Harry: London Bridge is Falling Down
The days fell like dominos after that, blurring with their sameness. He applied himself to his studies with uncommon vigor; it was a distraction at least. Hestia Jones was pleased with his progress in Defense and Charms and reassured him about the next round of NEWT’s coming up in January.
“Not that the Auror Office will let you take the time to travel to Hogwarts,” she warned. “They’ll send a special examiner to the Ministry to test you.”
Harry couldn’t decide whether that would be less or more of a strain, yet it was infinitely preferable to being subjected to an unwitting class reunion. He was definitely not ready to face intrusive questions from deceptively friendly faces.
Despite Andromeda’s insistence that she and Teddy had plenty of extra space, he was determined to search out a place of his own. Truth be told, Harry couldn’t see himself having a girl over to the Tonks residence. And he had every intention of getting on with his life, alone or otherwise. Eventually.
Hestia proved to be a godsend when it came to searching out flats, sniffing their suitability from the very sidewalk, it seemed. She didn’t balk that he wanted to lose himself among Muggles when the workday was done. Instinctively, she understood that anonymity and peace would always go hand in hand for the Chosen One.
On her recommendation, he concentrated on the less optimal locales. Not because they were in run-down neighborhoods (what was danger to an Auror anyway?), but because a bustling city like London had many areas that were bombarded by noise twenty-four hours a day. He rejected the rooms where the Underground trundled underfoot every fifteen minutes as the rumbling was impossible to mask -- even with magic. Likewise, the trendy spot near the late night bars would prove too tempting for recreational wand practice among the staggering drunks. Talk about challenging targets from his balcony!
A modern high rise overlooking the construction site was pure gold, however. The flats were going for a mere fraction of their original value as the constant buzz of heavy equipment made sleeping a challenge onto itself. Complications with the permitting office had caused the anticipated completion date to be adjusted so many times it was unclear when, and if, the project would ever be completed. What a bonus!
Harry didn’t mind the view of the mud pit from his window nor that the sidewalk entrance was often caked with crusty tire marks that tracked the lobby full of sandy clumps. After all, he could Apparate to his quarters and by-pass all that. A few words to the Department of Magical Transportation and the Floo Network magically expanded to include his pristine granite fireplace. As for the noise, a well-placed Imperturbable Charm could work wonders. The tiny balcony was only large enough for a single narrow chair, but he was high enough up for no one to notice if an occasional owl or two detoured past his window.
Best of all, he could just spy the roofline of Grimmauld Place to the far right. Not that the stalwart spells which protected number twelve could be penetrated from afar, but Harry had an unfettered view of numbers eleven and thirteen “ and that was good enough for him.
Andromeda, it turned out, had a real eye for bargains and took him shopping for the odd bits of furniture that were essential to his existence. Casting a spell to render Teddy’s locks a honey brown “ and packing a dark baby bonnet in case he worked out how to countermand his grandmother’s magic “ the three of them explored the street markets that popped up like mushrooms on sunny weekends.
Scratch and dents were no problem with Andromeda’s encyclopedic mastery of household spells, Harry soon learned. Just take the distressed leather sofa that attracted everyone’s eye until they saw the huge gash along the back cushions. It became Harry’s showpiece after Andromeda’s deft wand-weaving repaired the leather so there was nothing more than a faint scuff mark. No one would know he’d paid a mere 100 pounds when the tony shops were selling them for ten times more.
“It’s utilitarian,” Hermione pronounced on her first visit to his flat.
“I’d feel more confident if you didn’t wrinkle your nose when you said that,” Harry noted.
“Maybe a hint of color,” she suggested as she conjured a bunch of bright red geraniums to grace a pitted pewter urn that served as his floo pot.
Too much like a splash of blood among the dark neutrals that Andromeda assured him were the hallmark of masculine décor. He humored her until she left, promising that he would buy some artwork for the walls.
“Pick something that suits you,” Hermione instructed. “And whatever you do, don’t ask for Ron’s assistance. Chudley Cannon orange is the last thing you need!”
He returned with a modernistic wire sculpture of the Albert Bridge that was perfect for a long wall in the sitting room. At night, it glowed a warm golden shade from the candle brackets he’d set, wizard style, to either side of the high mantle. The small broken struts were nothing compared to the destruction the Death Eaters had wrought two years ago on the Brockdale Bridge, sending a multitude of Muggle cars into the teeming river below. In an odd way, his decorating choice seemed a fitting tribute, Harry decided.
“Do you like it?” he’d gushed the minute Hermione arrived the following week. “It’s the Albert Bridge. That’s the one that connects to Chelsea.”
“Very interesting,” she mused as she squinted at it from all angles. “Minimalist architecture in a city that’s often obsessed with the rococo. A bold statement indeed.”
Not understanding a word, Harry assumed it was a compliment. At least until she added, “Would it have killed you to add a spot of color though?”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he grinned as a flick of his wand caused the hidden glass tubes to glow with encapsulated bluebell flames.
“How ever did you afford neon?” she gasped.
“I didn’t. The wiring was hopelessly corroded. But the glass just needed a simple Reparo --”
“”and magic did the rest,” she rhapsodized.
Ron pronounced it wickedly clever and suggested Harry leave it on at night to make it easier to find the cold cupboard in the dark.
As for Ginny, Harry tried to keep thoughts of her in the back of his mind as much as possible. She was likely up to her ears -- very cute ears, mind you “ in Quidditch matters and he was barely juggling his time between work, study, and tutoring. As much as he would’ve preferred a different arrangement, there was no denying they had survived being apart in the past. Granted, those circumstances had been a bit more dire… Forcibly, he shut off that avenue of thought.
He still hadn’t given up hope that she would respond to his occasional letters. Toning down his pleas and protestations, he made friendly banter about his training activities “ at least those which he was not prohibited from mentioning. Merlin, the list of forbidden subjects was getting longer by the day as his level of responsibility rose accordingly. Likely, he would’ve shared more details with her if he could’ve done so face to face. But consigning his words to a barely domesticated bird was not without risk -- even in the best of times.
The Yuletide holidays flew by in a welcome whirl of activities. Hermione had a new sister, Jennifer Louise, in deference to both her grandmothers and the entire family was brimming with pride. For once, Harry and Ron were invited to Christmas celebrations at the Grangers and it was a bit of a surprise when the Weasleys didn’t object.
