Steam curled from the copper cauldron like morning fog. The tang of burnt fruit clung to the air—a sweet, sticky perfume that had already drawn a complaint from one of the portraits hanging near Oliver's alchemy bench. He didn't care. For once, he wasn't trying to invent something world-changing or even particularly useful. He just wanted something nice.
Something sweet.
He leaned back on his stool, hair streaked with faint glimmers of Nyx's feather-hued blue, eyes half-lidded in thought. "It's unfair," he muttered to himself. "We've got Firewhisky, mulled mead, butterbeer for the older kids… but what about something good for the rest of us?"
Nyx—still in her half-grown stage, bright as starlight but barely larger than a barn owl—tilted her head and chirped inquisitively from her perch on the shelf.
Oliver turned to her with mock solemnity. "Exactly. Something you could drink if you weren't a bird made of magic and fire."
The phoenix gave a low trill that might have been laughter.
He sighed, pushing up the sleeves of his loose work shirt and peering into the cauldron. The potion—or juice, as he stubbornly insisted on calling it—had thickened again, turning from bright crimson to an alarming shade of brown. He prodded it with a long stirring rod. The surface clung to the wood like treacle.
"Ugh. Too much sugar, maybe? Or the berries were overripe…"
He flicked his wand toward the bubbling mess, murmuring a cooling charm. The reaction stilled with a hiss, leaving the air thick with the smell of caramelized fruit.
Oliver wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and leaned on the counter, staring at his notes. His handwriting sprawled across half a dozen pages—ratios, runes, taste notes, color codes, doodles of smiling Sunberries with crossed-out faces. Every time he thought he'd gotten close, the mixture either curdled or exploded in a puff of sweet smoke.
He'd been at it since sunrise. Quidditch practice had finished only a few hours ago, and instead of sleeping, he'd gotten an idea in his head and refused to let it go.
He wanted to make something that kids could love—something fizzy, light, and safe enough for even the youngest Hogwarts student to drink. Not a potion, not a tonic, not an elixir… but something alive with magic in its own gentle way.
The first step had been obvious: Sunberries.
The small golden-crimson fruit was his favorite discovery since meeting the Flamels. Juiced fresh, they were tangy and sweet. Distilled magically, they shimmered like liquid sunlight. And, as Penny had once explained, they carried faint restorative properties—the reason they were sometimes brewed into low-grade healing draughts.
Oliver had planted more than two dozen Sunberry trees inside the suitcase's greenhouse, and now their bounty overflowed in wicker baskets around him. He plucked one up, bit into it, and savored the sweet-tart pop on his tongue.
"I could live off these," he mumbled through a mouthful, jotting another note. Possible flavor base—balance with something mild? Maybe Honey-Water.
Honey-Water.
The idea had come to him two days ago after one of his potion experiments had gone wrong. The viscous liquid—essentially enchanted honey diluted with pure spring water—stabilized many volatile mixtures without dulling their flavor. It was sweet, smooth, and naturally magical. Perfect, he thought, for a drink meant to soothe and delight.
He poured a ladleful into the pot and stirred. The color lightened immediately, rippling back toward red.
Nyx gave a curious chirp and fluttered closer, warmth radiating off her feathers as she peered into the cauldron. The mixture reflected in her eyes like molten garnet.
"Don't you dare sneeze into it," Oliver warned, wagging the stirring rod at her. "One puff of phoenix flame and we'll have another sticky explosion."
Nyx gave a huff and settled back on her perch.
Oliver grinned, then focused on his ingredients table.
Around him were neat rows of jars: powdered moonflower petals, slivers of mint crystal, shaved sugar root, crystallized Sunberry extract, and about ten other things he wasn't even sure he'd use. He picked one jar at random and held it up to the light. Inside shimmered flakes of crushed ice-petal—a mild cooling agent often used in winter elixirs.
"Maybe this'll make it more refreshing," he murmured and sprinkled a pinch into the cauldron. The reaction was instant: a flash of light blue and the sound of a soft hiss. The air temperature dropped, fogging the rim of his spectacles.
When the steam cleared, he dipped a spoon into the mixture and tasted it cautiously.
His eyes widened.
It was… almost good.
Still a little too syrupy, but the aftertaste was crisp and clean. For the first time all day, his grin returned full-force.
"I think I'm getting there, Nyx!"
The phoenix trilled a melody of approval, tiny sparks dancing off her feathers.
Oliver hurried to his notes, scrawling the new ratio, his quill flying. Then he leaned over the cauldron again, muttering an aeration charm. Bubbles rose, bursting with soft pops of light.
The potion's surface shimmered. When he scooped another sample and held it to the lamplight, it sparkled faintly, almost like stars reflected in a lake.
He blew out a breath. "You know what, this might actually work."
He poured the test sample into a small crystal vial and corked it. The rest he left to settle while he cleaned the counters, humming tunelessly. His robes and hands were sticky with berry juice; his hair smelled faintly of sugar.
