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Harry Potter
The footsteps came fast and hard, echoing up from the stairwell like a stampede.
Harry's hand found the doorframe. He needed it. His legs had gone unreliable, knees threatening to buckle with each breath. The spell, the internal Levitation, the club, had left him hollowed. His wand arm hung at his side. He could not seem to lift it.
Beside him, Hermione was shaking. She had her wand in a white-knuckled grip, pointed at nothing, and her eyes were too wide, the pupils enormous and black.
The door burst open.
Not the bathroom door. That was splinters. The corridor door, the one that led back toward the main stairs, and through it came Professor McGonagall at a run Harry had never imagined her capable of. Her robes snapped behind her. Her wand was already up, already moving through the first syllables of what Harry recognized as a Shield Charm before she registered what she was looking at.
She stopped.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Behind her, Professor Flitwick appeared, half McGonagall's height and moving twice as fast, his tiny legs a blur. He skidded to a halt beside her, looked into the bathroom, and went absolutely still.
"Merlin's beard," Flitwick breathed.
Professor Snape arrived last. He did not run. He walked. His eyes went to Harry first, locked there, and stayed.
McGonagall found her voice.
"What-" She took two steps into the bathroom, her boots crunching on tile shards, and seemed unable to finish the question. Her wand swept the space: the ruined sinks, the collapsed stall, the club, the troll.
The troll.
Twelve feet of it, grey and warty and very, very dead, its skull caved in. Blood had pooled beneath the head, thick and dark, spreading in a slow creeping stain across the white tile.
McGonagall's gaze traveled up from the troll to Harry, and something in her expression cracked.
"Mr. Potter," she said, and her voice was barely above a whisper. "What have you done?"
"He saved me."
Hermione's voice came out strangled but loud, too loud, and she took a step forward, putting herself between Harry and the professors as though she could shield him with her body. "He saved my life. The troll came in, and I was-I couldn't move, I couldn't-" Her voice broke. "He came. He fought it. He killed it."
Flitwick had gone to the troll. He was walking around it now, his wand moving, muttering diagnostic charms under his breath. Each flick of light that emerged from his wand tip illuminated some new horror: the blood from the tear ducts, the internal hemorrhaging visible through the creature's skin, the catastrophic trauma where the club had struck.
"Miss Granger," McGonagall said, and her tone had gone softer, the way adults spoke to children in shock. "Are you hurt?"
"No. I mean-cuts, just cuts, from the wood when it broke the door, but Harry he stopped it before-"
"How?" Snape's voice cut across hers like a blade. He had not moved from the doorway, had not entered the bathroom at all, but his attention was fixed on Harry. "How, exactly, did an eleven-year-old boy kill a mountain troll?"
"I-" He had to stop. He had to breathe. "Levitation Charm. The club. I dropped it on its head."
"You." Snape took one step into the bathroom. "A first-year student with two months of magical education. Levitated a club that weighs more than you do. And struck a troll with enough force to crack its skull."
It was not a question. It was an accusation.
"Yes, sir."
"Remarkable." The word dripped venom. "And what, precisely, were you doing here when you should have been in the Slytherin common room with the rest of your house?"
Harry's jaw tightened. He made himself meet Snape's eyes, made himself hold that black stare without flinching.
"I wanted to see the troll, sir."
Snape's expression did not change. "Did you."
"Yes, sir. Professor Quirrell said there was one in the castle. I've never seen a troll before. I thought..." Harry paused, as though choosing his words carefully. "I thought it would be educational."
"Educational." Snape's voice was flat. "You thought disobeying direct orders during a school emergency would be educational."
"I was careful, sir. I stayed to the edges of the corridors, avoided the main routes. I was looking for it when I heard screaming from this bathroom." Harry gestured at the ruined doorway. "That's when I found Miss Granger and the troll."
McGonagall had turned to stare at him. Flitwick had paused in his examination of the troll, his wand lowering. Even Hermione was looking at him now, her expression confused.
"You left your house," Snape said slowly, "in direct defiance of prefect instructions, during a school emergency, to go hunting for a mountain troll."
"Not hunting, sir. Observing. I wasn't planning to engage it." Harry's voice stayed level. "But when I heard the screaming and saw what was happening, I couldn't just leave."
"And you did not think," Snape continued, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper he used in Potions when he was about to take points, "to inform a prefect, or a professor, or any adult whatsoever, that you were leaving the group. Or that a student was being attacked."
Harry realized just how tired he was from using so much magic; the world was spinning a little, and Snape's ugly head suddenly turned into two ugly heads. "There...There wasn't time, sir. By the time I found the bathroom, the troll was already attacking. If I'd gone for help, Miss Granger would have been dead before anyone arrived."
"So you took it upon yourself..."
"Severus." McGonagall's voice was sharp. "Enough."
Snape's head turned toward her with glacial slowness.
"This boy," McGonagall said, and her voice was shaking now, "saved Miss Granger's life. Whatever his reasoning, whatever his methods, he faced down a mountain troll and he won." She looked at Harry, and her eyes were bright. "Mr. Potter. That was extraordinarily brave. Extraordinarily foolish, but brave. Twenty points to Slytherin."
