Chapter Text
A wet scent of mold lingered in the dungeons as you made your way to Potions class. You took a seat at the front of the room, relieved to finally allow your heavy bag to slump to the floor beside you. The sunlit classroom was filled with the noisy chatter of familiar voices causing a smile to tug at the corners of your lips. No sooner had you removed a brand new copy of Advanced Potion-Making from your bag than the chatter became faint and died out.
The wind whirled as Professor Snape stormed into the room, black cape billowing behind him, waving his wand. The few, tiny windows in the room snapped shut drowning out the natural light. The flicker of flames cast strange shadows on the Potions Master’s stony features.
“Congratulations,” his deep voice drawled. “As N.E.W.T. students you will, no doubt, be more than capable of arriving to my class… on time, Mr. Potter.”
Snape’s dark eyes fixed on the boy as he spat his name. Harry was in the process of sneaking quietly towards a seat at a table in the back when he froze at the mention of his name.
“Ten points from Gryffindor,” Snape retorted nonchalantly before droning on. “Let that be a lesson to anyone who thinks they can disrupt my class.” As Harry took his seat, the Gryffindors groaned.
While Professor Snape continued to list the various crimes that were punishable by detention, you began to play with the corners of the pages in your potion-making book. His voice was steady. You lifted the pages. His voice was precise. You let the pages cascade against your fingers. He sounded firm. You plunged your fingers between the pages. He sounded soothing. Your fingers recoiled. Perhaps it was the hours you had spent listening attentively to the Potions professor over the years that caused you to find the sharp tones in his voice soothing.
The room was momentarily silent between the end of Snape’s speech and the beginning of his instruction.
“Instructions for Draft of the Living Dead will be found on page 10 of your books,” Snape’s sharp voice pierced the cold silence. “You may begin.”
You shuffled through a mass of students pressing towards the wall that shelved the ingredients. You turned to page 10 as you waited your turn, scanning the list of necessary ingredients for this particular concoction. Infusion of wormwood, powdered root of asphodel, sloth brain, and sopophorous beans.
After collecting them you returned to your table. It was littered with beakers and vials. In solidarity amid the chaos stood a pewter cauldron. You got to work straight away. You mixed, poured and stirred. With the marks you received on your Potions practical at the end of term last year, you knew this would be a breeze.
You took some liberty with the strict guidelines provided by the book. The secret to your success in Potions lies in your ability to improve upon existing direction. In the Potions classroom you were an artist. An artist didn’t need rules to create something beautiful.
You finished brewing your Draft of the Living Dead long before class was scheduled to end. After attempting to provide some assistance to the other students seated at your table, you reclined in your chair and closed your eyes. Bubbling brews burst in the bellies of students’ cauldrons. A smoky vapor drifted from the flaring flames that heated the concoctions. The once frigid and stale air was now alive with the sounds and scents of potion-making.
You were snatched suddenly from your trance by the heavy sound of footsteps coming towards you. Your stomach fluttered and your cheeks felt warm. It was Professor Snape, who you desperately hoped was unaware that you had nearly dozed off. He stood tall over you, eyeing your potion. His expressionless features and strong presence were almost calming.
“Excellent work, Miss [Last name],” Snape cooed quietly to you before dismissing the class, interrupting any realisations you were having about how it made you feel to be near him. Though you had become accustomed to being praised by the Potions professor, its significance was never lost on you. Praise coming from someone who sought only to critique was a high compliment.
Relieved that Professor Snape was unaware of your momentary mental absence, you rushed to pack your things.