Solara Lovegood and the Shadow of the Dragon
Chapter VIII: The Potions Master
With Charms, Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and History of Magic behind her—and a sizable lunch now weighing heavily in her stomach—Solara found herself eagerly anticipating her next class. It wasn't the subject itself—Potions—that intrigued her but the chance to observe her Head of House, Professor Snape, up close. The mysterious, greasy-haired man she had once glimpsed in the shadowy confines of the Leaky Cauldron, engrossed in reading about Harry Potter, was now within her grasp.
Snape had introduced himself the first-years only briefly on the first night, his cold voice making the common room all the colder, and leaving little impression other than his authority. Since then, he had kept to the edges, a specter haunting the dungeon halls. This distance suited Solara, for now. She had no intention of confronting the man alone—not in his quarters, nor anywhere else—until she understood his goals more clearly, particularly those that tied him to The-Boy-Who-Lived. To act prematurely would be unwise.
Still, she couldn't ignore the faint thrill that coursed through her whenever she thought about his recognition of her at the feast, minor though it may have been. His sharp eyes had lingered on her for a moment too long, a flicker of familiarity lighting their dark depths. The realization intrigued her deeply. Why would such a calculating man remember a child staring at him in passing? Did he suspect something? Or was it mere curiosity on his part?
"No detail is ever truly insignificant to a man like him," she ruminated as she descended into the dungeons, alongside her three Gryffindor companions, her expression cool and composed. She would observe him carefully, listening not just to what he said but what he left unsaid. As the thoughts swirled darkly within her, the cold precision of her plans were momentarily clouded by a faint pang of unease.
The unease, she realized, was not one of apprehension but gluttony. Lunch had been an indulgent affair: a generous helping of cottage pie, lamb chops, a baked potato, and two pumpkin pasties. She glanced down at her stomach, feeling the rumble of a meal too hearty for a midday repast.
With a faint grimace, Solara's thoughts briefly shifted, as she resolved to moderate her future indulgences and seek a physical outlet to counterbalance such excess. "Perhaps Flying class will suffice?" she murmured to herself, though skepticism tinged her tone. "If not, I'll have to build my endurance on my own. A jog around the school grounds every morning might do…" The idea wasn't entirely unwelcome, though the thought of drawing early morning stares from her peers was less appealing. She briefly entertained the notion of training with weights or some other form of resistance, recognizing that while wand-work required precision and concentration, it lacked the physical demands of swordplay or charging into battle clad in chainmail—a reality her second upbringing had gradually accustomed her to. Still, keeping herself in peak condition was as much a matter of pride as it was preparation.
Her musings faded as her gaze sharpened, her steps slowing as she approached the dungeon corridor. The cool, foreboding atmosphere seemed a natural extension of the man who dwelled here—Professor Snape. Shadows clung to the stone walls, and the faint scent of damp earth hung in the air, mingling with a hint of something sharp and bitter. It was a fitting stage for the enigmatic figure she sought to understand.
Whatever physical training she undertook, she had little doubt it would pale in comparison to the mental acrobatics and strategic cunning necessary to navigate the labyrinthine mind of her Head of House. "No matter," she thought resolutely. "Whether through sweat or subtlety, I will remain prepared." Her words were an oath, whispered only in the sanctity of her mind.
Even now, as her thoughts lingered on him, she could not fully explain the compulsion to study him so intently. There was something about him that tugged at her senses—a shadow of familiarity, a gut instinct honed in her past life spent uncovering spies and rooting out traitors. It was that same instinct that had pricked her nerves the moment she had first seen him at the Leaky Cauldron all those years ago, his sharp features etched in the dim light as he quietly read his copy of the Daily Prophet.
Her instincts had not dulled since then, and now, standing on the precipice of his domain, they whispered again. Watch him. Learn from him. But never trust him.
