Title: Ardor Animorum
Author: AristideCauquemaire
Pairing: Scorpius Malfoy/James Sirius Potter
Rating: M for grown-up language and sexual situations and themes.
Warnings: original characters; slash, non-consensual situations
Thanks to WildEerin and ihrtryoma for following this story! To the guest who left me a review: Thank you! I have to confess that I'm a bit of a sucker for happy endings, so chances are generally good ^^; As to things getting worse... sweet things taste sweeter when you eat some bitterness before :)
Now, on to chapter 4! Enjoy!
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Chapter 4
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Professor Smith said nothing during the entirety of the third week, and there were no owls or summons of any kind. Scorpius only barely bit back his questions when he became aware of Mariella watching him out of the corner of her eye in Potions lesson.
That Saturday afternoon found Scorpius in the library, on the table in the fourth aisle. Being a seventh year student now, he kept his book bag and a duffel bag full of Quidditch equipment on the other two chairs and no one, not even Madam Pince, said anything about it. Undisturbed, he completed his assignments for five out of six subjects and was just working on the last one – Herbology, which he had staved off as long as he could – when someone cleared his throat in front of him, loudly enough for him to hear it even through his earplugs.
Looking up, he couldn't bite back a "Hey, do you believe in cosmic irony or the circularity of history?" Same aisle, same table, same day of the week, even the same colour of earplugs. Coincidence? Unlikely.
His question merely earned him a long, hard stare and a "What are you talking about?" from Potter.
"Never mind," he sighed. "Did you want to use this table?"
Again, Potter stared darkly, as if he were trying and failing to discern whether he was mocking him. "N- No, I... No, I don't want to use this table."
They looked at each other - Scorpius looked at Potter, in any way, while Potter looked at a spot on the wall just above Scorpius' head - and were silent.
"Well?" Scropius prompted, drawling the word, after the silence had stretched long enough to become uncomfortable. "What is it, then?"
James regained his composure even though Scorpius couldn't guess why he would've lost it in the first place. "The initial survived," he said. When Scorpius merely blinked quizzically, he explained, "The first potion of an apprenticeship. The one that decides whether the apprentice can go on and at which level. Sort of like an entrance and evaluation exam. It was successful. I passed."
"Congratulations," Scorpius said, more by reflex than anything, slightly confused about how he was supposed to react. Was he supposed to be happy for him? He sort of was. Proud, even, given that he had got glimpses of how hard he had worked for it although that was entirely odd, really.
But on the other hand – he hadn't realised that Potter's failure could have potentially meant the end of the apprenticeship and therefore of his own unfreedom So logically, he should be angry and annoyed that it hadn't worked out for himself that way. Except that he wasn't. He frowned to himself at that.
"Thank you," Potter replied, equally reflexively.
Another strange pause.
"I want to start with several smaller projects today," James eventually said, clearing his throat again and straightening his shoulders, "and would- uh, require your assistance."
Scorpius sighed, flipping his Herbology tome shut with a dull bang. "It's not like I have a choice, is it?" he asked without expecting an answer.
For some reason, Potter's eyes narrowed and his expression darkened at his words, but he didn't say anything else.
Scorpius packed his stuff under his wordless gaze and then followed him out of the library. As he walked out, he stonily ignored the look Constance Bagman was giving him from her table near the window.
/
"What was it?" he asked after walking next to and slightly behind Potter for several minutes. It was annoyingly difficult to keep up with him and his longer legs. He constantly felt like he was being shaken off. Outpaced. "Your initial? The potion you made?"
"Dreamless Sleep," he answered. "Slightly more potent, more volatile and hard to control, but more efficient to make, with a longer shelf-life, too. Bit cheaper, all in all." It didn't sound at all like that was all he had to say on the subject. On the contrary, Scorpius all but expected him into a full-hour lecture on how this new and improved potion was made, and how nifty it all was. But nothing else came.
"Wow," Scorpius said after waiting for him to go on a second or two. He was honestly taken aback. Potions that influenced the psyche in that way were the potion-making equivalent of advanced rocket science. The required ingredients were almost always very dangerous or mindblowingly expensive or both. Only a quarter of a chapter was devoted to those in the seventh year Potions textbook, a short passage of introductory reading that mostly told the students to hold their horses and go back to brewing more basic stuff before anyone got seriously hurt. "That's, uhm. That's impressive."
Again, James stayed silent. Scorpius imagined that he smiled a little.
"Was it sampled already?" Sampling – the administration of the potion to a test subject by a certified person who knew its intended effects, symptoms, results or consequences, and the subsequent comparison to a previously certified batch of the same potion – was basically the ultimate quality test for a potion. It separated 'brew-ups' from actual 'potions'. The Ministry had its own subdepartment for sampling potions that would be used by Ministry staff. His father had had business with them because of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.
"Yes, it was, a week ago," Potter replied, and then added – mumbling, as if self-conscious about his achievements -, "Madam Pomfrey administered it to me, actually."
"You sampled it yourself?" Scorpius asked, surprised. "Isn't that dangerous, though? How was it like?"
