SOLSTICE

043

The dungeon was its usual dreary self, a dank sort of cold that seeped into your skin and made the thought of even mild concentration feel like a Herculean task. Cauldrons hissed and bubbled with the kind of menace that made everyone question why brewing potions was a mandatory subject and not a punishment.

Professor Snape was at his desk, a silent specter of disdain, occasionally gliding between tables to deliver scathing remarks with surgical precision.

“Typical,” Sirius added with a scoff, lounging back in his chair as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “That slimy, bat-like mug of his couldn’t pull off another expression if it tried. Honestly, I reckon he was born scowling—probably scared the midwife half to death.” 

“Sirius!” Lady Potter chided him softly.

He turned toward her, his grin still firmly in place, though his shoulders straightened slightly, as if trying to appear less flippant. “What? I’m only saying what everyone’s thinking,” he said, holding his hands up in mock innocence.

Lady Potter arched a brow, her gaze steady. “You might think it, Sirius, but that doesn’t mean you should say it.”

Today’s lesson: the Hair-Raising Potion. A relatively simple brew for second years, though its tendency to erupt in uncontrollable frothing explosions meant it had the potential to entertain. Or, if Snape was feeling particularly sour, humiliate.

Cyril sat stiff-backed, paired with Daphne Greengrass, whose usual composed air felt slightly off. She was fidgeting, barely noticeable to most. He didn’t comment. Nervousness was like a housefly—best ignored unless it landed on your plate.

The court fixed her with knowing glances, their teasing smirks and raised brows a silent but unanimous verdict. Daphne let out a sigh, the sound almost theatrical, and shrugged with a nonchalance that was clearly meant to convey indifference. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her robes, a subtle tell that betrayed her otherwise practiced poise. 

It was her first time partnering with Cyril, and the closeness was enough to make her palms clammy. She wasn’t particularly good at Potions, a fact that made her stomach churn as she tried to keep up with his precise movements. And she didn’t want to disappoint him.

Not that she would admit it in front of others.

He swept his dark hair back, rolling up his sleeves. The instructions were laid out in meticulous detail, and Cyril read them twice before touching a single ingredient.

“Powdered porcupine quills, exactly three pinches,” he muttered, sliding the jar towards Daphne. She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the jar.

“Don’t overthink it. Just measure,” Cyril said, his voice even, almost clipped.

Daphne managed the task without mishap, though Cyril noted the slight tremor in her hand. As she added the quills, Cyril focused on slicing the ginger root. The sharp, tangy aroma curled through the air, mingling with the more acrid scents of the dungeon.

Potions fascinated him—not because they were a means to an end, but because of the process. It was like wielding control over chaos, bending nature to your will. 

Another reason is potions don't lie. They reacted, purely and predictably.

The mixture in the cauldron began to shimmer, the faint green hue indicating they were on track. Cyril stirred with measured precision, counting each turn in his head. Clockwise, three. Anticlockwise, one. Repeat.