Over the next few weeks Harry missed his parents, but for the most part he felt as if he were just spending the rest of the summer at an old friend's house, even if he had never met Ron and his brothers (and little sister) before. Most of the time they went outside and played Quidditch. When it rained, the boys would stay inside and play exploding snap, chess, or the twins would wreak havoc upon the household. Eventually September first rolled around, though Harry was reluctant to face that truth. His parents still weren't home, even though they had estimated that they would indeed be back in time to see him off to Hogwarts. Harry felt the weight of this knowledge lying heavily upon him. What had happened to his mother and father?
Harry followed the Weasleys as he, his sister and they made their way to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The platform was incredibly crowded as usual, and Harry kept accidentally bumping into people or being knocked over by seventh years that didn't notice him—or who just didn't really care.
"Careful, Mate," said George—or was it Fred?—after pulling him up from one such incident. "They're here for their last year—they don't care what first years they knock down. Let's get your trunk into the train—oi, George!" So, it had been Fred speaking. "Let's get this trunk on the train." After much pushing and shoving, everyone's trunks were on the train. Fred and George ran off to be with their friend, Lee Jordan, (who had a curious box with air holes in it that Harry would never, ever stick his hand into) and so Ron and Harry were left to sit in their own compartment.
Even though Harry had been with the Weasleys for about a month he had never really talked to any of them. When they were playing games it was usually the twins who were doing all of the talking, so the silence in the compartment was decidedly awkward.
"So, you like Quidditch?" Ron asked. This was a question Ron knew the answer to. Harry was obviously the best seeker Ron had ever seen. Harry shrugged.
"Yeah," he said indifferently, looking out at the scenery in the window. He hadn't even really said goodbye to Rose or any other Weasleys that were staying home. Harry could dimly remember Mrs. Weasley saying something to Fred and George about blowing up toilets, but he had tuned out. Rose looked remarkably upset at Harry's distant goodbye, but Harry surprisingly found himself not caring.
"Do you like the Chudley Cannons?" Ron asked, trying another stab at making a conversation.
"What?" asked Harry, who had forgotten Ron was talking. "Oh, right, um, not really. I like the London Swoops best." Harry said. Ron looked slightly disappointed.
"Well, what do you think about those new American Eagles?" Ron asked. Harry sighed—he was getting slightly annoyed with Ron. He knew he was only trying to be friendly, as well as not be bored the whole trip, but he really didn't feel like talking. He laughed dryly.
"They're very bad at Quidditch," Harry said.
"Oh," Ron said. He made no other attempts at a conversation, much to Harry's liking. Ron eventually—god forbid—pulled out a book, bored with Harry's lack of loquaciousness. A while into the trip a stout Lady asked if they wanted anything off the trolley. It was filled with candy and sweets. Ron said he had sandwiches. Harry felt too sick with worry and grief to eat anything, so he politely refused. The Lady went away. Not but five minutes later a girl with bushy brown hair came in.
"Has anyone seen a rat? Seamus has lost one," she said in a bossy sort of voice.
"We already told him that we haven't seen it," Ron said in slight annoyance. Harry dimly remembered a boy coming in earlier asking for a rat. He had seemed slightly panicked when Ron said they hadn't seen it. Ron had his wand out now—Harry recalled that he'd said something about a new spell he was trying out, and it looked like he was trying it out on his sandwich.
"Are you doing some magic? Let's see it then," the girl said, bossy still.
"Erm, right then," Ron mumbled and began to wave his wand in a ridiculous fashion while saying "Sunshine, Daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid sandwich yellow." Though, nothing happened.
"Are you sure that's a real spell? Well, it isn't a very good spell, is it? I'm Hermione Granger by the way, who are you?"
"Ron Weasley," Ron grunted.
"Pleasure," Hermione said in a way that informed Ron that is most certainly was not a pleasure. She turned to Harry. "And you are?"
"Harry. Harry Potter," Harry said, still not looking at the bushy-haired girl.
"Are you really? I've read about your father—or, who I assume is your father, or uncle or some relation—in 'Famous Aurors of the Dark Age' and 'The War Against Evil: A Tale of Voldemort and His Enemies'," Hermione said.
"Fascinating," Harry said tonelessly. He already knew his father was very famous for his work against Voldemort, but at the moment he didn't need the reminder that his Father was not anywhere he knew of, nor was his mother. Hermione seemed taken aback at his lack of interest in anything she had to say.
"Right, well you two should get into your robes—we'll be at Hogwarts soon; I asked the conductor. By the way, you have a little bit of dirt on your nose, just there, did you know?" Hermione said, referring to Ron in her last statement. Then the bossy girl left, Ron wiping his nose slightly self-consciously.
