Chapter 5

Severus Snape was not a good teacher.

He was certainly proficient in his field of potions, there was no denying that. But merely being good at something and being able to instruct others in doing so were very different things.

I did wonder—when I had the time to reflect on it—why the man had such a difficulty in passing his considerable knowledge on to his students. I knew that his Occlumency lessons had failed due to an abiding irrational hatred of Harry, but that didn't apply to every student. Harry held his own biases against the man though, and Snape had actually proved to be an effective—if harsh—instructor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, from what little I could recall. Perhaps it was a matter of frustration at being exiled to teaching in the dungeons, denied his post of choice?

For whatever reason, I soon began to lose what little lead I'd managed to gain in Potions. My background reading was keeping me abreast of the theory side of the class, but the practical side was a different story. There was a reason why I'd never pursued any practical crafting subject in school. However hard I tried, I was somewhat clumsy and slow. My movements were careful when I paid attention, but I would never be able to slice and dice my ingredients as swiftly as my fellow students. The stirrer would slip from my fingers and vanish into the depths of my cauldron if I wasn't careful. That and a hundred things threatened to trip me up and earn me Snape's ire and they only became more likely as I hurried and rushed.

The only solution that I could see—as I doubted Snape would accept my 'excuses'—was to seek additional practical work. And to do would likely involve seeking the aid of another student.

"Professor McGonagall, could I speak with you a moment?"

The Transfiguration professor was still my favourite teacher, in a way. She was too professional to show any degree of favouritism in class, but she was always willing to listen to any additional queries I had. As was the case now as I approached her following another interesting Transfiguration lesson.

"Of course, Stevens. Are you still keeping up with your additional reading?" Professor McGonagall smiled, open and welcoming. For all that she had a stern reputation, I'd never found her too intimidating. One of the privileges of being a teacher's pet, I suppose.

"I am, but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm on the section covering more advanced applications of Switching spells at the moment and I think I'm understanding it," I said, forcing myself to smile slightly. Expressions didn't always come naturally but I tried to make the effort to emote properly when talking to people. "I actually wanted to ask about whether or not students were allowed to practice outside of class? I'm beginning to run into difficulties in one of my classes and wanted to know if I'd be allowed to do extra work to try and keep up."

"Well, that depends on the subject really." McGonagall frowned, but it seemed more thoughtful than forbidding. "Generally you'd ask the teacher in that subject though and if you've been having any troubles in Transfiguration then you've been keeping them exceptionally well hidden. Moreover, students are not only permitted to hone their Transfiguration skills outside of class, we encourage you to do so. I believe the Charms department has the same policy."

"Well, the class I'm having trouble with is Potions, which is a bit... messier than normal spellwork. And Professor Snape is a bit... intimidating," I said, not quite able to meet Professor McGonagall's eyes. I'd eventually learnt in my first life that I would be better off admitting I was struggling and asking for help than trying to struggle through by myself but I still didn't like doing so. Asking McGonagall as opposed to Snape was the best compromise that I could come up with.

Thankfully, the Professor seemed to understand and was nodding slowly when I dared to glance at her again.

"Yes, Severus can be less than accommodating at times. To answer your question, I believe the typical policy on out-of-class potions brewing is that you must get it signed off on by a teacher and be adequately supervised. If you leave it with me, I'll ask if any of the older students would be willing to tutor you." Professor McGonagall sighed. "To be perfectly honest, you are not the first student that's come to me looking for help with Potions after either being rebuffed by Professor Snape or been too scared to approach him. I've raised the matter with the Headmaster, but he maintains that Severus just needs time."

Starting slightly, Professor McGonagall glanced somewhat guiltily at me.

"But I have complete confidence in my colleague's competence of course and you didn't hear that from me."

"Of course, Professor," I said, swallowing a completely unbidden grin that was entirely inappropriate to the situation. Adults occasionally forgot they were talking to a child when speaking with me. Every now and then there'd be a slip and they'd mention something like Professor McGonagall had. It had happened a few times with my various carers too and may have been one of the reasons why some of them had been glad to see the back of me. Hopefully, I could avoid alienating Professor McGonagall in the same way.

"Thank you, Professor, I'm sorry for the bother," I said, bobbing my head and picking up my bag to leave the room.

"It's no trouble, Stevens," McGonagall said, smiling again. "Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it, as the Headmaster is fond of saying. Don't let me keep you now, I'll let you know when I've found someone willing to tutor you."

—tN—tN—tN—

Professor McGonagall came through a few days later and arranged a ground floor classroom to practice in twice a week and a fifth-year student to supervise. And that was how I met my first non-teacher-or-shopkeeper-named canon character.

"So, McGonagall said you wanted a hand with Potions?" Bill Weasley said, flashing a lazy grin as he set his bag down on a clear table.

The ground floor classrooms—or at least the one I was in—had solid flagstones for floors in place of the polished wood, plush carpet or—and I swear I had to check twice to be sure—shiny linoleum of the upper floors, which was probably why I'd been given one for potions work. I'd arrived a bit ahead of time and set up a cauldron in the middle of the floor—moving a few desks out of the way first—and had been in the middle of setting out my ingredients when the eldest son of the Weasley clan had walked in.

