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carewyncromwell · 1 year

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“You can paint me any color,

And I can be your clown,

But you ain’t got my number --

No, you can’t pin me down!”

~“Can’t Pin Me Down” by Marina and the Diamonds

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includes references to Adelia Selwyn @thatravenpuffwitch; Atticus Grimsley and Montelimar Bloom @cursebreakerfarrier; Orla Atkinson @nightmaresart; Io Gordon @drinkyoursoupbitch; and Siyana Devonshire @dat-silvers-girl! 💚

x~x~x~x

Aesop Sharp was not a man completely devoid of patience. One truly couldn’t hope to teach anyone -- or even to stay sane, dealing with students like Garreth Weasley on the regular -- if they didn’t have a little of it. But when it came to dealing with fifth year Slytherin Jackson Knightly, Sharp found himself incredibly frustrated.

Jackson had been a late arrival to Potions class when he arrived at Hogwarts for his second year, just like one of Sharp’s personal favorite students, fellow Slytherin Adelia Selwyn. Unlike his best friend, though, Jackson was not at all attuned to Potions. Not only was he enough of a troublemaker that he was perfectly willing to smuggle ingredients to the likes of Garreth Weasley on a whim, he very frequently neglected to take brews off the fire before they exploded or forgot crucial steps in the middle of brewing. Sharp would frequently remind Jackson to stop daydreaming in class (which he was very prone to do), but rather than it snapping the boy back to any sort of attention or making him reflect on doing better, he would almost inevitably lose focus again, not long after Sharp moved on. And the last thing Aesop Sharp wanted to be was a bloody nanny.

When Sharp spoke to his colleague and Slytherin’s Head of House, Abraham Ronen, about his frustrations, Ronen merely laughed.

“Ah, Aesop,” he said jovially, “you have not taught students as long as I have. Young Jackson’s behavior is truly nothing out of the ordinary. Many a student has found themselves more able to focus on those things they have personal investment in over those things that don’t spark their imagination. I would think a fellow Slytherin alumnus such as yourself would be very attuned to that.”

“I am already very well aware of how much Mr. Knightly prefers your teaching style to mine,” said Sharp very coolly. “He is definitely your kind of student. But I am not about to start playing Gobstones with bottles of Shrinking Solution just to try to earn a single student’s favor -- and Mr. Knightly should learn to see the value in all of his classes, however lacking of entertainment he may find them to be.”

Ronen gave Sharp a pat to the shoulder. “Of course. It behooves him, and all of our students, to learn how to work well with a wide array of people. But you know, even we professors need to re-learn that too, once in a while...sometimes through students we find challenging to teach.”

A flicker of amusement seemed to dance in the older man’s eye.

“You say Jackson is my kind of student -- and yes, for certain he is. Talented, amiable, excitable, curious...incredibly witty, and yet surprisingly sensitive -- I’d say Eleazar and Madam Kogawa are just as fond of the boy as I am, and they’re not even his Head of House! But truly, I think you might find Jackson’s a very promising student in his own way...perhaps even in your class. Why, if even Atticus Grimsley can find it in his heart to like Jackson as a student, despite all the trouble he gets up to outside of class, surely you could.”

Sharp was skeptical of this thought process until the day following the invigorating Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor that spring. The Potionsmaster himself had not been present at the Pitch -- he’d had much more pressing matters to research in the Hogwarts library -- but he heard the school matron, Noreen Blainey, complaining to Ronen about it the following morning at breakfast.

“ -- poor boy got that hexed Bludger straight to the face, Professor! It broke his nose in five places! And yet he’s absolutely refused to come to me for treatment!”

“Jackson seems to be doing better now, Madam,” Ronen tried to soothe her, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“Only because he’s off brewing his own Wiggenweld Potions to mask the damage! He barely avoided getting knocked unconscious! That damage undoubtedly went below the surface. And yet somehow Mr. Knightly managed to slip right out from under everyone in the stands before they could send him to me, polished himself up, and now he’s cheerfully acting like he’s fine, despite barely being able to see straight!”

Ronen frowned. “Hm...perhaps I can convince Jackson to get a full physical exam. I’m certain if we emphasize our concern for his well-being -- ”

“Concern!” scoffed the nurse. “Unlikely! That boy wouldn’t even come to me for help when he got burned by Streeler venom, Professor. He’s almost as stubborn as Aesop Sharp, when it comes to accepting professional Healing advice...”

