Disclaimer - which I would have neglected were it not for some well-timed advice from Depths of the Grave (thank you):

The plot and the character development in the subsequent story are the only elements there within that I can rightfully call my own; all else belongs to J.K. Rowling. Hence, she is, justifiably, a millionaire, and I will never be financed by my shameless use of her creations.

I consider fan fiction to be an author's exercise in indolence. One of the most difficult things about writing – fantasy, especially – is to create (and monitor) one's world and to make it both suitably credible and endearing. The creation of characters on top of this can be considered to be slightly less or slightly more difficult.

Although undeniably entertaining, these processes are still incredibly challenging and time consuming, and so when there are so many already-formed worlds and characters lying between a plethora of books covers in myriad bookstores, the temptation to exploit the fruits of someone else's hard labour to liberate the plot that's been rampaging around in one's skull for months is very difficult to resist.

I, therefore, would like to apologise to Mrs. Rowling for my sheer lack of willpower where her fruits were concerned.

Chapter 1: Drawing Lots

Three tiny, intensely purple pieces of wood dominated her field of vision.

Harry was holding them. "Alright, on the count of three…"

Ron and Hermione readied themselves, gulping and exhaling respectively and, as a murmured three came from Harry, extended trembling hands to select one of the plum-coloured twigs Fred and George had sold them: 'Mazing Multicoloured Muggle Matches'!

The Twins had taken so many artistic liberties with their production that even the Muggle-borns found them fascinating.

Ron whooped as the largest found its way into his palm. Harry shot Hermione a wicked grin, cradling his lengthier stick as a mother would her firstborn child.

Their sticks then promptly detonated – without provocation – into copious amounts of flame.

As the two boys hopped around in indignant agony, hands flapping, moaning about the prospective damages to their Quidditch abilities, all Hermione could think about was how, at this moment, scorched hands were largely preferable to what the little calamity in her hands entailed.

This notion was underlined by the fact that the scorch marks on the aforementioned hands – and apparently all related pain – vanished fifteen seconds later.

As the two newly healed Quidditch enthusiasts rounded on her, smiling jovially, all righteous anger forgotten, Hermione stared mutinously at her scrawny piece of violet wood and felt her stomach sink lower than was humanly possible.

Ron's voice trembled with suppressed mirth. "So we'll just nip down to the kitchens…"

She scowled. "Shut. Up."

He snickered as Harry continued, all innocence, from where Ron had left off. "'Hermione, we're just making sure we've got the plan straight."

Glare.

"So, as Ron was saying, we'll pay the House Elves a visit while you dash down to Snape's store room and grab the rest of the ingredients." He smiled, a mockery of benevolence. "We'll meet back here in, oh, say, half an hour?"

She glowered at the two of them through the now-infinitesimal slits that were her eyes, summoned all the dignity she could muster, snatched the proffered silvery cloak from Harry's hands, and stalked out of the common room, pausing to lob her still flame-free match in the direction of Ron's head.

The resulting furious yelp and the smell of scorched hair that wafted through the portrait hole after her instigated a slight rallying of forces where her stomach's altitude was concerned.

As she stood, however, alone, a few feet from Snape's door, in the murky shadows of the cold, dark dungeon corridor, her stomach lost all semblance of control and promptly plummeted out of existence.

Couldn't we do this some other time? A wheedling, most un-Gryffindor-like voice pleaded with her.

The part of her that had most influenced the Sorting Hat responded with a sneer. When? The next time Dumbledore's conveniently away on Ministry business? Get a grip Granger.

The wheedler speedily abdicated all control to the Lioness and Hermione slipped quietly forward, turned the handle very slowly, and opened Snape's door.

Shadowy.

Very shadowy.

But visibly and blissfully empty.

Exhaling in relief, Hermione crept across the room towards Snape's storeroom - which was unlocked.

What?! How

It's open. Don't complain.

Breaking through any of Snape's defences – although the pure, undiluted academic challenge did hold undeniable appeal – had the potential to result in an extraordinarily dramatic and public failure.

She slipped into the walk-in cupboard, closed the door behind her, let some of her fear ebb into curiosity and, with a murmured lumos, began to explore.

The last time Hermione had been among these hallowed shelves, she'd been under a Filibuster-induced time limit. Now, however, with Snape apparently elsewhere, she took the time to let her eyes drink in sheer excess of potential potion surrounding her.

It was, considering who owned the shelves, rather like being offered a glimpse into a rather significant part of his soul.

If he even has one… Ron's voice slipped through her thoughts.

She grinned and got down to business.

Snape was meticulous.

Boxes and sachets organised by category, and then alphabetically. Assortments of vials and packages grouped together, catalogued into assemblages for some of the more familiar potions. Whole sections for set aside for his colleagues' needs. Ingredients – bottled, packaged, wrapped, parcelled – organised by level of potency or fatality, frequency of usage, value, rarity…

Suddenly, the thought of Harry and Ron chatting with subservient House Elves and stuffing themselves silly with pastries and other ridiculously unwholesome foods wasn't inciting the same amounts of resentment and anger that it had been moments ago.

