A/N: This is Beater 2 of the Chudley Cannons checking in for Round 6 of Season 5 of the QLFC.

Beater 2: Frankenstein

Additional Prompts: 1. (word) token, 3. (quote) For every problem there is one solution which is simple, neat, and wrong. — H. L. Mencken, and 15. (word) coast

Word count: 2023 before A/N.

Thanks to my lovely captain Ned for beta-ing.

I am not JK. This is her world.

Sluggy was working in the lab late one night,

When his eyes beheld an eerie sight.

For his potion from its cauldron began to rise,

And suddenly to his surprise

It made a splash.

It made a monster splash.

Horace Slughorn didn't know what time it was, only that it must have been late. Ever the nocturnal night prowler, the Potions' classroom rat was hungrily gnawing at a stool in the back corner. The rat—Horace had named him Jim—only appeared after every soul at Hogwarts was asleep.

So, if Jim was busily gnawing, then Horace knew it must be late.

He had had a rather stressful day earlier. Two of his first year's were submitted to the Hospital Wing for minor burns, a third year Hufflepuff accidentally swallowed a sleeping draught, and the sixth years—heavens, the sixth years!—they had spilled three cauldrons filled to the brim with a fainting mixture. Except one hadn't been brewed properly, and instead of making its victims faint, the potion had glued eight students to the spot where they stood.

Horace glanced up at the sixteen shoes still stuck to his classroom's floor. Some of those boys had awful taste in shoes, but what did Horace care. They weren't Slug Club members.

Now, Horace was stuck preparing for the next day's assignments while grading essays. It was a wonder any student succeeded at that school considering a vast majority of them never learned penmanship before the age of eleven. And, worse—it showed. He could barely make out what poor Roonil was trying to say.

"Extraordinary," he mumbled, half in awe of the clumsily linked words, half dumbstruck that someone with decent enough potions skills could write so unfathomably awful. Horace had to put the nonsense down. "I should have some tea, I think," he said to Jim.

The rat bit deeper into the cedar wood.

"Hm," Horace snorted, "quite right. I should get my potion first. Good thought, Jim, my boy."

Hoisting himself from his desk, Horace stood, stretching. His neck had a rather stiff crick on the one side and his back was forever creaking when he walked. He often thought to himself how determined Albus must have been to ever convince him to come back. Horace retired for a reason.

Or two. Old age and imminent danger seemed a rather fine cause for retirement. Alas, his retirement did not last long.

Three stations were brewing at that moment. Horace, ever prudent, had decided to use his time wisely and prepare potions for his classes the next day. First, there was the Draught of the Living Dead. Horace stirred the contents, smiling at his successful results. Next, in a small pewter cauldron, Horace had a batch of Polyjuice going. He was critical of its lumpiness, but the potion's consistency had nothing to do with his skill and everything to do with the old ingredients—the Boomslang skin had gotten hard and tough inside the Potion's closet, which left the texture of the potion chunky instead of smooth.

It would still work as a demonstration, but Horace wished he had the proper material.

The third potion, emitting a pink gaseous cloud, was Horace's own concoction. Just because he lamented coming out of retirement didn't mean he wouldn't take advantage of the free supplies. The potion, one of his latest attempts, was supposed to prevent the drinker from bodily harm. Unlike Felix Felicis, the pink brew would not give luck to the drinker, but merely add a forcefield to protect them in case of an attack.

Not that there should be an attack, of course. But just in case. Horace grimaced. So many shady wizards prowled the streets, and if Horace planned to continue to sell rare species and ingredients on the side, he'd need protection against those sorts.

"I think it's coming along splendidly, Jim," he stirred his concoction. He'd yet to give it a name. If it was successful, naturally, he'd name it after himself as a token to his genius.

And if it wasn't successful, well, then he'd pretend it never happened.

"I wonder, perhaps, if I should use a defensive charm," Horace muttered more to himself this time. So far, he had brewed and tested his potion twice. The first batch had done nothing but give him such painful and loud gas, he had to let Madame Pomfrey in on what he was creating. The second was far more successful, though the effects only seemed to last for a few minutes and the aftertaste reminded him of burlap.

"If laced with a defensive charm, say Deprimo or Salvio hexia, definitely not Relashio…" Horace pulled the stool closer to the table, intent on sitting and jotting down some notes. Jim gave out a squeak as the stool scraped across the floor toward the Potions master. As Horace sat, he heard a loud snapping sound—the chair gave way underneath his weight, sending him flailing to the floor. In the midst of his fall, Horace struck out his arms, knocking into the cauldron, warm and bubbling. It tipped and crashed onto the stone, splintering in the process. Pink liquid spread into every nook and cranny of the floor, covering it like the ocean coast over sand.

"Good heavens!" Horace sat up, rubbing his aching backside. "You've done it now, Jim."

The cedar leg had been bitten clean through. Horace held it in his hand, examining the bite marks left by his fiendish little friend. "Now I've got to clean up your mess, Jim, which is un—"

He paused, his face scrunching up in concern.

Hsssshhhhh.

That, Horace decided, could not be good.

Hsssshhhhhhshhhhhhhshhhhhhh.

