I resent my fate.
Not only did I have to watch my steps around my classmates that had been swept away by a need to be academically the best in the year, but I had also been robbed. Yes, robbed. I have my own suspects of the criminals, although with no clear proof. Only looking at their two faces, do my suspicions come to mind. One a proud, tall, loud, obnoxious, and devious, like a large dog that has been spoiled, but has never received enough love. Another one, a shifty, sneaky, hiding, but deviously clever. Like a rat. Not a pet rat, but a rat of the streets, always observing and only acting when risks are low and only thinking about himself.
We weren’t new acquaintances, as I was already familiar with the bunch. They were part of the hoodlums who called themselves the Marauders, the pest that had been disturbing my reading time and chased me out of my new peaceful reading nest in the library.
I had been browsing books near the library entrance when the eternal omen of bad luck, the head girl, came to bother me after we had just spent the last three months in a perfect arrangement of avoidance. Although, that arrangement was initiated and maintained by me, so it might have been a little one-sided.
I should have known then that no good will ever come for even trying to entertain her, as not even a minute after trying to block her personality inquiring attacks, the delinquents appeared. Like a wild-west film, they came in blocking the whole side of the corridor between the shelves, twirling their wands threateningly like revolvers in their hands. While the head couple had their touching reunion, I tried to sneak away from the situation, with a near complete success if it wasn’t for the helm of my oversized robe, in which I swear I felt a tug, after which I lost my balance, and fell to the floor with a resounding crash. Needless to say, my crash interrupted the touching moment of the power couple.
After a moment, I pulled myself together and assessed the situation. Nothing seemed to hurt too much, so carefully I got up. The head girl was fussing so much about the situation, but I just wanted out. Away from those menaces, back to my peace in solitude, where I won’t experience mysterious falling or the even more irritating hustle and bustle. Just leave me in peace, please. So, with an irritating grunt and no words, I took my bag from one of the hooligans who had lifted it off the ground and pushed past them with a swift pace.
After a few moments of walking, I checked for company and went to my reading place to calm down. My heart was still beating fast, thoughts all smashed together, only functional on the surface. After 5 minutes, I got my pulse to calm down, but my thoughts took a whole book to calm down. The book which I had to read a second time, as I realized I could only remember bits, due to how preoccupied my thoughts had been.
In my mind, I had fully resolved the event by promising myself to stay clear from all of them and not get involved. However, as I left the library I searched for my trusted Hogwarts map, only to find it missing from my bag. My map! My precious map. The map I had created with my own hands! I had two copies left and my fragmented writing notes in the notebook, but still, my map! After thinking about it for a little while, I came to the conclusion that it must have been taken when I met the hooligans. It was too much of a coincidence to be anything else. The tall, handsome, and devious dog reminding guy had also been touching my bag, as I had taken it from his hand.
I took a few deep breaths to calm myself down. What a bother… The map is not even that special, as many people have done similar maps with far higher resolutions and larger scopes.
Very well… Let that map be the sacrifice, the price I paid for not listening to my intuition and interacting with troublesome people. I would learn, and I would adapt, and finally, I would overcome these obstacles.
And by overcoming, I mean I would avoid the situations. Of course, I would not confront the hooligans, as that would only be more trouble than it’s worth.
As the spring got closer, so did the exams. And as the exams got closer, the Ravenclaws got more desperate. Desperate to be the best. Desperate to such an extent, that a few times I caught a glimpse of some student tailing me, as I was walking in the library to my reading spot. I found the whole situation funny, since they were so adamant in knowing what I was up to, that they sneakily read books after me. Books with the topic of aquatic animals, mind you. The whole situation was so ridiculous that I could only smile and wish good luck to my new book stalkers.
Thankfully, Oscar and Leon were not the worst of the bunch. In fact, apart from the reducing chatter from Oscar and more irritated responses from Leon due to disturbing his school studies, they were mostly normal. Mostly, since every so often I would catch some side eyes glancing at my daily books brought from the library. However, to looks it had always remained.
Instead, the life outside our room had substantially more heat in the mix. Competition was heating up rapidly with downright despicable means. Us first years had mostly avoided most of the hospital wing visits, but even those visits had grown in numbers due to mysterious incidents. In Herbology classes, one would need to be extra careful not only of the target Yellow Bulbs, but also of their surroundings, so that they would not “accidentally” fall into the plant and suffer first degree burns in their face due to the venomous spikes on the outside rim of the petals. We were wearing the protective gloves, and they worked fine, but there were no protective gloves for faces, only pain.
