Chapter 96: The Pilgrim
[You have successfully brewed a Deflating Draught to the Expert standard. Proficiency +50]
The Deflating Draught was now at Novice level. Despite his exhaustion, Sean's heart pounded with excitement. He was climbing the ladder built by Libatius Borage, taking another definitive step into the realm of willpower-infused magic.
But as he turned, he met the full, unadulterated fury of Professor Snape.
The consequence for his unauthorized innovation was… detention. In addition to being verbally flayed by Snape, he was now required, three days a week starting every Thursday, to organize and prepare all the ingredients in the dungeon storeroom. At specific times, he also had to report to Snape's private office.
Like today:
"Lacewing flies, leeches, bicorn horn, fluxweed, knotgrass, and shredded Boomslang skin go in the far-left cabinet!" Snape sneered. "If that reckless, dunderheaded brain of yours can still function, you will know what potion they combine to create!"
He then assigned Sean to group the daisy roots, shrivelfigs, caterpillars, rat spleens, and leech juice. Clearly, the first set was for Polyjuice Potion, the second for the Shrinking Solution. Through this meticulous, forced organization, Sean rapidly memorized dozens of new recipes and became intimately familiar with the required state of each ingredient—chopped, peeled, sliced, or powdered.
"Sean Green," Snape's voice hissed like a snake just as Sean, having finished his tasks and silently taken his notes, was about to leave. "If I ever find you brewing potions anywhere outside this dungeon… you had best pray that Merlin himself intervenes…"
Sean nodded silently. Brew outside the dungeon? Leaving aside the danger, where would he even get a cauldron?
The bubbling in the cauldron had long since subsided. Snape stared at the phial of potion Sean had brewed, his gaze hardening. The storm of his earlier rage had passed, the furious accusations – "Do you presume to be better than Zygmunt Budge's 16th-century recipe?" "Do you believe you have surpassed the great Potioneers who came before you?" "Ignoramus!" – all faded, forgotten by Sean, disregarded by Snape.
It was always thus.
While the dungeon was quiet, Sean finished cleaning his station. After casting a final Scouring Charm, he paused. "Good evening, Professor."
He was about to leave when Snape, who was usually silent, spoke. His voice was unusually heavy, a barely perceptible tremor beneath the coldness.
"Very well, Sean Green. Let me impart one final piece of wisdom."
"Never surrender to mediocrity. Do not be like the ninety percent of the wizarding world."
"If you choose to be mediocre…" Snape's dark eyes bored into him. "You do a great disservice, both to the world, and to yourself."
Sean froze. This completely contradicted the professor's earlier tirade. Snape's gaze was icy, his unspoken words clear: If I see you settle, see you stop pushing, I will make you regret it.
"I understand, Professor." Sean nodded. Under Snape's lingering, intense stare, he walked slowly out of the dungeon.
In the corridor, Sean felt the copy of Advanced Potion-Making in his bag begin to tremble. He pulled it out, half-expecting another of Borage's notes to appear. But this time, nothing fell out.
Instead, as the cool moonlight hit the cover, new words began to glow faintly on the ancient parchment:
[As Zygmunt Budge kept company with rats on the remote isle of Hermetray…
As Libatius Borage painstakingly etched the true paths of Potions…
Compared to Truth, life is insignificant.
I imagine you must be asking—
Why must we pursue these mysteries?
…Because they are there.]
Sean watched as the glowing script seemed to heat the page, coalescing into a faint, moving image. A portrait. The weary, clouded eyes of an old wizard stared out, filled with a deep, almost indiscernible joy.
[I… see your eyes, child.
Like the twilight dawn, cloaked in the ancient past.
I see in them everything I could not comprehend. I feel the Truth flowing, between your eyes and mine.
The greatest achievement of Libatius Borage was not the discovery of the ritual or the willpower technique…
It was in continuing the path of Truth, and passing it, whole, to his successor—
Sean Green.
We are pilgrims of the faith, seeking truth in the darkness. Only the eternal light of Truth can dispel the slumber of ignorance.
Remember—Per Aspera Ad Astra (Through hardship to the stars).]
Sean felt his heart hammering against his ribs. The portrait of Borage faded, but the slips of parchment tucked into his notebook began to grow warm. A golden name imprinted itself on the first page, making Sean's eyes widen:
SEAN GREEN: THIRD PILGRIM OF THE GREAT POTION'S ART.
Within Advanced Potion-Making, the text itself began to shift. Unfinished formulas, unverified brewing methods, all materialized before his eyes. He was no longer holding just a book; he held the life's work, the sum of all exploration and insight, of Libatius Borage. It was his own version of the Half-Blood Prince's notebook – a master's entire legacy, laid bare before him.
He carefully put the book away. The moonlight, fractured by the windowpanes, cast thin, pale light on the stone floor. The castle creaked around him. Sean's mind was reeling, already cross-referencing this new knowledge, seeing a dozen ways to improve his existing potions.
The excitement lasted until Friday.
"Mr. Green, you wish to learn the General Counter-Spell?"
Professor Flitwick had grown accustomed to Sean appearing at his elbow. If not for his crushing schedule, the chance to discuss advanced Charms theory all day with Ravenclaw's most diligent, humble, and talented student… oh, he couldn't imagine anything more delightful. That stunning non-verbal spell… and his Dark… Well, best not to dwell on that.
Unfortunately, Hogwarts duties were many, forcing his young eagle to track him down in the staff room.
It was a long, wood-paneled room, its entrance guarded by two talking gargoyles. Inside were mismatched dark wooden chairs and an ugly wardrobe overflowing with spare teaching robes. It was here, rumor had it, that the elderly Professor Binns had fallen asleep by the fire, only to rise as a ghost, leaving his body behind, thereby becoming Hogwarts's only spectral professor.
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