One Christmas, the staff of Hogwarts had decided to play a little game. Minerva brought out a bottle of her best whiskey to share and toast. From there, as per usual, things went downhill.

It was all Dumbledore’s idea. The eternal instigator, he had posed the hard question after everyone’s tongues were sufficiently relaxed by the whiskey. He asked the group what made their favourite students so special.

Teachers weren’t supposed to have favourites. They were supposed to treat all pupils equally. It was the not-so-secret secret of professors that they did in fact have their personal preferences.

“David Beecham,” Sprout admitted. “He could make anything grow.”

“Charlie Weasley,” Kettleburn put in. He didn’t have to add his reasons.

“Do you remember Mort McGilvary?” McGonegall asked. Some of the older staff members nodded; those who had been teaching thirty years ago when Mort attended Hogwarts.

“Severus?” Dumbledore turned to his potions master. Severus declined to answer by taking a long drink from his glass.

“Oh, I know who it is,” Minerva teased in a low voice.

“I have no favourite,” he insisted.

“You can’t even stomach saying her name, can you?” she dug at him. Snape gave her a dirty look worthy of the Weasley Twins’ worst trick. “Matilda Prewett,” she answered for him. Any relation to the insufferable Weasleys, even a cousin by marriage, was too much for the bitter potions master to suffer willingly.

“Oh, she was one,” Vector agreed. “Better than Granger, d’ye think?” Some nodded, and others seemed unsure.

“She was nothing like Granger,” Severus snapped.

“I wouldn’t call her my favourite,” Vector continued. “But she was interesting.”

“You’re just bitter because she dropped her Arithmancy NEWT.”

“She wasn’t that good at it,” Vector argued. “Why should I care if she dropped my subject? I said she wasn’t my favourite.”

“Why was she yours?” Sinistra nudged Snape with her elbow.

Matilda Prewett didn’t have the running start in Potions that was afforded to Slytherins. She was a Ravenclaw. She made history when in 1982 she became the fourth blind student to attend Hogwarts. To put it politely, she was determined.

At first he didn’t like her. She was just another bumbling first year; one with the added bonus of special needs. But for some reason, she liked him. Or she liked Potions, at least. It wasn’t until her third year that he figured out why.

She couldn’t see him. She missed all the sneers, glares, dirty looks and murderous expressions. His austere wardrobe had no effect on her. His height and stance were wasted on her, as was his gliding gait. She had no idea that he had greasy hair, a sallow face, or a hooked nose. All she had to make her judgment with were his words and his actions.

Turns out, without the image behind it all, his words weren’t so bad.

Being liked wasn’t why Snape liked her. He didn’t care about the opinions of others. What he appreciate in her was that she wasn’t looking for an easy road. He could confine his liking for her to three – and only three – separate incidents.

“Professor?” she asked one day at the conclusion of the lecture. Her peers were already filing out of the room. “Tansy oil was mentioned in the assigned reading. Can you recommend a good book that discusses it in detail?”

“I am not a librarian, Miss Prewett.”

“I already asked Madam Pince, but she sent me on a wild goose chase.”

She hadn’t asked for the information outright, expecting him to dispense it like a living book. She wanted to find it herself. He hated Granger for asking such questions.

He hated her dog. Pepper, the little black lab that kept her from bumping into walls, reminded him of Black. He loathed the very sight of it. What’s more, the dog seemed just as dense as Black. Even after four years the stupid thing got lost in the castle while guiding her master.

“Excuse me,” Matilda called out to him one day in the Transfiguration Wing. It was dinner time, and they were both late.

“Miss Prewett.”

“Professor Snape,” she seemed surprised, “it didn’t sound like you.”

“Are you lost, Miss Prewett?”

“Is this the second floor, or the third, sir?”

“It’s the fourth. You’re in the Transfiguration Wing.”

“Oh.” She turned around to face the Entrance Hall. “I’m quite out of my way.”

“Would you like me to escort you to the Great Hall?” It was a generous, if dry, offer. Matilda shook her head.

“Thank you, sir, you’ve done enough. I’ll manage.”

She didn’t ask for help when she didn’t absolutely need it. She didn’t impose herself on other people. She realized that he had a life of his own to attend to; a rare quality in a teenager.

She opened an apothecary in Hogsmeade upon graduation. She gives him all his supplies at a discount, but that’s not the third reason why he likes her. It’s because of what happened the first time he made a purchase from her.

“Will that be all today, Professor?”

“I’m no longer your professor.” She shrugged.

“For sentimentality’s sake.”

“You sound like a bleeding-heart Gryffindor.” She smirked.

“Fine then, tradition.”

“Better. You didn’t spend seven years in Ravenclaw for nothing after all.”

“If you like I could go Slytherin and say it sarcastically.”

“Cheek,” he warned her.

“Sarcasm, Professor.” She smirked. She had the nerve to tease him. “Just because Slytherins have the corner on it doesn’t mean Ravenclaws can’t use it.”

She was the only student – or ex-student – who had ever tried to joke with him. She had succeeded without belittling him. Perhaps Albus will figure that out one day, too.

A/N: OC's are my habit, what can I say? I'm fascinated by the years that JK didn't include in the books.