If Penny saw the state of his workstation, she'd scold him about "respecting the process."
He smiled to himself at the thought.
The next morning, his predictions came true.
Penny stood in the doorway of his alchemy chamber with her arms crossed and a teasing smile on her lips. "Good heavens, Oliver, what have you done to this place? It looks as though a Honeydukes cart exploded."
Oliver froze mid-stir. "Ah… creative experimentation?"
She laughed—a soft, melodic sound that made the glass vials on the shelves tremble. "Creative indeed. I can smell caramelized berries from the greenhouse."
He flushed, setting down his ladle. "I'm just trying to make something nice. You know how Butterbeer's off-limits for us first-years."
"Yes," she said, walking over to peer into his cauldron. "And you decided to invent a substitute from scratch. Very on-brand for you."
She sniffed delicately at the steam. "Hmm. Sweet, fruity… a hint of mint? Not bad, actually."
Encouraged, Oliver explained his theory about Honey-Water stabilizing the berry syrup, about cooling agents balancing the sweetness. Penny listened with genuine interest, occasionally jotting a note in her little journal.
When he finished, she tapped the rim of the cauldron with her wand, adjusting the temperature by a hair. "Try this setting," she advised. "You're cooking the natural essence out of it too quickly."
He obeyed. The change was immediate; the mixture deepened in color, turning from pale pink to glowing ruby.
Oliver blinked. "You're brilliant."
"Only slightly more experienced." She winked and stepped back. "You've got the instincts. You just rush."
He chuckled, sheepish. "I'll slow down. Maybe."
They spent the next hour experimenting—adding a drop of essence here, a sprinkle of powder there. Some mixtures fizzed wildly, others dulled into brown sludge. But progress came in small, steady steps.
At one point, Oliver accidentally combined too much crystalized sugar root with mint extract, and the entire cauldron foamed over like a geyser. Both of them dissolved into laughter, wiping sticky froth from their faces.
By midday, they had three semi-successful samples lined up in front of them: one overly sweet, one too tart, and one promising but flat in flavor.
Oliver slumped on his stool. "It's so close. I can feel it."
Penny, amused, patted his shoulder. "That's invention for you. Half inspiration, half perseverance—and a touch of madness."
"Mostly madness," he said, deadpan, earning another laugh.
She glanced at the bubbling cauldron. "What will you call it when you're done?"
He shrugged, twirling his quill. "No idea. Something sunny, maybe. It's meant to taste like light feels."
"That's poetic." Her smile softened. "Keep that image. It suits you."
He looked at her in surprise, then at the glowing red liquid, thinking of Nyx's feathers and the first time he'd seen her rise from the ashes. Light that never died, warmth that never hurt.
"Yes," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "Light that heals."
Penny said nothing, only nodded approvingly and left him to his work.
Afternoon sunlight filtered through the greenhouse roof as Oliver mixed another batch, the rhythmic clink of glass filling the silence. His notes were now a chaotic masterpiece of arrows and crossed-out formulas, but the progress was undeniable. Each attempt came closer to what he envisioned: a drink that shimmered like a captured sunrise.
He added a final handful of Sunberries to the juicer, watching the golden-red liquid flow into the bowl below. The smell filled the air—bright, tangy, life-filled. He felt his magic stir in response, an echo of the same vibrancy that Nyx carried in her feathers.
When the cauldron began to bubble again, he whispered, "Here's to something new."
Nyx fluttered closer, letting out a soft chirp that harmonized with the faint hum of the potion. The surface of the liquid glowed faintly, catching the reflected starlight from her plumage.
Oliver dipped a ladle, tasted again… and smiled.
Still not perfect. But close.
He scribbled another line in his notes: Need base to carry flavor—Honey-Water best option. Adjust mint ratio. Try again Friday after practice.
The exhaustion that had been building all day finally caught up to him. He leaned back, wiping berry stains from his fingers, and gazed around the glowing lab. Shelves gleamed with bottled experiments. The scent of Sunberries filled the air. For the first time in hours, he felt peaceful.
Outside, the phoenix chick crooned a lullaby of soft stars.
Oliver smiled, closing his eyes to the sound. "I'll get it right," he murmured. "Just one more try."
And somewhere deep inside the bubbling cauldron, the liquid flickered—a tiny spark of light dancing to the rhythm of his heartbeat, as if promising him that he would.
When Oliver woke up the next morning, the entire worktable looked like a battlefield of berries. Pulp stained his sleeves, his fingers were tinted pink, and the faint scent of burnt fruit lingered in the air.
Nyx's sleepy chirp broke the silence. She was perched on the beam above him, feathers puffed out, blinking blearily in the morning light.
Oliver ran a hand through his hair. "Okay," he muttered, staring at the half-filled cauldron in front of him. "I think… I may have gone overboard."
The thick red mixture inside gave a faint glurp.
