The Potion - Part 2

"There's something I need to tell you," Harry said to Hermione and Ron. "It came back to me in the pub but there were too many people there. You know we thought that Hecate could maybe talk to dead people after we overheard her that day in the Headmaster's office? Well, she definitely can. I was out, um, practicing some Quidditch flying with Cho Chang a week ago and we ended up listening to a meeting Dumbledore was holding with the Heads of the houses. That girl who died that Percy was talking about – she didn't commit suicide; Voldemort tied her up with wand rope and put a death-sleep spell on her. She told Hecate. And there was someone with Voldemort too – when he was killing her – and from the description, I'm sure it was Pettigrew."

"That's awful," shuddered Hermione. "Poor girl!"

"It must be strange for Hecate, too, with messages coming through like that," said Ron. "Wait a minute, didn't she say something to Dumbledore about Nicolas Flamel? You-know-who didn't get him too, did he?"

"No, I think he was just saying Hello," replied Harry. "But why did Voldemort kill that girl? She can't have hurt him, any more than Squibs can."

"Maybe he hates Squibs because he doesn't think they're proper wizards and witches?" shrugged Ron. "Do you think all those papers of Dumbledore's have something to do with it? I wonder why he wants them all."

"Well, he might not know precisely what he's looking for," said Hermione slowly. "Or…he does know and he doesn't want someone else to guess if he just asks for those papers."

Ron nodded. "Dad says you don't know who to trust at the Ministry these days, now Lucius Malfoy looks like he's back in favour. And Fudge is about as much use as a chocolate cauldron."

"Did you hear anything else at this meeting, Harry?" asked Hermione. They were approaching the school entrance now.

"Dumbledore was talking about some plan he had that Snape didn't like. His resignation, I suppose," he answered. "We almost got caught and Cho was scared, so I had to take her back in."

"Ooo, Cho was scared!" said Ron with a grin, nudging Harry in the ribs.

"Well, it was scary, all that stuff about dead people and Voldemort," replied Harry defensively.

"Just wait 'til I tell Fred!" Ron laughed, and dodging the stink bomb that his friend had swiftly pulled from the Zonko's bag, he ran off in the direction of the Gryffindor common room with Harry close behind.

"Harry, stop!" called Hermione. "I think we need to talk to Dumbledore about this. Remember, we promised Hagrid."

Harry waited by the stairs for her to catch up. "What would we tell him?" he asked. "We don't know anything that he doesn't know already. How would it help?"

"There's Pettigrew," Hermione pointed out. "We're the only ones that know what he looks like now."

Harry's stomach sank. He couldn't blame her for being right, but it wasn't going to be easy. At least he might have a chance to talk with Dumbledore about his parents. "All right," he said finally, "but he won't be back until tomorrow night. I'll talk to him Monday after classes. I wanted to ask him about a few other things anyway."

Harry made a final notation in his notebook for Defense against the Dark Arts, taking his time. As usual, Ron had made his way to the head of the class, followed by Hermione, to ask one more question that couldn't wait. Around him, the other students were picking up their books and bookbags. Cho gave him a quick wave and rushed out. He grinned to himself – Cho was always in a rush to get somewhere. He was sorry that the unit on Shakespeare had ended and hoped that the one to come on Grindelwald would be as interesting – there was certainly enough reading to do before their next lesson. Defense was definitely turning out to be his favorite class, and it didn't hurt that Cho was in it too.

As they left the classroom, Malfoy and Goyle were waiting outside. "Make way for Gryffindor's Quidditch star!" Malfoy announced with a sneer. Harry glared at him. "Looks like you want to star in Defense too – are you writing down every word she says?" Goyle snickered, loudly. Malfoy continued, looking sidelong at Ron. "She's such an idiot, trying to frighten us with all those warnings against the Dark Side. Of course Shakespeare was petrified of Dark Arts – what else would you expect of a Muggle?"

Ron turned, anger rising in his face. "She is not an idiot. If anyone is, it's you – you missed her whole point!"

"Which is, Professor?" Malfoy drawled.

"That Dark Arts is not the only kind of evil, and if we're going to defend against Dark Arts, we have to go up against the other kinds of evil too."

Malfoy burst out laughing. "As if it's any concern of ours!" he said. "Who even cares, except a bunch of Muggle–lovers like your sorry family."

As Ron raised his fists, Harry quickly stepped in front of him. "He's right, you know. Do you really think Dark Arts is the only thing that makes Voldemort dangerous?" Several onlookers, flinching at the name, began to drift away.

"Ooo, listen to the big man, he can say the bad guy's name!" sneered Malfoy. "What's the big deal about him anyway? The guy's half a mudblood – he should be easy enough to handle, if a person knows how."

"What do you know, Malfoy?" Harry scoffed.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. "I know whose father can handle him, and whose couldn't."

