Chapter Text
“Add three Pegasus feathers…stir clockwise…”
Harry reaches for the fluffy bundle of feathers off to the side without taking his eyes from the Potions textbook. This is a genuine old textbook, not an “improved” one like the Half-Blood Prince’s, and has all the instructions he needs, but he has to be careful about how many feathers he adds.
He actually went to Fleur to ask if she could get him some feathers from the Abraxans that pull the Beauxbatons carriage, since the book said Abraxan feathers were best but Harry didn’t know how to get hold of some himself. Fleur gave him a piercing glance and asked what he needed them for, but softened when Harry told her.
“It is confusing, knowing which partner might be the best,” she agreed, and patted his head. “You are not being a Veela, but it is similar, no?”
Yes, Harry thinks, as he carefully plucks three feathers free of the bundle and sheds them into the potion, then follows that with a clockwise stir. The potion is bright silver now and admitting a sweet-smelling blue steam.
It is similar, and he hates it.
After the war, he could have had anyone he wanted. People came up to him at funerals to offer their condolences and their bodies. People wrote to him offering marriage. At least one witch made up a whole series of pureblood marriage customs and sent them as a document to the Prophet, along with Arithmantic “proof” that she was the best spouse for Harry.
Ginny offered to date him, but it was more obligation than anything else. She changed during the war, and she wants someone who was there at Hogwarts with her during that dark year. Harry can’t begrudge her that. Ironically, that she doesn’t want him would have made him trust her.
Harry found this book in the Restricted Section, where eighth-year students can go now, and opened it on a whim. It promptly fell open to a page with a potions recipe that promised to show him someone he can love and be happy with.
Harry wants that. He wants it so much that he’s willing to trust his own shaky Potions skills to produce what he needs.
The potion emits a huge puff of pink steam. Harry dances back out of the way. The book was emphatic that he doesn’t want to breathe any of the fumes until the end of the brewing process, when it’ll be essential.
But the potion settles, seething only a little in the cauldron like a pot of gently boiling water, and Harry breathes out slowly. So far, he’s doing it right. He sticks his head down to peer at the next step in the book, even though he’s read the recipe so many times that it feels like he’s memorized it.
“Feels like isn’t actually,” he mutters to himself.
The next step is to add the crushed rose petals and the diced valerian ones, then stir the potion counterclockwise (which the book claims is widdershins) until it turns bright blue. Harry tips the petals in and leans back a little to make sure that he really isn’t breathing the scent, the motion of his hand on the stirring rod steady.
If he can do this…
It doesn’t need to be someone he can date, even though Harry would like that. It just needs to be someone he can be himself around.
Ron and Hermione should be enough, but since the war, they’re so wrapped up in each other that they sometimes forget Harry exists. Ginny has moved on. Neville is enjoying his newfound popularity, which Harry can’t blame him for, and rarely has time for Harry. Luna is still herself, but she disappears on her own little journeys and goes home on the weekends to spend time with her father.
Again, Harry can’t blame her for that. It’s just that he doesn’t have someone right now, and his heart aches the way it did when he realized he was a Horcrux.
“Now the powdered moonstone,” he murmurs, and tips in the three cups required. Cups in the recipe doesn’t mean the same thing as the measurement used in Muggle cooking, but three heaping silver goblets. Luckily, Slughorn didn’t mind lending Harry the right kind of goblets, just winking at him.
Harry did show Slughorn the recipe, actually. Slughorn just nodded and beamed at him. “I know many people who’ve used that potion,” he chuckled, patting Harry’s shoulder. “No way for it to fail, unless you brew it incorrectly, of course!”
He didn’t offer help. Honestly, Harry didn’t expect him to. This is something he—has to do on his own.
The potion puffs again, and Harry leans back out of the way. He doesn’t remember reading that it should do that at this point in the recipe, which makes him frown. But when he glances down into the cauldron, the surface of the potion has assumed a cool, mirror-like finish, and Harry can see moving shadows in it.
His breath leaves him in a rush. This is the way that it’s supposed to work, to show him the face of the person he can trust before anyone else.
There are only a few steps left, and Harry performs them in an odd combination of a daze and hyper-vigilant attention, watching as the seeds of dragonwort scatter the surface and sink, followed by a cup of lacewings (in a different silver goblet, so the powdered moonstone and the lacewings won’t contaminate each other) and three more Pegasus feathers. Harry stirs, and stirs, and stirs until his wrist feels like it’s going to fall off.
