After I began wearing the amulet my father had sent me, strangely enough, nightmares started appearing more frequently in my dreams. They lasted only a few seconds—or at least that's how it felt—leaving behind only hazy images and a lingering sense of unease. Oddly, this made them far less terrifying than before. The voice that had once haunted my mind while I was awake no longer bothered me. It was a strange relief, as though an invisible weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
My dreams became fragmented: crimson flashes, glimpses of unfamiliar faces, sometimes only a single whispered word I couldn't quite catch. I still woke up abruptly, often in a cold sweat, but now it felt more like irritation than pure terror. The amulet hanging around my neck seemed to serve as a kind of barrier, imperfect though it was.
Yet one thought continued to gnaw at me. The nightmares hadn't vanished—they were just shorter. They felt like a reminder that the voice was still out there, lurking somewhere, waiting. Perhaps the amulet truly helped, but I had no idea for how long. For now, I didn't know how I could rid myself of it completely. But there was hope that Mr. Goyle might help—after all, his amulet, despite the sharply worded note attached to it, clearly had some effect.
I wasn't at ease, of course, and began asking questions about Occlumency in lessons. Carefully, mind you, picking moments that wouldn't draw too much attention. During Professor Flitwick's class, I politely raised my hand.
"Professor," I said, trying to sound like a naive teenager, "Occlumency… that's not difficult magic, right? Any wizard could learn it?"
Flitwick, usually cheerful, looked at me with mild surprise. Apparently, I'd overdone the "dumb student" act.
"Occlumency, Mr. Goyle," he said, "is an extremely complex art. It requires maturity, discipline, and…"—he paused, searching for the right word—"strength of will. First-years are far too early for such studies. Focus on the spells we're currently covering."
I nodded, pretending to be satisfied, though I wasn't. I had heard similar replies from other professors. McGonagall, for instance, had told me it was "an art for upper-years at least," and added that I should focus on Transfiguration. Snape, whom I had approached last, merely pierced me with a cold gaze.
"Occlumency, Goyle?" His voice was like silk hiding steel. "Funny you should ask. It's the art of protecting the mind… something you, as far as I know, have no need for. And you're far too young to practice it."
Malfoy let out a soft laugh beside me, and I had to bite back a retort.
Every time it was the same: "too early," "not for first-years." The words grated on me, but I couldn't show it.
After class, I returned to my dorm and stared at the amulet. It hadn't banished the nightmares completely, but the maddening voice no longer appeared. Sometimes I thought I could manage without Occlumency, but something deep inside warned me this was only the beginning.
After yet another rejection from the teachers, I realized I could only rely on myself. If I couldn't protect my mind, I would at least master spells that might give me an edge. The key: never break character.
In the library, I tried to remain inconspicuous. I always chose quiet times to browse, taking books to read elsewhere instead of sitting at tables like most students. Often, I hid my reading under a Quidditch comic—everyone at Hogwarts obsessed over them, so nobody paid me any mind.
In The Wizard's Path, I discovered the spell Reparo. Simple, but useful—it allowed me to fix small things. My torn gloves, for instance, were mended in seconds, unnoticed by anyone.
I also found Accio. Summoning objects seemed difficult for beginners, but the instructions promised it could be invaluable. It didn't come easily, but I practiced persistently—just in case it might save me one day.
In the section on basic household charms, I found Alohomora, a spell for opening simple locks. It could be handy in an old castle like Hogwarts, though I had to be careful not to attract the attention of teachers.
I practiced in secret, behind my curtains at night. Reparo I perfected on a torn sheet of paper. Accio was trickier, but eventually I could summon small objects like pebbles; a pencil was still beyond me. I tried Alohomora on my own chest, relocking it each time to improve. Mistakes were frequent—wand twitches in the wrong direction, spells that fizzled—but a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
Malfoy and the others continued to see me as a clumsy oaf. Fine by me. Let them underestimate me while I quietly grew stronger. Compared to the other first-years—wild and unsupervised—it was easy to stay unnoticed. Most spent their time roaming the corridors, gorging on sweets, or playing Puking Pastilles and Exploding Snap.
Strangely, it was the pure-blood students, many already having completed first-year lessons, who were the most diligent in doing nothing. I had never been a top student before, but in a magical world, magic was everything—how could one not learn dozens of spells? The very ability to perform real wonders was inspiring.
The old Goyle had known only a handful of spells: Lumos, Aguamenti, Waddiwasi for jokes, conditional Impedimenta, Wingardium Leviosa, and minor tricks like sparks or tying shoelaces without bending. Not bad for someone whose wishes had been instantly granted by a house-elf. But that wasn't enough for me. I wanted something powerful right away—like Reducto—but I lacked the strength. Potions and Transfiguration were more practical. Though in the latter, I was hopeless; only Longbottom outpaced me. Potions could be valuable, but I had no money for ingredients, so I postponed it.
Speaking of money, I had an idea to earn some—at least for starters—since nothing could be expected from my debt-ridden father. Professors ignored students' antics as long as no one got seriously hurt, and many pure-blood kids weren't poor and constantly received pocket money. So I decided to take up a little mugging. My conscience had been dead for twenty years anyway.
The first victim was Longbottom. Even his own Gryffindors had bullied him so he dared not resist, yet he clearly had money. The plan was simple: make him too scared to complain. After class, I waited until Malfoy was distracted with wizard chess, then took a bored Crabbe along to find Longbottom, usually heading for second breakfast.
Hiding near the fruit display concealing the kitchen entrance, I stepped toward him. There was no one around—not even ghosts. A perfect chance.
