In the back of Professor Quirrell's head, the Dark Lord woke in a foul temper.
*"Quirrell, I told you to find a unicorn. Why are you making such a racket?
"It's only thunder. Must I soothe you as well?"*
Quirrell shivered, about to answer, when the Dark Lord frowned.
*"Wait. When did you find time to change your hair?
"What is that—so fluffy?"*
Quirrell touched his scalp; every strand stood on end. He looked up: thunderheads were thickening by the heartbeat.
The storm that should have converged on a newly forged Gold-Grade pill seemed to have lost its target—and was now looking for the nearest lightning-rod it hated most.
Spectral things drew lightning; a half-soul riding a living host drew it worse.
In moments the cloud-bank sank, and sheets of lightning came on for the two-faced man.
The Dark Lord's eyes bulged. Every scrap of his power was precious—saved for the decisive moment.
And now he was being struck by lightning?
Ridiculous.
But there was no help for it. Whatever protections wrapped Hogwarts, they couldn't blunt this storm. If he held back, Quirrell would be cinders—and the Philosopher's Stone would be lost.
With rage and loathing, he snatched up the wand and hurled everything he had against the storm. His cries vanished under the rolling thunder.
Meanwhile, in the Room of Requirement, Theo finally learned what swallowing a Gold-Grade pill truly meant.
"Comfort," he breathed. "Utterly glorious."
A river of heat surged through limbs and bone; the golden radiance of Adamantine Body, Unclouded Mind spread over his skin, brightening with every breath. He set the Flying Tiger breathing-method turning; the pill's power soaked in faster, and thin filaments of ambient qi bled out of the pill as well.
Far better than scrabbling with Dining on Wind & Drinking Dew or Earth-Spirit alone…
A thought flashed: this one Gold-Grade Flying Tiger Pill would be enough to anchor a cultivation base with the method—true mana, to wield divine arts and artefacts.
He refused the temptation.
"The Flying Tiger Manual is a soldiers' text; the method is auxiliary," he told himself. *"Good for efficiency—but a poor foundation for a disciple of the Great Teachings. If I lay bedrock, it will be the Eight-Nine Arcane Art.
"For now—feed the flesh and my magical strength."*
He channelled the power into muscle, blood, and bone, bleeding a small share into magic.
Night thinned; the blessing of Night's Demon ebbed. Theo opened his eyes—and the pressure that rolled off him exceeded last night's boon.
Gold flowed like liquid light across his skin; his hair flashed with a brilliant gleam; the air itself seemed to quiver.
Standing still, he could have let most witches and wizards hammer at him all day and never break his guard.
An intuition stirred—his death-ward had changed. He glanced at the System pane.
The note on Adamantine Body, Unclouded Mind had shifted from "negates one mortal calamity every three years" to "every one great year."
"So the ward grows as the body grows," Theo mused. "Keep going, and perhaps—saintly flesh, even in this world."
His magical strength had surged as well. Even without Night's Demon, it nearly matched his night-aspected peak—overtopping Harry's fragment-boosted power.
Two Gold-Grade pills remained; diminishing returns or not, they would carry him further. The other eighteen superior pills he would save—perfect boons for allies and the magical beasts he meant to raise.
"This batch paid for itself ten times over."
He checked the time and set aside the notion of a second dose. Leaving the Room, he stretched in the corridor as the sun rose.
"Another night without losing sleep," he said cheerfully. "Immaculate habits."
He turned toward the Great Hall—and paused. A silhouette perched on the far window-ledge; the shape was familiar.
Memory clicked. The Slytherin prefect he'd tied up with Transfiguration during the House melee—Gemma Farley.
What was she doing there?
Gemma sat on the sill, dabbing away tears, white-socked calves swinging under her robes as she wrote, face tight with worry.
"Father, Mother, I'm going to ruin everything. Under me Slytherin will lose the House Cup and shame the Farley name—what am I to do…"
She struck the lines out, began again.
"Dearest Father, Mother, I'm well; no need to worry. I'm adapting to prefect life. I'll do as Grandfather did—first a proper prefect, then the student council, then the Ministry, and one day the second Minister in the Farley line…"
"Please stop sending money; I have enough…"
She hesitated, then added: "Truly enough. Those rumours that I'm working in Hogsmeade for dress robes are just a prefect setting an example. The talk is fake news; I would never demean the Farley name."
She sealed the letter, hugged her reddened knees, stared down at the grounds.
"If I could fall and end everything without pain," she whispered, "perhaps that would be happiness. One clang—and all the pressure's gone."
Theo watched her and sighed.
"Senior—sit steady," he said gently. "If you fall, you'll give me nightmares—and go down as Hogwarts' most wronged prefect. You wouldn't want that in the annals, would you?"
The glow of panic in her eyes eased. She shifted back from the brink.
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