43. PREPARATION (PG) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: Preparation
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,331
Rating: PG
Warnings: Plot! Hurt/comfort.
Summary: There's a long road ahead.
A/N: I have one more chapter in reserve after this one, and the speed at which they come after that will depend on whether RL gives me a break. Seriously.
Oh, and science geeks on my list, I know % v/v would probably have been more accurate given what we're talking about, but the mass : volume ratio was much easier to explain without taking up half a page, and so on.
Thank you to star54kar for the beta read.
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
Harry makes it through dinner, even if he is a little out of it. He doesn’t move to dish himself out some food, so I make him up a plate.
“No pumpkin,” he says, mainly to himself, even though there’s none in the serving dishes.
“No pumpkin,” I agree. “See?”
He peers at the plate for a long moment, as though cataloguing each separate foodstuff, before nodding, picking up his fork and beginning to eat. I catch Mum watching him sharply when I serve myself, and am careful to keep my eyes fixed on my food for the next five minutes or so. I’m still not entirely sure Mum isn’t a secret Legilimens.
Dad is telling some long, convoluted story about something that happened at work involving a Departmental mix up of memos, and though Harry smiles and nods at the right times, he seems to keep forgetting about his meal, although a discreet nudge from me is effective at reminding him.
By the time the pudding is dished out, he’s visibly drooping. He prods it with his spoon and heaves a sigh, closing his eyes and leaning against my shoulder.
“Ron, dear, why don’t you take Harry upstairs and get him settled? He looks done in,” Mum suggests, and I agree hastily. We’re halfway to the stairs when she adds, “Bring the bottles with you when you come back down.”
“Bottles?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level.
“Yes, dear. The bottles on the bedside table; all of them. There should be a sheet of Healer’s instructions as well, but if you can’t find it, the bottles will be enough.”
I swallow hard. “Right.”
I take as long as possible. It isn’t hard; I practically carry Harry up the last couple of flights of stairs, and though he mumbles something about a shower, he drifts off almost immediately once I’ve helped him undress and tucked him in.
I don’t find the instructions right away, but a quick rifle through the pockets of his discarded Auror robes yields an itemised list that I can’t read properly in the semi dark. I pick up the bottles, and walk back down the stairs slowly, heart pounding, bracing myself for whatever’s coming.
My pudding is still waiting for me, but Mum has brewed a pot of tea in the mean time and is pouring out. I hover in the doorway uncertainly, not sure where this is going.
“You’re not in trouble, Ron,” Dad said softly, his eyes calm.
“Just set them down here, and finish your pudding,” Mum adds, patting the table. “You found the instructions? Good.”
I slide into my seat and take a tiny bite of my pudding. It’s delicious, of course, but I’m anxious to know what’s going on. Mum immediately picks up the opened bottle, scrutinises the label, and pulls out the cork to sniff at it.
“Just as I thought, Arthur. Their apothecary’s heavy handed with the valerian,” she declares. I blink at Mum a little foolishly as she runs her pinky finger around the lip of the bottle and touches it lightly to her tongue. “Too much lemon balm, as well, though that’s not necessarily a bad thing at this stage.”
A sudden, euphoric smile spreads across her face, before she takes a deep, steadying breath. “Effective, very effective. Exactly what he needs right now. The instructions?”
Mutely, I pass them over. She skims them efficiently, then lines the bottles up in a neat row, being very particular about the order.
“Aren’t they all the same?” I ask. The directions on the front are identical, from what I can see.
“Oh, no,” Mum says, looking a little stunned, as though surprised someone could think so. “See this?” She points to a tiny pair of numbers in the bottom corner of the label of the open bottle that I hadn’t noticed. 1 : 1. “That means this bottle is full-strength, a very powerful sedative. Whereas this one,” She picks up another, partway down the row, marked 1 : 5. “is fairly weak. That means it’s watered down. They’re all the same potion, but different strengths. The higher the second number is, the weaker it is.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, wondering when Mum turned into Hermione, “and how did you know there was too much valerian, just from the smell?”
“Your mother achieved an Outstanding on her potions NEWT,” Dad says, proudly.
“I was accepted for an apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s too. They didn’t take everybody in those days,” she says, with a twinkle of smugness.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I got pregnant with Bill. I could have left him with your grandmother after he was born, but I decided not to. I wanted to spend as much time with my children as I could, before you all went off to Hogwarts. And it came in useful, having that bit of training, even if I wasn’t there long enough to qualify as a Healer. We only had to take you kids to St. Mungo’s a couple of times when you were little, and my Bruise Balm is better than any you could buy.”
