It was Harry’s idea to use Hagrid’s love for magical creatures to gather more information about the Cerberus guarding the trapdoor.

  Harry knew that Hagrid had a soft spot for dangerous beasts—the bigger and more dangerous, the better. Hagrid had spent countless hours at the Weasley Manor talking about dragons, griffins, and hippogriffs whenever he visited for a family dinner.

  Harry had even heard stories from Ron about how Hagrid once tried to raise baby Acromantus before Dumbledore forced him to release them into the Forbidden Forest.

  Harry carefully pnted the idea to Professor Quirrell that dragons were Hagrid’s weakness.

  “I’ve heard him talk about dragons for hours, sir,” Harry told Quirrell during one of their meetings. “He’ll do anything to get his hands on a dragon egg—even gamble for it.”

  Quirrell, who was always skeptical, asked, “And how do you know this?”

  Harry simply smirked. “He used to visit my family all the time. He’s an open book when it comes to magical creatures.”

  Quirrell’s eyes gleamed with malicious intent.

  Harry ter learned that Quirrell approached Hagrid at the Leaky Cauldron, disguised under a hooded cloak to hide his face.

  It didn’t take much effort to bait Hagrid.

  Quirrell, pretending to be a traveler, produced a dragon egg and cimed he found it during his journey in Romania.

  Hagrid’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning.

  “That’s a dragon egg, it is!” Hagrid excimed, practically drooling over it.

  Quirrell feigned hesitation before finally agreeing to gamble it away in a game of cards.

  It didn’t take long for Hagrid to win the egg—Quirrell made sure of it—and before the night ended, the disguised professor had already pried out the secret of how to get past the Cerberus.

  The next day, Hagrid couldn’t contain his excitement. He rushed to the Great Hall, pulling Harry and Ron aside to brag about his new egg.

  “Yeh won’t believe it, Harry—got meself a dragon egg!” Hagrid whispered loudly, making sure to keep his voice down but failing spectacurly.

  Harry, who already knew the truth, feigned surprise and asked questions about the mysterious man Hagrid had pyed cards with.

  Hagrid, as expected, shrugged off the details.

  “Didn’t get a good look at ‘im. Kept his hood up the whole time, he did. But nice enough bloke—knew loads about dragons.”

  Harry bit his lip to avoid saying too much, but inside, he felt his stomach twist.

  Hagrid had just handed over the most important secret about the trapdoor to the very man trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone.

  Later, during dinner, Harry was lost in thought, repying the conversation with Hagrid in his mind.

  Daphne and Bise immediately noticed his distraction.

  “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Bise said, nudging him.

  “I need to check something,” Harry muttered before standing up and heading to the library.

  Daphne and Bise followed him, but Harry refused to share details—not yet.

  He had suspicions, and now he needed proof before he could decide his next move.

  Quirrell was dangerous, but Harry wasn’t about to let him get the Stone—at least, not without a fight.

  The mini-Marauders, Ron's gang consisting of Charlie Potter and Neville Longbottom, quickly became suspicious after overhearing rumors about the mysterious wizard who gambled with Hagrid.

  It didn’t take them long to connect the dots and realize that Hagrid might have let slip the secret about the three-headed dog guarding the trapdoor.

  Ron, being the most reckless of the group, insisted that they had to do something.

  “We can’t just sit here and do nothing! What if Snape already knows how to get past that dog?” Ron whispered fiercely during one of their meetings in the Gryffindor common room.

  Charlie Porter nodded in agreement. “I saw Snape limping the other day. I’m telling you—he tried to get past the dog and got bitten. He’s after the Stone.”

  Neville, while slightly nervous, added, “But what if we get caught? It’s the third-floor corridor—it’s off-limits for a reason.”

  Ron puffed his chest out. “We’re the mini-Marauders, aren’t we? If we don’t protect the Stone, who will?”

  The trio decided to patrol the third-floor corridor regurly, taking turns spying on suspicious activities.

  Neville, though initially reluctant, eventually warmed up to the idea after Charlie convinced him that it was their responsibility as future protectors of Hogwarts.

