Seeing the new lines pop up on the System screen, Theodore couldn't help swallowing hard.
Even that half-blind System thought this thing was a massive, epic-tier upgrade over the previous Dungbomb?
"Shakes the Nine Heavens above, quakes the Netherworld below, startles heaven and earth, terrifies gods and ghosts alike…"
Just how broken did this troll-dung Dungbomb have to be… for the System to straight-faced call it the Nine Heavens Divine Thunderbolt?
The corners of Theodore's mouth slowly curled up.
If he smeared this on Voldemort's face, the Dark Lord was guaranteed a memory he'd never forget. In this life. Or the next.
The merit from that… had to be sky-high, right?
With that happy thought, Theodore carefully pinched the troll-dung Dungbomb between his fingers and headed back toward the castle.
He'd already heard the gossip—after eating three standard Dungbombs yesterday, Professor Quirrell had stunk up the place so badly he'd holed up in the staff quarters and hadn't come out. He hadn't even shown up for class.
Word was, people passing by the staff wing kept getting hit by waves of stench and the sound of dry heaving from inside—occasionally mixed with the odd bloodcurdling scream.
Apparently, it wasn't just Quirrell who'd suffered. Voldemort had been so furious and so disgusted that he'd taken it all out on Quirrell in a rage.
Theodore's eyes glinted.
"No one's seen Quirrell today either… he's definitely still hiding in the staff dorms."
"Good. A sealed environment will give them the highest possible quality experience—and keeps collateral damage to a minimum."
He cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, activated Hidden Breath, Veiled Machine, and padded silently toward the staff corridor.
Quirrell, meanwhile, was lying weakly on his bed.
Yesterday he'd sprinted back as fast as his legs would carry him, but three Dungbombs were just too much—enough power to punch straight through his layers of scarf.
He'd never seen Voldemort lose it that badly before. His master had actually burned precious strength to hit him with the Cruciatus Curse three times in a row.
If Quirrell hadn't still been useful, Voldemort might very well have considered using the Killing Curse.
Between the triple Cruciatus, scrubbing his robes and scarf, casting Cleaning Charms over and over on Voldemort's orders—not to mention being chased through the fourth-floor corridor by a three-headed dog that had clearly "taken something"—Quirrell genuinely felt like his luck had hit rock bottom.
Thinking back on it… it had all started with that duel in Defence Against the Dark Arts, when he'd picked Theodore Ashbourne as his opponent.
No, even before that. Back in Diagon Alley, the day they'd struck Gringotts, he was pretty sure he'd seen Theodore there too.
And his master's plan… had been ruined by that same little wizard.
Ever since the very first time he'd set eyes on Theodore Ashbourne, nothing had gone smoothly.
Quirrell ground his teeth.
"Stinking little mudblood, Gryffindor brat, just you wait."
"When the master rises again, I'll make very sure you pay for this…"
Lost in his revenge fantasies, he didn't notice his door easing open a crack, soundless.
Voldemort was silent as well. He'd burned a lot of strength in that fit of rage, and on top of that, no matter how many Cleaning Charms Quirrell cast, there was still a phantom smell clinging to him. Disgusted and exhausted, Voldemort had finally slipped into a foul-tempered sleep.
With the Disillusionment Charm layered over Hidden Breath, Veiled Machine, Theodore might as well have been a ghost. Neither of them sensed a thing.
He crept in, gently set the troll-dung Dungbomb down beside Quirrell's pillow, primed the detonating spell, then turned and unleashed the fastest burst of speed of his entire life, bolting down the corridor like a shot.
A gust of wind whirled through Quirrell's room, making the door shudder on its hinges.
Quirrell blinked.
"Didn't I shut that?"
"Oh… I must've forgotten. All this back-and-forth to wash the clothes and air out the room…"
"I can't afford to catch a cold now. Better shut everything properly."
He staggered to his feet, shut the door carefully, then went to the windows and latched them tight. Only then did he relax a little.
But as he took a breath, his already-abused nose twitched, and his expression suddenly went green.
"Where's that smell coming from?"
"Why is it this bad?"
"Why is it getting worse? Did I forget to wash something?"
The stench was so strong it roused Voldemort from his sleep.
"Quirrell. What are you doing?"
"How have you still not washed it all off, you useless trash? Why is it still this foul?"
Quirrell hurried his steps nervously.
"It shouldn't be, my lord, I—I washed everything, I swear. Let me check… it feels like I'm getting closer to the smell…"
Following his nose, he shuffled towards the bed.
His eyes landed on the troll-dung Dungbomb sitting innocently by his pillow—and he froze.
When did that get there?
Just then, Voldemort's voice spiked to a pitch Quirrell had never heard from him before—raw, panicked terror.
"Quirrell? Quirrell—"
"Run!!"
The countdown charm hit zero.
The troll-dung Dungbomb detonated.
By then, Theodore had already sprinted out of the staff wing and was finally letting himself breathe.
