[HP] Chapter 110-112

### [HP] 110: Pretty Miserable

The moment Peter Pettigrew got his hands on a wand, he was ecstatic.

Ten years. It had been ten long years since he last touched a wand! Who could possibly understand how he had lived through those ten years?

Back then, to escape suspicion, Peter had devised a trick—he let the only one who knew he was the Secret-Keeper, Sirius Black, corner him on a Muggle street.

Sirius Black had once been his closest friend. The closer they had been, the deeper Peter had hated himself in that moment.

Because it was he, the Secret-Keeper, who had betrayed their mutual friends—the Potters. He had led Voldemort straight to them, and the Dark Lord had murdered them.

Sirius, who should have been the Secret-Keeper, loathed himself for failing them, but he hated Peter even more. What he didn’t expect was just how cruel the usually cowardly Peter could be.

Peter severed his own finger and cast an explosive curse of immense power, killing nearly every Muggle on the street. In the chaos, he slipped away.

That day, he lost both his wand and a finger. Since then, he had lived as a rat, scurrying through sewers, until fate landed him in the Weasley household as their pet.

For all those years, Peter never once returned to human form. He was too afraid—afraid of others coming to settle accounts with him. Voldemort was gone, defeated by nothing more than a baby: Harry Potter.

“Hahaha! I knew it—the news was false. The Dark Lord couldn’t possibly be dead.” Peter sneered, staring at the Marauder’s Map in his hand. “Look—he’s still here. He lives.”

Tom Riddle. A name Peter would never forget.

Though he couldn’t understand why the Dark Lord’s name was bound to someone called Quirinus Quirrell.

Still, it was enough. That alone made this intermittently vicious coward perk up with courage again. He saw his master’s name, and he dared to act.

Wand in hand, Peter glanced at Louis—who was completely engrossed in playing an absurd game of mahjong in his dreamscape—and his face twisted into a hideous smile.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Muttering the Unforgivable Curse with murderous intent, Peter flicked the wand toward Louis.

And… nothing happened.

“What?” Peter froze. He never imagined Louis’s wand would be a fake, an imitation without a core. As he lifted his head in shock, he saw a massive owl swooping straight at his face.

“Skreeee!”

“Aaaghhh!”

Fafnir’s talons ripped across Peter’s left eye, gouging deep enough to expose bone. One eyeball popped loose, dangling grotesquely from its socket.

Don’t be fooled by how cute Fafnir acted around Louis. An owl is still a raptor—and Fafnir was a Eurasian eagle-owl, the largest of them all. Strengthened further by three genetic potions, its talons could crush stone.

Peter Pettigrew had the dubious honor of being the first wizard to experience that strength.

The searing pain made him shriek, his high-pitched scream instantly waking everyone in the dorm.

Inside the dream, Louis had just drawn a glorious straight flush, waiting on the eleven of ten-thousand, when he abruptly pulled back into consciousness.

The moment he opened his eyes, he saw a blood-soaked, bloated man with a filthy, rat-like air shrieking at his bedside.

Blinking groggily from his interrupted dream, Louis’s eyes widened. The sigil of the Ox Talisman shimmered in them—and before he could think, he lashed out with a kick.

“BOOM!”

The thunderous crash shook the room. Peter’s body slammed into the wall right beside a drowsy, confused Draco Malfoy. His obese form flattened a full inch on impact, and his belly was blown open where Louis’s foot had struck.

Malfoy, stunned, turned his head—only to see the fat man embedded in the wall, spewing blood, one eye dangling grotesquely. The stranger rolled his eyes back and fainted on the spot.

Goyle, Crabbe, and Blaise Zabini were awake too, but before they could process what happened, Louis snapped his fingers and dragged them all into a dream.

“What the hell just popped up in my face?”

Louis’s expression was dark. Who wouldn’t be pissed if they were jolted awake to find a grotesque fat man missing an eye screaming right in front of them?

