Melvin could manage to Apparate with others, but Hogwarts' ancient magical wards prevented any wizard from Apparating within the castle or setting a destination point inside its grounds—not even a legendary wizard could bypass them. However, the headmaster could use the magic of magical creatures, like a phoenix, to teleport.
Though Melvin had never experienced phoenix magic firsthand, being enveloped in its flames and crossing hundreds of miles to land in a fourth-floor corridor at Hogwarts was surreal. He steadied himself, slowly processing the sensation and reflecting on the magic.
This teleportation, driven by a magical creature, was nothing like Apparition. There was no squeezing or pulling sensation, no discomfort. The flames weren't scorching but warm and comforting, almost like a unicorn's blessing.
Having witnessed a unicorn's power before, Melvin felt a spark of hope. He'd heard the Dumbledore family's bond with phoenixes was an innate, blood-born gift. Could the gift of a horned water serpent somehow replicate a similar effect?
"Rebirth from ashes, spatial travel, healing, and purification…" Melvin stole a glance at Fawkes perched on the headmaster's shoulder before looking away.
Phoenix matters could wait. Right now, the priority was getting through the trapdoor. The new escape room was open for business, and as an NPC, Melvin couldn't keep the "customers" waiting too long.
He pushed open the door, and Fluffy bounded forward, all three fearsome heads alert. The middle head bared its sharp teeth, arching toward Dumbledore, while the other two heads tilted in opposite directions, growling softly and gesturing.
On the floor in each direction lay an instrument: a harp in one, and a crudely made flute in the other.
"The flute was Hagrid's Christmas gift to Harry. Took him weeks to carve, but it's the only one that plays in tune," Dumbledore said, bending to pick up the wooden flute. He glanced at the harp. "Looks like Professor Quirrell and the kids have already started. Wonder who's in the lead."
Melvin shot the headmaster a sidelong glance and patted Fluffy's middle head, signaling the dog to move its bulk. "You're the one who was so worried about the students' safety that you couldn't wait to leave the Ministry. Now you're dawdling here, acting all calm. Hmph."
With a knowing smirk, Melvin lifted the trapdoor and stepped forward, dropping into the hole with a touch of flair.
Dumbledore paused, chuckling softly, then followed suit.
…
The Devil's Snare sounded ferocious, but it was just a shade- and moisture-loving vine, docile by nature. It didn't strangle immediately upon contact and was timid around fire. No need for a fire charm—just the gentle bluebell flames used for warmth were enough to make the vines shrink back into the shadows.
Its combat ability was pitifully weak.
Next was Professor Flitwick's challenge: a brightly lit room with a single exit—a heavy wooden door, locked tight. Thousands of winged keys fluttered about, and the task was to catch the right one.
In truth, there were only two keys: a wrong copper one and the correct silver one. Cast a few Duplication Charms on the copper key, mix them all together, and throw in a Bird-Conjuring Charm to make them fly, and you had the puzzle before them.
There wasn't just one way to solve it. You could use a Disarming Charm to strip the magic from all the keys, summon the right key with an Accio, or, if you weren't worried about alerting the other professors, blast the door open for the fastest route.
Considering Harry and his friends were only first-years, unlikely to crack the puzzle with advanced spellwork, Flitwick had thoughtfully left a flying broomstick.
"Finite Incantatem!"
A ripple of invisible magic spread through the room, freezing the thousands of fluttering keys in midair. The sound of flapping wings vanished, and the duplicated keys popped like soap bubbles.
Only the single copper key and silver key dropped into Melvin's palm.
"…"
Meeting Melvin's pointed look, Dumbledore explained, "Since these doors are only meant to stop students below third year, Filius didn't bother with backup keys."
They pushed through the heavy door to find Professor McGonagall's enchanted chessboard already solved. Shattered pieces of defeated white chessmen littered the floor, though the white king and queen stood intact, guarding an unconscious redheaded Weasley.
"No fractures, no dislocations…" Melvin examined him briefly. "Just a lump on the head. Looks like he took a hit from a chess piece and passed out."
