Chapter Text
You’re pacing anxiously in front of Professor Sharp’s desk, wringing your hands together nervously. Of all the professors of Hogwarts, of course Professor Sharp would be the one to teach the subject you failed at most spectacularly.
It was no secret that your brewing was absolute shite. You knew it, he knew it, the class knew it. You excelled in Charms without having to try. You loved Transfigurations and were nearly top of the class in your grades. You were a natural with all of the beasts you cared for in Care of Magical Creatures.
Potions class, however, continued to unfold into one embarrassing disaster after the next, and Professor Sharp had obviously reached his limit.
Today in class when you’d ruined your third cauldron of the week (and it was only Wednesday) he had stalked up to your desk, hissed out a seething ‘Evanesco’ at the sorry remains of yet another failed attempt, and locked eyes with you.
You withered on the spot under his piercing gaze and barely restrained anger.
“See me after class.”
You’d nodded dumbly, robbed of speech at the shock and embarrassment of finally pushing him over the edge. Sebastian Sallow nudged you as Professor Sharp stalked away to review the other students’ potions.
“You’re in for it now,” he whispered teasingly, snapping you from your stupor. You huff, wrinkling your nose at him and sticking out your tongue.
Pompous ass.
He did always know how to lighten the mood, though. You fought off a grin and sighed, staring at his cauldron and the perfectly brewed recipe within. Damn Slytherins and their aptitude for potions.
It just wasn’t fair.
It’s not like you weren’t trying. You really, truly were. You should’ve known you’d be awful at potions, though – your cooking left much to be desired, and how different were the two, really? Ingredients… stirring… precarious timing…
How you longed to be on your broom, soaring over the Great Lake, far away from whatever scathing lecture awaited you at the end of class. You shrugged at Sebastian in a ‘what can ya’ do?’ gesture, and he gave you a sympathetic smile and a pat on the arm.
The end of class came far too soon, and with it, a gnawing sense of anxiety at the possibilities of Professor Sharp’s punishment for abusing his pristine cauldrons yet again. Sebastian offered you a tentative "good luck" before slipping out of the class and leaving you to your fate.
Professor Sharp’s voice cut through the quiet, making you jump and whip around to find him right behind you. You were hit with the smell of his cologne… a woodsy, almost spicy scent. He smelled… wonderful, actually.
This did nothing to calm the annoying little crush you’d developed on the man over the years. It was absolutely ridiculous, you knew, and he would no doubt kick you out of his class altogether if he ever found out. You repressed a shudder at the thought. It was obvious that he detested you more than any other student in your class.
“I have to run a quick errand. You will wait here until I return. Understood?” He asked gruffly as you stared up at him and swallowed your nerves. His dark eyes were glittering with a lingering frustration from earlier.
“Yes, sir,” you murmured, casting your eyes downwards sheepishly. You hated disappointing your professors but disappointing him left a different sort of ache in your chest.
He’d left then without a word, leaving you to stew in your own failure until he returned.
You halted your pacing when you heard his footsteps entering the classroom, the sound of his uneven gate due to his limp giving him away. You’d often wondered what had happened to him. He was an ex-auror, and it was fairly obvious that his injury had brought an abrupt end to his previous career. The thought had always made you rather sad, though you’d never show it for fear of insulting him. You wouldn’t want anyone to pity you if the situation was reversed.
He was a brilliant man with a plethora of knowledge that had always fascinated you, and was, admittedly, very easy on the eyes. This was how you’d always viewed him. You wondered what secrets he carefully guarded beneath his hardened exterior, or if anyone was close enough to him to truly know him. He was fascinating. But in his eyes lingered a sadness he couldn’t quite hide from you that made you long to know him better. To see him smile. To be the reason he smiled.
“Have a seat,” he commanded, startling you from your thoughts as a blush crept across your cheeks.
He takes his usual seat and winces almost imperceptibly as he does. It makes your heart ache to see that he tries so hard to hide the constant pain he must be feeling.
“I suspect you know why you’re here,” he says curtly, resting his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers.
“Yes, sir. I… I ruined my cauldron. Again,” you reply, staring down at your clasped hands resting in your lap and feeling your face burn under his scrutinizing gaze.
