The Confundus Charm—its original incantation was something like Confundo—was a simple charm meant for pranks, throwing opponents off balance, or messing with objects. It fired off fast, usually invisible and silent. Most people never saw it coming; they'd just start trembling for a moment and do whatever the caster suggested.
Unlike the Imperius Curse's long-term control, the Confundus only lasted a short while—just enough to muddle someone's thinking.
The trick was pushing your own idea into the spell and letting it tangle with the target's thoughts.
That was exactly what Basil had done when he pointed his finger a minute ago.
One charm for Lee Jordan, one for the Hufflepuff captain.
Lee suddenly felt the need to point out, mid-commentary, how ridiculous it was that a first-year was out-flying a fourth-year.
The captain, meanwhile, had a sudden brilliant idea: maybe bench Anderson and give Diggory a shot.
Both thoughts were perfectly plausible on their own; Basil had simply nudged them along.
The people affected genuinely believed the ideas were theirs.
And just like that, Cedric Diggory became Seeker three years ahead of schedule.
The timeline shifted a little further off-course, and Basil's Gems jumped by another 3,000.
But right now the priority was getting out of there before the mob on the pitch lawn finished losing their minds and lining up to grope Harry.
Basil patted Hermione's fluffy head, gave her a quick look, and started backing toward the castle.
Harry, unfortunately, was still the center of attention and couldn't escape.
It took a full hour before the crowd finally let him go. He slipped through the celebrating students and headed for the broom shed.
"Is this what Basil's world looks like these days?" Harry muttered, leaning against the wooden door.
He didn't get it. Basil got the same level of attention, but nobody ever pawed at him like this.
Harry felt like his butt had been rubbed raw.
Even the joy of Gryffindor's win, the castle glowing red and beautiful in the sunset—it couldn't chase away the gloom he felt right now.
He didn't feel clean anymore.
"Hm?" Harry's eyes caught a shadowy figure.
A hooded person sneaking down the front steps of the castle at dinner time, moving like they didn't want to be seen, then hurrying straight toward the Forbidden Forest.
From that greasy, bat-like glide across the ground, it was unmistakably… Severus Snape.
Curiosity hooked Harry hard.
He hopped back onto his broom and shot into the air.
He glided silently over the castle rooftops and watched Snape sprint into the forest.
He followed.
Harry wasn't the only one who noticed Snape bolting from the castle.
The Great Hall was nearly empty—most people, like Ron and Neville, were still out on the pitch.
Only a handful remained at the tables, aside from the full Slytherin bench.
Fred and George seemed to be throwing an impromptu victory party in the common room; they'd carried food up and were planning to grab cakes from the kitchens.
Basil, though, was one of the few still eating in the Hall.
So he saw Snape slip away too.
Thanks to Snape's expert Occlumency, no one else even registered it.
But Snape was heading into the Forbidden Forest—Basil's blind spot.
In moments he vanished from Basil's map.
Harry disappeared the same way.
Meanwhile, Basil was currently being hand-fed by Hermione.
"Here, open up. Spaghetti with meat sauce, right? Your favorite. Authentic enough?"
Basil took a big bite, eyes dramatically misty. "Totally authentic."
He really wanted to see what Snape was sneaking off to do.
The spaghetti recipe, of course, was one he'd had the house-elves learn.
Along with it he'd introduced a bunch of other comfort foods from back home: loaded mac and cheese, buffalo wings, cornbread, chili, fried pickles, key lime pie, cinnamon rolls.
In the end only the spaghetti with meat sauce, cornbread, key lime pie, and cinnamon rolls made it onto the regular Hogwarts menu.
Talk about no taste.
Britain really was a culinary wasteland.
Back where he came from, the kind of hearty stuff real guys devoured—half of it got rejected?
Thinking about it made Basil take another angry bite.
Damn it—the sauce was made with canned tomatoes, no red wine, no milk, wrong cut of beef, missing the carrot and celery, just onions, but at least they kept the oil separate from the sauce. Authentic my ass. …Still freaking delicious, though.
Over in the forest, Harry was plunging into the biggest confusion of his life.
He'd just overheard a conversation.
Quirrell and Snape.
"What are you doing here, Severus?"
"I believe this matter should remain private," Snape said icily. "After all, the students aren't supposed to know about the Philosopher's Stone. Have you figured out how to get past Hagrid's beast?"
"So what if I have?" Quirrell replied. "That's my area of expertise. Defense Against the Dark Arts covers dangerous magical creatures too. What—you didn't know? No wonder you never got the teaching post."
"You don't want me as an enemy, Quirrell." Snape took a step closer.
Quirrell's face stayed blank even as Snape's breath stirred the fuzz on his turban.
"An enemy? I thought we were colleagues. Wait—you want the Stone for yourself? You want me to tell you how to handle that three-headed dog?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
"I don't."
"Very well," Snape cut in. "Soon enough, when you've had time to think it over and decide who you're really loyal to, we'll speak again."
He swept his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing.
Quirrell gave a cold laugh and headed deeper into the forest—probably taking the long way out from another direction.
Harry clung to a beech branch, frozen like a statue, hovering in place.
A minute later he flew back toward the pitch.
It was almost fully dark, but a crowd still lingered on the field.
Ron spotted Harry and started talking about the common-room party, but Harry barely responded.
He grabbed Ron and dragged him away.
Basil—who could now track Harry's movements—waited with Hermione at the corner of the first-floor staircase.
"Perfect!" Harry panted when he saw them. "I've been looking for you. We need an empty room—somewhere Peeves isn't. Basil, you always manage to dodge him perfectly."
"Follow me," Basil said with a grin.
He led the three of them straight into an empty classroom.
Harry came in last and shut the door.
Then he told them everything he'd seen and heard.
"Listen," he said, still a little lost, "the big question now is—what's the Philosopher's Stone, and which one's the bad guy, Snape or Quirrell?"
"Do you even have to ask?" Ron said instantly. "Snape, obviously. Look how awful he is to us in class—especially to you. Professor Quirrell's just some poor guy who's only here for a year."
"But Hagrid says he's good," Harry hesitated. "Maybe we should figure out what the Stone actually is first."
"I know that one," Basil said with a shrug. "Funny thing—it's connected to a neighbor of mine and Ron's. In the broad sense."
"Nicolas Flamel. Currently living in quiet retirement in Devon with his wife Perenelle."
"His greatest achievement was creating a magical substance—the Philosopher's Stone."
"A stone that can turn any metal into pure gold and produce the Elixir of Life."
"No way," Hermione said automatically, then reconsidered. "The elixir probably just extends life a bit and keeps you looking young—like how Dumbledore's ancient but still full of energy, and Professor McGonagall barely looks thirty."
Basil shook his head. "Nope. Anyone who drinks it lives forever—never dies, never ages. Nicolas Flamel and his six-hundred-and-fifty-eight-year-old wife just celebrated his six-hundred-and-sixty-fifth birthday last year."
At that, he couldn't help thinking of the Nicolas Flamel he'd seen in Fantastic Beasts.
Way too old.
If he hadn't read the entry in the Great Book of Alchemists, he might've actually believed the elixir granted true immortality.
Hermione glanced at Basil's expression and asked cautiously, "Could this be another rumor—like the Grand Wizard thing—just something printed in a biography?"