The Philosopher's Stone
The trio was only mildly surprised to learn that the troll came before the potions task. Though, it hardly mattered because they were prepared either way.
While the Gryffindors struggled to get any of their attacks to work on the troll, the Slytherins were already perfectly aware that a troll’s hide was much too thick for typical spells to be effective.
Just as they preplanned, the trio cast seize and pull charms in unison on the troll’s head, causing him to topple over. Next, they cast freezing spells to stick his legs together and his arms to his sides. Once the troll was unable to attack them or stand, they walked right up to his face—the only part of his body fully susceptible to magic—and cast stupefy.
When they stepped away from the incapacitated troll, the Gryffindors were standing off to the side, utterly gobsmacked.
“You three…” Fred started.
“Are utterly terrifying,” George continued.
“For a couple of firsties,” Fred finished.
“Bloody hell,” was all Ron had to say.
Draco was practically preening at the comment. Harry rolled his eyes and grabbed him by the sleeve, tugging him to the next door. A chuckling Hermione and a confused threesome of Gryffindors followed behind them.
Once they’d all made it into the next room, bright purple flames shot up from the threshold, blocking the doorway. Across the way, black flames covered the door leading out. They were trapped.
“Now what?” Ron groaned.
Along the wall of the narrow room was a long table. Spread among the table were 7 various sized and shaped bottles. Beside them was a small scroll. Hermione reached for it and read it aloud.
“Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,
“Two of us will help you, which ever you would find,
“One among us seven will let you move ahead,
“Another will transport the drinker back instead,
“Two among our number hold only nettle wine,
“Three of us are killers, waiting bidden in line.
“Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,
“To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:
“First, however slyly the poison tries to hide
“You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;
“Second, different are those who stand at either end,
“But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;
“Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,
“Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;
“Fourth, the second left and the second on the right
“Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.”
“What?” the twins asked in confusion. Hermione chuckled at them.
“It’s logic,” she explained. “Wizards are so accustomed to magic, that sometimes even the greatest wizards of all time haven’t got a drop of logic in them.”
“What’s that got to do with potions?” Ron asked.
“Nothing,” Harry replied. “It’s a puzzle.”
Hermione silently read through the scroll a few more times. She alternated between having her finger on her chin pensively, and pointing at the various bottles. Finally, she seemed to have figured it out.
“This one,” she lifted the smallest bottle, “will get us ahead. This one,” she lifted a round bottle, “will get us back out.”
“There’s only enough for one person.” Harry frowned as he swilled the tiny bottle around, gazing at its meager contents.
“Hold on,” Draco said. He took the bottle from Harry and popped the cork. He sniffed the cork, then lifted the bottle to swirl it around at eye level. He then licked the cork and grimaced at the taste. “I know what this is,” he stated. “And I know how to make more.”
He reached his arm out and Harry hurriedly passed him the satchel. He pulled out a cauldron, a burner, 2 cutting boards, a mortar and pestle, a scale, and 6 different bottles, one of which was a completely different potion altogether.
“It’s a powerful body cooling potion with a flame retardant mixed in,” he explained. “I’m going to need some help.”
Harry, Hermione, and one of the twins volunteered. Hermione measured out bits of sulfur, then ground them into a fine powder. The twin began dicing and chopping various roots and some kind of insect legs. Harry manned the burner, making sure the potion within the cauldron kept its temperature moving up and down rhythmically between 174 and 177 degrees Celsius. Whenever it reached 175.5, Harry notified Draco so that he could stir the potion once to the left.
Draco and Harry’s careful work was to separate the elements of the original potion--which was a weaker cooling potion—by playing with the temperature so certain ingredients would just begin to solidify. They needed to separate it enough that when they added the extra ingredients, they would be infused properly to add all the necessary elements to reach the final product.
They had to be very meticulous, because if they separated the elements too well, they wouldn’t be able to return it to its fully compounded form. Then the whole potion would be ruined.
Bit by bit, Draco stirred in the rest of the ingredients until he ended up with an oily black potion, identical to the one in the rounded bottle.
“I can’t believe you knew how to do that,” the twin who helped praised Draco. “You’re absolutely incredible.”
Draco turned red as a beat and beamed at the taller boy. “Thanks, George,” he breathed.
“How do you know he’s George?” Fred demanded. Draco just shrugged, not wanting reveal how carefully he watches the twins. George looked mildly impressed anyways.
“He’s alright, I guess,” Ron scoffed from the spot on the floor he’d found. “Still a Slytherin, though. Let’s hurry up and get on with this.”