"You're looking awfully thoughtful, Lovegood," Ron quipped, his freckled face creasing into a grin as he tugged his head forward, motioning for her to pick up the pace. Solara blinked, her mind snapping back to the present. She quickened her step, matching the Gryffindor's stride just as they stepped into the Potions classroom. A room just as foreboding as the rest of the Dungeon corridor, the shelves lining the walls, with their glass jars gleaming faintly in the dim light. Inside, peculiar ingredients—some mundane, others grotesque—floated in viscous liquids. Eyes of unknown creatures, twisted roots, and what looked like preserved spiders all bore silent witness to the students filing in.
Ron's grin faltered as he glanced at one particularly unsettling jar, its contents a pale, writhing substance that seemed alive despite its preservation. "Gross," he muttered, nudging Harry, who wrinkled his nose but kept his expression steady.
"Fascinating," Hermione whispered, already leaning closer to inspect the nearest shelf. Her eyes danced over the labels with a mix of curiosity and awe.
"Potions requires focus, Weasley," she replied smoothly, unperturbed by the various oddities upon the shelves, while catching a sneer from several of her housemates as she entered. "A virtue I'm sure you'll discover soon enough—perhaps by accident."
Hermione snickered, while Harry shot her a curious glance. Solara ignored it, letting her attention drift to the room. Her sharp eyes swept over the neatly arranged workstations before scanning the room for an ideal seat.
"There," she said, pointing to a table near the middle, strategically positioned for a clear view of the board and Professor Snape's desk. The four of them sat down, though Weasley looked less than thrilled, his eyes warily fixed on the jars filled with what appeared to be living things.
Draco Malfoy, ever flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, entered the room next, taking the table to her left. Solara noted his smug expression as he raised his brows at both her and Potter in a challenging manner. She ignored him, instead focusing on her supplies: a pristine cauldron, neatly labeled jars of powdered ingredients, and her leather-bound copy of Magical Drafts and Potions.
The room quieted as the door at the front of the classroom opened with a slow, deliberate creak. Professor Snape swept in, his black robes billowing behind him like a shadow. His gaze swept over the students with an intensity that made even the most confident among them squirm in their seats. Solara held her composure, meeting his eyes briefly before lowering hers to her parchment.
"You are here," Snape began in a low, velvety voice, "to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will truly 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..."
His words hung in the air like a spell, captivating the room. Solara found herself leaning forward slightly, intrigued despite herself.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death," Snape continued, his dark eyes glinting as they passed over the students. "That is if you aren't as much a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
Ron flinched visibly at the last remark, and Solara heard a faint groan from his direction. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, Hermione clearly unfazed while Harry looked slightly amused.
Snape's gaze snapped to Harry. "Ah, yes. Harry Potter. Our new—celebrity."
The words dripped with disdain, and the room tensed. Solara's lips twitched, half in amusement and half in curiosity about Snape's interest in Harry.
"Potter," Snape said, stepping closer to Harry's table, "what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry blinked, clearly caught off guard. "I—I don't know, sir."
Hermione's hand shot into the air, but Snape ignored her, his dark gaze fixed on Harry. "Let's try again. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
Harry looked completely lost, while Hermione's hand waved slightly, desperate to be called on.
"I don't know, sir," Harry said again, his tone wary.
"And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Harry opened his mouth but closed it again, shaking his head. Hermione's hand was practically shaking with effort as she stretched it higher. Solara, meanwhile, observed the exchange quietly.
"Clearly, fame isn't everything," Snape sneered, straightening. "Five points from Gryffindor for your lack of preparation."
Hermione's face flushed with indignation, her hand still raised. Solara arched an eyebrow at her persistence, finally speaking up. "Professor, perhaps Miss Granger might enlighten us all with the answers?"
Snape turned his sharp gaze to Solara, studying her for a moment before nodding curtly. "Very well. Miss Granger?"
Hermione launched into a very thorough explanation. "Powdered root of asphodel combined with wormwood creates a powerful sleeping potion known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and will save you from most poisons. Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, also known as aconite."
