22.Apprehension

25th of January, 1992, Saturday

In a small clearing amidst Bradley’s Woods, crimson runes glowed eerily in the darkness from a queer assortment of mossy stones.

In the centre stood a man crowned with silver, his skin fissured like a cracked vase. He was surrounded by three young children arranged on the ground in a triangular position, their heads facing him. Their fearful gazes moved erratically, yet their limbs and tongues refused to budge even an inch despite the lack of visible restraints.

When midnight arrived, death’s stench dwindled as light left their eyes. The fissures dotting his bare flesh were knitted together into unmarred pale skin. If that fool Dumbledore could have seen him, he would have said something absurd, like such foul deeds could only be reversed with an act of great remorse.

Red eyes scanned the surrounding woodland as harsh laughter bubbled into his throat, and he removed the silvery diadem from his head, tossing it aside.

Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.

It hit one of the stones where the crimson light waned and crumbled to dust like the broken shell that it was.

As usual, the self-righteous fool was wrong. His soul piece was finally rejoined, although the jagged cracks along his soul would take time to mend. Rowena’s trinket was a great catalyst for possessing the body of a willing Quirinus. A useful servant, for now, his soul was used as mortar, as the Diadem’s power of clear sight had also been imprinted upon his very soul. An Invaluable ability, for his long time as a wraith, had muddled his mind.

Yet the clarity of mind had spurred introspection he had previously dismissed. The Horcruxes had become as much of a curse as they were a boon. No power or benefit was gained after the first – a warlock with a single anchor was just as immortal as one with five or seven. He had thought himself able to weather the drawbacks, but now he could see otherwise. Seven was a magically powerful number, but the further splits made his magic unstable, diminished his control, and dulled his wits.

The changes from a single split were nearly imperceptible, but they had subtly begun to add up along with the other dark rituals he had performed.

Would he otherwise have been afraid of a mere swaddling babe?

He could see it now – Sybill, a true mistress of Divination, had been generous enough with her explanation of her subject. In his hubris, Voldemort had given power to the very prophecy he had sought to avoid.

He shook his head, banishing the inane thoughts; he had greater woes than some young boy.

Quirinus’s magic was too feeble, too weak, barely a sliver of what Voldemort could command in his prime. Its flow was also sluggish and unresponsive, like a turbid swamp. Such a glaring problem could take decades to rectify, but Voldemort knew he lacked such patience. Even the lesser lineage rankled him deep, for Quirrell’s origins could never compare to the mighty line of Slytherin.

Alas, one body could not host two souls no matter how much Voldemort tried, and it started breaking down. He could figure out a way around such trifles with time, but it was not worth it. If his mind were as muddled as before, he would have probably resorted to something as foolish as killing unicorns for their blood under Dumbledore’s nose.

Sacrificing young, innocent muggle children in such numbers had started to attract the attention of the DMLE and was not truly a solution but a less conspicuous way of delaying. Not that they could ever catch him, but the scrutiny was troublesome. None could hope to find Lord Voldemort when he wanted to remain hidden.

Flamel’s stone would allow him to reforge his real body anew, even more powerful than before and with no drawbacks. If nothing else, Dumbledore knew he could not resist such an opportunity. And the headmaster was right.

With a swish of his wand, he was adorned in a plain robe, and Quirrell looked at the three lifeless husks that now looked like shrivelled mummies. There was no reason to make the DMLE’s job easier, and now he had to return the children from where they had been taken and destroy any trace of his presence here.

The next morning, Quirrell returned to Hogwarts, eyes brown.

Sybill was waiting by the entrance of his office, and he was met with an eager embrace. “Quirinus! How fares your dear grandmother?”

“I’m afraid old age is finally catching up to her,” he said mournfully, face filled with regret. “The last bout of dragon pox left her too weak.”

“Poor Martha.” Sybill nervously pulled on her spangled shawl. “I tried to look into her future, but all I saw was darkness…” Amusement rose within him as he noticed she had not adorned herself with the usual multitude of beads, rings, and other trinkets. It certainly made the Divination mistress easier on the eyes.

