Smells like Christmas

Snape and I each stand behind our tables. Black cauldrons in place. Potions kits open with ingredients laid out. A magical burner ready to be activated at the touch of a wand.

"A suggestion for the potion," Malfoy says.

Snape reveals nothing. "I am confident in my ability to brew any potion that Mr. Lockhart, in his breadth of knowledge, chooses," he says coolly.

With a small smile, I say, "Then might I suggest the eagle eye potion considering the root of this little debate."

Snape's expression tightens slightly. "A middling potion. How appropriate for a man of such," he eyes me robes, "elegance. Very well."

Malfoy and Woddleworth take front row seats for the duel while more chairs are arranged for the rest of the crowd. From somewhere a large clock has been conjured.

"Alright, gentleman. The brewing time is set to forty minutes. We wouldn't want anyone to become too creative with time limits," Malfoy says looking directly at me. He gestures with his wand.

"Begin." The time on the large clock begins counting down.

Snape immediately begins arranging his ingredients. I calmly lift the black cauldron and put it under the table. "And just what are you about, Mis- um, Professor Lockhart," Malfoy says squinting his eyes in suspicion.

"Throwing in the towel already Lockhart?" Snape says. "It certainly will save us all the trouble."

I look at them in innocent surprise. "Oh, no, not at all Professor. It's just that I thought I should make the competition fair."

"Fair?" Snape says dangerously.

"Why, yes, it has after all been some time since you entered the academia. Unlike me, brewing potions even in the heat of battle, I'm afraid its possible your practical skills may have rusted. It's only fair I take a handicap," I say placing my golden cauldron on the table. "Afterall, I wouldn't want you to think I'm taking advantage of you."

The crowd immediately begins muttering. "Wasn't that a chamberpot?" the whispers go. "Is he even taking this seriously? Lockhart certainly is bold" and so on.

Snape's hands ball into fists, his bones threatening to pop out of his skeletal fingers. "Rusted?"

Snape mutters clearly regretting agreeing to the potions duel, seeming he would much rather rend the flesh from my bones.

Malfoy merely smirks thinking me the foppish fool. "I think it's a brilliant idea, Professor Lockhart. A man of reason after my own heart. Play on," he says with a small golf clap.

Every aspect of the potion appears in my mind. I know the properties of each and every ingredient on the table. I know combinations upon combinations totaling hundreds of potions for this mere standard potions kit.

I begin plucking the potion ingredients at a sedate pace. Snape is already half-way through processing his ingredients.

"Professor Snape pulls into an early lead, even as he is finishing up his ingredient processing," Malfoy says. "Yet Professor Lockhart doesn't seem worried. What do you think grandmaster? Does he have any tricks up his sleave?"

The grandmaster shakes his head. "For this kind of potion, the early lead is paramount. There is one area you simply can't speed up for this potion," the grandmaster says.

"Oh, do tell," Malfoy says.

"The brewing time," Woddleworth says. "There is a bottleneck at the end of this potion. It must simmer a full seven minutes to reach full potency. I'm afraid if Lockhart doesn't catch up, he'll be finished before he's even begun," the grandmaster laments.

The on-lookers "oo" and "ah" at this revelation. Meanwhile, I have a more pressing issue.

I don't know how to cut the damn ingredients.

I know every theory. I know the methods. I know all the recipes. There's one aspect missing. It's the muscle memory!

In my duel with Wiblin, muscle memory was paramount. Even if I had suddenly gotten the strength and speed, without the muscle memory to make me move instantaneously I would have been skewered.

I hold the ingredient processing knife in hand, but I might as well be chopping vegetables. What is this?

A rare unsolicited system pop-up appears. "Gary Brewster had no hands. He reached the pinnacle of the art despite his handicap."

No hands! Fraud! Foul!

No wonder the golden cauldron only cost 500 SBP whereas Longbottom's wand was a full 1000. The man had no hands.

No hands!

I admire his tenacity, but I need to win a damn duel.

"Lockhart seems to have frozen," Malfoy says.

"Performance issues?" Snape says idly wiping his brow. "Surely your practical skills should come into play. Using such a tiny knife should be a simple thing for an esteemed dueler as yourself. Perhaps a little less time diddling with your wand, and a bit more study would have paid off, eh, Lockhart?"

Shit, shit, shit. Don't panic. The man had no hands, but he managed to brew potions. What would any accomplished man do when faced with a task either too difficult or unsavory for him to perform personally?

Delegate!

I moan in pain and drop the knife. "You may not have heard, but just yesterday I took a long-distance port-key to Bermuda where a small village of indigenous natives was being terrorized by a rare hybrid Mountain Sea Troll."

