"What on earth were you three playing at?" Professor McGonagall's voice was cold with fury. Harry had never seen her so angry before; her lips were as pale as parchment.
He had thought that defeating the troll with Ron and Hermione would surely earn Gryffindor fifty points, but now it seemed that hope had gone up in smoke.
"You're lucky you weren't killed! Why weren't you in your dormitory like you were told?"
Snape bent down to examine the fallen troll, then shot Harry a piercing glare. His voice dripped with sarcasm."It seems the famous Harry Potter believes that he and his little friends can take on a full-grown mountain troll. Perhaps he thought this would be a splendid opportunity to make headlines again.
"Of course, with the help of those little creatures provided by Professor Gold, he appears to have pulled it off."
Charles could clearly hear the resentment and reluctant concern in Snape's tone toward Harry—and that nasty undertone aimed at himself. But Charles wasn't about to let him have the last word.
Quietly canceling his own Disillusionment Charm and dismissing his Substitute, Charles stepped forward and lifted the unconscious Ron with a flick of his wand.
"Professor Snape," he said evenly, "before you deliver another one of your self-righteous, entirely speculative, and personally biased judgments—would you at least allow the students to explain themselves?"
Snape's dark eyes narrowed dangerously, but before he could retort, Hermione, as though grasping at a lifeline, hurried to speak up in a small voice.
"Professor McGonagall—they were looking for me."
"Miss Granger!"
"I went after the troll because I—I thought I could handle it alone. I've read all about them in books, you see. I thought I understood them."
Harry and Ron both gaped at her. Hermione Granger, the girl least likely to break any school rule, was lying—to save them.
"If they hadn't found me, I'd probably be dead now," she went on breathlessly. "They didn't have time to fetch help, so they asked Professor Gold's Pokémon for assistance. When they arrived, the troll was about to swallow me whole."
Harry and Ron nodded quickly, trying to look as though this story was perfectly familiar.
"That's right, Professor," Harry added awkwardly. "Isn't that right, Pichu?"
"Pii~chuu!" the little Pokémon chirped, hopping up and down for emphasis.
"Oh… if that's how it was…" McGonagall murmured, frowning deeply. "Miss Granger, you foolish girl—how could you possibly think you could handle a troll alone?
"If it hadn't been Halloween night, and Professor Gold hadn't permitted a few Pokémon to roam the castle for the celebration, the consequences might have been tragic."
Hermione's head drooped low. Harry was speechless. Hermione Granger lying to save them—it was as shocking as if Snape suddenly started handing out candy in class.
"Miss Granger," McGonagall said sternly, "Gryffindor will lose five points for your recklessness. I'm deeply disappointed in you. If you're unhurt, go back to the Gryffindor common room at once—the feast is still going on."
She then turned to Harry and Ron.
"Well. I suppose I must say you were lucky. Few first-years could face a full-grown troll and live to tell the tale. Five points each to Gryffindor. I'll inform Professor Dumbledore of what happened. You may go."
"I suggest they rest in the Hospital Wing first," Charles interjected mildly. "Ron's a bit drained, and his magic suffered a minor backlash."
McGonagall nodded in agreement."Very well. Off to the Hospital Wing with you."
The three hurried away without another word, grateful to finally escape the troll's nauseating stench.
"Thanks, Hermione," Ron said once they were in the corridor. "You really got us out of that mess. But don't forget—we did save you!"
"If you didn't insult her in the first place, maybe she wouldn't have needed saving," Harry muttered.
After the trio disappeared, Charles wrinkled his nose. The troll's odor was unbearable. Honestly, aside from a certain greasy-haired Potions Master, who would willingly share space with such filth?
"I'll be going then, Minerva," Charles said, calling his three Pokémon to follow. He gave McGonagall a polite nod, then turned and walked away under Snape's watchful glare.
Even after several Scourgify and Freshening Charms, the foul stench seemed to linger in his nose. It wasn't that his magic failed—it was that his mind refused to forget the smell.
He decided that once he returned to the Nature Reserve, he'd take a long bath.
Naturally, at a school where secrets never stayed secret, the news of "Harry, Ron, and Hermione versus the Troll" spread through Hogwarts by the next morning. Ron, flushed with pride, retold the story to anyone who would listen—likely the biggest moment of glory in his life so far.
To be fair, his performance had been impressive.
Hermione's too, actually. She'd been the one to paralyze and stun the troll with precise commands. As for Harry… he couldn't help feeling that he'd done less than the other two.
The next day, Charles sat in his office crafting a wand.
The wand wood was chestnut, with a core made from a strand of mane taken from a Ponyta's flame.
Ron had overexerted himself rescuing that same Ponyta from the troll's grasp—so this wand would serve as a fitting gift in return.
Charles's wandcraft came from Gregorovitch, who, once upon a time, had been the master of the Elder Wand. After acquiring it, Gregorovitch devoted himself to replicating its power—so naturally, his wandmaking techniques surpassed most others.
"This will make a fine Christmas present," Charles mused aloud.
Just then, a knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," he called.
The door creaked open—and a terrible odor wafted in before the person did. Wrapped in a thick scarf, Professor Quirrell crept inside, looking jittery as ever.
"G-Gold—I came to d-discuss… the matter we spoke of earlier," he stammered nervously.
"Wait—stop right there!" Charles stood up hastily, pinching his nose.
"Hold on, Quirrell. Perhaps we should… talk somewhere with better ventilation. Your, er… scent is a little overwhelming."
Still holding his nose, Charles ushered Quirrell back out of the office.
"I really think you can do without all that garlic, you know. No vampire can get into Hogwarts anyway," he remarked dryly.
Of course, Charles knew it wasn't vampires Quirrell was worried about. But he couldn't resist the jab.
A greasy-haired Snape who never washed, a Quirrell who reeked of Voldemort—and don't even mention the filth of the Leaky Cauldron or the Hog's Head.
Honestly. Would it kill wizards to learn a bit of personal hygiene?
(End of Chapter)