Thorne. James (Willa) Thorne.
"So will you accept our generous offer? Will you develop and sell more...potent potions solely to members of our cause?"
I stared coldly at the tall, dark haired girl standing before my bed.
Louise Yaxley was a seventh year Slytherin and a known supporter of the Death Eaters. While she wasn't as dangerous as, say, Rodolphus Lestrange, her enmity could pose a serious problem to my potions business. I would have to choose my words carefully.
"No," I said firmly.
"You would betray your own House?" she asked, her voice a mixture of shock and outrage.
I shook my head. "I am still selling to Slytherin. I merely will not sell to Death Eater hopefuls-"
The girl, a seventh year, looked dangerously close to drawing her wand. I felt a tendril of fear; if this conversation turned to blows, I would lose. At best, I would be seriously injured and my business put on pause while I recovered. At worst, the duel would draw the attention of a passing Professor and thus scrutiny from the Headmaster himself.
"-not because of any moral compunction, but because it will put my business at risk," I hurriedly continued.
Fortunately, my words mollified her somewhat, and she let her hand drop away from her pocket.
"How will it put your business at risk? I should think selling to such a noble cause would only increase business," she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.
I fingered the small vial of Bulgeye Potion in my pocket before saying calmly, "If word gets out that I'm selling to known Death Eater hopefuls, my business will be cut in half. The Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and even some of the Ravenclaws will drop me."
She scoffed. "Business from Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs is worthless," she said.
I shrugged. "Maybe so, but for now, while I'm still at Hogwarts, I need them if I can continue my production of, say, Essence of Aphrodite," I said lightly, naming the potion she bought every month. Essence of Aphrodite was my most popular love potion and for good reason - although it was weaker than Amortentia, it worked by diminishing any negative emotions instead of merely overpowering them with lust. This subtle effect led to a more genuine affection and was less likely to be detected.
Yaxley paused before nodding slowly, a look of respect flashing briefly in her pale eyes. She could understand both the power of the concealed threat and my ambitions for continuing my business.
"Indeed," she said finally. "But I will be approaching you on this subject again."
With one last meaningful look, Yaxley vanished from the room.
I let out a long, ragged breath, staring blankly at my emerald green sheets.
This was the third encounter this month. The Death Eaters were gaining traction at a worryingly rate. I found myself mired in discussions of blood purity more and more often. It would only be a matter of time before my Housemates' attention would turn to me and my less-than-stellar parentage. My mother was a distant relation to the Selwyn family, which helped, but she was also a Squib - in other words, she was basically a Muggle. It didn't help that she'd worked briefly in a Muggle modeling job. To make matters worse, although I'd let my House believe otherwise, I suspected my father was a Muggle, which was another major strike against me.
Luckily, my Housemates were too busy consuming my potions to pay much attention to my heritage. I'd told them of my connection to the Selwyn family, and they'd assumed my mother, sister and I were low-ranked but pure.
My business was the only thing keeping me safe; as long as my potions were needed, I could bypass their scrutiny. In order for my business to continue, I needed to remain unobtrusive. In order to remain unobtrusive, well, I had to sacrifice my pride.
My eyes strayed to the crumpled Potions essay half-hidden underneath my pillow. I could just make out a lurid red "T" scrawled across my scratchy script. The assignment was to analyse the role of Mandrake age in the Mandrake Restorative Draught. Although I'd never personally brewed the potion - Mandrakes were extremely rare, and the market for the draught was very small anyway - I knew it backwards and forwards. Even after seven years of feigning ineptitude in my favourite subject, it still hurt to receive failing grades. I was fine with getting "T"s and "D"s from Transfiguration or Charms; in those classes, I would probably only manage a few points higher even if I actually did try. Those classes rewarded magical ability, which was something I decidedly did not possess.
