"Here ... this is for you."

Harry, blushing madly, took the very carefully wrapped little parcel from Hermione. He looked up at her with terribly shy, but hugely grateful, eyes. It was the first gift anyone from outside his family had ever gotten him, and though he knew he should respectfully refuse it, the fact that it was Hermione who had bought it for him made Harry want to accept it more than anything in the world. He was desperately excited to know what it was.

But he still had to pretend to be coy.

"Y-you didn't have to get me anything," Harry stuttered.

"I know I didn't," Hermione returned brightly. "But I wanted to. As it was your first Quidditch win, I thought we ought to commemorate the event appropriately. So, are you going to open it then?"

"Can I?" Harry asked cautiously.

Hermione laughed. Harry had a tendency to be distractingly cute. Hermione was always sent into a spin by it.

"Of course you can, silly! Otherwise it wont be much of a present, will it?"

Harry supposed not. He took the package in trembling fingers and carefully unpicked the Spellotape that sealed the wrapping paper together. He was potently keen not to tear even the slightest bit of it. Eventually, after what seemed like a painstaking eternity, Harry unveiled a subdued pink sheet of crystal, with an embossed logo at the centre. It was something he recognised, even if he wasn't entirely sure what the object was.

"The Weird Sisters!" he hushed reverently, smoothing the logo covetously. "I love them!"

"I know," Hermione reminded him. She grinned knowingly at Harry's confused expression. "But you have no idea what this is, do you?"

Harry blushed shyly. "Um ... no. But it's very pretty ... whatever it is!"

He added the last bit as a slightly desperate afterthought, which just made Hermione giggle harder still at his efforts to satiate her. She was inordinately pleased that he was so considerate of her feelings, and it sent a warmth rushing all through every inch of her.

"It's okay," she placated, tapping Harry's knee consolingly. "These aren't common. But, to clarify - I bought you a Q.U.E.S.T."

"A quest?"

"Yes. A Quartz Unique Engraved Signed Tablet," Hermione explained. "The Weird Sisters offer them in their merchandising magazine. Quartz is a great recorder of energy you know, especially sonic vibrations. It makes them ideal to record audio signals on. So, on this tablet you'll find a private recording of their latest songs, plus a personalised message. Do you like it?"

Harry's eyes were alight with fire. "Like it? I love it! Thank you, Hermione!"

Then Harry reached over the sofa, where they were sitting, and hugged Hermione deeply, until someone - probably a Weasley twin - wolf-whistled at them and they broke apart, coquettishly embarrassed.

"Will ... will you listen to it with me?" Harry asked quietly. "Not now, with everyone around, but later ... maybe when it's just me and you?"

Hermione turned more scarlet than Harry's Quidditch robe, but nodded in agreement. It was all she could do, as words were lost somewhere around her rapidly beating heart. Harry grinned in thanks and they both slunk back to opposite edges of the couch to gather their furiously fluttering thoughts.

It was now a full week since Harry had inspired the Quidditch victory over Slytherin. And, as it was the first victory in seven years, the Weasley Twins had insisted on seven nights of parties, this being the seventh, to properly do the thing justice. Harry and Hermione had commandeered the old two-cushioned loveseat in the quietest corner of the raucous Common Room that night, where they had been discussing the curious inscription on the Golden Snitch Harry had caught, before Hermione had surprised him with her impromptu gift.

Now she wanted to get back on topic, whereas Harry's mind was flooded with images of listening to heavy metal music with her under the birch tree by the Great Lake, as the stars watched down and chaperoned from above.

"It's somewhat of a riddle, isn't it - I Open at the Close?" Hermione was musing. "It could mean so many different things, all equally as confusing."

"Mmm," Harry agreed idly, his mind still in a much more pleasant place than this discussion.

"It isn't a good omen, either," Hermione ploughed on. "Riddles in your life have never been a good thing, have they, if you get what I mean?"

That jolted Harry back with a thud. "No, that's true, considering one wanted to kill me. Imagine that - being murdered by a riddle? What's next? Karate-chopped by a conundrum? Kneecapped by a limerick?"

