Golden Trio

Vizet stood over the broken form of the troll, its massive limbs twisted unnaturally beneath its own weight. Bone jutted through thick gray flesh, ribs piercing the skin like jagged ivory spears. The monster's bulk had collapsed inward, as if its entire skeleton had caved in.

He murmured, almost to himself, "Professor Sprout was right… Devil's Snare has terrifying constriction power. Even a mountain troll couldn't escape it."

In the center of the carnage, the culprit lay trembling — a mass of dark vines coiled tightly into itself, shrinking from the glow of his wandlight.

Vizet regarded it in silence. It had killed a beast of enormous size and strength… and yet cowered from a simple illumination spell.

A memory stirred in his mind — the rule of chess: even a pawn may capture the queen.

He didn't know why it came to him now, but it did.

The next room was stark and compact. A single table stood in its center, upon which rested seven potion bottles arranged in a neat line. Each had a distinct color and size. Beside them sat a carefully folded parchment containing riddles, clearly meant to guide — or confound — the drinker.

The moment they stepped fully into the room, a loud thunk signaled the door slamming shut behind them.

Simultaneously, flames roared to life.

Purple fire blocked the way forward. Black fire surged behind, sealing the entrance they had just come through.

Voldemort strode past Vizet, tapping the table lightly with his wand.

At once, the potion bottles shimmered and shuffled places, moving in a blur. Within seconds, however, they returned to their original positions — as if mocking any attempt to alter them.

"Hah! How quaint," Voldemort said, voice laced with dry amusement. "Riddles and logic puzzles. You Ravenclaws must eat this sort of thing for breakfast."

Vizet remained silent, eyeing the parchment without reaching for it.

Voldemort continued, a note of disdain creeping into his voice. "My student, these past two levels were far too tame. I suggest we pause your test here… and wait for more entertaining company."

He gave the potion table one dismissive glance and then lazily raised his wand.

With a sweep, the black and purple flames vanished instantly, leaving only curling wisps of smoke as evidence they'd been there at all.

Vizet followed him out, footsteps light on the stone floor.

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From beyond the next chamber, voices echoed faintly down the corridor.

"…don't have to deal with the troll anymore!" came a boy's voice — young, nasal, and unmistakably annoyed.

"Ugh, it stinks so much in here… yuck!"

After putting Neville under a Full Body-Bind Curse, Harry, Hermione, and Ron had slipped out of Gryffindor Tower and navigated their way through countless twists and turns. At last, they reached the forbidden third-floor corridor.

"The door's open!" Harry said, his voice tense with dread. "Snape found a way past Fluffy…"

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees and pulled out the flute Hagrid had given him. He blew into it, lips trembling slightly, trying to produce something close to a melody.

It wasn't clear whether it was due to what little musical talent that Harry had or Fluffy's generous interpretation of what qualified as 'music' — but after a few off-key notes, the cerberus' eyes began to droop.

A low rumble escaped Fluffy's throats as it swayed slightly, then slumped down with a heavy thud, snoring.

"He actually left a trapdoor open?" Hermione whispered, frowning. "It must be deep down there… Lumos!"

A ball of pale light bloomed from the tip of her wand.

Through the hazy glow, Harry peered down into the darkness and spotted something faint moving below. "Did you see that? There's something under the trapdoor…"

Ron stepped up beside them, casting his own lighting charm. "Lumos!"

"It's Devil's Snare!" Hermione declared immediately. "That's why the staircase was left — the trapdoor would have dropped the intruders right into the Devil's Snare!"

"Let's get down there — quick!" she added. "Just keep your wands lit! Devil's Snare hates light!"

They descended, landing carefully in the writhing mass of vines. The illuminated spells kept the Devil's Snare at bay long enough for them to scramble to safety.

The trio then crossed the chamber of flying keys, Harry snatching the correct one after a dizzying chase.

But at the next chamber — Wizard's Chess — they were stopped cold.

Ron stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he examined the board. He didn't hesitate.

The game was brutal. Ron directed the black pieces with crisp commands, but it became clear: to win, one of them had to be sacrificed.

"I'll have to be taken," he said simply.

"What — Ron, no!" Harry exclaimed.

"That's the only way. You need to go on. Checkmate's coming — but not unless I fall."

He moved the knight, and a moment later, the opposing queen swung her sword straight through him. Ron slumped to the board with a sickening crash.