“Hermione came so close to losing her parents, dears. Don’t you see?” Molly emphasized. “What if her magic hadn’t been strong enough to reverse the Memory Charms? They’re remarkably tricky since no two people react precisely the same way.”
Arthur took a more philosophical approach. “It’s high time you learned to fit in with the Muggle world, son. You can’t expect her to turn her back on her family, not realistically. Don’t make her choose between them and you. No one wins that sort of a competition.”
By the keen look in Arthur’s eye, Harry surmised that he truly envied his son’s excursions into the fascinating and exotic world of Muggles. Likely, Ron would be coerced into recounting everything in exquisite detail; there were bound to be loads of things that weren’t too personal in nature.
As much as he’d come to anticipate celebrations at the Burrow, Harry hadn’t realized how much he missed all the Muggle trappings. What’s more, this time he was no longer on the periphery of activities like he’d been among the Dursleys. Ron’s unfamiliarity with simple things such as dodging the holiday throngs at Harrod’s or watching the children queue up to see Father Christmas were infinitely amusing.
Much to their delight, Ron was an instant fan of the double-decker sightseeing buses, declaring them to be a significant improvement over the erratic Knight Bus.
“This bloke could give old Ern some driving lessons,” he whispered as the bus circled smoothly, instead of careening, around Piccadilly Circus.
“Not traveling at the speed of sound helps,” Hermione agreed.
It was a pleasant enough way to spend the afternoon, especially since none of them were exactly flush with money and London could be a right expensive city.
When they returned to the Granger residence all aglow from the wintry air, they teased Ron about being a Muggle-in-Training as they sat before the moving picture box to watch their cherished holiday programs. Harry was surprised how many of his favorites the Grangers had amassed on video disc.
Andromeda was also pleased to have a trio of young people over for Boxing Day and spent hours cooking an elaborate meal while they played with Teddy. The little scamp took an instant shine to Ron, gurgling happily when he was lifted high in the air to stare down at the world from Ron’s outstretched arms. Harry suspected such a vantage point unconsciously reminded the infant of Remus, but didn’t want to put a pall over everyone else by saying so aloud.
Before he knew it, January came and went and Harry put the Charms and Defense NEWT’s behind him at last.
“No sense worrying about your marks for weeks,” Hestia assured him. “Owls sense when you’re anxiously looking out the window and take the scenic route. Circum-winging the globe, my old gran used to say.”
Harry chuckled politely despite the sour feeling of dread that still persisted in his stomach. For the hundredth time, he reminded himself that he could always retake the written exams over the summer, should it come to that.
Besides, it hadn’t really gone too badly -- not the practical portions anyway. He was dead certain the examiner had been impressed by his mastery of defensive spells. He’d had no trouble issuing a strong Protego as the icy sensation of a Disillusionment Charm worked its way down his spine. Hestia had correctly predicted the wily wizard would demand a spell that the owner of an Invisibility Cloak might have deemed irrelevant.
By the same reasoning, had Tonks been bombarded with questions about the Polyjuice Potion? Harry found himself wondering. He regretted that he’d never have the opportunity to ask “ or to work side by side with her in the Auror Department.
As for Charms, he’d earned an actual smile when he’d surprised the old crone by adapting a Caterwauling Charm to sound like a screeching owl, a trick he recalled from Hermione’s campsite precautions. Heeding Hestia’s advice once more, Harry boldly asserted himself even after the examiner seemed satisfied with his performance.
“It’s not always enough to simply seed your location with illusion,” he’d volunteered. “Sometimes confrontations are inevitable.”
He’d captured the ancient witch’s attention all right. “Drawing on personal experience, laddie?” she fairly cackled.
“Common sense,” he clarified. “In which case, it’s preferable to have some advance warning.”
“You already performed a Caterwauling Charm.”
“I prefer an Odiferous Oracle to warn of intruders.”
She gave him a calculating look. “Is that the one that produces a rancid skunk odor?”
With a simple nod, Harry demonstrated.
“Make that skunk roasted over an open fire,” she coughed. Producing a lace hankie, she covered her nose as she scribbled a few extra lines on her clipboard. “Only have myself to blame for that,” she grimaced.
Shoving his lingering apprehensions aside, Harry welcomed the news that Kingsley had wasted no time in securing a reputable Potions Mistress. Harry agreed that immersing himself in a new discipline would help to ease his pointless anxiety.
Setting off on a bright, but frigid February morn, Harry Apparated only as far as the wooded strip ringing the secluded Muggle neighborhood. A brisk hike along the wide pathways was just what he needed to clear his mind before arriving at the Tonks’ residence. Not to mention working up an appetite for the hearty breakfast that surely awaited him.
It was pointless to remind Andromeda that it wasn’t necessary to feed him at every opportunity. Food was available at all hours in London, he asserted. Followed by reminders that he’d learned to cook simple dishes at the Dursley’s; another reason why a Muggle flat had been the ideal choice for him. All arguments which Andromeda patiently absorbed as she spooned a delicate cheese sauce over his mushroom omelet -- or some other sumptuous dish that was way beyond his culinary skill. In the end, he rationalized that at least this gave her an excuse to also partake of the delicious meals she prepared for him.
Harry focused on the crisscross sheen of ice covering the walkway as he negotiated his way to the front steps. Before he could ring the bell, the door was thrown open of its own accord. The long hallway was empty but the glow from the kitchen at the far end was unmistakable.
He made a big show of peering carefully past the door, furrowing his brow in a questioning manner. Only as he heard the first giggle did he look down at the tiny hand that was clinging to the doorknob. Teddy’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he showed off his latest accomplishment. Andromeda had warned that the little tyke could crawl furiously to the door and then pull himself to a standing position using the knob for balance. She usually turned the bolt to keep the adventurous tot from wandering too far afield while her back was turned.
Hoisting his godson into his arms, Harry whispered, “Let’s not let all the air out of the house.”
Teddy responded by squeezing Harry’s cheeks with both palms as if the air was being forced out of a balloon.
A quick flick with his foot and the door clicked shut more forcefully than Harry’d intended. Andromeda leaned out the doorway to announce they had a visitor this morning. Filled with curiosity, Harry found Molly Weasley just pulling a loaf of warm nut bread from Andromeda’s oven.