"Technically that's a poem, so it doesn't fit the pattern," Hermione grinned impishly. "But I get your point, no matter how silly it is."

Harry flushed at the gentle rebuke. "I suppose we have to focus on what we know. The Snitch obviously opens, which means that it is hiding something inside."

"Yes, but it only opens at the close," Hermione nodded. "The question is, the close of what?"

Just then, a nervous little voice carried to them from the Jester's Stool near the Portrait Hole. It was from on this rickety wooden seat that readings of poetry and jokes were traditionally told to entertain the Gryffindors on cold winter nights. But nowadays it was reserved for students who had lost the House the most points that week, or else brought Gryffindor into disrepute in some other way. It was usually occupied by one or other of the Weasley twins, who saw it as something as a badge of honour to be seated there.

But, right now, it was occupied by their younger brother. Quite why was a mystery to Harry and Hermione, who tended to have little to do with Ron Weasley, but it was his voice that came to them now.

"A-all Snitches have that engraving," he mumbled.

Harry looked at Hermione, and she sent him one of their silent communications, asking whether they should indulge Ron this once. It was just a deft swish of her eyes that most people probably wouldn't have even noticed happening, but Harry understood it as if she'd written the words in fire on the carpet. Harry agreed with a subtle double blink.

"They do?" Hermione asked, curiously. "Why?"

Ron cleared his throat and turned to them fully. For a moment, he looked ready to jump up and join them, but then lost his nerve and chose to cling to the rim of his seat instead. It was then that Harry noticed that no-one was anywhere near Ron. It was as if he were some sort of pariah, and everyone was giving him a wide berth. How odd.

"Well, Snitches are made with a special kind of gold," Ron explained, his voice taking on a zeal and eagerness as he relaxed into the explanation. "Gold made by alchemists. It gets imbibed with Flesh Memory, because it's been created in this way. When a new Snitch is caught for the first time in the professional game, the engraving comes out. And when the Seeker that caught it retires, the Snitch opens up to reveal a jewel, that then gets set into a ring, sort of like a commemorative award to mark the Seeker's career. They are highly prized, and quite rare. It's odd that your Snitch says that though, as the same one has been used at Hogwarts for years."

Harry looked at Hermione again. There was such assuredness in Ron's tone that Harry was inclined to believe the words of this well-established fantasist, despite his track record of being woefully incorrect with so many other pieces of knowledge.

But Hermione was not to be so easily convinced. Not without a substantial cross examination of fact-checking.

"How do you know all this?" she asked briskly.

"I - I'm a big fan of Quidditch, love it actually," Ron muttered, losing his confidence under the weight of Hermione's accusatory glare. "It's just one of those things that you know, as a fan I mean. You can look it up, if you don't believe me."

As it was, Hermione didn't believe him and she would definitely be checking up on it. But that was something for later.

"And how do you know the same Snitch has been used at Hogwarts for years?" Hermione pressed on.

"My brother, Charlie, was a Seeker here," Ron explained. "He said you could tell, 'cause the wings of the Snitch were bent and battered and the lustre on the casing had faded."

Now this was something Hermione could check right away. She thrust out her hand and clicked her fingers impatiently when Harry didn't move. Then he understood. He had taken to carrying the Snitch around with him, taking it out every once in a while and letting it flutter away, seeing how far it could get from him before he snatched it back again.

He placed it in Hermione's waiting palm now and then watched as she inspected it critically.

"Hmm ... ahhh ... curious," she muttered to herself.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"Harry, look how perfectly trimmed these wings are," Hermione replied, pointing the condition out to him. "And the gold is so pristine you could shave in the reflection ... if you were old enough to shave, of course."

"I can shave," Harry argued, tugging at his super smooth chin and frowning at the lack of any sort of growth there, which made Hermione grin at him. "What's your point?"

"My point is that this Snitch looks brand new," Hermione explained. "And if what Ron says is true, it must have been made with alchemical gold before being brought to Hogwarts."

"Now why would anyone do that?" Harry argued. "Sounds like a complex and expensive thing to do for a school."

"It was probably Nicolas Flamel," Ron remarked off-handedly.

Harry drew in a sharp, shocked breath. "Who?"

