Hello everyone!
Sorry for the delay, I've been a bit busy.
Here are the 3 chapters, from 21 to 23.
Enjoy them.
Mike.
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Chapter 22: The Dragon and the Ancient One
Summer had become a symphony of productivity. The seven-compartment trunk was a self-contained universe of efficiency, a scholar's nest perfectly suited to his needs. The dusty apartment in Diagon Alley was just a portal, a convenient physical address that anchored him to the world. Timothy's real life took place within the dimensional folds of his luggage.
His obsession was not chaotic. She was methodical, controlled and absolute. He had established a routine that consumed everything, but also fatigued him.
He slept exactly six hours each night. It was a biological need that I couldn't ignore. His mind, though vast, resided in a fifteen-year-old body that demanded rest, and he was logical enough to give it to him. Burnout was a mundane fact, an annoying variable to manage.
The other eighteen hours, however, were for work.
His "Archive" project was no longer limited to data acquisition; it had fully entered the implementation phase. He was in the potions lab in his trunk, which now functioned more like an alchemy workshop. On the stone table was a simple lead paperweight. Next to it, lay the newly processed and understood mental file: "Piedra Filosofal - Flamel".
He had spent the last week analyzing the alchemical theory that Dumbledore had allowed him to "shelve". Now, it was time for practice.
He closed his eyes. He didn't need a wand; The wand was a crutch, a tool that forced the intention through pre-established paths. His magic was the path itself.
He concentrated, not on a formula, but on the concept. He saw lead, its atomic structure, its conceptual "history." And then, with the precision of an architect rewriting a plan, he told her a new story. He imposed the concept of gold on him.
Timothy tensed his will, waiting for the transformation. Despite his inherent genius, progress was slow. The dull gray paperweight shook. He visibly warmed, the air around him rippled. It turned a dull cherry red.
But it was still lead.
He frowned. More intention. He pushed harder, feeling his magic core respond effortlessly, a bottomless pit of power. The lead softened, melting on the stone table into a shining silver puddle. But it remained, conceptually and undeniably, lead.
He frowned, his frustration growing. "Why?"
He tried again. And again. For hours. He could manipulate its physical properties—temperature, state, form—with the ease of a master, but he could not rewrite its essence.
Frustration consumed him. It was the first time that his innate magic had failed so resoundingly. And it didn't make sense. He had the knowledge. He had the power.
He stopped, taking a deep breath, forcing his logical mind to analyze failure.
And then, the answer hit him. It was an epiphany as simple as it was humiliating.
He was failing because, deep down, his own mind believed he had to fail.
This was Nicholas Flamel's greatest achievement, the pinnacle of Western alchemy, a secret that took man centuries to perfect. His own logic told him that this could not be simple. His mind told him that it must be a process of monumental difficulty.
And his magic, obedient to his deepest intent, was making it monumentally difficult.
His innate genius, which should have facilitated this, was being sabotaged by his own intellect. His conviction that it must be difficult was a self-imposed limit, a conceptual brake that prevented his magic from flowing.
He laughed, a dry, humorless sound in the silent laboratory.
And therein lay the real frustration. He had stumbled upon a wall that he had built himself. He was alone. Intellectually, he was more isolated than ever.
How could I explain this to anyone? Hermione, who was still debating Gamp's Law in her letters?
His obsession with magic, in all its forms, continued to be his driving force. But the hunger to know everything was transforming into the frustration of understanding everything... alone. He feared that the universe was infinite, and even if he had the stamina to investigate it, what was the point if there was no one to verify his findings?
He wasn't going crazy. His control was absolute. But he was deeply, logically, and existentially frustrated. The universe was an endless playground, but he was the only child who knew how swings worked. And that, he realized, was the worst form of loneliness.
…..
Frustration became poison. For the first time in his two lives, Timothy felt genuinely stuck. He had spent hours staring at the pool of melted lead on his lab table, a monument to his own self-imposed boundary. His logical mind insisted that the transmutation of the Philosopher's Stone must be an arduous process and of monumental difficulty, and his magic, obedient to his deepest intent, refused to treat it as a simple thing.
