Chapter 1
H:
It had all kicked off in Potions. I will forgive you if you're not surprised at the location, as let's be honest, when does it ever not? Sure there was always multiple idiotic, nose-picking, but mostly horny nethanderthals (i.e. teenagers) all in close contact with volatile potion ingredients (case and point: Ron's mini explosion, as he diced instead of sliced his Erumpent Horn at the sight of Lavender's fat arse bending down to get something she'd 'accidentally' dropped), which made it likely for there to be some…accidents. However I wasn't convinced that this allowed for disasters every single bloody time I set foot in the dungeons. It just wasn't a coincidence anymore!
It looked innocent enough to the uneducated eye, but then again most things did in the Wizarding World– right before they singed your eyebrows off. This was much deadlier than the lack of sweat-collectors on your face. There were three cauldrons in front, but I could only focus on one. Its opulent sheen reminded me of a storybook I had had when I was younger, one that I had pored over for hours on end, listlessly gazing at the caricatures of fairies nestled in amongst the rose-tinged cream glitter. The memory was bittersweet against the callous reality of the menace in front of me, bubbling away merrily, as if it was smug at the thought of my serious consideration to drop Potions. The notion was becoming more attractive by each minute squeezing its way out of the hourglass.
'Now, as I was saying, I've prepared a few concoctions this morning. Any ideas what these might be? Yes, Miss...?' Slughorn nodded at me.
'Granger, sir. That one there is Veritaserum. And that would be Polyjuice Potion. And that... is Amortentia. The most powerful love potion in the world,' I gulped, praising my efforts to keep my hands from shaking. 'It's rumoured to smell differently to each person, according to what attracts them. For example, I smell freshly mown grass, new parchment, spearmint toothpaste and...'
Slughorn graciously ignored my blush and the sinking of my lips into a frown at the signals coming from my nose. 'Now Amortentia doesn't create actual love, of course. That's impossible. But it does cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. For that reason, it is probably the most dangerous potion in this room.'
I couldn't agree more. If I knew anything at all–trust me you can't read as much as I do without getting to know a bit– I had just confirmed something that I had been trying to suppress for a long time: I was in love with the most emotionally immature boy known to mankind. That wasn't his official title, but that was all that was going through my head, as I stared horrified at one Ronald Weasely. Oh fuck.
However I was nothing if not thorough, so after a tortuous night of being anything but asleep, I got up early on the Saturday morning to collect more evidence. This involved me dashing back to the Dungeons. Willingly. If I hadn't been such a tangle of intense panic and emotions, I may have–with the help of logic– realised that returning to the place of all my (petty) woe was a bad idea.
I was stirring my cauldron, disgruntled to find that uselessly moving the potion round and round didn't make it the colour it was supposed to be, when there was a soft hiss of footsteps. I looked up to see the extraordinarily-repellent Draco Malfoy. Cool grey eyes appraised my cocoa-coloured (a cruel trick of nature was my colour scheme) irises. He look haggard; he was so gaunt that his skin now seemed to be in some parts slowly draining off the omnipresent points and peaks, while in other places it was stretched tight over them. Much to my chagrin however, his attractiveness hadn't been completely derailed by this change. There was something missing though.
The tousled hair and the languid posture of a cocksure twat made it easy to establish why his title was the 'Slytherin Sex God' was well-founded. I had always found that if he'd been a bit stockier, then I could imagine the ebbing smoke of a cigar curling around his blond locks in a dusky halo. His fingers would be forever melded with the indent of a fat roll of tobacco. The image was pristine in my head, as he paused appearing to be looking for someone, before referring his complete attention onto me.
'This is an all-new low Granger. Lust potion really?' he drawled, thus delivering to me two clashing epiphanies express-delivery. I couldn't say I was grateful. 'Going to slip some into the Weasel's dinner? Desperate but as much as I expected. Please tell me the time and place, so I can guarantee myself a front seat row for your humiliation.'
Epiphany number one: so that's what I had made. I would've been able to identify it normally, but that's emotions for you. Epiphany number two: that's what was missing. His smirk. I'd never thought I'd see the beautiful day. Mind you he didn't have a lot to smirk about– his father's departure to Azkaban must have put a real dampener on Voldermort's 'Welcome Back!' party. If Lucieus hadn't been one of the group of deatheaters trying to murder me and his son didn't resemble a splodge of pus that I failed to scrape off my shoe, then I might have felt sorry for him.
'It's on the syllabus. I was–' I lied, as he strutted over to me. I noticed a suspicious clunk that sounded like liquid sloshing around in a bottle. I wouldn't put it past him to be drinking in school. No doubt he'd been having shots of grey goose since potty training.
'And you were being a know-it-all bitch as usual.'
'Glad to see you have such a flattering hypothesis on the essence of my character. I have a few choice words about yours too. Namely why do you feel the need to drown yourself in cologne? Is that rumour about you having a second layer of slime making the rounds again?' I smiled sweetly.
He mimicked the look sardonically, leaning down to place his knuckles on the desk. Any minute now he was going to rip off his shirt and beat his chest in imitation of a male grey back gorilla. Males and their delusions of grandeur down under.
I was right about the smell though. It was a moving fog of hands and feet shoving the scent in my face, until it burnt the back of my throat and water welled in my eyes. If it hadn't been so strong, then it would've been, well, hot. I resisted the urge to close my eyes and picture a Calvin Klein model hovering above me. No such luck however, as Malfoy quirked an eyebrow.
