Time flowed with the deceptive speed of water under ice, and the first Saturday in April arrived—a pivotal date in Sebastian's meticulously calculated timetable.
"Fred and George must be halfway to Durmstrang by now," Ron sighed, his voice echoing slightly in the deserted stone corridor just outside the old dueling arena. He stretched languidly, glancing out the window at the lowering, copper-colored sun. "It's a real tragedy we didn't make the cheer team. Imagine getting to see our star players on the pitch, live, not just on a flickering magical broadcast."
"I'm turning in early tonight," he declared, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Don't want to miss a second of the live match broadcast tomorrow morning. It'll be pure chaos, I bet."
Harry Potter lagged behind, walking with a strange, hesitant shuffle. He rubbed his forehead constantly, the motion less a habit and more a desperate attempt to physically soothe the unbearable, white-hot pressure building behind his eyes. He barely heard Ron's complaints.
"Harry, are you ill?" Hermione stopped suddenly, her sharp eyes noticing the strange rigidity in Harry's posture. Her immediate thought was to find Madam Pomfrey. "You look terrible. You've been pressing your scar all morning. Is it a migraine?"
Ron spun around, instantly concerned. "What's the matter, mate? It's not just a headache, is it? I remember you rubbing it even during breakfast."
Harry gasped, a short, sharp intake of breath as the pain intensified, driving him to lean against the cold stone wall. "I'm not… not sick," he whispered, his voice strained. "It's my scar. It's been burning, aching, all day. It's not like the usual phantom pain; it feels like… like someone is focusing on something here, right now. I think it's a sign. A warning."
Ron's face went instantly pale, the color draining away as if pulled by gravity. He involuntarily took a large step back. "A warning of what? Please, Harry, don't even think it. Don't say… that name."
Hermione looked around nervously, scrutinizing the empty corridor. Her mind immediately began cataloging the missing pieces of Hogwarts' protection. She leaned closer, her voice barely a breath.
"Harry, are you saying… that He has managed to secretly infiltrate the school? This is exactly the worst possible time! Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Swann are both away, traveling with the Quidditch team to Durmstrang. They left a massive vulnerability, and the timing is far too precise."
"Exactly," Harry said, pressing harder on his forehead, trying to clear the sudden, foggy confusion that the pain induced. "He must know Dumbledore is gone. He wouldn't risk it otherwise. And if he's here, he's not looking for me. That would be too risky, even for him. He must be after something incredibly important—something he knows is only defended by the second-tier staff."
"The second tier…" Hermione murmured, her brow furrowed in concentration. The three children spoke the next words in unison, their voices flat with dawning horror: "The Philosopher's Stone."
Suddenly, the vague threat coalesced into a sharp, terrifying reality. If it was the Philosopher's Stone, everything made perfect, dreadful sense.
Harry sat heavily on the grassy bank that bordered the corridor. The thought of the Stone brought a memory of Sebastian's calm, detached analysis during the Christmas break. Sebastian had assured him that the Stone was under a near-impenetrable, multi-layered magical defense.
"Harry, we don't need to panic yet," Hermione said, trying to steady her breathing. "Professor Swann told you that the Stone is under heavy protection! And he specifically mentioned that no one, absolutely no one except Hagrid, the keeper, could pass the first barrier—Fluffy, the three-headed dog—without being torn to shreds. That's why your safety was prioritized."
Fluffy. The realization hit Harry like a Bludger to the gut, his face turning deathly pale.
"Damn it, Hermione, you're right!" Harry exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. "That was the weakness! The mysterious man must have already figured out how to pacify Fluffy—Hagrid! He gave it away last year when he was talking about how to manage dangerous beasts!"
Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, the pieces of the puzzle snapping violently into place. Hagrid had already been exposed once.
Ron watched the two of them exchanging these mysterious, terrifying insights, his eyes wide with confusion. "What are you two babbling about? What does Hagrid have to do with this? Are we going to find him? We can't just stand here talking about the bloke!"
"No, Ron, there's no time!" Harry yelled, already sprinting towards the castle entrance. "He gave away the secret to his weakness last year! We need to get inside, now!"
