From the morning on, the castle smelled of wax and pumpkin.
It was a small thing, but Hogwarts liked small things. Decorations hung in the corridors, a sweet, candlelike scent lingered in the air, and even the dungeons seemed brighter than usual, as if the school were pretending for a moment that it wasn't a place where stone remembers too much.
Halloween.
In canon, it was the kind of day that always ended badly. I remembered that more clearly than most school rules, because what happened that evening was one of the first moments when Harry Potter stopped being just a series of lessons and started to feel like a real war, only fought by children.
And I didn't want any part of it.
After my experiments in transfiguration, I could still feel a faint echo of pressure at my temple. Not pain, more like fatigue, like staring at one point for too long. I understood then that I could press on the structure of a spell, but I also started noticing something worse - sometimes the eye tried to do the same without my decision, as if it were searching for a point of leverage automatically.
That should have scared me.
Instead, it started to irritate me.
Because if something starts working on its own, it stops being a tool.
Breakfast was normal. Too normal. People talked about decorations, about sweets, about the feast that evening. Even Malfoy was more excited than usual, like Halloween was only there to remind him he was still a child.
I ate slowly, looking up at the ceiling of the Great Hall and trying not to return to one sentence.
"Today there will be a troll."
Not as a prophecy. As a fact.
I knew how it started. I had replayed it in my head hundreds of times, even if the book described it in only a few paragraphs. Chaos, prefects, fear, and then the second-floor bathroom where no one should ever end up.
In theory it was simple.
Don't get involved.
In practice... nothing had ever been simple.
The evening feast looked exactly the way a Hogwarts feast should look when the school pretends it is only a school.
Pumpkins were everywhere. On the tables, on the windowsills, along the walls. Grinning, decorated with candles, arranged to give the impression of chaos that someone had still planned. Paper bats flew overhead, and the enchanted sky on the ceiling was darker than usual, as if the night itself were thicker.
The students were excited. Too excited. Laughter at the Gryffindor table bounced off the stone, Ravenclaw spoke in hushed voices, and Hufflepuff sounded like no one there knew how to be angry even on principle. Slytherin pretended to be composed, but there was the same childish tension in their whispers too, just better hidden.
I ate slowly and watched. For most of the feast, my left eye stayed calm, but that didn't mean everything was fine. It was more like something hung in the air, like an unspoken sentence. The castle breathed normally, and yet every so often I felt a brief tremor in the background, as if the magic were testing its own patience.
At one point I looked toward the teachers' table. Dumbledore looked as he always did, McGonagall was tense, Snape bored.
I didn't want to focus on them.
I set my cutlery down. I wanted the evening to end.
And then the doors of the Great Hall burst open.
Professor Quirrell stumbled inside like someone who had run with everything he had and could no longer breathe. His face was pale, his eyes wide, and his voice shook even more than usual.
- Troll... troll in the dungeons! - he choked out.
For a fraction of a second, silence fell in the Great Hall, as if everyone was trying to decide whether it was a joke.
Then Quirrell swayed. He took another step, like he wanted to add something, but his knees gave out. He hit the floor with a dull sound.
He fainted.
Exactly as he should have.
Dumbledore stood at once. He didn't raise his voice, and yet his words cut through the first wave of panic.
- Prefects - he said calmly. - Please escort the students back to their dormitories. Teachers, make sure no one separates from the group.
Panic is predictable. Chairs scraped, someone screamed, someone else laughed nervously. Prefects started gathering their houses, and teachers positioned themselves at the exits, directing movement like living barricades.
I should have stood up and gone with Slytherin down to the dungeons.
I knew what was about to happen. I knew that "troll in the dungeons" was only the beginning, that the real problem would end up on the second floor, in the bathroom where no one should be.
Don't get involved. That's canon.
And then I saw something else.
Among the normal threads of magic, one different thread appeared. It wasn't brighter. It was heavier. Denser. Taut like a string. It ran from the Great Hall doors into the corridors beyond, trembling in a rhythm that didn't match anything in the room.
My left eye stung faintly.
Not with pain.
With interest.
For a second I had two voices in my head at once.
The first was reasonable.
Don't get involved. Go back to the dungeons. Let events play out.
The second was simpler.
Check.
