Later That Semester...

Disclaimer: It's not my world, they aren't my characters, but I can dream, can't I?

Author's Notes: Rowan really loves textiles - so do I. I hope you find this part at least interesting. Here we start to get an idea what Rowan sees in a guy like Snape, and a hint as to his thoughts on the matter.

Many thanks to Verity Brown for her input and corrections.

Chapter 3: Later That Semester...

Rowan spent yet another Potions class considering the Potions master. There was something about the way he stood and moved. His stance hinted at his power. It was rumored that Snape had very few rivals in magical ability, and none whatsoever in Potion-craft. It was a heady aura; Rowan didn't understand why no one else seemed to feel it. She watched the clean, precise movements of hand and wrist as he demonstrated how to de-bristle and eviscerate a horklump. He did nothing flamboyantly, but everything competently. Rowan hated pretense of any kind; she was not one of the hordes of girls who had swooned over Gilderoy Lockhart in her third year. In fact, watching Snape send Lockhart spinning through the air to land on his arse, using nothing more than a simple Disarming Spell, had been truly impressive. From then on she had looked at him a little differently. Severus Snape didn't have the stunning good looks of Lockhart, but over the years, as admiration grew in her to become something deeper, gradually she stopped noticing his physical defects and began admiring his spare form, lean lines, and that sinful voice.

During demonstrations was the one time Rowan could indulge in staring at Professor Snape openly. During the rest of her lesson, she tried hard to keep her eyes on her own cauldron. She picked up her knife and set to cleaning her horklump, but her thoughts continued to wander. Snape passed down along the tables and passed out varying levels of criticism. Rowan's neck burned when she sensed his presence behind her.

"Miss Bourne, I devoutly hope you are planning to use that abysmally prepared horklump for stew-meat, as it is utterly unsuitable in preparing the Oncological Comtation which is today's assignment."

Rowan woke from her daydream and looked down at her work. Snape was right. It was pretty bad.

When he was sure he had everyone's attention, Snape continued. "I hope the rest of the class understands that care is of the utmost importance. This potion is intended to be given to the desperately ill. Your victim might not survive long enough for you to get it right.

Rowan looked up at him calmly and nodded. She bent back to her task, taking more care. She was upset, but couldn't deny that he was right--she had done a really lousy job while woolgathering. That was fine when someone as good as Snape was looking over your shoulder, but what happened when no one was watching, when someone's life depended on your magic working correctly?

Why did she waste her time daydreaming about Professor Snape anyway? He would never fall for someone whose abilities he didn't respect. If she could only impress him, then maybe she could tell him how she admired him. If he didn't brush her off at that, maybe she could hint at her attraction. The remainder of the class passed uneventfully, and she escaped with her classmates at the end of the session.

Snape watched Rowan's departing back as she left his classroom with the rest of the students. It was a nice back--shoulders straight and head high. It was a back that shouldered its burdens uncomplainingly and carried them well.

Over the years, Snape had made something of a hobby of sharpening his wit at his students' expense and observing their reactions. Some became even clumsier and lack-witted. Others became sharper and more careful, hoping to prove him wrong about them. Most feared him or despised him, or both. None had simply accepted his correction while allowing the invective to slide off, apparently unnoticed. None till her, that is. Hundreds of pretty young witches had passed through Snape's class in his fifteen years of teaching, but he'd never before been tempted to do more than look. In Rowan's case, a grudging respect for her had turned into a growing attraction, which he had only just realized he felt. Now the temptation to do a great deal more than look was strong, but not as strong as his sense of responsibility.

Rowan continued on, unaware of Snape's gaze following her. Rumors of Professor Snape's mind-reading abilities were almost as popular among the student body as the rumors about his past. Rowan really didn't think she wanted him knowing what sorts of things she had been thinking about him lately, and so avoided catching his eyes as much as possible.

After the day's last class, Rowan went with her best friend, Ariadne, to watch Quidditch practice till suppertime. Rowan brought her supply of thestral hair and her spindle so she could justify the time away from study. They took their seats on the bleachers and watched the practice. Gryffindor had the Pitch signed out this afternoon. Katie was setting the new Beaters to do various drills. Rowan didn't remember their names, but they were pretty good. Harry was zipping around, letting the Snitch go and zooming after it. With Umbridge gone and Fudge discredited, all the absurd rules of last year had been rescinded, so Harry was again Gryffindor Seeker. He was fun to watch; his flying was spectacular, and it was nice to see him so happy. Rowan had heard most of the gossip about what had happened to Harry at the end of last year. She thought he was nice, no worse of a jerk than most boys his age, and deserved to have a little fun. It was too bad this meant that Rowan's House, Ravenclaw, probably didn't stand much chance at the House Cup this year. Rowan wasn't a real die-hard Quidditch fan, though, so it didn't bother her much. She liked to watch the game, but didn't really care who won. She kept a low profile around her more enthusiastic Housemates; she didn't want to be singled out and teased about it.

