Potions and Snitches
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The Naughty Stool

Michael Pickles sat in the gloom, his knees tucked up to his chest as he wiped away the snot from his nose with the back of a curled up fist angrily - frustrated that he had been driven to tears. He pushed a dirty hand through his tangled head of black hair, blinking his sapphire eyes brutally. His father often told him that crying was for babies and Michael had been inclined to agree up until now. But at eleven years old, he was caught in the most dangerous position that he had ever dreamt he could be in.

His younger brothers were both asleep beside him on the stone floor. He had wrapped his own, worn winter coat around them to protect them against the drafts which rattled periodically through their dank and dreary prison. He had kept up his spirits in front of them because he knew that they were relying on him to get them out of whatever it was they were in. They were able to rest intermittently because they thought he would; it was what he did. He got them into scrapes and then he got them out of them, and they had complete, unwavering, faith in his abilities.

Neither of them seemed to appreciate the seriousness of the situation. Michael had counted four days since he and his brothers had been taken. Actually Michael couldn’t even remember that they had been taken. The three of them had been kicking a ball back and forth on the green, far away from school, and then, without warning, and in a flash of green light, they had simply been somewhere else – on the floor of a cold, stone room with no windows and only a single oil lamp swinging from the high wooden rafters for light. All Michael could remember was that a split second before it happened there had been laughter – a lot of laughter - and many black cloaks.

At first he had childishly thought it had been a trick of the Old Bill, or the filth as his dad referred to the police. He thought perhaps they had found out about the sweets that they had managed to impart from the sweet-shop earlier that day. Money was tight in the Pickle household and so sometimes Michael had to be a bit inventive about the means through which he and his brothers got their fill. He didn’t see it as wrong just a means of survival.

After a full day with no food and no explanations, though, he had realised that it was a lot more serious than that. Even criminals had rights, and, though he hadn’t seen the inside of a police cell himself, being too young to actually be locked up any time he had been picked up, his father had told him about it, and there was little chance that it could have been as medieval as their current abode.

His eight-year-old brother Thomas had been the first of them to break down. Looking hard in front of his elder brothers meant a lot to him, but as time had passed and he become tired, cold and hungry it had got on top of him and he had sobbed. Michael had comforted him as best he could, at first shouting at him to buck him up, then eventually, as the days passed, and the hooded man with the ice-blue eyes became a more frequent and threatening visitor, hugging him through his sobs and assuring him that he would get them out of it one way or another.

Lee, Michael knew, understood the situation slightly better than Thomas, but he was putting a brave face on it, as the incident the other day had proven. Their captor gave them food and water sporadically, and Michael and Lee had used the cutlery from one of their puny meals to chip away rocks from the wall. They had then constructed a kind of catapult with the elastic from their younger brother’s trousers and their own socks, and when their captor had returned had let fly. Michael realised now that he had known all along that it was a useless and childish ploy, but they had had to feel like they were doing something, and it had cheered Thomas up for a while. In any case the rocks had been dispelled by the hooded figure almost like there was some sort of shield protecting him; sparks of different colours ricocheting around the room. It was then that they had realised exactly what they were dealing with. This was no ordinary man, but someone who had powers that they had only read about in fairy tales.

The man’s rage had been a thing to behold. His pale blue eyes had glittered furiously, as sharp as glass shards in his head, and the expression on his face had been as maniacal as the devil himself. In a one swift, mesmerizing, movement he had held aloft what Michael now supposed was his wand and pointed it at Thomas.

Would you like the little brat to suffer for your foolishness?’ he had said, smiling callously at the small, quivering boy.

Michael had stood bravely in front of Thomas and Lee, his expression determined even as his legs shook beneath him. He had braced himself for whatever he was given; determined that if the captor meant to harm his brothers, he would do so only over his own dead body.

The captor had paused and laughed mockingly, before replacing the wand in its holder. He had then taken his silver serpent-headed cane to Michael, thrashing him with it skilfully till he had him crumpled in a heap on the floor - battered and humiliated, though still in one piece.

