Christmas was approaching. At some point, Snape became nastier than usual. The problem wasn't even Lockhart—Lockhart was a constant factor, but this was something new. He started walking around everywhere with a book, some kind of reference manual and parchments on which he constantly scribbled something, cursing under his breath.
Potions lessons also stopped being enjoyable. His grudging "I must admit that you are not entirely hopeless after all" was replaced with "insufferable know-it-all who always thinks she knows better than everyone else." How sad.
Once, while turning in potions homework, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of what he was studying with such diligence. It was someone's monograph on potions in Russian. And on the parchments were translation attempts, which, apparently, were going with great difficulty. Here's what looks like the solution for how I can approach him!
I could have long ago abandoned these fruitless attempts, but the ability to independently provide myself with potions is too tempting. It's not even that self-brewed potions are much more effective. The thing is that most standard ingredients are freely available for purchase, but complex potions aren't always available in regular pharmacies, or they're not the ones you need, or their quality isn't great. Purebloods order from their acquaintances who are master potioneers. Also, your doctor at St. Mungo's can always prescribe you a potion, but you have to go to St. Mungo's after the fact. You can't stock up on potions there in advance. And Dumbledore, as my guardian, would be in the know in that case, and it's not certain I'd want that. I'm relatively healthy, of course, but different situations happen in life. I'd like to have my own personal medicine cabinet for such cases.
But I can't approach Snape directly—he'll send me away for sure. I'll try going through our dear Head of House.
After dinner, I go to visit Sprout and tell her that I'd like to find myself a side job as a translator. I know German well, Russian, French not as well... maybe she could help me? And apparently today I'm catastrophically lucky! Professor Sprout makes exactly the decision I want from her. She nods toward the sofa and takes Floo powder to contact Snape through the fireplace network.
"Severus, good evening. Tell me, do you still need a translator?"
"Nothing's changed since lunch. What, has a miracle happened and you've found me what I desire?"
"Yes, imagine that, I have."
"No, honestly, I can't imagine where you found one in Hogwarts in half a day. Unless he fell from the sky right onto your head."
"Severus! I'm being serious, by the way. So do you need a translator or not?"
"And what are your translator's qualifications?"
"He knows your Russian, don't worry. Yes, including idioms and fixed expressions that your brilliant foreign potioneer loves so much."
"And how is he with potions?"
"The translator? You know, as far as I can judge, quite good for such an age. Also excellent memory and perseverance."
"Well, I'll be indebted... for such an age? Is this our student?"
"Exactly."
"Well now, you teach these blockheads and think—sheep are sheep, but it turns out some of them hide the most unexpected talents," Snape drawled sardonically.
"Well, so you agree?"
"I agree, let him come to me tomorrow after lunch then, I'll have free time just then."
Professor Sprout, I love you!
The next day I go to Snape.
"Miss Granger, what do you want?" he sighs. A troublesome student in my person has again torn him away from his beloved monograph.
"Professor Snape, Professor Sprout said to come to you about translation after lunch."
"You're joking? Don't tell me the translator is you."
"Sorry, but I'll still say it: the translator is me."
"And when, may I ask, did you manage to learn Russian? How old are you, twelve?" The disbelief in his voice could be loaded by the wagon.
"Thirteen. I have a very good memory, sir. It makes many things in life easier."
"Well then, sit down," Snape invitingly pulls out a chair and opens the monograph to the first page in front of me. "Translate what's written here."
Where does my confidence come from that he can't wait for my failure? Snape sits down next to me and buries himself in his parchments. He's already translated this part; he'll be checking me.
I translate aloud, occasionally stumbling, purely because sometimes it's difficult to reformulate literarily in another language... I raise my eyes—well, finally I was able to surprise him.
"Miss Granger, you're hired. I can offer you payment of three sickles per page."
"Professor Snape, please, could I have additional lessons instead of money?!" It seems he wasn't expecting this.
"Miss Granger, perhaps you'll tell me why you're so eager to get there?"
