Potter Potions

I finish unbuttoning my robe and hang it in the mahogany armoire in my bedchamber. Tempus confirms that I can expect a knock at the door at any moment, and sooner rather than later too, if those brats have any sense about them. It would not be wise to try my patience by arriving late.

I make my way back into the sitting room and transfigure one of the small coffee tables into another desk, levitating it until it faces the other, more permanent fixture of my own bureau. Since I am forced to endure the company of two delinquent students this evening, I plan to derive some amusement from it. I accio a chair from the bedroom and furnish each desk with papers which completes the effect of a miniature classroom, with of course, the unusual and rather humorous twist that the students will be facing each other.

Briefly, I contemplate the professionalism of drinking scotch in front of my young charges before deciding that at seventeen, they are unlikely to be either shocked or corrupted by it. In all probability, it is likely that they themselves have had their fair share of alcoholic experiences. Not that I would ever openly admit to condoning such a blatant violation of school rules.


I settle into my worn but comfortable armchair by the hearth and let out a small sigh. A tumbler of scotch and the book that I have chosen to read this evening sit on the table next to me. The roaring fire is valiantly attempting to banish the chill of the dungeon air and although I personally believe that the mind works better in a cooler climate, I am aware that the body does not necessarily respond in kind.

I discarded my shoes and socks at the same time as my robes, once again reasoning that my comfort should not be compromised by the impending arrivals. If they take offense at my informal state of dress, then Draco may spend his detention with Filch and Potter can find someone else to tutor him in the finer points of Potion making.

That brings a wry smile to my face; there is no one else anywhere near as qualified as I am in this particular area of magical instruction.

Two sets of approaching footsteps draw my attention. They are accompanied by a volley of insults, growing louder as their proximity to my quarters increases. The loud rapping is twofold and insistent; certainly not respectful. Typical that they couldn’t even agree on who would knock on the door. The quirk of my lip falls back into a more natural grimace.

I use my most sinister voice to call them in, hoping that they realise I am not amused by their squabbling.

Two heads appear, one as blond and groomed as the other is dark and tousled. I reiterate my displeasure by sighing loudly and beckon them into the room.

Potter, I notice, is holding his right arm gingerly as though it is still causing him pain and I frown a little, wondering if Poppy had administered the potion I gave her to correct the problem.

“Mister Potter. You are here to catch up on the lessons you missed whilst incapacitated. I trust you understand I have given up my own free time to assist you with this?”

The look of gratitude on his face as he nods is not something I am used to seeing, nor am I used to the thrill it elicits in me. I shake my head to dislodge the nauseous feeling.

“Very well then. On that desk,” I point to my own, “you will find a passage of text, and a worksheet that I prepared earlier for you. Read it, and then answer the questions I have set on the reverse. When you have finished, I will allow you to use my personal laboratory to prepare your potion. Do not think for one second that I am bestowing any kind of favouritism upon you,” I say, shooting Draco a look, “only that in order for you to use the school facilities I would have to supervise there, and as you can see, I am quite comfortable here.” Potter nods again and Draco scowls at him.

“Mister Malfoy. I believe you are serving detention,” Potter meets the scowl with a superior smirk which the fair-haired boy is outraged to see me pointedly ignore. Apparently he was expecting some measure of Slytherin solidarity.

“Yes, sir,” he mutters acerbically, thereby once again providing me with an opportunity to diminish a little more of his conceit.

“If you would prefer to spend your time with Mr Filch I am sure it can be arranged, should you not desire mine and Mr Potter’s company for the duration of this week?” I expertly arch an eyebrow.

“No thank you, sir.” Ah, much better, a far less caustic delivery.

It is almost painful to appear as though I am favouring the Gryffindor over the Slytherin but unfortunately the time has come for the young Malfoy to be shown a firm hand. It is merely an unfortunate coincidence that his arch-nemesis is here to witness it.

“Excellent. In that case, I expect you to sit at the desk opposite Mister Potter and also complete the same worksheet. This should not prove difficult, since we have already covered these topics in class, but a revision of them will do you no harm at all. When you have both finished, you will work together on creating the Potion you are revising. Is that acceptable, or did you wish to change your mind about joining Mr Filch?”

A flush of anger plays across his delicate pale cheekbones and I wait for him to declare he would prefer to spend detention with Filch after all. The moment seems to stretch infinitely and I wonder if Filch would be gratified to know that his company may possibly be desired over Potter’s.


