Chapter 28: Halloween Feast & The Troll Attack
The atmosphere inside the Great Hall was nothing short of magical. The ceiling glittered like a starry night sky, bewitched to reflect the weather outside. Hundreds of floating pumpkins bobbed lazily in the air, casting a warm amber glow over the long tables brimming with candied apples, roast meats, and platters of treats. Enchanted bats swooped playfully through the rafters, and the air was thick with the delicious scent of pumpkin pasties and cinnamon.
Laughter echoed through the Great Hall as students enjoyed the Halloween feast. At the Gryffindor table, Atharv sat with Celeste beside him, their fingers gently intertwined beneath the table. Celeste's golden-blonde hair shimmered in the candlelight, and her sapphire eyes sparkled with delight as she leaned her head on Atharv's shoulder for a moment, enjoying the rare peace between their adventures.
Across from them, Harry and Ron were loading their plates with food while Hermione discussed the enchantment on the floating pumpkins.
"Look at those bats," Ron mumbled around a mouthful of chicken. "Wonder if they ever crash into each other?"
"Not likely," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "They're enchanted, obviously."
Before Atharv could chuckle, a sneering voice interrupted the harmony.
"Well, well, Potter, Mishra," Draco Malfoy drawled as he strolled past their table, Crabbe and Goyle flanking him like mismatched shadows. "Enjoying your little moment of fame, are you? Hope you're ready to crash in your first match. Flying talent doesn't make you a real wizard."
Atharv didn't even look up at first. He calmly took a sip from his goblet, then met Draco's gaze with a cool smile. "Envy doesn't suit you, Malfoy," he said smoothly. "Though I suppose when your greatest accomplishment is having your father buy your way into everything, any real talent must feel like a threat."
Draco flushed, opening his mouth to retort, but Atharv leaned forward slightly, his voice dipped in a velvety elegance that made those nearby quiet down.
"Here's a bit of advice—if you can't match grace or skill, perhaps try humility. It's the one thing your name doesn't seem to carry."
The nearby Gryffindors snorted with laughter, and even some Ravenclaws looked over with barely concealed grins. Draco glared but didn't dare respond, choosing instead to walk off stiffly, his pride bruised yet again.
Celeste turned and kissed Atharv softly on the cheek, her smile radiant. "You're absolutely devastating."
"And diplomatic," Atharv replied with a wink. "I'm growing."
But just as the laughter was settling again, the doors to the Great Hall burst open.
Professor Quirrell stumbled in, his turban askew, eyes wide with terror. "Troll—in the dungeons!" he shrieked. "Thought you ought to know—!"
And with that, he collapsed in a heap on the stone floor.
For a second, silence reigned. Then chaos exploded.
Students screamed and scrambled to their feet, knocking over goblets and plates. The floating decorations fluttered wildly as the staff jumped into action.
"Silence!" roared Professor Dumbledore, rising to his full, imposing height. A wave of magic from his wand restored quiet immediately.
"Prefects," he said calmly but firmly, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately."
The room buzzed again with nervous whispers and hurried movement. Atharv immediately stood, his posture tense. Celeste gripped his arm tightly.
"A troll… in the castle," she whispered.
Ron looked pale, while Harry's eyes darted toward the staff table.
"This isn't just a Halloween prank," Atharv muttered, his voice low and serious. "Something's off."
The group followed their fellow Gryffindors, but a shared glance between them all made one thing clear:
Something dangerous had entered Hogwarts.
And this was just the beginning.
Troll Encounter – The Battle in the Bathroom
The corridors of Hogwarts had never felt more alive—and more ominous.
A storm of murmurs and worried whispers filled the air as students hurried back to their dormitories under the orders of their prefects. The Halloween Feast had been cut short by Professor Quirrell's panicked arrival, his voice trembling as he announced:
"Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know…"
Then he had collapsed to the floor, throwing the Great Hall into chaos.
In the midst of the confusion, Atharv, Celeste, Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved together like shadows through candlelit corridors, guided not just by worry but a strange sense of unease. The echo of Quirrell's voice still lingered in their ears, but something else gnawed at their instincts.
As they passed a darkened corridor, Celeste stopped suddenly.
