[Hey, where's that chubby kid going?]
Hearing Venom's question, Tiger suddenly stopped, looking back. The Slytherin queue halted in perfect synchronization.
In the bustling crowd, messy brown hair flashed past—Neville's round figure following closely behind, his cherubic face etched with anxiety and worry.
"Father?"
Atlantis Bersted looked puzzled.
"Take them back. I'll handle this."
Tiger frowned slightly. Without wasting words, he broke from the formation, heading in Neville's direction.
Leaving the queue at this moment—he could guess where Hermione was planning to go without thinking.
He admitted the little girl had brains. But one couldn't entrust their life to brainless creatures, whether trolls or other people.
Seeing Tiger abandon his position, Ramos Tiamaat patted his deputy's shoulder. "Keep an eye on the third-year idiots." With that, he followed Tiger's stride.
Passing the Great Hall entrance, Ramos Tiamaat's exotic eyes slanted toward Professor Quirrell being revived, his narrow eyeliner revealing a hint of dark amusement.
He didn't believe tonight's events were coincidental.
As grandson of a High Funeral Priest, he possessed extraordinary perception of souls and flesh. In his mystical sight, Professor Quirrell's physical state resembled a walking corpse teetering on death's precipice—the soul fire within his organs flickering at its weakest ebb.
What mystified him further: his grandfather's sacred scarab whispered that Professor Quirrell was entangled with something resembling "Shuyet"—the ancient Egyptian term for shadow.
In priestly soul philosophy, the soul consisted of nine sacred parts. "Shuyet" was one—not merely vapor and projection under sunlight, but an inseparable fragment of the soul itself. It recorded every life's journey in exquisite detail, harboring the deepest spiritual imprints...
Like a shadow, yet not a shadow.
Over these months, Ramos Tiamaat had observed during Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. The entity clinging to Professor Quirrell seemed a fusion of shadow, name, and immortal self—an existence absent from any generational priestly stone carvings.
However, he hadn't acted rashly. Anyone capable of such feats was undoubtedly a Dark Arts master manipulating souls and life itself. No sane person willingly faced such beings.
He was waiting for the perfect moment.
If he could penetrate the profound mysteries behind this phenomenon, then his own soul curse might transcend life and death's cycle, binding eternally to the cursed one's spirit! Witnessing countless sunrises and sunsets, recording segments of immortal legend belonging solely to him...
Ramos Tiamaat strode past the Great Hall entrance, his steps containing indescribable anticipation and exhilaration. He yearned desperately to witness such magnificent sorcery!
Seeing Ramos depart, Theodore Nott frowned and quickly followed. With his lead, Raven Bork, Corman Avery and others gradually abandoned the queue.
Atlantis Bersted, considering himself Father's right hand, also wanted to follow. Slytherin maintained perfect order—one prefect sufficed for leadership.
"You take them—"
Just as he whispered to his deputy, Riley Shafiq heavily patted his shoulder. Atlantis turned to find female prefect Gemma Farley standing behind him.
"You lead the group. I'll investigate."
Gemma Farley's expression remained bland, her tone characteristically cold. Though phrased as a request, her unquestionable gaze made Atlantis obediently close his mouth.
Previously, he would have absolutely refused. Now, he could only bow respectfully.
"As you wish..."
The cauldron in the washroom had long been smashed to scrap metal. As for the love potion within—seeing Father's irritated expression, he could roughly guess its fate.
Gemma Farley never indulged in crowd-following either. He was indeed the right hand, but such privileges only functioned when the master remained unattached...
After watching Gemma Farley and Riley Shafiq depart, Atlantis Bersted sighed helplessly and led the little snakes toward their common room.
"Thanks, Harry."
In the washroom, Ron turned off the tap, accepting Harry's offered handkerchief to wipe water from his face.
After checking his reflection, he finally turned back to Harry—he didn't want anyone detecting his earlier breakdown.
"Let's go, Harry. I'll wash the handkerchief properly."
"Don't be so formal, mate."
"Alright, brother~~"
With good spirits restored, Harry and Ron emerged arm-in-arm, faces bright with renewed friendship.
Just then, Hermione and Neville rushed past the corridor intersection. Suddenly spotting the two figures, Neville yanked Hermione to a halt.
"Hermione, they're here!"
"Harry, Ron, finally found you!"
"Come quickly—the troll's coming!"
"Troll?"
Harry and Ron looked bewildered.
Seeing these two still dawdling in confusion, Hermione's originally apologetic mood ignited again. Her brown curls became increasingly wild.
Like an enraged lioness, she strode aggressively toward Harry and Ron.
"Oh! No no no no..."
As Hermione approached step by step, color gradually drained from Ron's face. To him, current Hermione was infinitely more terrifying than any troll.
"Wait, Hermione, Ron he—" Harry attempted explanation, nearly forgetting to breathe.
"What are you standing there for?!"
"Waiting to become troll excrement?!"
Hermione gritted her teeth, yanking up the cowering Ron with one hand while grabbing Harry's collar with the other, striding forcefully toward Neville.
Just then—
"Her... Hermione..."
Neville's face went chalk-white. He pointed behind Hermione and the others, trembling uncontrollably.
At the firelit corner, the troll's massive, grotesque shadow suddenly materialized, slowly crawling up the frigid stone wall.
The scraping sound of its club dragging across stone grew increasingly distinct.
Then came a thick, nauseating stench—like swamp gas rotting for decades—rapidly permeating every inch of corridor space.
"What's that smell! Disgusting!"
"Ugh..."
Hermione's stomach churned violently. Ron and Harry instinctively began dry heaving.
"Run! Hermione!"
"Harry! Ron! Run!"
Neville's scream cracked with terror. Hermione instantly realized what lurked behind her.
She didn't foolishly turn to confirm, instead pulling even harder at the two idiots attempting to look back.
The troll naturally heard the screaming. Its originally sluggish pace suddenly accelerated.
Stone-brick flooring began trembling; corridor chandeliers swayed ominously.
Rounding the corner, when the troll spotted Hermione and company, its confused, dull eyes suddenly focused. Ravenous hunger surged like a tsunami into its practically nonexistent brain.
The instant Ron glanced back, screams burst uncontrollably from his throat. Harry reacted marginally faster—without Hermione's pulling, he'd already seized Ron's forearm, rushing toward Neville.
Feeling the ground's intensifying tremors, Hermione quickly drew her wand, spinning to cast "Petrificus Totalus!"
But to the troll, this felt like barely perceptible sparks spattering its hide. Combined with its astronomical magic resistance, the Petrification Spell proved utterly useless.
The troll seemed genuinely enraged now.
Seeing its prey attempting escape, it bellowed and hefted its massive club, hurling it with murderous force.
Wrapped in whistling death, the weapon came howling through the air.
With doom descending, Neville and the others' hearts stopped beating, bodies rigid with mortal terror.
Hermione's face went deathly pale.
She hadn't yet studied troll-related curriculum. This completely ineffective scenario was obviously beyond her expectations.
"We're finished..."
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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