A/N: Oh gosh, you guys, can we talk a minute about how in love I am with my betas? For real, they rock my socks in every way possible; thank you so much, piggy190 and Asille Nellum. They are fantastically intelligent betas that make HR readable. Any mistakes are my own.

Thank you to all the readers, reviewers, and lurkers out there.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Chapter Four

There is a curious sort of peace to potion making, Wynne Riley has found through the years. It gives a sense of purpose and adventure alike; here she makes something, there she invents, and where it is appropriate she follows her instincts and adds an extra sprinkle of crushed beetle eyes, a bare drop less of moondew. She does not find difficult potions a chore, but a challenge; can she master it? Is she clever enough?

Perhaps she is a bit ashamed to admit the Primordialis Ipse Draught is this to her; a challenge, an adventure spanning four months of sweat and worry, back cramping from sitting too long, the anticipation of success. It shouldn't matter so much, really – who will know? Not Professor Slughorn, who would praise her genius but also have her in detentions for the rest of her school career. Not her classmates (not Snape, that stupid, slimy git that thinks he's so much better than she is; not Lily Evans, who only scores so well in potions due to Snape's tutoring). Not anyone but four boys who are keeping secrets like other boys keep pets, tucking them under their tongues and swallowing them whole before even thinking of spilling them to Wynne.

Still she brews. Now comes three sprigs of valerian, nine clockwise stirs, and three drops thick honey in tandem with three counter-clockwise stirs. Her hands do not shake; she thinks they may later.

The Draught turns a dark gray, like storm clouds or the sea when it is angry and sullen. Relief bubbles up from Wynne's stomach, tickles the back of her tongue. She adjusts the flame under the cauldron, pauses a moment after to stretch her arms and roll her neck. She's stiff, and her bum is cold and numb from sitting on the stone floor. She ought to have grabbed a cushion, but there's no use mourning it now.

She remembers, without warning (and in a voice that sounds like her Aunt Byrony), that she ought to set aside her pride and be worried.

Her friends are going to do something terrifically stupid and she is helping them. They could die. They could go insane, or bring out some animal part of their mind that turns them into monsters, and they'll never be the same again. And while they will take some blame, the rest will lay heavy on Wynne's shoulders. It is, after all, up the potioneer to create quality work.

But what was the use of saying no? Without her they would do it anyway; without her, they would poison themselves for sure. And besides, Wynne knows how terribly clever she is. It isn't Christian to admit that, is it? She had inherited her mother's vanity and none of her grandparents's humble natures. At least she doesn't sin worse by attempting to lie and say she is just as humble and sweet as they would like to believe her to be.

Sirius toils beside his nightstand, close to where Wynne has set up her cauldron to work. He pretends to flip through a book as though he's looking for something, though he is watching Wynne work from the corner of his eye, no doubt dying to ask questions. Or to distract her.

The boy can't seem to stand silences. Or not being the center of attention. Wynne can't keep a smile from kicking up the corners of her mouth as she begins to measure out unicorn urine. He's been quiet since he and James returned from Quidditch practice, though after his shower, he paced circles while his wet hair soaked his collar. The whole time he made notes in a book, scribbling in the margins; up until a few minutes ago, he had still been making notes and pacing.

He hides the covers between the pages of Martin Miggs comic. Wynne figures he doesn't want her to know what he is reading, and she admits that while she would like to know, it is probably best she doesn't. Plausible deniability would be a good thing to have when he and his mates fill the Headmaster's office with custard or some such.

"Aren't you done yet?" Sirius finally asks, huffing as he turns to face Wynne. She gives him a tolerant sort of look (bless the boy, but he's the most inpatient person she's ever known), shaking her head.

"Leave her be, Sirius," sighs Remus from his bed. He is flicking through the pages of his History of Magic book, a nearly completed essay on his knees. Ink is smeared across his nose, and he doesn't look up from the pages his book once. "She'll be done when the Draught is finished, and not a moment before."

"When the Draught is began," corrects Wynne with another smile. Away goes the phial of unicorn urine, out come the daisy roots, a small cutting board, and a knife. The repetitive motion of chopping is rather soothing. "Won't be four months before it's finished."

"Mmm," Remus agrees before his quill begins to scratch at his parchment.

"How much longer then until it's 'began?'" Sirius corrects himself with an exaggerated wave of his hands.

"I'm nearly finished." Dragon scales now, before adding the chopped daisy roots. They're shiny still; the shimmering blue of a Swedish Short-snout. Wynne wonders idly at who would be mad enough to scrape scales from a dragon to fill a potioneer's kit, and then smirks as she realizes four such boys are aroung her. James and Sirius would lead that vanguard, while Remus held their backs and Peter cleverly distracted the dragon.

