[HP] Chapter 125-127

### [HP] 125: A Midnight Visit to Quirrell

“What is this?”

Dumbledore frowned deeply as he stared at a puddle of water on the floor.

Snape walked over, looked at it with some confusion, and said, “Isn’t it just a puddle of water?”

“There shouldn’t be any water here, Severus.” Dumbledore crouched, dipped his fingers into it, and sniffed. “Not saliva.”

He picked up a few loose bricks that had fallen from the wall and examined the cut surfaces carefully.

“Look.”

Dumbledore pointed at the stone. “These have clear traces of water erosion.”

“You mean…” Snape’s expression hardened, suspicion dawning.

“Clearly, someone deliberately weakened this wall. That’s the only reason Fluffy was able to break through and attack you.”

Dumbledore set the bricks down again. “Someone helped him, and not just anyone. But what puzzles me most is how they managed to guide Fluffy all the way to the Great Hall.”

“Could it have been a coincidence?”

“Impossible.” Snape immediately rejected the idea. “Quirrell was obviously trying to frame me, which is why I was chased by that beast all the way to the hall.”

“That makes it even stranger…”

For a long moment, both Dumbledore and Snape fell silent, each lost in thought.

---

Late that night, in a side room of the Room of Requirement.

“Master, the task you entrusted me with is complete.”

Chuan knelt on one knee, reporting to Louis, who was busy finishing up with a piece of enchanted stage cloth.

“Well done. Quite the spectacle.” Louis hung up the cloth, which had absorbed the power of the Rat Talisman, to dry. “But next time, remember to clean up the traces.”

“The wounds inside the three-headed dog’s ears will be the biggest giveaway—they might realize it was all man-made.”

“Master… I fear it won’t be possible to conceal everything,” Chuan admitted with some embarrassment.

“Oh? Explain.” Louis asked casually.

“I helped Fluffy break through the wall. There are bound to be remnants left behind.”

“Ah, the wall. True enough—there’s no way that mutt could have broken Hogwarts’ walls on its own. If it got out, that means someone intervened. And since Quirrell was in the Great Hall the whole time, suspicion will inevitably fall elsewhere.”

Louis tilted his head, thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Forget it. If they find out, they find out. As if they could actually trace it back to us?”

With that, he returned to fiddling with his magical cloth, unconcerned.

“Oh, Master,” Chuan continued, “Quirrell and Voldemort gave me quite a handsome payment in exchange for my assistance.”

“Payment? How much?” Louis asked, offhand.

“About three thousand Galleons.” Chuan gestured toward the large sack piled in the corner of the room.

“Three thousand? Not bad—seems they aren’t exactly short on coin,” Louis muttered, then added with a faint smile, “Well done.”

“To be of use to you is my greatest honor.”

Chuan, pleased at the praise, even allowed a faint smile to slip onto her face, her cheeks tinged with pink.

“Oh, and Master, there’s one more thing—”

Louis’ brows twitched, his hand faltering; the enchanted cloth nearly slipped from his grip.

“Chuan, next time just say everything at once. Even if you suddenly remember something later, don’t use that cursed phrase.” Louis said gravely.

Ever since learning Dark Qi magic, every time he heard that particular catchphrase—one favored by a certain old man—he felt an involuntary chill run down his spine.

Chuan looked completely bewildered, but even if she didn’t understand the reason, she was obedient.

“Yes, Master, I understand,” she replied quickly, learning fast as always. “It’s like this… I was wondering if you might be interested in the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“The Philosopher’s Stone?” Louis lifted his head to look at her. “You got your hands on it?”

“I did, but I worried about alerting suspicion, so I put it back. If you need it, Master, I can fetch it anytime.”

“The Philosopher’s Stone, huh…” Louis thought for a moment. “Here’s what we’ll do: every night, you take it out, and before dawn, you return it.”

He wanted to study the Stone, but he couldn’t risk being caught. Who knew if Dumbledore might decide to check on it unexpectedly?

