“Nicholas Flamel is an alchemist.The only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone,” Harry supplies as he comes down to where Hermione is settled a little ways from the lake, dropping down next to her on the ground.

“Oh!” Hermione cries, recognition spreading across her features, her eyes going wide. “Oh, I’ve taken out a book for a little light reading, and it’s got a bit on him, I think.”

“They're studying him in alchemy,” Harry says with a nod, and Hermione furrows her brow. She leans back, looking thoughtful for a few moments, and Harry adjusts his position on the grass, putting his hands behind his back on the ground. The grass had been a little damp, but Hermione had fixed that with a charm, and now they sit on the hill together, away from anyone who might want to eavesdrop.

“What does it do?” Harry asks after a short pause, realizing he has no idea.

“It’s basically mythical,” Hermione answers, staring out across the water. According to the older students, the giant squid often dances and slides lazily across the surface of the lake in the summers, but for now it's nowhere to be seen, and Harry doesn't mind. “It can turn any metal into gold, and from it you can make the elixir of life. It’s why Flamel and his wife are both still alive – they must be at least six hundred by now.”

Involuntarily and without being entirely certain why, Harry shivers, horrified at the idea – living for that long. It just sounds horrible. And gold? Well. That doesn’t sound worth all the effort.

“And now the stone is here. But why?”

Harry flinches and lets out a hiss of noise, clutching at his scar as it gives a sudden flare of pain: God, why does it keep doing that? It must be the third or fourth time it’s given a sudden sharp bite for no reason at all, and Harry can’t figure out what each occasion has had in common. He'd thought it was Snape to start with, but with all the time he has with the Potions master glaring at him angrily, it doesn't happen every time.

“You really should look into curse scars, Harry,” Hermione says quietly, almost reproachfully, and she looks at him with obvious concern on her face, and Harry shakes his head.

“I have, Hermione. I’m the only known survivor of the killing curse – no one has the same scar.”

“But can't you write someone or something, or-?” Hermione’s protest seems to be automatic, because she stops short and lets out a huff of a sigh. Harry shakes his head. He doesn't want to write about it in a letter, because the information feels wrong, or dangerous, somehow. It's not normal for his head to hurt like it does, he knows that, but… “Who do you think wants the stone?”

“It could be anyone,” Harry answers, grateful for the break in the momentary silence. “Unlimited life and money? Maybe it’s Ron Weasley.”

“You don’t need to be so mean to him, Harry,” Hermione says, and Harry stares at him.

“Me, mean to him?” Harry demands, still feeling the sting of the way Ron had snapped at him after his Sorting. “I don’t even talk to him if I can help it. Why’re you so keen to defend him for, anyway? He’s awful to you.”

“He’s got some big shoes to fill. I don’t think he’s all bad.” Harry opens his mouth to retort, but the yell behind him makes him turn.

“Oi! Harry!” Draco is running quickly down the hill from the castle, and Harry murmurs quickly to Hermione,

“Don’t tell him about the stone.”

“Isn’t he your friend?” Hermione’s voice takes on a slightly snooty tone at this, as she doesn’t think Malfoy is worth being Harry’s friend at all, but Harry doesn’t call her out on it. He’s not made any effort to reign in his bigotry, after all.

“Yeah, but he’ll write his dad about it in a second. Don’t.”

Draco almost skids on the grass as he gets down to them, but he manages to steady himself – he has a good balance, Draco does. Harry suspects it has something to do with all the time he spends on a broom at home.

“Alright, Draco?” Harry asks lazily, leaning back on his hands and doing his best to look casual. Hermione's expression implies he is failing miserably to do so.

“Harry. Granger.”

“If you’re going to be rude, Draco, just go back up to the castle.” Harry speaks before Hermione can get in an equally sharp response, and Draco stops short, mouth opening, eyes widening, slight pink darkening at the tops of his ivory cheeks. He doesn’t like being told what to do, Harry knows – Draco’s primary “friends” of choice are Crabbe and Goyle, and both of them are unimaginative, cruel and completely dim. But they follow his orders, and Harry's not going to start doing that any time soon.

“An owl just dropped off some post for you, that's all. It's on your bed.” Draco had hesitated for a moment, but when he speaks he even manages to look at Hermione as well as his house-mate. Harry frowns a little. He runs through the tally of letters he's sent most recently – no one should have really replied yet, and normally the owls drop in post in the morning or the evening with other owls.

“Where did it fly to?”

“It came in through one of the windows in the Viaduct and right down to the common room. Francis Drummond had to let the thing in,” Draco says, doing his best not to sound as interested as he obviously is. After all, were he not as curious as Harry is about the thing, he'd not have run down the hill. Harry glances at Hermione, who is frowning in concentration as she looks at Malfoy.

“What sort of owl is it?” She asks. Malfoy hesitates, lip curling for a second, but he seems to think better of it.

“It's an eagle owl, like my father's. It's just a blue envelope, though, and I didn't pick it up to look at it, so I don't know about the seal,” Draco answers, and Hermione tilts her head, seeming to consider this.

“You're not waiting on anything special, are you?”

“Well, no, not really. Everyone on my list has replied pretty recently, or they haven't got my letters yet, so I don't really see… I suppose this means I should get up,” Harry finishes dispassionately, and Hermione rolls her eyes before jabbing him in the side with her elbow.

“Oi!”

“Just go and see what it is. It might be important.”

“It might be a postal order form for Honeydukes in Hogsmeade,” Harry points out.

“A postal order form an owl brought directly into the Slytherin common room to place on your bed?” Draco asks, sarcasm dripping from the aristocratic vowels, and Harry sighs.

