Chapter Fourteen: In Which There Was A Significant And Abrupt Regression In The Timeline That No One But The Author Knows About It Because Of A Reality-Devouring Computer Virus, Resulting In Massive Rewrites Across The Multiverses
Harry's step into Greenhouse 1 for their first class might have been offset by an inexplicable wave of dizziness and a sense of having forgotten something, but that didn't dampen their mood nor their resolve. Well, that wasn't true — sluggishness and existentialism bled into them out of nowhere as well, but Harry was familiar enough with it that they could power through despite the strange fluctuation. They simply made a mental note to look into acquiring some primrose (or should it be barrenwort considering their current dubious biology?) and carried on.
Considering Goldstein was only Harry's squish and the two were merely passing acquaintances at the moment, Harry restrained themselves at seeing their fanon-favourite and simply gave him a smile and wave when they noticed each other. Harry might have approached him with Sophie in tow if the situation was different, but to get the good opinion of someone like Goldstein, you needed to display beforehand that you were someone with traits they could respect and/or with traits similar to their own. So Harry sat down with their posse and pulled out their note-taking equipment — as dutiful as any Ravenclaw first-year.
Harry set up their Dicta-Quill with a fresh roll of parchment and then set their Walkman (that had been enchanted and sold to them by a muggle-yay artificer in Carkitt Market) recording as soon as Professor Sprout announced the start of the lesson. They also made it a point to take hand-written notes as well.
Harry got some side-eye for their excessiveness, but it would be clear who'd be laughing last when exam season eventually came around and Harry had everything that their teachers ever said in class recorded, cross-researched, and filed away in triplicates to review at their own leisure. (Truthfully, Harry wished they had a camcorder so that they could have visuals for the practical demonstrations as well, but digital media was still beyond what artificers could convert at this point; Harry would check in again after a few years.)
"While I want to dive right in and get our hands dirty," said Professor Sprout, standing at the head of a long table that doubled as a plant-bed and a communal desk, "we need to cover a few important topics first. As you may have guessed, this year is about laying the groundwork for your herbological education. In this lesson, we will be discussing just what herbology is, some of the expectations of this course, and some formal, administrative information we need to get out of the way.
"But just because we're not tackling Fanged Geraniums on our first day, don't be lulled into a false sense of security. Let it be noted that this course is not for the squeamish or faint of heart! Plants can be dangerous little things! While they are not creatures like the mighty dragon, nor beings like the impressive vampire, plants can be just as complex and difficult to deal with. Over the next few years, you will find that there are many parallels between plant behaviour and animal behaviour. Some even display quirks that a human might have! For these reasons, and for many others, you will be expected to treat all plants with the care and respect they deserve.
"Now, what is herbology? Herbology is the study, along with the use, of magical and non-magical plants and fungi. Yes, we will be studying both! Some of you may find this odd, but as we will get into greater detail in later lessons, just because something is not magical does not mean it is useless! These plants we study may be for medicinal, protective, educational, or purely decorative purposes. Each herb, fungi, tree, and flower whether magical or mundane has unique quirks and gifts, rather like each and every one of you.
"By mundane, I am of course referring to non-magical plants, and I hope you all will come to fully realise that being magical or non-magical has nothing to do with a plant's value or dangerousness. The defining trait of whether a plant is magical or mundane is simply if it can survive within muggle spaces with no wizard tending to it. Vervain, knotgrass, and wormwood — all well known for their uses in Potions — are all mundane. And the mundane oleander — a very common and equally poisonous garden plant — will kill you just as surely as a Venomous Tentacula if you are not careful.
"However, there is no need for alarm. As long as you develop a healthy respect for all plants, you will be far less likely to run into this problem! Remember that. . . ."
Self-Inking Quill in hand, Harry took down far more notes than they'd anticipated; it was a course on plants for eleven-year-olds after all. But Professor Sprout's introductory lecture was actually filled with interesting tidbits. Eyes bright, Harry's hand flew over their notebook and filled pages upon pages with trivia, memos, and speculation.
Harry wasn't even a plant-enthusiast, but earth science in general was always cool, and Professor Sprout really had a way of talking that made her subject sound so interesting. Well, maybe it had something to do with the still-novel setting, but Harry would like to attribute at least half of it to Professor Sprout really selling it.
