The stone steps leading down to the dungeons seemed to absorb all warmth, each downward step carrying Chris, Susan, and Hannah deeper into a realm of perpetual chill. Their shoes echoed against ancient flagstones slick with condensation, the cool September air growing increasingly frigid as they descended into Hogwarts' subterranean depths. The cheerful glow that had suffused them after their flying lesson faded with each step, replaced by a quiet apprehension that tightened in their chests.
"Do you think the rumours about Professor Snape are true?" Hannah whispered, her voice barely audible above the soft dripping of moisture from the ceiling. "Cecilia from third year said he once vanished a student's potion and gave him detention just for breathing too loudly."
Susan adjusted her bag higher on her shoulder, her usual confidence dimmed slightly in the gloom. "My aunt says he's strict but fair. Though she did mention he favors Slytherins."
Chris remained silent, mentally reviewing potion-making techniques he'd practiced at Ambrosia Manor. The Cure for Boils was simple enough, but executing it flawlessly while maintaining the appearance of a first-time brewer would require careful attention. Pairing up with Susan, Hannah or both, would help mask his own expertise.
The Potions classroom door stood ajar, revealing a dimly lit chamber that seemed designed to unsettle. Shelves lined the stone walls, crowded with glass jars containing floating specimens, animal parts, herbs, and creatures Chris couldn't immediately identify in the shadows. The only illumination came from flickering torches that cast more shadows than light, their flames reflected in the polished surfaces of copper cauldrons arranged on wooden tables.
Students filed in quietly, an unspoken understanding that this was not a place for casual chatter. The Hufflepuffs clustered toward one side of the room, facing the Ravenclaws across the aisle. Chris guided his friends to a middle table, neither hiding at the back nor drawing attention at the front.
"Remember," he murmured as they arranged their tools, "precision matters more than speed."
No sooner had they settled than the door banged shut with a resounding thud. Professor Severus Snape swept into the room, black robes billowing behind him like wings of an enormous bat. His sallow face was framed by curtains of greasy black hair, his hooked nose and cold, dark eyes giving him the appearance of a predatory bird scanning for weakness. He moved to the front of the class with silent, measured steps, then turned to face them.
The room fell instantly silent. Snape possessed the rare gift of keeping a class silent without effort; a slight narrowing of his eyes was sufficient to maintain absolute order.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying to every corner of the dungeon. Each word was precisely enunciated, demanding complete attention. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses."
His eyes roamed the classroom, assessing each student with cold calculation. Several Hufflepuffs shrank visibly beneath his gaze.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death, if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
The silence that followed was absolute. Hannah's fingers trembled slightly as she arranged her equipment with excessive care. Susan sat perfectly straight, her eyes fixed determinedly on Snape, refusing to be intimidated.
Snape extracted a roll of parchment from his robes and began calling names, his tone suggesting the activity was beneath him. Each student responded with a quiet "Present" that seemed to satisfy him until he reached a particular name.
"Emrys, Christopher."
Snape's eyes lifted from the parchment, finding Chris immediately. There was a flicker of something, not quite recognition, but a momentary interest, as he observed the white hair with its blue streaks. For three heartbeats, those dark eyes held Chris's, as though attempting to extract information through sheer intensity of gaze.
"Present, sir," Chris replied steadily, meeting the professor's eyes with calm respect.
Snape's gaze lingered a moment longer before returning to his roll call. When he finished, the parchment vanished into his robes with a flourish.
"Today," he announced, "you will attempt to brew a simple Cure for Boils. The instructions," he flicked his wand at the blackboard, and spidery writing appeared, "are on the board. The ingredients," another flick toward a small cupboard that creaked open, "are available if you failed to bring your own. You have one hour. Begin."
The classroom erupted into careful movement as students retrieved cauldrons and organized ingredients. Chris set up their workspace with methodical efficiency, positioning their shared cauldron at the optimal height over the flame.