Driven by a sudden, frantic energy—the desperate, adrenaline-fueled certainty that he was right—Harry pounded through the stone halls, Ron and Hermione struggling to keep up. He didn't stop until he reached the quiet, forbiddingly empty fourth-floor corridor.
His heart hammered against his ribs as he reached the final, unmarked door. His legs almost gave out when he saw it: the door to the three-headed dog's chamber was ajar, hanging half-open, casting a narrow, ominous shadow into the corridor.
Too late.
Someone had already breached the first defense.
"H-Harry, wait for—us!" Hermione stumbled up to him, breathless, leaning against the wall for support.
Before she could finish, a familiar, sneering voice echoed from around the corner they had just passed.
"Haha! Look what I found, Weasley! You're finished! The professors strictly forbade students from coming to this floor, let alone sneaking around here like common thieves! No wonder you were running like a panicked badger!"
Draco Malfoy, followed by Crabbe and Goyle, rounded the corner. He had clearly been patrolling the upper corridors, likely hoping to catch the trio in some infraction. Malfoy's gloating stopped abruptly when he saw the odd grouping: Harry, Ron, and Hermione—all three looking pale, terrified, and focused on the half-open, unmarked door.
"Shut up, Malfoy!" Ron hissed, his voice dangerously low, ignoring the pain in his hand. "It's dangerous in here. Keep your voice down if you don't want to die!"
"Dangerous? Are you trying to scare me now, Weasley?" Malfoy scoffed, though he hesitated, unnerved by the genuine fear in Ron's eyes. "No chance."
Malfoy's confidence wavered completely when he saw Harry slowly push the door open just enough to reveal the interior. A burst of unexpectedly melodic harp music spilled into the corridor, followed by the terrifying sight of the three enormous, slobbering heads of the Cerberus, Fluffy, now deeply asleep, resting its bulk across the trapdoor.
Harry quickly and quietly pulled the door shut, his face grim. "The intruder is already inside," he whispered to the three students behind him. He avoided using Voldemort's name, knowing the mere sound would cause Malfoy, despite his outward bravado, to panic and flee, thus jeopardizing the necessary next step of his plan.
"We need to find the deans and the professors. The other staff aren't strong enough to deal with this alone," Harry stated firmly.
He turned, locking his intense green eyes onto Malfoy's bewildered grey ones. Harry grabbed Malfoy's hand—a deliberate, sincere gesture of partnership that was entirely foreign to their rivalry.
"Malfoy! Help us! A dangerous, powerful dark wizard has infiltrated Hogwarts and is after something protected on this floor. You need to go find Professor Snape immediately! Tell him we found evidence of a breach and he is the only professor we trust who can get here in time."
Malfoy was still reeling from the shock of the Cerberus. He pulled his hand back, utterly confused and suspicious. Potter is asking for help?
"What is this, Potter? A trap?" Malfoy demanded, a flicker of fear and suspicion battling his burgeoning sense of importance. "That three-headed beast looks like serious trouble. Going for a professor now sounds like running straight into a planned ambush!"
Yet, this was the first time Potter had ever acknowledged his existence as anything other than an annoyance. It was an official, sincere request for aid. Recalling the strange alliance they had formed while guarding Norberta, Malfoy struggled with the internal conflict between self-preservation and the burning desire to be recognized as a key operative in a high-stakes emergency.
He hesitated, then gave a curt, reluctant nod. "Fine, Potter. I'll go find Snape. But only because I recognize the severity of the security breach. I'll meet you back here in ten minutes."
As soon as Malfoy dashed away, Harry immediately turned to his two friends, quickly distributing new assignments.
"Go!" Harry urged. "Ron, you take Professor Sprout! Hermione, find Professor Flitwick! We need all the Heads of House here now. They have to be in the castle somewhere, covering the watch."
The trio split, scattering into the high-traffic areas of the castle. Harry, meanwhile, ran towards the Gryffindor Tower, searching desperately for Professor McGonagall.
