Advanced Potion-Making
Monday 2 September 1996
Mum’s dreadful words rang in my ears as I boarded the Hogwarts Express for sixth year. “We’re so proud of Tracey,” she had told her parents. “Her OWLs are just as good as Roger’s.”
What? I had scored three O grades, four Es and three As. Roger had only managed three Es and four As. But Dad had not corrected Mum. Neither of them had noticed that I had done better than Roger.
They hadn’t even commented on how Roger’s academic performance had slipped after his OWLs. He had been so over-confident about his natural brain-power that he had devoted his last two years at Hogwarts to playing Quidditch, chasing girls, painting, chasing girls, playing his trumpet and chasing girls. His NEWTs had been one O, two Es and two As, which was respectable but not exactly brilliant. If I reached my goal of three Os and two Es, Mum and Dad would have to see that I could surpass Roger!
The best part about sixth year was knowing that Roger had finally left Hogwarts. He wasn’t sitting in the Great Hall, smirking at me through the welcoming feast. He wasn’t lurking in the corridors, waiting to bump into me just when I wanted my friends to myself. He wasn’t showing off on the Quidditch pitch, inviting everyone to exclaim over how Tracey must admire her talented brother. Roger had left school, and nobody would ever again think of me as Roger’s little sister. Roger had gone.
On the first morning of term, I told Professor McGonagall that I wished to study Potions, Transfiguration, Divination, Charms and Herbology, which she permitted without a murmur. She took much longer to sort out the other girls, whose OWL results weren’t good enough to allow their first choices, but eventually we could compare our new timetables. No two of us had managed to select the same subjects.
“It’s going to be Trelawney again for Divination,” sighed Cecilia. “Tracey, do you think she drinks? She smells of sherry, and Firenze smells of... ummm... hormones!”
“I hate Herbology,” remarked Millicent, shoving at a second-year who was blocking our pathway.
Daphne was wailing, “Astronomy! If I’d known she’d force me to take a stupid subject like Astronomy, I’d have failed the OWL on purpose!”
“She’d still force you,” said Pansy. “She wouldn’t let me into the Arithmancy NEWT class because she said it was more important to repeat my Transfiguration OWL. Tracey, you’ve given yourself hours of study. Why do you want that many NEWTs in such difficult subjects?”
I shrugged. “Who needs an excuse to excel?”
“Yes, but what about after Hogwarts?” persisted Cecilia. “What are you actually going to do?”
I was going to show Mum and Dad that I had the highest NEWT scores our family had ever seen! And after that I would... Well, Cecilia had a point (for a change). After I’d finally shown Mum and Dad my brilliant NEWT results, I’d go out to begin my brilliant career. And I was definitely not going to waste my life in professional sport. Unlike Roger, I was going to do something serious.
It would be impressive to enter the Ministry of Magic, but Roger had never taken any notice of politics. He’d just say, “Boring! Rather you than me!”
Sometimes I quite fancied myself as a businesswitch, but Roger had no sense of enterprise either. Dad had once asked if Roger would try to set himself up as an independent artist, and Roger had only replied, “No fear! Most small businesses fail.” I couldn’t risk failing and then having to listen to Roger’s “I told you so.”
There were secure jobs in long-established large firms like Spencer’s Alimentation or Cloaca Harington, but they would condemn me to a career of living in my employer’s shadow. People wouldn’t even notice that I existed, and I’d had quite enough of that! Besides, most of those jobs were extremely boring.
Occasionally a small business would advertise a more interesting post; Dad claimed to be really interested in designing shoes. But if I relied on a cottage industry to sponsor me, the pay would be lousy, and I couldn’t start out earning less than Roger.
So I had no idea what my “serious” career would look like.
Down in the dungeon common room that evening, Millicent ordered a group of third-years off the two best sofas, and Cecilia announced that her sister was working in Honeysmooches’ perfumery.
“She’s dead chuffed to work there. At first she just wanted to get married, but her fellow wouldn’t oblige. So Granddad made her an apprentice. But it’s all turned out right, because our Ursula’s found that she actually enjoys bubbling up all that smelly stuff, so she’s not scared of working after all.”
“It’s a suitable job for her,” Pansy conceded. “Tracey, tell us about your brother. What’s Roger doing with his life?”
“Nothing much. How was your sister’s wedding, Daphne?”