And Louis’s way of handling irritation was simple: he’d already kicked the intruder into a wall.

Walking over, Louis frowned at the trembling wreck who looked ready to die at any moment. “Seriously, who the hell is this guy?”

Peter’s vision blurred, his consciousness swallowed by terror.

This… this thing wasn’t human! No human could nearly kill him with one kick. This had to be a monster wearing human skin!

At that moment, Hastur—who had ignored Peter earlier out of distaste for his “donated blood”—trotted over, carrying a thick parchment in its mouth. It dropped it into Louis’s hand.

Louis glanced at it—an activated Marauder’s Map.

“Oh. Peter Pettigrew.” He studied the fat man, who looked like he was about to shift from “fat man” as a description to “corpse” in reality. A slow smile crept onto Louis’s face. “Peter Pettigrew, do you want to live?”

“…Wh-what?” Peter was half-dead already, barely comprehending anything. His body felt weightless, as though his soul were drifting away.

Then, through his darkened vision, he saw the “monster” reach out and press a hand against him. A dragging force yanked his fading consciousness back into his flesh.

Agonizing pain flooded in, and Peter’s head lolled as he fainted.

“Pathetic. Can’t even endure a little pain.” Louis shook his head as the Horse Talisman mended Peter’s ruined body. He looked down at the bald, fat man with clear disgust.

Not just because he was fat, but because he was filthy.

His clothes were rags, his yellow nails absurdly long—and he’d dared touch Louis’s wand with those hands. The thought made Louis want to kill him outright.

But no—Louis hadn’t saved him out of mercy.

Killing Peter would yield no Fate Points.

Fate Points were earned by mocking fate, not by destroying its puppets.

And every character tied into the storylines of fate was invaluable to him. Losing one was a waste.

Especially someone like Peter Pettigrew—his threads tied into multiple arcs of Harry Potter’s fate. There was no way Louis would just let him die.

---

### [HP] 111: Dealing with Peter Pettigrew

Dragging the unconscious Peter Pettigrew, Louis stepped into the Room of Requirement.

The surroundings shifted quickly, reshaping into a fully stocked potions lab. Louis, practiced as ever, pulled out a cauldron already filled with base liquid and began brewing.

This time, it was a memory-erasing potion—Forgetfulness Draught.

It was listed in Advanced Potion-Making, though Louis had tweaked the recipe to make it easier to control.

He needed to erase Peter’s abnormal memory—specifically, the part where he nearly got stomped to death by Louis.

Such a near-death memory would be burned deeply into him. To make sure it vanished completely, Louis increased the dosage.

The reason he kept Peter alive and went so far as to erase his memory was simple: Peter was the key to triggering Sirius Black’s storyline.

Sirius Black—an important character, and the Fate Points tied to him would easily be in the hundreds.

Losing such a fat “experience monster” just because Peter died too soon and Sirius wasted away in Azkaban? That would be a colossal loss for Louis.

And Louis had no idea where Azkaban even was. That place was harder to find than the lighthouse Vernon Dursley used to hide Harry’s letters.

If Sirius died in Azkaban without direct interference, Louis would get no reward at all—no Fate Points for such indirect meddling. That would be the worst outcome.

“Just stay quiet and behave. When the time comes, lure Sirius Black out for me… then I’ll decide what to do with you.”

Muttering to himself, Louis used the power of the Rooster Talisman to control a ball of steaming potion and pour it straight into Peter’s mouth.

Louis’s plan for him could be summed up in one phrase: wild development.

A twist so outrageous that not even a cracked skull could’ve imagined it.

“Mm. By next year, I should be able to get the diary. That’ll give me two Voldemort fragments. When third year comes, I’ll let Peter hold one of them.”

It tied in nicely—Louis still had a mission involving Voldemort’s soul fragments: distribute them among a handful of people and set them against each other.

Such a distortion of fate might just break destiny entirely.

