Crisis in the Greenhouse
The next morning Professor Snape poisoned me with arsenic and Zacharias Smith with cobra venom. We thought it was very unfair of him to test us on two poisons. Anthony had produced a very effective cobra antidote, so Zacharias didn’t even feel any pain during the three seconds before the venom fizzled to nothing in his throat. But no-one seemed to remember exactly how to deal with arsenic. Snape glared at the ten slim phials of antidote on his desk, each one gleaming a different shade of greenish blue, and softly announced that none of them was likely to work.
Doubled up in the chair, with sweat pouring out of my ears, I wondered how long it would take me to die. Arsenic was supposed to be fast; I would certainly be dead before anyone had the chance to brew up again. But how fast was fast? And how much had Snape given me? Death was evidently going to take minutes rather than seconds, and they were going to be excruciating minutes too.
Suddenly Snape jerked my chin out and poured a phial of something turquoise into my grimacing mouth. Instantly the stabs and cramps vanished, and I felt myself relaxing. It was all right. Snape had had the correct antidote in his pocket all along. He wouldn’t kill a student just for a demonstration. Would he?
“I can’t help remarking,” said Snape softly, “that none of you dunderheads seemed to register that the cost of your stupidity was that your classmate nearly died. Since none of you has learned anything useful this term, I shall require three research essays of two feet each as holiday homework. You may tidy the laboratory.”
As I replaced a jar in the cupboard, I noticed that Megan Jones was red-eyed and puffy, as if she had been crying for quite a long time. Wayne Hopkins was hovering around her very solicitously, saying something in Welsh.
We Ravenclaws were glad to escape to the fresh air and spend our break near the greenhouses. I inhaled long draughts, assuring everyone that I felt fine, and that I was very relieved that it would be three weeks before I had to attend another Potions lesson. When the Slytherins approached, I saw that Zabini was in earnest conversation with a giggly Cecilia Rivers. Here we go again, I thought.
“It’s funny,” said Terry to me, “how ugly all those Slytherin girls are.”
I knew what he meant. Pansy Parkinson was petite, with a classically regular profile, but her constant sneers and jeers had given her the permanent countenance of a pug. Daphne Greengrass’s glowing complexion and cascade of butter-blond hair should have attracted a raft of male compliments, but her mannerisms were repellingly imperious “ her friends called her “Queenie”. Cecilia Rivers had a perfect figure, slim, but curved in all the right places, set off by a sweet fluting voice and a sweetly alluring perfume, but I was usually too struck by her bland, superficial stupidity to notice anything else. Boys who bothered to look hard at Tracey Davies might notice her sapphire-bright eyes and full crimson lips, but these were not attractive in a person who was such a discontented, humourless bundle of complaints. As for Millicent Bulstrode, with her large frame, bulbous nose, poor complexion and lank hair, she would not have had any claim to good looks even if she had been sweet-tempered, which she was not.
“When I said that all girls are pretty,” I told him, “I wasn’t thinking about the Slytherins.”
“You didn’t say so,” said Terry, “but you’re more or less right.”
“This is our last lesson,” said Professor Sprout, “so we won’t be learning anything examinable. I’ll just show you a few preservation tricks for the hothouse flowers, and we’ll use them to make floral displays to add to the Christmas decorations. Remember, the flowers will need to look fresh-picked for the next nineteen days, so be sure to measure your revitaliser carefully.”
The girls all looked delighted by this project, but Terry and I exchanged a raise of eyebrows. We watched as Cecilia Rivers, her arms full of orchids and roses, skipped over to Tracey Davies, trilling, “Guess who’s taking me to the Yule Ball!”
But once Pansy, Daphne, Tracey and Millicent had gathered round to ask her the desired questions, Cecilia suddenly found herself speechless. All she was able to tell them was, “Well ... someone from a wealthy pureblood family. And very good-looking, too!”
Pansy, Daphne and Millicent lost interest and moved back to their flowers, but Tracey, with a malicious gleam in her eye, said, “Go on, Cecilia “ you can tell me.”
Cecilia abruptly found her tongue and admitted that the boy was Blaise. Tracey shot a significant glance at me, and I hurriedly turned back to my workbench. None of the other Ravenclaw boys had heard a word: they were all discussing Quidditch. Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle had heard enough to trigger a ripple of sniggers, although Nott was scowling and furiously ripping petals off a large daisy. Morag and Mandy were discussing dress robes, but the other Ravenclaw girls abruptly jerked their heads up when they heard the word “Zabini”.
