Arthur barely had time to process the shove before he was plummeting through the trapdoor.
Wind rushed past him, and then—impact. Soft, but firm. Tendrils coiled around his limbs before he could move.
Devil's Snare.
He exhaled slowly, letting his muscles go slack. The moment he did, the vines loosened, slithering away as if disappointed. He dropped the remaining few inches onto the ground, sighing.
"Well, that was easy."
A flare of light burst beside him, bright and blinding. The plant shrieked—if plants could shriek—writhing away from the sudden illumination. Arthur turned his head, blinking the spots from his vision.
Quirrell stepped free, his wand still aglow. His gaze was unreadable, but his movements were sharp, purposeful.
Arthur scowled. "Would you quit hitting me?"
Quirrell didn't acknowledge him, already moving toward the next door. Arthur followed, grumbling under his breath, until they stepped into the next chamber.
The sound of fluttering filled the space. Arthur's head snapped up, eyes widening at the sight of hundreds of keys, wings flapping as they darted across the room. His gaze flickered through them, searching—there.
A silver key with a distinct wing.
But before he could react, Quirrell was already on the move. He lifted his hand, fingers twitching in a barely noticeable motion. The key jerked in place, as though an invisible force had latched onto it.
Arthur could only watch as Quirrell pulled his fingers into a fist. The key wrenched downward, struggling midair as it twisted against an unseen hold. Then, with a swift flick, it shot straight toward Quirrell's waiting hand.
The wing bent on impact.
Arthur crossed his arms. "Yeah, yeah. Fancy wandless magic. Show-off."
Quirrell slid the key into the lock, turning it with a quiet click. He pushed the door open and glanced back at Arthur.
"Come along, boy. There's still much to do."
Arthur sighed. This was just the beginning.
The door creaked as it swung open, revealing a grand, life-sized chessboard that spanned the entire room. The pieces, large and imposing, were made of black stone, standing still like ancient statues locked in an eternal struggle. On the opposite side, the white pieces loomed, waiting to be moved.
Arthur stepped onto the board first, his boots tapping softly against the cold stone. He glanced around, his eyes narrowing. The pieces weren't just statues; he could feel the weight of their presence. He was going to have to replace one of the pieces, he realized.
Quirrell, walking behind him, made no sound, but Arthur felt his eyes boring into the back of his head.
"You know how to play chess, don't you?" Quirrell asked, his voice calculating but with an underlying edge.
Arthur didn't bother looking at him. "I know enough. Don't worry about me."
Quirrell's lip twitched in irritation. "You're playing as the knight, then," he said, gesturing toward a piece on the far side of the board. "I'll take the rook."
Arthur nodded and made his way to the white knight. He could feel the weight of the piece under his feet, the pressure of knowing that every move now would be critical. Quirrell stepped forward, positioning himself as the rook. There would be no turning back from here.
The game began.
Quirrell's voice rang out, cutting through the tension. "Knight to C3," he commanded. Arthur immediately shifted, bending his body into the position of the knight. He'd practiced this many times in his mind, and now he knew exactly what to do.
Their pieces had already begun to clash. The black side of the board, though made of stone, seemed to stir with life at each strategic move.
"I'll move the rook," Quirrell said again, already setting his piece in motion. "Rook to D4."
Arthur's eyes flicked from Quirrell's move to the black pieces, all while keeping his position locked as the knight. He couldn't stray from his role. He would remain in the same spot for the rest of the game, just like Quirrell would with the rook.
The tension grew, each movement deliberate and slow, their pieces mirroring the movements of real-life warriors. Arthur's knight was now in a prime position, with black pawns advancing on him from all sides. Quirrell's rook, however, was on the offensive, pushing forward relentlessly.
Arthur spoke again. "Queen to D8," he said, carefully moving the white queen into a threatening position. The board was now completely set up. It was only a matter of time before the checkmate came. But the black pieces weren't done yet.
"I have no intention of losing," Quirrell sneered, his words cold as ice.
Arthur didn't answer. He was too focused. He knew what had to be done. He could see the openings now, the vulnerability in the black king's defense.
The final move came.
Arthur's knight, once a mere piece in the game, moved in a flawless arc to take out the black queen, clearing the way for the final blow.
"Checkmate," Arthur said quietly.
The board fell silent. The black king was trapped. Quirrell blinked, a slow, begrudging respect flickering in his eyes.
"Well, that was...unexpected," Quirrell muttered under his breath, but Arthur couldn't care less. They'd won. It was over. The tension between them remained, but the game was finished.
