My skill with the wonky wizard chess set and the planning map kept climbing, but the thing shooting up faster than either of them was Squirrel Biscuits.
Every time I stared at that proficiency bar ticking higher, I'd zone out for a second.
The trance never lasted long, though, because pretty soon I'd get buried under a mountain of orders from Weasleys' & Green's Wizard Wheezes. Good thing I'd been practicing the chess sets, or Gert's owl would've been screeching at me with Howler-level urgency every single day.
The craze wasn't just at Hogwarts. Wizards who couldn't snag the shapeshifting biscuits started walking out with something else weird—like the wonky chess sets.
And get this: it took them all of two minutes to get hooked.
"A knight falls for the queen? Totally normal.
A bishop burns his own pawns at the stake for heresy? Kinda cool.
A reckless rook charges an extra square out of nowhere? Sure, I can see that.
But what the hell do you mean one knight got plastered, rode through the night, and stabbed our king while he was sneaking around with the enemy queen?!"
Wizards are wired for ridiculous stuff; otherwise Skiving Snackboxes wouldn't still be flying off shelves. (Their inventor, Alberic Grunnion, even landed on a Chocolate Frog card right next to legends like Nicolas Flamel.)
I let my imagination run wild when I built the sets, and the weirdness level went way past what anyone expected.
Result? The game's strategy depth exploded, and it kept the classic wizard-chess rule: the more you play with your set, the better it listens to you.
Breeding + strategy + pure absurdity = instant top-tier wizard entertainment in Britain.
And the Weasley twins' promise (without asking me first) that every month would bring a new piece? That basically guaranteed the game would live forever.
101bookread𝟣𝟢𝟣𝗄𝖺𝗇.𝖼𝗈𝗆 – all hand-typed, zero typos
If they weren't bawling and begging me to design a new piece every thirty days, I'd probably enjoy it more.
Weasleys' & Green's was raking in Galleons hand over fist. The twins bought new books, shiny new alchemy gear, and sent fat pouches home.
Mrs. Weasley never touched a Knut, but she was so proud she insisted the twins drag me to the Burrow no matter what.
I was this close to saying yes just to see the flying car, but I caught myself.
"I need to ask the professor first."
The twins couldn't figure out why, but they were too busy counting coins to care. Before they bounced, they dropped one last cryptic nugget:
"Our little venture means the original chess company hasn't sold a single set in a month—"
Fred tossed the classic box in the air.
"We paid the patent fees, but guess they still tried to screw us—"
George snatched the box mid-spin.
"Next thing you know, their whole stock turns into a herd of elephants. Ministry still hasn't found the culprit."
They both locked eyes on me.
"Great Green! Partnering with you is the best call any Weasley ever made!"
They gave an exaggerated bow and vanished in a puff of smoke.
Left me standing there, blinking.
Another week zipped by.
My wonky wizard-chess proficiency hit Expert, and the hottest topic in the Hope Cottage these days was Professor Quirrell.
"We can't let him steal the Philosopher's Stone. And we need to figure out why he wants it."
Justin always kicked things off.
"Turn stuff to gold? But Quirrell's the Muggle Studies professor—he's a brilliant Ravenclaw. He shouldn't be hurting for cash."
Hermione frowned.
"Oh, come on, Hermione, you can never have too many Galleons… Look at Fred and George. When they're not at practice, they're hustling. Rumor says they've got a whole vault stuffed already…"
Ron muttered, glancing sadly at his threadbare books and robes.
"Or… immortality…"
Justin said it under his breath.
Honestly, he still couldn't wrap his head around something that powerful existing in the wizarding world.
While the others mulled it over, I fiddled with a squirrel biscuit. The crackle of the fireplace yanked me back to the headmaster's office.
"H-he… his t-talent… d-deserves r-recognition… he n-needs the s-scholarship, n-needs to be s-seen, e-even j-just o-once… s-so I r-recommend h-him f-for…"
Was Quirrell really just talking about some wizard named Green?
That recommendation letter was stuffed at the bottom of my cabinet. I couldn't stop overthinking it.
"Sean… why do you think Quirrell wants the Stone?"
Justin spun around. When they were stuck, asking me usually helped.
This time, though, I stayed quiet for a long stretch.
Justin saw I was lost in thought and let it drop.
He and Hermione started digging into Quirrell's past instead.
"He used to be a gifted, super-knowledgeable Ravenclaw. No one's sure why he ended up like this, but word is he ran into vampires."
Hermione had a whole notebook of research and was reading from it.
"Yeah, otherwise how do you explain the stuttering and that awful garlic stink?"
Ron shuddered.
So… who was Quirrell, really?
Dumbledore's exact words to Harry:
"Quirrell is full of hatred, greed, and ambition. He sold his soul to Voldemort. Touching someone marked with such goodness would burn him…"
But at the Leaky Cauldron, Quirrell shook Harry's hand just fine. Did that mean he hadn't fully fallen yet?
One bad choice, one permanent tragedy.
I set the squirrel biscuit next to my diary pendant. A gust flipped the notebook open; the handwriting was crisp:
Quirinus Quirrell, in Rowling's notes—
Quirinus is an obscure Roman god often tied to war, despite looking mild. "Quirrell" sounds like "squirrel"—small, cute, harmless—and "quiver," nodding to the character's built-in nervous twitch.
Animal biscuits only let the same wizard keep their mind when they transform.
I had no clue if I could guess the professor's second soul right, but trying beat doing nothing.
Because of one letter, I kept overthinking: if possessed Quirrell got a do-over, what would he choose?
I didn't know. The only thing I did know? One measly squirrel biscuit lasted three minutes—barely enough for a rodent to sprint to the headmaster's office, confess everything, and beg for help. That was it.