Horace Slughorn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jointheclub) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2015-06-11 12:53 pm
jointheclub) wrote in undergrounds2015-06-11 12:53 pm
Entry tags:
Man About Town [Open]
A. Wandsworth
Tucked away down an unassuming little street, an innocent dilapidated building sat as it always had, and probably always would, as far as mortal eyes were concerned. They would never see the sign over the door, which itself looked as if it had seen better days: an S crossed with two bars. Spells sat on this sign and this building, an illusion that shielded it from mundane view and revealed itself to the supernatural.
This, then, was the Apothecarium of Horace E. F. Slughorn, now open for business.
Inside, the portly old witch puttered about a dozen or so cauldrons, humming quietly to himself as he added a pinch of this or a dash of that. While a younger and less-experienced brewer would hew closely to a written recipe, carefully measuring out each ingredient and confirming each step twice before proceeding, Slughorn had long passed that step. Like any skill, potionmaking became more instinctive with practice. Just as a skilled driver did not need to consciously think about stepping on the accelerator, or a skilled marksman did not need to consciously order his muscles to squeeze a trigger, so too did Slughorn not need a recipe or a cup to tell him when seven pinches of basil or six counterclockwise stirs would suffice.
So curious colors and fantastic smells filled the air, all different but never quite in painful opposition, as Slughorn prepared the first of his stock for his new business.
Now Open.
B. A Well-Earned Rest.
Evening found Slughorn quite comfortable enshrined in a comfortable corner of a tavern, a pint on the table by his side and fingers digging through a tin of crystallized pineapple for the finest pieces. Not an unusual sight, unless one were other than human. The same spells that protected his sign also protected the chair he had casually smuggled in earlier in the day. The ordinary patrons, the bartender, the passers-by all saw it as just another wooden affair that seemed lucky it could bear the witch's weight -- never suspecting the true form that keener eyes could see, a comfortable armchair well-suited for a man of his age and girth.
Part of Slughorn's good cheer, then, came from getting one over on the mundanes. But to those who could see the truth, well, it was hard to ask for a more incongruous sight.
Tucked away down an unassuming little street, an innocent dilapidated building sat as it always had, and probably always would, as far as mortal eyes were concerned. They would never see the sign over the door, which itself looked as if it had seen better days: an S crossed with two bars. Spells sat on this sign and this building, an illusion that shielded it from mundane view and revealed itself to the supernatural.
This, then, was the Apothecarium of Horace E. F. Slughorn, now open for business.
Inside, the portly old witch puttered about a dozen or so cauldrons, humming quietly to himself as he added a pinch of this or a dash of that. While a younger and less-experienced brewer would hew closely to a written recipe, carefully measuring out each ingredient and confirming each step twice before proceeding, Slughorn had long passed that step. Like any skill, potionmaking became more instinctive with practice. Just as a skilled driver did not need to consciously think about stepping on the accelerator, or a skilled marksman did not need to consciously order his muscles to squeeze a trigger, so too did Slughorn not need a recipe or a cup to tell him when seven pinches of basil or six counterclockwise stirs would suffice.
So curious colors and fantastic smells filled the air, all different but never quite in painful opposition, as Slughorn prepared the first of his stock for his new business.
Now Open.
B. A Well-Earned Rest.
Evening found Slughorn quite comfortable enshrined in a comfortable corner of a tavern, a pint on the table by his side and fingers digging through a tin of crystallized pineapple for the finest pieces. Not an unusual sight, unless one were other than human. The same spells that protected his sign also protected the chair he had casually smuggled in earlier in the day. The ordinary patrons, the bartender, the passers-by all saw it as just another wooden affair that seemed lucky it could bear the witch's weight -- never suspecting the true form that keener eyes could see, a comfortable armchair well-suited for a man of his age and girth.
Part of Slughorn's good cheer, then, came from getting one over on the mundanes. But to those who could see the truth, well, it was hard to ask for a more incongruous sight.
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