Honestly, Harry forgot their anxiety while engrossed in their note-taking. Sure, they were a Chosen One protagonist at the start of their first story-arc, but did you know there were plants that had sapience equivalent to Trolls, which would have been considered Beings if not for their lack of being able to be reasoned with? That there was a fungi that acted similarly to helium upon being eaten, but for the rest of the consumer's life? Screw responsibilities and heroism, Harry had fascinating vegetation to focus on.
Of course, this learning-induced euphoria only lasted as long as the class did, but Charms was directly after that, and Professor Flitwick started class as soon as everyone was accounted for instead of waiting for the official time, so Harry counted it as a significant victory either way. Anything that could make them forget that they existed in a physical reality was always a win, no matter how long or short it lasted.
Harry floated back towards the Great Hall for lunch, all but dancing. Eruditionary clutched to them like a child with a pillow at a sleepover, Harry skipped and hopped and twirled, half-imagining they were Tracy from Hairspray. Or maybe Don from Singin' in the Rain? Whomever they were like, Harry was definitely feeling like a protagonist right now.
"Whatever you do,/" Harry hummed, starting to bounce to the beat. "I'll do it, too./ Show me everything and tell me how./ It all means something/ and yet nothing to me./"
Harry's eyes slid down to almost-closed, so close together that they were essentially shut, but Harry could still see the ground before them through their eyelashes. Like this, they swayed and weaved and convinced their self-consciousness that there was no one around to see them, that it was fine to act the fool.
"I can see there's so much to learn./ It's all so close and yet so far,/" Harry sang more distinctly, shifting their eruditionary to one hip so they could gesture dramatically as they pleased. "I see myself as people see me./ I just know there's something bigger out there!/
I wanna know! " — kick; spin — "Can you show me?/ I wanna know about these strangers like me./ Tell me more!" — snap; point — "Please, show me!/ Something's familiar about these strangers like me. . . ."
Move over, Emperor Kuzco — this was Harry's New Groove now, mm-kay?
Lily asked, "Is that a Muggle song?" at the same time a Ravenclaw girl (presumably a Muggle-born) from another cluster walking nearby asked, "Is that a wizarding song?" Both girls then blinked at each other.
It took Harry all of two-tenths of a second to realise they'd goofed.
Ah, shit. A Disney song that would be released any year now was not something they could brush over.
Well, there were two ways of salvaging this. The first way was to simply say it was a song of their own making and hope the Muggle-born forgets the song by the time Disney releases Tarzan in the 2000s. This was the easiest and most sure-fire way to gloss it over considering the Muggle-born girl was highly likely to completely forget this interaction happened at all if Harry didn't make it worth remembering.
Or . . . Harry could decide 'fuck it' and tell the truth.
Feeling lackadaisical, euphoria feeding their inhibitions and whispering in their ear, 'Why not? Why not? What does it actually matter?' (and, y'know, it really didn't matter) Harry told the truth.
"It's from a Muggle animated film," said Harry, waving their hand carelessly as they wobbled and bobbed — essentially idle-animation'ing. "It won't be produced until . . 'til 'round the turn of the century, though."
The baffled questions that poured out after such an answer were as prompt as they were to be expected.
By the next morning, it was all around school that Harry was a seer.
"What's this nonsense going around that you're a seer?" Justin demanded, taking Harry to task as soon as he spotted them in the Great Hall.
Harry had come down from their previous euphoria and were kind of embarrassed by their behaviour the day before, but they told themselves it was understandable. Considering . . . everything, being slap-happy and loopy made sense. Okay, they made a choice to come out with a fact about themselves that really didn't make sense to come out about (especially not at this point; like, right on the first day of school? Rushing the plot much?), but they'd made worse decisions while coasting on a vibe before. And even if they were really Mary-Sue'ing up their character design, it was still within the realm of what people consider par for course for the famous Harry Potter, wasn't it? And as far as AUs go, seer!Harry wasn't even close to the most OP version of Harry Potter out there floating through the conglomerated multiverses.
It was fine. They could run with this, no problem.
