Dumbledore eyed Dean Bohan with concern. He had a question on his mind—one he didn't dare ask aloud.
Could too much muscle... crush the brain?
Blake immediately picked up on Dumbledore's thoughts.
"Professor," he said, exasperated. "My brain's fine."
"I just wanted to run a quick test. I feel stronger than ever. Just wanted to measure how strong."
Dumbledore frowned. "You'll hurt yourself."
Even with Blake's body enhanced thirtyfold, Dumbledore—Albus Dumbledore—knew testing limits was reckless. Too little force, and the test was useless. Too much, and someone might be seriously hurt.
Blake grinned. "Isn't Europe's best healer standing right here?"
He flashed Dean Bohan a sugary smile.
"No," Dean said flatly.
The idea was absurd. If the test proved Blake could resist spells, what then? Was he going to throw himself into the path of curses during battle? Of course not. Anyone with sense would still dodge.
Besides, Blake wanted Dumbledore to be the one casting at him.
Dumbledore shook his head. "Even if your body can resist, I can't bring myself to curse you, Blake. You're one of the last of my kin. It would be... cruel."
Blake's enthusiasm dimmed. Right. He was family. Dumbledore had already lived through Ariana. He wouldn't raise his wand against kin again.
"Sorry, Professor," Blake said. "I didn't consider your feelings."
"It's alright. If I were younger, I'd be just as excited."
The door creaked open. Snape entered, holding a small vial.
Dean Bohan's eyes widened. That was a high-concentration nutritional potion—top-tier quality.
"Still so fast, Severus!" Blake said, taking the bottle and examining the color. He opened the lid, sniffed it, and nodded. "Brilliant. You're truly one of the best potion masters out there."
Snape's jaw tightened. Praise from the boy who'd modified the formula after just a few sips felt less like a compliment and more like a backhanded jab.
"Hmph. Material cost and brewing fee totals 700 Galleons. I'm waiving the brewing fee—so just give me 500."
Snape extended his hand, expression stony.
"Oh, come on. Talking about money ruins the mood." Blake caught Snape's hand and folded it back gently.
Dean Bohan flinched. That grip—if Blake hadn't truly gotten stronger, Snape's hand would be shattered.
Snape, oblivious, extended his hand again. "So much for sentiment. Pay up."
Blake scowled. "You want to talk money? Fine. Let's settle this properly."
He held up the vial. "Dean, how much would this potion formula be worth to someone like St. Mungo's?"
Dean examined it closely, eyes gleaming.
"A formula of this quality is priceless for healers like us! There are no impurities—at this strength, it could save countless lives."
Blake leaned in. "So if I sold it to you, how much would you offer?"
Dean hesitated, calculating.
"The public vault at St. Mungo's can't be touched... I'd offer 50,000 Galleons from my personal savings. But I can't go higher."
He looked embarrassed. Most of his salary had gone into the hospital over the years. His savings were limited.
Dumbledore smiled. "You're truly the finest healer I've known, Dean."
Blake nodded. "I've never seen anyone use their own money for the public good."
Dean's face lit with hope—until Blake added, "I asked what it's worth. I didn't say I was selling."
Dean's shoulders slumped. He misunderstood.
"But," Blake continued, "I'm not selling it to you—I'm giving it to St. Mungo's. Free of charge."
Dean blinked. "What?! That's—are you sure?"
Blake nodded. "I know the value of goodwill. Money clears the debt. But a favor? That's worth far more."
Dean was speechless. A formula worth tens of thousands, gifted for free?
Nutritional potions were always in demand. Every recovering patient needed them. St. Mungo's usually sold diluted versions to prevent overdosing. But Blake's potion was so concentrated it could be diluted even more—and cost less to produce.
If Dean knew how much cheaper the ingredients were now, he'd probably force money into Blake's hands.
Blake turned to Snape, grinning.
"You heard that, Severus. The formula's worth at least 50,000 Galleons. But for you? Just five."
He clapped Snape's shoulder. "And I broke your hand! Otherwise, I could've charged you a hundred thousand."
Snape went pale.
"I—I don't want the formula," he stammered, tossing the parchment back to Blake.
Blake handed it to Dean.
"Oh, but you've already memorized it. You could brew it anytime. Wouldn't that be a huge loss for me?"
Snape glared at Dumbledore. "He's extorting me. Aren't you going to stop him?"
Dumbledore inspected his Elder Wand, studiously ignoring Snape.
Snape fumed. Dumbledore had made him clean up messes for years—and now he was pretending to admire a stick?
Dumbledore sighed and stood. "Blake, perhaps let it go. I trust Severus not to exploit your formula. He's a man of integrity."
Blake grinned. "Of course. I believe in Severus, too."
Snape rolled his eyes so hard they nearly disappeared into his head.
"Should I thank you both?" he snapped, turning on his heel.
"Excuse me."
The door slammed behind him.
Later that night, Blake lay in bed, studying the twisted dagger in his hand.
He'd stabbed himself with it—on purpose.
All it had done was scratch an itch. The blade had bent from the force.
His body had truly transformed. The strength behind his self-inflicted stab was comparable to a bullet hit—yet he wasn't hurt.
Blake nodded. Physical durability: confirmed.
Now, what about magic resistance?
Dumbledore wouldn't help, but Cassandra might. She was ruthless enough for it.
Hermione? Definitely not.
He slipped the dagger into his system storage, pulled up the covers, and fell asleep.
Early the next morning, Blake rose without prompting. His new body only needed a few hours of rest now.
Even better, his appetite had normalized. Yesterday, he'd eaten like a starving troll. Apparently, that had just been an adjustment period.
He resolved to create a backup supply of improved nutritional potions—preferably in pill form.
Pills were easier to carry, dose, and far less bulky than bottles. And after yesterday's overconsumption, he didn't want to feel like a sloshing water barrel again.
After breakfast, he walked straight to the Slytherin table—and whisked Cassandra away.
The younger Slytherins gasped. A Hufflepuff... just took a Slytherin girl away?
Even the older students looked away awkwardly.
When a first-year asked, a wary senior Malfoy muttered, "Don't mess with Blake. Seriously."
The first-years were stunned. Since when did Slytherins fear Hufflepuffs?
Room of Requirement.
"You really want me to hex you?" Cassandra asked, eyes glittering.
"Yes. Hit me with your strongest spell," Blake said, shrugging off his robe. No armor.
"Then I'm coming!" Cassandra grinned, already raising her wand.
"Wait—"
"Boom!"
Her improved weather spell yanked Blake's wand from his hand before he could react.
Another "boom!"—a bolt of lightning struck Blake square in the chest.
He staggered slightly but felt... nothing. Just a tingling numbness.
He grinned. He'd felt Cassandra's old spell before—it had hurt. This time? Nothing.
After a few more blasts, Blake waved her off.
"That's enough."
Cassandra lowered her wand, panting slightly.
"Blake! Why are you so resistant to being hit? Want me to keep going?"
Blake narrowed his eyes. "You enjoyed that, didn't you?"
"No! I mean—you asked for it!"
"But you had way too much fun."
He stepped forward. Cassandra stepped back.
"W-what are you going to do...?"
Blake smiled. "Oh, nothing. Just feeling a little... vengeful."
Cassandra: ...
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