That lasted for exactly twenty seconds.
"And twenty points from Slytherin," Snape said, his voice flat, "for reckless endangerment of himself and Miss Granger, for directly disobeying prefect instructions during an emergency, and for leaving his assigned location without authorization."
Harry's vision did the grey thing again. He blinked it away.
McGonagall's face had gone white. "Severus, you cannot be serious-"
"I am always serious about house discipline, Minerva." Snape's eyes never left Harry's. "Mr. Potter seems to believe that rules are suggestions. That his judgment supersedes the authority of prefects and professors. This is precisely the sort of arrogance that leads to students being killed."
Or saved, Harry thought, but did not say. He could feel his control slipping, the exhaustion pulling at him like a riptide, and if he opened his mouth now he would say something he could not take back.
His eyes wanted to roll. They wanted it very badly, wanted to express every ounce of contempt he felt for Snape's transparent pettiness, for the man's inability to separate house loyalty from whatever vendetta he had against him, for the fact that he had just taken points from his own house out of pure spite.
He felt his eyelids start to drift.
Snape's gaze sharpened. "Do not," the professor said, very quietly, "even think about it."
Harry's eyes snapped wide. He fixed them on the middle distance, somewhere past Snape's left shoulder, and said nothing.
"Filius?" McGonagall's voice had taken on a strained quality. "Can you tell what spells were used?"
Flitwick straightened from where he'd been examining the troll's chest cavity. His face was troubled.
"There's evidence of two distinct charms," the tiny professor said. "The club strike is obvious, blunt force trauma, massive. But there's internal damage as well. Hemorrhaging in the chest cavity, around what I believe is the heart. It's consistent with... Minerva, this looks like a Levitation Charm was cast through the creature's hide. Through it. As though someone performed Wingardium Leviosa Interius on living tissue."
McGonagall went very still. "That's fifth-year magic."
"I know."
"Mr. Potter." McGonagall's voice had changed. Now sounding a little concerned. "Did you cast two spells on this troll?"
Harry nodded once. His throat was too dry for words.
"And the first was the Interius variant? The one that works through barriers?"
Another nod.
"Where," McGonagall asked softly, "did you learn that spell?"
"Professor Flitwick." The words came out hoarse. "Two weeks ago. Showed me how it worked, when I asked about complex applications."
Flitwick's eyes had gone very wide. "I showed you the theory," he said. "I demonstrated it on a feather in a box. I never, Mr. Potter, that spell requires intense concentration and precise magical control. Using it as a weapon, on a living creature, under life-threatening stress-" He shook his head, seeming unable to finish the thought.
"It didn't kill it," Harry said. His voice sounded distant to his own ears. "Just hurt it. Slowed it down. The club killed it."
"The club you levitated," Snape said, "while maintaining your own balance and fighting off a creature three times your size."
"Yes, sir."
McGonagall's wand was moving through diagnostic charms, the tip tracing patterns in the air that left faint golden trails. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she read the results.
"Magical exhaustion," she said. "Not severe, but significant. Mr. Potter, you need to see Madam Pomfrey-"
"He needs to return to his common room." Snape's voice was flat. "The boy can walk. He's tired, not incapacitated."
"Severus, he just fought a mountain troll-"
"And won." Snape's eyes remained on Harry, measuring. "He is exhausted, yes. He will sleep. But he does not require the hospital wing for simple magical fatigue. I will escort him to the Slytherin dormitory myself."
McGonagall's expression tightened. "I hardly think-"
"He is my student, Minerva." The words were absolute. "My house. My responsibility. Unless you believe I am incapable of seeing one of my own first-years safely to common room?"
McGonagall's jaw worked. Her eyes moved from Snape to Harry, and Harry could see the desire to insist warring with the reality that Snape was, technically, within his authority as Head of House.
"Very well," she said finally, each word clipped. "But if his condition worsens-"
"Then I will tell him to go to the Hospital Wing." Snape's tone made it clear the discussion was over. He looked at Harry. "Can you walk, Mr. Potter or do you need someone to carry you?"
Harry pushed off from the doorframe, the world spun again, but he would not give Snape the satisfaction. "Yes, sir."
"Then you will do so. Now."
McGonagall made a sound that might have been protest or frustration, but she turned instead to Hermione. "Miss Granger, you'll come with me. We need to have your injuries looked at, and you will explain why you were not in the Great Hall with the rest of your house."
Hermione nodded, her face still pale, still shaking. She took a step toward Harry, then stopped, seeming uncertain.
"Thank you," she said, and her voice broke on the words. "Thank you, Harry. I don't, I can't, thank you."
Harry managed a slight nod. His throat was too tight for words, and besides, what was there to say? She was alive. That was enough.
"Come along, Miss Granger." McGonagall's hand settled gently on Hermione's shoulder, guiding her toward the door. "Let's get you sorted."
Hermione cast one last look back at Harry before McGonagall led her out into the corridor.
