After Hermione's explanation, the Hufflepuffs finally breathed a collective sigh of relief.
"As expected."
"The Weasley twins are such liars."
"Even now, they're still trying to scare us."
"Good thing you told us the truth, Hermione. So we're safe now, right?"
The group slumped back onto the sofas, although a lingering sense of unease still hovered over them. But just then, Shire suddenly sprang up from the couch as if launched by springs.
He didn't say a word.
Silently, he tucked away his wand.
Then pulled out the bat he usually used for Quidditch practice.
Without waiting for anyone to speak, he strode straight out of the Hufflepuff common room.
Hermione and the rest stared at him, stunned.
"Shire?!"
"There's a Troll out there, it's dangerous!"
"What are you going out for now?"
Shire gritted his teeth. He didn't want to take unnecessary risks, nor was he the kind to get involved in trouble without reason. Normally, he could tolerate almost anything. But the one thing he could not stand—
—was someone threatening the vegetables he'd planted.
"My vegetables!"
The next moment, he was gone—vanishing from the common room like a cannonball.
His mind raced as he bolted down the hall. He remembered from the original story that Professor Quirrell had screamed about a Troll appearing near the dungeons when he burst into the Great Hall. But that had to be a lie—Quirrell was clearly misdirecting them to buy more time for his real objective: the Philosopher's Stone.
The true location of the Troll incident had been on the first floor—the same floor as the girls' bathroom.
And worse: the same floor where Shire had planted nearly half of his batch of Goldfish Vines.
If the Troll had gotten to them…
The thought made his heart drop. His grip on the bat tightened so hard that the wood creaked ominously. Beneath his feet, even the stone floor tiles cracked slightly under the pressure of his step.
Like a charging tank, he rushed up toward the first floor.
Then it hit him—an absolutely disgusting stench.
It was as if a dozen overflowing public toilets had been sealed up and left to ferment for a week in midsummer. The air was thick with the nauseating odor.
He spotted it next: muddy, grotesque footprints staining the floor, leading toward the very stairwell where he'd planted the Goldfish Vines.
Shire moved even faster.
And when he arrived—he saw it.
A towering Troll, twelve feet tall, with skin like granite and a huge, cracked wooden club in one hand. In the other?
One of Shire's flowerpots.
Specifically: a pot of Goldfish Vine—its leaves now completely orange and clearly ripe.
Shire inhaled deeply and shouted in fury.
"Put that down—now!"
But the Troll, with its barely-functioning mind, didn't comprehend a word. Worse, the ripe Goldfish Vine emitted a scent that acted like catnip for Trolls—irresistible.
With one horrifying slurp, the Troll devoured the flowerpot, plant and all.
It even smacked its lips.
Apparently, it hadn't been filling enough, because it turned to grab another pot—this one with still-green leaves.
Shire's eyes widened.
At least a third of the Goldfish Vines on this floor were already gone.
And where had they gone?
Into that Troll's belly.
In that moment, Shire felt his world shatter.
He clenched the bat with white-knuckled fury, veins bulging from his arm.
"I'm just a peace-loving Hufflepuff."
"I just want to grow vegetables."
"Why would you destroy my Goldfish Vines?!"
"You've gone too far!"
He saw the Troll's face blur and transform—into a memory from his past life.
The aunt from his hometown, stealing the fruit from his experimental crops.
"Young man, why are these oranges so sour?"
"You should grow better ones. Try mandarin oranges instead."
"Why are you angry? So petty."
"Five yuan a catty—what a profit for you!"
That memory lit a fire in him.
His fury exploded.
And suddenly—clarity.
In that storm of rage, he finally understood the secret behind the Pruning Charm—after it had advanced to gold rank, and absorbed the essence of Sectumsempra, the deadly Dark Arts curse.
Raising his wand, he roared:
"Arbor-Siccus!"
An invisible force shot out.
Cracks split across the Troll's thick wooden club.
Then, out from those cracks—thorns burst forth, wrapping around the weapon and creeping toward the Troll's hand.
Though its stone-like skin wasn't pierced, it could still feel the sharp thorns pricking and scratching.
Startled, confused, and scared, the Troll dropped its club with a loud thud.
Shire's expression darkened.
He had struggled to understand the charm's advanced effect for weeks—but now, in this moment of fury, the truth became clear.
The Pruning Charm had evolved.
Now, when used in anger, it could force living thorns to grow from the pruned target—offensive and terrifying.
No longer just a gardener's tool.
Now a weapon.
But Shire couldn't take comfort in the discovery.
His vegetables were still gone.
And he still had more rage to vent.
"Arbor-Siccus!"
"Arbor-Siccus!!"
With each cast, the Troll's club splintered further.
More thorns burst from the wood.
The Troll staggered backward, disoriented and helpless.
Then—Shire charged.
From behind the thicket of thorns, he leapt out, bat raised high.
The bat, now strengthened by unknown power, whistled through the air.
CRACK!
It landed against the Troll's massive leg.
At first, the Troll ignored him. What could this small wizard do?
But then—pain.
It felt like a truck had slammed into its leg.
Its knee buckled.
It collapsed.
And Shire didn't stop.
"I'll let you eat! I'll let you eat!"
"You can eat anything—anything!"
"Even if you go to the bathroom and eat Old Eight's secret-recipe burger, I won't care!"
"But why, WHY—did you eat my vegetables?!"
"DIE!!"
He swung the bat like a cyclone, landing blow after blow.
The Troll curled into a ball, clutching its head, groaning and shaking.
A single thought etched itself into its tiny brain:
"Young wizard."
"Ate vegetables."
"Berserk."
"Terrifying."
Just then, heavy footsteps echoed from the stairwell.
Professor Sprout, pale and breathless, came rushing up.
"Shire!"
She had heard that he'd gone after the Troll—and had been frantic with worry.
If anything happened to him, she would never forgive herself.
She found him panting, bat in hand, possibly bloodstained.
She screamed and rushed forward, embracing him.
"My child!"
"Thank Merlin—you're okay."
"Let me check—are you hurt?"
"Poor thing, you must've been terrified. Don't worry—the Troll won't hurt you anymore."
Behind her, Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and others arrived—and froze.
Their eyes locked on the Troll, curled up and weeping.
Its bruises and broken bones were unmistakable.
It looked up at them with tears in its eyes, clearly pleading for rescue from Shire.
Professor Flitwick whispered, hoarse:
"Pomona… I think Shire is just fine."
Snape nodded slowly.
"If anything, it's the Troll that's in critical condition."
"I don't practice Healing Magic, but I can see several fractures."
Then, something rolled across the floor.
A pot of Goldfish Vine—untouched.
Professor McGonagall gasped.
"Careful!"
"Goldfish Vine has a fatal attraction for Trolls!"
"It might lunge again!"
But instead, the Troll whimpered at the sight.
It scurried backward, clutching its head.
"No eat."
"Get beaten…"
Everyone went silent.
The Professors exchanged meaningful glances.
Their eyes flicked between the Troll, the bloodied bat, and the cracked floor.
They all took a cautious step away from Shire.
And just then—
Shire noticed something odd.
That last pot of Goldfish Vine?
It had been half-green when he planted it. Still unripe.
But now…
The leaves had turned a vivid red.
After being held by the Troll for just a few minutes… it had ripened.
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