Chapter Text
Chapter 11: Knowledge Abandoned and Scorned
Bright morning sunlight filtered through a single, narrow skylight, its rays passing through drifting motes of dust and casting rows of bookshelves into sharp relief. The air was quiet, the slightest echo absorbed by decades of accumulated volumes. Outside, London was waking up to its usual Monday bustle — pedestrians and vehicles moving hurriedly past the storefront windows. Their urgency contrasted sharply with the stillness within. With the muted jingle of a bell, the glass door creaked open, revealing the bookshop’s name. It was etched on a silver plaque dulled by age: Sagewell and Traust, est. 1872.
Ossian stepped through — dark eyes determined and searching, though not yet sure for what. He had left his freshly purchased Hogwarts robes at the Leaky Cauldron next door; his washed-out, well-worn orphanage clothes blended in better among the Muggles of London. He had also written a note of his whereabouts, pinning it to the coat of the still-sleeping Hagrid. Before leaving, he had snatched one of Tom’s self-assembled sandwiches. Closing the glass door gently, he placed his feet slowly and deliberately, careful not to disturb the silence — fingertips brushing along the backs of books. Though Sagewell and Traust lacked the magical essence of Flourish and Blotts, Ossian felt that a large gathering of books still held a quiet kind of wonder.
While Diagon Alley offered incredible marvels, sights, and sounds, exploring it had sometimes been harrowing. The streets were saturated with magic and knowledge, some of it closely guarded — perhaps even jealously so. Ossian had experienced as much firsthand. At Ollivanders, he had agreed to participate in the exacting wandmaker’s research in return for his discretion. At Flourish and Blotts, a mysterious, scaly, and strangely alive book had been snatched from him at the last moment. The memory of being denied still stung, driving him to seek knowledge in new, uncharted places.
Moreover, having led an isolated existence at Shaleford Orphanage, he found himself fascinated not only by the magical world — but by the Muggle one as well, with its architectural wonders and mechanical behemoths. While the Wizarding World seemed content to regard Muggles as simpletons, blind to the power of magic, Ossian had an unshakable intuition that there was more to them than just grand buildings and machines coughing smoke. It was the first of September, and the Hogwarts Express was departing later that morning. He had decided that his limited time would be best spent here, in this humble, overlooked Muggle bookshop, rather than on the raucous cobblestones of Diagon Alley.
Ossian moved swiftly past the brightly illuminated entrance and its small, modern selection: cookbooks, Muggle biographies, and easily digested novels. He suspected they were merely a hastily applied veneer over something much older — and possibly profound. Yesterday, he had noticed the bookshop nestled beside the Leaky Cauldron. Hagrid had guided him to the magical pub without a sideways glance, yet the aged signage had embedded itself firmly in Ossian’s memory. While other wizards came and went for drinks and revelry, here there might very well be an untapped repository of knowledge — something a Squib masquerading as a wizard could make use of. Like a moth to a flame, Ossian passed beneath the skylight before venturing deeper into the shop.
Sure enough, it didn’t take long for the selection of books to turn ancient and esoteric. The change was palpable in the cracked, worn bindings and the musty smell of paper stored for decades — perhaps even centuries. Yellowed section labels mirrored the forgotten, antiquated quality of the books, written in a wispy, faded scrawl: Natural Philosophy, Alchemy and Early Chemistry, Cosmology and Metaphysics. Ossian’s eyes widened in the dim light. Some of these topics seemed to straddle the line between both worlds — magical and mundane. Even as he was tempted a dozen times to pause and peruse, an unnameable curiosity drove him onward.
He came to a stop in the deepest corner of the store, where a single bookcase split into two sections, one on either side: Historical Medicine and Theories of Life. His eyes settled on the latter. Like a snake rearing in the underbrush, the scalebound, living book from Flourish and Blotts sprang to mind — its glowing red print like blood, its intricate mandala recalling the Squirrel’s Nest window, its quick, excited breaths as he reached out to grasp it, only for it to be taken away at the last moment. If he were to unravel the mystery of a book that seemed to live and breathe as vividly as he did, this had to be the best — perhaps the only — place in all of Muggle London to search.
Stepping around to browse the dusty volumes in the Theories of Life section, his eyes fell on a single blade of grass, stuck between the pages of a faded blue hardcover — now dried, brown, and brittle. It reminded him of the slivers of reed he had plucked from the banks of Shaleford to use as bookmarks. Some of those books he had brought with him from the Squirrel’s Nest, now awaiting departure back at the Cauldron. He bent closer to inspect the book itself. Along the cracked spine, he read the author and title in yellowed print: Bergson’s Creative Evolution.
