The Potions Master and the Ravenclaw

Her aptitude in potion making is what had first drawn his attention to her. Then he started to notice other things - her beautiful face, her smile, her sweet nature, the way she interacted with her classmates- and he admitted to himself that he'd been watching her for the past several weeks.

Yes, Snape thought. She was quite beautiful. Her eyes and long, curly hair were as black as his. Her skin as pale and fair as his, but porcelain. Flawless. Her face was delicate; soft and round like an angel. Yes.  A dark angel, with those black eyes and that raven hair and that nearly translucent skin. Like a doll, but somehow not girlish. Very much a woman. Her lips were full and blood red, begging to be kissed. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the heat of the fire underneath her caldron. She was extremely petite - a tiny girl - but filled out her school uniform quite nicely. He wondered what she looked like underneath her clothes.

She looked up at him, feeling his gaze upon her, and their eyes met.  His heart skipped a beat, though his face remained impassive.

What the hell was that about? He wasn't some pathetic school boy with a childish crush. Why was he reacting to her in this way? Standing here waxing poetic over some silly girl?

Madness.

It infuriated him. His frown deepened.

Her eyes were wide as she held his stare. She looked frightened, but then again, so did most of his students. Those that weren't in his own house, anyway.

"Is anything wrong, Professor?" she asked. She was concerned that he was scowling at her, wondering if she had made an error in her potion making.

"YOU tell ME, Miss Clovewater. Do you believe you have brewed your potion correctly?" he asked quietly.

"Y...yes, sir. I believe so."

"You believe so, do you?  What color should it be?"

"Blue, Professor."

"And the consistency?"

"Thick and viscous, but not solid or gelatinous."

"And what indicates that this potion is complete and brewed properly?"

"The vapor that rises from it should be purple, sir."

"And?"

"Odorless, sir."

"Does your potion meet this criteria?"

"Yes, sir."

He arched a brow at her, not certain whether he was enjoying her discomfort or not. He glanced down, observing the perfectly brewed potion bubbling in her caldron.

"Well done, Miss Clovewater. Your potion is... adequate," he drawled in his low, silky voice.

He turned on his heel and moved to the next student, but not before noticing her sigh of relief.

When he had finally blessed or cursed the potions of all the students and they had cleaned up their workspaces, he moved back to the head of the class.

"For your homework assignment, I want two scrolls on flobberworm mucus and it's various uses. Due on my desk by Thursday next. You are dismissed."

The class groaned as they rose to leave and, against his better judgement, he allowed himself another look at Madeline Clovewater. She was carefully placing her belongings in her bag. So fastidiously neat. She felt his eyes on her again and she looked up at him and smiled.

A smile? Why the hell was she smiling at him? No student smiled at him. Ever. And what a pretty smile it was, too. Innocent and serene. He knew he should have looked away, but he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away from her perfect face. He nodded at her stonily and she turned and left the classroom.