Harry felt the weight of his body gradually lifting from the murky depths of unconsciousness. With a faint flutter of his eyelids, the dimness surrounding him began to dissipate, replaced by the radiant glow of luminescent spheres that seemed to dance in the air. As his vision cleared, the ethereal forms coalesced into recognizable shapes, and before him emerged the familiar countenance of Albus Dumbledore, his features illuminated by a serene aura. Harry's consciousness surfaced further, and he blinked once more, fully awakening to the present moment.
"Good afternoon, Harry," greeted Dumbledore, his voice a soothing balm to Harry's disoriented senses. Harry stared at him, the urgency of recent events flooding back to him in a rush of adrenaline. Then, with a jolt of realization, he blurted out, "Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! He's got the Stone! Sir, quick—"
"Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the times," Dumbledore interjected gently, his tone carrying an air of reassurance. "Quirrell does not have the Stone."
"Then who does? Sir, I—" Harry began, his words tumbling out in a frantic stream of questions.
"Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me thrown out," Dumbledore admonished with a twinkle in his eye, injecting a note of levity into the tense atmosphere.
Harry swallowed, the gravity of the situation gradually sinking in as he surveyed his surroundings. It dawned on him that he must be in the hospital wing, nestled within the crisp embrace of white linen sheets. Beside him, a table adorned with an assortment of confectionery delights lay in disarray.
"Tokens from your friends and admirers," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling with warmth as he surveyed the eclectic array of gifts adorning Harry's bedside table. "What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it."
Harry couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of the gesture, his lips quirking into a faint smile amidst the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. "How long have I been in here?" he inquired, his voice tinged with a sense of urgency.
"Three days," replied Dumbledore, his tone imbued with a mixture of gravitas and concern. "Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger will be most relieved you have come round, they have been extremely worried."
"But sir, the Stone..." Harry's voice trailed off, his brow furrowing with apprehension.
"I see you are not to be distracted," Dumbledore observed, his piercing gaze holding Harry's own with unwavering intensity. "Very well, the Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, although you were doing very well on your own, I must say."
"You got there? You got Hermione's owl?" Harry exclaimed, a flicker of disbelief mingling with relief as he processed the implications of Dumbledore's words.
"We must have crossed in midair," Dumbledore mused, a wistful smile playing upon his lips. "No sooner had I reached London than it became clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived just in time to pull Quirrell off you."
"It was you," Harry breathed, a sense of awe suffusing his features as he grappled with the enormity of Dumbledore's intervention.
"I feared I might be too late," Dumbledore admitted, his expression betraying a flicker of somber reflection.
"You nearly were, I couldn't have kept him off the Stone much longer—" Harry began, his voice faltering as he recalled the harrowing confrontation in the depths of the dungeon.
"Not the Stone, boy, you—the effort involved nearly killed you," Dumbledore interjected, his words cutting through the tumult of Harry's thoughts with chilling clarity. "For one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, well, you need not worry about that any longer."
"But...what if someone else gets a hold of it?" asked Harry, his voice tinged with uncertainty as he grappled with the implications of their conversation. “And your friend Nicholas...”
Dumbledore regarded him with a gentle understanding, his eyes alight with a profound wisdom that seemed to transcend the confines of their surroundings. "Oh, you know about Nicolas?" he remarked, a note of genuine delight coloring his tone. "You did do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicholas and I have had many numerous discussions about getting rid of the stone altogether. Many a night were spent on midnight debates. It seems we both had a different view on the side effects of immortality."
Harry’s brow furrowed, “But he ultimately gave it to you, so he must have agreed?”
“I can’t say he fully turned over the leaf, but I can assure you that the stone you had found within the mirror will trouble others no longer.”
Harry's brow furrowed in consternation. "But that means he and his wife will die, won't they?"
"Who is to say?” Dumbledore asked, and Harry noticed there seemed to be more to this answer than he was satisfied with. “I have given my piece and I hope it comes across. I think you’ll find Harry that the older someone is, the harder it is to teach them lessons on life—they seem to think they have everything figured out,” he chuckled to himself. “They have set aside enough elixir so that they can set their affairs in order, at least. Whether they choose to seek an end to their long journey will ultimately be up to them, but I hope so.," Dumbledore confirmed solemnly, his expression tinged with a sense of somber resignation.
