July 1st, 1986

„Did you put everything on the counter like I told you?“

The boy nodded proudly. On the counter before him sat a carton with eggs, milk, the salt and pepper shaker, the frying pan, a bowl and a whisk, all neatly lined up.

Aunt Petunia surveyed his work, frowning. “You forgot the butter.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He picked up his little stool and carried it over to the fridge. It wasn’t easy reaching the handle and pulling open the heavy door, but he managed. There was the butter sitting on the top shelf, next to the left-over potato salad from last night. His stomach made a funny little noise at the sight. It wasn’t quite sore yet, the kind of sore that made you all sleepy and achy, and he forced himself not to look at any of the boxes, cans and dishes crammed onto the shelves before him. There would be breakfast later; his promised treat if he did a good job.

He looked at the butter dish, high up on the top shelf. If he stood on tiptoes, he might just be able to reach it. He leaned forward, bracing himself against the lower shelves for balance, and scrabbled for his prize. His finger tips brushed against the dish, but he couldn’t seem to get a good grip.

“What are you – careful there, you stupid boy!”

He was grabbed under his arms and deposited none-too-gently on the kitchen floor. His aunt got the butter from the shelf and set it on the counter before she turned around to look at him. Her frown had deepened into a scowl. The boy bit his lower lip. He’d been so determined to do a good job, and now he was messing it up before he had even started.

“Next time get yourself one of the kitchen chairs. But don’t get the seat cushions dirty, you hear me?”

He nodded quickly. “Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

“Now then.” The scowl had left her face, but the frown was still there, etching two stern lines into her forehead. “Put your stool in front of the stove and set the frying pan on the burner. The front one. Now leave it there and move over here.”

She indicated the counter next to the stove. Climbing back on his stool, he surveyed the ingredients lined up before him and smiled. He’d show Aunt Petunia that he was a big boy, that he didn’t need to be taught things twice. Soon he’d be wielding that whisk like the man he’d seen on the telly, and they’d be proud and smile at him, telling each other what a good job the boy was doing cooking their breakfast.

“Five eggs,” his aunt told him. “Crack them open carefully – I won’t have you wasting any food. Like this.”

She took one of the eggs and tapped it on the counter. A crack formed in the shell, and she used her thumbs to pry it open, dropping the egg into the bowl. It looked dead easy, and the boy reached for the carton, eager to try the task himself. The tapping on the counter worked just fine; a crack appeared and he pressed his thumbs into it, feeling the shell give under his fingers. To his dismay, however, the egg did not break neatly in two like it had for his aunt. The shell crumbled and some of the pieces fell into the bowl, mingling with the yolk of the first egg.

“Look what you’ve done, you careless boy!” His aunt’s knuckles rapped on his head, and he felt tears forming in his eyes. Messing up again, he really wasn’t trying hard enough.

“Sorry,” he whispered, and quickly blinked the wetness away. Crying was for babies, and he was almost six, after all. “Sorry, Aunt Petunia.”

A spoon was banged on the counter. “Make sure you get it all out.”

He fished for the pieces of egg shell under his aunt’s watchful eyes. It was almost like catching fish. The idea lifted his spirits somewhat, and he had a private little game of chasing brown fish in a sea of white and yellow, depositing his haul in the sink. He was going after the last one when Aunt Petunia sighed impatiently and grabbed the bowl from under his hands, picking out the last piece of egg shell herself.

“Now hurry up and finish with the eggs. I haven’t got all day.”

It took two more eggs, three raps on the head and two more rounds of chasing egg shells before he got the hang of it. Finally, the last egg came apart without crumbling and dropped neatly into the bowl. The boy looked up at his aunt, smiling shyly. She ignored him.

“Now pour half a cup of milk into the bowl – careful! Don’t spill it. Add salt and pepper- no!” The shaker was grabbed from his hand. “That’s enough, you’ll ruin it. Now use the whisk, like this.”

