Supernatural and the Philosopher's Stone

Nicolas Flamel

Dumbledore was able to convince Harry not to go looking for the Mirror of Erised again, and the rest of the Christmas holidays the Invisibility Cloak stayed folded at the bottom of his trunk.

"You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you mad," Ron said when Harry told us about the dreams.

"It's a good thing Dumbledore stopped you," I said.

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 around 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.

We had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a library book. Once term had started, we were back to skimming through books for ten minutes during our breaks. Harry and I 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 my spirits. George complained that Wood was becoming a fanatic, but Harry and I was on Wood's side. If we won our next match, against Hufflepuff, we would overtake Slytherin in the House Championship for the first time in seven years.

Sam and Dean would be leaving after this Quidditch match.

Then, during one particularly wet and muddy practice session, Wood gave us a bit of bad news. He'd just gotten very angry with George, who kept dive-bombing the other teammates, including me, and pretending to fall off his broom.

"Will you stop messing around!" Wood finally 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 referred a Quidditch match? He's not going to be fair if we might overtake Slytherin."

The rest of us landed next to George to complain, too.

"It's not my fault," Wood said. "We've just got to make sure we play a clean game, so Snape hasn't got an excuse to pick on us."

The rest of the team hung back to talk to one another as usual at the end of practice, but Harry and I headed straight back to the Gryffindor common room, where we found Ron and Hermione playing chess and Sam looking over notes of what creature they needed to hunt next, while Dean just read a book. 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," Ron said when Harry sat down next to him. "I need to concen--" he caught out faces as I sat beside Sam and Dean. "What's the matter with you two? You look terrible."

Speaking quietly so that no one else could here, we told the other four about Snape's sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee.

"Don't play," Hermione said at once.

"Say you're ill," Ron said.

"Pretend to break your leg," Hermione suggested.

"Really break your leg," Ron said.

"I can't," Harry said. "There isn't a reserve Seeker, nor another Beater, but George. If we 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 we recognized at once as the Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to bunny hop all the way up to Gryffindor Tower.