Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone

A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story

Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.

Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.

Chapter 28: Disillusion

At St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, the Healers were hard at work tending to the Stone Cutters, for even with the benefit of magic, treating serious injuries was no laughing matter. Granted, simple fractures could be knit back together with ease and cuts healed, but things like burns from magical fire, primary blast injuries and exposure to the effects of strange and deadly potions was something else entirely.

Often, on their rounds, they would shake their heads at the antics that those outside got up to, given that in spite of every lesson drilled into childrens' heads by the Tales of Beedle the Bard, some would inevitably end up thinking that magic was a panacea, when it was anything but that. Yes, magic could cure, but it could also harm, and what it broke was usually much harder to fix.

Household spells horribly miscast. Cauldrons exploding. Wands breaking. Broom crashes. A wizard overdosing on an over the counter potion by mistake, or worse, a gluttonous child devouring brownies they hadn't known were enchanted – but their parents had, because they were the ones who'd enchanted them. And of course, the myriad of troubles one could get into while being drunk on fire-whiskey or other mind altering substances.

It was a difficult thing to be a Healer, especially when one saw certain patients coming in on a regular basis for the same injuries, illnesses, or root cause to their injuries, be it spell damage or what have you. One's bedside manner tended to become quite strained when that happened after perhaps the third time one discharged someone for the same thing.

Hit Wizards and Aurors were usually given a pass on this, because it was quite literally their job to be the thin red line that stood between the general public and the dangers that lurked out there. And well, one couldn't quite fault Unspeakables either, given that the Department of Mysteries actually looked into areas of magic most did not even dare to (and weren't authorized to learn about).

But in dealing with everyone else, it was a natural thing to become frustrated, especially when so much of what they saw was so easily preventable.

In their off hours, or even in the small reprieves they had, Healers often commiserated at the utter stupidity of people who ended up as their patients, a reaction shared by Muggle health professionals, especially those who had ever worked in an emergency room in a major urban hospital.

(Though Muggle doctors would likely disagree with Healers' assertions that Muggles had better sense, given the sheer volume of what a general hospital tended to see, particularly those close to university campuses, where each weekend brought in a new round of young people suffering from alcohol poisoning or alcohol related issues)

Both would likely agree however, that they lived in quite a mad, mad world, where they were probably the only ones halfway to being sane.

Even then, it was only halfway.

And sometimes, after a long, long day of treating injuries on children and otherwise fighting the good fight, all they wanted was a shot of Firewhiskey themselves, so they wouldn't have to think about what they'd seen.

The latest cases from Hogwarts – four students suffering from the effects of a point blank Blasting Curse – had been rough. The redheads had been remarkably fortunate, all things considered. Dislocations and broken bones weren't that hard to heal, even if they were open compound fractures with the possibility of infection.

The oriental kid had been a more serious case, given his condition. Acute compartment syndrome, where pressure built up in an isolated area after traumatic injury, was a very dangerous thing – and that wasn't even taking into account the exposure to strange potions, the myocardial contusion, or the punctured lung.

They'd barely managed to save his life – no small feat, given how long it had been after the injury had occurred.

And the oldest of the kids – well, that had been a close thing too. With third-degree burns over much of much of his body, fractured ribs, damaged lungs and eardrums, it had taken all the team had to keep him stable, and it would take weeks before he fully recovered.

Their only question was what could have caused this?

Generally they only saw this kind of damage on Hit Wizards, Aurors, and others who had reason to fight Dark Wizards.

Not that they were only ones wondering what exactly had happened, or concerned as to the extent of the damage. Albus Dumbledore, for instance, lost a great deal of sleep over the incident, as he had every reason to suspect the worst.

Granted, news of what had happened in his absence had let him conclude negotiations with Cornelius and Lucius more favorably than anticipated, as it served to underscore why he was needed at Hogwarts. Indeed, he'd managed to escape anything more serious than being put on probation by the Board of Governors and the loss of his position of British representative to (and Supreme Mugwump of) the International Confederation of Wizards, with the Ministry insisting that he focus his attention on his duties at Hogwarts.

A small price, really, given how little real power the International Confederation of Wizards really had. The only power it had was generally what its members agreed to give it, which wasn't always much, due to the various states' insistence on their individual sovereignty. If one had any awareness of Muggle world history, one might liken it to the now-defunct League of Nations, only even more stripped down in scale, as there was no international court.

And so he'd agreed to their terms, with Fudge promising to suspend Hagrid's sentence and release the man in a few days in return for a favor of some sort in the future, saying that he would not press charges against McGonagall as a courtesy.

When he returned to the Castlel, Filius had briefed him on what he'd found.

A gaping hole in the ground, leading to the chamber with the Philosopher's Stone.

Professor Quirrell crushed by rubble.

Four students sent to St. Mungo's. One missing and presumed dead.

The Boy-Who-Lived hit with a Killing Curse – with a scar to prove it – and once more surviving.

To all appearances, the events of over a decade ago had repeated themselves, with the curse rebounding on the Voldemort possessed Quirrell due to the protection that Lily's sacrifice had granted, with the resultant backlash not only destroying the caster, but utter devastating the chamber in which the confrontation had occurred, much as the Potter house at Godric's Hollow had been blown apart by the failed spell.

