Wood was working the team harder than ever, his determination palpable even through the relentless downpour that had replaced the once serene snowfall on the Quidditch pitch. The dreary weather seemed to mirror the intensity with which Wood drove his players forward. Despite the Weasleys' murmurs of discontent, accusing Wood of veering into fanaticism, Harry remained steadfastly supportive of his captain.
The looming match against Hufflepuff held a significance that transcended mere victory. For Harry and his Gryffindor teammates, it represented the long-awaited opportunity to surpass Slytherin in the house championship standings, a feat not achieved in seven years. The prospect of reclaiming the glory that had eluded Gryffindor for so long fueled their determination to push themselves to their limits and beyond.
Amidst the rigorous training sessions and the ceaseless drills orchestrated by Wood, Harry found a peculiar solace. Fatigue became his ally, offering respite from the haunting nightmares that plagued his sleep. The physical exertion demanded by Quidditch training provided a temporary reprieve from the harrowing visions that tormented him, offering a semblance of peace in the midst of turmoil.
As the team prepared to face their formidable opponents, the weight of expectations bore down upon them. Yet, buoyed by Wood's unwavering leadership and Harry's unwavering resolve, they stood ready to confront whatever challenges lay ahead, knowing that victory held the promise of not only triumph on the pitch but also a measure of inner peace for Harry.
The Quidditch pitch resembled a scene from a stormy nightmare, with dark clouds brooding overhead and torrents of rain cascading down like a relentless deluge. Each droplet merged seamlessly with the muddy terrain, transforming it into a treacherous labyrinth where footing was uncertain and visibility limited. Despite the inclement weather, Wood's determination burned fiercely, his usually composed demeanor shattered by the incessant antics of the Weasley twins. He'd just gotten very angry with the Weasleys, who kept dive-bombing each other and pretending to fall off their brooms.
"Will you stop messing around!" he yelled. "That's exactly the sort of thing that'll lose us the match! Snape's refereeing this time, and he'll be looking for any excuse to knock points off Gryffindor!"
As George Weasley tumbled from his broom, the muddy earth eagerly swallowed him whole, leaving him sputtering and spluttering as he struggled to regain his footing. His incredulous expression mirrored the disbelief that rippled through the team.
"Snape's refereeing?" he spluttered through a mouthful of mud. "When's he ever refereed a Quidditch match? He's not going to be fair if we might overtake Slytherin."
The rest of the team landed next to George to complain, too.
"It's not my fault," said Wood. Through the haze of rain and mud, his resolute voice cut through like a beacon of hope "We've just got to make sure we play a clean game, so Snape hasn't got an excuse to pick on us."
Which was all very well, thought Harry, but he had another reason for not wanting Snape near him while he was playing Quidditch.
The Quidditch pitch, saturated with rainwater, exuded an aura of desolation as the Gryffindor team concluded their grueling practice session. The relentless downpour outside seemed to mirror the intensity of their training, casting a gloomy veil over the already somber atmosphere. Despite the lingering camaraderie among the teammates, Harry sensed an unspoken tension gnawing at his insides, prompting him to seek solace within the familiar confines of the Gryffindor common room.
Stepping inside the portrait hall, Harry entered into the warm embrace of the common room, where the crackling fire cast dancing shadows across the cozy space. The flickering flames danced hypnotically, casting a soft, golden glow that enveloped the room in a comforting embrace. Amidst the comforting crackle of the fire, Harry spotted Dean Thomas, who stood by the hearth, his hands outstretched to soak in the warmth.
“Oh, Harry,” Dean greeted, his voice carrying a hint of concern as he turned towards him. “Ron and Hermione stopped by earlier, guess they thought Quidditch was ending earlier.”
Harry's curiosity piqued, he approached Dean, his interest evident in his expression. “Oh, did they say where they were going?” he inquired, his brows furrowing slightly.
Dean's expression turned thoughtful as he recalled their conversation. “Said something about playing some chess in the Great Hall,” he replied, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.
“Uh oh,” Harry murmured, a flicker of concern passing across his features, prompting a confused look from Dean.
“What’s wrong with that?” Dean asked, his curiosity piqued.
“I think Hermione is expecting this to be a different game than she thinks...” Harry responded, his words trailing off as he contemplated what kind of scene he’ll come across.
