NOTE BY THE ACCOUNT HOLDER: THIS STORY IS NOT MINE!
WRITTEN BY RAINING INK
Chapter 10 – The Apothecary's Assistant
Harry Potter loathed dusty, smelly basements and fetal hinkypunks. He thought he might hate Zakarias Zate as well, but he was still reserving judgment on that one. The man was a nightmare to deal with, but what he was teaching Harry was fascinating. Well, it had been fascinating…until the shop opened and Harry had been consigned to the dark underground supply basement and ordered to "properly arrange the newest shipments." Zate had given him no further instruction, and when he had asked how he ought to do it, the apothecary had snapped something about not needing an assistant too brainless to figure it out on his own.
The basement was filled with rows and rows of shelves and wooden casks. Strings of dried ingredients hung from the low ceilings, and thousands of bottles and jars of every imaginable shape and size glittered in the faint white light of the glowing orbs that clung to the walls and ceiling like large soap bubbles. The smell of the whole place was overpowering. Spices, formaldehyde, blood, mold, and a hundred other strange scents filled the air.
Harry looked down at the book in his lap. He had been at this for two hours now, and he had only managed to shelve half a box of supplies. The 30-pound jar of fetal hinkypunks beside him was proving particularly difficult. After the first fifteen minutes or so of examining the labels on all the shelves, he had arrived at the dreadful conclusion that Zate organized his ingredients based on how they commonly functioned in potions rather than by the much more sensible (in Harry's opinion) alphabetical method. Harry had resigned himself to the task and summoned his potions books from his room at the Doxy Closet. What did it matter if anyone in Knockturn Alley saw books flying through the air? The more advanced texts, to his surprise, were rather unhelpful, but the second half of his first year book…the part of the book they hadn't gone over in class of course… contained an ingredients glossary that listed the major uses of many common ingredients. At the very least, by the time he had finished shelving everything Harry would be much more knowledgeable about his potions ingredients.
He shoved the hinkypunks to the side and fished around in the box for the next item. He was eager to be through with this so that he could go work upstairs with Zate. If he was constantly in sight, he might wheedle more lessons out of the man. Harry's mind buzzed with everything he had learned as he went to hang a string of dirigible plums in the "stabilizers" section of the basement.
Zate seemed to know somehow just what information would be useful for his new assistant. Harry hadn't told him that he wanted to refuse an invitation to the Malfoy birthday party, of course. That would have been too suspicious, but to his pleasure Zate had begun talking about birthdays without any prompting. He said that it was important for Hephaestus to understand what all of the events were like for "practitioners" of the "old ways." Harry was beginning to get the impression that when Zate said this he actually meant Dark wizards, because although he gave excellent information from a regular pureblood perspective, sometimes he would add things like, "That's how it's done in high society in general, of course. But if they're practitioners of the old traditions then you have to…"
Birthdays, according to Zate, weren't particularly special. Invitations could be refused very easily with just a formally worded, "I'm sorry, but I'm not coming." The invitee could send a gift along on the day of the party as a way of saying they wished they could have been there. Sixteenth birthdays, though, were special if the person in question was "a practitioner of the old ways." Unfortunately, Zate didn't seem to want to spell anything out explicitly for his pupil. (Harry imagined that he wanted to keep the fact of his knowledge about Dark wizards something of a secret.) But, Harry learned that on their sixteenth birthday Dark wizards were considered by their parents and their community to have left childhood and moved into adulthood. In practice, they might not be treated that way, but traditionally a sixteen year old was an adult for all intents and purposes.
Harry rummaged through the box of supplies until he found another ingredient he recognized. It would be nice, he mused, to be a Dark wizard on your sixteenth birthday. People were supposed to gift them with things that would be useful in their adult life, and they received "wishes" for their futures in the form of different flora. A very few other wizards did the same thing as a kind of "quaint amusement" Zate had told him with a sneer, but Dark witches and wizards actually burned the wishes they received in a coming of age ceremony that was thousands of years old. By scenting the parchment of the invitations with sage, Malfoy was subtly letting those who were aware of the old traditions know what his own "wish" for himself was. Harry had looked sage up in the potions text. It was a common symbol for wisdom.
