Chapter 17: Draco: Professor Snape Has A Crush On My Mom!?
Melvin set down his wine glass, unconcerned, always united and friendly with his colleagues: “I heard Professor Snape gave the first-year students a Potions introductory class this afternoon, with Gryffindor and Slytherin houses attending together. How did it go?”
“Nothing special. This is the worst batch of first-year students.”
Snape raised his eyes coldly, his tone icy: “I don’t expect them to truly grasp the wonders of Potions, but their performance was truly disappointing. Most first-year students don’t understand the wonderful magic of a cauldron’s gentle simmer, nor how enchanting those magical liquids are. Many don’t even believe Potions is magic. They’re only interested in those silly subjects involving waving wands around.”
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick’s smiles froze.
Transfiguration and Charms were the silly wand-waving subjects he was referring to.
The two exchanged a glance, their faces showing similar helplessness. They knew Snape’s words were just his personality, not aimed at them, but they still inexplicably felt offended.
“Worse than previous years, huh…”
Melvin didn’t catch exactly what he was mumbling and continued the topic: “To deepen my understanding of the British Wizarding World, I’ve read some materials and noticed that this batch of first-year students includes some who already made a name for themselves before arriving, like that boy-who-lived from Gryffindor, Harry Potter, and that pure-blood boy of noble lineage from Slytherin, Draco Malfoy. I thought they would have great talent.”
Dumbledore held his silver spoon, savoring the sweet cream while dividing his attention to listen to their chat, without joining the conversation.
“Fame doesn’t mean everything.”
Snape scoffed, his sarcastic tone especially pronounced: “That Potter is just a fame-hungry fool, empty-headed and arrogant. He couldn’t answer the most basic Potions questions, and after being criticized, he even tried to talk back to the teacher. In some ways, he’s not even as good as Granger, who comes from Muggle stock.”
“…”
Dumbledore frowned slightly, his gaze turning to Harry at the Gryffindor house table, his eyes deep.
“There must be some misunderstanding. Though Potter is often late to class, his performance in class is quite good.”
“He’s a righteous and kind child.”
“Yeah, yeah…”
The eavesdropping professors offered a few defenses. Dumbledore’s expression softened again, but Snape wasn’t listening.
“What about that Draco Malfoy? From what I know, the Malfoy family has great influence here, with abundant wealth. They’re generous and enthusiastic, donating every year to institutions like the Ministry of Magic, St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, and the Quidditch League Committee, befriending many influential figures. This young Mr. Malfoy has thus garnered attention and built some reputation before even entering school.”
“Barely acceptable…” Snape said offhandedly.
“Was that because the questions you tested were too difficult, Professor?”
“All basic knowledge from the textbook.”
Snape glanced at him, irritated that this Levent fellow cared so much about the first-year students, and raised his voice slightly: “Potter doesn’t know bezoar, doesn’t recognize aconite, and doesn’t even know what asphodel root powder added to wormwood infusion brews!”
The front row seats at the Slytherin house table were very close. Hearing their dean’s voice, the students fell silent for a few seconds, then began subtly shifting away.
Draco Malfoy was one of them. His eyes darted around; instead of moving away, he edged closer, wanting to hear more of the professor criticizing Potter.
In less than a week since the start of term, he had already become enemies with that savior boy.
“Asphodel root powder added to wormwood infusion makes Wolfsbane Potion,” Melvin answered softly, a faint smile in his voice. “Also known as draught of living death, it’s a potent sleeping draught.”
Dumbledore took a sip of cake, looking at the smile on his face, feeling it carried some deeper meaning.
“Professor Levent answered correctly, far better than this batch of first-year students.” Snape said sarcastically.
“My Potions grades in school were average, but I’m very interested in legends and stories. I’ve read many miscellaneous books, so I picked up some fun knowledge related to Potions.”
Listening to Melvin’s slow tone, Snape furrowed his brow, feeling some unease.
