Chapter 23: On All Hallows' Eve, Quirrell Rushes In With News
Class wasn't over; the bell hadn't rung—yet Hermione bolted. Flitwick would usually dock two points for disrupting class, but as she was close with Harry, whom she called brother, he made an excuse. "Ah, Miss Granger must need the lavatory?"
No answer. "Hm… she must really be in a hurry. I won't deduct points."
Ron's anger ebbed; seeing Hermione flee, he felt a stab of regret. "Maybe I went too far."
Harry said, "Brother, that was heavy. How could Big Sis bear it?"
Ron hardened his mouth. "I only said what everyone wants to say.
"If not today, someone else would later."
Harry shook his head.
"Harry, you're not mad at me?" Ron asked.
Harry smiled. "Gentlemen can agree without being the same; petty men can be the same without agreeing. You and Big Sis aren't wrong—you just walk different paths. How could I be angry?"
Ron fell silent.
Afternoon ended and still no Hermione. Ron got jumpy but bluffed, "No need to worry, Harry. It's Halloween. She'll come to the feast."
Harry chuckled. "I didn't ask—why answer yourself?"
Speechless, Ron trailed him to the hall, craning his neck—no chestnut hair.
"Shall we look for her?" he wavered. "It's a shame to miss dinner so grand."
A girl, Parvati Patil, said, "Looking for Hermione? She's been crying in the girls' loo all afternoon, won't let anyone comfort her."
Knowing where, Ron relaxed. "Ah, girls' loo… I'll pass."
Tongue fierce, heart soft.
When the hour came, the feast opened—meat and steam, stacked plates. Ron, however, wrapped roast and greens in his robe.
Asked why, he said "for a midnight snack."
Harry let it pass and drank.
"Happy Halloween, Lion King!"
"O ho, Your Majesty, sporting a sword?"
Fred and George bowed, then blinked at the blade.
"Not a sword," Harry laughed. "A backsword."
Fred peered. "Monk's weapon?"
George wailed, "No! Lion King, how can you become a monk? At least leave an heir…"
Their crosstalk drew roars.
After, George slid beside Harry and whispered, "Remember how I said I could make your body stronger, fast?"
Harry's heart hopped. "Found a way?"
George produced a long phial of indigo liquid. "Aging Potion. Sourced from Hogsmeade.
"A few drops and you're older by years," Fred added, waggling brows. "If you fancy an older witch and she thinks you're too young, it's handy.
"Short duration, though."
A potion to grow older—Harry was ecstatic. With such elixir, who worried about lifting a blade?
He tucked it away and drew out ten Galleons. "Blessed to know you both. A small gift."
The twins froze, smiles stiff.
"It's really not necessary," George stammered. "Aging Potion isn't half a Galleon."
Harry pushed the coins on them. "I can't make my brothers pay. Consider the rest a fee for your trouble."
The twins, though playful, kept their pride. They didn't want to take it. The coins passed back and forth until Ron said, "Take it. Harry's always like this.
"If you don't, he'll be more upset."
Seeing Ron used to it, Fred blinked. "No wonder you pay upper-years to write essays! I thought you'd won the Prophet's lottery!"
Ron shrugged. "Couldn't help it—Harry forced it on me."
With Harry insistent and Ron as precedent, they took the money.
"Great Lion King, if you need anything, just say."
Hand on chest, Fred declared, "The Weasley family will serve you forever."
Percy, chatting with a prefect, frowned. "Serve who? Also what's this 'Weasley family'? Don't lump me in."
"Oh please, Percy. Ron's already turning Harry-shaped; you're next."
"What does 'Harry-shaped' even mean?"
They bickered—when the great doors slammed open. Quirrell, head swathed in turban, staggered in.
He scanned the hall, found Dumbledore. "Troll—in the dungeons—I thought you ought to know." He collapsed.
For a heartbeat it was silent; then the hall exploded. Screams, chaos. Dumbledore fired sky-bursts to quiet them.
"All prefects, lead your houses back to their common rooms.
"Leave no one behind."
As the exodus began, Ron saw Harry going against the tide. "Harry, where are you going?"
"To find Big Sis!
"We heard of a troll; she's in the loo breathing stink—how would she know!"
Quirrell's urgent news, a troll in the depths; hundreds of heads blew apart—and the Scarred-Browed Man raised his blade and went upstream. Would Hermione live? Wait and see.
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