"Uh, dreamless," Potter said. "Restful. Exactly like it was supposed to be."
"Wow," he repeated sincerely, "that's... quite awesome."
He imagined another mild smile on his face.
There was a short silence. They descended into the subterranean part of the castle, Potter taking two steps at a time, obviously very familiar with every stair and stone already.
"Constance Bagman glared daggers at you," Potter suddenly remarked, somehow managing to sound interested and casual at the same time. Politely curious, like Shrew's parents when they were over at the Manor and inquired after Scorpius' grades by mentioning Shrew's – just less stilted.
"Well, uh," Scorpius uttered. Everyone is just that thrilled about me being your dumb waiter. "I'm supposed to lead a Potions study group in two hours." The first of the year, to be exact, precisely how they had planned it on the Hogwarts Express, in light of the upcoming first exams. That should be interesting. "It's her way of expressing joyful anticipation," he mumbled.
Potter turned his head as if he wanted to give him a look out of the corner of his eye, but he really only greeted Professor Longbottom who was coming their way with two large empty wicker baskets under his arms and a plastic bucket full of assorted leaves in his hand.
They made the rest of the way to the Potions classroom in silence. Despite it being Saturday and wonderfully sunny outside, Professor Smith was sitting on the teacher's desk at its front, buried in parchments that looked like students' essays, which probably explained the tall glass of what was probably red wine and his continuous, disgruntled murmuring. Neither James nor Scorpius tried to catch his attention, so they passed straight through the side door, all but on tiptoes.
This time, James led the way into another corridor and then up a narrow, steep and long flight of stairs into a vastly bigger room than the first. It housed five big tables, each one with at least one cauldron on it, plus an array of raw ingredients and instruments, plus two large blackboards, a mattress in the corner by the door, and there was still room to spare. The whole room was illuminated by a large, round domed roof light that made Scorpius wonder exactly how long that staircase had been. It really didn't add up at all, architecturally – but this was Hogwarts, so he supposed that it didn't necessarily have to.
"One big kettle of vanilla calming draught," Potter began by pointing to the table on the far left, "one kettle of vanilla Pepper-up, a batch of Venecian style burn-healing paste, the stronger stuff, hiccoughing solution that also works properly against the latest version of Weasley's HicCups, and some extra potent herbicide for Professor Longbottom and his geranium." He gestured toward the last table that held a tiny, coppery kettle. "And that one is a small experimental batch of wolfsbane. I want to make that more potent, too." He eyed him with a raised brow. "Got that?"
"Yes," Scorpius said, only barely suppressing a snide 'Master' at the end there. Seven kettles, seven potions. Not fantastically hard to get.
"You'll be preparing the ingredients, and cleaning up the leftovers, to keep it tidy." And with that, he turned toward the wolfsbane cauldron and didn't turn back around for the next hour. When he finally did, he went from one table to the next, adding the ingredients Scorpius had prepared according to the formula, muttering to himself quietly, stirring sometimes and poking the fires underneath the kettles sometimes, but not saying another word to him.
Scorpius hurried to cut, peel, slice, cube, knead, weigh, squeeze and sift everything Potter would need, in the order of his needing them. Twice he had to run down to the ingredients closet – huffing and puffing and cursing that bloody stairway which seemed to get longer and steeper each time. Once, he had to go get a mop to wipe up spilled puffapod juice that left a dark brown stain stinking of vinegar on the plain concrete floor. The cutting, scraps and empty receptacles were collected neatly next to or under each table, separated painstakingly to avoid cross reactions – each table even had its own broom to sweep up with.
All in all, Scorpius was grimy, sweaty and out of breath very soon, his fingernails were pitch black, his hands stained greenish with snargaluff sap, and his nose itched like the devil.
But it was good. The work, the task, not dumb or demeaning at all.
The company, even, silent and unappreciative as it was.
It was, unexpectedly, fun. Scorpius didn't even know why. It was as satisfying as ticking off a to-do-list, and as challenging as conducting seven Quidditch players across a pitch.
Also, watching Potter brew was intriguing. Whenever he had a free second, he would glance at the tables of reaction equations Potter had written for the hiccoughing solution which were laid out right next to the cauldron, endless, neat columns of words, numbers and symbols he didn't understand although it almost felt like he could. He understood enough to know that it was complicated and elegant and genius.
He could see Potter's hands moving about, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His motions looked so fluid and perfect. He never once faltered or paused.
I like this. The finally gave in to the urge and scratched his nose and regretted it instantly. His eyes began to water. He cursed softly.
The rainbow-coloured fumes from said hiccoughing solution that smelled like caramel and cream might have had something to do with it as well, he reflected.
In any case, he felt like being dunked in cold water when Potter suddenly said, "Time's up, Malfoy. Go."
That was a first. Normally, he asked Potter, after half an hour of not doing anything and standing around like an idiot, whether he could leave. Potter would flinch a little, clearly having forgotten all about him, grunt a 'yes yes' and make a shooing motion with his hand over his shoulder, and that was that.
Being sent away like this felt wrong. Disappointing.
