Highlands, Hogwarts
01-09-1969
Perteus Graymort:
The schedule was less demanding than I had expected—lenient, even. We had only five to six hours of classes, with just three subjects per day. Wednesdays were lighter still, with only a single class for Herbology, while the rest of the hours were dedicated to outdoor activities. Today, we would start with Potions, which we would attend with the Badgers. The class was set to begin at nine, giving us a free hour to ourselves. I had not expected this foresight, though I would be lying if I said it was not appreciated. Especially now, with the other half of our group missing. "Where are you headed to, anyway?" A high, immature voice sounded behind me. It was the dual-haired girl—the youngest of the Black trio. During breakfast, she had started another conversation with me, her interest seemingly provoked by my lonesome state, as the boys had not been present for the meal. She… was not entirely unpleasant, though her demanding attitude did little to endear her to me. I was also irked by her exclusion from the girls' group—I had assumed she would be the central figure, not Zabini. The only person who seemed to hold me in low esteem, mind you. I dearly wanted to sigh at my atrocious talent for prediction. I ought to have been able to deduce Narcissa's nature; the books certainly contained enough information about her. Imperious, though without the innate talent for leadership. She was more of a hanger-on—an affirmer and provider of validation. The only real solace was that she was not yet her older self, and thus susceptible to simple manipulation. "I'm looking for the rest of our housemates. I've a feeling they're lost somewhere." And they were. The castle was guiding me to some obscure locations, though luckily not the abandoned or eerie sections. I did not hesitate to rely on the ethereal sense the castle seemed to have tethered to my instincts—it was either this or the nonsensical map Todd had drawn up for me. …of course, I only called it nonsensical because I had little talent in navigation. Which, quite honestly, was frustrating. "Tch, you ought to leave them be. It would teach them not to wake up late next time," she muttered. "Besides, they'll start thinking you're their servant if you keep aiding them every time they run afoul of trouble." That might have been worth considering if the girl who said it was not currently helping me carry the sandwiches I had prepared for the lost boys. Odd child, this Black. "You've heard what Heir Malfoy said—we ought to stick together. Besides, the professors would deduct points from our house if one of us came late, or not at all. Would it not be embarrassing for us to lose points on our very first day?" For all the petulance of children, they were prone to obedience when in places where they enjoyed no familiarity. Thus, it was no surprise that invoking Lucius's wisdom quieted the girl's reservations, and I was certain her mind would conjure up a fitting justification in due time. …like I said, simple manipulation. "That doesn't explain why you made sandwiches for them." Or at least it was supposed to be. "Mother always says it does no good to shield the brazen from teachable moments." Ah, parents. The highest form of gospel in kids' eyes. I lazed my gait so that our position could be parallel. Narcissa came into view, short and adorable. Her face was marred by a pinched expression—her attempt at showing displeasure, if I were to guess. Mine own face was quiet…careful not to show more than intended. "That is true," I admitted. I had a feeling if I refuted her words, it would turn into a spat. I did not want that—I did not want childish conflict with my year mates. "However, I'm not so heartless as to let my housemates starve. Would you rather I let you starve if you were in their stead?" Credit to the girl, she scoffed at my words. "I'd never be so mindless." I supposed they did not have hypotheticals in the pureblood families—anything to stem off empathy, most likely. I shook my head, the girl was not a fool. I was sure my words had some bit of significance to her mindset. …probably. "Pity your diligence isn't shared." The insult washed off her. No registration whatsoever. "But do have patience, we weren't all privileged with the Black Family's discipline." She shot me a glare this time. "You're making fun of me." "A fair bit," there was little need to lie. "Heir Black does have a rather wild reputation." "Sirius is still a child; he'll learn," she said, as if the boy were not a year her junior. I did not laugh, barely even a quirk to my lips. Narcissa's adherence to tradition was something I admired. True, her classism was…unappreciated. But at least she was not extreme with it. "Perhaps," I said, looking forward. "Yet I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you." I smiled as we passed by a painting with two individuals from different eras snogging in a tree. Five steps later, we turned right, catching the faint sound of distant noises. "That sounds like them." I told, quickening my pace. Narcissa followed my lead, and as we turned into another corridor, we found the boys conversing with a portrait. It was primarily Godric doing the talking, his posh speech second only to my own. "How'd you know where to find them?" the girl questioned, her words echoing just enough to draw the attention of the lost boys. "I have a map." Ieuan's expression lit up when he saw us, his hair slightly ruffled and his cheeks flushed a rosy hue. He ran toward us, his thick frame adding a touch of comedy to the display. My amusement was sheltered. "Graymort, Black! Merlin's beard, it's good to see you!" he exclaimed, moving in for a hug. "I thought we were done for in this blasted, twisted castle." My shroud solidified around me, taking on the form of telekinesis. "Easy there, Primrose. I've got some items with me that wouldn't fare well under your embrace," I said, lifting off the ground without much exertion. I curved around him in a hover, enjoying how the act of levitation felt instinctive. 