You Should Reflect on Yourself, Miss Granger!

Of course, no matter how much the Little Lions disliked Miss Otter, they didn't try to bully her.

Though plenty of them wanted to—by spilling ink on her homework, cutting up her uniform, or adding some strange Potions to her breakfast.

But Harry's attitude toward her hadn't changed in the slightest.

They still did homework together and discussed Charms and Potions.

They couldn't very well go after her—no, they were only treating Miss Otter like she was invisible for Harry's sake.

Hermione felt wronged.

She wanted to make up for it, to recover at least those forty lost points. She spoke up intensely in every class, and it really did help. Every professor except Snape awarded her plenty of points.

Over the course of a month, she hadn't earned back the full forty, but she had won more than twenty points, narrowing the gap between Gryffindor and the other three Houses.

But it still hadn't changed her standing in Gryffindor House. If anything, things had gotten worse.

The Little Lions had all put on their tinted glasses.

Deep down, they believed she was showing off on purpose.

A tiresome girl who only knew how to win over the professors and didn't care about her House.

Harry was busy, too.

Professor Flitwick kept pulling him aside to discuss Signs. Harry had tried many times without success. Professor Quirrell wasn't reliable, so he had to figure out Defense Against the Dark Arts on his own. Then there was his detention with Professor McGonagall—which was supposedly detention, but really meant helping grade the first-years' work. Later, she added the second-years' assignments, along with some extra tutoring.

Gryffindors couldn't be bad at Transfiguration.

It was tradition.

He often went to the greenhouse, too, to help Professor Sprout clean and organize, and to gather a few herbs while he was at it.

On weekends, he occasionally visited Hagrid and hoped he'd take him into the Forbidden Forest to pick up a few "worthless little trinkets," but Hagrid had never agreed.

Busy as he was, Harry didn't get a moment to breathe until Thursday, October 31. The first-years were about to celebrate their first holiday at Hogwarts—the wizards didn't celebrate Columbus Day.

Their last class on Halloween was Charms.

They were beginning their third spell, after Lumos and Alohomora: the Levitation Charm.

The Little Lions were excited about it. They'd long been envious of how Harry could wave his wand and make his bag float along behind him with such casual ease.

But the spell wasn't simple.

It had a lot of syllables—eight in all—and the wand movement was rather complicated.

Ron swung his arm like a windmill, shouting the incantation as if he could bully the feather into floating by sheer force.

But it didn't work.

The feather wasn't afraid.

"Ron, you're doing it wrong!" Hermione said, her voice a little low. "'G' is supposed to be pronounced! Make it clear and draw it out."

Ron was a little annoyed. He raised his voice along with his incantation—perhaps on purpose. He'd wanted to yell at Hermione for ages. "You make it sound so easy. Why don't you try?"

Hermione raised her wand. "Wingardium Leviosa."

Her wand swept through the air, and the feather rose.

Professor Flitwick's eyes lit up. He applauded. "Oh, lovely! A superb Levitation Charm. Everyone, look—Miss Granger has already succeeded."

"Five points to Gryffindor."

But none of the Little Lions applauded her. They all treated her coldly.

The Little Badgers clapped foolishly, then realized something was wrong and let their applause die away almost as soon as it began.

By the end of class, Seamus had followed Harry's instructions and blown up his sixth feather before finally managing to make it rise. He let out an excited scream—then the feather exploded in midair.

And Ron...

With Hermione nagging him, his composure gradually fell apart. At first, he could at least make the feather twitch a little, but later... he had sunk to Seamus's level.

"You can do it," Hermione said as she packed her bag, still complaining. "You were so close. The fourth time, you even got the feather to move."

"But you just wouldn't listen to me. You have to say the incantation properly. We could've earned another point. Seamus got points!"

"Harry's so good that now the professors will hardly do more than give back the points Professor Snape takes from him. Once they've given them back, they stop awarding him more. We need to try harder..."

"Have you had enough?" Ron snapped, slamming his hand on the desk.

Hermione jumped.

With a clatter, the book in her hand fell onto the desk.

"Nobody cares about those points, Miss Granger!" Ron ground out, hysterically forcing the words from his mouth. "They don't matter at all."

"You could earn all the points you want, and people still wouldn't like you. You should reflect on yourself and figure out what you're doing wrong!"

"Why doesn't anyone want to be your friend?"

"This has nothing to do with points!"

"It's because you're always going on and on about these pointless, trivial things!"

Hermione's nose twitched, and tears welled in her eyes. She grabbed her bag, shoved through the crowd, and ran out.

Ron opened his mouth, watching her disappear. Suddenly, he regretted it.

"You were a little too harsh," Harry said, voicing what Ron was thinking.

"No, she needs someone to point out the problem so she can reflect on it." Ron could say what he was thinking to himself, but he couldn't let someone else say it for him. He immediately dug in his heels.

Harry gave a laugh. "Maybe. But I think you'd better apologize to her later."

"She just hasn't figured it out yet. She's trying to make things right in her own way."

Ron pursed his lips and lowered his head, reluctant to admit it. "Oh. Maybe you're right."

But Hermione was gone, and she didn't show up again.

She was missing from their next Flying Class, and when class ended and they arrived at the Great Hall, Hogwarts was bustling with excitement as everyone prepared for the Halloween feast. She still wasn't there.

