Apparently, though, Hagrid was a little more perspicacious than they'd given him credit for. In the weeks that followed Hagrid appeared just as cheerful and hard-working as ever; he invited the three of them out for a drink as often as ever and seemed relieved that they'd stopped asking about the Stone.

Every time they passed the third-floor corridor, Harry, Ron, and Hermione would press their ears to the door to check that Fluffy was still growling inside, which he always was. Coach seemed to get more and more serious; Ron and Hermione said he didn't talk half so much during Flying lessons, except to sort of bark out orders, and for his part Harry was sure that the man only came to Gryffindor Quidditch practices to yell at him. All of which surely, surely meant that he hadn't figured out a way in yet. Quirrell grew paler and thinner, and every time he saw Harry he darted away with a look of terror on his face.

As the weeks past and it became evident that Harry was not in immediate danger (unless Potter was poisoning his bacon or something), Hermione's mind turned to other things, like studying and examinations, and she pulled Ron and Harry in as well. They spent so much time in the library that Harry began to see acres of dancing bookshelves in his dreams.

One particularly fine afternoon just before the Easter holidays—the skies outside were as blue as a forget-me-not and the air was warm with just a breath of wind—Harry and Hermione were in the middle of a debate about dittany's use in various healing solutions when Ron, who'd been gazing longingly everywhere except at his textbook, suddenly said, "Hagrid! What are you doing in the library?"

Hagrid shuffled into view, looking very out of place in his moleskin overcoat.

"Just lookin'," he said in a shifty voice that got their interest at once. "And what're you lot up ter?" He looked suddenly suspicious. "Yer not still lookin' fer Nicolas Flamel, are yeh?"

Ron looked at Harry. "No," he said.

"Right, then," said Hagrid. "Good on yeh. I'll be off, then…"

"See you later," said Harry cordially.

As soon as he'd shuffled off again, Ron, who had had enough of working, hopped off his stool. "I'm going to see what section he was in," he announced.

For Professor James Potter, it had been a good day.

James woke up with the sun after a glorious ten-hour sleep to find his room full of owls, waiting with letters from…everyone, it seemed, and about a dozen packages wrapped in various bright colours. He dressed in his best robes for fun, deep emerald-green silk, and walked the three miles into Hogsmeade; Madam Rosmerta gave him breakfast on the house and several pretty barmaids smiled at him—one of them, the plump one, even gave him a kiss. He returned to Hogwarts feeling like Gilderoy Lockhart and spent an agreeable morning writing thank-you notes and talking about Quidditch with Professor McGonagall, and when he saw Quirrell the little man looked so cowed that James was sure he couldn't be any closer to that Stone—maybe he'd even given up altogether!

After lunch he went into the Forbidden Forest and transfigured, something he hadn't done since his student days; he spied on some centaurs doing centaur-y things and played tag with a couple of half-grown wolf-cubs. He snacked on ivy and mint leaves and sweet clover, which tasted different in his different form, and then transfigured back and went to watch a Hufflepuff Quidditch practice.

Late in the afternoon he headed back into the castle, whistling and greeting the people he met in the halls. Most people liked him, he thought happily, thinking of all the owls. He liked to be liked. And he had a nice job, and plenty of money, and talent and charm—and good-looks, too, he thought, glancing in the first reflective surface that presented itself. So why shouldn't he be happy? He'd been letting nasty weather affect his mood, and worrying about things that wouldn't happen.

He almost went into the staffroom for his tea, but then he remembered that Professor Flitwick had told him it was "being renovated", which meant there was going to be a not-actually-surprising surprise party. He grinned and turned his steps toward the library instead.

Madam Pince gave him a tight-lipped smile in return for his broad grin when he swept in.

"Hullo, ma'am!" he said. "I was wondering if Quidditch Through the Ages was available yet?"

"Please keep your voice down, Professor Potter," she hissed, heading away to look. "There are children studying."

"So there are, so there are," he said. He looked around; virtually all of Ravenclaw house hunched over books and parchments, as did a liberal sprinkling of Hufflepuff, several Slytherin, and even a small knot of Gryffindor over in the corner—he peered in surprise at the three students in red ties. Snape, Granger, and the youngest Weasley, by the look of it. Of course, Granger was the only sort of Gryffindor who would want to be indoors on a beautiful day like this.

Madam Pince appeared bearing a thin green volume. "By the way," she said, "happy birthday, professor."

"Why, thank you!" he said. "I'm touched that you remembered!"

"How many is this?"

"Thirty-two. I must look positively ancient to a young thing like you."

The librarian sighed in exasperation, but her lips twitched with laughter as she signed the Quidditch book out for him. He thanked her graciously and received another tight-lipped smile in return; book in hand, he strolled over to the table where the three junior Gryffindors sat. Young Ron had a stack of books with him, mostly about dragons, it seemed, and was whispering excitedly to the others.

