With Quirrell out of the picture, Harry's broomstick finally returned to normal.
He dived sharply—so suddenly that Higgs thought Harry had lost control and paid him no attention, staying focused on spotting the Golden Snitch.
Then, to everyone's shock, they saw Harry clutch his mouth as if he were about to vomit… and out popped the Snitch.
Just like that, in the most absurd way imaginable, the match was over.
Gryffindor won 170 to 60. Slytherin was devastated. Gryffindor, on the other hand, was celebrating like it was Christmas morning.
No one could have predicted Harry's "mouth skills" were that good—he had caught the Golden Snitch with his mouth. Flint accused him of cheating, but Madam Hooch didn't entertain the complaint.
The rules never said how the Snitch must be caught.
As the crowd gradually dispersed and everyone made their way back to the castle, discussions about the match filled the air—but so did speculation about what had happened to Professor Quirrell.
Many students had seen him get nailed in the head by a rogue Bludger, and it wasn't pretty.
For a regular person, that kind of hit would've meant immediate unconsciousness—or worse. But not only did Quirrell stay conscious, he refused medical treatment and limped back to the castle on his own.
Surprisingly, people started to admire him. At least in terms of pain tolerance and sheer resilience, they were willing to call him the toughest around.
…
Inside Hagrid's hut…
"It was Snape," Hermione explained to Harry and Hagrid. "I saw him through my binoculars—he was muttering a spell at Harry's broom. I was going to go stop him, but halfway there, Quirrell got hit by the Bludger, and Snape stopped casting. Then Harry caught the Snitch."
Hermione had originally intended to find Tom and Daphne after the match but couldn't resist Hagrid's enthusiastic invitation. This was also the perfect opportunity to tell Harry what she'd seen.
"Rubbish," Hagrid said gruffly, not buying it. "Why would Snape do something like that?"
"I think he's trying to steal whatever's on the fourth floor," Harry suddenly said.
Hagrid stiffened. "What did you say? Wait—how do you know what's on the fourth floor?"
"I don't," Harry said honestly, shaking his head. "But on Halloween, I saw Snape limping down from upstairs. His leg was injured. I think he got bitten—by the three-headed dog."
"You know about Fluffy?!" Hagrid was utterly stunned now.
"Fluffy? That's the dog's name?" Hermione latched onto the detail immediately.
"Uh… yeah. I bought him off a Greek fella. Loaned him to Dumbledore to guard—" Hagrid cut himself off mid-sentence. He looked from Hermione to Ron and Harry—all of them staring at him with bright, curious eyes—and clamped his mouth shut. "I'm not telling you anything more."
"Snape's a teacher here," Hagrid added defensively. "Even if he hated James—"
"James?" Harry perked up immediately. "Hagrid, are you saying Snape knew my dad?"
Waving a massive arm as if trying to shoo away the topic, Hagrid muttered, "That was just some old grudge. Has nothing to do with you. Just forget about Fluffy. Forget what he's guarding."
"That's between Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel—"
"Nicolas Flamel?" Hermione gasped.
Another name unlocked. Hermione instantly jotted it down in her mental notes.
Smack!
Hagrid slapped himself across the face, then physically pushed them out of the hut.
…
In the Forbidden Forest...
The elixir was nearly ready. Tom sent Kaka away, deciding to handle the final phase himself.
The moment he added the dragon heart, the potion began to boil violently, releasing a terrifying amount of heat as clouds of white vapor billowed upward.
Tom cast a light wind spell to disperse the steam without disrupting the potion.
About thirty minutes later, the contents of the cauldron had been reduced by half. The color had transformed into the deep blood-red hue Andros had described.
The thick, slightly viscous liquid shimmered like flowing, molten gemstone.
"Andros… you sure this stuff's safe?" Tom asked cautiously. This wasn't just any potion—it was imported, and far too dangerous to take lightly.
Andros took a close look and confirmed, "The color checks out. Smell it—do you get a faint sharpness with a hint of blood?"
Tom nodded. That's exactly what he smelled.
"Then it's right. Drink it—no hesitation."
With Andros's assurance, Tom felt less nervous. He took out a balance scale and began portioning the potion.
