Despite the approaching first game of the season, I didn't have much time to dwell on Quidditch over the next few weeks. For one, homework was starting to pile up, leaving me with little time for anything except for essay writing and wand practice. For another, Christmas was approaching, and I was spending most of my free time, and a lot of my classes, thinking about what I should get Hermione. Nothing too big, because I didn't want to scare her off, but it I knew that it couldn't be something trivial, either, like sweets. It had to mean something…

It was during one of these brainstorming sessions, while I sat in Defense Against the Dark Arts, that I was jerked rudely out of my thoughts by way of something poking me hard in the back.

I looked around to find Ernie MacMillan, finger extended.

"What?" I snarled.

He scowled at me. Ever since rumors regarding my disastrous Quidditch tryout had spread, Hufflepuffs had been treating me with something close to disdain. I was able to stand it only by holding a certain piece of knowledge close to my chest: that I would prove them all wrong in our first game of the season. Assuming, of course, that I managed to get off the ground (a feat that I had only accomplished once during practice, and even then I had been airborne for fewer than ten seconds before crashing back to earth).

"Professor Quirrell," Ernie said, "has been repeating your name for the past five minutes."

I turned to the front, where Quirrell was staring at me and trembling. "I'm very sorry, Professor," I said sweetly. "I was distracted. You know, with Christmas coming...and Quidditch…"

"O-of c-c-course," said Quirrell, eye twitching. "I was j-j-just wondering if y-y-you might come t-t-to my office a-a-after class, Mr. Potter."

I looked at him uncertainly. "Have I done something wrong?" I was pretty sure I hadn't, assuming that my campaign to force him to temporarily remove his turban hadn't come to his attention. (It wasn't that I had an issue with turbans, per se, I was just worried that he might have been carrying some illegal potions under the wrap).

"Oh, n-no, Mr. Potter." He laughed timidly. "I j-just have a l-l-little extra credit e-e-exercise I think you might l-like…"

A few minutes later, I found myself in Professor Quirrell's office, sitting before his wide and impressive desk. Slowly, he lowered himself into a cushioned chair, before straightening and giving me a smile.

"Mr. Potter," he said, "I'm not sure we've ever been properly introduced. I am Quirinus Quirrell."

My mouth dropped in shock. Where had his stutter gone? Had it been a fake—this whole time? "Y-your stutter!" I said, stuttering a bit myself. "I-it's gone!"

"Well, of course it is," Quirrell said smoothly. "It was just a front. You didn't think that I actually had a speech impediment, did you? Merlin, they said you were smart."

"Um…"

Professor Quirrell waved a hand. "Regardless, I wanted to talk to you, Potter. I have a proposition that I think you'll like." He waited a moment, then said, "Are you familiar with an object called the Sorcerer's Stone?"

"The Sorcerer's Stones?" I thought this over. "I think," I said slowly, "that my Uncle Vernon has an adult film with that title. Though it's Ron's now, I guess…" I looked at him. "Are you interested in watching it? Because I bet Ron would be willing to let you borrow it, maybe even for free."

"What? No!" Quirrell hissed. "The Sorcerer's Stone, boy, Stone. Singular."

I paused. "Oh. No, I don't believe I know what that is."

He looked at me, and a slow smile spread across his face. "Well, then, listen carefully…"


"Let me get this straight," I said to Quirrell, some time later. "The Sorcerer's Stone is an object that gives a person eternal life? And it makes them incredibly rich?"

Quirrell nodded smugly. "Nicholas Flamel, its creator, was quite the alchemist. I doubt that any who came before or after him could have accomplished such a feat, except for possibly Lord Voldemort—"

"And except for me." At Quirrell's questioning look, I said, "I did defeat Voldemort as a baby, you know."

"Ah...yes." Quirrell looked like he was struggling to keep his fists on his desk, but I had no idea why. Wasn't Voldemort universally considered to be a bad guy?

"Anyways," I continued, "You think that you know where the Stone is hidden. And you want me to help you find it?"