"Hello, you three!"

They jumped and whirled to face him in perfect synchronisation. Ron whisked the dragon books behind some parchments.

"H…hello, sir," said Granger.

"What are you doing indoors on a gorgeous day like this?" he asked. On a day like this, he reflected, he could even be friendly to Snape. He did look a lot like his father….

The three of them stared at him.

"Er…studying, sir," said Granger.

"Studying? Don't be ridiculous. You can study any old time. Today's the sort of day you want to be out on the Quidditch Pitch, or trying to sneak into the Forbidden Forest, or at the very least having tea with Mr Hagrid, don't you think? Come on, you three! Live a little!"

It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw Harry scoot his stool away an inch or two.

"He hasn't been that happy in months," whispered Ron, eyes wide, as the Coach sauntered away.

"That's bad," said Harry. "Really, really bad."

"You don't think he found out…you don't think that Hagrid…?" Hermione looked positively ashen. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi lay forgotten in her lap.

"Well," said Ron, "there's one way to find out…"

"Yeh want me ter tell yeh what now?"

Ron, the designated spokesperson since he liked speaking the most, rubbed the sweat off of his forehead. Though it was a warm spring day, Hagrid had all the doors and windows tightly secured and the shades drawn, and there was a blazing fire in the grate. "We want to know if you've had anybody asking about Fluffy," said Ron. "Or if you've told anybody about Fluffy. Like maybe a teacher, or a Quidditch Coach…"

"Now, see here, is this still abou' Coach?" Hagrid demanded. "I told yeh ter drop it! Yeh'll not find out about Nicolas Flamel from me, and that's flat."

"We found out about him ages ago," said Ron impatiently. "And we know what Fluffy's guarding, it's a Philosopher's Stone."

"How did yeh—?!"

"That's not important. Look, it's not like we're asking how to get past Fluffy, just if anyone else has been asking. Maybe one of the teachers, not necessarily Coach, or one of the students, or something, just sort of casually wanted to know, out of curiosity?"

"No!"

"Nothing like that?"

"No!"

Ron looked back at Harry and Hermione in relief. So Potter probably didn't know how to get past Fluffy, anyway.

But does he know how to get past everything else?

"There are other enchantments guarding the Stone, aren't there?" Harry asked.

"Eh? O' course there are. Yeh don't think a great softie like Fluffy'd be enough, do yeh?"

"Ha!" cried Ron. "A softie! He's nearly…"

"What sort of enchantments?" Harry asked.

"Can't tell yeh that. Number one, I don' know meself. Number two, yeh know too much already, so I wouldn' tell yeh if I could. That Stone's here for a good reason. It was almost stolen outta Gringotts—I s'ppose yeh've worked that out an' all?"

"Oh, come on, Hagrid, you might not want to tell us, but you do know, you know everything that goes on round here," said Hermione in a warm, flattering voice. Harry made a mental note of that warm, flattering voice. That could be useful in future, but watch out if she ever tries it on me.

"Could you just tell us who had done the guarding?" she went on. "Who would Dumbledore trust enough to help him, apart from you, of course?" Now she was sounding a bit too much like Malfoy, but Hagrid appeared immensely gratified. His chest swelled.

"Well, I don' s'ppose it could hurt ter tell yeh that…"

As Hagrid ticked the protectors off on his fingers, Harry's mind began to race with possibilities. All of the people he mentioned were teachers at the school, which, Harry supposed, made sense.

Professor Sprout, the Herbology Teacher and Head of Hufflepuff House, had done something. Harry thought. Her contribution would likely be a protective plant of some kind, possibly poisonous or just malicious. And probably, he thought, remembering an incident with Neville Longbottom, completely innocent-looking. Avoid anything green…

Professor Flitwick, Charms, Head of Ravenclaw. That could be almost anything. Charms was a huge category.

Same with the Gryffindor Head, Professor McGonagall, who taught Transfiguration. She could have transfigured anything into anything, or maybe you had to transfigure something…no, there was no way you could figure that one out.

Professor Quirrell, Defence against the Dark Arts. That would be something related to Dark Magic. Perhaps a jinx, or another monster. A zombie? But then again, hadn't Quirrell been the Muggle Studies professor before? So maybe it would be something ordinary and non-magical, something to do with technology. That would make more sense; lots of wizards had no idea how to operate technology, Harry had heard that it and magic didn't work well together. Mental note: Potter may already know how to overcome this one.

Professor Arbutus, Potions. Would that be concoction of potions or use of potions? The latter seemed slightly more likely. Either way, Harry thought, that one would be pretty easy for someone like himself.