I hadn’t really thought about it, but I suddenly realised that maybe not everyone’s mum had wormwood, feverfew and nettles growing in the garden alongside the vegetables, or regularly took her kids on long, rambling walks to harvest willow bark and thistledown. I’d taken it for granted that Mum knew the names and uses for every green thing, and could heal everything from a bump on the head to a broken arm with a wave of her wand or a potion, and a cuddle and kiss. It was normal that sometimes meals were a salad and cold leftover pie eaten out of doors, because the kitchen was being used to brew something medicinal and was full of fumes; especially when Fred and George were young and constantly finding new ways to hurt themselves, each other, or those around them.
“Now,” Mum says, drawing the conversation back to the important topic. “He’ll be on this one here,” she taps the opened bottle, “until Sunday. Then, he’s to start taking this one instead.” She holds up one labelled 1 : 2. “It’s half the strength of that one. He’s going to notice the difference straight away, and he’s going to want to go back to the stronger one. Don’t let him. If he won’t listen to you, or tries to take too much of the weaker one, give all the bottles to me, and I’ll give him his proper doses when he eats his meals.”
I swallow hard, dreading the grim prospect of fighting Harry over the potion. “It’s... it’s addictive, then?” I ask, in a small voice.
“Not the ingredients, no. The relief it gives him from having to deal with his problems, yes,” she says, a bit of steel in her eyes. “He’s not going to like it when he’s alert enough to worry about them again. We’re going to have to be firm with him.”
My appetite is gone completely, and I push aside the pudding, which I seem to have mangled into crumbs with my spoon rather than eating. Mum takes my abandoned bowl, and presses the cup of tea into my hands. “Drink up, love. It’s good for what ails you.”
It’s not black tea, but one of Mum’s special blends, fragrant with chamomile and peppermint. I swallow it down obediently, and lean into her with relief when she comes around the table to give me a hug.
“You’re not alone in this, Ron,” Dad assures me, reaching across to squeeze my shoulder.
I nod, and try to let the tea relax me. Sitting like this, with Mum standing next to me, holding me against her I can pretend just for a moment that I’m nine years old again, and my biggest worry is that Fred and George will ambush me in the garden and try to make me cry.
<- 42. Disorientation c@r 44. Anticipation ->
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Ron/Harry
Word Count: 1,331
Rating: PG
Warnings: Plot! Hurt/comfort.
Summary: There's a long road ahead.
A/N: I have one more chapter in reserve after this one, and the speed at which they come after that will depend on whether RL gives me a break. Seriously.
Oh, and science geeks on my list, I know % v/v would probably have been more accurate given what we're talking about, but the mass : volume ratio was much easier to explain without taking up half a page, and so on.
Thank you to star54kar for the beta read.
The Teapot 'verse Series
Chapter List HERE
Future Fics HERE
Teapot Cookie Fics HERE
Harry makes it through dinner, even if he is a little out of it. He doesn’t move to dish himself out some food, so I make him up a plate.
“No pumpkin,” he says, mainly to himself, even though there’s none in the serving dishes.
“No pumpkin,” I agree. “See?”
He peers at the plate for a long moment, as though cataloguing each separate foodstuff, before nodding, picking up his fork and beginning to eat. I catch Mum watching him sharply when I serve myself, and am careful to keep my eyes fixed on my food for the next five minutes or so. I’m still not entirely sure Mum isn’t a secret Legilimens.
Dad is telling some long, convoluted story about something that happened at work involving a Departmental mix up of memos, and though Harry smiles and nods at the right times, he seems to keep forgetting about his meal, although a discreet nudge from me is effective at reminding him.
By the time the pudding is dished out, he’s visibly drooping. He prods it with his spoon and heaves a sigh, closing his eyes and leaning against my shoulder.
“Ron, dear, why don’t you take Harry upstairs and get him settled? He looks done in,” Mum suggests, and I agree hastily. We’re halfway to the stairs when she adds, “Bring the bottles with you when you come back down.”
“Bottles?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level.
“Yes, dear. The bottles on the bedside table; all of them. There should be a sheet of Healer’s instructions as well, but if you can’t find it, the bottles will be enough.”
I swallow hard. “Right.”
I take as long as possible. It isn’t hard; I practically carry Harry up the last couple of flights of stairs, and though he mumbles something about a shower, he drifts off almost immediately once I’ve helped him undress and tucked him in.
I don’t find the instructions right away, but a quick rifle through the pockets of his discarded Auror robes yields an itemised list that I can’t read properly in the semi dark. I pick up the bottles, and walk back down the stairs slowly, heart pounding, bracing myself for whatever’s coming.
