The Great Hall buzzed with hundreds of voices and the clatter of cutlery. Golden candlelight reflected off the enchanted ceiling, creating a cozy atmosphere despite the cool October evening. Steven, seated at the Ravenclaw table, absently stirred the pumpkin juice in his goblet. His thoughts were far from dinner; he was still contemplating the phenomenon of non-verbal levitation and trying to reconcile it with the principles of alchemical transmutation he'd been studying in old tomes. For him, magic was just another form of energy, and he sought to understand its fundamental laws.
Ron and Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, eagerly recounting their misadventures with the levitation charm and how Ron had nearly set Seamus's hair on fire. Their laughter felt strained; Ron clearly seemed to be feeling guilty about something.
Suddenly, the doors of the Great Hall burst open with a crash, making everyone jump. Professor Quirrell stood in the doorway, his usually pale face even whiter, his stutter completely gone. His eyes darted frantically around the hall.
"Troll! In the dungeons! Troll in the dungeons!" he shrieked, his voice piercing and full of panic. "I... I just wanted to warn you!"
Then, without another word, Quirrell collapsed to the floor in a dead faint. A deathly silence fell over the hall. Every student, every professor, seemed to be processing what they'd heard. A troll. In Hogwarts.
The silence was broken by the loud scrape of a chair — Dumbledore had sprung to his feet. He was unusually pale, but his voice rang out authoritatively and clearly, cutting through the rising whispers.
"Prefects! Lead your houses back to your dormitories! Quickly and calmly!" he commanded, his gaze sweeping over the other teachers. "Teachers, follow me! We'll deal with this troll!"
Chaos erupted. Dozens of prefects, trying to follow Dumbledore's order, began to usher students, but many first-years were either too terrified or, conversely, overly curious to move quickly. The murmur of voices and the shuffle of feet filled the hall.
Steven instantly analyzed the situation. A troll in the dungeons... and Quirrell, who "warned" them and then fainted. It seemed inconveniently convenient, excessively theatrical. Something was off. His perceptive mind was already forming hypotheses about hidden motives.
He noticed Harry and Ron hastily whispering, their eyes darting around the hall, full of panic.
"She... she doesn't know!" Ron whispered to Harry, his voice filled with despair. "She's in the girls' bathroom! Still crying!"
Steven knew this script. He knew it by heart. Harry and Ron, after an awkward conversation, would rush to save Hermione. Ron would accidentally cast Wingardium Leviosa, Harry would figure out how to use the spell, and the troll would be defeated. This was part of his familiar world, where plotlines unfolded along strictly defined rails. He made a decision. Without hesitation, Steven abruptly stood, his gaze cold and focused. He caught Harry and Ron's alarmed looks.
"Go with everyone else," Steven tossed out, and before they could reply, he was already pushing through the crowd, heading for the exit. He wasn't playing the hero; he was simply doing what seemed logical and necessary to him, with a cold certainty in the inevitability of the future.
He slipped out of the Great Hall, leaving the noisy commotion behind. The corridors were already almost empty, with only a few prefects attempting to direct straggling students. Steven walked, his steps light and silent, heading towards the dormitory.
"Hermione will be fine," he repeated to himself, his thoughts far from the girls' bathroom on the third floor. "Harry and Ron will handle it. That's their role. My job is to observe, to analyze, to understand. I have my own goals, my own research. Intervention will disrupt the flow of events, create unpredictable variables." He walked, his steps measured, his brain working, trying to categorize the new information this night had brought. "Quirrell... his panic was extremely artificial. Unnecessarily loud. A diversion? Probably. That means the stone is already in motion. I need to be ready." His gaze remained blank, his features impassive. He was a data-processing machine, devoid of emotion.
Beside him, within the stream of moving students, the Ravenclaw prefects walked, their voices surprisingly calm, though tension showed in their eyes. They hurried the stragglers, directing them towards the corridor leading to the tower. Steven mechanically followed them, part of his consciousness noting their discipline, the other part still occupied with analyzing the troll situation. "The system works. The castle is in danger, but there's a protocol. Students are safe. Everything is going according to plan." He almost felt a strange satisfaction that his predictions were proving correct.
