Chapter Ten: Potions and Preparations
"Post's here." Hermione stroked Hedwig's head affectionately, as up and down the breakfast table, students were receiving their Wednesday morning letters.
"Mm." Harry continued to mechanically chew on a slice of toast. Hedwig, tired of being ignored, and finding Hermione's attentions beginning to pall, sought entertainment elsewhere.
"Hi!" Ron shouted in indignation. "Harry, get your bird's beak out of my porridge!"
"Mm." Harry frowned to himself. Ron snatched his bowl away. Hedwig strutted pointedly on to his placemat and clicked her beak at him meaningfully. She fixed him with a golden eye, and- Ron swore afterwards- drummed her talons on the table.
"Harry, Earth to Harry!" Hermione cast a look about her and settled her eye on Ginny, who had just finished her own breakfast. She exclaimed loudly.
"Ginny Weasley, put your clothes back on again at once!"
Harry choked on a piece of toast. Ginny- perfectly decent in her usual Hogwarts robes- spat out a mouthful of pumpkin juice. Ron dropped his porridge bowl into his lap- and Hedwig immediately pushed her snowy head into it. For the moment, Ron failed to notice.
"Hermione, for crying out loud, don't talk about my sister like that!" he spluttered. "And Harry, get this bloody bird under control! Owls..." he glared at Hedwig, who, having eaten her fill, turned and shuffled across the table to her master, "Don't... eat... porridge."
"Sorry Ron, 'Mione," Harry shook his head, and ruffled Hedwig's feathers who, after being ignored, affected to look the other way disdainfully. "I was miles away. It's Potions today."
Ginny had recovered her wits.
"What are you doing, talking about my brother's little sister like that?" she demanded of Hermione. Then she paused, and did a quick mental re-check. "Hang on, sorry, that came out a bit daft. You know what I mean. Er."
"They're as bad as each other," Hermione shook her head. "Harry, Snape will not kill you. Say it fifty times."
"No." Harry stuck out his tongue at her. "Late night, Gin?" he asked teasingly. Ginny grimaced.
"Dark Arts Homework. Milner gave us a choice- either an essay on the weaknesses of Dementors, or we capture a real life Death Eater, transfigure him into a toad, and bring him in to show the class."
"Nutter." Ron groaned. "Still, pity we didn't get that one. You can bet Malfoy'd love a chance to bring his dad in to sit in on one of his classes."
"Couldn't you have transfigured Snape?" Harry rubbed his brow. "He'd count."
"Oh, for goodness sake, Harry," Hermione snapped. "You've been having Potions classes for five years now. You can't say you're scared of the man."
"The differences, Herm-own-ninny," Harry untied the letter from Hedwig's leg, "are that for those five years, I wasn't stuck on my own in a room full of Slytherins... and I hadn't tried to push Snape's brain out through his ears in the summer holidays, remember?" he unfolded the letter, read it twice, and then grinned. "At least the evening's working out," he remarked. "Assuming I live long enough."
"What's happening this evening?" Ron asked- a little indistinctly.
"Honestly, Ron, Harry's owl's had her beak in that," Hermione sighed. "The DA meeting, remember? Closed session for the four of us to work out what we're doing this year?"
Harry nodded, and, petting the somewhat mollified Hedwig, sent her off to the owlery.
"That's right." He noticed the curious stares on several of his friends' faces, and smiled mysteriously. "It's from Tonks. Everything's ready."
"What everything?" Ginny enquired. Harry smirked.
"That's for me to know, and you lot to find out... when my plans have reached fruition." He paused. "Ha. Ha. Ha."
"Oh dear," Ginny sighed. "Voldemort possessed you again, has he?" Hermione and Ron flinched at that, but Harry grinned playfully.
"Oh, come now Ginny, Tommy doesn't have nearly my... panache, when being evil's concerned. How could you possibly get us confused?"
Ginny looked at the clock.
"Well, that's good, Harry, because it's nearly nine o'clock... so you're going to need all the evil you can get."
The corridor outside the Potions' dungeon was less packed than in past years- but entirely with what seemed to Harry to be unfriendly faces. There were seven other students in the class, all of them Slytherins, and as he turned the corner and hurried towards them, not sure whether to be relieved or apprehensive that he wasn't late, they turned to face him in unison, one great serpent with a blonde ferret for its head.