His robes were somewhat worn and ill-fitting but clean and well-cared for, as opposed to his bright red hair which was almost shoulder length and beginning to tangle. There was nothing worn about his smiling, freckled, face though. It was open, friendly and possibly even a touch mischievous.

"Ye—Yeah. Thanks for helping, Mr Weasley," I said, stuttering a bit and probably being overly formal. Bill laughed and waved one hand airily.

"You can drop the 'Mister', I'm not my father. No need to be so stiff."

"Ah, sorry—"

"And no need to apologise, seriously. I'm a student, not a teacher. I'm not even a senior student."

"Aren't you doing your OWLs this year though?" I asked, noting the prefect badge attached to the front of Bill's robes and rapidly trying to place him on the timeline.

"Yep, twelve of them. That's for me to worry about though, not you, so just focus on potions. I've got time to spare, trust me."

Twelve OWLs, time to spare... I resisted the urge to join in with grinning at what Bill probably thought was a private joke. He must have a time-turner like Hermione would get and was evidently having less trouble using it than she had.

Bill had brought some of his OWL textbooks to read through while I worked through most of the potion by myself. He was only there to intervene if something went wrong or if I had a question. I had wondered how that would fly with Health and Safety regulations under Muggle laws but put it aside as one of the things that wizards paid less attention to. Or maybe my diligence in keeping safe in class normally was counting as a mark in my favour. I didn't really need to know, so I didn't ask.

Along with his textbooks, Bill had brought a selection of ingredients requisitioned from the Potions stores, for which I was grateful.

Just before starting the brewing, I pulled out the mechanical stopwatch I'd brought with me from the home. It had been broken when I'd first found it but a quick Reparo had put it back in working order. As an added bonus, the lack of any electronic components meant it was fully usable even in Hogwarts.

I set the stopwatch working and began brewing.

—tN—tN—tN—

"So, if you don't mind me asking, why did you go looking for additional Potions lessons?" Bill asked during my third session with him. "I mean, you have a better grasp on the theory than most first-years and don't tend to make mistakes. Even that incident last week was because there were worms in the seeds I grabbed. Aside from that, you've brewed each potion nearly perfectly, even predicting the effects of making simple variations from the recipe."

"And how long does it take me?" I asked, nodding my head towards my stopwatch, set up in its usual spot next to the cauldron. I'd just finished brewing a Wideye Potion that had passed Bill's brief examination with flying colours and was in the middle of bottling doses of the potion to use later.

"Well, we started a little over an hour and a half ago so... Oh. You'd only barely be able to finish it in a double period of Potions. You wouldn't be able to do it at all if you messed up or got sabotaged at some point. You're a bit slow at brewing then, that's what has you worried?"

I nodded, keeping my eyes on the bottles of potion and working out how to explain myself best.

"It's, it's a bit more than that. I don't move as, as fast as most people. As in, I can run or walk just fine, but when it comes to stuff like writing or brewing... I'm slow. It's hard to explain."

"Have you gone to Madam Pomfrey? You might be ill or cursed or something. I've never heard of anything like that, but I suppose it could happen..."

Bill trailed off as I shook my head furiously.

"No, I know what's wro— I mean, what the cause is. I might actually go and see Madam Pomfrey about it, maybe magic has thought of something Muggles haven't. Anyway, it's... an effect of something called autism. It's pretty misunderstood even among Muggles, though maybe there's a different name for it here?

"Put simply, it's what some Muggle doctors call a developmental disorder. The effects can vary from person to person, but a common one is poor motor skills and coordination. Some things can help, like being more familiar and confident with the required task but sometimes the best you can do is to try and organise things so you have more time to get things done. I'm pretty smart, I think, but my handwriting is awful unless I focus and I write very slowly compared to many of my classmates, though less so here. Quills are a bit slower to write with than ballpoint pens regardless.

"I can keep up in classes at the moment because I study and practice more and make fewer mistakes than most of my classmates. That way, nobody notices that I take a bit longer to get some things done. Potions... Once the potions get more complex, with more components to handle and more finicky timing, I'm going to start struggling to get them finished at all. So I asked Professor McGonagall if I could get some extra practice in. That way, even if I can't learn how to brew potions properly in class, I'll still know how to make them."

I petered off, anxious. I wasn't used to making long explanations out loud. Bill was a good listener and hadn't judged me for my occasional blindspots in our previous sessions together. If I hadn't been pretty comfortable working with him already, I would probably have lied or made an excuse to not talk about it. Being honest felt better, especially since Bill was such a nice guy.

"I see..." Bill said after a moment. "I can't say that I've heard of anything like that before but I think I know of a few other students that were like that. They knew their stuff but always struggled to get things done in class. I'd say to talk to Madam Pomfrey. She might have some sort of cure—" I tried not to flinch. "—or at least know of some sort of accommodations the school might be able to make. Though you might want to take that one to Dumbledore, where Potions is concerned. I have a feeling that Snape mightn't be as understanding."

