CHAPTER NINE

"Ah, Mr. Dursley. Right on time! Come in, have a seat."

Dudley stepped into the Headmaster's office and stared. It was a large, circular room, with tall arched windows that let in golden rays of sunlight. Hundreds of tiny objects scattered throughout the space released funny little chirps and dings into the air, and there were several brilliantly green plants on the shelves in oddly shaped pots. A number of gleaming silver instruments stood on delicate little tables, occasionally whirring and emitting gentle puffs of steam. One, he saw, was more interested in creating elaborate steam portraits, and he watched with bemusement as the rainbow portrait of a stern-looking witch floated serenely to the ceiling. The walls, where they weren't hidden by charmingly cluttered shelves, were covered with portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were napping in their frames, though one or two occasionally cracked an eye open to see what was going on. Dumbledore himself was sitting at an enormous claw-footed desk covered in books and scraps of parchment and novelty inkwells, and behind him on a shelf was the Sorting Hat. The point of it crooked up a little, as if waving, and Dudley nodded to it. To the left of the desk was a perch, upon which a scarlet bird was dozing with its head tucked into its wing.

He eased further into the room, a little concerned about knocking something over, and made his way over to the desk to sink down into a chair. Dumbledore held out a bowl of candy. "Lemon drop?" he offered.

"Er - no thank you," said Dudley, taken aback.

The wizard didn't seem too put out by this, and selected a candy for himself before setting the bowl aside. "Now, what was it you wished to speak to me about?"

A part of Dudley's brain was shouting, panicked, Just forget it! Lie through your teeth! He'll think you're mad!, but Dudley took a deep breath and drew his thoughts together. Finally, he settled for starting with, "Professor, until very recently, I was a thirty-seven year old Muggle."

The Headmaster went very still and studied him with an unreadable expression. "Is that so?" he said mildly.

"I was still Dudley Dursley, I mean," Dudley hastened to assure him, "but I grew up without magic. Er. I suppose this isn't the best way to start this off. But the reason I'm like this now, at least, as much as I know of it, is I was dropping my daughter off on September 1st, 2017, with Harry and his family, at Platform 9 3/4. After the train left, the station was attacked, and when I woke up, I was eleven again." He stopped to take a stabilizing breath, then barrelled on. "And I know this is hard to believe, but, well, you can read minds, can't you? Or is there a... a truth potion you could use?" He stared earnestly at the Headmaster, doing his damnedest not to seem threatening, and tried to remember not to hold his breath.

Dumbledore was silent for so long that Dudley's nervousness welled up and caused him to open his mouth, maybe to lie and say it was a joke, anything, but the Headmaster raised a hand to silence him, and Dudley's mouth snapped shut. "My dear boy," Dumbledore said, leaning forward and peering gravely over his half-moon spectacles, "if what you say is true, then I think I would only confuse your mind further by poking around inside - and it is quite confused, isn't it?" Dudley nodded. "I only have one question at the moment, and it is quite a personal one."

The old wizard waited patiently for him to realize he was asking for permission, at which point Dudley gave a short nod and braced himself. He was not at all prepared for Dumbledore to ask, "What did you truly see in the Mirror?"

Dudley gaped at him. "I- I saw my family, my wife and daughters." But what has that got to do with anything?

To his further surprise, a slow smile spread over Dumbledore's face. At a gesture from him, a tray of hot tea and an assortment of fresh biscuits popped gently into existence on his desk. "Mr. Dursley - may I call you Dudley? Excellent - I must confess that I've been, shall we say, keeping an eye on you."

Accepting a teacup that floated his way, Dudley said, "What d'you mean?"

Dumbledore took a hearty sip of his own tea and hummed thoughtfully over the selection of biscuits before finally settling on one covered in a liberal amount of color-changing sprinkles and self-fluffing icing. "Most children," he explained, "begin to exhibit magical ability very young. A rare few may take until their tenth year. Even rarer are those who take until early adulthood. But for magical ability to appear in a Muggleborn the day of their eleventh birthday? It's unheard of - even more when that same date marks a drastic change in their personality and behavior." He raised his eyebrows in amusement.

