Solara Lovegood and the Shadow of the Dragon
Chapter XIV: The Pale-Haired Strangler
"Sirius Black… Mordred Blackthorn… Fenwick Blunderbore," Solara muttered under her breath, scanning the list of currently held prisoners in Azkaban as she slurped her chicken soup during the Hallowe'en feast. While her stomach still churned slightly at the thought of food—the impressive array of confectionary treats laid before her doing little to help—she fared much better at keeping it down than she had the night before.
She was certain someone had slipped something unpleasant into her meal earlier in the week, with Malfoy and/or Parkinson being the most likely culprits.
"Bastards," she grumbled, her grip tightening on the book before her. But without proof, she couldn't accuse them outright—even though both had stared at her a little too intently when she had eaten her porridge during Tuesday's breaking of fast. Upon further reflection, she suspected it had been a failed attempt to sabotage her performance on their Defense Against the Dark Arts quiz. If that had been the plan, it had backfired spectacularly. Even in the throes of pain and the constant need to visit the girls' lavatory, she had found the test pathetically easy.
Despite the embarrassment, she had managed to score perfectly, while Draco and Parkinson had barely scraped by with adequate marks. A faint smirk tugged at her lips as she recalled the moment the professor had returned their scores. The disappointment and shame on their faces had pleased her greatly—so much so that their counter-jeers of "Solara Sewerage" had done little to mar her satisfaction. If anything, their failed attempt at humiliation had only earned her a handful of promising first-year half-blood prospects—ones she resolved to investigate further in due time.
Not to mention, there had been the incident with Goyle that same night—one that had sent a clear message.
The brute had loomed over her in the common room, all bluster and empty bravado, clearly thinking sheer size would be enough to cow her, as Malfoy egged him on. Even in her weakened state, her mind had been sharper than his would ever be. The moment he reached for her, she had feinted to the side, sending him off balance, and the instant he was within reach—crack—her knee shot up with precision. The sickening thud of impact echoed through the room as Goyle's face twisted in silent agony, his hands immediately clutching his most vulnerable region as his knees buckled.
He crumpled like a felled tree, wheezing and choking on his own breath. Crabbe, too slow to process what had happened, had barely lifted his arm before she flicked her wand, sending him careening into an armchair. A few more well-placed hexes had ensured that Malfoy, Parkinson, and Bulstrode all ended up in the hospital wing by the end of the night.
By the next day, the fervor had died down, though Professor Snape had disciplined them all behind closed doors. Not that it had mattered. She had made her point and they had taken note.
A faint smirk tugged at her lips as she took another sip of her soup, the warmth grounding her as she continued down the list. Her brow furrowed in thought as she committed the more notable names to memory—of which she found Lestrange featured quite prominently.
"Bellatrix Lestrange… Rabastan Lestrange… Rodolphus Lestrange. Hmm. Quite the family," she murmured, fully aware of their pureblood lineage and unwavering allegiance to Voldemort.
She flipped to the index of Azkaban's Most Notorious, searching for the exact list of crimes that had landed the Lestranges in prison, when hurried footsteps echoed against the stone floor, breaking her focus.
"Hullo, Ms. Solara, may we sit with you?"
A pale, sickly-looking boy with dark brown eyes and black hair asked hesitantly. Anton Grangle sniffled as he spoke, his short, wiry frame making him appear smaller than he truly was. He was bullied just as much for his half-blood status as for his timid nature—a smaller, more fragile version of Neville Longbottom, Solara realized. But unlike Neville, Anton lacked the support framework of Gryffindor, where even mild teasing was softened by the camaraderie of his house.
Standing beside him was the taller Jane Nockhull, another half-blood. Her piercing blue eyes and light brown curls, streaked with hints of red, gave her a distinct look, though she was often dismissed as dim-witted—mocked for her lack of intelligence and for lacking the imposing bulk of Bulstrode to ward off harassment. However, Solara had noticed something the others hadn't: Jane wasn't dim-witted, not truly. She was observant in her own way, perceptive in social matters, with a keen awareness of how people maneuvered around each other. She wasn't book-smart, but she wasn't a fool.
