Check Mate, Mate

"Well, crap," Milo muttered. "That right there is a Hell of a lot of keys."

There were thousands of tiny golden, silver, and brass keys fluttering about the chamber, somewhat reminiscent of Golden Snitches—if the semi-sentient sporting equipment were somehow integral to solving the plot and defeating a powerful dark wizard. (Psh).

"So... what," Ron mused, "we have to find the right one? That's like looking for a, well, a key in a stack of keys. Moving keys. Blimey, this will take the rest of our lives."

"Assuming we could even grab them," Hermione added. "They're pretty high up there. Or, you know, I could save the lot of us a lifetime of searching, and just Alohomora the lock."

"Brilliant!" Ron exclaimed.

Hermione raised her wand and aimed it at the door, but stopped abruptly.

"Unless, of course, someone wants to interrupt my spell to vent his or her paranoid delusions about how the door is clearly trapped," she said to no-one in particular. Milo felt his cheeks growing hot. "Or some crackpot, circuitous theory about Dumbledore's real, secret plan."

"Just open the damn door, Hermione," Milo growled. "There's no sensible reason that, if they had a charm or whatever that could stop Alohomora, they'd use it here and not on the first door. Clearly, it slipped the vaunted brain of our brilliant headmaster that Flickwick was handing out magical lockpicks to eleven-year-olds."

"Very well, if you insist. Alohomora!" Nothing happened. Hermione frowned. "Alohomora!"

"Isn't it Alo-ho-more-ah?" Ron teased.

"Oh, shut up, Ron. Anyone have another idea?"

"My Merlin-like powers of deduction suggest we try to find the key," said Ron. "Or, maybe Milo can use some kind of hitherto-unforseen door-opening spell?"

I could always Fly up there, Milo mused, but I wouldn't even know where to begin to find the right key— much less actually catch it. Besides, I need to preserve my magic for the BBEG.

"Stands to reason we should be able to get through without resorting to that," he said. "Quirrell and Harry obviously managed to get through here, right? They only had wanded magic."

"Good name," Hermione said idly. Her forehead was creased with thought, staring up at the keys.

"Thanks. I figured some sort of differentiation was necessary. Ron, take a look around the room and see if you can find anything helpful—a clue, or maybe a piece of equipment."

"Right," he said, and started wandering around the labyrinthine room. Thick, heavy pillars broke up sightlines at irregular intervals, necessitating a manual search of the room.

"Hermione, I need you to make a Knowledge check."

"Pardon?" she asked.

"Just sit and think about the room you're in. Does anything about this ring any bells? Do flying keys appear prominently in any local lore or children's legends?"

Hermione blinked, then frowned, as if trying to remember something said in a conversation from a fortnight prior that only barely registered.

"The Flying Keys were a pair of brothers who were famous pilots decades ago," she said, "but I doubt that has any bearing here." Milo, to whom a pilot was someone who navigated a boat into or out of dangerous harbours in foul weather, was unable to fathom how they earned such a nickname. He chose, however, not to inform Hermione to this particular fact. "Other than that... no. I've got nothing. However, we can probably assume the key was made to match the lock, correct?"

"Hmm. That depends. If the builder wanted to keep us out, the key would have no obvious identifying features whatsoever, and only be determinable by, say, a custom spell. No, scratch that. If he or she really wanted to keep everyone out, there wouldn't be a door. You don't build doors to keep people out—that's what walls are for. The door could be some sort of trick... maybe it's a con. A shell game. None of the keys fit. This room was created to delay intruders until a crack team of Aurors can arrive."

"Can't be," Hermione countered. "Quirrell and Harry got through ahead of us, so there must be some way through. Maybe it's a test?" she suggested. "You can only pass if you can figure out the puzzle?"

"But why?" Milo asked. "I see two possibilities: this dungeon is either some sort of test of worthiness, or it's designed to keep anyone out who doesn't know the trick to entering. In the first case... why bother? If they wanted to give the Stone to someone worthy, Dumbledore and Flamel could just work together and pick someone, avoiding this hassle. In the second case, and it's designed for only a select group of people to enter—say, Dumbledore, Flamel, maybe McGonagall—then why have any clues at all? Everyone in the group knows the trick. Anything and everything observable in the dungeon, therefore, is designed to throw intruders off the trail to it. It's just as likely that none of the keys work, and there's a secret password or lever—or a hidden door."