Let that be a lesson to you ,’ the captor had said shortly before turning on his heel to leave in a swirl of black velvet robes. He was not about to take any nonsense from the impudent muggle brats – whether the Dark Lord required them (more-or-less) unharmed or not.

Michael had smiled wryly as his brothers had helped him to his feet, and he had dusted himself down, wincing with pain. He felt he had got off quite lightly considering the man’s power - a hiding he could take.

He felt his brother’s stirring now and sighed. Just what this all meant and where it would all lead he didn’t know. He didn’t know if the ‘magic’ was simply an illusion, or if it was somehow real, and he had no idea what a ‘filthy muggle’ – a term his captor often used when addressing them – was, much less where they were and who the Dark Lord could be.

He resolved from that moment, though, that whatever the next few days had in store for them, he wouldn’t cry again.


‘Then the two things are linked?’ Dumbledore said. He was regarding Snape with calm, thoughtful eyes.

It had been two days since Snape had set off to visit Dumbledore to tell him what he had found out from Lucius, and this time he had not given in to one of the many ‘distractions’ he had found to keep him from his goal.

‘Yes.’

‘And the curse used on Harry?’

‘There is no question that the curse as it was when Mr Malfoy stumbled upon it was in an earlier stage of development.’

‘I see. And the fact that Voldemort needs captives to test the curse on suggests that it is something perhaps more sinister than we imagine.’

‘It indicates to me, headmaster, that it is both extremely dangerous and perhaps irreversible,’ Snape said, irritably, clutching his burning wrist at his mentor’s use of his former master’s name. ‘The fact that Potter survived probably says more about the traces of strength the Dark Lord inadvertently left upon him.’

‘Perhaps,’ Dumbledore said, placing his fingertips together. ‘However if the curse were indeed dangerous then why go to such lengths to take the children prisoner and keep them in such a way? It would have been simpler and less dangerous to simply pick off muggles, or other wizards, and then dispose of them.’

‘To conceal the spell?’ Snape suggested after a moments thought.

‘I am inclined to think that Tom is thinking more laterally than that,’ Dumbledore said. He did not, however, offer any more explanation. As his pale blue eyes turned once again towards his potions master, Snape could see that there was a certain challenge behind them. He braced himself as Dumbledore opened his mouth again to speak, his tone grave.

‘In your haste to determine the fate of the Pickles children, Severus, you have put yourself in a most precarious position.’

Snape’s lip curled automatically in response to the criticism. As a spy for the Order he was already in a precarious position. He did not, however, contradict Dumbledore. He found it best in such situations to simply let the elder wizard talk himself out.

Dumbledore, however, seemed to guess his mind. ‘I am well aware that you risk yourself, admirably, for the Order at my bidding, and I am most grateful – we all are.’

Snape opened his mouth to scoff that he did not do it for thanks; Dumbledore, however, held up his hand. ‘Hear me out, Severus.’

‘Perhaps against my better judgement I allow you into the presence of the Death Eaters, and also to bring me information about Tom’s plans. But this I do with a heavy heart, and only because it is your will to serve the Order. By questioning Lucius, however, you have jeopardised your position. He will wait for the moment that he can use such information to his advantage and when he does it may fall beyond my power to help you. That is why I asked you to trust myself and the Order to deal with the disappearance of the Pickles children. There was a reason that Tom did not wish you to know about the attack, and therefore by knowing you have immediately put yourself – and Lucius I might add – in danger.’

The reproach Snape had expected in Dumbledore’s tone didn’t hurt him as much as the disappointment. He suddenly felt like a recalcitrant student and he lowered his eyes uncomfortably to the desk. As if deciding the message had been driven home, when Dumbledore spoke again his tone was lighter.

‘We will of course act upon the information you have given us, but I must ask you not to approach Lucius again. You have an important job to do, Severus, here at Hogwarts with your young charge. Lucius may be an adept spell-maker, but you are more adept and more driven, and I have every confidence that you can crack the mystery of the curse.’

