"That's not fair!" Ron burst out, his voice cutting through the cozy warmth of the Gryffindor common room.
"Oh, hush, Ron," Hermione snapped, shooting him a withering glance before turning to Harry. Her cheeks, already flushed, seemed to deepen in color. "I—I saw my parents. They were congratulating me because I'd become Minister for Magic. And, um, Filch was there too, clapping for me…"
Her voice trailed off, shrinking into a mumble so soft it was barely audible, as if she were afraid to admit the full scope of her vision.
"There's no need to be shy about seeing Filch," Harry said with a reassuring nod. "It probably means something deeper—maybe his Squib status struck a chord with you. That's a good thing, Hermione. It shows you're serious about improving the lives of Squibs, that it's a goal you hold close. Doesn't the Mirror of Erised reflect what's truly in our hearts?"
Harry assumed Hermione's hesitation stemmed from embarrassment over Filch, a man who'd left a sour impression on most Hogwarts students. But to his surprise, her expression didn't soften. If anything, she grew more tense, her posture stiffening as if bracing for an interrogation.
"No, er—yes, that's exactly what I want to do," she said, sitting ramrod straight, her face a mask of determination.
She looked like a schoolgirl about to accept an award, all earnest resolve and barely contained nerves.
"…You're not being entirely honest, are you?" Ron muttered under his breath. Before Hermione could incinerate him with another glare, he pivoted to Neville. "What about you, Neville? What did you see?"
Neville's voice trembled as he answered, thick with emotion. "I saw my parents." His eyes glistened, and he swallowed hard. "They were awake, standing beside me…"
"Awake?" Harry asked, puzzled.
Neville nodded, his voice barely above a whisper as he shared the painful story of his family. Like Harry, Neville bore scars from the wizarding war that had raged eleven years ago. His parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom, had been formidable Aurors, fearless in their stand against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. But in a brutal clash, they were captured and subjected to the Cruciatus Curse's merciless torment. The torture shattered their minds and bodies, leaving them confined to St. Mungo's Hospital ever since. Neville had grown up under his grandmother's stern care, visiting his parents in their silent ward, their faces familiar yet distant.
"I don't know if they'll ever recover," Neville said, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I'm not like you, Harry. I'm not talented, and I forget things all the time… But I want to be stronger. If they ever wake up, I want to be someone they can be proud of…"
His voice broke, choked by sobs. The Mirror of Erised had laid bare his deepest longing, and the weight of it was too much. Ron and Hermione had practically dragged him away from the mirror, fearing he'd waste away staring into its cruel promise.
"Don't say that, Neville," Hermione said, her own eyes brimming with tears. "You're brilliant. Have you forgotten? Professor Sprout says you're a natural at Herbology."
At her words, Neville's tear-streaked face broke into a shaky smile, snot and all, as if her reminder had kindled a spark of hope.
Harry's expression darkened. "The Death Eater who did this to your parents—is she still in Azkaban? What's her name?"
"Bellatrix Lestrange," Neville said without hesitation, the name etched into his memory like a curse. "She's locked in the deepest cell, they say. Her and Voldemort's most loyal followers."
Harry's jaw tightened. "I've made a note of it. I don't know why the Ministry keeps people like her alive, but I promise you, Neville—if I ever get the chance, I'll make her pay."
Neville's eyes widened, gratitude flooding his face. "Thank you, Harry! Thank you!" His faith in Harry's words was unshakable.
"We're friends, aren't we?" Harry said with a warm smile. "No need to thank me."
Hermione, who'd been quietly listening, suddenly spoke up. "Harry, do you think your potions—shamanic ones—could help Neville's parents?"
Harry shook his head, his expression sober. "I don't know, Hermione. I can't make promises I'm not sure I can keep. From what Neville's said, their minds were broken by the Cruciatus Curse. My research hasn't touched the Unforgivable Curses yet. If I tried something without understanding it fully, I could make things worse—far worse."
He looked at Neville, his gaze steady. "I'm sorry, Neville. You'll have to wait a bit longer. But I swear, if there's a way to help them, I won't rest until I find it."
Neville's smile was small but genuine, his tears drying. "That's enough, Harry. Knowing there's even a chance—it's more than the healers at St. Mungo's have given me."
The weight of Neville's story hung over them, casting a somber shadow. Ron, sensing the need to lighten the mood, cracked a few jokes, coaxing reluctant smiles from the group.
"Still," Ron said with a dramatic sigh, slinging an arm around Neville's shoulders, "it's a shame we went through all those traps and didn't get the treasure. What was it called again? The Philosopher's Stone?"
Hermione nodded, her disappointment evident. "It's frustrating. The last room only had that mirror—no stone at all. I bet Dumbledore took it. An unguarded room? Seems likely."
"Normally, the Mirror of Erised would give you the Philosopher's Stone," Harry said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Dumbledore told me only the happiest person in the world could use it like a regular mirror."
Hermione frowned. "But I saw myself as Minister for Magic. Neville saw his parents. And Ron…" She shot him a teasing look. "Ron saw himself as Head Boy, holding the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup."
"Hey!" Ron protested, puffing out his chest. "What's wrong with that? Head Boy's a big deal! And the House Cup and Quidditch Cup? Those are honors! I'll have my pick of jobs after Hogwarts."
"Sure, Ron, absolutely dazzling," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. Ron deflated, muttering under his breath.
Harry chuckled. "Knowing Dumbledore, he'd make it so only someone who didn't want the Stone could take it. Desire's a tricky thing. If Voldemort or Quirrell reached that room, their greed would've kept it out of their hands."
