Hearing Voldemort's words, Quirrell understood. The Dark Lord wanted to drink Char's blood. Perhaps it was even more effective than the unicorn blood they had been risking so much to obtain.
"But Master," Quirrell stammered, "why didn't you sense this before?"
Voldemort himself seemed a little puzzled. "Perhaps the boy has some special bloodline that was dormant until now. It doesn't matter. What's important is that I can feel his blood will restore more of my life force. To increase our chances of obtaining the Philosopher's Stone, we must have it. Go, quickly!"
Quirrell swallowed hard, a chill running down his spine. He could tear a unicorn's throat and drink its blood—it was just an animal. But to do the same to a young boy… The thought was repulsive. Yet, he could feel the unicorn's curse coursing through his veins, a constant, agonizing reminder of his own mortality. He had been cursed three times now. If he couldn't recover enough strength to get the Philosopher's Stone, his end would be unimaginably miserable.
The thought hardened his resolve. For survival, for the promise of a new, perfect life, what was the murder of one boy? This world was a place where the strong consumed the weak. He would simply be taking what he needed to survive.
Quirrell moved closer to the small greenhouse, but he did not rush to break down the door. He knew it was protected by powerful magic. It was better to use a more subtle approach. A strange, cunning look appeared on his face. He and Voldemort had used an enchanted parchment before, disguised as a senior student named "Delphi," to almost trick Char into revealing his secrets. The connection had been broken, likely by Dumbledore's intervention, but now, there was no such interference.
He produced another piece of parchment and slipped it through a crack in the door, writing a line of elegant, flowing script. "My dearest junior, Char. I haven't heard from you in so long. Why don't you come to see me? Your senior misses you."
Inside, Char was in a wonderful mood, planning his next steps. Thanks to the silver bucket, a batch of Blood Jade matured early, he thought. Tomorrow, I'll get more dragon blood from Norbert and cultivate a new batch. In a month, I can harvest again. My blood-forming ability should reach Platinum, which will further enhance my legendary strength and life. The Dragon Fire ability will be a stable trump card, and in another month and a half, I can harvest the Piranha Algae. By the end of the year, the Guardian Tree will be mature. This series of gains is enough to make my strength increase dramatically before my second year.
His optimistic planning was cut short by the appearance of the enchanted parchment. The familiar handwriting materialized, and his good mood instantly vanished, replaced by a cold fury. The two-faced man was truly relentless. Couldn't he just be left alone to tend to his plants in peace?
His first instinct was to tear the parchment to shreds and bury it under the Guardian Tree, as he had before. But then, his platinum-level night vision detected a powerful magical aura lurking in the darkness just outside the greenhouse. His heart sank. It was Quirrell. If he didn't respond, Quirrell would surely try to force his way in.
A feeling of deep frustration and powerlessness washed over him. His strength was still too weak. Even after all his progress, he was still in a passive, dangerous position when faced with this threat. The joy from his recent gains evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. He would not let this happen again. But for now, he had to play the game.
He picked up his quill and, under the protective shade of the Guardian Tree, wrote his reply. "I'm sorry, Senior. I don't know what happened before, but the parchment stopped responding. Headmaster Dumbledore had a talk with me, telling me not to indulge in illusions. But I don't care for his grand speeches. You are not an illusion. I dream about you—"
Outside, a strange smile touched Quirrell's lips. It seemed the bewitching magic from their last conversation had taken deep root. So what if Dumbledore had noticed? Grand words couldn't reverse the corruption of a human heart. Now that Char was so thoroughly enchanted, perhaps he wouldn't need to resort to such drastic measures. He could slowly, carefully bleed him, drawing the precious life force through the parchment without alerting Dumbledore. He wrote another line.
"Since you miss me so, can you press your fingertip to the parchment and let me taste your blood?"
Char, who had been filled with a gloomy resignation, suddenly froze. Blood? You want to drink my blood?
Quirrell frowned. Had he misjudged the boy's obsession? Perhaps the request was too alarming. He was about to write an explanation when Char's eyes suddenly lit up. He grabbed his quill.
"Senior, you wanted to drink my blood? Why didn't you tell me sooner! I don't have much, but I have plenty of blood!"
The next moment, with a strange, almost manic look in his eyes, Char sliced open an artery in his arm. Blood sprayed onto the parchment like a high-pressure jet. At the same time, he activated the poison ability he had just acquired, silently lacing the gushing blood with a slow-acting, chronic toxin.
