ℒℯ𝓈𝓈ℴ𝓃 ℴ𝒻 ℒ𝒾𝒻ℯ 𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠ℎ

❀ 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓮𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓮𝓮𝓷 ❀

❤︎𝓲𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓼 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮❤︎

The final day of our otherwise uneventful vacation waned, and with its fading light, Draco and I returned to the hallowed halls of our school. As the first day of classes commenced, I found myself standing outside the Potions classroom, eagerly awaiting entry. A stray strand of my raven-black hair brushed against my face, eliciting a soft, melodic laughter from Pansy.

"Why don't you adorn your tresses with a braid?" she inquired, her voice laced with curiosity.

Shrugging my shoulders, I rummaged through the pockets of my cape in search of a hairband, but to no avail. Yet, to my surprise, the raven-haired Slytherin extended a helping hand, presenting me with one. Gratefully, I accepted the gift, and with a graceful wave, my ebony locks were woven into a sleek, tightly bound braid. Just in time for the commencement of our first lesson, the grand doors swung open, revealing the entrance to the classroom. Grinning, I settled into my seat, meticulously arranging my parchment roll and book upon the desk, with my newfound quill placed atop them, like a symbol of scholarly dedication.

The blackboard stood adorned with a recipe unknown to me, a concoction that teased my senses. Considering the limited availability of certain ingredients, it became apparent that our task was to deduce the nature of the potion and, if necessary, its precise properties. A challenge, perhaps, but not insurmountable. While the absence of color, consistency, and scent proved to be daunting obstacles, I remained steadfast in my conviction that the puzzle could be deciphered.

"Determine the potion based on the listed ingredients. You have half an hour. Begin."

With unwavering focus, I delved into the task at hand, unraveling the intricate tapestry of clues before me. Gradually, a satisfactory conclusion emerged. The herb, when combined with the enigmatic Leta stones, exuded a potent soporific effect—an alluring slumber elixir, to be precise. Yet, caution whispered in my ear, reminding me of its addictive nature when consumed frequently, for even in minute quantities, the herb induced a worrisome dependence. A cruel substance, notorious for its role in black magic potions, particularly in the creation of lethal poisons.

As the work period drew to a close, I raised my hand alongside Hermione, eager to unveil our solution to the enigmatic brew.

"Put your hand down, Sinclair," the professor interjected with a venomous tone, denying me the opportunity to share my knowledge.

His words, dripping with disdain, sliced through the air like the keenest of daggers, piercing my vulnerable heart with a precision that left no room for doubt. Each accusatory syllable resonated with a venomous potency, as if the very fabric of his speech was laced with a toxic venom, berating me for my insatiable thirst for knowledge, my apparent need to always have an answer. The classroom, once a sanctuary of shared learning, now became a battleground of shattered harmony and fractured camaraderie.

The weight of his accusations settled upon my shoulders like an iron shroud, burdening me with the weight of his expectations and the judgment of my peers. Their eyes, like focused lenses, bore into my trembling form, their breaths suspended in a collective gasp, awaiting my response. Yet, within the depths of my mind, a tempest raged, tearing apart my thoughts and leaving me adrift in an ocean of uncertainty.

Time itself seemed to hold its breath, frozen in a cruel tableau that mocked my faltering grasp on reality. The world, once vibrant and alive, faded into a monochrome landscape, where shadows whispered and the light of understanding seemed but a distant memory. I stood there, a solitary figure, a mere echo in the vast emptiness that stretched before me.