"Justin, you've knn-nown for years that I'm a diviner," Harry pointed out as they spread marmalade on toast, frowning and curling their tongue at their stammer. It would be one of those days, apparently. They took a bite of their toast and chewed. "Weren't you there first-hand," they continued, "when I helped your Great-Aunt Dahlia sort the mess with her daughter-in-law's love-child that she was passing off as your Cousin Preston's because she'd aborted his actual ossfri— offspring ? It took so-o-o-o many readings to dig out all the important information, and after it was done, Ms Daughter-In-Law looked at me as if I was Beelzebub in the flesh — or, rather, King Vinea. I would have thought such a matter would be proof enough, Justin. Not to mention that I literally mentioned it to you the first time we met, as well, mate."
Justin made a face and waved his hands helplessly.
"That's—! That's—!"
He cast his sights to those that were obviously listening in. Grimacing, he hauled Harry up and dragged them out of the Great Hall.
"That's different!" Justin cried when they were tucked behind a pillar in the Entry Hall. "It's not the same thing at all! And for God's sake, don't drag old business out in the open like that! You want a start a scandal?!"
Despite how impassioned he apparently was, Justin still kept his wits about him enough to keep his volume down.
"Oh, who here cares about your business, Young Master? You think any nosy socialites here even know anything about their muggle counterparts?" Harry scoffed. "And how's it different? It's literally not!" they continued. "I literally told you that I have the ability to know information not strictly of the present! Like . . . up— upfront! Voluntarily! Didn't even hesitate!"
"Yo-you didn't say anything about having visions or whatever!" Justin griped, bordering on whining. "Pulling cards and casting lots are not the same as having visions! That's what I'm saying! You didn't say anything about literally seeing the future!"
"'I didn't say—'?" Harry started in a mocking tone. Then they blinked. " Oh. Oh, I didn't ? I . . . I could've sworn that I did. . . ."
Harry was earnest in their chagrin. Outside of their foreknowledge of the story, Harry really did have some clairvoyance via their dreams. It was minor, though; their visions were never about anything important — they didn't have the innate talent of their previous mother — but it definitely counted as precognition. Typically, they were events like someone who sat behind them in class getting a failing mark on an important exam, or like a poorly-latched window being blown open and bonking someone on the head. The snakes of Privet Drive had been informed about it for years, Harry always let the snakes know when Harry foresaw one of them getting into an unfortunate scrap; it must have slipped Harry's mind that they hadn't said anything about it to anyone else.
Well, perhaps it was better off that Harry had never mentioned it to anyone but the snakes. With no prior impression of it, neither Justin nor Ken could say that what Harry was claiming as part of their clairvoyance didn't match up to how they'd described it before.
"Well. . . . Well, now you know, I guess," said Harry with a shrug. They leaned back against the pillar and idly kicked their feet. "I'm no Cassandra nor Oracle of Delphi, but I suppose I qualify as a seer by the pereostypic— stereotypical meaning of the word. That's wha— what the Sorting Hat told me, anyway."
"The Sorting Hat told you you're a seer?" Justin sounded so defeated. Harry didn't understand why — it wasn't like a few curveballs to enlighten him on the actual state of reality was something that needed to be fought against.
Another crossroad of answer options appeared before Harry. They were starting to feel like they were in Life Is Strange. Harry, having gone with what amounted to "Fuck it; YOLO" once already, was now inclined to follow that path again. Why not? In for a penny, in for a pound.
And so they went for it.
"Yeah — it's a central facet of why I am the way I am. Apparently. A-ann-and that affects the Sorting process, of course," said Harry, not letting themselves falter. "The Hat said I was worrying too much about it, though. It said that plenty of seers and people that remember their past lives have existed, and while it's something of note that my past incarnation had foreknowledge of my current incarnation, that isn't a crime and it doesn't mean that there's something wrong with me. Go figure, huh?"
". . . What?"
Okay, not the worst reaction.
"Keep up, Tintin," Harry said with faux-condescension. "I'm a seer, I've been a seer since my past life, and I foresaw this current life back when I was still living my past life."
"What is this bullshite?" Justin exhaled with despair. ('Mood,' Harry commiserated.) "You're just making this all up! You have to be! What kind of fairytale nonsense are you shovelling here? You're actually saying this rubbish and expect me to accept it?"
