rakina (rakina) wrote in snape_potter, @ 2009-04-14 21:56:00 |
|
|||
Current mood: | cheerful |
Entry tags: | fic, rakina, rating: g |
FIC: Tapestry, by Rakina, chapter 13 of ? PG
Title: Tapestry, A Journey in Eight Stages
Author: Rakina
Rating: PG-PG13 so far, this chapter G!
Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter
Summary: Harry only has one thing from his parents: a blanket. But his mum and dad were magical, and so it turns out to be no ordinary blanket, after all.
Beta: Thank you, to hel_bee and keyairreem for the fantastic betas!
Disclaimer: I am not making any money from the characters which belong to JK Rowling. No disrespect intended. I do, however, lay claim to the plot and original characters.
Previous chapters here
Chapter 13: The First Potions Class
It was the moment of truth, Harry thought as they lined up outside the Potions room waiting for it to open – his first lesson with Master Snape. He could feel in his bones that it was important, although he was unsure quite why it was so critical.
Liam and Sid were giggling about something. Hermione was casting disapproving glances at them, until finally she spoke up. "Be quiet, you two," she said in the bossy voice she used to try and keep the boys in order. "If Master Snape opens the door and you're messing about it won't make a very good impression."
Sid made a noise that was almost a raspberry. Liam was struggling to keep a straight face under Hermione's glare. There were times when even Liam found her stuffy, and this was obviously one of them.
"Aw, 'Mione, don't be so grim," Liam wheedled. "Snape's okay. Don't you remember the duelling club?"
"I remember he can duel like a demon," she snipped, "and not that he encourages bad behaviour."
"No, he doesn't, I'm sure of that," Harry agreed. "You two had better be quiet."
"Blimey, Harry," Liam said, tossing his head to get his fringe out of his eyes. Liam had been cutting it less often believing the windswept, casual look to be romantic. "How come you're so serious all of a sudden?"
"Shush," was all Harry said as the door handle began to turn. Seconds later the door swung open in a quick, rather impressive movement and the dark figure of Master Severus Snape was standing there, looking down on them all. He was a strikingly tall man, but slender. Still he gave the impression of strength of both body and mind. Harry almost melted under his gaze.
"So, here we have the fourth year Gryffindors and Slytherins," Snape said, sounding rather as if he had a nasty taste in his mouth as he formed the words. "I had the dubious pleasure of teaching the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws yesterday. I must say I was unimpressed and I suspect you will be equally mediocre. However, we must get through it. You had better come in and get settled quickly as we have much work to complete this year. Your time is running out, fourth years. The OWL examinations are next year, or had you all managed to put that to the back of what passes for your minds?"
There was no answer. Everyone was looking at Snape in shocked silence. They'd never had a teacher speak to them quite like this before. And they hadn't even had their first lesson!
"Well, what are you waiting for? Get to your workstations!" Snape stood aside to let them scurry in, closing the heavy oak door behind them with a boom, trapping them in his domain for the next hour and a half.
Snape stalked up the central aisle to the front of the class, his black robes billowing around him as he moved. Harry was fascinated by the way Snape's academic robes swirled. He'd never seen a man move in his clothing in quite that way before. Either Snape moved like nobody else – sinuously, quickly, like a fast-flowing stream – or he was putting on a show. Either option was intriguing.
When Snape turned to look at them from the front of the classroom, Harry realised he was lagging behind the others as he'd not got his book or his potions kit out of his bag yet. He bent to do it now and was fortunate not to notice Snape's frown in his direction.
"There are many things I will not tolerate in my class," Snape began and everyone sat up and paid attention, with the exception of Harry who was still setting out his equipment. It was obvious to the whole class that Snape was going to be a strict teacher and he wasn't the sort of man you wanted to get on the wrong side of. "Tardiness is one of them. I expect you all to be on time for your lessons and that you will be seated with your equipment set out in front of you and your books open by the time I am ready to teach. Perhaps, Mr Potter, you will do better next time."
There was a snigger from the left side of the room where the Slytherins were sitting. Harry frowned, not so much at them as at himself for getting so distracted by Snape's robes and letting the Gryffindors down. He hated giving Malfoy any reason to mock him. He wasn't sure why, but he felt it was important to keep Malfoy as sweet as possible. That was a difficult proposition – Malfoy still seemed to dislike him, if not quite hate him anymore.
