Chapter 151 - Disappointment and Fighting Poison with Poison

"Hahahaha, yes!" Slughorn clapped Praeris on the shoulder, beaming. "Potions can always bring us a few extra benefits, can't it? Come, try some of this duck liver pâté!"

The pâté at Slughorn's dinner party was savory and impossibly smooth. Delicious.

Every student at the table spread a thick layer onto their bread.

In Slughorn's eyes, Praeris's potions skill didn't quite reach Harry Potter's level, but she was still a rare talent. Better yet, her strength lay in creativity. She could develop new potions entirely from scratch, and her ceiling was difficult to place.

The trouble was that whatever benefits Praeris might eventually bring were still far off in the future, while McLaggen's connections were right here and easy to see.

After a brief, shallow compliment in Praeris's direction, Slughorn drifted back toward McLaggen.

Praeris didn't care. She'd come tonight to give Slughorn face, nothing more. He was Slytherin's former Head of House, turning down every dinner invitation would have been disrespectful.

"At our next gathering —" Slughorn announced happily as the meal wound down, "I'll be inviting Gwynog Jones to join us. I do hope you'll all come!"

"Who's that?" Praeris murmured to the only person at the table worth asking.

Zabini gave a cold laugh. "Captain of the Holyhead Harpies. All witches on that team — which should tell you everything you need to know about how strong they are."

Praeris's dislike of Zabini was, she reflected, thoroughly earned.

"Oh, I see," she said, her voice even. "By that logic, you ought to be far stronger than me. Strange that no one mentioned it. Or is it that the reason you're sitting at this table isn't your mother's name, but your own ability?" She paused. "Is that it?"

Zabini's skin was dark enough that Praeris couldn't see the color rise in his face, but his expression said everything.

He dropped his voice. "You think you're impressive? After more than two years of remedial lessons with Professor Snape, you still lost to Potter."

"I'll beat him." Praeris lifted her chin. "Sooner or later. But you'll never get past me, Blaise."

Slughorn, oblivious to all of it, leaned over with a jovial smile. "Zabini, Prince — what are you two whispering about over there?"

Praeris glanced at Zabini, who had turned his head away with obvious displeasure, and said pleasantly, "We were discussing the Holyhead Harpies. Zabini was filling me in on them."

What happened inside Slytherin stayed inside Slytherin, Zabini had never held back when sniping at Draco, either. But there were students from other houses at this table. That made it a different matter entirely.

"Yes," Zabini said, his tone grudging. "Prince didn't know much about them."

That was all the opening Slughorn needed.

Using the introduction of this Welsh Quidditch team as his excuse, he launched into a lengthy account of his personal friendship with Gwynog Jones, including the detail that she always made sure he had free match tickets whenever he wanted them.

When the party finally ended, Zabini let out a short, dismissive sound and walked away without looking back.

Praeris stepped into the nearby washroom, cupped both hands under the tap, and splashed the water across her face.

She was human, not iron. She got tired too.

Potions research didn't take much out of her physically. What drained her was her mind.

All of it, every spare hour, had gone into potions. For Dumbledore's curse. To beat Harry.

She straightened up.

A handkerchief appeared from behind her, held out by someone's hand.

"Thank you," Praeris said, perfectly calm. "But there isn't much reason for us to meet like this."

The two-way mirror hadn't been bought as decoration.

Behind her, Hermione's eyes moved with something unsettled. She looked as though she wanted to speak.

"I think there is a reason," Hermione said, hesitant. "Praeris, I want to tell you —"

"Don't tell me you came to comfort me." Praeris's brow creased. "That's even less necessary."

"No!" Hermione's voice jumped, and then, as if startled by the sound of herself, she brought it back down. "This isn't comfort. In my eyes — your potions skill is genuinely the best there is."

Praeris smiled. "How is that not comfort?"

Should she tell Praeris the truth?

The question had been gnawing at Hermione for a long time.

Harry and Praeris were both her friends.

This situation was like those times when Harry and Ron fought, even when she knew perfectly well who was right and who was wrong, taking either side felt impossible. Both of them mattered to her. It was like trying to choose between your two hands.

