Grim Grinning Ghosts

Chapter 8: Nice Catch

One thing was very sure about lessons with Snape.

He was very dramatic.

All the students, Gryffindor and Slytherin, were sitting quietly in their seats (everyone, including the first year Slytherins, were far too afraid to talk) when the back doors of the classroom opened with a bang and Professor Snape swooped in like a hawk catching its prey. Silently he practically glided with his billowing black cloak to the teacher's desk, holding up the roll call. With a voice like a whisper he called out each student, whom in turn replied with a fearful 'present'. When he reached Harrison and Harold's living name, he paused.

"Ah, yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter, our new... celebrity."

"So he isn't going to be easy, never fear, I like a challenge."

"Oh...no..."

Professor Snape stared into their eyes, his black ones seemingly showing nothing. But somehow Harrison felt a tug, not as strong and slightly muted like the feeling with the purple turban, as he stared into the man's obsidian eyes. Like the Sorting Feast, he did not back down, and when he felt a strange energy trying to reach their mindspace, the ghost pushed it away.
Harrison cast a sidelong glance at Draco, who shrugged and gave him an apologetic half-smile. This was not lost on the Potions Professor, as he began to call out names without looking at them any further. Putting down the roll, Snape clasped his hands behind his back. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word. Like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," he began, "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death... if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

"Oh my, mother was right, he does have a dramatic flair!"

"Ruined...it...with...the last...comment..."

Harrison had to suppress the laugh that threatened to bubble over, and schooled his expression when Snape abruptly spun around to address them.

"Potter!" shouted Snape suddenly, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"Asphodel...and...Wormwood... Hm..."

"The Draught of Living Death, Professor." Harrison said aloud.

Snape's eyebrows shot up. Clearly he wasn't expecting 'Harry Potter' to know anything about Potions.

"Asphodel...Wormwood..."

"Very well," he continued, "where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"A bezoar? The cure for most poisons?"

"Bitter...sorrow...regret...lily...?"

"The stomach of a goat, Sir." he replied again, and again Snape raised his eyebrow.

"Bitterly...regrets...Lily's...death..."

"What? Harold, what are you saying?"

"Using...flower speak...to talk... Bitterly...regrets...Lily's death."

"One last question, Mr. Potter, what is the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?"

"I don't know this one, oh dear..."