Malfoy clearly had no intention of going to a duel with Potter. He decided it would be better to set up Filch as the opponent, letting him do all the dirty work. And who knows—maybe even the hated Potter, who had rejected his hand of friendship (yes, Malfoy had already bored all of first-year Slytherin by telling them how rudely Potter had reacted to his offer of friendship), would get expelled from the school.
But I decided that it would be better for us to go. Since we'd agreed on a time, not showing up would be clearly improper. Even if no convenient moment came up, at least we could see Potter in action. He didn't look like a simpleton, and right now we were in the same weight category. Who knows—maybe he really was a good wizard, and Goyle's residual memory wouldn't help me? After all, it was that memory that told me Potter was known for defeating the local Dark Lord—the most powerful wizard in Britain about ten years ago. Too many variables in this case.
"Malfoy," I addressed the boy, who was once again telling the first-year girls about his huge manor and how many rooms it had, "maybe we should go to the duel? After all, you set it yourself—family honor and all that."
"And why should that concern you?" he snapped at the moment. Clearly, I had overstepped trying to influence him; I needed to be more careful.
"Well, it's just... the urge to slap that ginger mug, and Potter always looks down on us anyway," I scratched my cheek, putting on the mask again.
Crabbe nodded in agreement, and the girls began listening with interest. Malfoy realized his authority was at stake and made the only sensible decision.
"Heh, you're such a blockhead, Goyle. My plan would have guaranteed Potter's expulsion, but yes, showing him his place is tempting. And besides, it would have been too easy."
"You'll crush him; Potter's a weakling," I added, and the girls nodded along, which made Malfoy puff up like a peacock.
Walking down the night corridor, I felt the tension mounting. The castle was old; the passages seemed endless, and each step that broke the silence echoed in the cold air. We walked, and I felt Malfoy losing confidence with every step. He tried to hold himself together, but his face betrayed his nerves, despite his efforts. Crabbe, as always, trudged behind, barely understanding what was happening. We had decided to grab him at the last minute, pulling him out of bed, so all he wanted now was to crawl back under the covers.
"Are you sure you want to go further?" I asked Malfoy, barely holding back a smirk. His eyes flickered—he tried to look determined, but I knew he was scared.
Malfoy glanced at me and answered rather uncertainly.
"Of course, I'm not afraid," he said, though a clear worry colored his voice.
When we ran into the Trophy Hall, I paused for a moment. The room was truly breathtaking. High ceilings with intricate patterns, intertwined with ancient magical symbols. The walls were hung with dusty trophies and medals, long-forgotten stories of past victories. Several display cases held elegantly crafted weapons and antique artifacts, radiating an almost invisible magical aura. Everything was in semi-darkness, with only the dim light from a few torches giving us some sense of the place's grandeur. A sinister silence hung in the hall, as if the trophies were watching us, and each step reverberated in the emptiness.
Approaching a golden trophy, I noticed the engraving: "To Prefect T. Riddle for services to the school." Huh, is the gold real? That would be amusing if it were.
Looking at Malfoy, I saw his face brighten as he examined the room more closely. I knew he couldn't help but feel some awe at this place.
"Are you sure this is the right place for the duel?" Malfoy asked nervously, glancing around.
"You set the duel yourself. Even if Potter doesn't show up, you're already automatically the winner," I replied.
"That's true... I planned everything," Malfoy puffed up like a peacock, and I just nodded in agreement—whatever makes the child happy, as long as he doesn't cry.
But suddenly, we heard footsteps. From the sound, it was clearly an adult. And Potter had proven to be a rat.
"Sniff carefully, my dear; they must be hiding in the corner." That was Filch, speaking to Mrs. Norris.
I froze, my eyes immediately finding an escape—a slightly open door leading into a dark corridor downward. I paused for a moment, assessing the situation. If Filch was coming here, we had two choices: risk hiding nearby or venture into the unknown darkness. A slight draft from the door suggested the corridor led further, possibly to an exit. It wasn't a calculated choice but an instinctive decision—to move where the chances of encountering the caretaker were lower. Taking a deep breath, I glanced at Malfoy, who looked like his world was about to collapse.
"Let's go!" I whispered, grabbing Malfoy by the shoulder. He hesitated, but the next moment we were walking down the corridor, with Crabbe, as always, trailing behind.
"They're around here somewhere," Filch muttered. "Probably hiding."
We hadn't taken more than a few steps before his footsteps grew louder. We couldn't afford to be caught. Any sound now could cost us everything. I quickly pulled the boys into the shadows, and soon we were in front of a door leading to an old chamber.
I opened it, and we rushed into the empty room as quietly as possible. But what we saw made me freeze for a moment. In front of us lay a huge three-headed dog—sleeping, but it looked as if it could wake at any second. It was a real cerberus. Good thing it was asleep.
Malfoy instinctively recoiled, his face turning ghostly pale. Even Crabbe stopped eating his pastry and widened his eyes so much he looked like a giant fat owl.
"What is that?" Malfoy's voice trembled, and I felt his fear rising.
I, too, was momentarily terrified—the beast must have weighed at least four hundred kilograms, the size of a small bus, and all I had was a fifteen-centimeter wand and a handful of spells I'd relearned. But then I noticed the dog was chained—huge, thick, but relatively short—and there were remnants of food, so it wasn't hungry. Finally, my eyes spotted a small hatch near its paws; it was clearly guarding something.
"This is our only chance to hide," I said, scanning the room. "If Filch finds us, we won't have time for anything. We need to wait here until he leaves. The dog is chained, so just stay quiet, and everything will be fine."
Malfoy clearly didn't want to stay, but I could see he understood—we had no choice. Crabbe just nodded; over time he had clearly grown to trust me.
