Most people's impression of Hagrid was limited to his towering height, his honest and straightforward nature, his discretion, and his role as Hogwarts' gamekeeper.
What most people overlooked was his actual position within the Forbidden Forest.
Hagrid carried little influence in the wider wizarding world, but within the Forest his standing was remarkable.
The Acromantulas alone, among the thousands of dangerously classified creatures that inhabited the place, had their colony led by Aragog, whom Hagrid had once raised as something between a pet and a beloved charge.
Beyond that, he maintained a genuine and long-standing relationship with the centaurs, which was no small thing.
Add to all of this his warmth, his loyalty, and his particular gift for making dangerous creatures feel understood, and it was genuinely difficult not to like the man.
Henry had not stopped thinking about that.
"Speaking of which," Daphne said, setting down her knife and fork, "I heard something earlier. It sounds as though Weasley and Granger had quite a serious argument during Charms today, apparently some things were said that went rather far. I think I may have heard Granger crying in one of the stalls when I went to the bathroom just now."
"Weasley," Draco said, with the expression of someone whose lowest expectations have been confirmed. "I can guess whose fault that was."
"I really don't know," Daphne said, picking up her cutlery again and returning to her plate.
Henry had just speared a piece of roasted potato when the door of the Great Hall burst open.
Professor Quirrell staggered through it.
His turban was crooked, his face the colour of old wax. He lurched across the hall to the staff table, caught himself against the edge, and gasped out, "Troll, in the dungeons, thought you ought to know," before sliding to the floor in a dead faint.
For a single suspended moment, the Great Hall was absolutely silent.
Then it erupted.
Screaming, gasping, the violent scraping of benches, cutlery clattering and shattering—the noise rose into a wave of pure panic.
Plates crashed to the floor nearby. Several Hufflepuff girls screamed. Draco, his face contorted, added his voice to the chaos with the involuntary helplessness of someone who had not chosen to do so.
Pansy sat rigid, both hands clenched around her knife and fork as though they constituted some form of protection. Daphne had gone white, her eyes very wide.
Henry remained exactly as he was, seated and unhurried, and finished the roasted potato.
Draco, in the middle of his own panic, registered this and found himself swallowing hard. He made a visible effort to collect himself.
"Your Highness," he managed, "are you not, are you not frightened? Of the troll?"
"Wasting food is a poor habit, Draco," Henry said pleasantly, and lifted his napkin to his mouth with his usual composure. "Besides, even the most powerful dark wizard alive would not march into Hogwarts to confront Dumbledore directly. A troll is somewhat less than that."
The point of this landed on Draco quite clearly. He sat up a little straighter. No one who thought seriously about the question had ever managed a satisfying explanation for why Voldemort, at the height of his power, had never once come to Hogwarts to settle things with Dumbledore personally.
Daphne and Pansy exchanged a glance, each seeing something reflected in the other's expression that neither of them put into words.
At the staff table, Dumbledore raised his wand and sent a cascade of purple sparks into the air, once, twice, three times, before the noise dropped enough to be spoken over.
Professor McGonagall was already on her feet. She pressed the tip of her wand to her throat and her voice rang out over the hall like a blade.
"Prefects! Lead your students back to their dormitories at once! Maintain order! Move!"
The prefects of all four Houses jolted into action, standing and shouting instructions, trying to organise the tide of frightened students before it became entirely ungovernable.
The crowd was already surging toward the exits, pressing and pushing with the particular desperation of people who have forgotten how doors work.
Henry rose from his seat, took hold of Daphne's wrist, and turned back toward the front of the hall rather than the exits.
"Your Highness?" Daphne stammered, bewildered, as he pulled her against the direction of the crowd.
"We're going to Professor Dumbledore," Henry said, in a tone that did not invite discussion.
Daphne, still dazed, let herself be led. Panicked students knocked into them from every side as they pushed forward, a few shouting that they were going the wrong way.
Henry kept his gaze fixed on the staff table and his pace steady.
Dumbledore was already on his feet, the gentle quality entirely gone from his face, replaced by a quiet and absolute authority.
He was speaking quickly to Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout; both already had their wands out. Professor Snape had vanished entirely from his seat—he had gone, but not in the direction of the dungeons.
Henry pressed through to the relatively clearer space near the staff table and raised his voice precisely enough to carry without shouting.
"Professor Dumbledore! Professor McGonagall!"
Dumbledore turned almost immediately. His eyes found the Slytherin first-year moving against the flow of the crowd, and something in them shifted very slightly.
Professor McGonagall looked over with a sharp frown. "Mr. Wells, get back to your House this instant."
"Professor." Henry quickened his last few steps. "Daphne told me that when she used the bathroom earlier this evening, she could hear Miss Granger of Gryffindor crying in one of the stalls."
Dumbledore's eyes changed. Professor McGonagall's expression went dark at once. "Granger? She isn't in the hall?"
"She wasn't at the feast at all, Professor," Daphne added, quickly and clearly. "I'm quite certain."
"The bathroom," Professor McGonagall said, her grip tightening on her wand. "Which one?"
"The abandoned girls' bathroom on the second floor," Daphne said.
Professor McGonagall's breath caught.
"Minerva." Dumbledore's voice carried the kind of quiet authority that did not need to be raised. "Take the other professors to the dungeons. Assess the situation, control the evacuation routes, and secure the main passages."
"But Granger—"
"I will go." He said it simply, and it was not a point for discussion. He looked at the two young students before him. "Henry, Daphne, what you've told me is important. Well done, both of you. Now return to your House immediately, stay with the prefects, and do not separate from the group."
"Yes, Professor," Henry said without hesitation, and turned back into the crowd with Daphne's arm still held firmly in his hand.
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