Scorpius put down the decanter of onion juice he had just been filling. "But I'm not done," he said. With the exception of the hiccoughing solution which was supposed to be belching rainbow-coloured, caramel-flavoured steam for the next ten hours at least to break down the main active ingredient properly, each of the cauldrons would need addition soon, or the base potion would become useless, or worse, and the necessary ingredients weren't properly prepared yet.
"I'll handle it," Potter said over his shoulder. He was working with some sort of strainer, sieving octopus powder maybe. Scorpius had never heard of adding something like octopus powder to wolfsbane, but then again, he had said that the kettle was experimental.
"How?" he asked, not sure why he wasn't on his way yet, why his feet didn't want to get him out the door. "You're going to have to attend three kettles and cut up that bat spleen simultaneously in about ten minutes, you know that, yes?"
"I said I'll handle it." He stressed the words as if Scorpius was a somewhat slow child. Then he added, "You have a study group to attend and friends to meet. If you leave now, you'll make it to the library in time."
For some reason, Scorpius bristled at that. "They can wait. This can not," he said. It came out much sharper than was warranted.
Potter whipped the sieve against the side of the table with great force, beating out the powder residue. It rained to the floor with a hiss. "I'm not going to make you late, Malfoy. It's not polite to your friends."
Scorpius made a quiet, rude noise. "Who cares? They're prepared to wait. They know that I'm here right now, acting as your servant."
"What rubbish," Potter murmured, but Scorpius caught it. Hearing it made him, of all things, angry.
"Rubbish?" he asked, voice pointed like a needle. "What, that I'm your servant? Why? Isn't that exactly what I am?"
James turned his head and stared at him, frowning. His mouth opened, then closed again as if he didn't know what to say or how to say it. It infuriated Scorpius even further. At least tell me something like 'Yes, you're my servant, now do as I tell you', damn it, you coward.
"You blackmailed me into being your...," Scorpius pushed the word out, "your personal slave, Potter. You actually said so yourself." He opened his hands, as if to say Time to admit it. "Master and slave? Does that ring a bell?"
Potter looked at him as if he had struck him in the face. "That... That was-" he spluttered. Redness crept onto his cheeks and he turned away quickly, but not quickly enough for Scorpius not to notice. "When I said that, I was referring to... before."
You mean when we met in the trophy room that last time, Scorpius thought but did not say. A short flash of memory crawled over his skin, tingling, making him shift in his clothes. That time I thought you were touching me.
"You're here for reparations. You owe me," Potter explained frantically. "That doesn't mean that I own you. It's different."
"So if I chose to stop being your 'assistant'," he air quoted "right this moment, if I just walked out and didn't come back, you wouldn't... you wouldn't tell what I did? You wouldn't... ruin me?" He was tempted to ask whether he had forgotten his own words already- or had he somehow meant something different when saying them? What else could he possibly have meant, though?
And just like that, Scorpius felt that they had come to a crossroads. Which was doubly strange because he hadn't expected their – affiliation? connection? quasi-contractual business relationship? - to move at all, ever. After weeks of doing the same thing over and over in the same manner and only communicating one way and in imperatives, he had assumed their – whatever it was – to be completely stationary and inert.
And yet... here they were, forcedly redefining it.
What am I? To you? Exactly?
James didn't answer the question. Obviously frustrated, he turned his back and started cleaning the powder sieve with what looked like a crocheting needle, stabbing and jerking vigorously.
If it had been anyone else, Scorpius would have assumed that the silence was just an unspoken admission, a refusal to embarrass themselves by betraying, verbally, their base, malicious intent.
But this wasn't anyone else, it was James Sirius Potter. He was clearly appalled by the idea of physically owning him, and maybe he had only just realised that that's what he had been doing, dangling the threat of exposure over his head that day in the trophy room.
Interestingly, though, he didn't deny it, either.
He didn't set him free and send him on his way.
Scorpius meant to ask 'Do I need to stay?' - meaning not just now, but in general, as an unpaid, uncredited and unappreciated measly assistant to the Apprentice – but what came out of his mouth in the end was, "Do you want me to stay?"
Big difference. He felt it, in his chest. For a moment, the entire room seemed to be holding its breath, kettles included.
James declined to answer. Again.
After minutes of working on his simmering wolfsbane-to-be, he quietly said, "Get me another vial of aconite fluid, please. Whitened, at least 80%."
Scorpius exhaled deeply. Then, he took the narrow steps to get him the vial, huffed and puffed and swore his way back up the stairway with burning thighs and calves, then cut up the aforementioned bat spleen, peeled half a dozen ashwinder eggs, counted out the right amount of belladonna petals, grated the ginger and the erumpent horn and counted twenty three drops of aqua vitae into a test tube.
He was twenty minutes late to the study group and his hands smelled of snargaluff and were slowly getting a dark purple hue around his fingernails. People leaned away from him, giving him a clear indicator of exactly how bad his body odour was.
Although they gave him dark looks that spoke volumes, none of his fellow Slytherins said a word about any of it.
/TBC
Baby steps, people. Baby steps.
As always, reviews are very appreciated!