With a sense of urgency tugging at his chest, Harry hurried through the corridors of Hogwarts, his footsteps echoing in the empty halls as he made his way to the Great Hall. The anticipation of what he might find there propelled him forward, his mind racing with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
As he pushed open the heavy oak doors, the grandeur of the Great Hall greeted him, its vast expanse illuminated by the soft glow of enchanted candles hovering above the long rows of tables. The room was quiet, save for the occasional flutter of wings as the enchanted ceiling mimicked the stormy night sky outside.
Harry's eyes scanned the room, searching for any sign of Ron and Hermione amidst the dimly lit surroundings. And there, in the center of the room, he spotted them: Ron, leaning forward with a look of fierce concentration, and Hermione, her brow furrowed in deep thought as she studied the intricate chessboard before her.
Approaching them quietly, Harry observed the scene before him. The chess pieces seemed to come alive under Ron and Hermione's expert hands, moving across the board with a fluidity that spoke of their years of friendship and camaraderie. The tension in the air was palpable as the two friends engaged in their battle of wits, each move a calculated gambit in their ongoing duel.
As Harry drew closer, Ron looked up, his eyes lighting up with recognition as he spotted his friend approaching. “Hey, Harry!” he greeted, a grin spreading across his face. “Come join us! Hermione's giving me a real run for my money here.”
Hermione glanced up from the board, a smile quirking at the corner of her lips as she greeted Harry with a nod of acknowledgment. “Hello, Harry,” she said, her tone warm despite the intensity of the game.
"Don't talk to me for a moment," said Ron when Harry sat down next to him, "I need to concen—there it is!" With a sudden surge of determination, Ron's hand darted forward, he called out for his knight to move forward positioning itself for a decisive strike.
Hermione's eyes widened in surprise, her gaze darting across the chessboard with a mixture of disbelief and admiration. The implications of Ron's maneuver unfolded before her, sending a jolt of realization coursing through her veins. Her breath caught in her throat, a testament to the sudden shift in the game's momentum. Frantically, she began reassessing her own strategy, her mind racing to counter Ron's unexpected move. But alas, it was too late. Ron's calculated maneuver had sealed her fate, leaving her momentarily stunned by the turn of events.
A triumphant grin spread across Ron's face, his eyes alight with the thrill of victory as he watched Hermione's expression shift from shock to one of disbelief. In the midst of his jubilation, Ron caught sight of Harry's face, his brow furrowed with concern.
"What's the matter with you? You look terrible," Ron remarked, his voice tinged with genuine worry.
Speaking quietly, so as not to attract attention, Harry relayed the unsettling news about Snape's sudden desire to officiate the upcoming Quidditch match. The sinister implications hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the previously joyous atmosphere.
"Don't play," Hermione interjected immediately, her voice tinged with urgency.
"Say you're ill," Ron suggested, his concern mirroring Hermione's.
"Pretend to break your leg," Hermione proposed, her mind already churning with potential solutions.
"Really break your leg," Ron added, his tone laced with grim humor.
Harry shook his head, his expression somber. "I can't," he replied, his voice heavy with resignation. "There isn't a reserve Seeker. If I back out, Gryffindor can't play at all."
Just then, Neville Longbottom stumbled into the Great Hall, his entrance drawing the attention of the gathered students. It was a comical sight, as Neville's legs appeared to be stuck together by some unseen force—a realization that dawned on them instantly as the Leg-Locker Curse.
Neville's struggle to maneuver with his legs bound together added a touch of absurdity to the already tense atmosphere, eliciting a mixture of amusement and concern from the onlookers.
Ron's laughter echoed through the air, a hearty sound that filled the Great Hall with warmth and camaraderie. Hermione, ever the quick thinker, sprang into action, her movements fluid as she whispered the incantation "Finite" while executing the necessary hand gestures with practiced precision. As if released from invisible bonds, Neville's legs sprang apart, and he staggered to his feet, visibly shaken by the ordeal.
"What happened?" Hermione inquired gently, her voice laced with concern, as she guided Neville over to where Harry and Ron sat.
Neville's voice trembled as he recounted the encounter with Malfoy. "Malfoy," he stammered, struggling to compose himself. "I met him outside the library. He said he'd been looking for someone to practice that on."