"Wait," she murmured.
Down the hall, a tall figure in black robes moved with swift, silent purpose—not toward the dungeons, but toward the forbidden third-floor corridor.
"Snape," Atharv said, eyes narrowing.
"He's not headed where the troll's supposed to be," Celeste added, a chill in her voice.
Hermione frowned. "That corridor's forbidden… he must be after whatever the dog was guarding."
Before they could even consider following him, a deafening crash rang through the stone halls, followed by a shrill, terrified scream.
The five friends froze.
"That didn't come from the dungeons," Harry said, his heart thudding.
"The troll… it's not in the dungeons. It's here. In the castle," Hermione whispered, eyes wide.
"The girls' bathroom," Celeste gasped. "Eloise said she had a headache and left the feast early—"
"She must be trapped!" Atharv was already moving.
Without another word, they ran.
The corridors blurred around them, torches flickering as their feet pounded against ancient stone. Then they saw it: the girls' bathroom door shattered inward, pieces of wood strewn across the floor like matchsticks. Inside was pandemonium.
A monstrous twelve-foot troll stood in the middle of the ruined bathroom, its skin the color of granite and its stench foul enough to make their eyes water. It lumbered forward with heavy, bone-rattling steps, dragging a massive wooden club behind it.
In the corner, cowering beside a cracked sink, was Eloise Midgen—tears streaking down her face, too terrified to scream.
Atharv didn't hesitate. "We move. Now."
He raised his wand and stormed in, flanked by Celeste. "Harry, Ron, Hermione—get Eloise!"
"Stupefy!" Atharv shouted, his voice sharp and commanding.
The spell hit the troll in the shoulder, making it grunt in irritation but barely slowing it down.
"Oppugno!" Celeste cried, sending a swarm of conjured butterflies toward the troll's eyes. They shimmered with dazzling silver and violet light, disorienting the beast momentarily.
Hermione rushed toward Eloise, shielding her with her own body as Ron and Harry joined her. "Come on," Hermione urged. "We've got you."
The troll swung its club blindly, shattering a porcelain sink with a thunderous crash.
Atharv weaved to the side, rolling across the slippery floor. "Petrificus Totalus!" he bellowed—but the spell only slowed the creature's legs for a moment.
Celeste leapt to the side, graceful and agile, casting another dazzling spell—"Lumos Orbis!"—a radiant orb of light burst before the troll's face, blinding it again.
"Now!" Atharv yelled. "Get the club!"
Harry and Ron raised their wands, shaking but determined.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" they chanted in unison.
The club shot upward, floating high above the troll's head.
The troll looked around in confusion—just in time for Harry and Ron to drop it with a final flick of their wands.
CRACK.
The club slammed into the troll's skull with a sickening thud. It swayed… and then toppled forward like a falling tower, crashing to the floor.
Silence fell, thick and suffocating.
Everyone stood frozen, the only sounds their ragged breaths and the distant dripping of broken pipes.
Then Eloise began to sob—relieved, overwhelmed, and safe.
Hermione gently hugged her, and Celeste rushed over to check for injuries. "She's okay," Celeste murmured, brushing hair from Eloise's tear-streaked face.
Atharv exhaled, lowering his wand. His robes were torn and damp, his silver hair mussed from the chaos. "That," he muttered, "was entirely too close."
But before they could regroup, the door burst open again with a crash.
Professor McGonagall strode in, her expression a blend of fury and disbelief. Snape was just behind her, lips pressed thin, and Quirrell followed, pale and wide-eyed.
"What is the meaning of this?" McGonagall demanded—until she saw the unconscious troll and the five first-years standing over it, bruised but triumphant.
"You… you defeated it?" she asked, breathless.
"We had to," Harry said. "Eloise was trapped."
McGonagall looked at them for a long moment, her stern face unreadable.
"I should deduct points," she began, her tone cool. "This was reckless. Dangerous. You could have been killed."
They stood in silence.
"…But you weren't," she said, her voice softening. "And more importantly, you saved another student."
She glanced at Eloise, who was still clinging to Celeste.
"For courage, resourcefulness, and friendship—ten points each to Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, Miss de Montclair, and Mr. Mishra."