“Alas,” Quirrell sighed, pulling his office door open. “It is just the way of things. Come on in. Tea or sherry?”

The Divination mistress closed the door behind her and gave him a coy smile, a hint of pink creeping up her cheeks. “Not yet. I missed you.”

He lunged forward and hungrily captured her lips as his hands began to remove her deceptively baggy clothing.

Trelawney had no more use, but he had to keep up appearances lest he invited Dumbledore’s unwanted scrutiny. It was amusing; the old fool thought Voldemort uncaring of such baser needs and desires. Affairs with other staff members were frowned upon but allowed as long as there were no scandals. And… it did help that Sybill brought him a sliver of pleasure and relief he had once deemed useless.

8th of February, Saturday

The Hog’s Head Inn was as Dumbledore remembered: dreadfully empty and dirty, as if nobody had bothered to use even the simplest cleaning charm for centuries. Nobody even knew what the floor was made of, for a thick, solid layer of caked sawdust and dirt covered it.

“Albus.” His brother’s greeting was as frosty as usual.

“Abe,” the headmaster nodded mournfully but only earned himself a scoff as he placed two galleons on the ancient wooden till.

Aberforth shooed him with annoyance without even deigning to spare him a glance. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll bring over your favourite.”

With a sigh, Dumbledore went to the table by the opaque windows, where the only patron sat—a stout figure wrapped in an ordinary brown cloak.

“Albus,” Moody greeted him as his magical eye erratically moved around. Doubtlessly, the old Auror watched the street outside through the opaque window. “Glad you could make it.”

“Always a pleasure, Alastor,” Dumbledore nodded as he conjured himself with a clean chair. “I’m afraid my time is rather limited as of late.”

The duties of a deputy headmaster were far more cumbersome than he remembered. Alas, it had to be done, and he had yet to find a suitable and willing candidate for the position. It was a prestigious but demanding post and the headmaster’s right hand, but perhaps that was why no one was willing to take it. His reputation had not been the best lately, yet he still hoped Fillius would change his mind.

Aberforth came over with a bottle of Bungbarrel Spiced Mead and gruffly left it on the table. Albus conjured a glass and poured himself the dark amber liquid.

“The DMLE has turned into a hornet’s nest,” Moody took a small sip from his flask. “The Wiltshire Warlock leaves even more bodies in his wake, and we can’t catch a whiff of the dark mage. Rumour is that even the muggle minister has started to get worried. Fudge breathes down our necks, demanding results. Fawley keeps delaying his retirement. I imagine this fiasco has wounded his pride.”

“Oh?” Dumbledore pulled on his beard, took a swallow of mead, and smiled. It was just the right balance of sweetness, warmth, and spiciness. “Is this the source of talks about increasing the DMLE budget for the first time in ten years?”

“Quite possibly. It’s a welcome thing, but it wouldn’t do squat, I tell you.” Alastor’s scarred face twisted into a scowl, making him look even fiercer. “The perpetrator is like a ghost. All scrying failed. He leaves no traces, only corpses that look like dark ritual victims, which we only find after or when the muggles do. Can you believe it?”

The old veteran shook his head. “Nobody has heard anything about suspicious ongoings, only the usual old faces and known crooks who lack the daring. All the contacts and spies in Knockturn Alley come empty-handed. Whoever is sacrificing so many operates on his lonesome. I’ve asked around, and the hardline traditionalists in the Mot are confused and wary.”

“Sounds like someone skilled with plentiful knowledge of the muggle world and Magical Law Enforcement.”

“That’s what I thought too. But no one can say Fawley isn’t stubborn – he swept the Department for leaks and found none. Now, we operate on new protocols.” Moody’s voice had a trace of satisfaction, but his eye was still flinty. “Yet the killings continue, and we can’t do a bloody thing about it, no matter how hard Fudge is breathing down our necks. We’ve been setting traps, and squads are standing ready at night, waiting for a whiff of an attack. Even the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes has been pulled into this. Fawley is pulling off all stops to no avail.”

“It is sad to hear,” Albus said mournfully. “But my duty and skills lie first and foremost as an educator. Your acumen in criminal investigation and apprehension outstrips mine by far.”

