Chapter 36: A Sense of Injustice
A gentle drizzle fell over Scotland, and Hogwarts Castle echoed with the soft patter of raindrops, like a quiet symphony.
Raindrops gathered on the stained-glass windows, slowly merging into delicate streams that sank into the fertile soil, unchanged since the tenth century.
In the Hogwarts Library, Madam Pince, the stern librarian, refused to let Sean borrow more books than the allowed limit, despite his impeccable record of returning them on time.
Not unless he returned A History of Modern Magic and the others, signing his name neatly on her tattered ledger.
So, Sean settled for reading two of Libatius Borage's works right there in the library.
Even without taking the books out, he found a note tucked into the first page, penned in Madam Pince's unmistakable scrawl:
Warning: If you tear, rip, bend, soil, damage, toss, drop, or in any way mistreat or defile this book,
I will ensure you face the most dreadful consequences within my authority.
—Irma Pince, Hogwarts Librarian
Sean had no doubt about the fiery librarian's resolve. He'd seen her swoop down on young wizards with a vengeance more than once, as if she had a sixth sense for spotting students who dared to harm her precious books.
In the study area, Madam Pince passed by Sean, her perpetually stern expression softening just a fraction. She gave a slight nod before moving on.
Sean turned his attention to Have Yourself a Fiesta in a Flask!, where he found a striking quote:
Miranda Goshawk, that old bat (scratched out) wizard, once wrote in Book of Spells:
A wizard's need births a spell. If it doesn't exist, it's merely undiscovered.
And now, I declare: a wizard's need births a potion. If it doesn't exist, its recipe is yet to be found.
Sean paused, struck by the weight and ambition of those words.
As he mulled over the passage, a small note slipped from the book. Startled, he quietly pulled out his notebook and quill, copying the text down.
Well done, young wizard. If you're reading this, you're proof not all wizards are dimwits.
I must share something with you, or else the world will only remember my achievements in recipes and techniques,
forgetting my greatest, most misunderstood contribution to the profound art of potion-making.
The greatest, most misunderstood contribution?
Was this about something like the self-regulating flame control for cauldrons?
Brilliant! Libatius Borage, the potions master, clearly had more up his sleeve.
Sean eagerly read on:
When they say only a meticulously crafted potion can achieve the desired effect,
I've seen every potion-maker forget to question what that truly means.
What kind of researchers are they? They're no better than Miranda's revolting, sticky apple tart!
I am certain that spells and potions are bound by a single thread of origin.
If Magical Theory claims advanced spells require a wizard's mental will, why have they overlooked potions?
It can only be because they're all a bunch of %$#& (illegible scribbles).
Sean skipped over a lengthy string of less-than-friendly remarks, but what followed made his breath catch.
I've completed some essential work—
The improved spells and rituals will place greater emphasis on a wizard's mental will, though they demand far more focus and energy.
For any potioneer who has mastered technique and skill, this will open a bold new path.
I must warn you: you'll need immense willpower and caution. While these methods yield astonishing results, they're also far less stable.
They can be refined further, but my time is running 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 those dimwitted wizards wrote for me. Here's the true version:
Libatius Borage passed in 1961, having devoted his life to this great work.
Now, it's your turn to explore the deepest magic of potion-making.
Me?
My Common talent?
Sean let out a quiet hum, feeling a spark of responsibility ignite within him.
He committed every word to memory.
He hadn't expected to uncover such knowledge.
Libatius Borage had dared to tamper with the ancient spells and rituals of potion-making, which, as Sean had read in A History of Magic, had been reliably fixed for over three centuries, as unyielding as the pronunciation of a spell.
This was a treasure, like a Niffler stumbling upon a hoard of ancient Galleons.
Sean hurriedly copied down all the improvements—there weren't many, just a handful, but by some stroke of fate, the Boil-Cure Potion was among them.
His lips curled into an irrepressible grin.
The magical crystal lamps illuminated Sean's focused expression as he worked at the oak table.
Soon, the Hogwarts bells chimed, accompanied by the soft hoots of owls.
Lunchtime had arrived.
Having feasted on intellectual nourishment, Sean now needed to tend to his body.
He promptly returned the books to Madam Pince and joined the stream of young wizards heading from the library to the Great Hall.
Passing a cozy fireplace, Sean noticed the Gryffindors were unusually subdued today.
"He must absolutely hate me…"
A dark-haired boy muttered, his voice tinged with frustration.
"Asphodel powder, wormwood… Why didn't he just ask Hermione?"
"Harry, don't get upset,"
A red-haired boy beside him whispered.
"I've heard Snape's always like this—completely unreasonable."
Sean quietly observed Harry and Ron as they took seats nearby.
He vaguely recalled something about this. In his previous life, some fans theorized that Snape, the brooding professor with a heart full of unspoken love, asked questions laced with deeper meaning.
Asphodel's flower language was regret carried to the grave.
Wormwood symbolized bitter sorrow.
So, the question's hidden message might be: I mourn your mother's death with endless grief.
As Sean reached for the baked beans, Justin plopped down beside him, his face flushed. Hermione followed, her eyes dim with frustration.
"Even if it's Professor Snape, he can't just do something so unfair!"
Justin's voice trembled with anger, his gaze filled with sorrow as he looked at his friends.
"If a student raising their hand to answer is wrong, then the professor asking the question must be a fool!"
Sean looked up, slightly stunned.
They'd just come from Potions class.
Were they… criticizing Snape?
Even Harry hadn't gone that far in his complaints about the professor.
"Sean, I've been meaning to tell you…"
Justin's anger softened as he turned to Sean, his voice heavy with guilt as he recounted the scene—
During the lesson, Snape had ignored Hermione's raised hand multiple times while questioning Harry, then snapped at her:
"Sit down!"
"And not a single person in the room thought it was unfair—those Gryffindors, they're such cowards!"
Justin's face reddened again, his voice thick with shame.
"I saw it from the back, but I couldn't do anything to help… Some friend I am."
(End of Chapter)