Chapter Forty-Six: Through the Flames
Hermione clapped her hands excitedly. "Exactly. The final challenge is Dumbledore's protection, the strongest safeguard for the Philosopher's Stone. This is the key trial—and the hardest to get through. We could wait here; maybe Snape won't get the Stone. Even if he does, he should be exhausted. We could seize the opportunity here."
Harry's gaze flickered. He was almost persuaded, but then his resolve hardened again. "I can't just stay here. I won't allow myself to retreat. Maybe waiting here is a strategy, but Snape might never stop… The Stone is inside that passage, and even Voldemort is there. He could use the Stone to restore himself."
Hermione looked at Harry's stubbornness with a mixture of frustration and worry. She shook her fists and shouted, "If Voldemort is in there, you dare go in? Why would you even try to stop him?"
A trace of helplessness crossed Harry's face. He knew his reasons weren't entirely rational. "I've faced Voldemort before, haven't I? I can still turn things around."
He touched the scar on his forehead. "I can feel it burning through my body and soul. I can't let myself shrink back. I can't give up. Giving up is surrender—I'd be living completely under Voldemort's terror. Losing everything." His voice cracked with emotion.
Hermione's lips trembled. She wanted to say something, to persuade him, but seeing the frail body before her—a body that yet seemed determined to embrace the world—she found no words. All she could manage was to ask, "Does it hurt?"
"Yes… and no," Harry replied incoherently. "I mean, I can handle it. I won't give in, but it's… painful."
For a moment, everyone fell silent, recognizing the weight of his courage.
Harry wanted to confront fear, to defeat nightmares. In this moment, no one could stop him from moving forward, no matter how much they wished he wouldn't.
"Wait a few minutes. I'm trying to clear the flames," George said as Harry and Hermione spoke. He was already standing before the fire, eyes fixed, quickly scanning his memory for any method to dispel it.
Hermione looked excited, eagerly watching Harry. "Just a few more minutes," she said.
"All right, but I can't delay too long. The scar's burning worse." Harry's gaze shifted to George. He trusted George's power to eventually put out the flames—but it would take time, and they didn't have much.
After a while, George began muttering spells under his breath. He waved his wand, and the flames writhed violently. They surged and shrank, stretched and contracted, tore and closed—but ultimately returned to their original state. Hermione and Ron approached, drew their wands, and joined the effort to combat the flames.
"Which potion allows you to return?" Harry suddenly asked.
Hermione turned, and without hesitation, replied, "The round bottle on the far right."
"Hermione, drink that bottle," Harry said before she could speak. "Don't interrupt me. Listen: take a broom from the room we flew the key over. I'll carry you through the trapdoor to avoid Fluffy. Then go straight to the Owlery and have Hedwig send a letter to Dumbledore asking for his support."
Hermione hesitated. She refused to leave alone. "And what about you?" she asked immediately.
"I can't wait. I must charge into the fire. I can handle Snape. I know I'm not a match for him, but I can lure him over. George and Ron will help me." Harry had thought carefully before explaining his reasoning to persuade everyone.
Hermione turned to George, hope shining in her eyes. "George, can you put out these flames?"
"It'll take some time. The flames aren't spontaneous—they're created with the magic circle and this environment. Otherwise, I'd have cleared them already," George said with some helplessness. Spells alone couldn't stop him, but facing a trap designed with care left him at a temporary loss.
Harry didn't want to delay any longer. He was afraid—not just of the Snape or Voldemort ahead, but of his friends entering the chamber and dying at Voldemort's hands. The burning scar on his forehead constantly reminded him of the power of his opponent. For a moment, he wanted to move forward alone, but fear held him back.
Yet again, he summoned courage—absolute courage—and stepped forward, facing his enemy. Whether it was Snape or Voldemort, he would not yield. He might be defeated, he might be killed, but he would never admit failure. Never. Just like his parents.
Harry strode to the table and picked up the smallest bottle. He drained its contents in a single gulp. "Here I come."
Instantly, a chill swept over him like ice. He felt as if he had returned to before his eleventh birthday—hiding alone in a cupboard, cold and hungry, surrounded by darkness and silence. Time seemed stretched. But now, something had changed. He was no longer afraid.
He set the bottle down and walked past George and Ron. The black flames climbed along his body, yet he felt no heat.
"Harry, you need to come back!" Hermione's voice called from behind.
Harry was engulfed by the black flames. He watched the fire consume him, yet he felt nothing and saw nothing—until he felt a sense of weightlessness and emerged on the other side, entering another room.
Inside, he found someone—but it was neither Snape nor Voldemort.
It was Quirrell.
"Was it you?" Harry asked, almost breathless with shock. Though George had warned him that Quirrell was untrustworthy, the one who stole the Stone could indeed have been Quirrell. Harry had long imagined Snape or even Voldemort as the enemy—now he didn't know how to respond.
Quirrell glanced sideways, a smug look replacing his usual timid caution. "Of course it's me," he said, his voice chilling. "I was wondering if you'd suddenly appear. I saw you, Potter."
"But where's Snape?" Harry asked, looking around, still unable to believe that Snape wasn't there.
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