did you get the little one?” asked the Ravenclaw, looking at her teacher curiously, but before he could answer, she spoke up again: “Would you mind telling me over tea?”

Aesop couldn’t help but grin back at her: “No, not at all.”

---

Thank you for reading! You can also check out the entirety of Sharpuary on my AO3 ❤

[AO3] - [Sharpuary 2024] - [Masterlist]

[mrs-sharp]

The moment I (first) fell for Sharp was during the battle for the final repository when he suddenly fights alongside mc and says: "Now, Professor Fig, aren't you going to leave some for the Rest of us?" and I want to believe that he addresses to mc, too.

[batmans-archnemesis]

sebastian this ominis that. what about the old man.

[5sospenguinqueen]

Garreth: Anyone else have the weird urge to lecture themselves?

MC: What?

Garreth mimicking Sharp: Weasley, what are you doing?

Sharp (walking up): Weasley, what are you doing?

MC: You conjured him.

[julietpricee]

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

Horny Aesop: From now on call me ‘Problems’