He smiled then. ‘Do I have your confidence, as you have mine? Will you trust the Order to address the kidnapping?’

Snape nodded as he looked deep into Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes. ‘Yes headmaster,’ he said quietly.

‘Thank-you Severus,’ Dumbledore said.

As he watched the potions master leave his study, however, Dumbledore wondered if it was a promise that had been made to be broken. ‘What do you think Fawkes?’ he asked the once-proud Phoenix, who was withered and weeping, ready to die and be born again. As if in response, Fawkes chose that moment to burst into flames. Dumbledore smiled wryly as he popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth, ‘My sentiments exactly.’


Draco was sat, arms folded, watching Harry chatter inanely to himself. He had been once again forcibly recruited to baby-sit the toddler. He had put Harry in the playpen with the book that Harry had asked for and he had to admit it was keeping him quiet.

Draco caught sight of himself in the mirror that hung above Snape’s fireplace and grimaced. He knew that he looked paler than usual, and he had lost his appetite so that his cheeks were pinched slightly at the bone. It was two days till the Quidditch game, therefore two days till he had to face his father’s wrath, and it was this that was laying heavy on him.

He had tried, unsuccessfully, to pen a letter to his father to forewarn him that he wouldn’t be playing. Every attempt had sounded ridiculous. In the end he had decided that he would just let Lucius find out; but now it was drawing closer his nerve was failing him. It wasn’t just the fact that he had been banned, it was that he was terrified that his father would find out about the curse he had done on Potter. The fact that Harry was still a baby (even if an older one) told Draco that it was no ordinary spell; and he had a sinking feeling that it was also a very important one to his father’s death-eater activity. If his father tried to enter his mind and read what had happened then he was going to be in very serious trouble. Draco had not had it confirmed to him that Voldemort was back, but he suspected that this was the case. If it was, then not only could he be in serious trouble with his father, but he, or even Lucius, could be in mortal danger as well. It was well known that Voldemort would kill his followers without a second thought.

That brought his thoughts on to Snape. He wondered vaguely why Snape was protecting him. But then, Draco concluded, the dual nature of Snape’s loyalty meant that it was very hard to discern exactly why he did what he did. If he showed loyalty to Voldemort, then Dumbledore and his little followers would catch him out, but the same was true vice versa – it was very confusing.

‘Mama, Dada,’ Draco heard Harry say. Immediately he snapped his head up.

‘What did you say, Potter?’ he asked.

Harry turned wide emerald eyes onto the goldy-haired boy. He had asked him for his flying picture book because sometimes he liked to look at his first mammy and daddy. He toddled over to the side of the play pen and held the book up to show Draco, pleased that he was getting some attention.

‘Mama and Dada,’ he said again.

Draco, interested, hoisted the little boy up and sat him next to him on the green, velvet sofa. He ignored the way that Harry snuggled into him, the large book balanced precariously on his lap, and peered at the picture that Harry had shown him. It showed a smiling, waving couple, sat at the head of a very long table, with empty bottles of champagne and a half-eaten, four-tiered, wedding cake to one side of them. The woman, Draco noticed, was pretty. She had the same clear green eyes as Harry, and long, auburn hair that framed her face. Her cheeks were flushed with pleasure and Draco found himself smiling back at her.

‘This your Mum?’ he said stiffly.

‘Yes,’ said Harry. He pointed a grubby finger towards the man with the messy hair and glasses, ‘Daddy.’

‘Hmmm.’

Draco suddenly felt uncomfortable. He knew that Potter’s parents had been killed, and he also remembered how he had taunted him about it last year, when an article had appeared in the Prophet.

Cried for your mummy lately, Potter, he had said.