"We are literally wizards, and basically all fairytale creatures actually do exist," Harry pointed out. "Have you forgotten that we aren't bound by the scientific laws outlined by Muggles? Every single one of us of magical society would qualify as a fantasy protagonist by Muggle standards — especially you , Mr Eton-Bound-Son-of-a-Rich-Barrister. Granted, your backstory is more suited to an urban fantasy setting, and mine would likely fit better in high fantasy. It's perfectly reasonable for me to expect you to accept facts that aren't outside the realm of possibility for a magical person — that are perfectly within the confines of the laws of modern thaumaturgy.
"I have no idea why you always react like I reveal the facts of the world simply to make things difficult for you in particular," Harry continued. "Do you really think I have nothing better to do? Whether you accept it or not is your own business. I'm just telling you as it is. As I always do."
"And you're always taking the mickey no matter what!" Justin rebutted, stomping his foot. "Don't try your nonchalance tripe with me! You can't just drop a bomb like this out of nowhere and expect me to just— to just be like, 'Oh, is that right?' and just let it go! You think this just . . . just, what? Just casually mentioning you're good at cricket or something? This is huge !"
"It really isn't, though," Harry said, grimacing. "Seers are common enough — you could think of them like . . . like . . . like, I dunno! Like a bass-singer who can hit lower than G1. Like a Cirque du Soleil acrobat. Unique, but nothing earth-shattering. Same thing for a reincarnator."
"And someone who's both?"
Harry batted the air with a hand.
"Like an actor who can also sing and dance. A tap-dancer that also paints well. Like anyone multitalented, really. It's cool at first, but it's still whatever when you think about it. Not exactly the second-coming, is it?"
"Viv, you're killing me here." Justin's brows were knotted tightly. "You are not blowing this off! I don't care how you're trying to frame this! So . . . what? You're telling me you're actually some all-knowing old lady in the body of a kid? And I'm just supposed to be chill about that?"
"Piss off, you!" Harry podded the boy strongly in the shoulder. "That's not how age and the soul-cycle works at all! Basically everyone has past lives! Souls aren't just . . . just poof'd out of existence after a single round of use, you know! It's just that most people come into their new living instance with the memories of their past incarnation wiped. That's just how the state of being in-between lives works. Don't ask me how it works, the explanation for it varies between belief systems; just know that it does work.
"But that doesn't mean everyone's actually adults playing at being kids, now, does it? Of course not! Age is just a number for how long your physical body's been in use. Adulthood is defined by physiological and emotional maturity! Which is all biological and has nothing to do with how much or how little knowledge you have. Nor what the state of your soul is. Memories of my past life or not, I am still just an eleven-year-old! Just because I remember who I was doesn't mean I'm any less who I am now!"
These last words falling from Harry's mouth were one hundred percent the truth, but, wow, Harry hadn't anticipated those same words to smack them in the face so hard upon processing.
Oh, gods, Powers That Be, they were a child. They still didn't have full control of themselves yet, they didn't have any legal independence, and they had no family at their back. They were staring this shit-show in the face, and they didn't have OG-Harry's ignorance of the future and courage to keep them from faltering.
Harry was doing what they could to set the stage for themselves, but that didn't change that they knew very well how the odds were stacked against them, they were essentially alone, and they were a child.
Harry wasn't in the mood right now for yet another existential crisis, though (they really needed to get themselves some mood stabilisers; these flips in mental state were getting seriously concerning), so they shoved the swelling tide of 'Who am I? What am I?' mind-fuck down into a pit and covered it with a manhole cover in the make of a mental rendition of one of their favourite show tunes.
(Crippling trains of thoughts were like farts — it was uncomfortable to contain them, but if you held out and kept it at bay, your stomach would settle, and they'd come back at a hopefully more opportune time to be dealt with.)
"Well, if everyone usually just forgets their past lives," said Justin, drawing Harry out of their stupor, "how come you still remember?"
"How would I know?" said Harry with a shrug, the refrain from The Bells of Notre Dame running on repeat in their thoughts. "Chance? The position of the stars upon my birth? Who knows? Maybe because I was a seer before as well. It's not like it's that uncommon of an occurrence."
"You know, this at least explains why you're such a massive know-it-all," said Justin, crossing his arms and looking squinty-eyed at Harry. "You already went through school and stuff before, right? This is cheating!"