"My point still stands. Quirrell figured it out, remember?"

"Unless..." Milo used a dramatic pause as cover to reach into his Belt. "Gotcha!" he shouted, flinging a handful of garlic powder directly behind him. "Crap," he sighed.

"Let me guess," the corners of her lips twitched slightly. "You assumed he was hiding under the effects of a Disillusionment Charm, waiting for us to open the door so he, being a dastardly villain, could follow us through?"

"...Maybe. But it was a perfectly reasonable guess, and if you say one word otherwise, please be reminded that I know where you live."

"There's one more thing we haven't considered," Hermione said slowly. "Maybe Quirrell is one of this alleged group, and knows the trick?"

"I... crap." It made sense. Quirrell was the DADA Professor, after all. If they were going to build a big dungeon to keep out dark wizards in their castle, who else would you ask for help? Of course Quirrell knew the way through this room.

"Blimey!" Ron shouted from across the room. "You'll never guess what I've found?"

"A secret door?" Hermione asked.

"Treasure?" Milo said at the same time.

"Neither!" Ron said. "three Comet Two-Sixties!"

"Crap. Crap. Crap." Milo was still unable to get a broomstick to respond to his presence at all, and Hermione was hardly any better. A quick glance at Hermione's face revealed she didn't relish the thought of flight any more than he did.

"And they've been slashed to pieces!" Ron added.

"Oh, thank God," Hermione said explosively, releasing a long-held breath.

"So, what were you two talking about? Figure out what we're supposed to do, yet?" Ron asked.

"Uh..." Milo said. "Sort of. We determined the door is trapped, and that none of the keys fit it... and that it's probably a fake and we have to beat a con man at a shell game, or... something. It got kind of complicated."

"So... I take it we're still clueless."

"Ah, screw it. Kelgore's Fire Bolt." An obsidian-black shard of stone glowing red with heat burst from Milo's opened palm and flew towards the door at just under the speed of sound, arcane energy crackling around it like a comet's tail. As soon as the tip of the stone touched the ancient oak door, it exploded into a searing red ball precisely five feet across, leaving their vision flecked with purple specks. The door splintered, and charred chunks of wood scattered about the room.

"Merlin's left foot!" Ron cursed, rubbing at his eyes.

Hermione stared at the door, her face a mask of abject terror.

"We are going to get in so much trouble," she quailed.

"Whatever. We'll do the paperwork, update our character sheets, and face the consequences of our actions later—maybe. It's the adventurer's way. In the meantime, there's a dungeon to crawl."

Ron cautiously poked a large chunk of ex-door with the remains of a Comet-Two Sixty. The solid-looking wood crumbled into ash at the gentle contact, scattering in the gentle draft created by the fluttering wings above.

"Blimey," he said almost reverently.

"Evocation is generally underpowered," Milo said, "but, on occasion, it can have its uses."

The next chamber was lit only by the glow of the room before entering through the smoldering doorway. Milo could barely make out large, towering armoured figures with a vaguely humanoid shape standing in front of him, lined up like a phalanx. He took a hesitant step forward, and the instant that his foot touched the ground in the new room, his vision flooded white. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the vision in front of him.

What Milo had taken to be armoured soldiers were, instead, giant black chessmen (although, as an experienced adventurer, he refused to rule out the possibility that they were Animated). They were carved to resemble armoured soldiers, weapons and all – except for their faces. Some of the pieces wore helmets, but the rest had blank, expressionless smooth surfaces in their place. As someone who had never seen a mannequin before, he found the sight distinctly unnerving.

"I'm an idiot," Ron said quietly.

"Sorry, what?" Milo asked. He was missing something.

"You'll see. I'd bet my magic that we have to play our way across."

"Before jumping to any conclusions," Hermione suggested, "how about we test that? Wingardium Leviosa." She levitated a large chunk of door across the oversized chessboard. The black players seemed to ignore it, but as it reached the white line, a pale pawn leapt forwards at a diagonal and ran it through with his spear. Milo winced. He knew that stone weaponry took a -2 penalty to attack and damage, but, looking at the razor-sharp edges of the nearby black soldiers' gear, he doubted that applied here. The white pawn stepped back into his original position, looking no different than before save for a light dusting of ash. "Okay," Hermione admitted. "we have to play our way across."

"Fortunately," Ron said with a slightly shaky grin, "I have something of an advantage here."

