Anduin swiftly discarded any commercial consideration of the Buffet Awakening Potion and the Truth Potion (Veritaserum). His analysis was ruthless and clear-cut. The Awakening Potion, while lucrative, demanded ingredients of unimpeachable quality.
He had learned that even marginal inferiority in the core components could produce a brew that, instead of merely rousing the mind, resulted in potentially irreversible neural damage—a risk Anduin was unwilling to accept for his initial batch, which had to be flawless.
The Truth Potion was rejected for the same reason he had vetoed the Healing Potions: the market was too dark. What legitimate witch or wizard, operating within the bounds of the law, required a substance guaranteed to strip the will and coerce utter honesty?
The buyers would be those already entangled in the shadows of the conflict, and associating with that clientele was an unacceptable risk to his carefully constructed anonymity.
This left only the Draught of Cheer (Euphoria Potion) and the Draught of Infinity (Eternal Potion).
The Potion of Eternity was described in fanciful market terms as a draught that "will never run out," but Anduin knew the truth was far more fascinating. It was not a truly infinite potion, but a powerful catalytic regenerator. Its primary function was to infuse and reactivate the residual magical matrix of a host potion.
If a flask contained more than a quarter of any non-Legendary potion—excluding rare, complex concoctions like Felix Felicis—adding a precise measure of the Draught of Infinity would trigger a rapid magical regeneration, restoring the bottle to its full, original potency with effects that were extremely long-lasting, essentially substituting for the remaining ingredients.
This made the Draught of Infinity an unparalleled commodity, desired by every serious scholar, Healer, and duellist for the massive cost savings it afforded. However, this revolutionary effect came at an overwhelming cost.
The necessary core ingredients—which included things like crystallized Mithridatium and the shed scale of a Tundra Dragon—were either impossible to procure discreetly outside of the school's restricted stores or were priced so exorbitantly that the production cost neutralized the profit margin for a budding apothecary. For now, the Draught of Infinity remained a highly profitable but strategically unviable option.
The Euphoria Potion, conversely, was perfect. It offered relief from stress and anxiety, making it a highly requested item across all Ministry departments, social circles, and among students. Many wizards had relied on this emotional palliative to navigate the crushing anxieties of the previous war.
All the ingredients for this draught were relatively common, save for the main component: the Datura berry. This highly magical, light purple fruit was both expensive and difficult to cultivate commercially, hence its high market value outside of a controlled environment.
"Wait a moment, I think I recall something critical," Anduin said, turning his attention back to the massive Hagrid, who was idly scratching Rhen's ears. "Hagrid, last time we were out here, didn't you mention you'd seen a vast patch of plants in the Forbidden Forest bearing the light purple fruit? You called them Mandrake fruit."
Hagrid let out a hearty, booming laugh, his chest shaking. "Aye, that's right, Anduin! I was tramping through one of the marshier spots while training Rhen to hunt, and there was a huge field of 'em. The Datura—er, the Mandrake berries, I mean—should be perfectly ripe right about now. Wouldn't surprise me if they were bursting with juice."
Hagrid had a habit of conflating similar-looking magical flora, but Anduin knew that the specific description—a field of light-purple berries—could only refer to the Datura Stramonium, the core of the Euphoria Potion, and not the screaming Mandragora Mandrakes.
Hearing Hagrid's enthusiastic confirmation, Anduin's plan solidified. "Wonderful. When do you next plan to venture into the forest? I'd be fascinated to accompany you. I need to harvest some of those berries myself."
Hagrid's face immediately darkened, his bushy eyebrows knitting together in concern. He dropped his hand to Rhen's back protectively.
"Absolutely not, young man. The Forbidden Forest is no place for a student—it's called 'Forbidden' for a reason! It's teeming with creatures that can do more than give you a little sting. If you were hurt in there, I'd be the one facing Dumbledore, and I couldn't explain that to the school." His refusal was non-negotiable, his voice a low, firm rumble of authority.
He pondered for a moment, then brightened. "Now, if it's just those berries you need, I can certainly oblige. I know those paths better than anyone. Tell me exactly what kind of berries they are, and I'll grab a basketful next time I'm out. But you stay right here."
"That is remarkably generous, Hagrid, thank you," Anduin said, feigning relief. "But they must be the light purple berries, highly magical, and perfectly intact—not crushed or bruised in the slightest. The potency depends on their wholeness."
"No worries there! I know what a valuable specimen looks like when I see it. I promise I'll bring you back enough to fill your entire stock, and then some!" Hagrid replied with a confident slap of his hand on the wooden table.
Anduin breathed a silent sigh of triumph. He had secured his most expensive and difficult ingredient, eliminating his primary overhead cost, and confirmed that Hagrid's untapped, colossal resource—the Forbidden Forest itself—represented a fortune in unharvested raw materials.
The sheer volume that Hagrid considered a 'basketful' could easily sustain his operation for months. After another brief, amicable conversation focused primarily on Rhen's hunting instincts, Anduin returned to the castle.
A few short weeks later, Anduin found himself in receipt of a massive basket that truly underscored the absurdity of Hagrid's generosity. It was overflowing with dozens of the plump, glistening light-purple Mandrake fruits (Datura berries), a staggering haul that would have cost a year's tuition in Diagon Alley.
Knowing he couldn't brew in the dormitory, Anduin stored the massive basket and the necessary tools in a discreet lockbox he'd placed beneath his bed, mentally scheduling the brewing session for the following weekend at Hagrid's.
His immediate task now was theoretical: to memorize the precise process for the Euphoria Potion and master the selection and processing of all secondary ingredients to guarantee a perfect success rate.
