The Boy Who Lived I -- The Alchemist's Prize

"Today," Professor Dapnid said, "We will be talking about gold."

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Ron immediately perked up. For the first time in a month, the redhead opened his Theory notebook and dipped his quill in the inkwell. Hermione noticed this also, and rolled her eyes before returning her attention to the front of the room.

"Gold presents a unique problem for wizardry," Dapnid continued, "or a benefit, depending upon how one looks at it. Remember what I said earlier this term: There is no challenge that cannot be made into an advantage. Nowhere is this more evident than with gold." He walked back behind his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a small ingot of gold. Harry almost heard Ron's eyes getting wider.

"I will now attempt to melt this bit of gold," Dapnid announced, withdrawing a long ebony wand from the folds of his robe. "Caldorem Extremis," he announced, lightly tapping the ingot.

Nothing happened.

"Perhaps I'm off today," Dapnid said. "Would one of you try a pushing charm?"

Hermione's hand immediately went up, and Dapnid nodded to her. Standing, the bushy-haired girl flicked her wand and said, "Impellaurum!" A bright white wave of magic force sprang from her wand, hit the ingot, and disappeared. Looking vaguely miffed, Hermione tried again, experiencing a similar failure. "I don't understand what's wrong," she muttered, "I did the spell right..."

"Indeed you did," Dapnid said, motioning for Hermione to sit again. "You have just seen a demonstration of a truth few wizards willingly admit. In three thousand years, we have never found a single spell that actually works on gold. As far as anyone can tell, it is completely immune to all forms of magic. It can be neither transfigured nor levitated, nor even dissolved except by a muggle potion... though I believe the muggle word for it is 'chemical'. Other metals--most notably silver and copper--have moderate magic resistance, but gold is the only one that is completely dead to magic."

Shoving the bar back into his desk, Dapnid continued, "This has proven incredibly troublesome to many wizards, because gold is a very useful substance in both the muggle and magical worlds. If we had found a reliable way of manipulating gold, we could have had a productive fusion with muggle society long ago. However, gold is so magic resistant that it has proven virtually impossible to even transform other substances into it, though we can transform, say, wood into iron with relative ease."

"Isn't that helpful, though?" Hermione asked. "After all, if everyone could just make as much gold as they wanted, then we couldn't really use it as currency, could we?"

Dapnid's perpetual frown eased slightly, and Harry decided that this really was as close as the skeletal man came to ever smiling. "Excellent, Mrs. Granger," he said, "Three points to Gryffindor. It's true that the economy would collapse if transmutation into gold was easy. Furthermore, the magic-neutrality of gold means that it can be used very effectively to ward objects from spells. Unfortunately, it means that most stories you have read about magic rings are utterly false... gold cannot be used to produce any significant enchantment. Magic rings must therefore be made of lead or iron, which are unsightly, and also susceptible to an untimely transfiguration. I have seen only one functional magic ring in my life--made of a steel core covered in gold. Even this was not terribly successful, as the gold tended to muffle the enchantment on the steel ring."

"So gold can be used as a kind of ward?" Draco asked. "Is that why Aurors use gold chains to restrain Dark Wizards?"

"Indeed," Dapnid said. "In fact, the necessity of gold for such purposes is part of the reason why our taxes are so high."

"So why doesn't somebody work on magically making gold?" MacNair sneered. "You said it was only virtually impossible, right?"

"Quite true, Mr. MacNair," Dapnid replied. "In fact, one can produce gold by transmutation--if one has a Philosopher's Stone."

"What's a Philosopher's Stone?" Seamus asked.

"It has the appearance of a large, red crystal," Dapnid said, "sometimes encrusted with lesser minerals such as diamonds or sapphires. It is one of the most rare and powerful artifacts in all of magic. It has many possible functions, but the two of most interest to the majority of the population are the ability to produce gold from lead, and the ability to produce the 'Elixir of Life', a potion which preserves youth and vigor indefinitely."

"So how do you make one?" Ron asked.

Dapnid's frown deepened as he turned to Ron, saying, "Awake this time, Mr. Weasley? What an honor."

Ron sank back in his seat, blushing furiously as MacNair drawled, "It's the poor ones as always want gold, Professor. I recommend you ward your desk doubly tonight."

