Chapter 15: Shadows in the Common Room
The Gryffindor common room was, as always, a cacophony of noise and movement. Students clustered in groups, chatting and boasting, while others played raucous games of Exploding Snap or wizarding chess. The only times the room ever fell into a hushed silence were during bedtime, important Quidditch matches, or over the holidays.
When Hermione and Neville slipped through the portrait hole, guarded by the Fat Lady, the familiar chaos washed over them. It was the norm, though Hermione often complained that the constant din made serious study impossible.
She immediately pulled Neville towards a quieter corner, the image of Solim's horrific scar still burning in her mind. She needed to know more, and Neville, with his uncle who had taught at Scuol, was her only source.
"Neville," she began, her voice low and intense, "tell me everything you know about that scar on your cousin's back."
Neville, who had grown noticeably more confident and articulate after nearly a semester under Solim's wing, shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know much, Hermione. Just that... he was bullied when he first arrived at that school. A bit like I was, before... well, before him. No one bullies me now. Even Malfoy talks to me properly. I'm really grateful."
"Get to the point, Neville!" Hermione urged, seeing his thoughts begin to drift.
Neville furrowed his brow in concentration. "I think it happened when he was ten. If I'm not mistaken."
"When he was ten?" Hermione repeated, her voice rising slightly. "What happened when he was ten?"
"My uncle... whenever he mentions Solim, he calls him 'the little monster'. Or sometimes 'the little madman'," Neville said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Hermione's patience was fraying. "Neville Longbottom, if you don't start making sense—"
"Okay, okay!" he said, shrinking back. "I don't know exactly how he got the scar. Maybe Uncle Hruber told me and I forgot. But I know what happened after."
Hermione gestured for him to hurry up.
"Cousin Solim gave someone a 'Black Glove'," Neville said, as if that explained everything. "Do you know what a Black Glove is, Hermione?"
"A Black Glove? I know about dueling with white gloves," Hermione said, her curiosity piqued. She'd read about the old, formalized wizard duels in A History of Magical Conflict. "What's a Black Glove?"
Neville explained, his words tumbling out in a nervous rush. He described how white-glove duels were formal affairs with rules, assistants, and a high chance of survival, even for the loser. They were about honor and restitution.
"A Black Glove is different," he said, his eyes wide. "It's a death duel. No assistants. No special items. Just wands. The only goal is to kill the other person. There are rules, too—the duelists can't be more than twenty years apart in age, and you have to have a really, really good reason. A reason to die."
Hermione listened, enthralled and horrified. She wasn't worried for Solim's present safety—he was clearly alive—but the implications were staggering.
"Wait, Neville," she interrupted, a cold dread settling in her stomach. "Solim... are you saying he... he killed someone?"
Neville gave a single, solemn nod. "Yes. I was shocked too when I found out. The other wizard was from a very old family, I think. I've forgotten the name. My uncle said the duel caused a big stir and that Solim made a lot of powerful enemies. But he also said Solim didn't do anything wrong."
A profound realization dawned on Hermione. Solim wasn't just a precocious, knowledgeable student. He existed in a world entirely separate from their own at Hogwarts. While she lived in a storybook world of magic and wonder, Solim inhabited a brutal, unforgiving reality. The thought of a ten-year-old boy killing someone in a formal duel was unthinkable. The Solim she studied with every day suddenly felt like a stranger, and a dangerous one at that. A shiver of fear traced its way down her spine.
Neville, perceptive in his own way, saw the fear on her face. "Hermione, don't... don't think about it like that."
"Don't think about what?" Harry and Ron approached, having finally spotted them.
"Nothing," Hermione said, quickly composing herself. "I was just looking for you. We need to talk about what happened at the Quidditch match."
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. "Well, Hermione," Harry began sheepishly, "we haven't actually started Professor Sinistra's Astronomy essay yet. It's due Monday. Could we, maybe, have a look at yours?"
This was a familiar request. Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. "I have something more important to discuss. About what happened to you, Harry. I think we may have been wrong about Snape."
"What?" Ron spluttered. "Hermione, have you gone mad? You saw him! Muttering, not taking his eyes off Harry's broom!"
"I did. But there are too many things that don't make sense." She then meticulously laid out the logical arguments Solim had presented, dissecting the public setting, the unlikelihood of a fatal fall, and the sheer stupidity of the method for a true assassination attempt.
"Hermione," Harry said, trying to process it, "are you saying someone attacked me on the pitch just to... send a message? To warn the staff?"
"Exactly. If Snape truly wanted you dead, he'd choose a method that had a chance of working. This didn't."
"Hermione, since when do you take advice from a Slytherin?" Ron asked, crossing his arms with a scowl. "And if this mysterious person wanted to warn people, why not just send an anonymous note? Why attack Harry during a match?"
"I've thought about that too," Hermione countered. "It's likely there's more than one person in the castle who means Harry harm. The one who acted on the pitch might be under surveillance themselves. A direct approach to a professor could be too risky."
"Come off it, Hermione," Ron said dismissively. "It was the Slytherins! They're sore losers at Quidditch. They probably just wanted to knock Harry off his broom to make us lose. And with Dumbledore here, Hogwarts is the safest place there is."
"Was it safe on Halloween?" Hermione retorted sharply. "Did the troll wander in for a friendly visit? How many first-years do you think could actually stop one?"
"Alright, enough arguing," Harry interjected, seeing the familiar tension rising. He quickly changed the subject. "Speaking of Snape, did either of you notice he's hurt his leg?"
"I don't care about his leg!" Hermione snapped, her frustration boiling over. "I care that you two start using your brains before you forget how!" With that, she stood and stormed off towards the girls' dormitory.
Harry and Ron sighed in unison. The hope of borrowing her essay had vanished.
"Alright, Neville," Ron said, turning his hopeful gaze elsewhere. "You've finished Sinistra's essay, right?" If Neville had a copy, their evening was saved.
Neville shifted awkwardly. "I... I have. But I didn't bring it down with me." He and Hermione usually did their homework in the hidden classroom, where Solim kept his extensive collection of books. Neville, in his habitual forgetfulness, had left his parchment there.
"Could you go get it for us, Neville?" Harry pleaded. "It's our only chance to get it done before Monday."
Neville, never good at refusing his friends, especially under the weight of their hopeful stares, reluctantly agreed. "Okay. I'll go get it. Wait here."
"Go out?" Harry grabbed his arm. "You left it in a classroom?"
"It's past curfew! Filch will be prowling!" Ron added.
Neville explained that his essay was in the small classroom they used, not the dormitory. While it was technically after lights-out for first-years, Harry and Ron, seasoned rule-breakers, saw no issue.
"Neville probably hasn't snuck out much," Ron said with a grin. "We'll come with you. Safety in numbers, right, Harry?"
Harry nodded eagerly.
As the three boys stood in the corridor, plotting their illicit journey, the portrait hole swung open again.
"I knew it!" Hermione stood there, her hands on her hips, her expression furious. "I knew you'd try to talk Neville into this the moment I saw you huddled together! Listen to me, you two!" She glared at Harry and Ron before turning to Neville. "Neville, you're coming back inside with me. And you are not lending them your homework."
But as Hermione turned to march back into the common room, she made a horrifying discovery. The Fat Lady was gone from her portrait.
"What do we do now?" Ron asked with a smug smirk. "Stand here until she comes back? Or wait for Filch to find us?"
The four Gryffindor first-years, trapped outside their common room, had no idea of the dangerous adventure that awaited them in the dark, silent halls of Hogwarts that night.