A/N: One of the plot bunnies I couldn't get rid of in my mind. Harry was never terrible at potions. In fact, he found he had a talent for it. All these years there was another, suppressed, side of himself that had been clawing its way out. Remember, the hat did choose Slytherin for him. Although the hat probably never intended for him to be so... macabre.
*Anyway, I'll be putting this in the several or so plot bunny stories I'll upload: I'll wait for the reviews on all of them and continue on the one that has the most reviews/comments/alerts. The rest I might leave up to adoption. Enjoy!
In the dead of night, a boy sat crouched on the balls of his feet over his closet, murmuring to himself. He absently pulled back the fringes of his unruly raven hair, revealing bright green as he stared at the bubbling cauldron. The memorized instructions were repeating flawlessly in his head, and he watched intently for signs that told of his next move. There was a certain peace in the precision that was involved in brewing, where the fault can never be anyone else's but your own, provided you had privacy. You could be pitifully weak, magically, and yet your potions can still be potent. Likewise, you could be a force of magic, yet your potions may fizzle before they even left the cauldron. The judge behind the efficacy of potions was objective, of that he was certain. Still, one mistake and your healing potions could decay wounds, instead of mend them; your burn salves could sizzle the skin instead of soothe it. There was something absolutely wonderful about fiddling with an art that required such control.
It could be observed at Hogwarts that Harry Potter never liked potions much, but the reality of it was that what he couldn't stand in class wasn't the subject, it was the professor. Of that, there was never any doubt. But he hadn't forsaken potions to the torment of one Severus Snape. In fact, he found himself thriving as he worked on it alone. Besides, with almost all of his magical belongings locked in the cupboard under the stairs, there wasn't much he could do. Luckily, he had replaced his real wand with fake rubber one. His relatives were ignorant about the inner workings of his kind, and that would be their ultimate downfall. Snorting at the thought, he added a sloth brain to the cauldron.
Of course, his attitude made it impossible for others to assume the entirety of his stability, mostly because it was less of a façade and more a part of him. Truly, he was headstrong and brave with an undying loyalty to those he calls friends, and certainly he wore his heart on his sleeve. However, he knew nothing about true friendship. Not then, and most definitely not now. That said, the heart on his sleeve is merely a sliver of the fragmented whole, no one knew the doubts and subtleties in his mind – indeed, even he gave his damnedest to try and push those thoughts away. He was never always successful, though. Perhaps this was why the Sorting Hat appealed most to his inner Slytherin.
With that train of thought leaving the station, his mind was practically kidnapped to go along with it. Ronald Weasley stood by him, and while more clueless than Harry, the redhead supported him just as much as he'd forsaken him. His best friend's jealousy was first-hand proof of the latter. Whenever something special and great happens to come by his way, Ron was there to support him, but never without that hint of green envy. Harry knew life wasn't fair, perhaps more than most, but he just could not deny the pain whenever his supposed first friend renounced him. The events at the Triwizard tournament were still fresh in his mind. Could one really forgive – just like that? Sighing, he took some of the wormwood at his side, and placed it in the cauldron.
Worse was that the Weasley never questioned his being quick to forgive and took advantage of it, assuming his naivety, and perhaps that above all wounded him. Pride was, after all, something innate. Still, as damaging as the previous year was, he would never be able to forget Ron's sacrificial move during first year. An 11-year old boy gave himself to animated chess pieces, simply so that his friend could move on and save the day. Was that the foolishness of youth, or the signs of a good soul? These thoughts were going nowhere in his mind, and serves only to confuse him more. Truly, what are friends?
Hermione Granger was bushy-haired and brilliant, yet also bossy and in that way belligerent. She was his keeper, and served as the conscience of the group, at least when it came to authority. There was something disturbing with her fanatic zeal whenever authority figures were involved. Her intentions were always on the right track, regardless of what convoluted path her articulate mind brought her to. Spew was evidence of this. As with Ron, there really was little doubt as to the goodness of their souls. However, the world isn't forgiving enough to be so black and white, and it certainly won't yield just for their sakes. Picking off some Asphodel petals, he began to gingerly place three into the solution.
At their lowest points, whenever Hermione became too overbearing, he always went back and wondered if they would have ever been friends had he not decided to save her. Was it simply a life debt, or maybe a victim's adoration for her savior? But then there were also all-time highs, as when her intelligence allowed him to save the Philosopher's Stone. She was also able to solve the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets when renowned witches and wizards couldn't, and so it was a shame she was petrified before being able to share it. In the past two years, with her time turner and her gift of knowledge, she was able to help him overcome many of the obstacles placed in his path, and even taught him how to cast a shield spell.
Those two were comrades more than they were friends. Abused as he was during his childhood, he at least surmised friends should be able to know him, not just a part of him. It felt like that, though. All they saw was the goodness in him – the celebrity making friends with the common folk, the selfless hero who rescues the damsel in distress. But those are not all that were in him. Instead of being able to explore his other tendencies, Ron and Hermione suppressed them. Frowning, he took a sprig of Valerian and waited, soon enough one would be needed for the draught to finish.
Trying to go a little deeper, he surmised that the house system was largely at fault for this form of suppression. It seemed as though being sorted into house means hiding everything that it didn't stand for. Most of the students surely saw it this way. It was always typical Gryffindor gusto, Slytherin slyness, Ravenclaw raptness and Hufflepuff honey. Where was the variety in personalities, the underlying traits inherent to all people? With the way they were all acting, himself included, they would only amount to sheep. The ostracizing common in groups their age didn't help at all; no one wanted to be an outcast. Therefore, they had to fit in. He frowned at this, and was forced more and more to think they were only drones. It was a cynical thought, to be sure. And he may have blanketed the whole school in his assumptions, but there was hardly any glaring evidence against his claims, only more support. At least that he could think of at the moment, anyway.
