The fall was longer than expected.
I mean, you'd think Hogwarts would at least have the decency to enchant the landing. But no. Apparently, the geniuses who built this deathtrap thought a near-death drop was a great opening act. No soft cushioning spell, no featherfall charm—just gravity and misplaced trust.
I landed first—thankfully on something soft, wet, and far too sentient for comfort. I made a note to later investigate whether I'd just insulted a magical fern.
Ron followed with all the elegance of a flying wardrobe. Hermione landed in a controlled tumble that would've made a stunt double applaud. Harry hit the floor with a thud that shook the vines around us.
"Everyone alive?" I called out.
"Define alive," Ron groaned, half-wrapped in vines.
"Capable of sarcasm. Good enough."
The room was dark, damp, and smelled like overcooked broccoli and compost left to ferment in the sun. The floor pulsed, the walls squelched, and the general ambience screamed: Herbology's evil cousin lives here.
Devil's Snare.
"Don't move," I said immediately, voice calm and sharp. "It likes panic."
Ron thrashed anyway. Predictably.
"It's on my leg! I think it's in my sock!"
"Ron!" Hermione shouted, wrestling with the vines herself.
"Stop moving!" I snapped. "You're feeding it fear. Or stupidity. Maybe both."
I reached into my bag and pulled out a sealed jar labeled: PETROL. FOR SNAKES AND OTHER PROBLEMS.
Hermione's face twisted. "You brought gasoline?!"
"It was either this or a ferret with matches," I replied. "And I left the ferret in my other coat."
I gently placed the jar on a small patch of floor free of vines, then stepped back. With a flick of my wand, I ignited the contents in a controlled burst of flame. The light and heat flared upward, casting long shadows across the writhing walls. The Devil's Snare hissed in protest and recoiled from the brightness, withdrawing into the darker corners like it had just smelled a Gryffindor's report card dipped in sunshine.
The vines slithered away as fast as they'd appeared. We scrambled onto the exposed stone platform in the middle of the room.
"Are you mental?" Ron wheezed.
"Only on weekdays," I said, brushing my hands off. I left the jar where it was—no sense in carrying around used pyrotechnics. I had more if I needed them.
"Why didn't you just use Lumos?" Hermione asked, exasperated.
I shrugged. "As an aspiring arsonist, I didn't feel it left enough of an impact."
"Why do I feel that school detention is no where near enough of a deserving punishment for you?" Harry deadpanned.
"Cause it probably isn't." Ron responded.
"But it worked, and you still have both legs. You're welcome." I said with a flourish.
The next chamber looked like a storm of metallic insects had been trapped in a snow globe. Keys—dozens of winged, darting, glittering keys—zoomed around the vast space, all flapping like angry butterflies with iron wings and something to prove.
"Looks like we need one of them," Harry said, already walking toward the broom in the corner.
I placed a hand on his shoulder. "And break your nose in the process? Let's try a less bone-shattering approach."
He looked skeptical.
I pulled out what appeared to be a brass-and-wood hand cannon. Hermione squinted at it.
"What is that?" Harry asked.
"Enchanted, re-engineered, and stolen—with love—from Madam Hooch's shed."
Ron's eyes lit up. "I like where this is going."
I took aim, charged the rune sequence, and fired.
THWUMP!
A magical net exploded into the air like a spiderweb made of static and string. It captured a solid third of the room's keys in a glittering, tangled cluster. Several others panicked and slammed into the walls.
Hermione ducked as one key shot past her ear like a jilted hummingbird. "You're going to get us impaled!"
"I prefer the term chaotically efficient."
"Insane," she muttered.
"Efficient," I corrected with a grin.
Hermione rolled her eyes and raised her wand. "Immobulus!" she cast, and instantly the buzzing chaos stopped—the keys froze mid-flight like some kind of suspended art installation.
"Okay, that was impressive," Ron muttered.
Harry stepped forward, scanning the motionless cloud of keys. "There. The one with the broken wing. That's it."
I raised the launcher again. "Hold your applause."
With a second THWUMP, the launcher spat out a tightly packed net that bloomed mid-air like an angry metal flower. It snapped around a cluster of frozen keys—including the one with the broken wing—and yanked them downward in a graceful, glittering arc. I stepped forward and plucked the correct key from the tangled mess as it dropped neatly into my hand, like it had always meant to be there.
Hermione blinked. "Show off."
"Perfect fit," she said, inserting it into the lock.
The door swung open.
"Chaos: 2. Hogwarts: 0," I muttered, walking through.
Just as Hermione and I stepped past the threshold, we heard Ron behind us.
"Oy, this broom looks brilliant!"
He grabbed the handle.
Instantly, every key in the room erupted into a frenzy. The air became a swirling hornet's nest of jagged metal and furious fluttering.
I spun around. "Ron—!"
The keys weren't just moving—they were swarming. All of them.
Harry dove through the doorway. Hermione pulled him aside as keys clattered against the stone walls.
Ron was still in the room, clutching the broom and ducking wildly. "They're aiming for me?!"
"Apparently they're big fans of dramatic irony!" I shouted.
Without another word, I dropped to my rear, raised the launcher again, and braced both feet against the sides of the doorway.
"Ron, hold on!"
I fired. The net launched with a THWUMP, wrapping around Ron's middle and the broom like a present wrapped by someone who had never cared for neatness.
