Just after dinner, he slipped into the Room of Requirement, steps quick and quiet along the seventh-floor corridor. The wall shifted as he passed, the blended door sliding into place. Once inside, he willed the door to disappear.
Tonight was the night.
Not the Yule ritual. Not the magical core one. No. This was the physical ritual—Ravenclaw's design for fortifying flesh, bone, and blood.
He placed the satchel containing the potion ingredients onto a wide table he had prepared: cauldrons, burners fueled with steady blue fire, mortar, knives, vials, and a single silver bowl etched with runes.
Snape had supplied the ingredients two days earlier. Being a potions master, he naturally knew their properties, and he might have guessed that Gilderoy was attempting some kind of strength draught.
Gilderoy had only nodded; Snape hadn't asked further. Still, the dungeon bat had extracted a Favor owed in exchange.
I mean, it's fair, as he is actually giving away ingredients for free.
He emptied the satchel, lining up the contents carefully:
Moon-dried mallow root
Powdered thestral bone—illegal without Ministry clearance
Shaved antler of a rejuvenated stag
Distilled salamander ichor
Thick red resin from a rare Alpine evergreen
Three vials of his own blood, drawn in morning
Ravenclaw's notes lay open beside him. The parchment was worn but clear, her handwriting precise, her instructions deliberate. She had designed the ritual as a companion to her deeper magical research—simpler than core restructuring, but dangerous in its own right.
Gilderoy traced one of her sketches, human anatomy overlaid with lines of force flowing along bone and muscle. No wandwork. No charms. Just raw magic channeled through potion and ritual circle.
Alright, he muttered, rolling up his sleeves. Let's make something that could kill me if I mess it up. Fantastic life choices.
He lit the main burner.
The cauldron warmed. The room grew quiet.
He began.
Mallow root first. He crushed it until it became dust, sprinkled it clockwise, and let it dissolve. The brew turned pale green.
Next, the thestral bone powder—only a pinch. Too much, the book warned, and the bones would calcify instead of strengthen. He measured carefully, held his breath, and tipped it in. The mixture darkened.
Antler shavings and resin followed. The resin clung to the spoon, sticky and stubborn. He scraped it free with a muttered curse. The scent that rose was sharp, cutting, almost metallic.
Salamander ichor hissed as it met the potion. The color shifted abruptly, green melting into a molten amber.
He stirred, slow, even strokes, following Ravenclaw's rhythm: eight clockwise, two counter, eight clockwise again.
By the time he finished, the potion had thickened to something between liquid and magma.
Gilderoy leaned closer, examining it. Looks dangerous. His heart thumped.
Time for the ritual circle.
He cleared the floor. The Room of Requirement complied, shoving aside furniture with quiet obedience. The stone tiles cooled beneath his palms as he knelt, drawing Ravenclaw's circle from memory—he'd traced it countless times on parchment until every line was fixed in his mind.
Push the magic from within… channel it into the circle… no mistakes.
The final stroke glowed faintly. The circle hummed. There was no turning back now.
Gilderoy lifted the cauldron carefully and poured the molten potion into the silver bowl. Steam curled upward, faint red light dancing across the floor. He positioned himself at the edge of the circle, the bowl before him.
Ravenclaw's instructions echoed in his memory: Drink. Stand in the center. Speak the invocation without pause. Pain will be severe. Do not faint, or the ritual fails.
He exhaled sharply. "Right. No pain. No gain."
He raised the bowl.
It was hot. Too hot.
He swallowed before hesitation could strike.
The taste hit first—iron, fire, resin, something alien. It slid down like liquid stone, burning through throat, chest, and stomach.
His vision blurred. Darkness crept along the edges. He forced air into his lungs.
He straightened and roared the invocation:
"Corpus refoveo. Os roboro. Sanguinem renovare!"
The circle flared to life. Golden lines shot upward, forming a column of light around him.
Then the pain began.
Ribs seized. Spine bent backward with a loud crack. Heat roared through every vein. He doubled over, choking, eyes watering.
Fuck—this is worse than I expected—AAAAHHHH!*
The bowl clattered to the floor, spilling the last drops harmlessly.
Pain hammered deeper. Bones didn't just ache—they reshaped. Every muscle fiber twisted, pulled, and rewove itself. His skin crawled with invisible needles. His knees hit the stone as he lay in a feral posture, but he forced himself to remain conscious.
If I black out now… the ritual fails…
Magic flooded his body—raw, unrefined, brutal. It tore through him like a storm, stripping weaknesses from their roots. His arms shook violently. Black blood seeped from every orifice.
He clawed at consciousness.
I can't give up… not now.
Then, suddenly, silence.
Bones stopped trembling. Muscles drew tighter, denser. His heartbeat settled into a heavy, controlled rhythm. Vision cleared.
Gilderoy gasped, drawing a long, shuddering breath. Sweat soaked his robes. Hands trembled, but he was alive, conscious, and—most importantly—still inside the circle.
He stayed kneeling for a full minute, lungs burning, mind blank with exhaustion. Then, slowly, he pushed upright, body still aching but functional.
His body felt different. Alive in a way it hadn't been before. Stronger in every joint and fiber. He pressed a hand to his chest. Heart steady, firm, unwavering.
A small, exhausted smile crept across his lips. "Well," he whispered, voice rough, "that hurt like hell."
He glanced down at the ritual circle—spent, faintly glowing at the edges.
No one—and I mean no one—needs to know. I don't even think anyone with less willpower could survive this ritual.
He noticed the state of his robes. Black Blood and ash coated his body.
Must be the impurities of my body… I was so impure. Ha ha.
His muscles still throbbed, every fiber still raw from the ritual. Moving felt impossible. A faint ripple in the stone tiles caught his attention. The Room of Requirement had already read his thought. A bath appeared before him, warm. He lowered himself into it, letting the heat seep into his muscles, loosening them. He let out a quiet breath.
Aaahhh..
This… this is exactly what I need.
The water carried away the blood, the ash, the remnants of pain. He closed his eyes, almost drifting into sleep, letting the warmth settle over him. When he finally forced himself out, the Room shifted again. A bed materialized, simple and firm, exactly where he needed it. He collapsed onto it, body still trembling, chest heaving, and surrendered to exhaustion.
---
Drop the stones💎
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