McGonagall led them past the crowd with the easy grace of someone accustomed to cutting through chaos. Myrddin, arms still full of books, followed closely until she paused in front of a squat, arched doorway wedged between a broom repair shop and a lantern vendor.
Slug & Jiggers Apothecary.
The name was etched in curling script above a door so old, the wood had turned nearly black. The windows were warped and bubbled, and behind the glass, strange silhouettes moved—bottles, probably, but they looked unsettlingly animate.
Inside, the air changed.
If Flourish and Blotts had smelled of ink and parchment, then Slug & Jiggers smelled of the earth—wet moss, crushed leaves, bitter roots—and something chemical and biting that stung the nose. The walls were lined with shelves, each crammed full with glass bottles of every size, color, and shape. Labels handwritten in fine calligraphy boasted names like essence of belladonna, dried ashwinder eggs, and macerated fluxweed.
Behind the long, polished counter stood a tall wizard in deep green robes, spectacles perched at the end of his nose. His eyes were pale and sharp, and he didn't look up when they entered.
"Don't touch the mortars unless you want to be deaf in one ear for the rest of the week," he said absently.
McGonagall gave a dry nod. "Afternoon, Silas."
The man looked up then, smiling faintly. "Minerva. Thought I heard your voice."
He peered around her to Myrddin. "First-year?"
"Yes," she said. "He'll need the standard first-year kit."
"Of course," Silas murmured, setting aside a pestle and reaching beneath the counter. "Pewter kit or crystal?"
"Pewter," McGonagall said. "Let's not tempt fate."
Silas gave a soft chuckle and began to retrieve small boxes, setting them on the counter. "Basic ingredients—dried nettle, crushed snake fang, powdered root of asphodel, and so on. All pre-packaged. Everything fresh, I assure you."
Myrddin stepped closer, curious. The packages were simple, wrapped in parchment and wax-sealed with small runes. Some shimmered faintly; others pulsed with quiet warmth when his fingers brushed them.
"Don't mind that," Silas said, noticing. "Some ingredients react to magical potential. Not strong enough to cause trouble, just... curious."
McGonagall's eyes flicked sideways, just for a moment. Myrddin saw it, but said nothing.
As Silas arranged the items, he continued listing aloud: "Two glass stirring rods, five crystal phials, brass scale with leveling charm, non-reactive gloves—dragon hide, medium. Collapsible mixing spoon. Mortar and pestle, marble."
Then, with a flick of his wand, a large wooden tray rose from beneath the counter and set itself down beside the ingredients. The items arranged themselves neatly inside it, like puzzle pieces fitting together.
"Right," Silas said. "That's the full kit."
Myrddin studied the tray. Every item had a weight to it—literal and symbolic. These were tools for crafting, for careful, studied change. Potions weren't flashy, but they were powerful. Methodical.
"I like this," he said aloud, almost surprised at himself.
Silas raised an eyebrow. "Potioneering, hmm?"
Myrddin nodded. "It feels... precise. Logical."
"It is," Silas said. "But it's also patient. Potion-making doesn't just reward knowledge—it demands respect. From the ingredients. From the process. From yourself."
There was something about the way he said it—like it mattered more than it seemed. Myrddin nodded again, more slowly this time.
McGonagall, standing to the side, watched with a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Silas took a final glance at the tray, then conjured a protective charm around it, binding the items in place with translucent golden threads.
"You'll need to renew the seal every few days," he said, handing Myrddin a folded slip of parchment. "Instructions included. And don't keep the root powder near damp spellwork—turns volatile."
"Understood," Myrddin said, genuinely.
They paid and stepped back into the open air.
The sun was sinking now, casting long shadows across the alley's cobblestones. The crowd had begun to thin.
Next stop was Potage's Cauldron Shop, a short walk further up the alley.
The building stood out immediately. Where the other storefronts leaned into their cluttered charm, Potage's was almost austere. Dark stone walls. Iron-rimmed windows. A massive cauldron suspended by chains above the entrance, gently steaming despite the lack of any fire.
"Don't let the presentation fool you," McGonagall said as they entered. "It's one of the oldest shops in Diagon Alley. Still run by the same family, seven generations deep."
Inside, the shop was cooler, the air tinged with metal and charcoal. Cauldrons of all shapes and sizes were displayed on tiered platforms: pewter, copper, brass, and even silver. Some gleamed with fresh polish; others looked used, but well-kept—perhaps testaments to longevity over shine.
A young woman with soot-smeared fingers approached, smiling politely. "First-year?"
"Yes," Myrddin said.
"Then you'll be needing the standard pewter, size two." She turned, leading them toward the back wall. "Durable, doesn't warp under flame, and easy to enchant for basic temperature stabilization."
Myrddin ran a hand along the rim of the nearest one. It was cool to the touch and heavier than it looked.
"What's the difference between pewter and... say, copper?" he asked.
"Copper conducts heat faster," the clerk said, approving his curiosity. "More efficient for some advanced brews—but reacts poorly to acidic ingredients. Pewter's safer for beginners."
She reached for a crate and carefully set one of the size-two cauldrons inside, then added a fitted lid and carrying strap.
"Don't store your ingredients inside it, though," she warned. "Even pewter can corrode over time."
He nodded, absorbing the detail. "Does anyone use enchanted cauldrons?"
"Certainly," she said. "Self-stirring, self-heating, even anti-spill charms—though first-years aren't permitted to bring those to school. Too many incidents."
"Someone tried brewing in a self-stirring cauldron and walked away, didn't they?"
The clerk laughed. "Boiled down three desks before anyone noticed."
McGonagall stepped in then. "And nearly burned a hole through the dungeon floor."
The clerk smiled wider. "Then pewter it is."
They made the purchase and stepped outside once more.