36: Aggrieved

A light rain began to fall in Scotland, and throughout Hogwarts Castle, the pattering drops played a melody.

Raindrops on the Stained Glass Window gradually gathered, finally turning into thin streams that sank into the soil fertile since the tenth century.

Madam Pince, the Library's librarian, did not let Sean take out more books than the permitted number just because of his excellent return record,

unless he returned all books such as Modern Magical History and signed the crumpled record sheet.

So Sean could only read the two works by Potions Master Libatius Borage in the Library.

Even though he could not borrow them, he still saw the note Madam Pince had tucked into the first page:

Warning: If you slash, tear, fold, soil, damage, throw, drop, or in any other way harm, abuse, or desecrate this book,

I will ensure that you suffer the most terrible consequences within my power.

Librarian of Hogwarts Library,

Irma Pince

Sean had no doubt about the determination of this irritable librarian. More than once, he had seen Madam Pince pounce furiously on Young Wizards.

She seemed to possess a special knack for immediately identifying and severely punishing students who damaged books.

In the study area,

the librarian, who always wore an angry expression, passed Sean. Her stern, cautious look softened slightly,

then she gave a small nod and left the area.

That old thing Miranda Goshawk (crossed out) Wizard once mentioned in the Book of Spells:

When Wizards have a need, spells arise. If they do not, it can only mean that the spell has yet to be discovered.

And now I declare that when Wizards have a need, potions arise. If they do not, it can only mean that the potion formula has yet to be discovered.

Sean had just read this quotation in Have a Carnival in a Bottle Yourself!,

when he quickly realized how extraordinary it was, and how majestic its spirit was.

Just as he pondered the passage carefully, lost in thought, a note suddenly fell down.

Sean was caught off guard. He then silently took out his notebook and Quill and copied down the words on it.

Very good. If you can see these words, it proves that this world does not always lack foolish Wizards.

I must tell you something. Otherwise, people will remember only my achievements in formulas and techniques,

while forgetting my greatest, and least understood, innovation in the profound field of potions.

The greatest and least understood innovation?

Something like automatic Cauldron heat control?

Wonderful. Master Libatius Borage really had more to offer.

Sean curiously read on.

After the cautious statement that only carefully brewed potions could produce the proper effects,

I found that all potion researchers had forgotten to study what it truly meant.

What kind of researchers are they? They are nothing but Miranda's sticky, foul-smelling apple pie!

I am certain that spells and potions should be connected by a Primal Thread.

If Magical Theory believes that profound spells require the Wizard's own spiritual power, then why have they forgotten potions?

There can only be one reason: they are all ￥*&%(illegible handwriting)

Sean skipped over the long string of rather unfriendly greetings. What was recorded afterward made his breathing quicken.

I have completed several necessary tasks—

The improved incantations and rituals will place greater emphasis on the Wizard's spiritual power, and consume more mental energy as well.

But for any potion brewer whose methods and skills have reached their peak, this will be a brand-new, broad road.

I must remind you that you must possess sufficient willpower and use it with care. While it produces astonishing effects, it has also become more unstable.

Of course, it can still be improved, but I do not have much time left.

I saw a great truth, and with a sigh, spread it in secret.

Please perfect it.

And please allow me to amend the epitaph those foolish Wizards carved for me, and tell you the true version—

Libatius Borage died in 1961. He spent most of his life engaged in this great work.

Now, it is your turn to study the most profound magic in the field of potions.

Me?

My White Talent?

Sean gave a quiet hum, suddenly feeling a faint sense of responsibility.

He crammed every word into his mind.

He had never expected to encounter such knowledge.

Master Libatius Borage had actually laid his hands on the ancient incantations and rituals passed down in the field of potions.

Sean had read in History of Magic that the incantations and rituals for most potions had been passed down for over three hundred years.

They were as reliable and unchanging as spell pronunciations.

This was an enormous surprise. Sean felt like a Niffler that had found an ancient gold coin.

He quickly copied all the improvements into his notebook—they were actually few in number, only a handful.

But whether by coincidence or not, Scurvy Paste was among them.

That made it even harder for Sean to suppress the corners of his mouth.

Magical crystal lamps illuminated Sean's focused face.

Before long, he rose from beside the oak table.

At the same time, the bells of Hogwarts rang out alongside the cries of Owls.

It was lunchtime.

Having filled himself with spiritual nourishment, Sean had to consider his body as well.

He quickly returned the books to Madam Pince. The corridors had already filled with Young Wizards heading from the Library to the Great Hall.

As he passed the warm fireplace,

Sean noticed that the Gryffindors were unusually quiet today.

"He must hate me..."

A little boy with Black Hair spoke in confusion.

"Asphodel Root Powder, Wormwood... Why didn't he ask Hermione?"

"Harry, don't be angry,"

the red-haired boy beside him said softly.

"I heard Snape has always been like this, especially unreasonable."

Sean silently watched Harry and Ron sit down not far from him.

He had some recollection of this question. In his previous life, some people had thought

that Professor Snape, this Pure Love Warrior, might have filled his question with the same deep meaning as his actions.

The flower meaning of Asphodel was regret carried to the grave.

The flower meaning of Wormwood was bitter sorrow.

So the hidden meaning of the question was: I express endless grief over your mother's death.

Just as Sean was about to dip another bean, Justin sat down beside him with a flushed face,

followed by Hermione, whose eyes were dim.

"Even Professor Snape can't do something so unreasonable!"

Justin looked furious. His gaze at his companion was full of sorrow.

"If it is wrong for a student to raise her hand and answer a question, then the professor who asked that question must be a fool too!"

Sean raised his head somewhat blankly.

They had just finished Potions class.

Were they... insulting Snape?

Even Harry did not seem to have insulted Professor Snape like this, did he?

"Sean, oh, I wanted to tell you earlier..."

When Justin looked at Sean, his anger vanished. With a sorrowful expression, he explained what had happened—

When Professor Snape questioned Harry, he not only ignored Hermione's repeated raised hand, but also shouted at Hermione:

"Sit down!"

"Not a single person there thought it was unreasonable. Those Gryffindors, they're such cowards!"

As Justin spoke, his face reddened again, and guilt filled his voice.

He was practically gritting his teeth.

"I saw it from behind the door, but I had no way to help... As a friend, I'm completely unqualified."