"Truly formidable!" a wizard says.

"Indeed, as part of my Monster Slaying Without Boundaries, I often travel all over the world to help those in need. While facing the beast, it regrettably managed to strike me with its saliva which has nerve-damaging properties," I say channeling Lockharts in-born rapid-fire bullshitting ability. "While not permanent, I'm afraid my hands are not in working order. For medical reasons, I may need some assistance."

Malfoy looks between us seemingly in thought. "It would break the terms we agreed to. I leave it to your opponent to decide. Professor Snape?"

"And who would you have assist?" Snapes asks glaring at me obviously trying to out-Slytherin me.

"My future apprentice, " I say. "Neville Longbottom."

Snape bursts into laughter. It's actually quite disturbing. I didn't know the man was capable of laughter. Even Malfoy seems discomfited. The crowd fidgets as Snape pounds the table and wipes away a few tears. "I'll allow it," he gasps.

"Neville, quicky my boy," I say gesturing the chubby boy over.

Neville looks white as a ghost. In the time it takes him to take ten steps to the table his robes are already drenched in sweat.

"Snape is already moving on to the combining ingredients phase," Malfoy says. "Yet, Lockhart has yet to process his ingredients."

Grandmaster Woddleworth shakes his head sadly. "I'm afraid this duel is already Lockhart's loss. Still, we must see it through to the end, like all good brewers."

"Professor," he whispers, "I'm complete pants at potions. It's hopeless."

"Nonsense. The failings of the student fall on the teacher. You just never had the right teacher." I grab him by the shoulder and steer him to the table. "I've heard you're quite the herbology prodigy," I say and his eyes light up.

"See here, you know all of these plants," I say gesturing to the ingredients. " It's just like handling them in your garden. It's just another day in the green-house with your plants. You just follow my directions and leave the brewing to me," I say.

Neville still seems to hesitate. "But if you lose because of me, sir -"

"The student's failings are the teacher's failings," I say seriously. "Consider this a trial run for your apprenticeship, and do exactly as I say."

Words flow from my mouth without hesitation. I require zero thought as I precisely guide Neville through every cut of the ingredients. I speak the essence of the direction in plain easy to understand language. There is never any hesitation or misunderstanding.

This! This is Brewster's muscle memory. The legacy was there the entire time hiding under the surface.

He regularly directed his lab assistants. The man knew the heart and soul of brewing, able to speak to the heart of the matter in moments, so even a twelve-year-old boy could comprehend and carry out the commands without hesitation.

"Professor Snape has entered the latter phase of his potion brewing. It is my understanding that now as long as he lets the potion brew the correct time, his victory is almost assured," Malfoy says.

Woddleworth nods his head. "Indeed, unless by some stretch Lockhart far outstrips him in the potency of the potion, I don't see any hope for Lockhart."

"If only he wasn't injured," a witch says in the crowd.

Snape simply smiles smugly with his arms crossed as his potion simmer.

In rapid-fire, I order Longbottom to throw in the ingredients. Snape sneers. "No consideration for the timing of ingredient combination. Sophomore at best," Snape says. "You talk big but-

"Newt's tail, and frog's bottom."

Neville hesitates. "But sir, aren't those reversed?" he says. Normally in potions class, with Snape breathing down his neck, he would be too panicked to notice this kind of detail. Perhaps out of consideration for me, he is even taking special care. He's a good lad with that kind of character.

I nod. "Trust me," I say.

Neville throws the ingredients in.

"No!" Snape screams in what appears to be genuine terror. "You fool! It's going to blow!"

He full-on abandons his own cauldron and hauls Woddleworth from his seat. "Retreat!" The crowd screams, knocking over chairs in their haste to flee.

The potion has indeed turned an angry red and is starting to bubble ominously. A faint light begins to emanate from the depths of the liquid.

Beside me, Neville shudders but stands firm. I raise my eyebrow at him. "Not running away?" I say.

The only ones left at the edge of the blast radius are his own gran and my Miranda.

His gran's eyes are steely, but she merely waits. Miranda wrings her hands in indecision. Neville, on the other hand, is standing directly beside me where the worst of the blast will be.

"It won't be my first time blowing up a cauldron, sir," he says. I chuckle in response and he smiles shyly.

I pat him on the shoulder. "And that Neville, is why you're Gryffindor."

Brewster may not have been able to, or chosen not to for whatever reason, cut his own ingredients, but he had vivid memories of controlling the flame and stirring the cauldron. With stirring, there were no fine motor skills, but rhythm and direction played an important part.