Hermione's eyes flashed with indignation, her resolve firm. "Go to Professor McGonagall!" she urged Neville, her voice adamant. "Report him!"
But Neville shook his head, his shoulders slumped with defeat. "I don't want more trouble," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.
"You've got to stand up to him, Neville!" Ron interjected, his tone firm and unwavering. "He's used to walking all over people, but that's no reason to lie down in front of him and make it easier."
The weight of Ron's words hung heavy in the air, but Neville's response was tinged with a profound sense of self-doubt. "There's no need to tell me I'm not brave enough to be in Gryffindor," he choked out, his voice cracking with emotion. The vulnerability in his words struck a chord with his friends, serving as a poignant reminder of the internal struggles that often accompanied acts of bravery.
Harry's fingers brushed against the fabric of his robe, seeking solace within its folds. With a gentle tug, he retrieved a Chocolate Frog, the last remnant from the box Hermione had gifted him for Christmas. The wrapper crinkled softly as Harry extended the treat to Neville, whose eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"You're worth twelve of Malfoy," Harry reassured him, his voice firm yet gentle. "The Sorting Hat chose you for Gryffindor, didn't it? And where's Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin."
A fleeting expression of gratitude flickered across Neville's face as he accepted the chocolate frog, his trembling fingers unwrapping it with cautious reverence. The sweet scent of chocolate mingled with the faint aroma of parchment, enveloping them in a comforting embrace.
"Thanks, Harry...I think I'll go to bed," Neville murmured, his voice soft yet resolute. "D'you want the card, you collect them, don't you?"
As Neville turned to leave, Harry's gaze fell upon the Famous Wizard card nestled within the wrapper. With a sense of nostalgia, he gingerly retrieved the card, allowing himself a moment of quiet reflection as he studied the image of the illustrious wizard depicted upon it.
"Dumbledore again," Harry remarked, his voice tinged with awe. "He was the first one I ever-"
He paused abruptly, his breath catching in his throat as he turned the Famous Wizard card over, his eyes widening in astonishment. With trembling fingers, he traced the engraved words on the back of the card, his heart racing with sudden realization.
"I've found him!" Harry exclaimed in a hushed whisper, his eyes alight with excitement. "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: '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's reaction was immediate and electrifying. With a burst of energy, she sprang to her feet, her expression ablaze with excitement. It was a sight to behold, reminiscent of the fervor she displayed upon receiving their very first piece of homework back.
"Stay there!" Hermione instructed, her voice tinged with urgency as she dashed up the stairs to the girls' dormitories. Harry and Ron exchanged bewildered looks, barely able to comprehend the sudden turn of events, before Hermione reappeared, clutching an enormous old book to her chest.
The weight of the book seemed to add to Hermione's determination as she hurried back to her companions, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. It was clear that whatever she had discovered within the pages of that ancient tome held the key to unlocking the mystery surrounding Nicolas Flamel.
"I never thought to look in here!" Hermione whispered excitedly, her voice barely above a breathless murmur. "I got this out of the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading."
"Light?" Ron interjected incredulously, but Hermione shot him a stern look, urging him to silence until she'd uncovered what she sought. With fervent determination, she began flicking through the pages of the ancient tome, her fingers moving with a frantic urgency as she muttered to herself under her breath.
At last, her efforts bore fruit. With a triumphant exclamation, Hermione located the passage she had been seeking, her eyes alight with excitement.
"I knew it! I knew it!" she whispered fervently, her voice tinged with dramatic flair.
"Are we allowed to speak yet?" Ron grumbled impatiently, but Hermione paid him no mind, her attention fully consumed by her discovery.
"Nicolas Flamel," she intoned, her tone weighted with significance, "is the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone!"
The revelation hung in the air, but to Hermione's surprise, it failed to elicit the reaction she had anticipated.
"The what?" Harry and Ron echoed simultaneously, their confusion evident in their expressions.
"Oh, honestly, don't you two read?" Hermione chided gently, a hint of exasperation coloring her tone. "Look—read that, there."
With a sense of urgency, she pushed the book toward them, urging them to examine the passage that lay open before them. Harry and Ron leaned in, their eyes scanning the words with growing comprehension.
"The ancient study of alchemy," they read aloud in unison, "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."