Hermione One reproached Hermione: Are you just going to stand by while Praeris tortures herself?

Hermione Two reproached Hermione right back: Harry trusted you enough to tell you about the prophecy!

Hermione One: And Praeris trusts you too! Besides, that's not even the point. Harry did something wrong!

Hermione Two: What exactly did he do wrong? He said he was studying the notes written in the book.

Hermione One: He wasn't studying, he was following instructions blindly, without a thought of his own!

And that book is almost certainly something sinister. Praeris has seen more of the world than most people here. If you told her, she might be able to tell you what's actually wrong with it!

Hermione Two: Harry said it might have belonged to his father.

Hermione One: You yourself pointed out that his father wasn't a half-blood!

The two Hermiones argued in Hermione's head for a long time.

Finally, Hermione Two turned on Hermione One with a sneer: You want to talk about Harry cheating? What about you helping Ron during the Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts?

What right do you have to stand there and play the righteous one?

Hermione defeated Hermione, and what remained left Hermione almost unable to meet Praeris's eyes.

Her face was bright red. "This isn't comfort. I genuinely believe you'll do better."

"There's shame in your eyes," Praeris said. "And unease." She took the handkerchief and lightly blotted the water from her face. "Hermione. Is there something else you want to say to me?"

"I —"

The question seemed to give Hermione something in that moment. A flicker of unnamed courage. A kind of resolve. She opened her mouth.

And then, from just outside the washroom door, voices.

"Thank goodness Honeydukes is still open!" Millicent said, sounding relieved. "Otherwise what would even be the point of going to Hogsmeade!"

"Praeris, you're in here?" Daphne raised an eyebrow. "Dinner party's over already? Was it any good?"

Praeris folded Hermione's handkerchief carefully and slipped it into her pocket. "Not particularly. Though McLaggen probably disagrees. When are you all going to Hogsmeade?"

"Mid-October." Millicent was already heading for an empty stall. "What do you want me to bring back?"

"I'm begging you," Daphne said, her face pinched with distaste, "do not discuss food in the washroom."

A few minutes later, Millicent reappeared, and the three of them made their way toward the Slytherin common room.

Before she left, Praeris glanced back at the closed stall door.

Hermione hadn't managed to say what she'd come to say. But her reaction had already given enough away, Harry's sudden burst of genius in Potions was, in all probability, not what it appeared to be.

At the very last moment, Hermione had almost said it. Millicent's timing had been impeccable, and not in Hermione's favor.

Praeris felt something.

Not for herself. For Harry.

If Harry was leaning on outside help just to get his moment in Potions class, then she thought he was more naive than she'd given him credit for. He could beat her this way, now. Fine. But the future? When he stood in front of Voldemort, would he still be looking around for something to prop him up?

It didn't change anything for her. Whether Harry Potter had beaten her through his own skill or someone else's, Praeris intended to keep her head down, keep working, and beat him in a way that left no room for doubt.

She would prove what Professor Snape had taught her. Prove that her talent was real, and her effort was real.

Those were things no borrowed advantage could touch.

Time moved fast. Over the following weeks she practically lived inside her cauldron, and if she'd had one large enough to actually fit in, she might have considered it.

After that conversation in the washroom, Hermione tried again. She approached Praeris with the clear intention of coming out with the truth.

Praeris stopped her.

"This has put you in an impossible position," Praeris said, looking at Hermione through the mirror. "I don't want you carrying this any longer."

Her voice was gentle. "Hermione. Thank you. Your hesitation already told me what I needed to know. I'll beat Harry. And when I do, he'll see that borrowed things can't give you real success."

For a moment, Hermione felt something strange. Standing there looking at Praeris, she glimpsed something in her that reminded her of Dumbledore. Not in any obvious way. It was something quieter, a largeness of spirit. A particular kind of strength.

Not strength in the sense of power. Strength in the sense of who you were.

"Praeris," Hermione said, and her voice was completely sincere. "After coming to Hogwarts, the first person I truly admired was Dumbledore. I think you might be the second."

It was perhaps too direct, too genuine, to deflect gracefully. Praeris looked faintly embarrassed.

She shook her head. "Hermione, I'm not what you're imagining. Draco has done plenty of wrong, and I've never once done the kind of thing you have."

