"Oh." Snape's voice remained as low and measured as ever, slicing into his bacon with deliberate care. "I simply can't abide the waste of potion ingredients. That's all."
Flitwick gave him a knowing, almost sly smile. "Of course! Perfectly understandable!"
Just then, an owl came flapping into the Great Hall, wings outstretched. Both its talons clutched thick cords, dragging along a rather hefty parcel as it swooped to the far end of the staff table—right in front of Professor Quirrell.
Flitwick watched the owl as it exited the hall, a thoughtful look on his face. "Judging by that package, I'd wager it's more potion supplies?"
Snape cast a casual glance in that direction, sniffed the air, and muttered, "Draught of Peace. And just as poorly brewed as the last one."
Quirrell looked as if the sudden owl delivery had nearly startled him out of his seat. He only relaxed when he spotted Wyzett's signature on the label, then hurriedly gathered up the parcel and slipped out of the hall.
He sprinted back to his office at a pace that would have impressed the Gryffindor Quidditch team, his stomach churning so violently he thought he might lose what little breakfast he'd managed.
"Hurry! Open the package! I want the potion inside!" Voldemort's muffled voice hissed from the wrappings at the back of Quirrell's head.
Quirrell dared not delay. He yanked off the cloth, waved his wand, and unwrapped the parcel in a single, jittery motion.
Inside was a glass bottle brimming with a silvery potion, a thin mist swirling at its neck.
A magical greeting card was attached: Professor Quirrell, I hope this Draught of Peace helps restore your spirits. Merry Christmas!
"It seems even foolish sentimentality has its uses," Voldemort observed, his gaze gleaming in the mirror as he fixed on the bottle.
"At least that Obscurial has brought us a generous supply of Draught of Peace. Pour it for me! Quickly!"
Quirrell poured a goblet of the potion, guiding it through the air with his wand until it hovered before Voldemort.
Voldemort drank like a man dying of thirst in the desert, draining every last drop with ravenous delight.
He wore an expression of deep, lingering satisfaction. "Marvelous! Wonderful! Yes... everything proceeds as I have foreseen!"
Voldemort's mood seemed to improve almost instantly, and even Quirrell's pallor faded a shade.
"Master... what do you mean by that?" Quirrell asked, a chill settling in his chest.
In rare good spirits, Voldemort deigned to explain, his tone almost conversational. "The Draught of Peace... a most advanced potion, though not the hardest to brew..."
"It tests the purity of the brewer's soul. The more pure—or the more obsessive—the soul, the finer the Draught of Peace."
"Of course, that's the standard by which potion masters judge. My standard, however, is... chaos."
A prickling unease crawled down Quirrell's spine. "Master, then Wyzett's soul..."
"Yes! Yes!" Voldemort let out a twisted, hungry laugh. "He's being affected! Delicious! Exceptionally delicious Draught of Peace! How many flavors can I taste, I wonder?"
"Let me see... pure chaos, evil... exquisite! Quirinus, pour me another!"
...
"Absolute emptiness... fascinating! Another cup!"
...
"Ah... and a peculiar aftertaste... hard to describe... never encountered it before... transcendent..."
...
He was like a connoisseur, savoring the nuances of Wyzett's soul with every draught of potion.
"Extraordinary! Simply extraordinary! It's been ages since I've felt so invigorated! Quirinus, you can't possibly imagine the sensation—the taste of a soul!"
Voldemort was in such a fine mood, he even offered Quirrell a few more words of explanation.
"Quirinus... your soul is dreadfully dull. Timid, transparent, always desperate for approval... like a squirrel, forever anxious and cowering."
"That's why I chose you. I could see your hunger for power, your longing to be noticed—just like a squirrel yearns for a nut..."
Quirrell's face twisted with conflicting emotions as he tried to make sense of it all.
He ventured, "Master, since he's brewed a Draught of Peace that pleases you... perhaps we could stop teaching him Dark Magic?"
"Keep him close... let him provide more Draught of Peace. I can supply the ingredients—have him brew a reserve for us."
"Quirinus... Quirinus..." Voldemort's voice turned venomous. "Your memory is appalling. You always forget what's truly important!"
"I see everything about you, Quirinus. You should be grateful—this bottle of Draught of Peace will make things easier for you. Understand?"
"Y-yes, my master!" Quirrell quaked. "I—I understand!"
"Good! Very good!" Voldemort's laughter slithered through the air. "Since it's Christmas, I ought to give you a little present as well."
"Quirinus, I do hope in the coming days you'll remember what I am capable of... It's time you learned your lesson!"
In an instant, a sickly green light engulfed the entire office...
The Christmas holidays stretched on—more than two weeks of rare freedom.
Wyzett spent his days either tending the garden with Luna or poring over Snape's reply.
Only just before Christmas had he completed the theory behind the Draught of Peace. True to his "theory plus practice" philosophy, he seized the holiday as a chance to attempt brewing it himself.
It was a high-level potion, unpredictable and demanding constant adjustments to flame and technique.
Even with the aid of his Oculus Magicae, every step of the brewing process felt like walking a tightrope.
When he finally finished, the sense of accomplishment was immense.
By his own assessment, both the color and efficacy matched what was described in the notes.
That's why he chose to give it as a gift to Snape and Quirrell.
He hoped the potion would help Quirrell find some peace of mind.
As for Snape, the gift was more like a piece of homework—an offering for critique.
But in Snape's eyes, the potion was a complete failure.
That was something Wyzett hadn't anticipated.
Snape wrote back with a lengthy letter, listing every possible reason for failure and offering a host of improvement strategies.
Along with the letter, he sent a massive package of potion ingredients.
It took three owls working together to deliver the bundle.
Beneath the sarcasm and biting remarks, Wyzett could sense Snape's genuine concern.
Following the advice, he revised his notes, set up control groups, and painstakingly adjusted the flame, stirring technique, and wandwork timing.
He poured nearly his entire Christmas break—and a fortune in ingredients—into the effort. Still, he couldn't win Snape's approval.
Eventually, Snape told him outright: stop brewing Draught of Peace for now.
That news hit Wyzett harder than he'd expected...
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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