Finally, he affirms his decision by taking his seat at the transfigured desk, glaring at Potter when he does not immediately follow suit. I am also waiting for him to move to his chair but I realise he is staring. At my feet. Draco notices too and snorts.

“Are you waiting for an invitation, Potter?” I snap, self consciously moving the appendages out of his line of sight.

Potter’s trance breaks and he hurries to seat himself, unable to stop his cheeks colouring in embarrassment.

I give Draco three seconds to stop his taunting and luckily for him, he does so within the allotted time. My eyes feel gritty with tiredness and I curse the unavoidable fact that these two particular students always manage to exact this kind of reaction from me. Merlin knows how exhausted I will be by the end of the week.

I pick up my book and begin to read, but five minutes is all I can manage before I realise I have read the same paragraph four or five times and I know it has nothing to do with my disinterest in learning the technique of procuring Acromantula venom.

The room is silent, save for the odd crackle of the fire and the scratching of quill on parchment but I know this does not mean they are deeply engrossed in their studies.

I surreptitiously bring the book up to eye level and wince when my wrist clicks in protest at having to support the weighty tome.

Potter is chewing his bottom lip, despite it remaining engorged from the recent trauma, and has one hand carding through his messy fringe; the southernmost point of his scar is just visible through the thick wavy hair. I am heartened to see he is reading intently, and amused that every so often his eyes squint as though his brain is trying hard to process some very important information.

Draco, on the other hand, seems determined to distract Potter from his learning. He holds his quill lazily, eyes trained attentively on the other boy, just waiting for an opportunity to challenge him, albeit silently. He is completely oblivious to my voyeurism which annoys me further but I keep quiet, determined as he is, to wait and see how the situation might progress.

Draco’s continued patience goes unrewarded. Potter’s eyes do not falter once from the text, even when he unconsciously makes a small noise in the back of his throat that I interpret as a lack of understanding, confirmed when he speaks.

“Sir?”

The word slices the air and I almost drop my book as he glances up. Draco hastily drops his own gaze back to the worksheet in front of him.

“Yes, Mr Potter?” I manage, feeling ridiculously caught out, even though I know he had not been aware of my scrutiny.

“I don’t understand this part.” Potter extends his index finger and points to a passage of text.

I debate asking him to read it aloud, but the opportunity to sneak a look at Draco’s worksheet has presented itself, and even though I would bet my entire library that he has not so much as written a single word, I should really confirm my suspicions.

I close the book and stand up, placing it on the table and move to stand behind him.

“Ah yes, that is rather a tricky element to be considered.” I say casually, stealing a look at the opposite desk over Potter’s shoulder. As I suspected, there is not so much as a single ink blot staining the parchment.

Ignoring the urge to throttle Draco, I lean forward and rest my palms on the desk, one arm on either side of Potter. Intriguingly, his breath catches in his throat at the close proximity and I am not entirely convinced it is in protest.

I decide then and there to reward his studious behaviour with a straightforward answer rather than mock or deride him for being stupid. I spend a few minutes explaining where he is going wrong and offer various explanations for the problem. Draco’s subsequent glower and Potter’s tremulous words of thanks alert me to just how surprising this course of action has been to the pair of them.

Returning to my armchair, both sets of eyes are still fixated on me; Draco’s mouth is hanging slightly ajar as though I had proclaimed Potter to be the next King of Slytherin. Potter, for his part, is watching in awe as I take a sip of my whisky. Perhaps my earlier assessment of his alcohol-related prowess had been incorrect. It horrifies me a little to realise I am interested to know, but it is hardly an appropriate conversation and besides, there is the matter of them gawping at me to attend to.

“Am I to understand that the lack of attention to your worksheets indicates your readiness to move onto the practical component of this exercise?”

Two heads snap back to the desks, allowing me to smirk unobserved. I drain the rest of the amber liquid and feel warmed by the trail it blazes down the entire length of my oesophagus.

I retrieve my book and resume the previous position of holding it high enough to cover my surveillance of them, ignoring the repeated protests of my wrist. I make a mental note to set aside some time in favour of researching potions that eradicate the early onset of Repetitive Wand Injury since I am fairly certain it is the cause of discomfort in my hand.

Once again, Potter has returned to his worksheet with gusto, and I cannot help but wonder why he has never displayed this level of interest in the classroom. I comfort myself in the sure and certain knowledge that he will undoubtedly not embrace the practical part of this session with the same amount of enthusiasm. For all the taunts and slurs I have directed at the boy in the past, I know he does not possess a natural ability for potion making. His talents, perhaps fortuitously for us all, lie in the Defence of the Dark Arts.

