Looking at the words appearing on the parchment, Sharl, who had already lowered his expectations of Quirrell's character and integrity, was still dumbfounded at this moment.
Oh, so now he's pretending to be a senior? And starting with 'I wonder'?
Sharl's cheek twitched slightly. But despite his surprise, a troubling thought surfaced in his mind.
Didn't Quirrell already figure out how to get past the Cerberus? Why was he still pestering Sharl so much? What else did he want? And more importantly—how should Sharl deal with him?
As he frowned in thought, Sharl noticed that Shadow Thorns had already taken control of the quill with its shadows, rapidly scribbling back to Quirrell:
"Really?"
"Which senior are you?"
"How pretty are you?"
On the other side of the parchment, Quirrell's eyes lit up with delight. Pretending to be a pretty senior had indeed gained the trust of this little brat and stirred his curiosity.
Heh. After all, he's just a first-year wizard. Too naive. With just a little trick, I'll coax the weakness of that mutated Devil's Snare out of him.
Grabbing the quill, Quirrell quickly wrote line after line.
"Hehe, if I tell you my name directly, I'll feel shy."
"Oh, but you haven't told me yet—"
"What type do you like?"
Shadow Thorns paused for a moment, then replied:
"The spiky kind."
"The more thorns, the better. The harder, the better."
Quirrell froze.
"Ah?"
Were young wizards nowadays really this strange? Or was he simply out of touch?
After a moment, he gritted his teeth and forced a soft chuckle.
"Your hobbies are truly unique. As expected of you."
"You know, coincidentally, I also like thorns. My roommates even call me… the Queen of Thorns."
When Sharl saw this conversation unfolding on the parchment, he was stunned.
Shadow Thorns and Quirrell… were actually chatting?
Yet soon after, he felt a wave of relief. He didn't want direct contact with Quirrell, especially when the man was pretending to be some pretty senior.
Aside from the potential danger of Legilimency leaking from the parchment, just thinking of Quirrell acting cutesy on the other side was enough to make Sharl's skin crawl.
Letting Shadow Thorns handle the chatting was the better choice. After all, Legilimency magic was aimed at humans—he'd never heard of it affecting plants or animals. Shadow Thorns would be safe, and this way, Sharl could keep practicing magic without being distracted.
Giving Shadow Thorns a few final instructions—mostly to avoid revealing anything important—Sharl handed the parchment and quill to it.
Before turning away to practice, he glanced back. Lines of text were still rapidly filling the page. Quirrell seemed very enthusiastic.
Sharl smirked faintly, wondering what Quirrell's expression would be if he discovered he was trying to seduce a clump of Shadow Thorns.
But the smile soon faded, replaced with seriousness.
Quirrell's current tactic was foolish, but without Dumbledore's protective enchantments shielding the Little Greenhouse, the man would have certainly resorted to more dangerous measures.
And detention wouldn't last forever. When it ended, Quirrell would not give up. He would surely continue seeking opportunities. Sharl's heart grew heavy.
Though he had already made Quirrell suffer many setbacks, Sharl didn't dare to let his guard down. The professor had become desperate, even hunting unicorns in the Forbidden Forest and drinking their blood without hesitation. To disregard the unicorn's curse like that showed how far gone Quirrell was. He would stop at nothing to seize the Philosopher's Stone.
The more desperate he was, the more dangerous he became. Sharl couldn't afford a mistake at this stage.
His eyes sharpened with resolve.
"Before detention ends, Sectumsempra must be upgraded to Gold Level. And Transfiguration and Serpensortia also need urgent progress."
Clearing away distracting thoughts, Sharl plunged himself into focused practice.
Inside the Little Greenhouse, Sectumsempra's sharp cutting magic whistled through the air. At times, smoke filled the room; at others, the hiss of conjured snakes echoed ominously.
Time flew by. In the blink of an eye, three more days had passed.
"Sectumsempra!"
With a slashing motion of his wand, Sharl cast Sectumsempra again. The sharpened blade of magic struck across a new branch of the Devil's Snare.
This time, unlike before, it did not merely scratch a shallow wound. Instead, it cut deep, slicing through a subtle magical node within the branch.
