Chapter 23: Improved Potion

The idea that "potions are essentially spells" formed the core of Vaughn Weasley's magical philosophy. He'd crystallized this theory into a paper published in The Exceptional Elixir, the journal of the Apothecaries Guild, when he was just ten. This, unsurprisingly, became a major source of controversy.

Potioneering was often seen as a discipline apart. To many traditionalists, the true essence of magic's mystery and power resided solely in the fragrant steam rising from a cauldron.

Pack enough vials, they argued, and you could handle almost anything without the "foolish wand-waving" and "flashy incantations" favoured by others.

Add to that the fact that many magical maladies and curse wounds only yielded to potions, and it was easy to see why some practitioners gazed down their noses at other magical fields.

Vaughn's assertion, therefore, struck at the very heart of their beliefs. It wasn't that everyone disagreed; many simply recoiled at the idea of change. Some were hidebound relics, basking in past glories. Others were entrenched beneficiaries of the status quo, since the more obscure potioneering remained, the easier it was to monopolize its secrets. And some, frankly, were just…

"Fools!"

That succinct, scathing verdict had been delivered by none other than Professor Snape in a letter published by the Daily Prophet at the time.

Vaughn's central argument was straightforward: integrate magic more actively into the brewing process, akin to spellcasting. Like now.

As Vaughn sprinkled powdered snake fangs into his simmering cauldron, his wand flicked out, its tip touching the pewter rim. A thread of near-imperceptible magic seeped into the concoction. Beside him, Hermione Granger leaned in, eyes wide, but magic, of course, is invisible. She saw only the powder sinking into the murky liquid.

"Snake fang is the primary ingredient here," Vaughn murmured, his voice low and instructive. "Its function is to adsorb toxins. Crucially, remember, the fang itself doesn't possess that power. We only require its inherent property."

As he spoke, tiny points of soft, ethereal light seemed to detach themselves from the sinking powder, floating within the potion like captured fireflies. The now inert powder settled on the cauldron's bottom.

"With the adsorption handled, the next step is the actual cure. For something straightforward like boils, horned slugs and dried nettles suffice. Slugs promote tissue healing; nettles neutralize the adsorbed toxins." Vaughn's wand tapped the cauldron again as he added the new ingredients. More luminous currents, now tinged with a faint, rosy pink, swirled within the potion.

Hermione hugged her textbook, her mouth slightly agape as she watched the interplay of light and liquid. "Those lights…?" she breathed.

"Exactly, Hermione," Vaughn confirmed, a hint of pride in his voice. "The extracted properties. I used magic to isolate them, and made them visible for you. In the traditional Boil Cure Potion, the final step, adding porcupine quills, serves solely to trigger this extraction. The quills themselves don't contribute to the healing. My method bypasses that step entirely, saving magic and an ingredient."

He removed the cauldron from the flame and began stirring. "Five clockwise stirs," he emphasized. "Not four, not six. This is the 'ritual' aspect I mentioned earlier. The number holds power in this specific formulation. Watch…"

Hermione held her breath. The potion, previously layered and murky, swirled under Vaughn's precise stirs and a final, decisive wand gesture. As it spun, the disparate colours and textures dissolved, coalescing into a single, brilliant shade of clear, shimmering blue, flawless, textbook-perfect, perhaps even better.

Before Hermione could voice her astonishment, Professor Snape materialized beside their table like a particularly displeased spectre.

He peered into Vaughn's cauldron, his usual lifeless gaze sharpening with genuine surprise. He dipped a finger, sniffed it cautiously, then fixed Vaughn with a penetrating stare.

"Absent is the customary acrid tang of porcupine quill. You've altered the formula?"

"Yes, Professor," Vaughn replied calmly.

"Employing that… magical extraction method you postulated last year?"

Vaughn offered a small smile. "Correct, sir. Though its application is currently limited to simpler concoctions. Higher-grade potions demand the extraction of far more numerous and complex properties. Mastering those requires significant time, study, and experimentation to discover the precise magical 'touchpoints'."