Once the potion was administered and the memories erased, Louis dragged Peter into a secluded corner of the castle where neither people, portraits, nor ghosts were likely to find him.

He paused, then said softly, “Chuan.”

The word had barely left his lips when water seeped up from the floor, gathering into the form of a beautiful young woman.

“Master,” Chuan greeted.

“Watch this man. Don’t let anyone find him. When he’s about to wake up, then you may leave.”

“Yes, Master,” Chuan nodded.

“Oh, and—did Voldemort discover you?” Louis asked casually.

Chuan shook her head. “Not yet, Master.”

“Probably hasn’t been long enough,” Louis mused. “After this, resume monitoring him.”

“Yes.”

The young woman melted back into a pool of water, sinking into the floor as if she had left. But Louis knew better—this was her unique surveillance method. If anyone approached, she could instantly drag Peter into the depths of darkness.

Louis double-checked his belongings, and once everything was in order, he opened a door to an auxiliary chamber of the Room of Requirement, and from there stepped back into the dormitory.

Having authority was so convenient—he could do whatever he wanted.

---

At last, a stretch of normal daily life returned.

Louis yawned, propping his head against his arm, half-dozing as a professor lectured.

It was History of Magic, taught by the ghost Professor Cuthbert Binns—who was nearly as old as Hogwarts itself.

That is, counting both his years alive and his years dead.

The only one in the school who could rival his age was probably Peeves.

Yes, that very poltergeist who did nothing but cause mischief. Peeves had been around since the school first admitted students. Every year, someone tried to drive him out, and every year they failed.

As for Professor Binns—he was erudite, his lectures thorough… and yet they came with a built-in hypnotic effect. By the end of class, half the students were usually asleep.

Even Louis’s nightmare bloodline struggled to resist.

Sure enough, Harry Potter, sitting beside him, and Ron—with his pet rat Scabbers—were both sound asleep.

Fortunately, Professor Binns never cared. He knew his lectures put people to sleep; as long as you didn’t disturb others, it was fine to nap.

At some point, Harry had developed the habit of sitting next to Louis. If he had questions, he’d ask. If not, he’d still try to pull Louis into discussions.

Louis couldn’t exactly refuse—Harry wasn’t being hostile, after all. But Harry seemed to take his tolerance as proof of friendship. It really showed just how desperate the boy, so starved of companionship, was for friends.

When class finally ended, Louis packed up his books to leave. Beside him, Harry and Ron stretched and yawned, still bleary-eyed.

Scabbers almost slipped off Ron’s robes, scrambling to hook his claws into the fabric to avoid hitting the floor.

“Oh, Scabbers, you’ve gotten clumsy lately.” Ron shook his head, exasperated. “You used to grab my hand with your tail.”

Louis glanced at the rat. Understandable—after all, a strong Forgetfulness Draught brewed with Black Qi magic would make the drinker lose even basic reflexes.

“Finally, it’s over. History of Magic is exhausting.” Ron rubbed his numb arm. “So, what should we do now?”

“Wizard’s chess!” Harry said eagerly. Ever since he’d learned the game, he’d been obsessed with the animated pieces.

“Louis, want to play?” Harry asked.

“No, I promised Hermione I’d go to the library with her.” Louis refused.

This so-called Savior… always pestering him to play chess instead of studying.

“You’ve turned Harry down five times already. Why do you keep going to the library with that bookworm? Don’t tell me someone actually reads for fun.” Ron grumbled.

Louis’s expression grew odd. He patted Ron’s shoulder. “Just… bear with it. Three… two…”

Ron stared blankly as Louis counted down. On “one,” a book thwacked the back of his head.

“This bookworm does read for fun—sorry if that bothers you!” Hermione huffed, glaring with wide eyes.

Harry snickered, greeting her cheerfully. “Afternoon, Hermione.”

“Afternoon, Harry,” she nodded, then turned back to glare daggers at Ron.

