(300 PS bonus)
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Can the Philosopher's Stone cure illnesses?
The answer is... Yes.
Otherwise, Voldemort wouldn't have risked everything—even in such a weakened state—to sneak into Hogwarts just to try and steal it.
But just like there's no medicine that can cure every disease in the world, the Philosopher's Stone isn't the all-powerful miracle it's rumored to be.
Tom had never seen Daphne look like this before—desperation in her eyes, a spark of hope mixed with fear. She wanted to believe, but she was terrified of what the truth might be.
For once, Tom spoke with extra care. He gently took Daphne's hand.
"Daphne, alchemy is all about equivalent exchange. The Philosopher's Stone is essentially a massive concentration of magical power. If it can grant immortality, that means it can convert magic into life force."
He paused before continuing, his voice soft.
"Some illnesses can be cured by supplementing life force. The body uses it to heal itself. But… others don't work that way. In fact, adding more life force might just end up feeding the source of the sickness, making it worse."
Tom looked her in the eyes, watching her slowly calm down.
"My guess… you're asking this for your sister, right?"
"Yeah." Daphne gave a small nod.
"That's why we need to look at this case by case. I don't even know what's actually wrong with her. I can't just throw out guarantees I can't keep. Tell me what you know about her condition—the more I understand, the more I might be able to help."
Hermione had been holding her breath this whole time, listening intently. A sister? She had no idea Daphne had a little sister who was sick.
Daphne stayed quiet for a long while. She was clearly torn about whether or not to speak, but eventually, she took a deep breath and made up her mind.
"Actually… Astoria's condition isn't really an illness. It's… a curse."
"A curse?!" Hermione blurted out in shock. "Daphne, someone cursed your sister? That's horrible!"
Daphne was eleven. Her sister couldn't be more than ten. Who would be twisted enough to curse a ten-year-old girl?
(Voldemort: Oh, they exist. I personally started cursing babies when I was still a teen. One-day-olds? Fair game.)
But Daphne shook her head.
"This curse wasn't cast on Astoria. It's on the Greengrass family."
She lowered her gaze.
"Over the generations, more than twenty members of our family have died because of it. I had an aunt who passed away before I was even born—she had it too."
"Ever since she was little, Astoria's always been frail and sickly. No matter how much we tried to help her grow strong, she stayed so thin and fragile… even a gust of wind could knock her down."
"I don't know the full details. My mum probably does, but… she's never told me."
Daphne exhaled deeply, having gotten all that off her chest.
Tom and Hermione sat there in silence. What could they even say? No words of comfort would make a difference. Only one thing could ease the weight in Daphne's heart—a real solution to Astoria's problem.
Suddenly, Hermione stood up, startling both Tom and Daphne.
"I'm going to the library. Maybe I can find something—records of similar curses or related magic."
Daphne was genuinely touched by Hermione's gesture.
Aside from always trying to steal Tom's attention, Hermione was actually a really good friend.
Still, Daphne gently pulled her back down to her seat.
"Silly Hermione… this curse has been passed down for generations. It's serious dark magic—maybe even one of the nastiest kinds out there. Even if there's anything written about it, it'd be in the Restricted Section. You won't find anything useful in the general collection."
Hermione paused and realized Daphne was right. All that determined energy she had just moments ago deflated instantly.
"Sorry, Daphne…"
"You don't have to apologize. I will find a way to cure Astoria."
Tom finally spoke up again.
"As pitiful as Astoria's situation is, she probably won't be in immediate danger for now."
That got both girls' attention.
"Our main focus still has to be on our studies. The stronger we are, the more control we have over our own futures—and the more we can do to help others."
Both Daphne and Hermione nodded seriously. Seeing how motivated they were, Tom spontaneously decided to tack on an extra lesson for the day.
After their training ended, Tom stayed behind alone in the Room of Requirement, lost in thought.
He originally hadn't planned on getting involved with the Philosopher's Stone. Dumbledore had eyes on it constantly. Going after it as a first-year? That was just asking for trouble.
