The Stone
It has been some time.
I fear that I have been unable to face my grief in words when it resides within me so. To discover my own brother in such a state is an image I cannot rid myself of.
Night and day, it haunts me still.
We laid Antioch to rest in the very churchyard in which Death came to us, his body cleansed as best we could to violence acted upon him.
I begged him to exercise discretion, to desist from his brash countenance when it came to bragging of the wand he possessed.
Alas, as ever, Antioch could be told nothing, and the thief in the night came for him.
His throat had been slashed so deeply that the jagged blade used had cut into his spine.
I take little comfort knowing that his suffering would have been short with how quickly he would have bled out, but the expression he wore still spoke of the horror of his final moments.
Fear.
I have only known my brother to show it in the presence of Death, and I have no doubt the figure visited him and watched as Antioch's soul became ripe for the picking.
It was there too when we held the ceremony, lurking within the trees.
I saw it, as did Cadmus, but no other present could.
It was all-knowing, and I could feel the glee that Death felt from claiming the soul of one of the Peverells.
Barely a moment has passed since that I have not hidden within the cloak.
I feel it all around me, watching and waiting for when it can claim me too.
If only that was all.
Death is within me, flowing through every fibre of my being, growing only more prominent as time goes by.
It has changed the very nature of my magic which has always been warm and accommodating to me.
Now, it grows cold, and what I know I am capable of terrifies me as much as it intrigues me. I see myself as a scholar, and I am compelled to understand, but I have no doubt that there is much more to our encounter with Death than I could have ever comprehended.
We were given our gifts, as cursed as they can often be, but it seems as though Death bestowed more upon us.
It is the very essence of the figure that fuels my magic now; the cold, yet undeniably powerful force I felt when we foolishly summoned it thrums throughout me.
Only today, stricken by grief, I wished to alleviate myself of some of the burden of mourning, and though I am not often wont to do such, I unleashed it through my wand.
By the time I was done, barely a tree stood, and those that were the target of my utter misery were little more than husks, appearing as though they had been subjected to a drought of one hundred years.
The ground beneath my feet had been stripped of anything that had been living, and the very air around me felt to be putrid.
I expect had anything wandered within a league of where I had collapsed to my knees in aguish, they would have been suffocated by my efforts.
My intention had not been to cause such devastation, but to merely release the pain and anger I felt.
It did not work.
With each passing word I scratch, my grief remains as steadfast as ever, threatening to unleash itself once more should I lose my composure for even the briefest of moments.
For now, I can no longer continue.
I will dedicate myself to continuing to understand the relics gifted upon us, minus the stolen wand, and now the magic that has taken hold of me.
Nonetheless, despite the loss endured, I remain aware that Death is watching and will maintain his vigil until he claims us all.
Come Death, Come.
Harry felt himself pulled through the void before he was deposited back onto his bed where he wiped away the tears streaming down his cheek.
He was free of the thoughts of Ignotus Peverell, but somehow, the grief of the man remained with him.
Harry knew grief well.
He'd spent his life mourning for the parents that were taken from him, and again when he'd learned the truth behind their deaths.
It was one thing to believe they had died in a car crash, but murder?
Knowing this filled him with an ager of the like he had never felt, and yet, there was no outlet for it.
The man who had killed them was already dead, so as he had become accustomed living with the Dursleys, he hid what he felt from the world.
He had learned long ago at the hands of his relatives that anything he showed would be used against him, and Harry had stopped providing Dudley, Vernon, and Petunia with the very weapons they could use to hurt him.
Being hit occasionally was one thing, but the muggles he resided with were particularly vicious when it came to a more emotional approach with their hatred towards him.
Again, Harry wiped his eyes, his chest heavy with grief for a man he had never known.
Surely Antioch Peverell was not so foolish to brag about the powerful wand he possessed?
He was.
From what little Harry had seen of the man and what Ignotus had written about him, it was undeniably the very character he had been shown to be.