If that were indeed the case, then it was a simple matter to conclude that the Philosopher's Stone had been destroyed in the blast…but Albus Dumbledore wasn't so sure.

He'd been Flamel's apprentice for some time, after all, and he knew enough about alchemy to know that there should have been some residue of the Stone had it truly been destroyed.

…which there wasn't.

Which meant that very likely, the Stone had indeed been stolen.

The question was – who had done it?

Severus and Flitwick, of course, were above suspicion due to their loyalty, and while Hagrid knew of the Stone, he had no use for it himself, and would never willingly harm a student.

(He did grudgingly admit that the half-giant did not know his own strength, and might hurt someone accidentally. And that, given the recent incident, his love for dangerous animals needed to be reined in.)

And while he supposed that yes, Nicolas Flamel might have returned and reclaimed his Stone after sensing it was in danger, or had woven enchantments into it to make it 'port away on its own, he didn't think that was the case.

Which left those who had been in the room.

Well, one person who had been in the room, and one wraith.

The missing student Sokaris…and the wraith of Voldemort.

Quirrell, of course, was quite dead.

Dumbledore had examined the corpse personally to confirm this, as well as to verify if there were indeed traces of Voldemort's soul within him – which there had been – though he would have suspected the man to show more signs of decay unless he were willingly being possessed. Clearly, he'd been acting of his own volition for at least some time, but it just impossible to know just how much.

As for the missing Ravenclaw, Sialim Sokaris, the obvious conclusion was that she had been burned up in the fire blocking the entrance to the chamber, hurled through it by the shock wave of a rebounded Killing Curse.

And certainly, the destroyed wand, and pile of ashes suggested just that – that she had been swept away and consumed by enchanted fire.

But the evidence wasn't concrete, and Dumbledore wasn't sure.

Indeed, he'd been suspicious enough to consult one of his specialized instruments as to the health and whereabouts of Sialim Sokaris – an enchanted clock that, given the name of a student or faculty member – could display whether the person named was in class, on the grounds of Hogwarts, elsewhere, or dead.

The result had been "Dead," and his instruments had never steered him wrong.

He had checked on the status of Sialim Eltnam or Sialim Eltnam Sokaris after learning of the girl's boggart from the mind of the Boy-Who-Lived, but the result had been unchanged.

But that meant only that her soul was gone, that the person who had been Silaim Sokaris no longer existed on this earth.

What he suspected – but couldn't prove – was that Voldemort had used her body to escape with the Stone, and that he might have had an earlier influence, given her pattern of reclusive behavior, her knowledge of the castle, and more. There was even the fact that she had seen Quirrell release a troll into the main building but had done nothing about it, not even attempted to report the man (regardless of if she would be believed).

And perhaps most damning of all, in the memories of the Boy-Who-Lived, she had been the first one to suggest stealing the Stone.

Still, whether it was or not, there wasn't anything he could say.

He couldn't say he suspected the girl might still be alive – not without a good reason for it, and the last thing he wanted to do was admit to the rest of the Wizarding World that he had arranged for the Philosopher's Stone to be used as bait for Lord Voldemort – that the man himself might still be alive.

If his suspicions – that Voldemort had escaped with the Stone – were correct, it wouldn't matter anyway, as the Dark Wizard would use the Elixir of Life to revive himself, and that would be the end of it.

What it meant for him was that he needed to begin preparing for a possible war, without the Ministry knowing exactly what he was up to. A difficult task that if it involved reactivating the Order as a whole, but he could take some preliminary steps.

…right after he informed his old friend Nicolas Flamel that the Philosopher's Stone had been lost, destroyed in a conflict between Voldemort and the Boy-who-Lived. He didn't much like to lie, but in some cases, it was justified.

Nicolas and his wife would die once their small stockpile of Elixir of Life ran out, and he didn't want them to go onto their next great adventure knowing that their greatest invention would likely play a role in the resurrection of Lord Voldemort. No man or woman deserved something like that on their conscience, especially as it was something they would never be able to make right.

Something he would never be able to make right.

Yet another sin on the conscience of a weary, weary soul.

As the Stone Cutters recovered in St. Mungo's, Shinji had a lot of time to think about what had gone wrong, and just what had happened. From he'd managed to piece together, he thought Quirrell must have simply followed in their wake, since after they'd entered the underground chambers, they had been far too focused on the obstacles to check for anything less than obvious.

Hillard had been right – invisibility really did make them sloppy.

But, being honest, he wasn't sure if their tricks would have worked against Quirrell even had they not been ambushed.

After all, all the man – the dark practitioner of witchcraft – had needed was one spell to defeat them all. What Quirrell – Voldemort - was capable of was far beyond anything Matou Shinji could do, anything the Stone Cutters could have mustered against him.

And that was sobering, because aside from his encounter with his grandfather, this was his first real brush with death.

The first time he'd faced the cold reality of combat – that there would be times, even with magic, even with everything he learned, that he would come up short.

