The Potions Master

Chapter 1

 I straightened my yellow-and-black tie in the mirror, put on my matching scarf, and checked to make sure all my soft red curls were tamed. Satisfied, I grabbed a notebook and only my Advanced Potion Making book, as Potions was the only class I had before lunch that day. I paused a moment, closing my eyes, holding my book to my chest, and taking a deep breath, before heading off to class.

Potions was by far my favourite subject. As a future healer and apothecary, I also enjoyed Herbology and the other classes required for the job, but none of those other classes were taught by Severus Snape.

When I'd first arrived at Hogwarts, I saw Professor Snape just as cold and scary as the other students did, especially after having been sorted into Hufflepuff House. However, knowing how important potion making was to my aspired profession, I kept my head down, my mouth shut, and did the best I could in his classes. Somehow, I'd managed to survive practically unseen in class, though my grades were nearly perfect.

Then in third year, I caught a tiny glimmer of impression in his eyes when he checked the girding potion I'd brewed. I'd never seen him give that look for anything made by anyone who was not in Slytherin. It felt good — like I'd just accomplished the impossible; I wanted to chase that feeling. From that moment on he no longer seemed quite so scary or mean, but actually, possibly, human.

Early in my sixth year, I'd been having an extra hard time with my current assignment for Alchemy, so I bought some Felix Felicis, a luck potion, from a seventh-year, hoping it would save me. Instead, it gave me the urge to practise in the potion-mixing room. I was the only student there. I worked on tweaking the recipes of some of the potions I'd learned in previous years, to see if it was possible to make the effects or brewing more efficient. Professor Snape eventually walked in, briefly examined some of my work, and began belittling my results and discrediting me. Whatever I said in response —something about me working to better my brewing skills when I had other, more pressing homework to do in order to pass, and I didn't deserve to be insulted over it—, my current state of luck had me say it in a way that it somehow got through to the professor, after a little back-and-forth. After that day, he seemed to have some sort of an unspoken respect for me — in his own way, of course, which really just meant he wasn't a jerk to me.

Now nearing the end of the first term of my seventh year, nostalgia was starting to sink in. Everything was my last at Hogwarts: classes, Quidditch games, all-nighters in the library, sneaking into the kitchens with other Hufflepuffs to grab late-night snacks to share, et cetera. I savoured my studies, I appreciated my friends, classmates, and professors to a greater degree, and attended every event I could. My heart ached the week before, when Professor McGonagall took names of those staying at school for Christmas. I asked her for a couple extra days to consider it, and finally decided that I would go home. None of my friends would be staying, and my Muggle family had already missed me for every birthday these seven years.

All of this went through my mind as I headed to class, and I chided myself. I knew better: my mind had to stay focused — I couldn't get distracted with these emotions if I wanted to continue to excel. And the whole point was to remember living at Hogwarts, not to remember being sad that it was almost over.

My heart began to pound with anticipation as I approached the classroom. Everyone else was in their seat when I arrived, though there was still plenty of time before class started. As I made my way to my seat at middle-right, I looked around at the only-familiar faces. None of my friends had made a high enough grade on their O.W.L.s for this year. I often wished that Tonks was still around, but since she was a year ahead of me, I'd eventually accepted the likelihood of my being alone here this year. I sat in my seat and briefly reviewed my notes from the previous session for the full minute before Professor Snape entered the room.

In all but his skin, he was head-to-toe black. Hair, eyes, clothes— even his voice was dark; softly spoken, yet deep and booming.

I sat up straight and gave him my full attention. The only fear he commanded from me anymore was respect — one thing that had drastically changed over the last few years. A couple of times during the lesson that day, his eyes briefly landed on me. Both times, I held my breath and I prayed I didn't blush. Another thing that had changed.

I managed to make it through another class without accidentally showing a swooning smile, or letting out a squee like a, erm, schoolgirl.

God, me! I thought at myself as I walked in the direction of the Great Hall, my favourite school book clutched tightly to my chest. Of all the crushes to have, why did you have to get one on him? This stupid thing had been going on for well over a year now, and I'd never told a soul; not even Elladora, my best friend. I was sure that I was the only student to ever be infatuated with Professor Snape, and I just knew that I would become a laughingstock and literally die of embarrassment. Every time I thought it might be waning, I'd see him in class or around the school, and it would all come back. Even after summer break.

God.

I sat alone on a bench outside the Great Hall, and went over my notes and bits in my book about the volubilis potion I'd have to make in a couple of days. Elladora would meet me here when her class let out shortly.