The unicorn blood incident in the Forbidden Forest was a catalyst. For Harry Potter and his friends, it was the final, horrifying confirmation that a profound evil was lurking within the castle walls. For me, it was a signal: the endgame for the Philosopher's Stone was approaching.
The final weeks of the term dissolved into a blur of final exams. I moved through them with a calm, detached efficiency, my scores placing me firmly at the top of the first-year class. Every correct answer, every flawlessly executed charm, added to my growing pool of Study Points and nudged Slytherin's House points ever higher, much to the quiet satisfaction of Professor Snape. On the surface, I was the model student. Beneath it, I was a predator, watching and waiting for the right moment to strike.
My primary focus of observation was the Golden Trio. They were a whirlwind of frantic, whispered conversations and furtive trips to the library. I didn't need to spy on them directly; their panic was a beacon. I knew they had pieced together the puzzle: Snape was trying to steal the stone for Voldemort. Their conclusion was wrong, of course, but their heroic intent was the crucial, predictable variable I intended to exploit.
The final piece of their puzzle came, as I knew it would, from Hagrid. I was returning from a "study session" in the Room of Requirement when I saw the trio emerging from the gamekeeper's hut, their faces a mixture of triumph and terror. Their body language told me everything I needed to know: Hagrid had, in a moment of drunken sentimentality, told them exactly how to get past Fluffy, the three-headed dog.
Now, they had the means. All they needed was the opportunity.
That opportunity arrived on a sweltering afternoon during the last week of exams. A note from the Ministry of Magic arrived for Dumbledore. It was a fake, I knew, a clever ruse to lure him away from the castle. As I watched the Headmaster depart, I saw the look of grim resolve solidify on Harry's face.
He was going to act. Tonight.
My own preparations were already complete. The original Tom Riddle had wanted the Philosopher's Stone for the immortality it offered. I knew better. It was a flawed artifact that created a dependent, cursed half-life. I had no desire for it. My goal was twofold.
First, I needed Voldemort to be dealt with. The wraith possessing Quirrell was a chaotic, unpredictable element, and Harry Potter was the designated, prophecy-mandated tool for his removal. It was in my best interest to allow that confrontation to happen.
Second, the path to the stone was not just an obstacle course; it was a showcase of powerful, ancient magic created by the Hogwarts founders themselves. It was a treasure trove of knowledge, a live-action puzzle box I could observe and learn from. Furthermore, the final confrontation would present a unique opportunity to gather data on Voldemort's soul-magic and perhaps... acquire some of Quirrell's magical knowledge after his inevitable demise. I would not be a participant. I would be a scavenger, picking over the bones of the battle to come.
That night, as the last of the students retired to their dormitories, I slipped out of the Slytherin dungeons, the Disillusionment Charm wrapping around me like a second skin. I made my way to the third-floor corridor, a silent, invisible observer.
I didn't have to wait long. A faint shimmer in the air betrayed the presence of the Invisibility Cloak. I heard the door creak open and the soft, soothing notes of a flute—Hagrid's gift—drift into the corridor, lulling the three-headed beast to sleep.
The trio—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—slipped inside, their whispered arguments echoing in the silent room. They lifted the beast's giant paw and opened the trapdoor beneath it. One by one, they jumped into the darkness below.
I waited, giving them a two-minute head start. The music from the enchanted flute began to falter as its magic faded. Fluffy stirred, a low growl rumbling in its three chests.
My moment had come.
I slipped through the door, my feet silent on the cold stone. With a fresh, more powerful sleeping charm, I ensured the beast would not wake. I stood over the open trapdoor, a chasm of darkness that smelled of damp earth and forgotten magic.
Below me, the hero was playing his part. The game was afoot.
But he had no idea there was another player on the board. I lowered myself into the hole, the darkness swallowing me whole.