The air shifted—what had been tension turned to warmth and awe.
Snape's scowl deepened, but he said nothing.
McGonagall stepped back. "Go to the Hospital Wing. All of you. You've earned rest tonight."
As they left the ruined bathroom together, the five of them felt something unspoken settle between them—a bond not just of friendship, but of trust forged in the fire of danger.
And as Celeste reached out and took Atharv's hand, lacing her fingers through his, he gave her the faintest smile—soft and unguarded.
They had faced a troll.
And they had won.
Aftermath & Celeste's Moment with Atharv
The Gryffindor common room glowed with the warm, flickering light of the hearth. The once-lively chatter had softened into a hushed symphony of whispers and retellings, each student recounting the night's events in a tone touched with awe. The troll—an actual mountain of a creature—had been brought down by five first-years.
By now, the story was growing wings of its own. Someone swore Harry had flown in on a broom and landed on the troll's head. Another said Celeste had conjured fire from thin air. But none of that mattered to her anymore.
Celeste sat curled on the plush rug before the fireplace, the golden blaze reflecting in her sapphire eyes. But those brilliant eyes, usually so steady and sharp, were shadowed tonight—not with fear, but with the weight of what could've happened.
She was silent, her posture still, yet every part of her leaned into the boy beside her, as if seeking refuge in his very presence. Atharv sat there, arms gently wrapped around her, his fingers drawing soothing patterns on the back of her hand. His usually composed expression was touched with concern, his red eyes focused solely on her.
The room faded around them—the laughter, the whispers, even the fire.
Only she mattered.
"I'm sorry," Celeste whispered finally, her voice fragile like snow melting on skin. "I should've reacted faster… I should've seen the troll coming. What if something had happened to you? To any of us?"
Atharv shook his head softly, brushing a lock of her silver-blonde hair behind her ear. "You were brilliant," he said gently. "You helped save Eloise. You held your ground. You didn't freeze."
She looked up at him, searching his face. "But you—Atharv, you ran in front of a troll without even blinking."
"I'll always run in," he murmured, voice steady and warm. "If it means protecting you."
His thumb grazed the side of her cheek as he continued, "Celeste… I don't care how dangerous things get. As long as you're by my side, I will face it all. Trolls, curses, secrets in the dark—I'll be there. Always."
Her breath caught.
And then—without another word—Celeste leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn't hurried or filled with the heat of adrenaline. It was slow, soft, and deep. A kiss that spoke of everything words couldn't—of fear and relief, of quiet love blooming in the shadow of chaos.
As they parted, her forehead rested gently against his, their breaths mingling in the stillness.
She took his hand in hers, fingers intertwining with a reverence that made the moment sacred.
"I believe you," she whispered. "And I'll stand by you too, no matter what comes."
Together, they leaned into one another as the fire crackled beside them. The warmth around them was no longer just from the flames—it was in the silent promise that whatever darkness lay ahead, they would face it side by side.
And for that one quiet moment, in a castle full of magic and danger, there was nothing more powerful than the bond they shared.
Quidditch Match & Suspicious Events
The Great Hall was bathed in golden light, the morning sun pouring through the enchanted ceiling that mirrored the cloudless sky above. Students chatted excitedly over breakfast, but a sudden hush fell over the Gryffindor table when a large, sleek package floated gently through the air, carried by five school owls working together.
It glided down in front of Harry Potter, landing with a soft thud beside his pumpkin juice.
Everyone turned.
Harry blinked in surprise, then looked around nervously. "What the—?"
"Open it, Harry!" Ron exclaimed, practically bouncing in his seat.
Hermione leaned closer, adjusting her scarf. "It has Professor McGonagall's seal."
With slightly trembling fingers, Harry undid the wax and peeled the wrapping away.
Gasps rippled through the Great Hall.
Inside was a long, shining broomstick, polished to a deep mahogany glow. In gleaming gold script across the handle were the words:
Nimbus Two Thousand.
"The best broom a first-year's ever had," Ron whispered, eyes wide. "Blimey, Harry…"
Harry just stared, stunned. "McGonagall got me this…?"
"She believes in you," Hermione said with a proud smile.