He stirred it cautiously. It had cooled into a sticky syrup, glittering faintly under the light. It wasn't quite liquid, but not quite solid either. Somewhere between potion, jam, and—possibly—dangerous experiment.
"Well," he said, "if this explodes, at least it'll smell nice."
He dipped a spoon, lifted it to his nose, and tasted a drop.
Instantly, the sharp sweetness of Sunberries hit his tongue, followed by an overwhelming bitterness that made him cough so hard Nyx startled awake and fluttered down to the bench.
"Okay!" he wheezed. "That one's a no."
He scribbled a note on his parchment: Batch 8—too sour, not suitable for human taste buds (possibly weaponized?)
By the time Penny peeked her head into the lab, Oliver had filled three more sheets of parchment and looked like he'd fought a fruit war.
"Darling," she said delicately, holding her tea, "are you winning?"
He turned with berry stains up to his elbows. "Scientifically? I don't know yet."
She laughed, stepping inside. "What's your current hypothesis?"
"That Sunberries don't like being mixed with anything remotely edible," he admitted. "But they react very well with HoneyWater."
She raised a brow. "HoneyWater?"
He nodded, a spark of excitement lighting his face. "Yeah. It doesn't overpower the flavor or kill the color. Plus, it binds the magic together somehow. Look—"
He picked up a vial, shaking it. The liquid inside glimmered with faint white threads that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Penny leaned closer. "That's fascinating."
"It stabilizes everything," Oliver said, his voice slipping into that quick, academic rhythm that always surfaced when he talked about invention. "When I mixed it with plain water, the magic dissipated. When I used HoneyWater, the glow stayed for over three hours."
"Then you're on the right track," Penny said, smiling warmly. "Perhaps what you need now is to stop pushing for perfection. Let it rest."
He sighed. "I know. I just feel like I'm close, you know?"
Her expression softened. "You remind me of Nicholas when he's working on new gold transmutations. Always restless before the final step."
Oliver laughed. "Guess it runs in the family now."
After Penny left, Oliver sat quietly at the bench, tapping his quill against a bottle.
He had found something—he could feel it. That edge of potential, like the spark before a spell ignites.
He looked at the rows of ingredients lined up on the shelf—herbs, berries, vials of golden HoneyWater—and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Okay, if I can't get the taste right yet," he murmured, "maybe I can just focus on the base first. The foundation."
He set up his cauldron again, this time more careful with measurements. A splash of HoneyWater. A handful of Sunberries, crushed to pulp. Slow, even heating, just like potion work but more patient.
As he stirred, the air filled with a warm, fruity scent. It smelled like summer. Nyx fluttered down beside the cauldron, intrigued, and peered into the red-gold swirl.
"You like it?" Oliver asked her with a grin.
Nyx chirped approvingly, then snuck a sip when he wasn't looking. She tilted her head, eyes glowing faintly, before letting out a pleased hum that sounded almost like a purr.
He chuckled. "Guess it's not poisonous. Great start."
Hours passed in quiet concentration. He tested ratios, took notes, burned a few batches, and succeeded in making something faintly palatable only once.
The taste wasn't perfect, but it was progress. The sweetness balanced, the bitterness lessened, and the aftertaste—though still strange—lingered pleasantly.
He sat back, tired but grinning, and whispered to Nyx, "We're getting there."
She hopped onto his shoulder, nestling her head against his neck, and chirped softly in agreement.
By nightfall, the lab was quiet except for the faint bubbling of the last test batch. The faint glow of the HoneyWater reflected against Oliver's face as he wrote out his newest notes:
Test 16: Sunberry juice + HoneyWater = stable base. Needs flavor refinement. Possible magical enhancement ingredients TBD.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching. "It's not done yet," he murmured. "But this is the base. The bones."
He glanced around the room at the other cauldrons, half-filled with failed attempts, and smiled faintly. "Every failure's one step closer, right?"
Nyx let out a soft chirp of agreement.
Penny's earlier advice echoed in his head: Let it rest.
So he did. He extinguished the flames, cleaned his tools, and lined up the bottles neatly in a row. Each shimmered with the faint promise of success—not yet achieved, but possible.
Before leaving, he picked up one of the bottles and swirled it under the lamplight.
The liquid caught the glow and refracted it, sending faint reflections dancing across the walls.
"Sunshine in a bottle," he whispered. "Almost."
He corked it, labeling it carefully: Prototype A – Base Formula (Sunberry + HoneyWater).
As he left the lab, he could still smell the lingering sweetness of his efforts—a reminder that even half-finished things can shine.
He looked back one last time, smiling softly. "Tomorrow," he promised himself. "Tomorrow we'll get it right."
Nyx fluttered up to perch on his shoulder, letting out a drowsy, content trill as they stepped into the corridor. The door closed behind them with a quiet click, leaving the lab bathed in the faint glow of a hundred red bottles—each one a small piece of sunlight waiting to be born