Still, to have his throat cut in his sleep was no way for any to die, and the savage attack had only been carried out in aid to take the wand.
What had happened to it?
Harry frowned thoughtfully before shaking his head.
It would be fruitless to waste his time pondering such a thing when he had no idea who had stolen it, especially when he had other things to occupy his mind.
His gaze drifted down to the cloak he'd wrapped around himself only moments prior.
Use it well.
Nodding to himself, Harry slid out of bed and draped the cloak fully over him.
With what he had just witnessed, he could not bear the thought of such a powerful artefact that belonged to someone falling into the hands of another.
For the past few days, he had been mulling over just how he would obtain the Philosopher's Stone from where it rested on the third floor of the castle, and now, he was more inspired than ever to retrieve it.
Checking that his roommates were still sleeping, he drew his wand and made his way through the door and into the common room.
What he hoped to achieve even with it, he did not know.
Harry was only in his first year at Hogwarts, and he was far from being an experienced wizard.
Nonetheless, he was determined, and he did have the cloak.
Putting so much faith in it was far from ideal, but what other choice did he have?
Much to his relief, the common room was empty, as was the seventh-floor corridor as he stepped through the portrait hole.
"Who's there?" the Fat Lady demanded sleepily.
Harry froze, daring not to breathe too loudly in case she heard him.
The woman frowned before shaking her head and falling immediately back to sleep, her snores echoing off the stone walls.
Finally breathing a sigh of relief, Harry made his way to the nearby staircase where he descended to the lower levels of the castle.
According to his watch, it was almost three am.
That gave him enough time to do what he needed, or so he hoped.
He still did not know what it was he would face beyond the slumbering behemoth guarding the trapdoor.
Regardless, he pressed on.
"Alohomora," he whispered, tapping the lock with the tip of his wand.
It clicked open, and the door squeaked gently.
Harry grimaced at the sound.
Mr Filch was likely lurking around the castle, and he could only hope the man was not nearby.
After a few moments had passed, Harry slid through the slightly ajar door and into the room, swallowing as he looked upon the monstrous three-headed dog.
Fluffy was sleeping soundly, the snores emanating from it putting the Fat Lady's efforts to shame.
Spying the trapdoor, Harry crept towards it and grasped the blackened, metal handle.
Pulling at it with all his might, it eventually swung open and crashed into the stone floor.
Fluffy immediately sprang to his feet, all three mouths snarling and salivating as he sought out the intruder, and as one of the heads turned towards him, Harry did the only thing he could in that moment and all but threw himself down the hole just as the gaping jaws lunged towards him.
His relief at avoiding such a fate, however, was short-lived.
Although the landing had been soft, Harry was immediately set upon by what he first believed to be snakes, only to realise that he had fallen into a plant that was intent on throttling him.
He fought for all he was worth until he was exhausted, pulling vines away from him, kicking, punching, and even biting them, but his efforts were in vain.
Soon enough, he could no longer fight, and as another wrapped around his throat and began strangling him, Harry felt foolish for throwing himself headlong into such a dangerous undertaking.
Still, at least he would soon be with his parents.
That was the thought that ran through his mind before the wand he still somehow clung to grew hot before it unleashed a stream of golden flames.
The plant screeched as it receded, and Harry groaned as he hit the floor with a dull thud, the smell of burning foliage filling his nostrils.
For several moments, he simply lay where he had fallen, breathing heavily as he attempted to calm himself.
He had come only an inch from death, and yet, here he was.
"Come Death, come," he murmured, mirroring the words that Ignotus Peverell had gotten into the habit of writing.
He did not know what the message the man was trying to convey from his own iteration, but they seemed rather apt now.
"Bloody hell," Harry whispered when he finally sat up and stared at his wand.
It was as though it was chastising him, letting him know its displeasure through the budding bond they shared.
"I know," Harry sighed. "I am an idiot. Thank you," he added gratefully. "I'll be more careful."
