Chapter 23: Troll in the Dungeon!

Blaise Zabini

Hogwarts, Great Britain

I looked around the great hall. The feast was every bit as impressive as the movies suggested, with seemingly every dish under the sun. I saw whole chickens, porchetta as long as my arm and thick as my head, and at least four types of savory pies. There was both beef stew and seafood chowder as well as a spicy pumpkin soup that smelled of cinnamon and cloves.

As enticing as the feast was, my attention was on one person, or rather, his absence. Sure enough, Leontes was nowhere to be found. Hopefully, he'd made good on his promise to spend the evening in Gryffindor Tower. Other than him, I didn't notice anyone missing at a glance.

Across the hall, Violet looked utterly miserable. She tried to smile and laughed at something Parvati said, but it looked oddly plastic. Today was the day her parents died after all, and though she didn't actually remember James or Lily, her shitty relationship with her relatives made her fixate on the idea of James and Lily, parental figures who loved her so unconditionally that they willingly died for her sake.

I was drawn from my amateur psychoanalysis by the idiot of the hour. Professor Quirrell stormed in, delivered his line perfectly, notably with none of that god-awful stuttering, then fell over onto his face with a dramatic sigh.

And I… did nothing. I was tempted to laugh, as some did, but I held myself in check.

In my opinion, the danger this first year posed was sorely underestimated by the fanbase. Not until the final battle would Voldemort ever step foot in this castle again. Not the diary, an inexperienced sixteen year old boy, but the Dark Lord in truth. As silly as Quirrell seemed, I refused to forget that Voldemort, in all his experience, was here, right this moment.

As diminished as he was, there was no doubt that his knowledge was intact, and a wizard's worth was measured by said knowledge. Qurirell had been possessed over the summer. What could he have learned from his master in all those months? No, I had reason enough to be cautious.

A not insignificant part of me wanted to step in, to interfere in a huge, game-changing way. I thought about calling Quirrell out, maybe doing something to snatch the turban off his head and expose Voldemort to the school. Or, were I so daring, perhaps even plan an assassination by weaponizing the love of Lily Potter. If it all went well, I could spare Violet so much grief later on. The world would know the Dark Lord was back; she'd never have to fight her battles alone.

If it all went well.

And if things went wrong, I would be dead. So would dozens of students attending the feast. Even if Dumbledore managed to defend us all and chase Voldemort away at the same time, a possibility given Voldemort's weakened state, my relative anonymity would be over.

Right now, I was a curiosity. A seer, true, but also crippled, young, and inexperienced. No doubt Madam Pomfrey told the faculty that I would eventually recover, but I was largely seen as a youth with immense potential, not currently an asset. It was an image I actively cultivated.

I played the fool, a greedy Slytherin hopped up on his meager schoolyard "cunning." I made money, impressed my classmates, and acted like my wisdom was a sagely gift to be treasured. I went out of my way to make myself seem harmless, doing nothing to suggest that I was aware of either Quirrell or the philosopher's stone.

Losing that carefully cultivated image, and for such a risky plan, was unacceptable. I knew I must choose a side more definitively one day, but today was not that day. Acting boldly now, when so much could go wrong, was the least Slytherin thing I could do.

Neutral jing and all that.

Besides, I had other plans in motion, other pans in the fire that would improve Violet's chances, and in less riskier ways. Quirrell's time would come. For now, I would watch and wait.

I held up my goblet and offered the "downed" professor a toast. To myself, I muttered, "You're a bit late, professor. The troll rather likes the dungeon."

X

The first weekend of November was, like the first weekend of every other month: We could visit Hogsmeade. Unlike the previous month however, I had a reason to visit the village beyond killing time. I purchased some extra quills and parchment rolls from Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop before making my way to the post office.

The post office was located on the main street and was much larger inside than out. It was so large in fact that a sign proudly declared that they had two hundred twenty-three owls of all shapes and sizes. I had no idea that Hogsmeade needed that many, but the town did serve as the regional nexus for the magical community of Scotland so perhaps people from other, smaller settlements came here for their post-related needs.

I stepped inside and offered the clerk a friendly smile. The interior was sparsely decorated, with the bulk of the space taken up by rows and rows of shelves, each shelf filled with cubbies for rental owls.

