Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in this story (more's the pity--they could help pay my student loans) except for Eve Berger. Nor did I come up with the plot of PoA, and the scenes and dialogue included in that fab book, which I humbly reproduce at certain points herein. All that belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury, Raincoast, Scholastic...the list goes on!
A/N: As ever, thanks to my beta, Joan (aka HyacinthMacaw), who has also become my chapter-uploader (at least till I update Netscape or get things to work with Explorer).
The description of Snape in the first paragraph was inspired by a drawing by Nasubionna. You'll have to do a Google search on her name, as FFN REALLY does not like URLs and I apparently can't even just type it in (grrrr). Anyway, it's worth the effort. Her artworks and interpretations of the characters are absolutely brilliant. Take a look at her work, you won't be disappointed!
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Chapter Six: Beakers, Broomsticks & Sirius Black
Snape sat at his desk as the Slytherin and Gryffindor first-years filed in that Wednesday morning, his elbows resting on the desktop, fingers steepled as he stared at them beadily. He watched each one, mentally trying to recall any familiar family names as the Gryffindors seated themselves, playing his usual start-of-term game as he tried to predict which, if any, of them might actually be able to hack it in his class. He had a few Slytherins in mind, but the Gryffindors all looked nervous and shaky, particularly the much-discussed Miss Berger.
She looked rather uncomfortable as she crept into the dungeon, casting one fleeting, wary glance at him before taking a seat near the back. Snape couldn't decide whether her seat choice was made as a courtesy to the smaller students, so she wouldn't block their view, or because she was hoping to hide in the shadows near the back. He figured it was probably the former, but fervently hoped it was the latter. He'd often found that those who want to escape notice are the best to single out, and he had no intention of letting Miss Berger hide in his class.
No doubt she has some feeling that she's above taking classes with eleven-year-olds, or that she'll be able to breeze through this, Snape thought. Well, there hasn't been a student yet that I couldn't correct in that assumption. A slight sneer curled at his lips. Yes, this year would be interesting indeed.
Snape waited until everyone had entered, freezing any whispered conversation with a cold glance around the room before taking the roll. The names snapped off his tongue, his voice laden with disdain, before he finally placed the sheet of parchment on his desk and scanned the faces of his class. When he spoke, his voice was soft, silky, and deadly cold; the voice of someone who is all the more frightening and intimidating because they aren't yelling. He had often found that a rather potent weapon as well.
Some of you, no doubt, will wonder why potions are even considered magic, as you will never use your wands and there are absolutely no fancy phrases for you to speak. Indeed I expect most of you will never see the magic inherent in liquids and concoctions that infiltrate the mind and body, cheating the senses and subtly--or not so subtly--altering the brain's function. But for those with even half a grain of sense and talent, I can teach you to create potions more effective, more devious and even more dangerous than many of those melodramatic spells. That is, if you're not the usual bunch of dunderheads that I'm saddled with for the next seven years.
He paused a moment, letting the students squirm in their seats, looking around at the class as though he was looking for his first victim. In fact he had already chosen the first student to call on, had made that decision before class had begun. He was determined to show Miss Berger from the beginning that no matter her age or education, to him she was another ignorant first-year student, and that he wouldn't take kindly to any insubordination or threats to his authority over the class. If she was at all inclined to be snarky or a know-it-all, he wanted to squash that instinct from the beginning.
All he really had to do was to choose which of the stock questions he would ask. He had about five or so that he asked classes on the first day of every year, usually chosen from well into One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi and Magical Draughts and Potions, so that it was unlikely they would be able to answer them. That, too, he found useful, to single out any of the most cocky- (non-Slytherin of course) or nervous-looking students. They were the ones he figured needed the most toughening up, who needed his little doses of reality. And he had to admit, deep down, that it was also the most fun to make those students squirm.
Miss Berger! He saw her blink behind her wire-rimmed glasses at the sharpness of his address, and even in the dim light of the dungeons, he could see a flush come to her cheeks. Can you tell me one use of dittander?
She twisted her lips and looked upward briefly, as though trying to remember. Finally she replied, I don't know, sir, in a soft voice.
