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When it came time to head down to the dungeons for their first Potions lesson, Harry realized that, despite the strange look he’d given him at the welcoming feast, Professor Snape didn’t dislike him at all. In fact, he was rather nice.
”Welcome, first years! There may be no wand-waving or incantations in my classes, but let me assure you that potion-making is no less magical than any of your other subjects. I hope that over our time together, you will come to appreciate the subtle science and exact art of a simmering cauldron. Potions will be an integral part of your daily life in the wizarding world, whether you want to whip up a simple healing salve or push the boundaries and attempt to brew fame, bottle glory, or even stopper death.”
When some of the shyer students shifted nervously at that last bit, Snape smiled and added, “Or maybe one of you will create an entirely new formula. I have yet to discover a combination of ingredients that completely removes all the oil from my hair, for example.”
As the class relaxed into muted laughter, he moved on to the roll call. “Mr. Malfoy, I trust you’ve kept practicing since my visit this summer…a new Weasley this year, always a pleasure…ah, Mr. Potter! Your mother and I were brewing partners many a time…” Harry perked up at this last bit. Professor Snape had known his mother? Maybe that was why he had been staring at the feast. Everyone said he had her eyes, after all.
When everyone was accounted for, Snape started the lesson with a few warm-up questions. “Can anyone tell me the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”
Hermione immediately put her hand in the air. Snape seemed surprised, but inclined his head at her. “Go ahead, Miss Granger.”
”They’re the same plant, sir,” she said eagerly.
”Correct, two points to Gryffindor. This is a key thing to keep in mind when brewing: sometimes similar or even identical ingredients can have very different names; conversely, you will often find plants that resemble each other in title or appearance, only to create vastly dissimilar effects. Always check your recipe and materials carefully. Now, does anyone know where I might find a bezoar?”
Hermione, who had barely brought her hand down, predictably shot it into the air again. Snape smiled at her. “I’m sure you know the answer, Miss Granger, but let’s give someone else a chance this time. Anyone? Miss Davis, I seem to recall your grandparents owned a farm…”
Tracy Davis, who had been sitting quietly in the back, straightened up. “Yes, but what—oh! A bezoar…aren’t those the stones you can harvest from goats’ bellies?”
”Exactly, and they can serve as an antidote for most common poisons. Take two points for Slytherin. This is another important fundamental of potions: sometimes the most useful ingredients can be found in unexpected places. Now, one final question, although I don’t expect any of you to know. What would I get if I mixed powdered root of asphodel with an infusion of wormwood?”
When Hermione once more began waving her hand, Snape seemed torn between shock and amusement. “Yes, Miss Granger? You read that far ahead…?”
”The Draught of Living Death, sir, it’s the most powerful sleeping potion in existence,” she said in a rush.
Snape raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Five points for being exceedingly well prepared. As for the rest of you, consider this a reminder that even the most common ingredients, when combined in the correct proportions, can create extraordinary—and dangerous—results.” And with that, he waved his wand, making a recipe appear on the blackboard, and began guiding them through the brewing of a simple cure for boils.
As the class started following the instructions, the professor circled the room, occasionally stopping to give advice or make adjustments. When he reached Harry and Ron’s station, he frowned slightly at Harry’s daisy roots.
”I must admit, I’m surprised that the grandson of the great potioneer Fleamont Potter never learned the proper method for chopping roots.”
Harry burned with embarrassment, but kept his head high. “I was raised by Muggles, sir. I didn’t even know my grandfather was good at Potions.”
Snape’s face twitched in mild surprise, but it seemed almost as if he were trying to cover profound shock. “…Very well. In that case, you might be making the common mistake of treating them like carrots or parsnips, as in Muggle cooking—an error I made myself when first starting. What you want to do instead is…” And he proceeded to demonstrate to Harry (and Ron, who also had more experience with cooking than potion making) a few simple tricks for preparing the ingredients.
An hour later, Harry left the classroom with a boil cure that resembled the picture in the textbook, a tentative plan to read ahead a little so he might earn some points of his own next time, and a quiet invitation from Snape to come by that weekend if he wanted to hear some stories about his family.
Harry soared above the treetops, relishing in the feeling of the winter air on his face. Quidditch was fun, but there was nothing quite as invigorating as flying just for the sheer joy of it.
