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As the exam date approached, Harry found himself trapped in a constant state of unease. Fear gnawed at him day and night — fear that Voldemort might appear at any moment, that the Dark Lord could snatch the Sorcerer's Stone whenever he pleased. Studying had become nearly impossible; even when he tried to review, his mind kept drifting to darker thoughts.
"Harry, to be honest, I think we should tell the Headmaster and the professors right away," said Ron, who had already heard everything about the Forbidden Forest. He slapped the table to show how serious he was. "I've never trusted a single word that Slytherin said."
"They won't believe us," Harry muttered, shaking his head.
"Malfoy wouldn't snitch to the Dark Lord," Hermione said softly.
Ron stared at her, shocked. "Are you actually defending that Slytherin?"
"He didn't lie about Norbert, did he?" Hermione countered.
"That was just one of his tricks! Think about it — if the Dark Lord's really back, his father must be thrilled!"
Hermione fell silent, unsure how to respond.
"Enough," said Harry, burying his head in his book. He didn't want to think about it anymore. Ever since returning from the Forbidden Forest, his scar had been aching off and on, and sleep had become nearly impossible. Neville thought Harry was suffering from exam anxiety since he woke screaming most nights.
Regardless of how much the top students anticipated the tests or how much the slackers dreaded them, the final exams finally arrived.
Whether it was making a pineapple tap-dance across the desk, turning a rat into a snuffbox, or reciting the ingredients for a Forgetfulness Potion, nothing seemed to challenge Malfoy anymore. He'd already earned enough credits to graduate, and subjects that required only memorization — like History of Magic — were no trouble for him at all.
Still, everyone sighed with relief when Professor Binns's ghostly voice finally instructed them to put down their quills and roll up their parchment.
After the exams, the trio gathered again. Harry rubbed his forehead. "My scar still hurts," he said quietly.
"Then let's go to Hagrid's and relax," Ron suggested.
But at the mention of Hagrid, Harry froze, his face turning pale. "There are no coincidences without reason," he whispered.
"What are you talking about?" Ron asked, frowning.
"I need to see him. Now." Harry stood abruptly and dragged them both toward Hagrid's hut.
It didn't take much for Hagrid to talk — it never did — and soon Harry's worst suspicions were confirmed. Hermione and Ron exchanged horrified looks.
"That person... it has to be either Snape or the Dark Lord," Hermione whispered, trembling.
"We have to find Dumbledore immediately. Maybe the centaurs can back us up," Ron said. They rushed to the Headmaster's office, but the gargoyle refused to move. They were turned away without an audience.
"We'll have to go ourselves," said Harry helplessly.
"Harry, Professor McGonagall just said—" Ron began, but Harry cut him off.
"I know — she said we'd lose points or get expelled for any more snooping." His expression hardened. "But so what? If Voldemort really comes back, what's the point of the House Cup? Hogwarts will be nothing but ruins. We might all die. If I can stop him tonight, then dying early doesn't matter."
Hermione nodded solemnly. "You're right, Harry."
"I'm going with you," Ron said at once.
"Me too," Hermione added quickly.
"I can't drag you into this," Harry protested.
"What's more terrifying than death, Harry?" Hermione asked softly. Then she added with a wry smile, "Besides, Professor Flitwick just told me I got one hundred and twelve points on his exam. They wouldn't dare expel me."
"What about me?" Ron moaned, and the three of them burst out laughing. The tension eased for a brief, fleeting moment.
After dinner, they waited in the common room, avoiding attention. When most of the students had gone to bed, Harry ran upstairs to fetch his Invisibility Cloak. But as he returned, he ran straight into Neville, who was still awake.
"You're sneaking out again!" Neville cried.
"Petrificus Totalus!" Hermione said, raising her wand. Neville's body went rigid and fell to the floor with a thud.
"I'm sorry, Neville," she whispered. Then, turning to Harry and Ron, she said urgently, "We don't have time. We don't know how far Snape's gotten. We have to move."
"Yeah," Harry and Ron agreed, glancing uneasily at Neville's stiff form.
They slipped through the corridors, dodging Peeves and Mrs. Norris. Peeves nearly caught them, but they managed to scare him off with whispers from under the cloak. Finally, they reached the corridor on the fourth floor — the door was already ajar.
At the sound of the door creaking open, the enormous three-headed dog began barking madly. A harp lay discarded nearby.
"He's been here," Harry whispered. "Snape — or whoever it was."
Harry pulled out the flute Hagrid had given him for Christmas and began to play. The notes were awkward and off-key, but slowly the dog's growls softened. It swayed on its paws, eyelids drooping, before collapsing heavily to the floor in sleep.
