A Lesson with Slughorn (and some notes)
I sat in a dungeon made of a gray stone. Small windows at the top of the wall lined the front of the classroom. Pale light, illuminating dust particles, landed on the stone where the student tables ended and the teacher's platform, made of wood, began. The room was damp, and cold. Students wore their robes. I had discarded mine, slinging them over the back of my chair, content with the warmth provided by my sweater.
On the teacher's platform stood four cauldrons, each with fires lit underneath. The four cauldrons were also made of four different materials. One gold, one silver, one pewter and one looked as if made of iron. I identified three of the four when I entered the room, silently, of course, I did not want to give away what they were incase the Potion's Master asked questions of us. A golden liquid in the gold cauldron jumped in and out of the cauldron, yet did not spill, evidently Felix Felicis. A gurgling white liquid in the cast iron cauldron was Pepperup Potion; a medicinal potion for colds and fevers. A colorless and clear potion remained perfectly still in the silver cauldron; my best guess was veritisirum, the truth potion. The fourth potion, in the standard pewter cauldron, looked a plain brown. It bubbled in the heat. And, as I said, I had no idea what the potion did, or its name.
The teacher's platform also contained a variety of objects. A long table to the side held jars of ingredients. From what I could see, we'd be making a basic Cooldown Potion. Used for athletes, joints, and all manner of things. It contained only three ingredients, including snow, which had been contained in a jar without melting. A large blackboard had been stuck to the wall. In ornate writing the words "Welcome to Potions" could be read from the very back of the class.
Of course, the platform also held our teacher. My first impression of him? His belly protruded past the tips of his feet. I wondered if he used the Cooldown Potion on his back often to ease the enormous amount of strain that weight must be putting on it. I felt this man must love extravagances and creature comforts. He wore a red and silver velvet set of robes, cut much like a muggle suit, with a scarf like bowtie of the same pattern and color. He wore a white silk shirt underneath his robes, and a pair of silver velvet pants. His face, round; his head, bald; his cheeks, red; and his eyes looked bright and almost youthful, though surrounded by some wrinkles. He had a preposterously small mustache, fitting perfectly from the center of his nose to the edges of his lips. The mustache was blonde in color, but I assume the man must have dyed it.
When Alice, Courtney, and I had entered the class—we were the first to arrive, ten minutes prior to the lesson—he had given us a boisterous welcome and invited us to sit down. We did so, at my lead, in the seats on the left at the very front. I noticed the fire place to the left of us had dwindled to embers. The man continued to set up his little platform, barely paying us any attention. He continued to bustle about, only opening his mouth to welcome more students as they arrived. I noticed Lucas Morgan ignored the professor's welcome, concerned only with the placement of two of his own blonde hairs. He sat with two other Slytherin's at the back of the classroom, Devon Ogden, who looked as if she might freeze, and Carl Ivers, whose glasses, upon further inspection, looked a bit too big for him.
Right on the stroke of nine, our Professor turned and gave a wide smile, ushering a panting Arthur Gully to sit down. He chose the seat next to Courtney. I glanced over at him and breathed slowly out of my nostrils. I could see sweat running down by his temples.
"Good morning," were the first words of the lessons.
I did not join the class in repeating this. I had yet to decide if the morning was good.
A piece of chalk rose behind our professor and wrote on the board, "Professor Horace Slughorn." I'd read about Horace Slughorn. A long-time potions master, a friend of Albus Dumbledore, and somehow, though only vaguely covered in several books, intricate in the downfall of Lord Voldemort. I imagined he must have had information, as it seemed no potion would have done much damage to a wizard as powerful as Voldemort.
"You will find Potions to be a most illuminating and an inexorably important staple of your curriculum," Professor Slughorn started. "Potions can and will affect every aspect of your life. From meddlesome cleaning, to deadly concoctions, we will learn, over the course of five, and hopefully seven years, of study to brew, identify, and understand the theory behind the wondrous works of potions. Now, who can tell me what makes potions unique to other forms of magic." Slughorn looked around the room, expectant, and hands rose, including my sister's. He pointed to her and said, "Yes, my dear?"
"We'll be using all sorts of ingredients and tools, like cauldrons. We won't be working with just our wands and spells," she answered.
I kept from rolling my eyes. Any five-year-old could have told the class as much. But Professor Slughorn looked absolutely astounded.
"Very good indeed, uh, Ms..."
