Author: Aedalena
Summary: Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavofur may be Salazar Slytherin?
This chapter: Gryffindor has Slytherins coming out of his ears, to his dismay. Harry and Slytherin spend some quality time together. Harry teaches the Gryffindor seventh year Potions class and They Are Not Amused. To cap off Harry's day, he gets to argue with the enigmatic Lord Slytherin and must endure the Salazar Inquisition.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic.
Nullifier
Chapter Six: Lessons
"Families are about love overcoming emotional torture." –Matt Groening
I woke the next day to a dull hammering at the heavy wooden door to my bedroom and had to stare stupidly at the high ceiling for a few seconds before I remembered where and when I was. A few more seconds were wasted as I tried to remember what lies I'd told, what truths I'd told, and what I hadn't told at all. When my mental faculties were finally recovered, I refocussed on the sound.
"Come in!"
A dark-haired figure in robes of charcoal black stalked into the room. Salazar Slytherin. I suppressed a moan and the almost irrepressible urge to pull the heavy sheets of the bed over my head. I was most certainly not in the mood for more deception this early in the morning. It was better fitted to the evenings; the shadows could hide your expression. The bright sunlight of day was unforgiving to the best of liars because it limited your arsenal. And when it came to having an arsenal against Slytherin (who was, you know, renowned for his cunning), there was no such thing as being overly prepared.
Slytherin stopped a short distance from my bed.
"Morning," I said politely, when it became apparent that he wasn't planning to say anything.
"Yes, it is that," Slytherin replied neutrally.
"Fine. Good morning." And if I sounded a bit petulant, I was fully entitled to it. Who is a fan of word games in the early hours of the morn, anyway?
Slytherin made a sharp gesture with his hand and the shutters on the room's small, high windows opened with a smattering of creaks. I winced at the harshness of the light, my head still sensitive from two nights ago, and Slytherin peered up through one window.
"I wouldn't go so far as to call it a 'good' morning. There are clouds on the horizon."
"I suppose it would kill you agree with me," I said with a sigh.
Slytherin mused that over for a moment, with a glint of something in his eye that could not possibly have been teasing, since famously evil wizards do not tease. He looked at me steadily. "No."
Was it really necessary for my host to be one of those awful morning people? I rubbed my eyes to hide an exasperated expression. "Dare I assume that you have come for some reason?"
His manner became more brusque and businesslike, leaving me with the feeling I'd said the wrong thing. It wouldn't be the first time, so it didn't really bother me much.
"Have you forgotten about those nullifying lessons you desperately need?"
In the mood for a bit of revenge, I smiled blandly. "I wouldn't go so far as to call it a 'desperate' need."
We just looked at each other for one second, equally bewildered by one another and wondering just how we should be acting. I mean, I had for all intents and purposes claimed to be his son, but I wasn't really acting the affectionate part, though I really only ever had Dudley as a model for how one should behave toward a parent, and I hadn't yet descended to that level of incivility. He, on the other hand, was the most unlikely parent I could be called upon to name. Well, except Voldemort, but I had no desire to dwell upon him performing the necessary acts that must precede all offspring.
I forced my thoughts away from such frightening mental images. Slytherin and me. I almost snorted. We must have been made for each other. Neither of us had a clue. With an inward sigh of surrender, determined to at least try a little, I looked up at him, trying to convey a slight apology with my eyes, but he returned the look with an impenetrable one. I clenched my fists beneath the covers in frustration. Fine, if that was how he was going to be...
"Are we going to go about it, then?"
"Not while you lounge about in bed; nullifying is not lazy work," he said coolly.
"Fine!" I snapped, and I threw off the covers. "Now if you will please let me get dressed?"
"Well, since you said 'please'..." he gave me a maddening nod of his head that was both courteous and condescending as he left, closing the door behind him.
Which was fortunate for him, because the candleholder I'd picked up from the bedside table impacted the wood of the door scant seconds after it had swung shut, though the thickness of the door prevented it from so much as denting the wood. I felt unreasonably furious; snubbed, confused, irritated. I found a fresh set of neutral black robes folded neatly at the end of my bed and, staring at them with undeserved accusation, snatched them up. I dressed hurriedly and pulled my hair out of my face. Briefly, I considered putting it up, but discarded the idea somewhat childishly on the off chance that my having messy hair would irritate Slytherin.
I stomped over to the door and pulled it open, my mouth already opening with a smart comment, but I closed it in disbelief upon realising that no one was there. The man had the nerve to barge into my room, wake me from my sleep, take advantage of my confused state to mock me, remind me of my responsibilities, accuse me of being slack, snub me, and then, not even wait outside my room? If the damned matter wasn't that urgent, why not wait until I had awakened on my own? Bloody inconsiderate.
Left or right? With deliberate carelessness, I commenced walking in a random direction, determined to take what came at me, and Slytherin could shove his nullifying lessons up his arse if I didn't come across him. He could seek me out, if they were so important.
I passed several unfamiliar portraits as I wandered down the hall; some were inanimate, to my surprise; others remarked on my foul disposition as I stormed past. I ignored them and found my way eventually back into a somewhat familiar area of Hogwarts. From where I was, I reasoned, I would probably be able to find the kitchens and have a late breakfast. It struck me that I had not seen any house elves yet.
"What are you doing here?" a startled voice demanded, jolting me out of my thoughts.
It was Gryffindor, who had apparently just emerged from his chambers, dressed in neat, dark robes, his hair still slightly mussed from sleep. He seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Though he hadn't been awoken from his dreams by Salazar-be-damned-Slytherin. I scowled furiously.
"Why, why I must ask, am I cursed with such a miserable lot of wizards for a family?" Gryffindor wondered aloud. "Would it kill any of you to smile once in a great while? Tell me, 'A fine day to you, Godric,' and not have some ulterior motive?"
"Seeing your ugly mug doesn't exactly make it easy," I sniped, having worked myself up into an unreasonably nasty state.
He gave me a censuring look. "Need I say more?"
"Well, I do try," I said crossly, "but apparently, Slytherin enjoys taking advantage of the recently-awoken to mock them!"
"Why do you call him that?"
"Call who what?"
