HP: Redemption of The Platinum Boy

Chapter 60: The Barrier of Magical Knowledge

When Draco and Hermione emerged from Slughorn's office, the midday sun had transformed into a gentle sunset, and the light in the corridor had dimmed considerably.

Hermione let out a long sigh, then looked helplessly at the boy beside her. "Draco, you're far too reckless! I always brew potions according to the precise instructions in the textbook, but you always improvise."

"The result is good—isn't that enough?" he said dismissively.

"How can that be the same? The methods in books have been verified by countless Potions masters, making them more authoritative. How can you change them arbitrarily and disrespect established knowledge?" she asked.

Although she'd gone along with him this time for specific reasons, it didn't mean she agreed with such cavalier modifications to proper procedure.

As they spoke, they strolled to a secluded corner of the courtyard. It was quiet and peaceful, with only a few ornate carved benches and clusters of dense rose bushes.

"I understand what you mean. The brewing of any potion must be precise, specific, and delicate to achieve perfect balance." Draco sat down with Hermione on an ornate bench, paused, and seeing Hermione's approving expression, continued:

"However, you may not realize that brewing advanced potions is an entirely different matter. The reason high-level potions are difficult to create, and why Potions masters can gain fame and fortune, is because only a select few can successfully brew them. Do you think everyone fails because they don't strictly follow the instructions?"

Hermione's expression grew troubled. She asked, puzzled, "So the problem lies in the instructions themselves? Then why not publish the improved methods?"

Draco smiled lazily.

"Do you remember what I said? Rarity makes things precious." He gestured toward the rose bush beside them—a neatly trimmed cluster of red roses with one or two white blooms scattered among them.

"Do you think one or two white roses are more memorable than the dozens of red roses in this cluster?" He casually plucked one of the white roses, inhaled its scent lightly, and handed it to Hermione.

Hermione accepted the white rose thoughtfully, frowning as she studied it.

Draco glanced at her, seeing her still looking confused, and decided to explain further. "As far as I know, many advanced potion recipes in textbooks are flawed—they're inherently imperfect. While the basic framework is correct, there are always hidden secrets in the specific operational details. The reason Potions Masters are so sought after is simply because they've discovered these details through personal talent or master-to-apprentice transmission. This is their livelihood, the secret to their wealth and prestige—why would they reveal it completely?"

"This is absolutely absurd—"

"Look at Professor Slughorn's quarters, and you can see he lives quite luxuriously. He brews all manner of advanced potions for extra income, sells them to apothecaries, and enjoys a very comfortable retirement," Draco said matter-of-factly. "If everyone could brew potions as easily as you and I, would anyone still patronize the apothecary? Would they still need to order potions from Professor Slughorn? If nobody needed him, wouldn't this Potions master starve?"

Hermione clutched the white rose tightly and whispered, "But—"

"But?" He raised an eyebrow.

"But that's not fair," she said indignantly, raising her voice.

Draco gave a sardonic laugh, turning to look at her as if he'd heard the most absurd thing imaginable. "You're talking to me about fairness?"

"Yes, it's unfair. It's a monopoly on knowledge—a waste of resources! Just because a few people want to maintain their privileged position, they control access to information, arbitrarily build barriers around knowledge, and prevent others from entering the garden of truth. Isn't that unfair?" Hermione said indignantly.

Draco looked at her in surprise, not expecting such a passionate response.

Hermione lowered her eyes. "You grew up in a wizarding family, surrounded by magical knowledge and resources. I imagine you have a vast library of books about magic, some of which even Hogwarts might not possess..."

He watched her stare at the white rose in her hand, a melancholy expression crossing her face. "Also, you can consult powerful Potions masters and easily acquire secrets that others may never learn in their entire lives. For you, it's merely a matter of asking an elder."

"That's not entirely accurate—" Draco tried to interject.

She interrupted him, turning her gaze to the red roses in the distance—so vibrant yet so overlooked. "And those Muggle-born wizards can only acquire knowledge from books, can only regard diligence as their sole asset, only to discover they're faithfully following flawed methods as gospel truth..."

Draco's mouth opened as if to speak. He wanted to say something but found himself at a loss for words.

"I've always, always tried so hard to learn. I read every book I can find, thinking this would help me catch up with you… I thought knowledge could bridge the gap in our backgrounds, as long as I was diligent enough… as long as I devoted more time to studying, I believed that one day I would surpass you… But what if even knowledge has barriers…"

Hermione couldn't continue. She curled up in his coat—which he still hadn't reclaimed—and buried her head in her knees.

From the rise and fall of her back and the slight trembling of her shoulders, Draco was certain she was crying.

Instinctively, he wanted to refute her words, but he couldn't find an argument.

He recalled the countless days and nights Hermione Granger had spent immersed in those thick tomes in the library.

He'd once genuinely wondered why she worked so hard.

He'd been puzzled about what motivated her to study so diligently.

Now he finally understood.

Hermione Granger studied from a place of profound insecurity.

