Potter Potions

I am sitting at the staff table in the Great Hall, picking disinterestedly at my food. Draco enters the hall with his usual confident swagger, the tangible storm cloud of superiority swirling around his head. He deliberately avoids my gaze but interestingly enough, sneaks a furtive glance at the Gryffindor table. His reaction to what I presume to be the lack of Potter gracing it is a mixture of relief and disappointment. The relief is easily explained; the disappointment is not.

Pansy Parkinson comes up behind him and catches his arm, leading him towards the Slytherin section. She manoeuvres them to the nearest bench, facing the wall, but he shakes his head and breaks from her hold to take a place on the opposite side, a vantage point that affords him a view of the Gryffindor table and the hall doors. She appears confused by the rebuttal but goes to sit next to him anyway, and if ever there was a clearer case of body language that conveyed ill-ease, then I have not yet witnessed it.

Draco’s eyes are darting between his plate and the door. One hand is gripped around his fork, the other is restless on the table, fingers drumming the wood in frustration. I cannot hear what she is saying over the general hum of the hall but she appears concerned, intent on capturing his interest. He resolutely keeps up his vigilance, and when she attempts to place her hand over his, he quickly withdraws it into his lap.

As far as relationships go I had always suspected them to be involved, but my recent heavy observation of him now leads me to believe that her romantic interest is unrequited. He is, of course, always keenly engrossed in her company but I have come to realise that for his part, their association is purely platonic.

I too am now watching the door, intrigued by what Draco’s reaction will be when Potter comes to dinner. I do not know why he is so bothered, only that he is. The obvious reason is that he fears his emotional disclosure last night will be used against him, but then he was also made privy to information that Potter would not want broadcast.

Forty minutes later and the tension is palpable; Draco and I have finished both dinner and desert and still there is no sign of Potter. It is rather startling to find myself concerned with his whereabouts; perhaps he has had a relapse and is back in the infirmary. I sweep the length of the teacher’s table with a hard gaze in time to see Minerva rising from her chair. My own legs move beneath me, poised to take my weight before I catch myself. I am utterly disgusted that I almost asked her the reason for his lack of presence. I can only imagine the amused look on her face had I succeeded. Unless of course, he really is injured and then she might be suspicious of my asking.

Cursing silently, I take one final look at Draco. Miss Parkinson appears to have conceded defeat and he is sitting alone, stabbing the tepid carcass of his pudding with a spoon. He has evidently come to the same conclusion that I have; once again, Potter is a no-show. For one malicious second, I hope he is in the infirmary, because it will be the only acceptable reason for him not to attend my quarters in little over an hours’ time.

***

I am blissfully comfortable by the fire and rather relaxed, having already consumed two generous glasses of alcohol since dinner. My attire is as casual as it was yesterday evening, perhaps more so since I have donned the black undercoat in favour of being clothed only in a white shirt and black trousers. I am after all, in my private quarters and have no need to be dressed in full imposing Potions Master apparel.

Right on cue, squabbling in the hallway shatters my fragile tranquillity and as last night, two fists hammer the heavy wooden door. The beginnings of a headache are in evidence and my irritability gets the better of me as I draw my wand and viciously spell the door open, slamming it backwards against the stone wall with a resounding bang.

“Get in here, now!” I yell at two visibly shaken figures in the doorway. Their hurry to oblige does nothing to placate me.

“Am I to assume that yesterday ‘s tentative armistice has ended already? Or was it merely a figment of my imagination?”

Draco opens his mouth to speak but Potter beats him to it.

“I only asked him if he was feeling better!” he says in overstated exasperation, causing me to roll my eyes.

“Calm down, Potter, there is no need to be a drama queen about it.” I say snidely.

Draco sniggers and repeats the word ‘Queen’ under his breath. Potter shoots me a poisonous look that begs to know why I handed the other boy that on a plate. I had not actually considered my choice of words before I spoke but in retrospect I suppose making reference to Potter’s sexuality is becoming something of a habit. Unamusing though it is to him, the same cannot be said for the rest of us.

“Draco, is there a reason you cannot restrain yourself from making suggestive comments regarding Potter’s sexuality?”

He has the audacity to snort at my question and by way of reply, takes a small step away from Potter, who upon noticing, widens his eyes and looks nothing short of furious. The gesture does not sit well with me, either, for obvious reasons.

“I see. Tell me Mr Malfoy, how are you and Miss Parkinson getting along these days?”

His reaction couldn’t have been any more violent had I injected adrenaline directly into his heart. I doubt anything could have made the deep blush across his cheekbones appear quicker. It makes him look debauched and innocent at the same time. If innocence can look sinister, that it.

“That’s none of your business,” he says, scowling as much as he dares.

