Chapter Eleven: The Frozen Troll
Draco Malfoy trudged down from the Astronomy Tower, every step heavy with fatigue. His body ached, his stomach growled, and the chill of the October night clung to his robes. Eleven years old again — a body too small to bear the weight of two lifetimes. He longed for the feast in the Great Hall, for warmth and food, for the illusion of normalcy.
But then came the sound. A muffled sob, fragile and raw, echoing from the girls' bathroom. He stopped, pulse quickening. A Malfoy did not meddle. A Malfoy kept his dignity. Yet the sound pierced him, dragging up memories of his own tears in solitude. If he walked away now, he might regret it forever.
And then the stench hit — foul, rancid, unmistakable. Heavy footsteps, guttural muttering. A troll. Draco's blood ran cold. Quirrell's troll. He cursed himself for forgetting. Tonight was Halloween. Tonight the feast would be interrupted by chaos.
He should flee. He should save himself. But the sobbing continued, fragile as a bird's cry. He could not leave a child to face a monster. He shoved open the door.
Hermione Granger turned, eyes swollen, cheeks wet. "You—" she began, startled. Draco didn't wait. He seized her hand. "No time. Run." He dragged her out, her protests drowned by the troll's looming shadow.
She struggled, furious at his intrusion, but when he silenced her and pointed, she saw it: twelve feet of granite‑skinned stupidity, dragging a club, peering into the bathroom. Her anger dissolved into terror. She clutched his hand, trembling. He conjured a jar of blue fire, pressing it into her palms. "Hold this," he said softly. She whispered thanks, shamefaced.
For a moment, they crouched together in the shadows, breath shallow, hearts pounding. Draco's mind raced. He had lived through war, through death, through Voldemort's reign. He had seen too many die. He would not let it happen again — not here, not now.
Then chaos erupted. Harry and Ron appeared, locking the troll inside — then unlocking it again, blundering back in. Draco's face went green. Gryffindors, lining up to die. Hermione cried out, desperate to help them. Draco snarled, "How? You have no wand, no plan!" But her tears undid him. He cursed himself and followed her in.
The sight was madness: Ron frozen against the wall, Harry clinging to the troll's neck, his wand jammed grotesquely up its nose. Draco's heart lurched. This was suicide. Yet Hermione's plea rang in his ears. He raised his wand. "Immobulus!" Blue light burst forth. The troll froze mid‑swing, locked in stone‑like stillness.
"Brilliant!" Ron gasped. Draco ignored him. "Move. Quickly. Before it wakes." They scrambled, dragging Harry down, retreating into a classroom as professors arrived. McGonagall's voice rang out, spells flew, and the troll collapsed with a thunderous crash.
In the dark, the four children huddled. Hermione slumped against Draco's shoulder, clutching the jar of fire, finally asleep. Harry and Ron whispered thanks. Draco, still listening for danger, muttered, "Don't be reckless again. Wands are your life. Treat them as such." His voice was sharp, but his eyes softened when Hermione stirred, smiling faintly at him before drifting back into dreams.
He warned them all: "Say nothing of me being here. Keep this secret." For Draco, secrecy was survival. Voldemort's shadow still lingered, and he could not afford exposure.
By the end of the night, the trio's friendship was sealed in fire and fear. And Draco — reluctant, conflicted, yet decisive — had become their hidden guardian, bound to them by a frozen troll and a choice he could not ignore.