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 cracked with laughter.

"Told you so," said Malvora, when Harry told her about the dangers of the mirror.

Draco, who came back the day before term started, took a different view of things. He seemed spitefully jealous when hearing about the adventures Harry and Mal had over the break, because they were much more exciting than the ones he'd had at home, and he hadn't brought back any news about 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 and Draco had even less time than Malvora, because Quidditch practice had started again.

Flint was training the team harder than ever. Even the endless rain that had replaced the snow couldn't halt his determination. Harry was on his side. Slytherin was on the top in the Championship, and he wanted to keep it that way. If Ravenclaw won this match, they'd tie Slytherin for the House Championship. 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, Flint gave the team what he considered to be good news.

"Snape's refereeing this match," he said, with a troll-like grin. "We're bound to win."

Draco brimmed happily at these words.

"He'll be sure to favor Slytherin over Ravenclaw."

The rest of the team landed next to Draco to agree, too. It was all very well, thought Harry, but he had a reason for not wanting Snape near him while he was playing Quidditch.

The rest of the team hung back to talk to one another as usual at the end of practice, but Harry and Draco headed straight back to the Slytherin common room, where Malvora was doodling inside the pages of a library book.

"Sh," she warned, as she shaded in the tail of the dragon she was drawing.

"Mal, listen," said Harry. She looked up at them.

Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear, Harry told her about Snape's sudden, sinister desire to be Quidditch referee.

"It's good for Slytherin," said Draco.

"But bad for Harry," said Mal.

"Well he's got to play," Draco snapped. "There's no reserve Seeker."

"We could always just kill Snape," Mal suggested. "Before he can get to Harry."

Harry had almost suggested the same thing.

At that moment, Pansy strutted into the common room. She looked absolutely outrageous in her new clothes she'd gotten for Christmas. She had the resemblance of a peacock.

She approached Harry, Malvora, and Draco fearlessly, but turned to address Draco.

"Hello," she said, smugly.

"Pansy, can't you see we're having a conversation?" said Mal. "Didn't your parents teach you any manners?"

"I'm not here for you, Melbarke!" Pansy snapped, still harboring hard feelings after being pushed down the stands at the last Quidditch match.

"Draco," said Pansy, in a cooler tone, "I never got to give you your Christmas present or congratulate you on how great you were in that Quidditch game before holiday."

Draco looked pleased with himself. Malvora punched him in the arm.

"Get to the point, Pansy," said Harry, who was still desperate to discuss Snape's purpose at the next match.

"I've gotten you something," she held out a box of chocolate frogs, her cheeks red.

"I'm going to be sick," groaned Mal.

"How very thoughtful, Pansy," said Draco, with a sneer at Mal. "I'll enjoy these."

Pansy could have died with glee.

"You can go, now," said Draco. Pansy nodded, still smiling widely, and blindly made her way toward the dormitories.

Malvora snatched the chocolates out of Draco's hands.

"Here, Harry, have one," she tossed a frog to Harry.

"Those are mine, Melbarke!"

"Ooh, look! She put a note inside the box!"

"Mal, I swear, I'll curse you if you don't give that to me!"

"Oy, who wants to hear Pansy's love confession to Draco?"

Harry ignored them as he stared up at the frozen surface of the lake and opened the chocolate frog. There was a card inside, for collectors. It had a shimmering picture of Dumbledore on it.

He gasped. He stared at the back of the card. Then he looked up at Draco and Mal, who were locked in a wrestling stance.

"I've found him!" Harry whispered. "I've found Flamel! I knew I'd read his name somewhere before! 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'!"

Malvora was stone still, her face a mixture of shock and confusion.

"Hold on," she tossed the box of chocolates on the floor and reached for the library book she'd been doodling in.

"It was right under my nose the whole time!" she whispered excitedly. "I took this from the library weeks ago because I needed scratch paper."

"You could have just gotten blank parchment," said Draco, but Mal told him to shut up until she'd found something, and started flicking through the pages, muttering to herself.

At last she found what she was looking for.

"Ha!"

"Is it a drawing of Fluffy?" said Draco, irritably. Malvora ignored him.

"Nicolas Flamel," she stated, dramatically, "is the only known maker of the Sorcerer's Stone!"

This didn't have quite the effect she'd expected.

"The what?" said Harry and Draco.

"I thought the great Malfoy would at least know about it. Read this."

She pushed the book toward them, and Harry and Draco read:

The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with mak-

ing the Sorcerer's Stone, a legendary substance with as-

tonishing 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 Sorcerer'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 cele-

brated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last

year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife,

Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight).

"So," said Malvora, when Harry and Draco had finished. "Fluffy is guarding Flamel's Sorcerer's Stone! He knew someone was looking for it, so he moved it out of Gringotts to Hogwarts, since Dumbledore's his old friend."

"A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever dying!" said Harry. "No wonder Snape's after it! Anyone would want it."

Even Draco had to be somewhat excited by this news.