“So you can comprehend basic common sense. Why is that you’re unable to do so when it comes to my class?”
You wince at his harsh wording, looking everywhere but at him, and try to keep your composure.
“I… I don’t know, sir. I’m trying. I am. I’m just not good at brewing. I never was.”
“I am well aware.”
You look up at him, a tinge of anger flaring through you.
“Are you just going to make fun of me? Is that why you’ve asked me to stay behind?”
The words slip out before you can stop them, and he raises his eyebrows at you in a way that silences you immediately.
“Mind your tongue, girl. Constructive criticism is an ever-constant part of life. I suggest you start getting accustomed to it,” he quips with a scowl. You refrain from rolling your eyes and pointing out that there is nothing constructive about anything he’s said thus far.
“Now, to the matter at hand. You’ve left me with no choice other than to begin tutoring you outside of class. We are halfway through the school term and, quite frankly, I am running out of cauldrons. You will begin to meet me here at 7 o’clock in the evening every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and will continue to do so until I see some noteworthy improvement in your brewing skills. This will be effective immediately, so I am expecting you to be here, on time, this evening. Is that clear?”
You feel the color drain from your face.
“But sir… quidditch practice ends at 7:30 on each of those evenings… please, is there any other time possible?”
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before, and taken time out of your own schedule to practice brewing. I don’t have time to re-arrange my entire schedule to accommodate yours.”
You blanche, your mouth turning bone dry at the realization that you’ll have no choice but to give up your spot on the team to someone who can actually stay for the entire practice, as limited as they are.
“But… but I… please, sir. Please, if we could just move our sessions to 8 o’clock, I could stay the entire practice and make it here on time.”
He raises an eyebrow and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and assessing you.
“Quidditch is… it means so much to me. Please, please don’t take that away from me. I’m sorry for not learning faster, but I am trying, Professor, and I’ll keep on trying my hardest during your extra lessons, too. I’ll give it all I’ve got. Just… just give me a chance. Please.” You end your plea in a hoarse whisper, your throat growing tight from the barely suppressed emotions running rampant through you. You’d worked so hard to be on the team, and it was your last year to play. The idea of losing all you’d worked for was enough to have you choking back tears.
He continues to stare at you, but something in his expression softens as you struggle to hold your composure. Then, he lets out a long sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose in mild, but resigned, frustration.
“You will be here at 8’clock every session and not a minute later, do you understand? Luckily for you, I am often awake late into the evening.”
You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding and beam at him, relief washing through you.
“Oh, thank you, sir! I promise I’ll be on time. I swear it. I will,” you babble happily, and he fixes you with a mildly amused stare before snorting softly.
“See that you do. I will hold you to your word.”
He summons a quill and a piece of parchment to scribble down a note excusing your lateness to the class you’re currently supposed to be attending and holds it out for you to take.
In your eagerness to be done with the proper scolding you’d received, you accidentally brush your fingers along his and feel a zap of electricity at the touch. You pause for a fraction of a moment, your fingers still grazing his as his dark eyes lift to gaze into your own. Your heart clumsily skips a beat before you blink and take the slip from him, clearing your throat nervously and slinging your backpack crammed to the brim over your shoulder.
“Run along, now. You’ve caused me enough of a headache for one evening,” he says while waving you away, but you note that there's no vitriol in his voice.
You nod, scurrying away before he has time to change his mind, but pause at the doorway to turn to him.
“I’m a night owl, too. It’s when I write all my best papers, actually. Maybe I'll get better at brewing, if it's in the evening,” you tell him, your lips curling into a hopeful grin that makes something in his chest clench in a way he hasn't felt in years.
You don’t see the small smile he returns as you take your leave and disappear from view. He huffs, shaking his head at your natural charm, and pulls a large stack of ungraded papers towards him that will keep him busy well into the night. He knows he has his work cut out for him with you, but your enthusiasm and willingness to learn from him tugs at a part of him that wants to see you succeed. Wants to see you happy, because of him.
The thought immediately disarms him before he vehemently shakes it away, frustrated at his own treacherous feelings.
Ridiculous.
He blames it on the lack of sleep he's experienced this week, and determinedly rids his mind of you as he dips his quill into ink and begins distracting himself with grading the copious stack of papers before him.