Harry and Amelia Potter

6.19

When I catch a glimpse of the boys, Ron seems rather out of it. Harry hands me a half eaten box of chocolates with an envelope on top.

Taking it, I slide out a card: "Dear Harry. Thinking sweet thoughts of you. Happy Valentine's Day. Romilda."

"Where's Romilda, Harry?" Ron says, then sees me. "Is that her?" He comes towards me and tries to wrap his arms around me and give me a kiss. I push him away.

"No, that's not Romilda." Harry tells him. Ron pouts and steps away freely.

"These chocolates, they're-" I begin to say. Harry cuts me off.

"I know. What do we do?"

"C'mon Ron, I'm going to introduce you to Romilda Vane." I lead Harry and Ron, still in his PJs, toward a door.

"How do I look?" Ron asks me.

"Devastatingly handsome."

Harry knocks on the door. We here footsteps, followed by a loud crash.

"Damn it all!"

The door opens. Slughorn stands in a green velvet dressing gown and matching nightcap looking bleary-eyed and annoyed. Something smokes on the floor behind him, the floor lamp he'd sent wobbling the night of the dinner party.

"Yes???!!!!" He screams. Then sees us. "Oh. Potters. It's you two. I'm afraid I'm busy at the moment-" He starts to close the door. Harry sticks his foot in.

"Sir. I'm sorry. We wouldn't bother you if it weren't absolutely-"

"Where's Romilda?" Ron asks again.

Slughorn squints over our shoulders at Ron who is doing precisely the same from the other side.

"What's the matter with Wenby?"

I lean forward, whispering into Slughorn's ear. "Very powerful love potion." He frowns.

"Ah. Very well. Bring him in."

Slughorn, with practiced ease, mixes a concoction of powders and potions into a goblet while Ron peers into a mirror. As he paces, Harry passes "the shelf" and finds, front and center, a photograph of himself, Slughorn, and me. The one taken at the Christmas party. Deep in the shelf is photograph of Snape, as a young student, clutching his potions textbook.

"I'd have thought you could whip up a remedy for this in no time, Harry, an expert potioneer like you." Slughorn says to my brother.

"We figured this called for a more practiced hand, sir." I tell him, looking to my brother. Knowing the only reason he's good at potions is because of that stupid book of his.

"Hello, darling. Fancy a drink?" Slughorn, Harry and I turn, watch Ron wink into the mirror.

"Hm. Perhaps you're right." As Slughorn goes back to mixing, I eye him furtively.

"We're sorry, sir. About the other day. Our... misunderstanding." Slughorn eyes me briefly, then looks to Harry.

"Yes, well, water under the bridge as they say, correct?"

"I mean, I'm sure you're tired of it, after all these years. The questions. About... Voldemort." Harry says. Slughorn's mixing hand falters instantly.

"I'll ask you not to use that name." Slughorn's stare is fierce. Finally, he turns, goblet in hand, and puts a smile on his face, his voice cheery.

"Yes, sir. It's just, well, Dumbledore once said that fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself. It seemed sensible." I tell him.

"With all due respect, Dumbledore sometimes forgets that most of us do not possess powers so great that we can risk offending the most dangerous Dark Lord who ever lived." Slughorn's stare is fierce, as fierce as the one Dumbledore fixed Harry with. Finally, he turns away. "Alright, m'boy! Bottoms up!"

He hands Ron the goblet. Ron eyes it intensely. "What's this?"

"A tonic for the nerves." Ron drinks. Beams briefly. Then his grin sags.

"What happened to me?"

"Love potion." Harry an I both say.

"And a bloody strong one at that." Slughorn adds.

"I feel really... bad."

"Pick-me-up's what you need, m'boy." He eyes Harry and I again. "Do us all good, I think. I've got butterbeer, wine... ah... and a dazzling oak-matured mead. I had other intentions for this but given the circumstances..."

Slughorn takes a stout bottle and fills a glass for Ron. As Ron sips, Slughorn fills a pair for himself, me, and Harry.

"There we are. To life!"

Then a crashing noise is heard beside us. Ron's glass hits the floor and he crumples to his knees, then tumbles full out on the rug, spazzing horribly, foam oozing over his lips. Harry and I rush to him.

"Ron! Ron!!! Professor, help him!" I shout.

"I d-don't understand-"

"Professor! Do something!!" Harry instructs. Slughorn shuffles haplessly through his bag, mumbling at a loss. We turn back to Ron, his skin is turning blue.

"He's choking!!" Harry yells. I think for a moment.

"A bezoar..." I mutter to myself. "Harry, find a bezoar!"

Harry glances about, then leaps up, and frantically begins to strip the walls of its potion stores, looking for what I asked. A box tumbles, something spills: a scattering of stones, no bigger than a robin's egg, shriveled and dry. Snatching one, he wrenches open Ron's jaw and thrusts it deep into his throat. Instantly Ron stops moving, paralyzed. The room is suddenly silent. He's not breathing. I place both hands behind Ron's head and gives it a shake.

"Breathe! C'mon, Ron, don't be a prat. Breathe!" I say to him.

I shake him again and again... then stop. Ron's head rolls limply from my fingers. Slughorn looks on, mouth agape. Useless. Then... a cough, a great hiccupping cough, like a swimmer almost drowned.

Ron is back. Breathing.

"These girls are gonna kill me."

Harry and I grin. We let out a huge sigh of relief. Then Ron's eyes flutter. He's out again, but breathing.