Alastor took a heavy gulp from his flask and sighed. “Aye. But your connections reach far.”

“I shall make some inquiries. But my influence has waned of late.” He had even started considering resigning from his position as Chief Warlock, but his heart was reluctant. It was his last foothold in the Ministry, keeping him abreast of the Wizengamot.

“A spy is useless in the spotlight,” Moody snorted. “For all his wits, Snape is a moron. What did he think would have happened by not only taking but using Lily’s wand? I saw the investigation transcript – he even brewed whiskey mixed with a mild dose of forgetfulness potion. It makes him perfect for a set-up. But perhaps it is for the better.” Alastor, of all people, understood why he had brought Snape to his side but still did not like it.

“I am of a similar opinion,” Dumbledore grimly agreed. “I have… suspicions that Voldemort might be returning.”

“So you warned me back then. He isn’t truly dead, eh?” Alastor’s eye started erratically spinning as if looking for enemies. But the inn was empty except for them—Aberforth had gone out to sweep the snow from the alleyway. “Are you going to gather the old squad again?”

“Not just yet. Voldemort… is proving elusive despite the trap I have set for him. Staying in the shadows, waiting and biding his time to strike.” Albus took another sip of mead; this time, the warm sweetness was dull on his tongue. “For now, all I have is conjecture and fears.”

He had observed all of his staff like a hawk. Quirrell and Petrov were suspicious in their own right, but neither looked nor acted like someone possessed by Voldemort. Quirinus showed love for teaching that was far purer than anything Tom Riddle was capable of, and his affection for Trelawney was far more genuine than that of other similar relationships.

Grigori… was just plain greedy in an unashamedly open way. His bids to make some side hustle with Hagrid’s assistance had not gone unnoticed, but it was not anything illegal, of course.

The man was heavily overqualified for the caretaker position. Albus had inquired about the move with his contacts abroad, learning that his culling of trolls in his homeland had garnered enmity from certain communities, thus a need to lie low. Still, he could not complain about his work. There was no motive there, and the man had been at the opposite corner of the Continent even until the board had summoned him after Samhain.

Moody’s already dire face became even more grim. “Like a serpent in the grass. Do you think he has something to do with our problem?”

“It is… possible. Alas, you seem to be reduced to simply reacting or waiting for your target to make a mistake, just like me.” Yet the more time Albus was given to prepare, the more brutal the trap became. Voldemort would certainly be met with more than one unwelcome surprise if he tried anything at Hogwarts again. Sometimes, he felt like a child building his own toy house again.

“I don’t like this,” Alastor muttered.

“Me neither, my friend. Me neither.” Dumbledore stood up and grabbed the unfinished bottle of mead. “But one can only play with the hand they’re dealt with. Duty calls, I’m afraid.”

He had decided to layer more, even subtler traps for Tom, and this particular one required plenty of time and effort.

Besides, he had to check the Quill of Acceptance and start penning the letters for next year’s students. He also had the monthly Wizengamot meeting to chair tomorrow, which could easily take a half day with how long-winded Fudge liked to be.

19th of February, 1992, Wednesday

Harry woke up with a start. The dream, no, nightmare, slipped from his mind like water through a sieve, but one part was seared in his consciousness—a familiar pair of eerie crimson eyes.

Wiping the cold sweat from his brow, Harry slowly shrugged off the covers, carefully lifted the snoozing Nyx from his chest and left her on the bed. She still didn’t give any attention to the vivarium unless it was to shed her skin.

Making his way to the mirror, he lit his wand and inspected his forehead. The scar was as faint as ever, so why was he still dreaming about Voldemort?

He touched his brow, but it felt like skin. None of the familiar pain typically accompanied the scar acting up. None of the ragged exhaustion Harry had grown used to, either. In fact, he was feeling quite well-rested, and a glance at his watch told him it was just the time to wake up. Perhaps this was simply a normal dream?

Voldemort was certainly the stuff of nightmares, and Harry knew all too well after crossing paths with the Dark Lord a few times too many.

