Chapter 8

As Charms class ended, students began to drift out in clusters, heading toward their respective Common Rooms to drop off books and prepare for dinner. Felicia moved with the crowd, the low hum of conversation filling the corridors. Just as she stepped outside, she caught the unmistakable sound of Ron Weasley's voice—louder than necessary, and unmistakably directed at Harry and a few other Gryffindor boys.

He was complaining about Hermione.

Something in Felicia's jaw clenched tight.

Hermione heard it, too. She froze for a second, visibly stiffening, but tried to keep her expression composed. The words, however, struck deeper than she let on. She had only meant to help—she hadn't realized she was coming off as a know-it-all. Her throat tightened as embarrassment prickled behind her eyes. Without a word, she brushed past Felicia and the boys, head down, blinking back tears.

"I think she heard you," Harry said quietly, watching her go.

Felicia's gaze swept over the group as she walked by, landing on Ron. He shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her stare. Her golden-amber eyes, usually warm, now held a flash of something colder—like fire smoldering beneath a sheet of ice. Then, without a word, she quickened her pace, hurrying in the direction Hermione had gone.

Ron frowned, watching her go. "What's her problem?" he muttered, though a note of guilt crept into his voice.

Harry didn't reply. His eyes were still on Hermione's retreating figure, a crease of worry forming between his brows.

Not far off, Penelope, lingering with Dedalus, tilted her head with mild amusement. "Guess someone didn't appreciate watching one of the brightest witches in our year get torn down," she said.

Dedalus adjusted his robe, his tone more thoughtful. "Granger can be… a bit much, sure. But that doesn't mean she deserves to be humiliated."

Felicia glanced around the corridor near the dungeons and spotted one of the rarely used girls' bathrooms tucked into a shadowy alcove. It was quiet—secluded. The kind of place someone might retreat to when they didn't want to be found.

As she approached, two Ravenclaw girls exited the bathroom, whispering to each other about a poor girl crying inside.

Felicia stepped through the door. The bathroom was dimly lit, echoing faintly with the drip of water from an old, stubborn tap. The chill in the air clung to the tiled walls, and the space carried the hush of a place that had long been forgotten by most.

She heard it then—soft sniffles, muffled slightly, coming from one of the stalls.

Felicia didn't say anything right away. She gave Hermione a moment to cry, standing quietly just outside the stall before leaning back against the door with deliberate gentleness.

"You know, Granger," she said softly, "boys tend to say a lot of dumb things without thinking. I think Weasley was just embarrassed—and instead of admitting it, he turned it on you."

There was a sniff from within, followed by a pause.

"I was just trying to help," Hermione's voice came, slightly watery but still edged with that familiar sharpness.

"I know. You didn't want him setting off a curse by accident," Felicia replied, her tone warm but low.

"It's not my fault if they weren't paying attention," Hermione muttered. Her voice trembled, but now there was something harder beneath it—frustration. She wasn't just hurt. She was angry. At Ron. At the others. Maybe even at herself for caring so much.

Another sniff. Then, hesitantly: "Why do you even care?"

Felicia almost smiled. She could hear the suspicion in Hermione's voice. Of course—it made sense. She was a Slytherin, and more than that, often seen as a rival. Compassion wasn't exactly expected.

She let the smirk curl onto her lips before answering.

"Maybe it's a bit self-serving," she said with a teasing lilt. "I'm not particularly fond of anyone else making my academic rival cry."

There was a beat of silence.

"Besides," Felicia added, crossing her arms casually, "the only person allowed to make you cry is me—when you see yourself in second place at the end-of-year rankings."

Another sniff, but this time the silence that followed felt… different. Like Hermione was debating whether to be insulted or amused.

Then, finally—a small, shaky laugh.

"Hmph. Like I'd let that happen."

A brief pause, and then they both chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the cold, quiet room like something fragile beginning to mend.

In the Great Hall, dinner was already underway. Plates clinked, conversations buzzed, and the enchanted ceiling mirrored the dusky sky above. At the Slytherin table, Adrien and Draco both noticed something… off.

Felicia Forester was missing.

