Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series.

Note: Written for The Great Maze Challenge/Comp: Ask him about his turban, Disney Challenge/Comp: Esmeralda

What's Under-?

Harry blinked, turning his head left and right, letting out a barrage of giggles when he stumbled, balance all askew. Why were there little fuzz balls floating around the room? He stuck out his tongue as he swung his arm out, trying to catch one. His eyebrows furrowed when they evaded him slyly, bottom lip sticking out in a pout. A surprised yelp escaped when he leant too far forward in his next attempt, landing on the ground. He rolled on his back, staring dazedly at the ceiling.

"Are you all right, Harry?" A voice asked beside his prone body. Curly brown hair was all he could see. It was like fur. A furry mane. Lions.

He growled playfully, giggling again.

"I don't think he's fine, Professor."

"He seems a bit screwed in the head."

Harry amused himself by staring at his hands, opening and closing them in front of his face, gaping in wonder.

"Probably a Confundus charm."

"Up you go, mate."

He felt hands lifting him off the ground. Red. Harry stood on his tiptoes, petting the pretty red hair. It was such a nice, bright color…

"Did he just call Weasley's hair pretty?" a snide voice said in the background, derisive laughter following the remark.

Harry's eyes widened even more, the red person was even redder now. Like a tomato. He wrinkled his nose. He didn't like tomatoes. They tasted horrible.

"Ms. Granger, would you accompany Mr. Potter to the Hospital Wing?"

"Yes, Professor." A hand gently tugged at his arm, leading him away.

Harry whimpered when a sharp pain erupted in his forehead.

"Harry?" Hermione asked, confused.

He ignored her, pointing at Quirrell accusingly. The professor, in turn, pointed at himself nervously, as if he was questioning whether Harry meant him or not.

"Whenever I go near you, my head feels like it's about to explode," Harry slurred out, pronunciation skewered. His tongue was lead, and his mouth felt like cotton balls were stuffed inside.

Quirrell stood sweating under the bright light, every student in the room curiously listening in on the exchange.

"I don't know—," Quirrell started.

"Don't lie to me!" Harry staggered closer, eliciting a shocked gasp from Hermione who still stood by the door, furiously calling him back. He was close to the professor, too close in fact, backed up by his sudden confidence from his tampered cognitive abilities.

He poked the robe-clad chest, repeating the process several times, not caring about the flinch with each jab.

"I am sick and tired of being lied to!"

Harry waved off Hermione who tried to pry him away. "No, 'Mione!"

"Hey," he stopped his prodding, looking up at the purple turban with glassy eyes, "I've always wondered what was under that. You never take it off."

Harry reached up, entirely focused on unwrapping the fabric when Quirrell shoved him in alarm. The man coughed, fixing his robes in agitation.

"Ms. Granger," he ordered, body tense.

The girl in question nodded, hurriedly pulling Harry out the door.

"But, 'Mione!" The class heard as the two made their way down the hall. "I want to know what he's hiding! It could be another head for all we know! Oh, hey, you, Hufflepuff! Yeah, the one with the brown hair. You want to know what's under there, too, right?"

"Umm…"

"Sorry," they heard Hermione apologize, "he's not entirely sane at the moment."

"He's evil, EVIL, I say!"