Draco grabbed a ladle and decanted the potion into individual beakers. They wound up with more than enough. They didn’t even need to use the original bottle. One by one, everyone swallowed a mouthful then stepped through the black fire. Fred and Ron were last, having gone together because of Ron’s leg.
The potion didn’t taste particularly bad, but it filled the body with an icy feeling that was sudden enough to shock the drinker. A gasp or a frown was warranted as the chills shot up the spine.
The potion worked perfectly, and in no time at all the 6 students found themselves in a large, circular room with stairs leading down like an amphitheater. At the center of the room was a giant mirror, standing all by its lonesome.
“What is it?” Fred asked.
“Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi?” Harry read the engraving at the top of the mirror aloud. “Does anyone know what language that is?”
“I don’t know,” Hermione said, stepping toward the mirror. “I don’t know what this challenge is. We weren’t expecting there to be anything after Snape’s protections.”
“Snape?” Ron asked, offended by the name alone. “What’s that git got to do with any of this?”
“Who did you think set up the protections?” Draco asked in exasperation, as if the answer was obvious.
“I don’t know!”
“The teachers did,” Draco told him. Saying it slowly like Ron was an idiot. “As the Potions Master, of course Snape set up the protection with the potions.”
Ron rolled his eyes, muttering epithets under his breath as Fred sat him down on one of the steps so he could continue down the rest unhindered.
“‘I show not your face, but your heart’s desire,’” George recited.
“What?” Harry was confused.
“That’s what the mirror says,” George explained. “It’s backwards. The way it would look if you saw it in a mirror.”
Hermione finally reached the mirror and gasped when she saw her reflection. She whipped around to see the room behind her, but was confronted with 5 boys looking at her in shock.
“What is it, Hermione?” Harry asked frantically, rushing to her side. “What did you see?”
When Harry reached the mirror, he too gasped in shock. He did a double take around the room, just like Hermione did, then turned back to stare at the mirror in disbelief.
“You see it too?” Hermione asked breathily.
“Yeah,” Harry nodded. Staring back at him was not just his own reflection, but that of his parents. Beside them were the Blacks. Sirius—looking happier than Harry could have imagined—ruffled his hair playfully, while Uncle Arty and Aunt Wally looked on proudly. On the Potters’ other side, the Malfoys stood watching fondly, Draco included.
“But how?” Harry questioned in disbelief. “How are my parents there? They’re dead.”
“What?” Hermione snapped her head to Harry. “I don’t see your parents.”
“They’re right there,” Harry pointed. “Between the Malfoys and the Blacks.”
“I don’t see any of them.”
George approached the mirror behind them with a sharp intake of breath. He blinked his eyes in shock at what he saw. “‘I show not your face, but your heart’s desire,’” he repeated. “You wouldn’t be seeing the same thing then, would you?” he explained. “Everyone’s heart has a different desire.”
Harry took a deep breath in understanding. Of course he would be seeing his parents. He wanted nothing more than to have a family. The Blacks and the Malfoys were there too because they were already like family.
It was incredible. Harry gazed into the mirror longingly. As he did, his mother reached a hand down to firmly grasp his shoulder. He lifted his own hand to meet hers, but when he reached his shoulder, there was nothing there. How he wished that he could feel her fingers.
Reflection Draco brushed past Harry’s parents with a careless familiarity and wrapped his arm around Harry’s shoulders almost possessively. He pulled their bodies close and they giggled at each other, while the adults looked down at them, expressing various forms of fond exasperation.
A brown, bushy head of hair peaked out from behind Sirius, and the smile on real Harry’s face lit up as reflection Hermione revealed herself and joined the boys in a group hug.
It was everyone that was important to Harry, together as a happy family in a way that could never happen in reality. Harry almost didn’t dare look away.
“What’s any of this got to do with the Philosopher’s Stone?” Ron shouted, catching everyone’s attention.
It almost physically hurt for Harry to turn his eyes away and look at the Gryffindor boy who’d been left behind. George was still looking into the mirror, but Hermione had turned away as well.
“It doesn’t,” she mused aloud. “Unless…” she trailed off pensively and stepped away from the mirror. “The key to getting the Stone must be inside the mirror somehow. The only way to get it would be for it to be your true desire.”
With that thought in his mind, Harry looked back at the mirror. He knew that he would never have the family that had looked back at him, but he knew he could have the Stone. He absolutely needed it. If Voldemort got his hands on it, the world would be slipped into chaos. Harry would not allow that to happen. Even more than he wanted to have that family behind his back, he needed to have the Stone. Otherwise, the world as he knew it was over.