Unable to imagine what would draw Molly from her own family on a Saturday morning, Harry offered, “Let me guess: it’s a bake-off, right?”
Molly gave him an effusive hug, her hands still encased in oven mitts. “Percy’s frying up kippers for Arthur and himself this morning. He’s really quite good at it, but recognizes that it’s not exactly his mum’s favorite. Takes most of the day to air out the kitchen afterwards.”
Harry allowed his godson to perch on his lap while he dug into the smoked ham and grilled tomatoes. After being assured that Teddy was digesting soft food without any difficulty, the two of them together made quick work of the scrambled eggs. Harry waved off another slice of warm bread as he sipped the last of his tea.
“I’m going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe if I continue like this,” he issued with a grin of contentment.
“Don’t be silly,” Andromeda scolded playfully. “You’re welcome to Ted’s old things. What is it that Muggles call fashions that are hopelessly out-of-date?”
“Retro,” Harry supplied.
“You’ll be the toast of London without having to turn out your money bags in those overpriced boutiques,” Molly pronounced.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Harry accepted even though he much preferred a more classic, timeless style.
“Are you anxious to start in on Potions?” Andromeda prompted.
“Right. Kingsley said my new tutor would meet me here today. Seemed an odd choice...” He punctuated his words with a casual shrug.
“Dora’s old equipment is still set up in the cellar,” Andromeda provided by way of explanation. “Close the door and you’ll have all the privacy you need.”
“She didn’t happen to share with you what sorts of Potions are used in the Auror Department?” Harry remarked. “Never been certain why that was such an important job requirement.”
“Polyjuice should come in right handy,” Molly tendered as she adjusted the milk in her tea.
“Not for someone like Tonks,” Harry remarked, buoyed inwardly that her thoughts so mirrored his own.
“True,” Andromeda acknowledged. “But she insisted we keep some on hand at all times during Voldemort’s reign. Never knew when one of us would need to pop out for supplies.”
Molly nodded grimly. “Seems everyone’s face was plastered on wanted posters near the end.”
“Dora mostly brewed Wolfsbane.” Wrinkling her nose for emphasis, Andromeda added, “Claimed the acrid scent didn’t bother her during pregnancy.”
“You didn’t believe her?” Harry prodded.
“My experience with pregnancy was different is all. Even heavy perfumes would send me running towards the loo.”
“Tonks was lucky she had such an easy time of it,” Molly observed.
“Not like the rest of the Black women, I’m afraid,” Andromeda volunteered.
Harry turned in his chair to gaze at the kitchen clock which read a quarter ‘til eleven.
“We’d best get started then,” Molly pronounced as she rose to her feet.
“You?” Harry gasped. “You’re the Potions Mistress?”
“Arthur and I got married before I applied for formal credentials. Would it help to convince you if I dressed in solid black with buttons up to the neck?” she chortled.
“Don’t forget the sunny disposition,” Andromeda injected wryly.
“At least a black apron then,” Molly tempered as her wand changed her trademark calico into diminutive flowers on a midnight background.
Teddy was disappointed that his gran was already whisking him upstairs for his morning nap. “Harry can tell you all about his first lesson when he breaks for lunch. Roast chicken gravy is one of your faves, isn’t it? Well, your little nose will wake you when it’s bubbling...” The rest was lost as they turned past the landing.
Noting Harry’s hesitancy as he made his way down the steep stairs, Molly proffered, “I learned under Professor Slughorn, so you may find my techniques are somewhat different. I did manage an ‘O’ on my NEWT’s though. Didn’t think to bring a copy.”
“I believe you,” Harry replied. “I’m just not as sure-footed at Potions as other subjects.”
“But you had Professor Slughorn your last year, didn’t you?”
Technically, but it had been the Half-Blood Prince’s scribbled instructions that had gotten him through. “He was convinced I showed more talent than is actually true.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Good, here’s Tonks’ old textbook for reference. I couldn’t find yours among the things you left at the Burrow.”
Of course not. His book -- the used one which he’d hidden to keep out of Snape’s hands -- had been consumed by Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement.
Molly flipped through the pages of Advanced Potion-Making. Her scowl deepened as she reached the index. “I expected it would be in the revised edition...”
“What are we going to make?”
“Can’t you see by how the equipment is set up?” Molly swept her arm to display the small cauldron atop its burner stand. The distillation equipment was set up in a conical hood right above it.
“Sorry.” Harry’s heart sank that he was disappointing her already.
“Well, if it’s not in the book, I can’t rightly expect you recognize it,” Molly soothed. “Perhaps Tonks left some notes...”
“What exactly are you looking for?” Andromeda’s voice rang out from the stairs. The smell of sizzling onions tickled Harry’s nostrils.
“Wolfsbane Potion,” Molly called back as if it were the most ordinary of things. Harry felt the hairs on his forearms rise in trepidation.
“Give me a moment to stuff the chicken and I’ll show you where Dora kept her most recent workbook.”
Harry took the time to acquaint himself with his surroundings. A battered filing cabinet in the corner served as the supply cupboard. The potions ingredients were all sorted into plastic zippered bags according to Muggle custom. The bottom drawer contained assorted textbooks and a shabby leather binder. The clasp opened at Harry’s touch, but the pages were all blank.
“Spelled for privacy,” Molly put forth as she leaned over his arm. “Likely Andromeda will have the key.”
“What if Tonks wanted to keep everyone’s eyes away?”
“Like in a diary?” Molly laughed. “Then she’d have to a do better job of hiding it than among her work papers. Trust me on that one.”
The smell of fresh herbs heralded Andromeda’s return. “The password is loup-garou.” With a noticeable catch in her voice, she explained that her daughter had learned the French phrase from Remus. “She’d nicknamed her Patronus ‘Loopy’ by then.”
The words had hardly left Andromeda’s lips when Tonks’ tight handwriting swam across the pages before them.
“Nothing here,” Molly concluded as she reached the last page with writing. She waved her wand experimentally over the blank parchment. “Feels like there may have been a secondary charm.”
“Is that unusual?” Harry interceded.
“Prudent,” Molly opined. “Without more express instructions, though, it may take us years to unravel the spell.”