But the further he walked away, the stronger a strange, unfamiliar sensation grew within him. His cold certainty began to crack. This wasn't just a plot. This wasn't a story from a book or a movie. This wasn't a fairy tale.
"This is Real life," a thought echoed in his head, sharp as a blade. "There's no script here. What if They can't save her? What if Ron doesn't cast the spell correctly? What if Harry doesn't think fast enough? What if the troll is stronger or faster than in my memory from a past life? What if Hermione… dies?"
He pictured that outcome, and his usually unperturbed mind shuddered. The image of a dead Hermione, lying amidst debris, wasn't just shocking – it was unacceptable. His detachment, his "cold calculation," now seemed absurd, almost criminal.
"What's wrong with me?" a thought flashed, burning like a coal. "How can I be so... detached? Do knowledge and analysis justify inaction when a life is at stake? I study the laws of magic to control reality, not to detach myself from it. Do my principles, my logic – do they lead me to passively witness someone else's tragedy? This isn't cold calculation. This is indifference. And it's unacceptable. How could I have been so wrong in my own assessment?" Every step bringing him closer to the dormitory was a step towards betraying himself, towards destroying what he believed in. His mind, accustomed to flawless logic, reeled in agony from this contradiction. He, Steven, who strove for perfection and understanding, had been blind to the most important thing.
Something inside him broke. The composure he had so carefully cultivated crumbled. The pursuit of magic's fundamental laws, of absolute understanding, had made him forget the most crucial thing—human life. He had erred. Made a monstrous mistake. His mind, usually so clear and consistent, was filled with a cacophony of self-reproach. "I am a machine. A walking encyclopedia. I calculate options, but I don't feel the consequences. This isn't what I'm supposed to be." Sweat broke out on his forehead, though the corridor was cool. His hands trembled with an uncontrollable surge of emotion that he could neither comprehend nor suppress.
Steven stopped abruptly. A deep breath. Exhale. His mind, usually so calm and rational, was momentarily filled with pure, searing rage. Fury at himself, at his arrogance, at his cold calculation. He despised this part of himself, this detachment that almost led to tragedy. He didn't just need information about the world, but the ability to act within it, to be a part of it. To protect those who couldn't protect themselves. This realization was like a cold shower, sobering and shocking at the same time.
"To hell with the script," he whispered, and something wild and unfamiliar sounded in his voice. He spun on his heels, ignoring the students still rushing through the corridors. Like a shadow, he quietly fell behind the main crowd, gliding along the wall, and ran. Awkwardly, desperately, making up for lost time. Each step was a blow to his former, false confidence. He had to fix this.
As he approached the third floor, sounds reached him that chilled him to the bone. A dull, heavy thud. Cracking stone. And a piercing scream, full of terror.
Steven quickened his pace. He rounded the corner and saw her. The girls' bathroom door was wide open, and inside, amidst broken sinks and shattered tiles, stood the creature. A huge, ugly mountain troll, with a club in its hand that looked like a broken tree trunk. It swung, preparing to strike the small, cowering witch, pressed against the wall.
Hermione. Her face was wet with tears and terror.
Harry and Ron burst into the bathroom doorway, panting from their run, their faces pale.
"Hermione!" Harry shouted.
The troll, hearing new voices, turned. Its small, dull eyes fixed on the newcomers, and it let out a low growl, lowering its club.
Steven didn't hesitate. He pulled out his wand. His gaze was devoid of panic, containing only a cold, but now no longer detached, but furious calculation. He saw Harry raise his wand and Ron try to mimic him. They were too slow. Not experienced enough.
"Get back!" Steven commanded sharply, his voice surprisingly calm and authoritative, drowning out his own emotions. It wasn't an order, it was a warning. He wasn't going to risk their lives. He ignored Harry and Ron; he was focused on the troll.
"Standard spells are useless," Steven hissed, but not to Harry and Ron, but to himself, as if asserting a new, more brutal principle. He sharply flicked his wand, pointing at the shattered ceramic, tiles, and mirror shards scattered across the floor.
"Accio, debris!" his voice rang out, and dozens of sharp, hard fragments shot into the air, glittering in the dim candlelight. They revolved around his wand, creating a miniature vortex of potential weapons, each particle infused with his rising fury.
