The torches in the Hogwarts corridors flickered low as dinner gave way to evening. Conversation still hummed in the Great Hall, though most students had grown weary of the gossip and the endless whispers about Oliver's bloodline. The weight of the revelations in the Daily Prophet lingered in the air like smoke, and while students clutched at rumors, a far darker plot was beginning to stir in the castle's very walls.
In a remote corner of the castle, a lone figure slinked through the shadows. Professor Quirrell's stammer was nowhere to be heard now—his gait sharp, his movements deliberate. The turban wound about his head seemed heavier tonight, as though weighed down by more than fabric. He paused before the forbidden corridor, eyes narrowing at the locked door. Behind his nervous exterior, Voldemort's rasping voice pressed against his mind.
"Now, Quirinus. The boy and his Phoenix keep Dumbledore distracted. Tonight, the Stone is ours."
Quirrell swallowed hard but obeyed. His trembling fingers traced the door's edges before slipping inside, the wood closing silently behind him.
Not far behind, three Gryffindors lingered in the corridor, whispering furiously. Harry, his glasses catching the torchlight, leaned forward. "I saw him. That was Quirrell. He's going into the corridor."
Hermione's brow furrowed. "We need to tell a professor. If he's sneaking in there, he must be after—"
Ron cut her off, face flushed with excitement. "Or we could stop him ourselves. Don't you see? This is our chance! We'll catch him red-handed!"
Hermione huffed, exasperated. "Ron, use your brain for once. This is dangerous—"
"Exactly why we can't wait!" Ron argued. "By the time we fetch McGonagall or Dumbledore, it'll be too late."
The trio bickered in whispers until a familiar voice cut across the hallway.
"You three are loud enough to wake the dead."
They spun around. Oliver stood behind them, Nyx perched regally on his shoulder. The Phoenix's sky-blue eyes shimmered in the gloom, seeming to cut straight through them.
Harry wasted no time. "Oliver, we saw Quirrell. He went into the forbidden corridor. We think he's after the Stone."
Oliver frowned, arms crossing. "The Stone? Don't tell me you really think Nicholas left it lying around in a school cupboard."
Hermione looked torn, her logical mind wrestling with her fear. "But Hagrid said—"
"I don't care what Hagrid said," Oliver snapped. "The real Stone is safe in France. I've seen it. Whatever's here, it's not what you think."
"But Quirrell doesn't know that," Harry pressed. "If he gets past the traps—"
Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're going to do something stupid, aren't you?"
Ron smirked. "Depends. You coming with us?"
Before Oliver could reply, Hermione straightened. "No. I'm going to get the Headmaster."
"Do you even know the password?" Oliver asked dryly.
Hermione froze, lips parting in sudden realization. Still, she lifted her chin. "I'll figure it out." And with that, she sprinted off down the hall, her shoes echoing against the stone.
Oliver sighed. "Brilliant. Just brilliant."
Nyx gave a low hum of disapproval, wings shifting.
Harry looked at Oliver pleadingly. "We can't do this alone. Please."
For a moment, Oliver hesitated. Then he let out a sharp laugh, humorless but determined. "Fine. But if we die, I'll be haunting you."
The three boys crept into the forbidden corridor. The shadows grew thicker, heavier, the torches here dimmer than the rest of the castle. Ahead, the door loomed. Oliver muttered a charm, his wand tracing a small glowing circle in the air to ensure silence when the hinges creaked.
The door swung inward, and they stepped into the chamber of Fluffy.
The massive three-headed dog dozed before them, its chests rising and falling with each thunderous snore. Drool pooled beneath its jaws, teeth like sabers gleaming even in sleep. The low rumble of its breathing shook the floor beneath their feet.
Ron froze. "Merlin's—"
"Shut it," Oliver hissed.
He unslung his guitar from his back. With practiced ease, he plucked the strings, weaving a soft, lullaby-like tune. His magic threaded through the melody, amplifying it just enough to lull the beast.
All three heads twitched. One yawned, another growled low, but the third head began to sag, its eyelids fluttering shut. Slowly, surely, the music wrapped around Fluffy like a warm blanket.
Harry watched in awe. "That… that's brilliant."
Oliver didn't respond, his concentration locked on the strings until Fluffy's snores deepened, filling the room like thunder. Only then did he whisper, "Go. Now."
