After that Quidditch match, I started running into the Gryffindor trio in the library all the time. Maybe Granger had rubbed off on them and they'd caught the study bug? A smarter protagonist never hurts, so I was all for it—but clearly that wasn't the whole story. More than once, Harry Potter tried to come over and talk to me. I can't imagine he still felt any lingering goodwill from Diagon Alley, so he must have had a reason. Each time, though, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger stopped him with thunderous looks. The only reading I could make was: Harry wanted to ask me something, and Granger and Weasley had something to hide. Sensible to them. In any case, I was glad to see he'd found true friends.
That didn't mean I was going to avoid the library. A new lead had dropped right into my lap; I'd be a fool not to chase it.
To pin down the spell that tried to knock Harry off his broom, I all but moved into the stacks. I even found myself toying with the idea of staying at school for Christmas. Of course my parents would never approve, and in the end something else made it impossible anyway.
Great-Uncle Arcturus Black had died.
That left only two male Blacks still walking free with the Black name: my grandfather, Cygnus, and Sirius Black—who, of course, is in prison. Our great-grandfather, Pollux, passed last year, and in just a few years the Blacks have thinned to the brink of extinction. They were all elderly, yes, but dying in their seventies or eighties feels a bit short for witches and wizards. This world has monsters who are still the mightiest at over a hundred, and others who linger on for six centuries. Measured against that, "natural causes" feels… stingy. Perhaps it's the inbreeding—pure-blood ideals curdled into biological fact. If so, there's your grim little morality play.
Among the women, Aunt Cassiopeia remains, but she has no children. At this rate, the Black bloodline will end. I can accept, a little coldly, that a great name might vanish—coming from someone who isn't a pure aristocrat to the bone. But the consequences aren't trivial: there's the matter of the estate.
Unless you're Sirius, you can't inherit the core of it. By magical contract, Black property passes to "a male bearing the name Black." If the three living Blacks die, the rights default to Sirius—who can't even exercise them.
Which means the bulk of it will rot, unattended, in empty houses. Knowing this, various Blacks have made inter vivos gifts to my mother, Narcissa, but not everything can be transferred. The contract adheres to artifacts themselves; many can only be handled by the future head of House Black. Watching it all molder is intolerable, but outside of leaving instructions to house-elves, there's little to be done. The family has been living at the wake for years now; Great-Uncle Arcturus's passing only made it official.
When I was younger I enjoyed visiting them, but since Aunt Walburga died the atmosphere has grown so heavy it smothers you. Even so, it's sad to watch the kind relatives disappear—sadder when they look at me, the nearest child, with that wordless, bequeathing gaze.
So, with a weight in my chest about what awaited me at home, I boarded the Hogwarts Express with Crabbe and Goyle from snowy Hogsmeade.
The holiday itself was a blur of funeral and visits, though there were a few festive moments. For Christmas, Crabbe gave me a pair of binoculars—not just for Quidditch, but the sort that mark whatever you're trying to see. If only they could tag culprits in an investigation…! Goyle gave me a research notebook warded against prying eyes. Priceless friends, truly. I sent them reference books for their weak subjects and scarves with protective charms; they will, quite sensibly, hate me for it.
Zabini, Nott, Pansy, and Millicent and I exchanged presents too. Over the past month I do think I've grown closer with my year—Operation Blend Into Slytherin seems to be going rather well.
The holiday was also my chance to raid the family library. Results were mixed. With the help of the house-elves I dug through curses again, but now I had too many candidates to narrow down. I'll have to trust that even without naming the exact spell, proper countermeasures can be made. All the same, I'm nervous about Gryffindor's next match.
Time slipped by with nothing truly new in my grand "plot" theory, and the day came to return to Hogwarts.
Snow still drifted over the castle. I returned what I'd borrowed and headed straight back to the stacks. The term hadn't begun, so the library was almost empty. As I moved between the shelves, I saw a small boy studying alone. Harry Potter, of course—and, crucially, no Granger or Weasley in sight. Without his two human brakes, I had a bad feeling. It was immediately vindicated: he spotted me, then beelined over. I looked around for a place to vanish, but in a nearly empty library there's nowhere to hide. The youngest Seeker in a century cut me off with ease.
I stopped where I was. Harry gave me a tentative smile.
"Hey, Draco. Quick question—do you know who Nicolas Flamel is?"
So abrupt I hadn't even imagined it. I nodded before I could wonder why, and Harry's face lit up.
Prompted, I gave him the basics.
"He's the foremost alchemist. Still alive, I believe, though he hasn't published in ages, so you may not hear his name much now. You know, the inventor of the Philosopher's Stone—the source of the Elixir of Life—"
I broke off. Saying "Philosopher's Stone" out loud snagged on something in my mind.