A look of incredulity flickered across Harry's features as he struggled to comprehend the magnitude of Dumbledore's revelation. "To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible," Dumbledore continued, his voice soft with reassurance, "but to someone of their age, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."
Harry lay there, his mind awash with a tumult of conflicting emotions, his thoughts racing to make sense of the profound truths unveiled before him. Dumbledore's words hung in the air, lingering like wisps of smoke, as Harry grappled with the weight of their significance.
"The Stone is really not such a wonderful thing," Dumbledore mused, his gaze drifting upward toward the vaulted ceiling with a faint smile playing upon his lips. "As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all—the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them."
Harry remained silent, his thoughts swirling in a maelstrom of introspection, as Dumbledore hummed a little tune and gazed contemplatively at the expanse above.
"Sir?" said Harry, his voice hesitant as he broached the subject weighing heavily on his mind. "I've been thinking...sir—even if the Stone's gone, Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who—"
"Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself," Dumbledore interjected, his tone gentle yet firm, his piercing gaze fixed unwaveringly upon Harry.
"Yes, sir," Harry acquiesced, his words tinged with a sense of reverence. "Well, Voldemort's going to try other ways of coming back, isn't he? I mean, he hasn't gone, has he?"
"No, Harry, he has not," Dumbledore affirmed solemnly, his expression grave as he acknowledged the looming specter of Voldemort's malevolence. "He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share...not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time—and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power."
“How is it that someone like him can keep coming back?” Harry asked. “And...with that, there are some other things I’d like to know, if you can tell me...things I want to know the truth about…" Harry’s thoughts swirling with a tumult of apprehension and resolve, before halting abruptly as a pang of pain shot through his temples.
"The truth," Dumbledore murmured, his voice suffused with a weighty solemnity that seemed to echo through the hallowed confines of the room. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you'll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie. As to Voldemort’s condition...I’m afraid I am not quite sure of the exact nature of his survival, but I can undoubtedly say it will not be the last time he attempts something like it considering his escape from Quirrell, and not simply dying with the poor man."
"Well...Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him from killing me. But why would he want to kill me in the first place?" Harry's voice trembled with a mixture of confusion and a desperate longing for answers.
Dumbledore's expression softened, a profound sadness shadowing his features as he grappled with the weight of Harry's question. With a heavy sigh that seemed to resonate through the very air, he finally spoke, his words laden with an ineffable sorrow. "Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day...put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older...I know you hate to hear this...when you are ready, you will know."
And Harry knew, in that moment, that it would be futile to press further, to demand answers that were not yet meant to be revealed. With a resigned acceptance, he swallowed the bitter pill of uncertainty, burying the tumult of questions that threatened to overwhelm him beneath a veil of reluctant patience.
"But why couldn't Quirrell touch me?" Harry persisted, his voice tinged with a lingering sense of bewilderment.
"Your mother died to save you," Dumbledore began, his tone somber yet tinged with a profound reverence for the sacrifice that had shaped Harry's destiny. "If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign...to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good."
As Dumbledore spoke, Harry felt a surge of emotion welling within him, a potent mix of gratitude and sorrow that threatened to engulf him. Blinking back tears, he cast his gaze downward, seeking solace in the pristine folds of his hospital bedsheet.
Dumbledore, sensing the weight of Harry's emotions, diverted his attention to a bird perched on the windowsill, its feathers ruffled by a gentle breeze. The golden sunlight streaming through the glass pane cast intricate patterns of light and shadow upon the room, lending an ethereal quality to the scene. It was a momentary reprieve, a respite from the intensity of their conversation, allowing Harry the space to collect himself amidst the tranquil ambiance that enveloped them.
When he had composed himself enough to speak, Harry's voice emerged from the quiet of the room, tinged with a sense of lingering curiosity. The soft rustle of bed linens echoed in the hushed atmosphere, punctuated by the rhythmic ticking of an ornate grandfather clock standing sentinel in the corner of the room. "And the invisibility cloak—do you know who sent it to me?"
"Ah—your father happened to leave it in my possession, and I thought you might like it," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint that belied the gravity of their conversation. His gaze drifted fondly to the bird outside the window, its melodious chirping a soothing counterpoint to the weighty matters they discussed. "Useful things...your father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens to steal food when he was here."
