The Slytherins make their way out of the Great Hall.

"Alright," Gemma says, turning to face her charges. "Who here is good at confronting trolls?"

Nobody raises their hand.

"Good," she says. "Because if there's one thing you don't want to do, it's feed the trolls."

"Not like there's anything here to eat," a voice behind her says. "Because you already ate it!"

Gemma slowly turns around and sees the ugliest thing ever.

She sees you?

Sorting Hat, what the heck? What are you doing here?

I do what I want.

And you want to be here?

I can go anywhere in Hogwarts. Which means either I hang out with the ghosts, I go into the Great Hall and watch everybody bumble over themselves, especially Slagathor who now has to make sure the Ravenclaws don't do something stupid instead of making out with her boyfriend, I sit on a shelf in Dumbledore's office watching his knickknacks be all kinds of annoying, or I go where the plot is.

That makes sense.

Yeah, I'm kind of making the best of a really, really crappy situation.

Right, okay. Well can we get back to the plot?

Can I narrate it instead?

No.

Please?

No.

Please?

No.

Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

No.

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

I said no!

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

NO!

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

ALRIGHT, FINE! YOU CAN FUCKING NARRATE JUST SHUT UP!

eeeeeeease. Oh why thank you.

Whatever.

Anyway, the troll, who is pretty obviously just the author inserting himself into the story like a douche–

Hey!

Am I wrong?

...go on.

So like a douche, the author inserts himself into the story as a troll, but since he doesn't want to murder anybody–YET–well, you know, aside from the obvious candidate–he's just basically an internet troll, only crappier, since at least internet trolls are entertaining.

Not really.

Oh like you have any room to judge. This entire fic is evidence of how completely and utterly uninteresting you are.

Are you showing up just to insult me?

Yes, he is.

Who the hell are you?

You'll find out in...actually, I'm gonna pop back and edit in the actual number of chapters it takes after I first show up. For now, let's just say it's 20 chapters and leave it at that.

What.

I mean, that was no less inexplicable than any of the other horrible, horrible plotting and writing and editorial choices you've made throughout this story.

Shut up.

That was another character who can break the fourth wall, wasn't it? Ooh, I wonder who it is! Maybe we can become friends!

Look, you wanted to narrate the story, NARRATE THE FUCKING STORY!

This seems like a sore spot for you. Don't you like criticism?

GET ON WITH IT!

Wow, touchy. So where were we...oh yeah. Troll in the dungeons, approaching the Slytherins, just insulted what's-her-face...

"She just ate it?" Greg asks, confused. "What did she eat?"

"EVERYTHING!" the troll declares. "Because she's FAT!"

Greg and Vince laugh stupidly.

"Wait, where's Draco?" Vince asks.

"I think he's still inside the food place," Greg says.

"How come we're not at the food place?" Vince asks.

Greg frowns. "I'm still hungry."

"So am I, Greg," Vince agrees.

"We should go back into the food place."

"But didn't we get thrown out of the food place?"

"Why'd they throw us out, Vince?"

"So tell me," the troll interrupts, looking at the rest of the Slytherins. "Is everyone else here this stupid, or are they mild exaggerations?"

"We're not stupid!" one of the unnamed Slytherins pipes up.

The name's Harold, actually. Harold Parhig. Third-year, talented at Arithmancy and Divination, despite the reputation those subjects have for being oppositional. Likely to blossom into a seer, very good at math, and absolutely hates the less focused subjects like Transfiguration, Charms, or History. I thought about putting him in Ravenclaw, actually, but he's not interested in learning for its own sake so much as what can be done with it–which is partly why he's so motivated to succeed in those two subjects.

"Oh, aren't you?" the troll asks, snickering. "Then what's 666?"

Harold blinks. "What?"

"It's twice 33, of course," the troll explains. "And 33 is pi. Simple enough."

"That's not how it works!" another Slytherin interjects.

Rebecca Dakota, sixth-year, mostly average, rather poor at Transfiguration but surprisingly skilled at Charms. Never lives up to her full potential due to being distracted by her social life, and therefore not as good as she could be. A born politician, though; that's where she shines.

"Oh really?" the troll asks. "How about you explain."

"Well firstly, half of 666 is–"

"WRONG!" the troll interrupts.

"–what? No, you didn't let me finish, it's–"

"WRONG!"

"WOULD YOU SHUT UP!" another Slytherin...

...

What?

I thought you were telling us what each of the Slytherins were named, what they're good at, blah blah blah.

I could do that. Or I could ignore it and just get on with the plot. After all, we're never going to see any of these very, very unoriginal characters again.

...thanks for that insult, Seymour.

You're welcome.

"WOULD YOU SHUT UP!" another Slytherin yells angrily.

"Make me," the troll shoots back.

Alright, fine. The Slytherin you're referring to is Spike Rumfellow. And yes, he is a teetotaler. Also, really, REALLY good at Potions and Astronomy, and one of the finest students in his year overall.

At this point, Snape arrives, robes billowing not as dramatically as they should. He strides up to...strides? Is that the right word?

It's the right word.

It looks wrong. Anyway, Snape arrives, marching up to–yes, marching is better than strides. Miles better. He pulls a mallet out of his pocket, and the troll looks at him, unimpressed.

"A mallet? Really?" the troll sneers. "No wand?"

Snape sneers back. "This isn't just any mallet. It's a hammer."

The troll snorts. "You can't hurt me with a hammer, fool!"

"What about a banhammer?" Snape asks.

The troll looks a bit worried. "That's not a banhammer."

Snape rushes at the troll. The troll puts its hands up to protect itself, but it's too late–Snape's banhammer comes down on his head. The troll goes down, and goes down hard. Snape glares down at its prone form.

"You mad, bro?" Snape asks angrily.