Hi everyone, I hope you're doing well! Here's your Saturday update. :)
Enjoy the holiday season! Stay safe.
The Christmas season arrived, and with it, our midterm exams. Fortunately, Hermione and I both felt quite confident, seeing as we spent countless hours studying together in the common room or the library.
Immediately after our exams were finished, I found myself taking the train back to King's Cross Station, where my brother was waiting for me. I greeted him with a happy shriek and a huge hug before launching into tales of my exploits and studies. Robbie, of course, listened to it all, a large grin on his face.
While the holidays were a small affair—just me and my brother, once again—it was one of the greatest Christmases yet. He and I spent a lot of time messing around in the snow, drinking hot chocolate and warmed butterbeer, and perhaps the best of all, flying around our property on our broomsticks.
When I told Robbie of the generous deed that Harry had done in letting me borrow his broom, my brother shook his head, a specific glint in his eye.
"Keep him close, Belle. That Harry Potter sure sounds like a good kid."
I couldn't help but nod at this and remark pensively, "That he is. It's odd, isn't it? I didn't know if I'd ever meet Harry Potter when I was younger… and now, he's my best friend."
On the rare occasion that I wanted to spend some time to myself, I started painting: I painted the Great Hall, what it had looked like on the first night of our years at Hogwarts. I painted how it had felt, to ride the Nimbus 2000 on the Quidditch pitch. I painted what it had felt like to be sorted into Gryffindor—and when I was finally finished painting, I hung the canvases up on my wall, determined to keep them as memories of my years of Hogwarts.
Much too soon, the holiday break was ending, and I found myself back on the Hogwarts Express. It was nice to have had some time off with my older sibling; as much as I loved Hogwarts, the break couldn't have been timed any better.
When I returned, Harry and Ron had much to tell me: for Christmas, Harry had been sent an Invisibility Cloak, he'd found something called the Mirror of Erised that showed a person's greatest desire but Dumbledore himself told him not to go looking for it again, and they hadn't found mention of Nicolas Flamel anywhere, even though Harry had snuck into the Restricted Section.
My head whirling with all this new information, I held up a hand and exclaimed, "First thing first. Did you enjoy the sweets I sent you for Christmas?"
Both of my friends laughed aloud at this and assured me that yes, they had in fact enjoyed all the chocolates I had sent as their presents.
Knowing that we still had a job to do, however, the three of us retreated to the library, hoping against hope that we might dig something up on Nicolas Flamel.
We didn't find anything of him that day, nor the next… nor the next number of weeks. Before much longer, it was almost March, and still we were unsuccessful.
Ron and I were becoming so frustrated with our lack of progress that we were contemplating giving up… but Hermione and Harry wouldn't hear of it. Although Harry had less time than the rest of us to research Flamel due to his Quidditch practices three nights a week, he begged us to continue our efforts. And of course, wanting to be good friends, Ron and I would oblige and find ourselves in the library at the end of classes each day.
One night in late February, Harry returned to the common room drenched in mud, a dreadful expression on his face. I noticed this unusual demeanor instantly and asked, "What's wrong? Did practice not go well?"
Our friend plopped down on the couch next to me and held his head in his hands. "Snape's refereeing the next match."
"Don't play," said Hermione at once.
"Say you're ill," I suggested.
"Pretend to break your leg."
"Really break your leg," Ron added.
"I can't," moaned Harry, his voice slightly muffled. "There isn't a reserve Seeker. If I back out, Gryffindor can't play at all."
As much as I loved Quidditch, this was too much. Even I wouldn't willingly walk into a game where the referee was the same person who had tried to kill me in a previous match. Horrified by the prospect, I exclaimed, "Oh, Harry, you can't possibly be thinking about risking your life for a Quidditch game!"
He finally rose his head, green eyes boring into me, and was about to respond when Neville collapsed into the common room. It looked like his legs were stuck together—everybody laughed as he fell and hit the rug with an, "Oomph!"
Seeing our friend's predicament, Hermione leapt up and quickly performed the counter-curse. Neville was allowed to move his legs freely again. A sinking feeling settled in my chest as I realized that unless he'd been cursed right outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, he would've had to bunny-hop all the way to us.
"It was Malfoy," he said shakily.
I snorted and tossed my hair over my shoulder. "Can't say I'm surprised to hear that."
