“One thing,” whispered Professor Quirrell. “One thing… that might do it… or it might not… but to obtain it… is beyond your power, or mine…” Oh, it was just the setup for a subquest, said Harry’s Inner Critic.
All the other parts screamed for that part to shut up. Life didn’t work like that. Ancient artifacts could be found, but not in a month, not when you couldn’t leave Hogwarts and were still in your first year.
Professor Quirrell took in a deep breath. Exhaled. “I’m sorry… that came out… too dramatic. Do not… get your hopes up… Mr. Potter. You asked… for anything… no matter how unlikely. There is… a certain object… called…”
A snake lay on the bed.
“The Philossopher'ss Sstone,” hissed the snake.
If there’d been a mass-manufacturable means of safe immortality this entire time and nobody had bothered, Harry was going to snap and kill everyone.
“I read of it in a book,”Harry hissed. “Concluded it wass obviouss myth. No reason why ssame device would provide immortality and endlesss gold. Not unlesss ssomeone wass jusst inventing happy sstoriess. Not to mention, every ssane persson sshould have been ressearching wayss to make more Sstoness, or kidnapping maker to produce. Thought of you sspecifically, teacher.”
A hissing of cold laughter. “Reassoning iss wisse, but not wisse enough. Like with horcrux sspell, abssurdity hidess true ssecret. True Sstone iss not what that legend ssayss. True power iss not what sstoriess claim. Sstone's ssuppossed maker wass not one who made it. One who holdss it now, wass not born to name now ussed. Yet
Sstone iss powerful healing device in truth. Have you heard it sspoken of ?”
“Jusst in the book.”
“OnewhoholdssSstoneissrepossitoryofmuchlore. Taughtsschoolmasstermany ssecretss. SschoolmassterhassssaidnothingofSstone'ssholder,nothingofSstone? No hintss?”
“Not that I can eassily recall,” Harry replied honestly.
“Ah,”hissed the snake. “Ah, well.”
“Could assk sschoolmasster—”
“No! Do not assk him, boy. He would not take quesstion well.”
“But if the Sstone only healss—”
“Sschoolmasster doess not believe that, would not believe that. Too many have ssought Sstone, or ssought holder's lore. Do not assk. Musst not assk. Do not try to obtain Sstone yoursself. I forbid.”
A man lay on the bed once more. “I am at… my limit…” said Professor Quirrell. “I must regain… my strength… before I go… to the forest… with your gift. Leave now… but sustain the Transfiguration… before you go.”
Harry reached out, touched the white pebble lying within the kerchief, renewing the Transfiguration on it. “It should last for one hour and fiftythree minutes after this,” Harry said.
“Your studies… do well.”
It was far longer than Harry’s Transfigurations had lasted at the start of the school year. Second-year spells came to him easily now, without strain; which wasn’t surprising, since he would be twelve in less than two months. Harry could even have cast a Memory Charm, if it had been good for someone to forget every memory involving their left arm. He was climbing the power ladder, slowly, from very far down.
The thought came with a potential for sadness, a thought of one door opening as another closed; which Harry also rejected.
The door to the infirmary closed behind Harry, as the Boy-Who-Lived walked swiftly and with purpose, shrugging on his Invisibility Cloak as he moved. Soon, presumably, Professor Quirrell would call for assistance; and an older student trio would guide the Defense Professor into some quiet place, maybe the forest, with an excuse of viewing the lake or some such. Someplace the Defense Professor could eat a unicorn undetected, after Harry’s Transfiguration wore off.
And then Professor Quirrell would be healthier, for a time. His power would return to him as strong as he’d ever been, for a much shorter time.
It wouldn’t last.
Harry’s fists clenched as he strode, the tension radiating up his arm muscles. If the Defense Professor’s treatment regimen hadn’t been interrupted, by Harry and the Aurors that he had brought to Hogwarts…
It was stupid to blame himself, Harry knew it was stupid and somehow his brain was doing it anyway. Like his brain was searching, carefully finding and selecting some way for this to be his fault, no matter how far it had to stretch.
As if having things be his fault were the only way that his brain knew how to grieve.
A trio of seventh-year Slytherins passed Harry’s invisible form in the hallway, heading for the healer’s offices where the Professor waited, looking deeply serious and concerned. Was that how other people grieved?
Or did they, on some level, not really care, as Professor Quirrell thought?
There is a second level to the Killing Curse.
Harry’s brain had solved the riddle instantly, in the moment of first hearing it; as though the knowledge had always been inside him, waiting to make itself known.
Harry had read once, somewhere, that the opposite of happiness wasn’t sadness, but boredom; and the author had gone on to say that to find happiness in life you asked yourself not what would make you happy, but what would excite you. And by the same reasoning, hatred wasn’t the true opposite of love. Even hatred was a kind of respect that you could give to someone’s existence. If you cared about someone enough to prefer their dying to their living, it meant you were thinking about them.
It had come up much earlier, before the Trial, in conversation with Hermione; when she’d said something about magical Britain being Prejudiced, with considerable and recent justification. And Harry had thought—but not said—that at least she’d been let into Hogwarts to be spat upon.
Not like certain people living in certain countries, who were, it was said, as human as anyone else; who were said to be sapient beings, worth more than any mere unicorn. But who nonetheless wouldn’t be allowed to live in Muggle Britain. On that score, at least, no Muggle had the right to look a wizard in the eye. Magical Britain might discriminate against Muggleborns, but at least it allowed them inside so they could be spat upon in person.
What is deadlier than hate, and flows without limit?
“Indifference,” Harry whispered aloud, the secret of a spell he would never be able to cast; and kept striding toward the library to read anything he could find, anything at all, about the Philosopher’s Stone.
Chapter 103: Tests
June 4th, 1992.
Daphne Greengrass was in the Slytherin common room, writing a letter to her Lady Mother (who was surprisingly intransigent about power-sharing, despite not even being in Hogwarts to exercise control) when she saw Draco Malfoy stagger in through the portrait door carrying what must have been a dozen books, Vincent and Gregory behind him each carrying a dozen more. The Auror who’d accompanied Malfoy stuck his head in briefly, then withdrew to who-knew-where.
Draco looked around, then seemed to be struck by a bright idea as he staggered toward her, Vincent and Gregory following after.
“Can you help me read these?” said Draco, sounding slightly out of breath as he approached.
“What.” Lessons were over, only the exams were left now, and since when did Malfoys ask Greengrasses for help with their homework?