Potter Potions

You could, quite literally, strike me down with a feather. And a rather inferior example of one at that.

Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding world, Boy Who Lived, and Gallant Gryffindor suspects he may be queer. He has been drawing my feet and adorning them with tattoos. If it weren’t so thoroughly shocking I might be tempted to laugh out loud. But some degree of amusement must be evident on my face, because he begins to frown and his body language becomes defensive.



“Can I go now?” he says in a clipped tone. Obviously my reaction wasn’t what he was expecting. Perhaps he would have preferred me to be angry, it would not have been surprising. I tell myself that as one of his teachers, I have an obligation to his mental wellbeing. I decide to proceed in an appropriate fashion.



“In a moment. Do you require someone to discuss this issue with?”



His frown fades and his eyes appear a little brighter. “Who did you have in mind, sir? Malfoy?”



“I meant a teacher, Potter.”



“I know, I was just jo...oh never mind.”



Sarcastic little brat. Where has he learnt the subtle art of word manipulation? Merlin, I hope it wasn’t from observing me these past years.



“I was thinking of Professor McGonagall. She is your head of house, after all.”



“McGonagall?!”



“Professor McGonagall,” I admonish.



“You think I should have an excruciatingly embarrassing conversation about my sexuality with Professor McGonagall?” He shakes his head at me, evidently unimpressed by the suggestion.



“She has had many years experience dealing with students in troubling times such as these.”



“Er, actually sir, I’m quite comfortable with it. I don’t think I need to talk to anyone.” His chin juts defiantly although he still hasn’t met my gaze since I saw his drawing.



“Really? And your point of reference for the intricacies of homosexual liaisons is whom exactly?”



That gets him. He glances around wildly, as though the Room of Requirement might appear and provide him with a much desired hiding place from my interrogation. Even Potter isn’t that lucky.



“Well?”



“Well, there isn’t anyone! God, I really don’t want to talk about this with you.” He’s biting back and I almost like him when he retaliates. It shows strength of character. I ignore the fact that in the past I have chosen to perceive it as impertinence.



“Nor I you, Mr Potter. However, the fact remains that you were happy enough to draw inspiration from my feet. Perhaps you may also draw some benefit from my experience too.”



I never tire of watching his mouth fall open and his eyes widen in astonishment. His brain is trying to process the information at an alarming rate. Finally, it makes contact with his mouth.



“Your experience? You mean you’re—” he waits for me to finish his sentence.



“For the love of Merlin, boy! You’re so comfortable with it you cannot even bring yourself to say the word gay.”



He carries on as though I hadn’t spoken. “I never thought, I mean, I’ve heard rumours but then I’ve also heard people say Filch is sleeping with the bloody Baron, so it’s not like I believe them or anything.” He slumps back into the sofa, noticeably more relaxed. The reference to Filch gives me a sense of déjà vu though I cannot think of a single reason why it should.



“Rumours are dangerous things, Mr Potter. You should only believe what you yourself know to be true. In any case, since you are so certain you have your personal life under control, I have no need to offer you guidance in the matter.” I wave my hand dismissively and hand him back his journal.



Instead of jumping to his feet and racing to the door as expected, he sits quietly, slowly rubbing his thumb across the pencilled image of my foot. The action is obscenely erotic.



“I believe your lesson is at an end. You are free to go.”



Despite the words being spoken as softly as my voice allows, he startles, jerking the exploratory digit away from the book. He puts it back in his bag and stands, making his way to the door. My eyes close briefly, thankful that he is taking himself out of temptation’s way, but as his hand closes around the latch he stills.



“You know, it might be good to talk about it. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful earlier, it’s just, I wasn’t really ready to admit it to anyone, and you kind of forced me into it.”



“You were under no obligation to tell the truth.” I say sourly, quite unwilling to be assigned a shred of culpability.



“No, I know. Anyway, I just thought...”



“Tomorrow after Mr Malfoy leaves, we shall discuss it.” I overexert myself with the generous offer. After all, it is bad enough I have to be subjected to detentions and extra tuition without offering more of my precious free time. Though really, like Potions instruction, there is no one else as qualified as I am in this particular area of lifestyle choice. Despite the students’ aspersions cast on the teaching faculty, I remain, to my knowledge, the only homosexual professor at Hogwarts.



