The warm, flickering candlelight danced across the walls of the Headmaster's circular office, casting long shadows over bookshelves and ancient trinkets. The subtle ticking of magical instruments filled the silence, broken only when the heavy oak door opened.
"Severus," Dumbledore greeted softly, gesturing to the seat before him.
Snape entered, his dark robes billowing slightly behind him, and sat without a word. His face, as always, was a mask of calm suspicion.
"You've been observing Elias Blackthorn, I presume?" Dumbledore began, folding his hands on his desk.
Snape gave a measured nod. "I have. As you requested."
"And?"
Snape's brow furrowed slightly as he began, "He is... unusually composed for his age. Self-contained, disciplined, far too reserved to be a typical first-year. He draws no attention to himself—but not from shyness. It's intentional. Calculated."
Dumbledore's blue eyes studied him carefully. "Do you believe he is hiding something?"
"There is no doubt about that," Snape replied smoothly. "But I do not believe it is dangerous—at least, not yet."
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. "Explain."
Snape nodded. "I've noticed him walking the castle alone, particularly at night. He avoids patrols expertly, never raising suspicion. Twice, I confirmed him heading toward the Restricted Section of the library. He doesn't linger, and he doesn't take anything with him. He studies—quickly and purposefully."
"A seeker of knowledge, then," Dumbledore mused. "Does his behavior concern you?"
"It does," Snape said bluntly. "His level of caution—his precision—is not something one sees in a normal eleven-year-old. It reminds me of... Riddle."
There was a beat of silence before Dumbledore responded. "You believe there are similarities?"
"In their discipline, yes. In their secrets, certainly. But not in their intent. Not yet."
Snape's tone shifted slightly as he continued, "There's something else. Something important."
Dumbledore looked at him over his glasses.
"I've sensed no dark magic from the boy," Snape said firmly. "Not even a flicker. Powerful wizards, as you know, can often feel the traces of dark influence—intention, magical residue, even in subtle spells. Blackthorn radiates nothing of the sort."
"That's... reassuring," Dumbledore said thoughtfully.
Snape raised a finger. "However—there are ways to conceal such things. Magical veils, cloaking enchantments, alchemical bindings… methods to suppress aura, especially for those trained in the Dark Arts. But they are advanced. Very advanced. And Elias Blackthorn, for all his composure, is still a first-year. It's highly unlikely—even impossible—that he would be capable of such sophisticated concealment. Unless someone else is doing it for him."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with that unreadable glint. "Lucian Blackthorn, perhaps?"
Snape nodded. "Possibly. Lucian was always a shadowed figure. Never openly aligned with either side during the war, yet his family profited immensely. He has influence, resources, and secrecy on his side."
Dumbledore leaned back, fingers tapping rhythmically on the wood. "Elias shows no overt interest in the events unfolding at the school—Quirrell, for instance. Nor has he befriended Potter, or any of the trio. He walks a separate path."
"He's watching," Snape said. "Learning. And yet, I can't tell what he wants."
Dumbledore's voice grew softer, thoughtful. "Then we'll give him something else to watch. Keep an eye on him, Severus. Discreetly. Pay attention to how he grows, who he trusts, what he seeks. And most importantly—if he changes."
Snape's dark eyes narrowed. "You believe he might?"
"I don't know," Dumbledore said honestly. "But the kind of discipline he shows... it can be dangerous, if not tempered by guidance. I fear what might happen if he walks a path without light."
Snape stood, his robes rustling. "I'll keep watch."
"One more thing," Dumbledore added as Snape turned to go. "Don't confront him. Not unless absolutely necessary. Let him feel free, for now."
Snape gave a brief nod and exited, the heavy door shutting quietly behind him.
Dumbledore remained still, gazing into the depths of the office as Fawkes stirred on his perch, letting out a soft, melancholy note. In his heart, the old wizard was uncertain. There had been many promising children at Hogwarts. But Elias Blackthorn was not promising—he was already prepared.
And that was what made him dangerous.
The castle had fallen quiet after dinner. The torches along the corridors flickered lazily, casting long shadows over ancient stone as Elias Blackthorn made his way back to the Slytherin common room. His footsteps echoed faintly in the halls, the murmur of students fading behind him as he slipped deeper into the castle's familiar chill.
The Great Hall's golden warmth lingered in his memory—chatter about homework, gossip of upcoming exams, speculation on Quidditch standings. Daphne had teased him lightly for his silence during the meal, nudging him with a grin and asking if he was plotting something.
He had merely smiled. Polite. Detached. As always.
But in truth, his thoughts had wandered elsewhere—caught on the fleeting glance he'd exchanged with Dumbledore, and the subtle observation in Professor Snape's narrowed eyes.
They were watching him now.
He knew it.
He stepped through the entrance to the Slytherin dorms after murmuring the password and made his way up to his private room. The heavy door clicked shut behind him with a soft thud, muffling the distant sounds of the dungeons. With a flick of his wand, the room came to life—soft lamps glowed on his desk, the fireplace sparked to a low, steady flame.
Elias exhaled, pulling off his outer robes and hanging them neatly on the stand. The enchanted ring on his finger gleamed faintly in the firelight, its presence comforting.
The shield remains intact, he thought. No one sees what I am.
He sat on the armchair near the hearth, eyes lost in the dancing flames. The conversation between Snape and Dumbledore earlier that day—though unheard by him—could be guessed easily. He wasn't naive. He had been far too careful, far too calm, for a boy of eleven. The moment he defied expectations, they would take notice.
Snape will likely observe me more closely now. Dumbledore may try subtle tests, questions. Perhaps even Legilimency, if he's desperate enough. A faint smile curved his lips. Let them try. I have done nothing wrong.
He stared at the fire, his expression unreadable.
I have not touched Dark magic. Not yet.
He knew the signs of corrupted wizards—seen them etched in twisted faces, distorted eyes, hunched forms, and the hollowed echoes of their voices. Magic that draws on malice, fear, and death left its mark—not only on the body but on the soul.
And Elias was not ready to offer his soul to power. Not yet.
The time will come, he told himself, voice soft as a whisper. When my soul is strong enough to endure the cost. When my resolve is unshakable. Then I will wield the darker currents. On my terms.
For now, he would continue his path as he had begun—measured, strategic, patient. There was no need to draw suspicion, no gain in rushing into power he had not yet mastered.
Dumbledore suspects, but he does not know. Snape watches, but he has seen nothing.
His training would continue in silence. His magic would grow in the shadows. He had already begun preparing for the second ritual of magical core strengthening—next year. The first had already borne fruit; he could feel it pulsing through him like a deeper heartbeat, slow and powerful.
He stood and crossed the room, drawing a worn leather-bound journal from his drawer—notes on rituals, family grimoires, meditations passed down through the Blackthorn line.
He would make no mistakes.
He flipped to a blank page and began writing in his refined script:
"There is a difference between walking in darkness and becoming it."
"I will master both light and shadow, but I will lose myself to neither."
As the fire burned low and the castle slipped into deeper silence, Elias closed the book and placed it beside his wand. The ring on his finger shimmered once, sealing away his magical reserves beneath the veil of a harmless schoolboy.
No one would know.
Not yet.
And as he slid beneath the covers, eyes closing to the hum of power in his veins, he whispered to the silence:
"I don't need to prove anything to them."