The days were so hectic that before I knew it, more than a month had passed since term began. Unfortunately, I was still slightly out of place in my own house.
Crabbe and Goyle were always with me, so I hadn't minded much, but little frictions with those around us were piling up. After that flying lesson, a few students—including some upper-years—cornered me to ask why I'd gone so far as to coach the Gryffindors as well. I was well aware I'd ignored Gemma Farley's warning and stuck my neck out. I owe her an apology for the trouble.
If I tossed out excuses—"making the rot of education under Dumbledore visible," or "roping Gryffindor in so the punishment wouldn't stick"—people accepted it for the moment. But I was also warned to keep my distance from the studious Gryffindor girl, Hermione Granger—"a Muggle-born," therefore a "stain," so for the honor of the pure-bloods I shouldn't get close. The fact they said "keep it to a minimum" instead of "don't speak to her at all" told me how careful they were being with me. The sorry thing about pure-blood supremacists is that even here they can't quite speak plainly to a Malfoy.
For my part, I'd assumed Granger came from a wizarding line—related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. That she's Muggle-born and still knows this much about magic is astonishing. Hard to believe she's only known the wizarding world for a few months. I should take a page from her book.
Back to House relations. My attitude toward the staff had become another reason classmates kept me at arm's length. Starting with Professor Snape, then—indirectly—Madam Hooch the next week, and the day after that I'd said provocative things to Professor McGonagall as well. No wonder, really.
Children gossip about teachers in private like water from a spring, but the problem—so I'm told—is that I look as if I arm myself with arguments first, so the staff can't easily push back. Watching me, Crabbe, six parts concerned and four parts exasperated, advised me to stop. And the teachers I'd tangled with all project some degree of sternness. Few students talk back to them; the one who does is bound to stand out.
In short, I must look like the sort who snaps at any scary teacher in sight. If you asked my year-mates, the impression would be "a mad dog who hides behind his family name." …And since I am, in fact, defying teachers, it's hard to argue the point.
So I did reflect, and I made an effort to be approachable with my Housemates. Not fawning, but as kind as possible—someone you could rely on when it mattered.
If I build friendships now, they might help when the Pale Bald One returns, whenever that is. Left alone, these children might have no choice but to drift to the dark. I need as broad a circle as possible—and a voice in it. Even as a pure-blood scion whose trade is society, that's a duty I can't shirk.
With that slight course correction, October passed far more peacefully than September—at least within Slytherin.
The day after flying, for some reason Weasley and Potter shot me resentful looks. I had no idea why… but a week later a long, narrow parcel—almost certainly a broom—arrived, and they promptly forgot I existed.
In Transfiguration that day, Professor McGonagall's face seemed even tighter than usual—but I'm done caring. I've decided to lie low for a while. They can all do as they please.
Other classes finally moved past introductions into real work. I ran levitation drills in the common room and retold the history Binns had pitched into the river of oblivion as actual stories; in this way I tried to lift Slytherin's overall level and, little by little, win support.
I'm sure some found me insufferable, but they kept it to themselves and treated me kindly. For that, credit to our pure-blood networks.
Gryffindor had someone floating on the margins too—Granger—but of course she enjoyed none of the pure-blood protections I did. As a result, she was thoroughly, and from many directions, found "annoying." Among Gryffindors not part of that circle, the only one I could name was Neville Longbottom, who had enough of Snape's bullying that he clung to Granger during Potions as if she were a lifeline.
Longbottom seems poor at most things, Potions especially, so others shy away from partnering with him. Asking eleven-year-olds to get along even with classmates they dislike is unreasonable—but as someone who would rather not witness Gryffindor's harsher edges, I had mixed feelings.
In any case, those were the sorts of worries. I'd grown complacent enough to treat these as harmless playground squabbles—so much so that I forgot where I was. Only when I ran headlong into the Halloween incident did I finally realize how wrong that was in this story.
On Halloween night, Hogwarts was noisy end to end with overexcited students. After classes we sat in the bustling Great Hall for a feast more lavish than usual. Watching the children's joy warmed me… and then Professor Quirrell burst in. He was deathly pale—one look told you something was terribly wrong.
"Troll… in the dungeons… thought you ought to know…"
He croaked that out and collapsed. Panic swept the children. To restore order, the Headmaster cracked several firecrackers and ordered the prefects to lead their Houses back to their dormitories.
Privately, I wanted to complain about his response. Why send us out? Keep us here. Slytherin and Hufflepuff are in the dungeons. Am I supposed to believe there's some magic I don't know about that keeps us absolutely safe on the way back? Fear wormed into my thoughts, and all I could do was think up solutions that changed nothing.
In the event, we reached our dormitory without encountering a troll, so I'll stop grumbling. But the suspicion that Dumbledore might be senile didn't vanish. He's our last, best hope—I'd like him to feel more immovable.
At last the truth hit me: this is the past of the battle between Harry and the Dark Lord. Here, people may well be killed.
