"Oleum!"
Hermione raised her wand with determination, and from its tip burst a thick stream of black oil that quickly spread across the stone floor—right in front of the troll.
The creature, enraged and clumsy, didn't notice. It only saw its enemies. It only wanted to crush them.
It took a step… and slipped.
It crashed to its knees with a dull roar.
It tried to stand.
Slipped again.
It growled furiously, slamming the floor with its club—but every attempt to rise only made it fall once more.
Its roars grew increasingly desperate.
More furious.
"Now, Draco!" Nathael said, unmoving.
Draco didn't hesitate.
"Aguamenti!"
A powerful jet of water shot from his wand, aimed straight at the troll's head. The creature snorted and thrashed as water filled its nostrils, but the stream didn't stop.
But it wasn't easy.
The troll writhed, twisted, shook its head. Draco had to maintain focus, adjust the angle, keep the stream from scattering.
"It's harder than I thought," he muttered, face taut.
Hermione didn't leave him alone.
"I'll help!"
She raised her wand.
"Aguamenti!"
A second jet joined the first. More water. More pressure.
Yet still, the troll resisted.
"Aim lower!" Hermione said. "At its nose!"
"Not above!" Draco countered. "It's lifting its head!"
"Right!"
"Left!"
"Harder!"
They began to coordinate like a team.
Draco controlled the flow. Hermione steered the direction.
One covered while the other caught their breath.
The other held the spell while the first recovered.
Minutes passed.
The troll no longer roared. It only gasped.
Its movements slowed.
Then became spasmodic.
And finally…
It collapsed sideways, unconscious, water still flowing over its gray face.
Silence.
Hermione and Draco lowered their wands—exhausted, sweating, but eyes gleaming with triumph.
Nathael smiled.
"You passed the exam."
But before they could celebrate, rapid footsteps echoed from the corridor.
All four turned.
It was Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.
They ran as if hell itself chased them—robes disheveled, wands in hand.
They skidded to a halt at the scene: the fallen troll, pools of oil and water, and Nathael, Celestia, Draco, and Hermione standing calmly, as if they'd just finished an ordinary lesson.
"Mr. Potter," Nathael said with a gentle smile. "Mr. Weasley. What are you doing here?"
Harry and Ron exchanged glances, breathless.
"We came… to find Hermione," Ron panted. "We heard there was a troll in the dungeons…"
"And someone said you might be here," Harry added.
Hermione looked at them, surprised.
"You came… to find me?"
"Of course!" Ron said. "We weren't going to let a troll turn you into… into troll paste!"
Harry nodded.
"That's what friends are for."
Hermione smiled—a small, but genuine smile.
"Thank you."
Nathael said nothing.
Celestia remained silent, too—but subtly tapped Draco's ankle with her hind paw.
He understood.
He bit his tongue.
Because though he wanted to sneer—to say Gryffindors were reckless, that Potter only sought glory, that Weasley couldn't even cast a decent spell—he stayed quiet.
Because what he'd just witnessed… wasn't glory.
It was loyalty.
And from his time with Celestia these past weeks, he'd learned that loyalty meant more than anything—more than power, more than blood. It meant trusting someone with your life.
Arms crossed, Draco simply watched as Harry and Ron helped Hermione walk.
Nathael and Celestia exchanged a glance.
"Today was a good day," she murmured.
"Yes," he said. "They learned more than magic."
But before Harry, Ron, and Hermione could take another step, more footsteps sounded.
Fast. Firm. Authoritative.
From the corridor's shadows emerged three figures: Professor McGonagall, her face sterner than ever; Professor Snape, eyes narrowed with suspicion and curiosity; and Professor Quirrell, softly stuttering, hands trembling, his gaze fixed on Nathael.
"What is this?" McGonagall demanded, her voice icy. "What are students doing in the dungeons? And a troll—defeated?"
Her eyes locked onto Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
"We know you shouldn't be here," Snape said, voice dangerously smooth. "But you… why?"
Before anyone could answer, Nathael stepped forward.
"My two students," he said, gesturing to Hermione and Draco, "were with me.
We were conducting a practical Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson."
McGonagall frowned.
"A lesson? With a live troll? In the dungeons?"
"Everything was under control," Nathael said calmly. "No one was in danger."
"You don't put students at risk for a class!" McGonagall snapped—though her tone had lost some of its edge.
"It wasn't a risk," Nathael said. "It was an exam."
Quirrell remained silent, his nervous eyes studying Nathael as if seeing something beyond his words.
McGonagall sighed.
"Please… report this to Professor Dumbledore."
"Of course," Nathael said, nodding. "That's only proper."
He turned to Draco, Celestia, and Hermione.
"Let's go."
Relieved he wasn't implicated, Draco nodded and hurried off toward the Slytherin common room.
Hermione, however, stayed. She looked at Harry and Ron, whose faces already bore the weight of McGonagall's stare. Without a word, she stepped to their side.
Nathael and Celestia watched—and understood.
"Good luck," Celestia murmured.
They walked the castle corridors in silence until they reached the stone gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office.
"Cockroach Cluster," Nathael said.
The gargoyle sprang open.
They ascended the moving staircase as the wall torches flickered, as if watching their every step.
At the top, Dumbledore's office door was closed.
Nathael knocked softly.
"Come in," said a warm voice from within.
Nathael and Celestia entered.