It was the blood scent that lured him on.

Anger; fear; blind resentment – these feelings were as familiar as stone and darkness. He thrived on them; accepted them as part of his world without thought or meaning. They alone would not have driven him forth into this foreign landscape of unnatural light, smells and sounds. No, it was the dense, crude tang of blood and meat that had called him out.

The Dark Human reeked of it. It had proffered it - coaxing him on with juicy, raw flesh of a tender calf, dripping with rich blood. He could have killed the Human. . .smashed it into a shattered pulp, and dined on its flesh. But the Dark Human did not appeal to him. It smelled Wrong. . . dangerous and tainted with something Bad. It stunk of Wrongness, like fetid meat rotted too long in the dark. So he did not kill it, but let the Bad One lead him away from his cold, lonely den and into the hostile world of Humans. And then it had deserted him, leaving him trapped in the confusing tunnels of an unfamiliar place.

He could smell them – the little half-grown Humans – their odor filled his nostrils and his senses. He swam in a fog of their overwhelming scent. They smelled young and tender – their blood pure and hot and powerful. And there were Many. . . so many he could not comprehend their number. He smelled their energy and their innocence, and he hungered.

He wandered in confusion, tracking the smells through a maze of strange, angular tunnels. He sensed the young ones high above in the stone, and he followed the taste of their blood scent higher. And then he caught it – a whiff of young blood – sweet, clean, and very Near. . . much nearer than the others. He pursued it, shoving aside a wooden barrier and entering a chamber with too much light. The chamber was damp and smelled sharply odd and unpleasant. He blinked in the hated brightness, disregarding his discomfort for the lure of the blood scent.

He could almost taste the hot blood and warm flesh on his tongue. He swung his heavy head from side to side, sniffing, seeking it. And the young one came, small and innocent, stepping into his sightline. It looked up at him and the scent of its surging fear rolled over him. The fear sharpened his hunger.

The young Human leapt away, disappearing behind a flimsy barrier. He lifted Club, smashing the barrier to bits. The young one shrieked and scurried further. The reek of its powerful fright swelled, as he knocked away every barrier it sought for shelter.

Loud noise and new young scents joined him. He ignored them at first, intent on his prey, but the two new ones distracted him, shouting and pelting him with hard rocks. He smashed a stone shelf the first one had hidden under, then felt a sudden weight on his back. He roared in fury, angered by the distraction and the small, panting thing that clung to him. A stabbing pain erupted in his nose.

He grabbed the annoying weight and yanked it off his back. When he swung Club to destroy the thing in his grasp, It missed. Frustration and rage filled him, and he swung clumsily, again and again.

Abruptly, Club left him, ripped from his fist. Dumbfounded, he looked about for it. Club had never left him before. Movement above caught his eye and he lifted his gaze. Club floated over his head.

He forgot everything else. He forgot about the blood scent and the pain in his nose and the squirming thing in his grasp as his befuddled mind tried to grasp this new event. Club was floating high above. That was Wrong. Club never floated. As this odd thought sputtered in his foggy brain, Club stopped floating. Pain flared in his head and the world went dark.

………………………

"Urgh. Troll boogers."

The bizarre words echoed in the corridor as Snape charged into the bathroom. McGonagall was two steps ahead of him – not because she was faster, but because both Snape and Quirrell had briefly hesitated before entering. (It was the Girl's loo, after all.)

Snape skidded to a halt behind Minerva's frozen form and stared at the scene before them. His startled gaze took in the troll first. This was only natural. A fully grown mountain troll was a scary sight. . . even one collapsed and unmoving on a bathroom floor.

Dead? Unconscious?

Bony ribs rose and fell beneath the creature's coarse skin. It was still breathing. Snape's stare swept the room, noting scattered remains of broken cubicles and smashed plumbing. Water gushed and sprayed everywhere.

"Explain yourselves." Minerva was first to discover her voice.

Snape turned and saw Potter and Weasley, shifting and stammering, their robes ripped and soggy. A swift visual inspection revealed no apparent injuries. Snape's pounding heart slowed a bit and he was startled by the rush of relief that swept over him.

"It was my fault."

Severus gaped at Granger, who crawled out from beneath a shattered sink to take the blame.

Blame for what? What in bloody hell went on in here?

He glowered while Granger credited Potter and Weasley with a daring, if foolish, rescue. It was a bold-faced lie. Every instinct in him told Severus the girl was lying.

But what really happened?

His own eyes couldn't deny the simple facts: there was an unconscious troll stretched out on the floor, and three unharmed First-Year students stood beside it. Potter and Weasley still clutched their wands in white-knuckled fists. Whatever the circumstances, these children had defeated a troll!

Normally, Snape would have strongly disputed Minerva's lenient deduction and assignment of points. But he was too shocked to protest, and he let the matter slide. He stared at Potter and Weasley, grudgingly impressed by the boys' achievement. The children left, followed by Minerva. Snape glared at Quirrell and stalked out. If his suspicions were correct, the bloody idiot had let that creature into Hogwarts. He could bloody well get rid of it on his own!

