A/N: Contrary to my own wishes, there will be no 'lemons' in this story. Chapters will be published sporadically. Suggestions and comments are more than welcome. :) I don't believe that Severus is a bad guy. If it makes you feel better, put this in a totally AU.

My entire life changed that year at Hogwarts. I was going into my seventh year. My major was going to be Portrait Art Education. The interesting thing about art in the wizarding world is that it takes a very, very long time to perfect your pigments. To enchant them just so in order to mimic minutely the mannerisms of the person or thing you are creating is the second or third most difficult job in the wizarding world

(after being an Auror).

You need to know, in some intimate way, your subject. It takes true artistry, even with magic, to create a portrait.

Even with this as my main focus, potions played a huge role in my education. Each pigment is like an individual potion, made on a minuscule scale. Being a perfectionist, it took every free moment I had between classes, at lunch and before bed in order to have a full enough understanding to say I truly knew potions.

Even so, it was never enough.

Due to the fact that art was not a legitimate course at the school but rather a club run by the librarian's life partner

(and the most interesting thing they made were singing beaded bracelets),

Potions consumed my life. Often, on weekends, I'd sit under the cool gaze of Professor Severus

(we had come to a first-name basis by my seventh year and he considered me a misplaced Slytherin Prefect)

and I would slave and slave over a pot until my face was flushed and my hair singed at the very ends. I would thank the professor with a vial of my best brew and slink back to the Ravenclaw tower to absorb more information from my library of books.

Cauldrons are Constant
Charred Child's Play
Potions through the Ages
Blue versus White: The Difference of a Few Degrees
'What's the Expiration Date on Stewed Newt?' and Other Questions on Ingredients

Unbeknownst to me, every time I came down early to set up burners and stands, I pushed a dazed man further into hell. Every accidental bump, every brush of a finger sent him spiraling into a torment even Dante's Inferno would envy. Two weeks before Christmas break, a near-full week after my 18th birthday, a giddy laugh at an unintended joke broke the camel's back.

"You know, Piroska..." he drawled slowly.

My eyes widened for a brief, terrified moment and then my face was blank. Something deep within me knew his intent and quivered in fear.

"I've been meaning to ask you for some help with something. It's been long overdue..." His voice seemed to ooze something slimy, something perverted, but his words were demure. "The shelves in this room need organizing and cataloging, but it is a most tedious process. I am requesting your assistance with the matter." Something malicious gleamed in his eye and just as quickly disappeared.

The cool feeling in the room and in his gaze was gone. In its place was a humid, red fog that seemed to swell up in my lungs and in his eyes. Students pushed past me to their seats while I stood, lips pursed white and goose flesh racing across my neck. Something almost rational within me cried

"HE'S A PROFESSOR FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. HE CAN'T HARM YOU HERE. HE'S A PROFESSOR."

But the red fog seeped up around the words, even so. With a grip so hard my own nails broke skin, I sighed out the words.

"Anything you need, Professor. I'm your girl."

His sneer shut that 'rational' bitch inside my head right up. He licked his lips and I knew my mistake was real.