Cedric was still in the kitchen, chewing slowly on a candied Biting Cabbage and turning the problem of the dragon liver over in his mind.
Trial and error with something that expensive would hurt.
Another jar could still be bought from Madam Morgana’s shop, but every wasted scrap would sit on his back like a stone.
The kitchen door banged open.
Ron rushed in, face flushed with excitement he made no effort to hide.
“Mr.
Grey!
Every last Biting Cabbage is gone!”
He held out a small pile of gold.
“Thirteen Galleons.
Your cut.”
Sold that fast?
Cedric stared.
He had braced himself for the first batch to sit unsold.
Instead it had vanished completely.
“Thank you, Mr.
Ron.”
He took the coins, counted out three, and pushed them back.
“For the trouble.”
Ron shook his head at once.
“No need.
We already agreed—tasting whatever you cook is payment enough.
I barely did anything.
Keep it.”
“Then I won’t argue.
I’m short on coin.”
Thirteen Galleons against a capital outlay of less than one—fifteen Sickles for the seedlings and ordinary sugar.
Even after subtracting the worthless bulk ingredients, the margin sat at a clean tenfold.
Ridiculously profitable.
Ron delivered the better news before Cedric could finish counting.
“The regulars already put the word out.
Whatever you cook next, they’ll buy the whole lot.
Money’s no object.”
Cedric’s eyes locked on the three jars of dragon liver still sitting on the side counter.
The last of the caution drained out of him.
With a ready market waiting, he could stop worrying about the cost of experiments.
Whatever Hand of the Artisan produced would sell.
The liver could be tested without fear.
Upstairs, Quirrell slammed the door of his room, breathing hard, and tore the scarf from his neck.
The snake coiled around his throat was fully exposed.
It was the same creature as before, only worse.
The scales had lost their sheen.
Patches of flesh had begun to rot.
A dull gray film covered both eyes.
The cold body tightened.
A black forked tongue flicked against Quirrell’s cheek.
“Quirrell.
Your courage has grown.
You dared keep my food for yourself.”
Voldemort’s voice drove straight into his skull like an ice pick.
Quirrell ground his teeth but did not dare speak above a whisper.
“It was my money, Master.
I only wanted to taste the flavor and the effect.
I swear I had no other thought.”
“I know you wouldn’t dare.
Still—listen carefully.
The next time you ignore an order, you become my next vessel.”
A cold snort followed the threat.
Quirrell’s gaze flicked to the rotting snake.
Sweat flooded his back.
That was the true root of his terror.
Voldemort’s spirit could not travel far on its own, so he preferred the bodies of venomous snakes.
Quirrell had watched him burn through no fewer than ten of them.
None lasted more than three days before the flesh turned to sludge and the spirit discarded the husk like garbage.
If that happened to him—
The thought alone made his body shake.
Voldemort felt the fear take hold and knew the warning had landed.
With another contemptuous sound he forced the snake across the table, tore open the paper bag with crude force, and dragged a candied cabbage free.
The entire piece disappeared down the serpent’s throat in one long, ugly swallow.
A visible lump slid along the body and settled.
Voldemort lay still, digesting.
Quirrell watched and felt a quiet, helpless resentment.
What taste could a snake extract?
The thing was wasted.
Then the possessed body reared up, striking posture, ice-cold eyes wide with genuine astonishment.
Quirrell jumped.
“Master—what’s wrong?”
“This… actually strengthens my magic.”
The words came out almost involuntarily.
“A miracle.”
As a master of the Dark Arts, Voldemort’s control over whatever body he occupied was unmatched.
Reduced now to pure spirit, his perception of magical force was sharper than any living wizard’s.
He felt the change with absolute clarity.
His power had risen by at least fifteen percent.
For a wizard of his caliber, growth of that magnitude was nothing short of miraculous.