Suddenly, he heard the murmur of voices down below. He recognized Professor Snape’s smooth, confident tone immediately; it was the voice he used when he was trying to talk down Neville from panicking in class. And the other person certainly seemed anxious, he was stammering like mad—wait, was that Professor Quirrell? Why were they having a discussion in the middle of the Forbidden Forest?
“I d-d-don’t know what you m-mean, Severus.”
“Come now, Quirinus, I’m trying to help you. It’s obvious you’re in far over your head. I was young once, too; I know what it’s like to struggle the first year teaching a new subject. Why, speaking to a roomful of unimpressed seventh-year Ravenclaws can seem as daunting as staring down a vicious Cerberus…”
Harry wasn’t sure what a Cerberus was, but he heard a branch snap as Quirrell jumped back, and he actually gave a little squeak. Not very impressive for someone who was supposed to be an expert at fighting Dark creatures, he thought idly. “You w-w-want to help? R-r-really?”
“Absolutely. I would be happy to serve as a mentor, as Albus did for me. A practical subject like Defense is very different from Muggle Studies. There are so many rookie mistakes one can make…trapdoors and pitfalls I can help you avoid.”
When Quirrell spoke next, Harry could practically hear his tentative smile. “M-maybe we can come to an agreement…”
Snape’s answer was playful. “I live to serve, milord.”
Harry didn’t stick around after that; it was getting cold and he had no interest in learning the ins and outs of being a confident teacher. But from then on, he noticed a marked change in Professor Quirrell’s classes. He stopped stuttering so much, and then at all; his lectures became more engaging and no longer gave Harry splitting headaches; and he had apparently gotten over his fear of vampires, because his turban finally stopped stinking of garlic. Harry was happy for him, but he also wasn’t surprised when Quirrell announced at the end of the year that he would be resigning the post and accepting a position teaching Muggle Studies in Russia. After all, even Professor Snape’s mentorship, which he knew from experience was excellent, couldn’t turn a bookish scholar into a truly engaging Defense teacher.
Ginny Weasley rushed into the Great Hall, half an hour late for lunch but feeling better than she had since the start of the year. She hadn’t known what to expect when Professor Snape asked her to stay after class; what if he criticized her work, or just acted vaguely icky, like Lockhart? But her older brothers always said that Snape was fair and understanding, so she had reluctantly stepped into his office after her classmates all filed out.
He started out with simple questions: How was she adjusting, had she made any friends? She answered, honestly, that she had met many people, and befriended one very nice boy in particular. After all, Tom was just as good a friend to her as any “real” person.
Snape then started telling her a story from his own first year at Hogwarts. About how he arrived as a half-blood from a mostly Muggle household, and was originally slightly intimidated by the wealthy and knowledgable upper years in Slytherin. Why, one of them even thought it was funny to trick him into touching a Dark artifact…
Ginny didn’t know why, but when he looked into her eyes as they were speaking, she found herself not only unable to lie, but almost eager to open up. So she told him that he didn’t need to worry, Tom might be a Slytherin but he wasn’t like that, he was nice and only wanted to help her.
Things moved quickly after that. Snape casually remarked that he didn’t recall any Toms among his current Slytherins, and Ginny was surprised by how easily she admitted that he wasn’t a current student, not really; and before she knew it she was reaching into her bag and taking out the diary, because surely the fastest way to make him understand was to just show him. He and Tom exchanged a few messages back and forth, and then Snape nodded to himself, closed the book, and looked at her gravely.
“Miss Weasley, please understand that you aren’t in any trouble, and none of what has happened is in any way your fault. But did you know that the only way to preserve someone’s essence inside an object in this way is through the use of extremely Dark magic?”
Ginny started. Was he saying Tom was Dark? “That c-can’t be…I thought it was just like talking to a portrait?” But a little niggle of doubt had wormed its way inside her head. Hadn’t her father told her stories from work of seemingly innocent objects with terrible curses on them? Didn’t her mother always say Don’t trust something that can think for itself if you don’t know where it keeps its brain?
She didn’t even make a great effort to convince him to let her keep Tom; deep down, she knew he was right. It was almost a relief to hand over the diary to Professor Snape, which he assured her he would deal with in a safe and appropriate way; to allow him to arrange for her to be examined by Madam Pomfrey for Dark magic residue; to accept his assurances that he would keep the specifics of her situation in strict confidence. By the time she left the classroom she felt ten pounds lighter, even though the little black book had barely weighed anything at all.