“I’ll show you all about Syrinx’s wedding when the photos arrive. But Tracey’s just being modest, Pansy. If you followed the Quidditch, you’d know that Roger is an absolute hero on the pitch.”
“He’s only a reserve,” I muttered. It was all wrong that the conversation was centring on Roger on our first day!
“Only!” exclaimed Daphne. “Listen, Pansy. Roger Davies has a contract with the Caerphilly Catapults. He has played three matches, and my Dad couldn’t believe he was a rookie. Besides, everyone knows that the Caerphilly Keeper is about to retire, so of course Roger’s going to replace him.”
“We don’t ‘know’ that,” I corrected. “Is Syrinx going to work now that she’s married?”
“Will Mrs Marcus Flint need to work for her living?” Daphne gave a deliberate laugh. “Of course not. Syrinx will be kept busy furnishing and decorating their new home. Tracey, I don’t understand why you’re so pessimistic about Roger. He’s very popular with the fan-girls; his manager would be mad to ignore such talent.”
I snorted. “Roger’s too popular with the fan-girls, if you ask me! I’m sick of hearing what Quidditch professionals get up to after matches.”
Daphne blushed, which made me wonder if her father behaved as immaturely as Roger did after playing Quidditch. “Tracey, you make them sound like criminals!”
Cecilia, who didn’t understand why the conversation felt so uncomfortable but was nevertheless struggling to change the subject, interjected, “Ooooh, talking of criminals... Tracey, hasn’t there been a funeral in your family?”
“Yes,” I said, relaxing at the safer new topic. “The Death Eaters killed my Aunt Amelia.”
“Was it very nasty?” Millicent asked with a gloating satisfaction. “I heard they cut her up and threw her entrails all over the wallpaper.”
“And they pasted her fingers and toes on the front door in the shape of a skull.” I shivered a little, about to remark on how disgusting it had been and perhaps express some pious hope that “they” would catch You-Know-Who and stop the war soon.
But suddenly, from the other end of the dungeon, I caught Draco Malfoy’s eye. I remembered that Draco, Vincent, Gregory and Theo all came from Death Eater families. If Pansy reported that I had a grudge against Death Eaters, I would seriously antagonise Draco. I’d be stupid to annoy my friends just over politics.
“But it isn’t all bad,” I finished. “Aunt Amelia left me ten thousand Galleons. My money troubles are over.”
Cecilia’s eyes danced, all thoughts of politics forgotten. “Tracey, you’re on the pig’s back! How many dress-robes is that?”
“Ten thousand isn’t about dress-robes,” said Daphne. “It’s about choosing the tiara to wear with them.”
Millicent shook her head firmly. “Invest it, Tracey. You can buy a two-bedroom flat with that much money. Start yourself out for life. I know I would.”
“Millicent, you’re such a spoilsport!” chided Pansy. “Tracey’s too young to settle down. She’ll want to tour the world and see life. Tracey, would you take me travelling with you?”
The discussion of what to do with my inheritance lasted us until bedtime. I hadn’t yet given much thought to the money; as I didn’t know how Roger was wasting his share, I had no idea what I should do with mine.
Potions was completely different now that Professor Slughorn was our teacher. In the first place, Slughorn didn’t speak as if we were all too stupid to learn to brew. In the second place, Snape had focused on his special victims, while Slughorn was only interested in his special favourites. In the third place, the students had changed.
In our very first lesson, Theo ignored Blaise and came to work next to me. He took no notice of Blaise or Draco; even when they asked to borrow his scale-weights, he shoved them over without a word.
I stared in fascination. Blaise and Theo had always been best friends. But it was obvious that Blaise was now more interested in Draco.
Slughorn stopped to chat with Blaise in low, genial tones that I couldn’t overhear. But he just nodded at the rest of us before walking over to the Ravenclaws to enthuse about Morag MacDougal’s great-grandmother. Draco looked appalled at such disrespect.
Once Slughorn was safely at the far end exclaiming over the sainted Potter’s (non-existent) talent, I whispered, “Draco, I’m amazed Slughorn can’t be politer to you. I’d heard that he adores pure, old families like the Malfoys.”
“But he’s an idiot with politics,” drawled Draco. “When the new regime triumphs, Slughorn will be a nobody.”
“Seriously?” I stared down at my valerian roots, speaking quietly so that the Ravenclaws didn’t overhear. “Doesn’t he like Death Eaters?”
“To express the matter in your usual blunt words,” concurred Draco. “Slughorn has no understanding of who’s going to win this war, let alone what will happen to the losers.”