I don't know how the plot proceeds, but I'm sure the story spanned multiple installments. The protagonist is still very young, but each book should have its central incident, and it isn't hard to imagine it happening here at Hogwarts.
After the Halloween chaos, I buried myself in the library and hunted for anything that might point to a culprit.
The story will move forward without me—and if I meddle, I might make it worse—but I refuse to stumble blindfolded through a minefield. At least I should know whom to watch. At bottom, I am anti–Voldemort. If the dark side learns that, they won't care about schoolyard politics; they'll silence me. I need a plan to keep clear of danger.
To make matters worse, this world has Legilimency—peering into minds. I've had no proper Occlumency training; if a skilled Legilimens set sights on me, I'd be finished.
As someone who's squeezed every drop out of "Awfully Loud Potter BB," I knew how much that ridiculous veneer actually taught. Which is precisely why no one can suspect me. Honestly, beyond Harry Potter himself, the only person I can stamp "guaranteed on the side of the good" is Albus Dumbledore. By this world's standards, a newcomer like Harry might be less trustworthy than Dumbledore—though the word "fall to darkness" flashed across my mind. I'll put that aside. Too heavy for a children's story—at least not yet, I hope.
In any case, the crux of finding a Halloween suspect was this: who can get into Hogwarts? The castle is supposedly protected by Dumbledore and its own enchantments. Books like Hogwarts: A History offer nothing sharper than "the defenses are perfect," so I focused on past incidents that actually happened at Hogwarts and combed old newspapers.
The result: leaving aside the unsolved, every incident I found recently had been committed by someone inside the school—teachers or students who were allowed in. The fact I could find a usable sample at all is depressing.
From that, the obvious conclusion is that intruders aren't easily admitted. The troll's handler this time, like the incidents before, was likely a student or teacher. With the Imperius Curse—forcing anyone to act regardless of their will—the suspect pool expands to infinity, which is a problem… but even then, you'd need someone inside. In that case, the ordinary approach—watching those acting oddly around Halloween—should work, even in a place as anything-goes as the wizarding world.
For now, my prime suspects were Professor Quirrell and Professor Snape.
I wanted to add Hagrid, but he could romp with trolls in his own forest to his heart's content; he's not the type to lure one into the castle while he sits at a banquet. Not proof of innocence, but it bumps him out of the top tier.
As for students, the numbers are absurd. If I limit it to years capable of handling trolls and with ties to Harry—i.e., candidates for "foreshadowing"—that leaves Percy Weasley and the Quidditch team. If Imperius is in play, they're technically in the running, but none of them looks like the sort of character you'd cast in that role.
That left the staff.
By behavior, Quirrell was the shadiest. "Troll in the dungeons"—why were you down there instead of at the feast? One could argue old trauma made him too frightened to attend… but even so, you expect Argus Filch to find it first. As the discoverer, Quirrell could time his report. It's hard to rule out intent.
Then again, he's so suspicious that, as a villain, he almost shows his hand too plainly. If he truly executed the troll incident, it's hard not to imagine someone else using him.
Snape, on the other hand, is suspicious by nature and reputation. Not just a nasty teacher, but burdened with a very serious "former Death Eater" question mark. So suspicious that, in a story, he might be a red herring—still, in real terms, a person to watch. And since Halloween he's been limping. I don't know where he got hurt, but it doesn't feel unrelated.
Even so, I couldn't guess the goal. The neatest narrative motive would be to eliminate Harry Potter, newly stepped into the wizarding world as the dark side's enemy—but with the Dark Lord's status uncertain, who would try? While Albus Dumbledore keeps watch, striking at Harry here seems impossible—and if a quick assassination were feasible, why not already?
Using a troll is also a murky tool. It's big, but it's stupid—one creature would be subdued by the staff in short order. So the troll was not the point in itself. We have to ask what one does under cover of such a ruckus. Which brings me back to Quirrell's timing: why report then? A drill? A diversion? A way to reshuffle the security posture? If there's some magical procedure I don't know that requires "let a troll crawl around underground," I'm out of my depth.
I gathered no real clues to the plot, and November rolled on. It seems the flow of Harry Potter's story is harder for a single student to perceive than I expected.
…On that note, since Halloween, Granger appears to have become friends with Potter and Weasley, and I found myself quietly relieved.
People who don't ostracize a clever, serious girl seem less likely to "fall to darkness," don't they?
—
From playing Hogwarts Legacy I had the sense that the Slytherin and Hufflepuff dormitories aren't connected to the northwestern classroom wing underground, so I considered cutting the grumbling about shepherding the protagonist through "connected basements." But if you haven't played, you'd wonder why that vanished. In the original novels, Harry and Ron "fell in with the Hufflepuffs" on their way to the bathroom where Hermione was, which suggests those underground levels are part of the same structure. Using Legacy's layout to tidy up the canon descriptions of the castle is genuinely helpful!
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