Looking around the Great Hall now, she smiled at Luna and Colin before sliding in next to her brothers, rolling her eyes at the twins’ teasing and dodging Percy’s anxious questions. She felt hungrier than she had all week. There was something to be said for the things at Hogwarts that could actually be seen and touched.
Harry grinned as the dungeon classroom around him settled into a kind of controlled chaos. As a treat for doing well on their exams, Professor Snape had announced a “bring your pet to class” day. Everyone had brought in their companion animals (or paired up with someone who had), and they were working on a variety of potions meant to help them care for their furred and feathery friends. He and Dean were mixing a tincture that, when applied to Hedwig’s feathers, would give her extra protection from the elements; the owl in question was perched on a nearby shelf, keeping an eye on Harry while hooting softly with a few other birds. Neville, whose confidence had improved greatly this year once Snape had shown him how well expertise in Herbology transferred to Potions, was brewing a specialized cream to keep Trevor’s skin moist on dry days. Meows, caws, squeaks and croaks blended with the usual chatter of students to create an oddly pleasant background ambience.
Near the front, where Snape could step in if anything went wrong, Ron was partnered with Hermione to attempt the most difficult assignment of all (although Snape had assured him it was well within his capabilities). It was a potent healing potion which, if all went as planned, would stimulate Scabbers’ body into regrowing his missing toe. Harry had no doubt that Ron could manage it with Hermione’s help, and was looking forward to the demonstration.
Sure enough, at the end of the double period, as everyone finished applying hairball tonics and scale buffers to their pets, the professor gathered everyone in to watch as the old rat sampled the brew. Hermione could barely contain her excitement, while Ron looked nervous.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Weasley,” Snape reassured as he took up the small vial and carefully measured out the proper dose. “If anything went wrong, I’ll brew him the correct mixture later this week, before you leave for the holidays. No creature should have to live with such an easily fixable injury.”
There were gasps and excited ooohs from the girls as Scabbers lapped up the potion and, before their eyes, a tiny pink toe sprouted from his maimed stump like new growth on a seemingly dead branch. Maybe Harry was imagining it, but even the rat himself seemed excited. He tested out his newly-whole paw first hesitantly, then with open delight, running in a circle on the desktop. Some of the Gryffindors even applauded, and Snape awarded Ron and Hermione full marks and ten points each.
That night, as Scabbers curled up on Ron’s pillow, the redhead smiled fondly at him. “Maybe he’ll be more confident now,” he mused, placing his wand on the nightstand and turning down the sheets. “He’ll finally look just like all the other rats.”
Harry sat in Snape’s office, jaw tightly clenched. What kind of setup was this? He’d thought his professor was on his side! Sure, he knew that the potions master was on good terms with the Malfoy family, but it had been obvious to anyone with eyes that the smug blonde had started the fight. What he had done to Hermione’s teeth! And then, when Snape had demanded to know what spell he used, he had smirked and said, “Nothing. It’s not like there’s any difference, sir”…well, he had been practically begging Harry to punch him right there in the corridor.
And yet, Snape had called both of them into his office, and instructed them to wait while he took care of a few matters. Now the little prat was sitting on the other side of the room, facing forward and glaring into the middle distance just as hard as Harry. He looked like he had a lot he would have liked to say, but was probably wary of getting in any deeper trouble.
Just when the tension was beginning to seem unbearable, Snape swept back into the office, accompanied by—and this startled both boys out of their stalemate—Professor Lupin. Harry was equal parts baffled—what did he have to do with this?—and embarrassed that he was about to be told off by his two favorite teachers, but he was prepared to stand his ground and defend his actions.
”Potter, Malfoy,” Snape said as he settled behind his desk, his tone no-nonsense. “I have watched the two of you pointlessly antagonize each other for nearly three years now—“
”And it hasn’t even been a year for me, but that’s been quite enough,” Lupin chimed in archly.
Snape gave him a grateful nod. “You are not children anymore. Today’s incident in the corridor was a disgrace to both your Houses, and I will be taking fifty points from each—“
Harry and Malfoy both opened their mouths at once. Snape held up a hand, but at the same moment, Lupin pulled his wand and brusquely stated, ”Silencio.” Their lips continued moving soundlessly for a few more moments before they both realized what was happening and stared at their usually mild-mannered Defense professor in shock.
