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Heavy is the Crown (Harry Potter) Chapter 122: Secret Meeting
🕑 Added 2025-12-03 23:26:26 +0000 UTC[Third Person Pov]
Harry was the last one to step out of the locker room, Nimbus 2000 resting comfortably against his shoulder. He was expecting to walk into an empty corridor… but instead, leaning casually against the stone wall with his hands tucked deep into his pockets, was Arthur.
Harry blinked in mild surprise, “What are you doing here?” he wondered as he slowed his pace, eyes briefly scanning Arthur from head to toe. “Shouldn’t you be with the others celebrating?”
“Eh,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, “never been much of a party guy. Besides, it wouldn’t feel like much of a celebration without the main event, now would it?” He raised his hand in a congratulatory gesture. “Good job on that winning catch, by the way.”
Harry slapped his palm with a small, almost shy grin—still unused to the praise and attention that came with being Gryffindor’s new Seeker. “Thanks,” he murmured.
They began walking side by side down the corridor, the warm remnants of adrenaline still humming through Harry’s veins. After a moment, Harry glanced sideways at him. “I’m honestly surprised you’re not a party guy, considering how sociable you are.”
Arthur stretched his arms back, lacing his fingers behind his head as he strolled. “That’s because during parties I’m usually thinking more about the food than the socializing,” he admitted bluntly. “Talking to people is fine and all, but nothing beats a good table full of snacks.”
Harry snorted, remembering the absolute mountain of food Arthur could pack away without effort. “Somehow, I’m not surprised…”
Arthur accompanied him all the way toward the broomshed, keeping pace with a slight bounce in his steps. He could practically feel the pride radiating off Harry, the boy still glowing from his quick victory over Hufflepuff. Naturally, Arthur couldn’t resist poking at him.
“I’m glad to see you actually listened to me and followed my advice,” he teased, tone smug.
“Wha—oh, that,” Harry said, momentarily confused before rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, that,” Arthur said dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Honestly, you should be thanking me. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened if you hadn’t listened. Total disaster. Catastrophic failure, even.”
Harry laughed and shook his head. “It probably would’ve ended exactly the same.”
“Nonsense,” Arthur shot back, flicking his hand dismissively. “You would’ve been absolutely hopeless without me. In fact, instead of being the substitute, I should apply to be the coach. I’m telling you—I’d kill it.”
Harry was still laughing by the time they reached the broomshed. He paused and glanced toward Hogwarts castle. The sunset bathed the stone walls in a brilliant red glow, and the Gryffindor tower windows glittered warmly—no doubt filled with students celebrating the team’s victory.
But before he could turn away, movement on the staircase caught his eye.
A hooded figure slipped quickly down the front steps of the castle. The way the person moved—fast, purposeful, clearly not wanting to attract attention—immediately set Harry’s nerves on edge. The cloak swayed oddly with each stride, revealing just enough for Harry to recognize the distinctive gait.
His stomach tightened.
That was Snape.
And he was heading straight toward the Forbidden Forest… at a time when everyone else was supposed to be in the Great Hall eating dinner.
Harry turned sharply to Arthur, eyes wide with silent urgency, wordlessly asking if he had seen it too. Arthur’s brow furrowed, confirming that he had.
Harry didn’t hesitate. He swung back onto his broom in one smooth motion. “Come on,” he said, voice serious. “Let’s investigate.”
“Why not?” Arthur replied, hopping on behind him without question.
Together they kicked off the ground and shot across the grounds toward the looming darkness of the Forbidden Forest.
The moment they crossed into the tree line, the canopy swallowed most of the remaining daylight. The trees were so thick and tightly packed that Harry could barely see more than a few feet ahead. They circled carefully above the treetops, lowering bit by bit, branches scraping the underside of the broomsticks.
Then—voices.
Harry tensed.
