Chapter Text
“You!” gasped Harry.
It was Quirrell. He smiled. His face wasn’t twitching at all.
“Me,” he said calmly. “I wondered whether I’d be meeting you here, Potter.”
“But I thought — Professor Snape —”
“Severus?” Quirrell laughed, and it wasn’t his usual quivering treble, either, but cold and sharp. “Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn’t he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?”
Harry couldn’t take it in. This couldn’t be true, it couldn’t.
“But Professor Snape tried to kill me!”
“No, no, no. I tried to kill you. Your friend Miss Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds and I’d have got you off that broom. I’d have managed it before then if Snape hadn’t been muttering a countercurse, trying to save you.”
“Professor Snape was trying to save me?”
“Of course,” said Quirrell coolly. “Why do you think he wanted to referee your next match? He was trying to make sure I didn’t do it again. Funny, really . . . he needn’t have bothered. I couldn’t do anything with Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor from winning, he did make himself unpopular . . . and what a waste of time, when after all that, I’m going to kill you tonight.”
Quirrell snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped themselves tightly around Harry.
“You’re too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the school on Halloween like that, for all I knew you’d seen me coming to look at what was guarding the Stone.”
“You let the troll in?”
“Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls — you must have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back there? Unfortunately, while everyone else was running around looking for it, Snape, who already suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head me off — and not only did my troll fail to beat you to death, that three-headed dog didn’t even manage to bite Snape’s leg off properly.
“Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror.”
It was only then that Harry realized what was standing behind Quirrell. It was the Mirror of Erised.
“This mirror is the key to finding the Stone,” Quirrell murmured, tapping his way around the frame. “Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this . . . but he’s in London . . . I’ll be far away by the time he gets back. . . .”
All Harry could think of doing was to keep Quirrell talking and stop him from concentrating on the mirror.
“I saw you and Professor Snape in the forest —” he blurted out.
“Yes,” said Quirrell idly, walking around the mirror to look at the back. “He was on to me by that time, trying to find out how far I’d got. He suspected me all along. Tried to frighten me — as though he could, when I had Lord Voldemort on my side. . . .”
Quirrell came back out from behind the mirror and stared hungrily into it.
“I see the Stone . . . I’m presenting it to my master . . . but where is it?”
Harry struggled against the ropes binding him, but they didn’t give. He had to keep Quirrell from giving his whole attention to the mirror.
“But Professor Snape always seemed to hate me so much.”
“Oh, he does,” said Quirrell casually, “heavens, yes. He was at Hogwarts with your father, didn’t you know? They loathed each other. But he never wanted you dead.”
“But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing — I thought Professor Snape was threatening you. . . .”
For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across Quirrell’s face.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I find it hard to follow my master’s instructions — he is a great wizard and I am weak —”
“You mean he was there in the classroom with you?” Harry gasped.
“He is with me wherever I go,” said Quirrell quietly. “I met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it. . . . Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me.” Quirrell shivered suddenly. “He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me . . . decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me. . . .”
Quirrell’s voice trailed away. Harry was remembering his trip to Diagon Alley — how could he have been so stupid? He’d seen Quirrell there that very day, shaken hands with him in the Leaky Cauldron.
Quirrell cursed under his breath.
“I don’t understand . . . is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?”
Harry’s mind was racing.
What I want more than anything else at the moment, he thought, is to find the Stone before Quirrell does. So if I look in the mirror, I should see myself finding it — which means I’ll see where it’s hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell realizing what I’m up to?
He tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass without Quirrell noticing, but the ropes around his ankles were too tight: he tripped and fell over. Quirrell ignored him. He was still talking to himself.
“What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!”
And to Harry’s horror, a voice answered, and the voice seemed to come from Quirrell himself.
“Use the boy . . . Use the boy . . .”
Quirrell rounded on Harry.
“Yes — Potter — come here.”
He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding Harry fell off. Harry got slowly to his feet.
“Come here,” Quirrell repeated. “Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.”
Harry walked toward him.
I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I see, that’s all.
Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny smell that seemed to come from Quirrell’s turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the mirror, and opened them again.
He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket — and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow — incredibly — he’d gotten the Stone.