"Leave my father out of this," said Harry threateningly.

"Why should I?" retorted Malfoy. "Like father, like son. Look at the loser friends you hang around with. A shiftless Weasley, a know it all Mudblood and whiny little Neville the Squib. Your father's friends were losers too."

"Leave him alone, Draco!" shouted Hermione. "You don't know when to stop, do you?" She took Harry's arm, but he shook her off.

Malfoy grinned unpleasantly. "I said losers, and I meant losers. Sirius Black the murderer, and that creepy werewolf Lupin, and Pettigrew who let himself be blown up just like a muggle. Saddoes the lot of them. Creeps and weirdos."

Harry felt the anger rise up inside him. I won't lose my temper this time, he thought to himself. Draco's not worth it. Despite himself, he clenched his fists and stepped towards his tormentor. Malfoy eyed him up and down. "Oh, yes, there's another way you're like your father, besides all the fancy Quidditch tricks. He was an ambitious little showoff, just like you, always trying to prove what a hero he was at fighting evil. Got a bit out of his league in the end, didn't he?"

"Those are lies! You don't know the first thing about my father!" bellowed Harry.

"Oh, don't I," drawled Malfoy. "My father told me all about it. Every disgusting little detail."

The world turned red around Harry. Forgetting his wand, he launched himself across the corridor. As from far away, he heard Ron and Hermione shout "Expelliarmus!" and saw Malfoy's wand go flying just before he hit him. The two boys crashed to the floor, punching and rolling.

"Make them stop!" yelled Hermione. Crabbe caught Goyle's eye, and the two burly Slytherins moved in on the fighters.

"Make way!" a high voice shouted, the crowd moved aside to let tiny Prof. Flitwick pass through. "Locomotor mortis!" he cried, and all four boys toppled to the floor.

"Oh, dear, oh dear," murmured Flitwick, "fighting again?" He turned angrily to the assembled students. "Don't you all have anything better to do? Go on then, be off with you!" he squeaked.

"Please, sir," begged Hermione, "Goyle and Crabbe were just trying to stop the fight." Heads nodded all around. Flitwick shrugged his shoulders and drew a rapid pattern in the air with his wand. Goyle and Crabbe burst up from the floor and retreated with the rest of the students.

Flitwick turned to Ron and Hermione. "You two as well," he said, not unkindly. "We'll sort this out." Immobilized on the floor, Harry strained his eyes toward them as they trudged slowly down the corridor. As he lay helpless, wishing that he could stand up, there was a soft rustle of robes behind his head. Snape's face swam into view above him like a malevolent moon.

"Really, Mr. Potter, isn't bending the rules on the Quidditch field enough for you?"

"Did you hear us from the dungeons, Severus?" asked Flitwick.

"You, no, but I imagine the dead could have heard them," said Snape.

Flitwick peered down at the boys. "I'll let them up now, Severus." Snape nodded. "Finite incantatem, gentlemen, but only so long as you behave yourselves." Harry's limbs unlocked, and he scrambled to his feet, glaring at Malfoy, who was groaning theatrically and rubbing his right arm.

"I..." he began, looking from Snape, to Flitwick, to Malfoy, wondering where he had to defend himself first.

"Now," asked Flitwick, "who started this foolishness?"

"He did!" both boys burst out. Malfoy moistened his lips, a calculating look in his eyes. "He went for me, Professor, right here in front of everyone."

"He insulted my father!" The words poured out of Harry. "He called him a loser and …"

"Name calling," muttered Snape disparagingly. "Everyone is called names once in a while."

"There, there," soothed Flitwick in alarm. "Draco, what possessed you to do that?"

Malfoy cleared his throat. "I'm, uh, sorry for the language I used," he said meekly, his eyes fixed on Snape. "But everything else I said about his father is true, and everybody knows it really."

"Lies! All lies!" Harry shouted. He struggled to control the trembling in his voice. "I don't care what your father thinks of my father. But to talk about him – that way – when he can't defend himself..." He hesitated, feeling his anger swept away by a strange, cold clarity. He looked Snape full in the eyes. Images flashed through his mind – the dementors, Lupin, the Hogwarts Express, the Dursleys, his broomstick, Hecate. "… there's no honour in it. My father died fighting Voldemort. So did my mother. No one can take that away from them. Not him and not you. And if anyone tries to spit on their memory, I'll fight him. As many times as it takes."

"Fighting is punishable by expulsion, Mr. Potter," said Snape. "Or - and forgive me for troubling you with the question - is that another rule that has ceased to apply to you?"

Harry looked up at Snape scornfully. "Expel me if you like," he spat. "I'll go and pack my things." After a silence, he added, "Sir."

Inside he felt torrents of despair and confusion rush into him, filling his chest and throat. He thought of Hagrid, expelled from Hogwarts at fourteen. What would he do now? What could he do?

