(no subject)
Even though we get barely a chapter of these two, (let alone what was basically just a cameo on Scorpius’s part) I find I’ve fallen in love with this ship upon discovering it, particularly because there was just so much left open for us to work with. Also, the fandom name just makes me giggle like the little schoolgirl that I am.
Con/crit loved intensely. First stab at submitting something into any fandom besides drabbles. Also first post to the comm., so feeling a bit shy at the moment. Wish me luck?
Title: The Right Shade of Chartreuse
Rating: PG at worst (or would it be ‘at best’?)
Summary: It’s remarkably easy to befriend somebody you know little to nothing about. Sort of a gen/humor fic, though it hints at Slash Ahead.
Word count: 2,049
Warnings: Pre-slash, I’d say, though I’m doing my best for subtlety.
Albus Severus Potter inherited many things from his father: His eyes, his hair, even his less-than-perfect vision. He was verifiable chip off the old block, so to speak. He could even fly like his father, (and his mother, as he’d been told) well enough to hold his own against James during their Quidditch practice in the Potter’s backyard.
But it was a bit of genetic misfortune that he also happened to inherit his father’s abilities in potions, which as any of Harry’s old classmates would tell you, were not exactly admirable
“Come now, my boy, just keep your measurements precise, that’s the tricky bit. Certainly won’t do if the roots are uneven, so you must carefully- oh, dear, that must be the third time now...”
Albus nursed the outside edge his pointer finger, squinting just a bit at the stinging sensation in the cut. Slughorn let out a sigh, and with a careless flick of his wand, another bandage appeared in front of him, identical to the other two on Albus’s middle and ring finger.
“Well, Mr. Potter, do be more careful with that knife, it’s quite sharp.”
Albus’s expression was not even slightly akin to amusement.
“Ah… though I’m quite sure you can tell that already, yes.” Slughorn smiled good-naturedly at the first year. With no more to add, the stout man had already shuffled off to the next student.
“Bloody thing…” Albus murmured, wrapping the wound properly. Normally he wasn’t so clumsy, but the idea of brewing his first potion since coming to Hogwarts was more than a little daunting. Furthermore, he had potions with Slytherins, as he’d feared. No matter how much his mother and father had told him there was no reason to dislike somebody just because they were in Slytherin, that just because they were in different houses didn’t mean they couldn’t get along, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Even in the face of his parent’s reassurances, he was still terribly intimidated. His effort to impress (or at least to avoid failure) had gone awry.
“You’re holding your knife wrong, you know.”
Albus blinked out of his train of thought, turning behind him towards the source of an unfamiliar voice. He glanced about a bit, trying to see whom it had come from. Finally his eyes came to rest upon a Slytherin boy with strikingly white-blonde hair and pale gray eyes sitting one chair behind him. He thought he might have recognized the boy from the train, but he wasn’t entirely sure. Albus felt himself grow increasingly uneasy under his gaze.
“You’re just going to keep cutting yourself if you hold it that way,” the boy said haughtily, folding his arms over his chest as if frustrated with him. “Haven’t you ever used a knife before?”
Albus felt himself shrink a little under his belittling stare, willing himself not to seem a coward in this frightening boy’s eyes. Albus glanced to the other’s side, risking a surreptitious glance at this unpleasant child’s cauldron, only to find that it was the exact desired color and misting properly. It was hard to resist the pangs of jealousy. Regrettably, he noted his own inactive cauldron, which had gone to a swamp green in favor of the proper chartreuse.
“Well- well how do you do it, then?” Albus replied, thinking it was best not to make enemies so early in the year. He did his best to remain relatively amicable under the Slytherin’s condescending stare.
With a sigh, the blonde abruptly left his chair, swiftly stepping towards Albus and snatching his knife from his hand. He leaned over him, making sure he was watching properly.
