Highlands, Hogwarts
01-09-1969
Perteus Graymort:
I didn’t brew—not out of caution or some trembling insecurity, but a strange sort of charity. A gift, born from suspicion honed by seasoned observation. Foresight, I liked to call it, spiked with a twist of pacifism.
Wisdom might preach learning from others’ blunders, but some lessons demand the raw sting of experience—and the shame that trails it. So I held back, watching, indulging in the sidelines.
The cauldron screeched across the hardwood as Reid shoved it toward the center, where flames would soon flicker to life.
His focus was splintered, darting everywhere but the task—yet that grating sound yanked him into a fleeting second of clarity. He was a mess, mind too tangled for this gig. It’d be a bloody miracle if he brewed anything close to the Seraphis Serenum we were meant to conjure.
I swallowed a chuckle, opting instead to play the stellar assistant this time around. No point in letting his fumble sour my mood.
Our assignment was Seraphis Serenum—a slick upgrade to the Serenity Potion, engineered to sidestep its predecessor’s flaws.
Where the original draped you in a vague calm, this brew sharpened your edges, locking your mind into tunnel vision: pure focus, a flood of information absorbed for a solid three hours, if you downed it right. Handy stuff—except, naturally, there was a catch. Abuse it, and you’d drift into apathy’s cold grip.
Ten pages in the tome spelled out its quirks—effects on wizards, Muggles, goblins, half-breeds, the whole sapient circus. Exhaustive, yet none of these magic-born kids seemed to know it.
That baffled me. They had a potion rivaling—hell, trumping—Adderall (not that they’d invented that gem yet), and they shrugged it off like it was nothing. Utterly daft. Though, I checked myself—maybe I’d missed a piece.
Affordability, perhaps?
My gaze drifted to the lump of Othrilis on our table, uncut and dull as mud. Every station had one, paired with a sprawl of ingredients—enough for a dozen brews if we didn’t botch it.
I tugged the stuff closer—mineral, maybe?—and pressed the bewitched cutter against it. The blade slid through like soft butter, and the severed chunk flared from drab brown to a deep, moody purple. I stifled a grimace. The instructions? "Cut a piece, it’ll change color if you did it right." No size, no preferred shade—just vague nonsense. Brewing was a farce parading as discipline, and it wasn’t even funny.
Take Seraphis Serenum: a cup of water, a slice of Othrilis, a pinch of Nirvalm Ash, a shadow-dried paeonia petal. Toss them in, follow the steps—no hint of why or how they melded, just a ritual checklist. Absurdity in a cauldron.
I glanced at Reid again, catching him hefting the cauldron, twisting it this way and that like a baffled child with a broken toy.
Utterly ridiculous.
If Slughorn hadn’t waved off the stakes—assuring us evaluations wouldn’t kick in until day three—I’d have nipped this nonsense in the bud.
But he had, and the man’s knack for subtle manipulation shone through once more. Smoother than me—and I fancied myself a deft puppeteer—he played the long game with patience I couldn’t muster. His charm wasn’t for us kids now; it was bait for the adults we’d become, primed to look back and nod in gratitude. Reflection would do the heavy lifting.
Eléa glided by, her footfalls a whisper against the hardwood. Up close, her beauty hit like a spell—hazel eyes glinting, plump lips curved, a delicate face sharpened by that elegant nose. Hair spilled over her shoulders in dark waves, her frame radiating a refined grace.
Charm and delicacy woven tight.
Her gaze flicked to our table, lingering on the ingredients for a heartbeat before she nodded, a smile blooming. "You are doing good job," she said, her voice soft, then drifted on.
Encouragement, not truth—I saw through it—but the words struck Reid like a thunderbolt. A miracle, really, and then it clicked: these classmates of mine were wading through puberty’s murk, the darkest shift. New emotions, raw and unruly, were staking their claim—and attraction was chief among them.
"Recite the instructions, mate," Reid snapped, impatience lacing his tone. "You heard Slughorn—accidents, dreadful stuff."
His edge didn’t faze me. Boys—males, to be precise—had a predictable streak, especially when peacocking for someone like Eléa.
Reid was all thumbs and fumbling intent, barely aware of the game he was playing.
Focus!
I shoved the thought aside, letting fresh curiosity flood in. I grabbed the tome—thick with alchemical scrawl and sketches—and flipped through its labyrinth of recipes until I hit the simpler stuff.
"No rush," I said, cool as you please, nudging a cup of water his way. "Pour this into the cauldron."
He complied, and—surprise—his hands moved with a delicacy that caught me off guard. Not grace, not yet, nor the polish of practice, but a smoothness beyond mere caution. Something innate shimmered there, a queer spark that echoed the arcane weave’s odd gifts. Brewing carried that same exclusivity, didn’t it?