That he too, could die.

It wasn't nice to think about, but what else was there to do as he lay in a hospital bed, taking potions and being tended to as necessary.

There wasn't anyone he could talk to.

There wasn't a television he could watch.

There weren't even any books available for him to read, just an unfamiliar ceiling to stare at and the occasional Healer or other visitor who came to check on him.

Headmaster Dumbledore had been gracious, even concerned for his well-being, and had been kind enough to let him know how the others were doing. But as Shinji suspected, the man had questions about what had happened down in the chambers.

Why had they gone down there? Why had they chosen this particular time to go? How had they gotten around the obstacles?

Shinji didn't trust the man as far as he could throw him, since the Headmaster had after all, set up the trap in the first place, but he answered some of the questions anyway. Mostly those relating to how they'd overcome the obstacles and what had happened after, given that, considering where they'd been found and what had happened, it wasn't as if anything else could happen to them.

He skipped over insignificant details like Sokaris' or Potter's boggarts, or indeed why they had chosen to begin their heist at this particular time as opposed to some other.

And then Dumbledore had taken off his glasses and offered Shinji his condolences on the passing of his friend, Sialim Sokaris.

Shinji's face had frozen in shock.

No.

It wasn't possible. She couldn't be dead. Sokaris had known more than he, hatched the plan, made them aware of the threat Quirrell posed. She had fought alongside them, worked alongside them…been his friend.

She just couldn't be…

But the Headmaster had shaken his head, as Shinji remembered.

Quirrell.

After dealing with them, there was only one realistic thing for him to do, wasn't there?

To claim the Stone.

"Then…is the Stone…?"

He had to know. Had to. At the moment, he needed it like he needed air. Because if they'd failed, if Quirrell had gotten the Stone anyway, despite everything…

"The Dark Wizard who ambushed you was stopped when his Killing Curse rebounded from the Boy-Who-Lived," Dumbledore had replied gravely. "He did not succeed in his aims. But your friend, Sialim Sokaris, is dead."

The man had continued talking then, mentioning that given the valor of his actions, Shinji and the other Stone Cutters would be given a Special Award for Services to the School, but the boy from the east stopped paying attention after that.

Sometime later – he didn't know how long – another man had come to visit him, a long-haired blond dressed in robes of black who bore more than a passing resemblance to Draco Malfoy.

The man introduced himself as Lucius, Draco's father and the Chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Governors and congratulated him on his valour, as it was unusual to find a first year willing to stand against a Dark Wizard, even with the aid of the Boy-Who-Lived and Hogwart's Defense Professor.

It was fortunate for Shinji that shock had made him numb, or he wouldn't have been able to keep a straight face.

Really. Stand against a Dark Wizard with the aid of the Defense Professor?

How could that be, when Quirrell was the one who…

Shinji felt an incredible sense of betrayal. What kind of story was going around – and was spreading it? To his mind, there could only be one person responsible…

Albus Dumbledore.

But Shinji wasn't about to set the record straight, not when someone important was praising him, so he'd simply nodded and thanked the man, mentioning that it was quite an honor for the Board's chairman to go out of his way to visit a first year.

The man had offered an apology for his son's reckless actions – unbefitting of a scion of the House of Malfoy – and his sympathies for Shinji's loss.

As a token of his sincerity, he'd given the boy one other thing: a blue-bound journal, stamped with the name of T.M. Riddle, saying that if Matou Shinji ever felt the need to share his thoughts, this living text might serve.

"Why are you giving this to me? Isn't it…"

…valuable? The Book of Spells certainly was, and that was one example of a "living" tome, though Budge's Book of Potions came closer to being alive.

"The House of Malfoy is generous to the worthy," the Malfoy patriarch had explained. And it was true. Though Shinji didn't know it, they were one of the richest of the families of Wizarding Britain, and their money could be found behind almost every winning candidate for Minister. "And given your achievements, you are certainly that. Indeed, my son could stand to learn a thing from you concerning how best to befriend those in power."

With that, the man had departed as well, leaving Shinji with many more things to think about – and a journal with which to occupy his time. Well, he certainly wasn't going to put his most private thoughts to paper, as he wasn't sure there weren't tracking charms or something else woven into the book, but there was no harm in amusing himself, right?

He flipped through the pages, checking to make sure they were indeed all blank before taking out a self-inking quill.

He dripped a blot onto the first page of the diary, raising an eyebrow as it shone brightly on the paper for a second and then, as though it was being sucked into the page, vanished.

Hello, he wrote.

The words shone momentarily on the page and they, too, sank without trace. Then, at last, something happened.

Oozing back out of the page, in his very own ink, came words Shinji had never written.

Hello. My name is Tom Riddle. Who might you be?

So…it was an enchanted book. Well, this could be interesting indeed. But, he figured there was no need to be honest about who he was. In Shinji's experience, lies often worked better than truth. So, it seemed only fitting that he thought of the most powerful practitioner of witchcraft he had encountered - why, the very one the Dark Lord himself had once feared - and had borrowed his name as a talisman to conjure by.