"Now, let's calm down. They should both go to the Headmaster," announced Flitwick briskly. "I doubt that it'll be expulsion, though," he added. "Oh dear, now I'm late for my next class..."

"I have to see the Headmaster myself in half an hour," replied Snape abruptly. "I'll take them up."

Flitwick disappeared down the corridor with a last sorrowful smile at both boys. Snape watched him go, then turned back to Harry.

"Potter," he said, putting his face very close to Harry's, "You are lucky; as usual, far luckier than you deserve, that I have more important things to worry about at this moment than your arrogance and wilfulness. But I warn you against puffing yourself up with too many glorious tales of your father's exploits. Those sort of dreams have a nasty habit of going "pop" when you least expect it."

He straightened up abruptly. "You will both wait in silence outside my laboratory until I escort you to the Headmaster's office."

The bench outside the dungeon was hard, the hall drafty, and Harry's worries were poor company. His lip stung, and he could feel a bruise swelling under his eye. From within the laboratory came the sounds of Snape's muttering, the clink of weights on the scales, the hiss of the gas flame and an occasional cough or gasp. Half an hour seemed like an eternity. At last the door opened and Snape emerged, his thin face parchment-white. He carried a bubbling goblet. Harry wrinkled his nose in disgust. The faintest odor of the potion made his head swim, and Snape had been standing over it all that time. No wonder he looks sick, thought Harry vindictively, it serves him right. Silently the Potions Master motioned them up the stairs to Dumbledore's office, where he knocked twice. Afternoon sunlight flooded into the corridor as the door opened.

"So, gentlemen," said the Headmaster sternly. "Professor Flitwick told me about the incident in the hallway..." Suddenly a great smile spread across his face. "Ah, Severus! You've brought it after all!" With an expression of distaste, Snape pushed the goblet toward him, trailing a cloud of odor. Harry's eyes began to water, and he rubbed his scar, which tingled furiously. Something about that potion was wrong, very wrong.

Dumbledore took the goblet gently and carried it into his office. Snape followed. "It's been many years since I've seen this potion, Severus, but it looks… quite different this time."

"It is prepared differently according to the age of the user," said Snape, defensively.

"Ah, that explains it. Thank you then, my friend," said Dumbledore.

There was a scraping of feet. Then Snape said, "Is your mind made up then, Headmaster? Must you go ahead with this plan of yours?"

"Would I have put you to all the trouble of making the potion if I wasn't sure?" answered Dumbledore. "I have Hecate's interviews and Papilio's sorting charm and Argus's information. They are all part of the puzzle."

"To which only you have the key," finished Snape, disapprovingly. "As usual. I should have thought you'd tell somebody, just in case…Ah, well."

"You're still upset about it, aren't you?"

"No, what good would it do? Once you've made up your mind, you don't change it. It doesn't matter now."

Suddenly Dumbledore chuckled. "It doesn't matter now? Are you telling me that what's past is past, and not worth begrudging? You of all people – do you finally believe it?"

"What's done is done," answered Snape, sounding resigned. "You've chosen your path. I see you are determined to remain a typical reckless Gryffindor to the end."

"Severus, let us not argue now," replied Dumbledore placatingly. "My travel plans are made; I have many things to finish up in the next few days – just look at the state of my desk! And, I need to meet with the House heads again before the governors arrive tomorrow morning. Is directly after dinner suitable?"

"It will do," replied Snape darkly.

"I owe you some explanations, Severus – and you are correct, there are a few things you still need to know. We'll talk in private before I leave. I understand how difficult these last weeks have been for you," said Dumbledore gravely, "and I thank you with all my heart. Until later, then?"

Snape turned to go. "As you surely remember, the second draught must be consumed between ten and sixty minutes after the first sip. Otherwise it's useless. Goodbye, Headmaster." He glided out the door, his hands pressed to his head as if in pain. Catching sight of the boys in the hall, he jerked his arms down and stalked away.

A moment later Dumbledore opened the door and gently asked Malfoy to enter. Left to wait again, Harry sank from tiredness to despondency. The itching in his scar worsened as time dragged on. Behind the closed door he heard Dumbledore's calm voice and Malfoy's strident one, and the sound of papers being moved.

A sudden wave of agony knifed through Harry's head and flung him out of his seat. As he hit the stone floor on hands and knees, he heard a violent crash like glass breaking, followed by shouts in the office. Harry struggled to his feet, the pain like a red-hot hammer pounding into his scar. It's Voldemort, he thought wildly. He's in there! He began struggling toward the door.

Dumbledore's voice rang out. "Voldemort! You're early, old enemy!"

A high, evil laugh rose above his words. "I decide the time, old fool. Prepare to die!"

"Harry - Get help!" commanded Dumbledore in a choked voice. "Go!"