October arrived, covering the grounds of Hogwarts with a damp, cold blanket, but for Josh Brown, the chill of the dungeons was strangely comforting. In a way, it felt like home.
During the weeks following the first class, the Potions routine had settled in. It was no longer just a novelty; it was a constant test. That Friday morning, the Slytherins and Gryffindors were reviewing the brewing of a simple Cure for Boils Potion—the first one they had learned—to make sure they had mastered the fundamentals before moving on to basic antidotes.
Josh was bent over his cauldron, crushing snake fangs with rhythmic precision. But his eyes were not fixed on the mortar; they were on Professor Snape, who prowled the classroom like a giant bat.
Josh discreetly touched his own nose. It was hooked, large—a protrusion he had always hated at the orphanage because the other children mocked it. Then he looked at Snape's nose. It was identical. He ran a hand through his straight, greasy hair (no matter how much he washed it, it always returned to that state within hours). He looked at Snape's hair. The same greasy hair, the same texture, the same limp fall over a pale face.
Josh's heart skipped, a small flame of hope igniting in his lonely chest. «It has to be», he thought, a lump forming in his throat. «No one looks that much alike by chance. Maybe he doesn't know. Or maybe he left me at the orphanage for my own safety, because he had powerful enemies I needed to be protected from…»
The fantasy gained strength. If Snape was his father, then everything made sense. His magic, his appearance, his sorting into Slytherin. Josh imagined that if he proved himself brilliant enough, Snape would realize it. "Son," he would say, "I've been waiting for you." And maybe, just maybe, Josh would have a home to go to at Christmas.
—Potter's cauldron looks like a bowl of rotten vegetable soup —Snape's silky voice snapped Josh out of his daydream.
Snape was standing in front of Harry, wearing a sneer of absolute contempt.
—Tell me, Potter, do you believe that if you wave your wand with such a lack of grace, the potion will take pity on you and brew itself? —Snape mocked, prompting muffled snickers from the Slytherins.
Josh felt a pang of jealousy, but he rationalized it quickly. «He's pushing him because he knows Potter is famous and needs to live up to his reputation. He doesn't say anything to me because he knows I'm good. He's waiting for me to be perfect so he can acknowledge me.»
Snape pivoted on his heel and passed by Josh's table. He paused for an instant. He observed the perfect mixture, the bright blue color, the exact consistency.
Josh held his breath, straightening his back, trying to resemble the professor even more. Look at me, Josh thought. Look at my face. I'm just like you.
Snape simply raised an eyebrow, a single, almost imperceptible motion, and moved on.
—Open your books to page twenty —Snape ordered from the front—. Brown, tell us what property beetle eyes have in awakening potions.
Josh stood up immediately, with a tight smile.
—Beetle eyes, Professor, counteract the soporific effects of valerian, allowing the mind to remain alert without altering the heart rate —Josh recited, having memorized that paragraph the night before in the hope of this exact moment.
—Exactly. Five points to Slytherin.
Josh sat down, chest swelling. As those five points were awarded, Josh's feverish dreams were reinforced. «Look, Dad, I'm ready. I'm worthy. Please, take me into account.»
Across the aisle, Hermione Granger pressed her quill so hard it nearly snapped. Josh Brown had done it again.
∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆
Halloween dawned orange and with the smell of roast pumpkin, which would normally have delighted Hermione, but she had a knot in her stomach. She was tired. She had spent the night revising Magical Theory because she felt she was falling behind—and it was all because of that Slytherin boy.
Charms class with Professor Flitwick was the final straw.
Professor Flitwick, perched atop his stack of books, was radiant with excitement.
—Good, good! Today we're going to attempt levitating objects. It's a thrilling moment! —squeaked the little professor—. But first, I must share an inspiring anecdote. In yesterday's class with the Slytherins, Mr. Josh Brown managed to levitate not only his quill, but the entire desk, keeping it steadily suspended for three minutes.
Hermione felt the blood drain from her feet. The desk? The book only explained how to levitate the quill.
—Mr. Brown told me he had been reading about magical vectors in a fourth-year tome to better calculate airflow and material density —Flitwick continued, ignoring the looks of panic on several students' faces—. Exceptional talent! And while I do not expect you to compare yourselves to Mr. Brown, I believe his efforts can be a great inspiration. So, chin up! If Mr. Brown can do it, so can you!
Hermione felt her eyes sting. "An inspiration." She had always been the best at her Muggle school. Here, she was working herself to exhaustion, and a scrawny, unpleasant boy was outperforming her.
—And now, to practice! —Flitwick ordered.
Hermione turned to her partner, Ron Weasley. She was determined to do well, to prove that Gryffindor—and she—were no less than Brown. But Ron was a disaster. He flailed his long arms as if swatting flies.
