The Stone III

Previous chapter: Harry fixes the Norbert problem, and devises a plan to observe Gabriel as the end of the year looms…

The nursery monitor remained in Harry's trunk, unused, for two weeks. Each day was nerve-wracking. Time seemed to slow to a crawl; by the afternoons, Harry was spending as much effort trying to distract his wayward mind - nibbling at the feather of his quill, shifting in his seat - as he was learning. Merely passing close to the third-floor corridor sent his imagination stirring; he couldn't help but imagine that Gabriel might make some mad attempt at claiming the Stone before the end of the year. But apprehension gripped him most strongly in those moments of tedium in class, when Professor Quirrell was stuttering through a review of Allard's Laws, or Professor Sprout decided to test their potting prowess; moments when there was nothing to distract him - not friends, nor duelling, nor the call of sleep.

Then he worried, and worried, and worried, and thought about the monitor in his trunk. How were they going to smuggle it onto the heel of Gabriel's shoes without her noticing? More than once he considered bringing Alan into the secret. Three heads were better than two, after all, and he knew more of the other students than Harry or Susan. If he couldn't come up with a plan, perhaps someone else could? But, when Harry played through the conversation in his head, he could never finish it. How would Alan react if he was told his cousin might be mixed up in some sort of crazy group?

It sounded mad. If Harry was told such a thing (not that he could imagine Dudley being involved in anything except a breakfast, lunch, and dinner club), he'd definitely go tell someone. And he didn't like Dudley; Alan idealised Gabriel. He'd confront her... and that couldn't happen.

So instead, Harry stewed in his inactivity, growing slowly more irritated, steadily more snappy and short-tempered. Alan had absolutely no idea why he was so angry, while Susan's concern grew with his aggravation. Others began to notice, too, and his unfortunate blend of caustic anger and reserved disposition won him no favours. The apex arrived when he thoughtlessly turned a corner, bundling a first year Slytherin over. She cried out, scrambling for her tinted glasses that'd clattered to the ground. Harry was so angry, so enraged - with Gabriel, with SLEF, with his inability to tell Alan... with himself - that he just thundered past, back to the Hufflepuff common room.

But he was feeling awfully recalcitrant by the time he reached the Hufflepuff barrels. He practically slinked to his customary armchair, as though everyone in the room had seen what had happened. "Susan," he whispered as he sat. "Who's that girl - that Slytherin girl - who wears those strange glasses?"

Susan lowered her book into her lap. "Erm, you mean Greengrass, right? Daphne Greengrass. She wears dark glasses."

"Right - we, er, had a bit of a run-in."

Susan just stared at him.

"Er… literally." This now seemed like a bad idea. Harry ducked his head. "Might've, er, accidentally, er, knocked her over."

"And did you apologise?"

"... No."

Susan's sigh stung like nails on a chalkboard. That familiar blue-eyed disappointment hurt even more. "Harry, you've got to stop thinking about it. We'll find a way to get it on her shoe eventually."

It. They only spoke about Gabriel and the SLEF as 'it' nowadays - another painful reminder of their shared secret. Harry was tired of keeping secrets. He'd hoped the Rosier debacle would be the end of it.

'It' was infuriating. "I know," he whispered back harshly.

Susan flinched, and Harry winced. "Sorry," he said guiltily. "I know, I know. But, haven't you ever heard of that whole thing - don't try and think about pink elephants?"

"Pink elephants?"*

"Yes, you know…" Hadn't everyone had that said to them at least once? "Perhaps it's a Muggle thing… What do you think about when I tell you not to think about pink elephants?"

For a long moment Susan looked at him like he was mad. "... Pink ele-oh! You're talking about the Bogart's Riddle, right!"

Now it was Harry's turn to look confused. "What's a Bogart?"

"A creature that hides in dark places," she said, beginning to play with the end of her braided hair. "If you look at it, it turns into your greatest fear. The way to defeat a Bogart is to change that scary thought into something funny. But as your worst fear appears in front of you, how can you think of anything else?"

That sounded… terrifying. "Oh." Harry cast his mind back. What would his own greatest fear be? Voldemort? But he was dead - he knew he was dead…"Have you ever met a Bogart?"

Susan's eyes shimmered. Her hands fell away from her hair to her lap. "Yes."

Harry thought it best to drop the subject.

He did his best to think, instead, about pink elephants… but paradoxically, could only think of Gabriel. Or occasionally, an elephant with Gabriel's face, which was terrifying.

Sleep came late, as usual.

But the next morning proved glorious - and not because of the fresh Scottish sun. The subject dropped straight into their lap with a prank. The Weasley twins had seemingly decided that it would be a good idea to trap the entrance to the Great Hall. Anyone who walked through had their footwear turned into clown shoes. Gabriel was one of them; and no standard dispelling charm would work. The shoes had to be left with Professor Flitwick to return them to their original state.

It wasn't too difficult to distract the diminutive professor and sticky-charm the monitor into the heel of Gabriel's shoe. Relief crashed upon him then like a wave; one overwhelming splash, then a series of lesser impacts as the water withdrew. Quietly, he worried Gabriel might somehow find it - though the monitor was the same black as the heel - but she gave no indication she had. He slept like a broken light, and awoke at dawn, refreshed.

But that wasn't quite the end of it. After the next day's lessons, he returned to the dormitory to see his trunk… jumping?

Harry blinked.

The trunk was hopping. Like one of those pogo sticks that Dudley never let him ride, it was jumping up and down, leaving scuff marks on the yellow-gold rug. Thank Merlin he'd walked in rather than his dorm mates.

Now, what was it?

Harry watched it for a moment. He listened. For a moment he heard nothing… then droning? Buzzing? No, vibrations. Oh, he thought; the nursery monitor.

He wrestled his trunk to the floor, opened the lid, and fished out the sculpture. The entwined hands stopped moving as he touched them, but they continued to flash, glimmering as if to shout in warning: 'your baby has been moving for the past five hours!'

Harry tapped it with his wand. The flashing stopped. Well that was troublesome… but at least Susan had the instruction manual. It was only a hiccup. They could stop the vibrations during the day, retain them during the night, and he could sleep soundly in the knowledge that if anything did happen… if Gabriel was foolish enough to go after the Stone, he would be there to stop her. Or at least tell a teacher.