Sharp couldn’t help but cock his eyebrows very coolly at that, but ultimately chose not to join the conversation. It had made some gears turn in his head as it was, so he decided to dwell on the matter alone over breakfast.

Jackson Knightly brewing his own Wiggenweld Potions? Now that seemed thoroughly unlikely. Knightly had never been so competent to brew a potion he could safely ingest without proper oversight. It had to have been Miss Selwyn who helped him with it -- or perhaps Montelimar Bloom: the Ravenclaw did have a tendency to come to Jackson’s rescue, when he was in trouble. Even Bloom’s best friend Orla Atkinson was well known at being talented with healing magic...

Sharp’s eyes flitted over to the Slytherin table absently. He could see Adelia Selwyn and Jackson’s dormmates, Ominis Gaunt and Sebastian Sallow, sitting there -- even Gryffindor’s Beater, Io Gordon, had apparently left her own table to go over and talk to Adelia -- but no Jackson Knightly...

His left eyebrow raising with interest, Sharp sidled to his feet carefully, before trudging out of the Great Hall and back toward the stairs leading down to the dungeons.

Blasted leg, Sharp cursed inwardly. His lack of agility would never not irritate the ex-Auror -- he would’ve loved it if he could just Apparate up and down to different floors without climbing so many damned stairs, but the magic within the school’s walls was far too powerful to allow for that.

Eventually, though, Sharp did make it back to his classroom -- and as soon as he arrived, his sharp ears immediately perked up when he picked out the distinctive sound of something bubbling in a cauldron.

Well, that could easily end in disaster, being attempted by the wrong student.

The image of Garreth Weasley blowing up his third potion that month rippled over Sharp’s mind.

Reflecting back on his old stealth training, the ex-Auror sidled into the classroom as quietly as he possibly could with his clunky leg, easing the door open so carefully that it didn’t give the slightest creak. When his eyes landed on the workstation being used, however, Sharp was a bit startled by what he found.

It was indeed Jackson Knightly. But rather than being in the company of someone helping him, he was working completely on his own, his back to Sharp as he counted out three -- four -- five lionfish spines, and then dropped them one by one into the cauldron. He kept glancing at the potion off-and-on, humming something absently, as he poured himself a cup of tea from a nearby teapot and mixed in some sugar. Once the potion had turned yellow, he tossed in five more spines, as well as some flobberworm mucus. Then Jackson sipped his tea, still humming absently, as he watched the potion turn purple.

Sharp stood in the door frame, his arms crossed, as he silently watched Jackson work. The Slytherin was in his own little world during the entire process -- eating toast, drinking tea, and even reading out of a tiny book that couldn’t possibly be for Potions while waiting for certain reactions to take place -- but he still did every step perfectly, all seemingly from memory. There were definitely points, though, where Jackson had to pause in the middle, close his eyes, and massage his temple as he took deep breaths -- clearly his head was still hurting him.

Sharp didn’t make himself known until Jackson took the potion off the fire at last. Once the potion had started to cool, he actually brought his hands together in a slow clap.

Jackson looked up, startled, as Sharp approached.

“A perfectly brewed Wiggenweld Potion,” said the Potionsmaster.

Despite being taken aback by his sudden audience, Jackson very quickly put on a big grin and gave a sweeping bow.

“To earn a ‘perfect’ assessment from you is high praise indeed, Master Sharp,” the fifteen-year-old said with a dashing smirk.

“Indeed,” Sharp said airily. “I would hardly have believed it of you, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

The professor’s brows were raised high over his eyes as he considered Jackson a bit more carefully. There wasn’t any cosmetic damage to his face -- but true to what the school matron had said, Jackson’s blue eyes looked slightly unfocused and lacking of light. That lack of consciousness was something Sharp recognized immediately as indicative of a mild head injury.

“...You should take a seat,” Sharp said lowly. “Ingesting anything is best done in a seated position.”

Jackson gave a laugh. “Not when one is drinking one of these on the Dueling Field! My dear Lala -- Orla Atkinson, you know -- she gets competitive enough as it is. If I took the time to sit down and have fairy cakes with my potions, I reckon I’d have to ingest even more of both, once she was done with me!”