Harry's thoughts of Malfoy coincided with Draco acting. Draco had been sitting up looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, his attention fixed on Snape. Now he put up his hand and when Snape acknowledged it with a nod, asked, "Is it true you won the International Potions Prize a few years back, sir?"
Snape smiled down at Draco. "I do not like to boast, Mr Malfoy, but yes, I did."
Hermione's hand shot up at this and Harry looked at her, sensing her urgency from the tension in her body. "Please sir, would you tell us why?" she begged.
Master Snape cast a piercing look at her, as if he was trying to judge her motives. He stalked along the right-hand aisle where the Gryffindors sat, directing suspicious looks to left and right as if expecting some illicit activity or a prank. When he reached Hermione, who was sitting to Liam's right two seats from Harry, he paused. Finally seeming satisfied with what he saw, Snape spoke. His voice was quieter, less forceful than it had been so far. It was almost conversational in tone. The Slytherins all leaned sideways unconsciously as they tried not to miss his words and ended up looking like trees in a strong wind.
"My previous accolades are not the subject of our first lesson. However, as you have asked so politely, Miss Granger, I will take a few moments to tell you." Snape cleared his throat, turned with another impressive billow of black fabric, and stalked back to the front of the room...
"Bet he doesn't mind boasting," Seamus Finnegan whispered in an aside to his best mate, Dean Thomas, as soon as Snape's back was turned. Seamus and Dean were in the row behind Harry, Sid, Liam and Hermione, and Harry heard him quite clearly.
"Yeah, I bet he got Malfoy to ask that," Dean answered. Harry cringed, even though he doubted Snape could overhear the conversation.
Snape whirled again to look down at them all, eyes roving from left to right. He cleared his throat and spoke clearly now so everyone could hear him.
"My Potions Prize was awarded for my creation of the Universal Antiviral Potion. As you have no doubt learned by now, some of the worst illnesses afflicting wizards are those caused by viruses: dragon pox, marsh fever, and the infamous flesh-eating disease. I discovered that Muggles have their own antiviral medications against some of the worst diseases that plague them; medications that can be quite effective against specific diseases, though they are totally ineffective against wizarding viruses. And yes, Miss Granger," he acknowledged Hermione's raised hand with a nod, "I checked by testing them. Wizarding viruses have a magical component that Muggle medication cannot counteract. Think of it as a kind of internal spell, if you like, that is cast when the virus encounters the body's cells prior to its attack. The body's magical defences are unequal to this attack as the magic inside the virus is so alien. This is why these diseases are so devastating, not only on the body itself, but on the victim's magic too. Even if the patient recovers, they are often permanently affected, being reduced both medically and magically.
"My potion is the first and, so far, the only medicine in the wizarding world that can counteract these viruses. It forms a shield around the cells that prevents the magical and biological attacks of the virus, at least to some extent. It is not a miracle cure, as its efficacy varies from virus to virus, and is sometimes little more than a support to the body's attempts to fight the disease, but it has at least a partial effect on all the viruses it has been tried on so far and that makes it special. And so, until I, or another researcher, can come up with more specific treatments for some of the more resistant viral strains, it is the best we have.
"As it was such a groundbreaking potion, the International Committee for Wizarding Awards saw fit to award me the Potions Prize in 1989."
"Merlin!" Dean whispered, "that prize is worth a fortune. Why's he teaching if he's so rich?"
"Now, turn to page 83 of your Potions Primer, and we shall commence this year's study."
Everyone was suitably impressed by Snape's speech, even Seamus had stopped sneering at their disciplinarian teacher. Seamus' Uncle Declan had contracted Swamp Fever a couple of years ago. He had been in a bad way and his family feared for his life, until he was taken to St Mungo's Wizarding Hospital in London by his despairing relatives. There he'd been given the Antiviral Potion that had undoubtedly saved his life. Snape had just won the Irish boy's respect, if not his affection.
Hermione was sitting very straight at her workstation now, diligently looking at pages 83, 84 and 85. Her stance told Harry that she, too, was impressed. He smiled to himself. What wasn't impressive about Snape? He might be snappish, but that was no bad thing in a teacher. There would be no messing about in Potions class. No, in Harry's humble opinion, the man was bloody wonderful.
Harry gasped as he caught his own thought. What was he thinking? He sounded like Liam going on about Hermione when the boys were in their dorm at night. In short, he sounded like a lovesick fool! And he didn't even like men!
No, he certainly did not. He... hadn't really thought about it so far. Harry gulped.