'I ought to try it more later.' …something important I discovered about my boon was that it was sorcery. Rare magic. In fact, it was extinct magic. It was part of the reason why the blood purity nonsense had so much support. These wizards—the old bloods—had once possessed within themselves the ability to manifest true power, to exercise supremacy without the aid of a conduit. Their power was felt, raw and true, and their dominance… unchallenged. It was not just the esoteric differences, but the physical ones as well. Sorcerers were superhuman, plain and simple. Unfortunately, that supremacy waned with time. Predictably, other means of harnessing that diminishing power began to be employed—runes, witchery, bloodlines, and ultimately, wizardry. The "squibs" of the sorcerous age were now the wizards of today. The houses were convinced that the squibs of today would be the mages of tomorrow, and so on and so forth—until the age of magic was over. They were also convinced that the sorcerers' breeding with lesser humans was what ruined them. And thus, the cries for blood purity and separation from the muggles. Now, the real question was whether their fears were valid or not. Personally, I did not care—I did not have enough racism in me for that amount of hatred. Plus, introducing Muggle innovation and ingenuity into this stagnant society was my ultimate goal. Yet, I was not blind to the gift I now possessed: legitimacy and true supremacy. That was the reason I flaunted my boon—the reason I flew. The kids would not understand, but the adults—the already indoctrinated—they would understand… I settled back down. …even if not immediately. The other three watched me with wide eyes, though that shock faded quickly when I presented them the sandwiches I had made. Narcissa did the same for the other boy—giving Ieuan two as per his heftiness. "You've all missed breakfast," I informed them, quiet and amused. "And you almost missed our first class as well." The schedules flew out of my pockets, each pamphlet heading toward an individual. Narcissa caught Ieuan's, as the boy's hands were full. "You're a proper saint, mate. Those blasted stairs turned into a maze—we've been running around like headless chickens." Reid explained, one hand on his sandwich while the other was on the schedule. "Spare Black some of your gratitude as well," the girl merely snorted. She was starting to remind me of that one gem-magus with a contradictory disposition. I ignored her behaviour, turning back as the others followed suit. "Do you mind if I ask how you all winded up with no guide? I thought the head boy was set to wake you." "He had early classes, but he left us directions," Trevor shared, not looking particularly hungry. "Quilt claimed he was good with directions. As you can see, we were fools to believe him." "Shut it, Chapman. I didn't see you suggesting any advice." "Peace," I said, my voice a few decibels higher than I enjoyed. "Let's not bicker amongst ourselves—it's not proper. Besides, no harm came of this little detour." That might have been too much on my part, but it got the job done. The boys grumbled a bit as we walked, and Ieuan filled me in on how things went. Godric chatted with Narcissa, the two surprisingly casual with each other. I began to ask about potions, to see if any of them had some prior knowledge. Trevor did, though he confessed that it was some basic information he picked up from his aunt. He still shared, even if most of the knowledge was detached and without context. Still useful, though. "Why the interest?" That had been Godric's question to me. "I want to know where everyone stands," I admitted. "Doing so will make it easier for us to help each other." And thus far, I was disappointed. One would think the magicals would be preemptive in their kids' education—give them a leg up against the muggleborn. No. The boy thought about it, brows furrowed and all. "My father did teach me about herbology, and the academy had us learning history. Though I don't remember much of the latter." He looked at Narcissa. "How about you, Black?" "History and Charms," was all the girl said. Truly, she was a character. When we reached the main section, there were just under five minutes left until class began. We joined the other snakes, making our way to the classroom while deciding amongst ourselves who would pair up with whom. Since we were nine, someone would inevitably be left to the winds. I somehow ended up with Reid, the boy apparently having taken a liking to me. Godric and Trevor formed a pair, while Narcissa was with Ieuan—though she did not seem particularly happy about that arrangement. It was Crabbe who was left with no partner, Zabini having paired up with the girl I had yet to learn the name of. "We'll soon find you a partner, I believe," I had told the girl. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to partner up with one of our own—I'd gladly surrender Quilt." "Eh?!" Though the joke did garner some amusement, the girl had not been too bothered by her situation. …as I had said, she was smarter than the rest. When we came near the class, we found the puffs already there, waiting. Professor Slughorn invited us in not long after, thus the commencement of our first lesson in this school of spectaculars.