I shivered before I could brace myself, then staunchly informed him, “I’ve no intention of backing the losers. It should be obvious, shouldn’t it? The Dark Lord can’t lose.”
“It’s obvious to anyone who reads the newspapers,” said Draco. “Pass the knife-sharpener.”
“I’m looking forward to the brave new world,” I lied. What advantages was the Dark Lord offering again? “We’ll finally be free to take our proper place in the world and – and the great wizarding traditions will be preserved. Draco, do you think the Dark Lord already has a special position planned for you?”
“He might have.” Draco’s smug confidence told me that he already knew exactly what privileges You-Know-Who had planned for him.
But before I could ask him any more about it, I saw that Michael Corner and Terry Boot were twisting around across the dungeon to watch us. They couldn’t hear us, but I squirmed simply because they could see us. If people like Corner and Boot overheard anything at all, they would only use it as an excuse to go spreading prejudices against Slytherin – Ravenclaws are terrible gossips. I looked away and whispered to the boys, “Slughorn isn’t the only one around here who’s naïve about politics.”
Draco didn’t reply, but Blaise gave me a lazy grin and a thumbs-up. Theo wrinkled his nose in disgust before turning his back on us without a word. He really had changed. Didn’t he care about his old friends any more?
When Slughorn finally called time up, I had a smooth purple brew in my cauldron, but I knew I was nowhere near winning the day’s prize. Across the aisle, Su Li was grimacing ruefully at me; her potion was the correct pale colour but it smelled of poison.
“I’m glad we have two years to learn all this,” she confided. “That was so much harder than anything we had to do for OWLs. I’d be in pieces if we still had Snape up there inspecting us!”
“It was a tough potion,” I sympathised blandly.
“But you can write off to that brilliant brother of yours whenever you need help,” she said. “I wish I had a brother or sister. Anyway, what’s Roger up to nowadays? Is it true that he’s playing for the Caerphilly Catapults?”
I don’t even remember what I said next, but I hope it was something about sheer luck.
Su nodded. “It’s so nice to hear that a few people are still lucky. That won’t happen much more until they defeat You-Know-Who.”
What should I say while Draco was listening? “You sound pretty pessimistic.”
“Aren’t we all? My parents have had to close their restaurant before the Death Eaters destroyed it wholesale. Michael’s mother lost her job for discussing the newspapers in her coffee break, and Mandy’s uncle has just spent six months in Azkaban for something he did under Imperius. As for the Muggle-borns – ”
She bit off her words as Ernie Macmillan sharply tapped her shoulder.
“I think you have a point, Su.” I kept my tone neutral. “People who resist the Death Eaters are going to suffer for a long time to come. We’ll – er – have to help each other all we can.”
“Let’s clean our benches together, Su,” Macmillan interrupted. He was more or less in Potter’s gang, so of course he was prejudiced against me. Su followed him without a word, apparently still assuming that I agreed with her. Well, I hadn’t exactly disagreed, any more than I had disagreed with Draco.
“You take after your brother, don’t you?” Blaise’s voice was invading my space.
“No, I do not. I’m not at all like my brother.” Why did only children always assume that having siblings must be wonderful?
“Yes, you are. Roger Davies never cared about politics either. He would just agree with whoever was in front of him and cast his vote in all directions at once. Like you. You really couldn’t care less who wins this war, could you?”
I was about to snap that of course I cared, that unlike my stupid brother I completely supported the Dark Lord, when I realised that I had no idea what Blaise truly believed. He spat out all the correct Death Eater ideology when Draco was around, but did he really believe it? Or was he just sucking up to a prominent Death-Eater family? Either way, if I disagreed with Blaise’s real opinion, he might find a way to make trouble for me.
“I am not like Roger!” I repeated. Since Blaise was quite correct that Roger didn’t believe in anything much, I must establish quickly that I was different. So how was I different? What did I believe in? “He... I... Roger... Well, I’m just totally unlike him!”
The lesson was over, so I raced for the door, choking back the tears. Blaise’s words were disturbing, and I was furious that someone had yet again forced me to think about Roger. He was supposed to be out of Hogwarts, and people here weren’t supposed to be interested in him any more. Why was Roger’s reputation still following me?
And what if I had become like him?
I needed a good sulk.
