HALLOWE'EN

QUIRINIUS / HERMIONE

THUMP

THUMP

THUMP

For every step the great mountain troll took, the creatures of the Forest floor scattered, the birds flew from their perches. Outreaching branches scratched at the troll's leathery skin, though it hardly noticed. It just kept plodding through the Forest until the strange man with the purple turban decided otherwise.

Quirrell remained a little ahead of the lumbering beast, leading it along with his wand. He spoke aloud, apparently to himself, as he walked.

'That Stone will be ours tonight, Master,' he said happily, over the crunching of browned leaves underfoot and the troll's mindless grunts.

I am not so certain, replied Voldemort, his high, cold voice channelling through Quirrell's mind. Quirrell's heart sank. Are you fool enough to have forgotten the protection surrounding it? You don't even know how to get past Hagrid's beast yet.

'I am working on it, Master –'

Work faster, hissed Voldemort. If the Stone is not mine by the end of the year, you will not see another year. Do you understand?

'Yes, Master,' said Quirrell, before turning his attention to the task in hand. They had reached the edge of the Forest. He ordered the troll to stop, using its language, and then performed a Disillusion Charm upon both the troll and himself. Beginning with its disproportionately small head, the troll slowly disappeared from view, as though a curtain was falling in front of it. Quirrell then used a Silencing Charm, for good measure.

'Forward,' he grunted in Troll. Though he could not see the beast, he could see its footprints forming one by one in the muddy lawns.

They passed Hagrid's empty hut and proceeded all the way through the oak front doors. Their footsteps across the Entrance Hall were completely lost in the raucous babble of the feast to their right.

Down the dungeon steps … along the cold corridor. Satisfied, Quirrell removed the charms on himself and the troll. Struck by an idea, he conjured a thick wooden club from thin air and handed it to the troll.

'Use it wisely,' Quirrell spoke in Troll, smirking. The troll gave a happy sort of grunt and wandered off, dragging the club along in its overly-long arm.

Hurry, said Voldemort.

But Quirrell was already sprinting back the way he came, wearing his best expression of shock and fear. He flew up the dungeon steps and burst into the Great Hall, not stopping until he reached the Head Table. The Hall fell silent. Every eye, teacher, student and ghost, was on him.

'Troll,' he gasped to a frowning Dumbledore. 'In the dungeon – Thought you ought to know.'

And he collapsed.

–––

In the first-floor girls' bathroom, Hermione was crying. The tears had been rolling ever since the end of Charms class, in which Ron had jabbed and jibed at her non-stop. There was nothing new in people not getting along with her and talking behind her back, but this had particularly hurt: she had realised then that she quite liked Ron. Which was absurd, because he clearly didn't like her.

Once the tears had started, they had been impossible to stop. Now that the wonder of Hogwarts had worn off, the brutal realisation that she had no friends had reduced her to being shut inside this dank cubicle all afternoon. What was more, she was homesick. She had never gone a month without seeing her parents, and she missed them both terribly. What wouldn't she give to have her father's arms around her now, to see her mother's beaming smile –

The cubicle door swung open and a shriek of surprise rang around the bathroom walls.

'Oh, Hermione,' gasped Parvati, upon recognising her. 'What are you – Are you OK?'

'I'm fine,' said Hermione thickly, hastily wiping her eyes.

But Parvati put her hand on Hermione's shoulder, tutting with pity.

'What happened? Should I get a teacher –?'

'I said I'm fine,' said Hermione angrily, shrugging off Parvati's hand. Parvati looked taken aback, and Hermione regretted it at once. In softer tones, she said, 'I'm sorry, Parvati. I just want to be left alone.'

'OK …' Parvati nodded, hesitated, then left.

The moment the door closed, Hermione burst into sobs again. Ron's last words were ringing in her ears.

It's no wonder no one can stand her … she's a nightmare, honestly.

He had been right, of course. The encounter with Parvati proved it. How could she expect to make friends when she snapped at girls she shared a dormitory with?

An awful smell brought her back to her senses. There was shuffling outside again. Not wanting a repeat of her last conversation, Hermione choked back her last tears, wiped her face again and stepped out the cubicle.

It was her turn to scream. The noise escaped her the moment she set eyes on the towering, hulking, stinking figure of what she recognised immediately as a mountain troll.

–––

'Up you get, Quirinius. That's it.'

Quirrell feigned giddiness and straightened up, finding the face of Albus Dumbledore. He had 'fainted' for less than five minutes, yet the Great Hall had been completely evacuated already.

'Headm-master,' Quirrell stammered. 'Thank you. I mean, sorry. The shock, you know.'

'Of course, of course,' said Dumbledore kindly, guiding Quirrell along the tables and through the front doors. 'I think a trip to the hospital wing is in order. I can assist you –'

'Oh, no, I can m-make it myself, Headmaster. Thank you.'

He could sense Voldemort's impatience. Time was running out.

Once out of Dumbledore's sight, Quirrell sprinted up a secret staircase, which took him to the third-floor corridor. His heart pounded as he marched along it, eyes fixed on the locked door at the end.

'Alohomora,' he muttered, and the lock clicked. He creaked the door open and gave a gasp of horror.

The dog was awake. Six yellow eyes fixed on him and narrowed. Their growls rumbled through Quirrell's whole body, shortening his breath.

He stepped inside the room, never taking his eyes off the three-headed dog. In his peripheral vision he could see the trapdoor, which was unguarded. The luck, it seemed, was on his side. He drew his wand, preparing to curse.

'Quirrell!'

That hiss could only belong to one person. Sure enough, Quirrell spun around to find Snape at the door. There was loathing in every line of his sallow face.

'S-Severus,' stammered Quirrell, his brain working furiously. 'I was just – I feared the troll had escaped from the chambers –'

But Snape grabbed the back of Quirrell robes and pulled him out the way. The three-headed dog began barking, a cacophony of harsh cries.

'Get out of here, you fool, the troll's still downstairs – ARGH!'

Snape's inattentiveness to the dog had cost him dearly. The middle head had darted forward and snapped its teeth at Snape, who didn't move quickly enough. The teeth had torn through his robe and carved a nasty gash in his leg.

Clenching his teeth, Snape limped out the room and slammed the door on the dog's incessant barking.

'S-Severus – goodness,' whispered Quirrell, his eyes widening at the sight of Snape's injured leg.

'Never mind that!' spat Snape. 'What on earth were you doing up here? Come with me, now!'

Snape led the way downstairs, limping as he ran. They followed the distant crashing noises from somewhere on the first floor. They joined McGonagall along the first-floor corridor and burst into the girls' bathroom.