Potter Potions

Hands clasped behind my back, I watch the Seventh years dragging their feet as they enter my classroom. One by one, they find their places as I allow myself the small pleasure of scanning the room with barely concealed apathy.

The pupils do not notice of course, or rather, if they do, they wisely pretend not to. Even as they begin to embrace the onset of adulthood, at least the physical attributes of it, they keep a respectable distance from the permanently simmering irritability of their Potions Master. It is a common joke amongst the older students at Hogwarts that I just need a good shag to rid myself of my uptight demeanour. A joke, oddly enough, that they never dare to make in my presence but it is something that I have nonetheless become aware of.

I scrutinize the row of desks once more and then turn my hard gaze to the door, but my actions do not facilitate the arrival of the student I am expecting to see.

My irritation increases exponentially when it becomes clear that the boy in question is not likely to make an entrance any time in the near future. Nostrils flared, the N.E.W.T level Potions scholars are left in no doubt as to the cause of my displeasure. We are all well aware who is missing.

“Professor Snape?” A nauseating chirping sound from the front row distracts my attention from the vacant doorway.

“Miss Granger.”

“Sir, Harry won’t be attending class today.” At least the girl has finally developed enough common sense not to raise her hand as frequently as she used to.

“Harry? Harry who?” I question, as though there had never been a child such named, and certainly not one that is a constant thorn in my side.

Her overly plucked eyebrows crease in confusion. Evidently, she has been introduced to the finer nuances of female grooming, though sadly it would appear, not very proficiently.

“Harry Potter,” she says in a flat tone that I find impertinent. She may as well have added ‘you idiot’ since the unspoken words hang perilously in the air.

“Ten points from Gryffindor for your petulance. Now, would you care to furnish me with an explanation for Mister Potter’s absence?” The day I call the boy by his given name will be the day I welcome an open-mouthed kiss from a Dementor.

“He’s in the infirmary Sir.” My ire ratchets up a couple of notches. Will there ever come a time when the boy is not in the regular care of Madame Pomfrey?

“And what trouble has Mister Potter found himself in this time, Miss Granger?” I growl, dragging out the last syllable with predictable results. The class visibly shrink backwards in one fluid movement.

All except Draco Malfoy, that is, who snickers. His arrogance crawls across my skin and I want to silence him with the threat of detention, but I will not allow a Gryffindor the satisfaction of seeing the Slytherin Head of House punishing one of his own.

“He had an accident during Quidditch training, at lunchtime, Sir. Madame Pomfrey thinks...”

“...That Mr Potter is not well enough to attend this class, am I correct?”

She nods apprehensively, no doubt wondering what she has acceded to, but sure in the knowledge that it will not bode well for her friend. She is right to be concerned.

“Then it is lucky for our resident celebrity that I have a free period after this class ends. If Mister Potter cannot come to Potions, then Potions will have to go to Mister Potter.”

I spin on my heels with such force that my robes flare to create a near perfect arc. Contrary to popular belief, it takes a good many years of practice to achieve the effect. I take pride in my ability to reduce first years to tears with just this simplest of gestures.

Come now, why the disapproving looks? I never ascribed to being a nice man.

The class wince as I snatch up my wand and spell the blackboard, setting out the details of this afternoon’s lesson. I only realise my concentration has lapsed when I reread what I have written and discover one key ingredient missing from the list.

****

Poppy throws her hands in the air upon the fifth time of asking me to leave the infirmary. It is not in my nature to acquiesce to demands, unless they are uttered from the mouths of Albus or the Dark Lord.

Then, I have no choice but to obey but I must inform you, it does not sit well with me. Poppy is protective of all her bed ridden charges, none more so than ‘young Harry’ and she is well aware that this is no social visit on my part to offer grapes and sympathy.

“I don’t want him upset, do you hear me? He has had a nasty fall today and the poor boy can barely gather enough air in his lungs to breathe, never mind having you...”

“I am well aware of Mr. Potter’s medical imposition and I assure you that his delicate ears will not suffer at my hand.”

“It’s not your hand I’m worried about, Severus, it’s that tongue of yours. Sharp enough to cut steel.”

That is a ridiculous thing to say, but I bite my tongue; if I say nothing she has no reason to ask me to leave again. When she realises that I do not intend to rise to her bait, she clucks disapprovingly but leads the way through the infirmary to a curtained bed at the far end.

“Wait here,” she gestures, disappearing between the mottled blue curtains. I cannot help but tap my foot impatiently; does the woman think I have nothing better to do with my time than queue to visit a numbskull Quidditch brat?

