Only after Damian could no longer sense any residual magical fluctuations within the roaring pillar of fire did he finally cancel the spell.
The flames that had engulfed the room vanished instantly, leaving behind a wave of stifling, dry heat.
In the corner, Harry's face was etched with the sheer, exhausted relief of survival. Just when he had thought the battle was over, Voldemort had suddenly seized him by the throat. Fortunately, the Dark Lord's vessel had been at the absolute end of its strength and caused no real, lasting harm.
However, the searing ambient heat still clinging to Voldemort's charred hands had scorched Harry's neck. The skin was now burning fiercely.
A small, smoking pile of black ash lay on the stone floor not far in front of him—Quirrell's last remains.
"Harry, are you all right?" Damian asked, stepping forward. He frowned, surprised at the badly scalded skin.
Though the massive pillar of fire had completely obscured his line of sight, Damian had kept careful watch over the entire room using his heightened magical senses. He knew exactly when Voldemort had lunged for Harry.
Yet, he had also known the Dark Lord could do nothing. The surrounding inferno was a direct product of Damian's Transfiguration, and it remained entirely under his control. He hadn't allowed the flames to touch the boy.
Because of this, Voldemort's hands had not actually been ablaze when he grabbed Harry. The fact that the residual heat alone had been enough to burn the boy's neck was a variable Damian had not foreseen.
"I'm fine—ow!" Harry twisted his neck and winced sharply.
Damian drew a small crystal vial of Essence of Dittany from his pocket and carefully poured a few drops over Harry's reddened skin. The angry burns began to fade almost at once.
"Oh! It doesn't hurt anymore. Potions really are amazing," Harry breathed, rubbing his neck in wonder. The sharp pain was entirely gone, replaced by a dull, manageable itch.
Damian handed him the partially full flask. "It isn't fully healed yet. Apply it again before you sleep tonight, and you should be fine by morning."
"Thanks, Damian," Harry said gratefully, slipping the flask into his robes.
Harry's eyes drifted down to the blood-red Philosopher's Stone resting securely in Damian's hand. He swallowed hard, suddenly nervous. "What do we do now?"
He looked nervously between the Stone and the pile of ash. "Quirrell has been reduced to ash... but Voldemort isn't dead. He told me he'd kill me himself. I think his spirit escaped."
He hesitated. "And the Stone... how should we deal with it?"
Deep down, Harry was suddenly terrified that Damian might claim the Stone for himself. After all, it was the legendary Philosopher's Stone—its temptation was immense, offering eternal life and infinite wealth. They were the only two people in the room. If Damian decided to cast an Obliviate on him right now...
Damian smiled faintly. He didn't need Legilimency to read the panic in Harry's eyes.
"I also feel that Voldemort's spirit escaped, but we can worry about that later," Damian said smoothly, slipping the Stone into his pocket to ease the boy's anxiety. "Let's head up to the Headmaster's office. Perhaps Professor Dumbledore has returned from London."
In truth, the instant Damian had filled the room with his conjured flames, his magical perception had snagged on something odd. It was a faint, expertly hidden ripple of ambient magic hovering near the ceiling. Had Damian not been at the absolute peak limit of a Wizard Apprentice, boasting highly refined magical perception, he would have missed it entirely.
Damian knew exactly what that ripple was. Dumbledore had been watching them the entire time.
Relieved that Damian had no intention of keeping the Stone or modifying his memory, Harry let out a massive, silent exhale. His upperclassman really was reliable, and Damian's stature rose even higher in Harry's eyes.
"All right. Let's go see if Professor Dumbledore is back," Harry agreed quickly. "If not, we can find Professor McGonagall."
Damian nodded and led Harry out of the underground chambers, all the way up to the eighth floor of the castle... where a large stone gargoyle blocked a hidden doorway.
"Sherbet lemon," Damian said flatly, trying the password Snape had used days ago.
The gargoyle immediately sprang aside, and the wall behind it split in two to reveal a moving spiral staircase.
He didn't even bother to change the password, Damian muttered inwardly. He's literally leaving the door open for us.
"Is 'sherbet lemon' the password?" Harry asked curiously as they stepped onto the moving stairs. He had never been to the Headmaster's office before.
