Prologue
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arry leveraged himself slowly up
into a seated position, glaring blearily at his flashing alarm clock. It was
already hot in
Harry swung his legs over the edge of his bed and
rubbed his eyes, considering his options. After a moment, he decided to owl
Hermione and Ron, first. With letters to look forward to, it would be a lot
easier to get through the day’s work. Grabbing a Bic
pen (his quills, despite being entirely non-magical, had been confiscated
immediately upon arrival) Harry found a piece of lined notebook paper in one of
his desk drawers amoungst old, broken toys of
Dudley’s, and began a note to Ron. Five minutes later, he addressed one to
Hermione, a much more careful and thoughtful letter that assured the
bushy-haired girl that he had already completed every assignment for school – a
record, as tomorrow was his birthday – and that he was doing rather well,
thanks. The Dursleys were being downright civil this
summer, which Harry personally attributed to Mad-Eye Moody’s threatening Uncle
Vernon with torture or worse.
He clucked to Hedwig, then
explained to the snowy owl that he figured Hermione and Ron to both be at the
Burrow by this point. The owl dipped her head in acknowledgement, but he could
swear that she turned her beak up at the crumpled notebook paper secured with
twine. He fed her an owl treat to placate her, then
sent her on her way.
This early, there wasn’t much in the way of
activity at Number Four, Privet Drive, Harry noted as he slipped down the
stairs and into the kitchen. Petunia was already starting breakfast, but she
was yawning and not yet fully dressed. Harry looked blankly at the lowfat yogurt she was spooning into little dishes and
sighed. When Harry’d complained that the
family-inclusive diet continued, Hermione had told him that it was no use. I’ve
read all about it;
He had no doubts that Aunt Petunia and Uncle
Vernon were eating any time they were outside the house, and hated them more
rather than less for doing the same to
“There’s the weeding to do today,” Aunt Petunia
reminded him, as if he would forget. “Since Dudders
has been losing so much weight, some of the shirts Aunt Marge sent him are a
tad too husky; you’re welcome to them,” she continued, sounding as though he
was anything but welcome.
Harry refrained from snorting; sure,
“Well? Shoo!”
Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He loped over
to the tool shed and withdrew the fussy flowered gloves that Aunt Petunia
favored, along with a hand-fork to loosen tough soil; then he sank abruptly in
front of the first bed of flowers.
Harry had gotten his OWLs
back and was startled to note that he’d somehow managed an Outstanding on his
Potions OWL. It meant that he had to endure another full year with his
least-favorite professor, but it meant more than that. It meant that it wasn’t
his imagination that Professor Snape not only treated
him unfairly in class, but also graded him unfairly. It meant that he’d have
another class without Ron, who had been unforgivably gleeful about his own
Acceptable. It actually meant, as Hermione had informed him crisply, that he’d
be joining the other five members of the class who’d managed such a
grade. Hermione was one, of course, and Hermione knew – somehow, Harry couldn’t
begin to imagine – that Draco Malfoy
was another.
He was looking forward to that class like
he was his next battle with Voldemort. He could just
imagine Snape’s look of shock and surprise, slowly
altering to the familiar dislike he so often wore when he looked at Harry. He
could hear the Potion Master’s voice now: Mister Potter, in my Advanced
Potions class? When he was in Remedial Potions a mere six months ago?
There must be some sort of error, Potter, wouldn’t you agree? He was
wondering if Professor Snape could continue to grade
him so harshly, even when an unbiased observer had deemed his potion-making
skills remarkable.
Harry winced unconsciously, tossing the weeds into
a small pile to his right.
Not all of the plants employed in potion-making
were exclusive to the wizarding world; in fact, the
bulk of them could be found easily in field and meadow – and in certain
gardens. Harry found himself absently using Aunt Petunia’s to study. It gave
his brain something to focus on while he worked, distancing his thoughts from
the glare of the sun and the sting of sore muscles. After the first couple of
times, he realized that he was thinking unconsciously about the difficult paper
he’d heard Snape assigned all of his sixth-years, and
a plan slowly began to form in his mind.
It had started last Wednesday as he was weeding,
staring at the lobelia and attempting to recall what its uses were in
Potion-making. It was a sedative, he remembered that much, although in which
potions he couldn’t recall. On the heels of that was the realization that it
was also used in a universal antidote, one which healed the effects of a wide
variety of harmful substances. When he reached the morning glories growing
trained around both fence posts on either side of the front yard, he’s searched
his memory until he recalled that the seeds were for finding lost objects and
in a potion for fearlessness, known as Cour
de Leon.
