She is Lucky

The Sword of Gryffindor was exceptionally sharp.

The Ogre Oil was also taking effect.

Even though his strength was still limited by his age, it was enough to slice through the Troll's tough skin, gouging out a chunk of flesh that landed on the floor in a bloody mess.

This caused the dim-witted creature to let out a roar, raising its wooden club high and swinging it down viciously toward Harry.

Whoosh!

Harry rolled through the space between the Troll's legs. The club struck the spot where he had just been, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris as the floor cracked under the impact.

"Aard!"

Harry raised his hand; since Axii wasn't working, he would try something else.

But this Sign, which possessed enough force to send the two-hundred-pound Vernon flying, only made the Troll stagger, further tearing the wound on its leg and causing blood to gush out.

The usually infallible Aard had fallen far short of its mark.

Harry gritted his teeth. He finally understood why, even though his physical constitution was outstanding and he had long since passed the Trial of the Grasses and survived the mutations, the other Witchers had insisted he wait until he was twenty before they would allow him to travel.

It was truly...

Every extra inch of height and every extra pound of muscle provided a distinct advantage.

"Perhaps you should run now; its calf is injured, it might not be able to catch you," the Sorting Hat suggested. "Running away is not failure; you have already held it off."

Harry snapped, "Shut up! Hermione is still in the washroom."

"As long as she isn't dead, Madam Pomfrey can save her," the Sorting Hat continued its "sincere" advice. "The Troll's attacks have no magical effects."

Harry ignored it, snatched the hat off his head, and tossed it aside—he hadn't managed to brew any Witcher potions, and the other potions he had learned couldn't support him in this fight.

The hat was useless.

"Oh, you brat!" the Sorting Hat shrieked. "Where did you throw me? This is the entrance to the washroom!"

Harry sneered, "I'd love to throw you into a toilet to let you cool off—if I weren't so busy right now."

As he spoke, he raised his hand.

"Igni!"

Flames surged from his palm, coiling around the Troll like molten gold—this was the Sign that released direct fire. When mastered to a certain level, the firepower became even more potent, capable of scorching through an enemy's armor.

The Troll let out a hiss as the skin entangled by the flames became visibly brittle.

It was working.

And it was highly effective.

There was no time to ponder the reason.

Harry stepped forward, following through with a slash toward the area scorched by the Sign, gouging out another chunk of flesh.

He saw hope.

He could wear this thing down, or at least stall until the professors arrived.

The Troll, stung by the pain, lifted its foot and stomped down heavily.

Harry rolled again, taking the opportunity to slap his hand against the floor.

"Yrden!"

A pale purple rune appeared on the ground. This Sign created a small-scale magical trap; enemies who stepped inside would be slowed and become sluggish.

The Troll was barely affected.

Yrden was useless.

Harry spat, waved his hand, and a pale golden magical shield swirled around him—this was the Quen Sign, forming a barrier of magic to protect himself.

Creak—

The door to the washroom suddenly stirred. A small otter-like head poked out; the world outside was too fascinating, and she couldn't help but want to take a look.

At this moment—

Harry's eyes widened, and he cursed under his breath.

The Troll pricked up its ears. With its not-so-bright brain, it reasoned that the human in front of it was too slippery to hit, so it might as well bully the new arrival.

It turned its head, looked toward Hermione, and opened its mouth to roar.

"Get back inside!" Harry growled.

Hermione stared blankly at the fierce, menacing Troll charging toward her. She wanted to cry, but she had no tears left. "I... I can't move."

She had been hungry for half the day and crying for half the day; besides exhausting her emotions and tears, she had also drained every ounce of her strength.

The Troll raised its wooden club high, ready to smash down—

Harry raised his hand.

"Aard!"

The Sign was not aimed at the Troll, but at Hermione as the primary target; the surging magic was insufficient to stagger the Troll, but enough to send Hermione flying.

She went flying back along with the door, slamming heavily into the bathroom wall.

The Troll's club descended.

Wood chips and debris flew everywhere. Hermione lay amidst the rubble, dazed and confused; taking a direct hit from an Aard Sign was not something she could easily endure, but it was still better than having her skull crushed by the Troll's club.

"Harry, you are a wizard, not a warrior," the Sorting Hat muttered, having been stepped on by the Troll. "Finish it off quickly, the damn foot odor—oh, it's absolutely disgusting!"

Harry froze.

The situation was critical, and the skills of a Witcher were carved into his bones, but now he possessed more than just the strength of a Witcher.

He drew his wand, holding it in his left hand.

With his right hand, he swung his sword, slashing at the Troll's wrist, cutting almost to the bone.

The Troll roared in pain—Harry seized the moment to flick his wand, casting a Transfiguration spell. The club turned into silk, slipping from the filthy monster's hand. With another flick, the silk flew out, binding the Troll's feet, while the other end flew into Harry's hand.

"Igni!"

A serpent of fire surged, wrapping around the Troll's body and spreading toward its neck.

"Aard!"

Magic surged, slamming into the Troll. The effect remained weak, causing it only to sway slightly—but that was enough. Harry gritted his teeth and yanked on the silk that had once been a club.

Boom—

The Troll collapsed.

This was the best opportunity.

