Inside the Little Greenhouse, Chard let out a light breath.
"Three days have passed just like that?" he murmured.
"Time really flies."
Being confined inside the greenhouse, he could barely feel the passage of time. For most people, three weeks of detention would be unbearable—tedious, suffocating, perhaps even maddening. But for Chard, every moment was worth cherishing.
He could practice magic, cultivate plants, and focus without any distractions.
And that feeling, to him, was wonderful.
Progress on Spells
Chard's gaze drifted to his system panel, and a satisfied expression crept across his face.
The silver glow around [Sectumsempra] was now more than twice as bright as before. If things continued, perhaps in another day or two, a faint golden hue would emerge, marking its threshold to the Gold Level. Advancing fully might take another week or two, but before his detention ended, Sectumsempra would certainly reach Gold.
That achievement alone filled him with joy.
Similarly, [Serpensortia] had undergone remarkable changes as well. Over the past three days, Chard had cast the serpent-conjuring spell thousands of times. Although he still felt as though he were staring at an illusion—like a flower reflected in a mirror or the moon shining on water—he had gained a faint, clearer grasp of the spell's structure.
Most importantly, his proficiency had skyrocketed. The once-bronze glow of Serpensortia now shimmered brilliantly with silver light, just a step away from Silver mastery.
To test it, Chard casually waved his wand. Smoke coiled, and from it emerged a sleek black snake over four meters long. Its venomous fangs glistened as it hissed, striking forward with improved agility and combat awareness.
The snake's size, flexibility, and aggressiveness had all improved greatly.
Chard nodded with satisfaction.
"If this continues, Serpensortia's potential is quite good," he thought. "Perhaps one day, I could conjure a thousand-year-old basilisk? Or even the black dragon Níðhöggr from Norse mythology… maybe even the World Serpent itself."
He chuckled softly. "Of course, that's just a fantasy—for now."
Shaking his head, Chard steeled his focus.
"Let's continue practicing. Even grasping just a fragment of Serpensortia's deeper structure could help me break through the bottleneck in Transfiguration, pushing it into Bronze Level and raising my overall mastery of magic."
Daily Routine
Just as Chard was about to resume training, the protective barrier shimmered, opening a small gap. Through it came the usual delivery: food, water, and potions needed for planting.
He had grown accustomed to this sight.
Although Chard's physique was strong enough to endure days without food or drink, Professor Sprout insisted that Hufflepuff's Little Kitchen prepare nutritious meals for him daily. He had to finish everything, or she worried about malnutrition.
Chard could only smile wryly. He had to "squeeze in" time to eat every day. Still, the meals were undeniably delicious, a welcome change in his otherwise monotonous detention. Eating refreshed his mind, keeping him in good spirits for practice.
This time, however, something unusual caught his eye.
Beneath the food tray lay a folded parchment.
Chard froze in surprise.
Dumbledore's protective magic was like a flawless firewall—highly discerning, allowing only food, water, and planting supplies to pass through. Nothing else could breach it.
So what was this parchment doing here?
As Chard stared, writing began to crawl across its surface:
"Do you want freedom?
Do you want to escape from detention?
Don't you think all of this is unfair?
Why are you being treated this way?
Chard, I can help you. I can make sure this never happens to you again. I can give you the power to enforce fairness and justice…"
Chard's pupils shrank.
Quirrell's Trick
Outside the greenhouse, Professor Quirrell smirked before turning away.
Dumbledore's protective magic was indeed formidable. If it were a simple barrier, Quirrell could never bypass it—even Voldemort's power might not shake it.
But because the barrier filtered items—allowing food, water, and supplies—it was inherently complex. And the more complex something is, the more exploitable loopholes exist.
Quirrell, once a gifted scholar at Hogwarts, had grown even stronger under Voldemort's influence. After three days of study, he finally discovered a flaw.
Using that loophole, he slipped a Confunded talking parchment through the barrier, disguising it as food.
Quirrell's lips curled.
He was certain that after three days of confinement, Chard must harbor resentment. The parchment's words would tempt him. And once Chard began to reply, Quirrell could subtly probe his thoughts using Voldemort's dark gift—extracting secrets, especially about the mutated Devil's Snare Chard was cultivating.
