Dumbledore had convinced Harry not to go looking for the
Mirror of Erised again and for the rest of the Christmas holidays
the Invisibility Cloak stayed folded at the bottom of his trunk.
Harry wished he could forget what he’d seen in the Mirror as
easily, but he couldn’t. He started having nightmares. Over and
over again he dreamed about his parents disappearing in a flash of
green light while a high voice cackled with laughter.
‘You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you
mad,’ said Ron, when Harry told him about these dreams.
Hermione, who came back the day before term started, took a
different view of things. She was torn between horror at the idea
of Harry being out of bed, roaming the school three nights in a
row (‘If Filch had caught you!’) and disappointment that he hadn’t
at least found out who Nicolas Flamel was.
They had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a
library book, even though Harry was still sure he’d read the name
somewhere. Once term had started, they were back to skimming
through books for ten minutes during their breaks. Harry had
even less time than the other two, because Quidditch practice had
started again.
Wood was working the team harder than ever. Even the endless
rain that had replaced the snow couldn’t dampen his spirits. The
Weasleys complained that Wood was becoming a fanatic, but
Harry was on Wood’s side. If they won their next match, against
Hufflepuff, they would overtake Slytherin in the House Championship for the first time in seven years. Quite apart from
wanting to win, Harry found that he had fewer nightmares when
he was tired out after training.
Then, during one particularly wet and muddy practice session,
Wood gave the team a bit of bad news. He’d just got 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!’
George Weasley really did fall off his broom at these words.
‘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. ‘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 rest of the team hung back to talk to each other as usual at
the end of practice, but Harry headed straight back to the
Gryffindor common room, where he found Ron and Hermione
playing chess. Chess was the only thing Hermione ever lost at,
something Harry and Ron thought was very good for her.
‘Don’t talk to me for a moment,’ said Ron when Harry sat down
next to him. ‘I need to concen–’ He caught sight of Harry’s face.
‘What’s the matter with you? You look terrible.’
Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear, Harry told the
other two about Snape’s sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch
referee.
‘Don’t play,’ said Hermione at once.
‘Say you’re ill,’ said Ron.
‘Pretend to break your leg,’ Hermione suggested.
‘Really break your leg,’ said Ron.
‘I can’t,’ said Harry. ‘There isn’t a reserve Seeker. If I back out,
Gryffindor can’t play at all.’
At that moment Neville toppled into the common room. How
he had managed to climb through the portrait hole was anyone’s
guess, because his legs had been stuck together with what they
recognised at once as the Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to
bunny hop all the way up to Gryffindor Tower.
Everyone fell about laughing except Hermione, who leapt up
and performed the counter-curse. Neville’s legs sprang apart and he got to his feet, trembling.
‘What happened?’ Hermione asked him, leading him over to sit
with Harry and Ron.
‘Malfoy,’ said Neville shakily. ‘I met him outside the library. He
said he’d been looking for someone to practise that on.’
‘Go to Professor McGonagall!’ Hermione urged Neville. ‘Report
him!’
Neville shook his head.
‘I don’t want more trouble,’ he mumbled.
‘You’ve got to stand up to him, Neville!’ said Ron. ‘He’s used to
walking all over people, but that’s no reason to lie down in front
of him and make it easier.’
‘There’s no need to tell me I’m not brave enough to be in
Harry felt in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a Chocolate
Frog, the very last one from the box Hermione had given him for
Christmas. He gave it to Neville, who looked as though he might cry.
‘You’re worth twelve of Malfoy,’ Harry said. ‘The Sorting Hat
chose you for Gryffindor, didn’t it? And where’s Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin.’
Neville’s lips twitched in a weak smile as he unwrapped the Frog.
‘Thanks, Harry ... I think I’ll go to bed ... D’you want the card,
you collect them, don’t you?’
As Neville walked away Harry looked at the Famous Wizard card.
‘Dumbledore again,’ he said. ‘He was the first one I ever –’
He gasped. He stared at the back of the card. Then he looked
up at Ron and Hermione.