There comes a half-mumbled protest from the shielded bed and my lip twitches; partly in amusement at Potter’s obvious reluctance to receive me as a visitor and partly in annoyance that he would have the audacity to voice his distress so plainly. Before I can form a suitable sneer, Poppy re-emerges.

“In you go then. Five minutes and not one second more. That lad needs all the rest he can get.”

I give her a terse nod and wait until she leaves to attend another patient before drifting through the curtains.

Merlin! The boy truly does look awful. For one disturbing moment, I almost feel sorry for him. His face is a lattice of bruises and cuts and one arm lays limply on the bed. His hair is plastered to his forehead, slicked down by a substance that I suspect is blood. It is hard to tell against the contrast of those dark strands.

“Potter.” I step closer to the bed and hover apprehensively. I had not expected him to be so badly damaged and my surprise has rendered me unable to decide whether I should sit or remain standing.

“Hullo Professor,” he says, turning his head to make eye contact and wincing when a sharp pain spears his spinal column. My throat tightens and I swallow reflexively, trying to refocus on what I had planned to say.

For the moment, I am incapable of mocking him. Despite the wider community’s allegiance that I am a cruel and sadistic man, it would give me no real pleasure to kick the boy when he is so obviously unable to defend himself.

The green eyes are glazed, probably in pain, as he stares unblinkingly at me in expectation. I gather my wits and speak, discarding the short and sharp vitriolic speech I had originally intended to make.

“I came to inform you that regrettably, you missed a vital lecture in your Potions class today. It is not a subject we will be covering again before you sit your N.E.W.T. and although I have some...sympathy,” I have to force the word through gritted teeth, “for the predicament that you find yourself in, I feel I must also point out that Quidditch will not help you gain adequate examination grades.”

He nods the entire time I speak, as though he agrees wholeheartedly with everything I have said.

“I’m very sorry, sir, for missing your lesson. I was rather looking forward to it,” he replies, with what appears to be genuine earnest.

As he talks, I notice how swollen and bruised his bottom lip is. His top lip is relatively unscathed, a thin almost non-existent line that contrasts grotesquely with that of its counterpart.

“Are you attempting to be humorous Potter? I see nothing amusing about potentially failing one of the most crucial of subjects. One, might I remind you, that you are reliant upon if you insist on enrolling in the Auror training programme.”

My legs are beginning to ache from having pounded the unforgiving flagstones all day, and I huff in defeat before sliding into the single chair beside his bed. I am slightly nearer to him than I would have preferred to be, but the close proximity of the curtain does not allow me to push the chair back any farther, unless I wish to have blue cloth draped across my head.

“No sir, I know I need a good grade in Potions.”

He braces his weight on his hands and shifts backwards against the mountain of pillows. I catch the fleeting clench of his jaw as the action proves taxing. He no longer has the soft, undefined features that he once did; his face has taken on the proportions of adulthood and he has been blessed with strong, angular lines that I had not noticed before. I suppose the gloom of the dungeons could be partly to blame but I also suspect that I have deliberately chosen not to perceive them. Now, it is impossible to ignore, sitting less than a foot away from him with rays of sunshine streaming through the open window, highlighting every dip and curve. He looks so vulnerable and innocent, though I know full well he is neither.

I am shocked back to my senses when he asks, “What can I do to catch up on what I missed today?”

Had I still been standing, a mere gust of wind would no doubt have floored me.

I regain control over my facial features and with no small effort, pull them back into a neutral expression. Did my ears deceive me, or did Harry Potter actually ask, almost enthusiastically, to be given Potions work?

“Well,” I cough, attempting to cover my momentary lapse in verbal finesse, “I suppose if you are entirely serious about catching up on your studies I may afford you an evening or two of my personal time in tutelage, if that is agreeable.” Really, there is nothing else for it, much as it pains me to offer.

In that indomitable Gryffindor style, he braves a weak grin. “Certainly, sir, thank-you. And I’m really sorry, once again.” His absurd act of gratification is beginning to irritate me so I scowl at him to show my displeasure.

This is not like Potter at all. Ever alert, I consider that there must be some prank afoot, but without proof, speculation can only remain as such. Either that, or he has taken a rather more serious knock to the head than Poppy first diagnosed.

“Yes, well next time keep a tighter grip on your broom. You will, I trust, inform me as soon as you are released from this...asylum.”

Potter has the cheek to snicker at what he thinks is a joke. I was not attempting to be humorous since asylum is a perfect description for the place. Only St Mungos could rival the Hogwarts infirmary for the sheer volume of distressed moans and cries. If only the other patients would suffer as quietly as Potter does. Of course, it is all part of his martyr act, of that you can be sure.