"Hello, ma'am," I greeted the middle-aged woman. I was in casual wear, a nice pair of slacks, sweater, and winter robe to ward off the Scottish chill. "My friend's birthday is coming up and I wanted to get him a surprise gift. Do you deliver to Hogwarts?"

The woman returned my smile. "Of course, dear. It's no trouble if you don't have an owl of your own. We offer a small discount to Hogwarts students."

"No, no, I have an owl. It's just, she's a little… recognizable. I'm pretty sure half the school could pick her out by now. This is supposed to be a surprise, you know?"

"Oh, I see. Well, why don't I help you pick out the right owl for the job? How big is the package?"

I pulled out the flask of rat tonic I'd been saving. It smelled foul to me, but apparently was quite appealing to rodents. It had been mixed with the draught of living death at a carefully curated concentration.

Daphne had provided me with the sleeping draught about three weeks prior and I'd spent that time testing to ensure that the rat tonic would not interfere with the draught's coma-inducing effects. A drafty castle wasn't exactly lacking for rats to act as test subjects. Better, because the rat tonic was made to be appealing to rats, the scent masked the addition.

"Just this, ma'am. It's a rat tonic for my friend's pet," I said with a smile that wouldn't melt butter. "I hope he'll like it. He's been telling me his rat hasn't been very energetic lately."

"Oh, I'm sure he will, dear. The vial has been charmed unbreakable? If not, I can do that for you."

"Yes, ma'am. I made sure of that already."

"Splendid. Would you like to write him a note? I know it's supposed to be a surprise, but that doesn't mean you can't write him a nice letter, just don't sign it."

"You know what? You're right. May I have some parchment?"

"Or course you can."

I thanked her and considered what I wanted to write. Then, figuring I should tip the scales even more, I wrote:

Dear Ronald,

Scabbers looks like he could use a pep in his step. I hope this rat tonic will help set him straight.

Signed,

A Distant Admirer

I rolled it up and tied it to the vial. It was intentionally misleading. I did admire him, or at least, the man he could become. But no one else could possibly understand the context of those words. When he read the letter, he'd come to the obvious conclusion, a romantic admirer.

This was especially likely given that my penmanship was rather elegant. It had been one of the many lessons forced upon old-Blaise as the scion of a wealthy, respected pureblood house. In Ron's mind, he would associate my penmanship with a young girl's. Just to further enhance the illusion, I slipped in a random flower I'd plucked near the Forbidden Forest in between the parchment and bottle.

"There, it even looks suitably like a present, don't you think so, ma'am?"

"Of course, dear. For something like this, I would recommend our short-eared owls. They're big enough to deliver the potion and look quite adorable."

"Sure, can I pick one out myself?"

"Yes. The shelves are color coded based on the distance each owl can fly, but that won't matter in your case."

I bowed politely. She was, whether she knew it or not, helping in the capture of a dangerous mass murderer. "Thank you for your help, ma'am. This is really important to me."

I soon exited the store and grabbed a quiet lunch by myself at the Three Broomsticks. Thankfully, there was no Heath to drag me into any house-related drama. Before I left, I purchased a small cage from the local pet store, paying a few galleons extra to have it charmed unbreakable.

X

The next morning, I watched carefully as Ron received his package. He looked confused at the bottle, then ridiculously happy as he read the note. I felt bad; I was playing on a teenage boy's emotions to guarantee that Peter drank the draught. He'd soon realize it was poisoned and his rat was "dead" and all his boasting would taste like ashes in his mouth.

That said, I couldn't think of a better way of neutralizing Peter than this. Had I simply offered to buy the rat from him, Ron might have been suspicious. Or he'd have outright refused, thinking I intended to feed his pet to Minerva; for as petty as he could be, he wasn't cruel. Worse, had the rat heard that the seer wanted to purchase him, Peter would obviously have done a runner.

No matter. I would make it up to Ron eventually. I didn't know how yet, but once Sirius got his trial, the truth came out, and Peter died like he should have fourteen fucking years ago, I'd make sure to do something nice for him.

I spent most of that Sunday practicing new spells and working out in the Room. When I got sick of that, I found myself in the art club, sketching idly on a loose sheet of paper. They didn't have pencils, but they did have charcoal. My crystal ball was in hand and I allowed my mind to roam idly, not in search of anything specific, simply out of habit. For fifteen minutes or so, I was alone.