‘I’ve found him!’ he whispered. ‘I’ve found Flamel! I told you I’d
read the name somewhere before, I read it on the train coming
here – listen to this: “Professor Dumbledore is particularly famous
for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the
discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood and his work on
alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel”!’
Hermione jumped to her feet. She hadn’t looked so excited
since they’d got back the marks for their very first piece of homework.
‘Stay there!’ she said, and she sprinted up the stairs to the girls’
dormitories. Harry and Ron barely had time to exchange mystified
looks before she was dashing back, an enormous old book in her
arms. ‘I never thought to look in here!’ she whispered excitedly. ‘I got
this out of the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading.’
‘Light?’ said Ron, but Hermione told him to be quiet until she’d
looked something up, and started flicking frantically through the
pages, muttering to herself.
At last she found what she was looking for.
‘I knew it! I knew it!’
‘Are we allowed to speak yet?’ said Ron grumpily. Hermione
ignored him.
‘Nicolas Flamel,’ she whispered dramatically, ‘is the only known
maker of the Philosopher’s Stone!’
This didn’t have quite the effect she’d expected.
‘The what?’ said Harry and Ron.
‘Oh, honestly, don’t you two read? Look – read that, there.’
She pushed the book towards them, and Harry and Ron read:
The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with
making the Philosopher’s Stone, a legendary
substance with astonishing powers. The Stone
will transform any metal into pure gold. It also
produces the Elixir of Life, which will make
the drinker immortal.
There have been many reports of the Philosopher’s
Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently
in existence belongs to Mr Nicolas Flamel, the noted
alchemist and opera-lover. Mr Flamel, who
celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday
last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife,
Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight).
‘See?’ said Hermione, when Harry and Ron had finished. ‘The dog
must be guarding Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone! I bet he asked
Dumbledore to keep it safe for him, because they’re friends and he
knew someone was after it. That’s why he wanted the Stone
moved out of Gringotts!’
‘A stone that makes gold and stops you ever dying!’ said Harry.
‘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,’ said Ron. ‘He’s not exactly recent if he’s
six hundred and sixty-five, is he?’ Next morning in Defence Against the Dark Arts, while copying
down different ways of treating werewolf bites, Harry and Ron
were still discussing what they’d do with a Philosopher’s Stone if
they had one. It wasn’t until Ron said he’d buy his own Quidditch
team that Harry remembered about Snape and the coming match.
I’m going to play,’ he told Ron and Hermione. ‘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 pitch,’ said
Hermione.
*
As the match drew nearer, however, Harry became more and more
nervous, whatever he told Ron and Hermione. The rest of the
team weren’t too calm, either. The idea of overtaking Slytherin in
the House Championship was wonderful, no one had done it for
nearly seven years, but would they be allowed to, with such a
biased referee?
Harry didn’t know whether he was imagining it or not, but he
seemed to keep running into Snape wherever he went. At times,
he even wondered whether Snape was following him, trying to
catch him on his own. Potions lessons were turning into a sort of
weekly torture, Snape was so horrible to Harry. Could Snape possibly know they’d found out about the Philosopher’s Stone? Harry
didn’t see how he could – yet he sometimes had the horrible feeling that Snape could read minds.
*
Harry knew, when they wished him good luck outside the changing rooms next afternoon, that Ron and Hermione were wondering whether they’d ever see him alive again. This wasn’t what
you’d call comforting. Harry hardly heard a word of Wood’s pep
talk as he pulled on his Quidditch robes and picked up his
Nimbus Two Thousand.
Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, had found a place in the stands
next to Neville, who couldn’t understand why they looked so grim
and worried, or why they had both brought their wands to the
match. Little did Harry know that Ron and Hermione had been
secretly practising the Leg-Locker Curse. They’d got the idea from
Malfoy using it on Neville, and were ready to use it on Snape if he
showed any sign of wanting to hurt Harry.
‘Now, don’t forget, it’s Locomotor Mortis,’ Hermione muttered as Ron slipped his wand up his sleeve.
‘I know,’ Ron snapped. ‘Don’t nag.’
Back in the changing room, Wood had taken Harry aside.