"Mental, that one," Ron said. Harry just rolled his eyes, and then the two changed into their wizard's robes.
Harry hadn't paid much attention to Ron after that, borderline ignoring him completely. He hadn't paid attention to the Half-Giant, Hagrid, who had told the first-years where to go, either, causing Ron to have to drag Harry with him. He hadn't even paid attention to the stern Professor McGonagall when she explained to them what was going on. He had paid attention to the sorting hat some, but he was mainly lost in his own little world, worrying for his parents and not caring at all for the world around him. Finally it was his own turn to step up to the hat.
"Difficult. Very difficult," said a little voice in his ear. "Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes—and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting…So where shall I put you?" Harry said nothing. He could really care less at the moment. What did he need to worry about Hogwarts when his parents could very well be battling Voldemort for their lives this very second? "No preference? None at all? I see you have a great deal of preference, but that is instilled in you by your Uncles, your Father, your Mother. Perhaps its time we shy away from what relatives will say to do what is best for you…no preference still? Well, in that case it better be SLYTHERIN!" The hat said, shouting the last word to the crowd.
Harry heard no clapping as the crowd sat in astonishment. Harry Potter, son of James Potter, a Slytherin? That wasn't possible! Yet Harry couldn't hear anyway as he sat there in shock. Wait, go back, rewind! "I want to be a Gryffindor!" Harry thought loudly.
"Too late now," said the hat in his head. "Go join your table, before you embarrass yourself." Harry just sat on the stool until McGonagall yanked that hat off his head.
"You may sit down now, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said. Numbly, Harry obeyed, taking a seat at the Slytherin table. He never once thought that he would be seated there. There had never been any doubt in his mind that he would be a Gryffindor. Now, the one time when Harry could care less about Houses was the one moment in which he was to be sorted. Harry knew that the hat had taken advantage of him. He had a feeling that that hat had wanted him in Slytherin all along. But, why? What could Slytherin offer him that Gryffindor couldn't, other than utter and total solitude? If that was what the hat was aiming for, then he surely had gotten what he had wanted.
Harry, for lack of a better word, was absolutely miserable. He had quickly learned that no matter if you had lived with someone the entire summer if you were sorted into Slytheirn you were automatically an enemy. He had also quickly learned that none of the Slytherins wre to be trusted—he knew that Malfoy, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle and Parkinson all had parents loyal to Voldemort, but that had enough money to keep them out of jail. Harry knew the wrong sort when he saw it. He quickly made enemies with everyone in his year, as well as enemies with most the rest of the school. He decided to hurl himself into seclusion and his studies. He was always reading about some new spell or tactic and always practicing them, too.
The one beacon of light that Harry saw was that his little sister sent him a letter every other week. They were very sweet, though usually disappointingly short. Harry wrote back to her diligently. It seemed as though while he was loathing every minute of Hogwarts, she was loving every minute at the Burrow. Harry knew that she had quickly latched onto Ginny, the youngest Weasley, but now he knew that they had become best friends. They played games together all day and helped Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen. Harry knew that Rose fit right in with the Weasley family—she even had very Weasley-like red hair. Harry was glad she had made friends. Though, he knew that he had only made enemies.
Harry was enjoying his Potions class with Professor Slughorn one morning when, without warning, his cauldron exploded. It turned out later that Harry had, supposedly, added the asphodel root too soon, but Harry knew better—he knew that Malfoy, who had been sitting nearby, had dropped the root into his potion. Profesor Slughorn had apologized but said that he had to give Harry a zero for the day. Harry sighed. At least he had the Halloween feast that evening to look forward to.
It wasn't until the feast that Harry realized that without friends, the feast was no fun. Harry timidly took pumpkin pastries. He was lying low, and he knew it. He looked wistfully over at the Gryffindor table where Ron was laughing with some of the other Gryffindor boys—boy, what he wouldn't give to be with them. Harry turned back to his own table where even Malfoy, Nott and Parkinson were having fun. Harry sighed. He hated to admit it, but at the moment he would give quite a bit to be with them, too. He took a sip of his pumpkin juice. Perhaps there was someone out there who didn't hate him. Perhaps Ron didn't dislike him as much as he seemed to since he got sorted into Slytherin.
His thoughts were forgotten when suddenly Professor Quirrel, the defense teacher, stumbled in.