“Look. See? You’re supposed to hold it this way.” He curled his right hand around the handle, pointer finger lying across the top end of the blade for support. “Use your other hand to keep the root in place, but cut away from your hand like this.” The boy demonstrated, expertly separating the root into perfectly even sections. Albus nodded, feeling just a little uncomfortable with the other boy’s proximity. Furthermore, realized he had no idea what his name was; he hadn’t paid much attention at all during roll call. He fervently wished he hadn’t been flicking through his potions book at the last minute.
“Thanks,” Albus mumbled grudgingly. To his surprise, the boy gave a tiny, amused smile. Well, it was more of a smirk, but at least Albus didn’t feel as if he was being made fun of. Albus thought he kind of liked the other boy, in spite of himself. He supposed it might not be such a bad thing to make friends in other houses.. Feeling bolder, he continued. “What’s your-”
“Please return to your seat, Mr. Malfoy!” Slughorn called cheerfully from the other side of the room, tending to a rather short Gryffindor boy whose cauldron was beginning to sizzle much too loudly for anyone’s comfort. The brunette girl beside him began not-so-subtly edging her chair away. “Mr. Potter needs to do this individually, if you would.”
The shock on each boy’s face was like a mirror for the other. Hastily setting the knife down next to Albus, the Malfoy strode quickly to his seat without another word. Albus, himself, was flabbergasted. A Malfoy? He’d heard his father talk about the Malfoys on occasion, though mostly in confidence to his mother. For reasons Albus did not know, they always seemed to fall silent when they saw their son walking in on such conversations. He’d heard stories of his father’s childhood encounters with a young Malfoy named Draco: The nasty, sarcastic child that had bullied his father throughout most of his years at school. Though Harry had tried to make the memories seem lighthearted and comical- the one about the ferret was Albus’s favorite- Albus always got the impression that this boy had been more horrible to his father than he’d let on, and thus felt compelled to hate a man he’d never met.
Albus had always pictured the Malfoys to be a whole family of rotters in his minds eye, comically grotesque and snobby, adorned with extravagantly gaudy jewels and robes with a constant sneer on their face. But this boy didn’t quite fit that description. He seemed a little arrogant, yes, but didn’t fit the bill of the despicable cloth from which he thought Malfoys were cut. He had helped Albus out.
Then again, he realized, maybe he was just trying to make himself look good in front of the Professor.
He glanced hesitantly behind him at the youngest Malfoy, startled to see him staring right back. Simultaneously, both whipped their heads back into their work and tried to pretend the little exchange hadn’t occurred.
Despite his insecurities about this Malfoy boy, he cut his roots as he had been directed. Malfoy had been right; it was much easier to handle the tool this way. To his relief, it looked like the third cut on his finger would be the last one for today’s lesson. Thank goodness, because any more and he fancied he’d have a hard time using a quill. Albus placed the sliced roots into the cauldron, careful not to dump it all in at once. He was delighted to find the gray disappear in favor of a dark brown. Not quite right, but it was certainly a start. Malfoy had steered him right after all, it seemed.
He moved to weighing the porcupine quills, trying to get the Malfoys out of his head entirely. Now, was it four ounces or five? Ah, bugger, he’d forgotten again.
Albus removed his glasses, rubbing them clean on his shirtsleeve. The mist rising up from the other cauldrons was beginning to make his glasses fog a bit. He squinted up at the board, adorning his glasses once more. Ah, it was four after all. Promptly rechecking his measurements, he dumped half the quills he needed into the cauldron, smiling with satisfaction as it turned a little closer to the desired color. That was enough to strengthen his confidence a little.
Rather, it certainly would have, but less than three seconds later the cauldron reverted to a murky, translucent shade of pink. Albus humorlessly noticed it looked a bit like muggle stomach medicine. He quietly groaned to himself, any optimism he’d had before dissipating rapidly.
Albus started for a minute, a tiny folded-up square landing on the corner of his desk. He instinctively looked back at Malfoy, but he was busy with his own potion. Albus eyed the note warily, as if it were apt to explode in his face. Was this harassment already?