James sits with Peter on the latter's bed, bending over Peter's Transfiguration homework. It's a difficult subject for the chubby boy, Wynne knows; as hard for him as Arithmancy is for her. James instructs Peter with a patience he rarely displays off the Quidditch field, correcting mistakes and praising every advancement Peter makes.

Wynne watches them a moment, smiling as she thinks, I'm lucky to have friends like these boys. Sirius looks at her with a frown, though, no doubt annoyed that she is spending time gazing off at his friends when she should be focusing on the Draught.

The daisy roots, finally. Nine stirs, a breath of reflection, and now comes the fluxweed. She remembers Slughorn's voice, a ghost in forefront of her mind, a good potioneer can recreate any potion, draught, or elixir placed before them; it takes brilliance to improve upon it.

The recipe calls for four scruples of fluxweed. Wynne adds six, better to counteract the ptolemy used for the base. Her heart shudders, her stomach knots, and her tongue becomes so thick and dry she fears she will never swallow again. But she lifts her wand, holds it above the surface of the Draught and gives a flick of her wrist.

For a moment nothing happens, and Wynne thinks she will burst into tears, scream, heft the cauldron above her head and toss it through the window. She'll have to start over, and this time use four scruples, not six, because obviously she isn't half as brilliant as she thought –

But then she notices that the steam coming from the potion is periwinkle blue. Wynne swallows as she leans over the cauldron, eyes watering from steam and heat and the sharp, particular scent of the newly began Draught; the surface is smooth and unblemished, a bright silver. (It reminds her of Sirius's eyes when he laughs, but that is probably only because she has been reading far too many romance novels full of witches who notice such things.)

"I did it." There is a long pause, as four sets of eyes swing to Wynne. She looks up, meets each gaze in turn; Remus, Peter, James, Sirius. Looking back down, she presses a palm to the side of the cauldron, so hot it brings pain. She leaves there a moment, proof that this work she has done is solid and tangible and real. "I really did it."

Sirius whoops and tosses his book over his shoulder, bolting around the cauldron to drag Wynne up. He has to hold her, seeing as her feet and legs are numb and bloodless from sitting so long – they ache and burn as feeling returns. He carries her far enough away that he can swing her around, like she's a toy and he's a careless boy, squeezing so hard her ribs seem afraid of cracking.

"I knew you could do it!" Sirius plops her down after his announcement, and gets a few ruffles of her hair in before James has her in a headlock. She squeals and shrieks and flails, but she is no match for this boy and his wiry strength.

"Good job, Riley, good job!" cheers James, his knuckles grinding fiercely into her skull. When he releases her, Wynne staggers, hands clamped to the top of her head. She tries to appear surly and put out, but her grin won't fade. It curls up so high her cheeks strain.

"You're brilliant," Peter vows loyally, hands fluttering with nervous excitement. "Nicely done."

Remus doesn't say anything. He just smiles, speechless, glowing with some hopeful brilliance that Wynne does not understand, but appreciates all the same. He looks at her as though she has handed him a gift of gold and jewels, heaped treasure at his feet and made him a rich man.

"Write odes to my brilliance," demands Wynne with a laugh, attempting to rake her fingers though her hair at the same time. It's snarled and frizzy and tangles around the digits; Wynne fears what she looks like at this moment. "I'm off for a hot soak. Goodnight, boys."

Later she thinks the scented, bubbling oil she pours into her bathwater smells less like sandalwood and more like success than usual.


Two weeks to the day after the Draught had been begun, Wynne shambles into the Great Hall. Her hair is tamed into loose curls, her make-up is firmly in place, and her perfume has been sprayed. Still she isn't fully awake; her eyes droop and she dreads the day ahead.

Transfiguration, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Herbology await her today. Afterward she will lock herself in the fourth year boys dormitory once more, where she will ladle four ounces of this unbound Draught into four little cauldrons she has squirreled away over the years (though never in anticipation of this). She will add blood from each boy, and then the venom of the basilisk; those four little potions will boil for hours, and then simmer for a week. The remainder, untainted by either blood or diluted venom, will continue simmering quietly, undisturbed until Wynne needs use of it later on.

She dreads this part. It makes her stomach cramp with nerves. Basilisk venom is no game, no joke the boys might play with few consequences, diluted or not. She knows she is clever enough to manage it, is Gryffindor enough to solider on despite her worries, but still she fears. Not loudly, nor unending; it comes and goes as thoughts are wont to do, and Wynne is happier when it is gone than when it is with her.

