He set the pot aside and turned to the scrolls. Breaking the first wax seal, he unrolled it carefully.
The handwriting was precise and elegant, the ink a deep burgundy that had held its color remarkably well.
These are the notes of Phyllida Spore, compiled during my final years at Hogwarts, and sealed by my own hand against the day when someone worthy might need them.
Rowan's breath caught. Phyllida Spore. The name was familiar. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi was a standard Hogwarts textbook, attributed to her. She'd been Headmistress of Hogwarts. These were her personal research notes, sealed by her own hand and entrusted to the centaurs for safekeeping.
He read on.
The scrolls detailed Spore's research into a particular species of magical fungus. The very specimen sitting in the clay pot beside him. The fungus fed on ambient magical energy, concentrating it, and when consumed by a wizard, it transferred that concentrated magic directly into their core.
Permanently.
The effect was explosive. A single dose could multiply a wizard's magical capacity several times over. The fungus essentially accelerated magical core development by years, or in some cases decades, in a matter of hours.
But the organism had a severe limitation. The entire mycelial network functioned as a single interconnected system. It could grow larger under the right conditions, but it did not reproduce. One organism, one dose. Spore had learned this the hard way.
Her notes documented five wild colonies found at a site in the Forbidden Forest:
Division of Colony 1 — both halves expired within hours. Colony 2, same result. Colony 3 administered to test creature in full — enhancement confirmed, severe dark corruption observed. Colony 4 administered in partial dose — no effect. Remainder expired. Returned to forest site. No regrowth. Conditions appear irreversibly disturbed by prior extraction.
The fifth colony sat in the clay pot beside him. Spore's final note on the matter was underlined twice: The specimen cannot be divided. To use it is to use all of it.
Rowan read the warnings carefully. They took up an entire scroll by themselves.
The fungus carried a dark magical signature. The transformation it caused, forcing rapid core expansion, drew on dark magical principles. It wasn't cursed or malicious, but unmitigated consumption would overwhelm the core with dark-tainted energy, potentially killing the wizard outright or corrupting them entirely.
The solution was a stabilizing potion. Spore had developed the formula from her analysis of the corruption, but her colonies were gone before she could test it. The final version required seven ingredients, precise temperatures, and exact timing. It should neutralize the dark signature, allowing the core to absorb the enhanced magic safely.
Or at least, as safely as fundamentally reshaping your magical capacity could be.
Rowan copied every detail into his journal. The composition, the growth requirements, the stabilizer recipe, all of it. He read each scroll three times before moving to the next.
The fifth and final scroll was shorter than the others.
I leave these notes because I believe the wizarding world needs wizards who are willing to push beyond what is comfortable and expected. The fungus is dangerous. The process is painful. But the result—a wizard with the capacity to truly do good—is worth the risk.
To whoever finds this: be brave. Be precise. And understand what you are becoming.
— P. Spore
Rowan set the scroll down and looked at the clay pot. The pale glow pulsed steadily through the crack in the lid.
He needed more information. Spore's notes were thorough, but he wanted to cross-reference everything he could before attempting anything. The fungus's growth requirements, its magical properties, how it interacted with other magical organisms. There had to be additional documentation in the library, even if it wasn't in the restricted section.
He returned to the restricted section the next evening, permission slip still valid. Madam Scribner glanced up as he entered, noted his direction toward the east wing, and said nothing.
Rowan searched methodically. Herbology texts, magical creature compendiums, ingredient catalogues, theoretical treatises on magical biology. He pulled book after book from the shelves, scanning indices, flipping through pages.
He found nothing. The species didn't appear in any catalogue he could find. Either it was so rare that no one else had documented it, or someone had deliberately scrubbed the records.
He was about to give up. Three evenings of searching, and he had nothing beyond what the scrolls themselves contained. Then his hand closed around a slim, leather-bound book tucked between two larger volumes on a lower shelf.