The library was packed with wizards.
Warm orange spell-lanterns floated overhead, giving off soft, steady light while students wrestled with thick textbooks and secretly munched on smuggled sweets.
Madam Pince usually turned a blind eye to the snacks; she wasn't nearly as terrifying as most little wizards believed.
Deep in the Restricted Section, though, the gentle glow stopped dead. Only a handful of dim lanterns sat on the dark wooden desk, just enough light for Sean to read every word.
Moste Potente Potions? No, tonight it was Secrets of the Darkest Art.
Sean had only vague memories of the book.
It was the single most dangerous, most evil volume in the wizarding world. The core of it was Horcruxes. The author, however, clearly despised the very idea of Horcruxes and refused point-blank to give any instructions on how to make one.
But the concept itself? That was laid out plain as day.
The screaming and writhing stopped the instant Sean touched the cover. The black smoke that usually poured from the spine vanished without a trace.
That meant the book was probably cursed. Sean knew for a fact it wasn't, which was the only reason he'd dared pick it up bare-handed. In the Restricted Section you could never be too careful.
Old wizards were not nice people.
There was the one that burned your eyes out. Another (Sonnets of a Sorcerer) that forced anyone who read it to speak only in limericks for the rest of their life. Then there was the book by the ancient wizard Bathilda that you literally could not put down; people walked around with their faces glued to the pages, learning to eat, write, and duel one-handed.
Sean pulled his thoughts together and opened the black-and-silver cover.
The first name he saw: Godric Godwot.
No—Godelot.
He paused, then read on.
"A basilisk is hatched by a toad from a chicken's egg, a creature of extraordinary power and danger. The world credits this vile discovery to the foul Herpo the Foul.
Any sane witch or wizard, however, will see the truth: Herpo did not discover the basilisk.
He created it.
This is Evil Biological Magic."
There it was—the chapter on breeding basilisks.
But instead of satisfying his curiosity, it only dragged him deeper.
He tore his eyes away from the words "Evil Biological Magic" and let memories of Godelot surface.
With the help of a single wand, the man had written an entire arsenal of deadly spells and pushed dark magic forward centuries in a single lifetime.
Sean knew some of those spells intimately: the Gouging Charm, the Tongue-Tying Curse… all born from Godelot's quill.
And the wand that had helped him? The Elder Wand.
"My most wicked and subtle friend," Godelot had written, "fashioned of elder wood, steeped in the darkest arts. When I wield it, I finally understand where true magic comes from."
A sudden cold draft swept through the Restricted Section. Sean glanced up—outside the windows, night had fallen completely.
He stared at his own wand for a long moment, thinking.
Rowan is wordy, chestnut is lazy,
Ash is stubborn, hazel quite crazy.
But an elder wand never prospers…
The old rhyme from The Tales of Beedle the Bard floated through his mind unbidden.
He had what he came for: the full basilisk-breeding ritual copied word-for-word onto parchment.
He kept reading anyway.
"Cruel and twisted, my old friend called it.
I must warn every wizard: to study such magic comes at a price. If you believe yourself strong enough, read on.
Dark magic allows a wizard to express power beyond the ordinary—or rather, the power magic was always meant to have.
That power is so great it reaches into the creation of life and the summoning of death.
Any thinking witch or wizard will find the intoxicating secret irresistible…"
Sean's brow creased. Illustrations of basilisks, acromantulas, and dementors appeared on the page—proof of the biological miracles dark magic could achieve.
It created life.
Summoning death was far simpler.
"It is so difficult to create a positive belief, yet so easy to create a wicked one.
Any wizard can drown in cruelty and slaughter. My old friend calls to me every hour of every day.
The wizard who walks the extreme path gains extreme power.
This proves:
Magic, at its essence, is belief."
Sean closed the book slowly.
For a moment the words seemed to melt, running like ink in water. He frowned, watching the impossible happen.
Then the letters rearranged themselves into new sentences that definitely hadn't been there before:
"Dark creatures are born from the extreme beliefs of wizards, just as dark curses are.
As for the far more horrifying path—Horcruxes, the most wicked invention of all—we will not speak of it, nor offer guidance.
The one thing I will tell you, apprentice, is this: every known master of the Elder Wand has chased the most esoteric secrets of magic. They are born with stronger, more unyielding belief than others.
The pursuit of ever-greater power will, without exception, rot their souls. From the first to the last, none have escaped.
You have read this far, apprentice who wields the elder wand… I warn you. I warn you again. I died of this obsession. My whole life was spent chasing the essence of magic.
Yet at some moment I remembered the choices I had made. I took a shortcut. I embraced a cruel belief.
But perhaps the essence of magic is more than that."
The words faded. Sean realized he'd been staring at a completely blank final page for minutes.
Godelot had just handed him an entirely new direction.
Belief. Emotion. Faith.
Things that had always felt distant and fuzzy suddenly looked sharp and dangerous.
Voldemort had been cruel enough, twisted enough, to reach depths of dark magic no one else had touched.
He believed magic was might, and that belief made him strong enough to duel Dumbledore to a standstill while still a teenager.
Was magic… really just the wizard's faith made manifest?
Strengthen your belief and you dig deeper into magic's potential.
But the belief you choose also reshapes who you become.
Was that the true way dark magic corroded the soul?
Sean had known since his first spell that emotions and conviction affected power, but he had never seen the relationship between wizard and magic laid out this clearly.
The night outside was thick and quiet.
When he finally stepped out of the Restricted Section, the corridors were silent.
"It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."
For the first time, Sean understood exactly how deep Dumbledore's words went.
A wizard can choose what he believes.
And that choice changes everything.