P.O.V. Rubeus Hagrid
Forbidden Forest, Hogwarts, Scottish Highlands
The morning sun filtered through the trees as Rubeus Hagrid, in his moleskin coat and immense figure, made his way to Hogsmeade. His mission was crucial: to get first-rate fertilizer for the pumpkins that would be the centerpiece of the Halloween feast. However, his departure had been delayed by a conflict in the Forbidden Forest.
"Poor little Acromantulas," he muttered to himself, recalling the scene. "They just wanted to stretch their legs a bit, explore beyond Aragog's clearing." He shook his shaggy black mane. "And the centaurs wanted to eliminate them! Calling them a 'plague of mutant spiders.' Imagine! They're just little creatures, only a bit... enthusiastic."
And that was without considering their displeasure over Fluffy, the adorable three-headed puppy he'd acquired from a Greek merchant in The Hog's Head after a night of cards and several tankards of butterbeer. The centaurs, with their infinite pride, didn't appreciate him continually introducing what they called "potentially dangerous creatures" into the forest's ecosystem. But if they could see Fluffy purring with all three heads at once, or clumsily playing with a bone... he was a cutie!
After a successful haggling session with a witch of dubious appearance on the fringes of Knockturn Alley, which left him with the fertilizer at half price, Hagrid felt luck was on his side. Passing by Flourish and Blotts, a new, shiny display caught his attention. "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone," the title read. Hagrid loved these stories about little Harry; they filled his heart with warmth. Without a second thought, he went in and bought a copy. It would be perfect to read that night in his hut, accompanied by a strong cup of tea, some rock cakes, and the company of Fang and little Fluffy. He even had time to enthusiastically greet Professor Dumbledore, whom he saw browsing the bookstore with a peculiar expression. With his treasure under his arm, Hagrid set off on the return journey, happy, completely ignorant of the whirlwind contained within the pages of his new book.
P.O.V. Molly Weasley
Ottery St. Catchpole, England
At The Burrow, the heart of the Weasley matriarch beat at a calmer rhythm now that five of her seven children were at Hogwarts. Molly, with her red hair escaping her bun and an apron that had seen better days, stirred a large pot of porridge in the kitchen. Her face, kind but marked by worries and hard work, briefly lit up upon seeing an owl with a package from Flourish and Blotts through the window.
"Ah, Arthur's subscription," she whispered to herself, with a hint of fond exasperation. She remembered how her husband had come home, euphoric, after winning it in a bet with some colleagues from the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. She had scolded him for gambling, but in the end, she couldn't help but smile at his childish enthusiasm.
With a skillful flick of her wand, she opened the window, offered water and some crumbs to the tired owl next to old Errol, and unwrapped the package. Seeing the cover, "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone," a shadow of sadness clouded her eyes. Lily and James... Although they had been a couple of years below her at Hogwarts, the bonds forged in the Order of the Phoenix were unbreakable. She remembered them young, brave, full of life. The loss was still a fresh wound. Seeing that it seemed a simple storybook, she thought it would be good entertainment for Ron and Ginny, something to brighten those autumn days at home.
And then, like clockwork, her maternal instinct sounded the alarm. Breakfast was getting cold.
"RONALD WEASLEY! GINEVRA WEASLEY! ARTHUR! IF YOU AREN'T DOWN THOSE STAIRS IN FIVE SECONDS, I'LL FEED YOUR BREAKFAST TO THE GNOMES!" she roared with a power that made the windows vibrate and shook dust from the beams.
A thunder of hurried footsteps and muffled groans answered from upstairs. Molly sketched a triumphant smile, satisfied. Her family, her noisy, beloved family, was now in motion. It would be a good day.
P.O.V. Narcissa Malfoy
Wiltshire, England
Breakfast at Malfoy Manor was a ritual of elegance and sepulchral silence. Narcissa, in her impeccable emerald silk dress and platinum blonde hair styled with a perfection that defied gravity, took a sip of her tea. Across from her, Lucius read The Prophet with an expression of having smelled something unpleasant. To the world, they were the very image of cold, pure-blood superiority. But in the privacy of their home, a bond of genuine affection existed. A slight touch of hands, an understanding glance; small gestures no one else saw.
