"Richie, what did the snakes even want from you?" Justin asked.
"As far as I could tell, they were simply looking for a fight," Richard replied calmly. "They came up to us, and Malfoy immediately started insulting Ron. We put up with it for a while, but eventually he crossed every line. We had to show those upstarts that words have consequences."
"Too right!" Macmillan agreed. "I was going to help you. As soon as I saw there were four Slytherins and only three of you, I hurried over, but then I realised you clearly didn't need any help."
"If you'll excuse me," Richard said after checking his watch, "I've got an important meeting. See you back in the common room."
Richard's gaze slipped from the watch face to the back of his left hand, just above the wrist. His eyes widened in astonishment as he noticed a small burn mark—a horizontal stroke from which two shorter lines branched off at forty-five-degree angles.
Richard immediately recalled the runic alphabet that Madam Marchbanks had spent an entire month drilling into his head during their charms practice. The burn looked crude and hastily made, yet it bore a striking resemblance to the Feoh rune.
Before the expedition for the Philosopher's Stone, there had been nothing of the sort on his hand. The only moment when the burn could have appeared was when Richie had used the lightsaber to reflect the Avada Kedavra back at Quirrell. Sparks had flown in every direction then; apparently one or more of them had struck his left hand.
Come to think of it, Richard had taken sparks from a Killing Curse directly onto his skin. The only person ever known to survive being struck by the Avada Kedavra was Harry Potter. Harry bore a scar on his forehead that, incidentally, looked remarkably similar to the Sigel rune, also known as Sowilo. Richie had only been hit by sparks from the curse, which presumably explained why his wound was much smaller and why he had not died.
The stress and adrenaline still coursing through his veins had kept Richard from feeling any pain, but the moment he noticed the wound, it began to itch and ache slightly.
With some difficulty, Richie tore his gaze away from the burn and headed towards the North Tower.
Throughout the walk, Grosvenor Junior could not stop thinking about the mark. He simply could not understand why it had taken the shape of a rune. Was this a standard magical reaction to a reflected Killing Curse, or merely a coincidence?
Halfway there, Richard's mind cleared somewhat, and he remembered that any wound ought to be treated, no matter how insignificant it appeared. Memories surfaced of hygiene lessons from his previous life, where teachers liked to frighten pupils with cautionary tales along the lines of: "One fellow stepped on a nail and decided it would heal on its own. Next thing he knew, they were cutting off his leg."
So many years had passed since primary school, and he was living an entirely different life now, yet the conditioning still worked. Richie stopped and reached for his bag...
Only for his hand to meet empty air.
The bag was no longer in its usual place. After all, just over half an hour earlier, Richard had handed it over to the Squib soldier himself. Perhaps he had been overly cautious, but it was always better to be too careful than not careful enough. What if the Headmaster decided to conduct a mass search? Say, during the night with the help of house-elves? And inside the bag, what a surprise—the Philosopher's Stone and the very tools used to steal it.
The first-floor corridor of the tower near the staircase was empty. For a moment, Richard thought he saw a shadow flicker behind him. The boy froze and carefully examined the corridor, but neither saw nor heard anything. The wall torches cast uneven shadows, so Richie dismissed it as a trick of the light.
Soon footsteps echoed on the stairs, and Harry and Ron appeared.
"You're right. Nobody's here," Harry observed after looking around.
"I suggest we find an empty classroom," Richard said.
"Brilliant idea!" Ron agreed.
The boys walked along the corridor, trying door handles as they went. The second classroom they checked happened to be unlocked. Inside, everything was covered in dust, and the room contained only old, half-rotted desks. They looked as though a single sneeze would make them collapse.
The boys entered the classroom and shut the door behind them. Richie immediately put his wand to work. A few minutes of cleaning charms banished the dust, while levitation helped move the desks against the walls. Not all the ancient furniture survived the relocation, however—some of the desks fell apart during the process.
By the time Richard finished tidying up, Ron had already removed the owl from his bag, and Harry had prepared the potion.
The owl regained consciousness and immediately tried to escape Ron's iron grip. It stared at the approaching Harry in horror and attempted to peck him. Ron, however, caught the bird's head with his left hand and deftly inserted a pre-prepared wooden spacer into its beak. Harry somehow managed to pour the potion down the owl's throat, though he spilled most of the vial in the process.
Richard watched all of this with barely concealed horror. In his opinion, it would have been far better simply to release the owl and claim that the Philosopher's Stone had been lost. He did not want the boys taking the blame. Better to pin the disappearance of the Stone on the owl. His overactive imagination even suggested using a Counter-Spell on the bird while planting the idea that swallowing the Philosopher's Stone might have ruined it. The bird would be a pity to lose, of course, but it was a relatively small sacrifice.
"Lads," Richard began, drawing Harry's and Ron's attention, "I've been thinking. We don't actually know anything about the properties of the Philosopher's Stone… The owl's stomach acid might damage it. Or perhaps the owl will digest it just like a hamburger. And we've no idea what might happen after that. The bird might die, or it might become immortal. Or some completely unpredictable magical reaction could occur."
Harry spared Richard only a brief glance before returning his full attention to the owl.
"As long as the Stone's all right," he said hopefully.
"I really hope you're wrong, Richie," Ron muttered.
Weasley was growing tired of holding the owl, which continued to struggle furiously and attempt to peck him. Besides, he understood perfectly well what happened after someone took a laxative potion, and he had no desire whatsoever to ruin his robes with bird droppings.
(End of Chapter)
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