Chapter 19: Red on red.

It is wondrous how a flute meant to imitate the soft hooting of an owl can turn into a shrill cacophony when set between Harry's trembling lips. Fortunately, Fluffy is not the world's hardest to please music critic. The sharp notes barely resembling a tune do the trick. The Cerberus, in the middle of pungently marking a wall instead of hovering over the trap door, is asleep before taking a single sniff into Harry's general direction and gives no further trouble.

Neither does the Devil's Snare, on which Harry lands softly only to chase it away with Hermione's signature bluebell flames and a twisting feel of nostalgia in his gut. There must be more to the room than just the creeping vines, Harry ponders when looking up at the ceiling, the open trap door a tiny speck of light in the far distance. A mere plant cannot break a fall that long. There must be cushioning charms on the Devil's Snare, which really defeats the purpose of stopping thieves. Once more, it makes Harry doubt this entire series of challenges being meant to truly halt one from progressing further. Especially with the stone locked in the mirror of Erised in such a way Dumbledore imagined Voldemort could never retrieve it, what is the rest for?

One more point he mentally adds to an ever-growing list of topics to debate with Voldemort. The corner of Harry's mouth lifts involuntarily when his Intended crosses his mind. He truly is looking forward to having new discussions. To being himself again, without the need for childish masks and pretence of innocence. He loves the life he's led with his godfathers, but it is time to break out of this suffocating cocoon of spun lies. The start of summer…

It is the third room that gives Harry pause. No whirring of wings can be heard at the end of the damp corridor, nor is a broomstick in sight with which to show off his talent for a non-existent audience. The domed room he finds himself in after stepping through a misty door opening is just as bright as last time, but the source of this are not a hundred glinting keys and shimmering wings. Instead, he finds himself surrounded by mirrors. Mirrors that start to spin and twist in a way reminiscent of the revolving room that gave entry to the Department of Mysteries. Harry realises a second too late that the door he'd entered from is gone, nor is one in sight through which to proceed.

Okay, no time to panic. He knows this room was designed by either Flitwick or McGonagall. That's quite a bit to work with, not to mention that he has a better spell repertoire than most.

To not get dizzy from the shifting mirrors that cover every inch of wall and ceiling, he sits down on the rough stone floor, lazily waving away the fine silvery fog that rolls across the tiles. He inhales deeply, trying to figure out first what the 'trap' part is. Is this an active danger like Quirrell's troll or Fluffy? Or something to stall time like McGonagall's very obviously solvable chess board or Snape's equally sensible potion riddle?

Magical mirrors are fickle things, with many possible applications. The only way to figure out what they do, Harry figures, is to actually look into one proper. Dangerous? Maybe, but sitting here won't make him progress in this quest either, and trying to touch or worse, break one, could have far direr consequences.

Mind made up, he lifts his chin to stare straight ahead at the reflective wall ahead. The surface reacts to his gaze much like the Mirror of Erised. Only, it shows none of Harry's desires. Instead, he sees… a desert?

As soon as Harry registers the sight of rolling sand and azure skies, the temperature rises. Just a tad at first, only noticeable to someone so trained on survival as Harry is. The longer he stares however, the warmer it gets. Tearing his eyes away from the scene, he looks to the right into another mirror. Another faraway arid landscape, a riverbed run dry. The room gets a touch hotter, and when Harry swallows, he finds his throat parched.

A timed challenge with an unpleasant end if this keeps going, Harry realises with unease. None of the rooms had been this vicious the first time he'd made a run for the Stone.

It has to be Flitwick's work, he concludes. Whether the visions are reflections of real places or mere fantasy, all of it belongs in the category of charms, from enchanting items to making the sight affect the viewer physically. Unlike many branches of Transfiguration, that means static magic with clear counter-spells.

Harry tries to win time by staring at the floor, to not be affected further. It works only marginally, the air already sweltering. Not even the cool slivers of fog help combat the heat. It makes it hard to focus, and just when he thinks this cannot get more unpleasant, his face is caressed by grainy wind that feels as if sand is being whipped against it.

Harry blinks. Hold on.

Looking at his right hand, he can distinctly feel the rasp of sand against skin. Only, there is none. Not visually anyways. Which means that what he sees in the mirror does not affect the room. It's not even an illusion in the typical sense.

Mind magic? No, he has not let down his Occlumency barriers. It's so valuable a shield against mental attacks that Harry spent countless hours honing his skills during the war and his early second life, so much so that it has become a second nature to keep them up at all times, regardless of anyone being nearby who could attempt to see into his mind. And yet, something is messing with his senses…

Mentally ticking off every charm that could do such a thing, he finally realises he's been focusing on the wrong thing entirely, passing off the fog as a natural phenomenon so far beneath the castle.

