Halloween is not just pumpkins and Pasteys
The Great Hall was alight with floating candles, and the smell of pumpkin pasties filled the air. Laughter echoed across the hall as students indulged in the Halloween feast. Harry, sitting at the Slytherin table, watched the festivities with mild detachment, his fork idly pushing food around his plate.
The holiday meant little to him. It was just another day—except for the fact that it marked the death of parents he didn’t remember.
Across the hall, he caught a glimpse of Hermione Granger sitting alone at the Gryffindor table. She looked pale and upset, her eyes darting to the doors as though she wanted to leave. Harry frowned, noticing she hadn’t touched her food.
His thoughts were interrupted when the doors to the Great Hall burst open. Professor Quirrell stumbled inside, his face pale and sweat-slicked.
“Troll—in the dungeons!” he cried, his voice trembling. “Thought you ought to know.” And with that, he fainted, collapsing in an ungraceful heap.
The Hall erupted into chaos. Students screamed, plates clattered to the floor, and panic surged through the crowd. Dumbledore’s voice boomed above the noise.
“SILENCE!” he commanded. “Prefects, lead your houses to the dormitories. Teachers, follow me to the dungeons.”
The Slytherin prefects herded their house toward the common room, but Harry’s mind was elsewhere. As they filed out of the Great Hall, he glanced back at the Gryffindors and noticed something alarming: Hermione wasn’t with them.
Ron Weasley, looking guilty, whispered something to Neville, who nodded reluctantly. Harry's sharp eyes followed their exchange, piecing together the situation.
“Fools,” he muttered under his breath, breaking away from the Slytherin group.
“Potter!” the prefect barked. “Where are you going?”
Harry ignored him, slipping down a side corridor and into the maze of hallways that led to the dungeons.
The stench hit him first. A foul, gut-wrenching odor that made his stomach churn. Harry pressed forward, his footsteps light and deliberate. He turned a corner and froze.
There it was.
The troll was massive, its gray skin glistening with sweat. It lumbered clumsily through the corridor, dragging a club that left deep gouges in the stone floor.
Harry’s eyes darted past the troll, and his heart skipped a beat. Hermione was there, huddled against the wall, her face pale with terror. She hadn’t noticed him, her wide eyes locked on the approaching creature.
Harry’s predatory instincts kicked in. He moved without thinking, his movements fluid and calculated.
The troll raised its club, the shadow of the weapon looming over Hermione.
“Oi!” Harry shouted, his voice sharp and commanding.
The troll turned, its small, piggy eyes narrowing as it spotted him. With a roar, it swung the club toward him.
Harry ducked, the wind from the swing ruffling his hair. He darted forward, quick as a snake, and grabbed a jagged piece of broken stone from the floor.
The fight was vicious and raw. Harry moved with an animalistic grace, dodging the troll’s attacks and striking where it was vulnerable. He used the stone to slash at its thick, leathery skin, aiming for its eyes and throat.
The troll roared in pain, but Harry didn’t let up. He climbed onto its back, his arms locking around its neck. With a brutal twist, he brought the jagged stone down onto its temple.
The troll collapsed, its massive body hitting the floor with a deafening thud. Harry rolled off, panting, his hands slick with the troll’s blood.
Hermione stared at him, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to find words.
“Are you... all right?” Harry asked, his voice calm despite the adrenaline still coursing through him.
“You... you killed it,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“It was going to kill you,” he replied simply, as if that explained everything.
Before she could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor. Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Quirrell rounded the corner, their wands drawn.
“What is the meaning of—” McGonagall froze, her eyes widening as she took in the scene.
Snape’s gaze flicked from the troll’s corpse to Harry, his expression unreadable.
“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall began, her voice shaking. “What—how—”
“There was no time to wait,” Harry said, cutting her off. “It was going to hurt Hermione.”
Quirrell, pale as a ghost, stared at the troll with wide eyes. “Incredible,” he muttered under his breath, his hands trembling.
McGonagall turned to Hermione. “Miss Granger, are you hurt?”
Hermione shook her head. “N-no, Professor. Harry saved me.”
Snape’s sharp eyes bored into Harry. “And how exactly did you manage that, Potter?”
Harry shrugged, wiping his bloodied hands on his robes. “I did what I had to.”
McGonagall looked like she wanted to say something but thought better of it. Instead, she turned to Quirrell. “Get someone to clean this up,” she ordered before looking back at the students. “Both of you—come with me.”
As they followed McGonagall, Harry felt the weight of Snape’s gaze on his back.