Sipping cautiously at the hot tea in his hands, Dudley frowned. "But how did you hear-? Oh! Mrs. Figg?" She had definitely been suspicious of him for most of the summer, and she was more than strange enough to be a member of the wizarding community.

"Precisely," Dumbledore said, sounding pleased. "I am also not unaware of your panic attacks and lapses in memory. The paintings do so love to gossip, and some have been quite worried about you. I must admit, after that allergic reaction of yours put my theories to shame, I am quite relieved to have the answer to the mystery."

Somehow, Dudley had not expected to be believed. He had thought that there would be an investigation, that there would still be a chance of getting shipped off to St. Mungo's. "I- you believe me?" he stammered, hardly able to wrap his mind around it. "Why?"

"Call it a hunch. I would still like to use a truth serum in the future, just to make absolutely certain, but you've been projecting your thoughts loudly enough that I am not terribly concerned." Dudley blushed, to the Headmaster's obvious amusement. "In terms of your mind, I may be able to help. Have you heard of meditation?"

"Er, yes," the first-year said, sitting up straight. "I used to practice every night, before the attack, and since the allergy thing I've been trying to get back into it."

Dumbledore beamed. "Well, well, you are halfway there already. What I'd like you to do is make nightly practice a habit again - perhaps half an hour before bed? - and towards the end of each session, sort through your memories. Imagine your mind as a chest of drawers, or a trunk, or a book, and put every memory in its own special place, then close it up and go straight to sleep." At Dudley's puzzled look, he explained. "I suspect that part of the problem is that your mind and that of your younger self combined upon your arrival. As a result, everything got all mixed up, so that your old memories conflict with the new. You have also suffered a great trauma, one which both minds would have difficulty coping with, the younger especially. This is just a theory, of course, but I believe that regardless, it will be beneficial."

This made sense, and was more or less what he himself had guessed, though he wasn't sure what Dumbledore meant by trauma. "Do you think this mental box will fix all that?" Dudley asked.

"No," the other wizard said, voice gentle. "But it will help, and when you're more settled, we can work towards something more permanent. In the meantime, I think perhaps we should meet once a month. Having someone you can openly discuss these things with will ease your stress, and once you've control of your memories, well. We shall uncover the truth behind your situation."

Meditation came as easy as breathing now that he was back in practice, but alongside the challenge of remembering to do it every night was a new problem; the sorting of memories itself. Strangely, he had a hard time picking what to store them in - he tried the metal file cabinet from his job with the magazine, his Hogwarts trunk, a dresser, a computer, his school bag, even a newspaper, but nothing felt right and he couldn't picture them clearly for more than a moment before they slipped away into indistinct blurs. Tamping down his frustration for the fifth night in a row, Dudley settled back into his breathing routine and let his mind wander on its own for a while. Eventually, he absently stopped on a leatherbound book, one he'd seen at Flourish & Blotts in Diagon Alley. He couldn't remember which lifetime it had been, but he knew he'd thought about buying it. The price had been a little steep for a journal, though, and at the time he'd had no use for it. Dudley frowned a little, trying to remember more about it. The leather had been dark - black? no, green - and covered in fanciful engravings, which were decorated with gold leaf and melodramatically acted out scenes from wizard fairy tales. The pages were creamy and smooth, edged with gold, and stamped on each was a curious symbol. It was a triangle holding a circle with a line struck through, and it was tangled in leafy vines.

Dudley was already tucking memories into the heavy pages when he realized his success, and as soon as he did, he lost concentration and had to start all over again. But he had it now, and though he fell asleep halfway through, he woke up feeling better than he had in months. By breakfast, the discovery that Harry was having nightmares put a dampener on his mood.

"It's happened ever since Dumbledore caught us," the smaller boy confessed, picking absently at his steak and eggs. "Every night. I keep seeing my parents disappear in a flash of green light, and then there's -" He hesitated, then said, "Then I hear someone laughing."

"You see," Ron said, a trace smugly, around a mouthful of sausage. "Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you mad."

"Shut up, Ron," Dudley said mildly, earning only a muffled protest. "Harry, these nightmares will probably go away on their own pretty soon. But if they don't, you should probably talk to Madam Pomfrey about it. She has to deal with nightmares all the time."

