By the time Sebastian Swann reached the corridor section containing Professor McGonagall's Wizard's Chess challenge, the four small figures were long gone. The chamber was unnervingly silent, the giant stone pieces frozen in their last position.
Sebastian paused, a flicker of professional curiosity replacing his earlier amusement. He instantly noticed the signs of a forced, non-standard victory: the remains of two pulverized stone pieces lay scattered off the board, and the King piece was leaning precariously against the far wall, a huge impact fissure running down its torso.
"Well, look at that," Sebastian murmured, a genuine half-smile playing on his lips. "They actually chose to use aggressive, kinetic force to bypass the strategic puzzle. A tactical decision born of desperation, chaos, and a healthy dose of pure Slytherin arrogance, no doubt."
He already knew that Ron's suggested sacrifice had been rejected in favor of Malfoy's brutal, albeit flawed, suggestion to use Depulso to destroy the pieces. The presence of Malfoy had added a necessary element of unpredictability to the original narrative, shifting the outcome from cunning logic to pragmatic demolition.
Interesting. It seems the plot required a slight nudge toward mayhem. I shall have to raise my game, too.
Sebastian raised his own wand—a slim, dark thing of polished jet—and aimed it casually at the restored chessboard. A blast of intense, shimmering azure light erupted. The effect was immediate and stunning: a deep, profound frost instantly encased every single stone chess piece. In the blink of an eye, the entire battlefield was transformed. The grim, black-and-white stone warriors were now elegant, crystalline ice sculptures, frozen mid-advance, glinting under the dim light.
Sebastian stepped onto the board. The thick layers of ice beneath his boots made a sharp squeak-squeak with every confident stride. The magical pieces that had given Harry and his friends so much grief were now nothing more than aesthetically pleasing, immobilized decorations beneath the Viper of Slytherin.
He reached the far door and slipped through to the next level: Professor Quirrell's unconscious Mountain Troll.
Sebastian paused once more, observing the massive giant lying prone on the stone floor. He noted the unnaturally large, bloody, and still-swollen lump on the creature's forehead.
"Oh, you profoundly stupid children," Sebastian sighed, shaking his head with a theatrical display of despair. "They couldn't possibly see that even this oaf, in his current drugged state, had enough residual strength to defeat them all with a single, clumsy swing of that club? They actually dared to descend without a second thought? Have they truly never learned the meaning of fear?"
The recklessness was astonishing, even by Gryffindor standards. He quickened his pace, the time for observation ending.
He opened the door to the final staging room, the air instantly thick with the sharp, acidic scent of ancient, dried ingredients and powerful magical residue. He was greeted not by danger, but by a scene of anxiety and relief.
"Professor!" Hermione's voice rang out—a mixture of surprise, elation, and sheer, hysterical relief. She and Ron stood near a small stone table, looking utterly overwhelmed by the deadly, final Potions Riddle. Malfoy was pacing furiously behind them.
"Harry—he just went through! He drank the tiny bottle and walked straight through those enormous black flames into the next room," Hermione rushed to explain, pointing toward a wall of shimmering, obsidian-colored fire that completely blocked the stone archway.
"The riddle was cruel, Professor. There was barely enough of the shrinking potion left in the bottle, just enough for one person. We couldn't risk drinking from the larger, deadly bottles. So, Harry had to go alone. We didn't dare follow, because we knew we wouldn't have enough left for the journey back. We were utterly stranded. It's a miracle you came, or we wouldn't have known how to cross the deadly purple flames behind us!"
She gestured to the doorway Sebastian had just entered through, which was currently barred by another, equally terrifying wall of vibrant, hungry purple fire. Her face lit up as if she had been handed a life raft.
Sebastian's voice was low and reassuring, immediately calming her fraying nerves. "Take a breath, Miss Granger. You have performed admirably under extreme duress. Tell me precisely how long ago did Harry enter the final chamber?"
"Not even half a minute, Professor! Thirty seconds, maybe forty at most!" Ron supplied eagerly, looking up at Sebastian as if he were an Archangel.
Excellent. Perfect timing.
Sebastian felt a subtle surge of adrenaline. Harry was well-trained enough to know he couldn't win, but reckless enough to try and stall. If Sebastian arrived within the first minute, the boy was likely still alive and attempting to use his alchemical arsenal to delay the inevitable confrontation.
Let us see how the trained Harry Potter fares against the Dark Lord.
"Very well. You three have done your part," Sebastian said, sweeping his gaze across the three exhausted first-years. "You may go upstairs immediately. I will retrieve Harry now." He waved his wand casually at the purple flames behind them, and the wall of fire slowly faded, retracting back into the stone, revealing the normal archway.
"Professor, please, can't we accompany you to rescue Potter?" Malfoy asked, shedding his earlier arrogance. His voice was genuinely earnest, and his eyes were alight with a desire to prove his worth after the helplessness he'd felt on the chessboard. "With you here, we're no longer afraid of whatever is in there. We could be useful."
Sebastian looked at Malfoy, then at Ron and Hermione, who were nodding eagerly. The foolish children, wanting to rush toward the very thing he was trying to keep them from.
"A noble offer, Malfoy, but I must decline," Sebastian said, his tone turning serious, almost clipped. "There is an inherent danger in the final room that is not of the physical world. If you were present, I would be forced to allocate magical resources to protect your physical safety. That distraction would prevent me from dealing with the problem with the full force of my abilities."
He paused, offering a final, authoritative directive. "You have completed your mission. You raised the alarm, and now I am here. Hurry. Professor Flitwick is waiting at the top floor's entrance. Go."
Seeing the finality in his expression, the three children exchanged worried glances but ultimately obeyed. Sebastian waited until their footsteps receded, then cast a powerful, complex Silencing Charm around the chamber, followed by an intricate Illusion Charm over himself, distorting the air around him until he appeared as nothing more than a faint, oily shimmer.