"Troll in the dungeon! Troll in the dungeon! Thought you ought to know," he said before he collapsed. Terrified, students began to break their order by screaming and nearly trampling Professor Quirrel to get out of the Hall. Harry was alarmed, but not by the fact that there was a troll inside that could possibly kill someone. No, more of what concerned Harry was how did the troll get in? Trolls were not exactly native to Scotland, and Hogwarts wards in any case were extremely heavy so as to prevent sudden attacks from Voldemort. Harry narrowed his eyes. Unless this was a direct assault from Voldemort himself. Harry did not voice his opinions however—who would have listened to him, anyway?—but instead followed the crowd as they went to their common rooms.
Later that night students were informed that the troll had been successfully thwarted—by four first-year students, as odd as that seemed. Apparently Hermione Granger had gone out after the troll because she thought she could defeat it (this, Harry did not believe. It simply was not characteristic of the bossy know-it-all Gryffindor girl.) and so three other boys, Ron, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan went after her and saved her life. All four were very nearly killed or injured, but by "sheer dumb luck" they were unscathed. Harry was very disturbed by this obvious assault by someone—most likely Voldemort, Harry had come to the conclusion—and was determined to know who exactly was the middle man in it all. Harry got an idea of just who when he saw that Quirrel was doing a fabulous job of covering up an awful limp in his right leg. Harry had to congratulate the actor—he was very good. Just not good enough. Yet, what could he be after that could cause him harm whilst he was getting it? This at least Harry had no answer to.
Harry and the rest of the Weasleys were spending their Christmas break at Hogwarts this year. They were pretty much the only ones, so Harry found the cold emptiness of the Slytherin common room surprisingly welcome. He would often curl up with a book and practice all sorts of magic in the common room. He was doing very advanced spells now, spells that a first-year probably shouldn't even be looking into trying.
The Weasleys pretty much ignored him all Christmas break, which suited Harry just fine as he locked himself in his dormitory to—he would admit this to no one, and felt ashamed at himself—cry. His parents had been so sure that they would have returned by Christmas. What could it mean, now that they weren't yet home? Harry didn't want to think about it. When he wasn't crying, he was throwing all of his energy and emotions into researching. He knew he had finally reached seventh year spells and had begun to fell slightly arrogant about it. After all, how many first years could cast spells that even some seventh years would have trouble with?
On Christmas day Harry woke to see some presents under the tree in the Slytherin common room. He smiled lightly—at least people back home cared about him. He received various items from Sirius, Remus, Rose and Mrs. And Mr. Weasley. Harry's heart sunk as he saw the presents—they only reminded him that not only were his parents gone, but Christmas was not as it had been since he had been so little. They were not back home in Godric's Hollow, not around the giant, ornate dining room table. They were not laughing and singing carols or opening presents around a brightly decorated tree. There was no Sirius, Remus, Rose, Mom or Dad. It was only Harry in his lonely little House in his lonely little room. That was when Harry once again curled up into a little ball, and for the last time in his life, he cried.
It was late in the year when Harry received his first detention. Harry simply could not restrain himself when Malfoy made a crack about his parents, and so Harry made sure that his nose made a crack as well. For this, Professor McGonagall, who had seen him break Malfoy's nose, gave him a week's detention. His first detention, surprisingly, was with Malfoy, Hermione and Ron. Apparently Malfoy had concocted some ridiculous story about Hermione and Ron smuggling a dragon to the Astronomy Tower. Malfoy, due to his warning the Deputy Headmistress had been caught out of bed after hours, was assigned a detention as well as Hermione and Ron, who, though not caught with a dragon, were caught out of bed.
So, it was with the three of them that Harry traveled down to Hagrid's Hut, led by Filch on a clear night. Somehow, though, Harry felt something was not right. The two Gryffindors and two Slytherins arrived at Hagrid's Hut. The Half-Giant welcomed Hermione, Ron and even Harry warmly and then they set off into the Forbidden Forest.
"The forest?" Malfoy nearly shrieked in fright. Harry rolled his eyes—Malfoy was such a big baby. "But there are werewolves and stuff like that in there!" Hagrid just grunted, ignored Malfoy and told the children their instructions.
"Summat in the forest 'as been hurtin' the Unicorns. There's one 'round here that we need to put outta its misr'y, poor creature. Bleedin' all over the place. Send up green sparks if ya find it, live or dead, it don't matter. Send up red sparks if you find summat else—or if summat else finds ye," Hagrid said. "Now then. Ron, 'ermione, you two come with me, Malfoy, 'arry, you two go with Fang." Harry nodded curtly. Malfoy and he set off, insulting each other all the way until they could no longer see Hagrid. Once Hagrid was out of sight, however, Malfoy chickened out in his thoughts that they might be heard and both boys went silent.