My enslaved boon stirred, a phantom brush against him—my eldritch sense snagging on a strangeness in his reality. It seeped into the cauldron, fraying logic’s grip just a touch.
It was—
I bit my cheek, choking my curiosity before it veered off the rails. The water stilled, its calm snapping into place faster than physics should allow.
I slid the spoon to Reid. "Stir counterclockwise twice—start at three o’clock, end between three and eleven. Longer spins, weaker brew."
"What?" His brows knotted, confusion plain as day. "That’s gibberish, mate. Shouldn’t we light the flames first, and add the stuff?"
I shook my head, deadpan. "This isn’t cooking."
And it wasn’t.
Brewing carried a ritualistic pulse—an eldritch thread that stitched the nonsense into something coherent, in its own twisted way.
I snatched the spoon back, demonstrating in the air. "Your body’s the clock—right hand’s three. Start here, stop there." My arc was crisp, theatric, and my voice sliced through the silence of the class.
"That’s quite the example, Mr. Graymort!" Slughorn’s voice boomed from behind, jolting me—I’d let my shroud slip. "Using your body as a clock cuts out half the blunders."
He swept around us, that familiar smile plastered on, then fished a compass from his pocket. "Though, for real potency, north’s your twelve. Precision matters in any potion worth its salt."
The compass’s "N" spun, settling at my five o’clock. A frown tugged at me as Reid’s reality quaked—faint, odd—under Slughorn’s wisdom. The professor rambled on: mental potions peak at eleven, when your mind’s razor-sharp; emotional ones? Trickier, tangled in timing and intent. I filed it away.
We pressed on. Reid stirred, close enough to twice, then we heated the cauldron—sixty-seven heartbeats, though he counted sixty in a steady drone. Ancient brewers managed this how, exactly? Instinct took over next: a clockwise whirlpool, two spins, vague as the text was. The water swelled—impossibly—and I let it slide.
"Pinch of Nirvalm Ash, paeonia petal, then Othrilis," I recited, passing each bit.
Reid dropped them in, itching to stir—I blocked him twice. Thirty seconds later, the mix flared green, bubbling without heat. Panic flickered between us, but it settled, shifting to a rich gold—like old coins, carbonated and jittery.
The tome said: "Golden and bubbly, pour it into a bowl. Wait a few beats—summer-sky blue." I reached for the bowl when a shriek split the air.
Two Hufflepuffs flailed, their table drowning in yellow foam that crawled up their arms.
Eléa glided over, wand flicking out a whispered spell—no light, no delay. The foam vanished—poof, air—and we stood, dumbstruck.
"You sure we did this right?" Reid’s voice wobbled, thick with doubt.
"It’ll be fine," I grinned, masking my own jitter as my shroud coiled tight. No nerdy exit for me—I’d rather go down via a furious wife, scorned by a dozen lovers and a couple of secret kids.
The old dream.
Reid poured, hesitant. The potion shrank, dulling to blue—good enough, I hoped.
"Congratulations, Mr. Quilt!" Slughorn materialized, voice ringing. "You and Graymort brewed a fine one." He swirled the bowl, beaming. "Swap roles ‘til you both master it. Bottle these—comparisons for later." He left vials and vanished again.
We high-fived—my invention here, though teaching Reid was a slog. He lit up, grinning wider than ever, claiming it as our thing. I wouldn’t spoil that.
Four potions later, class wrapped, lunch called—but I lingered. Greed burned, and Slughorn could quell it.
Lunch beckoned the others, their chatter fading out the door as cauldrons cooled and the scent of Seraphis Serenum—sharp and faintly floral—hung in the air.
I lingered, my feet rooted near our workbench, where four vials of dull-blue potion sat neatly labeled. A small win, sure, but my mind buzzed with loose ends. Slughorn was the key.
He was tidying his desk, humming a tuneless ditty, when I cleared my throat. "Professor," I started, cutting through his melody, "can I borrow a few minutes? I’ve got some questions."
Slughorn turned, his round face blooming into that practiced smile. "Mr. Graymort! Young Perteus, always a pleasure. Lingering for knowledge, are we?" His enthusiasm rang loud—too loud, maybe. Could it really be genuine? He waved a hand toward a stool. "How’s Hogwarts treating you so far?"
I perched on the edge, elbows on the table, playing it casual. "It’s barely been a day, Professor." I smiled.
"Indeed," he nodded, unfazed. "Yet even that’s enough to spark the barest hints of judgment, hmm?"
He wasn’t wrong. Hours felt like weeks here—maybe my maturity, or the foreknowledge, warped time for me. Or maybe I was just an oddball. Either way, I shrugged. "It’s pleasant enough. Friendly faces, and the food’s honestly kind of amazing."