"And there's something else..." Harry hesitated, the weight of unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air.
"Fire away," Dumbledore encouraged, his demeanor radiating an aura of calm reassurance.
"Quirrell said Snape—"
"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore gently corrected.
"Yes, him—Quirrell said he hates me because he hated my father. Is that true?"
"Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike yourself and Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore acknowledged, his voice tinged with a note of solemn reflection. The muted rustle of parchment drifted through the room as a gentle breeze stirred the air. "And then, your father did something Snape could never forgive."
"What?" Harry's voice was a whisper, laden with a mixture of apprehension and disbelief.
"He...saved his life," Dumbledore replied, alluding to more of the story, but that was all he was going to give, his gaze drifting to the distant horizon with a faraway look in his eyes.
"What?" Harry repeated, his voice tinged with incredulity.
"Yes..." Dumbledore murmured, his tone suffused with a sense of wistful nostalgia. "Funny, the way people's minds work, isn't it? Professor Snape couldn't bear being in your father's debt...I do believe he worked so hard to protect you this year because he felt that would make him and your father even. Then he could go back to hating your father's memory in peace..."
Harry tried to understand this new revelation, but it felt like a whirlwind of thoughts crashing against the walls of his mind, each one threatening to overwhelm him in its complexity. He pressed his fingertips against his temples, willing the pounding ache in his head to subside, until finally, with a resigned sigh, he relented, allowing the tide of confusion to ebb away.
"And sir, there's one more thing..." Harry began tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper amidst the quiet hum of the room.
"Just the one?" Dumbledore quipped, a twinkle of amusement dancing in his eyes as he regarded Harry with affectionate indulgence.
"How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?" Harry's words spilled forth in a rush, his curiosity piqued by the enigmatic nature of the magical artifact that had loomed so large in his recent trials.
"Ah, now, I'm glad you asked me that," Dumbledore replied, his expression alight with a playful gleam. "It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone—find it, but not use it—would be able to get it, otherwise they'd just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes..."
Harry's mind reeled at the intricacies of Dumbledore's explanation, a newfound appreciation blossoming within him for the depth of the headmaster's wisdom. He blinked, his thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind, until Dumbledore's next words snapped him back to the present.
"Now, enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets." With a flourish, Dumbledore gestured towards the table piled high with confectionery delights, the vibrant hues of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans catching Harry's eye. "Ah! Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit flavored one, and since then I'm afraid I've rather lost my liking for them—but I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee, don't you?"
He smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth, before popping a golden-brown bean into his mouth. Yet, his expression quickly shifted to one of mild horror as he choked out, "Alas! Ear wax!"
Meanwhile, Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, stood nearby, her demeanor a blend of kindness and sternness as she observed the exchange with a watchful eye.
"Just five minutes," Harry pleaded, his tone beseeching.
"Absolutely not," Madam Pomfrey retorted firmly, her lips forming a thin line of resolve.
"You let Professor Dumbledore in..." Harry protested, grasping at straws in a bid to win her over.
"Well, of course, that was the headmaster, quite different. You need rest," Madam Pomfrey countered, her tone unwavering.
"I am resting, look, lying down and everything. Oh, come on, Madam Pomfrey..." Harry's voice trailed off, his gaze pleading as he sought to appeal to her softer side.
"Oh, very well," she relented at last, her resolve crumbling beneath Harry's earnest gaze. "But five minutes only."
With a sense of relief flooding through him, Harry watched as Ron and Hermione were ushered into the room, their faces radiant with concern and relief. Ron had a sling over his arm and the scar of a cut across his cheek.
"Harry!" Ron exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine relief at the sight of his friend.
Hermione looked ready to fling her arms around him again, but she held back on what he assumed was his account, and he wished she would just go for it.
“Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to—Dumbledore was so worried—"
"The whole school's talking about it," said Ron, his voice a mixture of relief and curiosity. "What really happened?"
“Are you okay?” Harry had also asked, and then they had gotten to talking all at once.
“Oh, this is fine. Mended and everything. I just like the look it gives me—rugged and handsome,” said Ron.