He opened the 'Half-Blood Prince's' sixth-year Potions textbook—the primary text for his preparations. He immediately flipped to the recipe for the Euphoria Potion. The officially prescribed method was straightforward, but the margins of the Prince's copy were crammed with aggressive, tiny scrawl—notes that contradicted the core instructions of the textbook author, Zygmunt Budge.
"Could the addition of a minuscule quantity of finely crushed Peppermint Leaf, added immediately after the Dragon blood, truly amplify the draught's restorative properties so dramatically? It is not listed in any known variant," Anduin muttered, reading the precise, slanted script.
The 'Prince' was not merely taking notes; he was engaging in a radical re-engineering of established alchemical processes. He had introduced radical changes to the processing methods and preparation of nearly every ingredient—methods that often cut preparation time in half while, the notes claimed, exponentially increasing the final potency.
This was pure alchemistic insight layered atop mundane Potions procedure. Anduin felt a tremor of pure curiosity mixed with trepidation. Was this the mark of a forgotten genius, or an arrogant novice inviting disaster?
He decided the risk on a comparatively low-level potion like the Draught of Cheer was manageable, viewing it as a controlled experimental variable. He would use the Prince's modified recipe and observe the results. But his intellectual curiosity pushed him to read the entire annotated textbook from cover to cover, attempting to divine the mindset of its anonymous author.
It was then he stumbled across a non-potion entry—a sequence of runes and incantations scrawled on the very last page, under a section for 'Draft Spells.'
"Sectumsempra... for enemies."
Followed by a much longer, more chilling inscription:
"Shadowless Divine Sword Magic (The Cutter's Path) – Must be cast with pure killing intent. Use only when mortal stakes are clear."
Anduin felt a sudden, ice-cold clench in his stomach. The spell sounded lethal—a brutal, highly aggressive invocation that utilized terminology ripped from ancient Eastern martial arts, completely alien to standard Western European Charms. The sheer name, the instruction for 'pure killing intent,' and the total lack of explanation for its effect sent a wave of alarm through him.
"A finished spell? An unfinished spell? Or a pure work of mad fantasy?" he thought, his hand hovering over the spell. Randomly casting such a hostile, foreign spell—especially one marked by such a dangerous instruction—was an act of sheer insanity.
Before he understood the past, the motives, and the potential lunacy of the 'Half-Blood Prince,' these dark pages were to be avoided. A well-intentioned but flawed potion could only make him ill; a malicious spell could kill him instantly, or worse, permanently disable him.
He swiftly closed the book, deciding to treat the textbook as a guide to chemical enhancement but to avoid its darker, more aggressive magical annotations entirely.
Soon, the next weekend arrived. November had fully taken hold of the Scottish highlands, and the weather at Hogwarts had transitioned from cool, crisp air to a biting, wet cold. The students were now muffled in thick winter robes, with scarves wrapped tightly against the flu and common cold that were making the rounds.
The petty war between Slytherin and Gryffindor continued to rage, largely unnoticed by Anduin, who had long since blocked out the background noise of hexes and curses. The ongoing conflict only served as a reminder of his eventual market—a stressed, exhausted populace desperate for a bit of cheer.
As he walked the familiar path to Hagrid's hut, carrying a satchel packed with his bronze cauldron, gleaming brass scales, specialized glass phials, his sixth-year textbook, and the precious, freshly dried mint, he considered his market further.
Besides selling the potions, they would make excellent, discreet Christmas gifts for a few strategically chosen contacts, establishing a subtle rapport built on gratitude.
He soon reached the cabin. His small plot of spring onions was flourishing, showing signs that Hagrid had been tending them with characteristic diligence. A small bottle of Draught of Cheer is certainly warranted for the groundskeeper, Anduin thought with a small smile.
Outside the hut, nestled beside the back wall, a magnificent sight awaited him. A new stone hearth had been expertly constructed from local slate and river stones, and resting upon it, fully secured, was the enormous, custom-ordered Great Iron Pot Anduin had requested. It was an industrial-scale piece of equipment, currently cold and empty, but ready to handle vast quantities of potion.
Hagrid burst out of the hut, a welcoming, shaggy giant who was nearly vibrating with pride.
"Anduin! You're early! How's that stone forge I built for the pot? Took me all morning yesterday. It's got a perfect draw to keep the temperature even, perfect for slow-roasting a whole ox! What delicious thing are we cooking up tonight with this great thing, eh?" Hagrid's eyes were shining with the anticipation of a colossal meal.
Anduin laughed, pulling off his damp gloves. "Hagrid, it's magnificent. A true masterpiece of rustic engineering. But hold your horses, it's barely noon! I've come to borrow your workspace to conduct my first round of potion-making. The Feast is for later, I promise."
He carefully deposited his satchel and tools onto the large, scrubbed wooden table. He had to work fast. He had taken his necessary supplementary ingredients—Dragon Blood, Standard Solution, dried mint, and various common herbs—from the controlled stock of the Potions storeroom.
The professional-grade glassware and cauldron had come from the same source. This meant he was operating under a mild but persistent cloud of guilt.
"I need a favor, Hagrid," Anduin said, organizing his supplies with quick, precise movements. "My mind needs absolute clarity and quiet for this. Would you be so kind as to keep watch outside? I'm afraid the scent of some of these ingredients can attract unwanted attention, and I wouldn't want Rhen to wander too close." This was a necessary white lie; he needed the giant out of the hut so he could proceed with the Prince's modifications without scrutiny.
Hagrid, delighted to be given a task, puffed out his chest. "Say no more! A perfect guard I'll be. No blasted Nifflers or stray Bowtruckles getting near your precious ingredients!" He scooped up Rhen, giving the tiny dog one last hug before lumbering outside.
Alone in the warm, earthy cabin, Anduin laid out his kit. The Datura berries were nestled in a separate silver bowl. He retrieved the textbook and opened it to the Prince's altered recipe.