Arthur didn't move. His wrists were still bound, his wand was missing, and Quirrell—now standing tall, exuding an eerie confidence—was watching him like a hawk.
Alright, Arthur. Think.
Hagrid. The dragon egg. The Forbidden Forest. The Cerberus. The trapdoor.
And now—the Philosopher's Stone.
Everything clicked into place, but Arthur wasn't about to let Quirrell see that.
So, instead of reacting, he blinked up at him, unimpressed.
"Philosopher's Stone?" Arthur drawled, shifting slightly in his bindings. "Oh, wow, Professor, that's so mysterious. Should I gasp dramatically? Should I faint?"
Quirrell's eye twitched.
Arthur tilted his head, his hair flickering dangerously close to orange before he forced it back to neutral. Control. Control.
He grinned. "I mean, don't get me wrong, this is a great villain speech so far. Very ominous. Very spooky. But I have no idea what you're talking about."
Quirrell's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened.
"Come now, Arthur," Quirrell said smoothly. "You've been asking the right questions, lingering in the right places. You're clever. Surely, you must have some idea."
Arthur hummed thoughtfully, dragging out the silence just long enough to be annoying.
"Hmmm. You know what? You're right. I do have an idea." He grinned. "What if—just hear me out—it's a giant stash of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans? But, like, the cursed kind. So if someone eats one, they turn into a flobberworm."
Quirrell exhaled sharply through his nose—half a laugh, half irritation. "You enjoy being difficult, don't you?"
"Oh, absolutely," Arthur said cheerfully. "It's my best quality."
Quirrell's eyes darkened. "You're quite the little menace, aren't you?"
Arthur smirked. "I try."
The air in the dim enclosure felt thick, almost suffocating. Arthur stood his ground, arms crossed, a lazy smirk plastered across his face. He was pretending to be unfazed, but something about Quirrell's eerie calmness sent a chill down his spine.
"You're going to help me, whether you like it or not," Quirrell said, voice soft but heavy with certainty.
Arthur scoffed, flicking a strand of his now-orange hair from his eyes. "Oh, am I? What, you gonna bore me to death with one of your stutter-fests?"
Quirrell's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Annoyance? Amusement? Maybe both.
"You're clever," he admitted. "Clever enough to have figured it out. What lies beneath the trapdoor. What I've been after all along."
Arthur's smirk widened, but his fingers twitched at his side. Did Quirrell know that he knew? Probably. But it was all a game, and Arthur wasn't about to be outplayed.
"I dunno," Arthur said with a casual shrug. "All I see is a nervous wreck of a professor who got a little too obsessed with a giant dog. Bit weird, mate."
Quirrell's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I know you're stalling, Arthur."
Arthur opened his mouth for another quip, but the next words froze him in place.
"Lord Voldemort has taken an interest in you."
The smirk dropped.
Arthur didn't know why, but the second the name left Quirrell's lips, something inside him lurched. A sharp, cold sensation pierced through his skull, and for a split second—
Green light.
A scream.
Arthur blinked, his breath hitching. He had no idea where those images had come from, but they left him dizzy, his mind swimming with something just out of reach.
Quirrell studied him, clearly expecting a reaction. Fear, maybe. But Arthur wasn't about to give him that satisfaction.
"Who the hell is Voldemort?" he said, voice steady but… hesitant. Like he wasn't sure if he even believed his own question.
Quirrell actually looked taken aback. "You… don't know?"
Arthur forced himself to grin, though his hair flickered from orange to white and back. "Nah, should I? Sounds like a rubbish name, if you ask me."
Quirrell's eyes narrowed. He took a slow step forward. "Curious… very curious."
Arthur took a step back, and in a blink—everything turned black.
A sharp force slammed into his chest, sending him crashing against the stone wall. His head spun, the room tilting, his limbs suddenly feeling too heavy to move.
"Wh—" Arthur tried to speak, but his tongue felt numb.
Not again, he thought as he blacked out
Darkness. Cold stone beneath him. His head pounded like he'd been hit by a rogue Bludger. Again.
A soft melody drifted through the air—a harp?
Arthur blinked, his vision swimming back into focus. He groaned, shifting slightly, and immediately felt a sharp pressure on his chest. A foot.
"Ah, you're awake," Quirrell murmured. "Just in time."
Arthur groaned, rubbing his head. "Would you quit knocking me out? Seriously, it's getting old." His voice was hoarse, but the glare he shot Quirrell was sharp.
Quirrell smirked, pressing his foot down harder. "You have quite the mouth for someone in your position."
Arthur rolled his eyes, his hair shifting from white (fear) to blue (nervousness), before settling back to its usual shade. "Yeah, yeah. Evil monologue, villain moment, whatever. Just get to the part where you mess up."
Quirrell's expression flickered for a moment before twisting into amusement. "Oh, I don't plan to fail. Not this time."
Arthur pushed himself upright, rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head. That was when he noticed the massive three-headed dog—Fluffy, he thought, looking its hair—completely knocked out, its three enormous chests rising and falling in deep slumber.
His gaze flickered downward, and his stomach sank. The trapdoor beneath the dog was wide open.
Arthur stiffened. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Quirrell chuckled. "Not at all."
Arthur's eyes darted around for an escape, but before he could make a move, a sudden pressure locked his limbs in place. His breath hitched. He could still feel his body, but it was like an invisible force was holding him still, a weight pressing against his chest.
Quirrell stepped closer, his voice smooth yet laced with something sinister. "You are going to help me retrieve the stone, whether you like it or not."
Arthur forced a smirk, despite the discomfort. "Oh yeah? And what exactly makes you think I'm gonna do that?"
Quirrell's lips curled. "Because Lord Voldemort commands it."
The name sent a strange jolt through Arthur's mind. His smirk faltered as something heavy settled in his chest.
Green light.
A flash—like lightning splitting the darkness.
He flinched.
It was fast, too fast—just a glimpse, but it left behind a sensation like ice in his veins.
Another flicker—screams. Not his, but someone else's. Distant. Fading.
His pulse quickened. The images were unfamiliar, yet… they felt real. Like something long buried was trying to claw its way back.
He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "Who the hell is Lord Voldemort?" he muttered, barely recognizing his own voice.
Quirrell's eyes gleamed. "Ah… so you truly don't know him."
Something in the way he said it sent a cold shiver down Arthur's spine.
Before he could react, Quirrell shoved him hard.
Arthur's foot slipped over the edge. His stomach lurched.
And then—he was falling.