But herbology classes weren’t even the worst of it. No, the most casualties could always be predicted to happen in the potions class. The art of potions, so precise and meticulous, it would not be a surprise if a few accidents happened here and there. However, when the Ravenclaws had accidents as often as the simpleminded Gryffindors, something was awry. Taking into account the fact, that Gryffindors out numbered us two to one, the number of incidents that Ravenclaws had could be truly put into perspective.
Today was Tuesday, the weekly incident day that started easy with Herbology in the morning but shifted into higher gear in the afternoon with the arrival of Potions class. Tuesdays themselves accounted for at least four fifth of the casualties. Each week at least one, but usually two, students experienced the cruel fate of having their face swell into the size of a pumpkin or having all their skin turn bright purple.
“Good morning, everyone!” Professor Sprout, Pomona Sprout, a jubilant middle-aged lady, had an annoying habit of making sure all students were awake and nimble in the morning by having this annoyingly loud custom of welcoming good morning to each other.
“Good morning, Professor!” We shouted with hopefully enough energy and enthusiasm to not repeat the greeting again. Thankfully, Sprout seemed satisfied with our greeting, despite some lackluster voices that were hiding in the back.
All the herbology classes were taught in the greenhouses, that were located just next to the castle on the opposite side of the Great Lake. We had only been introduced to the first three greenhouses, with the danger of the greenhouse roughly correlating with the greenhouse number. I had heard stories from the perfects that when accidents happened in greenhouse 10, the patients would need to be transferred to Saint Mungo’s, the wizarding Hospital, for intensive care. This time we had gathered in front of Greenhouse two, all armed with our trusted protective gloves, which were the last line of defense protecting our feeble flesh from the buffed flora. The greenhouses had their usual entrances with small highly controlled practice environments, but the vast majority of the space was reserved for the integrated bio environments.
More specifically, each greenhouse was managed with a small-scale complete biosphere of particular design. Well, not truly compete, as each part of the cycle was designed to not have any real competitors. They were greenhouses, after all, with the goal of growing more plants. However, the environment choice and the choice of plants were made to support each other, with many complicated symbiotic relations, resulting in a sum larger than its parts. The greenhouse two was specifically designed something along of Scottish Highlands, mostly high grasslands but some streams also running through the greenhouse. The air was also a little thinner, but apart from watching our steps not to fall over on the uneven ground, there were no more complications. That is, if one was not unlucky enough to walk over a whistling reed, a green tuff of little longer grass, that camouflaged quite well to its non-magical counterparts. The main distinction could be done based on quiet whistling that was emitted from the grass, even when no wind was present. However, when the plant was disturbed, for example by stepping on it or even better, falling face-first into it, the plant would generate a whistle so loud and high, that it was stunning, and would cause partial deafness. Luckily, this deafness could be cured with a brief visit to the Hospital wing, but the experience of the first victims was traumatizing enough to make everyone watch their steps.
Last week we had spent on the practice area learning the basics and technical knowledge of Castaway Wreath, our target plant, which was already all available in the textbook. This lesson, however, would be in the field, so to speak, where students had much more to worry about than just the mildly hallucinogenic effect of the wreath’s pollen and the main leaves that could slap with enough force to cause painful bruises. Now, the problem would also be the Floating Vines, which had a symbiotic relationship with our target by providing a seedbed and receiving the safety as a return. The problem with the relationship was that if the Floating Vine noticed it was under attack, it would in just a moment float away, to be carried by the winds in the real world to tens of kilometers. Luckily, they could not escape from the greenhouse, but for educational purposes and for our safety, we were not allowed to start chasing the floating vines across the greenhouse.
The assignment was simple, gather the concentrated pollen from the Castaway Wreath without causing any issues. Simple, as even a Hufflepuff should be able to do it. But treacherous for Ravenclaws, as a significant amount of attention needed to be paid to surroundings, in case of “incidents”. This risk was especially great for the ones who wanted to be noticed in the lesson by Professor Sprout, as speed was usually the key. Only the fastest would get the most attention, and only the fastest mattered. Well, not really, but the first did get a noticeable attention from the professor.
“You know what to do. We have been through all the procedures and techniques previously. Just remember to keep calm, don’t hurry, and try your best. Good luck everyone!” And with final encouraging words, the Professor let us free, free to roam and carry out the exercise.