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"You're not normally out here on a Sunday, Zabini," said Clara Warren, the club president. Behind her floated a mortar and pestle, along with what looked like several red tiles. "Feeling the creative itch?"

"I suppose you could say that. I had a bit of time to myself and thought I'd experiment."

"Swell. What'd you draw?" I turned the sheet around so she could see. "That's… Why does that look familiar?"

It was Arnold Schwarzenegger, future governor of California. But for the less politically inclined, he was best known as the Terminator. I'd drawn a rough sketch of him, half his face melted off to reveal the machinery beneath.

Clara Warren was a muggleborn. She probably had a relative who liked movies, especially since Terminator 2: Judgment Day came out sometime this summer. But if she didn't know that, then how could I refuse this golden opportunity to fuck with her?

I feigned a look of shock and licked my lips nervously. "Oh, oh no…"

"What?"

"I sometimes do a few idle sketches. You know, not think and let the charcoal take me where it may."

"I do that too. Why do you look so worried?"

"Lately, I've been having some… I hesitate to call them visions, but," I waved at the paper. "I mean, some of this looks like muggle machinery."

She looked at it more carefully. "It does… Are you saying this is something real?"

"Maybe…? Look, Warren, all I know is that I've never been out in the muggle world before. Yet here it is." I allowed a hint of fear to color my voice. "I keep getting this foreboding feeling. It's why I really came here today, to try to see what would happen if I let myself go."

"Zabini, you're starting to freak me out."

"I'm freaking myself out. Warren? You're a muggleborn. What the hell am I looking at?"

"I… I'm not sure… Can I take this? I have some friends in Ravenclaw who are more involved with the muggle side of things. I can get some answers."

"Normally, I'd want payment for anything related to my third eye, but…" I slid the paper her way. "I want some answers myself. Please let me know what you find. If the muggles are making what I think might be metal inferi, I want to know."

"Yeah, I will."

"What're all the red stuff for though?"

"Oh, this?" she tapped the mortar full of the red tiles. "These are fragments of fire crab shells. They mostly get used as cauldrons, but they need to be shaped first and these are what's left. I want to see if I can make a new shade of paint by grinding them up. I know it can be done, but it's supposed to be real challenging for amateurs like me."

"Huh, that sounds pretty interesting."

"Right?"

I picked up my things and began to walk out. "Let me know how that goes. And the sketch too."

"Yeah, have a good day, Zabini."

"You too, Warren."

X

Nothing happened on Monday. I'd begun to fear that my plan had not worked, that for whatever reason, Ron had not given Scabbers the rat tonic. Then Violet put my worries to rest the following morning. I stepped into the great hall for breakfast when the Mistress of Snowl called me over to the Gryffindor table.

She was seated between Parvati and Lavender and was gesturing to a seat she'd forced open by prodding the blonde away. Across from her were the first year boys, with the twins not far off.

"Hey, Zabini, over here," she called. Her face was a rictus of stormy wrath. Judging by the pitying looks she sent Ron, the reason was obvious.

"Good morning to you, too, Potter," I drawled. "You must not be a morning person; perhaps the early hour has caused you to forget your manners."

"Yeah, yeah, good morning to you, too. Sit down; I've got a job for you."

"Oh? Do you now?" Despite the sass, I took a seat between Lavender and Violet. I began loading up my plate with waffles, eggs, thick-cut bacon, and charred berry tomatoes before pointedly setting aside the syrup in favor of the fruit preserve. "One of these days, the twins are going to get more creative, but today is not that day."

"Oi, we're plenty creative," Fred said from down the table.

"Yeah, we're just testing a few things," George added.

"We're busy, firstie."

I snorted. It probably wasn't a good thing to goad the twins like this, but they did make my life more interesting. "Of course you are. That was a marvelous silent switching spell though."

George grinned and brought out an identical bottle of syrup from beneath the table. "You caught onto that? Not bad."

"You had to have some way to make sure only I suffered from your prank."

"True that."

"So, what can I do for you, mighty Chosen One?" I turned back to Violet. I loved watching her nose scrunch up in annoyance.