The day before term started, the missing half of their group returned, and listened with some concern to the story of the mirror. Hannah was sorry to have missed the adventure, not particularly interested in the mirror itself, and Neville seemed a little wistful but glad in the end to have been absent. Hermione was generally unimpressed and rather horrified by all the sneaking around they'd been doing - "If Filch had caught you!" - and disappointed that no one had dug up anything about Flamel. Neville had caught a nasty cold over the break, and between that and interacting with his numerous relatives, hadn't got the chance to ask his gran anything at all. Hannah's mother simply hadn't had any idea who Flamel was.

They had almost given up hope of ever coming across him in a library book, though Harry was still dead certain he'd read the name somewhere. The beginning of term also cut down their research time until it was almost nonexistent. Everyone was bogged down with piles of homework, and Harry, on top of that, had Quidditch practice again. Wood, the Gryffindor captain, was pushing the team especially hard, because if Gryffindor won against Hufflepuff in the next match, then they'd overtake Slytherin in the House championship for the first time in seven years. Hannah and Ron took to being cheerfully antagonistic towards each other in the halls, trash-talking the opposing House when they passed each other on the way to classes.

But on one particularly rainy day, when the group met up in one of the unused classrooms to study, Harry returned from practice with some bad news. "Snape's refereeing the match," he said grimly as he sat down. Neville was the only one missing - the rest looked at Harry with concern.

"Don't play," said Hermione at once.

"Say you're ill," Ron said.

"Pretend to break your leg," Hermione suggested, warming to the idea.

"Really break your leg," Hannah put in.

"I can't," Harry said, ruffling his hair in frustration. "There's no reserve Seeker, so if I back out, Gryffindor can't play at all."

"What if-" Dudley began, but at that moment, the door opened and Neville toppled into the room, his bag spilling and sending books and writing supplies flying. He'd been hit by the Leg-Locker curse, and how he'd gotten to the room at all was anyone's guess. Ron snickered, but Hermione leapt up at once and performed the counter spell as she hurried to Neville's side. Neville's legs sprang apart and he got to his feet, trembling and looking worn out from what must've been a harrowing journey.

"What's happened?" Harry asked as he dug his elbow into Ron's side. Hermione handed Neville his things and guided him over to the desks, where he gratefully took a seat.

"Malfoy," the round boy said, shakily. "He caught me outside the library, said he'd been looking for someone to practice on."

"Go to Professor Sprout," Hannah suggested. "Or anyone! Report that little-"

Neville shook his head. "I don't want any trouble," he mumbled.

Ron groaned. "You've got to stand up to him, Neville! He's used to walking all over people, but that's no reason to just lay down and play the doormat."

"There's no need to tell me I'm a coward, Malfoy's already done that," Neville choked out.

Harry dug in his pockets, then pulled out a Chocolate Frog, his last one leftover from Christmas. He pressed it into Neville's hands, saying with a furrowed brow, "You're worth twelve of Malfoy. You're in Hufflepuff, which means you're a lot better than anyone in slimy old Slytherin."

"Yeah!" Hannah agreed, and gave Neville a fierce hug that came dangerously close to squeezing the life out of him. "Badgers are totally tougher than snakes!"

The rest put in similar encouragements, and Neville smiled weakly and unwrapped the frog as Hannah let go of him. "Thanks, guys," he murmured. "I-" And then he stopped, and stared at the Chocolate Frog card in his hand. It was Dumbledore's card, and the wizard's eyes twinkled merrily up at the boy as he read.

"I think I just found what we needed," Neville said finally, and read aloud, "'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, Nicholas Flamel.'"

Hermione jumped to her feet, practically glowing with excitement. "Oh!" she cried, and ran to dig around in her bag, which had been left on another desk nearby. She rummaged around, then, at last, freed an enormous tome and carried it back over to them, letting it drop onto the desk with a bang. "I never thought to look in here! I got this out of the library ages ago for some light reading!"

"Light?" said Ron, but was ignored by everyone else as Hermione started flicking frantically through the pages, muttering to herself. At last, she stopped and pointed triumphantly at her quarry.