“Yes, Master. Then what about tonight?”

“Forget tonight. Speaking of the Philosopher’s Stone reminds me of that snitch Quirrell.” Louis waved his hand dismissively. “Tonight, I’ll just pay him a little visit in his dreams.”

“Understood, Master.” Chuan nodded. “I’ll take my leave.”

With Louis’ permission, her body dissolved into flowing water, scattering in all directions until she vanished.

Louis, meanwhile, carefully stored away the enchanted stage cloth he had finished refining, then turned and unfolded his Nightmare Vision.

Dream after dream flickered before his eyes until he quickly locked onto Quirrell’s.

Quirrell’s dream was utterly unappetizing—pitch black, filled with endless serpents writhing and slithering. A nightmare built entirely out of terror, despair, and snakes.

Louis stepped forward, crossing into the dream, and found Quirrell huddled in the middle of that pit of serpents, clutching his head, trembling violently.

“Quirinus Quirrell!” Louis shouted. “Wake up!”

Of course, he didn’t mean literally wake up from sleep—he meant awakening Quirrell’s self-consciousness.

Louis had no interest in wrestling with a chaotic subconscious—that was exhausting and sanity-draining. (Case in point: the bizarre Mahjong incident last time, when he ended up stuck with a single waiting tile against a table full of imaginary opponents.)

With the Nightmare’s power pressing down, Quirrell’s self-awareness soon surfaced in the dream. He looked around blankly, and then his eyes locked onto Louis’ nightmare form.

“Y-you… hello… you must be Mr. Wilson, right?” Quirrell stammered, his body shaking with excitement. “Please, I beg you—please save me!”

“Save you? Why? Do we even know each other that well?” Louis rolled his eyes. “Not after sitting through your sorry excuse for lessons.”

“I…” Quirrell’s face crumpled miserably. “Mr. Wilson, I never meant to slack off! But Voldemort’s taken over my body—I don’t have the strength to teach properly.”

“And how exactly does that have anything to do with me saving you?” Louis spread his hands. “Got anything else to say? If not, I’m leaving.”

“W-wait! Mr. Wilson! Don’t you care that all the villains of the world are banding together into one family? I know many of their secrets—I can tell you everything!” Quirrell suddenly blurted out, seizing on the thought like a drowning man clutching at a straw.

Honestly, Louis nearly burst out laughing when Quirrell, dead serious, called it “the villains of the world uniting as one family.”

Good thing being in Nightmare form let him keep his emotions under control—otherwise it would’ve been mortifying.

“Oh, the villains of the world… pfft… all uniting as one big family, you say?” Louis couldn’t quite hold it in and snorted, though Quirrell didn’t notice anything strange.

“Y-yes! I know who their members are, and they seem to have hostile intentions toward you! If you save me, I’ll tell you everything I know!” Quirrell threw caution to the wind and poured out a string of half-truths and bluffs.

Don’t spout nonsense like that, Louis thought. I never said I was going after myself.

Clearing his throat, he finally said aloud, “Fine. Since you seem so sincere, I’ll consider helping you.”

“But…”

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### [HP] 126: Advice for Quirrell

“But you’d better be ready to make a sacrifice.”

Louis’ words cut into Quirrell’s chest like a knife.

“S–sacrifice?” Quirrell’s face drained of color inside the dream, and in reality, lying in bed, his body mirrored the same pallor. He tossed and turned, yet could not wake.

A nightmare! A spell of despair that prevents its victim from waking, no matter how terrifying or hopeless the dream becomes.

Even the Voldemort parasitizing Quirrell’s body failed to notice—he too was trapped in a dream. The difference was that he had sunk into a blissful dream, one he had no desire to leave.

If Louis exerted just a bit more force, he could plunge Voldemort into eternal slumber, never to awaken until death claimed him.

Sweet dreams or nightmares—both were equally dangerous. It all depended on the will of the dream demon.

