Harry Potter 1 Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

HP 1 - Harry Potter and the
Sorcerer's Stone

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NICHOLAS FLAMEL
D umbledore had convinced Harry not to go looking for the Mirror of Erised
again,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  Christmas  holidays  the  invisibility  cloak  stayed
folded at the bottom of his trunk. Harry wished he could forget what he’d seen in
the  mirror  as  easily,  but  he  couldn’t.  He  started  having  nightmares.  Over  and
over  again  he  dreamed  about  his  parents  disappearing  in  a  flash  of  green  light,
while a high voice cackled with laughter.
“You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you mad,” said
Ron, when Harry told him about these dreams.
Hermione, who came back the day before term started, took a different
view  of  things.  She  was  torn  between  horror  at  the  idea  of  Harry  being  out  of
bed, roaming the school three nights in a row (“If Filch had caught you!”), and
disappointment that he hadn’t at least found out who Nicolas Flamel was.
They had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a library book,
even though Harry was still sure he’d read the name somewhere. Once term had
started, they were back to skimming through books for ten minutes during their
breaks. Harry had even less time than the other two, because Quidditch practice
had started again.
Wood was working the team harder than ever. Even the endless rain that
had  replaced  the  snow  couldn’t  dampen  his  spirits.  The  Weasleys  complained
that Wood was becoming a fanatic, but Harry was on Wood’s side. If they won
their next match, against Hufflepuff, they would overtake Slytherin in the house
championship for the first time in seven years. Quite apart from wanting to win,
Harry found that he had fewer nightmares when he was tired out after training.
           Then,  during  one  particularly  wet  and  muddy  practice  session,  Wood
gave the team a bit of bad news. He’d just gotten very angry with the Weasleys,
who kept dive-bombing each other and pretending to fall off their brooms.
       “Will you  stop  messing  around!” he  yelled.  “That’s exactly  the  sort  of
thing that’ll lose us the match! Snape’s refereeing this time, and he’ll be looking
for any excuse to knock points off Gryffindor!”
George Weasley really did fall off his broom at these words.
“Snape’s refereeing?” he spluttered through a mouthful of mud. “When’s
he  ever  refereed  a  Quidditch  match?  He’s  not  going  to  be  fair  if  we  might

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overtake Slytherin.”
The rest of the team landed next to George to complain, too.
“It’s not my fault,” said Wood. “We’ve just got to make sure we play a
clean game, so Snape hasn’t got an excuse to pick on us.”
Which was all very well, thought Harry, but he had another reason for
not wanting Snape near him while he was playing Quidditch.…
The rest of the team hung back to talk to one another as usual at the end
of  practice,  but  Harry  headed  straight  back  to  the  Gryffindor  common  room,
where  he  found  Ron  and  Hermione  playing  chess.  Chess  was  the  only  thing
Hermione ever lost at, something Harry and Ron thought was very good for her.
“Don’t talk to me for a moment,” said Ron when Harry sat down next to
him, “I need to concen—” He caught sight of Harry’s face.
“What’s the matter with you? You look terrible.”
Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear, Harry told the other two
about Snape’s sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee.
“Don’t play,” said Hermione at once.
“Say you’re ill,” said Ron.
“Pretend to break your leg,” Hermione suggested.
“Really break your leg,” said Ron.
           “I  can’t,”  said  Harry.  “There  isn’t  a  reserve  Seeker.  If  I  back  out,
Gryffindor can’t play at all.”
           At  that  moment  Neville  toppled  into  the  common  room.  How  he  had
managed to climb through the portrait hole was anyone’s guess, because his legs
had  been  stuck  together  with  what  they  recognized  at  once  as  the  Leg-Locker
Curse. He must have had to bunny hop all the way up to Gryffindor tower.
           Everyone  fell  over  laughing  except  Hermione,  who  leapt  up  and
performed  the  countercurse.  Neville’s  legs  sprang  apart  and  he  got  to  his  feet,
trembling. “What happened?” Hermione asked him, leading him over to sit with
Harry and Ron.
“Malfoy,” said Neville shakily. “I met him outside the library. He said
he’d been looking for someone to practice that on.”
“Go to Professor McGonagall!” Hermione urged Neville. “Report him!”
Neville shook his head.
“I don’t want more trouble,” he mumbled.
           “You’ve  got  to  stand  up  to  him,  Neville!”  said  Ron.  “He’s  used  to
walking  all  over  people,  but  that’s  no  reason  to  lie  down  in  front  of  him  and
make it easier.”
“There’s no need to tell me I’m not brave enough to be in Gryffindor,
Malfoy’s already done that,” Neville choked out.