The people standing behind reflection Harry warped and blurred, fading out of existence. Instead, only Harry looked back at himself. At first, Harry thought perhaps the mirror had stopped working for a moment. But then, reflection Harry winked at him.
He watched as the boy in the mirror reached into his inner pocket, and removed a sparkling red gem, about the size of his palm. He lifted it up, showed it to real Harry, then returned it to his robes. When he did, real Harry felt a sudden weight against his chest. His eyes widened in shock and he gasped aloud. Reflection Harry winked at him again, then warped and blurred like the previous reflection.
Harry didn’t wait around to see what appeared next. He stepped away from the mirror and went to join Hermione. She was standing a few feet off, outside the line of sight of the mirror. Draco was beside her, looking torn between going to see his own reflection and staying where he was.
Harry reached into his inner robes pocket and pulled out the same red gem from his reflection. He showed it to his friends, still somewhat in awe of the fact that he had it.
“You’ve got it!” Draco gasped, voice echoing in the large open room. He reached a finger out to touch it and it gave him chills. “I can feel the magic radiating from it. It’s so powerful.”
A few yards away, Fred was standing, arms crossed, facing away from the mirror. He had an annoyed expression on his face, like he didn’t want to see his heart’s desire. Harry couldn’t fathom why not. But it was almost as if the older boy were afraid of what he might see. Or was afraid that like George, he’d have a difficult time looking away.
When Draco shouted, Fred whipped his head to the Slytherins, then stalked over to see.
“Bloody hell,” the red haired boy breathed. After a moment of silent contemplation, he smirked then snatched the Stone from Harry’s open palm. “George!” he shouted over his shoulder. “We’re rich! Imagine all the gold we’ll have with this thing! We’ll be millionaires. No, billionaires!”
“Absolutely not!” Harry contradicted. He reached to take the Stone back, but Fred danced away from him. He raised his arm above his head, and far out of short Harry’s reach. The twins were tall for their age, and Harry was short for his. Even jumping, he wouldn’t have gotten it back.
“Give that back!” Harry demanded. “We need to destroy it! If Voldemort gets his hands on it, we’re doomed!”
Fred flinched at the name, but dashed up the stairs with a smile on his face. George was right behind him, but walking casually. “Don’t worry!” Fred called. “We’ll keep it away from You-Know-Who!”
Harry, Draco, and Hermione went chasing after him. “Are you mad?” Draco yelled. “He was very nearly able to steal it from Gringott’s. How do you intend to protect it from him?”
“I have my ways!” Fred shouted cryptically before sprinting into the room with the potions. The black fire was gone, so he had no trouble getting through. He quickly grabbed the bottle Hermione pointed out to get them through the purple fire and poured some into his mouth. He slammed the bottle down and continued running so fast that he’d barely swallowed the liquid before he made it through the flames.
The Slytherins stormed after him as quickly as they could, but he was too fast for them. Harry whipped out his wand and shouted a disarming spell at him as they passed the still unconscious troll, but Fred had just barely dodged it.
He made it into the chess room and that’s when the trio began really attacking him. They sent spell after spell. Expelliarmus. Leg locker curse. Jelly legs jinx. Petrificus Totalus. Anything they could think of to stop him. But Fred was too smart for his own good. He either expertly dodged it, or was able to counter or block each one with a shield.
He made it to the room with the keys and the trio knew they were doomed. Without even needing to slow down, he grabbed one of the broomsticks, mounted it, and zipped off through the air even faster than before.
Out of breath, the Slytherins slowed to a stop. It was futile now. He’d gotten away. Even with one of the other brooms, he was so far ahead of them to begin with that they’d still never catch up to him.
“Bloody buggering fuck!” Hermione shouted. “What do we do now?”
“We could tell Dumbledore!” Harry suggested between puffs of breath. “Get them expelled. I’m sure the old bat would be able to get it off him.”
“No,” Draco disagreed, panting. “Cause then we’d have to explain how we knew he had it, and we’d get expelled too.”
“If Quirrell doesn’t know they have it,” Hermione reasoned, “then he’ll have no reason to go after him. If we can figure out a way to get it off him discreetly…”
“How would we do that?” Draco snapped. “The End of Term Feast is tomorrow! Then we’re all going home!”
“We’ll have to sneak into the dorms,” Harry suggested. “We have to do something! He won’t be able to keep it safe for long. Dammit!” Harry smacked his hand on the wall, cursing himself. “I had it! And he snatched it right out of my hand! I’m such an idiot!”
