Chapter 34: The Philosopher's Stone

That afternoon, the news of Harry being specially recruited onto his house Quidditch team spread like wildfire throughout the school.

Even the ghosts floating through the halls were gossiping about it, let alone the students.

“A Seeker?” Ron exclaimed, so astonished he forgot to shove a pie into his mouth. “But first-years never— You must be the youngest player on a house team in years!”

“A century, actually,” Harry replied with a grin. “That’s what Wood told me.”

In his six years at his previous school, Harry hadn’t even been allowed to watch an in-school Quidditch match, let alone participate.

Apparently, a few years ago, a student had fallen off a broom, giving Headmaster Black the perfect excuse to ban all Quidditch games on campus.

The students cursed him behind his back, and even the ghosts composed a song to sarcastically "celebrate" Headmaster Black’s so-called “great achievements.”

Ron nodded sagely. After all, catching the ball was no small feat—it also involved dragging a heavy Malfoy along with it.

“I start training next week,” Harry said, raising his glass of pumpkin juice to clink with Ron’s. “By the way, after I left, did Malfoy say anything?”

“Malfoy called Hermione a Mudblood, but she cleaned his mouth out with Scourgify, just like you did,” Ron said, grinning widely.

At that moment, Fred and George Weasley strode into the dining hall. Spotting Harry, they hurried over.

“Well done, Harry,” George said in a low voice. “Wood told us. We’re on the house team too—as Beaters. Our job is to make sure you don’t get hit too badly.”

“I’ll tell you this,” Fred said confidently. “We’re taking the Quidditch Cup this year. Ever since Charlie left, we haven’t won. But this year, our team’s going to shine. You’ll be brilliant, Harry. When Wood told us, he was so excited he could barely speak. And you know how strict he is about Quidditch—like a miniature Professor McGonagall. We trust his judgment.”

“But we’ve got to run. Lee Jordan thinks he’s found a new secret passage out of the school.”

“I bet it’s the one behind Gregory the Smarmy’s statue,” George added. “We found that one in our first week here—see you!”

“Honestly,” Harry said to Ron as the twins left, “I’ve known them for so long, but I still can’t tell which one is Fred and which one is George.”

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“Honestly? Me neither,” Ron admitted, spreading his hands.

Hermione sat down just then, carrying a thick, ancient book nearly as large as her torso.

“What on earth is that?” Ron asked, staring in disbelief.

“Something to pass the time after meals,” Hermione said, slamming the book onto the table.

“You call that ‘passing the time’?” Ron asked dryly.

Hermione shot him a severe look, and Ron wisely closed his mouth.

“Honestly,” Ron muttered, glancing toward Draco Malfoy, who was chatting and laughing with Crabbe and Goyle. “Didn’t the flying lesson teach him enough? I think Malfoy needs another good scare.”

Hearing Malfoy’s name soured Harry’s mood instantly.

If Cassandra knew her descendant was such a git, she’d probably cast an Unforgivable Curse on him right then and there.

The thought darkened Harry’s mood further as he brooded over the still-inaccessible Map Chamber.

He was certain it held important clues, but how could he access it? At only eleven years old, was he really expected to wait four more years, until he turned fifteen and awakened his ancient magic?

“Look at this,” Ron said, picking up a nearby newspaper. “The Daily Prophet is still printing statements from the Gringotts goblins. They keep insisting Gringotts is the safest place.”

Gringotts?

Harry’s thoughts flew to his trip with Hagrid to retrieve that tiny bundle—an object that radiated ancient magic.

His instincts told him that with that item, the age limit on ancient magic could be bypassed.

But the dilemma remained: it was Dumbledore’s possession, clearly valuable. How could he persuade the headmaster to lend it to him?

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The next morning, as Harry and Ron entered the Great Hall and sat down, the mail owls swooped in.

Harry noticed four or five owls carrying a long, thin package. They circled briefly before landing in front of him.

“Oh no, my chicken leg!” Ron exclaimed in dismay as the package knocked his food to the ground.

But his attention quickly shifted to the intriguing package.

“What’s this?”

“Mate, open it for me while I read this letter,” Harry said.

Unfolding the letter, Harry read:

“Do not open the package on the table. Inside is your new broomstick—a Nimbus 2000. I don’t want others knowing you’ve got it, lest they all start demanding one.

Oliver Wood will meet you at the Quidditch pitch at 7 p.m. tonight for your first training session.

—Professor Minerva McGonagall.”

Harry lowered the letter, intending to stop Ron, but it was too late.

Ron had already unwrapped the package, revealing a brand-new Nimbus 2000.

“Whoa, mate!” Ron gasped in amazement. “Did you buy this?”

Beside them, Wood stared, his face filled with envy.

Of course, Wood guessed it was a gift from Professor McGonagall, but he couldn’t say much. Harry was a Seeker, after all—a position demanding speed and top-notch broomstick performance. Plus, Harry’s family didn’t seem particularly well-off.

Still, Wood couldn’t help but feel envious. Harry was only in his first year, meaning he’d get to use the Nimbus 2000 for at least seven years!

“Don’t forget to meet me for training tonight,” Wood said, composing himself. “McGonagall told me to start your emergency training right away so we can crush Slytherin in the next match. She must’ve told you about last year—after we lost badly to Slytherin, she avoided Professor Snape for weeks.”

“I’ll be there,” Harry promised earnestly.

Looking back on his years at his previous school, what he had yearned for most was the chance to play Quidditch, banned under Headmaster Black’s rule.

Black, you ruin everything!

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