-------------------------------------------------
Hey everyone, LuxRadium here. It's been a while, and I'm sad to say I'll need to take another two weeks off. Some unexpected health issues came up, and to make things trickier, my exams have been delayed as well.
In the meantime, I've managed to edit a few chapters for you all.
As always, thank you for your support, and happy reading!
--------------------------------------------------
"Oh." Snape's voice was as low and deliberate as ever, and he carved his bacon with practiced precision. "I merely can't bear to see potion ingredients wasted. That's all."
Flitwick gave him a knowing look and smiled with quiet amusement. "I understand. I understand perfectly."
At that moment, an owl flapped into the Great Hall, wings outstretched against the enchanted ceiling.
It clutched a thick rope in its talons, dragging behind it a large, clumsily wrapped package as it glided across to the far end of the staff table.
The parcel landed in front of Professor Quirrell.
Flitwick followed the owl's retreat with thoughtful eyes. "Judging by the shape of it... could that be another potion delivery?"
Snape cast a fleeting glance at the parcel, his nostrils flaring faintly. "Soul Soothing Draught," he said curtly. "Equally substandard."
Quirrell flinched visibly at the sudden arrival but relaxed slightly upon noticing Vizet's signature on the package. Clutching it to his chest, he rose abruptly and hurried out of the Great Hall.
He sprinted back to his office with a speed that defied his usual trembling demeanor, his stomach twisting so violently he thought he might be sick.
"Hurry up! Open it!" came the harsh, rasping voice from beneath the turban. "I want that potion now!"
Quirrell didn't dare hesitate. He tore off the turban and raised his wand, slicing the strings open.
Inside lay a single glass bottle, shimmering with silver liquid. A mist curled lazily at the bottle's mouth, and beside it sat a small enchanted greeting card, the handwriting looping neatly:
Professor Quirrell, I hope this bottle of Soul Soothing Draught helps you regain your strength. Merry Christmas!
"Sentiment... not so worthless after all," Voldemort muttered, his glowing eyes fixed hungrily on the bottle through the mirror's reflection.
"At the very least, this Obscurial has brought a generous supply of Soul Soothing Draught. Pour it! Now!"
Quirrell quickly decanted a glass, then floated the potion towards the dark lord's mouth with a flick of his wand.
Voldemort drank greedily, like a man lost in the desert finally finding water. His eyes gleamed as he drained the contents.
"Yes... yes! Excellent! Just as I expected... Everything is unfolding exactly as I planned."
His voice no longer sounded strained. There was energy in it — delight, even. Quirrell, too, seemed to recover slightly, his pallor less ghastly.
"Master..." Quirrell began hesitantly, feeling unease rise in his chest. "What do you mean?"
Voldemort was in a rare good mood. He spoke smoothly, almost with indulgence.
"The Soul Soothing Draught... a potion that is both rare and subtle. Not difficult to brew, but challenging in essence."
"It draws upon the soul of the potion-maker. The purer — or the more aloof — the soul, the more potent the draught."
He paused, a flicker of disdain passing through his tone.
"Of course, those are the standards of traditional potion masters. My criteria are different... I value chaos."
Quirrell's expression faltered. He could feel the implication before he dared speak it.
"Master... then Vizet's soul —?"
"Yes! Yes!" Voldemort broke into a harsh, hungry laugh. "He's being affected! I can taste it! Such richness! Such complexity!"
"How many flavours did I just feel? Let me count..."
"Pure chaos... malice... exquisite. Another glass, Quirinus!"
He drank again, faster this time.
"Emptiness, a novelty. Mmm, again!"
A third glass shimmered before him.
"And then... something bizarre... foreign... I cannot describe it. It's alien. Otherworldly."
Voldemort was like a twisted connoisseur, savoring the layers of Vizet's soul through each draught. His eyes burned with exhilaration.
"Remarkable! I haven't felt this alive in years. Quirinus... you couldn't possibly comprehend it — the experience of tasting a soul."
Voldemort was in unusually high spirits — high enough, even, to offer Quirrell a few more words than usual.
