Sundry Superlatives
by L. Inman
Both of them recognized the three harsh knocks on the door. As one, they leaped up and tried to get a look through the neat peephole Hermione had devised. Without waiting for a password, Ron jerked the door open to a very disheveled Harry, who was folding his Invisibility Cloak into his pocket.
It was late afternoon, and the wind was kicking up into a chill tickle that invaded the little house; but they were pretty sure that was not why Harry was shivering.
“Where have you been?” Hermione said. “And what’s the password?”
“Saffron,” Harry said shortly.
That was not the password. Ron and Hermione exchanged looks.
“Do we have any?” Harry continued, not waiting but pushing past them and going into the bedroom corridor. “I need some.”
“Harry—” Hermione took two hesitant steps after him, but stopped when he reappeared, floating his school trunk into the room before him. It dropped with a flump; Harry flipped it open without ceremony, and sank to his knees to rummage inside. He was very pale, and his forehead looked clammy under the dirty shock of his black hair.
“Mate,” Ron said softly, “where did you go?”
“Back to the place to get the ex-Horcrux and my cloak,” Harry said without looking up. “Then I stopped at Hogwarts. I need snakewort, too.” He pulled out his battered set of scales and dropped them to the floor. “Might need that,” he muttered.
“Everyone’s been looking all over for you,” Hermione said.
Harry did not answer. He rummaged deeper into the trunk. “Ha!” he said finally, and pulled out a fistful of what looked like revision notes. “That should do it.”
“Harry,” Ron said, more forcefully. “What’s going on?”
Harry looked up but did not meet their eyes. “I need a potion,” he said flatly, and stood with the scales and the notes to drop them on the table. “I’m not sure if it cures me or just keeps me going.”
“What do you mean, you stopped at Hogwarts?” Ron demanded. “And where were you before?”
Hermione, however, had gone quiet; she raised one eyebrow but was otherwise not really surprised when Harry pulled a large book out of his robes and slapped it on the table with the other items: Advanced Potion Making by Libatius Borage, with an oddly pristine cover.
“Some kind of restorative draught,” Harry said, and braced his hands on the smooth wood of the table’s edge. “Don’t know which; maybe a combination of several.”
“That’s never....” Ron was staring at the book. “Harry...?”
“Well?” Harry snapped, looking up at them feverishly. “Do we have any saffron, or not?”
“I’ll go look,” Hermione said, with a little jump. She nipped the book off the table, then hooked Ron by the elbow and dragged him after her into the kitchen.
“What’s eating him?” Ron said in an undertone to her, once they’d gained the dusty, drafty kitchen.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Hermione said, brandishing the book at him before tossing it to the kitchen table. Without waiting for a response, she bent to throw open the cupboard and shift its dusty contents. “Most of this stuff is too old,” she muttered. “And I’ve never heard of using saffron. What on earth does it do? Maybe he mentioned it once, but my notes aren’t here, and I can’t remember....We may have to go out for it.”
“I’m not good with cryptic people,” Ron said testily. “Where was Harry, and what the hell’s going on?”
Hermione stood up and went to another cupboard, this one devoted to kitchen spices. “Don’t yell about it,” she said quietly. “He was with Snape.”
Ron didn’t yell, but it was a near thing. He reddened. After a few minutes he managed in a strangled voice, “Don’t you think we should check to see if he’s been Imperiused, or something?”
“Rubbish,” Hermione said, shoving clinking bottles aside. “He’s been able to throw off Imperius for ages.”
“What on earth was Snape—?”
“Keep your voice down. He must’ve been the one to disguise us and send Fawkes for help.”
“Oh, come off it,” Ron said. “How many times do we have to go through this bloody yo-yoing? He’s evil, he’s not evil, he’s evil, he’s not evil. Personally, I’m sticking with evil, just for simplicity’s sake. But why would he bother saving Harry?”
Hermione pulled out a clouded jar and twisted off the lid with a scratch of rust on glass. “Saffron,” she said, and added gloomily, “It’s probably not any good. And did he mean Kashmiri saffron, or—?”
“Well, go ask him,” Ron said.
“I didn’t mean Harry. And I don’t even know what the saffron is for.”
“You could check the book,” Ron said, uneasily.
“I’ll do that.” Hermione rolled up her sleeves grimly. “Get the cauldron started. Restorative draughts usually have a water base.”