"Accurus!" a new, swift spell followed, and the debris, as if under invisible sandpaper, began to spin even faster, sharpening into blades that gleamed in the gloom. They transformed into deadly projectiles, ready to pierce flesh.
The troll, stunned by the sudden whirlwind of flying objects, roared, trying to shield its head with its club.
"Flipendo!" Steven gave it no time to recover. A sharp, invisible wave of force, amplified by his anger and concentration, struck the troll's chest, throwing it back, pinning it against the far wall of the bathroom, leaving a deep indentation in the plaster. The creature let out a pained gasp, trying to free itself. It thrashed, but Steven's invisible pressure was relentless. His face remained a mask of cold calculation, but a dangerous fire danced in his eyes. He was a machine, but a machine driven by rage.
"Bombarda Maxima!" Steven roared, pointing his wand at the wall directly above the troll's head. A deafening explosion ripped through the entire bathroom. The wall didn't collapse, but deep, zigzagging cracks appeared, and the massive stones forming it shifted, pinning the troll even tighter. It groaned, its eyes rolled back, and foam appeared at its mouth. The troll was incapacitated, but Steven didn't stop. He was determined not just to stop, but to destroy the threat, to atone for his mistake.
Without losing a second, Steven focused his gaze on the troll's club, which had fallen from its weakening fingers.
"Wingardium Leviosa! — his voice was low, sharp, and filled with icy determination. The troll's club, a massive chunk of wood, rose into the air. It seemed weightless in his hands. — Transformo!"
The wood began to change. It stretched, grew thinner, sharper, its surface becoming dark and glistening, as if forged from obsidian. A thin, deadly point appeared at one end, and veins, like steel, emerged along its entire length. This was no longer just a club, but a massive, lethal spear, capable of piercing any armor. It was a pure, focused transformation, devoid of any frills, just functionality and death.
"Imperius!" — Steven didn't speak the spell aloud, but his will was absolute, his concentration at its peak. The spear, as if guided by an invisible, relentless force, shot forward. With a piercing whistle, it plunged into the troll's chest, sinking deep into its flesh and pinning it to the wall. The creature shuddered throughout its body, let out a final, hoarse, gurgling breath, and slumped, its massive bulk slowly sliding down the wall, leaving a bloody trail on the cracked stone.
Suddenly, everything went silent. Only the sound of falling dust and water from broken pipes disturbed the quiet. The air was heavy with the stench of troll and dampness.
Steven lowered his wand. The fury in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by a deep, almost painful pensiveness. He turned to Hermione, whose body was still trembling from shock, her eyes wide and filled with terror. She sat, pressed against the wall, small and fragile.
He approached her, kneeling on one knee. His hand, the same one that had just wielded deadly spells, now carefully reached out and gently, almost weightlessly, touched her shoulder.
"Hermione," — his voice was no longer cold and authoritative, but surprisingly tender and soothing, as much as he could allow himself. There was no conventional sympathy in it, but a deep, almost shocking, understanding of her experience and a desire to alleviate it. "You're safe. It's over. Nothing can harm you now." He didn't speak of comfort, didn't try to deceive her with words. He spoke of facts. That the threat was gone.
Hermione slowly looked up at him. Such deep pain, such unbearable fear, was in her eyes that Steven's heart seemed to clench. She couldn't speak. She just trembled.
And then, without warning, Hermione, who had just experienced the most terrible night of her life, rushed towards him. She wrapped her small arms around his slender figure and buried her face in his robe, beginning to sob silently, then loudly, desperately. It was a cry of accumulated fear, shock, and relief. She didn't see him as a cold strategist or a ruthless troll-killer. She saw a savior.
Steven froze for a moment, unsure how to react. He had never been the object of such raw, uncontrolled emotion. But instead of pulling away, as he might have done before, he slowly, almost hesitantly, raised his hands and hugged her back. His touch was still a little stiff, but there was no rejection in it. He just held her, letting her cry it out, feeling her trembling body and warm tears through the fabric of his robe. He, who had just killed a troll with ruthless efficiency, was now the only one who could calm the little girl.
Harry and Ron stood in the doorway, stunned. They had seen the battle. They had seen Steven deal with the monster with such ease. But now they saw something even more astonishing. They saw a Steven they didn't know. One who could be not only a cold intellect but also unexpectedly gentle when needed.