"So next," Quirrell whispered, "it's time to wait for the harvest."
Chard's Response
"Bah! Bah! Bah! Bad luck!"
Chard scowled, his mood instantly ruined.
He had been enjoying his time in the greenhouse—training, planting, eating well. Now, this dirty thing had appeared? He didn't even need to think to know who sent it.
"No, is Quirrell ever going to stop?!"
Taking no chances, Chard immediately went to the Guardian Tree sapling he had planted. He gently touched its growing trunk, receiving a wave of sacred anti-dark blessings.
Only then did he feel relieved.
He tore the parchment into pieces and buried them beneath the Guardian Tree, ensuring any lingering dark influence would be annihilated. Better safe than sorry.
Quirrell, meanwhile, sat eagerly with the linked parchment in his office. Minutes passed. No reply. His brow furrowed.
"This kid… actually didn't react?"
Frustration gnawed at him, but he forced himself to calm down.
"It's only been three days. His dissatisfaction hasn't peaked yet. Just wait. Eventually, he'll crack."
Thus began Quirrell's relentless campaign.
Harassment Letters
For the next few days, Quirrell slipped parchments into Chard's meals.
Every time, Chard tore them apart and buried them under the Guardian Tree. Each attempt failed; Quirrell's words vanished into nothingness under the tree's sacred aura.
Quirrell's patience wore thin. He wrote feverishly, filling pages with persuasive promises. Still, no reply came.
"Damn brat! I've written so much—can't he at least react?" he fumed.
But then, he steeled himself again.
"Patience, Quirrell. He can't stay calm forever. I'll keep sending parchments until he breaks."
Chard, on the other hand, grew increasingly annoyed.
"No? Is Quirrell sick? Instead of worrying about the Philosopher's Stone, he's harassing me with letters every meal?!"
But then, something changed.
Guardian Tree's Gift
After a week, as Chard prepared to bury yet another parchment fragment, he noticed the Guardian Tree had grown taller—visibly so. Its leaves shimmered faintly with a silver hue.
Alarm prickled at him.
Had the parchments harmed it?
But when he checked the tree's information panel, a new line of reward text appeared:
[Extremely Weak Occlumency Blessing]
It was faint, barely visible, with no bronze rating—clearly difficult to form.
Yet Chard's eyes lit up.
"Occlumency?! A blessing against Legilimency!"
Realization struck. The Guardian Tree must have adapted, absorbing the parchments' Legilimency magic while destroying them, slowly developing resistance.
This discovery made Chard's earlier frustration vanish completely.
Why Occlumency Mattered
Legilimency was a dangerous art. Though illegal to use without consent, skilled practitioners could passively sense thoughts. Voldemort himself had innate talent for it, capable of reading minds effortlessly—even without a body.
This meant every encounter with Quirrell at Hogwarts had been nerve-wracking for Chard. He had to guard his thoughts constantly, terrified of revealing secrets—especially about his system, his greatest reliance.
Even idle risks worried him:
What if he talked in his sleep?
What if someone grew suspicious of his growing strength?
Occlumency could solve all of that.
It was a priceless defense.
A Change of Heart
Staring at the parchment in his hand, Chard's feelings shifted. What he once detested now seemed like an opportunity.
After a long pause, he called out to Shadow.
The shadow wriggled forward, awkwardly gripping a quill. Slowly, it scrawled a line of text on the parchment:
"Who are you?"
Quirrell's Delight
Elsewhere, Quirrell had nearly lost hope. His wrist ached from endless writing, his patience fraying.
Then—words appeared.
Chard had replied.
Quirrell shot to his feet, elated.
"I knew it! My strategy is flawless! I, Quirrell, am a genius!"
Now came the question: how to respond?
After some thought, he had a sudden inspiration. To win the trust of a naive young wizard, the best disguise was… a charming senior sister.
So, with a sly grin, Quirrell wrote carefully:
"Hello.
I am your Senior Sister.
The very beautiful kind.
As for how beautiful… hehe, guess?"
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