''So it was just Fata Morgana mist,'' he grumbles, waving his wand to repel the silvery vapours, spelling his skin and clothes to be water-repellent just in case. He'd encountered a similar thing a long time ago, during the Triwizard Tournament, although Limbo Mist was decidedly more noticeable with its shimmering golden colour and tendency to gather in suspicious clouds. Easier to dispel too, unlike the enchanted fog aptly named after the Mistress of illusions, Morgan le Fay.

The temperature drops, the wind dies down, and after blinking away the droplets that gathered in his eyelashes the moment he'd walked through the fine mist floating in the door opening when coming in, he notices the room holds not a single mirror. It's a perfectly ordinary Hogwarts dungeon with two wooden doors on either end. Not even locked.

A bit annoyed for having been put out of his comfort zone by enchanted fog of all things, he tensely strides through, wand at the ready, determined to be prepared for other new challenges.

It's almost a relief when torches flare to light to illuminate McGonagall's enormous chess board. Almost, for Harry never did become a chess master. After ending the second wizarding war, he'd tried to make up for missed education and years after that, greatly expanded his knowledge in whichever magical fields he could, but strategy… that was a skill requiring a certain amount of talent to start with.

That isn't to say he hadn't tried to improve: on many bored evenings hiding away, Ron had taught him tricks of how to remember chess moves and had helped practise different tactics. Whether it is enough for this challenge remains to be seen. If all else fails, Harry might have to try blasting straight through the wall to reach the next room. If only to honour his friend's teachings though, he has to play at least once, try to win fair and square.

Keeping in mind the massive weapons of the creepy faceless white chess pieces and the way Ron had been knocked unconscious once upon a time, Harry takes the position in which he risks least injury: that of the King, the only piece that cannot be sacrificed for a strategic victory. The only way he will be hurt is upon losing, in which case Harry hopes to be quick enough to sprint to the other side. The only disadvantage is that he has little overview of the playing field, stuck behind the other towering chessmen.

Rummaging through the school bag he brought along, Harry takes out parchment and quill to crudely draw an overview of the checkered board to keep up from a bird's eye perspective. It will be messy with so much movement over the course of a full game, but better than nothing. At least McGonagall was not so cruel to have added a timer. As Harry does still wish to make a trip to London and back today, he of course can't rack his brains for an infinite number of minutes on each move regardless, but the lack of tangible pressure is sure to keep him cool-headed enough.

Slowly but surely, he gains ground over the terrifying white chessmen, feeling quite elated with each one that falls and is limply dragged off to the side. Would Ron have been proud, seeing Harry take on this challenge alone? Or would he have been sad at the turn of events that have kept them apart in this lifetime? Harry spares a thought for the current Ron Weasley, who showed a semblance of faith today. A distorted echo of the bond they had once shared.

He fills his lungs with air to combat the sudden pang of hurt in his chest. ''Focus,'' he angrily mutters to himself. ''Or you'll never win.''

Yet it's hard to see the chaos he's wrought during the game without thinking of his friends – Ron knocked out, pale face a stark contrast to the rest of the heap of defeated black pieces he'd been discarded on. Sacrificing himself so Harry could save the Philosopher's Stone from Voldemort. Or well, Snape as they had assumed back then.

It was quite the ridiculous thought now Harry has grown up with Snape as a strict yet doting parent.

His current goal is no less important than stopping – subjectively – evil men from exploiting the Stone for immortality and riches. The preservation of a magical artefact, ensuring such a precious item will not meet the fate of destruction is had previously. It is the right thing to do, just like it was the right thing to thwart Lockhart's path of destruction. Like it will be right to remove the world's most powerful wand from the hand of Albus Dumbledore, whose idealistic views shall see them fall to ruin.

Harry sends the next chessman in his ranks forward, and the next, and the next, knowing each one that falls serves a purpose. A fight in which many have to die to protect the few that truly matter. A miniature war built on inherent inequality, each piece born with different powers that determine their value. Quite laughable that the most important one can move the least. Though it does possess the ability to teleport across the board in a nifty move Ron had told him was called 'castling'. In that regard, it most resembles a mage…

When the white crown is at last thrown to the floor, clattering as it rolls across the tiles until symbolically stilling at Harrys feet, he no longer thinks of his best friends. He thinks of the future, of victory. Of Voldemort.

