The snow that had started on Christmas had continued, on and off, for nearly two months.
Yesterday's heavy snowfall had left the castle courtyards blanketed in white. Now, with flurries still drifting down and the wind just right, it was the perfect weather for a snowball fight.
Professor Flitwick was in the middle of explaining the proper wand movements and casting techniques for charms, but it wasn't long before he noticed that his students' minds were no longer in the classroom—their hearts were already downstairs in the snow.
He shook his head helplessly, but soon his face broke into a warm smile.
"All right, children, that's enough for today. Off you go and have some fun."
"Brilliant! Snowball fight!"
"Thank you, Professor Flitwick!"
The young witches and wizards cheered, bolting from their seats and rushing toward the door.
"Remember to wrap your scarves and keep warm!" Flitwick managed to call out one last reminder, but his words were quickly forgotten as the excited crowd thundered down the stairs.
Still smiling, the tiny professor carefully climbed down from his stack of books, only then noticing one student who remained calm and unhurried amidst the chaos.
"Oh? Mr. Wilson, why aren't you going down to join them in the snowball fight?" Flitwick asked kindly.
Louis felt the urge to roll his eyes, but Flitwick was a good professor, and that would have been terribly rude.
"My apologies, Professor. I was actually planning to visit Hagrid at his hut," Louis replied. "Besides… snowball fights aren't really that interesting."
"Children should be lively now and then," Flitwick said gently. "Don't let your talent and intellect tie you down. Opening your heart and relaxing is also a way to help absorb knowledge."
The professor was particularly fond of Louis—after all, what teacher wouldn't like a student who was polite, disciplined in class, and never made mistakes in his studies?
"You're quite right, Professor. I'll keep that in mind," Louis nodded, packing up his books. "Then, goodbye for now."
"Goodbye. Have some fun," Flitwick said with a cheerful wave, watching Louis leave.
It wasn't just Flitwick who was lenient that day.
Most of the professors, sensing their students' eagerness, had also dismissed classes early. Soon, the castle courtyard was alive with laughter and chaos.
Snowball fights were simple, joyful, and universally loved.
Very quickly, students gathered into groups and began pelting each other with snowballs.
At first, the battles stayed within ordinary limits, but once the older students joined, things grew outrageous.
Some created self-guided snowballs—enchanted missiles that homed in on their targets like they had eyes of their own.
This magical "cheat code" quickly took out a large number of students.
But soon enough, a massive snowball, condensed entirely with magic, came crashing down as payback, burying the cheaters in heaps of snow.
Filch stood at the side, gnashing his teeth in frustration as he watched the magical snowball fight unfold. He longed to drag them all to the dungeons and string them up for punishment.
Unfortunately for him, Hogwarts' rules only forbade magic in the corridors. The courtyards were fair game, and he had no grounds to stop them.
Hogwarts was, after all, a school of magic. The corridor rule was for safety—not to protect the fragile feelings of a Squib.
The snowball fight raged on, but Louis strolled calmly straight through the battlefield, utterly unfazed.
Louis' appearance threw the "battlefield" into slight disarray. Everyone instinctively made way for him, which thinned out the storm of flying snowballs in his direction.
After all—this was the descendant of Merlin. In the Muggle world, it would be like someone claiming to be a descendant of Jesus—and having it proven true. In devout Christian lands, such a person might well be worshipped… or, just as likely, turned into a wax figure dipped in holy oil and nailed to a cross for people to venerate.
But in the wizarding world, where bloodline supremacy ran deep, the blood of Merlin meant boundless potential. That was the common doctrine pure-blood parents instilled in their children—who then spread it through the school.
So the students treated Louis in an unusual way: curious, but too intimidated to get close, let alone throw snowballs at him.
Of course, accidents happened. Some snowballs strayed from their intended targets and went flying toward Louis.
He didn't even glance at them. They all missed, whizzing past harmlessly. Not a single one struck him.
But not everyone cared about such "untouchable" status.
Amid the flurry of snow, one snowball curved elegantly in an S-shaped drift before shooting straight at Louis.
He raised a hand, caught it effortlessly, and spotted the culprits—the Weasley twins, laughing and messing about in the corner.
"Come on then! Hit me if you can!" Fred shouted, bouncing on the spot and waving, pure challenge in his voice.
Louis chuckled, then casually lobbed the snowball back. It smacked Fred square in the face.
No need for talismans—Louis' raw power from Merlin's bloodline template was more than enough to dominate a snowball fight.
It might be boring, but one couldn't just ignore a provocation, could they?
Fred refused to back down. He leapt up, hurling snowball after snowball at Louis. George joined in too, though his loyalties were suspicious—sometimes pelting Louis, sometimes stuffing handfuls of snow down Fred's collar.
His blatant double-crossing only made the fight more chaotic, but strangely, it all meshed together—Louis, Fred, and George clashing in a natural rhythm.
Clearly, the twins didn't care about Louis' lofty reputation. In fact, they seemed delighted to help drag him down from his pedestal.
Their antics reignited the courtyard atmosphere. Laughter and cheers filled the air once more.
From the school's clock tower, Dumbledore stood behind the great bell's glass window, watching the scene below with a knowing smile.
Happiness—that was what children ought to have. Perhaps joy itself could reach Louis' prematurely hardened heart.
After a while, Louis stopped throwing snowballs. The twins hadn't dragged him into their game just for fun—they had been offering him their own kind of rescue.
The three of them left the fray and sat on a stone bench at the side.
"You still haven't found any leads about Peter Pettigrew?" Louis asked, glancing over at Ron, who was busy wrapping Scabbers into a snowball while building a snowman.
"Nothing much. There isn't a lot of information about him, but we do know he went to Hogwarts once," George said. "We're thinking about asking Professor Cuthbert."
"Yeah, Binns Cuthbert's been teaching for centuries—he might remember something," Fred added.
Louis rolled his eyes. "You can remember the exact date a meteor fell from the sky, but can you recall what you had for lunch when you were five?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" the twins asked, puzzled.
"It means Professor Cuthbert might not remember some random student from who-knows-when."
Louis stood up—Hermione was waving at him from across the courtyard.
"You two carry on. I hope you find something useful."
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