"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "That's part of what makes him so difficult to read. He does nothing outwardly wrong, never lets himself slip. And yet he's always just outside the light, isn't he?"
Snape nodded grimly. "And yet… I haven't caught him doing anything overt. No curses. No hexes. No connection to the Dark Arts—none that I can sense."
Dumbledore's eyes glinted behind his half-moon spectacles. "Because he's not interested in making noise. He's planning something. But what? And why?"
Snape stopped pacing. "If he did take the Stone, what will he do with it?"
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the phoenix on its perch—Fawkes let out a low, solemn trill that echoed in the quiet office.
"Whatever his goal is," Dumbledore said at last, "it is not petty ambition. Elias is not the sort to seek glory. He acts with purpose."
"Then he is dangerous," Snape said bluntly. "Even more than Quirrell, perhaps."
"I don't disagree," Dumbledore said. "But danger does not always lead to darkness. It is a question of what lies at the heart of one's purpose."
Snape's expression hardened. "You sound like you want to believe the best of him."
"I want to believe," Dumbledore replied, "that he is not lost to us. Not yet. There's a difference between a student like Tom Riddle and one like Elias. Tom lied to everyone, even himself. Elias… Elias is honest, in his way. Calculating, but not deceitful."
Snape shook his head slightly. "That honesty may only make him more effective."
"True," Dumbledore said. "Which is why I need you to continue watching him."
Snape arched an eyebrow. "I already am."
"Not just for signs of wrongdoing," Dumbledore said gently. "But for signs of who he is becoming."
Snape was silent, brooding. Finally, he said, "He's too young to be trusted with this kind of power."
"Perhaps," Dumbledore murmured. "But he already has it, doesn't he?"
Snape didn't deny it.
"If the Stone is in his hands," Snape said, "what do we do?"
Dumbledore looked down at the desk, thoughtful. "We wait."
"Wait?" Snape echoed, incredulous.
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "We watch. And we prepare. If Elias used the Philosopher's Stone for learning… research... perhaps it can be tolerated. But if he crosses a line—if he begins seeking what should remain buried—then we act."
Snape exhaled, frustrated. "I hope you're right, Albus. But I've seen too many bright minds walk down dark paths. One small step in the wrong direction…"
"I know," Dumbledore said softly. "But not all paths end in shadow, Severus. Some simply take longer to walk in the light."
With a rustle of robes, Snape turned toward the door.
"I'll keep watching," he said.
Dumbledore gave a faint nod. "Thank you."
As the door closed behind Snape, Dumbledore sat alone once more. The fire cracked gently in the hearth, casting long shadows on the stone walls of the office. His expression was unreadable, deep in thought.
Fawkes shifted again and let out a quiet, sorrowful cry—one that echoed the uncertainty of what was to come.
Because in the heart of Hogwarts, a new force had begun to rise. One shaped not by prophecy or fame… but by choice.
The tale of what had happened beneath Hogwarts was out—though, like most stories, it came in pieces and whispers, woven together by excited students and curious portraits. By the end of the week, everyone knew that Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley had somehow stopped a dark wizard from stealing something precious hidden in the school. The details, of course, changed with every retelling.
Some said the trio had fought a fully grown dragon. Others whispered that Ron had wrestled a troll barehanded while Harry battled a ghostly knight. Hermione, in every version, outwitted an enchanted sphinx with a riddle no professor could solve.
Whatever the truth was, one thing remained constant: Harry Potter had faced You-Know-Who—and lived.
It didn't help that Dumbledore himself made no effort to correct the rumors. Professors said little, and when asked directly, McGonagall simply gave her sharpest look and told students to mind their studies.
For Elias Blackthorn, the rising wave of attention was amusing. He observed everything silently, hidden behind the mask of quiet indifference that had become his signature. While students buzzed about Harry's bravery and Voldemort's shadowy return, Elias listened, calculated, and continued his quiet routines.
He had what he wanted now: the Philosopher's Stone. And more importantly, no one suspected him.
At breakfast in the Great Hall, Daphne leaned over to whisper across the table. "It's getting out of hand. I heard a second-year Hufflepuff say Harry conjured fire with his bare hands."
Elias smirked faintly, swirling his tea. "It's amazing how the truth becomes fiction so quickly."
Daphne rolled her eyes. "It's always Potter. You'd think no one else went to this school."
"He didn't ask for the attention," Elias replied absently, "but he's not shying from it either."
"Hmm. True," she muttered, then added with a glance toward the Gryffindor table, "Granger's been walking around like she discovered magic itself."
Exams came swiftly after that.
The corridors of Hogwarts changed from buzzing with gossip to filled with the rustle of parchment, the clatter of quills, and the occasional groans of stress. Fifth- and seventh-years walked like ghosts, their faces pale with worry. First-years, though less anxious, weren't spared the pressure.
For Elias, the exams were nothing more than a formality. He breezed through each written test and practical assessment with effortless grace, never drawing too much attention to his talent, yet never faltering either.
In Charms, he performed a flawless Levitation Charm and an advanced variation that caused the feather to twist midair in a controlled spiral.
In Transfiguration, he transfigured a matchstick into a dancing, silver-legged beetle with shimmering wings that earned an approving nod from Professor McGonagall.
Potions was as methodical as ever. Snape offered no praise, but neither did he find fault. Elias noticed the man observing him more carefully these days—after Dumbledore's instructions, no doubt—but Snape had yet to catch anything out of line.
As for Defense Against the Dark Arts… Professor Quirrell's absence had been explained away as "extended leave due to illness." A pale-faced substitute wizard from the Ministry came in to supervise the exams, reading spells off cue cards and stumbling through practicals. No one missed Quirrell.
By the time the last exam—History of Magic—was over, the school let out a collective sigh of relief.
"It's over," Ron Weasley groaned dramatically, slumping into a seat under a window in the courtyard. "No more goblin rebellions, no more dates, no more bloody essays."
Hermione scolded him. "You say that every time, and then you forget everything two days later."
Harry grinned as he leaned back against the stone. "I still think Fluffy was worse than the History exam."
The trio was hounded at every turn. Students clung to them in the corridors, pressing them with questions. Some, like Neville, looked at them with newfound awe. Others kept their distance, watching as though unsure if the story of their victory meant Harry was somehow more dangerous now.
From a shaded bench under the beech tree near the Black Lake, Elias watched them from afar.
He didn't envy them.
Their fame was loud and fleeting. His success, silent and enduring.