Yes, fair enough, he'd had wet dreams, but they'd been too dim to remember, something and nothing. Yes, he'd wanked too, but it had perforce been hurried, a quick rush to orgasm behind his closed curtains before the others could notice what he was up to.
But now, he'd had this thought in his Potions class in the cold light of day and it wasn't a dream and it wasn't a quick fantasy. No, it was genuine admiration. And Harry realised he didn't admire anyone – not even a girl or a woman – quite like this. Quite the opposite, really. He'd managed to avoid Ginny Weasley ever since she'd sent the Valentine's Day card. The thought of being with her left him cold. Was this the reason why? Was it men who attracted him? Harry shivered at the thought.
Snape was continuing his lecture. His deep, smooth voice was directing them to... Harry had no idea what he had been telling them to do. He'd been daydreaming.
"Mr Potter. Perhaps you could suggest a cauldron that would be most suitable for this potion." Snape was looking at him directly. He'd unerringly noticed Harry's distraction.
Harry felt heat rush into his cheeks and knew he was blushing. He'd been caught out. It was their first lesson and he had no idea what kind of cauldron the potion would need. He didn't even know which potion they were about to brew as he'd been staring glassy-eyed at his book, not focussing on it at all. He'd missed Snape's opening comments too. "Um... no, I'm sorry, sir."
"No? You have no thoughts at all? Or is it perhaps, Mr Potter, that your mind was elsewhere. Perhaps you feel you are too important for the mere study of Potions?"
Harry's jaw slackened in shock. No! That wasn't it, not at all. "No, um, sir. That is to say, yes, I was distracted, but I don't think-"
"Or is it perhaps," Snape interrupted, "that you, the Chosen One, can always get someone else to do the work for you?"
Harry was floundering. He wanted to defend himself, wanted to tell Snape he wasn't like that. And why the hell was Snape doing this anyway? Why did he think Harry was like that? He hadn't treated him this way in duelling club!
"Two points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter," Snape said, turning his gaze from him. He began pacing in front of his desk from side to side of the class looking at each student in turn. "Mr Malfoy, perhaps you could suggest a cauldron."
"Yes, sir," Draco said, smirking across at Harry. "I think iron would work well enough as the potion is not brewing long enough to react strongly. And iron would not be a bad element to instil into a healing potion anyway. But brass would be even better."
"Thank you, Mr Malfoy, a good answer. Two points to Slytherin. We shall be using iron today simply because the school has a large supply of iron cauldrons in many sizes. Brass cauldrons are more expensive and you would have to share. As this is your first potion I want to test you all and see who can brew competently. Providing you pay attention," Snape said, raising his voice with an accompanying glare at Harry, "you should all be able to create an acceptable Respiratory Cleaner on your own. Now get on with it!"
Snape whirled with another impressive billow of his black academic robe and stalked back behind his desk. The teacher's desk was raised on a platform at the front of the classroom and from there Snape could oversee their brewing. Nothing would be hidden from his dark, eagle-eyed glare. Harry hurried over to the stacks of iron cauldrons with Liam and Hermione. As so often, Sid was a bit slow off the mark and was several places behind them in the queue. Harry thought a size 3 would probably do, but he determined to see what Hermione went for. He couldn't afford to make his bad start worse by picking the wrong cauldron.
Harry realised he'd never been so anxious in Potions before. Cauldron sizes weren't critical, not usually, and if they were the teacher always told them which size to choose. Maybe now they were fourth years they weren't going to get so much help which was a little worrying. With Snape watching their every move Harry wanted to get everything right. His hand shook a little as he reached for a size 4 – the size Hermione had gone for.
Once they got their potions underway, Harry began to feel better. Respiratory Cleaner was a tricky potion with many ingredients and some fancy brewing procedures including different kinds of stirring, carefully timed addition of ingredients, judgment of texture, and accurate reduction of volume by boiling. It was a very useful potion that would help all kinds of respiratory tract problems: coughs, sore throats, stuffy noses, and congested lungs. Harry wondered if they'd get to keep their samples if they brewed them properly. So caught up in the process did he become that Harry almost forgot about Snape's presence.
One of the Slytherin girls, Millicent Bulstrode, suddenly let out a shriek and Harry jumped, almost knocking over his cauldron as he had been stirring at the time. He put out his left hand to steady the cauldron on its tripod and yelped as the hot iron burned his fingers. Snape was striding over to Millicent.
"Just what, Miss Bulstrode, are you doing with that passionflower?"
"Um, adding it?"
"Why?"