He watched carefully how she held the whisk, and tried to imitate her when it was handed to him. Whisking the eggs was far easier than cracking them, and his confidence grew as he watched the yolk mingle with the white. He was doing it – he was cooking! The smile returned to his face. This was fun.

“You’re done,” Aunt Petunia said, and he lowered the whisk, almost disappointed that he had to stop. “This is how you turn on the stove; watch carefully, now. This switch turns on the front burner. Turn it this far – no further – and be careful the frying pan is on the right burner. If you burn anything-“

“I’ll be careful, Aunt Petunia,” he said quickly. “Really.”

She gave him a look that said he’d better be, and turned the burner off again. “Now go ahead, turn it on yourself.”

He did, and seemed to have done everything right, for his aunt nodded. “Put a teaspoon of butter into the frying pan and wait until it’s melted. Use the spatula to spread it, like this. Now pour in the eggs.”

It wasn’t easy, lifting the bowl and aiming for the frying pan at the same time. He held his breath as he tilted the bowl, expecting the eggs to land on the stove any minute. His aunt would be so mad if he made a mess. Slowly, very slowly he let the eggs slide towards the rim –

“Don’t dawdle, boy!”

His aunt grabbed his hand and pushed down the bowl. The eggs splashed into the sizzling butter, causing a shower of drops to spray his arm and face. It felt like white-hot needles on his skin.

“Ow!” This time, he couldn’t quite hold back the tears, and sniffled.

“Don’t be such a baby.” Aunt Petunia took away the bowl and pushed the spatula into his hand. “Now stir the eggs and make sure they don’t burn.”

Putting her hand on his, she showed him how to move the eggs around the frying pan. He was still wary of the burning fat, but at the same time he enjoyed the feel of her fingers resting on his hand, her standing so close to him. Her perfume smelled like the white flowers in the front garden, and he thought that he’d love to turn around and hug her tight, just for smelling so nice and showing him how to do chores like a big boy.

“Are you paying attention?”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

The eggs began to change color and turned into little bits he could push around the pan. This was almost as much fun as whisking had been. And he was going to get to do this every morning from now on. His aunt and uncle said he was a big boy who could do his share around the house. A big boy who could earn his keep. They’d be so proud of him when they saw how well he was doing.

“That’s it,” his aunt said. “You’re done. Now turn off the stove and use the spatula to put the eggs on a plate.”

He managed to do so without dropping more than a few crumbs on the counter. Finally, a plate heaped with steaming eggs sat before him, glistening with fat and looking perfect. He had cooked this! And he hadn’t messed it up too bad, either. He looked up at his aunt.

“How did I do?”

Her mouth became a thin line, as always when he asked a question, but then her face smoothed and she nodded, even smiling a little.

“Well enough, I suppose. Now take the plate out to the veranda. Your uncle’s waiting.”

He nodded and quickly climbed off his stool, taking the plate with both hands. The eggs smelled wonderful and his stomach made the funny noise again, but he ignored it. His own breakfast had to wait, he knew that and he didn’t mind. He couldn’t wait to show his uncle the result of his cooking lesson. Dudley was going to be so jealous!

He went through the living room and stepped outside. It was a fine summer morning and Petunia had decided to have breakfast on the veranda, three place settings crammed around the laden table. His uncle had disappeared almost completely behind his newspaper, muttering to himself about “those ruddy freeloaders”. Dudley’s eyes were glued to the little TV Aunt Petunia had set up outside specially for him. A bowl of Chocolate Cheerios sat in front of him. As the boy watched, his cousin dipped his spoon into the cereal and brought it to his mouth without ever taking his eyes off the screen, gobbling down the spoonful with surprisingly little mess. Dudley had perfected the art of eating without looking at his plate.

The boy waited for his uncle to notice him standing there. The newspaper moved as a page was turned. “Raising welfare rates again, bloody layabouts can get a job like everyone else…”

“Da-ad,” Dudley whined around a mouthful of Cheerios. “I can’t hear the telly.”