Carefully, so as not to disturb the silence — or risk crumbling the desiccated blade of grass — he pulled the blue book from the shelf, leaving a blank space on the grainy wooden surface. He opened it at the marked page and read the first paragraph.
Like eddies of dust raised by the wind as it passes, the living turn upon themselves, borne up by the great blast of life. They are therefore relatively stable, and counterfeit immobility so well that we take each of them for a thing rather than a progress, forgetting that the very permanence of their form is only the outline of a movement.
In the quiet bookshop, Ossian became sharply aware of his own breathing. He stood stock-still, the open book in one hand, a finger to his lips. Slowly and deliberately, he read the passage again, trying to parse its obtuse meaning. “Dust raised by the wind — the living by a blast of life? Mistaking something living for form, a thing — when it is in fact a movement, a process?” he muttered, brow furrowed in thought.
He adjusted his shirt, under which his Bone Wand remained hidden, resonant with magic. Feeling its smooth surface against his ribs, it certainly appeared to be a solid thing. It was a product of life, just like the fat pearl in his pocket — taken from Bundty and given to him by Hagrid. It did make sense to think of life as a process, a shaping of matter in constant motion. But where did that leave things made of bone and pearl — the remains of that process, separated from the life that once made it possible? While both objects were a mystery to Ossian, he knew the Bone Wand somehow enabled the use of magic all on its own. Ossian turned the book over to check the publication date: 1907. Perhaps Bergson, this Muggle scholar from over a century ago, had been onto something. It was a dizzying thought.
Ossian was just about to turn the page when a reedy voice spoke from his left: “Interesting choice.”
Ossian jumped, almost dropping the book. He turned to see a thin, elderly man standing at the end of the bookcase. Stooped with age, hands clasped behind his back, he wore a tweed cardigan and faded moleskin trousers. His round, horn-rimmed glasses caught the overhead light at just the right angle, obscuring his eyes in a bright, white glint.
Suspecting it was the proprietor, Ossian was instantly reminded of the last time he had been apprehended in a bookshop. He froze, uncertain whether he was expected to put the book back, nervously running a finger down the dry blade of grass. “I’m sorry — I was just looking around, Mr…?”
“Sagewell. Please — take your time.” He nodded toward the entrance, a wry but not unkind expression on his lined face. “It’s not as if I have a stampede of customers to attend.”
“Oh, thank you,” Ossian replied, relieved by the bookdealer’s unexpectedly gentle tone. “Sagewell, huh? Just like —”
“Like the sign, yes. My grandfather founded the place. I’m afraid his colleague Traust left no heirs to burden with the business.” He drew a long breath and stepped forward, revealing clear blue eyes that belied his age. “In fact, you’ve come just in the nick of time. The shop closes later this month.”
“Closing, is it?” Ossian looked around the dusty shop. Though slightly unkempt, he couldn’t help but feel a certain wistfulness at the thought that everything would be packed up, carted off, and forgotten. “Shame, that.”
Sagewell ran a wiry hand along a shelf. “It’s a lot of history, to be sure. But it's time. I’m retiring, my children are all scattered across the isles, and no one is interested in taking over a musty old bookshop filled with defunct science.”
Ossian gestured toward the book in his hand. “I find it fascinating — really.” It was the truth, though as an interloper from the magical world, he had reasons for his interest he could hardly share with a Muggle. Or at least, someone he was fairly certain was a Muggle. Looking at the old man, it wasn’t easy to tell.
The old man smiled. “Obviously, you’re in the minority. Few take an interest in the mysteries and philosophy of the past — fewer still your age. What’s your name, young man?”
Ossian smoothed his features. “Ossian Selwyn, sir.” By now, he was used to people shying back at the mention of his surname. After his impromptu birthday party with Hagrid yesterday, he finally understood why — an infamous Death Eater for a father.
Mr Sagewell’s lack of reaction was a surprise — but a welcome one. Rather than drawing attention to the name, he pointed at the book in Ossian’s hand. “Curious that you would have picked that one in particular. Back in the late 1800s, Britain was still reeling from Darwin’s publication of his theory of evolution. While Darwin explained how species could change over time, natural philosophers like Bergson grappled with the question of how the process was made possible in the first place.”
Ossian’s lips tightened in a thoughtful frown. “The origin of life?” he asked, tilting his head. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, as if close to some unexpected revelation.
