Chapter Text
The words written on the tri-panelled blackboard were as follows: "Amortentia is the most powerful love potion in the world. It is distinctive for its mother-of-pearl sheen. Steam rises from the potion in spirals. Amortentia smells different to each person, according to what attracts them."
Well, that was the gist of it anyways.
It was a nigh-illegible display, not by virtue of poor handwriting, but instead the sheer volume of diagrams and characters crammed onto the finite space. The elaborate array of algorithms was labyrinthine, disorientating the optic nerves like a miniature Bermuda Triangle. As expected of an ex-auror, it was of… professional quality. Too professional for the student body, myself included, anyways.
As a result, far more than just one of his audience was lamentably inattentive.
One muggle-born Hufflepuff tapped the school-provided gold cauldron in marvel, whispering to the Slytherin next to him: “Is this all real gold?”
The Slytherin raised a vertical finger to his lips, motioning panickily at Professor Sharp.
He stood beneath the oppressive presence of jam-packed parchments, some framed, others frameless, yet each redolent with the cryptic script that espoused Sharp’s uncompromising no-wastage philosophy. It was as if the slightest lacuna on the paper was tantamount to unpardonable crimes against the tree from which it was taken.
This indelible doctrine extended, woefully, to essays.
The definition of a twelve-inch parchment mandated in Professor Hecat's Defense Against the Dark Arts, versus Professor Sharp’s Potions, was akin to the chasm between heaven and hell.
Take a wild guess which one was which.
You could never trust Professor Sharp to give you an ‘Outstanding’, but you could trust him to give you carpal tunnel.
My fellow students paid rapt attention as Professor Sharp finished his final stroke with a flourish, granting them amnesty, yet leaving a substantial number sceptical as to whether they were secretly illiterate.
“As fifth-years, I believe that in lieu of the upcoming O.W.L’s, it has become apparent that some of your achievements in the discipline of Potions have been…” Professor Sharp mulled over the most appropriate word, depositing his stick of chalk in a nearby basin as he perused the classroom. “Unsatisfactory. Understood?”
I couldn’t help but feel a slight bit of schadenfreude as his piercing gaze landed squarely on Ominis, who shifted to the left, as if hoping the object of Professor Sharp’s disdain might not be him, but the barrel of castor oil behind him.
His tragic display of cowardice was in full view of the entire class, much less the eagle-eyed Sharp, who snorted with evident disapproval.
It was an unjust criticism, given that Ominis was blind, an insurmountable handicap compared to the other students in the class. Sure, his recipes were thoughtfully charmed to read the instructions to him. Even then, his cloud-like irises would still be squeezed betwixt a tight squint, as if hoping in vain some miracle would grant him vision if only long enough to pardon him of the professor’s reproval.
Professor Sharp would hear none of it, however. Ominis had chosen Potions, knowing full well the limitations of his cecity. He had dug his grave and must lie in it, so to speak.
In the words of Sharp himself: “Time spent making excuses is better spent making reparations.”
When the professor’s gaze averted, Ominis deflated with an exhausted sigh.
“Shame, Ominis,” Sebastian whispered jauntily. “You know, maybe even that barrel of castor oil can brew a better Wiggenweld Potion.”
“Points from Slytherin!”
“Sir, I –“ Sebastian startled, but he was interrupted with a wave of the man’s hand.
“Mind that your own Wiggenweld Potion is at best a substandard draught, Mr Sallow. Tut, truly the pot calling the cauldron black.”
The unkempt Professor Sharp hobbled unsteadily back to his desk, dusting off the chalk from his hands. When the recalcitrant powder gave him more toil and trouble than effort’s worth, he simply wiped it on his dilapidated suit ensemble. He then slicked back his mildly greasy, shoulder-length hair as he sat down, leaving the final remnants as a streak of white tresses that aged him beyond his already weathered countenance.
He leant back into the yellowed upholstery of his chair, before swiping aside the various parchments in front of him, gathering them in a stack. He rapped on the wood of his armrest, making hollow, knocking echoes.
“In an attempt to remedy this situation, I have elected to begin this term with brewing the challenging and morally abhorrent Amortentia Potion. Mr Thakkar, could you tell us why this particular potion is described as ‘abhorrent’?”
Professor Sharp’s slow address came to an end, and he looked expectantly at the Ravenclaw.