Inside the dream, Quirrell’s face twisted with fear and fury. He glared at Louis, shouting:

“What do you mean? Why should I be the one to sacrifice? Aren’t you supposed to save me? Why save me only to sacrifice me?”

Louis shrugged. “There’s no choice. Your body’s been taken over by Voldemort. If you want to live, you’ll have to abandon it. That sacrifice is something you should be able to accept, right?”

“I can’t!” Quirrell roared. “How could I possibly accept that? Without a body, what difference is there between me and being dead?”

“The difference is that you won’t be completely dead,” Louis sneered coldly. “The moment you handed your life over to someone else, you should have prepared yourself for this.”

“First, you gave your life to Voldemort. Now, you’re trying to force someone else to wrest it back from him on your behalf.”

“And what makes you think I’d risk everything to save you? Because of your pitiful scraps of information? Do you think you’re even worth it?”

Quirrell’s body trembled. His expression twisted into malice.

“If you don’t help me, you won’t be spared either,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “That organization is already hunting you. Once I reveal your identity, not only you, but even your family will be in danger!”

He clearly had no idea how absolute a dream demon’s control was within a dream—he was threatening a man who already had a knife at his throat.

Louis didn’t expose him. Instead, he deliberately feigned anger. “What do you want?”

“Save me! By any means necessary! I don’t want to die!” Quirrell spat with hatred.

“Then just follow Voldemort to the bitter end. Once he gets the Philosopher’s Stone, he’ll leave your body. Then you’ll be free again.”

Louis’ words struck home.

“No! I refuse! Why should that demon who tormented me be allowed to escape? I want to kill him! I want him to suffer the way I’ve suffered!”

At that moment, Quirrell was like a rabid dog, consumed with hatred, desperate to tear Voldemort apart.

“Then you’ll have to rely on yourself,” Louis said flatly. “Go to Dumbledore. He can help you.”

“But in this state, I can’t expose him! The moment I try to speak Voldemort’s name, he’ll kill me!” Quirrell’s eyes were bloodshot. “Is that all your advice amounts to?”

“That’s why you’ll need to sacrifice,” Louis replied with indifference. “Abandon your body. Free yourself in spirit, slip away from Voldemort’s control.”

“What… what do you mean?” Quirrell finally raised his head, and for the first time he understood from Louis’ tone the true weight of those wordsabandoning the body.

“That means I’ll give you an ability—so that at the critical moment, your soul can leave your body. That way, you can break free from Voldemort’s control and go to Dumbledore with the truth, can’t you?”

The power to leave one’s body, of course, came from the Sheep Talisman. Because of the unique nature of a wizard’s soul and the presence of magic, a wizard’s soul could still be seen and heard—making it the perfect way to deliver a message.

“You… you have such a power?” Quirrell’s eyes lit up. “Quick! Give it to me—let me escape right now!”

“Now? Impossible.” Louis refused without hesitation.

“Why?” Quirrell nearly broke down, the despair of hope being so close yet untouchable crushing him.

“Because if you abandon your body now, Voldemort will do the same. He’ll escape instantly. He’d never allow himself to fall into Dumbledore’s hands.”

Louis offered a hint to the clearly slow-witted Quirrell. “Unless you can give him a reason to stay.”

Quirrell wasn’t completely stupid—he quickly realized what Louis was implying.

“You mean… the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“Exactly. Use Voldemort’s greed for the Stone to anchor him. He won’t want to leave. Then you seize the chance to reach Dumbledore. With that merit, Dumbledore will surely use the Stone to save you.”

Louis smiled. “The best of both worlds, isn’t it?”

Quirrell fell into deep thought. After a long silence, he muttered, “So… I need to escape at the very instant Voldemort gets the Stone…”

“Correct. Once your soul abandons your body, Voldemort will have a choice—give up the Stone, or take over your body. His greed will make him choose the latter. But if you leave too early, without the Stone to tie him down, he’ll simply destroy what’s left of you.”

