Oddball Wizard Chess and the Planner's Map kept ticking upward in proficiency—but nothing climbed faster than [Squirrel Cookie].
Every time Sean stared at that rising number, he drifted a little.
The drift didn't last. The Weasley & Green joke shop's flood of orders snapped him back fast—good thing he'd been grinding Oddball Chess; otherwise Manager Gert's owl would be dropping a Howler every day.
The Oddball set wasn't only hot at Hogwarts. Witches and wizards who couldn't snag Transforming Cookies simply grabbed the next special thing—Oddball Chess—and two minutes later, they were hooked.
"The knight fell in love with the queen, that's normal;
The bishop burned our own guard as a heretic—well, that's interesting;
The rash rook can take an extra, uncontrollable step—sure, I can buy that;
But what do you mean a drunk knight crept in at midnight and skewered our king—who was cheating with the enemy queen?!"
Wizards are naturally curious about gloriously ridiculous contraptions—why else would Dungbombs still sell like wildfire? Their inventor, Alberic Grunnion, even made a Chocolate Frog card—right alongside people like Nicolas Flamel.
Sean had let his imagination run feral when he built the set, and Oddball Chess turned out far stranger than expected.
The result: strategy exploded. And the pieces retained a "familiarity" mechanic—players who learned a set's quirks could command it better.
That blend—progression, tactics, and joyful absurdity—catapulted it to the top of Britain's wizarding pastimes.
And the twins' unilateral promise—"a new piece every month"—only stretched the game's lifespan further.
If you ignored their tearful begging that Sean please design one new piece every month, he'd be more enthusiastic about it.
Weasley & Green were minting Galleons. The twins bought books and alchemy gear, sent plenty home.
Mrs. Weasley hadn't touched a single coin, but still insisted the twins had to drag Sean to the Burrow at least once.
Sean had been tempted—flying car, after all—but stopped himself.
"I need to ask the professors," he said.
The twins didn't understand why but still strutted off counting Galleons. At the door, they turned back, all cloak-and-dagger:
"Our sales left zero Wizard Chess sets sold this month—"
Fred tossed an original chess box.
"We paid the license, and they still tried to play games, but guess what—"
George caught it, grinning.
"Someone hexed them out of nowhere—elephants, we hear. The Ministry still hasn't figured out who did it."
Both stared at Sean with shining eyes.
"Great Sean! Partnering with you is the best decision a Weasley ever made!"
They bowed in mock reverence and vanished.
Leaving Sean not entirely sure what they were talking about.
A week later—
Sean's Oddball Chess hit [Expert], and the Hope Nook's hottest topic was still Professor Quirrell.
"We absolutely can't let him steal the Stone—and we need to understand why he wants it," Justin always opened.
"Turn anything to gold? But Quirrell teaches Muggle Studies. A smart Ravenclaw like him shouldn't be that hard up," Hermione frowned.
"Oh, come off it, Hermione—Galleons are never enough… Look at Fred and George. When they aren't training, they're inventing. Rumor is they've got a warehouse of Galleons by now…" Ron muttered, eyeing his worn book and threadbare robes with mingled gloom and pride.
"Or… immortality," Justin said quietly.
He hadn't imagined such a thing could really exist, yet here they were—discussing an artifact that could.
As they fell into thought, Sean touched the Squirrel Cookie in his hand. The crackle of the fireplace tugged him back to the Headmaster's office.
"…his scholarship, his talent—ought to be seen, even once… and so I recom—recom—recommend…"
Was Quirrell really talking only about a boy named Green?
That recommendation letter sat at the bottom of Sean's drawer. He kept thinking about it.
"Sean… why do you think Professor Quirrell wants the Stone?" Justin asked at last. When they hit a wall, asking Sean was usually the right move.
This time, Sean was silent for a long moment.
Seeing that, Justin didn't press. He and Hermione pivoted to Quirrell's past.
"He was a talented, learned Ravenclaw," Hermione said, notebook in hand, "but after that… it's said he crossed paths with vampires."
"Yeah… explains the stammer—and that garlic stench," Ron shuddered.
So—what kind of man was Quirinus Quirrell?
Dumbledore's line to Harry echoed:
"Quirrell was full of hatred, greed, and ambition; he sold his soul to Voldemort. To touch a person marked by so much love hurt him beyond bearing…"
Yet in the Leaky Cauldron, Quirrell had managed to shake Harry's hand. Had he not fallen all the way—yet?
One wrong choice can lock in a tragedy forever.
Sean set the Squirrel Cookie beside his journal charm. The open page read, in clear ink:
[Quirinus Quirrell, as Rowling once mused—
Quirinus was a little-known Roman deity, often linked to war; Quirrell himself is not as meek as he appears. "Quirrell" echoes "squirrel"—small, harmless, quivering—and also "quiver," a nod to his innate nervousness.]
Transforming Cookies only preserve will for those whose Animagus form matches the target.
Sean didn't know Quirrell's true form. But trying was better than doing nothing.
Because of that recommendation letter, he kept thinking: if Quirrell were bound to Voldemort but offered one more chance to choose—what then?
He didn't know. He only knew this: a tiny Squirrel Cookie, three minutes long, could do just one thing—send a scurrying little Animagus into the Headmaster's office to confess everything and beg for help.
Useless—for almost anything else.
~~~
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