HP: Pure-Blood Glory

[Slytherin's Wand - Gold

This was the wand Salazar Slytherin used the longest. Its body is crafted from Snakewood, with a Basilisk horn as its core. Members of the Gaunt family, blessed with the ability to speak Parseltongue, can establish a certain level of communication with it.

Additional Ability: Snake Form

By drawing on centuries of magical energy accumulated within the Snakewood, the wand dramatically enhances the user's overall abilities, depending on their current potential.

Note: Only the descendants of Slytherin can transform into a snake form.]

This wand was Luke's trump card. However, the system's description of the wand, much like the cryptic hints it provided for various tasks, was vague and lacked clear benchmarks.

What did "dramatically" even mean?

Luke had used this ability before. He could feel the immense power it granted but had no reference for how it compared.

Was it equivalent to a normal adult wizard? A weakened Voldemort? Or perhaps even more powerful?

Luke needed confirmation.

Luke had barely walked 200 meters when he felt something land lightly on his shoulder.

Turning his head, he saw a dark green Bowtruckle perched there, unfazed by the dark and sinister aura emanating from him.

The creature waved at him casually once it noticed his gaze.

"Where is he?"

Luke asked in a hoarse voice.

The Bowtruckle didn't speak but simply pointed to the left. Luke followed the direction it indicated.

The Forbidden Forest was vast, and at night, its depth seemed even more impenetrable as visibility shrank. The occasional hoot of owls echoed through the trees.

Luke knew these weren't the school's messenger owls. These were wild, independent creatures who had no interest in delivering letters for wizards.

But as he ventured deeper, the forest grew eerily quiet.

The sound of insects vanished, and even the moonlight was almost entirely blocked by the dense canopy. Only fragments of light pierced through the leaves, casting scattered patches on the forest floor.

Luke knew he had entered the territory of the Acromantulas. His body tensed, though his mind grew even calmer.

At that moment, the Bowtruckle tapped on his snake mask, pointing forward again before leaping off his shoulder.

Luke watched as it climbed a nearby tree and disappeared entirely.

"Why is he here…? Could he have a use for the Acromantulas?"

Luke frowned. The idea puzzled him. Acromantulas had far less magical energy than unicorns, and hunting them was far more dangerous.

Their high threat rating stemmed from their aggression and their tendency to live in colonies.

That's why hunting them was so difficult. If one failed to prevent them from signaling their kin, they'd soon face an entire swarm.

Especially the Acromantula colony in the Forbidden Forest was ridiculously huge... Luke could only say that Hagrid took really good care of them.

Still, since he was already here, Luke wanted to investigate.

He walked steadily toward the spot the Bowtruckle had indicated.

--

"Add some more Acromantula flesh and blood!"

The frenzied voice in Quirrell's head screamed, making his skull throb with pain.

"No, master, we can't add anymore, we've already reached the safe limit!" Quirrell's voice was trembling, almost pleading.

"Silence! Do you know better, or do I? Add it!"

"This will strengthen your frail body! Damn it! If your body weren't so weak, I wouldn't have been ambushed by that cursed ghost!"

Voldemort's furious outburst reverberated in Quirrell's mind, shaking him to his core.

'After class, you called me your most loyal servant. Now, after being schooled by a ghost, you blame my body for your failure...'

'Not to mention, 'you' were the one who ambushed Peeves!'

Though Quirrell silently raged, his trembling hand still dropped the freshly cut chunk of Acromantula flesh into the cauldron.

Honestly, he couldn't fathom why they 'had' to brew this potion here. Would its efficacy diminish if brewed elsewhere?

If a few more Acromantulas showed up, his frail body might not survive another ordeal.

"You know nothing!" Voldemort sneered. "This potion must be brewed fresh. It's a formula Severus once gifted me!"

"If we could follow it with unicorn blood, the effects would be even better. But for now, we must make do. In a few days, we'll track down a unicorn in the forest."

After the hysteria, Voldemort seemed to gradually regain his sanity.

"Trust me, Quirinus. I am infallible. Together, we will achieve victory."

What Voldemort said would have sounded more convincing if not for the earlier outburst.

Quirrell was left biting back his frustration. He wanted to vent but knew better.

"Yes, yes, of course!"

Keeping his response brief, Quirrell no longer paid attention to Voldemort. Instead, he focused on stirring the cauldron, praying the potion would finish brewing quickly.

Anyone could guess this concoction was dangerous. But Quirrell also knew one thing: from the moment Voldemort latched onto him, there was no turning back.

He could either betray Voldemort to Dumbledore, leading to their mutual destruction, or aid Voldemort's resurrection and hope to survive.

Neither choice was appealing. The latter, however absurd, offered a sliver of hope.

If he could, he would go back in time and curse his past self for venturing into Albania.

It was better to die by his own hand than endure this torment.

Not that he had the courage to do so. If he did, he wouldn't still be suffering now.

As the potion in the cauldron turned a pale green and its pungent smell wafted out, Quirrell quickly cast a spell to mask the scent, ensuring their location remained undiscovered.

Just as he concentrated on the potion, Voldemort's voice suddenly rang out in his mind.

"Stop stirring! Drink it now! Someone is coming and their target seems to be you!"

Voldemort's warning startled Quirrell, and he immediately raised his head to look around.

And not far away, he spotted a figure slowly approaching towards him.

Their face was obscured, but those glowing eyes with a faint yellow hue and the oppressive aura of darkness emanating from them left no room for doubt.

This person meant trouble.

Quirrell quickly assessed the situation and, without hesitation, grabbed the cauldron.

Thanks to his dragon-hide gloves, he wasn't burned.

Staring at the scalding potion, he steeled himself and downed it in one go.

*****

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