Chaotic Weevil

A/N: This can be read as a Discworld/Dresden Files/Worm crossover, or as an omake for Rhydeble's Wasps & Wizards, with extra wizzardry.

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Harry Dresden, occasionally known as Myrddin, clapped his hands together. "Right, then! The first rule of Potion-Brewing Club is: Don't talk about Potion-Brewing Club."

Taylor Hebert, his new apprentice, quirked an eyebrow at him. "Because most people don't believe in magic, so if you tell them you're a wizard, they'll think you're either crazy, lying, or a huge dork?"

Rincewind - a guy from out of town who was visiting Chicago, and who was evidently a wizard; or possibly even a wizzard, according to his hat - shot a morose look at the others. "Because a name like 'Potion-Brewing Club' sounds like a euphemism for a gang of drug dealers?"

Folding his arms under his chest and hunching his shoulders, Harry glowered. "Well, I did have a brilliant punch-line, uh... Lined up, but if you two are going to be like that, I'll just keep it to myself!"

Taylor leaned over sideways, stage whispering in Rincewind's ear while not-quite-surreptitiously jabbing a thumb in Harry's direction: "Hu-u-uge dork."

"What's this list for?" Rincewind scratched the back of his head, staring at a piece of paper that had been taped to the kitchen wall. "It's just a bunch of simple words, like 'SMELL', 'TASTE'... Is it some sort of reminder on how to eat your lunch, step by step? 'Remember to look both ways before you cross the road', that sort of thing?"

Harry ripped the sheet down, and tapped a finger against the list of words written on it. "Of course not! It's a basic outline of how to prepare a magical elixir - a generic template for a potion recipe, if you will."

"I suspect I rather wouldn't," mumbled Rincewind.

"Well, tough luck," said Harry, rolling up his sleeves with brisk movements. "Taylor, here, is hoping to be a bona fide magic-user when she grows up. As part of that ambition, she needs to learn how to brew a proper potion."

"Uh... Excuse me?" Taylor held a hand over her head, then moved it to hover over Harry's scalp. "I'm taller than you are! If I grow up any further, your ceiling and I are going to have a falling-out... Or at least a colliding-in."

"True, you're tall for your age." Harry glanced down at Taylor's feet. "Although, let's be honest, here: Most of your current feud with my ceiling might stem from Rincewind's trunk, here. Specifically, the fact that you're standing on it."

"How else do you expect me to reach all these tins and flasks and bottles, and all the other bric-a-brac you wanted me to fetch from your top top shelf?" Taylor balanced carefully on top of the large chest's lid, grimacing as she fished a jar filled with eyeballs down from the shelf near the ceiling. "Eugh! My bug swarm might be able to carry some of this junk, but I'd really rather avoid the risk of dropping anything on the floor - especially since I'd almost certainly have to clean up the mess, afterwards."

Rincewind watched the proceedings with a mixture of fear and disbelief. Granted, 'fearful' seemed to be a constant component of all his facial expressions. "I can't believe the Luggage is letting you use him as a foot stool," he said. "Nobody treads on the Luggage like that. Well, not unless they're tired of having feet attached to their ankles."

Harry stepped aside, as the multi-legged chest traipsed past, Taylor still perched on its lid. "Perhaps the, ah, Luggage sees her as a kindred spirit?"

"Taylor, and the Luggage? Kindred spirits?" Rincewind said in a flat, 'are-you-kidding-me?' tone of voice. "I've seen arch-demons and demi-gods flee in terror, when they heard that the Luggage was coming. What would a thing like that have in common with a teenage girl who's got a nickname like Skittles?"

"It's pronounced: 'Skitter'," said Taylor, waiting for the Luggage to stop so she'd be in front of the last shelf. "And unlike you two, Trunky is polite and helpful."

Once she'd fetched what she needed from the shelf, she hopped down from the chest, then turned around and crouched down to pat the Luggage on the lid. "Isn't that right, Trunky?"

