By the Black Lake, a massive giant squid lounged in the shallow water, soaking up the warm sunlight.
Fred and George Weasley, along with Lee Jordan, were playfully tugging at the squid's tentacles. The creature lazily flicked a tentacle but didn't seem bothered by the bold trio.
Harry Potter, passing by the lake, wasn't in the mood to join in. He rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the sharp pain from his scar, but it was no use.
"Harry, don't stress too much about the exam results. Lucien's taught us plenty—we'll pass with flying colors!" Ron said, trying to cheer him up.
But Harry shook his head hard. "It's not that, Ron. I'm thinking about the Philosopher's Stone…"
A loud whoosh filled the air as a flock of owls swooped toward the castle, carrying letters and packages. Harry glanced up, guessing they were from parents asking about the holiday schedule. He wasn't sure if Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would bother writing, but Hagrid? Hagrid wrote to him all the ti.
Hagrid…
Hagrid!
"Dragon egg!" Harry blurted out, a spark of realization hitting him through the pain. He'd forgotten sothing important.
He leapt to his feet and sprinted toward the gakeeper's hut, leaving Ron and Hermione scrambling to keep up.
"Slow down, Harry! What's the rush?" Ron called.
"It's the dragon egg!" Harry shouted, panting as he ran. "Hagrid loves dragons, right? So why would soone just give him a dragon egg? That's too convenient!"
The trio raced to Hagrid's hut, finding him sitting outside, clumsily playing a tune on his flute—definitely off-key.
"Hagrid, about that dragon egg…" Harry started.
After their chat, it hit Harry like a Bludger: soone had already figured out how to get past Fluffy, the three-headed dog guarding the Stone.
The Philosopher's Stone was in danger.
"I've got to find Dumbledore!" Harry said urgently. "Ron, Hermione—one of you go get Lucien and fill him in. We need his help!"
---
Late that night, the castle was quiet. Most of the young witches and wizards, exhausted from a day of fun, had gone to bed.
In a shadowy corridor, Quirrell glided silently, his purple robes and turban blending into the darkness.
Dumbledore had been called away to London on urgent Ministry business. With the end-of-year exams over, students and professors alike were at their most relaxed. Quirrell knew this was his chance. Voldemort, whispering in his mind, urged him to act.
As he moved through the castle, Quirrell ntally reviewed the obstacles guarding the Stone. He'd spent months piecing together clues from the professors, all for this mont—a swift grab for the Philosopher's Stone, a quick escape from Hogwarts, and then… freedom. Freedom from the Dark Lord living inside him, restored to a body of his own.
He reached the fourth-floor corridor and stopped before a rickety wooden door. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. There was no turning back. Not since that fateful encounter with Voldemort in the dark forests of Albania.
"Go, my loyal servant," Voldemort's voice hissed in his mind. "Seize the Philosopher's Stone…"
Quirrell sighed silently and pulled a small harp from his robes. With a wave of his wand, the harp grew larger, its strings plucking themselves into a soothing lody.
He couldn't believe it: Fluffy, the ferocious three-headed dog, could be lulled to sleep by music. And Hagrid—bless his heart—had spilled the secret after a few drinks. Quirrell almost regretted spending his savings on that dragon egg just to loosen Hagrid's tongue. It hadn't been necessary.
Once loud snoring echoed from behind the door, Quirrell pushed it open. Sure enough, Fluffy was out cold, all three heads drooping, drool pooling on the floor. Quirrell tossed the harp into a corner and waved his wand, shifting Fluffy's massive body to reveal a trapdoor.
He lifted it and peered down at the writhing, snake-like vines below. Devil's Snare—Professor Sprout's doing, as kind and predictable as ever.
Without bothering to cast a light or fire spell, Quirrell jumped straight into the vines. They'd cushion his fall, after all. He landed without looking too closely, missing the round shapes tangled in the Snare.
"Lumos!" he whispered, and a glow burst from his wand. The Devil's Snare loosened its grip, letting him drop to the floor below.
Crack, crack, crack—
As his feet hit the ground, Quirrell heard sothing hard clatter around him, falling alongside him. He pointed his wand downward, illuminating the floor.
Scattered across it were smooth, yellowish-green cabbages, so still dropping from the retracting Devil's Snare above. At first, Quirrell was confused—cabbages? None of his intel ntioned cabbages.
Then one of the "cabbages" split open, revealing rows of sharp, black teeth that glinted nacingly.
Not cabbages—Chinese Chomping Cabbages!
Quirrell, a proud Ravenclaw alumnus with a knack for Herbology, recognized them instantly. He threw up a shield charm, but in his haste, it wasn't strong enough. One cabbage lunged, shattering the shield and tearing into his left arm. Fabric and flesh ripped away in a spray of blood. If he hadn't yanked his hand back, he'd have lost it entirely.
"Damn it! Why's it always the left hand?" he cursed, firing off fla spells. Fire was the best way to deal with Chomping Cabbages.
He wasn't wrong, but there were so many of them. The more he burned, the faster the Devil's Snare above retreated, dropping even more cabbages. By the ti he'd torched the last one, his left arm and right calf were shredded, his robes in tatters.
Limping down the next corridor, Quirrell gritted his teeth against the pain. "What's gotten into Professor Sprout? Hiding Chomping Cabbages in Devil's Snare? That's ruthless!"
"Don't dwell on the pain," Voldemort's voice purred in his head. "The Stone is close… Once I'm restored, your wounds will be nothing."
Quirrell bit back his frustration. "Next is Professor Flitwick's challenge. He was my old Head of House—I know him. He said it wouldn't be too tough. I'm sure of it!"
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