This impromptu glance into Snape's psyche – coupled with the sight of all the crystalline, multi-coloured, sheer bottled learning – was making her a little giddy.

And while we're on the subject of learning…

The potion!

Get the ingredients before Snape comes to crash your little intellectual party, stupid.

Hermione took herself firmly in hand and carefully pilfered two green vials filled with a filmy transparent liquid, one very well sealed jar, and a bushel of a vine-like plant that somehow managed to be simultaneously brittle and slimy. Frowning at the fragility of the emerald bottles, she murmured a quick glass-strengthening charm and secreted jar, bushel, and vials into a cloth bad she'd brought along.

She'd just settled down to do some very serious prying when she heard the crash.

Oh no.

The sound of the door swinging shut behind someone and of a stool continuing on its clattering journey across the dungeon floor sent her newly elevated stomach on its second journey that night.

Whispering "nox" like some frantic mantra, she snatched the cloak from where it had slipped to the floor, whirled it over her shoulders and stuffed the incriminating bag into her pocket. The cupboard subsided into darkness as the sound of laboured breathing and a quickly stifled groan came from the adjacent room.

Hermione's eyes widened. She pressed herself into what seemed to be the least frequented corner of the cupboard, sunk into a crouch, and took extremely deep breaths.

One minute passed.

Two.

Five.

Surely he's gone…

She closed her eyes and, very slowly, attempted to stand…

And then flung herself back onto the floor, making a serious effort to do without oxygen, as the door to the supply cupboard swung swiftly and silently open.

Oh god.

If she made it out of the dungeons alive, she'd crucify Harry and Ron.

And suspend Éclairs inches from their mouths as they bled to death.

A drawer opened. A whiff of earthy scent. A clink of bottles. A swirl of robes against her hand.

No sound.

She raised her head. He was gone.

More importantly, the cupboard door was open.

The luck you're having with that door is becoming slightly unnerving.

Who's complaining now?

The avid percussionist who'd taken control of her cardiac muscles concluded his performance. Taking care not to brush against anything, she stood silently and crept slowly towards the door, pulling the cloak closely around her.

The classroom was more dimly lit than usual, a single glowing torch behind Snape the only source of illumination. He was bent over a softly simmering cauldron, a shimmering powder trickling through his fingers into a translucent indigo liquid. Hermione spared only a moment's glace for this, her eyes immediately seeking out the only escape route.

The door to the hallway was closed.

DAMN.

The castle had its share of eccentricities, but she didn't think Snape would blame the door to his classroom apparently opening of its own accord on Hogwarts' proclivity for sentience.

She slunk silently away from the supply cupboard, keeping close to the wall, stopped a few meters from the doorway, made sure that Harry's cape was covering everything, and had just decided to take took a closer look at what Snape's potion was about when she became entirely distracted by his facial expression.

She blinked. He looked…troubled? No, that wasn't it…

Drained?

Yes, definitely a more appropriate word.

Hermione frowned. The look didn't suit him. His countenance, already overly pale, could have put the Bloody Baron to shame. The flames behind him and tendrils of hair framing his cheekbones threw the angles of his face in to sharp, shadowy relief. She pondered this as her eyes finally flickered down to the potion he was brewing…

And all feelings of concern were sharply extricated from her mind to make way for an overwhelming wave of awe.

So this was what being a Potions Master meant.

Granted, his talent wasn't obvious unless one knew what to look for but, as Hermione was watching him work with the wonderment Harry and Ron must have experienced as Victor Krum had paid homage to Wronski at the World Cup, she did notice, and caught her breath.

He didn't seem to be thinking.

There was, Hermione thought, something innately beautiful about any form art performed skilfully, and the adjective "skilful" didn't give what Snape was doing nearly enough credit.

His hands, more specifically, his fingers seemed to possess superfluous muscles in places where they shouldn't exist. Each seemed to be acting on completely independent directions. The speed at which he stirred was constant and effortless. Powder spilled from between his thumb and index finger as though it was being measured continuously.

I wonder what he's brewing?

As the last of the powder fell from Snape's fingers into the cauldron - oh, who the hell cares what he's brewing; look at how he's doing it – the liquid there within shimmered momentarily – …but I'm sure I know what it is… – and then shifted from blue to a deep, thorough ebony. How can you be thinking of facts at a time like this?! The colour change – …colour change, what powder induces that sort of conversion in liquids? – had been instantaneous and completely uniform, a testament to the potion's homogeny.

Will you please – PLEASE – just let go of your internal textbook for once in your life?!

She finally succumbed and let herself relax into artistic wonderment as Snape poured the black liquid into a simple, but unquestionably elegant silver goblet.

It was only when he raised the cup in a gesture that was almost a toast that she realised.

As he brought the glass towards his lips, she launched herself across room at him, an action that was, really, more based on instinct that intelligence.