Flitwick had returned to examining the troll, muttering diagnostic charms under his breath. He did not look up as Snape gestured curtly toward the doorway.
"Move, Potter. We are leaving."
Harry moved. Each step felt heavier than the last, his body protesting the expenditure of magic it had not been ready to give, but he could walk. That was something.
Snape fell into step beside him. His robes billowed softly with each stride, and the corridor seemed to part before him.
Neither of them spoke.
.
.
The Slytherin common room had never been so loud.
Every chair was filled, every sofa claimed, students clustering three and four deep around the fireplace like they were watching a Quidditch match. The emerald and silver banners hanging from the rafters seemed to flutter with the force of their collective agitation, and the lake-green light filtering through the windows made everyone's faces look sickly.
Harry stepped through the entrance, Snape at his shoulder, and the noise cut off like someone had severed it with a blade.
Gemma Farley was on her feet before the stone door had fully sealed behind them. The sixth-year prefect's face was white.
"Potter." Her voice cracked like a whip across the sudden silence. "Where in Merlin's name have you been?"
Harry blinked at her. His exhaustion had settled into something manageable now, a dull ache behind his eyes rather than the crushing weight it had been in the bathroom, but it still made everything feel slightly unreal.
"Out," he said.
"Out." Farley repeated the word as though it were a curse. "Out. We had a troll in the castle, Potter, prefects were given explicit instructions to count heads, and when I reached the common room I was one student short." She took three sharp steps toward him. "One. Do you have any idea what could have happened if..."
"I went to see the troll," Harry said.
The common room went absolutely still.
Someone near the back let out a nervous laugh that died almost immediately. A second-year boy sitting on the arm of a sofa leaned forward, his eyes wide. Even the portraits on the walls seemed to have stopped their muttering to listen.
Farley's wand hand twitched. "You what?"
"The troll," Harry repeated casually. "Quirrell said there was one in the castle. I went to see it."
"You went to see it." Farley's voice had gone very flat. "You deliberately left the safety of the group, during a school emergency, to go looking for a twelve-foot mountain troll."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Harry shrugged. "Wanted to see one up close."
A third-year girl near the fireplace made a strangled sound. "Are you insane?"
"Was there actually a troll?" someone else asked from the direction of the windows. "Quirrell's afraid of his own shadow. Half of us thought he'd mistaken a suit of armor for a monster."
"There was a troll," Harry confirmed. "In the first-floor girls' bathroom. Twelve feet, grey skin, club made from a tree trunk. Very dead now."
The room erupted.
Questions came from six directions at once, students talking over each other, some standing, others craning for a better view. Harry caught fragments: "actually saw it" and "completely mental" and "what did it look like" and "could have been killed."
"That was stupid," a fourth-year boy said loudly, cutting through the noise. Cassius Warrington, Harry thought his name was. Broad-shouldered, permanently scowling. "What's the point of risking your life to see a troll? You could have just read about it in a book."
"Books don't have the same impact," Harry replied.
"Books also don't cave your skull in," Warrington shot back.
Several students laughed.
"Did you at least curse it before the professors arrived?" This from Lucian Bole, one of the Beaters, his massive frame folded into an armchair that looked child-sized beneath him. "Get in a good Stinging Hex? Something?"
Harry opened his mouth to answer.
There was a sudden cough from behind Harry.
Every head turned.
Professor Snape stepped closer.
He stepped inside. The door sealed behind him with a definitive click.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Snape's eyes swept the room once, taking in the crowd, the expectant faces, the way they had all oriented themselves around Harry like he was the sun and they were planets caught in his orbit.
"Our young hero has returned," Snape said, dripping with sarcasm. "How fortunate. How very fortunate that Mr. Potter has deigned to grace us with his presence after his evening's activities."
Harry's jaw tightened. He knew this tone. He had heard it in Potions when Snape was working up to something particularly vicious.
"Perhaps," Snape continued, beginning to pace, "Mr. Potter would care to share with his housemates exactly what he was doing while the rest of Slytherin followed proper protocols. While his prefects were counting heads and ensuring student safety. While responsible wizards were securing the castle."
He stopped. Turned. Fixed Harry with a stare, but Harry was not afraid of him.
"Mr. Potter was engaged in an act of stunning heroism." The word 'heroism' dripped sarcasm. "He was, in fact, saving a life. Risking his own neck, and by extension, the reputation of this house, to rescue a fellow student from certain death."
Several students exchanged glances. This didn't sound like the condemnation they'd been expecting.
"How noble," Snape said. "How very Gryffindor. I'm certain his housemates will be thrilled to learn that their newest Seeker, the boy who only yesterday convinced me to bend long-standing rules in his favor, spent this evening saving..." He paused. Let the silence stretch. "A Muggle Born."
Sylvia looked up at Snape, and she seemed to want to strike him, she could feel her master's anger.
The common room's reaction was immediate.
"A Mudblood?" someone repeated, disbelief clear in their voice.
"Which one?" asked a girl near the windows.
"Granger," Snape supplied. "Hermione Granger. Of Gryffindor. The Muggleborn who cannot stop raising her hand in every class, who presumes to correct her betters, who..."
