"Now he'd done it," he thought to himself right before collapsing.

The bottle was quite clear on the matter. The warning may have been written in letters an eighth of an inch high

(Eight point font, as his teacher would have pointed out, but what did some stupid muggle know that his parents didn't?)

Yet it was there. A half a line of emerald ink, meant to protect the Bringable Butterbeer company

(Enjoy a warming beverage without the hassle of a tavern!)

from a lawsuit. That half a line had mocked Eric since his mother had started buying the cursed stuff years ago—the Morgans adored butterbeer and started bringing it home as soon as the Honeydukes folks had begun bottling it. No time soon would he forget the evening Mrs. Morgan had first noticed it and brought home a carton. Eric had been seven then, and Mr. Morgan hadn't seen the harm in letting his son have a sip.

An hour later, they were sitting in the waiting room of St. Mungos wondering what could possibly be wrong with Eric. Butterbeer wasn't that strong, was it? The lady at the desk had pointed them to the appropriate floor, and as soon as the mediwitch saw him, it was obvious what the problem was. She took the Morgan parents aside, and Eric was left to wake up a few minutes later, the bottle of butterbeer still clutched in his hand. Weakly, he realized he had passed out, and studied the back of the bottle in hopes of an answer. Finally, he noticed what must be the most relevant warning:

Bringable Butterbeer

The taste you'll love without leaving your kitchen!

Not meant for use by children under five, muggles, or squibs.

Eric was not under five. His parents were quite powerful wizards. There was only one possibility left, and he was rather more inclined to attempt to wake himself up from this horrible dream than to ponder the chance.

That had been six years hence. Mrs. Morgan had tried to cheer him up the best she could, saying he would belong to two cultures now, but Eric could not mistake the disappointment in his father's eyes. He had been sent immediately to a nearby primary school, and resigned himself to hating it, which had only worked for the first few weeks. Then Justin and Kevin had come along, and the three had been inseparable ever since. The look on his father's face had gradually faded until yesterday, when he got back from his cousin Annabel's house.

Mrs. Morgan had warned her seventeen-year-old niece from showing off now that she could finally do magic, but the girl had always been rather callous. She used to play with her younger cousin often, but on this visit, her head was full of incantations, and she would apparate to the table at every meal and to bed every night. The sight nearly sickened Eric.

Now, he had been staring all morning at that bottle, and he had himself convinced that the other time was a mistake. Was anyone sure that bottle hadn't been contaminated. Finally, his courage was screwed up enough, and he resolved to drink the whole bottle.That was before he began to cough and sputter like a hippogriff with bronchitis. His last thought was, now he'd done it. This time there would be no awakening.Mrs. Morgan found him hours to late to do anything. "Oh, Eric," she whispered. She took him to the mediwitch who had recently moved across the street and asked if he could be put right, seeing the answer in the man's eyes before he had the strength to tell her. Sobbing, she looked down at the bottle. The label was nearly illegible. It looked as though her son had poured Mrs. Skower's, a potion of invisibility (he could brew a fine potion, if nothing else), and a few other things on it, but it hadn't mattered. The shining emerald ink still peaked through in a few places:

love

Not meant for squibs.