The Dumbledore Gambit

Well, this is awkward. Evelyn stared at her quest log, which had been mockingly displaying "ACQUIRE CERBERUS WHISKER - FAILED" for the past week. The glowing red text felt particularly insulting given that she'd had a 100% completion rate in the actual game. Note to self: real life has permadeath and apparently, real consequences.

The third-floor corridor had been locked down tighter than a dragon's hoard since her botched infiltration attempt. Dumbledore's new ward practically hummed with power, and even from three floors away, she could feel its presence like a magical migraine. The old man had definitely noticed someone poking around his security system.

Classic overreaction, she thought, absently twirling her pathetic starter wand between her fingers. One tiny security breach and suddenly it's Fort Knox. Though I suppose when you're guarding a legendary artifact, paranoia is just good business practice.

The real problem wasn't just the enhanced security—it was Professor Quirrell. The possessed Defense teacher had been skulking around the third floor like a particularly nervous vulture, clearly frustrated by his inability to access Fluffy. In the game, he'd been making steady progress toward the Philosopher's Stone by this point in the timeline. Her interference had thrown a wrench into Voldemort's carefully laid plans.

On the bright side, I've accidentally bought the good guys some time. On the not-so-bright side, I still need that whisker, and my wand is still held together by hope and spite.

She'd been observing both Dumbledore and Quirrell's patterns for days, looking for an opportunity. The headmaster rarely left his office during the day, but he did have a predictable evening routine of checking the wards personally. Quirrell, meanwhile, had taken to lurking around the third floor during the dinner hour, when most students were in the Great Hall.

Time for some creative problem-solving. If I can't break through the security, maybe I can get someone else to do it for me.

The plan that formed in her mind was deliciously convoluted. She'd need to create a distraction significant enough to draw attention away from the third floor, but not so dramatic that it would bring the entire faculty running. Something that would require Dumbledore's personal intervention, but elsewhere in the castle.

Let's see... what would make even the great Albus Dumbledore temporarily abandon his post?

The answer came to her during Potions class, when Neville's cauldron started smoking ominously. Snape swooped in like a particularly dramatic bat, vanishing the contents with a flick of his wand and a scathing comment about "dunderheads who couldn't brew a simple Boil-Cure Potion without nearly poisoning half the class."

Of course. A potions emergency. But not just any potions emergency—one that threatens the structural integrity of the castle itself.

She'd need to be careful about this. Too obvious, and she'd be expelled. Too subtle, and it wouldn't work. But there was a particular section of the dungeons, near the abandoned classroom she'd used for her wand analysis, where the stone was old and the magical foundations were already slightly unstable.

A small, controlled explosion. Just enough to make the castle groan ominously and send every professor running to check for structural damage. And while they're all busy playing 'Is Hogwarts About to Collapse,' I'll have my window of opportunity.

The beauty of the plan was its simplicity. She didn't need to actually damage the castle—just create enough of a distraction to thin out the security around the third floor. A few strategically placed Dungbombs, enhanced with some creative charm work, would create the illusion of a much larger problem.

Plus, everyone expects Slytherins to be up to something vaguely destructive. It's practically a house tradition.

Right, so I need Dungbombs. Lots of them. And I need them without looking like I'm planning to blow up the school. This is trickier than it sounds.

Evelyn had considered several options for acquiring the necessary explosive devices. The most obvious source was Zonko's Joke Shop in Hogsmeade, but first-years weren't allowed to visit the village. She could try to convince an older student to buy them for her, but that would raise questions she wasn't prepared to answer.

"Hey, can you buy me a dozen Dungbombs? I need them for... academic purposes. Very explosive academic purposes."

The second option was the Weasley twins, who were practically walking advertisements for creative pyrotechnics. But approaching them would be even more dangerous than dealing with official channels. Fred and George had an unfortunate tendency to ask probing questions about anyone else's mischief, and they were disturbingly good at detecting when someone was planning something interesting.

The last thing I need is two master pranksters deciding to "help" with my covert operation. I'd end up with a fireworks display visible from Edinburgh.

That left her with the least appealing but most practical option: making her own. The theoretical knowledge was simple enough—Dungbombs were essentially controlled magical explosions designed to create maximum noise and smell with minimal actual damage. The practical application was more complicated, but she'd found detailed instructions in several prank-making books hidden in the Room of Requirement.

