The days following Christmas were filled with hushed conversations and intense planning. Harry and Hermione spent hours piecing together the mystery surrounding the Philosopher's Stone. While Snape had been surprisingly civil towards Harry since their last encounter, something about the man still felt… off. His presence around the third-floor corridor and his cryptic words made it all too easy to suspect him.
Ron, for his part, had been mostly skeptical, but that changed when they put together the pieces: the trapdoor, the mention of Fluffy, and the fact that someone was after the stone. It was obvious now. Someone had to act. And since no one else seemed to be doing anything, the three of them had to do it themselves.
Wrapped in the comforting embrace of the invisibility cloak, the trio sneaked through the castle corridors, their footsteps silent as shadows. Harry led the way, his senses on high alert. When they reached the forbidden door, he slowly pushed it open, and there it was—Fluffy.
The massive three-headed beast lay sprawled across the floor, its enormous chests rising and falling in deep, slumbering breaths. Someone had already been here. Someone had already played music.
"Oh, bloody hell," Ron whispered.
"They're ahead of us," Hermione realized.
"No time to waste," Harry decided. He stepped forward, avoiding the sleeping beast, and carefully opened the trapdoor. A dark abyss yawned beneath them.
"Ladies first?" Ron half-joked, but one look at Hermione's face made him rethink his words.
Harry didn't hesitate. "See you down there." And he jumped.
The others followed.
Harry landed first, his body sinking into something soft but firm. As the others fell beside him, the realization came quickly—they were being pulled down.
"Oh no," Hermione gasped. "It's Devil's Snare!"
"I know that," Ron yelled, struggling against the tightening vines.
Harry barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They needed fire. But Hermione was panicking, trying to remember the spell. Too slow.
Raising his hand, Harry instinctively focused on the thought of flames. His will pressed outward, and in an instant, searing light and fire burst from his palm.
"Incendio!"
The Devil's Snare recoiled, hissing like a living thing as the heat and radiance burned it away.
Freed from its grasp, they dropped to the stone floor beneath.
"What—what was that?" Hermione gasped, looking at Harry with wide eyes.
"No time. Let's go."
The next room was filled with hundreds of flying keys, each one darting about like hyperactive pixies. At the far end of the chamber stood a locked door.
Hermione scanned the chaos. "We need the right key."
Harry spotted a broom in the corner. That was all he needed.
Without hesitation, he leapt onto the broom and shot into the air. His sharp green eyes locked onto the key with the distinctive old-fashioned shape.
Ducking and weaving through the aggressive swarm, he dodged and feinted until—snap!—his fingers closed around the right key. He yanked it free and tossed it to Hermione.
"Go!" he called, dodging a particularly angry key that tried to stab him.
Hermione jammed the key into the lock, twisted, and pushed open the door. The trio rushed through, slamming it shut behind them.
The next room was an enormous chessboard, filled with towering black and white pieces. Ron immediately understood what was happening.
"It's Wizard's Chess," he murmured. "We have to play."
But Harry frowned. "That'll take too long."
Hermione's eyes sparkled with an idea. "What if we just—destroy the Black King?"
Ron blinked. "Wait, what?"
Harry grinned. "Checkmate in one move."
Raising his wand, he aimed at the Black King.
"Bombarda Maxima."
The explosion was deafening. Stone shards flew everywhere as the Black King was obliterated into rubble. The rest of the black pieces froze, then crumbled.
"…Okay," Ron breathed. "That's one way to do it."
Hermione smirked. "Why play fair when we can win outright?"
With that, they stepped through to the next challenge.
Seven bottles sat in a row, the flames blocking their path beyond. Hermione read the riddle carefully, her mind whirring through the possibilities.
After a few moments, she confidently grabbed two vials, handing one to Harry. "This lets you go forward," she said. "We'll go back."
Harry took the potion and drank.
With a nod to his friends, he stepped through the flames.
As Harry emerged from the fire, he expected to see Snape. He was wrong.
Standing in the dimly lit chamber was Professor Quirrell.
"It's you?" Harry blinked.
Quirrell smiled—a cold, calm smile that sent a chill down Harry's spine. "Yes, me."
His stutter was gone. His posture perfectly composed.
"You thought it was Snape, didn't you?" Quirrell mused, pacing. "Typical. Always assuming the worst of him while I slipped by unnoticed."
Harry's eyes flickered to the large, ornate mirror. The Mirror of Erised.
"Now," Quirrell continued. "I believe you should look into it."
Something in his voice compelled Harry to step forward. He gazed into the reflection and—
His parents. Standing beside him. Smiling.
But something was different. The Stone was in his pocket.
He had it.
Harry's breath hitched, but he forced himself to remain calm. He turned back toward Quirrell.
"I see my family," he lied smoothly, or so he thought.
"Liar."
The voice didn't come from Quirrell. It came from his turban.
And then, Quirrell removed it.
A face. A horrible, grotesque face stared back at him.
"Harry Potter," the Dark Lord whispered. "It is good to finally meet you, I'll reintroduce myself, I am Lord Voldemort, the killer of your parents."
Something boiled inside Harry. An emotion unlike anything he'd felt before.
Rage.
This... was Voldemort.
For the first time, Harry understood exactly what had happened all those years ago.
Voldemort had killed his parents.
Something in Harry snapped.
The room grew cold.
Quirrell stiffened as a terrible presence filled the air. Even Voldemort, the greatest Dark Lord of all time, hesitated.
Then, Harry spoke.
"I will kill you, Voldemort."
His voice was ice. His intent was steel.
"I don't care how long it takes. No matter where you hide, no matter what form you take, I will kill you."
Voldemort laughed. "You? A mere child?"
Fire burst around them in a circle, caging them in.
But then—Voldemort froze.
A familiar sensation overtook him.
The same one from eleven years ago.
Death.
His body was dying.
Quirrell gasped, clutching his chest. His very form began to break apart.
Harry didn't know what he had done. But he had thought—willed—Voldemort's presence to die. And it was happening.
Voldemort's soul fled, escaping before it could be destroyed.
The fire disappeared.
Exhaustion hit Harry like a brick. He slumped to the ground, his body screaming in protest.
As his vision blurred, one final thought crossed his mind.
"…I can kill things… just by thinking it."
His fingers twitched, and he smirked slightly before sleep claimed him.
That's neat.
AN: I know the pacing is kind of terrible, but at least Harry has obtained Instant Death now, rejoice my readers!