At this point, though, Harry was forced to think about just that – his hardships in life. There was a bias against society now tugging at his thoughts, but he couldn't help it. Why was the Philosopher's stone moved to Hogwarts? True, the safety of Gringgots was compromised, so that trail made enough sense. But surely there was no need to place the students at risk. With an institution such as Hogwarts, the children's safety was paramount. Such an artifact would inspire a lot of thieving thoughts, and that was putting it lightly. The promise of immortality and wealth was nothing to trifle with. Was the headmaster simply that arrogant to think his protections were foolproof? The mirror was adequate, at best. A loyal servant would have no use for the stone but to find it, and give it to his master. Loopholes upon loopholes were evident to his mind. The rest didn't even need mentioning. It did not help that three 11-year olds were able to best all the traps. From there he could hear the other sides of him whispering in his mind. Maybe it was all a ruse to ascertain Voldemort's continued existence. He was horrified at the thought, but they kept on coming, even as he squeezed some beans with dull edge of a silver knife.
His second and third years were mostly the same, disastrous, and for once he started to question his infallible headmaster. He, with his whole staff behind him, could not figure out the mystery of the basilisk. Fawkes had proved he could travel into the depths of the chamber, and as Dumbledore's familiar, could have perhaps nipped the travesty that occurred at the bud. No, it had to be a second year witch that would figure out the problem, perhaps because the upper years were worried about their own little agendas, and Hermione was solely focused on the task. Regardless, Harry now felt that other people could've figured out, somehow. They just didn't care, or were perhaps scared enough to inaction. In the end, he had to risk Ron getting obliviated and himself stared at to death or petrified, maybe even swallowed whole, just to save the school. The scars on his forearm were telling; he did not enjoy that encounter.
He didn't even know where to begin in third year. The protections of the safe haven that was Hogwarts were beaten by an emaciated escapee from Azkaban. What was worse was that the convict was able to infiltrate the children's dorm rooms. He shuddered at the thought. If it wasn't Sirius, but a bloodthirsty killer, or perhaps a death eater – maybe even both – then he would not be here brewing today, and most of Gryffindor would be dead. He was livid, now. The tethered emotions he bore that were suppressed at Hogwarts were being ruthlessly ripped out into the open. He could hear a satisfying squish as the juices of the sopophorous beans leaked out onto the chopping board.
And perhaps that was what calmed him enough to think about his fourth year. He simply didn't want to lose control, not if it meant ruining the mixture in front of him. Too much was at stake, and these troubling thoughts were only goading him more into the path he had reluctantly chosen the night before. Sighing, he thought of the recent tournament and with it the newer scars at his neck and back tingled softly. Boy, that dragon was pissed. However, it was the scar on his forearm that warmed the most, as if reliving the event which caused it. A long vertical gash marred his left arm, Peter's knife was enchanted and thus the wound had to heal normally, as healing salves and other magical methods seemed to do little. Luckily, it wasn't the same for his blood, and was thus staunched through medicinal magic. That was jumping too far into the story, though. He remembered feeling betrayed as the whole school turned against him, his so-called friends – however few of them – included. His flight from the dragon was exhilarating, though. And it felt just right practicing the summoning charm; he always felt something special while learning the practical aspect of magic.
Thus, Harry was partial to the practical side of magic, being much more adept at it than he was with theory, though he was by no means a slouch in the latter area. The routine he had with Ron and Hermione simply became too comfortable for him to thrive academically. Ten years of abuse prioritized his interactions above academics. Still, during the many nights he couldn't sleep, he had read a book or two, and it was during those times that he developed a love for potions. The word love reminded him of Fleur, not that he was enamored with the quarter-veela, but it was always fun looking at the lust-addled fools in Hogwarts. As luck would have it, he was resistant to such subtle magic. Whether it was an innate defense of his mind, or the fact that it was so chaotic, it didn't matter to him. It was strength to be respected, and through his actions, most especially in saving Gabrielle, Fleur did eventually come to respect him. Krum did, as well, though the Bulgarian probably wouldn't state it so plainly. Cedric was nice from the beginning, up to the very end. Flinching at the memory, he finally added the beans to cauldron.
That was his school life in a nutshell. He laughed bitterly as scarcely any other name came up, and only two friends, to boot. Not that he even considered them friends anymore, after shifting to his recent line of thought. That was perhaps another effect of brewing potions. It gave you time to think. About everything. The black liquid in front of him looked ominous enough, and turned a certain shade of lilac through it all. Pushing all other thoughts to the side, he used his wand to stir the solution inside. Counter-clockwise seven times, if he remembered correctly – he almost always did. He licked his then dry lips in anticipation, it should become clear as water, soon enough. But then, it came out somewhat murky, at least to his eyes. Doing a double take, he stirred clockwise once, and hoped his knowledge about the theory of potions was enough to support the move to remedy whatever mistake he had thought he committed. After a sporadic burst of bubbles came and went, he stared in appreciation as what looked like water in front of him stilled. Finally, the draught was complete. His demeanor changed - it was no longer thoughtful.
As he stared at the potion in front of him, his green eyes shone with as much murder as the viridian of an Avada Kedavra.