Is Something Wrong with Your Head?

Professor McGonagall didn't have the luxury to keep scolding Harry.

Stepping over the troll's corpse, she rushed into the bathroom.

At the end of the room, Hermione lay motionless on the ground.

McGonagall gasped, her voice trembling as she hurried over, her steps quick but unsteady:

"Miss Granger? Miss Granger?"

"Professor, I'm here," Hermione replied, her voice not as weak as McGonagall feared.

Relieved, McGonagall let out a shaky breath. "How are you feeling now?"

"I'm okay. My head and chest hurt a little, but Harry told me not to move," Hermione said in a dry tone.

McGonagall was visibly reassured. "That's good. I'll take you to the hospital wing now. If anything feels wrong, tell me immediately."

She waved her wand, levitating Hermione gently into the air and carefully maneuvering her out of the bathroom.

As she exited the bathroom, McGonagall glanced briefly at Snape before addressing Harry hurriedly:

"Because of your recklessness, Gryffindor loses ten points."

Hermione's nose twitched, and tears welled up in her eyes again.

"But," McGonagall continued, her tone softening, "your Transfiguration spell was impressive—exceptional, in fact. No first-year student has ever achieved such results."

"For your courage, determination, and skill, Gryffindor gains twenty points."

Snape's face darkened as his eyebrows knit together. His voice was icy:

"Professor McGonagall, isn't this far too indulgent? You're only encouraging Potter to act even more recklessly."

"Perhaps it's best if I personally oversee his punishment. A proper detention, just between us…"

"Thank you, Professor Snape," McGonagall interrupted politely but firmly, "but Potter is a student of my house. It's my responsibility to handle him."

She gave Harry a sharp look. "Rest well tonight, Mr. Potter. Tomorrow, we'll discuss this further in my office."

She hurried away, carrying Hermione down the hallway.

Snape turned to Harry, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he sneered:

"Next time, use your head."

"You're lucky to be alive after such stupidity. Frankly, you're not much smarter than that troll."

"Perhaps you should've ended up like Granger—crushed under a troll's club, with a broken arm or two—"

Harry cut him off, locking eyes with him: "Or maybe with my face ripped off and my eyes gouged out?"

Snape's gaze sharpened, dangerous and piercing, like a predator sizing up its prey.

"Perhaps I should've insisted McGonagall hand you over to me," Snape muttered, his voice quieter but even more menacing.

Ignoring him, Harry walked over to the troll's corpse. "Professor Snape, which parts of the troll can be used in potion-making?"

Snape blinked, caught off guard, as Harry crouched by the troll, examining its body.

When Snape didn't reply, Harry turned to him, a curious look in his amber eyes. "Professor?"

Snape's gaze met those unnerving feline eyes, pulling him from his thoughts. He curled his lip in disgust. "The beard. Trolls are only useful for their beards."

"The beard?" Harry muttered, his tone tinged with disappointment.

Such a massive creature, and only the beard had any value?

Drawing the Sword of Gryffindor, Harry began severing the troll's head, then moved to its torso, opening it up with practiced precision and preparing to strip its hide.

The blood-soaked scene left Ron pale, while even Snape looked mildly unsettled. "Mr. Potter, what exactly are you doing? Have you finally lost your mind?"

Snape glanced briefly at Quirrell before continuing. "What you should be doing is getting out of here as quickly as possible."

Without looking up, Harry replied: "The troll's hide is tough and resistant to magic. It might make excellent armor. I've already spoken with Professor Flitwick about contacting a master blacksmith. Although I haven't received a response yet, it doesn't hurt to prepare materials in advance."

For once, Snape refrained from mocking him, though he did glance at Quirrell with disdain before sneering:

"I must admit, your skill in dissection is remarkable. When I assign you detention, I'll know exactly what to have you do."

Harry, now sorting through the troll's stinking innards, asked again:

"Professor, are you sure nothing else is useful? What about the ears?"

Snape scoffed. "Are you deaf, Potter? Or has your encounter with the troll dulled your wits to its level?"

"No, they're worthless. Unless, of course, you plan to eat them to see if their foul stench helps you vomit up last night's dinner."

Standing, Harry hoisted the troll's severed head and turned to Quirrell, who was still trembling. "Professor Quirrell."

Quirrell flinched.

"We're leaving now," Harry said, waving casually. "I suggest you check on your classroom."

Quirrell stammered wordlessly, while Ron hesitated, clearly eager to leave Snape's presence but too scared to move.

As they walked out of the hallway and into the Great Hall, Snape stopped abruptly.

"Listen, Potter, I'm not your babysitter," Snape snapped. "Next time, bring your brain with you."

"Thank you, Professor Snape," Harry replied. "But I do have one more question."

Snape paused, eyebrow raised.

"What's the password to the Headmaster's office?" Harry asked.

Snape clicked his tongue in irritation. "Cockroach Cluster. What else would he use?"

With a swish of his robes, Snape stormed off.

"Harry, I'm sorry," Ron mumbled as they left the Great Hall, his voice growing quieter. "I forgot what you asked me to do…"

Then, as if trying to redeem himself, Ron added, "But I found out something big. Really big."

Harry cut him off, handing over the troll's head and the Sorting Hat. "Tell me later. I need to see Dumbledore."

Ron gaped, awkwardly holding the bloody head and the filthy hat. "What am I supposed to do with these?"