Now he could finally focus on the oncoming exams and duelling practice…

So he thought. He'd totally forgotten about the onslaught of Quidditch. Two games were scheduled in as many weeks. Hufflepuff vs Ravenclaw, and Ravenclaw vs Slytherin. Alan was practically vibrating with excitement… kind of like his trunk.

It was bizarre - especially as most of the school mirrored him. Exams? Witches and wizards didn't seem to care, even the older Muggleborns. Hermione Granger, on the other hand, was rarely seen outside of lessons or the library.

She was often joined by a couple of Ravenclaws and a Gryffindor - Longbottom, Harry recalled. He was glad to see she'd finally made some friends. Recently, she'd even begun to greet him in the corridor; perhaps the trauma of the troll incident was receding into the past? Harry hoped so; Granger was as sharp as an Auror's Diffindo.

Far, far from the hush of the library, Hufflepuff vs Ravenclaw was loud, raucous… and pretty boring, at least in Harry's opinion. Maybe Alan' love of Quidditch had rubbed off on him, because he saw three Ravenclaw chasers who played like they'd never exchanged a pass before, while Hufflepuff's beaters - Steven Longcraft and Markus Moody - seemed as liable to hit their own players as the opposition. Apparently one of the chasers was a substitute, but for the beaters' poor play he had no explanation.

The game finally ended when Hufflepuff's Cedric Diggory dived for the snitch. Harry applauded with the rest of the house, whose cheers seemed to shake the timber frame of their watchtower. "That was duller than Quirrell reading an encyclopaedia," Wayne said over his shoulder.

Harry snickered. What a frightening image.

"A-a-aardvark," Wayne stuttered mockingly. "A-a-ow!"

Harry twisted in his seat. Wayne was rubbing his ribs.

"Don't be mean," Hannah Abbot said. The sun glinted off her blonde pigtails in a way that made her slightly difficult to look at.

"He is right though," Megan Jones said, "even if he is a sod. Ravenclaw need to put up a better fight if they're going to have a chance against Slytherin."

Or else, Harry knew, Slytherin would win the Quidditch Cup - and, through the fifty points gained by winning a match, would draw closer to winning their seventh House Cup in a row.

As it turned out, Ravenclaw versus Slytherin was a better game. Ravenclaw had all three first team chasers on the pitch, and each of them gave their all. After an hour, they were tied 100-100. Then the quality of Slytherin's beaters, matched only by the Gryffindors Weasley twins, began to show.

They were brutal.

First they knocked down a Ravenclaw beater with a clever one-two; one of the Slytherin beaters ghosted into their counterparts' blind side, so when the other beater rocketed the bludger at said Ravenclaw, he had no chance at all to dodge when the blind-side beater smashed the bludger at his back.

He dropped like a stone. Susan gasped, while Wayne winced.

Thereafter, the Slytherin beaters were free to harry the Ravenclaws as much as they liked. In half an Slytherin built up a solid sixty point lead, then the beaters began targeting Diggory himself.

He was agile, and kept them busy… but they were keeping him busy too. The Slytherin seeker, Terence Higgs, soon had a free run at the snitch. It was over quickly.

Hufflepuff watchtower groaned. The Inter-House Quidditch Cup belonged to Slytherin… again. "Morgana," Harry heard Susan mutter angrily. Few outside Slytherin wanted them to win. Their questionable tactics and dark reputation followed them like a cloud. Harry thought it was a bit unfair, but could also admit to himself he didn't know enough to judge.

The Hufflepuffs stamped down the watchtower in a huff. Harry followed the crowd, a little bemused by their reaction. We're Slytherin really that bad? Malfoy had been somewhat helpful at times.

As he touched solid ground, his thoughts quickly drifted. Duelling practice was cancelled for the day… but that didn't mean he and Susan couldn't go on anyway. Alan would meet them there. "Come on," he said, striding toward the castle. He felt the familiar thrill building; the giddiness that never seemed to fade when he thought about duelling.

Alan indeed met them at the duelling hall, which was blessedly empty, and they spent the best part of an hour practising. Alan and Susan tried to improve their casting speed by pelting spells at Harry; Harry worked on his avoidance tactics by dodging those same spells. He felt like a ball of sweat by the hour's end, and never more satisfied.

But that satisfaction did not endure through the final weeks leading up to the exams. He felt as though he wasn't hitting the heights he had against McConnell. In fact, he began to feel as if he wasn't progressing at all.

Improvement in his giswiften movements had slowed to a crawl; his casting speed seemed to stall too. He didn't feel any quicker, or lighter or his feet than during his duel with McConnell. Was he, he wondered, hitting a natural physical barrier because of his age? … Or was this just it. Was this the apex of his potential?

Obviously he'd get stronger as he grew, but would he get quicker? Or would training for the rest of his life just amount to maintaining what he already had?

It was a worrying thought.

Moreover, Gabriel had stopped teaching anything new for the year. "My plans have run out," she had said when he asked. "I didn't expect the club to be this popular." She was right; they'd never expected so many, though no few were dropping out in preparation for their examinations.

Still, Harry wanted to throw up his hands in frustration, but openly said: "It's okay. I can wait until the second year curriculum."

… If there was going to be a second year of the Self Defence club. Who knew what would happen if Gabriel really went for the Stone?

And as the exams rapidly approached, his fears about the Philosopher's Stone began to return. First only as errant thoughts, then as a steady stream of worry. It didn't help that he had to turn the nursery monitor back on each night.

Then - suddenly - the exams were not approaching anymore; they were upon him. The day was scorchingly hot. The examination room they were led to felt like a furnace; Harry swore he saw steam rising off the chalkboard. They were given special quills enchanted with an Anti-cheating charm. Wishfully, he did his best to feel for the magic of the spell, searching for the sensation simulated by the push-pull game. Nothing. Harry sulked for a moment, then listened to the proctor* as he explained the rules of the examinations.

Apparently, the first year exams were spread over two days. Six subjects, six theoretical exams, and five practical exams. Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration one day; Herbology, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and History of Magic the next. Harry groaned to himself. Now they were actually happening, he no longer felt anxious. "This is going to be boring," he murmured to himself.

Beside him, Wayne chuffed.

He didn't have to be a wizard to make that prediction (though he indeed was). The examinations were boring. Mostly because they were easy; even subjects which Harry had found little to interest him, like Potions, didn't confront him with anything particularly mind-bending.