"Why?" Draco's voice cut through, pitched high with genuine confusion. He had risen from his seat by the fire, his grey eyes wide. "Harry, why would you..."
"Mr. Malfoy raises an excellent question," Snape said smoothly. "Why indeed would a Slytherin first-year risk himself for such a person? Perhaps Mr. Potter has developed Gryffindor sympathies."
More muttering. Harry could feel the mood shifting, the earlier curiosity curdling into something uglier. Several students were looking at him now with suspicion, with disappointment, with the particular judgment that came from watching someone betray tribal lines.
Marcus Flint stood. The Quidditch captain's face was neutral.
"Potter." Not Harry. Potter. "I'd like to hear your answer to that. You're on my team now. You represent Slytherin House on the pitch. If you're going to be running into danger for Gryffindors, I need to know why."
Harry reached into the inner pocket of his robes.
His fingers found the folded strip of troll hide, still warm, still slightly tacky with fluids he tried not to think about. He pulled it out, unfolded it with deliberate care, and dropped it onto the low table near him.
It landed with a wet slap that echoed in the silence.
The hide was perhaps four inches wide, eight inches long, grey and warty and unmistakably real. Dark blood stained one edge. The skin was thick, tough, clearly valuable to anyone who knew what they were looking at.
Snape went very still.
"What," he said slowly, "is that?"
Harry looked at him. Met those black eyes with all the innocent confusion he could manufacture.
"You're a Potions Professor, sir," he said. "Surely you recognize troll hide when you see it?"
Someone near the windows choked on a laugh.
Snape's expression could have made Vernon look friendly. "I am aware of what it is, Mr. Potter. I am asking why you have it."
"Because I took it from the troll I killed."
The room erupted again, but Harry kept talking, his voice cutting through the noise.
"Troll hide is valuable. Any competent potioneer knows that. It's used in half a dozen advanced brews. Strengthening Solutions, Doxycide, certain healing draughts. But its real value..." He picked up the hide again, held it up to the light so everyone could see it. "Its real value is as a base for wand holsters. Troll hide holsters sell for thirty Sickles minimum. More if properly treated. The skin is nearly impervious to hexes, self-repairs minor damage, and ages well enough."
He set it back down on the table.
"That's why I was there tonight. For this."
Draco had come closer now, staring at the hide with something like awe. "But the troll attacked the mudblood. I thought the professors handled it."
"Granger was already there when the troll arrived," Harry said. "Crying in a bathroom for reasons I neither know nor care about. The troll went in. She screamed. Which was fortunate, actually."
"Fortunate?" Tracey Davis had stood as well, her face pale. "Harry, she could have been killed."
"She provided an excellent distraction." Harry said without emotion. "The troll was focused entirely on her. She was running, screaming, drawing its attention. Which gave me the opportunity to position myself behind it, levitate its club, and drop it on the creature's skull with enough force to crack it open."
The silence that followed was different now. Not shocked. Not disgusted.
Calculating.
"You used her as bait," Theodore Nott said softly. He was sitting very still in his chair, his grey eyes bright. "You let the troll chase her while you prepared your attack."
"I used the tactical situation to my advantage," Harry corrected. "The troll was twelve feet tall and wielding a weapon. Direct confrontation would have been suicide. But with its attention elsewhere, with its back to me..." He shrugged. "Basic strategy."
"That's brilliant," Blaise murmured.
"That's Slytherin," someone else added approvingly.
Adrian Pucey was grinning now, his earlier concern vanishing. "And you actually killed it? A first-year? How did you even... the professors must have helped."
"The professors arrived after it was dead." Harry let that sink in. "I levitated the club. Dropped it. The troll went down. Then Professor Snape found me and escorted me back here."
He looked directly at Snape as he said it, and saw the professor's jaw tighten.
"So the mudblood," Lucinda Talbot said slowly, "was just there. You didn't go there to save her specifically."
"I didn't know she was there until I arrived," Harry said. Which was technically true, if you didn't count Sylvia's warning. "But once I saw the situation, a troll, and a target to keep it busy, I acted accordingly."
"A target," Draco repeated, and he was smiling now, the earlier confusion gone. "You're saying you saved her life as a side effect."
"I'm saying her presence served a purpose." Harry picked up the troll hide again. "And now I have this."
"That's cold," someone said. It sounded admiring.
Marcus Flint had his arms crossed, but his expression had shifted from judgment to something else. "Fair enough. Opportunity arose, you took it. Can't fault that."
Several other students nodded. The ugly suspicion had drained away, replaced by a different kind of interest.
"However," Snape said, and his voice cut through the mood like a scalpel, "that does not address the fundamental issue of Mr. Potter directly disobeying prefect orders and leaving his assigned group during an emergency."
"The troll is mine," Harry said.
Snape stopped. "Excuse me?"
"The troll." Harry set the hide back on the table with deliberate care. "By right of conquest. It belongs to me. The hide, the bones, the organs. All of it. Under traditional magical law, the spoils of a kill belong to the one who made the kill."
