Seven Drops and Asphodel Blooms
Summary: When Harry blows up his aunt during the summer, Dumbledore is much quicker to react. Snape finds him far before the Minister does, but his plan of dropping him off with a lecture and half a dozen additional summer assignments doesn't work out.
In which Harry spends the summer at Spinner's End.
Chapter 16
The more often Harry was taken along by side-by-side Apparition, the less he wanted to learn how to do it himself. When he was of age, he'd simply avoid places he couldn't reach via Floo. Or by broomstick.
Once he was finished feeling like all the air had been vacuum-sucked from his lungs, he took a closer look at the muggle neighborhood they'd appeared in. He could have sworn that there hadn't been a house directly in front of them when they'd arrived.
"Don't dawdle," Snape muttered, taking up an impatient stride towards the entrance.
Harry hurried after him. "This is Grimmauld Place?" It looked so... ordinary. Nothing at all like the home of a proud, ancient wizard family.
"Indeed." Snape's thinly-veiled disdain was all Harry needed to know about what he thought of the place. "This neighborhood might have been a magical one decades ago. Some old wizard families would prefer to live surrounded by muggles rather than let themselves be chased off by them."
If Sirius' ancestors had been anything as prideful as him, Harry didn't find it hard to believe.
The house must have known to let them in – Lupin might have had something to do with it, as Sirius seemed the kind of person who'd add security specifically to keep out Snape – because it opened easily after Snape tapped the front door with his wand. The sound of clicking locks and unraveling chains could be heard on the other side.
As soon as the door swung open, Harry would have liked very much to turn right back around.
"Traitor to our family! Fraternizer! Dragging in filthy blood, dirtying the house of my fathers–"
"I've got this! Go and shut her up!"
"From my standpoint it still looks like you're being strangled."
"Filth, all of you! Scum and mudbloods and freaks, bringing dishonor onto a great legacy–"
"Shut up!" Sirius bellowed, wrestling with a tablecloth while Lupin tried prying it off of him.
He didn't seem to be having much luck. "Does everything in this house want to kill you?" Lupin shouted.
"Please," Sirius wheezed. "These... have nothing on the upstairs bathroom's shower curtains."
"Are you even trying?"
"I'm pulling, I'm pulling!" He let out a choked groan. "Lack of air... making it... harder."
"–should be ashamed, tainting a proud house–"
Lupin let go of Sirius to instead pat his pockets. Maybe in search of his wand. "Harry's gonna be here any minute."
"He already is," Snape announced coldly, firing a spell at the tablecloth that narrowly missed Sirius' eye and singed his eyebrow.
Lupin abandoned his efforts and sprinted towards the source of the screeching: the portrait of an old, unpleasant-looking woman.
"Good." Sirius tossed aside the now lifeless tablecloth. "That means you can go. Bother to see you, you know where to find the door."
"It's good to see you, Harry," Lupin said, out of breath but victorious.
The woman in the portrait kept on raging, but Lupin had forced some kind of thick curtain on top of her that swallowed up almost all of the noise.
Lupin's fondness bled into politeness when turning to Snape. "Thank you for bringing him."
"I regret it already."
Harry brushed past Snape with a grin. "It's good to see you too, professor."
Lupin gave a low laugh. "I'm not your professor anymore. Remus is fine."
"You were going to leave," Sirius said loudly. He proved great self-restraint in leaving it at that.
Lupin – Remus? Merlin, that felt weird – elbowed him in the side. "Is there something we can offer you?"
"Yeah," Sirius agreed peaceably, "like a well-aimed jinx in the–"
"Okay." Lup– Remus grabbed Sirius' shoulder and none-too-gently manhandled him towards a nearby door. "How about you take Harry and go ahead."
But Sirius was getting worked up over Snape's sneer and refused to be moved. "There a reason you're hanging around like an overbearing house-elf?"
"I have my doubts he will make it through the day unscathed in your company."
"He survived your place. Merlin knows how."
"Nothing in my house has yet attempted to maim him." Snape gave the strangling tablecloth a pointed, scathing look. "Which ought to be a cause of concern to you, seeing as he has spent weeks with me and mere minutes here."
"Psychological damage should count for something. Because if it does, I find it hard to believe–"
"How unsurprising that you find yourself so utterly incapable of admitting–"
Lupin rubbed his eyes with two fingers. "Come on." He jerked his head towards the nearest door.