"You've got to start standing up to people, Neville," advised Ron, shaking his head. "You shouldn't let them walk all over you like a doormat."
"I know," sighed Neville, shaking his head. "It's just hard."
Harry leaned forward and clapped a hand on Neville's shoulder. "Hey, you're worth twelve of Malfoy. Anyway, the Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor, didn't it? And where are the Malfoys? In stinking Slytherin."
As he was speaking, Harry was rummaging through his pockets for something; it turned out to be a chocolate frog. With a half-smile, he handed it to the other boy, who took it gratefully.
Neville reverently opened the package and, once the spell wore off on the frog, popped the sweet in his mouth. His smile grew more genuine afterwards as he said with a toothy grin, "Thanks, Harry. Do you want the card? You collect them, don't you?"
Harry took the card that was offered and looked it over, reading the inscription upon it. His eyes narrowed then widened before gasping, "I've found him! I've found Nicolas Flamel!"
Before any of us could start blubbering about what he meant, Harry read the card's inscription 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, Nicolas Flamel!"
"Oh!" gasped Hermione, her face alit. She dashed upstairs to the dormitory, leaving the three of us wondering what she had just pieced together.
After only a few moments, she returned, a large and weathered book clasped firmly in her grip. She approached us and, with a hefty sigh, plopped it on the table with a loud CLUMP!
"I never thought to look in here!" she hissed, as if scolding herself. "I got this out of the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading!"
"This…" exclaimed Ron, "is light?"
Hermione shot him a withering glare before opening the book and frantically turning its pages: "Nicolas Flamel is the only known maker of the Sorcerer's Stone!"
I raised an eyebrow. "Well, that explains a lot."
Harry and Ron, however, were less than impressed as they stared at Hermione and I with utterly confused faces.
Noting this, my friend muttered, "Honestly, don't you two read?" Then, with her standard inhale before a lecture, she read aloud, "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."
Once it was clear she had finished, I exhaled slowly and remarked, "A stone that keeps you from dying and makes you incredibly rich? I'm a bit surprised there aren't more Hogwarts professors attempting to steal it."
"Anyone would want it," agreed Harry, nodding.
"No wonder we couldn't find Flamel in any of our books on recent history," added Ron. "He's not exactly recent if he's six-hundred and sixty-five, is he?"
I had to laugh at that.
After a brief silence, however, I realized something disturbing…
"Wait a minute. Now that we know what it is… how on earth are we supposed to stop Snape from taking it? We don't know what else is guarding the Stone…"
My friends blinked and looked amongst one another. It was clear we hadn't thought this far ahead. I could see the uncertainty in their expressions: how were four first-year students going to hold off an incredibly proficient Potions Master?
"We just have to find out more," replied Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "There's got to be a reason why he wants it, if he's going to attempt to steal it out from Dumbledore's nose."
Hermione pointed at him and nodded. "Good idea, Harry. The more information we have, the better."
A couple more weeks passed, and at last, it was the morning of the next Quidditch match. Harry met the rest of us in the Great Hall for breakfast, but of course, none of us were hungry. The fact that Snape would be refereeing the match made all of us uneasy at best, and queasy at worst.
Once Harry left us to go to the Quidditch tents, Hermione, Ron, and I hustled to the pitch to get front row seats. As we were walking, Hermione was frantically reminding us, "Don't forget, it's Locomotor Mortis."
Her fussing only served to make Ron even more exasperated, however. After about the third reminder, he ended up snapping, "I know. Don't nag," which only made the tension between us even worse.
Just before the match started, Neville stood by us and, his face a bit pale, asked, "I'm assuming you all have a plan?"
"You bet your arse we do," I muttered out of the corner of my mouth.
"OUCH!" exclaimed Ron.
"Oh, sorry, Weasley. Didn't see you there," drawled a familiar voice. I couldn't help but groan loudly: this was the last person I wanted to see here…
"Wonder how long Potter's going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone want to bet? How about you, Weasley?"
Instead of acknowledging Malfoy's existence, I leaned in towards Ron and mumbled, "Don't let him bait you. Keep your eyes on Harry."
Ron clenched his jaw to let me know he heard, but the flaring of his nostrils told me this was far from over.
"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, they've got no money—you should be on the team, Longbottom, you've got no brains."
