Author's Note

Sorry, I know the pace slowed down a bit for the last couple chapters, I probably should have edited them down to a single chapter, but I'm too excited about where the story is going in second year to spend more time editing first year, which was all about setting the stage. Things are going to take a turn this summer during Harry's travels and his reunion with his mentor.

The corridor was quiet as Harry made his way toward one of the lesser-used staircases in the castle, his footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor. He knew Fred and George would be waiting for him—when they sent for him, it usually meant they had some interesting news, and Harry had come to trust that their information, though often cloaked in mischief, could be valuable. As he turned the corner, he spotted them leaning casually against the wall near a suit of armor, identical smirks plastered on their faces.

"Evening, Potter," Fred said, pushing off the wall with a lazy grace.

"Got some good news for you," George added, grinning.

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Something I should know?"

Fred stepped forward, glancing around as though checking for eavesdroppers before leaning in slightly. "Dumbledore's gone."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Gone?"

"Yep," George said, crossing his arms. "We noticed this morning he wasn't on the Map. Thought maybe he was just holed up in his office or something."

"Then we heard the staff talking at lunch," Fred added, clearly enjoying the dramatic buildup. "Turns out he's been called away to the Ministry. Something urgent."

Harry kept his expression calm, but inwardly, his mind was racing. The timing couldn't be a coincidence. Dumbledore, always the master strategist, wouldn't leave the castle without reason—not when something as critical as the Philosopher's Stone was at risk. It had to be part of a larger plan, a calculated move to draw Voldemort into the open. And now, with Dumbledore gone, the pieces were falling into place.

"Odd timing, don't you think?" George continued, mistaking Harry's silence for mere curiosity. "Ministry business, right when everything around here is getting interesting."

Fred chuckled. "Bet he's off dealing with some big magical crisis. He'll be back before long, I'm sure."

Harry nodded slowly, letting the information settle. The twins hadn't connected the dots—not fully—but that was fine. They didn't need to know the bigger picture. Their role in his plan was clear enough, and their loyalty made them reliable allies. Dumbledore's absence, though, was the final confirmation Harry needed. This was it. The final move was close.

"I appreciate the intel," Harry said quietly, glancing between the two of them. "Keep your eyes open for anything else."

Fred grinned. "Oh, we always do."

"Something tells me we're in for a bit more excitement," George added with a wink.

Harry gave a small nod, turning to leave. "Let me know if you find anything else."

As he walked away, his mind sharpened with focus. This was no coincidence. Dumbledore's absence was deliberate, part of a greater design that Harry had suspected for weeks. Now it was up to him to act before anyone else realized what was truly happening.

—

The door to the third-floor corridor swung open silently, the enchanted harp's final note still hanging in the air as Harry stepped through. A Cerberus, an enormous three-headed dog, lay slumbering peacefully, its snores rumbling through the stone room. Any other student would have been shocked at the presence of such a dangerous magical creature in a school for children.

To Harry, it was merely logical - Cerberi were incredibly effective guardians, against those who did not know their susceptibility to song. His eyes flicked to the trapdoor beneath the creature's massive paws. He wouldn't have much time before the enchantment wore off.

Moving quickly, Harry slipped into shadow-walking, his form blending into the dim light. His steps were silent as he swiftly neared the trapdoor. A soft pulse of telekinetic energy nudged it open, and Harry leapt through without disturbing the slumbering beast.

The fall was longer than he expected, and Harry braced himself as he hit the ground hard, driving the air out of his lungs. The impact was barely softened by some kind of vegetation. Thick vines slithered around his body almost immediately, their touch cold and constricting. Devil's Snare. He recognized it instantly from his time in magical jungles. The plant tightened around him as it sensed his movements. Harry forced himself to relax, going limp as the tendrils loosened slightly, enough to slowly—agonizingly slowly—pull his wand from his sleeve.

Squinting his eyes shut, he incanted, "Lumos Solem."

The room was suddenly flooded with bright illumination, like noon on a cloudless summer day. The Devil's Snare recoiled with a hiss, shrinking away into the cracks in the floor. Harry wasted no time, pulling himself free and sprinting forward into the next chamber, wrapping himself back in shadows as the light from his spell faded. Devil's Snare had once been very dangerous to him—telekinesis and shadow-walking were both ineffective against it. Now, with a wand—one properly bound to him—it was no obstacle.

In the next chamber, the flutter of wings greeted him. High above, dozens of enchanted keys darted around in the air, their silvery wings shimmering in the dim torchlight. Harry's eyes scanned the swarm, picking out the correct key in an instant. He knew enough about magical defenses to guess that a direct Accio or telekinesis wouldn't work here. Whoever enchanted the keys—Flitwick, he guessed, it looked like Charms work—would have thought of that.

