CHAPTER FOUR

The Troll

After Harry carefully stowed his Nimbus 2000 in the Slytherin common room, he stepped back into the hallways of Hogwarts. The corridors hummed with the subdued chatter of students, their voices echoing faintly against the ancient stone walls. Determined to find Daphne, Ron, or Hermione, Harry began weaving his way through the castle. He whispered questions about Quidditch to Tom as he walked, hoping for some insight into the sport. However, Tom's reply was dismissive, tinged with disdain. 'I have no use for Quidditch,' Tom said coolly, in Harry's mind.

Harry sighed. Realizing he would need to educate himself; he headed straight for the library. The vast room, with its towering shelves of worn tomes and the faint scent of parchment, was comforting in its quiet. Harry immersed himself in learning about Quidditch: the positions, the rules, the game's strategies. The golden position of Seeker, his own, caught his particular attention. He read about legendary Seekers who changed the tide of matches with daring dives and brilliant catches, making mental notes until the light filtering through the high windows began to dim.

The next day, lessons passed in a blur of parchment rustling and professors' droning voices. After their final class, Daphne approached Harry with a curious glint in her eyes. "So, are you going to show me this room you mentioned?" she asked.

Panic fluttered in Harry's chest. He hadn't thought Daphne would ask so soon. "The room," he repeated, trying to buy time. Before doubt could settle, Tom's voice slipped into his thoughts, smooth and confident. 'There's a room on the seventh floor that can become anything you need. Tell her that.'

"There's a room on the seventh floor," Harry said, the words feeling almost automatic. "It's said to change to fit the needs of whoever enters."

Daphne's eyes widened with curiosity. "Show me," she demanded, the edge of excitement unmistakable in her voice.

Harry led the way, winding through the labyrinthine corridors until they reached the seventh floor. Following Tom's whispered instructions, Harry paced back and forth three times in front of a blank stretch of wall, focusing on the desire for a room where they could practice spells. His heart thudded as a door materialized, ornate and ancient, embedded into the stone.

He pushed it open, revealing a room that exceeded even his expectations. Shelves of ancient spell books lined one side, the covers crackled and aged with time. A dueling mat sprawled across the center, its markings gleaming faintly under the soft glow of candlelight. In the corner, a potion station stood with vials and ingredients neatly arranged, ready for any concoction they might need.

Daphne stepped inside, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. "Wow," she breathed, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.

"This is it," Harry said, trying to sound casual. "Where I've been practicing."

Daphne's gaze flicked to him, impressed. "It's incredible. How many of these books have you gone through?" she asked, nodding toward the dusty tomes.

A lie came easily to Harry, a subtle nudge from Tom helping it form. "I'm not sure. Quite a few," he said.

Daphne accepted the answer with a nod, a hint of admiration in her expression. "When can we start?" she asked, a spark of determination lighting her eyes.

Harry's own determination mirrored hers. "How about now?"

Two months had passed at Hogwarts, and Harry wasn't sure whether it was due to the rigorous practice sessions with Daphne or the countless hours spent helping Hermione and Ron with their assignments during their study sessions in the library, but he had gained a reputation among the professors as an exceptionally talented student. Even the notoriously critical Professor Snape had to acknowledge Harry's talent, albeit begrudgingly. Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, openly praised Harry, often remarking on how he was a natural at Transfiguration, executing complex spells with remarkable ease. This progress was largely due to the subtle assistance and insight provided by Tom, whose voice offered guidance from the recesses of Harry's mind.

Hermione, despite the tension between her and Ron, continued to study alongside Harry and Daphne, and the trio had grown closer over time. However, the strain between Hermione and Ron showed no signs of easing. Ron's pride and stubbornness created a chasm that neither seemed willing to bridge. The situation came to a boiling point during a Charms lesson when Professor Flitwick was teaching them the Levitation Charm.

Harry performed the charm with ease, earning a beaming smile and praise from Professor Flitwick. Hermione, who had mastered the spell herself, noticed Ron struggling and leaned over to offer him advice.

"You're pronouncing it wrong, Ron," Hermione said earnestly. "It's Levi-O-sa, not Levio-SA."

Ron's ears turned red with irritation. "If you think you're so smart, why don't you just do it yourself?" he snapped.

With a determined expression, Hermione performed the spell flawlessly, causing her feather to rise gracefully into the air. Professor Flitwick's eyes lit up with pride. "Excellent work, Miss Granger! Ten points to Gryffindor."

Ron muttered to Harry as the class ended and students began to gather their things. "She's such a know-it-all. That's why she doesn't have more friends."

Harry's eyes widened as he noticed Hermione, who had been walking with Daphne, halt abruptly. Her face fell, and without a word, she turned and ran out of the classroom, eyes glistening with tears. Daphne's expression darkened as she glared at Ron.