Harry and Hermione had laughed, and then they got into the thick of the conversation. It was one of those rare moments when reality eclipsed the wildest of rumors, leaving the truth stranger and more exhilarating than fiction. Harry launched into his tale, his words tumbling forth in a torrent of excitement and apprehension: Quirrell's treachery, the enigmatic Mirror of Erised, the elusive Philosopher's Stone, and the specter of Voldemort looming over it all. Ron and Hermione listened intently, their eyes widening with every twist and turn of Harry's narrative. They were a captive audience, gasping in all the right places, their expressions mirroring the tumult of emotions roiling within Harry's own heart. And when Harry divulged the horrifying truth lurking beneath Quirrell's turban, Hermione's scream pierced the air like a bolt of lightning, shattering the stillness of the room.
"So the Stone's gone?" Ron interjected, breaking the tense silence that followed Harry's revelation. "Flamel's just going to die?"
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"That's what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that—what was it?—'to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure,'" Harry replied, his words tinged with a sense of profound contemplation. “Although, he worded it very weird...I don’t think he actually confirmed…”
“What is it?” Ron asked.
“Nothing,” Harry shook his head. Dumbledore said the stone he held had been taken care of, that was that. There wasn’t any use thinking on the specifics.
"I always said he was off his rocker," Ron remarked with a hint of admiration, his gaze fixed on Dumbledore's eccentricity with newfound appreciation.
"So what happened to you two?" Harry inquired, eager to hear their side of the story.
"Well, I got back all right," Hermione began, her voice tinged with a mixture of relief and exhaustion. "I brought Ron round—that took a while—and we were dashing up to the owlery to contact Dumbledore when we met him in the entrance hall—he already knew—he just said, 'Harry's gone after him, hasn't he?' and hurtled off to the third floor."
"D'you think he meant you to do it?" Ron mused, his brow furrowing in contemplation. "Sending you your father's cloak and everything?"
"Well," Hermione exploded, her frustration palpable, "if he did—I mean to say that's terrible—you could have been killed."
"No, it isn't," Harry interjected thoughtfully, his gaze drifting to the window where the sunlight danced upon the fluttering leaves outside. "He's a funny man, Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give me a chance. I think he knows more or less everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to help. I mean, I don’t think it was a coincidence all of the obstacles we faced were things we were taught...or had the natural ability for. I don't think it was an accident he let me find out how the mirror worked. It's almost like he thought I had the right to face Voldemort if I could..."
"Yeah, Dumbledore's off his rocker, all right," said Ron proudly, his tone tinged with admiration for the headmaster's unorthodox ways.
“Sorry to say Harry, but…” Hermione began. “Unfortunately, because you were out…”
“Gryffindor didn’t have a seeker for the final match,” said Harry.
“Right,” Hermione nodded. “Which gave the match to Ravenclaw, who ended up getting enough points for the Quidditch Cup.”
“What’s that do for the overall House score?” Ron asked.
“An extra fifty points,” Hermione said.
“Aw, man, and here I thought my rugged skills would have helped Hufflepuff take the victory. I think that puts you in the lead,” said Ron.
Harry sighed, “The night we got caught for Norberta would’ve been undone if I’d been there.”
“Listen, Harry. You can’t blame yourself,” said Hermione. “You’ve really done a wonderful thing—much more wonderful than winning a Quidditch match. Anyway, you've got to be up for the end-of-year feast in a bit. The food will be good at least."
“That is true,” Harry said.
At that moment, Madam Pomfrey bustled over, her presence commanding attention as she issued her decree with unwavering authority. "You've had nearly fifteen minutes, now OUT," she said firmly, her stern expression leaving no room for argument.
After a restorative night's sleep, Harry awoke feeling nearly back to his usual self. The soft light filtering through the windows cast a warm glow upon the room, imbuing it with a sense of tranquility and renewal.
"I want to go to the feast," Harry informed Madam Pomfrey, his eagerness palpable as he anticipated the camaraderie and celebration that awaited him, and like Hermione had said...the food. "I can, can't I?"
"Professor Dumbledore says you are to be allowed to go," she replied stiffly, her tone betraying a hint of disapproval, as if she doubted the wisdom of allowing Harry to partake in such festivities. "And you have another visitor."
"Oh, good," said Harry, his spirits lifting at the prospect of another friendly face. "Who is it?"