"I should be outside the blast radius by now… right?"
He'd barely had time to finish the thought when an indescribable stench exploded out from the staff quarters, rolling through Hogwarts like a physical shockwave.
Portraits along the corridors froze, then broke into panicked runs, sprinting out of their frames and into others as far away as they could get.
The enchanted suits of armour—normally capable of standing still for centuries like statues—suddenly jerked upright. Metal clanged as they lurched to their feet and, without hesitation, hurled themselves out of tower windows in a desperate bid to escape.
On several floors, in classrooms mid-lesson, professors and students alike stopped dead.
The students closest to the windows went pale.
"Bloody—WHAT!?"
"Did the sewage vault explode?!"
Several of them simply keeled over on the spot.
The smell even reached the very top of the castle, seeping into the owlery. Dozens of owls shrieked, exploded into flight, and fled the building without a backward glance.
Dumbledore burst out of his office, face the colour of curdled milk.
He'd seen more than his fair share of Dark magic in his time, but not a single curse he knew could match the sheer slaughter this stink was inflicting.
Using the privileges of the Headmaster, he quickly pinpointed the culprits.
"Theodore Ashbourne," he ground out, "and, of course, the Weasley twins…"
"What in Merlin's name have you done?"
Half an hour later, in a detention room Hogwarts hadn't used in over a century, Theodore and the twins finally got to see Dumbledore well and truly furious.
"Troll dung," Dumbledore said, voice shaking with rage. "As a prank ingredient. How dare you. How dare you."
He even swore, which was so rare it might as well have been an omen of the apocalypse.
"What the bloody hell did you add to it?"
When the twins proudly rattled off their list of odour-enhancers and diffusion agents, the veins on Dumbledore's forehead bulged ominously.
"As Headmaster of Hogwarts," he said through his teeth, "I hereby classify every single one of those formulae as Class One Dark Magical Items."
"And you two"—he jabbed a finger at the twins—"are banned from going within twenty feet of any public lavatory. If I catch you brewing dung again, I swear—I swear on my beard—I will personally hang you in this detention room."
On Theodore's System screen, scarlet text was exploding across his vision.
[Your Nine Heavens Divine Thunderbolt has successfully struck the body possessed by Duobao Daoist. In that instant, thunder shook the Nine Heavens, exploding in the halls of the Jade Void Palace.]
[From the heights of the Ninth Heaven to the depths of the Netherworld, countless gods and immortals were shaken to their core; blood rain fell from the sky, and all the Wilds trembled.]
[Even South Pole Elder was moved, declaring the Nine Heavens Divine Thunderbolt's power too great, injuring the order of Heaven itself. Heaven and Earth cannot tolerate it; henceforth, any disciple of the Chan Sect who forges such a thing shall be cast out from the sect!]
Theodore shivered.
The troll-dung Dungbomb really was too terrifying.
Even if he one day reached a realm where he walked side by side with Heaven and Earth—
If this thing showed up in front of him…
He'd run. No question. Theodore had no desire to get even a molecule of that stuff on him. This was a large-scale biochemical weapon, no matter how you dressed it up.
Thankfully, whatever Quirrell and Voldemort had suffered this time, it had been enough. An amount of merit thicker than everything he'd earned before combined descended on Theodore in a rush.
He was very close now to having enough to safely fuse another set of talents.
If he couldn't throw Dungbombs anymore… maybe he'd just have to lob a pot of juvenile Mimbulus mimbletonia or biting cabbages at the back of Quirrell's head instead.
That should be plenty.
With that thought, Theodore looked at Dumbledore and asked, very sincerely,
"Headmaster—how… is Professor Quirrell?"
Dumbledore's expression went a bit haunted. He pointed out toward the Black Lake.
"He's… out there soaking."
"We're going to have to buy a lot more fish for the lake after this."
At that very moment, in the Black Lake, Quirrell was floating in the water, eyes vacant.
Bubbles kept gurgling up around him. One dead fish after another bobbed belly-up to the surface.
In the back of his mind, Voldemort's voice had gone past anger into a dead, glacial calm—so cold it burned.
"Theodore Ashbourne," he hissed. "That innately evil Gryffindor brat."
"I swear, this is the first time in my life I've hated someone more than that old bee, Dumbledore."
"Quirrell."
Quirrell jerked, snapping out of his daze.
"Y-yes, my lord?"
Voldemort's voice was like ice.
"You. You will kill Theodore Ashbourne for me. He will pay for what he's done."
"…Quirrell? Why are you not speaking?"
Quirrell's mind conjured a vivid image of himself in Defence Against the Dark Arts, getting absolutely flattened by Theodore.
He hadn't used Dark magic then, true—but when Voldemort himself had taken over, he hadn't done much better against the boy, had he?
And now he was being told to go kill Theodore Ashbourne?
"Me…" Quirrell croaked.
"Me?"
"Me… kill Theodore Ashbourne?"
"My lord, perhaps… perhaps you might like to reconsider…?"
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