By mid-January, the castle had returned to its rhythm — a blend of clattering boots, echoing laughter, and the soft murmur of lessons winding through ancient halls. The Great Lake shimmered under a fragile skin of ice. Owls dipped low through the snow with parcels clutched in their talons.
Harry moved through it all with a strange sense of déjà vu — the feeling of walking through an echo he'd already lived once before.
He wasn't just remembering the past; he was studying it, mapping every slight difference. The timing of letters, the order of lessons, even which ghosts lingered longest in which corridors. The world had reset, yes — but not perfectly.
He was learning to read the seams.
Hermione had returned from the holidays in full academic command, armed with a study timetable and a new quill sharp enough to pierce parchment. Ron met her arrival with heroic groaning.
"You've been back five minutes," he said, "and you've already drawn up a war plan."
Hermione ignored him, sliding into the seat across from Harry in the Great Hall. "I've been thinking. Maybe we should start early on next term's essays. It's never too soon to revise—"
Ron dropped his spoon. "It's always too soon to revise."
Harry laughed — a genuine, light sound he hadn't made in years. For a moment, it was just normal life: friends, breakfast, the low hum of magic in the walls. He let himself enjoy it.
But beneath it, his mind never stopped turning.
He already knew what was coming — who was coming.
Nicholas Flamel. The Philosopher's Stone.
The trapdoor on the third floor.
Quirrell, and what waited behind his turban.
He knew it all. The question wasn't what — it was when.
⸻
He spent his free hours not searching for Flamel, but confirming his continued existence.
When Professor Binns droned through another lifeless lecture, Harry scribbled notes not of facts but of patterns — mentions of "alchemic correspondences," "elemental theory," and "moral metals."
He noted which names Binns skipped, which years he blurred. And when Flamel's was mentioned, once, faintly, as an "obscure French savant," Harry smiled faintly. The timeline was still aligned.
In Transfiguration, he stayed after class.
McGonagall was tidying a stack of parchment, her sharp eyes softening when she saw him waiting.
"Yes, Mr. Potter?"
Harry hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Professor… does Albus Dumbledore still correspond with Nicholas Flamel?"
Her eyebrows rose. "That's quite a name for a first-year to know."
"I read ahead," he said simply. "Alchemy's interesting."
McGonagall studied him for a long moment, as though she could see the real answer behind the polite one. Finally, she said, "Yes. They do correspond. They were colleagues once, in their younger years."
Her eyes softened. "Curiosity is a fine thing, Potter. But take care not to chase mysteries too quickly. Magic doesn't yield its secrets to impatience."
Harry nodded. "I'll remember that."
He meant it.
⸻
Quirrell was unraveling. Harry could see it now that he knew what to look for — the trembling hands, the hesitant speech, the faint odor of rot and cold magic that followed him like a shadow.
During Defence class, the man's eyes darted too quickly, his wand hand trembling even when holding chalk.
And once — fleetingly — Harry felt the presence beneath the turban stir, like a hand brushing across his scar.
The contact was faint but unmistakable: a pull, a whisper, a sensation of being recognized.
He knows I'm here, Harry thought. And I know him.
The air thickened. The classroom's torches flickered.
Quirrell blinked rapidly, as if dizzy. Then he turned abruptly away, muttering about "fresh air" and staggering toward the door.
The students laughed nervously. Harry didn't.
The connection had been brief, but real — and this time, it had gone both ways.
⸻
That evening, Harry was summoned to Dumbledore's office — under the polite pretext of discussing his midterm progress.
The circular room was warm and cluttered, its shelves stacked with spindly instruments that hummed faintly when touched by lamplight. Fawkes dozed on his perch, one golden eye cracked open.
"Lemon drop?" Dumbledore asked, offering the dish.
Harry shook his head. "No thank you, sir."
"Ah, self-restraint." Dumbledore smiled. "A rare quality at your age."
Harry stood quietly, sensing the undercurrent of something unsaid.
The Headmaster's eyes were their usual pale blue — bright, kind, but piercing.
"You've done well this term," Dumbledore said, pacing behind his desk. "Your teachers speak highly of your focus. Professor McGonagall tells me you've developed quite the interest in transfiguration theory."
Harry nodded. "It's… fascinating, sir. How everything has the potential to become something else."
Dumbledore's smile deepened. "A sentiment close to an alchemist's heart."
There it was — the test. Subtle, gentle, deliberate.
Harry met his gaze evenly. "Maybe one day I'll study alchemy, too."
"Perhaps you already are," Dumbledore murmured.
For a long moment, silence hung between them — filled not with tension, but quiet understanding. Both knew more than either was saying.
Finally, Dumbledore waved his hand, and a quill began writing on its own. "Enjoy your evening, Harry. And remember — some knowledge prefers to find us, not the other way around."
Harry inclined his head. "Yes, sir."
When he turned to leave, he caught Fawkes' eye. The phoenix regarded him with an expression that almost resembled recognition — as if remembering something he, too, had once witnessed.
⸻
Back in the dormitory, Harry sat by the window with his cloak draped around him.
Snow drifted past the glass, turning the moonlight silver and soft. The others slept — Ron snoring, Neville murmuring, Seamus's blankets occasionally sparking.
He took out his notebook.
On the first blank page, he wrote neatly:
Nicholas Flamel – confirmed.
The Stone exists. Guarded here, as before.
Dumbledore knows I know.
Quirrell's possession accelerating.
Small deviations accumulating — why?
He paused, then added a final line:
Magic changes when watched. Perhaps fate does, too.
He closed the book and stared out at the frozen grounds, the towers rising like dark sentinels. Somewhere beneath one of them, the Philosopher's Stone lay hidden — not yet in danger, but waiting.
And somewhere above, the Headmaster of Hogwarts watched the boy who knew too much, letting him walk his own path — again.
⸻
End of Chapter 26 – The Alchemist's Name