“Thank you, sir.” It sounds genuine. He manages to turn the door handle a quarter before I speak again, once more thwarting his attempt to leave.



“There is one condition, Mr Potter.” His hand freezes as he waits to hear my stipulation.



“You are no longer to observe my feet in such a familiar manner.”



“Yes, sir,” he says with a sardonic laugh that promises he will do no such thing.



***



Anticipation can be a wonderful thing.



Delayed orgasm for example, is really rather divine, I find, despite the incredible frustration that accompanies it. However, this evening, my anticipation is not at all pleasurable. In fact it is categorically irritating. I am waiting for the two brats and they are late.



The anticipation was fairly overwhelming an hour ago, as I set about divesting outer garments, once again leaving only my trousers and shirt on. The dilemma of socks occupied me for a while, as I considered whether to keep them on in an attempt not to distract Potter any further, or take them off and encourage his lustful gaze. I finally settled on taking them off. Purely for my own amusement, obviously.



I suspect my restless contemplation of them stems from the subtlety shifting dynamics between us. Potter, still as obsequious and annoying as ever, actually appears to possess certain depths I had not considered before. The artistic skill he employed to sketch a certain part of my anatomy; that alone tipped the balance of my feeling in his favour. I cannot deny I am strongly attracted to him on a purely sexual basis; after all, he is young, fit and beautiful; but it is laughable to imagine the sentiment would be returned when dissected under the microscope of reality, aside from the issues of morality that would undoubtedly arise.





And then there is the unfathomable mystery of Draco. Six years of utter loathing, simmering away under the pores of his skin for the great Harry Potter, and really, who could blame him? The boy is outshined at nearly everything he does in Potter’s presence, and even more galling for Draco, in his father’s presence too. But I have noticed an almost imperceptible change in him since two nights ago. It is almost as if his emotional outpouring left him so raw and vulnerable that he had no choice but to trust in the two of us that witnessed it. If the usually vacant Potter could spot the difference, then it was surely screaming out to me.



Of course he keeps up the pretence and the snide remarks but there is no real bite to them anymore and I do not think it is because he fears Potter will make his damning omission public knowledge. Rather more confusing though, is why he would offer to stay behind and help Potter tidy up the laboratory, and why Potter made reference to Draco being aroused. My own student and I have no clue as to his orientation. I know more about Potter’s sexual inclination than Draco’s and that notion is highly disturbing.



Merlin, they are just begging for another weeks’ worth of detention! Fifteen minutes late and no sign of thundering footfall as one would expect of latecomers. It is suspicious that they would both be delayed unconnectedly.



Potter was again absent from dinner this evening, and again, Draco was present and ever watchful. I observed the occasional flicker of his eyes as they searched, not as candidly as before, alert that he might be under surveillance. The Weasley boy had already stuffed himself disgustingly full and left with his bibliophile of a girlfriend shortly before Draco arrived (without Miss Parkinson in tow) so I am prepared this evening, should Mr Potter protest otherwise. Not that Draco did anything to invite further ridicule on the subject; he was most discreet in his observations. Though observations they were, nonetheless.



Ah. Approaching footsteps, one set controlled and precise, clipped, the marks of good breeding and undoubtedly Draco. The other is sloppy and casual, careless, a perfect summation of the boy upon whose shoulders the fate of the Wizarding World rests. Merlin save us. I may as well vitiate myself to the Dark Lord now and be done with it.



As they stop outside the door, I realise they are silent. Not arguing, but not talking either, and then one single set of knuckles strikes the wood. Finally.



I recline in my chair and take up my book, as though I have been reading all evening and not sitting here thinking about them.



It was a pointless act; as soon as they enter the sitting room I drop it in surprise and get to my feet.



“What have you done, Potter?” I bark, cupping Draco’s chin and tilting his head back. His nose is bleeding copiously and there are two red circles under each eye that could be explained as insomnia, except for the fact that there was no sign of them yesterday, and with each passing moment the skin is darkening to purple contusions.



“It wasn’t me, sir,” he protests, his concentration solely focused on Draco

.

I Summon liniment and tissues and usher Draco to the sofa. Potter takes his arm to help, rather an needless act, I suspect, since he had managed to walk here unaided, but Draco does not resist him. When he is seated, I set about wiping the blood away and applying the tincture.



“It is not broken,” I offer reassuringly. Potter looks infinitely more relieved than Draco, who stays silent and continues to stare morosely at the fire. “What happened?”