“This isn’t your fault!” Hermione defended him. “We did everything right! This is on Fred and George!”
“Hold on,” a voice called from down the long stone hallway. “I didn’t have anything to do with this. We aren’t the same person, you know.”
George came walking toward them with Ron’s arm slung over his shoulders.
“George!” Draco huffed. “You’ve got to stop your brother! You’ve got to get the Stone back. If Quirrell gets it-”
“I know, I know,” George agreed. “I can get it back. I can’t guarantee he won’t use it first. But I’ll get it back.”
“I don’t care if he uses it!” Harry retorted. “As long as it gets destroyed before Voldemort does!”
An hour later, the trio found themselves sitting on Draco’s bed in the Slytherin dorms, with drawn curtains and under a silencing charm. Ron was tucked away safely in the hospital wing, and George was—hopefully—talking his brother into reason.
“Do you think we can trust him to get the Stone back?” Harry asked.
“Absolutely not!” Hermione scowled. “I don’t trust those idiots with anything!”
“We have to give him a chance,” Draco said.
“We don’t exactly have a choice, at this point,” Harry stated.
“We’ll have to watch Quirrell and the twins very carefully tomorrow,” Hermione instructed. “We can’t let Quirrell catch on to anything, and we can’t let Fred get away.”
Keeping an eye on the twins was a lot easier said than done. After somehow managing a few hours’ sleep after the night’s adventures, the trio rose early for breakfast in the Great Hall. As expected, Dumbledore was nowhere in sight. Hopefully, he was busy getting sacked.
Quirrell showed up a little while later. He wasn’t acting like anything was different, so they were in the clear on that front. For now, at least.
After waiting, and carefully watching every person who came through the door, breakfast had come and gone, but there was no sign of the twins.
“They must be hiding out on purpose,” Hermione deduced.
“At least, if we can’t find them, neither can Quirrell.” Draco tried clinging on to the sole piece of positivity from the whole situation.
The day dragged on sluggishly. While the rest of the school was enjoying their free time and frolicking in the sun, the trio was bogged down with anxiety about what was to come next.
Suspiciously, Harry’s scar hadn’t been hurting too badly. The pain hadn’t totally gone away, but it was a much more tolerable buzz. Unlike during testing when it was nearly unbearable. The trio wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad sign.
Dumbledore didn’t finally show up until the feast began.
The day had been so uneventful that Harry, Hermione, and Draco were able to relax a little and enjoy the food. They even joined in with the other Slytherins’ excitement at having won the House Cup.
As the night wore on, and the feast was coming to an end, Dumbledore stood up and called the room to silence.
“Good evening students and staff,” he called. “We’ve reached the end of another successful school year. The end of an era, in its own way. Before we send you off to enjoy your holidays, I feel it is my duty to inform you of a few upcoming changes.”
Hermione’s eyes widened in anticipation, hoping that this little speech was leading to where she thought it was.
“As usual, there will be a change in students as the new first years join us, and we say goodbye to our graduating class.” At this, a few of the 7th years cheered and whistled. “Also, there will be a change in staff. Our dear Professor Quirrell has resigned from his position as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and will no longer be joining us. I do ask that we all thank him for his year of hard work, and wish him luck in the future with a round of applause.”
There was a smattering of unenthusiastic clapping from around the room, and an unnecessarily loud cough from the Gryffindor table.
“With a heavy heart,” Dumbledore continued, “I would also like to inform you, that I shall be retiring.”
The whole room filled with gasps of shock and scattered, frantic whispering. Hermione could barely mask her peals of smug laughter beneath the sound.
The majority of the Slytherin table seemed a lot less worried than their peers. The news was quite shocking, but not exactly unwanted. Many of the families that were traditionally sorted Slytherin were a bit at odds with the Headmaster. Former Headmaster. Many of the students distrusted the man and outright disliked him. Those students, and especially their families, would be happy to see him go.
Dumbledore raised his hands for silence, then continued.
“I have been Headmaster here for 36 years, and a Professor for much longer. I have seen many students walk through these doors, and I am proud of nearly each and every one of them. I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to touch the lives of so many and to help shape generations of witches and wizards. But now, it is my time to leave.
“Professor McGonagall will take my place as the new Headmistress, and Professor Flitwick has been promoted to Deputy Headmaster. May you please give them a round of applause to wish them good luck with their future posts.”