Dumbledore himself, headmaster. Didn't he used to teach Transfiguration? But he was also renowned for his work with alchemy, and potions, and…all kinds of things. That was worse than McGonagall. It could be anything. But maybe something related to the school? A maze or something?

"I'm fergettin' someone…Oh, Jimmy Potter," Hagrid finished. "He had something, too…"

"Potter?"

Hagrid looked exasperated. "I told yeh, he's tryin' ter protect the Stone; he's not about ter steal it. He was pretty thick in it, seems to me; spent a lot o' time arguing with Dumbledore about efficiency or somethin'."

Or he could have gotten in on it, to make it easier to find out how the other teachers had guarded it…

He probably already knew everything. This was all immaterial. The only thing guarding that Stone now was Fluffy, and if he found out about Fluffy…

"Hagrid, can we open a window or something?" he asked. All the thinking had made him even hotter than usual. "It's boiling in here."

"Can't, Harry, sorry," said Hagrid. He glanced at the fireplace. Harry glanced at it too, and then stared.

"Hagrid—what's that?"

But he had a feeling he already knew what it was.

In the heart of the fire, underneath the kettle, was a huge, black egg.

Crikey, I'd like a dragon…

Ron and Hermione both stared at it as well. Hagrid fiddled with his beard and started to say something but trailed off.

"Where did you get it, Hagrid?" Ron asked, crouching over the fire to get a closer look at the egg. "It must've cost you a fortune."

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

You're not allowed to have those. It's like a law or something…

"You did what?!" Harry sat up straight as an arrow.

"Eh?" said Hagrid, startled.

"What did he look like?!"

"Who, the stranger? Er…dunno, he wouldn't take his cloak off. Why? What's wrong?"

"He wouldn't take his cloak off? You don't find that just the least bit suspicious?"

"Nah, yeh get all kinds in the Hog's Head…"

"But don't you think it's odd," said Harry, "that the one thing you want more than anything in the world is a dragon egg and that a strange hooded man in a pub just happens to have one in his pocket? I mean, people don't just walk around with them! It's against the law! Ron, don't you remember, you said! I mean, it's lucky you just happened to run into him, isn't it? That's quite a coincidence, isn't it?!"

"Harry," said Hermione, "you're shouting."

Harry took a deep breath and went on, more quietly. "Hagrid…what…what did you talk about? Did you talk about Hogwarts at all?"

"Mighta come up," said Hagrid, frowning as he tried to remember. "Yeah…he asked what I did, an' I told him I was gamekeeper here….He asked a bit about the sorta creatures I look after…so I told him…an' I said what I'd always really wanted was a dragon…an' then…I can' remember too well, 'cause he kept buyin' me drinks….Let's see…yeah, then he said he had the dragon egg an' we could play cards fer it if I wanted…but he had ter be sure I could handle it, he didn' want it ter go ter any old home….So I told him, after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy…."

"Right, and did he…well, I guess he seemed interested in Fluffy, right?"

"Well, yeah, how many three-headed dogs d'yeh meet, even around Hogwarts? So I told him, Fluffy's a piece o' cake if yeh know how to calm him down, jus' play him a bit o' music and he'll go straight off ter sleep—"

He drew up suddenly, looking horrified, as all three of the children sprang to their feet.

"I shouldn'ta told yeh that!" he blurted out. "Forget I said it!"

"Right, absolutely, completely forgotten!" said Ron, as the three of them simultaneously began to edge toward the door. "We have to go, Hagrid, er, er, er…homework, and, stuff…er…good luck with the, with the, with the dragon."

"And be careful," said Hermione as they hurried out. "You do live in a wooden house…"

"We have to tell Dumbledore," said Hermione. They stood in the entrance hall, gasping for breath.

"We can't," said Harry. "He would never believe us in a million years. At best he'd probably think we're crazy."

"We just have to tell him what Hagrid told us…"

"Right," said Ron, "and get Hagrid into trouble for buying contraband, betraying Dumbledore's trust, and telling us about it in the first place? No."

"Well, we have to do something. If that was Potter under that cloak, then he knows how to get past Fluffy. And he probably knows everything else too, that means he could go after the Stone any day now. He could have gotten it already, how would we know?"

"No, he just found out about Fluffy last night, and he wouldn't dare go after it during the day," said Harry. "Anyway, we passed the third floor corridor on the way and heard him in there. But if I know Coach, he's not going to let any grass grow under his feet. I bet he's planning to go for it tonight."

They all looked at each other. Finally, Ron said what they were all thinking.

"We'll just have to get to it before he does, then."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione hurried away to their room to make plans. The second they disappeared up the grand staircase, a panel in the wall slid open and a thin, pale boy with fair hair stepped out of a secret passage, his grey eyes gleaming and his face thoughtful. He looked around, narrowed his eyes, and headed swiftly toward the dungeons.