Disclaimer : I do not own the rights of the Harry Potter series.
A dull, throbbing pain pulsed through Harry's skull. His body felt heavy, sluggish, like he was floating in and out of a dream. For a moment, he couldn't tell if he was awake or still trapped in the darkness.
Then, slowly, sound came back first. The crunch of footsteps on leaves. The distant hoot of an owl. A low, worried voice rumbling near him.
Then came warmth, something solid beneath him, holding him up.
Harry's eyes fluttered open.
Blurred shapes swam above him, twisting branches, the dark sky beyond them, speckled with stars. A rough, scratchy fabric pressed against his cheek. His head lolled slightly to the side, and through his dazed vision, he caught sight of a massive, bearded face looking down at him.
"Hagrid…" he croaked. His throat felt dry, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"Yer alright, Harry," Hagrid said, though his voice was thick with worry. "Jus' stay put. I got yeh."
Harry blinked hard, his vision finally sharpening. He was in Hagrid's arms, being carried like he weighed nothing. His head throbbed again, and a fresh wave of dizziness rolled over him. "What… what happened?"
Hagrid huffed, adjusting his grip. "That's what I wanna know! What in Merlin's name happen' there? I found yeh both lyin' on the ground like a pair o' broken broomsticks!"
Harry groaned, trying to lift his head, but Hagrid gently pushed him back down. "Easy now. Yeh took a nasty hit."
That was an understatement. His head ached, and everything still felt slightly tilted.
Then, something shifted in the corner of his vision.
Malfoy.
He was being carried, too but not by Hagrid.
Fang was dragging him by the back of his cloak.
Harry blinked. 'Fang?'
The massive boarhound was trudging alongside them, Malfoy's limp body half-draped over the ground, his arms flopping lifelessly with every step. His pale hair was a mess of twigs and dirt, and his mouth hung slightly open as Fang panted, tugging him along.
It would've been funny if Harry didn't feel like he'd just been hit by a Bludger.
Hagrid sighed at the sight. "Poor Fang didn't know what else ter do. Good boy tried draggin' him back to me."
Harry coughed weakly, his head still spinning. "Is he…?"
"Alive? Yeah. Jus' out cold."
They kept moving, the forest slowly thinning around them. The castle's lights flickered in the distance.
Harry let his eyes slip shut again, exhaustion creeping over him.
He was alive. Malfoy was alive.
But something was still out there.
The castle doors loomed ahead, warm light spilling from the entrance. Hagrid strode forward quickly, still cradling Harry in his arms, while Fang dragged Malfoy behind them with slow, determined grunts.
As they stepped inside, the warmth of the castle was almost overwhelming after the cold of the Forbidden Forest. The stone halls were quiet—everyone was asleep. Everyone except—
"Harry!"
Hermione's voice rang through the hall as she and Ron came sprinting toward them. Their faces were filled with panic, their robes slightly disheveled like they had been pacing for ages.
"What happened?" Ron asked, eyes flicking between Harry and Malfoy. "Hagrid, what—?"
Hagrid huffed as he carefully set Harry down on a nearby bench. "Found 'em both lyin' there in the forest. Barely breathin'. Fang did his best with Malfoy, but—"
"Wait, wait—barely breathing?" Hermione's voice rose in pitch. "Harry, what happened?!"
Harry sat up slowly, his head still aching. "There was something in the forest," he murmured. "Something… drinking the unicorn's blood."
Ron and Hermione both paled.
"What d'you mean, something?" Ron asked, leaning closer.
Harry swallowed. The image of that hooded figure flashed in his mind, the pale mouth, the silver blood dripping from it. "I don't know. It was floating. And cold. And just… wrong."
Hermione clasped a hand over her mouth, looking horrified.
"Then Malfoy screamed," Harry went on, rubbing the side of his aching head. "I ran to him, but he was already unconscious. Then… then a centaur showed up. He chased the thing away."
Ron gaped. "A centaur?"
Harry nodded. "He told me to leave. But before I could, something hit me in the head. I don't even know what."
Hermione looked like she was about to faint. "This is bad," she whispered.
"Yeah, no kidding," Ron muttered.
Harry let out a slow breath, his body still trembling from the night's events. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts muddled. Everything hurt.
Hagrid sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Right. No more talkin'. Hospital Wing. Now."
Harry didn't argue. He wasn't sure he could walk there himself, but before he could even attempt it, Hagrid was already scooping him up again.
Ron and Hermione followed closely as Hagrid carried Harry through the halls. Fang padded behind, still dragging Malfoy along, his unconscious body bumping slightly against the stone floor with each step.
By the time they reached the Hospital Wing, Harry could barely keep his eyes open. Madam Pomfrey fussed over him immediately, clucking her tongue and muttering about "how students had no sense these days."
As she settled him into a bed, he heard Ron and Hermione whispering nearby, still talking about the thing in the forest.
But Harry was too tired to keep up.
As soon as his head hit the pillow, the world faded away.
The next morning, Harry woke up to bright sunlight streaming through the Hospital Wing windows. His head still ached, but at least he didn't feel like he was about to collapse anymore. Across from him, Malfoy was still out cold, though Madam Pomfrey was hovering nearby, muttering under her breath as she checked him over.
Ron and Hermione were already there, sitting on either side of his bed, looking worried.
