The Three Brothers - Chapter 11

31st October 1991

“She’s mental, that girl. No wonder she hasn’t got any friends—she drives them all away!” Ron remarked to Harry, as they were exiting the Charms classroom.

Harry was about to tell Ron that she wasn’t that bad when he was suddenly bumped on his shoulder by a hurrying figure. The tell-tale brown bushy hair that turned around the corner meant only one thing—Hermione had overheard Ron. A loud groan escaped Harry’s mouth; one mirrored at that exact instant by Mark from behind him.

“Come on mate,” said Mark. “Why did you have to be so rude?”

A slight guilty look appeared on Ron’s face. He turned towards Harry.

“You think she heard me?”

“Yeah, I think she heard you,” scoffed Harry.

“She’s probably been hearing that all her life,” added Mark, stuffing the books in his hand inside his bag. “It doesn’t hurt to be nice.”

Ron looked sufficiently embarrassed at this but still tried to defend himself.

“Well it doesn’t hurt her to stay out of my nose, does it?” he said, “Why does she always have to show off how smart she is. You’re smart too, but you don’t rub it in our faces.”

Mark just gave an audible sigh and walked off towards the Great Hall, silently shaking his head in disappointment. Somehow this had more effect on Ron than any words could have. Realising what he should do, Harry turned to Ron.

“I think you should apologize to her,” he said. At the look of growing horror on Ron’s face, he continued more firmly. “No, look—it is your fault. She was just trying to be nice—just trying to help. What if it had been you trying to help her? With flying or something?”

At this Ron’s face dropped. “Alright, Fine. I’ll apologise to her in the next class. You’re right, I was being a git.”

Satisfied, Harry gave him a nod and started walking towards their next class. As much as Ron was prone to being thick at times, Harry couldn’t exactly blame him in this situation. Of course, Ron had been rude, and Harry did agree to the point that Mark had made earlier. But if he was being honest, then Hermione had practically called the situation upon herself. It had only been a matter of time.

Ever since the incident with the three-headed dog, the girl had kept an annoyingly close eye on the two of them, trying to ask about their whereabouts and plans every time they stepped out of the common room. Every. Single. Time.

If that wasn’t enough, she deliberately tried to pair herself with one of them—more often Ron than Harry—hovering over their attempts and giving repeated suggestions and unwanted advice. It had all culminated in today’s Charms class, where they were supposed to be learning to perform the Levitation Charm.

Ron, supposedly mispronouncing his spell, was unable to get his feather to float in the air. And Hermione had not been able to help herself.

Ron may have been rude, but he wasn’t exactly wrong.

As they entered the Transfiguration classroom, Harry was surprised to see Hermione missing. The girl was usually the earliest to arrive. Harry nudged Ron to go and sit on an empty seat—allowing Hermione to join him later so he could apologise. With a small groan, Ron grudgingly nodded and did so.

Harry tapped his fingers on his desk as he waited for Hermione to arrive. He only hoped the girl would take Ron’s apology seriously and not blow him off instead. But his anxiety fell in shambles when the class almost began and Hermione failed to show up. The last person to arrive was Mark who entered the class alongside Neville, munching on a half-eaten roll—he must have made a detour to the Great Hall for a quick snack. Seeing the empty seat beside Harry, he joined him. Before Harry could think any more about the absence of the bushy-haired girl, Professor McGonagall began to speak.

“As it is Halloween today, we will attempt to transfigure these pumpkins into Jack-o-Lanterns,” she said, pointing at a large pile of round orange pumpkins. “Each pair will work on one of these together, and I hope you have practised the spell for localised transformations that was taught to you last week.”

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“Are you finished, dear?” Ginny heard her mother ask from the kitchen. As her dad was busy muttering a spell to set up the Jack-o-Lanterns, she decided to reply instead.

“Almost done, Mum.” Ginny’s Dad gave her a quick wink as he finished his spell, and picked up the next lantern to levitate near the fireplace.

Ginny smiled. Her dad was going to great lengths to ensure that everything was extra-grand this year, decorating the house just like they did the Great Hall at Hogwarts—conjured cobwebs, hanging bats and the aforementioned floating Jack-o-Lanterns—all so that she wouldn’t feel much lonely this Halloween.

