Wyzett rose to his feet, his voice steady and composed. "Professor Snape, it's quite simple—my scholarship is only thirty Galleons."
"If I spent it on brand-new textbooks, I wouldn't have enough left for the rest of the supplies on the list. So I copied down all my textbooks by hand."
"Touching. Like listening to a cheap motivational tale." Snape's face remained unreadable, his words drawn out and dripping with disdain. "Since you're capable of making your own textbooks…"
"You must know their contents by heart, then? What ingredients are required for the Boil-Cure Potion? And what ailments does it treat?"
At that, the rest of the class scrambled to flip through their books.
Before anyone could even find the right page, Wyzett had already begun, his answer crisp and methodical. "Half a cauldron of water, four finely ground snake fangs, three horned slugs to be steamed, two measures of dried nettles, and a single porcupine quill."
"The Boil-Cure Potion is chiefly used for ordinary pustules, rashes, and boils. It can also be effective for certain lymphatic infections, provided there's no magical injury involved. In those cases, it's practically a miracle cure."
"If the potion is brewed at the proper heat, you'll see pink smoke rising from the cauldron just before adding the porcupine quill. The purer the pink smoke, the greater the brewer's skill."
Snape curled his lip, his icy gaze sweeping the room. "Well? Why are you all standing there? Are you waiting for me to do everything for you?"
Apart from Wyzett, the entire class shivered in unison, fumbling to gather their ingredients and measure out the proper amounts.
Snape was hardly idle. With a flick of his wand, ingredients soared through the air onto desks, and he chalked key instructions onto the blackboard:
Grind the snake fangs as finely as possible. Frequently check on the steaming horned slugs—the ideal is to see a black core beneath the translucent skin. When the potion bubbles, stir clockwise five times. Remove from heat before adding the porcupine quill...
Though the Boil-Cure Potion wasn't especially difficult to brew, preparing the ingredients was painstaking and time-consuming. Even without counting prep, the potion itself required at least half an hour of careful simmering.
All the while, students had to track the time for each step and endure Snape's relentless, prowling presence.
His black robes billowed as he swept through the classroom like a specter. Every student felt a chill run down their spine whenever he passed.
At one table, Hannah hesitated, gripping her tweezers but unable to bring herself to touch the slimy slugs, her hands trembling.
Wyzett noticed her distress and gently slid the snake fangs toward her. "Here—why don't you handle these? No need to rush, we have plenty of time."
Hannah gave him a grateful nod, focusing intently as she ground the fangs.
Wyzett picked up six horned slugs with his tweezers and placed them into the steamer. As the heat rose, their mucus began to solidify and their bodies shrank.
He activated his Oculus Magicae. Instantly, he saw that the slugs within the steamer were changing—their previously scattered magical circuits were drawing together, forming the beginnings of a neat sigil.
So that's why the slugs need to be steamed, he mused, watching the transformation through his magical sight instead of lifting the lid.
"Why aren't you opening the lid?" Snape's voice slid in behind him, soft and sinister. "Or are you planning to follow the book to the letter and steam the slugs for exactly ten minutes?"
Hannah nearly crushed her mortar in fright. Around them, the other students tensed, holding their breath, afraid to even whisper.
"Of course not, Professor Snape," Wyzett replied, eyes never leaving the slugs' evolving magical patterns. "If you open the lid too often, it'll ruin the final result."
"Quite right." Snape pressed his lips together, standing behind Wyzett and glancing now and then at the timer.
At exactly seven minutes, Wyzett used his tweezers to remove two slugs, quickly replacing the lid and jotting down the time.
Snape's eyes narrowed. The two slugs were nearly translucent, with deep black visible beneath the skin.
His jaw twitched, but he remained silent, arms folded.
At seven minutes forty seconds, Wyzett opened the lid again, removed the remaining slugs, and recorded the time. All six were perfectly uniform in size and quality—ideal specimens.
"Not bad," Snape said at last, fixing Wyzett with a long, searching look before gliding away.
The classroom remained thick with tension, but Wyzett found himself enjoying the focused hush. Whether it was slugs, snake fangs, dried nettles, or porcupine quills—each ingredient bore its own magical sigil.
With the help of his Oculus Magicae, he added each component to the cauldron, watching as their symbols shattered, merged, and reformed into intricate new patterns. It felt less like potion-making and more like painting, each ingredient a different color on his canvas.
Just as Snape had said: both destruction and creation exist within the roiling cauldron.
The potion's color deepened from emerald green to murky blue, then began to bubble with great, glugging bursts.
Wyzett glanced over. "Hannah, it's bubbling—now's the time to stir, five times clockwise."
"Yes! Right!" Hannah nodded eagerly, taking the spoon and carefully stirring the cauldron.
The bubbling changed, the murky blue clearing, impurities gathering at the center. The potion turned a clear, pale blue, and suddenly, a plume of pure pink smoke burst from the cauldron's mouth.
"It's beautiful!" Hannah's cheeks flushed with excitement. She grabbed the porcupine quill, ready to toss it in.
"Wait—off the heat first!" Wyzett reminded her quickly.
"Oh! I nearly forgot!" Hannah said, grateful, using a cloth to lift the cauldron and then adding the quill.
The porcupine quill slowly dissolved in the residual warmth, transforming into tiny points of light that drifted through the potion.
Snape returned, ladling out a sample of the Boil-Cure Potion. "Your first time brewing? Never practiced before?"
Wyzett replied, "Does helping Mr. Lovegood make Gurdyroot tea count?"
"Gurdyroot tea?" Snape's hand faltered, and he fixed Wyzett with a piercing stare. "Don't let yourself be swayed by those ridiculous theories. Can you manage that?"
Wyzett looked puzzled. "You mean Mr. Lovegood? I think the things he and Luna say make a lot of sense."
"You do have some talent," Snape muttered, his tone dry and grudging.
Then he changed tack. "Since you've finished your potion, why not help your classmates? Or are you trying to show off?"
Wyzett answered with his usual calm, "Of course, Professor Snape."
With Hannah trailing after him, the two began to circle the classroom, much like Snape himself.
If Snape inspired terror, Wyzett brought hope. Using his Oculus Magicae, he helped his classmates by observing the completeness of their ingredients' magical sigils and suggesting improvements.
It wasn't long before every student he assisted succeeded in brewing their potion.
Now, the cauldrons that once seemed intimidating glowed with promise, and even the pink smoke that rose above them felt less like a warning and more like a celebration.
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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