Hearing Char's surprised cry, Hagrid's expression immediately grew tense. "Shhh," he hissed. "That's not something you can say out loud. Raising a Quintaped is much more serious than raising a dragon. But I did feed one, once."
A rare look of genuine horror crossed Hagrid's face. "It's a truly evil creature. I swear, apart from the Dementors, I've never seen anything more evil."
Char's own expression grew serious. If even Hagrid, a half-giant who considered the most ferocious magical creatures to be "gentle and cute," was horrified by the Quintaped, it was a testament to how difficult the creature was to handle. The Isle of Drear, where a large number of them gathered, must be an incredibly dangerous place. The difficulty of obtaining the Pute fruit from there was almost unimaginable.
But before he could dwell on that, he realized he had a lead. "Hasn't the Isle of Drear been sealed off by the Ministry for centuries?" he asked quickly. "No one has seen a Quintaped in years. Where did you get it, Hagrid?"
Hagrid shook his head. "I didn't get it. It was a Gryffindor friend of mine, back in the day. During Quidditch practice, his broom lost control and flew north, out over the deep sea. When he finally made it back, he had a baby Quintaped with him. We didn't know what it was at first, but once we figured it out… Merlin, we nearly wet ourselves. I don't know where he ended up putting it, but he said that at least we didn't have to worry about it eating everyone in the castle anymore."
A flash of inspiration struck Char. He remembered a passage from the history books, a fleeting description of the various forbidden items hidden in the Room of Requirement by generations of students. Among them was an iron cage containing the body of an unknown animal with five legs. The Gryffindor student must have locked the creature in the Room of Requirement, just like countless other dark artifacts over the years.
His heart began to pound. If the student had found the creature after his broom lost control, it meant that the Isle of Drear wasn't too far from Hogwarts. It was likely hidden by Ministry magic, but if a student could get in by accident, the protective spells couldn't be that strong. Or perhaps they were focused more on preventing the Quintapeds from escaping. If that was the case, his own platinum-level night vision, which allowed him to see the very "particles" of magic, might be able to detect the protective spells at night.
He remembered Hagrid mentioning the "deep northern sea." A strange feeling washed over him. In Muggle myths, that area was said to be the roaming ground of evil sea beasts. Until the 17th century, Muggles had frequently reported sightings of unidentified creatures there—magical animals that the Ministry had since worked to hide. At night, many of these creatures were particularly active. A wizard flying over the North Sea at night would be like a glowing beacon to them. If he were to search for the Isle of Drear at night, he couldn't guarantee his safety. It was a risk that required careful planning and preparation.
He left Hagrid's hut, his mind racing, and walked back toward his greenhouse. He had spent the last few days exploring the islands, and while the plants in the greenhouse were past the stage of needing constant maintenance, they still required regular pruning, soil loosening, and potion application. He worked, his mind replaying the descriptions of the North Sea from the books he had read. It was a vast "forbidden forest" on the sea, home to many unique magical creatures. Most were not aggressive, but there were exceptions.
The most famous was the Kraken. It was said to be over 150 meters in size and would drag any prey—sharks, whales, or ships—to the bottom of the sea. There were other creatures in the North Sea just as dangerous, all of them more active at night. He was hesitant, conflicted.
Just as he was weighing his options, his expression suddenly changed. He turned his gaze to the Guardian Tree, where the enchanted parchment from Quirrell was buried. The sapling was rustling, its leaves glowing with a silver halo. The two-faced man was contacting him again.
This was the third time it had happened recently. Each time, Quirrell would send the blood of the Acromantula through the parchment, allowing Char to greatly expand his new batches of Blood Jade. In return, Char would send his own blood, laced with a chronic poison, to restore the two-faced man's strength. It was a strange, dangerous symbiosis, and though Char was benefiting from it, he still felt a sense of unease.
He took a deep breath and looked at the parchment. This time, however, the words that appeared were not a request for his blood. It was a question he had not expected.
"Junior. You've been reading a lot of books about Quintapeds in the library lately. Are you interested in them?"
Char's pupils contracted slightly. This tone… it wasn't Quirrell. It was Voldemort himself. Even with his strength returning, Char thought, why would he waste his time on something like this?
This was Quirrell's question as well. "Master," he asked, "why waste your precious power on such trivial questions? Let me ask him."
But Voldemort just smiled. "Quirrell, you don't understand the significance of his actions." His eyes sparkled with a strange, almost admiring light. "First, he demanded the blood of an Acromantula. Then, he started searching for information on the Quintaped. It's clear that he is no longer willing to be constrained by the limits of his own body. He is seeking to break through the constraints of his talent through bloodline and body transformation."
He continued, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Think about the origin of the Quintaped. A bunch of mediocre, useless wizards, rotting away on an island. After their transformation, they became one of the most dangerous magical creatures in the world, with strength to rival the Ministry's elite Aurors. If that trash can achieve such power, what about a more talented wizard? If a wizard could perform a similar transformation on their own body, what new heights of magic could they reach? This is what the dark arts have been exploring for centuries. It is the third, unacknowledged branch of Transfiguration: Dark Magic Transfiguration. Or, as some call it, flesh and blood transfiguration. The Quintaped is the very source of its inspiration. Now, Quirrell, do you understand? That little wizard, Char, is after the art of flesh transfiguration!"