Immediately, the effect mirrored his earlier encounters with the Devil's Snare. Sectumsempra's magic sealed the cut, leaving the plant to push against the barrier before it could grow new shoots.
But this secondary node was different—it had already begun breaking through the Sectumsempra barrier.
This time, it wasn't nearly as difficult. A few drops of potion were enough to help the Devil's Snare push through. Above it, the reward orb pulsed and swelled, growing larger.
Sharl's face brightened with satisfaction. Another step toward maturity for the Devil's Snare.
Yet he restrained himself from rushing forward. With so much hands-on experience, he could now estimate the difficulty.
"With Sectumsempra's current strength, the success rate for handling secondary nodes still isn't very high. If I cut too slowly, the node could fail, which would ruin the Devil's Snare's quality once it matures."
But he wasn't worried. Glancing at the system panel, he saw that the silver glow of Sectumsempra's text now shimmered with specks of gold.
Since yesterday, that golden tint had grown steadily. It meant his mastery was approaching a promotion node, advancing toward Gold Level.
Compared to before, the spell's power had clearly risen a notch. Sharl was satisfied with the pace.
"In just over a week, even if it hasn't fully reached Gold Level, I'll be confident enough to tackle the secondary nodes."
But when his gaze shifted to Serpensortia, his brows furrowed.
He had practiced Serpensortia tirelessly. His proficiency had grown rapidly, almost catching up with Sectumsempra. It was even close to Gold Level.
But Sharl wasn't after mere spell strength. What he truly sought was the deeper Transfiguration essence embedded in Serpensortia's foundation.
And in that aspect, he had made no progress at all.
Like chasing the moon's reflection in water or a flower in a mirror—he couldn't grasp it.
Though patient by nature, he could not deny his growing unease. Thousands of attempts had yielded little. He began to wonder—perhaps his direction itself was wrong.
And if the direction was wrong, no amount of patience or effort would matter.
It reminded him of classmates from his previous life—those who studied diligently every day but still failed exams. Their problem wasn't effort, but strategy.
Yet no matter how long he reflected, Sharl couldn't pinpoint where he had gone astray. Transfiguration was vast and profound; it was unrealistic to expect full comprehension in such a short time.
His approach—focusing on one detail, then expanding from point to surface to whole—should have worked. So where was the flaw?
On the system panel, Transfiguration remained stubbornly stuck at the Bronze Level promotion node.
Although Sharl tried to keep calm, anxiety gnawed at him. Only ten days of detention remained. After that, he would lose this undisturbed environment, and progress would surely slow.
And once free, he would face Quirrell directly. Bronze Level Transfiguration could mean the difference between survival and defeat. If he failed to break through within these last days, he would leave detention uneasy.
While wrestling with this frustration, the scratching sound of quills reached his ears.
Turning, Sharl saw Shadow Thorns extending a dozen tendrils, each clutching a quill, writing furiously across Quirrell's parchment.
"Senior Sister?"
"Are you there?"
"Are you there?"
"Wake up and chat with me!"
"Didn't you say chatting with me was especially fun?"
"Didn't you say you weren't tired?"
"Reply quickly!"
Sharl froze, then glanced at the time.
Three-thirty in the morning.
Right. Shadow Thorns didn't need sleep.
For the past few days, Quirrell had probably endured a lifetime's worth of conversations.
The reward changes on the Guardian Tree alone proved it.
The faint [Occlumency Blessing] that had barely taken shape before was now brighter, clearer, and glowing faintly bronze.
It was close to advancing. Clearly, Quirrell had written an astonishing number of words these days.
Sharl almost felt sympathy.
Once, Quirrell had been a star student, his academic brilliance rivaling Hermione's. He had risen to become Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts—a genius with limitless potential.
But now? Reduced to pretending to be a senior sister and chatting with a clump of Shadow Thorns.
How pitiful.
Sharl shook his head and turned back to ponder Serpensortia's mysteries.
Then he paused.
Wait.
Quirrell—despite his cowardly, stammering facade—was undoubtedly a genius. His Transfiguration skills were formidable.
And Serpensortia itself bore a connection to Voldemort. Asking Quirrell for insight might actually yield results.
But…
Sharl's gaze returned to the parchment. Shadow Thorns was still bombarding Quirrell with endless messages, while Quirrell seemed to have gone silent.