The significance of Hermione's discovery dawned upon them, sending a shiver of anticipation coursing through their veins. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the secrets hidden within the pages of history.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
The weight of Hermione's revelation hung heavy in the air, casting a palpable sense of awe and wonder over the trio. The ancient tome lay open before them, its weathered pages whispering secrets of centuries past.
"There have been many reports of the Philosopher's Stone over the centuries," Hermione read aloud, her voice trembling with excitement, "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, who's six hundred and fifty-eight."
Hermione's words resonated with profound significance, painting a vivid picture of the enigmatic figure behind the legendary Stone. The notion of a Stone that could transmute metal into gold and grant immortality seemed like something out of a fairy tale, yet here it was, nestled within the pages of ancient lore.
"See?" Hermione exclaimed triumphantly, her eyes shining with fervor. "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!"
The implications of Hermione's deduction were staggering, sending a ripple of apprehension through their ranks. The realization dawned upon them with newfound clarity, revealing the extent of the danger lurking within the shadows.
"A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever dying!" Harry marveled, his voice filled with awe. "No wonder Snape's after it! Anyone would want it."
"And no wonder we couldn't find Flamel in that Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry," Ron added, his brow furrowed with realization. "He's not exactly recent if he's six hundred and sixty-five, is he?"
The weight of their discovery settled upon them like a heavy cloak, enveloping them in a shroud of contemplation and uncertainty. The mysteries of the Philosopher's Stone loomed large in their minds, casting a shadow over their thoughts with each passing moment. In the face of such extraordinary revelations, the journey ahead seemed fraught with peril, yet tinged with the promise of adventure and discovery.
The next morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts, while diligently copying down different ways of treating werewolf bites, Harry and Ron found their minds still consumed by the previous night's revelations. Their whispered conversation carried the weight of endless possibilities as they debated the hypothetical implications of possessing the Philosopher's Stone.
It wasn't until Ron casually mentioned his desire to buy his own Quidditch team with the Stone's riches that Harry's thoughts were abruptly pulled back to reality. With a sudden jolt of remembrance, he recalled the looming threat of Snape and the impending Quidditch match.
As the gravity of the situation settled upon him once more, Harry felt a surge of determination coursing through his veins, mingling with the flutter of nerves that danced in the pit of his stomach. The weight of responsibility pressed upon his shoulders, urging him to rise to the occasion with unwavering resolve. The time for contemplation and speculation had passed; now, more than ever, they needed to remain vigilant and focused in the face of the challenges that lay ahead.
"I'm going to play," Harry declared to Ron and Hermione, his voice infused with quiet determination. "If I don't, all the Slytherins will think I'm just 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 field," Hermione quipped, her words carrying a hint of playful concern.
Despite his bravado, however, Harry found himself growing increasingly nervous as the match drew nearer, his outward confidence masking a simmering undercurrent of apprehension. The weight of expectation bore down upon him, a tangible presence that seemed to loom over the entire team. And Harry wasn't alone in his unease; the rest of the team shared his apprehension, their nerves palpable as they grappled with the daunting prospect of facing Slytherin with a biased referee.
The idea of overtaking Slytherin in the house championship was undeniably exhilarating, a tantalizing prospect that filled them with renewed determination. Yet, beneath the surface, doubts lingered, casting a shadow of uncertainty over their preparations. Would they be allowed to emerge victorious, or would Snape's prejudice prove insurmountable in their quest for glory? The answer remained elusive, shrouded in the uncertainty of the impending match.
Harry felt a persistent sense of unease settling over him like a heavy shroud as he navigated the corridors of Hogwarts. It was as if Snape's presence loomed around every corner, a specter haunting his every move. At times, Harry couldn't shake the unsettling notion that Snape was deliberately shadowing him, lurking in the shadows with sinister intent. The mere thought sent shivers down his spine, igniting a flicker of fear in the depths of his mind.
Potions lessons had become a grueling ordeal, each session a relentless barrage of Snape's disdain and hostility directed squarely at Harry. The atmosphere in the dungeon classroom was thick with tension, Harry's nerves stretched taut as he braced himself for Snape's cutting remarks and malicious sneers. Could Snape possibly be aware that they had uncovered the truth about the Philosopher's Stone? Harry pondered the question, his thoughts swirling with uncertainty. It seemed inconceivable, and yet, there were moments when he couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that Snape possessed an uncanny ability to peer into his innermost thoughts.