Quirrell nodded again. "You've understood well, Mr. Potter. I believe that the Stone is one of Hogwarts' last mysteries, hidden long ago beneath the recently forbidden third-floor corridor, so that only a worthy soul is able to obtain it. That worthy soul is me." He paused, eyes glinting red. "And you, of course. Remember, if you and I are able to procure the Stone together...well, I am willing to split it with you, fifty-fifty. You'll live forever and become incredibly rich. And I…" He stared off into the distance, possibly imagining all of the women he could date if he never died. I'm not entirely sure, because my mind, always practiced when it came to daydreaming, was having another dream of its own…

I saw myself holding up the Sorcerer's Stone (which I imagined to be a large yellow beach ball), and presenting it to Hermione...I saw her smile as I told her how we could grow old together forever...in a mansion the size of a small country...with Ron as our butler...I imagined myself wearing suits made of dragon skin, and having stimulating intellectual discussions with Dumbledore in the parlor as we smoked pipes...

It sounded like a fantastic deal. I just had one question. "Why me?"

"What?"

"Well, you could ask any student to help you find the Stone. Why would you be interested in asking me?"

Quirrell looked at me for a moment. Then he smiled. "I'd have thought that would be obvious, boy," he said. "You've already said it yourself...you are Harry Potter. You did defeat Lord Voldemort, greatest, most powerful, and most handsome of all wizards, in single combat." He gagged at this last part. "I have already explored the outer defenses at Halloween; remember the troll?"

"That was you? I was nearly killed—and Hermione—"

"Sometimes people do get sacrificed for the greater good, Potter. That is simply the way of the world...As I was saying. I have explored the outer defenses; now I simply need someone to conduct reconnaissance on the inner ones. To go with me, and help me through the final Trials…" He looked at me sharply. "Are you any good at chess, boy?"

I nodded smugly. "I'm the greatest chess player that ever lived." Then I paused. "Though...I did lose to Ron, once. Or twice. But it was a fluke, because he was almost certainly cheating."

"I'm sure he was." Quirrell was looking happier and happier by the second. Then he considered me, and slowly put out his hand for a shake. "If you take my hand, boy, then we will become allies. I will contact you with further information in due time. However, you must swear that you will not speak of this to anyone...because the information could bring them serious harm." A darkness fell across his face, but an instant later it was gone, and I thought that maybe I'd imagined it.

"Are you with me, Potter?"

I pretended to scrutinize his hand while I thought. I did really want everlasting life...and being rich seemed useful as well...especially if the whole Quidditch thing didn't work out.

"Fine," I said. I looked into Quirrell's eyes. "But no double-crossing, okay? If I shake, we're splitting it fifty-fifty, no exceptions?"

"That's right, boy." I reached for his hand. "You truly are a wise child, Potter," he said. And then, as our hands touched, "MOTHER FU—"


During dinner, Hermione looked at me worriedly. "What's wrong, Harry?" she asked, ladling stew onto my plate. "You keep touching your head, and you've hardly eaten anything…"

I couldn't tell her about the Stone, Quirrell had made me promise, but oh how I wanted to...I settled for a partial truth. "My scar keeps hurting. It's been hurting on and off all day, ever since I shook Professor Quirrell's hand."

"What?" Hermione considered me. "Why did you do that?"

You promised, you promised…or Hermione might come to a bad end…"Well, he stuck his hand out...and he said, 'Shake.' So it would've been rude not to, right?"

"Umm…"

"Hermione, Harry's right," piped up Ron, who had been busy inhaling burritos while we talked. "If a person puts out his hand, you can't just ignore it…especially if that person is a teacher."

We all looked up to the Head Table, where the Professors were dining. Quirrell was sitting off to the side, his right hand wrapped in bandages up to the elbow.

At Hermione's raised eyebrows, I said, "I guess I have a really firm grip." She didn't look convinced, and so I sighed. "Hermione, it's fine. Quirrell's a teacher, this can't mean anything bad. He was hired by Dumbledore, right?"

Hermione reluctantly nodded.

I smiled at her. "Let's focus on something a little more pressing...like—" My stomach did a backflip "—I've got my first Quidditch game of the season next weekend…"

Ron nodded, looking excited. "Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff!" he said. "It's gonna be great. We'll be in the front row, Harry, to watch you win!"

I grinned at Ron, and said, "Damn right!" But inside, I was—I'm not going to lie—a little bit worried. I still hadn't really managed fully fledged flight during practice...though I had accidentally petrified a few more Snitches, and Cedric hadn't yet figured out how to fix them.

Hermione looked between the two of us, Ron looking jubilant, and I looking—maybe a bit queasy. Her gaze became tender. "Harry's going to be fine," she said. "Remember, as Ron said, it's in your blood…"