"Salazar. Slytherin, I mean. Well, not Salazar Slytherin, obviously, but Slytherin." At my blank stare, he shook his head as if to clear it. "Cursed mornings. Let me try that once more. Why do you call your father by his surname?"
"Because I'm cross with him," I said with the patience one accords to particularly slow children.
"Well, yes, but..." he hesitated. "Most people usually are cross with him, me especially. But I still call him Salazar."
"And I'm not most people," I said, raising my chin as if daring him to say otherwise, though it felt slightly ridiculous with him having quite the height advantage over me. "He won't get away with irritating me."
"I think it's more reciprocity that anything else," Gryffindor said thoughtfully, ignoring my challenging stare.
"Reciprocity?" I repeated dangerously.
"Yes; it is simply the natural state of things that at any given time at least one Slytherin is driving the another mad. I suppose it is better now that you are here and the three of you can...dole out the tension in smaller amounts among yourselves; you should have seen Salaza—your father and your grandfather before you arrived." The founder gave a light shudder. "Whoever happened to be in the same room had the distinct feeling that something was always on the verge of exploding: the furniture, the occupants, the air itself..."
"Just think," I said, with a sweet smile, "someday you might walk into a room with all three of us in a rage over something. With a bit of luck, it'll be one of you who explodes."
Godric stared at me; it wasn't a surprised stare, but one that spoke of speculations confirmed. "Well, that takes care of any suspicions I might have had that the two of you aren't related."
I must have levelled a glare something venomous at him then, because he jumped back into his room and slammed the door. I blinked, taken slightly aback.
"You can't hex a man for stating the truth!" came his defence, muffled by the door between us. "Or, you can, but it's generally not considered good manners."
I am going to close my eyes and open them again, and I will be safe at home where everything is normal and everyone acts like rational human beings... I closed and opened my eyes hopefully. But the castle's walls did not go away.
"Why can't this all be some bad dream?" I groaned.
"Oh, look! We agree on something."
"Shut it, you! I'm the one who's been shoved into a completely different time; you have no room for complaint."
"But I do," Gryffindor said, his voice full of sorrow. "It had to be a Slytherin. Had to."
"It's not my fault!"
"No, I suppose it is his own, but..." his voice trailed off in sudden horror. "Merlin, I did not need to imagine—now look what you've done! You rob me of my sanity!"
"Unlikely," I shot back, "considering how little there was to begin with."
It occurred to me that I would appear very odd to any observer, shouting and gesturing at a door. I glanced around to make sure I had no audience and then resumed my offended contemplation of the door to Gryffindor's chambers.
"Go away," Gryffindor said with a miserable sigh. "Or I will summon Rowena."
"Please," I scoffed, feeling slightly betrayed. "You're going to hide behind her instead of confronting me on your own? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave."
"There is a difference between bravery and foolishness. I happen to know which side of the line to tread."
Astonishingly insightful and unexpected of someone like Gryffindor—or the Gryffindor the history books told us about. I made a mental note not to make too many assumptions about Godric Gryffindor. Then I discerned a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye and turned my head sharply. There was Slytherin, walking briskly down the hall toward me, with a slightly impatient expression.
"Wonderful," I muttered. "Just who I wanted to see."
"Not Salazar?" Gryffindor asked pathetically from behind the closed door.
"What do you think?" I replied. "Fate? Have mercy on us? Fat chance."
"If you expect me to exit my chambers now, you will find yourself sadly disappointed."
I sighed and followed Slytherin's approach. When we made eye contact, I shifted my stance sullenly, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow in a silent dare that read 'talk to me and on your head be it.' A strange look flitted across his face for a moment, then vanished. His own eyebrows rose in response, but I would not be baited. He stopped a short distance from me and observed the door at which I was stationed.
"Is he here yet?" Gryffindor whispered urgently.
"Yes, he is," said Slytherin. "Did your parents never teach that it's impolite to discuss a man when he isn't present to defend himself?"
"There is no defence for someone like you."
"Besides, who said that we were discussing you?" I asked. "The world does not revolve around you."
His lips twisted in an expression that expressed doubt. I stared at him for one disbelieving moment before returning my attention to the door.
"Can't you at least let me in?" I asked plaintively.
"Too risky; I'd rather not invoke his wrath," Gryffindor replied. "Not until I've eaten, washed, and am functioning well enough to duel him to insensibility like he so richly deserves."
He sounded apologetic. Unfortunately, sympathy did me no good.
"But you're a Gryffindor!" I said, feeling cheated.
"And you're a Slytherin! He's a Slytherin!" Gryffindor replied. "I'm the one outnumbered."
"You have my gratitude for...looking after Harry, Godric," Slytherin said. "I'll relieve you of him."
Looking after me? Was I three? I choked down an outraged retort, and glared at the door. "One joke about being relieved and I'll blow that door into so many pieces your corpse will be more splinter than human flesh," I warned Gryffindor.
Slytherin did not so much as bat an eye at my threat, and I just barely heard an exasperated sigh from behind the door.
"Just take him and be on your way, Salazar. It is too early to respond to death threats."
Slytherin watched me for a moment, his face unreadable, and then he shook his head. At Gryffindor, at me, at the universe in general...I couldn't tell, though for all I knew, it might be all three. He turned abruptly and started walking. I stood my ground in what I recognised as juvenile defiance, but good sense got the better of me and I trotted after him. Instead of making the turn that would take us toward the kitchens, he followed a path I couldn't recall seeing in the future.
Eventually, we ended up in a stark room with a floor of thick carpeting. For padding, I realised, and the walls looked similarly safe to crash into. I put my hand to one wall, and it gave slightly. I pushed at it harder, and my hand bounced back. Like rubber, but very bouncy. I could feel the tingle of a permanent spell surrounding the room and reached out, trying to sense what it was. Having the ability didn't necessarily mean I could always use it correctly, however. I peered enquiringly at Slytherin.
"A silencing charm," he said, correctly interpreting my silent question. "So that any who pass by are neither disturbed nor prompted by curiosity to investigate."
A silencing charm, padded walls...if it wasn't a cell for the mentally ill, then it had to be a room for duelling and practising complicated magic, either of which were suitable accommodations for me. Which makes sense, you simpleton. What, did you think he's going to take you to his office to practise?