This prompted Neville to turn around and stammer, remarkably similar to Professor Quirrell, "I'm worth twelve of you, Malfoy."
Malfoy laughed derisively. "Longbottom, if brains were gold, you'd be poorer than Weasley, and that's saying something."
Although I had made myself a vow to not turn around, this godforsaken entitled prat was getting on my last nerve. With a fire in my eyes I only rarely possessed, I snarled, "Go pester someone who actually cares, Malfoy. We're a bit busy at the moment."
Malfoy blinked once or twice, but quickly regained his suavity. "Why though, Skylar? I daresay pestering you is the most fun I've had all day."
Just then, a gasp emerged from the crowd—I whirled around to see Harry begin a spectacular nose-dive, presumably for the Snitch—
"You're in luck, Weasley, Potter's spotted some money on the ground!"
Before I could even react, Ron dove backwards towards Malfoy and began throwing punches. I shrieked at Hermione to keep watching Harry and rushed after him, doing everything in my power to pull the two boys apart. And of course, in the meantime, Neville had gotten himself into a little brawl against Crabbe and Goyle as well, which only served to make my job that much harder—
Lee Jordan's voice boomed over my own screaming, announcing, "HARRY POTTER HAS GOT THE SNITCH!"
With all of my strength, I yanked on Malfoy's arm to keep him from punching Ron in the face. Malfoy whirled back to me, anger clear in his expression, but at one stern look from me, he sighed and held up his hands in surrender.
My job done, I ran towards Neville and retrieved my wand, pointing it in Crabbe and Goyle's direction. The two Slytherin brutes stared at me uncomprehendingly until I threatened, "Stand back or I'll make sure you have warts on your face for years," which prompted them to back away.
I grabbed Neville's arm and pulled him back to Ron, who was still seething in Malfoy's direction. Each of them were incredibly worse for wear: Ron had a purple welt on his right cheekbone, and his nose was bleeding. Malfoy was going to have a rather nasty black eye; his lips were cut and bleeding. Poor Neville was all but knocked unconscious, bruises covering his face and neck.
My hands on my hips, I looked between the three boys and exclaimed, "Why?!"
They all looked at me and, almost simultaneously, shrugged.
I turned my gaze towards Hermione, who luckily seemed to mirror my exasperation. Without saying anything more, we turned our backs and began stomping down to the Quidditch pitch to meet with Harry.
Unfortunately, before we could find him, the Quidditch teams were swept back off to their tents, and the audience was instructed to return to their regular afternoon activities. With a light scowl on our faces, Hermione and I silently turned to return to our common room…
Where somehow, Fred and George were already waiting, snacks freshly pilfered from the kitchens. The rest of the Gryffindors wasted no time in beginning the festivities, popping open the caps of at least two dozen butterbeers and snagging the best candies from Honeydukes that were available.
Hermione and I each grabbed a butterbeer—I grabbed one for Harry, and for Ronald as well, despite the oaf's earlier squabble—and relaxed on the sofa, silently enjoying the other's company. When at last Ron joined us, he shot us an apologetic grin. We then waited for Harry to arrive.
It was another forty-five minutes or so before our friend showed up. Gryffindors surrounded him instantly, congratulating him on the incredibly quick game and the amazing catch he made. Contrary to looking triumphant, however, Harry looked pale… even a bit clammy. When he met my eyes, the look he shot me clearly stated that something was wrong.
When Harry took the seat next to us, I silently held out a butterbeer. He took it with a nod of thanks before uncapping it and sipping half the bottle's contents.
After what seemed like minutes of anticipatory silence, Harry announced, "I saw Snape following Quirrell into the Forbidden Forest. You guys have to listen to this."
And he proceeded to tell us about the conversation he'd overheard, about how Snape was attempting to determine Quirrell's true loyalties, even going so far as to threaten our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. The story was concluded with him despondently saying, "So you were right, it is the Sorcerer's Stone, and Snape's trying to steal it. He asked if Quirrell knew how to get past Fluffy, and I reckon that there are other things guarding the stone apart from him, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that Snape needs to break through—"
"So you mean the Stone's only safe as long as Quirrell stand up to Snape?" Hermione asked worriedly.
"It'll be gone by next Tuesday," groaned Ron.
Much as I wanted to have some faith in our professor, I had to say… I agreed with Ron.
