Quirrell's whole reason for being at Hogwarts was simple: snag the Philosopher's Stone.
Once he had it, the guy would bolt, find a dark corner somewhere, and bring Voldemort back. Honestly? Lynn was all for it.
He didn't care if Voldemort lived or died, and he definitely didn't care if Britain burned. If Quirrell left, Lynn would throw a party. Anything to get away from that revolting garlic stench that made him want to hurl every time the guy walked past. Plus, Defense class was a total waste of oxygen.
And because Lynn's charm talent was basically nonexistent, he still hadn't mastered the Bubble-Head Charm (the one that filters smells and lets you breathe underwater). Tragic.
Fighting Quirrell head-on would be stupid. So why not give the man a nice little "going-away present"?
Snape was busy tailing Hallie, Dumbledore and the other Heads were dealing with the troll that had conveniently escaped, and Quirrell had been stretchered to the hospital wing by Madam Pomfrey. The dude had a hundred excuses to slip away right now. Perfect timing.
Lynn peeled off from the Gryffindor group, headed up to the fourth floor (right near the entrance to the Stone's hiding place). His X-ray vision let him see straight through walls, and his telekinesis blanketed the whole area.
With silent, traceless teleportation that ignored Anti-Apparition wards, he wasn't exactly worried about getting caught.
Once all the little witches and wizards were safely tucked in their common rooms, Lynn waited.
And sure enough, without Snape breathing down his neck, Quirrell made his move.
He cast a Disillusionment Charm (decent one, too), blending into the walls like a chameleon. Fooled the portraits just fine.
Lynn, however, spotted him instantly. See-through vision didn't care about light-bending camouflage. He could dial the opacity up or down like a dimmer switch—no awkward "accidentally staring at someone's intestines" moments.
The ancient wooden door with its busted lock didn't even slow Quirrell down. The padlock clicked open and fell to the floor the second he got close.
He slipped inside.
Pitch black.
Light footsteps.
BAM.
The door slammed shut behind him.
That slam woke the guard dog.
A three-headed dog the size of a full-grown African elephant unfolded itself from the shadows.
All six eyes snapped open and locked onto the intruder who reeked of evil.
Meet Fluffy (or, in Greek, Luwi). A freshly adult three-headed hellhound. In Muggle myths, Cerberus guarded the Underworld. In the wizarding world, three-headed dogs were still terrifying (and terrifyingly effective) guard dogs.
Three brains, three hearts, three lives. They worked in shifts (24/7 vigilance). Magic-resistant hide, senses that could track a flea across Scotland, and a bite full of venom that stopped wounds from closing. One of the only creatures that could survive a direct Killing Curse.
Perfect vault guardian.
Quirrell had just poked the bear. Except the bear had three heads and zero chill.
Fluffy growled, low and rumbling. Every muscle coiled.
The second the door slammed, Quirrell had tried to bolt. Too bad the door was suddenly welded shut (telekinesis was a beautiful thing).
Fluffy lunged.
Quirrell panicked and fired a spell (something bright and loud, but definitely not dark magic). He was still inside Hogwarts; he didn't dare go full Death Eater.
The spell bounced off Fluffy like a marshmallow off a brick wall.
That just pissed the dog off.
Three sets of jaws came in hot (left, right, and center).
Quirrell managed to clock the middle head with a desperate Stunner, making it reel back, dazed.
The left and right heads, however, latched onto his legs.
Cue the world's most violent game of shake-the-rat.
Quirrell screamed as he was whipped side to side like a rag doll. The middle head shook off the stun, opened wide, and went for the torso.
"AAAAAAAHHHH!!!"
Something definitely crunched.
A cold, venomous voice hissed inside Quirrell's skull: "Incompetent fool!"
That snapped him out of the pain real fast. Fear of his master outweighed fear of dismemberment.
Luckily for Quirrell, Hagrid had ordered Fluffy not to actually kill anyone (just maul them within an inch of their life).
After one final, disappointed toss that sent Quirrell crashing into the door, Fluffy sat back down, growling like a lawn mower with anger issues.
"OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN IT!!!"
Quirrell blasted the door into splinters, crawled out on his belly, then (still terrified of getting caught) magically repaired the door and re-hung the lock behind him.
He lifted his robes.
Blood everywhere. Half-moon bite marks ringed his thigh (way too close to the family jewels for comfort). Calf shredded. Couldn't stand.
Whimpering, he summoned a stretcher, levitated himself onto it, threw the Disillusionment Charm back up, and slunk away.
From the shadows, Lynn watched the whole disaster, absolutely dying inside.
"Quirrell, you absolute donut. You've got the Dark Lord literally living on the back of your head and that's the best you can do? Where's the black mist flight you Death Eaters love so much? Just turn into smoke and float down the trapdoor! You blasted your way into Gringotts vaults, but a dog has you screaming like a toddler?"
He spat on the floor.
"Food spoon-fed to your mouth and you still choke. Useless."
Then he teleported away, muttering.
"Oh, right—almost forgot my monthly item."
He popped into the eighth-floor corridor, turned left, and strolled straight into the Room of Requirement.
Busy month. Nearly missed pickup day.
Tomorrow was the last day of October—he still had time.