24: Sacrifices of the Past

Indeed. No matter where you go, some things share the same nature. Since it is an assignment, how could it possibly be finished easily?

Ian felt certain he would become the least popular student at Hogwarts. Even Hermione, in the Golden Trio, was merely a "grind" among her peers and classmates. But he? He had not even enrolled yet, and he was already beginning to study a subject that students were only eligible to take in their third year—an elective course generally reserved for high-achieving students who found their daily academic workload effortless.

A king of grinding. That was likely what he was.

"Sigh, the capable must learn more. Who told me I have such a clever brain?" Ian carefully tucked away the fragments of his robes, extinguished his Lumos charm, and crawled back into bed.

His sleep was filled with dreams.

The next morning, just as the sun began to rise, Ian hurriedly got up, tidied himself, and dashed toward the Hogsmeade bookstore—a place many people might not even realize existed. In fact, most young witches and wizards attending Hogwarts might graduate without ever noticing that tucked behind Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop in Hogsmeade village sat an inconspicuous second-hand bookstore.

Though the shop was so shabby it lacked even a sign, it received a vast influx of unsold textbooks and dusty, outdated volumes from Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley every year, reselling them to students who wandered into the village on weekends. Of course, few students visiting Hogsmeade ever thought to browse a bookstore. After all, most came simply to relax. Nevertheless, that did not prevent the shop from existing. Heavens knew how the owner managed to survive!

"Hello, excuse me, do you have any learning materials on Runes?"

Ian had been living in Hogsmeade for about a week, and this was his first time visiting the shop. As he stepped inside, he saw an old man reclining in an antique rocking chair. The man had a ruddy complexion and hair as white as pine needles dusted with the first snow of winter—sparse and silvery—with a pair of slightly dated round-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He radiated an air of profound scholarly cultivation.

"Are you that young wizard who has been staying in the village lately?"

The shopkeeper seemed to have heard about Ian. It was indeed rare for a pre-enrolled student to temporarily reside in Hogsmeade before the term began.

"Yes, sir," Ian maintained his customary politeness.

"For a young wizard of your age, it is a bit too early to start touching upon Runes," the shopkeeper remarked, remaining reclined in his rocking chair without moving.

"I am simply very interested in this field and want to get a head start... well, I believe I will certainly become a brilliant scholar of Ancient Runes in the future." Ian leveraged his youth, projecting an expression filled with longing and ambition.

"Not bad. A lofty ideal."

The shopkeeper took another look at Ian and finally sat up. "But there is a difference between ideals and reality, after all. Most young wizards find it difficult enough to handle their basic coursework." Despite his grumbling, the shopkeeper went into the back to search for books for Ian.

His movements were somewhat sluggish, and his frame swayed slightly. Yet, while he appeared frail, there was no sign of a twilight fading in his complexion. It was a rather peculiar state.

"As you said, sir, that is only 'most' of them. Isn't there still a small minority?" Ian smiled, his teeth neat and white.

"Hmm?" The shopkeeper turned his head to look at Ian again. "Young, handsome, and full of self-importance... perhaps with a bit of talent, too. It seems you might end up in Slytherin." The shopkeeper delivered his assessment, then began rummaging through the shop. "Let me have a good look. I’ve only taken over this shop for three months. The previous owner wasn't one for tidiness, and well, I suppose I’m much the same." The shopkeeper joked at his own expense.

"I’m not in a hurry, sir." Ian waited quietly. He had grown accustomed to cloaking himself in the guise of a "good boy."

"Found them, here they are." The shopkeeper was breathing heavily from the slight exertion. It was unclear if he had suffered some injury in his youth that affected his physical functions. As he spoke, he pulled three books from the piles scattered across the floor rather than the shelves, and handed them to Ian with slightly trembling hands.

Ian noticed a lifelike tattoo on the inside of the shopkeeper's forearm—a Golden Snitch. As a soul from China, Ian was easily drawn to such ink.

"It’s truly beautiful." Ian noticed the shopkeeper staring at him and quickly made up for his rudeness.

"Yes, it was beautiful once." The shopkeeper’s reply was somewhat enigmatic. Ian noticed a dimness in the man’s eyes and decided not to pry into the story behind the tattoo. He figured it was either a melodramatic romance or perhaps a deeply unforgettable bromance?

Things in England. It was hard to say—truly hard to say.

"How much for all of these?" Ian had no habit of gossiping about a stranger's past and naturally shifted the topic.

"Six Galleons." The shopkeeper reclined back into his rocking chair.

"Hiss, that’s expensive!" Ian gasped.

"This is the price for used books. If you went to Diagon Alley to buy them new, the price would double. There is a reason this is an elective course, and it isn't just because it's hard to learn." The shopkeeper seemed to be implying something.

Ian finally understood why, in every era, there were academic cliques that monopolized knowledge. Indeed, the profits from selling knowledge were truly beyond imagination.

"Very well, thank you." Ian didn't bother to doubt if he was being cheated; it was useless to speculate, and he couldn't get to Diagon Alley anyway, so why add to his own troubles by harboring malicious suspicions?

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his significantly lightened coin purse, carefully counted out six Galleons, and placed them on the counter where the shopkeeper had gestured.

"If you decide to give up on your studies, the buy-back price I offer is three Galleons," the shopkeeper said with a chuckle, as if he were certain Ian would eventually choose to quit.

"I think that situation is unlikely to arise," Ian replied with a polite smile. He gathered the three books and took his leave.

In the quiet bookstore, the aged shopkeeper was left to sink back into silence. A long time later, perhaps moved by Ian’s words, the shopkeeper sighed softly in his chair, raised his withered arm, and stroked the tattoo with his other hand. Under the sunlight, the Golden Snitch seemed to transport him back to a memory of sworn allegiance.