‘Don’t want to pressure you, Potter, but if we ever need an early
capture of the Snitch it’s now. Finish the game before Snape can
favour Hufflepuff too much.’
‘The whole school’s out there!’ said Fred Weasley, peering out
of the door. ‘Even – blimey – Dumbledore’s come to watch!’
Harry’s heart did a somersault.
‘Dumbledore?’ he said, dashing to the door to make sure. Fred
was right. There was no mistaking that silver beard.
Harry could have laughed out loud with relief. He was safe.
There was simply no way that Snape would dare to try and hurt
him if Dumbledore was watching.
Perhaps that was why Snape was looking so angry as the teams
marched on to the pitch, something that Ron noticed, too.
‘I’ve never seen Snape look so mean,’ he told Hermione. ‘Look –
they’re off. Ouch!’
Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It was Malfoy.
‘Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there.’
Malfoy grinned broadly 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 didn’t answer; Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty
because George Weasley had hit a Bludger at him. Hermione, who
had all her fingers crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry,
who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the Snitch.
‘You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor
team?’ said Malfoy loudly a few minutes later, as Snape awarded
Hufflepuff another penalty for no reason at all. ‘It’s people they
feel sorry for. See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s
the Weasleys, who’ve got no money – you should be on the team,
Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.’
Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face Malfoy.
‘I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,’ he stammered.
Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle howled with laughter, but Ron, still
not daring to take his eyes from the game, said, ‘You tell him,
Neville.’
‘Longbottom, if brains were gold you’d be poorer than Weasley,
and that’s saying something.’ Ron’s nerves were already stretched to breaking point with
anxiety about Harry.
‘I’m warning you, Malfoy – one more word –’
‘Ron!’ said Hermione suddenly. ‘Harry –!’
‘What? Where?’
Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, which drew
gasps and cheers from the crowd. Hermione stood up, her crossed
fingers in her mouth, as Harry streaked towards the ground like a
bullet.
‘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 on to her seat
to watch as Harry sped straight at Snape – she didn’t even notice
Malfoy and Ron rolling around under her seat, or the scuffles and
yelps coming from the whirl of fists that was Neville, Crabbe and
Goyle.
Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in time to
see something scarlet shoot past him, missing him by inches –
next second, Harry had pulled out of the dive, his arm raised in
triumph, the Snitch clasped in his hand.
The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one could ever
remember the Snitch being caught so quickly.
‘Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s won!
We’ve won! Gryffindor are in the lead!’ shrieked Hermione, dancing up and down on her seat and hugging Parvati Patil in the row
in front.
Harry jumped off his broom, a foot from the ground. He couldn’t
believe it. He’d done it – the game was over; it had barely lasted five
minutes. As Gryffindors came spilling on to the pitch, he saw Snape
land nearby, white-faced and tight-lipped – then Harry felt a hand
on his shoulder and looked up into Dumbledore’s smiling face.
‘Well done,’ said Dumbledore quietly, so that only Harry could
hear. ‘Nice to see you haven’t been brooding about that mirror ...
been keeping busy ... excellent ...’
Snape spat bitterly on the ground.
*
Harry left the changing room alone some time later, to take his
Nimbus Two Thousand back to the broomshed. 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 on to their shoulders; Ron
and Hermione in the distance, jumping up and down, Ron cheering through a heavy nosebleed.
Harry had reached the shed. He leant 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 ...
And speaking of Snape ...
A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of the castle.
Clearly not wanting to be seen, it walked as fast as possible
towards the Forbidden Forest. Harry’s victory faded from his mind
as he watched. He recognised the figure’s prowling walk. Snape,
sneaking into the Forest while everyone else was at dinner – what
was going on?
Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand and took off.
Gliding silently over the castle he saw Snape enter the Forest at a
run. He followed.
The trees were so thick he couldn’t see where Snape had gone.
He flew in circles, lower and lower, brushing the top branches of
trees until he heard voices. He glided towards them and landed
noiselessly in a towering beech tree.
He climbed carefully along one of the branches, holding tight
to his broomstick, trying to see through the leaves.
Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he wasn’t alone.
