In the dormitory, Harry blinked blearily and asked Ron, who had just got into bed,
"H–how am I back here? Wasn't I serving detention in Professor Snape's office?"
Ron's face was full of admiration. "Theo lugged you back. Said you actually fell asleep during detention." He gaped. "Harry, you fell asleep?"
Harry looked even more confused. "Did I? I remember practising a spell there, and then… I suppose I did nod off… Where's Theo?"
"Off to the lavatory again," Ron muttered. *"Must've had too many rock cakes.
"Hope he perks up soon—we've got Flying Lessons the day after tomorrow. Would be a shame to miss them."*
The lights went out. Sleep washed over Harry; he turned and drifted off.
He fancied he'd heard his mother's voice. A dream, surely—a lovely dream.
…
Theo was not in the lavatory as usual.
Collecting a reward there was one thing; refining pills was quite another. Who in their right mind would brew pills in a lavatory?
Thanks to Snape's restoratives and his own talents, he'd fully recovered from the drain of Soul-Calling. With Night's Demon bolstering his magical strength, the Disillusionment Charm cost him no effort at all.
Cloaked, Theo strode to the eighth floor and found the tapestry of trolls clubbing Barnabas the Barmy. He paced past three times, mind fixed: I need an alchemy chamber with a cauldron—sturdy enough for pill-forging.
A smooth door swelled from the wall.
Inside lay a classic pill-room, a bronze alchemy furnace at its heart.
His eyes widened. The Room of Requirement truly lived up to its name—the pinnacle of will-made magic in the Potterverse. No wonder even Voldemort had thought it Hogwarts' greatest secret, discoverable only by him.
But now wasn't the time to marvel.
Pills first; everything else later.
Drawing a steadying breath, Theo claimed Way of Elixirs, Profound Communion. As for the Nine-Dragon Divine Fire Shield: Method of Forging—after the mind-slam from the Five-Colour Stones method and Flying Tiger Manual, he suspected that upload would leave him with blinding headaches for days. Best to delay that and refine the Flying Tiger Pill first.
The reward lit up. Its very rank shouldered past Seven-Apertures Heart, Command Wind & Thunder, and Ten-Thousand Transformations—second only to Adamantine Body, Unclouded Mind. A breath of profundity opened within him: the doors of the Pill Way swung wide—herbs and ores to pills, the five elements to pills, the very weave of yin and yang to pills.
Even without a recipe, he could now compose one from first principles. Still, a proven recipe saved time.
"Potions and the Pill Way are two streams to the same sea," Theo mused. "Potions aren't a tenth as deep—but they're native to this world, with materials everywhere. Way of Elixirs will amplify brewing too."
He focused on the Flying Tiger Pill. A mass-issue military pill from the old myths—straightforward to forge. With his new talent and the Seven-Apertures Heart, he improved the method at a glance—greater yield, higher purity, a chance at Gold-Grade.
Gold-Grade—a pill utterly pure, perfect. Masters ate one Gold-Grade pill before a thousand inferior pills; bad pills snarled one's qi and crippled future progress.
Calm again, Theo laid out the reagents and flicked his wand.
"Incendio."
With Incendio and Fire-Control at Will—plus his Transfiguration finesse—heat pooled exactly where he wanted beneath the furnace. Temperatures across the inner chambers mapped crisply in his mind.
"Perfect partners for pill-forging," he murmured. "With these, Gold-Grade is on the table."
His hands blurred, tracing a sequence of passes that would have baffled even Chong Heihu himself. The process held steady—this was a simple pill; with Way of Elixirs, Seven-Apertures Heart, and Fire-Control at Will, failure would have been a miracle of ineptitude.
At the final seal, the flames snapped shut.
A clatter rang within.
The lid lifted—and three streaks of gold shot for the rafters. Theo swept them from the air before they could ricochet around the Room.
Three Gold-Grade Flying Tiger Pills gleamed in his palm.
In the furnace lay eighteen more—scarlet, veined with pill-marks—superior pills, the sort handed only to the fiercest of the Flying Tiger elite every few years.