Fine, then, can you name how to store bats' fangs?
Snape saw her give a small gulp. No doubt she was wondering when he'd stop questioning her and draw the class' attention away from her. I don't remember, sir, she said, colouring a little more.
He sneered more openly, and he could see some of the Slytherins--and even some of the Gryffindors, much to his surprise--sniggering slightly.
One last opportunity, Miss Berger. What is the more common name for digitalis?
He saw the light appear on her face, and inwardly heaved a sigh. Damn, looked like she knew this one.
Foxglove, sir, she said, her chin lifting slightly.
At least your education has taught you something useful, he sneered, and watched as she turned a little redder and her eyes hardened slightly. Ah, did I touch a nerve there, Miss Berger? Not entirely the shy violet are we? So you do have a bit of a temper... He was glad of that, actually. He found those students that merely cowered before him rather annoying, really, Neville Longbottom being a perfect example. And a small dose of temper would serve his students well in the real world, particularly when the Dark Lord returned to power. Though most people preferred to think that he was dead and gone, Snape was of a different opinion. He was certain that someday, the Dark Lord would resurface, and it was all the better if people were prepared for the battle to come.
Snape directed the class' attention to the potion recipe on the blackboard and told them to copy it down before fetching the ingredients from the students' supply cupboard and preparing the potion, a simple draught for curing boils. It usually proved an effective barometer of the students' potion-making abilities.
He walked up and down the rows as the students worked, taking a look at their method and making a few caustic comments. He purposely saved his kindest comments for the members of his house, though his words to them were still hardly what most people would call . He wanted to get these children on his side from the very beginning, get them to trust him so that later he may be able to influence their decision over which side to take. Even if that meant isolating them from the other houses--though he was hardly needed for that. It had long been that Hogwarts was effectively split into two camps: Slytherins and everyone else. He well remembered from his own years as a student that the Slytherins were almost universally loathed by the rest of the students. He couldn't deny that his own treatment of the other houses as a teacher was partly retribution for that, though he more often chose to explain it as his attempt to make them hardened to the struggles they would have to face later.
As he passed Eve's table, he took a careful look at her while appearing to be looking at the potion of the students sitting in front of her. She was meticulous, and was probably more accurate than most of the other students when it came to measuring out the ingredients, taking care that the meniscus of the nettle oil was precisely on the measuring line and that all her weights were accurate to the gram. But that was probably more because she had experience with those things from her Muggle Chemistry courses than because of any latent potions talent. And her potion appeared to be more of a leafy green colour than the dark emerald green that it should be. No, it looked that Miss Eve Berger, B.A., was as much of a dunce as his other students. He wasn't entirely sure whether that was a pleasure or a disappointment.
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The next couple of weeks were rather rough for Eve, as she settled into a new routine, tried to remember the names of people in her classes and fitted tutoring time into her schedule with most of her teachers. In fact, by the start of the third week of classes, she had extra time scheduled with all of her teachers except for Snape and Madam Hooch. She was unlikely to have extra time with Hooch when they started flying lessons, as the course was only for first-years. But Snape was another story. While most of the professors had approached Eve fairly quickly about extra time, he had made no such move, and Eve was loath to approach him. She would have been nervous about going up to any of her teachers and making that request, but Snape particularly so. Potions was rapidly becoming the worst class in her week, merely due to the instructor. While the stories she'd heard about how he treated Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom were much worse than he treated her, he still seemed to be going out of his way to make her time at Hogwarts a difficult one.
It didn't help that after the first week of classes his mood had done a sharp downward swing. Apparently Neville Longbottom had made a boggart change into Professor Snape, the wearing Neville's grandmother's clothes. That tale had been the source of much laughter in the school, and Snape had definitely not appreciated the humour, becoming even more ascerbic, if that was indeed possible.
It was during the third week of classes that the notice about the start of flying lessons went up, and Eve looked at it with trepidation. They were scheduled to have it with the Ravenclaws on Wednesday mornings; right after Potions.
