A Certain Magical Hogwarts

When someone has grown accustomed to fine dining, they might occasionally find cabbage and tofu delicious—but they'd never go so far as to think Swill is gourmet.

If anyone actually does, they should probably be sent to a mental hospital, theres no time to waste!

Cho Chang's singing might not qualify as "fine dining," but her voice carried the purity and joy of youth, giving it a unique charm.

As Cedric put it: "Cho could easily become the lead singer of the pop group 'Cheeky Fairies.'"

Of course, you can't take a lovestruck admirer's words too seriously. They excel at exaggeration, turning something modest into a grand spectacle—some might even convince you that a tank is a fairy.

That said, Cedric wasn't too far off this time. Cho's voice was genuinely lovely.

Now, imagine a three-headed dog accustomed to Cho's melodic tunes being subjected to Hagrid's off-key growling. 

Forget falling asleep—the poor thing might just lose its soul.

It was hard not to conclude that Hagrid, clearly inebriated, had been boasting wildly. Boasting wasn't illegal, but his antics had doomed Quirrell.

Fluffy, who had been drowsy moments ago, was now wide awake and angrier than ever. The more it listened, the more enraged it became.

With a thunderous roar, Fluffy lunged at Quirrell, baring its fangs and swiping its massive paws.

Quirrell hadn't even processed what was happening before he was knocked flat on his back, a sharp pain radiating through his chest.

Fluffy clamped its jaws around Quirrell's head, dragging him across the ground like a chew toy, tossing him side to side with savage delight.

At that moment, Quirrell wished for death. Resistance was futile, and Fluffy's initial swipe had knocked his wand out of reach.

The worst part? Fluffy never brushed its teeth. The rancid smell from its mouth was enough to suffocate him.

Even Voldemort, momentarily dormant within Quirrell, was jolted awake by the chaos.

He was utterly bewildered. What on earth is going on?!

Twenty minutes ago, he had been in the Forbidden Forest, matching Dumbledore spell for spell. Now, he was being humiliated by a dog?

Quirrell… are you sure you're not an overly devoted spy?!

Despite Voldemort's furious curses, Quirrell remained motionless. 

Fluffy, having grown bored of its "toy," dragged him a short distance before tossing him into a corner like trash.

Hagrid, the scheming bich had actually outwitted them.

But Voldemort wasn't a vegetarian. With a commanding roar, he hissed: "Idiot, the food!"

This was Plan B: food laced with Hagrid's scent.

Hagrid often hung strings of cured meat by his hut. With Hagrid's scent permeating the food, Fluffy would accept it without suspicion.

Quirrell, trembling, staggered to his feet and pulled the cured meat from his pocket. He tossed it far away, hoping to divert Fluffy's attention.

The meat was heavily dosed with a powerful sleeping draught, potent enough to knock out a dragon. Surely Fluffy couldn't resist.

Smelling Hagrid's scent, Fluffy rushed to devour the meat in one bite.

Moments later, the massive dog swayed unsteadily before collapsing to the ground, fast asleep.

Quirrell wiped the blood from his face and hurried to open the trapdoor, peering into the darkness below.

"Are you sure you've investigated this?" Voldemort asked suspiciously.

"Yes, Master," Quirrell replied with feigned confidence. "There's Devil's Snare below. Professor Sprout designed it as a cushion.

"Don't worry, I'm an expert in handling such plants!"

Without hesitation, Quirrell jumped in, beginning his free fall.

Two seconds later, a loud CRACK echoed through the chamber.

Quirrell's agonized scream followed.

"AAAAHHH!"

There was no Devil's Snare, no water, no cushioning charm—just a cold marble floor, now stained with a warm puddle of blood.

"My leg is broken!" Quirrell whimpered, clutching his left leg in pain.

If Quirrell had a better grasp of physics, he could have calculated the drop: nearly twenty meters.

That he survived with only a broken leg was nothing short of a miracle—Merlin must have been feeling generous.

"You idiot!" Voldemort roared. "Didn't you say there was Devil's Snare?!"

Quirrell sobbed. "Master, can't we go back? Please, I'm begging you…"

"Silence! We're too close to stop now. The Philosopher's Stone is just ahead!" Voldemort snarled. "Retrieve it, and I will grant you immortality!"

"But… my leg is broken…" Quirrell whimpered.

"Use a healing potion!"

…

Quirrell's wand illuminated the chamber, revealing two lines of graffiti scrawled on the wall:

"Guess who I am?"

Below that was the Slytherin crest.

"Snape was here!"

Quirrell cursed under his breath. "Snape must have stolen the Devil's Snare.

"I heard Professor Sprout complain that Snape hoards anything useful for his potion stores.

"That miserly bastard!

"I should've killed him instead of simply knocking him out."

It had been Quirrell who knocked Snape unconscious and left him hanging in the Forbidden Forest.

Still cursing, Quirrell pulled a potion from his pocket and applied it to his wound.

But Fluffy's teeth carried toxins, and the potion did little to heal his injuries—let alone fix his broken leg.

After what felt like an eternity, Quirrell dragged himself toward the next chamber.

He soon found himself in a brightly lit room filled with hundreds of glittering, jewel-like keys fluttering through the air.

In the corner, he spotted several brooms.

To his dismay, they were outdated Comet 250 models—relics the school had discarded long ago.

Are these even rideable Quirrell thought grimly.

Still, a broom was better than nothing. With a broken leg, he had no choice.

Mounting the broom, Quirrell kicked off with his uninjured foot and soared into the air, diving into the swarm of keys.

In his school days, Quirrell hadn't been on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, but he'd secretly been a talented flyer. He preferred to keep his skills hidden, to avoid unnecessary attention.

Time to show my true abilities, he thought confidently. I'll catch that key in less than a minute!

He darted into the swarm of keys.

"AHH!"

The instant he touched one, he screamed in pain.

"It burned me!" Quirrell cried, sucking on his blistered fingers.

"Who added a Fire Curse?!" Voldemort growled.

"It must have been Flitwick, that wretched little goblin!" Quirrell cursed bitterly.

But then he noticed something unusual.

The key he had touched duplicated itself, spawning twenty more identical keys.

Previously, the keys had flown in perfect harmony, avoiding collisions. But now the duplicates crowded the airspace, bumping into others and triggering even more duplications.

It was like a never-ending chain reaction.

"A Duplication Curse?! Really?!"

Quirrell politely expressed his grievances by creatively insulting Flitwick's family tree.

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