At noon he’d returned to Snape’s laboratory still tongue-tied and knotted inside. There he learned that, contrary to his belief, it was possible for him to feel worse.
A beaker was there. A note was there. Snape was not. The note read: “Running an errand. This is your potion. S.”
Harry had stared at the note. The words had blurred as he’d realized how much he would have given for one more sentence, a snide “don’t touch anything,” or a bossy “drink it all,” or anything to show …
To show what? That we’re still friends? Are we?
Harry’d set the note down, resisting the urge to burn it to a crisp. He’d drunk the potion down and left.
He’s avoiding me.
Yeah, Harry, because you’re the center of his world and the sum of his existence. It’s beyond the realm of possibility that he has other things to do.
That had made Harry chuckle out loud. He knew he was being irrational. But that’s what feelings were. He needed to sort out his feelings and talk to Snape. That was what he needed. He was pleased to have come to at least one conclusion: Sort out your feelings.
And that was what he’d been doing, curled up in a corner on one of the benches in one of the quieter of Hogwarts’ many courtyards.
Or, rather, that’s what he’d been trying to do. Trying and failing in the spectacular way he’d come to expect in anything involving the Boy Who Lived.
Harry sighed and squinted at Aidan again.
“Is it possible to not want to be ordinary, but not want to be extraordinary either?” he asked.
The professor blinked. “What does that leave?”
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. Peace?”
Aidan gazed down at him kindly. “Care to be distracted? I’m going into Hogsmeade.”
“Yeah.” Harry got up. “I think better on my feet anyway. Thanks.”
* * *
First stop was Polyglot’s, a dim and dusty rare-book emporium on a back street in Hogsmeade. Most of the books were used, some of them clearly in heinous ways – the blood and burn marks made Harry think of a hospital ward – and he was quite sure a number of the tomes were illegal. He was delighted.
The proprietress was a tall thin woman with long white hair and a Dumbledoresque glint of knowledge in her eye.
As Aidan browsed, Harry asked her on a whim, “Is there somewhere in town that sells very rare and possibly illegal – but fresh – potions ingredients?”
She looked him up and down slowly. “Harry Potter.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t you work for the Ministry?” Her voice was sweet and tart and crumbly at the same time, like lemon cake.
“I’ve heard that said.” Harry glanced as if idly about the shop.
She smiled, warily. “Illegal potions ingredients?”
“Possibly illegal,” he repeated. “It’s for … a friend.”
And Harry smiled, a little sadly. Friend. It wasn’t what he wanted, and that was too bad, but he’d take it.
The old woman directed him to a shop he’d never seen on a street he’d never seen – a street he was fairly sure hadn’t existed the last time he’d been in town, although you could never be sure with Hogsmeade. He picked up what he needed and returned to Polyglot’s as Aidan was leaving it, a bag of books under one arm.
“Am I going to have to confiscate any of those?” Harry asked.
Aidan nodded at the tiny wrapped parcel Harry was shoving into a robe pocket. “I might ask you the same question.”
Harry pretended to weigh the matter. “Let’s call it even.”
Aidan laughed. “Flourish & Blott’s next? I need some copy books.”
While Aidan paid for his stack of inexpensive copy books, Harry browsed the best-sellers section. There he saw “Defense Against the Dark Arts: A Study” by Aidan Muir.
“Oh,” Harry said, remembering, “I forgot to ask Severus if I could borrow his copy of your book.” He picked up a book out of the stack, figuring if Snape hadn’t burned his copy, it was probably worth having.
Aidan glanced at Harry. “He has a copy?”
Harry smiled. “He said it was … what was the word? Adequate?”
Aidan chuckled. “High praise indeed. But I should think if either you or Professor Snape ever decided to write a book about the Dark Arts, mine would be swiftly relegated to the rubbish bin.”
Harry shook his head. “Voldemort wasn’t the only sort of evil there is in the world.” A book. That was something he’d never thought about before. He’d actually enjoyed his brief stint of teaching Dumbledore’s Army, and he’d learned a lot about practical defense against the Dark Arts during the battle against Voldemort. He’d never considered putting the two together in paper and ink. He let the fancy tickle him as he paid for Aidan’s book.
When they left the shop, something small and black swooped down over them. They both ducked automatically, hands reaching for their wands until the thing swooped back and hooted at them.
“An owl,” Aidan said as the little beast hovered over Harry. Harry held out his hand and the owl came to rest on his forearm. It was bigger than Pigwidgeon but considerably smaller than Hedwig, with feathers of a fine sooty blackness. It eyed him thoughtfully, looked at Aidan, hooted at him, then scooted sideways up Harry’s arm as if to encourage him to take the tiny note strapped to its leg.
Harry handed his bag over to Aidan and performed the delicate spell that released the scrap of parchment (to do it manually would risk damaging the little owl – Harry’d learned the spell in order to deal with Ron’s Pig). The owl hopped above his elbow, gave him a gentle and surprising peck on the cheek, and flew back toward Hogwarts.
Harry grinned as he watched it go, then uncurled the note.
“Come see me. S.”
Puzzled but pleased, Harry stuck the scrap in his pocket and collected his shopping bag. “I have to get back.”
Aidan examined the look on Harry’s face and smiled. “Good news?”
Harry shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Are you done?”
“Before Honeydukes?” Aidan said. Harry chuckled.
“Perish the thought. I’ll see you later then.”
“Good luck, Harry,” Aidan called as Harry hurried off up the street.
* * *
