Potions and Snitches
Snape and Harry Gen Fanfiction Archive

Of Cooking and Brewing

Draco hadn’t lied. He had never cooked, not once in his life. He’d never cleaned his room, either; he’d just dropped things here and there, such as dirty socks and underpants. And they’d be gone the next day, cleaned and folded away in his dresser. It just happened, like many things in his life. Like food also happened to be ready on time and on his plate. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew it didn’t happen magically. He knew of the house-elves, knew it was their doing. It was their hard work that made Pureblood wizards’ lives easier. He’d never really thought about it, though—only lived it. It had always been so until it wasn’t.

He’d known it wasn’t the same for—others. That some families weren’t as affluent as his and couldn’t afford the help. But he’d never really dwelled on that—never thought that it would be him one day. That if he’d left his socks on the floor when he went to bed, they would be in the same spot in the morning. And that he would have to take them up and place them in whatever that recipient for dirty clothes was called.

And he certainly had never thought that he would be peeling potatoes one day in the hopes of making a purée. He’d always liked mashed potatoes—that rich, creamy taste and the easiness of having nothing to chew. But he’d never known how they came to be.

“Cut them in halves when you’re done, and put them in the boiling water,” Saturnine instructed by his side.

She had shown him how to use the tool to peel them, and now, she was busy preparing the ingredients for the sauce that would accompany the meat. And Draco was responsible for the mashed potatoes; that had been his designated job.

Cutting all the potatoes with the same precision he used to dice his Potions ingredients, he realised he didn’t mind the task. There were worse things he could be doing right now—far worse things than cooking potatoes.

He placed the neat halves into the boiling water and turned to Saturnine to check that he’d done so correctly. She nodded, then placed the lid over the pan. Not fully on, he realised; she’d left a gap. A moment later, he understood why; the vapour was coming out that way—forced to exit in that controlled spot. He committed the detail to memory.

“How do you like your mashed potatoes?” she asked. “Buttered, spiced?”

“Butter,” he said, definitely butter. “And—” Well, they added something to it, didn’t they? Salt, sure—and what else? Something they never had at home but that they had at school. Something that made it a little different, that added character. What was that taste?

“Like the one they make at Hogwarts,” he said. “I like that taste—something spicy. What is it?”

Saturnine smiled as she moved to the cabinet in which the spices and herbs were stored. She reached for a tiny jar and held it out to him. He took it, unscrewed the lid, took a whiff, and—yes! That was it. That light-brown powder, very potent to the nose.

“What is this?” he asked, taking another whiff.

“Nutmeg,” she explained. “It’s often used in the kitchen. But you can’t use too much.” She held out her hand, and he handed the small jar back. “It’s a very interesting seed—prepared incorrectly, it can be lethal.”

“What?” Draco asked, suddenly not wanting it anywhere near his food.

“Nutmeg intoxication causes sweating, shortness of breath, and a dry throat. It often puts you in an altered state of mind. Generating hallucinations, confusion, and an impending sense of doom,” she continued as if she were in class giving a lecture instead of in a kitchen cutting onions. “Fresh nutmeg contains a substance called myristicin—a narcotic with very unpleasant toxic side effects if taken in large quantities.”

Draco felt himself pale at that. “And they use that stuff at Hogwarts? In our food?”

Saturnine chuckled. “It’s perfectly harmless in small dosages and quite good in creamy and cheesy sauces and dishes. It’s also a blast in eggnog. Besides—” she shook the jar for emphasis, “—this can hardly be called fresh.”

She washed her hands and knife clean and then reached for a small saucepan in which she poured out the chopped onions.

“Nutmeg isn’t the only thing that could kill you if prepared inadequately. The same can be said of some types of fish and mushrooms. You should always know your ingredients in a kitchen and only cook things you are sure of.”

The potatoes steadily cooked in the pan, and Saturnine returned to preparing her sauce.

Draco really couldn’t understand the witch. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she did something that had him rethink everything. She really was a Snape and working off her own agenda. Why she cared to teach him how to cook, he didn’t know. And it reminded him of their discussion the evening prior; she had surprised him there, too. She had gone out of her way to make him feel included, like he belonged—and he really couldn’t see why. He couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last. Surely something would happen. Somehow Saturnine would realise that she’d left a dangerous creature in her midst, and she would cast him away. Or his godfather would come out of his self-imposed prison and…

…and that would be the end of Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy—did that name mean anything anymore? Was he still a Malfoy after what he’d done? Did he even want to be?

