9. Nicolas Flamel
The rest of the holiday passed with both Harry and Hope keeping their distance from the mirror. While that may not have been hard physically, it was rather difficult for Melanie. She wanted to forget about it—out of sight, out of mind—but no matter how hard she tried, the picture of her mother and father stayed in her dreams. Their kind smiles almost felt like taunts of what would never be.
"You see, Dumbledore was right. That mirror could drive you mad," Ron said when Harry and Hope told him about their dreams.
Hermione, who came back the day before term started, took a different view of things. She was torn between horror at the idea of them being out of bed, roaming the school three nights in a row, and disappointment that Harry hadn’t at least found out who Nicolas Flamel was.
They had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a library book, even though Harry was still sure he’d read the name somewhere. Once term started, they were back to skimming through books for ten minutes during their breaks. Harry had even less time than the other three because Quidditch practice had started again. Hope had been spending extra time studying, trying to perfect the Revealing Charm.
Hope, Ron, and Hermione sat in the common room, the latter two playing chess. To Ron’s amusement, it seemed to be the only thing Hermione ever lost at, something Harry and Ron thought was very good for her.
Hermione huffed as one of Ron’s knights smashed her bishop. She turned, furrowing her brow when she saw the book Hope was reading.
"That’s a second-year book?" she questioned.
"Uh, I’m trying to get ahead," Hope said hurriedly. She turned and saw Harry sit next to them, gladly changing the subject. "Hi, Harry."
"Don’t talk to me for a moment," Ron said, not sparing him a glance. "I need to concen—" He caught sight of Harry’s face. "What’s the matter with you? You look terrible."
Leaning forward and speaking quietly so that no one else would hear, Harry told the other two about Snape’s sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee.
"Don’t play," Hermione said at once.
"Say you’re ill," Ron suggested.
"Pretend to break your leg," Hope chimed in.
"Really break your leg," Ron added.
"I can’t," Harry sighed. "There isn’t a reserve Seeker. If I back out, Gryffindor can’t play at all."
At that moment, Neville toppled into the common room. How he had managed to climb through the portrait hole was anyone’s guess, as his legs had been stuck together with what they recognized at once as the Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to bunny-hop all the way up to Gryffindor Tower.
Everyone fell about laughing, except Hermione, who leapt up and performed the counter-curse. Neville’s legs sprang apart, and Hope quickly helped him to his feet, trembling.
"What happened?" Hermione asked as Hope led him over to sit with Harry and Ron.
"Malfoy," Neville answered shakily. "I met him outside the library. He said he’d been looking for someone to practice that on."
"Go to Professor McGonagall!" Hermione urged. "Report him!"
Neville shook his head. "I don’t want more trouble," he mumbled.
"You’ve got to stand up to him, Neville!" Ron added. "He’s used to walking all over people, but that’s no reason to lie down in front of him and make it easier."
"There’s no need to tell me I’m not brave enough to be in Gryffindor. Malfoy’s already done that," Neville choked.
"Oh, Neville, don’t listen to a thing Malfoy said," Hope said sympathetically, patting his arm.
Harry felt in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a Chocolate Frog, the very last one from the box Hermione had given him for Christmas. He handed it to Neville, who looked as though he might cry.
"You’re worth twelve of Malfoy," Harry nodded. "The Sorting Hat chose you for Gryffindor, didn’t it? And where’s Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin."
Neville’s lips twitched in a weak smile as he unwrapped the Frog.
"Thanks, Harry... I think I’ll go to bed. D’you want the card? You collect them, don’t you?" he asked weakly, handing Harry the card before heading up to the boys’ dormitory.
Harry looked at the Famous Wizard card. "Dumbledore again," he mumbled. "He was the first one I ever—" He gasped, staring at the back of the card. Then he looked up at Ron, Hermione, and Hope. "I’ve found him!" he whispered. "I’ve found Flamel! I told you I’d read the name somewhere before—I read it on the train coming here! Listen to this: ‘Professor Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel!’"
Hermione jumped to her feet. She hadn’t looked so excited since they’d gotten back the marks for their very first piece of homework.
