Lockhart's Dueling Club had turned into a complete farce—an even bigger joke than the most ridiculous of jokes.
Although Lockhart still loudly declared that he would hold the club every week at the same time, who knew if anyone would actually show up again?
Perhaps his diehard fans would still attend out of loyalty…
But for what? To watch him perform stage plays based on his own books?
Lockhart was already at the end of his rope, relying only on ridiculous theatrics to cover up his incompetence.
"Professor Lockhart must have gone mad lately," Hermione complained to Louis during dinner. "He turned Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons into reenactments of scenes from his books."
She was no longer one of Lockhart's admirers—having finally realized just how useless he truly was. A small but worthy enlightenment.
Cassandra sat beside Hermione, deliberately keeping some distance from Louis.
Ever since losing to him in their duel, she had been acting like this.
At regular meals in the Great Hall—unlike the evening feast—students weren't seated by House.
"Oh? So he teaches your class like that too?" Louis asked casually. "Same for us. Lately, Harry's been acting as the werewolf in his lessons—he's gotten pretty good at it, actually. Earned quite a few points for Gryffindor."
At that, Harry, who was eating a few tables away, ducked his head in embarrassment.
Hermione gave him a quick glance, then turned back to Louis with a sigh.
"At this rate, I'm starting to worry about the end-of-term exams."
"What's there to worry about?" Louis replied lazily. "It's not even certain Lockhart will stay alive and kicking until the end of term."
"What do you mean?" Hermione frowned, then leaned closer and whispered, "You're not planning to do something, are you?"
"Me? Of course not," Louis said innocently. "Haven't you noticed, though? The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor changes every year at Hogwarts."
Hermione paused, recalling her first year. "That's probably just coincidence… Maybe the previous one retired or something."
"You could just ask the upper years if you're curious," Louis suggested.
Then he called out across the table, "George! Fred! Who was your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor back in first year?"
The twins looked up from their plates, thinking for a moment.
"I think it was Professor Morris," said George.
"Yeah—he got scratched in the eye by a Red Cap during a demonstration and ended up in the hospital," Fred added.
"What about in your second year?" Louis asked again.
"Oh, that one was a thief," George said cheerfully. "He tried to sneak into the Restricted Section to steal a book and got sent to Azkaban."
"Hey! You didn't leave me any lines this time!" Fred protested, immediately tackling George as the two began their usual scuffle.
Louis just shrugged—he was used to their antics by now.
Turning back to Hermione, he said, "And as for their third year—our first year—that was Professor Quirrell. You already know how that ended."
Hermione's expression faltered; she looked uncertain, even shaken.
"You're saying… every Defense Against the Dark Arts professor ends up badly?" she asked nervously. "Merlin, that sounds like some kind of curse."
"Maybe it is a curse," Louis said meaningfully, just about to tell her the story of how Voldemort had cursed the position—
—when Neville burst into the Great Hall, panicked and breathless.
"Ron! George! Fred! Percy!" he shouted, calling out the Weasleys one by one. "Your sister—she's fainted!"
As soon as the words left Neville's mouth, chaos erupted.
The twins immediately stopped wrestling, Percy abandoned his attempt to break them apart, and Ron—who'd been happily munching on a chicken leg while watching—choked, dropped everything, and bolted for the doors along with them.
"The Weasleys' sister… that would be Ginny Weasley, right? She's a cute girl," Hermione said in surprise. "What happened to her?"
"No idea. Don't know. Not familiar with her," Louis rattled off three denials in quick succession. "Besides, I wasn't there. How would I know what happened to her?"
"Aren't you going to check?" Hermione asked.
"Why would I?" Louis looked at her strangely. "It's not like I'm close to her."
"I thought you were close with Ron, George, and Fred," Hermione pointed out.
"Being close to them doesn't mean I'm close to Ginny," Louis replied calmly, continuing to eat from his plate at an unhurried pace. "Besides, she's a girl. If I start hanging around her, wouldn't you get jealous?"
"Jealous, my foot!" Hermione's face went red, and she huffed, turning away. "It's not like there's anything between us! Hmph! I even invited you to watch Quidditch with me, and you didn't come."
"Ah, come on, I had my own things to deal with…"
"Forget it, I'll go instead," Hermione said in exasperation when she noticed Harry also leaving the hall. "It's basic courtesy, after all."
Her cheeks were still flushed as she stood up and hurried off.
"Smooth talker," Cassandra muttered from beside her, giving Louis a sidelong glance before abruptly standing as well and following Hermione out.
Watching the two girls leave in a rush, Louis quietly wiped his mouth, stood, and exited the Great Hall.
His pace quickened as he moved through the corridors, avoiding the crowds. Beneath his feet, his shadow began to ripple and boil—something inside it was struggling violently, trying to break free.
Finally, he reached a deserted corner. Louis raised his hand, opened the door to the Room of Requirement, and slipped inside.
The moment he did, the shadow beneath him snapped.
It twisted and surged upward like a mass of writhing tentacles—
—and at their center, a black diary pulsed with terrifying power, trying desperately to tear through the shadows binding it.
"Well, you're quite lively," Louis said coldly. "Looks like you've absorbed plenty of soul energy. No wonder Ginny Weasley fainted right after I took you away."
He sneered, and the Volumen Hydrargyrum wrapped around him surged forth like a wave, replacing the shattering shadow-tentacles and locking tightly around the diary.
Impervious to ordinary magic, the Volumen Hydrargyrum was the perfect prison for a Horcrux.
Once it was bound, the once-thrashing diary instantly went still.
After all, a Horcrux's magical power couldn't affect the alchemical liquid-metal composition of Volumen Hydrargyrum.
Louis had no interest in chatting with this Horcrux.
That fragment of Voldemort's soul was an ambitious schemer in its own right—one who had delusions of replacing the original Dark Lord.
Ironically, it was that very ambition that had inspired Louis in the first place.
"Just wait," Louis muttered, turning back to the array of glowing runes before him. "It should be around Christmas…"
He wasn't talking about the diary—he was talking about killing the basilisk.
If he delayed much longer, he worried the poor creature still trapped inside Hastur's stomach might actually suffocate.
So he'd been rushing to complete the soul-creation ritual, though the process was absurdly complex. Even at his current pace, it would likely finish only after Christmas.
"Guess those Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest get to live a little longer," he said casually, tossing a shrieking fruit into the cauldron with a hiss and a puff of purple smoke.
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