Quirrell.
Before this moment, Harry had imagined—more than once—what their first direct confrontation would look like.
Strangely… he couldn't picture it.
Quirrell was the reason he was here.
The whole reason he'd entered this Painted World.
His enemy. His opposite side.
A fate that seemed destined from the beginning.
And yet, despite being mortal enemies, Harry didn't feel it.
For almost the entire school year, Quirrell had been nothing but a timid, stuttering professor. Harry had only learned the truth about him two days ago. Two days was not enough to erase months of harmless impressions.
He thought he'd be furious. Terrified. Trembling.
But when the moment finally came—
Harry felt strangely calm.
Quirrell—smiling with reptilian coldness—was the one who radiated emotion.
"Ahhh… Harry Potter. Dear, beloved Chosen One. Your little sidekick Weasley and I had quite the chat about you recently."
The voice was not Quirrell's.
No stutter.
No nervous twitch.
Just poison.
"Hello, Professor Quirrell," Harry said evenly.
The fact that he could speak so calmly shocked even himself. His voice didn't shake.
"You look absolutely awful. You were the one struck by lightning earlier, weren't you? I heard that doing too many bad things leads to consequences like that. Perhaps you should reflect."
Ron—still red from being called "sidekick"—puffed his cheeks, trying not to laugh.
It felt like a perfect Vaughn-style jab: short, sharp, and cutting.
Except Quirrell wasn't so easily shaken.
He smiled coldly.
"No need to provoke me, Potter. If my emotions were so easily triggered, I wouldn't have maintained my stuttering act for months.
Weasley told me you even pitied me. Pity for the poor, pitiable, p-p-pathetic Professor Quirrell?"
His voice twisted into mockery.
"And you even felt guilty toward Snape? HAHAHA—"
The sharp laughter pierced Harry's skull.
His face burned.
Because it was true.
He had pitied Quirrell.
He had felt guilty about Snape.
And now those moments made him feel like an idiot.
"HARRY!"
Hermione's worried shout snapped him out of it.
Ron joined in, shouting across the board, "Harry! Focus! We're pieces on the board now. The only way out is to finish the endgame! I told you—don't get emotional when you play chess!"
"You listen to my calls. Move exactly when I tell you—"
"Weasley."
Quirrell's eyes narrowed. "You heard the rules. We are on the same team. Or are you planning to break them?"
"So what!"
Ron puffed up. "Go on then—cast a curse!"
Quirrell's wand hand twitched—then stopped.
"Hmph. The Chosen One's useless little lackey."
Then he turned back to Harry.
"But consider this, Potter. As a piece on the enemy's side… what do you think happens to you if you lose?"
He snapped his fingers toward the stone Knight nearby.
"Go. Take the pawn."
The Knight's stone horse neighed.
Its huge weapon glinted.
"Bloody hell—stupid git of a player!"
The white pawn cursed as the Knight's blade came down.
CRASH.
The pawn shattered.
All three of the trio paled as shards scattered across the board.
This was no ordinary Wizard's Chess.
They weren't just players.
They were part of the pieces.
High above, Vaughn finally tore his eyes away from the Painted World's inner mechanics.
He watched Ron's fear.
Hermione's worry.
Harry's trembling resolve.
Quirrell's cold delight.
"You're evil, Albus," Vaughn remarked.
Normally, Ron's chess skills outclassed everyone here.
He would wipe the board with Harry or Hermione. Even Quirrell.
If this were normal chess, Ron would hold back.
Losing a game meant nothing.
But now—
Losing pieces meant harming friends.
Harry and Hermione couldn't fully commit to aggression because they didn't want Ron trapped.
Ron couldn't play normally because protecting Harry and Hermione mattered more than winning.
Only by abandoning friendship could they play to win.
Dumbledore watched the unfolding conflict with bright eyes.
"All thanks to your inspiration, Vaughn. That Muggle 'trolley problem' you mentioned fascinated me. I reviewed many ethical dilemmas while designing this scenario. How will they choose?
Friendship?
Or victory—reaching the Stone before Quirrell?"
There was no correct answer.
He didn't expect one.
"What about you, Vaughn?" Dumbledore asked. "What would you do?"
Vaughn didn't hesitate.
"I'd draw my wand. Tank the punishment lightning. And kill Quirrell."
Dumbledore blinked—then burst out laughing.
"Hahahaha! Unexpected, yet perfectly wizard-like!"
Magic didn't follow rules.
Magic broke them.
"Shame Harry hasn't realized that yet," Dumbledore sighed. "They still think like students—overawed by a professor."
Below — the battle continued
Harry and Hermione, especially Harry, played conservatively. Staying on their side.
Ron sabotaged Quirrell from the black side.
"Black Bishop! Two squares forward!"
"Black Bishop! Three squares left!"
The Bishop stared helplessly between the two players.
"…Which one of you am I supposed to listen to?"
"ME!" both shouted.
In the end, the Bishop followed Ron—and was promptly crushed by Harry's rook.
"Nice one!" Harry cheered.
Ron pumped a fist.
Quirrell's face darkened.
But up above, Vaughn and Dumbledore exchanged a knowing look.
