Twenty-nine
"We must contact his parents. This is serious."
Drawn and tired, headmistress Minerva McGonagall was standing at the end of the narrow hospital bed, looking at the unconscious form of the black-haired boy under the bedcovers. His pale face was disfigured by blistered, angry red and purple patches, his breathing was fast and shallow. Poppy Pomfrey's wand performed another diagnostic spell – no further clues, no improvement.
The matron pocketed her wand angrily, muttering once again that she didn't understand what teaching at Hogwarts had come to. Accidents in potions classes were common nowadays as more and more students seemed to neglect the most basic rules of handling cauldrons and potions. Burnings were frequent (didn't they know that hot cauldrons were, well, hot?), followed by cuts (were students getting clumsier, unable to handle knives properly?); she also had to deal with the consequences of exploded cauldrons and spilled potions and almost daily there were students developing rashes caused by carelessly handling potion ingredients without wearing protective gloves. She had become familiar with these injuries and could cure them almost on auto-pilot. In the few cases where she wasn't sure what to do the teacher would help her out, telling her what had caused the damage. This case, however, was different: A cauldron had exploded, dousing its owner with its contents, an almost completed, straightforward skin-hardening potion, Professor Beetlewings had said. Not very much in demand since the end of the war, except with professional dragon keepers, but still part of the syllabus. The injuries should have responded to her spells easily, except they didn't. The boy's skin remained scabbed and infected, and he was still unconscious, which was highly unusual. Something definitely was very wrong, and nobody was able to say what or why. Not even Professor Beetlewings, young and inexperienced, who was a nervous wreck. He had been pacing the hospital wing for hours, wringing his hands and repeating 'I don't understand it, he's the best student in his year' over and over again, until Madam Pomfrey had persuaded him to take a calming draught and retire to his quarters.
Professor McGonagall removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose, letting out a deep breath.
"What about his brother?"
"He's fine, thinks it's all very exciting... I sent him back to his common room and to his friends."
Professor McGonnagal sighed. It was no use postponing the inevitable.
"I'll write to his parents."
With a last glance at the motionless boy, she turned and left the hospital wing for her office, facing the disagreeable task of informing John Smith that his son had been severely injured in an accident in his potions class.
They hurried up another staircase and Vivian, badly out of breath, clutched her side to ease the stitches. Somehow, she had the impression of having been out of breath ever since the impatient tapping and screeching noise outside their bedroom window six hours ago. An owl – John had told her about this way of sending letters and parcels common among wizards, although he never used it. John had untied the parchment roll, rewarded the owl, and had started scanning the letter, reaching for his clothes halfway through.
"This is from Minerva. We must go to Hogwarts. Jeremy's ill." He had looked up, his face anxious and pale.
They had dressed in a hurry, donning whatever clothes came into their hands and after a quick cup of coffee John had driven them to the boundaries of Hogwarts. Most of the trip had been done in silence, John fiercely concentrating on the road, Vivian clutching the seat, praying for the other traffic to keep out of John's dangerous overtaking manoeuvres. Years ago he had refused the Scottish Ministry of Magic's offer to take apparation lessons and obtain a license, saying that he was perfectly content with the Muggle ways of transport. From his impatient and exasperated way of driving, however, she guessed that right now he deeply regretted this decision. Apparition would have shortened their journey considerably.
There was a car park for visitors wishing to see the ruins of a medieval castle. They left the car there and walked half a mile to the boundaries of Hogwarts school. The huge wrought-iron gates opened at his touch and, without bothering to follow the sweeping drive, they crossed the vast expanse of dewy lawn up to the castle's huge front door, Vivian always at a run, trying to keep up with John's long strides. In the entrance hall they were greeted by Minerva McGonagall and Hector Adder, a tall, aristocratic looking man, the current head of Slytherin house.
Some quick questions and answers confirming what had happened were exchanged, and then they were on their way up endless staircases, hurrying through a maze of echoing corridors; John seemed to know the way by heart, he stormed on, tireless, the others struggling to keep up with his pace.
And then the hospital wing, an exhausted and worried looking matron and Jeremy in his bed, unconscious, his skin scabby and infected.
"A skin-hardening potion, you said?" John asked a tubby young man with a head of curly brown hair, who had been waiting for them. The potions master.
