The Tree of Blacks (English version)

Childhood Notes

29 March, 1977. Hogwarts, Potions classroom.

The cell where Professor Slughorn's boring lessons were held was undoubtedly the gloomiest and coldest classroom in all of Hogwarts. Alya was used to the damp, pungent air that hovered in the dungeons, but when she crossed the doorstep of the Potions dungeon her mood reached the lowest levels. Being surrounded by that jumble of granguignolous ampoules and dusty flasks made her blood run cold with disgust. Not to mention the sense of claustrophobia, caused by the dark, narrow perimeters that bordered the room.

However, in recent times Alya had to admit that Slughorn's lessons, though hopelessly long-winded and tedious, had seemed more bearable to her. The explanations sounded magically comprehensible to her, managing to keep up as the lecturer expounded definitions of ingredients and procedures on difficult distillates.

Perhaps, it had been thanks to a certain dishevelled Gryffindor, who had taken such an interest in the plight of the potion-denied Slytherin.

The fact was that Alya had improved considerably in the last few weeks, even in practical performance. An improvement that had not gone unnoticed even by Slughorn.

The concoctions prepared by the young Black were still far from perfection, yet the jovial, pot-bellied professor had not spared himself in muttering shy compliments to her beneath his ever-well-groomed walrus moustache as he made his rounds between the desks.

On those occasions, Alya instinctively cast victorious glances at James, who in turn didn't fail to respond with proud, encouraging smiles.

In particular, the last Tuesday morning in March had turned out to be much more fun than usual, by the haughty Slytherin's low standards. Not only because of the growing satisfaction at her progress in the subject that had always made her struggle, but also - and above all - because of the goliardic shows that James and Sirius had put on. Well aware of the euphoria that had blossomed among the Slytherins over the bloody accident that had claimed Potter's hand, the two Gryffindors had not missed the opportunity to make known, in their own way, the perfect state of health of the Hogwarts Quidditch champion. James's hand was totally healed and he was more ready than ever to take the field, chasing Golden Snitches.

For the entire hour, Potter did nothing but ask Sirius to borrow any kind of tool or ingredient he could think of. In response, his faithful companion was careful to pass them to him in the normal way, resorting instead to acrobatic throws over their counters. James then performed athletic and jerky catches, worthy of a real circus show. Every time he masterfully caught a vial or a scroll for notes, the talented Gryffindor Seeker would wave his right hand emphatically, as if waving to a cheering crowd in the stands, while Sirius applauded enthusiastically.

Soon, the concentration of the class became as evanescent as the fumes rising from the cauldrons. The Slytherins, feeling outraged, muttered sour insults under their breath, without hiding a note of disappointment as they realised that their opponent's hand now bore not even the shadow of a scratch. Snape, in particular, seemed to be in the throes of quite an attack of bile. Intolerant of Potter's clear provocations, the greasy-haired Slytherin stood hunched over his cauldron more than ever, his nose immersed in the vapours it puffed.

But no matter how hard Snape tried to hide his anger, Alya couldn't help but notice how Sanpe's usually yellowish face had taken on creepy, greenish hues.

To calm their spirits, Slughorn was forced to intervene.

"Black! Potter! Give it a rest. This is a classroom, not a Quidditch pitch, for Merlin's beard!" he ranted angrily, trying to unravel the general distraction that had invaded the classroom.

The two Gryffindors obeyed, instantly putting an end to their impromptu little show. They looked at Slughorn contritely and guiltily, but exchanged a furtive, complicit glance that did not bode well.