The wand grew warm once more and Harry pushed himself to his feet, rubbing his aching neck from where the plant had tried to strangle him.
What was that plant anyway?
Harry didn't know, but he was certainly not keen on encountering it again.
Looking up towards the still open trapdoor, he shook his head.
"Forward," he murmured to himself. "Lumos!"
With the tip of his wand lit, Harry found himself in another corridor, and as he pressed forward, the sound of fluttering wings could be heard from somewhere ahead.
Making sure that he was once again covered by the cloak, he pressed on, wondering what he would face this time.
He frowned as he found himself in a large circular room.
Above him, dozens of odd creatures were flying, and choosing to ignore them, Harry proceeded towards the door on the opposite side of the room.
"Alohomora," he whispered, jabbing his wand towards the lock. "Of course it's not that easy," he groaned when it did not open.
Sighing he took a step back, only to trip on something.
It was a broom, and the frown that had marred his features for several moments now deepened as he once more turned his attention to the flying creatures above.
They weren't creatures at all, but keys that had wings attached to them.
A wide grinned formed as Harry realised what it was he needed to do.
Flying was something he was good at and being the youngest Seeker in over a century to represent his house team would certainly come in useful.
However, what one of the dozens of keys would fit the lock?
Shifting his attention to the door once more, the mechanism sealing it shut was bronze, so Harry expected that the key would be of the same material.
Now, he just needed to find it.
Grasping hold of the broom, he took to the air and began scanning the keys, his eyes darting around in search for one that matched the lock on the door.
It felt as though hours had passed before he eventually did spy it amongst the others, and with practiced ease, Harry began to pursuit.
The key proved to be evasive, but it was no golden snitch, and he managed to snatch it out of the air only a minute later.
Still, it fought against the hold he had on it until it was placed into the lock which, much to Harry's relief, clicked open.
The relief, however, evaporated the moment he entered the room.
Between him and the next door was something Harry had hoped he would never see again, this one much larger than the monster that had attempted to smash his skull in down near the dungeons.
The troll tilted its head curiously as it noticed the open door, and Harry wrinkled his nose in disgust as it stepped forward, the stench of the creature even more unpleasant than the fertiliser Aunt Petunia insisted he use on her rosebush.
Waiting for the right moment, Harry pressed himself against the wall, and deftly darted around the troll as it passed him, not looking back until he reached the door.
It unleashed a dissatisfied growl and stomped its feet petulantly when it realised there was indeed no one there, none it could see at the very least.
Again, Harry thanked whatever deity was watching over him as he continued his foolish endeavour that he had gotten through that particular sequence unharmed.
He didn't quite favour himself facing off with a troll, not for a second time.
Turning his attention to the room ahead, he closed the door behind him, groaning as he found himself facing a life-sized chess board.
Despite having played the game with Ron many times now, Harry was far from being competent at it. Even now the redhead had to remind him where he could move certain pieces to.
With his grip tightening around his wand, he stepped across the chequered board until he reached the white pieces on the opposing side.
Could the cloak be used to avoid having to play.
Bracing himself, Harry skirted around one of the pawns and then the queen behind it, punching the air in celebration as neither piece attempted to stop him.
The cloak had proven it was indeed capable of perfectly concealing him, though evidently not his scent.
Harry would have to look into such an important factor.
Was there a spell that could do that?
Pushing the thought aside, he wiped his brow as he entered the next room where a roaring inferno burst into life in front him and what was beyond the flames.
In front of the fire was a small table with seven bottles of various sizes lined up across the breadth and a sheet of parchment.
Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,
Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,
One among us seven will let you move ahead,
Another will transport the drinker back instead,
Two among our number hold only nettle wine,
Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.
Choose, unless you wish to stay here for evermore,
To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:
First, however slyly the poison tries to hide
You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;
Second, different are those who stand at either end,
But if you would move onwards, neither is your friend;
Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,
Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.
Harry quickly realised that this didn't require using magic at all. It was a puzzle and he needed to figure out the clues.