I am suddenly grateful that I chose Potions as a career over healing. I would rather sit on the Dark Lord’s lap and sing him lullabies than spend a day cooped up attending to physically damaged children. Merlin knows they are difficult enough to deal with when they are in full health.

“Sir, how did you know I wanted to be an Auror?” Potter cocks his head, apparently intrigued, as though I had gone to some great length to procure the information.

“Surely you are aware by now that everything you do is discussed, debated and dissected by our beloved Headmaster? One cannot fail to be frequently subjected to a full inventory of your colourful life,” I say, despising myself firstly for having answered him and secondly for not injecting more venom into my voice. Nevertheless, his eyes drop back to the bed and he twists a length of the starched sheet in his good hand. If I didn’t know the boy as well as I do, I might have been fooled into thinking his reaction carried some humility.
I rise from the chair and move to the curtained exit.

“Do get well soon Potter, because I promise you neither my time, nor my patience is infinite.”

****

“Class dismissed!” I exhale gratefully as the students collect up their books and clear away the last remnants of ingredients.
Another Potions class devoid of Potter, according to Madame Pomfrey, because the Infraspinatus muscle in his right arm is proving a nuisance to heal magically. I did not ask her to furnish me with regular updates on the boy’s progress, but she seems to have taken it upon herself to do so anyway.

This latest piece of information has me cursing myself because now I am considering providing her with a Potion that will speed his recovery and really, why shouldn’t he suffer a little when his incapacitation is entirely his own fault?

Someone clears their throat and I am pulled back from my thoughts of prim white sheets and sweaty lightening-shaped foreheads.
Draco Malfoy casually swings his bag over his shoulder and saunters down the length of the classroom, jutting out his hip as he stops beside my desk, running a finger along the grain of wood as he waits for my undivided attention. It takes only a moment but a moment nonetheless, because I am watching the graceful slide of that slender digit, the alabaster skin stark against the rich coffee of the wood.

“Yes, Mr Malfoy?” I question, leaning back in my chair and resting my chin atop steepled fingers in expectation.

“Professor Snape, is it true that Potter gets extra tutoring?” he says as though this fact annoys him greatly.

“Why might that be any of your concern?”

“Excuse me sir, but if he can’t make it to lessons then why should he be given special treatment?” He finally draws his finger away from the desk and plants his hands on his hips. The gesture should be amusing but it only serves to make him look more arrogant than he frequently does.

“You are, I take it, aware that he is currently in the infirmary?”

“Yes, but..”

“And that until he is fully recovered, he has no choice but to miss vital Potions lessons that could affect his N.E.W.T grades at the end of this term?”

“Yes sir, but...”

“And were you in a similar predicament, Mister Malfoy, would I also be correct in assuming that you yourself would be grateful for the opportunity to cover material imperative to those examinations?

“Yes, but..”

“Then why are you standing here with that impertinent look on your face, arguing with me no less, in regard to something that has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with you?” I scissor his grey eyes with a steely black glare.

He looks away and pouts, pausing a beat before answering, “He’s a Gryffindor, sir,” as if that should explain everything. It is typical of him to answer in this way. There is no logic to his statement and yet I find myself wanting to smile.

“As is sadly true, but he is still a student in my class and if for no other reason, I will not have his poor grade reflect on my teaching ability. Is that clear to you?”

“Yes. Sir.” His hands fall to his side as he takes a cautious step backwards, spinning on his heel before resuming a haughty pace to the door. I let him reach it, thinking he has escaped without punishment before unceremoniously shattering that illusion.

“Mister Malfoy, you have a weeks’ detention for your temerity, and since you are so keen on extra tuition, you may spend it with Mister Potter and myself, studying for your exams.”

He turns slowly and I meticulously assess his face but he betrays nothing of the indignity he must surely be feeling at such harsh treatment.

“As you wish, sir.” He briefly holds my gaze the length of the murky dungeon and even from this distance I can see those stormy eyes glinting dangerously before he leaves.

I run my fingers through my hair in frustration. I am always reluctant to reprimand one of my own snakes, but Draco is beginning to grate on my nerves. I have spent the past three months subtly attempting to wear him down to have him confide in me. Lucius has a lot to answer for, filling the boy’s head with delusions of grandeur and nonsense about pureblood worth. I am determined that Draco will not follow in his father’s footsteps, making the same mistakes I did when being led blindly by those who claimed to love and care for me. At this stage of his young life, with the Dark Lord gathering strength and pace, it is imperative now more than ever that he receive proper guidance.

***