"If it makes you feel any better, me now and me as a child then are basically the same," said Harry, patting Justin's shoulder consolingly. "I started formal schooling really early before — when I was two. My motherland really esteems scholars, and my mother inadvertently signed me up for a really intense nursery centre run by an education-fanatic. And then I gorged myself on books as soon as I could read English. So, I've been called a know-it-all for two life-times now."
Justin had a wearied and yet reluctantly interested look on his face.
"You were . . . you weren't English before?"
Harry smiled a nearly-eye-closing smile. (The chorus in their head quietened and shifted into something less deafening; Ascot Gavotte.) They couldn't help being reminded why they liked this boy. Justin, for all his irksome qualities, actually accepted things and went with them very easily. Oh, he boiled up and ruffled easily, too, and when he was in a strop he was the definition of stroppy, but after he was done being wound up he cooled off and didn't make things difficult.
Best of all, he didn't pick up whatever it was that provoked him to be fussy about again later. Once Justin was on board, he was on board for essentially forever.
"I wasn't, no," Harry answered. "Never even visited the British Isles at any point, either. The— the nitty-gritty of my ethnicity and nati-tionality would take some explaining, but suffice to say I was Thai and American. It's a good thing I'm fairly decent at mimicking accent; otherwise, the cat would have been out of the bag immediately. . . ."
They didn't know how they let it happen, but they were pretty sure Justin Finch-Fletchley was their best friend.
Despite still having things in hand (and, yes, they did have things in hand, no matter what their self-recrimination told them), it probably wasn't great that they'd created such a buzz about themselves right before needing to face Snape in class for the very first time. Harry had opinions on Snape-as-a-person versus Snape-as-a-character. They also couldn't help but feel distanced from what they knew of the canon interaction since . . . well, since those shitty interactions simply hadn't happened to them personally — not yet, at the very least.
Harry also could help but wonder if their interaction with Snape would be better. They weren't a boy, they weren't in Gryffindor, and they'd even made their hair red like they remember Lily Potter's being for the day. Would that make Snape less of an ass towards them? Would it make it worse? Harry had never been hated by a teacher before, so they honestly just couldn't imagine what going through that would be like.
On this day, Harry and the girls were walking down towards the Potion's classroom with the boys of their cohort as a well. Well, Parkinson and her ilk were there, too, but Harry was ignoring them . None of the boys had taken sides on the conflict from the night of the Sorting, and Harry was low-key Judging™ them for it, but that wasn't quite enough to make Harry disdain them completely just yet. Harry was still hoping to rehabilitate them, after all. So, Harry held their tongue and got along as Malfoy asserted himself as the leader of their year-group.
Malfoy was once again bragging as if there was no better use of his time. On this occasion, it was about his parents were old friends with Snape, and how he was already greatly favoured by the potions professor.
"Professor Snape is practically my uncle. He personally instructed me a number of times growing up. You remember seeing him over at Malfoy Manor for drinks with my father all the time, right, Nott?" said Malfoy, addressing the quiet boy walking by Zabini.
Said boy made an agreeing sound but didn't contribute anything else, preoccupied with the book he was reading.
How Harry wish they could do the same. Even if they hadn't had an end-goal in mind, the manners engrained into their soul over two childhoods made it impossible for Harry to do anything but pay attention lest feelings were hurt. They half-craved for the day Malfoy would inevitably step over their bottom line, and they could justify to their sensibilities blowing off the little germ with impunity.
The Slytherins poured into the classroom and immediately took over one side of the room.
The Potions classroom was as chilly, bottle-filled, and strangely-lit as one would imagine from reading the books, but it actually wasn't dank nor dark. It was creepy in a children's book way, with the pickled animal parts sitting on display, but that was it on creepy-factor. The candles of the torches and chandeliers coated the stone room in warm light in place of sunlight. The tables were dark wood and heavy, but they were evenly spaced throughout the room, with plenty of space allowance between the shelves of ingredients and other tables. With the arched ceiling and scrubbed stones, the room actually felt rather airy and open.
The tables seated four people each and were arranged in four columns and four rows. Harry usually went with the first row, but they went with the back row on this occasion — for obvious reasons. They took the seat right on the end of the second column on the Slytherin side of the room, right at the edge where the 'dividing line' was. This ensured that no one but one of their girls could sit next to them amongst the Slytherins.