My pudding is still waiting for me, but Mum has brewed a pot of tea in the mean time and is pouring out. I hover in the doorway uncertainly, not sure where this is going.
“You’re not in trouble, Ron,” Dad said softly, his eyes calm.
“Just set them down here, and finish your pudding,” Mum adds, patting the table. “You found the instructions? Good.”
I slide into my seat and take a tiny bite of my pudding. It’s delicious, of course, but I’m anxious to know what’s going on. Mum immediately picks up the opened bottle, scrutinises the label, and pulls out the cork to sniff at it.
“Just as I thought, Arthur. Their apothecary’s heavy handed with the valerian,” she declares. I blink at Mum a little foolishly as she runs her pinky finger around the lip of the bottle and touches it lightly to her tongue. “Too much lemon balm, as well, though that’s not necessarily a bad thing at this stage.”
A sudden, euphoric smile spreads across her face, before she takes a deep, steadying breath. “Effective, very effective. Exactly what he needs right now. The instructions?”
Mutely, I pass them over. She skims them efficiently, then lines the bottles up in a neat row, being very particular about the order.
“Aren’t they all the same?” I ask. The directions on the front are identical, from what I can see.
“Oh, no,” Mum says, looking a little stunned, as though surprised someone could think so. “See this?” She points to a tiny pair of numbers in the bottom corner of the label of the open bottle that I hadn’t noticed. 1 : 1. “That means this bottle is full-strength, a very powerful sedative. Whereas this one,” She picks up another, partway down the row, marked 1 : 5. “is fairly weak. That means it’s watered down. They’re all the same potion, but different strengths. The higher the second number is, the weaker it is.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, wondering when Mum turned into Hermione, “and how did you know there was too much valerian, just from the smell?”
“Your mother achieved an Outstanding on her potions NEWT,” Dad says, proudly.
“I was accepted for an apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s too. They didn’t take everybody in those days,” she says, with a twinkle of smugness.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I got pregnant with Bill. I could have left him with your grandmother after he was born, but I decided not to. I wanted to spend as much time with my children as I could, before you all went off to Hogwarts. And it came in useful, having that bit of training, even if I wasn’t there long enough to qualify as a Healer. We only had to take you kids to St. Mungo’s a couple of times when you were little, and my Bruise Balm is better than any you could buy.”
I hadn’t really thought about it, but I suddenly realised that maybe not everyone’s mum had wormwood, feverfew and nettles growing in the garden alongside the vegetables, or regularly took her kids on long, rambling walks to harvest willow bark and thistledown. I’d taken it for granted that Mum knew the names and uses for every green thing, and could heal everything from a bump on the head to a broken arm with a wave of her wand or a potion, and a cuddle and kiss. It was normal that sometimes meals were a salad and cold leftover pie eaten out of doors, because the kitchen was being used to brew something medicinal and was full of fumes; especially when Fred and George were young and constantly finding new ways to hurt themselves, each other, or those around them.
“Now,” Mum says, drawing the conversation back to the important topic. “He’ll be on this one here,” she taps the opened bottle, “until Sunday. Then, he’s to start taking this one instead.” She holds up one labelled 1 : 2. “It’s half the strength of that one. He’s going to notice the difference straight away, and he’s going to want to go back to the stronger one. Don’t let him. If he won’t listen to you, or tries to take too much of the weaker one, give all the bottles to me, and I’ll give him his proper doses when he eats his meals.”
I swallow hard, dreading the grim prospect of fighting Harry over the potion. “It’s... it’s addictive, then?” I ask, in a small voice.
“Not the ingredients, no. The relief it gives him from having to deal with his problems, yes,” she says, a bit of steel in her eyes. “He’s not going to like it when he’s alert enough to worry about them again. We’re going to have to be firm with him.”
My appetite is gone completely, and I push aside the pudding, which I seem to have mangled into crumbs with my spoon rather than eating. Mum takes my abandoned bowl, and presses the cup of tea into my hands. “Drink up, love. It’s good for what ails you.”
It’s not black tea, but one of Mum’s special blends, fragrant with chamomile and peppermint. I swallow it down obediently, and lean into her with relief when she comes around the table to give me a hug.
“You’re not alone in this, Ron,” Dad assures me, reaching across to squeeze my shoulder.
I nod, and try to let the tea relax me. Sitting like this, with Mum standing next to me, holding me against her I can pretend just for a moment that I’m nine years old again, and my biggest worry is that Fred and George will ambush me in the garden and try to make me cry.
<- 42. Disorientation c@r 44. Anticipation ->