A gentle rain pattered across Scotland, filling Hogwarts with the soft rhythm of dripping water. Raindrops gathered on the stained-glass windows, trickling down into the fertile soil that had nourished the castle grounds since the tenth century.
Madam Pince, the librarian, wasn't swayed by Sean's spotless record of returning books on time. She refused to let him borrow more than the allowed number unless he returned Modern Magical History and the others, signing her crumpled ledger first. So, Sean settled for reading two of Libatius Borage's potion masterpieces in the library.
Even without taking them out, he found a note tucked into the first page, written in Madam Pince's unmistakable scrawl:
Warning: If you tear, rip, damage, soil, destroy, throw, drop, or in any way mistreat or defile this book, I will ensure you face the most dreadful consequences within my power.
Irma Pince, Hogwarts Librarian
Sean had no doubt about her resolve. He'd seen her swoop down on students like a hawk, her uncanny ability to sniff out book-damagers earning her a fearsome reputation.
In the study area, Madam Pince passed by Sean, her usual scowl softening slightly. She gave him a curt nod before moving on.
Sean was engrossed in Have Yourself a Fiesta in a Bottle!, where he found a striking quote:
Miranda Goshawk, that old hag (crossed out) wizard, wrote in The Book of Spells: When a wizard has a need, a spell arises. If it doesn't, the spell simply hasn't been discovered yet. I assert that when a wizard has a need, a potion arises. If it doesn't, the recipe simply hasn't been discovered.
The words hit Sean like a spark, their boldness sinking in. As he pondered, a small note slipped from the book. Startled, he quietly pulled out his notebook and quill, copying it down:
Good. If you're reading this, it proves not every wizard is a fool. I must tell you something, lest people only remember my achievements in recipes and techniques while forgetting my greatest, most misunderstood contribution to the profound art of potion-making.
The greatest, most misunderstood contribution? Was it something like the automated heat control for cauldrons? Libatius Borage, Sean thought, always had more up his sleeve.
Eagerly, he read on:
When the maxim emerged that only a carefully crafted potion could produce the proper effect, I watched potion researchers forget to question its deeper meaning. What kind of researchers are they? They're nothing but Miranda's sticky, foul-smelling apple pie! I'm certain that spells and potions are linked by a fundamental thread. If Magical Theory holds that advanced spells require a wizard's mental strength, why do they overlook potions? It can only be because they're all £$&% (illegible scribbles).
Skipping over Borage's colorful insults, Sean's breath quickened at what followed:
I completed essential tasks—improved spells and rituals that rely more heavily on a wizard's mental strength, though they're far more taxing. For any potion-maker who has mastered technique, this opens a vast new path. But I must warn you: you need strong willpower and utmost caution. These potions are powerful but unstable. They could be refined further, but my time is short. I've glimpsed a great truth and lament that I must share it in secret. Please, perfect it. And allow me to correct the foolish epitaph wizards carved for me. The true version: Libatius Borage died in 1961, having devoted his life to this great work. Now, it's your turn to explore the deepest magic of potions.
Me? Sean thought. My unique talent?
He let out a quiet "Mm," feeling a spark of responsibility. Every word was seared into his mind. He hadn't expected to stumble across such knowledge. Libatius Borage had dared to rework ancient potion spells and rituals, some unchanged for over three centuries, as reliable as spell pronunciations. It was like finding a Niffler's hoard of ancient coins.
Sean quickly copied the handful of improved recipes into his notebook—there weren't many, but, by some stroke of luck, the Scourgify Potion was among them. A grin spread across his face.
The magical crystal lamp illuminated Sean's focused expression. Soon, the Hogwarts bells chimed, accompanied by the hoot of owls. Lunchtime. His mind full of intellectual treasures, Sean now had to feed his body. He returned the books to Madam Pince and joined the stream of students heading from the library to the Great Hall.
Passing the warm fireplace, Sean noticed the Gryffindors were unusually quiet today.
"He must hate me…" a black-haired boy said, his voice tinged with confusion. "Asphodel and wormwood… Why didn't he ask Hermione?"
"Harry, don't get upset," said the red-haired boy beside him quietly. "I've heard Snape's always like this. Completely unreasonable."
Sean watched Harry and Ron sit nearby. The question rang a bell. Some, in another life, believed Snape, the so-called warrior of love, asked questions layered with meaning. Asphodel symbolized regret carried to the grave; wormwood, bitter sorrow. The hidden message? I'm endlessly grieved by your mother's death.
As Sean reached for the beans, Justin plopped down beside him, his face flushed. Hermione followed, her eyes dim.
"Even if it's Professor Snape, he can't act that unreasonably!" Justin said, clearly upset, his gaze full of sympathy for his friend. "If a student raising their hand to answer is wrong, then the professor asking the question must be an idiot!"
Sean looked up, stunned. They'd just come from Potions class. Were they… criticizing Snape? Even Harry hadn't gone that far.
"Sean, I meant to tell you earlier…" Justin's anger faded as he turned to Sean, explaining the scene with a heavy heart. During class, Snape had ignored Hermione's raised hand multiple times, then snapped at her: "Sit down!"
"No one in the room thought it was unfair," Justin continued, his face reddening again. "Those Gryffindors—they're such cowards!" His voice trembled with guilt. "I saw it from the doorway but couldn't do anything to help. Some friend I am."
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