Steam rises in wisps and curls, wrapping in on itself as it climbs into the air before dissipating from sight. It billows out from the rim of the goblet, filled just below overflowing with odd chunks floating within its depths, poking out slightly as they bob within the liquid. Gerald is pretty sure this potion isn't supposed to have whole newt limb in it, and really doesn't recall it having anything of the sort yesterday, but that's what those floating chunks look like. Unfortunately, he knows this supplier is the best he can afford, and previous experience has told him the goods are serviceable, if not perfect.
He needs this potion, desperately. He'd gone without it last month and the results had been dire.
Gerald reaches out for the goblet, but freezes when the man across the table from him puts his own hand over the top of it instead. The steam swirls over and around his hand, still rising high. Gerald grumbles, feeling his irritation stalk like a wolf within his chest at the implied threat.
"You don't trust me, then? We've done this dance three days now, and that potion doesn't look quite right."
"Always coin up front, boy. And this here's an old potion, got my grandpappy's twists on it. Makes it extra potent, y'see? Figured I'd bring out the big guns, as they say. Only the best for my favorite customer." He winked and Gerald couldn't help but shudder.
"Best take it quick, while it's fresh, though. Longer it sits, colder it gets, less effective it is." The threat hung between them like a blade, ready to slice down at any moment. Still, Gerald wasn't read to part with cold, hard coins quite so easily.
"I'd rather have the standard recipe, as I said yesterday when you brought this deviation up, if you could-"
"Fah, potions is an art. Can't rightly brew anything now, only getting second hand tools and materials. What with the crackdown on practicing magic, ain't no new discoveries. That Wolfsbane potion's near on 70 years old, Merlin's honest truth. Grandpappy's improvements is no more than 30, though. Anybody telling you they've got the original recipe or any of the Old Ministry's files is a New Ministry plant or a con artist. You won't likely find anything newer or better than this, I'll tell you for that for free."
"The Statute of Secrecy fell around 30 years ago too, and the whole damn world along with it, if I recall. I'll bet you're right." Gerald may not like the man, but he was no fool. Stories like that were all too common.
"'Course I'm right, ya damn fool," the man scoffs, but Gerald isn't listening anymore. He's lost in memories of his past, of triumphs and devastation, none entirely his own.
His fingers ghost over the scars marring his face, Or should he say the scant bit of face visible beneath all his scars? Gerald was attractive once, he knows, but it's so hard to remember. It's the damn wolf's fault he looks like this now, after going so many years without the Wolfsbane. If Gerald didn't know better, he'd think the stupid beast was even more vicious for having been tamed for so many years. It's only recently he'd been able to scrape together enough coin to afford it regularly, and even then, only every other month.
"You've had New Ministry plants in here?"
"Nah, sonny, I just know the like. My shop was a target in the Raids, right? I was on the corner of Diagon and Knockturn and those feckin' muggles came stampeding in with their bang-flashers and what not. Same day the Statute fell. Shoulda known those mudbloods couldn't keep to the Statute. All the sudden muggles-" he hocks back and spits on the ground at the mention of non magical people "and newly found mudbloods are taking videos and sharing them all over the world. The Old Ministry didn't take a hard enough stance, weren't prepared for the collapse or how brutish muggles could be, and they walked into those negotiations with their pants around their ankles."
It shouldn't be like this for him; Gerald had been at the Battle of Hogwarts, all those decades ago! He was proud to be there, too, is still proud to have been there on those few chances he has to bring it up in conversation. He regretted it at the next full moon, though, always regrets it during the full moon these days. He should be living a regular life; instead he's here listening to bigots unintentionally call him slurs as he begs for scraps to manage his condition, when he used to be able to get it for free!
It had been a difficult fight, in those following weeks and months and years, to get werewolves access to the potions they needed. To turn fear and hurt into compassion and understanding. They'd done it though, after many long, hard political battles fought by the Order of the Phoenix, or what was left of it.
It's those memories of happier times that keep his darker thoughts at bay, like "would it have been better if we lost the Battle?" Gerald can't let himself be caught thinking things like that, not nowadays. Most wizards couldn't recognize each other anymore, what with robes being outlawed and with magicals being scattered as they are. And you never know when someone's secretly a Legilimens working with the New Ministry.
Gerald was brought back to the harshness of reality by the raspy clearing of a throat. Right, no time to waste. There were other things to do today in order to get ready for the full moon. It's only two more days away.
"You're sure this works?" He wheedles one last time.
At the man's brusque nod, he sighs and pulls the Galleons out of his pocket. Meticulously, coin by coin, he counts out the price before sliding them across the table in a haphazard pile. Gerald can't decide which is worse, the stench of the potion or the slimy look on the man's face as he counts out his newfound wealth.
"Same time tomorrow?" Gerald asks as he brings the steaming goblet to his lips.
"So long as you remember to cast a decent Disillusionment Charm before you leave this time, rather than once you're on the street. Swore I had bobbies up and down this place for hours after you left, yesterday. Think there's a camera right up on the street corner." His potioneer sneers this at him, as though it was his idea to create the CCTV.
Gerald closes his eyes and remembers the Wolfsbane of those bright few years when it was provided by the Old Ministry, after the Battle. Master potioneers had teased improvements out left and right, and by the end, though he hadn't known the end was coming, they had even offered the cure in flavors. His favorite had been strawberries and cream.
He slugs back the goblet in one great gulp. Yes, definitely chunkier than it should be, and an acrid taste that seems to coat his throat. He's only glad it's too hot to have congealed at all. It's all about the little things, now a days, to keep himself sane. Or, as sane as any werewolf can be.