Lovingly, not yours.

Chapter 7

"There's no one who speaks only of lies or only of truth. There's some of the other mixed in. Always. And if it's not in the words they utter, it's bound to be swirling in their eyes. You should just know how to not mistake the innocence in them for guilt, and the guilt for innocence."

Chapter 7 : "Snape."

Yawns. Chatter. And the clinking of the tableware were all the noises that Odele had zoned out on. The warm sunlight peeking in through the large windows of the Great Hall was also of little help to Hermione as she tried to lift her friend's spirits.

Only the milk tea managed to get a chuckle out of her.

"Better?" Hermione inquired with a hopeful and upturned curve on her lips.

"Much. Thanks." said Odele, flashing a grateful smile at her way and offering the marmalade toast that she'd been buttering mindlessly while brooding. Hermione glanced down at the murder of what once was a delicious toast and laughed nervously.

Luck seemed to be on Mione's side that morning as the owls flew in with the mail, saving her from having to eat the toast.

Merlin, Odele's dear friend gracefully perched down on her left shoulder with a letter addressed to her. She caressed the feathers of her beloved barn owl, to which he responded with a soft nuzzle in the latter's cheek.

The familiar scent of her mother's lilac perfume enveloped her as she set everything down to open the letter. With utmost care, she opened the letter. The sleek cursive handwriting of her mother brought tears to her eyes, which she thought she was brave enough to hold in. Her green eyes scanned each stroke of the beautifully written words, an all too familiar ache of homesickness clenched at her heart.

After giving Merlin some bread, she slips the letter deep in the daunting copy of Advanced potions which she'd annotated quite heavily with her father over the last spring.

With a fweet and flutter of wings, Merlin flew away with the rest of the owls, leaving Odele with a heavy heart.

Silently she promised herself to go read the letter diligently again before going to bed. And she held herself to that promise, to the point of memorising every single detail of the parchment.

Potions and its master turned out to be completely different from what Odele had imagined it to be like. The art that is potion making is not only intricate but also highly satisfying to Odele. And she loved the thrill of the complexity the subject brought to her.

The 'Professor Snape' whom she'd thought to be the same man who brought out the boy in her father when reading his letters, could never be who she saw him to be. Either that, or she didn't like her father's crude humour. But it'd be a relief if it were the former. In her next letter back home, she'd pen down a query about this, that's one thing for sure even if she couldn't comprehend what the sort of storm the subject would turn out for her to be.

Dungeons was where the subject would take place. Cold and damp, gloomy too.

The class began with the roll call, just like charms had been but unlike the bubbly smile that Professor Flitwick gave Harry during Charms, Professor Snape gave a remark that showed displeasure of sorts. First sign that ticked her off. In Odele's mind she took some of the brownie points she had for the man.

When Draco's name was called, she found her green eyes drifting to find his grey ones that had a haughty look in them. And yet, she looked at him for the rest of the roll call.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," Professor Snape began and his voice immediately had her attention. She liked how his voice was deep, yet it had volume not more than a whisper but it held enough authority in it that you'd be bound to listen to him, quietly. And just like Professor McGonagall, he too was a no-nonsense man.