He retrieved the specialized anti-Dark Arts potion—a thick, silver liquid provided by Snape, designed to negate any lingering, low-level dark magic residue. He drank it in one long, decisive gulp, feeling the familiar chill settle in his veins. Then, he walked purposefully toward the wall of black, shimmering fire and stepped through.
The air on the other side of the black flame was stale and cold. The chamber was almost completely swallowed by a suffocating, unnatural pitch-black darkness. It was so absolute it seemed to absorb the light rather than merely block it. Sebastian's vision, aided by the anti-Dark Arts potion, was only slightly clearer, revealing the faint outline of the large, ornate Mirror of Erised standing against the far wall.
Sebastian kept his senses sharp, listening through the veil of silence he had imposed on himself.
"Potter! Stop hiding like a common house elf and reveal yourself!" a voice—a harsh, rasping roar—echoed through the darkness. It was Quirrell, clearly frantic, attempting to pierce the gloom with a clumsy Lumos charm that merely sputtered and died against the magical powder hanging in the air.
"You know you are no match for me, child, so cease this waste of time!"
Quirrell was completely surrounded by the suffocating darkness, roaring in frustration. He had been trapped in this final room for an eternity, his initial confidence eroded by the simple, immutable fact that he could not decipher the Mirror's secret.
Sebastian's plan was flawed! Quirrell had thought in his increasing paranoia. He gave me perfect information on every defense, but not the final one!
The Philosopher's Stone shimmered temptingly in the Mirror of Erised, but every desperate spell he threw at the glass was useless. Even the whispered, insidious commands from the back of his head—from the thing that had ridden him like a dark steed for months—could not reveal how to extract the Stone.
It was precisely at this peak of frustration that Harry had appeared, a small, welcome figure of fate.
Catch the boy! Only the boy can get the Stone! He is the one the Mirror will recognize!
The command from the back of his turban was like a white-hot spike, driving Quirrell into action. But before he could even take two steps, Harry had produced a small, silver sphere and thrown it at his feet.
PHUTT.
The entire room had instantly been plunged into this dense, magical Peruvian Instant Darkness—an alchemical item Harry had wisely invested in.
"Lumos!"
"Incendio!"
"Fiendfyre—"
No! The Stone! Do not burn the Stone!
Quirrell had thrown every light-bearing and fire-casting spell he knew into the darkness, but they were all completely useless, sputtering out the moment they contacted the darkness powder. The man was panicking, growing increasingly unstable.
"Potter! You think a child's trick will buy you victory? I refuse to believe you possess an infinite supply of these toys! Once this darkness dissipates, I will make you pay for this prolonged insult!"
Find him! Use your senses, fool!
Quirrell heard a small, metallic clink nearby. Acting on instinct, he extended his wand and muttered a powerful Accio. The unseen object flew through the darkness and smacked hard against his leg.
He bent down, furious. It was a crude, clockwork animated alchemy doll, designed to emit a tiny, repetitive sound.
"Did you try to fool me with an absurd, noisy distraction? Very well! Let's see how long you can truly hide!"
Quirrell roared, the sound echoing off the stone walls. He extended his wand, transforming his heavy professor's robes into several long, flexible strips of black, animated fabric. Under his frantic control, the thick, magically imbued fabric-ropes snaked out, whipping blindly through the darkness, relying on the minute shifts in the air currents to locate the boy.
Harry, meanwhile, was crouched low behind a cold, stone pillar, his wand held tight. Every thirty seconds, he would drop another tiny pinch of the Peruvian powder onto the floor, ensuring the absolute darkness remained suffocatingly thick.
Stall! That's all I have to do. Just stall.
Harry knew he couldn't defeat Quirrell alone, but his goal was never to win a duel. His goal was to prevent the theft and buy time. He was confident that his friends, upon meeting the professors, would quickly send help.
As he reached into his pouch for another pinch of powder, his heart leaped into his throat. His ankle and shin were suddenly tangled, the fabric rough and strong.
What is this? Hemp rope?
He was about to cast a basic cutting spell when a triumphant, maddened cry ripped through the darkness from Quirrell's direction.
"I've got you, Potter! The game is over!"
No! Careless! I was too focused on the noise!
Before Harry could react, the fabric tightened, and he was jerked violently off his feet. He was trussed up instantly and dragged roughly across the cold stone floor, hurtling rapidly toward the spot where Quirrell's voice had originated.
Just as Harry was about to brace himself for the end—the surrender, the pain, the defeat—the drag stopped. Abruptly, he felt a powerful, invisible force lift him completely off the floor. The ropes went slack, and Harry was sent flying, weightless, in the opposite direction of Quirrell's voice, cushioned gently as he came to a stop.
Then, a new voice—smooth, deep, and utterly devoid of fear, cutting through the oppressive silence—spoke from a nearby shadow.
"Precisely my thoughts. A truly impressive stalling performance, Harry."
Harry gasped, spinning his head wildly. He couldn't see the speaker, but the voice, familiar and commanding, left no doubt.
"Professor Swann?" Harry whispered, relief making him momentarily dizzy.
Sebastian's smooth voice, amplified just enough to carry through the darkness, continued, speaking not to Harry, but to the enraged form of Quirrell.
"It seems your little cat-and-mouse game has reached its inevitable conclusion, Professor Quirrell. Though I must say, attempting to take on a full professor while acting so hastily in the dark is a habit that can easily lead to a rather fatal mistake."
Sebastian allowed a beat of charged silence to settle over the chamber before his voice dropped, becoming a low, silken snarl of warning.
"Professor Quirrell, you have overstayed your welcome."