The clapping for Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were much more enthusiastic than for Quirrell. The Ravenclaw table in particular seemed to rejoice in the news. The applause calmed to silence and Dumbledore spoke again.
“I can only hope that the remaining staff and students can continue to spread my message through my firm belief that love is the most powerful magic. So with these final words as Headmaster, I ask you all to love each other. Be kind to one another.
“Thank you, and I love you all.”
With that, Dumbledore returned to his seat. As soon as he sat down, the room burst into thunderous applause, louder than ever. Within seconds, most of the school was standing on their feet, clapping and whooping in reverence to the old man.
It was all a little too much for Harry. The noise made his headache powerful enough to blur his vision. He carefully stood up, hands clamped over his ears and pushed his way through the crowd and to the exit.
When he got to the hall, the sound receded exponentially, but it did nothing to change the way his head felt. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears and felt it pounding on the inside of his skull.
He continued down the hall, stumbling his way back to the Slytherin dorms. Maybe he should go see Madam Pomfrey instead.
Before he could make the decision, he felt a hand grasp his upper arm roughly and drag him into the nearest empty classroom. He heard the door slam behind him, then he was thrust into a wall, the back of his head cracking against the brick. A heavy hand pinned him to the spot.
“Where is it?” a powerful voice screamed.
“What?” Harry asked weakly. His vision was spinning and he could barely see.
“Where is it?” the voice repeated. “Where is the Philosopher’s Stone?”
Harry blinked his eyes repeatedly, urging them to focus. As he began to register the room around him, he saw an angry face beneath a purple turban.
“Quirrell?” he asked, brain finally catching up with him.
“I know you have the Stone, boy!” Quirrell hissed, spittle flying from his mouth and pelting Harry in the face. “Where is it? What have you done with it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Harry began wriggling, trying to pull out of the man’s grip, but to no avail.
“Do not play games with me!” With surprising strength, Quirrell jerked Harry away from the wall and threw him across the room where he landed in a crumpled heap. He began stalking toward the boy slowly. “I know you’ve been watching me,” he growled. “I don’t know how you worked out what I was up to. I don’t know how you got the stone. But I know it was you. I know you have it.”
“I don’t have anything!” Harry insisted, scrambling to sit up. “You’re bloody mad!”
“Is that how it’s going to be?” Quirrell roared as he finally approached the boy. “If you won’t tell me, then I’ll have to beat it out of you!”
Harry tried to scoot away, but Quirrell was too fast for him. He reached down to grab Harry’s ankle, but as his fingers wrapped around the bare skin, his hand made a hissing noise and smoke began to escape from it.
Quirrell screamed in pain, snatching his hand away and looking at it incredulously. It was burned.
Harry looked on in bewilderment, wondering how the hell he’d done that.
Quirrell recovered from his shock faster than Harry did, so he surged forward and grabbed him by the neck. Quirrell’s fingers began to burn again, so he quickly adjusted his grip so that he was choking Harry through the fabric of his robe.
Harry was panicking. He couldn’t breathe. The pressure from the man’s grip was too powerful. He struggled to pull from his grip, but he wasn’t strong enough. Harry could feel pressure building up in his skull and he could tell his face would soon be turning purple. He was starting to see spots before his eyes and he just knew he was going to die.
He couldn’t die! He didn’t want to die!
Suddenly, he was struck with an idea. He reached his hand into Quirrell’s sleeve and grabbed his bare skin as tight as he could.
Quirrell screamed in pain at the contact and his grip loosened a little. Harry reached his other hand to put on the man’s face, and Quirrell was in agony. He jerked his hands from Harry’s neck, but Harry held on. He burned his face and his arm until he could feel the skin beneath his fingers turning to ash and crumbling.
As Quirrell struggled to push Harry away while half his face was missing, there was another high pitched keening. It sounded like someone else was screaming too. But who could it have been? Suddenly, a cloud of dark smoke rose from beneath Quirrell’s turban. There appeared to be a face within it. The face had an open mouth, contorted with anguish as it fled Quirrell’s body.
That had been the source of the second screaming.
The smoke rose up to the roof, where it circled the classroom, then escaped from a window. Once it made it outside, it appeared to dissolve into thin air. Or perhaps Harry just couldn’t see it anymore.
Quirrell stopped struggling when the cloud left his body. Harry let him go and he collapsed to the ground. On the moment of impact, his entire body turned to ash, leaving just his clothes behind.
His professor was gone. Dead. Harry had killed him! He looked back and forth between his hands and the remains of his professor, horrified at what he’d done.