Ron asked no more questions. He got out the cauldron and lit it.
Unfortunately, there was nothing in the Restorative Draughts section (either in the text or in the Prince’s handwriting) about saffron. There was, however, a mutable receipt for a potion to counteract “venomous” curses. The tables of ingredients covered several pages, and were so heavily annotated that Hermione was forced to light her wand just to read the original text.
There wasn’t anything about saffron there, either.
Ron was reading over Hermione’s shoulder. “Doesn’t that say it needs to mature for six months? That can’t be right.”
“The footnote says it can be taken immediately in an emergency, but I don’t know—”
“Well, what do you call this? A pelican?”
“I’m going to ask Harry about the saffron,” Hermione said, with an air as of girding her loins.
“Ask him about that other thing he mentioned, too.”
Back in the spartan sitting room, Hermione found that Harry had not moved from his place at the plain table, except to sit down and rest his head on his loosely-crossed arms, one stem of his glasses tangled in the fingers of his right hand.
“Harry?” She approached him tentatively.
He grunted.
“We’ve started the potion,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
Harry raised his head reluctantly and pinched at his eyes and nose. He was still terribly pale, and breathing as if movement cost him. “I’ve been better.”
“Listen—about the potion—”
“I don’t want to discuss the potion,” Harry said. “I just want to make it.”
“We think we’ve found it,” Hermione persisted quietly. “In the book. It’s just—there’re some difficulties with the ingredients. We don’t know where the saffron fits in, or the—what was—?”
“The other one’s snape—I mean, snakewort.” Harry shook his head irritably. “And I don’t know either.”
“Snakewort,” Hermione said. “I suppose that’s the Slytherin connection. That makes sense. But—”
Harry’s voice rose. “I don’t know, Hermione. Can’t you just leave me alone?”
“If you could just tell me exactly what Snape said—”
“Don’t—” Harry slammed his hand down on the table, making his glasses jump— “mention that name to me again. Ever!” He snatched up his glasses, scrambled off the chair, and stormed shakily back to the bedroom corridor. Hermione heard his door shut with a bang.
She drew a long breath, and then marched in after him.
She was ready with her wand when she opened the door. He was lying curled on his bed with his back to her, and when the door opened she saw his wandtip rise over his shoulder. She repelled his silent jinx in equal silence; the spell rebounded and hit the wall, making another bit of plaster break and rattle to the floor.
He cast another jinx, and once again she repelled it. The new crater left a fully exposed patch of lathes behind the wall.
Harry sat up and pointed his wand right at her, his face livid with fury and illness.
“Damn it, Hermione,” he said, “the bloody house is going to come down round our ears.”
“Stop jinxing me then,” she said.
They stared at one another a moment, both breathing hard.
Harry’s expression turned bleak, and he said finally, “Saffron and snakewort. That’s all he said.”
“You’d better come look at the receipt, then,” she said, taking her first calm breath.
Harry sighed. “Right.” He slid off the bed and went with her out of the room. “I’m sorry I tried to jinx you,” he muttered in the corridor, his chin sunk low. “And I’m sorry I shouted.”
For answer Hermione patted him gently between the shoulder blades.
Ron looked up warily at Harry as they entered the kitchen, his wand drawn over the bubbling cauldron; but the sense of crackling danger had dissipated from his mate’s demeanor, and he returned his attention to the potion.
Harry gave it a look. “It’s not the right color yet,” he said.
“Hang on,” Hermione said, “till I find the snakewort.”
“You found saffron?”
Ron held up the saffron jar and gave it a little shake. “Any idea what this does?”
Harry shook his head. “Not a clue.” He moved around Ron and bent to read the open book. “Maybe we should try to get hold of Neville,” he murmured. “He might know the properties of saffron.”
“But probably not how to use it in a potion,” Ron said mournfully.
“You know what?” Hermione said. “I think you’re on to something.”
Harry looked up. “You mean, contacting Neville?”
“Well, not exactly; but the Herbology angle. You’ve got your books and notes in your trunk, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be right back.” Hermione dashed out of the room.
Ron smiled indulgently after her. “I think that’s the first time she’s brightened up in a week. Good on you, Harry.”
“Well, I suppose it’s some return for the extra plaster off my wall.”
“Eh?” Ron frowned at him.
“I tried to jinx her,” Harry explained.
