HP: god of potions

Chapter 153

In the heart of Grey Snape's sprawling basement laboratory, the air was thick with the scent of rare herbs and simmering elixirs. Shelves lined with meticulously labeled jars and vials surrounded the room, and the soft glow of enchanted lights cast long shadows over ancient tomes and state-of-the-art magical equipment. At the center of it all stood Grey, his sharp gray eyes focused with unwavering intensity. He moved with the grace of a master craftsman, his every action fluid and precise — the mark of a true potioneering prodigy.

He reached for a jar of powdered basilisk fang, his fingers brushing against the glass with deliberate care. Measuring out exactly three pinches, he sprinkled the fine dust into a bubbling cauldron of shimmering blue liquid. The potion hissed on contact, turning a deep, iridescent violet. Next, he selected crushed moonstone — the perfect stabilizer — and let it fall in slow, measured increments. The color softened to a gentle silver, glowing faintly. His hands moved without hesitation, combining phoenix feather essence and dragon's blood with the skill of someone who understood the delicate balance of power and control.

Grey's mind worked as quickly as his hands. He added a single drop of Acromantula venom, the thick black liquid sending ripples through the potion as it hissed violently before settling into a glassy stillness. Perfect. Finally, he took a sprig of wolfsbane and ground it into a fine paste, adding it with an elegant flick of his wrist. The potion flared brightly — a flash of brilliant white — before settling into a crystal-clear state. He smiled in satisfaction. Every step executed flawlessly, every ingredient measured to perfection.

Pouring the potion into a series of small glass vials, Grey moved to the far side of the lab where several cages held an assortment of magical and mundane creatures: rats, toads, nifflers, and a single kneazle watched him with wary curiosity. One by one, he administered careful doses of the potion. The results were… disappointing. The rat twitched violently before collapsing, lifeless. The toad remained still, showing no reaction at all. The nifflers sneezed and scurried to the far side of their cage, seemingly unharmed but unchanged. Even the kneazle, after a single dose, simply stared at him with a look of irritated betrayal.

Grey's frustration grew with each failure. Finally, as the last creature showed no sign of improvement — or life — he let out a low, exasperated groan. "No lasting effects," he muttered, his voice heavy with disappointment. He turned back to his notes, flipping through pages of intricate formulas and theories. "Maybe I can never create a permanent potion…" he whispered, the weight of that admission sinking heavily into his chest. Sighing, Grey rubbed the bridge of his nose and cast one last glance at the inert vials of his creation. With a resigned shake of his head, he turned and left the lab, the soft click of the door echoing behind him.

-scene change-

The warehouse in the middle of London was a hive of activity — crates clattered against the stone floor, the air was filled with the sharp scent of metal and sawdust, and workers bustled about, moving equipment and supplies with practiced efficiency. Amid the noise and chaos, a fat, old man heaved a heavy crate onto a trolley, wiping sweat from his reddened face with a stained cloth. He grunted with effort, his back bent and his breath ragged — the perfect picture of an overworked laborer. No one paid him any attention. And that was exactly how Grey Snape wanted it. Disguised with meticulous detail — a potbelly, thinning white hair, weathered skin — he blended seamlessly into the crowd of workers. But beneath the illusion was a predator, watching and listening. As he shuffled toward a stack of crates, he caught sight of two men standing near the supervisor's office, speaking in low voices. Grey maneuvered closer, pretending to struggle with his load while his enhanced hearing focused on their conversation. "I still don't like this," one of the men muttered, his voice tense. He was tall and lean, his face lined with worry. "Why move it now? We've kept it safe here for years. Moving it just makes it vulnerable."

"It's not up to us," the other man said sharply. He was stockier, his arms crossed over his chest. "The higher-ups think it's time. They say the Order's plans are moving forward, and they need the artifact closer to the front lines. Merlin's orders." Grey's heart quickened at the mention of Merlin. He kept his head down, shifting crates noisily to cover his approach.

"Where are they taking it?" the first man asked, lowering his voice even further. "The vault in Edinburgh," the stocky man replied. "They're reinforcing the wards — supposed to be safer there. We're moving it tonight, and only the most trusted are on the transport team." "Do we know what it is yet?" the lean man asked, curiosity creeping into his voice.

The stocky man shook his head. "No idea. Just that it's powerful — dangerous. The Order's been guarding it for centuries. Some say it's a weapon; others say it's a key. Whatever it is, it's important enough that even Merlin's getting involved personally." Grey felt a surge of excitement. A weapon? A key? Either way, it was something the Order of Merlin was willing to mobilize for — and that meant it was something he needed to get his hands on.

The conversation ended as a supervisor's voice barked orders across the warehouse, and the two men hurried off. Grey straightened slowly, his mind already working on his next move. He waited just long enough to avoid suspicion, then slipped away, heading toward the exit with the careful, plodding steps of an exhausted worker. But as soon as he was clear of the warehouse's perimeter, his demeanor changed. The slouch disappeared, his movements grew swift and purposeful, and the illusion faded with a whisper of magic. Grey Snape emerged, his sharp gray eyes gleaming with anticipation. Edinburgh. Tonight. He had a vault to break into.

Edinburgh — Midnight

The old stone fortress stood against the night, cold and foreboding. The air was sharp and still, the moon casting long shadows across the craggy landscape. Grey Snape moved like a whisper through the dark, his footfalls silent on the ancient cobblestones. He was dressed in simple black — nothing flashy, nothing that would catch the light — and his eyes scanned every corner with the precision of a predator.

As he approached the vault's location, the security struck him as… lacking. The guards stationed around the entrance were poorly trained — their patrols lazy, their movements slow. He slipped past them with ease, his Disillusionment Charm blending him into the surroundings like mist. When one of the guards shifted near him, Grey froze — but the man yawned, stretched, and moved on without even glancing his way.

Too easy.