Chapter 191: A Simple Line of Defense
Time: 5:15 PM.
Alexander, Harry, and Draco were already standing in another chamber.
Above them, dozens of winged keys flitted around the ceiling like restless birds. Their wings shimmered in all colors, reflecting the flickering torchlight.
"There are so many of them," Harry muttered. "Just dodging their attacks will be a problem. And I've only just learned Protego properly…"
It was a high-level defensive spell, one even some Ministry of Magic employees couldn't perform with consistency. Was he really good enough to be here?
Beside him, Draco wore a grim expression as well. Most of the spells he knew were the kind meant for dueling—or pranks. Not much help in a situation like this.
Then came Ron's voice, interrupting their unease: "Alohomora!"
"Ron?! How did you get over there?!" Draco exclaimed, pointing at Ron, who was already on the other side of the chamber, standing by a large wooden door.
"I just walked," Ron replied with a confused look, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
Harry and Draco cautiously followed him, shielding their faces with their arms, half-expecting to be clawed at by flying keys. But surprisingly, none attacked them.
Ron, oblivious to their caution, was already tugging at the door. "It's locked. Looks like we need a key... but how do we catch one of those?"
Harry frowned, surveying the swarming keys. "There must be a clue..."
"Where did this come from?" Harry asked, startled as Ron handed him a broomstick.
"It was just lying in the corner," Ron replied. "Actually, there are three of them. One for each of us."
Harry looked at Draco. He was beginning to wonder if Voldemort or Quirrell were even involved in this. Could it all just be a test from Dumbledore? Would the final room reveal the old headmaster himself?
Giving up on that train of thought, Harry mounted his broom. "I saw a silver key with drooping wings—it must be the one. Protego!—Oh, wait… that's it?"
The shimmering silver key fluttered frantically in Harry's grip. It hadn't fought back.
From below, Ron clapped enthusiastically, while Draco stood silently, a complicated expression on his face.
"Maybe the key only attacks when we try to open the door?" Draco offered.
"Jealous much, Malfoy?" Ron teased as he helped Harry down from the broom and moved toward the lock.
Draco swallowed his irritation. He knew Ron didn't mean any harm—he was just... Ron.
Harry took a deep breath. The simplicity of this task only made him more suspicious. He carefully inserted the key into the lock and turned it.
Click.
As the door unlocked, the silver key flew out of his hand and zipped back toward the ceiling—without summoning a swarm of others to retaliate.
"Are you ready?" Harry asked, glancing at Ron and Draco with a half-laugh, half-sob.
"Harry, we've passed the third level. Cheer up!" Ron said, giving him an encouraging grin.
Harry nodded and pushed the door open.
The next room was pitch black, but Harry wasn't afraid. The broomstick earlier had hinted at the identity of this challenge's creator—Professor McGonagall, the Transfiguration teacher and Quidditch enthusiast.
If even her defense setup was this straightforward, how difficult could the rest really be?
As soon as they stepped inside, the torches lit themselves.
In the center of the room stood a giant wizard's chess set.
"I suppose we just walk to the other side..." Harry began.
WHAM!
A white pawn swung its stone fist, barely missing Harry's head.
"Whoa!" Harry and Draco ducked in unison.
"Have you both gone mad?" Ron gasped. "That pawn nearly took Harry's head off!"
It was clear: they'd need to play chess to reach the next room.
"Finally, something I can do." Ron stepped forward confidently. Chess was his specialty.
Thanks to Alexander constantly bringing it up every time Ron wanted to change the subject or avoid studying, Ron had actually honed his skills considerably.
By all logic, he shouldn't have to sacrifice himself like he had in the original timeline.
Unfortunately, he'd made a fatal mistake—he'd said earlier that the silver-eyed wizard might be Voldemort.
"How could anyone think I was that ugly guy Voldemort?" Alexander thought to himself from the shadows, manipulating the faceless white chess pieces with a flick of his wand.
And so, history repeated itself.
Ron sacrificed himself again, taking a heavy blow to the head from the white queen's stone arm. He collapsed, unconscious.
Shaking, Harry followed the final move Ron had indicated before falling.
The white king stepped forward, removed his crown, and placed it at Harry's feet.
Checkmate.
The remaining chess pieces bowed and stepped aside, clearing a path to the next door.
Harry and Draco didn't look back. They couldn't. To do so might mean having to play again.
They cast one last anxious glance at Ron's still body before rushing into the next corridor.
"I used Protego, I know I did... Why did Ron still get knocked out?" Harry asked, trembling.
Hidden in the shadows, Alexander nodded silently.
Indeed, with Harry's protection spell, Ron should have been fine. But to maintain the "story's drama," Alexander had quietly adjusted the queen's strike—just strong enough to knock Ron out, not injure him.
He was still a friend, after all.
"With your spell, he'll be okay," Draco reassured Harry—and perhaps himself.
"Yeah… he'll be fine," Harry echoed, though regret was starting to creep in.
Had he underestimated these trials? Treated them too lightly? Were the enchantments reacting to his attitude?
It felt like the castle was testing them in more than just magic.
That guilt gnawed at Harry even as they reached the next room, where the stench hit them first—putrid, thick, and rancid.
A giant troll lay slumped against the wall, unconscious, with a massive lump on its head.
But neither Harry nor Draco flinched. Their thoughts were still with Ron.
They continued into the next chamber.
This one was brightly lit. In the center was a table with seven bottles of various shapes and sizes.
"Snape's challenge," Harry muttered, forcing a small smile. He was good at Potions.
No sooner had they stepped through the threshold than purple fire flared behind them, sealing the doorway.
A moment later, black flames erupted in front, blocking the path forward.
They were trapped—unless they solved the riddle.
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