It was the first time that she was the only kid at home, now that even Ron was off to Hogwarts. Her mother was insistent that she help in the kitchen—something Ginny didn’t like nor was particularly good at. Her dad, therefore, had asked that she ȧssist him with the decorations before her mother could recruit her.

“Anyone in particular dear?”

Ginny blushed. Ever since her trip to King’s Cross, she couldn’t seem to forget the boy with the black hair and dreamy green eyes. Her family had always teased her about her small crush on the-boy-who-lived. Ok, big crush. Alright, massive crush—so much that when she was seven, she had imagined their wedding at the garden outside the Burrow, their home.

In her years of dreaming about Harry Potter, Ginny actually managed to forget that he was a real boy somewhere. She had failed to recognise him that day—something she wanted to hit herself in the head for—when he had shyly asked her mother for directions to get on to Platform Nine-and-a-three-quarters. When Fred told them that the boy had been Harry Potter, Ginny had wanted to get onto the train and take a look at him properly—something that was quite immature for her in hindsight. It was like she had turned seven once again in an instant.

Once they had returned home and to her usual life at the Burrow, Ginny began to slowly forget about the incident. Or she would have if not for Ron’s letter home a week later, telling all about how he was now best friends with Harry Potter. Ginny had never felt more jealous of her brother before.

“Come on now, dinner is ready,” came her mother’s voice, and Ginny was rescued from further embarrassment. Both father and daughter proceeded to the kitchen table, where a small, scrumptious feast awaited them.

“Ah Molly, it smells heavenly,” said Ginny’s dad. Her mother looked at him with amusement.

“It would have been ready sooner if I had someone’s help,” she said, now looking pointedly at Ginny—who was trying to shrink under her gaze.

“She was helping me with the decorations,” her Dad replied, in a rather strong voice—something he didn’t do often. Before her mother could say anything in reply, he tried changing the subject.

“I hope the boys are enjoying their feasts at Hogwarts too.” He ladled on a spoonful of gravy, and Ginny watched her mother look with a small smile of pride. Nothing made her mother happy like someone appreciating her cooking.

Ron. As she began eating, Ginny thought about her youngest older brother. As much intelligent he was, it never really showed up in his work—simply because he didn’t like to study. She was sure that even at Hogwarts he was probably spending all his free time playing Chess or Exploding Snap.

But then, the marks that they got at Hogwarts weren’t really that important; they were there to just ensure a minimum qualification for the big exams and the grades that mattered—the OWLs and NEWTs. Ginny had learned about this little useful titbit when she’d overheard Charlie when he was studying for his NEWTs.

Her dad had told her about the grading system that muggle schools used and to be honest, the alphabetical scheme that they used seemed more logical to Ginny than the one the Ministry used for OWLs and NEWTs—O for outstanding, E for Exceeds Expectations, A for Acceptable, P for Poor, D for Dreadful, and T for Troll.

An errant thought entered her mind and Ginny suddenly laughed. Her mind had pictured Ron—his freckled face full of embarrassment—looking at their mother with puppy eyes as she held his OWL results, all the scores on it as Troll.

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“Troll—Troll in the dungeons—thought you ought to know.”

Professor Quirrell let out a soft sigh as he slumped against the high table. Harry watched him sink to the floor, clearly fainted—moments before, he had come sprinting into the Great Hall in terror and ran towards Professor Dumbledore to deliver the message.

It must not have taken as long as Harry thought, but as soon as the whispered message—heard clearly by everyone in the Great Hall—was absorbed by the students, there was an uproar. All the merriment and high spirits of the Halloween feast was rapidly replaced by growing panic and terror; something that Harry realised was even creeping into his own heart. Before the avalanche of panic could tumble any further, Harry saw Professor Dumbledore get up and raise his wand in the air to shoot out loud purple firecrackers. The effect was immediate, and the Great Hall stood in silence once more.

“Prefects,” said Professor Dumbledore in a cool rumble, “you will lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!”

“No idea, mate,” said Ron when Harry voiced his question. “From what I know, they’re supposed to be really stupid,” he said. “Maybe Peeves let one in as a prank.”

Harry found himself nodding in agreement; Peeves the Poltergeist—a non-living entity who took great pride in creating chaos all around Hogwarts—was certainly capable of something like this. Harry’s thoughts were interrupted when he suddenly noticed that Ron was standing frozen, staring dead-fixed at Parvati Patil. It took a moment for Harry to realise why.