  “Dumbledore wouldn’t have left the Stone unprotected unless it was really important,” Charlie argued.

  Neville swallowed his fear and agreed.

  The mini-Marauders started sneaking out under the Invisibility Cloak that Charlie borrowed from his parents.

  They took turns patrolling the corridor, often hiding in the shadows and watching anyone who went near the entrance.

  One night, Ron and Neville saw Professor Snape walking toward the third-floor corridor, his bck robes billowing behind him.

  “I told you! I told you he was up to something!” Ron hissed, barely containing his excitement.

  But before they could follow him, Snape turned sharply and disappeared down another hallway.

  Neville let out a sigh of relief. “Maybe he was just patrolling? He is a teacher, after all.”

  “No way,” Ron muttered. “We need to keep watching him. He’s up to something. I just know it.”

  Meanwhile, Harry overheard bits and pieces of the mini-Marauders’ pns, and it made him uneasy.

  He knew that Quirrell was the real threat, not Snape, but he couldn’t reveal his suspicions without exposing himself.

  During dinner one evening, Harry leaned over to Ron and hissed, “You need to stop sneaking around the third-floor corridor. You’ll get caught.”

  Ron rolled his eyes. “You sound like Percy. Don’t worry about us. We know what we’re doing.”

  But Harry wasn’t so sure.

  He knew that if the mini-Marauders weren’t careful, they might get in the way of his own pns—or worse, get hurt in the process.

  And for the first time, Harry felt the weight of his double life—one foot in the light, as Harry Weasley, and the other in the shadows, as an apprentice to dark magic under Quirrell’s tutege.

  The line between right and wrong was starting to blur, and Harry had no idea where it would eventually lead him.

  Harry buried himself deeper into his studies, determined to make the most of the limited time he had with Professor Quirrell. He had heard it from Bill's letters during his years at Hogwarts—that no Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had sted more than one year.

  Now, with that thought constantly looming in his mind, Harry felt a sense of urgency. Whether Professor Quirrell succeeded in taking the Philosopher's Stone or failed, Harry was certain that Quirrell wouldn’t st at Hogwarts.

  He had only months left to learn everything he could.

  Harry spent every spare moment reading the dark arts books Quirrell had provided him and experimenting with spells in his private quarters.

  His newfound obsession didn’t go unnoticed.

  Bise and Daphne often commented about his te-night excursions to the library and his constant secrecy.

  “You’re becoming a ghost, Harry,” Bise teased one evening in the common room, though there was a trace of concern in his voice.

  “We barely see you anymore, except at meals, and even then, you look like you’re thinking about hexing someone,” Daphne added, crossing her arms.

  “I’m fine,” Harry replied quickly, brushing off their worries. “I just have...a lot to catch up on.”

  But even Harry knew that his intensity was becoming noticeable.

  Soon, the gossip mill began churning.

  Students began to specute about why Professor Quirrell was spending so much extra time with Harry Weasley.

  Some said Harry was training to be an Auror. Others whispered that Harry had discovered dark secrets hidden in Hogwarts and was working with the professor to uncover them.

  The most outndish rumor suggested that Harry was being groomed to be Quirrell’s repcement as the next Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

  Even Draco Malfoy, who had been retively silent about Harry since his warding successes, started spreading theories.

  “Everyone knows Quirrell won’t st the year,” Draco sneered one afternoon in the Great Hall. “I bet Weasley’s hoping to take his spot! Wouldn’t that be hirious? A Weasley teaching Defense?”

  His ughter rang out, but Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he kept his head down and focused on finishing his meal—because Malfoy’s words stung more than he cared to admit.

  As the months passed, Harry felt the pressure mounting.

  He was learning faster than ever before, mastering spells that should have been far beyond his age.

  But the more he learned, the more he understood the dangerous game he was pying.

  He couldn’t trust Quirrell—not completely. But he needed him, at least for now.

  And that realization left a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth.

  Late one night, as Harry stood in his room, flipping through the pages of a dark arts book, he felt a wave of doubt wash over him.

  Was he becoming too much like Quirrell—too obsessed with power?