"Foolish boy…" Dumbledore said, though his fond expression betrayed his pride.
"Ron's not foolish! He's the one who cracked the chessboard!" a young, clear voice rang out from the passageway.
Hermione emerged, her eyes red-rimmed, staring intently at Melvin and Dumbledore. Seeing them there brought relief, but it also connected the dots for many of her lingering questions.
She didn't know the full truth yet, but she had her suspicions.
"Professor Levent, Headmaster Dumbledore, you…" Hermione sniffled. She'd solved the potion-and-riddle challenge, but there was only enough antidote for one person to pass through. Harry had insisted on facing the dark wizard alone, sending her back to get help.
Still shaken, she pressed on. "Is this all part of your plan? Did you know Professor Snape was You-Know-Who's servant and deliberately placed the Philosopher's Stone here…?"
"Snape's been wrongly accused. The headmaster can explain the details," Melvin said, giving her head a pat. "First, we need to find Harry. He's still in danger."
The young professor took the lead.
"…"
Dumbledore hesitated, meeting Hermione's questioning, slightly accusatory gaze, and found himself at a loss.
Fawkes tilted its head, eyeing its old companion with cheerful chirps.
…
Magic cloaked Quirrell's body, letting him pass effortlessly through the black flames. What were carefully crafted potions or magical fires compared to the Dark Lord's Fiendfyre or the deathly aura that clung to him?
Ahead lay the chamber hiding the magical treasure. Fear, curses, dark artifacts—whatever that sly Levent had set up would be crushed by the Dark Lord's power.
Stepping into the shadowed room, Quirrell found it so dim he could barely see a few inches ahead, everything blurred. The silence was heavy, broken only by the drip of water and his own breathing. The uneven floor felt wet underfoot.
He frowned, about to light his wand.
Suddenly, a faint, cold glow flickered to life. As the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Quirrell instantly recognized it as a hinkypunk—a will-o'-the-wisp from Muggle folklore. Harmless creatures, they lurked in marshes, luring travelers into swamps with their light.
A Lumos Charm might expose him, but the hinkypunk's faint glow was perfect. Before Quirrell could feel relieved, a rustling filled the room.
Countless moths and bats swarmed the hinkypunk, snuffing out its light in seconds. Amid the flapping wings, a faint, chilling scream rose from the frail creature as it was devoured.
A living thing was being consumed nearby.
Quirrell felt a faint chill and a twinge of irritation. Dealing with moths and bats in this cramped, damp, waterlogged room was a hassle. Fire would drive them off in the open, but here, a fire charm would be useless.
"What about Fiendfyre…?" Quirrell clutched his dangling turban, then let go, disappointed.
Fiendfyre was too volatile and could destroy the Philosopher's Stone.
As long as he didn't disturb the insects, it didn't matter what they consumed.
Suppressing his annoyance, Quirrell moved forward, guided by a rough sense of direction and the dim light. He'd glimpsed a platform against the far wall during the hinkypunk's brief glow.
His boot splashed into a puddle. It didn't soak through, but the cold, wet sensation of water seeping into his trousers was unpleasant.
Groping along the wall, his fingers brushed something sticky and damp. Bringing it closer, he saw it was a wet rope. Annoyed, he tossed it into the water.
The dim visibility, the faint rustling, the constant dripping, and his own breathing and heartbeat felt increasingly alien. He knew he was alone, yet he couldn't shake the feeling of another's breath behind him or unseen eyes watching from the shadows.
…
Black flames sealed the passageway, writhing as if alive. Sensing the approaching trio, the fire lashed out with scorching tongues.
A transparent bubble of magic held them at bay.
"Professor—"
"Shh."
Hermione started to speak, but Melvin silenced her, popping a toffee into her mouth. She gave him an exasperated look, her eyes questioning in the dark, where only vague silhouettes were visible.
Melvin rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a shriveled arm specimen, its core holding a candle. Gripping the bone's end with his right hand, he snapped his left thumb and forefinger near the wick, igniting a spark.
The candle flared but gave off no light. Hermione saw only a fleeting flicker.
