Just as Harry and Neville stared blankly at each other, Hermione—watching the live feed from the Room of Requirement—murmured, "It really is as you said, Loren: this is a game. A game staged especially for Harry."
"Tell me what you're thinking," Loren said at once, turning to her.
Hermione drew a deep breath. "The door is guarded by a magical creature Hagrid provided. It looks dangerous, but it has a glaring weakness—easy for anyone who came prepared to exploit.
"The first obstacle is Professor Sprout's—it suits Neville, who excels at Herbology. But to make it easier, she even used Devil's Snare. If they truly wanted to guard the Philosopher's Stone, they could have used more violent, faster-growing Venomous Tentacula instead.
"The second is clearly Professor Flitwick's. He bewitched the keys to fly, but then conveniently left a broom. What kind of guardian provides tools for intruders? That part was obviously prepared for Harry.
"The third is Professor McGonagall's. She simply enlarged a Wizard's Chess set—perfect for Ron, who plays well. If her real goal were to protect the Stone, she could have had the pieces attack intruders on sight—or just used Transfiguration to hide the passage entirely!"
Her voice rose as she spoke; she genuinely couldn't understand the point of it all. Loren stepped closer and gently patted her back. Hermione acknowledged the gesture, took another breath to steady herself, and went on.
"The fourth is Professor Quirrell's. Compared to the others, he at least did his job and threw a troll at them. Even if it isn't very strong, anyone who makes it through the earlier stages won't be stopped by raw power; the troll's real use is to disgust and delay intruders—even dead, it still does that.
"The last one should be Professor Snape's. The purple and black flames are impressive, but why leave seven bottles of potion and such a simple riddle? And why should intruders trust anything the 'guardians' wrote? Isn't that just begging to be tricked?"
Loren chuckled. "Prepared for me? With a riddle that simple? How little must they think of me. No—this was tailored for Harry. Otherwise it wouldn't be this easy."
Hermione rejected that at once. Such a childish riddle had to be for Harry and the others, she insisted.
"Hermione, you're overestimating Harry and Neville's reasoning," Loren said, pointing to the screen where Harry was scratching his head in frustration. "I know wizards aren't trained in logic. Neville struggling is understandable. But Harry went to primary school for six years—how is he still like this? Any normal sixth-year student could solve that, right?"
Loren added under his breath, "Says the girl who, three months into Hogwarts, thought Avada Kedavra was the deadliest method of killing, full stop."
Blushing at the reminder of her own embarrassing answer, Hermione looked away.
"This is a thoroughgoing game," Loren said. "Dumbledore designed it for Harry—the 'Savior Trio' to grow through. We can help him as classmates, but only within reason. And another thing: be cautious around that old bumblebee Dumbledore. Keep your distance. However the world hails him as the greatest white wizard of the century, remember—he was the lover of the first Dark Lord. His mastery of Dark Magic is far from weak."
This was a rare opportunity, and Loren meant to use it to educate Hermione—otherwise, given her earnest, didactic streak, she'd be easy prey for Dumbledore's designs. Those schemes might not trouble Loren directly, but being maneuvered is never pleasant.
"Dumbledore was the lover of the first Dark Lord?" Hermione seized only on that line; Loren had to admit that, by nature, women loved gossip. Seeing the sparkle in her eyes, he conjured another screen to replay Dumbledore's youthful black history for her to watch, then turned back to the live feed.
To be honest, Loren wanted to roast his Potions professor. Though the parchment claimed three were killers, those three bottles were plain water. The nettle wine was real, and the two that let you cross the flames were both Freezing Flame Potions. The fires front and back were ordinary flames with altered colors. If Harry and Neville kept their nerve and just dove through, they could have gone on—at worst their hair would come out a bit singed and curly.
Watching the two of them grow red-faced over the "puzzle," Loren was tempted to help.
Just as he was about to, Neville made a move that surprised him, and Loren had to admit Neville's wits truly swung wildly between sharp and dull.
Neville pulled out his magic notebook, snapped pictures of the parchment and the seven bottles, and sent them off.
A moment later, Loren's own notebook chimed—it was Neville's images. Loren had thought Neville would send them to Hermione.
In fact, it made sense that Neville sent them to Loren. He knew Loren was watching through some unknown means. He had tried to call out to Loren silently, but their link was one-way; after several tries and a burning face, he gave up. Then he remembered the notebooks—long-distance contact through a tool. On a whim, he sent the problem to Loren, and to his surprise it worked.
Loren didn't even need to read the riddle. He replied at once: the tiny bottle goes forward, the round bottle goes back.
Neville, delighted just to see a reply, was about to ask after Ron when the notebook automatically closed the chat.
Then he remembered Loren had said he was forbidden to interfere in this adventure—and understood why the conversation had ended.
Neville stowed the notebook, turned to Harry, who was still frowning in thought, and said, "Harry, I've got it. The little bottle lets you push through the black flames. The round one sends you back."
Harry picked up the unremarkable small bottle. "There's only enough for one sip—not even a mouthful."
He and Neville locked eyes. Harry spoke first. "Don't say anything. Listen to me, Neville.
"Go back and find Ron. From the Flying Keys room, take the broom and go back through the trapdoor. Fluffy should still be there; you can slip past him. Then go to the Owlery and send Hedwig to Dumbledore—we need his help. I might be able to hold Snape off for a while."
Neville wanted to protest. "How about I go stall Snape and you fetch help? With my strength, if I catch him off guard, I might take him down."
But the resolve in Harry's eyes—and Loren's reminder that this trial was meant for Harry—made Neville swallow his words. He took the round bottle on the far right and downed it in one gulp. A shiver ran through him.
"Not poison, right?" Harry asked, tense.
"No. But it's like ice—biting cold." Neville smacked his lips, thinking it over.
Seeing he was fine, Harry exhaled. "Be careful, Neville. I'll try to get word to Dumbledore as fast as I can."
Neville nodded, stepped back through the violet flames, and hurried away.
Harry waited until Neville's footsteps had faded, then turned, drew a deep breath, and grabbed the smallest bottle. He looked once at the black flames, drained the bottle, and shuddered. Setting the glass down, he squared his shoulders and charged straight in.
The black fire licked over him without the slightest sensation. For a heartbeat, darkness swallowed his vision—then he stepped through into the final chamber.
"Snape! Your plot has been exposed! Dumbledore's on his way—surrender now!"
But as the shout left his mouth, Harry realized at once something was wrong. There was a man in the room, yes—but it wasn't Snape. It was—
//Check out my P@tre0n for 20 extra chapters on all my fanfics //[email protected]/Razeil0810