"Stay there!" she said, sprinting up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories. Harry, Ron, and Hope barely had time to exchange mystified looks before she was dashing back, an enormous old book in her arms.
"I never thought to look in here!" she whispered excitedly. "I got this out of the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading."
"Light?" Ron questioned, looking at the thick book with raised brows.
But Hermione told him to be quiet until she’d looked something up and started flicking frantically through the pages, muttering to herself. At last, she found what she was looking for.
"I knew it! I knew it!"
"Are we allowed to speak yet?" Ron grumbled grumpily.
Hermione ignored him. "Nicolas Flamel," she whispered dramatically, "is the only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone!"
This didn’t have quite the effect she’d expected.
"The what?" Harry and Ron said in unison.
"Oh, honestly, don’t you two read? Look—read that, there." She pushed the book towards them, and Harry, Hope, and Ron read:
The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Philosopher’s Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal.
There have been many reports of the Philosopher’s Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera-lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight).
"See?" Hermione said when they finished. "The dog must be guarding Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone! I bet he asked Dumbledore to keep it safe for him because they’re friends, and he knew someone was after it. That’s why he wanted the Stone moved out of Gringotts!"
"A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever dying!" Harry stated. "No wonder Snape’s after it! Anyone would want it."
"And no wonder we couldn’t find Flamel in Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry," Ron added. "He’s not exactly recent if he’s six hundred and sixty-five, is he?"
The next morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts, while copying down different ways to treat werewolf bites, Harry and Ron were still deep in discussion about what they’d do if they had a Philosopher’s Stone.
“I’d buy my own Quidditch team,” Ron declared, grinning.
That was when Harry suddenly remembered—Snape and the upcoming match.
“I’m going to play,” he told Hope, Ron, and Hermione. “If I don’t, all the Slytherins will think I’m too scared to face Snape. I’ll show them... it’ll really wipe the smiles off their faces if we win.”
“Just as long as we’re not wiping you off the pitch,” Hermione replied worriedly.
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The day of the match, Hope sat alone in the empty girls' dormitory. The usual chatter and movement were gone—everyone had already rushed off to the Quidditch pitch, their excitement echoing through the halls. She had planned to head down with them, to wish the team luck before they went on, but she felt like she was so close to finally getting the revealing charm down.
Now, she sat cross-legged on her bed, parchment spread out in front of her, surrounded by scattered scraps filled with half-revealed letters and faded ink. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she took a steadying breath and tapped her wand against the parchment.
“Aparecium,” she whispered.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the faded ink darkened, curling into the familiar script of Hogwarts: A History.
"A well-prepared mind is a wizard’s greatest defense."
Hope’s lips curled into a bright smile. She lifted the parchment closer, her eyes scanning the words excitedly.
“Yes!” she cheered under her breath, triumphant.
But as the thrill of success settled, reality crashed down on her—Quidditch.
“Oh no—”
She shoved the parchment into her bag and scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over the mess of papers on her bed. She bolted out of the dormitory, racing through the winding corridors, her breath coming in quick bursts.
By the time she reached the entrance, the teams were already stepping onto the pitch. Her stomach sank. She’d missed her chance to wish Harry luck.
Still, she pressed forward, weaving her way into the packed Gryffindor stands. “Sorry—excuse me—sorry,” she muttered, squeezing past students until she finally reached Ron and Hermione.
Hermione turned the second Hope appeared. “Where have you been?” she demanded, her voice tight with frustration. “You were supposed to wish Harry luck with us!”
Hope winced. “I know, I’m sorry—I got caught up studying.”
Ron gave her a skeptical look. “Careful, Hope. You’re starting to sound like Hermione.”
Hermione shot Ron an unimpressed glare before giving him a sharp shove. “Oh, please.”
Hope barely had time to catch her breath before Hermione’s expression turned serious again. “You brought your wand, right?”
Hope nodded, subtly lifting her sleeve to show the handle of her wand hidden beneath the fabric.
