The New Potions Master
Though Flint had so expertly shut down the situation in the common room the night before, Harry still felt the weight of judgmental stares on him as he crossed through the Slytherin rooms. He ate breakfast with his head down, letting the chatter of his friends wash over him. At one point, Pansy nudged his elbow, almost spilling his pumpkin juice.
“Oops. Sorry. Here’s your timetable?” She handed it over.
Harry thanked her, scanning it. Their first class was Transfiguration, which Harry noted was a block they shared with the Gryffindors.
“More like Gryffin-snores!” said Blaise cheerfully. “Any plans for the Quidditch cup this year, star Seeker?”
“Win?” said Harry and Draco simultaneously.
Passing behind them, Cassius Warrington (one of Slytherin’s Chasers) slapped Harry on the back with a muttered “Damn right.”
But surprisingly, when they arrived in the Transfiguration classroom, Professor McGonagall was nowhere to be found. The class all took their seats, babbling and clattering quills and wands. Harry sat next to Draco, strategically as far from any Gryffindor as they could be.
“Ooh, where do you think she could be?” Daphne mused, unpacking her coloured quills and lining them up in rainbow order.
Draco leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Probably taking my father outside and putting him down like a Krup.”
Daphne laughed; across from her, poor, eavesdropping Neville Longbottom looked shocked. It took ten whole minutes before the door at the back slammed open and the professor marched in, her travelling cloak billowing behind her.
“Books!” she ordered in her crisp accent. “Chapter one. Miss Patil, please write the title on the chalkboard.”
And she disappeared into her office at the front of the room. Hesitantly, Gryffindor Parvati got up and began to write “Stage 2 Animal Transfig-” When Professor McGonagall reemerged (without her cloak, hair tucked back into her bun, a wooden crate under one arm), the Gryffindor jumped and her chalk trailed in a messy line down the board.
“Heavens, calm down,” McGonagall scolded. “Well, finish up and sit down.” She plopped the crate down on her desk. “Beetles to buttons,” she announced. “Does anyone remember the spell for changing a match into a needle? You should. It was the very first thing I taught you last year.”
As could have been predicted, Hermione Granger’s hand shot into the air, and no-one else’s. She was sitting alone on her bench - even the other Gryffindors were avoiding her for some reason. Harry looked across at Draco with a raised eyebrow before remembering he wouldn’t be able to see it. As Granger gave the most technically correct student answer anyone with a teaching degree would have given an eye tooth for, Harry’s mind began to wander. They really needed to come up with a way to send notes to and from Draco during lessons. Was there a charm that would read the note aloud to him? Maybe he should take a look around the library for something…
“...tter. Potter!”
He jumped awake. “Sorry, Professor!”
“Pass the beetles around, please. One each. I want sixteen buttons back, and no beetles, by the end of the lesson.”
At break time, the class exploded from the Transfiguration classroom - McGonagall’s late entry and various theories as to where she could have been were the prime topics of gossip in the corridors.
“ -cult leader, for sure-” Harry heard going past him.
Two of the Gryffindors set off, talking loudly about how she was “finalising our Quidditch line-up! We’ll beat those snakes this year, I bet you on my brother’s owl…”
“Where do you think she was?” Harry asked Pansy, who had fallen into step next to him and Draco.
Pansy cast an invisible look over at their blindfolded friend. “If she was a Slytherin,” she replied calculatingly, “she would have done it deliberately so people would gossip about her and not him.”
“Blindness, Parkinson, you can say it,” Draco snapped. “It’s not like it’s an Unforgivable.”
“My mistake,” she said coolly. “I’ll tell the whole corridor. If that’s what you’d prefer?” She stalked off in a swirl of robes.
“Who pissed in her pumpkin juice?” Draco grumbled under his breath, and didn’t say anything the whole way to Charms.