"You're going to soar tomorrow," Celeste added kindly, sitting across from him with Atharv.
"Speaking of soaring…" Atharv began, just as a second package came swooping into the Great Hall—this one even longer, sleeker, wrapped in black velvet with silver trim. It glided through the air like a king entering his court and landed right beside Atharv's seat with reverent silence.
Even the Slytherin table was staring now.
"Oh no," Ron muttered, eyes wide. "Don't tell me—"
Atharv grinned as Celeste leaned against his shoulder with a gleam in her eyes. "We ordered it last week," she said proudly. "And it's finally here."
Atharv peeled away the velvet, revealing the unmistakable burnished black shaft and inlaid silver plating of the most legendary broom in existence.
The Firebolt.
Ron's jaw dropped.
"The fastest broom in the world," Hermione breathed, her voice a mix of awe and exasperation.
"It's not even available in shops yet!" a fourth-year gasped.
"Leave it to Atharv," Harry chuckled, nudging his friend. "Trying to outshine the Nimbus, are you?"
Atharv smirked, his red eyes glinting with playfulness. "I prefer flying past expectations."
Celeste laughed softly and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. "More like leaving expectations in your dust."
The Quidditch Match: Gryffindor vs. Slytherin
Where legends take flight.
The sky above the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch had never looked so alive. Thick autumn clouds rolled like waves, tinged with the amber hues of the setting sun, casting long shadows over the field below. Enchanted banners rippled through the air, glowing in rich hues of scarlet and emerald—Gryffindor and Slytherin. Floating above the stands were house mascots brought to life with magic—a roaring lion made of flame, a sinuous serpent coiling in midair.
From every corner of the school, students flooded into the towering stands, voices mingling in a swell of anticipation. Professors settled into their viewing boxes, their eyes sharp, yet secretly gleaming with excitement. Even Hagrid had squeezed himself onto a bench near the Gryffindor section, a red-and-gold scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.
Then came the players.
They strode out in two proud lines, brooms in hand and robes billowing. The Gryffindors were met with raucous applause. Harry's heart thudded in his chest—not just from nerves, but from the weight of expectation. Beside him, Atharv walked with the calm confidence of a storm in stillness, his Firebolt resting lightly on his shoulder, gleaming like obsidian lightning.
"Mount your brooms!" Madam Hooch's voice rang out sharp and clear.
A heartbeat later—
"UP!"
The players soared.
And the sky became a battlefield.
Harry shot upward on his Nimbus 2000—the sleekest school broom yet. It answered every movement like a loyal steed, and Harry felt the wind rush past his ears like a song he was born to hear. He looped once, sharply, adjusting to the altitude, his green eyes scanning the vastness for that glint of gold.
But Atharv—Atharv was something else.
Where Harry soared with instinct, Atharv flew with elegance refined to perfection. The Firebolt carried him like he was born on it, dancing with the wind. He curved around towers and ducked under Bludgers with hair's-breadth precision. When he caught the Quaffle mid-pass, the entire stadium gasped—it was as if the ball simply gravitated toward him, eager to be in his hands.
"AND IT'S ATHARV MISHRA WITH THE QUAFFLE!" Lee Jordan shouted, practically vibrating in the commentator's box. "LOOK AT THAT FIREBOLT GO—IS HE EVEN TOUCHING THE HANDLE?! AND—OH—YES! THROUGH THE LEFT HOOP! TEN POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!"
The Gryffindor stands exploded in cheers.
"Go, Atharv!" Celeste shouted from her seat, hands cupped around her mouth, eyes shining with pride. Hermione clapped enthusiastically beside her, while Ron hollered himself hoarse.
But suddenly, a shift.
A wrongness.
Harry's broom—his faithful, brand-new Nimbus—lurched violently.
Once.
Twice.
Then twisted into a wild spiral, throwing him nearly out of his seat.
In the air, Harry gripped tightly, legs locked, heart pounding. The Nimbus bucked again, harder, like a wild beast trying to shake off its rider.
Down below, Hermione stood bolt upright. "Something's wrong."
Celeste narrowed her eyes—and then she saw it.
Snape.
