The giant projection continued to play above the Pensieve while Harry lounged on the sun chair, novel open in his hands.
The Hungarian Horntail shifted at the far end of the arena, chains clinking against stone, but almost no one in the stands looked its way.
Every eye remained fixed on the floating memory and the calm, cutting voice of Memory-Harry.
“Next,” Memory-Harry said, “Dumbledore ordered the prefects to lead their Houses back to their common rooms.
If I wasn’t so stunned by the absolute stupidity of that, I’d have probably laughed right there—irrespective of laughing at Quirrell’s comedy faint.
‘Dumb-dumb-dore’ obviously couldn’t care less for the safety and well-being of the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, because he’d just ordered the prefects of both Houses to lead their housemates into the dungeons seconds after being told that’s where a bloody troll was.”
A fresh wave of unease moved through the audience.
Memory-Harry let it settle before continuing.
“Now, while we Gryffindors were being led back up to the tower by that pompous arse Percy Weasley—and there’s a young man who has his head stuck so far up his own arse it’s amazing he can see anything—I already knew my House- and year-mate Hermione Granger had not been at the feast.
Therefore I easily deduced she would not be aware of the danger.
I had also overheard two of my housemates say she was in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor, crying her eyes out.
“So I grabbed the person responsible for her crying in the first place—Ronald Weasley—and dragged him off in search of her once we reached the second floor.
“Just as we reached the second floor… well, watch for yourselves.”
The projection shifted.
Two small first-year boys sprinted down a stone corridor.
Hermione’s scream echoed from the bathroom ahead.
The memory showed the quick, desperate plan they hatched on the run—get her out, get her safe.
Then the troll itself: massive, grey-green, club dragging.
Harry scrambling onto its back, shoving his wand up its nose while it roared and thrashed.
Ron’s wand movement, the club rising, falling.
The sickening crack as it struck the troll’s head.
The creature collapsing.
The memory ended with the arrival of the teachers—McGonagall pale with fury, Snape’s black eyes narrowed, Quirrell still pale and trembling.
Memory-Harry reappeared.
“And that’s how we became three.”
He paused, letting the weight of it land.
“This next one is a detention Hermione, Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy and I received after the first two and I were helping a friend out late at night.
Draco received his because Professor McGonagall realised he must have been out past curfew himself to have seen us and dob us in.
At that point I thought McGonagall might not be as dumb as most witches and wizards had already proven to me they were.
However, her detention proved she actually was as dumb as I suspected.
“And this is what happened.”
The scene changed to the edge of the Forbidden Forest at night.
Hagrid’s massive form led four small first-years and his boarhound Fang into the trees.
Lantern light barely pushed back the darkness.
They split into two groups.
The memory followed Harry and Draco as they moved through the undergrowth, then froze as they came upon the clearing.
Something dark and cloaked was bent over a dying unicorn, drinking its blood.
The creature lifted its head.
Silver blood dripped from its mouth.
It lunged.
The boys ran.
A centaur appeared, bow drawn, driving the creature back.
Another centaur joined.
Warnings were exchanged.
The memory faded on the sight of the two boys being led out of the forest by Hagrid, shaken and silent.
Memory-Harry’s voice returned, colder now.
“Colour me wrong, but I was under the impression the Forbidden Forest was, in fact, forbidden.
So what the bloody hell was going through the minds of the staff of Hogwarts to have the school gamekeeper—a man no longer permitted to use a wand—take four eleven-year-olds with little to no magical education and trudge through the Forbidden Forest… at night… going after something dangerous enough to injure or kill unicorns?
“Is it any wonder that, by then, my opinion of adult magicals left a lot to be desired?
Even back then, as far as I was concerned, adult witches and wizards are stupid.” He let out a short, bitter laugh.
“Professor McGonagall told us, while we waited in the antechamber before our Sortings, that our Houses would be like our families.
If that’s the way families treat each other in the wizarding world, I find myself relieved I’m an only-child orphan.”
A few uncomfortable shifts in the judges’ box.
Amelia Bones kept her face impassive, but her eyes flicked once toward the silenced Dumbledore.
Memory-Harry moved on.
“Moving on!
We now come to a few days short of the end of the school year.
This is what had most people wondering what happened to Quirinus Quirrell—and what the bloody hell was down that out-of-bounds third-floor corridor.
“We start from just after Hermione, Ron and I entered that corridor.
We were under the mistaken impression Severus Snape was trying to steal what we’d already learned to be Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone.”
The projection showed the three eleven-year-olds at the forbidden door.
Hermione’s small hand casting Alohomora.
The door swinging open.
The massive three-headed Cerberus asleep in the corner while a harp played itself.
Harry carefully moving the giant paw off the trapdoor.
Ron opening it.
The three of them dropping into darkness and landing in the coils of Devil’s Snare.
Hermione’s voice, clear and urgent: “Just relax!
It’ll let you through if you stop struggling!”
One by one they fell through into the room below.
Next came the flying-keys chamber.
Harry on a broom, dodging and weaving while the rest of the keys swarmed after him like angry wasps.
He snatched the correct one, flung it down to Hermione, who unlocked the next door just as the keys slammed into it from the other side.
Then the chessboard.
Memory-Harry’s voice cut in briefly: “Only portions of this will be shown—it would take too long otherwise.” Ron directing the game, sacrificing himself, the white queen’s sword coming down.
Ron crumpling, unconscious.
Harry moving his piece to checkmate.
Both boys rushing to their fallen friend.
Hermione checking Ron’s breathing, then urging Harry onward while she stayed behind to help Ron.
Memory-Harry reappeared.
“Now, at this point, we’re down to two.
However, I want you all to remember that, at this point, only one spell has been cast—the first-year unlocking charm Alohomora.
It took no advanced magic.
This is something every witch and wizard who’s read the first-year Charms book could have done.
Every student who was in Hogwarts at the time could have done this.”
The memory continued.
Harry and Hermione crossed the room containing the unconscious troll.
Then the potions puzzle.
Hermione solved it in seconds, handed Harry the correct vial, and told him he was a great wizard.
She drank the return potion herself and walked back the way they had come, leaving Harry to face whatever waited beyond the final door alone.
“And now we’re down to one,” Memory-Harry said quietly.
In the projection, the small figure of Harry Potter drank the potion and stepped through the black flames into the unknown.
Real Harry turned another page in his novel, the soft sound oddly loud against the perfect silence of the arena.
The dragon at the far end gave a low, restless growl, but no one moved to help it or to stop the boy who lounged beneath the giant floating memories, exposing the castle’s secrets one by one while the golden egg waited untouched in its nest.