Chapter 3: The Ravenclaw Guide
Timothy did not sleep. It was not an anxious or fearful vigil, but a vibration. A feverish energy, like the one he had felt in his veins the night he manipulated the video console, but now multiplied by a thousand. His mind, for the first time, was completely silent. There were no lost thoughts of Leo, nor the persistent feeling of being out of place. The final piece of the puzzle had clicked into place.
He sat on his cot in the darkness of Room 3B at St. Bridget's Orphanage in Liverpool, until the dirty gray light of dawn filtered through the window. In his hand, clutched with a force that left crescent marks on his palm, was the letter. The parchment was thick, heavy, and smelled of ancient dust and something else, something that reminded him of static electricity right before a lightning strike.
Magic.
The word resonated in his mind like a bell that had finally found its clapper. It was the label. The answer to fifteen years of strangeness. It was not "Timothy Hunter's Talent." It was not "luck." It was not "intuition." It was magic. Michael Travers' fall, the discovery of Sarah's toy, the console fuse... everything fit. They were not anomalies; they were symptoms.
And now, he had the diagnosis. And the cure.
He laughed silently, a choked sound in the morning stillness. 'Harry Potter.' It was so absurdly cliché it had to be true. A secret school of magic in a castle, owls, a supply list that included a cauldron and a wand. His previous life, his memories of Leo, had not been a curse, but a guide. A map. And he, an orphan in a Liverpool orphanage, was, somehow, part of that story.
A wave of relief so profound it was almost painful washed over him. He was not crazy. He was not a weirdo. He was a wizard. And he was about to go home.
He spent the night, or what was left of it, reading and rereading the supply list. Not with a child's wonder, but with a scholar's hunger. The standard book of spells (third grade). A history of magic. A thousand magical herbs and fungi. It was a curriculum. A syllabus. It was the first time a path had opened before him that did not lead to a future of factory mediocrity or, hopefully, a third rate university. It was an invitation to greatness.
The only point of friction was the last line of the letter. A school representative will visit you tomorrow, August 10th, at ten o'clock in the morning to guide you and answer your questions. A guide. An adult. The idea irritated him. His independence had been his only shield for fifteen years. The idea of depending on a stranger, of being "guided" like a frightened child, made his skin crawl. But he accepted it with the pragmatism that defined him. It was a necessary toll. He couldn't go into Diagon Alley alone, and most importantly, he had no money. He would have to play the part of the astonished orphan. It was a small price to pay for access to the universe.
The morning hours dragged on with unbearable slowness. He heard the familiar sounds of the orphanage: the cries of the younger children in the dining hall, the rough voice of the matron, Mrs. Gable, shouting orders, the noise of traffic on Lark Lane. But everything sounded distant, as if he were hearing it from the bottom of a well. He was in the room, but his mind was already miles away, in a castle in Scotland.
At nine o'clock, Mrs. Gable knocked on his door. "Hunter. There's a man here to see you. A school inspector or something. Says it's about a scholarship for a private school." She opened the door and looked at him with her usual expression of disapproval. "I don't know what they want with you, but you better behave yourself. He's in the visitor's room. And fix that hair."
Timothy nodded, his heart skipping a beat. It was almost time. He put on his best jeans, the ones without holes, and a clean shirt. He looked at himself in the broken piece of mirror he had taped to the wall. The same pale, skinny face as always, the same unruly hair. But his eyes were different. Today, they shone with a secret.
He entered the visitor's room at 9:59. It was a small, depressing room, with mismatched plastic chairs and a smell of cheap floor wax.
And in the center of the room, there was a man. He was incredibly short, so much so that he barely stood four feet off the ground. He had a mop of curly white hair that seemed to have a life of its own and a matching pointed beard. He wore an old fashioned three piece tweed suit in a brown color, with a mustard vest and a bow tie. He looked like a university professor from a forgotten era.
Timothy recognized the face instantly. Not from his life, but from his memories. 'Flitwick.' The name appeared in his mind, a distant echo from the movies Leo had watched. The Charms Professor. The dueling master.
At 10:00 sharp, the little man looked at his pocket watch, smiled, and then looked up, his bright, kind eyes meeting Timothy's. "Mr. Hunter!" he exclaimed, and his voice was exactly as Timothy did not remember it: high pitched, enthusiastic, and full of surprising energy. "Right on time! Punctuality, an excellent virtue! I am Professor Filius Flitwick. Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Head of Ravenclaw House."