"Well, it says to add passionflower..." Millicent's voice was full of uncertainty.
"Does it indeed." Snape's voice was quiet and, Harry thought, dangerous. "Do read out the part about adding passionflower so we can all understand it, Miss Bulstrode."
"Um.. here..." Millicent pointed at the text. Snape quirked an eyebrow, waiting. She continued, "'Add passionflower petals, a handful should suffice, until the potion turns pale blue'."
"Perhaps you could manage the two sentences before that, as well?"
"Oh, right, um... 'It is critical to judge the consistency of the potion at this stage. Um, it should resemble custard rather than milk'. Oh."
"Yes, oh. Does your potion resemble the consistency of custard, Miss Bulstrode?"
Millicent was as red as a strawberry. "No, sir," she said in a much muted voice.
"No, sir. Indeed it does not. It is, in fact, as liquid as the clearest water, let alone milk. I suggest you take more care, Miss Bulstrode, or it will not be merely your robe that gets holes burned into it."
"Sorry, sir," she said, mortified.
Snape turned. "I believe our tardy Mr Potter made a noise as well. Let us see what disaster waits on the other side of the room," he said striding over to Harry.
Harry had managed to right his cauldron without splashing, he hadn't lost any potion and he'd concentrated on getting the consistency right for the passionflower petals. His left hand hurt, a sharp, bright pain from the burn that got worse every time his fingers approached the hot cauldron, but he tried to ignore it as he worked.
Snape reached him. Harry could feel the man standing behind him, looking over his shoulder into his cauldron. Harry's hand shook on the ladle. He hated having someone watching what he was doing. Suddenly he felt all fingers and thumbs.
"That is a nasty burn on your left hand, Potter. How did you do it?" Snape's voice was very quiet and emerged from just beside Harry's left ear. He must be bending close.
Harry picked up his handful of passionflower petals in his trembling right hand, determined to get the potion right despite any distraction, even from Snape. "I had to steady the cauldron to stop it falling, sir."
"So you were stirring it sloppily, were you? Got your ladle caught on the rim, perhaps?" Snape's breath moved from Harry's ear as the man straightened up. "There is no room for bad stirring technique in this class," Snape said loudly, now addressing his remarks to everyone. "These fourth year potions are more difficult and require a good grounding in basic potions techniques, a grounding I was hoping all of you would have acquired by now."
"I do have those skills," Harry protested, feeling the need to defend himself and having to grit his teeth against a sudden surge of anger. "I jumped when Millicent shrieked, that's all. It could have happened to anyone." With a careful motion, Harry dropped petals into his satisfyingly custard-like potion, one by one, watching the pale purple petals disappearing into the potion as he continued to stir with his ladle in his sore left hand. The potion began to change colour immediately and as he stirred continuously it settled to an almost translucent pale blue. Harry couldn't help smiling. It was working! He hadn't messed up and now Snape would see he wasn't useless or someone who messed about in class.
But Snape was far from happy with him. "Silence!" Snape chided. "You will not answer back in such a manner. I am the Master here, you are the pupil. My opinions on your performance are not up for debate."
Harry looked up at his teacher. He had a few minutes now before he had to finish the potion. More boiling was necessary to return the potion to a more liquid form. The passionflower petals had started the final reaction that would turn the custard-y goop back into a thinner liquid. It was just a matter of waiting so he turned his attention to the man who was still standing behind him. Harry became aware of Snape's warmth – his body was giving off an almost comforting aura from its thick, woollen robes.
"I have been unfortunate enough to find my time taken in teaching hordes of inattentive brats," Snape declared, staring around the room then particularly hard back down at Harry. His gaze passed on to include Liam and Sid in his sneer. "Perhaps not surprisingly I foresee the most trouble coming from this little group here."
Malfoy and the Slytherins were grinning gleefully now waiting to see what Snape would say next. The age-old Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry was alive and well and so far Slytherin was ahead. Despite Milly's disaster they had gained points this lesson and Gryffindor had lost them. The rumour had it that Snape had been a Slytherin and now Draco was pretty sure it was right.
"You boys came from St Hedwig's, did you not?" On receiving their 'yes, sir's, he continued, "I do hope your opinion of that institution is favourable," he said with obvious irony. "I confess I am disappointed that you are not showing its upbringing in better light. I would hate to think my investment in the future of the wizarding world was going to waste."