They laid out their note-taking equipment, but then hesitated. After a moment, they arranged their belongings on the table so that the Dicta-Quill and roll of parchment were hidden from sight from the front, and the tape-recorder was sat peeking out from behind their eruditionary instead of sitting on top where it could draw notice. Until they knew for sure what Snape was going to be like towards them, it was best to not have any confiscation-bait laying out in the open.
The Gryffindors trickled in soon after, increasing the din of chatter in the room. Hermione was heading the charge, of course, and was followed by what could only be the background members of the Gryffindors of their year. Lavender and Parvati were easy enough to pick out since they were already joined at the hip, but those that Harry couldn't identify could only be the ones that only showed up in the films or video games. Harry idly wondered what their names would be; three of the girls were entirely unnamed.
Harry perked at seeing Neville, heart twinging at seeing him enter essentially by himself, trailing a bit behind Ron, Seamus, and Dean. Neville snagged a seat in the column next to Harry on the Gryffindor side of the room, and Harry waved with a smile when he looked up and saw who it was at the table next to his. Poor boy got so flustered that he didn't seem to know how to respond, and yet Harry thought he looked cheered up some as well. Harry was tempted to go over and talk to him (Wee Babie Neville was so cute! A little gumdrop! They wanted to pinch his chubby cheeks and pat his head!), but they knew it wasn't the best time for it.
As if to prove Harry correct, Snape burst through the doors with a BANG, like a 1940s showgirl bursting out from a giant birthday cake. (This was an awful comparison, but they were going to need all the absurdity and humour they could muster to keep their composure with this scary-faced drama queen taking the scene.)
"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," Snape started in immediately, gliding in, not even giving the students a chance to breathe. A few of them had just launched like five feet off the ground at the sudden entrance. "As such," — he arrived at the head of the room and stared balefully out at the students, crossing his arms and speaking in a slow, drawling tone — "I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. Many of you will hardly believe this is magic at all. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. . . ."
The more he went on, the more Harry's stranger-danger senses prickled. His tone of voice was uncomfortable in a way they didn't know how to define. Four seconds into seeing him in person, and Harry was already done-zo with him; utterly done-ski.
"However," Snape continued, "for those select few . . ." — (good gods, he did the thing — he pointedly looked at Malfoy; how subtle, sir) — "who possess the predisposition . . . I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
Harry was restraining themselves from sighing and grimacing, but it took some effort. Man, Harry really wasn't feeling his vibes. Like, not at all. Maybe they were going off of confirmation bias — it wasn't like Snape was truly hateful just yet — but, man, these vibes. These vibes were rancid.
What was this even supposed to achieve? Why did a bunch of eleven-year-olds taking a cooking class need an introductory villainous monologue? While he's at it, why doesn't he tell them how to steep riches, stew social acclaim, percolate ascension, and simmer godhood? Or would he be too busying sautéing theatrics? He obviously had no time to churn a winning personality or fricassee a sense of when enough was enough.
No one had anything to say after Snape's little speech, and that was fine because he then took the opportunity to check attendance. (Maybe the intimidation was to ensure the students were quiet during roll call? Seemed like overkill.)
"Ah, yes," he said softly when he got to Harry's name, "Harry Potter. Our new celebrity."
"Erm . . . presen-nt, sir," Harry said, lifting their hand and keeping their expression perfectly sweet and innocent.
The moment of truth had arrived. Was Snape still going to be a bitch about this, or had Harry created enough of a difference that he would let them off?
The two met gazes for a moment — one patently unassuming, the other coldly scrutinising. (Maybe even a little conflicted? Was Harry reading too much into it?) After a beat, Snape continued with the attendance.
Harry was just about ready to conclude there would be no beef this time around when—
"Potter!"
"SIR, YES, SIR!" Harry snapped to their feet and almost saluted, nearly taking a tumble in their startlement at being called on so suddenly. Surprised snorts of laughter erupted around the room. Curses twitching the tip of their tongue, Harry straightened and stood at attention smartly. "Yes, Professor?"
"Potter. . . ." Snape said again, but this time slowly, almost quietly. The crease between his brows changed. It wouldn't be accurate to say it lightened, but the look on his face went from disdainful to . . . angrily considering? "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Sigh. So. They were still doing this after all, huh?