"I'll handle the snake fangs," he offered quietly. "Susan, could you measure the dried nettles and porcupine quills? Hannah, you have the steadiest stirring hand."
They worked in harmonious silence, each focusing on their assigned tasks. Chris crushed the snake fangs with precise pressure, reducing them to a fine, even powder rather than the uneven chunks he observed at neighboring tables. Susan measured ingredients with the careful attention she brought to everything, her brow furrowed in concentration as she counted porcupine quills. Hannah watched the bubbling potion with unwavering focus, stirring clockwise at exactly the speed specified.
Around them, the classroom became a symphony of small disasters. A Ravenclaw boy added his porcupine quills before removing his cauldron from the fire, resulting in a hissing mess that began to melt his cauldron. Snape vanished the ruined potion with a contemptuous flick of his wand.
"Idiot boy!" he snapped. "Can you not read simple instructions? That will be five points from Ravenclaw for wasting ingredients."
The boy's face flushed with humiliation as his housemates shot him resentful glances. At another table, a Hufflepuff girl's hands shook so badly while chopping her ingredients that Snape's mere approach caused her to slice her finger. His reaction to the small injury was a cold instruction to "visit the hospital wing if you must, though I daresay the cut is less severe than your incompetence."
Chris kept his head down, focusing on their potion, which had turned the perfect shade of pink described in the textbook. The surface shimmered with an even heat, releasing spiral tendrils of blue smoke that indicated exact temperature control.
When Snape eventually reached their table, his black eyes narrowed as he examined their nearly perfect concoction. He leaned closer, inhaling the steam with a critical expression, then straightened. No praise came, but neither did criticism, a result Chris recognized as the highest compliment Snape was likely to offer.
"Bottle a sample and label it," was all the professor said before sweeping to the next table.
As they cleaned their station with thorough precision, Susan released a breath she seemed to have been holding for the entire class. "Did you see his face?" she whispered. "He actually looked surprised that we got it right."
Hannah's hands had stopped trembling as she carefully packed away unused ingredients. "Thanks to Chris," she murmured. "I would have mixed everything up without you organizing us."
Chris shrugged modestly, but felt a small glow of satisfaction at having navigated their first encounter with the intimidating Potions Master. As they filed out of the classroom, returning to the warmth of the upper castle, the trio exchanged small smiles of shared accomplishment. They had survived Snape's dungeon with their dignity, and house points intact, a victory worth celebrating in its own right.
Two months into term, Chris had settled into the rhythm of Hogwarts life with surprising ease. The castle's initially bewildering layout had become navigable, professors' expectations clearer, and the weight of his double life, eleven-year-old student outwardly, strategically planning adult inwardly, more manageable. On Halloween evening, he entered the Great Hall alongside Susan and Hannah, his enhanced senses immediately registering the distinctive atmosphere of the feast: the sugary scent of pumpkin-spiced everything, the hypnotic flutter of live bats against the enchanted ceiling, and the expectant hum of hundreds of students anticipating the legendary Hogwarts Halloween banquet.
"I've been looking forward to this all day," Susan declared, her strawberry-blonde plait adorned with a small pumpkin charm that glowed orange when she moved. "My aunt says Hogwarts Halloween feasts are unmatched anywhere in wizarding Britain."
Hannah nodded enthusiastically, her earlier nervousness around magic now tempered by two months of success and growing confidence. "I skipped lunch to save room," she confessed, patting her stomach. "Though I regretted it during History of Magic when my stomach growled so loudly Professor Binns actually paused mid-lecture."
Chris smiled at the memory. "I think that's the first time he's acknowledged a student's existence all term."
Their shared laughter came easily now, the product of countless hours spent together. What had begun as casual friendship had deepened through their thrice-weekly study sessions. Defense Against the Dark Arts on Mondays, supervised by Chris who demonstrated a "natural aptitude" for the subject; Potions on Wednesdays, where they meticulously prepared for Snape's increasingly challenging assignments; and History of Magic on Fridays, transforming Binns' soporific lectures into engaging discussions under privacy charms in the library.