The practicals were better, but unfortunately shorter. Professor McGonagall asked them to turn a mouse into a snufflebox - an advanced skill for a first year, while Professor Flitwick requested that they make a pineapple tap-dance across his desk. It was all very simple; the most challenging practical exam was Snape's - though only because it was easy to forget the ingredients to the Forgetfulness Potion when he was practically breathing down Harry's neck.

When he lowered his quill on the second day, finally finishing his essay on the Third Goblin Rebellion (the so-called Quartering Rebellion… named for very unfortunate reasons), Harry let himself relax, flopping into his chair. It was over. It was over, he'd done well - he thought - and his wrist ached like he'd been holding a heavy weight over his head for a week straight.

Soon after, the proctor called time. Harry rolled up his parchment and passed it to the front, then scarpered out the door. "Thank Merlin that's-" a yawn interrupted him, "-over," he said to Susan.

Susan looked at him silently. She looked even less impressed than she usually did when he or Alan said something stupid. In fact, Harry thought she might fall asleep on her feet.

Now that was over for a year, they only had to worry about the Stone… Harry suppressed another yawn. His tired mind passed the thought around. Surely they were being paranoid, right? Nothing was really going to happen. Who would try and steal from Hogwarts, one of Europe's most secure places?

…

…

Bzzz.

Bzzz.

Groggily, Harry opened his eyes. It was very dark behind the curtains of his four-poster bed. His thoughts slid around his head like marbles on a countertop. What was happening?

Bzzz.

Bzzz.

He blinked. Was that? He turned left on his pillow, shocked disbelief spreading through his thoughts. It couldn't be, right?

The entwined hands of the nursery monitor were flashing gold - dimly, right now, but Harry knew the light would grow stronger. Soon it would be visible through the curtains.

Numbly, he reached for his wand on his bedside table, grasping the holly handle in an unsteady hand. "Finite," he muttered flatly. The flashing ceased. So did the buzzing…

… And Harry Potter suddenly felt very awake. He sat up abruptly. Was this really happening? Or had he dreamt it? Gabriel wasn't really… wasn't really going for the Stone, was she? He looked back at the monitor with accusatory eyes. He wished it wasn't there. It wasn't a dream.

A minute later he was up and dressed, if extraordinarily scruffy (not that he could really see himself too well beyond the Lumos he'd lit). He grabbed for a charmed paper plane he and Susan had bought for this very moment, and threw it out the window. It vanished from view. He knew it wouldn't hit the ground below; it was charmed to guise itself to its target - in this case Susan in the girl's dormitory. He knew she always left a window just slightly ajar for that very reason.

He waited - Invisibility Cloak under one arm - on the dormitory landing, where the first year boys and girls separated out. For a long moment there was only silence, and the shadows cast by Harry's silver Lumos. Then there was the creaking of a door, and from the darkness Susan's pale face appeared. She was bleary-eyed, and wan. "Is-is it…" she murmured, stumbling up the girl's flight of stairs, "... is it really happening?"

Harry still couldn't believe it either. "Yes," he said softly. "The monitor went off."

If possible, Susan's face grew paler still. "I... I suppose we have to go, then."

They did. They'd talked this through before; no teacher - not even Professor Flitwick - would believe them, and it wasn't as though they were walking into certain doom. The obstacles behind Fluffy, whatever they were, likely weren't lethal.

So that was that. Harry threw his coat over his shoulder's, offering a space. "Come on," he said. "There's no time. Gabriel has longer legs than us."

The joke fell flat, but Susan tucked herself under the cloak. Leaving the Hufflepuff dormitory was slow going, but out in the corridors they could power walk under the Cloak. They'd practised, just in case. It was a fond memory; they fell over each other two dozen times, giggling like invisible idiots that afternoon. The muscle memory remained, but none of the emotion. Harry's guts felt like ice. It was all unravelling. How would they even stop Gabriel if they caught her?

On they went, through shadowed corridors, silent and still, unearthly like a midsummer night's dream. They saw no one; heard nothing except the breathing of the other. The Grand Staircase was mercifully direct, leading straight to the third floor.

Harry and Susan had just reached the crown of the staircase when they spotted Peeves the poltergeist floating aimlessly behind them. Susan's breath hitched. Harry winced... but Peeves gave no hint of recognition. "Whats shall we do to scare the blighters, eh?" Peeves muttered to himself. "A hidden pastry, perhaps, to step in? A secret step, maybe, to miss? Ooooh, looks here, a carpet, methinks, to slip on."

Just a few feet away, Peeves began to tug at the carpet by the stairs. Harry and Susan had frozen. Peeves couldn't see them, but their footsteps still made noise... Slowly, Harry began to crouch, nodding at Susan to follow. He pointed toward the third floor corridor. Susan grimaced; up close, Harry could see the fear flash across her face. They continued stiffly, breathing only when they turned a corner.

One more corner, and they were at the entrance to Fluffly's... lair. The door was already ajar.

"Someone's been here," Susan whispered, alarmed.

"Gabriel..." Harry said, worried. What did she think she was doing? What did she think an organisation like SLEF would do with the Philosopher's Stone?

Susan took something small and silver from her robe pocket. It was a box, inlaid with a golden B. She opened it, revealing a delicate elven figure, who shimmered a pure and soothing silver. Music began to emanate from the box, a classical - Muggle - tune Harry had heard but couldn't place. The little elf began to dance.

The music box was Susan's idea. Harry had never seen it before; he wasn't expecting such ornate craftsmanship. Wizarding attention to detail always surprised him.

The music quickened. Harry straightened himself. Fluffy the cerberus was just beyond the door… and who knew what else? He felt his hands trembling. "Ready?" he croaked.

Susan nodded shakily.

Harry pushed the door open; deep, thrumming growling rumbled over them like thunder. Fluffy was there, towering over them, sniffing for an intruder he couldn't see with all three of his noses. Could he smell them? He had a lot of nose to smell with…

He glanced down at the music box, half amazed that such a small thing could defeat such a vast monster, half afraid it wouldn't… and slowly, slowly, Fluffy began to totter, his head began to roll, until he flopped to the ground, fast asleep. Harry let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and threw off the Cloak.

Susan squeaked in fright, but Fluffy was unmoved. "W-warn me next time," she whispered vexatiously.

But Harry was too busy examining the chamber to take notice. It was tall - obvious, else Fluffy would always be hunching over - and classically oriented. Twin columns framed the cerberus as though the creature were a sculptured nightmare. Frescos decorated the walls; angels stared down from the ceiling.