And lastly, the smallest and most dangerous of them, Delylah Alcedine. A bespectacled girl of fierce intelligence—though no rival to her or Granger—she was still sharp enough to pose a moderate challenge. Her skin was the shade of watered-down tea, her eyes sharp, wary, and ever-calculating. Even now, as she held her books to her chest, Solara could see her analyzing the entire Slytherin table, as if expecting hexes and jinxes at any moment.
These three were among the nine half-bloods who had sought her protection once she had made her position clear: she rejected the pureblood hierarchy that dictated Slytherin's social order. She had neither feared it nor respected it—a bold stance that had earned her no shortage of enemies, but also a surprising number of allies within her own house. While seven was a small number, she could see the cracks forming in the deep-rooted foundations of her house, could see the other, older half-bloods stealing glances at her, waiting for something—anything—to tip them to her side.
She saw potential. She saw soldiers.
"For cracks in the earth hint at the birth of a mountain," her father— from the life before— would always say.
"You may," Solara gestured regally to the empty seats near her, all of which were immediately set upon by the three as they shoved each other in a frantic attempt to sit closest to her, with Grangle being the first to be unceremoniously pushed away.
A part of her basked at the infighting of her future subjects and their need to be near her, but another found them somewhat wanting. They lacked the fire and composure of her closest Gryffindor companion, who—just as she suspected—was now staring daggers at her, a spark of suspicion flashing in her brown eyes. But more than that, she recognized that the apprehensive look was not aimed at the proximity her half-blood housemates held with her—no, it was directed at the book she held in her hand.
The very book Solara's parents had sent her after she requested more information about the prisoners of Azkaban, under the guise of better defending herself against practitioners of the Dark Arts.
She waved at Hermione with a knowing smile, only to receive a deeper frown in return. That was when, suddenly, her stomach twisted unpleasantly. The smirk slipped from her lips, and she rose gingerly.
"If you'll pardon me, I need to visit the lavatory," she addressed the three, before adding, "Keep my seat warm," to which the diminutive Ms. Alcedine happily complied with a quick scoot.
She did not trust herself to run—for her bowels felt far too precarious—so she hobbled as quickly and as gracefully as she could manage right out of the Great Hall.
"I should have just swallowed my pride and gone to Pomfrey for something to remedy this insalubrious condition," she grumbled, tiptoeing softly across the cold stone floors. Her muscles clenched with every cautious step, and she held her new book firmly against her backside, shielding herself from any potential humiliation as she neared the girls' lavatory—her only salvation. "Why is the lavatory so bloody far from the gods-damned Great Hall!?"
It was then that she caught a horrid stench—so foul that, for the briefest of moments, she feared she had unwittingly soiled herself. A quick, panicked check assured her that she had not. Relief warred with lingering disgust as the putrid odor assaulted her senses. It did not seem to be coming from the lavatory itself, but rather from somewhere farther down the hall. A faint rustling sound accompanied it, but she cared not. Her bowels had no patience for curiosity—they demanded immediate attention.
Without hesitation, she rushed into the thankfully empty lavatory, secured a stall, and relieved herself as quickly and quietly as possible.
After what felt like a blissful eternity, the ordeal had passed. Now seated upon the stool, she used her book to waft air toward her face in a desperate attempt to dispel the lingering discomfort. Her free hand rested against her now-contented head, a deep sigh escaping her lips—until her nose wrinkled in disgust.
The air was not fresh.
With each waft, the revolting stench grew stronger, her stomach churning in protest. Her nostrils flared as she recognized the same foul odor she had detected outside. Only now, it had intensified tenfold.
Then she heard something.
Something heavy entered the room. The soft thud of padded—or perhaps heavily calloused—feet echoed against the tiled floor. A strangled gag caught in her throat as the smell overwhelmed her senses, thick and cloying, sinking into every breath she took.
Then came the footsteps—lumbering, deliberate, too heavy to be human.
"Gamekeeper? Is that you? You shouldn't be in here," she warned, her voice steady despite the unease creeping up her spine. If Hagrid had somehow wandered into the girls' lavatory, she was ready to curse him into the next century for his trespass.
But no response came.
Only a low, startled grunt.
And it sounded nothing like Hagrid.
Her eyes narrowed immediately, and she felt the old fire rise within her. A battle was upon her.
