Potions Class with Potter

Every time Harry Potter sat down for lunch, he had a book in his hand. This was a habit Severus had taken notice of, though it was still less than a week since the boy had arrived at Hogwarts. For the first few days it had been what he recognized as the first year Charms text, but as of a couple of days ago, that had been replaced by a massive reference book about twice the size of the boy's head. Either the boy was showing off, or was curious to the point of being obsessive. Neither possibility boded well.

There were other things he noticed, as well. The scrawny boy didn't eat much, and typically spent his meals reading rather than eating. He rarely participated in conversations unless addressed directly, but whenever he did speak, he did so with a very polite, deliberately pleasant look on his face. The boy was...closed off.

And there was the matter of Theodore Nott, who Potter had taken to following around, oddly enough. They always showed up for meals together, though they were never exchanging words when they did. For the most part, the two boys did their own thing, Potter reading and Nott chatting with Malfoy, Davis, and Greengrass more often than not. Nott would glance at Potter regularly, and Potter at him, but rarely would words pass between them. He honestly had no idea what to make of it, especially when he noticed that the few times when Potter had struck up a conversation with Nott, the other boy was startled to the point of actually seeming genuinely frightened for a few moments. Had their behaviour been different, he would have assumed that Nott was a victim of Potter's bullying, but the fact was that after the initial shock of being addressed by Potter wore off, Nott seemed quite happy to talk with him.

Very odd. Very odd indeed.

He stopped to help Professor Flitwick pick up some papers he dropped in the second floor corridor. In passing he recognized the names of his first year Slytherin students on the papers.

"Assigning the first years essays already, Filius?" he asked as he handed the papers back to the shorter man.

The half-goblin smiled wryly. "Oh no, I'm not you, Severus. I've decided to assign some shorter reports for the first few weeks; this week I asked them to find a charm in this year's curriculum and say a few words on the wand movements and the origins of the incantations. They were very well done, for the most part."

Severus nodded, pleased to hear it.

The smaller man chuckled a bit. "Mr. Potter chose occulus reparo. I think that was a hint – his spectacles seem to be in bad shape. Perhaps I'll teach them that one earlier than I originally intended."

Severus quirked an eyebrow. "Indulging the boy already?"

Filius smiled. "Well, he did write an exceptional report. He went so far as to research the relationship between the reparo charm and certain transfiguration spells. Very quick, that one. I would have liked to have him in my house. But then again, I would have liked to have had Lily Evans too."

Severus grimaced at that.

"He certainly reminds me a great deal of her," Professor Flitwick continued obliviously, "Such sweet boy. Very respectful and polite for a boy his age. He thanked me after our first lecture, you know? Quite enthusiastically. She did the same, I remember...had that very same look in her eye."

Yes, Severus could not help but think, that did sound like Lily.

His face was cold and stony as he scanned the dark classroom full of first year students – the bane of his existence. Gryffindors and Slytherins...why they paired those two houses together in his class, he'd never know. Every year, he stood at the front of his dark, dingy classroom, breathing in the same sweet fumes, a medley of a thousand herbs and infusions, and every year he experienced the same vivid sensations of introducing a new generation of Hogwarts students to his beloved science, tainted by the same furious swell of whirling regrets. Every year he was reminded of the same sequence of bad decisions stacked upon bad decisions in his past, the mistakes that, every year, lead him to that same place in front of a crowd of oblivious eleven year olds.

His voice was unwavering as he called role, robotic as he monotonously read the names off the list. That is, until he reached that one name that seemed to jut out of the page like an ugly scar.

"Ah, yes," he could not help himself, "Harry Potter. Our new – celebrity."

At that instant, the boy met his eyes, an unrecognizable shadow falling over his face.

He continued to the bottom of his list, and, after a tenuous silence designed to intimidate, began as he did every year.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He spoke in little more than a whisper, but he knew they were hanging on to every word. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses ... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper on death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach." Not bloody likely.

James Potter's son was still staring him with unreadable eyes, utterly fixated on him. It took everything in him not to react. What was the boy thinking? How could a child that age be so blank? It was maddening. Was he haughty or shy? Polite in an attempt to manipulate or be kind? So many questions, so few answers.

"Potter!" he called harshly. He really couldn't help himself; he needed to see how the boy would react. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

He watched, secretly amused, as the boy's eyes widened in comical shock. His amusement nearly soured when the boy's expression morphed into one of...resignation? Understanding? But the amusement returned and relief washed over him when the boy quickly returned to being puzzled.

"Um..." the boy started, looking a bit shaken up. "Asphodel, powdered, and wormwood...wormwood...worm...a...something that puts you to sleep? Some kind of sleeping potion, sir?"

He stared intently at the bespectacled boy. It had been a cheap shot - that was a NEWT level potion - but the boy, if a little ineloquent, performed well under pressure. "Indeed. Asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of the Living Death. Now, let's try again. Where would you look if you told you to find me a bezoar?"

.....

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