Lethal Acid Weapons

The ratio of Bobotuber pus to Goosegrass was all wrong. I scowled down at the lurid green potion bubbling sluggishly on the table. I'd added too much Bobotuber pus, and it had completely overpowered the delicate Goosegrass. If I tried applying this potion on someone's skin, it wouldn't just eradicate their acne - it would burn a hole right through them.

Bobotuber pus was commonly used in acne medication - I wasn't doing anything groundbreaking in that respect - but I'd hoped to avoid its harsh drying effects through the addition of Goosegrass, a soothing plant used in many sleep draughts. If the potion succeeded, I'd add it to my line of improved skin care potions.

Obviously, though, something had gone wrong. The potion now smelled strongly of wet socks and released the occasional angry bubble. The students seated in the row in front of me looked back accusingly. I ignored their glares; they could handle a little stench.

Perhaps the potion just needed an extra kick. I ran to the front of the classroom, choosing a route that took me farthest away from Professor Slughorn. Halting before the large glass cupboard that contained the Potions ingredients, I chanced a glance over my shoulder. My classmates were still busy blindly replicating whatever mundane potion Slughorn had assigned, and the professor himself was busy fawning over a redheaded Gryffindor's potion.

Perfect.

Spying a large yellow flask of Honeywater (I only needed a little for this particular potion, but I could always use more Honeywater for my general supplies), I siphoned 200 mL to an empty glass vial and, corking it tightly, tucked the smaller vial into the wide sleeve of my robes. I considered the glittering array of ingredients and, sparing another glance over my shoulder, tucked several more important components into my sleeve. I was very careful to take only the ingredients Slughorn had in excess, making sure to space out my scavenging sessions over several classes.

Now to grab a decoy ingredient - I glanced back at the nearest table, resisting the urge to roll my eyes when I saw the hapless Gryffindor mutilating some Jobberknoll feathers. The brightly coloured feathers were often used in weaker truth serums, a much-tested component of N.E.W.T.s. Obviously, Slughorn was sticking closely to the standard curriculum. I supposed it made sense; N.E.W.T.s were only three months away, and all the professors were stuffing as much last-minute cramming in as they could.

I'd long since given up on following his directions, instead taking advantage of the valuable access to his supply closets and cauldrons to run my own experiments. Although my grades didn't show it, Potions was my favourite class.

I took a handful of Jobberknoll feathers and, pinning my other arm awkwardly across my chest to prevent my pilfered ingredients from crashing to the ground, walked carefully back to my seat in the row farthest from the front.

I halted meters away from my desk; my Potions partner, a skinny, freckly boy from Gryffindor, was peering into my cauldron, his robes hanging dangerously close to the hot liquid.

I cursed inwardly. I'd chosen the boy as my partner because he was undemanding and willing to sacrifice his Potions grade for a steady supply of my long lasting sobering draughts. Why did he have to become curious now? If his skin came in contact with the undiluted Bubotuber pus...images of prolonged questioning flooded my mind. Slughorn would have to report the incident, which would draw Dumbledore's attention...I shuddered at the thought of the inquisitive, odd Headmaster's attention. My fool of a partner could bring my whole business down with one move.

I caught myself wishing I were more adept at spells - if only I could whip out my wand and send him flying away from the cauldron with a quick hex - and hurriedly banished the thought. I didn't need fancy spells to rectify the situation. I'd gone seventeen and a half years without relying on my nonexistent magical capacities, and I wasn't about to start complaining now.

I hurriedly fished a small, gently fizzing vial of my modified Mopsus potion from my robes. It was my last vial of the valuable, telekinesis-granting potion and meant for emergencies, but the potential downfall of my painstakingly built potions business, which I'd named simply "W," warranted drastic measures. I downed the potion hurriedly and without notice (thank Merlin I'd chosen a seat in the very back). My mind cleared immediately, and I saw small, glowing white threads attached to everything within the room. While the unaltered Mopsus potion granted both temporary Seer-like abilities and telekinesis, I'd isolated the telekinetic benefits by negating the effects of the powdered Third Eye with shavings from a giant's big toe.

I reached out the arm not holding my pilfered ingredients and, concentrating intently, yanked the thread attached to my hapless Potions partner.

The Gryffindor jerked to the side, knocking over his stool in the process with a loud crash. The noise drew the attention of several students and, annoyingly enough, Professor Slughorn. The portly Potions professor began making his way to the back of the room, and I muttered a slew of foul curses. There was no way my bright green potion could pass as a failed attempt at the assigned truth serum. Even failed truth serums could only be either blue or brown due to the pigments from the Jobberknoll feathers.

