January slipped into February, and the chill outside mirrored the growing tension Elias Blackthorn felt within the castle. The castle's ancient walls held many secrets, but none more guarded than the one hidden beneath the trapdoor on the third floor. Though he had long known the truth about the Philosopher's Stone and the enchantments guarding it, Elias had bided his time, content to watch, to wait—and now, to act.
It began with quiet observation.
Elias sat at the far end of the library one icy morning, pretending to be engrossed in a tome of Latin curse etymology, but his eyes tracked a different thread—Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley huddled in whispers over a stack of books. Their eyes darted around like guilty children raiding a pantry, and though Madam Pince was distracted chasing a second-year boy with a chocolate frog in his sleeve, Elias saw enough.
They had discovered something—just how much, he would have to learn.
Over the next week, he trailed them silently, not by shadow or stealth, but through calculated coincidence. He appeared in hallways they walked, drifted near their tables in the library, and took the long route to the Slytherin dungeons if he saw them lingering near the staircase leading to the forbidden corridor.
Once, outside the greenhouses, he caught part of their conversation:
"I'm telling you, it's Flamel!" Hermione hissed.
"But what's he doing at Hogwarts?" Ron asked, bewildered.
Harry frowned. "It has to be the Stone. That's what it's guarding."
Elias didn't need to hear more. Their knowledge was growing too fast. They would reach the Stone eventually—though likely not before Voldemort made his next move.
That move came sooner than expected.
It was during a Monday Defense Against the Dark Arts class, one of the rare sessions where Quirrell wasn't stammering. In fact, that day, he seemed almost lucid. The classroom was cold, candles flickering lower than usual, and students were uneasy from the moment they sat down.
Quirrell passed Elias as students settled. "Blackthorn, stay after."
The command was soft, almost hesitant, but Elias caught the dark timbre beneath it—the voice behind the voice. Voldemort was stirring.
Class ended early, a dry lecture on banshee shrieks trailing into silence as students fled. Elias remained seated, arms folded as Quirrell locked the classroom with a flick of his wand. When he turned, the professor's face was pale, sweating—but his eyes were wrong. They shimmered unnaturally, too bright, too cruel.
"You've been watching the Potter boy," Voldemort spoke, his voice no longer Quirrell's. "You know what lies beneath the school."
Elias didn't answer. He simply stared, calm.
"You are not like the others," Voldemort mused. "You hide your strength well. Even I can't see your depths. That intrigues me."
Elias's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Flattery, Tom? I expected more."
Quirrell's features twisted—fury flashing across his pale skin, but then a chuckle, hollow and echoing, followed.
"So you know who I am. Impressive." Voldemort stepped closer, his wand not raised, but power coiling beneath his robes like a snake ready to strike. "I can offer you power beyond anything Hogwarts can teach. You could rule beside me, when I return."
Elias tilted his head. "And be second to a half-ghost riding a dying host? Tempting."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed, but Elias continued before he could respond. "Still, we have a mutual interest, don't we? The Stone."
A pause.
"I don't want it for immortality," Elias said. "I need it—for study. For knowledge. But if I were to take it, questions would be asked. Dumbledore would turn the castle upside down looking for the culprit."
"So… you propose what?" Voldemort asked coldly.
"That you take it," Elias said simply. "You make your move. If you succeed, you have your body again. If you fail, you vanish, and I get the Stone in the chaos that follows. Either way, I walk free."
Voldemort stared at him, evaluating. Elias met his gaze with unwavering calm, the ring on his finger quietly suppressing the overwhelming magic surging within him. He didn't need to show power to command attention—he simply needed to offer opportunity.
"You would betray Dumbledore so easily?" Voldemort said finally.
"I serve no one," Elias replied. "But I do value the art of leverage."
The moment hung thick with tension, until Voldemort finally gave a thin, serpentine smile. "Very well… we shall see how useful you are."
The voice faded. Quirrell blinked, sweat pouring down his face, and without another word, staggered from the room.
Elias remained alone for a moment, brushing dust from his robes. The first step had been taken.
The pawn had been placed.
Now it was time to watch the board shift.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was empty, the air inside thick with unease. The torches along the walls flickered, casting long shadows across the rows of desks. At the front of the room stood Professor Quirrell, but his posture was no longer hunched or timid. His back was straight, his eyes sharp and cold as he removed his turban and threw it on the desk with an impatient motion.
A hiss echoed through the room, as if the very air recoiled at what it revealed.
The back of his head pulsed, and then the voice came—dry and snake-like.
"You are troubled, Quirinus."
Quirrell clenched his jaw. He had grown used to the presence, to the whispers in his mind, to the unbearable pressure of housing something far greater than himself. But this time, the words grated differently. There was tension building inside him—curiosity, even resentment.
He turned, addressing the dark silhouette in the mirror that hung on the far wall, enchanted to reflect more than just one's physical image.
"Why?" Quirrell said softly, his voice no longer stammering. "Why did you agree to his terms? Elias Blackthorn defied you. Refused to kneel. And yet… you let him go."
The face in the mirror smirked. Lord Voldemort's ethereal reflection moved without mirroring Quirrell's gestures.
"I let him believe he had power, Quirinus. Do not mistake strategy for weakness."
Quirrell narrowed his eyes. "You let him walk away without punishment. He's dangerous. He's not like the others—he knows too much."
"Exactly," Voldemort said, his voice growing sharper. "He is dangerous. Which is why I want him close."
There was a pause as Quirrell absorbed that.
Voldemort continued, his tone chillingly calm."Power attracts power. And Elias Blackthorn is not merely powerful—he is precise. Calculating. He plans moves like a master duelist—measured, patient. Do you not find it curious that a mere first-year has already uncovered the existence of the Stone?"
"He didn't find it," Quirrell snapped. "He already knew."
"Precisely."
The answer seemed to echo louder than before.
"He knew… far too much. Knowledge beyond his age, beyond what even his prestigious name can justify."
Voldemort's reflection leaned in closer to the glass, his red eyes glowing faintly.
"Which means, Quirinus, he is either what he appears not to be… or he is something even more interesting."
Quirrell crossed his arms. "And you want to use him."
"I want to watch him." Voldemort's voice was a hiss of pleasure. "Let him believe he has control. Let him believe he can manipulate me. That arrogance is useful. It means he will move. He will act. And while he does… we observe. We learn. And when the time comes—"
"He'll betray you," Quirrell said bitterly. "He's not loyal. You saw it in his eyes."
"Of course he will," Voldemort replied with a smirk. "That is what makes him… honest. And honesty is rare among our kind."
Quirrell looked unconvinced. "Then why trust him with knowledge of the Stone?"
"Because he serves a purpose." Voldemort's tone was final. "He becomes the distraction. He draws the attention, the suspicion. If the Stone disappears, the eyes turn to him, not to us. That is a gift I rarely receive."
There was a long silence. The flickering torchlight danced across the cold stone floor.
"But what if he succeeds?" Quirrell finally asked.
"He won't." Voldemort's voice dipped into something dark and certain. "Because I will not allow it. And if he does—then he will have proven himself worthy… of being broken properly."
Quirrell swallowed.
Voldemort turned his attention away, fading from the mirror as the torchlight dimmed.
"Keep close to him, Quirinus. Let him think you are fooled. And when the time is right… we shall see what truly lies beneath that calm face of his."
Quirrell nodded slowly, already dreading the next class with the boy who didn't flinch in the presence of evil.
As he reached for his turban and began to rewrap it around his head, the trembling began to return. Not from fear—but from the growing realization that Elias Blackthorn might not be an ally.