Chapter 666

"Igor Karkaroff... you're already in my pocket."

Herpo the Foul aimed a warm smile at the door. Just as that smile settled into its most perfect angle, the hinges turned with a squealing grind, and Tom, soaked by the storm, pushed the door open and stepped inside. He shook out his hair, dried his clothes with his Wand, and tossed a bag of freshly gathered herbs beside the cauldron that had already been blackened by smoke.

Tom lowered his head, his eyes downcast, his face expressionless, but Herpo seemed to glimpse something he wanted in the depths of Tom's eyes, and nodded in satisfaction.

"Thanks to you, Karkaroff," Herpo said, watching Tom's practiced figure as he sat on a stool sorting the herbs. "I used to think nothing of the discipline of Potions. Fortunately, I had you. Otherwise, I fear the wounds Hermes left me would not have healed even now."

"You still haven't healed."

Tom said it without raising his head. With practiced ease, he lit the fire and tossed damp leaves one after another into the pot. Under the roasting flames, the leaves in the pot gradually yielded their juices, while the smell of blood on Tom's body grew pungent in the rising warmth of the room. Herpo wrinkled his nose. His nose caught the scent of fresh blood—the smell of killing and injury—only for it to quickly fade beneath the cover of the sharp-smelling herbs Tom had deliberately added.

Watching Tom's slightly flustered movements as he thought he had escaped his notice, Herpo said nothing more. The smile on his face merely grew richer.

After putting the lid on the pot, Tom turned and said, "Your magic is stronger than it was on the Balkan Peninsula, but your body is already like a guttering candle in the