"Harry Potter- Ravenclaw"Chapter 18: Potions from Thin Air?
The process went even more smoothly than Wyzett had expected. Dumbledore's construction of the false memory was so precise that, as Wyzett inserted it, he encountered almost no resistance. It felt as though the memory had always belonged there.
This left Wyzett with the distinct impression that Dumbledore had been prepared for this all along—otherwise, how could he have achieved such perfection in so little time?
When the effects of the Baruffio's Brain Elixir wore off, Altom Avakian didn't lapse back into confusion. That alone proved Wyzett's method and theory were sound.
Mallow Fang stared at Wyzett, looking genuinely stunned. "It's... unbelievable," he murmured.
Altom Avakian rubbed his temples, eyes closed as he tested his mind. "Feels like I'm back to normal..."
"But why does it seem like things that used to be fun just aren't that interesting anymore...?"
"Altom, you'll need to stay at Hogwarts for a while," Dumbledore explained. "So there are some things you'll need to avoid for now."
Altom Avakian shrugged, unconcerned. "Fair enough! Shuffling and dealing are just part of the game. We'll wait for that bastard to walk right into the trap!"
…
"Imbuing a potion with a Patronus Charm's properties..."
As Wyzett left the Headmaster's office, Snape's words echoed in his mind.
Aside from refining his "fulcrum theory" today, his greatest gain had been that conversation with Snape.
The idea that he might truly be able to conjure potion ingredients out of thin air filled him with excitement. He couldn't wait to try.
After all, the best way to master new knowledge was to put it into practice right away.
Before he knew it, he was standing in the Potions classroom, in front of his storage locker.
"What potion ingredients am I familiar enough with—and simple enough in properties?" Wyzett opened the locker. "Horned slugs and dried nettles."
"To brew a Boil-Cure Potion, I still need snake fangs... and porcupine quills..." He rummaged through his supplies until he found the last of the snake fangs and porcupine quills.
"Expecto Patronum!" Wyzett raised his wand, attempting to follow Snape's method and directly conjure a steamed horned slug.
Of course, he had his own twist on the process.
While the Patronus Charm served as the framework, for the actual construction he used magical circuits—a secret unique to him.
Channeling his soul through the Patronus Charm to reconstruct the magical circuit of a horned slug was a mentally exhausting task, demanding total concentration.
On top of that, Wyzett had to infuse the process with Ancient Magic to speed up the creation of the potion ingredient.
Even completing one left him dizzy and seeing spots.
To avoid collapsing and ending up in the hospital wing again, he took a long rest before attempting to conjure a second horned slug.
The horned slugs he produced this way were more like a viscous fluid—an "extract," perhaps, would be the best word.
The horned slug extract was a deep, inky black; the dried nettle extract, a withered yellow.
Wyzett set up his cauldron and, step by step, brewed the Boil-Cure Potion using the ingredients.
After so much time learning under Snape, brewing a simple potion like this was second nature. Soon, pure pink smoke rose from the cauldron.
Staring at the finished potion, Wyzett felt a surge of indescribable excitement. "It really worked! That legendary state... just water and sugar, flame and cauldron!"
A new thought struck him. "If I can brew potions from nothing, isn't that almost the same as casting a spell to produce a magical effect?"
…
"Why should there be a difference?" Snape's voice cut in suddenly.
Wyzett turned to see Professor Snape watching him, face unreadable.
"Whether it's potions or spells, both are privileges of wizards," Snape continued. "Even if a Muggle followed the recipe exactly, all he'd get is a cauldron of poison."
"You could even say that every syllable of an incantation corresponds to an ingredient in a potion... The boundaries between the two aren't as clear as you think."
Wyzett tried to wrap his mind around it. "So, Professor Snape, you mean...?"
"You don't need to understand that just yet." Snape folded his arms. "Focus on your foundations. Master the properties of every potion ingredient—then you can leave."
He stepped aside, clearing a path. "I don't want a bothersome ghost haunting the Potions classroom just because someone dropped dead of exhaustion."
Wyzett blinked, conjured a quick mirror, and saw his own drooping eyelids and haggard face.
He quickly waved his wand, tidying up the entire classroom, then bowed to Snape. "Professor, I'll go get some rest."
Snape picked up the vial of Boil-Cure Potion, examining its color. His eyebrows had risen, almost in spite of himself.
His cheeks puffed out, but in the end he said nothing, silently returning to his office.
Just two or three days remained until the Christmas holidays. Lockhart held a small mirror between his fingers, staring at the reflection of a bloodless, haggard face.
He shifted the mirror with difficulty, angling it to see the top of his head—a patch of bald scalp shining more brilliantly than his once-prized, meticulously styled hair.
Lockhart felt oddly detached, as if he'd forgotten how long he'd been in the hospital wing.
It was as though the door to the hospital wing had cut him off from the world.
Through the crack in the door, he'd glimpsed Ravenclaw celebrating, and seen Filch scolding students. But not once had anyone come to visit him.
"Maybe my bed's too far inside? Is that why they never saw me?" Lockhart set down the mirror, muttering to himself.
"I am the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor... I've been gone for days... Don't they notice something's missing?"
The hospital wing door opened. Madam Pomfrey entered.
Seeing Lockhart clutching his mirror, she offered a gentle word: "Lockhart, you should be brave and take the next step. A wig might be just the thing."
"Oh... right..." Lockhart nodded numbly, stowing the mirror in his pocket and slowly shuffling to the side of the bed.
She was right—no potion could regrow his hair. Over these days, he'd gradually recovered some spellwork by practicing with his notebook. It was time to leave.
Lockhart let out a long breath, forced a smile, and pulled his wizard's hat firmly down over his head before finally walking out of the hospital wing...
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