Snape sighed. “Childish, Remus, but effective. I suppose some things never change. Now, as I was saying, loss of points has never deterred either of you in the past, so in addition to that, you are going to sit here and listen while Professor Lupin and I, who have perhaps a better understanding of this than anyone else currently at this school, tell you about how such petty grudges can escalate into dangerous, and even deadly, situations.”
Harry very badly wanted to say that he doubted that anyone could have an understanding of how much he wanted to punch Malfoy on a daily basis, but that wasn’t currently possible. So he sat beside his rival and listened in silence as Snape and Lupin took it in turns to tell a story from their own school days. A story that was surprisingly familiar in its contours. A story of Gryffindors and Slytherins, and schoolyard pranks that turned into serious duels, which turned after graduation into battles that were waged in an ongoing war…
A story that contained truths Harry had never heard before about his own father.
By the end of the hour, he was considering a great many things. How James and Severus had once been the bitterest of enemies, making him and Malfoy seem like chums in comparison. That this animosity had caused terrible, in some cases irreparable, damage to both of their relationships with his mother, Lily. That it had all culminated in an incident that, while neither professor would divulge the specifics, could have gotten both of them killed. How it had been all too easy for both Severus and Sirius Black to slide into the Dark Arts, and how only one of them had managed to turn back in time.
And how, despite this, Snape and Lupin—the only two left of that old crowd—had managed to move beyond it and become effective colleagues. Friendly enough, even, to be occasionally seen chatting together at mealtimes. Both known for their fairness and well-liked by all four Houses. Hell, Harry would have never guessed that Snape, one of the few adults that he truly trusted, had once actively hated his father. He genuinely seemed to want nothing other than to see Harry thrive along with all his other students.
When they were through, Snape informed him and Malfoy that they would both receive a week’s detention in addition to the point deduction, Lupin muttered a quick ”Finite,” and they were dismissed. Despite the removal of the Silencing Charm, neither of them said anything as they exited the office and walked into the hall. They were silent for several long minutes, until they reached the junction where Malfoy would continue on to the Slytherin dorms and Harry needed to turn towards the stairs. At the last possible second, he turned and faced the other boy.
”So,” he started, unsure what to say or whether opening his mouth at all was a mistake, “Er, I mean, I don’t want—“
”I’m not a Dark wizard,” Malfoy snapped, before he could get any further. “No one in my family is.” Then his face changed just slightly, from a snarl to a more contemplative look. “So all things considered, I suppose we could be on civil terms if you don’t, uh, ‘antagonize’ me.” He tensed, as if preparing for Harry to recommence antagonizing him right then and there.
Harry thought about Hermione’s teeth, and the cruel things Malfoy had said to her last year; about his attempts to get him and his friends in trouble over the dragon and the midnight duel. He thought about Snape and Lupin, and how neither of them had looked angry, only sad and regretful and maybe just the smallest bit hopeful. He thought about his parents. Then he remembered the first time the two of them had formally met, on the train in first year, and he had a small spark of inspiration.
”Yeah,” he said, trying to school his expression to be as open as possible. “Yeah, that sounds fair. We—we could try that, if you want.” Then he took a deep breath, wondered if he was really doing this, and stuck out his hand.
After only the slightest moment of hesitation, Malfoy shook it.
Harry checked one last time to be sure that he had everything he needed. Dragonhide gloves, check; specially-made basket with separate compartments and Stasis Charms, check; a small package of snacks from the kitchens to keep his energy levels up, check. He slipped these and a few other supplies into the basket, tucked his wand into his robes, and headed to meet Neville in the Entrance Hall.
He had to admit that he was a little disappointed to be missing the Third Task, but it couldn’t be helped. The ingredients Professor Snape had in mind could only be harvested under very specific astrological conditions; this highly auspicious planetary alignment was the same reason the task was scheduled for tonight. Ron and Hermione (who had procured prime seats, both determined to support Krum for very different reasons) could tell him all about it later; this was a one-of-a-kind opportunity with his favorite teacher!