The charged look she gave Harry conveyed the uncertainty that wizards everywhere had felt during those oppressive days. Recalling that the Weasleys had been forced into hiding at Auntie Muriel’s, it made sense that most would’ve been ready to leave everything behind at a moment’s notice.
“I think I may have something else,” Andromeda offered. A quick Summoning Charm in the direction of the open kitchen doorway and she was handing Harry a parcel wrapped in heavy brown paper. “Minerva McGonagall sent this to you. Liberated it from the ruins, she said. I was saving it until the proper moment.”
Surely, it couldn’t be? Hadn’t Hermione said that Fiendfyre burned to the end? No cinders, no ashes, nothing but glittering smoke that dissolved with the first hint of light.
With uncertain fingers, Harry unknotted the twine. Inside was a black portfolio, its heavy cover polished with meticulous care to bring out the intricate tooling. The patterned curlicues drew his eye as if they had some hidden meaning; then seemed to writhe away as if too shy to confide their secrets.
“It’s not hexed,” Andromeda confided. “The Headmistress assured me that it had been subjected to all sorts of rigorous testing.”
Barely daring to breathe, the women drew closer as Harry reverently laid the portfolio on the workbench before them. The leather cord which held the covers closed slid open without protest.
The first page was totally blank although the parchment had darkened with age. A bit of unfamiliar writing caught his eye in the corner of the inside cover, but the colored ink had faded with time.
“Reveal yourself!” Harry intoned with the rich gravitas he’d come to associate with Severus Snape. His voice could not hope to duplicate the deep baritone, but it worked nevertheless.
As if soaking up the light molecules, the emerald ink brightened until the words could be clearly distinguished:
Note your brilliance for posterity. No one can claim your endeavors if you are able to document the process. The leather will protect it from being mishandled; the black will keep any splatters from marring the surface.
A quick calculation in his head and Harry concluded that his mother must have given the portfolio to Snape mere months before their falling out. He wondered if young Severus had been carrying it on the day he’d run afoul of the Marauders by the lakeside. Harry’s memory couldn’t contain that many details of what he’d witnessed in the Pensieve. The snarl of ‘Mudblood’ followed by his mother’s horrified expression had been enough.
It wasn’t exactly the sort of gift a young girl gave her boyfriend, Harry considered inwardly, yet the depth of their friendship shone in her dedication. Rather it was the maturity of the gift itself that seemed out of place, but then so many of Harry’s teachers had told him of the thoughtful gifts that Lily had once bestowed. He considered his own lifelong friendship with Hermione and thought he understood the enigmatic Potions Master that much better. Recalling the warm Greek nights spent in Ginny’s arms, Harry hoped he would not allow an unrequited love to consume his own life.
“Don’t stop there,” Molly urged, effectively refocusing his thoughts on the immediate situation.
“Didn’t McGonagall give you any idea of what this contained?” Harry wondered.
“She was unable to unlock its mysteries,” Andromeda supplied.
He flipped through the next pages, but only strange cross-hatchings were visible. “So it’s warded somehow?” Harry remarked as his hopes sank through the floor.
“No, she said it was something else. The portfolio itself is magical. Severus’ acceptance of the gift in the spirit in which it was intended personalized it. No one but the two of them could read its contents.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Harry asserted.
“Ancient magic, Minerva called it. Or so Dumbledore’s portrait told her.” Andromeda threw up her hands to signify that was the extent of her knowledge.
“Let me guess,” Harry surmised. “Dumbledore refused to elaborate.” Must everything be a ruddy puzzle to you, old man? Harry pictured the collector cards rimming the nursery upstairs and could almost detect the venerable wizard chuckling at his frustration. “So if it’s like other ancient magic I’ve encountered, it’s fueled by repetition.” And he was accepting it in the spirit that McGonagall intended. Hopefully, he was on the right track.
“Does it seem cold to the touch?” Andromeda posited.
“No, should it?”
Molly reached out a tentative finger. “It’s cold to me as well. Could just be the temperature in the cellar, though.” She buttoned her cardigan a little tighter.
Secure in his thick sweatshirt, Harry countered, “The leather feels soft, like it’s been carefully tended to keep from cracking.” He placed all five fingertips on the first page of chicken scratchings. In the next heartbeat, he drew back in surprise.
As Harry cradled his hand, Molly sympathized, “Icy cold?”
“Definitely warm,” Harry countered. “Too warm, as if my fingers would stick to the surface if I left them there too long.”
They gasped in unison as five brown ovals appeared where Harry had touched the parchment. For a split second, the lines within each mark resolved themselves into letters only to fade away as the page resumed its grainy taupe color.
“It’s your blood, Harry,” Molly insisted. “Your connection to Lily draws out the words. There is no other heir. Severus was an only child of two only children.”
“Try using your whole hand,” Andromeda suggested. “There’s some Essence of Dittany in the cupboard just in case. Dora was a brilliant brewer but prone to getting splashed on a regular basis.”
Trusting in the little white jar Andromeda Summoned, Harry lowered his outstretched fingers slowly towards the surface of the parchment, hardly daring to breathe as if he would spook a skittish creature. Accepting his touch, the surface increased in temperature making his fingers feel like nothing more than massive matchsticks. He gritted his teeth against the unsettling sensation, expecting the heat to seep slowly up to his wrist and forearm. Much to his surprise, the sensation of smooth paper vanished as his hand seemed to sink into a hole made of golden light. He braced himself for the temperature to intensify, but it dissipated to a comfortable level.
“Now pull back ever so slowly,” Molly breathed in his ear. “I think it’s accepted you.”
Harry did as recommended, but frowned when the lines on the pages before him remained indecipherable. “I seem to have survived. Any other ideas?”
“Act like it belongs to you,” Andromeda proposed. “Peer at the writing as if you can read it.”
Harry readjusted his glasses to convey he meant business. Seeing nothing of interest on the first page, he licked his finger and turned the page. It was the same disconcerting sensation as when he’d first tipped himself into a Pensieve. The mist cleared before his eyes and the title on the page was Ageing Potion. It was dated from Snape’s NEWT years so only his handwriting appeared, but many of the other pages contained notes in both Severus’ spidery hand and the rounded letters Harry now recognized as his mother’s.
“The dates are all out of order,” he grumbled.
“Alphabetized,” Molly pronounced with certainty. “The notebook magically organizes your notes by subject heading, regardless of when you make the entry. I remember wanting one of these at school, but they were ever so expensive. Of course a serious researcher would’ve insisted on nothing less.”
