Quirks in Wizarding World

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- Hogwarts Corridors – Outside the Girls' Bathroom -

- October 31, 1991 – Night -

Arthav's mind worked fast. The two trolls were just feet away from the bathroom—one already pushing its way inside, the other following close behind.

He didn't have time for hesitation.

Reaching into his robes, he pulled out three small artifacts he had worked on in the Room of Requirement. Fortunately, he had kept them shrunk with magic for convenience. With a quick tap of his wand, they expanded to their full size in his palm. Simple but effective.

A rune-inscribed flare stone, an enchanted noise orb, and a weighted snare.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the flare stone down the corridor, just past the second troll. The moment it hit the ground, it burst into a blinding flash of white light. The troll recoiled, groaning in confusion as it shielded its small eyes.

Before it could recover, he activated the noise orb. A sharp, ear-piercing screech echoed through the hall, making the troll stumble, swinging its massive club wildly in frustration. The distraction worked—it turned its attention away from the bathroom, now focused on the source of the disturbance.

Arthav didn't wait to see what happened next.

"Move!" he ordered, already sprinting forward.

Harry and Ron hesitated for only a second before following, dodging past the stunned troll. They reached the bathroom just as the first troll, now inside, swung its club.

The crash was deafening.

The sinks shattered. Marble splintered. Water gushed from broken pipes. Hermione stood in the far corner, eyes wide with terror, but unharmed.

The troll turned, Its beady eyes locking onto the new intruders.

Arthav reacted instantly.

His wand snapped forward.

The troll raised its club for another strike—only for it to suddenly twist, warp, and shift into thick metal chains that coiled around its massive hands. The transformation happened in an instant, the heavy chains tightening, binding its arms together.

The troll bellowed In rage, thrashing against the restraints.

Arthav gritted his teeth, pouring more magic into the spell. His fingers clenched around his wand as he reinforced the transfiguration with sheer force of will. The metal shimmered unnaturally, growing denser, stronger.

The troll fought back. Hard.

The chains strained. The stone floor beneath it cracked. Its immense strength pushed against the magic holding it, and Arthav felt the resistance like a crushing weight in his skull. His vision blurred, his head pounded, and then—

A sharp sting.

Warmth trickled down his upper lip.

Blood.

He wiped it away with the back of his hand, ignoring the burning pressure behind his eyes. He couldn't afford to falter.

The troll roared in fury, but it was trapped. It wouldn't break free.

For a moment, relief settled in—

Then the second troll, now recovered from the distraction, turned to face them.

It let out an ear-splitting roar.

Arthav's chest tightened. He couldn't hold off two of them like this.

He turned sharply to the others.

"Get together," he ordered, his voice steady despite the pounding in his skull. "Stay close to me."

Harry and Ron hesitated only for a second before grabbing Hermione, pulling her into their huddle.

Arthav stepped forward, his grip on his wand tightening. His mind was already racing to the next move.

This wasn't over yet.

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- Girls' Bathroom – Hogwarts Castle -

- October 31, 1991 – Night -

Hermione's hands trembled. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

She had been scared before—when she first learned she was a witch, when she had stepped onto Platform 9¾ for the first time, even when she faced Snape's piercing gaze in Potions. But this? This was terror on a level she had never felt before.

The troll was massive, far bigger than she had imagined. Its dull, beady eyes had locked onto her the moment it smashed into the bathroom. And when it swung its club—sending shattered marble and water spraying everywhere—she had barely managed to dodge in time. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and the foul stench of the creature itself.

She had no plan, no clever spell to get out of this.

All she could do was press herself against the broken sink and hope for a miracle.

But then, through the dust and destruction, she saw them.

Arthav. Harry. Ron.

They had come for her.

Her throat tightened.

She had spent most of the day crying, unable to shake the hurt from Ron's words. She had always known she was different—her diligence, her love for learning, and her strict adherence to the rules had set her apart from her peers. Even before Hogwarts, making friends had never been easy.

But Hogwarts was supposed to be different.

She had met people who accepted her—Harry, who was kind and brave; Parvati and Padma, who always stood by her; and Arthav, whose intelligence and quiet confidence made her feel understood in ways she couldn't explain. Even Ron, despite his bluntness, had been part of that growing circle of friends.

She had truly believed she belonged.

Until today.

Ron's words had hit her harder than she wanted to admit. And Harry… he hadn't defended her. That had hurt the most.

Padma and Parvati had tried to comfort her, telling her that Ron was just being stupid and that she shouldn't take his words to heart. But the damage was done. She had spent the entire evening in the bathroom, trying to convince herself that she was fine—that she didn't care.

Yet, deep down, she had been afraid.

Afraid that Ron had only said what everyone else thought. That she wasn't really wanted.

But now, seeing them standing there—panting, wands drawn, ready to face something so much bigger than them—something shifted in her heart.

She had been wrong.

Her eyes darted to Arthav. He stood firm, despite the tension in his posture. His face was pale, his expression locked in concentration as he held the first troll in check. Chains wrapped tightly around its massive arms, forcing it down onto its knees, but the sheer force it was exerting to break free was taking its toll on him.

