ELIXIR: A Harry Potter Fan Fiction

Twenty Four. The Full Moon Again.

 At six o'clock, a young healer with dark hair tied back in a very long braid knocked on Marlowe's partly open door. She backed herself in, followed by a blue plastic tray hovering a few inches beyond the tip of her wand. The tray carried Marlowe's dinner and a tall goblet, over the top of which Marlowe could see steam pouring out, unfurling in wisps and ripples all along the lip of the glass.

The healer let the tray float down neatly onto his bedside table.

"You'll want to drink this straightaway," she said kindly. "And then make sure and get some food down with it. They'll come for you about half an hour before dark."

Marlowe did not look directly at her when he nodded, staring blankly at his white sheets instead. She exited and he listened to her footsteps grow fainter down the hall before he addressed the goblet again.

This was it then. Tonight he would know for sure that there was no possible chance a miracle had taken place, that the bite had not really done any harm. Not that he had ever held out such hope, but still, when nothing whatsoever had happened to him apart from the nagging pain in his shoulder the first two days he had spent here, it had been easy enough to forget, to not really believe.

That is, until his healer had arrived for one of his customary chats a few days before to discuss the protocol for the full moon. At first, Marlowe had greeted the news that the day he'd been dreading was approaching already with surprising compliance. Soon after, he had gained a sick fascination with reading real life accounts of the full moon experience, of transforming. His healer had been all too encouraging, happy to provide as many documents as he could find. His thought had been that if Marlowe knew exactly what was coming he would not be so frightened of it.

Maybe he'd been partly right, but he had not anticipated the extent to which the accounts had disgusted Marlowe. He had been unable to stop reading, the way people find it hard to look away from a car accident on the side of the highway, but with every passing word, he had begun to feel more and more nauseous. He had barely eaten a thing in three days.

Marlowe rolled onto his side, propping himself on one elbow and lifted the frothing goblet from the tray. He peered inside at the liquid, deep green and quite unlike anything Marlowe had ever seen. It looked, to be frank, perfectly poisonous.

The fumes slipped into his nose and he coughed so hard he had to set down the glass so he wouldn't spill it. He laid back against the pillows again and stared at the ceiling, trying to talk himself into drinking it.

The weight of the little round pin on his chest had never yet felt like more of a burden. It was the thought of losing his mind, literally, of giving himself over to a force inside him that he could not feel on a normal day, but that he could not control on the wrong day, that finally made him sit up, pick up the glass for the second time, pinch his nose shut with his left hand, and down the potion in one long gulp. Swallowing took focused effort. His eyes watered.

It tasted rotten.

He set the cup back down and laid back against the pillows. Except for the rancid aftertaste in his mouth, he did not feel any different.

The clock in front of him read six seventeen.

He had maybe an hour at most, probably less, before they came to take him to the secure area where he'd be kept for the night, just in case. Already, the sky was looking a dusky purple, just beginning to change.

He picked up the tray, thinking to eat something just for something to do. He did not feel hungry. He took a very small bite of mashed potatoes, hoping at least he could cover up the lingering taste of the potion.