With that, Snape left them and continued patrolling the class, commenting quietly on each brewer's efforts as he went. Everyone's potions were coming to completion, most successfully, but some were off according to the sharp comments Snape made as he passed. Harry judged the moment to extinguish his fire as his potion was just the right consistency and a perfect colour. He felt proud of himself.
"Here, Harry, why's he on about Hedwig's d'you reckon?" Sid hissed from the next workbench, still stirring his cauldron.
Harry shrugged. "I've no idea."
"He said 'investment'", Liam joined in. Liam was just extinguishing his fire, looking into his cauldron rather doubtfully then comparing it to Harry's. This only made him look more doubtful. "Do you think he gives them money?" he asked, giving up on the potion and starting to pack his things back in his bag.
In a flash, Harry remembered an incident from years ago: a swirl of black robes seen in the distance – a tall, black figure with a wonderful voice. That motion was familiar now and Harry looked to the front of the class where Snape was now stalking behind his desk, his wonderful robes whispering through the air they made with his passing. He smiled. "He's the Owner, Liam."
Harry thought it must have cost quite a bit to buy Hedwig's. Perhaps Snape's prize money had been used for it. Snape would be quite well off if his potion was still the wizarding world's only antiviral treatment, even without the prize money. Harry looked at his friends' reactions. Hermione, who was packed away and waiting for Snape's next instruction, was watching them. She only knew what the boys had told her about Hedwig's and had never shown much interest before. Liam and Sid, however, were both slack-jawed, staring up at Snape. "Him? He's the wizard who came and sorted out the werewolves that time? How did he do it?"
Harry wasn't sure. He already knew from duelling club that Snape was powerful but it had to be more than that. One wizard couldn't repel a pack of werewolves on their own. There was something else... maybe Snape had communicated with them somehow. But that was impossible, wasn't it? Harry wondered if he'd sensed this all along; if this was the real reason he was attracted to Snape. Was it also the reason Snape was so against the whole 'Chosen One' thing? Did he hate Harry's immunity? Whatever this was, he had to learn more. Harry was still thoughtful as Snape instructed them to bottle their potions. Turning his eyes away from his teacher, he went to gather a rack of empty potion bottles. Once decanted, Harry's potion made ten medicinal bottles full. He thought it would last a couple of years, at least.
"Bring one vial of your potion to the front. I will sample it."
A queue soon formed and Harry joined it. When he reached the front Snape took the proffered vial, uncorked it and poured a little into a small, clear cup. He swirled it, sniffed it, and finally stuck the end of his tongue into it. Harry couldn't take his eyes from Snape's tongue as it emerged from between his lips, its moist redness dipping into the blue fluid. He watched the tongue retract and realised he was still staring at Snape's mouth when Snape looked at him with a slight frown. "This is satisfactory, Potter," he declared, sounding surprised. "How many vials did you make?"
"Ten, sir, including this one."
Snape nodded. "Put eight over there on that bench and take two for your own use, including this one."
Snape gave him the sample back and moved his attention to the next student, while Harry moved off to sort out his samples. He put eight bottles into the rack and took them over to the bench Snape had pointed out. Malfoy was just putting his own rack there. "What's happening with these?" Harry asked.
"They're for Madam Pomfrey for the hospital wing. I'm surprised yours was chosen though," Draco said snootily.
"My potion was fine. I just burned my hand while I was brewing, that was all."
Draco looked at the angry red skin on Harry's fingers. Blisters were beginning to form on the pads of Harry's fingers. His thumb was the only digit unaffected. Draco winced. "You'd better go to Madam Pomfrey with that."
Harry nodded. Now he'd stopped work he noticed the pain in his burns more. "I think you're right. These blisters will get in the way otherwise and they fucking well hurt," he said with feeling, wiggling his fingers.
"Potter, stay behind after class." Snape spoke from just behind them.
Harry flinched, suspecting he'd be reprimanded for his language. He hadn't noticed Snape stalking up to them. Snape could move really quietly when he wanted to. "Yes, sir."
Harry watched his friends file out with the rest of the class and then looked up at Snape, who was sitting behind his desk gathering papers into a neat pile. Harry sighed and walked forward until he was standing in front of the teacher's platform, looking at Snape. "Professor?"
"Potter," Snape acknowledged, looking at him. "Come closer."
Harry felt a tingle run down his spine at those words. Why would Snape want him to come closer just to punish him? He felt suddenly clumsy like his feet wouldn't obey the command to step up onto the dais and approach the teacher.
Snape sat impassive, waiting.