I sighed inwardly, knowing that I would have to ruin this potion to continue my charade of incompetence. The Mopsus potion's effects were already wearing off, and I used the last few seconds of its duration to guide the whole contents of the Honeywater flask from my sleeve to the cauldron.

The flask split open upon contact with the angrily bubbling potion, and the excess Honeywater soon rendered the potion inert. Ignoring the groaning Gryffindor's prone body, I stared mournfully at the ruined potion, which was at least passably brown now, as Professor Slughorn finally reached the table.

He paused, wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell. "What in Merlin's beard - Miss Thorne, did you cut the feathers on the bias?"

I nodded eagerly, assuming an expression of dull confusion. "Yes, Professor. Why? Wasn't I supposed to do that?"

Slughorn sighed heavily, landing a heavy hand on my shoulder. I winced as the gesture jostled my arm, sending several of my concealed vials clinking against each other. Luckily, the professor was too busy waving his other hand in front of his nose to notice.

"You were supposed to slice them parallel to the shaft," he said. He sighed again and, taking his wand from his pocket, vanished the cauldron's contents.

"I'm afraid I will have to give you and Mr. McLaggen here a T for the day, Miss Thorne," he continued.

I nodded, looking contrite. He gave another sigh and, shaking his head, said, "Really, Miss Thorne. I was so gladdened by your remarkable improvement last year and hoped it would continue in this N.E.W.T. level course. Where has it gone?"

I stiffened. Last year, I'd risked notice by improving just enough to qualify for the high-level Potions class and the subsequent access to rarer ingredients, but all that was for nothing if Slughorn demoted me now. Luckily, Slughorn merely returned to the redheaded Gryffindor's table without another word, presumably trying to convince himself that all hope was not lost for the next generation.

The Gryffindor, who had gotten to his feet sometime during the encounter, elbowed me roughly.

"What was that for?" he whispered angrily.

I glanced at him. His curly, golden-brown hair was comically littered with snipped feathers, which rather detracted from his angry glare.

"You're lucky you still have your skin," I said coldly.

He blinked, his eyes widening as he turned to the empty cauldron. "Wh- my skin? I thought you would be brewing love potions or whatever; I didn't sign up for lethal acid weapons!"

I stared at him blankly until he fidgeted and looked away. "I was brewing a skin care potion, for your information. And don't worry; I'll throw in an extra vial of sobering draught in your next shipment."

He grumbled for another moment before finally nodding. He turned back to the Quidditch diagrams he was studying underneath the table, and I drew my battered experiment log from my messenger bag. There were only fifteen minutes left in the class - not enough time to brew even the simplest of cough potions. So, instead of chopping up more ingredients, I slid my pilfered ingredients into my bag and, taking out a battered quill, began scrawling notes on the page marked "Milder Blotch-B-Gone - status: BETA."

"Willa!"

A short fifth year with wildly curly blonde hair burst through the heavy wooden door leading into my secluded and previously private potions laboratory. She skidded to a stop just inches before the long wooden table that took up most of the small room.

She stared at me expectantly.

I tried focusing on chopping the slender Asphodel roots but found myself unable to continue when the she-nuisance began tapping on the table.

"What?" I asked finally, setting down my silver knife. I'd learned from fifteen years of living with the she-nuisance that Lucy wouldn't leave until I humoured her. Even the Room of Requirement couldn't keep her out, as evidenced by her troublesome presence. Besides, the Asphodel didn't need to be added for another three minutes, and I could cut the root in twenty seconds flat.

She grinned triumphantly.

"I have a new conquest!" she declared, twirling a silken lock around her index finger. Honestly, sometimes I wondered how we even shared the same mother. We certainly looked different enough; while Lucy had our mother's colouring and had soft curves, I had my father's dark complexion and athletic build. Lucy was beautiful; Mother always lamented her short stature, for it meant Lucy couldn't follow in her footsteps as a runway model. I was "regal" at a very kind best, as I'd inherited a decidedly odd combination of my mother and father's features. My strong jaw, hooded eyes, and square cheekbones came presumably from my father. My broad forehead, full upper lip, and arched brows came from my mother. While individually the features might have been pleasant, when combined they merely looked...disjointed. Jarring, even.

Still, at least I had enough magic to qualify for enrollment at Hogwarts. I might not be able to perform the simplest of spells, but at least now I knew enough to know that I could achieve magic through means other than my almost-useless wand. Besides, as long as I had enough magic to power my potions, I was fine. I didn't need to cast fancy spells to be a witch.