“Narcissus is also called asphodel. In the eyes of Greek poets, the naked stems of asphodel in winter, its unpleasant smell, and its clusters of slightly dark purple flowers align with the pale death and darkness of the underworld. In Muggle stories, the realm of the dead has Hades placing souls in a wasteland covered in narcissus flowers.”
Melvin spoke at length: “On the dramatic stage, the faint, grayish asphodel creates a dark atmosphere perfectly matching the emptiness and sorrow of the underworld. Homer’s《 Odyssey》 mentions souls of heroes slaughtered in the Trojan War dwelling in fields of asphodel.”
The other professors listened with interest, but Snape felt growing irritation.
“One symbolism of narcissus relates to death, while wormwood, with its unique bitterness, is often linked to images of pain and sorrow, deep regret. 「 Regret keeps one from peaceful sleep, only the draught of living death brings rest」—that’s the origin of the Wolfsbane Potion’s name.”
Dumbledore’s silver spoon paused at the edge of his porcelain plate, a reminiscent look in his eyes.
The other professors slowed their eating, moved by the name of this potion.
“Greek mythology has another narcissus story: the beautiful youth Narkissos（Narkissos） one day saw his reflection in the water, unaware it was himself, fell hopelessly in love, unable to pull away, and eventually drowned seeking union with it. After death, he became a narcissus flower. Later, Muggle psychologists named the affliction of excessive self-love narcissism or narcissus syndrome.”
“…”
Snape grew impatient: “What exactly are you trying to say?”
“Psychology is a very important field in Muggle science. To psychologists, a person’s everyday language and behavior reflect their inner emotions, or rather, their subconscious.”
Melvin paused briefly, then said slowly: “So I wonder if choosing Wolfsbane Potion as a test question expresses Professor Snape’s inner emotions, or some subconscious he himself might not notice.”
“Absurd nonsense…”
Those green eyes flashed in his mind. Though Snape angrily denied it, his heart still stirred unavoidably, even with some panic.
Everyone in the know flickered their eyes, gazes sweeping between Snape and Melvin, expressions thoughtful.
Is this Muggle knowledge?
In some ways, even more terrifying than Legilimency.
“Though a bit presumptuous, I still want to share my guess…”
Snape’s pupils contracted, about to scold and stop him.
Dumbledore also looked reluctant, preparing to call a halt.
At this tense moment, Melvin suddenly sped up: “As I know, Draco Malfoy’s mother, Narcissa Malfoy—her name comes from the narcissus story, Narcissa.
“If I guessed right, Professor Snape, you once admired Draco’s mother, so you used Wolfsbane Potion to express the regrets of your youth.”
The high table fell into stunned silence.
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick stared wide-eyed in shock.
Dumbledore opened his mouth, but said nothing.
Even Professor Quirrell in the corner froze in place, a piece of rib roast in his mouth, forgetting to chew.
“You admired Narcissa…”
Snape’s mind felt bombarded, by Muggle psychology, and for a moment he couldn’t react.
“Clang…”
The metal cutlery slipped from his hand, clinking sharply against the edge of the porcelain plate.
The professors at the high table looked toward the sound, seeing Draco Malfoy at the front of the Slytherin house table jump off his bench and run panicked toward the doorway.
Draco didn’t even wipe his mouth, ignored the grease in his platinum hair, abandoned all table manners, his short legs pumping furiously as he dashed toward the Slytherin Common Room.
“Huff… huff…”
No wonder Mother specially warned him before term that their dean would look after him.
Professor Snape did favor him—Granger was so smart and brewed Potions well, but that afternoon the professor only praised him.
No wonder… no wonder!
He had to notify Father as soon as possible.
Watching the first-year student’s figure recede, the professors at the high table withdrew their gazes, instinctively looking at Snape, then realizing it was off, shifting to Melvin beside them, though their peripheral vision couldn’t help glancing at Snape.
“Melvin Levent!”
Snape’s temple twitched with rage, his usually cold face flushed red, lips opening and closing: “I only tested Potter’s Potions foundations!”
“I believe you, Professor.”