Before they could start talking, Madam Pomfrey appeared. "No discussions until after breakfast," she said firmly, placing a tray of food on his lap. "You need rest, not more excitement."
Harry wasn't exactly hungry, but he forced himself to eat anyway, knowing he'd need his strength.
By the time he finished, Professor McGonagall arrived.
She stepped into the Hospital Wing with her usual strict posture, but there was something softer in her expression, something different.
"Mr. Potter," she said, stopping by his bed. "Miss Granger. Mr. Weasley." She gave a brief glance toward Malfoy before sighing. "I believe we need to have a discussion."
Harry sat up a little straighter.
McGonagall gestured for Ron and Hermione to follow as she led them out of the Hospital Wing and down the halls.
They ended up in her office.
Once they were seated, McGonagall let out a slow breath and, to Harry's surprise, her expression became apologetic.
"First," she began, "I owe you three an apology."
Harry blinked.
"I should not have assigned you detention in the Forbidden Forest," she continued, her voice steady.
"It was a mistake on my part to assume it would be a safe punishment. Had I known—" She pressed her lips together, shaking her head. "Regardless, what happened last night was unacceptable. I take full responsibility for my decision, and I will be speaking to Professor Dumbledore about it."
Ron and Hermione exchanged wide-eyed glances.
Harry, still half in disbelief, simply nodded. "Thank you, Professor."
McGonagall straightened. "Now… I need you to tell me exactly what happened."
Harry hesitated. He didn't want to tell her everything—not yet, at least. But he also knew he couldn't just lie.
"We were looking for the injured unicorn," he said carefully. "Malfoy and I got separated, and then… I found the unicorn."
McGonagall's sharp eyes didn't miss the way his hands curled slightly on his lap. "And?"
Harry took a breath. "Something was there. It was drinking the unicorn's blood."
McGonagall inhaled sharply through her nose. "Describe it."
Harry swallowed. "It was cloaked. Floating. It felt… wrong."
She nodded slowly, lips pressed into a tight line. "I see."
Hermione fidgeted beside him. "Professor… what was it?"
McGonagall was silent for a long moment. Then she said, "That is not something I can discuss. Not yet."
Harry's stomach twisted. He didn't like the sound of that.
McGonagall exhaled. "Is there anything else I should know?"
Harry hesitated again then shook his head. He wasn't sure why, but something told him now wasn't the time to mention the centaur.
McGonagall studied him carefully, but she didn't press further.
Instead, she stood. "You will return to your classes as usual. However, you are not to speak about this incident to anyone outside of this office. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Professor," they all said.
She gave a curt nod. "Then you are dismissed."
McGonagall paced in Dumbledore's office, her usual composure strained. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Albus, they could have died."
Dumbledore, seated calmly behind his desk, folded his hands together. His blue eyes, sharp and knowing, studied her with quiet patience. "And yet, they did not."
"That is not the point," McGonagall snapped, stopping in front of him. "Potter was unconscious when Hagrid found him. Malfoy as well. Whatever was in that forest—" She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I should never have sent them there."
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. "Mistakes are, unfortunately, part of teaching, Minerva. No one is immune to them."
She let out a slow breath, closing her eyes for a moment. "I still don't understand exactly what it was. Potter said it was cloaked, floating. That it was drinking unicorn blood." Her voice lowered, as if she feared even saying the words. "Albus… what could do such a thing?"
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. He simply regarded her with that same unreadable expression, his fingers lightly tapping together.
"I have my suspicions," he admitted. "But suspicions are not certainties."
McGonagall frowned. "You know don't you?"
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "I know many things, Minerva."
Her eyes narrowed. "And you're not going to tell me."
He sighed softly. "Not yet."
McGonagall's frustration was evident, but she didn't press further. Instead, she straightened her robes and gave him a firm look. "If you won't tell me, at least *tell me this: should I be worried?"
Dumbledore met her gaze, his expression calm as ever.
"…Not yet."
The past months had been a whirlwind of chaos, and one of the worst moments had been Norbert. Hagrid had been absolutely convinced that keeping a Norwegian Ridgeback in his wooden hut was a brilliant idea, and despite their best efforts to talk him out of it, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had found themselves sneaking around with a baby dragon. The situation had gone from bad to worse when Norbert had nearly bitten Ron's hand off, forcing them to find a way to send him away before Hagrid got into real trouble. With Charlie Weasley's help, they had smuggled the dragon up to the tallest tower at midnight, handing him off to a group of Charlie's friends who flew off into the night sky, taking Norbert and their worries—with them.
Now, with only a few weeks left of the term, the castle had settled into exam season. The Great Hall was filled with frantic students, parchment covered in last-minute scribbles, and the sound of quills scratching as everyone crammed for their tests. Hermione thrived in the chaos, burying herself in textbooks and scolding Ron for not taking things seriously. Harry, however, found it harder and harder to focus. Something was wrong. The closer the year drew to its end, the more he felt like something was about to happen—something*big.
During those last weeks, Harry had spent as much time researching his strange ability as he had studying for exams. It wasn't something he could just forget not when it had saved his life more times than he cared to count.
The troll incident had made it undeniable. He had died. Over and over. And every time, he had been thrown back, months earlier, forced to relive the same stretch of time.
