Ron stepped onto the stool, dramatically lifted the hem of his wizard robe, scanned the eager faces around him, and cleared his throat. It was storytelling time.
"We discovered that someone with sinister intentions was plotting to steal Dumbledore's Philosopher's Stone, hidden within the castle. And with Dumbledore away, it was up to us to step in! We couldn't just sit by and do nothing!"
He paused for effect, scanning the crowd as if expecting applause.
"Of course, we hesitated at first. The danger we were about to face… well, let's just say it wasn't an easy decision to make."
Jerry shot Ron a side glance. "You mean that three-second pause before you charged in?" he muttered.
Ron pretended not to hear. "The first challenge? An enormous Greek three-headed dog! And not just any dog! In Muggle mythology, this beast guards the entrance to the underworld itself! Standing tall, it could reach the ceiling without even stretching!"
Jerry sighed. "You only learned that 'underworld' bit last night, didn't you?"
"After an intense battle," Ron continued, "we managed to defeat it using our quick thinking and impeccable teamwork! Even now, I can still remember the stench of its breath. As for its weakness… well, I can't reveal everything."
Jerry shook his head. "Yeah, we totally fought it. Or, you know, Ted just used his toothbrush, and we figured out it hated being woken up."
Ron pressed on, ignoring the interruption. "Next came Professor Sprout's trial. An endless mass of Devil's Snare, wrapping around us like a thousand writhing serpents! It nearly strangled me in seconds!"
"Then, the powder-spraying mushrooms—everywhere! One wrong step and BOOM! Exploding clouds of spores!"
Jerry snorted. "Right. And who stepped on every single one like they were dancing in a minefield?"
"The third challenge was a test from Professor Flitwick," Ron declared. "A ritual of magical precision. I won't pretend to understand it, but thankfully, Ted and Hermione cracked the code. Meanwhile, Harley, Neville, Jerry, and I held off an army of enchanted statues. Dozens—no, hundreds of them!" He waved a hand dramatically. "I personally took down at least fifty."
Jerry crossed his arms. "Don't drag me into this."
Ron ignored him. "Then came the ultimate test of intellect and bravery—Professor McGonagall's enchanted wizard chess. Let me tell you, that was the best game I ever played. I knew sacrifices had to be made. And I, as the chess master, had to put myself in harm's way!"
He lifted his chin, gazing wistfully into the distance as if reliving his noble sacrifice. A few girls in the crowd actually sighed.
Jerry nodded. "Okay, fine. I'll give you that one."
Ron grinned before continuing. "The fifth challenge was a set of monstrous creatures. Twisted, grotesque, and ready to attack."
"The sixth? Snape's potion puzzle. But Ted? Oh, he didn't need to solve it. He just broke the magic itself."
Ron leaned forward, lowering his voice for suspense. "And then… we reached the final chamber. Dumbledore's ultimate test!"
He slammed his fork onto the plate for emphasis, making a loud clang that startled a few first-years.
Ted sighed. "Someone get him a stage for Christmas."
"Guess who was waiting for us there?" Ron's voice dropped dramatically. "Professor Quirrell!"
A shocked gasp spread through the Great Hall.
"I know! The nervous, stammering Professor Quirrell! Who would've thought he was the mastermind all along?!" Ron's voice carried the righteous indignation of a betrayed hero.
Then, without warning, Ron launched into a one-man reenactment:
Quirrell: "Ah, you've found me."
Neville: "Professor? What are you doing here?"
Quirrell: "What do you think?"
Ron smirked. "And guess what Ted said? 'You here to take a dump?'"
The students erupted into laughter.
Ted groaned. "I did not say that! I hit him with a spell, end of story!"
Ron, unfazed, continued his tale with growing embellishments.
By the time he finished, the phrase "You here to take a dump?" had taken on a life of its own.
It became a running joke across the school, used whenever someone appeared out of place or awkwardly entered a conversation at the wrong time.
To make matters worse, Ron also recounted how Ted tried to scrape off some Philosopher's Stone powder before ultimately deciding that "three hundred years is long enough to live."
Thus, a new Hogwarts legend was born: Ted, the casually overpowered wizard, who shrugged off immortality like an unwanted Christmas sweater.