Harry was a bit put out by the time the last bell rang to signal the end of lessons. Besides having to field the apparent conflict between Draco and all the rest of their friends, they hadn’t even had either of the new professors yet. From what he’d overheard at lunch and in the corridors, they were both quite the characters; the Defence prof had some kind of shapeshifting ability that had entertained the third-years all lesson, and had done no actual teaching. And had set no homework! Honestly, Harry thought as he staggered in the direction of the library, weighed down by all the homework he’d been set over the day, that sounded exactly like his kind of teacher.
The library was louder that afternoon than Madam Pince would ever let it be at any other time of year, but the excitement of reunions after the long summer meant every space was filled with chattering friend groups and high energy. The librarian herself sat at her desk, head in one hand, staunchly reading a thousand-page almanack and ignoring the enchanted paper aeroplanes zooming in all directions around her head. Harry found a spare chair and sat down to make a start on the homework before he sought out books for Draco’s impairment. He hadn’t been writing more than five minutes (some dry reading comprehension on the International Warlock Convention of 1289) when a shadow fell over his page. He looked up.
A fourth-year Gryffindor towered over him, her hair falling like a waterfall over one shoulder. Her face was screwed up in a tight frown. Harry had no idea who she was.
“What did you do with Professor Dumbledore, then?” she demanded.
Harry blinked. “What?”
“I said,'' she enunciated. “Pro-fess-or Dumble-dore. Where is he?”
“I, erm, I don’t know?” Harry glanced behind her. Her entire table had turned around in their seats and were staring at him, like a painted jury. “Why?”
“Why?” she repeated. “Why? Well, the whole country’s looking for him! My ma said you killed him.”
Harry let out an involuntary snort of amusement, which he quickly and ineffectively turned into a sneeze. “I mean, achoo. I’m sorry, did you say, killed him?”
The fourth-year’s nod and hands-on-hips stance was resolute. “Well, you were the last one seen with him, weren’t you?”
“No, actually,” Harry corrected. “Cornelius Fudge, and the officers - erm, Aurors - who took him in… Why do you guys care, anyway?”
“He’s our headmaster!” cried someone from the fourth–year table, leaning forward over the books and papers. “Better than this Rodley creep, by far.”
That seemed to be a popular sentiment - students across the room were nodding, laughing or calling out their agreement.
“Well, I don't know the new headmaster,” Harry said, patience all used up. “But I swear I didn’t murder Dumbledore. If I had, I’m sure I would have asked the Daily Prophet to tell you all about it. Excuse me.”
He scooped up his parchment and stormed out of the library. He was two floors down when he realised he couldn’t go back and look for those books for Draco. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. He didn’t feel like running into those Dumble-fanatics again soon. They’d have to find another way.
Harry was woken up the following morning by an almighty crash and he jolted upright. The curtains were drawn around all of the beds except one and it was still dark outside the lake windows.
“Whawassatt?” he mumbled.
There was another, smaller thump and a stifled curse. Jamming on his glasses, the image of Draco curled up on the floor came into view.
“Nothing,” he hissed. “Go away, go back to sleep.”
“No, you go back to sleep,” grunted Crabbe’s voice, oddly coherent for stupid-o’clock in the morning. Then a pillow exploded from behind his curtains and hit Draco square in the face. “I’m sleeping.”
“Mooncalf,” Draco snarled in his general direction.
“Lumos,” said Harry, raising his lit wand and scrambling down to Draco. The other boy was rubbing his shin violently, surrounded by a pile of the incomprehensible wizarding junk that had exuded from Blaise’s trunk the night before. “You OK?”
“Go back to sleep, you bloody Boy who Lived,” grumped Draco. “I’m fine.”
“Let me get that.” Harry began clearing away Blaise’s esoterica.
“The Boy who Interfered, that’s what you are.” But he didn’t stop Harry, only sat there holding his bashed leg absently.
Even though the other boys were all almost definitely asleep, Harry lowered his voice so only Draco could make his words out. “Has McG said anything to you about… I don’t know, accommodations? For the blindness?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Draco echoed. “For what? You only asked her yesterday.”
