The fragment of Voldemort's soul—let's call it his main soul for simplicity's sake, the one that fled the Potter household after that fateful murder eleven years ago—had met a rather peculiar fate.
In a twist of irony, the victim of that long-ago crime had personally bested him, crafting a permanent prison for the Dark Lord. One could only hope Voldemort appreciated the accommodations.
Within that tiny trinket, Voldemort was enveloped in an abyss of unending darkness—no light, no sound, not even the echo of his own screams, which seemed to dissolve into the void. Suspicion gnawed at him, but there was nothing to confirm or deny.
Quirrell was gone, unreachable, lost to him. This infinite expanse held only Voldemort, alone with his rage. No matter how fiercely he roared or how desperately he thrashed, there was no one—not even himself—to bear the brunt of his venom.
This was Harry's punishment for the Dark Lord. Truth be told, Harry had initially intended to simply end Voldemort's existence. But, as it turned out, Voldemort had cleverly split his soul to cheat death, hadn't he?
Harry had tried. He'd wielded the ancestral soul magic to shatter Voldemort's fragment, only to discover, to his astonishment, that each broken piece would slink back from the void moments later, as if time itself had rewound.
With Dumbledore's later insights, Harry pieced it together: Voldemort had performed a vile ritual, splintering his soul to ensure his immortality. As long as a single fragment remained, death could not claim him.
So, Harry pivoted. He sealed Voldemort and Quirrell within that trinket—a fitting torment until he could hunt down every last hidden soul shard.
Not a bad outcome, really. Voldemort was now trapped in the kind of suffering he'd so gleefully inflicted on others.
Meanwhile, Gryffindor's house points had skyrocketed. After an inexplicable surge of two hundred seventy points from yesterday's Quidditch match, another hundred were added today. The other houses' students, witnessing this, were on the verge of storming the headmaster's office, convinced Gryffindor was cheating the system.
Well, they did storm Dumbledore's office, only to be informed by the headmaster himself that the additional points were for Harry Potter's heroics—defeating a Death Eater and safeguarding the castle.
Dumbledore, ever cautious, kept Voldemort's involvement under wraps, revealing only that Quirrell had been a Death Eater. After all, a professor vanishing without a trace wasn't something you could sweep under the rug.
And, frankly, mishaps with Defense Against the Dark Arts professors were practically a Hogwarts tradition by now. The students barely batted an eye.
But Dumbledore's explanation only fanned the flames of excitement.
Quirrell, a Death Eater? The revelation rippled through the castle. He tried to use Harry's detention as a chance for revenge, to strike for his master?
And then, predictably, Harry had trounced him.
No one was surprised. By now, Harry's prowess was legendary. Even the most stubborn Slytherins grudgingly acknowledged, in the privacy of their own minds, that the Boy Who Lived was the real deal—a wizard so extraordinary that a new course had been created for him, with whispers he might even teach it one day.
Quirrell? What could he do? Summon giants taller than the castle? Grace the front page of the Daily Prophet with a flick of his wand?
Hardly.
To most students, Harry overpowering a Death Eater like Quirrell was as expected as the sun rising. No big deal.
For a time, Harry was once again the toast of Hogwarts. Fresh off his victory, he awoke the next morning to a scene reminiscent of Christmas: his bedside buried under a mountain of gifts.
This time, the haul was mostly sweets—perfect for hospital visits, which Ron and his friends gleefully devoured—and vibrant bouquets that brightened the dormitory.
Stepping out of his room, Harry found the Gryffindor common room packed with students, some shyly probing, others boldly demanding details about Quirrell. It wasn't just there; all day, wherever Harry went, a crowd trailed him, buzzing with questions.
By the end of History of Magic, he'd had enough. He slipped into his trunk, where food and drink were never in short supply, and hid.
The frenzy gradually died down over a couple of days. At least Harry could eat in peace without being mobbed.
On Friday night after dinner, Harry handed the Invisibility Cloak to Hermione, Ron, and Neville, allowing them to slip to the fourth floor unseen. As for himself? He had the Disillusionment Charm, blending into his surroundings like a chameleon—a neat trick for staying out of sight.