“Latest victim,” said Lisa to Su.
“I wonder if he really will take anyone?” said Su. “After all, he can’t take anyone he doesn’t ask, and anyone he asks can be warned off.”
“Who can be warned off what?” asked Padma.
Tracey had caught Padma’s eye. She was still looking at Padma when she said loudly: “Tell us, Cecilia, what are you going to wear when Blaise takes you to the ball?”
That Silencing Varnish was strong. The greenhouse acoustics, combined with people’s positions around the benches, somehow ensured that half the class “ Pansy, Daphne, Millicent, Mandy, Morag, Terry, Robert, Kevin, Anthony and Sprout “ did not hear a word of either the question or its answer. In fact no-one really heard the answer, for Cecilia’s words were drowned in Padma’s gasp. Padma stared around wildly for Zabini. But Zabini, looking determinedly only at the boys on his own bench, was saying something about vampires to Nott, while Goyle chuckled trollishly.
Padma, still holding her horticultural scissors, advanced to Cecilia. Lisa and Su quietly followed Padma, while Tracey triumphantly stood her ground next to Cecilia. I watched, the Slytherin boys pretended not to watch, while Sprout explained to the other Ravenclaw boys how to colour-coordinate their bouquets, and Morag and Mandy continued their descriptions of dress robes. Padma spoke quietly and quite pleasantly.
“Tell us, Cecilia. What are you going to wear when Zabini takes you to the ball?”
“Jade silk and the family pearls,” said Cecilia.
“And what will he wear?”
“He says he has a family antique too,” babbled Cecilia. “A red velvet that his great-grandfather bought in Florence from the Machiavelli family auction in 1876.”
“I’ve heard of that auction,” said Padma adeptly. “Didn’t the Machiavellis fall on hard times when a Muggle employee found out they were wizards, and they had to sell everything? And it was said that the very dust that touched their possessions would saturate the new owners with Machiavelli curses.”
“That’s the one.” Cecilia still did not grasp the situation. “I don’t suppose you have an antique, Padma. Who’s taking you?”
“Oh, I’m going with Blaise Zabini too,” said Padma, with an admirable attempt at carelessness. “Didn’t he mention that? He clearly intends to make it a threesome.”
Cecilia stared, then opened her mouth to howl. But suddenly she began to choke instead. Pansy and Daphne rushed forward to pat her on the back. Tracey patted too, with heavy blows. Cecilia pushed them away and tried to raise her voice again. But no sound came out, and tears streamed out of her eyes. Over on the boys’ table, Crabbe and Goyle were speechless with mirth, while Malfoy scowled, clearly resenting that the author of the fuss was Zabini and not himself, and Nott was looking aloof and superior.
“Girls, that’s a little too much chatter over there!” called Sprout. “I know you’re excited about the holidays, but Mr Filch really is expecting all these flowers to be done by the end of today.”
Cecilia sobbed through the rest of the lesson, to the complete mystification of Pansy and Daphne. Even Professor Sprout became concerned, and offered her a St John’s Wort tablet. When Cecilia only wept that she wanted to die, Sprout suggested that Tracey escort her to Madam Pomfrey.
“Oh, no,” said Tracey. “Madam Pomfrey doesn’t have what Cecilia needs. There isn’t any medicine to make her brain grow to a normal size.”
Professor Sprout stared in disbelief. She must have decided that she had misheard, because Cecilia eventually put the tablet in her mouth. Sprout patted her shoulder and walked away again. Cecilia spat the unchewed tablet into her revitaliser, muttering something about people who thought broken hearts could be cured with pills.
Padma, however, held herself together icily until Sprout dismissed us for lunch. Then she marched out of the greenhouse without a glance at Zabini; as she passed me, I saw that tears were very, very close to spilling out of her eyes.
Fortunately for Padma, Parvati and the faithful Lavender Brown happened to be waiting for her in the Entrance Hall. The sisters rushed into one another’s arms and simultaneously burst into noisy sobs. Morag hurried up in concern, just as both twins wailed out:
“I’ve been stood up!”