The Great Hall had been transformed for the occasion. Hundreds of carved pumpkins floated above the tables, candles flickering inside their grotesquely smiling or scowling faces, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. Live bats swooped between the pumpkins and rafters, their wings creating brief eclipses of the floating candles. The enchanted ceiling displayed a perfect recreation of the night sky outside, velvety black scattered with stars, occasionally obscured by wisps of cloud that passed across the waxing moon.
The house tables groaned beneath platters of traditional holiday fare: roast turkey with crispy, golden skin; mountains of fluffy mashed potatoes; boats of rich gravy; and every vegetable imaginable prepared in ways that made even the most reluctant eater reconsider their stance on Brussels sprouts. At the far end, desserts awaited their turn, pumpkin pies with dollops of whipped cream, treacle tarts glistening with syrup, and bowls of enchanted candy that hopped playfully away from reaching hands.
As they found seats at the Hufflepuff table, Chris performed a subtle visual sweep of the hall, a habit formed over his time here. His gaze paused at the Gryffindor table where a notable absence caught his attention: Hermione Granger was missing from her usual spot. Near the middle of the table, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley sat together, seeming unaware or unconcerned by her absence. Chris's memory stirred, Hermione, bathroom, crying, troll. Events were unfolding exactly as he remembered from his previous life.
"Looking for someone?" Susan asked, following his gaze toward the Gryffindor table.
"Just observing," Chris replied smoothly, turning his attention to the feast appearing before them. "The Gryffindors seem particularly rowdy tonight."
Hannah reached for a serving spoon. "Fred and George Weasley have been promising 'festive surprises' all week. The Hufflepuff prefects advised us not to accept anything edible from them."
They filled their plates with holiday fare, conversation flowing easily between bites. Chris participated attentively while maintaining peripheral awareness of the hall. Professor Quirrell was noticeably absent. Most likely preparing for his comical entrance shouting about trolls.
The feast was in full swing, students laughing and ghosts gliding between tables to share centuries-old Halloween stories, when the Great Hall's massive doors burst open with enough force to rattle the silverware. Conversation died instantly as Professor Quirrell sprinted down the central aisle, his face ashen and turban tilted at a precarious angle. He reached Dumbledore's chair, clutching the edge of the head table for support.
"T-troll!" he gasped, his voice carrying through the stunned silence. "In the d-dungeons! Thought you ought to know."
With theatrical precision, Quirrell's eyes rolled back and he collapsed in a dead faint, face-first on the stone floor.
For one heartbeat, the hall remained frozen in shock. Then chaos erupted.
Several girls screamed, their high-pitched voices piercing the sudden surge of panicked voices. Benches scraped against stone as students leapt to their feet, some looking wildly toward the doors as if expecting the troll to lumber in at any moment. A Ravenclaw second-year dropped her goblet, pumpkin juice spreading across the table like a dark stain. Near the Slytherin table, a boy attempted to climb onto the table itself, knocking platters of food to the floor with a cacophonous clatter.
"SILENCE!" Dumbledore's magically amplified voice cut through the pandemonium. The headmaster stood tall at the center of the head table, his purple robes seeming to absorb the candlelight rather than reflect it. His presence commanded immediate attention, and the hall gradually quieted, though trembling hands and wide eyes revealed the barely contained panic.
Amidst the confusion, Chris's sharp gaze caught a flash of movement by the Gryffindor table. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were slipping away from their housemates, huddled together with expressions of grim determination. Neither looked toward the main doors where students were gathering, but instead toward a side entrance. They were going after Hermione, just as history dictated.
"Prefects," Dumbledore called, his voice returning to normal volume but carrying clearly, "lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!"
The instruction sent prefects into motion, voices rising above the murmurs as they called for their housemates to form lines. Percy Weasley's pompous commands to the Gryffindors carried particularly well, his chest puffed out importantly as he herded first-years.
