As Lucien spoke the incantation, a faint ripple of magic flowed from his wand tip.
The grey mushrooms twitched.
He watched as their color began to shift, turning from grey to pink. The transformation spread across the caps like watercolor bleeding through paper. The texture changed as well, becoming fleshy and almost biological. A viscous liquid seeped from the surface and caught the light.
"Holy..."
The pink glow flickered and then faded. Within seconds, the mushrooms reverted to their original dull grey, as if the entire transformation had been nothing more than a hallucination.
Lucien let out a long breath. "Of course."
It was exactly what he'd expected. Transfiguration created illusions, temporary changes to appearance and sometimes function. But it couldn't alter the fundamental nature of matter. You could make a button look like a beetle, but it would still be a button underneath.
And certainly no ingredients suitable for potion-making.
He turned his attention to the bundle of wild vegetables, deciding to try transforming them into dittany leaves. Maybe that would work better.
He swished his wand through the precise movement pattern.
Nothing happened.
The vegetables remained vegetable-like.
Even though he had known the outcome was unlikely to change, the string of failures still stung. It was the lottery ticket effect. Rationally, you knew you were not going to win, but there was always that tiny, stupid voice in the back of your head whispering, what if?
The really frustrating part was the book sitting in his lap.
Magical Drafts and Potions covered five years of Hogwarts curriculum. Meanwhile, his spell books mostly maxed out at first-year material, with a few scattered notes from higher levels. This potions textbook was a treasure trove of information, recipes for everything from simple healing draughts to complex transformative brews.
And he couldn't use any of it.
Well, not quite. Some of the recipes called for ordinary ingredients that existed in this world. Plant roots like aconite, animal materials like rat tails, and powdered minerals all qualified. Those were accessible, at least in theory.
But every single useful potion also required magical components. Dittany, horklump juice, billywig stings, unicorn hair, and dragon scales all fell into that category. They were things that simply did not exist outside the wizarding world. Without those key ingredients, all those recipes were useless. Knowledge he could see but never touch.
It felt like a massive waste. All that information, completely inaccessible.
Then again, what had he expected?
Lucien closed the book with a sigh.
He was a self-taught wizard who had been studying for only a few months, relying on first-year textbooks and secondhand guides. He could not even reliably cast half the basic charms in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. The idea that he would somehow stumble into advanced potion-making was ridiculous.
"Besides," he said to the empty air, talking himself through the disappointment, "potions are a pain in the arse anyway. They have complicated steps, precise timing, and exact measurements. One mistake ruins the entire batch. Even if I had the ingredients, there's no guarantee I'd succeed on the first try or the tenth. Spells are more reliable. So not being able to brew potions is not really that big a deal. Is it."
The self-consolation sounded hollow even to his own ears, but it helped slightly.
He picked up the iron pot, still full of fish and water from earlier, and headed toward the river with more force than strictly necessary.
Enough magical theory. Time to eat.
---
Lucien had no intention of using the ingredients for any potion experiments, absurd or otherwise.
The kids had given him a gift, and he intended to honor it. He would make them a proper meal and show his appreciation for their kindness.
Cooking was something he could do. In his previous life, while living alone in university housing, he had developed an interest in it. He started with simple student food like pasta and stir-fries, and occasionally a roast when he could afford decent meat. Over time, he worked his way up to more complex dishes.
He had gone camping with his flatmates as well, back before the whole dying and reincarnating business. They had learned plenty of outdoor cooking techniques through trial and error. Most of it happened while drunk and involved poor decisions, but the knowledge had stuck.
Now, by the river, Lucien found a flat stone and built a stove using larger rocks. He gathered dry branches from the area and arranged them into a fire lay.
"Incendio," he said, pointing his wand at the wood.
Nothing happened.
He waited a beat, as if the spell might just be slow to activate, then calmly put his wand away and pulled out a lighter.
The mundane solution worked perfectly. Flames caught, spreading through the kindling.