A thought that brought him to his previous musings. His mother’s wand, father’s cloak, and the Marauder’s Map were with him. Although Harry did not get much use of the last two, while mighty useful for mischief or subtlety, he was up to neither. The Map was a wondrous tool, but he had looked at it for years before and didn’t hold his interest anymore. After finding nothing amiss amidst the moving ink for months, Harry had busied himself with more important things like training and reading.

Sirius was free, and they would finally live together; Pettigrew was in Azkaban, and so was Snape. Harry ought to feel happy, and he did… but the feeling of restlessness did not go away. Everything was going well, and maybe that was the problem. Well, not everything; the Come and Go Room remained… hidden.

He knew better than that – things would go awry sooner or later. Samhain and the trolls were a grim reminder that even this world was not as peaceful as it seemed.

Even aside from that, it had been too easy, too simple, and Harry had not yet addressed the dragon in the room.

There was no doubt that the former Potions Professor was a nasty piece of work, but was Snape truly behind the troll attack as the Prophet claimed? Months later, Harry still struggled to make up his mind. It had not been Quirrell either–he had been in the Great Hall, according to everyone, and had even slain a troll.

Voldemort was a looming shadow that had haunted his life, and one Harry could do nothing but face. Running and hiding from the Dark Lord might be possible, but Tom Riddle was not one to give up. Harry knew, and he would have to face him sooner or later. The question was when.

There was not even a shred of doubt in his mind that the Dark Lord was still alive and around in some form. And when Voldemort undoubtedly returned, he would once again be chased down like some rat just for existing.

If the Dark Lord did not possess the back of Professor Quirrell’s head, where was he?

Was Voldemort even here at all?

And why was the tense, foreboding feeling at the corner of his mind not going away?

It rankled Harry fiercely, but the unease helped him get out of bed early every morning and train himself to sleep.

Maybe he could tell someone else about all those problems, but then he would also have to explain the whole different life thing in a way that wouldn’t make him look like a loon. Merlin, Harry was reluctant to trust anyone with his secrets, let alone expect proper help and assistance. He had tried both before, and it had turned out… poorly.

Harry would have gone to Dumbledore in a heartbeat in another lifetime, but that trust had crumbled when he was left no choice but to walk to his death. Sirius would be his second choice, but his godfather was too big of a hothead, and Harry did not want to risk losing him again. Besides, the world was different, and his previous knowledge could still prove obsolete, like the Room of the Requirement.

With a sigh, he strapped on his wand holster and pulled over his training clothes.

“Sleeve!” Nyx’s hiss had him turn to the bed; the serpent had awoken and looked at him with a pair of obsidian eyes.

“I’m going for a run.”

“I want to come!”

“Nyx, you’ve grown too big to hide in my sleeve, and you hate it when I jog,” Harry groused. They had this conversation a few days ago, and it seemed she had decided to try her luck again. The black serpent had grown to over two feet and was no longer as thin as a noodle. In fact, Nyx made the arm she was coiled around suspiciously thick and wiggly, and Harry felt like the arm in question was covered in lead.

Predictably, the black snake shook herself with annoyance, hissing up a storm. Yet Harry stood his ground, and a minute later, Nyx glumly flopped on the bed in defeat, looking as if a sad smudge of ink had spilt on his sheets.

“Can’t you shrink me like you do with those books?”

Harry swallowed his retort, blinking at the hopeful Nyx. She was right–he was shrinking all his schoolbooks, making them easier to carry in his school bag.

With a thought, the yew wand was in his hand, and he pointed it at the black serpent. “Reducio!”

The spell hit Nyx, washing over her inky scales.

“I don’t feel smaller,” she hissed, shook herself, and twisted around to look at her tail. “I don’t think it worked, Harry!”

“Stay still.” Harry clicked his tongue and focused, forcing his magic to pool at the tip of his wand. Concentrating to the limit, he slowly began to weave the wand motion as more and more power was channelled into his wand, “Reducio!”

A blast of light erupted from his wand, landing on the black snake with a loud pop.

“That tickles.” Harry looked at the wiggling Nyx, her size completely unchanged. With a wave of the yew wand, he flung a silent shrinking charm on his inkpot on his desk, turning it the size of his nail. What the bloody hell? “Again!”