“Yes, Professor Sharp! Amortentia is – “
I met Sebastian’s eyes diagonally across the corner of the potion station, tracing their amused line of sight as they flickered to Thakkar.
Teacher’s pet.
Sometimes Sebastian was as indecipherable as the contents of Professor Sharp’s blackboard. Other times, his expression seemed to speak clearer and more passionately than a Howler. So much so that I could hear every word.
I kept my expression neutral, save a minute, mirrored flicker to the sunken figure of Professor Sharp, who made a comfortable crater in his seat as he scrutinized Thakkar’s response.
If you have the courage, say it out loud.
“ – considered an incredibly dangerous potion, as one should never underestimate obsessive infatuation. Despite its power, Amortentia does not create actual love. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. The person under the effect of the potion would only hold an obsession for the Target of Quaffer’s Love.”
Professor Sharp nodded, an approving geniality that twisted his patchy stubble and raw, red scar into a grim expression completely unworthy of the appellation ‘happiness’.
Again, Sebastian made eye contact. Disconcerting, really.
I couldn’t agree more.
"Indeed. Powerful infatuations can be induced by the skilful potioneer, but never yet has anyone managed to create the truly unbreakable, eternal, unconditional attachment that alone can be called Love. It is not wrong to call Amortentia a poison, rather than a potion."
I wasn’t unfamiliar with love potions.
The credit was owed almost entirely to Poppy, who had a prodigious sweet tooth. She enjoyed snacking on a variety of saccharine confectionery, Chocolate Frogs included. She had duteously amassed a praiseworthy collection that I was sure might fetch a pretty penny if sold to a discerning enthusiast.
Doing so would be like cutting off a pound of Poppy’s flesh, though.
The various historical figures imprinted on the packaging swung proudly from rattan strings and wire hangers, placed lovingly above her four-poster bed in the Hufflepuff dormitory. The unnerving gallery was but a small contributor to Poppy’s peculiar reputation.
From the many days’ worth of indulgence in the Hufflepuff Common Room, perhaps the instantaneous surfacing of the trivia tid-bit was to be expected: Laverne de Montmorency invented a number of different love potions in the early 1800s. For her achievements of inventing these many love potions, she was immortalised on a Chocolate Frog Card.
Alone, I think our snack sessions had unearthed as many as 14 copies of the witch.
I had heard that at the peak of their newfound popularity, love potions were quickly banned on the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry premises. However, some… resourceful, or better called degenerate students still managed to make mischief with them at times, adding fuel to the eternal flame that was the Hogwarts gossip mill.
NOTE – none so potent as Amortentia, however, and with varying degrees of success.
Love-potion related trespasses were a subject of infamy in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, such that you would think each occurrence of sufficient gravity to become a Daily Prophet bestselling issue.
The reality was anything but.
Amidst the ever-present tales of love potion mishaps, one could not help but wonder if the tales themselves had become a sort of sensationalist fodder. As for my own knowledge of such incidents, I could not attest to the veracity of every account.
I was witness to only one such deed during my year at Hogwarts.
It involved a certain cunning Slytherin in her sixth year who, as retribution for his infidelity, administered a dose to her unfaithful paramour by spiking his pumpkin juice. As a result, the poor chap became somewhat of an exceptionally willing chambermaid, carrying the young woman's books between classes and attending to her every whim, nearly going so far as to shine her shoes each morning in the Great Hall.
For anecdotes from years I had not been enrolled, it was second-hand accounts snowballed from drastically less headline-worthy scandals.
“Today, we endeavour to master the intricate craft of brewing the Amortentia Potion. Only then shall we proceed to the finer points of crafting its antidote. To possess the knowledge of how to cure a poison, one must first grasp its very nature. I trust that by the end of our lesson, your aptitude in potion-making shall have risen by a full standard.”
He surveyed the reactions of the class, and only acquiesced when he seemed satisfied. He rose teeteringly, before circling around to the front of his desk.
An emerald-green lampshade, ignited with oil-borne flames, threw stark silhouettes upon the unadorned contours of a bronze ewer. Its flickering luminescence then stretched forth to illuminate a collection of disparate objects: a weather-worn cairn of skulls, a heated copper filament encased within a glass cylinder, and a misaligned pair of scales.