Quickly, she squatted low, peering beneath the stalls, her breath steadying as she assessed the threat. What she saw made her stomach clench. Two massive, gnarled feet—each with only two thick, cracked toenails—stood rooted near the entrance of the lavatory, along with what appeared to be the head of an enormous wooden club.
"Troll…" she murmured sharply, her mind racing.
Before she could process the situation further, a thunderous crash shattered the tense silence. The wooden stalls nearest the door exploded into splinters, debris flying over her stall as a great whooshing sound cut through the air. The troll's massive club smashed down near the front of the stalls, shattering the tiled floor and cracking the stone beneath, sending jagged fragments flying in every direction.
Instinct surged within her. She flung herself backward out of the stall, the force snapping the latch on the door as she tumbled free. Rolling across the cold tile, she barely had time to register her narrow escape before another strike obliterated the space she had occupied moments before. The sheer impact rattled the walls, dust and debris swirling through the air. The reek of the troll was overwhelming—thick, putrid, clinging to her like a second skin, and burning her nostrils with each breath. It was an assault on her senses, but she forced herself to push past it, to clear her mind and focus.
Cursing inwardly, she scrambled to her feet and withdrew her wand. The troll's beady eyes finally locked onto her, its slack-jawed expression shifting as dim recognition flickered across its brutish face. A guttural sound rumbled from its throat, and its muscles bunched beneath its thick, leathery hide as it raised its club once more, preparing to strike.
Solara flicked her wand sharply. "Confringo!"
A fiery explosion erupted against the beast's face, searing its coarse skin and sending it stumbling backward with a bellow of rage. It howled, swiping at its burning flesh with thick, clumsy fingers. But as the smoke cleared, Solara's stomach sank, her frown deepening. The creature's face was blackened, charred from the blast, but otherwise unharmed. Its beady eyes blinked through the soot, and with a shake of its massive head, it reared its club once more.
Its hide was nearly impervious, its movements slow but devastating. Bludgeoning attacks wouldn't bring it down fast enough, and fire spells, while powerful, were no guarantee—especially in such an enclosed space. The smoke and flames could just as easily impair her vision, leaving her vulnerable if her attack failed. She needed something stronger… something final.
Her grip on her wand tightened. The whisper of the Unforgivable—Avada Kedavra—rippled through her thoughts. She knew the incantation well, knew what it required. Immense power. Unshakable intent. The absolute will to end a life.
She did not question her ability to summon such intent—that was not the issue. What worried her was the physical limitations of her childish body. Could she summon the full power of the curse with her still-developing strength? She had learned the hard way how taxing advanced magic could be. Protego Totalum had nearly drained her before—how much worse would the Killing Curse be?
Another splintering crash wrenched her back to the present. The troll lunged, swinging its club in a reckless arc. She barely ducked in time, the air whipping violently past her as the weapon missed by mere inches, slamming into the tiles and sending shards flying.
Her decision was made.
"Not yet," she told herself, recognizing that exhaustion would be too great a risk—one she could not afford if she missed.
Instead, she roared, "Reducto!" aiming at the troll's club.
The spell struck true, shattering the primitive weapon into splinters. The troll froze mid-step, dull confusion flickering in its beady eyes as the remnants of its weapon clattered to the floor in pieces. For a brief moment, it simply stared, registering that it had been disarmed—then, with an enraged bellow, it roared and charged.
Solara remained poised, every muscle coiled with anticipation, her breath heavy. The troll's massive arms swung wildly, its fury unrestrained.
With lightning speed, she dashed sideways, narrowly avoiding its first wild swipe. She retaliated instantly, ducking beneath its next strike and raising her wand in a decisive movement. "Immobulus!" she commanded, her voice steady but fierce.
The troll's hulking body stiffened as the spell struck, freezing it in place—but only for a moment. A slight ripple resonated outward from where the magic hit, like water disturbed in a pond, before flattening. Then, with brute strength, the troll broke free, its muscles trembling from exertion. With a guttural snarl, it swung a massive fist straight at her.
"Protego!" she snarled back, her shield barely forming in time before the troll's punch connected.