A moment later, he was startled by a bang on the door. There was a brief pause, then another bang. There was a longer pause, about 5 seconds long, then the door exploded open, flying off its hinges. Professor Snape burst into the room through the cloud of splinters and sawdust, frantic with worry.
He slowed as he spotted Harry in the middle of the room, hands still suspended before his face and mouth open in shock. Then he came to a complete stop when he spotted the dusty mess of ash and purple robes that used to be Professor Quirrell.
“What happened in here?” Snape demanded.
“It was Quirrell,” Harry tried to explain. His voice was hoarse and broken from having been strangled, and he was still having difficulty breathing. “He attacked me! My hands… they…” he couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“Come on,” Snape approached him and grabbed him firmly, but not roughly by the upper arm. “Let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey.”
Snape left Harry alone for a while as the nurse fussed over him. She gave him a potion that would heal the damage to his throat, and another to curb any long lasting or delayed effects of strangulation. Finally, she covered his neck in a salve that would remove the nasty, hand-shaped bruises.
By the time Snape returned, Pomfrey was just finishing wiping the salve off and was returning to her office to put it away. Behind Snape trailed Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore.
Harry was not happy to see the former headmaster. He’d been hoping that he could avoid meeting the elderly man at all. Especially since he was now “retired.” But it would appear that Harry’s luck had run out.
“Alright,” Snape addressed Harry when he reached his bedside. “Explain.”
Harry glanced around at his audience as he debated whether to tell the truth or not. He decided that he would not lie.
“It started at the end of the feast,” he began. “My scar was starting to hurt really bad, and the sound of the applause was making it worse, so when everyone stood up at the end, I couldn’t take it anymore and I left.” He didn’t want to acknowledge that Dumbledore received a standing ovation.
“While I was walking down the corridor, Professor Quirrell dragged me into a classroom and he demanded I tell him where the Philosopher’s Stone was. I told him I didn’t have it. I said I didn’t know what he was talking about, but he insisted I give it to him.
“He started choking me, but when he touched me, it burned his skin. When he noticed, he switched his hands so they were on my robes instead. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do.
“I don’t know why my hands burned him, but they did. So all I could think of to get him off me was to burn him more. So I put a hand on his arm and the other on his face, and I kept them there until this weird cloud of smoke rose out of his body. It had a face in it, and it just flew out of the room. When the smoke left, Quirrell just collapsed into ash.”
After a moment of silent contemplation, Harry added, “I think that smoke cloud was Voldemort.” There was no flinching at the name. “I think he’s been possessing Professor Quirrell all year.”
Professor Snape snorted and turned to Dumbledore with a look in his eye that said, clear as day, “I told you so.”
“I think you may be right,” Professor McGonagall admitted.
“Harry,” Dumbledore asked. “Do you know why Professor Quirrell was so sure that you had the Philosopher’s Stone?”
“He said he knew I was watching him,” Harry explained. He looked at Professor Snape when he said the words, not wanting to even meet the former headmaster’s eye. “He said he didn’t know how I figured it out, but that he knew I had it.”
“And do you, Harry?” Dumbledore asked. “Do you have the Philosopher’s Stone?”
“No,” Harry admitted.
“Do you know where it is?”
“I haven’t the slightest clue.”
Harry could see the old man nodding in his peripheral vision.
“Am I in trouble?” Harry asked meekly, voice low and eyes dropping to his lap. “Will I be sent to Azkaban?”
“What on earth for?” Professor McGonagall asked.
“For…” Harry had to force himself to say it. “For killing professor Quirrell.”
“Harry,” she put a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. “Absolutely not. What you did was self-defense. You won’t get sent to Azkaban for protecting yourself. Besides, you didn’t kill Quirinus. Voldemort did.”
“How?”
“The only reason his body reacted so badly to your touch was because of the bit of Voldemort that was inside of him. As soon as he accepted that piece into himself, he was doomed to a grisly death.”
“Why did my touch burn him, though? I don’t understand. Does it have to do with the night my parents died?”
“No one truly knows what happened that night, Harry,” McGonagall explained. “But, there are theories. The most likely of which, is that your mother sacrificed herself to save you. It was an act of pure, unadulterated love. What Albus said earlier tonight was right. Love is a source of powerful magic.
“When your mother made that sacrifice, she protected you with an ancient magic. That protection is what kept you from perishing that night. I believe it is also what protected you from Quirinus today.”
“So,” the tiniest smile began to spread on Harry’s face. “My mother saved me?”
