In the dead of night, in a silent corridor on the fourth floor, a figure in a long black robe slipped past Filch's patrol undetected.
Since meeting the Dark Lord in Albania, Quirrell's once routine life had transformed dramatically. He now had a new, singular purpose: to help the Dark Lord rise again. If he succeeded, Quirrell knew he could achieve power he had only dreamed of—perhaps even replace someone as lofty as Barty Crouch and become the new Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Or, if he dared to reach higher... the Minister of Magic! Such ambition no longer seemed impossible.
Though he hadn't been the first to join the Dark Lord's followers, he believed he could surpass even the most notorious Death Eaters by stealing the Philosopher's Stone and enabling the Dark Lord's resurrection. Bellatrix, Sirius Black... Names like these held fame, but what good was that? When the Dark Lord needed them most, they were rotting in Azkaban. Now, only he, Quirinus Quirrell, had remained loyal and capable enough to restore his master's power.
Why should they get to reclaim glory after they'd been little more than Dementor fodder?
And the Dark Lord had promised him so much. In return for his success, Quirrell would receive limitless power, unimaginable wealth, and, above all else, immortality.
Staring at the worn wooden door before him, Quirrell felt a feverish anticipation rise in his chest. If he could pass through the challenges ahead, then power, riches, and eternal life were his for the taking!
He'd spent all year researching, probing, and observing, learning as much as he could about the obstacles set up by the other professors. The only mystery remaining was Snape's barrier. He'd even managed to learn how to pacify the Three-Headed Dog—Fluffy, that troublesome creature—by bargaining for a dragon egg. Procuring it hadn't been easy, as the Ministry had ramped up inspections of magical creatures, especially after the chaos with last year's Swooping Evil. Quirrell had drained nearly all his savings, paying ten times the market price to buy the egg from a European wizard.
Playing the bumbling fool had been a necessary inconvenience. After all, if he could secure the Philosopher's Stone, no number of Galleons would matter.
Now, Dumbledore had been lured away to London by a forged letter, and Snape was off scouring the Forbidden Forest for a Death Eater who didn't exist. Every detail of his plan was falling into place. Nothing could stop him now.
Quirrell drew out a large harp and cast a charm to make it play a soft, hypnotic melody. Fluffy's three heads would soon be lulled to sleep. Taking a deep breath to steady his trembling hands, he pushed open the door.
"Sleep, big guy, sleep well..."
Quirrell, having pushed open the door, suddenly froze. The room was empty—no sign of the Three-Headed Dog, not even a single hair.
"Did I come to the wrong room?" he muttered, stepping back to double-check his surroundings.
But no, this was definitely the right place. He recognized the stone statue with the axe across the room. He couldn't be mistaken.
"Idiot, stop wasting time here!" hissed a voice from within him.
"Forgive me, my lord." Quirrell dared not hesitate further and hurried into the room.
When he saw the trapdoor, completely unguarded, a pang of regret hit him hard. His savings—Galleons he'd scrimped for over a decade, gone on that dragon egg. If he'd known the room would be empty, he never would have spent so much gold.
"Hurry up!" Voldemort's voice snapped impatiently. "Dumbledore could return at any moment!"
The mere mention of Dumbledore sent a shiver down Quirrell's spine. He hastily opened the trapdoor and jumped down, expecting to land in a mass of Devil's Snare that would cushion his fall. He'd carefully researched its placement and knew that a simple Lighting Charm would handle it. Confident, he braced himself.
With a sickening crash, Quirrell landed on the unforgiving stone floor below.
"Ah... my leg... ah, my arm... my back..." he groaned, curling up in agony. The impact had jolted through his body, leaving him with stabbing pain in his limbs and spine.
"Damn it! Sprout must have tricked me!" he cursed internally.
But before he could explain, Voldemort's voice snarled furiously. "Fool! Get up! Do you want to die here?"
Quirrell looked up and noticed, in horror, a pile of round, green objects scattered across the floor in front of him... Cabbages?
Who on earth would plant cabbages here? he thought incredulously. Just as he was processing this, one of the "cabbages" rolled closer, revealing a wide mouth filled with sharp, glinting teeth.
Then another, and another...
Quirrell's face turned ashen. He realized these were Chomping Cabbages—plants known to be as deadly as Venomous Tentacula. If two of them were deadly to an adult wizard, what chance did he stand against a swarm of dozens?
At that moment, Quirrell felt as though the universe itself had conspired against him, maliciously mocking his every move.
"Sprout... you'll pay for this!"
The room filled with Quirrell's anguished screams. His cries were laced with fury, helplessness, and terror.
Kyle, who had been studying the Mirror of Erised in the last room, looked up, puzzled. "Did you hear something just now?"
There was no response, but that wasn't surprising. After all, apart from him, the only one in the room was the Niffler, who was currently admiring himself in the mirror.
"What do you see..." Kyle asked, approaching.
The Niffler jumped, startled, and took a few steps back, eyeing Kyle suspiciously as he clutched his little paws over his pockets protectively.
"Oh, come on," Kyle said, scowling. "It's not like I've ever taken anything from you."
The Niffler huffed, clearly unconvinced.
"Fine, fine, except for that one time. But honestly, you were stealing from someone else, and I was just giving it back to its rightful owner."
The Niffler turned his nose up, refusing to acknowledge him. In his mind, anything he'd picked up was fair game.
Watching his stubborn little friend, Kyle shook his head with a smile. "Alright, that's enough fun. It's time to head back."
The scream he'd heard earlier was definitely real, and it wouldn't be long before Quirrell—or Voldemort—arrived. He couldn't let the Niffler stay out here any longer.
But the Niffler remained motionless, still watching him warily.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to take anything from you," Kyle reassured him. "Besides, there's a bad guy coming who loves Niffler sandwiches. His favorite are little Nifflers under a year old, just like you..."
The Niffler's eyes widened in horror. In two or three quick leaps, he was in Kyle's arms, then wasted no time opening the suitcase and diving back inside.