Tver now truly possessed the power to break through the chessboard.
However, he had no immediate plans to steal the Philosopher's Stone. For one, Quirrell's body was in terrible shape—he wasn't even capable of putting up a fight anymore. For another, Tver still needed time to understand and absorb the magic Helga had "left behind."
So, during the final week before the holidays, he canceled all unnecessary activities and devoted himself entirely to reflecting on his experiences in the Forbidden Forest. After that period of absorption, his understanding of magical power reached an entirely new level. For a wizard of his strength, achieving such remarkable progress was almost unbelievable.
And the improvement lay in sheer magical force—he could now, with nothing more than a Pressure Charm, crush a person to death. By his own estimation, in terms of raw magical power alone, he could already rival Dumbledore wielding the Elder Wand.
Of course, even then, he never skipped his weekly Transfiguration research sessions with Dumbledore. The gap in magical philosophy wasn't something brute strength could bridge. Magic wasn't a weapon; its beauty lay not in destructive power but in the vast array of strange and wondrous effects it could create.
Here, a special note of criticism for Voldemort.
On the first day of the holidays, Tver didn't leave the school with the students. Instead, he arrived at the Headmaster's office as planned. Dumbledore sat in his usual seat, his face lively with curiosity as he fiddled with something in his hands. It was clear he'd been waiting for some time.
"Good evening, Headmaster Dumbledore," Tver greeted him.
"My apologies for keeping you waiting. I hadn't expected that in less than four months at this school, I'd already have so much luggage to pack."
He sat down comfortably, though his attention was immediately drawn to what Dumbledore had been studying—
The Philosopher's Stone.
The genuine article.
Tver didn't even need to examine it closely; the waves of magical energy radiating from it were unmistakable. The life force that seeped from the stone made him feel both invigorated and utterly clear-headed. His eyes tightened, his movements freezing for just an instant—but only for an instant. He quickly composed himself again.
Still, Dumbledore noticed the flicker of reaction.
"Good evening," Dumbledore said, lifting the stone in his hand. "I believe you recognize what this is?"
Though it was phrased as a question, his tone left no room for doubt.
Through his half-moon spectacles, Tver met Dumbledore's bright blue gaze.
He smiled calmly. "In the wizarding world, nothing else could contain so much magical power except the legendary Philosopher's Stone."
Dumbledore studied him for a moment, as if searching for a tell, before finally breaking into a cheerful laugh.
"Just as I thought. I was worried a young wizard might not recognize such an ancient relic."
Though Tver kept his face composed, his heart tightened. Snape must have told Dumbledore about his suspicions. And of course, Snape wouldn't keep something this important to himself or investigate it alone.
"Compared to you, I still have a long way to go." He met Dumbledore's gaze with calm composure.
At worst, he could use his position as a teacher as a shield—surely, Dumbledore wouldn't actually attack him. So, did that mean his title as professor had become Dumbledore's safeguard?
Sensing Tver's composure, Dumbledore withdrew his probing look. "No, I meant that few young people, knowing where the Philosopher's Stone is, could resist its temptation."
"Oh? You mean someone's been coveting the Stone?" Tver asked, feigning surprise.
"Yes. During the summer, I decided to test the waters, and sure enough, someone tried to get their hands on it," Dumbledore said with a slight blink.
Tver immediately understood. The fake Philosopher's Stone from the summer had been Dumbledore's test—and most likely the reason he'd later set up a trap to play bait.
"But if you keep the Philosopher's Stone on you, I can guarantee no one will dare make a move," Tver said.
At Hogwarts, trying to steal from Dumbledore was something even Voldemort wouldn't dare to do.
"You flatter me," Dumbledore said, pouring Tver a glass of pumpkin juice himself. "But I'm an old man—I can't keep watch over it day and night. Do you have any ideas?"
Old man? With your energy, unless some curse gets you, you could easily live another fifty years, Tver thought silently, then tentatively suggested, "What about placing it somewhere under strong protection?"
"Excellent idea!" Dumbledore exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm. "That was my plan as well, but I'm still uncertain about the best method of storage. Could you help me come up with a solution?"
"..."
Tver was momentarily at a loss. "Perhaps you could add a mental detection enchantment to the Stone's protection? A thief would certainly desire it, so you could use that—only someone without greed for the Stone could truly obtain it."
Dumbledore clapped his hands approvingly. "Ingenious! It seems I asked the right person tonight. I'll arrange it over Christmas—would you be free to help me?"
"I'm afraid not. Over the holidays, I'll be meeting a very important…" Tver paused briefly, "elder. So I won't be able to stay at the school."
"Besides, with your abilities, Headmaster, you hardly need me looking over your shoulder, do you?"
He didn't believe for a second that Dumbledore was simply discussing the Philosopher's Stone. In truth, the old man was testing him—probing whether he had any desire for it. Even the slightest hint of interest would place him under constant scrutiny from both Snape and Dumbledore, long before Quirrell could divert their attention.