"What do you think you're doing here, Potter?" Malfoy drawled. He was no longer flanked by Crabbe and Goyle- even Snape's fairly legendary bias towards his own House didn't stretch far enough to allowing either of those two into his NEWT Potions class- but, surrounded by six other Slytherins, that seemed rather unimportant. Harry was unsure of his chances in a fight with them and, after previous years, had resolved (for once) to try to avoid trouble with Malfoy in Potions where possible- largely because of the confrontations it inevitably led to between himself and Snape. He smiled, showing gritted teeth. Then, in as sunny and irritating a tone as he could manage,
"Learning, when the class starts, Draco. That is what we do in school, remember?" He beamed at the boy, and settled his back against the wall to wait.
"How do you think you're taking Advanced Potions?" Draco sneered.
"An 'O' on the OWL, Malfoy," Harry smirked. A little bird in the Ministry- well, to be precise, Nymphadora- had let slip that Malfoy himself had only received an 'E', but his mother had appealed the result, claiming that stress over his father's involvement with the Dark Lord had spoiled Draco's chances unfairly. Snape had supported the appeal, and had been allowed to accept Draco into the class. Malfoy's face reddened slightly.
"Well, Potter, exams are one thing, but they aren't the most important..."
"Ah, but it's nice to get them right, isn't it?"
"But Potions is a Slytherin skill." He sneered at the Gryffindor boy. "Professor Snape did say we might be cutting a bit of the chaff away from the grain in these first few classes." He exchanged knowing grins with some of the other Slytherins.
"Well, he'd know, wouldn't he?" Harry retorted- and, sure enough, behind him, right on cue, a sardonic voice purred,
"Twenty points from Gryffindor, Potter, for arguing in the corridors." Harry's mouth clamped shut. Malfoy allowed himself a gleeful grin as Snape walked by, unlocking the classroom door. "Hurry inside and take your places," Snape snapped. "There is no time for dallying about in corridors during lesson time."
Harry fumed as he stalked to the front of the class. Snape would only tell him to move there later, the better to embarrass him in front of the other students.
No time for dallying about in the corridors? Where the hell were you then? I swear you lurk around deliberately so Malfoy can get me to do something you can take points off for, you greasy f--
"We will begin." Snape stalked to his desk, and pulled a massive book from the shelf behind it. "I dislike preamble, and time is short. You are here, because, deservedly or undeservedly-" his black stare settled, inevitably, on Harry, "- you have achieved respectable OWL grades and expressed a desire to continue with your education in the subtle art of Potion making." He opened the book, whose leaves fell upon the desk with a dust-swirling thud, and leant forward, leaning over the class like a malevolent gargoyle. "Be warned. I have tried, over five years, to instil in you all a respect for this craft, and an understanding that Potions, unlike other lesser trivialities of wand-swishing tomfoolery, requires dedication, ambition, precision, and ruthlessness." He paused, and looked directly at Harry. "The impetuous foolhardiness which is so ingrained a characteristic of certain Houses in this school will serve no one here." He narrowed his eyes. "Will it, Potter?"
Harry had had enough. It was probably a mistake, but his patience with Snape was already running thin. He returned the look.
"I'll bear that in my mind, Professor," he told Snape meekly. "Thank you."
Snape's mouth shut like a trap. "We will begin," he repeated. "You will brew for me a draft for the palliative care of sufferers from terminal exposure to the Cruciatus Curse." He raised his head. "Ingredients and utensils are to be found in the customary places, anyone not capable of finding them after five years may as well leave now. You will work in pairs." He paused, and waited for the students to pair up, gleefully watching as the Slytherins avoided Harry. Then, when the Gryffindor boy's isolation was just plain enough to satisfy him, he snarled, "Since Mr Potter seems unable to perform the simple task of finding a partner in a class of even numbers, it seems I must select for him. Zabini, you will work with Potter. It may be that, trying to teach him, you will possibly remember something yourself."
Blaise Zabini stalked rather unwillingly past Malfoy, who muttered something snide in her ear, and dropped her bag and belongings behind the desk next to Harry. As Snape turned away, she mouthed something very like 'greasy git' at his back.
"Right," she said in a sulky tone, "get on with it then."