The search was long and frustrating. All three returned to the fourth-floor corridor minutes later, exhausted and empty-handed. They had been utterly unsuccessful; the remaining professors were likely conducting rounds or securing other parts of the castle in the absence of Dumbledore and Sebastian, making them impossible to track down quickly.
"I guess we're out of luck," Harry admitted, his voice heavy with defeat as he approached his friends. "No one could find a professor. Not even McGonagall."
Ron glared at the now-empty stretch of corridor where Malfoy had stood, already feeling the sting of a potential failed mission. "Well, I'm not leaving you, Harry," Ron said, squaring his shoulders, his earlier fear replaced by a determined Gryffindor resolve. "If you're going in, we're going in. We'll find a way."
Hermione, ever the analyst, calmly pieced together the final, chilling clue. "Think, Harry. Who is the only new professor this year? The only one whose character and loyalties Dumbledore and Professor Swann are specifically testing?"
"Professor Quirrell," Ron whispered, the name dropping heavily into the air.
"Precisely," Hermione stated, gathering her courage. She knew the general perception of Quirrell: a stuttering, nervous academic who was utterly harmless. The children were completely unaware of his recent, highly successful (and heavily publicized by Sebastian) run of capturing minor Dark Wizards, a truth known only to the Ministry and certain senior staff.
"If Quirrell is the perpetrator, he's disguised his intent flawlessly. But given his disastrous classroom performance, he is far from being a master duelist. If a few of us work together, we have a chance to neutralize him long enough to stall the plan."
Hermione looked at the entrance to the corridor, then back at the empty space where Malfoy had been.
"We need every wand we can get. Malfoy, do you want to join us to stop a dark wizard and protect the Philosopher's Stone?"
Before Hermione could finish, Ron erupted in sarcastic derision. "Him? A cowardly Slytherin? I'm afraid he'll faint from fear and end up dragging us down with him! He's probably back in the dungeons hiding under a tapestry right now!"
"Ron!" Harry sharply interjected. He knew precisely how to reel in the enraged Slytherin who was no doubt loitering just around the corner, his ego wounded by the casual dismissal.
Harry turned his attention to the empty corridor, speaking loudly, clearly, and with an air of absolute certainty. This was the moment for Sebastian's "Tsundere Technique"—the art of manipulating a proud rival through deliberate humiliation.
"Malfoy, I am sincerely grateful for your prompt assistance in finding Professor Snape, even if it yielded no results," Harry announced to the empty hallway. "We appreciate your effort. There is danger ahead, however. I order you to return to your dormitory immediately to rest. It's the safest place in the castle right now, and we wouldn't want you to be harmed."
With that final, patronizing dismissal, Harry dramatically pulled a small, brass music box from his robes, quickly wound the key, and pushed open the door to the three-headed dog's chamber, the sweet, tinkling melody of the harp swelling out into the corridor.
From behind the corner, Malfoy, who had been hiding exactly where Harry knew he would be, listening to the conversation, felt a wave of scalding fury wash over him.
Cowardly Slytherin?
Faint from fear?
Go back to the dorms?
The insult was not only directed at him but at his entire House—the cunning, ambitious House that had saved the school from one scandal just last week!
Harry Potter was publicly suggesting that Draco Malfoy was too weak, too timid, and too unimportant to face a common threat. The sheer arrogance was unbearable.
Damn them!
He wouldn't let those three self-righteous, reckless Gryffindors steal the glory—the story, the official report, the admiration of the whole school—for facing the final danger. This was for the House of Slytherin! This was for catching the bad guys!
With a snarl of outraged pride, Malfoy ripped his wand from his sleeve and dashed around the corner, joining the three Gryffindors just as they started moving past the slumbering Cerberus.
"You'll eat those words, Potter!" Malfoy spat, his eyes blazing with competitive rage. "I'm coming! I'm making sure you three idiots don't ruin the plan with your pathetic 'bravery'!"
The unlikely quartet—two bitter rivals, a reluctant hero, and a terrified genius—stepped over the colossal tail of the three-headed dog, united by urgency, pride, and the escalating fear of the unknown. They descended into the black abyss of the trapdoor.