Rules Are Meant To Be Broken

Vizet spoke thoughtfully. "The Parkinson family attacked me before I'd even stepped through the castle gates. If Professor McGonagall hadn't intervened in time, I might not have made it."

He paused, glancing sideways.

"And during my time here... well, the Slytherins haven't exactly been warm. I've never felt particularly welcomed by them."

"Parkinson family?" Voldemort gave a low, mirthless chuckle. "How predictable." Then, with a flicker of approval in his voice, he gestured forward. "Onward to the next room. I'm giving you an 'O' for the last challenge — you've earned it."

Vizet nodded slightly. "Hmm."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "Is that the proper tone to use with a professor?"

Vizet corrected himself smoothly. "Thank you for the compliment, Professor."

The door creaked open, revealing an enormous chamber beyond. Inside stood a chessboard of towering proportions. The pieces loomed as tall as trolls — possibly modeled on Hagrid's size, by the look of them. Both black and white armies stood motionless, clad in armor or flowing robes, weapons gripped in stone hands. Despite being statues, they radiated presence — each looked ready to march to war.

"Wizard's chess," Voldemort mused. "Surely a Ravenclaw stronghold."

Vizet cleared his throat. "Actually... wizard chess is my weakness."

"Oh?" Voldemort sounded amused. "You've never played?"

Vizet gave a modest nod. "I know the rules, of course. But between classes and study, I've had little time for games. When my roommates wanted to play, I preferred to be the referee."

"Heh!" Voldemort's sneer echoed faintly. "So very Ravenclaw. Still... I wouldn't mind watching you lose."

Vizet responded smoothly, "May I ask how you'd handle this puzzle, Professor?"

Voldemort's tone darkened. "I'd level the board."

"Understood…"

Vizet stepped toward the playing field. The instant he did, a row of white chess pieces raised their weapons in unison — silent warning.

"My student," Voldemort said pleasantly, "you can't force your way in — not unless you're ready to duel stone with stone. But if you'd like, I could teach you a few spells. Dark ones. Perfect for this kind of thing."

Vizet didn't respond immediately. His gaze drifted over the board, calculating. There had to be another way.

Wizard chess functioned by rules not unlike Muggle chess. The primary difference, of course, was that the pieces were sentient to some extent — they listened to commands, moved independently, and fought when instructed.

When one piece "captured" another, the result was often quite literal: shattering stone and dragging away fragments of the vanquished. It was brutal. Efficient. Unmistakably magical.

Are rules really that important to wizards? Vizet asked himself.

A question from Aberforth echoed in his head, something muttered once in the Hog's Head between sips of firewhisky: "Rules? Pfft. That's a Muggle way of thinking. Wizards don't follow rules. We rewrite them."

Something clicked.

"Wait…" Vizet turned to Voldemort, eyes suddenly sharp. "Professor — you said you'd destroy the entire chessboard?"

Voldemort's eyes glinted. "A tempting idea, isn't it? Are you ready to try some offensive spells?"

Vizet's voice was quiet, but certain. "Destruction... is indeed a good idea."

After observing the board in silence for a long moment, Vizet finally stepped forward, took the place of the black king, and signaled the game to begin.

As tradition dictated, the white pieces moved first.

What followed was chaos.

Vizet issued haphazard orders, intentionally vague or reckless, and the result was carnage. One by one, the black chess pieces were obliterated — shattered under the precise, merciless strikes of the white army. Armor scattered like broken shells across the marble floor. When only the king remained, Vizet calmly raised a hand in surrender.

Voldemort chuckled with clear amusement. "Unexpected, truly! Are you hoping to earn a Troll, my student?"

Unbothered, Vizet pulled out a small notebook and began jotting observations. "The pieces are extremely responsive... very aggressive... excellent reaction speed. The moment I issue a command, they execute it without hesitation."

Voldemort tilted his head, intrigued. "I take it you've no intention of solving this in the conventional manner?"

"Conventional?" Vizet echoed, tucking the notebook away. "Rules are just another layer of structure. And structure — well, it can be bent."

Voldemort's smile was thin. "There's a saying in Slytherin, you know — 'Contempt for laws and regulations is our instinct.'"

"Is that so?" Vizet replied mildly.

He reached into his backpack, pulled out a scrap of parchment, crumpled it into a ball, and began practicing his transfiguration spells upon it.

Voldemort watched the transformations with open interest, eyes narrowing slightly at the third or fourth shift. He was beginning to understand. And what he saw intrigued him.

Eventually, Vizet took a breath, stuffed the parchment back into his bag, and straightened his shoulders.

"It should be ready. Let's begin."

This time, he didn't replace the black king.

Instead, Vizet strode to the front of the black army and stood, quite deliberately, in the pawn's position.

The white side made their opening move.

Vizet raised his wand and aimed it across the board at the towering white king. "Chroma Mutare!"

Color drained from the white king's surface. Its marble hue darkened, bleeding into obsidian, until it stood in the likeness of the black king — silent, imposing, foreign.

Then Vizet turned and cast again. "Chroma Mutare!"

The black king behind him shimmered, its stone fading into pale, moonlit white. Vizet had effectively swapped their identities — one king hidden in plain sight, deep behind enemy lines.

He grinned. "My move. Checkmate."

Boom!

The black pieces erupted in motion. No longer bound by loyalty to the pawn standing before them, they turned as one — each weapon trained backward.

The queen struck first.

With a sweeping arc of her stone scepter, she brought it down on the false white king.

Shards exploded outward. What remained of the statue — a jagged, half-formed torso — was promptly dragged away by the victorious black queen.

For a long moment, the chamber held its breath.

Then, rumbling, the white pieces began to move — not forward, but aside, retreating to the edges of the board. A path was cleared.

"Well done! Well done!" Voldemort's voice rose with glee. "Another Outstanding, my clever student!"

Vizet exhaled slowly. "Rules are meant to be broken."

Voldemort's mood seemed radiant. "You've earned a hint, then. The next room is Quirinus's domain — he left behind a mountain troll. Stronger than most. Though I imagine either the Obscurus or a well-placed Sickness Curse could deal with it… Of course, if you'd prefer, I'd be happy to make it disappear for you."

Vizet shook his head with a small smile. "No need. I came prepared."

He lifted the paper bag of tendrils of the Devil's Snare from his satchel. "That's why I kept this. Never know when it'll come in handy."

He approached the iron door and eased it open.

A wave of foul stench rushed out, thick and heavy. Somewhere in the dark beyond, deep, rhythmic snoring echoed — a cavernous, slumbering breath.

"A dark room. Perfect for sleeping…" Vizet murmured. "And ideal for a midnight snack."

He balled up the oil-paper bag into a tight orb — about the size of a Quaffle — and hurled it into the chamber.

Then, with a sharp motion, he pulled the door shut.

Within, chaos erupted.

The floor trembled under their feet as the Devil's Snare sprang to life, its tendrils flailing toward the half-awake troll. Stone cracked. A roar shattered the air. The ground shook with a rhythm of struggle — one creature blindly lashing out, the other mercilessly ensnaring.

Finally, a bone-crunching sound echoed through the corridor. Then… silence.

"Lumos" Vizet whispered.

The tip of his wand lit the chamber in pale white, revealing a battlefield of destruction.

The troll lay collapsed amid the dust and rubble. Walls had cracked. Stones were still shifting, dislodged by the weight of the conflict.

And the Devil's Snare — withered, blackened, spent — hung limp around its prey.

Dust floated through the air, thick as fog, dancing like insects in the light.