“Sorry, Dudders.” Uncle Vernon lowered his newspaper and finally saw the boy standing there. “Thought you were helping Petunia in the kitchen, boy?”

The boy smiled proudly. “I did! Look, I made scrambled eggs all by myself!”

“Oh.” His uncle’s eyes dropped to the plate, and his eyebrows drew together. For an anxious moment, the boy thought his uncle would find fault with his work and swallowed. He’d been trying so hard…

“Well, give them here, then.” Vernon reached for the plate. “You want some, Dudders?”

Dudley nodded without even looking. The boy watched as his uncle heaped scrambled eggs first on his own plate, then on a second one for Dudley.

“You want ketchup with yours, Dudders?”

Dudley wanted ketchup; in fact, he even glanced away from the screen for a second to make sure his father added a large enough portion. The boy bit his lips.

“I… I made ‘em all by myself,” he said softly. “Aunt Petunia almost didn’t have to help me. An’… an’ I turned on the stove by myself, and all.”

A forkful of scrambled eggs hovered under Uncle Vernon’s moustache. It almost seemed as if the boy had surprised his uncle by speaking.

“Oh,” Vernon said again, and glanced down at his plate. “Er, yeah. Well done, Harry. Now run along and help your aunt. Go on, boy.”

The boy turned and did as he was told, unable to keep the huge grin off his face. Well done, Harry. That was better than the whisking and the fishing game, better even than knowing that he was doing grown-up chores.

Harry decided that he loved cooking.

***

Harry loved cooking so much that he became quite good at it. It wasn’t long before he could make breakfast all by himself – scrambling eggs, frying bacon, feeding oranges into the juicer. He learned how to cook pasta and potatoes, how to cut and fry vegetables and how to make chocolate muffins for Dudley’s school lunch. There were times when Aunt Petunia did the cooking – when he had homework or other chores to finish, when they had company or when he wasn’t allowed out of his cupboard. On most days, though, she told Harry what to make, showed him where to find the ingredients and left him to it. It was his job, and he was very proud of it. Dudley wasn’t allowed near the stove. “Don’t, Diddy, it’s hot and you might burn yourself,” Aunt Petunia told him. Dudley sulked because Harry was allowed to do something he wasn’t. “That’s the boy’s job, Diddykins, you don’t have to do that,” Aunt Petunia said and gave her son a Mars bar. Dudley stuck his tongue out at his cousin and stomped off to watch TV. Harry smiled. He had a job of his very own, something his cousin didn’t get to do. That alone was worth every hour he spent on his little stool in front of the stove.

***

The day after the first letter arrived, Uncle Vernon wouldn’t allow Harry near the kitchen any longer.

“I’m not taking any risks, Petunia,” he said. “He might do… you-know-what. Freak stuff. He’s not touching any food my son puts in his mouth.”

Harry, who was listening at the door, tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He’d never done freak stuff while cooking. He sometimes burned the bacon or put too much salt in the soup (and was clipped round the ear for it), but he had never made anything strange happen in the kitchen. Cooking was his job, and he did it well.

“Fine,” Aunt Petunia snapped. “But I’m not letting him off his other chores. It’ll only give him ideas if we let him loll around the house.”

They began to move towards the door and Harry quickly scrambled for the living room where he was supposed to be. He picked up the duster and went back to cleaning his aunt’s collection of porcelain figurines. He hated those figurines. He’d broken one of the fat little angels when he was seven – well, Dudley had pushed him against the shelf – and had been sent to his cupboard without dinner. The next morning, the broken angel was back in its usual place without so much as a wing missing. When Aunt Petunia had discovered it, she had looked as if someone had fed her a very sour lemon. She’d dragged Harry to his cupboard and pushed him in, locking the door despite his protests that he had no idea what had happened. When Uncle Vernon came home, he dragged Harry back out, shouted at him for half an hour, gave him a sound spanking and left him crying on his cot in the dark cupboard.

