Chapter 9, everyone! I'm feeling rather chuffed for getting another chapter out this month. :D
Dumbledore is based on my honestly favorite portrayals of him, that of the first two movies and the version evident in Saphroneth's fic Harry is a Dragon, and That's Okay—I feel like people would have gotten the fourth-year line delivery they wanted if the original Dumbledore had lived through to the end of the films.
Harry Potter © JK Rowling
Neither Ron nor Hermione seemed to know how to handle the information Harry relegated to them the next day—that is, what Firenze the Centaur told him about Voldemort and the Sorcerer's Stone.
"But—he can't still be alive—no one survives a killing curse," Ron insisted. "Well, except you, Harry."
"So if I can, why can't he?" Harry asked, thinking back to what Hagrid had told him that first day—don't think there was enough human left in him to die.
"And if he's after the Sorcerer's Stone, like Professor Quirrell," Hermione began, before trailing off.
"They could have teamed up," Harry pointed out. "Quirrell and Voldemort—"
"Don't say the name!" Ron insisted.
"Why not? Saying You-Know-Who over and over again is ridiculous, because until Hagrid told me I didn't know who so—"
"Can we please focus?" Hermione snapped. "Harry—you said Firenze told you the thing killing the unicorns was You-Know-Who."
"Hermione, not you too…."
"Focus on the rest of my sentence, please."
Harry sighed, scrubbed at his head. "Yes—which means he's on Hogwarts grounds—"
"And probably after you, Harry," Ron said, freckles sticking out on his suddenly pale face.
"Probably," Hermione said.
Harry fidgeted—he didn't like the idea of a potentially-undead evil wizard after him.
"What do we do?" Ron squeaked. "I mean, we've got to do something, but—"
"We don't have to do anything," Hermione said. "Dumbledore is the only wizard You-Know-Who ever feared—so long as he's here, You-Know-Who won't dare go after Harry or the Sorcerer's Stone."
Which, in Harry's mind, brought up the question of what exactly was going to happen to him come summer vacation.
"Maybe…." No—Harry trailed off before giving the thought voice—glanced at Snips hopping up and down on his knee and chittering at him. "What?"
Snips looked around, claws tapping against his beak, scuttled for a pillow that had suffered a bit more abuse than usual and was probably wishing for a quieter dorm, grabbed a bit of stuffing from it and held it under his beak before waddling around in doddering fashion.
"Dumbledore?" Ron guessed, earning him a point and squeak from Snips. "Yes."
"What about Dumbledore?" Harry asked, prompting Snips to point at him and bounce up and down, chattering and squawking.
"He wants you to tell Dumbledore, Harry," Hermione said, cottoning on. "If that really was You-Know-Who—he'd want to know."
"But wouldn't Hagrid tell him?" Harry asked.
"Did you tell Hagrid what Firenze told you?"
"Er…."
"Tell Dumbledore," Ron and Hermione both insisted.
Harry was still not too sold on this concept the next day.
"What if he gets upset with me for bothering him?" Harry tried.
"Mate, I don't think Dumbledore actually gets upset," Ron told him. "Fred and George have done so much over the years—Trevor Carson blew up a teacher last year, for pity's sake! You're fine!"
"Harry, a teacher isn't going to get upset with you for coming to him with a problem," Hermione told him, taking his hand. "Come on, we'll all go together."
Ron hurried after them, all of them following Snips as he sat in Harry's hand and pointed every which way, directing them in the usual manner. It was quite a few twists and turns and roving staircases later that the ended up in front of a huge stone griffin.
"Is this it?" Harry asked Snips; when he nodded, Harry looked up at the griffin. "Now what?"
There was quite a bit of poking and prodding and tickling of the griffin before they came to the conclusion that it probably required a password.
"Does anyone know what the password is?" Harry asked.
Hermione's face was screwed up in deep thought for a long moment before she sighed in defeat. "We should have asked Professor McGonagall."
"That's a long haul back though—I'm sure we can figure this out," Ron said, stepping forward and poking the griffin's beak again. "Maybe it's themed—like how our password is always knights and chivalry and stuff."
"'Pig's snout' is chivalrous?" Harry asked, confused.
"Wasn't that something people ate back then?"
"I wouldn't know," Harry said, before jumping at Snips nipping a finger. "Ow! What?"
Snips started tracing his claws in big shapes in the air.
"Wait, those are letters!" Hermione said. "Can you start again?"