The boys tiptoed to the trapdoor. Oliver strummed once more, enchanted the guitar to keep playing on its own, and set it gently beside the beast's paw. Then, one by one, they leapt into the darkness below.
The landing was less graceful. Ron let out a yelp as vines snaked around his arms, Harry struggled against tendrils wrapping his legs, and Oliver landed hard on his shoulder, grimacing.
"Devil's Snare," Oliver muttered. He tried to wriggle free, but the more they struggled, the tighter the vines constricted.
"Stop moving!" Harry cried, recalling Hermione's lessons.
"Easy for you to say when you're not being strangled!" Ron shouted, thrashing harder.
Oliver rolled his eyes. "You're hopeless."
Nyx's wings shimmered, her body glowing faintly. With a single beat of her wings, a wave of dark-blue fire burst outward—not searing, but soothing, carrying the strange starlit shimmer unique to her flames. The vines recoiled instantly, writhing away and releasing the boys.
Ron collapsed onto the ground, panting. "Bloody plant—"
"Get up," Oliver barked. "That was the easy part."
They moved forward cautiously, entering a vast chamber where glittering keys darted through the air like angry hornets. At the far end of the room stood a locked door, the keyhole glinting in the dim light.
Ron groaned. "Oh, come on."
Oliver gestured to the broom leaning against the wall. "Looks like this one's yours, Potter."
Harry's eyes widened. "Me?"
"You're the Seeker, aren't you? Unless Ron wants to embarrass himself?"
Ron opened his mouth to protest but caught Oliver's look and shut it again.
Harry mounted the broom and kicked off, the air rushing past his face. The swarm of keys buzzed like a storm, metallic wings flashing. He swerved left, right, diving through the chaos. His eyes darted, scanning for the right one—an old-fashioned silver key with a bent wing.
"There!" Oliver shouted, pointing.
Harry leaned forward, the broom surging ahead. Keys clattered against him, wings slicing his sleeves, but he didn't slow. He reached out, snatched the bent-wing key, and held it aloft with triumph.
Oliver smirked. "Not bad."
Harry landed, breathless but grinning. He shoved the key into the lock, and with a satisfying click, the door creaked open.
Oliver's eyes darkened slightly. "What's behind that door isn't going to be fun."
Ron, still catching his breath, snorted. "Oh, as if this has been fun so far."
Oliver ignored him. Nyx trilled softly, her eyes fixed on the looming darkness ahead.
The boys stepped through together.
The door groaned open, heavy as a tomb, and the three boys stepped inside. Cold air swept past them, carrying the faint echo of something shifting in the darkness ahead. Their footsteps crunched against stone, each one unnervingly loud.
What greeted them stopped Ron in his tracks.
A chessboard, the size of a courtyard, stretched before them. The pieces loomed taller than men, carved of black and white marble, their faces stern and unyielding. The knights' horses stamped their hooves restlessly, pawns gripped spears, and bishops held their staffs like weapons.
Ron's eyes widened. "Oh, now this—this is brilliant."
Harry looked at him as though he were mad. "Brilliant? Ron, they'll crush us!"
"It's wizard chess," Ron said eagerly. "I know this! I can play."
Oliver walked forward, frowning. He tapped one of the pawns with his wand. The marble figure shuddered, turned its stone head, and glared at him with glowing eyes. The weight of the enchantment was obvious. "This isn't a game," Oliver muttered. "These are weapons. Look at the enchantments—they're bound with transfiguration and alchemy. Step onto that board, and you're giving yourself up as a piece."
Ron scowled. "So? That's how wizard chess works."
"No," Oliver said firmly, his eyes narrowing. "That's how children play it. These enchantments? They're older. Sharper. This isn't a game—it's a trap."
Nyx gave a sharp cry, wings spreading, her feathers glowing faintly with starlit fire. The sound echoed, unnerving even the statues.
Oliver drew his wand, muttering under his breath. He traced a circle in the air, threads of energy weaving outward. Slowly, cracks began to form in the marble bases of the pawns nearest him. With another word, the bindings snapped. The statues sagged, the magic unraveling.
Ron's jaw dropped. "What—what are you doing?"
"Unmaking the trap," Oliver replied simply. "Alchemy isn't just about creating—it's about dismantling. These things are bound by layered charms. Break the alchemy, and the rest crumbles."