Each dose was precisely five ounces—about 140 grams. One batch yielded seven doses—enough for seven uses.
Without hesitation, Tom grabbed a vial and downed it.
The thick, syrupy liquid stuck to his throat, refusing to go down. Tom had to gulp several times before it finally slid into his stomach. His eyebrows twisted into a knot—it felt like he'd just drunk a pint of long-coagulated blood.
Before he could even complain to Andros, the potion took effect.
It was like a volcano erupted inside him, spreading molten heat throughout his body.
Tom's face turned crimson. Steam began to rise off his skin. Even in near-freezing temperatures, it felt like he'd stepped into a sauna.
He quickly shifted into action mode and summoned Andros.
"Didn't you say there were specific movements? Teach me—quickly."
Andros didn't waste time. Fearing the potion's power might dissipate, he immediately demonstrated a sequence of bizarre, ritualistic poses.
Individually, they were meaningless. But when performed under the influence of the Vitality Elixir, they enabled Tom's body to absorb its effects much faster and more efficiently.
While wizards like Dumbledore and Voldemort could overpower dragons and sphinxes without blinking, that didn't mean their physical essence was stronger than those magical beasts. They were still humans—just smarter, and more deeply attuned to magic.
The potion's principle was simple: by ingesting the essence of high-tier magical creatures, one could elevate their own life force. The benefits went beyond raw strength—it enhanced mental clarity, magical stamina, and even extended lifespan.
Over the next ten minutes, Tom, led by Andros, completed the sequence of movements three times. With his sharp memory, Tom committed every step to heart.
Each round of poses burned off some of the potion's energy, and gradually, the raging heat inside him began to cool.
An hour later, Tom's body temperature had returned to normal, and his energy had been completely drained. He ended the session in a rather bizarre pose and couldn't help but mutter aloud:
"Train your form to mirror the crane, scriptures in hand beneath pine trees."
"I seek the Way, but none can answer—clouds drift in the sky, water rests in the jar."
…What the hell was that?
Inside the learning space, Andros was full of question marks.
Thanks to the nature of the space, he could understand whatever language Tom spoke—every word made sense individually, but strung together? None of it clicked.
"It's nothing," Tom exhaled a mouthful of foul air, finally finishing the set. "Just feeling philosophical for a moment."
The old Taoist really was something else. Was he a wizard too?
Despite having pushed himself through an intense hour of physical training, Tom felt better than ever. His body brimmed with vitality, his mind felt clear, and his thoughts sharp.
As for his magic…
"Diffindo!"
His wrist flicked like lightning, and a flash of light shot from his wand—instantly slicing a tree into a pile of splinters that rained down onto the forest floor.
"My spells feel more… vicious now," Tom observed.
Andros wasn't surprised in the slightest. "That's to be expected. When your mental state shifts, the energy within your spells does too."
"Now that your physical endurance has increased, your magical growth will accelerate. You can start learning some larger-scale magic."
Tom nodded—he liked firepower.
If overwhelming strength could solve a problem, why waste time on clever tricks? Simpler, more brutal solutions were often the best.
He took out another bottle of the Strengthening Elixir.
Just one bottle had made this much difference. What if he took them all? He'd be unstoppable!
Sensing where his thoughts were headed, Andros quickly intervened. "There's still residual potency from the last dose in your system. You'll need time to absorb it—at least a week before your next dose."
"…Fine." Tom regretfully tucked the bottle away.
He quickly tallied up his potion ingredients. Everything else he either had on hand, could gather in the Forbidden Forest, or buy from Diagon Alley.
The only things he was missing were sphinx eyes and dragon hearts—the two key ingredients.
He had six more vials of the potion left. Taking one per week would get him right up to Christmas break.
According to Andros, the effects would stop showing after twenty or thirty bottles—so the road ahead was still long.
Missing ingredients… and the first person Tom thought of was his own Head of House.
But he soon gave up on that idea.
Not because he couldn't steal from him—he had already stolen the last of both those ingredients from Snape's stash. But Snape wasn't stupid. The man had probably hidden what was left, and it wasn't like the shelves would magically restock just for Tom to loot.
Better to wait until Christmas and source the materials from Diagon Alley or Knockturn Alley.