As he stood outside the locker rooms, preparing to face Slytherin in the upcoming Quidditch match, Harry sensed the weight of his friends' apprehension bearing down upon him. Ron and Hermione's somber expressions spoke volumes, their unspoken fears echoing in the silence that hung heavy in the air. It was a sobering realization, one that cast a shadow over the fleeting moments of camaraderie before the match.
The words of encouragement from his teammates fell upon deaf ears as Harry mentally prepared himself for the task ahead. Wood's impassioned pep talk faded into the background as Harry donned his Quidditch robes, the familiar weight of his Nimbus Two Thousand a comforting presence in the midst of uncertainty. With each stride toward the pitch, Harry steeled himself for the challenges that awaited, his resolve unwavering in the face of adversity.
Ron and Hermione, with a sense of determination etched upon their faces, had taken their place in the stands next to Neville. The anticipation in the air was palpable, but Neville couldn't fathom why his friends appeared so grim and worried. His confusion deepened as he noticed both Ron and Hermione discreetly concealing their wands, a gesture that only added to the air of mystery surrounding them.
Unbeknownst to Harry, Ron and Hermione had been clandestinely honing their magical skills in preparation for the match. The memory of Malfoy's cruel use of the Leg-Locker Curse on Neville had served as a catalyst, fueling their resolve to protect Harry at all costs. With practiced precision, they whispered the incantation to each other, their wands concealed and ready to spring into action should the need arise.
"Now, don't forget, it's Locomotor Mortis," Hermione murmured softly, her voice barely audible above the din of the crowd, as Ron deftly slipped his wand up his sleeve.
"I know," Ron retorted sharply, a hint of irritation coloring his tone. "Don't nag."
Meanwhile, back in the locker room, Wood had pulled Harry aside, his expression grave with determination. The weight of responsibility hung heavy in the air as Wood impressed upon Harry the urgency of their situation.
"Don't want to pressure you, Potter," Wood began, his voice tinged with urgency, "but if we ever need an early capture of the Snitch it's now. Finish the game before Snape can favor Hufflepuff too much."
The enormity of the task at hand weighed heavily upon Harry as he absorbed Wood's words, the weight of expectation pressing down upon him like a leaden cloak. Yet, amidst the tension and uncertainty, a glimmer of hope flickered in the form of a surprising revelation.
"The whole school's out there!" Fred Weasley exclaimed, peering out of the door with a mixture of awe and disbelief. "Even—blimey—Dumbledore's come to watch!"
Harry's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Dumbledore's presence, a surge of determination coursing through his veins. In that moment, he felt a renewed sense of purpose, a silent vow to rise to the challenge and seize victory.
"Dumbledore?" Harry exclaimed, rushing to the door to confirm. Fred's assertion proved true; there, amidst the throng of spectators, stood the unmistakable figure of Dumbledore, his silver beard glinting in the sunlight.
A wave of relief washed over Harry like a soothing balm. With Dumbledore present, he felt an unspoken assurance that he was safe. There was simply no way that Snape would dare to try to hurt him under the watchful gaze of the venerable headmaster.
The tension that had gripped him moments before now seemed to dissipate, replaced by a sense of reassurance and resolve. As the teams marched onto the field, Harry couldn't help but notice the intensity etched upon Snape's features, a sight that did not escape Ron's keen observation.
"I've never seen Snape look so mean," Ron remarked to Hermione, his voice tinged with apprehension. "Look - they're off. Ouch!"
Ron winced as a sudden jab caught him off guard, prompting him to whirl around in annoyance. It was Malfoy, his smirk oozing with malicious amusement as he reveled in his petty act of provocation.
"Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn't see you there," Malfoy sneered, casting a smug glance at Crabbe and Goyle. "Wonder how long Potter's going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone want a bet? What about you, Weasley?"
Ron's silence spoke volumes, his clenched jaw betraying his simmering anger. Meanwhile, Snape's vindictive nature was made evident as he awarded Hufflepuff a penalty, citing George Weasley's errant Bludger as justification.
