Brewing
It was a long day followed by a longer night. We began brewing, as directed, just after dawn on Saturday. I performed support duties, cleaning vessels, securing drinks and sandwiches and feeding Severus squares of chocolate as he measured, chopped, sliced and stirred.
It may have been dawn outside, but in the dungeons it was still night, and we worked by lamplight. I wore two sweaters under my robes and thick socks. Severus had raised an eyebrow at my wool cap, but in my experience it was the best way to keep warm during a long, cold, sitting-still business.
First he pitted the fresh apricots, cracked the pits and ground the kernels in a mortar.
Since animal parts must be “first acquainted” when used in Celldeath potions, the hippogriff claw was ground in a separate mortar with the wasp stings and phoenix feather. Severus held his breath while dissecting the moth. The piece he saved at the end of his scalpel was invisible to me, but once he had tipped it into the bowl, he seemed confident that he was grinding it with the rest. At the other end of the table, I brewed the strong coffee to specifications.
“Measure me a half-liter. I need it hot.” He turned the dry ingredients into the cauldron and began adding the coffee by drops, rubbing with a practiced motion to form a paste. Gradually the paste became a roux, then a smooth soup as he continued dripping. He stirred thrice more, removed the spoon and exchanged it for his wand, lighting a low fire underneath.
“Two milliliters of the batwing. Don’t shake it.”
He poured this in with a flourish. Showing off a bit, perhaps. The alcohol base of the decoction hissed when it hit the surface.
“Put the rest of the coffee in a beaker.”
“I thought only a half liter --?”
“And hand it to me,” he said firmly. Then he stood back on his heels and drank it while he watched the potion heat.
In the words of Efficens the Elder, the most early codifier of Potions, the effort and concentration of the brewers is “the first ingredient.” Potions to dry up runny noses or remove stains can be brewed at any time by any half-awake witch or wizard with the wits to get the ingredients in a line. One designed to kill off specific cells while systematically sparing others in a wizard’s body must be created under conditions of intense engagement, at certain hours specific to the season. Thus in March, in the Scottish Hebrides, the twenty-four hours of attentive brewing would begin at the moment after dawn. My own focus would contribute to the efficacy of the potion as well as Severus’ even if I did no more than watch.
The base was to heat until just off the boil. Then the herba Sardonia and monkshood would be added, finely chopped. The pearl had to be added at the rise of the moon, and mummy dust, because of its opposing tendencies, at midnight.
It was full morning when the potion was ready for the herbs. Far above in the castle I could faintly hear the earliest students on their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. I imagined the smell of kippers. Hagrid might have been waking Albia to help him with the animals. I hoped she would not be upset at our absence, but I did not regret being here with Severus.
“Watch that for me,” he said. “Don’t let it boil.” I held my wand at the ready to bring down the flame while he minced the monkshood and herba Sardonia together. The tik-tik-tik of his knife was like a clock.
“Stir.” He nodded at the spoon. I wasn’t quite ready and fumbled a bit.
“Which way?”
“Clockwise, for adding.”
The murky brown liquid formed a whirlpool into which Severus sprinkled green dust. It swirled into the vortex, then he took over the spoon and continued. The relaxation of his shoulders told me he felt better being in control again. He made a small movement that brought his upper arm against mine; that told me something, too.
Now there was nothing but patterned stirring for several hours. We took it in turns, one stirring and the other talking to keep him alert. It was counterclockwise for an hour with a seven minute pause, then reverse to clockwise for another hour. Then repeat. After two hours I had run out of conversation and began singing bawdy songs. Severus found this mildly annoying, in itself a stimulant.
