Chapter 144: Quirrell: My Colleagues Are All Sabotaging Me!
In the room with the flying keys.
When Quirrell saw the little winged keys, he breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Yes. This was exactly as Professor Flitwick had described.
He knew his old Head of House. An honest man, through and through. He had even had tea with him at school, and eaten those little cakes that danced the jig.
He grabbed a broom at random, kicked off, and searched for a key that matched the shape of the lock on the door.
He spotted it quickly: a large silver key with pale blue wings.
Even if he was not much good at Quidditch, he could fly well enough. After a bit of chasing, he caught it.
Just as he was about to land and unlock the door—
"In the Goblin Rebellion of 1612, who was the goblin general who launched the war?"
A voice, threaded with the sound of grinding gears, issued from the key in his hand.
He stared at it. A mouth had sprouted from the handle, and it had just asked him a question.
"What?"
Flitwick had never said anything about answering questions.
"Three."
"Two."
The key was counting down. Quirrell scrambled through his memory, trying to dredge up what he had learned in History of Magic.
"One."
Bang!
Blue‑white frost exploded from the key and hit him full in the face.
The key vanished from his grip.
"This…"
Quirrell wiped his face hard and began to suspect that Professor Flitwick had lied to him too.
"Do not waste time. Find the correct key!" Voldemort's voice, edged with anger, snapped through his head.
Quirrell did not dare hesitate.
He recalled the question first and worked out the answer. Then he went after the key again.
Another swooping flight around the room, and he caught it once more, ready with his answer.
"What does the Peruvian Vipertooth prefer to eat?"
"The goblin general was…"
Quirrell trailed off, dumbstruck. Wait. The question had changed.
But he had not grabbed the wrong key.
"Three."
"Two."
"Wait…"
Bang!
The familiar blue‑white mist hit him in the face again. Quirrell felt a surge of fury.
Fine. Change the question, then. Did they think he could not answer?
Did they have any idea what it meant to be a top Ravenclaw?
Without Voldemort's prompting, Quirrell launched himself back into the air and dove for the pale blue key.
This time, he did not bother dwelling on the last question. It was pointless. Better to focus on whatever came next.
He snatched it with practised ease and waited for the question.
"What do you get when you mix powdered moonstone with re'em blood?"
"Three."
"Two."
"Airborne slime. Used in Water‑Breathing Potions," Quirrell answered.
The mouth on the key snapped shut.
"Ha. Not so hard," Quirrell muttered.
"Professor Flitwick's test really does have that Ravenclaw flavour to it."
He remembered his school days, when he had had to answer a riddle just to get into the common room every single time.
Confidently, he slid the key into the lock and turned.
It did not move.
Quirrell froze. "It should be right…"
"Suppose you come to a fork in the road. One path leads to the Village of Truth, where the people always tell the truth. The other leads to the Village of Lies, where the people always lie. A villager stands at the fork. You may ask him one question. What should you ask to find the road to the Village of Truth?"
A louder voice rang out, laced with the same mechanical whirr.
Quirrell stared woodenly at the door. A huge mouth had split open across it, and a brass eyeball had rolled out to fix him with an unblinking stare.
"Three."
"Two."
He tried desperately to think. There was no time.
"One."
"Idiot," the door said.
A torrent of ice‑cold water gushed from its mouth and drenched him.
Quirrell sneezed.
"Aaaaargh!"
"Again!"
Ravenclaw pride would not let him give up. His eyes went red, and he roared.
In the end, Quirrell proved that the Sorting Hat had been right to put him in Ravenclaw all those years ago.
After he left, the mouth on the key and the mouth and eye on the door all vanished, as if they had never been.
He came to the next chamber and saw the chessboard with its giant pieces.
Quirrell already knew the trick. It required a group and sacrifices to win.
But he did not need to play properly. He could simply overlay another Transfiguration. That much, he could manage.
"Just turn the white pieces into black ones…"
He flicked his wand at a random piece.
One second. Two seconds. Three…
The piece did not change.
"Fool. Can you not see? Those pieces already have dozens of layers of Transfiguration on them," Voldemort hissed.
"Impressive. Truly impressive. Such mastery of Transfiguration is exceedingly rare."
Voldemort's voice dripped with sarcasm as he pointed out the problem, though he did not stint on praise for the skill involved.
Quirrell only nodded meekly. McGonagall had already been a professor when he was at school. He knew her authority well.
Now his awe of her had deepened considerably.
"Destroy the pieces directly. Normal spells will not work. The pieces are heavily reinforced. Alchemy," Voldemort said.
"Use the Dark Magic I taught you. Quickly."
At Voldemort's command, Quirrell bit down on his tongue, tore a strip of skin and flesh from his already injured left arm, and flung it at the board.
He slashed his wand through the air and chanted a guttural, twisted curse.
Boom!
The explosion roared.
…
Meanwhile.
Harry had gathered Ron and Hermione and was about to slip out of the common room.
"You are going out again."
A voice from the corner made all three of them jump.
Neville stepped out from behind a chair and planted himself in their path.
"If you get caught again, Gryffindor will lose even more points. I have to stop you."
He raised his small, plump fists. "Come on. We will… we will fight!"
"We really have to go, Neville. Move," Harry pleaded.
"No!"
Hermione raised her wand. "I am very sorry, Neville."
"Petrificus Totalus."
Neville's arms snapped to his sides. He stood rigid, then toppled over like a plank.
The three of them hurried out.
"Dumbledore is not here, and we still have not found Leonardo. Just the three of us…" Ron muttered as they walked.
Harry cut him off. "We are the only ones who can protect the Stone now.
"And Leonardo taught us some basic defensive spells. We can do this."
…
After sacrificing part of his left arm, Quirrell finally blasted the chess pieces to rubble.
He did not notice them slowly knitting themselves back together behind him as he passed through.
It did not matter. The next room held his own challenge.
Just a troll.
His colleagues had all tricked him, but he would not trick himself.
He had even planted a curse in the troll's skull. One flick of his wand and it would explode.
He cast a Bubble‑Head Charm to filter the stench, kicked the door open, and raised his wand, ready to end this quickly.
"Gaaaaaak—"
A strange, rasping howl echoed through the chamber. Something lurked in the shadows. It stepped forward.
Quirrell's eyes widened. His wand nearly slipped from his grip.
"What is that?"
"Where is my troll?"