As he watched the potatoes dance in the boiling water, he thought of his parents. Were they back at the Manor, or had they followed the Dark Lord wherever it was that he went? Had they known of the events that happened in the Fens? Had they sanctioned it? Allowed the endless torture session?

What would Lucius say if he could see him now—doing the job of an elf? Worse than that, doing it willingly and enjoying the relaxing simplicity of the action. His parents would hex him into next week; flail him alive. They’d rub him raw like some fucking potato and dip him into molten lava to boil until they could beat him into submission. They’d force him into a mould until he assumed a new shape that aligned with their agendas.

No more, he thought as he speared his knife into one of the potatoes to check if it was cooked, no more. And he speared another one and another.

He may not know who he was yet, but Draco knew that he was free to find out.

“I think they’re cooked now,” Saturnine said, and her delicate fingers closed around his hand, forcing him to let go of the knife. She killed the flames beneath the pan. “I think they’re cooked, Draco.”

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he could feel his fingers trembling under her strong grasp. “What’s next?” he asked in a raspy voice.

“Carefully remove the water,” she said. “And then we can mash those and add some seasoning.”

And he did as she said, choosing to follow the instructions, salivating as he watched. Step after step, the ingredients changed to resemble more and more a delicious purée that he was eager to try.

It started out as simple potatoes, and it transformed in front of his eyes into something different, something more. Shed of its external layer, the simple vegetables had morphed into something else. Complemented by external seasoning, they’d been allowed to reach their true potential.

Could something similar happen to him? he wondered. Was there a chance that he, too, could become something else? What kind of ingredient was he, was he something safe and easy to cook, like potatoes—or was he more dangerous, like nutmeg?

***

Dumbledore had made good on his promise. He’d arranged for Saturnine to have access to all of Hogwarts and granted her the freedom to take from their stocks whatever she needed.

At the break of dawn, she’d let herself into the Potions classrooms. She went for the place where spare cauldrons and rods were stored first, taking out one of each. Then she turned to the storeroom to grab the ingredients she needed.

It felt strange being here alone. She hadn’t entered the Potions’ stores since she’d left Hogwarts, had only come down in the dungeons once in the year she had taught here. She’d done her best to stay away from the Potions Master’s domain—determined to see as little of him as she could. For this indubitably was Severus’ domain. She could see it in the decorations, in the way things were stored. The neat precision, the order in which items were shelved—it was nothing like how old Slughorn had kept the place. But the portly fool hadn’t been that good a teacher, either. He’d always been more interested in what he could squeeze out of his students than what they squeezed into their cauldrons. With Slughorn at the helm, there had been frequent shortages of ingredients that he’d forgotten to restock upon and a debatable quality of material he didn’t even question. Saturnine was sure none of those things ever happened to Severus, not to a meticulous potioneer such as he was.

She made sure to leave the stores just how she had found them. She placed all the jars and boxes and other containers exactly where they had been, labels facing outwards at the perfect angle. Before leaving, she moved to Severus’ desk. She opened the top drawer to find a spare sheet of parchment, reached for one of his quills, and dipped it in black ink. Next, she sat in his chair and wrote down the list of everything she had taken. Once done, she double-checked everything and wrote the date at the bottom of the list before signing her name.

Then, she cleaned the quill and returned it where she had found it. She sat up, pushed the chair back, and left the piece of paper squarely on the desk before seeing herself out.

The inhabitants of Cove Cottage were still fast asleep when she returned with an armload of potion material. She deposited the lot on the kitchen table while she readied a place to start brewing. She wasn’t going to do it in the kitchen, she’d decided. One did not prepare potions where one cooked one’s food. It just wasn’t done—unless one wanted to die.

She wouldn’t be doing it in her bedroom, either; Severus needed his rest. The boys’ cramped bedroom was equally out of the question, as it had been fitted with a second bed. That left only the living room, but they needed the space, too. It was where the boys did their homework now that Harry’s desk had been transfigured into Draco’s bed. And she enjoyed reading a few pages, curled up on the sofa, to unwind at the end of the day. There was no other room.

Moving to the living room, she stood facing the wall opposite the kitchen and squared her shoulders. She lifted her wand. The fireplace was a warm glow on her left as she started getting ready. At a flick of her wrist, the large bookcase lifted and came to rest in front of the entrance door and obscured half of the large window on her right. The wall facing her now rendered barren, she recalled the old spell she hadn’t had a cause to use in years.