"First off, you can start by never calling me that again," she said. "Scabbers is dead. How?"

I made a show of acting surprised. "Well, that explains why the whiniest Weasley is moping. For a moment, I almost thought one of you finally taught him table manners."

"Sod off, Zabini," he grunted.

"I would, but I don't think Potter will let me."

"Hold on," Dean Thomas spoke up. I hadn't had any dealings with him personally, but Parvati spoke well of him. "How do you know who Scabbers is?"

"Scabbers the rat? Weasley's pet."

"Yeah, that's pretty suspicious mate. You keep saying you don't care enough to find out every little thing, but here you are already knowing whose rat that was. You sure you didn't have anything to do with this?"

I was ready for that one. It was why I'd bothered with chess at all. "Perceptive. I like you, Thomas. But if you must know, Weasley and I play chess on occasion. I mentioned having an owl, he whined about having a hand-me-down rat. I remember saying I'd lost enough galleons to him that he could probably buy himself a owl over winter."

"Oh."

"Yes, we might be in a magic castle, but not everything needs some mystical explanation. So, tell me about it."

"Ron's rat died," Neville filled me in. "A letter came from a 'distant admirer' with rat tonic. Ron fed Scabbers and then Scabbers went stiff as a board. We want to know who did it."

"Thanks, Longbottom. Now you, Weasley. What are you offering for me to find this person? Actually, hold on. Can you show me the rat? It'd help to have the body."

"No," Ron glared at nothing. "We can't find Scabbers at all. We woke up and he was gone!"

"So… Scabbers isn't dead?" I asked. That was good to hear. If they saw the rat go stiff, that meant the draught took hold. I'd played along with this farce to make sure.

There were one of two things that could have happened to the rat after he drank the spiked tonic. First, Ron might have kept the "corpse" on him for some reason before burying it. As much as he would have preferred a more active pet, Ron would have felt some sorrow if his pet died on him. I could easily demand the rat as a catalyst by which to gather more information.

The second option was what happened here. There was an elf around, one of several I'd been courting all semester. I'd showered the elves with positive attention before telling them repeatedly that the owls needed feeding, and oh, how "Young Master Blazey" cherished his owl. I'd told them that they should keep an eye out for any dead rodents while cleaning. Sometime during that night, when they'd gone to bed and the elves began to clean, one of them must have stumbled on the rat.

I made a note to check the owlery. The beauty of spending time with Minerva was that I knew she'd listen to my instructions. A simple "don't eat the rat with any missing toes" would suffice.

"He was completely stiff." To my surprise, it was Percy who spoke. He'd walked over, prefect badge gleaming golden. "I was the one who checked. I think I'd recognize a dead rat, Zabini."

"Fair enough. But you not having a body for me is still very troublesome. I need something to at least begin my search. Divination isn't some all-seeing eye. Did you at least keep the bottle?"

"We confirmed that it was rat tonic. There had to be something else mixed in though."

"You suspect that the rat was poisoned. It strikes me that Professor Snape would be the right man to ask."

It was like I'd asked them if anyone would like to give Voldie a blowie. Every single Gryffindor within hearing distance recoiled like vampires splashed with holy water. Even "perfect prefect Percy" frowned with frustration.

"Ask Snape?" Parvati gasped. "Are you insane?"

"I feel like I should take offense on behalf of my head of house."

"He hates us!"

"He does, but he is also the foremost potions master in the British Isles. If anyone can tell you what's been mixed into the tonic, it's him."

Percy slid a bottle over. It had a bit of the tonic's residue on the bottom. "We'll leave that as a last resort, Zabini."

I accepted the bottle. "Very well, but there is the matter of payment. I don't do anything for free."

Violet slung an arm around me. She looked at me with her best attempt at puppy eyes. Unfortunately for her, she wasn't nearly as cute as she thought she was. "Come on, buddy ol' pal. Not even for me?"

"It's not for you; it's for the youngest Weasley," I said, booping her nose and pushing her head away. "But for the record, no, not even for you. I am a businessman first and foremost."

"Fine, what do you want?" Ron asked resignedly.

"Well, it strikes me that this 'distant admirer' is someone who is willing to poison someone's pet. That doesn't sound like an entirely stable individual. I don't know if I want to make an enemy of someone like that."