He looks scared to death as he approaches me and perhaps that's no bad thing. I need that distance.
There's something about him, I felt it two years ago and it's stronger now. It's not just his eyes – so green, such an unusual shade – or his status, that fame he carries around with him like a cloak. No, it's something about him. He has a depth of mind that's lacking in most his age. Merlin knows fourteen-year-olds are not profound. Perhaps I am seeing something that isn't there.
"Professor?" he prompts.
I tell him to come closer. He makes a meal of getting onto the platform, coming nearer. What does he think I'll do to him? If I want to hurt him I don't need his proximity, he knows that. As I remember him from two years ago, I'm equally sure he remembers me. "Show me your hands."
The boy's eyes widen – he hadn't expected that. No doubt he'd been expecting detention or a telling-off for his profanity. I owe him that but cannot find it in me to deliver it. His work was satisfactory, despite his distraction. Potter holds out his hands, palms up, and I inhale sharply. The burns are bad. His fingertips, the top of his palm and a swathe down one side the hand are all red and blistered. It must be very sore. I'm even more surprised he managed to complete a perfectly good potion, looking at this. "Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"
"I wanted to finish the potion, sir," he says simply. I look closely into his eyes, searching for sarcasm or glibness and find neither. It meant so much to him?
"These burns need treating. Come with me."
I stand and lead him to the large store cupboard where the emergency supplies are kept. I know there's plenty of burn salve there as it's not an uncommon injury in this class. Children using fire and hot metal – a recipe for disaster but necessary to my craft. I reach up for the salves, selecting the strongest burn paste there. It will deal with the burns quite quickly though they will need to be dressed while it takes effect. I select a magical bandage too. Turning I find he is behind me, watching me. He watches me closely, I've noticed, just as closely as I watch him. It is becoming a strange, symbiotic relationship between us. The realisation causes me to be on my guard even more. "Your hand."
I begin applying salve to the blistered and burnt areas. I know it hurts him but, apart from the odd indrawn breath of pain, he is quiet. He is a determined boy, determined to finish the potion, to show no pain. I have heard much about him from many sources and have passed some of it to Albus. In return he has told me some of the facts about Harry Potter, as he sees them. To think I had this boy in Hedwig's for three years and never knew it, or did not recognise it. What was I thinking of?
Many other things vie for my attention... research not the least of them. And Albus' infernal, endless spying necessary because of his obsession with the renegades. His obsession is only strengthened by the presence of the Chosen One at Hogwarts, this boy who spells doom for a whole community.
Salve applied, I look up into his eyes again. He has been watching me closely, his jaw clenched against the pain. His hand trembles a little. I begin to apply the magical bandage, wrapping it with care. It moulds itself to his hand protectively, secure but never too tight. It holds on without fasteners, the Adhero spell activates as I wrap it. The hand is a difficult thing to bandage, it's all fingers and joints, but I make a good job of it. I concentrate on the shape of his hand, the better to ignore the fact I'm holding it. It's warm, warmer than mine and small – he's fairly short and delicate, like many of the orphans who come through St Hedwig's, his build is a testament to his difficult early life. He is famously orphaned. I wonder why he was not in magical care earlier. It hardly matters. We had him and I missed him. I should pay more attention although there will be no more Chosen Ones to follow him. He is the One.
He has put his small hand in my larger ones in a gesture of trust. I am his teacher, so it is expected, but I was sharp with him, so perhaps he has some doubt about my intentions? I look into his eyes again and he gazes back, clear and trusting, no doubt there, but there is something else... I look back to my business quickly.
"There, Potter, leave that on for twenty-four hours. If there is any residual burn left after you take it off, come back and I'll re-dress it."
Potter takes his hand back, flexing it in the bandage experimentally. "Yes, sir, thank you. It feels better already."
"It is not better yet," I warn. "Go easy on it. Your wand hand is your right, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Rest the burned one as much as you can. Now leave."
"Yes, sir."
Do I imagine a note of disappointment? What did he expect? What does he want? I dare not look into his eyes again. They are a trap for the unwary with their bright, unusual green calling me to take the plunge and fall into his mind... to look. And I dare not – for that can be a two-way street and my thoughts must remain hidden.
I look up when I hear his footfalls retreating. I watch him leave the storeroom and hear him packing his bags in the classroom, getting ready to leave. I make a show of replacing the salve, tidying the shelf, lining up the pots and bandages quite unnecessarily. It passes the time until the outer door closes, telling me he's gone.
Next Part