"Louis Wilson, is it?"
At the mention of the boy, Dumbledore hesitated.
"His ability to learn is remarkable. In the final exams he scored full marks across every subject—even in the practical spellcasting test, every professor gave him high praise."
"That sounds quite promising. If possible, I'd like to pass on some of my knowledge to him." Nicolas Flamel looked interested, but then, seeing the strange look on Dumbledore's face, he asked: "What, is there a problem?"
"Not exactly a problem. He's usually polite and pleasant enough… but he does hold grudges. When someone insulted him, he retaliated by giving them nightmares for almost a week. In Slytherin, he's practically a tyrant." Dumbledore sighed.
"Sounds even more extreme than Voldemort in his school days—though this one is far more forthright about it," Flamel observed.
"Precisely. And unlike Voldemort, he shows little ambition. Most of the time he looks downright uninterested. I honestly don't know whether he'd even want to study under you."
"That's fine. I'll just ask casually. If he's willing, bring him here during the summer holidays next year."
"Very well. I'll let him know," Dumbledore promised.
---
Surrey, Little Whinging, the Dursley household.
Louis, having memorized both what the Eye of Fate had revealed and the coordinates it recorded, threw himself back into the party.
The gathering carried on merrily. Vernon Dursley praised Mr. and Mrs. Mason, then quickly chimed in to flatter Louis's magic and Mr. Wilson's "excellent" teaching once the Masons began complimenting them.
Quite the effort for Vernon Dursley. The man loathed anything magical—including stage magic—and yet here he was, swallowing his distaste and fawning over others. Money truly worked wonders.
If Dumbledore really wanted Harry to be treated better, all he'd have to do is send the Dursleys a monthly allowance. They'd be groveling at his feet in no time.
But then Harry would likely turn out just like Dudley 2.0.
Louis cast a glance toward Dudley, who was busy stuffing himself in the corner—three slabs of cake and five servings of pudding already gone. The boy could really eat.
If Harry had been raised like that, he'd never make it as a savior.
Louis sipped his tea, savoring the fragrance, when suddenly he noticed something. His gaze drifted upstairs.
Something felt off.
In his mental sight, a presence had appeared above—one that could only be the house-elf, Dobby.
So, the creature was already beginning to show Harry his unique brand of "helpfulness."
"More tea, dear?" Petunia Dursley, Harry's aunt, approached with a sickly sweet smile, offering to refill his cup.
"Exactly what I wanted," Louis replied with flawless manners. In gatherings like this, polished etiquette naturally won respect. Eccentricity had its place—but not at the expense of social harmony.
The thought reminded him of that Cassandra girl he'd met in Ollivander's shop: insufferably arrogant, but her posture and etiquette had been impeccably precise.
Suddenly, loud thuds came from upstairs—bang! bang! bang!—like someone repeatedly bashing their head against furniture.
The lively chatter ground to an awkward halt. Vernon Dursley forced a smile, though his eyes blazed with fury.
"Sorry—must be my dog misbehaving. I'll just go up and deal with it." He stomped upstairs in a rage, like an enraged boar.
"You have a dog?" the Masons asked curiously. "Why not bring it out? We love dogs."
Petunia stammered, mortified. "Well… it's a bit fierce. Might frighten you."
A flimsy excuse, but the Masons were none the wiser. Mr. Wilson, however, frowned, suspicion plain on his face.
He leaned toward Louis. "That boy, Harry Potter—where is he? I haven't seen him all evening."
"Didn't you hear Mr. Dursley? Upstairs," Louis replied.
"This is…" Mr. Wilson bit back his anger for the sake of the guests, but muttered to Louis, "This is far too much."
To call one's nephew a dog, refusing to let him meet visitors—disgraceful.
"Yes, outrageous. But the school seems unwilling to interfere," Louis said evenly.
"The school too? But wasn't Harry Potter the one who did so much for the wizarding world? Why would they ignore him?" Mr. Wilson's outrage grew.
As a magician, dreamy and idealistic, he was perhaps naïve—but that only sharpened his sense of justice. Still, his courtesy wouldn't allow him to spoil an important dinner by speaking out. It left him simmering silently.
"Perhaps the school has its reasons," Louis murmured, just as Vernon's thunderous footsteps shook the staircase.
"Terribly sorry to dampen the mood," Vernon announced, smiling stiffly. "I've disciplined that dog thoroughly. Now, where were we? Ah yes—magic tricks! That reminds me of a funny story from one of my golf games…"
He launched into a dull anecdote. Louis smothered a yawn and glanced at the pudding tower Petunia had so carefully prepared.
She had clearly poured her heart into it—the towering dessert gleamed with cream and sugar glaze, almost demanding attention.
But oddly, Petunia wasn't the one bringing it out.
The pudding was floating—drifting from the kitchen, in plain view from where Louis sat.
And at its source: a filthy, rag-wrapped house-elf pointing a finger, levitating the dessert with magic.
Louis rolled his eyes. So much for avoiding that warning letter.
Crash!
The pudding slammed onto the kitchen counter. Cream and custard splattered the walls, turning the room into a mess.
Everyone's eyes turned toward the scene—where Harry Potter stood with his hand half-raised, looking utterly stunned.
And Dobby the house-elf had already slipped away.
---
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