To him, My name is Albus Dumbledore, seemed a most appropriate response.

Unfortunately, the diary didn't seem to agree, as "Tom" promptly stopped writing after that.

It wasn't particularly a surprise that Harry took the news worst of all, given his nightmares, and his greatest fear.

Sokaris was dead because of him. She was dead because he hadn't been able to do more, because he hadn't actually killed off Voldemort all those years ago.

Rationally, given that they – as students – had faced the might of You-Know-Who and lived, what they had accomplished could be considered a miracle, an overwhelming success.

But Harry didn't feel that way.

One of his friends was dead and nothing could truly make up for that.

He had thought himself resolved, had known in his mind that Quirrell was a Dark Wizard, but after everything he'd done, it had still come as a shock when he'd crushed them so mercilessly.

But more than that, when he'd simply admitted that yes, he was Voldemort, meaning that Harry had sat in class listening to the greatest practitioner of the Dark Arts the Wizarding World had ever known talk about how fear was the worst of all enemies. It meant that the one he had showed his skills to, who had praised him for his deeds, was his nemesis.

And he wasn't at all sure that it was the soul fragment that had let him become who he was – the empty shell of a hero they called The Boy-Who-Lived.

The Boy-Who-Lived-When-Others-Died.

The boy who could survive the greatest of the Unforgivables, when everyone else knew that to be instant death.

But his ability wasn't simply survival, as Albus Dumbledore explained, clearing up a point that Death had made in that place that he still wasn't sure was real.

"Your mother died to save you, my boy," the old man said, sighing very deeply. "And if there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign… to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. Voldemort assumed that love was weak, but it is not. It is fierce and strikes back at those who attempt to hurt what it would protect."

"…what happened the last time, sir?"

"The house at Godric's Hollow was destroyed, Harry, when the force of the spell rebounded."

Harry trembled then, part in grief, part in rage, part…an emotion he didn't even have the words to describe.

"Why?"

"Why what, Harry?" the Headmaster asked.

"If it's a protection born of love, why didn't it just hurt him – not the House, not…"

Sokaris.

Albus Dumbledore looked very solemn then as he explained to Harry that even he didn't know. This was Old Magic, with rules of its own, rules that no wizard alive truly knew. But the important thing was, he said, that Harry was safe, that Voldemort had been stopped, that—

But Dumbledore was forced to stop when the Boy-Who-Lived had keeled over, vomiting up the contents of his stomach, acid, bile and who knew what else dripping onto his office's stone floor. He waited for the boy to finish, then simply vanished the mess.

"So he…could never hurt me with his magic?" Harry managed in a very small voice.

"Not with the curses he favors," Dumbledore replied. "But something else might have sufficed. A conjured rope used to strangle, or a rock used to crush."

Voldemort couldn't have hurt him directly...and yet his friends had risked their lives – one of them had even given hers – to protect him.

To protect someone who didn't need it. Who didn't deserve it.

…who frankly, didn't deserve anything at all.

"No…" Harry said. There was hurt in his voice, pain mingled with anger and grief and something else. He remembered their conversation – the last full one they'd had – while the others had fought the troll, where she had told him that he had done something most would not be able to. That in the moment he had stopped the TATARI, he had become a hero.

She had told him that if he could not believe himself a hero, to simply imagine what a hero would do and become it, to focus on what he wanted to be until the act was indistinguishable from reality.

…exactly what TATARI had accused her of doing in the end.

But it worked.

Believing that they could succeed, that they would get the Stone and get out safely was what had given him the strength to move forward, the strength to push aside his fears of what could happen and trust the others.

But that strength had been a lie.

"With all due respect, Headmaster, what's the point of this protection if it cost one of my closest friends her life?"

"Harry, I understand it—"

"What's the point of love when it saves nothing except someone who didn't want to be saved?!"

Dumbledore swallowed. For the Boy-Who-Lived to reject love…that was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

"You saved the other Stone Cutters," the Headmaster pointed out, closing his eyes. "If the protection hadn't stopped Quirrell, he would have killed them. Is that what you wanted, Harry?"

"No….I…."

That wasn't it at all. He just…he just….

It wasn't enough. He should have done more. Letting one die to save five didn't make someone a hero.

"I wanted to stop him. But I wanted Sokaris to live."

His expression was pure anguish as he pictured what it must have been like to burn alive. To be consumed, burned to ash.

He only hoped that she hadn't woken up after Quirrell had hit her with the Stunner, otherwise, it would probably have been agony.

And the thought of his friend in pain was more painful than Avada Kedavra would have been.

"Did you know, sir?" he asked quietly.

"Know what, Harry?"

"Did you know Quirrell was Voldemort?"

Dumbledore now became very interested in Fawkes, the phoenix, who simply sat there without a single sound, looking at the two.

"Harry," Dumbledore said with a pained expression. "Please, try to understand—"

And with that, the Boy-Who-Lived lost his temper.

"There's nothing to understand, sir! You did or you didn't. Which was it?! Either you knew – in which case why didn't you stop him, since you're the only one he ever feared – or you didn't, in which case, why did you turn Hogwarts into a trap? Did you just not care about what happened to any of us?! Did you not care about your students?"

