As the incantation was spoken, the next moment, a dark shadow burst forth from the tip of Roger's wand. A black venomous snake, over three meters long, hissed and flicked its tongue as it landed on the ground. The snake raised its body into an attacking posture, eyes glinting with menace.
On Roger's system panel, the words [Serpensortia] fully formed. Unlike the faint bronze shimmer it once had when he first learned the Charm, small specks of glowing bronze light now flickered across the word—indicating that the spell had reached the Bronze Level threshold.
Roger's lips curved slightly, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
"The improvement in Transfiguration mastery really does act as a multiplier in learning other Charms," he mused. "Even at just Bronze Level, the effect is significant. Once my Transfiguration reaches a higher stage, I might even start learning new Charms directly at the Bronze Level."
With that thought, Roger's focus shifted back to the task at hand. He waved his wand again, and the black serpent dissolved into smoke before vanishing completely. Throughout the entire process, Roger remained intensely focused, unwilling to miss even the smallest detail.
When the last wisp of smoke faded, wonder and astonishment flashed in his eyes.
"Amazing. Truly amazing."
"This Charm is essentially a complete Transfiguration sequence in itself—creating a snake from nothing, turning smoke into flesh, and then returning it all back to smoke before fading into nothingness again. The fact that I don't need to fully grasp the underlying logic, but can still complete the transformation simply by chanting and performing the correct wand movements, is remarkable."
He paused, his excitement rising.
"It's like running a program—I don't need to understand the code, I just execute it. But the technology behind it is profound. Whoever invented this Charm must have had Transfiguration mastery at the highest level."
Roger inhaled deeply, exhilaration flashing across his face. His gaze fell again on his Transfiguration skill level. It remained at Bronze, but the glow had nearly filled the bar. He felt that if he could even partially grasp the essence of Serpensortia, his Transfiguration would break through to Bronze Level with ease.
Determined, he began practicing again. Each repetition filled the greenhouse with bursts of smoke and the sharp hissing of conjured serpents. He concentrated fully, following the chaotic flow of magic as it changed form—smoke spreading, condensing, then shifting into the body of a snake before unraveling back again. The sheer complexity left Roger in awe.
After a long while, he finally stopped. A wry smile tugged at his lips.
"It's too intricate… To comprehend it fully is a vast undertaking."
But his mind quickly steadied. "No need to rush. I'll take it piece by piece. Let's start with the smallest details—say, how a single scale forms on the snake's body. Slowly, I'll unravel it."
And so, the hissing of serpents and the crackle of dissipating smoke echoed once again in the Little Greenhouse.
Meanwhile, at the end of the fourth-floor corridor of Hogwarts Castle, in front of the trapdoor, a hooded figure stepped inside without hesitation. The sight that met him nearly filled the chamber: a massive Cerberus, its three heads brushing the ceiling, hot breath stinking of decay.
Cerberus let out a menacing growl, its rumble shaking the air. Quirrell's palms grew slick with sweat as he stared at the beast. Its hide was near impenetrable, its brute strength capable of tearing a troll apart. Worse yet, its magical resistance was immense. Ordinary charms bounced off uselessly; even the Killing Curse had little effect. Compared to this, even a dragon would have been an easier guard.
Quirrell had suffered too many defeats before this guardian. Now, he pinned all his hopes on the method he had wrested from Hagrid.
As Cerberus lunged, Quirrell flicked his wand, conjuring a violin. The bow moved as though played by an invisible hand, producing a hauntingly gentle melody. At once, Cerberus slowed, its eyelids drooping. Within moments, the great beast collapsed with a thunderous crash, snoring heavily.
Quirrell's heart pounded furiously, but he kept the violin playing as he hurried past the beast into the passageway.
"The Philosopher's Stone will be mine!" he thought fiercely. "Without Cerberus, nothing else can stop me. Devil's Snare? In a minute, I'll reduce it to ashes!"
But as he stepped into the next chamber, dimness closed in, and writhing shadows slithered toward him. Quirrell sneered.
"Devil's Snare? Pathetic. Begone!" He unleashed a wave of fire from his wand.