Lucy, at least, had more magical ability than I did. She was passably proficient in Charms and just scraped by in Transfiguration. She didn't have my knack for Potions, but then again, I didn't have her knack for, well, everything else. At least she didn't have my temper; I thanked Merlin for that. One of us was bad enough. Either I'd inherited my temper from my father or it had originated with me. If my father lacked my temper, that meant I couldn't excuse it away based on genetics. Instead, I was the only one at fault - perhaps I was the only one to blame even if my father shared my temper. After all, he wasn't forcing my tongue...
Still, I had no way of contacting my father to find out. My mother, Genevieve Thorne, was a moderately successful runway model. She relied on copious amounts of my skincare potions to retain her "youthly glow." She brought home a new man every week. These men were always either models or fashion photographers. Lucy's father was a flighty halfblood model from France. My father was probably cut from the same thread, although judging by my facial features, he probably originated from somewhere in southern Asia.
My charmed wristwatch let out a soft ping as a glowing "II" appeared in the air above its glass surface. It appeared experimental potion 2 was ready; hopefully this one would be successful. I hadn't had a new release in weeks, and my consumers were getting impatient.
Sighing heavily and banishing all thoughts of my family from my mind, I grabbed my experiment log and headed towards the seventh floor.
xxxxx
Potion 2, which I'd tentatively named "Euphoria #2", was too weak. I'd wanted to strengthen the first potion in my cheering line with dragon liver, a rare ingredient known for its invigorating - sometimes dangerously so - properties, but the shimmering potion only succeeded in inspiring mild joy. I bottled some of the failed trial for further study, wiping the sweat from my brow.
I looked at the remaining potion. The potion's effects prevented me from feeling anything too negative, so I wasn't feeling any crushing disappointment - yet. I recorded the failure in my log. I couldn't dispose of the potion with an Evanesco spell (I'd only ever managed to vanish a blueberry), so I thought fiercely, "I need a safe way to dispose of this potion."
The Room immediately provided a chute in the far wall, and I grinned. This Room was a blessing. I'd first discovered it by accident at the end of my first year. I'd wanted a place to practice brewing the assigned calming draughts - I hadn't even considered the possibility of creating my own potions back then - and the door had appeared. I'd quickly tested the Room's limits, and it had been home to my laboratory ever since. From what I could tell, no one else - excluding Lucy - knew of its existence, and I'd sworn Lucy to strict secrecy.
I dumped the rest of the cauldron's contents down the chute and, grabbing my experiment log, left the room, still pondering possible solutions to the failed Euphoria #2.
I could always increase the concentration of dragon liver, but the ingredient was too expensive to sustain commercial distribution. I could always grind it up to increase the surface area and thus its properties, but then I risked breaking the liver down too much, which would result in a lethal, rapid jolt of adrenaline.
I was so caught up in contemplating the anatomy of dragon liver - perhaps, with proper tweaking, I could combine it with Doxy eggs to increase its effects - that when I rounded the corner I promptly barreled straight into a line of male students.
I crashed to the ground, my elbow slamming into something warm and firm. Luckily, it cushioned my fall, and I looked down to note with detached interest that, judging by the crest on his robe, it - or he, more accurately - was a Gryffindor seventh year.
He looked quite winded - perhaps the elbow to the gut had something to do with that - and he blinked up at me confusedly with hazel eyes, as if he couldn't believe that this fall had just occurred. Well, I agreed. I wasn't a clumsy person, and if his quick reflexes were any indication - he'd managed to break the fall slightly with his arms - he wasn't, either. The impact was very inconvenient; it had completely halted my train of thought, and now I couldn't even remember which part of the dragon liver I was planning on using.
He looked downwards at the emerald green crest emblazoned on the front of my charcoal sweater, and his gaze immediately soured. Ah. So he was one of those. Honestly, the bias against Slytherin only impeded business. I could be selling my potions and spells to all four Houses, yet because of this ignorant prejudice my clientele was limited. That was an even greater inconvenience than this...show of human grace.
Well, two could play at that game - I looked again at his own robes, my eyebrows rising slightly when I saw the gleaming Head Boy badge pinned to his chest. So this was the Head Boy. I had a vague recollection of considering him briefly as a potential customer, but his stubbornly unwavering beliefs made him useless. It was a pity he was prejudiced; otherwise I would have tried striking a business deal with him.