Harry followed reluctantly, unsure whether he felt the need to stay for entertainment or safety reasons.
They could still hear the muffled sounds of Sirius and Snape insulting each other even after settling down at an old but surprisingly clean kitchen table.
"So," Lupin – no, Remus – smiled at him. "How've you been, Harry?"
"Good," Harry said, "I'm doing good. I know Sirius thinks... uh..." He trailed off, eyes drawn to the painting of a pair of glum-looking witches. No sound came out of their mouths, but their faces contorted in malicious grimaces. One of them made a vulgar hand gesture.
"Ignore them." Remus pulled a face. With a flick of his wand, a piece of fabric much like the one in the hallway fell over it, though much thinner. The motion looked concerningly practiced. "Sirius' family wouldn't have been thrilled about him living here. The paintings unfortunately agree."
"I thought you were cleaning up the house," Harry said. "Can't you just take them down?"
"We're working on it, but it's tedious. Almost everything in this house is bewitched, and the decade it stood empty didn't exactly do it any good."
"I could help," Harry offered. "To make it quicker."
He wouldn't be able to do anything about enchanted paintings, but he could help sorting through old junk. He'd been forced to help Uncle Vernon clean out his garage a few years ago. This couldn't be much worse.
Remus' lips twitched. "It's a nice offer, but I don't think you came here to clean."
Harry shrugged. "I wouldn't mind." He didn't exactly miss being put to work by the Dursleys, but he felt lazy not doing anything besides school work for the summer.
Besides, he might not have seen much of Grimmauld Place so far, but it was much more obviously magical than Snape's home. To Sirius and Remus it was filled with old garbage, but to Harry there were probably all sorts of interesting things to discover.
Remus gave him a mild smile. "Maybe later. How about you tell me about your summer, first?"
Harry started off cautiously, but gained momentum once he realized Remus wasn't as eager to find reasons to criticize Snape as Sirius was. He – though clearly no fan of Snape's, either – respected his former colleague enough not to fear that Snape was mistreating him. Either that, or he trusted Harry to speak up if something was wrong.
Sirius eventually stormed in, still in as much of a bad mood even after Snape had left. Remus quickly steered the conversation elsewhere.
His godfather looked a lot better than he had the last time Harry had seen him. His face was less gaunt, like he'd been eating decent meals for a couple weeks, and he'd somehow managed to fix up his hair without having to cut it completely. It now brushed his shoulders in tidy, healthy looking curls.
Harry still felt a bit awkward talking to him after the way they'd parted at Hogwarts, but found that hanging out with Sirius wasn't much different from hanging out with his friends.
"There are really world tournaments for Quidditch?"
"Of course there are," Sirius said. "It's our most popular sport."
Harry had never had much interest in sports before learning about Quidditch. Uncle Vernon and Dudley had been avid followers of the boxing championships, and all three of the Dursleys had watched the occasional soccer game. Obviously Harry had never been allowed to join.
"Where would they even play?" Harry asked, imagining wizards smuggling gigantic rings into the Surrey stadium.
"I don't know where they're setting it up this year," Remus said, "but the Ministry definitely has their work cut out for them."
"No wonder they let the vermin escape." Sirius gave a sardonic little smile. "Too busy setting up privacy wards to keep an eye on dear old Peter."
"Would you want to go?" Remus asked. "All the best tickets will be gone by now, but I'm sure you'd be able to get your hands on something."
Harry could think of very few things he'd love to do more. It occurred to him that other than Ron's books on Quidditch, he'd never actually seen a professional team in action. "What about you? Are you planning on going?"
"I was thinking about it," Sirius said. "Been ages since I've seen a proper game."
"Do you play?"
Sirius barked a laugh. "Nah, that was all James. I wasn't so shabby on a broomstick myself, but I never had the talent he did."
"Or yours," Remus added, smiling at Harry.
The day passed quickly as Sirius entertained them with stories about their daring adventures at Hogwarts and a dramatic read-aloud of the article in the Daily Prophet detailing the heart-wrenching story of his wrongful prison sentence.
("'–how such a tragic mistake of our justice system could have occurred' – hah! Like they wouldn't have brushed the whole thing under the rug, had Dumbledore let them.")
Around the time an ancient looking house-elf served them a tray of afternoon tea (Harry politely declined, the elf's malicious eyes making him doubt he'd added something as harmless as sugar), Harry breached the topic of whether Remus had started looking for a new job.
"Not just yet," Remus told him. "I've missed Sirius. It's been good to spend some time with him."