On a hunch, he’d gone to the local library and
searched out the plants in Muggle books. Sure enough,
their uses only differed in interpretation, sparking Harry’s interest. Were the
uses of the plants passed down from wizard to Muggle
– from Muggle to wizard, even? He was willing to
acknowledge that their uses might have been discovered independently by both
groups, but if so, then he could argue Potions as a mere subset of Plant
Chemistry, writing a brilliant paper that would, not incidentally, absolutely
infuriate Professor Snape. It would be a paper that
would turn the wizarding world on its head, implying
that the ‘subtle art that was potion-making’ was really quite thoroughly Muggle in origin.
He hadn’t informed Hermione of the ambition, but
he was planning on working very hard in Potions this year. He’d come to the
slow realization over the summer that the Professor’s attitude might not be as
much of an obstacle as it seemed. Harry forced himself to admit that he came to
class unprepared and made no secret of how much he disliked the Professor.
While the latter wasn’t likely to alter, he could certainly do something about
the former. Snape typically asked him questions, and
when he didn’t know the answer, derided him. Harry was determined that, this
year, Snape would have to find a new tack. He was
going to become an Auror, and nothing Severus Snape could say or do
would stop him, even if he had to work twice as hard as anyone else just to
make it through a lesson.
Harry stood, tossed the gloves atop the growing
pile of weeds, and moved inside.
Aunt Petunia barred the door. “You!
Don’t you set foot in this kitchen! You’re filthy! What possessed you to
go out before breakfast?”
He frowned, agitated that
he still had to look up to look her in the eye. He was wondering when he was
going to grow, as Ron already had. “You told me–” he began, before sighing
and slumping in defeat. He was helpless, in a way. He could not do magic, and
he could not hurt her physically – it wasn’t in him, though he’d thought about
it dozens of times, even to the point of detail – what weapon he’d use, how
he’d wait until Uncle Vernon left for work – but it was no use. And most of him
was very happy for that, blindingly grateful to find himself incapable of such
a thing.
That decent part of him was hiding, now, though.
He wanted nothing more than to bash her duplicitous skull in, and it was only
his control that kept him from doing so.
“You can eat when you’re through out here,” Aunt
Petunia continued, as though conceding a point. She slammed the door in his
face.
Harry growled inarticulately, his wand hand
itching, before whirling back to the flowers. His stomach rumbled, and he had
the absurd and simultaneous urges to burst into tears and tear every flower out
of the soil that housed it. He rapidly submerged both impulses, but the effort
left him breathless, feeling empty as a clapperless
bell, a familiar feeling that sped his heartbeat.
Harry gazed around, wondering what it was that
he’d done, and unable to detect anything out of the ordinary. He frowned,
leaning once again over the flower bed, the motion now mechanical rather than
determined. His mind felt achingly blank.
After nearly an hour, the back door opened again.
Harry realized that
It was only when
Harry frowned, trying to parse the sentence. It
didn’t help that he was dehydrated and still feeling the shaky expenditure of
too much energy. “Books?” he echoed stupidly.
“Books. You recall. ‘If I only had these books, even Muggle ones, I could possibly begin to be prepared
for the school year –’ ” he quoted in a vain, high-pitched voice.
Harry flushed. “I didn’t know you’d actually get
me any,” he replied rapidly, before he could think to censor his words. “The –
the Muggle ones... what was I talking about?”
“I guess you don’t really need them after all,
then?”
Harry stared after him, trying to will the
conversation to come back to him. It was surprisingly difficult. He still felt
slow and almost dazed. Maybe he’d been in the sun too long.
When he’d finished, and rinsed himself off, he
entered his bedroom to find that a small stack of library books had been dumped
on his bed. They were all Botany volumes, except for one, which was Plant
Chemistry.
By the time evening rolled around,
Harry was happy to be lying down and awaiting his birthday presents. Every
muscle ached. He busied himself by flipping through the book on Botanical
Medicine, correlating it with his first-year Potions text that he’d managed to
save from Uncle Vernon. He was amazed at how many different plants had similar
uses in an ostensibly magical potion as they did in a Muggle
preparation. He was just wondering how he’d go about proving who had discovered
what, when a tap sounded at the window. He leapt up to allow Hedwig, Errol, and
Pig into the bedroom.
Hedwig and Errol were both carrying a cake so
heavy that Harry wondered that they’d made it at all, and undiscovered; Pig had
a small package tied to one leg, but was whizzing about so happily that it took
Harry ten full minutes before he managed to snag the small owl.
Harry untied the string from Pig’s leg and
released the tiny bird. Peering in the half-light of the streetlamp outside his
window, Harry examined the package in his hands.
It was small, with silver-and-gold shimmering
paper that had obviously been bought in a wizarding
shop. Tearing the paper carefully revealed a beautiful gold sphere that
reminded Harry of a shimmering snitch. It glimmered and pulsed in his hands.