I breathed out a sigh, ignoring Slytherin's sharp look. Then I remembered that I was furious with him and returned his gaze with a frown. To my disappointment, neither his countenance nor his quiet study faltered.
"I ask that you refrain from needlessly tormenting Godric," hef said finally.
"Well, isn't that just the pot calling the cauldron black?" I replied with a flippant shrug. "From the way he tells it, tormenting him is the sole purpose of your existence."
"And me, his. Nevertheless. He is many years your elder, and you should..." he stopped for a moment, as if it was difficult to get the rest of his sentence out. "You should respect him."
"Do you?" I asked, amused.
"I," he said, "am several years his elder."
"Really," I said, drawing the word out sceptically. "How many?"
His face was carefully blank. "Three, if you must know, but it does not change the fact that I am indeed his elder."
"Well, he certainly feels something considerably less than respect for you."
"You might choose a better person upon which to base your actions than Godric. He is, after all, of the Gryffindor branch of the family."
"And this should mean anything to me?"
Slytherin shook his head incredulously at me. "It is well known that Gryffindors suffer from...certain faults and are generally less well endowed with talent, both mental and magical, than we Slytherins."
Hoo boy. Here was a Slytherin more in line with the textbooks than I'd seen so far. "Good to see some old-fashioned humility."
"If it is humility you prize, then see if Lady Helga will allow you to stay with her Hufflepuffs." There was a kind of dare in his voice now, and he watched me more attentively.
"Well, now! And me not aware I even had a choice," I answered coolly.
"Good. You know where you stand," Slytherin said with a dismissive nod.
He turned his back on me and began rummaging through a small cabinet while I seethed silently at the sheer arrogance of the man. I opened my mouth to vent some built-up steam through speech but stopped. Fine. Let him believe that I would do what I was told. We'd see how things were in a month or two.
"Here." Slytherin handed me a very small crystal bottle filled with a poisonously orange liquid. He held a bottle for himself in his other hand. "Block this, and study everything that you do so you can describe the nullifying process in detail to me."
I raised the bottle in a silent toast to whoever was Up There screwing things over for me (because he was doing a capital job of it) and swallowed the contents quickly. Fortunately, it lacked the bitter taste characteristic of most poisons, so chances were Slytherin was not poisoning me; it was, in fact, slightly sour and I felt my lips pucker in protest. But then I had no time to spend noting trivial details like flavour—I could feel its magic beginning to spread out in tiny branches throughout my body. I closed my eyes and traced its progress, trying to suss out the potion's intended effects.
I could feel my internal hackles rise and focussed on soaking up every last drop of magic through the infinitely small shields surrounding my cells. I couldn't see them, of course. They were more a presence in my mind, an image upon which to fix attention. Once the last of the potion's magic was dispelled, I opened my eyes again. Then I mentally reviewed the effects of the potion that I had ignored at first in favour of studying the nullifying process.
"Surprisingly not lethal," I commented. "And citrusy. Just a sense-enhancing potion. Scent?"
Slytherin nodded but said nothing, his very silence itself a prompt to continue.
"It's like watching a waterfall at first," I said, closing my eyes again to capture the image. "The potion seeks out the paths it needs to take and follows them. Then it tries to—" I paused suddenly, realising that Slytherin would not know what a "cell" was. How to explain? "It tries to...slip past your magical defences. When you picture your inner magic...do you see a bunch of shields, too?"
"No..." said Slytherin slowly, looking somewhat intrigued. "I never thought of it in that way. I see it as small points of light, like scores and scores of small candle flames, to be extinguished or fanned at will."
"That explains it, then. I can block the potions by strengthening my 'shields' and you can block your nullifying powers by, well, blowing out the candlelight." I watched his face for understanding and concurrence, pleased finding the crux of the problem so quickly.
He inclined his head. "I would agree with you." He lifted his own dosage of orange potion and shook it slightly. "A shield, you say? It sounds rather Gryffindor in nature."
I prepared to snarl something impolite, but he waved one hand with a slight quirk of his lips, and I stilled. "Interesting. I look forward to trying it myself."
I watched him eagerly; he drained the phial in one fluid motion. His eyes narrowed in concentration, and his expression remained intense for what felt like minutes. When Slytherin finally blinked, I blinked too and realised that only a dozen of seconds had passed. I cocked my head slightly in question. He gave a minute shake of his head, appearing vaguely disappointed.
"For a moment, I almost felt—I almost stopped it." He rifled through the cupboard again and withdrew another potion, this one a more common deep cerulean. "One more attempt."
The second try was much quicker. When Slytherin relaxed again, it was with an air of contentment and satisfaction. "There. A decidedly queer feeling, but that should pass with time. Enough practise, and it should become habit." He regarded me briefly. "That's how it is for you."
"Yes," I agreed, though it had not been a question. "You might say defensive magic comes naturally to me."
Instead of finding that amusing, as I'd intended him to, Slytherin frowned. "Why should you need it? Surely Morass is not...?"
The future! I looked away from Slytherin. "You know I can't say anything."
"Yes, I do," he said calmly, but it was my impression that he would rather have growled out the words.
His eyes became distant and contemplative; I sighed in relief—only to move into an instinctive roll as Slytherin whipped out his wand and with a lightning quick flick of his wrist cast a curse at me. Before I was back in a defensive crouch, my wand was out and a shield up. I countered with a lethal speed of my own, but my spell struck Slytherin's open and ready palm and faded in a small flash of light.
I froze as he studied me again, more intently and more searchingly than I was comfortable with. Stiffly, I rose to my feet and flicked small particles of dust off my robes, grateful for the soft floor. The entire exchange had transpired in a bare handful of seconds.
"That," I said furiously, "was uncalled for."
"What is it that you fear so?" was his reply.
How did he know? How could he know? What had I let slip? "Nothing," I lied. "Why should I?"
"Because fear is a survival trait."
"I'm here. I'm surviving." I stated. I narrowed my eyes at him pointedly. "To my extreme shock."
"That's enough for today," he said, looking troubled. "I had some words with Professor Kessel. He has agreed to let you take his seventh year Potions lessons. There are two today; Gryffindor and Slytherin."
"That's not very fair. I taught you how to nullify a potion but you haven't shown me anything."