Not quite so useful to the greater good of Wizardkind is his aptitude for Quidditch, unless he is planning to challenge the Dark Lord to a game. The mental image almost has me smiling broadly before I remember both the seriousness of the situation and the company I am in.

Suddenly, Potter glances up and frowns across the desks. I am puzzled by the unexpected interruption until I notice that Draco’s lips are quite clearly moving. Whatever he is saying, he has charmed the words so that only Potter can hear them. I can’t help but feel a modicum of pride at his cunning; his sorting into Slytherin was unquestionably warranted. But his disruptive behaviour is causing Potter to lose his concentration and by degrees this will affect me.

I snap the book shut and they both flinch visibly.

“Mister Malfoy. Would you furnish me with the answer you have given to question number three?”

I watch him glance down at his blank parchment, and then at the text, before he answers.

“Sunshine yellow, sir.”

Bugger, but he’s right. I firm my jaw and try again.

“What might you add to the Potion in question then, to counterbalance the side effects of excessive singing and nose tweaking?” My discomfort at describing those specific possible reactions to Euphoria Elixir are only marginally outweighed by my enjoyment of having asked him a question that is neither part of the test nor answered in the particular section of text he has in front of him. Had he been working as studiously as Potter, he would have known that.

He drops his head to frantically scan the page, eyes racing over the text at an alarming rate as he searches first for the question that isn’t there, and then the text for the answer.

Potter is practically hopping up and down in his seat, unable to contain the huge smile that has broken out across his face as he watches his rival’s distress with a hungry look that is categorically not a Gryffindor trait.

His enthusiasm has captured my attention and I am bemused by his sudden animation.

“Potter,” I bark, although not nearly as harshly as he knows I could have done. He stops jiggling and meets my hard gaze. “Is there something you wish to share with us?” I drawl, thinking he is going to spoil the charade and say that that particular question is not part of the set.

What I am absolutely not expecting, is what he says next.

“Sir, sorry but it’s a sprig of Peppermint,” he gabbles at me, as though it is the most compelling revelation in the world. I am temporarily stunned into silence by the fact that he actually knows the answer, despite it not being part of the set work.

Draco’s head whips up, first to attack Potter with a glare and then to look at me, protesting his capability of answering the question on his own merit, which of course, both Potter and I know is not true.

“You are correct, Potter,” I say and he smirks at Draco, “however, I am not particularly impressed by your inability to refrain from answering a question that was not directed at you.”

His mouth gapes for just a second before he closes it resolutely, firming his jaw in outrage. A violent blush attacks his cheeks and a vein in his temple throbs in irritation.

The boy is really far too transparent; I can tell exactly what he is thinking even without the use of Occulmency. He is debating whether or not to reveal to Draco that no such question or indeed answer existed in the text, purely in the spirit of one-upmanship. I also know that out of the two of us, he has decided that his loyalties lie precariously in my favour. Telling Draco would serve no purpose other than to incur my chagrin; not telling the other boy puts him in my favour. At least that is how I assume his Snitch-sized brain is rationalizing the situation.

Draco has stopped searching the text, preferring to watch the unspoken challenge that is unfolding. He is not fully aware of the facts Potter and I have at our disposal, but he is still appreciating the tense atmosphere.

“Enough,” I growl, annoyed with myself for letting things get out of hand. “Get back to work or get out.” I direct this at Potter, since Draco has no choice but to serve his detention.

They glance at each other in what can only be described as begrudging mutual consolation, before hanging their heads. Draco finally takes up his quill and begins to work and I suppress the glee his submission causes me.

Potter makes an odd noise that has me searching his face for any outward signs of disobedience but I conclude that it was an unconscious action since he is back to chewing his abused lip and frowning at his worksheet.

I manage to read two chapters of my book and drink two more glasses of flesh warming whisky without interruption before they announce almost simultaneously that they have finished. I am pleased that Draco has completed his worksheet in half the time it has taken Potter, and the dancing lights in his eyes reveal that he too is feeling rather smug about it.

I say nothing as I stand, expecting them to follow me into the small Potions laboratory that my expansive inhabitation of the dungeon allows. Both do, and without asking, they go to stand at the workbench that has been set out with a cauldron and numerous stirring rods. Potter has had the sense to bring his worksheet and text with him from the sitting room and when Draco realises, he turns back, wanting to retrieve his own work.