It took a moment before Harry realized that Hedwig
was standing patiently on his dressing-table, offering her leg. Untying the
parchment revealed both Ron and Hermione’s writing.
Dear Harry,
Hope all is going well with your family. I’m ever
so glad to hear that they’re
treating you better. It’s about time!
I’m amazed you’ve completed all of your
assignments. Well, I’d better
tell you, or Ron will do it for me; I haven’t completed all of mine.
Are you
certain you truly understood the reading Professor Snape
gave us on the uses
of
anemone tincture in calming potions? The fifth and seventh questions are
bothering me, honestly, although the rest is rather simple. I’m sure you’ve
noted, as I have, that we’ve more Potions assignments than in all of the
other
classes put together. I’d heard Snape expects a lot
from his sixth-year students,
but I hadn’t imagined it would be this challenging!
Anyway, we’re hoping you can come visit before we have to go to
Hogsmeade, but if you can’t, I’ll understand. As much as I’d love to see you,
the three of us don’t tend to get much work done when we’re together, and
the
last thing you need is to get on Snape’s bad side
so early in the term.
Happy Birthday Harry! We’ll see you in Hogsmeade if not before.
Let’s meet in the Leaky Cauldron, all right?
Cheers,
Hermione
Harry felt his throat go dry with sudden anxiety,
and grabbed his pen to scribble a rapid note to Hermione: What anemone? Never got any papers. Send that along with copies of ALL
supplemental materials, and retied it to Pigwidgeon.
After feeding Pig a small owl treat, he tossed the bird out the window and
stared blankly ahead, too wired to sleep. He felt terrified, and oddly
betrayed. Why hadn’t he received the Potions materials? Was Professor Snape in such disbelief about his grade that it had been
contested? Was he not in Advanced Potions?
He retrieved his Hogwarts letter and smoothed it
out, scanning it again just to be certain. There it was, on official stationary,
his placement in Advanced Potions, Advanced Herbology,
Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Advanced
Charms, along with a list of the required texts. Nowhere had he ever received a
note discussing any summer work from Snape. He
groaned, realizing he should have known better than to imagine, even for a
moment, that the sadistic Potions professor would do something so kind as
refrain from assigning homework during a vacation.
No; the only possible reason he hadn’t received
anything from Snape was that Snape
hadn’t sent it.
Not to him.
Harry bristled, his fists clenching. The crinkle
of paper alerted him to the fact that he was still holding Ron’s letter.
Unfurling it carefully, he examined it in the dim light.
Harry,
Hermione’s actually fussing over homework already! And I can see that
she didn’t even bother to say why we wanted you to come early. The long and
short of it is that Bill’s gotten engaged, and the entire family – and I mean
the entire family – is here to meet her. Mum says we’d love to have you
here too.
The ball is a Dark detector from me and Hermione. It’s Hermione’s work,
mostly. It’ll light up green when you’re around a witch or wizard who’s up to
no good. It also glows red when the person means you well, and other colors
fill in the sort of everyday in-between intentions. Hermione held it all day,
and it was a sort of purplish color most of the time, which we reckon means
something in the middle.
Happy Birthday!
-Ron
P.S. – Don’t let the Muggles get you down!
Harry then examined the cake, which looked to be a
rich double-chocolate layer treat. He breathed in the scent, allowing it to
calm him, to remind him he was cared-for. He sliced a piece off, slapped it
unceremoniously into his hand and proceeded to eat it, trying not to think of
Potions, or Hogwarts even, or anything but the sweetness of a birthday, and
friends who unfailingly remembered him each and every year.
Once he’d eaten all he could hold, he was back to
pondering his fate. He had a week until classes started, and although Hermione
was the only person he knew who could possibly understand an emergency request
for assignments, he doubted that they would come in time. Moreover, he doubted
that the Dursleys would let him stay holed up in here
in order to complete the work that he needed to.
His plan to show up to Potions brilliant and
over-prepared was falling to dust around him. It seemed he was up to Plan B –
copying off of Hermione.
No, Harry
suddenly decided. No, I got into that class because of my score, which means
I can do this. Today I decided nothing Snape does is
going to phase me, and that includes this... I’ll be fine. I’ll just do a
couple of hours’ work before I go to sleep each night. I can manage that
much...
Feeling a bit better, Harry stowed his cake under
a loose floorboard, then placed the yellow bauble into his desk drawer. It
shone a soothing gold that winked out the moment his hands left it. He yawned
widely and collapsed into bed, arranging himself comfortably while Errol and
Hedwig did the same. The sounds that the owls made were comforting, the ruffle
of feathers and soft keening noises reminding him of Hogwarts.
Before he knew it, Harry was asleep.
Onward! (But first... review!)