"Harry…I…"

"You didn't care. And Sokaris died."

The Boy-Who-Lived stared at the Headmaster of Hogwarts, his rage making him forget all proprieties of age and station, as the old man sagged, looking every one of his years.

"Nicolas Flamel will die too," Dumbledore said, after a few minutes had passed. "You know of him, I assume? Well, the Stone was destroyed, Harry. Without it, he and his wife have enough Elixir of Life stored away to set their affairs in order, but then, they will die."

"I see."

"But that is not your fault. It is mine," the headmaster admitted, taking a deep, heavy breath. "But then, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."

It sounded good, and echoed the certainty he half-recalled from the in-between place, where he knew that going on would have led to a place free of aches and suffering, but…

"Then what's the point of living at all, Headmaster? If death is just another adventure, then why do people grieve? Why is the Killing Curse the worst of the Unforgiveables? Why is a killer like Voldemort spoken of in fear?"

"Because our choices in life are what make us who we are, Harry," Dumbledore answered. "And the fact that people like Voldemort separate us from those we love. They send them to another world, where we cannot yet join them."

"But we can, Headmaster."

There was an odd look in Harry's eyes as he murmured this, and Dumbledore sat up, alarmed.

"Harry…you're not thinking of hurting yourself, are you?"

"I just seem to get people hurt, Headmaster. And if death really is an adventure, shouldn't I just make the choice to move on before more people are hurt because of me?"

And that was the frightening thing about his philosophy – that if Death really was just the next big adventure, then there was no reason not to die, and every reason to, if one didn't like the life one was leading.

"Harry, your mother died so you could live," Dumbledore said reproachfully. "She would not want you to join her so soon, without living a full life of your own."

It wasn't a very good response, but then there weren't good answers when it came to death. Without the Resurrection Stone, no one really knew what lay beyond the Veil, except for those who had already made the journey and could not come back.

"A life filled with nightmares, Headmaster? Maybe it would be better if she hadn't. That way, I would be with them instead of just seeing them die – hearing them – reliving their murder every night in my dreams. I wouldn't have dragged everyone else into this mess because they think I'm a hero when it was my mother who died. I wouldn't have lost Sokaris…"

Dumbledore felt a cold shiver going down his spine. This reminded him too much of an old memory. A memory involving a three way duel and a bystander who had been killed – his very sister. The reason he feared to act, even today, as who else might be harmed in the process by his actions?

"Don't blame yourself, Harry. There's nothing…"

"Then tell me what to blame."

Dumbledore shook his head. He didn't want to share what he knew yet, but right now, it would be a mistake if he didn't. There was a very real possibility that Harry Potter would try to hurt himself, and he couldn't have that – not just because of who the boy was and what he represented, but because if Potter died, Albus Dumbledore would have no more standing – and even Snape would probably desert him.

As would be right – because Dumbledore would have utterly failed.

"There was a prophecy made about you," he said, finally.

Whatever Harry had expected, it wasn't that.

"…what."

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..." Dumbledore quoted, reciting the portion that Severus Snape had once overheard and told the Dark Lord. "That was you, Harry."

It took some time for that to sink in. Harry had wondered if there was something of that sort, but he'd never expected an actual prophecy.

"Did my parents know?" he asked at last, seeming far older than eleven.

"They did," Dumbledore said. "I told them for their own safety, as Voldemort would have stopped at nothing to kill you, knowing this."

"…I wonder if they ever really loved me then," Harry said, his eyes looking somewhere into the distance. "If it really was love that moved them, and not just the hope that I would one day vanquish a Dark Lord?"

"Harry…"

But the Boy-Who-Lived just looked away, remaining silent for a time.

"Because if it was love, why would it hurt so many people? Why would they leave me with the Dursleys? Why would they send me to a family that thought I was a freak, that freakishness had to be beaten out of me, or starved from me? Why would they let me think I was a monster for ten years of my life, that they were layabouts who died in a car accident? Why would they let me have no friends, no childhood, nothing at all? Tell me, Headmaster, does that sound like love to you?"

Put that way, it really didn't.

"That was my doing," Dumbledore admitted, almost afraid of the conclusions Harry would reach otherwise. "I placed you with the Dursleys for your protection."

"My…protection?"

"There is another charm, you see, that prevents harm from coming to you from Voldemort while you live in the house of someone related to you."

"…but not from my relatives."

"Harry…"

"Is there any other reason, Headmaster? Because that's not good enough."

"Because everyone else was dead."

Everyone else who wasn't in Azkaban, that was.

That stopped Harry's rant before it could begin.

"Everyone else?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Everyone…died…to protect me," he concluded grimly, his body shuddering as he looked down at his hands and imagined them stained with countless deaths, with the stained dreams of all those who had trusted in him. When he'd first boarded the Hogwarts Express, he had thought that whatever lay ahead would have to be better than what lay behind. But this…

He laughed, a hollow, broken, bitter laugh.

"And for that I'm a hero? Because everyone trusted a prophecy and laid down their lives? All for something that only came to pass because of what my mother sacrificing herself? Why isn't she the hero?"