Zate went on to tell Harry about the ceremonies surrounding weddings, funerals, births, and some of the wizarding holidays. Harry had never heard of most of the holidays before, and he said so. Zate's expression became pained. "So few observe them anymore," he said. "It's more common to celebrate the simpler holidays that the Muggleborns bring with them. These old ones have been left behind."
"Does it matter?" Harry asked. He thought of most holidays as having little meaning, but seeing the growing look of anger on Zate's face he quickly backtracked. "I mean, I know it's significant from a historical perspective and everything, but do they have meaning in a modern context?"
"Oh, it matters, boy," said the old apothecary in a deadly voice. "These holidays that everyone partakes of now are nothing more than light pleasures. People get as much substance from them as they would from a party or vacation. But the old holy days…" His look became wistful and almost reverent. "They changed the wizards and witches who observed them. The traditions for those days taught the wizards about magic and the magic about wizards. Days of such power shouldn't be forgotten."
Harry still wasn't sure what exactly Zate had meant, but again, the apothecary wouldn't go into great detail. "You'll have to find out on your own," he had said to the persistent questions of the younger wizard. "I'm afraid it's not something I can share with you yet."
Their lessons for the day had ended there, and Harry was hungry for more. He wasn't supposed to work tomorrow, but if he showed up anyway…
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At 3 AM, Harry finally finished as much as he could without a better reference source. The hinkypunk jar, along with about thirty other items, was piled neatly beside the now empty boxes and crates they had come in. His back was aching, he was dirty, and he suspected that he smelled funny. The sounds coming from upstairs told him that there were still customers coming in from time to time, but the early evening rush seemed to have disappeared. He cast a scouring charm on his robes and headed up to talk to Zate.
Zate was busy with a man in forest green robes who was examining crystal phials full of different types of blood. Harry thought the two must be acquaintances, because the apothecary was acting much less abrasive than usual. He stood unobtrusively behind the counter while he waited for the man to leave. There was no one else in the shop. After a few minutes, the man in green made a curious gesture, running the back of his left thumb down the side of his face from forehead to mid-cheek. Zate acknowledged the gesture with a matching one, and the man left the shop with a vial of manticore blood clutched in his fist.
The apothecary turned around when Harry cleared his throat. "Are you finished, Hephaestus? It took you long enough." he said.
"Not exactly, Mr. Zate. I didn't know where to put some of it."
Zate snorted. "Why the devil not, boy? What were you doing in there all this time?" he demanded.
"I didn't even know what half of the things in there were!" Harry exclaimed. "How was I supposed to shelve them?"
"Mighty Morgaine, boy! You didn't just put things in random places did you? I'll never be able to sort it out!" The old apothecary was starting to turn red, a sure sign of danger.
"No, I used an old potions book to figure it out, but not everything was listed," said Harry placatingly.
"That won't do," said Zate. "That won't do at all, boy. I'm not going to be able to stand over you giving you instructions the whole time you work."
"I could go find another book, I guess."
Zate rolled his eyes. "Well, if you know what to do why are you pestering me? Go get a book and finish the job."
"Right," said Harry, heading for the door. "Err…where should I get it from?"
The old wizard muttered something about the incompetence of youth these days under his breath before saying, "You'll want to get your hands on a copy of Corgood's Encyclopedia of Essential Ingredients."
"Okay."
"No, not okay. You won't be able to find one in Knockturn Alley, not unless Burke's managed to filch one from somewhere. But even if he had it would cost you an arm and a leg. It's been illegal in Britain since the Dark Ages."
"Mr. Zate!" Harry cried. "What do you expect me to do?"
Zate stared at him. "Really, Hephaestus, you're much too high-strung. I was about to suggest something."
His assistant groaned. "Come here, boy," the apothecary commanded. He waved his wand at the front of the shop, and Harry heard the door lock and saw the sign flip around to "Closed." Zate led him behind the burgundy velvet curtain that separated one small corner of the shop from the rest.
