Pansy shot Draco a glare. She'd been racking her brain to match one of her master's cryptic sayings to the moment, but that fool had interrupted her train of thought.
Just then, Hermione piped up. "If these flames are blocking the path, how did that dark wizard slip through? With all of us searching and coming up empty, there are only two options: either he pressed on to the next level, or he backtracked. I doubt he went back—we've come too far for that. So there must be another way past the fire!"
Her logic clicked for the other young witches and wizards. Harry Potter muttered under his breath, "If only we could douse these flames."
His words weren't loud, but a nearby fifth-year Slytherin caught them. The boy's face lit up. "Yes, Harry! That's it—we just need to extinguish the fire!"
The other Slytherins perked up. "But isn't that spell reserved for sixth-years? Anyone here know it?"
Pansy tapped her chin. "I think I recall the Headmaster popping into Charms one day to demonstrate it. He said first- and second-years couldn't handle the magic yet, so we skipped it. Something about controlling fire, wasn't it?"
Her nudge sparked memories among the older Slytherins. "Right! I remember now. The Headmaster taught it, and I practiced it loads. It bends flames to your will, but only for a short burst. He called it a toned-down version of the Flame Control Charm—works on ordinary fire, not enchanted stuff. Still dead useful, though!"
The realization spread like wildfire among the older students. Erwin let out a quiet breath of relief. About time they remembered. He'd taught it to them himself, after all—a simplified spell he'd crafted from the raw ferocity of fiery enchantments. The full version was too volatile for daily use, so he'd dialed it back. He'd drilled it into the Slytherins expecting them to deploy it here, but he'd made it an open-book affair to test their wits.
These lot had dragged their feet, though. Back at the common room, he'd pile on the homework. Complacency like this wouldn't fly.
With a plan in place, a fifth-year Slytherin stepped forward. He raised his wand and incanted the charm. A tendril of flame lifted obediently, only to snap back into the roaring mass.
He scowled. "Not enough power from me alone. We need to team up!"
The other fourth- and fifth-years nodded and joined in, wands slicing through the air in unison. Their chant echoed, and the room's blaze responded, coiling into a tight orb. They hurled it to the stone floor, where it sputtered and died without fresh fuel.
Grins broke out across the Slytherins' faces. "It worked! The Patriarch's charm is brilliant!"
From their concealed vantage in the shadows, the professors watched. Professor Flitwick's eyes sparkled with approval. "Fascinating spell. It echoes Dumbledore's flame control, but stripped down brilliantly. Erwin's innovation makes it practical for students—his Charms talent never ceases to impress me!"
Snape snorted. "Erwin shines in many fields, but Potions is where his genius truly lies."
Professor McGonagall interjected, "Nonsense—it's Transfiguration. Publishing a paper as a first-year and snagging the Order of Merlin, Second Class? That's no fluke. We ought to steer him toward my subject."
Professor Sprout chuckled. "Don't forget Herbology. The way he tends those plants in class is a sight. If anyone's taming the Whomping Willow, it's Erwin."
None would yield. In their minds, Erwin was a prize pupil ripe for the poaching—unaware his sharpest edge lay in the Dark Arts, honed under the Dark Lord's shadowy tutelage.
With the flames vanquished, the next trial loomed. Hermione urged caution. "Eyes sharp, everyone. No slacking now—we could face another trap, and that dark wizard's still out there."
Wands at the ready, the group pressed on like an army on the march. The air grew chill, but they didn't falter.
Before the Mirror of Erised, Voldemort sensed approaching footsteps. He'd planned a dramatic reveal: poised before the glass, hood dramatically falling as Harry Potter entered alone, face paling in terror. By now, he knew this was Dumbledore's elaborate setup—for the boy, no doubt. His own follower? Unlikely.
Voldemort smirked inwardly. The old man's scheme would crumble. He'd claim the Philosopher's Stone and the boy's life, finishing what he'd started eleven years prior.
The young witches and wizards burst into the empty hall and froze at the sight of Voldemort's host silhouetted against the mirror.
His voice slithered out, icy and triumphant. "Harry Potter... at last."
The hood slipped free as he turned, eyes gleaming for the boy's horror. But instead of one frightened face, a crowd of Slytherins stared back.
Voldemort blinked, stunned. What in the devilry? This wasn't the script. Where was the lone savior's dread? Why a mob?
The Slytherins, however, wasted no time. Pansy, ever the vanguard, struck first. "Charge! No mercy!"
Wands whipped up, unleashing a storm of spells. Stunners, disarms, and hexes arced toward the host. Caught off-guard and facing away, he reeled from the onslaught, tumbling back in a haze of sparks.