Chapter 18: The Truth of the Stone
Timothy was awakened, not by the sunlight, but by the buzzing of his own mind.
It was not the usual feeling of alertness and curiosity. It was a hangover. A purely conceptual hangover.
His magic core was full, overflowing as always. It never ran out. But his mind felt... Indigestible.
The knowledge he had filed away the night before was dense. Sacrificial Magic, in particular, was not a mere spell; It was a complex, heavy, and dangerous philosophical equation.
He sat on the floor of the Hall of Requirements, rubbing his temples.
The knowledge was there. He could recite every syllable of Lily Potter's theory of protection. He could visualize the matrix of McGonagall's animated chess.
But it was one thing to read the manual of a jet engine and quite another to try to build one.
"Knowing is not the same as doing," he murmured to the empty room. Frustration invaded him.
What was the point of being the greatest scholar in the castle if he couldn't apply anything he knew?
He stood, his usual obsession returning with a new ferocity. I needed to try it.
"Room," he ordered, his voice a hoarse murmur. "I need a target. A practice dummy. A golem of stone."
A block of granite the size of a man appeared in the center of the training room.
Timothy concentrated. He decided to start with something "simple": chess animation.
He closed his eyes, gathered his intention, and poured it into the stone, trying to give him a simple directive: "Walk."
The golem did not move.
Instead, it vibrated violently. A high-pitched sound, like chalk on a blackboard, filled the air. Timothy felt intense pressure building up behind his eyes.
The flow of his will increased. The vibration intensified.
CRACK!
A large crack appeared on the golem's torso. The stone fell apart, collapsing into a pile of rubble.
A sharp pain, like a red-hot nail, dug into his brain. He stepped back, panting, a hand on his head.
I wasn't without magic. His power was still there, vast and infinite. Was... mentally exhausted.
The software in his Archive was perfect, but his hardware, his fifteen-year-old brain, couldn't run such a complex program without practice.
The spell had failed not because of a lack of power, but because of a lack of control.
He was a child who had been given the brain of a god, but he still had the nervous system of a mortal.
Knowing the theory of Sacrificial Magic didn't mean that his soul could bear the cost of using it.
He dropped to the ground, frustrated. Her euphoria from the night before faded, replaced by a stark reality.
The library was full, but he didn't even know how to hold the heaviest books.
Their journey had just begun. Knowledge was only the first step. Now, I needed to train.
…..
The pile of granite rubble was a monument to their failure. Timothy stared at the broken stone, a cold, unfamiliar frustration settling in his chest.
Knowledge was not power. It was only the first step. His Archive was infinite, but his practical skill was that of a child.
He was so absorbed in his irritation that he hardly heard the soft pop! behind him.
A house-elf, dressed in a neat Hogwarts tea towel, bowed deeply. "Mr. Hunter. Headmaster Dumbledore wishes to see you in his office, if you will be so kind."
Timothy felt a knot form in his stomach. So, that was it. The punishment.
There was no fear of expulsion, where could they send him? But the idea of Dumbledore forbidding him access to the Hall, taking away his shrine... That was terrifying.
"Thank you," he said. The elf disappeared with another pop.
The walk to the principal's office was the longest of his life. Every step he took, his mind prepared excuses, logical defenses.
"It was a data collection opportunity, Director. I had no intention of intervening."
"Mr. Potter's safety was never compromised by my presence."
"The value of the knowledge of Sacrificial Magic outweighed the risk of passive observation."
He came to the stone gargoyle. I didn't need the password. He simply looked at her. "The Director is waiting for me."
The gargoyle, sensing the truth in its intention, jumped aside, revealing the spiral staircase.
He climbed slowly and knocked on the great oak door. "Go ahead," said Dumbledore's gentle voice.
The office was as chaotic and tidy as I remembered it from his brief visit with the Sombrero. Silver instruments hummed, and Dumbledore sat at his desk, looking incredibly old and tired.
There was no anger in his eyes, only a deep melancholy. Fawkes, on his perch, watched him with a calm intelligence.
"Mr. Hunter. Thanks for coming. Caramelized lemon," Dumbledor offered, pointing to a bowl.
"No, thank you, Director," Timothy said, his voice strained. "If this is about last night..."
"I knew you were there, Timothy," Dumbledore said softly, interrupting him.
Timothy froze. Direct confirmation disarmed him. His ready-made excuses sounded hollow even in his own mind.
"Director," he began again, "I must explain. It was a unique opportunity to archive... to collect data..."
Dumbledore held up a hand, her blue eyes fixed on him, but not angrily. With... comprehension.
"Stop, my boy," he said. "I'm not angry."
Timothy was silent, completely disoriented. Wasn't he angry?
"Indeed," Dumbledore continued, a small, sad smile on his face, "I understand you. Perhaps better than anyone else in this castle."
The Director got up and walked to the window, looking out over the moonlit grounds.
"I was very reckless at your age. More than you, I'm afraid. I also had an insatiable hunger for knowledge. I also believed I was destined for something bigger."
His voice was tinged with an ancient pain. "I did terrible things in my quest for power. Things I'll never forgive myself for. All in the name of a 'greater good'".
He turned to look at Timothy. "There are times in life, Timothy, when you're just reckless. And that's fine."
"It's part of growing up. It's the only way to grow. Without those impulsive actions, without those terrible mistakes, without crossing the line and learning why it exists... one never matures."
"A man who has never made a mistake," he concluded, "is a man who has never learned anything. And you, my boy, learned a lot last night. Isn't that right?"
Timothy nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "Yes, sir."
I wasn't talking to a director. I was talking to a colleague. With a survivor.
…..
Timothy fell silent, processing the director's unexpected acquittal. He had come prepared for a punishment, for a logical defense of his actions.