"…because, my boy, she was just a Muggleborn witch," Dumbledore said sadly. "And you were the Child of Prophecy. People, even witches and wizards, need to believe in someone, to have a reason to hope, and you, the Boy-Who-Lived, were a symbol that was the War was over. That Voldemort's reign had been cut short. That they no longer had to live in fear."

Harry looked very troubled, closing his eyes and turning away.

For a long while, he said nothing, with Dumbledore eventually thinking that perhaps he should get the boy back to bed, but…

"…then it's my job to finish what my mother started," Harry murmured, holding an upraised hand in front of his eyes. "I'll become a hero – a hero who can save everyone. Who won't have to let anyone else die for him."

"Harry…"

"Voldemort isn't dead."

"No. He's not."

"And I'm the only one who can stop him?"

"So the prophecy says."

"Then stop him I will. And anyone else who would be like him. Whether death is a great adventure or not, I just know one of my friends is dead. And if I can't bring her back, I will end Voldemort myself."

Or die trying.

"Well, this old man won't stand in your way," Dumbledore replied. "But allow me to do something for you, Harry."

He held up the broken halves of the holly and phoenix feather wand Harry had called his own, the brother to the one that had given Harry his scar.

"My wand," Harry said in recognition, cringing as he remembered where he'd last seen it. "But even Professor Snape said it couldn't be fixed."

For the first time in that conversation, Albus Dumbledore smiled.

"It was also once thought that the Killing Curse could not be stopped," the old wizard said, looking at Harry's scar. "And if there are things about magic that I don't know, there are surely things you don't, yes?"

He drew forth his wand, an old, worn looking thing with carvings that resembled clusters of elderberries running down its length.

"Reparo!"

With one spell, the halves of the broken wand came together, with red sparks flying out of the end as they resealed themselves. Harry reached out wonderingly and picked it up, feeling a sudden warmth in his fingers, as though wand and hand were rejoicing at their reunion.

"Thank you," Harry said. He was about to get up, but worked up the courage to say something else, to ask something else. "Can I ask you something?"

"You have, but yes, you may ask something else."

"Can I please go somewhere besides back to the Dursleys this summer?"

He didn't want to be there. Didn't want to go back. Didn't want to be reminded of how he failed – and would fail. He did enough to himself if he were being honest about it.

Dumbledore frowned.

"I'm afraid I must insist. While you can still call the Dursley residence home, you cannot be touched or directly harmed by Voldemort. You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it home, there he cannot hurt you."

"And if I stayed there a while, but went somewhere else?"

Dumbledore sighed.

"Where would you go, Harry?" he asked. He knew how delicate the situation was, given what he needed from the boy, and what was yet to come, so he would make some concessions if he had to.

Only one place really came to mind.

"Japan," the Boy-Who-Lived answered.

It was about as far away from here as he could imagine, yet one of his friends was there – the one who had always stood by him, supported him. And the one who would best understand how it felt that Sokaris…

Harry shivered once more, shaking his head.

"I will see what I can do, my boy," Dumbledore said, his lips tight. "That is all I can promise. But you must stay at least a month with the Dursleys."

"Very well, Headmaster. Good night."

"Good night, Harry."

There were only three other events of note that year.

The first was a ceremony in which the Harry Potter, Sialim Sokaris, and Quirinus Quirrell were awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, for their valor in defending Hogwarts from a Dark Wizard – with the latter two given posthumously, as First Class variant of the award so often was.

As well, the other Stone Cutters had been awarded Orders of Merlin, Second Class, for achievement beyond the ordinary.

Given that they were still laid up in St. Mungo's, they had asked others to accept the award on their behalf, with Ronald Bilius Weasley and Percy Weasley representing the Twins, while Hermione Granger and Penelope Clearwater represented Matou Shinji and Robert Hillard, respectively.

And as expected, the press ate it up, though as usual, one publication got the details wrong, claiming that Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger had worked together as a team to defeat the obviously evil Defense Professor. Then again, the Quibbler had never been known as a source of accurate information, so the mistakes were largely ignored.

At least one tabloid did get a picture of Penelope and Percy together though, and wondered if they would be the latest power couple to come out of Hogwarts, which the two lovers were quite embarrassed to hear about – though they kept copies of the publication anyway.

The official story, as told by most publications, was that in Dumbledore's absence, a Dark Wizard had infiltrated Hogwarts castle, only to be confronted by valiant Defense against the Dark Arts instructor, Quirinus Quirrell, the members of the Stone Cutter Society, and a first year named Sialim Sokaris. Ultimately, the Dark Wizard had been defeated, though it had been a costly victory, with both Quirrell and Sokaris losing their lives in the fight.

People throughout Magical Britain looked at this and saw an example of heroes in the making, a core of brave souls built around the Boy-Who-Lived, the savior they already knew and revered. And this was good, both for the Ministry, who wanted to be seen as in touch with the public, and for Albus Dumbledore, reinforcing his image as the one being every Dark Wizard feared – who even You-Know-Who had feared.