Even worse? "I don't want to be laying flowers on your graves in a hundred years" became the go-to way for friends to greet each other.
Jerry sighed. "I'm a mouse-eared demi-human. I barely live past seventy. Can we not make this a thing?"
For the first time, Hogwarts understood what true 'flexing' looked like.
Ted and his group had already been known throughout the school.
First, Neville became the 'Boy Who Lived Again,' and Ted gained fame from his dramatic school song stunt.
Then came their Halloween and Christmas exploits, and of course, the infamous battle with the trolls.
By Easter, the rumor mill was spinning wild stories of their battle with three monsters.
And now? Now they were the ones who fought the Dark Lord himself.
The first-years practically worshipped them. Even the older students eyed them with a mixture of amusement and intrigue.
Whenever Ted and his group walked through the halls, the glances they received were no longer just curious but filled with admiration—and in some cases, sheer disbelief.
Ted sighed. "So much for keeping a low profile."
Then again, high risk, high reward. Maybe it was time to start considering an upgrade to his psion class after all.
...
In fact, Ted had been wondering whether Professor Quirrell had any regrets.
The whole Halloween troll incident had always seemed strange and poorly thought out. It was reckless, but Quirrell wasn't known for being outright foolish.
Yet, it was clearly intentional. The troll didn't just wander in by accident—Quirrell had released it on purpose.
But why? What was his real goal?
Was he trying to send a message? A desperate plea for Dumbledore's intervention?
Maybe, at that point, Quirrell regretted his choices. But with Voldemort literally attached to the back of his head, he had no way to turn himself in. Any attempt at betrayal would have meant instant death.
So perhaps the troll wasn't meant to hurt students—it was a way to alert Dumbledore that something was wrong. A desperate cry for help.
But Dumbledore, despite his wisdom, didn't—or couldn't—save him.
Maybe, from the moment Quirrell brought Voldemort back from Albania, his fate was sealed.
After the failed Gringotts heist, with Voldemort's face permanently affixed to him, Quirrell's days were already numbered. If he had sought help earlier—before full possession—he might have been saved. But by the time the school year started, he was already beyond saving.
Ted hadn't expected to inherit anything from Quirrell, but he ended up with something unexpected—a stack of research papers on magical bloodline transplantation.
Apparently, before everything spiraled out of control, Quirrell had given them to a student, asking for Ted's opinion.
But the student had delayed delivering them, and by the time Ted finally got them, Quirrell was already scrambling to stay alive.
…
Three days after Ted and the others defeated Voldemort, the Quidditch final took place—and Gryffindor lost to Slytherin.
Again.
Ted watched as Professor McGonagall stepped down from the stands, looking absolutely devastated.
She staggered slightly, her expression one of utter despair.
She probably wasn't this sad when half the fifth-years failed their Transfiguration exams.
Slytherin had been winning the Quidditch Cup for years, and she was sick of it.
Even worse, she couldn't forget the last match of her own school days. Her final game before graduation—knocked off her broom by a dirty Slytherin foul, crashing to the ground unconscious.
Gryffindor lost miserably that year.
This was just history repeating itself. The emotional damage was real.
Ted almost felt bad for her. Almost.
In this timeline, the so-called 'savior' was Neville. Unfortunately, Neville hated flying. The moment he got on a broom, he turned into a nervous wreck.
Clearly, it was the broom's fault.
Harley, on the other hand, was a natural flyer.
But she had zero interest in Quidditch. In her own words, "It's boring and stupid."
She hated how the entire game revolved around the Seeker.
All the strategy, all the teamwork—ultimately meaningless.
One player catches a single enchanted ball, and that's it? Game over?
No, thanks.
She had no intention of joining the team.
Poor Professor McGonagall. It was going to be a few more years of crushing disappointment.
Ted wasn't about to volunteer either. He had way too much on his plate.
"Sorry, Professor," he thought. "You're on your own."
Ron, meanwhile, was fuming about Gryffindor's humiliating defeat.
"First, we lost to Slytherin. Then Ravenclaw. Then Hufflepuff. By the end, we had nothing left to lose!" He threw up his hands in exasperation.
He swore that if he joined the Quidditch team, he'd lead Gryffindor to victory.
Ted just patted him on the shoulder. "Sure, Ron. Whatever you say."
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Word count: 1513
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