But for now it is early and she takes a place at the Gryffindor table beside Merriweather, accepting the cup of coffee Merri has already fixed to Wynne's standers (yet another reason why she is Wynne's dearest friend), while three of their dorm mates – Lily, Ursula, and Betty – sit across the table and discuss their upcoming day.

Two second year students sit between Wynne and Mary Mcdonald, who leans against Sirius's shoulder while he talks to James in a low voice. Sirius and Mary are holding hands under the table, and Wynne very firmly ignores a flare of irritation when she notices it.

"How long do you think that'll last?" Merri asks quietly from Wynne's other side, peering down the table. Wynne shrugs, taking a long sip of her coffee.

"Don't know, and I don't rightly care, so long as I don't have to watch them snog or anything." She has watched, though. A week they've been dating and Mary attaches herself to Sirius lips first every chance she can get. At night all Mary talks about is Sirius, Sirius, Sirius; an endless litany of his hair, his eyes, his hands, his smile, how clever and funny and sweet he can be.

Wynne thinks sourly, I knew all that before her, but follows the thought with, stop being an idiot, and takes a bite of her toast.

It's not that she fancies Sirius. It's just that she has a bit of a problem sharing.

"For someone who doesn't care, you're glaring holes through poor Mary's head," Lily notes, her green eyes full of laughter. She hadn't even realized the other girl was listening to their conversation, and Wynne gives her a dark, haughty sort of look in response.

"Oh, please," sniffs Wynne. "I don't know why you girls have got in your heads that I fancy Sirius, or care that he's dating Mary. Because I don't. Sirius and I are friends, and that's all."

"I don't believe anyone mentioned you 'fancying' Sirius." The bite Lily takes out of her toast is smug, crumbles falling arrogantly to the table. Wynne glowers while Merriweather snickers.

The day passes much as any other. Arithmancy is a struggle, but Wynne is too stubborn to drop it. Sirius is in the habit of leaning over his own desk to spy Wynne's work over her shoulder, pointing out where she has fudged a notation or mangled a formula, snickering about it the whole time. It's easy for him, and he can't understand why it's not for her. James is far too busy staring at Lily as he ruffles his hair to pay attention to class; not that he needs to. It comes easy to him, as well.

By the end of the day, as Wynne drags herself back to Gryffindor Tower, she wants nothing more than rest. No homework, no Draught, no Mary hanging off Sirius while he kisses her neck; nothing but Wynne, her jimjams, and a good novel. Luckily the weekend is coming up, and she promises herself a lazy Sunday if she finishes all her work tomorrow.

She drops her things off in her dorm room and heads into the boy's dormitory, banging in without a knock. They look up and look away again, unconcerned by her appearance at this point. Remus is reading Treasure Island, while Sirius and James and Peter swing on cloaks.

"Want to come down to the Pitch and watch us practice?" asks Sirius, broomstick leaning on one shoulder. "You can keep Mary and Pete company."

"Because I have nothing better to do than watch you hit bludgers." Wynne snips dryly. Sirius gives her a look of affront, nose going into the air as he gathers his wounded dignity like a cloak. Rubbing one hand against her forehead, Wynne's allows her shoulders to slump. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I have a terrible headache."

"We'll bring you back a potion from Madam Pomfrey," promises Peter, and Wynne can't keep from smiling at him. She reminds herself again how lucky she is to have these four boys as friends, and blows three kisses.

"Be brave, my strapping Quidditch players!" She heralds them off, making James laugh and swagger even more than usual. "Stay warm, you brave onlooker!"

In short order it is only Wynne and Remus. He remains behind his book, and Wynne is fine with that. She sets up the four cauldrons (she had brought them up during lunch), and finds the promised phials of blood on James's bedside table. The problem is that there are only three, each one one with a handwritten label; James, Peter, Sirius.

"Remus," Wynne calls, doing her very best to not sound as frustrated as she feels. "I know it's a bit creepy, but I need you to bleed into a phial for me. Hold on, I've got some empty ones in my kit..."

"Actually, that won't be necessary." Marking his place in the book with one finger, Remus lowers it. He's propped up on his pillows, sandy curls ruffled, and he's rather pale. He's sick often, spends more time in the Hospital Wing than anyone else. "I'm not going to be indulging in the Primordialis Ipse Draught."

"But..." looking helplessly to the four, size three cauldrons, Wynne struggles to figure it out. She's tired. Her head throbs. It takes her longer than it should. "Oh – I didn't know. You should have told me at the beginning; I made a batch for four, not three."