“Ah.”
Harry studied Ron’s profile thoughtfully. “Are you two all right? I forgot to ask.”
“Yeah,” Ron said, “Lupin fixed us up, told us to lie low and not to be stupid about turning out to look for you.”
“Sorry about that,” Harry muttered.
“It’s all right,” Ron said, “now you’re back.”
Harry offered him an affectionate grunt and bent down to study the book again. “Snakewort’s listed—here—as a neutralizing factor for venoms. Well, yeah, that makes sense. It says three sprigs to the cauldron, finely chopped.”
“Borage says that?”
“No, not Borage.” Harry bent further over the book, and Ron did not press him.
“I’ve got it,” Hermione said breathlessly from the doorway. “Saffron’s in a class of superlative agents.”
The boys looked blankly back at her.
“Don’t you remember? These are all plants that either intensify or saturate the effect of another agent. Saffron is used in fine-spun work, as its filaments are so rare and delicate.” She smiled.
“Okay,” Ron said. “Sure. Right. What about that snakewort?”
“Oh—right.” Hermione dove for the cupboard.
Fortunately, she was able to find a small jar of snakewort—unlabeled, so she could only identify it by the distinctive smell. She held out the jar to Harry, who also sniffed. “Yep,” he said.
She upended it onto the cutting board. Three sprigs slithered out.
“Brilliant,” Ron said. “Three sprigs to the cauldron.”
“No, wait!” Harry was studying the book. “Listen to this: ‘Some authorities suggest imbuing some of the active agent with the incantation of the original curse, under the hair-of-the-dog principle; but we do not suggest this, as the results cannot be vouched for.’”
“Is that Borage?” Ron said.
“Yeah. But there’s a note.” Harry squinted and lit his wand. “‘Burn it first. Use the ash.’ Right. Then that’s what we’re going to do.”
“But—” Hermione said, but shut her mouth when Harry looked up.
Ron was not so abashed. “What if it kills you?”
“I think that train’s left the station,” Harry said quietly. “Might as well take the risk.”
“But the potion will still work without the incantation....”
“This is Voldemort we’re talking about,” Harry said sharply. “D’you think he wouldn’t arrange for a curse to overmaster an ordinary potion? Without this step, I’m sure the potion’ll just keep me alive, not cure me. Besides, the incantation seemed awfully important to—”
Harry stopped and reached for one of the sprigs. Ron and Hermione looked at one another.
“If you’re so confident in Snape’s instructions,” Ron said recklessly, “why didn’t you just give him the incantation in the first place?”
Hermione drew in a hissing breath and pinched Ron in the back of the elbow, but Harry merely carried on cutting a bit of the sprig and setting it in a fireproof bowl. “The incantation’s in Parseltongue,” he answered calmly. “And I wasn’t really in a position to instruct him in the intonation.” He returned the leftover half-sprig to the cutting board. “That should do.”
He lifted his face to look at them, and folded his arms.
“What happened between you and him, anyway?” Ron said quietly, after a silence.
“Nothing.” Harry’s tone was even. “Same as usual.”
The silence returned, and Hermione broke it by reaching for the knife and beginning to chop the snakewort. Without commentary she added it to the potion and stirred it in. “Now for the saffron,” she said. Harry handed her the jar; she lifted out one small filament. “Let me know when it gets the right color,” she told Harry, who nodded. His face was shining clammily in the wandlight.
After the third filament he stayed her hand. The potion had turned the dark yellow color Harry remembered.
“Right,” Harry said on a deep breath. “Now for the last bit.”
He turned to the half-sprig of snakewort in the bowl. “Stand back,” he told Ron and Hermione. “I don’t know what this is going to do, and I don’t want the two of you cursed.”
He pointed his wand precisely at the herb and spoke, a short hiss and click. A shadow gathered in the bowl, but nothing else happened.
Hermione reached for the bowl to look inside, but Ron grabbed her wrist.
“Incendio!” Harry said, without looking at either of them. Flame leaped up in the bowl, mirrored four times over in Harry’s glasses and his glassy eyes. He looked, they thought, grand and a little frightening, with his lips primmed and his chin high.
He kept a steady stream of flame on the sprig until it was a pile of white ash. “Well,” he said, “here goes.” He pinched up most of the hot ash and tossed it into the cauldron.
