After observing the situation, Roger decided not to dwell on it further. The scene of Harry and Draco facing off in front of Professor McGonagall hadn't unfolded the way it had in the original timeline, and Roger couldn't help but feel a twinge of concern. Could his small butterfly effect be altering things in ways that might prompt Voldemort to act? If any significant changes were on the horizon, he would have to speak with Dumbledore.
But for now, it was unnecessary. Dumbledore had already noticed Quirrell's odd behavior, and there was no need for Roger to add fuel to the fire. A remnant soul, separated from its body, facing an open enemy in the heart of Hogwarts, wouldn't be able to topple the world in Dumbledore's domain. This year, Roger could focus on eating and studying in peace.
With that thought settled, Roger joined the upperclassmen and made his way to the Gryffindor common room after dinner. The journey was uneventful: navigating the enchanted moving staircases (easy to get lost in), passing talking portraits, entering the multi-person dormitory, and meeting his unfamiliar roommates. As questions lingered in his mind about whether portraits and ghosts were echoes of the deceased or continuations of life, and with the anticipation of tomorrow's classes buzzing in the background, Roger drifted off to sleep.
Roger had often wondered, aside from the fact that wizarding magic seemed like a wishing machine, why wizards hadn't advanced toward immortality or god-like powers. He had yet to find a satisfactory answer.
In Potions class, that curiosity was momentarily replaced by something else.
"Potter!" Snape's voice cut through the silence. "What would happen if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry blinked, glancing helplessly at Ron. Ron, equally baffled, stared back.
"I don't know, sir," Harry muttered.
Snape sneered. "Tsk, tsk... It seems fame doesn't guarantee competence after all."
Ignoring Hermione, who was practically bouncing out of her seat to answer, Snape continued, the mockery of Harry's shortcomings still lingering in the air. He turned his attention to Roger, who, despite his own notoriety within the wizarding world, found himself once again caught in the web of Snape's disdain.
At this point, the class had moved on to preparing the simple healing potion outlined in the first chapter of their textbooks. The students were tasked with cutting ingredients with blades, grinding them with pestles, and measuring the weights carefully with steelyards. Water was added to cauldrons, and everything was cooked under Snape's sharp gaze. Roger moved through the process with ease.
However, as he worked, his earlier doubts resurfaced. In a world where Muggle technology could obviously streamline many of these tasks, why hadn't wizarding society integrated such tools? With the Hogwarts Express and flying cars as evidence, it was clear that wizards were not averse to borrowing from Muggle innovation. A fusion of magic and science might be the key to unlocking even greater potential.
But as Roger later discovered, his initial concerns were misguided. After immersing himself in actual Hogwarts classes and observing the casting techniques of fellow wizards, he finally grasped the true nature of magic.
He had overlooked an essential truth.
Magic, as he now understood it, was a collaboration between the mind and magical energy. The process of casting a spell could be summed up as:I want to cast a spell.I really, really want to.My mind connects with the magic.The magic feels my intent, and then the universe takes care of the rest.A magical phenomenon occurs, and the spell succeeds.For many spells, if the caster's mental focus wasn't precise enough, even they themselves couldn't predict the outcome. At first glance, it might seem that wizards only needed to focus their minds, leaving the magic to handle the rest. But in reality, the spell's success still depended heavily on the wizard's concentration. Any distracting thoughts, even subconscious ones, could cause significant deviations in the spell's results.
Controlling one's thoughts, as anyone who had ever tried to "clear their mind" could attest, was a difficult task. After all, how many people could honestly manage to think of absolutely nothing for even a few minutes? And even when unconscious, the mind never truly stopped.
Given how critical willpower was to casting spells, Roger began to wonder: Did a wizard's perception of the world influence their ability to cast magic?
The answer, he realized, was yes. Through careful observation and discussions with other students and professors, Roger came to a conclusion. The clearer a wizard's understanding of how the world worked, the more it seemed to limit the potential of their magic—at least up to a certain point.
For example, when casting a spell to produce high-temperature flames, a young wizard who had learned about the properties of fire through Muggle education might think, "I can't create a flame that hot." This limited belief would restrict the spell's power. In contrast, a wizard who knew nothing about the science behind fire and simply thought, "My flame can burn everything," would allow the magic to manifest in a far more powerful way.
However, if a wizard understood the underlying principles of flame entirely—its chemistry, its behavior—they wouldn't face such restrictions.