"You'll have extra, just in case," soothes Remus with a smile. He disappears once again behind his book, and Wynne opens her mouth to ask, why? Why not join his friends in whatever dangerous game they're playing? Hoping to create familiars from dragons, or change themselves into animals – why wouldn't Remus be as much a part of it as his friends?

Wynne doesn't ask, though. The reason is probably that he has more good sense than James and Peter and Sirius combined, and it is simply best to leave it there.

Wynne dips out twelve ounces; four here, and here, and here. She lights fires under them on miniscule burners, tapping her wand against them until the flame is just right. Now she pulls out the diluted basilisk venom in its glass phial and dropper. She sits it beside the three phials of blood, which are close to her right hand. She lines up cinnamon, ground griffin claws, and rose thorns beside it.

She makes labels for the cauldrons and sticks them on with a charm, so they won't be mixed up. In first goes the ground griffin claws, just a pinch. Next is the cinnamon, a dram, and three rose thorns; Wynne is careful not to prick herself. A drop of her blood will ruin it.

She pours Peter's blood in the first cauldron. The Draught begins to swirl on its own, mist curling like ringlets above it. Wynne checks her book, just to make sure this is correct; it is. Now she lifts the basilisk venom, pulls the dropper out and adds two drops.

The potion hisses, and Wynne squeals as the mist converges into the image of a great fanged snake, a miniature basilisk. Hissing, a forked tongue licks the air before it lunges at Wynne's throat. She topples backward – narrowly avoiding knocking Peter's potion over with her foot, and by only a lucky chance does she not spill the precious venom all over the floor.

"Wynne!" Remus lunges from his bed with such speed that Wynne has no time to do more than draw a shaking breath before his arm is under her shoulders, lifting her up. She sits, hands trembling with such violence that Remus takes the venom and dropper from her, plugs it tight and sits it far away. "Are you alright? Did it hurt you?"

"I hurt me," admits Wynne sheepishly, laughing with a touch of hysteria. She rubs the back of her head, where she suspects a lump will rise. Her headache doubles, and her heartbeat makes her temples ache. "I wasn't expecting that reaction, though I should have been. I'm fine. Just fine."

Remus fusses over her like a mother hen, making her eat half a bar of chocolate to steady her nerves before letting her go on. She checks on Peter's potion; it has turned a pale, weak yellow, like winter sunlight breaking through snow filled clouds. The blood makes the potion unique, and different to each individual; right now it is sickly, being eaten by the venom. When she adds the phoenix tears, the reaction will purify the Draught, revealing the true essence of the blood-giver.

She does James's second. This time the basilisk made of smoke is wound in coils, fat as though it has just eaten a tasty meal of human flesh. He coughs up misty bones, and Wynne curls her nose and fights back a gag – disgusting.

James's turns a dark, muddy brown. It thickens (while Peter's seems to thin), sludge like. It smells faintly of sewage.

Sirius's Draught is last. The smoke snake makes its last appearance; it sheds its skin, raw and fresh, and begins to eat its own tail. This one Wynne bats away, though her heart is in her throat and her stomach twists. She thinks she'll have nightmares of misty snakes and basilisk venom for a while.

The Draught with Sirius's blood looks like blood; rusty, thick, and dark. It smells metallic.

She meets James and Sirius and Peter on their way up to their dorm while she is leaving. Peter passes her a headache potion, which she takes with obvious gratefulness, while James and Sirius take turns ruffling her hair.

"Goodnight," she calls over her shoulder as they continue up the steps.

"Night, Riley!" They chorus like particularly well-trained parrots. Despite the throbbing of her head, Wynne feels just the tiniest bit chipper.


On the evening of Sirius's birthday, he sits in the common room playing a game of Exploding Snap with James and Peter; Remus has taken ill again, and is ensconced in the Hospital Wing. Mary is close by, studying with Lily and Ursula and Betty and Merriweather. Wynne should be studying as well, but she has been up to check on the Draught (it simmers away quite nicely), and after had gone to up to her dorm room to fetch a little package.

She has used real wrapping paper, unlike some people. It has snitches and quaffles and bludgers all over it, fluttering and zooming and whizzing across the red background. She sneaks up behind Sirius's chair, holding a finger to her lips as James catches her gaze. She drapes herself over the back of Sirius's chair.

"Happy birthday!" She half-sings into his ear, stretched over his shoulders to offer him the present. He jumps, startled, before twisting around and grinning widely.

