SALAMANDER BLOOD
True winter began on that lake.
The winter I would skim the line between childhood and adolescence with a cheeky grin on my face. I laughed and chased my friends with gloves full of impacted snow. We built snowmen and made snow angels, losing our fur-lined hats down the slopes and burying handfuls of ice clumps into each other’s hair.
It was a day written in storybooks. When the snowflakes had ceased falling and the sun had set, I returned home, the cold having nipped at my cheeks so fiercely they’d turned numb and beetroot red.
Once we stepped out of the flames, I was somehow surprised to find the Manor so stagnant. It was colder here, where the halls drafted a chill much colder than the snowy slopes, yet nothing would crush my nor my mother’s spirits. She brushed the snowflakes off of my shoulder, her smile turned rosy and affectionate.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked brightly, easily finding the coat closet amongst the endless identical doors.
“You looked like you were having fun,” I replied, shrugging out of my winter attire. She shed her coat, hung it upon a brass hook, and then hung mine up next to it.
“I can admit it was pleasant to rekindle an old friendship,” Mother shrugged. Her attempted casualness amused me. She couldn’t contain her smile. Whatever discussion she’d shared with Mrs Nott seemed to bring her back to life — like she’d found a scrap of her childhood in the darkness of her bland, dollhouse existence.
“Does that mean we get to go back?” I asked hopefully.
“I will consider,” she smiled.
“So yes,” I grinned from ear to ear, “Thank Merlin because I really wanted to check out Theo’s potion collection… He said he has one that makes you grow an elephant trunk!”
“And does he have one that will get rid of the elephant trunk?” Mother quirked an eyebrow.
“Oh, definitely.”
Mother was smiling childishly now, “Well, maybe we shouldn’t return — I can’t say I have any patience for St Mungo’s waiting rooms—”
“What on earth are you two doing standing in a closet?”
“Lucius?”
Mother’s joy had vanished. She ran her hands down the sides of her skirt in some attempt to reorder herself before she shuffled out of the doorway and turned to my father — who stood rather sternly a few feet from the door.
“Ah — dear! I didn’t realise you’d returned home from work,” she said with attempted vibrance. Whatever work was, I thought hastily. Father’s eyes narrowed.
“They did not need my assistance. I was hoping for a quiet hour before you two returned, but obviously not.”
Mother’s eyes widened, her white teeth still on display in what had become a rather ghoulish grin.
“That is unfortunate,” she stated.
“Indeed,” he replied dogmatically, “Have you heard from the elves what’s for dinner?”
“I have not. Draco shall go and check now.”
Suddenly, I remembered I existed. For a moment I'd convinced myself I'd become a spectator through a pensive.
“Okay,” I managed to get out. I was given the perfect chance to escape this awkward encounter. They watched me as I hurried past them, exchanging silent words in their glances until I was so far away their words barely resembled whispers echoing down the halls.
One more week, I reminded myself. I just needed to get through one more week.
And then I’d be home.
. . .
The week in question was gruelling.
Somehow, Merlin had charmed the clocks to tick even slower; and the clouds to roll over like snails across the clouded, grey sky.
I’d never been less motivated to read, write or even play the piano. Each failed hour felt like a new shard of glass being pressed thoroughly into my nail-beds.
Yet, as all things seemed to do, Monday eventually did creep around.
The richness of the sunset across the hills that Sunday evening was particularly stark. I watched it through a window as I slung things lazily into my brief case.
The good thing about being a pure-blood: I could shrink my belongings without the Ministry ever proving it was me yielding the wand that did it. The better thing about being a Malfoy: They wouldn’t bother to have checked regardless.
So, I flicked random items into the trunk and waved my wand at them, hoping the seemingly jibberish syllables that spilled under my breath actually did as I asked.
I’d contemplated smuggling my broom a few times, but months of detentions with Snape was enough of a scare to keep it firmly in the corner of my room, leant up against one of my windowsills.
The next morning, when I awoke, I snapped the tiny briefcase shut and stowed it in my pocket and practically ran to the train-station.
“Did you grab your toothbrush?”
“I have one at school.”
“What about your socks? You know the house-elves will pull anything to —”
“Mother!”