Slughorn chuckled, patting his waistcoat. "The house-elves do spoil us! But I sense there’s more on your tongue than compliments. Out with it, lad."
Fair enough—he’d sniffed out my real angle. "Alright, first off—why’s Seraphis Serenum so obscure? It’s brilliant stuff, sharpens you up like nothing else. Back where I—er, in some circles—it’d be a game-changer. So why’s it a nobody here? Too pricey?"
He blinked, tilting his head like I’d spouted gibberish. "Obscure? Game-changer? My dear boy, it’s a standard first-year brew—hardly the stuff of legend! Cost?" He laughed, a rich rumble. "Othrilis grows wild in the Highlands, Nirvalm Ash a Knut a pinch. No, no, it’s not that. I’d wager it’s simply… overshadowed. Draughts of Peace, Calming Concoctions—flashier names, broader charm. Seraphis is a niche, for the studious sort." His eyes twinkled. "You’ve a nose for the overlooked, eh?"
Magical priorities, then—not quite my frame. I shifted gears. "Fine, but the ingredients—Othrilis, say. What’s it doing in there? The book’s all 'cut it, toss it in,' no logic. Is brewing just random junk mashed together, or is there a point?"
He leaned back, hands clasped over his belly, delighted. "Truly an inquisitive one! Othrilis binds the potion’s essence—anchors the focus. A conductor, channeling Nirvalm’s clarity and paeonia’s calm into harmony. The color shift? Magic waking up—proof it’s primed. Brewing’s no chaotic fling, Perteus; it’s a dance of properties, precise as a potion-master’s waltz!" He frowned slightly. "Though the texts can be… coy about the whys. Tradition, I suppose—keeps the mystique."
A conductor—fit the ritual hum I’d sensed, even if "mystique" felt like a sidestep. I nodded toward his desk. "That compass trick—north for a stronger kick. Does it actually boost the brew, or is it just flair? And why eleven o’clock for mental potions?"
His brows shot up, then he plucked the compass from his pocket, spinning it. "Boost it? Oh, yes! North’s a lodestone for magical currents—grounds it, makes it sing. Stirring blind’s like cooking without salt—edible, but flat. As for eleven…" He tapped his temple. "Mind’s sharpest then, post-breakfast, pre-lunch dullness. Brew when your wits peak, and the potion mirrors it. Old wisdom, not yet in the books. You’ve an eye for the subtle, don’t you?"
I smiled—the compliments were working. Solid answers, but light on the how. One more. "Old wisdom, huh? How’d ancient brewers manage without clocks or compasses—just heartbeats and guesswork? Some lost trick, or were they fumbling?"
He laughed, rich and rolling. "Fumbling? Hardly! Those cauldron-stirrers were sharp—brewed by feel: moon phases, wind, their own pulse tuned to magic—it was thicker then, the texts say. Compasses? They’d scoff. Mind you…" He leaned in, voice low. "I suspect familiars—owls, cats, toads—sensed the moment. A lost art, and a pity. Modern brewing’s too mechanical for my taste."
I nodded, filing it away. Moon phases, familiars—wild, but it clicked with that eldritch hum from class. Slughorn straightened, brushing his robes. "Anything else, lad? Or shall I free you for shepherd’s pie?"
I slid off the stool, eyes flicking to our vials. "One thing—those potions we brewed, the good ones. Could I take them? Seems a shame to let them gather dust."
This was my true goal.
Slughorn paused, smile softening. "Take them? Well, why not!" He glanced at the vials, nodding. "Sound brews, safe as houses—yours and Quilt’s are splendid. Just don’t guzzle them like pumpkin juice; a sip’s plenty, or apathy might sneak in. Take them, though—a brewer’s entitled. Keep them out of mischief, hmm?"
"Scout’s honor," I said, pocketing the vials with a quick grin. "Thanks, Professor. Clears up a lot."
He beamed, pride glinting in his eyes. "Anytime, Perteus. Keep that mind stirring—it’ll take you far!"
I headed for the door, the vials’ weight a quiet thrill against my robes.
I stepped out of the classroom, the door creaking shut behind me, the weight of four vials still a quiet thrill against my robes.
The corridor stretched dim and cool, torches flickering shadows across the stone, and there they were—the boys, loitering like a pack of stray pups. Godric leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Ieuan fidgeted with his sleeve and Trevor kicked at a loose pebble. Reid hovered near the front, eyes bright.
No Narcissa—she’d ditched them for the girls, probably off braiding hair or plotting something dainty.
"Cheers for waiting," I said, tipping my head. "Didn’t expect the escort."