"Pulling you in!" I called.
The netline reeled in at a very fast pace, my boots anchoring me as the mechanism dragged Ron through the doorway with a surprised yelp.
Hermione slammed the door behind him the moment he skidded across the stone floor as we finished dragging him in.
Ron lay there, panting, broom still clutched in both hands with small bruise welts on his hand and face.
"Blimey," he breathed. "That was close."
The chess room loomed ahead like a silent battlefield frozen in time. Enormous stone pieces towered over us, arranged in a perfect starting formation. They radiated menace—each one still, yet watching.
Ron inhaled sharply. "Oh… this is it. Wizard's Chess."
He practically vibrated with excitement.
"Wait," I said. "You like this?"
He beamed. "We play at home all the time. I'm pretty good."
"Great. Lead the way, Grandmaster Weasley."
Ron studied the board with all the seriousness of a general on the eve of battle. Hermione and Harry watched anxiously, but I stepped off to the side, glancing at the broken pieces discarded near the wall.
"Why are those off the board?" I asked.
"Previous players," Ron muttered.
"Unacceptable."
I raised my wand. "Reparo."
The shattered pieces shivered, then snapped back together with sharp clicks and flashes of light. I levitated them back into their proper positions with a flourish.
Hermione blinked. "Wait—are you trying to restore the missing players?"
"I don't like sacrificing friends," I said simply. "Even the rocky ones."
With the board fully restored, Ron moved forward and called out the first move. The game began.
He played with confidence, precision, and just enough flair to make me suspicious he'd practiced dramatic pauses.
The pieces obeyed. One by one, we advanced, forcing back the opposing side with a well-planned gambit. The board was a blur of clashing stone and echoing commands.
Ten minutes later, the final piece fell.
The path cleared.
No one had to be sacrificed.
Ron exhaled in awe. "That… was brilliant."
"I'm a pacifist," I said. "Unless I'm annoyed. Or hungry."
Hermione rolled her eyes.
Next: the troll room.
Massive. Smelly. Loud.
The troll was asleep. His snores rattled the bones in my ears.
Ron froze. "It's the one from Halloween…"
Hermione wrinkled her nose. "It's huge. And definitely not the same one from any class we've seen."
Harry made a move toward his wand.
"Nope," I said, holding out a hand.
I reached into my bag and pulled out a small vial. It shimmered faintly purple.
"What's that?" Harry asked.
"Distilled essence of Lockhart's favorite cologne. Repulsive even to monsters."
Harry frowned "Whose Lockhart?"
"oh, I know. Mum loves reading his books." Ron Exclaimed.
Ignoring them, I tossed it at the far wall. It shattered.
The troll groaned, gagged, rolled over, and shoved its face into the floor like it was trying to forget it had a nose.
Ron gagged too. "Blimey, that's foul."
Hermione winced. "Shouldn't Chemical warfare be banned!"
"It is. I brewed it anyway."
We tiptoed past. Chaos: 4. Hygiene: -20.
The potions room came next. Eight bottles. Two doors. Black flames, to go forward, Purple flames where we just came from.
Hermione gasped. "A logic puzzle."
She stepped forward, already reading the scroll aloud.
"There's only one bottle to go forward," she said, her voice quickening with excitement. "Two that'll take you back through the purple flames. Two bottles of nettle wine, one full of poison, and two bottles of water."
"Classic," I muttered, already unrolling my snack pouch.
Ron blinked. "Is that… trail mix?"
"Yes. One handful every time someone does something ridiculous or outright stupid."
Hermione focused in silence, fingers hovering over the bottles.
Five minutes later, she pointed to the smallest vial. "This one's the one to go forward."
Harry nodded and stepped up. "I'll go ahead. Make sure it's not too late."
Ron looked up, concerned. "Mate—"
"I have to," Harry said. "If Quirrell's in there, I can't let him get to the Stone."
Hermione nodded. "We'll go back. Tell a professor. Try to bring help."
I touched her shoulder before she moved. "Before you go… point out the nettle wine and the water."
She gave me a quizzical look but quickly complied, marking the bottles.
"Just in case I get thirsty waiting," I said with a shrug.
She looked like she didn't believe that for a second.
Harry drank the potion and vanished through the black flames.
Hermione and Ron took the two backward bottles and stepped into the purple flames.
I was alone.
Just me, two doors, Five bottles… and the eerie quiet of a gauntlet nearly complete.
Funny thing though, Flames aren't exactly solid. I could still see faint outlines through the black flames, just enough to tell what was happening in the other room.
I could hear voices too—faint, but rising.
"You?" Harry's voice echoed, shocked.
Then another voice—higher, colder, slithering with malice—spoke from beyond the black flames: "Yes... me."
I froze.
That wasn't Quirrell. That was something else. Something older.
Harry's gasp carried through the flames. "You're Voldemort?!"
Wait, can they hear me too?
"Gross, man! You really need to cover that up. You look like a cursed raisin that fell behind a radiator and developed sentience. Put a hat on, for the sake of society." I said loudly.
"WHO SAID THAT!?" Voldemorts voice yelled from the other room.
I was holding back my laughter. "Your conscience. He may be beaten down, but even he couldn't stand your mug! You look like a burnt prune got cursed by a boggart and lost a duel to an unwashed sock!"
Harry was at a loss for words. What the hell was happening?