Glancing about, he saw Slughorn was still busy with the hapless Gryffindor’s cauldron, which was beginning to emit colorful sparks. Still, Albus figured Malfoy would not dare pull a stunt in a crowded classroom with the teacher barely more than three yards away. That thought in mind, he unfolded the note, for a fleeting second admiring the boy’s neat, flourished handwriting. It was unsigned, but there was no mistaking the messenger:
Were you listening to Professor Slughorn at all, Potter?
Albus flushed, indignant. He turned again, this time prepared to snap at him, only to see the Malfoy looking innocently back, completely without any visible malice, though certainly not without mirth. His retort died in his throat. Hastily, he scribbled a note back underneath Malfoy’s.
Of course I was listening.
Looking over to see the Professor’s eyes diverted away from the both of them, Albus flung the note over his shoulder. Moments later, he heard the scratching of a quill behind him.
Then you’d know you have to put them in one at a time.
Oh. Right.
A little embarrassed, Albus dipped his quill in his inkwell.
I guess I forgot.
He heard Malfoy snicker behind him, and Albus flushed darker. Malfoy flicked the note on the floor right behind Albus’s heel.
Obviously.
Albus rolled his eyes. He tossed the note behind him with unexpected skill, parchment landing on the tip of Malfoy’s shoe.
You’re sure it’s one at a time, right?
This time, the reply landed in Albus’s lap.
Trust me.
Albus stared at the last two words on the parchment, wondering if they were entirely possible. He looked at Malfoy quizzically.
The blonde raised his eyebrows, impatiently waving his hand as if to say, “Well, go on, then!” like he was prompting a child.
Now Malfoy was just beginning to perplex him. It was near impossible to see for certain: Was he a git or not?
Carefully, Albus picked up a quill, placing it in the cauldron. The liquid turned purple. He grimaced, glancing over at Malfoy, who was watching him carefully. Feeling increasingly self-conscious, he dropped another. Turquoise. His eyes lit up. If he had his colors right, Albus knew he was getting closer. Malfoy nodded approvingly, apparently satisfied enough to return to his own work.
Slowly, with each quill dropped, the potion turned closer and closer to its correct hue until it was a bright forest green. A nearly imperceptible mist was rising from the surface. Well, it wasn’t perfect, but he was much better off than he’d been before. He looked up from his work to see Slughorn, smiling as always, as he leaned over his cauldron.
“Very nice, very nice, Mr. Potter. Much better. Got the hang of that knife, now, did you?” Slughorn chuckled merrily at his own joke.
“E-er, yes, Professor,” Albus intoned, a little meeker than he would have liked. He couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for praise he didn’t believe he fully deserved, but was terribly pleased all the same.
“Good, good, good. Be sure to keep it up.”
Albus watched from his peripheral vision as Slughorn moved to Malfoy’s desk. He heard Slughorn give a tiny gasp of surprise.
“Why, excellent, Mr. Malfoy, absolutely perfect! Just the right color, excellent. You have your father’s knack for potions, most certainly.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Malfoy responded smoothly.
Pride bubbled up in Albus’s chest for this boy he barely knew, and somehow it never occurred to him to wonder why.
With that, Slughorn turned to the Slytherin next to Malfoy to inspect her bright magenta potion, for the moment unaware that the poor Gryffindor boy’s cauldron appeared to have caught on fire.
Author’s notes: As I said above, though it bears repeating, Con/crit is loved. Very much. I have to wonder if I've characterized Scorpius well- I imagine him being less of a jerk than his father at that age, but still lacking tact and still a bit on the arrogant/brattish side. What do you all think? On a slightly unrelated note, Slughorn is very fun to write.
Oh, and hate to do this, but, question for the kind people who read this all the way through: Continue or no? It can stand alone on its own well enough, but if you guys want more, just say the word. Er, rather, type it.