One by one, the pieces began to fall still, their magic draining away like water through a sieve. The knights froze mid-step, the bishops' staffs clattered against the ground, and the pawns slumped. Within minutes, the chessboard was nothing more than a field of broken statues.
Oliver turned back to the others. "Or, you know, we could have played. But this way, none of us gets smashed to bits."
Harry stared, awestruck. Ron looked betrayed. "That was… that was the best bit!"
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "You wanted to sacrifice yourself for a board game?"
Ron flushed red, muttering under his breath, but followed as Oliver led them to the next door.
The following chamber was colder still, a faint purple light flickering against the walls. At its center stood a row of potion bottles, each filled with different colored liquids, arranged neatly on a stone table. A scroll rested beside them, written in curling script.
Harry stepped closer, reading aloud:
"One among us will let you move forward,
One will send you back the way you came,
Two are but wine to soothe your nerves,
Three hold poison to end your game."
Ron grimaced. "Brilliant. Just brilliant."
Oliver scanned the bottles with practiced eyes. He could almost taste the wards woven into them—subtle transfiguration, charms meant to conceal, faint traces of lethal alchemy. "I know which one it is," he said at last. His voice was calm, certain. "But this is where we stop."
Harry frowned. "Stop? We're nearly there—"
Oliver cut him off sharply. "Exactly. And whatever's waiting on the other side, it's not something children should be facing. I know the right potion. But if I give it to you, you'll go charging ahead and get yourself killed."
Ron snorted. "What, and you'll just sit here and twiddle your thumbs?"
Oliver's eyes flashed. "No, Weasley. I'll make sure none of us dies tonight."
Before either boy could argue, Ron grabbed a bottle at random. "If you're too scared, I'll do it!" He yanked the cork out and gulped it down.
The effect was instant. His face went pale, his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his stomach.
"Ron!" Harry shouted, kneeling beside him.
Ron swore under his breath, snatching the correct bottle from the table. He thrust it into Harry's hand. "This one. It'll protect you from the flames. Drink it—now!"
Harry looked at him with wide eyes. "But Ron—"
"I'll will live," Ron said firmly. "But if Quirrell's ahead of us, we don't have time. Go!"
Harry hesitated only a second before Ron Forced Harry to drink the potion. The fiery barrier at the far end of the room flickered, and Ron shoved him forward. "Trust me. Go."
Harry stumbled through the flames, vanishing into the next chamber.
Oliver turned back to Ron, who groaned weakly. "Idiot," Oliver muttered, crouching down. Nyx leaned in, her beak glowing faintly. She touched Ron's chest with a single drop of her starlit tears, and his breathing steadied.
"Rest," Oliver said quietly. "And don't try something stupid again."
Then, without hesitation, he straightened. "Nyx."
The Phoenix let out a sharp, ringing cry. Flames erupted around Oliver, shimmering dark blue with the sparkle of distant stars. The fire curled inward, folding space itself, and in a flash, Oliver vanished.
When the flames faded, he stood inside the final chamber.
The air was thick with shadow. A massive mirror towered at the room's center, its frame gilded, its surface alive with faint, shimmering images. Harry stood frozen before it, eyes wide, lips parted.
And standing just behind him—his reflection warped and twisted by the mirror's glow—was Quirrell. Or rather, what rode within him.
Voldemort's voice slithered through the chamber, cold and serpentine. "So, this is the boy. The Phoenix's chosen."
Harry stumbled back, clutching at his chest. Oliver stepped forward, wand drawn, Nyx materializing in a burst of flame beside him. Her screech split the air, sharp enough to make Quirrell flinch.
Quirrell's face contorted, his lips curling. "You should not have come here, child."
Oliver smirked, though his pulse thundered in his ears. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing to you."
Harry looked between them, terrified and confused, but Oliver's focus never wavered from the shadow in Quirrell's eyes. The presence that even now seemed to darken the air around them.
For the first time that night, Voldemort himself hissed Oliver's name. "Dumbledore's blood… Grindelwald's blood… and yet, something more. I see you, boy."
Oliver tightened his grip on his wand, his voice low and steady. "Then you see you've picked the wrong night."
The chamber grew colder still. The firelight flickered against the mirror, and the three of them stood locked in the moment—Harry, pale and trembling; Oliver, unflinching, Nyx at his side; and Quirrell, the shade of Voldemort flickering just beneath his skin.
And the battle for the Stone began.