Ron started to rise, but Harry and Draco each took hold of an arm and held him firmly down in his desk. The room was silent for a moment as the students looked between an infuriated Ron and a smug MacNair. Then Dapnid calmly said, "I tolerate speaking out of turn when the question or comment pertains to the subject at hand, Mr. MacNair. Yours did not. Ten points from Slytherin, and if I hear a comment from you out of turn again, pertinent or no, you will serve a detention. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," MacNair said sullenly, attempting to glare at both Dapnid and Ron simultaneously.

"To answer your question," Dapnid said, turning back to Ron, "creating a Philosopher's Stone is both incredibly easy and incredibly difficult. The potion which creates the stone is simple to make, requiring only cheap and readily-available ingredients. He who makes the potion, however, must have achieved a singular level of enlightenment--hence the name, Philosopher's Stone. In the known history of mankind, only five people have accomplished this feat. Three of them--Socrates, Buddha, and Benjamin Franklin--immediately destroyed the Stones they created. For them, the making itself was the goal, and the product an afterthought. The other two--Rowena Ravenclaw and Nicolas Flamel--kept their stones, though Ravenclaw eventually grew content with the knowledge she had acquired and destroyed hers. Only Flamel still lives, and his is the only remaining Stone."

"So why didn't he make a bunch of gold and ruin the economy?" Zabini asked.

"He has no reason to," Dapnid replied. “A person who had the sort of soul required to produce the Philosopher's Stone would never contemplate such a senseless act."

"But somebody could steal the stone, right?" Draco asked. "What's to prevent them from destroying the economy?"

"Two things," Dapnid said. "First, they would need a substantial quantity of lead. As I've mentioned, lead is the pure material most susceptible to magic, and only it can be successfully transmuted. Second, the spell needed to achieve the transmutation is found in only one place; the Spellstone of Rowena Ravenclaw, hidden in this very school. Only with the assistance of Headmaster Dumbledore, who is incidentally a good friend of Mr. Flamel, would they be able to even use it."

As the children left the classroom later, Ron glancing wistfully at Dapnid's desk, Harry felt something gnawing at his mind. He'd already known most of the information about gold's magical properties, or more likely its lack of them--at the age of eight he'd gone through a phase of fascination with Aurors, and had thus learned why they used gold chains. There was something about the name 'Flamel' that bothered him, though; some place he'd heard or seen it before. Wherever it had been, a part of Harry's mind he always listened to but rarely obeyed was shouting "Danger!" It had been wrong only once.

The fruitless mental exercises so distracted Harry that he nearly injured himself during Charms. Only a timely explosion from Draco's wand prevented Harry from accidentally flipping himself over. Still in a kind of daze, Harry followed his friends to lunch, dispelling his mental furor just long enough to slap together three giant sandwiches.

"I'll never understand where all that food goes," Ron said, shaking his head as Harry inhaled his first sandwich.

"Quidditch, most probably," Draco said. "I've never seen anyone fly as fast as Harry does, and that's got to require a lot of magical energy." He deftly raised his hand in time to catch the newspaper that an owl dropped towards him.

Harry dropped his sandwich. "Of course," he gasped.

"'Of course' what?" Ron asked.

"Remember at the beginning of term when they reported a break-in at Gringott's?" Harry asked. "Remember whose vault got robbed?"

"No," Ron said, shrugging, but Draco nodded.

"Nicolas Flamel's," the blonde said.

"Exactly," Harry said, "The paper said that nothing of value was stolen, but none of us believed that... what if they lied to prevent a panic? What if whoever robbed the bank stole the Philosopher's Stone?"

"Keep your voice down," Draco warned, glancing around. "We don't want to start a panic either."

"It explains so much," Harry said. "Why Hagrid went to check--Dumbledore is Flamel's friend, he must have sent Hagrid--and... that's why Fluffy's guarding the Spellstone! He's there to make sure whoever stole the Philosopher's Stone doesn't learn how to use it to make gold!"

"Good show, mate," Ron said. "I'll bet even Hermione wouldn't have sussed that one out."

"I would have, too!" Hermione snapped. "I just... wasn't around when you boys read that paper, because you were too immature to have a girl as a friend."

"Oi, calm down, will you?" Ron said, drawing back as if Hermione had just turned into a snake. "I didn't mean any harm by it."

"I know," Hermione said, deflating slightly. "I'm just... frustrated by Basic Learning. I don't know how I'm going to pass the test next week..."

