A fine Scottish drizzle whispered across the grounds,
rain tapping gently against the ancient stone of Hogwarts.
Droplets pooled along stained-glass windows before slipping downward in silver streams,
soaking into the soil that had nourished the castle since the tenth century.
Madam Pince, the strict librarian, was unmoved by Sean's spotless borrowing record.
She would not allow him to check out more books than regulations permitted—
not unless he returned Modern Magical History and the others currently under his name,
and signed the crumpled ledger she guarded more fiercely than a dragon its hoard.
So Sean had no choice but to remain in the library
and read Libatius Borage's two works on the spot.
Even without taking them outside, he was greeted immediately by the slip Madam Pince had tucked into the first page:
WARNING: If you cut, tear, stain, damage, drop, throw, mistreat, or defile this book in any way,
I will, to the full extent of my authority, see that you suffer the most dreadful consequences.
Irma Pince
Hogwarts Library, Chief Librarian
Sean did not doubt her determination.
He had witnessed more than one unfortunate student tackled without mercy after bending a page corner.
It was as though Madam Pince possessed a sixth sense for book abuse—and punished offenders with relish.
In the quiet study area,
her usual severe expression softened slightly as she passed Sean,
and she even gave him a short, approving nod before moving on.
Miranda Goshawk—that old bat (crossed out)—once wrote in The Book of Spells:
Where wizards possess a need, spells arise. If none exist, then the spell simply has yet to be discovered.
And now I declare: when wizards possess a need, potions arise. If none exist, then the recipe simply has yet to be discovered.
Sean had only just read that line in Have Yourself a Little Cauldron Craze!
when he felt its weight—
the boldness of it, the raw conviction bursting through the page.
And before he could process it, a small note slipped out and fluttered onto the table.
Sean blinked, then quietly opened his notebook and began to copy.
Excellent. If you are reading this, then it proves the world does not consist entirely of idiot wizards.
I must tell someone something meaningful,
or history will remember me only for formulas and recipes—
and forget the greatest, most misunderstood breakthrough in potioncraft.
The greatest… most misunderstood breakthrough?
Like the secret behind the automatic heating cauldron?
Sean's pulse quickened.
After the warning appeared—
"Only potions brewed with precision may produce reliable results"—
I watched every potioneer forget to question its meaning.
What researchers they are! Nothing but Miranda's sticky, foul-smelling apple tart!
I am certain: spells and potions are bound by a single foundational principle.
If Magical Theory declares that advanced spells require the caster's mental strength,
then why have they forgotten potions?
There is only one explanation: they are all ¥&% (illegible insult).*
Sean skipped a long chain of obscenities and reached the part that made his breath tighten.
I have already completed the necessary work.
The improved curses and rites demand far stronger mental focus, draining far more willpower—
but for a master of technique, they open a new and boundless path.
Be warned: you must possess sufficient resolve.
The effects are extraordinary, but the potion becomes unstable.
It can be improved further—but my time is gone.
I glimpsed a great truth and hid it in secret.
Perfect it.
Rewrite the idiotic epitaph they carved for me.
Here is the true version:
Libatius Borage died in 1961, having devoted his life to this work.
Now you must continue the deepest magic of potioncraft.
Me?
With my white-grade talent?
Sean sat frozen for several seconds,
a strange pressure settling over his chest—
not fear, but responsibility.
He memorized every word.
He had never imagined learning something like this.
Borage had dared to alter the ancient spells and rituals woven into potions themselves—
rites that had remained unchanged for more than three centuries,
as fixed and trusted as the pronunciation of spells.
It was like discovering treasure with the nose of a Niffler.
Sean copied every improvement into his notebook.
There were only a handful—
—but among them was the recipe for the Cauldron-Crust Cure.
He couldn't stop the smile spreading across his face.
The crystal lamps glowed warmly over his focused expression.
Soon he stood, gathering his things just as the Hogwarts bell chimed lunch,
the sound mingling with distant owl calls.
His mind nourished, his body demanded attention.
He returned the books to Madam Pince and stepped into the growing crowd headed for the Great Hall.
As he passed the glowing fireplaces,
Sean noticed something unusual:
the Gryffindors were unusually quiet.
"He must hate me…"
a black-haired boy muttered in confusion.
"Powdered asphodel root, infusion of wormwood… Why didn't he ask Hermione?"
"Don't be upset," said the red-haired boy beside him in a low voice.
"Everyone says Snape's like that. Completely unreasonable."
Sean watched Harry and Ron sit down not far away.
The comment stirred something old inside him.
Some Muggles in his past life had argued that,
for Professor Snape—the tragic romantic—
nothing he did was without meaning.
Asphodel: the flower of regret and remembrance placed on graves.
Wormwood: the symbol of bitter sorrow.
Together, the question might have meant:
I grieve endlessly for your mother's death.
Sean was just reaching for a roast bean when Justin slid into the seat beside him, face flushed,
followed by Hermione, whose gaze was dim and troubled.
"Even Professor Snape has no right to behave so unfairly!"
Justin burst out, eyes burning with indignation.
"If answering a question is treated as a crime, then the one asking it must be a fool!"
Sean froze mid-movement.
They had just come from Potions class.
Was… he actually insulting Snape?
Even Harry hadn't done that so openly.
"Sean—there's something I wanted to tell you earlier—"
Justin's anger vanished the moment he turned toward Sean.
In a quiet, pained voice, he recounted what had happened:
When Snape questioned Harry, he ignored Hermione's repeated raised hand,
and then shouted at her—
"Sit down!"
"No one said a word," Justin bit out, face reddening again.
"Not one Gryffindor stood up. Cowards, the lot of them!"
His voice trembled with guilt.
"I saw it from outside the door—but I didn't do anything to help.
As a friend… I was useless."
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