HP: Pure-Blood Glory

From a distance, Luke watched as Quirrell drank directly from a cauldron, momentarily baffled by the scene.

Still, he quickly drew his wand. No matter the situation, disrupting the process was the priority.

"Incendio!"

A burst of black flames shot toward Quirrell.

Seeing this, Quirrell hastily swallowed the potion, discarded the cauldron, and leapt aside.

The cauldron hit the ground, spilling its remaining contents.

The fire struck the earth, erupting into a towering column of flame.

Quirrell crouched and retaliated with a shout:

"Avada Kedavra!"

Luke swiftly dodged behind a tree, the green light of the Killing Curse splashing across its trunk, scattering like deadly emerald sparks.

Beautiful, yet deadly.

"He's not strong, Quirrell. Charge him and finish this!"

Voldemort's commanding voice echoed in Quirrell's mind.

Quirrell realized the flames, while intimidating, weren't particularly powerful.

Though clearly a probing attack, it indicated that his opponent's strength wasn't beyond handling.

Casting a Protego charm on himself, Quirrell began to circle to the side.

Charging head-on was out of the question, but flanking might work.

Confidently moving around the tree, he prepared another Killing Curse. However, before he could cast, an overwhelming surge of magic suddenly filled the air.

A dazzling light green energy erupted, forming a massive snake in the air for a fleeting moment before vanishing entirely.

Left standing under the tree was the same figure, but now their presence felt even more oppressive.

Quirrell couldn't shake the feeling that the person's eyes had grown brighter.

"Retreat, Quirrell"

Voldemort's voice hissed, this time laced with frustration rather than command.

"This one's powerful. Our initial assessment was correct, but he has a way to temporarily enhance his abilities. I don't know what it is, but as he is now, you can't defeat him."

Quirrell could hear the bitterness in Voldemort's tone.

For all his arrogance, Voldemort had no choice but to rely on a weaker host like Quirrell. A direct confrontation was now impossible.

Once he obtained the Philosopher's Stone, restored his body, and regained his full strength, he would crush this upstart.

"For now, try to find his identity"

Voldemort ordered.

Quirrell nodded, but before he could speak, a flash of dark green light shot toward him, accompanied by a wailing sound like the scream of Death itself.

"Dodge!"

In the critical moment, Voldemort seized control of Quirrell's body. He knew that forcing control like this came at a price—Quirrell's mind or body could collapse, possibly both.

But desperate times called for desperate measures. Expecting Quirrell, a novice in combat, to face this foe was a fool's errand.

Rolling clumsily on the ground, Quirrell barely evaded the curse. Without hesitation, Voldemort cast a dense cloud of smoke, enveloping the area in thick, impenetrable fog.

The haze spread rapidly, obscuring all vision.

"Who are you?"

A raspy voice echoed from the mist, seemingly coming from every direction, making it impossible for Luke to pinpoint Voldemort's location.

Luke didn't respond to the question. Instead, he focused his attention, scanning his surroundings.

Soon, he spotted a swirling cluster of emotion particles behind him—a mix of three to five different colors, layered and complex.

Without hesitation, he raised his wand once more.

"Avada Kedavra!"

His deep, hoarse voice echoed through the mist as a jet of dark green light streaked toward the emotional dust cloud.

The moment Voldemort heard Luke's voice, he instinctively dodged. Narrowly evading the curse, he shot a glare toward Luke and raised his wand.

"Av—"

But before he could finish the incantation, a rustling sound filled the forest. It was the sound of many legs moving in unison.

"The Acromantulas! Master, the Acromantulas are coming!"

Quirrell's terrified shout cut through the tension.

A small hunting party of Acromantulas was one thing. But an entire swarm? Even a group of Death Eaters would think twice before facing a colony.

It was far beyond anything Quirrell could handle alone.

Voldemort clenched his teeth in frustration. His wand flicked, and in an instant, he transformed into a black mist, disappearing into the forest and fleeing toward safety.

Luke stood still, making no move to pursue. He had achieved what he came for: confirmation.

From Voldemort's instinct to flee, it was clear he didn't currently possess the strength to overwhelm Luke.

That knowledge alone was enough for now.

This battle was never destined to be a final showdown. Voldemort, far from desperate, wouldn't risk his life against an unknown foe.

The sudden arrival of the Acromantulas only further disrupted their encounter. There was no point in continuing the fight under these conditions.

Tonight's skirmish would end as a brief, mutual test of strength.

Luke turned and fled as well. The skittering clicks of the spiders' legs and their eerie chittering filled the air.

As he sprinted, he allowed the snake transformation to fade.

Luke pulled his cloak tightly around him and hurried toward Hogwarts.

Tonight's events could not, under any circumstances, be linked to Luke Gaunt in any official capacity.

Despite the urgency, he remained composed.

The emotion particles surrounding the spiders were a fluctuating deep blue—fear. The basilisk was one of the few creatures they instinctively dreaded, its presence unnerving even these formidable predators. Confronted with its lingering aura, they had chosen caution over aggression, opting to keep their distance.

The Acromantulas circled the mist but made no move to enter. They lingered at the edge, wary and hesitant.

---

"Headmaster!"

The door to the Headmaster's office burst open, startling Agilbert, who had been reviewing documents.

He looked up, shaking his head.

"Miranda, calm yourself. Whatever it is, let's not panic. There's no problem without a solution."

His tone was measured, almost fatherly, as he addressed the newly hired professor.

Professor Miranda paused, realizing the wisdom in his words.

She adjusted her glasses, brushed back a stray lock of hair, and straightened up, resuming her composed demeanor as a confident, elegant witch.

Agilbert nodded approvingly.

"Now, what's the matter?"

With a polite smile, Miranda said, "It's nothing serious, Headmaster."

"Just one of the Snakewood branches has withered."

She watched as the smile on Agilbert's face froze, then vanished entirely.

Lowering his head, he clutched it in his hands.

"Nooooooo!!!"

His agonized wail echoed through the office.

*****

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