"And how often have you found life to be fair?" Again, there was a probing slant to that question.
"Not half as often as I find it irritating," I said evasively. "Fine, fine. I'll go find him. Where does he want to meet me?"
"In the dungeons, after the midday meal. They can be found—"
"I know where they are," I interrupted.
Thankfully, he did not try to stop me or even respond with a farewell. I left the room, satisfied, perhaps unduly so, that I had been the one to leave him this time. It was rather pathetic, I'll admit, but it was something.
If I were thrust in a crowd of people and told that one of them was the Potions professor, Professor Kessel would be that last I'd guess. There was nothing remotely creepy or dark or batty (in both senses of the word) about him; he was a cheerful, red-faced wizard who, judging by the slight bulge of a potbelly, enjoyed his beer a bit too much. Even the Potions room little resembled the chilly, dark cavern of my Hogwarts days, though it was indeed the same dungeon in which I'd suffered through countless lessons. Thankfully, the draft I could remember with much distaste was noticeably absent.
"I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you are helping with my teaching," said the jovial wizard with an accent I couldn't place, taking my hands and shaking them enthusiastically. "That is correct, yes? You will teach my seventh years today?" Then he smiled at me. "If you have difficulty understanding my speech, please, tell me. The year I have spent at this school has much improved my English, but always there are mistakes."
I nodded and freed my hands from his ongoing handshake. "I will. Do you have the lesson planned for today?"
Looking almost pathetically grateful, the professor fumbled for the parchment lying on his orderly desk. He thrust the paper into my hands eagerly, eyeing the door as though it were his salvation.
"All is in this letter. If you have difficulties, I can be found in my personal quarters."
That caught my attention rather nicely. "Difficulties?" I repeated, growing more suspicious. "And why might I have difficulties with a class full of nearly adult wizards?"
The foreign professor smiled guilelessly and started very quickly for the door. "It is only Godric's class for which you must worry."
Before I could demand a clearer answer, he was speeding down the hallway as fast as one can with robes and still look dignified. I sighed and skimmed over his lesson plans, feeling faintly relieved. I only had to supervise the brewing of a health tonic. Simple enough, I told myself. It wasn't the teaching itself I needed to worry about—
The door, which had softly shut of its own accord, slammed open to admit a very large mob of happily jabbering teenage wizards. I withdrew to the desk, clinging to it almost in self-defence. Merlin—the volume of noise after such pleasant quiet! I suddenly felt some sympathy for my former professors, years too late for them to benefit.
One student finally noticed that her professor had shed several pounds, gained quite a good deal of hair, and looked very vaguely familiar. I smiled at her, revealing every one of my teeth, and she shrank somewhat, grabbing at the elbow of a surly-looking boy and pointing discreetly at me. Within moments, the clamour had receded to an utter silence. I could almost feel their thoughts, weighing me, judging me, and...dismissing me as no threat.
"Has Professor Kessel taken ill?" a studious looking witch asked worriedly.
"Yes," I lied, shrugging apologetically. "I am teaching in his stead today. Call me...Professor Evans."
The mystery of my presence explained, talking resumed as my students—a phrase that made me feel somehow aged a decade—took their seats. I smiled again, slightly surprised by but amused at their error in judgement. Did I really look so harmless? I supposed it was because I looked hardly old enough to be out of school myself. Blame it on my slight build, courtesy of the Dursleys' rotten feeding habits and inheriting my mother's genes. With a light shrug, I magicked a board into place and started writing with my wand, letting the unruly students enjoy what they no doubt perceived as a respite. A vacation? Perhaps—though they might find the destination not to their liking.
Ignoring the few curious looks sent my way, I handed out the ingredients to the potion wordlessly. Most students seemed even more put at ease by my apparent lack of assertiveness and accepted the various plants and animal parts with patronising smiles. I smiled back and returned to the board. I cleared my throat. Only three or four witches and wizards quieted and my smile crooked up to one side. They would regret not listening to me soon enough.
Using the board and its instructions as a reference, I explained how to brew the potion, watching to see who followed along and who did not. My voice could hardly be heard over the noisy conversations, and my inner devil cackled. When I finished, I leaned back against my summoned board for a moment, regarding the students. Then I turned around and erased the magicked writing.
I casually raised my wand out and cast a silencing charm, closing my eyes for a second, letting the absolute lack of sound settle like a shield between me and the real world. The moment passed, and I let out a regretful sigh. To the present, always the present. The students were staring owlishly at me now. I smiled back at them, and a few started to recognize my expression was far less friendly than it was...predatory.
"Surprise, surprise," I murmured, shaking my head and releasing the charm. "You are about to undergo what is called a 'proficiency examination,' my good children. Each of you has everything he needs to brew a health tonic. I have, of course, explained how to go about doing so. You have an hour."
A cacophony of indignant teenage voices immediately assaulted my ears and inner calm. I hastily recast the silencing spell, wondering how my own professors had managed getting through class after class through the years without casting the charm every few minutes or so. Had we really been so loud as students? I thought about Snape and McGonagall. No, I guess not. Not with those two.
One student finally thought to raise his hand, the surly-faced wizard, and I pointed my wand at him, releasing him from the spell.
"Begging your pardon, professor," he said carefully, trying to project an aura of alertness and apology. "Would you perhaps repeat those instructions? I could hardly hear anything over my classmates' voices."
Shifting the blame to cover his own arse? I was reminded unpleasantly of Percy. Didn't he realise that there were better ways of handling this than alienating his classmates? His peers glared at him. I flicked my wand back and forth, drawing out my silence just long enough that the student's face began to grow nervous. His eyes followed the movement of my wand, and when I brought it down on the desk with a loud SNAP! he and half of the class jumped in their seats. I regarded my wand with new respect. A rather smart snap, indeed. I filed away dramatic wand-motions under my mental list of "things to share with the other classes."
"Being able to listen is an important quality in a wizard," I stated. "If you are unable to listen, you should take steps to remedy your inability, or else you will fail. And not just at Potions. Think of this as a comprehensive test, not just of your potion-making skills, but also of the skills you need to succeed as a wizard."
No one raised his hand after that; they kept looking at me, as if convinced I would smile, wink, and assure them that this was all some harmless little joke. In the meantime, I had to keep as straight and sombre a face as I could manage, and not let my unholy glee at their dismay show.