"Woah!" The room that housed the class of potions was no dream…or even an ordinary classroom. No, it was a dungeon—albeit one crudely fashioned to accommodate this particular pursuit of witchery. I liked it not; the design clashed painfully with my preferred style of layout. The desks were cramped even with space so abundant, and yet spreading out would be an issue due to the numerous corners and walls that cluttered the room. There also was the absence of windows and natural light—not even a feigned illusion of it, as it was in our lounge space and quarters. It was dreadful…and joyless. Disappointing. …I walked towards the desk in front of the left row, hastening Reid alongside me. The boy was charmed by the haunted aesthetics of the room—the black walls and the lanterns and the sections that enjoyed no illumination. Slughorn sat at the head of the class, clad in robes of black and brown. Beside him stood a young woman with delicate features, dressed in helper robes in fashion of model. The two appeared engaged in conversation, though the professor spared us a glance or two as we approached the desks. Once we were all seated, he stood, the young woman beside him mirroring his movement. I had come to know that the bloated professor carried a jovial air about him—ever-smiling and enthusiastic, with a hint of flair and theatrics to keep engagement alive. Even now, he stole attention despite his helper boasting an appealing appearance. "Morning, new students," he greeted, his voice light with cheer. "My name is Horace Slughorn, and I'm to be your professor of Potions for your long journey here at school. And for those of Slytherin, I'm also your Head of House." He paused, his dull green gaze scanning over us—a look that suffered no intensity. The edges of his lips quirked up after a moment, and I could almost feel his joy. The professor turned and gestured to the young woman, the motion like theatre. "This is my helper—one of two. Her name is Eléa Mattei, and she's a witch of Durmstrang. You'll be seeing much of her, as she will be handling most of the theoretical parts of the class." The woman nodded, her features-like story gaining a mar of tender. "I am honoured, to be assisting here at Hogwarts." Her accent was just the right amount of thick—easily betraying her origins, yet still clear enough to understand proper. I would have liked her had I been of a more matured constitution. Unfortunate. Slughorn pulled out his wand and wordlessly conjured a clipboard. "Though before we begin the class, roll call needs to be addressed. This will also serve as a quick introduction. I'd advise you all to try and remember the names and faces of as many classmates as you can." And such we did. Instructions were given—many students had no experience with school, thus this was necessary. They were only sixteen of us, so the process did not linger to a point of tedium. Done with the clipboard, the professor passed it to the French witch. He once more raised his wand—the conduit thrumming with the same force as the first wand I had ever held—and summoned stationery and brewing tools to all our desks. The others flinched at the sudden bloom of items, but I suffered no such reaction. Though Slughorn's familiarity with the charm and wand was evident, his magic—the influence of his vigor—was graceless and crude. Easily noticeable—reality did not take well to magic's encroachment, especially when there was no deception or negotiation beforehand. "Wonderful," he exclaimed, vanishing the wand with a grace that spoke of history. "As the name of the class implies, this discipline will be one of brewing—turning miracles, wonders, emotions, and all sorts of things into potions. Though not as easy as 'wanding', brewing is more versatile and unrestricted by many rules..." He spoke animatedly, and I…we listened with eager. He did not make grand statements like Snape. Instead, he kept things simple but mystical. Things like healing or beautifying. Harmless things—helpful, even. …Eléa was sectioning the ingredients behind the professor, her movements lacking the ease of familiarity. A piece of chalk floated by the board, writing out the rules and regulations of brewing—the white material showing no signs of wear despite the many words it had inscribed. The charm's enslavement was intriguing, I supposed. Slughorn finally quieted down, the introduction complete. If his aim was to instill fascination and anticipation within us, then he certainly succeeded. Even I felt a spike of enthusiasm as he explained the wonders of this discipline. Not to mention, I had greater vision. I saw