Wonderful, Eve thought, Now I'll be able to look a right twit on a broom right after I look a right twit with a cauldron. She remembered how nervous she'd been learning to drive, each outing an exercise in nerve as well as driving skills. She hated to fail at anything, and even more so, to have someone leaning over her shoulder, watching what she was doing. That plus the fact that she was now in sole control of a heavy, potentially dangerous (in certain hands) vehicle had made her a very nervous student driver. But once she'd got used to it, she loved to drive; it just took a while for her to get comfortable with doing it.
She assumed it would be much the same with learning to fly. After all, being able to fly...well, that was something amazing, wasn't it? To actually be floating above the ground, like an insect or a bird... In some ways, she couldn't wait to actually do it.
But flying added another fear to the mix. Eve wasn't particularly fond of heights, particularly when she wasn't boxed in by a very secure railing. Floating fifty feet in mid-air, with one's legs wrapped around an inch-thick piece of wood...well, that was in the Things Humans Were Not Meant To Do category.
Despite this, Eve still found herself standing next to a broomstick on the Hogwarts grounds the next Wednesday morning. Madam Hooch watched all of the first years beadily, no doubt waiting for someone to try and show that they already knew how to fly--or thought they did. Now class, I want you to hold your hand over your brooms and say, Up!' firmly. Go ahead.
There was a nearly unified chorus of from the students, though few brooms actually rose at the command. Eve's lifted a little, then dropped back to the ground, as though it wasn't sure that it wanted to fly either. Eve tried to sound more firm with it on the next few tries, but her broom simply rolled about on the ground a little.
Getting mightily frustrated and not a little embarrassed, Eve barked, and finally the broom rose to her hand. She took a look around the class, glad to see that there were about ten or twelve others that were still attempting to get their brooms to rise.
Once everyone had their brooms hovering beside them, they were ordered to mount them and get a firm grip on the handle, while Hooch walked up and down the row, making sure they were properly positioned. Eve managed to mount her broom without looking too undignified and grasped her broomstick tightly.
Hooch gave the order to attempt to hover for a moment before touching back down and Eve gave a slight push off the ground. As if it finally had confidence in her, the broomstick obeyed and lifted slightly, pulling her feet about a foot off the ground. Eve couldn't believe it: she was airborne! She could feel a rush of adrenaline at the thrill of it, though inside she had to admit that she wouldn't like to go much higher than she was at the moment, or at least, not yet.
Touching down again after a moment was almost disappointing. She didn't want to have her feet firmly on the ground again. But once everyone had been able to hover once, Madam Hooch let them practice low-level, stationery hovering on their own for the rest of the class, keeping a sharp eye on them to make sure no one decided to take off. Eve spent more time hovering than she did on the ground, unable to resist swinging her feet a little, as though to reinforce the fact that they weren't touching anything.
Class ended all too soon, but Eve had to admit that it hadn't been as bad as she expected. In fact, she couldn't wait for the next lesson, even if she had to go through Potions class to get there.
With all her classes and extra tutoring the weeks flew by, September passing to October with dizzying speed. In early October, the whole school started to buzz with excitement about something called , when try-out notices were pinned up in the house common rooms. Eve had to endure yet another set of shocked stares from her housemates when she innocently asked what Quidditch was at dinner one evening. Apparently this was another thing that she was supposed to know about. Her question was greeted with the usual Greek Chorus of answers, as three of the first-years as well as Fred and George Weasley attempted to explain the game to her. It sounded interesting, if confusing. George assured her that it would seem much less puzzling when she actually saw a match.
The first match was to be in November, Gryffindor against Slytherin, though there was some doubt about that, as the Slytherin Seeker, Draco Malfoy, had been injured in an accident with a rogue Hippogriff during the first week of term. It seemed to be common consensus amongst the students, however, that Malfoy was playing up his injury to try and get Hagrid in trouble. Eve hoped he wouldn't succeed. First years didn't take Care of Magical Creatures, but Hagrid was always nice to her when he ran into her on the grounds or in the halls. Besides, Malfoy was a jerk. She'd heard him make some snide comments about her as they passed each other in the hallway, though she found it hard to take offence at insults thrown by someone almost ten years her junior. She was embarrassed about being singled out, of course, but his comments lacked the power to hurt. Only the teachers and oldest students could do that.