"You pompous idiot," she said icily. "She was only trying to help you." Without waiting for a response, she hurried after Hermione.

Harry turned to Ron, feeling a pang of disappointment. "That was too harsh, mate."

Ron's defiant expression faltered, replaced by a look of discomfort. He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but it was clear he regretted his words.

Hermione did not show up for the following lessons, her seat at the front of the class conspicuously empty. Harry's mind kept wandering to where she might be, guilt gnawing at him as the hours dragged on. The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of boring lectures and distracted thoughts.

When lessons were finally over, Harry and Ron stepped out into the crisp autumn air. The leaves on the Hogwarts grounds crunched underfoot, their brilliant shades of orange and red glowing in the late afternoon sun. He spotted Daphne waiting by the stone path leading to the Great Hall. Her expression was steely as her eyes landed on Ron, who lingered nearby, clearly unsure whether to approach.

The moment Ron caught Daphne's gaze—a look of irritation so sharp it could have cut glass—he paled. His mouth opened as if to say something, but no words came. Instead, he mumbled, "I, um… I need to grab something from the common room," before darting away, his ears burning red.

Harry sighed and turned to Daphne, who crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

"You know," she said, her voice low and pointed, "your friend Ron can be really mean sometimes, Harry. I just spent the better part of the afternoon trying to convince Hermione that he's just an idiot—that he didn't mean what he said. But she wouldn't listen. She's still in the bathroom, crying."

Harry's chest tightened with guilt. Even before he could respond, a familiar, insidious voice whispered in his mind.

'The Weasley boy is inadequate, Harry. He lashes out because he knows his worth is limited. You could do better for friends,' Tom murmured, his voice smooth and cold as silk.

"No," Harry whispered back so quietly that only he could hear. "I don't turn my back on friends."

Tom's presence retreated, grumbling in dissatisfaction.

"I'll talk to him," Harry promised Daphne, who looked at him with reluctant acceptance. Her dark eyes softened for a moment before she nodded.

"Fine. But if he hurts her again, he will be dealing with me," she said, her tone fierce.

They walked together toward the Great Hall, where the warmth and noise of the Halloween feast spilled out through the grand entrance. The scent of roasted pumpkin and spiced cider drifted in the air, mingling with the sound of laughter and chatter. But for Harry, the festive atmosphere was hollow—a reminder of what he needed to set right.

Harry and Daphne entered the Great Hall and made their way to the Slytherin table. The room was a spectacle of enchantment, adorned with a thousand live bats that flapped around in dark clouds, occasionally swooping low over the golden plates and goblets. The tables groaned under the weight of lavish dishes: roasted meats, sparkling pumpkin juice, and delicacies piled high. The golden plates gleamed as Harry scooped servings of rich food, the warm, spiced aromas momentarily pushing away the worries that had plagued him earlier. Daphne joined him, and they discussed the decorations, their conversation light and filled with observations about the magical atmosphere.

Their chatter was interrupted when Professor Quirrell burst through the double doors of the Great Hall, his turban askew and his eyes wide with terror. The hall fell silent as he stumbled forward, gasping, "Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know," before collapsing in a heap. For a moment, the students sat frozen, absorbing the information. The silence shattered into chaos as the panic set in, voices rising in frightened confusion.

Dumbledore's amplified voice rang out, commanding instant attention. "Silence! Prefects, lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!" The teachers moved with urgency, some heading toward the dungeons while others stayed behind to organize the students.

Amidst the rising commotion, Harry's eyes darted to Daphne, remembering her words about Hermione still being in the bathroom. Their eyes locked, a silent agreement passing between them. Without a second thought, they slipped from the Slytherin table, weaving through the mass of students.

As they reached the doors, a voice called out from behind. "Where are you going?" It was Ron, his face pale but determined.

"Cleaning up your mess," Daphne snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut through the clamor. "Hermione's in the girls' bathroom, and she doesn't know about the troll."

Ron's eyes widened in realization, a deep flush of shame rising to his cheeks. "I'm—I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Tell her that," Daphne shot back as she pushed past him. Harry grabbed Ron's arm and pulled him along. "Come on, we don't have time."

The three of them raced through the castle, the echo of their hurried footsteps bouncing off the cold stone walls. They stopped short only once, ducking behind a tapestry when Snape swept by, his robes billowing behind him as he moved with purpose toward the third floor. Harry's mind raced, wondering what business Snape had that could be more pressing than a troll in the castle. He forced the thought away; they had more urgent matters.

Finally, they reached the door to the girls' bathroom. Daphne pushed it open, and they found Hermione standing by the sink, her face red and eyes puffy. The surprise on her face was immediate.