"Wash the hat," Harry called over his shoulder. "Consider it payback for forgetting. As for the head, find somewhere clean to put it. I'll deal with it when I'm back."

"You'd better come back quickly!" the Sorting Hat groused. "I have things to say too."

Harry rubbed his temples and nodded. Despite the holiday, his schedule somehow felt busier than ever.

Arriving at the Headmaster's office, Harry ascended the spiral staircase after giving the password.

"Harry," Dumbledore greeted him, surprise flickering across his face. "What happened to you?"

"Fought a troll," Harry said casually. "That's not important. Did you find anything?"

Dumbledore waved his wand, cleaning the blood and grime from Harry's clothes. "Find anything about what?"

"Quirrell," Harry clarified, his tone firm.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

Harry mirrored the expression. "Don't tell me you haven't figured out that the troll was let in by Quirrell."

"I'm curious how you deduced that," Dumbledore said, gesturing for Harry to sit and pouring him a glass of milk with a flick of his wand.

Harry took a sip. "His performance was too clumsy. Claimed he was scared of the troll, yet managed to run from the dungeons to the Great Hall, deliver a full report, and then conveniently faint?"

"And he must have the ability to subdue a troll. Otherwise, how could he teach Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

"He feels dangerous," Harry continued, frowning. "More dangerous than anyone else in the castle, except for you."

Dumbledore chuckled. "It's an honor to be held in such high regard by someone so young."

Harry's expression didn't change.

Dumbledore's laughter faded as he grew more serious. "You're not wrong. I suspect Quirrell may be working for Voldemort."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Then why not expel him? Isn't Voldemort dead?"

"I've long suspected he isn't," Dumbledore admitted.

"A powerful wizard, especially a Dark wizard, always has ways to cheat death," Dumbledore said, his voice heavy.

"As for Quirrell…" He sighed, setting down his tea. "Expelling him might not solve the problem. It could even escalate things."

Harry's brows furrowed. "You're saying you're letting someone working for Voldemort roam the castle freely? Around students?"

"Quirrell wasn't always like this," Dumbledore explained, his tone tinged with regret. "He was once an excellent student, a brilliant Ravenclaw, and a dedicated professor of Muggle Studies. But something happened during his travels last year. When he returned, he was… different."

"So you're keeping him here to 'save' him?" Harry asked, his tone dripping with disbelief.

"Partially," Dumbledore admitted. "I hoped proximity to Hogwarts' protections and its community might help. But more importantly, keeping him here allows me to monitor him—and Voldemort—closely. Expelling him would only drive them into hiding, making them harder to track and potentially more dangerous."

Harry sipped his milk, processing this. "So you're saying Voldemort's not dead. And he's here, in Hogwarts."

Dumbledore's blue eyes sparkled with concern. "It's only a suspicion, Harry. But one I cannot ignore."

Harry set down his glass with a quiet clink. "You're playing with fire, Professor. And you're gambling with our lives to do it."

Dumbledore leaned forward, his gaze sharp but calm. "I don't expect you to understand, Harry, but this is not a decision made lightly. Everything I do, I do with the safety of the students and the future of the wizarding world in mind."

Harry's voice was flat. "Including the safety of Voldemort's puppet."

"If I could act decisively, I would," Dumbledore said, his tone firm. "But there are forces at work—"

"Forces?" Harry cut him off, standing abruptly. "You're the most powerful wizard alive. The only person Voldemort ever feared. If anyone can act, it's you."

Dumbledore's silence was telling.

Harry shook his head. "I'm done. If you want to keep him here, fine. But don't expect me to risk my life cleaning up your messes."

As Harry turned to leave, Dumbledore called after him: "Harry, wait. Are you not curious about what I've discovered?"

Harry hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. "I already know enough. Quirrell's dangerous, Voldemort's not dead, and I'm supposed to 'stay safe' while you play your games."

"Harry," Dumbledore said softly, "I only want to protect you."

Harry turned back, his expression icy. "I don't need your protection. I need honesty. Until you're ready to give me that, don't ask me to trust you."

Without another word, Harry left the office, the door clicking shut behind him.

Back in the Gryffindor common room, Ron was waiting anxiously, still holding the troll's head and the Sorting Hat.

"Finally! What did Dumbledore say?" Ron asked, thrusting the grimy items toward Harry.

Harry waved him off, collapsing onto a chair. "Nothing useful. Just the usual 'trust me, Harry' nonsense."

The Sorting Hat spoke up, muffled by its crusty state. "Harry, I have things to say! But first, for Merlin's sake, clean me!"

Ron grimaced. "Mate, you owe me for this. That hat smells like troll blood and something worse."

Harry leaned back, closing his eyes. "It's been a long day, Ron. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Ron exclaimed. "You left me holding this disgusting stuff all day, and now you're telling me to wait until tomorrow?!"

"Ron," Harry said without opening his eyes, "if you want me to listen to you talk about your 'big discovery,' let me rest for five minutes."

Ron huffed but sat down, muttering under his breath.

The common room was lively as the Gryffindors celebrated their own spin on the day's events. In their eyes, Harry had single-handedly saved Hermione, slain a troll, and brought Gryffindor back from the brink of disaster with his extra points.

But Harry didn't feel like celebrating.

As the chatter and laughter of his housemates filled the room, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that Hogwarts had become far more dangerous than anyone realized.

"Dumbledore thinks he can control it," Harry muttered to himself. "But what happens when he can't?"

For now, all he could do was wait—and prepare for whatever came next.

To be continued…