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Is this the trap you set up?" Archer asked.
"Yes," Professor Flitwick nodded. "Isn't it fun? Imagine—the person who enters is confronted with a flurry of flying keys, frantically trying to catch the right one. That must be quite the sight."
"If it were me, I'd probably just use Alohomora," Archer said, taking a sip of butterbeer as a reminder.
"Of course, that's also a valid method," Professor Flitwick said with a smile. "That's why I plan to enchant the door. Unless the wizard has considerable magical power, they won't be able to open it."
Archer raised an eyebrow. "You're not thinking of setting any more dangerous traps?"
Professor Flitwick shook his head. "Of course not, Archer. Professor Dumbledore specifically instructed that the item would be placed in a room on the fourth floor. That location is likely to attract a few curious students. We must ensure that no one gets hurt."
Archer considered his words for a moment.
That made sense.
In the original plot, each of the protections the professors set could be bypassed in some way—not absolute dead ends.
In hindsight, it was as though every level had been designed specifically for Harry Potter to overcome.
"Professor Dumbledore must have planned thoroughly to safeguard that item," Professor Flitwick said, finishing his drink. He set his empty glass aside and continued, "Our job is to prevent the students from wandering too close."
"You're right, Professor Flitwick," Archer replied with a nod.
That reminded him—he had to train his Biting Cabbage more thoroughly.
If some overly curious student stumbled into the Biting Cabbage's domain…
At the very least… they should leave with their body intact, right?
…
After chatting with Professor Flitwick for a while, Archer realized the Professor wasn't exaggerating—he really was a regular at the Three Broomsticks.
The few patrons who passed by all greeted him warmly. Clearly, he was well-liked in Hogsmeade.
That being the case, Archer avoided further discussion about the Philosopher's Stone. It wouldn't be wise to be overheard.
At that moment, a familiar voice called from the entrance.
"Archer? And Professor Flitwick?"
Professor Kettleburn had spotted the pair in the corner as soon as he stepped inside. With quick strides, he made his way toward them. "Didn't expect to run into you here. Good afternoon, both of you."
Archer was caught off guard; he hadn't expected to see Professor Kettleburn here of all places.
"Come, sit with us, Professor Kettleburn," Flitwick said, waving him over with pleasant surprise.
"I'm not a professor anymore," Kettleburn said, raising his voice toward the bar. "Madam Rosmerta! A glass of mead, please!"
With that, he walked over to their table and took a seat, grinning.
Archer looked at him curiously. "Professor, what brings you here?"
Kettleburn patted his leg and laughed. "Didn't I mention it? I've been living in Hogsmeade. After I retired, I moved here permanently."
Then, turning to Archer, he asked, "By the way, how's Torch doing?"
"Same as always. He's getting bigger by the day—and hungrier too," Archer said casually. "If you don't take him soon, my place might not be big enough."
Kettleburn chuckled. "Soon, soon! I've already contacted one of my old students. He's working abroad, specializing in magical creatures like Torch. He'll take good care of him, and I can visit often."
"I don't mind," Archer said with a shrug. "I'm not the one feeding him anymore."
Professor Flitwick, who hadn't been able to get a word in, finally found an opportunity. "Who is Torch?"
Kettleburn and Archer glanced at each other.
"A cute puppy."
"A big dog."
They answered simultaneously.
Professor Flitwick raised a skeptical eyebrow but let it go without pressing further.
Just then, Archer noticed something stirring under Kettleburn's robe.
A small, furry creature peeked out. Its eyes were pitch black, and its snout twitched as it sniffed around.
"You brought the Niffler with you?" Flitwick asked in surprise.
It had to be said—Nifflers were incredibly fast.
No sooner had Flitwick spoken than the little creature shot out of Kettleburn's robe like a streak of light, making a beeline for Archer's pocket.
Before he could react, the Niffler had reached inside and expertly fished out a silver pocket watch.
"Hey! That's not for you!" Archer snatched the chain and tugged the watch back.
Kettleburn quickly stood up, grabbed the Niffler by the tail, and restrained it.
"Ah, sorry," he said apologetically. "This little one just came of age. Still quite mischievous."
As Kettleburn scolded the Niffler, Madam Rosmerta arrived with his mead. He thanked her with a smile and took a sip.
Then he glanced at the bar, seemingly noticing something—or someone.
Turning to Archer, he lowered his voice and asked, "By the way, has Professor Quirrell taken over as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher this year?"
"Yes, Professor," Archer replied. "That news is a little outdated."
Kettleburn gestured subtly toward the bar. "Is that him?"
Archer and Flitwick looked in that direction.
Sure enough, Professor Quirrell sat on a tall stool, nervously holding a drink.
"Professor Quirrell! Over here!" Flitwick called out.
Quirrell spun his head around instantly. A flicker of panic crossed his face. But once he saw who had called him, he appeared to relax.
Forcing a smile, he slid off the stool and walked over to them.
…
"Good afternoon," Quirrell greeted them, his voice as shaky as ever.
"Come sit with us," Flitwick offered.
Quirrell nodded and joined the group, his posture slightly hunched, his hands tightly clutched around his drink.
Archer observed him closely.
There was something… strange.
Though he seemed friendly, his eyes darted about too frequently, and his smile never quite reached them.
"Have you been teaching long this term?" Kettleburn asked casually.
"Y-Yes," Quirrell stammered. "It's been—rewarding."
Archer noticed him shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
Professor Flitwick, ever polite, steered the topic back toward lighter subjects. They chatted about classes, Hogsmeade's recent developments, and even Torch's dietary preferences.
Throughout the conversation, Archer couldn't shake the feeling that Quirrell's presence was hiding something darker.
Even the Niffler, now curled up in Kettleburn's lap, growled softly in Quirrell's direction.
It seemed… even magical creatures could sense unease.
And Archer, though no Seer, had the distinct impression that something deeper lay beneath that trembling stutter and nervous smile.
Something that had yet to show its full form.
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