The impact was tremendous. A deafening crack echoed through the lavatory as the magical barrier absorbed the brunt of the blow, but the sheer force hurled both her and the troll away from one another. Solara skidded across the cold, wet tiles, her back slamming against the unyielding stone wall. The troll stumbled in the opposite direction, crashing over the wreckage of shattered toilets and broken stalls.
Pain flared through her body, aching from the force of the impact. Her breaths came ragged, but she had no time to hesitate. She had no way out—only through.
Gathering her bearings an instant faster than the creature, she lifted her wand again, her voice a deadly whisper through gritted teeth. "Incarcerous."
Thick, dark ropes shot from the tip of her wand, snaking through the air before wrapping around the troll's massive, prone body with terrifying speed. The enchanted bonds constricted with unnatural force, binding its limbs and torso in a vice-like grip. The more the troll struggled, the tighter the ropes became, pressing into its thick hide with relentless pressure.
A fiery anger flared in the troll's dull eyes as it clawed at the restraints in a futile attempt to break free, but its awkward position on the floor made resistance ineffective. It bucked and thrashed, the ground trembling beneath its weight, yet the bindings refused to yield. Panic flickered across its brutish features as it realized its strength was useless against the magical bindings which ensnared it.
Solara's grip on her wand tightened, her magic pouring into the spell with unwavering resolve. The ropes burned hotter with friction, searing through leathery skin, leaving behind dark welts. The troll's snarls faltered into desperate, ragged wheezes. Its pupils shrank with fear, its mouth opening in a silent scream as its lungs fought for air.
Then came the moment Solara had been waiting for.
The troll's thrashing grew sluggish, its brute strength failing beneath the iron will crushing down upon it. A grim satisfaction settled in her chest as she clenched her free hand in tandem with the ever-tightening ropes, as if it were her own fingers strangling the life out of the monster.
She bared her teeth in a feral snarl, her voice a low, guttural rasp—no longer human.
"Die."
The friction between the ropes and the troll's thick skin produced a deep, sickening grinding sound. Its head rocked violently from side to side, its tendons straining against the unrelenting force. Solara could feel the creature's desperate struggle reverberating through her magic, the sheer power of its resistance fighting a losing battle against the crushing bindings.
With one final, horrifying jerk, the troll's head twisted at an unnatural angle, the friction nearly severing it—but not quite. A wet, shuddering wheeze escaped its gaping mouth before its massive body fell utterly still.
Solara exhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her heartbeat a deafening drum in her ears. The lavatory was deathly silent.
Then—footsteps.
A moment later, Hermione, Harry, and Ron burst into the room, their eyes widening in shock at the scene before them. They skidded to a halt, frozen in place as they took in the massive troll—bound, unmoving—its corpse still visibly being cut into by the ever-tightening ropes under Solara's control.
"You—you… killed it," Ron stammered, his voice filled with awe and no small measure of disbelief, the sharp crack of splintering bone startling him out of his stunned daze. "Blimey!" he yelped.
Solara's expression remained unreadable, her wand still raised as if she hadn't yet decided to lower it. Finally, she exhaled and dusted herself off with deliberate nonchalance. "It wasn't as hard as you'd think," she said flatly, before incanting, "Finite Incantatem." With a dispassionate flick of her wand, the ropes slithered away as though they had merely finished an inconvenient task.
Hermione's gaze flicked between the troll's limp form and Solara, her brows knitting together. "Are you—" She hesitated, something unreadable flashing in her eyes. Hermione Granger knew Solara better than most, and Solara suspected the Gryffindor knew she teetered on the edge—if she didn't, Solara would never have welcomed her into her confidence, let alone begun grooming her for command at her side.
Solara felt Hermione's deep brown eyes searching hers, the air between them thick with something unspoken. Then, in a softer, more uncertain tone, Hermione asked, "You're alright, though?"
Solara's silver eyes gleamed, still alight with lingering adrenaline. Her breath came in shallow bursts, her pulse quickening as the aftershocks of the confrontation reverberated through her. After a moment, she forced herself to steady. "I will be," she murmured, before turning away.
