Chapter 17: Draco: "Professor Snape is in love with my Mom!"
Melvin set down his glass, calm and composed. He always maintained a polite and pleasant demeanor with his colleagues.
"I heard that Professor Snape gave the first-year students their introductory Potions class this afternoon. Gryffindor and Slytherin attended together. How was it?"
"Nothing special. This is the worst first-year batch I've ever seen."
Snape looked up coldly, his tone as icy as his expression.
"I didn't expect them to truly grasp the marvels of Potion-making, but their performance was abysmal. Most of these first-years don't appreciate the magic of a bubbling cauldron or the wonder of those transformative liquids. They don't even believe Potions are magic only those silly wand tricks interest them."
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick's smiles froze.
Transformation and Charms were, of course, the "silly wand tricks" he referred to.
They exchanged a glance, their faces mirroring quiet irritation. They knew Snape's words were just his usual temperament, not a real insult but it still stung.
"Worse than previous years…"
Melvin didn't catch the muttered remarks and simply continued, "To better understand the magical world of Britain, I've read a few materials. I noticed that several students in this class were already famous before enrolling like The Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter of Gryffindor, and the pure-blooded heir, Draco Malfoy of Slytherin. I assumed they'd be quite talented."
Dumbledore, savoring his overly sweet mousse cake with a silver spoon, listened quietly but did not interrupt.
"Fame means nothing," Snape sneered, voice dripping with contempt. "That Potter boy is nothing but a fool with fame. A useless, arrogant brat who can't even answer basic potion questions and when corrected, he dares to argue. In some ways, he's worse than that Granger girl, the Muggle-born."
Dumbledore's brow furrowed slightly, his gaze resting thoughtfully on Harry at the Gryffindor table.
There must be some misunderstanding.
Though Potter is often late, his class performance is fairly good.
He's an honest, kind child.
"Yes, yes," murmured several teachers, offering mild excuses. Dumbledore's face softened again but unfortunately, Snape ignored them.
"What about that Draco Malfoy? From what I understand, the Malfoy family wields great influence wealthy, generous, connected. Every year they donate to the Ministry, St. Mungo's, even the Quidditch Committee. It's natural that young Master Malfoy has a reputation before even entering school."
"Barely passed," Snape said indifferently.
"Were your questions too difficult, Professor?"
"They were straight from the textbook."
Snape frowned, puzzled why this Lewynter seemed so interested in his first-years. His irritation rose.
"Potter didn't even know what a bezoar is! Or aconite! Or what results from mixing powdered asphodel root with wormwood infusion!"
The nearby Slytherins fell silent at the sound of their Head of House's raised voice and subtly edged away.
Among them was Draco Malfoy. Instead of retreating, he leaned forward eagerly hoping to hear more scolding about Potter.
Less than a week into the term, the boy who had once saved him had already become his enemy.
"Powdered asphodel root and wormwood infusion form the Draught of Living Death," Melvin said softly, a faint smile in his tone. "Also known as the Water of Life and Death, a powerful sleeping potion."
Dumbledore took another bite of cake, his eyes glinting with subtle amusement at Melvin's calm tone.
"Professor Lewynter is correct. Much better than this batch of novices," Snape said sarcastically.
"My Potions grades were average," Melvin replied mildly, "but I've always been fascinated by legends and stories. I've picked up a few interesting tales about potions."
Snape frowned at Melvin's unhurried words, irritation flickering behind his eyes.
"Narcissus, also called golden spire, has long symbolized death to Greek poets," Melvin explained evenly. "Its bare stems, foul scent, and purplish winter blooms evoke the pale stillness of the underworld. In Muggle myth, Hades placed the souls of the dead in narcissus-covered meadows."
He continued, "In the Odyssey, Homer described these golden fields as the resting place of fallen heroes from the Trojan War."
The teachers listened, captivated, while Snape's discomfort deepened.
"The symbolism of narcissus ties to death; wormwood, with its bitterness, symbolizes grief and regret. 'Repentance cannot bring peace to the soul, so one must drink the water of death' thus, the Draught of Living Death."
Dumbledore's spoon paused against his porcelain plate. His expression softened with a trace of nostalgia.
The other professors slowed their eating, quietly absorbing the story.
"There's another myth," Melvin added. "The beautiful youth Narcissus once saw his reflection in the water, fell in love with it, and drowned while trying to embrace it. After death, he became a flower. Later, Muggle scholars named the disorder of self-obsession narcissism after him."
"…What exactly are you implying?" Snape said impatiently.
"Psychology," Melvin said calmly, "is a key field in Muggle science. A person's words and actions reflect their inner emotions their subconscious."
He paused deliberately.
"So I wonder did your choice of the Draught of Living Death as a test question perhaps express some deep emotion within you, Professor Snape? Something even you might not recognize?"
"Ridiculous…"
But those piercing green eyes surfaced unbidden in Snape's mind. He denied it, furious but his heart still trembled, panic rising in his chest.