Caught red-handed badmouthing her, Ron wilted immediately. “Uh… sorry.”

But when he said it, he shot Louis a resentful look.

Louis spread his hands innocently. “Don’t blame me for the late warning. It’s just bad luck—she walked in right as you said it.”

---

### [HP] 112: Christmas Holidays

“Come on, Louis, don’t bother talking to him.” Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron, then turned to Harry. “Harry, want to come to the library with us? Don’t waste your time sinking into bad habits with this useless fellow.”

Harry gave an awkward smile. “Sorry, Hermione… but I really want to play wizard’s chess.”

“Fine.” Hermione shook her head, looking disappointed, and tugged Louis by the arm to leave.

“‘Don’t waste your time with this useless fellow…’” Ron mocked in a falsetto imitation of Hermione’s voice. Harry nearly burst out laughing, but he quickly stifled his smile.

Ron, oblivious, kept grumbling: “Did you hear her? Who even says stuff like that? Probably only Louis can put up with her.”

Before he could finish, a sharp pain shot through his foot—Hermione had jumped up and stomped on it!

“Hmph!” Tossing her hair, Hermione left Ron hopping in pain and ran to rejoin Louis.

“I did well, right?” she said proudly, almost bouncing with excitement at Louis’s side.

“Not bad. If you’re unhappy, say it directly—make sure the other person realizes they’re wrong.” Louis patted her head. “Good job.”

The two of them went together to the library, choosing seats near the fireplace.

Winter was approaching, and the castle’s hearths were always burning to keep students warm.

Hermione sat down, pulling out the book she hadn’t finished last time. While reading, she would occasionally glance up at Louis, smile faintly, and then return to her pages.

“Oh, by the way, Louis, are you staying at school for Christmas, or going home?” Hermione asked.

“Of course I’m going home,” Louis replied. “What about you?”

“I’m going back too. That means we can travel together!” Hermione said happily.

The Christmas break lasted seven days, from December 18th to the 25th, ending with the evening return feast at Hogwarts.

Naturally, Louis would go home. He hadn’t seen his mother in half a year—Mrs. Wilson was probably desperate for her son.

But he also knew a lot would happen during the holidays.

First, the Invisibility Cloak—one of the Deathly Hallows—would be returned to the Potter family, into Harry’s hands. Dumbledore had been keeping it, but at Christmas he would give it back.

Then, the Mirror of Erised would appear in the dungeons, where Harry, wandering at night, would find it and become captivated.

The Mirror showed a person their deepest desire—an easy trap to fall into.

Dumbledore used that property to fashion a test, guarding the Philosopher’s Stone so that it wouldn’t fall into Voldemort’s hands.

After Harry grew addicted to the mirror, Dumbledore would break his illusion and then hide the Stone inside it.

And yes—Louis wanted the Philosopher’s Stone.

True, he was already immortal, with the endless treasury of the King’s Treasure at his disposal, but he was still fascinated.

The power to turn anything to gold—wasn’t that far more interesting than a vault already full of it?

So Louis intended to brave the obstacles, claim the Philosopher’s Stone, and then pin the blame on Voldemort.

Taking the Stone would be easy. The hard part was shifting the blame.

That would require some special methods.

It should work. Quirrell was about to reach his breaking point—Louis just had to push him into betraying Voldemort, make him tell everyone that the Dark Lord had stolen the Stone, and then…

“Louis? Louis?” Hermione’s voice broke into his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?”

“I was thinking about a magic trick.”

Louis smiled.

A trick of smoke and mirrors—bait-and-switch, muddying the waters.

…

December 18th, clear skies.

The weather was nice today—perfect for going home.

Louis put on his winter clothes, then his robe, packed his luggage, and prepared to leave the dorm.

“Behave yourselves during the holidays. Don’t go wandering into the Forbidden Forest, understood?” he warned his two pets—a ginger cat and an owl—before leaving.