Thank Merlin for the Room of Requirement's comprehensive library of questionable knowledge. Though I'm starting to wonder what previous students were doing in here that required instructions for homemade explosives.

She'd spent two evenings in the Room of Requirement, carefully brewing the necessary components. The base was simple enough—a mixture of powdered dragon dung and fizzing whizzing worms, held together with a stabilizing charm. The enhancement charms were where things got complicated.

Step one: don't accidentally poison myself with dragon dung fumes. Step two: don't let the fizzing whizzing worms escape before I can bind them. Step three: try not to think about how I'm literally playing with magical explosives in a room made of ancient stone.

The real challenge had been acquiring the raw materials. Dragon dung was surprisingly easy to come by—Hagrid used it as fertilizer for his pumpkins, and a few handfuls had gone missing from his compost heap. The fizzing whizzing worms were trickier, but she'd managed to "borrow" some from Professor Snape's private ingredient stores during a particularly chaotic Potions lesson.

Note to self: Slytherin cunning is apparently hereditary. Also, Professor Snape really needs to work on his inventory management.

The enhancement charms were her own addition to the traditional Dungbomb recipe. She'd modified the explosive matrix to create deeper resonance through stone, making each device sound like a much larger explosion than it actually was. The visual effects were enhanced too—more smoke, brighter flashes, and a satisfying rumble that would echo through the castle's ancient architecture.

If I'm going to create a distraction, might as well make it a memorable one. Plus, there's something deeply satisfying about improving on classic designs.

She'd tested one of her modified Dungbombs in an abandoned section of the dungeons, well away from any inhabited areas. The results had been spectacular—a deep, resonant boom that shook dust from the ceiling and sent magical echoes bouncing through the stone corridors for nearly a full minute.

Perfect. Now I just need to time everything correctly and hope that no one realizes the "structural emergency" is actually just enhanced pranking supplies.

The irony wasn't lost on her that she was essentially using advanced magical theory to create more effective joke shop products. But desperate times called for creative solutions, and she was nothing if not creative.

Besides, if this works, I'll have proven that proper planning and theoretical knowledge can overcome almost any obstacle. And if it doesn't work, I'll have learned a valuable lesson about the limitations of homemade explosives.

She packed the completed Dungbombs carefully in her expanded bag, each one wrapped in protective cushioning charms to prevent accidental detonation. The devices hummed with barely contained energy, and she could feel their eagerness to fulfill their explosive purpose.

Alright, little bombs. Time to earn your keep. Try not to blow up until I tell you to.

That evening, she put her plan into motion. While the rest of the school was settling in for the night, she crept down to the dungeons with her supplies. The abandoned classroom was perfect—far enough from the dormitories to avoid casualties, but close enough to the main foundations to be concerning.

She placed the modified Dungbombs with scientific precision, each one calibrated to create maximum noise and visual chaos with minimal actual damage. A few enhancement charms would make the explosions echo through the stone corridors, creating the illusion of structural instability.

If this works, I'm definitely putting 'Distraction Specialist' on my resume. If it doesn't work, I'll be writing 'I will not blow up the school' on detention parchment until I graduate.

The first explosion echoed through the castle at exactly 9:47 PM, followed by two more in quick succession. The sound was magnificent—a deep, resonant boom that seemed to shake the very foundations of Hogwarts. She'd timed it perfectly with the evening patrol schedule, ensuring that Professor McGonagall would be the first to investigate.

Within minutes, she could hear the rapid footsteps of faculty members converging on the dungeons. Through the castle's ancient stone walls, she caught fragments of urgent conversation—"structural damage," "possible sabotage," "evacuate the lower levels."

Hook, line, and sinker. Now for the tricky part.

She slipped out of the dungeons through a side passage, using her knowledge of the castle's layout to avoid the growing crowd of professors. The third floor was eerily quiet, the usual nighttime patrols having been redirected to the "emergency" below.

The corridor stretched before her, Dumbledore's ward still humming with power but noticeably weaker. The headmaster's personal attention was focused elsewhere, and the magical barrier had lost some of its edge.

Still not going to be easy, but at least now it's possible. Time to finish what I started.

She approached the ward with newfound respect for the old man's magical abilities. Even distracted, his defenses were formidable. But she'd learned from her previous failure, and this time she was prepared.

Second time's the charm. Or in this case, second time's the Cerberus whisker.