The chamber lay quiet in the aftermath.
Smoke curled into the air from the scorched floor where Quirrell had crumpled, twitching weakly before collapsing into stillness. Harry Potter lay unconscious at the foot of the Mirror of Erised, face pale, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The air still trembled from the residual clash of magic—a duel between Professor Snape and a professor no more.
The flickering torches on the chamber walls wavered, casting distorted shadows that danced across the ancient stones. In the corner, near a crumbling pillar, the soft shimmer of protective enchantments pulsed once—then faded into nothingness.
Snape stood rigid, his dark eyes scanning the fallen figure of Quirrell. His wand was still raised, ready for any further threat, though the unnatural stillness in the air suggested the danger had passed. Or so he believed.
He approached Harry cautiously, crouching beside him and checking his pulse. Satisfied that the boy was merely unconscious, Snape's gaze returned to the ruins of Quirrell's form. His robes were burned where his hands had made contact with the boy, and his skin showed blistering signs of magical backlash—an echo of something ancient and sacrificial.
"Fool," Snape muttered under his breath. "You should have left well enough alone."
Above them, the ceiling creaked, as if the castle itself were reacting to the events that had unfolded deep within its bowels.
Unseen, unheard, Elias Blackthorn had already slipped through the enchanted corridors leading away from the chamber. A perfectly executed Disillusionment Charm and the cloaking effects of his enchanted ring had made his presence nearly undetectable—not even Snape's sharp senses had picked up the faintest trace of his magic.
Elias walked with controlled purpose, each step a victory of silence. He had accomplished what he came for: the real Philosopher's Stone now rested within a magically sealed pouch at his waist, charmed with over a dozen layers of concealment. Even the most perceptive wizard would detect nothing more than an ordinary schoolbag filled with parchment and ink.
Back in the chamber, a barely perceptible wisp of black smoke slithered upward from Quirrell's body. It hovered a moment above the corpse—then shrieked silently into the stone walls like a dying wind. Voldemort was gone. Fled.
Snape rose, eyes narrowed. He could sense that something was missing, though he couldn't name it. The Mirror remained intact, and Harry Potter lived. But the air felt… wrong. As if something had been stolen.
He dismissed it—for now.
Elias emerged from the hidden corridors of the lower levels just as the first streaks of dawn broke through the castle windows. The world above knew nothing of what had happened in the depths of Hogwarts the night before.
In the Great Hall, breakfast had not yet begun, though the house-elves had begun preparing. Students still slumbered or stirred in their dormitories, unaware of how close they had come to history repeating itself.
Elias moved through the empty corridors like a shadow, passing a sleepy caretaker who paid him no mind. He reached the Room of Requirement just as it shifted into his desired training chamber.
The door opened to a familiar space—a circular room filled with enchanted candles, magical detectors, and protective runes. The very environment where he had honed his spells, strengthened his mental barriers, and trained his magical control.
He drew a deep breath and pulled the pouch from his robes. For a long moment, he simply stared at it, the weight of the Stone within pressing not only on the pouch but on his future.
The Philosopher's Stone.
A marvel of magical alchemy. An artifact of such rarity and potential that wars could have been waged over it. And now, it was his—not for greed, not for immortality, but for knowledge.
He sealed the pouch once more and placed it into a heavily warded chest the Room conjured for him—a vault that would resist any prying eye or sensing spell.
He had succeeded.
Back in the chamber, Dumbledore had returned.
The headmaster knelt quietly beside Harry, his hand resting on the boy's forehead. Snape stood nearby, offering a brief summary of what had happened. He had followed Harry, Ron, and Hermione after suspecting their involvement. The trapdoor had been tampered with, and when he arrived, Quirrell had already attacked Harry.
Dumbledore said nothing for a long while, his expression unreadable.
"And the Stone?" he asked eventually.
Snape gestured toward the Mirror. "No sign of it. Either it was destroyed, or…" He trailed off.
"Or someone else took it," Dumbledore finished for him softly.
Snape looked up sharply. "Are you suggesting Potter—?"
"No," Dumbledore said quickly. "Not Potter."
His blue eyes seemed distant, thoughtful. He turned toward the Mirror, touching its frame. "We may never know who retrieved it. Or why."
But deep in the back of his mind, Albus Dumbledore felt the faintest tug of suspicion—one that pointed to a student far more careful, far more cunning than young Harry Potter. Someone who had stayed out of the way, avoided confrontation, and left behind no trace.
His gaze turned toward the upper floors of the castle, as if peering through stone and spell to where Elias Blackthorn might be.
But even Dumbledore, with all his wisdom, could not see what lay behind Elias's carefully woven veil.
That evening, the castle returned to normal—outwardly, at least. Harry had been moved to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey tutted over him and prescribed a full day of rest. Ron and Hermione had been reprimanded lightly for wandering into off-limits areas but were otherwise unharmed.
The story spread in whispers: a secret chamber, dark magic, a forbidden duel. Students made up their own versions, each more dramatic than the last. The official tale, sanctioned by the staff, was that Professor Quirrell had suffered a breakdown and had been sent to St. Mungo's.
Only a few knew the truth. Fewer still understood it.
Elias sat in the Slytherin common room that night, a book open on his lap, unread. His thoughts were elsewhere. Not on the Stone—he had hidden it too well—but on what would come next.