Snips obliged her.
"Sweets?" Ron asked, when they had figured him out.
"Wait—maybe that's the password!" Harry exclaimed, looking at the griffin. "Sweets!"
Nothing happened.
"Huh," Ron noised, sounding disappointed.
"Maybe it's not the password—maybe it's a clue to the password," Hermione said.
What followed was maybe an hour of them rattling off every single sweet they could think of, including a lot of wizard-exclusive ones from Ron that lowkey horrified Harry and Hermione (special mention went to cockroach clusters and acid pops).
The griffin finally sprang to life and jumped aside when Ron—taking cues from Snips—hit upon lemon drops. The excitement at getting the answer right sent them charging up the steps, Ron rapping on the door before they all remembered just where they were.
"Enter," Dumbledore called from within.
There was much fidgeting before they actually acted upon that invitation and pushed open the door.
It took Harry a minute to actually spot Dumbledore—his attention was immediately taken by the sheer amount of stuff in the room, all shining and glittering and moving and making all sorts of noises. Ron and Hermione's soft exclamations told him that yes, this was as impressive as he thought it was. And with all the background noise, no wonder Dumbledore longed for socks.
He finally did spot Dumbledore, sitting at his desk and busy writing something. Dot something, put his quill in the inkwell, look up.
"Ah," Dumbledore noised. "Harry Potter. And Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, if I remember correctly."
"Yes sir," they chorused.
"Very nice to see you today, very nice—come in, sit down, have a lemon drop, I'll get some tea on."
They filed in, Ron accepting some of the sweets in the bowl proffered, Harry sinking into an armchair that had more give than he was expecting.
"Now the password makes sense," Ron said.
"Yes indeed," Dumbledore said, waving his wand at a tea set. "Although I commend your thoroughness in figuring it out—I shall have to put cockroach clusters on my list of future passwords."
Harry blinked, surprised, although it was Hermione who blurted "You knew we were out there, sir?"
"I did," Dumbledore said, indicating one of the spinning things. "Depending on who is at my door depends on how dreadfully busy I am."
Ron coughed on a laugh, but Hermione still seemed confused.
"You don't seem upset about us being here though," Harry said. "Sir."
"Nonsense, Harry," Dumbledore said, pouring the tea. "Every year there's one or two students who entertain themselves on the weekend by searching through the castle, seeking out secret passageways and the like and trying to puzzle out passwords. Your father and his friends especially—they seemed to spend every waking moment combing this castle from top to bottom. If I didn't know any better, I'd say they were trying to make a map." He handed him a cup, looking pensive. "I rather hope they succeeded—a map of Hogwarts would be quite useful."
Harry couldn't help but perk up at the mention of his father.
"But I sense," Dumbledore said, finishing handing them cups and sitting back down. "That despite being a pastime you might entertain yourselves with in the future, that is not the reason for you finding yourselves in my office."
"Er…no," Harry said, sagging at Ron and Hermione's pointed looks. "Actually, we're here about my detention last night."
"Ah. Dreadfully sorry, Harry, but when Hagrid brought up his concerns with the unicorns, I was rather hoping it would be sixth or seventh years handling that detention. Fortunately or unfortunately, all the upperclassmen seem more concerned with their final exams than detentions."
"Er, no—see, I didn't exactly mind it so much, but…while we were out there…um…."
Snips poked him from within a fold of his robes, and Harry forged ahead with his description of what happened that night. Dumbledore listened, fingers steepled, until about three minutes after Harry finished.
"I see," Dumbledore said then. "That is concerning."
"That's what Ron and Hermione said, sir," Harry said.
"Hmm, astute observations, the both of you. Well, I cannot tell you that Voldemort—" (Ron and Hermione winced) "is conclusively dead, for I myself do not believe that. Part of my reasoning is that the killing curse generally does not involve explosions. Although, it does bear asking the question of how he could have gotten on school grounds."
"We think Professor Quirrell's in on it," Ron put in, earning an elbow from Hermione.
"That is a grave accusation indeed. Is there anything you observed that would support that claim?"
Silence for a beat—Harry was almost certain it was surprise that Dumbledore didn't just dismiss them outright.
"We saw him cursing Harry's broom during a Quidditch match," Hermione said, hesitant. "I had been reading up on them, and he was focused on Harry and he wasn't blinking, and when his concentration was broken Harry's broom went back to normal."
