A fine drizzle fell over Scotland, and Hogwarts rang everywhere with the ticking music of raindrops. Beads gathered on the stained glass and finally ran in thin rills, sinking into soil that had been rich since the tenth century.
Madam Pince, the librarian, did not let Sean take more than the allowed number of books just because he had a spotless return record—unless he brought back Modern Magical History and the rest and signed the crumpled checkout sheet. So he could only read Potions Master Libatius Borage's two works in the library.
Even without checking them out, he still found a slip Madam Pince had tucked onto the first page:
[WARNING: If you cut, tear, bend, stain, destroy, throw, drop, or in any other way damage, abuse, or desecrate this book, I will visit upon you, to the fullest extent of my authority, the most dreadful consequences.
—Irma Pince, Hogwarts Librarian]
Sean had no doubt about the irascible librarian's resolve. He'd seen her more than once come down on a first-year like a thunderbolt. She seemed to have a special knack for instantly spotting and severely punishing any student who damaged a book.
In the study area, the perpetually stern librarian passed Sean; her severe, watchful look eased a fraction. She gave a small nod and moved on.
[Miranda Goshawk, that old— (crossed out) —witch, wrote in The Book of Spells: when a witch or wizard has a need, a spell arises; if no spell exists, it simply hasn't been discovered yet. Today I assert: when a witch or wizard has a need, a potion arises; if none exists, it is only because the recipe has not yet been found.]
Sean had just read the epigraph in Throw Yourself a Fiesta in a Bottle! when he realized there was something unusual—and grand—about those words.
As he pondered them, a little note-page suddenly fell out. Startled, he quietly took out his notebook and quill and copied the text.
[Good. If you can see this, it proves the world is not entirely full of dunderhead wizards. I must tell you something—otherwise people will only record my achievements in recipes and craft, and forget my greatest—and least understood—pioneering work in the profound field of potions.]
Greatest, least understood pioneering work?
Like the "auto-lit cauldron heat control" trick?
Excellent—Master Libatius Borage still had treasures left to share.
Sean read on, curious.
[After the maxim "only a carefully made potion can have the proper effect" took hold, I watched every potioneer forget to study what those words mean. What kind of researchers are they?
They're Miranda's gooey, stinking apple pie! I am certain spells and potions should be joined by a single primal thread. If Magical Theory believes advanced spells require the caster's mental strength, why, then, did they forget potions? There can be only one reason: they're all ￥&% (illegible scrawl).]
Sean skipped a long string of less-than-gentle invective; what followed made his breath quicken.
[I have completed certain necessary tasks—revised incantations and rites will give greater weight to the brewer's mental force, and will be more draining. But for any apothecary who has reached the summit of technique, this opens a broad new road. I must warn you: you should have sufficient will, and use this carefully; while it yields astonishing results, it becomes more unstable as well. Of course, it can still be improved—but my time grows short.
I have glimpsed a great truth and, lamenting, spread it in secret. Perfect it.
And permit me to amend the foolish epitaph wizards carved for me, and tell you the true version—Libatius Borage died in 1961. He spent most of his life on this great work. Now it is your turn to pursue the deepest magic in potions.]
Me?
With my white-tier talent?
Sean made a quiet sound of assent; a faint sense of responsibility rose in him. He crammed every word into his mind. He hadn't expected to see knowledge like this—Master Borage had taken a scalpel to the ancient incantations and rites of potions.
Sean had read in History of Magic that most potion-spells and rituals had been handed down for three hundred years or more—reliable and fixed, like spell pronunciations.
It was a huge surprise. Sean felt like a Niffler who'd sniffed out old gold coins. He quickly copied all the modifications into his notebook—there weren't many, only a handful—and whether by coincidence or grace, the Cure for Boils was among them.
He couldn't keep the smile off his face.
The crystal reading lamps lit his intent features. Soon he rose from the oak table. The Hogwarts bell tolled with the hooting of owls—lunchtime. Having fed his mind, Sean needed to feed his body. He hurriedly returned the books to Madam Pince; in the corridors more first-years were streaming from the library to the Hall.
Passing a warm fireplace, Sean noticed the Gryffindors were unusually quiet today.
"He must hate me to death…" a black-haired boy muttered, baffled. "Powdered root of asphodel… wormwood… Why didn't he ask Hermione?!"
"Don't be mad, Harry," the redheaded boy beside him said softly. "They say Snape's always like that—totally unfair."
Sean watched Harry and Ron take seats not far away. The question rang a bell. Some people in his past life had thought that Professor Snape, a "delulu," may have meant something with his behavior, layered with the same bitter depth as his deeds. Asphodel's flower language is "remorse carried to the grave"; wormwood's is "bitter sorrow." The latent meaning of the quiz might have been: I mourn your mother's death.
Sean was about to spear some baked beans when Justin, cheeks flushed, dropped into the seat beside him, followed by Hermione, eyes dim.
"Even Professor Snape can't be allowed to do something so unreasonable!" Justin looked genuinely angry; there was real hurt in the way he glanced at his friends. "If a student raises a hand and that's 'wrong,' then the professor who asked the question is a fool!"
Sean lifted his head, a bit dazed. They'd just come from Potions.
Was he… insulting Snape?
Even Harry, as far as Sean knew, hadn't cursed Snape out like that.
"Sean—oh, I've been meaning to tell you…" Looking at Sean, Justin's anger blew away. He told him, unhappily, what had happened: when Snape questioned Harry, he ignored Hermione's repeated raised hand and roared at her—
"Sit down!"
"No one in the whole room thought that was unreasonable," Justin said, flushing again. He sounded guilty, almost through clenched teeth. "Those Gryffindors—cowards! I saw it from the doorway and couldn't do anything… Some friend I am."
~~~
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