Amidst the paraphernalia was a gold cauldron, its lid sealed airtight.
“Prior to this, I took the liberty to prepare an Amortentia potion of the Great Success level. Naturally, I would have liked to have prepared one of the Perfect Success level, if not for my growing concerns that some dim-witted members of this class might be unable to resist the temptation, and plunge their head into the pot to take a gulp.”
Another caustic remark, entirely directed at a single individual.
A few snickers sounded, and some less-than-discreet eyes turned to the rather airheaded Hufflepuff on the opposite side of the room, Tameeka Pertinger, who had the brilliant idea to deduce the amount of Horseradish powder she had added to her Laughter Potion through taste.
When Nurse Blainey heard what happened, she simply refused to treat it.
The Hufflepuff’s hysterical cackle became a house-wide source of amusement. When her hoarse vocal cords turned dry and eerie, it also sparked one mocking ghost story – the ghost of Lady Laugh-a-Lot, Knight of the Round Cauldron. Rumour had it that her deathly pallor during the episode, along with her meteoric rise to spectral vogue, led to her receiving an invitation to the Deathday party of Nearly Headless Nick, who mistook her for one of their own.
“Well, let’s start with you lot.” He pointed at a potion station, and the four students surrounding it tepidly approached the pot.
Each square potions station was equipped with a grated furnace, along with a stoker and a supply of firewood tucked away on the very same face.
It was quite the sight to behold, as students jostled and wrangled amongst themselves for the prized spots at the potions station that were furnace-free. Those unfortunate souls who found themselves too close to the seething inferno were left to suffer the unenviable fate of scalding shins and frozen everything else – that, along with the occasional singed hem of a perfectly good robe.
But alas, such was the price to pay for a spot at the ‘illustrious’ potions station, a place where the pursuit of knowledge was tempered by the constant threat of becoming a human torch.
A price I had to bear.
My own position was exactly that of the furnace face, a concession for having Ominis and Poppy elect to take Potions. By all means, the location should have been contested between me and Sebastian, yet the smarmy Mr Sallow wheedled his way out of it with unctuous ingratiation.
I’ll readily admit the mere memory of Sebastian’s obsequious fawning made the heat less unbearable.
The students were ardently discussing their anticipations for the Amortentia Potion, a situation contradistinctive to more practical, self-preservatory elixirs. Wild gesticulations and uproarious accusations were the least of a cacophonous display of juvenile antics – one boy had been pressed into a bear hug, thrashing bedlam to avoid disgracing himself in front of a blonde Ravenclaw girl, to whom his companion was miming kissing faces.
Those that exercised more prudency were drawn magnetically to one another, surreptitiously divulging in low voices the recipients of their affections.
“You’ve a man in mind?” One Hufflepuff girl teased the Gryffindor next to her.
With small giggles and ears that matched the crimson house crest on her robes, she peered longingly into the faraway, as if her dream lover was due to return from sea.
“Not one with a name, anyways.” She admitted. “But if he was here, I imagine him as tall, dark and handsome. Valiant, but gentle and kind. Tan skin and a honey-like voice, he would sweep me off my feet by giving me the moon and the stars. A sailor.”
Next to her, a Gryffindor boy gave a snort of derision, earning him a dirty look. He smiled innocently, before matching her expression as he gazed towards the horizon.
Under the expectant looks of his female station mates, he declared: “Big breasts.”
From a third-party view, it only looked as if the both of them wanted to bone the three-headed ostrich skeleton in the cabinet.
It was Friday.
The students had been listening to Professor Sharp drone on for the better half of the double Potions period and were eagerly awaiting the end of the school day, and with it the arrival of the weekend. Academic motivation had run feeble, extinguished by the ceaseless tedium of the lecture.
The sampling became a welcome excitement.
To the students, the love potion was not just a means of experiencing an otherworldly sensation, but a tool for navigating the treacherous waters of teenage love and attraction.
Some meddling busybodies wanted to eavesdrop and use their newfound knowledge to piece together the romantic puzzles of their peers. Some hoped to catch the attention of a secret crush by adopting the characteristics of the potion's alluring scent, while others sought to avoid the affections of an undesirable suitor by steering clear of it.
Whatever their motivations – from little more than finding something to daydream about, to making those daydreams a reality – there was plenty of appeal.
Not a few were blushing bashfully.