After Vizette left, the door to the headmaster's office creaked open. Dumbledore stood in the doorway, a faint smile playing on his lips. He paused for a moment, then raised his wand. "Traceable!"
The wand tip quivered, releasing a swirl of golden smoke that coalesced into a shimmering vortex overhead. It spun lazily before dissolving into fine gold dust, which reformed into a translucent figure—Vizette's exact stance from the corridor, wand poised mid-cast.
Dumbledore glanced at Fawkes. "His adaptability is impressive, wouldn't you say?"
The phoenix looked frailer now, his vibrant feathers dulled, movements sluggish. He offered no triumphant trill, just a subtle nod, as if agreeing.
Dumbledore noticed the bird's waning vigor, a sharper decline than his own leisurely pace. While unwrapping a lemon drop for himself, he offered Fawkes a plump berry. "You've been through so much. Let me look after you properly from here on."
---
As October deepened, Halloween loomed with its festive promise—but this year, a relentless chill dampened the mood. A clammy fog seeped into every corner of Hogwarts, leaving the castle sodden and miserable, walls slick with moisture. Students from Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff stuck to the indoors, crowding into their cozy common rooms near roaring fireplaces to study, chat, or simply thaw out.
Slytherin fared worse. Their dungeon lair hugged the Black Lake's edge, where no blaze could chase away the perpetual dankness. Flu swept through their ranks like a curse, felling nearly the entire house.
In Potions that morning, Harry and Ron huddled over their cauldron, savoring its meager warmth. The flames licked the base, painting their faces in a ruddy glow.
Spotting Snape looming over Neville's mishmash brew, Ron whispered, "Figures Snape's dodging the flu."
Harry stirred carefully. "Maybe he's just cold-blooded by nature."
Ron stifled a snort as a cough. "Cough, cough—"
Snape whirled, his lip curling in icy disdain. "Amusing yourselves at a professor's expense? Five points from Gryffindor."
Harry and Ron shared a mortified glance, their cheeks cooling fast.
"Keep it down," Seamus hissed over his shoulder. "He's been chugging energizers to stay sharp—"
Bang! Seamus's cauldron erupted in a shower of sparks and potion. The foul sludge splattered him and Dean Thomas, who collapsed in a heap, snoring peacefully like overfed infants.
"Another ten from Gryffindor," Snape barked. "Eyes on the board! Step six: three clockwise stirs for the Wake-Up Solution. These two geniuses went counterclockwise—reversing the effect entirely."
He prodded the sleepers, confirming only superficial burns. "Now, who'll drag these laggards to the hospital wing?"
Harry and Ron perked up, then ducked their heads, feigning intense focus on their potion.
Snape's gaze lingered. "Pity their housemates lack initiative. Very well—Miss Granger, Miss Pettigrew! Escort these dozers to Madam Pomfrey."
As Hermione shot a glare and hauled the boys out, Ron exhaled. "Lucky escape."
"She'll be gutted to miss class," Harry agreed, double-checking the board before dropping in the wolfsbane.
Seamus had nailed it—Snape was brewing energizers nonstop to combat the epidemic. Even Vizette's weekend sessions with him doubled as potion shifts.
The basic recipe called for ginger root alone, but Snape layered in catnip, peppercorns, wasabi, and mint. Vizette's eyes watered at the fumes.
At the final stage, Snape tossed in a bitter chamomile infusion, drawing a bead of sweat from Vizette.
"Staring, Lovegood? Planning to dock your own points?"
"Just pondering the intent, Professor," Vizette replied, flicking his wand for three counterclockwise stirs. "Catnip, peppercorns, wasabi, mint—they mimic ginger, but won't that scorch palates?"
"Dilute it," Snape snapped. "I'm not wasting days on refinements. Brew the rest yourself."
"And the chamomile?" Vizette pressed. "It clashes with the stimulants—bitter as regret."
Snape smirked. "Gryffindors need livening up. This'll give them an appetite."
He scoured the cauldron and started fresh. "When you deliver to Pomfrey, specify: Gryffindor-exclusive."
"A watered-down pep potion?" Vizette recalled a line from Ancient Magic: The Balance of Potions. "If I sweeten the concentrate, say with more licorice?"
Snape arched a brow. "What else?"
"Licorice risks side effects in bulk. Honeysuckle and echinacea infusions might preserve the kick while masking the bite—added last."
Snape mulled it over. "Viable. Adjust the incantation and stir—counterclockwise, precisely."
Vizette nodded, his mind racing with tweaks. The castle's chill might persist, but these brews promised a spark of relief amid the gloom. As flames crackled on, October's trials felt a touch more bearable.
…
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