For the next fifteen minutes, Harry tried every benign charm he could think of on Nyx, but nothing worked, though the black serpent seemed to have the time of her life because magic tickled.

“‘m tired.” And just like that, Nyx sluggishly coiled around his pillow and started snoozing adorably.

It took some time for Harry to gather his wits and go down the spiral staircase to his common room, where Diana and Juno were waiting.

“You’re late,” the muggle-born girl groused with a yawn, looking like a tired cat whose tail had been stepped on. “Could’a slept another thirty minutes.”

“Got carried away,” Harry mumbled apologetically.

“There’s something on your mind,” Juno noted neutrally.

“Uh, just thinking about stuff.” Neither prodded any further, but the two girls kept glancing at him with some concern.

The rest of the day blurred together as he fell into the familiar, mind-numbing routine: jogging, spell practice, breakfast, classes, lunch, more classes, and homework.

As the sun set and the classes ended, Harry let his legs lead him back to the Ravenclaw tower for more spell practice when he slammed into what felt like a wall.

Just as he flailed on his way down the staircase, a strong hand gripped his wrist and effortlessly pulled him up.

“You must be more mindful of your surroundings, Mr Potter,” Quirrell’s amused voice shook him alert as Harry’s eyes were nailed on the pale fingers that gripped his skin directly.

“Sorry, sir.” Harry bashfully rubbed his neck.

“Too much training is no good,” the DADA professor hummed thoughtfully as his curious brown eyes inspected him from head to toe. “You ought to try unwinding for a week. I have heard it helps clear your mind. Should you need any assistance or advice, my door is always open.”

With an amused chuckle, Quirrell patted his shoulder and continued to the North Tower, where the divination classroom resided.

Harry watched the professor’s back as he moved with a spring in his step, but his mind was stuck on the place where Quirrell’s fingers had gripped his bare wrist. Any lingering suspicions about the man were dispelled – he did not burn with a touch, as Voldemort did before his resurrection.

There was no turban or face on the back of his head this time, but Harry still clung to his distrust, even if it lessened by the day. Yet now, it was gone–this could not be Voldemort, or his mother’s protection would have turned him to ash.

“Oy, Potter, are you fine?” A voice shook him out of his stupor.

An older Hufflepuff boy was looking at him with concern, and Harry realised he had remained stunned in the middle of the staircase.

“Err, I’m good, thanks,” Harry reassured awkwardly and continued towards the Ravenclaw Tower, but his mind drifted again.

It just felt… odd to have such a competent Defence professor who wasn’t trying to kill him or wasn’t a hidden werewolf. And he seemed genuine in his desire to teach – all the students loved him, and even Harry had learned new things in the first-year lessons despite his previous experience. Perhaps Quirrell had been right; a few days of rest would do him good and calm his wandering mind.

There was still a sliver of caution in his heart – the wariness against Defense teachers was ingrained in him after six years. But as nothing weird happened with Quirrell, his suspicions lessened by the day.

Was there even any danger if neither the Defence teacher nor Snape were here to steal the stone?

3rd of March, 1992, Wednesday

Putting on some muscle was far easier said than done, and Petrov refused to elaborate. “Where’s the fun if I tell you everything, boy?”

All the training the older-year students knew was for Quidditch. Of course, Ron had started some exercises for beaters, but the results were mixed. Sure, he kind of felt stronger, but that was about it.

Some days, Ron Weasley hated Hogwarts.

Some older Slytherins, Draco Malfoy and his goons had started picking on him – small things, minor jinxes and hexes, and slamming into him in the hallways by accident or the subtle insults. They did it out of sight, of course, so none of the teachers or prefects could tell who was in the right or wrong because it was their word against his.

And it seemed that the school staff had managed to develop an intrinsic sense of distrust against the name Weasley, courtesy of his twin brothers. Even Percy complained about them ruining his chances for Head Boy, selfish berk.

Ron tried avoiding them, of course. His father always taught him not to start a fight. There was this niggling suspicion in the back of his head that this whole thing only made Fred and George prank the Slytherins harder. It didn’t help that the other Gryffindor boys were being pillocks about Longbottom, so he stayed away from them.

