As the Head of Slytherin House, Snape was the first professor to arrive on the scene. He found Dudley already in command, calmly organizing the stunned first-years. The unfortunate fifth-year prefect, who had been thrown against the wall, had already been given a pain-relieving potion and was being tended to. Fortunately, the prefect's reflexes had been sharp; his last-second Shield Charm had saved him from anything more serious than a few broken bones.
For reasons Snape couldn't immediately fathom, the young Slytherins were uncharacteristically compliant. They followed Dudley's instructions without question, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe. It seemed the incident had thoroughly intimidated them.
Snape vanished the troll's enormous corpse, but not before Dudley had discreetly collected a vial of its valuable mucus.
According to the information Malfoy later dug up, Slytherin hadn't been the only house attacked. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw had also encountered trolls that night, though Hufflepuff, being closest to the Great Hall, had escaped the chaos. A total of four trolls had been captured: one dead and three subdued.
Had someone stirred up a troll's nest? Dudley didn't know, but he revised his assessment of Hogwarts' safety downward yet again. In response to the incident, the castle's security was immediately reinforced, with portraits in every corridor tasked to report any unusual activity directly to the Heads of House.
The night passed without further incident.
The next morning, Pansy Parkinson summoned the Slytherin first-years to a private meeting in the common room.
"Big D revealed his true power to save me!" she announced, pointing a dramatic finger at her own chest. "Did you not see? He came to my side first to ask if I was hurt." Her cheeks flushed slightly. "He even gave me a Calming Draught with his own hands." She self-consciously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, an attempt at flirtatious charm that was unfortunately undermined by her severe, pug-like hairstyle. "He really does enjoy the tea I brew for him, you know."
Though Pansy held considerable sway among the first-years, her possessive tone caused a few of the other witches to bristle with jealousy.
Her expression then hardened. "Now, listen to me," she commanded, her voice sharp. "Under no circumstances is anyone to speak of what happened last night to a professor."
"Not even the Head of House?" someone asked tentatively.
"No!" Pansy snapped. "Especially not him!"
The details of how Dudley had actually killed the troll remained vague. Snape, for his part, hadn't pressed for details, either because he had his own suspicions or simply didn't care. As a result, he remained unaware that the troll had died from what the students perceived as an impossibly powerful dark curse.
"My father has told me that Hogwarts forbids the study of the Dark Arts," Pansy explained, her gaze sweeping across the faces of her peers. "If they find out, they will expel Big D. Whoever dares to speak out, whoever is responsible for him being thrown out of this castle... my family, the Parkinsons, will ensure they regret it for the rest of their lives."
"The Malfoys will stand with you!" Draco declared at once.
"As will the Greengrasses!" Daphne added firmly.
One by one, the other pure-blood first-years pledged their silence. Overnight, Dudley—the boy they had once scorned—had become Slytherin's secret, treasured champion. He, of course, remained completely oblivious to his newfound status.
He was sitting peacefully in the library with Hermione. She was studying a second-year Charms textbook, while Dudley was absorbed in the old Potions notebook he had acquired from Snape's private stores, its advanced techniques proving to be an invaluable resource. In the seats behind them, Harry, Ron, and Neville were engrossed in their own studies. Dudley had tailored their assignments to their individual strengths: Harry was immersed in a dusty tome on defensive charms, Neville was happily studying a rare Herbology guide, and Ron was surprisingly focused on a book of wizarding strategy, filled with diagrams of famous chess matches.
Even if magic was best learned through practice, a solid grasp of theory was essential. A new routine settled over their lives: mornings were for physical training, followed by study. Dudley would attend his private lessons with Snape while the others had free time, and evenings were reserved for practical spell-casting sessions. It was rigorous and demanding but deeply fulfilling.
On the second day after Halloween, the Gryffindors discovered that their house points hourglass had plummeted from second place to dead last. This wasn't unusual; they often lost points for rule-breaking. But after a full week, they realized their points weren't recovering. In fact, they had dropped even further.
Only then did they notice that the insufferable "know-it-all," who usually earned them points in every class, had fallen silent. Their primary source of points had been cut off. Dudley had quietly suggested to Hermione that the pursuit of house points was a meaningless distraction. For her, the so-called honor of the House Cup now meant nothing compared to the safety of their small group.
The Gryffindors told themselves it didn't matter. They still had Quidditch. A victory in the first match would put them back in the running.
In the biting cold wind of November, the Quidditch season kicked off. The first match: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Malfoy had bought his way onto the team as Seeker, outfitting the entire Slytherin squad with brand-new, top-of-the-line racing brooms—a testament to the fact that gold could, indeed, buy glory. With the clear advantage of his superior broom, he snatched the Golden Snitch from right under the nose of Gryffindor's Seeker.
To the furious, biased commentary of Lee Jordan, Slytherin claimed victory, and their house points soared even higher. In his small notebook, Dudley jotted down two observations: 1. Equipment disparity creates unfair match conditions. 2. Commentator bias compromises integrity.
Time flew by, and soon it was December. The first semester was nearing its end, but there was still no word from Dumbledore about the committee.
On a Saturday afternoon, Snape limped into the Potions classroom for his lesson with Dudley.
"Professor," Dudley said, his eyes immediately drawn to Snape's uneven gait. "You're injured."
Dudley's nose twitched. He caught the sharp, medicinal scents of Dittany and licorice root, mixed with the earthy undertones of Houttuynia cordata. "If I'm not mistaken," he continued, his gaze sharp, "you've been bitten." His eyes fell to the hem of Snape's robes, where a dark stain marred the fabric of his trousers. "And based on the tooth marks," Dudley murmured, "it was a canine. A very large one."
[Chapter Complete]
***
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