The potion gave a rolling undulation and intensified in color.
“Get me a cup,” Harry said.
Trembling, Hermione ladled out a cup of the potion and handed it over. “Cheers,” Harry said, saluting them with it, and put it down in one long gulp.
He set down the cup and licked his lips thoughtfully. “Tastes the same. I think we did it—right—” Suddenly he doubled over, as if he were going to heave, but though he opened his mouth, nothing came out. He shut it again in a convulsive jerk, and Hermione cried out. She grabbed for the book, and Ron drew his wand, as Harry stumbled to his knees, choking and gurgling. They watched helplessly as he gripped the stone floor and heaved noiselessly for a long minute.
“Do something!” Ron said to Hermione.
“Like what?”
Harry reared back on his heels, and then something happened that made both the others shriek: from Harry’s face exploded a black, shadowy form, long and sinuous and shining like iron. He fell face-forward again, as if destroyed by the thing that was coming from him; but as Ron and Hermione watched, he reached up a hand and began pulling at the thing, drawing it out of him. With a terrible grimace he staggered to his feet and finally pulled the last length of a dark snake through one nostril and dropped it to the floor, where it writhed a moment before turning over to expose its pale belly, completely still.
Harry cleared his throat, jerked his robes straight, and resettled his glasses on his bleeding nose. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat again, “that was a bit—scary.” He took the handkerchief Hermione passed over to him and dabbed at the blood on his upper lip.
“Is it broken?” she asked him tremulously.
“Don’t think so,” Harry said, touching his nose gingerly. “Hurts like hell, though.” He sounded positively cheerful.
Ron was looking down at the snake. “Blimey,” he uttered.
Hermione said softly, “The potion must have forced the curse to assume a definite form and expel itself.”
Harry gave a sharp, thoughtful grunt, and prodded the dead snake with his shoe. It dissolved in a puff of shadowy dust.
“Well, this proves one thing for sure,” Harry said, looking up.
“Yeah?” Ron and Hermione looked at each other uneasily. They couldn’t think of anything Harry might have to say about Snape that would be altogether auspicious.
“Yeah. Looks like Voldemort made sure that whoever messed with his Horcrux would pay through the nose,” Harry said, very gravely.
Ron and Hermione merely stared at him.
Harry turned away, and had gone a few paces before he looked back at them and began to crack up laughing. Ron gave a bark of a laugh in response. “Yeah, mate,” he guffawed. Hermione managed a tense smile.
Harry gripped the table, positively crying with laughter now. He reeled, stumbled backward, hit the wall and slid down it, uttering a last wild sob. When he hit the floor, he suddenly punished the wall behind him with the back of his head, once, and then again, and subsided completely, the tears still on his face.
His friends stood where they were, looking on silently, a mirroring shine in their own eyes. As they watched and waited, Harry’s breathing returned to normal and he reached up to wipe his wet face.
“Don’t do that,” Hermione said suddenly. “You’ll get blood all over.” She drew her wand and cast two quick spells, and Harry’s face was clean. Harry laughed again, a normal laugh this time, and reached up a hand for help getting to his feet.
“We got anything to eat round here?” he said.
Later, Ron came out to join Harry on the back step, where he sat looking into the blackness of the wood. The gibbous moon overhead picked out Harry’s face, his glass-rims, and the locks of his dark hair that curved over his forehead. His elbows rested on his knees, one pale hand curled to his face.
“Hope Lupin’s doing all right,” Ron murmured, gesturing at the moon.
“Yeah,” Harry answered, without removing the back of his hand pressed thoughtfully against his mouth.
They sat quietly, absorbing the night sounds, and watching the moon gain height.
“So what d’you reckon?” Ron asked him finally, in a low voice.
Harry only shrugged.
“Yeah. I guess.” Ron sighed. After a moment, he added, “Do you think there are degrees of evil?”
“Dunno,” Harry said. “I’m not bothered at the moment, really, though.”
“No?”
Harry shook his head. “I’ve still got my laundry list. I think I’ll stick to that, and figure the rest out later. If there is a later.”
“But Snape’s not on it any more,” Ron said, making it almost a question.
“Oh, he’s still on it,” Harry said quietly.
“Oh. Right,” Ron said, as if he understood, though he did not, and suspected Harry didn’t either.
They said nothing more; they merely watched the moon rise.
*
Finis