Every time he had to dust the angel, Harry couldn’t help feeling annoyed at its innocent little smile. He couldn’t help the freak stuff happening. He hated it; if they’d only listen to him, he would tell them how much he hated it. He knew it was bad. He felt it. And he would have stopped it if he could. He would have stopped the letters from coming if he could. Anything so they wouldn’t stare at him with that look in their eyes.

“Aren’t you done yet?”

Aunt Petunia stood behind him with her hands on her hips, and yes, that look in her eyes. As if he was leaving invisible traces of dirt on her nice, clean floor and furniture.

“A-almost, Aunt Petunia.”

“Well, hurry up. Dinner’s at six. I want the living room done by then.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

Only yesterday, she’d have sent him to the kitchen to get dinner started. But that had been before. Before the stupid letters had started coming.

Harry resumed his dusting, feeling sad and guilty. Sad because he had lost his very own job, and guilty because he couldn’t help wondering if he could sneak one of those letters when no one was looking.

***

Then, of course, everything changed. The world was turned on its head and given a good shake, and he suddenly found himself the center of everyone’s attention. He was excited and frightened by the huge man who was so rude to his aunt and uncle and told him things that could only be lies, except that they were true. He was even more excited (and frightened) by the strange place the man took him to, a place that looked funny, sounded funny, even smelt funny.

Freak stuff happening everywhere. People waving sticks and making their shopping bags shrink. Other people pointing their sticks at heavy boxes and lifting them off the ground by magic. Owls. Bats. Broomsticks, of all things. He wasn’t sure whether to feel thrilled or scared out of his wits. Even when he held his magic stick – his wand – for the first time and felt something warm and very powerful surge through his arm, his chest and into his head, he wasn’t sure if he wanted all of this to happen. It was only when he saw the beautiful snowy owl for the first time that he decided he liked this place. Freak stuff or no, he had a pet.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. Secretly, Harry was quite relieved when he found himself on the train home, with only his owl for company. He liked Hagrid, mostly because the huge man seemed very fond of him for some reason, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about the rest. The freak stuff. The wizards and witches who hid their strange shopping center behind an old pub just for the sake of it. Who whispered and pointed at him from the other side of the street.

He had a nightmare that night. It wasn’t the usual one about green light and a high voice laughing; this time he was in a different place, a place that was filled with strange people gawking at him and pointing. They called out for him to make something happen, to do something really freaky so they could have a good laugh. He tried as hard as he could, but nothing happened and he knew that this was really bad when he saw the looks on their faces. They were giving him that look, cold and disappointed.

He woke up, trembling and feeling sick to his stomach. The room was filled with moonlight, and the furniture painted strange shadows on the walls. He sat curled up on his mattress for a while, his blankets gathered around him. Then he climbed out of bed and went over to where Hedwig was sitting on top of her cage.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out to pet her soft feathers. “Bet you’re scared, being in a new place and all. It’s okay. You can sleep in my bed if you want.”

The owl hooted softly and climbed onto his arm.

“You had a nightmare, too?”

She nipped his ear gently.

“That’s alright. It wasn’t real, just a dream. Come on.”

He walked over to his bed and climbed in, Hedwig on his shoulder. Bunching up his blankets, he set them against the headboard so he would be able to sleep sitting up.

“That way, you can stay on my shoulder,” he told the owl, who hooted in agreement. He leaned back against the blankets and felt the feathers brush against his cheek, warming him. “Good night, Hedwig.”

It didn’t take long for him to go back to sleep.

***

The world had changed, and Harry discovered that there was no turning it back. Things were different now, he was different; he knew things he should never have found out, and his aunt and uncle were only too aware of it.