“Good,” Hermione murmured. She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “Just in case, remember—it’s Locomotor Mortis.”
“I know,” Ron muttered, slipping his own wand up his sleeve. “Don’t nag.”
Hope barely paid attention to their bickering. Her eyes had landed on Snape, standing near the teams at the edge of the pitch. His expression was darker than usual, his features twisted into a permanent scowl as he spoke to the players. Even from this distance, something about the way he carried himself sent an uneasy shiver down her spine.
Ron must have noticed too because he nudged Hermione. “I’ve never seen Snape look so mean,” he muttered. “Look—they’re off—ouch!”
Ron jerked forward, rubbing the back of his head. Hope turned just in time to see Draco Malfoy smirking behind them, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there.” Malfoy smirked, turning to Crabbe and Goyle with a broader grin. “Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone want a bet? What about you, Weasley?”
Ron didn’t answer, his attention on the game. Hope groaned as Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty because George Weasley had hit a Bludger at him. Hermione, who had all her fingers crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry, who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the Snitch.
“You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team?” Malfoy said loudly a few minutes later, as Snape awarded Hufflepuff another penalty for no reason at all. “It’s people they feel sorry for. See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s the Weasleys, who’ve got no money—you should be on the team, Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.”
Hope glared at Malfoy, and Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face him.
“I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,” he stammered.
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle howled with laughter, but Ron, still not daring to take his eyes off the game, nodded.
“You tell him, Neville.”
“Longbottom, if brains were gold, you’d be poorer than Weasley, and that’s saying something,” Malfoy laughed.
“Shut up,” Hope snapped.
Ron glared, his nerves already stretched to breaking point with anxiety about Harry. “I’m warning you, Malfoy—one more word—”
“Ron!” Hermione said suddenly. “Harry—!”
Hope’s eyes snapped back to the field.
“What? Where?” Ron asked, searching frantically for Harry.
Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, drawing gasps and cheers from the crowd. Hermione stood up, her crossed fingers in her mouth, as Harry streaked toward the ground like a bullet.
“You’re in luck, Weasley, Potter’s obviously spotted some money on the ground!” Malfoy sneered.
Ron snapped. Before Malfoy knew what was happening, Ron was on top of him, wrestling him to the ground. Neville hesitated, then clambered over the back of his seat to help.
“Go, Harry!” Hope cheered, cupping her hands around her mouth, her attention now fully on the game.
“Come on, Harry!” Hermione screamed, leaping onto her seat to watch as Harry sped straight at Snape—she didn’t even notice Malfoy and Ron rolling around under her seat, or the scuffles and yelps coming from the whirl of fists that was Neville, Crabbe, and Goyle.
Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in time to see something scarlet shoot past him, missing him by inches—next second, Harry had pulled out of the dive, his arm raised in triumph, the Snitch clasped in his hand.
The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one could ever remember the Snitch being caught so quickly.
“Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s won! We’ve won! Gryffindor are in the lead!” Hermione shrieked, dancing up and down on her seat and hugging Hope, who jumped with her.
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“Harry, where have you been?” Hermione squeaked, running up to him.
“You were amazing out there, Harry!” Hope complimented brightly.
“We won! You won! We won!” Ron shouted, thumping Harry on the back. “And I gave Malfoy a black eye, and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle single-handed! He’s still out cold, but Madam Pomfrey says he’ll be all right—talk about showing Slytherin! Everyone’s waiting for you in the common room, we’re having a party. Fred and George stole some cakes and stuff from the kitchens.”
“Never mind that now,” Harry said breathlessly. “Let’s find an empty room—you wait ’til you hear this...”
He made sure Peeves wasn’t inside before shutting the door behind them, then he told them what he’d seen and heard.
“So we were right. It is the Philosopher’s Stone, and Snape’s trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy—and he said something about Quirrell’s ‘hocus-pocus.’ I reckon there are other things guarding the Stone apart from Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that Snape needs to break through,” Harry explained.
“So you mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?” Hermione asked in alarm.
“It’ll be gone by next Tuesday,” Ron groaned.
“We’re doomed,” Hope added with a frown.