Draco's gaze flicked toward the entrance with a frown, a hint of irritation knitting his brow. He didn't care—really, he didn't. Or at least, that's what he kept telling himself. Still, it was unlike her to be late. She was punctual to a fault, almost annoyingly so.

Before he could dwell on it, the heavy doors to the Great Hall burst open with a dramatic bang.

Every head in the hall turned.

Professor Quirrell stood in the doorway, his turban askew, face pale and drenched in sweat. He wavered unsteadily, eyes wide with sheer terror. His mouth opened, and he gasped out a single phrase that silenced the room and turned blood cold:

"T-TROLL! IN THE DUNGEON!"

He swayed once—then collapsed in a heap on the stone floor.

For a heartbeat, the hall was frozen in stunned silence.

Then the screaming began.

Felicia was in the next stall, pulling a length of toilet paper from the dispenser. She stepped out and offered it to Hermione without a word.

Hermione hesitated only a moment before accepting it. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice soft and still slightly thick.

She dabbed at her eyes, then moved to the sink. The water ran cold as she splashed her face, the sound of it echoing gently in the quiet bathroom.

Suddenly, Redscale—perched on Felicia's shoulder—gave a sharp hiss. His small, serpentine body went rigid, every ruby-like scale shimmering under the flickering candlelight.

Both girls froze.

Then, faint but unmistakable, the sound of distant screaming reached their ears.

Hermione's head snapped up, eyes wide with alarm. "What was that?" she asked, panic creeping into her voice.

Before Felicia could respond, Redscale hissed again—louder this time, more urgent. His tail flicked with agitation, claws gripping her robes tightly. He was warning them.

And then—

A low, guttural grunt rumbled from the corridor outside. The floor trembled ever so slightly beneath their feet. The steady thump... drag... thump... of something enormous moving. The scrape of something hard and heavy dragging across stone.

Something was coming.

And it was big.

In the Slytherin common room, a murmur of speculation filled the air. Students clustered in small groups, voices low and anxious, each trading theories about the screaming and the sudden announcement at dinner.

Draco sat nearby, pretending to listen, but his thoughts kept drifting. Felicia still hadn't shown up.

Not that it mattered.

She was probably fine—definitely not anywhere near the troll. Still, his brow furrowed slightly, the doubt settling in despite himself.

Across the room, Adrien Queensbury paced back and forth near the fireplace, flanked by a few members of the Slytherin Quidditch team. His agitation hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Scared of trolls, Queensbury?" Marcus Flint asked, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rarely saw Adrien looking anything less than collected, and the change was clearly entertaining him.

Adrien didn't answer.

Marcus gave a low chuckle and waved a hand dismissively. "Relax. It's not like the troll's going to waltz in here. We've got the most secure common room in the castle."

But Adrien wasn't worried about the troll getting in.

He was worried about why Felicia hadn't come back.

Somehow, he had a bad feeling she was right in the middle of whatever chaos was unfolding.

"Don't do anything reckless, Forester," he muttered under his breath.

Harry and Ron tore through the castle corridors, boots echoing against stone as they raced toward the girls' bathroom. Word had reached them in the Great Hall prior to the troll warning—Hermione was seen going inside. With a Slytherin girl, no less.

They skidded to a halt at the threshold.

The bathroom doors had been smashed inward, hanging from broken hinges. The sight made their hearts lurch.

They bolted inside.

There, looming amidst shattered tiles and broken sinks, was the troll—a hulking, wart-covered brute with beady, furious eyes. It stood near the back of the room, just beyond the stalls, its massive club gripped in one hand and still smoking faintly as if scorched.

And caught in its other hand—Felicia.

Harry and Ron barely had a moment to register the scene before the troll let out a guttural roar. It shook its wounded arm, flailing wildly. In its pained thrashing, its grip loosened slightly.

This was their chance.

"Do something!" Ron hissed, yanking on Harry's sleeve.

Harry raised his wand, knuckles white. "Yeah? Like what?!"

Felicia twisted at the last second, narrowly dodging the troll's wild swing. She reached back, grabbed Hermione, and pulled her clear of the second.

She glanced at Hermione, breath sharp. "If you've got any brilliant ideas, now would be a fantastic time."