The room had gone absolutely silent again.
"I'm sorry," Snape said, and his voice was very soft, very dangerous. "What did you just say?"
"Right of Conquest." Harry looked around the room, found Daphne sitting near the windows, her ice-blue eyes fixed on him. "It's pureblood law, isn't it? When a wizard or witch kills a magical creature in single combat, they have legal claim to its remains. It's in The Pillars of Wizarding Community: Pure Houses. Chapter seven, section three."
Daphne stood slowly. Every eye in the room turned to her.
"He's correct," she said. "The Right of Conquest is ancient law, predating the Ministry. If Potter killed the troll in single combat..."
"With no assistance," Harry added.
"With no assistance," Daphne confirmed, "then yes. The troll is legally his."
Several pureblood students were nodding now, recognition dawning. Others looked uncertain, clearly having never heard of this law before.
Theodore's lips had curved into a small, knowing smile.
Draco's mouth had fallen open. "I... that's... why didn't I think of that?"
"Because you didn't kill a troll," Blaise said dryly.
"The law is archaic," Snape said, and his voice had gone very flat. "Rarely invoked. Not applicable to school situations."
"The law," Harry interrupted, and he kept his voice respectful but firm, "doesn't specify location restrictions. If it applies to adult wizards hunting in the wild, it applies to any magical combat. The troll is mine by right. All of it."
He met Snape's eyes and did not blink.
"And since it's mine," Harry continued, "I'd like to speak with the Headmaster about it. I want to ensure that my property is properly stored and that no pieces go missing during the night. Troll parts are valuable. Someone might be tempted to help themselves."
Snape's face was absolutely still, but Harry could see the fury in his eyes, in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the way his hands had clenched at his sides.
"You," Snape said very quietly, "are making demands. Of the Headmaster. About a troll corpse."
"I'm asserting my legal rights," Harry corrected. "If a single piece of my troll is missing, a tooth, a bone, a scrap of hide beyond what I've already taken, I have grounds to demand its return. Or compensation for its value." He paused. "I believe the law is quite clear on that point as well."
For five long seconds, Snape simply stared at him.
Then the professor turned on his heel.
"You will wait until morning," he said without looking back. "You will not disturb the Headmaster tonight. You will go to bed, Mr. Potter, and tomorrow we will discuss your rights."
He was at the door now, his hand on the stone.
"And Potter?" Snape paused, glanced back over his shoulder. "If you are quite finished turning my common room into a circus, I suggest you remember that you are still a first-year student in this school. With much to learn. About magic. And consequences."
The door sealed behind him with a definitive crack.
For three heartbeats, no one moved.
Then Adrian Pucey let out a low whistle.
"That," he said, "was the most Slytherin thing I have ever seen."
"He actually claimed the troll," Lucinda breathed. "A first-year claimed a troll kill."
"By Right of Conquest," Theodore added softly. "Which means Dumbledore has to recognize it. The law supersedes school rules."
Draco had recovered enough to grab Harry's shoulder, his face split by an enormous grin. "My father is going to die when I write him about this. A first-year invoking ancient pureblood law against the Headmaster."
"Did you see Snape's face?" someone else added gleefully. "He looked like he'd swallowed a lemon."
Harry let the noise wash over him. He was tired. So very tired. But beneath the exhaustion, something else hummed.
He had the hide. He had the law. He had witnesses to both.
And tomorrow morning, he would walk into Dumbledore's office and claim his kill.
He caught Daphne's eye across the room. She was still standing, still watching him with that cool, calculating expression.
Theodore was watching too, his grey eyes bright with something that might have been respect or might have been wariness.
The common room continued its celebration around him. Students rehashing the confrontation, debating the law, some already planning how they'd use this story when they wrote home. But Harry was already thinking ahead.
Tomorrow. Dumbledore's office. The troll.
And whatever came after that.
He picked up the strip of troll hide from the table, folded it carefully, and returned it to his pocket.
"I'm going to bed," he announced to no one in particular.
"Harry, wait..." Draco began.
"Tomorrow," Harry said. "We'll talk tomorrow."
He walked toward the first-year dormitory, and the crowd parted to let him through.
Behind him, the celebration continued.
Harry fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. I was more exhausted than I thought!
Dumbledore's Office - Morning
Dawn came to Hogwarts in shades of gold and rose, the light spilling through the tall arched windows of the Headmaster's office and setting the silver instruments on their spindle-legged tables ablaze with reflected fire. Fawkes sat on his perch near the window, preening his scarlet tail feathers, occasionally releasing a soft trill that seemed to harmonize with the whirring and clicking of the devices around him.
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, and watched his staff arrange themselves in the chairs he had conjured.
They looked tired. All of them. Minerva McGonagall had the tight-lipped expression she wore when she had not slept well. Pomona Sprout kept glancing toward the door as though hoping someone would arrive to tell them this had all been a terrible mistake. Even Severus Snape, who prided himself on appearing unflappable, had a line between his brows that suggested he had spent the night thinking rather than resting. Silvanus Kettleburn sat slightly apart from the others, his prosthetic arm resting on the chair's wooden arm, his scarred face set in a deep frown.