"Not that I would need the extra gold," he said, "but living to be six hundred and sixty-five…"

The next morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts, while copying down different ways of treating werewolf bites, Harry and Draco were still discussing what they'd do with a Sorcerer's Stone if they had one. It wasn't until Draco said he'd buy his own Quidditch team that Harry remembered about Snape and the coming match.

"I'm going to play," he told Draco and Mal. "If I don't, our House will never forgive me."

"I'll never forgive you," said Draco.

As the match drew nearer, however, Harry became more and more nervous, whatever he told Draco and Malvora. The rest of the team was completely calm, and even ventured to make jokes about Snape's obvious bias toward the team.

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. Could Snape possibly know they'd found out about the Sorcerer's Stone? Harry didn't see how he could – yet sometimes had the horrible feeling that Snape could read minds.

Harry knew, when she wished him good luck outside the locker rooms the next afternoon, that Malvora was wondering if she'd ever see him alive again. This wasn't what you'd call comforting. Harry hardly heard a word of Flint's threats as he pulled on his Quidditch robes and picked up his Nimbus Two Thousand.

Malvora, meanwhile, had found a place in the stands uncomfortably close to Pansy, who wouldn't be quiet about Draco accepting her chocolate frogs. Little did Harry and Draco know that Mal had been secretly practicing all manner of curses. She was ready to use them on Snape if he showed any sign of wanting to hurt Harry.

Back in the locker room, Flint had taken Harry aside.

"Look, the rest of us are going to do whatever we can to smash Ravenclaw, but I suggest you get the Snitch fast, got it?"

"The whole school's out there!" said Adrian Pucey, peering out the door. "Including – bad news, team. Dumbledore too."

Harry's heart did a somersault.

"Dumbledore?" he said, dashing to the door to make sure. Pucey 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. The rest of the team, however, was not pleased. Flint looked like he might murder someone.

"Bloody brilliant," he hissed.

He wasn't the only one who didn't like the set-up. Snape looked angrier than ever, and all the Slytherins in the stands were groaning their complaints.

"We're completely doomed," Mal muttered to herself. "Hey, watch it!"

Someone had pushed Malvora in the back. It was Pansy Parkinson.

"Pardon me, Melbarke," she smiled innocently.

"How is it that you always show up when I really don't want you around?" Malvora hissed.

"Ooh, testy," said Pansy. She turned her attention to the game. "I think we'll win, don't you? Since Draco is one of our Chasers."

Malvora didn't answer; Snape had just awarded Slytherin a penalty because a Weasley had hit a Bludger at him. Mal watched Harry carefully, who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the Snitch.

"So, Melbarke," Pansy continued, much to Mal's dismay, "how on earth did you end up hanging out with Draco all the time, anyway?"

"Pansy, if I hear you mention Draco one more time, I'll push you completely off the stand," said Malvora as Snape awarded Slytherin another penalty for no reason at all. "Can't you see I'm watching the game?"

Pansy's face turned a shade of pink.

"Maybe Draco doesn't know about your family history, and that's why he puts up with you," she said.

Malvora tensed and Pansy grinned, seeing she'd hit a nerve. Not daring to take her eyes from the game, Mal said, "Not another word, Parkinson."

"You know, a lot of Slytherins wonder if you're really Pureblood at all," Pansy continued. "I don't think you deserve Draco's company."

"Pansy – one more word –" She suddenly sat up straight, gasping at the game.

Harry had gone into a spectacular dive, which drew gasps and cheers from the crowd. He streaked toward the ground like a bullet.

"You're just trying to make yourself look better," said Pansy, "by hanging around Draco and the famous Potter. Pathetic, really."

Malvora snapped. Before Pansy knew what was happening, Mal was on top of her, wrestling her to the ground. Both girls were completely unaware of what was happening on the Quidditch field.

Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in time to see something scarlet shoot past him, missing him by inches – the next second, Harry had pulled out of the dive, 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.

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 Slytherins came spilling onto the field, 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 . . ."

Harry left the locker 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: Slytherins running to praise him, Draco sneering in jealousy, and Malvora in the distance, waving happily with scratch marks on her face.

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. Slytherin was assured the Championship cup. He'd done it. And Snape hadn't tried to kill him . . .

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 toward the forbidden forest. Harry's victory faded from his mind as he watched. He recognized 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 toward 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 p-places, Severus. . ."

"Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," said Snape, his voice icy. "Students aren't supposed to know about the Sorcerer's Stone, after all."

Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something. Snape interrupted him.

"Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?"

"B-but Severus, I –"

"You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," said Snape, taking a step toward 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.

"Where were you?" Draco asked.

"Nice of you to finally join us," said Malvora. "We won the match and I got Pansy's diamond earrings. They look dashing with my coat, don't they? Don't worry, she's all right, just a little bruised. Come on, everyone's in the common room having a party, I stole some treats from the kitchens and stashed some away just for you."

"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 Sorcerer'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 '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 –"

"So, the Stone is only safe as long as Quirrell can stand up to Snape?" said Malvora with a raised eyebrow.

"Brilliant. We're completely doomed," said Draco.