She'd lacked security from the very beginning. From the moment she boarded the Hogwarts Express, she'd confided her anxieties to him. At the time, he'd dismissed them, knowing how brilliant she would become.

But she didn't know.

She didn't know what kind of outstanding witch she would grow to be. Filled with worry and anxiety, she studied relentlessly, wanting to integrate into wizarding society as quickly as possible. She did everything she could to compensate for the decade she'd spent outside the wizarding world.

He suddenly realized what she was struggling against.

Hermione Granger possessed the fiercest pride and competitiveness imaginable. She refused to lose to anyone.

A Muggle-born girl who wanted to succeed in the wizarding world could only rely on her own diligence and hard work—there were no extra resources available. Why shouldn't she have access to those resources?

If there were errors in a textbook, she could only learn those errors and firmly believe they were correct.

It was perfectly reasonable for her to feel wronged about this.

An invisible barrier existed within the wizarding world, along with countless unspoken rules. Where there were beneficiaries, there were correspondingly those who suffered. This was true of any society.

As one of the beneficiaries, Draco himself had been oblivious.

What was fairness? What was unfairness?

Born with privilege, he'd always lived in abundance. How could he possibly have experienced the injustice of fate or class differences?

In his youth, naive and sheltered, he'd never questioned such things—his father, Lucius, had always taught him: "Birth determines everything. This society has always been survival of the fittest. Don't pity others—you can't save them all. As pure-blood wizards, the only thing we need to do is maintain our superior status, build barriers, and always remain excellent."

He'd once completely embraced his father's ideology, arrogantly facing everything, believing he should be the center of the world and stand at the pinnacle of society.

However, gradually, his education at Hogwarts had challenged that worldview.

His youthful arrogance was gradually shattered. After encountering Muggle-born wizards, and even pure-blood wizards who supported Muggles, he increasingly felt that "blood status theory" and "pure-blood supremacy" were crude, arrogant, and even cruel.

In the wizarding world, the debate about magical bloodlines had never ceased.

The invisible boundary had always existed. The Dark Lord's extremist actions had only made this vague boundary clearer.

Watching Hermione's trembling shoulders and listening to her low, suppressed sobs, Draco felt as though he couldn't breathe.

He suddenly remembered Charity Burbage, the Muggle Studies professor who'd died before his eyes. What had she done wrong?

And then there was Hermione. In his past life, at Malfoy Manor, she'd been tortured with the Cruciatus Curse, lying on the floor in despair, her wrists carved with the bloody slur "Mudblood," her tear-filled eyes looking at him.

That scene continued to torment him, relentlessly.

At that moment, he'd felt profound regret and realized he was a complete coward.

Merlin's beard, he'd been utterly confused, not knowing what to do, completely panicked. When Harry snatched the wand from his hand, instead of trying to chase or stop him, he'd hoped Harry could escape and take her with him to survive.

Hermione shouldn't have died there. She shouldn't have been tortured by that madwoman.

She should be a vibrant, cheerful girl, wielding her wand to conjure a flock of beautiful, pecking birds with a triumphant smile on her face—not lying on the floor of Malfoy Manor, looking at him with broken eyes.

She shouldn't be crying. She shouldn't be this heartbroken.

In that instant, Draco felt his heart shatter. He looked at the crying girl beside him, wanting to comfort her but hesitating.

He was one of the privileged few she resented, one of the sources of the injustice she described. Would she hate him? Would she still be willing to talk to him?

But she was crying. He couldn't bear to see her cry anymore. He gently placed his hand on her back, tentatively patting her slowly, and said in the gentlest voice he could summon, "I'm sorry, Hermione. It's my fault—you're absolutely right. It's not fair to Muggle-born wizards, and it's especially unfair to a witch as exceptional and hardworking as you."

Hermione lifted her tear-stained face, her large brown eyes brimming with sorrow.

She looked at Draco, sobbing, and said, "I just felt terrible. I don't know why I got so upset. It wasn't directed at you—you've always been so kind to me… I shouldn't have raised my voice at you..."

Thankfully, she didn't hate him. Draco breathed a sigh of relief. He stood and retrieved a pale grey silk handkerchief from his pocket. He knelt before Hermione, who was curled in a ball, and gently wiped away her tears, as tenderly as an artist perfecting his masterpiece.

"It's all right." A hint of guilt flickered in his grey eyes. "You can be angry with me—it was my fault. Earlier today, I should have been more explicit with Slughorn about you, so he wouldn't have asked so many foolish questions. Muggle-born or wizard-born, everyone has the right to receive knowledge equally—any knowledge."

He spoke in a gentle tone. Hermione tried to stop crying; she didn't want to appear weak before him. Besides, he looked even sadder than she felt, which made her feel worse about having snapped at him.

She looked at him hesitantly, at the boy who was gently wiping her tears. "Do you really… think that way? Do you agree… that we should receive knowledge equally?"

"I must admit, I didn't understand this before. It was your excellence that changed my perspective. It would be a tremendous loss to the wizarding world if a talented witch like you were misled. I'm sorry I didn't see this from your viewpoint before." The boy spoke sincerely, worry etched across his refined features.

