The Rebirth of Harry Potter

Harry appeared to be savoring his meal with great concentration, but in reality, his attention was elsewhere.

Noticing that Quirrell was absent from the staff table, Harry smirked to himself.

Quirrell, I'll just quietly watch you put on your act...

He grabbed a roasted potato and took a vicious bite, tearing into it like a wolf devouring its prey.

While cheerfully chatting with his classmates, he kept a keen eye on the entrance to the Great Hall.

Just as everyone was completely immersed in the festive atmosphere, a figure suddenly burst through the doors.

His head was wrapped in a large turban, and as he stumbled inside, he screamed in terror, "Oh my god! A troll! A troll has entered the dungeons!"

Thud!

He collapsed to the ground with a heavy fall, kicking up a cloud of dust.

A girl's sharp scream pierced the air, triggering chaos in the Great Hall.

Everything instantly fell into disarray.

The students swarmed like a hive of panicked bees, crashing into one another. Some had already been knocked over, and if the situation continued, there would undoubtedly be a rush to St. Mungo's Hospital.

Screams filled the hall as panic spread like wildfire.

Even the professors were momentarily taken aback by the sudden turn of events. As they raised their wands, they hesitated, unsure of what to do first.

However, in the area surrounding Harry, the scene was quite different. There was no mad rush or frantic running—just a bit of jostling.

This was because Harry didn't show a hint of fear, and emotions like fear were contagious. His calm presence affected those around him.

Then, out of nowhere, Harry abruptly stomped down on Dean's foot—hard. And instead of lifting his foot, he twisted his heel mercilessly.

"AAAAH!"

Dean let out a bloodcurdling scream, overwhelmed by the sudden, searing pain.

Prepared for this reaction, Harry cast an Amplifying Charm on Dean, causing his agonized wail to boom throughout the Great Hall.

The continuous, ear-splitting shriek forced many students to grimace and clutch their ears, the sheer volume making their eardrums throb in pain.

The unbearable noise soon drowned out the chaotic clamoring, and gradually, the Great Hall fell into silence.

Harry's voice rang out from amidst the crowd, slow and steady, carrying an undeniable authority.

"Are you all really wizards? It's just a troll! Yes, trolls are thick-skinned, massive, and most spells barely faze them—but have you forgotten how many professors are in this room right now?"

"What we need to do is calmly return to our respective common rooms. Oh, and don't forget—take the food from the tables with you. On a night like this, wouldn't it be nice to sit around the common room fireplace, enjoying a warm meal together? In time, this might just become one of your most cherished and unforgettable Halloween memories."

More and more students were affected by the calmness in Harry's voice. They weren't as scared as before.

Then, they became captivated by what he had said—his suggestion was brilliant.

Dumbledore, who had been about to raise his wand, instead lowered it. He gave Harry an approving smile and calmly instructed, "Prefects, lead your students back to their dormitories."

Once the Headmaster spoke, the students immediately started lining up under the guidance of their prefects. However, before leaving, they all grabbed plates from the tables. And just like that, long lines of students, each carrying two plates of food, slowly made their way out.

Harry glanced at the spot where Quirrell had collapsed earlier. The man was already gone—he must have slipped away during the chaos.

What a shame… Harry regretted that he hadn't learned any powerful attack spells yet. If Quirrell had died while trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone on the fourth floor, Dumbledore, with his incredible wisdom, would surely have figured out Quirrell's real intentions.

That would have saved Harry the trouble of finding a way to expose Quirrell himself. Explaining how he knew Quirrell was a traitor would have been too complicated—after all, why would he know something that even the greatest wizard in the world hadn't noticed?

Harry walked at the back of the Gryffindor line, Hermione clinging tightly to his arm.

"Hermione… I can't carry anything like this," Harry sighed helplessly.

But Hermione ignored him, and so, with a koala latched onto his side, Harry continued walking forward.

Percy led the line at the front, reassuring the younger students as they made their way to the dormitory.

Soon, they reached the entrance.

"Dragon dung," Percy said.

The Fat Lady swung open the passage, and one by one, the students climbed through. Once the door shut behind them, the warmth of the common room gave everyone a strong sense of security.

The tension on many students' faces melted away—as if simply being in the dormitory meant they were safe.

Before long, the entire *common room became more lively than ever—*even more than it had been at the Great Hall. Perhaps this was their way of dealing with their lingering fear.

Some first-years even tried practicing the Levitation Charm again, but it ended in disaster—plates went flying, food rained down, and soon, people had cream cakes smashed all over their faces.

Harry smirked.

"Hermione, you can let go of me now."

Hermione, who had been lowering her head shyly, immediately released him and ran off toward the girls.

Still amused, Harry took a bite of his chocolate cake and thought about the poor troll in the dungeons.

Poor thing… it had been completely used by Quirrell.

Right now, it was probably being absolutely wrecked by a few angry professors.

Seriously… causing trouble on Halloween? There was no way the teachers wouldn't take out all their frustration on it.

But where had Quirrell gone?

And more importantly… had Harry's magical traps actually worked?

Harry carried these thoughts with him throughout the rest of the feast, all the way until he lay down in bed.

Two hours earlier…

After the students had dispersed, Snape and Dumbledore exchanged a glance.

Without a word, Snape hurried toward the forbidden fourth floor.

As soon as he stepped onto the fourth-floor corridor, his instincts kicked in, and his wand was out in a flash.

There was a lingering trace of magic in the air.

Cautiously, he advanced. Several mischief spells had been triggered along the hallway, but his protective enchantments shielded him from harm.

When he reached the only wooden door on the floor, he lowered his gaze.

A pool of blood stained the floor, and scorch marks marred the surrounding area.

His sharp eyes shifted to a nearby suit of armor. It stood completely still, but on the blade of its axe, fresh blood glistened.

"He only just managed to escape?" Snape muttered under his breath.

A question crept into his mind: "Where did all these spells come from?"

There was no time to dwell on it. He turned on his heel and rushed to the dungeons.

When he arrived, he found Quirrell trembling, his face deathly pale.

The man was clutching his injured leg, covered in blood.

Nearby, the troll lay motionless on the ground—its fate uncertain.

Professor McGonagall sighed in frustration, saying,

"Professor Quirrell rushed in to handle the troll himself but got his foot smashed by its club. Looks like he'll be spending the next few days at St. Mungo's."

Snape narrowed his eyes and scrutinized Quirrell's face.

He saw nothing but pain.

Still, he remained deep in thought…

The next morning, Harry hurried to the fourth-floor corridor.

Just as he expected, every single magic trap he had placed had been triggered.

When his eyes landed on the axe stained with blood, he frowned slightly, then let out a satisfied smirk.

"So that's what got him…"

For a moment, he wondered where exactly the axe had hit.

Hopefully right between his legs, Harry thought darkly.

Author's Note (Luo Bei):

In the previous chapter, I mentioned that each year only has three Quidditch matches.

However, a reader pointed out that in the third book, it was explicitly stated that there are six matches.

I don't fully understand how the scheduling works. If anyone can explain it to me, please do!

I originally assumed each year had only three matches because, in the first book, Gryffindor only played twice—first against Slytherin, then against Hufflepuff—and then won the Cup.

That's why I guessed there were only three matches per year.