Having to do things like this left a bitter taste in Dumbledore's mouth, but with the Board having placed him on probation and the Ministry scrutinizing his every move, the old man felt he had no choice. Image, in this case, was reality in the minds of most people, and since he needed to look like a powerful, wise wizard of the light, that meant he could not admit inconvenient truths…such as the fact that Quirrell had been a Dark Wizard.

Otherwise, people would wonder why Dumbledore hadn't known, since he had hired the man, with Quirrell working at the School for several years. Plus well, who would believe a Dark Wizard would have deigned to teach Muggle Studies?

So he'd come up with a plan to deceive the public, letting them believe what they would find easiest to swallow: that the Defense Professor had been a good man, and that the actions of the Stone Cutters had official sanction.

Harry had been very upset about this when Dumbledore had first talked to him about it in private, initially refusing to be a party to the foul business at all. The Boy-Who-Lived apparently did not believe that a bit of unpleasantness was sometimes necessary to advance the Greater Good.

As much as he hated the phrase, given that Grindelwald had used it to justify his many crimes, even as Dumbledore himself used it now and again himself to justify the more unsavoury things he was forced to do.

Such as this.

Or well, even forming the vigilante group called the Order of the Phoenix, since he hadn't believed the Ministry's response to be sufficient in the First Wizarding War. A war that had never really ended, only gone cold, as its chief instigator was still out there, waiting for an opportunity to return, as Quirrell's attempt to steal the Stone had demonstrated.

And for the coming war, he needed the Boy-Who-Lived on his side, so he had talked Potter around by using his weakness – his friends. The Stone Cutters would be recognized as an honorable society of Hogwarts, and as Headmaster, he would give them access to the Founders' Tower, a tower which only they – and he – would have access to. And his friends would be seen as heroes, would have many opportunities, many doors opened for them if he simply agreed.

Would Harry really deny his friends a chance to succeed and recognized, after they'd risked their lives for him?

It was dirty. It was manipulative. It was crude.

But it worked.

Cornelius Fudge, in fact, had been more than happy to issue Orders of Merlin to the Boy-Who-Lived and the others, in exchange for a chance to appear on the front page with Harry Potter and the other young heroes, linking them in the public eye.

As well, Dumbledore had bestowed a Special Award for Services to the School to the Stone Cutters, which may have been a trifling thing in comparison to the Orders of Merlin (of whatever class), but was the highest honor he could personally bestow as Headmaster.

And of course, to seal the deal, he arranged for a second event – a memorial service, at which the students and faculty of Hogwarts would gather to mourn the passing of two of their own. While some mention of Quirinus Quirrell had been unavoidable, given the public version of the story, he did think it fair to eulogize the man he had been before the unfortunate encounter with Voldemort.

The brilliant young Ravenclaw who used to stutter when confronted by bullies, whose only wish had been that people would take him seriously. The man who had wanted to become a hero. A man who had died in battle, his life spent against a foe he could not beat.

…all of which was technically true, even if the context were wrong.

And he had said kind things about Sialim Sokaris as well. The girl who had not only been a student Professor Snape had never complained about (a comment which drew a few chuckles from the crowd), but had found the courage to stood against a Dark Wizard as a first year. A girl from a distant land who had given her life in defense of the place where she had found her first friends.

Flitwick, whose house both Quirrell and Sokaris had once belonged to, had said his bit as well, and if he was more emotional than most, well – he was grieving for the loss of a friend as well as not one, but two students.

"We grieve not simply for those who have passed, but also for those of us left behind and have no chance to better know them. We grieve for lives cut short, for potential that will never come to pass, and for what we have lost. But we remember their sacrifice, their bravery, their lives, and so long as we remember, as long as they inspire us to be better people, they live on in us. They were phoenixes – we are the flame. Let us go forth and set the world ablaze."

Dumbledore had made sure the Stone Cutters were present at this, wearing the medals denoting their place in the Order of Merlin. And he allowed them to speak, as they were there at the end. They were there when the strength of others failed, when only two first years stood between a Dark Wizard and his goal.

And so far as anyone else knew, they had won.

The Boy-Who-Lived – Harry Potter – had spoken of a quiet girl who had no tolerance for idiocy, but who was not afraid to joke. A girl with demons and fears beyond what anyone should ever have to face – who – like him – had lost her family. A girl for which he would have given back all his honors, even the Order of Merlin, if it meant she was still alive.

He'd even cried – but once he left the stage, he'd found Slytherins all around him, supporting him. He was their Heir, of their House, and, if rumors were true, immune to the Killing Curse. He was the savior of Wizarding Britain, and anyone who caught his favor could rise far. So if he had lost someone close – who would step into her shoes? Still, while they might plot in private, in public the House of Snakes showed solidarity. Why, for once, Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass did not bicker as each held one of his hands.

Even Draco Malfoy had held his peace. He knew from bitter experience that he could not oppose Potter directly and win, and if Potter ever found out that he had been the one who had informed his father about Hagrid's illegal dragon, leading to the current set of unfortunate events, Draco was pretty sure Potter would kill him...and quite possibly get away it, to boot.