“Not just the origin of life — its very nature,” Mr Sagewell replied. “I remember my grandfather’s stories — he too was fascinated. He and Traust were avid readers of Bergson — they subscribed to his idea of the so-called Élan Vital, a vital impulse that permeates all life.” He paused briefly, screwing up his eyes in recollection before continuing in a historian’s tone. “A non-physical force that exists beyond the purely natural and mechanistic — the creative drive of evolution toward states of greater complexity.”
Ossian’s eyes widened slightly in anticipation. “Did they find it? Did the natural philosophers actually discover this life force?”
“They did not.” Mr Sagewell shook his head. “The theory of Élan Vital was discarded, along with all the other attempts to explain life as something separate from matter. Vitalism. The Greeks with their Pneuma and spontaneous generation. Mesmer’s Animal Magnetism. All of them debunked.”
“Oh,” Ossian responded, slightly deflated.
“Yes,” Mr Sagewell confirmed. “Science improved, matured, and drew the sober conclusion that there was no there there. While limits remain to our knowledge, biology and the theory of evolution have long sufficed in answering most questions of life.”
“Most, but not all?” Ossian ventured, seeing an opening. “I don’t know… a small detail like why life exists in the first place?”
Mr Sagewell chuckled at Ossian’s barbed question. “I think you and my grandfather would have gotten on famously, young Mr Selwyn. He would always ask questions like that. But no — wonder and speculation are no surrogates for rigorous research and study.”
Ossian’s fingertip brushed the brown blade of grass again. This time, it crumbled under the light pressure. “Perhaps you’re right…” he began tentatively. As a Muggle, Mr Sagewell couldn’t possibly know about the wealth of knowledge hidden in Diagon Alley, just beyond the pub next door — a pub Ossian could see, but the bookdealer could not. Mr Sagewell had mentioned several other fields of research, such as the Élan Vital and Vitalism, all of which had ultimately been discarded. Yet Ossian wondered whether the Muggles of the past had truly failed, or merely circled a magical truth they had been unable to grasp. He looked back up, feeling a quiver of potential run down his spine. “Perhaps there are some questions that science simply isn’t fit to answer?”
Mr Sagewell’s reply was steadfast. “Or we learn which questions should be relegated to history. Just look at —” He cut himself off, eyes narrowing as he noticed the debris of grass crumbling from the book. After a moment, he reached out, palm up. “May I?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Ossian handed over the book. He was reluctant to part with it, but it did belong to the proprietor.
Mr Sagewell took the book with care. He studied the blade of grass, pressed between the covers for decades. When he spoke again, it was in a softer, pensive tone. “This… this was my grandfather’s copy. He would bring books like these on our walks in the woods. I remember being spellbound by his stories — his daring propositions and cryptic conjectures… That is, until I began my studies, and put away childish things.” He held it up to the light with a thoughtful expression. “To think that after all this time, you’d walk in and pick this book in particular, right off the shelf.”
Ossian cleared his throat. “I used to pick reeds from the riverbank,” he said. “For bookmarks. I don’t know why — the grass reminded me of that.”
“My grandfather did the same — with blades of grass plucked on our evening walks.” For a moment, it seemed as if Mr Sagewell had forgotten about Ossian’s presence, his blue eyes shimmering. “We would discuss and argue long into the night — all the mysteries of the universe. As the stars came out, we would lay in the grass, picking out the constellations and watching for shooting stars. How the world seemed suffused with possibility and wonderment back then.”
Ossian remained silent, even as he felt a pang of melancholy for the old bookdealer — for all the extraordinary secrets Ossian knew but could never share. He wondered quietly what someone like Sagewell, Junior or Senior, might have accomplished had they been born wizards and allowed to look behind the curtain. After all, the Wizarding World lay hidden literally next door, while they had spent their lives reaching toward the same questions from the other side.
Finally, Mr Sagewell snapped the book shut, the moment of nostalgia passed. As if making up his mind, he handed the book back to Ossian, the sliver of grass still tucked between the pages. “Take it.” His hand quivered slightly, but his voice remained firm. “While I may not share your fancies, I will always encourage a young mind to explore the great mysteries, however he sees fit.”
Ossian squeezed the book between his fingers. “Oh, that’d be great, but…” He paused with a slight blush. “But I’m afraid I don’t have any money.”
Sagewell shook his head with a smile. “Consider it a gift. I’d rather you have it than see it fed to the pulping machine.” He held up an admonishing finger. “Just remember, Bergson is only a single puzzle piece — one that fits poorly with our later, more refined models and explanations. But I will grant you that he raises some questions that still captivate me to this day.”
