Only Ash Remains

Chapter 12: Draco POV

Draco hunched over the cauldron, ignoring the lock of hair hanging in  front of his left eye as he stirred precisely once every three seconds.

Wisps  of steam escaped the spells he'd had Kreacher place around the small  room to wick it away; they coiled around him, plastering his shirt to  his ribs and curling his hair at the ends. He allowed himself a small  smile as the potion changed colour, exactly as it was supposed to.

He  turned, reaching for the finely chopped Sopophorous bean with his left  hand as his right continued stirring. He carefully tipped the dish,  sending the pieces into the shimmering orange liquid. This time, he knew  he'd got it exactly right. Now he just had to wait for the final colour  change and...

The potion sucked inward and turned a sickly yellow, emitting a foul-smelling gas.

Draco  threw the dish to the ground in frustration, watching it shatter with  satisfaction and then waved his wand to banish the pieces. That was the  third time the potion had failed at the final step. He'd done it all  exactly right! His mind cast about, seeking something to blame. Could  the directions have a mistake? But, no. Surely it would have been  caught. This was a common sixth-year potion. He even remembered making  it, through the fog that obscured his memories of that year. He'd not  struggled with it then, though. What had changed?

He turned again to his book. This time, a bit of text at the end caught his attention. The Sopophorous beans must be chopped precisely or the potion will fail, turning a sickly, foul-smelling yellow.

So he hadn't chopped it precisely enough. But he had. He always did. He turned back to the table, determined. He slapped down another bean, raised the knife... and stopped.

His hand was shaking. Not much, but enough to be noticeable. Enough to throw off the measurements?

He  gritted his teeth, determined to compensate. If he could just cut  slowly enough... But he quickly realised it was no use. He couldn't stop  his hands from shaking. And when he inspected the pieces he'd chopped,  they were irregular. Not precise. He couldn't do it.

He cast away the knife in disgust. It wasn't just his leg that had betrayed him — now his hands had, as well.

He  flipped through the book, scanning the directions. Most of the  sixth-year potions called for precise chopping. He'd reached his limit —  and he hadn't even gotten to the potions most likely to be on the  N.E.W.T.s exam!

He whirled, pulled the seventh-year text from the  bookshelf by the door, flipping the pages quickly. They, too, would be  beyond him. He'd hoped he could finish his N.E.W.T.s, maybe pursue a  career in potions.

He threw the book on the floor and stalked out into the empty kitchen. That was it. He had nothing left.

He  eyed the modified wheelchair with disgust, but knew without taking  another step that he'd never reach his rooms without it. He was too  exhausted. Was there nothing he could do? He didn't want to  admit it. Maybe he'd just stay in the potions room until breakfast. It  couldn't be long until dawn. He'd let himself get consumed in trying to  get that potion right. All for nothing.

He leaned against the  wall, suddenly exhausted. Just for a minute... He'd rest for a minute and  then go back to his room. Or he'd rest for a minute, then clean up and  dispose of the remains of his potion, and then go back to his room...