The moment we stepped out of the now-shrivelled patch of vines, the temperature changed.
The air grew cooler, sharper—as if the very room beyond the Devil's Snare had been waiting for us. A heavy wooden door creaked open under Hermione's cautious spell, and we stepped through into a vast, echoing chamber.
My eyes widened.
It was enormous. The ceiling soared high above us, vanishing into shadows that swirled like mist. Dozens—no, hundreds—of glittering things zipped through the air, darting like insects in a chaotic ballet. It took me a moment to realize what they were.
"Keys," Hermione breathed, stepping forward, her voice filled with a mixture of awe and concern. "Winged keys…"
They weren't just hovering. They were alive with motion, enchanted to fly in unpredictable patterns, wings glinting like metal lace. Most were silver or bronze, but one—or maybe more—had a golden gleam.
"Great," Ron muttered. "Let me guess. We have to catch one."
"I think that's obvious," Rose said, her eyes scanning the room sharply.
Below the swirling cloud of keys stood a single ancient-looking wooden door, bound in iron. A heavy lock hung beneath its handle, large and ornate. Not something we'd open by force.
Hermione was already flipping through her mental encyclopedia. "There must be one key that fits that door… and it's hidden in the mess."
Ron groaned. "This is going to take all night."
"No," I said, pointing at the far wall. "Look."
Floating off the ground, perhaps ten feet up, were a row of old brooms. Not polished school brooms, but rough, enchanted ones—clearly meant for this test.
"I'll go," I said, stepping forward instinctively.
But Rose stopped me with a hand on my arm. "No. Let me."
I turned to her, surprised. Her jaw was set, her eyes glittering with the same fire I'd seen during the troll fight. She wanted to do this—needed to.
"I've flown longer than any of you," she added quickly. "Remember first flying class?"
"Yeah, and you also nearly knocked over half the Quidditch pitch," Ron muttered under his breath.
Rose ignored him, already walking toward one of the floating brooms. She reached it with a quick leap, mounting it with the ease of someone who had practiced under moonlight when no one was watching. With a deep breath, she pushed off.
The broom soared upward, a little unsteady at first, then smoother as she adjusted her grip. The keys reacted instantly—darting away from her like a flock of birds disturbed from a tree.
"There!" Hermione pointed. "That one! With the bent wing—it's gold, like the lock!"
Rose circled, narrowing her gaze. The key was fast—too fast. It darted like a hummingbird, zipping past her with uncanny speed, wings shimmering like golden glass.
She chased it.
Ducking beneath a swirl of copper keys, Rose dove into a chaotic spiral, twisting through the air with a grace I hadn't expected. Her hair whipped around her face, and for a moment, I could almost feel her exhilaration… before the broom wobbled.
"Watch out!" Ron shouted.
The key made a sudden dive. Rose followed—and that's when it happened.
Her broom jerked sideways violently, caught in the draft of a dozen keys darting past. She lost control for a moment—then her hand brushed the key.
But not before her balance tipped.
She screamed.
Time slowed.
She was falling—plummeting from twenty feet up.
Without thinking, I sprinted forward, magic burning in my veins. I didn't even form the spell with words. My hand shot up, palm outward.
A surge of heat burst from my chest—subtle but strong—and I focused everything on slowing her descent.
Rose didn't crash.
She floated—just barely—slowing enough for me to catch her as she dropped into my arms. My knees buckled, but I didn't fall.
She blinked up at me, breathless. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it," I said, trying not to show how badly my heart was racing.
Hermione and Ron ran up beside us, both wide-eyed.
"You okay?" Hermione asked, kneeling.
Rose nodded. "I got it."
And she did.
Her hand slowly opened to reveal the golden key, slightly bent, its wings twitching weakly.
"That was bloody mad," Ron whispered, still staring at the broom spinning slowly in the air above. "Mad, but brilliant."
We hurried to the door, Rose cradling the key like it might shatter. She pushed it into the lock—click.
The door creaked open.
No alarms. No enchantments. Just the next room waiting.
We stepped through quickly, no longer hesitant. Whatever came next—we'd face it.
The stone wasn't going to protect itself.
The door shut behind us with a final, echoing thud, leaving no doubt—there was no turning back now.
The air in this next chamber was colder still, but not the biting, hollow chill of a drafty castle hallway. No—this was something deeper. Thicker. It pressed against our skin like mist, almost tasting of old magic. The torches lining the walls flickered to life as we entered, revealing a long, stone hall with a glimmering chessboard pattern laid out on the floor.
"Oh no…" Ron breathed.
"What is it?" Rose asked.
"It's wizard chess," he said grimly, stepping forward. "But not just any kind—look at the size of those pieces."
He wasn't exaggerating.