Amidst the tension that permeated the air, Hermione sat with bated breath, her fingers crossed in her lap as she fixed her gaze upon Harry. He circled the game like a hawk in search of its prey, his determination palpable as he pursued the elusive Snitch with unwavering focus.
"You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team?" Malfoy's voice boomed across the stadium, cutting through the tense atmosphere like a knife as Snape arbitrarily awarded Hufflepuff another penalty. "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."
Neville's cheeks flushed crimson, but he summoned his courage and turned to face Malfoy squarely. "I'm worth twelve of you, Malfoy," he stammered defiantly.
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle erupted into raucous laughter, their jeers echoing across the stands. Yet, amidst the mockery, Ron remained steadfast, his eyes locked on the game unfolding before them.
"You tell him, Neville," Ron muttered under his breath, his nerves stretched taut with anxiety about Harry's safety.
"Longbottom, if brains were gold you'd be poorer than Weasley, and that's saying something," Malfoy retorted with a sneer, his words laced with venom.
Ron's grip tightened on the edge of his seat, his patience wearing thin as Malfoy's taunts grew more pointed. "I'm warning you, Malfoy—one more word—"
Amidst the roaring cheers of the crowd, Harry and Cedric Diggory, the Hufflepuff seeker, streaked through the air in a frenzied pursuit of the elusive golden Snitch. Their brooms weaved and darted with precision, each maneuver executed with the skill and finesse of seasoned Quidditch players.
The wind whipped against their faces as they hurtled through the air, their senses heightened with adrenaline as they locked their sights on the fluttering glint of gold. The stadium echoed with the thunderous applause of the spectators, their fervent excitement fueling the intensity of the chase.
With each passing moment, the gap between Harry and Cedric narrowed, the competitive spirit driving them onward in a relentless quest for victory. The air crackled with tension as they raced through the sky, their movements a blur of motion against the backdrop of the sprawling Quidditch pitch.
Suddenly, the Snitch veered sharply to the left, darting toward the edge of the field with lightning speed. Harry and Cedric followed suit, their brooms slicing through the air as they pursued their elusive quarry with unwavering determination.
But as they reached the outskirts of the pitch, a fierce battle erupted between them, the competitive fervor igniting into a clash of wills.
In the midst of the chaos, Harry and Cedric remained locked in a fierce struggle, their determination unyielding as they vied for supremacy in the skies above.
Hermione, her eyes wide with alarm, watched with bated breath as Harry and Cedric hurtled toward the ground in a thrilling display of skill and daring. The air crackled with anticipation, the outcome of the chase hanging precariously in the balance as the two seekers raced toward their elusive quarry. Hermione leaped to her feet, her crossed fingers pressed anxiously against her lips, as Harry streaked toward the ground with the speed and precision of a falcon in flight.
"You're in luck, Weasley, Potter's obviously spotted some money on the ground!" said Malfoy.
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.
"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's eyes widened in surprise as something scarlet shot past him, narrowly missing him by inches. The rush of wind whipped against his robes as Harry executed a flawless maneuver, pulling out of the dive with astonishing agility. In the blink of an eye, Harry's arm shot upward in triumphant victory, the Snitch clasped securely in his hand.
A deafening roar erupted from the stands, echoing across the stadium as the spectators erupted into jubilant cheers. It was a moment of triumph unlike any other; the speed at which Harry had caught the Snitch was nothing short of astonishing, a feat that would surely go down in Quidditch history.
"Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game's over! Harry's won! We've won! Gryffindor is in the lead!" Hermione's voice rang out, filled with unrestrained elation as she danced up and down on her seat, embracing Parvati Patil in the row in front.
Harry landed gracefully on the ground, mere inches from the grassy pitch. His heart pounded with exhilaration as the reality of his victory sank in. He couldn't believe it; he had done it. The game was over, and it had barely lasted five minutes. Gryffindors spilled onto the field in a wave of celebration, their cheers filling the air with an infectious energy.
Amidst the chaos, Snape landed nearby, his expression white-faced and tight-lipped, a stark contrast to the jubilant atmosphere surrounding him. Yet, as Harry felt a hand on his shoulder, he looked up to see Dumbledore's smiling face, his eyes twinkling with pride and admiration.
"Well done," Dumbledore murmured quietly, his words carrying a sense of genuine warmth and approval. "Nice to see you haven't been brooding about that mirror...been keeping busy...excellent..."
