After taste
"Sorry, but if it has to rest all night, how will you present it for the O.W.L.s?" Ron asked, puzzled, as the trio left the common room early to head to the study classroom where they would recover the potion.
"A professor can recognize the success of a potion regardless," Hermione declared firmly, pushing a strand of hair aside. "Anyway, just so you know..."
The end of her sentence didn't come. Once they opened the door to the room, the three of them froze.
The room had taken on a terrible smell and it stank the air, almost making it impossible to breathe.
"Is all this stench normal?" Harry asked in a nasal voice because of his blocked nose.
The girl shrugged, pinching her nose as well. "I have no idea," she admitted.
The book with the list of ingredients, the preparation, and the entire potion description did indeed mention a pungent odor, but it seemed like an understatement given the actual effects.
"I suppose so," she said then with a glum expression, "close the door."
Reluctantly, the boys obeyed and helped her arrange the cauldron while breathing through their mouths.
They observed the mixture that had lost its ruby color and was now closer to black, then they looked at each other frowning.
"Who’s tasting it first?" Hermione asked doubtfully.
"Not me!" the two friends shouted in unison, and she shot them a fierce look.
Then, resigning herself, she curled her lips, wrinkled her nose, took a ladle, three glasses, and poured the contents into them.
"Together then," she said. And it wasn't a question.
Harry didn’t particularly feel like it but was sure none of them would take the first step, so he nodded slightly and raised his glass for a toast.
"To better grades in potions," he proclaimed.
The other two followed suit, and all together, they downed the drink in one breath.
Ron almost spat it out, Hermione gagged, and Harry found himself wishing he had instead drunk the Polyjuice Potion, famous for everything except its good taste.
However, they managed to swallow, and for a few minutes, they stood still without talking, making grimaces.
They looked at each other hesitantly.
"Do you feel anything different?" Ron then asked, airily moving his mouth several times but still unable to get rid of the annoying aftertaste.
"Uhm, no," admitted the girl after a brief reflection.
Harry shook his head as well.
"Maybe one taste isn't enough," Ron said, sounding as if he had been forced to say those words.
None of them wanted to drink any more, but they agreed and took three more sips before resigning themselves to the fact that they didn't feel anything particular.
"Maybe we did something wrong," he then suggested.
"Of course not!" Hermione jumped in. "I followed everything perfectly."
He raised his hands in a sign of surrender.
"We're going to be late to class," Hermione sighed, and after hiding the potion again, they set off with a gloomy air down the corridors leading to the classroom with Professor McGonagall.
"Well, just in case it helps, I’m starting to feel a bit of a burning sensation in my stomach," Ron laughed, and Harry shared in his amusement, which seemed to annoy Hermione.
"Sure, very funny! You're the usual idiot who jokes about such important things! You don't care at all about how this could ruin my plans for exams; you never care about anything to do with me!" she burst out, catching them off guard.
"Hermione, he was just jokin..." Harry started to say, massaging the scar that had begun to burn insistently.
"Don't think you need to defend me!" the redhead shouted in his face, silencing him.
"I didn’t mean t..."
"Oh, shut up, always playing the peacemaker!" Hermione shot back at him. "And you!" A flash of even more intense anger directed at Ron. "You really do need someone to defend you because at this rate, you don't even know how to put your underwear on!"
After this latest outburst, she stormed into the already crowded classroom and sat down at a desk, slamming her books, causing the person next to her to jump.
Harry was stunned, but the pain in his scar was distracting him too much to worry about it. He took a seat as well, and Ron did the same, stubbornly crossing his arms over his chest.
As the lesson began, the pain showed no signs of fading, and Harry started to seriously worry about the ache in his scar, making him think—once again—about Voldemort.
What if the pain was connected to a plan he was trying to carry out?
He was overwhelmed by a sense of powerlessness; the Ministry refused to see the truth that was right in front of them, and many students didn’t even believe him.
Unbeknownst to him, he found himself clenching his fists in anger, breaking his quill in the process.
Hermione shot him a disapproving look, then raised her hand to answer a question from the professor.
Ron rolled his eyes and looked at his friend with an expression that said: Same old know-it-all.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Harry hid the broken quill and retrieved a new one, trying to concentrate on the lesson while ignoring the critical gazes of his classmates that he felt on him. There they were, judging him over and over again.
Minutes ticked by, and at one point, Harry found himself with his head in his hands.
The sound of Hermione's quill frantically scratching on parchment, capturing every single word from McGonagall, only amplified the pain. Even the glances Ron was shooting at her, a mix of defiance and exasperation, were pushing him to the edge of tolerance.
"Mr. Potter,"
He jolted and lifted his head.
The professor stood before him, looking at him with a stern expression.
"Yes?" he asked through clenched teeth.
She raised an eyebrow "Are you planning to follow the lesson, or are you too lost in thought? I'm sure they are absolutely fascinating, but I would like to take credit for leading a lesson that is not negligible, given the upcoming exams."
He squinted his eyes, then said "I have a headache; can I go to the infirmary?"
As he rushed out of the classroom, he felt himself boiling inside.
Was it possible that no one realized how many difficulties he was facing? He had never wanted to hold it against anyone, but it was all becoming too much to handle. Exams were the least of his worries at that moment: being excluded from Quidditch, the dissolution of the Dumbledore's Army, the absence of the Weasley twins to lighten the tense atmosphere, Cedric's death, Voldemort's return, Umbridge...
He let out a groan and clutched his forehead, marching furiously in search of the infirmary.
In doing so, the sound escaped him louder than expected, echoing down the corridor.
His eyes widened slightly, and then he quickened his pace.
To hell with it; if someone heard him, they could make their peace with it, or use it as yet another piece of evidence of his insanity, as so many newspapers liked to define him these days.
He didn’t care.
Why was it always his responsibility for what happened in the wizarding world?
He had done everything possible, and no one even wanted to give him credit for it.
But no! He was just a madman.
He cursed under his breath, and another sound escaped him inappropriately.
Frowning, he continued on his way, finally reaching Madam Pomfrey.