Potter glances around nervously and both of them pretend not to have heard my rather simple question. For the benefit of the hearing-impaired duo, I repeat myself. A lot louder.



Potter flinches and says, “Zabini, sir.”



“Zabini?” I parrot, confused. “What has Mr Zabini to do with this?”



Draco scowls at me and then intensifies it for Potter’s benefit. “I asked you a question, Mr Malfoy. Do not make me ask again.” I growl, and hand him another tissue.



“Blaise hit me,” he concedes grudgingly.



“Obviously. Why?”



“How should I know?” he retorts petulantly.



“Zabini called Draco a blood traitor, sir,” Potter adds helpfully. Draco hisses at him, but Potter remains stiff lipped.



“Then I shall deal with him accordingly whilst Mr Potter accompanies you to the infirmary.”



“Er, actually he’s in the infirmary, sir,” Potter says, his gaze lowered. To foot level.



I can’t help but look at Draco with pride. Standing up to Zabini must have been difficult.



“Potter hexed him,” Draco says sotto voce, shattering my moment of short-lived euphoria.



“I was protecting you!” Potter argues defensively.



“I didn’t say you weren’t!”



“Enough! Potter, tell me what happened. In detail,” I add, just to make sure my meaning gets through that thick skull of his.



He sighs and sits down next to Draco. “We were on our way here. Zabini, Crabbe and Goyle saw us in the corridor and start saying, uh, things.”



“Things?”



“Yeah, you know, insulting stuff.”



“I gathered that much, boy, be more specific.” Draco has the blood flow under control with a wad of tissue so I move to sit in my chair. There is no point rushing to deal with Zabini if he is incapacitated. Especially if he’s been on the receiving end of one of Potter’s hexes.



“Zabini called me a poof and then said how disgusting it was that Draco was dropping his pants for me. Called him a blood traitor. We ignored them and walked past but then Zabini just laid into Draco, punching him and—and I—sir.”



Evidently I was not the only one observing Draco at dinner two nights ago. It appears Zabini may have come to the same conclusion that I did. But more intriguing than that is this: Potter defended Draco. Instinctively.



“What spell did you use?”



“Confringo.”



“Ouch,” Draco says, though I can’t tell if he’s referring to Zabini’s injuries or his own.



“Quite,” I emphasize.



“Er, and Densaugeo,” Potter adds.



“Holy shit, Potter, I didn’t hear that one.” Draco looks impressed.



Potter shrugs. “You were unconscious.”



“I was not!”



“Draco lost consciousness?” I ask, concerned.



“Yeah but only for as long as it took to take Zabini down. Crabbe and Goyle carried him off and then Draco came round.”



“You were defending yourself, weren’t you, Potter.” It is not a question. One hex can be considered self defence; two is indicative of vengeance.



“Yes, sir, of course.” He understands me.



I nod slowly. “Then there will be no repercussion for your actions. Draco, we must take you to Madam Pomfrey.”



He argues tirelessly; so long in fact that he would have been to the infirmary and back by now had he gone immediately at my behest. Potter has the nerve to smirk at Draco’s infuriating point-blank refusal.



“I’m fine, sir. Could do with something for the pain, though.” He glances over his shoulder and stares pointedly at my whisky.



“I believe you are meant to be serving detention,” I say exasperatedly, but both he and Potter look at each other and grin. Grin. And then of course, Potter has to have his say.



“I’m not in detention, professor,” he points out, giving Draco a sly smile before eyeing up the whisky himself. I feel outnumbered. I am about to give him a piece of my mind when I notice Draco looking pointedly at my feet. This is becoming ridiculous. If only to get away from their childish attempts at manipulation, I silently retrieve the scotch and Summon three glasses. Now we shall see just how developed their tolerance for alcohol is.



I hand them each a glass of the golden liquid and raise my own in parody of a toast. “You will make up your detention another night,” I say to Draco before turning to Potter, “and you will join him for further revision.”



As they throw their heads back and drain every last drop of my expensive single malt, I sigh and make a show of sipping leisurely.



Potter’s eyes meet mine over the rim of his glass. The tip of his tongue is just visible, sandwiched between his lips. I am almost consumed by the desire to close the distance between us and suck it clean out of his mouth, punishment for such a brazen attempt at flirtation. Stupid boy.



