"Adrian, are you hungrier than usual today?" Edward glanced sideways at his friend, who was usually a picture of calm elegance even during meals, now tearing into a pie with uncharacteristic eagerness.
Adrian, halfway through his third helping of steak-and-kidney pie, responded with a vague hum, mouth full. He already had a good idea of what was going to unfold this Halloween night. If he didn't savour the feast now, the spectacle Professor Quirrell was about to unleash—the troll—would certainly put an end to the celebration. Gryffindor House might resume festivities in their common room afterward, but Ravenclaw? Adrian wasn't so sure. He had no intention of going to bed on an empty stomach.
Wiping his mouth carefully with a napkin enchanted with self-cleaning charms, Adrian's sharp eyes scanned the Great Hall, his gaze drifting briefly toward the Gryffindor table. Hermione Granger was notably absent, while Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were still enjoying their desserts. That was his cue.
"I think something's disagreeing with my stomach," Adrian muttered lowly to Edward as he pushed back his bench and rose.
Edward blinked. "You digest fast today, huh?"
Adrian didn't answer. He made his way swiftly toward the exit, his movements calculated. Earlier in the term, he'd come across a thick volume in Ravenclaw's library—Beasts of the Borderlands: A Tactical Guide to Magical Creatures—which detailed troll anatomy, weaknesses, and combat methods. Trolls were absurdly strong and utterly dimwitted, driven by aggression and instinct more than intent. Their magical resistance was poor, and their coordination worse.
This was an opportunity—not just to protect the school, but to earn house points and solidify his growing influence among Ravenclaws. Unlike Harry, Adrian had no "Boy Who Lived" fame to protect him if something went wrong. But he had skill. And more importantly, he had foresight.
"Points may be small, but reputation isn't," Adrian murmured to himself, quickly invoking a soft-cushioning Lunzheng spell—a spell he'd discovered in Ancient Charms of the Orient—to mute the sounds of his footsteps as he moved through the halls.
His destination: the girls' bathroom. He had a hunch the troll would be heading there. He didn't plan to hand Potter and Weasley an opportunity to shine by doing nothing.
The corridor outside the bathroom was deathly silent. Adrian ducked into an alcove as Professor Quirinus Quirrell passed by in a swish of robes, eyes darting around nervously. The man gave off waves of fear—and something else Adrian couldn't quite name. Once Quirrell had passed and turned toward the Great Hall, Adrian emerged cautiously, slipping into the direction from which Quirrell had come.
Moments later, back in the Great Hall, a loud bang interrupted the festivities. Professor Quirrell stumbled in, scarf askew, face pale and contorted in terror. His eyes rolled back slightly as he made a show of staggering toward Dumbledore.
"Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know…" he gasped, before collapsing dramatically to the floor.
Panic erupted immediately. Shrieks and clattering silverware filled the air as students jumped to their feet. Dumbledore had to conjure a ring of loud, flaming firecrackers above his head before the hall fell into shocked silence.
"Prefects," Dumbledore said authoritatively, his voice magnified, "lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!"
Penelope Clearwater, Ravenclaw's fifth-year prefect, leapt up without hesitation. "Ravenclaws, with me!" she called, her wand glowing blue for visibility. Edward, already rising from the table, shuffled into the line, nudging a third-year aside. Even Marcus Belby, the aloof sixth-year, had fallen in.
Then Edward paused and looked around sharply. "Wait—Commander Clearwater! Adrian's not here—he said he had a stomach ache and went to the loo! He won't have heard about the troll!"
Back in the halls, Adrian had already caught a foul, unforgettable stench: a mix of unwashed socks, rotting cabbages, and centuries-old lavatory grime. He froze, then turned the corner slowly.
A troll. Twelve feet tall. Its grey, knobbled skin looked like weathered granite. It lumbered forward with clumsy feet the size of cauldrons, its short legs bowed under the weight of its grotesquely massive body. Its small head lolled on a thick neck, and in one long, dangling arm, it dragged a crude wooden club already stained with something unmentionable.
"Merlin's beard…" Adrian whispered. Then, with a smooth flick of his wand, he cast a stunning charm—low-powered, experimental. The bolt of red light hit the troll squarely in the shoulder. The creature grunted, turning its knobby head toward Adrian. A beat passed. Then, with a guttural roar, it raised its club and charged.
"Just as the text described," Adrian muttered under his breath, stepping lightly to one side as the beast charged. "Their hide provides considerable resistance to direct spell attacks."
