Chapter 17: Whispers in the Halls
The night at Hogwarts had an electrical quality. Final exams were approaching, and the castle was filled with the tension of stressed students.
But tonight, there was something else. An undercurrent of panic that Timothy, with his growing sensitivity to castle magic, could taste in the air.
His curiosity had led him to the hallway on the third floor. He stood in the shadows, a skill he had honed, watching the door that was rumored to guard the Philosopher's Stone.
He knew, from his memories of history, that the climax was approaching.
It was then that he heard the voices. A trio of frantic, familiar whispers. He hid deeper in the alcove of a suit of armor. It was Harry, Ron, and Hermione, arguing agitatedly.
"We can't wait!" hissed Harry. "Dumbledore is gone! He received that urgent owl from the Ministry! It's a trap!"
"Harry, it's Snape!" added Ron, his voice trembling. "He's going to steal the Stone tonight! We have to stop it!"
Hermione looked terrified, but her loyalty was unwavering. "We have to go. Fluffy is the first... Ron, do you remember the music?"
Timothy watched from the shadows, his mind processing the situation with icy calm. His and Hermione's suspicions had been confirmed. The game was on.
His first instinct was purely logical. I had three options. The first, "Hero Mode": run to find McGonagall or Flitwick.
He dismissed that idea instantly. It would involve a long and tedious explanation. Questions I didn't want to answer. "Professor, you see, I know that Professor Quirrell is possessed by Voldemort..." He would get entangled in a social mess that he could not fully explain.
The second option, the "Arrogant Mode": go himself. Go down through the trapdoor and "solve" the problem.
He could probably neutralize Quirrell in less than a minute with one of the spells he had archived.
But that was a huge risk. His arrogance had limits. What if the "story" I remembered wasn't 100 percent accurate? What if Voldemort, in his parasitic state, was stronger than he expected?
Intervening directly was an unknown variable.
Which led him to the third option, the most logical: do nothing. To let the story take its course.
According to his recollections, Harry Potter was "destined" to win tonight. He was the protagonist. The script, the very narrative of this universe, protected him.
A thought stopped him. A cold, sharp thought that he had ignored until now. 'What if this isn't exactly like in the books?'
'The books I read were fiction. This is real. And I'm here. I wasn't in the original story.'
The variable "fanfic".
The variable "Timothy Hunter".
What if his mere presence, his friendship with Harry and Hermione, his agreement with Flitwick, had already changed something? What if this time, the script didn't protect Harry?
This uncertainty solidified his decision. I couldn't just go to sleep. But he was not going to intervene either.
The third option was the best, but with a modification. I would let the plot unfold. I would let Harry be the hero.
But he would be there. Watching. Why? For data collection.
This was not a crisis. It was a golden opportunity for "fieldwork". Dumbledore's legendary defenses, created by the professors? A chance to see Voldemort in his parasitic state?
And most importantly: the chance to see and archive the Philosopher's Stone, the pinnacle of Nicholas Flamel's alchemy.
It was an opportunity for research that I could not miss. He saw the trio run down the hallway and open the door.
Timothy waited thirty seconds. Then, he slipped out of the shadows. He pulled out his Yew wand, an object he rarely used now.
He muttered a Disillusioning Charm of such an advanced level that he had copied it from a book in the Restricted Section the week before.
His body melted into the air, becoming an indistinguishable blur. Silent as a ghost, he crossed the threshold and headed for the open trapdoor. The hunt had begun.
…..
The landing was smooth, a fall into the darkness that ended on a mattress of wet and cold vines.
Timothy stood silently, his disillusioning enchantment clinging to him like a second skin. He was a ghost, a spectator.
A few feet away, he heard the trio's muffled screams as they landed far less gracefully.
"Lucky the plant is here!" gasped Ron.
The vines of the Devil's Lasso instantly came to life, snaking around the trio's ankles and wrists. Panic.
"I can't move! I can't...!" shouted Ron.
"Devil's Lasso! Devil's Lasso!" shouted Hermione, her voice high-pitched with terror.
"We need fire! But there is no wood!"
Timothy watched from the shadows, his expression one of pure exasperation. 'Really? The brightest witch of her generation?'
He was already analyzing the plant, his mind "archiving" its magical properties, its reaction to light and heat. It was a basic defense mechanism.
"Lumus Solem!" Hermione finally shouted. The bright light hit the plant, which twisted and let go of the three children.
'Panic, then logic. Typical of Gryffindor,' Timothy thought, passing by the withered plant into the next hallway.
The next chamber was a vast vaulted ceiling, filled with hundreds of flying keys fluttering around like a swarm of metal birds.
