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HRA# Chapter 58: Voldemort's Trap and Peeves' Battlefield Entrance
🕑 Added 2025-03-04 18:43:37 +0000 UTC"...Alright, then follow behind me. If you encounter a troll, remember to hide first," Harry said after a moment of quick thinking.
He wasn’t particularly worried about Quirrell getting his hands on what was inside the fourth-floor room—after all, that was just a trap. Dumbledore would never allow Voldemort to succeed.
Right now, finding Hermione was the bigger priority.
This wasn’t the time for idle chatter. With limited resources, Harry swiftly completed the divination ritual. He was eager to determine Hermione’s current location, and since he wasn’t attempting to predict a far-off future, the vision should be relatively clear.
Indeed, the water screen formed almost instantly, showing a sharp and unobstructed image of Hermione.
"Aha! I knew it—she’s in the girls’ bathroom," Ron blurted out the moment he saw the scene.
Even though he knew this wasn’t the time for laughter, he just couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t his fault—the vision clearly showed Hermione sitting on the toilet, covering her face, crying.
There was no doubt about it—Harry’s earlier prophecy on the train had come true. What Ron found so funny was that Hermione had known about that prophecy, yet she still chose to cry in the bathroom.
"...You’d better not laugh like that in front of her," Harry shot Ron a helpless look. "Otherwise, you can forget about copying her homework from now on."
"No worries, Harry," Ron grinned so wide his molars were practically showing. "I’ve still got your homework, haven’t I?"
His declaration essentially meant he was going to laugh in front of Hermione—loudly.
That was basically a death sentence.
Harry pressed his hand against the stone basin, and the scene on the water’s surface rippled violently—the vision rapidly pulled away from Hermione, blurring and distorting as if it might shatter at any moment.
Fortunately, he could still make out the surrounding area—the bathroom sink outside the stalls, the corridor beyond, and then the courtyard—
Crack!
The water screen exploded, sending droplets splashing onto the three of them.
"Where was that?" Neville asked blankly, staring at Harry.
"The dungeons," Harry said with a complicated expression. "The vision only showed the courtyard after it moved upwards, which means Hermione is in the dungeons right now."
"Then what are we waiting for?!" Ron exclaimed in alarm. "Don’t forget what Professor Quirrell said—there are trolls in the dungeon classrooms! We have to get there fast!"
Ron was right, but not entirely.
"Don’t rush," Harry said seriously, pulling out more herbs and lighting them to produce green smoke. He began chanting another spell.
"What are you divining now?" Ron asked, puzzled. "We already know where Hermione is, don’t we?"
"Hermione isn’t the only one in the dungeons, Ron." Harry shook his head slightly—there were things he couldn’t explain to Ron and Neville.
What concerned him was Quirrell and Voldemort. If Quirrell’s goal was simply to lure the other professors away so he could sneak into the fourth-floor room, then fine—but relying on guesswork to predict an enemy’s moves was foolish.
If he could use divination to get more information, why wouldn’t he?
The green smoke once again condensed into a water screen, and this time, Harry’s target was the future—what would happen in the dungeons if he did nothing?
The answer came quickly: trolls. And not just one, but two. Their vacant expressions made them look as dumb as ever, yet they seemed to be quarreling with each other, swinging their clubs wildly.
But that wasn’t the real problem.
The real problem was that farther away from the trolls, there were several hooded figures, faces obscured by black robes.
Quirrell and Voldemort had more people?!
But hadn’t Dumbledore said Voldemort was in a pitiful state? That he didn’t even dare summon his old followers? Then how had he gathered these people—did Quirrell hire them?
What kind of reward could possibly convince dark wizards to attack Hogwarts?
Harry couldn’t understand. According to Hagrid, the students of Hogwarts were practically untouchable in the British wizarding world—whoever accepted this job probably wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy their payment.
Would they flee Britain entirely after this?
At that moment, the two trolls seemed to notice something—a sound from nearby. They turned their heads simultaneously, locking onto a small figure who had just emerged from a room.
Hermione.
One of the trolls scratched its belly and wobbled toward her, raising its massive club—
And swung it down!
The water screen shattered.
"Hermione!" Neville cried out in alarm, even though he knew this vision was of the near future. "What do we do, Harry?!"
"Don’t panic," Harry shook his head. "I’ve changed my mind. You two go find Professor Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall immediately and tell them there are intruders in the castle—Professor Quirrell hasn’t noticed yet."
"What about you, Harry?" Ron asked, already tense.
"I’m going to save Hermione," Harry said simply. "Trust me."
