The next afternoon arrived soft and golden, the sunlight streaming in through the high windows of Ombrelune's Dorm Hall. Lunch had just finished; the lingering aroma of fresh bread and rosemary butter still clung to the air. Eira pushed her plate away, stacked her books under her arm, and rose from the long table.
She had just stepped into the Ombrelune's garden when Marin appeared from the opposite direction of the garden, balancing a precarious stack of potion manuals against his hip. His blue hair was still a little mussed from the afternoon's wind, and there was that familiar mischievous tilt to his smile.
"Afternoon, Eira," he said, swinging into step beside her. "Off to brew some trouble?"
"Off to potions class," she replied, matching his pace toward the rear road that would lead them across the courtyard. "Trouble isn't on the syllabus this week."
"Yet," Marin said under his breath, grinning.
Eira rolled her eyes but allowed a small smile. "You're unusually cheerful for someone walking toward an hour of chopping, grinding, and standing over a boiling cauldron."
"That's because we have a new professor," Marin said. "Word is, he's from Spain. Apparently, he's charming, smells like cinnamon, and doesn't throw exploding cauldrons out the window when students mess up."
"That's… a low bar," Eira said, thinking of the past two years under her grandmother, René Voclain. Madame Voclain had been precise, elegant, and entirely merciless in her expectations.
Marin gave her a sidelong glance. "Speaking of which… your grandmother. Did she just wake up one morning and say, 'No more potions for me, merci beaucoup'?"
Eira hesitated, adjusting the strap of her satchel. "I don't know. She resigned suddenly over the summer holidays. My assistant just said it was… personal issues after investigating it."
"You don't sound very curious," Marin said, mockingly shocked. "If my grandmother suddenly stopped yelling at students for stirring counterclockwise, I'd want to know why."
"She's not the sort of person you ask why," Eira said flatly. "And honestly? It doesn't matter to me. She was just my professor—not my grandmother. Though if you ever tell anyone she's my grandmother, I will kill you."
Marin grinned. "Relax. I wouldn't dream of it. Your secret's safe with me."
Eira arched a brow. "Oh, please. One day you'll be trying to impress some girl, and you'll drop it just to look mysterious. 'Hey, did you know my friend's grandmother is—'" She mimed a dramatic whisper.
Marin laughed. "Wow. Zero faith in me."
"Exactly zero," Eira shot back. "And if I hear anyone else knows, you know what happens next."
He threw up his hands, still smiling. "Alright, alright! Have some goddamn faith in me, woman."
They crossed the courtyard, the white stone underfoot warm from the sun. The tall, sweeping towers of Château Beauxbatons glistened against the afternoon sky, each arched window catching flecks of light.
The potions classroom was in the eastern wing, tucked away in one of the cooler stone corridors. By the time they reached the arched double doors, the soft scent of herbs and faint tang of vinegar already drifted out.
Inside, rows of polished wooden worktables were set neatly with brass cauldrons, jars of pre-measured ingredients, and tall glass stirring rods. The shelves along the back wall gleamed with potion bottles in every hue: pale silver, luminous gold, deep forest green.
And at the front of the room stood the new professor.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy smile and dark hair peppered just slightly with silver at the temples. His robes were deep indigo, trimmed in gold, and when he spoke, his voice rolled rich and warm, carrying the faintest Spanish lilt.
"Buenas tardes, estudiantes," he said, spreading his arms as though welcoming them into his home. "I am Professor Santiago Velasco, and I will be your potions master for the year. Some of you may have heard that Madame Voclain has… stepped down. Out of personal matters, sí? I will not pry, and neither should you. We are here for potions, not gossip."
Eira noted the way he said it—not sharply, but with a finality that made her wonder whether he already suspected what those 'personal matters' might be.
Professor Velasco clapped his hands once. "Today, we begin with something useful, something you might actually need in your daily lives. I present to you… the Calmantis Draught."
He moved to the front worktable, where an array of ingredients had been neatly laid out: pale white moonflower petals, slender shavings of willow bark, powdered peppermint root in a small porcelain bowl, a sprig of fresh mistleaf, and a delicate vial of honeywater that caught the light in golden sparks.
"This potion," Velasco explained, "is designed to soothe mild to moderate pain. Headaches, muscle soreness, the ache in your feet after dancing too long at a winter ball… all can be eased with Calmantis Draught. But—" he held up a finger— "only if brewed with precision. Too much moonflower, and you will feel drowsy for hours. Too little peppermint, and the pain relief will not last."