“Hermione,” they both said at the same time. “She doesn’t know about the troll,” Ron added, with an embarrassed face.

Earlier today, they both had overheard Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown talking about Hermione. Upset at Ron’s words, the girl had been crying in the girl’s bathroom all day. When she didn’t show up for the feast, Ron had felt really guilty—he hadn’t meant it to be this serious.

“Come on,” said Harry, “let’s go then.”

The two of them ducked down and started moving in the opposite direction, mixing in a crowd of Hufflepuffs instead. After a while they ducked out again, this time slipping into a deserted corridor. As the coast was clear, the began to hurry down the corridor, making their way towards where they knew the girl’s bathroom was. As they turned around the corner, they heard a clatter of quick footsteps behind them; Ron quickly pulled Harry behind a nearby stone statue.

“Percy!” he hissed, and Harry cursed inwardly. He didn’t think the prefect would spot their absence so soon.

As the figure that had been following them came into their view, Harry saw that it wasn’t actually Percy. It was Snape, gliding swiftly over the stone floor as he hurried off to somewhere, disappearing around the corner within moments.

“Where —” Harry whispered, “Why isn’t he down in the dungeons with the other professors?”

Harry looked at Ron for a moment before he nodded. Snape always seemed to act suspicious, and Harry did not like it. Clearly, he was up to something right now. They followed the potions professor, creeping along the corridor to avoid being detected. They noticed him walk towards a staircase; instead of going down towards the dungeon, Snape went up.

“He’s headed for the third floor,” Harry whispered. Ron, however, wasn’t paying attention.

“Do you smell that?” asked Ron. Confused Harry sniffed a bit, trying to find out what Ron was talking about. Within moments, a foul stench entered his nostrils—that of rotten dirty laundry. Before he could say anything to Ron, Harry heard a low grunting noise rumble through the corridor, followed by the shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet.

Ron’s face registered shock, and he pointed towards the end of the passage. It was unnecessary, for Harry was already staring at the twelve-foot tall troll, currently illuminated by a patch of moonlight shining through the tall castle window.

It had a lumpy body covered with dull, grey skin, standing on thick short legs with flat horned feet—a small bald head shaped like a coconut on top. Its arms were freakishly long—one of which was dragging a huge wooden club along the cold stone floor. Harry had never seen a troll before, neither had he ever imagined something looking like this. Yet, somehow, if he had to ask himself how a troll would look like, he would probably have described something just like this.

All of these thoughts were burning clearly in Harry’s mind—a mind that hadn’t yet absorbed the fact that the troll was here and not in the dungeons as they had thought. By the time he did, the troll shuffled inside a room on the right.

“Ron,” said Harry, pulling both him and his friend out of their stupor. “Do you think that door will hold?” Ron looked at where Harry was pointing—the door had a key in the lock.

“Good idea,” replied Ron, swallowing the lump in his throat. They began edging towards the doorway, creeping even slower than they had before. Harry silently prayed, hoping dearly that the troll would not come out of it. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally reached it—Harry leapt swiftly to grab the key, slamming the door shut. The key was turned, the room locked, and they both pumped their fists in the air.

“Yes!”

“Aaaaaaaaah”

He turned to look at Ron, whose face was mirroring his own growing realisation.

“Harry,” asked Ron. “Please tell me that wasn’t the girl’s bathroom that we locked.”

“That was the girl’s bathroom.”

“Harry,” asked Ron, his face pleading Harry to say anything else, “please tell me we didn’t lock the troll in with Hermione.”

“We locked the troll in with Hermione.”

They immediately ran back to the door, opened it and rushed inside. Hermione was inside, shrinking against the wall opposite. Her face was pale and gripped with shock, her body trembling with fear. The troll advancing on her slowly, its club knocking off all the sinks and taps from the walls.

“Distract,” said Harry, slightly surprising himself with the clarity of his mind. “We need to distract it.” Harry bent and picked up a fallen tap—surprisingly heavy—and flung it hard against a wall.

The resulting clatter was rather loud, and the troll stopped moving. It lumbered around in confusion, trying to find the source of the sudden noise. Finally, it noticed Harry, standing harmlessly near the doorway. It gave a grunt in anger before starting to move towards its new target, lifting the club to strike.

“Oi pea brain!”