Arthur didn't bother to look back at Quirrell as he moved off the board, ignoring the faint glimmer of defeat in Quirrell's eyes.
The door creaked open, and a horrible stench hit Arthur like a brick wall. He gagged, instinctively covering his nose.
"Ugh—what in Merlin's sweaty socks is that?"
Quirrell didn't answer. Instead, he stepped forward, his eyes scanning the dark chamber. Arthur followed, though every step felt wrong. The air was thick, heavy, as if something massive lurked just beyond the dim torchlight.
Then—THUMP.
A shadow shifted. A deep, guttural growl rumbled through the chamber.
And then, stepping into the flickering light, came the single biggest troll Arthur had ever seen.
It was easily twelve feet tall, with thick gray skin, a flat, dumb-looking face, and arms like tree trunks. Its club—no, log—dragged across the stone floor, leaving a deep scratch behind.
Arthur tensed, every nerve in his body screaming at him to move. He didn't have his wand. He didn't have a plan. He didn't have—
"Oh, for Merlin's sake."
Arthur barely had time to react before Quirrell flicked his wand.
"Petrificus Totalus."
The effect was instantaneous. The troll's entire body snapped rigid, like it had been turned to stone. Its tiny eyes widened slightly in confusion before it toppled forward, crashing into the ground with an earth-shaking BOOM.
Dust flew up. The floor trembled. The room went silent.
Arthur stared at the fallen troll. Then at Quirrell. Then back at the troll.
Finally, he exhaled sharply. "Huh."
Quirrell huffed, adjusting his sleeves. "Really, it was meant to slow intruders down. Not particularly challenging for someone competent."
Arthur scoffed. "Yeah, or someone who actually knew it was coming."
Quirrell ignored him, already moving toward the next door, which swung open at their approach. "Come along, unless you'd like to stay and admire my handiwork."
Arthur lingered for a second longer, eyeing the troll.
"Not gonna lie," he muttered, stepping over its outstretched arm, "kind of wanted to at least try something."
And with that, they moved on.
Arthur and Quirrell stepped into the dimly lit chamber, their footsteps echoing against the cold stone floor. The air smelled of burnt parchment and something acrid, like potions gone wrong. Around of them, two walls of fire roared—black flames blocking the path forward and violet flames sealing off their exit.
Arthur's gaze swept over the seven bottles lined up on a narrow table between the two barriers. A small roll of parchment lay beside them, edges slightly curled.
Quirrell exhaled sharply. "Snape's work."
Arthur picked up the parchment and scanned the riddle written in neat, flowing script:
---
Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,
Two among our number hold what you seek to find.
One among us seven will let you move ahead,
Another will take you back, leaving danger in your stead.
Two are filled with nettle wine, three hold deadly curse,
Choose, but be not foolish, lest you make matters worse.
---
Arthur tapped his fingers against the parchment, already running through the logic. Seven bottles. One forward. One back. Three poison. Two useless.
"Easy," he muttered.
Quirrell raised a skeptical brow. "Then solve it."
Arthur rolled his eyes but focused on the bottles. His fingers trailed over them lightly as he pieced the pattern together. The smallest bottle—barely noticeable between the others—was the one that would let someone go forward. The second from the left would take them back.
"Alright. This one lets you pass through the black flames," Arthur said, tapping the tiny bottle. "That one takes you back."
Quirrell eyed him with something like amusement. "You're sure?"
Arthur sighed. "Yes. Do you want to check my work, or are you going to keep acting like a pompous—"
"I'll take your word for it." Quirrell smoothly plucked the second bottle and turned it in his hand. "I'll be seeing you soon, Reeves."
Arthur hesitated. "You're not coming?"
"No need."
Something about the way he said it made Arthur uneasy, but he had no choice. He grabbed the smallest bottle and tossed it back in one go.
Cold fire spread through his veins.
Gritting his teeth, he stepped into the black flames.
It didn't burn.
The flames licked at his skin like a winter breeze, but he pushed forward.
When he emerged on the other side, his breath caught.
At the far end of the chamber stood a tall, ornate mirror. The last thing he thought he'd find here. The Mirror of Erised. Its golden frame gleamed under the flickering light, its surface reflecting more than just the room.
Arthur took an uneasy step forward.
Then—footsteps.
The flames behind him flared as Quirrell stepped through.
Arthur spun to face him, instincts screaming that something wasn't right.
Quirrell barely spared him a glance. His eyes were fixed ahead, a slow smirk curling on his lips.
And then, in a voice dripping with satisfaction, he whispered—
"Now, you're going to help me steal a ruby."