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[HP] 87: Mouth Says No, Body Says Yes
🕑 Added 2025-08-08 15:30:01 +0000 UTCPeeves was a strange creature—something between a ghost and a fairy.
Louis had always known there was such a troublemaker haunting Hogwarts, but he’d never actually seen him. Most likely, it was because Peeves feared the Bloody Baron, and Louis had scared the Baron off with just a few words.
That’s why Louis had never experienced the notorious pranks of this mischievous spirit. And frankly, that was a good thing. Otherwise, Louis couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t grab the guy and beat him up.
He was fairly certain his Stand could manage it.
Watching Peeves vanish down the corridor in a fit of chaotic glee, Louis could only marvel at Hogwarts’ wonders as he continued toward his destination. Before long, he arrived.
Taking advantage of his invisibility, Louis slipped straight into the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s quarters. But to his surprise, Quirrell wasn’t there.
“That’s odd. Where’d he go at this hour?” Louis glanced at the time—it was nearly curfew.
Did he sneak off to the Forbidden Forest to attack a unicorn?
Just as Louis was puzzling over it, the fireplace in the room flared with light. Out stepped Quirinus Quirrell, wrapped up so tightly he looked like he was about to pull out a briefcase full of explosives—an image that made him seem more like a terrorist than a professor.
In his arms, he cradled a large oval object. For a moment, Louis thought he looked ready to lob a grenade.
Where the hell did he get that?
After a moment of thought, it hit Louis.
Could that be... a dragon egg? Quirrell was already preparing the dragon egg plan?
As Louis remembered, that part of the story didn’t begin until after Christmas—by then, Quirrell’s body had been deteriorating badly, and he had to rely on unicorn blood to keep himself alive.
The dragon egg was a lure—a bargaining chip to trick Hagrid, that “loose-lipped cauldron,” into revealing the secret to bypassing the three-headed dog. Soon after, Quirrell infiltrated the “amusement park” Dumbledore had rigged up for Harry Potter and put on quite a performance.
That so-called amusement park—allegedly a series of trials to protect the Philosopher’s Stone—was in truth little more than a joke.
Clearly, Quirrell had been laying the groundwork early. But coaxing Hagrid into talking wasn’t easy. He couldn’t approach as himself—he’d have to use another identity and catch Hagrid while he was out drinking.
Problem was, Hagrid had been very busy lately, taking care of pumpkins for Halloween and prepping to help out over Christmas. He hadn’t had time to go off drinking at all.
“Dragon egg, huh... Do dragons in this world count as reptiles?” Louis mused.
He still had three unused doses of Reptilian Gene Enhancement Serum. Maybe this was the perfect chance to test one?
But dragon eggs required constant warmth to hatch. Neither the Room of Requirement nor his dorm could provide the necessary conditions. Stealing the egg now wouldn’t do him any good.
Better to wait until Hagrid got it, hatched it, and then find a way to intercept.
If he recalled correctly, the dragon was eventually sent to the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary, picked up by the eldest Weasley brother and some friends.
That gave Louis more room to maneuver.
So for now, he’d leave the egg be and let things play out naturally.
With that, Louis summoned his Stand—Dio Brando materialized behind Quirrell in an instant. Almost simultaneously, the fragment of Voldemort on the back of Quirrell’s head reacted. One of Quirrell’s arms twisted unnaturally, wand pointing at the uninvited guest.
“That thing won’t work on me. You really should have learned your lesson by now.” Dio Brando’s signature voice rang out, immediately alerting Voldemort to his visitor’s identity.
“You again?” Voldemort’s voice came muffled from under the turban. But Quirrell’s arm moved swiftly—he screamed as the other hand ripped off the turban, revealing the snake-like face once more.
“What do you want?” Voldemort growled, eyes narrowed at the masked figure before him.
He still remembered what lay beneath that mask—and even the Dark Lord himself found that memory disturbing.
“I came to check on my chosen candidate. Hmm... not looking good. You’re even weaker than last time,” Louis said with a casual shake of his head, voice laced with mockery.
“If it weren’t for this useless servant, I wouldn’t be in such a state,” Voldemort hissed with resentment.
Quirrell, whose body was the subject of this insult, was furious but completely helpless.
“That’s your business, Voldemort. I’m here to inform you of something: I’ve found a few others like you. In the near future, you may have to compete for the privilege of joining the United Alliance of Villains.” Louis smirked.
“Absurd! You must be mistaken. I never intended to join your ridiculous organization,” Voldemort snapped. So he was just a backup plan, huh? He tried to preserve his dignity.
“Oh? Is that so?” Louis turned, pretending to leave. “I was planning to offer you some additional perks since you were my first pick. But if that’s how you feel, I’ll just give them to someone else. What a shame... especially this little item that can heal injuries. Not many others need it, after all.”
“Wait—!” At the mention of healing, Voldemort panicked. He quickly called out to stop Louis, trying to save face. “On second thought, perhaps joining wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Oh? Heh.” Louis chuckled lightly. Like I don’t know exactly what you're after.
Such a textbook case of “mouth says no, body says yes.”
Voldemort didn’t understand the meaning of that phrase, but he could sense the disdain behind Louis’s laugh. Still, he had no choice—Quirrell’s body grew weaker by the day. If he didn’t get some form of effective treatment soon, his great revival plan might fail before it even began.
“Of course. I think joining the organization sounds like an excellent idea,” Voldemort said, forcing a crooked smile onto his serpent face.
“Yeah, no. Don’t smile like that. You look absolutely hideous,” Louis said with a grimace, nearly gagging.
Voldemort’s expression froze, rage flickering in his eyes.
But before the fury could erupt, Louis, like a magician, pulled out a round-bottomed flask filled with a red liquid. He casually grabbed a teacup from the table and poured out a portion of the potion.
[Endless Little Red Bottle] : contains three servings of a healing potion that can cure all injuries. Cannot be stored outside the bottle. The contents refresh daily.
A mysterious item from some unknown game, the healing potion had become a potent remedy in this world. It couldn’t extend one’s lifespan—that was essentially increasing the max HP, and that required rarer items—but for healing physical wounds, it was perfect.
“Here, drink it,” Louis offered the cup to Voldemort. “Of course, if you’re too scared, you don’t have to. I know your type—terrified of death.”
And he was right. Voldemort was afraid of death.
He looked at the offered teacup, face contorting in hesitation. The crimson liquid inside looked disturbingly like blood.
He held it, staring for a long moment.
“Hurry up. Don’t tell me I have to stand here and wait for you to die,” Louis sneered.
“Hmph!” Voldemort snorted, then abruptly relinquished control of the body. “Quirrell, you drink it.”
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