"I want to assemble a home medicine cabinet for myself. You know that the needed potions aren't always available for sale, and even when they are, they're not always of good quality. Buying potions from a master is expensive, and finding such a master in England isn't so simple. And some things will definitely come in handy in life."
"And what do you want to learn to brew first?"
"Pepperup Potion, Skele-Gro, Healing Potion, Calming Draught, Essence of Dittany, Dreamless Sleep Potion, and Sleekeazy's Hair Potion." Of course, I'd also like Veritaserum, Polyjuice Potion, Felix Felicis, but that would be much harder to explain.
Snape's eyebrow shoots up.
"Sleekeazy's?" he asks sardonically.
"Well yes, you can see what a crow's nest I have on my head. And it's very expensive, by the way."
The professor's face takes on a contemptuous expression, showing what he thinks of those who might be interested in some Sleekeazy's.
"Very well, Miss Granger. I expect you for lessons on Tuesdays and Fridays, at seven."
"Thank you, Professor! Where should I start translating the monograph, how far have you gotten?"
"Better start from the very beginning, Miss Granger," Snape sighed wearily, "let it all be in a unified translation. Until Tuesday."
"Goodbye, sir."
I can't believe it myself—I succeeded. And I'd been trying to achieve this for a year and a half, and it all worked out because of some coincidence!
-
The Slytherins look at me with some kind of gastronomic interest:
"And what has the little badger forgotten here?"
"Professor Snape agreed to take me for an elective," I keep my face impassive with all my strength, but honestly, it's getting somewhat uncomfortable.
Thank God, Snape himself doesn't keep us waiting.
"Let's welcome the new student to our group. Miss Granger, a second-year from Hufflepuff, who apparently decided she's the smartest." Oh, you shouldn't have, my lord.
"Today we're brewing Skele-Gro. Miss Granger, what ingredient can be substituted in Skele-Gro to reduce its cost?"
"I don't know, sir." Of course I wouldn't know. I came to lessons in the middle of the year. Good thing I know the recipe itself.
"Mr. Warrington, same question?"
"Ground dragon teeth can be replaced with black iguana teeth. This noticeably reduces the cost, but the bone healing time increases threefold."
"Thank you, Mr. Warrington. Miss Granger, last chance to realize you're not ready yet and leave with dignity." What a nasty person! And I thought we had an agreement. Maybe I should also leave sarcastic comments in the margins of your translation?
"I want to stay, Professor," I look at him stubbornly.
"As you wish. The recipe is on the board, go ahead."
"Surprisingly not bad," Snape evaluates my potion at the end of the lesson. "You won't even poison yourself if you drink it."
"But will it work, Professor? Or will I just not poison myself, and that's it?"
"There's such a possibility. Do you want to test it, Miss Granger?"
"Are you going to break something for me?" I widen my eyes.
"Minus five points from Hufflepuff for stupid jokes. Everyone's dismissed."
While walking down the corridor, I almost skip. I did it! Snape is amusing after all. Sometimes. When he's not annoying.
Gradually I turn in translated chapters to him, attend lessons. Unlike regular classes, here he explains various subtleties quite well, gives his own original recipes, willingly answers questions, professionally guides hands...
In the evening before sleep, I remember how today Snape showed us another stage of preparing Felix Felicis. An exceptionally fascinating spectacle—a potioneer at work.
Snape has beautiful hands, and when he works on a potion with precise, economical movements, perfected to the ideal, it's mesmerizing. You can watch this, like fire and water, endlessly. Damn... I think I know what this is! Yesterday I was similarly transfixed by the masculine profile of that idiot Lockhart. This is the damn teenage years with their cursed hormonal boom. I turned thirteen in September after all. Yeah, this is completely inconvenient. Especially considering the fact that even our seventh-years aren't adult enough for me yet. And I'm still a child to them. What a paradox.
I decide to distract myself and start thinking about Lord Malfoy. Just excellent! Brain, what are you doing, you're supposed to be on my side! Forget it! I cast a sleeping charm on myself and pass out.