But now… Daphne's situation had shaken his resolve.
What if the Stone could help Astoria?
He'd spent the whole semester building a bond with Daphne—he couldn't just ignore her pain. This was his future girlfriend, after all. And Astoria? That made her his future sister-in-law.
So of course he had to help.
...
Tom stepped into his study space and explained the situation to Andros.
After listening, Andros frowned deeply.
"That's one nasty curse. I know a fair bit about curses myself, but something that's lasted this long? Sorry, Tom. Without seeing the girl personally, I can't say for sure. But honestly… it sounds like it might be beyond me."
"As for the Philosopher's Stone—it's worth a shot. Or better yet… why not go straight to Nicolas Flamel?"
"That old geezer's been alive for over six hundred years."
Just mentioning Flamel left Andros in awe. In his time, alchemy wasn't even a proper discipline—just something magic rejects messed around with. But someone who could actually create the Philosopher's Stone? That put Flamel in a league of his own, far above all the charlatans.
"You're right," Tom's eyes lit up. He realized he'd been thinking too small.
If the guy who made the Stone was still alive, then why try to steal it?
Just like that, Tom's goal shifted—from "steal the Philosopher's Stone" to "find a way to meet Nicolas Flamel."
...
The next week
Outside the castle, it rained nonstop, and Tom was thankful he'd finished his potion a few days ago. If he had waited, the damp air would've ruined the whole process.
The increasingly humid dorms were starting to irritate him. His clothes, sheets, even the curtains were getting soggy and gross.
And in that wave of frustration… Tom accidentally created his first original spell.
Before Zabini and the others could even react, water vapor in the air—on the sheets, in his clothes, even mold from the corners of the room—began to swirl and condense into a single green, head-sized orb. The air instantly felt fresher, less stifling. Clearly, the humidity had dropped.
Wait—that worked?
Even Tom was a bit stunned. He'd just been thinking, "Man, I wish I could squeeze all the moisture out of here," and poof—it happened.
"You thought it'd be harder?" Andros laughed when he heard.
"You think inventing magic is some complex ritual? Please."
"If you want to make something happen, your magic can back it up, and you get hit with the right spark of inspiration at the right time… boom. That's how spells are born."
Tom finally understood.
This wasn't math class where you need to show every step or lose points for skipping the logic.
Magic is the exact opposite—pure idealism made real.
Guess magic is busted for a reason. Sometimes, it's nothing more than 'I just felt like it' energy given form.
So when his emotions were running high, and he instinctively wished the room wasn't so damp… a practical little spell was born.
He tossed the water orb into the sink, then tried recreating that exact feeling—and sure enough, he did it again. Only this time, he reversed it. The room got damp again.
Two new spells. Simple ones.
"Exsicco" (Damp-Be-Gone) and "Humectus" (Dry-No-More)—basically a dehumidifying charm and a humidifying charm. Nothing fancy, just everyday household spells.
But Tom was over the moon the entire day. And seeing him so happy, Daphne couldn't help but smile along with him.
The two of them giggled their way through the entire Transfiguration class. Professor McGonagall was so confused she thought they'd been hexed and even checked on them.
Tom had shrugged and said, "No idea, Professor. Just in a really good mood today."
Daphne added with a grin, "I don't know either. Just seeing Tom laugh makes me wanna laugh too."
Hermione smacked her forehead with a sigh.
These two… totally hopeless.
That afternoon, while Tom and Daphne were strolling across the lawn in front of the castle, Tom suddenly spotted Snape emerging from the Forbidden Forest.
His eyes lit up with mischief.
"Professor! Good afternoon."
Snape froze and instinctively took two cautious steps back, then glanced up at the sky.
As far as he could tell, the sun was still rising in the east—nothing was upside down.
Soooo why on earth was Tom greeting him?
Sure, their relationship had mellowed a bit lately, but Tom still didn't show him an ounce of respect. The boy treated him like a coworker—only sucking up a little when he wanted to ask some complex question.