Harry, seeing that Blaise didn't plan to help yet- she was making great show of the time it would take her to set up her things on a new desk, walked as non-confrontationally as he could over to the equipment cupboard. On the way back, Pansy Parkinson managed to knock his pestle and mortar out of his hands. They shattered on the floor.
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Potter," Snape called, his eyes glittering. "And Sixth-year students are expected to take responsibility for school equipment. You will make arrangements to have the fee for a replacement pestle and mortar credited to the school accounts by the end of term." He turned back to continue talking to Draco Malfoy. Harry glared pure hatred at Pansy, who flounced back to Malfoy and Snape. He returned to his desk with the rest of the apparatus. Blaise had sat down, and was scratching her head over a page in the Potions textbook.
She was an odd sort of girl, Blaise. Small and dark haired, and plain without being even interestingly ugly, the Slytherin witch was almost androgynous. Indeed, in younger years Harry had heard Malfoy- when for whatever reason he hadn't chosen to visit his usual bile on Harry himself- make a running joke out of not being able to decide if Blaise was male or female. This last summer or two had made that a little more obvious, but the pale skinned girl appeared to resent this more than revel in it, and wore her robes loose over quite baggy grey-black trousers. She kept her hair cut short, and both hair and face were deliberately as sober and unadorned as she could manage.
As he tried to set up the things on the desk, she looked up.
"I hope you know what you're doing," she remarked, "Because I've got less chance than Longbottom in a detention with Snape of getting this thing right."
Harry blinked, and hefted the cauldron on to the desk. Blaise moved the book out of the way, but otherwise showed no great interest. He sighed, and inwardly counted to ten.
"Well, we might stand a better chance if both of us did something," he hissed. "Thought Slytherins were meant to be ambitious and determined?"
"Thought Gryffindors were meant to hex the hell out of anyone who got up their nose?" Blaise nodded towards Snape in a moody tone. Still, at least she got up, and conjured a fire under the cauldron. "All right, Potter. You realise he'll make you drink this at the end, and you realise if we get it wrong it'll probably kill you or something?"
"That's all right," Harry began cutting up ingredients, and wondered if having to drink chopped Galdenmeyat eyeballs was actually worse than chronic nerve damage. "If he kills me, I'll just return from the dead and atomise him."
"Ato-what?"
"Muggle expression."
They continued to work. Progress was slow- for once Snape appeared to be entirely correct in his reservations about Zabini's abilities in Potion-making, but, on the other hand, it was little surprise to be way behind Malfoy, since Snape seemed to spend half an hour of the lesson talking earnestly to him, and almost absent-mindedly helping the boy's work along as he did so. The result was that Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were finished, and standing idly and smugly beside their simmering cauldron while the rest of the class, especially Harry and Blaise, were still hard at work.
Malfoy sauntered over as Harry was stirring the thick, almost coagulated mixture.
"Oh dear, Potter," he sneered, "That doesn't look right, does it?" He laughed to himself, and turned away, fiddling in his sleeve. Harry looked away pointedly- and caught a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye. Malfoy had pulled something like a small brown sugar pyramid from his sleeve, and was reaching round, trying to surreptitiously drop it past Blaise into the potion, when she seized his wrist, twisting it behind his back. Malfoy screamed, and Snape spun round.
"Whatever is... ZABINI! Let him go this instant!" He thundered. Blaise let Malfoy go, pushing him ungently into a table. The boy doubled up, then straightened, turning round and cradling his injured wrist, glaring murderously at the androgynous girl.
"What do you think you are doing?" Snape snarled. "I expect this sort of idiocy from Potter, but I can hardly think that he could have contaminated you this quickly." He stood in front of Blaise. Harry saw Malfoy quickly kick the discarded sugar pyramid under a desk in the corner of the room, and look triumphant. Blaise flushed.
"I.. he was trying to put his hand on my bum, sir," she lied. Snape's eyebrow raised, and he looked to Malfoy.
"I wasn't!" Malfoy spluttered. "I was just going to point something out to her. Something she'd got wrong, sir!"
Snape looked most displeased. Clearly, biased as he was, the idea that Malfoy might willingly do anything that could even inadvertently help Harry was not one he was prepared to believe. Finally, he marched to the front of the class.