They were all beautiful, yet the floor drew his interest most. A broken harp lay before Fluffy, its strings snapped… and beyond that, just before the monster's vast paw, was a trapdoor.

"A trapdoor," Harry murmured, "by the harp."

Susan winced. "This is a bad idea," she said quietly… and crept toward it. Her hair swayed with Fluffy's hot, odorous breath as she drew near. Harry gritted his teeth and followed. Susan pulled the right of the trap door, which lifted easily.

Darkness greeted them below.

They lent over and peered down into the nothingness.

"No stairs," Harry said. "What d'you suppose is down there?"

Susan looked up and met his eyes. "Nothing good."

A long drop maybe? Long enough to break something? Harry ground his teeth and fingered his wand. "I think I have a way."

He lowered himself to the floor carefully, positioning himself by the trapdoor so that his wand arm could reach as far into the dark as possible. He didn't want to risk Fluffy waking when he cast, "Lumos Maxima."*

His wand sputtered for a moment, and Harry grimaced; he'd seen this charm in the same textbook as Lumos, but he'd rarely attempted it… But slowly - almost lazily - a white light emerged from the tip of his wand and floated off into the darkness. It illuminated very little by way of its light. It was what was uncovered by way of sound that was worrying. Faint squealing, then a horrible scuttling, like a thousand spiders chittering across a stone floor.

The light faded, and another ill-fortuned sound reverberated up from the trapdoor.

Harry frowned. Hadn't he heard that before?

"Devil's snare," Susan said.

He thought back to Professor Sprout's lecture, recalling that horrid black-green mass of vines, and found that she was correct. "Thank you Professor Sprout," he muttered wryly. Who expected Herbology to be useful here?

Quickly he refocused. Laying beside a giant three-headed dog would do that. "The drop isn't far, and the devil's snare will cushion our fall. We just have to cast Lumos once we hit the… plant. Whatever it really is. Fancy going first?"

Susan hit him with a familiar look.

"No?" Harry took a deep breath - then regretted it, because it was really Fluffy's exhalation he was inhaling - and jumped. He felt a moment of weightlessness, of cold, frigid air rushing by him faster and faster and fast-

-and he landed with a muffled thump, rolling immediately to ensure Susan didn't land on him. He heard another thump nearby.

"Lumos!"

The devil's snare screeched a high, horrid cry and began to retreat. It writhed beneath him, nauseating in its snake-like movement, undulating all over his body. Harry could've wretched.

"Harry?"

"I'm fine." He climbed to his feet, lighting the way with his wand. Susan stood, looking ill, just a few feet away.

"It's still here," she said. "In the corners of the room."

Harry peered into the darkness. It was there, somewhere, waiting… "I know."

Just then, Fluffy began to bark above them, and the trapdoor slammed shut - likely by itself.

"We're sealed in," Susan murmured fearfully. Her wide blue eyes were staring mornfully at the blackness of the ceiling.

"There must be a way out," Harry said. "Let's have a look around."

Fortunately, there was a narrow stone passageway not far distant, which soon began to slope down. Harry heard water dripping down the walls, and he couldn't help but be reminded of the catacombs below Halt End, and the Deep Earth… and Adelita Land's stories of the Uroarbrunnr - and the things that might spawn there. Harry swallowed heavily. Hogwarts was one of the most magical places in Europe. What sort of creature might it attract? If they were to run into one of those…

The sound of fluttering distracted him from his maudlin thoughts.

Susan paused mid-step. "A-are those… wings?"

"Maybe." Harry strained his ears. It sounded like ten-thousand moths, but not. There was, beneath the sound of wings, clinking too.

They reached the end of the passageway, which opened into a bright-lit chamber, whose gothic ceiling arched high above them. The air was swarming with shining… birds, flying aimlessly in chaotic circles. The rest of the room was empty. A heavy wooden door waited at the opposite end of the chamber.

Susan stared up. "Those birds - they don't look right. Will they attack us if we try for the door?"

Harry was looking too, squinting, a strange feeling in his gut. They were strange, strange in a way he couldn't quite place. "Maybe," he repeated. He took a single, cautious step, half expecting the strange birds to dive at him.

Nothing. He took another, and another.

Eventually he just walked over to the other side, and Susan followed. Harry pointed his wand at the door. "Alohomora,"

The door wouldn't budge. Perhaps a more advanced unlocking charm would work?

Harry didn't know any. Outside of duelling, he didn't know many spells, really…

Susan was still watching the birds while Harry tried, in vain, to force the door open. "They're keys," she said suddenly. "One of them must open the door."

She was right. The bodies of the 'birds' were, in fact, keys of many colours and shapes. Harry examined the keyhole carefully; he got the distinct feeling that the correct key was keenly enchanted against magical tampering. That ruled out Accio. But there must, he thought, be a way…

"Ah- look, broomsticks!" Susan pointed to a corner of the room. They seized a pair and kicked into the air. Harry spun, testing the broom, then frowned. These were school brooms - slow, and old. He only hoped that nothing bad happened when they caught the correct key*.

They began to fly in long circles, searching for a key. It was difficult going; they would fly away from them as one, more like flocking sheep than swarming birds. And even if they did catch one, how were they supposed to know it'd work?

Something glittered in Harry's peripheral vision. A silver key, slightly larger than average, with a bent wing - as though it'd already been caught before. "There!" Harry called, pointing toward it.

Susan started, then swerved quickly toward the key. It would take lighting reflexes to catch it… if only they were sheep…

"Wait!" Harry called, "don't go straight for it, herd it. I'll come around from the left, you come around from the right, and we'll trap it in a corner."

Susan nodded and adjusted her trajectory. Harry did the same; and slowly, slowly, pushed the keys toward the far corner of the room. If they began to drop, they dropped; if they rose, they rose. This would be a lot easier if Alan were here, he grumbled to himself, wincing at the errant thought.

Soon the wall was drawing closer and closer, and Harry felt sweat drip from his brow. He was gripping his broom hard, tense, ready, rigid like the wood beneath him. What would happen when the key had nowhere to go? Would it div-

Suddenly the key burst upwards, almost scraping the roof. Susan jolted on her broom; but Harry was ready. He sprung upwards, rotating too, so that when he pinned the key to the ceiling he was upside down. Harry grinned.

"You should be a Seeker," Susan said, sidling up beside him.

"Don't tell Diggory," Harry joked. "Think this is the right key?" Up close, the metal appeared lighter than the lock. He wasn't so sure anymore...