Soon, the quartet stood before the forbidden door on the fourth floor, the one Dumbledore had warned against entering at the start of term.
"Are we sure about this, Harry?" Neville's voice trembled in the seemingly empty corridor. "I mean, didn't you say this was a trap set by the professors for You-Know-Who?"
With Quirrell's threat neutralized and the castle safe, Harry had shared some secrets with his friends. He'd had no choice—Hermione had been waiting in the common room, fuming, demanding answers for his evasions.
So, he'd spilled a bit: Dumbledore's plan to test Voldemort's state through Quirrell, the trap on the fourth floor, and other tidbits.
"Come on, Neville, don't chicken out now," Ron's voice chimed in, brimming with impatience. "Quirrell and You-Know-Who are done for, thanks to Harry. If we don't explore now, the professors will clear it out, and we'll miss our chance."
"It's a trap for Voldemort, sure," Harry said, waving his wand to dispel his charm and reveal himself, his tone tinged with exasperation. "But knowing students like Fred and George, the professors wouldn't make it lethal. So, are we going in or not? Decide already."
He'd anticipated this reaction. This was Gryffindor, after all—a room rigged with traps guarding treasure was catnip to their adventurous spirits.
"Of course we're going," Hermione declared, yanking off the Invisibility Cloak with a flourish. "You said it's safe, so obviously we have to see it. I'm dying to know how Professor McGonagall set up those traps."
Harry sighed. "The Sorting Hat knew what it was doing with you."
Hermione had once mentioned the Hat's indecision—Gryffindor or Ravenclaw—before it settled on the former.
"Alohomora!" she incanted, unlocking the door with a flick of her wand. Without hesitation, she pushed it open and stepped inside—only to freeze, along with Ron and Neville.
Behind the door loomed a massive three-headed dog. Hermione's entrance had roused it, and it surged to its feet, three gaping maws baring razor-sharp fangs, saliva dripping like a grotesque waterfall.
Bang!
Hermione slammed the door shut and whirled on Harry, her face ashen. "You sure there's no deadly traps, Harry? That thing looks like it could swallow us whole!"
Her question echoed Ron and Neville's unspoken fears. Neville was already inching backward, ready to bolt for the dormitory.
"Positive," Harry said, barely stifling a grin at their panic.
"So, that was a Cerberus?" Hermione recovered quickly, her curiosity overriding her fear. "I read about them in Newt's book—XXXXX danger level. Subduing one head-on takes a dozen wizards working together."
"A dozen?" Ron gulped. "No wonder it's a trap for You-Know-Who. That's brutal."
"But magical creatures aren't wizards," Hermione countered, her mind racing. "In a real fight, they'd lose. Which makes what you said earlier, Harry, a bit hard to believe."
She paused, thinking. "If an ordinary student saw that Cerberus, they'd turn tail. I think it's Dumbledore's way of warning curious kids off. What do you reckon, Harry?"
"Could be," Harry said noncommittally.
"I think we should head back," Hermione said, hesitating. "A Cerberus isn't something we can handle. If someone's reckless enough to fight it and press on, they'd deserve whatever trap they stumble into."
"Need my help?" Harry offered.
"Not yet," Hermione said firmly. "Let's go!"
"Huh? Go where?" Ron asked, bewildered.
"To Hagrid's, obviously," Hermione said, her analytical side kicking in. "He knows dangerous creatures inside out. He might have some tips. And Harry—no helping. We'll figure this out ourselves."
Her competitive streak was in full force.
"Still not giving up, eh?" Harry said, shrugging. "Fine, do what you want. Just let me know if you crack it—I want to see."
He had no intention of meddling. To Harry, this was just a fun game for his friends. Jumping in would spoil their adventure. He'd hang back, keep them safe, and enjoy the show.
Using the Sight Technique, Harry had already glimpsed Dumbledore's traps. They were laughably simple—any first-year paying attention in class could breeze through. He half-wondered if they were meant for Voldemort or for him.