Quirrell was there, too. Harry couldn’t make out the look on his
face, but he was stuttering worse than ever. Harry strained to
catch what they were saying.
‘... d-don’t know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all pplaces, Severus ...’
‘Oh, I thought we’d keep this private,’ said Snape, his voice icy.
‘Students aren’t supposed to know about the Philosopher’s Stone,
after all.’
Harry leant forward. Quirrell was mumbling something. Snape
interrupted him. ‘Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid’s yet?’
‘B-b-but Severus, I –’
‘You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell,’ said Snape, taking
a step towards him.
‘I-I don-t know what you –’
‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’
An owl hooted loudly and Harry nearly fell out of the tree. He
steadied himself in time to hear Snape say, ‘– your little bit of
hocus pocus. I’m waiting.’
‘B-but I d-d-don’t –’
‘Very well,’ Snape cut in. ‘We’ll have another little chat soon,
when you’ve had time to think things over and decided where
your loyalties lie.’
He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing.
It was almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell, standing
quite still as though he was petrified.
*
‘Harry where have you been?’ Hermione squeaked.
‘We won! You won! We won!’ shouted Ron, thumping Harry on
the back. ‘And I gave Malfoy a black eye and Neville tried to take
on Crabbe and Goyle single-handed! He’s still out cold but
Madam Pomfrey says he’ll be all right – talk about showing
Slytherin! Everyone’s waiting for you in the common room, we’re
having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and stuff from
the kitchens.’
‘Never mind that now,’ said Harry breathlessly. ‘Let’s find an
empty room, you wait ’til you hear this ...’
He made sure Peeves wasn’t inside before shutting the door
behind them, then he told them what he’d seen and heard.
‘So we were right, it is the Philosopher’s Stone, and Snape’s trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He asked if he knew how
to get past Fluffy – and he said something about Quirrell’s “hocuspocus” – 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 which Snape needs to break
through –’
‘So you mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrell stands up
Chapter 13
Nicolas Flamel
Dumbledore had convinced Harry not to go looking for the
Mirror of Erised again and for the rest of the Christmas holidays
the Invisibility Cloak stayed folded at the bottom of his trunk.
Harry wished he could forget what he’d seen in the Mirror as
easily, but he couldn’t. He started having nightmares. Over and
over again he dreamed about his parents disappearing in a flash of
green light while a high voice cackled with laughter.
‘You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you
mad,’ said Ron, when Harry told him about these dreams.
Hermione, who came back the day before term started, took a
different view of things. She was torn between horror at the idea
of Harry being out of bed, roaming the school three nights in a
row (‘If Filch had caught you!’) and disappointment that he hadn’t
at least found out who Nicolas Flamel was.
They had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a
library book, even though Harry was still sure he’d read the name
somewhere. Once term had started, they were back to skimming
through books for ten minutes during their breaks. Harry had
even less time than the other two, because Quidditch practice had
started again.
Wood was working the team harder than ever. Even the endless
rain that had replaced the snow couldn’t dampen his spirits. The
Weasleys complained that Wood was becoming a fanatic, but
Harry was on Wood’s side. If they won their next match, against
Hufflepuff, they would overtake Slytherin in the House Championship for the first time in seven years. Quite apart from
wanting to win, Harry found that he had fewer nightmares when
he was tired out after training.
Then, during one particularly wet and muddy practice session,
Wood gave the team a bit of bad news. He’d just got 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!’
George Weasley really did fall off his broom at these words.
‘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. ‘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 rest of the team hung back to talk to each other as usual at
the end of practice, but Harry headed straight back to the
Gryffindor common room, where he found Ron and Hermione
playing chess. Chess was the only thing Hermione ever lost at,
something Harry and Ron thought was very good for her.
‘Don’t talk to me for a moment,’ said Ron when Harry sat down
next to him. ‘I need to concen–’ He caught sight of Harry’s face.
‘What’s the matter with you? You look terrible.’
Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear, Harry told the
other two about Snape’s sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch
referee.
‘Don’t play,’ said Hermione at once.
‘Say you’re ill,’ said Ron.