His whole manner today was off. The hostility remained and this was his attempt to conceal the sombre flit of his eyes, yet it was like there were two immiscible fluids lurching around in his brain. I detected playfulness. I couldn't be too sure on my interpretation, as any minute now he would be calling me a 'mudblood'. That wasn't playful at all. I mean the charming phrase could lead to potentially his murder and my imprisonment, which I found didn't correlate to the mood associated with puppies.
'I would be careful if I was you Granger,' he growled huskily.
I raised an eyebrow, ignoring the cool trickle of fear posing as cyanide entering my coiled toes. Unlike Harry and Ron, I had never underestimated Malfoy's potential threat. He was an impressive wizard and the knowledge of my less than satisfactory result in DADA was not only a sore spot, but a weakness. One he could– and would with pleasure– undoubtedly exploit.
'What? Is this slime layer contagious?'
He bent down even closer, until I could for the first time appreciate the hues of the thunderstorm warring in his eyes. Uncomfortable wasn't a strong enough adjective for what I was feeling.
'I don't make warnings often mud–'His speech paused, as he licked his lips to deliberate over his words. 'I don't make them often, but I'm perfectly serious when I do.'
I knew my eyes were wide in terror and I hated it, but I couldn't tear them off of his, as I recalled the Quidditch World Cup. For a Slytherin, he had the odd moments of candour.
'Noted,' I croaked, as his thinned mouth waned completely and he jerked back out of the room in a movement atypical of his usual fluid motion.
I blinked. And then decided I needed food and fast. And also in vast quantities.
D:
It was a cruel twist of fate, I reasoned with myself, nothing you wouldn't subject someone else too if you ever were given the chance. Sometimes I felt I would a brilliant shoe-in for fate and what with my life going so sublimely abysmal, I had years of in-depth first-hand experience that I could readily apply to the job. It was a pity that this latest trick was so spot-on with its timing. Well it was a pity for the House Elves, who had to now clear up the scab-saffron mixture of bile and vomit I had emptied onto the floor. That's if they didn't enjoy cleaning as much as I enjoyed taking the last remaining piss from Granger, although in light of recent events it'd seemed I took more pleasure from terrifying her now. The little quake of her skinny frame and the wideness of her eyes were a sight I would hold forever. Maybe not forever, maybe just until the day the Dark Lord whimsically decided to murder me– if I didn't fuck up first and the whole process was sped up as a result.
It'd been her eyes that been my undoing. I was glad that I had nothing left in my stomach, as that poetical drivel nearly made me retch. Again. However I wouldn't bother causing myself that sting admitting something that wasn't true. They were an exact replica and one that came without the 'MADE IN CHINA' label: shape, hue, size, colour, shine, dimensions, shade, expression, movement and emotion. They and they alone, had been what had sent the acidic burn racing up my throat, so my food could be reacquainted with myself and my surroundings.
If I hadn't leant down in my school-boy intimidation technique, then I may have left unscathed– even managed to achieve some satisfaction by tormenting Granger some more. Instead there was clarity in the image of her confusion, bordering on concern, at my sudden departure. I might've slammed my fist into the wall, if a similar but starkly different image hadn't overwhelmed my mental barriers. Lucky for me wasn't it that I could stop the Dark Lord from glimpsing my inner thoughts, yet I couldn't stop the very same ones from besieging– marauding around freely–my brain. However I should have expected as much, as a key part of my upbringing and later my own practises, was that fear was a brilliant motivator.
Blood, sweet and rich, cascaded out of cuts and over bones and bruises alike. I had always been allowed to slither away to stare uselessly at the library bookshelves, flinching at the syncopated screams, but today had been an awful, unwelcomed exception. Now I was here, I found my eyes were jammed, simply relaying the gory images through loose connections to my brain.
She was young and had previously been beautiful. For once her picture-postcard looks and shamelessly divine curves had been what had truly doomed her. Auntie Bella hated beauty. But then again Auntie Bella hated everything and she would've been tortured anyway because of her heritage. Or lack of.
A short time ago I wouldn't have had to focus on maintaining short, shallow breaths and in all probability, just averted my eyes for the really tasteless parts of the exercise. However I found this couldn't be achieved today, as I was having difficulty trying to decipher which parts were less tasteful than the others. They all resulted in the same high-pitched shrieks and begging that I could only liken to gamma rays in their intensity, nature and impact. I was also having trouble with interpreting why today was different. The leading view was that I had never witnessed the blood– the singular fixation that had my eyes caught in the nettle bush, which until this moment, I had never noticed that it had lies embroiled in it.
Crimson. Scarlet. Ruby. Claret. Garnet. Cherry. Red. It was all of these at once, yet there was a point of homeostasis; it wasn't brown. There was no mud, either in the form of glistening, moist soil on a rainy day, or in the dry splatters on wellingtons that resulted because of a walk on a rainy day. It was astoundingly, indoctrination-shatteringly, red. Very red if the vast quantities that were collapsing, thoroughly expelled, in coughs and spasms out of the body, were anything to go by.
Of course I had never truly believed that it would be a mundane brown. No one had clarified this, but I had always just accepted that there would a slight tinge to it. And then when I was older, I had dusted this superstition out of my head like it was a bit of stray grime. But that's the thing about superstition: it never goes away, unless tackled. It can't be misplaced, put down and never retrieved, it's a characteristic– a third hand– that remains with you for life. I wondered briefly whether I would feel pain seeing that it had been amputated– nothing to replace it with, leaving a gaping hole that I dared to tread near and peer through to the truth.
The truth. Ha. We had never been introduced.