“Then Wolfsbane would be near the back,” Harry muttered as he quickly found the right page. Seeing that the last pages were dated “RJL, 1993” he concluded that the notebook also allowed for supplemental pages to be added.
“It would seem that Severus made a few adjustments specifically geared to Remus’ metabolism,” Molly commented as she pulled the notebook closer. For a split second, the words wavered but then held firm.
What was more striking to Harry was that the previous pages showed that his mother had collaborated with Snape’s first attempts at Veritaserum. Hoary hippogriffs, the complexity of that formula would’ve taxed an experienced Potions Master -- let alone two students who had yet to sit their OWL’s! Perhaps Slughorn’s comments about his mother’s innate skill at potions were true after all.
“Let’s get started then,” Molly announced briskly. “All ingredients are on hand. Right, Andromeda?”
The other woman nodded solemnly. “I ventured to that dodgy apothecary in Knockturn Alley not a week after Teddy was born. Then two days later, Remus visited a little known shop in Bristol for a different ingredient. It didn’t do to purchase everything at once lest the chemist deduce we were brewing Wolfsbane. That could’ve started an inquiry no matter that we were Polyjuiced with hairs we’d collected at the Muggle food mart.”
“Forgive me for asking, Molly, but how did you learn to brew Wolfsbane if it wasn’t discovered until after you left school?” Harry posed. Then feeling like he was being a boor, he amended, “Please don’t think I’m questioning your abilities.”
“Quite the contrary,” Molly soothed. “Curiosity just signifies that you’re prepared to learn. To address your concerns, we’ll be brewing today’s batch together. If it passes muster, the next batch will be your work alone.”
Staring at the meticulous notes which Snape had amassed, Harry pondered, “Seems rather challenging for our first lesson.”
“And rightly so,” Molly replied. “Gives me a good idea of your skill level. Not to mention that all the supplies were already on hand.”
“You think it will appear on Harry’s NEWT’s?” Andromeda wondered as she pulled out the necessary plastic sleeves of ingredients.
“Likely so,” Molly predicted. “It doesn’t take too long to mature and it’s easily enough tested.”
Caught up in weighing and measuring, Molly’s words didn’t immediately register in Harry’s mind. It was only after they had finished a sumptuous lunch and returned to the gently smoking cauldron that Harry’s doubts rose to the forefront.
“Wolfsbane is deadly poisonous,” he asserted.
“To anyone other than a werewolf,” Molly affirmed in a mild tone of voice.
“How do we test it then?”
“The same way that Snape did.”
Harry feverishly read the words that Molly indicated: To test potency, drop one werewolf hair into test vial. If brewed properly, hair will be consumed in a purple flash. Incorrectly brewed and the hair will not react at all.
His next words were cut short as Andromeda returned with a drowsy Teddy upon her shoulder. “Seems all your rough-housing after lunch wore him out again,” she smiled as she looked tenderly between her grandson and his godfather. “Can I schedule you to come over every afternoon at this time, Harry?”
“You’ll have to convince the Auror Department,” he shot back.
“Harry was wondering how we would test the potion, Andromeda,” Molly put forth.
With a quick glance at her grandson’s closed eyes, Andromeda pointed grimly to the deep gouges on the cellar wall. “From the few times we were unable to procure the ingredients in time.”
Harry gaped at the gashes that had been hewn into the cement blocks. Anyone else would surmise they had been chiseled by a stonemason. With an eyedropper, Molly demonstrated how drops of the still smoking potion were flashing a lurid purple as they came in contact with the deepest gouges.
Harry turned stricken eyes towards Andromeda’s solemn face. “Did he suffer too much?” he whispered so as not to disturb Teddy.
“I hope not. Dora cast a Imperturbable Charm on the cellar then huddled before the bolted door through the night. When Remus emerged weak and shaking the next morning, she assured him that she’d woken up early just to greet him. He accepted her charade even though he knew she could wipe the dark circles from her cheeks with only a moment’s thought.”
It was a simple task to envision the frenzied Levitation of the furnishings up the narrow cellar stairs as the pull of the full moon intensified its tortured call to Remus.
Small wonder the metal cabinet had so many dents and the legs of the worktable leg bore the scars of numerous magical repairs.
A few weeks later, Harry had progressed to brewing more complicated potions. He found Molly’s workaday approach made the exotic seem ordinary; and thereby, more accessible to an average bloke like himself. With her gentle mentoring, preparing the ingredients became just as simple as sifting flour and buttering tins for his Aunt Petunia’s ginger biscuits.
Sensing his newfound enthusiasm, Harry’s supervisor at the Ministry allotted him four hours every Thursday afternoon for his tutorials which suited Molly’s schedule as well.
“I’ll leave you something more challenging for your Saturday homework,” she promised. “But this afternoon, you’ll be brewing a rather winsome little concoction, quick to finish and just as easily ruined if you make a misstep.”
Harry carefully made notes among the back pages of Snape’s potions journal as Molly outlined the important points “ and those details that could be his undoing.
“You’ll want to copy out the recipe into your book as well,” she suggested as she smoothed out a stained scrap of parchment. “I’ll be upstairs visiting with Andromeda if you have any questions. Especially about my handwriting.” At his apprehensive look, she added with a gentle squeeze, “You’ll do just fine on your own. Easier to concentrate without a bunch of clumsy louts hanging over your shoulder.”
“But what if…” His voice faded as he strained to read the name of the potion itself.
“It’s not anything combustible, trust me. Oh, before I forget, you’ll need this. All the rest is in the cupboard.” She withdrew an envelope about the size of a deck of cards from a stone canister.
He stared at its opaque black paper suspiciously: Nocturnal Porcupine Quills. Then squinted twice as hard at the recipe once more. “What exactly will I be brewing? The writing at the top’s thoroughly illegible.”
“That was deliberate, dear. Wouldn’t want my children to get overly creative if they knew that underneath those splatters, it reads: Amortentia.”
As if sensing his sudden discomfort, Andromeda made her way down the stairs to join them. “Don’t you see, Molly?” she teased. “He’s wondering why two old bats like us would have the ingredients handy for a love potion.”
“Honestly, I wasn’t,” Harry protested. “George sells love potions in the shop, so of course you’d have access to the quills.”