Instead, Harry pulled a handkerchief from his cloak, focusing his telekinesis to guide the fluttering cloth through the air, and with a practiced mental contortion, wrapped it around the correct key. With a sharp pull on the fabric surrounding it, not the key itself, Harry brought it back to him. Without a pause, he inserted the key into the lock and pushed through into the next room.

A large, stone chessboard spread out before him, the pieces towering and imposing, each one radiating an air of magical power. McGonagall's handiwork, he presumed. Harry had played speed chess with Grindelwald on many occasions—timed games that were as much about testing his nerves as they were about testing his mind. Sound tactics under pressure were second nature to him.

The black knight bowed to him, and Harry stepped forward, taking the empty space reserved for the king. The pieces shifted into position as the game began.

The battle was intense, with pieces clashing violently, shattering into stone fragments, without a moment of peace. The impassive expression on Harry's face did not match the aggression with which he played, sacrificing nearly as many pieces as he took, his moves made in a heartbeat, with no hesitation.

Scant minutes after the game began, the white king lay toppled. The way forward was open, and Harry stepped off the board, ignoring the wreckage in his wake, and continued on.

In the next room, a barrier of magical flame blocked the way forward rather than a door. A table stood in the center, with several vials of various sizes and colors lined up neatly. Snape's puzzle—logic and potions. A roll of parchment lay beside the vials, detailing the clues Harry would need to solve the puzzle. His eyes skimmed the riddle, and he rolled his eyes at the simplicity, the solution immediately apparent.

The correct vial, a small, clear one, was tucked near the edge of the table. Harry picked it up, uncorking it without hesitation. The bitter taste hit his tongue as he swallowed the potion, feeling the magic work through him. It was cold, a chill running down his spine; he realized this would grant him safe passage through the flames.

With his path clear, Harry once more cloaked himself in shadow and stalked forward, his wand held at the ready.

The air in the final chamber was thick with magic, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across the stone floor. Harry stepped through the barrier of flames, his form cloaked in darkness as he entered the room. His wand was drawn, and his eyes immediately locked onto the figure before the Mirror of Erised.

Quirrell stood hunched, his back turned, muttering frantically as he stared into the Mirror's gleaming surface. His hands trembled as they reached out, but the Stone refused to reveal itself. Harry could feel it—the dark presence behind the professor's movements. Voldemort was there, lurking, controlling.

Harry didn't hesitate. "You won't get the Stone that way."

Quirrell jerked around, eyes wide with surprise and fear. But behind the shock was something colder, more dangerous. His lips curled into a sneer. "Potter," he spat, the word dripping with venom. "You should have stayed out of this."

Harry's eyes flicked to the turban wrapped tightly around Quirrell's head. He felt the dark magic radiating from it, thick and oppressive. "So you've finally revealed yourself," Harry said coolly, ignoring Quirrell and addressing the turban directly. "But it's already over. You've walked straight into Dumbledore's trap."

There was a pause, and then a chilling voice, thin and hissing, emerged from the back of Quirrell's head. "Trap? You think Dumbledore's pathetic defenses will stop me?"

Harry's smirk was sharp, mocking. "You're a fool if you think you're on the verge of victory. You've already lost."

Quirrell's body stiffened, and the rasping voice of Voldemort cut through the room again, filled with disdain. "You're too young to understand, Potter. Power is not something given. It's taken. I will take the Stone, and with it, my victory."

Harry raised an eyebrow mockingly, his wand still pointed at Quirrell. "Victory? You're a parasite. Your host stinks of the rot of necromancy. Is that your idea of victory?"

"Enough!" Voldemort hissed, his voice rising with anger. "Quirrell—take him!"

With a flick of his wand, Quirrell shot a Stunning Spell directly at Harry's chest. But Harry had anticipated the move. He sidestepped, his reflexes sharp, and raised his free hand, instinctively using his most favored ability in the heat of battle. He could not match Quirrell with a wand.

With a burst of telekinetic energy, Harry hurled a broken chair from the corner of the room at Quirrell. The force sent it careening through the air, but Quirrell deflected it with a hasty shield, his expression twisted with frustration.

Harry didn't let up. He summoned shards of wood, splintered pieces of stone, and anything loose in the chamber, sending them flying at Quirrell from all directions. Quirrell's wand moved rapidly, conjuring barriers, deflecting the barrage of debris, but Harry was relentless. He darted forward, dodging another curse as the pieces crashed into Quirrell's shield, one after another.

