With a soft whisper, new lines bloomed across the System pane.
Changes followed in Theodore's body like ripples:
First came Keen Ears, Clear Eyes and Crane-Form Lightness from Filch—his hearing sharpened until distant scuffs resolved into meaning, his body felt lighter, steps quick and sure.
Then Ten-Thousand Transformations from Professor McGonagall punched through a ceiling. The "shape" of change itself seemed to present its logic to him, as natural as breath. A desk-to-cat-tree had been his limit yesterday; living transfiguration had still been a bridge away. Now, with the same pool of magic, the path felt… open.
He drew the matchstick saved from class, lifted his wand, and traced a simple arc.
A ticklish, rightness-of-matter sensation bloomed. The match blurred—became a plump silkworm, glossy-eyed and curious. Another flick: a cocoon, snug in silk. A final turn: a Blue Morpho, great sapphire wings catching the light as it circled the stall before alighting on his finger—and folding back into a match.
Theodore smiled. Not the Seventy-Two Transformations of myth, perhaps, but the taste of making-and-unmaking was intoxicating.
A new thought rose, bright and dangerous: with Ten-Thousand Transformations bolstering his theory, would Fire-God Opens the Way—his improvised conflagration from Diagon Alley—scale up as well? Not here. A lavatory is a poor laboratory. He banked the fire and focused on the gifts from Neville.
Tiller's Touch tuned his sense for soil until it sang. With a breath and a press of attention he could feel the ground beneath the tiles: damp, rich, shaded—perfect for shade-loving plants like Devil's Snare. In Sprout's hands, this would be a kingmaker. In his? One day, rare herbs for cultivation; practical alchemy when free ambient qi ran too thin.
Then he centred on the jewel of the set: Earth-Spirit Core.
Even more than Transfiguration, this one set his pulse alight. Borrow the earth-vein to strengthen the flesh, and sip earth-aligned qi to water both body and magic—clean, immediate power.
His soles kissed stone. The ground welcomed him.
Thick currents rose from below. Some circled his frame, weighting muscle and bone with friendly gravity; his already formidable physique grew steadier, harder to budge. The rest sank inward—mostly to nourish the body, a smaller stream to quietly increase his magic capacity.
This isn't the cool sky-qi I draw with Dining on Wind & Drinking Dew, he noted, curious. This is heavier—earth-natured. Of course. Wind then, earth now.
If I ever gather all five natures—wind, earth, fire, water, wood—and smelt them together…
A grin, then a self-correcting shake of the head. At his current intake, even refining a robust five-colour stone would be ambitious. Five-Colour Light? Dream later. Walk now.
Longevity helps. Keep gathering, keep training. In a world this thin with qi, immortality might still be a project—just… a long one.
He recalled the Flying-Tiger Drill included a simple breathing method. Earth-Spirit Core drank passively; paired with an active technique, the flow might surge.
He began the pattern.
Chest rising high, falling deep, breath lengthening until time itself seemed to forget him. With Seven-Apertures Heart guiding him, Theodore slid—at first try—into the coveted calm of forgetting, self and world dissolving at the edges.
The intake spiked—severalfold.
Gold light—Adamantine Body, Unclouded Mind—filmed his skin, a touch brighter, more enduring. His magic, too, climbed in clean, even notches, faster than Dining on Wind & Drinking Dew had ever managed.
And then—like a brick to the face—stench.
So appalling it knifed straight through the meditation. Theodore's eyes snapped open.
…Merlin's beard. Who exploded the sewers?
He pinched his nose and flicked his wand. "Freshen Up."
Air spiralled, foulness shredding and venting into the corridor. He drew a breath—better—just as heavy footfalls shook the floor, and a guttural, damp grumbling—not quite human—rolled closer, likely drawn by his spoken charm.
The smell thickened again.
His brows knit.
That gait, that reek—
"A troll?"
"It shouldn't be out before Hallowe'en… Did Quirrell release it early?"
…
In the Great Hall, dinner roared along—first-day nerves unwinding into chatter. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville sat together.
"Where's Theodore?" Hermione asked, scanning.
Neville rubbed the back of his head. "After Herbology he said his stomach hurt and went to the lavatory. He told me to tell you to start without him, but… I… forgot."
Before Hermione could sigh, Professor Quirrell burst through the doors with a shriek.
"TROLL—in the dungeons—" He pitched his voice toward the Head Table, wobbling. "Thought you ought to know!"
He collapsed in a dramatic heap.
Chaos. Professors rose, corralling students by House, by corridor, by any semblance of order.
Hermione went white. She seized Professor McGonagall's sleeve. "Professor—Theodore—his stomach—he's on that floor's lavatory—he doesn't know about the troll!"
McGonagall's face changed like a stormfront slamming in. "Blast."
Her lips thinned. "This is very, very bad."
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