She defined the space first, envisioned it in her head—she made the projection three-dimensional. She thought of the ceiling’s height and the distance between the walls, and a light flickered at the tip of her wand. Enunciating the words clearly, she pushed her magic forward until the wall rippled, undulating like the surface of a lake under the breeze. An opening created itself within the concrete and pushed outwards, stretching, growing—into a pocket of Wizardspace. A new room grew itself under her will.

She stepped forward, and the walls began moving backwards even as the sides pushed outwards until she was standing inside a square room of thirty-by-thirty feet. She let her arm drop and huffed out a breath. She hadn’t remembered that it was this draining, but she’d done it—their own Potions’ lab.

She returned to the bookcase and cleared the first two rows. She stacked the books into neat piles next to the fireplace. Then she split the bookcase into three separate sections. One book-filled section she floated to the left of the Potions’ lab entrance, and the other to its right. They were the perfect size and fit nicely. She brought the last remaining empty section back inside with her, where she proceeded to tear it apart, screw by screw and nail by nail.

As she worked, she could feel the material’s nature changing under her magic. The planks of old wood became single parts again, and the metallic components became the spare parts they had once been. They were no longer a single whole item but several dozen pieces. And then, Saturnine transfigured them into something else. Lots of somethings.

She made a table out of three planks of wood and some of the screws. She used two more boards to make shelves that she fixed onto nails she had transfigured into brackets. She Accioed two candles from the living room and fastened them to the last two nails she’d transformed into candle holders affixed to the left and right wall. Lastly, she used the remaining oak boards to create a door that she closed behind her when she returned to the living room.

Turning on her heel, she surveyed her work with a critical eye. She felt somewhat proud of herself; it was a nice addition to the house. The dual bookcases and matching door in the middle looked like they had always been there, as if they’d been part of the initial design.

She moved the cauldron and ingredients into the Potions room, then retrieved the last two items she needed to start brewing: her lab assistants.

***

Harry was surprised Saturnine had decided he should join them. Draco, he could understand. The Slytherin was good at Potions—but he wasn’t. He’d never been more than average, and he knew it. So, he stood a little behind the blond, peering into the cauldron with mild interest, knowing that he would not be required to do much—not with the other two present.

The Potions lab was an interesting, new feature that Harry would have loved seeing come to life. He’d heard about Wizardspace, but he’d never seen the spell performed before. The result was flawless; it looked like the room had always been there, as if it were part of the architect’s design. His adoptive mother really was a talented witch.

The thought gave him pause; he hadn’t considered Saturnine that way in a while—never allowed himself to regard her as such while she taught at Hogwarts in fear of inadvertently revealing her deception. But the fact remained that she had signed the adoption papers last Christmas. Sure, circumstances had prevented them from filing the paperwork with the Ministry; so, it wasn’t official yet. But he knew Saturnine had meant it, and so did he.

Only the world had gone to hell—again. Harry had been made to suffer—again. And some of the truth about Saturnine’s past had come out—and what a truth it was. The two hadn’t really had time to talk about it yet, though. It wasn’t that the witch had shied away from him, but she’d been so busy taking care of her brother—and Harry of Draco, if he were honest—that they hadn’t found a moment to be alone together to talk yet.

Harry sighed as he peered over Draco’s shoulder and into the empty cauldron. Who was he kidding? They hadn’t had anything else but time, stuck as they were in a cabin in the middle of nowhere day in and day out. But they hadn’t talked. Harry hadn’t sought to make it happen, and Saturnine hadn’t either. They’d just—been. Moving about each other while keeping a modicum of distance, drifting, watching, stalling. Where’s that famed Gryffindor courage gone to? he asked himself.

Saturnine lined up the ingredients on the table while Draco started reading the receipt.

“Read aloud,” she instructed, and Draco did, going back to the top and starting from there. He read everything in a clear, precise voice that lacked its habitual haughtiness and contempt.

It doesn’t sound like a particularly complicated potion, Harry thought. Most of the ingredients he’d already used before. Maybe he could have brewed this after all—but then again, maybe not. His potions never did turn out that good. Not like Hermione’s, for example—or Draco’s, if he were honest. The Slytherin git had always been good at Potions—but not as good as Hermione.