"Riley!" He plants a wet kiss on her cheek before taking his present, all smiles and cheer. "Are we still having a bonfire and releasing hawks?"

It takes Wynne a moment to remember, but eventually the conversation from her birthday comes back up, and she gives a great snort of amusement. Around his chair she comes to perch on the arm, resting against his shoulder.

"Absolutely," she lies cheerfully, "and there will be fifteen dancing girls just for you."

"Dancing girls," sighs Sirius lustily, fingers ripping through the paper. He pulls out a pair of socks patterned with the Gryffindor lion, giving a great bark of laughter. Another pair of socks follows; those have cauldrons resting on merry flames, which makes Sirius laugh even harder. "Where did you even find these?"

"You'd be amazed at what a girl can buy at Gladrags." Wynne tweaks his ear, watching as he pulls out the pack of dungbombs as well.

"Aw, Riley," Sirius coos playfully, fluttering his girlishly long eyelashes as he presses a hand to his chest. "You know me so well!"

"Which means I better not get another wet willy for Christmas, or I'm taking those lovely socks of yours back."

She sits with him as the boys finish their hand of Exploding Snap (Peter's sleeve catches on fire), and then allows them to deal her in. Afterward she goes up to her tower dorm room, where it will be quiet and peaceful until the other girls swarm in.

Wynne has pulled a nightgown from her wardrobe and is prepared to head off for a hot shower when the curtains of Mary's bed fly open. Wynne staggers backward with a shriek, feeling as though her heart is attempting to leap out of her chest.

"Oh God," she gasps raggedly, "Mary! I didn't know you were up here, you scared me!" Laughing the fright off, Wynne rakes a hand through part of her hair.

"I don't suppose you would notice when I left the common room, would you?" The girl sounds sour; her mouth is twisted up, and her eyes are gleaming balefully.

"Well, I don't keep tabs on you," Wynne admits, shrugging. Mary snorts scornfully, and then – quite to Wynne's shock – begins to cry.

"You're a nasty girl, Wynne Riley," sobs Mary bitterly. "He's my boyfriend, not yours!"

Wynne catches on quickly. She wants to storm off to the bathroom and take her shower, but Mary's bawling and the others will be up soon. No doubt Mary will keen and gnash her teeth all night if Wynne doesn't try and sooth her now.

"Sirius is my friend," says Wynne in a tone much sharper than she had intended. "We were friends long before you and he started dating, and I reckon we'll still be friends long after you two break up."

"We won't break up! We won't ever break up, you just wait and see! We're going to stay together forever, and get married and have babies, and one day everyone will call me 'Madam Black' and bow their heads when I enter a room!" Mary hurls a book at Wynne. She ducks, but the corner still catches the side of her neck.

"Don't be stupid." Pulling her wand, Wynne brandishes it warningly. "You're fourteen and he's only been fifteen a few hours. There's no way the two of you are going to stay together 'forever.'"

"You don't understand our love!" Mary tosses a pillow at her. Wynne banishes it, and sticks her tongue out. "We will! You just wait and see!"

"Whatever," grumbles Wynne, sticking her wand back up her sleeve before snagging her dressing gown from the end of her bed. She stomps to the bathroom, not sure even hot water and sweet soap can wash away her surliness.

You don't understand our love, Mary's word echo with a new, mocking tone though Wynne's mind as she bathes. We're going to stay together forever, and get married and have babies, and one day everyone will call me 'Madam Black' and bow their heads when I enter a room!

Mary has always been level headed, but it seems love has befuddled her. Wynne can sympathize, truly she can (Bernard had proved how stupid she can be, that is certain), but Wynne likes to think of herself as a practical girl. Practically speaking, not everyone is as lucky as her Uncle Cary and Aunt Byrony, who were childhood sweethearts. It's rare, she thinks, and special; it takes a love that most teenagers aren't capable of, due to the amount of self-sacrifice required.

But what does it matter to her if Mary is planning a wedding that will almost certainly never happen? And even if it does, that will be years and years away...

Because, a traitorous voice whispers slyly, he was mine first.

"Was not," answers Wynne meanly, scrubbing her scalp with such vigor that it may bleed before she finishes. "He wasn't ever mine. We're just mates, and that's it. Just friends."

Saying it enough times won't make it true, that voice says, we haven't been 'just friends' in a long time.

Later, after she is scrubbed clean, Wynne is glad for the Dreamless Sleep Draught she brews regularly and keeps in her nightstand. She takes a measure before pulling her eye mask down, retreating gratefully into a peaceful sleep where that ridiculous inner voice (and dreams of Sirius and Mary's wedding) cannot follow.