At noon we were to lay down the spoon and sit with the potion as it simmered. I’d never gone far enough in Potions to study this aspect, the point in highly complex potions brewing at which the attention of the brewer is the primary action. For an hour we sat silently, Severus gazing at the cauldron. I wondered what was going through his mind. Medical Potions Brewing called it “even receptiveness to the synergy of the ingredients and imaginative projection into the work of the potion.” Indeed, I could feel its faint vibrations, falling off the kettle like cold air from a windowpane -- batwing and hippogriff claw, Luna Moth and apricot speaking to each other, and beneath them, the familiar thrumming of coffee. I tried to picture Severus’ body, clean and sound and healthy, the potion zeroing in on errant cells and pinching them out of life. His body -- stepping out of the shower, all black hair and white skin, broad shoulders and long legs. His way of impatiently shaking his wet hair back -- pure erotic poetry. His long straight thighs --
I glanced at him guiltily. Were sexual fantasies helpful or hindering under the circumstances?
At one o’clock, he picked up the spoon and the oak rod, holding them like chopsticks, and began stirring again. I thought I should be tired now, but I felt refreshed.
“Do you remember the center of the pine grove?” he murmured, eyes on the potion. It was as if he had read my thoughts.
“Yes, of course.”
“It will be fine there next month.”
“With a warming spell and a blanket, yes,” I said.
He gave a little nod. It was better than any flowery words of love.
“Sandwich,” he said.
The house elf had brought us a plate of them. I removed the frilled toothpick and placed half a roast beef on rye in his hand. He munched and stirred.
The afternoon wore on. It was patterned stirring again, with half an hour in each direction and a three minute break in between. We took it an hour on, an hour off.
“What were you thinking of during the sitting hour?” I asked.
“The potion,” he answered.
“What was it like?”
“Like a symphony -- many strains contained within a whole. But you are conducting and playing and listening at once. It’s hard to explain. The first time I achieved it --” He smiled at the memory. “It’s an exceptional feeling.”
“It’s wandless magic.”
“Yes, of course, but they never say so. Potions likes to hold itself apart from magic.”
“Silly.”
“And I was thinking of my cancer, and my body.”
“Bless your body,” I said, leaning against him lightly so as not to upset the stirring. He gave a disdainful snort, but I knew he liked it.
By dinnertime the world had shrunk to the pain in our feet and our spines, the clock and the correct movement of rod and spoon. We took turns rubbing each others’ backs. We played word games and made up challenges for each other. Who knew more poetry, who could name the most curses, who had taken the longest trip or could name the most children from school. Severus won that, since I had not gone to school until Beauxbatons. Severus sang me, in a low, tuneless voice, a very dirty song about a lecherous wizard whose wand is broken by a giantess.
“Now I have learned something new about you,” I said. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d remember such a ditty.”
“You’d never have heard it under other circumstances,” Severus drawled, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “But I’m pleased to know that I harbor some surprises after all these years.”
At seven o’clock, Severus sent me to watch for the moonrise, due at 7:12. I was to blow a charmed whistle at first showing. I chose the astronomy tower, where the view was clearest. The warm light from the castle windows spilled onto the lawns and with it the cacophony of childish voices returning from dinner. How odd, the life of the school following its usual track, while we had taken this strange turning.
Minerva was in charge for the next few days and maybe longer. She had been a marvel of tact since Severus’ diagnosis, never asking him to spell out what must be known by the staff anyway, but offering, offhandedly, to do this or that or “take the helm if you’ve something better to do.” I saw, more clearly than ever, that her love for him was founded in deep, compassionate understanding. At one time I had found her intimidating, but I resolved to be a better friend in future.
The stars winked in and out, obscured by flitting bats. As the edge of the moon rose above the moor, I blew the whistle. It made no sound, but I imagined the answering “plink” of the pearl hitting the cauldron bottom. I took a deep breath of the cold air, then hurried back down the stairs.
“I’ll have to go up and put the girl to bed soon,” I said. “So you’d better give me a turn and ease your back.” I took over the spoon and rod. Severus did fencing stretches and exercises between the lab tables.