beyond the playful and innocent—into the forbidden. "Naturally, this will not be an immediate journey, as, as I mentioned, the art is far from risk-free. Therefore, we'll start with precautions, guidelines, and essential tools for brewing. For instance: the cauldron. Do you know who invented it?" And so the class began in earnest. I flipped open my notebook and started writing down the questions presented and the answers that were given. Trevor proved to be well-versed in potion trivia. "Gerthur, the Root Witch." He answered with only the slightest bit of hesitation in his voice. "That's correct! Gerthur of Mondsee. She enlisted the help of a local blacksmith, Sörf, to craft a large pot with unusual features on the sides, made entirely of thick bronze. You see, her potions had a tendency to melt her previous pots if left in them for too long—a common grievance for many a witch in those ancient times." I added a reminder to my notes—I needed to investigate the history of this Gerthur. A bit of trivia about her story would not hurt. Plus, I did not enjoy this kind of ignorance… The edges of my lips curled downward ever so slightly. …it was unpleasant. Adella raised her hand immediately after that. "A question, professor?" She lacked the reservation Trevor had boasted, I noticed. "Yes, Ms. Crabbe." "And what prevented that from continuing to be a problem?" She gestured at her cauldron. "Potions from melting through the cauldrons, I mean." "For the ancient witch, runes. Old Sörf, a skilled hand in Slavic Runes, often engraved his creations, providing added toughness. As for us, advancements in metallurgy and smithing have resolved the issue. We've also come to understand how certain materials interact with metals once transformed into potions." "So, do modern cauldrons lack any charms?" The question flowed out of me unbidden, startling Reid—especially when the professor's gaze locked onto us. The cauldron in front of us certainly enjoyed no irregularities. The thing was as mundane as a housewife. Slughorn picked it up, feigning inspection as he went about an explanation. "Common cauldrons are typically made of pure iron and rely on exceptional craftsmanship," he placed back the pot. "However, personal cauldrons often feature unique modifications or embellishments tailored to the owner. While adding charms or runes can sometimes affect the final product, in most cases, it leads to stagnation in the brewer's growth." I did not quite understand what that last part meant, but I had an inkling. In my prior incarnation, I had seen many people who had driven manual transmission cars lose their proficiency after being exposed to automatic driving. Perhaps this was of the same line. Maybe. "Are they any advantages to brewing with a cauldron?" I pointed at the pot to emphasise my question. This time, Slughorn paused and frowned—albeit slightly. "Aside from the mundane ones, no. At this point, it's a traditional thing, not unlike how we still used hearths for warmth instead of an in-built temperature regulator." That I understood, it was a matter of familiarity and custom. Still, I was quite sure Hogwarts had temperature regulating charms woven within its walls. …but the point remained. "Now, let me outline the essentials for brew-craft. First, the cauldron. Second, a wooden spoon. And third, water—the life-blood of existence. Remember, substitution is strongly ill-advised; water is the primary ingredient in any potion." "Professor, does the quality of the water matter?" "Excellent question, Mr. Graymort. No, it does not. The water simply needs to be clear enough and free from any strong flavors. The brewing process will neutralize any hazardous substances that might have contaminated it." And so the lesson went. It took the better part of an hour for the brewing part of the class to begin. And throughout it all, the bloated professor expressed no favour or reward for exceptionalism. At one point, someone asked if a non-magical person could brew a potion. It was a question I had never thought about, mainly because I expected the answer to be obvious. …it was not. Apparently, only wizards—people gifted with the invocation of magic—were capable of such miracles.
It was…curious.
A/N: Trying to add complexity to potion brewing is proving difficult. I want the things taught at Hogwarts to be basic—similar to chemistry. I’ll also be adding variety, difficulty, and rarity to the process.
Next Chapter, I’ll touch upon the basics of brewing, and the nature of spell casting. Following that will be an Interlude, hopefully one that moves away from the MC’s sphere of existence.