Harry didn't notice; he was just delighted. I pulled together a few good books for him—though most of the Flamel were out—and the bone-in-the-throat feeling wouldn't go away. What was I forgetting?
Arms full of books, Harry thanked me and turned to go—then paused, glanced back with a flicker of worry.
"Um—could you not tell Snape we were looking up Nicolas Flamel?"
That I had not expected. If his two minders were here, perhaps; but a normal bit of research? Why keep it from Snape? I asked honestly.
"It's not as if I chat with Professor Snape, so I've no chance to tattle. But why? Is this about a class?"
Harry hesitated. "Sort of… but Snape hates me, you know? I don't need him to find another excuse to come after me."
He thanked me again and hurried out.
This is absolutely a lie. Snape doesn't need a reason to go after Harry. So what is Flamel to Snape?
And then I realized what had been itching at me.
—Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.
Yes. That's it. I've heard that title—faintly, can't place which volume, but it exists. Only now did I recognize how the story I'm living has been named, and that it's been moving forward all along whether I see it or not.
That evening at dinner, the trio kept glancing over and whispering. Perhaps they thought a Slytherin would run straight to Snape and earn them a fresh round of harassment. More likely, they had the same suspicions I did—that Snape was mixed up in the troll business. I suddenly remembered the figure who bowled Quirrell over during the match: a short person with a halo of bushy brown hair. If she can handle fire charms that neatly, it must have been Hermione Granger.
I did worry I'd warped the plot by handing Harry those hints. But with Flamel's name and Granger at his elbow, they'd have reached the Philosopher's Stone without me. They could have asked Madam Pince directly and been done with it.
As for the "Slytherins tattle to Snape" fear—well, I've kept my distance from him on purpose. I can't do what I actually mean to do if I fall in line behind him.
In Potions—Gryffindor paired with Slytherin as usual—Snape kept seizing chances to praise me and, on the flimsiest pretexts, humiliate Harry. After the first week I learned my lesson: I stopped saying anything in front of others that would openly disgrace him. Instead, every time he let favoritism or sneering trump supervision, I drifted around the room helping. Anyone attuned to a room's temperature could tell I found his behavior unacceptable. The man himself sensed the resistance and grew frostier. I resolved to keep pretending nothing was wrong—at least until our disagreement could no longer be hidden. I'm not the kind of student he wants, but he is, in fact, dragging Slytherin's name through the mud. I have no intention of leaving that alone.
Carefully, no loose ends, no quotable lines—that was the plan. Maybe because of that, my attitude toward Snape hasn't become a problem inside Slytherin. Zabini says the upper-years have given up on me, but Gemma Farley and other less-protected prefects have, I think, been warmer than before—so I choose to believe.
And the Stone itself—
The unattainable jewel of alchemy, the most coveted artifact in the wizarding world. Why were the trio researching it? Surely they don't mean to obtain it. And Harry only knew Flamel's name; perhaps the Stone wasn't their starting point at all.
Why did they have so little to go on? Even if the Stone ties into the main plot—say, You-Know-Who is after it—on its own that has nothing to do with the trio. Flamel lives in France, if memory serves, so what ties it to Hogwarts? Unless—Dumbledore was his collaborator, wasn't he? If so, perhaps Dumbledore keeps a shard of the Stone; perhaps a diminished Dark Lord gambles on that and comes to Hogwarts anyway. Risky, but—honestly, I don't have enough information to reason it out.
I'd already handed Harry most of what the library had on Flamel, but I still needed data to narrow suspects. Time to comb old papers again for anything Stone-adjacent.
Term resumed, and Gryffindor's next match loomed. I braced for more trouble around Harry, but, thankfully, some visible countermeasures were in place.
Professor Snape, of all people, was to referee. Post a teacher on the pitch, in other words. Dumbledore had to be behind it, which knocked Snape way down the suspects list. Not that I should be surprised—if Dumbledore keeps a former Death Eater under his own roof, it must mean something.
To avoid looking odd, I'd been attending every match anyway, even those without Slytherin. Hours of a sport I dislike is purgatory, but it's also a chance to socialize. Needs must.
Under the winter sky, I finally learned decent Warming Charms. Crabbe grumbled that I'd get teased again, but plenty of students were freezing; I cast for Slytherins and other Houses alike.
Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff was bright and bitterly cold. I took my seat and, using Crabbe's gift, tagged Snape and Quirrell in the stands—only to spot someone unexpected: Dumbledore himself. So he'd decided to keep an eye on Harry outside the walls.
No one would dare make a move with that in place. Not much of a clue, but it was reassuring to see the protagonist visibly guarded. The match was over in five minutes. As I soothed grumbling Slytherins who didn't like that Gryffindor had won, I walked back to the castle with a lighter heart.
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