A few days later, inside the Room of Requirement.
Damian was meticulously brewing a Potent Vitality Draught.
He held up a vial of glowing blue liquid: processed Mountain Troll blood. After days of grueling work, he had finally refined it. The raw blood was riddled with magical impurities, and removing them was a tedious process that required a specially brewed extractant to precipitate the contaminants. He had spent the entire week preparing that very extractant.
He poured the blue liquid into his crucible, added several leeches with their mouthparts removed, and tossed in a measure of shredded Boomslang skin. He adjusted the magical flame to medium. After letting it simmer for ten minutes, he stirred in a packet of powdered Bicorn horn.
Moments later, the ingredients fully merged, and the cauldron's contents shifted to a brilliant, luminescent blue.
The Potent Vitality Draught was finally finished. Damian extinguished the flame and decanted the potion into a clean glass vial.
"Let's test it," Damian muttered. He drank the potion straight down. Though the liquid was still actively bubbling in the glass, it felt only pleasantly lukewarm in his mouth.
He actually found himself wanting more. The potion tasted surprisingly good—sweet and tart, reminiscent of iced plum juice.
Before he could dwell on the flavor, the magic inside his core began to surge wildly. He quickly sat cross-legged on the floor and began circulating the Emon Basic Meditation Method.
Under the meditation method's influence, the wildly surging magic was directed into his Sea of Spirit.
Once the technique was fully in motion, the chaotic surges turned intensely rhythmic. Each pulse of magical energy hammered against his Sea of Spirit with a relentless, punishing frequency.
If cultivating his magic with Blue Water Flower extract had felt like bobbing in a small boat battered by heavy waves, then absorbing the Potent Vitality Draught was like having a maniac pounding his skull with an iron hammer.
The violent wave of dizziness nearly made him lose control of the meditation method entirely.
Half an hour later, the potion's explosive strength finally faded, and the vertigo ebbed away. Damian opened his eyes, sensing that his Sea of Spirit had become noticeably denser and far more robust.
He could only safely consume this draught once a day; any more would permanently damage his magical foundation. Still, he was incredibly pleased with the results. At this rate, a breakthrough to the next tier of power would come very soon.
As he finished his cultivation, a deep hunger rumbled in his stomach. He checked his silver pocket watch: it was already lunchtime. It was Saturday, meaning no classes, so he had spent the entire morning secluded in the Room of Requirement.
He tidied his workspace and left the room, heading down toward the Great Hall. Just outside the heavy oak doors, he ran straight into a group of students clad in emerald-green Slytherin Quidditch robes.
Their burly captain, Marcus Flint, strode up and barked, "Damian! Don't tell me you've forgotten what day it is?"
Damian suddenly remembered. The new Quidditch season had officially started, and he was technically still on the Slytherin team roster—though he had been entirely absent from training, relegating him to a reserve Beater.
He offered a sheepish excuse. "I'm only a substitute. I hardly ever play in the main roster, so I don't really need to attend the morning drills, right?"
"Not really need to?!" Marcus exploded, his face turning red. "You haven't shown up to the pitch a single time this term! And today is our first official match of the season!"
Damian had been completely consumed with refining the troll blood and had genuinely forgotten about the match. "Alright, alright. I'll be there this afternoon."
Marcus rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Peregrine Derrick got hurt during morning practice—you're playing as a starter today."
"Er… isn't that a bad idea? I haven't touched a bat once this term," Damian pointed out.
"We don't have a choice. Derrick is currently groaning in the Hospital Wing. We just need a warm body on the pitch," Flint grumbled.
Marcus was genuinely desperate. They were up against a strong Gryffindor lineup today, one of his starting Beaters was injured, and an out-of-practice reserve had to fill the gap.
Besides, Damian's performance on the pitch last year had been nothing short of brutal and brilliant. Marcus had actually hoped to groom him as a core player. He just hadn't expected the boy to violently shine for a single season and then completely vanish from the roster for nearly a year. The mere thought of it made his head throb.
Damian agreed to play. The troll blood refinement was finally complete, so his schedule had suddenly freed up anyway.
That afternoon, down at the Quidditch Pitch.
The towering stands were packed and roaring with excitement. It seemed almost the entire school had turned out for the first match of the season.
Up in the Slytherin stands, Damian's two roommates were holding up a massive, magically glittering sign: Best Beater Damian Black, Bring Home the Victory! Slytherin Must Win!
It was followed by a giant, animated thumbs-up. The flashy banner had been Jerry's idea, heavily inspired by Muggle concert placards.
On the opposite side of the stadium, Ron, Hermione, and Neville had painted a large bedsheet that read: Potter for the Win! Beside the text, a shimmering Gryffindor lion's head roared, animated by a clever charm.
Down in the Slytherin changing room, Damian casually pulled his heavy, dark-green Quidditch robes over his head.
Marcus walked over and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Don't be nervous. Just treat the pitch like a duel. Bring the exact same attitude you use in a real fight."
Flint was well aware of the vicious lower-year House feuds, and he vividly remembered Damian brutally sorting out plenty of arrogant students during his first and second years.
Damian smiled faintly. He wasn't the least bit nervous. As a Beater, his only real job was to violently redirect the heavy iron Bludgers—keeping them away from his teammates and knocking them directly into the opposing players.
He hadn't trained in ages, so his tactical flying might be a bit rusty, but physically battering enemy players? He excelled at that. Last year, his near-perfect, bone-breaking aim had floored several opponents and easily earned him the unofficial title of Best Beater.
To ease the pre-match tension, Marcus chuckled. "Vincent Crabbe has been egging the upper-years on lately, trying to get us to pressure you into stepping down."
Keeper Miles Bletchley laughed loudly while strapping on his arm guards. "Damian's already proven himself in a fight. Only a total fool would take that fat kid's bait."
Damian recalled a younger student mentioning that Vincent had been trying to stir up trouble against him. Since nothing had actually happened, Damian had simply assumed the boy had given up.
Slytherin Seeker Terence Higgs curled his lip in open disdain.
"That idiot Crabbe came whining to me too," Higgs scoffed. "Being a pure-blood doesn't automatically mean you're better! The Crabbe family is nothing but muscle compared to an ancient, noble line like the Blacks."
Terence himself was a half-blood, though he held deep respect for the true pillars of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, like the ancient House of Black.
The rest of the team only offered awkward laughs, completely unwilling to pursue such a touchy political topic right before a match.
Damian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps it was time to pay the Crabbe family a little 'visit' during the upcoming holidays.
[75 STONES] - Unlock1 Bonus Chapter
[150 STONES] - Unlock 2 Bonus Chapters
[300 STONES] - Unlock 3 Bonus Chapters