His eyes fell to his potion. The pink liquid had made its way to the sixteen shoes that were still stuck to his classroom floor. There was steam rising from the soles of each one where the potion touched them. Horace sat, dumbfounded, one hand still on his bum, the other holding the bitten chair leg.

Suddenly, a left shoe was swallowed up by the floor. It was soon followed by its pair. A giant, black hole started to grow from the now swallowed shoes, rapidly sucking in another pair and another, until Horace realized it wasn't a hole at all, but rather, the floor was disintegrating before him. His potion was eating through the stone and cement. He could hear the sound of the shoes as they plummeted from his classroom floor to the bottom of the pits below the castle.

Ba-pat, ba-pat, ba-pat. All sixteen of them.

He reached for his wand. His pocket was empty.

"Help!" Horace screamed as loud as he could, his voice breaking as he watched the floor continue to disappear. With an agility he did not know he possessed, Horace was up and standing pressed against the wall. He could just make out a dark and musty room thirty feet below, no doubt the sewage and drainage system beneath the castle. "I need help!"

Horace climbed atop the closest table to him, careful to avoid spilling the Polyjuice Potion happily brewing away without a care in the world. Oh, what Horace wouldn't give to be somebody else at that moment!

There was a slam. The door to the Potions classroom banged open, revealing a wide-eyed Severus Snape dressed for a deep slumber in wooly grey pajamas. His hair was pulled back in a messy bun, his wand was pointed directly at Horace.

But before the older man could explain, Severus's eyes darted to the growing hole.

"What happened?"

"I don't know!" Horace's hands shook wildly, almost like he was trying to flag down the Knight Bus on a busy street. "My wand is on my desk, I can't stop it."

Severus jumped back as the hole began to swallow up the table closest to it. The table tilted downward, then slid into the growing darkness. It landed with a loud crash, which echoed back up to the two professors. Severus gave Horace a glare before directing his want to the floor.

"Scourgify!" he said as calmly as he could, removing the remaining potion from the floor. The hole stopped growing.

"Wait… wait—NO!" Horace climbed down from the table he was standing on. The hole had just begun to grow beneath one of the legs, but the remaining three kept it from following the other down. Horace, however, was not lamenting his near escape from death. "That's the last of it! Gone, gone!"

"The last of what?"

"My potion. The Slughorn Safety Potion!"

Severus scowled, "The what?"

"It was my potion," Horace wailed. "I was creating it to protect myself from possible harm."

The two men faced each other, each standing on opposite sides of the hole. Though it no longer grew in size, Horace could have sworn it was still eating away at him, destined to destroy his dreams. All that work, all his notes, and he didn't even have a sample of it left. He hadn't written down what he did differently from the second batch, and he was all out of Motherwort. And the last thing he wanted to do was tell Albus he'd used the entire year's supply of the very expensive ingredient in less than one month of teaching.

Horace looked at Severus and sighed. The old Potions' master would understand if he could only explain.

"I've been attempting to create a potion that would prevent bodily harm to the user." Horace's shoulders dropped, his feet right on the edge of the hole. "I thought it would be a good solution to the impending war."

"A solution?" Severus blinked, slowly, his face unreadable.

"A simple one, yes."

"Clearly a wrong solution," Severus quipped. He pointed his wand back at the floor. "Reparo!"

Slowly the stones that hadn't been eaten through started to fall into place. Severus used Engorgio to grow the remaining stones to fill in the gaps in the floor.

"Horace." Severus stepped into the room, his sallow face even more skinny in the candlelight. "What were you thinking?"

The older man pulled a stool closer to him, but before he sat, Horace bent to check the legs. They were all in good shape. He sat, breathing heavily. The late evening events were catching up to him, which only made him breathe harder. He waited a few moments, letting his heart settle. Then he looked at the younger man. Severus had been a good student, Horace remembered, albeit a rude and pretentious one. The boy clearly had talent for potions, yet always seemed to act standoffish. Never Slug Club worthy based on attitude. And name. But, nevertheless, Horace knew his great potential.

Which was why he was so baffled that the professor had opted out of teaching potions.

"I was thinking that I haven't done very many good things with my life as of late," Horace said. "I wanted to do something worthy—not something most wizards scowl at. You understand that, Severus, don't you?"

Severus's lips thinned into one, pale line. "Unfortunately," he said.

"Well, looks like I'll have to have another go at it," Horace sighed. There was nothing as crippling to him as admitting defeat.

Severus pocketed his wand and turned to leave.

"Oh, Severus. Thank you," Horace said. "I'd be at the bottom of the lake by now if it wasn't for you."

Severus nodded and left. But before Horace could begin packing up for the night, Severus appeared in his doorway again.

"I always thought you were the best professor I had," he couldn't quite meet Horace's eyes. "Although, I never did like you personally. You are very skilled. Perhaps give it another chance. There's always time to do something… worthy."

And he was gone. Horace clambered off his stool. He wanted to thank Severus for his kind words, though even Horace wasn't sure they were completely kind per se, but the Defense professor was already long gone by the time Horace made it to the corridor.

He went back in, grabbed his wand, and blew the candlelight out. Tomorrow was another day to give his potion a try.