"What?" Draco asked. "You're having trouble in a class? The world must be ending!"

"What's the matter, Hermione?" Harry asked.

"Measurement," Hermione replied. "It's driving me mad! For six years I learned all in meters, liters, and grams, and now it's all inches, cups, and ounces... it doesn't make any sense! Metric units are all in tens, but you wizards... twelve inches to a foot? Three feet to a yard? 1760 yards to a mile? It's madness!"

"I'm having trouble with it, too," Dean admitted. "I'm so used to regular units..."

"It's not so hard," Ron said, "My mum used to have a song she'd sing me and my brothers to help us remember." He paused, then added, "If... if you'd like, I can teach it to you tonight before Astronomy... I can't sing very well, though."

Hermione's frazzled expression instantly turned into a smile. "Thanks, Ron," she said, "that would really help."

Ron blushed slightly, but couldn't help from grinning. After all, it wasn't every day that one of the boys knew something Hermione didn't.

Astronomy that evening was exhilarating, even though Hermione kept humming to herself all through the lesson. Nothing they learned was particularly exciting, at least not in Harry's eyes, but the rush of cold wind in the Astronomy tower was a reminder that fall was ending and winter would soon arrive, bringing with it Harry's favorite holiday.

There was no day in all the year that Harry loved more than Christmas. Even his birthday could not compare; after all, birthdays were usually a small affair involving a present or two and a store-bought cake. Christmas, on the other hand, seemed to cause a real change in Harry's parents. What few presents he would get were a mere afterthought to the way his parents behaved; Mum would smile as they decorated the tree, and Father would hum as he decorated whatever house they were hiding in with holly and ivy, waltzing down the halls as he transfigured the ceiling into tinsel.

Then, on Christmas Eve they would build a fire around a Yule log and gather around it with mugs of eggnog or hot chocolate, singing carols against the rhythm of the crackling flames. Mother's voice and Father's would join together in perfect harmony, complementing each other to form a rich, almost symphonic sound, and Harry would usually fall asleep to the music, nestled safely in Father's arms.

Mother and Father would smile broadly on Christmas morning as Harry opened his presents, as if they derived the same joy from watching him as he did from unwrapping the parcels. Mother would then cook a real, edible meal centered around a whole goose. The next day, things would return to normal, but each Yuletide gave Harry hope that his parents would stay the people they were for those few days. One Christmas, he prayed, the grim visages Mother and Father wore 360 days out of the year would disappear and never come back.

The approach of Christmas also reminded Harry that he needed to get gifts for his friends. He sneaked off to the owlery as the other students returned to their dormitories, quickly writing out three notes and giving them to Hedwig. The owl, pleased that she had something to do, hooted loudly and disappeared into the night, her snowy feathers making her look like another star in the inky sky. Harry gingerly tiptoed back to Gryffindor tower, honestly telling his friends that he'd needed to send an urgent letter.

Clouds began to gather over the school as the week went on, trickling in through Thursday and Friday like slow arrivals to a party. Of course, this meant nothing to Oliver, who had resumed Quidditch practices with a vengeance in order to prepare the team for the upcoming match with Hufflepuff. Fred and George, naturally enough, grumbled that Hufflepuff was the most hapless team at Hogwarts, an observation borne out by their 400-point loss to Slytherin the week previous. Oliver, however, would hear none of it, saying, "If one of you becomes Quidditch Captain in the future, you can laze around all you want. I, however, have no intention of losing through lack of preparation. Any team can be a threat."

Saturday, it seemed, would put the team's resolve to the test. Harry awoke to the sound of raindrops pelting against the roof of Gryffindor Tower--the weather was just warm enough to produce rain, it seemed. From the sound of things, it was a soaker; enough was coming down to drench anyone, but the atmosphere was placid, and the shower had not the violence of a storm. Harry had a sinking feeling that Oliver would not be impressed by the weather, and this suspicion was confirmed when he entered the common room.

"Don't forget practice today, Harry," Oliver reminded the smaller boy as he started to leave for breakfast. "Angelina's got waterproofing charms ready. It'll be good experience for a bad-weather match."

Hermione, who had just arrived in the common room, stared at Oliver as if he had just claimed he could fly to the moon using a jug of claret. Muttering, "Boys," she nudged Harry out through the portrait and on towards the Great Hall.