Hermione would have been good at this, but without the girl with him to help, he mulled the writing over, murmuring to himself as he worked out what each bottle contained, checking his thoughts several times.
He did not want to have come this far only to poison himself.
"This is poison," he murmured certainly touching one of the medium sized bottle with the tip of his finger, "and so are you, and you," he added with a frown, indicating two others. "You will send me back, whatever that means, and you are nettle wine."
His frown deepened as he made his way through his conclusions again, referring to the note where needed.
"It has to be right," he decided eventually, picking up the smallest bottle and removing the cork.
Taking a deep breath to brace himself, he downed the paltry amount of liquid within and waited to see if he had chosen correctly, and when a moment passed and all he could taste was a slight hint of honey, he closed his eyes before stepping forward.
He could feel the flames licking against his skin, but they did not burn him, and when Harry dared to chance a glance, he found that the fire that had been blocking his path was now behind him.
"Bloody hell," he sighed, unable to believe that he had not only gotten it right but had found the courage to trust his judgement.
Perhaps the Sorting Hat had been wrong that he would have done better in Slytherin?
Harry couldn't imagine Malfoy doing something so bold.
Shaking his head of his thoughts of the blond, he looked around the room curiously to see only a mirror that had been placed in the very centre.
Approaching it cautiously, he circled around the outside, not knowing what to expect.
When nothing happened, he approached within the cloak and read the inscription that curved around the uppermost edge.
"Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi," he stammered through. "What does that mean?"
Harry had no clue.
It had to be another language; one he could not hope to understand.
Knowing there was nothing else for it, he allowed the cloak to pool to the ground at his feet and he took in his reflection.
There he was.
His pyjamas were torn and he had several angry marks around his neck and arms where the plant had attempted to kill him. As ever, his hair was messy, and his glasses were perched on the top of his nose.
What was special about this mirror?
Harry gasped as his reflection grinned at him and reached into its pocket.
From within, he watched himself remove a blood-red stone, throw it into the air and catch it before returning it from where it had been retrieved.
"No way," Harry whispered as he felt the weight fall into his own pocket.
Tentatively, he retrieved the stone and simply stared at it.
He wouldn't pretend to understand just how the wizarding world worked, but Harry had no doubt that there were many who would give their last knut for this or do anything to possess it.
What he held was likely one of the most valuable things in existence, and yet, he truly had no desire to possess it, a notion that only grew as he looked up once more and stumbled backwards at the changes he saw within the mirror.
Staring back at him were two people; a woman with red hair and rather unique green eyes that Harry too possessed.
The other was a man that Harry could not ignore his resemblance to, and as the realisation hit him, he stepped forward and placed his hand on the cold surface of the mirror.
"Mum?" he whispered.
The woman smiled brightly at him and nodded, and as Harry tore his gaze from her and looked towards the man once more, he too smiled.
"Dad?"
He could not be certain how long he simply marvelled at the sight of his parents in the mirror.
In truth, Harry did not wish to leave them at all, but he knew it would not be good to be found here with the Philosopher's Stone in his possession.
"I'll come back," he vowed.
It took every ounce of willpower he could muster to do so, and even as Harry walked away, he found himself needing to wipe wave after wave of tears from his eyes.
All he'd ever wanted was a family, something he had long given up on.
His parents were dead, and from what little Harry had learned about magic thus far, he knew there was no way to bring them back.
The stone.
He paused at the thought of what Cadmus Peverell had been given from Death entered his mind.
If Harry found it, was it possible he could bring them back?
It had to be.
Perhaps all was not lost, after all, however, Harry had no idea where the stone was and he was in no position to begin searching for it.
Besides, he already had a stone he needed to return to its rightful owner, and doing all he could, but failing miserably, to forget about the Peverell relic, he passed through the only exit situated behind the mirror where he trip down the sudden slope in the darkness.
Harry tumbled downwards until he was forced to extract himself from collection of mops and brooms.