Those who knew the old stories exchanged meaningful glances.
Muggle psychology…?
It's almost more terrifying than Legilimency.
Melvin's tone turned thoughtful. "Though it's presumptuous of me, allow me to share a guess…"
Snape's pupils contracted. He was about to stop him, as was Dumbledore, but Melvin spoke faster:
"As I understand, Draco Malfoy's mother Narcissa Malfoy her name comes from the narcissus myth. Narcissa, Narcissa.
"If I'm not mistaken, Professor Snape, you once admired Mrs. Malfoy. Thus, you chose the Draught of Living Death to express your youthful regret."
The entire high table fell silent.
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick's eyes widened.
Dumbledore opened his mouth but no words came.
Even Professor Quirrell froze, a rib bone halfway to his lips.
"You admired my mother…"
It was as if Snape's mind had been struck by lightning a barrage of Muggle psychology that left him completely stunned.
CLANG!
His silver utensils slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly onto his plate.
All eyes turned toward the source Draco Malfoy, who had just leapt up from the Slytherin table and was sprinting for the exit.
He didn't even wipe the grease from his pale hair; he simply ran, tiny legs pumping, straight toward the Slytherin common room.
"Hah… hah…"
So that's why Mother said Professor Snape would 'look after' me this year…
Of course he would! He must have loved her!
Even Granger, who's brilliant at brewing, didn't get praise but I did!
It all makes sense!
Father must know immediately!
As the teachers watched Draco vanish, they turned back toward Snape then, awkwardly, toward Melvin.
"Melvin Lewynter!"
Snape's forehead twitched furiously. His usually cold face flushed red. "I was merely testing Potter's potion fundamentals!"
"I believe you, Professor," Melvin replied solemnly. "Psychology is an empirical science. Everything I said was purely conjecture."
"You… you !"
Snape looked around the table for support.
Each professor nodded vaguely, avoiding his eyes.
Dumbledore bent his head, pretending to focus on scraping the last crumbs of cake from his plate.
Flitwick ducked under the table, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
Sprout elbowed him, whispering for restraint after all, they'd worked with Snape for years.
McGonagall pressed her lips tight, fighting to keep a straight face.
None of them truly believed Melvin's claim but the image of a young Snape pining after Narcissa was too absurd not to laugh at.
Snape's breathing grew heavier. He glared at Melvin one last time, then stormed out, black robes billowing like a thundercloud.
The high table remained silent.
Muggle psychology, someone thought.
Perhaps more dangerous than You-Know-Who's Dark Arts.
Melvin took another sip of wine and mused lightly,
"Now that I think about it, the asphodel root in the Draught of Living Death isn't actually narcissus it's a type of lily."
Dumbledore's blue eyes lowered, a silent shadow crossing his face.
Late that night, the castle was dim and still.
Melvin ascended to the second floor, his steps echoing softly.
After a week of exploration, he had nearly memorized the castle's layout the twisting stairs, the hidden doors. Only a few areas remained unseen: the Headmaster's office, the forbidden corridor on the fourth floor, and the Room of Requirement on the eighth.
He wasn't avoiding them out of fear only to preserve a sense of mystery.
Earlier that day, he'd visited the North Tower, dropped by Professor Trelawney's Divination classroom, and had a pleasant chat with the chivalrous portrait of Sir Cadogan.
Now, pausing at a landing, he frowned. He thought he heard… crying?
"Wailing ghosts at night? Dumbledore didn't mention those," he muttered.
He followed the sound carefully.
A few minutes later, he found a plump, fair-skinned boy curled up at the corner of the corridor.
Fair-skinned was an objective term his complexion looked freshly healed, likely from burns mended with potion, leaving it soft and pink.
"Neville Longbottom?" Melvin called.
The boy looked up tearfully. "P-Professor…"
"What are you doing here, hiding?"
Neville held up a small crystal ball glowing faintly red. "I'm looking for my password list… It's gone since I woke up in the infirmary."
"How did you end up there?"
"Seamus took me."
"…How did you get hurt?"
"I… dropped my cauldron in Potions class today."
Melvin was silent for a long moment before piecing it together.
The Gryffindor common room required a password, which Neville terrible at remembering had written on parchment. That afternoon, they'd brewed a simple boil-cure potion. Neville mixed the wrong ingredients, producing a corrosive one instead. The cauldron tipped, the potion spilled, burning through his clothes and skin.
Snape had given him minimal treatment before sending him to Madam Pomfrey, who healed him and let him rest.
When Neville woke that evening, his password list was missing so he wandered the halls searching for it.
He hadn't found it but he'd found a teacher.
Melvin inspected him briefly. Physically healed, but mentally shaken. He relaxed slightly.
Then he examined the red-glowing Remembrall in Neville's hand the swirling mist inside made his head ache.
This should've been the responsibility of his Head of House… so why had he, an elective instructor, stumbled into it?
(End of Chapter)