Victor and Professor Philemon discussed the consultation matter for a while, primarily focusing on how to stabilize alchemical potions. In truth, Professor Philemon didn’t have any particurly effective solutions, but he did mention one crucial point:

  “Conflicts between the properties of alchemical materials? The general solution is to find a magical item to act as a neutralizer. Common choices include unicorn blood, dragon hearts... but the best option is the Philosopher’s Stone.”

  “The Philosopher’s Stone?” Victor asked.

  “The Philosopher’s Stone is actually the most effective neutralizing agent—it can turn the impossible into reality,” Professor Philemon expined enthusiastically. “Can’t turn stone into gold? No problem, just alter the nature of the stone. Can’t combine materials into an elixir of immortality? No problem, just use the Philosopher’s Stone to neutralize the conflicts between powerful magical ingredients and force it into existence.

  “That’s why they say the Philosopher’s Stone is the crystallization of ancient alchemical wisdom. With it, nearly any problem can be solved.”

  “I see.”

  Victor nodded thoughtfully.

  The Philosopher’s Stone…

  Wasn’t that right beneath their feet?

  His thoughts began drifting in a direction Dumbledore certainly wouldn’t approve of…

  Beside him, Professor Philemon curiously asked, “So what kind of alchemical potion are you trying to create?”

  “Something akin to an alchemical homunculus capable of carrying a human soul, much like the ones used by ghosts. I think…”

  Squeak!

  Before Victor could finish, the door of the adjacent faculty office creaked slightly. The professors turned to look—what had been closed just moments ago now had a narrow gap, as if someone was trying to enter.

  But when Professor Kettleburn stood up and pushed the door fully open to check, the hallway outside was empty.

  “Who was it?” Professor Burbage asked in confusion.

  “No one. Probably some mischievous student or a ghost,” Kettleburn said.

  ...

  Victor’s conversation with Professor Philemon soon came to an end. The professor kindly assured him that he would continue to keep an eye on the matter before hurrying off to his next css.

  So, Victor left as well.

  But as he rounded a corner, he found himself face-to-face with Quirinus Quirrell, who had been waiting there for some time.

  Despite it being midday, the overcast sky cast little light on the deserted and dimly lit corridor.

  Today, Quirrell was wrapped in his usual purple turban. In the third lesson of Muggle Studies, students were taught about the hidden meanings Muggles ascribe to colors—purple, for a long time, had been a symbol of nobility and dignity. It was unclear whether Quirrell had chosen it for this reason.

  But at the very least, Victor was certain that the turban wasn’t meant to ward off vampires.

  “V-Victor, good afternoon.” At the sight of Victor, Quirrell’s lips curled into a twitchy, nervous smile.

  “Good afternoon.”

  Victor halted in his tracks.

  “Is there something you need?”

  “Y-yes.” Quirrell’s smile widened slightly as he rubbed his hands together. “I happened to be passing by the faculty lounge earlier and overheard a bit of what you said. I-I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I was curious.”

  “Where did you get that alchemical formu you mentioned?”

  “I-I don’t mean anything by it, it’s just that when I was in A-Albania, I heard about simir magic. Perhaps I might be able to h-help.”

  Quirrell’s tone carried a hint of obsequiousness, but his gaze was locked onto Victor, cking the usual nervousness. He wasn’t even stuttering as much.

  If Snape were here, he would have sneered and immediately begun interrogating Quirrell on when he had learned alchemy.

  But Victor seemed unfazed and merely responded:

  “The formu? It originates from a remote isnd, not far from the town where I was born.”

  “Do you remember what happened on that isnd at the time? I was thinking it might be relevant to your research.” Quirrell asked somewhat awkwardly. “O-or perhaps I could take a look at the formu?”

  Victor did not refuse and said casually:

  “This formu is part of a rge-scale alchemical ritual, modified by many hands over time. But originally, it emerged on a small isnd called Paradise Isnd, which endured ten great camities.”

  “Ten camities?”

  “Yes. It is said that each one was a special trial. Alchemists and sages from other regions deemed these trials unnecessary, as simir results could be achieved through alternative magical steps—but the isnd’s inhabitants still underwent these primitive, bizarre rituals and ultimately welcomed the disasters.”

  “The ten camities were: the Pgue of Blood, the Pgue of Frogs, the Pgue of Lice, the Pgue of Flies, the Pgue of Livestock, the Pgue of Boils, the Pgue of Hail, the Pgue of Locusts, the Pgue of Darkness, and the Pgue of the Firstborn.”

  “Legend has it that those who endured all ten camities would attain a soul beyond ordinary limits, gaining inhuman or even immortal powers.”

  Quirrell’s expression stiffened slightly, his gaze locked onto Victor, wary. But before he could react, Victor nonchantly pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket and handed it over.

  “If you’d like to study it, you’re welcome to help. I don’t mind.”

  “T-thank you.”

  Quirrell forced a rigid smile and unfolded the parchment. A moment ter, his hand trembled slightly.

  “Uh… w-what is this? Half a dozen lies? A mermaid’s voice?” His hands shook as he held the parchment. “This doesn’t seem like orthodox alchemy or potion-making.”

  Victor shrugged.

  “It’s certainly not the kind you’re used to.”

  “But this formu definitely works,” he said ftly. “I’m still searching for substitutes for some of the ingredients, but if you want to research it with me, I can lend it to you—on the condition that you share your findings with me.”

  “O-oh, alright.”

  Their conversation was practically a game of riddles, yet it proceeded smoothly because neither of them pierced through the thin veil between them—at least, Quirrell believed that to be the case.

  And then, as if preordained, Victor spoke the words Quirrell had half-expected:

  “So, what do you have to offer in return?”

  ---

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