Quirrell stepped into the room filled with flying keys.
The moment he spotted those little winged keys fluttering around, he let out a huge sigh of relief.
"Yup, just like Professor Flitwick said," he muttered to himself.
Quirrell knew his old Head of House well. Flitwick was a stand-up guy—back in his school days, Quirrell had even had tea with him and munched on those cute little cowboy-dance cupcakes.
Grabbing a broom and hopping on, Quirrell scanned the swarm of keys, searching for one that matched the keyhole on the door. His eyes quickly locked onto a silver key with sky-blue wings.
Sure, he wasn't exactly a Quidditch star, but his flying skills were decent enough. After a bit of a chase, he snatched the key out of the air.
Just as he was about to land and unlock the door—
"Who led the goblin rebellion of 1612?"
A voice, laced with the clank of mechanical gears, echoed from the key in his hand.
Quirrell froze, staring at the key. A mouth had sprouted on its handle, spitting out the question.
"What?"
In all his talks with Flitwick, there was no mention of a quiz!
"Three."
"Two."
The key was counting down! Quirrell's mind raced, scrambling to dig up the History of Magic lessons he'd memorized back at Hogwarts.
"One."
BOOM!
A blast of icy blue-white mist exploded from the key, splattering Quirrell's face.
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The key vanished from his hand.
"This…"
Quirrell swiped at his face, starting to suspect Flitwick had played him.
"Quit dawdling! Find the right key!"
Voldemort's irritated voice snapped in his head, spurring Quirrell into action.
He racked his brain, recalling the answer to the goblin question, then went back to chasing the key with the sky-blue wings.
After another round of swooping and diving, he grabbed it again, ready to nail the answer.
"What does the Peruvian Vipertooth dragon prefer to eat?"
"Goblin leader was—" Quirrell started, then stopped dead. Wait, the question changed?
He hadn't grabbed the wrong key!
"Three."
"Two."
"Wait a second—"
BOOM!
Another faceful of blue-white mist. Quirrell's frustration boiled over.
Fine, a new question? Bring it on! Did they think a Ravenclaw scholar couldn't handle this?
No need for Voldemort's prodding this time. Quirrell shot into the air, zeroing in on that sky-blue-winged key.
This time, he didn't bother thinking about the last question—it was pointless. He focused, ready for whatever came next.
He nabbed the key with practiced ease and braced for the question.
"What do you get when you mix powdered moonstone with hippogriff blood?"
"Three."
"Two."
"Aerated mucus, used to brew an underwater breathing potion," Quirrell answered confidently.
The mouth on the key clamped shut.
"Ha! Not so tough after all," Quirrell chuckled. "Flitwick's test has that Ravenclaw flair."
It reminded him of his school days, answering riddles at the bronze knocker to get into the Ravenclaw common room.
Feeling smug, he slid the key into the door's lock and gave it a twist.
It didn't budge.
Quirrell blinked. "That should've worked…"
"Suppose you're at a fork in the road. One path leads to Truth Village, where everyone always tells the truth, and the other to Lie Village, where everyone always lies. A villager stands at the fork, and you can ask one question. What do you ask to find the path to Truth Village?"
A louder voice, still tinged with that mechanical clank, boomed out. Quirrell gaped at the door. Not only had it sprouted a giant mouth, but a brass eyeball flipped open, staring right at him.
"Three."
"Two."
Quirrell's mind raced, but the countdown was too fast.
"One."
"Idiot."
The door spat out a torrent of icy water mixed with slush, drenching Quirrell from head to toe. He sneezed hard.
"Argh!"
"Again!" Quirrell roared, his Ravenclaw pride kicking into overdrive, eyes blazing.
In the end, he proved the Sorting Hat hadn't made a mistake putting him in Ravenclaw.
Once Quirrell left, the mouths on the key and door, along with the brass eyeball, vanished as if they'd never been there.
In the next room, Quirrell faced a giant chessboard with oversized wizard chess pieces.
He already knew the catch: it usually required a team, with sacrifices, to win.
But he didn't need to play by those rules. A simple Transfiguration spell would do the trick.
"Just turn the white pieces into black ones…"
Quirrell tapped his wand on a piece, waiting.
One second. Two. Three.
Nothing happened.
"Fool! Can't you see? Those pieces are layered with dozens of Transfiguration spells!" Voldemort's voice sneered, pointing out the problem while praising the setup. "Impressive work, truly rare mastery of Transfiguration."
Quirrell just nodded meekly. He'd been at Hogwarts when McGonagall was already a professor, and her intimidating presence was still fresh in his mind. His respect for her grew even deeper.
"Destroy the pieces," Voldemort ordered. "Regular spells won't work—they're reinforced with powerful defensive charms. Alchemical, no less. Use the dark magic I taught you. Now."
Gritting his teeth, Quirrell tore a chunk of flesh from his already-injured left arm and tossed it onto the board. He waved his wand, muttering a low, guttural curse.
BOOM!
A massive explosion rocked the room.
---
Meanwhile, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were gearing up to sneak out of the Gryffindor common room.
"You're heading out again, aren't you?"
A voice from the corner made them jump. Neville stepped out from behind a chair, blocking their path.
"If you get caught, Gryffindor's in big trouble! I—I have to stop you!"
Neville raised his chubby fists, ready to fight.
"We've got something urgent to do, Neville! Move!" Harry pleaded.
"No way!"
Hermione sighed, raising her wand. "I'm really sorry, Neville."
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Neville's arms snapped to his sides, and he toppled over like a board.
The trio hurried out.
"Dumbledore's gone, and we still haven't found Lucien," Ron muttered as they moved. "It's just the three of us…"
Harry cut him off. "We're the only ones who can protect the Sorcerer's Stone now! And Lucien taught us some basic dark magic defenses. We've got this!"
---
Back with Quirrell, the chess pieces lay in ruins after he'd sacrificed part of his arm. He didn't even notice them slowly repairing themselves as he moved on.
The next room was his own design. Just a troll. Easy.
His colleagues might've screwed him over, but he wasn't about to sabotage himself. He'd even hidden a curse in the troll's head—one flick of his wand, and it'd be lights out.
Casting a Bubble-Head Charm to block the troll's stench, Quirrell kicked open the door, wand raised for a quick finish.
"Grahhh!"
A weird, guttural howl echoed through the room as a creature lumbered out of the shadows.
Quirrell's eyes widened, his wand nearly slipping from his grip.
"What the—?"
"Where's my troll?!"
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