Since it wasn't the opening feast, this one was far less formal.
There was no Headmaster's speech. No school song. Attendance wasn't strictly required, and slipping away halfway through was allowed.
Professor Flitwick was present, as usual. He never missed a feast.
Perhaps Hogwarts' wine really was that good.
However, the moment Flitwick noticed Morin, he downed his glass in one go and whispered the name of a fruit juice. The goblet refilled instantly.
One couldn't help but wonder just how many house-elves worked beneath the Great Hall. Their efficiency was unsettling.
"Professor Flitwick," Morin said as he sat beside him, smiling. "Why the sudden switch to juice?"
"Er... my digestion hasn't been great lately," Flitwick replied quickly. "Madam Pomfrey advised me to avoid alcohol."
His acting was passable.
Almost convincing enough for Morin to believe him one percent more.
Morin didn't pursue it. Light teasing was fine. Pressing further would just be rude.
The feast continued smoothly.
Then, halfway through, Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall.
His turban was crooked. His face was pale with terror.
He ran straight to Dumbledore's side, clutched the table, and gasped, "Troll-in the dungeons-thought you ought to know."
Then he collapsed.
Dead faint.
Chaos erupted.
Dumbledore fired several purple firecrackers from his wand before silence was restored.
"A troll?" Flitwick said, bewildered. "How did that get into the castle? Hogwarts' defenses are extremely thorough. Unauthorized magical creatures shouldn't be able to enter at all."
"Unless someone brought it in," Morin said calmly. "And since Professor Quirrell discovered it, he likely knows more."
He glanced at the unconscious man.
"Also, why would a single troll frighten him into this state?"
"He's fainted!" someone exclaimed. "He needs medical attention!"
"No need," Morin replied mildly. "I've studied healing magic."
A faint smile crossed his lips.
To the onlookers, it looked... unsettling.
Before anyone could stop him, Morin drew his wand and released a beam of pure white light.
It struck Quirrell.
Dumbledore had raised his hand to intervene-
Then stopped.
He recognized the nature of the spell.
Pure healing power.
Morin had once called it the Holy Light.
A magic capable of purification and restoration. Even the soul wasn't beyond its reach.
If anything, it could only help.
Professor Quirrell: "!!!"
"Ah!"
The man snapped upright like a spring, wand already in hand.
"Protego!"
The Great Hall went dead silent.
All eyes fixed on Quirrell.
He'd been unconscious.
So why was he suddenly awake?
Why cast a Shield Charm?
Against healing magic?
Quirrell hurriedly straightened his turban. Under the scrutiny of the entire hall, he looked extremely nervous.
After a long pause, he stammered, "W-what happened? I... I just... sensed someone was about to... use magic on me, s-so I... instinct..."
Voldemort was, at that moment, feeling very done.
His perception of the outside world was limited, but he could sense certain kinds of magic.
When Morin fired that Holy Light-
He felt mortal danger.
Holy Light healed and purified the body and soul.
But Voldemort's soul was split into seven pieces.
Applying Holy Light to him was like throwing a demon into heaven.
Faced with annihilation, Voldemort had no choice but to abort his plan.
He had intended to use the troll to draw teachers away while he stole the Stone.
Now-
Curse it.
Quirrell's explanation eased some suspicion.
Some.
Dumbledore was not among them.
He'd already been wary of Quirrell due to Morin's hints, though only cautiously. Suspicion without evidence meant nothing.
But if Quirrell hadn't truly fainted...
Why was he on the floor?
And more importantly-
He was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
Why couldn't he handle a single troll?
His displayed strength was shockingly low.
Others were thinking the same.
Professors. Students.
This was Hogwarts. Quirrell should've been one of the more capable fighters.
So why was he terrified of a troll?
Why jump up and block healing magic?
Why fake it?
Why block it at all?
Dots began connecting.
Quietly.
Individually.
"Prefects," Dumbledore said firmly, choosing order over speculation. "Lead your houses back to the dormitories. Immediately."
Another spark shot into the air.
The students moved.
Confused, but disciplined.
Their common rooms were protected. Passwords barred entry. A troll wouldn't get inside.
And professors escorted them.
As teachers took position, Dumbledore gave Quirrell a long look.
Then he turned to Morin.
"Any ideas, Professor Morin? Other than searching the dungeons floor by floor?"
"I can locate it instantly," Morin replied. "Subdue it. Or kill it."
"Anywhere in this castle."
"Boasting is rarely admirable," Snape said coldly.
Morin glanced at him, about to respond-
"I'd like you to check on that item, Severus," Dumbledore interrupted. "Ensure the protections remain intact."
"I'm going," Snape said curtly.
He gave Morin one last icy look before sweeping away, robes billowing like a bat's wings.
"Is he jealous of my looks?" Morin asked.
"Likely," Dumbledore replied, tired. "About what you said..."
"I can do it," Morin shrugged. "But forcing it might damage part of the castle's defensive array."
"Unless you grant permission."
"Or temporarily lift the sections suppressing perception."
Dumbledore stared at him for a long time.
Weighing.
Confirming.
Finally-
"I've suspended the relevant portions."
At once, an unseen layer of Hogwarts' ancient magic dimmed in a specific region.
"Excellent," Morin nodded.
He'd been careful until now, suppressing his telepathy to avoid breaking the array.
Who would pay for repairs?
He hadn't even started selling wands yet.
Speaking of which...
After Grindelwald's duel.
Why was Grindelwald taking so long? Had he run off?
Unlikely.
If anything, he was probably figuring out how to recruit Morin and Dumbledore.
Morin focused.
His telepathic field expanded.
And swept across Hogwarts.
Every corridor. Every chamber.
The entire castle.
Several professors stiffened, drawing their wands.
Masters of Occlumency all of them-they felt it.
A vast surge of mental energy.
Familiar.
Legilimency.
Dumbledore's own mastery was among the greatest alive.
Yet even he was shaken by the sheer range and precision of Morin's power.
Such scale.
Such control.
No wonder he'd claimed instant detection.
What kind of study produced this?
Morin ignored their reactions.
He'd already found the troll.
And mapped every secret passage along the way.
"Second floor," he said calmly. "Heading for the girls' bathroom."
"The good news: the hallway is empty."
"The bad news: someone will arrive soon."
"The other good news: I can resolve it from here."
"So there's no bad news."
"...."
Silence.
Nothing happened.
And yet-
It was over.
"I lowered the troll's intelligence slightly," Morin explained. "And added a few suggestions."
"Like an urge to hit itself in the head with its own club."
Everyone gasped.
That was horrifying.
"But magic isn't good or evil," Morin continued. "The user decides."
"I would never use this on a good person."
"And since everyone here is a Hogwarts professor-even with certain quirks-you couldn't possibly be evil."
He smiled.
Eyes drifted.
To Quirrell.
Morin's gaze never wavered.
Quirrell might as well have been under a spotlight.
"...P-professor," Quirrell stammered. "Why... are you... staring... at me?"
"Oh, I'm not staring at you," Morin said lightly.
"I'm looking at what's behind you."
"It's quite interesting, isn't it?"
When they reached the second floor, the troll lay unconscious.
Twelve feet tall.
Granite-gray skin.
A massive, clumsy body.
The stench alone made one gag.
A wooden club lay beside its head.
Bloodstained.
Dented.
Perfectly aligned with the wound on its forehead.
The troll had knocked itself out.
With its own weapon.
Truly.
"I killed myself."
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