After packing up his cauldron and scale, Tom left the Forbidden Forest with a spring in his step.
His body felt great, better than ever—but he was starving. He could eat an entire cow raw if it stood still long enough.
…
At lunch, he ate about 1.5 times his usual absurd amount of food.
Then, without resting, he raced to the Room of Requirement.
Normally, he would train with Hermione and Daphne from morning till noon every Saturday. But thanks to the Quidditch match, they had shifted the session to the afternoon.
When he arrived, the two young witches were deep in discussion—Hermione looked flustered, and Daphne wasn't any calmer. She was visibly angry.
"No way. Absolutely impossible!"
"But that's what we saw—he's the prime suspect!"
"What do you mean, suspect?" Tom stepped in, walking over to them.
"Tom, you're just in time," Daphne immediately rushed over to him, fuming. "Hermione's saying Professor Snape secretly used magic to mess with Potter's broomstick!"
"I saw it with my own eyes!" Hermione said urgently. "Snape was staring at Harry's broom and muttering something the whole time. But the second Professor Quirrell got hit, Snape stopped—and Harry got control of his broom again, and caught the Snitch!"
"Hmm…" Tom nodded, looking thoughtful.
Just as Hermione thought he was about to believe her, Tom spoke again:
"If we go by that logic, then I also saw Quirrell doing the exact same thing. The moment he got hit by the Bludger, Harry's broom went back to normal. Doesn't that make him a suspect too?"
"Quirrell?" Hermione blinked, stunned—and even Daphne looked shocked.
Could Quirrell… really pull that off?
"If he was responsible, then why would Quirrell go after Harry?" Hermione asked, frowning.
Tom shrugged. "Beats me. I don't really care about the why either. Now stop wasting time—get back to practicing the Shield Charm. That's way more important than playing detective."
Seeing Daphne already pulling out her wand, Hermione forced herself to set aside the swirling thoughts in her head and resumed training.
…
After the lesson, back in the Gryffindor common room, Hermione told Harry what Tom had said.
Harry shook his head immediately. "There's no way it was Professor Quirrell."
"Sure, he's not the strongest wizard, but he's never done anything to me. He has no reason to try and hurt me."
Then he offered Hermione a sympathetic smile. "I get why Tom thinks that way, though. No one wants to believe their own Head of House is a bad guy."
"Anyway, I'm more worried about that thing on the fourth floor. By the way, Hermione—do you know who Nicolas Flamel is?"
Harry's curiosity was now burning at full force. What kind of treasure would Dumbledore go to such lengths to protect?
Hermione furrowed her brows. She'd read a lot of books, but not one had ever mentioned that name.
…
"Nicolas Flamel? Sure I know."
The next day in the courtyard, Tom replied breezily when Hermione brought up the name. "He's basically a living legend in alchemy—he and Dumbledore discovered the thirteenth use of dragon's blood. But his biggest achievement? Creating the Philosopher's Stone."
"With it, he can produce the Elixir of Life and turn metals into gold. He's over six hundred and sixty years old now."
"Elixir of Life?!" Hermione and Daphne both gasped.
"Well, kind of." Tom clarified, "The immortality part is real—but the eternal youth part is a stretch. After six hundred years, he and his wife are basically shriveled bags of bones. A strong breeze might snap them in two."
"Oh." Daphne immediately lost all interest.
After all, the first thing any woman cared about—no matter her age—was appearance. If the stone made you live forever but look like a dusty old hag… she'd rather die. That kind of eternal life sounded like pure torture.
Seeing Daphne's reaction, Hermione quickly chimed in, "But it can also make gold! With the Philosopher's Stone, you'd never be poor again."
Daphne looked utterly unbothered. "Gold? That stuff's not even rare. My family owns several gold mines. We're never going to run out of it."
Oof…
Tom felt like his gut had just taken another critical hit. He was so fragile now that even emotional jabs left him reeling.
Just then, Daphne seemed to remember something. She suddenly jumped to her feet, startling Hermione.
Grabbing Tom by the shoulders, she stared at him with urgency. "If it really makes you immortal… can the Philosopher's Stone cure diseases too?"