Harry Potter: The Vampire Prince

"Harry, I found the rules." Hermione read aloud from the parchment she had just discovered. "All wizards participating in the trial must stand at the starting point, use the spinner to determine their steps, and face the challenge of the square they land on. Once the wizards reach the finish line, the path to the Philosopher's Stone shall be revealed."

"Oh, bloody hell." Harry looked as if he had just swallowed a fly. "Von Draugr is making fools out of us!"

"Harry, Nolan doesn't know it's us who broke into his challenge," Hermione reasoned, trying to calm him down. "I think he just wanted to stop any intruders."

Harry, however, was not convinced. He pointed ahead.

"And what if we just ignore the game and walk straight across?"

"You can try," sneered Neville— or rather, Voldemort, who had seized control of Neville's body. He gestured around them.

"See those enchanted suits of armor? If you break the rules, they'll rip you apart in an instant."

Harry clenched his fists. "Why can't we just fight them like proper wizards instead of playing some ridiculous game?!" It was infuriating. Nolan had them dancing in the palm of his hand, and there was nothing Harry hated more than being toyed with.

Hermione, still in diplomatic mode, tried again. "We could choose to fight the armor, but honestly, I don't think we can win. Nolan is offering us a straightforward path to victory… and besides, everyone knows he enjoys Muggle games. This isn't some elaborate prank to mock us—he designed this because he likes it."

"Of course you'd say that, Hermione," Harry muttered bitterly. "You're practically his fan at this point—just like Lavender and Parvati."

"Can we just get on with it?" Voldemort snapped, rolling his eyes in utter exasperation.

He didn't care about any of this nonsense—Nolan's hobbies, Potter's wounded pride, or Granger's apologetics.

He just wanted to get through this room, dispose of the two fools in front of him, and seize the Philosopher's Stone.

Once he was resurrected, he would return every humiliation he had suffered tenfold—no, a thousandfold!—to Nolan Von Draugr and Albus Dumbledore!

—

"So… I just spin this wheel?" Hermione asked hesitantly.

Each large square had a corresponding spinner, with numbers ranging from 1 to 24.

Harry sighed in resignation. "Hermione, please get us a high number so we can move faster."

Hermione spun the wheel.

The pointer landed on 1.

The three of them stared at the result in silence. Then, without a word, they shuffled forward exactly one step.

"Hermione," Harry groaned, "aren't witches supposed to be unlucky? I swear I read that somewhere in a Muggle book…"

Approaching the second square, he read the challenge aloud. "Select one challenger to become the 'Hero.' The chosen Hero must equip the Hero's attire."

On the ground, an outfit and weapon had been laid out—a ridiculous-looking sword, along with an odd green tunic and a matching green hat.

"…Uh." Hermione stared blankly at the bizarre ensemble. Quickly, she said, "I've never heard of a girl being the Hero."

Voldemort scoffed, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "And a Hero certainly wouldn't be a fat little boy."

"Alright, fine." With a long-suffering sigh, Harry resigned himself to his fate. Shrugging off his wizard robes, he donned the ridiculous green tunic, pulled the fabric hat over his head, and picked up the useless-looking sword.

"I probably look like an absolute clown." He scowled. "Can we please just move on? Neville, it's your turn to spin."

—

Voldemort flicked the wheel.

This time, they advanced 13 spaces.

"Not bad." Hermione observed as they moved forward. "Thirteen spaces is a huge improvement, though it's still not as good as twenty-four."

"Oh, please, Hermione." Voldemort sneered. "At least it's better than one."

They stepped onto the next marked square.

—

[Event: Duel to the Death]

"If only one participant is present, this event is invalid. If more than one participant is present, select two wizards to duel. The loser will be eliminated from the game and sent to the Graveyard."

Hermione paled as she finished reading the event card. "It looks like… one of us has to be eliminated. Just like Ron."

—

Harry adjusted the grip on his stupid sword, looking over at Voldemort.

"Neville," he said slowly, "maybe you should sit this one out? Something tells me the upcoming challenges aren't going to be fun."

Neville wasn't a member of their trio.

Harry didn't want to put him in danger, and besides, he had always thought of the chubby boy as someone who wasn't particularly skilled at magic. Unlike Hermione, Neville wouldn't be of much use here.

"We should have Hermione exit the game." Voldemort's voice was firm, and before either of them could argue, he cut them off. "Did you see the spinner just now? Hermione only rolled a one. That's an ominous sign."

Hermione let out a long sigh, exasperated. "Alright, alright. I know premonitions actually mean something in the wizarding world."

Harry looked as if he wanted to protest, but before he could, Voldemort declared, "It's settled."

Then, with a swift flick of his wand, he cast a Disarming Charm at Hermione, sending her wand flying across the room.

The enchanted suits of armor immediately escorted her to the Graveyard—a section in the far corner of the room designated for eliminated players.

—

"They'll be fine… right?" Hermione mumbled to one of the armored guardians. "I mean, I know Harry, and lately, he's been so reckless… I still remember what Nolan said on Halloween—the more dangerous the situation, the calmer you need to be." She sighed. "But I don't think Harry's listening to me anymore."

The magical armor, of course, did not respond.

—

Meanwhile, Voldemort spun the wheel again.

This time, they advanced seventeen spaces.

"That was impressive magic just now, Neville." Harry looked genuinely impressed. "I never knew you could do such advanced spells!"

…Was this idiot for real?

Voldemort nearly rolled his eyes out of his head. This wizard doesn't even know a simple Disarming Charm?!

Suppressing his contempt, he turned to read their next challenge.

"Pass through… the Chicken Gauntlet?" He frowned. "What in Merlin's name is the Chicken Gauntlet? Is this some kind of common knowledge in the Muggle world?"

"I have no id—" Harry started, but then his eyes widened. "Oh. Oh no. I think I know what Nolan meant."

—

Now Voldemort understood, too.

Because at that very moment, chickens began raining from the ceiling.

Feathered creatures plummeted down in waves, landing in flapping, shrieking, clucking masses.

And they weren't just any chickens.

They were aggressive chickens.

The air filled with an unbearable chorus of loud, ear-piercing clucks. Their sharp beaks pecked and jabbed relentlessly at anything within reach.

—

Voldemort let out a horrified wail as the swarm of chickens tackled him to the ground.

Feathers exploded around him as he struggled beneath the overwhelming mass of pecking, clawing poultry. His wand was knocked from his grip, vanishing beneath the feathery avalanche.

Sharp beaks jabbed at his skin, biting, scratching, clawing. His entire body was soon covered in painful red welts.

This was agony.

—

Harry, meanwhile, was wildly flailing his wand, his spells utterly ineffective.

"WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?!" He howled, desperately trying to think of a spell for this ridiculous situation.

"YOUR SWORD, YOU BLOODY IDIOT! USE YOUR SWORD!" Voldemort shrieked, his arms over his head as he tried to protect himself from the relentless pecking.

"OH! RIGHT!"

Harry grabbed the ridiculous Hero's Sword and swung it down.

The moment the blade touched a chicken, the bird let out a dramatic squawk, vanishing in a puff of white smoke—leaving behind nothing but a single floating feather.

Harry hacked and slashed with renewed vigor, sending chickens exploding into clouds of feathers one by one.

—

By the time the onslaught finally ended, the two of them were barely standing.

Their exposed skin was swollen and covered in red welts, looking more like pomegranates than human flesh.

—

And so, two battered wizards stood in the aftermath of the battle, surrounded by hundreds of floating feathers, gasping for breath.