Chris froze mid-rise from the bench, the realization hitting him like a stunning spell. "Wait," he said to Susan and Hannah, his mind racing through the implications. "The dungeons? Isn't that where, "
", the Slytherin dormitories are," Susan finished, her eyes widening. "And we're right next to them!"
Gabriel Truman, the Hufflepuff prefect, was already organizing their house into neat lines, his voice steady but urgent. "First-years in front, stay together, we'll move quickly and quietly to the common room."
Hannah gripped Chris's arm, her face pale. "He's sending us toward the troll, isn't he? Doesn't Dumbledore realize?"
Chris looked toward the head table where the professors were preparing to depart in search of the creature. None seemed to have registered the fundamental flaw in their evacuation plan. Dumbledore was conferring with McGonagall and Snape, the latter's face set in a particularly sour expression.
The absurdity of the situation, sending two houses directly into potential danger rather than keeping everyone secure in the easily defensible Great Hall, crystallized in Chris's mind. This wasn't mere oversight; it was incompetence bordering on dangerous negligence.
Without allowing himself to overthink the consequences, Chris stood up straight, drew a deep breath, and prepared to challenge the most powerful wizard in Britain's evacuation plan before hundreds of witnesses.
"Headmaster," Chris called, his voice cutting through the chaos with unexpected clarity. The word seemed to travel through the Great Hall as if carried by an invisible current, students turning their heads in surprise at the first-year who dared interrupt evacuation procedures. Chris stood perfectly straight, his distinctive white-blue hair making him immediately identifiable to everyone present. "The Slytherin dormitories are in the dungeons, and Hufflepuff is right next to them. Shouldn't everyone stay here where it's safe?"
The Great Hall fell into a silence so complete that the fluttering of bat wings overhead sounded thunderous in comparison. Hundreds of eyes darted between the small Hufflepuff first-year and the towering figure of Albus Dumbledore at the head table. A few Slytherins, already halfway to the doors, froze mid-step as the implications of Chris's words registered. Their faces transformed from fear of the troll to something closer to indignation that they'd been directed toward it.
At the Hufflepuff table, Susan and Hannah stared at Chris with a mixture of awe and alarm. Susan's hand moved instinctively to his sleeve, neither pulling him down nor supporting him up, but simply connecting them in this moment of audacity. Nearby, Gabriel Truman's prefect instructions died on his lips, his authority temporarily suspended as he awaited the Headmaster's response.
At the head table, the staff's reactions unfolded in rapid succession. Professor Snape's sallow face twisted into an expression caught between irritation at the interruption and reluctant acknowledgment of the point. His dark eyes narrowed at Chris, reassessing the white-haired first-year who had just identified a potentially fatal oversight.
Professor Sprout gasped softly, one hand flying to her mouth as she turned to Dumbledore with obvious concern. "Albus," she whispered, though in the silence her voice carried farther than intended, "the boy is right. We would be sending them directly into danger."
Other professors exchanged alarmed glances, the flaw in the evacuation plan suddenly, embarrassingly obvious. Professor Flitwick began calculating alternative routes with small gestures of his wand, while Professor McGonagall's lips thinned to a nearly invisible line, her nostrils flaring slightly as she fixed Dumbledore with a pointed stare.
The silent communication between Deputy Headmistress and Headmaster contained volumes, her sharp look asking how they had overlooked such a critical detail, his slight nod acknowledging the oversight. McGonagall's gaze then shifted to Chris, reassessing the young Hufflepuff whose observational skills had potentially prevented disaster.
For several heartbeats, Dumbledore studied Chris with an intensity that seemed to raise the temperature in the room. The Headmaster's eyes, usually twinkling with benign amusement, had turned serious and evaluative behind half-moon spectacles. Something in that gaze reminded Chris of their first meeting in the Great Hall, the moment when the Sorting Hat had been placed on Harry's head and he had noticed Dumbledore's subtle interference with Harry's sorting.
