After that, the four of them walked back toward Hogwarts.
For a while, none of them spoke.
Victor finally broke the silence with a quiet thought to himself.
'Hagrid really can't keep secrets.'
He glanced back once at the hut disappearing into the darkness, then forward at the castle.
"What does Nicolas Flamel mean?" Harry asked. "Is it supposed to mean something?"
"Well," Victor said, "it's a name. That's all."
They all looked at him.
"A wizard's name," Victor added, seeing their expressions. "A very old one. Nicolas Flamel was an alchemist—famous, if you actually read history instead of Quidditch scores."
Hermione perked up at once. "Alchemy?"
"Yes," Victor said. "The kind that deals with things most wizards only read about."
Harry frowned thoughtfully. "So… Dumbledore and Flamel are guarding something together."
Victor gave a small nod. "Exactly. Whatever Fluffy is guarding must be linked to him."
That was as far as he went. Saying more—like outright mentioning the Philosopher's Stone—would only raise questions, and questions tended to snowball.
Better to leave it there for now and let them connect the dots themselves. Some discoveries, Victor knew, worked best when stumbled upon rather than handed over outright.
Like that, the days passed, and night arrived.
Inside the Room of Requirement, Victor was at it again.
Piles of junk surrounded him: cracked cabinets, broken mirrors, birdcages with no doors, heaps of rusted tools. Two months. Two months of searching, and still no sign of the Horcrux.
Nothing.
"Arghhh—!" Victor snapped.
He kicked a dented suit of armour, which collapsed loudly, sending a cascade of useless objects clattering to the floor.
"That noseless bastard," he growled. "I swear, when I find Voldemort, I'm killing him properly. Slowly. Maybe skin him. I'll decide later."
His patience was officially gone.
Two months of sneaking out at night. Two months of climbing through mountains of rubbish. Two months of manually searching because magic conveniently refused to work on Horcruxes.
At this point, even his adult mindset was cracking.
Victor ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath, forcing himself to calm down.
"Focus," he muttered. "Losing your temper won't make the diadem jump out and greet you."
Still… the temptation to abandon subtlety and personally end Voldemort's miserable existence was getting stronger by the day.
Unfortunately, Victor knew better. Voldemort was exceptionally good at surviving—like an unkillable cockroach that refused to stay dead.
And right now, he didn't even have a proper body.
Even if Victor killed Quirrell, Voldemort would simply flee, cling to something else, and start searching for another way back. It would solve nothing—just reset the problem.
Until every Horcrux was destroyed, killing Voldemort was pointless.
Victor exhaled slowly, forcing the anger down. He looked around the endless piles of forgotten junk again, jaw tightening.
"Fine," he muttered. "We do this the long way."
Two days later, in the Hogwarts library,
Ron and Harry were buried under a small mountain of books, flipping pages with growing frustration as they searched for anything about Nicolas Flamel.
Every few minutes Ron groaned, and Harry rubbed his eyes like the answer might magically appear if he stared hard enough.
Victor, meanwhile, had given up entirely.
He was slumped over the table with an open book in front of him, one arm tucked under his head, fast asleep. His breathing was steady, peaceful—far too peaceful for a library full of frantic research.
BAM.
A book landed squarely in front of him.
"Yes, Father, you're correct," Victor said as he woke up, blinking sleepily.
The table went silent.
Ron stared at him.
Harry blinked.
Hermione's eyebrow twitched.
"Umm… force of habit," Victor said, rubbing his eyes.
When the others continued to stare, he added, "My father has a talent for turning long lectures about pure-blood superiority into instant sleep spells. I got used to nodding along and saying that whenever I woke up suddenly."
Hermione tried—and failed—to hide a smile.
She opened the book, hiding her smile, and said what she had found.
"I think I've found what Snape might be after," Hermione said. "The thing Fluffy is guarding—and it's connected to Nicolas Flamel."
Ron leaned closer. "So it really is something important?"
"Listen to this," she said quickly. "Nicolas Flamel is the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone."
Ron frowned. "The what?"
"The Philosopher's Stone," Hermione repeated, as if it should have been obvious. "It's a legendary substance. It turns any metal into pure gold and produces the Elixir of Life."
Harry's eyes widened. "The Elixir of Life?"
"Yes," Hermione said, warming to the explanation. "It makes the drinker immortal."
"Is that true?" Harry asked, incredulous. "That sounds… too good to be real."
"It is," Hermione replied at once. "There's proof. Nicolas Flamel himself—he's still alive. Last year he celebrated his six-hundred-and-something birthday."
Ron's mouth fell open. "You're joking."
"I'm not," Hermione said firmly. "It's all here."
There was a brief pause as that sank in.
"So," Ron said slowly, "you're saying Fluffy is guarding something that can make someone live forever and be rich."
Hermione nodded. "Exactly."
Harry swallowed. "And Snape wants it."
Like that, they finally understood what was being guarded—and just how valuable it was.
The Philosopher's Stone. Immortality. Gold. Power.
But understanding didn't mean knowing what to do.
They didn't know why Snape wanted it so badly, and going to the professors with half a theory and no proof would only invite uncomfortable questions—questions none of them were ready to answer.
So for now, all they could do was watch.
Give Snape suspicious looks.
Avoid the third floor.
And pretend everything was normal.
Winter crept closer.
For Victor, the days did not simply pass—they wore him down, stealing warmth, sleep, and patience in equal measure.
By the next week, the dark circles under his eyes had become impossible to ignore. He looked pale, distracted, and permanently exhausted, like someone who hadn't slept properly in days.
Hermione noticed first.
She squinted at him across the table. "Why do you look more like a ghost every day?"
Victor didn't even look up from his book. "Because I'm working on a personal project."
Ron snorted. "That explains nothing."
"It's proving… difficult," Victor continued flatly. "To the point where I'm considering throwing myself into the lake."
Hermione dropped her quill. "Victor!"
"I'm joking," he added immediately. "Mostly."
Harry frowned. "You're not sleeping, are you?"
Victor finally closed the book and leaned back. "Sleep is optional. Success is not."
Hermione folded her arms. "You can't keep this up."
"I can," Victor said calmly. "I just shouldn't."
She sighed, unconvinced, while Victor stared at the ceiling, already thinking about the Room of Requirement and the endless piles of junk waiting for him again that night.
*****
A/N : 🔥 On Patreon, the story has already been updated up to Chapter 38 🔥
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