Chapter 17: A Price to Pay
Hagrid's cabin was warm and cluttered, smelling of woodsmoke and rock cakes. After a brief, awkward exchange of pleasantries, Harry got straight to the point.
"So, Hagrid... that three-headed dog. You're the one looking after it, aren't you?" Harry asked, having drawn the short straw to be the primary interrogator.
Hagrid fumbled with the teapot, nearly dropping it. "How d'you know about Fluffy?" he blustered.
"Fluffy?" the three of them echoed.
"Got him from a Greek chappie. Lent him to Dumbledore to guard the—" Hagrid caught himself, his bushy beard twitching. "That's enough! Don't ask! That's top secret, that is!"
"But it bit Snape!" Harry pressed, refusing to back down. "I saw him limping! What else in the castle could have done that?"
"Fluffy wouldn't do that! He's a good boy!" Hagrid took a deep, rattling breath, trying to calm himself. "Listen to me, all three of yeh. Yer meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. Forget the dog, forget what it's guardin'. It's between Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel."
"Aha! So Nicolas Flamel is involved!" Harry exclaimed triumphantly.
Unsurprisingly, they were promptly ushered out of the hut.
On the walk back to the castle, Harry and Ron bickered about what "Fluffy" could be guarding, only realizing after a few minutes that Hermione had been utterly silent.
"Hermione, what's wrong?" Harry asked.
"Nicolas Flamel..." she murmured, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. "That name... I know I've seen it somewhere. I just can't remember where."
"Probably in one of those books you're always reading," Ron offered, unhelpfully.
Hermione shot him a glare. "We should go to the library. There has to be something about him there."
Harry and Ron agreed, though Hermione knew a far more efficient method: asking Solim. She was willing to bet her end-of-year grades that he knew exactly who Nicolas Flamel was. But a stubborn pride made her dismiss the idea. She would find the answer herself.
"Alright," she said, her tone decisive. "We'll split up in the library. Let's hope we find something before dinner."
Beneath Hogwarts, a world of shadows and secrets lay hidden from most students and staff. They knew of the Slytherin and Hufflepuff common rooms, the Potions classrooms, Snape's office, and the kitchens. But the true depths of the castle's foundations, with their labyrinthine pipes and forgotten chambers, remained a mystery to all but a few.
Every time Solim walked these damp, torch-lit corridors, he felt the pull of the unknown. But today, exploration was not his goal. His destination was Snape's office.
The office was even darker and colder than the dungeons outside. The only light came from a few sputtering candles on the desk, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to cling to the jars of pickled specimens lining the walls. It was a place designed to intimidate, and it succeeded brilliantly.
Solim closed the heavy door behind him and followed the limping Potions Master to the desk.
"Professor," Solim began as Snape sank into his chair. "If the leg is troubling you, you might consider asking the Headmaster for some of his phoenix's tears. I hear they are more effective than any potion."
Snape's black eyes flickered towards him, but he said nothing. He had long since stopped treating Selwyn as an ordinary first-year. The events of Halloween had sealed that. The boy's casual use of that focused, lethal fire spell—a sophisticated variant of the Fire-Making Charm—spoke of a training far beyond Hogwarts.
"The potion," Solim continued, pulling a sheaf of notes from his bag. "It's stabilizing well after the fourth iteration. My primary concern now is whether the full activation of a dormant magical core could have any long-term side effects, such as—"
"You have a test subject, do you not?" Snape interrupted, his voice a low drawl. He had no patience for lengthy theoretical discussions when practical data was available.
"Well, yes, but..." Solim scratched his head. "Just in case—"
"The current data set is derived from a single individual," Snape cut in again, his tone dripping with condescension. "If you possessed even a foundational understanding of potioneering, you would be aware of the... latent variables. The potential for unforeseen complications is significant."
Solim fell silent. He knew Snape was right. Even in the Muggle world, a drug that worked on one person wasn't guaranteed to work on another. But finding test subjects for a potion designed for such a rare condition was nearly impossible.
It seems I'll have to contact my grandfather after all, he thought with a sigh. I suppose I'll have to go home for the holidays. The idea filled him with dread. The thought of his step-mother's cold eyes and his brutish older brother, Dax, made his skin crawl. He'd have to stick close to his grandfather to avoid their barbs and, more importantly, Dax's fists.
A visible shiver ran through him at the thought.
Snape observed the boy's reaction with detached curiosity but asked no questions. His interest was purely transactional.
"I have fulfilled my part of our... arrangement," Snape said, his voice cutting through Solim's thoughts. "When will you fulfill yours?"
"Don't worry, Professor. I haven't forgotten my promise." Solim pushed his personal anxieties aside. "I will deliver, but the earliest will be after the Christmas holidays. I will bring you the necessary component by the start of the next term, at the latest."
He decided to offer a partial explanation, to show he was acting in good faith.
"However, Professor, there are certain... preparations you must make yourself." Solim took a deep breath, his expression turning deadly serious. "You will need to procure five healthy living subjects. The stronger their souls, the better."
Snape's face, usually a mask of indifference, twitched in shock and revulsion. "Selwyn," he hissed, "do you have any conception of what you are suggesting?"
"I know exactly what I'm saying," Solim replied, unflinching. "This is the price. The living and the dead are not meant to commune. To breach that barrier, a significant sacrifice is required."
He then drew from beneath his robes a book unlike any other. Its cover was a waxy, yellowish material that seemed to shift in the candlelight, and the embossed image of a heart seemed to pulse faintly. This was a true grimoire, a world away from the theoretical texts he lent to Hermione.
He placed the book on the desk, drew his wand, and with a silent, precise flick, opened a shallow cut on his right wrist. He then pressed his wrist against the cover, letting his blood drip onto the central, heart-shaped design.
Snape watched, his face a stony mask, but his mind was racing. The silent casting, the surgical control of the spell to inflict just the right depth of wound—it was a chilling display of skill.
A soft, gulping sound filled the silence. Snape was certain it came from the book. Solim's blood was not pooling on the cover; it was being drunk. Thin, vein-like patterns emerged from beneath the surface, glowing a faint crimson as they absorbed the offering.
After a moment, Solim pulled his wrist away and healed the cut with a simple spell. "Grimoires. They can only be opened with Selwyn blood," he explained, his voice slightly strained. "It's consuming my blood now. If we don't finish before it's sated, I'll have to cut myself again. Now, look here."
He opened the heavy, blood-fed tome to a specific page filled with dense, archaic script and complex diagrams. "This is what you need to understand about the cost."