Quirinus Quirrell's chair sat empty. Too distraught to attend, according to the note he had sent. Dumbledore had not pressed the matter.
"Let us begin," Dumbledore said gently. "I believe we all know why we are here."
"A troll," McGonagall said, and she sounded deeply frustrated, "entered this castle last night. A mountain troll. Twelve feet tall. In a school full of children. Almost killed one of mines."
"Yes," Dumbledore said.
"How?" McGonagall leaned forward. "Albus, how did it get in? The wards should have detected it. The protections on this castle have stood for a thousand years. A troll does not simply wander through the front door."
"I do not know, Minerva."
"You don't know." Her voice had gone very flat. "The Headmaster of Hogwarts does not know how a twelve-foot monster breached our defenses."
"I do not," Dumbledore confirmed. "I have spent the night examining the wards. They show no sign of tampering. No indication of forced entry. It is as though the troll simply appeared inside the castle's boundaries."
Flitwick made a small distressed sound. "That's not possible. The wards do not allow any apparation inside Hogwarts grounds. Even if someone used a Portkey activation, we would have known."
"And yet," Dumbledore said, spreading his hands, "here we are."
"Could someone have walked it through the main gates?" Sprout asked. "Physically led it in?"
"The gates were sealed after the students returned from Hogsmeade last weekend," McGonagall said. "No one has entered or left since then except by Floo, and the Floo network would have rejected anything as large as a troll."
"Then we are looking at a deliberate breach," Snape said softly. "Someone with knowledge of the wards. Someone with access to the castle."
The silence that followed was profound.
Dumbledore let it sit for a moment. Then he said, very gently, "We must consider all possibilities. But we will not jump to conclusions without evidence. For now, we increase patrols. We check the wards daily. We watch for any further irregularities."
"And the students?" Flitwick asked. "Do we tell them what happened?"
"They already know a troll was in the castle," McGonagall pointed out. "They all heard last night during dinner, and those who weren't present must have heard from their friends by now."
"Then we tell them the truth," Dumbledore said. "A troll entered the castle through means we are investigating. It was neutralized. The danger has passed. We do not, however, need to share the details of how it was neutralized, or by whom."
Snape stirred. "About that."
Every eye turned to him.
"There is," Snape said, his tone carefully neutral, "a related matter. Mr. Potter has made a request. Or rather, a demand."
McGonagall frowned. "What sort of demand?"
"He wishes to claim the troll." Snape paused, let the words land. "By Right of Conquest."
For three full seconds, no one spoke.
Then Sprout said, in a voice of genuine bewilderment, "I'm sorry, what?"
"Right of Conquest," Snape repeated. "An ancient pureblood law that grants ownership of a magically killed creature to the wizard who killed it. Mr. Potter invoked it last night in the Slytherin common room. In front of witnesses. He is asserting legal ownership of the troll's corpse."
McGonagall's hand went to her chest. "He's eleven years old, Severus."
"I am aware."
"An eleven-year-old child wants to claim a corpse." McGonagall's voice had risen slightly. "A twelve-foot corpse. Albus, surely we cannot allow this. The boy has been through a traumatic experience. He killed a creature in self-defense. He should not be thinking about... about ownership and bodies and..." She trailed off, clearly disturbed. "Children should not be dealing with such things."
"How does he even know about Right of Conquest?" Flitwick asked. His tone was curious rather than concerned, and there was a gleam in his eye. "That law hasn't been invoked in decades. It's not taught in any curriculum."
"Mr. Potter purchased several books on pureblood customs and traditions when he visited Diagon Alley in August," Dumbledore said. "Hagrid mentioned it in his report. The boy was quite thorough in his selections."
"The Pillars of Wizarding Community," Snape supplied. "Chapter seven, section three. He cited it specifically."
Flitwick's eyes lit up. "Fascinating. And he remembered it well enough to invoke it under pressure? After using fifth-year magic?" He shook his head, clearly impressed. "The boy's magical control was extraordinary, by the way. To cast Wingardium Leviosa Interius on living tissue, through a barrier, while under attack... I've seen adult wizards fail at less."
"Filius," McGonagall said, her voice tight, "we are not discussing his academic achievements. We are discussing the fact that an eleven-year-old boy wants to take possession of a corpse."
"Well, technically, he already has possession," Flitwick pointed out. "He took a piece of the hide last night, I noticed that while I was examining it. The question is whether we recognize his claim to the rest."
"We should give it to me," Sprout said firmly. "The troll corpse would be excellent fertilizer for the more aggressive magical plants. Devil's Snare, Venomous Tentacula, even the Whomping Willow could benefit from the nutrients. It seems wasteful to let the boy sell it for Galleons when it could serve an educational purpose."
"Sell it?" Kettleburn sounded disgusted. The Care of Magical Creatures professor leaned forward in his chair, his scarred face flushed with anger. "You want to give a dead troll to a child so he can profit from it? Or use it as plant food?" He turned to Dumbledore. "That creature should be buried in the Forbidden Forest. With dignity. It was a living being, not a resource to be harvested."