"He sacrificed that Bishop deliberately," Vaughn murmured. "To lure out the White Rook."
"And," Dumbledore added, "to teach the black pieces that Ron is an unreliable commander."
From that moment on—
Black pieces ignored Ron completely.
And Harry's rook, now exposed deep inside enemy territory, forced Harry to continue attacking to keep it alive.
Exactly as Quirrell wanted.
The match escalated.
Pieces shattered.
The Queen—a monster of stone and steel—was freed.
With a single swing, the Black Queen cleaved a white rook in half.
"IDIOT PLAYER!" the rook's severed head yelled at Harry. "Told you not to move me there!"
Harry's breathing grew rapid.
He was drowning.
Then Ron made his move.
He stepped forward two squares—on his own.
Harry froze.
Hermione gasped.
Even Quirrell's eyes widened.
"Ron…"
"Bloody Weasley!"
Ron ignored all of them. His voice shook—but his eyes burned.
"Harry! This is it! They've stopped listening to me—I must move myself to regain control! Focus and follow the steps—NOW!"
"I—"
"No 'I'! Listen!" Ron yelled so loudly his voice cracked. "You MUST win! You must get the Stone before—before HIM!"
His voice broke.
Because just ahead—one step away—was the White Bishop's lethal zone.
If Ron moved again—
He would be automatically taken.
He would die.
But it was the only way.
He trembled violently.
Sweat soaked his hair.
The Bishop's massive staff gleamed ominously.
Dumbledore clapped delightedly above.
"Such noble sacrifice! Vaughn, your brother is a fine young man—"
"He's an idiot," Vaughn said flatly.
"Ah, but a noble idiot!"
"…Still an idiot."
Below, Quirrell's eyes narrowed.
The mention of "the Dark Lord" clearly agitated him.
Harry, however—
Harry cried.
Because Ron was right.
And because Ron was about to die.
They attacked.
Hard.
White pieces surged forward, sacrificing themselves.
Black pieces shattered in turn.
It was brutal.
Desperate.
Until finally—
The White Queen crushed a final pawn.
Harry turned sharply.
"STOP, Ron! I've got it from here!"
Ron was only one square from the Bishop's kill zone.
Just one.
"Alright, Harry!" he called back, relief flooding his face.
But Dumbledore sighed.
"They've been tricked."
Quirrell had done nothing but wait.
Waiting for Ron to stop moving.
Waiting to reclaim control.
Waiting to spring the trap.
The moment Ron paused—
Quirrell's voice cracked like a whip.
"Pawn—forward!"
Harry's laugh died in his throat.
A single Black Pawn—forgotten at the corner—slid forward.
Harry saw the pattern instantly.
"Black Queen—advance."
The three pieces—Pawn, Rook, Bishop—clicked into position.
A perfect cage.
Every option Harry had—
dead ends.
Hermione raised her voice, panicked:
"Is there no other move?!"
None.
Ron swallowed hard.
There was only one way.
One terrible way.
He looked at the White Bishop.
Then at the scattered stone corpses.
Then at Harry.
At Hermione.
At his own trembling hands.
He remembered Quirrell's mocking voice.
"Sidekick."
He'd heard it all his life.
As a child:
Vaughn's twin, always overshadowed.
As a student:
Harry's friend, never the hero.
He never hated it.
Not truly.
He knew he was ordinary.
He knew he wasn't like Vaughn or Harry.
But even ordinary people—
dream of being heroes.
"I want… to be one too."
Ron stared straight at the Bishop.
And shouted:
"Hermione! One square forward!"
Harry spun—"RON—NO—"
But Hermione, trusting him, moved.
The Bishop lifted its massive staff.
Ron set his jaw—
—and jumped.
BOOM.
The Bishop's staff crashed down.
Smoke exploded across the board.
Ron was thrown like a rag doll, skidding across the black-and-white surface—then went still.
Harry screamed.
"No—NO! RON!"
The square beneath Ron melted like tar, swallowing him from sight.
"RONNNN—!"
Grief and rage twisted inside him.
His chest burned.
And when he turned toward Quirrell—
Harry's eyes were wild.
Bloodshot.
Blazing.
He had never hated anyone so much.
He wanted to tear Quirrell apart.
Above
Dumbledore wiped tears dramatically.
"So moving…"
Vaughn stared at him.
Then at the wet stain on Ron's trousers.
"Did… did he wet himself?"
"Looks like it."
A pause.
Synchronized grimaces.
Dumbledore muttered, "Were the pieces perhaps too realistic?"
Vaughn rubbed his forehead.
"Probably just drank too much water before fainting."
To save the air around them, Vaughn warped the space and sent Ron elsewhere.
"Good. Now—Harry is about to promote."
Below
Pawn promotion.
One of Wizard's Chess's most decisive rules.
A pawn that reaches the enemy's back rank—
Can become Knight.
Bishop.
Rook.
Or Queen.
And here—
Harry was drenched in hatred.
He chose the one piece symbolizing overwhelming power.
Of course he did.
He whispered the word through clenched teeth.
"Promote."
PS: I've been releasing chapters daily . Honestly, it hurts seeing almost no support on Patreon after all that work.
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