"Well?" I asked them, raising an eyebrow. I reached into a bag of beetle's eyes lying on the desk, pulled one out, and transfigured it into a hefty hourglass. I pointedly turned it over and it impacted the heavy wooden desk with a solid thunk. "You're wasting time."
There was a scramble for knives and mortar and pestles. I watched with a gfrave expression, walking around the room and occasionally pausing at a specific workspace to shake my head or mutter "Merlin save us." I projected an air of doom made corporeal, and the students felt it too, if their nervous glances were any indication. When one girl, hands shaking in a manner reminiscent of Neville, almost dropped a phial of fire-beetle innards on my feet, I decided to retreat to the desk and enjoy the spectacle from its relative safety.
It was not long before I noticed a few of the witches and wizards using their wands to control the slicing and dicing of their ingredients. I watched incredulously for a moment (Snape would have incinerated the room as he spontaneously combusted in rage). I couldn't recall ever having the opportunity to use magic—"silly wand-waving"—in Potions. It struck me as very unfair now. Not to mention the dangers that arose from exposing volatile potions to magical residue left by the spells. This particular potion wasn't the reactive type, but that wouldn't always be the case.
"No, we can't have that," I said with a pleasant expression, putting my hand up and sending a pulse of nullifying energy through the room.
Knives clattered onto wooden tables and one girl's hair transformed from a neatly pulled up blonde to a frizzy orange mess. Three wizards blushed as their classmates stared at their suddenly imperfect skin dotted with blemishes and in one case, liberally covered in pock marks. One student fell into a faint, stripped of the waking charm he'd cast on himself.
Myself slightly taken aback by the exuberance of the nullifying magic, I tried not to let my own surprise show. Confronted with disbelieving and somewhat horrified gaping, I cleared my throat. Had they connected me with Slytherin yet? I evaluated the student passed out on the floor, feeling guilty for both knocking him out and stripping of protections the student with the horrible scarring.
"No magic will be allowed. This is a test of your brewing skills." I briefly contemplated shamelessly plagiarising a favourite phrase of my former Potions teacher about the worthlessness of "wand waving" and the glory of the "subtle science and exact art" of potion-making. But you had to establish your own style, I reminded myself firmly. Not to mention said Potions teacher was a world class git.
While the students furiously attacked their task with a fresh spurt of adrenaline urging them to higher standards still, I walked over to the fallen wizard and knelt down beside him. Hesitating just long enough to draw uneasy and wary looks from the students nearest me, I cast a waking charm.
"Steady now," I murmured, helping the wearied boy to his feet. Now that I was closer, I could see the dark circles under his eyes, slightly sunken like they'd carved out a permanent residence on his face. "You should think about visiting the school's healer. You don't look so good."
His eyes focussed blearily on mine; I was reminded of my own sixth and seventh years, marked with weeks during which sleep had itself been an unattainable dream. I felt a surge of empathy, still able to remember the worried frowns my professors would exchange over my head, thinking me too tired to notice.
The crawling feel of stares directed at me prickled the hairs on my neck. Some of the students were regarding me with suspicion, like they expected me to murder the boy where he lay. Why the sudden change of heart? Oh well, best not to let it go to waste by being too kind.
"Actually," I said imperiously, rising with a calculated fluidity to my feet that caused one student to twitch, no doubt reminded of Salazar Slytherin, "that's an order. Hospital wing. I won't have you endangering your classmates."
His eyes still locked on mine like I was his only anchor to consciousness, he nodded and stumbled toward the door. I muttered a brief energising charm under my breath and watched him perk up slightly. The student glanced back at me, looking faintly puzzled and left the room. He'd better hurry, I thought to myself, because that charm wasn't one built to last. Then, frowning at the still-staring students, I recast the silencing charm.
As the tiny grains of sand trickled from an increasingly more empty chamber, the room grew more electrified with tense anxiety. After a thorough examination of Professor Kessel's fine desk, I managed to locate what looked like a research journal, thankfully empty though I doubt that would have stopped me had it not been. Frowning darkly at the frantically brewing witches and wizards over whom I presided, I started making nonsense notes in the thin tome. Whenever I made eye contact whichever student was unfortunate enough to steal a glance at me, I sighed theatrically and pretended to scribble something remarks in the journal.
The final speck of sand fell to rest atop the pile in the bottom of the hourglass. I removed the silencing charm and extinguished the cauldron fires. There were some anguished groans, but not as many as I had expected. I'd forgotten how resilient a lot we Gryffindors are. For the first time since the loud students had entered the room, I felt something like affection for them.
"The test is over. Please collect a sample of potion and bring it to my desk," I said neutrally. "Any cheating will be rewarded with expulsion." Could I even make a threat like that? Probably not, but they didn't know that. It was probably a moot point, anyway, since they were Gryffindors. "But since you were selected by Godric Gryffindor himself for your trustworthiness and honour, I don't expect to have any difficulties in that regard."
The Slytherins could very well prove another story...but that was, thankfully, for later. By the time the last student returned to her seat, I had a rather large collection of potion phials sitting on my desk. I eyed the small bottles with slight bemusement. My Snape act did not extend to forcing students to imbibe their own potions. I almost shuddered, thinking the damage Neville might have done himself had he managed to make it into NEWT-preparatory Potions, with all that complicated brewing. Come to think of it, I had myself come perilously close to permanently melting various appendages of my own during my two last years in that class.
The solution occurred to me, and I wondered whether I should cringe or laugh at myself, since I had set myself up for it, studying my nullification of potions with Slytherin. It argued that I could test these potions myself and nullify one only if it proved harmful. Still, I had never tried to nullify any incorrectly brewed, and therefore potentially dangerous, potions before. Soundness of such an idea aside, I reflected, it would at the very least earn me some respect for my fearlessness. Or foolhardiness. Though more often than not, the two were indistinguishable. Oh well; I am a Gryffindor, after all. Slytherin would probably say that these lapses are to be expected.
"I will test your potions personally," I said, refusing to cater to the twinge of prophetic dread that choose that precise moment to make itself known.