"Alright, Ron and I will deliver the message." Neville, unexpectedly calm in this crucial moment, said seriously, "Go quickly, Harry. Be careful."
"You too," Harry nodded. "And once you’ve told the professors, go straight back to the Gryffindor Tower. No stopping, no detours, no matter what you hear or see. Understood?"
"Understood," Ron and Neville answered, their faces tight with tension.
The fact that there were intruders in the castle made them realize this was no time for reckless adventures or games.
As they rushed upstairs, Harry moved toward the dungeons.
Hogwarts, being a massive and ancient castle, had an extensive underground network—including old dungeon cells. The layout was incredibly complex, with shifting pathways adding to the confusion.
Even though Harry knew Hermione was in a girls' bathroom down here, the dungeons had multiple such bathrooms—some even led to secret rooms.
Not long after entering the corridors, Harry caught a faint, unpleasant odor.
If it smelled this bad from a distance, he could only imagine how awful it would be up close—it reminded him of the stench from the boar-men or ogres of Azeroth.
Good thing he had a strong stomach and steady nerves.
He wasn’t about to charge in recklessly just because he was in a hurry. He had no intention of walking straight into a trap.
So—Far Sight.
A traditional shaman spell, allowing a shaman to perceive distant locations, including hidden enemies like rogues or druids. It provided true sight.
A hazy vision formed in front of Harry, shifting and distorting rapidly—like a deranged voyeur, he scanned the dungeon’s many bathrooms.
It didn’t take long. He found Hermione in a west-side girls’ bathroom. He also found the intruders—two trolls lumbering toward her.
There were four robed figures. Unlike the trolls, who made no effort to hide their presence, these people were moving cautiously, staying out of sight.
Was their real target the professors who would come to fight the trolls?
Harry considered this and decided to take a different route, circling behind them for a surprise attack.
Tauren were peaceful and kind by nature, yes, but they weren’t saints or naive fools. Unlike orcs, they didn’t have an obsessive need for direct combat.
Harry moved quickly. Before long, he had positioned himself behind the robed figures, silently drawing his shield and warhammer.
Unlike his battles with the centaurs, Harry knew that these creatures were not the centaur marauders of Azeroth. Because of this, he was able to restrain himself, only targeting the centaurs' more irksome behaviors without dealing lethal blows in combat.
But these strangers who had invaded the castle were different. They were unmistakably enemies, and Harry wasn’t about to hold back.
What followed was a seamless sequence of battle-hardened techniques, refined through decades of warfare.
Silently, he enchanted his shield. The enchantment Harry used was called the Thunderstrike Ward, an infusion of lightning elements into the shield. This enchantment allowed him to channel spells like Lightning Bolt and Chain Lightning with greater force, unleashing an even fiercer electrical onslaught on his enemies.
However, what he needed most right now was the secondary effect of the enchantment—when the shield made contact, it would discharge electrical damage upon impact.
For his warhammer, Harry cast a Flametongue Weapon enchantment, ensuring that each strike would scorch his foes with searing flames.
Casting shamanic spells in this world had always been a challenge for Harry—not because of a lack of magical prowess, but because this world lacked the Four Elemental Realms.
In Azeroth, invoking elemental magic meant drawing power directly from the corresponding elemental planes. Shamans and mages alike tapped into these realms to fuel their spells. But in the world where Harry was born, such a method simply didn’t work.
Fortunately, spells tied to storm elements were easier to cast, as air was omnipresent. Fire and water were manageable as well, so long as he avoided spells that involved magma, which required the fusion of fire and earth elements.
Earth-based spells were the most problematic. Even summoning a simple earth elemental meant pulling from the surrounding environment, sometimes with unintended consequences. Harry still vividly remembered the time he had tried summoning one near his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon’s house—only for a large chunk of their home to be torn away and transformed into an earth elemental, causing the entire structure to collapse.
That experience had taught him a valuable lesson. Now, standing inside the enchanted halls of Hogwarts, he knew better. The castle’s walls and decorations were all reinforced with protective magic—otherwise, the mischief of students over the centuries would have reduced the place to rubble many times over.
Given these constraints, Harry could only wield the elements of air, water, and fire. That alone was difficult enough, as the elemental energy in any given area was finite. Unlike in Azeroth, where one could endlessly draw power from the elemental planes, here, his spellcasting was inherently limited.
That meant fewer spells. Weaker spells.
But fortunately, Harry was more than just a shaman.
He was also a wizard.