“No need,” I say in undisguised harassment, “You can work together from Potter’s notes.”

“I’d rather not, sir, I value my life too much.”

Potter shakes his head and says nothing, but I can see how much the idea of blowing Draco up appeals to him. Their rivalry in class and on the Quidditch pitch is legendary and for the most part, enjoyable to watch, but here in my quarters, on my time, it is frustrating me more than I think either of them have realised.

I stalk over to the workbench and stand behind Draco, bending down until my mouth is but an inch from his ear.

“You will learn to do as you are told. There is nothing wrong with Mr Potter’s liberal notes on this Potion. It is merely the execution of the practical that may cause him some difficulty and you are going to help him achieve his goal successfully. I am sick and tired of the pathetic schoolboy enmity between you and I promise you, Mr Malfoy, it ends now.” My voice is so low I am growling. Both he and Potter are ramrod straight and motionless, their sharp breaths the only indication of life.

I step away from him and walk around the bench to face them. Potter is yet again attacking his bottom lip ferociously and has also developed a habit of gnawing the loose skin on his thumb. Draco fights to remain sullen but a beautiful flush has affected his porcelain cheeks. Neither of them appear to be enthusiastic about my demand.

“Potter,” I say and he lifts his head to look at me, “Tell me why you dislike Mr Malfoy so intensely.” It is not a question, it is a demand and one it appears, that he was not expecting. His forehead wrinkles in consternation; he is wondering why I am asking and furthermore, whether I have any right to.

He says nothing, but not in defiance; he is merely trying to work out the best way to express himself. I imagine there are many reasons all at the forefront of his mind that are fighting for dominance.

I turn my gaze on Draco who it seems is positively simmering with a variety of answers, though he knows better than to speak out of turn.

“Very well, we shall give Mr Potter time to engage his brain and mouth simultaneously. Mr Malfoy, I put the same question to you.”

As expected, he does not hesitate.

“He thinks he’s better than everyone else! Our first day at Hogwarts, he refused to shake...”

Potter suddenly rediscovers the power of speech and interrupts.

“Your hand! You were horrible to Ron! I wasn’t going to just stand there and let you talk down to him like that, you’re so bloody arrogant!”

“Oh yeah, always the noble Gryffindor, aren’t you Potter? And don’t you just love lording it over everyone? The Boy Who Lived, Hogwarts' favourite hero. Daily Prophet pin-up.”

“Just admit it, Malfoy, you’re jealous! I bet you thought your surname would guarantee you popularity! Did Daddy tell you that? Shame he didn’t mention you would need a personality to back it up!”

“I tried to make friends with you!” Draco turns to face Potter and the last remnants of his cool exterior are consumed by anger.

“Only because your Death Eater Daddy wanted you to!” Potter retorts, unconsciously stepping forward as his fists clench and unclench. “You were no more interested in me as a person than anyone else was!”

He very nearly shouts this last sentence, and I am shaken by the realisation of how much he loathes the expectations forced upon him. I must admit to having previously assumed he rather revelled in the attention his fame provided. It appears I was mistaken.

Draco is uncharacteristically silent; it seems that Potter’s words have struck some deep resonant chord with him too. I doubt he is feeling remorseful but that does not mean the evidence Potter set out is incontrovertible. Potter takes advantage to carry on his tirade and for the moment, I am happy to let him do so. They both need to let off steam and since neither has made any attempt to draw his wand there can be no harm in it. I am fairly certain they will not attempt to hex each other in my presence but my hand stays near my pocket, just in case.

“Did you think I wanted all that attention?” he says, stepping away to pace the far end of the laboratory. “I was eleven years old! I didn’t even know I was a wizard until Hagrid showed up, and all I could think about was how great it would be to get away from my aunt and uncle. Did you know that? Did you know how I wished every day of my life that someone would rescue me from my own particular brand of hell? From being treated like a worthless piece of shit? Have you ever slept in a cupboard, Malfoy? ” he spits, and then laughs, a rather worrying high-pitched laugh that sounds closer to hysteria than amusement. “Hagrid came for me, only to dump me here with no idea what was expected of me or why everyone wanted to befriend me! But that didn’t stop you trying to take advantage, did it?”

Potter thrusts his hands through his hair and is shaking with the effort to contain his fury. I cannot remember ever having seen him so feral, and I silently agree that his life really has been rather shitty thus far. I do not feel disheartened by my own behaviour towards the boy; after all, most of the time it was justified for one reason or another, but somewhere at the back of my mind, the sentiment is forming all the same.

