So, What's the Reward? (Please Read on and Vote)

Dumbledore said nothing. He lowered his head and fell silent.

After thinking for a long while, he finally spoke slowly. "Harry, you truly are the Chosen One. You have courage, and you have resolve."

Harry said nothing. His vertical pupils looked even narrower in the dim light.

"There are some things I can't tell you yet..." Dumbledore paused, trying to make his tone as gentle as possible.

Harry cut him off. "Then there's nothing to discuss, Headmaster Dumbledore. Sweet dreams."

Without another word, he turned and walked away.

Harry pushed open the office door and had one foot out when—

Dumbledore called after him. "Wait."

"Harry, come sit down again. Let me think."

Harry didn't do as he asked, but he stopped walking away and leaned against the doorway, watching Dumbledore from a distance.

"I only have a theory. If anyone can kill Voldemort for good, it's you." Dumbledore spoke earnestly.

"Don't worry, he won't—"

Harry waved a hand, looking thoughtful. "It's only me?"

"Because of this scar?"

As he said that, Harry paused, his brows knotting into a frown. "No one can survive the Killing Curse. Except me."

"Did my parents protect me?"

"Is there some kind of spell that's still working to this day?"

Dumbledore froze, his expression growing even more complicated.

Harry reminded him of someone: someone with equally unusual eyes and equally unusual perception.

"Dumbledore." Harry walked back into the room, no longer adding "Headmaster" when he addressed him. "I can do what you want me to do."

"Voldemort is the enemy who killed my blood relatives."

"If there's something I can do, I'll gladly do it. But you have to tell me why. I can't go in knowing nothing, like some poor sap or a puppet in a play, being manipulated by others."

"I'm not the kind of person who gets riled up just because someone egged me on or tossed me a few compliments."

Dumbledore let out a breath. "All right. I think you're ready."

He gestured for Harry to sit.

"During the period when Voldemort was terrorizing the wizarding world," Dumbledore began slowly, "a Prophecy emerged. A child born as July ended would become Voldemort's mortal enemy. Only one of them could survive."

As he spoke, he studied Harry carefully, trying to read his expression.

No matter how the Prophecy came to pass,

Harry would eventually face Voldemort.

Would he still have the courage?

Harry's expression turned serious. "Neville was born at the end of July too, a day before me."

Dumbledore's expression relaxed slightly. "That's right. Neville was, too. There were two children of the Prophecy, but Voldemort chose you in the end."

"To protect you, your mother used a very ancient spell."

"Voldemort was struck by the spell's backlash, and you survived."

Dumbledore paused. "That spell drew on the greatest force in the world: love."

"Before your parents died, they poured all their love into you."

"That power will continue to protect you—though its tangible protection will eventually fade."

Harry understood. "So... I'm a specialized Potion for dealing with Voldemort?"

Dumbledore nodded.

Harry toyed with his wand. "You can't kill him because... you don't have enough power? Or because even if you killed him, he'd come back—or at least have a chance to?"

"The latter." Dumbledore replied mildly. "But I don't yet know what method he used."

He met Harry's gaze and added, "I'm telling the truth."

Harry fell silent.

It reminded him of a monster.

One that could also... to some extent, return from the dead: a Leshen. It randomly cursed travelers passing through its territory with Dark Magic. As long as the cursed person didn't leave, it could come back to life no matter how many times it was killed.

"I need you to try to face him," Dumbledore continued when Harry didn't reply. "That ancient spell hasn't appeared in a long time. I need to find out what else it can do."

"Whether it merely protects you..."

"Or whether, like that night, it can strike back at the malice he directs toward you."

Harry took a deep breath and stopped thinking about the Leshen.

The magic systems of the two worlds had almost nothing in common. The magic that let Voldemort come back to life was unlikely to be the same as the Leshen's.

He picked up his milk and moistened his slightly dry throat. "How likely is it?"

Dumbledore blinked, looking confused. "What?"

"How likely is it that the ancient spell will work?" Harry clarified, explaining as thoroughly as he could. "It could fail, couldn't it?"

"Even though my scar reacted,"

"I'm sure there's no trace of magic on me that doesn't belong to me."

In the Witcher world, Triss had given him a thorough examination. If there had been anything, she would have told him.

Dumbledore raised a hand, removed his glasses, and set them aside. "The spell's effects are still there. It hasn't failed. At least as far as magic is concerned, you can trust me completely."

"Then what's the reward?" Harry weighed the matter in his mind.

Dumbledore blinked again, looking puzzled. "Reward?"

Harry was perfectly unapologetic. "Of course. You're asking me to risk my life doing this. I can't get nothing out of it."

"You already have the Sorting Hat," Dumbledore said, spreading his hands.

Harry shook his head. "I'm entitled to take the Gryffindor trial. Having it is only right."

"What do you want?" Dumbledore leaned back, his eyes half-lidded and his expression inscrutable.

Harry pursed his lips.

