The thunder of footsteps and the alarmed voices of professors shattered the silence that had fallen after the troll's collapse. Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall were the first to appear in the doorway, their faces pale, their gazes strained. Behind them loomed the grim figure of Snape, his dark eyes immediately scanning the fallen troll, then the three terrified first-years, and finally settling on Stephen Strange.
"What happened here?" McGonagall's voice, usually so stern, now sounded taut, though still authoritative. She surveyed the wrecked bathroom: ceramic shards, puddles of water, the enormous carcass of a troll impaled against the wall by something clearly not student magic, but far more powerful. Her gaze lingered on the spear protruding from the monster's chest, and she recognized it as a transfigured object. The professor's eyebrows arched in surprise.
Harry and Ron, still trembling but regaining some composure, began to stammer out how they had searched for Hermione and stumbled upon the troll. Their voices tangled, words overlapping, trying to explain the incredible. Hermione, still clinging to Stephen Strange, merely whimpered, unable to utter a single word.
All eyes turned to him. He straightened, his face calm, almost serene, a stark contrast to the chaos around him. He slowly pulled away from Hermione, but his hand remained on her back, a silent support.
"Well, it's a rather simple story, Professor," Stephen Strange began, a faint, almost imperceptible irony slipping into his voice, completely uncharacteristic of him. "As you know, after Professor Quirrell... well, um, fainted, and everyone scrambled to their rooms, I, as a true Ravenclaw, decided it would be most logical to check the girls' lavatory."
Snape let out a barely audible, contemptuous sniff. McGonagall raised an eyebrow, and Dumbledore, observing Stephen Strange with unusual focus, merely inclined his head slightly.
"And why, Mr. Strange, did you deem that logical?" Snape's voice was oily, corrosive as acid, and full of hidden menace. His black eyes practically drilled into Stephen Strange. He clearly anticipated the moment Stephen would falter.
Stephen Strange met his gaze without a hint of hesitation. "Because, Professor," he paused, "logic suggested that if the troll was in the dungeons, it most likely wouldn't exit through the main entrance or go for tea in the Gryffindor common room. It would go where no one expected it. And considering it was the first Halloween for first-years, and many of them were frightened, and, more importantly, one of our classmates was crying in the girls' lavatory..." He glanced for a second at Hermione, who flinched at the mention of herself. "...then the probability of finding a troll there, or at least being at the center of events, sharply increased. Furthermore, none of the teachers rushed there immediately, which left an opening for... personal intervention."
Snape stared at him, his lips pressed into a thin line. He was struck not so much by Stephen's answer as by his absolute composure and the icy logic that seemed to transform even irrational fear into a mathematical problem. This wasn't arrogance, nor insolence – it was pure, unadulterated rationality that didn't fit into his usual patterns of interaction with students. It was as if he saw before him not a boy, but someone who thought on a completely different level.
McGonagall, however, was more pragmatic. She sternly surveyed all three. "I have rarely been so disappointed in Hogwarts students! All of you put yourselves in terrible danger! You could have died! You violated every possible safety rule!" Her voice trembled with indignation, yet deep in her eyes flickered something else – relief. "Nevertheless," McGonagall continued, softening, "ten points to Gryffindor for sheer luck and foolishness!" Harry and Ron exchanged surprised glances. "And five points to Gryffindor for you, Mr. Weasley, finally pronouncing the Levitation Charm correctly!" Ron blushed, but his face broke into a wide grin. "And... twenty points to Ravenclaw, Mr. Strange, for... for your quick decision-making and... and effectiveness, which, though frightening, saved your classmate's life!"
Snape shook his head slightly, as if disbelieving his ears.
"Now," McGonagall's voice became stern again, but without its previous harshness, "all of you to your dorms! And I don't want to see you out of bed again!"
Harry, Ron, and Hermione, accompanied by Stephen Strange, walked silently through the deserted corridors. The atmosphere was tense, but no longer from fear, but from the realization of what had happened. Ron, who had been tormented all evening by guilt for his harsh words to Hermione, finally mustered his courage.
"Hermione," he mumbled, his ears red. "I... I'm really sorry. For what I said. I was... I was a complete prat."
Hermione stopped. Her eyes, still red from tears, fixed on Ron. She took a deep breath, as if gathering air to unleash her wit, which had waited so long for its moment.
"Yes, Ron," she said, her voice weak, but with an emerging steely edge. "You were. And more. But at least you finally learned to pronounce 'Wingardium Leviosa' correctly. So perhaps not all is lost for you, even if you are a complete ass."
Ron blushed even deeper, but a relieved smile spread across his face. Harry chuckled. Hermione turned to Stephen Strange, who stood nearby, his gaze still focused. She released his hand, which had gently held her back, and took his palm.
Her gaze lingered on his face. She saw not the usual indifference, but something else – a slight tension at the corners of his lips, almost imperceptible shadows beneath his eyes. He was exhausted. And she saw in his eyes echoes of that icy fury that had been directed at the troll. This was not just "a rescue"; it was something far deeper.
"Stephen," her voice trembled, and she squeezed his hand tighter. "Thank you. For everything. I... I don't know what I would have done without you." Her eyes filled with a new wave of tears, but these were tears of gratitude and profound relief. She wasn't just thanking him for saving her; she was thanking him for being there. For going beyond his own principles and acting. She saw in him not only a savior, but a person who was willing to take risks. This was a moment when not just friendship, but a deep bond, based on mutual respect and unspoken understanding, was formed.
