The morning of Halloween came in with muted chatter about costumes and desserts.
Sprout moved between the rows of first-years, her boots scuffing softly against the damp earth floor.
Tobias pressed another seed into the soil with his thumb, feeling the faint, familiar ache of failure when nothing magical sparked under his fingertips.
Hannah’s elbow brushed his as she leaned in to whisper, “D’you think they’ll have those chocolate bats again?” Her breath smelled of the mint she’d pocketed from breakfast.
“Probably,” he said, though he couldn’t recall them from the half-remembered haze of his other life.
The greenhouse air clung thick with the scent of wet soil and something herbal Sprout had brewing near the back.
By lunchtime, the common room ceiling swam with flickering witchlight pumpkins, their carved faces winking down at the long tables.
Ernie Macmillan held court near the butter dish, insisting the troll rumors were just that—rumors.
“Father says Dumbledore wouldn’t allow—” The afternoon sun slanted through the high windows, drawing golden lines across the stone floor as Defense Against the Dark Arts droned on.
Tobias watched dust motes swirl in the light, half-listening to the lecture, until the bell rang.
Back in the Great Hall for the feast, the pumpkins were indeed enormous—larger than Tobias’s torso, their grinning mouths wide enough to swallow a first-year whole.
Sprout, passing their table with a tray of roast potatoes, caught his eye and winked.
“Told you they’d be something,” she said, and for a moment, her pride was brighter than the floating candles.
Then Quirrell burst in, his turban askew, and the hall froze.
Sprout mentioned her pumpkins for the hall were the biggest she had grown in years.”Troll—in the dungeons!” Quirrell gasped, his face chalk-white under the turban.
“Thought you ought to know.” The silence that followed was absolute.
Then Hannah’s fork clattered onto her plate, and the hall erupted into screams.
Dumbledore stood, his purple robes sweeping the air into stillness with a single motion.
“Prefects,” he said, calm as if discussing the weather, “lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately.” Tobias watched Cedric rise smoothly at the senior end of the table, already herding the younger students with quiet efficiency.
Ernie was halfway out of his seat, eyes wide—”Did he say *troll*?”—but Tobias found himself oddly still.
The treacle tart sat heavy in his stomach.
Hannah’s fingers dug into his sleeve as the Hufflepuffs shuffled into formation.
“We’re *in* the dungeons,” she whispered, voice thin.
Tobias looked at the hole in the wall where the prefect was directing them—the same damp passage they took every day—and thought, *Yes.
We are.* The corridor smelled of wet stone and candle wax, the usual comforting scents now sharp with fear.
Behind them, the feast lay abandoned, pumpkins still grinning in the empty hall.
“Move *quickly*,” the prefect urged, herding them forward like sheep.
Tobias kept pace beside Hannah, their shoulders brushing.
Somewhere ahead, Ernie was muttering about troll-hunting strategies—”Father says they’re weak at the knees”—but the words dissolved into the general murmur of frightened first-years.
The common room, when they reached it, was too warm.
The hearth blazed as if in defiance of whatever lurked beyond the barrels.
Students clustered in tight knots, trading theories in hushed tones.
Tobias sat on the edge of the sofa nearest the fire, watching shadows dance across the ceiling.
Hannah curled beside him, knees drawn up.
“You’re not scared?” she asked after a while.
He considered the question.
The hole in his chest ached faintly, as it sometimes did when the air was thick with emotion.
“No,” he lied.
Somewhere above them, a pipe groaned.
The common room held its breath.
Somewhere above them, a pipe groaned.
The common room held its breath.
Then—nothing.
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, until Cedric cleared his throat from the doorway.
“All right,” he said, voice pitched to carry without shouting.
“Prefects have checked the corridors.
Troll’s contained.” A collective exhale.
Hannah’s fingers unclenched from the sofa cushion.
Ernie, ever the first to recover, straightened his robes.
“Contained *where*, exactly?” Cedric’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Not here.” Tobias watched a droplet of wax slide down the candle on the mantelpiece.
The firelight caught it halfway, turning it translucent gold.
He wondered, idly, if trolls bled the same color.
Hannah nudged him.
“You’re zoning out.” “Thinking about troll anatomy,” he said.
She blinked.
“That’s *horrible*.” Ernie leaned in, suddenly earnest.
“Actually, according to *Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them*, trolls have a—” The sixth-year prefect clapped her hands.
“Bed.
Now.
All of you.” The first-years shuffled toward the dormitories, their whispers lingering like smoke in the air.
Tobias paused at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the stone wall.
The dampness seeped into his palm.
Hannah hovered beside him.
“You coming?” “In a minute.” She hesitated, then nodded and followed the others up.
The common room emptied slowly, until only the fire’s crackle and the distant drip of water in the pipes remained.
Tobias pressed his palm flat against the wall and closed his eyes.
Somewhere beneath his ribs, the hollow space ached.
He breathed in, out.
The stone was cold.
From the shadows near the barrels, a pair of yellow eyes blinked once—then vanished.
Tobias missed it entirely.
He opened his eyes.
The firelight flickered across the empty armchairs, casting long, wavering shadows that looked—for a moment—like something hunched and waiting.
Tobias exhaled through his nose and flexed his fingers against the stone.
The cold lingered.
At the far end of the common room, the card game had dissolved into hushed conversation.
A seventh-year boy—broad-shouldered, with dirt still under his nails from Herbology—shuffled the deck absently, his gaze fixed on the ceiling beams.
