In the midst of chaos, Harry and Ron followed Percy closely.
Though he complained about them constantly, Percy still looked after his younger brothers when it mattered most.
"Don't worry, as long as you follow my orders, you won't need to fear any troll! Now stay close behind me... Hey, you there, make way! I'm a prefect!"
To be fair, Percy was quite competent as a prefect.
But on their way back to Gryffindor Tower, they encountered crowds of people hurrying in different directions. While struggling through a group of confused Hufflepuff students, even though Percy had shown his prefect badge, Harry and Ron still couldn't keep up with him.
Ron immediately became anxious.
Just then, Harry suddenly grabbed Ron's arm.
Having spent so much time with Sherlock, Harry had been influenced by him—his divergent thinking had been strengthened.
He pulled Ron, who was trying to squeeze toward Percy, and said with a grave expression: "I just remembered—Granger."
Ron hadn't yet realized the seriousness of the situation and asked confusedly, "Granger? What about her?"
Harry looked into Ron's eyes and said word by word: "She... doesn't know about the troll yet."
Ron's face went white.
"Damn it, Sherlock..."
To this day, whenever Harry or Ron encountered problems, they couldn't solve themselves, their first instinct was to seek help from Sherlock. However,... Ron discovered he couldn't find him anywhere.
"Sherlock? Sherlock! Where is Sherlock?!"
The two looked around frantically, only then realizing that at this crucial moment, Sherlock had vanished!
Harry immediately began to recall. After a moment, he remembered that from the moment Quirrell appeared, he hadn't seen Sherlock again. No wonder something had felt missing along the way. Sherlock hadn't been among the Gryffindor first-years following Percy!
"Damn it, he must have gone to find Granger on his own!" Ron said with certainty.
Harry nodded in agreement.
There weren't many people in the school whom Sherlock would call by their first name. Forget first names—there were some people whose surnames Sherlock couldn't even remember, or rather, he was too lazy to remember them. After all, according to his theory that the brain was like a hard drive, useless knowledge didn't need to be stored.
Making a decision without Sherlock for the first time, Harry and Ron felt both nervous and excited. The Gryffindor traits within them made both boys feel eager to act.
"What do you say? Should we go?"
"Let's go, let's go!"
"Be careful, don't let Percy see us."
"Sherlock is really not loyal—is he afraid we'd hold him back?"
The two crouched down, complaining while mixing into the Hufflepuff crowd as it crossed paths with them. After slipping past an empty side corridor, they quickened their pace, heading straight for the dungeons.
Just as they turned the corner, a terrible stench hit them.
How to describe it? If forced to, it was like the smell of Ron's socks after a month without washing mixed with a public toilet that hadn't been cleaned for a month. Perhaps with some of the more exotic flavors of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans thrown in.
Both boys' facial muscles twitched as they tried to hold their breath. Otherwise, even if they didn't faint on the spot, they might vomit directly.
When the two cautiously peered around the corner, they were immediately shocked by what they saw.
When Quirrell appeared in the Great Hall and announced the news about the troll, Sherlock immediately frowned, realizing the situation was not simple.
He had Professor McGonagall to thank for this insight. To fulfill his promise to her, he had been attending Defense Against the Dark Arts classes for nearly two weeks, so he had become quite familiar with Professor Quirrell.
When Sherlock first heard about Quirrell's story—how his personality had changed dramatically after encountering vampires—he instinctively felt the tale was fabricated. Harry had questioned it at the time, but due to insufficient evidence, Sherlock hadn't continued his deductions.
But now, as he no longer skipped Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, Quirrell's words and actions were all observed by him.
This man had problems!
If this were the Muggle world, he would definitely investigate everything thoroughly. But in the wizarding world, that wasn't possible.
First, although Quirrell appeared very unreliable, he was still an adult wizard. If Sherlock's deductions were correct, his abilities were far from weak. Acting rashly would be unwise. Sherlock would never let foolishness replace courage.
Second, there was the matter of time. For Sherlock, time was always insufficient. Every professor at Hogwarts had secrets, and until Quirrell posed a direct threat, his affairs could be postponed.
Until today.
When he saw Quirrell stumbling into the hall, Sherlock took less than a second to deduce the cause and effect.
He immediately sprang into action. If he moved fast enough, he could unravel the entire situation in one go. And rescue Hermione in the process.
The subsequent events unfolded exactly as he had predicted. He reached the dungeons before the troll arrived—though only by less than half a minute. But that brief time was enough for him to drag Hermione out of the girls' bathroom before the troll could trap her inside.
He literally "dragged" her out.
Hermione could barely speak. Her limbs were weak, her whole body was soft, moving only because Sherlock was pulling her along.
This was understandable.
No matter how strong-willed she usually was, she was still just an eleven-year-old girl. Having cried in the bathroom for most of the day, she was both hungry and exhausted. Suddenly seeing a massive creature like the troll, her mind had gone completely blank.
After all, seeing pictures and descriptions in books was entirely different from witnessing a troll in person. Moreover, the troll before them stood twelve feet tall—a full head taller than even Hagrid, the half-giant.
But while Hagrid was large, he still had a normal human appearance. This thing was different.
At first glance, its entire body seemed composed of massive piles of mud and debris. Its skin was gray like granite, with dead leaves and sludge hanging from multiple spots. Its limbs were grotesquely disproportioned—two legs short and thick like tree stumps, while its arms were unnaturally long, the crude wooden club it carried dragging on the ground. Its tiny head was buried in its neck, nearly invisible to those with poor eyesight.
Of course, the most distinctive feature was the overwhelming stench.
Such a creature might seem somewhat comical in a video game, but once it appeared in reality, the effect of megalophobia was immediately maximized.
For an eleven-year-old girl, even a witch, losing the ability to move when faced with a troll was not surprising.
As for Sherlock, his psychological resilience had always been superior, and being mentally prepared, he remained surprisingly calm.
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