"I see. I had heard that Professor Quirrell also caught fire that day—perhaps that was the cause for his lapse in attention?"
Hermione went red.
"I am not penalizing you, Miss Granger—that showed quick thinking on your part. Is there anything else you believe supports this accusation?"
"When the troll got in," Harry said. "Professor Quirrell's leg was injured—I think he was trying to get past—well…."
Dumbledore nodded. "Ah, I see you too have learned what's behind the door on the third floor."
They all stared blankly at him again. "Sir?"
"As you are no doubt aware, the third-floor corridor is strictly forbidden—so, naturally, at least one student a week has snuck up there to have a peek," Dumbledore said, waving a hand. "Curiosity is a mainstay of youth, after all."
Harry was just a mite concerned and more than a little worried that he hadn't been using his spare time properly. "Okay…."
Dumbledore nodded. "On the positive side, this has reduced the number of incidents involving the Forbidden Forest this year. But since we've moved back to that topic—I wish to assure you, Harry, that you are not currently in any danger. I say currently only because it is nigh-impossible to be certain of the future and I wish to have, as the Muggles put it, all my bases covered."
"But—" Harry started—hesitated, forged ahead. "What about the Sorcerer's Stone?"
"My goodness, you three are further along the mystery than the rest of the school, well done—I believe, then, if you know what is being protected, you have an idea of what is protecting it?"
The three of them nodded. "Traps set by the teachers."
"Including Professor Quirrell," Hermione put in.
"Ah, but he does not know what sort of traps the other teachers put in—just an idea of who put them in."
"Professor Sprout, Professor McGonagall—"
"Professor Flitwick, Professor Quirrell," Ron listed.
"And Professor Snape, the old Potions professor," Harry said. "And Hagrid—he gave you Fluffy."
"Hmm, perhaps I should come up with something extra for the stone's protection," Dumbledore mused. "Although I do take some comfort in knowing you three are the only ones thus far to have gone from no knowledge at all to painfully close to puzzling it all out."
"To be fair, sir, it took us most of the year."
"Thank you for soothing an old man's pride, Harry. Very well, I will take your concerns into consideration—we have the advantage, at the moment, of having our suspicions while our target does not. In the meantime, I encourage you three to do nothing to tip Professor Quirrell off—if your suspicions are true, then it is most prudent to give him no reason to suspect you in return."
They nodded, since that seemed the wisest action.
"Very good. Now, I think we have neglected this spread long enough—incidentally, try the apricot jam, it's my current favorite. And Miss Granger, you seem to have a question."
Harry suspected from the speed with which Hermione pointed that if she had held in the question a moment longer, she would have exploded. "What does that do?"
"Ah—now that is a Forecaster; it tells the weather for the day with about fifty percent accuracy, which is more than can be said for some weathermen."
What followed was about an hour of Dumbledore telling them what the various things in his office did, and when they left it was with a few of the little trinkets and the assurances that he had more than enough.
"After a certain age, you end up with more than you know what to do with," Dumbledore told them. "So, I might as well get you three started on that journey." Look them over. "And while I will not tell you not to worry about the Sorcerer's Stone—since I understand that would be exceedingly difficult—I will tell you to not worry as much about it."
"I think we'll be able to sir, thank you," Harry told him sincerely.
"Very good. Incidentally, should you three ever feel a desire to puzzle your way into my office again, my Saturday afternoons are generally free. And should you need a fresh mystery to distract you, I understand there's something odd about the tapestry on the fifth floor."
Harry grinned. "Thank you sir."
They exchanged goodbyes and parted ways, Ron nibbling on one of the biscuits from the tea tray as they went.
"So that went better than I hoped," Harry said, once they were some distance away.
"We did tell you, Harry," Hermione said.
"We did," Ron agreed, polishing off the biscuit before checking his watch. "It's still a while before dinner—fifth floor?"
"Fifth floor," Harry agreed, Hermione nodding.
The rest of their afternoon was spent poking and prodding and examining the tapestry, Hermione running off to the library after dinner to see if she couldn't find some information on it that would act as a clue. Harry and Ron returned to the common room, playing chess and going over their conversation with Dumbledore until they had thoroughly exhausted the topic, and then when Hermione came back they exhausted it further.
Harry did feel better knowing that someone who could do something about all this knew, and feel into a sounder sleep than the one he had last night.
Granted, it wasn't much sounder, but it was an improvement.