The stillness of the dungeon seemed to lull the four intruders into a false sense of security. Harry seized the opportunity, holding his breath, focusing his energy—
Lightning Bolt!
A crackling blue bolt of electricity tore through the air, its sharp hiss splitting the silence. The robed figure sensed something behind him, but by the time he whirled around to see Harry, it was already too late.
Lightning traveled at 300,000 kilometers per second. Without prior warning, no human reflexes could ever hope to keep up.
The black-robed wizard collapsed instantly, convulsing on the ground as charred smoke curled from his body.
“Kill him! He’s just a child!!”
Their fallen comrade elicited no hesitation from the remaining invaders. One, who seemed to be the leader, roared out the command, raising his wand and sending a flurry of spells Harry’s way.
In an instant, the corridor lit up like a fireworks display. Streaks of red light shot toward where Harry had been standing—but none found their mark.
As soon as his Lightning Bolt struck its target, Harry had abandoned offense, casting a defensive spell instead.
Lightning Shield.
In a place like Hogwarts, Earth Shield was too destructive to use, so Lightning Shield was his best option—absorbing blows while retaliating against attackers. Unlike his shield’s enchantment, this spell made its presence unmistakable: three orbs of crackling electricity materialized around Harry, crackling with an audible hum.
For as long as the shield lasted, any enemy who struck him would suffer an immediate counterattack.
Wizard spells were undeniably powerful, but they all shared one fatal flaw: they had to hit their target to take effect. Every curse, every hex, every bolt of magic launched from a wand had to connect.
Harry suspected that if a rogue or a monk—a class reliant on agility—were here instead, they could probably dance through a storm of spells without getting hit once.
Harry, however, was not that nimble.
But he had a shield.
Under its cover, he advanced toward the group of wizards—only to realize, to his surprise, that they were doing the same. They weren’t retreating to maintain distance like typical spellcasters; they were closing in.
It defied every instinct of a magic-wielding class. It was as if they weren’t wizards at all.
“Avada Kedavra!!”
A blinding green light streaked through the air, slamming against Harry’s shield with a loud clang.
The Killing Curse was designed to rip the soul from a living body—deadly to anything alive. But against inanimate objects? It did nothing.
Well, not nothing. It could shatter an object, sure. But a shield had no soul to take.
How hard would the curse have to try to “kill” a shield, anyway? If it did, so what? It was just a shield. Nothing more.
The impact made his shield tilt slightly, its edge chipping away. One of the lightning orbs orbiting Harry surged outward in retaliation, streaking toward the caster—but it fizzled out harmlessly against a translucent magical barrier surrounding the wizard.
There was no time to counterattack. Another dark wizard had already lunged at Harry from up close!
Unfazed, Harry braced himself, knees bending slightly as he raised his shield, absorbing the blow. Oddly enough, it didn’t feel like he was being struck by a person—it felt more like an animal had pounced on him.
The Thunderstrike Ward on his shield had a secondary function. Physical contact with it triggered an electric shock.
Sure enough, the dark wizard recoiled with a pained howl, spasming from the shock. Harry didn’t leave him the chance to recover—he shifted his shield aside and brought his warhammer down.
A loud crack.
Flametongue’s fiery enchantment scorched through the wizard’s robes, searing a deep, blackened dent into his chest where his ribs caved inward.
Whoosh—BOOM!!
Something massive hurtled through the air, roaring past Harry before crashing violently into the corridor’s far corner.
A suit of armor, now in pieces, scattered across the floor.
Harry barely had time to follow up his attack before he had to duck, dodging the flying debris. Looking up, he saw the source of the attack—two towering trolls at the far end of the hall. They had finally noticed the battle behind them, and one had grabbed a decorative suit of armor, hurling it toward Harry’s position.
“Oh! Merlin’s beard! I think I’m breaking apart!”
A voice came from the scattered armor.
Not “breaking apart.” Already broken. The once-pristine suit of armor was now a mess of disassembled parts, strewn across the floor. Only its voice remained intact—assuming that its opening and closing visor counted as “talking.”
Wait.
That wasn’t the armor talking.
From within the helmet, a head suddenly popped out. Then arms. A torso. Legs. Harry had no idea how something so large had fit inside a space the size of a human head, but there it was.
“Time for some fun! Peeves is here! The castle’s under attack!”
Harry recognized the unexpected arrival immediately, shouting his name.
Small, mischievous, with a wide, grinning mouth and bright, beady eyes. Dressed in garishly colorful clothes, a crooked tie, a hat, and shoes split open at the toes—
It was Peeves, Hogwarts’ poltergeist.