After a second or so of quiet and stillness, the first sound of movement from a student was heard, which functioned as a starting signal and marked the beginning of chaos. The chaos of having the majority of the class rushing and running like a small-scale stampede. I suspected most of the Hufflepuffs didn’t even realize what they were doing and were instead caught in the atmosphere. Caught with their pants down, but as they saw so many people rushing forward, to not be left out, they also started running.
I would have found the whole situation funny, if I hadn’t been standing in the way of the rumbling horde. However, it was much harder to be amused, when I could see my tombstones rushing toward me like an unpassable wave. Twenty furiously rushing youths on steroids versus a small, scrawny bookworm that would fall in a strong wind.
After thoroughly getting trampled, so truly that in a uniformly distributed student wave it should be impossible, I got up from the ground, to do the assignment. After dusting most of the dirt off me and checking my surroundings, I received a thumbs up and a bright, encouraging smile from Professor Sprout, as if congratulating me for my effort. I had already expected not to expect any normal reactions from the Hogwarts Professors, so after I responded with a forced smile, I started walking with a small limb to complete the exercise.
Luckily, running was not in any way required as the task had been designed to have plenty of spare time, probably to account for even the dullest of Hufflepuffs, like the one who thought he had been kidnapped by spirits in the flying lesson, when he did not know how to turn his broom. Not to say that all of them were dummies. There were definitely some motivated Hufflepuffs, they were just far and wide between, so they were easily dismissed in front of the bulk.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
I returned to the front after an arduous, but otherwise relaxing journey, five minutes before the deadline. I was among the last to return. Last of the Ravenclaws, but some Hufflepuffs had still not returned—probably lost in the greenhouse. It would not be the first time that had happened, which was confusing in itself, as Professor Sprout had many times told that the extension charm in the greenhouses was specially designed so that every way would lead to the entrance. So, the only possibility to not find themselves to the entrance was to stop moving or been being so directionally challenged as to literally walk in circles. As regardless of what way someone walked, they would end up, in a reasonably small-time, at the entrance. The Ravenclaws were all already there, but with far worse complexion than the Hufflepuffs. Three of the most competitive looked as though they had been having mud wrestling, but after a few careful and probing questions I found out that they had just been running in the end in such a close pack that when one of them had fallen in a muddy downhill, they had fallen like pins, and in the end none of them were the first. Somehow, this was the epitome of Ravenclaw competitive spirit. With a Tunnel vision so narrow and intense, it was inevitable but at the same time tragic to stumble due to a small rock at the end.
At the end of the lesson, we had a voluntary testing session where the psychedelic pollen could be tested to better identify the effects on thoughts. The books did describe the effect and due to the previous unlucky puff, who fell in the bush, we already knew somewhat the effects. Nevertheless, descriptions are only descriptions, so Sprout gave everybody a chance to get to know the pollen on a firsthand basis. I was not interested, and neither were most of the Ravenclaws, but the Hufflepuffs were ecstatic to try. Of course, the result was an immensely amusing sight of students wandering around like headless chickens for the last minutes of the lesson. Regrettably, the psychedelic effect of the drug was very short, only a few minutes. Just long enough for the plant to beat down the intruder in normal conditions, but otherwise only cause spatial confusion.
The end of the lesson marked the beginning of our lunch and hurriedly rushing to the castle to change the dirty, muddied robes for clean ones. Hurriedly, since quite soon after the lunch, a double class of Potions would begin in the dungeons. Potions, unlike all our other classes, had a different class composition, in that the Ravenclaw Potion classes were arranged with Gryffindors instead of Hufflepuffs. That arrangement had its pros and cons. First of all, the Gryffindors were an average faster than the Hufflepuffs, so they were not quite as dumb as bricks. However, while they seemed cleverer, their self-preservation instincts were non-existent. Nobody in their right mind, except a Gryffindor student, would dip their head in the cauldron of half made strength potion just because of a bet and a thought that maybe it would make them stronger. Yes, the Gryffindors were far worse than the Hufflepuffs. At least, Hufflepuffs were not masochists, so the incidents with them could be contributed to accidents. Gryffindors, however, were cognizant terrorists. After half a year in classes with them, I had grown to regret their cognitive superiority to the Hufflepuffs, since all they ever used their heads was to come up with more dangerous hazards. Hazards, which were known to have a significant number of bystander victims. It felt like we had swapped a friendly dummy, to not so dumb anarchist, who wasn’t afraid to use forceful methods for his nonsensical objectives. On Wednesdays, the days after our potion class, it wasn’t unusual to see some desperate Ravenclaws hugging confused Hufflepuffs in the morning, thanking their continued existence in most of our classes. After all, it was only after one loses something that the significance is truly felt, in this case, literally felt in our explosion burn feet.
