Chapter 48: Sherlock Moves Alone

In the chaos of the Great Hall, Harry and Ron stuck close to Percy.

Though they often mocked him, Percy still looked after his younger brother when it mattered.

"Don't worry—as long as you follow my instructions, there's no need to be afraid of a troll!

Just stay right behind me… Hey, up ahead! Make way! I'm a prefect!"

To be fair, Percy really was a competent prefect.

But on the way back to Gryffindor Tower, they ran into a crowd of students heading off in various directions.

As they pushed through a bunch of bewildered Hufflepuffs, even Percy flashing his prefect badge wasn't enough—Harry and Ron were separated from him.

Ron immediately panicked.

That's when Harry suddenly grabbed Ron's arm.

After spending so much time around Sherlock, Harry had started to develop a broader way of thinking.

He stopped Ron from forcing his way through the crowd, his expression turning serious.

"I just remembered—Granger."

Ron, still not quite understanding, blinked in confusion.

"Granger? What about her?"

Harry met Ron's gaze and said slowly and clearly:

"She doesn't know about the troll."

Ron's face went pale.

"Bloody hell… Sherlock—"

By now, both Harry and Ron had the same instinct whenever faced with a problem beyond them:

Find Sherlock.

But—

Sherlock was gone.

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Where is he?!"

They spun in all directions—but sure enough, he was nowhere to be found.

Harry suddenly remembered: ever since Professor Quirrell barged into the Hall, he hadn't seen Sherlock once.

No wonder something had felt… missing.

He wasn't among the other first-year Gryffindors following Percy either.

"Damn it. He must've gone to find Granger on his own!"

Ron said with certainty.

Harry nodded.

There weren't many students Sherlock called by name—or even surnames.

In fact, he didn't even remember some people's surnames—or didn't bother to learn them at all.

In his own words, his brain was like a hard drive. If something wasn't useful, there was no need to store it.

Now, for the first time, Harry and Ron had to make a decision without Sherlock's guidance.

They were both nervous—and oddly, a little excited.

That classic Gryffindor trait stirred within them.

"So? Are we doing this?"

"Go, go, go, go!"

"Careful—don't let Percy see us."

"Sherlock's so bloody unfair. What, does he think we'll slow him down?"

Muttering their complaints, the two ducked low and slipped into a crossing wave of Hufflepuffs to hide their departure.

After sneaking down a side corridor, they broke into a sprint toward the dungeon levels.

The moment they rounded a corner, a vile stench hit them full in the face.

How to describe it…

It was like a pair of Ron's unwashed socks combined with a month-old public restroom.

Maybe throw in a few particularly questionable flavors from Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans for good measure.

Their facial muscles twitched as they tried to hold their breath.

Any longer and they were afraid they might faint—or throw up on the spot.

As they crept closer and peeked around the corner, what they saw left them stunned.

…

When Professor Quirrell burst into the Great Hall and stammered out the news about the troll, Sherlock's expression darkened at once.

Something was off.

He had Professor McGonagall to thank for that insight.

To fulfill a promise to her, Sherlock had been attending Defence Against the Dark Arts more regularly these past two weeks—and had observed Quirrell closely.

From the very first time he heard the tale of Quirrell's encounter with vampires and subsequent personality shift, Sherlock had suspected it was fabricated.

Harry had questioned it too, but with little evidence, Sherlock hadn't pursued it.

But after attending classes consistently, he had watched Quirrell's mannerisms and behavior with increasing scrutiny.

Something was wrong.

If they were in the Muggle world, Sherlock would've already launched a full investigation.

But this was the wizarding world—and things were different.

For one, despite seeming cowardly and unreliable, Quirrell was still an adult wizard.

If Sherlock's deduction was correct, his magical capabilities were far from weak.

Rushing in blindly would be foolish, not brave.

And Sherlock never mistook recklessness for courage.

The second reason was time.

To him, time was always scarce.

Every professor at Hogwarts harbored secrets of some kind.

So unless Quirrell became an immediate threat, his file could wait.

Until tonight.

The moment Quirrell staggered into the Great Hall, Sherlock needed less than a second to deduce the truth behind his act.

He moved.

Act fast enough, and he could uncover the full story—

And rescue Hermione along the way.

Events unfolded just as he had expected.

He reached the dungeon level before the troll.

Barely—by less than thirty seconds.

But it was enough.

Enough time to drag Hermione out of the girls' bathroom before the troll cornered her.

Yes, drag.

Hermione had nearly lost the ability to speak.

Her limbs were limp, her body heavy—she could only move because Sherlock was pulling her along.

Which was entirely understandable.

For all her usual determination, she was still just an eleven-year-old girl.

She'd spent the entire afternoon crying in a bathroom—hungry, exhausted, and emotionally drained.

Then, out of nowhere, came a real-life troll.

Her mind had gone completely blank.

After all, reading about trolls in a textbook and seeing one in person were two entirely different things.

The one standing in front of them now was at least twelve feet tall—taller even than Hagrid.

But unlike Hagrid, who, giant though he was, still looked human—

This thing did not.

Its whole body looked like it had been clumsily sculpted from compacted mud.

Its skin was a dull granite-gray, speckled with clumps of dried leaves and caked-on filth.

Its limbs were horrifyingly out of proportion—its legs short and stump-like, while its arms were long and massive.

The thick club it carried scraped the ground behind it.

Its tiny head was sunken into its shoulders, and unless you looked closely, it was hard to spot its face at all.

And of course—there was the stench.

That reeking odor alone would've been enough to knock someone out.

If this were a game, the troll might've been amusing.

But in real life?

It was nightmare fuel.

Anyone with even mild megalophobia would've had their senses overwhelmed.

For Hermione, this reaction wasn't surprising at all.

Even for a young witch, freezing up in the face of a mountain-sized monster was perfectly normal.

Sherlock, on the other hand, remained eerily calm.

His mental resilience was always far beyond his peers.

And more importantly—he had expected this.

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