Chapter 42 — The Letter and the Transfiguration Potion
"Oh, Fythorne," Snape drawled with cutting sarcasm. "I had originally assumed you were at least somewhat intelligent. But now I see you're no different from the rest."
"I'll ask you this: which contains more magical power—dragon blood or wizard blood?"
"Dragon blood, of course—"
Russell froze mid-sentence, realization dawning. A quiet wave of relief washed through him.
"Oh, right—Professor, did you finish the book I lent you last time?"
The thought suddenly came back to him, and he casually asked.
Snape ignored the question entirely. Instead, his cold voice addressed Louise, who was still lying on the floor:
"Louise. How much longer do you intend to stay down there?"
"Haha—Professor Snape, lovely weather today!"
Louise sat up abruptly, wearing the most awkward smile Russell had ever seen. So she had been pretending to be unconscious—her acting was surprisingly good.
"Miss Slughorn's potion has reached a critical phase. Do not disturb her unless absolutely necessary."
Snape spared Russell a brief glance as he spoke, tone flat and dismissive.
"Yes, yes, I know. But I was just bringing Fythorne over to deliver the ingredients," Louise said, waving a hand nonchalantly.
"She does not require Putrefaction Fungi for the potion she's brewing right now."
Snape tossed out that final remark, swept his robes dramatically, and strode away.
…Strange.
Russell couldn't help noticing that Snape's attitude toward Louise was far warmer than toward him. And Louise, for her part, didn't seem afraid of Snape at all—in fact, she joked with him effortlessly.
Curiosity finally got the better of Russell, and he asked:
"How come? Why is Professor Snape so different with you?"
"You don't know?"
Louise looked genuinely surprised, then quickly remembered, "Oh—right. You're only a first-year. It makes sense."
She beckoned him to walk as they talked, and together they headed toward the Ravenclaw common room.
"Amelia and I are members of Professor Snape's Potions Club. Naturally, outstanding students receive special treatment."
She puffed up proudly.
"Want me to recommend you?"
"That won't be necessary. I'd rather earn my own way in."
Russell's expression twisted thoughtfully.
"But if that's the case… shouldn't Senior Slughorn have better protection? Why does she get her own private brewing room, while you passed out from the fumes the moment you stepped inside? Doesn't seem very… equal."
Russell couldn't help thinking:
A truly skilled potioneer would never be knocked out so easily by the fumes of her own brew. She should've noticed something was wrong long before I did.
"Fythorne," Louise said darkly, "has no one told you that speaking harsh truths to someone's face is a good way to get punched?"
"Senior, you're not really going to bully a first-year, are you?" Russell replied.
Realistically, his dueling ability was barely at a second-year level—close to Cedric's, perhaps—but Louise was a fifth-year. Her spell repertoire alone vastly outstripped his.
"I'm kidding." Louise clapped him on the shoulder with her usual bold cheer. "How could I possibly pick a fight with a little first-year?"
Russell quickly realized she wasn't like the typical Ravenclaw—quiet and reserved. Louise was the rare sort who treated strangers like old friends after five minutes of conversation.
"Alright, I'll let you in on a secret," she said, one eyebrow raised proudly. "My surname is Prince. Louise Prince."
Suddenly everything made sense.
"No wonder," Russell thought. That explains quite a lot.
He sighed theatrically.
"I'm jealous, Senior Louise. Someone like me—an ordinary little wizard—can only rely on his own talent."
"Hey now, don't slander me," Louise huffed, rolling her eyes. She caught his implication immediately. "I got into the Potions Club on my own merit."
She wasn't wrong—having family ties to Snape meant she likely has some talent for potions.
"But Amelia's talent is far greater than mine," Louise added with a shrug. "And her love for potions is just as strong. Sometimes I think she was born for it. There's no competing with that."
---
After parting ways with Louise, Russell returned alone to the dormitory. James and Rosen weren't back yet.
Taking advantage of the quiet, he pulled out the letter from his pocket.
The letter was short, written in elegant, graceful handwriting—clearly Wednesday's.
She wrote about her daily life. Unlike most wizarding families, the Addamses sent their children to Muggle schools before Hogwarts.
She also mentioned that the potions were brewed by her and Esmeralda together.
A potions prodigy as well… Russell mused.
The letter went on to explain the effects of each potion. Most were varieties of a special brew: Transfiguration Potions. Usage was simple—twist the cap and drink.
Russell skimmed through the different types. Almost all transformed the drinker into dark creatures—werewolves, vampires, and the like.
Very on-brand for the Addams family.
Wednesday had even listed the flavors:
Werewolf potion tasted like cinnamon; vampire potion tasted like tomato.
Strangely adorable combinations.
But she emphasized several warnings:
Upon transforming into a creature, the drinker would be influenced by its instincts.
They would also temporarily gain its abilities.
For example:
Vampire form: greatly increased regeneration, but sensitivity to sunlight and an intense thirst for blood.
Werewolf form: usually manageable—but under a full moon, most rational thought would be lost. There was no infectious virus involved, but wounds would become harder to heal.
There was even a Troll Potion, which increased physical strength but made the drinker mindless and foul-smelling.
He would never drink that, Russell vowed.
Near the end, Wednesday asked if he would like to spend Christmas with the Addams family. All the Addamses in Britain would be gathering—it would be lively, she said.
A warm sense of anticipation stirred in his chest.
He folded the letter carefully, then turned to the parcel of potions, storing each bottle meticulously.
Once he finished, he noticed something lying quietly at the very bottom—a small pouch made of a material identical to his dragonhide gloves.
A bag made of dragonhide? Did she drop this in by accident?
He examined it, a strange thought forming. He slid his hand inside—
—and couldn't find the bottom.
A bright smile spread across his face.