Chronicles of Azlyn Tree (Harry Potter Fan Fiction)

The boggart.

Malfoy didn’t reappear in classes until late on Thursday morning, when the Slytherins and Gryffindors were halfway through double Potions. He swaggered into the dungeon, his right arm covered in bandages and bound up in a sling, acting as though he were the heroic survivor of some dreadful battle. Or a douche.

“How is it, Draco?” simpered Pansy Parkinson. “Does it hurt much?” Alice, who was sitting behind Pugsley and next to me, nudged me and fake threw up, then turned back to her potion smiling. “Yeah,” said Malfoy, putting on a brave sort of grimace. But I saw him wink at Crabbe and Goyle when Pansy had looked away. “Settle down, settle down,” said Professor Snape idly.

The trio and I scowled at each other; Snape wouldn’t have said ‘settle down’ if we’d walked in late, he’d have given us detention. He’d been a douche ever since I woke up. But Malfoy had always been able to get away with anything in Snape’s classes; Snape was head of Slytherin House, and generally favored his own students above all others. We were making a new potion today, a Shrinking Solution. Malfoy set up his cauldron right next to Harry and Ron, so that they were preparing their ingredients on the same table.

Alice and I shared a look. This can’t be good. “Sir,” Malfoy called, “sir, I’ll need help cutting up these daisy roots, because of my arm —” “Weasly, cut up Malfoy’s roots for him,” said Snape without looking up. Ron went brick red. “There’s nothing wrong with your arm,” he hissed at Malfoy. Malfoy smirked across the table. “Weasly, you heard Professor Snape; cut up these roots.”

Ron seized his knife (I hoped for a minute that he might stab Malfoy), pulled Malfoy’s roots toward him, and began to chop them roughly, so that they were all different sizes. “Professor,” drawled Malfoy, “Weasly’s mutilating my roots, sir.” Snape approached their table, stared down his hooked nose at the roots, then gave Ron an unpleasant smile from beneath his long, greasy black hair.

“Change roots with Malfoy, Weasly.” “But, sir —!” Poor Ron had spent the last quarter of an hour carefully shredding his own roots into exactly equal pieces. “Now,” said Snape in his most dangerous voice. Ron shoved his own beautifully cut roots across the table at Malfoy, then took up the knife again. Alice had to restrain me from launching myself at Malfoy. “Just forget about him Az. Focus on your potion instead!

And so I did. For a time at least. My potion had turned out perfect and now I was watching my fellow classmates. Dean was throwing the last of the ingredients into his cauldron. Seamus was prodding the flames under his cauldron hurriedly with his wand. But a few cauldrons away, Neville was in trouble.

Neville regularly went to pieces in Potions lessons; it was his worst subject, and his great fear of Professor Snape made things ten times worse. His potion, which was supposed to be a bright, acid green, had turned — “Orange, Longbottom,” said Snape, ladling some up and allowing to splash back into the cauldron, so that everyone could see.

“Orange. Tell me, boy, does anything penetrate that thick skull of yours? Didn’t you hear me say, quite clearly, that only one cat spleen was needed? Didn’t I state plainly that a dash of leech juice would suffice? What do I have to do to make you understand, Longbottom?” Neville was pink and trembling. He looked as though he was on the verge of tears. “Please, sir,” said Hermione, “please, I could help Neville put it right —”

“I don’t remember asking you to show off, Miss Granger,” said Snape coldly, and Hermione went as pink as Neville. “Longbottom, at the end of this lesson we will feed a few drops of this potion to your toad and see what happens. Perhaps that will encourage you to do it properly.” Snape moved away, leaving Neville breathless with fear. “Help me!” he moaned to Hermione.