The discussion about the Philosopher's Stone ended there. After that, the two never mentioned it again. Even though it sat on the table before them, neither gave it another glance, as if it were nothing more than an ordinary rock.
...
After finishing his Transfiguration research with Dumbledore, Tver left the Headmaster's office but didn't immediately leave the eighth floor. Instead, he began examining each tapestry, pacing back and forth before them.
He was searching for the Room of Requirement.
If there really was a Ravenclaw Chamber of Secrets, it was hard not to connect it with the Room of Requirement.
But in his previous life, he'd never cared about where that room was. Compared to the famous "silently state your need and pass three times" method, its exact entrance location had never been something he memorized. After all, he'd never expected to transmigrate—let alone into the world of Harry Potter.
So, if anyone came up to the eighth floor now, they'd witness a sight shocking enough to make their jaw drop—Professor Fawley, usually so composed and elegant, darting back and forth like a headless fly.
And in the end, this headless fly was astonished to discover that the Room of Requirement was gone.
He was certain he'd walked the entire length of the eighth-floor corridor, examined every tapestry, and even blocked the vision of several portraits to be thorough.
But still, there was no sign of the Room of Requirement.
Just as Tver frowned, deep in thought, a sudden rumbling noise echoed from across the hall.
He quickly darted into the shadows, hiding behind a tapestry depicting a troll clubbing Barnabas the Barmy.
The opposite wall had turned into a door, and as it opened, a staggering, drunken professor emerged.
Sybill Trelawney—Professor of Divination, and one of the last remaining Seers in the wizarding world.
But her condition was far from good.
She was thin, her green robes hanging loosely around her frame. Her glasses sat crooked on her face, and her hair was a tangled mess, making her look utterly disheveled.
From a distance, Tver could already smell the sharp tang of alcohol on her, and the way she staggered with every step left no doubt about her state.
He'd been searching this corridor for nearly an hour—meaning the professor had likely been inside for just as long. No wonder he hadn't been able to find the Room of Requirement.
Still, Tver had no intention of greeting her. Because of the curse on his body, he harbored a quiet reverence for anything involving prophecy. Unlike most people, he knew this professor truly possessed the gift of foresight. Yet, according to ancient legend, every seer carried a curse—their words were rarely believed.
It was a miserable, tormenting fate. They could glimpse coming truths, yet thanks to that curse and the coincidences it spawned, they were powerless to prevent the disasters they foresaw.
So this woman, who should have been a revered prophet, had instead buried herself in self-doubt, spending her days drinking away her sorrow in the Divination Tower.
Only after Professor Trelawney finally staggered off, steadying herself against the wall, did Tver step forward to face it.
It was just an ordinary stretch of stone—its only notable quality being how thick and solid it looked. Even pressing his hand against it, he couldn't feel the faintest trace of magical energy.
If he hadn't seen the door open there moments ago, he never would have guessed that this was the entrance to the fabled Room of Requirement.
So… what kind of room would it open for him?
Snape's dressing room? Dumbledore's bathroom?
A low rumble sounded.
Before him appeared a lavish, ornate door—complete with a neat little sign labeled "Men."
What kind of response was that supposed to be?
He quickly shook off the ridiculous thoughts crowding his mind and tried to focus.
Ravenclaw's Chamber of Secrets?
Ravenclaw's library?
Her private study?
...
No matter how many times he tried, the Room of Requirement refused to respond. The luxurious bathroom door remained stubbornly in place.
As the sky outside darkened, Tver gave up and simply pushed the door open.
Inside was an opulent washroom filled with beautifully crafted chamber pots.
He barely paid them any mind—well, almost. Their intricate designs did catch his eye for a moment.
Alright, fine, he did wonder briefly which one Dumbledore might have used.
Pushing aside that pointless curiosity, Tver began searching for the source of the room's magic.
I couldn't trace the magic in the badge, but the Room of Requirement's magic has to be detectable.
As his magic flared outward, the room's structure began to unfold before his "eyes."
And Tver almost wished it hadn't.
There was too much.
Countless fine threads wove through the space—five or six strands of will extending from every inch of the floor, each connecting to a different spot on the walls or ceiling.
It was as though the entire room were made of magic itself. But where did all these threads lead?
Surely the Room of Requirement wasn't built from the combined magic of thousands of wizards?!
Wait—he realized something.
The Room of Requirement had a storage chamber for discarded magical objects.
So these threads of will… were they extending from those items?
Tver didn't investigate further. Just probing a dozen magical artifacts earlier had left him dizzy, and now, surrounded by tens of thousands of threads, his magic was already half drained.
Still, he confirmed one thing—he couldn't search for Ravenclaw's chamber the same way he'd searched for Helga's, by following the will threads.
As for the Horcrux hidden in the storage room, he'd come back for it later. For now, dealing with one ring and Quirrell was more than enough.