“Were you ever taught not to play with fire, Potter?” I growl, adding with sinister intent, “You might get burnt.”



Draco’s brow creases in confusion as he looks first at me and then at Potter, evidently thinking he has missed something of import whilst he was staring at the hearth.



Potter blushes and looks away. My smirk is a triumphant one. Draco puts his empty glass on the table and looks at me expectantly.



“My nose still hurts,” he says, as if I have recently been assigned the role of his personal nursemaid.



“And what would you have me do to alleviate your pain?”



He ignores the sarcastic tone. “Fill my glass up?”



Of all the—



“I am not in the habit of allowing students to become intoxicated in my quarters.”



Draco rolls his eyes. “It’s just a drink, sir. It’s not like I’ve never had one before.”



Of course he’s had one before. Less than two minutes ago, in fact. But I cannot condone such a blatant abuse of my position.



“Mr Mal—“



“Please, professor,” Harry interrupts, “I think Draco’s had a bit of a shock.”



It does not occur to me that I should chastise him for interrupting. He said please. It is such a pretty word to hear, falling from his lips. Like he is begging. I want to refuse him, order him out of my sight. I have no idea why I don’t; why my hand is suddenly reaching out for the bottle.



Draco seizes the newly refilled glass and cocks his head at Harry in silent thanks. Never mind that it was my hard earned Galleons that paid for it.



Four pathetically grating ‘please, professor’s’ later, they are noticeably more lethargic, both sunken into the sofa like their bones have dissolved into the fabric. Draco’s plum ringed eyes are lazy slits, a sliver of grey between pale lashes, a hint of orange reflected there from the fire he has been staring at most of the evening. A rainbow of bruises and distress.



Potter’s orbs are, for the most part still visible, though his pupils have dilated, eating away at the green irises. He looks—Merlin help me—wanton. I imagine how those eyes might slide in and out of focus if I were to fist my hands in his unruly hair and yank his head back, perhaps feast on his neck or capture his lips with my teeth. How wide those pupils might grow, then.



This is utterly repellent. I have no need of a mere boy. Especially not one whose surname is Potter. Particularly one whose singular goal is to insinuate himself into life-threatening situations with alarming regularity. It matters not that he has eyes as green as the warmest seas, or a laugh that shakes the foundation of my blackened soul. It matters not that he bites his lip with maddening ferocity, or wastes what may very well be left of his precious life drawing pictures of my feet. I will not let his steady, heated gaze travel straight to my groin because this is grossly inappropriate. This is Harry Potter and he is the very definition of unsuitable.



“Go back to your common rooms,” I bark suddenly when I can no longer stand his staring. I have startled them; I did not mean to sound quite so harsh but it really is too much.



“I-I don’t want to go back,” Draco says, imploring me with slate grey intensity.



“You must, Draco. You cannot avoid them forever.” Truth be told, I would be happy for Draco to stay. It is Potter I am desperate to be rid of.



“But sir, they know. Crabbe, Goyle, their fathers—the Dark Lord—his plans for me, sir, you said you would help me!”



Potter finally, finally breaks his ruthless evaluation of me to search Draco’s face.



“What plans, Draco? What are you meant to do?” he asks, worriedly. Damn the boy and his compassion. Or is it self-preservation?



“It is not necessary to discuss this now. I have every intention of making sure no harm befalls you. When the time comes, I fully expect you to have no part of it. It is vital that you trust me, Draco.”



“I do, professor, I—I don’t want to be a Death Eater but my father—“



They say alcohol loosens the tongue and dulls the senses. Apparently it also relaxes the tear ducts.



Draco’s misery appears to sober Potter and allows him to regain partial use of his brain.



“Oh shit, they want you to take the Mark don’t they?” he says incredulously, though it is not a question.



Apparently I misjudged how much of his mental capacity had been returned to him.



“Of course the Dark Lord wants him to take the Mark, Potter, you imbecile. Draco’s entire family are his most faithful servants! How easy do you suspect it will be for him to disown his father? Perhaps never see his mother again? Have his aunt actively trying to murder him so that she may hold her head up in deference to Him? Forfeit his inheritance and his title? He will be singled out in Slytherin as a blood traitor, as you have already witnessed first-hand, and that incident was no doubt based on mere rumour alone. If word gets out that Draco has truly turned his back on the Dark Lord, he will be as hunted as you are!”