They no longer gave him that look, as if he were leaving mud stains on their white carpet; the look they gave him now was worse. As if being around him made them feel ill. Maybe it did, he thought. Maybe the freak stuff inside him could hurt them, and they were afraid he might try something harmful on purpose. He wanted to tell them that they needn’t be afraid, but he couldn’t. They no longer talked to him.

So he stayed in his room. Sometimes, he leafed through his new books and tried to make sense of the strange pictures and accompanying texts. There was one book he liked in particular, Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger. It was almost like one of Aunt Petunia’s cookbooks. Sure, the ingredients listed were cockroaches, tubeworms, spiders and other things his aunt would never have let in the house, let alone her kitchen. But other than that… it seemed that all these strange and potentially nasty ingredients had to be diced, shredded, chopped and measured just like potatoes and carrots for your average vegetable stew. It sounded like something he might be able to do. It sounded… fun.

Harry decided to find out more about magical drafts and potions once he was at Hogwarts. Maybe there was one subject at which he wouldn’t be the worst in his class.

***

On his first evening at Hogwarts, Harry’s nightmare became reality. He found himself sitting on a stool in front of a crowd who gawked and pointed at him, and they did seem to expect him to do something really freaky. Maybe they were waiting for the hat on his head to explode? His hands were slippery with sweat. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want all these people to give him that look.

Last night, Aunt Petunia had come into his room for the first time since he’d returned from Diagon Alley. She’d sat down on his desk chair and said nothing for a long time, merely looking at him. Finally, she had spoken, and her empty tone of voice had ripped straight into his heart.

“I don’t want you to leave tomorrow without telling you this. What they’re doing – what they’re going to show you to do – it’s bad. It hurts people. It tears families apart and turns them against each other. They’re… unnatural, and they know it. That’s why they’re hiding from the world… from people like us. We tried to protect you even when we knew we couldn’t. But I don’t want you to go there and… and think it’s all peachy keen and wonderful and everything you ever wanted. Just remember what I’m telling you now.”

She had left after that, and he had sat on his bed for a long time, stroking Hedwig and staring out the window. And had finally decided that it couldn’t hurt to have a look for himself. After all, people who had normal, everyday things like cookbooks couldn’t be that unnatural, could they? They couldn’t be all bad.

A small voice in his ear startled him out of his thoughts, and he became aware of the mass of faces still staring at him, still expecting something freaky to happen.

“Well,” said the voice in his ear, “if you’re not going to talk to me – better be GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry smiled as he slipped off the stool. Ron had said he was going to be in Gryffindor. He sat down at his table and cheered with the others as Ron joined them after his Sorting. Freak stuff or no, at least he had made a friend.

***

“What have we got today?” Harry asked Ron as he poured sugar on his porridge.

“Double Potions with the Slytherins,” said Ron. “Snape’s Head of Slytherin house. They say he always favors them – we’ll be able to see if it’s true.”

Harry thought of the dark man he had seen sitting at the High Table, who had looked at him for a very brief moment before turning his eyes away. No one seemed to like him much, Ron and his brothers included.

“I bet Potion’s a cool subject though,” he said to Ron, who gave him an incredulous look.

“What?”

Harry shrugged, slightly embarrassed. “Well, I… I was looking at the textbook back home and it seemed interesting.”

But Ron wasn’t listening anymore. The post had arrived, owls sweeping over their heads, dropping parcels and letters and taking Ron’s mind entirely off the subject of Potions and Snape.

Harry was secretly glad about the distraction. His copy of Magical Drafts and Potions was beginning to look quite well-thumbed, and if Ron noticed, he might think of Harry as a suck-up and know-it-all.

Harry was determined not to alienate his new best friend – even if it meant he had to read his Potions book at night when everyone else was asleep.

***

Potions classes took place down in the dungeons. The classroom was a rather forbidding place, although Harry hadn’t expected the large windows in the back, through which the warm autumn sunlight freely entered. Dungeons were supposed to be dank, gloomy places with rusty chains on the wall, weren’t they? Yet Snape’s classroom, while by no means a cozy place, seemed more like a dusty old library to Harry.