"Why's that?" Milo asked, "because you happened to put maximum ranks in Profession (Chess Player)? And here I thought those were wasted."

"Just watch. Milo, do me a favour and take the place of the left bishop? That's the one with the pointy hat and mace. Hermione, take the third pawn from the right."

"But—" Milo protested.

"Just trust me."

"He is the best chess player in the school, remember?" Hermione pointed out lightly. "We had that tournament and everything. Still..." she stepped into the place of the designated pawn. "This does seem awfully specific."

It suddenly struck Milo that he'd completely forgotten that 'chess' was on the Plot. Cursing himself, he reluctantly took the place of the bishop, who mutely stepped off the board to make way for him. Of course chess would come up here, at the end. The sheer number of times it had been mentioned would be mind-bogglingly pointless had there not been some sort of chess-related puzzle.

"What about you?" Hermione asked Ron.

"I'm the king, of course. Just do what I say, and we'll be fine. I promise."

Reluctantly, Milo and Hermione agreed.

After they had taken their places, a white pawn slid forward towards their side. Ron ordered one of his pawns forward, looking not quite as confident as he sounded. Milo noticed a somewhat wild look to his eyes, but, after seeing the white side's response (another pawn), he let out a deep breath and smiled, as if the white side had fallen for some sort of trap. After that, Ron began to below orders at a shocking pace. He barely waited for each piece to finish moving before moving his next one. The white pieces, driven by silent orders, responded immediately to each move.

Milo was surprised, to say the least. He knew Ron was good, but this... it was as if Ron were reading off of a script, knowing in advance what he would say each turn well before he spoke. The sheer amount of information he must be processing to give commands that quickly... either Ron had been holding out on a Headband of Intellect +10, or he had no idea what he was doing and simply giving orders at random.

Milo swallowed nervously as it came time to act. Despite Ron's confidence, they were losing pieces. A lot of pieces. There were only two pawns, aside from Hermione, still standing on their side. They'd lost their other bishop early on to what had to have been a sheer blunder — though Ron's confident, almost bored, expression never changed.

Still, Ron was a better player than he had ever been. Milo walked diagonally across the board, standing uncomfortably close to a white knight. The knight completely ignored his presence, sitting atop his pale horse, long white blade in hand. While he was fully aware that the knight could only move in a weird, L-shape (suddenly, the Cleric spell Knight's Move made a lot more sense to him), and that he was perfectly safe where he was standing, the sword still sent shivers down Milo's spine.

The rules of chess were clear: when a piece took another piece, the taken piece didn't have a hope of fighting back, even a mighty queen against a lowly pawn. So Milo wondered what would happen if he was hit by that sword and survived. Would the knight simply repeatedly stab him until satisfied? Or would the game carry on, ignoring his presence completely, as he bled out on the floor?

Hermione, meanwhile, was tapping her foot impatiently. She'd been almost completely ignored by Ron, only moving up to allow another piece to pass early on.

A black castle stepped up and smashed the white knight off of his horse with a heavy, flanged mace. The knight's horse dragged its rider off the board, and then there was silence.

"Check..." Ron said quietly. Then he drew a deep breath, letting it out explosively. "Mate."

The remaining white pieces (the ones that could still stand, anyway) walked to the edges of the board and bowed slightly.

"How did you do that?" Hermione asked, throwing her arms around him in a hug. "That was incredible!"

Milo was beginning to have suspicions at that point.

Ron simply shrugged, looking a little embarrassed at Hermione's outcry. "I'd played the same game before."

"You... what?" Hermione asked, stepping back from him. Several pieces clicked in Milo's head so loudly he was surprised nobody noticed.

"When I played against Quirrell, I was really playing the castle."

"He used his little tournament to find which of us were good at chess," Milo said with realization. "The wily bastard."

"I knew chess had nothing to do with Defence!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Right. So every time I made a move, he'd go down here and make the same move against the castle, then use its move against me. Quirrell's likely rubbish at chess."

"But the white side's just a spell," Milo murmured. "It doesn't have any creativity of its own, just an elaborate set of premade responses. So when you made the exact same moves against it..."

"...It made the same moves against me," Ron finished. "It was the hardest game I'd ever played—but I'd already done it and knew how it ended."

"You put all that together just by seeing the chess game down here?" Hermione asked. Her eyes were a little wide. Milo was having to make some revisions in his mind, as well. There might be more to Ron than he had previously thought.