I CAME INTO THE KITCHEN. My six year old son was mixing berries with leaves and a crushed dandelion.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm making poison," he said matter-of-factly, and added water. He stirred with a whisk, carefully, stopping every few turns to see if he had the right consistency.
"Did you say poison?"
He nodded without looking up. After a few more turns, he stopped stirring. Regarded his mixture. Seemed satisfied.
He turned to me.
"Take a picture of it," he ordered.
"So that you remember it," he replied, looking me in the eye, holding my stare for just a moment, and then he was off his stool bounding downstairs to play Lego.
My son is a Slytherin, I thought, and then I was strangely proud of it.