“How do you explain the bluebird rose petals from the supply cupboard?” Andromeda dared.
“From your garden?” Harry countered.
“Never cared for rosebushes,” she returned. “All those thorns would’ve been a liability with Dora about. Even as an adult, she had more than her share of careless moments.”
While Harry took a quick inventory, Molly elaborated, “Besides, George knows better than to employ a true lavender rose for his potions. Pale pink and the effects are much milder.”
“Yellow’s too unpredictable,” Andromeda concurred. “And white only works on the unwary.”
“So the color of the rose petals will affect the result?” Harry surmised.
“Some more than others,” Molly explained. “Black and deepest burgundy are nearly disastrous. A state of manic giddiness followed by stark realization once it wears off. Rather like a hangover “ or so I’ve heard.”
Thinking back to Ron’s mishap with Romilda Vane’s chocolates, Harry couldn’t help thinking that all manufacturers were not as conscientious as Weasleys Wizard Wheezes.
“So what makes purple roses so unique?” Harry asked.
“Not purple, pale lavender or lilac,” Andromeda corrected. “What growers call ‘blue’ roses, hence the variety called ‘bluebird’.”
“That’s what creates the mother of pearl sheen at the end,” Molly detailed. “Not one color, but an amalgamation of all shades depending upon the angle. So it replicates the multi-facets of love quite effectively.”
“Brilliant!” Harry commented as turned the recipe over to reveal a detailed listing of rose varieties and their peculiarities. With all those wild vines growing along the Burrow’s fenceline, no wonder Molly had become such an expert.
But how did Andromeda fit in? Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the two of them trading conspiratorial looks. Deciding it was time he turned the tables, Harry prodded, “So what’s your part in this, ‘dromeda? Selling a few home-brewed potions to supplement your income? The Trade Restrictions Office is bound to catch up with you sooner or later, you know.”
For a moment, Andromeda looked like she’d swallowed her tongue, but then she laughed, “You’re just as irrepressible as Dora at times! If you must know, she was the one who brought home all those exotic ingredients. Claimed she happened upon Slugs and Jiggers having a huge liquidation sale before they shuddered their doors.”
“Them and just about everyone else in Diagon Alley,” Molly commiserated with a grim set to her lips. “The twins were one of the last holdouts.”
Harry nodded. The once bustling shopping area had seemed like a ghost town when he’d traversed its length in preparation for their assault on Gringott’s Bank. From their shadowy corners, a battalion of homeless beggars had watched with feral intensity.
“Any idea what Tonks had in mind to brew?” The very notebook which had rebuffed him was leaning casually atop the cupboard, almost mocking him with its silence.
Andromeda shrugged. “Neither one of us can access her potions notes, either.”
“So the secret’s lost forever?” Harry considered with a note of sadness.
“Not necessarily,” Molly volunteered. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Teddy was the one who held the key -- once he’s older, of course. That’s the way it is with blood magic.”
Harry scowled. Among wizards, anything having to do with blood smacked of elitism. “I can’t say I like the sound of that,” he offered aloud.
“Dabbling in the Dark many would say,” Molly acknowledged. “But I think that’s due to its overuse to lock away family secrets.”
“Irregardless,” Andromeda interjected, “Dora was the one who noted that she’d amassed the necessary ingredients for brewing a love potion quite by coincidence. I remember the scene just as if it were yesterday.
“ ‘Then I shouldn’t assume you were trying to find a suitable surrogate while I was away,’ Remus chided.
“ ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, mister,’ Dora huffed. ‘If you get it into that wool-headed brain of yours to go on another extended tour of the London back streets, I may just whip up a batch to remind you of your priorities.’
“He’d chuckled at that and whispered that he loved her, too.”
That sounded so much like something the pair of them would say that the merry sounds of their combined laughter accompanied Harry as he prepared his ingredients. He hadn’t been bold enough to ask how Remus had wormed his way back to his family after the showdown at Grimmauld Place, but Andromeda had volunteered that Dora hadn’t been able to stay angry with him for long. Not the way he showed up looking like a lost puppy. From those snippets, Harry deduced that it had taken Remus a number of days to fully accept that the roles of dutiful husband and knight errant were not mutually compatible.
Once the brewing began in earnest, Harry’s thoughts took a more serious turn. Obsessive love, Slughorn’s words echoed in memory as he started the first series of alternating stirs. By far the most dangerous potion in this room. He recalled all too clearly how helpless he’d felt as Ron had succumbed to those spiked chocolates.
If Harry sampled some of his own potion, though, surely it wouldn’t have the same effect. Or would he become as vain “ and delusional “ as Gilderoy Lockhart? He made a mental note to ask Molly later.
In short order, his cauldron was emitting the characteristic spiral smoke as he held the flame at a low simmer. Now to add the most important ingredient. Following Molly’s precise instructions, he muttered, “Nox!” in the direction of the single overhead lamp.
Instantly, the basement laboratory was a cave carved out of the bedrock. Harry allowed his eyes to become accustomed to the glow emitted by the oil burner alone. It took a good minute for the black to recede into shades of dark grey and charcoal. The hunkering bits of furniture threw monstrous shadows to further distort the gloom. Luckily, he could feel the edges of his slate cutting board before him.
He drew out the tiny envelope from his pocket and carefully counted out three porcupine quills. He was reassured that their potency had not expired as they glowed like thin ribbons of neon. Ever so gently, he chopped up the spines into quarter inch pieces and was rewarded when the glow intensified.
Now came the really tricky part: adding it to the potion without missing the lip of his cauldron in the gloom. Rummaging half-blindly in the cupboard at his back, a rudimentary plan took shape in his head. Harry carefully coaxed the quill pieces to the edge of his cutting board then fed them through the neck of a funnel into a glass vial. Next he allowed the impromptu lantern to guide him to the edge of the hot cauldron.
In a swift movement, he emptied the quill pieces into the simmering potion. The interior of the bubbling cauldron glowed as if lit from within. Two counter-clockwise stirs later, the luminescence started to fade. Once darkness returned, Harry felt it was safe to re-ignite the lantern.