She strode back toward the shattered remains of the stall she had occupied earlier, carefully stepping over splintered wood and scattered masonry, her shoes splashing through the puddles of water that littered the lavatory floor. Kneeling down, she sifted through the debris, her fingers brushing against the familiar, worn cover of her now-drenched book. With a quiet sigh, she retrieved it, droplets sliding off the soaked pages as she straightened. Turning back to the others, she inhaled sharply, forcing her composure back into place, but not for long.
Her expression darkened, a different fire igniting in her gaze. "When I get answers as to how a troll managed to wander into this bloody castle!" she growled, shaking her wet book at them, her fury rekindling like a spark catching dry tinder.
Then, as if on cue, in some particularly ill-humored mummery, a hurried patter of footsteps echoed from outside the lavatory.
Before long, the small form of Anton Grangle peered through the doorway. "Here… she… is… Pro… fess… ors…" His squeaky voice trailed off, followed by a disgusted sniffle as he beheld the troll's lifeless carcass sprawled across the floor. The boy barely had time to process the grisly sight before his knees buckled, and he fainted outright, crumpling into the quick-moving arms of Professor Snape. The normally stoic wizard's face flickered with something resembling awkwardness before he levitated the unconscious boy off his arms, depositing him against the wall with all the care one might give a soiled rag.
Snape had been the first to arrive, followed closely by Professors McGonagall and Quirrell, along with the other two Slytherin first-years: Nockhull and Alcedine. Nockhull took one look at the scene and promptly gagged, doubling over as the stench overwhelmed her. Her long, light brown hair swung forward as she retched, heaving the contents of her stomach onto the floor in a vivid display that bore an unfortunate resemblance to the confections she recalled seeing spread across the dining tables in the Great Hall. Alcedine, by contrast, merely wrinkled her nose in distaste—both at the odor and at Nockhull's lack of composure—before adjusting her glasses with a slow, deliberate sneer.
Professor McGonagall's expression, however, was one of absolute worry. Her sharp eyes swept over the group, darting from one student to the next, silently demanding an explanation.
Finally, after a brief but heavy pause, she spoke, her voice firm yet laced with concern. "What happened here?"
The old witch's gaze locked onto Solara, unwavering now that the initial shock had seemingly passed and after she had judged Solara to be visibly uninjured.
"I could ask the same of the staff of Hogwarts, Professor," Solara shot back sharply, her mood still soured after being assailed in a place she had thought relatively safe.
"Curb your tone, Ms. Lovegood," her Head of House warned, his voice low and edged with steel.
"I will not, Professor," she retorted, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "I came to Hogwarts to learn, not to be attacked in the privy by a monster. How was this allowed?"
Her fingers tightened around her wand and the dampened book in her grasp as she struggled to keep her temper in check. Fury burned beneath her skin, but she knew better than to lose control. Confrontation was one thing—recklessness was another.
"I assure you, Ms. Lovegood," McGonagall said, her tone still gentle yet firm, despite Solara's anger. "We will investigate this matter with the utmost diligence."
"Yes… we shall…" Professor Snape drawled slowly, his dark eyes shifting toward the stammering Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Solara caught the flicker of something in Quirrell's gaze—something more alert than usual, his eyes almost studying her before he seemed to catch himself.
"Y-yy…esss, M-mmm…ssss..Love…good. Mmmm…ooostt…certainly," Quirrell assured her hastily, before turning away—but not before Snape's accusatory stare lingered a moment longer, unreadable yet unmistakably wary.
"Do you require anything, Ms. Lovegood? Do you wish to go to the Infirmary?" the Head of Gryffindor asked, placing a comforting hand upon her shoulder.
Somehow, the contact calmed her, and the tension in her shoulders melted away. "No thank you, Professor. I'm fine. But…" She glanced at the dead troll, then smirked. "Perhaps some house points for defeating a troll, and maybe a little school-wide recognition of my skill?"
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Hermione's jaw drop before it snapped shut, her arms crossing as she settled into a good-humored—if still mildly disgruntled—pout.
The Deputy Headmistress blinked, then let out a wry chuckle. "So be it, Ms. Lovegood. Fifty points to Slytherin for your skill and bravery against something that… quite frankly…" She shook her head in disbelief. "A fourth-year student would have found challenging."