“Yeah, but…” Harry waved something of Blaise’s (a curling iron? His hair was curly already?). “She’s magic.”
Draco snorted. “So astute. Truly, why does he need to continue with formal education? Harold ‘Witches-are-magic’ Potter over here.”
Tapping him on the arm with the curling iron, Harry only felt slightly proud to have made Draco smile. “All right, get on up. I’ll guide you in the dark.”
“Don’t get into the habit of this,” Draco warned as Harry’s hands on his elbow helped him in the direction of the dorm ensuite.
“Of course not.”
“I’ll be fine here as soon as Zabini clears his damn stuff up.”
“Of course.”
****************
“Potter! Hey, Potter! A word?”
Harry looked up from the pages of the Daily Prophet he’d been lost in to see Flint standing before him in the corridor. “Er, yeah, sure.”
Flint led him into a small alcove off the corridor, where a small Gothic window looked out on the green grounds. “So, Quidditch practices start up again on Monday,” he cut to. “I’ll want you there, bright and early, with the rest of the lads. Got it? Got your broom?”
Harry shook his head. “I used a school Comet 260 all last year.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Flint scratched the back of his neck. “Forgot that. Well, Slytherin has a new head this year now Snape’s gone, maybe he’ll see about getting you your own broom.”
“We have a new head?”
“Yeah, the new Potions prof. You haven’t met him yet?”
Harry shook his head. “But I have Potions this afternoon.”
“He’s all right,” Flint conceded. “Less intense than old Snape, anyway. That’s beside the point. Monday, 6am, on the pitch. Any questions?”
“Yeah, actually,” Harry said, remembering a previous conversation with Daphne. “Are there any openings in the team this year?”
Flint pulled a face. “Maybe. Pucey isn’t answering my owls and he’s acting all cagey. We’ll see if he comes on Monday or if I’ll have to kick him off. Why, you know someone who might fill a Chaser position?”
“Maybe,” said Harry. “I’ll let you know, if we need it?”
“Good man.” Flint slapped his shoulder. “I won’t keep you any longer. Don’t be late on Monday!”
“I won’t!” And Harry darted off back into the stream of students heading upstairs.
******************
All day, Harry had been buffeted with tales about the new Defence teacher, how they were young and quirky and unpredictable and chaotic and fun and full of energy and on and on and-
“ - and yet, we don’t even have them until Monday!” Harry heard Tracey complain behind him as the Slytherin second-years made their way to the dungeons for Potions.
“Why do you want Defence so badly anyway?” Blaise asked. “You hated it all of last year. You barely scraped the exam!”
“Doesn’t count if our teacher was possessed by Voldemort,” Harry called over his shoulder, making everyone in the vicinity flinch.
“Well,” Tracey said uncomfortably. “I heard from Dominic and Rachel in Hufflepuff that they’re a Muggleborn. We’ve never had a Muggleborn prof before.”
“That’s not true, Professor Sprout had a Muggle mother,” Pansy put in.
“Never!” gasped Tracey. “Half-and-half? Who told you…”
The chatter died down as they drew near to the door of the Potions classroom, which was closed and bolted. The braziers on either side of the door flickered a deep green, giving out sparse light that turned the face sickly.
“What’s going on?” Draco whispered to Harry.
“Don’t know,” he whispered back. “Maybe-”
The bolt slid back with a click. Everyone fell silent. Slowly, the door opened, revealing the glare of the brightly lit classroom behind, and the professor stepped out.
He was dressed in the same way as Snape had been; long, black robes with a high collar and a row of tiny black buttons. His hair, dark as his garb, was cropped short to his skull. His eyes were a pale colour that reflected the green of the flames back to the class. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and controlled.
“Good afternoon, class,” he said. “Welcome back to Potions. You may call me Professor Ulysses. Please, enter and take your seats.”