He had searched everywhere for answers books on time-turners, prophecies, ancient magic but nothing explained what was happening to him. There was no record of anything like it. No spells, no curses, no magical artifacts that functioned the way this did. It was as if his very existence was bending around death itself.
And the worst part? He didn't even know if it was permanent. Would it always happen? Or would there come a day when he didn't wake up again?
Eventually, he had decided to name it, if only to make it feel like something he could understand.
It wasn't time travel. It wasn't immortality. It was… rewinding. Like his life was a quill scratching words onto parchment, only for someone unseen to drag it backward, erasing the last few lines and forcing him to rewrite them.
So he called it Rewrite.
And yet, even with a name, the questions remained.
Exams were finally over. The weight of weeks of studying had lifted, but for Harry, the relief didn't last long.
Because he knew something was wrong.
Between his research into his strange ability and his constant unease about the thing in the forest, his thoughts kept circling back to one question, what was the Stone doing here ?
Nicolas Flamel had created the Philosopher's Stone, something capable of producing the Elixir of Life. But why was it here, in Hogwarts? Who needed protecting from what?
He, Ron, and Hermione had talked it over again and again, but there were still too many unanswered questions. So, they did the only thing they could.
They went to Hagrid.
The trio found Hagrid outside his hut, sitting on the front steps with Fang at his feet. The boarhound let out a lazy huff as Hagrid scratched behind his ears, but when he saw them approaching, he brightened.
"Ah, finished with yer exams, have yeh? Bet that's a relief, eh? Yeh can finally—"
"Hagrid," Hermione cut in, her voice firm, "we need to ask you something."
Hagrid frowned. "What is it?"
Harry took a step forward. "The Philosopher's Stone."
Hagrid went very still. His eyes flicked between them, guarded, before he gave a forced chuckle. "Dunno what yeh mean."
"Hagrid," Ron said, crossing his arms, "don't. We talked about it before. We know it's supposed to be something really valuable."
"And we know it's being kept somewhere," Hermione added. "But why?"
Hagrid stiffened. "That's not—"
"Just think about it," Harry pressed. "Why would it be at Hogwarts of all places? Nicolas Flamel is supposed to be one of the greatest wizards ever. Don't you think he would have been able to keep it safe? Why move it at all?"
Hagrid opened his mouth, then closed it.
"We're right, aren't we?" Hermione asked, her voice sharp with realization. "Something was after it."
Hagrid let out a frustrated groan and buried his face in his hands. "I shouldn't be talkin' about this."
Ron shot Harry a look. "That's as good as a yes."
Hagrid muttered under his breath, clearly debating whether to say more. Finally, he sighed. "Look, all yeh need ter know is that Dumbledore's got everythin' under control. It's well protected."
Harry frowned. "Protected by what?"
Hagrid quickly shook his head. "I can't say."
But then, before he could stop himself, he grumbled, "Wouldn't be gettin' past that dog, anyway."
The words barely left his mouth before he realized his mistake. His face twisted in regret, but it was too late.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn't say a word.
They didn't need to.
Their minds all jumped to the same conclusion, the massive three-headed dog they had seen months ago. The one standing over a trapdoor. The one guarding something.
And now they knew what.
They kept their expressions neutral, giving nothing away.
Hagrid, suspicious, narrowed his eyes at them. "Yeh lot better not be gettin' any ideas."
"Of course not," Hermione said smoothly.
Ron nodded. "We were just curious, that's all."
Harry forced a casual shrug. "If it's safe, then there's nothing to worry about."
Hagrid grunted. "Right. Exactly."
The trio exchanged a glance. They had heard everything they needed.
Without another word, they turned and started back toward the castle.
Hagrid frowned. "Oi—where're yeh goin'?"
Harry didn't answer.
They were going straight to McGonagall.
The trio marched straight up to the castle, their steps quick and determined. They didn't need to say anything to each other, they all knew where they were going.
McGonagall's office.
When they reached the door, Hermione knocked firmly. A moment later, a crisp, "Enter," came from inside.
Professor McGonagall sat at her desk, a stack of parchments in front of her. She adjusted her glasses as they stepped in, looking mildly surprised. "Miss Granger, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley. What is it?"
Harry took a breath. "Professor, we need to talk to you. It's important."
McGonagall's gaze flicked over the three of them before she set her quill down. "Go on."
Harry hesitated, then glanced at Hermione, who nodded.
"If we know about the Philosopher's Stone," Hermione said carefully, "then someone else could too."
McGonagall's expression didn't change, but Harry swore he saw the slightest tensing in her shoulders. "What exactly are you trying to say, Miss Granger?"
"We think it's in danger," Ron added. "Someone might be after it."
McGonagall pursed her lips. "That is quite an accusation."
"We're serious," Harry said. "We—we did some research. We know Nicolas Flamel created the Stone. We know what it does. And we know it's here."
McGonagall's expression didn't waver. "And what exactly led you to that conclusion?"
The trio exchanged glances. They couldn't exactly tell her that Hagrid had all but confirmed it.
Ron cleared his throat. "Just… little things we've heard."
"Little things," McGonagall repeated, unimpressed.
Harry pressed forward. "Professor, we're just saying, if we could figure it out, then someone else could too."