And the potion responds. The surface shimmers again and disappears into itself, sucking the dragonwort seeds down. They become what looks like the frame of a mirror, dark wood around the central silver plane. Harry leans in and breathes the fumes down.
On the plane, Theodore Nott’s face is reflected.
Harry feels his eyes widen as he leans over the potion, staring. He’s seen Nott around, of course; he was almost the only eighth-year Slytherin to return to Hogwarts other than Malfoy and Greengrass. He’s quiet, brooding, gliding out of the way whenever an argument or a fight starts.
(There have been several of those with Malfoy, because, whatever his gratitude towards Harry for sparing his father and himself from prison, the git doesn’t learn).
But Nott eats by himself, studies in the library by himself, works with people in Potions only when told to, and is always so silent. Harry racks his brain for what he knows about Nott other than that.
His dad was a Death Eater, wasn’t he? He’s always had a reputation for being quiet and studious. Clever, too. He could see the thestrals in fifth year. That’s about all Harry knows.
Why would the potion show his face as the one that Harry could trust the most?
Harry has no idea, but he also thinks that—well, the potion’s recipe didn’t say this, but brewing can only carry you so far. After that, it’s up to you what you do with the knowledge. Harry could ignore it, if he wanted.
He very much doesn’t want.
Harry turns off the fire beneath the cauldron, and watches the reflection of Nott’s face until it fades into vapor and steam.
*
“Can I sit here?”
Nott jolts and looks up. His hands immediately clamp on the book in front of him, as if he thinks Harry’s going to tear it away from him. His teeth clamp together, too.
But he says, “Sure.”
Harry slings the satchel off his shoulder and sits down, ignoring the feeling that Nott is only granting him permission because it would be hard to say no to Harry bloody Potter. If this is the only way that Harry can have this first interaction with him, then he’ll take it.
He just has to prove himself to Nott.
“Did you get the right answer for the sixth Arithmancy problem Vector assigned? I’m having a terrible time with it.”
Nott blinks slowly and glances at Harry. “You don’t take Artihmancy,” he says, parting his jaws as if he has to crack them to get the words out.
“I started after the battle,” Harry says, keeping his expression determinedly pleasant. “I studied on my own during the summer, and Professor Vector said I wasn’t competent enough to take the NEWT class, but she’s essentially giving me the same work as you lot.”
“She probably said that you couldn’t join in because we have assigned groups and shuffling them was hard enough after—after,” Nott says. Then he scowls, as if offended that he got drawn in enough to participate in the conversation that much.
Harry nods and turns back to the parchment. “Anyway. Sixth problem?”
Slowly, so slowly, Nott takes out his own parchment. He writes neatly, Harry sees, without the blots and scratches that Harry is prone to. He lays the parchment in the middle of the table and eyes Harry.
“There’s the answer,” he says, pointing to it.
Harry studies it and clucks his tongue. Nott immediately stiffens. “It’s right,” he says, and his hazel eyes are narrowed.
“I don’t doubt that,” Harry says, giving him a quick smile. “I just meant that my answer is incredibly off, and I don’t see any way that I can even get the right one with what I had.” He shakes his head. “I reckon it was bound to happen. Simple Arithmancy can only take you so far, and then you need to rely on the more complex stuff. Thanks, Nott.” He turns around and flips open his Arithmancy book.
Nott stares at him, but Harry says nothing, and soon enough gets really involved in trying to figure out where he went wrong in the supporting Artihmantic equations. Nott goes back to working on his own, as well.
But Harry can feel Nott’s eyes on him from time to time, and has to work to control his smile.
*
“I don’t understand why my Transfiguration won’t hold.”
Harry bites back his satisfaction. He and Nott have been studying at the same table in the library for weeks now, but this is the first time that Nott has asked Harry a question. “Which one? The doll or the spider?”
“The beetle.”
Harry pauses. “That’s not one we’re doing in Transfiguration class.”
Nott flushes abruptly. I’ve been practicing on my own,” he mutters, and turns his head away. “You don’t—never mind, Potter.” He starts to shove his books and parchments into the worn leather satchel that hangs on the back of his chair.
“No, wait.” Harry pushes gently at Nott’s shoulder, making him pause and glance at Harry. “Let me at least take a look. Maybe I can’t help, but it would be interesting to look at something that’s not plain old homework.”
