Can the Philosopher's Stone cure illness?
The answer is yes—otherwise, Voldemort wouldn't have risked everything to sneak into Hogwarts in his weakened state just to seize it.
But just like no potion can cure all diseases, the Stone isn't as omnipotent as the legends claim.
Tom had never seen Daphne like this before. Anxious, hopeful, yet visibly afraid—afraid that the answer would disappoint her, afraid to face the truth.
For once, even Tom chose his words carefully. In front of Hermione, he gently held Daphne's hand and said,
"Daphne, alchemy at its core is about equivalent exchange. The Philosopher's Stone is essentially a massive concentration of magical energy. Its ability to grant immortality proves that magic can be converted into life force."
"Some illnesses... can be healed when the body is supplied with enough life force. But some... some actually feed off it. In those cases, more life force just worsens the condition."
His tone was soft, his eyes steady as he looked at Daphne, who had begun to calm down. "Let me guess—you're asking this for your sister, aren't you?"
"Mhm," Daphne nodded.
"So we need to approach this logically. I still don't know exactly what's wrong with your sister. How could I give you any kind of promise without knowing the details? Can you tell me what's going on with her? The more I know, the better I can help."
Hermione was also watching Daphne now, holding her breath and keeping perfectly quiet. She had no idea Daphne even had a sick sister.
Daphne fell silent for a long time, clearly hesitating. At last, she took a deep breath and made up her mind.
"Actually, Astoria's condition isn't exactly an illness. It's a curse."
"A curse?!"
Hermione gasped aloud. "Daphne, someone cursed your sister? That's horrible!"
Daphne was eleven—her sister couldn't be more than ten. Who could be cruel enough to curse a ten-year-old child?
Voldemort (in spirit): Please. I cursed a one-year-old. Age is just a number.
But Daphne shook her head at Hermione's shock.
"This curse wasn't placed on Astoria specifically—it targets the entire Greengrass family."
"More than twenty of my ancestors have died from it. I had an aunt who died before I was even born. She was cursed too."
"Since she was little, Astoria's been frail—sickly and weak. No matter how much we fed her, she stayed thin. The wind could knock her over."
"I don't know the specifics. I'm sure my mother does, but she's never told me."
Daphne finished in one breath and let out a long sigh.
Tom and Hermione both fell silent. There wasn't anything they could say. Empty words wouldn't help. Only solving the problem would ease Daphne's heart.
Hermione suddenly stood up, prompting Daphne and Tom to look at her in confusion.
"I'm going to the library. There might be records about similar curses."
Daphne was touched. Hermione could be insufferable when it came to competing for Tom's attention, but aside from that, she really was a good friend.
Still, she tugged Hermione back down to sit.
"Silly Hermione. This is a hereditary curse passed down through generations. It's undoubtedly powerful dark magic. Even if the school has records, they'd be in the Restricted Section. You think they'd just let you find something like that out in the open?"
Hermione thought about it and deflated. "You're right... Sorry, Daphne."
"You don't need to apologize. I'll find a way to cure Astoria."
Tom finally spoke, drawing the girls' attention back to him. "Astoria's situation is tragic, but I doubt anything serious will happen to her right away."
"Our main task right now is still to study. Only by becoming stronger can we even hope to change things."
Daphne and Hermione both nodded seriously. Seeing their motivation, Tom decided on the spot to squeeze in one more lesson that day.
After their training ended, Tom stayed alone in the Room of Requirement, deep in thought.
Originally, he had no intention of getting involved with the Philosopher's Stone. Dumbledore had been watching it like a hawk. A first-year trying to steal it? He'd be crucified.
But Daphne's guess had shaken Tom's resolve.
What if the Stone could help Astoria?
He couldn't pretend not to care. After all the time he'd spent bonding with Daphne since the start of term, he had a soft spot now. This girl was going to be his future girlfriend. That made Astoria his future sister-in-law.
And the sister-in-law's... well, let's say if you round things up, half her butt belongs to the brother-in-law.