So, he trailed behind as Hermione, Ron, and Neville debated eagerly, heading for Hagrid's hut.
"By the way, Harry," Ron said, turning suddenly, "if we saw it right, you locked Quirrell and You-Know-Who in that totem thing together, yeah?"
"Yup," Harry confirmed.
"So, your prophecy was wrong?" Ron scratched his head.
"I've told you, a shaman's divination isn't like a wizard's prophecy," Harry said patiently. "You'll learn this in the club. Divination can be skewed, manipulated, or show something entirely different. Never take it at face value."
"Oh, got it," Ron said, deflated.
"Don't look so glum," Harry said, clapping his shoulder. "Divination and prophecy both need interpretation. You could say Quirrell's scene—lying there, near death—was just a state, not literal. Sounds like a stretch, right?"
"What? That's allowed?" Neville gaped.
"That's why I keep saying: don't trust divination blindly," Harry said seriously. "The more you practice, the more you'll see it. Anyway, we're here."
They'd reached Hagrid's hut, the door firmly locked.
"Not home?" Ron stepped forward and pounded on it. "Hagrid! You in there?"
Knock knock knock.
"Oh—oh—oh! Merlin's beard!" came a muffled commotion from inside, followed by a clatter, as if Hagrid had knocked something over.
Unfazed, Ron kept hammering.
The door creaked open, revealing Hagrid's weathered face, dark circles ringing his eyes despite his burly frame. He looked rough.
"You lot," he growled, glaring at Ron, who was still banging away. "What's this about?"
"Something's off, Hagrid," Hermione said, her eyes narrowing. "You haven't even invited us in. What're you hiding?"
"Nothin'!" Hagrid snapped, but their skeptical looks wore him down. "Fine, fine, you nosy lot. Come in."
He opened the door wider, glancing around like a thief. Once they were inside, he poked his head out to check for prying eyes before locking up.
When he turned back, he found Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Neville scanning the room.
"Oi, oi, oi!" Hagrid hurried to the fireplace, flustered. "No snoopin'!"
"Too late, Hagrid," Hermione said, incredulous. "Is that—a dragon egg?"
In the roaring fireplace, a massive egg sat nestled in the flames.
"Alright, I knew I couldn't fool you," Hagrid sighed, but a proud grin crept onto his face. "Yup, that's a dragon egg! Been tendin' to it for over a week now. If my reckonin's right, it'll hatch in three or four days."
"Raising dragons is illegal, Hagrid!" Hermione hissed, keeping her voice low. "If you're caught, it's Azkaban for you!"
"Azkaban?" Hagrid's bravado faltered. "No, it won't—er, it shouldn't. Nobody's gotta know."
"They won't," Harry said, studying the egg with interest. "Hermione, private dragon-rearing's not exactly rare. Think of Newt's suitcase. The Ministry knows what's in there but looks the other way—else Newt'd be rotting in Azkaban."
"But Newt's a world-famous magizoologist!" Hermione shot back. "Hagrid doesn't have that clout. If he's caught, the Ministry won't be so forgiving."
"Then he just needs to not get caught," Neville said breezily, eyes gleaming as he stared at the egg. "This is incredible, Hagrid! A dragon egg? That's so cool!"
"Ha! Ain't it, though?" Hagrid boomed, clapping Neville's shoulder so hard he nearly toppled into the fire. "My prize! Won it playin' cards at a pub."
Hermione, seeing them brush off her warnings, slumped into a chair, sulking.
"A pub, eh? That the—?" Harry began.
"Yup," Hagrid nodded, chest puffing out. "You should've seen me—nobody could touch me that night!"
"No wonder we've barely seen you this week," Harry said, smirking.
"Well, true, but I heard 'bout your trouble, Harry," Hagrid said quickly. "Even checked on you. Can't believe Quirrell was a Death Eater. What's with these Defense professors? Always dodgy!"
Hagrid's face darkened with genuine worry for Harry's safety.
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