The tension stretched taut as spun glass until finally, Dumbledore nodded. "Mr. Emrys makes an excellent point," he announced, his calm voice belying the gravity of the situation. "It would indeed be unwise to direct any students toward the dungeons at this time." He turned to address the staff and students collectively. "All students will remain here in the Great Hall while the professors deal with the troll. Prefects, please ensure your houses are comfortable and accounted for."
The prefects, who had been halfway through their evacuation procedures, pivoted smoothly to their new instructions. Percy Weasley's voice carried over the Gryffindor table with barely a pause: "Gryffindors, return to your seats and remain calm!" The Slytherin prefects looked particularly relieved as they directed their younger housemates back from the doors.
Dumbledore continued, "Professors, we shall proceed as planned to locate and neutralize the threat." He gestured to the staff, who moved with purpose toward the doors. "Professor Quirrell," he added, glancing at the still-prone figure on the floor, "perhaps would benefit from remaining here to recover."
With quiet efficiency, Professor McGonagall revived the Defense teacher with a flick of her wand before following the other staff members. Quirrell sat up groggily, looking around in confusion, his turban now hanging precariously off one side of his head.
As the professors departed, leaving only Quirrell and the prefects to oversee the student body, the Great Hall erupted into excited chatter. The near-disaster and its prevention became the immediate focus of every conversation, with frequent glances toward the white-haired Hufflepuff who had spoken up.
Chris sank back onto the bench between Susan and Hannah, suddenly aware of the attention he had drawn to himself. Across the Hufflepuff table, older students regarded him with newfound respect. From the Ravenclaw table nearby, several students nodded approvingly in his direction. Even the Slytherins, normally disdainful of Hufflepuffs on principle, were shooting calculating looks his way.
"That was absolutely brilliant," Susan whispered, squeezing his arm. "You basically just saved two houses from walking straight into a troll."
Hannah nodded vigorously. "I can't believe none of the professors realized. Even Professor Sprout looked shocked."
"It just seemed logical," Chris replied quietly, though he felt the weight of Dumbledore's lingering gaze. The Headmaster had paused at the Great Hall doors for one final look back, directly at Chris, before departing with the other professors.
Chris knew he had just significantly altered his profile at Hogwarts. He was no longer just the talented Hufflepuff first-year with unusual hair; he was now the student who had publicly challenged Dumbledore's judgment, and been proven correct. The attention might complicate his plans to blend in, but as he looked at Susan and Hannah beside him, at the Hufflepuff and Slytherin students who would have been directed into potential danger, he knew the intervention had been necessary. Especially with him being here. Who knows what butterfly effects he has caused. And some things mattered more than keeping a low profile.
The castle would talk, Dumbledore would watch, but his friends were safe. That was worth whatever scrutiny might follow.
In the wake of the professors' departure, the Great Hall settled into a strange limbo of forced normalcy and simmering tension. The Halloween feast remained on the tables, sumptuous foods cooling while students huddled in tight groups, voices lowered to urgent whispers. Prefects patrolled the aisles with exaggerated vigilance, as if a troll might materialize between the house tables despite Quirrell's report locating it in the dungeons. The Defense professor himself had retreated to a corner, repeatedly adjusting his turban with trembling hands, his usual nervous demeanor amplified to something approaching genuine terror.
Chris sat at the Hufflepuff table with a plate of untouched treacle tart before him, its golden surface no longer as appetizing as it had been minutes earlier. His mind calculated possibilities and consequences, working through the ripples his public intervention might create. He'd known from the beginning that maintaining complete anonymity would be impossible, but he'd hoped to attract attention gradually, through academic excellence and measured contributions. Instead, he'd just placed himself squarely in the sightline of the most powerful wizard in Britain.
"Quite the commotion you've caused, Emrys," came a voice from across the table. Gabriel Truman, the fifth-year prefect with his shiny badge gleaming against black robes, leaned forward with an appraising smile. "Quick thinking there. You probably saved the Slytherins and us from walking straight into danger."