She smiled sheepishly and muttered an apology as we snaked through a crowd. Somehow, I managed to spot Platform 9 above the heads of a dirty-blonde haired family, a few of which sported “I <3 London” shirts in big bold fonts, and matching bowed caps on their heads.
The platform was teeming with muggles. In every direction, at least a dozen of these creatures were herding like cattle, reading unimaginably large maps and socialising with one another about topics I’d never even heard of.
“Liverpool up two-nil, I wreckon Arsenal manager might walk, y’know,” said one to another. The man, no older than a seventh year, clutched a lifeless newspaper, the dull-faced “manager” didn’t even batter an eyelid on the front cover.
“How are we even going to get onto the Platform with this many muggles around?” I asked frustratedly. The mob had just so coincidentally gathered right around the pillar for Platform 9. There were too many eyes. If any of their gazes just so happened to catch a glimpse of us running through the pillar — well…
“Just run at it,” Mother commanded, “Even if they see us vanish — they won’t believe it.”
She had kept a gloved hand on my shoulder the entire morning in order to not lose me. But this time, she used it to career me towards the hard brick wall, and as she’d said so, I began a sprint of which almost sent me straight into the back of one of the muggles.
“Don’t stop,” I heard mother say, her hand still on my shoulder.
There was no impact as we collided with the bricks, just a swirling noise before the wall chewed us up and spat us back out onto Platform 9 and 3/4.
. . .
“STUDENTS RETURN TO HOGWARTS! — STUDENTS ARE FLOCKING TO KINGS CROSS FOLLOWING THE END OF THE CHRISTMAS SEASON” read the cover of the Daily Prophet that Blaise had snagged this morning. On the cover, the scarlet steam engine spewed smoke from its billowing black chimneys. I snorted as I watched the cover image repeat itself over and over, comparing it to the muggle knockoff I’d seen earlier.
News was always scarce this time of year. Just alike to that muggle paper, all that could be reported on was the influx of sporting reports that came in with the new season.
Blaise and Theo now were mumbling over Quidditch, their fingers running down the transfer lists as they groaned or celebrated over the Montrose Magpies wins and losses.
Winter training was going well. Bulgarian Beater Ivan Volkov was seeking a transfer deal with the Hungarian Horntails. Junior Quidditch Champion Alasdair Maddock spent the winter partaking in Muggle Football — to which Theo scoffed and called him a few nasty words.
From across the carriage, there was a thudding noise. The slamming of an open palm against a pane of glass.
“Stop it,” I seethed. I looked up from the book I’d been half-paying attention to, my brow knit together in annoyance.
Crabbe was craning his neck, eager to spot something that had long vanished from outside the train window.
“There was a toad — I swear!” he insisted.
There was a hopeful glee in Theo’s face as he turned to face Crabbe, “Longbottom’s?”
Crabbe thought for a moment, “No. It might’ve been a chocolate frog.”
Theo deflated, “A shame.”
“Speaking of frogs… Where’s Parkinson?” Blaise smirked. He dropped the newspaper on his lap, and Theo whisked it away before it could even touch the fabric of his robes.
Crabbe and Goyle couldn’t help but guffaw at his low-witted humour.
Theo smiled amusedly, “She’s outgrown us.”
“Outgrown?” Blaise narrowed his eyes.
“Outgrown your petty arguments,” I said.
Blaise blinked a few times, “We’ve only argued like twice.”
“Five times,” I corrected, “Once during Astronomy class because you couldn’t agree over your lens configurations, another time during Potions — oh no, twice during Potions, once over Herbology, and then literally half an hour ago on the Platform.”
“Everyone argues,” he shrugged.
I couldn’t suppress my smirk, “And yet we’re all here, where is she?”
“She’s fledged the nest,” sniffed Theo with a mocking tearfulness, “I saw her with Greengrass and Bulstrode.”
“Oh,” Blaise said thoughtfully, “Bulstrode? Interesting.”
“They dorm together. She’s… quiet,” Theo answered.
Quiet was a choice word for Millicent, who, due to her half-blood status, appeared standoffish and reclusive.
