What the children did not know, as they disappeared one by one down the gaping maw of the trapdoor beneath Fluffy, was that they were the starring players in a tightly controlled, high-stakes drama.
There existed an elaborately disguised room on the fourth floor of Hogwarts—a chamber so magically secluded that only a handful of senior staff were aware of its location and its purpose. It was currently filled with a soft, ethereal glow cast by a series of magical monitoring screens built into the walls.
Each screen displayed a real-time, silent, and subtly filtered view of the various trials and obstacles protecting the Philosopher's Stone.
The occupants of this hidden viewing room were a tense, silent audience: Albus Dumbledore, looking strangely serene in his chair; Sebastian Swann, nursing a glass of iced cola and wearing an expression of calm anticipation; Professor Flitwick, perched on a cushion, eyes wide; and Professor Snape, whose anxiety manifested as an unbearable, rigid stillness.
One television screen provided a constant, unnerving feed of the black space directly below the trapdoor. Another showed the still, dark figure of Quirinus Quirrell, who was currently wandering tentatively between the next challenge and the final chamber, nervously scratching the side of his turban.
Snape's self-control was fraying with every passing second. He had been briefed on the security arrangements—a collaborative effort by various professors—and even knew of the broader, underlying plan to use the Stone as bait to lure out the nascent threat.
But theory and observation were vastly different. The moment the four minuscule figures dropped into the black void, Snape's famous composure shattered into a thousand internal pieces.
"This is utter recklessness," Snape hissed, his voice dangerously low, aimed at the ceiling rather than his colleagues. "If they cannot find an authority figure, they should wait outside. Why did they charge in with such lunatic haste?"
His black eyes fixed on the screen showing the descent. "And Potter! He is every bit as arrogant and headstrong as his insufferable father! Does he truly believe, a mere first-year, that he is a match for an adult wizard, no matter how apparently weak? And Granger! She clearly deduced the intruder's identity was Quirrell, yet instead of retreating to safety, she enabled this idiocy!"
Snape's internal fury was not purely pedagogical; it was agonizingly personal. He could feel his long-established character, the disciplined, calculating spy, crumbling under the weight of concern for the foolish boy with Lily's eyes.
Then, his gaze flicked to another screen showing the lingering effects of the last occupant on the corridor floor.
"And Malfoy! The greatest disappointment of all! Are you not a Slytherin? Where is the cunning? Where is the caution? You are provoked by a common, juvenile taunt and rush headlong into a potentially lethal situation! Where is the IQ, boy?"
He clenched his fist, the muscle in his jaw ticking rapidly. He forced himself to unclench. Relax. I must maintain my character. Were I to burst in there now, I would not only reveal this room but also destroy years of cultivated apathy. I must watch.
A flicker of grudging approval crossed Snape's face. He watched the screen showing the dormant Fluffy. Harry, in a moment of genuine inspiration, had realized the music provided by the abandoned harp had stopped when Quirrell entered.
The boy had fumbled in his robes and produced the music box he usually carried for sentimental reasons, winding it up just enough to emit a tiny, repetitive, tinkling tune. It was enough to lull the enormous Cerberus back into a deep, drooling slumber.
"Very good," Snape muttered, folding his arms. "He located the essential weakness quickly. They will pass the first hurdle swiftly." He noted that Quirrell, in his panic and haste, had indeed neglected to re-lock the trapdoor after his own descent.
"Madness," Snape concluded. "If you have the time to secure the Stone, why not take the simple precaution of locking the wards you bypassed?"
The next moments were agonizing. The screens showed the four small figures landing haphazardly at the bottom of the long drop. Predictably, they immediately became entangled in the Devil's Snare, the thick, coiling, vine-like plant that was Professor Sprout's contribution to the Stone's protection.
"They look like meatballs dropped into a boiling pot," Snape observed, his tone acidulous, though his chest was heaving with alarm. "If it were not for the cushioning properties of the plant, they would have certainly broken their legs. Now, they are being strangled. We cannot wait here!"
Snape stood up abruptly, casting off his elegant black robes with a dramatic flourish. He started toward the door, his mind already formulating the most efficient Diffindo spell to cut them free.
"Severus," Sebastian interjected, his voice calm, stopping Snape with effortless control. He did not even look away from the screen, where Ron was already beginning to panic and struggle, only causing the Snare to tighten its grip. "Have some faith in the power of Rational Deduction. I believe they can pass this exam easily."
Snape spun around, his calmness completely gone. "Faith? What delusion is this, Swann? If you delay any longer, your faith will be rewarded with four strangled students! They are drowning!"
"Besides, we made a bet," Sebastian reminded him gently, tilting his glass. "You wagered that these children would not be foolish enough to attempt these lethal challenges without the supervision of a professor. You lost that wager the moment Draco ran back for his wand. Since we lost, we are bound by the agreement: we sit back and observe the consequences."
Snape stood frozen, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The reminder of his own misplaced certainty was a cruel constraint. He stared at the screen, a muscle twitching near his left eye.