So... technically, the whole butt was his responsibility.
How could he not help?
He entered his study space and shared everything with Andros.
After hearing him out, Andros frowned deeply. "That's a vicious curse. I've studied many curses, but for one to last that long through a bloodline... I'm sorry, Tom. Without seeing her condition for myself, I can't make promises. But I'll be honest—there's a good chance I won't be able to help."
"As for the Philosopher's Stone, though... that's worth a try. Or better yet, just go directly to Nicolas Flamel."
"Damn. The man's over six hundred years old and still kicking. I've never even heard of him before."
The moment Andros mentioned Flamel, even he couldn't hide his awe. Back in his era, alchemy wasn't even a formal discipline—just a pastime for wizards with low magical talent.
But anyone who could create a Philosopher's Stone clearly wasn't some fraud like those back then. Flamel was on a whole different level.
"That makes sense," Tom's eyes lit up. He suddenly realized he'd been stuck thinking in the wrong direction.
The guy who made the Philosopher's Stone was still alive.
So why bother trying to steal the Stone, when you could just talk to the man?
In an instant, Tom's plan shifted—from stealing the Stone… to finding a way to contact Nicolas Flamel.
The new week arrived with a biting chill. Outside the castle, a relentless, drizzling rain cloaked the grounds in gray. Tom was grateful he'd finished brewing his fortifying potion just a few days earlier—had he delayed any further, he'd have had to stop, pack it up, and wait for sunlight to return before continuing.
The damp had crept indoors too, and the dormitory now reeked of moisture. Clothes, bedding, even the curtains—everything felt soggy. It was driving Tom mad with irritation.
And it was precisely during this bout of frustration that he did something extraordinary:
He accidentally invented a spell.
Before the stunned eyes of Zabini and the others, the moisture in the air and even from the blankets and clothes began to gather into a single point. Mold stains lurking in dark corners were pulled free, sucked toward the center.
Before long, a greenish, melon-sized orb of condensed water and mildew hovered in the middle of the room. The air felt noticeably drier, clearer. It was working.
Had he really just created a new spell?!
Tom could hardly believe it. He'd merely thought to himself: "If only I could squeeze all the moisture out of this place." And just like that—it worked.
"What did you think spell invention was?"
Andros chuckled when he heard about it.
"Some complicated, ritualistic nonsense? No—if you have a clear goal, your magical power supports it, and you catch a flash of inspiration… boom. A new spell."
Tom got it.
This wasn't like solving arithmetic problems where you needed strict logic and structure. Magic wasn't bound by reason—it was pure willpower made real.
In some sense, magic was really just 'I think, therefore it happens.'
His frustration had reached a boiling point—and in that moment, he'd inadvertently invented a very practical household spell.
Tom tossed the water orb into the washroom, then sat back down and focused on that same feeling. Before long, he succeeded again—but in reverse. Now the room began to re-dampen.
Two new spells, born from frustration:
-> "Moisture Banish & Mildew Cleanse" – a dehumidifying and purifying spell.
-> "Dampening Mist Enchantment" – a spell to humidify and re-moisten an area.
Tom was over the moon. These two humble domestic charms had him smiling all day. And when Tom was happy, Daphne was happy.
The two of them giggled through their entire Transfiguration class like children. Professor McGonagall kept glancing over, half-suspecting they'd been jinxed.
"I don't know, Professor," Tom said innocently. "I just feel really good today. Like laughing."
"Me too," Daphne added. "When Tom smiles, I can't help smiling back."
Hermione pressed a palm to her forehead.
These two idiots were beyond saving.
…
That afternoon, Tom and Daphne went for a walk on the grassy grounds outside the castle. That's when he spotted a familiar figure emerging from the Forbidden Forest: Professor Snape.
Tom's eyes lit up. Grinning slyly, he led Daphne straight into the man's path.
"Good afternoon, Professor."
Snape took two instinctive steps backward and glanced suspiciously at the sky.