He walked over and held out his hand. Timothy shook it. The professor's hand was small, but his grip was firm.
"It's a pleasure, Professor," Timothy said, testing his role as the "surprised student." "I... I've read the letter. But I'm still not sure I understand. Magic? A school?"
Flitwick chuckled, a sound like small bells. "Oh, it's quite understandable! It's a lot to take in. But believe me, Mr. Hunter, it's all very real. As real as that chair right there."
To prove his point, Flitwick drew a slender cherry wood wand from his sleeve. He waved it with a casual flick toward an empty teacup on a side table. "Aguamenti!" A jet of clear, pure water shot out from the wand's tip and filled the cup.
Timothy watched, but he was not looking at the water. He was looking at the intention. With his "Talent," he felt the professor's will, the way his mind gave a clear order to reality: "Water, here, now." It was the first time he had seen someone else use the "thing" he had felt all his life. And it was beautiful.
Flitwick conjured a teabag and a cloud of steam. "An Earl Grey always helps to assimilate life altering news, don't you think? Now," he said, handing the cup to Timothy, who accepted it with reverence, "I am sure you have many questions. Please fire away. I am here to help."
Timothy held the teacup in his hands, the warmth of the ceramic a strangely comforting sensation. Steam rose, carrying with it an aroma of bergamot and something else, something that smelled of pure possibility. He watched Professor Flitwick, who had sat in the only other chair in the room, a small wooden seat that looked like a throne beneath his diminutive figure.
Timothy's mind, far from being overwhelmed by astonishment, was working at full throttle. Magic was real. That was the new fundamental premise. And like any other premise in the universe, it must have rules, axioms, and an underlying system. His hunger for knowledge, his obsession with understanding systems, had been awakened with a ferocity he had not felt in either of his two lives.
"Thank you, Professor," he said, his voice quiet, controlled, hiding the whirlwind of questions swirling in his mind. "This... is a lot to process."
"Of course, of course!" Flitwick replied with a kind smile. "It's the most natural reaction. For most Muggle borns, it's a considerable shock. I remember a young lady a few years ago, she thought we were trying to commit her to a mental institution. It took us a week to convince her!"
Timothy nodded, taking a sip of the tea. It was perfect. The temperature, the brew, the sweetness. "Has it always been like this? The... introduction?"
"For the most part, yes," Flitwick said. "The Statute of Secrecy obliges us to be discreet. A school representative always visits students raised in the non magical world to explain the situation and guide them on their first visit to Diagon Alley. It's a time honored tradition."
Timothy processed the information. It made sense. It was logical. But there was an inconsistency. A deviation from the "script" his memories provided. He decided to test it.
"I understand," he said slowly. "But there's something that confuses me. The letter... it says the first year is for fifteen year old students. Why so late? Why not earlier?"
The question was not that of a curious child. It was that of an analyst who has found a data point that doesn't fit the model. Flitwick, whose mind was one of the sharpest at Hogwarts, noticed it. Most children simply accepted the age. This one wanted to know the reason. The professor smiled, a smile of genuine academic delight.
"An excellent question, Mr. Hunter! Worthy of a true Ravenclaw!" he exclaimed, his small eyes shining. "And you are correct, it was not always this way. For centuries, the entering age for Hogwarts, and most magical academies in the world, was eleven years old."
"What changed?" Timothy asked, his interest now completely captured.
"Magic itself," Flitwick replied, his tone becoming more serious, that of the professor on his chair. "Or, rather, our understanding of it. You see, in the 1960s, the International Confederation of Wizards faced a crisis. The number of 'incidents' related to accidental magic by minors was increasing at an alarming rate. Violations of the Statute of Secrecy, catastrophic accidents... There was one infamous case in Austria where a twelve year old boy, during a fit of anger, accidentally turned the Danube River into strawberry syrup for three hours. A logistical and memory wiping nightmare!"
Timothy listened, absorbed. This was not in the books.
"The consensus, after years of study by the Unspeakables and the world's best magical theorists, was unanimous," Flitwick continued. "Fundamental magic, the kind we all possess, is intrinsically linked to will and emotion. In pre adolescent children, those two things are chaos. Their emotions are volatile, their concentration capacity is minimal. Trying to teach them to control a power that can bend reality while their own minds are a hormonal whirlwind was... reckless. We were handing bombs to small children and crossing our fingers they wouldn't press the red button."