"I knew it! I knew it!" she said, delighted. "Nicholas Flamel is the only known maker of the Sorcerer's Stone!" She looked up into blank faces, and uttered a noise of disgust. "Oh, honestly, don't any of you read? Look - read that, right there."

She turned the book around and pushed it towards them, and they crowded around to read:

The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Sorcerer'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 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 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?" Hermione said when they had all finished, and shut the book with a satisfied snap. "That must be what the dog is hiding! I bet Flamel asked Dumbledore to keep it safe, since they're friends and all, and it was safer here than the vault!"

"A stone that makes gold and stops you dying is something anyone would want," said Hannah, and shuddered. "No wonder Snape wants it."

"And no wonder we couldn't find him in any recent books," Neville sighed. "Now we just have to figure out what to do."

This was easier said than done. Harry had decided to brave the Quidditch match anyway, but as the date drew ever closer, grew increasingly nervous. He kept running into Snape everywhere, which in turn seemed to be making the Potions Master more and more irritable. Dudley, meanwhile, felt like a new person. His meditation was already yielding results - his memory had improved, and he was able, for once, to work on a potion without having to consult the recipe every two seconds. To his surprise, his outburst and newfound clearheadedness seemed to have fixed his inability to cast spells. His magic still wasn't strong, but he doubted it ever would be, and by now he had the wand movements and incantations down pat. When he put them to the test on a snuffbox, he was both pleased and surprised when it turned into a sneaker, complete with laces. He began to apply himself to the practical portions of his classes with more enthusiasm, to his teachers' pleasure, though they cautioned him not to strain himself. Dudley was almost too relieved by tangible proof he had magic to listen.

One of the first things he'd done when classes had started back up was show Professor Flitwick the silver box from Christmas, and ask whether it was safe to hold things like Potions supplies in it. At the moment, he was keeping his Potions supplies in a shoebox when they weren't stuffed haphazardly into his bag, and the shoebox was running out of room. "Well," Flitwick said cheerily, handing the box back, "I don't see a problem with it. There's another spell on it - like most trunks, in fact - that you can activate to shape the insides to, say, create compartments for ingredients, and I can apply another to keep them fresh. I must say, Mr. Dursley, it is so good to see students treating their belongings with respect-" And he walked Dudley through customizing the box. It only took a few minutes, and by the time they were done, there was even plush velvet lining in the compartment for phials.

Snape's expression when he saw Dudley using the box in class for the first time was as stony as ever, but he thought he saw a flicker of approval on that stern face.

The day of the match, Harry looked dangerously close to passing out when they wished him good luck outside the locker rooms. Dudley had the distinct feeling that the others were wondering if Harry would survive the match at all, and made a point of being encouraging. As they made their way to the stands, Hermione reminded them all of the plan.

"If he tries to curse Harry, don't hesitate to fire," she said grimly, with the airs of a tiny general. "And it's Locomotor Mortis, don't forget."

"Don't nag," Ron snapped, but there was no heat to it; he was just as worried as any of them.

"Will we even be able to reach Snape from our seats?" Neville wondered, wringing his hands. "What if we can't?"

"Then I'll run down and nab him," Hannah promised, patting his arm. "Don't fret, Nev. Snape doesn't stand a chance."

They took their place in the stands, and Dudley, scanning the crowd, noted something interesting. "'Mione, Dumbledore's come to watch!"

She followed his gaze, and as soon as she spotted the old wizard, bounced in excitement. "Oh, this is wonderful! No one could ever try anything with him watching!"

"I've never seen Snape look so sour," said Ron admiringly. "And hey, look, they're off- ouch!"

Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It was, of course, Malfoy.

"Wonder how long Potter's going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone want a bet? What about you, Weasley?"

There was a groan from the surrounding Gryffindors as Snape awarded Hufflepuff a penalty because George Weasley had hit a Bludger at him. Hermione, who was anxiously watching in case someone did try something with Dumbledore present, ignored everyone, all her fingers crossed in her lap. Dudley tried to convince the others with a look that they needed to take a leaf from her book and ignore Malfoy, and Ron nodded at him before turning his eyes back to the pitch. Up above, Harry circled the game like a hawk, already watching for the Snitch.