"Harry? Ron? Daphne? This is the girl's bathroom. What—what are you doing here?" she stammered, wiping at her eyes.

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, a deep, rumbling sound filled the corridor. The heavy door they had just entered shuddered as a massive force crashed against it. Wood splintered, and with a final, deafening crack, the door was torn from its hinges. The troll lumbered in, its dull eyes focusing on the room's occupants. It stood hunched, its thick skin a mottled gray, a stench so foul that the sewers would have seemed fragrant by comparison. The crude wooden club it carried scraped against the stone floor as it moved, its eyes narrowing at Hermione's scream.

Harry, Daphne, and Ron stood frozen for a split second, wands in hand, as the hulking mountain of a troll glared down at them with small, beady eyes. The stench it brought with it was nearly overpowering, a rancid combination of old sweat and rotting meat that made the trio gag. Ron's hand shook, eyes wide with fear as he stood paralyzed. Daphne's eyes darted to Harry, searching for a plan, for any indication of what to do.

Harry's mind raced, his heart pounding in his chest. Memories surged within him, a flood of incantations and defensive strategies seeping through from Tom's endless repertoire. Without hesitation, Harry's focus sharpened, and he drew on the spells with silent precision.

"Confringo," he thought, the spell launching from his wand in a burst of searing orange light. The blast struck the troll's thick, grey skin, sending up an acrid cloud of smoke as a burn mark appeared on its chest. The troll staggered backward, letting out a low, guttural roar that vibrated through the stone walls.

"Bombarda!" Harry followed up, the air crackling as the explosive spell connected with the troll's arm. The creature bellowed in fury, dark blood beginning to trickle from the deep, smoldering wound. The troll's eyes zeroed in on Harry, filled with rage and pain, and with surprising speed, it charged.

Harry conjured a shield and felt the shimmer of magic solidify just in time. The troll's club smashed into the barrier, sending a tremor through Harry's arm and causing a cold sweat to break out on his brow. The strain was noticeable but bearable—a sign of his growing power, yet not without cost.

"Harry, it's coming again!" Daphne shouted, her voice steady despite the urgency. She raised her wand, hurling a volley of stunning spells that only seemed to agitate the troll further.

Harry clenched his jaw, drawing on Tom's knowledge once more. He began to conjure objects rapidly—random objects such as wooden tables and chairs appeared midair and hurled themselves at the troll, smashing into its grotesque form. The impact was enough to disorient it but lacked the force to truly injure.

'Finish it, Harry,' Tom's voice whispered darkly within his mind, cold and insistent. Harry ignored the voice's urging, a steely determination filling him.

"No," Harry thought, and instead, he raised his wand high. "Incarcerous!" Thick, iron-like chains erupted from the tip of his wand, slithering through the air and wrapping around the troll's limbs with a metallic clang. The beast's eyes widened in confusion as it crashed to the floor, the ground quaking beneath its weight. It thrashed against the magical bindings, roaring in frustration as the chains strained under the pressure.

"Stop moving, you ugly beast," Harry muttered, sweat trickling down his temples.

Ron, who had been rooted to the spot, finally blinked as if waking from a trance. He stepped forward, fear giving way to resolve as he raised his wand and shouted, "Wingardium Leviosa!" The troll's club lifted from the ground and hovered momentarily before Ron guided it down with a swift motion. It struck the troll's head with a sickening thud. The troll's eyes rolled back, and it slumped, unconscious and still.

Harry exhaled in relief, the tension in his muscles releasing. "Good job, Ron," he said, his voice steady but laced with exhaustion.

Daphne crossed over to Hermione, who was still sitting in stunned silence on the cold, tiled floor. "Are you okay?" Daphne asked, her voice softer now, eyes scanning Hermione's face for any signs of injury.

Hermione nodded slowly, her eyes glistening as she took in the scene. "I—I'm fine, I'll live, how did a troll find its way into the school?" she whispered, though her voice quivered.

Ron walked over, cheeks flushed and eyes downcast. "Hermione," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said earlier. You were just trying to help, and I was being…" His voice trailed off as he rubbed the back of his neck, guilt evident in his posture.

Hermione's expression softened, and a small smile played at her lips. "Thank you, Ron. I appreciate that."

Before they could bask in their shared relief, the heavy thud of hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor. The door to the bathroom swung open, and Professor McGonagall, Snape, and a pale, trembling Quirrell rushed in. The trio of teachers took in the scene: the bound, unconscious troll, the debris-strewn floor, and four disheveled students standing amidst the chaos.

Professor McGonagall's sharp eyes narrowed. "Would anyone care to explain?" she demanded, voice as stern as ever.

Harry swallowed hard and exchanged a glance with his friends. This was going to be complicated.