Did I scare him off? No—if he stops replying, who will I ask?
After a moment's thought, Sharl guided Shadow Thorns to write:
"Senior Sister, are you awake?"
"It's my fault, was I too enthusiastic and scared you away?"
"I'm sorry, Senior Sister. You know, I grew up in the Muggle world, drifting alone, enduring desolation and cold shoulders. No girl has ever appreciated me like you do."
"Please come back, Senior Sister!"
Meanwhile, in his room, Quirrell lay haggard in bed.
From initial excitement, he had now gone completely numb.
Damn it!
He never imagined "Sharl" could talk this much. Not even a second of rest!
And the topics—nonsense!
On the first day, "Sharl" made him pretend to be a blade of grass.
When exhaustion overtook him and he tried to sleep, "Sharl" scolded him:
"Grass doesn't get tired. Grass doesn't sleep."
"If you sleep, you're not grass. If you're not grass, I won't talk to you."
So Quirrell stayed up all night in tears, forced to chat about the taste of soil and the quality of fertilizers.
One day was barely tolerable. But now, three whole days had passed like this.
He felt his mind splitting.
The parchment continued filling with words, but he ignored it. He just wanted to sleep.
This "chat" was impossible.
But just then, a cold, sinister voice pierced his mind.
"Quirrell."
"How are things progressing?"
"Ten days have passed. Have you extracted anything from that boy yet?"
Quirrell jolted awake, trembling.
"Master—n-not yet—"
At once, icy fury burned through his mind.
"Not yet? After so many days, you've made no progress? A naive child, in such a setting—and you can't get him to talk? Are you deliberately delaying my acquisition of the Philosopher's Stone, Quirrell?"
Quirrell's eyes widened in terror, his heart nearly stopping.
"No, Master, no! No one wishes for your return more than I! Please, allow me to explain—the reason there's no progress is—"
"You had better provide a convincing reason."
Quirrell stammered, recounting how he had disguised himself as a senior sister and chatted with Sharl through the parchment, slowly earning his trust.
To his surprise, Voldemort's tone carried mild astonishment.
"Able to chat? That's already near success, isn't it?"
Tears filled Quirrell's eyes.
"Master, it's not that I refuse to pry him open—it's that he's too slippery! He's an '81 wizard—he plays tricks constantly! I can't outwit him!"
Desperate, he even pulled out the thick stack of chat logs to show.
Voldemort scanned them, his scalp tingling. A wave of disbelief swept over him.
What is wrong with Hogwarts nowadays? Is this how they play?
After a long silence, Voldemort's tone softened, even carrying a trace of sympathy.
"Quirrell, you have suffered greatly."
But his voice then sharpened with excitement.
"But look—the boy's latest words. He's taken the bait! Quick, reply!"
Quirrell gripped the quill, but his hand shook violently. Just seeing the lines of text gave him a stress reaction.
He hesitated.
Voldemort's voice thundered in anger.
"Idiot! Forget it—let me handle this!"
Quirrell's hand, seized by Voldemort's will, moved on its own. The quill scratched elegant script across the parchment:
"Dear Sharl, hearing your words makes me so happy. Though we are separated by parchment, I feel our hearts are close."
"Can you hear Senior Sister's heartbeat? For I seem to hear yours."
"Perhaps it's time we share secrets with each other. In exchange, I'll tell you my name."
"My name is—Delphi. Do you like it?"
At that moment, in the Little Greenhouse, the Guardian Tree sapling suddenly swayed violently. Its silvery leaves glowed brighter than ever before.
The [Occlumency Blessing] reward, once faint and incomplete, now gleamed fully with Bronze-level brilliance.
This should have been good news.
But Sharl's face darkened.
The sudden surge in Legilimency from the parchment was far beyond Quirrell's level.
There was only one explanation.
Lord Voldemort has taken over the account?!
Sharl inhaled sharply.
He never imagined his first encounter with Voldemort would come under such circumstances.
But after a moment, calm returned.
His lips curled slightly as he stared at the words.
In pure magic, he couldn't even glimpse Voldemort's shadow.
But if Voldemort wanted to challenge him in the art of online dating—against a science and engineering student who'd spent years starved of female company?
Sharl could only say:
Lord Voldemort still needed a lot more practice.