Will he be proud, too, when inevitably hearing this story? Will he wish to see a memory of this game? The Dark Lord seems the type to like chess…

Unable to wipe the small grin off his face, Harry picks up the crown, very tempted to keep it.

Carrying evidence of having been anywhere in the vicinity of the Forbidden Corridor, let alone the path to the Philosopher's stone, is foolish. Daft. Plain stupid.

The desire to see Voldemort's face when presented with a marble crown wins out.

Harry shrinks the thing down to the size of a galleon and stuffs it in his bag. It'll suit his Intended beautifully.

Continuing down the passageway, the next challenge fills his nostrils and makes his eyes water long before he comes face-to-face with the mountain troll. As this is the protective measure he already knew to be the same due to Quirrell affirming having been asked to provide one of the creatures, Harry came prepared. Donning a cloak of shadows and illusion spells, he easily sneaks past the Troll, which is evidently bored out of its mind, kicking the same spot of wall over and over again. It feels terrifically cruel to keep any magical creature locked down here without any sort of enrichment, especially one with - albeit limited – intelligence. At least Fluffy is regularly being visited by Hagrid, which Harry knows for certain because of the Marauder's map.

Although he spares a twinge of pity, Harry is not about to alleviate its boredom. A living creature with eyes, a brain to pick and no mental defences to speak of is too much of a liability. Anyone the troll can't stop from getting the stone, it can identify afterwards. Not consciously, but a skilled mage like Dumbledore could absolutely extract the creature's memories and use it as a glorified camera.

Slipping past works wonders, muffling spells and the same charm he always uses on Quirrell's office door to sneak in unnoticed ensuring the Troll does not hear or see him leave. Thus, Harry finds himself in the next room in no time. Severus' challenge… no fire springs to life upon passing the threshold however, nor is the plain table set in the centre adorned with colourful potion bottles.

On the rough wooden surface sits something else. Something highly unexpected:

The Philosopher's Stone.

After a moment of initial surprise, Harry scoffs. As if this coveted item would simply openly be placed for anyone to grab. Literally the only person he knew who'd fall for that and take the thing without a second thought is Mundungus Fletcher. Well, and perhaps Vernon…

Harry is neither as greedy nor as stupid, plus knows for a fact that the mirror of Erised has been moved. As he hasn't encountered it yet, it's a fair assumption that the final room still awaits, even if this one suspiciously ends in a dead end like Flitwick's seemingly had done too before the illusion had been broken.

He warily approaches the Stone to inspect it, noticing that it is leaking shimmering red fluid, which fills a small indent in the table like a tiny pool of blood. Placed at the edge of it is a golden cup the size of a thimble.

Looking around for more clues – for surely he won't simply drink this 'elixir' - he spots a desk at the side. That one does not hold potions either, but a small empty cauldron, a thin notebook and an array of raw ingredients. Though Harry has his reservations with suspicious notebooks, he opens it to find Severus' fine scrawl, the first page holding a poem:

To have come this far, you surely agree
Prize within grasp is no moment to flee
If you wish to move forward, taste life eternal
Then come and take a closer look at my journal

Following the rules was never Harry's strong point, so he tries to skip the step of drinking the suspicious red fluid and flip the page instead to take a look first. The paper does not budge, as if glued to the rest.

Muttering about stupid clues beneath his breath, he weighs his options. The previous potion riddle Snape had written in his first life had been fair, the correct answer actually helping whichever burglar solved it progress to the final room instead of poisoning them further. It was doubtful that his Severus would be more nefarious than that Snape had been.

This puzzle gives Harry the strongest feel of all that the entire chase to the Stone never was more than a test. Neither his godfather nor the Snape he'd once known would voluntarily have spent their valuable time on writing childish riddles that gave the one breaking in more than a brief pause to prove intellect. That begged the question why Severus had gone along with Dumbledore's request. Most likely, he'd simply humoured his known-for-being-barmy employer to not get fired… It was very clear that Severus did not wish for Harry to have anything to do with ploys that even vaguely reeked of danger.

''Fine then,'' he sighs, stalking up to the table and grabbing the thimble, which likely works similar to the goblet in Voldemort's Inferi-infested cave, the only container that can hold this concoction.

The potion tastes acrid, a very bad sign regarding its poison level. And yet, it makes Harry feel good at the same time. Energised, as if he could take on that mountain troll in the previous room with bare hands.

Confused, he stalks back to the journal, paper finally budging to reveal another hint on the next page:

The walls are more brittle than they look, yet beware
Time is running out before your mind is ensnared
What good is reaching the final lair
When three minutes in, you die and despair?