"Nicolas Flamel, the famous alchemist," Ron replied, seeming surprised that he knew something that the illustrious, best-performing first-year duo didn't. "He's a great friend of Dumbledore. Probably made him a new Snitch from his alchemical gold as a birthday present or something. They do a lot of work on alchemy together."

"Now how in the name of Merlin do you know that!?" Hermione insisted shrilly.

"Um, easy ... it says so on the back of his Chocolate Frog card," Ron mumbled in reply. Hermione seemed to be borderline terrifying him with her mere tone. "I've got a collection of about five hundred cards, and loads of Dumbledore. You don't just collect and trade them, but you play for them too, testing the facts listed on the card. If I was playing you for a card, and you didn't know the fact I was asking, I'd win the card from you. Get it?"

"I get it," Hermione frowned crossly, genuinely offended by the idea that Ron could beat her in any sort of test.

"And I've got it!" Harry cried triumphantly. He reached into his robe and drew out the card he'd gotten in Hermione's last Chocolate Frog, the one she'd given him before the Quidditch match. Amazingly, it was still there. He read it quickly, and saw that Ron was completely right. He showed the card to Hermione, who speed read it in about three seconds.

"Nicolas Flamel ... an alchemist ... Harry - you don't think -"

"- I do ... the Flamellian Ruby!"

"Come on, if we're quick we might get a whole hour in the library before it closes," Hermione shrieked, grabbing Harry's hand and nearly tearing his arm from it's socket, as she dragged him to his feet and towards the Portrait Hole. The usual wolf-whistles and saucy comments rained over their heads as they left the Common Room in such a hurry, but Harry did have the good manners to turn back before they left.

"Hey Ron ... thanks."

Harry nodded his appreciation to the youngest Weasley, who he felt had earned his words. Ron flushed as red as his hair, and sheepishly nodded back.

***

Finding out about Flamel was easy after that. As the only known living alchemist, Nicolas Flamel was naturally well-documented. At nearly six-hundred and fifty years old he was something of a curiosity to the magical world. The attention had grown too much in recent years - recent for him being the last fifty - and so he and his wife, Perenelle, had left Paris to live a quiet life in rural Kent. Their daughter, Amelie - who was a renowned witch in her own right - now managed their estate in France and also had a long-standing connection to Albus Dumbledore, whom she had once competed against in an inter-schools tournament when they were teenagers, though Harry could find little information on that fascinating story.

Hermione seemed less interested in the idea of pitting her talents against the students of other magical schools as she was about what might be currently being hidden in this one. Ever since they'd learned about Flamel her attention had turned to understanding more about this ruby that carried his name ... and the revelation was astonishing.

"It's actually more commonly known as a Philosopher's Stone," she explained to Harry one night, as he labelled her star chart of the solar system and coloured in the planets for her with pencil crayons. Hermione had no patience for such trivial tasks. "And you'll be amazed by what it does."

"Go on," Harry encouraged, as he carefully shaded the Big Red Spot of Jupiter.

"Well, it creates a special seed or powder - which I suppose would be a type of chemical - that will turn any metal into gold," Hermione went on brightly. "It's how the gold of my Snitch was made, I bet."

"I bet," Harry agreed with a little grin.

"Not only that, but the Stone creates a substance called The Elixir of Life. It does what it says -prolongs life. Indefinitely, so long as the alchemist has a supply of the Elixir. It will cure any disease or degenerative process, including ageing. In effect, it would make the drinker immortal. And eternally young, or at their peak age maybe."

"I can certainly see why Voldemort would want it," Harry mused. "I mean, who wouldn't? You'd be filthy rich, young, be able to live forever. You'd be invulnerable."

"So long as you didn't have a heart," Hermione argued crossly.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, looking up in surprise.

Hermione huffed and placed her hands to her hips. "You might live forever, but you'd have to watch your friends and loved ones die. I wouldn't want that. It'd be terrible."

"Don't worry, I'll share my Elixir with you," Harry teased without really thinking about what he was saying. "We can live forever together."