"Do you mind getting off of me?" he said, his voice razor-thin.
Oh. Right. I stood carefully, watching silently as he leaped to his feet in an unnecessary show of his fitness. His companions - all Gryffindors - bore expressions ranging from shock to outrage. The closest one - a rumpled-looking boy with pale green-yellow eyes and a faint white scar hugging his lean jaw - bent deftly to retrieve Head Boy's fallen books. The dark one directly to his right looked like he wanted to murder me, as he had his wand pointed aggressively in my direction.
"Well?" the hostile one demanded, jabbing his wand forward for good measure.
Perhaps that intimidated lesser people. I, for one, could not let him scare me - at least not outwardly. I couldn't beat him, or anyone for that matter, in a duel, and my secret would rapidly be revealed if he attacked. I ignored the wand, instead scanning the hallway for my weathered journal. When I couldn't find it, I felt the first ragged drag of panic kindle in the pit of my stomach. It wasn't like I had written any gushy confessions of love within its crinkled pages, but - even worse - I'd recorded every single one of my inventions within. Thank Merlin for my paranoia; I'd written it in the language Lucy and I had created as bored children, so even if it landed in the wrong hands, they wouldn't be able to read it...at first. It was a simple language based on runes and childhood symbols, and I knew it wouldn't stand up to heavy scrutiny for long.
I fought the urge to whimper. Come on, Willa. Pull yourself together. Think. I, along with the four red and gold cheer squad, was alone in the corridor. One of them had to have it.
I assumed the cold expression I used for business negotiations and turned to face the lion quartet. I caught the angry one with long dark hair shooting a pointed look at the one with tawny hair. What was he trying to communicate?
The dark one felt my gaze and scowled. "Aren't you going to apologise?"
"One of you has my...book. Return it now and I'll forget this ever happened," I said quietly.
The short, chubby one laughed cruelly. "What book?" he said.
Now anger joined the panic pooling in my stomach, painting the edges of my vision red. I cursed inwardly and, digging my nails into the palms of my hand, recited all known potion ingredients alphabetically. When the red finally receded, I forced myself to smile pleasantly at Head Boy.
"Sorry, er…" I paused. I had no idea what his name was. "Head Boy," I finished finally.
The scarred one laughed, but unlike the short one's laugh, his was…not friendly, exactly, but at least it was devoid of malice.
Head Boy assumed an expression of exaggerated offense. "You don't know who I am?" he demanded, bringing a hand to his chest. His sour expression had subsided somewhat, but he still kept a good distance between us.
I shook my head, examining their bodies carefully - not in a Lucy "I want to appreciate your body in a completely non-platonic manner" but in a clinical search for any protruding, book-shaped lumps. The short and scarred ones both had leather messenger bags, but short of dumping a toxic potion on them, there was no way I was going to get a look inside them. I'd gone almost a full seven years without a single detention, and I wasn't planning on risking one - especially here in the open - now.
"Do you know who I am?" I returned.
They blinked blankly, which was answer enough. Good - I wouldn't want it any other way. If they weren't my allies, then I didn't want them knowing anything about me. The more they knew, the more my business was at risk.
"I'm James Potter," Head Boy said, looking a bit sheepish. He elbowed Dark and Hostile, who scowled before slowly lowering his wand.
I nodded, then promptly dismissed the information as insignificant. Well, this encounter was going nowhere. They seemed (relatively) intelligent; I estimated it would take them a week of concentrated effort to crack the code. I'd have to recruit someone from Gryffindor to search their dorms before then.
I turned to leave, halting only when I heard a new voice, disarmingly soft, say, "And your name?"
I hesitated, evaluating my options. I could tell them my name, which would either satisfy their curiousity or incense it even further. Worse still, they might connect it with Lucy and badger her - although, knowing her, she wouldn't mind the attention all that much.
"Thorne," I said finally, not turning around.
AN: Thank you all for the reviews/follows/faves/etc! :)