“She’s a pitiful half-mud,” I shrugged, carelessly.
“Half-mud, that’s new,” Theo’s eyebrow pricked up with intrigue.
“Well, if you think about it… Mudblood, half-blood. Half-mud.”
I smirked proudly as Blaise, Crabbe and Goyle began to laugh once more.
“I see,” Theo concluded, smiling, “But I don’t know why you are laughing, Vincent.”
“Wadd’ya mean?” Crabbe said.
“Didn’t she almost murder you in Defence?” he piped up nonchalantly.
“I’d say,” Goyle replied with a snort, “Poor old Quirrell practically jumped out of his skin when Crabbe hit the wall.”
“She caught me off guard,” said Crabbe quickly, but he couldn’t catch the chuckle before it spilt out of all of our mouths. His cheeks reddened with shame.
“Well, you try blocking a knock-back jinx when it’s out before the teacher can even say ‘begin’!” he huffed.
Goyle smiled sorrily, “She battered you, mate.”
Crabbe’s face scrunched in annoyance. He exhaled loudly and turned away, fiddling with the wrapper of an empty chocolate frog. As soon as we realised our laughter would only annoy him more, our amusement soon faded into disinterest — and next thing I knew, the conversation divulged into that of Quidditch again.
. . .
“Have you done your Potions essay?”
Pansy was the first person to greet me when I walked through the archway. Her energy bounced off the walls, starkly contrasting my tired, sunken frame.
I don’t think I remember what happened much during the next month. Classes started, and teachers began to hound us with endless work. Next thing I knew, it was February, and I rocked up to the first Potions lesson of the month a little haphazardly.
The room smelled vaguely of herbs, but much more strongly of an odor that made me scrunch my nose in disgust. I’d never smelled something so metallic in my life. I looked around, confused by the pint glasses of blood that dotted around the room.
“I— Have I what?” I blinked.
“Potions essay, have you?” Pansy repeated, looking at me expectantly.
I sunk onto my stool and groaned into my palms, unprepared for an entire hour of Snape’s harsh nagging over the smallest of details.
“Obviously. Do you think I’d risk a detention with Snape?” I said, “But- what happened in here? Bloodletting?”
“I’d love to see the look on his face,” she humoured, “And, I think it’s salamander blood. Awfully sinister isn’t it?”
I didn’t reply. My eyes wandered back across the room. The clock above the desk read “8:59”. Its minute hand was ticking menacingly towards the moment Snape would strut through the door. Pansy turned to look towards it, gnawing at her lip. The classroom air had thickened with anticipation.
However, when the door did open again, there was a visible sinking of shoulders, for instead of the hooked nose and dark eyes, we were met by a flash of ginger hair and the groans of two exhausted boys who were clearly not Professor Snape.
“Of course,” I thought. I hadn’t bothered side-glancing at their table that morning, too wrapped up in the putrid additions to our tables to send over my daily hateful glare.
Potter and Weasley were doubled-over and clutching their stitch-torn sides like they’d run a marathon, their faces scrunched in dismay as they attempted to garner whatever energy they had left to make it to their desks. When Potter finally straightened out of his crouch, he looked around the room timidly, and then his nose wrinkled.
“What the hell is that smell?”
Weasley stood up, his eyes, too, dotting across the classroom.
“I dunno,” he replied simply.
“I might vomit,” Pansy warned in a murmur.
“I personally think it looks delectable,” I said amusedly, “But not everyone has the stomach of a Malfoy, I must say.”
She swatted at me with false annoyance, “I’m usually good with the scent of blood,” she said, although I wondered what she exactly meant by that, “But salamanders… Merlin, they kind of smell like rotten seaweed and knuts.”
“Rotten seaweed and knuts,” I repeated. I sniffed. I saw where she was coming from almost immediately, “I’m sure it’ll smell even better when mixed with…” my eyes dotted the table ahead of us, “Sloth brains and dittany.”
“What potion in Merlin’s name does one need salamander blood, sloth brain and dittany for?”
“I dunno,” I said. I flickered through the book absently. Cure for Boils? Forgetfulness potion?
