[Congratulations.
Host has completed the task: The First Lecture.] [Requirement: Perfectly complete your first formal class.] [Rewards: 20,000 Evil God Points, Intermediate Lottery Ticket ×1 (already issued).] Styx leaned back in his office chair and regarded the notifications with quiet satisfaction.
“System.
Intermediate lottery.” [Congratulations: Ghost Fog — Mysterious Revival.] [Congratulations: Cruciatus Curse Mastery Skill Card.] [Congratulations: Imperius Curse Mastery Skill Card.] He set the two Unforgivable mastery cards aside without ceremony and focused on the first reward.
Ghost Fog.
In its original world the ability had belonged to a man who should have been a captain; the defensive utility had more than made up for other shortcomings.
The system had already stripped away the fatal flaws.
Sensory isolation, slow attrition, extreme expandability—inside a field of Ghost Fog, Styx was effectively untouchable in the present world.
“Can I control the ghosts inside it?” [The fierce ghosts originally contained in Ghost Fog have been removed for balance.] “Your idea of balance is interesting.” He let it go.
His existing spirits were already more than enough.
Filling the Fog with them would make even him feel the atmosphere was too heavy.
— Once the Dark Arts Practical post was secure, Styx discovered the quiet pleasures of a stable teaching position.
Hogwarts students provided fresh entertainment daily.
The Weasley twins spent every lesson trying to invent magically enhanced dungbombs.
Prefect Percy polished his badge until it could double as a mirror every time he passed.
Cedric Diggory’s relentless politeness made Styx want to press sweets into the boy’s hands just to break the pattern.
The real concern, of course, remained the three first-years at the centre of everything.
Harry had been named Gryffindor’s Seeker.
The house had nearly lost its collective mind.
They had also found their way into the third-floor corridor, met the three-headed dog, and seen the trapdoor beneath its paws.
And Hermione and Ron had fallen out.
The cause was simple.
Hermione considered Ron’s study habits criminal.
Ron considered Hermione’s need to manage everyone exhausting.
“You should hear the way she talks to people,” Ron muttered in the corridor after class.
“No wonder she hasn’t got any friends.” Harry’s face went rigid.
Hermione stood directly behind Ron.
All colour left her face.
She slammed her shoulder into Ron hard enough to stagger him, clutched her books, and fled.
Ron stood frozen.
“How long was she there?” “Just now,” Harry said.
“You should apologise.” “I’m not—she started—” The rest of the sentence died in his throat.
— The Halloween feast filled the Great Hall with floating pumpkins, mountains of sweets, and the rich scent of roast pumpkin and cinnamon.
The Gryffindor table was loud and chaotic.
One seat remained empty.
Styx noted the absence at once.
Hermione was almost certainly crying in a bathroom somewhere.
The original timeline was still moving on schedule; he had no intention of forcing it off the rails.
The trio needed this particular crisis to bind them properly.
Watching, however, was still required.
He set down his goblet.
“Excuse me.
I need the bathroom.” Dumbledore glanced up from the centre of the staff table.
A faint, unreadable smile sat behind the half-moon spectacles.
Styx ignored it and left.
The second-floor corridor was quiet.
Faint, muffled sobs drifted from the girls’ bathroom at the far end.
Styx leaned against the wall, arms folded, a toothpick between his teeth.
“That idiot Ron.
When this is over I’m giving him special attention in Practical.” He was still considering the most educational forms of legal torment when chaos erupted from the Great Hall.
Quirrell’s voice carried the entire length of the corridor.
“Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know!” A theatrical collapse followed.
Dumbledore’s raised voice restored order almost instantly.
“Prefects, lead your houses back to the dormitories.
Professors, with me.” Styx remained in the shadows.
In the Gryffindor line Harry seized Ron’s arm.
“Hermione’s still in the bathroom.” They turned and ran.
The second floor reeked.
Heavy footsteps echoed ahead.
The mountain troll was already dragging its club toward the bathroom door.
Harry’s face went white.
“It’s going for the girls’ bathroom!” They reached the doorway too late.
The interior was wreckage—shattered stalls, water spraying from broken pipes.
Hermione huddled under a sink, shaking.
“Hermione!” The troll turned.
Tiny eyes fixed on the two boys.
It raised the club and lumbered forward.
Harry snatched a broken length of wood and smashed it across the troll’s nose.
The blow did nothing but enrage it.
The club came down in a vicious arc.
Ron used the distraction to reach Hermione.
“Run!” The three of them scrambled for the door.
The club swept sideways.
An entire row of sinks exploded.
Water fountained across the tiles.
The club was still descending when a silent spell struck from the doorway.
The troll froze mid-swing, club hanging in the air.
It scratched its head in dull confusion.
“Now!” Ron’s fingers brushed the Lion Medal on his chest.
Warmth flooded his limbs.
The weakness of pure terror vanished.
He raised his wand.
“Wingardium Leviosa!” The troll’s massive body lifted cleanly off the floor—then dropped.
The impact shook the entire bathroom.
The troll sprawled, dazed.
Only then did Styx step fully into view.
A second light tap of his wand sent the floating club crashing down onto the troll’s skull.
It stayed down.
Silence returned, broken only by dripping water and the three soaked, pale children trying to catch their breath.
Styx lowered his wand.
“I suggest the three of you invent a convincing story before Professor McGonagall arrives.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the direction of the dungeons.
The corner of his mouth curved.
“You won’t get this lucky every time.”