Chapter 27 — A Curriculum Rewritten
The dungeon was silent but for the soft crackle of the fire and the faint rustle of parchment. Severus Snape sat rigid at his desk, the candlelight casting sharp angles across his face. Before him lay the manuscript — the boy's "Principles of Potion-Brewing".His long, pale fingers traced idly along the edge of the parchment, though his mind was fixed firmly on the contents.
He flipped back to Chapter 5, this time pausing at the diagrams. The illustrations were surprisingly clear — neat lines showing flame levels, sketches of ingredient slices, even tables comparing potion effects at varying concentrations. Snape leaned closer.
The tables in particular irritated him. They were accurate. Uncomfortably accurate. He had seen such comparative tables in research journals, not in a child's hand. A nine-year old Weasley should not be capable of this.
Snape tapped his finger against the linework of a stirring diagram. "Clockwise seven turns, then pause. Counter-clockwise three at half speed. Observe polarity shift in color". His lip curled. The boy had even marked small annotations in the margins:
Note: Repeat three times for consistency check.
"Too thorough," Snape muttered. But his eyes lingered. For once, he did not close the book in disdain. Instead, he found himself compelled to read, page after page, re-checking each exercise, each warning.
When the eagle owl shifted on its perch, Snape looked up, scowling. "Do not stare at me as if awaiting judgment," he snapped at the bird. But the golden eyes, faintly aglow, did not flinch. Snape exhaled sharply and rose, gathering the book. There was only one person who needed to see this.
The office of Albus Dumbledore was awash with the golden glow of late afternoon. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, scattering across shelves crammed with odd contraptions and tomes. The Headmaster sat serenely behind his desk, half-moon spectacles perched low on his nose, as if he had been waiting for this moment.
Severus swept into the room, robes billowing, and set the book down with a sharp
Dumbledore raised his brows, peering over his glasses. "I see young Mr. Weasley's work has finally made it to your desk."
"It is… not mere childish scribbling," Snape said, voice measured but taut. "It is dangerous."
"Dangerous?" The word rolled out of Dumbledore's mouth as though he found it curious rather than alarming.
"Dangerous," Snape repeated, "because it is correct. Far too correct. Whoever tutored the boy has access to knowledge first-years could not possibly grasp. Comparative tables, precise case studies, maxims stripped of frivolity… It borders on research-level writing."
A firm knock interrupted them, and Professor McGonagall entered. Her sharp gaze flicked between Snape and the parchment. "So this is the Weasley boy's little book I've been hearing about," she said, tone clipped but laced with curiosity.
Dumbledore gestured toward a chair. "Minerva, you may want to hear this as well. Severus has brought us something… enlightening."
She sat, lips pursed, as Snape opened the manuscript to the chapter on stirring and polarity. McGonagall adjusted her glasses, reading aloud: "'Consistency is paramount. A single irregular motion can undo an entire brew.'" Her lips twitched — half disapproval, half grudging admiration. "I've seen seventh-years who could use this reminder."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Do not mistake this for cleverness. The boy parrots phrases as though he understands them."
"Parrots?" McGonagall's tone sharpened. "This 'parroting,' as you call it, could save students from the hospital wing. And I daresay from your temper."
Snape stiffened, but Dumbledore's soft chuckle defused the air. "Minerva has a point, Severus. This text is… startlingly practical. I can almost hear your voice woven through its warnings."
Snape bristled, though he could not wholly deny it. The phrasing was reminiscent of his own teaching style — but distilled into something more concise, less bitter.
Dumbledore leaned back, fingertips steepled. "What we must decide is whether this is an oddity to be shelved, or something to be shared."
"Shared?" Snape hissed. "You would hand this boy's vanity project to our students?"
McGonagall's eyes flashed. "It is hardly vanity, Severus. Do you recall how many accidents we suffer in first and second year? If even a handful are prevented by this…" She tapped the parchment firmly. "Then it deserves more than a dusty corner."
Silence followed, broken only by the ticking of a peculiar silver instrument. Finally, Dumbledore's expression softened into a rare seriousness.
"Severus. Minerva. This is more than notes. It is a tool. And Hogwarts would be remiss not to use it." He looked at them both in turn, his gaze weighty. "Shall we agree? This book will become required material for our first three years. Students will benefit, regardless of who wrote it."
McGonagall inclined her head immediately. "Agreed."
Snape's jaw clenched, the word dragging out like poison. "…Agreed."
The air seemed to settle with finality.
For a moment, the three sat in silence, the weight of the decision hanging between them. McGonagall's lips thinned as she studied the neat lettering of Ron's work. "It astonishes me," she murmured. "That the sixth son of Arthur and Molly Weasley should produce something like this. The boy shows little in class — but here…"
Snape said nothing, though his dark eyes lingered on the page.
Dumbledore, meanwhile, seemed quietly amused, though the twinkle in his eye was tempered with curiosity. "Perhaps we underestimate young Ronald. His resourcefulness appears to be flowering sooner than expected."
He turned in his chair, quill already in hand. "I shall send him word. It is only fair." With smooth strokes, Dumbledore wrote a letter, the parchment filling with looping script.
Dear Mr. Weasley,
Your manuscript has been received and is currently under thorough review. I commend your diligence and clarity of thought. Know that your work is being carefully considered for use within Hogwarts. For now, I encourage patience. Continue your studies, and let curiosity remain your guide.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
He sealed the letter with a soft press of wax and handed it to Mr. Stark, who had flown in as if on cue. The eagle owl dipped its golden head, eyes glowing faintly as it accepted the message.
As the great bird launched into the sky beyond the window, McGonagall frowned thoughtfully. "Do you intend to meet with the boy yourself, Albus?"
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, voice light but deliberate. "If this book is to be part of our curriculum, a contract will be required. But more than parchment and signatures, I wish to see where Mr. Weasley's path leads. His mind is shifting, shaping. We should not ignore it."
Snape's mouth tightened, but he did not protest. Perhaps, deep down, he too was curious.
The candlelight flickered across the three professors — an unlikely council, united by a single boy's hand-written book.
And in the quiet of the office, the future of Hogwarts' potions education had quietly changed course.