Looking at the picture in the album he suddenly felt quite sick: Yes, Potter’s mother was a mudblood, as his father had told him, but she didn’t look that bad, nor did the father. He thought about something happening to his own mother and he felt a sudden cold chill. He looked down at Potter with a strange feeling of guilt. Had it been Draco’s own father that had had a hand in their deaths? He didn’t know. It was possible. It was the first time he really thought through the consequences of the life his father might live, and he found himself hoping, for once, that the rumours he had heard about his father - rumours that built up his fearsome reputation - were just that – rumours.

‘Draco?’ Harry said, wrinkling up his nose at the funny pale boy, ‘I need potty.’

It was the bit of relief Draco needed to forget about what he had seen. As he lifted Harry over to the little red potty, and helped him with his trousers, he found the uncomfortable feelings passing – for the moment anyway.


‘Any problems, Mr Malfoy?’ Snape said as he returned to his study. Molly Weasley had told him some of the techniques she had used to discipline the incorrigible Weasley twins when they were small and he was determined that the next time Potter stepped out of line he was going to try them out.

‘Not really, Sir,’ Draco said. Potter was at his feet playing with the Quidditch figures that Snape had managed to revive after their drowning experience. Harry was watching them fly around, hitting the little bludger at each other, wondering when he was going to be big enough to ride a broom. He had the instinctive feeling that he would be good at this flying business. It seemed fun.

‘Very well,’ Snape said. He opened his mouth to tell Draco that he may go, but, as he looked him over he noticed the pale, gaunt countenance. He didn’t take any satisfaction from the obvious concern Draco was feeling at facing his father. He sighed.

‘Has Mr Montague found a replacement seeker?’ he enquired.

Draco looked hopefully at his house-master, ‘Not that I know of.’

For a split-second, Snape considered rethinking his punishment; but, as he looked down at Harry, who was insanely laughing at the way the Quidditch figures looped on their replica brooms, he was reminded of exactly what Draco had done to warrant such a punishment in the first place.

‘Then I suggest he does so, and quickly,’ he said shortly.

A crest-fallen Draco left the room without another word.

Harry looked up as the pale-goldy-boy left and felt frustrated. He was sick of these big people coming and going all the time. It was bad enough that Snape left him at every opportunity, but there was now so many people looking after him that he couldn’t even remember all their names. He pouted. It was getting ridiculous.

Somewhere deep inside he knew that it was unreasonable, but suddenly he felt very angry. He looked up at Snape.

‘Bad Nape,’ he said.

Snape raised his eyebrow quizzically. ‘What was that, Potter?’

Bad Nape,’ Harry repeated, shouting. He grabbed one of the long suffering Quidditch players and launched it at his guardian. The Quidditch player fought hard against the momentum, but he hit the stooping potions master square in the nose.

Snape gasped slightly at the unexpected blow. He knelt down so that he was level with Harry.

‘How dare you show your temper like that, Potter,’ he said dangerously. ‘You will behave or, mark me, I will punish you.’

Harry, however, was in tantrum mode. He hadn’t slept very well the night before because of his bad dreams about evil cloaked men, and he felt cranky. Dwaco leaving without so much as a good-bye was the last straw. He had enjoyed introducing Dwaco to his Mammy and Daddy, and he had liked showing how much he was a big boy going in the potty. Snape was just a mean meany and Harry was going to show him what he thought of him. Not only that, but he was interested in this word ‘punish’ that Mwolly and Snape kept saying – maybe it would be fun.

Now that Snape was almost face to face with him, Harry was in a better position to make his feelings known. Sticking his bottom lip out, his face red, he smacked Snape on the nose.

Snape bad!’ he screamed. ‘No make Dwaco go!’

Snape looked with a degree of surprise at the small boy as he rubbed his nose gingerly. His shock didn’t last for long though, and his eyes darkened as he picked Harry up brusquely. Harry, seeing this change in the batman suddenly began to whimper. Perhaps being naughty hadn’t been the best idea?

‘Right Potter,’ Snape said, ‘you are in serious trouble.’