Edit: Oh my goodness, I didn't expect near this many comments! (I woke up this morning hoping for at least two :D) Thank you, thank you, thank you, everybody! Will be continuing this, no doubt ♥
Con/crit loved intensely. First stab at submitting something into any fandom besides drabbles. Also first post to the comm., so feeling a bit shy at the moment. Wish me luck?
Title: The Right Shade of Chartreuse
Rating: PG at worst (or would it be ‘at best’?)
Summary: It’s remarkably easy to befriend somebody you know little to nothing about. Sort of a gen/humor fic, though it hints at Slash Ahead.
Word count: 2,049
Warnings: Pre-slash, I’d say, though I’m doing my best for subtlety.
Albus Severus Potter inherited many things from his father: His eyes, his hair, even his less-than-perfect vision. He was verifiable chip off the old block, so to speak. He could even fly like his father, (and his mother, as he’d been told) well enough to hold his own against James during their Quidditch practice in the Potter’s backyard.
But it was a bit of genetic misfortune that he also happened to inherit his father’s abilities in potions, which as any of Harry’s old classmates would tell you, were not exactly admirable
“Come now, my boy, just keep your measurements precise, that’s the tricky bit. Certainly won’t do if the roots are uneven, so you must carefully- oh, dear, that must be the third time now...”
Albus nursed the outside edge his pointer finger, squinting just a bit at the stinging sensation in the cut. Slughorn let out a sigh, and with a careless flick of his wand, another bandage appeared in front of him, identical to the other two on Albus’s middle and ring finger.
“Well, Mr. Potter, do be more careful with that knife, it’s quite sharp.”
Albus’s expression was not even slightly akin to amusement.
“Ah… though I’m quite sure you can tell that already, yes.” Slughorn smiled good-naturedly at the first year. With no more to add, the stout man had already shuffled off to the next student.
“Bloody thing…” Albus murmured, wrapping the wound properly. Normally he wasn’t so clumsy, but the idea of brewing his first potion since coming to Hogwarts was more than a little daunting. Furthermore, he had potions with Slytherins, as he’d feared. No matter how much his mother and father had told him there was no reason to dislike somebody just because they were in Slytherin, that just because they were in different houses didn’t mean they couldn’t get along, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Even in the face of his parent’s reassurances, he was still terribly intimidated. His effort to impress (or at least to avoid failure) had gone awry.
“You’re holding your knife wrong, you know.”
Albus blinked out of his train of thought, turning behind him towards the source of an unfamiliar voice. He glanced about a bit, trying to see whom it had come from. Finally his eyes came to rest upon a Slytherin boy with strikingly white-blonde hair and pale gray eyes sitting one chair behind him. He thought he might have recognized the boy from the train, but he wasn’t entirely sure. Albus felt himself grow increasingly uneasy under his gaze.
“You’re just going to keep cutting yourself if you hold it that way,” the boy said haughtily, folding his arms over his chest as if frustrated with him. “Haven’t you ever used a knife before?”
Albus felt himself shrink a little under his belittling stare, willing himself not to seem a coward in this frightening boy’s eyes. Albus glanced to the other’s side, risking a surreptitious glance at this unpleasant child’s cauldron, only to find that it was the exact desired color and misting properly. It was hard to resist the pangs of jealousy. Regrettably, he noted his own inactive cauldron, which had gone to a swamp green in favor of the proper chartreuse.
“Well- well how do you do it, then?” Albus replied, thinking it was best not to make enemies so early in the year. He did his best to remain relatively amicable under the Slytherin’s condescending stare.
With a sigh, the blonde abruptly left his chair, swiftly stepping towards Albus and snatching his knife from his hand. He leaned over him, making sure he was watching properly.
“Look. See? You’re supposed to hold it this way.” He curled his right hand around the handle, pointer finger lying across the top end of the blade for support. “Use your other hand to keep the root in place, but cut away from your hand like this.” The boy demonstrated, expertly separating the root into perfectly even sections. Albus nodded, feeling just a little uncomfortable with the other boy’s proximity. Furthermore, realized he had no idea what his name was; he hadn’t paid much attention at all during roll call. He fervently wished he hadn’t been flicking through his potions book at the last minute.