But when they returned to the ground, they discovered it was the correct key after all. The key flew away once they'd turned the lock, looking even more worse for wear.

The chamber beyond was disorientingly dark until they stepped into it. Candlelight flickered from glittering chandeliers, revealing an astounding sight.*

A huge chessboard was laid out before them in traditional black-and-white checkers. They were on the side of the blacks, whose pieces towered above them, imposing and stern. Facing them were the white pieces… but not all was in order. The whites and the blacks had moved - in fact, the whites seemed to be - Harry's breath caught in his throat - gathered around something on the other side of the board.

No, he corrected grimly, gathered around someone.

He shared a long look with Susan, then, ever so cautiously, stepped onto the board. The pieces didn't react; perhaps they weren't enchanted to understand interlopers in their… game? Because that's all this could be, a terrible game - if Harry had counted correctly, a black knight was missing from the board. That must've been Ga- the person playing. What would happen if they were 'taken'?

The stone-faced chess pieces loomed above him like the statues of ancient kings as he crept closer to the circle of whites, his heart hammering in his chest. He already knew what was coming… He didn't want to see it - didn't want to believe it, but…

He peeked under a bishop's pale-stone arm; his stomach sank. He broke out in a cold sweat; his heart felt like it might explode. Gabriel sat huddled in the centre of the deathly circle, her head resting miserably against her knees. She had wrapped her arms around herself protectively. The strong-willed, ambitious young woman he knew suddenly looked… shrunken. Small.

Harry sighed; his anxiety bled away all at once, and was replaced by something else, something he couldn't quite name. Was this pity? Harry hadn't had much reason to pity anyone before, at least not after the mess at Halt End.

Gabriel must've heard him, because her head suddenly shot up, revealing bloodshot grey eyes. "Harry!" she gasped. What must've been new hope blossomed on her face. It made Harry feel ill. "How're yo- nevermind, you've got to get me out of here!"

Her words were like a dagger through his tortured heart. What would she do if he managed to free her?

It was a rhetorical question, he knew. She'd go after the Stone. And SLEF couldn't be allowed to gain the Stone.

"I…" the refusal was on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn't bear to say it. "Why're you here, Gabby? What d'you want with the Philsopher's Stone?"

Something strange passed across her fair features then, as quick as a flash. It was impossible to read. But she was definitely unsurprised that he knew about the Stone. "Someone- someone is trying to steal it. Why else would Professor Dumbledore hide it here? The break-in, remember, at Gringotts?"

Harry nodded mournfully. His head felt like it was full of cotton wool; so did his mouth. He tried to speak, but nothing came out… now she was here, so close, so vulnerable, how could he accuse her?

Even if she was guilty.

"You're… you're right," he eventually stuttered out. His hammering heart had returned. He could see the fear in Gabriel's eyes, could sense Susan by his shoulder, watching expectantly. Gabriel was pleading with him, pleading without saying a word…

Harry fought back the need to vomit. "S-someone is trying to steal the Stone… So are… so are… so are the Sorcerer's League for Equality and Fraternity. "

-Gabriel's face dropped into a visage of despair-

"-a group who used to bomb Ministry buildings."

Gabriel turned her gaze to the checkerboard floor. "It's…" she whispered, her voice pitching high, so close to tears, "it's not like that anymore, it's just a name…"

For the first time, Susan intervened. "W-we can't take your word for it."

Gabriel stiffened, then shuddered, breaking out into whimpers. Harry saw the glimmer of tears as she finally began to lose her renowned composure. Harry had never felt more wretched, more evil, making her cry.

"Dumbledore," Gabriel sobbed. Streaming tears splashed against the checkerboard floor. "if only… this is it, then? If only I was b-better at chess… I'm not- it won't…" she took a deep, long steadying breath and finally looked back up at him. Her eyes were glistening like silver. "Someone's been here before me - give them hell… and run, because I don't know what these chess pieces will do once - you know…"

Harry gave her a shaky smile. He raised his wand; "Stupefy!"

A familiar red bolt hit Gabriel and she crumpled, but neither Harry nor Susan were there to see it. They were already sprinting to the other side of the board before the chess pieces could reset - or worse, stop them with their bludgeoning weight.

They didn't look back until they were through the next door, where they were hit with a terrible smell. "Merlin," Susan grimaced. She took a deep breath and held it. Harry followed her example. The smell was awful - like rotten eggs. And familiar, evoking particularly unpleasant memories. Harry shivered. A massive troll - possibly a field troll - was laid out in the centre of the chamber, a large bump on its head.

"Professor Quirrell," Susan whispered.

Harry started. What? They shuffled toward the door. "What's Professor Quirrell got to do with it?"

"Haven't you noticed?" she said. "The Devil's Snare was Professor Sprout's, the key's Professor Flitwicks…"

Harry thought back. "Oh," he said, feeling stupid. Hadn't he been the one who thought these were more like tests than deadly obstacles? Each teacher must've contributed their own speciality… So that left-

-Harry pushed open the door, revealing a modest chamber populated by a table and seven small bottles-

-Snape.

They stepped beyond the threshold and a fire sprang up behind them - a strange, cold, purple fire. Simultaneously, a black fire blocked the door beyond. They were trapped.

Harry and Susan approached the table cautiously. A roll of parchment was lying beside the bottles. It read thus:

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

Two of us will help you, which ever 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 bidden in line.

Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,

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 onward, 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.

Susan made a sound of interest. "A riddle. So… Seven bottles; three are poisoned, while two are wine… one will allow passage through the black fire, and one through the purple."

Harry glanced up at the black fire. "Only one?"

Susan didn't say anything. She paced around the table, her eyes darting from bottle to bottle. Harry considered the riddle himself. The clues weren't in a useful order. The line removing the two outer bottles was key, after that…

"This one," Susan picked up the smallest bottle.

Harry agreed. "It'll get us through the black fire."

Susan shook her head ruefully. "It'll get you through the black fire. There's only enough for one. You're the better duellist - whoever's ahead of us, you've got the better chance to slow them down."

Harry took a rounded bottle and held it out; they swapped. "I… I can't disagree. That'll get you back. You need to go back - use one of the brooms, I'm sure you can force the trapdoor open. Tell a teacher what we've seen and come back. Whoever is through that fire, I won't be their match."

Susan bit her lip, glancing at the purple fire. "Don't die," she said. "Don't you dare die."

Then she threw her arms around him.

