Chapter 3 — The Potions Partnership
Theo
The Potions classroom exuded a chill as unyielding as its ancient stone walls, the damp air heavy with the mingling scents of sulfur, crushed herbs, and damp stone. Flickering torchlight illuminated rows of battered wooden tables, their surfaces scarred by years of failed experiments and overzealous dueling. Shelves brimming with jars of peculiar ingredients loomed ominously on every wall, their contents suspended in viscous, faintly glowing liquids that seemed to shift under the dim light.
Theo leaned back in his usual seat, the cool, polished handle of the Obsidian Potion Dagger turning rhythmically in his fingers. The faint hum of its enchantment steadied him, the runes etched along the blade shimmering faintly. His sharp blue eyes flicked toward the blackboard, where Professor Snape’s spidery handwriting announced the task that had already set the room alight with whispers: *Pairs.*
The classroom buzzed with barely restrained energy, students murmuring and angling for advantageous partnerships. Theo neither moved nor spoke. He didn’t need to. His precision and reputation ensured that others sought him out—it was a game he never had to play himself. Yet today, there was an unease he couldn’t entirely suppress, a faint tension coiling under his skin.
“Theodore Nott,” Snape’s voice sliced through the murmurs, cool and deliberate, drawing immediate silence. “Miss Zabini.”
Theo’s grip on the dagger stilled.
The silence shifted, thickening with curiosity and disbelief. He turned his head slowly toward the far corner of the room, where Talia Zabini sat, poised and composed, her back straight and her hands resting lightly on the table. The greenish glow filtering from the enchanted sconces caught the warm undertones of her dark brown skin and gleamed on the Silver Serpent Ring twisting subtly between her fingers. Her hazel eyes, sharp and unflinching, locked onto his. There was no trace of hesitation in her gaze, only calm defiance, as if daring him to object.
Theo’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He returned his attention to the dagger, brushing his thumb over the runes with deliberate care. Control was everything. This was fine. He could handle this. Talia Zabini might have returned to Hogwarts with an air of confidence that drew every eye in the room, but she would not unsettle him. Not now. Not ever.
“It’s just for the year,” Theo muttered under his breath, sliding the dagger back into its sheath with a soft click. He ignored the faint, unfamiliar twist of unease in his chest, dismissing it as irrelevant.
---
Ten minutes later, he sat beside her.
The tables had been rearranged for paired work, forcing him into closer proximity than he would have liked. The air between them carried her scent—mint with a faint floral note that shouldn’t have been distracting but was. She moved with quiet precision, her hands arranging their tools in a manner so deliberate it demanded attention.
Theo focused on the instructions before them. A Calming Draught. Child’s play. His sharp blue eyes scanned the recipe, though his attention was drawn, unbidden, to Talia. She studied the instructions with the same calm efficiency she applied to everything, her lips pressed in a faint line of concentration. Then she turned to him, her voice measured and steady.
“Do you want to measure the Valerian root or chop the asphodel?”
Her tone carried a subtle edge—neutral yet firm, as though she had no intention of deferring to him. It irritated him.
“I’ll chop,” Theo replied curtly.
“Fine.” She didn’t look at him as she set the Valerian root on the scale and began to weigh it.
Her movements were precise, her hand steady on the weights. Too steady. It grated on him, though he couldn’t have said why.
“Your hand’s too tense,” Theo said suddenly, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Talia looked up sharply, one brow arching. “Excuse me?”
“Your grip,” he said, nodding toward the scale. “You’re overcorrecting. The weights will shift if you’re not careful.”
A flicker of irritation passed over her face, almost too fast to catch. Her composure returned instantly, her voice cool and cutting. “Thank you for the insight, but I assure you, I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” Theo replied, his tone measured, calculated. His father’s voice echoed in his mind: *Control the room. Control the game.*
Talia’s eyes narrowed, her gaze hardening. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Her words were quiet but definitive, and something tightened in his chest—something he couldn’t name. He forced the thought aside, turning his attention to the asphodel. The dagger hummed faintly as he sliced through the delicate roots, each piece falling into perfect, uniform slices. The vibrations under his fingertips were steady, soothing, a reminder of his precision, his control.
When he glanced at her again, he found her grinding the Valerian root in a mortar, her movements smooth and unhurried. Too smooth. Too unhurried. His gaze lingered on her hands—capable, unrelenting.
“We need to add the asphodel now,” she said without looking at him. “Clockwise into the cauldron.”
“I know,” he replied flatly.
A faint smirk curved her lips. “Just making sure.”
The tension between them simmered, unspoken but palpable. Their movements became a quiet, unacknowledged competition—his cuts more precise, her grinding more deliberate. Each step of the potion-making process felt like a silent chess match, their contrasting methods clashing and yet, infuriatingly, complementing each other.
Despite the friction, the potion began to take shape. The soft, luminous blue hue of the liquid shimmered faintly under the dim light, its surface smooth and flawless. Theo extinguished the flame beneath the cauldron, allowing himself a flicker of satisfaction. Perfection, as always.
He glanced at Talia, expecting some smug acknowledgment, but her gaze met his with calm confidence. She wasn’t triumphant, but she wasn’t rattled either. The dagger at his side vibrated faintly, a subtle pulse that set his teeth on edge. He wasn’t sure whether its warning was meant for her—or for him.
---
Snape’s black robes billowed faintly as he approached their table, his expression unreadable. He leaned over the cauldron, his dark eyes scanning the potion’s surface with a scrutinizing gaze. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.
“Well-executed,” Snape said, his voice cold and clipped. His gaze flicked between Theo and Talia, lingering briefly on the latter. “A promising start. Let’s hope it wasn’t a fluke.”
The faint smirk that tugged at Talia’s lips was subtle but unmistakable. Theo’s chest tightened as he watched the exchange. Snape’s approval was a familiar thing, something he’d earned time and time again. Yet now, it felt different. Uneasy.
Theo rose from his seat as soon as Snape moved on, his movements brisk. He didn’t wait for Talia, didn’t spare her a glance, though the faint scent of mint and floral lingered in his mind, stubbornly persistent.
As he strode toward the door, he caught snippets of her voice behind him—low and measured, mingling with Daisy Parkinson’s light laugh. The sound grated against him, not unpleasantly but enough to unsettle. His grip tightened on the dagger’s hilt, the runes pressing faintly into his palm.
For the first time in a long time, control felt fragile, like it was slipping through his fingers.