“If the Gryffindors could afford better brooms, they might have stood a chance against the Hufflepuffs,” Draco loudly commented in the hallway while looking at Ron after Gryffindor had just lost yet another Quidditch match. “Of course, with two Weasleys on the team, that’s a tall order.”

“What’s your problem, Malfoy?” Ron sighed when the blonde boy’s shoulder slammed straight into him, and the two goons chuckled.

“Merlin, are you deaf, Weasley?” Malfoy’s face grew thoughtful. “Though, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Your lot is probably too poor to afford a proper broom, let alone a decent healer to fix your hearing.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Malfoy,” he scoffed. “My family might not be rich, but at least we’re not buying our way into everything.”

Ron turned around and went the other direction, unwilling to tangle with the blonde ponce and his two goons. There were better ways to spend his time.

“Maybe if your hippogryph of a mother didn’t eat all your food and your father stopped at one or two children, you would have enough money for that broom.”

The hallway turned red. Before Ron knew it, he had turned around, and his punch sank into Malfoy’s soft nose, and the Slytherin crumpled on the floor with a pained yelp. The surprise on Crabbe’s and Goyle’s faces was fascinating to see, but the blond boys’ wail awoke them from their stupor.

Ron barely managed to jerk his head out of the way of Crabbe’s mean hook and retaliated with a jab to the chin, dropping him to the ground. Goyle tackled him, but the red-haired boy elbowed him in the ribs. But the floor slammed into his back, knocking the air out of his lungs and then his hand was pinned under what felt like a mountain while –

“What is happening here?” McGonagall’s stern voice cut echoed ominously in the hallway, halting them.

Goyle sluggishly stood up with a cough while Crabbe just lay on the ground, groaning dumbly at the Transfiguration professor.

“Weabley attacked ush like shome shabage brushe, professhor.” Ron couldn’t hold it back and guffawed at Malfoy’s fumbled words, but his joy quickly died down as McGonagall’s lips thinned so much they disappeared.

Of course, he lost fifteen points for attacking other students like a common muggle in the hallway, not that the Gryffindors cared beyond him smacking Malfoy a good one. Their house was three hundred points behind even the ‘Puffs, and Ron hated how he was now labelled a troublemaker by the Gryffindors, even if it was supposed to be a badge of honour. The disappointed Professor McGonagall gave him a week’s worth of detention and promised to write to his Mum if he got into another fight. He wasn’t even surprised when the Twins laughed at the whole thing, and Percy scolded him for fighting in the hallways.

Goyle, of course, had gotten off with four days of work in the Greenhouses, and Crabbe and Malfoy got nothing but some tongue-lashing.

“It isn’t fair,” Ron mumbled quietly. The realisation came to him later – Malfoy deliberately provoked him to successfully start a fight with a teacher nearby. Of course, nobody cared since he was the one to throw the first punch, and the blonde Slytherin, nose already fixed, had proclaimed Ron a rabid dog who would attack anyone on sight for everyone in earshot.

“Of course, life ain’t fair, boy,” Petrov snorted, exhaling a small cloud of acrid smoke after pulling on his fag. “The earlier you learn it, the better.”

“So…” the red-haired boy swallowed heavily, trying to push down his apprehension and ignore the smoke stinging his eyes. “what am I supposed to do?”

The evening had come, and Ron had to cut his dinner early to attend the detention at the small antechamber. The caretaker was smoking a fag, filling the air with a heavy smell that made Ron cough.

“Patience. We’re waiting for one more rulebreaker like you.” He would have thought Fred and George would join him, but no, all of their detentions were done with McGonagall. Perhaps Sprout begged off and was sending Goyle over? The thought of spending hours more in the presence of one of Malfoy’s cronies made him queasy.

A few minutes later, a blond, first-year Slytherin boy entered the antechamber, and for a moment, Ron thought it was Malfoy. But he was slightly taller, and there was no trace of gloating on his sharp but no less proud face than Malfoy, if with sea-green eyes.

“Greengrass?” The red-haired boy scratched his head. The Greengrass twins and their clique were not half as annoying as Malfoy’s lot. And they did not look like the sort to get into trouble, nor did they pick on him. But they were still… snakes.