"It's like a fairy tale," Hermione mused. "A lesson about how greed leads to nothing. Still, I wish I could've seen the Philosopher's Stone. It's legendary—called the Sorcerer's Stone in some stories. Its myth spans the wizarding and Muggle worlds."
Her eyes sparkled with longing. "I looked it up after you mentioned it, Harry. It can turn any metal to gold and create the Elixir of Life. Nicolas Flamel and his wife have lived for six centuries because of it. Imagine the knowledge they must have…"
Ron tilted his head. "So, Hermione, what does it look like? Is it red, about palm-sized, kind of rough, like a dark ruby? Does it shimmer inside when light hits it?"
Hermione blinked, thrown off. "How would I know? I've never seen it. Why do you describe it like you have?"
Her voice faltered as her gaze locked onto Harry's hand. There, spinning lazily on his fingertip, was a crimson stone, its surface catching the firelight in a way that made it seem alive.
"The… Philosopher's Stone?" Hermione's voice was a hoarse whisper, her eyes wide with disbelief.
"Yup," Harry said, grinning at her stunned expression. "Dumbledore gave it to me. A little reward for the mission, you could say."
Hermione looked like she'd been hit with a Stunning Spell, her body trembling slightly. "So you knew what was in that room? The treasure we risked our lives for was in your hands this whole time, and you didn't say a word? Just like with Quirrell and Voldemort—you knew everything and kept it to yourself!"
Harry's grin widened. With a casual wave of his hand, he summoned a shimmering screen of light, the Vision Art flickering to life. Scenes unfolded—familiar chambers, traps, and puzzles. The very rooms they'd just fought through.
It was glaringly obvious.
Even Ron caught on. While they'd been sweating through their adventure, Harry had been lounging by the fire, toying with the Stone and watching their every move.
Hermione inhaled sharply, her face a storm of emotions. Without a word, she snatched a quill and parchment from the table, dipped it in ink, and began scribbling furiously, her handwriting wild and sprawling.
"Uh, Hermione?" Harry ventured.
No response.
"Miss Granger? Hello? What are you writing?"
"A will!" she spat, not looking up. She slashed a final flourish across the page, slammed the quill down, and let out a roar that shook the room. "I'm going to end you, Harry Potter!"
Was she serious?
Apparently, yes.
Hermione launched herself from her chair, tackling Harry with the ferocity of a lioness. She straddled him, hands clawing for his throat, while Harry, half-laughing, half-panicking, fended her off with his arms.
"Harry! Potter! You absolute toad!"
Her bellows echoed through the Gryffindor tower, rousing half the dormitory in the dead of night.
Good news arrived with breakfast: Hagrid's dragon egg was hatching. An owl delivered the message, urgent and scrawled, as if Hagrid feared they'd miss the event.
For Harry, the timing was a relief. After a full day of Hermione's icy glares, she'd finally thawed—mostly.
"Should we help it somehow?" Ron asked, peering at the egg on Hagrid's table. A deep crack marred its dark surface, and faint movements stirred within, accompanied by sharp, splintering sounds.
"No," Hermione said firmly. "Hatching is a crucial process. It strengthens the creature's muscles and helps it adjust to the outside world—air, temperature, everything. Unless it's in serious danger, we shouldn't interfere."
Hagrid looked up, impressed. "Didn't know Muggles taught that kind o' thing, Hermione."
She flushed, her confidence wavering. "Well, it's mostly about birds. But oviparous animals should be similar… even magical ones, I suppose."
Her logic was sound, and no one argued.
As they spoke, the egg's cracks widened. Harry caught a glimpse of a glinting eye peering out, as if the creature inside was studying them as much as they studied it.
"It's coming," he murmured.
The room fell silent, all eyes on the egg. With a sudden crack, it split apart, and a tiny dragon tumbled out. Harry had to admit, it wasn't much to look at. Far from the majestic beasts of legend, the newborn resembled a soggy, crumpled bat, its wings slick with egg fluid. Spikes studded its oversized wings, stark against its scrawny, lizard-like body. Its pointed snout and bulging orange eyes gave it an almost comical appearance, though the sparks it sneezed out hinted at its potential.
"Isn't it beautiful?" Hagrid whispered, utterly smitten. He reached out, only to yelp as the dragon nipped his finger.
Ron flinched. Despite its size, the dragon's fangs looked plenty sharp.
"Look!" Hagrid beamed, shaking his bitten finger. "It knows me! Recognizes its mum!"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Leaving aside why you're the mum—shouldn't it be dad? It's barely born, Hagrid. It's probably just hungry."
"Right!" Hagrid snapped out of his daze. With a flick, he dislodged the dragon back onto the table and bustled over to a bucket. "Brandy an' chicken blood, every half hour. Got it all ready."
He tipped the dragon—gently, for him—into the bucket, where it began gulping eagerly. Hagrid's face softened into a doting smile, unsettlingly tender for a man of his size.
Hermione and Ron exchanged uneasy glances, rubbing their arms.
"Really, Hagrid," Ron said, wrinkling his nose at the reek of alcohol and blood, "is that book you're following reliable? Wild dragons don't drink brandy, do they?"
"Trust me, Ron, I'm an expert," Hagrid said with a wink, humming cheerfully. "Norbert, little Norbert… grow big an' strong."
His voice brimmed with affection, though Neville's quiet mutter cut through: "…And eat us all in one go?"
Hagrid, lost in his dragon-induced bliss, didn't hear a word.
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