The potions lessons were taught by Professor Slughorn, also known as Horace Slughorn, the head of Slytherin house, and a throughout politician. But not just an ordinary politician, but a collector of sorts. Not a collector of material things, but a collector of relationships. Like a spider that weaves a web of relationships, except not to catch prey, but to catch more strings for his web. But this spider did not take just any strings, only people who could go through his sieve of significance were worth his time. Talented people, driven people, influential people, rich people, and people that he bet on. Small investments in people, betting with fate and probability for high returns. A gambler, but a smart gambler. Placing bets when bets were so cheap, by giving a little extra help to a student. Then, finally, realizing profits when the student had graduated and had an influential position. Smart and cunning investments and bets, but very long term where no profits could be realized in the middle. Only the end would pay up.
I didn’t mind, though. The most important thing was that Professor Slughorn was professional. He taught well, thoroughly, and fairly during the classes. He would just not spend a second of his time extra on someone, he considered a bad investment. That was fine for me. He wasn’t interested in me, and I didn’t have any free time I could spend with the professor; I got books to read. The cooperation and mutual understanding were phenomenal!
Potions are a little weird magic. They weren’t conventional magic in and of itself, but something that could be construed as a ritual. In fact, their origin stems from the ritualistic potions made by the shamans of old. A very materialistic ritual, but a ritual nonetheless. What made potions even more weird, is that a significant material conversion happens at some point, that cannot be defined in terms of transfiguration. A material conversion of the same nature that is apparently used in alchemy, but I haven’t read or learned enough to form an opinion of that.
The important thing is that the formed potion is by its nature physically, chemically, differing than what could be expected from the ingredients. That change is caused by the ritualistic nature of potion concocting. According to “Brewing Nichelius”, an old worn-out book in the library, the change in the physical constituents is not, in fact, necessary for the potion working but is just a side product. The side product is due to fusing of the magics of the ingredients, an outflow of net magic is released in the reactions that tries to stabilize the main magic product. Essentially, the chemical composition of the potion changes to stabilize the magic trapped inside of it. This theory explains how potions will lose their effectiveness and magic as time passes but stay physically the same. Not due to any intrinsic law, but due to diffusion of the magic to its environment. Diffusion that can be reduced with strongly absorbent material, like in the case of the automatically transforming potions composition. The theory also explains the potency differences between a novice and a grand potioneer and between recipes, the suitability, and alignment of the ritual will have a strong effect on the formation of the physical boundary. So, most changes in potion effects due to quality are seen in the expiration dates. The potency also has an effect, but not nearly as pronounced as the change in expiration.
Of course, potion making did not have to be such a complicated process. At least for us first years, making a potion was simple if one followed the instructions. It did not matter if we did not actually know what we were doing, and what were the effects of each of the ingredients, as long as we followed the instructions. One did not need to know the principles behind each of the techniques, as long as the execution was immaculate. That said, I found it far more satisfying to connect the potion field of magic to others. Connect the branch of potions to the great tree of magic. To see the dependencies, and causation of each meaningful parameter. To see the overarching theme, and the connections with which it had. Finally, see the connecting stories that brought the field to its current form.
These were the thoughts I had as I was grating wormwood or squeezing juices from jumping beels. The making of a potion was a tedious and laborious work, that could all go wrong depending on the mistake. Luckily, our potions were quite harmless and forgiving, so high precision of the amounts was not required. That did not mean that all danger was removed, as explosive combinations still existed.
So explosive that I only avoided a visit to the Hospital wing by lunging underneath a table as soon as I noticed unusually aggressive and explosive looking bubbles in my neighboring Gryffindors cauldron. This neighbor had been quite steadfast, but during the last two lessons seemed to have unusually explosive accidents. The student itself swore he did not know why the cauldron exploded as he did not put the grass quills eggs there, that were the suspected reactant according to Professor Slughorn. The student did seem far too honest to be spinning such a lie, so I believed him. It is also not the only accident that happens near or to Ravenclaws brewing potions. My strategy has been to keep out of the way of most Ravenclaws, so I haven’t faced the most brutal shenanigans, but there is still a target behind my back. Target, which had made me significantly more paranoid, and which in term probably saved my skin today. However, as Professor Slughorn was dealing with the first explosion, a second explosion happened. This one more softer, but with thick green smoke, that started filling the room from the opposite side. Quickly, the professor vanished the smoke, but not before three Ravenclaws had breathed it in and were quickly growing pustules on their faces. Professor Slughorn looked at first to be near an explosion, filling with air like a balloon ready to blow with a bang, but instead deflated with a depressed sigh.