Sitting still, too still, lips moving ever so slightly, eyes locked on Harry. His hand curled subtly around his wand.
"That's a jinx," Celeste said, voice taut. "He's cursing Harry's broom."
"Come on!" Hermione cried, grabbing her sleeve.
They bolted down the stairs, pushing through stunned students.
Above, Harry struggled to regain balance. The world pitched and spun, the wind roaring around him like a storm. His knuckles were white on the handle, and he dared not blink.
On the field, Atharv had seen enough. He couldn't abandon the game outright, but his eyes found Snape—steady and full of intent.
With a whispered word and a flick of his wrist behind his back, Atharv sent a subtle counter-jinx—barely noticeable but enough to disrupt the flow of magic.
And at that exact moment—
"Incendio!"
Snape's robes flared with sudden flame.
He leapt to his feet, cursing and swatting furiously. The audience gasped, distracted.
The spell was broken.
Harry's broom steadied.
And just ahead—gleaming in the dying light—the Snitch hovered like a golden heartbeat, wings quivering.
Instinct roared in his chest.
He dove.
The air screamed past him. The crowd vanished. All he could see was gold.
Faster. Faster. The wind tore at his robes, his hair, his soul.
He stretched out—
And caught it.
His fingers snapped shut over the Snitch, and the stadium erupted.
"POTTER HAS THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS!"
The noise was deafening.
Banners waved, students screamed, hats were thrown in the air. Gryffindor's bench surged to their feet, hugging and jumping in wild delight.
Harry landed roughly on the pitch, laughing breathlessly. The Snitch trembled in his palm, its wings fluttering gently.
Atharv soared down beside him, landing as smooth as a falling leaf. He walked over and clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder.
"You alright?" he asked, voice steady, eyes full of calm fire.
Harry nodded, winded but grinning. "Yeah… yeah, I think I am."
"You caught it," Atharv said. "You won us the game."
Harry looked up at him. "You carried us the whole match. I've never seen flying like that."
Atharv's lips curved. "Then we make a good team."
Above them, the Gryffindor team was descending fast, ready to sweep both of them into the air in victory.
From the stands, Celeste ran down to the pitch, eyes only on Atharv. She threw her arms around him the moment she reached him, pressing a breathless, joyous kiss to his lips. Their hands found each other instinctively, fingers entwined as if they were made to fit.
"You were magnificent," she whispered.
Atharv smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "So were you… with that fire spell."
They laughed, surrounded by cheers, banners, and celebration.
Above, the sky no longer stormed.
It blazed in Gryffindor red.
After the Match – A Night of Fire, Song, and Soul
The Gryffindor common room pulsed with life.
Scarlet and gold banners shimmered from every wall, enchanted lanterns floated like glowing fairies above the jubilant students, and the air was thick with laughter, cheers, and the lingering thrill of victory. The stone fireplace roared with warmth, its flames dancing in celebration of the day's triumph.
The scent of roasted pumpkin, treacle tart, and freshly popped butterbeer mingled in the air, conjured from the kitchens below as if the castle itself joined in the revelry. Music echoed, a jaunty wizarding tune playing from an old magical gramophone in the corner, barely loud enough to be heard over the excited conversations.
Harry sat slouched in one of the armchairs near the hearth, his Nimbus 2000 leaning against the side. His hair was wind-swept, his face still flushed from the match. Beside him, Ron animatedly reenacted Harry's dive for the Snitch using two chocolate frogs as props.
"And then—WHAM! He just snatches it! Right out of the air! It was brilliant!"
Hermione laughed, her eyes shining with admiration and relief. She threw her arms around Harry in a rare, impulsive gesture. "I thought we lost you for a moment. That broom was nearly uncontrollable!"
Harry grinned sheepishly. "You and Celeste saved me. And maybe… a bit of Atharv's magic too."
Ron said, toasting her with a half-finished Butterbeer. "And did you see Atharv? I swear, he was flying like he'd been born with wings."
Harry nodded, glancing across the room.
Across the room, the true prodigy of the evening sat quietly on the long crimson couch, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Atharv.