“In a way, yes,” McGonagall agreed. “I suppose, she did.”
The thought of his mother saving him made Harry feel warm and loved inside. He kept his smile until Professor McGonagall’s previous words made him think of something Hermione said.
“Professor,” he asked. “So, Voldemort was able to possess Quirrell with a piece of his soul, right?”
“It appears so, unfortunately.”
“Is it possible… that there’s a piece of his soul in me? Could that be why my scar was hurting when he’s around?”
Mcgonagall glanced at Dumbledore—who minutely shook his head no—then continued on, anyways. “I hate to think so,” she frowned, “but it is a distinct possibility.”
“That is why,” Dumbledore interrupted, “the protection your mother placed upon you is so important. As a sacrifice, it is blood magic. Meaning, the only way to maintain it is through direct interaction with your mother’s blood.”
Harry frowned as he realized what Dumbledore was getting to.
“Therefore,” Dumbledore continued, “you will be going back to Surrey this summer, with the Dursley’s.”
With that statement, every ounce of anger Harry felt toward the man rushed forward. He launched off the hospital bed, getting as close to Dumbledore as possible without touching him, and locked eyes with him. He gave the man the most vicious glare he could muster as he shouted the words:
“I WILL NOT!”
There was no way that under any circumstances Harry would be going back to Privet Drive. He didn’t care about any blood protections. He didn’t care if Voldemort himself tried to drag him back there, he wasn’t going!
“Harry,” Dumbledore tried to plead, “it is the safest place for you. You will be returning there.”
“Says who?” Harry snapped
“Harry,” McGonagall scolded. “Show some respect.” Harry ignored her.
“You don’t get to tell me where to go!” he yelled. “You’re just a headmaster! You don’t get to decide where to send me! You aren’t even related to me! You have no say in it at all! You never did! You shouldn’t have sent me to live with those awful people in the first place!”
“Harry,” Dumbledore tried to reason with the boy. “With the Dursleys was the best place to put you to protect you from Voldemort and his followers.”
“Yeah?” Harry scoffed. “Well, who was supposed to protect me from them?” Dumbledore had no response to that. “They are horrid people! They treated me worse than any house-elf! They locked me in a cupboard for ten years!
‘Mr. H. Potter, Number 4, Privet Drive, the Cupboard Under the Stairs.’ That’s where my Hogwarts letter was addressed to. You knew how they were treating me! You knew! But, you left me there! And you want to send me back? I will never go back there!”
“Harry!” Dumbledore finally appeared to lose his patience, raising his voice as he spoke over the shouting child. “I know you don’t like it there. I know your Aunt and Uncle are harsh with you. But it is the only way to maintain the protections on you. Without it, you will be vulnerable to attack by Death Eaters and Voldemort himself. You will go back.”
“You don’t have the authority to make that decision! Headmasters don’t control what students do when the school year is over. And you’re not even the headmaster anymore!
“I am a ward of the House of Black! I’m their responsibility, and they’re the ones who get to decide. Not you!”
With those final words, Harry stormed out of the hospital wing. He sprinted across the castle as fast as he could until he reached the Slytherin common room. He tore through the room and went straight for the dorms and into his bed, collapsing on the mattress as he tried to catch his breath.
He lay there, lungs on fire, panting for what seemed to be an eternity.
He was so angry! He couldn’t believe the audacity of the old man. Harry’s chest continued heaving up and down, but no longer struggling to breathe. He reached a hand up to his face and came away with wet fingers.
Wet?
He was crying?
He was crying. Why? It didn’t make any sense. He was absolutely livid, not sad. Why was he crying?
The very idea of Dumbledore sending him back to Surrey was ludicrous and infuriating. He didn’t get to do that!
But what if he did?
What if Dumbledore somehow was able to take him away from the Blacks, like he did before? What if he got away with sending him to the Dursleys like last time?
He would have to give up magic all summer long. They would belittle him, and hurt him. Dress him in rags and Dudley’s oversized hand me downs. They’d turn him back into a slave. He’d lose his dignity as a human being. All over again.
That would be the worst thing possible. Harry couldn’t let that happen. Harry would rather die a thousand deaths at the hands of Voldemort than have to return to that hellhole.
Suddenly, Harry’s panting picked up and he couldn’t breathe again. He huffed and he gasped as hard as he could, but the air just wouldn’t fill his lungs. It was like Quirrell’s hands were wrapped around his throat again.
He wheezed and croaked as he tried to force the air through but nothing would happen. His heart was thundering in his chest and he could feel a pressure building in his head. Oh no!