The brown-haired boy acted as flippant as ever as he wandered around the table to fetch his teacup. He played off the slight stumble in his step, as well as the slight clumsiness to his settling himself down on the edge of his workstation. Carefully ladling some of his finished potion out of his cauldron and into his half-finished tea, he then gave a long sip from the cup, exhaling lowly as he lowered the ladle and rubbed his temple. Then he plastered a smile back on as he addressed Sharp.

“Would you care for some tea yourself, Professor?” asked Jackson politely. “I borrowed the recipe from my sweetest little unicorn, Miss Devonshire, and it really is sublime...”

“No, thank you,” said Sharp.

“Oh, come now!” Jackson egged him on. “It’s still early morning -- I would think a cup of masala chai would be a good way to start the day off right.”

Sharp cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps it would -- if it were being enjoyed in the Great Hall, with the rest of one’s breakfast. But you seem to have neglected that.”

Jackson shrugged.

“Wasn’t feeling quite my best,” he said offhandedly. “But no matter -- I’ll be feeling right as rain, with a bit more of this -- ”

He ladled some more of the Wiggenweld Potion into his teacup. Sharp’s lips knit together.

“It might take a stronger potion than that to deal with the aftermaths of a concussion, young man.”

Jackson’s smile flickered ever-so-slightly as Sharp sidled clumsily across the room over to his desk.

“Oh, it -- it’s not nearly as bad as all that,” said Jackson, trying to keep the smile on despite how weak it suddenly seemed. He put down his teacup on the tray at his workstation. “I’ve dealt with far worse than this. Broken bones, glass embedded in my feet, Streeler venom...even got thrown head-first into a stone wall once, and I’m still standing! Dare I say, perhaps better than ever!”

His mouth spread into a brighter white smile. The Slytherin boy’s voice strangely didn’t come across as arrogant or blustering, however -- instead, it seemed almost reassuring: as if he wanted to comfort his professor so he wouldn’t worry.

Sharp, however, was blunt in his response.

“You may dispense with the pretenses, Knightly -- you’re not as good of an actor as you think you are.”

Jackson actually couldn’t help but pout at this.

“Bad form, sir,” he said rather coolly. “Insult my potionmaking, by all means, but to insult my performance ability overall? That is supremely ungentlemanly.”

Sharp actually couldn’t bite back a small smirk of his own. “I have been called worse things.”

Once he eased himself down in his chair, Sharp rested his hands on his desk, clasping them together as he regarded Jackson with a more serious expression.

“...You seem to know this particular brew quite well, to recall all of the steps from memory.”

The professor’s eyes flitted down to the book left open at Jackson’s station. As he’d thought, it wasn’t a book of Potions notes -- it instead seemed to be a book of poetry, judging by the few words he could make out upside down.

Jackson gave another shrug and offhand smile. “Well, as they say, practice makes perfect.”

“Indeed -- for you to brew it so well, it’s clear you’ve practiced quite frequently. Undoubtedly out of a necessity for it.”

Jackson’s dashing white smile became a bit cheekier. “What can I say? Trouble is a friend I run into quite often.”

“I’m well aware,” said Sharp coolly.

He paused. Then, after a moment, he said stridently,

“For the injury you’ve sustained, however, I do not think a Wiggenweld Potion alone would heal the damage.”

Jackson opened his mouth as if to speak, but Sharp cut him off.

“And since it’s rather obvious that you don’t wish a Healer’s input on what treatment would be suitable...allow me to, at the very least, give you some advice on what potion would be a better solution.”

The Potions professor eased himself up and out of his chair, awkwardly stomping over to his own station at the head of the class.

“Follow me,” he said brusquely.

Startled, Jackson got to his feet. He was frozen for only a moment, before he’d hurriedly rushed over to walk right alongside Sharp like a shadow. When Sharp reached his station, Jackson’s focus was abruptly drawn to the other side of the room.

“Your attention, please, Kn -- ”

Before Sharp could finish, though, Jackson had flung out his hand, and in an instant, the closest stool had glided across the room and into his open hands.

Sharp’s mouth was left slightly open, as Jackson brought the stool right up behind his professor with a smile.

“Here, sir,” he said, his charming face betraying some genuine kindness. “Allow me.”

Sharp stared down at the fifteen-year-old boy. Then he very quickly cleared his throat.

“...Ahem -- yes. Thank you.”

He sat down on the stool. Jackson then summoned one wandlessly for himself and positioned it next to Sharp’s.

“How long have you been able to summon things without a wand?” asked Sharp.