"Yes, Sir," the man answered, swallowing hard and running his tongue over his dry lips.
Vivian noticed that his hands were shaking.
"Jeremy was the best in his class, so I set him this task. I know it is very advanced stuff but he was up to it. Most of the others were doing a shrinking solution, some were even brewing a simple memory-enhancing draught."
"You let them do different potions at the same time?" John asked incredulously.
The potion master beamed.
"Oh, sure, it's the latest trend in education, allowing the students to find their own pace of learning. Some fourth-year students must do simple potions again and again to gain expertise, others – like your son – are able to progress to advanced recipes, the teacher allowing them as much freedom as possible, acting as an advisor rather than..."
"But how do you keep track of what they are doing? If they all work on something different, it must be very hard to spot mistakes and prevent accidents," John replied, frowning incredulously.
Professor Beetlewings smiled sheepishly.
"Well, the idea is that students develop a sense of responsibility for what they do..."
"Pah," Madam Pomfrey interrupted fiercely, "fact is that the number of accidents has soared since these new-fangled methods were introduced. I used to have one or two cases a month when you...eh, when Professor Snape and Professor Slughorn were teaching. I wonder why parents don't complain more often. Fortunately, injuries usually aren't as serious as this, but nevertheless..."
"Is there nothing that can be done?"
Vivian was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her son's hand. She looked at the witches and wizards around her, willing them to come up with some magical solution.
"The boy must have made a mistake with the potion," Minerva McGonagall suggested.
"Oh no, not Jeremy. He's a natural in potions. He wouldn't make mistakes. Never," Professor Beetlewings protested.
"Have you kept his workplace the way he left it?" asked John
"Well, the cauldron exploded...I had to tidy things up, didn't I?"
John closed his eyes, praying for patience.
"The ingredients he used...perhaps some of them are still... not tidied up?" he sounded like a man without much hope.
"Oh yes, of course, there was no time, so I dumped what was left of them in the storeroom, they are untouched.
"Thank God for small mercies! What are we waiting for? Let's go."
John was on his way out of the hospital wing, dragging a very bewildered Professor Beetlewings along.
Vivian's eyes had returned to her son's immobile form.
"Will he be alright?" she asked timidly.
"If someone can find the cure, it's Severus Snape...eh, John, I mean," Poppy Pomfrey stated firmly.
"Aye, that's right," Professor MacGonagal confirmed with utter conviction.
Vivian stayed in the hospital wing, sitting next to her son's bed, watching him, hoping for a sign of improvement, but his condition remained unchanged. From time to time she got up to walk over to the window and look out, glancing absent-mindedly at the breath-taking view of the glittering lake against the stark backdrop of steep and menacing hills, wishing things would change for the better while her back was turned. But they never did. Madam Pomfrey offered her food, but she couldn't eat, tea was the only nourishment she accepted. In the afternoon, after his lessons, Nathan, their younger son, came to see his brother and they waited and watched in anxious silence until he left at dinnertime. So the day passed, it was getting dark, and still there was no improvement and no word from John. When Vivian nodded off in her chair, Madam Pomfrey showed her a bed in the private room next door, which was reserved for members of staff. Too tired to argue Vivian accepted the offer, kicked off her shoes and climbed under the covers fully clothed.
She slept fitfully, waking every hour until the first light of dawn was seeping through the curtains; then she finally fell into an exhausted sleep, only to wake again soon when someone sat on the mattress next to her.
"What?" she muttered, still half asleep.
"Shshsh...it is I. All is well."
John. Vivian snuggled up to him instinctively, letting him cradle her in his arms. Only then she suddenly remembered.
"Jeremy. How is he?"
"Asleep and healing."
"You could help him?"
"Yes, of course," he said, and Vivian couldn't help smiling at the hint of smugness in his voice. She started to disentangle herself from the blanket.
"I want to see him."
"There's nothing you can do at the moment, belief me. He's asleep. Let's get some rest, too. I'm tired."
The dim light revealed the lines etched deeply in his pale face and the dark shadows of stubble on his cheeks and chin, but his eyes were reassuringly calm and confident. Obediently Vivian lay down again and settled in his arms. He fell asleep almost at once, his regular breathing changing into soft snoring noises, convincing her that indeed all was well, and she relaxed and allowed herself to drift towards oblivion too.