Hagrid sidled through the door with his characteristic awkwardness, his massive frame seeming to dwarf the confines of the room. He settled down next to Harry, his features contorted with grief and remorse, his eyes red-rimmed with tears.
"It's—all—my—ruddy—fault!" he sobbed, his voice thick with emotion as he buried his face in his hands. "I told the evil git how ter get past Fluffy! I told him! It was the only thing he didn't know, an' I told him! Yeh could've died! All fer a dragon egg! I'll never drink again! I should be chucked out an' made ter live as a Muggle!"
"Hagrid!" Harry exclaimed, his shock evident as he watched his friend unraveling before him. He reached out a comforting hand, his heart aching at the sight of Hagrid's anguish. "Hagrid, he'd have found out somehow, this is Voldemort we're talking about, he'd have found out even if you hadn't told him."
"Yeh could've died!" Hagrid wailed, his grief overwhelming him as great tears streamed down his weathered face. "An' don' say the name!"
"VOLDEMORT!" Harry's voice thundered through the room, cutting through the palpable tension like a bolt of lightning. Hagrid, startled by the sudden outburst, was momentarily silenced, his tears arrested by Harry's fierce determination. "I've met him and I'm calling him by his name. Please cheer up, Hagrid, we saved the Stone, it's gone, he can't use it. Have a Chocolate Frog. Really, I've got loads..."
Hagrid, still sniffling, wiped his nose on the back of his hand and managed a weak chuckle at Harry's attempt at humor. "That reminds me. I've got yeh a present."
"It's not a stoat sandwich, is it?" Harry quipped anxiously, his attempt to lighten the mood falling a bit flat amidst the somber atmosphere.
"Nah. Dumbledore gave me the day off yesterday ter fix it. 'Course, he shoulda sacked me instead—anyway, got yeh this..." Hagrid replied, his voice tinged with a mixture of guilt and affection.
It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book. Harry opened it curiously, his heart pounding with anticipation. It was full of wizard photographs. Smiling and waving at him from every page were his mother and father.
"Sent owls off ter all yer parents' old school friends, askin' fer photos...knew yeh didn' have any...d'yeh like it?" Hagrid asked, his voice thick with emotion.
Harry couldn't speak, but the look of gratitude and joy shining in his eyes spoke volumes. Hagrid understood, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears of happiness.
Later that evening, Harry made his way down to the end-of-year feast alone. Madam Pomfrey's fussing had delayed him, insisting on giving him one last checkup, so the Great Hall was already abuzz with excitement and chatter. The room was adorned in the colors of Slytherin, green and silver banners draped proudly from the rafters, celebrating Slytherin's seventh consecutive victory in the house cup. A massive banner depicting the Slytherin serpent adorned the wall behind the High Table, casting a shadow of gloom over the proceedings.
As Harry entered the Great Hall, a sudden hush fell over the assembled students, followed by a flurry of whispered conversations. He felt the weight of their collective gaze upon him as he made his way to the Gryffindor table, where Ron and Hermione awaited him. Ignoring the curious stares and murmurs that followed his every move, Harry settled into his seat, his heart heavy with the knowledge of the trials that lay ahead.
Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later, his presence commanding attention and quelling the rising tide of speculation. With his arrival, the babble of voices died away, replaced by a sense of eager anticipation for the headmaster's address.
"Another year gone!" Dumbledore's voice rang out through the Great Hall, imbued with a sense of warmth and cheer that seemed to wrap around the assembled students like a comforting embrace. His eyes twinkled merrily behind his half-moon spectacles, his silver beard gleaming in the soft light of the enchanted torches that lined the walls. "And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were...you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts..."
The air buzzed with anticipation as Dumbledore's words washed over the eager students, their faces alight with excitement and anticipation for the festivities to come.
"Now, as I understand it, the house cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-one."
A storm of cheering and stamping erupted from the Slytherin table, the sound reverberating off the walls and filling the Great Hall with an electric energy. Harry's gaze flicked over to Draco Malfoy, whose smug expression and arrogant demeanor made Harry's stomach churn with disdain. The sight was sickening, a stark reminder of the divisions that still lingered within Hogwarts' walls.
"Yes, Yes, well done, Slytherin," said Dumbledore, his voice cutting through the cacophony with a calm authority that demanded attention. "However, recent events must be taken into account."