I had noticed quite a few Professors were getting tired of the endless mysterious accidents that were happening, disrupting their classes to help the injured students, but this was the first time I had noticed how utterly tired and disinterested a professor was of the shenanigans. I did sympathize with him. A small amount, but after I remembered what kind of spider he was, I did not feel as bad anymore. It’s not like he was teaching here for some greater good.
After the quiet end of the lesson, we were set free for the rest of the day. Freedom, which I wisely chose to spend reading books in the library. The library was far safer. No need to check everywhere, looking for the next stampede to run me over, or explosions trying to ruin my day. The library was peace and serenity in this chaos filled castle. The haven of hope inside a maw of disturbances.
I would describe the books as an escape, but I don’t think they were that. Escape implies too heavy implication that I am escaping from something. No, I did not escape to the library. I dreamt of being in the library. Not to escape from the evils outside, but to elevate my mood with the reading of books. One could say it was semantics, as the end result was all the same, and there is some truth in that. I, however, chose not to see it that way. Even if the books are all inanimate objects, with all my heart I say to you. I did not spend time here because I did not have anything other to do. I spent and will spend my time reading books because I want to.
That said, why is there a music section in the library? Moreover, why are there numerous full partitures just stored here.
After my initial confusion, I decided to give them a try. I mean, is there a categorical difference between reading notes and reading letters. All can be read. Partitures just have different narrators for each instrument. A symphony of narrators narrating the same story but from different perspectives, constructing the plot in cooperation. A story without a single word, a primal story with only subjective cognitive constructs, telling more of the reader than of the narrator.
After stumbling to read the first few scores, the reading started to get easier. Filling my head from sounds of cacophony to absolute wonder. Melodies so melodic I felt I was sitting on top of a cloud, to sounds so heavy and rough I could see the earth rending apart and the sky falling down. The music was a story in itself. A story written in words not meant to be heard or understood by humans or any intelligent being, but meant to be felt in their soul. Meant to resonate with their magic and mind, filling them with absolute wonder. As I read all of it, I got a feeling that I could not truly get the whole picture here, from the book. Same small feeling of disconnect as I was truly immersed in a book, but much stronger. Like the interface compatibility was worse for scores than for stories.
However, I felt grateful that it had still allowed me to see something. Something new, fundamentally different from the usual stories. Something so alien and from the outside, yet something so primal and intrinsic, like a new point of view pointing out on unexplored truth. Even if I could not see the truth clearly, I was already happy enough to see that small truth that the books graced me to see.
There wasn’t even anyone I could share the tunes, I had a hopelessly bad tone, and I could not tune a single string even if my life depended on it. In the orphanage, the headmistress allowed me to skip the music moments in favor of sparing her sanity and eardrums. So instead, I just read the scores and let them reverb in my head. Read them as they were written, feel them as they told their story. And finally let them be, keeping them in my memories; an ever-changing song of books that should have been music but was never truly played. Formed from instruments I had never heard, to voices that had never existed, but still everyone fitting together like puzzle pieces forming the final picture.
In the evening, I was walking back from the library after it had closed. Same as usual, walking in the same route I had walked a hundred times before. I went by the same paintings, and the armors. But as I walked, I could not help but observe them more carefully. Same rusted armor, with oversized knee guards and helmet drooping a little. But at the same time, the posture had a feeling of duty and loneliness. Of sacrifice and tiredness. Words failed me, as there were no words to describe it, but at the same time every word was needed to illustrate the multitude of dimensions portrayed by its stature. Like a song echoing and propagating inside the armor, keeping it moving in after hundreds and maybe thousands of years. Song propagating the meaning, and at the same time carrying all his experiences. A song of his life. A song of great battle and of long waiting. Waiting for a release in the form of battle to fulfill its god given duty. But it was also tired. So, so tired. The song already waning. All instruments had already been used, and the final was already in sight. However, this end did not have the magnificent battles of fortissimo, staccato and fortzato. No, the final movement had a melody of pianissimo, the slow and silent descend into oblivion. No strength left to fight the final battle, when it’s becoming difficult to even remember oneself.
And in that slow decline, I learned that magic can be like music, echoing and propagating. Self-sustaining itself to some extent, to not be constricted by the physical dimensions but propagating through obstacles like a wave. I learned that magic does not have to be something that can be worded. That will is not defined by the words we describe it with. And I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of song my life would be.