Potter’s face crumples like a paper bag with all the air sucked out of it. On the positive side, Draco has temporarily forgotten his own woes and is rather unattractively gaping. Obviously he believes me to have the sensitivity of a Blast-Ended Skrewt. In my defence, not that I feel indebted to verbalise one, I had not intended to be quite so laconic.



Potter gives a shaky humourless laugh and threads his fingers through his hair.



“Potter—“



“No, it’s fine sir, really. I—your honesty is refreshing.”



It does not appear that way when he struggles to his feet without another word and heads for the door.



“Potter,” I say again, instantly despising how my voice wavers this time. I do not wish for him to leave on such a depressing note.



“Harry, wait.” Draco follows him to the door and places a hand on his shoulder. Something churns nastily in my stomach.



Potter turns to face him and for one sickening moment I think Draco is going to lean forward and brush his lips. My fingernails dig into the chair arm as I force my body to keep still.



“Draco,” he says, eyes combing the other boy’s face with soul destroying absorption, “Zabini was right. What he called me, it’s true. Just thought you should know.”



Then he is gone, so quickly is he gone that Draco’s hand is still hovering where Potter’s shoulder was.



I am so lost in conflicting thoughts that I do not realise Draco has returned to the sofa until he speaks.



“Merlin! What was that about?”



Like I possess all the answers to life’s little mysteries. “I have no idea.”



“Did you know?”



“Yes.”



“Oh. Since when?” Why oh why is he leaning forward in such a salacious manner? One would think the revelation greatly excited him, rather than simply furnishing him with grade A ammunition against his arch enemy.



“Since you called him a cocksucker.”



“Oh God.” He looks suitably ashamed, I am heartened to see. He scrubs his face with his hands, wincing as a sharp fingernail catches the damaged skin around his left eye.



“Oh God,” he repeats softly, “I didn’t know, I wasn’t serious. It was just—“



“A pathetic juvenile attempt at evoking a reaction?” I offer.



“Yeah, I—fuck.”



“Quite.”



We sit in silence for a while, listening to the crackling fire, each contemplating our private thoughts on the matter. Perhaps we are thinking the same thing. I sincerely hope not.



Eventually he sighs and picks up his bag.



“I guess I should go back. You know Father has arranged the ceremony don’t you?”



“Yes. I promise you will be given protection by the school. Your father will not be able to overturn the decision to keep you here over the holidays. I trust you plan to let him know personally?”



“Wh—no! I thought you would!” he splutters. As if he does not remember that I am a Death Eater myself. That my Dark Mark does not burn with the pain of a thousand lancing needles when I am called to His side. That he has forgotten my role in this charade of a War. A war that ultimately comes down to two people.



“Draco. I cannot have our acquaintance seem contrived. I will convince your father that the Headmaster has granted you immunity here and that it is of your own volition, despite my efforts to the contrary. He cannot suspect me of influencing you in this matter. It is imperative that I remain in favour. Merlin knows it will be difficult enough to convince him of that, but I must try.”



“I know, I know,” he says quietly, studying his empty glass. “It’s just so difficult.”



“And it shall remain so until Potter defeats him. But I do believe he will be victorious, Draco, for to consider the alternative is unthinkable.”



“My father—“



“We can only hope will decide that his sole son and heir is of greater importance than the Dark Lord. But if he does not, then yes, you will have to come to terms with that.”



“I know,” he recurs dully.



“I will talk to the headmaster in the morning. Inform him of the situation. I very much doubt he will allow you to remain at the mercy of your peers. For tonight, you may stay here.”



His head jerks up and although he does not smile, his eyes radiate gratitude. “Thank you, sir. I promise I won’t be a bother.”



Why I have changed my mind about sending him back to his dormitory I cannot say with certainty. All I know is that I suddenly feel more responsible for him than ever before. Bravery deserves rewarding and although I will have a hard time explaining my actions to Albus, I am certain it is the right thing to do.



“Sleep now,” I say firmly, Summoning blankets and a pillow from the bedroom. He nods mutely and arranges them on the sofa. As I depart for my own sleepless night, he pulls the blanket up over his head; blond hair spilt across the cotton pillowcase all that is visible. I want to stroke it, to murmur in his ear that he is safe, that I will protect him. But I have no right to make such promises, so I do nothing of the sort.



***