“They might be half-price this week?” he offers half-heartedly, and Hermione shoves him. He pulls himself up off the grass, and despite himself he's aching to find out what it is – blue is a pretty standard colour, but suddenly his brain goes into overdrive as it formulates every possible shade the envelope could be, as if that'll give him more of a clue as to its contents.

“See you, Hermione. Potions in an hour or so, yeah?”

“Yes,” Hermione says absently, her eyes focused on the book that had materialized in her lap as soon as Harry had gotten up. “Partners?”

“Sounds good.” He begins to make his way up the hill, bag slung over his shoulder, and Draco walks beside him, waiting until Hermione is out of earshot before he drawls out something offensive.

“You needn't partner with her.”

“I needn't,” Harry says, “But I shall.”

“But she's only a-” Draco cuts himself off when Harry looks at him, and then they walk in silence. Sharing a room together necessitates that Draco and Harry not completely despise each other, and when Draco's not being hateful, Harry actually quite likes him – he's posh and he's smug, but he's not actually as much like Dudley as he thought he'd been. Oh, he's spoilt and entitled, certainly, but he's helpful with homework, and unlike Dudley he actually does all his homework himself – and well, too. The only person ahead of him in Potions is Hermione, after all. In their Slytherin/Ravenclaw classes, he's sometimes top of the class.

Harry heads down the corridor, leaning and picking up the envelope from the bed: it's a soft, periwinkle blue, and the envelope looks expensive with paper lacing at the edge. Harry shifts his nail under the envelope's lip and drags it open with a quiet rip of parchment paper, shaking out the letter inside and dropping to sit back on the bed with it.

Dear Mr Potter,

We have not previously corresponded, although I overheard Mrs Bones and Mrs Longbottom discussing your letters in the halls of the Ministry of Magic this Thursday past; discussing your apparent passion for your studies, they talked of books that might be recommended to you. My daughter has mentioned your appreciation of Magical History, and while its study is most certainly dry at Hogwarts, as a consequence of Professor Binns, the subject is a fascinating one.

The Hogwarts library is practical, but many of its books are antiquarian or out-dated in their arguments and layers of study: enclosed find a list of books and a modest voucher for their purchase at Flourish & Blotts.

Daphne's young friends have received such vouchers already, of course, as they were given them in preparation for the school year, but as you have been raised outside of magical society, it is no fault of yours that you have been deprived of her company previous to this year. Please, enjoy the books, and do pursue your studies with vigour.

I have given instructions for Laurel to deliver this letter to your common room, lest it be received at meal time and a Gryffindor teacher accuse such a simple, unextravagant discount as unfairly given.

Good luck with your studies,

Mrs Athene Greengrass

Harry frowns slightly, and then he glances through the vouchers that had been left in the envelope: they're of simple, golden paper, and their instructions say merely to place them in with an order form to be sent to Flourish and Blotts.

Lycanthropy In Society: A New Plague, The Heirs of Salazar Slytherin, Catastrophes of Recent Past: The Dark Arts In Action, Ministerial Insight: A History Of The Ministry of Magic, Dressed To Impress: Wizarding Fashion And Its Influences and Charming An Audience With Spells and Smiles are the titles listed, and their authors are unfamiliar to him except for one – Dressed To Impress is written by A. Greengrass.

“What is it?” Draco asks, and Harry passes him the letter. Disappointment radiates from the other boy's form as he reads it. “Oh, is that all?”

“These are quite expensive,” Harry says, trying not to sound as horrified as he really is – he had picked up all sorts of books in Flourish and Blotts, but the original prices on the vouchers all exceed to the money he'd paid for all his schoolbooks together. Thinking of the money stacked in his vault, Harry is guiltily aware he could probably have bought these himself, but the vouchers are a kind gesture.

“Oh, more so than school books,” Draco says airily, “It's only a matter of politics – of course all of us could easily afford them.” Harry grits his teeth, sits down, and begins to write a thank you letter. He does like Draco sometimes. He'll just remember that later.

---

“But that's so unfair!” Hermione hisses as she drops a spoon of beetle eyes into their cauldron.

“I don't think fairness is one of the Slytherin focuses, Hermione,” Harry points out as he stirs the potion, watching it bubble from indigo to lilac.

“Well, you're not going to use them.”

“Hermione, a lady sent me vouchers for six free books, just because I'm in the same year as her daughter. It's not her being like, malicious.” Hermione frowns.

“But it's unfair,” Hermione says again, and Harry agrees, but he doesn't want to be rude, and he does want more books for his little collection.

“And you'll be able to read them too,” Harry points out, and Hermione opens her mouth to argue, then seems to reconsider. “It's not really that much different to all the books I got for Christmas, right?”

“Well, I don't want to read Dress To Impress,” Hermione says, and Harry stifles a snigger.

“That's alright, Hermione. Dress To Impress can be mine alone.”

“Mr Potter,” says a slow, sarcastic tone from behind him. “Will dressing to impress, I wonder, assist in the use of your Wideye Potion?”

“It might, sir,” Harry says reasonably, “Being awake's quite fashionable, so I hear.” Snape stares at him as Hermione gasps, but the Professor's straight-lipped, neutral expression doesn't so much as twitch at Harry's cheek – Harry's beginning to wonder what would make the man flinch, and he sort of wants to find out. Professor Snape is scary, of course, but it's not like he'll kill Harry.

At least, not until they're onto poisons rather than antidotes.

“Five points from Slytherin, Mr Potter,” Snape says, and glides to Neville Longbottom's desk, where sickly yellow smoke is beginning to rise in threatening circles. Harry turns to Hermione, who is gazing at him with her eyebrows furrowed in disapproval, and he grins.

“I'll send off the postal order tonight, then?”

“Fine,” Hermione says, and they look back to their work. They're only books, Harry thinks. They can't be that bad.