‘Pretend to break your leg,’ Hermione suggested.
‘Really break your leg,’ said Ron.
‘I can’t,’ said Harry. ‘There isn’t a reserve Seeker. If I back out,
Gryffindor can’t play at all.’
At that moment Neville toppled into the common room. How
he had managed to climb through the portrait hole was anyone’s
guess, because his legs had been stuck together with what they
recognised at once as the Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to
bunny hop all the way up to Gryffindor Tower.
Everyone fell about laughing except Hermione, who leapt up
and performed the counter-curse. Neville’s legs sprang apart and he got to his feet, trembling.
‘What happened?’ Hermione asked him, leading him over to sit
with Harry and Ron.
‘Malfoy,’ said Neville shakily. ‘I met him outside the library. He
said he’d been looking for someone to practise that on.’
‘Go to Professor McGonagall!’ Hermione urged Neville. ‘Report
him!’
Neville shook his head.
‘I don’t want more trouble,’ he mumbled.
‘You’ve got to stand up to him, Neville!’ said Ron. ‘He’s used to
walking all over people, but that’s no reason to lie down in front
of him and make it easier.’
‘There’s no need to tell me I’m not brave enough to be in
Gryffindor, Malfoy’s already done that,’ Neville choked.
Harry felt in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a Chocolate
Frog, the very last one from the box Hermione had given him for
Christmas. He gave it to Neville, who looked as though he might cry.
‘You’re worth twelve of Malfoy,’ Harry said. ‘The Sorting Hat
chose you for Gryffindor, didn’t it? And where’s Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin.’
Neville’s lips twitched in a weak smile as he unwrapped the Frog.
‘Thanks, Harry ... I think I’ll go to bed ... D’you want the card,
you collect them, don’t you?’
As Neville walked away Harry looked at the Famous Wizard card.
‘Dumbledore again,’ he said. ‘He was the first one I ever –’
He gasped. He stared at the back of the card. Then he looked
up at Ron and Hermione.
‘I’ve found him!’ he whispered. ‘I’ve found Flamel! I told you I’d
read the name somewhere before, I read it on the train coming
here – listen to this: “Professor Dumbledore is particularly famous
for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the
discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood and his work on
alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel”!’
Hermione jumped to her feet. She hadn’t looked so excited
since they’d got back the marks for their very first piece of homework.
‘Stay there!’ she said, and she sprinted up the stairs to the girls’
dormitories. Harry and Ron barely had time to exchange mystified
looks before she was dashing back, an enormous old book in her
arms. ‘I never thought to look in here!’ she whispered excitedly. ‘I got
this out of the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading.’
‘Light?’ said Ron, but Hermione told him to be quiet until she’d
looked something up, and started flicking frantically through the
pages, muttering to herself.
At last she found what she was looking for.
‘I knew it! I knew it!’
‘Are we allowed to speak yet?’ said Ron grumpily. Hermione
ignored him.
‘Nicolas Flamel,’ she whispered dramatically, ‘is the only known
maker of the Philosopher’s Stone!’
This didn’t have quite the effect she’d expected.
‘The what?’ said Harry and Ron.
‘Oh, honestly, don’t you two read? Look – read that, there.’
She pushed the book towards them, and Harry and Ron read:
The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with
making the Philosopher’s Stone, a legendary
substance with astonishing powers. The Stone
will transform any metal into pure gold. It also
produces the Elixir of Life, which will make
the drinker immortal.
There have been many reports of the Philosopher’s
Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently
in existence belongs to Mr Nicolas Flamel, the noted
alchemist and opera-lover. Mr Flamel, who
celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday
last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife,
Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight).
‘See?’ said Hermione, when Harry and Ron had finished. ‘The dog
must be guarding Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone! I bet he asked
Dumbledore to keep it safe for him, because they’re friends and he
knew someone was after it. That’s why he wanted the Stone
moved out of Gringotts!’
‘A stone that makes gold and stops you ever dying!’ said Harry.