"Quilinas… your soul is dreadfully dull," he hissed, his voice curling like smoke in the cold air. "All cowardice and craving — pathetic scraps of self-worth clinging to a hollow core. You seek identity, but you tremble like a squirrel in a storm."
A soft, cruel chuckle followed.
"That is precisely why I chose you. I saw your hunger — for power, for recognition. Just as a squirrel clutches desperately at pine cones, so do you cling to the idea of being noticed."
Quirrell's expression twisted, somewhere between confusion and shame, as he struggled to grasp the full meaning behind Voldemort's words.
Still caught in his Master's euphoric momentum, Quirrell asked timidly, "But Master... if his draught pleases you, could you not — perhaps — stop teaching him the Dark Arts?"
"Let him remain at Hogwarts... we can provide him with ingredients, let him brew more for you —"
"Quirinus... Quirinus..." Voldemort's voice turned low and cold, a snake slithering in the dark. "Your memory is always so poor. You forget the most important things."
He leaned closer toward the mirror, as if his gaze alone could pierce Quirrell's mind.
"I see everything in you, Quirinus. And you should be grateful. With this potion, things will be easier for you. For now."
"Y-yes, my lord," Quirrell stammered, trembling again. "I — I understand."
"Good... very good..." Voldemort whispered with venomous amusement. "And since it's Christmas... I suppose I should give you a gift as well."
He laughed, low and hollow.
"Quirinus, I hope you remember what I'm capable of in the days to come. Sometimes, it takes pain to remember what should never be forgotten."
In a blink, black-green light exploded across the office, swallowing everything in a flicker of cold, unnatural energy.
------------------------------
The Christmas holiday stretched long and quiet — nearly a full month of stillness blanketing the castle.
Vizet spent his days either tending to the greenhouse with Luna or poring over Snape's meticulous replies by candlelight.
In truth, he had only just completed the theoretical research on the Soul Soothing Draught before the holidays began. Committed to the learning method of theory through practice, he had seized the quiet of Christmas break to attempt brewing the potion himself, following every instruction he had carefully recorded in his notes.
The Soul Soothing Draught was classified as an advanced potion, notorious for its volatility. Its brewing involved countless variables, and each phase — heat, infusion timing, stirring direction, spellcasting interval — required constant, precise adjustments.
Even with the assistance of his magic-enhanced eyesight, the brewing process was nerve-wracking. Every bubble and swirl felt like a possible failure.
But when the final shimmer of silver mist curled from the cauldron, Vizet had felt a rare swell of pride. According to his own testing, both the quality and the effects matched the expectations he had noted.
Confident in his results, he had chosen to bottle it as a Christmas gift.
To Quirrell, the potion was meant as a gesture of kindness — to ease his visible stress and unease.
To Snape, it had a dual meaning: both a gift and a symbolic submission of homework.
Unfortunately for Vizet, the Potion Master's assessment had been far less generous.
Snape deemed the draught completely substandard.
This verdict came in the form of a long, characteristically scathing letter.
It contained a comprehensive breakdown of every flaw, plausible causes of failure, and a barrage of recommendations for improvement.
Along with the letter came a large parcel of potion ingredients — so large, in fact, it had taken three owls to deliver it without dropping anything en route.
For all the biting sarcasm that laced Snape's words, Vizet couldn't ignore the unmistakable undertone of intention. Beneath the barbs was a teacher who wanted him to do better.
Grateful, Vizet revised his notes in accordance with the feedback. He divided his efforts into controlled experiments, refining the application of heat, modifying his stirring techniques, and adjusting the timing of spellcasting to more precise intervals.
By the time the Christmas holiday was drawing to a close, he had invested nearly the entire break — and no small sum of materials — into improving the draught.
Yet still, his results failed to meet Snape's standard.
Eventually, Snape sent another owl, this time with a much shorter message:
"Stop brewing the Soul Soothing Draught for the time being."
Vizet stared at the letter for a long moment.
The words hit him harder than he expected.