(Asshole Faenos to the rescue.) “why would you associate with that filthy Mudblood in the first place, Snape? I thought you were better than that.”
Eyes flare with a momentary flash of furious rage just before it vanishes beneath a composed surface, schooled into stony submission after years of practice.
Torn between two lives, Severus hangs precariously on a thread. Like Damocles he feasts beneath the deathly glimmer of a suspended sword; he can’t afford to lose what little camaraderie he’s scraped from the Slytherin common room by means of his flourishing brilliance (and guilt by association). But that raw guilt twists his stomach, filling his throat with a nauseating surge.
“She’s different.” he retorts, his tone dry and definitive. Nothing the supercilious likes of Faenos would understand, he knows this. But he simply can’t– he won’t suffer to hear her scorned and belittled.