Shaking his head, Rincewind glared as the Luggage rubbed up against the palm of Taylor's hand, like a mild-mannered sabre-tooth tiger trying to ingratiate itself with someone holding a tin opener. "What is it with women calling the Luggage 'Trunky'?"

"Thanks to the dynamic duo of Taylor and Trunky, we now have plenty of ingredients to choose from." Harry swept his arm in a wide gesture, waving at the numerous odd-looking jars and bottles, lined up on the kitchen table.

Dusting off her hands, Taylor watched him expectantly. "So, which ones do we need?"

Grinning, Harry held up the list again. "That's up to you to find out. For starters, let's see if you can brew a simple cheering potion."

Taking the paper from her teacher, Taylor eyed the list suspiciously. "Hmm... If I'm translating this arcane runic script correctly, one of the first ingredients should be a paste, of some sort." She rummaged around in the clutter, grabbing a brightly coloured tube from the clutter. "Toothpaste, perhaps?"

Harry snatched the list back from her. "There's nothing wrong with my handwriting! Rincewind could read it just fine! It's perfectly legible!" He pointed at the second word on the sheet. "See? It says: 'TASTE', not 'PASTE'. You need to pick several ingredients that you associate with happiness and good cheer - including one for each of the five senses."

Taylor held up the tube, waggling it a little. "And what if my spirits are buoyed by artificial spearmint flavouring?"

Deflating a little, Harry eventually nodded. "...Then, you should pick 'paste as the taste."

"Potatoes," Rincewind blurted out.

Harry and Taylor glanced at each other for a moment, then looked at the visiting wizzard. "Potatoes?"

"Potatoes." Rincewind picked up a yellow tuber from the more vegetable-y section of the clutter. "Nothing makes my taste buds happier than warm, freshly cooked spuds."

"You mean, like... French fries?" Harry brightened. "Or sour cream and onion chips? Ooh, or a baked potato with a dollop of garlic butter, and..."

Rincewind shoved the spud in Harry's face. "Potatoes."

"Actually..." Taylor picked up a couple more tubers, and put them in an empty pot on the stove. "...That does sound better than toothpaste. More edible, certainly."

Sighing, Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "Spuds, huh? Didn't take you for a root vegetable aficionado, Taylor... Unless you've started channelling your inner potato weevil?"

"Actually, this means we've covered 'sight', as well." Taylor sniggered. "Because, y'see... Potatoes have eyes."

Rincewind nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense." He also took the opportunity to dump a few more spuds in the pot.

Harry shot them both a decidedly unimpressed look.

Rincewind browsed the potion recipe. "Taste, sight... You'll need something for 'smell', as well. What about a bit of pommy duh terrier, perhaps? They smell wonderful when they're cooked, I've always thought."

"'Pommy'?" Taylor frowned. "Isn't that what Australians call British people?"

"Dunno." Rincewind shrugged. "Must be a compliment, because it's Genuan for 'potatoes'."

"How about small potatoes?" Taylor held up a handful, giggling. "They can fit in your nostrils, which is associated with smelling. Also, 'small' is just one letter away from 'smell'."

"Are you two messing with me?" Harry glared, aiming a righteously indignant finger at them, panning his arm back and forth to cover them both with his accusation. "'Cause it totally feels like you're messing with me."

"Hey, the only mess around here is the one you asked me to make." Taylor waved at the miscellaneous tins, vials and plastic Tupperware containers that littered the kitchen. "Also, speaking of 'feels'... We need something for 'touch', next."

Rincewind picked up a fistful of potato peels, and poured them in the pot. "Done."

Flapping his arms in surprise, Harry gave the Wizzard a look that was both wide-eyed and gob-smacked. "Why, for Mystra's sake?! Why would you do that?!"

"You know, freshly peeled potato skins are definitely a good ingredient for the sense of 'touch'." Taylor cackled. "You can't get much more tactile than literal skin."

Harry hid his face in his hands, groaning. "What even is my life, anymore."