Before I could stop myself, I took a step toward that thread. Then another, pretending I was following the group, though in reality I was only making sure the thread was still there.
It was.
It led onward, more clearly, as if it had been waiting for someone to notice it.
The Slytherin crowd turned down the corridor leading below. The prefect shouted to stay together. Someone bumped my shoulder and didn't even look.
I slowed by half a step.
Then another.
I didn't run. I simply let people drift away from me.
When their voices vanished around the corner, I stood alone in a side passage, in a silence so clean I could hear my own breathing.
The thread led deeper into the castle.
I stood still for a moment.
- Idiot - I muttered under my breath.
And I went.
The thread led with certainty, as if it had a purpose of its own. It didn't look like ordinary magic, the kind I saw every day at Hogwarts. Normal threads were part of the background, the castle's steady rhythm. This one was tight, heavy, and it didn't fit, like a foreign word in a sentence you know by heart.
I followed it before I had time to ask myself whether I should.
Only after a few turns did the thought arrive that this was stupid. Not heroic, not dramatic, just stupid. In canon, this always ended badly for the ones who chose curiosity at the wrong moment. And I didn't want to interfere in events. Not consciously, at least.
That was the problem.
I wasn't interfering consciously.
I was just walking.
The corridors were empty. Most students had already been herded into their dormitories, and teachers guarded the main passages. Here, in the side corridors, Hogwarts sounded different. Quieter. As if the castle had held its breath for a moment just to listen to what would happen.
I felt the first thud in my feet before I heard it.
A tremor in the stone. A weight that didn't belong to a human. Then another sound, clearer now, like something enormous dragging across the floor, and finally a guttural roar, low, stupid, brutal.
The thread shuddered, as if it answered the sound.
My left eye stung harder.
I slowed down.
I didn't stop, but I slowed enough to finally let the logical part of the thought through.
This is a troll.
It really is a troll.
In the book it sounded like an adventure. A few lines, some panic, then laughter and "ten points to Gryffindor."
In a real castle, in a real corridor, that sound promised something that ends with shattered stone and blood.
The thread didn't lead down.
It led up.
Second floor.
I knew what was on the second floor. And that knowledge didn't calm me.
The girls' bathroom.
The same bathroom that had already shown me that places can remember death.
For a second I paused on the stairs, feeling my eye pulse as if it wanted to push me forward on its own. I should turn back. I could turn back and return to the dungeons, pretend I had seen nothing. In canon it would all work out anyway. Harry and Ron would run after Hermione. The troll would be stopped. I didn't have to be there.
And then something embarrassing hit me.
It wasn't fear holding me back.
It was the thought that I shouldn't interfere with the story.
And curiosity was stronger.
Not curiosity about events. I knew them.
Curiosity about the reaction.
How would the eye react when it was close to an instinct like that? Violence like that? Something that doesn't think, only destroys?
The question slid into my mind smoothly, without a warning shiver. Like it belonged there.
That only struck me a moment later.
You don't ask questions like that if you're normal.
I climbed the stairs.
The higher I went, the clearer the noise became. Doors slammed somewhere in the distance, something scraped metal against stone, and then a scream rang out, short and sharp, like someone trying not to breathe too loudly.
The thread led exactly there.
When I reached the second-floor corridor, I saw a door standing ajar.
The bathroom.
From inside came two human voices, panicked and familiar.
Harry and Ron.
It was so canon it was almost absurd.
And in that moment I felt something inside me crack the other way.
Because suddenly I understood that this wasn't distant observation anymore.
I was next to the troll.
Actually next to it.
If I go in, I become part of it.
If I don't, I also become part of it, just as someone who heard and walked away.
My hand hovered over the handle.
My left eye stung.
It wasn't a warning.
It was encouragement.
For a brief moment I hesitated, trying to find reason inside myself.
Don't get involved.
Don't do anything.
Don't touch canon.
And then I thought something else.
I'm already in it.
I already followed the thread.
I already broke my own rule.
I pressed the handle down.
The door gave under my hand.
And before I stepped inside, I heard the dull whistle of a club cutting through the air.
Then stone exploded on impact.
And I went in.
The stench hit me immediately.
Dampness, filth, rot, and something heavy and animal, like the entire bathroom had become a cage. Stone sinks were cracked, the floor wet, and dust hung in the air. The troll stood in the middle of the room like a moving boulder, massive, with a club bigger than my body. Every breath it took sounded like an anvil snorting.
