Chapter 139. Squibs and the Spellcasting Ability of Devil's Snare
In early October, the weather suddenly turned cold—rain one moment, clear the next, changing from hour to hour.
A stubborn cold quickly spread across the school.
As it turned out, magic couldn't ward off the cold virus; the same held true for Adrian Wesson.
Fortunately, for a wizard, such a minor ailment could be cured in an instant.
After downing a bottle of Pepperup Potion—and with steam puffing from his ears for a short while—Wesson began today's work.
Inside King's Cross Station.
Wesson was squatting in front of the pillar between Platform Nine and Platform Ten, with a piece of parchment laid on the ground beside him.
Ever since Albus Dumbledore had assigned him this task, he had been researching ways to repair the entrance.
However, the difficulty was even higher than he had imagined.
This entrance combined many ancient charms and was far more complicated than ordinary spatial magic.
Frowning, Wesson repeatedly examined the magical structural diagram recorded on the parchment.
At last, he set the diagram down.
"Better do it my way..." Wesson muttered.
To be honest, a man squatting on the ground and talking to a pillar—this scene was indeed a bit odd.
Luckily, thanks to magic, not a single passing Muggle noticed Wesson's presence.
Wesson was very familiar with things like portals—he had previously made several trunk-style portals leading to his own plantation.
Those portals were all made from a kind of wood that possessed a "spatial positioning" property.
So Wesson simply replaced the material of the entire pillar with that wood, and then disguised it a little…
By the time Wesson returned to Hogwarts, a light rain had begun to fall from the sky.
The moment he reached the courtyard, large raindrops splattered across his face, and a gale began to howl, tugging at his robes.
"This blasted weather..." Wesson grumbled, striding across the Hogwarts courtyard.
In weather like this, few people would linger in the courtyard.
But along the cloistered walkways, Wesson still saw a figure brandishing a wand.
At first, he thought it was a student practising spells.
However, when he drew closer, he couldn't help but pause.
It was Filch.
Hogwarts' caretaker was awkwardly waving a battered wand, muttering at a puddle in the courtyard.
"Aguamenti!" Filch's hoarse voice was thin against the wind and rain.
Of course, nothing happened.
Filch was a Squib and simply could not perform magic; he knew that himself.
Yet even so, he kept trying over and over, a flicker of longing glimmering in his clouded eyes.
Wesson did not wish to disturb this poor fellow, so he turned to leave.
Just then, Filch seemed to sense something, and abruptly stopped mid-swing, turning to look at Wesson.
Seeing this, Wesson had no choice but to offer a greeting: "Good afternoon, Mr Filch."
Filch froze at once and, like a child caught misbehaving, hurriedly hid the wand behind his back. "Pr—Professor Wesson… what are you doing here?"
"I've just come in from outside and happened to pass by. I didn't see anything..."
"Liar!"
Filch suddenly grew agitated, bloodshot eyes fixed on Wesson. "You saw! You saw everything!"
Watching Filch making such a scene, Wesson let out a slow sigh. "Very well, Mr Filch, I did indeed see you waving a wand, and you even said the incantation wrong. But I don't think this is..."
Wesson had meant to say that this was nothing shameful, but Filch cut him off.
"Please… Professor Wesson," Filch deflated like a punctured ball, hunching over, his voice trembling a little, "don't tell anyone…"
"All right, Mr Filch, I'm not in the habit of gossiping behind people's backs," Wesson replied, quietly observing Filch as he spoke.
At last, the tautness in Filch's face eased a little.
"Thank you for your help," he said in a complicated tone.
Wesson nodded, then left the courtyard.
On his way back to his office, Wesson kept thinking about Filch's behaviour.
Honestly, no matter how hard Filch practised, it would be useless; at least, Wesson had never heard of a Squib who managed to use magic by their own efforts.
A Squib like him was absolutely not suited to staying at Hogwarts; Wesson did not know why Dumbledore had hired him in the first place.
Of course, for a Squib, the desire to use magic was perfectly normal.
If Wesson were a Squib, he reckoned he would also think of every possible way to find a path to magic. After all, once you knew the wizarding world existed, it was terribly difficult to turn your back on it.
Poor… poor Filch. Wesson shook his head despite himself.
To be unable to cast spells—how hard that must be to accept.
Even Devil's Snare could use spells…
Wait!
At that thought, Wesson suddenly stopped in his tracks.
How was it that Devil's Snare could cast spells?
Come to think of it, ever since Devil's Snare had become capable of magic, Wesson had accepted that state of affairs quite naturally, and had never paid much attention to the origin of this special ability.
Before this, Wesson had never encountered a plant capable of performing magic.
After returning to the plantation, Wesson kept pondering the question of Devil's Snare and spellcasting.
Yet he found no leads; in the end, he decided to seek outside help—that is, to borrow Ravenclaw's wisdom.
After making enquiries, Wesson obtained an answer that was not exactly precise: as long as one possesses magic, one can use magic.
To be honest, it was a useless line—but it did give Wesson a small spark of insight.
It was not only human witches and wizards; other beings—centaurs, house-elves, and all manner of magical creatures—could also use magic or magical abilities.
And what these beings had in common was the presence of magical power within them.
The source of Devil's Snare's magic was simple—its host: Wesson.
As for Squibs like Filch, though they had wizarding blood, their magical power was extremely scant, even nonexistent; that was why they could not cast spells.
Looked at another way, if one could just solve the problem of a source of magic, then one could grant a Squib the ability to cast spells.
Of course, that was only a conjecture.
Wesson felt sure some wizard must have conducted similar research before; it was just that none had truly achieved it.
After all, who would spare a thought for a Squib?
With that time, one might as well practise one's own magic a bit more.
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