Melvin nodded, his expression serious: “I understand. Psychology is just an empirical discipline; the above is merely a guess.”
“You… you!”
Snape was at a loss for words and turned to the other professors.
The other professors nodded too, but avoided his eyes.
Dumbledore lowered his head, focused on scraping cake crumbs from his plate—mere scraps from the edges, less than half a spoonful, barely visible unless looked at closely.
Professor Flitwick, leveraging his small stature, buried his head below the table, his shaking shoulders uncontrollable.
Professor Sprout gently nudged him a few times, trying to remind him not to go too far—they’d been colleagues for over a decade.
Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, striving to stay serious, if one ignored the slight upward curve at her mouth…
It wasn’t that they disbelieved Snape; after all, several professors had taught at Hogwarts when he was a student and knew what happened back then.
It was just that Melvin’s guess, landing on the usually dour Snape, was inevitably amusing.
Snape’s breathing seemed heavier. He glared at Melvin several times, but considering the owl post rate, there was no time to argue further, so he flung his sleeve and stormed off.
The high table quieted, no sounds, everyone communicating with eyes.
Is this Muggle Psychology?
Even more terrifying than the Dark Lord’s Dark Magic.
Melvin sipped his wine, casually saying: “I just remembered—actually, the asphodel in Wolfsbane Potion isn’t narcissus (Narcissus); it’s a type of lily (lily).”
Dumbledore lowered his bright blue eyes, silent for a moment.
…
Late at night, near lights-out.
Hogwarts Castle, second floor.
Melvin climbed the staircase upward.
After a week of exploration, he had nearly traversed every tower in the castle, fully mastering the patterns of common staircases and doorways. Only a few rooms remained unexplored, like the Headmaster’s Office, the forbidden corridor on the fourth floor, and the Room of Requirement on the eighth floor.
Not that he didn’t know their locations or access methods—he just wasn’t in a hurry, wanting to save some suspense.
Today he toured the North Tower, visited the Divination classroom and Professor Trelawney’s office, and on the way met Sir Cadogan’s portrait—a very chivalrous one they chatted pleasantly with.
Melvin passed the staircase landing and paused, suspiciously looking around. He seemed to faintly hear a hoarse sobbing sound.
“Does the castle have banshees wandering at night? Headmaster Dumbledore never mentioned it…”
Melvin listened carefully, then followed the crying sound.
A few minutes later, he found a white, tender little chubby boy in a corridor corner.
The paleness here was objective—his skin had recently been corroded and damaged, then regrown by potion, fresh and pink-tinged.
“Neville Lumbardon?” Melvin called his name.
Neville, squatting on the ground, looked up, face crumpled in tears, sniffling: “P-Professor.”
“What are you doing hiding here?”
Neville pulled out a glowing red crystal ball, mumbling unclearly: “I’m looking for my password list. It was gone when I woke up in the Hospital Wing.”
“How did you end up in the Hospital Wing?”
“Seamus took me there.”
“…How did you get injured?”
“I knocked over my cauldron in afternoon Potions class.”
“…”
It took Melvin a few minutes to piece together what happened.
The Gryffindor Common Room requires a password, and this child had poor memory since childhood, couldn’t remember the regularly changing passwords, so he wrote them on a parchment.
In afternoon Potions class, brewing a boils-cure potion, he misremembered the steps and made a corrosive malicious potion, then unluckily knocked over the cauldron, splashing himself. His skin and clothing corroded; after Snape’s simple treatment, he was sent to the Hospital Wing, drank Madam Pomfrey’s potion, and fell asleep.
He woke at nightfall, and upon checking his pocket, the password list was gone, so he wandered the castle searching.
He didn’t find the password list but was found by the professor.
Melvin first checked Neville’s condition: physical injuries healed, just mentally off, so somewhat relieved.
Then he examined the memory ball in his hand—a small crystal ball with swirling red mist inside, making his head ache.
This should be the dean’s concern, yet he’d stumbled into it as an elective professor.
