"How did it come to this?"
Professor Quirrell, lying on the cold stone floor and feigning unconsciousness, watched Madam Pomfrey's approaching figure with rising panic. This was a catastrophic deviation from the script he and his master had written.
The plan was simple: use the troll to manufacture a state of absolute chaos, drawing the faculty away so he could slip up to the forbidden corridor on the fourth floor and steal the Philosopher's Stone.
He had never anticipated that the student body—usually a collection of easily startled children—would be so bold. They weren't screaming; they were whispering with an annoying air of academic curiosity.
Worse, Dumbledore hadn't moved an inch. He had dispatched only McGonagall and that strange child to handle the threat, remaining in the hall like an unmovable mountain.
"Troll... in the dungeon... Headmaster, you must... go..."
Just as Madam Pomfrey's hand was about to make contact with his skin, Quirrell's eyes fluttered open. He sat up with a jolt, flailing his arms as if reliving a nightmare, and began to shriek once more.
This display triggered a wave of derisive laughter from the students. They looked down upon this stuttering, trembling wreck of a Defense professor with newfound contempt.
Quirrell, however, had no choice; with the fragmented soul of Lord Voldemort latched onto the back of his skull, he could not risk a professional medical examination by the school nurse. He had to abandon the "fainting" ruse.
"Professor Quirrell, do not distress yourself," Dumbledore said, his voice calm but his eyes narrowing behind his half-moon spectacles. "Professor Son and Professor McGonagall have already gone to neutralize the threat."
The suspicious timing of Quirrell's "recovery" did not escape the Headmaster's notice.
...
In the sprawling, labyrinthine basement of the castle, Professor McGonagall halted. At the end of a long, damp corridor, the sound of splintering wood and a low, guttural grunt echoed.
"There! The girls bathroom!"
She immediately canceled her Animagus transformation, her form shimmering back into a tall, stern witch. She drew her wand instantly; while the tabby cat form offered superior speed, it lacked the capacity for spellcasting—a major disadvantage against a ton of muscle and malice.
Before the warning had even fully left her lips, Goku had already turned into a blur of motion, vanishing into the bathroom.
"Professor Son! Wait for me!" McGonagall called out, breaking into a run. Despite knowing the boy's strength, the protective instincts of a teacher made her worry about him being blindsided.
However, as she skidded to a halt at the doorway, she didn't hear the sounds of a life-or-death struggle. Instead, she heard Goku's cheerful, encouraging voice:
"Go on, Hermione! Give it everything you've got!"
"Hermione? Why on earth is Miss Granger here?" McGonagall's heart sank as she rushed inside.
But when she saw the scene within, she froze mid-step, her wand lowering in pure bewilderment.
What did she see?
She saw Miss Hermione Granger—the brightest first-year in Gryffindor and usually a stickler for rules—standing triumphantly atop the back of the massive, slumped troll. She was gripping the creature's own oversized wooden club with both hands, bringing it down with rhythmic, bone-crunching force onto the back of the troll's skull.
The troll let out one final, pathetic gurgle before its limbs went limp and it ceased moving entirely.
As it turned out, Hermione had been deeply hurt by some biting remarks Ron had made after Charms class. Choosing to skip the feast, she had hidden herself in the basement bathroom to cry in peace—only to be interrupted by the troll Quirrell had let loose.
But the Hermione of two months ago was gone. The current Hermione had endured sixty days of Goku's "Demonic Training." To her, a creature that merely swung a club and moved like a slow-motion mountain was far less frightening than a swarm of hungry Acromantulas or a ten-mile run with a milk crate.
Fueled by a cocktail of lingering anger at Ron and sheer disgust at the troll's stench, Hermione had bypassed the "screaming" phase and gone straight into combat mode. When the troll tried to smash her, she didn't freeze; she moved with a feline agility born of the Turtle School's conditioning.
She had used a quick Transfiguration spell to turn the water on the floor into slick oil, causing the dim-witted beast to lose its footing and crash face-first into the stone. Before it could recover, she had disarmed it of its club and proceeded to apply the "practical combat" lessons Goku had taught in the afternoons.
Hermione knew the anatomical weaknesses of a troll from her extensive reading; combined with her new physical power, the fight was a one-sided slaughter.
"Dumbledore was right," McGonagall whispered to herself.
Looking at the fallen beast and the energetic young girl, she finally understood the Headmaster's vision. She had harbored doubts about the "brutish" nature of Goku's training, but the results were undeniable. A first-year student had just soloed a Class XXXX threat—a feat most seventh-years would struggle to replicate.
"Miss Granger, for your extraordinary bravery in defeating a troll, twenty points to Gryffindor!"
"Thank you, Professor!" Hermione beamed, her face flushed with adrenaline. "And thank you, Professor Son."
If not for the past two months, she knew she would have been paralyzed with fear. Instead, she felt... capable.
"Let's go, it's really stinky in here!" Goku said, pinching his nose. His heightened senses made the troll's musk almost unbearable.
McGonagall waved her wand, binding the unconscious troll with heavy conjured chains and adding a few Stupefy charms for good measure, before leading the two back to the Great Hall.
...
When they returned and McGonagall recounted the events, a hush fell over the students, followed quickly by an explosion of chatter.
"Did I hear that right? She took it down by herself?"
"Hmph, what's the surprise? We train with Professor Son every morning. A troll is basically a slow-moving target."
"If she can do that after two months... I'm signing up for the morning sessions tomorrow."
Many who had quit due to the difficulty now looked at Hermione with intense envy. The tangible result of her power was a better advertisement for Ki Magic than any explosion.
"Hagrid, please go to the basement and tend to the creature. The feast shall continue!" Dumbledore announced, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. This was exactly the cultural shift he had hoped to spark.
"You're very strange... why do you have two different 'ki' signatures inside you?"
The sudden, loud question from Goku cut through the ambient noise of the hall like a knife. Every head turned.
Goku was standing directly in front of the cowering Professor Quirrell. To Goku, the "ki" of a living being was as distinct as a fingerprint; even two blades of grass had subtle differences. But as he stood near Quirrell, he sensed something fundamentally wrong.
There was the weak, flickering ki of Quirrell himself—and nestled right against it was a second, icy, and profoundly malevolent signature.
"W-what? Two... two kis? I... I haven't the f-faintest idea what you are t-talking about!"
Quirrell's eyes twitched violently. He began to back away, trying to put distance between himself and the boy who had challenged Dumbledore. He had been wary of Goku from the start, sensing a primal danger in him that even Dumbledore lacked.
"It's right there," Goku said, his figure flickering. In the blink of an eye, he was behind the professor. "One in your body, and another one... right in the back of your head."
Before Quirrell could draw his wand or utter a curse, Goku's hand shot out. With the casual ease of a child picking a fruit, he gripped the purple fabric of the turban and yanked it clean off.
***
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