His posture was relaxed, regal in its simplicity. The Firebolt rested against the couch beside him, its black handle gleaming under the golden light like a wand crafted by the gods. He wasn't basking in the limelight—no, the limelight bent itself around him. He was a storm disguised in calm, a melody waiting to be sung.
Celeste was curled beside him, her head resting gently on his shoulder, her platinum hair glowing like silver silk in the firelight. She was ethereal, sapphire eyes fixed on him like he was the very center of the universe.
"You were brilliant," she murmured softly, her voice barely audible over the commotion.
"You too," Atharv replied, intertwining their fingers with delicate care. His thumb traced gentle circles against the back of her hand.
Celeste looked up, her gaze full of something deeper than pride—something tender, unspoken, eternal. "You never lose yourself, even when the sky tries to shake you."
He smiled then, a warm, almost boyish smile, and said in a voice that was both silk and certainty, "I only needed to look down and see you."
She leaned up, slow and graceful, and kissed him.
It was not the wild, rushed kiss of youth—it was timeless. The kind of kiss that made the room fade away, made even the magic pause to watch. The firelight flickered brighter around them, as if stirred by their quiet intimacy.
And in that moment, they were not just two students wrapped in warmth and affection.
They were two souls whose fates had already begun to twine like ivy around an ancient oak.
The common room erupted in another cheer when Seamus exploded a box of fireworks near the portrait hole—but it was Atharv who truly captured their hearts next.
He rose slowly from the couch, pulling Celeste gently to her feet before whispering something in her ear. She nodded with a radiant smile and moved toward the edge of the crowd, her fingers brushing the strings of a conjured harp that appeared beside the fireplace, golden and glowing.
Then, Atharv stood in the center of the room.
The room slowly noticed. Conversations dimmed, laughter softened. He didn't say a word—he only walked to the center, his Firebolt left behind, his presence alone commanding attention. He gestured, and from thin air—like some silent charm—a sleek black guitar shimmered into form, as though summoned from a memory or a dream.
A song.
Not of this world.
few people gasped. Even the portrait of the Fat Lady leaned inward.
He strummed once.
A chord rang out, and it wasn't just sound—it was silver light woven into melody, a vibration that touched the edges of everyone's soul. His fingers moved like magic, like wind across silk, and when his voice joined—soft at first, deep, aching—it was as though the stars had leaned in to listen.
When the wind forgets your name,
And the sky begins to fall,
When the shadows stretch too long,
And you're left to stand through it all…
Hold your breath, don't lose the flame,
There's a fire beneath the rain,
And if you call my name, my love,
I'll fly through storm and flame…
Silence.
No one moved.
Even Peeves, who had been throwing confetti from the rafters, sat down on a floating chair, mesmerized.
We are more than spell or song,
More than blood or name or wand,
In the night, we shine as one,
And rise like stars at dawn…
His voice soared. Soft and strong. Familiar and otherworldly. When the final chord faded into silence, it was not gone—it lingered, like breath on the skin, like something remembered.
It was something older, deeper. Something of the stars and the wind and dreams not yet dreamt.
The fire stilled.
The very air shimmered.
It was as though the magic of Hogwarts itself bent to listen.
His voice flowed like riverlight—smooth, resonant, heartbreakingly beautiful. A sound that felt like safety and longing all at once. It touched the parts of the heart even magic couldn't reach.
Eyes welled with tears. Smiles softened. Every student, every portrait, even the Fat Lady in the frame outside, stood motionless, enchanted not by sorcery—but by soul.
When the last note fell like a feather, the silence afterward was thunderous.
And then—applause. Roars of it. Cheers so loud they might've cracked the stained glass.
The room erupted—not into wild cheers, but a wave of stunned awe. Applause began, slow, reverent. Then faster, louder. Cheers followed, but softer than before—like they were cheering for something sacred.
Celeste was crying softly, and she wasn't the only one.
Hermione stood, wiping her eyes. Ron was speechless, mouth open. Harry shook his head in disbelief.
The trio walked over to Atharv and Celeste.
"Atharv," Hermione said softly, "that was… I don't even have the words."
"That wasn't just music," Harry added, eyes still wide. "It felt like… magic. Real magic."
"You made everyone forget the world for a moment," Ron said, looking dazed. "Even the ghosts stopped floating."