“Weasley,” the Slytherin twin nodded curtly.

“Follow me, you two.” Petrov took a last pull of his fag and threw it to the ground, where it disappeared with a flick of his wand. The two boys followed as he led them through the hallway out in the dark courtyard. He fished a lantern out of his heavy leather cloak and lit it with a tap of his wand.

“Where are we going?” Ron couldn’t help but ask as the caretaker started leading them through the cold darkness. The robes barely warded off the cold, and this was not the way to the Greenhouses as he expected. The castle grounds looked scarier at night, especially as the swinging lantern made all the shadows dance eerily. The stars and the waning moon were hidden between a wreath of clouds, making everything feel even gloomier.

“You could have been scrubbing cauldrons and toilets with a toothbrush,” the man let out a nasty, nasal laugh. “But it seems pointless to me. I am generous enough to allow you two to learn some useful new skills.”

Ron warily looked around the creeping darkness, the coldness of the night making him shiver. Were there giant man-eating spiders in the Forbidden Forest, as Fred and George had told him? Suddenly, the redhead decided that he would prefer to scrub toilets with a toothbrush.

“Students are… forbidden from venturing into the forest,” Damien Greengrass noted neutrally, but his voice felt half a pitch higher than usual.

“Fret not, we’re not going to enter. Light up your wands.”

While Ron tried to fish out his wand from his robes, Damien muttered a Lumos, lighting up a soft beam of light. Half a minute later, he finally succeeded, but the two streaks of light didn’t assuage Ron much. The two boys had huddled closer together, an unspoken agreement to watch their side of the road.

A sigh of relief rolled off Ron’s tongue when he saw the lighted windows of Hagrid’s hut ahead. Working with Hagrid wouldn’t be so bad.

“Grigori?” Hagrid’s voice echoed through the darkness as the hut door opened. “Jus’ in time.”

The gamekeeper, crossbow in hand, had brought his enormous dog and one more lantern.

The two boys followed mutely through the pumpkin patch and into a small clearing by the forbidden forest. A heavy stench struck him, reminding Ron of Charlie’s old socks and rotten eggs.

“Trolls,” Damien choked out.

“That’s right,” Grigori’s satisfied voice echoed through the night as two enormous grey corpses were revealed just by the tree line.

“They’re… dead,” Ron grimaced.

“Of course they are. The board of governors pays me extra for every troll slain near the castle. Now, you’re going to dismantle them.”

“Dismantle them?” Greengrass croaked out weakly, looking particularly green, any trace of pride gone from his face. Ron grimaced at the buckets, jars, and vials neatly arranged around the corpses.

“Why yes, why do you think I had you dress in your worst clothes?” A wide smile split the caretaker’s face, which now looked demonic in the flickering lantern. “I dismantled my first troll when I was your age, boys. It’s honest work. Troll whiskers, heart, blood, bogeys, head, and spleen are all valuable when harvested fresh.”

“Err.” Ron tried to suppress the bile rising in his throat. “Can we go and scrub toilets with toothbrushes?”

“No,” Petrov barked out. “There’s nothing to be learned from mindless shite that can be done with a flick of a wand. That housemate of yours, Longbottom, certainly hasn’t learned a thing after doing that for months, aside from brushing his teeth better. Don’t be squeamish now. Some blood and tears now will save you lots of grief later. Besides, this knowledge can get you out of a gutter if you ever find yourself in a pinch. Moreover, McGonagall and Slughorn agreed. If you don’t like it, you can leave, pack your things, and return home.”

Why… why was Hagrid nodding from the side? And the way he smiled so happily at them as if this was all a real treat… Then, the titanic gamekeeper deftly hammered a tall stake by the corpses and hung up one of the lanterns before venturing deep into the forest with his dog.