“Well?” said Quirrell impatiently. “What do you see?”
Harry screwed up his courage.
“I see myself and Hermione on a date,” he invented, “and I’m just about to kiss her. We both look really happy.”
Quirrell cursed again.
“Get out of the way,” he said. As Harry moved aside, he felt the Sorcerer’s Stone against his leg. But he hadn’t walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though Quirrell wasn’t moving his lips.
“He lies . . . He lies . . .”
“Potter, come back here!” Quirrell shouted. “Tell me the truth! What did you just see?”
The high voice spoke again.
“Let me speak to him . . . face-to-face . . .”
“Master, you are not strong enough!”
“I have strength enough . . . for this. . . .”
Harry felt as if Devil’s Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn’t move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What’s going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell’s head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot.
Harry would have screamed, but he couldn’t make a sound. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell’s head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.
“Harry Potter . . .” it whispered.
Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn’t move.
“See what I have become? Mere shadow and vapor . . . 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 . . . you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest . . . and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own. . . . Now . . . why don’t you give me that Stone in your pocket?”
So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into Harry’s legs. He stumbled backward.
“Don’t be a fool,” snarled the face when Harry tried to step back. “Better save your own life and join me . . . or you’ll meet the same end as your parents. . . . They died begging me for mercy. . . .”
“LIAR!” Harry shouted suddenly.
Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that Voldemort could still see him. The evil face was now smiling.
“How touching . . .” it hissed. “I always value bravery. . . . Yes, boy, your parents were brave. . . . I killed your father first, and he put up a courageous fight . . . but your mother needn’t have died . . . she was trying to protect you. . . . Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain.”
“NEVER!”
Harry sprang toward the flame door, but Voldemort screamed “SEIZE HIM!” and the next second, Harry felt Quirrell’s hand close on his wrist. At once, a needle-sharp pain seared across Harry’s scar; his head felt as though it was about to split in two; he yelled, struggling with all his might, and to his surprise, Quirrell let go of him. The pain in his head lessened — he looked around wildly to see where Quirrell had gone, and saw him hunched in pain, looking at his fingers — they were blistering before his eyes.
“Seize him! SEIZE HIM!” shrieked Voldemort again, and Quirrell lunged, knocking Harry clean off his feet, landing on top of him, both hands around Harry’s neck — Harry’s scar was almost blinding him with pain, yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony.
“Master, I cannot hold him — my hands — my hands!”
And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground with his knees, let go of his neck and stared, bewildered, at his own palms — Harry could see they looked burned, raw, red, and shiny.
“Then kill him, fool, and be done!” screeched Voldemort.
Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry, by instinct, reached up and grabbed Quirrell’s face —
“AAAARGH!”
Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and then Harry knew: Quirrell couldn’t touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain — his only chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop him from doing a curse.
Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry off — the pain in Harry’s head was building — he couldn’t see — he could only hear Quirrell’s terrible shrieks and Voldemort’s yells of, “KILL HIM! KILL HIM!” and other voices, maybe in Harry’s own head, crying, “Harry! Harry!”
The voice didn’t sound like his own though. It sounded more like —
Harry saw Quirrell falling away from him, a black spirit rose out of his body and escaped from the hall. He turned around to see two figures running towards him. He sat down on the floor and tried to catch his breath as his head was spinning. He was losing consciousness and finally he fell into blackness, down . . . down . . . down . . .
...
Something brown was glinting just in front of him. He tried to focus, and as the clouds hiding the moon passed away, he could finally see it in the bright moonlight falling on them. It was Hermione’s bushy hair, sprawled all over her face. Harry attempted to get up, but couldn’t. Hermione was clutching his hand in her sleep.
Harry looked around. He was in the hospital wing, lying in a bed with white linen sheets, and next to him was a table piled high with what looked like half the candy shop. Someone had adjoined Hermione’s bed with Harry’s.
He wondered if he should wake Hermione up but the way she was sleeping — looking so peaceful — convinced him not to. He lay down again when Hermione turned, mumbling something sleepily. He bent closer to listen.
“No . . . not Harry . . . not Harry . . . leave ’im . . . please. . . .”
Who could she be pleading to? Unable to contain himself anymore, Harry shook Hermione’s shoulder gently while breathing her name. She blinked before gasping, “Harry!”