Louis asked, “So? How does this method sound?”

“It’s good… it’s a good plan!” Quirrell grew excited again, but this time not from rage—this was exhilaration.

“Hahaha… I still have a chance! I can still take revenge!”

Louis ignored his frenzy. With a snap of his fingers, he shot the power of the Sheep Talisman into Quirrell’s dream-formed consciousness.

Since it worked on the soul, it didn’t matter where he planted it.

“Remember, you only get one chance,” Louis warned. “The moment your soul leaves your body, Voldemort will sense it. That’s why I won’t give you too much power. The rest is up to you.”

“Your life… should be seized by your own hands—not placed into someone else’s.”

Louis’ form gradually faded, vanishing from Quirrell’s dream.

With the dream demon’s influence gone, Quirrell’s self-awareness slowly sank back into slumber. His subconscious once again took control, twisting the dream into chaotic, surreal scenes.

Louis slipped out, traveling through the dreamscape as a bridge, returning to his dormitory. His roommates were long asleep, soft snores filling the room.

Hastur and Fafnir were also dozing, curled in their own simple dreams—the very dreams Louis had stepped out of.

It was late now. Time to rest.

Stretching out on his bed, Louis recalled his little visit to Quirrell’s dream and let a cold smile curl his lips.

“To think you dared threaten me… go on, wait for death.”

A dark malice spread through the dorm, its tangible weight so thick it made the snoring stop in an instant.

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### [HP] 127: Blending In with Louis

The snow that had started on Christmas had continued, on and off, for nearly two months.

Yesterday’s heavy snowfall had left the castle courtyards blanketed in white. Now, with flurries still drifting down and the wind just right, it was the perfect weather for a snowball fight.

Professor Flitwick was in the middle of explaining the proper wand movements and casting techniques for charms, but it wasn’t long before he noticed that his students’ minds were no longer in the classroom—their hearts were already downstairs in the snow.

He shook his head helplessly, but soon his face broke into a warm smile.

“All right, children, that’s enough for today. Off you go and have some fun.”

“Brilliant! Snowball fight!”

“Thank you, Professor Flitwick!”

The young witches and wizards cheered, bolting from their seats and rushing toward the door.

“Remember to wrap your scarves and keep warm!” Flitwick managed to call out one last reminder, but his words were quickly forgotten as the excited crowd thundered down the stairs.

Still smiling, the tiny professor carefully climbed down from his stack of books, only then noticing one student who remained calm and unhurried amidst the chaos.

“Oh? Mr. Wilson, why aren’t you going down to join them in the snowball fight?” Flitwick asked kindly.

Louis felt the urge to roll his eyes, but Flitwick was a good professor, and that would have been terribly rude.

“My apologies, Professor. I was actually planning to visit Hagrid at his hut,” Louis replied. “Besides… snowball fights aren’t really that interesting.”

“Children should be lively now and then,” Flitwick said gently. “Don’t let your talent and intellect tie you down. Opening your heart and relaxing is also a way to help absorb knowledge.”

The professor was particularly fond of Louis—after all, what teacher wouldn’t like a student who was polite, disciplined in class, and never made mistakes in his studies?

“You’re quite right, Professor. I’ll keep that in mind,” Louis nodded, packing up his books. “Then, goodbye for now.”

“Goodbye. Have some fun,” Flitwick said with a cheerful wave, watching Louis leave.

It wasn’t just Flitwick who was lenient that day.

Most of the professors, sensing their students’ eagerness, had also dismissed classes early. Soon, the castle courtyard was alive with laughter and chaos.

Snowball fights were simple, joyful, and universally loved.

Very quickly, students gathered into groups and began pelting each other with snowballs.

At first, the battles stayed within ordinary limits, but once the older students joined, things grew outrageous.

Some created self-guided snowballs—enchanted missiles that homed in on their targets like they had eyes of their own.