The room fell into a hushed silence, the Slytherins' jubilant smiles fading as Dumbledore's words hung in the air like a heavy shroud. "Ahem," Dumbledore cleared his throat, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over the sea of expectant faces. "I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes...First—to Mr. Ronald Weasley..."
Ron's face turned a deep shade of crimson, his freckles standing out starkly against his flushed cheeks as he squirmed under Dumbledore's scrutiny. He resembled a radish that had been left out in the sun for too long, his discomfort palpable even from across the room.
"...for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Hufflepuff house fifty points."
Cheers erupted from the Hufflepuff table, their voices rising to a crescendo that nearly lifted the enchanted ceiling from its moorings. Justin Finch-Fletchly, Ernie Macmillan, and Louis Malone on each side of Ron had thrown their arms in the air in celebration. At the other end of the table, Lucy Moon, Sandy-Anne Parks, and Susan Bones joined the other Hufflepuffs in the roars of applause.
Percy, seated amongst the prefects, couldn't contain his pride as he regaled his fellow students with tales of his youngest brother's triumph. "My brother, you know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall's giant chess set!"
At last, the clamor subsided, giving way to a profound silence that seemed to envelop the Great Hall in its embrace. "Second—to Miss Hermione Granger...for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Ravenclaw house fifty points."
The Ravenclaw table erupted into cheers of their own, their voices mingling with the lingering echoes of the Hufflepuffs' jubilation. Hermione's eyes sparkled with pride as she basked in the adulation of her fellow students, her intellect and bravery earning her the recognition she so rightly deserved. Hermione buried her face in her arms, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs as the weight of Dumbledore's words washed over her.
Kevin Entwhistle gave Hermione a hug—a small fire lit inside Harry that he tried to push down, as he clapped and was so happy for the jubilation. The other first year Ravenclaws around her, Anthony Goldstein, Morag MacDougal, Padma Patil, Lisa Turpin, and many others as the applause ripped through the table of cobalt.
Harry could sense the overwhelming emotion, his heart going out to his friend in her moment of vulnerability. He strongly suspected she had burst into tears, her usually composed facade crumbling under the weight of the moment.
"Third—to Mr. Harry Potter..." Dumbledore's voice cut through the heavy silence like a knife, commanding the attention of every soul in the Great Hall. The air seemed to crackle with anticipation as Dumbledore continued, his words ringing out with a solemn gravity that belied their significance. "For pure nerve and outstanding courage and tremendous service to the school, I award Gryffindor house one hundred and fifty points."
The room exploded into chaos, the deafening roar of applause echoing off the stone walls as Gryffindors leaped to their feet, their voices blending into a cacophony of jubilation. Asher and Neville came close as their claps filled Harry’s ears. Fred and George were chanting some sort of rhyme that Harry couldn’t hear. Pavarti Patil, Alice Runcorn, and Sally Smith all sat in a trio looking on with jubilant smiles.
Dumbledore's raised hand signaled for silence, and gradually, the room fell into a hushed reverence as all eyes turned toward the venerable headmaster.
"There are all kinds of courage," Dumbledore began, his voice gentle yet firm, a knowing smile playing upon his lips. "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom."
A collective gasp rippled through the Great Hall as Dumbledore's words hung in the air, their significance not lost on anyone present. Gryffindors erupted into a deafening roar of approval, their cheers mingling with the thunderous applause of their fellow students. Neville, white with shock, found himself enveloped in a tidal wave of Gryffindors, his astonishment mirrored in the faces of those around him. He had never won so much as a point for Gryffindor before, yet now, he stood as a hero in the eyes of his peers.
As the celebrations continued, Harry couldn't help but feel a swell of pride in his chest. They had done it. Even if they hadn't emerged victorious overall, they had achieved something far greater—they had triumphed over adversity, united in their defiance against the tyranny of Slytherin.
Gryffindor: 472
Hufflepuff: 402
Ravenclaw: 476
Slytherin: 471
Amidst the jubilation, Harry nudged Asher in the ribs, his grin widening as he pointed towards Malfoy, whose expression of stunned disbelief only served to fuel Harry's satisfaction.
"Which means," Dumbledore's voice cut through the storm of applause, his words drawing the attention of the entire room, "we need a little change of decoration."