"Ms. Husher, professor. I'm Alice Husher."
Professor Slughorn nodded. "Very good Ms. Husher, five points to Gryffindor."
Other students murmured across the class. I heard Arthur whisper to Courtney, "How did he know she was in Gryffindor?"
"Because she's wearing robes with scarlet in them, isn't she, you dolt?"
I'd been thinking it, but Lucas Morgan was the one who said it. I turned to look at him, unsure if I should smile at or rebuke him.
He scowled at me and said, "What are you looking at? Pay attention." He pointed back to Slughorn, who was listening to Zephyr explain other unique properties about potions.
After half a dozen students had answered, Slughorn seemed satisfied. "Very bright you all are, this class. I'm very happy. Anything else to a—yes, Mr. Husher?"
"I find the most unique thing about potions is, that, for the most part, squibs can produce a majority of the field, whereas that's nearly impossibly with any other subject. For example, I think just over sixty-percent of our textbook can be produced by squibs with no need for a substitute in the recipe to account for spells."
"Well said," Professor Slughorn boomed. "Absolutely correct my boy. Twenty points to Gryffindor. Yes, for the most part Squibs can produce potions. The only branch of creation magic—that is to say magic that produces magical outcomes—that does so. Squibs can also be masters of the fields of muggle studies, as well as some aspects of care of magical creatures, ancient runes, and astrology.
"If there is nothing else to be added, I'd like to see if anyone can identify the four potions that sit before you."
I raised my hand, as did Morgan, Zephyr and Courtney. Slughorn took a long look at me before his eyes darted to Morgan who incorrectly identified Felix Felicis as a Dragon Pox curative. Zephyr got wrong the Pepperup Potion. Courtney however correctly identified the plain brown potion.
"It's Wolfsbane," she said.
I kept from scoffing. Wolfsbane was a shiny white potion that gave off a slight blue smoke. But Slughorn nodded in agreement and awarded Gryffindor ten points. "My, my, this class seems smarter than the whole rest of the castle. Yes, this is the Wolfsbane potion, in its second to last phase. What tipped you off Ms. Nighy?"
I kept looking between the potion and Courtney as she answered. "You left out some wolfsbane next to the cauldron." She pointed her tiny index finger at a small bunch of blue flowers to the right of the cauldron. As she did so a small bell, much like that of a timer, went off. From where, I could not see. Had he magicked that sound to go off when someone pointed to the flowers? Or had the timing just been coincidental?
"Right you are. Take another five points for Gryffindor." Professor Slughorn took up the flowers and started to shred them. He collected the minuscule pieces in his hand and held them up to the small bit of sunlight coming through the tiny rectangular windows on the left side of the classroom. He waited with them there for thirty seconds, it may have been a minute, then tapped them with his wand. He must have said a nonverbal spell, because the flowers glowed white for a moment before he dumped them in brown potion. The flowers melted away and the potion instantly became a brilliant off-white color. Slughorn tapped the cauldron with his wand and the potion began to stir itself. A blue steam started to rise from the potion.
It was brilliant magic.
Slughorn pointed his wand at me. "Not a potion a squib or muggle could do." I nodded. "Now can anyone—yes Mr. Husher?"
I had promptly raised my hand before he could ask the question and proceeded to list the names of the three potions left. Slughorn smiled, a wide smile, his eyes boring into mine. "Correct you are. My, my, I've never had a first-year class identify all my potions. A full fifty points to Gryffindor for your intelligence." He chuckled. "You should all be in Ravenclaw. I wonder if the sorting hat might have been confunded." He gave a little chuckle that I hardly believed was genuine.
Slughorn didn't have us take notes or read theory. Instead he wanted our first lesson to be practical and instructed us to make some silly potion that cured hiccups and then the cooldown potion. Courtney, myself and Zephyr all received five points for a perfect potion, as did, to my surprise, Morgan. Alice did not pay attention and let most of her potion evaporate under too strong of heat.
The bell rang at the end of the lesson, which also surprised me. I hadn't the foggiest that someone could, or more accurately, would charm a bell to go off in a great castle. Slughorn did not give us a single assignment, which was pleasant but a bit surprising until I realized that most of my classmates were going to school for the first time.
As we left Professor Slughorn gave me a pat on the shoulder. I flashed him a smile before hurrying over to Courtney as she left the classroom. "What did you do before Hogwarts?"