She grabbed him in a tight hug and broke out sobbing on his shoulder. Harry patted her head for a few minutes before she eventually pulled back.
“Harry, are you — are you alright?”
“Yes, yes,” Harry assured her. “But what happened? I mean — the Stone — ?”
“Professor Dumbledore took it,” she told him.
“And you? Are you all right, Hermione?”
“Well, I got back all right,” she told him. “I brought Ron round — that took a while, mind you — and we were dashing up to the Owlery to contact Dumbledore when we met him in the entrance hall — it was like he already knew — he just said, ‘Harry’s gone after him, hasn’t he?’ and hurtled off to the third floor.”
“Ha! See, I told you he meant us to do this,” Harry said coldly.
“Well,” Hermione exploded, “if he did — I mean to say — that’s terrible — you could have been killed.”
Harry shook his head.
“I told you I was coming back. How could I break my promise?”
“I’m so glad you didn’t.”
She smiled warily and noticed their joined hands and quickly pulled her hand back.
“Oh, I’m — I’m sorry. I just — I found myself unable to sleep . . . er . . . you know, alone, and so I . . . I hope you don’t mind it if — if — if we sleep . . . together?”
“Definitely not,” Harry found himself saying with a smile.
They dozed off again soon, holding hands.
...
The next morning, Harry and Hermione awoke to Madam Pomphrey’s casual tests and checkups, which she performed at them and gave their recovery report. Shortly afterwards, Professor Dumbledore arrived with a smiling face.
“Good morning, Harry.”
“Morning, Professor . . .”
“Tokens from your friends and admirers,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it.”
“But, Professor, weren’t you in London?” Harry asked, even though he already suspected the answer.
“I’ve come here to check on you. Miss Granger met me in the entrance hall and told me about your adventure.”
“But, you had already flown off to London. How did you suddenly appear here?”
“No sooner had I reached London than it became clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived just in time to pull Quirrell off you —”
“It was you?”
“Well, Miss Granger and I,”
“I feared we might be too . . . late,” Hermione whispered shakily.
“The effort involved nearly killed you, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “For one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it’s been destroyed.”
“Destroyed?” said Harry blankly. “But your friend — Nicolas Flamel —”
“Oh, you know about Nicolas?” said Dumbledore, sounding quite delighted. “You did do the thing properly, didn’t you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a little chat, and agreed it’s all for the best.”
“But that means he and his wife will die, won’t they?” said Hermione.
“They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order and then, yes, they will die.”
Dumbledore smiled at the look of amazement on Harry and Hermione’s faces.
“To one as young as you, I’m sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all — the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them.”
While Harry and Hermione lay there, lost for words, Dumbledore hummed a little and smiled at the ceiling
“Voldemort’s going to try other ways of coming back, isn’t he? I mean, he hasn’t gone, has he?” Harry changed the subject.
“I’m glad you’re using his name, for I don’t get the You-Know-Who nonsense, and well, the answer to your question is no, he has not,” Dumbledore replied. “He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share. . . not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time — and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power.”
“Sir, there are some other things I’d like to know, if you can tell me . . . things I want to know the truth about. . . .”
“The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you’ll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie.”
“Well, Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him from killing me,” said Harry. “But why would he want to kill me in the first place?”
Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time.
“Alas, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day . . . put it from your mind for now. When you are older . . . I know you hate to hear this . . . when you are ready, you will know.”
And Harry knew it would be no good to argue.
“But why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?”
“Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realize 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.”
Dumbledore now became very interested in a bird out on the windowsill. Harry didn’t even realize that he was crying until Hermione wiped his tears.
“And the Invisibility Cloak?” he asked Dumbledore.
“Your father happened to leave it in my possession, and I thought you might like it.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Useful things . . . your father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens to steal food when he was here.”
“Quirrell said Professor Snape hates me because he hated my father. Is that true?”
“Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike yourself and Mr. Malfoy. And then, your father did something Snape could never forgive.”
“What?”
“He saved his life.”
“What?” Hermione gasped in disbelief.
