The chaos in the Great Hall had been a masterclass in controlled pandemonium. While students stampeded toward the exits like a panicked herd of hippogriffs, the staff had moved with the grim, practiced efficiency of people who dealt with Dark Magic as a daily chore. They weren't looking for students; they were hunting a threat.
Snape, however, wasn't hunting a troll. His eyes had been fixed on a different predator: Quirrell. The man's stuttering, cowering act had worn thin months ago, and Snape was certain the Defense professor was playing a double game. He didn't care about a brainless troll wandering the halls; he cared about the object hidden behind the trapdoor on the fourth floor.
As he slipped away from the evacuation, his boots silent against the cold stone, his mind was a sharp, calculating machine. Quirrell was a distraction, he thought, a sacrificial pawn moved by a hand he hadn't yet seen.
He reached the forbidden corridor, his breath hitching as he saw the door already ajar. The heavy wood groaned on its hinges. He didn't bother with caution; he lunged inside, his wand raised, ready to silence whoever had dared to breach the inner sanctum.
But he was too late.
The air in the room was thick with the scent of wet fur and something primal. Before Snape could even orient himself, the shadows in the corner erupted. Three massive heads, their eyes burning with a hellish, hungry light, lunged out of the darkness. It was Cerberus—Hagrid's overgrown pet, currently looking anything but friendly.
"Impedimenta!" Snape roared, his wand snapping in a blur.
The spell hit one of the heads, forcing it to yelp and retract, but it was like fighting a hydra. The other two heads didn't hesitate. They lunged, their jaws snapping shut with a force that could have splintered an oak table. Snape twisted, his instincts firing, but he was a second behind. A single, massive set of jaws clamped down on his leg.
Pain—white-hot, searing, and absolute—shot up his thigh. Snape gasped, the world spinning as he was thrown against the stone wall with bone-shaking force. He slammed into the ground, his vision swimming.
"Severus? My heavens, what are you doing here?"
The voice was thin, reedy, and unmistakably Quirrell's.
Snape looked up, his leg throbbing with a rhythm that matched his frantic heartbeat. Quirrell stood in the doorway, his eyes wide, his expression a comical mask of shock.
"Get back, you fool!" Snape hissed, struggling to his feet. He forced a barrier of defensive magic between him and the beast, using the momentary cover to hobble toward the exit. He slammed the wooden door shut and locked it with a sharp flick of his wrist.
He turned on Quirrell, his face pale and twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated venom. "You. You think I'm blind? You think I don't know who you're playing for? Whether it's the Dark Lord or some petty Death Eater shadow, it doesn't matter. You'll never touch what's behind this door while Dumbledore breathes."
"I—I don't know what you're talking about, Severus—" Quirrell stammered, his hands fluttering nervously.
Snape didn't wait to hear the rest. He didn't have the patience for the act. He limped away, leaving the Defense professor alone in the dark, the pain in his leg a constant, biting reminder that the game had turned from shadow-play to open war.
Meanwhile, a few floors away, the "real" Albert stepped out of a bathroom stall, adjusting his robes with a calm, practiced ease. He glanced at his watch—perfect timing. A few seconds later, the bathroom door creaked open, and a boy who looked identical to him stepped out. They traded a subtle, knowing nod, and the 'clone' vanished into the shadows, leaving the real Albert to stroll into the hallway.
He found Fred, George, and Lee Jordan still bickering about the troll, their voices loud enough to echo off the vaulted ceiling.
"Oh, look," Albert said, his voice smooth as silk. "I see we've survived the apocalypse. Should I be impressed?"
"Where have you been?" Lee asked, holding a half-eaten slice of pumpkin pie. "We thought you'd been eaten by now."
"I was busy finding a quiet place to eat," Albert lied effortlessly. "I told you, the teachers had it handled. A troll is hardly a challenge for the staff of Hogwarts."
When they finally retreated to the Gryffindor Common Room, the mood was frantic. Percy was pacing, looking as though he might have an aneurysm, his eyes darting between every student who entered.
"Where on earth have you four been?" Percy barked, marching over. "There's a troll—a literal troll—in the castle, and you're wandering about like it's a lazy Sunday!"
"Relax, Percy," George said, offering him a candy with a straight face. "We stopped for a bit of pumpkin juice. Besides, if a troll actually got within ten feet of us, we'd have smelled it coming. Those things aren't exactly masters of stealth."
Percy sputtered, his anger momentarily replaced by confusion at their bizarre level of unconcern.
Just then, the portrait hole opened, and Harry and Ron stumbled in, looking like they had been dragged through a swamp backward. They were covered in dust, bits of broken wood, and a stench that made everyone in the room instinctively recoil.
"You look like you've been fighting a war," Shanna remarked, eyeing them with disgust.
"We did," Ron declared, puffing out his chest, though his hands were still trembling. "Beat it, too. Knocked it right out."
"Heroes, are we?" Fred asked, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "Do us a favor and go take a bath. You smell like a swamp troll's armpit."
"Take a shower, seriously," George added, wrinkling his nose. "If you want food, we'll leave a plate, but stay downwind."
As the two of them retreated, still looking dazed by their own supposed bravery, Albert leaned against the back of the sofa, watching the room settle. It was working. The trio was forged, the plot was back on its tracks, and he hadn't had to break a sweat.
The next morning, the breakfast air was thick with more than just the smell of toast. The entire school noticed it: Snape, the man who moved like a shadow, was limping. He walked with a stiff, heavy gait, his face looking even more sallow than usual.
"What do you think happened to the Old Bat's leg?" George whispered, watching as Snape winced while pulling out his chair.
"Dog bite," Albert said, his voice loud enough for the nearby students to hear.
The twins howled with laughter. "You think? Like, a proper, three-headed, massive, 'stay away from my trapdoor' kind of dog bite?"
"I hope it hurts for a long, long time," Fred added, grinning as he spread marmalade on his toast. "Watching him limp is the best start to a morning I've had in years."
"I suppose it's a bit of cosmic justice, isn't it?" Albert mused, stirring his tea. "If he was really trying to steal what Dumbledore hidden, he deserves every bit of that limp. And if he's really that foolish, he'll be out of a job by next term."
The other three nodded, their earlier frustration at the Potions master replaced by a vicious, satisfied glee. They didn't know the half of it—the trapdoor, the stone, the master behind the master—but as they watched Snape limp toward the High Table, it felt like the world was, for just one moment, perfectly balanced.