Chapter Text
For Hermoine, the new schoolyear started off ripe with promise. She was determined to excel once again, and with a new, hopefully better, Defence Against the Dark Arts professor – things were looking up. And as a cherry on top, during the first Potions class, professor Snape announced that he now had an assistant.
“Professor Dumbledore and I have come to an agreement,” he said it like it disgusted him, “to allow students to use this classroom outside of classes, to practice potions for the final exam. To make this go smoothly, I have appointed an assistant.”
Murmurs started in the back of the class. He swiftly ended those with a sharp stare.
“Groups of maximum four students can schedule a timeslot with her. Use of ingredients also goes through her. I strongly urge you to make use of this opportunity, since some of you seem to forget you need an Outstanding in this class to succeed in your O.W.L.s. Only the best can take Advanced Potions classes next year. Class dismissed.”
Image
The word spread fast. Hermoine wasn’t the only hopeful student wanting to make use of this new opportunity and the timeslots filled up fast in the first week (as long as it didn’t clash with quidditch practice). What spread even faster, was that the new assistant was a cold-hearted and impatient young woman, named miss Medea Pimpelmees, and was almost as bad as Snape. The buzzing enthusiasm to improve Potion grades faded quick.
For Snape, it was easy to refer to her, so he didn’t have to deal with students himself, but for the students it was a puzzle. She was never at the place they expected her to be, so finding her was the first obstacle. Then there was hoping she was in a good enough mood to let them write their name on the sheet – at times it laid prominently on the desk while she simply said she didn’t have the parchment with her and they’d better come back another time.
After that step was completed, and it was time for brewing, she guarded the ingredients closely. When you needed something from the stores, there was a chance she’d give you something else, purely to mess with you. “Should’ve paid more attention and you’d know what horklump juice looks like,” was all she’d say, barely hiding the meanness on her face.
“Miss Pimpelmees, it says here we need wormwood, but there’s not any left,” said Neville, steeling himself, looking down at his feet in front of the desk where the new assistant sat.
She glanced up at him, “Wormwood? I could’ve sworn I refilled the vials yesterday.”
Standing up, she pulled Neville’s hand towards her, almost yanking the poor boy over her desk, to examine the empty vial, then went to the shelf to look for the rest of the supply.
“There really is none,” she muttered. “I’ll have to bring this up with Professor Snape. Thank you Neville. If it isn’t too late for your schedule, you may practice another potion. Amortentia doesn’t have wormwood as one of its ingredients.”
“But miss, what about the group after ours?” asked Neville.
She waved him off. “They’ll just have to wait. And I will have to search for the wormwood thief.” The venom in her voice returned at the mention of the thief.
Once back at his table, Neville barely sat down before Harry and Ron leaned towards him.
“What’s gotten into her? She hates us.”
“Do you think it’s some sort of trick? That she’s secretly telling Snape?” said Ron.
“I think she likes Neville,” Hermoine said, already cleaning up the remains of their failed wormwood-less potion.
Image
And so it became that when a group had to put their name down on the list, or had to ask for specific ingredients, they sent Neville.
“Please, just this once?” begged a fifth year Hufflepuff. “I’ll do your Charms homework for the rest of the week!”
“You said that last time,” said Neville, begrudgingly. It did sound lovely to be able to go to Hogsmeade during the weekend with less homework to be done. “I can’t promise anything.”
“Thank you so much, Neville!” and they ran off with a bright smile.
“Why won’t you let us make Amortentia?” asked Draco, during one of the sessions he booked with Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy. The golden trio and Neville sat at the other end of the classroom. The way Draco seized up the new assistant, it was clear he looked to play a prank, ready to push and prod until getting a reaction.
Not looking up from her book, she said: “I hardly think a guy like you should need it, do you?”
Satisfied with the answer, Draco looked at the other table, wearing a triumphant smile.
“A Wit-Sharpening Potion might prove useful instead,” she said, which wiped the smirk off his face. The snickers at the Gryffindor table were silenced similarly quickly by a sharp glare. The mess they left for her to clean up, however, had her cursing them out at the end of the lesson.
“Neville,” she called out, before anyone had a chance to leave the room. Of course they expected him to have to stay behind to clean it, even though Draco caused the mess. The group was used to such favouritism from the Potion's professor, so it wasn't at all surprising. He was met with grins from the Slytherins, and pitied looks from his friends, but he obediently trudged over to her desk.
“Yes?” he gulped, focussing on anything but the frown on her face.
“You need to negotiate with your peers. When they’re trying to get you to do something, you should say; ‘you do both Charms homework and History of Magic, then we have a deal’. Understood?”
Surprised, the boy nodded.
“Good. Leave.”
That night, professor Snape sat at his desk, grading essays, as his assistant, Medea, noted down which supplies needed restocking.
His low voice shook her from her thoughts. “I’ve received some complaints today.”
She just hummed, leaning the ledger against the shelf to make a note to order more wormwood.
“It was Draco. He said you insulted his intelligence.”
“And complimented his romantic prowess.”
Unbothered by the interruption, Snape continued: “By suggesting which potions he would or wouldn’t do well to brew.”
“I suppose so, yes,” was all she said, finally putting the paper down and walking to his desk. “If you want me to go easier on your Slytherins, I’ll keep it in mind, although I prefer to treat them like everybody else.”
Snape stared up at her for a moment. It all seemed too easy: she was quick to yield to him, despite that spark in her eyes. There was no ‘Malfoy deserved it’, nothing of the sort. No apologies either. He knew she was still testing him, seeing how far she could go before pissing him off. His demeaner invited that challenge. She wanted to see what made him angry, what he cared about, what he would do if she crossed a line.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, eventually.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, looking him over once again, and walked to his side of the desk, until she was right next to him. With a rough movement, she opened the top drawer – it was often stuck – and got out a few sheets of parchment to write the orders on, to send them in the morning.
This close, Snape caught her scent. The potions of the day had clung to her, hiding her natural smell. A woman… She smelled like woman, like metal, something heady, and an amber and honey perfume. He hated her. He hated Dumbledore for assigning him an assistant.
Sometimes at the end of his classes, before she’d come to clean, he mixed up items in his storeroom on purpose. Her frustration at the mess outweighed his annoyance that it kept her around him longer in the evening – and he’d tell himself that as he fell asleep with images of her before his eyes.