Lucy coughed impatiently, bringing me back to our conversation.

I frowned, trying to recall the last conversation we'd had; hadn't there been talk of a potential candidate in Slytherin?

"Is it that guy in my House? You know, the tall one? Er - black hair? Quiet?" I asked. I picked up the knife and resumed chopping; once she started, Lucy was hard to stop. I'd long since learned to multitask.

I slid the asphodel root (that had been a challenge to obtain; I'd needed to bribe three separate students with the last of my sobering draught) into the potion, ignoring the slight numbing sensation the juice left on my hands. Now I just needed to wait forty-two seconds before adding the next ingredient. I peered into the thick contents of the cauldron, my thick black hair a sweaty, sticky mess.

Lucy shrugged. "Regulus? I've moved on." She picked up a faintly glowing glass vial and, examining it gingerly, wrinkled her freckled nose.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Careful. It's venemous," I muttered, still staring intently at the bubbling potion. The vial contained my only supply of Venemous Tentacula sap, and if she spilled it on herself it would take weeks for me to locate a student gullible or desperate enough to get another one for me.

She set the vial down carefully on the wooden table. "Be honest - did you say that because you were worried about my health or because you didn't want to risk a loss of a valuable potion ingredient?" she said.

I gave her an assessing glance.

"Health, of course," I said blandly.

She rolled her eyes, but her full lips arched into a reluctant smile.

"Anyway, I am officially going to Hogsmeade with Melinda Ashby!" she declared.

I had no idea who that was, but then again, I could name very few people at Hogwarts. The students were background distractions, only noteworthy if they could be used to help my budding potions business. I knew Lucy only because she was my half sister. I knew Dumbledore because he was the Headmaster and thus the biggest threat to my admittedly illicit business. The rest, if they were not potential customers, were unimportant.

"Who's she?"

Lucy huffed. "Only the fittest of the Hufflepuff fifth years!" she exclaimed.

"You're superficial," I observed, not for the first time.

She stuck out her tongue. "You're boring."

I considered her statement clinically. Personally, I thought it woefully unfair, but then again, Lucy's definition of "boring" probably differed from mine.

I grabbed the vial and, tapping the cauldron three times with my wand, dumped the jar's contents into the gurgling green mixture. The potion immediately released a foul-smelling plume of sickly purple smoke. Lucy, who had come around the table's corner to watch, leaped backwards, her face now dusted with violet powder. I ignored her and the faintly stinging powder which also coated my face, instead muttering a string of incantations as I stirred the potion counterclockwise.

"Tergeo," I heard Lucy mutter to my side.

Two more stirs should do it -

Her ivory wand poked into my peripheral vision.

One more -

"Tergeo," she repeated. The haze of purple coating my eyes and the uncomfortable itching vanished immediately, which was convenient. My hand, however, jerked automatically, which was decidedly inconvenient. Infuriating, really, as the erratic movement counted as an extra stir, thus rendering the potion - a more potent variation of the Venemous Tentacula Juice that I'd been developing for weeks - worthless.

The potion let out a mournful burble before turning a dull grey-black, and I imagined I could hear the pitiful cries of all those hours of hard work emanate from the dark contents.

I stared blankly at the failed potion. I could feel the pressure of Lucy's worried gaze, but I couldn't deal with her right now. Already I could feel the rage simmer in my veins, my mouth itching to expel vitriol. I'd had a nasty temper for as long as I could remember. It came suddenly and with a vengeance, a plague that had pushed away everyone but Lucy. I was stuck in a constant cycle of inflicting pain and regret.

I knew exactly what words would hurt her most - I would target her intelligence first, say that she was too dumb to do anything but chase other people around, that she was always trailing after others. Then I would say I'd seen her new conquest - Melinda Ashby - with some guy earlier today. I'd end the whole hurtful tirade with a particularly potent barb at her relationship with our mother. All of it would be untrue. All of it would succeed in making her cry.

I couldn't look at her. She would have that pitiful, tentative expression in her eyes, and that would make me either hug her or attack her. I didn't know which option I would take so, wheeling away from the destroyed potion, I strode out of the Room of Requirement, my robes still smelling strongly of Venemous Tentacula sap.

Author Note: i have 0 self control, which resulted in this. I actually wrote this chapter over a year ago but didn't want to publish anything until I'd completed writing my other OC-centric fic, Of Claws and Talons. Thank you all for reading! Reviews are always appreciated c;