“Certainly. And Potter’s sexuality is none of yours, either. “

Potter looks at me with something akin to gratitude. It lasts barely a moment before his face darkens and he realises I have just implied he is gay. Fascinatingly, he says nothing in protest or defence, but his eyes drop to the floor and once again I can feel my feet labouring under his scrutiny.

It would appear that the Boy Who Lived has a foot fetish; not that I am foolish enough to think for one second that he finds my feet attractive, but he has certainly had enough glimpses of them to satisfy mere idle curiosity.

No, the idea is ridiculous. The most likely explanation for his sudden fascination is some outlandish school rumour claiming I have no feet. It is of the same ilk as ‘Snape is a vampire,’ and ‘Snape is a giant bat.’

“Well, Mr Potter? Do you think you can put the rumours to bed?” I sneer, causing his head to snap back into place and his eyes to lose their glaze.

“Bed?” he repeats, blinking owlishly behind those awful glasses. I cannot begrudge Draco his snicker this time. Honestly, Potter positively begs to be ridiculed.

“The rumours that circulate this school, boy! Specifically, the ones that imply I have no feet!”

The most wondrous thing happens then; he smiles. A raw, wide, genuinely amused grin lights up his face. Despite it being at my expense, my breath catches in my throat and I cannot battle the twist in my gut, however grossly inappropriate I know it to be. I quickly turn my attention to Draco so as to ignore him.

“I do not wish to listen to your infernal backbiting every time you approach my quarters together. You will show a modicum of respect and remember that only one of you needs to knock,” I say in my pseudo-stern manner.

“Now, everything has been prepared and I expect you to work together as a team to create this Potion. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Perfectly,” Draco mumbles, in an ‘I’m so bored I might actually die of it’ tone. Potter’s curt nod is only marginally more enthusiastic.

“Excellent. Then I trust you know where to find my laboratory.”

“Yes sir,” Potter replies, sneaking one last surreptitious glimpse of my feet before leaving. Draco narrows his eyes at the blatant ogling but hastens to follow him out of the room.

After forty five minutes of uninterrupted silence, I must admit to being suspicious. I am inclined to take my marking into the laboratory, so I can keep an eye on them but I know they will both see it as interference and if they stand any chance of reaching some parody of a truce then I need to remain impassive.

Easier said than done. I last a further ten minutes before curiosity triumphs and I get to my feet.

It has often been observed that I am capable of walking silently. Students caught out of bed after hours will testify to it. It is a very useful skill to possess, and I employ it now as I approach the narrow corridor to my work room, stopping abruptly at the door when I hear a whispered exchange.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Potter hisses under his breath. Draco’s snicker is lost in the hum of agitated chopping, the knife action sounding a trifle overzealous.

“I’m just saying, Potter, no need to bite my head off.”

I am quite overwhelmed with the need to know what Malfoy was ‘just saying’ but Potter expertly manoeuvres the conversation in another direction.

“Are you going to help or not?”

“Why? Going to tell Snape if I don’t?” he says, before his tone becomes high pitched and mocking. “Sir! Malfoy won’t help me make the potion! I’m so sad about it! Can I suck your toes to make myself feel better?”

Heat fiercely accosts my normally pallid cheeks. I should crash into the laboratory and give him a piece of my mind, but my flushed complexion would appear suspicious. Besides, I am curious to know how Potter will answer.

“Yeah, that’s right, Draco,” he drawls, in a strange, low growl that I haven’t heard before. A growl that shamefully, reinforces my blush and send the surplus blood to my groin.

“I’d love nothing more than to slip my mouth around those strong, bony little toes and suck them so hard my cheeks hollow out. I definitely want to lick those perfectly manicured nails and dip my tongue between each fleshy toe. Perhaps even run my lips along the soles of his feet until he begs for mercy.”

Despite the inherent sarcasm, I can’t help but wonder if he really would like to do that. It seems rather a detailed response to such an offhand comment.

“Anything else you’d like to suck, Potter? Don’t be shy now, we’re all friends here.”

Damn Draco and his superior bloody attitude. I resolve to make his life a living hell for the rest of the year. The Dark Lord will seem like respite when I’ve finished with him.

“Why do you want to know, Malfoy? You seem pretty interested for someone who comes across as disgusted by the whole idea.”

“Disgusted by you, Potter. Nothing else.”

“Really. Why were you looking for me at dinner then? Admit it, Malfoy, you’d like nothing better than for me to suck...” Potter pauses for dramatic effect. I imagine his gaze dropping to rake Draco’s crotch, or perhaps he is licking his lips salaciously. Quite conceivably, given what I have witnessed so far, he might be ogling Draco’s feet instead. “Your toes,” he purrs.