"So, in 1965, the International Magical Educational Reform was passed," he explained. "The entry age was raised to fifteen years old in most accredited academies. It was controversial, of course. Pure blood families complained. But the results were undeniable. Accidents decreased by eighty percent."
"At fifteen," he concluded, "a young wizard or witch has passed the worst of puberty. Their brain has developed the capacity for abstract reasoning. They have the mental discipline to concentrate their will and the emotional maturity, however minimal, to understand the consequences. Magic, Mr. Hunter, not is a children's game. It is a discipline. A science. And it requires a mind that is prepared to handle it."
Flitwick's explanation resonated in Timothy's mind with the force of a universal truth. Not only did it make sense; it was a confirmation. Magic was not a fairy tale trick, it was not an accident. It was something real, something that required discipline and control. The idea filled him with a pure, chilling euphoria. His entire life, his obsession with knowledge, his need to understand... everything had been validated. This magical world was not the whim of an author. It had rules. It had a structure. And he, finally, had permission to decipher them all.
"I understand, Professor," Timothy said, and for the first time, his voice contained a trace of genuine and absolute respect. "It makes all the sense in the world."
Flitwick smiled, recognizing the spark of understanding in the boy's eyes. He knew, with the certainty of a master who has seen thousands of students, that the Sorting Hat would have no doubt about this one.
The trip to London was a blur. Timothy, sitting on the train next to a talkative Professor Flitwick, barely noticed the passing scenery. His mind was consumed by the conversation, absorbing every detail about this new world with a hunger that was almost predatory.
They arrived at a dingy, unassuming looking pub called The Leaky Cauldron. To the untrained eye, it was just another London bar. But Timothy, guided by Flitwick, felt the hum of magic in the air, a conceptual barrier separating two realities.
"The best defense is indifference, Mr. Hunter," Flitwick explained as he tapped a sequence of bricks on a backyard wall. "Non wizards simply don't see it. Their mind refuses to register it."
The wall opened, revealing an archway to a bustling street that should not have been there. Diagon Alley.
It was a sensory overload. The air smelled of parchment, bubbling potions, and a dozen exotic, nameless scents. Hundreds of wizards and witches in robes of every color crowded the cobbled street, their pointed hats bobbing above the crowd. Timothy saw cauldrons piling themselves up, owls delivering packages, and books with teeth that bit unsuspecting passersby.
"Impressive, isn't it?" said Flitwick, enjoying the young man's astonishment. "This is where your real education begins."
As they walked, Flitwick continued his lesson. "Hogwarts is no longer a simple boarding school, Timothy. Think of it more like a university. The first years lay the foundations, but the real work begins later. Modern magic, charms, transfigurations... require an almost scientific study. It's not just about waving a wand; it's about understanding the intention, about manipulating energy with precision."
"At Hogwarts, we divide students into four houses," he continued, as they headed towards Gringotts. "Each one values a different virtue. Gryffindor, bravery. Hufflepuff, loyalty. Slytherin, ambition." He paused, a proud smile on his face. "And then there is my house, Ravenclaw. We value intelligence, yes. But above all, we value curiosity, creativity, and the desire to understand the universe. Not just how it works, but why it works."
The description of Ravenclaw resonated in Timothy's soul. It was not just about being clever. It was the pursuit of knowledge for knowledge's sake. For the first time, he felt there might be a place where he truly belonged.
The shopping was a whirlwind. He bought his robes, his cauldron, his potion ingredients. But the crucial moment came in a narrow, dusty shop with a sign that read "Ollivanders: Fine Wands since 382 B.C."
Inside, an old man with creepy silver eyes greeted them. The process began. Ollivander handed him dozens of wands. Some did nothing. Others caused small explosions. Timothy felt no mystical connection. For him, it was a process of trial and error, like finding the correct screwdriver for an odd screw.
Finally, Ollivander handed him a dark wood wand. "Holly, twenty eight centimeters, phoenix feather core. Unusually flexible."
The moment Timothy touched it, he felt a surge of warmth in his fingers and a shower of golden and red sparks erupted from the tip.
"Curious... very curious," Ollivander murmured.
"But I'm afraid this wand isn't compatible with you. Let's try another one."