Harry blinked, looking down at Susan's red hair nestled in his chest. Embarrassment flooded through him. "I won't," he said. Yet he couldn't help but think of all the real duels he'd seen, the duels between adults - Montague against Kneen, the Lyle brothers facing off - and he knew he had no chance. He wasn't less than a match… he wasn't in the same league. "I won't."

Without another word, Susan withdrew, drank her potion and hurried through the purple fire.

Harry sighed, looking down at his own bottle. "Why did I do any of this?" he muttered to himself. He downed the liquid in one. A strange sensation spread through him, like ice running through his veins.

The fire didn't look any more appealing. Still, he braced himself… and moved. The fire washed over him - he could feel it licking at him, but felt no heat. For a long moment he could see nothing but dark flames, and then he was out the other side.

It could only be the last chamber.

Someone was already there. Someone he had never expected. "Professor… Quirrell?"

Quirrell smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, me," he said wryly, without a hint of a stutter. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter."

Harry's mind was racing; Quirrell's appearance had reframed everything he thought he knew about attempted theft of the Philosopher's Stone. Gabriel wouldn't have tried to steal the Stone from Gringotts, after all. But aside from Gabriel, he'd been guessing; and never would he have guessed the cowardly Professor Quirrrell. He said as much.

"Indeed, and that was the elegance of the ruse. Who would suspect p-poor s-s-stuttering Professor Quirrell?"

Harry struggled to wrap his head around it. For a brief while he'd thought it was Snape, then his attention had turned to Professor Vector (and not for very long). Before now, one of three or four seventh years had seemed more likely…

"So you tried to kill me?"

"With the troll? Yes, I tried to kill you. Instead, you killed the troll. What a spectacle. Who knew that perfect Harry Potter had it in him? Then again, I never expected you to start that duelling club either - even if it was in partnership with that disgusting Muggle-lover Jorkins."

Something didn't add up; it took him a moment to figure it out. Either way, it was best to keep him talking. "But… but weren't you the Muggle Studies teacher last year?"

Quirrell sneered. "I was. And I worshipped at the altar of those filth until I - truly - saw them." He began to pace back and forth like a caged animal, every step betraying some terrible rage that, only now, could he unleash. "I'd read all the journals, preaching all the wonderful advances of Muggle technology, the greatness of their society.

"So then, when I applied for the Muggle Studies job, I thought: why not? I should walk among these Muggles to see what Age of Electricity and Living Without Wands only recounted."

He spoke the journals' names as though they were disgusting, as though their paper was bound in human skin.

"Do you know what I found? Do you know what I found!?" Quirrell breathed deeply, adjusted his turban, and carried with his composure restored. "I found half the population brainwashed, compliant, servile; and the other half wild, thoughtless and vile. I don't know which group I despise more. All of them rushing through their meaningless lives like Doxies flying toward a Venomous Tentacula."

Quirrell sighed once more. "I used to wonder why Dumbledore kept his distance from Campbell and his bunch of Muggle-lovers - now I understand. Beneath his soppy exterior, even Dumbledore knows the truth. Muggles are not our equals. No antique philosophies or electrical trinkets will change that." He paused then, and looked at Harry knowingly. "It would aid your friend Gabriel to learn that."

Harry felt like he'd been stabbed in six different places. Worst, some of the wounds stung with truth. Hadn't he spent the last year marvelling over wizarding society? And what the Dursleys… "You know about…"

"-About SLEF?" Now Quirrell's smile was sharp. "The Sorcerer's League for Equality and Fraternity? An old joke told anew, and not a favourite of Dumbledore's. You've done well to avoid them - not that you know what you're doing at all, do you?"

Harry gripped the wand in his pocket hard, feeling very exposed. Quirrell wouldn't talk forever, and he could tell the conversation was drawing to a violent end.

"Yes, I've been watching you this year. Dumbledore shunted you off to some disgusting Muggles, didn't he? Did they treat you well? I think not."

Hot blood burst from Harry's lip where he'd bitten into it. He ignored the pain. "I don't understand. You don't like Muggles, so you have to steal the Philosopher's Stone?"

"Not quite. I suppose… I suppose I can show you."

Strangely, Quirrell turned away to face - was that the Mirror of Erised? He began to unwrap his turban. "You see, though I had discovered the truth about Muggles, I was still naive as to the truth about good and evil, about the nature of power." His hands were still working, turning… there was more linen wrapped around his head than Harry ever thought possible. What was happening? "I took a sojourn to Romania, to research the vampires congregated there… But instead I found someone far more interesting, far more… far more vital. I found Lord Voldemort."

Harry's stomach seemed to drop through the floor; and suddenly he remembered, he remembered Hagrid before the beginning of the school year, speculating that Voldemort might still be alive. "... Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die… some say he's still out there… bidin' his time… too weak to carry on…"

He was rooted to the spot. The turban had fallen away, revealing the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. He couldn't even scream, fixed as he was by a pair of hideous red eyes surrounded by chalk white skin… it-Voldemort had no eyebrows, and serpentine slits for nostrils.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort whispered from cracked, thin lips.

Harry couldn't move.

"See what I have become? Mere shadow and vapour… I have form only when I can share another's body… but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds… Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks… and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a new body of my own… Now… stand before the mirror, and give me the Stone… Dumbledore may have warded against me, but you… you have his favour… It would… serve you well to serve me…"

The thought sent Harry's features twisting; sensation surged through his body, and the numbness was banished from his mind. "Never," he said, more bravely than he felt. "You killed my parents."

Voldemort's smile was horrifying. "Very… well… Quirrell… seize… him."

Quirrell whirled around, his wand aloft. A sickly green spell spiralled towards Harry, who ducked and returned with a flurry he'd adapted from his giswiftēn.

Quirrell simply - silently - put up a shield. "Very good," he called. "Enough to defeat a second year, I think. While fortunate, your victory over McConnell was exceptional."

Harry ground his teeth together and considered his next move. He couldn't beat Quirrell, that much was obvious. But Susan was going for help - who knew how close they were? The headmaster could be just two minutes away. All he had to do was hold his ground…

Harry retreated, hoping to make himself more difficult to hit. Quirrell followed at a sedate pace. He hadn't even taken up a duelling stance. Harry stopped; if he carried on, he'd hit a wall, and then he'd struggle to manoeuvre at all.

Quirrell smiled without humour and pointed his wand. "No running, Potter."