She noticed the strain in his eyes, the way his nose had bled earlier, the sweat forming on his brow. He was struggling, and the second troll had noticed them, from its earlier distraction.

And yet, he hadn't backed down.

Because of her.

A wave of guilt crashed over her.

She had been so caught up in her own insecurities that she hadn't thought about what she was putting them through.

She clenched her fists.

She couldn't just stand there.

The second troll had now fully turned toward them, its club dragging along the ground. Arthav couldn't fight both—not alone.

She took a deep breath, forcing her fear down.

"Harry, Ron," she said, turning to them, her voice firm despite the lingering tremor. "We need to help him."

Ron blinked. "What? Help—how?"

"The Levitation Charm," she said quickly. "We can use it to lift the troll's club—throw it off balance."

Harry nodded, already raising his wand.

Ron hesitated.

She turned to him, her frustration briefly surfacing. "Ron, you can do this. Just say it properly—Wingardium LeviOsa."

Ron swallowed hard, but he lifted his wand.

Arthav, still battling the first troll, flicked his gaze toward them. Hermione could see the briefest flash of approval in his eyes.

She turned back to the second troll, her heart hammering.

"On three," she whispered.

"One."

The troll raised its club.

"Two."

It roared, preparing to swing.

"Three!"

"Wingardium LeviOsa!"

Three voices rang out in unison.

The massive club jerked in midair—then shot straight up, ripping out of the troll's grasp. The creature let out a confused grunt, staring at its now empty hands.

For the first time that night, Hermione felt a surge of hope.

They could win this.

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The air was thick with tension. The walls of the castle trembled with each wild thrash of the trolls. The floor, slick with water from the shattered sinks, reflected the dim torchlight, flickering as though responding to the raw magic in the air.

Arthav exhaled sharply.

His grip on his wand tightened as he fought to maintain control over the first troll. The chains constricting its massive arms groaned under the strain, but the creature was still pushing back, slowly forcing itself up. His muscles tensed—he needed to act fast.

The second troll, momentarily distracted by the sudden loss of its club, let out a confused grunt. Its thick fingers stretched toward the levitating weapon, unaware of what was coming next.

Arthav seized the moment.

His free hand clenched, magic crackling at his fingertips. With a flicker of his intent, the water pooling beneath the troll's feet twisted unnaturally, becoming slicker than ice. The creature's weight shifted awkwardly, its enormous bulk losing balance as its feet slid out from under it.

With a resounding crash, the troll fell backward, its head slamming against the cold stone floor with an impact that shook the corridor.

Arthav didn't hesitate.

The club—still midair from Harry, Hermione, and Ron's spell—was his next target. He reached out with his magic, shaping it, commanding it.

The massive wooden weapon morphed instantly, its form warping and twisting, reshaping itself into thick, iron-like chains. The links coiled around the fallen troll's throat like a serpent, one end driving deep into its nostrils, blocking its airway. The beast let out a muffled roar, thrashing wildly, but the lack of oxygen was already taking its toll.

At the same time, he sensed the first troll—the one he had been holding down—starting to break free.

Not yet.

He turned his wand back toward it, pouring even more magic into the chains binding its arms. Tighter. Stronger. Unbreakable.

Then, something inside him shifted.

For a brief moment, the world expanded around him.

His vision sharpened to an impossible degree. The dimly lit corridor became brighter, every detail crystal clear. The air itself seemed thicker with magic, and he could see it—even more clearly, at a much deeper level than before—the threads of energy swirling around him, the chains pulsating with raw power.

And then, in his reflection on the wet floor, he noticed it.

His eyes.

The faint star-like glimmers that had always been there were now more pronounced, glowing subtly, almost like miniature constellations trapped within his irises. But that wasn't all—a concentric ring had appeared, faint but distinct, encircling his pupils.

He couldn't grasp the full extent of the change yet, but he could feel it.

His perception of magic was sharper. The chains weren't just solid metal anymore—he could see their molecular structure, understand their composition at a level he hadn't before. It was as if he could reinforce them not just with magic, but with knowledge.

And so, he did.

With this newfound clarity, he hardened the chains further, willing them to become denser, more resilient. The trolls, still struggling, began to slow, their wild movements becoming sluggish. Their roars turned into low grunts, then strained gasps.

The corridor shook violently under their final struggles.

And then—silence.

The only sounds left were their labored breaths, the distant echo of hurried footsteps—

And then, hurried footsteps echoed as the Professors arrived.

The golden glow of Dumbledore's robes was unmistakable even in the flickering torchlight. He stood at the front, eyes sharp and unreadable behind his half-moon spectacles. Professor McGonagall was pale, her usual composure shaken as she took in the wreckage. Snape's expression was unreadable, though his gaze flickered between Arthav and the bound trolls with something akin to… calculation.

Flitwick gasped. "Merlin's beard…"

No one spoke.

Then, finally, Dumbledore's voice, calm yet carrying undeniable weight:

"What happened here?"

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