Harry looked around with interest. This was clearly something like an office. The elderly wizard had a desk cluttered with papers and a plush brocade armchair. Zate waved his wand again to light the globes that clung to the ceiling. "Alright, Hephaestus," he said. "Now, repeat after me. I, Hephaestus Peverell,"
"I, Hephaestus Peverell," said Harry accommodatingly.
"Do solemnly swear on my blood and magic."
"Hang on! What am I supposed to be swearing to?"
Zate sighed. "At least you're not a complete fool, but you are horribly inconvenient you know. I thought an assistant was supposed to make things easier."
"Well if you want me to leave, you can go finish shelving those ingredients yourself," said Harry testily. "I think the Niffler bile is leaking."
The apothecary seemed to find this comment amusing, because he began to laugh wheezily. "Oh, lad! There's no need to be so prickly. You really must develop a thicker skin."
His assistant continued to frown at him. "I'm not going to swear an oath about anything without you telling me what it's for!"
"I'm going to give you a special portkey that will take you to a library so that you can get the book you'll need. I want you to swear to give it back to me when I ask you to."
"Oh," Harry was confused. "I would have done that anyway."
"I'm not doubting your honesty, Hephaestus, but this particular portkey cost me a year's earnings and a lot of skullduggery besides." He turned his bad hand over and concentrated on it for a moment. "See that?" he asked, pointing at the pale silver lines that had appeared on his palm. They formed a circular symbol with Latin writing around its edges."
Harry stared curiously. "What is it?"
"That's the portkey, boy! Flesh-bound and blood-inscribed. Illegal in every country of the world except for Canada. Not much is illegal in wizarding Canada. Nothing that I can think of anyway." Zate pulled a silver knife out of the pocket of the leather apron he was wearing and begin to dig at the flesh of his palm. Harry watched in fascination and no little concern as the wizard unearthed a small metal disk from his own hand.
"Hurt a bit, that did," he noted. He waved his wand over his hand and it healed until nothing more than a pink mark remained. With another wave the disk was completely free of blood."The oath, Hephaestus," he said firmly. Harry gave it without further question, promising to return the portkey to Zate whenever he requested it.
Five minutes, a lot of blood, and a very sore hand later, Harry could see the same silver lines on his right palm. "How does it work?" he asked.
"Tighten your hand into a fist, and say 'bibliotheca'," said Zate. "To return, do the same thing but say, 'domus.'" He frowned. "Mind you don't mention to the librarians that it's a borrowed portkey. They probably wouldn't throw you out, but there's no need to upset them."
"Thank you," said Harry. "Should I…"
Knocking could be heard from the front. Apparently a customer wanted to be let in. "Off with you, lad!" said Zate. "Hurry back so that you can finish the unpacking!"
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Out of the corner of his eye, Zate saw the boy clench his fist, whisper the word and vanish. He sighed. He was really losing his touch with old age. He used to be much more cautious. It was just so surreal to have Harry Potter unpacking boxes full of dark potions ingredients in his basement that he wasn't sure what to do with himself.
The teen was eager enough to learn, especially for someone of his age, and he didn't seem nearly as squeamish about some things as Zate had expected him to be. When the Potter/Peverell heir (what a ludicrous combination of genetics!) had asked him what the human teeth in the window could be used for, the apothecary had candidly replied that it was useful only in potions that lead to the enslavement, usually permanent, of the imbiber. He also mentioned that he had brewed one just last month at the request of a client. He had expected the Light-taught wizard to be disgusted. Part of him had been hoping that the boy would cut and run at this piece of information; Zate's life would be simpler in a lot of ways if he had.
But Hephaestus, or Harry, had only appeared thoughtful. He had asked why someone would want to brew such a potion, and Zate had rattled off a list of reasons he could think of (most of them very bad, but a few of them not so much so). The boy had nodded, glanced back at the teeth as though seeing them for the first time, and then asked with innocent curiosity whether fingernails were used for the same sort of thing.
So it seemed that Zate would keep teaching and hoping, and the boy would keep learning. It was quite the gamble, all things considered. It could, Zate thought as he let the annoyed wizard at the door into the store, be the doom of his kind to teach this youngling any more of their ways. But maybe, just maybe, it would be their salvation.