Harry spent the morning studying Transfiguration; McGonagall wanted them to have several spells down before the holidays, and Harry still hadn't perfected Transfiguration of a kumquat into a quill. He'd managed the conversion into a feather, and it wrote adequately, but Harry felt a sort of lingering antipathy towards Hermione when it came to class performance. Her quill had taken the form of a peacock tail-feather, decorations and all. Harry was determined to at least equal this feat, but so far all he'd managed was a feather from a peahen, which looked nowhere near as impressive.

By the time his stomach reminded him that lunch was at hand, Harry had finally gotten to the point where he could create quills that had the appearance of tail-feathers from flamingos or phoenixes. Deciding that this was sufficient, and recognizing that he had run out of kumquats, Harry descended to the Great Hall with the intention of producing several enormous sandwiches.

He was pleasantly surprised to see Hedwig waiting for him, perched atop a rather large stack of parcels. Harry quickly checked to see that none of his friends had arrived for their meal yet, then quickly slipped Hedwig several chunks of roasted chicken. Not pausing to eat, Harry then snatched up the packages and practically flew up the stairs to Gryffindor tower, quickly stowing them under his bed. As he shoved the last one under, he saw an envelope sitting on top of it. Instantly recognizing the handwriting, he grabbed it and took it over to his desk. Quickly opening the envelope and extracting the letter, Harry proceeded to read:

Dear Harry,

I hope this letter finds you well, and enjoying your first year at school. Your Mother and I were quite pleased to learn you had been selected as Gryffindor's Seeker. We hoped to convey our sentiments in person, but regrettably, something has come up. Recent, credible evidence suggests that what remains of Voldemort may be hiding in the forests of Albania. It is imperative that we act on this information now, lest he move on before we have a chance to apprehend him. Accordingly, we will not be able to join you for Christmas. Your Aunt Petunia has offered to take you in, but under the circumstances, we feel it best that you remain at Hogwarts. Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall have already been informed of the situation. We will see you in the spring.

Sincerely,

Father

Harry stared at the note for almost half an hour, hoping that the letters would vanish, or change into a completely different missive along the lines of, "Ha! Gotcha--Love, Sirius", like his Hogwarts "non-acceptance" letter had. The ink, however, did not waver. The strong, clean lines of his father's handwriting neither shifted nor disappeared, and at last Harry dropped the note to the desk with a sigh of defeat. The morning's success and the packages faded out of Harry's mind, leaving only the letter and the knowledge that his favorite day, like his childhood, had been taken from him by Voldemort.

Harry couldn't muster up the energy or spirit to leave his desk until Oliver Wood popped his head into the dorm and asked, "Coming, Harry? There's no lightning, so practice is still on."

"Yeah," Harry replied, dutifully rising from the desk and pulling out his Quidditch robes. A few minutes later, he trudged down to the fieldhouse, sharing an umbrella with Oliver, and retrieved his broom, pausing on his way to the Pitch only to allow Angelina to cast a water-repelling charm on his robes and broom.

Angelina was no slouch in classes, but Harry was sure that no waterproofing charm could hold up long against the steady, drenching rain that fell from the sky. For a while Harry was fine, chasing the Snitch around the perimeter of the pitch, though he couldn't quite seem to catch it. The beaters were having enough trouble locating the Bludgers in the rain without trying to find him for a target, so Harry could concentrate entirely on the tiny, winged sphere. Then the Snitch jumped quickly up into the sky, and Harry had to try and follow it, only to realize that it had disappeared into the dreary grey sheet of rain.

The rain had by this time completely soaked Harry's hair and started trickling down his face and neck. Angelina's charm was still holding, though, so the water just ran along his skin underneath his robes, stealing warmth with it, until it reached his shoes, which Angelina had forgotten to charm. Harry shook his head in a vain attempt to get some of the water off of it, then directed his broom upward so he could get a better view of the pitch.

Harry drifted aimlessly over the center of the field, hoping for a flicker of gold to guide him towards the Snitch, but no such sign seemed to be forthcoming. With the heavy cloud cover, there wasn't much ambient light to produce a gleam on the polished surface. Harry started off towards one set of goalposts, continuing to gaze about for the Snitch. He caught a glimpse of motion out of the corner of his eye, and turned towards it only to lose track. A moment later, he saw it again, much closer this time, and realized a second too late that it was not the Snitch, but rather a Bludger.

