Potions Class

Unlike her other subjects, Defense Against the Dark Arts was Eliana's least favorite—and the only class she disliked.

That day, knowing nothing of what awaited her, she had walked in as she did for every other class and claimed the desk in the middle of the front row, closest to the lectern. She waited eagerly for the professor to arrive.

The professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Just hearing the title made him sound formidable.

And he was formidable. The moment the damned professor walked in, the thick, almost tangible reek of garlic he carried hit her like two hard slaps across the face!

She saw stars and nearly passed out on the spot!

When she came to, that enormous, foul-smelling purple turban was bobbing right in front of her. Even glancing at it made her eyes sting.

By the end of the lesson, she felt as though some dark, evil force had beaten her soul black and blue.

Terrifying!

For once, she did not spend lunch in an empty classroom reviewing, preparing, or practicing Transfiguration. Instead, she took a nap in the Gryffindor common room. She did not even go into her dormitory.

How could she touch her lovely, sweet-smelling bed when she reeked of garlic?

Even dull History of Magic seemed charming by comparison. At least the ghost professor had no smell!

Professor Snape, whom she had liked best at the opening feast, taught Potions Class. His first lesson was not until Friday, and thanks to Professor Quirrell, Eliana agonized over where to sit.

Professor Snape had sat beside Professor Quirrell at the opening feast. They had even talked. What was that saying? Birds of a feather stink together.

In the end, she gritted her teeth and took the seat closest to the lectern anyway.

A Potions Class teacher probably would not need garlic to drive off zombies... right? He should be support staff, not someone who went into battle, right?

She really had liked the black-haired, black-eyed professor from the start.

The arched door flew open with a bang, and Snape strode in, his black robes billowing behind him like a flag.

Eliana immediately sniffed the air downwind of him. Good. No garlic.

Her taut nerves relaxed, and her opinion of the teacher shot straight back to its peak—and climbed another notch.

So when Snape called her name, she answered in a loud, bright, enthusiastic voice: "Present!!!"

Her shout seemed to echo through the underground classroom.

Even Snape seemed to pause in the middle of roll call.

Eliana sat up straighter than ever, her eyes shining like lightbulbs.

Snape looked away coldly. After calling the last name, he spoke in a low voice:

"In my class, there will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations—"

Eliana nodded, put away her wand, and pressed her lips tightly together.

"Not everyone can appreciate the subtle art of Potions. But for those select few who excel—"

At that, his gaze turned toward Malfoy in Slytherin.

Eliana, who had been watching this formidable-looking teacher the whole time, was not pleased. She discreetly shifted in her seat to block his view.

She was in the very front, dead center, so she actually managed it.

Professor, look at me, look at me, look at me! I think I'll excel too. I'm smarter than that lightbulb-head!

Her eyes sparkled with proud determination.

Snape's mouth might have twitched when she blocked his view.

He looked away in distaste, as if a slug were charging at him.

"I can teach you to bottle fame, brew glory, and stop death—"

Snape's last words settled through the classroom like silk. Harry turned to Ron and was satisfied to see the same stunned look in his eyes. Then he turned to Eliana.

To his horror, Eliana looked thrilled. Her obsidian eyes were practically shooting lasers, and her pupils seemed to have turned into hearts.

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed them hard. Had he finally gone blind?

Eliana really did like Snape.

Just listen: fame, glory, immortality!

She loved every one of them! She wanted every one of them! How powerful must Professor Snape be if he could give them all that?

She liked powerful people!

Even his scowling face acquired a flattering glow in her eyes. So what if he was unfriendly? Was it not perfectly normal for someone so capable to be unfriendly to a bunch of ignorant little kids?

He was that talented. So what if he was a little difficult and eccentric?

Wasn't the whole point of becoming strong that you could let your temper loose without worrying about the consequences?

How satisfying it must be to have people dislike you and still be forced to put up with you!

He has a temper? I like him even more!

Eliana felt as though she had found her goal in life.

Sensing someone looking at her from behind, she tilted her head. Oh, it was Harry.

But she could barely spare him a glance. Like a sunflower that had found the sun, she turned eagerly back toward Snape, beaming.

Harry's eyes widened until they were nearly as big as his glasses.

He looked sharply up at Snape, who stood with his arms folded and his stern face promising trouble. Then he looked at Eliana. Her head was facing forward again, but even from the side, he could see her lips curving with delight. He shuddered.

"It seems some students are not impressed by what I have to say," Snape said slowly, drawing out each word. "Our famous—Harry Potter!"

He raised his voice sharply on the last word and barked:

"What would I get if I added Asphodel roots powder to an Infusion of Wormwood?"

Harry sprang to his feet with a start and stared wide-eyed at Eliana. She and Hermione beside her already had their hands raised high, as straight as two little poplars.

But he knew this one. He had secretly looked it up on the train after Eliana stumped Malfoy with it!

"A—a sleeping potion. The Draught of Living Death. Is—is that right, sir?"

Snape did not answer. His expression unchanged, he went on. "If I needed a Gorgon's eye, where would I look?"

Harry's gaze drifted back to Eliana. She had asked that one too! On the boat!

No wonder she liked Snape. Those two were strangely in tune.

