“The origin of the magical arts is a topic that has been lost to history, and the little information we have gleaned is still hotly debated among experts. It has been postulated that the first spells originated in prehistoric times, when those in possession of the operative gene were in mortal danger. This would have triggered the production of adrenaline in the body, a fight-or-flight response that, in an individual with super-natural abilities, would manifest as a spontaneous release of energy... therefore, it is very likely that the first spell developed was the Killing Curse, which is still in existence, and would have eliminated the need for struggle as we know it...”
An excerpt from Essays, by Emeraldo Harrington. c. 1750.
Horace Slughorn always began his classes, as he liked to say, with a smile. At eleven o’clock in the morning, he stood at the head of his Potions classroom, which was brightly-lit, organized, and in his opinion, perfectly ready to begin the year. He was waiting for the first-years to arrive. Today was a Monday, which meant a double session with Slytherin and Gryffindor.
First-years had always fascinated him. At eleven years, each child was like an adult in miniature, the seed of a plant about to blossom. Their personalities shone boldly through their youthful faces, and he had a talent for picking out the kids who were most likely to succeed. A child’s first year at Hogwarts was the one that mattered most; he could remember all of his Slug Club students when they had first started out, and what glorious memories they had forged in their time! Slughorn looked forward to every new year, and this one was no different.
In a few minutes’ time, the students began to file in. Their faces were nervous, unmarked as of yet by the year they would have to endure. None of them were sure what to make of their first class, most likely. Many of the students sat in the back, forming a sort of clump in front of the doorway as they made a fuss over who to sit next to.
A few brave souls drifted up to the middle. One such person was a pale, dark-haired boy ” nondescript, but with a thoughtful demeanor. He went up slowly, surveying the room as he went along, hand brushing the tables he passed as if for support in this uncharted territory. Slughorn nodded proudly as the boy took the very front seat.
The boy’s presence in the front row acted as a pull, impressing an immediate effect upon the room. There was a great deal of shuffling as several others followed his example, and the front rows were soon filled with students from both houses. When everyone was seated, Slughorn chuckled.
“Well now that that’s settled, let’s get to it!”
He tapped the chalkboard with his wand, and a line of text appeared:
Beginning Potions”Year One:
“Now, since it’s your first year, I understand that you might not be ready to produce the full and complete Dreamless Sleep Potion. Nevertheless, practice makes perfect, so if you’d all take out your cauldrons and open your books for the recipe””
He was cut off by a collective gasp that fell into a disgruntled moan. Their reactions varied. Some students sank in their seats, others turned and whispered to their tablemates, already casting Slughorn looks of dislike. Still, there were a few that obediently took out their cauldrons and searched through their books. The boy in the front seat was one of them. He actually had his finger on a recipe and was scanning through the list of ingredients when Slughorn held up his hands and shouted, “Enough! Enough.”
The room quieted down. Slughorn smiled at them all. “What kind of Potions teacher do you think I am? Surely you didn’t think I’d make you all brew Dreamless Sleep Potions on your first day!” He chuckled and gave the board another tap.
A second part was added to his heading.
Beginning Potions”Year One:
- A potioneer’s toolkit
- Useful ingredients
- Basic concoctions
The air in the room instantly relaxed. Several of the whisperers gave nervous smiles. The low hum of chatter returned, and those who had gotten out their cauldrons were now putting them away. The boy in the front, however, looked rather sullen as he closed his book.
“As shown here, we will be delving into the realm of potionmaking with small steps,” said Slughorn. “Small, but nevertheless, important. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen brilliant students make silly mistakes, mistakes that could have been avoided had they known what you all are about to learn! Yes, the art of potions is complex, but even if it is not your particular field of talent, you will be able to succeed in whatever you may try with three things: diligence, logic, and a knowledge of the basics! If you would all please take out your quills.”
He waited as the students prepared themselves for notetaking. When he saw that everybody was ready, Slughorn began to lecture.