Nott nods abruptly and pulls a crumpled parchment back out. “I’ve been trying to Transfigure a beetle into the kind of doll that McGonagall showed us in the class,” he murmurs, sitting down again. “But the transformation to wood only holds for a minute, and the one to glass for less than thirty seconds. I know I’m more powerful than that.”
“Are you using the same wand motions for the beetle that you do for the spider?”
“Yes.”
“I think you need to adapt it a bit.” Harry taps the sketch of the wand movement Nott has made, a perfect rendition of the swooping spiral that McGonagall demonstrated for them in class. “Like, what if you make this a little deeper, the way you do when you’re Transfiguring a beetle into a button?”
“A button and a doll aren’t the same thing. This Transfiguration is harder because a doll is so much more complex. You have to imagine the joints moving—”
“But you can imagine a button made of wood or glass, can’t you? You can adapt it from there to a doll made of wood or glass.”
Nott narrows his eyes. “I never saw you as much of a prodigy in Transfiguration.”
Harry laughs a little, keeping his gaze on the parchment. He doesn’t want Nott to think Harry is laughing at him. “Being on the run for a year and needing to Transfigure things to sit on or sleep on gives you another perspective. And anyway, visualizing things slightly differently doesn’t take that much imagination.”
There’s a long moment of silence. Harry goes on staring at Nott’s diagram and doesn’t look up.
“Are you saying that I’m not imaginative?”
“I’m saying that you don’t have to be,” Harry says mildly, not reacting to Nott’s tone, holding himself back not to react to Nott’s tone. It’s easier than it used to be, after a year of living in a tent, having to avoid people, having to avoid snapping at Ron and Hermione because they were the only company he had, and seeing what happens when he indulges his worst impulses. “You can just try it.”
Another pause. Then Nott takes a wooden button out of his pocket and sets it on the table.
Harry keeps staring at his own parchment, which means he doesn’t see Nott’s wand movements, and only hears the way he pauses, curses, and starts the incantation over. But he does feel free to look up when he hears Nott’s surprised breath whistle out of him.
Sitting on the table in front of Nott is a wooden doll with a smiling face and joints that actually move when Harry reaches out to bend one arm. It’s not perfect—it doesn’t have hair, for instance—but it’s pretty good.
Harry smiles at him. “Congratulations.”
Nott smiles back, and then freezes. A second later, he’s grabbed his book and parchments and practically dashed out of the library.
He’s left the doll behind, though. Harry sighs, tucks the doll into his own satchel, and goes back to reading, reminding himself over and over again that this is a process, and Nott can trust him in time.
Maybe.
If he doesn’t…
I’ll brew another potion, Harry thinks determinedly, but he can’t deny to himself how much he wants this to work out. He likes Nott’s cleverness, his quietness, his determination, the way that he did ask a Gryffindor for help. That’s courage, in the wake of the war and the Hogwarts they’re in now.
I want it to be him.
*
“I got two points from McGonagall today.”
Harry blinks and looks up. He’s leaving the classroom where he goes to study magical history, because he wants to sit the OWL again someday. It’s the first time in more than a week that Nott has talked to him, and he’s approached Harry first, unlike all the other times.
Harry smiles slowly. “Hey. That’s pretty brilliant.”
Nott watches him narrowly. Harry blinks back, and lets his smile fade. Was he supposed to say something else? Act more enthusiastic? Sometimes Harry thinks he understands Nott better than he did, and other times, he seems more a mystery than ever.
But now, Nott smiles abruptly. “Your lesson on imagination made all the difference.”
“Great,” Harry says. “I wanted you to know that I’m doing better in Arithmancy now, too. Not perfect, and Vector hasn’t given me points yet, but you made the difference for me.”
Nott inclines his head, a slow, oddly falling motion. Then he says, “What are you doing this weekend, Potter?”
“Not going to Hogsmeade,” Harry says, with a slight grimace. People in the school aren’t too bad about his “heroism” since the battle, but there are reporters and sightseers and people recruiting for Quidditch teams and the like who come to Hogsmeade to gape at him.
“Neither am I. Perhaps we could have a friendly duel?”
“Sure,” Harry agrees. There are few Gryffindors who will duel with him, because they think it’s disrespectful or something, and their current Defense professor, a retired Auror named Elias Smith, won’t let Harry partner with anyone else in class because he’s concerned about Harry injuring them. “What time?”
“Saturday morning, at nine? We can meet near the Great Hall.”
There’s a slight challenging lift in Nott’s voice that Harry only understands after a moment. All their meetings have been in private so far. Nott wants to see whether Harry actually will expose their friendship to the rest of the students.