The two boys had been walking for quite a while when they came across a glistening white in the dirt of the forest. The unicorn's mane and tail were entangled in sticks, burrs and other brush. It was beautiful, and yet terribly sad. A gash in its side bled silver blood. Harry looked at the creature in pity. What a waste of a beautiful life, a beautiful creature. It wasn't but a second later that the hair rose on the back of his neck. A creepy looking figure rippled across the ground, came to the unicorn's side…and drank its blood.
"AAAAARRRRGGGHHHH!"
Malfoy let out a terrible scream and ran away, Fang right behind him, leaving Harry quite alone with this dark creature. At first, Harry thought that perhaps the monster with a rippling cloak was a lethifold, but Harry remembered that Lethifolds do not drink the blood of creatures but rather swallow them whole, much like a snake. No, that was when Harry realized that this creature was something much more evil than a lethifold—and it was coming right towards him.
Just as the creature was a foot away from him, something jumped over Harry's head and charged at the evil monster, scaring it away. Harry looked up at the thing that had saved him. A Centaur, he decided upon looking at the half-man half-horse creature.
"Are you all right?" asked the centaur. Harry nodded.
"Yes, thank you for saving me from that, that thing. What was that anyway?" Harry asked. The centaur shook his head.
"Later. At the moment we must get you out of this evil place. Climb upon my back, Mr. Harry Potter, and I will return you to your group," said the centaur. Harry obeyed.
"How do you know my name? And what is yours?"
"Firenze," was what he said. "That creature. You know the dark one, yes? The one that roams this Earth still." Harry frowned for a moment, but then he nodded in dawning comprehension. The centaur must mean Voldemort. "Danger has come upon Hogwarts, young Potter. Do you know what lies in the third floor corridor?" Harry shook his head. He had almost forgotten that such a corridor existed, since it had been forbidden since the start of term. "The greatest—and most terrible—work of Nicolas Flamel lies within the castle. Heed my words, young Mr. Potter. Mars is bright tonight." With that, Firenze put Harry down on the ground. "This is as far as I take you. Your group is not far from here. Goodbye, Mr. Potter." Firenze ran off, leaving Harry staring after him.
Harry paced in his common room, puzzling out what Firenze had said. He had been referring to Voldemort, that far Harry had gotten. He must also have been talking about the Philosopher's Stone, for that was most certainly the famous alchemist's greatest work. The third floor corridor…It all was slowly making sense, though parts didn't add up. Harry frowned in agitation. If what Firenze said was true, then something bad was going to happen to that stone that night, Harry was sure of it. He grabbed his invisibility cloak—there was only one way to find out, and only one way to save it.
Harry arrived in the corridor to hear a harp playing by itself in the corner of the room. Directly in front of him was a giant, three-headed dog that must have been from Hades himself. The creature was sleeping, however, so, shrugging, Harry opened the trapdoor he observed on the floor, and after a deep breath he jumped through.
Harry immediately knew he'd landed in some sort of a plant, though he wasn't sure what until he tried to get up and it simply constricted him back down. Harry grumbled but then went completely still when he realized it was Devil's Snare. The plant let go of him and he fell to the floor. Harry dusted himself off and casually went on to the next room.
This room was filled with keys with wings and only a few broomsticks. Harry sighed as he mounted. This could take a while, though he hadn't played seeker back home for nothing. It only took him five minutes to chase down the right key and exit the room, and when he entered the next room he found no challenge as, what Harry assumed used to be, the giant chess pieces were blown to pieces by an obviously powerful spell. A powerful blasting spell, perhaps, Harry thought with interest. He walked across the chess board casually and went to the next room.
This next room also presented no challenge as the troll that resided there was clearly either dead or knocked unconscious. Harry narrowed his eyes at the creature as he progressed into the next room.
The next room was where the true challenge lay, Harry knew that once he stepped in and found Professor Quirrel standing before a mirror. He seemed to be puzzled by it and kept on walking around it. Harry glared at the professor—he thought that perhaps the Professor had something to do with this after the incident on Halloween.
"Stand aside," Harry said forcefully. If he was going to protect the stone, he needed to find it and obviously this mirror was the key. Professor Quirrel looked up; he actually looked slightly surprised. Harry suspected that this was due to fact that a student had, not only gotten all the way down here but was now commanding him to get out of his way.
"Potter. I'm surprised to see you here," Quirrel said bitingly.
"Funny, I'm not surprised to see you here," Harry said dryly. He supposed that he should be frightened right now, that he should have been frightened in the forest, that he should have been frightened on his way down, but quite frankly he wasn't. Harry had lost most emotion since Christmas, though he wasn't completely certain why. He shrugged it off for the moment. Now he had an annoying Professor standing in his way of protecting the stone, and that irked Harry. Quirrel was not so good at hiding his emotions—or rather having a lack of them—as Harry was, and so his face showed obvious surprise when Harry was sarcastic right back at him. Suddenly Quirrel became angry with Harry and grabbed him by the neck.