Then Melvin took her right hand, and a candle's glow appeared, illuminating the room clearly.
She looked up at him. He held her hand in one of his and raised the eerie "candleholder" with the other, glancing at Dumbledore to indicate he was pulling the headmaster into the "group chat."
Hermione grabbed Dumbledore's rough hand. He looked down, his blue eyes carrying a trace of pity.
She didn't understand the look but gestured that Melvin had told her to do it.
Her eyes sparkled with alertness. Dumbledore's expression softened, almost wistful.
…
A flash of yellow fire flared behind Harry, but he didn't turn. He'd already spotted the figure ahead, purple turban unmistakable—Professor Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.
Not Snape!
Harry stifled a gasp, forcing himself to stay calm and quiet.
The signs in the room showed the dark wizard seeking the Philosopher's Stone was ahead. Harry had braced himself to face Snape, not Quirrell.
Thankfully, his cautious steps hadn't made a sound, keeping him undetected.
Quirrell hadn't succeeded yet. If Harry could stall until Hermione brought help, there was still time.
He moved forward carefully, barely lifting his feet, sliding them silently across the wet floor.
Clinging to the wall, he felt something slimy and wet wrap around his leg.
"A snake!"
Harry froze, heart racing, but his mind stayed sharp. He didn't scream. He was a wizard, able to speak to snakes—he'd even teamed up with a zoo python to prank Dudley once.
Truth be told, Harry liked snakes.
Crouching slightly, he whispered, barely audible beyond a few inches, "Mr. Snake, don't wrap around me. Go bite that bad guy up ahead."
The snake paused, not responding but slowly unwinding from his leg, as if it understood.
Harry had a sudden thought. "Wait, don't. He's an evil dark wizard—you're no match for him. Find somewhere safe to hide."
The slimy, serpentine shape slipped into the water, rippling away and vanishing.
…
Hermione, toffee sticking to her teeth, held Melvin's hand in one of hers and Dumbledore's in the other, her face expressionless.
What was Harry hissing at a rope for?
The rope looked like one of Melvin's props, like his creepy candleholder.
Whatever. She'd ask the professor later.
With the headmaster here, Harry should be safe.
Melvin trailed Harry at a distance, the candle's light clear and bright. He had a perfect view of Harry's exchange with the "rope"—a tattered dark magic noose—and his expression was complicated.
The noose couldn't understand Parseltongue. It had failed its murder attempt and slunk off for another target. But with Harry's hissing, it almost seemed like he'd commanded it to attack Quirrell.
What would Voldemort, lurking on the back of Quirrell's head, look like if that noose caught him?
Dumbledore watched Harry, his gaze thoughtful.
…
Another flash of yellow fire came and went. When Quirrell turned, it was gone, leaving only darkness.
The room remained silent, save for the rustling of bats and moths and the dripping water. Unease flooded Quirrell, and Melvin's irritating face flashed in his mind. He quickened his pace.
Splash… splash…
Two footsteps echoed.
"!!"
Quirrell froze, breath catching. He'd only taken one step—whose was the second?
"Who's there!?" he called, voice sharp.
No answer.
Cautiously, he stepped again, his boot splashing clearly.
He waited, hearing only the usual sounds—no new disturbances. Maybe he'd misheard, or it was an echo in the enclosed space. Breathing a quiet sigh, he moved toward the platform.
Splash…
Splash…
Splash… splash…
His heart skipped, limbs icy. Clutching his turban, he paused, following the Dark Lord's nudge to look ahead.
A vague, towering figure loomed in the dimness.
"Who's there!?" he demanded.
The figure stood rigid, unmoving.
Quirrell racked his brain. He knew every staff member at Hogwarts—no one matched that build. Hagrid was even bulkier, and Dumbledore wouldn't hire an outsider to guard this place.
It had to be a statue, like the chess pieces in McGonagall's challenge.
Reassured by the Dark Lord's logic, Quirrell stepped forward. Then it hit him—how could a statue make footsteps?
He looked up, eyes widening, pupils contracting—
The statue's pale face was inches from his own.