I liked to shut myself up in the broom cupboard in the Entrance Hall. But when I flung open the door, I saw that someone else was also having a good sulk. Susan Bones was curled up on the shelf, her white face showing me that she was celebrating the world’s greatest pity-party.
My fingers twitched towards my wand. This was my broom cupboard, and Susan could take her misery elsewhere! But I controlled myself, because I didn’t want Susan tattling to our relatives that I’d hexed her. So I left the door open, shoved some brushes and buckets to the floor and sat down on the shelf beside her.
“What’s up?”
Susan scrambled to sit upright. “Tracey! What are you doing here?”
“Perhaps I just like sitting around in cupboards talking to Filch’s mops. What’s your excuse? You look properly dismal.”
Susan pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “Sorry, I’m letting it get on top of me. I can’t stop thinking about Aunt Amelia... wondering how much it hurt... how long it took... what would make anyone do that to a good person like her.”
“Um.” I wasn’t sure what to say, but Susan wasn’t really looking at me anyway. “It was nasty.”
“I’ve been having flashbacks during classes... remembering that they did the same sort of thing to Uncle Derek’s family... Dad won’t even tell me how my grandparents died, so I have nightmares that whatever happened to them was something worse still.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I interrupted. Susan’s murdered grandfather had been my grandfather’s brother, so I knew all about it. “You-Know-Who gave Grand-Uncle Edgar a simple Avada Kedavra. He was in no pain at all.”
“Really?” Susan paused, for the first time looking less gloomy and more human. “Then why has it always been so hush-hush? Why can I know that they cut Uncle Derek to pieces but not that his parents were simply death-cursed?”
“The house-elf claimed that there was a bit of psychological torture,” I recalled. “You-Know-Who put the Imperius on Aunt Iphigenia and made her Crucio her cat until it burst open. Then he put the Imperius on Uncle Edgar and made him put the Killing Curse on Aunt Iphigenia. Then he finished off Uncle Edgar. All right, the cat was tortured, but your grandparents had no pain.”
“No pain!” Susan sprang to her feet, now even whiter and thoroughly shocked. “Tracey, is pain the worst thing that can happen to people? Was my grandfather forced to kill my grandmother after watching her being forced to torture their cat?” She drew a deep, shuddering breath and forced herself to address me calmly. “Thank you for telling me. I’m glad someone was finally brave enough to give me the information. But ohhhhh... I’m not surprised Dad never wanted me to know about it!”
I wanted to run away so that I didn’t have to watch Susan tearing herself up over all those dead people who couldn’t come back. But it was as if a Sticking Hex had rooted me to my seat on the cupboard shelf. I squirmed while trying to think up a way to distract her.
“Cheer up,” I said. “Those older people had to die sometime. And it isn’t all bad for those of us who are left.”
“What?”
“It isn’t all bad,” I repeated. “For example... Have you thought yet what you’re going to do with your legacy from Aunt Amelia?”
Susan froze like a statue and stared down at me. For the first time since I had opened the cupboard door, she seemed to be really paying attention. She was hanging on my words, so I finally had the chance to boost her spirits.
“Aunt Amelia left each of us ten thousand Galleons,” I reminded her. “That’s the price of a small flat. Or a large investment portfolio. Or the stock for a medium-sized Diagon Alley shop. Or a diamond tiara. What are you going to do with yours?”
The colour raced back into Susan’s cheeks, and before I had time to suggest another happy thought, she had flushed a bright, choleric crimson.
“Not another word,” she hissed. “How dare you talk like that about Aunt Amelia?”
I actually flinched. I had never seen Susan angry before. “It’s just a fact,” I said. “Aunt Amelia would have wanted us to be happy.”
“Aunt Amelia wanted us to oppose evil,” she retorted. “She spent her whole life opposing evil, and that’s why evil people murdered her. How dare you suggest that any good can come out of murder?”
The cupboard door was still wide open; I stood up to leave.
“You don’t care, do you?” Susan demanded. “Slytherin has done you no good at all, Tracey Ann Davies. You’ve become just like your Slytherin friends – opportunistic, self-centred and callous – and you don’t even understand what you’ve become!”
I reached the doorway, hoping Susan would stop ranting once I had my back to her.
“I only hope you’ll come to your senses before you really hurt anyone. Because that’s what’ll happen if you don’t grow up, Tracey – you’ll end up hurting someone you love.”
I raced out, across the Entrance Hall and through the door to the dungeon stairs. Susan’s words made no sense at all.
After all, there wasn’t anyone whom I loved.