I saw them at once.
Harry was pressed near one wall, hunched, holding his wand like a last lifeline. Ron stood closer to the entrance, his face stretched tight, like he wasn't breathing fully. Hermione was wedged between a sink and the wall, eyes wide, holding back tears and a scream at the same time.
The troll moved slowly, but its slowness was a lie. Every motion carried a weight that ruined whatever it touched. The club cut through the air and smashed into stone with such force the floor trembled. Chips flew like hail.
Harry jumped too late. Stone scraped his shoulder. He hissed in pain but didn't drop his wand.
Ron shouted something pointless, as if speaking could create courage.
I stood still by the door.
Not because I froze.
Because the eye saw too much at once.
The thread that had brought me here was now stretched through the bathroom like a taut string, trembling with every movement of the troll. And around the troll, magic didn't arrange itself into delicate lines. It was a mass, dense, heavy. Like a storm cloud, only not black - dirty. Natural. Ancient.
This wasn't a person.
This was an instrument of death.
And then I felt my left eye react faster than thought.
The pressure didn't arrive as a decision. It arrived as instinct, like clenching your fist when someone swings at you. For a fraction of a second it felt like it wasn't me wanting to act, but something in me already acting.
I took a step forward.
Ron noticed me again, as if it only now hit him that I had entered.
- Peverell, what are you...?!
I didn't answer.
Because there was only one question in my head.
Will it work on something that lives and doesn't think?
The troll turned its head toward me, as if it sensed the shift. Its small eyes flashed with dull surprise. For a second it didn't move, like an animal that has caught a new scent.
That was the second.
I inhaled.
And I focused.
Not on muscle. Not on the club. Not on its stupid face.
On instinct.
On the simplest part that says: move forward, smash, kill.
I pressed.
It didn't look like a spell.
There was no flash, no wand movement. No one could see it unless they saw threads the way I did. And yet the effect was immediate, like the troll had been struck from the inside.
Its body stiffened mid-motion.
The club dropped a few centimeters.
Its breathing suddenly grew heavier, louder, like something was squeezing its chest.
My left eye burned sharply.
But I didn't stop.
I pushed deeper.
I watched the thread in the air tighten, as if the space around the troll was narrowing into an invisible ring. It wasn't a grip on the body. It was a hit to its awareness, to its reaction, to whatever kept it moving.
The troll made a low sound. Not a roar. More a growl, like it understood something was wrong but couldn't name it.
It took a step forward.
Stopped.
As if it couldn't decide.
I saw its fingers on the club trembling.
I pressed harder.
It was like pushing my hand into a spring.
The harder I pushed, the more resistance I felt. Not magical. Primitive. Life fighting back against what was crushing it.
My left eye exploded with pain.
My vision blurred for a fraction of a second. Dark spots slid across my sight, like after staring into the sun.
But I didn't let go.
Just a moment longer.
Just a little more.
Because I wanted to see the boundary.
The troll swayed.
The club slipped from its hand with a dull crash that echoed off the walls and sinks.
And then something happened that I hadn't predicted.
It stepped back.
Not because it feared children.
It stepped back like an animal that had suddenly sensed something bigger than itself in the room. Something it didn't understand, but that instinct told it to avoid.
Harry stared at me like he'd been hypnotized.
Ron's face was white as paper.
Hermione breathed hard, but her eyes were glued to the troll, like she couldn't believe it was really stopping.
The troll dropped to its knees.
Not dead.
Broken.
I released immediately.
The tension vanished as fast as it had come, but the cost stayed. Fatigue hit me like a wave. I had to brace a hand against the cold stone of a sink so my legs wouldn't give out.
My left eye pulsed, like it had its own rhythm.
Ron spoke first.
- What did you do to it?
I took a slow breath.
I had no answer that would sound like anything normal.
- Nothing, I said quietly.
It was a lie.
But the truth would have sounded worse.
And then we heard footsteps in the corridor.
Fast. Purposeful.
Someone was running toward us.
The footsteps grew louder, echoing off stone, until the bathroom door burst open.
Professor McGonagall entered first, as always controlled even while running. Snape was right behind her, black and cold, like he wasn't walking so much as sliding over the floor. A few steps further back was Quirrell, pale, shaking, with the face of a man who would rather be anywhere else.
