Elias Blackthorn walked those very halls with the same composed expression as always, dark eyes scanning, observing, calculating.
On the surface, nothing had changed. He still attended lessons with cool precision, answering questions only when required, his magical signature—carefully shielded by his father's ring—still feeble enough to convince even Dumbledore that he was no more than a talented first-year. But beneath the surface, every moment was now focused on one objective: the Philosopher's Stone.
He had no intention of using it for immortality or unlimited gold, as many might. That kind of power was crude. Elias wanted to study it. Understand it. The methods of alchemy used to refine and stabilize such a volatile source of magic were ancient and all but lost. The Stone held secrets from an era before modern magical theory—before regulations and limitations. With its knowledge, he could enhance his magical core expansion or even develop new, safer methods of power advancement.
But to take it, he would need a scapegoat.
And who better than Voldemort?
Elias smiled to himself as he sat through Transfiguration, listening with half an ear as Professor McGonagall lectured the class about switching spells. Across the room, Hermione raised her hand—again—and Elias didn't bother looking up. He wasn't interested in childish competitions. Not anymore. Not when he was moving pieces on a board only a few could even perceive.
That night, after curfew, Elias returned to the Room of Requirement.
He walked past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, focusing his intent with practiced ease. The door materialized without hesitation. Inside, the Room had shifted again—this time reflecting the environment he required: a vast stone chamber, covered in ancient diagrams and floating tomes, with a single shimmering image of the Philosopher's Stone hovering in a sealed, illusionary case. He had conjured it using the Room's ability to manifest his thoughts—a visual aid as he rehearsed entry plans again and again.
He stood before it, arms folded, expression sharp.
"The door is protected by spells keyed to specific magical signatures—Flamel's work, most likely," he muttered, pacing. "The Cerberus—Fluffy—is easy enough with music. Devil's Snare, Winged Keys, the Chessboard…" His mind ticked through each trap laid by the professors. "A test of knowledge, a test of nerve, a test of power… but ultimately flawed. Dumbledore never intended for these protections to stop someone truly powerful. He wanted the Stone found, just not by the wrong hands."
He stopped pacing.
"Which is why I'll let Voldemort open the door. He'll break the wards. And I'll take the prize from under both their noses."
Elias wasn't stupid. He knew Voldemort was dangerous. He had faced Quirrell—possessed by that wretched soul—barely a week ago. The offer to become a follower had been tempting in tone, but utterly absurd. Why would he bind himself to a dying ghost?
He had agreed to help Voldemort retrieve the Stone, yes—but only as a move in a longer game
Elias emerged from the Room of Requirement well after midnight. The halls were quiet, cloaked in that particular hush Hogwarts wore during the late hours, where even the portraits seemed to sleep. He moved with quiet confidence, slipping down a secret staircase behind a tapestry and avoiding any areas patrolled by Filch or Peeves.
The castle might have been ancient and alive with secrets, but Elias had studied it well. He had memorized the patrol routes, the creaking stairwells, and the places where magic lingered like a whisper from the past.
As he entered the common room of Blackthorn House, the fire still crackling low in the hearth, Elias sat for a moment, his expression unreadable.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled.
The plan was nearing its final shape. He had already begun nudging Voldemort in the right direction. The next step was to make sure the Golden Trio—the self-appointed heroes—didn't interfere before the moment was right.
They had recently begun investigating the third-floor corridor, their conversations poorly hidden behind whispers and darting glances in the library and common areas. Potter's arrogance was starting to show, and Hermione's intellect had begun connecting dots that shouldn't have been visible to her.
He didn't need them to stop. He needed them to try—just enough to push Voldemort into acting.
Elias would never forget the way Quirrell's expression had twisted during their last conversation. Not just madness, but desperation. A burning desire to return to life, and a hatred so potent it clung to the air like ash.
Quirrell—or rather Voldemort—would act soon. Elias could feel it. And when he did, it would be under the belief that Elias Blackthorn was his ally.
That belief was crucial.
Back in his room, Elias pulled a worn leather notebook from his trunk. It was not an ordinary diary, but a magical ledger protected with layered charms—his personal notes, theories, and thoughts since the moment he'd awakened in this world.
He turned to a new page and dipped his quill.
"Dumbledore is watching. Snape may begin observing soon, likely under orders. I must maintain appearances—average in class, unremarkable in dueling, uninvolved in gossip. But I can no longer delay the Stone. With Voldemort growing bolder, I estimate two weeks before an incident.
Preparations:
Map Quirrell's movements.
Confirm exact enchantments on the third-floor corridor.
Plant false trail near the library to mislead Hermione.
Prepare concealment and duplication spells for extraction.
I cannot allow Voldemort to obtain the Stone. But I also cannot allow it to be destroyed. Its knowledge is irreplaceable. If I am to break the boundaries of modern magic, I need it."
He set down the quill and leaned back, eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. The ring on his finger shimmered faintly—a reminder that his true power remained hidden beneath layers of illusion.
It wasn't time to reveal what he was.
Not yet.
Over the next few days, Elias played the role of the aloof heir with practiced ease. He participated in classes without drawing attention. He joined his housemates for meals, exchanged polite conversation, and even chuckled at Blaise Zabini's latest sarcastic remarks. But underneath it all, he watched.
During Potions class, he caught Snape's gaze lingering on him longer than usual.
Elias kept his expression neutral, his breathing steady.
The Professor's eyes were sharp, but without direct evidence, Snape would find nothing unusual. The ring did more than conceal magical reserves—it subtly mimicked the aura of a typical first-year. Unless Elias cast advanced spells in front of someone, the illusion would hold.
Even so, caution was essential.
In Defense Against the Dark Arts, Quirrell seemed to be more erratic than usual. His stammer had become exaggerated, and at times, it seemed like he was intentionally watching Elias instead of the class.
They spoke briefly after one lesson—Quirrell's words careful, Voldemort's influence just beneath the surface.
"I hope… you are progressing with your own preparations, Mr. Blackthorn," he had whispered.
"I am," Elias replied coolly. "I suggest you do the same."
There was no further conversation.
He didn't need to push. Voldemort was impatient enough on his own.
A week later, Elias stood once more before the Room of Requirement's conjured Stone.
The room had grown colder, more ominous in its atmosphere, as if it too understood the weight of what he was about to do.
He stretched out a hand, letting the illusion of the Stone hover over his palm. It was beautiful—deep red, glimmering like molten ruby, pulsing with age-old power.