Saturnine got the fire going under the cauldron, preparing the base, while Draco started chopping and dicing ingredients. Harry was content to observe from where he stood. Watching the dark-haired witch at work wasn’t quite like watching her brother work. Oh, she was good—there was no doubt about it, but she lacked the Potions Master’s finesse. Her motions were assured and precise. She understood the steps and knew what she was doing. But it wasn’t quite the same as watching Severus Snape work. There was something more about his movements—a quiet efficiency perfected over the years. His movements were more economical, each using only the minimum level of action required to achieve the designated purpose. Professor Snape never lifted his hand more than he had to, never stirred in a wider circle than was needed, never gripped the rod too strongly.

Saturnine’s gestures were a little more generous, ampler—more flourished. Not as contained, strained, and precise. It stemmed from a difference in character, Harry guessed. A difference in nature—something that ran deep. There were many similarities between the siblings, but they also had their differences, and he’d just identified one. Saturnine was more generous and nurturing—more motherly. Turning his gaze on Draco, he scrutinised his movements next. They weren’t as assured as Saturnine’s, but they were certainly better than his would have been. Draco knew what he was doing. He moved quickly with careful haste as he sliced and diced and added ingredients to the cauldron. He looked as if he were hurried to be done with the task, like he had something better to do. It’s a lot like how he flies on his broomstick, Harry thought, as if he can’t wait to get to the finish line. He figured the blond could put in a bit more effort, though. They were doing this for his benefit, and for Professor Snape’s, to save them from further agony at the hands of Voldemort. The least he could do was not to treat this like a race to be won.

The fact that his Potions professor had managed to create a potion to stymie Voldemort and render the Dark Mark inefficient was quite a feat. And Harry was forced to admit that greatness seemed to run in the family. Snape had invented a potion, something that hadn’t been there before. He’d found the proper succession of ingredients, in the correct dosages, to reach his intended result. And wasn’t that a marvellous feat? All potions had to have been invented, he knew. Someone woke up one day with the intent to brew a Cure for Boils, while another wizard thought it would do the world some good to have a potion that caused people to lose their eyebrows. But he had no idea how someone went about creating a potion from scratch—that hadn’t been covered in classes yet.

Watching Saturnine and Draco work, he let his thoughts wander. Was creating a potion anything like making a meal? Did wizards simply add ingredients they thought would work well together and then experiment until they found the right balance between sweet and sour, sugary and salty? Harry had experimented a lot in the kitchen over the years and found that everything could make a difference. Too many blueberries in the dough would make it runny and hard to cook—not enough, and the pancakes would taste bland. There was some working margin in the middle, of course, but extremes had to be avoided. Was it the same with potions? Was there some leeway in the middle, too?

The substitution of ingredients—which he had studied thoroughly last summer to complete his essay—led him to think so. He felt that potion-making wasn’t so much about the ingredients themselves but their role in the potion. Like the sugary, fruity filling inside a muffin—it didn’t matter if it was blueberries or strawberries or even raspberries, so long as it was there. But switching one for the other did require some adjustments to be made to the base. Strawberries were sweeter than the other two. So, the dough didn’t require as much sugar. Blueberries were a tad juicier; so, it was best to use a touch more flour. Potion-making was just the same, wasn’t it? When he had replaced the mistletoe with the rose petals for Snape’s essay, he hadn’t needed to use as much because the petals were more potent. Was that how a potioneer looked at—

“Harry, get over here and stir, why don’t you?” Saturnine cut into his thoughts. He heeded her instructions and moved to stand between the two, taking the rod from her. She raised a finger and started drawing slow concentric circles, “Counter-clockwise,” she indicated. “Not too fast, but constant.”

Harry nodded and followed the rhythm set by her finger. On his left, Draco continued chopping and dicing. And he started adding ingredients to the mix as Harry stirred. And then it was Saturnine’s turn to step back while the boys worked in tandem. Harry stirred, and Draco added. The blue potion turned a vivid shade of purple after the Flobberworms were thrown in. Some bluegrass later, it morphed into a vibrant red, and still, Harry stirred.

His wrist didn’t feel the strain, for he performed perfectly economical circles with an adequate grip on the rod. Harry couldn’t say how he knew it, but he was sure that his gestures were of the utmost precision. They weren’t too ample and generous, nor too restrained and sharp. He applied the perfect pressure to create the requisite circles, achieving perfection with minimal exertion.

Harry stirred exactly how Professor Snape would have stirred—and he felt a bit better about his brewing abilities for it. 

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