A few minutes later, as Snape awarded another penalty to Hufflepuff for no reason at all and the Gryffindors cried out indignantly, Malfoy said loudly, "You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team? 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 - pity you're not in Gryffindor, Longbottom, you've got no brains."

Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face the smirking Malfoy. "I'm worth twelve of you, Malfoy," he stammered. The Slytherins howled with laughter, and he went even redder.

"Tell him, Neville," Hannah said, squeezing his arm, though she didn't dare take her eyes from the game.

"Longbottom, if brains were gold you'd be poorer than Weasley, and that's saying something."

"Malfoy," said Dudley warningly, but didn't get to finish, because Hermione shrieked.

"Look!" she cried. "Harry-!" She jammed her fingers in her mouth, jumping up and bouncing anxiously.

Harry had gone into a sharp, spectacular dive, which drew gasps and cheers from the crowd. He wound expertly past bludgers and players alike, streaking toward the ground like a rocket.

"You're in luck, Weasley, Potter's obviously spotted some money on the ground!" said Malfoy.

Without warning, Hannah launched herself over the seats, uttering a war cry as she tackled the blond to the ground. Ron joined in with a similar howl, launching himself at Crabbe when the larger boy got in his way. Neville hesitated, then clambered over the back of his seat to help. Dudley groaned and went to join them.

"Come on, Harry!" Hermione screamed, leaping up onto her seat as Hannah and Malfoy rolled under it, biting and kicking and pulling each other's hair. She was utterly oblivious to the fighting as she watched Harry speed straight at Snape.

A scarlet blur swept past the Potions Master, missing by inches, the wind ruffling his greasy hair, and then Harry pulled out of the dive and raised his arm, and the stands erupted with noise. "We've won!" Hermione crowed, dancing up and down on her seat and hugging Parvati Patil, who was just as excited, if a little confused. "Gryffindor is in the lead! Harry did it!"

Behind her, Malfoy and his goons found themselves thoroughly trounced, and it was only a moment later that Ron, nose bleeding, flung himself over the back of the seats to join in the cheering. Neville, gasping and sporting the beginnings of a black eye, helped a bruised but victorious Hannah to her feet, and Dudley watched the Slytherins retreat with their tails between their legs. Well, he thought to himself, I guess it's a start. But he pushed it from his mind as the Gryffindors swept the first years up and poured down onto the field to congratulate the winning team.

"Harry, where have you been!" Hermione squeaked, hours later. They'd retired once again to the unused classroom to wait for Harry, so they could celebrate before having to go to their separate Houses, but Harry had taken an inordinate amount of time. When he turned up at the door, they'd been on the verge of sending out a search party.

Before Harry could get a word in edgewise, Ron was upon him. "We won! You won! We won!" he shouted, thumping Harry on the back. "Hannah destroyed Malfoy, and Nev and Dud and I took down Crabbe and Goyle like they were nothing!" Which wasn't quite true. "Talk about showing Slytherin! Fred and George stole a bunch of cakes and things from the kitchens, so there's a great party waiting too."

"Nevermind that," said Harry breathlessly, reaching back to shut and lock the door. "Wait til you hear this!"

And he described following Snape into the forest. Dudley listened with growing unease as Harry related the conversation. No matter how he looked at it, Snape definitely sounded like he was the thief. "So we were right," Harry said finally, beside himself with excitement and nervous energy, "it is the Sorcerer's Stone, and Snape's trying to force Quirrel to help him get it. He asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy - and he said something about Quirrel's 'hocus pocus' - I reckon there are other things guarding the stone apart from Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrel would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that Snape needs to break through-"

"So the Stone's only safe as long as Quirrel stands up to Snape?" said Hannah in alarm.

"It'll be gone by next Tuesday," moaned Ron.

It was decided that they needed to build up their spells, so they could go after Snape with everything they had. Hermione, Neville, and Dudley were designated researchers, while the others kept a careful eye on Quirrel and Snape. The Defense teacher appeared to be braver than they'd thought, however, because while he definitely grew paler and thinner in the weeks that followed, he didn't seem to have cracked yet. The watchers, as Hannah, Harry, and Ron dubbed themselves, would press their ears against the door to the third-floor corridor whenever they passed, just to make sure Fluffy was still growling inside. They also tried to keep Quirrel's spirits up by giving him encouraging looks when they passed and telling people off for laughing at his stutter.

