Y/n’s cauldron bubbles lazily, a pale lilac potion that should be turning a clear, shimmering silver by now. The instructions are clear on the chalkboard: Stir seven times clockwise, then once counter-clockwise, with a steady, even pressure.

Y/n’s hands, resting on the edge of the table, tremble. Just a faint, persistent shake. Enough to make the ladle clink softly against the copper rim.

A long shadow falls across the table, stretching over the open textbook and the scattered ingredients. The shadow is still, watching.