"The beginnings of a sleeping potion, sir," said Harry, tucking a lock of red hair behind their ear. They noted that Hermione's hand was held in the air; as expected. "The base for the Draught of Living Death, I believe."
Harry was not going to regurgitate the script word for word, even though they knew this scene well. Snape went gung-ho on the intimidation tactics when he tried this on OG-Harry, but in no universe did simply powdered asphodel root in a wormwood infusion create some miracle potion that made the drinker mimic death. It didn't even send a person immediately to sleep, either! If anything, it was a simple sleeping aid; it wouldn't even be as effective as that as it could be without chamomile or valerian.
Maybe the answer really was beyond his expectations — Snape actually paused for a moment and appeared to reconsider the situation. He didn't look as irked at Harry knowing the answer as Harry would have thought for a Snape that was presumably the canon version. Perhaps Harry's Lily-like front was swaying matters in their favour? It was a shitty thing to do to invoke the memory of a dead loved one to try to gain benefits, but Canon-Snape was a shitty person, so Harry figured it balanced out.
"And where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?" Snape then asked. This time he almost actually looked like a teacher simply quizzing a student.
"The . . ." Harry couldn't help the wrinkling of their nose despite knowing that the question was coming. They weren't a fan of bodily reagents. "The gastin— gastrointestinal tract, sir. Any part of the digestive system, really. Commercial-grade be-zz-zoars come from the stomachs of goats."
"Are you certain?" Snape suddenly sneered, disdain returning. "Your stuttering suggests otherwise."
This motherfucker. . . !
"I have a general languagg-ge-processing impediment, s-sir," Harry said, widening their eyes to keep themselves from glaring. "It comes with intermm-mittent stutters and stammers, depending on the situation. It has nothing to dd-dd-do with my condife—confidence or-rr what I know."
He was really out here with that ableist bullshit, huh? How on-brand of him. Harry was having a stutter-y day and were already unhappy about it, and here he was making a scene about it. This was the only person not still using cartoon plasters for their scrapped knees that was tactless enough to openly mock them on this matter! It was even his fault that Harry was particularly stuttering at the moment — the more keyed up Harry felt, the more they were likely to have an attack. And the best way to work them up was to make them annoyed.
Snape loomed. One would think that looming would be particularly intimidating, but through the eyes of someone that had seen more than twelve years, Snape looming was simply him extending his limbs to gain height and ending up looking like a third-rate bogeyman that consistently scored low on the employee monthly performance ranking. If being terrifying could be customer-reviewed, Snape's looming would get two stars on Yelp.
"Are you trying to backchat me, Potter?" Snape demanded 'menacingly.'
Go back to acting school, asshole, Harry wanted to say. You shame your Liberal Arts degree.
"No, sir — Only exx-xplaining, sir," Harry actually said aloud, smiling placatingly and cocking their head. The forcibly centred themselves by holding their breath to try and reign in the stammer. "There's a difference between a nervous stutter and an impediment stutter, but it can be difficult to notice the difference ff-from an outside standpoint, so I tend to explain it rather regul-ll-larly." (An exaggeration bordering on a lie, but they wouldn't get anywhere pointing out that he was the rare fuckface that warranted an explanation.) "It's-ss quite normal for me to be misconstrued on this matter."
And the more irked Harry got about being misconstrued, the more they started talking like they were taking a vocabulary exam. He better move on before they actually started talking back — and dictated a thesis to do it, stutters and stammers and all.
"You know so much, I see," Snape sniffed. He stepped down from the front dais and prowled towards where Harry was. "Well, then, Potter, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"They. . . ." The obvious answer was that they were the same thing, but Harry wouldn't put it past this bastard to pull a technicality card like a fae just to have and excuse to criticise them. They'd seen it done once before in a fic. "Monkshood and wolfsbane . . . refer to different traits of the plant that they're alternative nn-names for — the aconite plant. Monkshood refers to the shape of the flower, ww-www-wolfsbane refers to its toxicity."
Nitpick that, ye bastard.
Snape's gaze bore into Harry.
"The difference between steep and percolate."
"Percolate is . . . is to, like, filter a liquid through a substance gradually," said Harry. "And steep is . . . steep is to . . . to let something soak in liquid."