  Or was this just what he needed to do to survive?

  Harry didn’t have an answer.

  But as he looked at the notes from his lessons with Quirrell and the ritual spells he had already performed, he knew one thing for certain:

  There was no turning back now.

  The castle was unnervingly quiet.

  Harry’s footsteps echoed faintly as he moved through the dimly lit corridors, the flickering light from the torches casting long shadows on the walls. He clutched the letter from Professor Quirrell tightly in his hand, the words repeating in his mind.

  Come to my office at once. It’s time.

  His heart pounded as he made his way toward Quirrell’s office door, pausing briefly to make sure no one saw him.

  He had been expecting this moment ever since the professor hinted that they would go after the Philosopher’s Stone, but now that it was actually happening, Harry couldn’t shake the dread curling in his stomach.

  Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside. The first thing he noticed was that the office was bare—the shelves were empty, and Quirrell’s belongings were packed into several trunks.

  It looked like Quirrell was prepared to leave Hogwarts for good.

  “Close the door, Harry,” Quirrell said, his voice steady, without its usual stutter.

  Harry obeyed, shutting the door behind him.

  “We can’t wait any longer,” Quirrell began, pacing the room with deliberate steps. “Dumbledore has been called away for an emergency Wizengamot meeting. He won’t return until tomorrow. This is our window.”

  Harry swallowed. “So we’re doing it tonight?”

  Quirrell turned to face him. His eyes gleamed with a strange intensity that Harry hadn’t seen before.

  “Yes, tonight. Everything we’ve worked toward comes down to this.”

  Harry nodded, forcing his voice to remain calm. “I’m ready.”

  “Good. Gather your things and meet me at the third-floor corridor. Don’t forget your wand.”

  Quirrell gave him a piercing look before dismissing him.

  Harry’s mind raced as he made his way through the castle toward the forbidden corridor.

  What if this is a trap?

  What if he turns on me the second we get the Stone?

  Harry clutched his wand tightly. He knew he had to stall Quirrell as much as possible and find a way to keep the Stone out of his hands.

  When he reached the corridor, he found Quirrell waiting. The professor was calm and collected, his usual timid nature completely gone.

  “No turning back now, Harry,” Quirrell said as he unlocked the door with a flick of his wand. “Follow my lead.”

  Harry steeled himself and stepped inside.

  The first thing Harry noticed was the low growl that echoed through the room.

  Fluffy, the three-headed dog, loomed over them. Its teeth glistened, and all three heads snapped in their direction, eyes locked onto them.

  Harry’s pulse quickened as he took a step back.

  “Don’t worry,” Quirrell said, raising a small wooden flute. “Hagrid mentioned how to put this beast to sleep.”

  He began to py a haunting melody, and almost immediately, Fluffy’s eyes drooped. Its growls softened into heavy snores, and its heads lowered to the floor.

  “Move quickly, Harry,” Quirrell whispered, stepping around the massive dog and gesturing for Harry to follow.

  Harry carefully avoided Fluffy’s paws and looked down to see the trapdoor beneath the creature.

  Quirrell pointed his wand at the lock and muttered a spell. With a click, the trapdoor opened, revealing a dark abyss below.

  “Jump, Harry. I’ll follow right after.”

  Harry hesitated, looking at the darkness below. But then he took a deep breath and leapt into the unknown.

  Harry nded hard, but before he could get his bearings, tendrils began to wrap around his legs and arms.

  “Devil’s Snare!” Quirrell hissed as he nded beside Harry. “Don’t struggle! Rex.”

  Harry forced himself to remain still, and the pnt loosened its grip, allowing him to free himself.

  Quirrell, however, took no chances. With a wave of his wand, he conjured bluebell fmes that engulfed the tendrils, causing them to writhe and retreat.

  “You should’ve known that, Harry,” Quirrell said with a sharp tone.

  “I did,” Harry replied quickly, brushing off the dirt. “I wanted to see if you did.”

  Quirrell gave him a piercing look but said nothing as they continued forward.