Lighting the tip of his wand, he found himself in a broom closet with no sign of the slope in sight.
The wizarding world was a strange place.
Managing to free himself from the cleaning implements, he made sure he was again covered by the cloak before pushing the door open so that he could peer through the merest gap.
"The sixth floor?" he whispered confusedly.
How had he tumbled downwards from the third and ended up here?
Magic.
All Harry knew was that it was magic that was responsible, and for the first time since he'd begun his trying adventure in the small hours, something had gone in his favour.
Thankfully, the one thing he had managed to plan was just how he would return the stone.
There was only one he would trust with such a task, and as Harry checked that the coast was clear, he tore of a piece of his pyjama shirt and wrapped the stone tightly within it before making his way towards the owlery.
Fortunately, there was always parchment, ink, and quills that the school supplied within, and as he penned his brief note, Hedwig landed on his shoulder.
"I need you to take this to Nicholas Flamel, girl," he requested, petting her plumage. "Do you think you can do that for me?"
Hedwig barked and nudged his cheek with her head.
Chuckling, Harry tied the cargo to her presented leg, making doubly sure that it was as secure as can be before releasing her where she flew towards the rising sun in the distance.
Hedwig would get it to the man safely. Of that, Harry had no doubt.
Snape would be furious when he discovered the stone was gone, something that brought quite the amused grin to Harry's lips.
(Break)
Hermione watched Harry speculatively as he ate his lunch.
There was something undeniably different about her friend today and she couldn't quite put her finger on what that was.
He was more tired than usual, but not unhappy with it.
The biggest difference had become apparent in Potions when Harry had made an error with his brew.
As ever, Professor Snape had not missed the opportunity to berate him in front of the rest of the class, but instead of getting angry as he usually would, Harry had remained silent and simply smirked as the man had walked away, dissatisfied that he had not gotten a rise.
Still, Snape had docked five points from Gryffindor for Harry's seeming ineptitude.
Hermione didn't believe Harry was incapable of brewing Potions.
It was the presence of Professor Snape that set the boy on edge, along with several others in the class.
Poor Neville had melted another cauldron, and beyond calling him a foolish boy, the Potions Master had not given him half as much a bad time that he had Harry.
It had become only clearer since they'd begun their time at Hogwarts that Professor Snape seemed to hold a personal grudge over Harry, and Hermione didn't know what could be done.
Time and again Harry had told her to simply leave it be, but it wasn't fair that he should be punished more than any other student.
Nonetheless, there seemed to have been a breakthrough of sorts today. Either Harry no longer cared, which Hermione didn't believe to be true, or he had learned to not let Snape's vendetta get to him.
Regardless, there was indeed something different about Harry.
"What's next?" Ron asked, his mouth full of potatoes.
"Defence Against the Dark Arts," Hermione answered, shooting the redhead a look of disapproval.
"Great," Harry huffed.
"I thought you liked Defence?"
"I do," Harry replied, "I just don't like Quirrell. His room stinks of garlic and it gives me a headache."
Harry had a point.
The turban-wearing man was an oddity around the castle and came across as a coward. Why he was teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts was anyone's guess, but he didn't seem to be particularly adept in the subject.
Rumours abounded as to why he wore the turban.
According to the other students Hermione had overheard discussing the man, the turban was a recent addition to his attire.
From what little she could glean, Professor Quirrell had endured a rather harrowing encounter with a clan of vampires over the summer and was paranoid that they would come looking for him.
That explained the strong aroma of garlic that followed him wherever he went, at the very least.
"Come on, we'd best get there if we want seats at the back," Harry urged.
Hermione followed, pulling along a reluctant Ron who did not appreciate being taken away from his meal early.
"Honestly, Ronald, you've had enough!"
"I'm a growing boy!" Ron declared, eliciting a smirk from Harry.
Hermione continued watching him as they made their way towards the fourth floor.
Still, she could not figure out what had seemingly changed overnight.
