A wistful sigh about youth passed in a blink, and with it came a blessed weekend with no classes.
Ron practically dove for the wizard chess set in the common room, hunting for a worthy opponent to batter.
Hermione—the queen of "there's a right answer"—threw herself straight back into study mode. Compared to canon, she now carried the extra job of fielding first-year Gryffindor questions, and she refused to let a single reply be anything less than airtight.
While those two were busy, Harry glanced at Theo.
"Theo, do you… have a minute?"
Theo blinked. "Uh, did you need me for something? I was about to hit the lavatory—stomach's a bit off."
Harry froze, then nodded sympathetically. "Too many of Hagrid's rock cakes. Not unusual. Want to stop by the infirmary?"
"You said you needed something?"
Harry's expression turned knotty and guilty at once. After a long moment, he shook his head. "Forget it. I haven't decided yet. Go ahead. I'll ask when I'm sure."
Theo had no idea what Harry was working up the nerve to say. Honestly, he was far more excited about claiming two new boons—Born-for-Duels and Staff Arts Transcendent—so he didn't dwell on it.
Moments later he slipped into the now-familiar lavatory, locked the door, and exhaled.
"System, claim Born-for-Duels and Staff Arts Transcendent."
The panel of light flared, and both boons slid into place.
A strange, subtle sensation ran through him—not more magic, not tougher muscle. It was like oil easing a thousand cogwheels. Every spell, every talent, every quirk of his body—click, click, click—meshed.
Until now, Theo had tended to use gifts one at a time. In the scuffle with Slytherin, for instance, he'd leaned almost exclusively on Transfiguration boosted by All-Things Transmute. Some of that was deliberate—no need to bring the house down—but it was also because he'd acquired so much so fast that he hadn't truly learned to weave it all together.
Ordinarily, he'd need dozens of real fights to forge that instinct.
Born-for-Duels skipped the grind.
This was the thing that let a certain calabash-loving immortal rack up a body count in the Great War of Gods. Not something to treat lightly.
A grin tugged at Theo's lips. On paper his "stats" hadn't budged, but his combat edge felt… night and day. Killing his past self would still be hard; beating him would be easy.
Then the second boon awoke in his hands.
His ancient staff… breathed.
Theo actually startled. For a heartbeat it felt as if the staff were alive, and the world itself could be upended with a single sweep—clouds and earth hung on the pivot of a pole.
He knew it was an illusion. Still, it shook him.
"Staff Arts Transcendent… so this is 'a staff that converses with the heavens.'"
He rolled his wrist.
The staff flickered long to short, bright to dim—here and then… not here. Within five metres the air filled with overlapping shadows of wood; no matter where an enemy stood, a strike awaited.
But something else stirred—an undertone braided into each arc.
Familiar… yet not. There was a whiff of aura, like the elemental breaths he'd drawn before, but not wind-cool nor earth-thick. This was sharp, born for battle, not for cultivation—useless to absorb for growth, lethal when riding a blow.
"Killing intent?"
In the Flooded Age, most cultivators had to go to special places to harvest this miasma. Staff Arts Transcendent simply called it.
No wonder the phrase went: with a staff in hand, even gods lower their gaze. Let that miasma congeal, and you could pound immortals into mist.
The haze gathered along the grain. The more it wrapped the wood, the higher the force climbed.
The staff began to feel heavy, like a mountain held sideways.
Okay, enough—before I level the castle.
He cut the flow. The layered afterimages collapsed into one line. Theo snapped the staff down with a low shout.
The blow didn't even land—just passed—but the riding miasma howled along the wall.
Hairline cracks spiderwebbed the lavatory tiles, racing outward until an entire span of stone was veined and trembling.
And that was a miss.
If he'd struck true, he might've punched a hole clean through Hogwarts.
Theo whistled under his breath.
At this moment, in sheer destructive bite, the staff was king.
Could this miasma-laden strike shatter a Horcrux?
His eyes lit. The castle was tense—troll incident, professors laying wards for the Stone, Quirrell-with-a-passenger skulking about—but once things calmed, he'd slip into the Room of Requirement and hunt Ravenclaw's diadem. Smash it early, snatch that first layer of "Multi-Treasure Daoist" rewards off Voldemort's back—pure luck buff, maybe better than permanent Felix—yes, please.
He left the lavatory quickly.
The next two days vanished in a rhythm: library stacks for traces of Ancient Magic; soles on stone to draw up earth-aspected qi; testing how Born-for-Duels and Staff Arts Transcendent reframed every move he knew.
Sunday night, returning to the common room, he found Harry waiting on the sofa like a penitent.
"Theo… I need a favour."
Theo sat. "Name it."
A long, red-eared pause.
"…Could you… do my makeup again?"
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