What Hermione had, that bond with Harry, forged through things that should have killed both of them, Praeris understood what it cost her to be torn like this. Even knowing exactly who was right, Hermione had still struggled. Had still agonized. That was what being just actually looked like.

In Praeris's eyes, Hermione was the admirable one. The real goddess of justice.

The two witches complimented each other, and both ended up faintly pink and unable to respond.

Praeris set down the two-way mirror and poured the contents of her cauldron into a potion vial. Then she walked down the corridor to Snape's office.

Slughorn hadn't been wrong about her. She did have an unusual talent for innovation, Professor Snape had acknowledged it, sometimes with a frown, because her lines of thinking had a tendency toward the genuinely strange.

The potions she'd been producing for Dumbledore's treatment reflected that. They had grown increasingly drastic over the weeks, to the point where "tormenting the old man" was not an entirely inaccurate description.

Recently, Dumbledore had been away from Hogwarts more often than not. Praeris had begun to wonder, not entirely without humor, whether her potions were the reason.

Snape looked at what she'd brought with a measured, sardonic expression. "Miss. Your method of solving a curse is to solve the cursed person instead?"

There was a certain logic to it, when you thought about it.

If Dumbledore died, Voldemort's curse would have nothing left to attack.

"Sir!" Praeris objected, with some force. "This won't kill anyone!"

"Indeed it won't." Snape nodded, all careful understanding. "You simply want Dumbledore to understand what it means to wish he were dead."

Praeris turned on her heel, stormed into the storeroom, and emerged with an armful of herbs she had helped herself to. "Sir!" she called back at him. "You just wait!"

Snape stood where he was, frowning at the empty doorway.

Was there a flaw in his teaching methods?

First she had badgered him, shamelessly, persistently, into brewing potions for Dumbledore's treatment. Now she had taken to raising her voice at him. He tried to think about when exactly that had started.

On reflection, she was, in fact, exactly the kind of student he would have produced.

Even when shouting at him, she still called him "Sir."

He pushed the whole tangled business out of his head, picked up Praeris's potion, and set it on the shelf. He would pass it along when Dumbledore returned.

Back at her cauldron, Praeris nodded to herself, satisfied.

Good. No need to go out and buy more herbs.

Expensive herbs were always better cadged from Professor Snape.

Treating Dumbledore's condition demanded more than potions mastery. It required a thorough, working knowledge of the Dark Arts.

Voldemort's curse had been formidable. From what she could tell, Dumbledore had taken it almost without defense, walked straight into it with his guard essentially down. The curse had gone deep because of that. Bone-deep. His life force was bleeding out in a slow, steady drain.

Which meant there were two directions she could take this.

The first was Professor Snape's thinking. He had concluded that Dumbledore was most likely beyond saving. His approach was comfort, delay, and time: keep the patient comfortable, slow the curse's spread, manage the pain, and see how long could be bought.

The second direction was hers. She had no patience for managing a losing situation. A curse this powerful needed to be met with something equally powerful, aggressive, volatile, uncompromising. Either find a potion capable of killing the curse outright, or introduce a second curse or toxin strong enough to collide with Voldemort's and cancel it out.

For now, she was committed to the first option, which was why she could still honestly say it won't kill anyone.

If it continued to show no progress, her balance would tip toward the second.

Once she started down that road, she could no longer promise anything. Either the curse died, or the curse and Dumbledore died together.

Before that washroom conversation, she had considered bringing Harry into the research. He had spent years on the front lines against dark wizards. His knowledge of the Dark Arts was real. And now he was showing what looked like genuine talent in Potions.

The moment she understood that Harry's potions skill was not entirely his own, the consideration evaporated. The disappointment settled in its place, quiet and certain, and the idea of inviting him into this work went with it.

Today was Saturday. Praeris had the whole day.

She sat, and she worked, and the hours dissolved around her. Underground, you couldn't see the sun move. You couldn't track the day going. It was only when footsteps began sounding in the corridor above, Slytherin students heading up for dinner, that Praeris surfaced long enough to register that it was time to eat.

➤ Next: Snow in the Scottish Highlands