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Chapter 48: An Unexpected Inheritancehapter
🕑 Added 2025-09-10 07:33:05 +0000 UTCWait. What?
Hermione's mind, which had been running through a dozen different conversational gambits and prepared excuses, came to a screeching, definitive halt. Nicolas Flamel knows about me? He's not just a historical footnote; he's an active player in this?
The revelation was so stunning, so completely outside the bounds of her carefully constructed predictions, that for a wild, unhinged moment, she had the absurd thought of dropping to her knees and asking Dumbledore to adopt her.
"However," the Headmaster's voice gently pulled her back from the brink of her confusion, "these gifts are not without a condition."
Hermione's entire posture instantly stiffened. Her hand, hidden in the folds of her robes, rested on her wand. There it is, she thought, her mind a fortress of suspicion once more. The price. What could he possibly want from her? What kind of oath or service would he demand in exchange for such unimaginable treasures? She was already preparing her escape route, a quick, clean teleport back to the Marvel universe, leaving this manipulative old man and his games behind forever.
Seeing the wary, almost hostile look in her eyes, Dumbledore just shook his head, a sad, tired smile on his face. "It is not a difficult matter, my dear girl. Do not worry. There will be a time to speak of it, but that time is not now."
She stared at him, weighing the temptation against the risk. The Philosopher's Stone and the personal notes of the world's greatest alchemist… it was a prize too great to refuse. Out of a grudging respect for the old man's intellect—and an overwhelming desire for the power he was offering—she finally nodded. "Alright, Headmaster. Thank you."
As if suddenly remembering her role, a look of appropriate concern crossed her face. "But… if you're giving me the Stone, what will happen to Nicolas Flamel?"
"Do not trouble yourself," Dumbledore said, a genuine melancholy in his voice. "Nicolas has made his choice. He and his wife have prepared enough Elixir to set their affairs in order. They will embrace the next great adventure." He looked at the dust on the floor, the only remnant of a man who had also craved immortality. "There are, after all, some things so much worse than death."
Hermione fell silent, a strange, contemplative mood settling over her. If it were her, she wondered, would she be able to let go so easily? She didn't know.
"It seems you understand the nature of the protection on Harry," Dumbledore said, changing the subject as he glanced at the boy's unconscious form.
"I've read a great deal," Hermione confirmed. "And based on what Harry told me of his past, I inferred it was a form of Ancient Magic. A sacrifice."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "A magic his mother, Lily, gave him. She was, like you, a remarkably brilliant and inquisitive witch. During her time here at Hogwarts, she took a keen interest in the castle's deepest secrets, and seemed to have… certain magical experiences that few others have." A look of profound regret passed over his face. "A pity. So much knowledge, lost to time."
Hermione felt a pang of genuine regret herself. To think of the secrets Lily Potter might have been able to share, secrets that were now gone forever.
Hogwarts, the Great Hall.
The end-of-year feast was in full swing. The hall was a joyous, chaotic sea of celebrating students, the house banners of Slytherin having been magically replaced by the triumphant scarlet and gold of Gryffindor. But Harry Potter was in no mood to celebrate. This feast, this victory, was just a painful reminder of what he was about to lose. In a few short hours, he would be back on the train, heading back to the Dursleys, back to the cupboard under the stairs. His brief, magical dream was over.
He had woken up in the hospital wing with a splitting headache, the last thing he remembered being Voldemort's horrifying face. Dumbledore had explained the official, heavily sanitized version of events: Professor Quirrell, with evil intent, had been defeated in a wizard's duel by Miss Granger, and had died from a magical backlash.
When the news had spread through the school, Hermione's reputation had transcended from mere genius to living legend. A first-year student had killed a professor. The thought was so scandalous, so utterly terrifying, that it only made her more popular.
Hermione, however, was not enjoying her new-found fame. Dumbledore's announcement had painted a massive target on her back. She could no longer operate in Harry's shadow, picking up scraps of opportunity. Now, the surviving Death Eaters, and Voldemort himself, knew her name. But then she remembered the Dark Lord's parting glare of pure, undiluted hatred. It doesn't matter, she thought with a cold, ruthless resolve. He already remembered me. Let them come. Give me a year or two to develop, and I'll make them all kneel.
She picked up the brand-new Nimbus 2000 that was leaning against the bench beside her and tapped Ron on the shoulder. He turned, his mouth full of chicken.
Hermione had explained to him that he'd been knocked unconscious by a stray curse from Quirrell during the fight. He had believed it without question. As far as he was concerned, he had bravely accompanied his friends on a dangerous mission and come out a hero. He'd even caught the eye of Lavender Brown. Life was good.
"This is for you," Hermione said, tossing the broom into his lap.
"What… this is…" Ron stared at the magnificent, gleaming broomstick, his mind struggling to catch up. Then he remembered her promise, after the troll incident. "You… you were serious?"
The broom was a thing of beauty, a priceless artifact he had only ever dreamed of touching. He hesitated, his joy warring with a deep-seated sense of inadequacy. "I… I can't take this, Hermione. It must have cost a fortune."
"Don't worry about it," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I made it myself. A little alchemical experiment."
"You… you made it?" Ron's eyes widened. Then his expression settled into one of familiar, resigned awe. Of course she had. This was Hermione. At this point, he wouldn't have been surprised if she'd told him she'd invented a new planet over the weekend.
"Hermione!" he exclaimed, his face alight with pure, unadulterated joy. "You're the best! I love you!" He lunged forward to give her a hug.
The tip of her wand was suddenly pressed against his forehead.
"Don't," she said, her voice dangerously quiet, a murderous look flashing in her eyes.
Ron laughed awkwardly and sat back down, his enthusiasm slightly dampened.
Hermione slowly retracted her wand. Putting everything else aside, she had to admit, she admired Ron. He wasn't the brightest, or the most skilled, but he had a core of pure, Gryffindor steel. A boy who would willingly sacrifice himself in a game of wizard's chess at age eleven was a boy with potential. And she remembered from the books that, in the future, he would have no qualms about killing a Death Eater to protect his friends. His logic had been simple, brutal, and to her, deeply appealing: If we don't kill him, he'll kill us when he wakes up.
Yes, Ron had potential. His childish crush, however, was a tactical annoyance that would have to be managed.