"Senior, drink! Drink quickly!" he wrote.
On the other side, a massive amount of blood seeped from the parchment, gushing toward Quirrell like a fountain. He was shocked. What was this? He had only intended to ask for a few drops, to slowly increase the amount over time. This was far too extreme!
But a feeling of pure ecstasy quickly overrode his shock. Voldemort seized control of his body, leaning over the parchment and gulping down the vital fluid with intoxicated glee. "Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!" He could feel his strength returning, bit by bit. The blood continued to flow, and in a rare moment of consideration, he wrote, "Stop it, Char. That's enough, Senior has had her fill."
But Char's reply was full of a desperate excitement. "Is that enough? Is that all you want? Did you even taste it? No, drink more! Drink more!"
The gush of blood from the parchment became even more violent. Even a being as cruel as Voldemort felt a rare twinge of emotion. This boy… he is so honest! He thought of the Death Eaters who had followed him, their loyalty so conditional, so fleeting. If they had possessed even a fraction of this boy's willingness to sacrifice, the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore… they would have all been swept away. This boy was a true talent. He couldn't let him die. Voldemort simply removed the blood-absorbing spell from the parchment.
Char watched as the parchment stopped drinking, a look of genuine regret on his face. With his legendary life and enhanced hematopoietic ability, this was just the beginning. He could have kept this up for another ten minutes, infusing the two-faced man with an astonishing amount of poison. Why had he stopped?
"Senior," he wrote, his disappointment clear. "Don't stop. Just a few more bites!"
A new line of text appeared. "Char. I feel your devotion. Senior Delphi is very happy. Now, I will give you a reward. What do you desire? Powerful magic? Wealth? Your senior can give you anything!"
Char was stunned for a moment. Voldemort wants to reward me? For poisoning him? Then, his eyes lit up. To cultivate his Blood Jade, he needed a steady supply of 5X-rated magical creature blood. And who better to procure it than Voldemort? To him, the Acromantulas were no more than common spiders. He could use them as a mobile blood bank! He could use Voldemort to increase his own poison ability, which he could then use to finish Voldemort off.
The plan was perfect. He didn't hesitate. "Senior, I want to replenish my blood so I can continue to supply you. I know there is a colony of giant Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest. There is a potion recipe that uses their blood to replenish one's own. Can you get some for me? It has to be fresh. Oh, and it's best not to kill them. Acromantulas are pitiful creatures, too! If I knew one died because of me, I would never speak to you again."
Voldemort took a deep breath, a flush of excitement on his pale face. What a subordinate! he thought. To devote everything to me so sincerely! This is loyalty! His only regret was that the boy was too kind, too simple. Never mind, he decided. Let him retain some of his innocence for now. When I return to power, I will personally teach him what it means to be truly cruel.
He agreed to Char's request and then severed the connection. A cold light shone in his eyes. If Char could supply him with blood regularly, his return to power would be far faster than he had estimated. The Philosopher's Stone was as good as his!
Just then, Quirrell's voice, full of a strange unease, broke his reverie. "Master… Master… don't you feel a little… unwell after drinking the boy's blood? Or is it my imagination?"
Voldemort snorted, his good mood evaporating. "Quirrell, are you suggesting the blood was tainted? That Char is disloyal? He is a kind-hearted boy who wouldn't even kill a spider. What bad intentions could he possibly have? I am warning you, do not try my patience with such foolishness again. Now go! Find me the Acromantulas and use their blood to nourish him."
Quirrell's face paled. He said no more, dismissing the faint feeling of wrongness as a subconscious revulsion to drinking human blood. He quickly left the greenhouse and headed toward the Forbidden Forest.
Char, realizing Quirrell was gone, finally let out a long sigh of relief. He had passed this trial. For a long time, he shouldn't have to face the direct threat of the two-faced man again. But his mood did not improve. He had been lucky this time. What about the next? Would he have to rely on good luck again?
He took a deep breath, his hands clenching into tight fists. His gaze swept over the small greenhouse. He had thought it was enough. But now he knew. It wasn't enough. It was far from enough. There was a basilisk coming in his second year. Dementors in his third. Countless other threats lay in wait. He didn't want to rely on luck or adaptability ever again. Only the weak were forced to adapt.
His gaze grew more determined than ever. "I need more fields," he whispered to the empty greenhouse. "I need to grow more crops. I need to plant trees. I need to plant more trees!"