The green flames of the Slytherin common room fireplace flickered against the ancient stone walls, casting dancing shadows across the darkened chamber. Elias Blackthorn stepped through the entryway in silence, his shoes clicking lightly against the polished floor. The moment the passage behind the stone wall sealed itself shut, he exhaled, tension uncoiling from his shoulders.
The meeting with Dumbledore and Snape still lingered in his mind like the echo of a spell. Dumbledore's eyes, calm yet impossibly deep, had searched him in a way few dared. Snape had been more cautious, more reserved—but his questions, his observations, weren't to be dismissed lightly. Elias could tell both men suspected something. Dumbledore, perhaps, was uncertain of his motivations; Snape, more likely, was uncertain of how to prove anything at all.
He crossed the common room quietly. Most students had gone to bed already. A few fifth-years huddled around a corner table murmuring over parchment and books. One of them looked up, caught sight of him, and quickly looked away.
No doubt word had spread that the Headmaster had summoned him. In Slytherin House, attention from powerful figures—especially Dumbledore—meant whispers would soon follow.
Elias didn't acknowledge them. Instead, he made his way down the corridor leading to the private room granted to him by the Blackthorn family's influence. As the enchanted door opened to his touch, the wards flared faintly and recognized his magical signature. He stepped inside.
His room was dim, save for the steady glow of a floating orb of green light above his desk. Books—his own selection from the family vault, not borrowed from Hogwarts—lined the shelves. A thick rug muffled his footsteps as he crossed to the chair near the fire.
He sat down slowly, fingertips steepled, gaze fixed on the embers.
They're watching me.
That much was obvious. Snape had noticed his late-night movements to the Restricted Section. Dumbledore had likely pieced together more than he let on, though not enough to act.
Still… they weren't entirely sure. The ring on his hand shimmered faintly under the firelight, concealing the full depth of his magical core. That much was working as intended. Neither Dumbledore nor Snape had sensed anything more than a strong, but not extraordinary, reservoir of magic.
And as far as they knew, he had done nothing wrong.
Because I haven't, Elias thought calmly, leaning back in his chair. Not yet.
Dumbledore would likely suspect him for that very restraint. It was ironic.
Elias reached for the small silver notebook on his desk and flipped it open to a page filled with neat, compact writing—his own calculations. Notes on spell theory, energy control, mental resistance, and more complex experiments.
The Philosopher's Stone… it had already changed hands—his hands—though no one else knew it. Safely hidden, replaced with a perfect replica. Quirrell had failed. Voldemort had fled. Harry Potter had survived.
And I played my part from the shadows.
But that part had only just begun. There was still so much to be done. Plans to unfold. Knowledge to uncover. A future to shape.
He tapped the tip of his quill against the edge of the page and thought of the Philosopher's Stone. Not for immortality, nor for gold—but for research, for understanding. The secrets behind its alchemy could hold the key to deeper magical expansion. If mastered properly, it could push his training further without the risk of spiritual pollution.
He closed the notebook and rose, moving toward the warded alcove in the corner of the room. With a flick of his fingers, the privacy enchantments shimmered to life, muting sound and locking out detection.
From within a concealed drawer, Elias drew out a vial of crystalline essence—raw magical infusion his father had helped him acquire for his core strengthening. One of the final stages in his process. He wouldn't begin that tonight, not yet. But soon.
His fingers curled around the vial, and for a moment, he simply stared at it.
"Soon," he murmured.
He returned the vial to its hiding place, then stepped back and dispelled the warded dome.
Outside, the lake whispered against the outer walls of the dungeon, and the castle above stirred gently in its dreams. Somewhere, Harry Potter was recovering. Dumbledore was undoubtedly piecing together what had happened in the final chamber. Snape might still be watching the fire in his quarters, mulling over Elias's every word.
But Elias?
He had work to do
The door to the Headmaster's office closed with a quiet click, sealing off the long conversation that had just ended. The soft whirring and ticking of Dumbledore's curious magical instruments resumed their eternal rhythm, as if sensing the shift in mood.
Albus Dumbledore sat motionless behind his grand desk, fingertips pressed together beneath his chin. His gaze was fixed on the glowing embers in the hearth, though it was clear his mind was far from the warmth of the fire.
Across from him, Severus Snape remained standing, dark eyes lingering on the closed door before returning to the Headmaster.
"You're not satisfied with his answers," Snape said flatly.
Dumbledore didn't look up. "Would you be, Severus?"
Snape crossed his arms, black robes sweeping slightly as he shifted. "The boy is composed—too composed. Calm in ways that suggest more than mere confidence."
"He is careful," Dumbledore agreed. "But that is not a crime."
"No," Snape replied. "But careful students are rarely innocent ones. You asked me to observe Quirrell. I did. But I also kept an eye on Blackthorn. There's something about him that unsettles me. He slips through the castle like he's lived here for years."
"And has he done anything you would call dangerous?"
Snape considered. "He's been to the Restricted Section. Always with some clever excuse or the perfect timing. I've seen him out of bed more than once. But no rule-breaking I could formally act on. Still... the timing of it all troubles me."
Dumbledore finally lifted his eyes, meeting Snape's stare. "You mean the Philosopher's Stone."
Snape's jaw tightened. "It's gone."
"Yes," Dumbledore said softly. "And Voldemort nearly had it."
Snape's eyes narrowed at the name, but he didn't flinch. "Quirrell was the one who tried to take it. Potter resisted. But by the time I arrived—he already had the boy cornered."
"And yet," Dumbledore murmured, "when you reached them, the Stone was not with Quirrell."
"No," Snape said. "It wasn't. I checked everything."
Dumbledore folded his hands on the desk. "Because it was no longer there to be found."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "You're saying it was taken before the final confrontation?"
"I believe so," Dumbledore said. "The real Stone was replaced—swapped with a decoy."
Snape frowned, eyes shadowed. "Who could have done that? You and Flamel were the only ones who knew where it was hidden... truly hidden."
"Yes," Dumbledore said, a trace of sadness in his tone. "But someone else worked it out. Someone clever. Someone who let Voldemort make the first move and used that chaos to their advantage."
The implication hung heavy in the air.
Snape slowly exhaled. "You believe it was Elias."
"I suspect it, yes."
Snape began to pace. "He is intelligent. Coldly intelligent. Never rash, always deliberate. But there's more to it than that. I've seen powerful students before—gifted ones—but he... he hides too well. There's no visible trace of advanced spellwork on him, no surges of unstable magic. If he were doing something reckless, I would feel it. Others would too."