"When we came back from the Forbidden Forest after the unicorn attack, I followed Professor Snape up here. That was the password he used," Damian explained smoothly. "I hear the Headmaster changes it quite often, usually to a different type of Muggle sweet."
Together, they rode the spiral stairs to the top and entered the circular, portrait-lined office. Dumbledore was indeed there, seated calmly behind his massive claw-footed desk.
"Professor Dumbledore!" Harry gasped, immediately rushing forward. He began to pour out everything that had just happened down in the chambers.
Dumbledore listened kindly, his hands steepled beneath his chin. He nodded along and asked gentle, guiding questions, acting as though he knew absolutely nothing of the night's events.
When they reached the climax of the battle, Harry's face fell. "Professor, I think Voldemort is still alive. He didn't burn with Quirrell. He told me he'd kill Damian and me. I think his spirit escaped."
Dumbledore's expression turned appropriately grave. "Yes, Harry, he is not truly dead. He has hidden himself away once more, perhaps searching for another susceptible mind willing to share its body."
The Headmaster sighed softly. "He is not properly alive, so he cannot properly be killed. He sought the Stone to restore himself to a true, physical form. But he shall never have that chance again."
Dumbledore looked between the two boys. "Nicolas Flamel has decided to destroy the Philosopher's Stone. If Voldemort still wishes to return, he must find another way."
Harry was stunned. "Destroy it? But your friend Nicolas Flamel... he needs the Stone to live, doesn't he?"
Dumbledore smiled, a twinkle returning to his bright blue eyes. "Harry, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. Nicolas has laid aside enough Elixir to set his affairs in order. When all is settled, he and his wife will willingly set out upon a new journey."
After a few more moments of reassurance, Harry realized the Headmaster likely wished to speak with Damian alone. Excusing himself, Harry left the office to head straight to the Hospital Wing to check on Ron, Hermione, and Neville.
Once the heavy oak door clicked shut, the grandfatherly facade dropped from the room.
Damian stepped forward, placed the blood-red Philosopher's Stone directly onto the center of the desk, and spoke bluntly. "Professor, you were watching the entire time, weren't you?"
Dumbledore remained silent, his blue eyes unreadable behind his half-moon spectacles.
"Every single trial down there was set just within our specific abilities," Damian continued smoothly. "And the final potion... I drank the Temporary Draught of Living Death without hesitation because I knew that even if it had been a lethal poison, you or Professor Snape were close enough to step in and save me."
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, a look of genuine, profound admiration crossing his aged face. "Damian, you saw through the entire facade. Yes, I was watching. And I must say, I was fortunate enough to witness some truly exquisite Transfiguration tonight."
The Headmaster gestured to the empty chair across from him. "That final trial was arranged specifically by Professor Snape. He is fully capable of reversing the effects of the Draught."
Dumbledore paused. "Knowing you would likely face Quirrell directly, Severus designed it so that once the potion took effect, your physical and magical resistance to the Dark Arts would increase exponentially."
"Yet, the Draught must not be taken often," Dumbledore warned softly. "If consumed for several consecutive days, the drinker will become a permanent revenant."
Damian nodded. Though that highly classified warning had not been written on the recipe parchment, his Tower's Analyzer had already deduced as much.
"Damian... do you know why I arranged all of this?" Dumbledore asked, his bright, piercing eyes fixing entirely on the young Slytherin.
"To build Harry's confidence," Damian replied without missing a beat. "So that when the time comes, he will have the courage to face Voldemort himself."
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed Dumbledore's eyes. "Damian, you are even more mature than I originally thought."
The Headmaster sighed, looking out the dark window. "Yes. Voldemort is not dead. The entire wizarding world believes Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord ten years ago. But one day, Voldemort will seek Harry out again. When that day comes, Harry must have the courage to meet him."
Dumbledore turned back to Damian, a complex emotion swimming in his gaze. "But what I never expected... was that you, too, would remain so impossibly calm and brave in the face of Lord Voldemort."
"Voldemort, in his current state, is nothing to fear," Damian said evenly, his voice devoid of arrogance. "He is currently nothing more than a wolf deprived of its fangs."
Dumbledore let out a long, weary sigh. "Indeed. But do not underestimate him, Damian. His present condition is incredibly strange. The magic tethering him to this world is dark and ancient... Even I cannot destroy him as he is now."
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