He limped back to his House to check on his Snakes. It took nearly an hour to settle the anxious and hyper students. He sent them off to their dormitories with dire threats of punishment for anyone caught out of bed. He waited until the room was empty and the muffled noise from the dormitories quieted, before slipping behind a tapestry and taking the hidden, narrow passage that lead to his private quarters. None of the students knew of the passage. If they needed their Head of House, they must exit the common room and knock on his public door some fifty yards down the corridor. The hidden passage gave him quick, unobserved access to the Slytherin common room – normally used only in emergencies, or when he expected mischief from his crafty little Snakes.

After relocking and re-warding the door, Snape shuffled into his tidy lounge and eased himself into the worn leather chair by the fire. He voiced a soft call, prompting Roker to pop into the room with a pot of strong tea and a plate of cheese toast. Roker was the only house elf that Snape allowed in his private quarters. He was an ancient, dignified elf, neatly draped in a faded curtain valance of dark damask. Roker was one of the oldest elves employed at Hogwarts and was unusually somber, devoid of the nervous tics and anxious chatter of most of that species.

"Does Master Snape require anything else?" Roker intoned solemnly.

"No, that will be all for this evening, Roker."

The elf popped out of sight. Once he was gone, Snape lifted his robes and examined the long painful gashes on his calf. He grimaced and summoned a healing salve from his private laboratory. The salve eased the sting, and he examined the wounds dispassionately. He knew he should probably go to Pomfrey, but he despised the woman's smothering attentions, and didn't feel like dealing with her. He was also a bit ashamed, though he would never admit it, that he'd allowed the ruddy beast to get the better of him. He decided to avoid embarrassing questions for now. If the bites showed any sign of infection later, he would seek Filch's assistance. The Squibb was a nasty old bugger, but he was discrete and he would ask no questions.

Snape covered his injured leg, and sipped his tea while staring into the flames. He replayed the evening's events in his mind, looking for angles and motives he might have missed. As soon as Quirrell had rushed into the Feast, Snape suspected a diversion. Slipping out a side door, he had rushed to intercept the DADA instructor, arriving at the third floor first, and unlocking the door to the chamber. He had intended to conceal himself in the shadows just inside the door, and catch Quirrell in the act. That had been his plan, at any rate.

And it would have worked, if that IMBECILE Hagrid hadn't UNLEASHED the stupid creature!

When the dog had attacked, Snape had barely made it out of the room with his leg attached. He suspected the noise had scared Quirrell off. As he had slammed and locked the door and leaned against it to catch his breath, he could have sworn he heard footsteps hurrying away down the dark corridor. Hagrid had appeared soon after to check on his pet, out of a ludicrous fear the invading troll would harm the thing.

Oh, honestly! Like a dim-witted troll stood a chance against the vicious Beast!

"I'm sorry, Professor! I jist felt sorry for fer old Fluffy, being chained up all the time like 'at!" the Groundskeeper had babbled. "I din't think no one would go in there, ye see."

"From now on," Snape had growled, "Keep that BLOODY MONSTER chained! If a student had stumbled in there by mistake, they would have been KILLED!"

Ignoring his injuries, Snape had left a contrite, blathering Hagrid to see to his creature and had limped back down to the lower floors. He wasn't concerned that anyone would seek out the chamber again this night. As much as he hated to admit it, Hagrid's beast ( he categorically REFUSED to call the three-headed monster 'Fluffy'!) was a very effective deterrent. Even Snape had no idea how to get safely past it to the trap door beneath it. Each select teacher who had contributed to the elaborate protections knew only the secret to their own obstacle. The Headmaster alone knew all the magical barriers and their solutions.

Snape had never approved of bringing the Stone to Hogwarts. It was far too dangerous for the students to have it on the premises. And he hadn't believed it could be vulnerable in its original vault. Goblins were known to have the best security systems in the world. But Dumbledore's secret intelligence had been correct after all – not one day after moving it, the unthinkable had occurred. The Gringott's vault had been breached. Now the Stone rested in the hidden depths of Hogwarts castle. And from the moment it had been placed there, Quirrell had shown entirely too much interest in it, in Snape's opinion. More than once, he had seen the DADA teacher loitering about the third floor. He could only hope that continued vigilance would deter Quirrell's plots.

Snape poured himself another cup of tea. His leg burned and he had a pounding headache, but he was yet too restless to sleep.

I wonder what happened to the troll? I hope Hagrid doesn't decide to make a bloody 'pet' out of it! Thoughts of the troll brought him back to the scene in the bathroom. How did a couple of First-Years stop a mountain troll? Magic is useless against it – spells only bounce off its tough hide. According to his teachers, Weasley is barely passing his classes. And Potter. . . Potter has shown no special gifts beyond a skill at flying. A talent for Quidditch is hardly useful against the Dark Arts. Potter is exactly as I expected: smug and defiant, just like his father. He sipped his tea thoughtfully. Although, he does seem stubbornly loyal to his little friends. . .probably why he went after the troll in the first place. Bloody Damned Gryffindor! As if the inbred Potter-Ego isn't enough, The-Boy-Who-Lived has a foolish hero-complex. . . fed, no doubt, by a lifetime of gratitude and adoration by his relatives and friends! Idiot! Stupid heroics will only land the brat into more trouble!

Snape dimmed the torches in the lounge and limped off to bed, assuring himself that he couldn't care less if Harry-Bloody-Potter managed to get himself killed. When he awoke worn-out and drained the next morning from a sleepless, troubled night, he blamed it on his injuries.