Hermione, on the other hand, had more on her mind than the Sorcerer's Stone. In her free time, she had started drawing up study schedules and colorcoding all her notes. She pressured Neville and Dudley to do the same - they quickly caved, knowing better than to resist, and it made things easier anyway - and then she turned a gimlet eye upon the other half of their little group.

"Hermione, why are you getting so worked up?" Hannah moaned, sprawling bonelessly on one of the library chairs. "Exams are ages away."

"Ten weeks," Hermione snapped. "That's not ages, that's like a second to Nicholas Flamel."

"But we're not six hundred years old," Ron reminded her from the floor, voice somewhat muffled. He was half-buried in books, because he'd laid down within range of Neville, who, in a fit of utter boredom, had begun to see how many books could be balanced on the redhead. Ron had been too tired to care much. "Anyway, what are you studying for, you already know everything."

"What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realize we need to pass these exams to get into the second year? They're very important, I should have started studying a month ago, I don't know what's gotten into me..."

But there wasn't much room for Ron to argue, because their teachers seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Hermione and gave them mountains of homework. The six ended up in the library for most of the Easter holidays, and Dudley soon felt like the only reprieve from studying he had were his monthly visits with Dumbledore. He looked forward to those, partly because the old wizard was an excellent listener, and partly because, unlike Hermione, had no interest in making him recite facts or practice spells. Dudley once jokingly said as much during a session, and Dumbledore had got an amused, dangerous gleam to his eye that made him suspect he'd made a grave mistake.

"I'll never remember all this," Harry groaned one afternoon, throwing his quill down and staring longingly out the window. Ron, in complete agreement, did the same. It was the first really lovely day they'd had in months - the sky was clear and blue, and there was a distinctly summery feel to the air. Their friends were out in the greenhouses because Neville had recruited them to help him with extra Herbology work, but he hadn't needed all of them, more's the pity. Dudley, who was trying to find the entry on dittany in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi and was starting to wonder whether someone had torn it out, didn't look up until he heard his cousin say, "Hagrid! What are you doing in the library?"

Hagrid shuffled into view, hiding something behind his back and looking very out of place in his moleskin overcoat. He also looked incredibly nervous, and immediately piqued their interest when he said in a shifty voice, "Jus' lookin'. An' what're you lot up ter?" He eyed them, suddenly suspicious. "Yer not still lookin' for Nicholas Flamel, are yeh?"

Ron shook his head. "We found out about him ages ago, and we know what Fluffy's guarding, that it's a Sorcerer's-"

The giant immediately shushed him, looking around to see if anyone was listening. They weren't - this corner of the library was deserted. "Don' go shoutin' about it, what's the matter with yeh?"

Harry looked chagrined, but pressed on. "There are a few things we wanted to ask you, as a matter of fact, about what else is guarding it."

Hagrid gestured at him to quiet down, looking around again, then said, "Listen - come an' see me later. I'm not promisin' I'll tell yeh anythin', mind, but don' go rabbitin' about it in here, students aren' s'pposed ter know. They'll think I've told yeh-"

"See you later, then," said Dudley, and then, as Hagrid shuffled off, "What d'you think he was hiding just now?"

"Dunno. I'll go see what section he was in," Harry said, and disappeared into the stacks. He came back a moment later with a couple of books in hand, and set them gingerly on the table. "Dragons!" he whispered. "Look at these - Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland, and then From Egg to Inferno, a Dragon Keeper's guide! He must be raising one!"

Ron, who'd been tilting his chair back, let it fall forward with a thud, face going white under his freckles. "But it's against our laws," he said, and continued with all the confidence of one whose brother was in the industry, "Breeding dragons was outlawed by the Warlocks' Convention of 1709, everyone knows that. It's hard to stop Muggles from noticing us if we're keeping dragons in the back garden - anyway, you can't tame dragons, it's dangerous. You should see the burns Charlie's got off wild ones in Romania."

"But there aren't wild dragons in Britain?" said Harry.