"Take more care in future, Mr Malfoy, and kindly ensure that you continue to behave with proper decorum and conduct in my lessons." Malfoy flushed slightly. Snape turned to Blaise. "And I will remind you, Ms. Zabini, that unwarranted physical attacks on any student are not permitted. He turned his head this way and that like a watching crow. Finally, he finished. "Five points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter, for standing around idly with your jaw hanging open. You have yet to complete your potion, and you will note that time is running out."
After the lesson, Blaise called to Harry as the group of students- Harry trying to get on ahead of them and away, moved up through the dungeons.
"Potter, hey, Potter..." she stopped, and glared at Pansy Parkinson, who had accelerated forward to listen. "Sorry about that- I did try not to drop you in it."
"Don't worry about it, Blaise?" Harry shook his head wearily. "If a butterfly dies on the other side of the world, Snape'll find some way to take points off me for it."
Zabini nodded, and then whirled round, her knee connecting sharply with Malfoy's groin as he crept up behind them. As the boy doubled up, she grabbed him by the shoulder and pinned him to the wall.
"And you," she snarled. "Get this straight, Draco. I couldn't care less if you and Potter hex each other into next week, or cut little bits off each other with carving knives... but if you ever, ever try to mess up my work again... or try to involve me in your pathetic little vendetta, then I'll cut your genitals in half lengthways and leave them hanging from you. Assuming I can find them." She smiled, and patted his cheek with one hand, then let him go. Quick as a flash, the other hand produced a rusty, blunt old knife she must have purloined from the dungeon at some time. "With this, dear Draco. Run along now."
Blaise watched as Malfoy, straightening his robes and stalking off with a vain attempt to recover his dignity, departed. She twisted her lip. "Ferret-faced pervert," she muttered, then noticed Harry's amused grin. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all." Harry retreated.
"And you're sure there aren't any Zabinis in your family, Ron?" Harry laughed. Ginny was shaking her head and sniggering, and even Hermione was finding it a little difficult to keep a straight face.
"She actually threatened to castrate him with a rusty knife?" Ginny hugged herself, her face threatening to split in half. Harry rounded the corner, and sighted the statue of Barnabas the Barmy in the distance.
"She was a bit more graphic than that, though." He shook his head. "I wonder if there were girls like that in Slytherin when Tommy was at school."
"It'd explain the high voice, wouldn't it?" Ginny smirked. Ron, still laughing to himself, walked three times past the statue, and they hurried into the Room of Requirements- once more set out as the training and meeting room of the Defence Association.
"Hello Tonks," Harry waved a hand. The young witch got up hurriedly from where she had been lounging on top of one of three large wooden packing cases. "It all came in all right?"
"What..." Ron spluttered... "Are you wearing?" He stared. Tonks' hair was vivid red on one side, and vivid orange on the other, and her robes where vibrant red and orange check pattern. One boot was red, the other orange.
"Gambling with my brothers again?" Ginny shook her head. "You'll never learn, will you?"
"Ah, but the stakes were worth it," the young Auror held up a finger knowingly. "You wouldn't want to see what they'd have had to wear if they'd lost."
"What is all this?" Hermione was starting to open one of the packing cases. Harry hurried across and took the pry from her hand.
"Hold on," he smiled. "You'll find out- at the first proper meeting on Tuesday. I want it to be a surprise for everyone." He chuckled. "If we've got to carry on with this another year, we might at least start with a bit of a show."
"Dumbledore gave you the go-ahead then?" Ron asked.
"On the condition I change the name from 'Dumbledore's Army' back to 'Defence Association' before his ego suffered permanent damage," Harry grinned. "His words, not mine."
"I just hope he doesn't have a heart attack next Tuesday," Tonks shook her head. "You realise this is going to be quite a... controversial idea?"
"So was the world being round." Harry gave her a confrontational look, and Tonks held up her hands defensively.
"Don't get me wrong, I think it's a great plan, Harry... but I also think it's a good idea to gamble with Fred and George Weasley. If you want a reliable second opinion, look elsewhere." She attempted to sit nonchalantly on the edge of a crate. While she picked herself up off the floor, Harry responded.
"Point taken."
"OK." Ron folded his arms. "What... is a great plan." He glared at Harry. "It's all very well talking about surprises, but Mione and I are supposed to be your deputies... shouldn't we get some sort of sneak preview?"