Her wand lay somewhere across the room—on the far side of the rubble, well beyond reach. And between her and it stood the raging troll.

Redscale, perched on her shoulder, hissed with fury. His ruby-scaled body bristled, tiny nostrils flaring as sparks flickered in his throat, ready to ignite.

Hermione scrambled backward, eyes wide with panic—but her mind was already racing. "We just need to stop it—for a second!" she gasped.

Felicia searched for a solution, heart pounding, but it was Harry who spotted the wand across the floor.

"Her wand—we need to get it!"

Ron followed his line of sight, and his face drained of color. "Oh, bloody hell..."

They all knew it—Felicia was their best shot. She had the knowledge, the control. But getting her wand back meant crossing a battlefield.

"We don't have time!" Felicia snapped.

And then—the troll lunged, grabbing Harry.

Felicia's jaw clenched. She turned sharply to Ron.

"Weasley! The charm from class—use it, now!"

Hermione's eyes lit up. "Yes—the club! Lift it! Just long enough for Felicia to move!"

Ron looked at the two girls like they'd lost their minds. But then he saw Harry struggling in the troll's grip—and something shifted. Gritting his teeth, he yanked out his wand.

"Swish and flick," Hermione reminded him, slow and steady.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Ron shouted.

The troll's club jerked upward, slipping from its grasp and hanging midair. The creature roared in confusion, turning toward it.

Hermione seized the opportunity, sprinting forward and scooping Felicia's wand from the floor.

"Felicia!" she cried, tossing it across the tiles.

Felicia snatched it midair without missing a beat. Her eyes gleamed, and a smirk curved her lips as she spun it deftly in her fingers.

"Accio... Levioso."

Her wand responded instantly, pulsing with intent. The levitation charm twisted with force, bending to her will. The club whipped backward through the air—then launched forward with brutal speed, slamming into the troll's skull.

CRACK.

The troll staggered, eyes rolling.

Before it could collapse, Felicia swept her wand again. "Levioso!"

Not on the troll—but on them.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron were lifted off the ground and pulled out of the danger zone, just as the troll's massive body crashed to the floor with a bone-rattling thud that echoed across the shattered tiles.

Silence.

The troll lay unconscious, its chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths.

Felicia lowered the others gently. Her wand trembled slightly in her grip—but her expression was cool, composed. The kind of calm earned from hours of training.

Levioso. It wasn't a charm typically taught to first-years—not like this. It was a dueling technique, modified for precision, power, and intent.

Her father had taught her the motions before she'd ever held a wand.

For a moment, no one moved.

They barely remembered to breathe.

Then—

Ron let out a strangled laugh, his voice slightly too loud in the eerie silence. "Did you see that? That was bloody brilliant, that was!"

Hermione continued to stare at the unconscious troll, then turned her wide eyes to Felicia. "Those… those weren't first-year spells. And the way you used them—where did you learn that?"

Harry swallowed, glancing between Felicia and the wreckage. "We should probably get out of here before someone—"

Too late.

The doors burst open as Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Quirrell swept into the room, wands drawn and eyes sharp.

McGonagall took one look at the chaos—the shattered tiles, the toppled troll, the four students standing in the midst of destruction—and inhaled sharply.

"What in Merlin's beard is going on here?"

Felicia exhaled slowly, knowing they were caught. Snape's eyes scanned the room with practiced precision, his gaze pausing on Felicia's wand—the one most recently used. He noted the troll's position, the angle of the club, and the scorch marks near its head.

He said nothing.

His expression was unreadable, though the arch of his brow betrayed the calculation behind his silence. Whether he was contemplating detention or quietly impressed, even he didn't seem sure.

Hermione stepped forward, hands clasped tightly in front of her. "It was my fault, Professor," she said quickly, voice steady despite the tension in the room. "I—I thought I could handle it… I went looking for the troll."

McGonagall's eyes narrowed. "Miss Granger, what possessed you to do such a thing?"

"I didn't think—I didn't realize how dangerous it would be," Hermione admitted, gaze lowered. Felicia stayed silent, and the boys, wisely, followed her lead.