"You think you understand power." Harry called, his voice cold and cutting. "But all your cruelty has made you irrational. A waste of talent."

"Power is control!" Voldemort's voice roared, his fury barely contained. "Control through fear is the only way! It's how I've ruled, how I've conquered."

"And you've failed," Harry shot back, sending a jagged piece of wood flying at Quirrell's side with enough speed to pierce his lungs. "Fear never lasts. People grow tired of it. Real control comes from stability, from mastering the situation."

Quirrell's shields were starting to falter. His movements became erratic, blocking Harry's attacks with growing desperation. "Your arrogance blinds you, boy!" Voldemort's voice rang out, shaking the chamber. "Fear is stability! Fear bends the weak to my will!"

"You're wrong," Harry said, his voice calm despite the chaos. "Fear only works until someone stronger comes along. Someone like me."

Quirrell's defenses collapsed under Harry's onslaught. He stumbled backward, panting as blood dripped from his nose from some bit of flying detritus that had slipped through his shields. Voldemort, enraged, forced himself to the surface, Possessing his host. Quirrell's body convulsed violently as the Dark Lord took direct control, his eyes glowing with a deadly intensity.

"You've wasted enough of my time, fool boy!" Voldemort roared, his wand snapping up. "Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green light shot across the room, but Harry was already moving. He pulled half of a broken table into the curse's path, the Killing Curse shattering it into tiny splinters. Another curse came, and Harry intercepted it with a piece of stone. But Voldemort's attacks were relentless, each curse coming faster than the last. Every object big enough to block a curse was being obliterated, one by one. He was running out of cover.

Just as the pressure began to overwhelm him, and he readied himself for a tactical retreat, a brilliant flash of light filled the chamber.

Dumbledore had arrived.

The Headmaster's power felt palpable as he stepped between Harry and Voldemort, the air growing hazy with arcane energy. With a single wave of his wand, he conjured a shimmering shield, absorbing Voldemort's curses effortlessly. Harry fell back, giving Dumbledore the space he needed to face the Dark Lord.

"You will not succeed," Dumbledore said, his voice calm but commanding.

Voldemort's fury boiled over, but his power was waning. The dark magic sustaining Quirrell was barely holding him together. Voldemort lashed out, casting curse after curse, but his power was fading too fast for him to employ Unforgivables. Dumbledore's magic was unyielding in the face of the lesser Dark spells the weakening Dark Lord could manage. Each curse splashed harmless against a shimmering barrier, or was deflected, and the onslaught's fury continued to wane, each spell coming further apart and with less force.

Then, with a negligent flick of his mentor's former wand, Dumbledore disarmed Quirrell entirely.

Quirrell collapsed to the floor, dead. There was no surviving necromancy that far gone—not for the host. Voldemort's presence dissipated into the air, a dark shadow fleeing into the void.

The room fell into a sudden, heavy silence, broken only by Harry's steady breathing. He lowered his wand, watching as Dumbledore calmly stepped away from the fallen figure of Quirrell.

"Well played, sir," Harry said, his voice smooth and untroubled. "I assume only someone who doesn't desire the Stone can retrieve it?"

Dumbledore turned to him, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Indeed. How did you come to that conclusion?"

Harry shrugged, his tone dismissive as he waved to the reversed letters inscribed in the mirror's rim. "It's the Mirror of Erised. Desire is its whole function. Enchantments built around desire would be the most compatible, and therefore the most effective."

Dumbledore smiled, clearly impressed. "You see more than most, Harry. Come, let us continue this discussion in more comfort. Fawkes!"

A brilliant flash of light heralded the arrival of the Headmaster's pet phoenix. Dumbledore and Harry each grabbed hold of one of the majestic creature's claws, then vanished in a fiery blaze.

—

The circular office of the Hogwarts Headmaster was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the shelves of ancient magical artifacts. Harry stood near the entrance, his posture relaxed but alert, as Dumbledore sat behind his desk, studying him closely. The tension from the events of the night hung in the air, though neither of them had yet addressed the deeper conversation that was inevitable.

Dumbledore's hands were folded neatly on the desk as he broke the silence. "You handled yourself well tonight, Harry," he said softly. "But I must ask—what would you have done had you succeeded in retrieving the Stone?"

Harry met his gaze evenly. He knew where this was going. Dumbledore was testing him, weighing his motives carefully.

"I would have studied it," Harry replied without hesitation. "Tested its capabilities. Once I understood its properties, I'd have returned it to Flamel."

