Chapter 11
Not all reactions follow known pathways. In rare cases, the interaction of certain substances will yield results no potioneer could fully anticipate.
—“Modern Principles of Alchemy and Potions,” Dr. S. Davenport, Journal of Applied Alchemical Sciences
On Thursday, a misty rain blankets the campus.
The crisp air pebbles my skin as I step outside the Blue Dahlia, the buildings around me blurred into ghostly shapes by the haze.
I had grabbed Noa’s jacket and an umbrella, but I welcome the rain.
I always have. The way it falls. The way it feels.
Whispering to me just as it did when I was a child.
I walk toward the northern edge of campus, headed to Advanced Potions with Professor Ching. Browning Hall stands alone, as if the rest of the campus moved on and left it behind—forgotten by time but too stubborn to disappear.
The stone cottage is weathered and moss-covered, more like something from a fairy tale than an official school building.
Its sloping thatched roof is silvered with age, making me think of a place where a witch might step out at any moment, brushing flour from her hands and muttering spells under her breath.
Inside the oldest Potions classroom in the school, there is a hum of energy—wild, layered, something alive in and of itself.
The air is thick with the mingled scent of chalk dust, scorched thyme, and old parchment.
Dried herbs hang in tangled bunches from a crooked rack beside the door.
An ancient well, its stones crumbling and its bucket long retired, sits off to the side.
The tables are scarred from generations of flame and failed mixtures, their charred edges evidence of those who came before. Strange shapes hang from the rafters and crowd the shelves—bones, vials, shimmering orbs, and preserved things that were once living that I can’t name.
While the Logistics building labs were pristine, sterile, Browning Hall is chaotic—unnerving, and yet beautiful.
Some students have already arrived, clustered around the four large tables. At the front, I spot Finn, his tousled sandy-blond hair damp from the rain. His handsome face and warm brown eyes light up when he sees me. I wave.
He grins as I slide into the seat next to him. “Moving up in the world, are we, Farris?” he teases, nodding toward my Advanced Potions textbook.
I shrug as Professor Ching enters and gives me a polite nod. “The professor asked me to come,” I say, a little lamely.
“Beautiful and brilliant,” Finn says, winking. “Should’ve known from the way Noa talks about—oof—”
A strong hand grips his shoulder, hard. “The way Noa talks about what, exactly?” The air warms instantly around me as Noa appears, one eyebrow raised, standing behind us like an unmovable force.
“Noa! You didn’t tell me you were in this class,” I say, slightly breathless. Gods, get a grip, Celeste… How does he always affect me like this?
“I spoke to admin this morning,” he says. “Figured I’d squeeze in one more Potions class before I graduate.” He leans down and kisses me, soft and quick. “Class was already full, but Thorne pulled some strings.”
Finn just rolls his eyes. “Yeah… because Potions has always been a favorite subject of yours,” he says sarcastically, with a pointed cough in my direction.
Noa just winks at me, and heat rushes up my neck—hot enough I’m sure it shows—as I try, and fail, to hide my grin.
The rest of the class begins to settle as Mauve joins our table, leaving just one seat empty in the back. Then the door blows open, rain gusting in behind it, and the final student steps through.
Professor Ching barely looks up. “Stella, you’re late—as always. Take your seat so we can begin.”
My heart sinks as I glance back. Stella is glaring—at me, at Noa. Mostly me.
“Well, this is delightfully awkward,” Finn murmurs, lounging back with his hands behind his head like he’s settling in to watch a show.
Noa jabs him in the ribs, and Finn feigns injury then looks at me apologetically.
“Shit, Cel… I’m sorry,” Noa says under his breath. He reaches under the table and squeezes my hand gently. “I didn’t know she’d be in this class.”
“It’s fine,” I mumble. Annoyed, but nothing I can do about it.
Professor Ching clears his throat, and the lecture begins.
* * *
Measure here. Stir there. Mix. Pour. Melt. Boil. Cool.
I lose myself in the rhythm of the classroom.
Potions feels natural to me—like water, like breathing.
There’s something soothing in the measured steps: the careful weighing, the deliberate stirring, the slow transformation of one thing into another.
