Is brewing potions difficult? Of course it is.
Even the most skilled potion-brewing wizards must follow every step precisely and methodically.
But Louis didn't have that problem. For him, potion-making now consisted of just three steps:
1. Open the bottle cap.
2. Pour in the ingredients and shake well.
3. Pour out the finished potion.
That kind of process could make a Potions Master choke with envy — and drive apprentices to despair.
Louis kept two portions of Polyjuice Potion for himself, then on the third day, right on schedule, delivered the completed potion to Snape.
"You've finished it already?" Snape's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise.
He accepted the vial from Louis and examined it carefully — the color, the scent, the texture.
"Perfect," he finally declared, looking at Louis as if he were some rare treasure.
"The effect of this batch should last at least half again as long as the mediocre ones made by common potion-makers."
"Thank you for the praise, Professor Snape. Are you satisfied with my work?" Louis asked politely.
"Very much so. I won't demand the other two portions, and this one—" Snape handed the vial back to him, "—you may keep."
Louis blinked, caught off guard. He stared at Snape in disbelief.
"With your level of completion, all three batches must have succeeded," Snape said with a sideways glance. "Did you really think you could fool me with such a petty trick? Hmph."
Then, with his usual cold sneer, he added, "You'd better not let me find out you're using Polyjuice Potion for anything improper. Out."
And with that, he all but shoved Louis out of his office.
"Tch. Guess you really shouldn't take anyone for a fool," Louis muttered, half laughing, half exasperated, as he looked down at the vial in his hand.
Snape had come to the right conclusion for entirely the wrong reasons.
Relying on his professional experience, he assumed that anyone capable of producing such a perfect potion couldn't possibly fail on something so simple —
completely unaware that Louis possessed a miraculous potion bottle that did all the work for him.
"Well, at least the outcome's good," Louis said cheerfully, pocketing the vials. "Three doses of Polyjuice — plenty for research."
Whistling, he went off to find Hermione.
Lately, Hermione had been spending a lot of time with Cassandra, even trying to introduce her to other friends.
But things didn't seem to be going well — Cassandra wasn't nearly as warm with others as she was with Hermione.
Probably thought the rest of them were too weak to be worth her attention.
Time rolled into October. Next month would be Quidditch season, and every house was training hard.
Even on cold, rainy days, teams were out on the pitch, flying through sheets of rain.
Madam Pomfrey, no doubt, would soon be tending to a fresh batch of broken-bone victims.
Louis stood at the clock tower, watching the rain.
Droplets splattered against the giant glass clock face, tapping out a rhythm like a steady drumbeat.
In the distance, Hagrid's hut was surrounded by his latest obsession — massive pumpkins, bigger than ever.
When ripe, they'd be carted off to the Hogwarts kitchens to become festive dishes and Halloween lanterns.
"Almost Halloween again," Louis yawned. Rainy days always made him sleepy.
"What should I prepare for fun this year…?"
But this year's Halloween would be a little dangerous.
The basilisk would soon appear — and Mrs. Norris would be the first victim, petrified in the corridor.
Luckily, the cat was short enough that she only saw the serpent's reflection in the water… otherwise, it wouldn't have stopped at petrification.
"Oh right… the basilisk." Louis yawned again. "Where was the Chamber of Secrets, again?"
He scratched his head, realizing he'd gotten so absorbed in magical research lately that he'd forgotten one of the year's main events.
"Basilisk, diary, Ginny Weasley…"
He turned toward the moving staircases. "If I remember right, the entrance was in the abandoned girls' bathroom — on the… third floor? Or was it the second?"
Just as Louis was wondering which floor to go to, he saw Harry — covered in mud — being dragged away by Filch.
Trailing behind them was a ghost wearing a deeply guilty expression.
It was Gryffindor's house ghost — Nearly Headless Nick.
"What happened to Harry?" Louis asked naturally as he walked up beside Nick.
"Oh, it's you, the marvelous young wizard." Nick glanced at Louis, his tone mixed with recognition and respect — after all, the boy had once scared the Bloody Baron into fleeing with just a few words.
"It's all my fault," Nick sighed. "Harry was talking to me when Filch caught him. Filch said he dirtied the castle floor and decided to punish him."
"Oh… but you look even more miserable than Harry," Louis said casually. "What's wrong?"
Nick let out another sigh. He reached into his ghostly robes and pulled out a half-transparent letter — made of the same spectral substance as himself.
"My application to join the Headless Hunt was rejected again this year," he said gloomily.
"Again?" Louis raised a brow.
"Yes, I apply every year," Nick said helplessly.
"Mind telling me the reason they gave for turning you down?"
"Of course not. I mean — I don't mind." Nick unfolded the letter and showed it to him. "They only accept ghosts who are completely headless. They say even if I were admitted, I couldn't properly participate in games like Head Polo or Horseback Head-Juggling."
Those didn't sound like particularly wholesome games to Louis.
He pursed his lips, then — to Nick's surprise — reached out and took the letter right out of his hands.
After fully mastering the power of the Ram Talisman, Louis's "Astral Projection" ability had evolved into full Soul Manipulation.
Touching a spirit was now as easy for him as breathing.
"Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore, is it?" Louis read the name aloud. "He says your head isn't completely detached from your body?"
"That's right — only a few inches still connected, really," Nick said, lifting his half-hanging head to show him.
Louis nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed, just a few inches. So… it can't be, uh, trimmed off?"
"Of course not!" Nick exclaimed. "A ghost remains in the state they were in when they died. I was executed, you see — the man who swung the axe took forty-seven strokes! I only wish he'd sharpened the blade a bit, so I could've died faster. Then maybe I wouldn't have been rejected by that blasted club!"
Nick sighed again, long and weary.
Talking to a ghost about how he died was not for the faint of heart — especially when the story involved that much blood.
"It's just a few inches," Louis mused. "Maybe it's not that difficult…"
But before he could finish, Nick suddenly floated off — straight toward Peeves.
The two whispered together for a moment before Peeves whooped gleefully and zoomed off in the direction of Filch's office.
"I asked Peeves to rescue Harry," Nick explained, turning back to Louis. "Oh, right — what were you saying just now?"
"I said… if it's only a few inches, there might be a way."
Louis arched an eyebrow and raised his hand — spectral energy rippling across it, gleaming faintly like the edge of a blade.
"Want to give it a try?"
Try it? Try what?
Cutting off my head?!
Nick swallowed hard, staring at Louis's eager expression, and almost screamed:
"Don't come any closer!!"
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