Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's office.
"Cough, cough-cough, excellent—I've covered all the details on that spell, cough..."
Quirrell's coughs came in waves, each word dragging out like it took everything he had.
The hand he clamped over his mouth looked skeletal, his skin even paler than usual.
Lucien demonstrated the wand movements for casting, all while "concernedly" asking, "Professor, you don't look so hot. Maybe head to the hospital wing for Madam Pomfrey? Or Professor Snape—his potions could..."
"No, no need. I'll be fine in a bit."
Quirrell waved him off frantically, then pivoted the topic sharp as a hex. Clearly, he wasn't keen on dwelling on his health with anyone.
"This curse—Bloody Scars—slashes deep gashes across the target's skin, and those wounds? They don't heal easy, cough..."
"So, cough, whatever you do, don't try it on classmates."
With that, Quirrell cracked a smile that looked about as cheerful as a funeral.
Lucien aimed his wand at the practice dummy in the room, tracing a light "X" from the upper left.
"Bloody Scars."
Whoosh—
A dozen crimson blood-blades erupted from his wand tip, streaking toward the dummy's head, neck, and torso.
The cuts landed in unison—sharp slices blooming across the wood, some shallow, some gouging deep.
The deeper gashes from the repeated hits carved right through, and that slender neck? Snapped clean off.
Sizzle, sizzle—
Lucien squinted, watching red liquid ooze from the wounds, hissing faintly as it etched light corrosion into the dummy's surface.
Not bad—solid direct damage, and a bonus poison effect?
Hmm, but it still felt... off. Like there was room to tweak.
He could refine it more.
Quirrell nodded at the display, his voice a raspy whisper of praise. "Impressive, Lucien. Your talent's something else, as always."
"Most folks new to this curse manage two or three blades on a good day. But you? First try, a dozen of 'em—and dead accurate. Remarkable."
"It's mostly because you explained it so well, Professor."
Lucien gave a polite nod—not just flattery, either. Quirrell ranked high among adult wizards skill-wise.
And his grasp on theory? Rock-solid. When he broke things down, he had real insight.
"That said, Professor, I get the feeling this curse has some untapped potential? Like, spots worth digging into?"
Lucien laid out his hunch.
Quirrell's lip twitched into a smirk.
Bingo, he thought. Just as I figured—a true Ravenclaw, with that instinctive itch for knowledge.
Quirrell had tweaked the dark magic his master bestowed, dumbing it down on purpose, leaving flaws ripe for spotting.
And Lucien—with his freakish knack for dark arts—had sniffed 'em out, just like Quirrell hoped. Even tossed in ideas for fixes.
Ever since Voldemort's botched Imperius variant backfired (with Lucien turning the tables), the Dark Lord switched tactics: lure the kid into dark magic, hook him deep. Let him taste the power, crave more... until he realized who sat at the pinnacle.
Voldemort savored breaking the brilliant, the strong. He wanted Lucien to feel his supremacy, bow from the gut.
With the go-ahead, Quirrell wove in dark lore during their sessions—subtle hooks, reeling Lucien in.
Lately, he'd upped it to fuller spells.
To Quirrell's shock? Lucien didn't push back!
The kid's progress was blistering—Quirrell could barely keep up.
But after a few lessons, trouble brewed.
Lucien learned too fast. Too easy.
Years as a student—and a star Ravenclaw alum—taught Quirrell the drill: stuff that clicks without sweat? It doesn't stick.
Only the thorny puzzles, the ones you wrestle and peel back layers on, spark real fire. Get 'em chasing answers on their own.
For a prodigy like Lucien? Double true.
"Lucien, that's a sharp question. Keep that curiosity—it's the Ravenclaw way."
"Your idea's clever. Hmm, this spell... maybe we could try..."
Through back-and-forth, Quirrell coaxed out the curse's true form, bit by bit.
Making it feel like Lucien's brainstorm, his breakthrough.
Time slipped by—
"Yes! Potions!"
"Not just a straight-up curse—it pairs with potions too!"
Lucien's eyes lit up, genuine thrill sparking.
Combo spells like this? Rare gems.
The magic itself was gold, sure—but the thinking behind it? Priceless.
Blending charms and brews.
Take that framework, spin off new tricks? Totally doable.
Lucien uncorked a vial, misting faint black potion into the air as he flicked his wand.
This time, the "X" traced from lower right, ending in a deliberate curve.
"Bloody Scars."
The blades materialized, sucking up the potion mid-air—black veins threading through the crimson.
Where they hit the dummy now? The wounds wept potion-laced gashes, tiny wood chips crumbling off. They hit the floor corroded to dust before they even landed.
Quirrell's grin widened.
Oof, that's vicious. Carrying vials like that? Not exactly goody-two-shoes material.
"Lucien, you're a wizard who leaves me speechless. First time I've co-developed a spell tweak with a student."
Quirrell beamed, dialing up the kindly mentor vibe.
(If you ignored his gaunt, wrecked face.)
Lucien played along, eyes wide with feigned sincerity—channeling drama club tricks, laced with just enough real feeling. "It's all thanks to your patient guidance. Your teaching's on another level..."
Smooth talk on the surface, but inside? Snark central.
Heh, finally coughing up the full spell.
No wonder it felt half-baked, full of holes.
Classic bait-and-switch.
Well, not quite—he did teach the basics.
Just fed me the crippled version first, then "guided" me to the real deal...
More like we "collaborated" on the upgrade.
Why the extra hoops, Quirrell?
To keep it from being a cakewalk?
Could've just dragged it out, skimped on details.
Nah—this was engineered struggle.
