Potions

POTIONS

Snape seemed to have taken the newly-reinstated Gryffindor Seeker's decision to pursue Potions at NEWT level particularly badly. It was as though, aggravated by The Boy Who Lived's failure to pick up on five years of hinting that the Potions Master did not appreciate Harry's company in any way, shape or form, the gloves were now well and truly off: no more Mr Nice Guy.

"Perhaps," hypothesised the Head of Slytherin House (and, if rumours were to be believed, the freshly rejected applicant once more for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post), "I was not clear enough in my instructions?" It could have passed for theatre, except for the tangibly thick layer of malevolence in the hissed words, as though it was taking every ounce of the wizard's self-control not to hex Harry into oblivion there on the spot.

"Or perhaps," he continued, two black, mirthless eyes locked on Harry's, "our most esteemed student feels that a mere fifteen years' experience counts for nothing, and that he... knows... best..." an almost executional hush had fallen across the NEWT Potions class as the last words were uttered. Had the situation been less severe, Harry might have noticed the closest thing to a sign of life cross Malfoy's face since the start of term as Snape moved in for the kill, but no, Harry had other problems at that precise moment in time.

The principle one (apoplectic Potions teacher notwithstanding) being that instead of the calm, azure solution intended, his cauldron was struggling to contain a violent maelstrom of reddish-orange gloop with the consistency of treacle and a big fat 'zero' written across the whole lesson's work in big flaming script. That last was a metaphor, of course, but the end result was the same.

From the desk to his left, Harry could feel Hermione urging him not to do anything 'rash'. Ron, next to her (as always), would simply be holding his breath, offering votives to any and all of the patron saints of damage limitation. But Harry wasn't looking at them - instead, he used every ounce of his self control to keep his eyes locked, defiantly, on Snape's - he wasn't going to give Snivellus the satisfaction of being the one to blink first.

"Tell me," invited the Potions Master, in the tones normally reserved for declarations of open war, "exactly how many ounces of shredded Boomslang Skin does this potion require?"

"Um, Thr..." began Harry, when he felt a dainty right foor exert four distinct presses on his left, "I mean, four," he corrected, hastily.

There was a long, dreadful silence, filled only by the soft murmur of fifteen simmering cauldrons. No-one dared breathe as Snape and Harry continued to look hard into others' eyes, each equally determined to give no quarter.

"Interfere in my class again, Miss Patil," warned Snape in cold, soft tones without taking his eyes off Harry for a second, "and I will see to it personally that you are expelled."

Parvati, on Harry's left, gave no sign of having heard the threat, but this hardly mattered, as Snape didn't even bother with so much as a cursory glance in her direction. Internally, Harry squirmed with guilt for Parvati's misfortune at being paired with him, but he was determined not to let Snape receive any indication whatsoever that he might, just might, be getting to him.

"This," Snape indicated the cauldron with a wave of his hand that somehow managed to convey near infinite levels of abhorrence for the ineptitude of its creators, "is worthless. You have, again, Mr Potter, attained a mark of zero in this class. I am certain I do not need to remind you of the consequences should your performance in this subject fail to improve..."

Finally, there was a brief wand flick, and the contents of Harry and Parvati's cauldron were sent back to whichever level of Hell they'd apparently come from (and where, no doubt, they would await their reunion with Snape with stoic patience). Snape reached his teaching podium in four measured strides (Harry had had ample opportunity to analyse every element of this aspect of Potions since starting his sixth year), and with a single all-encompassing glare, wordlessly communicated that all those students who valued their lives were to resume their studies.

Harry chanced an apologetic glance at Parvati, before the afterthought evidently struck Harry's least favourite member of the Order of the Phoenix: "Potter, Patil. Detention, nine o' clock, Tuesday evening. Now get out of my sight."

Guilt fought a short-lived, and, ultimately futile resistance against relief as Harry only too readily complied with Snape's final request. He knew that he was going to get it in the neck from Hermione for having rushed the homework, but it wasn't his fault (well, OK, yes, he'd mixed up the ingredients, but apart from that, it really wasn't his fault).

Snape had it in for him. Really.

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"So why are you taking Potions, Harry?" enquired Parvati, as they settled into adjacent chairs in one of the more secluded corners of Madam Pince's domain. "I mean, Snape really, really has it in for you..."

Still smarting from yet another bout of public humiliation, Harry had to force himself to bite down the sharp retort - oh, you noticed, did you? - and contented himself with a non-committal grunt that would, he hope, serve as whatever answer Parvati wished to interpret it as.

"Fine!" she snapped, after waiting a further few moments to give Harry an opportunity to elaborate, and with a flick of her long dark, hair, she fished out her Charms homework, and began to read with exaggerated intensity.

The guilt, still a sore loser after giving in to relief on being dismissed from Potions early, made a rallying comeback. After all, hadn't he just cost Parvati a zero in Potions for the third week running too? It was sort of baffling, actually, as to why she was still willing to be his partner in the subject, come to think of it...

"IwanttobeanAuror," Harry mumbled, feeling his face heat up at these words. Not that he was embarrassed about his aspirations, so much, as feeling that it was a little presumptuous, or big-headed, to sort of assume he'd make the grade.

"Hmmm?" Parvati turned, questioningly, obviously not having been able to decipher Harry's words into anything remotely intelligible.

"I, y'know, want to be an Auror. When I leave," he added hurriedly, and somewhat superfluously, in case Parvati thought he was so big-headed he had plans on heading up the Ministry's Auror Division before seventh year.

She continued to give him the 'elaborate, do,' look.

"And, well, last year, y'know, with the Careers advice and stuff, McGonagall said that you need really top marks to be an Auror, and that included NEWT in Potions..."

"Oh, wow, Harry, that's really..." Parvati seemed to flounder a little, searching for the right word, "that's so you."

"Um, er... yeah," he affirmed with his customary elegance, before belatedly remembering the rudiments of the art of conversation, "so, um, why are you doing Potions?"

Parvati shifted edgily in her seat, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"It's just, you know," continued Harry, somehow aware that he was opening his mouth solely so that he could place his foot squarely therein, "it's not your kind of subject. Well, I mean, the type of subject I thought you liked. Snape. Thing..." Harry trailed off, as the effort of willing an enormous black hole to swallow him completely was rapidly diminishing his ability to string words together.

"Well," she ventured, somewhat hesitantly, "I want to go into beauty after Hogwarts, and you need Potions for the creams and makeup and stuff."

Whilst Harry was gratified that Parvati had managed to dignify his question with an answer, he was now thoroughly alarmed at the prospect of having to continue a conversation where he was supposed to imply that he understood this was a worthy career choice. "That's really," he nodded, enthusiastically, "really..."

"I know it's cheap, and tawdry and everything," she continued, getting visibly miserable, "but it's all I'm good at." She brightened, falsely, "so, you know, I'm going to do my thing, and it's going to be OK..."

Harry was shaking his head, "what do you mean, all you're good at?" he asked. "Parvati, you were brilliant in the DA: I mean, you really came on a lot through that, you know? And you had a good start on the Patronus, too - that'll come, really..."

OK, maybe 'brilliant' was a little charitable, but, actually, no, Harry corrected himself, the DA had really proven themselves to him, and, more importantly, to themselves, and he was not going to let Parvati talk herself down in that way. She was better than that.

Parvati's unease had begun to evaporate as Harry's conviction had carried through into words, and a hesitant smile was, at last, just touching the corners of her mouth.

Yeah, better than that. Definitely.

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