"Listen here boy, you know how to get that stone, and I'd like it for my Master, so you will get the stone for me you insolent little--," Quirrel then jerked away in horror as his hand turned red from being raw. He screamed. What magic is this? However, the pain seemed not to deter Quirrel, only make him more angry. "Listen you little cretin," he said, grabbing back on despite the pain. Harry was fighting him back with all of his might, but to little avail. "We have your filthy parents, and if you ever wish to see them again, you will get this stone for me--," but Quirrel never got to finish what he was saying, as at the mention of his parents and Voldemort having captured them, Harry suddenly snapped. He grabbed Quirrel's throat and began to cut off his air as much as his own air was being cut off. The two struggled against each other, each desperate to strangle the other. They went in front of the mirror, and very briefly Harry saw himself but a blood-red stone in his pocket and then he felt it fall into his own, real pocket. Not but a few seconds later however, Quirrel passed out from the pain of his hands and neck as well as strangulation. Harry quickly relinquished his hold as he collapsed as well, gasping for breath.
Harry turned over in his nice warm bed. It was that, more than anything that startled Harry. This was not his bed from the Slytherin dormitories. No, this was a bed in the…Hospital Wing? Harry opened his eyes, and sure enough he was in the Hospital Wing. Harry blinked, and when he looked to his side he saw the Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, sitting on the side of his bed without the usual twinkle in his eyes. He seemed to be studying him.
"Good morning, Harry. You gave us all quite a scare. Disappearing, and not knowing you were gone until your first class the next morning. No one knowing where you were, except perhaps a confused pair of Weasley twins I'm sure you know. I'm glad you're all right—you've been asleep for three days," Dumbledore said. Harry just shrugged.
"Oops," he said. "Sorry. I had to go save a stone from an evil wizard, and possibly from the most evil and powerful wizard to walk the Earth. My apologies." Harry said sarcastically. If Dumbledore detected the sarcasm, he did not acknowledge it.
"Yes, you did, didn't you. What a fine job you did, too. We were able to find you safe with the stone in you pocket," Dumbledore said.
"That's good to know. What happened to Quirrel?" Harry asked. Dumbledore looked slightly uncomfortable.
"Well, Harry, we found that great portions of his skin were burned and he had been strangled. He died due to not being found until the next morning. There was nothing to be done once we found him—he was already dead," Dumbledore said. Harry nodded curtly. He had killed a mad. He, Harry James Potter, had blood on his hands at age eleven. Dimly he wondered if he was supposed to feel remorse for it, because he really didn't. "Well. I meant to keep this a secret between you and me, this whole ordeal, so naturally, the whole school knows." Harry nodded again. That was really no surprise. He was already infamous, and his being missing had probably caused a great gossip line to form. Harry looked over at Dumbledore—he was studying him again. Harry looked away.
"When were you planning on telling me that you had lost contact with my parents? That they were captured by Voldemort? When were you planning on telling me that they are most likely dead?" Harry asked, his gaze coming back on Dumbledore, accusing and piercing. Harry had known this man most of his life and had often seen him as a great man, but now Harry only saw him as the enemy who had taken his parents away from him and then lied about it. Dumbledore sighed.
"I had hoped that they were merely being careful and not owling. I was not aware until yesterday that they had been captured, most likely for a few months. I'm sorry, Harry." Harry's deathly gaze turned away from him.
"Of course you are. If you don't mind, I need my rest, Professor," Harry said, almost laughing at himself for the irony that he had been unconscious for three days but he needed rest. Dumbledore nodded somberly.
"Very well. Feel better, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said, and then he left. Harry looked to the ceiling. He truly hoped he would never have to see that man again.
"Harry!" Rose squealed as she spotted him at Platform 9 and ¾. Harry grinned, picked up his little sister and twirled her around.
"Rose! Well, look at you, you must've grown five feet since last I saw you," he said teasingly. Rose grinned.
"Yup, I grew. C'mon Harry, it's time to go home!" Rose said, and smiling she took his hand. Harry smiled at her softly. How he wished that were true. How he wished that were true; but Harry left his home back in Godric's Hollow, and he knew that now he could never return. After all, Godric's Hollow was no place for Slytherins. Godric's Hollow was no place for cold-blooded murderers. Godric's Hollow was also most certainly no place for the most powerful young wizard since Voldemort himself.