"Where's Hermione?" Ron craned his neck, searching for her. He'd spent the entire Flying Class rehearsing what to say. All that effort would be wasted if he couldn't find her. How was he supposed to talk to her?

"No idea."

"Didn't notice."

The other Little Lions shook their heads.

Lavender answered eagerly. "I went to the bathroom during class. I think she was there."

The location made things a little awkward.

Ron couldn't very well go over there. He noisily wolfed down two Pumpkin Pasties, then, as he picked up a third, turned to Harry. "Should we bring her something to eat?"

"I mean Hermione."

Harry peeled a potato and nodded, about to answer.

Crash—

The Great Hall doors were violently flung open. Professor Quirrell came tumbling in, rushed up to Dumbledore, and cried out in panic, "A Troll! It's escaped from the underground classroom—I thought you knew!"

After that, he slumped forward and fell onto the table, angling his head slightly so it wouldn't plunge into the cream of mushroom soup.

The Great Hall erupted into chaos.

Dumbledore raised his wand and shot two bursts of purple fireworks into the air. "All right, settle down."

"Prefects, take the students from your Houses back."

Percy immediately stood up, rising on his toes and raising his hand high. "Older students, make way. Let the first-years and younger students go first. Follow me..."

"Harry, we..." Ron grabbed Harry's arm and tugged him, about to follow Percy.

Harry shook off his hand. "Go tell a professor. Hermione might run into the Troll. She's in the first-floor bathroom."

"Her? How would she...?" Ron froze, confused.

"There's no time to explain." Harry shoved Ron away, popped the half-peeled potato into his mouth, tucked the Sorting Hat under his arm, and ran toward the bathroom.

Years of wind and rain as a Witcher had taught him how to piece together every detail and make the best possible judgment in the shortest time.

Lavender had said she saw Hermione in the bathroom.

Their last class had been Flying Class, held at the Quidditch Pitch. There were no bathrooms there, so anyone who needed one would have had to return to the castle.

The first-floor bathroom was the closest. There was no need to go farther, and Hermione was most likely there.

If this had simply been a Troll running amok and wrecking an underground classroom, only Slytherin and Hufflepuff would be heartbroken—their common rooms were both underground.

But this was different.

Quirrell had been putting on an act. The Troll had probably been released by him. Was he trying to attack someone, or was it just a sick joke? Whatever the reason, he probably wanted to cause as much commotion as possible.

The underground levels were too small. There was no way to cause much of a stir there.

Harry reached into the Sorting Hat and pulled out the Sword of Gryffindor. Then he took out a bottle of Blade Oil—Ogre Oil.

Thank goodness.

Thanks to a Witcher's good habits, he didn't have to panic and fumble around at a moment like this.

As he ran, he carefully spread the Blade Oil over the sword.

The Sorting Hat suddenly spoke. "Oh, are you going to challenge a Troll by yourself?"

"If I run into Hermione and the Troll, I won't have much choice," Harry replied.

"But you're only a first-year wizard," the Sorting Hat said.

Harry nodded. "Of course I know. That's why I told Ron to alert the professors."

"One blow from a Troll's club and you'll be dead." Folds appeared across the Sorting Hat as it frowned. "They're very dangerous creatures."

"Gryffindor once encountered a Forest Troll. It took a great deal of effort to kill it."

"Mm-hmm. And?" Harry wasn't moved. "Are you going to tell me about weaknesses that aren't in the books? Besides the neck, what else?"

The Sorting Hat froze, then raised its voice. "I'm telling you it's dangerous!"

Harry ignored it. He'd reached the corridor outside the classrooms. The situation was bad. The Troll's scent and Hermione's were mixed together, so he slowed down.

"What, are you thinking of backing out?" the Sorting Hat continued to shout. "There's no shame in a young wizard retreating from a Troll. In fact, it could be a very sensible choice."

"Miss Granger might be fine..."

Harry shook his head and quickened his pace. "No. Hermione's probably about to run into the Troll."

"And you don't need to test me."

"Even if you're a hat, I can still tell what you're thinking."

"I've made my choice. I won't change it."

The Sorting Hat fell silent.

Harry said nothing either. He raised his sword and saw it—the Troll. Its skin was grayish brown, and dead leaves and mud clung to it. In its hand was a dragging wooden club nearly two meters long.

Its head was tiny, and its neck was buried in the folds of fat around it, nearly impossible to see.

It was a Mountain Troll, the strongest kind of Troll.

"Axii!"

Harry raised his hand and cast the Sign.

The Troll's movements faltered.

Now!

Harry raised his sword high and slashed at the Troll's legs. He was too short to hit its neck, even if he jumped.

The Troll recovered faster than Harry had expected.

He got a firsthand taste of what the books said: Trolls were usually highly resistant to spells.

It recovered almost as quickly as Professor McGonagall would have.

The Troll was also more agile than Harry had expected. It was stupid, but that only applied to its brain, not its body.

It moved nimbly, stepping and turning. The sword struck only its right calf.

PY recommends a book—another Harry Potter fanfic:

Phoenix of Hogwarts

Also, I'm asking once again for your support through votes and continued reading. Tuesday's readership numbers seem to determine whether a book gets recommended, so please read all the way to the "To Be Continued" page. Thank you so much!