To be fair, when small spells combine, their collective power can be formidable. Spells often interact in unpredictable ways, leading to complex cases at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries—where magical symptoms intertwine with the charms that caused them.
The Slytherin students surrounding Draco Malfoy had clearly spotted his vulnerability: a blind spot on one side. They angled their attacks from that direction whenever possible, a clever tactic that proved only marginally effective.
Malfoy, however, was no easy target. With a deft wave of his wand, he summoned the dirt beside the courtyard's stone steps, shaping it into a protective layer over his exposed side like earthen armor. Gripping his wand tightly, he used this makeshift shield to deflect incoming spells while firing back with a barrage of his own.
Truth be told, Malfoy cut an impressive figure, almost like a warrior carved from myth. Unlike Harry, who could wield the earth element to craft totems in battle, Malfoy's connection to the element was less refined. He relied on his bond with his earth-element pet and his own spellwork to hold his ground.
Summoning, shaping, directing—he leaned heavily on his wizarding skills. Even the Stinging Jinx, taught by Voldemort in that unforgettable Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, came into play. Several of Malfoy's attackers already bore the spell's effects, their faces and limbs swelling painfully.
"Should we step in?" Neville asked suddenly, glancing at the fray. "Malfoy's holding his own, but he looks like he's tiring."
Malfoy, after all, was only a first-year wizard. His resilience stemmed from the teachings of Harry and, oddly enough, Voldemort—a peculiar truth that felt almost surreal. Against so many opponents, though, his strength was waning.
As for Crabbe and Goyle, they'd been no help at all. The two, barely competent with magic, had been knocked out cold in the opening moments of the skirmish.
"Help Malfoy?" Ron spun to face Neville, eyes wide with disbelief, as if he'd just witnessed a troll performing ballet. "Are you serious? Us? Save Malfoy? Have you forgotten how he's insulted you—insulted all of us?"
"But we're all part of the Shaman Priest Club now, Ron," Hermione said firmly. "We're supposed to stand together. Besides, Malfoy hasn't bothered us in ages, has he?"
Neville opened his mouth, then nodded. "That's… what I was getting at."
"Fine, fine," Ron grumbled, throwing up his hands. "Let's go save Malfoy. Merlin's beard—a Weasley rescuing a Malfoy. My dad's going to disown me."
"Not so fast," Harry said with a grin, stepping forward. "Your dad might throw a party. Imagine him bragging to Malfoy's father that his son saved his son."
Ron's face lit up at the thought.
The next instant, he charged into the fray, shouting, "Malfoy! I'm here to help!"
The boy was probably already drafting a letter home in his head.
The Slytherins, a mix of third- and fourth-years, were no match for Harry and his friends—especially Harry. The moment they recognized him, several bolted down the corridor without a backward glance, some even covering their faces as if terrified of being identified. The rest grabbed their three unconscious comrades and dragged them away in a clumsy retreat.
Harry and the others didn't bother giving chase.
As soon as the Slytherins fled, the earthen armor shielding Malfoy crumbled, scattering into a pile of loose dirt and stone. Exhausted, he slumped slightly, gasping for breath. Yet, despite his battered state, a spark of exhilaration gleamed in his eyes as he watched his enemies disappear.
"Did you catch their names?" Hermione asked, approaching cautiously. "We could report them to a professor."
"No need," Malfoy said sharply, his voice cutting through the air. Even with half his face swollen, a defiant smile tugged at his lips. "I don't need to snitch. I'll win this—using the power my mentor taught me."
"Hey, watch it!" Ron snapped, bristling at Malfoy's tone. "Hermione's trying to help you, you know."
Malfoy's unswollen cheek flushed. He glanced at Ron, then at Hermione, and finally ground out, "Sorry. I mean—for what I called you before. I'm… sorry."
The words seemed to unburden him, as if he'd finally dislodged a thorn from his throat. He stood straighter, visibly relieved.
Ron, meanwhile, staggered back a step, rubbing his eyes as if he'd seen Dumbledore waltzing in a flowered dress. "Malfoy… apologizing? To a Muggle-born? For that word? I've lost it. I've officially lost it."
"I—it's fine," Hermione stammered, caught off guard by the sincerity. "I accept your apology."
Malfoy exhaled, the tension draining from his shoulders. Then he turned to Harry, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. "I didn't break your teachings, mentor. They insulted me, my friends, and you. Called us shaman priests a pile of… well, you know."
"Easy, Malfoy," Harry said, pointing his wand at the boy's swollen face. The lumps faded swiftly under the spell's touch. "Did you make them feel your anger?"
"Absolutely!" Malfoy's newly restored face broke into a triumphant grin. "I struck first—turned the earth into my fist and knocked one out cold. The others? Let's just say they're not feeling their best. Malfoy curses don't mess around."
He paused, suddenly uncertain, and looked at Harry again, lips pressed tight.
"Remember what I told you in our first lesson?" Harry said, clapping a hand on Malfoy's shoulder. "Show kindness to your friends, punish your enemies, and make them fear you. That's all you need to do. Did you manage that?"
"I did," Malfoy said, taking a deep breath.
"Then that's enough." Harry nodded. "Need any more help?"
"No," Malfoy replied, clenching his fists with resolve. "I'll win this, mentor. With what you've taught me."
With that, he turned to rouse Crabbe and Goyle. Unlike Malfoy's newfound openness, the two eyed Harry's group warily as they struggled to their feet.
"One more thing," Malfoy said softly, glancing at Neville. "About before… I'm sorry."