“Bet you five Knuts it’s a mountain troll,” he muttered.
“They love damp places.” His companion, a girl with her hair braided tight against her scalp, snorted.
“Ten says it’s river.
Remember that one in ’86?
Slimy bastard took out half the—” She cut off as the prefect shot her a look.
Tobias turned away.
His book lay forgotten on the armchair, spine cracked open to page forty-seven.
*Magical Drafts and Potions*.
The illustration showed a cauldron bubbling with something violently purple.
He stared at it until the lines blurred.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Hannah stood there, her nightdress rumpled, her hair loose around her shoulders.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, rubbing one bare foot against the opposite ankle.
“Kept hearing things.” Tobias nodded.
The hole in his chest throbbed—not pain, exactly, but a pressure, like water building behind a dam.
He pressed a hand to his sternum, careful to keep the motion small.
“Me too.” Hannah settled onto the armchair’s wide armrest, her shoulder warm against his.
They watched the fire together in silence.
After a while, she said, very quietly, “D’you think it’s still out there?” The pipes groaned again, louder this time.
Somewhere deep in the castle’s belly, something thumped—once, twice—then fell still.
Tobias didn’t answer.
Hannah’s fingers found his sleeve and held on.
The fire popped, sending up a shower of sparks.
Tobias watched them rise and fade, their brief glow reflected in Hannah’s wide eyes.
From the dormitory stairwell came the muffled sound of Ernie’s voice—”Absolute *nonsense*, trolls can’t climb stairs!”—followed by a chorus of shushing.
Hannah’s grip tightened.
“You’re not saying anything.” Tobias flexed his fingers against his sternum.
The pressure pulsed, slow and insistent, like a second heartbeat out of sync with the first.
“Would it help?” She opened her mouth—then closed it.
The firelight caught the curve of her cheekbone, the faint smudge of exhaustion under her eyes.
Somewhere above them, a door clicked shut.
The common room settled into an uneasy quiet.
The seventh-years had abandoned their cards, leaving the deck splayed across the table—a knave of hearts face-up, his painted eyes staring blankly at the ceiling beams.
A draft crept under the door, making the candle flames shudder.
Then—footsteps.
Quick and light, approaching from the corridor.
Hannah stiffened.
Tobias didn’t move.
The door swung open.
The sixth-year prefect stood there, her braid coming undone, her face flushed.
Behind her, two third-year boys hovered, their robes rumpled as if they’d sprinted the whole way.
“All clear,” the prefect announced, breathless.
“Troll’s dealt with.” A collective exhale.
Someone giggled nervously.
The taller third-year edged forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Heard it from a Gryffindor—three first-years *fought* it.
In the *girls’ bathroom*.” Hannah’s nails dug into Tobias’s sleeve.
The shorter boy nodded eagerly.
“Potter and Weasley and—what’s her name—Granger.
Like some kind of—” “*Enough*,” the prefect snapped.
But the damage was done.
The whispers surged like tidewater, swirling through the room—*deliberately set loose*, *something hidden*, *Dumbledore knows*.
Tobias closed his eyes.
The fragments clicked together—Quirrell’s turban, the third-floor corridor, the thing Fluffy guarded.
His breath came slow and measured.
When he opened his eyes, Hannah was watching him, her brow furrowed.
“You’re doing it again,” she murmured.
“That…
faraway look.” He folded his book shut with deliberate care.
The spine made a soft *click*.
Around them, the rumours wove themselves into something wilder with every retelling—a conspiracy, a test, a trap.
Tobias set the book aside.
He understood, then, with cold clarity: the events he half-remembered were starting to come true around him.
And he was going to witness most of them without intervening—because he was eleven, and his wand didn’t work, and the hole in his chest was just a hole.
He headed up to the dormitory at one in the morning with the rest of the boys.
The stone steps were colder than the common room, each one leaching warmth through his socks.
Behind him, Ernie muttered about troll-hunting tactics—”Father says you need a *distraction* first”—while the others traded theories in hushed, urgent tones.
Tobias kept his hands in his pockets, fingers brushing the smooth wood of his useless wand.
The dormitory was colder still, the high windows letting in drafts that made the hangings sway.
The boys undressed quickly, their breath visible in the air.
Someone cursed as they stubbed a toe on a bedpost.
Tobias layered his shirts carefully, smoothing the collar over his sternum before pulling on his nightclothes.
The hole ached faintly, as it always did when he was tired.
The whispering started as soon as the curtains were drawn.
Theories about the troll’s origins, wild speculation about the Gryffindors’ involvement, half-baked plans for what they’d do if another one got loose.
Tobias lay on his back, staring at the canopy above him.
The fabric was dark grey in the dim light, the same color as his eyes.
They ran out of theories around half past one.
The dormitory settled into silence, broken only by the occasional creak of a bedframe or the rustle of sheets.
Tobias counted the breaths around him—Ernie’s quick and shallow, the boy to his left snoring softly, someone else turning over with a sigh.
He thought about the troll, about the way Quirrell’s voice had cracked on *dungeons*, about the three Gryffindors who’d apparently fought it and lived.
The events lined up with the half-memory like puzzle pieces slotting into place.
He wondered, idly, if remembering made him complicit.
The wind picked up outside, rattling the windowpanes.
Tobias turned onto his side, his back to the cold stone wall.
He turned over and went to sleep.