Harry did a desperate corkscrew ascent on his broom, which was enough to avoid a full impact. The Bludger grazed his shoulder, however, spinning him around helplessly until he put both legs out and came to a complete halt. He caught another glimpse of motion and realized that the Bludger had come about for another pass--no doubt it had trouble sensing other players through the pelting rain. Harry dove towards the pitch, nearly colliding with the reserve Chasers who were flying in formation. He spiraled around as he reached the surface, using the torque to twist his trajectory into a flat flight mere inches above the pitch.

By the time he'd reached the goalposts, Harry decided that he'd probably lost the Bludger, and climbed back to the highest level of the pitch, trying to find the Snitch. He could catch glimmers of motion here and there, but it seemed that each time he looked, the gold he'd seen was the trim from the Gryffindor team robes. He sighed in defeat, but continued to circle the pitch.

The cold was beginning to get to him. Belatedly Harry realized he should have worn a cap of some kind, but there was no help for it now. Trying to ignore the cold, and the way the water felt as it trickled down his back, Harry began to cross-search the pitch, hoping that the additional territory thus covered would yield some results. Finally, it did--he saw just the faintest sparkle of light from a polished surface, and instinctively raced after it. With a great burst of speed he lanced forward and snagged the Snitch. As he slowed, Harry realized that his robes had become plastered to him; sometime during his search of the pitch the waterproofing charm had failed. He'd just been too cold and wet already to notice.

"Oh, there you are, Harry!" Oliver called from below. Harry glanced down to see the Quidditch Captain standing under an umbrella in the middle of the pitch. As Harry drifted down closer to Oliver, the burly boy continued, "I called the practice a quarter of an hour ago because the waterproofing charms were failing. I only just realized you were still out. Got the Snitch?" Glumly, Harry nodded, handing the small ball off to Oliver. "I'll put this away," Oliver said, grinning, then trotted off under his umbrella.

Harry dismounted and trudged over to the fieldhouse, blinking rainwater out of his eyes. He checked his broom to make sure nothing had gotten damaged, then placed it in the dryer with the rest of the Gryffindor brooms. Nobody else was left in the fieldhouse, and if there had been any spare umbrellas, his teammates had made off with them already. Hanging his head, he started to trudge off towards the castle.

The walk back to Hogwarts seemed to take forever, and Harry felt himself getting colder and wetter by the moment. The season and clouds had conspired to produce an early twilight, and the gloom echoed Harry's mood. His shoulder ached, all his teammates had apparently forgotten him, and the one day each year that he could truly believe his parents loved him had been taken from him. Nobody cares, Harry thought, and promptly tripped over a loose stone on the walkway.

Fortunately, his fall carried him off the stone path, so that he landed with a thud in the soggy, winter-brown grass. The impact jarred his shoulder, sending a spike of pain through him, but nothing else seemed to be hurt. Still, Harry found himself unable to muster the will to stand up. This day could not possibly get any worse, Harry thought, unless Voldemort came and found me here like this. He blinked his eyes again, fighting back tears this time instead of rain. He found himself wishing that the deluge would wash him away, down the gutters into the lake, so he just wouldn't have to deal with people any more.

"Mr. Potter?" he heard someone say, and then the rain stopped falling on his head and light was around him. "Mr. P-potter, are y-you all right?" he heard the voice repeat, and he recognized it as Quirrell's.

Ignoring the twinge in his shoulder, Harry grunted and pushed himself to his knees. "'M fine," he muttered, "just took a bit of a spill." Quirrell grasped Harry's injured shoulder to help him upright, and the small boy nearly bit his tongue trying to keep himself from yelping.

The Defense teacher was standing underneath a giant umbrella, the underside of which was glowing with a lighting spell. His turban was slightly askew, and there was a strange glint in his eyes, a greenish tinge that looked odd in the brown. "Y-you're s-sure you're all r-right?" Quirrell asked, pulling his hand away from Harry's shoulder.

"I'm sure," Harry said. "I... I'll be getting on to the castle, then," he added, half-hoping that Quirrell would offer to share the umbrella.

Harry smiled as Quirrell said, "I'll essscort you," the strange gleam in his eyes becoming brighter. The professor's free hand drifted down and grabbed his sash next to his wand, fingering the fabric somewhat impatiently. Harry grinned more broadly in anticipation of a drying charm--the cold and wet had conspired to give him a slight headache that radiated dully from his scar.