Merlin! I shift uncomfortably, trying to ease some of the tension in my trousers. How had Potter monitored the hall without being seen himself?

“I was not looking for you at dinner!” Draco splutters, jolting me out of my contemplation.

“Right,” Potter snorts. Evidently he doesn’t believe a word of it. I have to conclude, from my own observations, that I agree with him.

“Believe what you want, I’m not the one with a hard-on over Snape’s feet.”

“Maybe not over Snape’s feet, but you’ve got one nonetheless.”

I wait for Draco to make a scathing rejoinder but none is forthcoming. Which can only mean Potter is telling the truth. The temptation to find out is irresistible and so I cough, alerting them to my imminent arrival and sweep through the door.

“Boys, boys, boys. How are we...getting on?” My gaze falls briefly to Draco’s groin before flickering back up to analyse his face.

His grey eyes narrow to slits and his lips draw back in a grimace. He obviously suspects I may have overheard their conversation. Potter meanwhile, appears to have no such concerns.

“Draco was just admiring my wrist action, sir. With regards to the knife, obviously.” He blinks at me, but in maddening slow motion that rests his lashes momentarily atop his cheekbones. If I am not careful, Draco won’t be the only one with a noticeable bulge.

“Good work, Potter. Let us hope your exertions result in a satisfactory outcome,” I say, gracing the general vicinity with a smirk.

“Oh I’m sure they will sir, especially with Draco’s obvious interest. In Potions, that is.”

Holding back the chuckle hurts my throat and I only half succeed in turning it into a cough. When did Potter develop such a finely tuned sense of humour? I can’t imagine for one second that he’s had the opportunity to hone his wit on those dunderhead friends of his.

Draco is practically grinding his teeth. Centuries of rigid pureblood breeding created that powdery skin and those fragile cheekbones. They are desecrated in seconds by a violent reddening. Salazar forgive me, but I cannot help a diminutive dig at my own little serpent.

“Is that so? Something you might care to share with us, Mr Malfoy?” I arch an eyebrow in encouragement.

“Just that this potion is so simple even Longbottom couldn’t fail to make it properly,” he retorts, looking rather pleased with himself. I suppose he is entitled to, having carefully sidestepped the real issue of his unexpected arousal.

I stride to the workbench and peer into the cauldron, noting the colour as acceptable before ladling some out. I am quite impressed, though outwardly of course, I show no sign of it.

“Marginally better than the sub-standard work you generally churn out, Potter. There might be hope for you after all. Might.” I emphasize, determined not to give him the praise he deserves in any clearer terms. He seems happy enough with the oblique compliment though.

“Thank you, sir,” he says to my feet.

“When you have finished brewing, bottle two samples for marking and then tidy up. Draco, I am prepared to release you early from your detention, given the degree of help you have bestowed upon Mr Potter.”


Two sets of eyes widen incredulously, perhaps wondering if I am attempting to make some kind of joke. In a way, I suppose I am. I already know Draco has been nothing short of obsequious this evening, but they are not aware of my eavesdropping; at least Potter isn’t. I want to see if they are still intent on point scoring against each other and this gives Potter the perfect opportunity to do so.

“Why is your mouth hanging open, boy? Do you have an objection to Mr Malfoy leaving?”

He hesitates, merely a moment, as he considers his response. “No sir, none at all.”

I give him a brisk nod and turn to leave when Draco speaks.

“Sir? If it’s alright with you, I think I should stay. I mean Potter’s bound to cock up the final stage if he’s left to his own devices.”

I couldn’t be more stunned if Filch had declared undying love for the bloody Baron. By the look on Potter’s face, neither could he. He is wearing a strange permutation of indignation and appreciation.

“Pardon?” I say, spinning round so quickly to face him the sound of my neck cricking echoes around the room. Surely he has no intention of actually helping? It must be a ruse to stay and ridicule Potter some more. “Mr Malfoy, if you are thinking of staying only to inflict vitriol on Mr Potter, I am quite certain he does not...”

“No it’s fine, I could use the help. Thanks, Draco.”

It would seem that I am incapable of speaking and only thankful that my mouth is still firmly clamped shut. What sort of monster is in the process of creation? Merlin forbid these two brats are hard enough work as separate entities; what kind of mayhem would they create as a cohesive unit?

I console myself with the knowledge that whilst they may be united in avoiding their Potion Masters’ wrath, any other test to this most fledgling of alliances will most surely fail. Six years of intense animosity cannot simply be swept under the carpet after two evenings of enforced propinquity.

My armchair provides a peaceful enough respite in which to mull over their bizarre behaviour and I remain lost in thought until a cleared throat breaks my deliberation.

They are standing side by side in front of me, looking rather smug. Potter’s outstretched hand holds two vials of yellow liquid and I beckon him forward to hand them over.