McGonagall exhaled sharply and stood, moving around her desk. "Listen to me, all three of you. I don't know where you've gotten these ideas, but I assure you, Hogwarts is one of the safest places in the world."
"But—" Hermione started.
"I assure you," McGonagall repeated, firmer this time. "This is not a matter you need to concern yourselves with. Headmaster Dumbledore has everything well in hand."
Harry clenched his fists. "But, Professor—"
"That is enough." Her voice was final. "I will not have students meddling in things that do not concern them. You will put this nonsense out of your minds."
Harry wanted to argue. He knew something was wrong. He could feel it.
But one look at McGonagall's stern expression told him there was no point.
"…Yes, Professor," Hermione said reluctantly.
Ron crossed his arms but muttered, "Yeah."
Harry ground his teeth and gave a stiff nod.
McGonagall studied them for a long moment before finally sighing. "I expect not to hear another word about this. Now, if that's all, you may go."
Without another word, the three turned and left the office.
As soon as they were down the corridor, Ron huffed. "Well, that was a waste of time."
Harry shook his head. "No, it wasn't."
Hermione furrowed her brows. "What do you mean?"
"She tried too hard to shut us down," Harry muttered. "She knows something's going on."
The three of them fell silent.
Whatever was happening with the Stone… they were on their own.
The castle was silent at night, the only sounds being the distant hooting of owls and the soft flickering of torch flames along the corridors. Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved carefully through the halls, keeping close to the walls and ducking into the shadows whenever they heard a noise.
"This is mad," Ron whispered. "We don't even know what we're doing."
"We're finding the Stone," Harry said simply.
"Yeah? And then what?" Ron hissed. "Stuff it in our pockets?"
"We need to see it first," Hermione whispered. "If it is here, if it really is behind that dog, then we'll know we're right."
That was enough reason for Harry.
They reached the third-floor corridor and paused. The large wooden door stood ahead, its iron lock glinting in the dim torchlight. Harry glanced back at Ron and Hermione, then reached forward and tried the handle.
It opened.
His stomach twisted. Why wasn't it locked?
Slowly, he pushed the door open, and the three of them stepped , in the middle of the room, was the massive, hulking shape of the three-headed dog.
It was asleep.
All three of its heads rose and fell with each deep, rumbling breath, its enormous paws twitching slightly as it dreamed. But that wasn't the strangest part.
Next to the beast, just a few feet away, sat a small harp. It was playing by itself, strings plucking a soft, eerie tune.
"An enchanted instrument," Hermione whispered. "Someone's already been here."
Harry felt his stomach clench.
Ron swallowed. "Do we… wake it up?"
Harry shot him a look. "Why would we wake it up?"
"Well, I dunno, but—"
Hermione took a slow step forward, eyes locked on the sleeping dog. "We need to move quickly," she whispered. "I don't know how long that harp will keep playing."
Harry nodded, already stepping toward the trapdoor. Ron hesitated but followed. The three of them moved as quietly as possible, careful not to wake the beast. The dog let out a low snore, one of its paws twitching slightly.
Harry crouched near the trapdoor and grabbed the handle. It was heavy, but it lifted. Beneath it was nothing but darkness.
Ron peered over his shoulder. "How far down d'you think it goes?"
"No idea," Harry admitted.
Hermione chewed her lip. "We can't just stand here, Harry, go first."
Harry swallowed. The unknown drop loomed beneath him. But there was no other choice.
Taking a deep breath, he swung his legs over the edge and let go.
He fell.
As soon as Harry let go of the trapdoor, he felt the rush of air against his face. The darkness swallowed him, his stomach lurching at the sudden drop. Then—
Thump.
Instead of hitting hard stone, he landed on something soft and thick, like heavy ropes beneath him.
Before he could react, Ron crashed down beside him with a grunt, followed quickly by Hermione.
Ron groaned. "Well, that wasn't so ba—" He stopped. Something was wrapping around his arms. "Wait—what's—?"
Harry shifted and felt it too. Thick, twisting vines slithered around his body, tightening with every move. His breath hitched.
"We're stuck," he said, struggling. The more he tried to pull free, the tighter the vines became.
"It's Devil's Snare!" Hermione gasped, her voice strained as the plant began wrapping around her as well.
"Well, do something!" Ron yelped, kicking his legs.
"I—" Hermione stilled. "Wait! Stop moving!"
"What?"
"Just trust me!"
Harry forced himself to stop struggling. He focused on his breathing, trying to ignore the sensation of the vines curling around him.
And then, just like that, the pressure eased.
The tendrils loosened, slipping away as though they had lost interest. Harry dropped through the last of them, landing lightly on solid ground. Ron tumbled beside him, coughing.
Hermione landed last, brushing herself off. "Devil's Snare hates fire and light," she explained, looking a little sheepish. "I panicked at first, but… well, staying still works too."
Ron shot her a look. "You could've mentioned that before it tried to strangle us."
"Come on," Harry cut in, already moving. "We've got to keep going."
They hurried forward, stepping into the next challenge.
The trials tested everything they had magic, skill, and courage.
The flying keys had forced Harry into a dangerous chase, zipping through the air as the enchanted wings beat against his face. The key had been fast, but Harry was faster, seizing it just before the other keys could swarm him.
The unconscious troll had sent a chill down his spine. The memory of dying under one of those clubs was still sharp, but he had shaken it off and moved forward.