Her lips quirked as she added, "And for the record, we're not the Daily Prophet—though I have no doubt word of your feat will spread quickly." She cast a knowing glance at the seven students gathered nearby, a spark of amusement dancing in her eyes.
"And ten points to my three Slytherin first-years for their presence of mind in leading us to your location, Ms. Lovegood," Professor Snape remarked, his sharp gaze shifting to the still-gagging girl, the bespectacled, tea-skinned girl, and the unconscious boy slumped to the side.
"And," McGonagall interjected, raising a finger, "another ten to the three of you," she gestured at the Gryffindor trio, "for coming to your friend's rescue."
A brief ripple of murmurs passed between Solara and the Gryffindor trio, while the three Slytherins remained otherwise occupied—one unconscious, one vomiting, and the third, the bespectacled girl, having ambled off to crouch near the dead troll. Adjusting her glasses, she prodded it experimentally with her wand.
"How many points is that?" Weasley whispered a little too loudly, prompting the Potions Master to roll his eyes in exasperation.
"Thirty, Ron," Potter replied, staring at his friend as if bewildered by a question involving the most basic of math.
"No, you git," Weasley snorted, giving Potter's shoulder a light tap. "I'm talking about the total. Who's winning right now?"
"Not Gryffindor," Solara smirked, holstering her wand before glancing at Hermione, whose expression had shifted from concern to a competitive gleam.
"For now," the bushy-haired girl warned, her grin widening. "But we're catching up."
"Are you?" Solara raised an eyebrow, her tone teasing yet edged with challenge.
Hermione chuckled lightly, clearly unfazed. "Just wait and see."
"Yeah, Quidditch season is coming up, and Har—" Weasley started before being abruptly cut off by his Head of House.
"Okay, that's enough dawdling," Professor McGonagall said briskly, motioning for them to leave the destroyed lavatory. "We need to get you all back to your respective common rooms."
"I'll clean up the mess, Professors," the Potions Master offered, his dark eyes flicking toward Solara with something unreadable. "See to your students—and take these three as well, Quirrell," he added with a flick of his fingers toward the three Slytherin first-years.
"And Ms. Lovegood?" McGonagall asked, a hint of curiosity in her voice.
"I wish to speak with her in private. Then I'll personally escort her to the Slytherin dormitories," Snape assured her, his tone curt and final.
"Very well, Severus," the old witch replied before she and the stuttering professor led the others away.
"That book," Snape said simply after several moments had passed and the footsteps of both professors and students had faded. His dark eyes dropped to her right hand, focusing on the object she held. "Why do you have it?"
"One moment, Professor," she replied, casting a quick glance out of the lavatory to confirm that the other professors were out of earshot. The action earned her a slight raise of an eyebrow from her Head of House. "Professor Quirrell's class lacks… substance. I wanted to read about Dark witches and wizards—their crimes—to perhaps better understand how to defend against such individuals."
"I see…" he murmured, his tone carrying clear skepticism. "Hold out the book." His voice brooked no argument.
Seeing no reason to refuse, she complied.
The professor waved his wand, and the book vibrated gently in her hands before a glob of water emerged from between its pages. It hovered in the air for a moment before Snape flicked his wand, dispersing it into nothingness. Blinking once, she took the book in both hands, cracked it open, and turned the now crisp pages of the bone-dry tome.
"Take better care of your belongings, Lovegood," he chided before straightening with a faint wince, dipping ever so slightly to his left side.
"Now. Observe," he instructed, his voice suddenly sharp. With an almost conductor-like motion of his wand, the troll's massive corpse vanished in an instant. The splintered stalls, burst pipes, and shattered masonry all mended themselves, shifting back into their unbroken positions as though time itself had rewound. Within mere minutes, no one would have been able to tell a battle to the death had taken place in the room.
Solara lifted a brow, crossing her arms over the book against her chest. "Very impressive, Professor," she admitted, her tone betraying a flicker of genuine awe before her gaze flickered downward—toward his left leg, still hidden by his robes. Despite his usual composure, she didn't miss the trio of dark spots marring his otherwise pristine black shoes.
"You flatter me with your approval, Ms. Lovegood," he replied flatly, following her gaze before smoothly turning on his heel.
"Now, let's get you back to your dormitory."