Somewhere between the Pompion Potion and the Hair-Raising Potion, the classroom door opened once more, yet this time it slammed against the stone walls and blasted us with a stream of cold air — perpetuated by the swishing of Snape’s black cloak as he stalked through the room.
"Turn to Page 103," He ordered, his tone laced with his trademark acerbity.
I’d only been a couple pages behind. I flickered to it, my eyes widening as I read the title: Wiggenweld Potion.
“Blood for a healing potion?” I exclaimed a decibel too loudly.
“Yes, Mr Malfoy,” Snape’s steely gaze wandered over to me. Although they lingered only a fraction of a moment before they redirected towards the black board, “Many of the most potent healing potions do include blood as a vital ingredient. Can anyone tell me why?”
The last syllable of his question barely met my earlobes before the swishing of Hermione Granger’s hand. Snape didn’t even have to look at her in order to spit out, “Yes, Granger?”
“Some animals possess innate properties. The consumption of animal blood may allow those traits to be obtained by the drinker. Most animals — such as cats, dogs or mice, have no properties, or may need to be mixed with other ingredients. However, others, are potent in themselves. For example, Unicorn blood shares traits of Wiggenweld potions, however, it has a much stronger effect. It is also said that Unicorn blood is cursed—”
Snape drawled, “I didn’t ask for a recite of the history of blood uses dated back to the Pagan times, Granger. I’ll be taking five points from Gryffindor for wasting my time.”
Granger visibly deflated. The Gryffindors around her looked enraged, although no one attempted to say anything. Seemingly satisfied by the reaction, Snape began his lecture.
"The Wiggenweld Potion is a vital potion, used for restoring vitality and combating fatigue. It has numerous practical applications, particularly for those who find themselves constantly drained of energy."
“I’d never known someone so good at their job, yet seemingly so bored of it,” Blaise murmured.
“Although seemingly simple, the potion has some intricacies which can lead to some inept mistakes. I will be expecting at least half of you to be unsuccessful. The ingredients list is long, we will be going through them as follows…”
“Yeah, because he doesn’t want to be a Potions Master,” Theo snickered.
“Wiggentree bark, Moly, Dittany, Flobberworm Mucus…”
Pansy smirked, “Of course, who would?”
“Is there something funny about the components of Flobberworm Mucus, Mr Nott?” Snape turned away from the black board, glaring directly at Theo, whose amusement had crumpled into shock.
“No sir,” he denied immediately.
“Then, I believe you ought to stop fooling around in my classroom and pick up a quill? Or is such a notion too complicated for your feeble mind?”
Theo’s mouth hung open wordlessly. Then, after seemingly pulling himself together, he grabbed a quill and began violently scribbling.
Snape turned back to the board and wrote the words “Chizpurfle fangs and Billywig sting slime.”
“Can anyone tell me where you can find both of these items?”
Again, Granger’s hand flew into the air.
“Preferably, anyone but Granger..." he glared down the Gryffindor side.
There was a thud as Granger's hand flopped back onto the table. He stared at the red-collars for what felt like forever, secretly in euphoria as they turned paper-white with anticipation. Then, his head snapped to the other side of the room, "You, Parkinson."
I heard a gulp next to me. Pansy's eyes flickered down at her book before she cleared her throat.
"Erm..."
. . .
“Ouch, mate,” remarked Blaise, “He really stung you there.”
The first thing we did once we exited the Potions classroom was soak up fresh air in the courtyard. I swallowed distastefully, groaning when the scent still soured the back of my throat.
“Stop it, I’ve already relived it enough times in my head,” Theo groaned. He hugged his legs and buried his face between his knees. We each exchanged looks, suppressing our amusement.
Pansy snickered quietly, “It’s okay, take all the time you need.”
I leaned back against the water fountain, “If your emotional distress gets me out of Charms class, I’m totally on board.”
If we’d have been as studious as Granger, we’d have hurried to Charms, but, instead, we simply soaked up the air in hopes it would wash away the scent of curdled blood. Theo hugged his knees, and Blaise amusedly sorting though piles of essays he’d completed last minute.
Pansy picked at the grass, appearing equally repulsed by the foul concoctions we had been subjected to. The dampness of the grass beneath us offered a small reprieve from the putrid scent that clung to our robes.
