Sometimes potion-brewing looks so "Muggle-ified" that plenty of people come to believe a Muggle could brew one by just following the steps.
The truth is the opposite.
Even with every ingredient and perfect adherence to the instructions, a Muggle still can't make a potion, because brewing always needs magical guidance—sometimes even a wand.
For the Cure for Boils, the magical part comes at the end, when the witch or wizard must make a specific gesture and silently recite a specific incantation that roughly means:
"Imbue this potion with the power to cure boils."
As for the earlier steps—Sean was in the middle of them.
Down in the dungeon.
Thin light spotted the stonework; a low flame sent white steam curling from the cauldron, an occasional fragrance in the air. In the empty room there was only the burble of bubbles and the faint rasp of Sean turning pages in Magical Drafts and Potions.
Professor Snape had been very clear in the first lesson about what matters in potions:
precision and rigor.
Sean flipped to the needed page. He'd memorized it, but kept the book open just in case.
"Step one: weigh the ingredients; simmer the horned slugs…"
While the cauldron finished its preheat, he quickly measured all four ingredients to strict tolerances, then set the horned slugs to simmer.
During the simmer he followed the sequence: crushed the venomous fangs with the bench tools, then chopped the pre-soaked dried nettles.
Here the techniques he'd learned in the greenhouse paid off. He selected and prepped the ingredients smoothly to an acceptable standard—and even had time to spare.
He didn't waste it: he jotted down weights and conditions, even noting the character of the flame. The dungeon cauldrons might light themselves, but he'd need to learn to control the fire with a wand sooner or later, wouldn't he?
Sean liked to be ready early.
"Step two: fish out the slugs; add the nettles and venomous fangs…"
Time enough—he checked Magical Drafts and Potions once more to be sure nerves hadn't made him miss anything. The brown-black book with a cauldron and steam on the cover lay open to page one, which read: Basic Brewing—This Book Alone Suffices.
"Step three: stir twice to the left, three times to the right, with moderate force…"
He used a pressure that popped the bubbles, stirring in a fixed posture. In truth, he was nervous. Snape could appear at any moment; the attempt might fail. People fear the unknown—Sean was no exception—so he was extra meticulous.
"Almost there—add the slugs back, then take the cauldron off the flame and add the porcupine quills."
Now came the crux. The slugs melted the instant they hit the brew; the potion turned a pale blue. Sean counted in his head:
"Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three…"
He didn't idle in the gap—he recorded every detail of the remaining steps: timing, ingredient state, heat, and more.
Then came the thrilling moment.
Sean stirred, swept his arm, and whispered the incantation.
After a few gurgling bubbles, the cauldron turned into…
…a bluish-green gel.
Huh?
Why bluish-green?
No panel chime either. He knew he'd failed—though not by much, judging from the finish.
He frowned. If ingredient prep was sound, then the error was in the brewing: stirring, heat, the final charm—which was it?
Or all of them?
He thought of a line in Magical Theory:
[Once you have learned a spell, to draw out its full power you still need sufficient mental strength.]
He noticed the phrasing—a spell.
Does potioneering fall under that, too?
Sean knew his potions talent was limited—like charms, he might need a hundred attempts to get the feel. But he didn't have the time—or the ingredients. He needed a shortcut.
He carefully took out Advanced Potion-Making and skimmed the dense passages. Soon a line lit up his eyes:
[The Ministry classifies Polyjuice Potion as high-risk magic, as its effects are strongly influenced by the brewer's emotional state and must be strictly regulated.]
He didn't yet know what emotion potions wanted, but "tense" and "mechanical" clearly weren't it.
As the cauldron relit and steamed again, the tightness in his body eased. He told himself:
If Snape discovers me, I'm done for whether I succeed or fail. In that case—better to be successfully done for than unsuccessfully.
His green eyes went deep and calm; even the way he stirred took on a certain rhythm.
He was good at steering his feelings. A child who couldn't do that wouldn't fare well in Hollisay Orphanage.
Nettle melted like rock candy in the brew; fangs hissed as they blended in. He used precisely the same heat as before—only this time, it really felt like he was completing a work of art.
The art of potioneering.
White vapor feathered from the cauldron; time slipped by in the soft tink of the spoon kissing the rim.
When he added the porcupine quills again and quenched the flame, the cauldron seemed to fold the last ingredient into itself.
Sean finished the rite, whispered the charm.
This time the brew didn't creep—it followed his will, surging quickly. In moments it set to a jelly, its color deepening to near-black green.
[You brewed one cauldron of Cure for Boils at Apprentice standard. Proficiency +1]
Sean's eyes shone. He gazed at the inky-green, gelatinous potion, a smile tugging at his lips.
Then he didn't waste a second—he wrote every step in careful detail, and in big letters marked the key takeaway:
[Potions are a precise craft; the brewer's focus and calm are critical]
Just as he sank into reflection and notes, the torches on the stair to the dungeon flickered—
—and on the cold steps above, a sweep of black robes billowed into view.
~~~
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