CHAPTER TWENTY SIX: — a strong love for potion making ( let's backtrack to where it all began )
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FOR A FEW MOMENTS, all I could do was stand there, unable to utter a single word — This was it, and I knew it. For so long I'd been pondering on a ground which was smothering over my most desired thing: the truth. But, I wasn't stupid, I knew full well that the truth hurts, so I was attempting to bottle my emotions up until I knew exactly what ones to feel. At the present moment, I felt almost everything known to man.
"Yes, p-please." I stuttered in a low voice. Dumbledore nodded and turned back around to face the illuminating rack of potion bottles. He scanned his fingertips along a few of them, before delicately grabbing one near the very top of the rack. He carefully twisted off the lid and poured the contents out of it and into the pensieve. All those silver colours ebbing inside of it had now turned into a teal blue, with an inky black as its neutral.
"Dip your head inside, Emmalina; you'll understand everything from then on."
I furrowed my brows in confusion, before frantically nodding. As crazy as dipping your head inside of a weird looking basin sounded, it was Dumbledore, and I believed him. So, I took yet another step closer to the pensieve, and without a second thought, I rather confidently threw my head inside.
(Bare in mind, I wasn't too sure where that ounce of confidence had come from. I thought that maybe it was from the fact that in a few moments I'd be unraveling the truth — yeah, that was probably it...)
And that was when everything around me became a visual blur. The colours still ebbed and swirled around, before then begun to form into a place, an actual place, of what I assumed was also filled with actual people. My mind was now empty, but soon to be filled with what I've been waiting for — this was it, after so long — this was finally it.
* * *
Under the moonlight, the field lay still, the heat of that day had been replaced by a cool breeze, a breeze so quiet, so peaceful. Mable and her sister Rowena sauntered under a lonely tree, with a handmade quilt dangling over their legs — mother had made it. As well as being a brilliant potion maker, their mother was able to make many things, all by the soft and delicate touch of her hands.
"What do you want to be when you're older, Rowie?" Mable asked in her squeaky voice. The light breeze was gently pulling at the twelve-year-olds black locks, and she loved it.
"Potion master," Rowena replied bluntly, readjusting the quilt so that it fully covered her slim legs. "I'm aiming to brew a potion that no witch or wizard has mastered as of now." The girl cracked a toothy smile.
