The Keep

51. Nine by the Spring it Follows

"Ectoplasm," Xavier told as he put a cauldron above the fire of the hearth. 

"Useless garbage for many, and very useful for a few who understands it," he poured both buckets of the sticky green substance into the cauldron.

"What have you done!?" Hazel asked, realizing that it was Xavier who has forcefully harvested the Ectoplasm off of the ghosts of the Keep, resulting in the manic state of the ghosts.

"Our Grandfather Abe was among those few," Xavier went on calmly, ignoring Hazel's question altogether.

"He wrote a book about it. And among Ectoplasm's uses he'd found, was to strengthen one's magical prowess," he told as he added ingredients into the cauldron. Hazel recognized a Garuda's intact head among them.

"Petrifi-,"

Hazel couldn't finish her curse. Xavier has thrown something, and a ball of dust exploded right in front of Hazel's face. The dust was choking her throat with its hot and burning particles.

Hazel fell to her knees as she was coughing fiery dust and smoke out of her mouth. Her lungs screeched in its painful attempt to exhale the burning air trapped within her chest. Her throat burned as the dust and smoke spread its heat. And her head was soon dizzied by the lack of air within her brain.

Xavier came and took Hazel's wand off her hand.

"Impressive, isn't it? Inspired by our beloved Aunt Gilly's Sterile Bomb and Weed-Fire," he told.

"It's amazing, really, what we can find in the dungeons of our house," Xavier told.

"I used to live here, you know. I was Master of the Keep, before I left. And oh, how I devoured those books and researches of our ancestors," Xavier told as he put Hazel's wand into the fire of the hearth.

"I may be a Squib, little Hazel, but I have good head on my shoulder," Xavier told as he stirred the now bubbling concoction in the cauldron.

"Can you imagine, how frustrating it is, to be able to understand the beautiful intricacies of magic, without a teensy bit of magic in your blood?" he asked.

"I can brew potions, because I understand the alchemy of the ingredients. I can make clever and useful things, like Aurelius does, because I understand how magical engineering of charms and enchantments work," told Xavier.

"I can even do your job, because there's nothing magical about Arithmancy, really. One just need to understand the causalities of wizarding world, and be a bit clever with numbers," Xavier went on as he continue to stir the bubbling concoction.

"I wouldn't be an Arithmancer, though. I don't see the point of spending my time to calculate the future, let alone to calculate the accuracy of some prophecies," he told. 

"And to find that the whole family is fearing a centuries-old prophecy from a Seer who wouldn't even be a good gambler," Xavier laughed. "It's foolish, really."

"I make my own future, little Hazel," he told.

Hazel was cradling her burning throat. Her breathing had come to wheezes. The more she breathed in, the more her lungs burned, the more her throat choked.

"I went away from my toxic family, I studied and learned about magic even though the whole world deemed me unfit, and I pursued my dream, against the prejudice of the world about me," Xavier continued.

"But it all doesn't mean a thing, does it? Not when I can't conjure a spark at the end of a wooden stick," Xavier sighed.

"One can be the stupidest wizard ever lived who can offer nothing to the community, and still be well-received within the magical society. Look at your good-for-nothing Uncle Rodric," he told.