Draco continues to say nothing but his posture has lost a fraction of its contempt.

“Oh yeah, and let’s not forget that I’ll probably be murdered by Voldemort before I reach my twenties. So there you go, Malfoy, plenty of new gossip for you to take the piss out of with your mates. Feel free to go ahead because I really couldn’t give a shit.”

I should berate him for his vulgar language, but I do not want to upset the dynamic of the conversation.

“You’re still an arse.” Draco ventures and Potter only snorts and shakes his head in disbelief.

Personally, I wouldn’t have been so forgiving had I just bared my soul. It prompts me to comment, at long last.

“Mr Malfoy, since Mr Potter has volunteered some highly personal information, I feel it would be only courteous that you do likewise.”

He stares at me like I have gone insane, like he has no earthly idea what information he thinks I am asking him to divulge.

“Perhaps you could tell us about your own childhood?” I prompt. Merlin knows when I have unwittingly taken on the role of counsellor, but for some reason I acknowledge that it is necessary to help both of these boys in the difficult times that lie ahead.

“That’s none of your business,” he snaps, omitting ‘you bastard’ but I hear it anyway.

His body stiffens defensively and now he is the one displaying the stance of a cornered animal. I continue to watch him as he looks from me to Potter and back again, still refusing to speak.

“As you wish. It is highly disappointing that any further detentions you receive will have to be served on a Saturday morning. Still, I hear there are one or two students eager for the chance to be the new Slytherin seeker.”

Potter, unbelievably, shows no visible sign of being cheered by the threat against his enemy. Draco, however, is positively hopping from one foot to the other.

“That’s not fair! My father...”

“Your father,” I sneer, “has had far too much influence over you for far too long. It is time that you stand on your own two feet and think with your own brain because I am telling you now, boy, very soon, we will all have to declare our loyalties and I am not inclined to see you make the same mistakes your blessed father did.”

I know I have overstepped a mark, not only by insulting his father in front of another student but by drawing attention to the fact that he is poised to walk the same road, a road that can only lead to his destruction.

There are students in my house that I would not even waste time trying to save; not because they are worthless but because they are irredeemable; they are too far along the path of ruin to be coaxed back. At some point, one must accept that not all can be liberated. I believe differently of Draco Malfoy.

Potter is staring at him now, beseechingly, urging him to impart information that will put them back on an equal footing. I wonder now if he has ever truly enjoyed their rivalry or if his participation was borne from the instinctual need to protect himself rather than an urgent desire to engage in conflict.

Draco must sense my thoughts, because he suddenly lets out a long sigh and reaches for one of the high-backed chairs, sinking into it with utter despondency. He knows he has a final chance at redemption and that this is it. I wait to see what he will choose and over the pounding of my heart I barely hear him when he begins to speak.

“You’re not the only one who had a shitty childhood, Potter.” He looks at me then and says, “Okay? Happy now?” I shrug my shoulders and let him decide his own fate. Potter moves slowly across the room and sits down next to him which is the last thing I would have done were I in his shoes. Draco doesn’t move away though, and I mentally tally the number of times Potter has surprised me over the last few days.

Draco rests his elbows on the workbench and covers his face with his hands, his blond hair falling forward to obscure more of it. Potter exudes a mixture of alarm and uncertainty; he thinks the boy is crying but I know better. He is merely stalling for time, working out how little information he can communicate to exonerate himself. I decide that now is the time to appeal to what is left of his innocence and show him that someone genuinely cares about his destiny.

“Draco,” I say gently, “Just tell us.” I was planning on saying more but he cuts me off.

“Oh God,” he moans, a torrent of sobs and hiccups escaping his veiled mouth, a litany of words that are at once both indiscernible and yet crystal clear through his distress.

I had not planned on exorcising his demons this evening, and I most certainly would not have chosen to do it in the company of Potter, but now that it has happened, I am glad he is here. No doubt tomorrow Draco will revert to his petulant, arrogant self in Potter’s presence. He is likely to take against me as well, for forcing him into this. I can only hope he might realise it is for his own good, for the greater good, and perhaps exercise a little humility.