"Look!" cried Harry, pointing to an old broom floating in a corner. "I have to catch the right key."
"There are hundreds! What is it?" said Ron.
As Harry dove into the air in a display of Quidditch skill, Timothy stood by the door, analyzing. He was not impressed by the flight; He was impressed by magic.
He filed away the swarm enchantments, the flight magic imbued in each key. His gaze scanned the crowd.
'A good search cipher,' he thought. 'But inefficient.'
His eyes were fixed on a single key. It was old, of tarnished silver, and one of its wings was visibly folded. The only one that was different.
As Harry continued to chase the swarm, Timothy, invisible, pointed a finger. 'Accio', he thought.
The key would have shot into his hand. He didn't. He restrained himself. 'No. Observe. Do not interfere.'
He waited patiently for Harry, after a dramatic chase, to finally catch the right key.
When they walked through the next door, Timothy's amusement turned to exasperation. A giant chessboard.
"Really?" he whispered to himself. "What an absurdly literal and inefficient barrier. A game?"
He watched impatiently as Ron, Harry, and Hermione took their positions as living pieces. Ron, with a confidence Timothy didn't know he possessed, began shouting orders.
Timothy stood in the doorway, analyzing the magic. It was high-level animation, imbued with a strategic awareness. Fascinating, but a monumental waste of time.
The game dragged on. Each movement was slow, accompanied by the sound of the stone scraping the stone.
Finally, the key moment arrived. Ron positioned himself, his face pale but determined. "I have to, Harry! It's the only way!"
Timothy rolled his eyes, even though no one could see him. 'Oh, please. How melodramatic.'
He saw Ron sacrifice himself, the Stone Queen tearing apart her stone horse. Harry and Hermione screamed.
'It's a test, idiot, not a war. Stupid. Heroic. And completely Gryffindor.'
As Harry and Hermione ran in anguish to the exit door, Timothy decided to test his own theory.
He simply began to walk. Skirting the board, staying close to the wall.
The chess pieces, programmed only for the "game", did not register it. Their stone heads were still turned toward the center of the board. They were not guards; they were players.
Timothy arrived at the opposite door without anyone noticing. 'Next.'
…..
Timothy passed through the door that Ron had opened, leaving behind the shattered chessboard and the Gryffindor unconscious.
The next chamber was long and dark. A purple fire blocked the entrance he had just passed through, and a black fire blocked the exit.
In the center, on a small table, were seven bottles of different shapes and sizes, along with a scroll of parchment.
He found Harry and Hermione already there, lit by the magical flames, reading the riddle.
A riddle of logic, Timothy thought, approaching invisibly. 'Snape. How predictable.'
His gaze swept across the scroll, absorbing the text in an instant. Forward, danger; back, safety. Two of us only contain nettle wine...
It took Timothy exactly seven seconds to figure it out in his head.
It was a simple elimination system. The key was the clue over the bottle to the left of the wine. It was elegant, but designed for a child's mind.
He watched with almost scientific patience as Hermione panicked, reread, and finally solved the riddle.
"I got it!" she exclaimed. "This little one," he said, pointing to the smaller bottle, "will carry us through the black flames."
"But there's not enough for all three," Harry said.
"I know," Hermione replied, her face pale but determined. "You drink it. I'll come back for Ron and send an owl to Dumbledore."
As Harry sipped the potion and prepared for the final jump, Timothy saw his chance.
He took out a small glass vial from his pocket. With a speed neither of them noticed, his invisible hand stepped forward.
He picked up a minuscule sample of the purple fire (return transport) and a drop of the potion Harry had just drunk (advance transport).
They were not real llamas; they were complex alchemical solutions. They would be excellent study material for your Archive.
Harry took a deep breath and pierced through the black flames. Hermione backed away through the purple fire.
Timothy waited a second, cataloging the sensation of barrier magic, and then followed Harry.
The final chamber was vast and supported by tall stone pillars. The air was cold. In the center of the room, there was no treasure.
There was only the Mirror of the West.
And with his back to them, looking at the mirror, was a figure in a purple turban.
It was Professor Quirrell.
"You?" panted Harry. "No! ¡But... it was Snape! He...!"
"He certainly looked like the guy, didn't he?" said Quirrell. His voice was completely different. She was sharp, cold, and no longer stuttered.
Timothy slipped into the deepest shadows of the room, his heart pounding with an emotion that was not fear, but pure anticipation.
'Here it is. The main event.'
He listened to the conversation, his Archive mind working at feverish speed, recording every word.
He analyzed the nature of Voldemort's possession, a concept that the books of the Restricted Section only mentioned in dark and terrifying legends.
"The Stone!" hissed a voice that seemed to come from Quirrell himself, though his lips did not move. "Use the boy!"
