The curse that came out of the Fate Draw seemed to hold an incredibly high priority.
Even though Louis had already fully fused with the Twelve Talismans, and even though he had swallowed phoenix flames with their purifying power, he still caught a cold. Who in the world could he argue with about that?
Even if Louis activated the Horse Talisman's healing effect, it only made him feel comfortable for a fleeting instant—then he would immediately experience again the rapid onslaught of illness and its misery.
"So this is fate? Illness, once written into fate, becomes a continuous process. Even external forces can't erase it completely—it just relapses again and again."
Sitting at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, Louis rubbed his nose.
In his eyes, stars crisscrossed. Every person was wrapped in transparent, glimmering threads of starlight. When he looked up, he could see a single green thread twined around him, stretching upward into the whirlpool above.
Damm it—that card labeled [Illness] and [Three Days] had given him the fate of being sick for three days. No treatment could cure it.
Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing was about ready to pull her hair out. It was obviously just a common cold, but no matter what potion he drank, even if he improved temporarily, within moments the sickness would return.
Hermione, who had stayed with him the whole time, was utterly delighted—she got to watch Louis's ears spewing steam several times in a row.
In the end, Madam Pomfrey vowed through clenched teeth that she would cure him, until Louis finally explained it was a curse and that it would pass after three days. Only then did she reluctantly let him go.
And today happened to be the third day. It was also the final day of the school year.
Tomorrow, all the students would board the Hogwarts Express to return home for the summer.
But for now, everyone was gathered in the Great Hall for the year's last and most important event
—
The House Cup.
For this, nearly every student was invested. Louis, however, didn't really understand what sort of attachment made them care so much about a mere title.
This year, the Cup once again looked destined for Slytherin. They had won the last Quidditch match as well, and the fifty–point lead cemented their advantage.
Banners of green and silver hung in the hall, and the Slytherin students were cheering wildly.
The other houses were visibly disheartened.
Because of one shameless Head of House, Slytherin had already won six House Cups in a row. The other houses were gnashing their teeth.
But this year was fated to be different.
Louis glanced toward the professors' table, where Snape's face was dark as thunder. Clearly, he already knew Dumbledore was about to award points to Gryffindor.
Sure enough, before the feast began, Dumbledore tapped his goblet with a golden spoon and called out loudly:
"Silence!"
The hall immediately quieted, and all eyes turned toward him.
"I am very glad that everyone has safely completed another school year. You have learned much, made many friends, and—most importantly—brought honor to your Houses with your actions."
"According to the hourglasses, this year's House Cup winner is, once again… Slytherin."
The Slytherin table erupted in cheers. The other tables gave perfunctory applause, most students looking utterly dejected.
Dumbledore waited for the noise to die down, then continued.
"However—this year, there is one exception!" His voice turned grave. "Professor Quirrell attempted to steal a Hogwarts treasure. He very nearly succeeded. Fortunately, our brave students stood up and stopped his plot in time."
"Therefore, I award one hundred points to Mr. Harry Potter of Gryffindor!"
The Gryffindor hourglass immediately rose by a hundred gems—but still not enough to surpass Slytherin.
Snape had been ruthless in docking Gryffindor points all year, so even with this hundred they only managed to climb above Hufflepuff.
But Dumbledore was not finished.
"Additionally, I must commend Mr. Ron Weasley for the wisdom he displayed at wizard chess. He too shall receive one hundred points!"
Now Gryffindor roared in delight—their total had nearly caught up to Slytherin's, and clearly the awards weren't over yet.
Everyone turned toward Neville Longbottom, who had also been among the troublemaking trio.
"I must also commend Mr. Neville Longbottom's courage! He overcame his own timidity and showed the bravery befitting a true Gryffindor. To him, I award another one hundred points!"
Three consecutive awards! At that, the Slytherin students were beside themselves. If Dumbledore weren't Headmaster, they would have leapt up to tear the roof down.
While Slytherin sank from elation to despair, the other houses cheered.
It wasn't only Gryffindor who resented Slytherin's behavior. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff did as well. They didn't mind who toppled Slytherin—so long as someone did, they were happy.
Even the Hufflepuffs at the bottom weren't upset in the least.
Among Slytherin, Louis was perhaps the only one out of place. His expression remained calm throughout, broken only by the occasional sneeze.
So what if it was the House Cup? What was the point? With Harry Potter and Dumbledore around, even if Louis worked himself to the bone collecting points, he'd never overcome an opponent with someone pushing from behind the scenes.
That's why Louis had never intended to earn Trick Points from this—it was effort for no gain.
"When's this going to end…" Louis yawned, listlessly tugging a chicken leg from the platter. It tasted like wax on his tongue.
His nose was blocked, his tongue numb—he couldn't taste a thing. With his special body, he never even felt hunger. Eating was just going through the motions.
At last, when the bells tolled, the feast was over. Students filed out in order and returned to their dormitories.
Louis packed his belongings—most importantly, arranging for Fafnir and Hastur.
Those two, of course, had to come home with him, packed in with the luggage. He gave them a few careful instructions, and only when they nodded obediently did he relax.
"Wait… wasn't I forgetting another pet?"
Lying down at last, preparing for a proper sleep, Louis muttered drowsily before drifting off.
Meanwhile, far away inside the bounded field he had completely forgotten, poor Norbert was miserably using his claws to loosen the soil in the garden.
Under the guidance of an unknown, transparent figure, Norbert had become a qualified gardener.
Who knew how much he had suffered? At the corners of his eyes, tears seemed to well as he tilted back his head and howled in unwilling grief.
"ROOAAAR!!!"
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