Harry could hardly imagine. They must have been quite close friends for them to click back into place after over ten years that one of them had spent in prison.
"I still think you should have stayed. You were by far one of our best teachers."
"You flatter me." Remus courageously sipped on his tea and grimaced. Harry hoped it merely tasted bad, and wasn't actually poisoned. "Believe me, it's better this way."
Harry looked at the tea cup. He'd just had a sense of deja-vu. "Where are you getting your Wolfsbane, now that Snape isn't brewing it for you? Can you make it yourself?"
This time, Remus' grimace wasn't due to his drink. "I'm afraid not. There aren't many Potions masters able – or willing – to brew it. It's a very complex potion."
"But you're getting it somewhere, right?"
"I... get by." His pause wasn't reassuring. "If I had enough talent in Potions myself... But then, the ingredients are very difficult to procure."
Harry opened his mouth, but Remus cut him off by shaking his head.
"I get by," he said again, more firmly this time. He smiled at Harry. "Thank you for your concern."
Harry reluctantly dropped the issue, but he kept thinking about it all the way back to Spinner's End.
"What would happen if someone tried brewing a Wolfsbane potion, but made a mistake?" he asked later, having joined Snape in the kitchen for a last cup of tea before bed.
"Disastrous side effects such as poisoning, an agonizing, perhaps irreversible transformation or death," Snape said without looking up. "Why?"
"Rem– Lupin told me there's not many people who can brew it."
"He would be correct."
"He needs it, doesn't he? Can't you keep brewing it for him like you used to?"
Snape's lips curled unpleasantly. "The Wolfsbane potion is a very complex, very difficult potion. It requires time, utmost dedication and skill. The ingredients are highly difficult to procure and very expensive."
"I'll pay for them," Harry said quickly.
"Don't be daft." If anything, Snape's scowl deepened.
"But without the potion–"
"This conversation is finished."
"But–"
"It is finished." Snape sent him a strict glance. "Do not make me reconsider taking you to Grimmauld Place again."
Harry made no attempt trying to hide his sour mood, but obeyed and let the matter rest. For now.
Harry did something he couldn't remember ever having done before in his life: he pulled out his Potions textbook and studied. At least he tried to. He could memorize dates for History of Magic – for a short time – or what kind of food a certain magical creature ate, but knowing a Potions recipe by heart didn't actually get him closer to being able to brew it.
He tried to remember what attributes each ingredient added to a potion – mugwort against fatigue, lemongrass for potency, chamomile for milder side effects – but one effect reversed or canceled out another, and these ingredients never went together with those, and that herb had no effect at all unless you stirred your potion eight and-a-half times while humming an incantation under your breath...
How could anyone remember all of this? Harry was in danger of blowing up the dungeons even when he followed the recipe step-by-step, and there was Snape, brewing potions on the fly, in his free time. For fun.
Combing through his books wouldn't get him anywhere. All of Harry's strongest subjects were those where he could actually do something instead of just searing facts into his brain.
"Is it okay if I use your study?" he found himself asking, because apparently a year wasn't enough for him to learn about self-preservation.
Snape looked at him like he'd just announced his desperate desire to forgo a magical education to pursue a career in muggle theater. "Excuse me?"
"I just want to practice."
"Brewing." The incredulity in Snape's voice might have been insulting, were they not talking about Harry's least favorite subject by far.
"I finished most of my homework," Harry explained, feeling defensive. "And I'm not allowed to practice magic."
"So Potions was the next logical option?"
"Can I?"
Snape paused, looking contemplative. "You are in dire need of the practice."
"Thanks."
"Though at this point of your academic career I am uncertain whether there is still hope."
"That says more about you than it does about me."
Snape glared.
"Sorry," Harry said, definitely not meaning it. "Yes or no?"
Snape looked like he regretted his answer before the words left his mouth. "You will not so much as touch a ladle unless I am in the same room."
Had Harry not known the level of destruction or bodily harm a person was capable of inflicting given enough time and a handful of Potions supplies, he would have rolled his eyes. "Sure."
Ron could never know about this. If Harry let it slip that he'd all but begged Snape for extra Potions lessons, Ron and his brothers would have to duel Sirius for the honor of rescuing him.
Harry was utter crap at Potions. He'd be the first to admit that he'd never much cared about doing well in class, but it took no genius to realize that even when he did try his best, mediocrity was still the best he could hope for.