“Yes . . .” said Dumbledore dreamily. “Funny, the way people’s minds work, isn’t it? Professor Snape couldn’t bear being in your father’s debt. . . . I do believe he worked so hard to protect you this year because he felt that would make him and your father even. Then he could go back to hating your father’s memory in peace. . . .”
“There’s one more thing . . .”
“Just the one?”
“How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?”
“Ah, now, I’m glad you asked me that. It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that’s saying something. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone — find it, but not use it — would be able to get it, otherwise they’d just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain even surprises me sometimes. . . . Now, enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets. Ah! Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit flavored one, and since then I’m afraid I’ve rather lost my liking for them — but I think I’ll be safe with a nice toffee, don’t you?”
He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his mouth. Then he choked and said, “Alas! Earwax!”
Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was a nice woman, but very strict. She let Ron in around an hour later.
“The whole school’s talking about it,” said Ron. “What really happened?”
“So the Stone’s gone?” said Ron finally when Harry and Hermione had told him their story. “Flamel’s just going to die?”
“But Dumbledore thinks that — what was it? —‘to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.’ ”
“I always said he was off his rocker,” said Ron, looking quite impressed at how crazy his hero was. “He’s a funny man, Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give you a chance. I think he knows more or less everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to help. I don’t think it was an accident he let you find out how the mirror worked. It’s almost like he thought you had the right to face You-Know-Who if you could. . . .”
Harry looked oddly at Ron and before Hermione could erupt with rage, he changed the topic by offering Ron some candies.
...
After a good night’s sleep, Harry felt nearly back to normal. Hermione had stayed in the hospital wing, though Harry suspected she was lying to Madam Pomphrey when she said, “My head still feels sore.”
“I want to go to the feast,” Harry told Madam Pomfrey as she straightened his many candy boxes. “I can, can’t I?”
“Professor Dumbledore says you are to be allowed to go,” she said sniffily, as though in her opinion Professor Dumbledore didn’t realize how risky feasts could be. “And you have another visitor.”
“Who is it?” asked Harry.
Hagrid sidled through the door as he spoke. As usual when he was indoors, Hagrid looked too big to be allowed. He sat down next to Harry, took one look at him, and burst into tears.
“It’s — all — my — ruddy — fault!” he sobbed, his face in his hands. “I told the evil git how ter get past Fluffy! I told him! It was the only thing he didn’t know, an’ I told him! Yeh could’ve died! All fer a dragon egg! I’ll never drink again! I should be chucked out an’ made ter live as a Muggle!”
“Hagrid!” said Harry, seeing Hagrid shaking with grief and remorse, great tears leaking down into his beard. “Hagrid, he’d have found out somehow, this is Voldemort we’re talking about, he’d have found out even if you hadn’t told him.”
“Yeh could’ve died!” sobbed Hagrid. “An’ don’ say the name!”
“VOLDEMORT!” Harry bellowed, and Hagrid was so shocked, he stopped crying. “I’ve met him and I’m calling him by his name! Please cheer up, Hagrid, we saved the Stone, it’s gone, he can’t use it. Have a Chocolate Frog. . . .”
Hagrid wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, “That reminds me. I’ve got yeh a present.”
“It’s not a stoat sandwich, is it?” said Harry anxiously, and at last Hagrid gave a weak chuckle.
“Nah. Dumbledore gave me the day off yesterday ter fix it. ’Course, he shoulda sacked me instead — anyway, got yeh this . . .”
It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book. Harry opened it curiously. It was full of wizard photographs. Smiling and waving at him from every page were his mother and father.
“Sent owls off ter all yer parents’ old school friends, askin’ fer photos . . . knew yeh didn’ have any . . . d’yeh like it?”
“Photographs — of my Mum and Dad.”
He felt Hermione lean her head onto his shoulder as his eyes welled up with tears.
...
Harry and Hermione made their way down to the end-of-year feast alone that night. They had been held up by Madam Pomfrey’s fussing about, insisting on giving them one last checkup, so the Great Hall was already full. It was decked out in the Slytherin colors of green and silver to celebrate Slytherin’s winning the House Cup for the seventh year in a row. A huge banner showing the Slytherin serpent covered the wall behind the High Table.
When Harry and Hermione walked in there was a sudden hush, and then everybody started talking loudly at once. They slipped into seats between Ron and Neville at the Gryffindor table and tried to ignore the fact that people were standing up to look at them.
Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later. The babble died away.
“Another year gone!” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “And I must trouble you with an old man’s wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were . . . you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts. . . .
“Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two.”
A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from the Slytherin table. Harry saw Draco Malfoy banging his goblet on the table. It was a sickening sight.
“Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,” said Dumbledore. “However, recent events must be taken into account.”
The room went very still. The Slytherins’ smiles faded a little.
“Ahem,” said Dumbledore. “I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes . . .
“First — to Mr. Ronald Weasley . . .”
Ron went purple in the face; he looked like a radish with a bad sunburn.
“. . . for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House fifty points.”
Gryffindor cheers nearly raised the bewitched ceiling; the stars overhead seemed to quiver. Percy could be heard telling the other prefects, “My brother, you know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall’s giant chess set!”
At last there was silence again.
“Second — to Miss Hermione Granger . . . for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House fifty points.”
Hermione buried her face in her arms, tears filling her eyes as she remembered that evening. Harry pulled her into a cheery hug. They were a hundred points up.
“Third — to Mr. Harry Potter . . .” said Dumbledore. The room went deadly quiet. “. . . for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House sixty points.”
The din was deafening. Those who could add up while yelling themselves hoarse knew that Gryffindor now had four hundred and seventy-two points — exactly the same as Slytherin. They had tied for the House Cup — if only Dumbledore had given just one more point.
Dumbledore raised his hand. The room gradually fell silent.
“There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom.”
Someone standing outside the Great Hall might well have thought some sort of explosion had taken place, so loud was the noise that erupted from the Gryffindor table. Harry, Hermione, and Ron stood up to yell and cheer as Neville, white with shock, disappeared under a pile of people hugging him. He had never won so much as a point for Gryffindor before. Malfoy couldn’t have looked more stunned and horrified as if he’d just had the Body-Bind Curse put on him.
“Which means,” Dumbledore called over the storm of applause, for even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were celebrating the downfall of Slytherin, “we need a little change of decoration.”
He clapped his hands. In an instant, the green hangings became scarlet and the silver became gold; the huge Slytherin serpent vanished and a towering Gryffindor lion took its place. Professor Snape was shaking Professor McGonagall’s hand, with a horrible, forced smile. He caught Harry’s eye and Harry knew at once that Professor Snape’s feelings toward him hadn’t changed one jot. This didn’t worry Harry. It seemed as though life would be back to normal next year, or as normal as it ever was at Hogwarts.
It was the best evening of Harry’s life, better than winning at Quidditch, or Christmas, or knocking out mountain trolls . . . he would never, ever forget tonight.
...
Harry had almost forgotten that the exam results were still to come, but come they did. Hermione, of course, had the best grades of the first years. But to Harry’s great surprise, he was the fifth highest scorer. Even Neville scraped through, his good Herbology mark making up for his abysmal Potions one; Ron, too, passed with good marks. Ron had hoped that Goyle, who was almost as stupid as he was mean, might be thrown out, but he had passed, too. It was a shame but you couldn’t have everything in life.
“I told you that you’re a great wizard,” Hermione said proudly that same night when they were the only two left in the Gryffindor common room. “Look at your results.”
“Yep, and I told you I am not as good as you,” Harry replied coyly, and out of nowhere, he kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, Hermione.”
Hermione, who sat in her chair, too stunned to speak, barely raised her arms to hug Harry back before he ran up to his bed, feeling giddy.
And suddenly, their wardrobes were empty, their trunks were packed, Neville’s toad was found lurking in a corner of the toilets; notes were handed out to all students, warning them not to use magic over the holidays (“I always hope they’ll forget to give us these,” said Fred Weasley sadly); Hagrid was there to take them down to the fleet of boats that sailed across the lake; they were boarding the Hogwarts Express; talking and laughing as the countryside became greener and tidier; eating Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans as they sped past Muggle towns; pulling off their wizard robes and putting on jackets and coats; pulling into platform nine and three-quarters at King’s Cross station.
It took quite a while for them all to get off the platform. A wizened old guard was up by the ticket barrier, letting them go through the gate in twos and threes so they didn’t attract attention by all of them bursting out of a solid wall at once and alarming the Muggles.