This magical “cheat code” quickly took out a large number of students.

But soon enough, a massive snowball, condensed entirely with magic, came crashing down as payback, burying the cheaters in heaps of snow.

Filch stood at the side, gnashing his teeth in frustration as he watched the magical snowball fight unfold. He longed to drag them all to the dungeons and string them up for punishment.

Unfortunately for him, Hogwarts’ rules only forbade magic in the corridors. The courtyards were fair game, and he had no grounds to stop them.

Hogwarts was, after all, a school of magic. The corridor rule was for safety—not to protect the fragile feelings of a Squib.

The snowball fight raged on, but Louis strolled calmly straight through the battlefield, utterly unfazed.

Louis’ appearance threw the “battlefield” into slight disarray. Everyone instinctively made way for him, which thinned out the storm of flying snowballs in his direction.

After all—this was the descendant of Merlin. In the Muggle world, it would be like someone claiming to be a descendant of Jesus—and having it proven true. In devout Christian lands, such a person might well be worshipped… or, just as likely, turned into a wax figure dipped in holy oil and nailed to a cross for people to venerate.

But in the wizarding world, where bloodline supremacy ran deep, the blood of Merlin meant boundless potential. That was the common doctrine pure-blood parents instilled in their children—who then spread it through the school.

So the students treated Louis in an unusual way: curious, but too intimidated to get close, let alone throw snowballs at him.

Of course, accidents happened. Some snowballs strayed from their intended targets and went flying toward Louis.

He didn’t even glance at them. They all missed, whizzing past harmlessly. Not a single one struck him.

But not everyone cared about such “untouchable” status.

Amid the flurry of snow, one snowball curved elegantly in an S-shaped drift before shooting straight at Louis.

He raised a hand, caught it effortlessly, and spotted the culprits—the Weasley twins, laughing and messing about in the corner.

“Come on then! Hit me if you can!” Fred shouted, bouncing on the spot and waving, pure challenge in his voice.

Louis chuckled, then casually lobbed the snowball back. It smacked Fred square in the face.

No need for talismans—Louis’ raw power from Merlin’s bloodline template was more than enough to dominate a snowball fight.

It might be boring, but one couldn’t just ignore a provocation, could they?

Fred refused to back down. He leapt up, hurling snowball after snowball at Louis. George joined in too, though his loyalties were suspicious—sometimes pelting Louis, sometimes stuffing handfuls of snow down Fred’s collar.

His blatant double-crossing only made the fight more chaotic, but strangely, it all meshed together—Louis, Fred, and George clashing in a natural rhythm.

Clearly, the twins didn’t care about Louis’ lofty reputation. In fact, they seemed delighted to help drag him down from his pedestal.

Their antics reignited the courtyard atmosphere. Laughter and cheers filled the air once more.

From the school’s clock tower, Dumbledore stood behind the great bell’s glass window, watching the scene below with a knowing smile.

Happiness—that was what children ought to have. Perhaps joy itself could reach Louis’ prematurely hardened heart.

After a while, Louis stopped throwing snowballs. The twins hadn’t dragged him into their game just for fun—they had been offering him their own kind of rescue.

The three of them left the fray and sat on a stone bench at the side.

“You still haven’t found any leads about Peter Pettigrew?” Louis asked, glancing over at Ron, who was busy wrapping Scabbers into a snowball while building a snowman.

“Nothing much. There isn’t a lot of information about him, but we do know he went to Hogwarts once,” George said. “We’re thinking about asking Professor Cuthbert.”

“Yeah, Binns Cuthbert’s been teaching for centuries—he might remember something,” Fred added.

Louis rolled his eyes. “You can remember the exact date a meteor fell from the sky, but can you recall what you had for lunch when you were five?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the twins asked, puzzled.

“It means Professor Cuthbert might not remember some random student from who-knows-when.”

Louis stood up—Hermione was waving at him from across the courtyard.

“You two carry on. I hope you find something useful.”

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