“Thanks,” Albus mumbled grudgingly. To his surprise, the boy gave a tiny, amused smile. Well, it was more of a smirk, but at least Albus didn’t feel as if he was being made fun of. Albus thought he kind of liked the other boy, in spite of himself. He supposed it might not be such a bad thing to make friends in other houses.. Feeling bolder, he continued. “What’s your-”
“Please return to your seat, Mr. Malfoy!” Slughorn called cheerfully from the other side of the room, tending to a rather short Gryffindor boy whose cauldron was beginning to sizzle much too loudly for anyone’s comfort. The brunette girl beside him began not-so-subtly edging her chair away. “Mr. Potter needs to do this individually, if you would.”
The shock on each boy’s face was like a mirror for the other. Hastily setting the knife down next to Albus, the Malfoy strode quickly to his seat without another word. Albus, himself, was flabbergasted. A Malfoy? He’d heard his father talk about the Malfoys on occasion, though mostly in confidence to his mother. For reasons Albus did not know, they always seemed to fall silent when they saw their son walking in on such conversations. He’d heard stories of his father’s childhood encounters with a young Malfoy named Draco: The nasty, sarcastic child that had bullied his father throughout most of his years at school. Though Harry had tried to make the memories seem lighthearted and comical- the one about the ferret was Albus’s favorite- Albus always got the impression that this boy had been more horrible to his father than he’d let on, and thus felt compelled to hate a man he’d never met.
Albus had always pictured the Malfoys to be a whole family of rotters in his minds eye, comically grotesque and snobby, adorned with extravagantly gaudy jewels and robes with a constant sneer on their face. But this boy didn’t quite fit that description. He seemed a little arrogant, yes, but didn’t fit the bill of the despicable cloth from which he thought Malfoys were cut. He had helped Albus out.
Then again, he realized, maybe he was just trying to make himself look good in front of the Professor.
He glanced hesitantly behind him at the youngest Malfoy, startled to see him staring right back. Simultaneously, both whipped their heads back into their work and tried to pretend the little exchange hadn’t occurred.
Despite his insecurities about this Malfoy boy, he cut his roots as he had been directed. Malfoy had been right; it was much easier to handle the tool this way. To his relief, it looked like the third cut on his finger would be the last one for today’s lesson. Thank goodness, because any more and he fancied he’d have a hard time using a quill. Albus placed the sliced roots into the cauldron, careful not to dump it all in at once. He was delighted to find the gray disappear in favor of a dark brown. Not quite right, but it was certainly a start. Malfoy had steered him right after all, it seemed.
He moved to weighing the porcupine quills, trying to get the Malfoys out of his head entirely. Now, was it four ounces or five? Ah, bugger, he’d forgotten again.
Albus removed his glasses, rubbing them clean on his shirtsleeve. The mist rising up from the other cauldrons was beginning to make his glasses fog a bit. He squinted up at the board, adorning his glasses once more. Ah, it was four after all. Promptly rechecking his measurements, he dumped half the quills he needed into the cauldron, smiling with satisfaction as it turned a little closer to the desired color. That was enough to strengthen his confidence a little.
Rather, it certainly would have, but less than three seconds later the cauldron reverted to a murky, translucent shade of pink. Albus humorlessly noticed it looked a bit like muggle stomach medicine. He quietly groaned to himself, any optimism he’d had before dissipating rapidly.
Albus started for a minute, a tiny folded-up square landing on the corner of his desk. He instinctively looked back at Malfoy, but he was busy with his own potion. Albus eyed the note warily, as if it were apt to explode in his face. Was this harassment already?