He was pleased to see the whole class follow along, but none seemed to hang on to his words more than the boy at the front of the room. He often paused to write, but for the most part he preferred to listen, letting his quill droop from his hand while his eyes followed the professor.
In the span of an hour, Slughorn went over everything he had planned to cover, ending on the subject of the Boil-Cure potion, which he had promised the class he would have them brew the following week.
As the class stood up to leave, Slughorn erased the board with a tap of his wand. He sat down at his desk, hoping to open a book before the arrival of the next class, when he realized that the dark-haired boy was still there. He had gotten up, but instead of heading for the exit, tentatively approached Slughorn’s desk.
The professor looked up in mild interest. “Yes? May I help you?”
The boy held up his notebook, where he had written exactly one thing: Draught of Dreamless Sleep.
“Will we get to that one this year, sir?” said the boy. His voice was light and soft.
Slughorn raised an eyebrow. “You do realize I was joking? The Dreamless Sleep Potion is very advanced, and I wouldn’t expect any first-year to be able to brew one! You should worry more about those ten most common potion ingredients I told you about.”
The boy shrugged. “Yes, sir. I just thought... it would be interesting...” He backed away without another word. Gathering his books, he quietly left the room.
That night, the Great Hall basked beneath a starry sky. The four tables were packed with food, teeming with hundreds of hands.
The end of the Slytherin table had become a reserved spot of sorts for the first-years, who were separated from the older students by a small margin of space. Nella ate along with the others, occasionally looking up to admire the enormous cloud of candles that hovered over the entire hall. Hardly any of the Slytherin first-years had said a single word to one another since their Sorting. It was in these vast spaces of silence that she allowed herself to become lost in thought, mulling over her classes and other vague things that happened to cross her mind.
And then, out of the blue”
“Hi!”
A sunny voice pierced the pocket of silence. Nella turned, and did a double-take when Myrtle Atwood sat down beside her. Nella hadn’t seen her friend since their unfortunate Sorting, which had been nearly three days ago. On the whole, Myrtle looked peppy and well-rested. She had abandoned her pigtails this time, simply letting her hair spill down her shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Nella whispered. “Won’t you get in trouble?”
Myrtle shook her head. “I asked my Head of House. He said I could sit here.”
The other first-years shifted at Myrtle’s appearance, but Nella ignored them. “So how’s Ravenclaw?”
“It’s okay,” Myrtle said. “Our common room’s great. It’s up in the towers, and you have to answer a different question every time to get in. What about you? How’s Slytherin?” She looked up at the tapestries that hung from the ceiling above the table. When the fabric stirred, the snake on the emblem seemed to move with the ripples.
“Our common room’s in the dungeons. We have a weekly password””
“Don’t tell her what it is!” said a boy.
Myrtle turned on him almost instantly. “Grow up, will you? I’m trying to talk to my best friend here!”
The boy shrank under her scowl, and their end of the table fell silent again. Myrtle took a breath and looked back at Nella. “Go on.”
“Well yeah, we have a password. The common room’s really fancy. It has a fireplace and all these leather chairs.”
Myrtle nodded. She began to make herself comfortable, much to the annoyance of the other first-years. She put both legs under the table and took a chicken wing from a nearby plate. She talked while she chewed. “That’s really nice. We have really tall windows, and in the daytime, it’s like I can see everything that’s going on down below. We also have a statue of our founder. I found out her name”Rowena Ravenclaw. You should look to see who your founder was. I think all of them have the same last name as the house names. So the founder of Slytherin would be... a guy named Slytherin?”
“Or girl,” Nella offered.
“Yeah, but Slytherin sounds really boyish to me. I don’t know why, it just does.” Myrtle continued to nibble her chicken wing, which she had almost reduced to the bone. “I hate that we’re in different houses, Nellie... it’s so lonely.” She dropped her voice. “I haven’t made any friends yet.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure you will. Just don’t be afraid to talk to people.” Nella’s own advice surprised her”this, after all, was her problem too.