“Tomorrow, we shall test the success of this evening’s brewing. Draco, please return to your dormitory. Potter, if you will remain.”

His brow creases in confusion; he is wondering why I have asked him to stay. Draco’s face echoes the sentiment but he shrugs and leaves without another word. When the sound of his footsteps fade, I gesture to the sofa, inviting Potter to sit down. He moves awkwardly towards it, his body obviously ill at ease with the request. The orange flames paint his cheeks, highlighting the striking bone structure.

“Potter, there is no need to look like you are attending your own funeral. I merely wish to talk with you a moment.”

He swallows nervously, wary of what I might ask him. I suppose I should not feel offended, given our history.

“Why weren’t you at dinner this evening?” I say, keeping my voice neutral and uninterested.

“I...uh.”

“Perhaps I should rephrase the question. How were you at dinner this evening, without being noticed?”

That catches his attention. He shifts against the cushions and a tic beneath his right eye twitches as he looks away from the penetrating stare. I can practically hear the cogs in his head turning. Still he gives no answer and I sigh forcibly.

“Explain why you were spying on Mr Malfoy.”

“I wasn’t!” he protests, suddenly finding his inner Slytherin. Liar.

“You are lying.”

“I’m not sir, I wasn’t at dinner. Ron told me Malfoy was acting strangely, looking at our table all the time and watching the doors.”

I could ask him why he is so convinced Draco was seeking him personally but it seems rather futile. It was glaringly obvious from my own observations. Instead, I press the issue of his absence.

“And you were absent because...?”

His cheeks flame a little more; perhaps he is too close to the fire. Or perhaps the reason for his nonattendance embarrasses him.

“I was studying, sir.”

“You did not attend dinner in favour of studying?” I say, sounding entirely disbelieving.

“Yes. I wanted to catch up with my Potions work. Actually, I still need to revise some other subjects but mainly Potions.”

Really, what kind of fool does he take me for? As if I would believe for one second that he would prefer to go hungry, choosing instead to pore over a subject that he has made no attempt to disguise his loathing of in the past.

“Rubbish. There is only one activity teenage boys miss dinner for and it generally involves clandestine meetings with members of the opposite sex.”

I had not meant to enunciate the final word quite so deliberately.

“That’s...I...no way!” he chokes, sounding disgusted. I wonder which particular accusation has him protesting so vehemently.

“I can prove it too. I have my workbook with me.” Fumbling in his bag, he pulls out a battered journal and leans forward, pro-offering.

I flick through the pages and note the care and attention he has put into listing all the curriculum necessary potions, ingredients and methods of preparation. His analyses are rather messy but overall he has produced a sound basic knowledge. In theory, at least. Just as I prepare to hand it back to him, I notice a mark on the inside cover. He sees me looking at it quizzically, and as I attempt a closer inspection, he leaps off the sofa and makes a grab for it.

Snatching it out of his reach I bark, “Sit down!” and reluctantly he does, but he is wild eyed and his hands are itching to reclaim it.

The drawings are exquisitely penned. I cannot help but be impressed by the crafting of them, but the subject matter is rather perplexing and one in particular causes me to arch an eyebrow.

“Potter, may I ask why you have desecrated your Potions journal with sketches of feet?”

“Uh... feet are structurally interesting?” he offers, not daring to meet my inquisitive gaze.

“Is that so. And would you care to explain why one foot in particular has ‘SS’ tattooed about the ankle?”

“Oh god,” he groans, jerking forward violently and banging his forehead against his knees.

My stomach lurches. Harry Potter appears to have a crush on me. Or expressly, my feet. Less than two weeks ago, I would have found it contemptible and sneered at him mercilessly, sneered at him and denounced his pathetic teenage hormones. That was before I started noticing, however much I despise the fact, the body he has grown into, the face that has lengthened, the chin and jaw that has become more pronounced. How muscular his arms are, the solid torso that lies beneath his school shirt, toned and compact, no doubt from hours of Quidditch. He is, quite simply, an exquisite example of man.

His head is still buried in his hands but I can see a ridge of cheekbone between his fingers. It looks hot enough to fry an egg on.

“Potter,” I chide gently, anticipating an accusing glare from those green eyes.

He does not look up but I hear him mumble into his hands, “Yes, sir?”

“Are you, Potter?” I sigh, half heartedly.

He does look up now, green gaze questioning. “Am I what, sir?”

I know I shouldn’t; I know it is wrong and it crosses a million boundaries. I do it anyway.

“A cocksucker,” I breath the word quietly, hoping it amuses more than startles him. Thank Merlin I was right.

“Not yet.” he replies, a shy smile playing about those edible lips.

***