Snape's expression remained impassive, though Solara detected the slightest twitch of approval at the corner of his mouth. A pause followed, as if he were weighing the very air around him, his next words drawn out with grudging reluctance. "Correct. Ten points to…" his voice faltered for an instant, a muscle in his jaw tightening briefly before he continued in a tone cooler than before, "Gryffindor."
Hermione sat back, her cheeks pink with pride, while Ron gave her a half-hearted grin. Solara allowed herself a small nod in Hermione's direction before focusing back on her notes.
The rest of the lesson proceeded with detailed instructions on brewing a simple Boil-Cure Potion. The dungeon was filled with the soft sound of mortars grinding, and the occasional hiss of cauldrons heating over carefully tended flames. The sharp, acrid smellof somethingpermeated the air, blending with the damp chill of the stone walls.
Solara worked methodically, her brow furrowed in concentration as she measured her ingredients with exact precision. Each motion was deliberate—she crushed six snake fangs into a fine powder, ensuring no clumps remained, and carefully added four measures to her cauldron. Lighting the flame beneath it, she heated the mixture to exactly 250 degrees for ten seconds. Afterward, she waved her wand, setting it to brew for forty minutes.
As the cauldron simmered, she turned her attention to her potions book, reading intently and jotting notes in the margins. A particular potion had captured her interest from her earlier readings from an entirely different book, and she decided to seize the opportunity to engage her enigmatic professor.
"Professor Snape," she called, raising her hand.
"Yes, Lovegood?" he replied, his tone a low, irritated hiss.
"Will we be brewing Felix Felicis in this class?" she asked, her voice calm but tinged with curiosity.
Her question earned a flicker of surprise in the stoic man's expression before his habitual frown returned. "And why," he began, his dark eyes narrowing as he swept toward her, robes billowing behind him like smoke, "would a first-year inquire about such an advanced potion on her second day at school?"
"I find the concept intriguing," she replied evenly. "I was wondering if there's been any successful attempt at prolonging its effects for days, or even years, without having to ingest gallons worth of it and poisoning yourself."
Snape's brow arched, his tone sharp. "No. Such endeavors have been attempted and been deemed too lengthy to brew by experienced potioneers. Some measuring on the scale of multiple lifetimes, and therefore utterly useless to its creator—who would likely be too deceased to benefit from it."
"Hmm. Pity," Solara murmured, her lips pressing into a faint frown as her mind churned with possibilities.
Solara wasn't finished. Snape's curt answer only fueled her curiosity. She tilted her head slightly, her frown deepening in thought as she considered his words.
"But Professor," she ventured, her voice carefully measured, "wouldn't it be theoretically possible to concentrate the effects of Felix Felicis? Perhaps through additional distillation or by infusing it with stabilized magical properties?"
Snape stopped in his tracks, his dark eyes narrowing as he turned fully to face her. The room seemed to grow quieter, the murmurs of her classmates fading into the background.
"For the sake of argument, let us assume you have some radical new insight into a potion that Zygmunt Budge himself created nearly five hundred years ago, and upon which no improvements have been made since then. How would you concentrate it?" His tone was low, his interest piqued despite himself. "Such a method would risk destabilizing the potion entirely. Felix Felicis is already volatile; tampering with its balance could lead to catastrophic effects."
"Catastrophic how?" Solara pressed, her expression unyielding, though she knew she was treading on thin ice.
"A concentrated Felix would likely amplify not just success but arrogance," Snape answered, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "Overconfidence leads to recklessness, and recklessness leads to ruin."
Solara nodded, absorbing the information, but her curiosity refused to be sated. "Then what of the ingredient ratios? Could substituting one with a stabilizing agent yield a more sustained effect, or perhaps mitigate the volatility?"
Snape's expression shifted ever so slightly—was that a flicker of approval, buried beneath the scowl?