Actually, given that Snape was Muggle-raised—if not Muggle-born—he might well understand the issue, though possibly not to a sufficient degree of nuance. Given his already-established inability as an educator—not to mention that his background probably wasn't common knowledge—I held my tongue.

"But, more than that, I'm impressed," Bill said, continuing over my thoughts. "By the sounds of things you've got a better handle on what you're doing than most OWL students I know. Most people are worried about exams and tests, but you're thinking ahead to when you might actually have to brew potions and need to be able to brew them properly. Impressive maturity and perspective for a first-year."

I'd had to bite my tongue just a few too many times so far in this conversation. Of course, I was more mature than the average first-year, I was older than any student in the school. Mentally, anyway. I had a sinking feeling that my emotional state was less well-balanced though. Puberty would not be fun.

"So give me a shout if you ever need a hand. I'm a Prefect, I'm here to help. Even with OWLs coming up, I promise I'll make the time to give you whatever extra practice you need. I'll talk to McGonagall too if Snape gives you grief."

Bill Weasley, I decided, was entirely too good a person. I'd almost forgive him the constant time-related puns he kept slipping into the conversation.

—tN—tN—tN—

Madam Pomfrey hadn't been able to help. She knew what I was talking about and was fairly familiar with autism but there wasn't anything she could tell me that I didn't already know.

I thanked her and went about the rest of my Saturday. While I was in the Hospital Wing I'd also gotten confirmation that fixing damaged eyesight was more complicated than I remembered it being in the Muggle world. Perhaps things would change in a few decades but I was stuck wearing glasses in the meantime.

Talking to a medical professional—albeit of the magical variety—had reminded me of something else that had completely slipped my mind. I was out of shape. I wasn't terribly bad, but my natural skinniness was showing. Before, I'd cobbled together a relatively basic routine of workouts to raise my fitness to an acceptable level but in the rush to train myself magically, I'd let them fall by the wayside. I doubted that my physical strength would have much bearing on my magical ability but... It would help with my dexterity and coordination. My reflexes and stamina too. As the saying goes 'A sound soul dwells within a sound mind and a sound body'. I couldn't do much about my mental health unless I could find a therapist who could be trusted not to freak out about the whole 'from another world where all of this is fictional' thing but my body was within my ability to work on.

The Room of Requirement was, once more, everything I could have hoped for. Which was—if I was being honest—sort of the point of a room that becomes whatever you need.

I hadn't had much in mind beyond a soft floor with a few weights. What I got was several complete sets of weights, some pull-up bars, an exercise mat the size of my dorm room, a pitcher of cool water and a wardrobe with some garish-but-serviceable exercise clothing. And—once more—the Room had given me a bookcase, this one containing a number of guides on fitness and wellbeing. I was beginning to suspect that it was learning my preferences... Or maybe I was just overthinking it. Probably that.

Making doubly sure that the door was locked and nobody was going to walk in on my while exercising—or worse, while changing—I shrugged out of my school robes and tugged on the exercise clothing.

Half an hour later I gulped down another glass of water, greedy for the refreshment. My limbs were aching and wobbly, barely supporting me through my attempts at cooldown stretches. Hopefully, I'd avoided injuring them.

Slipping back to my dorm I detoured into the bathroom and showered quickly. None of my roommates was around to ask about my sudden sweatiness, for which I was grateful.

I had a long way to go before I could call myself fit again. But, for the moment, I slept soundly for the first time in years.

—tN—tN—tN—

I had gathered—from various novels—that British secondary schools often prided themselves on a particular sport. Some schools had rugby teams, other had soccer, others had... Other sports that I didn't know the names of.

Hogwarts had Quidditch. Hogwarts only had Quidditch.

Strictly speaking, the class was on flying, but nobody was under any illusions about what the purpose was. Broomsticks were a popular means of transport among wizards and witches, to be sure, but in Hogwarts students learned to fly to try and get on their House teams.

Most of them, anyway. I was a little preoccupied with not falling off my broom. While there was something to be said for the roller-coaster thrill of hurtling through the air, I had never actually been very fond of roller-coasters. My stomach lurched and swooped as the carts had climbed and dived, never letting me be comfortable enough to enjoy the ride.

And broomsticks didn't even have the near-guarantee of safety that amusement park rides had. A student had to be sent to the Hospital Wing with broken bones every other class. Sometimes several students, if there'd been a collision.

I was improving, slowly. Every lesson, I forced myself to fly a little higher, to complete Madam Hooch's drills a little quicker. I at least took some solace in that my form was good if a little stiff. Madam Hooch had greenlit me for some free-flying at the end of each lesson, a privilege only granted to those who had both proved moderate proficiency and avoided messing about in her sight.

Every lesson I urged my broom a little higher than before and stared at the ground until I couldn't bear it any more. It was a curious contradiction in me... I hated the feeling of flight. I was terrified of being too far above the ground, even when I wasn't in any danger of falling. But I still loathed being stuck to the ground.

It wasn't like the feeling of being caught between two uncomfortable situations was new to me. But still, I kept at it, swearing that I'd conquer my fears and discomfort.

If I couldn't ride a stupid broom, how could I hope to survive a fight with a Death Eater?