Chapter 37: Hope Fine

Upon hearing Ron’s words, Hermione didn’t hesitate for even a moment. She spun around and darted after him, weaving her way through the tide of retreating students.

The prefects were too busy maintaining order within their Houses to notice the two first-years slipping away, heading directly toward danger.

“Oh no, I hope Harry’s okay,” Hermione said, her voice trembling with worry.

“How could he not be?” Ron replied, trying to sound confident, though his tone betrayed a hint of doubt. “He’s the Boy Who Lived! Even You-Know-Who couldn’t take him down—what’s a troll compared to that?”

Despite his bravado, Ron couldn’t shake a nagging sense of unease. Trolls were legendary for their toughness. With their granite-like skin and resistance to most spells, they were formidable even for experienced wizards. For a first-year to stand a chance against one was… well, absurd.

Merlin’s socks, Ron thought desperately, please let Harry be alright! I’ll give up chicken legs for a whole year if it means he’s safe!

Meanwhile, the subject of their concern—Harry—was in the middle of fastening his trousers.

His original plan had been simple: use the chaos of the Halloween feast as a cover to sneak into the dungeon beneath the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. The noise and bustle made it easy to slip away unnoticed. And his excuse was perfectly plausible—he genuinely did need the bathroom.

As Harry adjusted his robes, however, an unusual sound caught his attention. Heavy thud, thud, thud footsteps echoed ominously from the corridor outside, accompanied by a stench so vile it made his nose wrinkle instinctively.

The source of the disturbance became evident almost immediately.

No doubt about it—a troll.

Cautiously, Harry pushed open the stall door and peeked out, just in time to lock eyes with the intruder.

Standing in the doorway was a towering behemoth, easily twelve feet tall. Its mottled gray skin looked as tough as rock, its tiny head perched incongruously atop a hulking frame. In one massive hand, it dragged a wooden club that was thicker and taller than Harry himself.

The troll paused, its pea-sized brain struggling to comprehend the sight of a lone human before it. Realizing its obvious size advantage, it let out a guttural roar meant to intimidate.

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Harry’s response was far from what the troll had expected. Instead of fleeing, Harry grimaced.

“Ugh, its breath stinks,” he muttered under his breath, recoiling slightly.

The troll, despite its dim intelligence, seemed to pick up on Harry’s expression of disdain. Enraged, it roared again, eyes blazing with fury. But even as it prepared to strike, it hesitated. There was something unsettling about the boy standing before it, seemingly unafraid.

Harry’s lack of fear wasn’t born of courage. He was angry. Deeply, profoundly angry. The events of the previous day—the loss of someone dear—had left him seething. All he’d wanted was to distract himself with a quiet investigation. Now, this lumbering oaf had ruined everything. Worse, the commotion was bound to draw the professors, dashing his hopes of sneaking away unnoticed.

The troll raised its enormous club, its lips curling in a grotesque semblance of a grin.

But Harry mirrored that grin, his emerald eyes flashing with something darker.

Perfect, he thought grimly. I needed to blow off some steam. And here comes a punching bag, delivered right to me.

Sensing danger, the troll hesitated. But before it could act, Harry’s wand was already raised.

“Expelliarmus!”

A jet of red light struck the troll’s arm, sending its massive club flying. The weapon didn’t hit the ground, though—Harry’s wand flicked expertly, suspending the club mid-air.

“Not so tough without your stick, are you?” Harry taunted.

As the troll bellowed in rage, Harry gagged, unable to ignore the stench that filled the room. Muttering a transfiguration spell, he turned a broken stall door into heavy iron shackles that clamped tightly around the troll’s ankles.

“Hey, big guy!” Harry called out mockingly, drawing the troll’s gaze. As it turned toward him, Harry waved his wand, sending the floating club crashing into the troll’s shoulder with a deafening wham.

The creature howled in pain, staggering as Harry continued the assault. Each blow was deliberate, avoiding vital areas but delivering enough force to leave the troll reeling.

The shackles around its ankles disrupted its balance, and with a resounding crash, the troll toppled to the floor. It groaned pitifully, struggling to rise, but Harry wasn’t finished.

For Harry, this wasn’t just about venting anymore. The troll had attacked him first, and in his mind, he was entirely justified in defending himself. Surely, no one could fault him for that.

The troll, meanwhile, was overwhelmed with regret. What had possessed it to wander into this building? Why had it confronted this deceptively small but terrifyingly dangerous human? It could only wail in agony, its cries tinged with despair.

Outside, Ron and Hermione reached the bathroom door, their hearts racing.

“What if it’s hurting Harry right now?” Hermione whispered, her voice breaking.

“It’s not—it can’t be!” Ron insisted, though his trembling hands betrayed his fear.

The muffled sounds of blows and anguished howls seeped through the door. Ron gulped audibly.

“Is… is this the right room?” he asked nervously.

Hermione, pale but determined, whispered, “Let’s open it quietly. If the troll’s just smashing the place up, we don’t want to provoke it.”

Nodding, Ron pushed the door open a crack.

What they saw inside rendered them utterly speechless—a sight so surreal it would haunt their memories forever.

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