Jackson smiled brightly. “Quite a while, actually -- since I was ten, at least. Maybe even nine. I was right on the cusp when I first learned I had magic, you see. I’m not quite as good at wandless Charms as I am with Transfiguration, though -- conjuring flowers and doves is what I did most, in those days...”

Sharp’s eyebrows were rather high as he took this in.

“I know it can be kind of dangerous, to not use a wand to channel your magic,” Jackson said amiably. “Professor Weasley’s warned me of that, a few times, what with the risk of becoming an Obscurus and all. But...well, I was solely among Muggles, back then. Didn’t exactly have the means to go out and buy myself a proper wand, let alone any spellbooks. Truth be told, I....didn’t even own a wand until I returned to Britain, in time for my second year at Hogwarts. And truly, I am very fond of my wand -- she’s a most lovely thing. I just sometimes fall back on old habits.”

Wandless magic at only nine years old? Not only that, but wandless conjuration -- one of the most difficult branches of Transfiguration, largely set aside for students approaching the NEWT level? Despite himself, Sharp was actually rather impressed.

“...Hm. Well...if you can muster up the proper attention span, you could always speak to Professor Onai about such things. Uagadou is well known for teaching its students the art of wandless magic.”

Sharp turned to his station.

“Now, then -- watch closely. This brew is called the Syrup of Asphodel. It’s actually rather simple in its ingredients, but you will have to grind the asphodel root down to a fine powder and mix everything in just the right order, for it to be effective...”

Sharp stopped talking and set to work straight away. In the beginning, he could sense Jackson watching him -- before long, though, the boy once again seemed to drift off, his eyes gliding away toward the far corner of the room.

“Pay attention, Knightly,” said Sharp. “I don’t intend to demonstrate this twice.”

“My apologies, sir,” said Jackson.

Despite this, though, his blue eyes once again were drawn to the unfinished tea service at his station.

“...Sir?”

“What is it?”

“Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea? I should think the potionmaking process would be a lot more enjoyable, if one partook in some tea in the midst of it...”

“I’m in no need of distractions, Mr. Knightly,” said Sharp airily, “and truthfully, neither are you. You get distracted enough in my class without adding a pot of tea to the mix.”

Jackson frowned slightly.

“Perhaps...” he granted. “But you said yourself that I brewed a perfect Wiggenweld Potion, while I was indulging in just such a cup of tea. And reading some lovely poems, for that matter.”

Sharp paused in his work to glance at Jackson out the side of his eye. The fifteen-year-old had taken out his wand and used it to levitate the tea service a bit more gently over to a table closer by.

“Forgive my impertinence, Professor,” said the Slytherin teenager as he got up and started fussing with his tea set, while still glancing over his shoulder toward Sharp at his station, “but for me, such ‘distractions’ as you call them are not a hindrance. My mind is prone to wander, as you know -- ”

Sharp gave a low, amused snort at the gross understatement.

“ -- but one thing that prevents that, for me, is constant action,” Jackson pressed on, unabashed. “Channeling my energy into physical activity -- even if it’s simply indulging in a cup of tea or parsing through works of Edgar Allan Poe -- ”

He summoned the book of poetry over to him with another wave of his wand, opening it to a certain page and perusing it before he returned his focus to Sharp’s station again.

“ -- I suppose it anchors me in the here and now, as it were. It gives me a reason to stay here, on the ground -- multiple reasons, in fact, all of which interest me. Whereas such austere silence -- complete stillness and undivided focus...it makes my mind restless. Like a dog being asked to walk around on two legs. It feels unnatural -- makes me prone to twitch about, just to try to get comfortable. And sooner or later, whoosh -- off I go toward a more exciting daydream, and all focus is gone.”

Massaging his sore temple a bit more with one hand, Jackson nonetheless beamed over his shoulder at Sharp.

“I confess -- it saddens me greatly that I lose my focus so easily in your class. You do so seem to love your subject.”

“How kind,” Sharp said coolly. With a tired sigh, he said, “Very well. I shall continue my work on this potion, while you do whatever you feel you must, to stay engaged. But as I said, I have no intention of demonstrating this twice -- so if your method of ‘anchoring’ yourself proves ineffective in helping you internalize my lesson, then that’s solely on your own head.”

Jackson grinned. “Understood, sir.”

