The mood inside Hogwarts had subtly shifted as March gave way to the waning days of the term. There was a strange tension in the air—something even first-years could feel but not name. The older students muttered about odd changes in Dumbledore's schedule, while the professors grew stricter, more watchful. But Elias Blackthorn, sitting at the edge of the Slytherin table during dinner, barely registered the buzz.
His eyes weren't on his plate but on Professor Quirrell, who sat stiffly at the staff table, his hands folded too tightly in his lap. Occasionally, his gaze would flick toward Elias, wary and uneasy. It was time.
Dumbledore had been gone for two days now, summoned to America under a web of diplomatic urgency spun quietly by Lucian Blackthorn. As the President of the International Confederation of Wizards, the Headmaster could hardly ignore such a call, no matter how inconvenient the timing.
Elias pushed a piece of roast potato around his plate, concealing his amusement as he watched the professors. McGonagall was tense, Snape colder than usual. And Quirrell—he was positively cracking under pressure.
That night, as the castle settled into its usual hush, Elias slipped silently from his bed. The enchanted ring upon his finger pulsed faintly, dampening his magical signature. It would take a Grandmaster to sense what lay beneath, and none remained at Hogwarts to test it.
Instead of going directly to the forbidden corridor, he made a detour. From behind a tapestry near the Slytherin common room, he entered the Room of Requirement—empty, shifting, but as familiar to him now as his own quarters. It had helped him hone spells beyond the Hogwarts curriculum, perfect his magical core, and sharpen his instincts. It had prepared him for this moment.
He cast a few wards silently, not because he feared being found, but because he had grown used to the feeling of precision magic in his fingers. Then, activating the mirror charm embedded in his sleeve, he whispered, "Status?"
A ripple of static passed across the mirror's surface before Lucian's image appeared, stern but satisfied. "The American meeting has gone well. Dumbledore will be detained another day or two."
"Good. That should be enough," Elias murmured.
Lucian's eyes narrowed. "What do you expect Quirrell to do?"
Elias tilted his head slightly. "Exactly what I need him to do. Break into the corridor. Trigger the alarms. Draw attention away from me."
Lucian gave a faint smile. "Then it's all going according to plan."
Elias cut the connection and stepped from the room, just in time to catch the faintest echo of motion—someone creeping through the castle. His lips curled.
"Showtime," Elias whispered under his breath, fingers lightly brushing the edge of the enchanted mirror in his pocket. His silver eyes gleamed under the dimming corridor light as he watched the chain of events unfold exactly as he had anticipated.
Earlier that week, he had subtly enchanted one of the castle's whispering portraits to mention the third-floor corridor's suspicious activity within earshot of Hermione Granger—an easy task when one knew how predictable Gryffindors could be. Sure enough, Granger had taken the bait. She had grown more restless, more cautious. Today, she had put the final pieces together and insisted to Harry and Ron that someone—she suspected Snape—was about to steal the Philosopher's Stone.
In truth, Quirrell was already on the move.
From the shadows near the stairs leading to the forbidden corridor, Elias stood hidden under a simple but powerful disillusionment charm, observing as Quirrell silently slipped through the door. The Defense professor's steps were careful, almost reverent. Even from a distance, Elias could sense the darker aura surrounding the man. Voldemort's presence within him was growing more potent.
Minutes later, just as expected, the golden trio—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—rushed through the halls in a panic. Hermione held a book clutched to her chest, wand out and ready, her brow furrowed with determination. Harry and Ron followed, panting slightly from their sprint up the stairs. They whispered hurriedly among themselves, confirming the plan. The three pushed open the door to the corridor and disappeared inside.
Elias didn't move.
Another shadow crept along the stone walls behind them.
Snape.
His long black robes made no sound as he glided toward the forbidden wing. The Potions Master's wand was already drawn, his eyes focused with deadly precision. Elias noticed the faintest flicker of confusion and suspicion in Snape's expression—he had seen the trio enter, but his eyes were also scanning the area, likely wondering who else might be watching. Yet he said nothing and slipped into the darkness after them.
Elias let out a breath, the corners of his mouth lifting in satisfaction.
Everything was proceeding according to plan.
He stepped back into the darker alcove behind a tapestry, placing a simple concealment ward before turning away. He didn't need to follow. Not yet. The trap was set. All players had entered the board.
Now it was time to wait for the pieces to move.
The corridors of Hogwarts were unnaturally quiet, the silence interrupted only by the soft shuffling of feet under the Cloak and the occasional creak of the ancient stone. The castle seemed to be holding its breath. As they passed through the third-floor corridor, Hermione pointed to the giant door that had once guarded Fluffy.
"It's open."
They slipped inside—and there he was.
Fluffy, the enormous three-headed dog, was already dozing, lulled by the soft notes of a harp that had been enchanted to play itself.
"Someone's already been here," Harry murmured.
"Snape ," Ron guessed.
Together, they moved forward. Harry gently lifted the harp and placed it aside. The moment the music stopped, Fluffy stirred—growling, snarling, heads twitching—but they'd already flung open the trapdoor and leapt in.
Hermione screamed. The air rushed past them, and they landed in something soft.
"Devil's Snare!" Hermione recognized it instantly. "Relax or it'll kill you!"
Ron flailed. "Are you mad?!"
Hermione conjured bluebell flames, and the snaring plant recoiled, allowing them to scramble free.
They hurried into the next room—rows and rows of winged keys flying about.
"A broom," Harry said, spotting it immediately. "We have to catch the one that fits the door."
Ron nodded. "You're the Seeker. Go!"
It took effort, and more than a few close calls with the darting keys, but eventually Harry snagged the right one and thrust it into the lock. The door creaked open.
A chessboard.
This room was enormous. The giant black and white pieces towered over them, lifelike and intimidating.
"We'll have to play our way across," Ron said grimly.
They took their places—Hermione as a bishop, Harry as a rook, and Ron, brave and composed, as a knight.
The game was brutal. Each wrong move cost a piece. When the end came near, Ron stared across the board.
"I have to let the queen take me."
"No!" Harry and Hermione said at once.
"It's the only way. You have to go on."
He mounted his square. The black queen's blade swung.
Hermione screamed. Harry pulled her toward the next door as Ron collapsed, unmoving.
They passed through a narrow corridor. There were no further traps—only an eerie stillness.
A vial sat on a table, surrounded by flames—one purple, one black.
Hermione studied the riddle.
"It's logic," she whispered. "I can solve this."
She did, of course, quicker than Harry could blink.
"There's enough potion for one," she said, stepping back. "You go. I'll go back and help Ron. Good luck.