The harmony was interrupted by a plop. The house-elf Dobby, with his enormous eyes full of panic and his ragged clothing, bowed until his nose touched the floor.
"Mistress, Dobby brings you this," he stammered, holding a package with trembling hands. "The owl... from the bookstore... Dobby did not mean to disturb..."
Narcissa's lip curled slightly. She didn't feel the visceral hatred some of her lineage professed towards these creatures, but a deep repulsion, inherited from her upbringing in the House of Black, stirred within her. She recalled, with a shudder, the gallery of decapitated house-elf heads hanging in 12 Grimmauld Place. Her family was almost extinct now. Regulus, dead. Sirius, her wayward cousin, in Azkaban. Bellatrix, also behind bars. Andromeda, the traitor... better not to think. Her parents, her aunts and uncles... all gone, the last, Walburga, had passed only 3 years ago, when Draco was just 5.
"Leave the package. Dismissed," ordered Narcissa, her voice an edge of ice.
At that moment, Draco burst into the dining room, his youthful face full of the energy of his eight years.
"Mum!Dad! Good morning!"
Narcissa transformed instantly. Her face softened and she opened her arms to receive her son with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Lucius lowered the newspaper and gave him a rare, genuine smile, smoothing the boy's already impeccable blonde hair.
"What's that, Mum?" asked Draco, pointing to the package.
Seeing the Flourish and Blotts seal, Narcissa assumed it was another of the tedious volumes that arrived with the subscription. She opened it with disinterest. "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone." Another sensationalist pamphlet about the boy hero.
"Here you are, darling," she said, handing it to Draco. "It's a storybook. For your amusement."
"Thank you!" exclaimed Draco, taking the book eagerly before running out of the room.
Another plop, more discreet, announced the arrival of Twinky, an older, more serious elf.
"Master,Mr. Severus Snape awaits at the entrance," he announced with a bow.
Lucius nodded gravely and stood up. Narcissa suppressed a sigh. The morning's peace had vanished.
P.O.V. Nicolas Flamel
Paris, France
Nicolas Flamel, with his 663 years upon him, felt the weight of the centuries not in his bones (fortified by the Elixir), but in his soul. He had witnessed too much. Born in 1326, he had seen the Black Death, the Hundred Years' War, the Renaissance... and, in the New World, the clash of civilizations following Columbus's voyage, an event that occurred when he was already a man of over 160. He had met legendary wizards, seen spells lost to time, and conversed with brilliant minds like old Armando Dippet, who, at nearly 300 years old, seemed a mere youngster beside him.
But the spark, that feverish curiosity that once drove him to create the Philosopher's Stone alongside his beloved Perenelle, had long since faded. If it weren't for the rejuvenating friendship of his old student Albus Dumbledore, they would probably have planned their departure by now. They had everything arranged: wills, properties, even their own empty tombs in the Père Lachaise cemetery. They only had to decide the future of the Stone.
As he strolled arm-in-arm with Perenelle down the enchanted Rue de la Magie, a golden glint in the window of "Le Livre Ensorcelé" caught his eye; it was a new bookstore that had opened just a few years ago. A new display featured a book: Harry Potter et la Pierre Philosophale. A smile touched his wrinkled lips. His Stone, used as an element in a children's novel? The irony was delicious. He vaguely remembered Dumbledore mentioning that boy, something about a Dark Lord defeated.
He turned to Perenelle, whose beauty, though veiled by age, still shone in her wise eyes.
"What do you think,my dear?" he said softly. "A storybook for the afternoon. Like when we were young and read together under the olive tree in the garden."
Perenelle laughed, a sound clear as bells that made Nicolas's heart skip a beat, as if he were 20 again.
"I think it's a lovely idea,Nicolas."
Arm in arm, the two elderly people, the longest-living magical beings on the planet, entered the bookstore. For the first time in decades, curiosity, that old friend, had knocked on their door.