He was intellectually isolated. He had devoured Muggle science and arcane magic, and the result was that he had strayed so far from the norm that he no longer had anyone to talk to. His obsession with magic, in all its forms, was still his driving force, but the hunger to know everything was transforming into the frustration of understanding everything... alone.
He feared that the universe was infinite, and even if he had the stamina to investigate it, what was the point if there was no one to verify his findings? He wasn't going crazy, but he was deeply, logically, and existentially frustrated.
In a rare moment of introspection, Timothy recognized this intellectual loneliness as an inefficient variable. I needed a point of reference. Needed... a mentor, or at least, a colleague.
He sat down at the desk in his apartment-trunk. He pulled out a scroll. He wrote two letters.
The first was a formality, an act of maintaining his agreement with Professor Flitwick. He wrote a brilliant four-foot essay on the "Theory of Conceptual Resonance in Commutation Charms," a subject he knew Flitwick would find fascinating but not dangerously advanced. He sent him to Leo, his owl. With that, his school obligation was fulfilled.
The second letter was a risk. It was for Dumbledore. He hesitated, his pen suspended. How do you articulate this frustration without sounding arrogant or crazy? He decided to use honesty as the most efficient tool.
Director
Thank you for your advice at Christmas. I've taken it seriously. However, my research has led me to philosophical frustration.
I'm working on theories that merge the principles of Muggle science with magic. I realize that the universe is vast. My frustration is not the slowness of time; is that, even if I could investigate everything, there would be no one to discuss it with.
You're the only one who could understand it. How does a scholar know that his work is brilliant and not just crazy, if he is the only one in the world who can understand it? How do you accept that knowledge is infinite?
Respectfully, T. Hunter.
He sealed the letter and handed it to Leo. I didn't expect a response. It was a philosophical cry thrown into the void. He returned to his routine of six hours of sleep, his analysis and his practice.
Two days later, a knock echoed at the door.
Not in the trunk door. At the front door of the dusty apartment in Diagon Alley.
Timothy tensed. Flitwick knew this address, but no one else should. He left his lab inside the trunk and walked around the empty apartment.
He opened the door.
Albus Dumbledore was standing in the grimy hallway, smiling kindly. He wasn't wearing his star robes, but an impeccable three-piece Muggle tweed suit that made him look like an eccentric college professor. His blue eyes flashed with amusement.
Timothy, stunned by the visit but showing no surprise, stepped aside. "Director. I didn't expect to see him here."
"Good afternoon, Timothy," said Albus Dumbledore cheerfully, entering the dusty apartment. His blue eyes, shining with an amusement that did not hide a deep curiosity, overlooked the empty room and immediately landed on the only piece of furniture: the extraordinary seven-compartment trunk.
"A piece of extraordinary craftsmanship," Dumbledore murmured, reaching over to admire the rune silver embedded in the dark wood. "Experimental, if I'm not mistaken. A very... ambitious for a student who has just finished his first year".
He turned to Timothy, his smile softening. "Your letter intrigued me, Timothy. This... 'philosophical frustration'".
Timothy decided that honesty was the only efficient route. There was no point in hiding anything from this man. "Thank you for coming, sir. My frustration is... a logistics problem."
"Logistics?" repeated Dumbledore.
"The universe is vast. Knowledge is infinite, both magical and Muggle," Timothy explained, his voice calm but vibrating with the controlled intensity of his obsession. "My mind allows me to learn quickly and store everything. But I'm stuck. I'm alone in this. There is no one with whom to debate the fusion of Flamel alchemy with Muggle quantum physics. What's the point of having the answers if there's no one who understands the questions?"
His frustration finally seeped in, not as madness, but as logical impatience. "Even if I'm awake twenty-four hours a day, every day, I'm afraid there's never going to be enough time to investigate everything. It's a race I can't win, and it's frustrating me."
Dumbledore watched him, his gentle gaze becoming piercing. "This hunger of yours... it's deeper than I feared."
The director's eyes lost their usual brightness. Timothy felt the unmistakable, subtle pressure of a mental probe, an attempt at Legilimancy.
It was not an attack; It was a soft sounding. And by instinct, his mind, his Archive, reacted.
