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Chapter 26
Exams were drawing closer, and Harry was living in a constant state of dread. Every time he blinked, he imagined Voldemort materializing in front of him. The thought that the Dark Lord could steal the Philosopher's Stone at any moment made it nearly impossible to focus. Even when he tried to revise, his mind kept drifting.
"Honestly, Harry, we should go straight to the Headmaster," Ron said one afternoon. He now knew everything they had seen in the Forbidden Forest, and he slapped the table to emphasize just how serious he thought it all was. "I've never believed a single thing that Slytherin says."
"They won't listen," Harry muttered, shaking his head.
"Malfoy won't turn Voldemort in," Hermione whispered, barely audible.
Ron stared at her as if she'd grown a second head. "You're actually defending him?"
"He didn't lie about Norbert, did he?" Hermione said stiffly.
"That was part of his plan! Use your head—when You-Know-Who comes back, his father will throw a party!"
Hermione opened her mouth but couldn't find a proper retort.
"Please, just stop," Harry said, burying his face in his book. Since their trip to the Forest, his scar had begun to sting randomly. He barely slept at night. Neville was convinced Harry had developed an exam phobia because he woke up screaming so often.
But no matter how the top students anticipated it—or how the struggling ones dreaded it—exam day finally arrived.
Compared to the chaos in Harry's mind, the exams themselves were almost soothing. Whether it was making a pineapple tap-dance across a table, turning a rat into a snuffbox, or listening to Malfoy casually explain the steps for brewing an Amnesia Potion, none of it posed any challenge for Malfoy, who behaved as though he'd graduated years ago. And as for History of Magic, all anyone had to do was memorize dates—Malfoy scribbled the answers down lazily, as if the test bored him to death.
When the ghost of Professor Binns finally told them to put down their quills, there was an explosion of relieved chatter.
Afterward, Harry met Ron and Hermione. His head still throbbed.
"Let's go to Hagrid's," Ron suggested. "Relax a bit."
But Harry's expression suddenly drained of color. "No—wait. There's no such thing as a perfect coincidence."
"What are you talking about?" Ron asked, baffled.
"I need to ask him something. Now."
He grabbed them both and bolted for Hagrid's hut.
It took only a few questions before Harry's suspicions were confirmed. Hermione and Ron both turned as pale as parchment.
"The person who got Hagrid talking… it has to be Snape or Voldemort," Hermione whispered, trembling.
"We need Dumbledore," Ron said. "Maybe the centaurs will back us up."
They rushed to the Headmaster's office—only to be turned away with cold instructions to return to their dormitory and stop causing trouble.
Outside, on the stone steps, Harry sank down helplessly.
"We'll have to go alone," he said.
"Harry, Professor McGonagall just told us—" Ron started.
"I know. If we keep asking questions or sneaking around, we'll lose more points or get expelled." Harry's voice shook. "But so what? If Voldemort really comes back, the House Cup won't matter. Hogwarts won't matter. We'd all probably die anyway. If I don't stop him tonight, then maybe I'll just die a little sooner."
Hermione stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "You're right."
"I'm coming with you," Ron said.
"Me too," Hermione added at once.
"I can't drag you both into this," Harry protested.
"What's worse than dying, Harry?" Hermione said softly. "And besides—Professor Flitwick whispered to me that I got a hundred and twelve on his exam. They're not expelling me with a score like that."
"Then what about me?" Ron wailed.
That finally broke the tension, and all three of them burst into shaky laughter.
That evening, they stayed in the common room, avoiding everyone. No one tried to talk to them anyway. When nearly the whole tower was asleep, Harry retrieved the Invisibility Cloak from upstairs.
But Neville was still awake.
"You're breaking the rules again!" Neville said loudly.
"Oh, Neville… I'm sorry." Hermione's wand flashed. "Petrificus Totalus!"
Neville froze and toppled backward like a board. Hermione winced. "We don't have time. We don't know where Snape is—we need to hurry."
Harry and Ron nodded.
They slipped through corridors, avoiding Peeves and Mrs. Norris—though Peeves shrieked when a floating chessboard startled him. Finally, they reached the forbidden fourth-floor corridor. The door stood slightly ajar.
