Professor Snape stood as ever in his billowing black robes, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in disdain. "Developing solution?"
"Yes, Professor Snape," Wyzett replied with a nod. "I wanted to send some postcards home, so I brewed a batch."
"Developing solution? An inferior potion—a penny-pincher's trick," Snape sneered, his lips curling. "No matter. Today, we'll begin with the armadillo."
The armadillo—a creature that looked formidable in its bony armor, but in truth, was timid to the core. By day, it hid obediently in its burrow, only venturing out to forage at night. When threatened, it curled into a ball, its armor shielding it from harm.
In the wizarding world, this animal—though a potential carrier of leprosy—was prized for its gallbladder. The bile could be extracted and used to brew Baruffio's Brain Elixir.
Snape began his demonstration with brisk efficiency. He wielded his wand like a surgeon's scalpel, every movement precise and deliberate.
With a deft incision along the abdomen, his wand tip touched the wound, and a Severing Charm delved deeper, separating bone from flesh with magical finesse.
He gathered blood, stripped meat, extracted bone, and sorted organs—each step executed with practiced ease.
All the while, Snape lectured, explaining the purpose of each part in potion-making, his voice as cold and exacting as ever.
Wyzett quickly realized that this was foundational knowledge—stripped to its essence, the true groundwork of potionology.
It was like laying a building's foundation: hidden underground, but absolutely vital.
This was about tracing ingredients back to their roots, understanding not just what they did, but why they worked as they did.
To truly grasp this, one had to delve into ritual magic—an ancient branch that revealed the fundamental properties of magical materials.
It was a process not unlike the legendary Shennong tasting a hundred herbs: ancient wizards, through trial and error, discovered the first magical ingredients, using them as "mediums" in ritual spells.
Once the basics were established, these materials became templates for categorizing new discoveries. When a new material was found, it would be substituted in the ritual, its properties observed, and then assigned to the proper group.
It was a painstaking process, built on countless experiments and corrections by generations of wizards, until classifications became more objective and precise.
Take armadillo bile, for example—used in Baruffio's Brain Elixir. The original "medium" for wisdom-enhancing potions was oak.
Oak was revered in ritual magic for its associations with strength, courage, and wisdom.
Those same qualities, distilled in armadillo bile, explained why it worked so well in intelligence-boosting draughts.
As the catalog of magical materials grew, new methods of classification emerged—by color, scent, taste, appearance, origin, growth conditions—drawing analogies to determine properties.
Of course, analogy had its limits and could lead to mistakes. In the end, only practical testing proved the truth.
For materials that defied classification, ancient wizards would return to ritual magic, or—at their own risk—taste the ingredient themselves.
That second approach was dangerous, so eventually, wizards began using toads as test subjects—applying new materials to a toad's back and observing the results.
Thus began the wizarding tradition of keeping toads as pets.
…
Without this deep, back-to-basics knowledge, it was nearly impossible for a potioneer to become a true Potions Master.
Otherwise, one could only follow recipes blindly, never understanding why things were done a certain way, or whether a different method or ingredient might work better.
Snape's voice dropped to a low, intense rumble. "Uncovering the original principles—once you grasp that, brewing any potion becomes far simpler."
He glanced at Wyzett's notebook, noting the dense, meticulous notes. Beyond what he'd just taught, there were also Wyzett's own insights.
So little need to repeat himself—this, too, was why he tolerated private tutoring.
Wyzett finished jotting down the last points, flexing his tired wrist. "Professor Snape… may I ask a question?"
"Speak," Snape replied, curt as ever.
In these private lessons, formality was minimal—questions and answers flowed freely, making for far greater efficiency.
"It's about what you mentioned at the start…" Wyzett said thoughtfully. "You called developing solution an inferior potion—a cost-cutting trick."
"Is it fair to say that this potion only serves photographs? And that photographs, along with handheld cameras, have only existed for a few decades…"
He reasoned aloud, "So before that, there must have been more complex versions of developing solution. If I keep following this logic…"
"Developing solution should also work on canvas—meaning it could be used to create those moving portraits that wander the castle! Professor Snape, is that correct?"
Snape answered with his trademark brevity. "Correct."
"Professor, I also found something in my notes…" Wyzett flipped back a few pages, searching for the passage he wanted.
"Scarab beetles, in addition to their 'creative' properties similar to rosemary, also possess a 'revival' quality like birch sap…"
"If one were to combine Baruffio's Brain Elixir with developing solution, would that make the images even more vivid—perhaps even capable of simple thought?"
Snape fell silent, his cheeks puffing out slightly as he stared at Wyzett for a long moment. Then, once again: "Correct."
Sometimes, knowing too much—being able to make such leaps—wasn't always a blessing.
He drew in a slow breath, pushing away the thought.
But then again, if a student could leap ahead, wasn't that all the better? He could simply teach more.
With that in mind, he continued, "In such cases, you'll need certain materials as harmonizers—to forcibly combine two potions, even if the method is a bit crude."
Wyzett's curiosity flared. He'd always wondered how those lifelike portraits in the castle were made, and now, finally, he had a chance to unravel the mystery.
"Hiss!"
Suddenly, Snape sucked in a sharp breath, clutching his left arm instinctively.
His eyes went wide, disbelief flickering in their depths as he stared at Wyzett…
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