‘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,’ said Ron. ‘He’s not exactly recent if he’s
six hundred and sixty-five, is he?’ Next morning in Defence Against the Dark Arts, while copying
down different ways of treating werewolf bites, Harry and Ron
were still discussing what they’d do with a Philosopher’s Stone if
they had one. It wasn’t until Ron said he’d buy his own Quidditch
team that Harry remembered about Snape and the coming match.
I’m going to play,’ he told Ron and Hermione. ‘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 pitch,’ said
Hermione.
*
As the match drew nearer, however, Harry became more and more
nervous, whatever he told Ron and Hermione. The rest of the
team weren’t too calm, either. The idea of overtaking Slytherin in
the House Championship was wonderful, no one had done it for
nearly seven years, but would they be allowed to, with such a
biased referee?
Harry didn’t know whether he was imagining it or not, but he
seemed to keep running into Snape wherever he went. At times,
he even wondered whether Snape was following him, trying to
catch him on his own. Potions lessons were turning into a sort of
weekly torture, Snape was so horrible to Harry. Could Snape possibly know they’d found out about the Philosopher’s Stone? Harry
didn’t see how he could – yet he sometimes had the horrible feeling that Snape could read minds.
*
Harry knew, when they wished him good luck outside the changing rooms next afternoon, that Ron and Hermione were wondering whether they’d ever see him alive again. This wasn’t what
you’d call comforting. Harry hardly heard a word of Wood’s pep
talk as he pulled on his Quidditch robes and picked up his
Nimbus Two Thousand.
Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, had found a place in the stands
next to Neville, who couldn’t understand why they looked so grim
and worried, or why they had both brought their wands to the
match. Little did Harry know that Ron and Hermione had been
secretly practising the Leg-Locker Curse. They’d got the idea from
Malfoy using it on Neville, and were ready to use it on Snape if he
showed any sign of wanting to hurt Harry.
‘Now, don’t forget, it’s Locomotor Mortis,’ Hermione muttered as Ron slipped his wand up his sleeve.
‘I know,’ Ron snapped. ‘Don’t nag.’
Back in the changing room, Wood had taken Harry aside.
‘Don’t want to pressure you, Potter, but if we ever need an early
capture of the Snitch it’s now. Finish the game before Snape can
favour Hufflepuff too much.’
‘The whole school’s out there!’ said Fred Weasley, peering out
of the door. ‘Even – blimey – Dumbledore’s come to watch!’
Harry’s heart did a somersault.
‘Dumbledore?’ he said, dashing to the door to make sure. Fred
was right. There was no mistaking that silver beard.
Harry could have laughed out loud with relief. He was safe.
There was simply no way that Snape would dare to try and hurt
him if Dumbledore was watching.
Perhaps that was why Snape was looking so angry as the teams
marched on to the pitch, something that Ron noticed, too.
‘I’ve never seen Snape look so mean,’ he told Hermione. ‘Look –
they’re off. Ouch!’
Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It was Malfoy.
‘Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there.’
Malfoy grinned broadly 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 didn’t answer; Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty
because George Weasley had hit a Bludger at him. Hermione, who
had all her fingers crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry,
who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the Snitch.
‘You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor
team?’ said Malfoy loudly a few minutes later, as Snape awarded
Hufflepuff another penalty for no reason at all. ‘It’s people they
feel sorry for. See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s
the Weasleys, who’ve got no money – you should be on the team,
Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.’
Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face Malfoy.
‘I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,’ he stammered.
Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle howled with laughter, but Ron, still
not daring to take his eyes from the game, said, ‘You tell him,
Neville.’
‘Longbottom, if brains were gold you’d be poorer than Weasley,
and that’s saying something.’ Ron’s nerves were already stretched to breaking point with
anxiety about Harry.
‘I’m warning you, Malfoy – one more word –’
‘Ron!’ said Hermione suddenly. ‘Harry –!’
‘What? Where?’
Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, which drew
gasps and cheers from the crowd. Hermione stood up, her crossed
fingers in her mouth, as Harry streaked towards the ground like a
bullet.
‘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 on to her seat
to watch as Harry sped straight at Snape – she didn’t even notice
Malfoy and Ron rolling around under her seat, or the scuffles and
yelps coming from the whirl of fists that was Neville, Crabbe and
Goyle.
Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in time to
see something scarlet shoot past him, missing him by inches –
next second, Harry had pulled out of the dive, his arm raised in
triumph, the Snitch clasped in his hand.
The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one could ever
remember the Snitch being caught so quickly.
‘Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s won!
We’ve won! Gryffindor are in the lead!’ shrieked Hermione, dancing up and down on her seat and hugging Parvati Patil in the row
in front.
Harry jumped off his broom, a foot from the ground. He couldn’t
believe it. He’d done it – the game was over; it had barely lasted five
minutes. As Gryffindors came spilling on to the pitch, he saw Snape
land nearby, white-faced and tight-lipped – then Harry felt a hand
on his shoulder and looked up into Dumbledore’s smiling face.
‘Well done,’ said Dumbledore quietly, so that only Harry could
hear. ‘Nice to see you haven’t been brooding about that mirror ...
been keeping busy ... excellent ...’
Snape spat bitterly on the ground.
*
Harry left the changing room alone some time later, to take his
Nimbus Two Thousand back to the broomshed. 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 on to their shoulders; Ron
and Hermione in the distance, jumping up and down, Ron cheering through a heavy nosebleed.
Harry had reached the shed. He leant 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 ...
And speaking of Snape ...
A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of the castle.
Clearly not wanting to be seen, it walked as fast as possible
towards the Forbidden Forest. Harry’s victory faded from his mind
as he watched. He recognised the figure’s prowling walk. Snape,
sneaking into the Forest while everyone else was at dinner – what
was going on?
Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand and took off.
Gliding silently over the castle he saw Snape enter the Forest at a
run. He followed.
The trees were so thick he couldn’t see where Snape had gone.
He flew in circles, lower and lower, brushing the top branches of
trees until he heard voices. He glided towards them and landed
noiselessly in a towering beech tree.
He climbed carefully along one of the branches, holding tight
to his broomstick, trying to see through the leaves.
Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he wasn’t alone.
Quirrell was there, too. Harry couldn’t make out the look on his
face, but he was stuttering worse than ever. Harry strained to
catch what they were saying.
‘... d-don’t know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all pplaces, Severus ...’
‘Oh, I thought we’d keep this private,’ said Snape, his voice icy.
‘Students aren’t supposed to know about the Philosopher’s Stone,
after all.’
Harry leant forward. Quirrell was mumbling something. Snape
interrupted him. ‘Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid’s yet?’
‘B-b-but Severus, I –’
‘You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell,’ said Snape, taking
a step towards him.
‘I-I don-t know what you –’
‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’
An owl hooted loudly and Harry nearly fell out of the tree. He
steadied himself in time to hear Snape say, ‘– your little bit of
hocus pocus. I’m waiting.’
‘B-but I d-d-don’t –’
‘Very well,’ Snape cut in. ‘We’ll have another little chat soon,
when you’ve had time to think things over and decided where
your loyalties lie.’
He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing.
It was almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell, standing
quite still as though he was petrified.
*
‘Harry where have you been?’ Hermione squeaked.
‘We won! You won! We won!’ shouted Ron, thumping Harry on
the back. ‘And I gave Malfoy a black eye and Neville tried to take
on Crabbe and Goyle single-handed! He’s still out cold but
Madam Pomfrey says he’ll be all right – talk about showing
Slytherin! Everyone’s waiting for you in the common room, we’re
having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and stuff from
the kitchens.’
‘Never mind that now,’ said Harry breathlessly. ‘Let’s find an
empty room, you wait ’til you hear this ...’
He made sure Peeves wasn’t inside before shutting the door
behind them, then he told them what he’d seen and heard.
‘So we were right, it is the Philosopher’s Stone, and Snape’s trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He asked if he knew how
to get past Fluffy – and he said something about Quirrell’s “hocuspocus” – 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 which Snape needs to break
through –’
‘So you mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrell stands up
to Snape?’ said Hermione in alarm.
‘It’ll be gone by next Tuesday,’ said Ron.