Harry and the troll both turned—Hermione might also have turned, but Harry was preoccupied and probably didn’t notice—towards the source of the call. Somehow, unnoticed by Harry, Ron had snuck over to the other side of the bathroom. He waved around a thick metal pipe before throwing it straight at the troll. The troll—with its massive twelve-feet high body—didn’t seem to register the piece of plumbing attacking its person. It did, however, register Ron’s yell and adjusted its target once again.

Seizing the opportunity, Harry ran around the troll and started pulling Hermione towards the door. But Hermione was in even more shock now, refusing to budge from her place.

“Come on,” Harry beckoned, but she didn’t listen. Instead, she was watching something behind Harry. Harry turned just in time to see the troll give a primal roar before charging at Ron.

Shit. As Harry saw the troll corner Ron, he did the first thing that came to his mind—taking a great running leap, he jumped onto the back of the troll, managing to fasten his hands around its head.

Harry realised he still had his wand in his hand—he used the opportunity to jab it straight into one of the troll’s huge nostrils. Sufficiently injured, the troll gave a loud cry. It twisted around in pain, its arm flailing the club it held—Harry hanged on to dear life and hoped the troll wouldn’t hit him or rip him off.

All of this was probably too much for Hermione to handle—she gave another shriek and sunk down to the floor in fright. Ron pulled out his wand and was struck with sudden inspiration.

“Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa!”

He had pronounced the spell correctly, and magic obeyed. The club that was in the troll’s hand flew into the air. Ron aimed it just over its head, then let it fall—it dropped with a sickening crack onto the troll’s head.

As the troll slowly began to sway, Harry realised its imminent fall and gave it a slight nudge forward—after removing the wand in its nose, of course. The troll fell flat on its face, its sheer momentum making the floor tremble.

The stunned silence that followed was broken after a few minutes when Hermione managed to find her voice again.

“Is it—is it dead?”

“I don’t think so,” said Harry. “Just knocked out, I reckon.” Looking at the wand in his hand, he began wiping it on the troll’s trousers.

Before anything else could be said, loud footsteps neared. Professor McGonagall came bursting into the room, her wand brandished in her hand, followed closely by Snape and then Quirrell. Quirrell became queasy at the sight of the troll and settled down on a nearby toilet. Snape bent over to check the troll.

“What on earth were you thinking of?” said Professor McGonagall in a furious voice. “It’s sheer luck you aren’t dead. Why are you not in your dormitories?”

Snape was looking calculatedly at first Harry, then Ron. Hermione suddenly spoke, so far unnoticed by the teachers.

“Please professor, they came looking for me.” Hermione had managed to stand up by now, though she was still trembling a little.

“I—I went looking for the troll because I—I thought I could deal with them on my own—since—since I had read all about them, you see.”

Ron looked gobsmacked, and Harry agreed with the reaction. Hermione Granger, telling a downright lie to a teacher?

“If they had not found me, I —” she continued, a shiver passing through her. “Harry and Ron tried to distract it at first. They—It didn’t work. So, Harry stuck his wand up its nose, and Ron managed to knock it out with its own club. It was about to finish me, professor. If they had waited to find someone —” she left her sentence hanging.

Harry and Ron tried to act as if all this wasn’t news to them. Professor McGonagall looked at them for a moment, before turning back to Hermione.

“Miss Granger, how in the world could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own? Fifteen points will be taken from Gryffindor for this,” she said, clearly disappointed. “If you’re not hurt, you’d better head to Gryffindor Tower. Students are finishing the feasts in their Houses.”

Nodding with her head down in shame, Hermione left without a word. Professor McGonagall then turned to the boys.

“Not many first-years could have taken on a full-grown mountain troll,” she said. “You each win Gryffindor fifteen points. For sheer dumb luck.” She then motioned them to leave as well.

They walked back to Gryffindor tower in silence. As they neared the entrance, Ron spoke out.

“It was good of her to get us out of trouble like that.” Harry nodded. Ron continued, “Though we should have gotten more than thirty points. Fifteen once you take off Hermione’s.”

Harry snorted. Trust Ron to complain about that. Now outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, they spoke the password—”Pig Snout”—and entered.

The students were busy talking and eating the food that had been sent up for them, bȧrėly noticing their entrance. Hermione, however, was standing near the door, clearly waiting for them. The three of them just stood in embarrassed silence, unsure of what to say. Finally, still avoiding each other’ eyes, they somehow managed to speak at the exact same time.

“Thanks.”

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