The first spell was a simple Stupefy, the second grey and yellow, the third black… and the fourth was a blur. Harry dived to the right, then the left, then left ag- then the righ- and something sailed just an inch from his left sleeve! Harry felt panic setting in; Quirrell was just too fast for him, and he didn't dare try and block - he didn't know what half the spells were!

Just as he was scrambling out of the way of a nasty bone-breaker, he saw - well, not a way out, but a way to extend the duel. He flicked his wand at a brass candelabra which stood just behind Quirrell. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

He wrenched his arm back.

"Quirrell!" he heard Voldemort rasp.

Quirrell stepped, and the candelabra just grazed his elbow. The professor hissed in pain, contorting his face into an expression of terrible malice. "Brat!" he snarled; the bombardment began anew.

Harry dodged just three more spells before something hidden hit him right in the chest. He crashed to the ground, his ribs on fire, his breath forced from his lungs. Even as he tumbled he realised what'd happened; Quirrell had hidden a conjured rock behind the red spell he'd cast, leaving him unable to see it… until it was too late.

The next few seconds were a haze of pain, hot and tight and scolding, until Harry found himself before the mirror.

"Give me the Stone, Potter," Quirrell threatened, "and I'll make it quick."

Harry saw himself in the mirror, his vision swimming, and tried not to breathe. His chest hurt like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer; instead, he tried to think. His head spun like a Waltzer at a fair. He wanted… he wanted… what did he want? Yes, the Stone, and the Mirror showed him whatever he wanted most at that moment, so wou-

-Suddenly, his reflection winked at him, and pulled a blood-red stone from his pocket. He put it back and smiled… and in the real world, Harry felt a heavy weight there. He struggled valiantly to martial his expression; he had the Stone. He had the Stone!

"What do you see?" Quirrell said.

Harry stared at the mirror as blankly as he could manage. "I see myself, wearing an Auror's robe… I think I'm the head of the department…"

Harry swallowed heavily.

"Is he lying, my Lord?" he heard Quirrell whisper.

Voldemort whispered something back, while Harry sat very still on his knees. He didn't want to move; he wanted this to be over. He never should've taken an interest in the third-floor corridor, he should've left it alone after he met Fluffy, he should've-

A terrible thought occurred. Great wizards could sense magic. The small, unassuming stone in his pocket must've been like a lighthouse. Even so weak, how could Voldemort not notice?

And when would he? All Quirrell had to do was kill him, and that'd be that. Voldemort would have the Stone… and he'd be dead. Harry didn't much like the thought.

But then, how could stop him? Harry wasn't a match… his eyes flickered over to Quirrell, measuring the distance between them. The professor was distracted, still conversing with… with Voldemort.

Harry had no other choice. It was brutality, or death. "This is going to hurt," he muttered to himself. He took a deep, agonising breath, and leapt up off his knees, barrelling into the older man. He landed on his chest.

He would only have a moment, he knew, before Quirrell's greater weight counted against him, so he fished the Philosopher's Stone from his pocket and raised it above his head and-

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!"

Something was burning. A horrid, charred smell was emanating from Quirrell, right where Harry's hand was sealed around his throat.

What?

"Master, it burns, it burns!"

Harry's mere touch was burning through him as though his skin were made of paper. Beneath him, Quirrell was bucking madly, desperately trying to throw him off, desperately trying to save his own life.

Harry wasn't going to let him. He dropped the Stone and instead forced his other hand over Quirrell's face, whose cries rapidly grew to shrill, terrible shrieks, then screams as his eyes evaporated from the heat that only he could feel…

And then there was nothing. Just silence; and Harry's chest erupted in agony. He fell to the ground, breathing shallowly. His ribs were broken, he imagined, or maybe his breastbone?

Still laying flat, he glanced toward the black fire. Would he live long enough to be rescued? It seemed a question that ought've terrified him, but strangely Harry felt nothing…

His vision swam as he turned towards the Stone. It was glimmering, twinkling, reflecting the light of the torches dotted around the room. All this, he thought, for that… He'd thrown away Gabriel's friendship, all for that… Immortal life, infinite gold…

SLEF couldn't have it… Voldemort couldn't have it…

His thoughts turned slowly now, like old gears of some ancient mechanism… No one, no one could have the Stone, no one but Flamel could be trusted… but… it was there… right… there.

Harry wished for his wand, and found it in his hand. Had it always been there? He didn't know.

It didn't matter.

He pointed it at the Stone.

"Diffindo," he said.

A slim blue light cut a thin shard off its corner. Harry reached out, each breath excruciating, and took the shard…

And he placed it in his pocket.

Yes, he thought, rescued… I'll be rescued…

He saw something that looked like a smoky shadow, and then there was black.

…

…

Gold was glinting above him, and Harry's mind lurched into a vague, blurred consciousness. Is that God? He thought, am I dead?

He tried to move, to reach for God, but his arms were leaden. He blinked.

God was actually a pair of glasses. He blinked once more, and saw they belonged to the gently smiling face of Albus Dumbledore. He was in the hospital wing.

"Good afternoon, Harry," he said.

Then Harry remembered. The Stone; Gabriel; Quirrell; Voldemort… his moment of weakness. He shifted his right arm, and felt a spike of terror - Madam Pomfrey had changed his shirt! - then a rush of relief. He was wearing the same trousers, and he could feel the slight weight of the Stone shard still in his pocket.

Now he only had to hope the Headmaster didn't sense it. "I suppose," he began, pausing at the dryness of his mouth, "I suppose we have a lot to talk about."

"I believe I know all I need to know," Professor Dumbledore said gently. "But, considering the circumstances, I'm free to answer any questions you may have."

Harry shifted uncomfortably on his hospital bed. Did he know? After a moment's thought, Harry decided it was unlikely. He would've already taken the piece of the Stone if he did. Instead… last things first, "What happened to Quirrell and… and… You-Know-Who?"

"Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself." Dumbledore settled into the bedside chair. He was wearing a purple robe shining with stars that draped elegantly as he sat. "As for the unfortunate professor - to put it kindly, he is no longer with us. Do not worry yourself my boy, for poor Professor Quirrell erred when he made his bargain with Voldemort. His fate was sealed before you and he met."

Harry didn't feel worried at all. Perhaps it was the numbness induced by the potions he'd been given, but Harry wasn't feeling much about anything. "And what about… Voldemort?"