And then came the chess game. Ron had been brilliant. He had taken charge, guiding them through every move. But winning had come at a price.
He had let himself be taken.
Harry could still hear the heavy crack as the queen struck, still see Ron crumple onto the board. Hermione had rushed to his side, but he wasn't waking up.
That had left only the two of them to continue.
Now, Harry stood before the last trial: a long table filled with bottles, and a parchment with a riddle.
Hermione scanned it quickly, then pointed. "This one lets you go forward. And this one sends you back."
Harry exhaled.
"There's only enough for one person," Hermione murmured.
Harry nodded. "I'll go."
Hermione bit her lip. "But—"
"Ron needs you," Harry said. "If something happens, he—he might need help."
She hesitated, then sighed and picked up the bottle that would send her back.
Then, just as she turned, she stopped.
Harry frowned. "Hermione?"
She looked at him, eyes uncertain. Then she whispered, "You're a great wizard, you know."
Harry blinked. "I'm not as good as you."
"Books and cleverness," Hermione murmured. "There are more important things— frienship and bravery, and—" She swallowed. "And oh, Harry—"
Before he could react, she threw her arms around him, holding on tightly.
Harry stiffened, surprised but then, slowly, he hugged her back.
When she pulled away, her eyes were shining. "Be careful."
"I will," he promised.
She nodded once, then turned and disappeared back through the flames.
Harry exhaled, steadying himself.
The room beyond the black flames was dimly lit, the flickering light from torches casting long, wavering shadows against the stone walls. Harry stepped forward cautiously, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He hadn't been sure what to expect some dark, hooded figure, perhaps, or maybe an empty room with the Stone nowhere in sight.
Instead, there was someone standing there.
At first, Harry's mind refused to process it. He blinked, confused, because the figure before him wasn't Snape. It wasn't some unknown, masked intruder.
It was Professor Quirrell.
The same man who stuttered his way through Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons. The same man who jumped at shadows and avoided eye contact. The same man who had seemed utterly harmless, barely able to speak in front of a class without looking like he might faint.
Harry froze in place.
Quirrell turned.
"Ah," he said softly, and for the first time, there was no stutter.
Harry took a step back. His body was screaming at him to run, but he couldn't—not yet.
"You?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But—but I would've thought that maybe Snape was—"
Quirrell's lips curled into a small, humorless smile. "Yes," he said. "Poor, misunderstood Professor Snape."
Harry's mind was racing. This didn't make sense. Snape had been suspicious, Snape had been lurking, Snape had even tried to sabotage his Quidditch match. But all this time, it was Quirrell?
Quirrell chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "So simple to let you all believe it was him," he mused. "After all, Severus does have a rather… unpleasant reputation, wouldn't you say?"
Harry clenched his fists.
Quirrell turned back toward something in front of him. A tall, ornate mirror stood in the center of the room, its gilded frame glowing softly in the dim light. The Mirror of Erised.
Harry recognized it instantly.
Quirrell was staring into it, his expression tight with concentration.
"I see myself…" Quirrell murmured. "Holding the Stone… But how do I get it?"
Harry's breath caught. The Stone.
It was here.
He needed to think. If Quirrell didn't have it yet, then maybe he still had a chance.
Quirrell let out a quiet breath. "Patience," he muttered, as if speaking to someone who wasn't there. "I am trying, Master. The Mirror is enchanted."
Harry's blood ran cold.
'Master?'
Who was he talking to?
Quirrell didn't even glance at him. "Tell me, Potter," he said lightly, still gazing into the glass. "What do you see when you look into this mirror?"
Harry hesitated.
The last time he had stood in front of this mirror, he had seen his parents. Their smiling faces. Their warmth.
But now—
He swallowed. He couldn't let Quirrell know anything.
"I don't know," Harry said.
Quirrell turned to him, his dark eyes sharp and calculating.
"I think you do," he said.
Harry forced himself to meet his gaze. "You won't get the Stone."
Quirrell let out a soft laugh. "Oh, but I will." He turned back to the mirror. "I have been so very patient."
Harry swallowed. "Why do you even want it?" he asked, though deep down, he already knew the answer.
"Power," Quirrell said simply. "Life. Do you truly think Nicolas Flamel deserves to hoard such a gift? A man centuries old, hiding away with his Elixir of Life? No, Potter." He smiled thinly. "There are far greater purposes for the Stone than an old man's selfish immortality."
A chill ran down Harry's spine.
Quirrell exhaled slowly, as if listening to something. Then, softly, he said, "He is here."
Harry's breath caught.
Quirrell turned to him fully, his expression unreadable. "You are standing in the presence of true greatness, Potter," he murmured.
Harry felt his stomach twist.
Then, with slow, deliberate movements, Quirrell lifted a hand to the back of his turban.
And began to unwind it.
Layer after layer of fabric fell away, unraveling in slow motion.
The torchlight flickered, casting strange shadows across Quirrell's pale, thin face.
And then—
A voice, high and cold, spoke.
"Hello, Harry Potter."
Then he picked up the tiny bottle, drank, and stepped forward.
Harry's body was frozen, but his mind raced. He wanted to run, wanted to bolt for the door, but he couldn't move, his legs felt like lead, his breath came in short gasps.