"Yes, you should." Harry folded his arms in turn. "Unfortunately I've spent the morning with a bunch of Slytherins. I'm afraid my ethics have quite deserted me. Sorry! You'll find out on Tuesday."
Harry was still chuckling over his little deception as he got into bed several hours later. They'd talked for quite a while. Some of what Tonks had to report to him- as Order business- was depressing. There had been no further attacks, thank heavens, but equally no further leads. The Ministry was continuing to be as obstructive as it could be behind the scenes- and appeared to be keeping a close eye on the school. Tonks had encountered at least one private secretary in Hogsmeade who had no business being there, emerging from the Three Broomsticks, apparently a little the worse for drink and rather dusty. She rather suspected him of having just come through the secret passages from some unlicensed 'intelligence gathering' (although she noted that it seemed strange to associate the former word with Cornelius Fudge) on school grounds.
He sighed, his good humour momentarily quelled by the recollection, and set his glasses on his bedside table, continuing what had now become his nightly routine by taking the Pensieve Dumbledore had given him from his bedside table, and beginning to use it to order his thoughts.
Used the way the Headmaster had trained Harry to use it, the Pensieve did not actually hold that many of his thoughts overnight- just a few extremes of emotion, such as his anger with Malfoy and Snape, weakening several points of vulnerability the Dark Lord might exploit, should he try to gain access to Harry's mind. It was a fairly quick process, and one he had grown quite used to in the week or so he had had the thing. He had had to grow used to it. He did not want to ever experience what he had seen in the home of the Powells again.
When he was satisfied that his mind was properly ordered, Harry lay down and closed his eyes, beginning to deliberately calm his mind, drawing it into that dull, mechanical state which appalled and frustrated him, but seemed to be the best defence against Voldemort. As always, he was unaware at what point he passed into sleep.
The moment the dream began, Harry's anger and fear rose in him. He almost never dreamed, since he had begun sorting his mind with the Pensieve, and what dreams he had were pale, insipid things. As he found himself striding through vivid flames, he knew that what he felt was an image from the mind of Voldemort.
How? How can he have broken through?
"You are a fool." The voice was everywhere, high, cold, and pitiless- and tinged with a sadistic amusement. The flames had shape now, licking about a small cottage. Three huddled shapes were slowly being consumed by the fire. "You think that you can conquer my hold on your mind, Potter?" A presence was behind him, but he could not turn. "Walk with me." The pre-emptory command was accompanied by the firm pressure of a thin hand on his shoulder, and Harry found himself being marched through the ruins and out into a sullen night above a grey hillside.
Over his shoulder, Voldemort gloated. Harry could see nothing but grey, grey emptiness as far as the eye could see.
"It has amused me to toy with you, boy," he sneered. "And to see your faint attempts at defiance. However, the time for such games is over."
The hands spun him, and he fell to his knees, looking up into the pale snake-face of Voldemort, high above him, a white gleaming light at the summit of his black robes, impossibly tall.
"There is no light I cannot shadow, Harry, least of all your pathetic beacon." Voldemort touched one skeletal finger to his own forehead... and Harry's mind convulsed, the agony flashing into being in his scar. He could feel himself, twisting in pain in his bed, yet could not leave the hillside, as Voldemort continued his assault on his mind.
"No light, no light, no light," Voldemort chanted, and each word was a fresh stab of agony, each sound reverberated through the boy's skull. "Know this, Harry..." and the voice was kind, and the hand trailed compassionately across Harry's cheek- and every touch was like a poisoned claw scratching deep. "You will die. You will die ere the new year begins, and there is no haven that I cannot penetrate, no wall that I cannot tear down... but before you die, you will have seen the beginning of the end for all that you love."
The hand curled about Harry's throat, and his scar burned, his dream-eyes seared with light and madness until only the faintest ghost-vision of the terrible figure before him remained, as Voldemort hauled Harry upward, and gazed into his eyes.
"I tell you this without malice, my soul-brother," Voldemort spoke softly, but every word was tinged with ecstasy at his foe's pain, "For when death comes, knowing this, you will welcome it. Darkness comes... hush... I have formed you like a father, and now I lay you down to sleep," he murmured. "Sleep deeply Harry, for there will be no morning... sleep long and deep, and I shall watch over the world for ever after you have gone."