"It's all right. It's not your fault," Hermione whispered, blinking as fresh tears welled in her eyes.

He was nothing like the cold, aloof person he appeared to be at school. He was gentle. He seemed to be praising her and trying to understand her, which made her feel simultaneously wronged, surprised, and incredulous.

"Listen, Hermione. While I acknowledge there is discrimination against non-pure-bloods in wizarding society, most people value ability above all. Even in Slytherin, which reveres bloodlines, there are many half-blood wizards who've earned respect through their own capabilities—like Professor Snape. Yes, don't look so surprised—he's a half-blood wizard," Draco said calmly, his brow slightly furrowed as he gently wiped her cheek.

Hermione's attention was immediately captured, and her mouth fell open, momentarily forgetting her tears.

"Furthermore, Professor Slughorn isn't a wizard who believes solely in blood status. Nor is he the type to casually mentor a student based on a few words from an old friend. The reason you're here today is entirely because he heard you successfully brewed Polyjuice Potion in your second year. What he values is absolutely your talent." He smiled slightly at her and carefully dabbed the tears from beneath her eyes with his handkerchief.

"Speaking of which, how did he learn about that? Did you tell him?" Hermione asked in a low voice, sniffling.

"I did. You should have seen his expression when he first heard—his eyes practically lit up with excitement." He tucked a small strand of tear-dampened hair behind her ear and whispered, "Today's test was material that should be taught in sixth year, but you still performed excellently and earned his respect. Isn't that reward for your hard work, diligence, and extensive knowledge?"

Hermione was stunned. The boy before her was smiling faintly, the fiery sunset casting a pinkish glow on his pale face. His eyes were filled with concern, as if she were a fragile piece of oriental porcelain—it simply defied comprehension.

She noticed a wisp of pale gold hair falling across his brow, disrupting his usually immaculate appearance; however, he—who always paid such attention to his looks—was completely unaware.

This sight reminded Hermione of that morning when she'd been petrified, when he'd also cared for her with such wholehearted devotion and cherished her deeply. She finally suppressed the last sob in her throat and slowly managed an embarrassed smile.

At that moment, she belatedly realized that Draco was cradling her face while wiping away her tears, so she quickly took his handkerchief and said, "I… I can do it myself."

Draco smirked, released his hold, and pretended to be intensely interested in a bee that had landed on a nearby flower.

A gentleman should grant a lady time and privacy to recover her composure.

However, recalling their conversation, Draco sighed quietly.

It wasn't uncommon in the wizarding world for practitioners to withhold knowledge to maintain their status as masters. He'd grown up in such an environment and had never questioned the ethics or consequences of such behavior.

Take *Advanced Potion-Making* as an example.

Why did Professor Slughorn, retired for many years, still know the Hogwarts Potions curriculum so thoroughly? Because the textbook hadn't changed in decades. The reason Professor Snape's student notes—which he'd shared with Draco—were so valuable was because Snape had used the same textbook during his school years.

This meant that for at least twenty years, not a single word of this book had been revised.

How many students had studied and attempted to brew the Draught of Living Death? And how many students, with faith in books and knowledge, had ultimately been disappointed in their potion-making abilities?

Had they ever considered that the problem wasn't their lack of skill, but rather that the textbook itself contained errors?

Potions prodigies like Professor Snape who proactively corrected the methodology were probably extraordinarily rare; most students diligently followed the textbook. Were these students simply destined to be misled?

This was no longer merely about protecting trade secrets—it was blatantly misleading young minds.

Draco dared not pursue this line of thought further.

The wizarding world had stagnated. Despite their innate magical talent, wizards were clearly a uniquely gifted population who should have created far more brilliant civilizations and magic.

However, the once-glorious ancient wizarding families gradually declined, the development of new potions and improvement of spells waned, and the wizarding world's advancement was far slower than the Muggle world's.

While wizards remained complacent and self-satisfied, the Muggle world had witnessed the advent of telephones, mobile phones, aeroplanes, rockets, and even nuclear energy… Meanwhile, the Dark Lord was still obsessing over blood purity ideology, plunging the wizarding world into chaos.

The murder of promising wizards who could have contributed greatly to magical society, coupled with severe economic decline and a drastic decrease in the wizarding population, severely hampered the wizarding world's development—even causing regression.

Add to that these knowledge barriers and artificial obstacles—what future did the wizarding world have?

Before the Dark Lord's rise, Muggle-born wizards and pure-blood wizards had been moving toward integration, and though the process was slow, there had been hope.

But the Dark Lord's emergence shattered everything.

Extremist ideology replaced moderate philosophy, tearing society apart. Plains became canyons, and people were forced to opposite sides, hating one another. The wizarding world became a black-and-white, life-or-death nightmare.

Today, Draco had finally come to fully comprehend a truth:

The Dark Lord couldn't bring prosperity to any family or lead the wizarding world to glory.

The ideology he championed—pure-blood supremacy—brought not progress, but regression.

He was a stumbling block to the wizarding world's development, a complete and utter madman.