your cold hands

Chapter Four

Slughorn peered into Harry's cauldron hopefully, only to come out looking disappointed, "Not your best work, m'boy."

Harry sighed, and wondered if Slughorn was finally becoming disenchanted with him. At least that way there ran no risks of him being invited to one of those godawful parties. By the Slytherin table, Malfoy smirked. Clearly, he was enjoying Harry slowly losing his favour with the Professor. When Slughorn glanced down at his cauldron, he looked surprised, and gave Malfoy a reluctant smile.

They had been making Dreamless Sleep for Madame Pomfrey, as her supply had seemed to run out. Harry wasn't sure if he should hand his in; instead of the pale blue it was supposed to be his potion was bright yellow and smelled like eggs.

"Bet you miss that book," Ron muttered. He was having no luck, either. Slughorn hadn't dared to go near his concoction.

Harry had to admit that Snape's old Potions book had been a real help in the class. The last he had seen of it, it had been in the Room of Hidden Things. But that was destroyed now. Because of Vincent Crabbe's Fiendfyre.

"That book was nothing but trouble," Hermione said from the other side of Ron. "Don't you remember how much trouble he got landed in?"

"Malfoy deserved it," Ron said, lowering his voice.

"No," Harry said. "He didn't."

Sometimes, Harry dreams about their fight. About how Harry could see the Unforgiveable coming, how he had no time to think and grabbed the only spell he knew other than Expelliarmus. For enemies, it said it was. And weren't Malfoy and him just that? Sometimes, Harry still wakes up smelling the blood on his hands and caked under his nails.

"Hello? Mate?" Something snapped in front of his fingers, and Harry jolted. Ron looked confused. "You're stirring it clockwise, mate."

Looking down, he saw that his potion was now neon pink. Harry swore loudly and changed the direction of his stirring. "Thanks, Ron."

By the end of class, Harry is the only one who hasn't made a presentable potion. Even Ron managed to brew something worth salvaging and handing over to the Hospital Wing, a deep perwinkle colour, but Harry's was beyond saving. It now resembled something acute to swamp water.

"Harry," Slughorn called. "Stay behind after class, please. You too, Blaise."

Ron looked apologetically towards Harry as he walked out, gesturing to tell him he'd be waiting outside. Harry saw Malfoy give Zabini a small shrug before leaving. He was still confused as to why Zabini had to stay; his potion had been near perfect.

"Now, Harry, I understand you're in a bit of a Potions slump," Slughorn said as the two boys approached the front desk. "Is everything alright with Ginevra?"

Harry nodded a bit stiffly. "We're taking some time off."

"Ah," Slughorn said, relaxing a little, as if clinging onto this fact to excuse Harry's descent from top of the class to damn near failing. "Well, you shouldn't let heartbreak affect your studies, m'boy. It just doesn't do."

Next to Harry, Zabini snorted into his fist.

"Right. Sorry, Professor," Harry said, ready to dig a hole and die. "Is that all...?"

"I was going to ask young Blaise here to tutor you, Harry," Slughorn said cheerily, as if he had just had the best idea in the world. "He's such a model student; he could help you get back on track!"

Harry gaped. Blaise's mouth turned up into a smug little smirk that Harry wanted to punch off.

"I'm sure Blaise has much better things to do," Harry said weakly.