Ossian’s thoughts drifted once more to the living book, locked away safely at Flourish and Blotts. He considered whether Sagewell — and other Muggles like him — simply didn’t have access to the same pieces of the puzzle that wizards did. Knowing better than to voice his speculations, he merely held the book to his chest and smiled. “Thank you, Mr Sagewell. I’ll be sure to —”
Before he could finish his sentence, there was a distant jingle, followed by a booming voice that made the shelves tremble. “Oi, Ossian!”
The sudden bark made Ossian gasp, while Mr Sagewell merely turned his head impassively. Ossian craned his neck, peering past the proprietor’s slight silhouette. He could just barely make out the open front door and Hagrid’s massive face peeking through, as if he were either too big or reluctant to enter.
The gamekeeper called again, slightly louder. “Train’s leaving in less than an hour — time’s wasting!”
Ossian bobbed his head to Mr Sagewell. “I’ve got to go. Thanks again!”
“Take care, young man.” Mr Sagewell raised a measured hand in farewell, but Ossian was already dashing past him. “Do keep an open mind — just hold on to your brain!” he called after him with a reedy chuckle.
Ossian heard him just barely, mumbling his assent over his shoulder as he passed beneath the skylight. The unexpectedly gifted book — and his imminent departure for Hogwarts — filled him with a bubbling elation and sense of opportunity that was difficult to describe, much less contain. A swirl of dust followed in his wake as he ran for the exit, where Hagrid waited. Stepping onto the street, he was suddenly confronted by the full clamor of London: the bright morning light, the milling crowd, and the roar of vehicles pressing past.
Hagrid had stood back up to his full height, Ossian’s trunk in one hand, a reproachful look on his bushy face. He closed the glass door carefully, so as not to shatter it, then rounded on Ossian. “You’ve got some nerve, running off like tha'. The day o' your departure, an' yeh sneak off inter Muggle London, all on your own!” He put a hand on Ossian’s back, ushering him into motion in the direction of King’s Cross. “Let’s go, lad. Let’s go.”
Ossian let himself be badgered, taking up position on one side as the crowd parted before Hagrid’s looming presence. He was in too bright a spirit to be subdued by the lecture. Besides, he knew the gamekeeper well enough to tell that Hagrid wasn’t truly angry, but rather performing the scholarly disapproval he thought was expected of him. “I’m sorry, Hagrid. It won’t happen again, since the bookshop’s actually closing later this month.” Ossian realized he was becoming accustomed to weighing his words carefully. If he ever sneaked off again, it wouldn’t be to visit Sagewell and Traust.
The news made Hagrid forget he was supposed to be upset. “Closing? But tha’ shop’s been there forever!” he exclaimed, then muttered, “Well, not tha’ I’ve ever gone there.”
“It’s true. Today was my last chance to visit.” Ossian looked back toward the faded shopfront. Somewhere among the dusty bookshelves inside, he thought he could make out the glint of Mr Sagewell’s glasses.
Hagrid merely grunted in response as he led the way. He eyed the book in Ossian’s hands but said nothing, seemingly already having dismissed something written by a Muggle.
As Ossian accompanied Hagrid into the thickening throng of London, he was reminded of what the half-giant had said about Muggles: Most o’ them wouldn’t notice magic even if it singed their eyebrows righ’ off. Perhaps he was right. But maybe — just maybe — there was real knowledge too, abandoned by Muggles and scorned by wizards. If Ossian wanted to know, he would have to continue his search elsewhere. By the time he returned to the city, Sagewell and Traust would be gone, their books lost to history.
They squeezed past a construction site on the road. There, a burly Muggle in neon clothing and a yellow helmet was hard at work cutting a massive block of stone with a circular saw. The mechanical beast emitted a drawn-out, ear-splitting scream, tossing up a jet of dust that glittered in the morning sun. The sight reminded Ossian of the passage he had read in Bergson’s Creative Evolution. Dust and life, each animated by an outside force. Dust set in motion by the wind or by a machine, that Ossian understood well enough — but what about life? He shifted his grip, the Bergson volume pressed to his chest. Beneath his shirt, he felt the familiar presence of the Bone Wand, purring with potential. The subtle vibration brought to mind the poem he had read in the living book. “The bell is the source — the source is the toll,” he muttered.
“What’s tha’, lad?” Hagrid rumbled from above.
“Nothing.” Ossian shook his head, just as he spotted the King’s Cross clocktower glistening in the distance. “At least not yet,” he added quietly to himself, his voice swallowed by the din of London.