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"Regar and the Potion " by butterflybandage
The light from the fire was just bright enough to illuminate Regar’s desk. The parchments were rolled up onto each other, the wet ink smearing at the corners. The fire also shone an orange light onto the other fixtures of Regar’s home: the tall bookshelf filled with every magic book under the sun, potions that had been passed down from masters to apprentices for thousands of years, specimens that seemed to move when just out of eyeshot, a rusty kettle atop an old wooden end table, a thick shaggy coat that hung on the wall beside an intricate walking stick, and, finally, a musty cot, taken from an abandoned cabin and covered with moss to add comfort. This little cot was where Regar rested, the uncomfortable bed the place he laid his head to collect his thoughts. Regar was old. He had taught many wizards and wizardesses over the years, and his antiquated teaching methods were becoming less and less sought after. These days, everyone wanted to be a ninja or a pirate or—Fyora forbid—a beauty contestant. Regar didn’t quite understand when the world had changed, but it did—and it was sudden, inexplicable, unforgiving. Time used to morph and bend at Regar’s will, but now it couldn’t quite seem to give him a chance to catch up.

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