He scanned the potion recipe to check his status. The mixture was supposed to turn a bright pumpkin color before he added the crushed rose petals at the end. Unfortunately, the mixture was pale apricot at best. Feverishly, he re-read the instructions for any hint of what to do. It was unclear whether the warm orange shade occurred immediately after adding the quills or whether the color would slowly intensify as it bubbled away.
In the frayed corner of Molly’s original parchment, he found a scribbled warning not rush the final step: Simmer now or pay later.
At least that’s what he thought it said. No timeframe was specified, however.
Holding his wand horizontally, Harry turned the flame down to the barest simmer. Trusting that it would slow down the potion long enough for him to consult with the expert, he took the stairs two at a time.
“…agree we shouldn’t say anything…” Molly’s voice was unmistakable.
“…especially not to him,” Andromeda issued in a terse whisper.
Harry slowed his steps as Molly replied, “…frustrate…he can’t control this any more than “ well, anything else.”
“Nothing I can do, either,” Andromeda hissed.
“Things have a way of working themselves out,” Molly soothed. “Best that we avoid interfering.”
Heart hammering with pent-up dread, Harry eased the door open so they would know he was there.
Andromeda was taking a few moments to ponder Molly’s words. “I suppose it makes perfect sense when you put --” Her words drifted off uncertainly as she noticed Harry’s presence.
“Don’t let me interfere,” he apologized. “Just had a quick question about the potion.”
“It was nothing, really,” Andromeda stammered as she threw a guilty look in the other woman’s direction.
“Just reminiscing about our children,” Molly supplied handily. “Andromeda’s convinced Teddy’s too precocious for his own good.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s already forming whole sentences in his head,” Harry affirmed. Just beyond the kitchen table, Teddy was gleefully stacking his blocks only to push them over and start anew.
Into the uncomfortable silence, Molly elaborated, “I told her it’s always that way in magical homes. Children learn what they see, after all.”
“Is it different for Muggleborns?” Harry inquired a little too eagerly. Perhaps he was letting his imagination get the better of him, he admonished himself.
“Magic’s nothing but make-believe, or so they’re told from an early age,” Andromeda reasoned. “So why attempt the impossible? Ted said it was much that way when he was growing up.”
“But magic still leaks out,” Harry insisted.
“Let me guess.” Molly offered. “When you lost control of your emotions?”
Harry thought back on those dreary days spent sleeping in the cupboard beneath the stairs. “Spurred by anger and injustice. When I felt the most powerless, this unknown force asserted itself.”
“But you weren’t less than a year old, were you?” Andromeda pressed.
“If I had been, only my parents would recall,” Harry clarified. He strained to remember how old he’d been when Aunt Petunia had sheared his hair with the hedge clippers. Or so it had seemed in the mirror as he crossly swung his legs beneath the chair. “I think I was five or six.”
Molly nodded. “That’s the source of all that claptrap about Muggleborns being less adept at magic. As if all children kept to the same timetable.”
“Later doesn’t always mean inferior. Any parent will tell you that,” Andromeda opined.
“Just like the opposite is hardly a cause for concern,” Molly maintained with a pointed look at the other woman. Sensing that Harry had noticed, she quickly changed tactics, “Listen to us old hens prattle on. You had a question about the potion, Harry?”
He gathered his thoughts. “Added quills, it’s a pale apricot color. How much longer until it darkens? Your notes definitely said: bright pumpkin.”
“Let me see,” Molly mused. “About half an hour I’d say, maybe a few minutes more.”
“But you’re not certain?” Harry pressed.
“It varies according to the time of year,” Molly clarified. “In icy winter, about an hour. In the sultry days of summer, no more than a minute or two.”
“I’m fine then,” Harry sighed as he plunked down on the nearest chair. Suddenly he felt as if all the air had been let out of him. “How’s Teddy been doing?” he offered in a feeble attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“He’s teething,” Andromeda supplied. “Molly’s certain that’s what’s keeping him up at night. Did any of your boys react in a similar fashion?”
“If they did, I would likely have slept clean through it!” Molly laughed. “All my children soon learned they had to squawk over the noise of their siblings. And of course, Arthur was only too willing to pitch in once they switched to formula.”
“Your idea of the blackout curtains worked wonders,” Andromeda acknowledged. “Makes it easier to get him to surrender to daytime naps as well.”
“Take it from me: you learn to be creative. Each of my sons reacted differently so I was forever scrambling for new solutions. Did I tell you that the twins went through a nocturnal stage of their own?”
“At such a young age?”
“They weren’t too much older. Kept as quiet as mice as they played with their toys while the rest of the house was sound asleep. Arthur discovered as much when he ventured in search of the loo in the middle of the night.”
“What tipped him off?” Harry wanted to know as he warmed up to the conversation.
“They’d learned to turn up the wick in one of the wall sconces; the dull glow made Arthur investigate. Probably fearing they’d caught the rug on fire, to judge by their later exploits.”
“So you don’t think it’s unusual for Teddy to already display magical ability?” Andromeda persisted.
“Wasn’t Tonks the same at his age?” Harry wondered.
“Only when it came to changing hair colors.”
“So Teddy activated a music box at time or two,” Molly placated. “What’s so unusual about that? He was probably just trying to entertain himself. Didn’t you say he’s much less demanding than Tonks was as a child?”
Andromeda nodded glumly, her eyes focused on the dregs in her teacup.
“Why don’t we check on the potion?” Molly issued a bit too blithely in Harry’s estimation. A flick of her wand and the door to the basement swung open. The tantalizing bouquet teased their noses as the smell of the soup simmering on the stove faded unnoticed into the background. “I can already tell it’s approaching its peak. I smell fresh laundry and the indescribable scent of a newborn’s head.”
With a deep sigh, Andromeda volunteered, “The briny smell of summer sunshine on the weathered deck of our seaside cottage. We used to eat breakfast with the gulls every morning.”
Harry smiled at the image. “Tonks must’ve loved that.”
“She was only a newborn then,” Andromeda clarified. “There was no denying the cottage was really too cramped for the three of us. It was with some regret that we moved inland to a rambling house not too far from Ted’s ailing parents.”
Indicating that it was his turn, Molly ordered, “Take a deep breath.”
Harry tried to comply, but his thoughts were a maelstrom of contradictions.
“Out of sorts?” Molly pried gently as she urged him down the basement steps.
Harry nodded mutely, feeling the weight of the world above. “Overwhelmed, more like.”
