Sometimes, potion-making seems so straightforward that people think even a Muggle could brew a potion by following the steps. But that's far from the truth. Even with all the ingredients and precise instructions, Muggles can't make potions. Brewing always requires a touch of magic—sometimes even a wand. For the Scabies Potion, the magical part comes at the end, where the witch or wizard must perform a specific gesture and silently recite a particular incantation, roughly meaning: "Grant this potion the power to cure scabies."
Right now, Sean was working through the earlier steps.
In the dungeon, dim light cast flickering spots on the stone walls. A cauldron simmered over a low flame, wisps of white steam carrying a faint, pleasant aroma. The empty underground room was filled only with the soft bubbling of the cauldron and the quiet rustle of Sean flipping through Magical Drafts and Potions. Professor Snape had made it clear in the very first lesson: potion-making demanded precision and discipline.
Sean turned to the relevant page in the book. He'd memorized the instructions, but kept it open nearby just in case. "Step one: measure the ingredients and brew the Horned Slugs…"
While the cauldron warmed to the right temperature, Sean swiftly measured out the four ingredients with exacting precision, then began brewing the Horned Slugs without pause. During the process, he used the tools on the table to crush snake fangs and chop the pre-soaked dried nettles.
The skills he'd picked up in the greenhouse came in handy here. He handled the ingredients with ease, preparing them to a satisfactory standard and even finishing ahead of schedule. In the spare moments, Sean didn't idle. He jotted down notes on the ingredients' quantities and conditions, even recording the flame's intensity. Though the dungeon's cauldrons lit automatically, he'd need to learn to control the fire with a wand eventually, wouldn't he? Sean always liked to be prepared.
"Step two: remove the slugs, add the dried nettles and snake fangs…"
With plenty of time, Sean double-checked Magical Drafts and Potions to ensure he wouldn't miss a single detail in his nervousness. The brown-black book, adorned with an image of a steaming cauldron on its cover, sat open to the first page: "Basic Brewing Methods: This Book Is All You Need."
"Step three: stir two times counterclockwise, three times clockwise, with moderate force…" Sean stirred the potion with just enough pressure to break the bubbles, maintaining a steady rhythm. Truth be told, he was nervous. Professor Snape could appear at any moment, and there was no guarantee his practice would succeed. Like anyone, Sean feared the unknown, so he was extra meticulous.
"Almost there. Add the slugs again, then remove the cauldron from the heat and add the porcupine quills."
The brewing had reached its critical stage. As soon as the slugs hit the cauldron, they melted, and the potion turned a pale blue. Sean counted down silently in his head: "Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three…"
During the pause, he kept busy, recording every detail—timing, ingredient states, heat levels.
Then came the most thrilling part. Sean stirred the cauldron, waved his arm in the specific gesture, and recited the incantation. The cauldron bubbled for a moment before transforming into… a blue-green, jelly-like liquid.
Huh?
Why was it blue-green? No notification pinged from the panel in his mind. Sean knew he'd failed, but judging by the potion's appearance, he hadn't missed by much. Frowning, he considered the possibilities. If the ingredient preparation was correct, the issue had to be in the brewing process—stirring, heat, or the final incantation. Or maybe all of them?
A passage from Magical Theory popped into his mind: "Once you've mastered a spell, to unleash its full potential, you need sufficient mental strength." The book referred to it as a "spell." Did potions fall under the same principle?
Sean knew his talent for potions was limited, much like his skill with charms. It might take dozens, even hundreds, of attempts to master the technique. But he was short on time and ingredients. He needed a shortcut.
Carefully, he pulled Advanced Potion-Making from his bag and skimmed its dense text. Soon, a passage caught his eye: "The Ministry classifies Polyjuice Potion as high-risk magic, as its effects are heavily influenced by the brewer's emotional state, requiring strict regulation."
He wasn't entirely sure what emotions potion-making required, but tension and robotic precision clearly weren't it. As the cauldron reignited and steam rose again, Sean forced his tense body to relax. He told himself, If Snape catches me, I'm done for whether I succeed or fail. But succeeding or failing makes a big difference.
His green eyes grew calm and focused, and even his stirring took on a strange, rhythmic flow. Sean had always been good at controlling his emotions—kids who couldn't didn't last long at the Holyhead Orphanage. The nettles melted into the cauldron like sugar syrup, the snake fangs sizzled as they dissolved, and Sean maintained the exact same heat as before. This time, though, he felt like he was crafting a work of art.
The art of potions.
Steam wafted from the cauldron, and time slipped by in the quiet clinks of the spoon against the cauldron's walls. When Sean added the porcupine quills, the extinguished cauldron seemed to absorb the final ingredient as if guided by his will. He performed the ritual and recited the incantation with focus.
This time, the cauldron didn't change slowly. It surged rapidly, as if obeying Sean's intent. In moments, the liquid turned jelly-like and neared a deep emerald green.
[You have successfully brewed a pot of Scabies Potion to apprentice standards. Proficiency +1.]
Sean's eyes shone brightly. He stared at the inky-green, jelly-like liquid, a grin spreading across his face. Without wasting a second, he recorded every step in his notebook, emphasizing one point in bold: "Potions are a precise craft. A wizard's focus and calm are key."
As he immersed himself in reflection, the torches on the dungeon staircase flickered. A black robe's hem swept across the cold stone steps above.
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