Leaving those words hanging in the air, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle supported each other and limped off down the corridor, vanishing into the shadows of the night.
Even seconds after they were gone, Ron stood frozen, gaping. "Was that really Malfoy? No 'my father will hear about this'? No running to a professor? Refusing your help, Harry?"
"Unbelievable," Neville added, shaking his head. "He apologized to me. Malfoy's… different."
"Clearly, he's had a rough time in Slytherin lately," Hermione said thoughtfully. "He's learning that his family name—or his father's influence—can't solve everything."
"Serves him right for making enemies," Ron said with a shrug. "But becoming a shaman apprentice? That's what did it. Hardly any Slytherins showed up to Harry's first class. They probably see him as a traitor now. Even Lucius Malfoy can't fix that."
Malfoy's last name wasn't Voldemort, after all. Against the weight of an entire house, even his father's power faltered.
"I hope he comes out on top," Hermione said sincerely. "He's one of us now, in a way. If he can shake up Slytherin for the better, that's something."
Draco Malfoy's ordeal sparked lively debate among Ron, Hermione, and Neville, but by the time they reached the Gryffindor common room, their focus had shifted. Malfoy's past antics had left a bitter taste, and rather than dwell on a Slytherin's troubles, they turned their attention to the mysteries of the fourth floor.
They'd already secured the key to the door, after all.
Harry watched, amused, as Ron and the others grabbed the Invisibility Cloak and tore out of the common room, bound for their next adventure. Kids and their endless energy, he thought, shaking his head.
Reaching into his dragon-hide pouch, he pulled out a gem the color of fresh blood—a treasure Voldemort had coveted all year, one that could restore his body, his power, his dominion. The Philosopher's Stone.
It was Dumbledore's gift, delivered by Fawkes on the same night Harry had handed over the trinket binding Quirrell and Voldemort. The phoenix had crossed space to bring the stone, wrapped in parchment, along with a letter from the headmaster.
"…The Philosopher's Stone isn't mine to give. You, with your vast reading, surely know its true owner: Nicolas Flamel. I shared your article with him, and he's eager to meet you when you have time…"
"…Be cautious…"
"…I trust you have the wisdom and will to wield such a treasure, and Nicolas agrees…"
—Albus Dumbledore
Dumbledore's letters were rarely so long-winded. This one rambled, touching on the Stone, Flamel, and the year's events, betraying a hint of the headmaster's age. For Harry, though, the key detail was Flamel's invitation. A centuries-old alchemist had knowledge Harry craved, and he looked forward to their meeting.
Minotaurs revered elders for their wisdom, after all.
For now, Harry's gaze lingered on the Stone's mesmerizing hue. To his left, a faint curtain of light shimmered, revealing the distant figures of Ron, Hermione, and Neville—the work of his shamanic Vision Technique. Like a strategist tracking pieces on a board, Harry monitored their progress through the fourth floor's challenges.
He remained convinced that Dumbledore's "trap" had been designed for him, not Voldemort. The only true threat was the three-headed dog at the entrance, but beyond the trapdoor lay a Devil's Snare—first-year Herbology material. It strangled anything caught in its vines, tightening with struggle, but a bit of light or calm could make it retreat.
The next challenge, chasing a winged key on a broom, felt almost tailored to Harry's skills. Then came the oversized chessboard, where Ron's knack for strategy shone. With Quirrell and Voldemort out of the picture, the later obstacles—a troll, a flaming door—were gone, leaving only the Mirror of Erised in the final chamber.
And the Mirror's greatest treasure? It now rested in Harry's hand.
Through the Vision Technique, he saw Neville's earth elemental smash the opposing king to rubble, ending the chess match. With a wave, Harry dismissed the light curtain. A fun game for them, he thought. Nothing more.
The Philosopher's Stone, born of this world's alchemy, held secrets Harry couldn't yet fathom. His knowledge, rooted in Azeroth's magic, was a different beast—two trees, one apricot, one pear. He could tweak wizarding spells or potions, but true mastery of this world's magic eluded him.
Azeroth's alchemy, his specialty, was closer to potion-making in wizarding terms. The Stone was too precious for reckless experiments, so for now, it would remain a prized keepsake, tucked away until Harry unraveled more of this world's mysteries.
"Harry!"
Ron's voice snapped him back to the present. His friends had returned, flushed with excitement from their adventure.
"All done?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. "Have fun?"
"A blast!" Ron said, flopping into a chair with a grin. "You won't believe what was under Fluffy—tons of Devil's Snare! And keys that flew like birds!"
"We played a giant wizard's chess game, too," Neville chimed in, eyes bright. "Ron's seriously good. He could compete professionally one day."
"Don't remind me," Ron muttered, reddening. "I nearly botched it—put you in danger, Neville. If you hadn't summoned that earth elemental to smash the king, who knows what would've happened?"
"No big deal," Neville said with a shrug. "Chess is about sacrifices, right? Besides, Harry's right—the professors wouldn't set lethal traps. I bet McGonagall made that board. She's brilliant at Transfiguration."
"Exactly," Hermione agreed. "Cheer up, Ron. We won, didn't we?"
"And we saw that mirror you mentioned!" Neville added, turning to Harry. "The Mirror of Erised. It's incredible!"
"Oh?" Harry leaned forward, curious. "What did you see?"
"I saw myself—" Hermione began, then stopped, her cheeks flushing. "Um…"
"Come on, don't leave us hanging!" Ron pressed. "Harry and I spilled what we saw. Your turn."
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