The face on the back of Quirrell's head was grotesque, inhuman. Pale, stretched, with slitted nostrils and burning red eyes that gleamed in the flickering torchlight.
Voldemort.
Harry's throat went dry.
"You…" he whispered.
The face smiled, a thin, cruel curve of the lips. "Yes… Me."
Quirrell remained perfectly still, his body unnervingly rigid, as if he were nothing but a puppet.
Voldemort studied him, those unnatural eyes boring into Harry's. "I have been waiting for you," he murmured. "Watching. You are… quite the interesting boy."
Harry swallowed.
"Brave, foolish," Voldemort continued, voice almost amused. "And yet, so very much like your father. Charging into danger. Never knowing when to bow."
Harry's fists clenched. "I'm nothing like you."
A soft chuckle. "Oh, but I think you are." Voldemort's gaze darkened. "You have power, Harry Potter. Strength beyond your years. A will that refuses to break. These are qualities I admire."
Harry shivered but said nothing.
"You must have wondered," Voldemort went on, voice smooth as silk, "why I came after you that night. Why you."
Harry's breath hitched. He had wondered. He had spent his whole life wondering.
"Shall I tell you?" Voldemort whispered. "Shall I tell you why your parents had to die?"
Harry gritted his teeth.
Voldemort watched him, eyes glinting. "Your mother," he said softly, "died begging for your life."
Harry's entire body tensed.
"She didn't have to," Voldemort continued, almost lazily. "I offered her a choice. Step aside… and live. But she refused."
Harry felt something burning inside him, something raw and furious, but he forced himself to stay silent.
Voldemort tilted his head. "And now, here we are. You and I, standing before a power greater than either of us have ever touched."
Harry's eyes flickered to the Mirror of Erised.
"The Philosopher's Stone," Voldemort murmured. "You see, I require it. Quirrell, for all his usefulness, has failed to retrieve it. But you…" His lips curled. "You might succeed where he has not."
Harry's pulse quickened.
Voldemort's voice dropped lower, coaxing, almost gentle. "Join me, Harry."
Harry's breath caught.
"I can give you what you have lost," Voldemort continued, his voice smooth as poison. "I can give you knowledge, power. A place at my side. You need only take it."
Harry clenched his jaw.
"Imagine it," Voldemort whispered. "The world at your feet. Those who wronged you, powerless before you. The answers you have sought, revealed at last."
Harry's stomach twisted.
And then, softly—
"No."
The torches flickered.
Voldemort stilled.
Harry raised his chin. His heart pounded, his hands trembled, but his voice was steady. "I'd rather die."
For a moment, silence.
Then Voldemort let out a soft sigh. "So like your father," he murmured.
The warmth of the torches suddenly felt distant.
"Very well," Voldemort said smoothly. "If you will not join me… then you will serve me another way."
Quirrell moved. His body was stiff, his hands slightly twitching, but his movements were sharp, controlled.
"Look into the mirror, boy," Voldemort commanded.
Harry swallowed.
For a moment, he hesitated.
But then, slowly, he turned his gaze to the Mirror of Erised.
The reflection rippled. There it was.
A small, blood-red stone.
It sat in his reflection's hand, then, without a sound, it vanished.
A strange weight settled into Harry's pocket.
His breath hitched.
It had worked.
He had the Stone.
Harry willed himself not to react, not to move, but his heart was hammering.
Voldemort's voice was eager. "What do you see?"
Harry forced his expression blank. "I see myself… shaking Dumbledore's hand."
A pause.
Then Voldemort chuckled, low and knowing. "Liar."
Harry barely had time to react.
"SEIZE HIM!"
Quirrell lunged.
Harry spun, ducking, his feet slipping against the stone. Quirrell's hands grasped for him, fingers outstretched.
Harry flung up his arms.
And then Quirrell screamed.
It was a sound like nothing Harry had ever heard before raw, agonized, piercing.
Quirrell stumbled backward, clutching his hand.
Harry's eyes widened in horror.
Quirrell's skin where Harry had touched him was burning.
Steam rose from his fingers, his flesh blistering before his eyes.
Voldemort shrieked. "FOOL! KILL HIM!"
Quirrell lunged again.
Harry reacted without thinking. He reached out grabbed Quirrell's face
Another scream.
Quirrell thrashed, his entire body convulsing, his skin turning blackened and cracked beneath Harry's touch.
Harry felt himself sway. His vision blurred. His limbs felt weak, the world spinning.
Quirrell collapsed. His body hit the ground, motionless.
For a moment, silence.
Then, a terrible, shrieking wind.
Harry barely had time to react before something ripped from Quirrell's corpse, a dark, writhing shape, a mass of shadow and smoke.
It screamed through the air toward Harry.
He had no time to move.
The darkness surged through him.
Harry choked.
A pain unlike anything he had ever known exploded in his skull.
His scar—his scar—
His vision shattered into white-hot agony.
And then—
Nothing.
"Ah, I see you're finally awake, Harry."
The first thing Harry registered was the softness beneath him, the unmistakable feel of a Hogwarts bed. His head ached, his limbs were heavy, but he was alive. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness of the hospital wing.
Dumbledore sat beside his bed, his blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. The headmaster smiled, holding up a small, brightly colored object between his fingers.
"Lemon drop?"
Harry blinked. His throat was dry, but he managed a weak, "No, thanks."