McGonagall took in the wrecked bathroom, the troll on its knees, three children in shock, and me by the sink. For a fraction of a second something flashed in her eyes that I didn't often see in teachers - pure relief that we were still alive. It vanished at once, replaced by fury.
What is going on here?! - her voice cut the air like a spell.
The troll twitched slightly, as if trying to understand why it was suddenly being watched by more than one pair of eyes.
McGonagall raised her wand.
- Petrificus Totalus.
The spell hit the troll without hesitation. The beast went rigid like a statue, and for a moment the bathroom became quieter, as if the space itself had exhaled.
Snape stepped forward, looked at the troll, then at the shattered sinks and scattered debris. His gaze swept over Harry and Ron, paused on Hermione, and finally settled on me.
He didn't say anything.
That was worse.
Quirrell stood in the back, breathing shallowly, like he still didn't believe the troll was immobilized. His eyes were wide, hands nervously adjusting his turban.
And then my left eye stung in a different way than before.
This wasn't pain from pressing the troll. It was a brief, dirty jab, like dissonance in the air, like a crack in the structure of magic. The exact same sensation I'd felt the first time I tested the eye's strange ability on Quirrell. His presence always carried something doubled, something that didn't belong among the living.
This time I felt it more clearly, because the bathroom was still charged with fear and violence. Like everything in it was more receptive.
For a fraction of a second I had the absurd certainty that if I looked harder, something would answer.
I didn't.
Not because I suddenly became reasonable.
Because McGonagall was already watching.
- Potter. Weasley. Granger - she said icily. - You will explain immediately why you are not in your dormitory.
Harry spoke before Ron, like instinct told him someone had to talk first.
- Hermione didn't know about the troll, he said. - We went to get her.
It was so canon that for a moment I almost laughed. Not at them. At how the world kept its own axis even while someone nearby tried to shift it.
McGonagall looked at Hermione.
The girl was pale, but she lifted her head. For a second she looked like she was about to say something, like she wanted to take the blame, like she would explain that it was her fault, that she stayed, that she...
But McGonagall didn't let her speak.
- That was extremely irresponsible, she said. - You could have been killed. All three of you.
Ron looked like the reality had only just hit him. Harry was tense but stood straight. Hermione clenched her jaw.
Snape gave a quiet snort.
- Perhaps it was a selection process, he muttered. - Some problems solve themselves.
McGonagall shot him a brief look.
- Enough, Severus.
Quirrell made a weak sound, like he wanted to remind them he existed.
- I-it... i-it was me... I... - he started, but his voice broke.
No one listened.
McGonagall continued, taking points, threatening detention, trying to regain control over a situation that had broken out of control in a way no safety plan had predicted.
Finally her eyes fell on me.
- Mr. Peverell.
It sounded different than when she spoke to the Gryffindor trio. Less angry. More cautious.
- Why are you here?
I had an answer ready.
A half-truth that could be accepted.
- I got lost, Professor, I said calmly. - And... I followed the noise.
McGonagall watched me a moment longer than she should have, as if deciding whether I was lying or simply not saying everything. I was sure she couldn't know what I had done to the troll. But she could feel that something didn't fit.
Snape still said nothing. His stare was enough.
McGonagall finally nodded.
- You will return to your dormitory. Immediately.
I nodded and turned away before she could ask another question.
Not because I was afraid.
Because the longer I stood in that bathroom, the more I felt the pulsing in my eye and the pressure building in my head. Like the night didn't end with the troll. Like something else remained in the air, something that could react if I looked the wrong way.
I stepped into the corridor.
The door closed behind me.
And then the pain hit harder.
I touched my eyelid on instinct.
My fingers were wet.
Blood.
A thin line ran from my left eye, barely visible in the dim light, but real.
This time I didn't feel fear.
I felt something much worse.
Excitement.
Because now I knew it worked.
On something bigger than children.
On instinct.
On brute force.
And that if I pressed harder, I could break more.
I took a deep breath and headed for the dungeons, trying to walk normally, like a student who was simply returning to his dormitory.
As if nothing had happened.
AN: A slightly longer chapter than I intended. If you're enjoying Oliver's story so far, you can leave a comment or give the novel some power stones.