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Harry felt in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a Chocolate Frog, the
very last one from the box Hermione had given him for Christmas. He gave it to
Neville, who looked as though he might cry.
           “You’re  worth  twelve  of  Malfoy,”  Harry  said.  “The  Sorting  Hat  chose
you for Gryffindor, didn’t it? And where’s Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin.”
Neville’s lips twitched in a weak smile as he unwrapped the frog.
           “Thanks,  Harry…I  think  I’ll  go  to  bed.…D’you  want  the  card,  you
collect them, don’t you?”
As Neville walked away, Harry looked at the Famous Wizard card.
“Dumbledore again,” he said, “He was the first one I ever —”
He gasped. He stared at the back of the card. Then he looked up at Ron
and Hermione.
“I’ve found him!” he whispered. “I’ve found Flamel! I told you I’d read
the name somewhere before, I read it on the train coming here — listen to this:
‘Dumbledore  is  particularly  famous  for  his  defeat  of  the  dark  wizard
Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and
his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel’!”
Hermione jumped to her feet. She hadn’t looked so excited since they’d
gotten back the marks for their very first piece of homework.
           “Stay  there!”  she  said,  and  she  sprinted  up  the  stairs  to  the  girls’
dormitories. Harry and Ron barely had time to exchange mystified looks before
she was dashing back, an enormous old book in her arms.
“I never thought to look in here!” she whispered excitedly. “I got this out
of the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading.”
“Light?” said Ron, but Hermione told him to be quiet until she’d looked
something  up,  and  started  flicking  frantically  through  the  pages,  muttering  to
herself.
At last she found what she was looking for.
“I knew it! I knew it!”
“Are we allowed to speak yet?” said Ron grumpily. Hermione ignored
him.
“Nicolas Flamel,” she whispered dramatically, “is the only known maker
of the Sorcerer’s Stone!”
This didn’t have quite the effect she’d expected.
“The what?” said Harry and Ron.
“Oh, honestly, don’t you two read? Look – read that, there.”
She pushed the book toward them, and Harry and Ron read:
The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Sorcerer’s Stone,

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a  legendary  substance  with  astonishing  powers.  The  stone  will  transform  any
metal  into  pure  gold.  It  also  produces  the  Elixir  of  Life,  which  will  make  the
drinker immortal.
There have been many reports of the Sorcerer’s Stone over the centuries, but
the  only  Stone  currently  in  existence  belongs  to  Mr.  Nicolas  Flamel,  the  noted
alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-
fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six
hundred and fifty-eight).
“See?” said Hermione, when Harry and Ron had finished. “The dog must be
guarding  Flamel’s  Sorcerer’s  Stone!  I  bet  he  asked  Dumbledore  to  keep  it  safe
for him, because they’re friends and he knew someone was after it, that’s why he
wanted the Stone moved out of Gringotts!”
“A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever dying!” said Harry.
“No wonder Snape’s after it! Anyone would want it.”
           “And  no  wonder  we  couldn’t  find  Flamel  in  that  Study  of  Recent
Developments  in  Wizardry,”  said  Ron.  “He’s  not  exactly  recent  if  he’s  six
hundred and sixty-five, is he?”
The  next  morning  in  Defense  Against  the  Dark  Arts,  while  copying  down
different  ways  of  treating  werewolf  bites,  Harry  and  Ron  were  still  discussing
what they’d do with a Sorcerer’s Stone if they had one. It wasn’t until Ron said
he’d  buy  his  own  Quidditch  team  that  Harry  remembered  about  Snape  and  the
coming match.
           “I’m  going  to  play,”  he  told  Ron  and  Hermione.  “If  I  don’t,  all  the
Slytherins  will  think  I’m  just  too  scared  to  face  Snape.  I’ll  show  them…it’ll
really wipe the smiles off their faces if we win.”
“Just as long as we’re not wiping you off the field,” said Hermione.
As the match drew nearer, however, Harry became more and more nervous,
whatever  he  told  Ron  and  Hermione.  The  rest  of  the  team  wasn’t  too  calm,
either.  The  idea  of  overtaking  Slytherin  in  the  house  championship  was
wonderful,  no  one  had  done  it  for  seven  years,  but  would  they  be  allowed  to,
with such a biased referee?
Harry didn’t know whether he was imagining it or not, but he seemed to
keep running into Snape wherever he went. At times, he even wondered whether
Snape was following him, trying to catch him on his own. Potions lessons were
turning  into  a  sort  of  weekly  torture,  Snape  was  so  horrible  to  Harry.  Could
Snape possibly know they’d found out about the Sorcerer’s Stone? Harry didn’t