The students trailed into the classroom, whispering among themselves and pointing at the shelves, where various ingredients floated inside jars filled with multi-colored preservative fluids. Harry recognized Graphorn parts – he’d seen a depiction of the characteristic double-ridged horn in Magical Drafts and Potions – and what looked like Doxy eggs to him.

He would have loved to take a closer look at the jars, but thought better of it when he saw Ron pulling a face.

“Eww. Fred told me Snape’s got a glass of pickled tarantulas somewhere in here.”

Harry thought that it was very likely; after all, according to his book, tarantula legs were a common ingredient in most healing potions. He didn’t think Ron would appreciate this little detail, though, and said nothing.

The girl walking in front of them turned around, shaking her bushy hair. “Well, he wouldn’t be a very good Potions Master if he didn’t, would he? Tarantula legs are a common ingredient in healing potions.”

Harry recognized Hermione Granger, the girl they’d met on the train. Ron scowled at her. “So what? They’re still disgusting.”

Hermione looked as if she was about to begin a lengthy lecture on the healing properties of tarantula legs, but she was interrupted by the sound of the door being flung open. Like a flock of startled birds, the students scrambled for the nearest seat. By the time Snape had reached the front of the class, everyone was sitting very straight-backed on their chairs, trying not to attract attention to themselves.

Black robes billowing behind him, Snape turned around to face the class. Secretly, Harry thought he looked pretty cool. Headmaster Dumbledore and the other professors… they could have stepped straight out of a kindergartner’s fairy-tale book, and their smiles and kind demeanor made them even more… unreal. Snape, though… he wasn’t a fairy-tale wizard and he wasn’t kind. Harry felt that this was a man who could be trusted; an impression that was further confirmed when Snape began to speak.

“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class.”

Harry felt secretly, guiltily relieved. No freak stuff, not here. Not in Snape’s class.

“As such, I don’t expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion making. However, for those select few who possess the predisposition, I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory and even put a stopper in death. Then again, maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities so formidable that you feel confident enough to not… pay… attention.”

Snape’s eyes had fixed on the boy next to Harry; Neville Longbottom, the boy who had spent most of the journey to Hogwarts chasing after his wayward toad, Trevor. He’d been scribbling something in his notebook while Snape talked. Harry glanced at the page and saw that Neville had neatly taken minutes of the professor’s introductory speech. When the round-faced boy still didn’t notice the teacher’s eyes on him, Harry discreetly prodded him with his foot. Neville glanced up, startled.

“What, I – oh.”

But Snape wasn’t looking at him anymore. His dark eyes had settled on Harry, and he didn’t seem to like what he was seeing. In fact, he stared at him very much the way Aunt Petunia had when he came back from the barber’s with his hair still as tousled and untidy as ever.

“Mr Potter,” he drawled softly. “Our new celebrity.”

Harry could tell that the man was mocking him, although he didn’t know why. Maybe Snape wanted to warn the class that there would be no whispering and pointing at Harry while he was around? If so, then Harry was grateful. He didn’t really know what they all expected to see, and wished they would just leave him alone.

“Tell me,” Snape continued, still in that soft, quiet tone that kept the class spellbound. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Hermione’s hand flew up, but Snape paid her no attention whatsoever, his eyes fixed on Harry. Harry thought furiously. He’d read about asphodel… the passage had fascinated him, especially since asphodel seemed to be a plant associated with the Dark Arts. Asphodel and wormwood… and then it came to him.

“Erm… a powerful sleeping potion known as the Draught of the Living Dead?”

Snape’s eyebrows drew together, and for a moment Harry thought he’d gotten it wrong. Then the professor gave a curt nod.

“Well, so far so good… where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?”

That was an easy one; bezoars were mentioned in the introduction to Magical Potions and Drafts, and several times in the following chapters.