The Slytherins obeyed, walking in single file in silence past the professor, as if enchanted. Inside the classroom, Harry blinked hard and his eyes watered - Snape had never kept the room this bright! Numerous globes of Lumos floated at the ceiling and vibrant, white torches blared all down each wall. It cast the dungeon room into crystal-clarity. Harry could see every bottle on the shelves, every hair on his friends’ heads, every corner of the room from which cobwebs had been completely cleared. It was uncanny. He exchanged a nonplussed look with Blaise, who shrugged and sat with him on Draco’s other side.
“Ah, two to a cauldron, please, boys,” came the soft voice of Professor Ulysses behind them, making all three boys jump.
“Oh, sorry, sir...” said Blaise. “It’s, um, Draco needs…”
The Slytherin second-years had spent the lunch hour discussing how to help Draco through lessons in the short term, until McG could swoop in with whatever remedy she had up her sleeves. For now, they’d agreed to sit on either side of their grumpiest friend to help him, despite his complaining. Now, Harry held his breath to see how this new teacher would react. But Ulysses just peered at Draco then nodded.
“Yes, that seems like a good idea. Let me know if you need anything.” He stepped onto the dias at the front of the class. Snape’s old enormous desk was gone, replaced with a small work table and a cauldron the same size as the students’. “Pay attention then, please.”
There was no need for him to say it. Every student in the room was already fixated on this new phenomenon, the furthest thing they could imagine from their old Potions Master.
“You will notice,” he said, “that you are not sharing this class with any of the other houses. This was a deliberate decision on my part. No, it’s not sentimental, though I was a Slytherin myself in my school years. Upon reviewing the report cards from your year, I found this class to be full of unique potential. I expect we will see great achievements this year. As such, I’ll be teaching your second-year curriculum in the first half of this year and, if we’re up to it, we will move on to third-year material in the spring. Is that agreeable?”
Several of Harry’s friends nodded enthusiastically; Pansy’s eyes were shining.
“You can speak,” said Ulysses. “Yes, sir?”
“Yes, sir!” they all chorused.
“Excellent. So. Strengthening Potions.” He turned to his work table. “What do we know already?”
**********************
In the dorms that night, Draco and Blaise were having an argument. A fight. An all-out war, really. Sitting on their sofa in the common room, the other second-years could hear every word. Daphne had shoved charmed balls of parchment in her ears. Tracey and Goyle had pillows around their heads. Harry crossed out the third line in his essay when he’d written some creative Malfoy-crafted insult instead of what he’d meant to write about the Dancing Feet Spell.
“It’s quite impressive, really,” he remarked.
“Why don’t you go in there and compliment them?” Tracey snarked. “Honest to God, does anyone know a silencing spell? Because it’s driving me up the wall.”
“It’s what?” Goyle asked over the sound of a loud thump and a yell from the dorm. “Driving what?”
“What?” said Tracey.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“What did you say?”
Harry tossed down his quill after a third spelling error. “Right, someone go in and stop them.”
“You go,” Daphne mumbled. She hadn’t looked up from her page, so clearly the charmed earbuds weren’t working all that well.
“I’d rather not,” said Harry. “It sounds like they’re throwing things. I’ve been hit with enough flying objects in my life.”
Daphne looked up, frowning. “Quidditch?”
“Living with my aunt and uncle,” he corrected. “And cousin. By the way, Flint says he’ll let me know if Pucey’s continuing, so there might be a spot opening for tryouts on the team.”
“Oh,” she said. “Thanks.” She bent her head down over her homework again.
Harry climbed down the stairs from the common room to the second-year dorms, and listened. It sounded like they’d stopped throwing things, and were back to screaming only, so he figured it was safe to go in. His knock on the dorm room door was unheard, so he cracked the door open and slipped in. The dorm was chaos incarnate. Clothes, books, shoes, packets of Potions ingredients and all kinds of nonsense were strewn across the beds and floor. Draco was red in the face and his blindfold was slipping down his nose.
