With floating fireballs illuminating the way, the two of them passed through the corridor overrun with Devil's Snare and arrived at the third trial.
The chamber was filled with winged keys fluttering chaotically through the air. A broomstick lay propped neatly against the wall—clearly a trial designed after Harry had displayed his talent in Quidditch, tailored specifically to his flying ability.
Vaughn didn't even bother to evaluate it.
He merely clicked his tongue.
"Tsk."
By the time they reached the wizard chess chamber, even that reaction disappeared.
At last, Albus Dumbledore couldn't help himself. Curious about the "user feedback," he asked:
"Vaughn, what do you think of these two trials? I spent a long time considering how to balance the children's strengths with the inherent lethality a protective mechanism should have."
"For the flying keys, I invited Filius Flitwick to enchant them with a *'Barrage' Charm. If someone ignores the rules and doesn't retrieve the correct key by broom, the keys will attack."
"As for the giant chessboard, it's based on an ancient spell called Stone Sentinels Awaken, one of Minerva McGonagall's favorites. It temporarily grants life to stone statues. I asked her to design a forced endgame—one that should greatly satisfy Ronald."
"There are two trials remaining. One is a troll, meant to test Harry and Miss Granger's combat ability. The other is a potions puzzle, meant to test logic and courage."
Dumbledore finished and smiled expectantly at Vaughn, clearly waiting for praise.
What he received instead was Vaughn's utterly blank expression.
Vaughn stared at the soft cap perched atop Dumbledore's head, as though seriously wondering what thoughts might be rattling around inside.
Then he offered his polite assessment:
"Honestly, Albus—these trials are all boring."
Dumbledore's smile stiffened.
"You mean… they aren't difficult enough?" he asked, trying to explain. "Vaughn, you must understand—these aren't meant to defend against anyone in particular. They're simply trials for Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They're only twelve or thirteen. Making things too dangerous—"
"No," Vaughn cut him off. "This has nothing to do with difficulty."
"They're boring. They lack vitality."
"Take the flying keys. What exactly are you testing? Harry's flying skill? Hasn't Quidditch already proven that?"
"And the Devil's Snare—aside from Hermione, what are Harry and Ron supposed to learn from it? That Devil's Snare fears fire? How many times in their entire lives do you expect them to encounter Devil's Snare?"
"The chessboard is the same. Harry and Hermione are terrible at chess—they contribute nothing. Only Ron matters here. What are you trying to teach? That Harry and Hermione should study wizard chess harder? Or are you just staging a sentimental sacrifice at the end?"
"And the troll trial—don't get me started. I assume Quirrell designed it? It has almost no value whatsoever."
Vaughn looked straight at Dumbledore, merciless.
"Albus, haven't you noticed? You did consider each of their individual strengths—but every trial focuses on only one person while completely sidelining the other two."
"You're not testing Harry, Ron, and Hermione individually."
"You're testing a team."
"These so-called trials do nothing except let them show off abilities everyone already knows about. A proper trial should test strengths and weaknesses—highlight the problems between them, force cooperation, and make them grow."
The room fell silent.
Dumbledore had no rebuttal.
He had been quite proud of his designs—but after Vaughn's relentless dismantling, even he had to admit they felt… hollow.
After a long pause, Dumbledore said nothing more. He simply led Vaughn through the "pointless" troll chamber, and then through the potions trial surrounded by magical fire.
Only at the potions chamber did Vaughn finally offer a shred of praise.
"This one's… acceptable," he said reluctantly. "A logic puzzle, at least. Though I'll say this—only Hermione could ever solve it correctly."
He glanced at the vials.
"Still, limiting the potion leading forward to just two mouthfuls? That part's interesting."
"Did you enchant it to always remain that quantity?"
At last receiving positive feedback, Dumbledore brightened.
"Not Severus—this rule is mine. Only two people may pass the flames. The method is fixed: identify the correct potion and drink it. No alternative approaches are allowed. The potion always contains exactly two doses."
"This ensures that Harry must face Quirrell alone. And even if Quirrell attempts to sabotage the potion, the rules restore it automatically for the final participant."
Vaughn nodded.
He recognized this kind of rule-bound magic.
Not from this life—but from memories of the original story.
When Voldemort hid Slytherin's locket in the seaside cave of his childhood, he used the same principle: the Horcrux sat within a basin of agonizing potion. It could not be siphoned or removed—only drained by drinking.
Among all the trials Vaughn had seen that night, this was the only one he found genuinely interesting.
And now—
The same kind of magic protected their actual objective.
They drank the potion, passed through the purple flames, and entered the final chamber.
The room was empty.
Except for a single mirror standing upright in the center.
Vaughn glanced around.