Then, Sebastian smiled. "Look, Miss Granger has arrived at the correct conclusion. The logic of Professor Sprout's challenge is proving simple enough for a first-year botanist to unravel. They will be out of trouble momentarily."
Indeed, on the screen, Hermione had instantly recognized the Snare's aversion to light and heat, calmly advising Ron to relax while she conjured a small but effective Lumos Solem spell, causing the vicious vines to recoil and release the students with a shudder.
With a loud, exasperated grunt that sounded like the scraping of metal, Snape retrieved his robes and returned to his seat, glaring daggers at the screen.
"Even if they bypass the Devil's Snare," Snape continued, his anxiety merely shifting focus, "I cannot fathom how they will navigate Professor McGonagall's enchanted Chessboard. They are completely mismatched against those pieces. I cannot imagine they possess the tactical genius to defeat a game of strategy where every piece is willing to sacrifice itself."
"Don't worry, Severus," Sebastian said, his eyes flicking momentarily toward Dumbledore. "The Headmaster is watching them closely and will not permit them to enter genuine, immediate peril."
Dumbledore looked up from the screen that was currently showing Harry, his eyes twinkling brightly. He offered Snape a brief, reassuring nod.
"Severus, rest assured. They will be perfectly fine, I guarantee it. And honestly, they are performing much better than I anticipated. Look, Harry is already chasing that enchanted key."
Dumbledore gestured toward another screen that showed the next challenge: the chamber filled with winged keys, Professor Flitwick's barrier. Harry, having found a discarded broomstick, was already airborne, weaving through the chaotic swarm with astonishing skill.
"Honestly, Harry's flying skills are truly magnificent. No wonder Minerva was so confident Gryffindor would finally reclaim the Quidditch Cup," Dumbledore praised.
Snape remained skeptical, but the mention of the Deputy Headmistress reminded him of the full extent of the complex, ongoing deception.
"And Minerva, Filius, Pomona, and the others are quite safe, I presume?" Snape asked, the question laced with a pointed undertone. "The students and indeed Quirrell were led to believe that the key professors were all at Durmstrang with the Quidditch team, leaving the castle intentionally vulnerable."
Sebastian smiled slightly. "Yes. We took the liberty of ensuring the information Quirrell had access to was subtly tailored to encourage boldness. He needed to believe the castle's primary magical defenses—yourself, Dumbledore, and McGonagall—were absent. It was the only way to draw out the parasitic entity he is carrying."
It was true: Sebastian and Dumbledore had orchestrated a subtle disinformation campaign. The students assumed Dumbledore and Sebastian were leading the team, but the deeper deception was that McGonagall and the other senior professors were not at Durmstrang either; they were simply hidden, ready to act if the students failed to stall the thief.
A whole squadron of top-tier wizards was currently scattered throughout the castle, waiting for the green light, all to ensure Quirrell felt safe enough to enter the final stages.
Sebastian felt a brief, internal flinch as he considered the potential aftermath. He had told McGonagall that he was trying to catch a small-time thief, not that he was using her beloved champion as bait.
When the sky falls, the tall ones catch it. Sebastian looked at Dumbledore's towering form. And Albus, in this room, is easily the tallest. He took a calming sip of his cola, choosing to defer the inevitable confrontation with the furious Professor McGonagall to his Headmaster.
"Potter's flying skills truly are excellent," Professor Flitwick piped up from his cushion, his high, squeaky voice full of admiration. "Look, he has the key already. I look forward to seeing how they navigate the next ward."
The small Charms Master then turned his attention to the screen showing Quirrell, his eyes filling with a heavy, troubled sorrow. "However…"
"I still cannot bring myself to fully accept that Quirinus Quirrell is the thief hiding within the school," Professor Flitwick admitted, shaking his head slowly. He sighed, the sound like a quiet rush of air.
"Quirrell, a prodigy who graduated from Ravenclaw with Honors. He returned almost immediately to teach here. I always saw him as the very embodiment of Ravenclaw's intellectual pride."
Flitwick's voice became thick with genuine regret. "He was always so keen, so bright, so full of a simple, childlike passion for life. Even after his tenure as professor, he would frequently visit me, eagerly showing me rare flower samples he had successfully cultivated or preserved. I cannot fathom how he spiraled into this… this complete corruption after one year of simple travel."
Flitwick turned fully toward Dumbledore, his small face contorted with pain.
"Albus," he pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion. "When the moment comes… when the entity is separated from him… if there is any possibility, any kernel of the good boy I once taught left within him… could you please, please find a way to save Quirrell? I could not bear to see such a good, kind young wizard completely and utterly destroyed."
Dumbledore looked down at the pleading Professor Flitwick, then at the image of the stooped, fearful Quirrell on the screen—the man who was Voldemort's vessel. The Headmaster's blue eyes were deeply sad, holding the knowledge that redemption was a luxury likely denied in this final, decisive moment.
Snape, though still simmering with protective anxiety for the children, heard the sincerity in Flitwick's request and his rigid posture softened slightly. He too remembered the eager, young Quirrell, and the thought of such a complete loss added another layer of grim complexity to the rapidly approaching climax.