A Potion of Shadows

Losing herself in her work was something Cyrna was intimately familiar with. She had no love for work, for keeping busy. Yet, it seemed that her plans always necessitated precisely that to yield the highest efficiency. The Flamels too, had thankfully agreed to assist her in achieving her much needed preparation for the magical world.

There was no gentleness or kindness shared between her and the alchemist. She did not perceive any, at the very least. His manner was brisk and cold, and when spoken to, would always reply in a reluctant grumble. He favoured an off-hands approach. Cyrna could count on one hand the number of times she'd met with him for lessons in a week.

Instead, he assigned her books of all sorts—Wizarding customs, Pureblood etiquette, to books that would be taught in the first-year of Hogwarts. He expected two essays per day, on top of the readings he gave. "Finish before dinner. – N" was often all that was penned to her in sharp, angular script. She had initially wondered if this was his way of testing her, but when it continued despite her success at meeting his expectations, she suspected that he only did so to avoid speaking to her. Perhaps he simply did not like her?

Cyrna did not mind, for he had kept his word to help, and that was all that mattered.

....

August 28th, 1990

Two months had passed since her arrival; two months enclosed in the library.

Perenelle enjoyed talking to her, and she would always try to include her into the conversations during meals. It was kind of her to do so. Cyrna wondered if she would feel lonely without Perenelle's chatter. She enjoyed keeping to herself—enjoyed the peace and silence with only her own thoughts as company, but she doubted she'd want to go on for months without anyone to speak to.

Rarely did she have time to ponder these things. The alchemist did not give her the time to do so with his demands written of ink and parchment.

But occasionally, in spare pockets of time without work—in the times where she wearily slid into her bed after a day's work, her thoughts would linger on the life that had once been hers. Sometimes she'd wake, wondering if she was late for her lecture, wondering where she had placed her laptop and notes. And then she'd quickly remember that that wasn't her life anymore.

That life was one that she could never return to.

There was a finality to it that she did not like, a foggy realization that nothing she did would ever regain what was hers.

She never dwelt on this thought for too long—because what use was there?

....

September 1st, 1990

Today, the note on her desk did not tell her to read or write essays. Rather, it summoned her to the Potions laboratory. P.S. Bring the tea and scones with you.

When she arrived, the alchemist did not say a word to her. Cyrna had hovered uncertainly by the door before settling down on a stool and carefully watched the alchemist work.

He uttered no words of complaint.

And so, a pattern began—he, her silent master, and she, his personal tea and scones fetcher.

.....

September 27th, 1990

Though he was incredibly old, his movements when chopping the ingredients, stirring, bottling the potion, were performed with an agility like that of a youth. There was something fascinating and beautiful in the way the alchemist brewed. It was a science but an art at the same time. And strangely, though there was little wand-waving, Cyrna believed this to be the most elegant of disciplines.

It was the precise preparation, the quiet clinks of glass, the soft bubbling of the cauldron, the occasional clang of the rod, and the gleaming liquid that shimmered in the cauldron that held her enthralled. It did not hurt that this discipline was practical as well, both as a means of income and as a means to protect and hide herself in the years to come.

She startled when the old alchemist suddenly looked up from his finished potion, meeting her eyes. Then, with a sharp jerk of his head, he motioned her to come over. "Valerian roots, the claw of the Norwegian Ridgeback, eyes of a fire-newt, saliva of a toad, …" he listed the ingredients. A stunning amount. "A beautiful potion, hm?"

The liquid gleamed like velvet gold. "Yes," Cyrna agreed, uncertain. The alchemist had never spoken to her in this room before; he had always ignored her.

"Would you like to try it?" he asked.

There was something about the way he spoke—it was the neutrality in his tone rather than his usual grumble—that made her wary. Besides, you never tried anything on your person. She did not trust the alchemist either, however much she grudgingly respected him.

"I'd rather not," she said.

"Really? But it's a powerful potion. Rarely, is any wizard offered a chance at it."

Cyrna's eyes narrowed. "That doesn't change my mind." Perhaps if Perenelle offered… Nicolas, she barely knew. He was eccentric and an utter mystery. She did not know him better now than she did months ago.

At her response, he stared at her for a long time, long enough to make her feel uncomfortable. With one hand, he transfigured one of the vials into a mouse. "Watch then," he instructed, finally turning away.

The whiskers on the mouse's nose twitched as the alchemist approached. It ran around before stilling and peering curiously at the alchemist. One drop of liquid gold touched it, and in the next moment, Cyrna was doing all she could to swallow down the sudden nausea she felt from looking at the now faceless mouse. The gold had burned a hole straight through its face, leaving a smoking hole behind that reeked of burnt flesh.

She could only stare wide-eyed at the alchemist, spine stiff. Had he been this manner of man in the books? She wasn't sure what emotion showed on her face, but he chuckled grimly at her reaction. "I suppose I should not have doubted Perenelle, but I had to be certain." Waving his hand again, the faceless mouse was once more a vial that now had a hole burnt through it.

Finally finding her voice, she motioned to the vial and said, "If I had said that I wanted to try it, you wouldn't have…"

"No, of course not," the alchemist said, and he had the gall to sound offended. "But you said no, and that's that." He vanished the potion with another wave of his hand and paced around the room. Stopping in front of the ingredients again, he paused. "Name them."

Cautiously and dutifully, she recited them to the alchemist. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully at her answer. He hummed, paced a little more then came to a stop in front of her.

"I don't know what foolish concoctions they play around with in the Wizarding Schools nowadays. However, each of my professors have always first impressed upon me that the lack of ostentatious displays of wandwork in Potions does not make this discipline any less dangerous and deadly than the others. In some ways, it is even more so, seeing as it is impossible to trace back the magic in a potion to its creator."

....

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