He leaned casually against the table, smiling as his gaze swept the room. "It takes forty-five minutes, and it is safe for you to brew at your level—provided you follow instructions. Sí? Bueno. Let us begin."
The students opened their books, though Velasco didn't consult his own. Instead, he spoke each instruction clearly, gesturing as he moved.
"Step one—add exactly three moonflower petals to cold water in your cauldron. Do not crush them; we want the infusion, not the powder. Three petals. Not four, not two."
Eira slid the petals in, watching them drift gently across the surface. The water shimmered faintly, a hint of silver spreading from each petal.
Marin leaned over slightly. "What happens if you put in four?"
"They say your dreams will be haunted by angry moon spirits," Eira murmured, deadpan.
Marin smirked. "Would those moon spirits be female?"
Eira rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't even leave the dream moon spirits alone—you'd try to flirt with them."
"Well, I could give it a shot," Marin said with a grin. "Who knows? I might even find your sister-in-law among them."
Eira shook her head, exasperated. "Work on your potions, idiota."
Velasco's voice floated across the room: "If you add four petals, Señor Marin, you will simply fall asleep in my class, which is far less interesting than moon spirits."
Laughter rippled through the students. Marin grinned. "Already like him better than your grandmother."
"Step two," Velasco continued, "add willow bark shavings slowly, and stir clockwise seven times. This releases the salicin, which is the true pain-relieving element. Watch how the water darkens."
Eira stirred, counting each circle. The liquid shifted from silver to a soft amber hue, the scent of earth and fresh wood rising with the steam.
"Muy bien, chiquillos," Velasco said warmly as he passed between the tables. He stopped by Eira's side, glancing into her cauldron. "Perfect hue, Señorita White. Or should I say, Eira."
She nodded. "Yes, sir."
He moved on, offering gentle corrections at other tables, never raising his voice, always explaining why something mattered.
"Step three—peppermint root powder, one teaspoon. Not for flavor, though you will taste it. It sharpens the brew, makes it act faster. Add it slowly, stir counterclockwise this time—three rotations only."
As the powder dissolved, the potion's scent brightened, the woodiness of willow mingling with the crisp snap of peppermint.
"Now," Velasco said, "mistleaf. Crush it between your fingers first; release the oils. Just one sprig."
Eira rubbed the small green leaves between her fingertips, releasing a sharp, herbal fragrance before dropping them in.
"And finally, honeywater. Three drops—exactly three—to bind the potion and smooth its effect. Too much and it will be cloying; too little and it will taste like you licked a tree."
The golden liquid swirled through the potion, the amber deepening to a rich, glowing bronze. Velasco checked the large hourglass at his table. "Now we let it simmer for twenty minutes. Low flame. You may talk quietly—quietly, Señor Marin—or read ahead in your textbooks."
Marin smirked, leaning his elbow on his table. "So, Eira, who do you think is more charming—Velasco or your grandmother?"
Eira didn't even look at him. "You really want me to answer that in front of him?"
"You could whisper it," Marin said innocently.
The potion bubbled softly, and the steam that rose from it seemed almost velvety in texture. Around them, the room smelled like a summer garden after rain—herbs and sweetness layered over a base of warm earth.
When the simmering time was done, Velasco called for everyone's attention. "Last step—strain the potion through fine gauze into glass vials. It should be clear bronze with no sediment at the bottom. If it looks cloudy, start over."
Eira poured hers carefully, the bronze liquid catching the light in her vial. It was perfectly clear. Velasco stopped by, lifted it, and held it up for the class to see.
"This," he said, "is an excellent example. Perfect texture, color, clarity. Muy bien, Eira."
A flicker of pride warmed her chest. She wasn't unused to praise, but the professor's approval felt genuine, not merely polite.
Each student was allowed to take a small sip of their brew. Eira let the warm, slightly sweet liquid coat her tongue. A faint cooling sensation spread through her jaw, then down the back of her neck, leaving a gentle ease in its wake.
"That," Velasco said, "is how you know it works. No explosions, no fumes, no hospital wing visits. And if you ever find yourself after a duel with sore muscles… you know what to brew."
As they packed up, Marin nudged Eira. "So, do we approve of Professor Cinnamon?"
She gave a tiny smile. "I approve of not having my cauldron thrown out the window. So yes."
Velasco's voice called after them as they left: "Next week—Dreamlight Elixir. Come rested, because it is… tricky."
And with that, the warm scent of honeywater and mint clung to Eira's robes as she and Marin stepped into the cool stone hallway.