Chapter 24
It was not until the day before the match that disaster struck.
Neville came tumbling into the Gryffindor common room, his legs stuck rigidly together — clearly the victim of a Leg-Locker Curse.
Hermione quickly performed the counter-spell, while Harry dug a Chocolate Frog out of his pocket to comfort him.
From Neville's halting explanation they learned what had happened.
It was Malfoy, of course — that thoroughly detestable boy had decided to practise a new hex and chosen Neville as his unwilling test subject.
"Malfoy is absolutely vile," Hermione said furiously. "Neville, you should go straight to Professor McGonagall and report him!"
Neville only hung his head and sniffled, offering no reply.
"Come on, Neville, you've got to stand up for yourself," Ron urged. "You're a Gryffindor, after all."
"I know," Neville mumbled thickly, "and I don't think I deserve to be in Gryffindor at all."
He tore open the Chocolate Frog with trembling fingers and mutely handed the card to Harry.
"Thanks… thank you, Harry. I think I'll go to bed now."
With that he shuffled away toward the dormitory stairs, head down, avoiding everyone's eyes.
Harry and the others let him go without protest.
Once Neville had disappeared, Harry glanced at the Famous Wizard card.
"Dumbledore again. That makes seven," he remarked — and then his eyes widened. He stared hard at the long silver beard and kindly face on the card.
When Gabin returned to the common room a short while later, Hermione practically dragged him over to where Harry and Ron were sitting.
Three pairs of eyes fixed upon him, shining with excitement.
"We've found Dumbledore!" Ron burst out — then corrected himself hastily. "I mean — we've found Nicolas Flamel! He's on the back of the Dumbledore card!"
He jabbed an eager finger at the card in Harry's hand.
"Neville had just been tormented by Malfoy, and then—" Hermione quickly filled Gabin in on everything that had happened in his absence.
"So the thing Snape's been after all this time… is the Philosopher's Stone?" Harry asked, fingers tightening on the card, voice taut with nerves.
Gabin gave a single nod, confirming their deduction.
"Oh, Merlin's beard," Ron groaned. "It really is the Philosopher's Stone."
The mere thought of a rock that could turn base metal into gold — and produce the Elixir of Life — made even Ron's eyes gleam with sudden, wild temptation. For one mad second he could picture himself marching up to the third-floor corridor and claiming it.
"No wonder he's so obsessed," Hermione continued, thinking aloud. "The Stone can brew the Elixir of Life. If Voldemort got hold of it… he might be able to come back."
*No — that's the Resurrection Stone's territory,* Gabin thought privately, *and even that doesn't truly bring anyone back.*
This world had no real path to reversing death.
He kept the reflection to himself.
"Gabin," Harry said seriously, "I know you still don't believe Snape is the villain here. But tomorrow — just watch him during the match. He'll make his move. That will prove everything."
Harry's expression was grim and resolute, more like a condemned man heading to the gallows than a boy about to play Quidditch.
Gabin merely nodded again.
Beside him, Ron and Hermione had already launched into an earnest debate about what they would do if *they* somehow obtained the Philosopher's Stone.
Ron dreamed of unimaginable wealth — enough Galleons to make the entire Weasley family rich beyond imagining.
Hermione, more nobly, talked of analysing the Stone's properties, replicating the Elixir, and making eternal life available to everyone — no one need ever die again.
At last they turned to Gabin.
He considered the question for a moment and realised he felt remarkably little personal attachment to the idea.
"I suppose," he said at last, "I'd study it quite carefully."
The Quidditch match arrived as scheduled.
Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff.
Referee: Severus Snape.
Almost no one gave Gryffindor much chance.
They had humiliated Snape's own house in the previous match, and everyone knew what kind of man Severus Snape was. He would surely find some way to penalise, hinder or outright sabotage Gryffindor from his position as referee.
Why else would he have volunteered to take Madam Hooch's usual place?
Yet Gabin saw the situation differently.
Watching Snape's thin lips pressed into a bloodless line, Gabin suspected the man had two motives: first, to protect Harry Potter; second, to discover who was truly trying to kill the boy.
Gabin's own theory pointed toward Quirrell — but suspicion was not proof, and Dumbledore would never arrest a professor on nothing more than one student's hunch.
Together with Hermione and Ron he climbed into the stands.
All around them the stands roared — scarlet and gold on one side, canary-yellow and black on the other.
As the players rose into the air one by one, Gabin felt an unfamiliar, electric thrill stir in his chest.
He didn't really understand the finer points of Quidditch — but hitting things, flying fast and shouting seemed to be the main requirements, and those he could manage.
He did not shout.
Instead he cast a steady Lumos and shaped the light into an enormous floating sign that flashed again and again:
**GRYFFINDOR!!!**
"Where's the Snitch?" Ron muttered, eyes darting across the pitch. "It's been five minutes — why hasn't anyone seen it yet?"
Both Seekers were circling high above, watchful, waiting.
Gabin quietly opened his magical sight.
The world changed.
Through the overlay of power he could see a delicate, shimmering thread of magic — impossibly swift — darting along the very edge of the pitch.
He snapped his head round just in time to keep it in view.
"There," he said, pointing.
At the same moment he shaped another bright Lumos arrow, bright and unmistakable, indicating the direction.
"That way, Harry! Over there!" Ron bellowed the instant he caught the flash of gold.
The wind was too strong; Harry never heard.
But the next second the Snitch shot into the centre of the pitch — then rocketed straight upward like a golden firework.
Both Seekers saw it.
Both leaned low over their brooms and raced after the tiny blazing speck.
"Go on, Harry! Go on—!"
Ron's cheer ended in a yelp of pain as something heavy struck the back of his head.
"Caught you, Weasley," came an obnoxious drawl. "Cheating from the stands, are we?"
Malfoy stood smirking behind them, flanked as usual by Crabbe and Goyle.
"What do you want?" Ron snarled, fist already clenched. "Fancy a fight? I'm not scared of you."
Malfoy gave an exaggerated laugh.
"Just looking for someone to test my newest hex on. Yesterday I had quite a nice time practising on your house's Longbottom. Worked splendidly — he went hopping away in tears."
Only then did Malfoy appear to notice Neville standing right there.
"Oh — sorry, Longbottom. Didn't see you there." He gave a mocking little bow. "I do hope you're not going to start crying again."
Neville's face flushed crimson. His fists shook at his sides — but he dropped his gaze to the floor and said nothing.
"That's enough, Malfoy!"
Hermione's wand was already out, tip pointed squarely between Malfoy's pale eyes.
***
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