“In the stomach of a goat, sir.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Really… and would you also happen to know why I might be in need of a bezoar?”

“If – if you’d accidentally swallowed a poisonous potion?”

For a very brief moment, Harry thought he’d seen something like a smile tug at Snape’s hard mouth, but it was gone before he could even consider the idea. The professor raised an eyebrow at him.

“Let me assure you, Potter, inconceivable as it might seem given the example set by certain illustrious wizards of our time, I am not in the habit of ingesting detrimental substances, accidentally or otherwise.”

Harry wondered if he’d get the joke if he wrote it down. Nevertheless, it seemed as if he’d given the correct answer.

Snape wasn’t done with him, though. “What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane, Potter?”

Harry frowned. There was no difference… but that was it. Snape was asking him a trick question! He felt a small flare of pride at the realization. Teachers only asked trick questions if they considered you smart enough to recognize them as such.

“There is no difference, sir,” he said, his voice growing more confident. “They’re the same plant.”

“Also known as?”

Harry closed his eyes. He remembered the page - there had been a picture of the plant, titled as…

“Aconite, sir.”

Snape stared at him. He didn’t smile or look particularly happy, but Harry noticed that the expression in his eyes had changed from outright disgust to… something else.

“Well, well… it seems that unlike the dunderheads singing your praise all over the land, you recognize the fact that you can actually benefit from taking the occasional glance at your textbooks.”

Snape sneered and whirled around, flicking his wand at a piece of chalk on the desk. It soared over to the blackboard and began to scribble instructions in spiky letters. Harry recognized the ingredients needed for the boil-healing draft described in the first chapter of Magical Drafts and Potions.

“Gather your ingredients from the store cupboard and begin brewing. And do so in silence,” he added, drawling the last word as he shot venomous glances around the room.

As they got in line for the ingredients, Ron poked Harry’s back. “That was brilliant, mate!” he whispered. “Showed him.”

He fell silent as Hermione shot him a disapproving look. She had looked very disappointed when Snape had asked no more questions after his interrogation of Harry.

Harry ignored the silent exchange of angry looks between the two. It was his turn to collect his ingredients and for a moment he just stood there, amazed by the abundance of Snape’s store cupboard. Everything he’d read about in his book seemed to be there, plus a number of rare substances whose use he could only guess at. Just imagine, having such riches at your disposal whenever you liked… maybe even experiment with them… Harry suddenly found himself rather envious of Professor Snape.

Ron poked him again, this time to get him moving. Harry quickly gathered the ingredients listed on the blackboard and went over to his waiting cauldron. He skimmed over the instructions again. If done right, this potion could be used to cure boils and eczema of the nastier kind; rather like a medicine would be used back home. Back in the Muggle world. Far more than making feathers fly and turning matches into needles, Harry could see why people would actually bother teaching this kind of thing.

Before he began, he lined up the ingredients in the order in which they were going to be used – the way he’d always done back in Aunt Petunia’s kitchen. Dried stinging nettles… snake fangs, still needing to be crushed… stewed horned slugs… Ron’s dreaded tarantula legs… and porcupine quills. Harry put those aside so he wouldn’t accidentally add them before he took the cauldron off the fire.

Methodically, he set about preparing his ingredients. Shredding and weighing the nettles turned out to be easy, but crushing the tiny snake fangs proved more difficult. After a few unsuccessful attempts, Harry found out that snake fangs were far easier to handle if you cut them in half before crushing them in the mortar. He was done even before Hermione was, and had enough time to stew his horned slugs until they were the exact purple described in the textbook. Snape glanced over his shoulder, muttering something unintelligible and turned away. Harry was too absorbed in his work to hear him compliment Malfoy’s work at the other end of the classroom.