And so Sharp continued brewing his potion. As he did, he could once again feel Jackson’s eyes on him, though rather intermittently, since the boy was also rifling through the book of poems, cleaning out spare potion bottles with his wand, and brewing a fresh pot of tea as he watched. At some points, Jackson even asked questions -- good ones, to Sharp’s surprise.

“When doubling such a recipe, would one simply double the ingredients, or just the amount of salt water? If one considers the potential for asphodel poisoning.”

“You would add a pinch more root for every three drops of salt water,” Sharp answered.

“And the best way to safely amplify the potion’s effects?”

“Add a half cup of dittany. It’s a resilient enough plant to not curdle in the face of asphodel when mixed in, and yet it’s soothing enough to not actively conflict with its effects.”

Jackson looked thoughtful. “Hm...would a pinch of ginger not conflict? Ginger’s supposed to be good for one’s digestion -- it might help make the tonic a bit more palatable.”

Sharp glanced back at Jackson over his shoulder with some interest.

“...Not a bad suggestion,” he said.

After a few minutes, Sharp finished off the potion and began to empty the contents of his cauldron into a vial. As he did, Jackson dropped off the second of the cups of tea he’d poured out down on Sharp's desk, not far away from the station he was working at.

“Here you are, sir,” he said politely.

“And there you are,” Sharp said crisply. With the potion vial full, he held it out for Jackson to take. “Syrup of Asphodel -- made up of nothing but salt water and, as one can expect, powdered root of asphodel. Do you remember how many drops of salt water one requires?”

“Three per dosage,” Jackson said promptly.

“And how many times did I stir this potion?” asked Sharp, as he lumbered back over to his desk.

Jackson considered this. He seemed to be counting in his own head.

“Let’s see...once when I sat down, twice before I lost focus -- three when I did. Four after I summoned the tray -- five, six...seven when I reread Lenore -- eight, nine...nine, yes, I believe it was nine?”

“Correct,” said Sharp. He placed his hand down on the desk so as to ease himself down into his chair. “Clockwise or counterclockwise?”

Jackson’s eyes drifted up toward the ceiling thoughtfully. “...All clockwise except for the first and last two.”

“Very good,” said Sharp, and indeed, he did sound rather pleased. “It seems there truly is a method to get you to pay attention to my lessons.”

Jackson grinned that bit more mischievously. “Glad to hear you’ll be more indulgent of me inviting my friend Lord Byron to class with me in the future, Professor!”

“Don’t push your luck,” Sharp said airily. “I’m still not thoroughly convinced this wasn’t some sort of practical joke on your part.”

His impish grin spreading that bit more, Jackson brought the vial up to his lips and downed its contents. Within seconds, he shuddered, but the breath he exhaled was full to the brim with relief and relaxation.

“...Ahhh...” he sighed happily as he brought a hand up to his forehead. “Oh, that does feel better...”

Sharp nodded in satisfaction. “Good to hear it.”

Jackson washed the potion down with the rest of his tea before turning to Sharp with a visibly more relaxed smile.

“Thank you for your time, sir,” he said. “And your lesson -- they’re both greatly appreciated.”

“You’re welcome,” said Sharp. “Now don’t you have some other lessons to get to? One thing I’ve learned is that however poor one’s health may be, one can’t easily justify not going to class, if he intends to not rest in the Hospital Wing.”

Jackson laughed. “No, I jolly well suppose not.”

Sharp indicated the door with a nod of his head. “Off you go, then.”

As Jackson made as if to go, though, he paused in the door frame and looked back with an odd, almost compassionate expression.

“...Sir, I really think you should try the chai,” he said gently. “Miss Devonshire recommended it to me for pain relief. Muggle remedy it might be...I would think it still might soothe some of the pain in your leg.”

Sharp paused. His dark eyes flitted down to the cup of tea in front of him to back up at the kindly boy in his door frame.

Then, very slowly, the Potions professor’s gaze seemed to lose some of its edge. It made his features look much less critical than before, though no less discerning.

“...Mm. I see.”

Sharp gave Jackson a muted incline of his head.

“...Thank you.”

Jackson’s face spread into a bright, charming white grin as he swept out of the room and back up the stairs at a run. Sharp himself also found himself smirking ever-so-slightly once he’d disappeared from view.

Jackson Knightly was certainly not his type of student -- but, Sharp had to admit as he picked up the cup of masala chai and silently enjoyed the soothing scent and taste of the brew -- he was a promising one, all the same. So long as he actually applied himself properly.