"Such theories," he said slowly, "are the ramblings of those who dabble in alchemy, not potioneering. Stabilizing agents alter a potion's essence. To tamper with Felix Felicis is to invite disaster, not mastery."
"But theories lead to progress, don't they?" she countered, her tone respectful yet persistent.
Snape's lips pressed into a thin line. "Theories, Miss Lovegood, lead to graveyards when pursued without restraint." He leaned closer, his dark gaze locking onto hers. "You would do well to temper your ambition with caution." The man paused, then added, "Restraint, as your mother put it in her Howler."
Solara held his gaze, her mind racing with possibilities despite his warning, and the sting of Pandora's reprimand from the day before. "Of course, Professor," she replied smoothly, inclining her head in deference. "Thank you for the clarification."
Snape straightened, giving her one last searching look before sweeping back toward his desk. "Focus on mastering the basics before entertaining delusions of grandeur," he intoned, addressing the class now, though his eyes flicked briefly back to her. "Perhaps one of you might succeed in not botching a simple Boil-Cure potion."
As he walked away, Solara returned her attention to her brewing cauldron, the faintest smile playing at her lips. She had learned more than nothing, but less than something, in that exchange than Snape likely intended, and the gears in her mind were already turning.
After making several notes and reading more about the upcoming potions she was likely to brew in class, her mixture finally reached completion. Setting her book aside, she brought up a jar of horned slugs and opened it carefully. Retrieving four of the creatures—slimy and unpleasantly reminiscent of entrails—she dropped them gently into the cauldron to avoid splashing its contents. She let them simmer for a time before removing the cauldron from the flame.
Glancing briefly at her parchment to confirm the next step, she added her porcupine quills, sliding them into the brew and stirring five times clockwise. A wave of her wand completed the potion with a satisfying puff of pink smoke. To her relief and satisfaction, the liquid inside the cauldron turned the correct shade of teal by the end of the class, its surface smooth and free of bubbles—a promising sign.
Carefully, she ladled a sample into a phial and set it aside, tucking it away for personal use.
Beside her, Ron was frantically trying to salvage his potion. His cauldron, however, seemed to have other ideas, as another bubble burst with a faint plop, sending a glob of greenish sludge perilously close to Solara's workspace.
"Watch it, Weasley," she said, her tone sharp but not unkind. She moved her phial further away from the splash zone and flicked her wand to shield her parchment from the mess.
"Sorry!" Ron muttered, his ears turning red as he stirred his cauldron with renewed desperation.
Hermione, on his other side, leaned in to inspect his work. "You didn't crush your snake fangs finely enough," she observed. "And you were supposed to add them before heating, not after."
Ron groaned, burying his face in his hands. "This is impossible. Snape's going to use this as an excuse to embarrass me in front of the whole class."
"No need for that, Weasley. You're already embarrassing enough," Draco drawled, loud enough for their table to hear, prompting laughter from Crabbe and Goyle.
Both Ron and Solara turned on him, snapping in unison, "Shut it, you gits!"
Draco blinked, clearly caught off guard by the unexpected coordination, and whatever retort he'd prepared deflated before it could leave his lips.
Solara and Ron exchanged faint smirks, a silent acknowledgment of their temporary alliance, before turning back to their work. Solara's focus returned to her notes as she added, "Perhaps next time, try reading the instructions thoroughly." Her tone was calm, though a trace of amusement lingered.
Harry, sitting on Solara's other side, glanced between her pristine potion and Ron's disastrous attempt. "Looks like you've got a knack for this," he said to Solara, his tone casual but with a hint of curiosity.
"It's all about preparation, and recognizing the mistakes my mother makes during her experiments," Solara replied without looking up.
Harry tilted his head slightly, his curiosity deepening. "Your mum experiments with potions?" he asked, his voice quiet but intrigued.