Lucien eyed Quirrell's faint smile, satisfaction ghosting his ashen features.
Crafted hurdles in the learning curve...
To make it burn deeper into my brain?
Dark magic...
Tsk. Putting in real effort, huh?
As he drilled the spell, Lucien let a vortex swirl in his eyes, compressing it tiny.
Mid-question, he slipped in a quick Eye of the Seer scan on Quirrell—probing his magic circuits.
Shifted again.
Shrinking. Twisting.
The toll of Voldemort's possession?
Speaking of—back at the Quidditch match, that peek at Voldy's circuits? Wildly unique.
Nothing like a standard adult wizard's.
Hmm, Dumbledore's were off too.
That's part of what sets 'em apart—leagues above the rest?
Wand waving through reps, Lucien leaned in like an eager pupil. "Professor, I read in a book lately about wizards' internal magic circuits..."
——————
(Hanging in there! (,,ºัωºั,,))
——————
Once Lucien was out the door.
Quirrell's face twisted in unease. He ventured, voice tentative, "Master, Lucien asked about magic circuits... but I'm no expert there..."
A cold, gravelly hiss slithered through his mind: "Heh, of course a fool like you wouldn't grasp it. Magic circuits are a wizard's core!"
"I knew I had the right read on him—that thirst for knowledge. Proper Ravenclaw."
The voice paused, then pressed on. "I'll feed you scraps on circuits."
"Drip-feed him a taste. When he looks back on this year—who poured the richest, rarest lessons into his head—he'll know who to follow..."
Quirrell bobbed his head like a puppet. He just wanted this nightmare over.
Help Voldemort rebuild his body, snag back his own flesh and soul—freedom.
At first, it was bearable. But as months dragged? Horror sank in: his body wasting, magic fraying, even his soul curdling!
No stopping it!
Not what the Dark Lord promised—but Quirrell was trapped.
By the time he woke up to it, his fate dangled from that soul-shard in his skull.
So, push harder. Get Voldemort his goal, fast.
Quirrell clung to faith: the once-terrifying Dark Lord, restored? Wouldn't covet this frail shell. He'd be cut loose...
"How go the tracks on those two unicorns in the Forest?"
Quirrell jolted at the sudden probe, stammering, "Almost, Master—nearly there. One's a female... pregnant. She..."
"Excellent!"
"Excellent... excellent..."
Voldemort's tone iced over, shrill and grating—headache spiking through Quirrell like knives.
"You've done well, Quirinus. That newborn foal? Purest, cleanest life force imaginable."
"It'll flood me with power. The Stone—hahaha..."
"Once I'm at my peak, Minister of Magic for you. Isn't that your dream? Hahahahaha!"
Quirrell swallowed agony, mumbling agreement, flattering the tyrant's fantasies.
But inside? Icy dread.
He knew the lore cold: unicorn blood sustains the dying, stretches life thin.
But the curse? A lifetime hex—half-life worse than death.
And Voldemort? Pure soul now—no gulping blood himself.
So who was drinking...?
...
On the path to the library.
A bright voice cut through: "Lucien! Finally caught you."
He turned—blonde girl rounding the corner.
Daphne Greengrass. What'd she want?
They'd chatted a bit early last term. Nothing since.
Christmas over, and now this? Come to demand a gift?
Nah—she hadn't sent him squat.
"Greengrass? Something up?"
Lucien half-plotted a quick exit, but gut said stay.
Ever since the Animagus grind, he'd doubled down on that Inspiration and Divination book.
Meditating by the book—solid gains.
Daphne strolled up, hands clasped behind her back.
"Lucien, you've got friends everywhere—not just Ravenclaw. Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs you click with easy. But..."
"Why just Malfoy in Slytherin?"
The curveball hit Lucien cold. He stared at Daphne, brain scrambling her wiring.
Uh, obvious? Didn't wanna tangle deeper with Slytherin's headache factory.
Malfoy? Shoved books and "friend fees" his way, plus kept it low-drama in class.
The so-called "popularity"? Just from helping folks study across houses.
No biggie.
He taught decent, they dug it—end of.
So why no Slytherin bonds?
Lucien flashed to Herbology once—grouped with a Slytherin.
Kid fumbled bad; Sprout hinted he pitch in.
Lucien shrugged—helping's normal.
But after his tip? The prat brushed mud off his collar with filthy hands and sneered, "An honor to serve Zabini."
First second: Lucien blinked. First time hearing that crap. Needed a beat to process.
Second second? Zabini was planted.
Good breeding kicked in—Lucien yanked him out under Sprout's stunned glare.
That class? Rare no-points day for him.
No deduction either.
Sprout just pulled him aside after, gentle as ever: "Plants do well in soil, dear. People? Not so much."
Stuck with him.
Reinforced the vibe: Steer clear of Slytherins.
Facing Daphne's prod, Lucien paused, then drawled, "You... know how Slytherins roll with folks?"
Daphne nodded brisk, rattling off: "Yup. Arrogant, smug, looking down their noses..."
"Scorn anyone weaker, poorer..."
"Pureblood pride over everything—Muggle-borns and half-bloods are..."
...
Lucien zoned on her ramble, more lost than ever.
Kid knows it fine. So... what?
Then Daphne halted, jabbing a thumb at herself. "I know 'cause that's me too."
Lucien's gaze stayed even, taking in her frank shrug.
"So... what's your point?"
Daphne flashed a polished, elegant smile. "Lucien, I heard from Draco."
"To talk real with you? No tricks or fibs. So..."
She swung her hidden hand forward, offering a book—eyes dancing brighter. "My tuition fee—satisfactory?"
"Professor Grafton?"