"This used to be the abandoned classroom where the Mirror of Erised was stored. It used to be on the fifth floor. You moved the entire room here?"
Dumbledore smiled playfully.
"That's right. A small privilege of being Headmaster. I did say Hogwarts doesn't refuse its Headmaster's… modest requests. The staircases move; rooms can move too."
Damn it.
Vaughn admitted—he was jealous.
This thousand-year-old castle was Hogwarts' greatest treasure and secret. And the authority of its Headmaster was far more profound than he'd imagined.
Ignoring Vaughn's sour expression, Dumbledore stepped before the Mirror and gazed into it.
A moment later, Vaughn watched as a blood-red, crystal-like stone, half-transparent and glowing faintly, materialized out of thin air and dropped neatly into Dumbledore's open palm.
Dumbledore cast one last complicated look at the Mirror, then covered it with a dusty cloth before it could resume its normal function.
Turning, he handed the crimson stone to Vaughn.
"You may borrow it for one week. Now, Vaughn—it's time for you to fulfill your part of the bargain."
Vaughn took the legendary alchemical artifact, ignoring the system notification flashing before his eyes, and snorted.
"You're the one who's profiting here, Albus. I'm planning to redesign every single trial."
Dumbledore's eyes lit up.
"Oh? I'd love to hear your ideas."
"Later," Vaughn replied lazily. "We'll discuss them slowly. I promise you'll love them. Of course—since my magic is far inferior to yours, you'll need to help."
"No problem," Dumbledore agreed at once.
Yet as he watched Vaughn's smile, an ominous feeling crept into his chest.
Harry and Ron were on the verge of losing their minds.
Ever since Vaughn returned and began catching up on lessons, Hermione's revision enthusiasm exploded.
The blank pages in her revision journal were vanishing at an alarming rate, while the written portion grew visibly thicker by the day.
Then, one horrifying afternoon in mid-March, Hermione gasped:
"There are only ten weeks left until exams!"
From that moment on, she not only drove herself harder—she began drafting revision schedules for Harry and Ron as well.
They did protest.
But Hermione silenced them with one devastating question:
"You don't want to fail your exams and repeat the year, do you?"
At that age, even academic disasters had pride.
No boy wanted that humiliation.
So night after night, they buried themselves in endless homework and terrifying study plans.
The only mercy was that Hermione wasn't always watching them.
Every day, she spent two hours with Vaughn.
Those two hours were the only time Harry and Ron could breathe—letting their tightly wound brains relax.
As for Vaughn—
He became mysterious again.
No one knew what he was doing. They saw him only in class. The moment lessons ended, he vanished.
Harry suspected Vaughn was developing a new potion.
Because his current state was identical to when he'd researched the Wolfsbane Potion the previous year.
Ron disagreed.
"Don't be stupid, Harry. That guy isn't hardworking. He spent two months making the Vaughn Beauty series—and then slacked off for half a year!"
That afternoon, Peeves the Poltergeist returned.
"Ohhh—poor, foolish Weatherby," Peeves cackled, hurling paint at Ron as he somersaulted through the air. "Why do you keep speaking ill of the Great Dark Lord Vaughn Weasley behind his back? Peeves loves it! The Dark Lord pays well, you know!"
Peeves adored working for Vaughn.
When Vaughn gave him orders, no ghost interfered—not even Bloody Baron, whom Peeves feared most.
For two straight days, Ron was tormented relentlessly.
Twice, he was caught criticizing Vaughn behind his back—until he began suspecting everyone in the common room of being a traitorous informant.
The only people he never doubted were Harry and Hermione.
They were his friends.
Surely, they'd never betray him.
Ron was innocent like that.
Despite the workload, the trio didn't forget Fluffy.
Each day, they passed the guarded corridor and pressed their ears to the door, listening to the thunderous snores of the massive three-headed dog.
Once, they even ran into Dumbledore emerging from the room—sweating heavily, eyes dulled with exhaustion.
Muttering angrily to empty air, he complained as he walked:
"I'm over a hundred years old! How can you order me around like this? I do all the heavy lifting—what exactly did you do?"
"Yes, I invited you—but I never expected your redesign to be this massive…"
"Oh, brilliant ideas, absolutely brilliant. The only problem is—I'm the one doing all the work, aren't I?"
Hiding around the corner, the trio exchanged stunned looks as the Headmaster staggered away, arguing with what appeared to be nothing at all.
They didn't believe Dumbledore had gone mad.
"Maybe he was talking to someone under a Disillusionment Charm," Harry suggested, thinking of his Invisibility Cloak.
Ron frowned.
"What do you think he's building? It sounded like… construction."
Hermione's eyes widened.
"They might be redesigning the Philosopher's Stone protections!"
That explained everything.