The sudden glee on a quarter of my students' expressions turned that twinge into a more insistent shiver. I picked up a phial at random and glanced at the name written on its label. Marcus Nicholson. Did that sound like a capable potion brewer's name? I wondered with slight dread as I tried to analyse the potion's quality by eye before taking it. Blue, not the vibrant indigo it should be.
Not for an instant letting my casual expression falter, I removed the cork and downed the potion. I waited a moment, following the paths of the individual components through my body and impartially noting their effects, feeling uncomfortably like I was performing an autopsy on myself. As one path turned red and began branching at an alarming rate, I stopped it. The other branches seemed to have done what they were supposed to.
"Well done, Mr Nicholson," I said to the apprehensive silence. "It's very difficult to concoct a potion that restores a person's health while simultaneously stunning him. Almost as difficult as realising that in order to know how to brew a potion, you must listen to your professor, apparently. Seven out of ten, because you managed to at least heal the poor bloke."
One gangly student flushed and mumbled something that I ignored. I did catch one student's muttered "a pity it didn't work properly," the sullen one I had marked for trouble earlier. I sifted through my memory, trying to recall which potion was his. My eyes lighted on one vibrant red one, and my lips curved into a smile. I picked it up carefully and shook my head as if I were greatly offended.
"I shudder to dwell on the possible results this ill-looking concoction could have on me," I said, though I was actually rather confident. If I could do it once, I could do it again, surely.
I drank the red liquid quickly, wincing at its resemblance to the cough-medicine Aunt Petunia would shove down my throat in ungodly quantities when I'd taken ill as a child, to prevent me from spreading my dreadful sickness to beloved Dudleykins; sticky and sweet with only a faintly bitter aftertaste. Well, at least it tasted nasty enough to be a healing potion.
My focus turned inward as the potion immediately spread through my body, almost too quickly for me to halt the harmful effects, of which there were too many for my peace of mind. When finished, I blinked the world back into focus; only a very stubborn pride kept me from betraying my alarm by shaking.
"For attempting to poison his temporary instructor," I choked out in a voice that sounded only partly strained to my ears, "Mr Brickenden receives a well-earned grade of zero out of ten—or should I say, dreadful? How on earth did you manage to confuse the word 'health' with 'death'? Merlin, if this is any indication of how prepared this class is..."
A girl seated next to Brickenden leaned over to him and touched his arm and whispered something I could just barely hear. "He's just another one of those miserable...hates Muggleborns."
Not entirely sure what prompted the comment, I decided to ignore it for the time being. I looked at the large collection of phials atop my desk with something akin to panic, searching for the colour that marked a successful potion. Depressingly few had achieved it. I had the whole bloody spectrum represented on my desk. Much nullifying and internal swearing followed, and by the time I had finally finished with my heart-gripping tests and increasingly more venomous commentary, I began to sympathise with Snape's less than conventional approach to potion testing. I was in a very ill mood by the time the class drew to a close.
"Fewer than a quarter of you managed to brew anything remotely resembling a health tonic," I said sourly. "So you'll be delighted to learn that your potion brewing skills will undergo a dramatic improvement by the end of the year...as I am not, in fact, a one-day phenomenon, but will be helping teach your class for the rest of the year."
No one dared groan at this, though the force of will that kept them from doing so was nearly tangible in the air. "I will be happy to hear any questions, comments, and complaints you may have, if you schedule a private conference with me after the lesson. Dismissed."
There was a stampede for the door. I leaned back into my stiff wooden chair, feeling very sore and ill used. It was a matter of balance, I decided after some reflection. I managed to gain some enjoyment out of the harmless torture, and so had to suffer something to offset it. Win some, lose more: story of my life.
"An interesting approach to teaching, I must say."
I jerked in my chair, nearly toppling it, and looked behind me for the source of that comment. A shadowy corner of the room drew my gaze; Lord Slytherin was sat there in a high-backed chair, his dark robes allowing him to melt into his surroundings. Had he been here the entire lesson? How had I not noticed? I calmed my racing heart and took a breath, trying to look as though being addressed by unseen observers was something I routinely dealt with.
"I try," I replied and then nodded respectfully. "Lord Slytherin."
"Lord Slytherin?" he repeated, rising from his seat. "Is that how you should address your own grandsire?"
Feeling not at all up to exchanging banter with yet another Slytherin —one per day was surely more than enough!—I shook my head at him, politely as I could manage. Oooh, it hurt my head. Where had this headache come from all of a sudden? "I meant no disrespect."
Though his face was for the most part obscured by the shadows, I thought I detected a frown. "You insist on being difficult, I see. Your father has that habit also."
It was the first time I had been compared to my father that the speaker hadn't meant James Potter and it felt odd, even though I knew it wasn't true. Still..."difficult"? Figures that people assume I'm being impudent even when I'm trying to be courteous. "I don't see how I'm being difficult."
"Hm," he grunted sceptically, but he let it go. "An interesting lesson. You did strike fear into the hearts of your misbehaving pupils. And perhaps instilled some resentment, also. Was that intentional, I wonder?"
"Fear?" I repeated lightly. "Call it a healthy respect for authority."
"Something that you yourself lack."
And when had authority given me reason to respect it, I wondered with no little amusement. "I grant respect to those who reciprocate."
"Have I then shown you anything," replied Lord Slytherin levelly, "but the most unfailing courtesy?"
There he went again, implying that I was being insolent. "Is there a reason you came to watch my class?" I asked with sudden irritation. The last thing I wanted was my supposed grandfather to probe into my psyche. With my luck, he would uncover everything, and then I would be in quite the quagmire.
"Your father wouldn't want an incompetent teaching a Hogwarts class. I'm merely protecting the interests of this school."
"Oh, I see," I said. "You, not even a member of the school's staff, came to evaluate me? And, I'm sure, with the full knowledge and approval of Gryffindor or Salazar? Why are you really here?"
What had to be my overactive imagination saw the room darken slightly and felt a faint wind that stirred my hair. Probably the dungeon draft I had failed to detect, I assured myself. But the sudden chill that settled over the room, judging by the dark expression on Lord Slytherin's face, could very well be magical in nature. Then what, I thought with some irritation, is it precisely with Slytherins and moody winds?