He, along with Crabbe and Goyle, had simply offered the Boy-Who-Lived their condolences, and otherwise left Potter alone. After what his father had done for him, Draco thought Lucius might appreciate his attempt to reconcile with Potter, as that might possibly lead to a place among the Stone Cutters – Potter's inner circle.

Shinji, supported by his fellow Ravenclaw – the Muggleborn Hermione Granger, who had accepted his medal on his behalf only weeks prior, had spoken of someone who like him, was a stranger from another land. Of a girl who rarely smiled, but who looked out at the world every night with curious eyes. Who frankly didn't care about house divisions and other petty things, just who someone was and what they could do.

And he said to the crowd that of aside from his brothers of Stone, there was no one he trusted more.

Which hit Granger hard.

Hermione had already been mourning the loss of her first friend – the mysterious girl who had been the first one she'd spoken to on the train – the first one who'd ever truly approved of her. Sokaris had been a mystery to her in many ways, her academic and maybe romantic rival (though she never figured out if the last bit were true), and her closest friend.

One day she'd been there in class, answering questions, brewing potions, casting spells.

And the next…she hadn't.

Neither had Shinji, and at first her mind had made her assume the worst…until she heard what had happened, and her heart broke.

And now that she was gone, Hermione thought maybe…maybe Sokaris had been right.

Maybe correcting everyone, insisting on what she thought was right, wasn't the best way to make people believe what she wanted them to – to learn. After all, the purple-haired girl's approach of laying out the circumstances and letting people reach the conclusions she wanted, instead of just telling them what she thought was true, worked far better.

It was almost as if Sokaris had experience in teaching people how to think; sometimes she reminded Hermione of a teacher herself. But it grieved her that she'd never learned much about the other girl, if she were truly being honest.

A few tidbits here and there like her interest in alchemy and mathematics, information about her wand, and that she enjoyed potions, yes, but no more.

The only one Sokaris really talked with – shared much more with – was Matou, and yes, Hermione had been a bit jealous about the time the two spent together, though as she didn't wake as early or sleep as late, she couldn't claim she had a better claim on Sokaris' time. She still didn't know why it bothered her so much they spent time together, since Matou well…he wasn't a bad person, per se, even if he was the kind of confident, powerful kind of boy who made people want to do what he said. It wasn't like she liked him or anything.

Really.

Even if she did make it a point to help him catch up on what he'd missed in his classes while he'd been out, even sharing the use of the Book of Potions with him so he could brew the concoctions Professor Snape would demand as makeup.

She just wanted her friend to succeed in his studies, and to not look so sad as she rather preferred his smile.

But not like that. Really.

The last memorable event of the year, aside from the end of year exams, OWLs, and NEWTs, was the Closing Feast. And no, it wasn't because Ravenclaw took the House Cup. Given that a preponderance of the Stone Cutters had come from there, few had been surprised.

What had shocked people were the announcements of who would be teaching in the coming year – and who would be sacked.

Argus Filch would be retiring following this year, with worn-looking Rubeus Hagrid taking over as castle caretaker. But then, a few days in Azkaban tended to do that to anyone.

The famous ex-auror Alastor Moody, would be the next year's Defense against the Dark Arts instructor, given the possible danger of Dark Wizards.

…while Dumbledore had originally wished to hire Gilderoy Lockhart to discredit the man, this was no longer an option if there was even the slightest possibility that Voldemort had obtained the Philosopher's Stone. With the threat of the Dark Wizard's resurrection, he had contacted Alastor instead, as the (in)famous auror was well known not only for his combat ability, but his tactical thinking. Plus, the appointment of Alastor meant that an Auror Trainee, Nymphadora Tonks, would sometimes be teaching as well, something he thought would work well for the younger students and leave Moody less…well, moody.

But the old man had not completely tabled his plans for Lockhart, and so he'd devised a new plan to bring the fraud to Hogwarts – where being around Moody would no doubt make him slip in his act sooner or later.

As it so happened, he hadn't had to try very hard.

For nearly a century, students had complained about the History of Magic course taught by Professor Cuthbert Binns, with their dismal performance on their OWLs reflecting this. Indeed, it was something of an open secret that the class was considered a joke, with notes and old tests being passed down from year to year, and most students treating it as a time to nap.

While Gilderoy had been a little apprehensive about coming to Hogwarts after hearing about the death of a Defense Professor, on top of the fact that his fellow teachers knew him well from the time he'd attended the school, the mention of the Boy-Who-Lived – the youngest ever recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class, as well as his circle of now famous friends had Lockhart falling over himself to accept before Dumbledore had finished laying out the terms.

As he rather thought it might, given the man's desire for fame. Though to be honest, he could hardly do worse than Binns.

So he was pleased to announce that Lockhart would be the new History of Magic Professor, a decision he imagined even his staff wouldn't contest. And for the elderly ghost, why, he would be teaching a new elective on the History of Wizard-Goblin Relations, as Goblin Rebellions had been his area of focus as a historian.

A few more things were said, and even more were done that night, but no more of such note or such import.

And with that, the term ended.