Towering over us were life-sized chess pieces made of dark stone and silver. Knights in full armor, rooks shaped like massive castles, bishops with gleaming blades. The pawns stood like statues—silent and unmoving, yet ominously lifelike. A ripple of magic vibrated from the board itself.
Hermione stepped forward, squinting at the edge. "There's no other way forward. Look—the far door is locked. No keyhole. No enchantment I recognize from here."
Ron sighed and turned to us with a look I hadn't seen since the troll incident—determined, but wary.
"We'll have to play our way across," he said.
"Do we really have to be the pieces?" Rose asked, already knowing the answer.
The knight nearest us suddenly turned its stone head with a grinding clunk. "Yes," it said in a low, gravelly voice. "One must play… or none shall pass."
"Brilliant," I muttered. "And let me guess—if we lose...?"
"The pieces fight back," Ron said grimly. "Like proper wizard's chess. You don't just get knocked off the board—you get taken."
Taken. The word should've been heavier, more terrifying, but for me… it wasn't. Not really.
In my mind, I could already sense the edges of the enchantment in the room. It wasn't meant to kill. That wasn't the point of Dumbledore's protections. Just like the Devil's Snare, just like the flying keys—everything here was a test, a challenge. A game with stakes, yes, but not death. The worst was unconsciousness. Pain, maybe. But no real death.
Dumbledore wouldn't leave a death trap for eleven-year-olds… right? Even if I didn't entirely trust him, I believed that much.
Still, the tension among my friends was real. And Ron—Ron looked like he was already carrying the weight of this board on his shoulders.
"I'll be the knight," he said, before anyone else could argue. "I know this game. I've played it with my brothers since I could hold a wand. You three—just trust me."
Hermione looked ready to protest, but Rose gently put a hand on her shoulder. "He's right," she said. "We let Ron lead this one."
The board came to life as we each stepped into place—Hermione as a bishop, Rose as a rook, and I took the position of a pawn, though I itched to leap forward and charge through the opposition. The enemy side stirred to motion, mirroring our placements with eerie silence.
Then it began.
Ron called out moves in a confident, commanding voice. "Pawn to E4. Knight to C3."
The pieces obeyed, and the game shifted. The enemy responded in kind, their pieces slamming into place with thunderous force. The whole floor trembled with each move.
Sweat beaded at Ron's brow as he calculated three steps ahead. He paced, muttering, analyzing the angles. He directed us to shift, block, retreat, and advance—all while the massive black queen on the other side watched, motionless but menacing.
At one point, an enemy bishop moved to take Hermione's place. My heart stopped—but Ron shouted, "Move left, Hermione, now!" and the bishop passed harmlessly.
Rose moved swiftly, slamming into an enemy rook and sending it flying in a spray of magical sparks. "Got it!" she shouted, exhilarated.
But then the silence fell again.
Ron's face paled.
"I need to be taken," he said.
"What?" Hermione gasped.
"No—" Rose started, stepping forward.
"If I don't, we can't win," Ron said firmly. "The queen's guarding the square we need. I have to sacrifice myself so Ethan can get through."
"There has to be another way," Hermione said, voice cracking.
"There isn't," Ron said. "I've seen it. It's the only move."
Then he turned to me. "When she takes me, go straight to that square. You'll be one move from checkmate."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to yell. But Ron's eyes were steady.
And in that moment, I realized something.
He wasn't the silly boy who complained about homework and gobbled Bertie Bott's Beans like he hadn't eaten in weeks. He wasn't the comic relief or the reckless friend who needed to be reined in.
No.
He was brave.
He was the one who looked danger in the face and stepped forward anyway.
I didn't have to respect his logic—but I respected his courage. Deeply.
Maybe, I thought, he's been more than I gave him credit for this whole time.
He took his position.
The enemy queen moved.
With a sickening crack, she struck Ron's knight square in the chest. He was thrown to the ground and lay still—unconscious, but breathing. Hermione ran to his side, checking his pulse.
"He's okay," she whispered. "Just stunned."
I stepped forward, heart pounding—but not from fear. From focus.
"Pawn to E8," Ron had said.
I moved.
The black king toppled itself without resistance.
The door at the far end of the room burst open with a gust of wind and the scent of ancient dust.
"We did it," Rose whispered.
Hermione rushed to Ron's side, checking his pulse. "He's okay," she whispered. "Just stunned."
We exchanged glances.
"We can't take him with us," I said quietly. "Not if there's more waiting."
Hermione bit her lip but nodded. "We'll secure him here. He'll be safer behind the board than ahead of it."
Rose helped conjure a gentle protective barrier around him, layering it with soft cushioning spells and a subtle ward—enough to keep him hidden and safe, at least until we returned.
"He bought us this chance," I said, standing. "Let's not waste it."
We moved on, the sound of our footsteps swallowed by the dark, the taste of victory still bitter with the cost.
And beyond the next door—something darker waited.
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