"Salazar? And why not 'Father'?" the middle-aged wizard asked, advancing until he was right before my desk. "Why this distance? You have admitted your relation to the family. Your aura does not lie, nor do your eyes." This wasn't the first time he had mentioned my "aura," and I wondered just what he was talking about. "You aren't lying, so why this hostility? I came to this class to see what child my son raised, but you have put none of my worries to rest."
"Why can't you just wait and find out like everyone else?" I snapped, feeling any amusement I might have managed to keep hold of evaporate. "Maybe give me a chance to show that in my own time? And if you're hoping that I'll straight out tell you...well, as I said, I'm not allowed to talk about the future to anyone. And I'm afraid that you are, in fact, included in 'anyone.'"
Slytherin scowled deeply and the wind picked up some. "Merlin take your cursed 'waiting'! All I have seen is that you are more adept at evading questions than answering them!"
My mouth firmed in a tight, stubborn line.
"Tell me, boy," Lord Slytherin said very quietly, "why you have come here."
"Why do people constantly suspect me of evil intentions?" I demanded, unable to keep hold of my temper. "Do I have to explain myself to everyone? Fine, you want truth? How is this? I came here because I was tired of waiting around to die!"
The instant those angry words left me, I closed my eyes tightly, chagrined at revealing so much. I turned away, trying to rein in my confusion and bitter weariness with the world. That was really what the matter was about, wasn't it, I thought. I didn't really want a mentor. All those things I'd thought I wanted were just me lying to myself. I wanted to get away from Voldemort, because I knew that my next confrontation with him could only end in one of two ways. And I wasn't fool enough to hope for more than one finish. I was running away, and though I knew it was wrong, knew I would have to return, I had come hoping for some respite and found none.
I felt a hand clasp my shoulder, and I couldn't withhold an involuntary start. I found my wand in my hand and quickly stowed it away, tiredly hoping that Lord Slytherin had not noticed.
"I apologise. It seems that I didn't—I won't press you for any more answers," Slytherin said quietly, a brooding darkness in his eyes clearly reflecting how disturbed he was by my outburst.
I stared at Lord Slytherin's hand, uncertain what to make of the unexpected attempt at comfort. Don't even think of your past—the future—whatever it is! Think of here and now, the present. The future will come later, enjoy what you can while you can. I blinked and swallowed tightly, and the draining uncertainty and distress slowly began subsiding to manageable levels. The room took on a more solid quality, and I found myself still looking at Slytherin's hand. It was strangely rough and dry for an aristocrat's, I noted absently. But then, I wasn't sure how wizarding titles worked. I knew that by my century, they were solely a Muggle thing.
The door chose that moment to swing open to admit Salazar Slytherin, who stopped abruptly, took one look at my troubled expression, and levelled a frown upon his father. I hastily composed myself and stepped out of the Lord Slytherin's reach. The wizard let his hand fall to his side, raising his eyebrows at his son's accusatory expression.
"Must you terrorise everyone that dwells here?" Salazar Slytherin snapped, not moving from the doorframe.
"Pardon," Lord Slytherin and I chorused.
My contrite echo earned me odd looks from my two supposed relatives. I refused to be embarrassed. Having often been on the receiving end of similar questions, my answer had been reflex, almost. Slytherin should have specified. Surely having a family, false though it may be, was not worth the trouble.
"I wasn't referring to you, Harry," said the younger Slyther...very well, Salazar, if only to relieve my own mental confusion.
"I was not being terrorised," I said defensively.
"I was merely asking your son a few questions," Slytherin interjected, casting me a grateful glance.
"Most find your habit of questioning more akin to an interrogation than anything else, my lord," Salazar replied coolly, apparently disinclined towards accepting my words as truthful.
My lord? I looked at Lord Slytherin in surprise, and he returned my look dryly. I shook my head, a smiling slightly. That must have been what Slytherin had meant.
"Actually," I said, feeling a sudden sneakiness wash over me, "he was sharing some very interesting stories about your childhood."
"Interesting stories?" repeated Sly—Salazar, his voice sounding the slightest bit strangled.
"Oh, quite," I agreed with good humour. "You think you know a person, and then you learn about the time that he—well, never mind."
"Which childhood moments?" Salazar demanded, frowning at me and Slytherin's suspiciously.
Lord Slytherin gave an amused snort and played along. "You needn't look so alarmed, Salazar. I am hardly telling him of your shadier escapades...yet. Though in the future you might be more wary of how you treat me, since my repertoire of stories is nearly endless."
"Was there something you needed?" I asked Salazar, whose normal mask of calm had slipped, revealing a mix of alarm and frustration.
"Yes. Godric just paid my office a visit. Apparefntly, his students are being rather vocal in their expressions of displeasure about you."
I couldn't withhold a satisfied smile. "Hm. I bet they were."
Salazar waited for an elaboration. Futilely. "Do I have to drag it out of you, boy?"
"You might, if you continue calling me 'boy.' I am twenty-three years old."
He did not seem very impressed. "As I said, still a boy. You should be still in an apprenticeship."
An apprenticeship? I narrowed my eyes in offended outrage. The most talented students of Hogwarts were offered apprenticeships when they received their NEWT scores, and those typically lasted three to five years, depending on how specialised the skills they were learning. I had 'apprenticed' myself to Sirius and Remus—very unofficially—and learnt all that I could about being an Auror, without running the risk of putting myself under the ministry's command by officially enrolling in their accelerated Auror program, which they'd implemented after Voldemort's first raid on the ministry. Sirius had pronounced my training adequate after three years.
Once a wizard was older than twenty, he generally wasn't offered an apprenticeship, but rather a job. Apprenticeships existed mainly to ease a newly independent young wizard into using his magic full time and into a job. By the time you were twenty, apprenticeship or no, you were expected to have a grasp on your magic. Which meant that Salazar's suggestion that I should still be an apprentice was the equivalent of telling a sixth or seventh year at Hogwarts that he had the emotional maturity of an eight year old.
I opened my mouth to make a nasty retort, but closed it. I was a thousand years in the past, I reminded myself. Things could be different. Maybe here their apprenticeships lasted longer. I sighed, and said nothing.
Slytherin placed his hand on my shoulder one last time. "I'll leave you to the tender mercies of my son, Harry. He takes after me in more aspects than he believes."