The three hurried over. Harry peered down the trapdoor, then jumped first. The others followed, landing on what felt like a soft mass of vines. They were about to breathe a sigh of relief when the vines tightened around their legs.
"Oh no!" Ron shouted, struggling.
"Incendio!" Hermione cried, sending a stream of bluebell flames from her wand. The vines recoiled at once, shrinking away from the heat and light, and soon released their grip entirely. Harry and Ron scrambled free.
"Hermione, you're brilliant!" Harry said gratefully.
"Yeah — how did you know that thing's afraid of fire?" Ron panted.
"It was in class," Hermione replied quickly, a little embarrassed. "Didn't you pay attention?"
In truth, the words were also written on a note Malfoy had once given her — "Devil's Snare fears fire above all else." At the time, she had thought little of it, but now the coincidence unsettled her deeply. Did he know we'd end up here? she wondered, trying to shake the thought. No… it's just coincidence.
But as events unfolded, it became harder and harder to believe in coincidences.
They slid down the slope and reached the next chamber — a brightly lit room with a vaulted ceiling and countless glittering, winged creatures flitting about.
"Birds?" Ron murmured.
"Keys," Harry corrected, spotting the silver wings glinting in the light. He quickly seized one, and they unlocked the door on the opposite side.
Beyond it lay another chamber — pitch dark until they stepped inside. Then, torches flared to life, revealing an enormous chessboard with life-sized pieces carved of stone.
"How do we get through?" Hermione asked.
"There's only one way," Harry said grimly. "We have to play."
They took their positions as the black pieces — Ron as the knight, Hermione the bishop, and Harry a castle. The game began cautiously, but it soon turned dangerous. When the White Queen swung her sword and sent one of their knights crashing to the ground, the reality of the game hit them like a shock.
"Sacrifice is necessary," Ron said through gritted teeth. "I'll have to be taken."
"Ron, wait!" Harry shouted, but it was too late. Ron moved forward, and the White Queen struck. Her stone arm came down hard.
"Impedimenta!" Hermione cried, her wand flashing. The Queen's movements slowed as if trapped in thick syrup, her sword suspended inches above Ron's head.
"Harry! Move! I can't hold it long!" Hermione shouted.
Snapping out of his daze, Harry moved his piece three squares to the left. The White King removed his crown and placed it before Harry. They had won.
Ron collapsed in relief. "Hermione… how did you do that?"
"Never mind," she said quickly, avoiding his eyes. "We need to keep going."
"Right," Harry agreed. "No time to waste."
They passed the fallen troll — already defeated by someone else — and entered a room with a table lined with seven bottles. Hermione examined them carefully, her brow furrowed.
After a few minutes, she said, "I've worked it out. One lets you go forward through the black flames; the other takes you safely back."
"Then you two go back," said Harry firmly. "I'll face what's ahead."
Before they could argue, he downed the potion that would let him pass. An icy chill spread through him as he stepped through the wall of black fire. Darkness surrounded him, and for a moment, he could see nothing but the flicker of flame behind him.
Then he was in the final chamber.
And someone was already there.
It wasn't Snape. And it wasn't Voldemort — not at first glance.
It was Quirrell.
Harry froze. Quirrell turned slightly, and Harry heard two voices — one trembling and human, the other cold and serpentine.
"Master, your strength hasn't returned yet," Quirrell whispered.
"It is enough for now," hissed the second voice. "Give me control."
Harry's blood ran cold. Two voices — one body.
Quirrell's hands reached for his turban and slowly unwound it. Where the back of his head should have been was a pale, hideous face — chalk-white, with red, slitted eyes and nostrils like a snake's.
Voldemort.
The creature smiled, a ghastly, twisted smile that sent a surge of nausea and terror through Harry. "At last… we meet," the cold voice whispered.
Quirrell's hands tightened around the Sorcerer's Stone. His face contorted as if he were in agony, the stone trembling in his grasp.
Harry braced for the Killing Curse. This is it, he thought. I'm going to die. He regretted every Defense Against the Dark Arts class he'd ignored — but what good would that have done when even the professor himself was Voldemort's servant?
Seconds passed. Nothing happened.
Daring to look up, Harry saw the stone in Quirrell's hand crumble to dust, falling through his fingers.
"No!" Voldemort's scream tore through the chamber, a sound of pure fury and despair. "No!"
The face twisted, features contorting into an expression of inhuman rage. Harry's knees buckled, fear overwhelming him.
But even as darkness closed in, one thought flickered in his mind: The Philosopher's Stone is gone. He destroyed it himself.
And with that single, fleeting comfort, Harry fell into the blackness — whether from a curse or sheer terror, he could not tell.
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