Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
THE SONG OF SOLOMON
Chapter 11: The Choice
Horace Slughorn settled in his overstuffed armchair and poured his finest mead into two glasses, one of which he then set across the coffee table.
The soft collision of ice failed to seize the attention of the man sitting opposite to him, whose hair had over the years turned as grey as Slughorn's own. The dark circles beneath the eyes were nonetheless recent acquisitions, as well as the hint of panic that ghosted the pale features, whispering the fear of losing what had made the man whole.
The brilliant green gaze of Harry Potter held on the marble surface, on the vial of silver powder that looked almost ethereal under the candlelight. Innocence diffused through the multiple layers of invisible shielding charm, betraying neither the toxicity hidden in its essence nor its overpowering seduction unleashed at the first taste.
Beside the vial rested a tablet, rusty like dried blood, as if its once vivid scarlet had been leeched away and abandoned by life. It laid almost invisibly against a moleskin satchel, marked with the bold print St. Mungo's Hospital and a neat line of handwriting: Ginevra Potter. 3 Pellets Daily.
Harry looked up; the gleam in his eyes made a silent plea, begging for more guidance, more support. Slughorn avoided the gaze and busied himself with a piece of crystallized pineapple that had fallen onto his lap. He swallowed the confection with the words of comfort that threatened to tumble off his tongue.
Slughorn did sympathize; his heart ached for the missing half of the inseparable pair, yet his mind insisted this was Harry's choice to make. Ginny was barely lucid these days, her mind filled with strange visions and dreams that could only be suppressed by the most powerful of all anesthetic, the brown capsule that drained her consciousness as it steadily consumed her life. The burden thus fell on the shoulders of the husband, who had watched his companion succumb to the Darkness that had infected her so long ago, that he had saved everyone else from and no medicine from the Light side could cure.
It had been after a particularly gruesome episode at the hospital that Harry Potter had shown up in his quarters at Hogwarts. His Auror robe was splattered with blood, spilled from Ginny when she struggled against the strong Incarcerous he was forced to cast on her. The usually reticent man was at a complete loss for words; instead, the scarred hand seized a bottle of firewhisky from the cabinet and threw it all down his throat.
It was to drunken ears that Slughorn suggested a visit to his home, where he held in his private store a Class C Non-Tradable Substance that might be of use. It was a deliberate move, to let the Fates decide whether the other man was to obtain the poison from him. Slughorn was a very old man after all, too frail with age to perform another memory modification.
Thus, in this stormy evening, he found Harry Potter on his doorstep.
Contrary to what was expected from a seasoned Auror, Potter had asked few questions; in return, Slughorn had offered minimal information regarding his covert keepsake. He had confiscated it years ago in the Slytherin common room, when Lord Voldemort was at the height of his powers. As Hogwart's Potions master, he was soon able to determine the nature of the delicate powder, a reward from the Dark Lord to his followers who had successfully executed the most hideous crimes in his name. It was meant to ease the aftershock, its addictive properties a guarantee to future loyalties.
Slughorn had preserved the drug as one of his most prized possessions. Not only because it testified the terror of the times, but also, he admitted to himself, it attested to the power and achievement of a former student, whose formidable potions knowledge had originated from none other than himself. The value of the substance only skyrocketed afterwards, when the Dark Lord was forced to abandon its use due to the death toll associated with obtaining the ingredients, which were extracted from various lichens on the cliffs in the Arctic tundra. The recipe for brewing the extract had also been proven impossible to replicate, and many self-made Potions masters had met their death by ingesting flawed creations that either petrified their mind or deemed it so heated in the pursue of additional dosages that the will to perform life-sustaining activities was permanently destroyed.
While many had believed that the art of making the drug was lost forever, Slughorn knew of one man who had both the required skill and resources. Harry's former classmate, the son of the most notorious Death Eater, and family friend to Slughorn's predecessor who had access to Voldemort's potions archives. His name was whispered frequently among the apothecaries circle, in reverence for the list of prohibited substances he was able to collect and smuggle into the country.
He would be the only hope for the Savior of the Wizarding World.
The cost of obtaining the drug, should it be named, would be nothing short of astounding, but Slughorn knew the Potters were affluent enough for almost any requested price. He could not fathom, however, what could motivate Draco Malfoy to risk his life for his once archrival, nor how Harry Potter could entrust his wife's wellbeing to a former enemy.
Harry had not responded to the divulged knowledge with an outburst, as Slughorn had expected. Rather, any sentences that could have been formed were sealed tightly behind quivering lips, the fleeting hope only expressed by an exhausted collapse on the armchair.
The next hour passed with Harry remaining completely still, his gaze fixed upon the silvery powder and the brown pellet on the coffee table. The only sound in the living room was the ticking of the grandfather clock and the pounding of Slughorn's heart, the latter loudening and accelerating by the minute, anxious that he had offended the Auror by once again passing on knowledge that he should not have.
Yet, when Harry finally looked at him, the Potions master could not meet his gaze.
Sadness framed the gaunt features that smiled in understanding, and the beseeching sparkle in the green eyes vanished. The face turned instead to the window, its vision searched the raindrops descending in the shadows of the night, looking powerless and forlorn against the warm yellow glow on the walls that bordered the glass.
A hand reached out, and the fingers closed around the vial.