Hearing them approach, the massive three-headed dog began to snarl. A harp lay discarded on the floor—someone had already been here.
Harry pulled out the flute Hagrid had given him for Christmas. He played a few breathy, off-key notes. Slowly, Fluffy's growls softened. The giant dog swayed… then collapsed with a ground-shaking thud.
Harry peered down the trapdoor first. The other two followed, landing on something soft—at least until the "something" began wrapping tightly around their legs.
"Oh no!" Harry and Ron shouted.
"Fire!" Hermione pointed her wand. Bluebell flames burst from the tip, casting warm, hovering blossoms of light that sent the vines recoiling. The Devil's Snare shrank away like frightened snakes, freeing them.
"Hermione, that was brilliant," Harry said with genuine awe.
"Yeah! How'd you know fire would work?" Ron demanded.
"It's in the textbook. Honestly…" she muttered, a bit awkwardly.
But it wasn't just in the textbook. It was also written clearly in the sloppy notes Malfoy had passed her weeks ago. "Devil's Snare—most afraid of fire." Along with several spells and observations that made far more sense now.
Did he know we'd come after the Stone? Hermione wondered, a chill running through her.
No… coincidence. Just coincidence…
But the next room made it impossible to pretend.
They followed a sloping corridor until they reached a bright hall filled with thousands of glittering, fluttering birds. A heavy wooden door sat beyond them. Harry spotted the silver key almost immediately, grabbed it, and they hurried to the next chamber.
It was pitch-dark—until torches flared on.
A giant chessboard filled the room. Life-sized pieces stood waiting. There was no door except the one behind the white king.
They would have to play.
Harry, Hermione, and Ron swapped places with a knight, a bishop, and a rook. Ron, the best chess player, took command. Harry barely understood the rules; Hermione, despite her intelligence, lacked the instincts for it.
Everything proceeded smoothly—until the White Queen smashed their knight to the floor with brutal force, dragging the broken piece aside.
Ron swallowed hard. "Sacrifices are necessary. I've got to let her take me."
"Ron, wait—!" Harry tried, but Ron had already stepped forward. The White Queen raised her stone arm—
And suddenly froze.
"Arresto Momentum!" Hermione stood rigid, wand trembling. The Queen's movements slowed to a sluggish crawl.
"Harry! Move! I can't hold her long!" Hermione cried.
Harry jolted into action, moving three squares left. The Queen, held in slow-motion, hurled her crown at his feet.
Checkmate.
"Hermione—how did you even do that?" Ron gasped.
"Don't worry about it. We need to keep going," Hermione said quickly, cheeks pale.
"Yes, we've got no time," Harry agreed.
They hurried onward, stepping past a badly wounded troll and arriving in a chamber with a line of seven bottles on a table. Hermione worked through the logic puzzle with furious speed. Harry handed Ron and Hermione the potion that would let them return safely.
Then he swallowed the one that allowed him to walk through the black flames.
An icy chill like knives sliced through him as he stepped forward, unable to see anything but the swirling dark fire.
Then he broke through to the other side.
The final room.
"No—!" Harry's voice cracked.
Someone was already inside.
Not Snape.
Not Voldemort.
Professor Quirrell stood clutching a stone.
Quirrell turned—and the back of his head spoke.
"Master, your strength hasn't fully returned," Quirrell whispered in his own voice.
"It is enough," said a colder, sharper one. "Give me control."
Two voices in one body. Harry felt sick.
Quirrell's trembling hands unwound the turban. Where the back of his head should've been, a face emerged—dead white, with slits for nostrils and burning red eyes.
Voldemort.
He laughed—a horrible, hollow, mad sound. Clutching the Stone, he stared as if seeing the world through a fever dream.
And then—shockingly—the Stone in Quirrell's hand began to crumble. It turned to powder, grain by grain, trickling through his fingers.
"No!" Voldemort shrieked. The dream shattered. His voice twisted into a furious wail.
Harry didn't understand why Voldemort would destroy the Stone—but if this meant Voldemort couldn't return, even if Harry died, maybe it was enough.
That was his last thought before everything went black. He didn't know whether he fainted from fear—or whether the curse finally hit him.
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