"One batch, three Gold-Grade and eighteen superior," he grinned. "No wonder pill-forgers are rich."
He frowned, curious. *"Odd. A Gold-Grade pill should invite a touch of thundercloud. Small for a Flying Tiger Pill, yes—but three? There ought to be some fuss.
"Tribulation? Maybe the wizarding world lacks that mechanic—or maybe the Room muffles it."*
He shrugged. Less trouble suited him fine. Time to dose.
He tossed back one Gold-Grade pill.
At that very instant, thunderheads shouldered over Hogwarts; lightning writhed within, roaring like the sky's own lungs.
Professor Quirrell was returning from the Forbidden Forest, scouting unicorn sign—drinking their blood would be a last resort, but one he had to prepare for. He peered up, uneasy.
"Why the sudden storm?"
The cloud-deck dropped. Lightning seemed to nose straight towards his scalp.
*"Er… why do I feel… tingly?
"Master? Master, are you asleep? Something's wrong—my head feels all fuzzy—tingly—"*
…
Meanwhile, in the Room, Theo learned what swallowing a Gold-Grade pill truly meant.
Bliss.
A river of heat coursed through limbs and bone; the gold radiance of Adamantine Body, Unclouded Mind blossomed, deepening by the breath. He set the Flying Tiger breathing-method turning; absorption surged, and thin streams of ambient qi burst from the pill as well.
So much faster than scrounging with Dining on Wind & Drinking Dew or Earth-Spirit alone…
Temptation flickered: anchor a cultivation base with the method right now and earn mana for true divine arts and artefacts.
He refused it. "The Flying Tiger Manual is a soldiers' text; its method is auxiliary. Good for efficiency—not a foundation for a disciple of the Great Teachings. If I'm laying bedrock, it'll be Eight-Nine Arcane Art. For now—feed the body and my magical strength."
He channelled the qi into flesh and bone, bleeding a fraction into magic.
Night waned; Night's Demon lifted from his shoulders. He opened his eyes—the surge of presence eclipsed even last night's boon.
Gold flowed like liquid light over his skin; hair flashed with brilliant gleam; power thrummed in the air.
Most witches and wizards could batter him senselessly and never pierce his guard.
A new intuition stirred—his death-ward had shifted. The Adamantine Body note had changed: from "negates one mortal calamity every three years" to "every one great year".
"So—raise the body and the ward rises with it. Keep going and perhaps… saintly flesh even in this world."
His magical power had surged too. Even without Night's Demon, it rivalled his night-aspected peak—surpassing Harry's fragment-boosted strength.
Two Gold-Grade pills remained; diminishing returns or not, they would lift him further. The eighteen superior pills he'd save—perfect boons for allies and magical beasts he meant to rear.
"This batch paid for itself ten times over."
But the sun was up; time to pause and head out.
He stretched in the corridor, basking in the dawn. "Another night not wasted. Healthy habits—immaculate."
He turned for breakfast—then paused. A silhouette perched at the far window-ledge.
Recognition pricked. The Slytherin prefect he'd trussed up during the House melee—Gemma Farley.
What was she doing there?
Gemma balanced on the sill, dabbing pearly lotion onto her face, white-socked calves swinging under her robes as she drafted a letter, brow tight with worry.
"Father, Mother—I'm about to make a mess of things. Slytherin will lose the House Cup under me. I'll shame the Farley name. What do I do…" She scratched the lines out and began again, then puffed herself up with boilerplate about prefect duty, student government, and one day becoming Minister—Farley the Second. She very carefully added: "Please stop sending money; I have enough." Then, after a long hover: "Really—enough. All that talk about me working in Hogsmeade for dress robes is just setting a good example for younger students. Those rumours are fake news. I'd never do anything unbefitting the Farley name."
She sealed it, hugged her reddening knees, stared at the grounds—and whispered,
"If I could fall and end everything without pain… perhaps that would be happiness. One clang and all the pressure's gone."
Theo sighed softly. "Prefect, sit tight, please. If you fall you'll give me nightmares—and go down in Hogwarts history as its most tragically foolish prefect. You wouldn't want that entry in the annals, would you?"
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