Timothy watched in fascination as Quirrell forced Harry to look in the mirror. He saw Harry's confusion, and then, the moment of pure magical genius.
He saw Harry reach into his pocket and pull out the Philosopher's Stone.
'Unbelievable,' Timothy thought. 'Dumbledore didn't put the stone in the mirror. He made the mirror the key. Only someone who wanted to find it, but not use it, could obtain it. A conceptual lock. What elegance.'
Quirrell took off his turban.
The face. The pale, reptilian thing with red eyes on the back of its neck. Voldemort.
Timothy felt the raw power, even in that weakened form. It was a pure, concentrated, hungry darkness.
The confrontation escalated. Quirrell lunged at Harry, his hands reaching for the boy's neck.
And then, it happened. The climax of the fieldwork.
The instant Quirrell's flesh touched Harry's exposed skin, there was a hissing sound, like that of red-hot water on metal.
"AAAARGH!" shouted Quirrell, backing away. His hands, where they had touched Harry, were turning to black ash and crumbling.
Harry looked at his own hands, horrified. Quirrell looked at him, his face a mask of terror and pain. "What is this pain!"
Timothy's eyes widened, his Archive mind working at a speed that almost made him dizzy. He did not see "a mother's love." He saw SCIENCE.
'Sacrificial Magic!'he analyzed, his mind vibrating. 'Blood-based! Incredible! Conceptual protection!'
'It's not a shield! It's automated karmic retribution! The mother's blood, activated by the intention of sacrifice, has rewritten Harry's concept to be caustic to the bringer of death. I have to file this!'
As Harry, now acting on pure instinct, placed his hands on Quirrell's face, Timothy watched, frantically copying the energy signature of the sacrificial magic as it acted, disintegrating the professor into a pile of dust and ash.
…..
The pile of ash and smoldering robes was all that remained of Professor Quirrell. The silence in the chamber was absolute.
A shriek of pure rage and hatred filled the air. A ghostly shape, like black and red smoke, came out of the ashes.
It was Voldemort's spirit form. He lunged across the room and, in a final act of malice, pierced through Harry's body.
Harry let out a small cry and collapsed on the floor, unconscious.
Silence. A deep and final silence. Timothy lay motionless in the shadows, his enchantment of disappointment clinging to him.
And then, a small red object rolled from Harry's limp hand. The Philosopher's Stone.
It rolled across the stone floor, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness, before stopping just a few feet from where Timothy was hiding.
His heart skipped a beat. Not because of the fight, but because of this. The prize. The ultimate alchemical artifact. The knowledge of Nicholas Flamel.
It was there. Alone. With an unconscious child. 'Now.'
This was his chance. The trio was incapacitated. Voldemort was gone. The teachers were in the castle. He had seconds, maybe minutes.
'Just ten seconds. It's all I need,' he thought, his Archive mind buzzing with anticipation. 'Touch it. Copy its conceptual structure. Understand. And leave.'
It was the greatest treasure for his Archive to date. Larger than any book in the Restricted Section.
He took a step, his foot silently brushing the ground. He stepped out of the deepest shadow, his invisible hand outstretched toward the red stone.
"Harry."
Dumbledore's voice echoed at the entrance of the chamber. It was not the director's friendly tone. It was the voice of an ancient warrior.
Timothy froze. I was halfway through. He cursed internally, his invisibility was his only salvation.
Dumbledore entered the room, his robes fluttering around him. His blue eyes passed over the pile of ashes, over the Mirror, and landed on Harry.
Then, those eyes lifted up. And they got nailed.
They did not look into the shadow. They dug right into the spot in empty space where Timothy was standing, halfway between the shadow and the Stone.
Dumbledore said nothing. He did not betray him. He did not cast a spell.
But his gaze said it all. It was a message as clear as a scream: 'I know. And you won't.'
A silent understanding passed between the most powerful mage in the world and the most anomalous being in the castle. The game was over.
Timothy withdrew his outstretched hand. He took a step back, melting back into the deepest darkness of the pillar.
With a sigh of resignation that no one could hear, he activated his Threshold Magic. He didn't go out the door. He just slipped out of the reality of the room.
He returned to Ravenclaw Tower seconds before dawn. The adrenaline was fading.
He did not get the Stone. But he didn't feel defeated.
As he sat on his bed, a fierce smile was drawn on his face. The Stone was just an object.
But the knowledge he had filed away that night... the magic of Hogwarts' defenses, the nature of Voldemort's possession, and most of all, the beautiful and brutal equation of Sacrificial Magic...
That was the real treasure. It was a night of resounding success.
- - - - - - - - -
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