Dumbledore shrugged and popped one into his mouth. "A pity. Madam Pomfrey tells me you've been unconscious for nearly three days. Quite the dramatic finish to your first year, wouldn't you say?"
Three days.
Harry let that sink in. He felt… drained. But as his mind slowly caught up, something else dawned on him.
"You're eating my candy,"
He chuckled. "Only some of it. You received quite the collection. Your friends made sure of that." He gestured toward the bedside table, where a small mountain of sweets sat. "Even the Weasley twins—though, I must say, they considered slipping in a few surprises."
Harry groaned. "Please tell me they didn't."
"Oh, no. In the end, they decided against it. I believe their exact words were, 'Even we're not that heartless.'"
Harry huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "That's almost touching."
Dumbledore's smile remained, but his gaze softened. "You gave us quite the scare, you know."
Harry hesitated. Memories of the chamber beneath the school flickered in his mind, Quirrell's screams, the burning skin, the writhing shadow of Voldemort.
He forced himself to focus.
"The Stone," he said suddenly. "It's safe, right?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, quite."
Harry frowned. "Where is it?"
"Destroyed."
That made Harry pause. "Destroyed?"
Dumbledore nodded again, as if discussing something as ordinary as the weather. "Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel have agreed it is time. After all these years, they are prepared to move on."
Harry stared. "But… why now? After all this time?"
Dumbledore was silent for a moment. Then, with a small sigh, he said, "Perhaps because keeping it any longer would have been selfish. Or perhaps because Voldemort has forced them to realize that some things are not meant to be possessed forever." He smiled, but there was something wistful in his expression. "In the end, Harry, even the most precious of things must come to an end."
Harry let that sink in. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. The idea of living forever, of someone choosing to let go of it...
He shook his head.
"Voldemort," he said quietly.
Dumbledore's expression did not change, but the twinkle in his eyes dimmed.
Harry took a breath. "He said my mum begged for my life." His fingers curled against the sheets. "He said she didn't have to die."
Dumbledore didn't speak immediately. When he did, his voice was gentle. "I doubt that very much."
Harry looked up.
Dumbledore watched him carefully. "Your mother was a remarkable witch, Harry. But more than that, she was a mother who loved her son." He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. "Even if Voldemort's words held truth… all it proves is that her love for you was greater than anything else."
Harry swallowed.
Dumbledore smiled softly. "And love, my dear boy, is something he will never understand."
Harry didn't respond right away. He wasn't sure he had anything to say.
But somehow, deep down, something in his chest felt just a little bit lighter.
Harry lay still, his fingers lightly gripping the blanket as he processed Dumbledore's words. Love. It was such a simple thing, yet Voldemort, someone so powerful, so feared, had been undone by it.
It didn't make sense. How could something as intangible as love stop a wizard who had nearly conquered the entire magical world?
He hesitated, then asked, "But he's still out there, isn't he? Voldemort."
Dumbledore's expression didn't change, but Harry could tell from the way his fingers gently folded together that he had expected this question.
"Yes," Dumbledore admitted. "Somewhere, in some form, he still exists."
Harry's stomach twisted. "Then he'll come back."
Dumbledore inclined his head. "I believe he will try."
A silence stretched between them. The knowledge settled heavily on Harry's shoulders. He wasn't sure why he had hoped for a different answer.
He looked down at his hands.
"Why me?" he asked.
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. He studied Harry for a moment, his blue eyes unreadable behind his half-moon glasses.
"Why did he come after me?" Harry pressed. "I was a baby. There must've been someone else."
Dumbledore sighed softly. "That, Harry… is a question I cannot yet answer."
Harry frowned. "Can't or won't?"
Dumbledore's lips twitched slightly, as if he found that amusing. "A bit of both, I'm afraid."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "That's not fair."
Dumbledore chuckled. "No, I suppose it isn't." He leaned back slightly, his expression turning more serious. "There will come a time when you must know, Harry. But not yet."
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Dumbledore raised a hand.
"Trust me when I say," he continued, "that you will know everything in time. For now, I ask that you allow yourself to rest. To heal." He smiled. "After all, exams are over. Surely even you deserve a bit of peace."
Harry huffed, but the fight drained out of him. He still wanted answers—but somehow, despite himself, he believed Dumbledore.
"Fine," he muttered. "For now."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "For now."
As Dumbledore rose from his chair, Harry hesitated before blurting out, "Does… does anyone else know what happened down there?"
Dumbledore paused at the door, then turned back with a knowing smile. "My dear boy, this is Hogwarts." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "So, naturally, the entire school knows."
Harry groaned, slumping back against his pillows. "Great."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Fear not, Harry. In a place like this, excitement is ever fleeting. By next year, I daresay someone will have caused an explosion in Potions, and your heroics will become yesterday's news."
Harry sighed. "Somehow, I doubt that."
Dumbledore gave him a wink. "Then let's hope for a particularly chaotic mishap, shall we?"
With that, the headmaster swept out of the room, leaving Harry staring at the ceiling, torn between amusement and exasperation. He was still processing everything, the Stone, Voldemort, when the door suddenly burst open with enough force to make him jump.
"Harry!"
Hermione's voice barely gave him a second to react before she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms so tightly around his ribs that, for a brief moment, he genuinely wondered if she was going to finish the job Quirrell started.