Use your time wisely to instead make a brew
of yarrow and borage, moondew and yew
For soon you'll find your stomach will bloat
your skin will crawl, and you'll faint like a goat.

''Oh, you bastard!'' Harry curses, flipping through the rest of the journal to see one recipe after the next. Three minutes? If that isn't a lofty figure of speech like the Merfolk song during the Triwizard Tournament, he is very steadily running out of time. How many seconds have already passed since drinking the potion?

Keep calm, Harry tells himself between heavy breaths. There has to be a solution to this that will enable him to proceed and nullify this poison. Brewing anything within three minutes is laughable. He'll not be able to bring water to a boil that fast, let alone read the recipe and prepare ingredients.

Not about to waste precious seconds by wildly searching for a recipe that includes the four named ingredients, he chooses to analyse the second riddle instead.

''Brittle walls…'' Harry whispers to himself. The red potion feels rejuvenating beyond belief… Having not much else to try this out on, he punches the wall right next to the desk, amazed when it easily cracks and crumbles. Beyond it, though, is merely solid earth. Well, with how these dungeons are all planned out, they seem to be built in a straight line. He even vaguely recalls where the door had been last time, so when Harry walks up to that spot and gives it a nice right hook, he isn't overtly shocked when stone gives way to an opening and a familiar large room ahead, a set of shallow stairs leading downwards. That is one problem solved.

As for the other, Harry can already start to feel some unpleasant effects, a terrible itch spreading from his throat to the rest of his body fast and a spell of dizziness making him stumble.

Looking at the riddle again and channelling all of the knowledge Severus has imparted upon Harry in the past ten years, he notices something off. Yarrow is useful to combat digestion and moondew a vital part of various healing potions, yet borage is a sedative, only commonly used against seizures and the like when it comes to healing, whereas any part of the yew is so poisonous that only the tiniest amount can be beneficial. Without distillation equipment, no antidote can be brewed here that needs yew… Which tells Harry this line is there for the rhyme more than anything, a way to throw the reader off the actual important bit.

Stomach… goat…

Severus asked the same questions during his potion class this time around as during the first, while fully aware Harry knew the answers. Has he asked those in every class this year, just in case students go wandering?

Harry knows Severus' storage systems, the shorthand the man uses for classifying ingredients and how meticulous he sorts them. Rummaging through the desk, Harry soon finds a small box nestled between a container of yarrow and moondew, a box with two squiggles symbolising goat horns.

Taking out the small, shrivelled bezoar, Harry plops it in his mouth and swallows without hesitance. Near instantly, the itching stops and his head no longer spins with each step.

If he ever tells Severus about this adventure, his godfather too will hopefully show at least a hint of pride beneath the anger Harry will be sure to face.

Reaching his goal feels good after having outsmarted monsters, avoided being lost in illusions or poison and beating a game of chess. Retrieving the Stone is quite anti-climatic in comparison, for Harry knows exactly what to do when descending the steps to approach the mirror of Erised.

He does not wish to use the Stone, a thought Harry channels earnestly when calmly facing the tall mirror, now a glorified container for one of the world's mightiest treasures.

The faces of his friends do not appear this time. Instead, Harry sees himself: old eyes in the body of a small boy with smudges on his robes and a crooked tie. He does not detest the sight as much as he once had, though the wish to grow into the body he once had isn't wholly gone. Not in the least because he knows that while his Intended is accepting of his mind, this body is very likely to stand in the way of progressing past brief touches and a kiss to the back of his hand – and if it does not, Harry isn't too sure how he will feel about Voldemort's taste.

It is easy to banish those uncomfortable thoughts when his mirror image moves, winking as it shows the gleaming prize he's come for and stows it in a pocket that suddenly feels heavier on Harry's physical body. With trembling fingers, he pulls the Philosopher's Stone out of it to inspect the beautiful artefact in the sparse light the torches all around cast on it.

As soon as it is tightly grasped, droplets well up from its surface, scarlet liquid staining his fingers and freely running down pale skin. It makes quite the sight, one hard to look away from as the real Elixir of Life coats his right hand in the same shade as the red eye on the back of it that has accompanied Harry throughout this life.

He resists the brief urge to lick the trails away, loosening his grip until the Stone stops leaking. The elixir is of a strange consistency, crystallising and crumbling in tiny shards until his hand is clean again.

Two down, one to go.

AN: To get in the spirit of this chapter I played some chess games against a bot. Which reminded me again I am the worst chess player I know, because I got absolutely slaughtered on easy mode.