"Of course there are," said Ron. "Common Welsh Green and Hebridean Blacks. The Ministry of Magic has a job hushing them up, I can tell you. Our kind have to keep putting spells on Muggles who've spotted them, to make them forget."

Dudley shuddered, then said, "Well, if that's what Hagrid's up to, there's only one way to find out."

An hour later, still minus Neville and the girls, they knocked on the gamekeeper's door, noticing as they did that all the curtains were closed. They shared a glance as Hagrid called "Who is it?" before he let them in, and as soon as they'd crossed the threshold, he shut and latched the door behind them.

The hut was disgustingly hot inside, with a blazing fire on the hearth despite the day's heat, and when Hagrid offered them tea and stoat sandwiches, they refused, and did their best to find the coolest parts of the hut. "So," said Hagrid, reaching out with a poker to prod at the fire, "yeh wanted to ask me somethin'?"

"Yes," said Harry as he tried to get comfortable on the barrel he had chosen to perch on. "We hoped you could tell us what else is protecting the Stone, aside from Fluffy."

Hagrid frowned. "O' course I can't," he said. "Number one, I don' know meself. Number two, yeh know too much already, so I wouldn' tell yeh if I could. The Stone's here fer a good reason. It was almost stolen outta Gringotts - I s'ppose yeh've worked that out an' all? Beats me how yeh even know abou' Fluffy."

Thinking fast, Dudley said, "Oh, go on, Hagrid, you might not want to say, but you do know. You know everything that goes on round here." He smiled, thinking of all the flattering he'd done at the magazines in order to be given particular stories ahead of such-and-such person. "We're only curious - we just wanted to know who Dumbledore trusted enough to help him, apart from you. Anyone like that's worth knowing about, isn't it?" The other boys were nodding in enthusiastic agreement, and while he was certain one of the girls or Neville could have done it better, Hagrid still beamed at them.

"Well, I don' s'ppose it could hurt to tell yeh that," he said, and stroked his beard as he thought. "Let's see... he borrowed Fluffy from me... then some o' the teachers did enchantments. Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall, naturally," he ticked them off on his fingers, "Professor Quirrel, an' Professor Dumbledore himself did somethin', o' course. Hang on, I've forgotten someone. Oh yeah, Professor Snape."

"Snape?" Ron asked, incredulous.

"Yeah - yer not still on abou' that, are yeh? Look, Snape helped protect the stone, he's not about ter steal it."

Dudley suspected he knew what his companions were thinking. If Snape had helped protect the Stone, then it meant he knew how to get past the other enchantments - except, apparently, how to get past Hagrid and Quirrel's protections. Sure enough, Harry asked, anxiously, "You're the only one who knows how to get past Fluffy, aren't you, Hagrid? And you wouldn't tell anyone, would you? Not even one of the teachers?"

Hagrid puffed up his chest proudly. "Not a soul knows except me an' Dumbledore."

They all relaxed, and Dudley, feeling it time to change the subject, said, "Hagrid, can we have a window open? I'm boiling."

"Can't, sorry," said Hagrid, and glanced at the fire.

And then, as one, they really looked at the fire for the first time. Dudley heard one of the others ask what it was, but they knew. As Hagrid stammered, Ron crouched beside the fire to have a look.

"Must've cost you a fortune!" he said, looking as if he wanted to poke the huge black egg. "Where in Merlin's name did you get it?"

"Won it," said Hagrid. "Las' night. I was down in the village havin' a few drinks an' got into a game o' cards with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of it, ter be honest."

Despite the heat, a chill crept down Dudley's spine, perhaps aided by sweat. Hagrid gushed about the egg - a Norwegian Ridgeback - and pulled a book out from under his pillow to show them. They tried to remind the giant of how dangerous and illegal it was, but he paid them no mind, and they returned to the castle in defeat. Dudley wondered, vaguely, at what point he should start informing Dumbledore about what they were doing.

Some time later, during breakfast, Hedwig brought Harry a letter from Hagrid containing only two words: It's hatching.

Ron and Hannah wanted to skip class and go straight down to the hut, but Hermione put her foot down and refused to budge, not even when they began to wheedle her. "Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going to see a dragon hatching?" Ron whispered, practically whining.