  Harry’s mind raced as they advanced through the challenges. He had to stall Quirrell as long as possible, but he also couldn’t blow his cover.

  He had to keep learning, keep pying along, until the moment was right to take the Stone for himself.

  But as they stepped into the next chamber, Harry knew that time was running out.

  The next chamber was filled with hundreds of flying keys, their wings buzzing as they darted through the air. At the far end of the chamber stood a locked door with a rge keyhole.

  “Clever charmwork,” Quirrell murmured, stepping into the room and examining the enchanted keys. He turned to Harry with a commanding tone.

  “We need to catch the right key. You’ve flown before, haven’t you?”

  Harry nodded, trying to mask his nervousness. “Yeah, I know how to ride a broom.”

  “Good. Then get on.”

  Harry mounted the old broomstick in the corner and kicked off. He rose into the swarm of keys, searching for the right one.

  “It’s the rge silver one with a bent wing!” Quirrell called out from below, pointing upward.

  Harry spotted it and gave chase, dodging several other keys that tried to ram into him. Finally, with a quick dive and grab, Harry caught the key and nded near the door.

  Quirrell snatched it from Harry’s hand and jammed it into the lock. With a click, the door swung open.

  “Move, Harry. No time to waste.”

  The next chamber was dominated by a massive chessboard, with life-sized pieces standing in perfect formation.

  “Wizard’s chess,” Quirrell muttered, sounding both impressed and annoyed.

  Harry stared at the giant pieces, feeling his pulse quicken. He remembered Ron’s stories about chess and how much he practiced. But this time, Harry had to think fast.

  “We need to py through it, don’t we?” Harry asked.

  Quirrell nodded sharply. “And we can’t afford to lose. Step forward, Harry. We’re the pyers now.”

  Harry took the position of a bishop, and Quirrell assumed the role of the queen’s knight.

  The game began, and Quirrell orchestrated the moves while Harry followed orders, focusing on staying alive as the pieces cshed violently, shattering each other with every move.

  “Knight to E5! Bishop to C4!” Quirrell barked commands as Harry moved across the board.

  Finally, after several tense moves, Quirrell’s queen captured the opponent’s king, and the pieces froze in pce, allowing them to proceed.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Quirrell said coldly. “We’re almost there.”

  The next room reeked.

  Harry’s stomach turned as he stepped inside and saw a troll sleeping on the floor. Its club was still gripped tightly in one of its hands.

  “Avada Kedavra,” Quirrell screamed, and stepped over the troll’s huge leg.

  The final obstacle was a row of bottles lined up on a table in front of a fming purple fire blocking the next door. Behind them, a bck fme sealed the way back.

  Quirrell’s eyes narrowed as he examined the parchment beside the bottles.

  “It’s a logic puzzle,” Harry said, stepping closer to read.

  Quirrell gave him a sharp look. “Do you understand it?”

  Harry scanned the riddle, his mind working quickly to solve it.

  “Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

  Two of us will help you, whichever you would find.

  One among us seven will let you move ahead,

  Another will transport the drinker back instead.

  Two among our number hold only nettle wine,

  Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.”

  “I can solve it,” Harry said confidently.

  “Do it quickly, then.”

  Harry studied the bottles and their sizes, following the riddle’s clues until he finally pointed to two bottles.

  “This one moves forward. That one sends us back.”

  Quirrell smirked and handed Harry the bottle to go forward. “Drink first.”

  Harry hesitated before taking a small sip and feeling a cold sensation flow through his veins.

  “It’s safe,” he said, handing the bottle back to Quirrell.

  Quirrell drank as well, and together, they stepped through the fire.

  The final chamber was dimly lit, and at its center stood the Mirror of Erised.

  Harry’s eyes locked onto the mirror, his reflection staring back at him—but something was different.

  This wasn’t just a mirror. Harry knew it was the key to finding the Stone.

  Quirrell’s face twisted into a hungry expression as he stepped toward the mirror.

  “This is it, Harry,” Quirrell whispered. “This is where we cim what is ours.”

  Harry’s heart pounded as he gripped his wand, knowing that the moment of truth was finally here.