Chapter 19: The Philosopher's Folly
By the time Solim left Filch's office, the sky was darkening, and the scent of dinner wafted through the castle corridors. He had spent the entire afternoon in the caretaker's cramped, fish-scented quarters, primarily to monitor Filch's physical condition, but also with a secondary, secret goal: to finally get his hands on the legendary Marauder's Map.
Filch was in remarkably high spirits, both physically and mentally. The prospect of becoming a true wizard after a lifetime as a Squib had transformed him. He barely seemed to notice the mischievous students anymore; he had far more important things on his mind, like the custom wand he had commissioned from a wandmaker in Hogsmeade on his last trip. According to Snape, the magical core now awakening within Filch was more potent than that of many seasoned Aurors, and a standard wand wouldn't suffice to channel it.
This development left Solim with a nagging sense of unease. He couldn't predict the long-term consequences. A man who had spent decades in bitter servitude, watching generations of children squander the gift he was denied, now wielded sudden, significant power. What would that do to a person? Some people were only "good" because they lacked the power to be otherwise.
Still, for now, Filch seemed stable. And ultimately, Solim reasoned, any fallout would land on Dumbledore's desk, not his. Let the Headmaster deal with it.
Pushing those thoughts aside, Solim felt a surge of satisfaction. His secondary objective had been a success. With the map now in his possession, moving around the castle undetected would be infinitely easier.
When he entered the Great Hall, it was already bustling. He noticed Neville sitting alone at the Gryffindor table; Harry, Ron, and Hermione were conspicuously absent. Probably still scouring the library for information on Nicolas Flamel. He knew they'd come to him eventually.
"How was your afternoon?" Solim asked, sliding onto the bench next to Draco and helping himself to a pork chop.
"I think I'm starting to feel what you described," Draco said, a rare look of genuine concentration on his face. "That... sensation, right before the spell releases."
"The intent, without the incantation?" Solim clarified, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, exactly!"
"Well, congratulations," Solim said, genuinely impressed. "You're closer to non-verbal casting than I expected. For the Disarming Charm, at least."
Draco beamed. "I have to master it before the holidays. I can't wait to see the look on my father's face. What reward do you think he'll give me?"
"How should I know? He's your father, not mine," Solim said, rolling his eyes as he sawed through his pork chop.
"By the way," Draco said, nodding towards the entrance, "the holiday sign-up sheet is posted tomorrow. Reckon Scarhead will stay here?"
Solim glanced over as Harry, Ron, and Hermione trudged towards the Gryffindor table, looking defeated. "Why do you care? Do you have some grand feud with him? You'd be better off practicing your spells than picking fights."
After dinner, Solim and Draco headed to their usual hidden classroom. Draco wanted feedback on his spellcasting, and Solim was waiting for Hermione to return the book she'd borrowed.
They had been there less than five minutes when the door opened to admit the four Gryffindors. Draco shot Harry and Ron a look of pure disdain but, for once, held his tongue.
After an awkward moment of silence, Hermione spoke. "Solim, I wanted to ask... do you know about Nicolas...?"
"Nicole?" Solim interrupted, a sudden, inexplicable urge to be difficult surfacing. His hands twitched.
"Clams?" Ron asked, bewildered.
"Never mind," Solim said with a dry chuckle. "You mean Nicolas Flamel."
The trio nodded eagerly.
"I know of him. He's a rather famous wizard. Even Muggles know his name."
"But we searched the library all afternoon! We found nothing!" Hermione's voice was strained with frustration; the library had never failed her before.
"That's because you were looking in the wrong places. You were searching modern history sections. Of course you found nothing." Solim looked at them as if they were simpletons. "Nicolas Flamel. What's the first thing that comes to mind with that name?" He gestured to Draco.
"The Philosopher's Stone," Draco drawled, a smug smirk on his face. "What? Don't tell me you lot are after the Philosopher's Stone?"
"Exactly," Solim cut in before an argument could start. "The Philosopher's Stone. The pinnacle of alchemy. It can transmute metal into gold and produces the Elixir of Life. Nicolas Flamel and his wife are over six hundred years old because of it."
The sheer magnitude of this information left the Gryffindors stunned.
"The Philosopher's Stone," Ron whispered, his eyes wide. "Who wouldn't want that?"
"Snape's trying to steal it!" Harry exclaimed, pieces clicking into place in his mind. "Remember his leg on Halloween? Fluffy must have bitten him! He was trying to get past that trapdoor!"
"It's Professor Snape," Solim corrected wearily. "And you should show a modicum of respect."
"But we have to tell Dumbledore!" Harry insisted.
"Wait, Harry, we can't just—" Hermione began, but Solim clapped his hands sharply, silencing them.
"I see," Solim said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "You've deduced that Professor Snape is the dastardly villain trying to steal the Stone. When, I wonder, will you Gryffindors learn to use the brains you were born with?"
He had wrestled with his role in their drama. A bystander? Unacceptable. An active participant? Unnecessary. He had decided to simply be himself, to interfere or observe as he saw fit.
"Do you have any idea how big the Philosopher's Stone is?" Solim held up a clenched fist. "It's no larger than this. If it were that important, do you think Dumbledore would just leave it lying about? Wouldn't it be infinitely safer for him to keep it on his person?"
It was the most logical security measure. But, of course, that wouldn't suit Dumbledore's true purpose: to use the Stone as bait for Voldemort, to gauge his strength, and to "train" his chosen savior.
"Keeping it on him isn't safe! He could drop it, or it could be stolen!" Ron argued, his distrust of all things Slytherin evident.
"Do you think Dumbledore is as careless as you are?" Solim retorted. "Or do you think 'keeping it on him' means carrying it loose in his pocket?"
He looked at Ron with genuine puzzlement. "Don't the Weasleys have any charmed bags or enchanted trunks? Haven't you ever heard of an Undetectable Extension Charm?"
"They're too poor for that kind of magic," Draco sneered, unable to resist.
Ron's face turned as red as his hair, his hands clenching into fists.
"Do you understand now?" Solim pressed, his patience wearing thin. "Even if the Stone is here, it is none of your concern. Whether it's Snape, Quirrell, or even Professor McGonagall who wants it, it has nothing to do with a group of first-years!"
"But someone is going to steal it!" Harry shot back, his jaw set stubbornly.
For the first time, Solim gave the "Boy Who Lived" a long, appraising look. Then, he laughed. It wasn't a friendly sound.
"Alright. So what is your brilliant plan? Tell a professor?" He crossed his arms. "Let me be perfectly clear. The moment you utter the words 'Philosopher's Stone' to any professor—other than Dumbledore, perhaps—they will be horrified. They will deduct house points, assign you a year's worth of detentions, and forbid you from ever speaking of it again. If you go to Professor McGonagall, the book in her hand will hit the floor. She will demand to know how you found out, assure you it is safe, and order you to drop the matter."
His prediction was unnervingly accurate; he'd seen this scene play out before.
Harry faltered, realizing that was precisely how it would go.
"You see? The professors won't listen. So what then? Will you take it upon yourselves to guard the Stone?" Solim's laughter returned, cold and sharp. "You'd be signing your own death warrants. You're children playing a game with forces you cannot possibly comprehend."