"Hey, Longbottom," I called lazily.
The boy froze and looked around, confused as always. His face betrayed a mixture of fear and guilt, as if he knew what was coming.
"Goyle," he stammered, stepping back. "What do you want?"
I smirked. What a coward. He didn't even consider resisting.
"Just a chat," I said, approaching. "You've been handling money a lot lately, eating sweets while Crabbe and I starve. Right, Crabbe?"
"Absolutely, Goyle," the fat boy grinned, chocolate crumbs still on his teeth.
Neville tried to speak, but fear shivered in his voice:
"I… I don't have… anything extra, Goyle. You know that."
"I know, I know," I said, stepping closer. "But right now, your pockets look full. Maybe you can help an old friend?"
Longbottom tensed but couldn't hide his nervousness.
"I don't know, Goyle… I don't have much, honestly," he muttered.
I glanced at Crabbe. He stood ready, grinning menacingly. Longbottom was easy prey, clearly unprepared to resist.
"Can't you share a bit?" I pressed. "Your pockets are full—I know. No need for this 'honestly, no'."
At that moment, Ron Weasley appeared. He clearly noticed us and understood what was happening. Cautiously, he approached Longbottom.
"What's going on, Goyle?" His voice was bold, his eyes challenging. "Leave Neville alone."
I smirked at his resolve. Had he decided to be a hero?
"Really, Weasley? Protect him?" I frowned. "Think you can handle it?"
"Go to hell, slime! Your mother—" he began.
"Ohhh, that's a mistake, stinky," I said with a wicked smile. Insults about my mother, past or present, didn't bother me, but that couldn't go unpunished.
Weasley, often neglecting hygiene, turned crimson, gritted his teeth, and raised his wand.
"Leave him alone, Goyle, or I'll thrash you, got it, fat oaf?"
I grinned. He didn't scare me. Clutching my wand, I prepared to respond.
"That won't help, Weasley. You can't even handle me, and Crabbe's here. I'll even give you first strike. Go ahead." I beckoned him.
Red sparks flew toward me. Clearly, he didn't know combat spells, yet tried to play hero. Idiot.
"Impedimenta!" I shouted, dodging the sparks.
Boom! He slammed into the wall near trembling Longbottom.
"You okay?" Longbottom asked, helping him up.
Weasley tried to hide his fear, but it was obvious. He raised his wand again, but I ended it—kicking it from his hands, then hitting him with a hook and a few blows to the ribs.
"Enough?" I lazily asked Longbottom. "Now you…"
"Slugulus Eructo!" Crabbe suddenly cast at Weasley. He had been silent until now.
Weasley scrambled, found his wand, and prepared to strike me from behind—only to vomit slime immediately.
"Good job," I nodded to Crabbe. "Almost missed that."
"You owe me a box of chocolate eclairs," he laughed. "Watch your back next time."
I nodded again and looked at the vomiting Weasley.
"Not enough for you? Want to be a hero? Fine. Crabbe, finish him."
Crabbe kicked Weasley, who moaned and spewed slime. Suddenly, a small gray shadow appeared out of nowhere, hissing.
"Damn, Mrs. Norris," I cursed. "Come on, Crabbe—Filch is coming. And you," I said to Longbottom, "don't tell him anything, or it'll be worse for you."
The boy nodded. I dashed into the nearest passage. A minor setback, but Neville would lay low for weeks.
The next day was Halloween. Hogwarts' Halloween was truly magical—even I felt it. From morning, the air carried a strange energy, as if magic itself bent in anticipation. Everything seemed shrouded in mist, enchanted bats flitted through the halls, and faint, mysterious sounds echoed, as though the walls were alive.
Spells had conjured spiders that appeared when someone passed by, making the girls shriek and adding to the eerie atmosphere, a reminder that Hogwarts hid wonders in every corner.
Before the feast, the Great Hall was decked for the holiday. The ceiling reflected the night sky, but today mist swirled across it, dotted with faint ghostly lights, twinkling like fireflies. Black webs hung on the walls, dotted with glowing skulls. Carved pumpkins with sinister faces flickered from within, casting ghostly shadows. Massive black candles hovered beneath the ceiling, dimly lighting the hall. A giant table, draped in black cloth with gold patterns, filled the center. The smell of roasted pumpkin was everywhere.
Thousands of bats flapped along the walls and ceiling, more flying above the tables like low-hanging clouds. Candlelight flickered in response. As with the start-of-year banquet, empty golden dishes suddenly filled with a variety of food.
I was slicing my second perfectly cooked steak when Professor Quirrell burst in. His turban was askew, fear on his face. Everyone froze as he rushed to Dumbledore's chair, leaning on the table:
"A troll! A troll… in the dungeon… had to tell you…" He fainted.
Chaos erupted. Purple fireworks shot from Dumbledore's wand, restoring silence.
"Prefects!" Dumbledore bellowed. "Lead your houses to the dormitories! Slytherin with Ravenclaw!"
"All behind me!" Slytherin prefect Marcus Flint commanded. "Small ones first, Rosier tail-end!"
I smiled and followed. I didn't know what kind of creature this troll was, but it seemed dangerous. Hopefully, it wouldn't visit the infirmary, near the dungeons, where Weasley lay.
Judging by the bustling stairs, evacuation was in full swing. Only the Hufflepuffs lived up to their reputation—stuck lost in the corridor, blocking everyone.
We cut through them like a ship through waves, followed by Ravenclaws. Gryffindors collided with Hufflepuffs. My gaze caught Granger, flushed and with a torn bag, but I didn't care—prefects could handle it.