Hermione screamed, but Harry pulled her forward. "We have to go!"

They crossed into the troll room — and stopped in horror.

Even with their light charms dimmed, the sight was impossible to miss. The troll was lying in a heap, limbs bent at unnatural angles. Its massive chest had caved in, and bone pierced through flesh in several places.

The smell hit them an instant later.

"Oh, that's foul —" Harry gagged, stumbling back.

Hermione covered her mouth, eyes wide. "It's dead. It was killed."

Still reeling, they moved into the final room: the chamber with the potion riddle.

Seven bottles, arranged in a neat line, gleamed under their wandlight. Hermione immediately scanned the accompanying parchment and began decoding the riddle.

Within moments, she held up two bottles.

"This one lets you go forward," she said. "And this one lets you go back."

Harry took the forward potion, which was barely a mouthful.

He turned to Hermione. "Go back, find Ron. Ride the broom back up. Use Hedwig to send a letter to Dumbledore. Tell the teachers what's happening. If you speak to Professor McGonagall, she'll believe you."

Hermione clutched the other vial tightly. "What if… it's not just Snape in there?" Her voice quivered. "What if it's — you-know-who?"

Harry tilted his head, brushing aside his fringe to show the lightning bolt scar. "I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, remember? I beat him once. Maybe lightning can strike twice."

She gave a short, strangled laugh. "You're mad."

"Maybe. But hurry! The sooner Dumbledore knows, the better chance we've got."

Hermione hesitated, then surged forward and wrapped her arms around him. "You're a brilliant wizard, Harry."

Harry turned beet red. "I have to copy off you just to pass Transfiguration."

Hermione's voice broke. "Being a wizard isn't just about studying… It's about bravery, too."

Harry nodded, turned away, and raised the potion to his lips.

He drank in one go.

It was like plunging into a frozen lake — his insides chilled instantly, and a strange calm settled over him, numbing the fear that clung to his bones.

He stepped forward.

The black flames engulfed him.

But they didn't burn. Instead, they clung to his skin like warm fog, fading into him like the resolve in his heart.

He pressed on, toward whatever waited beyond.

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The final chamber was far more expansive than expected. At its center stood a tall, ornate mirror, its golden frame stretching nearly to the ceiling. The glass shimmered faintly, as if alive with secrets.

"Just as I thought…" Voldemort chuckled softly. "The Stone is hidden within this mirror. I can feel it. Everything proceeds exactly as expected."

He guided Quirrell's body toward the mirror, peering into its depths as if searching for something just beyond reach.

Vizet stood to the side, silent. He kept his breathing steady, lips pressed into a thin line, his mind cycling through the Purification Spell over and over.

Everything truly was going according to plan. As foreseen, Voldemort hadn't yet unlocked the mirror's mystery — and Vizet was ready.

Moments later, Harry burst through the curtain of black fire and stumbled into the chamber.

Voldemort's voice rang out immediately, echoing from the walls, smooth and mocking. "Harry Potter! I heard your stirring speech… What a performance. The Boy-Who-Lived, indeed."

Harry froze, wide-eyed. "That voice — You're not Snape!" he blurted. "Who are you?"

His gaze swept the chamber before settling on Vizet. "Vizet? What are you doing here?"

Voldemort laughed darkly and raised Quirrell's hands to his hood. "Still asking… who am I?"

With a flourish, the hood fell.

Quirrell's face was unnaturally pale — but that wasn't what drew the eye. The back of his head twisted with shadow, and from the coiling mist emerged the faint shape of a face: not fully visible, but shrouded by a dark, shifting mask whose outlines were impossible to pin down.

"This is Gryffindor for you," Voldemort sneered. "Reckless… absurdly reckless."

The misted mask vibrated slightly, its edges distorting with every word, its lips invisible but buzzing with Voldemort's unmistakable voice.

Harry's eyes widened, his breath caught — and then came the pain.

A searing bolt split through his scar, more agonizing than anything he'd felt before. He dropped to one knee, clutching his forehead, barely able to speak.

"Professor Quirrell? No… No, you're — Voldemort!" he gasped. "You're Voldemort!"

Voldemort barely acknowledged him. His voice turned cold, distracted. He turned slightly, scanning the chamber.

"So, you still refuse to come out," he murmured, his tone laced with disdain. "Hiding in the dark. Watching. Always watching."

He gave a slow shake of the head. "More than ten years, and you haven't changed…"