When it had been announced that Quidditch was canceled for the whole year just to accommodate three tournament events set months apart, he had been outraged, but there had been a silver lining after all. With all the newly free space in his schedule, he had finally been able to take Snape up on his longtime offer to join him and Neville at their regular extra-credit brewing and gathering sessions. These had begun last year at Neville’s request, when the formerly timid Gryffindor had finally found the courage to announce that he wanted to pursue a career as a magibotanist, not an Auror as his grandmother had urged him. Harry had agreed to come along, initially just as a way to get some exercise to replace his practice sessions, but he kept coming back for the chance to hear more stories about his mum and see a whole new side of both his friend and his teacher: precise, decisive and confident for the one, more relaxed and informal for the other. He wasn’t even in his O.W.L year yet, but he was beginning to seriously consider doing something with Potions after graduation, perhaps following in his granddad’s footsteps.
Moving with the throng of students down the final staircase, Harry spotted Neville saying goodbye to his Hufflepuff friend Hannah Abbott as she and her housemates, fully decked out in yellow and black, prepared to go down to the hedge maze and support Cedric Diggory en masse. He waved to catch Neville’s attention, caught up to his fellow lion, and the two of them peeled off from the main crowd to meet Snape by the greenhouses.
The potions master stood by Greenhouse Number Four, dressed in his usual black cloak and holding what appeared to be an ordinary cup from dinner in the Great Hall. When they were within shouting distance, he greeted them and beckoned them to come close.
”The Dunkelheit flower only blooms near a very specific pond in the Forbidden Forest,” he explained. “Access to the area is restricted, so we cannot Apparate there; however, I have been granted special permission to create a single-use Portkey to a small clearing a few miles away.” He gestured to the cup. “When the three of us touch it and say the keyword ‘midsummer’, we will travel there, hike the remaining distance to the pond, and gather the blossoms under the rising moon. Any questions?”
Both boys shook their heads. They had been over all this before; this was just a formality and precaution. Extending their hands, they secured a firm hold on the cup; all three wizards then glanced at each other, nodded, and spoke in unison: “Midsummer.”
When the strange jerk behind his navel and the brief dizziness had subsided, Harry got a chance to examine his surroundings. His first instinct was to ask Professor Snape if there had been a mistake; this didn’t look like it was anywhere near the Forbidden Forest. It was an open area, with a small hill visible in the distance; the only silhouettes nearby were only the height of shrubs and were curiously uniform, almost as if manmade. He frowned; if the Portkey’s coordinates were wrong, would they be able to rectify the mistake before it was too late to collect the flowers? He turned around to ask Neville and Snape—
“Stupefy.”
When Harry came to, he was sitting at an odd angle; his limbs were stiff, and his mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. Directly in his line of sight was a huge, bubbling cauldron; next to it was a young man with hair the color and texture of straw, keeping the fire going and occasionally bending to check on what seemed to be a bundle of robes at his feet.
Hearing a noise to his left, he turned his head to the side (why couldn’t he move the rest of his body?) and was shocked to see Neville, bound to one of the shrub-height structures—wait, was that a gravestone? Professor Snape was crouched in front of him, fiddling with the ropes; he must be trying to free him. Harry tried to move to help him, or at least to make a noise to let him know he was awake, but his limbs barely gave an inch and he was now quite certain that he literally had some sort of cloth in his mouth. With dawning horror, he realized that he was similarly bound and gagged.
Snape stood up—why was he leaving? Neville was still held fast—and approached the cauldron. He examined the liquid inside, then turned to the unknown other man and gave a sharp nod of approval.
”Excellent, Barty. You always were the cleverest of us.”
”I only followed your recipe to the letter, Severus,” the other demurred, but he sounded pleased. “I don’t even want to think about the consequences of this being prepared without the careful supervision of a qualified Potions Master…an abomination, surely…”
”And thankfully you won’t have to,” said a new voice, high and cold and eerie in a way that raised the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck. It seemed to be coming from next to the two men by the fire, but he couldn’t see anyone else in the area. “Now get on with it, I am beyond tired of this feeble form…”
“Yes, my Lord.” Snape bowed his head as if in deference, then drew his wand and turned toward Harry. He widened his eyes, silently asking his teacher what in the world was going on, but Snape’s gaze was empty, his black eyes seeming to look straight through him.
He raised the wand. Harry panicked and twisted in his bindings, but then he realized that Snape was aiming not at him, but at the headstone just over his shoulder.
”Bone of the father, unknowingly given…”