His wand wasn't aimed at the troll itself, but subtly pointed toward the flagstone floor beneath its thundering feet. With a small flick and incantation, Adrian manipulated the stone ahead of the troll—his use of Lapide Motus, a modified Transfiguration-Charms hybrid he'd practiced in the Room of Requirement, caused the floor to shift just slightly upward in a jagged ridge.
Predictably, the enraged troll didn't notice. It lacked the intelligence to recognize terrain shifts, or even anticipate its own footfalls. With a heavy thud, it tripped over the raised stone and flailed forward. Adrian, anticipating the moment, used a silent Accio to dislodge the creature's club from its grip and direct it to land in front of the troll's projected fall.
The troll slammed into the flagstones with a sickening crash. Its head collided directly with the edge of the heavy wooden club, which had been subtly repositioned by Adrian's wandwork. The impact sent a sharp crack echoing through the corridor. The troll's cranium, already weak from earlier blows and natural fragility, gave way with a crunch.
Sticky, grayish fluid and thick blood seeped from its skull as the massive creature slumped completely still, its empty, lifeless eyes facing the ceiling.
"Crude," Adrian muttered, lowering his wand and exhaling slowly, "but effective. These creatures may resist magic, but physics is far less merciful. The key to dealing with magically resistant beasts is psychological readiness more than spellwork."
He had barely completed his internal observation when a series of rushed footsteps echoed behind him. A moment later, Professors Flitwick and McGonagall came skidding around the corner, wands drawn. Snape followed closely, his robes billowing behind him, and a still-trembling Professor Quirrell brought up the rear, clinging to the wall for support.
Quirrell took one look at the dead troll and collapsed with a pitiful whimper, clutching his chest as though he'd been personally struck, then slid to the floor sobbing and moaning with exaggerated tremors.
Snape crouched beside the troll to inspect the kill, his eyes flickering with unreadable thoughts. McGonagall's pale face turned sharply to Adrian.
"Mr. Blackwood," she said tightly, voice clipped with concern and restrained fury. "What on earth do you think you were doing? You could have been killed. Why didn't you return to the dormitory as instructed?"
"I didn't hear any warning," Adrian replied calmly, adopting the same quiet, sincere tone he'd used when speaking to Lisa Dupin after rescuing her on the moving staircase. He met her stern gaze directly. "I'd just stepped out to use the toilet. I didn't expect to run into a troll in what's supposed to be the safest school in the wizarding world. If anything, I should be asking you what kind of security lapses Hogwarts is experiencing."
Snape's eyes flicked up to Adrian's face, narrow and calculating, as though testing the truth of the statement against what he already suspected.
Flitwick, high-voiced and alarmed, rushed to Adrian's side. "Adrian! Are you injured? McGonagall, when Prefect Clearwater reported to me, she did mention that Mr. Blackwood had left to use the toilet before Professor Quirrell's warning reached the Hall. In the urgency, I didn't get the chance to clarify."
"I'm unharmed, Professor," Adrian replied, nodding respectfully to the Charms Master. "The creature didn't land a single blow."
McGonagall's expression softened slightly, though her lips were still tight. She coughed, clearly struggling to shift her tone. "Well—yes. It appears you've handled the situation remarkably, Mr. Blackwood. You dispatched a full-grown mountain troll alone… quite a feat for a first-year. For your quick thinking and bravery, Ravenclaw will receive twenty points."
She paused again, her brows furrowed as she examined the ruined corridor, then added with something bordering on admiration, "To have used Transfiguration in such a practical manner—particularly one only recently taught—is exceptional. Very few first-years manage wand control like that."
Snape snorted softly, eyes still on the bloodied club. His tone oozed sarcasm as he said, "Our first-year prodigy seems to have a rather advanced sense of tactical planning. This placement…" He gestured toward the club. "Deliberately positioned. This wasn't luck. Clearly, Mr. Blackwood enjoys his little… 'experiments.'"
Flitwick either didn't hear or chose to ignore Snape's snide remark. "Brilliant control, Adrian! That floating charm—used in coordination with Transfiguration and elemental manipulation—it's beyond NEWT level for your age!"
Meanwhile, back in the Gryffindor common room, even though house points had been deducted, the golden trio—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—were all smiles. Hermione, newly shaken by the encounter and saved by her friends, had finally found kinship. The events of the night had forged the beginnings of what would be an enduring friendship.
On his way back to the Ravenclaw tower, Adrian mulled it all over, his mind whirring with quiet calculation.
"They've shared a near-death experience and forged a bond—classic narrative arc," he thought, somewhat amused. "I wonder if the famed 'Golden Trio's' friendship will truly grow that strong. Still… Quirrell's theatrics were almost too much. Overacting to the point of suspicion…"
His footsteps echoed in the corridor, slow and contemplative.