He met Snape's gaze steadily. "I believe the principle holds merit, however. Traditional recipes often necessitate additional ingredients solely to facilitate the final property extraction. These extras invariably introduce their own influences, sometimes undesirable, occasionally even toxic. While side-effects might be tolerated for efficacy, surely eliminating them is preferable?"

Snape regarded him in silence for a long moment. He turned to leave, his parting words drifting back over his shoulder, dry as parchment.

"Ten points to Slytherin, Vaughn Weasley. Granger, assist Longbottom and Finnigan. I suspect they may possess troll ancestry. Ronald Weasley! Are you contemplating the void? Why do you not emulate your brother?"

Harry heard Ron mutter fiercely beside him, "Like hell I will!"

Harry didn't answer immediately. After a pause, he whispered, "Next Potions… I think I want to partner with Vaughn."

Ron whipped his head around. "Traitor!"

Meanwhile, Vaughn and Hermione moved to obey Snape's "kind" suggestion. Neville Longbottom was near tears, having endured Snape's withering critiques for the entire lesson and suffering a five-point deduction. He radiated abject misery.

"S-sorry, Vaughn," Neville sniffled, wiping his nose. "I'm useless. I just keep forgetting everything."

"No trouble, Neville," Vaughn said, his tone reassuring. "Just stick close to the book. Slow and steady. Don't panic." Neville, who owed Vaughn a significant debt of gratitude from a past incident, trusted him implicitly, despite the Slytherin green.

The round-faced, kind-hearted boy might have a memory like a leaky cauldron and a tendency to well up, but he was biddable and attentive when guided by someone he respected.

Seamus Finnigan, at the neighbouring station, presented a different challenge.

Whether possessed of hidden talent or simply inherent chaos, even under Hermione's watchful eye, he nearly caused disaster during the final step.

Without removing his cauldron from the flame, he grabbed a handful of porcupine quills, poised to dump them in.

"Wingardium Levioso!"

Vaughn's wand snapped up almost before Seamus's hand moved. The quills froze mid-air, inches from the bubbling surface. A collective gasp went up; everyone knew what heated porcupine quills did to an unfinished Boil Cure Potion, instant, violently corrosive sludge, usually accompanied by a nasty explosion.

Snape swooped back, his expression thunderous. "Finnigan! A display of staggering incompetence, even for Gryffindor! Five points lost! Clean up that potential disaster before you maim someone!"

As they filed out of the dungeons towards Gryffindor Tower, Seamus was still trying to justify himself to Hermione. "...I was just nervous, alright? Snape kept looming! Like a bat! The pressure!"

Hermione, arms crossed, fixed him with a look that could curdle milk. Her voice was crisp and sharp. "Then perhaps you should focus more, Finnigan! The Professor didn't make you forget to take it off the heat!"

Seamus flushed crimson, stung by the rebuke. "Oh, stuff it, Granger!" He stomped ahead.

Ron, witnessing the exchange, turned to Harry with a smirk. "See? She's impossible. Always has to be right. Makes everyone feel stupid."

Harry, spotting Hermione marching past them, tried to steer the conversation. "Er… tomorrow's Saturday. Fancy visiting Hagrid? He sent an owl, invited me down to his hut."

Ron, oblivious as ever, barrelled on. "Yeah, alright. Just… maybe not with her tagging along, eh? Don't fancy a lecture on the 'correct' way to drink tea or say a spell properly the whole time..."

Hermione, who had clearly heard every word, stiffened. Her lips pressed into a thin line that reminded Harry eerily of Professor McGonagall at her sternest.

Without a word, she deliberately shouldered past Ron, sending him staggering sideways with a surprised "Oof!"

Harry watched her retreating back, auburn hair bouncing with furious steps, and sighed. "Ron, you really shouldn't have said that."

Ron, slightly winded and aware he'd been a git, just mumbled and rubbed his shoulder.