By every astronomical measure, the sun still rose from the east. So why—why—was Tom Riddle voluntarily greeting him?
Sure, their relationship had improved recently, but Tom still treated him like a colleague, not a professor. Only when asking specific potion-related questions would he show anything resembling flattery—and even then, strictly professional.
This sudden pleasantry?
Definitely a trap.
Snape was on full alert.
But Tom just kept smiling like a harmless kitten, stepping closer despite Snape's retreat.
"Professor, you must've noticed—something was tampered with during Saturday's Quidditch match. Harry's broom, the Nimbus 2000—it was cursed."
Snape's eyes narrowed.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Tom, undeterred, went on casually:
"Well, rumor has it... Harry thinks it was you. Said someone saw you muttering under your breath while staring at his broom. If Quirrell hadn't been injured, Harry would've gone splat."
Snape nearly choked on his own rage.
He'd risked everything to counteract Quirrell's dark curse—and now he was the suspect?
"Nonsense!" Snape barked, furious.
This was beyond unfair. It was like accusing a Squib of killing Dumbledore with the Killing Curse.
"These idiotic accusations—who's been spreading them? Tell me! I'll deduct house points until they cry!"
He was dead serious. If Harry didn't shut his mouth soon, Snape would gladly lock him in detention for weeks.
"I'm not sure exactly," Tom said innocently. "One of the Weasley twins, maybe? But if it's all a misunderstanding, maybe you should just clear it up with Harry? Save your reputation, you know."
"Explain myself… to Potter?"
Snape let out a strangled laugh of disbelief.
"No. Now that he's made the accusation—it's no longer a misunderstanding. He's absolutely right. I am trying to kill him. Him, and Weasley too. Perfect!"
With a dramatic flourish, Snape swept past them, storming off toward the castle.
Daphne blinked.
"Tom... you're not worried Harry already suffers enough in Potions? I thought you two were kind of friendly?"
Tom waved her off.
"Relax. Even if Snape explodes, he won't actually hurt Harry. He'll just… torment him a little."
"This is about Ron. He still owes Hermione for calling her a friendless know-it-all."
"Ahhh," Daphne nodded in understanding.
…
By Tuesday, Snape had found his chance for revenge.
As he strode into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, every Gryffindor stiffened like prey sensing a predator.
"Professor Quirrell suffered a head injury during the match," Snape said coldly. "Not that it matters. Even a Moke would pity his brain."
A grim joke.
A Moke was a rare, shrinking lizard. Not exactly brainy.
Hermione turned beet red, though—she got the reference. Quirrell's brain was apparently so unimpressive that even a Moke would pity it.
"More importantly," Snape continued, "he also fractured several bones falling down the stairs. Refused Madam Pomfrey's treatment. So… for the next two weeks, I'll be teaching this class."
Harry's face turned ashen.
It was true what they said: You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.
At this point, Harry would've gladly returned to Quirrell's boring essays and stammering lectures.
"Potter," Snape drawled, like speaking to a misbehaving pet.
"Tell me—which charm is most effective for banishing a pack of ghouls?"
Oh no.
Same setup.
Same Snape.
Harry stood up, robotic.
"I don't know, Professor."
"Of course you don't."
The Slytherins burst into laughter. Malfoy went red from the effort of holding it in.
When it quieted, Snape narrowed his eyes at Harry.
"You should realize by now that it's not just Potions where you're woefully behind. The same goes for Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"This is basic knowledge. Even Weasley beside you could answer it blindfolded."
Ron clenched his fists so hard his knuckles went white.
He wanted to punch Snape square in the face—but he didn't dare.
"Turn to page fifty-nine," Snape snapped. "Learn the Banishment Charm. And remember—next time you face a ghoul, don't go swinging a club like a Neanderthal. You're a wizard, not a caveman."
Harry immediately thought of Fred and George whacking Bludgers with bats.
So...
Exactly how many people had Snape insulted with that one question?