This was a contract. Witchers never took jobs without payment.

But he wasn't short of Galleons.

And his client was the greatest White Wizard of the century. Taking only Galleons would be like leaving a treasure vault empty-handed.

A spell?

He was too young to learn any advanced spells, and besides... a powerful spell couldn't decide everything. In a fight, what mattered most was brains.

"Have you decided?" Dumbledore asked at just the right moment.

Harry shook his head. "No. Let me think it over carefully. I'll give you an answer before the end of term."

When Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, Harry immediately added, "I won't ask for anything outrageous. I know where to draw the line."

Dumbledore nodded and smiled faintly. "Of course. I trust you, Harry."

Harry rubbed his face, finished the milk in his cup, and left without another word.

Silence filled the office.

Dumbledore sat there in a daze, holding his glasses, lost in thought.

"Albus, aren't you spoiling him too much?" one of the portraits couldn't help saying. "He's bargaining with you."

Dumbledore let out a breath, sounding a little tired. "I have to trust him."

In the Gryffindor Common Room,

Harry had barely climbed inside

when a deafening cheer greeted him.

"The Champion who slaughtered a Troll is back!" someone cried, throwing a fist into the air.

"Brilliant!"

George squeezed his way to Harry's side and deftly handed him a Butterbeer. "Ron told us. You killed a Troll all by yourself."

"Plenty of sixth-years still couldn't manage that," Fred chimed in.

A sixth-year wizard nearby, clearly stung by that remark, flushed red and protested with forced indignation. "I couldn't manage it?"

"We get a new professor every year."

"Every time, we have to get used to a whole new teaching style. It's maddening!"

Harry gave them a fake smile and responded to each of them.

Suddenly, someone complained worriedly, "Potter, I know you're amazing, but you shouldn't take such risks next time."

"Hermione was there," Harry replied.

The person frowned. "Ron told us, but she wasn't worth—"

"No, she was." Harry cut her off. "Hermione's a Gryffindor too. Besides... she was injured and ended up in the Hospital Wing because she was trying to help me."

Ron blinked.

He really wanted to ask: Harry, don't you feel guilty saying that?

The person froze.

"She's only eleven. It's normal for her to be immature. If she makes a mistake, she deserves a chance to make amends, doesn't she?" Harry pressed.

The people around them fell silent.

Harry picked up the Troll's head from the middle of the table and beckoned to Ron. "Come on, Ron. Didn't you have something to tell me?"

The two of them headed for the dormitory.

"Harry, do you know what I saw when I went to find a professor?" As soon as they entered the dormitory, before the door had even closed, Ron blurted out excitedly.

"What?"

Ron drew a deep breath, his expression serious. "I saw Professor Snape. He was heading to the third-floor corridor—you know, the one the Headmaster said we weren't allowed to go near."

Harry rubbed his head. "So you waited until I'd killed the Troll before bringing a professor, because you were following Snape?"

Ron froze, his expression sheepish as he ducked his head.

But he soon lifted it again, baring his teeth. "Harry, you know what this means!"

Harry opened his trunk and shoved the Troll's head inside. "What does it mean?"

"The day we first went to see Hagrid," Ron said excitedly, rambling on, "he told us that on the day Gringotts was robbed, he fetched a package for Headmaster Dumbledore."

"It was something precious."

"Nothing else was stolen from Gringotts. That criminal must have been after it."

"And it must be hidden on the third floor."

Harry nodded. "Yes, you're clever. That's exactly right."

Ron raised his head smugly, full of himself. "That person must be Snape. I wonder what kind of treasure could make him so—"

"It's the Sorcerer's Stone." Harry waved a hand, cutting him off.

Ron froze, his expression stiffening. "You know about it?"

"Dumbledore told me. And Professor Snape isn't the one trying to steal the Sorcerer's Stone. It's Quirrell."

"Quirrell?" Ron cried. "How could it be him?"

"He's so meek, so timid. Snape must be forcing him to—"

Harry waved a hand, cutting him off. "No. Professor Snape has nothing to do with it. It's Quirrell. Headmaster Dumbledore and I both confirmed that."

Ron sounded disappointed as he sighed. "Oh, all right. But what is the Sorcerer's Stone?"

"I don't know. Maybe you could ask Hermione." Harry shook his head. He preferred to read deeply rather than broadly, and he hardly ever looked into things he had no use for yet.

Ron's expression grew complicated.

He clenched his fist, then relaxed it.

Harry didn't say anything more to Ron. He didn't mention his agreement with Dumbledore at all—this wasn't something a young wizard should have to bear.

He poked the Sorting Hat. "Speak up. Didn't you say you had something to tell me?"

"Bathing is such a miserable experience," the Sorting Hat sighed. "You have no idea how rough that Weasley boy is."

Ron muttered, "You're filthy."

Harry said nothing, his gaze sharp.

"Put me on, Harry." The Sorting Hat gave in and spoke softly. "I can only let you know about the trial."

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