He filled the iron pot with river water first, even though it looked relatively clear. You can't be too careful with water sources in the apocalypse. He dumped it out, then cast the Scouring Charm on the pot, watching as the spell scoured away dirt and residue until the metal gleamed.
Next came the Water-Making Spell. He held his wand over the empty pot and murmured the incantation, conjuring a stream of crystalline water that filled the vessel about halfway. The water was clean, and perfectly safe to drink.
At least that spell worked consistently.
He set the pot on his stone stove and let the water begin heating while he prepared the ingredients.
Down by the river, he cleaned the fish, a task made easier by having done it dozens of times in his previous life. He worked with quick cuts, stripping away guts and scales. He sorted through the wild vegetables and mushrooms from the basket, discarding anything questionable. The rest he washed and tore into bite-sized pieces. He opened the can of meat last and wrinkled his nose at the processed smell.
By the time he returned to the fire, fine bubbles were forming along the bottom of the pot. It was not quite boiling, but it was close enough.
He added the ingredients. Fish first, then vegetables, then mushrooms. The canned meat went in last, dubious as it looked.
Seasonings came next. The kids had included a variety of bottles and jars, and he had no idea what half of them were. He relied on instinct instead, adding a pinch of this and a shake of that, estimating amounts based on what felt right
Finally, he covered the pot with a lid he had borrowed from the RV. Borrowed, not stolen. He would give it back. He let the contents simmer.
His expectations were low. The ingredients were basic. The seasonings were a mystery. Heat control was nonexistent, nothing more than open flames licking at the bottom of the pot.
In those conditions, as long as the result was edible, he'd call it a win.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
He sat by the fire, watching the pot and thinking about nothing in particular. His mind felt clearer than it had earlier, but fuzzy around the edges. The warmth of the fire was pleasant.
Then the smell hit him.
It started subtle, just a hint of something savory on the breeze. But within seconds it intensified, growing into a rich, complex aroma that made his stomach clench with sudden, overwhelming hunger.
He leaned forward.
That should not have smelled this good. The ingredients were too basic. The preparation was too rough.
And yet the scent kept building. It was not just fish broth. There were layers to it. Bright notes from herbs. Earthiness from mushrooms. Something almost sweet beneath it all. It smelled like the kind of soup you would get at an expensive restaurant, not something cobbled together by a river using apocalypse rations.
He lifted the lid.
Steam billowed out, carrying with it an overwhelming wave of aroma. Inside the pot, the broth had turned a creamy white. The fish had broken down into tender flakes. The vegetables had softened to a perfect texture. The mushrooms looked as though they had been professionally prepared.
It looked like food photography. Magazine-quality presentation, created from random ingredients thrown into a pot.
"What the hell?"
He grabbed the spoon he had cleaned earlier and dipped it into the soup. The liquid clung to the metal as he lifted it. He brought it closer.
The smell alone made him salivate. Beneath the hunger it triggered, there was something else. A sensation. The exhaustion in his muscles seemed to ease slightly, and the fog in his head felt thinner, as if it were beginning to clear.
It was as though the soup was doing something simply from the aroma.
His mind kicked in even as his hand brought the spoon to his lips.
This wasn't normal. This was wrong. You didn't get effects like this from ordinary food.
The soup was still boiling hot. He should've waited for it to cool. He drank it anyway.
The heat burned his tongue, mouth, and throat. He barely noticed.
The taste was extraordinary.
Flavor exploded across his palate. The sweetness of the fish, perfectly balanced with the fresh brightness of wild vegetables. The deep, umami richness of mushrooms. Layers of complexity that shouldn't exist in something this simple.
And as the soup slid down his throat, warmth spread through his chest.
He felt good. Better than good. Like he'd just gotten a full night's sleep instead of spending the previous night fighting walkers while magically exhausted.
"Bloody hell..."
He stared at the pot, then at the spoon, then back at the pot.