Hearing Lord Voldemort's words, Quirrell froze.
The Dark Lord wanted Sharl's blood? And not just any blood—Sharl's might even surpass Unicorn blood in potency?
"But Master—" Quirrell began.
"Why didn't you sense it before?" Voldemort's voice carried a rare note of curiosity.
"Perhaps this little Hufflepuff possesses a special bloodline," he added. "It hadn't manifested before, but now it's starting to show."
"None of that matters," Voldemort snapped, urgency piercing his tone. "What matters is that I can feel his blood can restore more of my Life. To increase my chances of obtaining the Philosopher's Stone, Sharl's blood is indispensable. Hurry up and act!"
A chill ran through Quirrell's heart. He had torn open Unicorn throats before, drinking their blood without hesitation. But a human? To drain a little wizard's life… resistance stirred within him.
Still, the curses from three Unicorns coursing through his veins left him no choice. Without replenishing power, the Philosopher's Stone would remain out of reach, and his fate would be unbearable. Survival demanded ruthlessness, he reminded himself. In this world, if one didn't strike first, one was struck.
Quirrell's eyes hardened with resolve. Moving toward the Little Greenhouse, he did not immediately force the door. Protective magic cloaked it, and although he could dispel it, he preferred caution.
A strange smile crossed Quirrell's face as he recalled earlier attempts. Disguised as the senior "Delphi," he had tried to coax Sharl into revealing secrets through parchment—but Dumbledore's interference had cut off the connection. Now, unimpeded, Quirrell slipped a piece of parchment through the greenhouse's crack. In delicate handwriting, he wrote:
"Junior Sharl, it's been a long time since I last spoke to you. Why don't you come find me? Your senior misses you."
Inside, Sharl's mood had been light. Planning the next steps for his magical cultivation, he mused:
"With this little silver bucket, a batch of blood emeralds matured early. Tomorrow, I'll extract some dragon blood from Norbert to cultivate another batch. In a month, I can harvest again. My blood-making ability may reach Platinum-level, enhancing my Legendary Power and Legendary Life abilities. Dragon Fire should steadily reach Silver-level, providing a reliable trump card. Piranha Algae harvest in six weeks will boost my Water Enhancement, nearly Platinum-level. By the end of the first school year, the Guardian Tree will mature. This series of harvests will significantly increase my strength before the second year."
But when he saw the familiar handwriting on the parchment, Sharl's joy evaporated. The Two-Faced Man's persistence was relentless.
Sharl initially intended to ignore it as before—tossing the parchment under the Guardian Tree, letting its magic fade. But his Platinum-level night vision revealed a silhouette outside the greenhouse, a powerful magical aura unmistakably belonging to the Two-Faced Man.
A surge of anxiety and unwillingness filled Sharl. His strength, though improved, was still insufficient. The excitement from his cultivation vanished, replaced by frustration. Could he continue to rely on luck every time he faced danger?
Sharl clenched his fists and steadied himself. Careful, he wrote back under the Guardian Tree:
"Sorry, senior. I don't know what happened before; no matter how I wrote, there was no response. Headmaster Dumbledore even warned me about getting lost in illusions, but I don't care for his grand reasons. You are not an illusion either. I dream of you—"
Outside, Quirrell's smile widened. The previous magical manipulation had embedded itself deep within Sharl's heart. Perhaps now, violent methods would be unnecessary. He could absorb Sharl's blood slowly through the parchment, avoiding sudden death and Dumbledore's attention.
Quirrell scribbled another line:
"Since you miss me so much, can you prick your fingertip and let your senior taste your blood?"
Sharl's heart skipped a beat. "Blood? You want to drink my blood?"
Quirrell began to explain, but Sharl's eyes lit up. Swiftly, he sliced an artery on his arm, letting blood gush onto the parchment like a high-pressure fountain.
At the same time, Sharl activated his Poison ability. Though he had considered it useless, it silently infiltrated his blood, designed to erupt later with devastating intensity.
"Senior, drink! Hurry!" Sharl urged.
Quirrell recoiled at the sheer volume of blood, but ecstasy overtook him. Lord Voldemort, impatient, seized control, leaning over the parchment. Gulping down Sharl's life-filled blood, he reveled in the sensation.
"This feeling… wonderful! Simply wonderful!" Voldemort exclaimed, savoring the revival of power he hadn't felt since losing his physical body.
When Voldemort paused, Quirrell was surprised to see a line appear:
"Stop, Sharl. Your senior has had enough."
Sharl's reply brimmed with excitement:
"Enough? You've only drunk a little. Are you really full? Can you taste anything? No, drink more!"
Blood continued to spurt, and even Voldemort felt an unfamiliar emotion—he marveled at the sincerity of this little Hufflepuff. Compared to the Death Eaters, the Order of the Phoenix, and Dumbledore himself, Sharl's dedication was unmatched.
Reluctantly, Voldemort dispelled the parchment's blood-absorbing magic. Sharl, seeing the blood no longer drain, felt a pang of regret. With his Legendary Life and enhanced blood-making ability, he could have endured for another ten minutes, infusing the Two-Faced Man with an enormous amount of poison.
"What a pity… why stop?" Sharl whispered.
Voldemort wrote:
"Sharl, I have felt your sincerity. Your senior Delphi is very happy. What do you want? Powerful magic, or wealth? Your senior can give you anything."
Sharl was stunned. Poisoning him would lead to a reward? Then realization struck. Blood emerald cultivation required vast amounts of 5X-level magical animal blood. Norbert could only provide so much, and obtaining other creatures' blood was difficult—but what if he used Voldemort? Acromantulas could serve as living blood bags. The yield from Acromantula blood would increase both his blood emeralds and his poison ability.
Sharl eagerly wrote:
"Senior, I want to replenish my blood, so I can continue to supply you. If possible, I know a group of Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest. There's a potion recipe that uses their fresh blood efficiently. It must be fresh, and I prefer not to kill them—they're pitiful creatures. If one died because of me, I'd never forgive myself."
Voldemort exhaled, a rare warmth in his eyes. Such loyalty, such devotion—it was everything he wanted in a subordinate. Yet the little Hufflepuff's innocence was intact. Let him keep it for now, he thought. Later, he would teach him ruthlessness.
Voldemort agreed to Sharl's request, disconnecting the parchment. Quirrell, disturbed by a fleeting discomfort, whispered:
"Master… don't you feel subtly uneasy after drinking Sharl's blood?"
A heavy snort echoed in Quirrell's mind.
"Are you suggesting the blood was tainted? A kind little Hufflepuff, who won't even kill an Acromantula—what bad intentions could he have? Don't try such petty tricks again. Now, fetch some Acromantulas and their blood."
Quirrell paled but obeyed. The slight discomfort vanished—perhaps it was just the natural revulsion at human blood.
As Quirrell left for the Forbidden Forest, Sharl exhaled. The immediate threat had passed. Luck had spared him this time—but could he rely on it again? His gaze hardened.
The Little Greenhouse was no longer sufficient. A Basilisk awaited in the second year, and Dementors in the third. Sharl refused to rely on luck or adaptability. Only the weak needed to adapt.
Firmly, he declared:
"I need more land. To plant more crops. Plant trees—I want to plant trees!"
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