"Just don't wake it," I said again, observing the sleeping creature. "If we're lucky, it won't wake. We can just wait it out."
We froze in the shadows near the door, trying to make no sound, the tension building inside me. We had to wait for Filch to leave. And as soon as silence settled, it was clear—we needed to get out before it was too late.
"Let's go back to the common room," I said, moving confidently. Malfoy didn't answer, clearly still trying to collect himself, and Crabbe simply followed in a trance. "Potter clearly chickened out and sent Filch after us; I doubt he'll show up here."
But all the way back, one thought wouldn't leave me—what was that cerberus really guarding?
The next day, early morning, a letter arrived while the dorm was still in semi-darkness. My hearing had always been sharp, so I woke as the enormous family black owl began knocking on the window. Fluttering its wings, it landed on the edge of my bed. Attached to its leg, along with the envelope, was a small pouch.
Hmm, letters usually arrive at breakfast. Strange. It seemed Mr. Goyle had ordered the owl to deliver it at this time, away from curious eyes. Opening the envelope, I immediately recognized Mr. Goyle's cold handwriting. The lines were sharp, as if each character pressed into the paper with particular force. As I read, my face remained stone, but my fingers gripped the parchment tighter.
"Gregory,
Your words about the voice and problems with your mind raise more questions than answers. You speak of nightmares and creatures that no sensible wizard would discuss without evidence. Your guesses seem unconvincing, and the tone of your letter—almost panicked.
You must understand: in the magical world, weaknesses come with a price. You mention Occlumency. Fine. This is an ancient art requiring discipline and willpower—two qualities you have, to put it mildly, rarely shown.
In the package, you will find an amulet. Nothing special, but if things are that bad, it may be of use to you.
We will discuss your behavior and fears when you return for the holidays. I hope by then you won't give me more reason for disappointment. Pull yourself together, Gregory. Stop whining. If you are my son, you must be strong.
P.S. I hope you've mended relations with Malfoy? If not, try to—don't make me punish you again.
Sincerely,
Richard Goyle"
I took the amulet from the pouch and examined it—a simple round pendant of tarnished metal, carved with a rough pattern. It looked more like a trinket than a true protective artifact.
"Well, at least something," I muttered, feeling a bitter mix of disappointment and anger—emotions clearly leftover from Gregory Goyle's personality—but I had gained no real information. I threw the amulet onto the bedside table and read the letter again. The last line, where my new father mentioned the holidays, stuck in my mind. Did he have a plan for dealing with the voice, or was it just another test of patience? Stroking the owl, I released it and closed the window.
The amulet lay quietly, glinting faintly in the dim light like a mockery.
"Well, what now, Goyle?" Malfoy mumbled sleepily. "Hungry again?"
"Everything's fine, go back to sleep," I waved him off, but he was already awake.
"Goyle, what do you think that dog was doing?" the boy asked thoughtfully.
"Maybe a storeroom, with food or something else," I scratched my forehead idiotically.
"Ha-ha-ha, you're something else," Malfoy laughed. "You remember Dumbledore mentioning this room at the feast?"
"Probably," I shrugged. "I wasn't listening, too hungry."
"Glutton," Malfoy drawled disdainfully, continuing his thoughts. "I should write to my father—let him investigate. Maybe he can shove that old fool Dumbledore off his chair."
"That's right, your father's a force," I agreed, stroking the vanity of the boy who took every praise for his father personally.
"Good that you understand," the boy said proudly. "Let's wake Crabbe; we need breakfast, or you'll eat me too."
In the Great Hall, the usual morning atmosphere reigned. Sunlight floated over the long tables through stained glass windows, reflecting off golden trays holding hot dishes. Voices and the clatter of forks and knives filled the air as students ate.
Malfoy continued ranting about Potter's behavior and thinking about what to write to his father, so it was certain the whole school would soon know about our night adventure.
I sat beside him, focused on my fried eggs and bacon, barely paying attention to my surroundings, though it was obvious Malfoy was talking too much, still impressed by the night's events. Crabbe remained silent, as breakfast was more important than discussions about duels.
At neighboring tables, morning bustle was underway. Potter, sitting with the Weasleys, seemed pensive, trying to appear calm but glancing toward Slytherin as if expecting something. Not everyone noticed Potter and Malfoy exchanging a short, tense glance.
The long table was full of food: crispy rolls, fried mushrooms, roasts, various cheeses—prepared so every student could satisfy their hunger. Malfoy pursed his lips, choosing among the finest dishes, while Crabbe grabbed something without thinking and kept eating.
Potter had finished breakfast and was heading toward the hall when Malfoy called out:
"So, Potter, chickened out? Even ratted us out like the last rat. Clearly a Weasley buddy, raised among Muggles."
"You...!" Ron Weasley blushed.
"I don't have time for your childish games, Malfoy," Potter replied coldly. "Go find someone your level. And about Filch—don't make up stories, too much honor involved. You must be really stupid to wander into the Trophy Hall at night."
"You!" mimicked Weasley, while Malfoy smiled broadly.
Malfoy clearly lost his words at such audacity. I shrugged—yes, Potter could speak, and he had ruined my plan, but what a kid. Such an act would hardly help his reputation. Interesting—who did he think he was?
The main thing was that Malfoy shouldn't remember whose idea it was to go to the duel. After all, my father had threatened—if I didn't earn Malfoy's trust, there'd be trouble. And I knew very well what punishment from Richard Goyle meant. Help was help—I hoped he could really do something about the voice. The cheap-looking amulet offered no hope, but if Malfoy complained to my father over the holidays... No wonder the previous owner of this body didn't last long. Goyle Sr. had never been kind to her either.