Ignoring the boy’s whimpers he crossed into the kitchen area of his quarters and retrieved the little wooden stool that Molly had given him. ‘You are going to learn obedience,’ he said firmly.

Harry beat his fists against Snape’s shoulder as panic overtook him. He didn’t like feeling out of control but he was stubbornly hoping that he could regain it.

‘Protestations are useless,’ Snape said, placing the stool in the corner as Molly had advised. Staying Potter’s flailing arms, and ignoring his protruding lip, he sat him firmly on the stool so that he was facing the wall.

‘You will stay here quietly for five minutes and think about the consequences of your actions,’ Snape said. ‘You do not hit.’

Harry immediately started to bawl. He didn’t like this hard stool that Snape had put him on. All he could see was the wall and it was boring. More than that, he didn’t like being punished - it made him feel like a naughty boy.’

‘No punish,’ he said, trying to wrestle himself from Snape’s grip.

‘Yes,’ said Snape firmly. ‘You will sit there for five minutes - however long it takes.’ Snape was determined that Harry would learn a lesson. He fully approved of discipline, and had been lost without the house points to take away, but Molly had offered him a life-line. He knew that having to be quiet and still would infuriate Potter and would serve as a good punishment.

Predictably, Harry tired to get up. Molly had instructed that Snape was not to hold Harry on the stool, but simply to place him back there every time he got up. This Snape did and Harry felt angrier and angrier not to get a reaction.

Harry got up off the stool at least twenty times. He run off everywhere he could think of, even climbing into the bath; but Snape picked him up and wordlessly placed him back on the stool every time.

‘No stool,’ Harry said, kicking out. Snape simply feigned a bored look and held him still before placing him back on the stool.

Harry cried and carried on. He even picked the stool up and threw it with a clatter on the floor, but Snape wasn’t relenting. When Harry’s screaming and bawling subsided into gasping sobs, he eventually decided that the only way he was getting off the hated stool was to sit for his five minutes and be quiet. So, folding his arms sulkily, that was what he eventually did. He hated being quiet for so long with only the stone wall to amuse him and he determined that he wouldn’t be naughty again.

Snape was pleased when Potter finally took his punishment. It had been a trying half-hour. After his five minutes, though, it was his turn to feel uncomfortable. Molly had told him that he had to get an apology and then give Harry a cuddle.

‘Right, Potter,’ he said, bracing himself as he bent down, ‘I want you to say sorry for hitting.’

Harry, his breathing still irregular, apologised immediately. ‘Sowry, Nape,’ he said.

Snape felt he had no choice but to ‘hug’ Potter. He put his arms around the small boy, intending the embrace to be brief, but Harry jumped on him.

‘Sowrry, he said, hugging the Professor with all his might. He couldn’t stop the tears falling down his little face as he cried from tiredness and the shame of being naughty. Snape sighed.

‘It’s alright Potter,’ he said, distractedly, rubbing the boy’s warm back as he felt the exhausted tears soak his robes.

Harry cried for at least five minutes, comfortable in Snape’s arms. At the end he stuck his thumb in his mouth as he rested his head sleepily on Snape’s shoulder. It had been a learning experience being punished and he determined that he wouldn’t ever do anything to be put on the naughty stool again.

‘Do you want a bottle, Potter?’ Snape said wearily. Harry nodded happily. ‘Fine - a bottle, then a nap,’ he continued, patting the toddlers bottom awkwardly. It had been a tiring afternoon but Snape felt that he had made some headway with Molly’s ‘naughty stool’. If only Draco was as easy to deal with, Snape thought wistfully, tucking a blanket around Harry and Cheep-Cheep, who was nestled happily in the toddler’s contented arms.

With that thought he went back to his work, determining to find a cure for Potter before his black hair turned grey.

Chapter End Notes:
Hope you enjoyed. What did you think of the Pickles plot – was it a bit sinister? Or, Draco’s reaction to Harry’s parents? Do you think the ‘naughty stool’ was effective? Please let me know, and any suggestions for future chapters.

Thanks!!


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