“Sounds good.”
Nott blinks and stares at him, then whirls around and takes off down the corridor. Harry smiles a little after him. He can understand why Nott is cautious. Harry would be, too, if a Slytherin approached him out of nowhere and tried to be his friend.
But Harry wants to show Nott that he has only the best intentions.
*
“Aren’t you going to bow?”
Harry lowers his wand, because Nott sounds a little offended. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t—one of a few times that I had experience with bowing was in our second year with Lockhart and Snape, and you saw how that turned out.”
“It’s formal rules.”
Harry swallows. “The other time was in the graveyard after Cedric died. He used a spell to make me bow to him.”
“You weren’t going to.”
Nott’s face is pale and his voice unsteady. He looks freaked out. Harry tries to smile and shake his head, but it’s difficult. “No. I was going to die on my feet as far as I could. Not that it mattered,” Harry adds quietly. “Cedric still died. He used that spell to force me to bow, and then he used the Cruciatus on me.”
Nott is still staring. Then he shakes himself abruptly out of it and says, “Did you see the expression on Weasley’s face when he saw us walking together?”
Harry has to smile. Ron was coming down the stairs after Harry and saw Harry and Nott meet up. His jaw didn’t touch the floor, but it was a close thing. “Yeah.”
“And you don’t mind?”
“No more than I mind Ron and Hermione spending lots of time together because they’re dating.” Harry shrugs. “Ron’s my best mate, but he doesn’t get to control who I spend my time with.”
Nott’s narrow smile flashes again. “I like you more than I thought I would, Potter.” He takes a step back. “No bowing, then. But a count of three for when we cast the first spell?”
Harry nods, feeling excitement bubble up in his limbs. They count together quietly under their breaths, and then they strike, Nott with a fast nonverbal spell that coats the floor under Harry with ice, and Harry with a Blasting Curse to the stone at Nott’s feet.
Harry slips and rolls, hearing from Nott’s steady curse that he can’t be too badly injured. He gets off the ice, lifts a shield against another hex, and does his best to hit Nott with a Silencio. It won’t affect him all that much, given his proficiency with wordless magic, but it will make some of the stronger spells harder.
“Protego!” Nott snaps, and his own shield forms.
Harry aims underneath it and casts a Burning Hex at Nott’s knees, watches it blocked, dances out of the motion of another jinx, and then realizes Nott is aiming at the wall behind him. Well, that won’t do. Harry yells, “Ventus!”, aiming at the hole in the floor that his first hex opened.
Dust whirls out of it and gets in Nott’s eyes. Harry rushes closer, but has to angle his shield as Nott aims at him again. This spell splashes harmlessly in glowing white particles on the wall, and Harry comes in close enough that he can almost touch Nott’s throat with his wand—
“I’m in just the right position to shatter your ribs,” Nott purrs, leaning forwards, and his wand is resting against Harry’s flank.
There’s a long moment of ringing silence when they pant and stare at each other, and then Harry grins and steps backwards. He can’t stop grinning. “That was fantastic, Nott. You’re a great dueler.”
Nott’s smile vanishes. “Do you always compliment people like that?”
“No,” Harry says, peering at Nott curiously as he heals a small scrape on his leg that he got when he fell on the ice. “I haven’t known a lot of great duelers.”
“I didn’t mean about dueling specifically.” Nott is choosing his words like a cat picking its way across a wet floor. “I meant, do you always hand out compliments to people like sweets?”
“I suppose I don’t,” Harry says, with a small shrug. It’s never something that he’s had to consider. “But when someone does a good job, I like to tell them about it.”
“Someone?”
“Well, I suppose Ron and Hermione would be the main ones. Like you might have heard Ron was really bad at being a Keeper at first?” He winces as he remembers that Nott might have been one of the Slytherins singing that stupid “Weasley Is Our King” song and rushes past it. “So I made sure to tell him that he was doing a good job when he improved, because he really improved.”
“So you consider me…a friend.”
The moment hangs between them, fraught and heavier than Harry knows what to do with. But this is the kind of moment that he’s been hoping for since he brewed the potion, so he nods. Jerkily, and then with more confidence when Nott blinks at him.
“Yes. I hope that you’ll consider me one, too.”
Another moment, deep enough that Harry wants to leap and shake himself free of the tension of it. But he can’t. So he calmly holds Nott’s gaze and waits for his answer.
Nott says in a wondering voice, without smiling, “Merlin, I think I do.”