With a polite nod, he left the room, leaving me alone to bear the brunt of Salazar Slytherin's annoyance.
"Well?" he asked.
"Either your Potions professor has been lax in disciplining his classes, or Godric's students are a particularly impertinent lot."
The ironic twist of his lips suggested that I'd stated something blindingly obvious. "You didn't mention to me that you had made it your cause to rid Hogwarts students of insolence. To say nothing of the very hypocrisy that would entail," he said drolly. But a calculating glint in his eyes belied his casual tone.
Oh, not good. I froze. "It's not my cause, per se," I said carefully. He wasn't going to accept a flippant answer this time. "I didn't want them to take advantage of me, I suppose. Partly."
He nodded, accepting that answer, and I nearly slumped in relief; but that analytic glint had hardened into something sharper and more dangerous. I tensed up again.
"I also heard from Godric that you were displaying your nullifying talents," Salazar said. His lips drew thin. Potions had only just finished, how had he learned this much already...? "Might I remind you that it is in both your and my best interests that you endeavour to keep those a secret?"
"I wanted to test their potions, and I couldn't possibly expect them to—"
I stopped as Slytherin went still; and it was a calm still that frightened me like no explosion of anger could have. This was fury distilled, and I realised that I was dealing with the kind of person who became calmer and calmer as he grew angrier. I felt a chill; the same kind of people exploded once they passed their limit. The serenity radiating in almost visible waves from Slytherin suggested that all of his collected fury was about to discharge. Gryffindor's remark about Slytherins and air exploding suddenly surfaced in my memory. I wished it hadn't.
"Then you did it. Tested their potions."
"Oh. Um. Yes," I said; my voice came out very small. "Sir."
"You were supervising an advanced Potions class, were you not?"
I was not intimidated by him, damn it. I straightened and this time my voice came out normally. "Yes."
"Advanced classes work with potions that can be dangerous, possibly lethal, if not properly prepared."
I winced. So this is what the poor rabbit felt when the eagle began swooping in for the kill. "Er. Yes."
"More than half of the class did not learn how to correctly brew the assigned potion."
"No, they didn't."
"And so, you tested those potions. Each and every one of them."
The gaping beak was right before me now. Intimidation, thy name is Salazar. "Yes."
"You flaunted your skills by nullifying every spell in that room."
"Yes." It wasn't a conversation; it was an interrogation.
"If Morass had any doubts as to your whereabouts, he would know now."
"I...suppose?"
He didn't ask any questions for a moment and with each second in that brief lull that passed, I became increasingly aware of the doom-doom beating of my heart. The only reassurance was that the air had not exploded. Yet. A cold comfort.
"Let me then summarise. You alienated a classroom full of students, most of whom loathe the Slytherin name; tested their potions personally, a majority of which were brewed improperly; and revealed to students who almost assuredly dislike you strongly and would be tempted to let slip information about you to the enemy, that you are a nullifier."
"That's—the gist of it," I said, hardly daring to breathe, afraid that so slight an action would break the dam of self-control that struggled to hold his rage in check.
"Would it not have been simpler to step into the Forbidden Forest, cast the most powerful illuminating charm you know, and lay down to wait?"
All right, fine. I was being reamed out, and perhaps justly so, but all I'd done was make a few honest mistakes. That gave Slytherin no cause to blow this entirely out of proportion and imply that I was suicidal, or something. Wariness warred with indignation for control.
"I made a few mistakes," I admitted stiffly, meeting Slytherin's eyes. They simmered with anger; my gaze dropped to the floor quickly. "And I've learnt from them, believe me." The tense anticipation as I swallowed potion after misbrewed potion and battled to nullify the effects in time hadn't been fun. "I promise you, I won't nullify during the next class."
"There will be no 'next class.'"
"What?" I looked up again and crossed my arms. "You can't dismiss me after just one class! I made a mistake but that's no excuse to—"
"I helped found this school. If I tell you that you will not teach another class, then you will not teach another class. No argument."
"You can't force me to stay at this school doing nothing!" I protested.
"You're fortunate I haven't decided to confine you to your quarters for the duration of your stay."
Confine me to my quarters? He thought he could order me to my room like some misbehaving kid? Like hell! "On what grounds?" I snapped.
"An appalling lack of judgment and common sense."
It was a bit much for my wounded pride to quietly swallow. "I can hardly fight your decision, as you well know. But I will not let you lock me up in this school like some prisoner." I wasn't going to exchange one prison for another.
I shouldered past him and made for the door, but before I could get through the doorframe, I felt his hand close around my arm. Slytherin yanked me back into the room, ignoring my exclamations of protest, and shut the door solidly. A few of the chairs and tables in the room started to rattle as a slight breeze picked up.
"You are the most selfish brat I have had the misfortune of meeting, and given the number of students in this school competing for that distinction, that is saying something," he hissed, his grip tightening on my arm. "Have a care for the lives of others who dwell in this castle, if you have no regard for your own life! The instant you step outside of the protective magic of this school your freedom will be forfeit. Morass will have yet another nullifier to use against us and our very meagre advantage of having two nullifiers to his eleven will be lost."
"Let. Go." I enunciated each word carefully as the pressure on my arm mounted. His hand felt like a vice, like another chain holding me down to another set of obligations. A painful chain that was beginning to really bloody throb. I met his eyes angrily. "You're hurting me."
He just stared at me, our gazes locked. For a second, I thought he hadn't heard me. Then he jerked his hand away as if I had burnt him. I tried to read his expression but it closed off again. It worried me; he had not released his anger completely. I could nearly sense it lurking beneath his placid facade. The breeze whistling through the room and upsetting papers faded away.
"You may teach the other class." Set off guard by his sudden change of heart, I couldn't find a reply. "If I hear of any other incidents, I assure you, you will live in your room."
"Yeah, okay. I get the point." I felt very tired again and my headache returned with a sadistic vengeance. Confronting Slytherin always left me with the feeling that it was me, not him, who was losing ground on some battlefield that neither of us could define. "I'll be more careful. I didn't mean to—I guess I didn't think everything through."
"That is what worries me."
He opened the door and exited, coldness lingering in his wake. I collapsed into the nearest chair. It was definitely one of those days that you wished you had never got out of bed.
Revised: 06 December 2005