Glancing about, he saw Slughorn was still busy with the hapless Gryffindor’s cauldron, which was beginning to emit colorful sparks. Still, Albus figured Malfoy would not dare pull a stunt in a crowded classroom with the teacher barely more than three yards away. That thought in mind, he unfolded the note, for a fleeting second admiring the boy’s neat, flourished handwriting. It was unsigned, but there was no mistaking the messenger:
Were you listening to Professor Slughorn at all, Potter?
Albus flushed, indignant. He turned again, this time prepared to snap at him, only to see the Malfoy looking innocently back, completely without any visible malice, though certainly not without mirth. His retort died in his throat. Hastily, he scribbled a note back underneath Malfoy’s.
Of course I was listening.
Looking over to see the Professor’s eyes diverted away from the both of them, Albus flung the note over his shoulder. Moments later, he heard the scratching of a quill behind him.
Then you’d know you have to put them in one at a time.
Oh. Right.
A little embarrassed, Albus dipped his quill in his inkwell.
I guess I forgot.
He heard Malfoy snicker behind him, and Albus flushed darker. Malfoy flicked the note on the floor right behind Albus’s heel.
Obviously.
Albus rolled his eyes. He tossed the note behind him with unexpected skill, parchment landing on the tip of Malfoy’s shoe.
You’re sure it’s one at a time, right?
This time, the reply landed in Albus’s lap.
Trust me.
Albus stared at the last two words on the parchment, wondering if they were entirely possible. He looked at Malfoy quizzically.
The blonde raised his eyebrows, impatiently waving his hand as if to say, “Well, go on, then!” like he was prompting a child.
Now Malfoy was just beginning to perplex him. It was near impossible to see for certain: Was he a git or not?
Carefully, Albus picked up a quill, placing it in the cauldron. The liquid turned purple. He grimaced, glancing over at Malfoy, who was watching him carefully. Feeling increasingly self-conscious, he dropped another. Turquoise. His eyes lit up. If he had his colors right, Albus knew he was getting closer. Malfoy nodded approvingly, apparently satisfied enough to return to his own work.
Slowly, with each quill dropped, the potion turned closer and closer to its correct hue until it was a bright forest green. A nearly imperceptible mist was rising from the surface. Well, it wasn’t perfect, but he was much better off than he’d been before. He looked up from his work to see Slughorn, smiling as always, as he leaned over his cauldron.
“Very nice, very nice, Mr. Potter. Much better. Got the hang of that knife, now, did you?” Slughorn chuckled merrily at his own joke.
“E-er, yes, Professor,” Albus intoned, a little meeker than he would have liked. He couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for praise he didn’t believe he fully deserved, but was terribly pleased all the same.
“Good, good, good. Be sure to keep it up.”
Albus watched from his peripheral vision as Slughorn moved to Malfoy’s desk. He heard Slughorn give a tiny gasp of surprise.
“Why, excellent, Mr. Malfoy, absolutely perfect! Just the right color, excellent. You have your father’s knack for potions, most certainly.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Malfoy responded smoothly.
Pride bubbled up in Albus’s chest for this boy he barely knew, and somehow it never occurred to him to wonder why.
With that, Slughorn turned to the Slytherin next to Malfoy to inspect her bright magenta potion, for the moment unaware that the poor Gryffindor boy’s cauldron appeared to have caught on fire.
Author’s notes: As I said above, though it bears repeating, Con/crit is loved. Very much. I have to wonder if I've characterized Scorpius well- I imagine him being less of a jerk than his father at that age, but still lacking tact and still a bit on the arrogant/brattish side. What do you all think? On a slightly unrelated note, Slughorn is very fun to write.
Oh, and hate to do this, but, question for the kind people who read this all the way through: Continue or no? It can stand alone on its own well enough, but if you guys want more, just say the word. Er, rather, type it.
Edit: Oh my goodness, I didn't expect near this many comments! (I woke up this morning hoping for at least two :D) Thank you, thank you, thank you, everybody! Will be continuing this, no doubt ♥