"That shan't be necessary," Professor Snape announced, and Harry nearly fell over spinning to face his academic nemesis. Snape didn't have an umbrella, but he was using a monster of a water-repelling charm. The rain splattered on some invisible surface about half an inch away from his skin, running down the transparent shell as if it were stone. "Run along to the castle, now, Potter--you won't get much wetter than you already are. Quirrell, you and I have much to discuss... about your loyalties."

"C-can't it wait?" Quirrell asked, "The b-boy is s-soaked."

"Then walking in the rain won't hurt him," Snape snapped. "You're not weaseling out of this, Quirrell," he added, "I have questions, and they need answers right now." He shook his head and glared at Harry. "Do I have to take points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter? Go!"

Harry spun around and ran up the path towards the school, stopping when he got in the door. He turned back to see what Quirrell and Snape were doing, but the two professors had apparently disappeared. The adrenaline surge from the confrontation with Snape was already wearing off, leaving Harry fully aware that he was tired, cold, wet, and miserable. I was wrong, Harry thought as he trudged off towards the Tower, Snape can make any day worse.

The Common Room was empty--a quick glance at the clock told Harry that it was time for dinner, but he didn't feel like going down to the Great Hall, or even summoning a house-elf to bring dinner up to him. It all seemed like too much effort. Dripping ice-cold water, he trudged up the flights of stairs to the first-year dorm, stumbled into the room, and collapsed into his chair.

The letter was still on his desk, and the same words were still on it. "It is imperative that we act on this information now..." Harry read, and wondered, When will I be 'imperative'? He reached up with his uninjured arm and pulled off his glasses so he wouldn't have to see the letter anymore. Then he let his head fall forward onto the desk.

"Harry?" he heard Ron ask, and then a hand grasped his good shoulder. "Oh Harry, you're a mess," Ron said, "You'll catch your death in those wet things. You start changing out of them, and I'll run a warm bath for you, all right?"

Harry didn't acknowledge the words; he just let them flow over him. They hardly mattered anyway. He was dreaming if he honestly thought Ron had skipped any meal, for any reason. The footsteps fading across the room were just a figment of his imagination.

Minutes later, Harry still hadn't moved--there just wasn't any point. The desk was getting soaked, of course, but he'd already moved his schoolwork off it. Only the quills he'd made that morning were suffering, and what did they matter? He heard footsteps again, but dismissed them until Ron said, "Harry? Harry? Are you all right?"

"Ron?" Harry dared to ask, "'zat really you?"

"Of course," the redhead said, looping an arm around Harry's chest and helping him stand. "I didn't want to go to dinner without you, so I stayed behind. Merlin, you're soaked... and freezing cold!"

"'S raining," Harry said, as if that explained everything. He let Ron lead him out of the dorm and into the bathroom.

"What was Wood thinking?" Ron muttered, undoing the clasps on Harry's robes. The whole soggy mass fell to the tiles with a loud splat, splashing cold water everywhere. Ron paid the mess no heed, quickly removing Harry's undershirt. He had Harry sit on the edge of the tub, and slipped the smaller boy's shoes and socks off. At the redhead's urging, Harry stood again, and there was a moment's pause. Then Ron said, "Oh bugger," and yanked Harry's breeches and underpants down in one motion. Harry barely noticed; the signals of "cold" and "wet" that his body was sending him were overwhelming all his other thoughts.

Then, suddenly, one of those signals changed. Warm water was surrounding Harry, sending tendrils of heat into his body through his clammy skin. Moments later, a splash and a large, warm hand on Harry's neck informed him that Ron had also hopped into the bath. "Let's get you warmed up," he said, "Take a deep breath." Harry complied, and then felt himself being dunked into the bath. Ron repeated the process a few times, then maneuvered Harry under the faucet, where a stream of warm water could run onto his head.

Several minutes later, feeling somewhat revived, Harry said, "Thanks, Ron."

Ron, who was still holding Harry in place, blushed slightly. "Sorry," he said, "I know you're shy, but I couldn't very well let you catch pneumonia on account of modesty, now could I?"

"It's OK," Harry said. "It's kind of nice... to have someone take care of me."

Ron gave Harry a lopsided smile, then said, "What's wrong, Harry? You skipped lunch, and you looked such a mess when you came back from Quidditch practice... It's not like you to skip lunch, you know."