There was a sharp crunch as Myrtle bit into the bone. “I’ve tried! It’s just that wherever I go, they’re always behind me.” She jerked her thumb at the Ravenclaw table. “Olive and her friends, I mean. They’re so annoying. I’ve asked a couple of other kids and they agree. But no one’s doing anything about it. You and I should make a stand, together.”
Nella didn’t reply. As much as she didn’t like Olive Hornby, she did not want to pick an unneeded fight, much less on her first week of school. She remained silent as Myrtle began to suck the marrow from her bone, making loud slurping noises.
“Come by my table tomorrow morning. Do you know who your Head of House is?”
Nella shook her head.
“Find out and ask them if you can sit with me. They won’t care. It’s just a table, right?”
“I guess.”
“It’ll be so much fun! Even if we’re not in the same House, we can still have all our meals together. Honestly, if I had to sit around this lot all day, I’d be depressed too.” She swept her gaze across the sullen first-years, to whom their conversation was evidently more interesting than food. The Slytherins were staring almost jealously, as the two girls boldly displayed their friendship.
Deciding that her stay was over, Myrtle got up, taking another chicken wing with her. “Well, I better go. See you later, Nellie!” She beamed and skipped off. Nella watched her go, disappearing momentarily behind the sea of Slytherins, and reappearing at the Ravenclaw table. Myrtle passed rows and rows of students who were laughing and eating, and sat down somewhere among them. When Myrtle’s face appeared again, the smile was gone, her hand idly twisting the half-eaten wing.
So. She didn’t have anybody to talk to her either.
When Nella came into class on Friday, Slughorn greeted the class in full potionmaking spirit. The usual clutter of books and parchment that littered his desk had been cleared away for a set of brass scales and a small black cauldron.
“Come in, come in!” he called to them. “Sit in groups today. Two people to a table only!”
There was an explosion of chatter and skidding chairs. Nella was caught off-guard as people rushed to sit with their friends, slamming their books down on empty chairs to reserve the spots. For fear of being the last one roaming, Nella did the only thing she could think of. She made her way to the front of the room and sat at the frontmost row, right beside the dark-haired boy. She half-expected him to object to her presence, but he didn’t. He remained as still and silent as ever.
Once everyone was paired, Slughorn clapped his hands together and smiled.
“And now, if you would please turn to page thirty-one of your books, you will find the recipe. If you need help, you may raise your hand and ask. Begin!”
Nella pulled out her book and began to turn the pages. She found the ingredient list, which was a long series of things she had never heard of, like Flobberworm mucus, horned slugs, and many other names that sounded like they had derived from a different language. As her thumb ran down the list, Nella felt the color drain from her face. What had she gotten herself into?
She was about to get up from her seat and go to the cabinets to ask around, when she felt a hand stop her.
“No,” said the boy, looking at her. “I’ll get the ingredients. You read the instructions.”
Something in his voice was steadying. Nella looked back into the book, running back down the list while he got up with the rest of the kids, who were crowding around a tall, wide cabinet with various shelves and drawers. He brought back several bags of items and spread them across the table.
“What do I do first?” he said.
“Crush twelve snake fangs into fine powder,” Nella read. “Balance weight with dried nettles.”
He took out the scales and began to weigh the nettles, leaving Nella to crush snake fangs in the mortar. The fangs were surprisingly brittle, and in a matter of seconds she had reduced them to a lump of pale powder. Nella scooped it onto the scales, and the boy modified his side accordingly until the two were perfectly balanced.
He looked at her again, and Nella read the next line. “To prepare the base for this potion, pour Bubotuber pus until the solution forms bubbles.”
The boy opened the glass bottle he had gathered and poured it into the cauldron until the liquid began to bubble. This surprised both of them, and they peered into the cauldron as the foam grew so thick that it hid the liquid completely.