Harry took a long stride, stepped onto the Troll's thigh, leaped onto its back, and aimed for its neck. Gripping his sword with both hands, he stabbed down fiercely.

Blood gushed like a fountain, spraying all over Harry's face.

The Troll let out a pained, wailing cry.

Its life force remained.

Another strike!

The Troll struggled in its death throes, twisting on the ground, trying to shake Harry off, but... it was useless. Even if he was young now, he was still a Witcher.

Harry maintained his balance and drove the third strike home.

The Troll's life force drained away, finally extinguished.

Dead.

Harry let out a breath and walked toward the bathroom, sword in hand.

The Otter Girl lay unconscious on the floor.

"Hermione, Hermione, wake up." Harry gently nudged her.

Hermione opened her eyes hazily: "Oh... Harry, am I... am I dead?"

"Not yet." Harry pressed down on Hermione's head, stopping her impulse to struggle into a sitting position. "Don't move now; if you move any more, you'll be close to it."

The Aard Sign had caused her quite a bit of injury.

Outside in the corridor, hurried footsteps approached—a large group of them.

"The professors are here. You stay lying down; I'm going out." Harry stood up.

"Oh, the Troll, I saw the Troll!" Hermione finally regained her senses and cried out in terror.

Harry waved his hand: "It's dead. Don't worry, it's fine."

Hermione froze, wanting to say something more, but Harry had already walked completely outside.

Outside the bathroom, Ron led Professor McGonagall, Snape, and Professor Quirrell toward them—or rather, it was more accurate to say he was being led.

"Potter!" Professor McGonagall saw Harry and, noticing him covered in blood, cried out in shock, nearly losing her breath.

Snape's expression also shifted violently, and he quickened his pace.

Only Quirrell, who realized Harry's aura was stable, bypassed him immediately to look at the Troll lying dead behind him at the bathroom entrance, clutching his chest and sobbing.

"Professors, I'm fine. I'm not even injured." Harry spoke in a gentle tone, comforting the two professors. "All this blood belongs to the Troll."

Snape calmed himself, scrutinized him carefully, and confirmed Harry wasn't lying. He gritted his teeth: "Potter, what kind of trick are you playing!"

"Addicted to being the Savior?"

"Hogwarts is in trouble, and with so many professors to rely on, you choose to step up as a first-year student?"

"Do you love being in the spotlight that much?"

Professor McGonagall did not defend Harry. At this moment, she and Snape stood on the same side, her eyes stern, relieved, and terrified, staring fixedly at him.

Harry looked at Ron: "Ron, didn't you tell the professors?"

Ron shrank his neck: "Oh... that, I forgot."

"Fine." Harry sighed. "Professor, allow me to explain briefly. At the feast, Ron and I noticed Hermione wasn't there. Perhaps because Ron made her angry, she had been staying in the first-floor bathroom crying."

"When Quirrell..." Harry glanced toward Quirrell, "When Professor Quirrell said a Troll had appeared in the dungeons, the first person I thought of was Hermione."

"I had Ron go notify you, and I came over to get Hermione out."

"It was just bad luck that I happened to run into the Troll blocking the bathroom door, so I had no choice but to kill it."

A muffled voice sounded from beneath the Troll's corpse: "Yes, I, the hat, can bear witness."

"Now, would you be so kind as to get me out of here? I really can't take it anymore; the Troll is absolutely foul."

Professor McGonagall's face turned green as she looked at the Sorting Hat, which was pinned under the Troll and soaked in gore, with only its tip visible.

"Harry, this is..." Professor McGonagall couldn't help but raise a hand to her chest.

Harry remained expressionless as he plucked the hat out and shook it off with disgust: "It was too noisy, so I tossed it aside. Professor McGonagall, could I trouble you to use a Cleaning Charm? I haven't learned that spell yet."

Professor McGonagall was just about to wave her wand.

The Sorting Hat spoke up weakly: "It's no use. I'm immune to spells; I have to be hand-washed. Potter, it has to be you."

Harry clicked his tongue in disdain.

"And Miss Granger?" McGonagall paused, looking at the Troll's corpse, her heart rising into her throat again, "She isn't also under the Troll..."

Harry shook his head: "No, she's in the bathroom, but... her condition might not be great."

"Was she struck by the Troll?" Professor McGonagall's face went pale.

Harry continued to shake his head: "No, she was struck by me."

Hm?

Professor McGonagall was completely bewildered.

Ron looked thoughtful—could this be a quirk of Harry's? That before attacking an enemy, he had to strike his own allies first to boost his morale?

"I was in the middle of a fierce fight with the Troll when she suddenly poked her head out to watch. The Troll was distracted by her and was about to attack." Harry explained, "I told her to move, but she couldn't."

"There was no other way, so I had to cast a spell to get her out of the way—I just couldn't control the force of it."

"I did a quick check of her injuries."

"Her left arm is fractured, at least three ribs are broken, but fortunately, her neck wasn't injured..."

You call that fortunate?!

Even the Quidditch Pitch at Hogwarts had never seen injuries this severe.

McGonagall felt the world go dark before her eyes; she took off her glasses and rubbed her eye sockets in agony: "Fine, fine, Mr. Potter, just give me a moment."

Snape let out a scoff.

Ron stood behind Snape, winking and grimacing at him, his face full of worry as if trying to hint at something.