"We'll chip in," one of the twins said. "Scabbers has been in the family for years."

I pretended to be taken aback by that. "Years? Like one or two?"

"Try more than ten."

"You… You do realize that Scabbers is far older than a rat should be? Even if he was a magical rat, maybe his time came? The rat tonic might have been too much stimulation for an old bloke like that."

"We hadn't considered that."

"You're saying this unknown person might not have been malicious and the tonic might just be a normal tonic?" Percy mused. "That's a fair point actually. I'd still like to be sure. I'll pitch in as well."

I nodded and dug out my crystal ball from my bookbag. "Very well, eight galleons, two from each of you brothers. With this, I'll dive into the contents of the vial, see if it really had been tampered with. If it had, I expect further payment to dig deeper. Again, I don't want to deal with a bloody crazy person without you making it worth getting involved."

They winced at that. The twins made to reach into their pockets. To their surprise, Ron stopped them before setting the full amount on the table. "It's fine. I can afford this."

I wanted to laugh. Those were my galleons he was returning to me. He looked constipated at the idea of parting with his coin like this. He really was a good man.

Alas, I had a reputation to keep. "Thank you. Now be silent, please."

I made a show of waving my hands over the crystal ball. It accomplished fuck-all, but it did look suitably spooky to the gathered audience. The ball filled with mist and I began to speak.

"I was wrong, my apologies, Weasleys," I said, staring intently into the fog. "The rat tonic has indeed been tampered with. I cannot be sure what was in the bottle, but I can tell you that it was the cause of what happened to Scabbers."

"Well? Who did it?" Ron demanded.

"No idea." I pulled myself away from the ball and allowed the fog to fade. "The person who made whatever was mixed into the tonic is not the same as the person who sent the letter. Do you have the letter?"

"We do, back in Ron's trunk," Seamus said. I knew the Irish lad from his tendency to blow himself up in charms.

"I might be able to gather more information if you give me that. However, I don't want to. I don't want some crazy person out there with a grudge against me."

"We'll pay more," Ron said. "I'll give back everything I won from you."

"Nope. Not good enough, Weasley. I have money; what I gave you is nothing, certainly not worth making an enemy out of someone like that." I looked squarely at the twins. "There is only one thing you Weasley brothers have that I might consider fair payment."

The twins looked at each other. They knew I knew about the map; its passphrase was how I'd first caught their attention.

"I thought you didn't want it," Fred said.

"I didn't and don't under present circumstances, but it represents safety and awareness. If I dig into this letter, circumstances would change, wouldn't it? You're asking me to take on a fair bit of risk here; I therefore want something to ameliorate those risks."

"I… I don't know," George said.

"We'll have to talk about it," his twin added.

"That's worth a lot to us-"

"Both for our pranking, and our business."

I polished off my plate and stood. "Suit yourselves. As things stand, all I can offer you is the confirmation that Scabbers was drugged."

"You really can't do us a solid?" Seamus asked. "Don't be a bloody coward, mate. It's just a name."

"I am not a Gryffindor. I place no value in personal courage. Rather, what you often describe as courage looks a lot like foolish recklessness to me. I've made the price for my help clear, Finnegan. I suggest you stay out of negotiations if you don't know what is being demanded."

"Hey, just saying. You could help a friend out."

"That implies we are friends. We are not. You are customers."

"Fine, whatever. What do you want from the twins anyway?"

"None of your business. You know my terms. If you'll excuse me, I have charms with the Hufflepuffs."

Author's Note

I kept thinking about what I wanted to do for Halloween. In the end, I decided that nothing going wrong would be the weirdest thing that could happen. No Hermione in the girl's bathroom. No sudden meeting with a troll who's not where he's supposed to be. No injury or death.

The only way I could have written this differently and still had Blaise be in character was if he had a foolproof plan to kill Quirrell. But then that'd just turn into the omake and Blaise just isn't good enough to account for every variable like that anyway.

Animal Fact: The average ostrich egg weighs 3 pounds. It has 2,000 calories and 245 grams of protein. For comparison, a person should be eating 50-175 grams of protein per day.

PS: Happy birthday, Peaches. You're the best deer-fucker a guy could ask for.

Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.