Stephen Strange merely nodded, his hand gently squeezing hers in return. He didn't need words. He had done what he had to do. And in that simple gesture, he felt something new, something stronger than any cold calculation.
Meanwhile, in the ruined lavatory, Dumbledore thoughtfully examined the defeated monster. His gaze lingered on the spear that Stephen Strange had conjured from the troll's club. This was not merely a spell; it was a transformation executed with incredible precision and power, inaccessible even to many adult wizards.
"Minerva," Dumbledore said quietly, his voice unusually serious, without the usual twinkle in his eyes. He did not take his gaze off Stephen Strange, who was walking away with the three first-years. "What do you think of Mr. Strange?"
McGonagall, who at that moment was meticulously surveying the extent of the damage with her usual thoroughness, suddenly froze. She understood perfectly what Dumbledore was thinking, even without words. A shadow of unease crossed her usually unruffled face.
"Albus," she began, her voice low. "I understand your concerns. In our school, indeed, there was once a student... with such... incredible talent. And the same... ruthlessness when it came to achieving goals. With the same... cold, calculating mind." Her words hung in the air, and both professors simultaneously thought of the Dark Lord who had once sat on the Slytherin bench. This was a man who seemed to have been born with magic in his blood, but without a drop of humanity.
Dumbledore sighed. "Precisely. The ability to perform such magic... to transmute matter at such a level... at such an age... it's frightening. There isn't... there isn't that usual struggle I saw in Tom. He doesn't seek power. But this... detachment. This absence of emotional reaction to what happened. This efficiency that borders on ruthlessness. It worries me, Minerva." He pointed to the neat, yet lethal wound on the troll's body. "This wasn't done merely for defense. It was done for destruction."
McGonagall shook her head, her gaze firm. "No, Albus. You are mistaken. Or, at least, I hope so." She moved closer to Dumbledore, her voice lowering to a whisper. "I've been observing him since day one. Yes, he is cold. Yes, he is rational. But he doesn't seek power. He is obsessed with knowledge. Obsessed with understanding. He wants to understand how the world works, how magic works; he seeks truth, not means of control. He doesn't strive to dominate others; he strives to analyze and create. Today, he saved an innocent. He acted when no one else could. And he didn't leave her to die."
She nodded towards the departing children. "He accepted her gratitude. Allowed her to lean on him. This isn't Tom. Tom would never allow himself such weakness. He would only have exploited the situation." McGonagall paused for a moment. "I think he changed today. Perhaps for the first time in a long time, he felt something... human. I don't think he will terrorize the world. Rather, he will understand it."
Dumbledore gazed for a long time at the spot where Stephen Strange had just stood, then his eyes returned to the slain troll. He nodded slowly, his eyes twinkling again. Perhaps Minerva was right. Perhaps this was not darkness, but merely an unusual, still undeveloped, form of light.
Stephen Strange silently entered his private room in the Ravenclaw tower. It was spacious, with high windows overlooking the Black Lake, and filled with his personal belongings. He looked around. Stacks of books on ancient runes, alchemy, and astronomy were piled on tables and shelves. Beside them lay some unusual mechanisms he had constructed himself. Amidst all this scholarly disarray, on a velvet stand, rested his Stradivarius violin—an instrument he had brought with him from home.
He walked to the window, where on a carved wooden perch, gently closing her eyes, sat his owl, Athena. Her feathers were bright white, and her eyes – amber. Stephen Strange reached out and gently stroked her head. Athena opened one eye, let out a soft hoot, and pressed against his palm. In that simple act of tenderness, there was more emotion than he had shown all day.
He picked up the violin. Its smooth, polished wood felt cool beneath his fingers. Stephen Strange raised it to his shoulder, drew the bow across the strings, and a mournful, almost weeping melody flowed from his fingers. It was a tender, melancholic aria, full of hidden pain and longing. It spread through the quiet Ravenclaw tower, penetrating walls and settling in the hearts of those who heard it. In every note, there was an inner struggle, a realization of error, the bitterness of loneliness, which now, after the shock he had endured, felt particularly acute. This was the melody of his inner catharsis, his instantaneous, yet profound transformation.
He played, immersed in the sound, in every vibration of the strings, in every oscillation of the air. The violin sang, reflecting his new, still not fully understood emotional side.
Suddenly, in the middle of one of the saddest notes, Stephen Strange abruptly stopped. The bow hung in the air. His eyes, which had been closed, opened, and a fire blazed in them – not anger, not fury, but pure, determined resolve. He had made a decision. What had happened today was not just an incident. It was a lesson. A lesson that knowledge and calculation must be backed by action, that detachment is not strength, but a form of weakness. He realized that his path could not be that of a passive observer. He had to become an active participant.
The melody, which had begun as a sorrowful aria, sharply, almost aggressively changed. Stephen Strange, with incredible energy, lowered the bow to the strings again, and from beneath it burst the unrestrained, virtuosic, devilishly complex melody of Niccolò Paganini — "Caprice No. 24." The melody was fast, powerful, full of dizzying passages and double stops, requiring superhuman mastery. It rang, thundered, shimmered, filling the entire Ravenclaw tower, announcing the awakening of something new, something more powerful and dangerous than just a cold intellect. This was the music of ruthless determination, untamed talent, and a new, conscious choice. The music of a new Stephen Strange, who decided not just to understand the world, but to actively shape it.
The last note resonated, vibrating in the air, and then faded. Stephen Strange lowered the violin. His face was calm, but his eyes held the same fire as when he had killed the troll. He placed the violin back on its stand. The path had been chosen. And he was ready for it.