The dungeons smelled different this year—less damp, more like a strangely pleasant blend of herbs and spices. You glanced around the classroom, noting how comfortable Slughorn seemed, the potions simmering peacefully on his desk. It wasn’t the chaos you’d grown used to in Potions class, but something more welcoming.

Ron sat beside you, slouching slightly with a look of mild suspicion as Slughorn, now grinning like a cat with a secret, clapped his hands to gather everyone’s attention.

“Before we start brewing, let me introduce you to one of the finest potions known to wizardkind!” Slughorn announced, pointing to the front. On the desk sat a small vial filled with shimmering liquid. “Felix Felicis, or Liquid Luck,” he said, his voice full of pride. “One sip, and everything goes right—confidence, success, luck! But too much, and your luck will run out. Not a pleasant end, I assure you.”

Ron leaned over, whispering, “Bet Harry’s already thinking of how to sneak it.”

You grinned. “What, you wouldn’t take it if you had the chance?”

Ron huffed. “If it means not getting embarrassed in front of the Quidditch team? Maybe.”

Slughorn’s eyes gleamed. “And today, the student who brews the best Draught of Living Death will win this vial of Liquid Luck!”

Ron slumped in his seat. “Brilliant. That’s me out of the running.”

You nudged him. “Come on, it can’t be that hard.”

Ron shot you a look. “Mate, I barely passed last year’s class.”

The noise of cauldrons being prepared filled the room. As you reached for your ingredients, your eyes lingered on the golden vial. Maybe, just maybe, today would be your lucky day.