Louis thought Hastur was truly the dream of every cat owner—the feline of many people's dreams.
First, in terms of appearance, an orange cat's plump, dopey look was irresistibly endearing. Unless you outright hated cats, you'd be tempted to pet him the moment you saw him.
And as a Devourer-beast in the shape of an orange cat, Hastur was remarkably easy to care for.
He wasn't picky about food or drink—no need for gourmet feasts. Whatever you gave him, he'd eat. If it was edible, he'd absorb it; if not, he'd send it off to another universe.
He wasn't picky about beds either—soft was good enough. Sometimes, he'd even sneak onto the bed to warm it up for you.
He didn't shed, either. His golden fur was like it was welded to his skin—no matter how hard you pulled, you couldn't get a single hair off.
Hastur was also a high-IQ cat—he could understand human speech and even read books and newspapers. The only thing stopping him from doing calligraphy was the lack of hands.
And if all that still wasn't enough, the next point was simply unbeatable—he didn't even poop! You never had to be his "litter box attendant."
Was there any cat better than this? All you had to do was feed him, cuddle him when you felt like it, and when you didn't, he wouldn't bother you—he'd just read to pass the time.
Of course, Hastur wasn't without flaws—he was still a cat, after all.
First, there was the "feline kick curse"—Louis had long made peace with it. Forget "high probability," it was practically guaranteed: if a cat saw him, it would want to give him a kick.
The so-called "Beast's Grudge curse" really carried some deep resentment.
The other flaw was his habit of swallowing things.
Louis's wand, Louis's shoes, Malfoy's pillow, Blaise Zabini's textbooks, Goyle and Crabbe's snacks…
Everyone in the dorm had been victimized by him. In some ways, he was more troublesome than Louis himself.
"Good boy, Hastur. Open your mouth and give Malfoy back his wand." Louis bent down in front of Hastur, patting his head as he spoke.
Sure enough, the moment Louis looked away, Hastur had swallowed Malfoy's wand again. Thankfully, it happened while Malfoy wasn't paying attention—otherwise, the sight of all those writhing tentacles in that mouth might have scared him to death.
Louis had warned him about this. Ever since Hastur had frightened Hermes, Louis had forbidden him from showing his tentacles without permission.
Hastur was obedient—but obedience couldn't override instinct. He still loved to swallow things.
Malfoy stood behind Louis, looking conflicted. Watching Louis and his cat, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was some elaborate prank.
How could a cat swallow a wand? A ten-inch hawthorn wand?!
But Louis insisted it was his cat and told him to wait while he retrieved it.
God, I must be insane, Malfoy thought, just standing here and waiting for him to get my wand back from the cat.
Still, he didn't dare leave—he was afraid of having nightmares at night.
He'd only just started dreaming normally again, and he wasn't about to go back to nightmares.
As Malfoy drifted into thought, he suddenly heard a suspicious, wet, squelching sound—like the movement of a living octopus's tentacles.
He also caught a fleeting glimpse of a thin, shadowy shape—but it was too fast for him to see clearly.
Before he could figure it out, Louis turned around, holding his wand.
"Here. Your wand," Louis said, handing over the dry wand. "Sorry—I'll teach my cat better."
"Meow." Hastur hopped onto the desk beside Louis and meowed, earning a light tap on the head.
Malfoy's mouth twitched as he took back the wand—which looked nothing like it had been inside a cat—muttered an awkward "thanks," and left.
Louis was quite pleased with his dormmates' behavior. Through his tireless efforts, they'd all become well-mannered, positive young men—no sarcasm, no foul tempers.
Sure, it was only a surface change under the pressure of force, but Louis believed that one day, they'd truly be reformed. And if not… well, he could always flatten them.
Once Malfoy was gone, the dorm was empty again. Quidditch season had started, and everyone had gone to watch the match.
Yes, Quidditch again. This month was "Quidditch Month," with all four houses playing in weekend matches. The top two scoring houses would face off in the finals at the end of term, and the winning team would earn a hefty number of points for their house.
Today's match was Ravenclaw vs. Hufflepuff. Hermione had even invited him to watch, but Louis declined.
No way was he wasting prime time on that trivial, silly game. In the same amount of time, he could finish making his magician's cloth.
Taking his cat and the small glob of Volumen Hydrargyrum containing Hermes, Louis headed back to the Room of Requirement.
This time, it didn't manifest as the lounge with sofas, but as a potion-brewing room.
Hastur was astonished, pacing the room in disbelief. Same route, but today it's a different room?
Where was his beloved sofa cushion?
Failing to find it, Hastur opened his big mouth and pulled out a pillow in a burst of tentacles.
It was Louis's pillow—specifically set aside for Hastur to use as his portable seat.
Hastur happily kneaded it until it fluffed up, then lay down contentedly, inhaling Louis's scent. He even kicked at it twice with his back legs before closing his eyes for a nap.
But a sudden coughing sound cut through his drowsiness.
Louis was sitting on a chair formed from Volumen Hydrargyrum, smoke curling around him, a lit pipe in hand.
Hermes circled him, looking puzzled. "What are you doing?"
"Sherlock Holmes's pipe. Helps me think," Louis said, gesturing at it.
"My pipe?" Hermes asked blankly. "I don't remember owning one of those."
"Uh… not you. I mean a human detective with a similar name—very clever, often seeing the truth from the smallest clues," Louis explained.
Hermes looked pleased. "Mm, a wise man. At least the name hasn't been wasted."
Louis ignored Hermes's vanity and returned to planning the construction of his prop, though under the pipe's influence, his mind also drifted to some ridiculous thoughts.
Hermes and Holmes—similar words, both starting with "H." So why were they transliterated so differently in Chinese?
How could an "H" turn into a "Fu" sound?
Louis quickly reached a conclusion: the first person to translate Sherlock Holmes into Chinese must have been from Fujian.
(T/N: I don't know this Chinese BS, Tell your brains to Ignore it!)
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