Potions was a hybrid, in a way, of alchemy and rituals. The ingredients and motions have as much symbolic meaning as medicinal properties. I stir the cauldron three times counter-clockwise, once clockwise, and tap the cauldron with a precise burst of magic.

Immediately the angry bubbling potion turns a sedate blue with a puff of periwinkle smoke and pleasant minty smell.

The crowd waits at the far edges of the spacially expanded Three Broomsticks. Some of the audience even went so far as to feel the establishment entirely. Several of the witches and wizards stand with their faces a ridiculous picture of fright anticipating a loud explosion. More calculating witches and wizards already stood with a protego at the ready.

I stand there a moment my arms held behind my back standing and smiling aimlessly. Snape himself peeks from around Malfoy's shield with his hands covering his ears, one eye closed and the other squinting.

"Oh, I'm finished," I say into the silence. "By the way, Severus, I believe your potion is burning," I say cheerfully.

The smoke from Snape's cauldron is a dark blue giving off a faint whiff of popcorn underneath the mint.

With a scowl, Snape rushes back to take his cauldron off the fire. He can't help constantly shooting me glances, a look of confusion on his face.

The rest of the crowd gradually edges back toward the spectator's area looking somewhat doubtful and confused.

"Well, Grandmaster Woddleworth, shall we begin the judging? Please, after you," I say to Snape with a slight bow and gesture.

Snape stands stiffly but proceeds to march to the Grandmaster a sample of his potion in hand.

Woddleworth inspects the potion. "A high-grade potion," he says. He swirls the liquid in the vial. "The correct viscosity of water mixed with honey shows perfect timing in timing during the combination phase." He sniffs the liquid. "The pleasant scent of mint is a trademark symbol of the potion's effectiveness in clearing the eyes." He then holds the potion up to the light.

"However," he says frowning slightly, "The color is a dark blue showing the potion is slightly overdone meaning the duration of the effect shall be decreased significantly."

There are cries of regret.

"Well, our turn, I guess. Eh, Neville?" I say bringing my vial.

I wait patiently as the venerable potion master inspects my potion with a serious look on his face. He swirls the liquid. He holds it up to the light. He then gingerly sniffs the liquid, his eyes gradually growing round and rounder.

"A textbook example of a perfect eagle eye potion," he says. Snape's expression darkens to a scowl. "Except for one area," he says. Snape's expression suddenly lightens, the hope of dawn gleaming on the horizon.

This guy is a master occlumens? He fooled Voldemort by lying to his face? Just how far have I pushed him to have him broadcasting his emotions to the entire world. I shake my head at how far the beagle has fallen.

"Please enlighten us to this difference," Malfoy says to the man speaking on behalf of the crowd now sitting on the edge of their seats in expectation.

"The viscosity is ideal. The color is perfect, and the clarity is as clear as water. The smell, as I've said, is a symbolic trademark of the potency of the potion and normally smells of peppermint," Woddleworth says.

"Yes," Malfoy says. "And the final grade," he says leaning forward.

"There isn't one." Snapes smiles in triumphant. Malfoy relaxes, sitting back regally in his chair like a king overseeing his subjects.

"It's off the scales," he says. "Why, this potion, if I had to describe it in words, smells like Christmas! I've simply never experienced a more perfect potion in my long, and I mean, seriously very long, life," he says.

Snape's mouth wides like a goldfish gulping for food. Malfoy stares blankly as if he can't quite comprehend the words that have just come out of the old man's mouth. Even the crowd is silent for a moment trying to process the man's words.

Off the scales? Perfect potion? Never experienced a potion like this in his life?

The more knowledgeable feel as if they have been struck with a stupefy. Not only is Woddleworth one of the only living potion grandmasters, but he is also one of the oldest wizards alive. This guy is older than Dumbledore. He could give the Flamels a run for their money.

If there are any doubts in anyone's minds, it vanishes as the old man proceeds to quaff the potion.

"He drank it," someone exclaims.

"It was brewed in a chamberpot," a woman whispers frantically.

Immediately Woddleworth's eyes glow with an eery blue light. The glow dies down revealing not the milky grey eyes of old age, but healthy hazel eyes of a young man, clear and shining with intelligence.

"Show me the herb," he says in a deep voice.

The young witch from the auction scurries forward awkwardly attempting to levitate the herb with her wand, appearing reluctant to ever touch it again.

Woddleworth picks up the herb and with a harrumph proceeds to snap it in half. Every man in the room immediately feels a tingle of fear below. "Nundu horn indeed! This truly is the devil's turnip. I really must have been blind after all. Are you trying to poison my only great-grandson Malfoy! What is the meaning of this?!" the old man shouts as if he himself had imbibed some nundu horn.