Theo snickered, his amusement tinged with disgust, "That was one hell of a disaster. Snape really outdid himself this time. I can practically taste that repulsive stuff at the back of my throat."
I nodded, "It's like Snape enjoys tormenting us."
“He does enjoy tormenting us. That’s kinda his thing,” replied Pansy glumly.
Blaise, who seemed have composed himself a lot quicker than the rest of us, sorted through his hastily finished essays with a smirk, "Well, at least I managed to complete these in the nick of time. Snape may be insufferable, but my last-minute brilliance always prevails."
I rolled my eyes at his self-proclaimed brilliance, "Genius might be pushing it, Blaise, but I suppose we all have our areas of expertise."
"Well, I'll have you know, Malfoy, that--"
“Wait a second," I raised my hand, "Is that…” I began.
My attention was suddenly diverted to a figure scurrying through the shadows of the walkway. It was, at first, merely a head of brunette hair and a succession of quick, jittery steps, but that was until I caught a glimpse of a flash of scarlet and immediately became intrigued.
Pansy looked to her side, “Longbottom? What is he doing out of Charms?”
“He’s acting suspicious,” said Blaise.
“No, he’s being a freak, like always,” Theo snided, “D’you think you can serve him up a nasty jinx again, Malfoy?”
Their eyes were quickly on me. I swallowed hard.
“Go on mate,” encouraged Blaise.
Pansy didn’t say anything, but from the look on her face, she was observing me, as if waiting to see what I would do. My eyes then flickered to the boy once more.
Neville Longbottom was hurrying as he walked, as if he desired to be anywhere but here.
I couldn’t exactly blame him. There had been a handful of times where I’d sent something nasty his way in the halls. The first few times, he hadn’t figured out who, where, or why, but eventually, the common denominator became clear, and although he never said anything, he made sure to walk extra fast when in any one of our presences.
I didn’t feel bad.
Suddenly, fuelled by opportunism and the lingering frustrations of Potions class, a thought flickered through my mind.
"Watch this," I said to my friends, a mischievous grin playing on my lips. Without wasting another moment, I rose to my feet and strutted after Neville, slipping my wand from my pocket and holding it firmly in my hand.
I could feel my friends’ eyes on me. Their anticipation only fuelled mine.
Neville, preoccupied with his thoughts, remained oblivious to my presence as he quickened his pace.
This was how he always was. Scared of anything and everything.
His hunched posture and jittery movements betrayed his nervousness.
I knew exactly what to do. With a swift motion, I jabbed my wand through the air like an épée.
“Locomotor Mortis!”
When it hit him, I could see the realisation strike his face. Wide-eyed, Longbottom looked down in confusion, his body swaying like a church-bell as he tried to make sense of the situation. And then, like a puppet with its strings cut, he fell on his backside with an awful thud.
There was only a second between the thud and the onslaught of laughter. I glanced back to see Theo and Blaise clutching their sides and shaking with amusement.
Neville's face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anger as he struggled to break free from the magical bind that had now entangled itself around his legs. His eyes darted around, searching for the source of his misfortune. Finally, they landed on me, and his confusion withered.
“Nice trip?” I leaned against the pillar.
“Stop picking on me,” Neville exclaimed, although he was timid in his anger.
I couldn't help but chuckle, "Oh, come on, Longbottom. It was just a harmless prank! Loosen up a bit, won't you?"
Neville's face hardened, his frustration evident, "Harmless? How many times will you do this to me before you get tired?”
His words hung in the air, but any shred of remorse was quickly dismissed. The laughter around us served as a backdrop, amplifying the thrill of my actions.
“Can you at least let me help you?” I asked, extending a hand.
He glared at it.
“Leave me alone," he seethed.
I shrugged, “Fine. Have it your way then. Good luck trying to find someone to untangle you."
He didn't bother replying. As if he couldn't stand the sight of me, he flopped onto his side. I snorted once in amusement, before turning on my foot and stalking off.
As I walked back across the grass, all I could hear was the sound of limbs flailing from behind before the whistling of wind drowned out the sound of his struggle.