“It’s like that when you’re young,” Molly empathized. “So many possibilities.”
Or indecisiveness, Harry mused inwardly. But that really wasn’t his problem, was it?
It was unsettling how the slightest hint of Ginny’s apple-scented shampoo could assault him with a slideshow of disjointed memories. With a gargantuan effort, Harry finally succeeded in blocking the sensory overload.
His mind barely registered how the inside of his small cauldron glowed like a Halloween jack-o-lantern in the drab basement. With measured slowness, he crumbled the bluish-lavender petals in a spiral pattern as he lightly stirred the contents with his left hand. In a matter of minutes, the surface had taken on the characteristic pearly sheen that made Amortentia instantly recognizable.
Against the dark cement walls, the curly tendrils of smoke were like ghostly arms beaconing him forward, enticing him to draw his face closer to the scalding liquid and bathe in the intoxicating aroma.
“Stand back,” Molly ordered as she clamped an iron lid over the cauldron then blew out the flickering flame beneath. “Now it needs to mature a few weeks. Do you know how to cast a Stasis Spell?”
Harry nodded as he drew his wand hesitantly forward. The sudden absence of the alluring perfume was just as unnerving as its pervasiveness had been before. Somehow the surroundings had become dimmer; there was no other way to describe it. He felt the beads of cold sweat break out on his forehead, but nevertheless managed to set the spell to Molly’s satisfaction.
“A bit shaky,” she concurred, “but it will do. It’s not like anyone’s likely to disturb it here. By Saturday, it will have cooled enough that you can simply remove it to a high shelf while you brew an antidote.”
Harry turned a stricken face in Molly’s direction. “Who are we going to test it on? I doubt Ron will volunteer after his last run-in.”
Molly gave a dry chuckle as she shooed him up upstairs once more. “No, I don’t suppose he will. But antidotes can be tested in a laboratory setting. See if one liquid neutralizes the other. It’s an important technique to master; test subjects are rarely available in real life.”
Harry was sipping from a tall glass of iced cider at the kitchen table when he remembered what he’d meant to ask earlier. “What happens if you ingest some of the potion yourself?”
“Drink it from your own hand, you mean?” Molly clarified.
“Essentially.”
“Not what you’d expect,” she cautioned. “Promise me you won’t try such a foolhardy experiment, Harry.”
“Fine, you have my word. But don’t leave me hanging!” he demanded.
In a classic delaying tactic, she countered, “What do you think will happen?”
“Dunno. You’ll turn yourself into a narcissistic bugger?”
She gave a sharp laugh at his pathetic attempt at humor. “People have mistakenly thought that it would help them to sort out their true feelings. But all you need for that is to catch a whiff of the steam.”
“Professor Slughorn set the whole class to sighing when he tested our knowledge at the start of term,” Harry volunteered. He didn’t mention how the girls in particular had clustered around the raised burner with fevered intensity.
Andromeda Summoned a tall pitcher from the cold cupboard and refilled Harry’s glass in mid-air before depositing it soundlessly before him. He gratefully took a long swallow, avoiding the double sets of prying eyes he could feel upon him.
“Only a man intent on early retirement would set his class to brewing Amortentia for themselves,” Andromeda noted. “Stampeding hippogriffs are easier to control.”
“Not to mention the inevitable experimentation,” Molly added in an ominous tone.
Harry took a moment to leaf through the portfolio he’d brought upstairs with him. There was no indication that Snape has ever attempted Amortentia. So engrossed was he that he didn’t notice that the pages had reorganized themselves so his notes now stood among the first, instead of last, pages.
He tossed it aside impatiently and drew Tonks’ old battered text towards him. There was very little said about the potion at all: a basic recipe with none of Molly’s helpful hints. He turned the page but there was nothing about dangerous side effects. “I don’t understand,” he muttered more to himself than anything. “It’s hardly more than a footnote.” His eyes feverishly scanned the ingredients once more. “Say…”
“I was wondering when you catch it,” Molly issued with a triumphant smirk.
“Only regular porcupine quills are indicated, not the luminescent variety.” Now that was peculiar. “Would the resulting potion be worthless then?”
“ ‘Safe’ is the word you’re looking for,” Molly ventured. “That recipe will teach the standard methodology if an overachieving student decides to brew a batch on his or her own. Most instructors just skip it entirely.”
“Which is why you think it might appear on my NEWT’s,” Harry concluded.
“Among other things,” Molly affirmed.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Harry decried. “You’ve been leading me on this dance until my head is practically spinning…”
“He has a right to know,” Andromeda hissed.
“It’s irrelevant,” Molly argued lowly.
“Knowledge is the best antidote to an unhealthy curiosity,” Andromeda parried.
“He promised,” Molly insisted.
“And accidents happen,” Andromeda returned. “An involuntary splash --”
“Fine,” Molly surrendered. Harry couldn’t help cowering before the glare she turned in his direction. “You really want to know what happens if you ingest a love potion prepared by your own hand? All those feelings of lost love get intensified inside you. Unrequited love will practically drive you mad. In the rare few, it can even lead to elaborate suicides.”
“It’s called the Romeo Effect,” Andromeda supplied. “You won’t find it in the Hogwarts-approved text, but it’s well documented in Healer manuals.”
Harry couldn’t help but comment, “Is that an oblique way of saying it only affects men?”
“Think again,” Andromeda issued lowly.
It hit Harry full in the chest. The potion that Juliet consumed was a ruse; it was Romeo who despaired of love and claimed his own life first. All those endless hours spent in Muggle classrooms while the teachers rhapsodized about the genius of Shakespeare must have counted for more than just doodles in the margin of his books after all.
Long after he’d returned to his flat for the night, Harry was still shuddering at the dark side of love that was such an unspoken part of everyday existence. Small wonder Snape hadn’t brewed the dastardly concoction! The whole afternoon had been a jumble of crosscurrents and unspoken agendas, no doubt about it.
What exactly had those two been discussing that made them so jumpy? Had he almost walked in on an update of Ginny’s recent activities? It was just like Molly to rebound with tales of her children, but he was wise to that subterfuge. What would he have overheard if he’d eavesdropped like a teenager from the safety of the cellar stairs? Perhaps it was best that he hadn’t worked up the courage to ask point blank. He’d been distracted enough while handling dangerous compounds as it was.