windkaze
patreon
BFH# Chapter 59: Half a Dozen Lies
🕑 Added 2025-02-08 00:02:29 +0000 UTCViktor quickly averted his gaze from Hermione.
He understood what was happening to her.
Her limp was evident—a side effect of the conch shell. When the conch’s original energy was exhausted, it left behind a curse-like effect. While the sea witch Ursula could easily dispel it, Hermione, a human with still-limited magical knowledge, couldn’t.
The only solution was to stop using the conch shell.
Probably just a matter of two or three days, Viktor guessed, as his hand brushed against the shimmering, angular fishbone in his pocket through the cloak.
This should prove useful for the ritual.
---
After the three students left, the professors dispersed as well, following Professor McGonagall’s brisk declaration, “I’ll inform the Headmaster.” Quirrell kept insisting he had a way to keep the troll alive before hurrying off again.
Snape watched him leave, sneering as his expression darkened further.
“He always has solutions, doesn’t he?”
He limped out of the girls’ lavatory, casting a dour glance at Viktor.
“Claiming he can save a troll that’s been injured that badly—if he’s got such brilliant techniques, why doesn’t he share them with the students during his lessons? All I’ve heard is that his Defense Against the Dark Arts class has turned into a laughable literary critique.”
“Perhaps ordinary wizards can’t learn those techniques,” Viktor responded coolly.
Snape scoffed again.
“Can’t learn? More like too shameful to reveal.”
His expression turned venomous, clearly harboring a deep grudge against Quirrell. Viktor had heard from Professor Burbage, who taught Muggle Studies, that Snape had always coveted the Defense Against the Dark Arts position but had never succeeded in obtaining it.
Midway through speaking, Snape stumbled slightly on a step, his face contorting in pain.
He froze, keeping the same position, and after two or three seconds, slowly lowered his injured right leg. As he moved, a metallic tang of blood, previously masked by the troll’s stench, became apparent.
“Damn it,” Snape muttered through gritted teeth.
Viktor glanced at him, noting the blood soaking through Snape’s trousers, which left him limping.
“Are you sure you don’t want to visit St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries? I’ve heard they’re the most authoritative in medical treatment.”
“No need,” Snape replied icily. “Some of the potions they use are brewed by me. Why would I waste my time going there? Besides, I won’t allow Quirrell to disgrace my Potions class.”
If he left, someone else would have to substitute, and Quirrell might be assigned—his and Professor Sprout’s schedules were the most flexible lately.
Viktor shrugged and dropped the subject.
He felt Snape wasn’t being entirely truthful, and pressing further seemed pointless.
In truth, the professors had arrived late earlier because they’d been searching for Snape on the fourth floor. While they were investigating, Snape had claimed he needed to check the magical protections there, possibly to catch someone trying to stir up trouble. But he hadn’t returned for a while.
When Professor McGonagall suggested looking for him on the fourth floor, they found his leg clamped in the jaws of Fluffy, the three-headed dog.
It was impressive he managed to make it downstairs with an injured leg.
While climbing the stairs, Snape had grimly enchanted a piece of fabric to float, allowing it to support his wounded leg as he moved. Without turning back, he waved dismissively, ready to leave.
But Viktor called out to him.
“Severus.”
Snape turned abruptly, somewhat startled. “What is it?”
“Are you knowledgeable about alchemy?” Viktor asked.
“Alchemy? You should ask Professor Phernomon. His office is in the South Tower. He’s the expert on anything related to alchemy, though he doesn’t venture out much since he only teaches sixth- and seventh-years.”
Only teaches sixth- and seventh-years?
Viktor’s attention snagged on that detail. If he’d known such arrangements were possible, he’d have applied to Dumbledore before enrolling. Unfortunately, it was already mid-term, too late for adjustments.
After a brief pause, Viktor decided to address the more pressing matter.
“It’s not just about alchemy. Severus, have you heard of potions involving alchemical processes?”
“You mean refining and altering specific magical biological materials through alchemy to force them to fuse and produce effects?”
“Where did you see such a formula?” Snape frowned. “Over a decade ago, The Potioner’s Weekly published a paper disproving alchemical potions as feasible, given that current alchemy can’t create materials identical to biological ones.”
“What if I could create such materials?” Viktor asked.
Snape’s frown deepened, but he didn’t walk away—not just because he owed Viktor, but also because his passion for potions wouldn’t let him ignore something potentially groundbreaking.
“Where’s the formula? Let me see.”
“I only have part of it with me,” Viktor replied, retrieving a parchment from his pocket and handing it over.
The parchment felt unusually smooth, lacking the typical roughness of sheepskin, with a texture more akin to something synthetic.
Snape, unfazed, took it and scanned its contents rapidly.
The inked words read:
The First Key
Ingredients:
Crocodile tears
Mermaid’s voice
Sugar and chili
Active blue clay
The hardest stone
Half a dozen lies
Instructions:
Add the blue clay first and stir for 13 days until it transforms into a glittering bright blue.
Add crocodile tears and the mermaid’s voice.
Place in an alchemy cauldron for four nights.
At dawn on the fifth day, add the remaining ingredients, concluding with half a dozen lies. Wait for the product...
Snape stopped reading, his face twisting as if he’d just heard the screams of ten Mandrakes.
“Setting aside how mermaid voices and active clay became so-called ‘key’ ingredients...”
He enunciated each word slowly.
“What, exactly, is half a dozen lies supposed to be?”
Viktor retrieved the parchment from Snape’s trembling hand, glanced at it casually, and replied, “Oh, that’s a material requiring a special container for collection.”
“...What special container can collect lies?”
Snape’s breathing grew heavier. If he still had the parchment, he’d likely have shredded it into confetti and tossed it in the bin—where it belonged.
“This formula of yours is probably rubbish, Professor Viktor,” he hissed. “I’m astounded that Slavic magical education is so deficient that you’d entertain such a ridiculous, outdated concoction fit for Muggles.”
Viktor simply shrugged, his calm demeanor infuriating.
“Oh, I wasn’t aware Britain didn’t have such formulas.”
“I’d only heard your potions relied mainly on herbal ingredients but sometimes included magical crafting—I assumed this counted as one of those.”