Chris offered a modest nod. "It just seemed obvious once I thought about it. I'm surprised no one else mentioned it."
"That's the thing about obvious solutions, they're only obvious after someone points them out," Gabriel replied, his tone thoughtful. "Most first-years would be too intimidated to question Dumbledore's instructions in front of the entire school. Takes a certain kind of courage, very Hufflepuff courage, I might add." The prefect's approval was evident in his warm smile before he rose to continue his patrol of the table.
More Hufflepuffs shifted closer, drawn by Gabriel's endorsement. A second-year girl with her hair in neat braids leaned over from her seat. "My little sister's in Slytherin," she said quietly. "Thank you for speaking up."
From the Ravenclaw table, a boy with wire-rimmed glasses called across the narrow gap between tables: "Excellent application of logical reasoning. Very impressive risk assessment."
Susan squeezed Chris's arm with undisguised pride. "You're becoming quite the hero," she whispered, amusement dancing in her eyes. "First the Potions success, then the Defense study group, now saving students from trolls."
"I didn't actually fight the troll," Chris reminded her, though he appreciated her support. "I just pointed out a scheduling conflict."
Hannah giggled, her earlier fear now subsiding. "A scheduling conflict involving a twelve-foot mountain troll and two houses worth of students. Very minor detail."
Despite their light banter, Chris's thoughts kept returning to the potential consequences of his intervention. The Halloween troll incident was pivotal in the original timeline, it cemented Harry, Ron, and Hermione's friendship when the boys rescued her from the bathroom. If they still went looking for her, would they find the troll elsewhere in the castle? Or would the professors find it first, leaving Hermione alone and the trio's friendship developing along a different path?
The butterfly effects troubled him. He'd been cautious about changing major events, preferring to observe and make small, strategic adjustments. Tonight's intervention had been impulsive, driven by genuine concern for his housemates and the Slytherins. But now he wondered, if Hermione was injured because he'd redirected the professors' attention, or if the foundation of the trio's friendship was altered, how might that affect larger events?
"You're thinking very hard about something," Susan observed, studying his expression. "Worried about getting in trouble? I don't think they can punish you for being right."
Chris shook his head. "Just wondering about consequences. Everything connects to everything else."
"Very philosophical," Hannah commented, attempting to lighten his mood. "Perhaps you should have been in Ravenclaw after all."
Before Chris could respond, the massive doors of the Great Hall swung open, revealing the returning professors. The students fell silent immediately, all eyes turning toward Dumbledore, who led the procession with a calm demeanor that suggested the crisis had passed.
"The troll has been located and subdued," he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly throughout the hall. "It appears to have wandered into a girls' bathroom on the first floor, causing some damage to the facilities but fortunately encountering no students."
Chris's attention sharpened. A bathroom, exactly where Hermione had been in the original timeline. He scanned the returning professors, noting that McGonagall, Snape, and Flitwick all showed signs of recent exertion. Snape was favoring his right leg slightly, and McGonagall's typically immaculate bun had loosened, several strands of hair escaping to frame her severe face.
"You may continue with your feast," Dumbledore continued. "The incident is resolved, and Hogwarts is secure once more."
As the professors returned to the head table, Chris performed a quick visual sweep of the Gryffindor table. Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger were notably absent, unlike the rest of their house who had remained in the Great Hall. Had they still somehow encountered the troll? Or were they perhaps in the hospital wing, being treated for injuries or shock?
But Dumbledore's relaxed demeanor suggested there had been no serious injuries, he would surely appear more concerned if students had been hurt. The Headmaster caught Chris's evaluating gaze and returned it with a slight nod that might have been acknowledgment or something more significant. Then he turned to speak with Professor McGonagall, their conversation appearing serious but not urgent.
The feast gradually resumed its festive atmosphere as platters refilled with fresh, hot food. Conversations returned to normal volume, now centered on excited retellings of the evening's drama. Chris finally turned his attention to his treacle tart, the sweet flavor providing a comforting conclusion to an eventful Halloween.