AN: Be sure to vote in my poll. And as always, reviews appreciated! I reply to them as quickly as possible. :D Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed so far. I HAVE MORE THAN FIFTY PEOPLE INTERESTED IN MY STORY *happy dancing*
"You mean to tell me you didn't find out anything about Fluffy?" Hermione demanded in disbelief when she came back.
"Sorry," said Harry. "It was kind of one thing after another."
"What sort of things?"
"Well…Christmas, and then…and then we found a magical mirror that can show you the deepest desire of your heart…and I had to perfect a Potion my father left me…and there was the screaming book…"
"What?!"
They told her about the mirror and the Potion and the midnight forays. She almost had an attack. When she calmed down, she thought about it for a long time and then recommended they go back to searching through the library, hopeless as that seemed. Harry didn't have time, though, because Quidditch practices had started again, and Wood appeared to be testing how long a human being could cling to a broomstick before the wind tore them off or their fingers froze in icy rain.
Apparently if they beat Hufflepuff in the next match they would overtake Slytherin in the House Championship for the first time in seven years.
"I'm sure that's all very important and everything," Harry muttered to Ron and Hermione after one particularly wet and muddy practice, "but Oliver doesn't seem to remember that we have homework, and meals, and a curfew…"
"And it's pissing down out there. Blimey, how do you focus on Quidditch at all?" said Ron.
Harry shrugged. "Well, it's like in books—you go somewhere else in your head. I do it when Coach shouts at me, too. Think of something happy."
"Is Coach still reffing?" Ron asked.
"Yes. And he's gotten worse since he didn't manage to kill me. He actually follows me around when I'm in the air; he ran into me yesterday when I stopped too suddenly. Of course I got an earful. And it seems like I keep running into him everywhere else, too; it's like he's trying to get me alone."
"If he really is trying to kill you, Harry, do you think you'd better play?" Hermione asked.
"Have to. They haven't got a reserve Seeker."
"Well, you'd better catch the Snitch as fast as you can, then."
"That was the fastest catch I have ever seen!"
"Way to go, Harry!"
"WE WON YOU WON WE WON!"
"We've passed Slytherin! We're in the running!"
"HE CAUGHT IT AGAIN!"
"Is there anything this boy can't do, folks?! Harry Snape, everyone!"
"Congratulations, Harry!"
"Thank goodness, you're not dead." That one was Hermione.
Harry smiled to himself as he changed into his regular clothes and hung up his Quidditch robes. Truth be told, he was gladdest about that part, too. Being not-dead, in his experience, tended to be better than the reverse.
Of course, it was also nice to be ahead of Slytherin in the House Cup. But he hadn't seen any occasion for Ron to dance around in manic circles, pumping his fist and yelling indistinguishable syllables—or, for that matter, for that Slytherin girl to burst into angry tears.
Dumbledore himself had congratulated him, beaming like a searchlight. "Nice to see you haven't been brooding about that mirror," he'd said.
That wasn't, strictly speaking, true. He had been brooding about the mirror, at least, when he let himself. But he'd always had good control of his mind. He tried to take his own advice and think about something happy—the memory of that girl in the train station, for instance, never failed to make him smile no matter how many times he thought of it. So he thought of it a lot.
Even Malfoy had approached him, Crabbe-and-Goyle-less, to congratulate him with a tight smile—and a black eye, but Harry didn't get that story until later.
"Of course," Malfoy had added, "you've got Slytherin blood. Through your grandmother, of course. Eileen Prince. Fine old wizarding family, the Princes, connected to the Rosiers, of course, purebloods until your great-grandfather married a half-blood, all Slytherins until your father, it's my opinion there's been some mistake, of course I suppose it's possible to confound the Sorting Hat, just like anything…"
Harry mentally filed "'…of course'" alongside "excessive italics" in his list of Verbal Tics of the Pure-blooded. Well, if it helped Malfoy cope to think that the only reason Harry had won the game was his Slytherin blood, Harry wasn't going to disturb his illusions.
All in all, Hermione seemed to have the best grasp of the situation as Harry saw it—thank goodness he wasn't dead.
He made his way to the broom shed to put away his Nimbus Two Thousand, humming to himself. Everything had gone fairly well, he supposed. If nothing else, the sight of Potter's face had satisfied Harry's wish for vengeance against the man who had humiliated and yelled at him uncounted times.
And speaking of Potter…
A hooded figure, clearly not wanting to be seen, had come down the steps of the castle and walked as fast as possible toward the forbidden forest. Harry recognised that limping but still arrogant swagger: Coach, sneaking into the forest while everyone else was at dinner…
He jumped back on his broom and took off. Potter was headed for the Forbidden Forest, so Harry followed….
Quirrell whirled around as soon as he heard James's footsteps, and he stared at him with fear and guilt and something like anger. James yanked his hood off.
"J…J…"
"Quirinus. You got my note?"
"D-don't know why you wanted t-to meet me here of all p-p-p-places, J-James…."
"Well, I thought it would be better to keep this as far away from students as possible, since they're not supposed to know about the Stone."
"Why d-do you think I…I…?"
James held up his hand.
"Listen to me, Quirinus," he said. "No, listen. I'm not here to get you in trouble. I don't want any trouble, I really don't. I completely understand, and I don't really think much worse of you for all this. It's just…there are a lot of people who won't be as understanding as I am."