Her thoughts, however, were interrupted by the stuttering voice of Professor Quirrell, requesting they opened their textbooks to begin the lesson.
Much to Harry's relief, they had managed to find seats at the back of the room, but the boy still massaged his forehead irritably throughout the class, evidently effected by the overpowering smell of garlic more than any other.
Did garlic induce headaches?
Hermione didn't know, but Harry quickly shifted between being relaxed and being somewhat on edge in the presence of the Professor, and though he hadn't said as much, there was more bothering him than the unending waft of the odorous bulb.
(Break)
It had been a deeply concerned Albus that had returned from his trip into the forest with Hagrid acting as his escort. Despite the report of the man he trusted implicitly, there was no sign of any unicorn having been slaughtered.
That was not to say Albus disbelieved Hagrid.
No, he had no doubt that the man was telling the truth, but not even a speck of blood could be found at the scene, something that only aroused the headmaster's suspicions.
Creatures did not have the where with all to clean up after themselves so meticulously, and from what Hagrid had told him, there were few that dwelled within the trees that would kill a unicorn, and none fast enough to catch one.
That meant that Albus's initial thoughts were undoubtedly correct.
It had been a human that had killed it, had been disturbed by the centaurs, and had returned to remove the remaining traces of the crime.
Albus shook his head.
To slay a creature so pure was something only the most desperate person would do, and once again, his thoughts drifted to the one person most likely to commit such a heinous act.
Tom Riddle.
Neither hide nor hair of the man had been seen since the night of Halloween 1981, but Albus remained of the firm belief that the Dark Lord had not simply perished.
He was out there, somewhere, and seemingly closer than was comfortable.
Nonetheless, what could be done about it was another matter entirely.
Until his former student crawled from the shadows, there was little that could be pursued.
It was frustrating to say the least and more than a little worrying.
With the prophecy remaining unfulfilled and young Harry far from being ready to face such a responsibility, the future looked as bleak as it had become some two decades ago.
Dark days were indeed ahead, and Albus could only hope that there was time to make the necessary preparations.
He had been watching the progress of the boy closely.
For the most part, Harry was a quiet and reserved child, as gifted, or perhaps more so than his father when it came to Quidditch, though thus far, not having his proclivity for mischief.
Minerva was grateful for that, but Harry was still only eleven-years-old and yet to come into his own.
How could he when he likely endured a rather unpleasant upbringing with Lily's envious sister?
With regards to his academic prowess, he bordered on average, though most members of staff held the belief that he was beginning to show potential. Filius and Minerva in particular were becoming impressed with his progress.
Harry would need to be impressive to say the least if he was ever to face the likes of Tom Riddle, and if Albus was honest, he needed to become even more impressive than him.
But how?
"Marked as his equal," he murmured, reciting a line from the prophecy. "The power the Dark Lord knows not…"
Albus did not know what that referred to, but he would continue to monitor Harry for any indication of what the power may be.
If he did indeed hold an advantage over Tom, it would need to be nurtured.
Or was he thinking of things in too literal a manner?
Before he could ponder the sudden thought further, the fireplace in his office burst into life and Albus frowned.
It was late, after all, and unless Cornelius was having another of his existential crisises, there was no reason for him to be contacted at this hour.
Releasing a deep breath, Albus forced a welcome smile before flicking his wand towards the fireplace, his eyes widening as he was greeted not by the Minister, but Nicholas Flamel.
"We need to talk," the man said simply. "I am coming through."
Albus barely had time to respond before the six hundred and so year old man crossed the threshold into the office, his expression a mixture of amusement and irritability.
Without saying a word, Nicholas removed something from within his jacket and placed it on the desk.
Albus could only gasp at the sight of the stone he had been asked to look after on behalf of his former mentor.
"You took it back?" the headmaster questioned curiously.
Nicholas shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips.
"I did not," he confirmed. "Would you believe me if I told you that it arrived at my home via owl post?"