"Ronald, your brother works with dragons," Hermione replied with a delicate sniff. "I'm sure something could be arranged. And anyway, we've got lessons and we'll get into trouble, and that's nothing to what Hagrid will be in if someone finds out what he's doing-"

"Shut up!" Harry whispered. Malfoy was only a few feet away and he had stopped dead to listen. Hannah turned a fierce glare on him now, and he wisely retreated, but they all wondered exactly how much he'd heard.

They parted ways for class, but managed to agree to run down to Hagrid's during morning break. Hannah was distracted all through Magical Theory, not even bothering to take notes, and as soon as the bell rang for the end of class, she half-dragged Neville and Dudley out of the castle. They met up with the others near the greenhouses, and Hagrid greeted them when they arrived, looking flushed and excited.

"It's nearly out," he said brightly, and ushered them inside.

The egg was lying on the table. There were deep cracks in it, and inside, something was moving around. A funny clicking noise issued from it, occasionally interrupted by a sort of chirping. Everyone drew close and watched with bated breath.

When it happened, it was very sudden. There was a scraping noise, and the egg split right open to allow the baby dragon to flop gracelessly out. It wasn't very pretty, and looked a little like a crumpled black umbrella. It had a skinny body, and its leathery, spine-tipped wings seemed much too large for it. The long muzzle had wide nostrils, which smoked gently, and it had bulging orange eyes. There were little stubs on its face where horns would eventually grow, and it seemed like it hadn't quite developed scales yet. It sneezed, and a couple sparks flew out of its snout.

Hagrid was utterly besotted. "Isn't he beautiful?" he murmured, and reached out a hand to stroke the dragon's head. It snapped at his fingers, showing pointed fangs.

"Hagrid," said Hermione, edging back from the table, "how fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow, exactly?"

Dudley saw it the same moment Hagrid did - a pale, pointed face in the window, eyes wide, that disappeared the moment it was spotted. Hagrid leapt to his feet and ran over to look, but Malfoy was gone.

The six spent much of the next week at Hagrid's hut, trying to convince him that he couldn't keep the little dragon, whom he'd named Norbert. They grew more frustrated by the day, until finally, Hannah lit upon the idea to send Norbert to Ron's brother. She and Neville helped Ron draft a letter to Charlie, and another tense week went by before they got their answer. They met in the unused classroom to read it, crowding together to do so:

Dear Ron,

How are you? Thanks for the letter - I'd be glad to take the Norwegian

Ridgeback, but it won't be easy getting him here. I think the best thing

will be to send him over with some friends of mine who are coming to

visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn't be seen carrying an illegal dragon.

Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at midnight on

Saturday? They can meet you there and take him away while it's still dark.

Send me an answer as soon as possible.

Love,

Charlie

They looked at one another.

"We've got the invisibility cloak," said Harry. "It shouldn't be too difficult - I think the cloak is big enough to cover two of us and Norbert. The question is, who'll go?"

It was obvious that Harry would, since it was his cloak. Ron wanted to as well, but that Friday, Norbert bit him, and by Saturday morning, his hand had swollen up to twice its usual size. He dithered the whole day, not sure if Madam Pomfrey would recognize it as a dragon bite, but by afternoon it was utterly horrible, and he relented. After classes, the others trooped up to visit him, and found him in a terrible state.

"It's not just my hand," he told them in pained whispers, "though it feels like it's about to fall off. Malfoy told Madam Pomfrey he wanted to borrow one of my books so he could come and have a good laugh at me. He kept threatening to tell her what bit me - I've told her it was a dog, though I don't think she believes me. But it's worse, I've just realized - Charlie's letter was in that book Malfoy took, he's going to know everything!"

There was little to be done about that, though, and Hannah stepped up to take Ron's place for the delivery. It was decided that Harry would pick her up outside the Hufflepuff common room, and everyone went their separate ways for the night.

Dudley, however, found himself unable to sleep, and lay in bed tossing and turning. He had a feeling that Malfoy was going to try something - no, he knew it - and finally, about the time Harry and Hannah were supposed to be at Hagrid's, he got quietly out of bed, put on his bathrobe, and snuck out.