She tilted her head a bit. "I don't know what you mean."
"You can read and speak and stuff," Alice said behind me. "He wants to know if you went to muggle school or something."
I could've explained myself, but no matter. I looked Courtney in the face. He hair seemed even darker in the early morning light.
"Oh, um, well I learned at home how to read and do math and stuff," she said, stumbling through her words. "Did you go to a muggle school?"
Though Courtney's gaze fell to me Alice answered. "Mum's a school teacher so we had to." Alice finished stuffing her side bag full of books. "Shall we?"
She didn't wait for an answer, but pushed forward, walking between Courtney and me. I stared at Alice's left ear, deciding whether to say something. I decided against it, thinking of what my mother would say if I did snap a retort.
History of Magic
Even to this day, I still feel as though Mondays were a bit full for first years.
In the afternoon we met Professor Bins in History of Magic. I thought it would be nice to sit in a class with Ravenclaws and bounce intelligent questions about the Goblin Rebellions, or Giant Uprisings, or the Werewolf trials in Rome. However, History of Magic is the dullest of dull. I spent both classes sitting next to Shelby Westwater, who seemed to be the only person impervious to the boredom emanating from Professor Bins. She actually took notes. I spent the whole time reading ahead.
All anyone needs to know about Professor Bins is that the man died and chose to leave an imprint of himself on this world so that he could continue to teach this course.
How dreadfully boring. Instead of continuing on to whatever comes when we die, he chose to stay behind and teach! Why would anyone want to teach for all eternity? I found out rather quickly that his major talent in life and death is the ability to make battles, political corruption, torture and kidnapping be as soothing as a bedtime story.
All-in-all. I hate History of Magic.1
Herbology
Professor Sprout is, well—I think the whole school lovers her. Sprout is a portly woman, with curly gray hair. In Greenhouse One she wore brown robes of some strong rubbery material. The sleeves of the robes did not flare out, but tightened at the wrists, and she wore a thin pair of leather gloves, rather than a pair of dragon-hide.
She started us out by lining us up around a multitude of potted plants and instructed us to put on some of the garden gloves laid around the rim of the table. We did so.
"This is Devil Snare," she informed us. "Can anyone tell me what Devil Snare is?"
I earned twenty points for Gryffindor in this class and found Sprout to be one of my favorite teachers. Kind, firm, and willing to answer questions, she was remarkably quick to spot issues and help students.
The most useless thing ever invented
The last bit of Monday was just as bad as History of Magic. I found out that when, on the schedule, it says "Study Hall" that meant studying in a hall all together. As Cygnus explained to me that night, it's something McGonagall enacted early in her headmistress career. They shove only the first years into the Great Hall before dinner twice a week to help them with their study habits. Teachers off duty—in my case, Professors Slughorn and Flitwick— and the Head Boy and Girl, watch to make sure we are all working hard, not goofing off. They also aid those who ask.2
I spent the first hour of this "Study Hall" discussing the merits of it with Professor Flitwick, who, looking back, was extremely patient with me. I informed him I preferred to study on my own, and that I'm sure there were other students who did as well. That a generic treatment of students would not inspire everyone, and that this idea may damage some students in their pursuit of academic perfection.
In the end he said, "Mr. Husher, I appreciate your enthusiasm in dissecting the direction our Headmistress has taken, but I'm afraid that, for the time being, you will be required to attend Study Hall."
I translated that to: "Mr. Husher, please go back to your seat and be quiet."
"Thank you, sir." And I did go back to my seat, and I finished my homework before Study Hall finished.
A couple weeks later, when McGonagall oversaw Study Hall, as both Slughorn and Flitwick were absent, she called me up to the staff table and said. "Mr. Husher, I have been informed that you do not wish to participate in this." She gestured to all the first years in the Great Hall.
"Yes Headmistresses."
"Tell me why."
"I prefer to study on my own, whether in my common room or the library. I dislike being around so many students."
"Then I have an assignment for you Mr. Husher," Professor McGonagall said, her eyes unblinking, staring at me through her square spectacles. "I wish for you to write an essay on how you would mold first-year students into having better study habits. If you hand it in to me before the end of term and if I give you an Outstanding, you will have earned Gryffindor twenty-five points."
I stood, slightly dumbfounded at the request. This was not a reprimand, but I didn't really understand what it was.