Atharv smiled, glancing at Celeste. "Sometimes… music is where the magic begins."
Celeste reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his. "And tonight, it saved us all."
The common room slowly came back to life, the music echoing in hearts rather than ears.
But something had changed.
It wasn't just that Gryffindor had won.
It was that for the first time, they believed they could win anything—together.
And Atharv, the boy with stardust in his voice, had given them a song they would carry forever.
Unraveling the Mystery of Fluffy
—An Evening of Quiet Revelations After a Day of Thunder—
The fire in the Gryffindor common room crackled warmly, its flames dancing low now, casting golden light on tired yet triumphant faces. The vibrant energy from the Quidditch celebration had softened into a cozy afterglow. Most students had drifted off to bed, their cheers now only memories hanging like stars in the silence.
Atharv sat by the hearth, his Firebolt leaning against the arm of his chair like a sleeping lion. Celeste sat curled beside him, her legs tucked beneath her, their fingers loosely intertwined, still glowing from the warmth of the match and the music he'd sung earlier.
Across from them, Harry, Ron, and Hermione gathered, each with a cup of warm cocoa conjured by a kind seventh-year. The buzz of conversation was low, private, and the kind of quiet that only came after great danger—or the edge of a mystery.
Hermione glanced around, then leaned in slightly. "So… about today."
Harry nodded. His face was still a little pale from the broom incident, but his green eyes were alert, sharp. "I've been thinking about something. That wasn't just bad luck. My broom—it was cursed. I could feel it fighting me."
"And Snape was watching you the whole time," Hermione added, voice hushed. "Muttering under his breath. It wasn't just coincidence."
Celeste nodded slowly. "I saw it too. I told Hermione. And then… the moment we broke his focus, the curse lifted."
Atharv's jaw was tense, but his voice was calm. "I tried interfering from the air, but I couldn't risk dropping the Quaffle or drawing attention. I'm glad you acted quickly."
Hermione smiled faintly. "It worked. Barely. But…" she trailed off, eyes flicking to Harry.
"There's something else," Harry said. He placed his cup on the table beside him. "When Hagrid took me to Gringotts—before the school year started—we stopped at Vault Seven Hundred and Thirteen. He said he had to pick something up for Dumbledore. I didn't think much of it then, but now…"
He exchanged a glance with Ron, who blinked. "You think that package… whatever it was… is what Fluffy's guarding?"
"Exactly," Harry said. "It's too much of a coincidence. The vault was empty after we left. And then Fluffy—this massive, three-headed dog—guarding a trapdoor in a forbidden corridor?"
Atharv sat forward slightly, his eyes catching the firelight. "The troll incident… when we found Snape in the corridor—his leg was injured. He tried to hide it, but Celeste and I saw the blood on his robes."
Celeste nodded. "And he was nowhere to be seen until we got to the corridor ourselves."
Ron frowned. "So Snape tried to get past Fluffy. Got bitten. Then today, he tries to kill Harry during the match?"
Hermione looked conflicted. "But… he's a professor. He can't just be trying to steal something."
Atharv shook his head. "Maybe. Maybe not. But what if he's not working alone? Or maybe… maybe it's not as simple as it looks."
"Either way," Celeste said quietly, "something is hidden beneath that trapdoor. Something important."
Harry's fingers curled around the edge of his seat. "And I think we're meant to stay away. That's why Dumbledore told us the corridor is forbidden."
Ron looked between them. "But if it's that dangerous, shouldn't someone know Snape's poking around?"
"No," Atharv said softly, firmly. "Not yet. We need proof. Until then, we stay cautious. We watch. We wait."
"And keep an eye on Snape," Hermione added, her voice barely above a whisper.
Celeste leaned her head against Atharv's shoulder, the tension in her limbs settling. "The world is full of shadows… But we're not facing them alone."
Harry nodded slowly. "Whatever's down there… we'll figure it out. Together."
The fire crackled, casting long shadows against the walls as the group sat in quiet determination.
Outside the tower windows, the sky was dark, stars glittering like ancient secrets waiting to be uncovered.
And far below, beneath the castle's stones, something stirred behind Fluffy's door… waiting.