"Certainly." He limbers his hands, draws a vial from its holster and uncaps it (the cap is an eyedropper), setting it down. A faint aroma of chrysanthemum drifts up. He takes the honey, and with its thin drizzle draws a series of three octagons into the mixture of fruit, each within the other like Russian dolls. In the center, one drop from the vial, which he caps. Taking the mortar and his wand, he transfigures the latter into an alderwood spoon (startling himself badly when the result isn't unnaturally black, but saying nothing of this aloud).
Having a thought, he looks up. "If you were to produce four repetitions of three sets of three notes as I stir," he mentions, "it would be a further augmentation to the process." He stirs in unhurried arcs radiating deosil from the center, with one stroke spiraling back to center at the end of each repetition. When he's done, the stuff in the saucepan hasn't really changed color, but it's more reflective and moves more slickly, with a golden glimmer where the light hits.