Dumbledore physically took a step back, his hand reaching for his wand in pure reflex, his face a mask of utter astonishment. He had not simply been repelled. He had hit a wall. It was not a brute force shield; it was a conceptually perfect Occlumency structure, as cold, organized, and impenetrable as granite.
"Merlin...," Dumbledore whispered, his voice no longer kind, but full of wonder. Occlumency? At that level?"
"Yes, sir," Timothy said calmly.
"Who taught you?" asked Dumbledore sharply, his mind racing. "Filius? Did he give you books from the Restricted Section?"
"No, sir," Timothy said. "Nobody taught me. I learned it on my own."
"Timothy, that's impossible. Mastering the fundamentals of Occlumancy, let alone building active defenses of this caliber, takes years of discipline..."
"It took me a day," Timothy said simply, deciding not to mention the Room of Requirements. "The books were in the library."
Dumbledore stared at him. The statement was monstrous. One day. Mastering the Occlumency to a level that had repelled him, Albus Dumbledore, was a work of decades, not hours.
"I don't believe you," Dumbledore said, not maliciously, but with the disbelief of a scholar.
"Try again," Timothy offered.
Dumbledore did. This time, he pushed harder. Timothy's mental wall held firm, as immovable as a cliff.
The director sighed, the amazement on his face transformed into deep concern. There was no need for Timothy to show her anything else; The proof was the defense itself. The boy was not lying.
Dumbledore sat heavily in the apartment's only wooden chair, the amazement on his face replaced by deep, intense introspection. He had come here expecting to find a brilliant but frustrated student. Instead, he had found an anomaly.
The wall of Occlumency that he had hit was more than a defense; it was a statement. Cold, organized and impenetrable, built by a fifteen-year-old boy, alone, in a single day.
"Filius was right," Dumbledore muttered, more to himself than to Timothy. "You're a dragon."
He looked at the boy, his face a mixture of amazement and deep, deep concern. "A talent like that... but this obsession. This hunger. It will consume you, Timothy, if you are not careful. Nothing in excess is healthy, not even knowledge."
The director saw the real tiredness in the boy, the fatigue of a mind that worked eighteen hours a day.
"You've skipped your childhood. You've skipped your adolescence. You're building a life's work, and you're only fifteen years old."
Timothy remained silent, accepting the observation. It was a logical fact.
"I'll make you an offer," Dumbledore said, his decision made. "The castle, the curriculum... they can no longer contain you. They're a distraction to you, and frankly, you're a distraction to them."
"I give you official permission to be absent from Hogwarts for the second year. You don't have to come back in September. Stay here. Studies. The castle will still be there when you're done."
Timothy processed the offer. A whole year. No interruptions. No trivial duties. Without the distraction of other students. Eighteen hours of work a day, non-stop. It was all I had ever wanted. The efficiency of that plan was almost perfect.
And yet... He thought about silence. He thought about the melted pool of lead and the frustration of not having anyone who understood why he had failed. He thought of Harry, Ron, and even Hermione's frustrating but thought-provoking letter.
"Thank you, Director," Timothy said, surprising himself. "It is a generous offer. But I think I'll be back."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.
"You're right," Timothy continued, articulating a thought that had just formed. "I'm ... unbalanced. But isolating myself will only make things worse. I need anchors. The routine of classes, even if it's simple, keeps me connected. Friendship... it is an efficient variable. Too much solitude is not productive for the long-term project."
A genuine, relieved smile lit up Dumbledore's face. The boy wasn't just brilliant; he was wise. He had chosen connection over isolation.
"Very good, my boy. That is, perhaps, the wisest decision you have made today."
He rose, his usual energy returning. "So, I retire. Have... A lot to think about. Enjoy the rest of your vacation, Timothy. I'll try not to interrupt them again."
"Director," Timothy said, stopping him at the door.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For the conversation. Was... productive."
Dumbledore laughed. "I'm glad to be of use. I'll see you at the welcome banquet in a few weeks."
The director left, leaving Timothy alone in the quiet apartment. He turned to his trunk. For the first time in months, he didn't feel the urge to open it.
The simple fact of having been understood had relieved the pressure.
He realized that he had a few weeks off. Perhaps, he thought, he could read one of those fiction books he had archived. For pleasure. The idea was strangely appealing.
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Mike.
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