Like a lot of people (nearly everyone) Bastian’s best subject was not potions, especially since the demonic teacher had started. But Bastian was even more abysmal than most people (although she’d put it in even more scathing and hurtful words) and so he was given the unique displeasure of being tutored by a similarly sadistic Slytherin.

Because obviously being trapped in a dungeon with tall, blonde, and hopefully-only-borderline-psychopathic for an hour each week was going to make all the difference to his potions grade.

And since he spent the sessions torn between two very different urges, he was learning nothing. Except for some very interesting things about his, uh, interests. Which wouldn’t be a problem, or as much of a problem, if he hadn’t missed the end of the last session. He’d had a totally legitimate urge to go to the toilet, and then a totally legitimate urge to not go back to the dungeon. So he hadn’t, and he’d been careful to avoid Theo all week, whether he was with company or not. It had been difficult, what with being in the same house and all, but he’d done it using powers of stealth many would doubt he possessed. But the haters could hate on, Bastian was a ninja.

Unfortunately, he was a ninja who had to go to potions tutoring with Satan’s right hand. Because he didn’t want to be maimed, he’d arrived on time, and paused outside the dungeon to peer inside. His jailer was standing there in a state of complete relaxation, reading a book. Bastian was sure it had lots of information about how squishy people’s insides were in it, that seemed like the kind of thing the sixth year would read.

He was really regretting his previous decision. It had only been a few minutes, and now he was going to be pickled and used in potions. Maybe he could turn back? Theo didn't appear to have noticed him, but he also didn't appear to be an evil hellish force, so appearances were deceptive. He regretted it more when he finally crossed the threshold and the door slammed shut behind him, forcing him to take a step inwards as the click of the locking mechanism sounded.

The prefect was looking at him with amusement, and Bastian knew that trying to escape was futile, but he turned around anyway, turning the door handle without luck. He was trapped with a twisted, evil, soul, who had every reason to do horrible things to him in the name of justice.

Bastian was too young to die, dammit. “Hey,” he tried anyway, hoping that maybe if he could placate it the older boy, nothing too bad would happen to him. He still kept safely far away from him, right by the locked door. He could probably blast through it. Maybe. He hoped. "How’s that book you’re reading?” Hopefully Theo had forgotten about it, but if that were true then Bastian would eat his cauldron.

Theo knew he shouldn’t be so amused, watching a fourth year sweat and panic from as much as he did, but. Well. There was always something to be said of simple, innocuous occurrences (such as the simple turn of a lock) and the immediate, visceral reactions they wrought, and as far as the prefect was concerned, it was always something good.

Plus, the fourth year in question had skipped out on their last session. However, at this point it was hardly more than coincidence. As Bastian gave up, turning around to face Theo with as much resignation as he was willing to show, the prefect in question merely glanced down and turned a page, allowing that tiny curve of amusement to deepen into a dimple of angelic proportions. “ ‘And when the implements of torture have been prepared’,” he began aloud, in a light, airy tenor pleasant to the ear, “ ‘the judge, both in person and through other good men zealous in the faith, tries to persuade the prisoner to confess the truth freely; but, if he will not confess, he bid attendants make the prisoner fast to the strappado or some other implement of torture. The attendants obey forthwith, yet with feigned agitation.’ ”

He continued, “ ‘Then, at the prayer of some of those present, the prisoner is loosed again and is taken aside and once more persuaded to confess, being led to believe that he will in that case not be put to death.’ ” Looking up, Theo closed the book and held it up for Bastian to see, the dimple deepening into a smile. “Malleus Maleficarum,”[1] he clarified, turning the book so as to give it a fond look. The book, while a relatively recent edition, was nevertheless a picture of violence and despair. “A bit of light reading. I’d say it’s going quite well.”

And then, without that expression shifting so much as an inch, he set the book down and pinned the hapless fourth year with that very smile, casual as you please. “Do take a seat,” he beamed, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as he glanced at the chair beside him—the only other chair at the table. “We have much to do.”

Indeed, the table had been set already, complete with cauldron, tools and enough ingredients for a Girding Potion laid out for one’s use and perusal. They gleamed, now, almost maliciously. “As you can see, I’ve taken the liberty of setting up our station. If you would be so kind as to identify these ingredients, tell me what potions each could be found in, and then the potion for which they are all used together…?”

1.	Fordham.edu

Bastian’s dimple-less smile grew slowly stiffer on his face as Theo continued, and by the time he had halted it could no longer be properly termed as such, having transformed into the queasy grimace of someone who dearly wanted to be on the other side of a locked door.

Somehow, the dimples made the whole thing massively worse, because they seemed so… innocuous, so small and nice and associated with things like happily cooing babies, or something. And he’d hitherto liked dimples, and associated them with laughter free of malice, but due to his unhappy fixation on them during the monologue, as was fashionable and unwise for an evil mastermind, now the word was forever haunted by Theo Whitman happily reading up on his future career as a torturer. Not that he was doing so badly in the present, of course.

On the positive side, if he was going to draw comparisons between the passage and his present situation, as was doubtless Theo’s sadistic intent, he wouldn’t be killed.

“Not for the witches,” he pointed out in something vaguely resembling an attempt at cheeriness. He was probably safe for now, though, since his tendency to wander hadn’t been mentioned. Maybe the heartless teenager had forgotten about it. Ha ha ha. The seat, of course, was unpleasantly close to the malevolent Slytherin, and Bastian approached it with caution, feeling not unlike a delicate little lamb wandering ever closer to a massive great anaconda. Although really he was probably a kid, if he was being strictly accurate (which he wasn’t, since it was a metaphor), but the end result was the same and goats didn’t evoke the same innocence and vulnerability as sheep, being hungry, conniving little creatures. He sat down gingerly, although whipping the seat out from under him was probably beneath Whitman, trying to keep his eyes on his gaoler and not entirely succeeding due to his uncomfortable proximity.

“Of course Whitman old buddy old pal,” Bastian said, his smile not believable at all, only just managing not to add please don’t eat me at the end of it. The smile on the malicious prefect’s face was suspiciously pleasant. “In any particular order? Alphabetical, perhaps, or something more esoteric? Although it would be easier if I could just kind of name things as I went along.”

He should be okay at identifying the ingredients, hopefully, because di Luca was unfortunately fond of forcing them to pick their ingredients from a selection of unlabelled bottles, complete with a few extra similar looking things just to make sure they were paying attentions and necessity had forced Bastian to learn things. Working out the potion, or remembering what each ingredient was used for, was an entirely different matter. As in, he was completely inept and would just stare at Theo and hope that his punishment would be swift and relatively painless.

Theo laughed, a soft huff of genuine amusement, and angels wept. “Whichever suits you best,” he smiled, ever the spirit of generosity. He was here to help him, after all, and they had only just begun. Theo had a rather good idea of what he was to deal with, here, being a trusted TA for their Potions Mistress, but not the specifics. For now, he would merely assess.

“Unless you’d rather proceed in an order of my choosing?” Theo arched a brow, and placidly looked on as the fourth year balked. He’d thought not. “But if you’re concerned…” Drawing his wand, Theo waved it idly over the table, an alphabetizing spell that had the ingredients arranging themselves in a flurry of activity. As the last of them slid into place, the prefect looked over, a mild but expectant look gracing his features. Well?

There was not a hint of threat to be found in it, should Bastian fail.