He guided the broom toward the sound, landing noiselessly on a sturdy branch of a towering beech tree. The boys quickly climbed along one of its thick limbs, crouching low as they pushed aside leaves and tried to peer through the foliage toward the clearing below…
Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape—black cloak blending almost perfectly into the encroaching darkness. But he wasn’t alone. Quirrell hovered several feet away, hat trembling on his head, his entire posture twisted with visible anxiety. Harry couldn’t make out the full expression on the man’s face, but the stutter carrying up through the branches was worse than Harry had ever heard.
Arthur, however, could see everything.
A faint hum of magic flickered across his irises as he activated the circuits woven into his eyes. His pupils sharpened like the focus of a camera lens, colors deepened, shadows peeled back. He wasn’t just seeing the clearing—he was dissecting it. He enhanced his hearing as well, filtering out rustling leaves and the distant howl of some forest creature, zeroing in on the muffled voices below. Harry strained beside him, trying desperately to catch the conversation.
“. . . d-don’t know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus . . .” Quirrell whimpered.
“Oh, I thought we’d keep this private,” Snape replied, his voice smooth and icy. “Students aren’t supposed to know about the Sorcerer’s Stone, after all.”
Harry’s breath hitched. His fingers curled around the bark as he leaned forward, heart thudding.
Quirrell mumbled something too faint for him to decipher.
Snape cut him off sharply. “Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid’s yet?”
“B-b-but Severus, I—”
“You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell,” Snape hissed, taking a single, deliberate step closer. The movement alone carried enough threat to make Harry shiver.
“I-I don’t know what you—”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
An owl screeched somewhere overhead, loud and sudden. Harry jerked in shock, nearly losing his balance—but Arthur’s hand shot out, gripping the back of his robes and steadying him without taking his eyes off the clearing.
Harry recovered just in time to hear Snape’s final ultimatum.
“—your little bit of hocus-pocus. I’m waiting.”
“B-but I d-d-don’t—”
“Very well.” Snape’s voice lowered to a deadly calm. “We’ll have another little chat soon, when you’ve had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie.” He swept his cloak over his head and strode away, vanishing into the trees like a crawling shadow.
Quirrell remained where he stood. Perfectly still. Unnaturally so.
Harry squinted, thinking Quirrell was petrified frozen with fear, but Arthur saw everything in horrifying clarity.
The trembling stopped.
The hunched posture straightened.
And Quirrell’s face… shifted.
The panicked expression melted into something cold and emotionless, almost bored, as if the earlier stuttering terror had simply been a mask he’d grown tired of wearing.
Harry turned to him, silently signaling it was time to retreat. Arthur nodded, and the two of them climbed back through the branches and onto the broom. They took off, racing toward the edge of the forest until the safety of open air embraced them again.
By the time they reached the broomshed, Harry’s expression had twisted into a grimace.
“So the way to get past Fluffy is in the hands of Quirrell…” he muttered. “That is not good.”
Arthur didn’t respond at first. He stared toward the forest, brows furrowed in thought. Harry caught the look and frowned.
“What’s on your mind?”
“…Nothing,” Arthur began, though his tone suggested the opposite. “I’m just thinking. Isn’t Snape like—a pretty advanced potions master? Why doesn’t he just brew a super strong sleeping draught, feed it to Fluffy, and slip right past? Or learn a hypnosis spell? Or literally any charm to paralyze him for five minutes?”
Harry froze. He stared at Arthur, mouth slightly agape.
“What?” Arthur asked, blinking when he noticed Harry’s horrified expression.
“Arthur,” Harry said slowly, almost pleadingly, “for all our sakes… I really hope he never develops common sense.”
There was a moment of stillness.
And then Arthur burst into uncontrollable laughter—loud, doubled over until he had to lean against the shed for support. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes.
“Lucky for us,” Arthur wheezed between laughs, “that shouldn’t be a problem!”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh, even though Arthur’s logic had unlocked a brand-new kind of fear he absolutely did not need.
Still chuckling, the two boys left the broomshed behind and began the walk back toward the castle—where the glow of the Great Hall lights stood in stark contrast to the secrets now weighing heavily on Harry’s mind.