Albia had enjoyed her day with Hagrid and had much to tell me about his cookery. Hagrid, unlike Mummy, let her choose how much sugar she wanted in her oatmeal. Hagrid let her eat the meat and not the vegetables. I was glad to hear that she hadn’t missed us too much and let the superiority of Hagrid as a parent pass with some private amusement. She was worn out from her busy day and fell asleep quickly.
Pierce was waiting downstairs, his thin, pale face serious. He had been a tiny, squeaky first-year terrorized by the Potions Master when we first met. Now a tall seventh-year with a deep voice, he was ready to apprentice as a wandmaker, and sometimes came to Severus with questions related to materials.
“Madame Desrosiers,” he said, hesitant to mention what everyone in our circle knew. “I hope it goes well.”
“Thank you, Pierce.” He spoke to me like an adult and I would treat him as one. “I’m frightened , but I think it will be all right. You’re a great help.” He smiled.
When I returned from the house it was nine. The dungeon was cold with a bone-chilling dampness, and dark; Severus had put out some of the lamps. He was sitting just as I had left him, utterly still but for his arm. Now, according to the instructions, a feeling of tense expectation would arise, culminating at midnight, when we’d add the mummy dust.
“Pierce sends his good wishes,” I said.
“Thank you, Pierce,” he said sarcastically.
It was a long slog. I stirred while Severus brewed more coffee, this time for the two of us. We took it in turns again, an hour at a time, but we were beyond speech, except for monosyllabic requests or questions. As midnight grew closer the air filled with a quivering tension, like a game of hide-and-seek when you know that your friend is about to jump out.
The laboratory clock, with its spindly hands and moon-phases window, showed three minutes before midnight.
“Stand back,” Severus said. The mummy dust had its own little sarcophagus, gilded wood inlaid with a lapis lazuli Eye of Horus on the tightly fitting lid. All human potions ingredients are treated this way because the respect given human remains increases their considerable power, and because they are prone to erratic behavior otherwise. Even a human hair or a fingernail has a specially designated container rather than a standard laboratory flask or box. I withdrew the spoon and rod and laid them on the table.
“Back another step,” Severus said.
“It’s not going to explode, is it?” I said, stepping back.
“It is always slightly unpredictable.”
Using a gold spoon he dipped out a teaspoon of the dust, carefully scraping the measure flat with the back of a scalpel. He replaced the lid of the sarcophagus with his free hand and took up the spoon and rod, gently sending the liquid swirling before tipping the gray dust into it as the minute hand moved to the twelve. Nothing.
Hot. Shimmering lines of heat rising from the sandstone portico of the temple. Squeezing my eyes closed against the sudden brightness of the sky, the yellow sand, the palms so still in the unmoving air as I stood in the shaded entryway --
“Jehane,” he said sharply.
“The desert,” I said groggily. Where were the palms?
“You saw a moment from the life. A rare effect of mummy dust. I’m sorry I didn’t think to warn you. It is unusual.” I rubbed my neck, bringing myself fully back to the dungeons.
The feeling of tension in the room had evaporated, replaced by a pleasant air of happiness, warmth and expectation fulfilled. Even the cold dampness of the room felt like the first melting day of spring. I drew a deep breath.
“Can you feel it?” I asked.
“Yes.” A faint smile graced his lips.
“An oasis."
“Drink deep,” he said. “It is many hours until dawn.”
It was. The hours ground on, marked only by our switching of places. My back hurt so much I was afraid to stretch. Still we stirred, and stirred, and stirred. I had been focused on the caldron so long that I had forgotten the rest of the room when a white shape moved in the periphery.
“Mummy.” I started and whipped my head around.
Albia was standing in the doorway of the laboratory. She had come all the way from the house in her nightgown, evading Pierce, who must have been asleep on the sofa. Her feet were red with cold and stuck with bits of brown leaf. I drew a breath to scold, but she climbed onto a stool at the table, her face grave, and folded her hands in her lap.