"Voldemort, as you might have gathered, is still out there, unable to truly die as he is not fully alive. His shade has been convalescing these past eleven years, and this was only his first attempt to return to power. There will be others; he is searching, always searching, for a pathway - for men whom he can use and discard, just as he has discarded Quirrell. He shows as little mercy to his followers as his enemies.

"Nevertheless, while you may have only delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems like a losing battle next time - and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power."

Harry began to nod, but stopped as he felt a twinge of pain flash across his forehead. "I understand, sir. But why, why couldn't Pro- Quirrell touch me?"

Dumbledore's beard twitched; Harry thought he looked very pensive. "Ah," he said thoughtfully. "It is a difficult thing to understand - not to perceive - the effects could not be more obvious, but to uncover the reason for your protection."

He paused, considering. "Your mother." Dumbledore began gravely, "died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realise 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. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good."

Professor Dumbledore turned his eyes towards the window, giving Harry time to dry his eyes on his bedsheets. Suddenly, he was feeling again - and feeling deeply. Most of all, he was feeling trepidation. He knew he shouldn't ask about the stone, not with a piece of it in his pocket, so that left only… Harry sighed. "What about… what about Gabriel?"

This time, the Headmaster looked at a large white card on Harry's bedside table. He handed it to Harry. "You should know that your sternal fracture, among other ills, has kept you bed bound for some time - on Madam Pomphrey's orders. The end-of-term feast has passed, and Hufflepuff won the House Cup, in no small part due to your efforts. The Hogwarts Express leaves today."

He smiled sadly, and handed Harry the card.

Dear Harry,

it began

I'm sorry. I kept you out. I should've better explained my thoughts to you. Because I didn't, I put you in danger. I quested for the Philosopher's Stone with only the best intentions, and I will not apologise for it. But I will apologise for how I've treated you. I treated you like the child I now know you aren't.

I wish I could speak to you in person, but I don't have the courage. I will not be returning to Hogwarts. I'm sorry.

Gabriel.

PS. Perhaps one day, we can work it out.

Fresh tears were tracking down his cheeks. That was it, then, wasn't it? He'd lost Gabriel, and he was going to lose Alan too. He probably already had. And then, there was the Self Defence Club…

Just then, the door flew open, revealing a flushed, hurried Susan Bones. "Harry!" she cried, louder than Harry had ever heard her speak before. She rushed over and - almost - threw her arms around him. "I-I better not," she said, blushing, looking at the Headmaster with awe. "You're still hurt."

"I'm not sure," Harry shrugged, and that didn't hurt.

Professor Dumbledore looked between them, smiled, and stood. His knees clicked awfully. "Age, you know?" he said, amused. "I'll make my departure, now. I'm sure you have much to discuss, and I fancy a lemon sherbert. Do visit my office sometime if you feel yourself peckish for Muggle sweets."

Harry and Susan watched him leave. It was strange, Harry thought absently, like observing a force of nature. He could almost feel the Headmasters magic retreat with him.

When he was finally out of sight, he turned back to Susan. "Alan?" he said urgently.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then Susan lowered her gaze… and shook her head. "He… He's torn. We've done Gabriel a lot of damage, Harry. She's going to another school-" a lesser school, the word went unsaid, "-and as Alan's friends, we've done him no favours with the Jorkins family."

Harry felt his jaw tremble; he looked to the ceiling, and tried to lose himself in its bland off-white colouring. "That's it," he whispered then. "It's just us."

Susan said nothing. Then, slowly, she reached over, and took his hand in hers. Her palm was warm, like her scarlet hair. "It isn't perfect," she said softly. "But we won, Harry, we won. Professor Dumbledore has told you, hasn't he - about, you know?"

"About Voldemort?"

Susan's grip tightened. "Yes, about him. He's worse than you know. We've saved the country, even if we didn't know it when we set off."

Yes, Harry thought, and he was still out there. He remembered his duel with Quirrell; how he'd been overrun by his spells, how he'd been so easily tricked… how he'd so easily lost. And that was merely Quirrell, just Voldemort's puppet.

I need to get stronger, Harry thought, matching Susan's grip. I need to improve… I need to become…

THE DUELLIST.

Glossary:

*The pink elephant paradox is also called the ironic process theory, and the white bear problem. When someone attempts not to think about something, they conversely become more likely to do so. This can be harmless; however, this process also covers emotions, too. It suggests that in trying not to think about something traumatic… you are more likely to revisit it.

*Apparently, a proctor (someone who oversees an examination) is also called an invigilator. Never heard that before, at least until researching for this chapter - I'd forgotten the word proctor.

*This is a film-only version of the spell, but I'll use it.

*This version is novel correct; the knife-keys were a further dramatisation for the film.

*Strangely, Britain is full of life-size chessboards, though it wasn't in 1992. They have become something of a painful fad; many local authorities are trying to rid themselves of them, as vandals are free to deface the boards and steal the pieces.

A/N:

That's year one wrapped up! Should Harry have taken a section of the Stone when he had the chance?

I'm glad year one is finished to be honest - for a number of reasons. Firstly, because this is really all set-up for greater changes I want to make further down the story. And secondly, because the stories I want to tell in the Harry Potter universe are limited when Harry is eleven - by his own lack of maturity and knowledge. Things can only get more interesting (and more violent) from here.

Writing this chapter made me reconsider a couple of things too. Why is killing Bogarts never discussed as an option (as far as I can remember)? It's an interesting thought, and I have some theories already.

I also visited the Harry Potter wiki's Inter-House Cup page for the first time… to release I've totally messed the Quidditch up. I had no idea J.K Rowling had worked out a timetable for Hogwarts Quidditch games. Second year's tournament will adhere to the timetable. Whoops.

Anyway, enjoy midsummer! Roll on Dobby, and The Letter from a Faerie Lord.

PS. As I've mentioned before, I've been a little busy to bother with a certain orange-themed website beginning with P. As you can't copy paste directly from here, it's probably better to google my name and the word P-atreon.

I'm also going to start a Bleach fanfiction sometime in the near future. Unlike The Duellist, this story won't be totally pre-planned, so I'm willing to listen to advice and ideas as to the plot, lore, and character development of that story-to-be. That too will be a chapter ahead for Discord users, and two chapters ahead for those who chose to donate.

A little self-shilling:

This story is a chapter ahead on Discord: /mw2vyjM45m

And two chapters ahead on P-atreon, which can be found through Googling JoustingAlchemy P-atreon (without the hypen, of course) :)