As if Quidditch wasn't enough for people to talk about, the first Hogsmeade weekend was set for Halloween, and Eve was looking forward to the opportunity to get off the Hogwarts grounds for a while and explore the town nearby. She overheard excited conversations about the stores in Hogsmeade, and couldn't wait to visit Honeydukes' or the Three Broomsticks with the other students.
In the meantime, schoolwork was keeping her busy. Most nights after dinner she would retreat to her room to work, not joining the other Gryffindors in the common room. She found it too distracting down there, with all the laughing, arguing and chatting going on, and as she had no particular friends to see there she didn't bother going. Some of the students were friendly enough. Fred and George always made her laugh with their antics, and no one was outright hostile. But the age difference made things difficult. She really had nothing in common with the younger students, and the older ones already had their little groups of friends.
Sometimes, staring out her window late at night with Erik purring in her lap, she had to wonder if she had made the right decision to come to Hogwarts. Could there have been another way that she could learn to control her powers without having to spend her days in relative isolation, constantly wondering if she would ever improve enough for her teachers' satisfaction? She was doing pretty well in History of Magic, but in her other subjects she still found herself doing only about average. She'd always been able to do better than average, even in university. Was she really doing the right thing?
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Halloween came, and everyone eligible was eagerly looking forward to the trip into Hogsmeade. After lunch, Eve joined the line of older students waiting to have their names ticked off by Filch, the castle caretaker, before heading out the main doors and down the path to the village. As they passed the Dementors at the gate, Eve shivered and quickened her step, trying to pass them as quickly as possible. Professor Lupin had explained the Dementors to her Defence Against the Dark Arts class, and mentioned that chocolate was the best remedy for their effects. Eve made a mental note to go to Honeydukes' first and buy something made of chocolate to soothe her slightly frazzled nerves.
The walk into the village took about fifteen or twenty minutes, everyone looking around at the fall colours. It was crisp and cool, a clear fall day.
Once they reached the High Street, Eve followed the largest crowd of students to Honeydukes, buying a couple Chocolate Frogs and Sugar Quills, popping a frog in her mouth before visiting any of the other shops. She went to the local stationer's first, picking up more parchment and ink (her extra assignments meant that her supply was running rather low), then headed to the bookshop, where she browsed for more than an hour. They had a display of magical murder mysteries written by a witch named Ann Paré, which the shop assistant madly enthused over when she saw Eve inspecting the back covers. Eve hadn't had a new fiction book in a while; all the reading she'd been doing of late were for her courses, or books about modern events in wizardry, so that she wouldn't have to ask her fellow students what they were talking about so much. She figured she could afford a small splurge, and picked up the first two books in the series.
She wandered around a few more of the shops, finding a yarn store just down from the bookshop, much to her delight. Another thing she hadn't been doing much of lately was knitting, and as she figured her grandmother would want a scarf in Gryffindor colours for Christmas, she selected some wool in the appropriate colours.
Her last stop was The Three Broomsticks, to take a load off her feet and try some of the Butterbeer that she'd heard so much about. From first taste she could see why people always mentioned it: it was steaming hot, sweet and absolutely delicious, warming her down to her toes for the walk back.
She arrived back just in time to drop off her purchases in her room before heading down to the Halloween feast. Eve gaped as she entered the hall, looking in awe at the floating, candle-lit jack-o'-lanterns drifting under orange streamers, with live bats ducking and swooping around them. The food was as plentiful and extravagant as at the Welcoming Feast, with hundreds of cakes and squares and tons of candy for pudding. The school ghosts did formation gliding to end the evening, and when she finally stood from the table, Eve felt that all she'd be able to do once she got to her room was flop in bed and go to sleep.
But as she neared the entrance to Gryffindor tower, she saw a sizeable crowd of students ahead, all staring at the portrait guarding the opening to the tower. As she neared it, she could see over the heads of the younger students what the hold-up was, and gasped.
The Fat Lady had fled, the canvas of her painting covered in long, violent slashes, pieces of canvas littering the floor.