To date, Philippa Rowle had been less... gifted in her practical courses than she might have hoped. Indeed, since signing up for the potion brewing competion, the first year had been rather plagued with a lack of confidence that was, she thought, rather unbecoming. However, the only thing more shameful than losing would be actually running away, and so here the Gryffindor stood, acting for all the world as if her heart was not beating a million miles a minute.

It was fortunate, Pippa thought, that the recipe and instructions were provided for them, for she had no recollection of the steps and directions for a Hair-Raising Potion. She could, however, read, which was more than could be said of some of her less affluent peers.

Diligently, the first year worked away at her concoction. When she finished, she was pleased to note she was not the last—but also saw that she was certainly not the first, either.