For a moment, Albus thought the alchemist was jesting, but when he realised that was not so, he felt a sense of dread fill his stomach.
"Impossible," he whispered. "The magic protecting it could not have been breached. None who wished to retrieve it so that they may use it could have taken it, and certainly not have gotten past the other protections in place."
"You are a stupid boy, Albus," Nicholas chuckled. "Did it not occur to you that there are those who are unaware of what this is? Perhaps someone saw your obstacles as a game."
"Then how did they know to send it to you?" Albus asked worriedly.
"Indeed," Nicholas said gravely. "Whomever took it must have known what it was they held. Not that the enclosed note left any doubt in my mind."
"Enclosed note?"
Nicholas nodded as he removed a piece of parchment and slid it across the desk.
Picking it up, Albus read the scribbled missive.
Mr Flamel,
I think that it is best that you keep this with you. I would not like to see it fall into the wrong hands.
Although the note had evidently been hastily written, it was clear that the penmanship was from someone young, very young indeed, and Albus was simply flabbergasted.
"It came wrapped in this," Nicholas spoke once more, placing a piece of blue fabric on the desk next to the note.
That, Albus could work with.
The parchment had been free of any magical traces, but clothing worn by a witch or wizard always contained them.
With a furrowed brow, he placed the tip of his wand on the silky material, his mouth falling agape as he deciphered the clues left behind.
"Unbelievable," he whispered, looking up towards Nicholas who merely nodded satisfactorily.
"Do you know who it is?" the man asked.
Albus swallowed deeply as he too nodded.
"Harry Potter."
Nicholas's eyebrows rose significantly.
Albus had of course spoken of the boy to his former mentor the very night the Dark Lord had fallen.
Having lived for more than six centuries, there were not many things that could pique the man's curiosity, but the occurrence in Godric's Hollow between Harry and Tom had.
"The boy who survived the killing curse," Nichols murmured thoughtfully. "How old is he now?"
"Eleven," Albus answered, still in a state of disbelief at his findings.
"Then he is indeed an exceptional young man," Nicholas mused aloud. "How he managed it at such a young age, any of it, is quite beyond my comprehension."
"Do you believe it was intentional?" Albus pressed.
"Does it truly matter?" Nicholas returned. "Even if it was unintentional, to be able to cast such magic is one thing, but to do so at such an age is impressive."
Albus could only nod his agreement.
"Even by accident, it is quite the feat," he murmured thoughtfully, his impression of Harry Potter having changed in a matter of moments. "That spell is difficult, even for the most advanced practitioners."
"It is," Nicholas agreed, "and it shows the potential the boy possesses. I have met very few who were capable of creating those flames, and certainly none who had not yet matured."
"Indeed," Albus returned. "It is curious."
"As to how the boy managed to navigate his way through your supposed protections," Nicholas pointed out. "At eleven years old, it should not have been possible. Potter should have been killed."
Again, Albus felt the dread settle into his stomach.
Harry could have been killed.
What had he been thinking, and just how had he discovered what was being kept in the castle?
"I wish to meet him," Nicholas declared suddenly. "I am curious to hear what he has to say for himself."
Albus was of the same mind.
He had yet to speak to Harry on a personal basis, and now, it had quickly become a curiosity he could not ignore.
"I think it is best if I fetch him immediately," the headmaster decided as he stood.
Taking his leave of the office, Albus was perplexed as to how the evening had developed in such a way.
Harry Potter had entered the magical world only a few short months ago, and by all accounts, had just begun to show the earliest signs of being a capable wizard.
Now, Albus believed there was much more to the boy, more than Harry himself could even hope to comprehend at his tender age.
If at eleven he was capable of such feats, what would he grow into in only a few years of being in at Hogwarts if he dedicated himself to the study of magic?
Albus did not know, and in truth, what Harry would be capable of would be down to his own efforts.
Nonetheless, Albus was finally able to take some comfort in what the future held.
Dark days may be ahead, but the old headmaster had been given a much-needed glimmer of hope.