"If they hadn't come to find me," Hermione continued, glancing at Felicia and then at Harry and Ron, "I'd probably be dead."

McGonagall pressed her lips into a tight line, torn between fury and fear. Her stern gaze swept over each student again, taking in the wreckage with increasing alarm.

Snape, meanwhile, remained silent, his dark eyes fixed on Felicia. She refused to meet his gaze, focusing on anything else—her shoes, the broken tiles, the flickering light. She could feel his scrutiny, razor-sharp and lingering.

He wasn't fooled.

Professor Quirrell, still looking ghostly pale, stared wide-eyed at the unconscious troll.

"A troll… in the school… unbelievable…" he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Underneath Felicia's hair, Redscale gave a low, warning hiss in Quirrell's direction. Felicia raised a hand gently to hush him, her fingers brushing his scales with a calming touch.

McGonagall finally let out a sharp exhale, her expression tight. "This was incredibly foolish," she said, her voice firm and cutting through the silence. "You're all lucky to be alive."

She turned sharply to Harry and Ron. "And you two—why exactly did you follow her instead of alerting a professor?"

Felicia glanced their way. It was a fair question. Why had they come instead of an adult?

Ron shifted uncomfortably, guilt flickering across his face. "Well—erm—we didn't really think... I mean, there wasn't time, and—"

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. "Highly irregular," she muttered.

Her gaze moved to Felicia. "And you, Miss Forester? How did you get involved in all of this?"

"I was nearby," Felicia replied calmly. "I heard something strange but didn't know what it was. Then I realized Granger was alone in the middle of something dangerous. I couldn't just leave her. The others came in afterward and helped."

McGonagall studied her a moment, clearly unable to argue with the logic. "Twenty points will be taken from Gryffindor—for the recklessness involved in this decision."

Ron winced visibly.

But then McGonagall's tone shifted ever so slightly, the edges of her expression softening.

"However... for exceptional bravery in the face of very real danger..." She paused, looking at each of them in turn. "Ten points each."

Snape exhaled through his nose, unimpressed, but said nothing—until his gaze flicked back to Felicia.

"Miss Forester," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "What spells did you use on the troll?"

Felicia stiffened. She had hoped he wouldn't ask.

"Erm… I used the Summoning Charm and the Levitation Charm," she admitted, almost sheepishly. Levioso might be the simpler variant, but she had long since learned how to adapt its force through momentum—a dueling technique drilled into her by years of watching and training with her father.

Snape's eyes narrowed.

"The Summoning Charm," McGonagall echoed, her tone laced with pointed surprise. "That's not taught until at least fourth year."

"I'm aware," Felicia said, nodding once. She braced herself for the reprimand.

McGonagall didn't scold her. She simply gave a pointed look. "Be mindful of the spells you choose to use, Miss Forester. Stick to those appropriate for your level. Nothing forbidden. And nothing unsafe, if you please."

"Of course, Professor," Felicia replied, respectfully.

McGonagall gave her a last appraising look before finishing, "Ten points to Slytherin—for quick thinking and exceptional spellwork."

She stepped back, voice ringing with finality. "Now—all of you—return to your common rooms. Immediately."

It didn't take long for Felicia to reach the Slytherin common room—not with how close the dungeons were to where the troll had been found. But the moment she stepped through the entryway, she realized she wasn't nearly prepared for the reception.

The room was packed, filled with low murmurs and flickering candlelight reflecting off dark stone and emerald fabrics. Conversations halted the instant she entered. Dozens of heads turned toward her, and the silence that followed was thick and expectant.

Adrien Queensbury was stretched out on one of the green velvet couches, looking as though he didn't have a care in the world—though the tautness in his posture said otherwise. The moment his eyes landed on her, his gaze sharpened.

"Well, well," he drawled, wearing a lazy smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Look who finally decided to come home."

He wasn't about to admit, at least not in front of everyone, that he'd been out of his mind with worry.

Around the room, curious glances turned appraising. A few expressions were openly skeptical. It wasn't normal for a Slytherin to go missing during a castle-wide lockdown—let alone return after the danger had passed like some casual hero.

