Snape didn't answer that, saying instead, "I will be not be here, tomorrow, although if you need something from me, Lupin can contact me through the Floo."
He wouldn't ask, Harry told himself. He wouldn't ask. He didn't need to know, he wouldn't ask . . . "Why aren't you coming?" he heard himself ask.
"The same reason I have not been here these past few nights. I have been brewing the Wolfsbane Potion for your mangy friend."
Harry whooshed out a breath. "It's that complicated?"
Snape got a strange look on his face, one Harry really couldn't even read, until the Potions Master admitted, "The first batch was unfortunately ruined."
"You failed to brew a perfect Potion, Professor?"
Snape scowled. "I had things on my mind. Do not inquire further."
That time, Harry knew enough to let it go. He certainly wasn't going to say what Snape always said in class: If you can only be competent when there is nothing to distract you, then you are not competent!
"All right," he murmured as Snape moved toward the Floo. "I'll see you day after tomorrow, then?"
"Yes. Late," Snape confirmed. "Until then, keep practicing, Mr Potter."
Harry nodded, and watched him go, belatedly realizing that not once all evening had his teacher chosen to call him Harry.
Apology accepted and You are not alone, he decided, were pretty much meaningless, in that case.
Harry was still frowning over it as he headed up to bed.
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For this chapter's discussion of what competency in Potions means, I must give credit to the brilliant Gateway Girl whose lines I have adapted.
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Coming Soon in A Year Like None Other:
Chapter Twenty-Three: Finding Sals
~
Comments very welcome,
Aspen in the Sunlight
Chapter 23: Finding Sals
http://archive.skyehawke.com/story.php?no=5036&chapter=23
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A Year Like None Other
by Aspen in the Sunlight
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Chapter Twenty-Three:
Finding Sals
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"Still no luck?" Remus asked the next afternoon as entered the small room downstairs where Harry was working.
"Still no luck," Harry echoed in disgust, laying aside his wand. "I really thought that might do it, you know? If I just worked completely alone so I could really concentrate, so I could Occlude my mind while I cast the spells, if I just took hold of the dark powers that seem to be all I have left . . ." A harsh laugh rebounded against his clenched teeth. "Oh, well. At least now I have an excuse for being so bloody bad at Transfiguration."
"Is that what you've been trying all this time? You missed lunch."
"Not hungry," Harry excused, scowling at the wooden cooking spoons he'd collected from the kitchen. "And yeah. I figured I'd try something ridiculously simple, something McGonagall would laugh at, it's such a joke. No shift in function, let alone life force. No real change in structure, just a transmutation in form. Spoons to ladles, what could be easier? But I can't even do that."
"Perhaps simplicity itself is the problem. Have you tried something complex?"
"Yeah, when I got good and sick of these spoons. No luck there, either."
"How about something dark?"
Harry blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Or rather, what other wizards would term dark, Harry? Have you tried that?"
"Well, no . . . " Harry had to pause to think. "I mean, the magic I seem to have left would strike most wizards as somewhat dark, but that doesn't mean I know any dark spells. Besides, the one time I did try an Unforgivable, I couldn't make it work. And it's a sure bet I don't know anything that would qualify as a dark transfiguration, unless you mean . . . change something good into something evil?"
"Just a thought," Remus shrugged.
A shudder coursed across Harry's shoulders. "I . . . I can't. I mean, what would I make, assuming I could? What's evil, aside from people? A cursed object? Ummm, the Dark Mark?"
Remus just watched him, until Harry said again, this time with more force. "I can't. If the only magic I have inside me now can only come out as Dark Arts, then . . . I don't think I want it."
"Your Parseltongue is not Dark Arts. You know that. I don't think your dreams are, either."
"Yeah," Harry admitted, rubbing his neck as he stood up and stretched. "I just feel . . . confused. Speaking of Parseltongue, though, I think I'll go hunt up Sals. If I can find her, that is."
Still wondering if dark magic was somehow the catalyst he needed to fire up his powers once again, Harry pocketed his wand and made his way down to the cellar.
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"Sals," Harry hissed, keeping the snake's mental image in mind so that hopefully, the words slipping past his lips would be in Parseltongue. He looked around the dim interior of the cellar, wishing that whoever had spelled it to glow had been a little more liberal with the Lumos. "Sals . . . come out. Where are you? I'm sorry for what I said about fathers, okay? I just know better than to wish I had one, but sometimes I wish that, anyway. Come on, Sals . . . I wasn't upset with you, not really . . ."
Harry heard a slight slithering noise, very faint. "Sals?"
No answer, but the sound came again, even fainter than before. Harry stopped moving, and listened closely. Hmm, behind that dilapidated chest of drawers, maybe. Harry tried to shove it aside, but it was heavy, and it had sat in the same place for so long that its square legs were embedded in the dirt floor of the cellar. Harry couldn't budge it, not even when he leaned his shoulder into it and shoved with all his might.
Never one to accept defeat, he did as he used to do when Aunt Petunia would demand he move things far too heavy for his small frame. The key was leverage. He sat on the floor, bracing himself against the wall, and planted both his feet squarely on the lower edge of the chest. Deep breath . . .
It moved a finger's breadth.
After fifteen minutes of shoving, Harry had got the chest pushed far enough aside that he could see a hole behind it. Just about the size of the air vents in the foundation of Number Four Privet Drive, the hole was torn out of ragged concrete, the opening so old that the cement was crumbling to dust. Beyond the hole, he saw a larger space rapidly swallowed up in darkness. No sign of Sals.
Harry poked his head through the hole, anyway, and brought the snake's image to mind, again. Too bad he couldn't tell for sure if he was speaking Parseltongue . . . "Sals? Come on, Sals. I said I was sorry. Are you back there?"
No more slithering noises, not a one, but Harry thought he heard . . . something. Very, very faint. Could you detect a snake's breathing? If so, it sounded shallow and rapid . . . and very irregular.
All at once Harry felt positively awful. All this time, he'd thought that Sals was upset with him because he'd overreacted to the "father" comment. Now, it seemed more likely that the little snake was ailing. Hurt, maybe. Or ill, and without enough strength to climb out of the cellar to the warmer rooms above.