Damien Greengrass stood, grimacing as his gaze wandered back and forth between the fallen trolls and the caretaker. “We don’t know anything about butchering or dismantling.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you for free. Once you know how to butcher a troll, you know it all. Here, take these.” Petrov handed Ron and Damien a wicked-looking knife half the size of their forearm each. It felt heavy in his hand. “I’ll show you how, and the second troll would be all yours. Waste not, want not, my father always used to say! First, you pluck the whiskers – that’s the easy part. Then, you have to drain the blood-“

Soon enough, Ron found that trolls stank worse on the inside than on the outside. Half an hour later, both boys had puked out everything there was to puke out in their stomachs as the former monster hunter patiently dismantled the enormous carcass, explaining everything with morbid glee as he made them watch and repeat.

“Not bad,” Petrov nodded fondly at them as a twirl of his wand vanished all the puke, but Ron still felt dirty. The filled buckets were then sealed, and the Caretaker placed them by hand in what looked to be a bottomless bag. “If you can stomach dismantling a troll, you can stomach everything, which is an essential skill for any wizard. You can rest five minutes before starting with your own troll. Here, you must stay properly hydrated.”

Two muggle bottles of water were thrown by their side. Both boys hastily uncapped them and started chugging it all down. The cool liquid was a balm that washed away the taste of bile in his mouth.

“So,” his voice came hoarse, for his throat still felt raw as Ron stared at the pale blonde Slytherin. Damien Greengrass didn’t look half as irksome as he did half an hour ago. “What’d you do to earn yourself a detention?”

“Your bloody brothers threw a dung bomb at my sister,” the blonde boy grimaced. “When I started, err, chasing them, they led me straight into Professor Slughorn and got me a detention.”

It sounded oddly familiar, and Ron felt Greengrass had done much more than chasing to earn his detention.

“Ugh. Fred and George can be a nuisance,” he groaned.

“Your brothers have the uncanny skill of walking a thin line between detention and suspension. But you’re not half bad yourself, I suppose. For a Gryffindor, that is.”

Ron blinked. That was… quite unexpected.

“You’re not too bad for a Slytherin either,” the red-haired boy decided.

“Break time’s over,” Petrov’s voice cut through the darkness. “Come now, don’t dawdle unless you want to stay here all night. The important part is to keep the knife’s edge always facing away from your limbs-“

With much effort, the two boys dismantled the troll to the caretaker’s satisfaction without cutting themselves up with the heavy knives. It even wasn’t that terrible once you got used to the smell. The feeling of flesh and skin parting under the knife’s edge felt oddly… satisfying. Ron noticed that all the parts they had painstakingly procured went into the bottomless bag, just like with the first troll. It felt like forever, but the man informed them that midnight had yet to pass as they returned to the castle.

“Good job, you snot-nosed brats.” There was pride in the caretaker’s words. “You’ve finally taken the first step into adulthood. Go on now, return to your beds. You need a good night’s sleep – a long week ahead of us.”

Two groans echoed together at the reminder that it was a whole week’s worth of detention as the former monster hunter whistled a jaunty tune on his way to the caretaker’s office.

The two of them exchanged glances, which turned into a grimace once they realised their robes were caked with greyish, dried-up troll gore. What had Petrov said… ah yes, it was easier to clean by hand than by magic. In fact, Damine’s fancy silken robe looked no different than Ron’s own.

Just as Ron was about to make way for the Grand Staircase, Damien pulled him aside, face filled with resolve. “Weasley. You ought to avoid the older Slytherins.”

“Uh, what?”

“I’ve heard… talk in the common room that your twin brothers are becoming a nuisance after sabotaging Terence Higgs twice before Quidditch training. Some of the older years want to get even.”

“Fred and George are hard to catch,” Ron said, not feeling particularly worried. Even if they got caught, getting knocked down a peg would do them good.

“Well, yeah. But that’s why I heard Montague suggest they go after you instead. Just… watch out, okay?”

And like that, Damien Greengrass hurried down to the dungeons, leaving a stunned Ron behind. The warning was unexpected but appreciated. He set his jaw and trundled to the Gryffindor common room. He would need to prepare if the cowards wanted a piece of him instead of his brothers.

It was indeed shaping up to be a long week.

Ron could barely keep his eyes open, and he could already see the cosy bed in the dormitory waiting for him. But first, he had to take a long, warm shower and see if the robes could be scrubbed clean. He only had two more left.