Godric waved it off, a lazy flick of his hand. "Don’t flatter yourself, Graymort. We just didn’t fancy getting lost again." He shot Reid a mock glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Reid huffed, feigning a scowl that didn’t stick. "Wasn’t that bad," he muttered, then sidled up to me, bouncing on his heels like an eager mutt.
His grin betrayed him—puppyish and unashamed. I didn’t mind; his energy was contagious, in a daft sort of way.
We started down the hall, footsteps echoing off the walls. Ieuan piped up, voice cutting through the quiet. "What’s for lunch, you reckon? A salad, or something proper—like roast beef with crispy potatoes?"
"Pray it’s not eel stew," Trevor chimed in, wrinkling his nose. "Tastes like the lake smells." He glanced my way, curious. "What’d you stay back for, anyway? What were you and Slughorn nattering about?"
I worked my jaw, keeping it light. "Potions, mostly. Why Seraphis Serenum’s some buried treasure no one cares about—sharpens your head like a blade, but it’s cheap as dirt. Asked him about Othrilis too—what it does, not just how to chuck it in. Turns out it’s a conductor, ties the brew together. Oh, and north’s your potion’s best mate if you’ve got a compass handy." I rattled it off, honest as promised, though the finer points—eldritch hums, ancient tricks—stayed locked in my skull.
No point boring them with that; my enthusiasm for brewing’s quirks didn’t spark the same fire theirs did for, say, chasing a Snitch.
They didn’t notice my half-hearted delivery—old soul like me could fake the cheer well enough. Ieuan grinned, "Crispy potatoes and a potion that makes you clever? Sign me up!" Trevor nodded, but Godric just snorted, steering us left at a fork.
I yanked him to the middle path, ignoring the snickers of the others.
Talk turned childish quick—Quidditch, naturally. "Ashwinders’ got no chance this year," Trevor declared, all puffed up. "Puddlemere’s Seeker’s a hawk—snagged the Snitch in under ten last match."
"Rubbish," Godric shot back.
"Chudley’s Chasers’ll run rings ‘round them. Bet you a Sickle they take the cup." Reid chimed in, babbling about some dive he’d seen, arms flailing like he was mid-flight.
That was suspect.
I tossed in a "Nice move, if the broom doesn’t snap," keeping pace, though the sport left me cold. Flying sounded grand—wind in your face, freedom—but the game? Just noise and bruised egos.
The Great Hall loomed ahead, doors flung wide, the hum of voices spilling out with the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread. We slid onto a bench, plates piling high—shepherd’s pie for Ieuan’s win, no eel in sight.
Reid jabbed me with an elbow, grinning through a mouthful. "Good stuff, yeah?" I nodded, digging in, the warmth settling like old days.
After, bellies full, the hall thinned out, but we lingered. Godric stretched, cracking his knuckles. "Reckon we sneak to the kitchens later? House-elves might slip us pudding if we’re quick." Trevor’s eyes lit up, but I raised a brow.
"After that feast?" I said, patting my stomach. "You’ll roll back to the dorms." Reid laughed, loud and bright, and Ieuan suggested a detour instead—some tapestry he swore hid a shortcut to the courtyard.
Dubious, but I indulge the recklessness… enjoyed the childhood. "Lead on, then. Worst case, we’re lost ‘til supper."
We ambled out, the boys jostling and plotting, my mind half on their chatter, half on those vials tucked safe. I was drinking one during DADA, test the effectiveness.
Ieuan dragged us off-course, swearing up and down he’d found the courtyard behind that one-eyed witch tapestry. Spoiler: he hadn’t.
Instead, we stumbled into some forgotten garden, a sprawl of green that hit like a charm. Lush didn’t cover it—vines twisted thick as ropes, flowers bloomed in reckless riots of color, and the air hung heavy with a scent so fresh it stung. Magic thrummed in the soil, old and wild, prickling my skin like static. Not the courtyard, sure, but I’d take it.
The boys didn’t blink—just grabbed sticks and turned it into a battlefield. We clashed swords for an hour, Ieuan crowing as he "slayed" Trevor, Godric parrying Reid’s flailing strikes with a smirk. Me? I played along, lunging and dodging, but my head was half-elsewhere, mapping the place.
Untouched, vast—stone walls swallowed by ivy, a fountain choked with moss gurgling in the corner. It felt like a secret, one I’d tuck away for later.
When they tired out—sweaty, grinning, sticks snapped—I took the reins, herding them back through the maze of halls before Trevor could dub himself guide next.
A/N: Don’t worry if you don’t understand the reasoning behind brewing, I explained it so that instant understanding could not be achieved. I’ll be addressing Seraphis Sererum real soon.