"So you, a mere fourth-year student, believed you could find a way to improve a potion experts have considered perfect for centuries? Therefore you experimented with dragon scales without telling your teacher? Do you have any idea how dangerous this was? You could have harmed the entire class."
It was almost noon. Jeremy had woken from a refreshing sleep and was now enjoying a light breakfast of toast and marmalade. Apart from the slight traces of teenage acne, his skin looked smooth and healthy again. John stared at his son furiously, making him blush with shame.
Vivian felt sorry for the boy, whose ears were unable to detect the well-hidden pride in his father's angry voice, but she preferred not to interfere with her husband's lecture.
"Professor Beetlewing was too busy helping the others..."
John snorted derisively.
"....and if I had asked him he probably wouldn't have allowed me to use the scales," Jeremy finished his sentence, refusing to meet his father's eye.
"As indeed he shouldn't if he takes his responsibilities seriously," John replied grimly. "At least he should have noticed that those scales were past their use-by date, which, as you learn in your very first potion lesson, means that they can be dangerous and mustn't come near a cauldron at all."
Jeremy grimaced, looking extremely guilty and embarrassed.
"I didn't check."
Once again his father snorted.
"Oh, Dad, don't you see...it didn't occur to me that potion ingredients in the school stores could be past their use-by date."
"Actually, they shouldn't. They must be checked prior to the beginning of term. That's where Professor Beetlewing has completely neglected his duties and..."
Jeremy pushed away his breakfast tray, looking at his father in alarm.
"But Dad...you don't think of filing a complaint, do you? It was my fault and I don't want him to get into trouble with the school governors...they could sack him..."
"As I said, he grossly neglected his duties; the outcome could have been disastrous..."
"He's a very good teacher, everybody likes him...please, Dad...Mum."
Vivian watched her husband's face become stony and felt a pang of sympathy. Was he thinking of his own years as a teacher, when, as she had gathered from his memories, no one would have spoken on his behalf, no one would have said that he was a good teacher? She reached over and put her hand on John's arm.
"Jem is fine, I don't think we should..."
"Jem is fine, because I reminded his teacher to have a look at the ingredients Jem used, because I checked the use-by-dates and because I worked into the night to find an antidote..."
"Dad, please..."
"You are right, John, and we all appreciate what you have done, we really do, but don't let yourself be carried away by your anger, don't be vindictive, give the man a chance, you don't want to destroy his career, do you? The accident has been a nasty shock for him and he will be more careful next time."
Her pleading eyes met John's hard ones, battling with them, willing him to relent. After a very long moment, his shoulders relaxed and he inclined his head.
"Well, I seem to be outvoted here," he said gruffly.
His wife and son exhaled with relief. And when Poppy Pomfrey arrived some minutes later, accompanied by Nathan, she found them in an atmosphere of relaxed happiness.
"Well, young man," she addressed Jeremy after running her wand over his body in the smooth and casual movement born of long years of routine, "you are very lucky to have such an expert for a father. Here, another dose of the potion he made for you."
The boy emptied the vial obediently, grimacing at the bitter taste.
"You couldn't have made it taste better?" he asked with a shudder.
"No," John replied, a mischievous glint in his black eyes, "the taste is part of the learning process."
Madam Pomfrey met his eyes and her mouth twitched in appreciation before she turned to her patient again.
"I'll keep you here overnight just to be on the safe side, but you are allowed to have visitors and tomorrow you can return to your dormitory. On Thursday you can attend lessons again, I think."
Jeremy grimaced wryly at this prospect.
"By the way, John, Minerva said she would like a word with you and your wife before you leave. In her office."
"Is it about some punishment for me?" Jeremy asked in a small, anxious voice. "I'm not going to be expelled, am I?"
Madam Pomfrey smiled at him.
"I don't think so, no. But some kind punishment will be in order...well, anyway, she didn't tell me, she just asked me to give you the message. Oh, and she likes to use liquorice wands."
John frowned at the matron, then, as understanding dawned upon him, he laughed.
"Good old Hogwarts traditions," he said fondly, ignoring his family's puzzled glances.
Thanks to Ms Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot.