With a simple clap of his hands, the green hangings of Slytherin transformed into cobalt and bronze, the towering serpent giving way to a majestic Ravenclaw eagle. The sight elicited cheers from every corner of the Great Hall, as even those from other houses joined in the celebration of Slytherin's downfall.
Snape, who stood beside Professor Flitwick, wore a forced smile that did little to conceal the resentment in his eyes. His gaze locked with Harry's, and in that moment, Harry knew that Snape's feelings toward him remained unchanged. But Harry didn't dwell on it. Life at Hogwarts would soon return to its familiar rhythm, a semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos of the past year.
The Great Hall buzzed with an electric energy, the atmosphere charged with an undeniable sense of triumph and camaraderie. For Harry, the evening surpassed even the most cherished memories he held dear—more exhilarating than any Quidditch victory, more magical than the most enchanting Christmas, and even more satisfying than the time he bravely faced down mountain trolls. Tonight would forever be etched in his mind as the pinnacle of his Hogwarts experience, a momentous occasion he would treasure for years to come.
Amidst the revelry, Harry had almost forgotten about the looming specter of the exam results, but true to their inevitability, they arrived. With bated breath, Harry and Ron eagerly awaited their fate, their hearts pounding in anticipation. To their great surprise and relief, both boys passed with flying colors, a wave of relief washing over them as the weight of uncertainty lifted from their shoulders. Hermione, as expected, boasted the highest grades amongst the first years, her academic prowess a testament to her tireless dedication and unwavering commitment to excellence.
What had brightened Harry’s day even more was Malfoy’s grades. They had been lower than his ego had lead them to believe he would get. They looked at the tallies for all the grades—the highest for first year Slytherins was Sophie Roper, and that fact made Harry smile.
“Oy, you hear about Ladd’s results?” A second year Slytherin named Abigail Jetson had said behind them. Harry turned to see her scanning the list. “Nearly top marks—specially in D.A.D.A. How’d you think she managed that with Quirrell as our teach?”
“Dunno,” her friend, another Slytherin named Barbara Kent replied. “She was taking notes every class, so maybe she was able to wring out what little he could teach. Good for her.”
“Oh, definitely. I’m just amazed. She did the same thing last year too. Can’t be a surprise who our Head Girl is going to be.”
Barbara chuckled and they both left.
Even Neville, who had struggled with self-doubt throughout the year, managed to scrape through, his exemplary performance in Herbology offsetting his less-than-stellar showing in Potions. It was a moment of triumph for the young Gryffindor, a validation of his efforts and a testament to his resilience in the face of adversity.
As the trio reveled in their success, their thoughts turned to their less fortunate classmates. They had harbored hopes that Goyle, with his penchant for cruelty matched only by his lack of intellect, might fail to meet the academic standards required to continue his education at Hogwarts. However, to their disappointment, even Goyle had managed to pass. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but as Ron sagely remarked, life often had a way of dishing out unexpected twists and turns. Despite their disappointment, Harry, Ron, and Hermione found solace in the knowledge that their own successes had been hard-earned,
As the end of term approached with rapid fervor, the Hogwarts students found themselves swept up in a whirlwind of activity. The once bustling dormitories were now eerily quiet, the air heavy with the anticipation of departure. Trunks lay scattered across the dormitory floors, their contents meticulously packed away as students hurriedly gathered their belongings.
In the midst of the chaos, Neville's toad, Trevor, was discovered lurking in a dimly lit corner of the toilets, much to the relief of its fretful owner. Meanwhile, notes were distributed to all students, admonishing them against the use of magic over the upcoming holidays—an annual tradition that never failed to elicit a resigned sigh from the mischievous Fred Weasley, who harbored a secret hope that the reminders might one day be overlooked.
With their trunks securely fastened and their belongings in tow, the students made their way down to the grounds where Hagrid awaited them, a towering figure amidst the sea of eager faces. The fleet of boats bobbed gently on the shimmering surface of the lake, ready to ferry the departing students across the tranquil waters.
As they boarded the Hogwarts Express, the excitement in the air was palpable, the anticipation of the summer holiday tinged with a bittersweet nostalgia for the memories forged within the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. Conversations flowed freely, laughter echoed through the corridors of the train, and the countryside blurred into a verdant tapestry of greenery and tranquility outside the windows.