Potter is wide eyed as Draco continues his torrent of condemnation against his own parents, spitting venomously as though he is under the influence of Veritaserum and has no choice but to speak the damning words. I am utterly shocked at the relative ease with which he succumbed to spilling his anguish, but in all honesty, it has probably been a long time coming. It is no secret that his father is applying tremendous pressure on the boy to take the Dark Mark and that his mother, whilst not actively encouraging it, does nothing to stop Lucius making such demands. Draco also insists on furnishing us with some rather unsettling antidotes regarding the entertainment of the Dark Lord at Malfoy Manor. Although untouched himself, it appears the Dark Lord has acquired a taste for young flesh, and it is left unspoken that Draco himself fears he may soon be on the menu.

He finally stops talking and slumps on the workbench. Potter’s hand hovers uncertainly in the air like he feels he should console the boy but evidently isn’t comfortable enough to do so. I cross the room and put my arm around Draco’s shoulder. Potter looks relieved and moves away to allow me room.

Draco turns his face into my robes at the contact and I cannot help but wonder if he even knows it is me that is comforting him. His breathing is laboured and his vulnerability reminds me of how Potter looked in the Infirmary last week.

“Well done,” I murmur, letting my free hand stroke his hair in an attempt to soothe the ragged dry sobs. His hands move to encircle my waist, bunching the fabric in his fists.

Potter has sought sanctuary on the far side of the laboratory. He is almost as pale as I am, although my pallor is natural and his has been induced by the emotional outburst he witnessed. He is staring strangely at the scene before him, in a way that suggests he had not before considered the possibility that I might be capable of offering solace, which I suppose from his point of view, is a fair assumption.

With more courage than I am prepared to admit he possesses, he takes a tentative step forward, and then another, until he is standing behind Draco. He does not touch him, but dips his head and when he whispers, his voice is hoarse.

“I’m sorry, Draco, for not shaking your hand. Truly, I am.”

I hear Draco’s breath catch in his throat as he struggles to regain some composure. I smooth his hair down one final time before gripping his shoulders and forcing him to look at me.

“Draco, your life is not yet mapped out for you, despite the insistence of your father. You, and only you, can decide what is right and what is wrong. I have every faith that you will be strong enough to choose wisely and I give you my promise that I will support you in every way possible. It is time for you to mature and acknowledge the truth of the situation as it is.”

He nods mutely, his grey eyes brimming, ready to shed more tears.

The cauldron and stirring rods have not been disturbed, and it reminds me of how we three came to be here in the first place.

“Perhaps we should postpone the practical session until tomorrow night,” I say. “Draco, you may return to your dormitory. Potter, I would ask that you remain for a moment.”

Draco’s body radiates gratitude as he disentangles himself and slips off of the stool, immediately heading towards the door. I am not so optimistic to expect that he will stop and acknowledge Potter’s token apology but it seems that for this evening, the fates are determined to shock me into a premature heart attack.

He stops by the doorframe and leans heavily against it, as if the proverbial weight of the world rests on his shoulders. Ironically, it is Potter to whom that dubious pleasure falls. Without turning around, his voice cracks over the words, “I’m sorry too,” barely loud enough to be heard, but Potter’s open mouth confirms that he did, and then he is gone, the quiet snick of my chamber door confirming his departure.

I sit on the chair he has just vacated and try to work out what all of this might mean, if anything, for their futures. I almost forget Potter is still here and when I glance up, he is staring at my feet again.

“For Merlin’s sake, boy!” I let out, exasperated. To his credit he does not drop his head, but lifts it and meets my eye.

“You asked me to stay behind, Professor?” he questions, perhaps thinking I am idiotic enough to have forgotten the request I made.

“Indeed I did, Potter. You may go momentarily but first, I wish to know what Mr Malfoy was saying to you earlier.”

He tries to fake confusion but I am not fooled.

“Come now, I will not punish him for it, I merely wish to hear what taunts he was attempting to provoke you with.” And it is true, I will not reprimand Draco any further, it is with pure curiosity that I ask.

Potter comes to stand at the desk in front of me, the position in which I was standing when the course of the evening was so spectacularly derailed.

“He called me a cocksucker,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, so casually that he may as well have been telling me what he ate for dinner. A bad analogy I’ll admit, but really, how is one’s brain still expected to function at peak capacity after the tension of such an evening?

“Did he now?” I say, suffocating a smile and the urge to ask him if it is true. “Very well, you may also go. I expect you back here at the same time tomorrow.”

He hesitates a moment, as if he wants to ask something but then nods instead, leaving me alone with my increasingly deviant thoughts and an unused cauldron for company.

***