“-SELFISHNESS GETTING US NOWHERE?” Blaise was bellowing, hair on end. He was, inexplicably, standing on his bed. “AND I’M THE VILLAIN?”
“WHAT IF I’D DIED?” Draco yelled back. “OH, YOU’RE ONE TO TALK ABOUT SELFISHNESS!”
“I WISH YOU WERE A FISH!” hollered Blaise. “SO I COULD THROW YOU IN THE LAKE RIGHT THIS MINUTE, SO HELP ME MERLIN-”
“Hi, guys,” said Harry, closing the door behind him. “Everything OK?”
Blaise swung around like a weathervane in gale-force winds. “NO!”
“It’s a bit loud in here,” Harry remarked, picking his way across the room to his bed. “Just a - are those my shoes?”
He picked up one of Dudley’s old trainers by the lace. Looking around, he discovered that apparently it hadn’t only been Blaise’s belongings that had seen a trip through a cyclone. For some reason, possessions of all five boys were thrown haphazardly around the dorm. Crabbe’s over-sized spare robes dangled from the curtain rail, Harry’s parchment and envelopes covered his bed, and he could see Goyle’s Chocolate Frog card collection all over the ensuite floor.
“Guys?” he asked.
At least Blaise had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry, Harry. Got a bit carried away.”
Draco made a “tch” sound and Blaise was quick to shoot out, “Should have just stuck to trashing Draco’s stuff, should I?”
“I mean, he’s the one you seem to have beef with.” Harry shrugged. “Anyway, they want you to pipe down, they’re studying out there.”
“Oh, studying!” Blaise flapped his long robe sleeves around as he hopped down from the bed. “It’s the second day of lessons. If they’re studying already, they’re swots.” He stormed out of the room.
“What was that about?” Harry asked Draco, who was sulking.
“If he keeps leaving the contents of his trunk all over the floor, of course I’m going to trip over them,” Draco grumped. “... and maybe flush a few down the toilet.”
Harry went into the ensuite and found that, indeed, some of Blaise’s colourful weekend shirts had been stuffed into the bowl. “Erm,” he said. “Well, I don’t know how to fix that.”
He crossed back over and started to pick up the mess. There was a scuffle at the door and a high-pitched voice announced, “Wow, you boys have made a colossal mess.”
Tracey stood at the door, grinning ear-to-ear. Behind her, Millicent slipped into the girls’ dorm, muttering, “Of course they did, they’re boys.”
“That was unnecessary,” said Tracey, coming into the room and pulling a pair of trousers from the lampshade. “Mind if I help? I love tidying up.”
“Oh sweet Merlin, are we tidying up? I just adore tidying up! What fun!” gushed Pansy’s voice from the corridor.
Tracey twisted around. “Really? Come in and-”
“No, of course not.” Pansy disappeared.
Tracey rolled her eyes. “Purebloods. Come on, Harry, you and I are the only sane ones left.”
Harry volunteered to sort out the clothing while Tracey stacked books onto the shelves. She made pleasant conversation the whole time, jumping easily from Quidditch to breakfast foods to how they could possibly rig a CD player up in the dorms. Meanwhile, Draco sulked on his bed, staring at the canopy.
“And another thing - Harry, you really do just keep every piece of paper you’ve ever used, don’t you?” Tracey scolded. “Look - this is homework from last October. Why?”
“Erm… I don’t know.” Harry was busy folding a fitted sheet, which is difficult to do solo, but he’d had plenty of practice with the Dursleys. He just wished Draco’s tantrum hadn’t required him to rend the bedding into such a mess.
“And this! These!” She held up a handful of parchment and notebooks. “Completely empty. Shall I just get rid of them?”
“Well, I might need them…” He stopped at the look on her face. “Yeah, throw them out if you want.”
“Thank you!” She tossed the papers into the “to go” pile.
“Tracey?”
“Yeah, what?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know how to unclog a toilet, would you?”