—Wingardium Leviosa! —Ron shouted, without rhythm or grace.
—You're saying it wrong —Hermione snapped, her patience shattered by the pressure of being compared to Josh—. It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa.
—You say it, then, if you're so clever —Ron shot back harshly—. Go on, do it as well as that Brown fellow.
That name felt like a jab. Hermione took a deep breath, trembling slightly. She had to do it perfectly. She had to do it better than a desk. She fixed her gaze on her quill with fierce intensity.
—Wingardium Leviosa! —she exclaimed.
But she was too tense. Her wrist movement was too rigid, her magic too eager and erratic. Instead of floating gently, the white quill on her desk gave a sharp crackle, burst into sudden flame, and turned to ash in a second.
The classroom fell silent.
—Blimey! —Harry exclaimed, stepping back.
—Looks like someone didn't read the fourth-year books —Ron said with a cruel, mocking laugh.
The tears Hermione had been holding back burst forth. She grabbed her books, ignored Flitwick's shrill cries for calm, and ran out of the classroom. She couldn't bear it. She couldn't bear working so hard just to be accepted and being seen only as a nuisance by the students and number two by the professors, and she certainly couldn't bear being laughed at for trying.
Hermione did not appear in the next class and was not seen all afternoon.
She was locked in the girls' bathroom on the first floor, curled up in a corner, crying. She cried from the pressure, from the loneliness, and from the frustration of feeling inadequate in the face of Josh Brown's perfection and Ron Weasley's cruelty. «Maybe I don't belong here», she sobbed. «Maybe I should go home.»
Suddenly, a nauseating smell filled the bathroom, a mix of old socks and a kind of stench one never forgets. Hermione looked up, eyes red and swollen, and froze.
A mountain troll, three and a half meters tall, was entering the bathroom, smashing the sinks with a wooden club.
Hermione opened her mouth to scream, but fear stole her voice. She backed away until her back hit the cold wall. The troll advanced toward her, dragging its feet, and raised the club. Hermione closed her eyes, waiting for the blow.
—Confuse it! —a desperate voice shouted.
Hermione opened her eyes. Harry and Ron were there. They weren't perfect, they didn't know fourth-year theory, but they were there. Ron threw a metal pipe against the wall to distract the troll. Harry, in an act of absolute bravery—or madness—jumped and clung to the beast's neck, jamming his wand into its nose.
—Do something! —Harry shouted.
—Wingardium Leviosa! —Ron yelled, pointing at the club.
This time, without the pressure of being better than anyone, driven only by the desperation to save his friends, Ron's magic worked. The club rose and came down with a dull thud on the troll's head, knocking it unconscious.
There was a remorseful silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of the three of them.
Minutes later, Professor McGonagall, Snape, and Quirrell burst into the bathroom. McGonagall was furious. Snape bent over the troll.
—What were you thinking? —Professor McGonagall said coldly—. You're lucky it didn't kill you. Why weren't you in your dormitory?
Harry and Ron looked at each other. They had no excuse. They were going to be punished.
Then, a trembling voice spoke from the shadows.
—Please, Professor McGonagall, they were looking for me.
Hermione stood up.
—I went looking for the troll because I… I thought I could defeat it on my own. I wanted to prove that… that I was worth more than Josh Brown and that the professors would recognize me.
It was a transparent lie; except for her desire for recognition, there wasn't a grain of truth in it. Hermione Granger, the rule-following girl, was lying like a professional.
Professor McGonagall looked at Hermione with a mix of pity and reproach until her stern face regained its former strength.
—If they hadn't found me, I would be dead right now. Harry jammed his wand into its nose and Ron knocked it out with its own club. They didn't have time to go and get anyone. They were about to leave when they arrived, but I… well…
McGonagall looked at her, surprised, but accepted the explanation, docking five points from Gryffindor for their recklessness, but awarding five points to each of the boys for "sheer luck."
When the professors left and the three of them returned to the Gryffindor common room, the atmosphere had changed. Hermione looked at Harry and Ron. A plate piled with food was waiting for them in the common room.
—Thank you —Hermione murmured, taking a plate.
—You're welcome —Ron said awkwardly, but without a trace of mockery—. I'm sorry about class. About the quill.
Hermione blushed slightly. She thought of Josh Brown, alone at the Slytherin table, reading fifth-year books and dreaming of awards. Josh was brilliant, yes. Maybe he was even a genius. But Josh would not have jumped onto the neck of a troll to save her.
As the three of them sat together in the common room, Hermione realized something important. Josh could have academic excellence and the distant approval of the professors. He could have his points and his lonely perfection.
But she, Hermione Granger, had just gained something no book could teach her. She had friends.
And from that moment on, Hermione Granger became friends with the two of them, for there are some things one cannot share without ending up bonded, and bringing down a three-and-a-half-meter troll is one of them.