Snape spat bitterly on the ground.
Harry felt the deafening cheers from his teammates from the locker room as they held him up like a trophy itself. The chants didn’t seem to stop and he couldn't ever remember feeling happier. He'd really done something to be proud of now—no one could say he was just a famous name any more. The evening air had never smelled so sweet. He walked over the damp grass, reliving the last hour in his head, which was a happy blur: Gryffindors running to lift him onto their shoulders; Ron and Hermione in the distance, jumping up and down, Ron cheering through a heavy nosebleed.
Harry had reached the shed. He leaned against the wooden door and looked up at Hogwarts, with its windows glowing red in the setting sun. Gryffindor in the lead. He'd done it, he'd shown Snape.
"You won! We won!" shouted Ron, thumping Harry on the back. "I don’t even care you beat Diggory so quickly, that was amazing! I’m sure I’ll hear about it tomorrow in the common room, but at the moment I don’t care! 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 your common room, we're gonna be having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and stuff from the kitchens."
“Oh, I’m sure I can go help bring some of it up. I can’t lie, I’m curious about just asking the elves for some—”
“Asking the elves?” Ron asked. “I….well...I actually don’t see why that wouldn’t work. But I’d be wary about adding Fred and George into the conversation—they’d probably not want to help you if they know you were with them when they took the other cakes.”
As Harry made his way down the dimly lit corridors toward the kitchens, his mind buzzed with anticipation Harry rounded a corner and stumbled upon an unexpected scene. Standing in a shadowy alcove, obscured from view but unmistakably present, were Professor Quirrell and Professor Snape. Their voices were low, but the intensity of their conversation sent shivers down Harry's spine.
"...progress?" Snape's voice dripped with suspicion, his tone as sharp as a blade. The dim light flickered off the cold stone walls, casting eerie shadows that danced around the hallway. "I trust you are making satisfactory headway in your endeavors?"
Quirrell's voice trembled as he responded, his words stuttering with nervousness. "I...d-don't know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus..."
"Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," Snape retorted, his voice icy and calculated. "Students aren't supposed to know about the Philosopher's Stone, after all."
Harry leaned forward, straining to hear every word. Quirrell's mumbled response was barely audible over the sound of their hushed conversation. Snape's interruption cut through the tension like a knife.
"Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?" Snape's voice was laced with impatience and underlying threat.
"B-b-but Severus, I—"
"You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," Snape interjected, his tone ominous as he took a deliberate step forward. "I-I don't know what you—”
"You know perfectly well what I mean." Snape's words were sharp, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
Harry's heart raced in his chest as he listened, his breath catching in his throat. The gravity of the situation hung heavily in the air, a palpable tension that sent shivers down his spine. There was something deeply unsettling about the exchange, something that hinted at secrets lurking just beneath the surface.
As the conversation continued, Harry remained rooted to the spot, his senses heightened with anticipation. What was Snape truly questioning Quirrell about? And what did it have to do with the Philosopher's Stone? With each passing moment, the mystery deepened, and Harry knew that he had stumbled upon something far more sinister than he could have ever imagined.
He raced back up to the Gryffindor Common Room, his heart pounding with adrenaline, and found Hermione and Ron waiting anxiously at the entrance.
"What happened to the cakes and such? They turn you away?" Ron asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"Never mind that now," said Harry breathlessly, his urgency evident. "Let's find an empty room, you wait 'til you hear this..."
They hurriedly searched for a vacant space, ensuring Peeves wasn't lurking nearby, before finally settling into an unused chamber. Harry shut the door behind them, sealing off any potential eavesdroppers, before launching into his account of what he had witnessed.
"So we were right, it is the Philosopher's Stone, and Snape's trying to force Quirrell to help him get it," Harry explained, his words rushed with excitement. "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—"
The weight of Harry's revelation lingered in the air like a heavy fog, casting a shadow over their thoughts as they grappled with the implications of Snape's sinister intentions and the imminent dangers that lay ahead.
"So you mean the Stone's only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?" Hermione's voice quivered with alarm, her brow furrowed in deep concern.
"It'll be gone by next Tuesday," Ron interjected bluntly, his words cutting through the tense atmosphere with a hint of resignation.