As the class drew to a close, Ron's mood had plummeted to an all-time low.
"No wonder everyone can't stand her," he said to Harry as they navigated the crowded corridor, where students parted to make way for Harry. "Honestly, she's an absolute nightmare."
Someone bumped into Harry and hurried past them. It was Hermione. Harry caught a glimpse of her face—and was shocked to see tears streaming down her cheeks.
Harry had always thought Hermione was tougher than this. He knew everyone's character well, and Hermione was undeniably resilient, possessing a rare ambition and drive among young wizards.
Ambition was a compliment in Harry's book.
But even the strongest people, it seemed, could break in a single moment.
"I think she heard you," Harry said.
"So what?" Ron replied, though a trace of unease flickered across his face. "She must have noticed by now—she doesn't have a single friend."
Hermione didn't show up to the next class, nor was she seen for the rest of the afternoon.
As Harry and Ron headed downstairs to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, they overheard a girl, Parvati, telling her friend Lavender that Hermione was sobbing in the girls' bathroom, refusing anyone's attempts to comfort her.
Ron looked even more uncomfortable at this, but the moment they stepped into the Great Hall and saw the dazzling Halloween decorations, he promptly forgot about Hermione. A thousand bats fluttered across the walls and ceiling, while another thousand swooped in low, dark clouds above the tables, making the candles in the carved pumpkins flicker wildly.
A feast of delectable dishes suddenly appeared on golden plates, just as it had at the start-of-term banquet.
"I'm going to check on her in the bathroom," Harry said, clapping Ron on the shoulder. "You keep eating."
"Alright," Ron mumbled through a mouthful of chicken. "Apologize to her for me. I'll save you some food."
"Sounds good."
Harry grabbed two bags of fish and chips—one to munch on the way (hoping Ron would pack extra) and one for Hermione.
It was Halloween, after all, so Harry also picked up a massive pumpkin—likely grown with Hagrid's magic, carved into a jack-o'-lantern. The outer shell was tough, but the flesh inside was surprisingly tasty.
He stuffed everything into a large sack, where the Sorting Hat was softly humming, "Happy Halloween! … Wait, Harry, what are you up to today? Stop—it's not going to fit!"
Just as Harry was about to head out, Professor Quirrell, radiating malice, burst into the Great Hall. His oversized scarf was askew on his head, his face a mask of terror.
Harry instantly realized that the side task he'd been pondering all day was about to unfold. Was Quirrell finally making his move?
For the past two months, Harry's main grievance had been Snape's unsettling presence, while he'd dismissed Quirrell as a mere clown. Quirrell lacked the subtlety of a spy, but he had a knack for playing the fool with theatrical flair.
At times, Harry sensed an extraordinary killing intent emanating from Quirrell, putting him on edge. Most of the time, though, it was just a vague, wavering malice. Harry often wondered if Quirrell was plotting to curse him.
Whenever this happened, Harry would grip his wand, ready to cast Lumos or something stronger, but it always turned out to be a false alarm, like the boy who cried wolf.
After so many false starts, Harry hadn't let his guard down, but he was starting to wonder if he should just take Quirrell down preemptively. Then he remembered Voldemort, the true enemy lurking in the shadows, and forced himself to stay his hand.
All eyes were on Quirrell as he staggered to Professor Dumbledore's chair, leaning heavily against the table.
Harry tightened his grip on his wand, worried Quirrell might try to ambush Dumbledore.
He recalled a scene from a tale called The Legend of the Dragon-Slaying Archer, where even the invincible Zhang Sanfeng was caught off guard. Wizards might wield powerful magic, but they were still flesh and blood. Dumbledore was old… though Harry had warned him about Quirrell, so he was surely on guard. No need to worry about a sneak attack, right?
Quirrell, feigning terror, gasped, "Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know."
With that, he collapsed onto the floor in a faint.
The Great Hall erupted into chaos.
Dumbledore had to fire off several bursts of purple fireworks from his wand to restore order. "Prefects," he said in a low, commanding voice, "lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!"
Percy, of course, was in his element.
Harry had to admit Percy was good at managing the first-years. He had the skills, even if his eagerness to prove himself sometimes rubbed people the wrong way.
"Follow me! Stick together, first-years! No need to fear the troll if you follow my instructions! Stay close behind me. Make way—first-years coming through!"
"How did a troll get in?" students whispered among themselves. Some speculated Peeves had let it in for a Halloween prank.
Harry, of course, knew it was Quirrell's doing. But now he was puzzled. Hogwarts was supposed to be protected by layers of defensive spells. Did professors have the authority to bypass them?
Maybe. So why was Quirrell doing this? To create chaos for some sinister plot? Or was he testing Harry?
Wait—Hermione was in the dungeons!
As far as Harry knew, trolls were dangerous in the wizarding world. Though their intelligence was low, they had formidable resistance to magic.
A physical fighter like Harry wasn't afraid of a troll—he was practically their natural counter. But an ordinary young wizard like Hermione wouldn't stand a chance.
Whether it was a coincidence, a deliberate test, or an unintended threat born of chaos, Hermione was in danger. If Quirrell dared to harm her, he had already chosen the path to death!
Taking a deep breath, Harry unleashed his extraordinary sense of smell, pinpointing Hermione's location. His instincts, honed by attribute points and triggered events, aligned in the same direction.
No mistake—the enemy was in the girls' bathroom!
With the sack containing the Sorting Hat slung over his shoulder, Harry charged toward the bathroom without looking back.
As he rounded a corner, he caught sight of Snape slipping out of sight down a corridor.
"What's he up to?" Harry wondered. "Why isn't he with the other teachers? Does he have a secret agenda… heading to the fourth-floor staircase, to that thing? But he's likely one of Dumbledore's most loyal. No need to worry about him."
Harry pushed Snape from his mind and focused on tracking Hermione's scent.
By the Seven Hells, he cursed inwardly. Which girls' bathroom is it? The smell's too strong!
A foul stench hit his nose—a mix of dirty socks and an unmaintained public toilet. Surely Hogwarts' bathrooms weren't this bad? Didn't they have magical cleaning staff or something? The boys' bathrooms were always spotless.
Sniffing again, he realized the stench wasn't entirely human. It belonged to another creature. Then he heard it—a low, rumbling heartbeat.
A massive creature. The target!
In the wizarding world, trolls were considered highly dangerous. Harry shifted into the mindset he'd had when facing a dragon one-on-one for the first time.
He opened his sack, tucked his wand into his belt, and casually placed the jack-o'-lantern on his head like a helmet. The moment it settled, a familiar surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins.
This was the battlefield.
In a single breath, the power of the gods chose its champion. The anointed king drew a blazing sword from the Sorting Hat.
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