Dumbledore's eyebrow arched slightly. "Returned it?"

Harry nodded. "He would then have owed me a favor."

Dumbledore's eyes flickered, a mixture of surprise and curiosity passing through them. "A favor from Nicholas Flamel," he murmured. "A calculated ambition."

"Indeed," Harry said calmly.

Dumbledore leaned back, his expression thoughtful but cautious. "Leverage, control. And you believe that seeking such power carries no risk?"

Harry tilted his head slightly. "There's risk in anything worth having. But the risk only grows if you don't understand what you're dealing with. That's why I wanted the Stone—to understand it."

Dumbledore's gaze softened but didn't lose its edge of suspicion. "You see, Harry, power—whether through the Stone, a favor, or something else—has a way of controlling those who seek it. Even with the best of intentions."

Harry's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Most people are easily controlled, whether by power or other people. I refuse to be controlled by anything or anyone other than myself."

Dumbledore regarded him silently for a moment. "And you believe you can maintain that control indefinitely?"

"Why not?" Harry countered, his voice even. "I'm not like Voldemort, an unhinged sadist. He doesn't understand that fear is an unstable form of control. I constantly strive to be a rational thinker."

"Perhaps," Dumbledore said, though his voice carried a note of caution. "But control, Harry, is a delicate thing. The pursuit of power, no matter how rational, has a tendency to twist the mind, even subtly. You may not see the cracks until it's too late."

Harry shrugged. "Every tendency has its exceptions. Knowledge is power, how can you, a professor, tell me to pursue one and not the other? The Stone was just another path to the same destination."

Dumbledore's gaze was steady, his voice quiet. "And you believe understanding the Stone would have given you control over it?"

Harry nodded. "Of course. How could I claim to understand it, if my understanding granted me no control over it? But more importantly, it would have given me leverage, even if truly understanding it was beyond my present abilities. Having not any, but the Alchemist indebted to me is far more valuable than anything the Stone itself could offer."

Dumbledore's fingers drummed lightly on the desk. "You reason well beyond your years, Harry. But remember, not all leverage is as straightforward as it seems. Power, even in the form of a favor, has consequences that can reach beyond our control."

Harry's smile returned, colder this time. "Maybe. But it's better than not being owed any favors at all, having no power or leverage over anyone. Remember, sir, that thanks to your efforts, I got to experience six years of that, too."

Dumbledore had the decency to look guilty then, though the caution never fully left his expression, and he did not respond, merely staring at Harry consideringly. Harry let the silence stretch. Staying silent when you wanted someone else to talk first was a basic tactic, one Harry employed frequently. He would not fall for such an elementary ploy. Finally, Dumbledore broke the silence, speaking with an air of finality.

"The Stone remains safe for now, but you must understand, Harry, that true power comes not just from understanding powerful magic, but from the choices you make."

Harry's expression didn't waver. "And that is why it is so important to evaluate things rationally, without naive sentimentality." He couldn't resist adding the last part, a jab Dumbledore ignored.

Dumbledore's smile was faint, almost sad. "Indeed," was all he said.

The Headmaster's disappointed grandfather act might work on the common wizards he'd grown accustomed to leading, but Harry recognized the kabuki. The conversation was winding down, but he had one last point to make. He met Dumbledore's gaze with sharp clarity.

"And tell me, Professor," Harry said, his voice smooth, almost mocking, "what makes you think I would have used the Stone less generously than the Flamels? After all, they've kept its use strictly for themselves all these centuries. Think of all the good they could have done with the Elixir—for others—instead of extending merely their own lives."

For a brief moment, Dumbledore's expression flickered—surprise, perhaps, or acknowledgment. He didn't respond immediately, though Harry could tell the remark had landed.

When Dumbledore finally spoke, his voice was softer, but no less measured. "Perhaps... that is the very lesson we all must learn. What we choose to do with power... and for whom."

Harry gave a small shrug, unbothered. "An understanding we should all continue to refine as we gain experience."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed, but a faint twinkle of amusement was still visible. "Yes, quite so. What I hope, Harry, is that your choices will always be guided by more than just pure reason."

Harry chose not to respond, though a sharp retort immediately came to his mind. Dumbledore clearly enjoyed playing these word-games more than him. For now, Harry would let the old man have the last word. The adrenaline now gone, the weariness from his earlier battle had caught up to him, and the soft comfort of his bed was a rising siren call in his mind.

With a final, respectful nod at the headmaster, Harry turned toward the door.

"Goodnight, Professor," he said smoothly.

Dumbledore's voice followed him, calm but thoughtful. "Goodnight, Harry."