Yet to his shock, the flames had no effect. The Devil's Snare continued to twist and lash, as though provoked by the fire rather than repelled. Panic surged through him. He quickly threw up a protective charm, barely buying himself time.
"How can Devil's Snare resist fire?!" he thought frantically. Then a bitter realization hit him—the air smelled faintly of Lava Grass juice. "So they coated it with this? Why didn't I know?!" His frustration boiled over. Devil's Snare's only major weakness had been nullified.
Worse still, these vines were not ordinary. Their surfaces glimmered with a metallic sheen, stronger and thicker than any Devil's Snare he had ever seen. His protective spells shuddered under their impact, nearly collapsing.
"This… this is a cultivated subspecies! A mutation with enhanced aggression!" he realized with dread. "This isn't what I was told—none of it matches! If the rest of the obstacles are like this, my entire plan is finished!"
As the vines lashed and coiled, his barriers crumbled. Only Voldemort's dark power saved him; black fire erupted from his wand, buying him a chance to flee. He stumbled from the chamber, drained and furious.
The night wind outside chilled him, but it could not quench his rage. "I hunted a unicorn, drank its blood, risked the curse—all to build my strength—and now it's wasted! Damn you, Dumbledore!"
Though furious, he had learned one thing: every obstacle was far deadlier than expected. He would need to prepare meticulously for the next attempt, or else risk utter failure.
Back in the greenhouse, Roger rubbed his temples, exhaustion throbbing behind his eyes. He had practiced Serpensortia over a hundred times, enough to raise the spell itself to Bronze Level, yet the deeper logic of its transformations remained elusive.
"The structure is too complex… expecting to understand it at once is unrealistic," he sighed. "Step by step, Roger. Step by step."
His gaze shifted to the Devil's Snare he had been cultivating. At the wounds he had inflicted earlier with Sectumsempra, new branches had begun sprouting. His eyes lit up with joy.
"They're growing back—secondary nodes. That means I can push the cultivation further." He touched the new branches, marveling at their metallic sheen. The texture was like flexible steel.
"With each regeneration, the Devil's Snare grows tougher. Sectumsempra's magic seems to push the mutation further—the new branches are like steel compared to the original."
His excitement flared. Sectumsempra, already his strongest Silver Level spell, had stagnated in progress since reaching that tier. But with this mutated Devil's Snare as training material, perhaps he could push it to Gold Level before detention ended.
At the thought, his heart surged with hope. For weeks he had been uneasy, sensing how fate itself was diverging from the story he knew. New events were unfolding—the Ministry hearing, the academic review—and he had no idea what trouble awaited him in the future. But now, seeing this breakthrough, his anxiety eased.
Power was the answer. With enough power, no twist of fate could shake him.
Resolute, he aimed Sectumsempra at the new branches. Sparks flew, the steel-like vines resisting his cuts. Instead of frustration, Roger felt exhilarated. Each attempt pushed his mastery higher, the silver glow on his system panel thickening with promise.
"At this rate," he thought, eyes alight, "Gold Level won't be far!"
Unnoticed, dawn broke. Quirrell staggered back into the castle, pale and drained. He had failed to find another unicorn, and the mutated Devil's Snare remained a mystery. But as he walked the corridor, he overheard whispers among students:
"Did you hear? That Herbology Master from the review panel fainted in Roger's greenhouse yesterday—some kind of mutated Devil's Snare he cultivated. Professor Snape said Roger's talent in Herbology is unbelievable!"
Quirrell froze, surprise flashing in his eyes. So it wasn't Sprout who bred the mutation—it was Roger. And Roger was just a boy, locked in detention for three weeks, no escape. His lips curled into a smile. Such a child would be far easier to manipulate.
"Three weeks in confinement… He must be restless. Impatient. Angry. Vulnerable."
His hand tightened into a fist, confidence brimming as he thought of the power Voldemort had granted him—Legilimency, the ability to twist thoughts and bend minds.
"No need to rush. I'll wait. When his dissatisfaction peaks, I'll strike. He'll give me everything I need."
Three days later, the stage was quietly set.
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