"Just a bit of extra credit."3
Astrology
I'll just note this, so we can get on with our lives. Astrology never enlightened me. It became mildly interesting in my seventh year when we were taught how different types of magic, like elemental transfiguration, or potion ingredients, changed due to the planetary and astrological movements, but all-in-all it is a blasé subject. Nothing important ever happened during Astrology, so if I don't mention it ever again, that's why.
Charms
Tuesday morning, I discovered that Charms would be an easy Outstanding. Flitwick was brilliant, and a kind teacher who was also an easy grader. While we were supposed to be charming a stick to stand up straight, he pulled me aside, and re-charmed my glasses to repel the awful light. I closed my eyes as he took them off my face. My eyelids only dulled the gold light.
"How are your eyes?" He asked. He slid the glasses back onto my ears.
"Fine professor, though I find it hard to sleep even with the sleep mask you gave me."
He nodded. "I thought that might happen. Can you produce a shield charm? I'm told you are quite a talented wand worker."
"Don't tell my mother," I said before I could stop myself. Professor Flitwick looked as if he couldn't decide to tell me off or laugh. "Sorry professor. I forget myself. But yes, I can. Though I've redone my glasses and sleep mask several times and found it isn't as effective as your work."
"With practice it will, young Husher," he said. "Try casting the charm on your bedframe and curtains. That should help."
"Professor, why is it that the shield charm helps rather than hinders? I would've thought more magic would've intensified the light," I asked.
"Sharp you are," Professor Flitwick responded. "The shield charm doesn't just block magic from hitting a person or object. It produces a vacuum where magic cannot reside for a temporary time. When cast on an object, that object exists in a vacuum, and so your eyes see no magic, because there is none. You may have noticed a bit of color around your glasses. That is the charm, encircling the glasses and producing this vacuum."
"Is there a way to extend the charm around my glasses?" I asked.
He said yes and showed me after class how to do so.
Transfiguration:
Later that day I met Professor Arjun Bhatti in Transfiguration.
Even as an elven year old I realized that this man was attractive. Fashionable hair, trimmed beard, sharp jawline, and eyes that conveyed every emotion available to humans, Professor Bhatti wore a muggle suit instead of wizard robes. On my first day in his class, he wore a sparkling gold set suit.
Transfiguration was the first class with just the Gryffindors, and it felt incredibly intimate. There being only of five of us, Professor Bhatti banished all the desks at the back of the room, forcing us to sit up with him.
Speaking with a London accent, Bhatti explained that while he went to Hogwarts for his education, his family taught him some of the magic Indian families knew of a performed, including different magical herbs, potions, and some different ways of transfiguring and charming objects. He demonstrated this by waving his hand over an apple, which turned into an orange.4 The effect of using a hand, instead of a wand, to do magic, made most of the students perk up. But I slid back in my seat and knew what was going to be said next.
"Now, you're all years away from learning that type of magic. Please, get out your wands. We're going to practice turning a matchstick into a needle."
I transfigured my matchstick into a hypodermic needle on the first attempt. And I got detention for it, to be served the coming Friday night.
"I will not accept showboating and blatant disrespect for my instructions," Professor Bhatti said, holding the needle up to my eyes. The whole class stared at me. I could see Alice gripping her wand too hard. Droplets of water spilled from the end.
"It is technically a needle," I said.
Everyone but Zephyr laughed. He kept a straight face and looked at the chalkboard.
"Ten points from Gryffindor," Professor Bahtti said, "for sheer cheek."
I nodded. Took back my hypodermic needle and transfigured it into a small silver needle.
1 I feel like it will take an extraordinary amount of charisma and persuasion to convince the future Headmasters and Headmistresses to sack Bins and replace him with a new teacher. First of all, Bins needs no compensation. He works for free. What does a ghost need with money or food, or even lodgings? Secondly, no one else has as much experience as Professor Bins. Rumor has it he's been teaching since 1890. There's probably no better circumstance from an administrative point of view, but I hoped McGonagall understood that Bins is not the best educator.
2 Which I suppose is a nice thing, and may be helpful for some students.
3 I returned a persuasive essay to her some three weeks later. My basic premise was that students should be allowed to formulate their own habits without constant oversight, as constant oversight fosters inorganic and unsustainable habits that would fall apart the minute they left Study Hall. I received the Outstanding, the twenty-five points, and was still required to partake in Study Hall.
4 A rather cliché decision.