After adding the ingredients one by one, Harry turned down the heat and stirred his potion thirteen times counterclockwise, then left it alone so it could simmer for ten minutes. If he was lucky – and had done everything right – the moss-green liquid would begin to turn bright blue within the next five minutes.

He wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve and glanced up for the first time since they’d begun brewing. Next to him, Ron was still hammering down on his snake fangs, his face growing redder and redder.

“Damn – things - won’t –“

“Cut them in half first,” Harry told him quietly. “Seems they come apart easier if you do.”

Ron followed his instructions, his eyes widening as he watched the tiny fangs turn to dust in his mortar. “Bloody hell, Harry. You some kinda potions genius?”

Harry quickly shook his head. “Just a lucky guess.”

He glanced back at his cauldron, and felt a surge of excitement. His potion was turning a bright blue, giving off silver vapor that wafted over the edge of the desk. On his other side, Neville was struggling with the porcupine quills, one of which had got caught in the sleeve of his robes. He was about to drop them into his bubbling cauldron when Harry grabbed his arm.

“No, don’t!”

Neville stared at him. “What?”

Harry took Neville’s cauldron off the fire. “Or the whole thing’ll go-“ He mimed an explosion with his hands. Neville paled at the idea.

“Thanks, Harry.”

“Why are you thanking Potter, Longbottom?” Somehow, Snape had appeared behind the two of them without making a sound. He threw a sour look at Harry’s potion before sneering at Neville’s. “Was he kind enough to sign your textbook? Which I admit is fairly useless in your hands for anything other than collecting autographs of your idols.”

“N-no, sir,” Neville’s face seemed to glow. “He told me not to add the – the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire.”

“Did he now.” Snape narrowed his eyes at Harry. “And what business does Mr. Potter have meddling with his classmates’ potions, assuming anyone would stoop to calling that swill a potion?”

Harry said nothing. Snape knew that Neville’s potion would have exploded if he’d added the quills, so there was no need for Harry to point it out.

Snape gave him a hard stare for another moment or two, then, to Harry’s surprise, turned away. “Very well. Since the majority of you seems to be unable to follow simple written instructions, I see no sense in further wasting my time. Leave a corked sample of your work at my desk. A roll of parchment on the effects and uses of asphodel and wormwood, to be handed in next lesson. Class dismissed.”

He stalked over to the teacher’s desk, only to suddenly whirl around again. “Oh, and Potter… detention for interfering with Longbottom’s potion. Stay behind so we can discuss the details.”

Ron gasped. “That’s-“

Snape’s black gaze pierced through him. “You were saying, Mr. Weasley?”

Ron closed his mouth with an audible snap. “Nothing, sir.”

“That’s what I thought I heard.” Snape glanced meaningfully at the door, and the rest of the class fled. Ron caught Harry’s eyes with a sympathetic expression before he closed the door behind him.

“Potter,” Snape snapped, and Harry quickly turned to look at the professor.

“Sir?”

“You will come to my office tonight, seven o’clock. Do – not – be – late. Bring your potions kit with you. You’ll be assisting me in brewing a batch of Deboiling Draft for the hospital wing, as your classmates are obviously incapable of producing anything remotely reminiscent of a working healing potion. I will also instruct you in brewing several other healing drafts you’ll be making during future detentions with me – and yes, Potter, there are going to be a lot of them.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry kept his face perfectly straight. He knew that if his professor caught the slightest hint that his detention task was not going to be a punishment for Harry, he would change it to something horrible… like cleaning cauldrons with a toothbrush.

“Remember, seven o’clock, tonight. You may go.”

Harry had almost reached the door when Snape called him back.

“Potter.”

“Sir?”

Snape sighed and looked as if he’d swallowed something very sour. “Since your head is already inflated to the point of distortion, I might as well say it… one point to Gryffindor for a job well done.”

Harry was very careful to close the door before he allowed a huge grin to show on his face. He still wasn’t sure about the whole magic business, but one thing he knew for sure: Potions was going to be his very favorite subject.