Adrien tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "You do know the school was locked down because of a rampaging troll, yeah? Or were you trading in your snake for a lion?"

A few chuckles followed. Gryffindors were the reckless ones, after all.

At the back of the room, Draco sat near the hearth, pretending to be utterly engrossed in the fire. But his posture was too rigid to be casual. He hadn't said a word—but the stiffness in his shoulders and the way he hadn't looked away since she entered said everything.

He was waiting for an explanation.

"…Got the gist a bit too late, I'm afraid," Felicia muttered, her voice edged with irritation. The weight of the entire house's scrutiny was suffocating—eyes watching, ears tuned to every word. She didn't bother addressing the room. Instead, she walked straight toward Adrien, cutting through the silence like a knife. Still, she knew every Slytherin within earshot was listening—not just to what she said, but how she said it.

"I was in the bloody bathroom with a Gryffindor girl when it came in."

The memory still clung to her like smoke. Her side throbbed where the troll had gripped her, and she rubbed her ribs absentmindedly. Adrien's eyes flicked down to the motion, catching the subtle wince—but he said nothing. His brow arched instead, noting the bruise without commenting on it.

"In the bathroom?" he repeated, half-scoffing. A flicker of realization crossed his face—she had been in the thick of it. "Blimey, Forester. If you wanted excitement, there are less suicidal ways to find it."

"I wasn't looking for it," she snapped, voice defensive. "The damn thing walked in. A full-grown troll. Of all the places in the castle, it had to choose there."

Murmurs rippled through the common room. The tone had shifted from skepticism to intrigue. Slytherins exchanged glances, their interest sharpened, now fully invested in the story unraveling before them.

By the fireplace, Draco's eyes narrowed slightly as he stared into the flames. Of course she'd been in the middle of it. He'd known—felt it, even. He'd wanted to go after her. Instead, he'd done what was expected: returned to the common room like everyone else.

His fingers curled slightly against the folds of his robes, knuckles white, but his expression remained unreadable. He was determined to look unaffected.

Even if he wasn't.

"Who was the Gryffindor with you?" someone called out from the crowd.

Adrien leaned forward, that trademark smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "Forget who—the real question is how you got out of it. Last I checked, trolls aren't exactly known for taking a hint."

Pansy Parkinson, seated near Draco, finally chimed in, her tone honey-sweet and laced with thorns. "Yes, Forester, do tell. How exactly did you make it out in one piece?"

Draco lifted his gaze from the fire, finally looking at her. His expression gave nothing away, but the sharp glint in his eyes said he was just as curious as the rest.

Felicia let out a sigh, reluctant but resigned. She knew they wouldn't let it go.

"The troll came into the bathroom just as I was with Hermione Granger," she began, her tone clipped. "It swung its club—ripped the place apart. I got knocked down with her, and my wand went flying."

A ripple of interest passed through the room at the mention of Granger.

"Then it grabbed me," she continued, absently rubbing her side where the bruises still pulsed with dull pain. "That's when Redscale flamed its hand to make it let go. Burned it enough to make it drop me."

She paused briefly, then added with a slight edge to her voice, "That's when Potter and Weasley showed up."

The shift in her tone was noticeable—irritation creeping in.

"Not that I didn't appreciate the effort, but they didn't bring a professor, didn't have a plan—just charged in. Added to the chaos. It made sense to get me my wand. I had the best chance of actually doing something."

The Slytherins were silent now, hanging on every word.

"They got it to me just in time," she finished. "Once I had it, I turned the troll's own club on it and knocked it out using the Summoning Charm and the basic version of the Leviatation Charm. After that, it was over."

No bragging. No dramatics. Just the facts, laid out clean and sharp like a blade.

No one had expected that story.

And the way Felicia told it—calm, unembellished, unflinching—left little room for doubt. She hadn't wanted to be there, that much was clear. But she had been. And she'd acted.

A first-year, facing down a full-grown troll with precision and purpose—not luck—was something none of them could ignore. Even among the older students, there was an unspoken acknowledgment: most of them wouldn't have pulled off what she had with just two basic spells.

The Forester name had always carried weight when it came to combat magic.

