Chapter 59 Alchemy and Accidents
The Potions dungeon smelled sharper than usual—bitter herbs, scorched stone, and the unmistakable tang of something already going wrong.
Liora stood at her worktable, sleeves rolled carefully to her elbows, staring down into the cauldron with a mixture of determination and dread. The potion inside simmered an uneasy shade of violet, bubbles forming and collapsing too quickly to be comforting.
“That’s… not the colour it’s supposed to be,” she murmured.
Beside her, Mattheo leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he studied the brew. “No,” he agreed quietly. “It’s reacting to your infusion timing.”
“I followed the instructions,” she protested softly. “Exactly.”
“That’s the problem,” he replied. “This one punishes obedience.”
She glanced up at him, startled. “What?”
“The margins matter more than the steps,” he said, already reaching for a vial. “You have to feel when to add the stabilizer—not count.”
Her heart did an irritating little flip at that. Feel. He kept saying that—about magic, about her.
Professor Slughorn moved between tables, booming encouragement and warnings in equal measure. “Remember, class! Controlled heat! We’re not brewing fireworks!”
Liora swallowed.
“Alright,” Mattheo murmured, lowering his voice. “We can still fix this. Add two drops of the stabilizer—slowly.”
She picked up the vial, hands steady despite the flutter in her chest. She tilted it carefully—
The potion lurched.
The cauldron hissed, a plume of violet steam erupting upward.
“Oh no—” Liora gasped.
“Liora, stop—!”
Too late.
The potion surged violently, sloshing over the rim with a sharp crack, sending sparks skittering across the stone floor. Mattheo reacted instantly, grabbing her wrist to pull her back just as the cauldron rattled.
His hand was warm. Solid.
Her pulse spiked.
“I’ve got you,” he said, already reaching for his wand with his other hand. “Don’t move.”
“I’m sorry, I—” She stumbled slightly, the slick floor betraying her.
Mattheo caught her without thinking, one hand firm at her forearm, the other bracing her shoulder. For a breathless second, they were pressed close—too close—the heat of him cutting through the dungeon’s chill.
Then the cauldron exploded.
Not violently—but dramatically.
A burst of shimmering foam shot upward, raining down in glittering droplets that stuck to everything they touched. The potion didn’t burn. It tickled.
Liora squeaked as bubbles clung to her hair, her sleeves, her cheek.
Mattheo cursed under his breath as the foam latched onto his robes, fizzing softly.
The class erupted into laughter.
“MERLIN—” Slughorn boomed. “RIDDLE! POTTER! STEP BACK FROM THE CAULDRON!”
Mattheo flicked his wand sharply, erecting a quick containment charm around the worktable. The foam recoiled, contained but still bubbling enthusiastically.
Liora stared at her hands—now coated in faintly glowing suds. “I think… I made soap.”
Mattheo blinked.
Then, to her shock, he laughed.
Not a smirk. Not a breath through his nose.
A real, startled laugh.
She burst out laughing too, unable to stop herself. “I’m so sorry!”
“You turned a volatility draught into enchanted bubbles,” he said incredulously. “That’s… impressive.”
“I didn’t mean to!”
“I know,” he said, still smiling faintly. “That’s what makes it dangerous.”
They both froze slightly at the word.
Slughorn strode over, peering into the contained chaos with bright interest. “Well now… not correct, but certainly inventive! Five points from Hufflepuff for the explosion—ten back for accidental innovation!”
Liora flushed. “Thank you, Professor.”
“Clean yourselves up and rejoin the class,” Slughorn said cheerfully. “And perhaps next time—less enthusiasm.”
As he moved away, Mattheo lowered the charm. The foam dissipated slowly, leaving a faint sparkle in the air.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Before someone notices you’re glowing.”
He tugged her gently toward the sink at the side of the dungeon. As they scrubbed their hands clean, the cramped space forced them close again. Every movement seemed to bring accidental contact—fingers brushing as they reached for towels, knuckles grazing as they turned the taps.
“Sorry,” she said, for the third time.
“Stop apologizing,” he replied. “You didn’t blow us up. That’s progress.”
She smiled, then frowned as she tried to wipe foam from her cheek—missing it entirely.
Mattheo hesitated… then reached out.
“Hold still,” he said quietly.
His thumb brushed her cheek, slow and careful, wiping away the last shimmer of potion residue. The contact was brief—but deliberate.
Her breath caught.
His hand lingered for a heartbeat too long.
“Mattheo,” she whispered, unsure why she’d said his name at all.
He pulled his hand back immediately, jaw tightening. “You’re fine,” he said, voice steady but just a touch rougher than before.
They returned to their table, but the air between them had shifted again—charged, humming softly like magic left uncontained.
As they restarted the potion under stricter supervision, their coordination faltered—not from lack of skill, but from awareness. Each time their hands brushed over the ladle, each time he leaned in to correct her grip, sparks of something unspoken flared.
“Careful,” he murmured at one point, steadying her wrist again as the potion threatened to boil over.
“I am being careful,” she whispered back.
“Not about the potion,” he said.
Her cheeks warmed instantly.
The rest of the class passed in a blur. By the time Slughorn dismissed them, Liora’s nerves were humming louder than any potion she’d ever brewed.
As they packed up, she glanced at Mattheo. “I really did ruin that, didn’t I?”
“No,” he said, meeting her gaze. “You adapted. Most people panic when something goes wrong. You… improvise.”
She smiled softly. “That’s one way to put it.”
He hesitated, then added quietly, “Your instincts saved it from being worse.”
Her heart fluttered.
They walked out of the dungeon together, hands brushing once more as they passed through the narrow doorway—this time neither apologizing.
“Next time,” she said lightly, trying to ease the tension, “maybe we try not to create sentient soap.”
He smirked. “No promises.”
But as they parted ways at the stairs, Liora couldn’t shake the feeling that the real mishap hadn’t been the potion at all.
It was the way every accidental touch lingered just a little too long.
And the way neither of them seemed willing to stop it.