“You must come and stay this summer,” said Ron, “both of you — I’ll send you an owl.”
“Thanks,” said Harry.
People jostled them as they moved forward toward the gateway back to the Muggle world. Some of them called:
“Bye, Harry!”
“See you, Potter!”
“Still famous,” said Ron, grinning at him.
“Not where I’m going, I promise you,” said Harry.
He, Hermione, and Ron passed through the gateway together.
“There he is, Mum, there he is, look!”
It was Ginny Weasley, Ron’s younger sister, but she wasn’t pointing at Ron.
“Harry Potter!” she squealed. “Look, Mum! I can see —”
“Be quiet, Ginny, and it’s rude to point.”
Harry looked at Hermione through the corner of his eye, she was looking at Ginny with narrowed eyes. Mrs. Weasley smiled down at them.
“Busy year?” she said.
“Very,” said Harry. “Thanks for the fudge and the sweater, Mrs. Weasley.”
“Oh, it was nothing, dear.”
“Ready, are you?”
It was Uncle Vernon, still purple-faced, still mustached, still looking furious at the nerve of Harry, carrying an owl in a cage in a station full of ordinary people. Behind him stood Aunt Petunia and Dudley, looking terrified at the very sight of Harry.
“You must be Harry’s family!” said Mrs. Weasley.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Uncle Vernon. “Hurry up, boy, we haven’t got all day.” He walked away.
Harry hung back for a last word with Hermione.
“See you over the summer, then.”
“Hope you have — er — a good holiday,” said Hermione, looking uncertainly after Uncle Vernon. “I’ll miss you.”
She hugged Harry.
“Write back to me, okay?” she whispered.
“Oh, I will,” said Harry, and she was surprised at the grin that was spreading over his face. “They don’t know we’re not allowed to use magic at home. I’m going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer. . . .”
Even though Hermione wanted to believe Harry, she just couldn’t get him to have a good summer with relatives like those. She felt a deep irritation at why her house wasn’t near Harry’s. How much she wished that she could see him everyday over the summer, visit his place, study with him, have fun with him, and most importantly just be with him.
“Honey!”
Emma Granger waved at Hermione, who pushed her trolley up to her parents and hugged them in turns.
“How’re you, Mum, Dad?” she asked them.
“We’re fine, honey,” said Emma. “How’re you, and how’s Harry?” she added in a teasing manner.
“I’m tired, Mum,” Hermione dismissed her at once and left her things for them to bring.
She led the way into their car and lay down on the backseat, wondering how she never realized how easily the year went by with Harry even if there were a fair share of glitches in the start and the end. She had to admit she had never enjoyed someone’s company so much before. There was nothing to compare it with to be honest but still —
Emma turned around from the front seat to look at Hermione.
“So, this boy, Harry, he’s your best friend, right?”
“Right, Mum,” Hermione answered, still facing the ceiling of the car.
“Where does he live?”
“Number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.”
“I guess he’s brilliant in studies, you wouldn’t have made him a friend otherwise, would you?”
“Number one: yes, he’s brilliant, and number two: it’s not like I won’t have made him a friend otherwise; I would have, most probably, he’s just that nice, you know.”
“Is he that handsome?”
Hermione’s breath stuck for a second. She released it audibly and turned to face the seat.
“I’m tired, Mum, so I’ll really appreciate it if you let me sleep for a while.”
“He is handsome, Dan,” Emma whispered to her husband, who let out a sigh very much like Hermione, who, in the back, felt a strange new feeling in her belly. Yes, Harry is handsome, she mused, a strange feeling erupting in her belly.
What else was great about him? His absolute courage to defend Neville back in their first flying class? Or when he cared enough for Hermione, a pathetic, loser girl, to come and talk to her in the girls’ bathroom and save her life from a troll afterwards? Or was it their letter conversation over the Christmas holidays? When he believed her word to never go back to the Mirror of Erised even though he wanted to see his parents so badly?
No, Hermione reasoned, it’s that he trusts me enough to tell me that he’d never been hugged before, that he’s comfortable enough around me that he could admit he was bullied by his cousin, that he feels open enough to share little things with me. . . .