"I'm just having a bad day," Harry said, then told Ron about the note.

"You'll be staying here?" Ron asked breathlessly when he finished. "That's great!"

Harry could do nothing but stare at Ron as if he'd grown another head.

The redhead blushed, then sheepishly said, "Well, it's too bad that you won't be with your parents, but at least you'll be with me!"

"Y-you're staying here over the holidays?"

"Yes," Ron said. "Mum and Dad wanted to go visit my brother Charlie in Romania, but they can't aff... I mean, Charlie's house isn't big enough for all of us to stay there, so only Ginny gets to go with them. Percy, the twins and I have to stay here. I thought it would be awful having to deal with Percy the whole time, but if you're here..."

"That will be better..." Harry admitted. "I just... Mother and Father... they always have something else to do, somewhere else they need to be. Christmas... it's always been the one day that they were there."

"I know how that is," Ron said, shutting off the water. "I mean, I've never had my Mum and Dad all to myself at all... 'cept on my birthday. I'll be at school for that this year, though." He nudged Harry forward, pressing on the injured shoulder, and Harry stiffened. "Sorry mate," Ron said, "Didn't see that bruise there. Must have been a wretched Quidditch practice."

"You don't know the half of it," Harry said, and described the whole experience.

"So he just pranced off under his umbrella, did he?" Ron asked. "I oughta give him a piece of my mind..."

"Ron, don't. I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it... he has lots of things on his mind, you know, being Captain and all."

"Still, my brothers at least should have been looking out for you. They're going to get it for sure."

Harry smiled, but shook his head. "It's not their fault," he said, "I'll bet everyone was miserable, what with the awful weather... they just forgot."

"Hmph," Ron snorted. "Well, they better not forget next time. I'd like to see them win any match, even against Hufflepuff, without a Seeker. Wouldn't be much winning if you were in the Hospital Wing gulping down PepperUp potions and chicken soup, would there?"

Harry giggled at his friend's indignation, already forgetting how upset he'd been about the same things less than an hour earlier. "Well, you'll love this," he said, and related how he'd tripped on the path, and Snape's insistence that Quirrell not walk him back to the castle.

This story put an instant scowl on Ron's face. "Git should have turned off his own repelling charm," Ron growled. "Merlin knows his hair could do with a wash." He splashed the now-lukewarm water for effect, then frowned. "Hold on," he said, standing abruptly. Harry blushed as he got an eyeful, but Ron was out of the bath and in a towel before he realized what had happened. "I'll be back in a minute," the lanky boy said, then trotted out of the bathroom.

True to his word, he returned a short while later, wearing his paisley pajamas and holding Harry's striped, flannel ones. He helped the shorter boy out of the bath, and though Harry was blushing furiously, he insisted on assisting his smaller friend in getting dry and into his pajamas. He shooed Harry back to the dorm as he gathered up the sodden clothes they had left next to the tub and dropped them into the laundry hamper.

When he returned to the dorm, Ron practically shoved Harry into his bed, bringing the blankets up to his chest. "I already rang for the elves to bring your dinner here," he explained as a tray holding two large bowls of thick beef stew and several chunks of hearty bread appeared in the center of the room with a pop. Ron brought the tray over to Harry's bed and sat down, propping his friend up with pillows.

The two boys ate in silence, Harry finally realizing how hungry missing lunch had made him as he ravenously devoured his meal. It took only a few minutes for him to finish, and he belched appreciatively as he pushed his bowl away.

"Such bad manners," Ron said, shaking his head and grinning at the same time. "I suppose if I'm to turn entirely into my mum I should scold you for them."

Harry giggled again. "Please don't turn into your mum," he said, "I couldn't live down the embarrassment if she saw me all starkers."

"Then don't do anything naughty in the tub if you visit my house," Ron replied. "Mum has a habit of turning up just in time to catch you breaking the rules."

Harry nodded and sank into the pillow. Being full and very warm agreed with him completely, and he felt better than he had all day.

"Here," Ron said, pulling the blankets up around Harry's chin. "You go to sleep, and when you wake up tomorrow, it'll be like today never happened."

"'M not sleepy," Harry whispered, letting his eyes drift closed. It was, of course, a complete lie, and though he whimpered quietly when he felt the bed shift as Ron stood up, Harry almost instantly fell into dreams of tolerant brown eyes and a large, warm smile that made him feel happy even when he wanted to be sad.