"It was also trying to kill a student," Snape observed dryly.
"Because someone brought it into the castle," Kettleburn shot back. "Trolls don't attack without reason. Something drove it here, something frightened or enraged it. The creature was a victim in this just as much as Miss Granger."
"I hardly think..." McGonagall began.
"It doesn't matter what you think, Minerva," Kettleburn said, his voice rough. "I've spent thirty years studying magical creatures. Trolls are dangerous, yes, but they're not evil. They're intelligent in their own way. They feel pain. They have social structures. And now one of them is dead, and we're sitting here discussing how to divvy up its body like it's a Christmas ham."
Sprout's expression had gone uncomfortable. "Silvanus, I didn't mean..."
"I know what you meant, Pomona. You meant well. But that doesn't make it right." Kettleburn turned to Dumbledore. "The troll should be buried. Full stop. I don't care what some ancient pureblood law says. The boy is eleven. He shouldn't be thinking about corpses and profit. And we shouldn't be encouraging it."
"The law is quite clear," Snape said. "If Potter killed the troll in single combat, with no assistance from adult wizards, then by the letter of the law, the troll is his."
"Then the law is barbaric," Kettleburn snapped.
"Perhaps," Dumbledore said gently, "but it is still the law."
McGonagall's lips had pressed into a thin line. "Albus, I understand the legal argument. But we're talking about a child. An eleven-year-old child who has just experienced something deeply traumatic. He killed a living creature. That alone is... is..." She seemed to struggle for words. "He shouldn't be handling corpses. He shouldn't be making decisions about what to do with a body. Those are adult responsibilities. Dark responsibilities. We should be protecting him from this, not... not granting his claim."
"I agree with Minerva," Sprout said quietly. "The boy has been through enough. Let us handle the troll. Whether it's buried or used for educational purposes, it should be the adults who make that decision."
"Educational purposes," Kettleburn muttered. "As though feeding it to plants is somehow better than selling it."
"It is better," Sprout insisted. "At least it's not about money."
"It's still treating a creature like a commodity, Pomona."
Flitwick cleared his throat. "If I may, I believe we're avoiding the central question. The law is clear. Potter's claim is valid. The question is not whether we like it. The question is whether we have grounds to refuse it."
"The grounds are that he's a child," McGonagall said firmly.
"The law doesn't specify an age requirement," Snape observed.
"Because the law was written for adults," McGonagall shot back.
"Actually," Snape said, "the law predates most age-of-majority legislation. It comes from a time when wizards as young as thirteen were considered adults in matters of combat and conquest. By the standards of the era in which it was written, an eleven-year-old who kills a creature in single combat would absolutely have claim to it."
McGonagall looked as though she wanted to argue, but couldn't find the words.
Dumbledore had been silent through much of this exchange, his expression thoughtful. Now he spoke.
"I find myself in an uncomfortable position," he said. "Personally, I share Minerva's concerns. I share Silvanus's concerns as well. A child should not be making legal claims on corpses. A creature should not be reduced to its monetary value." His blue eyes moved from face to face. "But the law is clear. And Mr. Potter's knowledge of that law does not invalidate his claim."
"So you're granting it," McGonagall said, and her voice held disappointment.
"I see no legal grounds to refuse it," Dumbledore replied. "If we deny him, we open ourselves to accusations of arbitrary authority. We tell our students that the law only matters when it's convenient for us. That is a precedent I am unwilling to set."
He paused, then continued more softly.
"And if we deny his claim on the grounds that he is too young, we are telling him that we do not trust his judgment. That we believe him incapable of making decisions about something he accomplished through his own courage and skill. That, too, would send a message. One I am not certain we should send."
"So the troll is his," Snape said. It was not a question.
"The troll is his," Dumbledore confirmed. "By Right of Conquest. What he chooses to do with it is his decision."
Kettleburn made a sound of disgust. "I want it noted that I object to this. Strenuously."
"Your objection is noted, Silvanus," Dumbledore said gently.
Sprout looked troubled but said nothing more.
McGonagall's expression had gone tight. "And if the boy decides to sell it? To profit from killing?"
"Then that is his choice to make," Dumbledore said. "And perhaps, Minerva, we should trust that he will make it thoughtfully. He is Slytherin, yes, and ambitious, but he is also the boy who risked his life to save a fellow student. Those two things can coexist."
McGonagall did not look convinced, but she nodded.
"Then I believe we are finished here," Dumbledore said. "Minerva, please inform Mr. Potter that his claim has been recognized. The troll will be moved to a secure storage location until he decides what to do with it. I will leave the notification to your discretion."
"Of course," McGonagall said, though her voice suggested she was not happy about it.
"Excellent. Then you are all dismissed. Except you, Severus. I would like a word."
The other professors rose and filed out. Kettleburn was muttering under his breath about barbaric customs. Sprout cast a worried glance back at Dumbledore. McGonagall's face was still pinched with concern.
