[I lie here at rest, yet I am elsewhere.
I still know nothing of the vast sea of potions—
but now, has it begun to reveal its miracle?
What little Borage left is for all witches and wizards who seek in the will of potions.]
Centuries of storm and snow were long since buried by time.
On an island hidden in the Scottish Highlands, a howling gale shattered itself upon hard, icy walls.
Sean sat alone by the window, heavy tomes spread across his knees. His gaze skimmed the sinuous lines of ink, then drifted to the muddled darkness outside.
Each lightning flash lit the heaving Black Lake below the tower for an instant.
He understood something now: the power of the will in potions must move from fortify, to guide, to fuse.
Behind the grand adventure of Master Zygmunt Budge and Master Libatius Borage, the Arctic and the Nile met and mingled in wet cloud—
Sean closed his fingers around a sky-blue, ordinary quill, and for a moment it felt as if three hands were lifting together—
Next, I will outline the framework of the Potion-Will system—
The refined ritual, the will-strengthening, the will-guiding…
…and at last the fusion-enlightening.
As Borage once did, Sean wrote the method on the back of a strip of parchment. As he wrote, the parchment—just as he expected—quietly copied itself, tucked the copy between pages, and faded from sight.
He stared, a little dazed, at the slip in his hand. In its corner, a bold character had appeared—not the notes paper he and Professor Snape and… others used, but an ancient rune: Ken.
The rune means light—and this light fell across the road ahead.
Sean looked at the slip for a long time. He knew knowledge never breaks off.
…
Sean woke slowly to the sound of Michael refusing someone in righteous tones. When Sean sat up, Michael had a kettle in hand, watering the pot of Bubble Pods.
Snow still drifted past the diamond-paned black lattice of the window. Humming, Michael muttered:
"Oh—poor Bubble Pods. Sean's nowhere to be seen these days; I suppose no one waters you…"
So that's why the plant had shriveled.
After watering beyond what Sean's plan called for, Michael went right back to the Quidditch training booklet—yes, though he'd only mentioned it once, Sean had fished it out and given it to him.
To reach the Ravenclaw common room you climb the stairs; someone was descending now.
"A genius… control yourself, guide the magic—of course it's Sean. No wonder they want him for Quidditch… though I knew from the start he doesn't fancy it.
"Seeker, though! Fools—why not ask me? I'm much sturdier than Sean…
"If I could do the ramming—or be rammed—for him, maybe I'd even back those noisy louts who wake us at dawn."
There was a knock. This time Michael opened at once and slipped out—Anthony and Terry were at the door.
In the days that followed, Sean's life settled into a rhythm.
In the mornings he was always the first into the Hope Nook; Justin arrived a minute later. They'd share whatever Justin had just made.
Scottish breakfasts are famous for being hearty; Justin prepared at least three items every dawn. Paired with a steaming mug of honey-yuzu tea, the wind and snow outside blurred into the mist of the cup.
Sean updated his notes first. Lately History of Magic and Astronomy had slowed—mostly patching—History was already into third-year material, while the first-years still had only the first half of Year One.
Charms and Transfiguration saw the fastest updates. Most first-years couldn't follow the later sections, but that didn't stop them from peeking daily; when they saw new progress, they were happier than if they'd learned it themselves.
Potions and Herbology were the most-borrowed volumes—after all, not everyone remembers everything Professor Snape says once class ends. The Herbology notes Neville and Justin kept filling out together.
Defense Against the Dark Arts was the odd one out: if you didn't read Sean's notes, you had to self-study. So Justin copied two sets and quietly updated them every day.
Plants were everywhere in the classroom, growing fast under magic, washing the room in green. Neville carefully coaxed their growth into the right directions so they wouldn't block space. Justin always called him a Herbology master; at first Neville only blushed, but now he was starting to believe it.
Outside, wind and snow; inside, the Hope Nook was warm under the hearth's glow.
Hermione came in with her books; Neville followed, cradling a flowerpot. By noon, the three of them would head to the greenhouses to work the plants.
After October's gales and downpours, Sean's Herbology was Beginner, pushing toward Adept. Progress there—like in Potions—wasn't always quick, but it was steady.
Where the snowfall melted to slush—on the marble stairs by the entry hall—a small room beside the corridor held a cozy fire.
Minerva McGonagall waited for an owl out of the storm; it had become her habit of late. Whenever a letter flew in from London, she couldn't help but check on that little fellow—to see those green eyes, often lit with a hunger for magic.
[…perhaps he asks for nothing—or perhaps he has never had anything…]
Letters from Croydon sometimes stilled her stern expression.
When the weather blew harder, the three appeared swaddled in heavy cloaks. Their boots stamped deep and shallow prints in the thin snow. At those times Neville looked up at Sean.
Sean flicked his wand; a fire salamander jumped from the jar, and after a few breaths clambered onto Neville's head.
[You practiced an advanced transfiguration once at an Adept standard. Proficiency +300]
Neville promptly stuck his head into the snow, rear in the air, and giggled at the fiery trail the salamander burned across the drift.
Lately the fire salamander had been less obedient. At the same time, Sean felt that along the advanced Transfiguration path—object → "magic"—he was approaching Expert, just waiting on a trigger.
He wasn't in a hurry. He would wait—patiently—for inspiration.