It’s a dance I know instinctively, even without needing to look at a page.
My hands always seem to move on their own, confident and precise.
The scents of herbs and minerals rise in delicate waves, curling into the air like incense. Each crackle of heat, each simmer of liquid, pulls me deeper into focus. The classroom, the students, even Noa beside me—it all blurs around the edges until there’s only the task and the process.
But the hold on my focus is better than the hold on my magick.
I’m attempting to pour ten measured drops of water into our pyraleaf and ironroot mixture when a flicker of power jumps beneath my skin—unasked for, unformed—and the water in the beaker shivers.
Then jumps. For a heartbeat, it almost looks like it’s trying to flee.
Like it knows something the rest of us don’t.
The glass vibrates in my hand like it’s alive.
I freeze, heart pounding.
Too late.
The beaker fractures in a clean, startling snap, liquid spilling in a glittering arc across the workstation and into Finn’s open notes.
He curses softly, flicking droplets off his paper. “What was that?”
“I didn’t… I barely touched it,” I say, voice low, trying to steady my breath.
Noa leans in, his warmth cutting through the fog in my chest. He doesn’t say anything—he just grabs a spare cloth. Mops up the spill. Collects the pieces of glass and disposes of them. All the while shielding me from the curious glances of Mauve and the looks and sniggers from the back table.
Professor Ching glances over from his desk but doesn’t comment—just lifts a single snowy brow and continues writing.
“You’re fine,” Noa says under his breath. “It was just an accident.” The glow from his fingers now rests softly on my knee under the table. Steadying me.
But it wasn’t. Not really.
It’s the third time this week something has slipped.
The magick inside me is unruly and impatient. Like some part of it is no longer waiting for permission. Like it’s done asking if I’m ready.
Today we’re making Emberveil—a tricky, dual-purpose tincture.
When applied, it creates a thin barrier to prevent burns, but it can also heal skin that’s already been damaged.
One wrong move and it curdles. Noa keeps a steady hand on me through the rest of the lesson—no more mishaps.
Our group works well together, precise and coordinated, our potion turning a soft, perfect amber when we finish.
Noa walks over to the container shelves and leans forward to grab a fresh beaker, just as Stella brushes past him—unnecessarily close. Her fingers graze his wrist, deliberate and dripping with suggestion.
“Careful, Noa,” she murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear. “Wouldn’t want to break anything that looks so very fragile.”
My stomach knots.
“Perhaps you just run too hot for that thing to handle.” She gives the beaker a pointed look, then glances back at me with a smug little smirk—like she knows exactly what nerve she’s aiming for.
But Noa doesn’t flinch. He straightens slowly, eyes sparking like flint against steel as he turns to her. “Some things are meant to hold the heat. You just weren’t one of them.”
A flicker of something—shock, wounded pride—crosses Stella’s face before she recovers with a scoff and a toss of her hair. “Still burning bridges like you burn through beds, I see,” she hisses, before turning on her heel and stalking back to her table.
I pretend to focus on measuring out more powdered ironroot, but my pulse is thudding in my ears.
Finn lets out a low whistle. “And this is why I never date water-wielders… Too emotional. The lot of you.”
I aim an elbow at his ribs as he chuckles. I shoot him a glare, but I’m still watching Noa out of the corner of my eye.
He sets the beaker down like nothing happened, but his jaw is tight—and when he speaks, it’s just for me. “You know nothing she says matters, right?” He reaches out and brushes his thumb over the back of my wrist.
I nod. Even if my pulse is still recovering.
Because I’m not glass. I won’t shatter.
And I’m not afraid of fire.
I was made for it.
Professor Ching chooses that moment to inspect our tincture.
He lifts the vial to the light, the amber substance catching a glint of flame.
A raised brow. A pause. Then a nod. “I knew you’d be up to the task of this class, Miss Farris,” he says, a note of pride threading his voice.
“Keep up the good work.” He offers a curt nod to Noa, Finn, and Mauve before moving on to the next table.
I glance across the room just in time to see Stella scowling down at her team’s curdled mess—thick, cloudy, and utterly wrong.
I don’t gloat. I don’t smile.
But inside, I am deeply, thoroughly satisfied.