Hermione's cheeks flashed with colour. It was a good job the Astronomy Tower was dark as Harry didn't see. Equally as fortunate was that the nearest person was a good ten feet away, otherwise the heat from Hermione's skin might have set them ablaze. Harry, blissfully ignorant, went on chirpily.

"Imagine what you could buy with all that gold?" he breathed in reverently. "I'd have to get a huge house, with a big stage, then I could pay the Weird Sisters to play a concert for me every week. And I'd buy my mum and dad a house nearby ... not too close, as I'd want my privacy ... and my wife would too, don't you think?"

"I ... what?" Hermione spluttered. "How would I know that?"

"Well, you're a girl, you'll be a wife someday, wont you?" Harry pointed out fairly. "You'd want privacy then, wouldn't you."

"What makes you so sure I'll be a wife?" Hermione asked lowly. "What if I don't want to get married?"

"I didn't think of that," Harry replied honestly. "I mean ... don't you?"

"I'm twelve, I can't say I've thought about it much," Hermione replied, which was as evasive a lie as she'd ever told, and she'd told some big ones. "Besides, even if I do, who's to say that anyone would want me? What if I didn't find anyone who wanted to marry me?"

"Now that's just nonsense! Who wouldn't want to marry you?" Harry blurted out on reflex. Then he snapped his jaws together with such force that he was afraid he'd cracked a tooth in the impact. He looked down and began furiously colouring in the ice moon Europa in brilliant white, unable to lift his eyes to Hermione's face. But he couldn't ignore her when she stepped in close to his side and whispered in a satin-soft tone.

"That was sweet of you to say. Thank you."

"It was only the truth," Harry muttered back shyly. "No need to thank me for it."

"It was still nice of you," Hermione hushed on. "Oh, by the way, you missed a bit."

Then she leaned in further still, to point out a gap in Harry's colouring, and for a breathless moment her cheek brushed against Harry's as her head passed his. He lost his mind at the fleeting contact, which came and went in a fraction of a heartbeat and, for the first time, he understood a fundamental new truth.

This is what it must feel like ... when your dæmon is touched!

It was electrifying and terrifying, sickening and empowering all at the same time. The feeling was heady and intimate, and left Harry giddy a second as he tried to process the sensation. He wasn't sure if he wanted to feel it again, but was instantly obsessed with the possibility of being overwhelmed by it, almost as if it was something to be desired as well as abhorred. It was the weirdest thing.

And the fact that Hermione liked it when Harry touched Papageno ... it meant a million new things in that instant. Harry didn't understand all of them, but he was desperate to find out what it all meant.

Just then the class ended. Harry and Hermione packed their things away quietly and followed the other students down the spiral staircase of the Astronomy Tower. It was nearly one o'clock in the morning now, and tiredness was sweeping in to the young minds as they wandered back towards their dorms. The fatigue was so great that Harry suddenly realised he'd left his wand on the Tower.

"I'll have to run back and get it," Harry moaned. "What an idiot!"

"Do you want me to come with you?" Hermione asked, yawning widely.

"No, you go on and get to bed. I wont be a minute."

So Harry darted away. He hurried up the spiral stairs, found his wand still there on the workbench and pocketed it before making his way back along the dark corridors.

The problem was, they'd chosen that precise moment to move.

"Great," Harry huffed. "Perfect timing!"

There was nothing to do but wait for the castle to reconfigure itself. Quite why it did this was a mystery, one that an angry Harry vowed to find out about and put a stop to. What was the point? Either way, there was no point complaining about it. He could be anywhere in the castle now and just had to find something familiar to plot a route back before he was officially declared missing.

So he stomped along the corridors, took dark turns, tried out a few trick doors and false staircases that led to nothing but brick walls. Frustration increasing, Harry bundled himself through a tapestry in his cross desperation, and nearly fell over in his surprise.

"Hermione! I told you not to wait for me!" he cried as he was faced with her. But Hermione didn't reply, merely smiled serenely at him.

That's when he saw it, realised what he was looking at. It wasn't Hermione at all - but simply a reflection of her. One made by a gigantic mirror ... one that stood almost from floor-to-ceiling ... and it sparked a memory that Harry had completely forgotten.

"I've seen this!" he hissed in shock, recognising the mirror from that first day he'd