"I d-don't know what you mean."
"You know perfectly well what I mean." He lowered his voice. "If your involvement in this were known, you'd lose your job at the least, maybe go to Azkaban."
"B-but D-Dumbledore…"
"My word is strong with him," James snapped. "If it comes down to it, he would believe me."
"P-please…"
"Hey, you're a good guy." In the face of all the evidence. "We've been friends for, what, twenty years? I've helped you out before, and I freely admit you've helped me, too. I want to help you this time. But the pull of the Philosopher's Stone…it's strong. Infinite life, infinite wealth. Can't you see?
"People have killed for that, Quirinus. People have been willing to kill children. Children like…Harry Snape."
And as Quirrell's face paled, James knew that his guess had been right.
"K-k-kill? Wh-what are you saying? H-Harry Snape…"
And suddenly James was angry, angry at everything. He felt rage at this little worm building up in his throat and pounding in his ears. Whatever else the spawn was, he was a child.
And, of course, he was that particular child…
"They didn't succeed," he said shortly. "But that's exactly what I'm talking about. People like Snape get a little too nosy—a little too uncooperative—and then a teacher goes in and starts trying to kill his students. If a man would do that, is there anything he wouldn't do?"
"But how…why did y…you…?"
"I let this all slide so far because I kept thinking you deserved one more chance. I thought you would remember our talks from before. But then today I hear from Professor McGonagall that you've been asking, in the most innocent way possible, of course, about the other enchantments. You didn't think someone was bound to get suspicious, the stupid way you're acting?! You haven't learned anything!"
He took a deep breath. Quirrell looked ready to faint.
"There's still time, though, Quirinus. I think I'm right in saying you haven't figured out how to get past that mongrel of Hagrid's yet?"
"N-no, I h-haven't, b-but you said that I…"
"Listen to me very carefully," said James, while his internal self sighed with relief. "This time, I am going to give you exactly one more chance."
"Wh-what d-do you mean? What d-do you want me t-to do?"
"I want you to think about where your loyalties lie. I want you to think about the consequences of your actions. I know that with rational thought you'll realise what the right thing to do is, for yourself, and for…everyone else. So do think about it. When I talk to you again, I expect a more satisfactory answer. And I want you to know that if anything goes wrong on the Harry Snape front this time…well, someone will regret it."
Quirinus appeared overcome; his lips trembled and he tried futilely for several minutes to make some sound come out of his mouth. Finally, he just nodded, the picture of misery and defeat. And James's wrath died as suddenly as it had been born, and he saw Quirinus as the pitiful little worm he was, yearning after a better life, unaware that what he was doing could really hurt people.
James put his hand on his shoulder and made him meet his eyes.
"Everything will be all right, Quirinus. I promise."
Then he lifted his hood again and headed back toward the castle.
"Harry, you're not paying attention at all," said Ron.
Harry blinked. The Common Room was full of dancing, singing, shouting Gryffindors in party hats. Various members of the team had been raised on people's shoulders at different points and loudly applauded; Harry had hidden in a corner with Ron and Hermione and had been gazing bleakly into the middle distance until Ron's comment brought him back to consciousness.
"What?" he said. "What am I not paying attention to?"
"I just said that Neville took on Crabbe and Goyle on his own!"
"Really? When's the funeral?"
"Madam Pomfrey says he'll be fine…look, what's wrong with you? It's not still about that mirror, is it?"
"What? No."
"You just won, Harry. We won. We're ahead of stinking Slytherin, ahead of Malfoy, Potter didn't kill you…"
"This time," said Harry.
Ron and Hermione both looked at him with concern, and Harry sighed.
"We've got to find somewhere we can talk," he said as an exploding balloon whizzed past his head.
Hermione gasped. Ron swore. Harry nodded miserably.
"He really is trying to kill me," he said. "He wants that Stone so bad he'd be willing to kill me just because he thinks I might know something. And he's got Professor Quirrell in it, and who knows how many people; he said there were others who wouldn't be as understanding…"
"Quirrell always seemed so nice," said Hermione.
"A bit wet," Ron said. "But not an accomplice in child-murder!"
"It just means we can't trust anyone," said Harry. "And the worst of it is that Potter was right. We've got no proof, and taking my word against his there's no question who they'd believe. Good old Coach. Little Jimmy. Everyone knows I hate him; Dumbledore'd just think I'm trying to get him sacked. And if I try to get proof Potter will have more chances to kill me."
"So what are we going to do?" Ron asked.
"I think you should cut off all interest in the Stone, Harry," said Hermione. "It's not worth your life."
Ron stared at her. "What are you talking about? Of course it's worth his life! No offence, Harry."
"No, you're right," said Harry, slumping against a table. "Better I die trying to defend the Stone than someone like Potter gets hold of it." But I really don't want to die.
"Well, think about it," said Hermione. "For now it's safest where it is. I mean, there must be all kinds of enchantments guarding it, and as long as Coach doesn't know how to get past that dog there's no way he'll get at it in any case. So you might as well forget about it, at least for now. If Potter sees that you're not interested, he might back off."
"If he does figure Fluffy out, though, we won't have a choice," said Harry.
"Right," said Ron, "and looks like the only way he'd find out how to get past Fluffy would be to…ask…Hagrid…so, er…"
They all looked at each other.
"So, it'll be gone by next Tuesday," said Ron.