Now they understood why.

Adrien let out a low whistle, his expression a rare blend of amusement and awe. "The Summoning Charm and Levitation… Levioso's a variant, sure, but it's usually taught later—once you've mastered the feather trick," he mused. "Didn't expect to see it used like that. Your father must be terrifying if that's what training looks like."

A quiet ripple of murmurs stirred through the common room—soft, impressed, speculative. Felicia had handled herself with more composure than many would have expected, and they were starting to see her differently because of it.

Adrien leaned back, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. A smirk curved at his lips.

"Still… didn't exactly peg you for the hero type, Forester."

He gave her a once-over, the teasing returning to his tone.

"You should probably stop by the hospital wing in the morning though. Pretty sure being manhandled by a troll isn't recommended for your spine."

Pansy narrowed her eyes, arms folded tightly across her chest. "Are you sure you were sorted into the right house?"

The room stilled.

Adrien's expression froze mid-smirk, and every murmur in the common room died. All eyes shifted—first to Pansy, then to Felicia.

Felicia's expression darkened instantly, the weight of her gaze sharpening like a blade.

"You acted more like a Gryffindor than a Slytherin," Pansy went on, oblivious to the tension thickening around her. "A sensible Slytherin would've escaped, not stuck around like some martyr."

A long pause.

Felicia raised a brow, her voice calm—but cold enough to burn. "So what you're saying is... Slytherins are cowards?"

Pansy faltered slightly, but Felicia didn't give her a chance to reply.

"You really think self-preservation means never facing danger? That it means abandoning people just because the odds aren't ideal?" Her amber eyes glinted, the heat behind them tempered by something far sharper. "Maybe you're in the wrong house. Not because you're too brave—clearly, you're not—but because you have no concept of what ambition and cunning actually look like."

She stepped forward, her voice low but clear enough for everyone to hear. "I assessed the situation. I had the knowledge. I had the skill. And I acted—not for glory, not for sentiment—but because leaving someone helpless to die when you know you could stop it? That isn't self-preservation. That's cowardice dressed up as caution."

The room was dead silent.

Even Pansy, now visibly shrinking under the weight of the room's attention, said nothing. Her mouth tightened into a dismissive scoff, but she didn't offer another word.

Felicia didn't look back at her.

Draco, still perched near the hearth, watched Felicia with narrowed eyes. He wasn't sure if he was annoyed by her boldness—or deeply impressed.

Possibly both.

Felicia scoffed lightly, brushing off the last of the tension as she turned toward the dormitories.

"I'm off to bed," she announced, voice cool and final.

The message was clear—and the rest of the common room took the hint. Conversations shifted, eyes turned away, and slowly the murmurs resumed. But now they whispered not about what she'd done wrong, but what she'd done, period. What they would've done in her place. What it meant.

No one said it aloud—but it was clear.

Felicia Forester was someone to watch.

Adrien chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he leaned back into the couch. "Smart move," he muttered, watching the way everyone fell back into their own little spheres now that she'd ended the debate. His eyes followed her as she walked past.

"Don't take Parkinson too seriously," he added, voice pitched just loud enough for her to hear. "We both know her father's about as clever as a puffskein at the bottom of the Black Lake."

Felicia's lips twitched despite herself. The image was ridiculous—and effective. She didn't need the reassurance, but she appreciated the gesture.

"I know," she replied softly. Her tone shifted as she glanced at him, her expression more thoughtful now. "And… I'm not a hero."

She meant it.

It wasn't false humility—it was rejection. The last thing she wanted was to be labeled as someone chasing the spotlight, especially not his spotlight. Let Harry Potter have the glory. She had enough expectations pressing down on her from her own name.

"I helped because I could," she added, almost as an afterthought. Then she gave Adrien a nod. "Goodnight."

He watched her as she disappeared down the hallway toward the dorms. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Not a hero, huh?" he murmured to himself.

But his voice held something more than amusement—something quieter, more contemplative.

For the first time, Adrien Queensbury realized that the girl he'd known through polite family visits and training duels was no longer just potential—Felicia Forester was becoming a force. And even he hadn't seen this coming.