Chapter 25 : What Lies Beneath
Hogwarts Library — November 12, 1991, 4:30 PM
The Philosopher's Stone stared up at them from the page.
Hermione had assembled a dossier. Three books, a biographical index, two cross-references, and the Chocolate Frog card that Harry had fished from the bottom of his trunk — Dumbledore's face beaming from the gilt border, the text on the reverse listing his achievements in the kind of compressed prose that made six centuries of alchemical partnership sound like a footnote.
"The Philosopher's Stone," Hermione read, her voice pitched low enough that Madam Pince's detection radius couldn't reach, "transforms any metal into pure gold and produces the Elixir of Life, which grants immortality to the drinker. The only known Stone in existence was created by Nicolas Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year and currently resides in Devon with his wife Perenelle."
"So someone's trying to steal a rock that makes you live forever," Ron said. "And Dumbledore's hiding it behind a three-headed dog in a school full of children."
"When you put it like that," Harry said, "it sounds mental."
"It is mental."
"Dumbledore must have his reasons," Hermione said, though her tone carried the particular strain of someone whose faith in authority was being tested by evidence. "The safest place in the wizarding world, besides Gringotts, would be Hogwarts. Under Dumbledore's direct protection."
"Gringotts got broken into," Harry pointed out. "Someone already tried."
The table went quiet. Neville, who'd been listening from behind his Herbology textbook with the expression of someone watching a carriage wreck from a safe distance, gripped Trevor tighter.
"We're not — we're not going to try to get the Stone, are we?" Neville asked.
"No," Matt said. "We're going to figure out who's trying to, and stop them."
"How?"
"By paying attention." Matt leaned forward, keeping his voice at library volume. "We know what's being guarded. We know where it is. Now we need to know who wants it — and what they're willing to do to get it."
"Snape," Ron said immediately. "He tried to get past Fluffy on Halloween. Three gashes on his leg. Open and shut."
"Maybe," Matt said. The same careful qualification he'd planted in the last discussion — the seed of doubt that Snape wasn't the enemy but that needed to grow naturally, not be forced. "He was bitten, which means he went to the third floor. But there could be reasons other than theft."
"Like what?" Ron's scepticism was the uncomplicated kind — Snape was horrible to them, therefore Snape was the villain. The logic was clean and satisfying and wrong, and Matt couldn't say so without revealing why.
"Like checking the protections," Hermione said slowly. She'd been thinking — Matt could see it in the way her eyes moved, cross-referencing, building hypotheses. "If Snape is responsible for one of the protections guarding the Stone, he'd need to go past Fluffy to maintain it."
Ron opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. The idea was too reasonable to dismiss without looking stupid, and Ron — for all his impulsiveness — wasn't stupid.
"So who else?" Harry asked. "Who else might want it?"
Quirrell. Voldemort. The thing wearing a turban and smelling of garlic. The answer sat behind Matt's teeth like a stone. He swallowed it.
"Anyone who wants immortality," he said instead. "Or unlimited gold. That's a short list of powerful wizards, and a long list of desperate ones. We should watch everyone — not just Snape."
"Everyone," Hermione repeated, and her eyes flickered to Matt with the particular precision of someone who was, indeed, watching everyone. Including him.
The conversation shifted to logistics. Hermione would continue researching the Stone's properties and protections — "if we know what's defending it, we know what someone would need to overcome." Harry would monitor Snape's movements — "I've got the Quidditch excuse to be around the grounds." Ron would cover the Gryffindor common room gossip network — "nobody tells secrets better than Fred and George."
Matt would watch Quirrell.
He didn't say this out loud. He said, "I'll cover the professors — who's spending extra time near the third floor, who's acting different, who's stressed." It was broad enough to include everyone without singling out the stammering Defence teacher.
"What about me?" Neville asked. His voice was small, but it was there — present, willing, terrified but not running. Whisper, draped across his shoulders like a smoke-grey stole, purred agreement.
"Herbology," Matt said. "If there's a plant-based protection — Devil's Snare, Venomous Tentacula, anything — you'll know what it is and how to get past it. You're our expert."
Neville straightened. Half an inch, maybe less, but Matt noticed because he'd been watching Neville's posture for weeks — the gradual unbending of a boy who'd spent his life being told he wasn't enough. "I — I'll try."
"That's all anyone can do."
The library clock chimed five. They scattered — Gryffindors to their tower, Matt to Ravenclaw, Neville to the greenhouses where his Mimbulus Mimbletonia needed evening watering.
Matt climbed the spiral staircase alone. His mind ran the same calculations it had been running since September: timeline, risks, intervention points. The Flamel discovery had happened six weeks early. The investigation was ahead of schedule. That gave him breathing room — or compressed the danger. He wasn't sure which.
In the common room, Terry Boot was playing wizard chess against Michael Corner. Michael was losing badly. Terry looked up.
"You've got that look again."
"What look?"
"The one where you're thinking about seventeen things at once and none of them are homework."
Matt sat in the armchair beside the fire. Whisper appeared from the dormitory staircase and settled in his lap with the proprietary air of a creature reclaiming her territory. "I'm thinking about homework."
"You're lying."
"That's also homework. Ravenclaws should practise detecting deception."
Terry snorted and captured Michael's bishop. Matt pulled out his coded journal and added a new entry: a rough timeline, written in veterinary cipher, of every event between now and June. The Quidditch match. The dragon egg. The forest. The trapdoor.
His handwriting was steady. His stomach, traitorously, growled — he'd missed dinner. The library sessions kept running long, and his eleven-year-old metabolism had opinions about skipped meals.
He closed the journal and went to find food.
Want more? The story continues on Patreon!
If you can't wait for the weekly release, you can grab +10, +15, or +20 chapters ahead of time on my Patreon page. Your support helps me keep this System running!
Read ahead here: [ patreon.com/system_enjoyer ]