I had not come prepared for empathy.
"You... You understand me," he finally said, his voice barely a whisper.
"I understand the hunger for knowledge, Mr. Hunter," Dumbledore replied, his face now tinged with deep melancholy. "And I know it's an appetite that is rarely satiated."
The old wizard moved with a tiredness that Timothy hadn't seen in him before. He walked over to his desk and opened a simple wooden drawer.
"You're not like the others, Timothy. His recklessness last night was not for glory, nor to save his friends. It was because of this."
Dumbledore reached into the drawer and pulled out an object that made Timothy's heart skip a beat.
The Philosopher's Stone.
It was not the shining jewel of legends. It was a muddy red stone, strangely organic in appearance, like a piece of coagulated and polished blood. It pulsed with a faint and sickly light.
"This is what you, Professor Quirrell and Lord Voldemort were looking for," Dumbledore said.
Timothy looked at the Stone, his mental file buzzing with anticipation. It was the greatest treasure he had found so far.
"Last night, on camera," Dumbledore continued, "I saw it. I saw his interest. And I know that his desire, like that of any true scholar, was to study it. Not to use it, but to understand it."
The director sighed, his gaze resting on the Stone. "I'm afraid that won't be possible anymore. A proper study of an artifact of this caliber would take months, perhaps years... and the Stone is not that long."
He looked at Timothy, his eyes shining with a mixture of confidence and regret. "But, as a gesture from one scholar to another... at least he can sustain it. To feel the history that he has in his hands."
In a gesture of confidence that took Timothy out of breath, Dumbledore offered him the Stone. "Hold it."
With hands that trembled slightly, not with fear, but with an almost religious bow, Timothy took it.
The instant his skin touched the warm and strange surface of the Stone, his Archive Magic skyrocketed.
It was not a trickle of information. It was a torrent. A silent, invisible flood that occurred in the span of a single second.
He felt the equation of life itself, the complex alchemical matrix that linked life and matter. He saw the Elixir of Life formula, not as a recipe, but as a fundamental law. He saw the theory of conceptual transmutation.
It was the densest, most complex, and most beautiful file I had ever copied. All in an instant.
Panting almost imperceptibly, he handed the Stone back to Dumbledore. His face was pale, but Dumbledore chalked it up to the amazement of holding such a legendary artifact.
The director had no idea that Timothy's mind was buzzing right now, processing the data of millennia of alchemy.
"It's... unbelievable," Timothy whispered, and this time, it was an absolute truth. Then the scholar's logic prevailed, testing his new knowledge. "But... is it true? Can you really turn lead into gold?"
Dumbledore smiled, a sad smile. "Oh yes. Technically. But it is such a low-quality gold, so unstable, that it vanishes within a few hours. It's a parlor trick, not a source of wealth. Frankly, lead is worth more."
"And immortality?" asked Timothy, his mind already analyzing the data he had copied. "The Elixir..."
"It does not grant immortality," Dumbledore interrupted him. "Give life. Not the youth."
The headmaster looked at the Stone in his hand with a deep dislike. "Its creator, my old teacher, Nicolas Flamel... he is the most miserable man I have ever known."
"He looks more like an undead than a living man," he continued quietly. "It's a withered shell, kept alive well beyond its time by this ... thing. His body falls apart, but the Stone forces him to keep going."
"He wishes he had never touched her."
…..
Dumbledore looked at the dull red stone in his hand, his expression one of deep pity. "That's why," he said, his voice calm but firm, "I will destroy it."
Timothy just watched him. The confession, the raw honesty, was unexpected.
"Nicolas and I have spoken," Dumbledore continued. "He has lived... too much. He's tired."
The director smiled, a genuine, heartbreaking smile. "He's ready, Timothy. He has chosen... the next great adventure."
The silence in the office was heavy. Timothy, whose entire existence was defined by a second chance at life, was watching a man accept the voluntary death of his best friend.
With his straightforward nature, Timothy simply stated the obvious. "You're sad about it." It was not a question.
Dumbledore's eyes met his. The usual brightness was gone, replaced by the deep, ancient grief of a man who had outlived almost everyone.
"Yes," he admitted, his voice cracking almost imperceptibly. "Nicolas was not only my mentor in alchemy. Era... He's my friend. One of the few I have left."
He looked at the Stone again. "But the duty of a friend, Mr. Hunter, is to respect the choices of the other. Even when they cause us unimaginable pain. And he has chosen peace."
This was a much deeper lesson than anything Timothy had ever filed. It was a lesson about humanity, friendship and acceptance of the ending.
Timothy nodded slowly. Understood. "Thank you, Director," he said, his voice now filled with genuine respect. "For the lesson."
He turned to leave.
"Mr. Hunter," Dumbledore called him just as Timothy arrived at the door.
Timothy stopped, looking back at the old wizard.
"The knowledge that has ... sense... in that Stone," Dumbledore said, "is perhaps the greatest secret of alchemy. I won't tell him to forget it, because I know he can't."
"Use it wisely. Not to avoid death. Use it to understand life."
Timothy held his gaze for a long moment. "I'll do what I can, Director."
He walked out of the office, the heavy oak door closing behind him with a soft click.
The way back to Ravenclaw Tower was a blur. He ignored the other students, the noise, the portraits.
He arrived at his private room and locked the door. He didn't turn on the lights. He just sat on his bed, the darkness of the room a comfort.
The outside world, school, the impending exams... none of that mattered. He closed his eyes.
Instantly, he was in his inner world. Its Archive. Your Library.
He was standing in the newly built "Alchemy Wing". On a central pedestal, a new ethereal book pulsed with a faint red light.
The title on the spine was simple: "Philosopher's Stone - Flamel".
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