Voldemort was not gone. The ghost of him still lingered. And Elias knew that this was only the beginning.
But he had time.
Time to learn. Time to grow. Time to prepare.
The corridors of Hogwarts had never felt so quiet.
Not in the way of silence, but in the way that comes when something momentous has passed, leaving behind a hush of mystery. Elias Blackthorn's steps were soundless against the cool stone floors as he made his way through the castle toward the Headmaster's office, the summoning note still clutched in his hand.
He hadn't been surprised when it arrived—delivered by an enchanted parchment that simply appeared on his desk during breakfast, curling with elegant script:
Mr. Blackthorn,Please come to the Headmaster's Office after your morning lessons. The password is 'Fizzing Whizzbee'.– Professor Dumbledore
He hadn't expected it this soon, but it was inevitable. The Philosopher's Stone incident had ended with only a handful of people aware of what had truly transpired—and Dumbledore was no fool.
As he reached the entrance, the stone gargoyle guarding the spiral staircase stepped aside with a grinding motion at the password, and Elias ascended silently.
The curved staircase brought him to a tall oak door that opened without a knock. The room beyond was warm and strange, filled with whirring silver instruments, trinkets on shelves, and the gentle rustle of an enormous red phoenix perched solemnly by the window.
Dumbledore was seated at his desk, half-moon spectacles glinting in the morning light. Professor Snape stood beside him, arms folded, his dark gaze unreadable.
"Ah, Mr. Blackthorn," Dumbledore said in his usual genial tone, motioning to the chair before him. "Please, have a seat."
Elias did so without a word, meeting Dumbledore's gaze calmly.
Snape regarded him closely, though said nothing.
"We won't take much of your time," Dumbledore continued. "I merely wanted to speak with you after the… recent excitement. I trust you're doing well?"
"I am, Headmaster. Thank you," Elias said, his voice measured and polite.
"Good, good." Dumbledore leaned back slightly. "Your professors speak highly of you. Your academic performance has been exemplary for a first-year. Even your discipline, I am told, is impeccable. A very promising young wizard."
"I do my best," Elias said mildly.
Dumbledore nodded, steepling his fingers. "That is commendable. However, you'll forgive an old man's curiosity, I hope… for there are other things worth observing beyond academic prowess."
Elias tilted his head slightly, pretending to ponder.
"Such as?" he asked.
"Maturity. Judgment. Beliefs." Dumbledore's tone didn't change, but his eyes grew just slightly sharper. "Especially regarding matters like power… and how one chooses to use it."
There was a pause.
Snape, though silent, was watching Elias carefully.
"I've noticed, for instance," Dumbledore went on, "that you are not particularly… social."
"I prefer to keep to myself," Elias said. "Hogwarts is new, but I came here to learn."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "And have you learned much?"
"A great deal," Elias replied.
Dumbledore gave a small smile.
"I'd like to ask you, Elias," he said after a moment, "what are your thoughts on Muggles?"
Elias met the question without surprise. He'd known it was coming.
"I think Muggles live a different kind of life," he said, choosing his words carefully. "They lack magic, but they build, adapt, and survive. That deserves a kind of respect, even if their world is not mine."
Dumbledore's expression didn't change. Snape's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Wise words," Dumbledore said after a beat. "Though not always popular in certain circles."
Elias inclined his head. "I speak only for myself."
There was silence for a moment. The phoenix shifted on its perch, letting out a low coo.
"Professor Snape," Dumbledore said, "has kept a close eye on many things this term. Including Professor Quirrell."
Snape's voice was soft, but direct.
"There were… oddities," he said. "Quirrell was frequently absent late at night. I followed him once—he was near the third-floor corridor. I informed you."
"And we acted accordingly," Dumbledore replied. "Yet, there is still one thing I must ask." He turned to Elias again. "Did you ever notice anything… unusual about Quirrell?"
Elias maintained a calm face. "Only that he seemed nervous. Always stammering, avoiding direct eye contact. But that's common knowledge, isn't it?"
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment. "And yet you've never approached the restricted areas yourself?"
Snape interrupted then. "Headmaster… he has."
Elias turned to him.
Snape's tone was cool, deliberate.
"I've seen him in the library's restricted section on more than one occasion. Never enough to break rules—but always careful, always when he thinks no one is watching."
Dumbledore didn't react—his gaze was still focused on Elias.
"I have an interest in magical theory," Elias said smoothly. "Advanced material isn't often found in the regular library. I read. I don't cast forbidden spells."
Snape's eyes flicked with a faint glimmer of skepticism.
"True," he said slowly. "He doesn't release any magical residue of the dark arts. Not even subtle traces. For someone as strong as he is... that would be difficult to hide."
Dumbledore finally sat back.
"I believe you, Elias," he said, surprising both Snape and Elias. "But forgive my insistence. In times such as these, I must be cautious. There have been students with great potential before… Tom Riddle, for instance."
A silence settled. Even the phoenix quieted.
"I'm not Tom Riddle," Elias said softly.
"No, you're not," Dumbledore agreed. "But power and secrecy are often bedfellows. I only ask that you remember—Hogwarts is a place for learning, yes. But also a place for choices."
Elias said nothing.
Dumbledore glanced at Snape. "That will be all for today. Thank you, Elias."
Elias stood, gave a slight bow, and turned to leave.