And even then, it was strictly about potions. Nothing personal.
So… yeah. Snape was on full alert now. Something was definitely up.
But Tom just smiled and stepped closer like he hadn't noticed the wary look on Snape's face. Then, lowering his voice with a conspiratorial air, he said, "Professor… you noticed it too, right? Someone messed with Harry's broom during the match on Saturday."
Snape's expression twitched. "What are you talking about? I don't understand."
Tom didn't stop. "I heard Harry thinks you're the one who tried to hurt him. Someone even said they saw you staring at his Nimbus 2000 and muttering under your breath. If it weren't for Professor Quirrell getting injured, Harry probably would've been splattered across the field."
Snape nearly coughed up blood on the spot.
He'd been the one holding off Quirrell's jinx the entire match, and now he was being accused of causing it?
"Utter nonsense!" Snape growled.
He felt more wronged than a squib accused of casting a Killing Curse.
"Who's been spreading this idiocy? Tell me—whoever it is, I'm docking points!"
Snape was genuinely furious now. If he could, he'd lock Harry in detention for a month straight just on principle.
Tom shrugged innocently. "Dunno which Weasley said it—one of the first-years, I think. But since it's all just a misunderstanding, maybe you should go explain things to Harry? Wouldn't want your reputation taking a hit."
"Me, explain to Potter?" Snape gave a dry, incredulous laugh.
"No. Forget it. This isn't a misunderstanding anymore. Potter's absolutely right. I do want to kill him. And Weasley too. Excellent instincts, both of them!"
And with that, Snape stormed off toward the castle, fuming.
Daphne stared at Tom, utterly baffled. "Wait—Tom, aren't you just making things worse for Harry in Potions? I thought you two got along."
"Relax," Tom waved her off. "Even if Snape's furious, he won't actually hurt Harry. Maybe just roast him a bit in class."
"Honestly, I'm mostly targeting Ron. He still owes Hermione an apology for that 'you've got no friends' comment."
"Ohhh…" Daphne finally understood.
---
By Tuesday, Snape had found his perfect revenge.
The moment he walked into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, all the Gryffindor students went stiff and silent, like they'd been choked by invisible hands.
"Professor Quirrell injured his brain during the match," Snape said coolly. "But that's not really a loss. Even a Dementor would be disappointed with what's in there."
He threw out the joke with a smirk—but none of the first-years got it.
Only Hermione got it. She knew that Dementors feed on humans thoughts, memories, and emotions
So basically, Snape was calling Quirrell brainless.
"In more practical terms," Snape went on, "he fell down the stairs, suffered multiple fractures, and refuses treatment from Madam Pomfrey. So… for the next two weeks, I'll be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Harry looked like he'd just died inside.
He never thought he'd miss Quirrell, but right now he'd gladly take memorizing textbook passages and pointless comprehension questions over this nightmare.
"Potter," Snape drawled like he was addressing a pet, "why don't you tell the class—what's the best spell to drive away a horde of ghouls?"
Here it comes. The usual song and dance.
Harry stood up like a zombie. "I don't know, Professor."
"I know you don't."
The Slytherins burst out laughing. Malfoy laughed so hard his neck turned red.
Once the noise died down, Snape gave Harry a slow, satisfied look. "I just want you to realize that it's not only Potions where you're hopelessly behind. You've got to catch up in Defense too."
"This is basic stuff, Potter. Even the idiot Weasley here could answer it. But you? You haven't got a clue."
Ron clenched his teeth so hard he thought they'd crack—but he didn't dare speak up.
"Open your books to page fifty-nine," Snape said lazily. "Take good notes on the Banishing Charm. And please, don't go swinging a bat at the ghouls. You're wizards—not cavemen."
Harry's mind instantly flashed to Fred and George whacking Bludgers with their bats.
So wait…
Was Snape roasting me, Ron, and the twins all in one sentence?
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P.S. I've got like 50 advanced chapters up on Patreon. So if we break into the Top 20 in Power Stones, I'll drop 10 of them immediately!