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see how he could — yet he sometimes had the horrible feeling that Snape could
read minds.
Harry knew, when they wished him good luck outside the locker rooms the
next afternoon, that Ron and Hermione were wondering whether they’d ever see
him  alive  again.  This  wasn’t  what  you’d  call  comforting.  Harry  hardly  heard  a
word of Wood’s pep talk as he pulled on his Quidditch robes and picked up his
Nimbus Two Thousand.
Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, had found a place in the stands next to
Neville, who couldn’t understand why they looked so grim and worried, or why
they had both brought their wands to the match. Little did Harry know that Ron
and Hermione had been secretly practicing the Leg-Locker Curse. They’d gotten
the idea from Malfoy using it on Neville, and were ready to use it on Snape if he
showed any sign of wanting to hurt Harry.
“Now, don’t forget, it’s Locomotor Mortis,” Hermione muttered as Ron
slipped his wand up his sleeve.
“I know,” Ron snapped. “Don’t nag.”
Back in the locker room, Wood had taken Harry aside.
“Don’t want to pressure you, Potter, but if we ever need an early capture
of  the  Snitch  it’s  now.  Finish  the  game  before  Snape  can  favor  Hufflepuff  too
much.”
           “The  whole  school’s  out  there!”  said  Fred  Weasley,  peering  out  of  the
door. “Even — blimey — Dumbledore’s come to watch!”
Harry’s heart did a somersault.
“Dumbledore?” he said, dashing to the door to make sure. Fred was right.
There was no mistaking that silver beard.
Harry could have laughed out loud with relief He was safe. There was
simply  no  way  that  Snape  would  dare  to  try  to  hurt  him  if  Dumbledore  was
watching.
Perhaps that was why Snape was looking so angry as the teams marched
onto the field, something that Ron noticed, too.
           “I’ve  never  seen  Snape  look  so  mean,”  he  told  Hermione.  “Look  —
they’re off. Ouch!”
Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It was Malfoy.
“Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there.”
Malfoy grinned broadly at Crabbe and Goyle.
“Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone
want a bet? What about you, Weasley?”
Ron didn’t answer; Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty because

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George  Weasley  had  hit  a  Bludger  at  him.  Hermione,  who  had  all  her  fingers
crossed  in  her  lap,  was  squinting  fixedly  at  Harry,  who  was  circling  the  game
like a hawk, looking for the Snitch.
           “You  know  how  I  think  they  choose  people  for  the  Gryffindor  team?”
said  Malfoy  loudly  a  few  minutes  later,  as  Snape  awarded  Hufflepuff  another
penalty  for  no  reason  at  all.  “It’s  people  they  feel  sorry  for.  See,  there’s  Potter,
who’s  got  no  parents,  then  there’s  the  Weasleys,  who’ve  got  no  money  —  you
should be on the team, Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.”
Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face Malfoy.
“I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,” he stammered.
           Malfoy,  Crabbe,  and  Goyle  howled  with  laughter,  but  Ron,  still  not
daring to take his eyes from the game, said, “You tell him, Neville.”
           “Longbottom,  if  brains  were  gold  you’d  be  poorer  than  Weasley,  and
that’s saying something.”
Ron’s nerves were already stretched to the breaking point with anxiety
about Harry.
“I’m warning you, Malfoy — one more word—”
“Ron!” said Hermione suddenly, “Harry —”
“What? Where?”
Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, which drew gasps and
cheers from the crowd. Hermione stood up, her crossed fingers in her mouth, as
Harry streaked toward the ground like a bullet.
“You’re in luck, Weasley, Potter’s obviously spotted some money on the
ground!” said Malfoy.
Ron snapped. Before Malfoy knew what was happening, Ron was on top
of him, wrestling him to the ground. Neville hesitated, then clambered over the
back of his seat to help.
“Come on, Harry!” Hermione screamed, leaping onto her seat to watch
as Harry sped straight at Snape — she didn’t even notice Malfoy and Ron rolling
around  under  her  seat,  or  the  scuffles  and  yelps  coming  from  the  whirl  of  fists
that was Neville, Crabbe, and Goyle.
           Up  in  the  air,  Snape  turned  on  his  broomstick  just  in  time  to  see
something  scarlet  shoot  past  him,  missing  him  by  inches  —  the  next  second,
Harry had pulled out of the dive, his arm raised in triumph, the Snitch clasped in
his hand.
The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one could ever remember the
Snitch being caught so quickly.
“Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s won! We’ve won!
Gryffindor is in the lead!” shrieked Hermione, dancing up and down on her seat