Timothy, however, was not astonished. He was analyzing the sensation. 'A sympathetic resonance,' he thought. 'The artifact is tuned to my... Talent. It acts as an amplifier. Interesting. But inefficient.'
Flitwick, who had been observing in silence, noticed the lack of astonishment on the boy's face. There was none of the joy or shock he saw in all the other children. There was only... a cold evaluation.
They paid for the wand and left the shop. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Hunter," Flitwick said softly. "It is a very special moment."
.....
Flitwick looked at him, a new understanding in his eyes. This boy did not see magic as a miracle. He saw it as a mechanism. And that, the professor realized, made him potentially the most brilliant, and perhaps the most dangerous, wizard he had seen in a long time.
The return through the brick wall was like closing an incredibly loud book. The vibrant chaos of Diagon Alley faded, replaced by the smell of stale beer and old wood from The Leaky Cauldron.
Tom, the toothless barman, gave them a silent nod. Professor Flitwick guided Timothy through the pub and back onto the bustling pavement of Charing Cross Road. The contrast was immediate. The magic retreated, replaced by the roar of double decker buses and the smell of wet asphalt.
Flitwick stopped on the pavement, the noise of London seeming not to bother him at all. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out two things.
One was a small leather bag that jingled. "Your funds, Mr. Hunter. As a Muggle born student without a magical family, the Ministry provides a trust fund for school supplies. I have already paid for your purchases today from this fund."
"The rest," he continued, handing him the bag, "is for your personal expenses. Use it wisely. Goblins are not known for their generosity."
Then, he handed him a small piece of ivory colored cardstock. A train ticket. "And this is the most important thing. Your ticket for the Hogwarts Express. On September first, at King's Cross Station."
Timothy looked at the ticket. Platform Nine and Three Quarters. An almost imperceptible smile crossed his lips. The delightful absurdity of magic.
"Professor," he said, feigning the right amount of confusion. "Nine and Three Quarters? There must be a printing error."
Flitwick let out his bell like chuckle. "Not at all! An ingenious piece of conceptual barrier. Go to King's Cross Station. The platform is located between platforms nine and ten."
"Between them? You want me to crash into the wall?" Timothy asked, playing his part perfectly.
"Heavens, no! Just walk toward the brick barrier with confidence. It's best to do it with a little momentum if it's your first time," the professor advised. "Don't worry, it's completely painless."
The professor checked his pocket watch. "And with that, my duty concludes. I will take a Muggle taxi back to the Ministry, it is surprisingly faster than the Floo Network at this time of day."
He turned to Timothy, his kind expression now turning serious for the first time. "One last thing, Mr. Hunter. The most important of all."
His bright eyes bored into Timothy's. "The International Statute of Secrecy is the most important law in our world. You must not, under any circumstances, perform magic in the non magical world. The Ministry of Magic is... very strict about this. Especially with new students."
"Understood, Professor," Timothy said.
"Excellent," Flitwick smiled, his good humor returning. "It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Hunter. I have high expectations for you. I will see you at the welcome feast."
And with an elegant tip of his top hat, Professor Flitwick blended into the London crowd and disappeared.
Timothy was left alone on the noisy pavement, but the noise of the buses and the cries of the people no longer bothered him. He felt as if he were inside a bubble, separated from them by a cosmic secret.
The journey back to Liverpool was a dream. He sat on the train, oblivious to the gray scenery, his hand clinging to the bag that contained his shrunken trunk and his new supplies.
That night, in the stillness of Room 3B, he spread his acquisitions on his cot. The textbooks. The Standard Book of Spells. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. He opened them, turning the pages with reverence. The smell of parchment and magical ink filled his lungs.
This was not a simple reading list. It was an arsenal. It was the beginning of his true obsession.
Finally, he took out the wand. Ash wood, exactly thirty centimeters. Rigid and unyielding. Ollivander had told him its strange story. The core was an unknown element, an ethereal filament recovered from the Veil of Death in the Department of Mysteries.
The Ministry, unable to discover its purpose, had handed it over to Ollivander to experiment with. The result was this wand.
Its core, an "Echo of the Veil" as the old man called it, did not choose between light or dark, but simply channeled pure intention.
He held it in his hand. It did not feel warm or cold; it felt... balanced. A perfect extension of the conceptual stillness he felt in his own core.
He looked at it with the intensity of an artisan who has just found the first tool in a box that would build the rest of his life. The game had begun.