When the door had closed behind them, Dumbledore gestured to the chair nearest his desk.
"Sit, Severus."
Snape sat. His posture was rigid, his expression guarded.
"You are concerned," Dumbledore said. It was not a question.
"The boy is dangerous," Snape said flatly.
Dumbledore tilted his head. "Dangerous how?"
"James Potter was a loudmouth," Snape said. "An arrogant fool with a gang of idiot friends who followed him because he was loud and charming and they had no thoughts of their own. He was easy to predict. Easy to counter. This boy..." Snape's jaw tightened. "This boy is none of those things."
"That much was clear from the moment the Sorting Hat shouted Slytherin."
"He looks nothing like his father," Snape continued, and there was something strange in his voice. "The red hair. The green eyes. If I didn't know better, I would think Lily had a child without Potter's involvement at all." He paused.
"Does that trouble you?" Dumbledore asked gently.
"What troubles me," Snape said, ignoring the question, "is that he is calculating. Strategic. He reads people. He manipulates situations to his advantage." Snape leaned forward. "Last night he reframed saving a Muggleborn's life as opportunistic pragmatism. He convinced his entire house that he used her as bait. And then he invoked ancient law to claim ownership of his kill, in front of witnesses, knowing I could not refuse him without losing face."
"Yes," Dumbledore said. "I gathered as much."
"He has outmaneuvered me twice in twenty-four hours, Albus. Twice. An eleven-year-old boy has made me look foolish in front of my own house." Snape's voice was very quiet. "That is dangerous."
Dumbledore was silent for a long moment. His fingers drummed softly on the desk, and his blue eyes were distant behind his half-moon spectacles.
"Do you remember, Severus, when you first came to me? After everything?"
Snape's expression shuttered. "Yes."
"You were ambitious. Clever. Skilled beyond your years. You had made terrible choices, yes, but you had made them with intelligence and forethought. You were, in many ways, a dangerous young man." Dumbledore's eyes were kind. "And I chose to trust you anyway."
"That was different."
"Was it?" Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "I think perhaps the boy is much like you were, Severus. Brilliant and strategic and shaped by hardship into something harder than he should be at his age. But I do not believe he is dangerous in the way you fear."
"You didn't see him last night," Snape said. "You didn't see the way he turned the common room. The way he used the law like a weapon."
"No," Dumbledore agreed. "But I see a boy who saved a life when he could have walked away. Who used advanced magic not for glory, but because it was necessary. Who is clever enough to know the law and bold enough to invoke it." He paused. "Those are not the actions of a Dark wizard, Severus. Those are the actions of a Slytherin."
"Slytherin produced Voldemort," Snape pointed out.
"And it produced you," Dumbledore replied gently. "It produced Andromeda Tonks. It produced Horace Slughorn, for all his faults. Ambition is not evil, Severus. It is neutral. What matters is how it is directed."
Snape's jaw worked. "You're too trusting."
"Perhaps," Dumbledore said. "But I would rather trust and be proven wrong than distrust and drive a boy toward darkness because I assumed he would go there anyway." His voice grew firmer. "Harry Potter is not Tom Riddle. He is not his father either. He is himself. And I will not condemn him for being clever."
"Then what do you want from me?" Snape asked.
"I want you to watch him," Dumbledore said. "As his Head of House. As a teacher. Watch him, yes, but do not assume the worst. Give him the guidance he needs. And if you see genuine darkness, if you see him moving toward true cruelty, then we will address it. But until then, Severus, try to remember that he is eleven years old. He is learning. And he needs teachers, not jailers."
Snape stood slowly. "And Quirrell?"
"Quirrell remains your primary concern," Dumbledore said, and his voice had gone serious. "The third floor corridor. The Stone. That has not changed. But we can watch multiple things at once, can we not?"
"Very well," Snape said. "I will watch the boy. I will watch Quirrell. I will do my duty."
"Thank you, Severus."
Snape moved toward the door. His hand was on the handle when Dumbledore spoke again.
"One more thing."
Snape paused.
"Harry Potter is not James Potter," Dumbledore said quietly. "Whatever you see when you look at him, try to remember that. The boy has his mother's eyes. Perhaps he has more of her than just that."
Snape's shoulders stiffened. He did not turn around.
"I will do my duty, Headmaster," he said. "As I always have."
Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
Dumbledore sat alone in his office, the morning light streaming through the windows, Fawkes singing softly on his perch.
He looked at the silver instruments on his desk, at the portraits pretending to sleep on the walls, at the Sorting Hat sitting silent on its shelf.
"Clever boy," he murmured to the empty room. "Too clever, perhaps. But clever is not cruel. Ambitious is not evil."
He thought of an eleven-year-old boy with red hair and green eyes, standing in the rubble of a bathroom, claiming a troll by ancient law.
He thought of Lily Evans at eleven, brilliant and fierce and kind beneath it all.
He thought of Tom Riddle at eleven, charming and ruthless and already broken beyond repair.
"Let us hope," Dumbledore said softly, "that you are more like your mother. And less like another clever boy I once failed to save."
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