While she watched the practice, Rowan spun thestral wool on her little spindle. In her left hand, she held a bit of fluff that she'd washed and carded. The thread she'd made so far emerged from it for a foot or so and the remainder was wound around the shaft of the spindle. She gave it an expert flick with her right hand that set it spinning, hanging from the already-spun thread. Pinching the thread near the top with her right hand, she drew her left hand, loosely holding the thestral wool away. New thread formed at the jointure of fluff and yarn, as if by magic. Rowan then released her pinch and allowed twist to run up into the new thread and brought her hands together to draw out a new length.

Before Rowan had gotten her letter from Hogwarts, to the complete surprise of her Muggle mother (it would have been to her father too, except that he had died when she was eight), spinning was the most magical thing she knew. It was like pushing back at chaos to create order and substance with her own two hands.

When the thread was so long that the spindle was in danger of landing on the floor of her bleacher, Rowan ran her hand down the thread and took it in her fingers. She flipped the half hitch over the hook at the top of the spindle, and keeping tension on the thread to keep it from tangling, she twirled the spindle and wound the new thread onto the shaft. When there were only a few inches between the fluff and the spindle shaft, she hitched the spindle and set it whirling again. Just as she used up the last bits of fluff, Rowan saw that the Pitch had gotten dark and practice was over. Everyone was heading away from the Quidditch Pitch, back towards the castle and dinner.

Rowan and Ariadne put their things away in their dorm and headed down towards the hall. They took their places among their other friends at the Ravenclaw table and dug in. The Northern winter was creeping in, along with the earlier sunsets at Hogwarts, and the hearty Hogwarts fare helped fend off the dark and the chill. Rowan chattered with Ariadne and her other friends around her about classes and homework till the meal was over.

On their way back to the Ravenclaw common room, Edgar Bracken, another seventh year Ravenclaw, stopped Rowan to speak to her. Edgar was good-looking, in that gangly way boys have when they have their final height, but haven't filled into it yet.

"Hi, Edgar, what's up?"

Edgar looked nervous; he took a breath and spoke. "So, Rowan, you know this weekend is the Hogsmeade trip, right? Going with anyone?" he blurted in a rush, then looked at her hopefully with puppy eyes.

Rowan tried to think fast what to say. Edgar was really cute and very nice. Lots of Ravenclaw girls thought he was a catch--not hot, but solid boyfriend material. The kind that treats you nicely, doesn't take liberties unless he's certain you want him to, and doesn't brag after to his buddies. Unfortunately, her thoughts were fixed on someone older, someone darker. Her mind just froze; she couldn't think of a way to refuse that wasn't rude, which he didn't deserve, or a lie, which just wasn't justified.

"No, I don't have any plans. Just a little shopping."

"Maybe we could have some butterbeer together?"

"Sure, Edgar, that would be nice. See you then."

Rowan scurried up to her dorm to escape the look of elation on Edgar's face. She hoped she hadn't made a terrible mistake.

Elsewhere, that same evening, Voldemort met with some of his most trusted and powerful Death Eaters. Wormtail, his rat-like toady, was also in attendance.

"I have learned of a spell," he began, eyeing them narrowly with his red eyes, "one which has the power to allow me to finally overcome Albus Dumbledore. Without his protection, Harry Potter," he spat the name, "cannot continue to avoid extermination."

"What spell is this?" asked Malfoy with an avid expression.

"It is actually a potion. It is called the Aversion Serum, and according to this text," he indicated a dusty tome with a bony finger, "it is not necessary to make your victim drink the potion. It is equally effective on skin contact. Which means, of course, that it may be thrown. An eminently useful feature in a potion.

"Under its influence, the target's friends will be consumed with hatred and will turn on him, and he on them. As you know, Dumbledore surrounds himself with his most powerful friends and most loyal allies. Thanks to the Aversion Serum, that trait will now work to our advantage; the stronger his friends, the more easily they will destroy him."

"That is truly brilliant, Master," groveled Wormtail.

"Wormtail is right, such a Potion is exactly what we need to get Dumbledore out of the way," said Malfoy. "How quickly can it be prepared?"

"Unfortunately, this text only gives the potion's name and describes its properties," replied Voldemort. "I am charging you, Malfoy, with discovering the formula. I have two agents in the Ministry of Magic who can gain you admittance to the research library there. If you go suitably disguised, you should be able to find the answer I need. It would not be wise to fail me, Lucius."

"Of course, I shall do as you command, my Lord," Lucius Malfoy replied smoothly. "But, may I inquire, why you have not set this task to Snape?"

"Patience, Malfoy. When you have reported to me with the formula, I will set Snape the same task. And I will not tell him that you have already provided the recipe. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly, my Lord." Malfoy smirked, and Disapparated from the room with a dank pop.