Punish me, Professor, I dare you.

Chapter 1 : How did we get here?

Hello dearies, I decided to write a reader-insert. I wrote this in first person view, I don't mention the reader's name, I write around it. Also the reader's house is not mentioned either, you can imagine whichever house you like. I liked Remus so much as DADA teacher that I decided to bend the rules and make him the DADA teacher for years in Hogwarts. Story takes place before Harry got in Hogwarts. I hope you will like the fic, please comment your thoughts and feelings about the chapter, I adore reading every single comment! Happy reading!
P.S. English is not my first language, so please excuse some minor errors.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HARRY POTTER WORLD AND ITS CHARACTERS, this is written purely for fun.

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Well, I certainly didn't imagine the start of my sixth year in Hogwarts like this.

"Detention, Miss. Tonight, after dinner. And consider another 10 points taken from your house." he hisses the words, with an incredibly annoyed face. I look around, to see my classmates glare at me, everyone in their respective seat eyeing my blackened face caused by my exploded potion. I only intended to make it change color, and bubble out of the cauldron by mixing up the order of the ingredients, but alas, here I stand with black, slimy face, sighing in defeat. I wasn't expecting this, my prank went too far.

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Ever since I can remember, I've always been a rebel. I never let my parents tell me what to do, or lay rules out for me, I strongly believed in absolute freedom my whole life. Fortunately, I was blessed with super understanding parents, so I didn't have much problem living my days a bit out of control. One day, when I was eight, my mother sat down with me, telling me about our family's unique healing power, called the Soul Strings. I was surprised, to say the least, but my heart got excited at the thought of having something no one else had. She showed me how they work once my dad was attacked by a death eater. Dad was laying on his back on the floor, huffing in pain, his body covered in cuts and bruises, his scalp bleeding slightly. Mom squatted next to his head, reaching out her hand, just a few inches from dad's hair. Faint, white strings came out from her fingertips, making their way under dad's head, disappearing at his nape. I observed as his body healed in mere seconds, pulling the cuts together, making the bruises vanish in a heartbeat. Mom told me that we use these strings to connect with the injured person's brain, taking over, as long as the healing goes on. With dad, she sped up the body's regenerative system, giving orders to the body in the name of the brain. Any kind of healing a person needs, we were able to provide it, as long as the victim still has his head intact.

So, from the frail age of eight, my mom taught me everything she knew about healing. Soon I discovered, that with a scalpel, one can save lives but kill also. I could use my power anytime to cause pain, fail organs, and do irreversible damage in one's body, but I always refrained from doing so, since I chose to stay in the light, so to say. I was so happy when I got to heal my mom's finger after she cut it during cooking, and I was only nine years old. The years passed, and my rebellion simmered down thanks to my overwhelming fascination with healing and my strings, always reading about it, always practicing on the kids in the neighborhood. My best friend, as strange as that seemed to my parents, was a boy down my street, Drax Donovan. He was quite the tomboy, always ending up with minor injuries, and me, always being there for him, healing scar after scar. We were the same age, closest to each other among children, and when we both got our letter from Hogwarts, we couldn't be happier. And the fact that we got sorted in the same house quadrupled the joy in our heart. Two twelve-year-old children, curious about the secrets of the wizarding world.

The first two years we floated through the school terms, fascinated by every single class, always discovering something new, always experiencing something jaw-dropping. The only bitter taste was brought by our potions professor, Severus Snape, who seemed to wake up every day with a broomstick up his ass, making his daily mission to transform the student's experience into a miserable nightmare. We adored every other class, we lived for charms with Flitwick, jumped with joy for transfiguration with McGonagall, had butterflies in our stomachs at DADA with Lupin, and giggled our way through Herbology with Sprout. Sinistra made my eyes sparkle, each time she illustrated the constellations or planets for us, and we were practically prophets with Drax in Trelawney's class. We were at the top, every teacher adored us. Every teacher, except one. Snape was convinced, we were just a bunch of arrogant snotheads, who showed off their talents at every opportunity we could get. And he made sure to humble us in his class with snide remarks and soft insults. Whatever we did, it was never enough for Snape, it was like he constantly searched for an error in our work, so he could have an excuse to take points from our house. Seeing this, I got mad like never before, and I started putting extra effort in my potion studies, just so I can shove his insults back in his face. I was obsessed with potions, fueled by my own rage, I studied like no other student before me. In second year, whatever the bat asked me, I knew the perfect answer, no exceptions. Third year however, brought a big change.