In the end, a wizard's knowledge, or lack thereof, shaped not only how they viewed the world but how they shaped it with magic.
Because his will was so clear when casting spells, and every detail was meticulously defined, the mental energy he expended was far less than other wizards. This made the issue of magical power seem trivial—more of an inconvenience than a real problem. And even if it were a concern, it could easily be remedied. Once he passed this hurdle, his magical abilities could become even stronger.
But the real reason why wizards reject science lies elsewhere.
Science is not just a collection of specific technologies; it's a way of thinking—a method for analyzing the fundamental principles behind the operation of all things, step by step, through assumptions, demonstrations, and practical experimentation. In a sense, even in the world of cultivation, enlightenment is a form of science. Cultivation techniques are essentially formulas or theories passed down through generations, weapon refining is material science in action, and even practices like corpse refining or the creation of ten thousand soul banners are applications of life sciences.
However, this same approach cannot be applied to wizardry.
The nature of magic presents an insurmountable obstacle for wizards attempting to embrace scientific thinking.
In the Muggle scientific community, there's a tendency to ignore the dark clouds of uncertainty and the unresolved problems hanging over fields like physics and mathematics. Even if the mathematical system is inherently incomplete, it's not a dealbreaker. After all, practical mathematics, such as Euclidean geometry, is still complete and functional.
But in the wizarding world, things are different. If you want to practice science, but cannot explain the nature of magical power, it leads to a dangerous consequence. Some wizards, particularly those with weaker minds, obsessive tendencies, or a tendency to overanalyze, may start questioning the very existence of magical power itself.
Once wizards begin doubting the validity of magic, they start to lose their connection to it. Magic, at its core, is a miracle of belief. If you no longer believe in your own magic, then you lose it.
And once this trend of thought begins to spread, well... it's a slippery slope.
Roger now understood why wizards, despite their advanced knowledge, refused to fully adopt scientific reasoning. Instead, they clung to old traditions, relying on "self-transformation," "rituals," and "external objects" to achieve breakthroughs. It wasn't that science couldn't offer a better path; it's just that, until wizards have a stronger grasp of magical power, delving into the study of it won't yield good results.
Magical power doesn't have thoughts of its own, but the "inner demons" of wizards—their doubts, fears, and uncertainties—are the true forces that will defeat them. While it might be an exaggeration to say a paper on the theory of magical power could explode a researcher's brain, it's not impossible for someone to lose their magical abilities temporarily.
So, is there truly no way for wizards who seek the truth within the current magical system?
No, there is hope.
Just like the book "Ritual Magic is Far More Than Blood Sacrifice" suggests, the wise wizards of the past have already provided the answers and a road to the future.
Roger, who had been lost in thought while preparing his potion, suddenly felt a wave of danger. His instincts, honed in battle, kicked in. Without hesitation, he waved his hand, activating a spell. He transformed the porcupine quills Neville, who was paired with Seamus, had been about to drop into the cauldron into a harmless lid, redirecting them away from the boiling potion.
If those quills had been added directly to the cauldron while it was still on the heat, the boil-curing potion would have turned into a highly corrosive poison, capable of eating through the cauldron and blistering anyone who came into contact with it. The classroom would have been in chaos—spilled potion everywhere, a likely interruption of the lesson, and Roger himself probably drenched in the dangerous brew.
The other students looked on, confused by Roger's sudden spell.
Snape, who had been watching Harry with his usual disdain, turned his attention back to the class. He scowled as he saw what had happened.
"Sharp observation," Snape said, his voice cold. "One point to Gryffindor."
Then he glanced at Neville, still standing there, frozen. "And you—absolute idiot! Why didn't you take the cauldron off the fire?" He sneered. "One point off Gryffindor."
It was a pattern that Roger was familiar with by now—Snape was as likely to reward a student's quick thinking as he was to punish a minor mistake. If Roger had been a Slytherin, he mused, the situation would have played out differently.
Neville scrambled to follow Roger's instructions, and Roger, having completed the transformation spell, allowed the porcupine quills to return to their harmless form.
Ah, Transfiguration.
It was in moments like this that Roger realized the true potential of Transfiguration—seemingly insignificant, yet incredibly powerful. The greatest wizard of the century, Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts and Chairman of the International Confederation of Wizards, was renowned for his skill in Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts. He had even taught Transfiguration before.
And the current Deputy Headmaster, soon-to-be Headmaster, Professor McGonagall, was also a master of Transfiguration.
Could this really be a coincidence?
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