Relief washed over Harry and Ron.
At least the black-robed figure definitely existed—and was likely one of the professors involved in the original design.
If Dumbledore was reworking the defenses, they could finally relax a little.
Unfortunately—
Things rarely went as planned.
A few days later, when they passed the corridor again, they were stunned to see—
Dumbledore had brought other professors with him.
Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout, Professor Snape, Professor Quirrell—and Hagrid.
Terrified of being discovered, the trio kept their distance. They couldn't hear what Dumbledore said before leading them all into Fluffy's chamber.
It looked as though the professors were being invited to continue working on the defenses.
They returned to the Gryffindor common room in gloomy silence.
"Has Dumbledore lost his mind?" Ron hissed. "Doesn't he realize the black-robed figure might be one of the professors? Why let them participate again—especially Snape?"
Harry and Hermione had no answer.
After discussion, they decided to warn Hagrid again—when they got the chance.
That chance came the very next morning.
During breakfast, Harry received a message delivered by owl:
"It's hatching!"
The rest of the morning was torture.
Harry and Ron could barely sit still. They even considered skipping class to rush to Hagrid's hut.
Hermione absolutely refused.
"If you skip class and lose House Points," she snapped, "who do you think will make them up?"
Ron shot an angry glare at the Slytherin table.
"Vaughn isn't here today—or yesterday! Why don't you say anything about him?"
Harry nodded unconsciously—and immediately yelped as Hermione stomped on his foot.
Lowering her voice, Hermione hissed,
"If you can earn thirty points a day for Gryffindor, I won't interfere."
That ended the discussion.
They survived the lesson by shamelessly pleading with Hermione the entire time.
"Do you know how many people have ever seen a dragon hatch?" Ron whispered desperately. "My brother Charlie works in Romania and he's never seen it happen. The mother won't allow it unless you kill her!"
"Yes, Hermione," Harry added earnestly. "We can treat this as… field research. You could even write a paper."
Hermione rolled her eyes.
"You want to get us arrested?"
She lowered her voice further.
"And look—Malfoy's listening."
Across the room, Draco Malfoy smirked knowingly, clearly having overheard everything.
Unease settled in their stomachs.
Even after Hermione reluctantly agreed to visit Hagrid after class, the boys couldn't relax.
They hurried toward Hagrid's hut, discussing how much Malfoy might have heard.
At last, Hermione said firmly,
"No matter what, we have to convince Hagrid. He can't keep a dragon. If someone finds out, he's finished."
Hagrid was waiting at the door, peering behind them eagerly.
"Where's Vaughn? Didn't he come with yeh?"
"We haven't seen him," Harry admitted.
"What a shame! I sent him a letter too. He loves dragons so much…"
Then Hagrid brightened.
"Never mind—yeh came just in time!"
The egg had been removed from the fire and placed on the table.
A long crack split its blackened shell. A thin membrane pulsed like breathing—something inside was moving.
They pulled up chairs and watched eagerly.
Crack.
The shell broke open.
Sticky fluid spilled out—and a tiny, skeletal lizard-like creature emerged.
It was ugly—Harry and Hermione agreed instantly.
Barely a foot long, it looked like skin stretched over bones. Its wings, however, were absurdly large and misshapen compared to its thin body.
The newborn struggled, lifted its hornless head—two small bumps where horns would eventually grow—and sneezed.
A spray of sparks burst from its nostrils.
"Ohhh!"
The two boys—and Hagrid—cheered.
Hermione forgot her objections entirely, whipping out her notebook and recording everything: body structure, vocalizations, fire-breathing at birth.
She even sketched it.
She dearly wished she'd brought a camera from home.
The dragon's bulging eyes opened—molten orange, like flowing lava.
Hagrid reached out with one thick finger and stroked its head.
The hatchling immediately bit him.
Hagrid laughed delightedly.
"Merlin—yeh see that? It knows its mum! That's mummy's finger, not food! Strong little lad—breathes fire at birth, bites prey already!"
"…Little lad…"
Hermione hesitated at the "sex" line in her notes and left it blank.
Hagrid had no idea how to tell.
As she observed, it became obvious—the dragon didn't see Hagrid as family.
It saw him as food.
She nudged Harry, reminding him why they'd come.
Harry hesitated, embarrassed.
Hermione shot him a look and spoke herself.
"Hagrid, Norwegian Ridgebacks grow incredibly fast. In two months, it'll be enormous. You can't hide it here—"
"Who's out there?!" Hagrid suddenly roared.
He rushed to the window.
Harry followed—and his face drained of color.
Running up the stone path toward the castle was a pale-haired figure.
Draco Malfoy.
Harry's blood turned cold.
Malfoy had seen the dragon.
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