“Meow.”

“Hoo.”

Fafnir and Hastur both promised in their own way to be obedient.

Satisfied, Louis nodded, left his luggage behind, and stepped out of the dormitory. He didn’t need to worry about it—house-elves would deliver it to the station.

But before leaving, there were a few more things he had to handle.

Inside the Room of Requirement’s auxiliary chamber, Louis summoned Chuan.

“Master, these are the materials Voldemort collected for you,” Chuan said, presenting a large bundle as soon as she appeared.

“Mm, leave them here,” Louis nodded. “Tell me, did Voldemort discover you, or did you show yourself?”

“Master, I revealed myself. They never even noticed Gan, wen or chui,” Chuan replied. “Voldemort’s condition seems unstable—he doesn’t dare awaken fully. When I appeared, I communicated with him briefly, and during that time Quirrell’s body nearly collapsed.”

“Looks like Quirrell won’t hold out much longer before he’s forced into the Forbidden Forest,” Louis mused. “Continue your task, but replace Gan, wen and chui. Go yourself. And remember to leave me some unicorn materials, especially tail hairs.”

“Yes, Master.”

“That’s all. You may go.”

Chuan dissolved into water and vanished, while Louis released his stand-in.

The Faceless Phantom floated silently in the room.

“Leave it here. I may need it at any time.” Louis looked at the apparition, then deliberately patted its shoulder as though greeting a subordinate. “I’ll leave it to you.”

“No problem,” the doppelgänger answered in Louis’s own voice.

“Talking to myself is actually kind of fun,” Louis chuckled, turning to open the door and leave.

Everything was ready. Time to go home.

The Christmas holiday had officially begun.

On the train ride home, Louis shared a compartment with Hermione.

Since many students weren’t going home, the carriages were half-empty, leaving the two of them to enjoy a quiet little world of their own.

Laughter and chatter filled the ride, one moment after another.

By noon, the train rolled into Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Louis and Hermione disembarked together, with Louis helping carry her luggage.

“Look—isn’t that your father?” Louis nudged Hermione with his shoulder, pointing ahead.

Hermione followed his gaze, and sure enough, she spotted Mr. Granger.

“Dad!” After half a year apart, Hermione waved excitedly at her parents.

Mr. Granger’s expression looked a little odd as he walked up.

“Welcome home, Hermione.” He gave his daughter a hug before turning his eyes on Louis.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Granger. Good afternoon,” Louis greeted calmly, tipping his tall hat.

“Afternoon. I remember… Wilson, yes. You’re old Mr. Wilson’s grandson.” Mr. Granger recalled, then glanced meaningfully between his daughter and Louis.

Hermione didn’t think anything of it, waving goodbye. “See you after the holidays, Louis.”

“See you,” Louis replied, handing her luggage to Mr. Granger and watching their family walk away.

Just then, someone suddenly appeared behind him.

“Was that your girlfriend, Louis?”

It was Lambert Wilson, the magician, who had somehow crept up unnoticed—if not for Louis’s sharp spiritual senses, he wouldn’t have realized he was there at all.

Louis sighed helplessly, looking at Mr. Wilson. “Not yet.”

“Then you’d better work harder. When I was your age, I was already dating.” Mr. Wilson said with mock encouragement.

“I remember you met Mother when you were twenty.” Louis said lazily. “I’m sure she’d be very interested to hear about your ‘first dates.’”

“Ahem… it’s getting late. Let’s go home. Your mother’s been missing you like crazy.” Mr. Wilson coughed twice. “Come on, let’s go.”

He hefted Louis’s luggage as they walked. Then, as though it had just occurred to him, he asked:

“Uh, son, you remember what I just said earlier?”

“Mm.”

“That was nonsense.”

“Oh.”

“Your mother and I were each other’s first love. Nothing before that counts.”

“Oh.”

“I was bragging. At your age, I was still playing in the mud.”

“Oh.”

…