"Not potions, exactly, though there is some dabbling," Solara replied, her tone carefully neutral as she meticulously capped her phial. "She mostly deals with spells and charms, and let's just say I've seen enough misfires and explosions to appreciate the value of precision." She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "It's a habit I've carried into Potions class. Safer that way."
Harry nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he returned to his own cauldron, which had, mercifully, not exploded, stirring it with a touch more care than before. "I guess that makes sense," he said. "I've had enough close calls to know what happens when things go wrong."
Solara raised a brow, her curiosity piqued. "Close calls?" she asked, her tone carefully measured. She had the sense that Harry's words were rooted in something deeper, something beyond the classroom.
Harry hesitated, his hand pausing mid-stir as he glanced at her. "You know... accidents," he said, his voice deliberately casual, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something more. "Growing up, things... just happened sometimes."
"Hmm," Solara hummed thoughtfully, studying him. "Accidents don't just happen, Potter. They're caused—by carelessness, neglect, or ignorance. Which was it in your case?" The question was pointed, though her tone lacked malice. It was as though she were peeling back a layer of armor, testing its strength.
Harry's grip on his ladle tightened slightly, but he didn't look away. "Maybe a bit of all three," he said finally, his tone subdued. "But it's different now." He gestured vaguely at his cauldron. "Here, at least, I've got a chance to learn how to control it."
"Control is everything," Solara replied, nodding slightly. "But discipline isn't just about the wand in your hand—it's about the mind behind it." She let the words hang in the air for a moment before adding, "And knowing when to act—or when to let things play out."
Harry frowned, as if turning her words over in his mind, before nodding slowly. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, his tone quiet but resolute.
For a fleeting moment, their gazes met, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Then Harry turned back to his potion, stirring with renewed focus, while Solara returned to her notes, her expression thoughtful.
As Snape began his rounds, his sharp gaze swept over the class, lingering on Solara's teal potion.
"Adequate," he said finally, his tone clipped. His expression betrayed no hint of praise, but the mere absence of scorn felt like a small victory. "Though I expect a higher standard from one with your… potential."
Solara inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the comment without a word, though her lips twitched in satisfaction. She noted the calculated choice of words—his way of challenging her to prove herself further.
When he reached Ron's station, however, his expression darkened.
"Weasley," Snape intoned, his voice dripping with disdain as he prodded the contents of Ron's cauldron with his wand. "What precisely do you call this… concoction?"
Ron swallowed hard. "Uh… a Boil-Cure potion?"
Snape sneered. "A rather charitable description, wouldn't you say?" He flicked his wand, and the contents of Ron's cauldron vanished with a faint whoosh. "Zero marks. Perhaps next time, you'll attempt to follow basic instructions."
As Snape moved on, Ron slumped in his seat, muttering under his breath. Solara spared him a glance but said nothing, instead turning her attention back to her phial, which she carefully labeled and set neatly on the table.
Draco straightened imperceptibly as Snape inspected his cauldron. After a moment, Snape offered him a faint nod of approval. "A competent attempt, Mr. Malfoy," he said, his tone noticeably less icy than before.
Draco smirked, casting a sidelong glance at Solara. "Seems I'm not the only one with potential," he drawled softly, earning an eye-roll from both Hermione and Solara as they both began tidying their workstations.
As the lesson ended, Snape dismissed the class with a wave of his hand. "Leave your cauldrons for the house-elves to clean. Next time, I expect fewer failures."
Solara packed her belongings meticulously, the boil cure among them, her mind already analyzing the lesson. The first day had proven insightful—not only in terms of potions and the potions professor, but also in understanding the competence of her peers. As she slung her bag over her shoulder, she made a mental note to ensure her next potion wasn't just adequate but exemplary. In Slytherin, she intended to stand out, not merely blend in.
As the students spilled out of the dungeon, their chatter filled the corridor with a mixture of groans, complaints, and animated retellings of the first Potions class. Solara lingered near the exit, her satchel slung over her shoulder, observing the milling students. She didn't have to wait long before Harry, Hermione, and Ron approached, their expressions ranging from puzzled to annoyed.