"Indeed." Snape's expression truly become considering at that moment.
"Name one use of ashwinder eggs."
"It's an ingredient in Felix Felicis, sir."
". . . . The Exploding Potion is concocted using a particular creature part. What is that creature and what is that part?"
"An Erumpp-pent, sir. The horn is used after grinding it down to powder."
"Name two ingredients of the Memory Potion."
"Slivered snowdrop bulbs and stewed Mandrake, sir."
"Four ingredients," said Snape with a sharp gleam in those black eyes that Harry decipher was calculation or piqued interest, "of the Invigoration Draught."
Oh, fuck him. That was an upper-year potion, and like half of the ingredients were native only to the HP-verse!
"Erm . . . pepp-permint . . . lovage . . ." Harry thought quickly. They remembered thinking that take out the fantasy ingredients and it would still work decently on a smaller scale. "Ss-scurvy grass and . . . an' honeywater."
"The difference in use between porcupine quills and knarl quills?"
"Knarl quills are. . . . They tend to go in potions that cause . . . emotional chh-anges," said Harry, clasping their palms together in front of their belly and bouncing on their toes. At some point, even the ever-enthused Hermione had pulled her hand from the air, and the lack of it was stark. "Like the Laugh-Inducing Potion," Harry continued. "Porcupine quills, however, typically go in potions that cause physical changes — Like the Hair-Raising Potion. An' the Cure for Boils."
Impossibly, a curl of lip that could have been described as the beginning of a smile — that is, if it were on the face of anyone else — ghosted onto Snape's face. His look in his eyes softened and shifted in depth, looking through Harry instead of at them. As if seeing something not quite visible.
Hook . . . line . . .
"Correct," he said almost faintly. "It seems you've inherited some respectable traits after all."
— and sinker. Got 'im.
Harry smiled and tilted their head, feigning incomprehension. Satisfaction flooded them.
"Ten points to Slytherin," Snape said after a moment. "For showing initiative and reading well ahead."
He peered at Harry for a few more seconds with that expression on his face before turning away to address the rest of the class, who'd been mutely gawking this entire time. "As Potter said, porcupine quills are used in the Cure of Boils. That will be the topic we cover today."
As Snape stalked back to the front, Harry returned to their seat with a smug swipe of their hands over the front pleats of their skirt. They were feeling accomplished enough that they even sent a smirking look at Parkinson, who was scowling at them from the next row and column over — Harry felt like they'd earned some pettiness.
Harry dutifully took notes as Snape began outlining what they'd be doing that day, taking down what was on the board as well as what the man was saying. As they wrote, their free hand drifted over to their binder — specifically, the hook-fastened pouch sewn into the front cover. They quietly opened the pouch and dipped their hand in.
Harry ran their fingers over the edges of the lenormand deck they kept in their binder, scraping down with their fingernail so that the cards snapped together again and again. When the impulse took them, they drew a card at random and pulled it out just enough so that they could see the name.
The Snake.
Harry couldn't help but huff through their nose, lashes lowering, lips parting unwillingly to unveil a baring of teeth. How appropriate.
AN1: I'm very tired of seeing only nervous stuttering being used while writers completely ignore those caused by speech impediments. News flash — they're not the same. They don't behave the same. There's a difference between being unable to speak because of nerves and being unable to speak because your mouth is spasming. And a stammer isn't the same as a stutter. With a stutter, you repeat sounds; with a stammer, you get stuck on sounds. S-s-stutter; stam-mm-mmm— stammer.
I can go days without stuttering or stammering, and I can get days when I can barely talk without my tongue tripping over itself. I tend to stammer more than I stutter, and it can get a little panic-inducing if I'm already worked up because getting stuck on a sound is essentially being paralyzed; you're unable to move your tongue and/or lips even though you can feel yourself trying to. (It usually comes with Spoonerism, too, but I normally have Spoonerism even when I'm not stuttering.)
PSA: The worst thing you can do as someone listening to a person stutter or stammer is to point it out — like with Tourette's, it just provokes the brain and makes it worse.
AN2: Don't forget to hit up my tumblr (High-Pot-In-Noose) and follow the link in my bio if you want to help me out and also read advanced chapter updates.