He scowled at his cauldron. Its contents were a watery yellow as opposed to the creamy orange paste it was supposed to be.
"I did everything right," Harry insisted, furiously skimming the instructions in his text book. "I did exactly what it told me to."
Snape looked utterly unimpressed while peeling a bouncing bulb. "All evidence suggests the opposite."
Harry stirred his potion half-heartedly. He had tried, this time. For all the good it had done him.
Snape tossed a finished bulb into a large basin and slammed down the lid to keep it from jumping right back out. He rose, shooting Harry a strict look. "Do not add anything to the potion."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Harry muttered. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't actively have a death wish.
Snape came in a few minutes later, carrying... a book.
"Use this." He put it down beside Harry's cutting board.
It looked like a regular old Potions book. The title was the same as Harry's – Magical Drafts and Potions – but the cover looked a little different. It must have been an older edition.
"No offense," Harry said, pulling it closer, "but aren't new editions usually better? Should I really be using old recipes?"
"Look inside," Snape said quietly.
Harry opened the book and grimaced. Spidery ink trails were scribbled all over the pages. Its previous owner must not have taken particularly good care of it.
Hold on... "Is this yours?" Harry squinted to decipher some of the handwritten notes.
'Add two and a half figs instead of three.' 'Simmer until purple, up heat.' 'Don't use fresh wormwood!'
The 'Don't' had been vigorously underlined several times.
"Did you write all this?"
"I expect your next attempt to be more successful," Snape said without answering.
Harry flicked through the book until he reached the potion he'd tried his hand on. It – like most recipes – was covered in corrections and improvements in the margins.
None of them offered a convenient solution on how to salvage his watery yellow disaster.
Harry swallowed down a groan. Looked like he was starting over.
"Which do you add next, the bitter root or the abraxan hair?"
"The root?"
"Guess again."
"The abraxan hair."
"Wrong. Adding either before the dittany will ruin the potion irredeemably or produce fumes so poisonous, neither of us will be able to utter a ventilation spell in time."
"How many times do you stir?"
"Uh..."
"Remind me why I waste my free time teaching you?"
"You'd get bored having nobody to bully."
"Watch the cheek."
"Six times. I stir six times counter-clockwise, then add the... uh..."
"Six times, then two times clockwise. Afterwards, you add–"
"Wormwood. Got it."
"–and it's better to pour in the dandelion essence slowly because... Uh… Because..."
"The dragon li–"
"Because the dragon liver is highly volatile. So adding it all at once would be risky."
"Technically correct. Next time, I expect you to know which attributes of both ingredients make them interact."
"What are you doing?"
Harry quickly skipped to a different page. "Just reading."
Snape narrowed his eyes. "That isn't your textbook. Nor the one I've given you."
"You told me not to touch any potion stuff while you're gone. You didn't say your books were off-limits."
Snape hummed. "And this one just so happened to fall into your hands."
"It looked–" Harry cringed, a flick of Snape's wand making the book open back at the chapter he'd been reading, "–interesting." So maybe he'd been looking up the Wolfsbane potion out of curiosity. Big deal. "It's not like I was planning on actually making it."
"I would hope so," Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, "seeing as I've repeatedly told you the disastrous consequences of making even the slightest mistake."
Words spilled from his tongue like out of a toppled ink bottle. "So how is it fair that Remus can't get any safely?"
"Spare me."
"But what is he supposed to do? Curl up in some shack–"
"I said enough."
"–hoping he doesn't hurt anyone other than himself?"
They glared at each other, refusing to back down. If Snape didn't like his talking back, he should really stop letting him get away with so much.
Dumbledore received a letter from Spinner's End the next day. It was a letter instead of a Floo call because the thought of his reaction – just mild enough to avoid being smug – was dreadful on its own, and did not require Severus to see it in person.
Dumbledore's reply was cheerful, obnoxious and delivered on the very same day. It was the permission to use Hogwarts' Potions supplies for non-class related endeavors that Severus had expected, and yet it soured his mood and ruined the remainder of his day.
Severus sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and reluctantly went to check his storage to determine which ingredients he already had on hand.
A/N:
Snape: You won't try to make this extremely dangerous potion I've explicitly warned you about on your own, right
Harry, looking up the recipe: Of course not, why ever would you think that
Snape:
Snape, mentally checking off ingredients they'll need: deep sigh
xxx
Many thanks to To Mockingbird, Igornerd and flyingcat!
~Gwen