Chapter 96: The Pilgrim
[You brewed a Deflating Draught at Expert level, Proficiency +50]
The Draught was now at Entry‑level. Exhausted as he was, Shawn's heart pounded with exhilaration.
He had climbed another rung on the ladder Libatius Borage had built, and taken one more step into the domain of will‑guided potions.
When he looked up, he met Professor Snape's eyes, blazing with fury.
…
The consequence of improvising was this: beyond Snape's furious tirade, from Thursday onward, Shawn had to spend three days each week organising and processing dungeon supplies, and, at specific times, reporting to Snape's office.
Like today.
"Lacewing flies, leeches, bicorn horn, knotgrass, fluxweed, boomslang skin – all on the far left shelf. If that reckless, stupid brain of yours can still think, you will know what they combine to make," Snape sneered.
He then set Shawn to sorting shrivelfig, caterpillar, rat spleen and a dash of leech juice into another section.
The first batch was obviously every ingredient in Polyjuice Potion. The second was for a Shrinking Solution.
Through the work, Shawn became familiar with dozens of recipes, and with how each material should be prepared: minced, peeled, sliced thin.
"Shawn Green."
When Shawn had finished organising, tucked his notes away, and turned to leave the dungeon, Snape's voice slid out, cold as a serpent's hiss.
"If I catch you brewing a potion anywhere outside this dungeon… You had better pray Merlin actually exists to protect you."
Shawn nodded quietly.
Brewing outside the dungeon? Setting aside the danger, he did not even own a cauldron.
The bubbling pot had stilled. The crystal phials of finished potion sat on the workbench. Snape's gaze had gone rigid.
The hurricane of his earlier rage had blown itself out. Lines like "Do you think you can outdo Zygmunt Budge's sixteenth‑century formulas?" and "Or are you claiming to surpass every great potioneer in history?" and "Arrogant ignorance" had already faded.
They left no mark in Shawn's memory. Snape gave them no weight either.
It had always been this way. It was still this way.
Shawn tidied everything while the storm was calm, cast a final Scouring Charm, and said quietly, "Goodbye, Professor," before heading to the door.
But this time, instead of silence, Snape spoke. His voice was heavier than usual, with a ripple under the surface too faint to name.
"Very well, Shawn Green. Let me tell you something.
"Never surrender to mediocrity. Do not be like ninety percent of the wizards in this world.
"If you settle for the ordinary, you do harm to yourself and to the world both."
Shawn froze.
That single statement contradicted everything Snape had screamed at him earlier.
The professor's gaze was ice‑cold, as if he were muttering, "If I ever catch you settling or standing still, you will regret it."
"I understand, Professor," Shawn said, nodding.
He walked slowly from the dungeon under Snape's long, unblinking stare.
In the corridor outside, Shawn felt his bag tremble. He pulled out Advanced Potion‑Making, half‑expecting another of Borage's notes to slip free.
This time, nothing fell.
Only the faint tremor of the book itself. Then, in the pale moonlight, words began to appear on the cover.
When Zygmunt Budge lived on distant Mrtyle Island with only the rats for company, when Libatius Borage wore himself to the bone etching the path of potions into stone,
Compared to truth, life itself is nothing.
I imagine you want to know why we must study the mysteries of potions.
Because… it is there.
The writing began to heat under his fingers. An image shimmered into view.
A portrait. Rheumy, weary eyes gazed out at him with a deep, almost unreadable joy.
I… have seen your eyes, child.
They are like the dim breaking of dawn, wrapped in something ancient.
I see in them all the things I could not grasp. I feel truth flowing between your eyes and mine.
Libatius Borage's greatest achievement was not discovering the potion ritual and the will‑guided method.
It was ensuring that the truth survived, and placing it whole into the hands of his successor—
Shawn Green.
We are pilgrims in the dark. Only the eternal light of truth can drive back the numbness of ignorance.
Remember this—
Follow this bitter road to reach the stars.
Shawn's heart hammered like a drum against his ribs.
The portrait faded slowly. At the same time, the slip of parchment tucked in his notes began to warm.
A gold‑stamped name seared itself into the paper. Shawn's eyes went wide.
Shawn Green – Third Pilgrim of the Greatest Domain of Potions.
Inside Advanced Potion‑Making, the ink was shifting in ways Shawn had never seen. Rituals left incomplete, experimental techniques never validated – all of it laid bare before him.
He was not holding a purple‑covered textbook anymore.
He was holding the life's work and insights of a potions master.
Like the Half‑Blood Prince's annotations Harry had inherited, a lifetime of expertise from a first‑rate potioneer now sat in his hands, complete and precise.
He tucked the book carefully back into his bag.
Moonlight filtered through the window frames and spilled thin and silver across the stone floor.
From somewhere deeper in the castle came the creak of the staircases, shifting direction of their own accord.
Shawn could not stop reading. Every changed line in the text revealed how much room for improvement there had been in his earlier work.
The thrill of it lasted all the way to Friday.
…
"Mr Green, you wish to learn Finite?" Professor Flitwick asked.
By now, he was quite used to finding Shawn at his side.
If he were not so busy with a hundred other duties, spending an entire day discussing spells with Ravenclaw's most diligent, humble, and gifted student would be – oh, he hardly dared imagine how wonderful.
Like that astonishing nonverbal spell from before. And the Dark… well.
That one did not count.
Alas, Hogwarts kept him running from dawn to dark. His eager little eagle had to track him down in the staffroom just to get a word in.
The staffroom was a large, wood‑panelled chamber. Two talking stone gargoyles guarded the entrance. Inside, mismatched black wooden chairs sat in clusters. An exceptionally ugly wardrobe stood against one wall, stuffed with teaching robes.
Legend had it that old Professor Binns had once dozed off in an armchair by the fire, risen to teach a class, and accidentally left his body behind, becoming Hogwarts's only ghost teacher.