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and hugging Parvati Patil in the row in front.
Harry jumped off his broom, a foot from the ground. He couldn’t believe
it.  He’d  done  it  —  the  game  was  over;  it  had  barely  lasted  five  minutes.  As
Gryffindors came spilling onto the field, he saw Snape land nearby, white-faced
and  tight-lipped  —  then  Harry  felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  looked  up  into
Dumbledore’s smiling face.
           “Well  done,”  said  Dumbledore  quietly,  so  that  only  Harry  could  hear.
“Nice  to  see  you  haven’t  been  brooding  about  that  mirror...been  keeping
busy...excellent...”
Snape spat bitterly on the ground.
Harry  left  the  locker  room  alone  some  time  later,  to  take  his  Nimbus  Two
Thousand  back  to  the  broomshed.  He  couldn’t  ever  remember  feeling  happier.
He’d really done something to be proud of now – no one could say he was just a
famous name any more. The evening air had never smelled so sweet. He walked
over the damp grass, reliving the last hour in his head, which was a happy blur:
Gryffindors  running  to  lift  him  onto  their  shoulders;  Ron  and  Hermione  in  the
distance, jumping up and down, Ron cheering through a heavy nosebleed.
           Harry  had  reached  the  shed.  He  leaned  against  the  wooden  door  and
looked  up  at  Hogwarts,  with  its  windows  glowing  red  in  the  setting  sun.
Gryffindor in the lead. He’d done it, he’d shown Snape ....
And speaking of Snape…
A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of the castle. Clearly
not wanting to be seen, it walked as fast as possible toward the forbidden forest.
Harry’s  victory  faded  from  his  mind  as  he  watched.  He  recognized  the  figure’s
prowling walk. Snape, sneaking into the forest while everyone else was at dinner
— what was going on?
Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand and took off. Gliding
silently over the castle he saw Snape enter the forest at a run. He followed.
The trees were so thick he couldn’t see where Snape had gone. He flew
in  circles,  lower  and  lower,  brushing  the  top  branches  of  trees  until  he  heard
voices. He glided toward them and landed noiselessly in a towering beech tree.
           He  climbed  carefully  along  one  of  the  branches,  holding  tight  to  his
broomstick, trying to see through the leaves.
Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he wasn’t alone. Quirrell
was  there,  too.  Harry  couldn’t  make  out  the  look  on  his  face,  but  he  was
stuttering worse than ever. Harry strained to catch what they were saying.
           “…d-don’t  know  why  you  wanted  t-t-to  meet  here  of  all  p-places,
Severus…”

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           “Oh,  I  thought  we’d  keep  this  private,”  said  Snape,  his  voice  icy.
“Students aren’t supposed to know about the Sorcerer’s Stone, after all.”
           Harry  leaned  forward.  Quirrell  was  mumbling  something.  Snape
interrupted him.
“Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid’s yet?”
“B-b-but Severus, I —”
“You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell,” said Snape, taking a step
toward him.
“I-I don’t know what you—”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
An owl hooted loudly, and Harry nearly fell out of the tree. He steadied
himself  in  time  to  hear  Snape  say,  “—  your  little  bit  of  hocus-pocus.  I’m
waiting.”
“B-but I d-d-don’t —”
           “Very  well,”  Snape  cut  in.  “We’ll  have  another  little  chat  soon,  when
you’ve had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie.”
He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing. It was
almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell, standing quite still as though he
was petrified.
“Harry, where have you been?” Hermione squeaked.
           “We  won!  You  won!  We  won!”  shouted  Ron,  thumping  Harry  on  the
back. “And I gave Malfoy a black eye, and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and
Goyle  single-handed!  He’s  still  out  cold  but  Madam  Pomfrey  says  he’ll  be  all
right — talk about showing Slytherin! I’ve waiting for you in the common room,
we’re  having  a  party,  Fred  and  George  stole  some  cakes  and  stuff  from  the
kitchens.”
           “Never  mind  that  now,”  said  Harry  breathlessly.  “Let’s  find  an  empty
room, you wait ’til you hear this....”
He made sure Peeves wasn’t inside before shutting the door behind them,
then he told them what he’d seen and heard.
“So we were right, it is the Sorcerer’s Stone, and Snape’s trying to force
Quirrell to help him get it. He asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy — and he
said something about Quirrell’s ‘hocus pocus’ — I reckon there are other things
guarding  the  stone  apart  from  Fluffy,  loads  of  enchantments,  probably,  and
Quirrell  would  have  done  some  anti-Dark  Arts  spell  that  Snape  needs  to  break
through —”
           “So  you  mean  the  Stone’s  only  safe  as  long  as  Quirrell  stands  up  to
Snape?” said Hermione in alarm.

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“It’ll be gone by next Tuesday,” said Ron.

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