"Hermione—can't—breathe—"
"Oh, sorry," she gasped, pulling away. But her eyes were red, and she looked as though she was still debating whether she should start scolding him or cry again. Possibly both.
Ron stood behind her, grinning in relief. "Blimey, mate, you gave us a right scare," he said, dropping into the chair Dumbledore had just vacated. "Thought you weren't gonna wake up."
Harry tried to sit up a little straighter. "You should have more faith in me."
Ron snorted. "Oh, excuse me for thinking you might actually stay dead after fighting off You-Know-Who."
Harry rubbed the back of his head. "To be fair, I didn't really have a choice."
Hermione huffed, shaking her head as she wiped at her eyes. "Honestly, Harry, you can't just—just do things like that! Do you have any idea how worried we were?"
Harry offered her a small, sheepish smile. "I'm fine now, though."
"This time," she corrected.
Before he could respond, Ron clapped his hands together. "Well, now that you're not dead, you'll be glad to know you haven't missed the final feast. Come on, Madam Pomfrey says you're free to leave."
Harry blinked. "Already?"
Ron grinned. "Bet she's sick of you taking up space."
Hermione rolled her eyes, but even she couldn't hide her relief. "Let's go."
And with that, the three of them made their way out of the hospital wing, stepping into the warmth of the castle as the final feast of the year awaited them.
The Great Hall shimmered under the floating candles, its enchanted ceiling reflecting the clear night sky. The room buzzed with excitement, especially at the Slytherin table, where students grinned, already celebrating their inevitable victory.
At the Gryffindor table, however, spirits were low.
"Last place," Ron muttered, slumping forward. "Absolutely humiliating."
Hermione huffed. "There are more important things than winning the House Cup, you know."
Ron shot her an incredulous look. "That's rich, coming from you."
Harry barely listened. His gaze remained on the staff table, where Dumbledore had risen to his feet. The hall gradually quieted as he spread his arms in welcome.
"Another year gone," he said, his voice warm. "Before we all depart for the summer, it is time to award the House Cup."
A round of applause followed, but Slytherin's cheers easily drowned out the rest.
"In fourth place," Dumbledore announced, "Gryffindor, with 312 points."
A few weak claps came from the Gryffindor table.
"In third place, Hufflepuff, with 352 points."
The Hufflepuffs clapped politely.
"In second place, Ravenclaw, with 426 points."
The Ravenclaws nodded, some already turning back to their books.
"And in first place," Dumbledore continued, "Slytherin, with 472 points."
The Slytherin table exploded in cheers. Some students stood to applaud, while others thumped their fists on the table in triumph. Their green and silver banners shimmered proudly above them, and Snape allowed himself a rare, satisfied smile.
Ron groaned, burying his face in his arms. "We're one hundred and sixty points behind them. There's no way."
But then, Dumbledore raised a hand. The hall fell silent.
"Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin," he said, voice laced with amusement. "However, recent events must be taken into account."
The Slytherins' cheers faltered.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he turned to the Gryffindor table. "First, to Miss Hermione Granger, for the use of logic and quick thinking in a dangerous situation—fifty points."
Gasps rang out. Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth as the hourglasses changed.
Hufflepuff : 352
Gryffindor: 362
Ravenclaw : 352
Slytherin: 472
"Second, to Mr. Harry Potter, for exceptional courage in the face of great darkness—fifty points."
Loud cheers erupted from the Gryffindor table as the numbers shifted again.
Hufflepuff : 352
Ravenclaw : 352
Gryffindor: 412
Slytherin: 472
Ron straightened, suddenly alert.
Dumbledore turned to him with a knowing smile. "And finally, to Mr. Ronald Weasley."
Ron blinked. "Me?"
"For the finest game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years—sixty-one points."
The Gryffindor table erupted.
Hufflepuff : 352
Ravenclaw : 352
Slytherin: 472
Gryffindor: 473
A stunned silence filled the hall.
Ron's face was frozen in shock as people clapped him on the back. "Ron, you absolute legend!" Seamus yelled.
McGonagall looked pleased, but Snape's expression had darkened ever so slightly.
Red and gold banners unfurled above the Gryffindor table, covering the green and silver. The Slytherins sat in stunned silence as the Gryffindors roared in triumph.
Ron was still in shock. "We won… we actually won."
Seamus clapped him on the back, grinning. "You're the hero of Gryffindor, mate."
Ron flushed but couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face.
As the celebration carried on, and Gryffindor claimed the House Cup in spectacular fashion, Harry allowed himself, just for a little while, to forget about everything that had happened. Tonight, just for one night, everything felt right.
Hello there.
First year finally done. Not the year I was planning the most. Kinda the reason why the end seems "rushed". You guys have, in my eyes, the best version. I had one that ended only at the the begining of the trials.
However, seeing that I didn't wanted to be stuck on year 1 I actually revisited it. Also the reason I didn't developp Neville. Don't worry I have plan for him. As you may have noticed, some dialogue weren't there. I did not forgot about those. So... yeah only deaths so far was at the troll hands ? Good. I couldn't see another death in first year or at least I did but it would be pointless.
Back to the cross post thing... I didn't do it. Yet. I'll tell you what.
Anyway, you know what I'm gonna say.
See you next time :)