“I wiw hep you,” she said. She knew something was afoot, and in the moment of standing in the door had grasped the essential situation. Severus looked at her and nodded. He continued stirring, returning his eyes to the moving surface of the potion.
“We should see a change within an hour,” he murmured. “If not, throw it out and begin again.”
A long time passed with nothing but the coiling infinity sign of the spoon in the potion, a snake looping over and over, and the soft “phuts” of the flame beneath the cauldron. It was hypnotic, but we were focused rather than sleepy. Images passed through my mind -- Mrs. Pink’s bright eyes, warm bread pudding at lunch, Severus’ long, precise fingers arranging the ingredients, the collecting box, my serious reflection in the mirror last night as I braided my hair. Protecteur’s golden eye and ebony beak. The box made by my mother, Guy in his wedding robes. The sandy lane through our vineyard, and my toes digging in as I walked to the well. A tiny doll’s chair my mother had made; where was it now?
Albia sat with eyelids drooping, eyes on the caldron. I had never known her to be silent this long. The sinews in Severus’ forearm made their formal figure over and over.
At one time he had been nearly ambidextrous. Then came Voldemort’s death, the agonizing dissolving of the Mark and the Dark Lord’s parting gift to his followers: hideous stinking ulcers at the site that would not heal. He had spent the celebratory weeks in Saint Mungo’s, struggling to save his arm. What must have happened to the Death Eaters in hiding was horrible to contemplate. Now his left arm was weaker and he favored it, but he never complained.
“You need to rest,” I said. The roiling liquid had turned from its original muddy brown to dirty rust; it had to be stirred until it looked like arterial blood . “Let me take a turn.” Severus hesitated then moved aside. I followed the figure eight of his hand for a moment before catching the spoon smoothly, maintaining the motion.
“Look,” he whispered. Albia was asleep, head on the lab table, hands still clasped in her lap.
“How did she get in?” I asked.
“None of my doors have ever been warded against her,” he said. “She has only to touch them.”
Taking his wand from the table he transfigured a bench into a twin bed, made up with her ballerina sheets. He gathered her gently off her stool. I could see from the crampy way he used his arm that I’d been right to take the spoon. Kneeling, he laid her down.
“Lie down for a few minutes, sweetheart,” I said. “I promise if you fall asleep I’ll wake you.” He didn’t speak but crawled in next to Albia, taking her in his arms, and was instantly asleep with his boots on.
Alone with the potion. Ten hours before I would have been daunted, but the long repetitions of the night had dulled my sense of peril. I had reached the stage of extended standing when the spine feels like a bar of red hot glass, radiating pain and too brittle to touch. I held myself rigid, moving only my arm, staring at the endless figure eight with its miniature swells. Severus. Why did I have to work so hard for him? Why did he have to be so anxious, so rigid, so sensitive and prickly?
To be fair, I recognized that he loved me deeply, that he knew everything about me and loved me still. And that I had chosen him with full knowledge of his difficult personality. His bristling defensiveness was sometimes employed on the part of our family. He was a passionate and playful lover, a devoted father, a brilliant intellectual companion. If only he weren’t so hard to get along with.
The potion was dark orange now. I hadn’t seen it happen.
My husband. He was over fifty and he was not going to change. Everything I loved about him, his intelligence, his protectiveness, his rigor, loyalty and ardor, were one with his most irritating and exhausting traits. There was no use struggling; he was a single, integrated whole, a human being, in fact, not a menu from which I could order a la carte.
How often had I known this through the years? I knew it in our first weeks, and again when we almost separated and even three days before, when I had given him the pearl. Once again I saw the challenge that I might embrace to my own benefit -- to know and accept him as another “I.” This was what he offered me in all his dark difficulty -- a chance to be fully human.
A wave of tingling warmth rolled up my arm and through my body. I looked down. The potion was brilliantly, beautifully red.