"Did it seem to you that Snape was rather… aggressive with me?" Harry muttered, his green eyes narrowing in frustration. "When he came in, he barely looked at me before interrogating me, and he hardly glanced at my potion. But when he did, he just looked angry."
"You did stir it counterclockwise when it should have been clockwise," Hermione pointed out, her voice tinged with exasperation. "It's in the instructions."
"Easy for you to say," Ron interjected, before glancing towards Potter. "At least he didn't vanish yours, Harry."
Solara raised an eyebrow. "Snape's disdain for Gryffindors is no secret. Though, I admit, his particular interest in you, Potter, seems… personal."
Harry frowned, his jaw tightening. "Personal? What did I do to him?"
"Existed, apparently," Ron muttered, drawing a faint smirk from Solara.
"Honestly," Hermione said, adjusting the strap of her bag, "it's probably nothing. Professor Snape is just… strict. Maybe he expects more because of who you are."
"Or who my parents were," Harry added with a hint of sadness.
Solara's curiosity piqued at that comment, but she chose not to press further. "Whatever his reasons, it's clear he expects perfection. I wouldn't take it too personally, Potter. He's likely harder on you to make a point."
Hermione nodded. "That's true. If anything, it's an opportunity to prove him wrong."
Harry didn't look entirely convinced, but he nodded grudgingly. "Yeah, maybe."
The group reached the main staircase, where their paths would diverge.
"We need to head back to the common room," Hermione said briskly, glancing at Harry and Ron. "Astronomy is next, and we'll need our supplies."
"Same plan for me, though it's less of a walk," Solara replied smoothly, adjusting her robes with a smug grin. Her remark earned her a sneer from Ron, whose expression made it clear he wasn't thrilled about the trek back to the Gryffindor dormitory.
"Lucky you," Ron muttered under his breath, his tone laced with irritation.
Solara ignored the jab, her silvery eyes glinting with faint amusement. "I'll meet you outside Sinistra's classroom," she said, her voice light but deliberate. "And don't be late."
"I won't," Hermione replied, placing a hand upon her chest with mock solemnity, before casting a pointed look at Harry and Ron. "Not so sure about them, though."
"Yeah, yeah," Ron grumbled, rolling his eyes as he adjusted the strap of his bag.
Harry, meanwhile, remained quiet, his expression unreadable. Solara noted the slight furrow in his brow and the way his gaze seemed to drift, as though his thoughts were still consumed by whatever had transpired with Professor Snape earlier and the conversation they had briefly engaged in after.
"Try not to get lost," Solara added with a teasing lilt, before turning gracefully and making her way toward the Slytherin dungeons, leaving the trio to their own devices.
The walk back to the Slytherin common room was uneventful, save for the occasional sneer or curious glance from older students. The low light of the dungeon seemed almost soothing to Solara after the brightness of the upper corridors.
Inside the common room, she found her belongings exactly where she'd left them. Vhagar, perched on the back of her chair, let out a soft hoot, her golden eyes following Solara's every move.
"Good girl," Solara murmured, stroking the owl's feathers briefly. "I'll be back later. Keep an eye on things for me."
Vhagar nipped affectionately at her finger before fluffing her feathers and settling back into her watchful stance. Solara unloaded her assorted notes, focusing on the ones she had set aside for further investigation—particularly her note from History of Magic. She recalled the fleeting moment of lucidity before she had dozed off when she had questioned the ghostly professor about the ancient mysteries of Hogwarts. His response had been brief and enigmatic: a reference to the so-called Chamber of Secrets, supposedly hidden within the castle. While the information was vague, the idea of such a place intrigued her. If it existed, it could potentially be a weapon or resource to exploit.
Setting those thoughts aside for later, she gathered extra parchment, quill, and ink, ensuring her wand was securely tucked into her robe before continuing.