Voldemort was unusually excited. Quirrell's eyes widened, a new fear of Char taking root in his heart. The boy looked so honest, so unassuming. To think that such darkness lurked in his heart… even Dumbledore hadn't noticed. To have such thoughts at his age… calling him a Little Dark Lord was probably not an exaggeration.
Voldemort laughed coldly. "That's right. Dumbledore has no idea. I didn't even have to persuade him; he found this path on his own. He will be the most unexpected pawn I have planted by Dumbledore's side. Now, do you understand why I must speak to him myself?"
Quirrell's face was a mask of pure admiration. "The darkness in his heart, which even Dumbledore couldn't see, was immediately apparent to you, Master. You have true foresight. A keen eye."
Char, on the other side of the parchment, pondered for a long moment. Then, with a trembling hand, as if his deepest secret had been exposed, he wrote, "Senior. How do you know? You won't tell anyone, will you?"
A hint of pride touched Voldemort's spectral features. "You can always trust Senior Delphi," the bewitching words appeared. "I understand your desire. The ancient black magic of the Quintaped allowed those mediocre scum to gain a power many wizards could never obtain. It would be a shame not to utilize such magic. With a little Transfiguration, a little dark magic, a little blood of magical creatures, and the loss of a little insignificant, fragile emotion—the so-called humanity—the cage of talent is broken. A wider, more unimaginable world of magic lies ahead."
Voldemort was revealing his hand, laying out the twisted, obscure magical knowledge for Char to see. Char's pupils shrank to pinpricks. This wasn't ordinary Transfiguration. This was a twisted, forbidden black magic. He averted his eyes, as if burned. He knew his own strengths and weaknesses, and he knew Voldemort. The gifts of this monster always came with an unbearable cost. If he were truly trapped by his talent, perhaps, over time, he might have been tempted. But he had his planting system. Why would he follow the old, noseless path of his enemy?
Voldemort was not surprised by his hesitation. "I know that taking the first step into such forbidden knowledge is difficult. But I believe you will make the right choice. What I have shown you is only a fraction of what is possible. Use the blood of a 5X-level magical beast to transform your own bloodline. Don't worry, apart from a slight change in your temperament, no one will be able to tell. And later, when you collect three, or even seven, types of blood, even more amazing changes await you. Talent? It will no longer be a problem. What ordinary people call a genius will seem like nothing compared to you."
Char was about to end the conversation—the words on the parchment were too dangerous. But the last two numbers caught his eye. One, three, and seven. "Why, after using the blood of one magical animal, does the next transformation require three types? And the next, seven?"
A strange, deep smile appeared on Voldemort's lips. He's interested. That was all it took. Once he was tempted, he would eventually step onto the path, and become the perfect weapon to use against Dumbledore.
"The blood of 5X-level magical creatures contains incredible power," Voldemort explained patiently. "Using one type can enhance one's talent. But if two are introduced at the same time, their powers will conflict and consume each other, draining your life force instead of enhancing it. Only by introducing a third type, to provide a check and balance, can the internal friction be stopped, and a stronger transformation achieved. By the same token, the next check and balance requires a full seven types, prepared with exceptional precision. But I believe, with your intelligence, this will not be difficult for you."
The moment Voldemort finished his explanation, Char buried the parchment under the Guardian Tree. He let out a long breath, his tense nerves finally relaxing. Before he knew it, his forehead was covered in sweat. Talking to Voldemort was incredibly stressful. The dark lord's power had clearly grown, and the bewitching magic seeping through the parchment was much stronger than before. If not for his own strong will and the sacred magic of the Guardian Tree, he might have been persuaded.
But then, a strange light flashed in his eyes. Despite the danger, the information Voldemort had shared was priceless, knowledge that an ordinary wizard could never hope to obtain. It had also completely dispelled the confusion that had been nagging at him.
His eyes fell on the third set of Blood Jade in his greenhouse, the one he had watered with both dragon and Acromantula blood. The other two sets had matured, but this one was languishing. Now he knew why. The two types of blood were consuming each other. It needed a third to provide a counterbalance.
His eyes brightened. The Blood Jade was extremely beneficial to his legendary abilities. If he could introduce a third type of blood, the rewards would be taken to another level. The hematopoietic ability might even reach the Gold level. And if he went a step further, and used seven types of blood… the effect might be even more terrifying. Platinum-level rewards, mass-produced. The thought filled him with an excitement that took a long time to subside.
Of course, it wouldn't be as simple as just pouring blood on the plants. It would require a strict, precise blending process. And to do that, he needed to do one thing. His eyes fell on the parchment, and the twisted, evil dark magic of Transfiguration that Voldemort had shown him.
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