Malfoy is temporarily at a loss for words, but before he can pour out excuses with his silver tongue, I speak. "Now, now, grandmaster. It was an honest mistake. The herbs, after all, do look alike. I'm sure Lord Malfoy had no ill-intent. He merely chose to trust in the wrong party. Lord Malfoy is only human after all."

To the crowd, this might sound like me playing the peacemaker, but to Malfoy, it is me simply slapping him in the cheek, and then the other cheek in succession.

"Any business between us, Malfoy, you can consider finished," Woddleworth says.

Malfoy shows no further reaction. He simply steps closer to me. "Mark this day down, Lockhart. It's the only day you will win over me, and the Malfoys have a long memory," he says in a low voice.

I smile cheerfully. "Oh, yes, I'll be sure to mark it down in my diary. But, I wonder Malfoy, what it will write back in return," I say.

For the first time, Malfoy reveals a true look of shock for a mere split second before concealing the emotion. I suddenly see a hard glint from his eyes, the real viper hiding underneath the facade.

Without another word, he turns and directly apparates away.

I have to take a moment to unclench my shrunken balls. I got way into it! I let my Lockhart mouth run away from me. I silently curse myself. I need to lay low. Low! Malfoy wouldn't take that last comment lying down.

"Enjoy your moment Lockhart," Snape says to me. "It may just be your last."

"Mm-mm," I say to Snape. He reluctantly looks over his shoulder. "I'm not just Lockhart am I? Don't forget our terms," I say.

Snape's eyes look blank, his occlumency shields finally seeming to come into play. "The terms were for our stay at Hogwarts," he says before apparating away.

"To the clear winner," Woddleworthe says presenting the goblin black iron cauldrons to me. The majority of the crowd fled with their puppet master Malfoy. The few remaining stragglers applaud. Several come up to congratulate me.

A stern looking older woman in a picture-perfect witch's hat shakes my hand. "I'm pleasantly surprised, Professor Lockhart. I'll be expecting great things from you," Professor McGonagall says before departing.

Neville's gran says her good-bye with a beaming Neville in tow. "I'll have a formal announcement of the apprenticeship printed in the Prophet first thing tomorrow," she says revealing a smile.

I smile in return eliciting a promise to go to Diagon together to buy him a new wand before the students depart on the Hogwarts Express.

Soon only Miranda, Woddleworth and I are left in the room. "How did you do it?" Woddleworth asks.

"As you know, counterclockwise turns have a strong element of power. Three also is itself a number of power. At the moment just before the explosion, I met power with power."

The old man appears enlightened. "The forces cancel one another out."

I nod. "Indeed, an additional clockwise turn disperses the latent power."

"And the tap?" the man says with no small wonder.

"A bit tricky," I say. "A precise application of magical power to harmonize between the latent power of the explosion and the inherent underlying power of the rest of the ingredients."

"To seal them together," he says. "But that would be..." he says gazing into the distance.

"Yes, different every time. You have to get a feel for it," I say.

The man looks at me with admiration. "You are truly a stupendous potion master, Gilderoy Lockhart. You have this old man's respect." He shakes his head. "It's only a shame the nundu horn was fake. Without it, I'm afraid the Woddleworth line may really die out."

I crinkle my eyes brows. Isn't he a little old to be carrying on the line. Miranda, who lingered on the fringe of the conversation gives me a similar look.

"And just how were you planning to, er, carry on the line?" I ask delicately.

"Not me," he says looking scandalous. "My great-grandson has certain, um difficulties, with his wife," he sighs. "At this point, I worry about their marriage lasting at all.

His great-grandson is actually married. I guess I really underestimated how old this man really is. If it's that deed then...

"Miranda, paper and quill," I say my eyes shining.

With Brewster's memories, I have thousands of recipes at the tip of my memory. The irony is I don't even need them. In every area of wizardry, Gilderoy Lockhart may have been a dunce, but in the area of shamelessness, the man was a born prodigy!

I quickly write out a recipe on a piece of paper and hand it to the man. Upon inspecting it, the man looks at me with wonder. "Does this really work?"

I nod my head rapidly. "Oh, it is quite effective grandmaster. I daresay even if you decide to take continuing your line directly in your hands, you won't have the slightest problem."

Miranda coughs and glares at me with a slight blush.

"Just be careful not to overdose," I say. "There is a danger of cardiac arrest." This I also know from experience.

(It's how I ended up here after all)

Woddleworth shakes my hand and gives his thanks but has to rush away to give the recipe a try.

Miranda and I are left standing in the trashed Three Broom Sticks. She picks up the cauldrons.

"Well, I think that went well," she says.

"Like Christmas," I say cheekily.