Oh, Merlin, he was going to suffocate! He was going to die! For real this time! There was no visible threat to him. No one to fight or push off. He was just going to choke and choke until his lungs burst and his heart stopped.
“Harry!” he heard a voice call his name distantly.
“Harry!” he heard it again, but different this time.
Without warning, there were two sets of hands on him. Frightened, he looked over to see that it was Hermione and Draco. He sighed in relief that they were there to save him, and he could feel the air come through this time.
“Come on,” Hermione beckoned, climbing onto the bed beside him and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. She helped him to sit upright and she used her other hand to stroke up and down his arm in a soothing motion. “It’s alright! You’re going to be okay.”
Draco climbed up on his other side, wrapping his arm around Harry’s back, beneath Hermione’s. “You’re okay, Harry!” Draco promised. “Just breathe!”
Harry followed Draco’s orders, and another burst of air filled his lungs.
“Good job,” Hermione praised, hugging him close. “Keep doing that. Deep breaths.”
“In and out,” Draco instructed.
Harry listened to his friends, inhaling and exhaling on cue. Breath by breath, it became easier for the oxygen to reach his lungs until finally he didn’t have to struggle to get the air through.
Head cleared and breathing back to normal, Harry couldn’t help but feel embarrassed about his freak out.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what that was.”
“It was a panic attack,” Hermione explained. “I have a cousin who used to get them all the time. They always seemed scary.”
“It was scary,” Harry agreed.
“What happened?” Draco asked. “I mean, what happened to cause all this? What happened after you left the Great Hall?”
Harry took a deep breath and recounted his tale for his friends. By the end, they were all livid with Dumbledore and expressing their gratitude that they managed to get rid of him. Now, Hermione was just waiting to see if she needed to step in for him to get kicked off the Wizengamot.
They fell asleep cuddled together in Harry’s bed again, Harry smashed in the middle. He never felt safer.
There was no sign of the twins the next morning, so the trio decided to corner them on the train. They wouldn’t be able to escape there. But it appeared the twins were smarter than the trio gave them credit for, because they were hiding out with their elder brother in the Prefects carriage. The trio didn’t have any connections to be smuggled on.
After a long ride to King’s Cross station, Draco, Harry, and Hermione scoured the crowd in an attempt to find the redheaded brothers. At the very least, they ought to be able to spot their family. It was hard to miss the gaggle of ginger hair.
Finally, Harry spotted one of the twins standing next to Lee Jordan. “Where is it, Fred?” Harry shouted, grabbing him by the shoulder and forcing him to turn around.
“Yeah, Fred,” Lee repeated, smirking. “Where is it?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “That’s George,” he sighed.
“Where’s your brother?” Hermione asked impatiently.
“Hiding.”
“You said you would talk to him!” Harry huffed.
“Yes,” George agreed. “I never said I would get through to him in a night.”
Lee narrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “What are these brats talking about?” he asked.
“So what?” Draco asked, ignoring him. “Are we supposed to wait the whole summer? Anything can happen between then and now!”
George arched a brow at them. “I told you I would get it. Unlike you Slytherins, I’m a man of my word. Now, shove off.”
“You know who’s after it,” Harry warned darkly. “The longer you have it, the more danger you’re in. If anything happens, it’s going to be your fault!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lee scoffed, not taking the trio seriously. It was a testament to George’s honesty that his best friend didn’t even know what they were talking about. “Go home now, you little snakes.” He waved them away impatiently, then turned George back the direction they were facing to continue whatever discussion they were having.
Sighing in temporary defeat, the trio went back to scouring the crowd for Fred. They had no luck and eventually had to give up, or risk being left behind.
Harry and Draco each hugged Hermione tightly goodbye, and they promised she’d be over during the summer to visit. She couldn’t wait to finally meet Sirius Black in the flesh. Draco met his mother soon after and they both waved goodbye to Harry, knowing they’d be seeing him in the next few days. Then, Harry was the only one left.
Remembering Dumbledore’s words, he took a deep breath, and stepped through the barrier.
When he stepped through into the muggle part of the train station, the first thing he saw was Uncle Vernon’s disgruntled red face looking nothing less than desperate to get out of there. Harry caught his Uncle’s eye and fear swooped in his belly as the man glared at him, gesturing for him to hurry up.
Harry flinched when a hand reached out to touch his shoulder. He looked to see who it was and was flooded with relief when he met the silver eyes of Sirius Black.
“C’mon kid,” he said with a barely there smile. “Let’s go home.”