"…"
No pretense left.
Melvin quietly observed Quirrell.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor clearly didn't think much of the Devil's Snare, barely glancing at the sprawling vines as he hurried onward. Compared to the child's play of the first challenge, he was far more interested in Flitwick's intricate spellwork.
When he learned the second room involved catching a flying key, Quirrell visibly relaxed, almost scoffing at the simplicity.
A single real key hidden among thousands of fakes? So what? The fakes didn't attack or sound alarms—they were just useless clutter.
A Transfiguration-crafted chessboard with a carefully arranged endgame?
Quirrell smirked inwardly. Hardly worth mentioning.
In the fourth room, a nauseating stench hit them, stinging their eyes. A massive mountain troll sat slumped in the corner.
Before it could lumber forward, Quirrell flicked a Stunning Spell, then made a show of checking the troll, announcing it was no threat.
Dumbledore said nothing. The others, eager to escape the smell, hurried into the next room.
Snape's setup was straightforward: refilling seven potion bottles on a table and placing a parchment with a riddle. The flames blocking the doors would be ignited later, when they left.
Quirrell's eyes flicked to the riddle, his head spinning as he tried to decipher it. Unable to solve it on the spot, he memorized it, planning to puzzle it out later.
Snape caught his glance and sneered. "Poisons I've expertly brewed, amplified by magical flames… If some fool picks the wrong potion, even a dragon would burn to ash."
Quirrell froze, his right hand trembling as it clutched his dangling turban. Seconds later, he relaxed, as if reassured by something unseen.
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on the turban, then shifted away discreetly.
"Only one room left," Dumbledore said. "I wasn't planning to set anything up, but Melvin's given me a new idea…"
All eyes turned to Melvin, who raised the box in his hand and flashed a bright smile at the professors. "What's in here is a bit dangerous and tricky to set up, so I won't invite you all to watch."
Dumbledore nodded. "Melvin and I will handle it. It won't take long—please wait here."
…
"These night moths are hidden in the corners. The room's dim phosphorescent glow provides just enough light to avoid total darkness. But if someone rashly lights a torch or casts Lumos… the sound will rouse the monsters lurking in the shadows.
"The slanted floor and swaying rope bridge will throw off their balance, forcing constant adjustments that keep them on edge, both physically and mentally. Sudden scares will spike adrenaline, exhausting them quickly. Their hands and feet will tremble, and unease and panic will take hold.
"The later setups draw on psychology—uncanny valley and Zeigarnik effects. Ordinary objects placed here will feel out of place, creating an eerie dissonance.
"True fear comes from balancing loss of control with immersion. As I mentioned before, the environment gradually strips away rational thought… guiding the intruder step by step back to humanity's primal instincts: awe and dread of the unknown."
"…"
Melvin's voice carried from the room, brimming with barely contained excitement.
Adrenaline, psychological effects…
The other professors' eyes flicked toward Snape. Though they didn't understand the terms, Melvin's earlier displays of reasoning had earned their respect for Muggle knowledge.
Despair, eeriness, terror…
Flitwick and Sprout exchanged a glance, inching closer together. The Hogwarts dungeons felt chilly, and they could already sense the oppressive fear Melvin described.
Quirrell gripped his turban again, finding the reassurance he sought.
But unable to see the room's setup, he couldn't fully relax. He clung to thoughts of the Dark Lord's power for comfort.
"Sensory overload will shatter the intruder's rationality.
"Dripping water will build psychological pressure.
"High-intensity scares alternate with low-grade dread.
"The intruder will never adapt to the abyss of fear…"
Melvin's words drifted through the door, like a devil's whisper echoing in the confined space. The room guarding the Philosopher's Stone seemed to transform into a sinister, curse-laden hell.
Quirrell clutched his turban tighter, his inner turmoil unyielding.
…
The Quidditch pitch was buzzing with excitement that weekend.
Clear skies chased away the morning mist, offering perfect visibility. Brand-new brooms awaited their riders, and Harry eagerly invited his roommates to join him, extending a polite invite to Hermione out of courtesy.
As expected, Hermione declined.
She'd planned to unwind from a week of hard study by diving into some hefty library tomes.
Harry and Neville expressed admiration.
Seamus and Dean were horrified.
Only Ron rolled his eyes, unable to resist a jab. "We're not going to mess around—we're practicing flying skills! Who knows if there'll be a Flying exam at the end of term? I seem to recall a certain someone struggling to even get off the ground."
Hermione paused, considered, and—agreeing he had a point—accepted the invitation.
The group grew, with Hermione leading the way, enthusiastically sharing flying knowledge. She covered broomstick evolution, Quidditch history, the first brooms, the first matches, and the origins of various rules in meticulous detail.
Harry and the others found her insights fascinating, gradually warming to the idea of having a know-it-all in their group.
"You're so long-winded!" Ron grumbled, annoyed. Five people sharing a Nimbus 2000 was tight enough; now it was six, and he wasn't happy.
Drawing on his childhood Quidditch experience, Ron said snidely, "What does a Muggle-born witch know about Quidditch? Who's to say you didn't make all this up?"
Hermione gave him a cool glance, not bothering to argue. She pulled a thick book from her shoulder bag—Quidditch Through the Ages.
Ron opened his mouth to retort. "Who says that book—"
"By Kennilworthy Whisp," Hermione said, pointing to the author's name on the spine. "A respected Quidditch expert. You've probably seen him on a Chocolate Frog card."
"…"
He had.
Ron's mouth hung open, speechless.
Hermione tucked the book away, striding forward with a blank expression and brisk steps.
---
Note: In case anyone wonders, I'll clarify here.
Hermione will not end up with Ron.