January 9, 1895 — High Street, Near the Apothecary
@"Effie Clarke" Elias Grimstone

It was a good thing that there was an apothecary in Hogsmeade and in London, because Harry thought he was liable to clear out one of their stock if he only had one at his disposal. He did like to be well-stocked, considering how many potions he made--both for client and for his own, personal experiments. Harry wasn't quite on a first name basis with the shopkeepers--he'd been raised better than that--but it did feel sometimes that he saw them more frequently than friends he was on such close terms with.

He was exiting the apothecary, provisions in hand and headed down the street when he saw a friend walking in his direction, as if summoned by his thoughts. To be fair, Harry was the sort of person who managed to somehow run into people he knew practically everywhere he went. It was a skill. "Good afternoon!" he greeted. "Running errands?"

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set by Bee! <3

“Harry Berkwood!” Effie said, shedding the slightly stern, lost-in-thought expression she had previously been wearing as she walked towards the apothecary and tried to avoid the other passers-by. But Mr. Berkwood was not to be counted among them; he had become an easy friend to have, someone she knew what to expect from. (Unpredictability, usually – he was an odd boy with no sense of health and safety, to say the least – but Effie liked him in spite of this.)

“Just the person I need, actually,” she added, matter-of-factly. “I’ve been a fool and signed up to the potions tournament later this month. I hope you have?” (He must have, surely: it was his career. So it would actually be sensible for him to have, not audacious as it had been for her. When had she last brewed a potion, even?)

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"Of course I have," Harry said easily. He was nothing if not predictable, even he could admit that. Though it was a toss up on whether he'd signed up for the competition because he wanted to show off or because he would have to be physically barred in order to not participate in anything potions related. "What can I help with?"

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set by Bee! <3

Of course he had! And he would stand a good chance, she imagined. “Can you make me an expert potioneer before the end of the month?” Effie intoned, with a rueful grin. No, she did not need quite that much – she was in the Ladies’ bracket, at least, so she would settle for a competent one. “Or, failing that – perhaps help me work out which potions are likely to come up?” She assumed he was the fount of all potions knowledge, so his guesses would be far more educated than hers.

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Harry grinned. "Absolutely," he said. "Or, yes, I can help you prepare at least." He chuckled. Harry actually really enjoyed helping other people with their potions--for someone who was as intense about the subject as he was, he was remarkably patient with other people. If Professor Valenduris ever actually retired, Harry thought he might like teaching the subject at Hogwarts. Still, that was a ways off. "Are you going in for the Hobbyists or the Ladies'?" he asked.

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set by Bee! <3

He seemed willing enough, for which she was grateful. She would not trust Harry with much else, but in potions she supposed being in his hands was as safe as one could be. (Evident professional that he was, she was still a little wary of how many explosions she suspected he faced on a day-to-day basis.)

“The Ladies,” Effie answered, with a rueful little grimace – she had a better shot in that than in hobbyists, but she also was not much enthused about going up against a crowd of debutantes and socialites who were probably all more refined and proficient than she was, even in potions. “So I suppose it might even serve me better if the judges suppose us all incapable fools. What do you think they shall have us brewing?”

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Harry snorted. "Nothing like a chance to prove people wrong," he said. If it wasn't also so frustrating, Harry might think it was worth it to have people underestimate you sometimes. "I hate to say it, but you might want to brush up on beginner potions." He made a face--at the implications, of course, not at the potions themselves. Harry, of course, personally enjoyed brewing potions of all difficulty levels. Because of course he did.

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set by Bee! <3

Effie mirrored his pulled-face, grateful that Harry could be trusted to think highly enough of the supposed fairer sex to imagine them mildly capable of things. Or low enough of Potions tournament organisers. Either way. She smiled ruefully, less confident than him that she would actually manage to prove anyone wrong (though she would like to, for the feminist cause).

“There goes my Felix Felicis practice,” Effie joked – not that she would begin to know where to start with that. “So when you say beginner – do you think I ought to dig out my Potions textbook from third year? Or first year?” She was only partly joking this time.

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"First through third, I'd imagine," Harry said. "There are some interesting potions in there, at least." There were, in fact, a lot of very practical potions meant for beginners that Harry could make with his eyes closed. But "practical" was usually a good thing, in his experience.

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set by Bee! <3

Effie nodded, content to take any whiff of advice he might have as gospel here. “Perfect. Though, one more question –” she added, with a slight grin, “Is there a single potion in existence that our Mr. Berkwood doesn’t find interesting?”

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Harry laughed. "Good point," he said. "I'm not the most impartial on the topic." There were two kinds of potions--the ones Harry liked, and the ones Harry had not attempted yet. "Hopefully they give you something you like, too. I wish you luck."

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set by Bee! <3

“Thanks for your help, Harry,” Effie said, having relaxed into informality with him as she had teased him; she was not sure she was any less nervous about having to brew a potion in front of witnesses, but she would take all the wishes of good luck she could get. (And hopefully Harry would still be her friend afterwards even if she proved a hapless potioneer.)

“You , of course, don’t need luck for yours.” She fancied he had a decent shot of winning his brewing bracket, whomever he might end up competing against.

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