Taylor gave her mentor a conciliatory pat on the arm. "Tell you what... How about we pick an ingredient for 'hearing' that isn't potatoes?"

Peeking out hesitantly with one eye from between his fingers, Harry mumbled: "...Not potatoes?"

The tall, bespectacled girl nodded. "...Not potatoes."

Rincewind's shoulders slumped. "But... Potatoes," he whined.

Snapping her fingers, Taylor graced them both with a triumphant smile. "How about corn? That's kinda like potatoes, sort of. Only, you know... Not."

Harry searched through the forest of esoteric odds and ends. "Sorry, I don't think we have any corn cobs, and we ran out of tinned corn yesterday..."

He paused, and eyed Taylor suspiciously. "Wa-a-ait just a dog-gone minute, here... What does corn have to do with hearing? You don't seem like the kind of teenager who'd be into Korn, with a 'K'."

Doing her best to look innocent, Taylor tugged at her earlobe. "Haven't you ever heard the expression: 'Ears of corn'?"

Before Harry had a chance to come up with a disgruntled reply, Taylor turned and pointed at the Luggage, as the large chest with countless little legs and feet sauntered over to them, carrying a paper package on its lid. "Oh, look! Trunky's found something!"

Harry squinted. "Corn flour?"

Picking up the parcel, Taylor patted the Luggage in thanks, and studied the package's paper wrapping. She promptly burst out laughing.

Rincewind took the parcel from her, and examined the label. He smiled, nodding approvingly, and held up the package for Harry to read:

POTATO STARCH FLOUR

The sound of Taylor's laughter was joined by the rhythmic noise of Harry's head, repeatedly being beaten against one of the kitchen cabinets.

"Um, the potion still needs an ingredient for 'mind'." Rincewind interjected.

"You know," said Taylor, peering down into the pot. "When I look at the sorcerous alchemy which we hath wrought this day... For some reason, I can't help but think of potato soup."

"Me too!" Rincewind brightened, and chucked a couple more 'taters in the pot. "I think about potatoes all the time."

"This is worse than the time when Bob tried to invent a recipe* for an Ultimate Happiness Potion," Harry groused. "And Bob's an unrepentant sweater-melon-oholic."

"We also need something we can use as a base." Taylor poked at a few bottles. "Some kinda liquid that can form the... Well, the basis of the potion."

"Wouldn't you usually cook potatoes in water?" Rincewind said.

"Sure, that works." Taylor fetched a pitcher, filled it with tap water, and poured it into the pot. She picked up the list, and checked it twice. "Let's see... We've got all five senses covered, plus mind, and a base... That just leaves the last ingredient, 'SPIRIT'."

Rincewind chewed contemplatively on his lip. "That's almost philosophical... What is the spirit of potatoes?"

"No." Harry planted his fists on his hips. "I forbid it. Taylor's under-age. I'm not giving you vodka."

"Even if it's diluted by all the potato soup? ...I mean, all of this magical potion?" Taylor smirked.

Harry scowled. "Enn-Oh, means: Out of the question."

"How about some more of this plain old tap water, then?" Taylor picked up the pitcher. "Finest vintage that the house can offer! …Kinda bland, though."

"Bland is good," said Rincewind. "When I look for things to put in my mouth and my stomach, I'm not looking for exciting surprises."

Harry massaged his temples, watching Taylor start to heat up the pot. "The point was for you to brew a magical potion, not making... Weird potato soup!"

"You know what?" Rincewind smiled. "I'm okay with this outcome."

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*The recipe for this potion can, in fact, be found on the DresdenFiles subreddit (look for thread no. 52kg1e, comment no. d7lodq9). Fair warning: This potion is probably not safe for work, or for any other location where random bystanders might frown upon graphic descriptions** of what, exactly, a lecherous talking skull might do with such items as "a coconut, halved and then arranged with juvenile precision", or "a basket of puppies covered in a sweater".

**By an amusing coincidence, while that particular potion didn't turn into a recipe for potato soup, it did bear a striking resemblance to the recipe for chicken alfredo.