Perhaps because Harry looked her way for too long, Snape followed his gaze—and met Eliana's eyes head-on.

Eliana had turned toward Harry like a sunflower the moment Snape walked over to him.

When she caught the teacher's eye, she raised her hand excitedly. Professor, pick me, pick me! I know them all! I even know which page of the textbook they're on!

Snape gave a cold laugh. "What's this? Does the famous Harry Potter want a classmate to answer such a simple question for him?"

"Ah, no, Professor. I know. In a goat's stomach," Harry said, coming back to himself.

Eliana lowered her hand and, in frustration, smacked herself across the mouth. Harry had not known either answer on the train. He only knew because she had asked him!

Damn it! Why did I have to talk so much?

Otherwise, she would have been the one showing off in front of Professor Snape right now.

It was the first question of the school year. She could have made such a good impression.

Eliana bitterly regretted it.

But Snape did not seem to think any better of Harry for answering correctly.

He looked as though he had swallowed a fly, like a furious hunter who had dug a trap certain it would catch something, only for even a wild boar to avoid it.

"Sit down!" he barked at Harry, then swept a cold gaze around the classroom. "I assume none of you are taking notes because you have memorized every detail perfectly?"

The students all bowed their heads at once, like a field of ripe wheat bending over. Then came the scratch of quills taking notes, like wind rustling through the grain.

After the theory came practice. They were making Scabbers Potion.

Eliana studied with complete focus. She memorized every step on the blackboard, then quietly recited them twice. Only when she was sure she had made no mistakes did she begin.

Cutting dried nettles into identical pieces and weighing them was no trouble for Eliana. Sometimes the orphanage had fruit, and when you divided such a rare treat among children, you had to be scrupulously fair.

They compared every piece from every angle. If one differed even slightly, they shrieked louder than the rooster crowing in the back yard, rolling and jumping and flailing about.

Unfortunately, Eliana had been responsible for that hair-pulling task.

So when Snape, having criticized almost the entire class, stalked ominously up beside her, Hermione stiffened. Eliana, however, proudly raised her head and waited for praise.

No praise came.

Snape swept a cold glance over the things on her desk, then walked off without a word.

In less than a second, Eliana had found an explanation for him. Of course. To a Potions Master like him, what she had done was child's play.

Besides, he had scolded the whole class but not her. He had not found fault with anything, either.

That meant the steps she had taken so far met his standards.

Her work met the standards of a demanding Potions Master!

Eliana talked herself into a delighted smile.

Happily, she ground snake fangs and simmered slugs—then heard Snape praise Malfoy.

She shot him a fierce look.

Malfoy's chest, puffed out with pride at the praise, drew in under Eliana's stare. Then, apparently deciding he had lost face, he thrust it out even farther.

Eliana did not care whether the platinum lightbulb's stand stuck out or caved in. Her big eyes swept like searchlights over the slugs by Malfoy's hand and the way he worked at his cauldron.

All right, there was a difference.

It seemed old Wizard families really did give their children some preparation before school.

Eliana was not so arrogant that she thought she was the best in the world. When someone showed a genuine advantage, she was willing to learn from them.

But she firmly believed they had only learned a few things earlier than she had. Once she caught up, she would be every bit as good as anyone!

Carefully copying Malfoy's technique, she prepared the slugs and simmered them—added them—put out the fire—added the Porcupine Quills. Pale pink smoke rose from the potion just as the book described, and the liquid gradually turned light blue.

It was nearly perfect, especially compared with the sludge Harry had made.

Still, she pressed her lips together, dissatisfied. The color seemed a little paler than the standard shown in the book.

Why?

She went back over her steps. Was it because she had prepared the first batch of slugs her own way and the second batch Malfoy's way, then put both slightly different batches into the cauldron?

She decided to make it again.

Just as she was thinking, a cloud of thick smoke burst through the classroom. Eliana leaped onto her desk without thinking.

Neville had not put out the fire before adding the Porcupine Quills. His potion spurted out like a fountain. He was soaked, and huge boils had sprung up all over him.

But Eliana had no time to worry about him. Neville sat right behind her, and the dangerous liquid spraying from his cauldron was heading straight for her—especially her cauldron!

Her assignment! Her grade! She might not have time to finish a second batch, and they had to hand in their potions for grading at the end of class!

She would sooner die, sooner jump off the desk, than get a zero!

Desperate, Eliana snatched up her cauldron and vaulted onto the teacher's platform.

In an instant, everyone else in the classroom was a head shorter than she was.

A chorus of sharp gasps rose below, as if every student's cauldron had suddenly gone the way of Neville's.

Snape vanished the potion from the floor, roared at Neville, ordered someone to take him to the hospital wing, and deducted a point from Harry. Then he turned and found Eliana standing on top of the teacher's desk, holding her cauldron and gazing at him with excitement.

"Miss Richie, is this your way of expressing your displeasure with me?" he hissed softly. Before Eliana could react, his voice rose to a shout. "Get down!"

"For showing your professor no respect, that's another point from Gryffindor!"

Eliana had been admiring how smoothly Snape handled the mess and secretly trying to learn from the commanding way he scolded people. Huh???