Amidst the chatter and laughter, the students indulged in the whimsical delights of Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, their taste buds subjected to an eclectic array of flavors as they sped past quaint Muggle towns and picturesque landscapes.
As the journey progressed, the students shed their wizarding robes, exchanging them for jackets and coats more suited to the mundanity of the Muggle world that awaited them. Finally, as the train pulled into platform nine and three-quarters at King's Cross Station, a sense of wistful anticipation settled over the departing students, each one eager to embark on their own summer adventures.
It took quite some time for the students to disembark from the train, a wizened old guard stationed by the ticket barrier to ensure their departure was inconspicuous. With a practiced efficiency, he allowed them to pass through the gate in small groups, ensuring that their sudden emergence from a solid wall did not attract undue attention from the unsuspecting Muggles bustling about the station.
As Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way through the bustling train station, the cacophony of voices swirled around them like a tumultuous whirlwind. The air was alive with the vibrant energy of departure, the platform teeming with travelers embarking on journeys both near and far.
Despite the chaos, Ron's invitation lingered in the air like a promise of warmth and companionship amidst the uncertainty of the summer ahead. "You must come and stay this summer," he insisted, his voice carrying above the din. "Both of you—I'll send you an owl."
Harry nodded gratefully, a flicker of anticipation igniting within him at the thought of a respite from the mundane realities of the Muggle world. "Thanks," he replied. "I'll need something to look forward to."
As they navigated through the throngs of people, they were met with a chorus of farewells and well-wishes. "Bye, Harry!" voices called out from all directions. "See you, Potter!" Ron grinned at him, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "Still famous," he remarked with a playful smirk.
"Not where I'm going, I promise you," Harry quipped, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he contemplated the anonymity that awaited him beyond the magical realm of Hogwarts.
Together, they passed through the gateway that marked the boundary between the wizarding world and the Muggle realm, their steps guided by a shared sense of camaraderie and mutual support.
But amidst the bustling chaos of the crowded train station, amidst the throngs of ordinary people rushing to and fro, there stood a figure that stood out like a sore thumb. It was Uncle Vernon, his presence looming like a dark cloud over the otherwise cheerful atmosphere of the platform. His face was contorted in a shade of furious purple, his mustache bristling with indignation at the audacity of his nephew to partake in such fanciful escapades.
In Uncle Vernon's grasp, a sturdy cage containing an owl rattled with every step he took, the bird inside exuding an air of dignified indifference despite the tumultuous surroundings. Its sharp, unyielding gaze pierced through the chaos, its feathers ruffling with silent disdain at the mundane scene unfolding around it.
As Uncle Vernon made his way through the bustling crowd, his presence seemed to cast a shadow over the platform, his towering figure looming like a dark omen amidst the sea of travelers. Behind him, Aunt Petunia and Dudley trailed along, their faces a portrait of apprehension and discomfort. Aunt Petunia's lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyes darting nervously between Harry and the owl, while Dudley's expression mirrored his father's simmering anger.
The tension in the air was palpable, thickening with each passing moment as Uncle Vernon's glare bore down on Harry, his disapproval radiating like waves of heat in the stifling summer air.
Mrs. Weasley's attempt at cordiality seemed to fall on deaf ears as Uncle Vernon bristled at her remark, his response curt and dismissive. "In a manner of speaking," he grunted, his voice dripping with disdain. "Hurry up, boy, we haven't got all day." With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, his family in tow.
As Harry lingered for a final farewell with Ron and Hermione, the weight of the impending summer weighed heavily on their shoulders. "See you over the summer, then," Harry murmured, his tone laced with a mixture of anticipation and mischief.
Hermione's expression softened with concern as she glanced after Uncle Vernon's retreating figure, her disbelief evident in the furrow of her brow. "I really hope you have a good Holiday, Harry. Please write if you need any reassurance. I’ll be learning to send them out and I’d love to see Hedwig.”
Harry’s cheeks felt alight, and he nodded quickly. Then, he turned to Uncle Vernon and then looked back at his friends. A mischievous grin spread across Harry's face, his eyes alight with a sense of rebellious delight. "Oh, I will," he assured them, his voice laced with anticipation. "They don't know we're not allowed to use magic at home. I'm going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer..."