The next step was to heat the cauldron. They did so, watching the liquid turn hues of red at first, then fade to green, at which point the boy emptied the bottle of Flobberworm mucus, a wet, gelatinous substance, into the cauldron. So far, everything was going well.
Behind them, Nella could hear the noises of her classmates as they scrambled to process their ingredients. Some tables worked faster than others. One group, two Gryffindor girls, were already adding the porcupine quills, which was the third-to-last step. Another group was struggling with their scales, which, no matter hard they tried, refused to balance. The bar was rocking back and forth on its tip like a seesaw, while the boys tried in vain to steady it.
“Stop it, stop it, you’re making it worse!” shouted the first boy, whose partner was trying to pin down the scale’s arms while they scattered crumbs and leaves all over the table.
“Me? At least I’m not the idiot who bought these!”
They finally managed to get the situation under control. The second boy lifted the set and knocked it against the table, causing one of the cups to break off. Immediately, the set sputtered and died like a worn-out machine. They had to get a new one.
Slughorn was walking around and stopping at various tables to check their progress, smartly dodging spills and explosions. He leaned over the cauldron of the two Gryffindor girls, who looked up with proud smiles, having just announced that they had finished. Slughorn shook his head at them.
“I’m sorry, ladies. The book clearly states that your potion must be red. Preferably pink. Brown will not do.” He left for the next table.
Against the commotion behind them, Nella and her partner kept a solemn, almost ritualistic pace. They took turns adding the ingredients, spilling them from their palms and stirring the solution, which continued to turn over new colors every time they added something new, like a strange, warped version of mixing paint.
They worked for the rest of the class period. They measured and mixed, all in perfect synchrony. Nella could hear the others, who were either finishing or already done, but she was too immersed in the potion to separate their words. Potion-making was much like cooking, she realized, which she had done plenty of at home. Thinking of soup, of standing in her tiny kitchen and reading a new recipe with her mother, made the potion in front of her much less intimidating. Once you jumped in, as they say, the water was fine.
Slughorn resumed his position in front of his desk for the final ten minutes, arms folded behind his back, humming while the class worked.
At the end of the hour, Nella’s potion had turned a pale, pearly pink. It was the proper color described in the book, so they left it at that. They sat down, keeping their arms away from the cauldron, as if at the slightest touch something might go wrong. The other students finished at different times. The two Gryffindor girls had dumped their faulty potion down the sink, and started anew. The boys with the defunct scales were still adding the porcupine quills.
When everyone was done, Slughorn did his rounds about the room, looking into each table’s cauldron and muttering. “Mmm... yes... good, very good... could have used more porcupine quills, I say...” He frequently bent over a cauldron to sniff it, and sometimes even went as far to taste it with his finger.
When he got to Nella’s table, he gave the potion a little stir. “Hmm... excellent color. And the subtle smell of the nettle... very good.” He placed his finger into the cauldron and brought a drop into his mouth. His moustache twitched as he smiled. “Ah. Perfect! Best so far, I’d say!”
The other students shifted, murmuring. Nella felt a brief shock, which then faded into a kindling warmth within her. It was the first time she had ever received such a comment from a teacher.
“Names?” asked the professor.
“Nella Puckett.”
“Tom Riddle.”
Slughorn smiled, and stepping back from the table he spread his arms out to the class. “Everyone, Tom and Nella here have achieved a perfect potion!”
Someone in the back began to clap, and several others joined in. “Yes, yes,” Slughorn said. “A round of applause! Please!”
The classroom clapped for a moment, then settled down.
“Needless to say, this goes to show that talent can reside within anyone,” continued Slughorn. “Let this be an example for all of you, of the important of balancing the ingredients and following the procedure. This has been your first little test in my class. The next potion we will brew will be much harder than this one, and I expect everyone’s to come out perfect!”
In the midst of Slughorn’s speech, Nella still only half-believed her success. Still spinning with elation, she turned to her partner. At the same time, he turned to her, casting her a brief sideways glance.
It was almost like a smile.