Hello everyone!
Sorry for not uploading chapters, but I haven't been feeling completely well this week.
My goal is to upload one chapter from Monday to Friday, meaning 5 chapters a week. If I don't upload for one, two, or three days, I'll try to upload the missing chapters all at once to make up for it, but I will always try to publish 5 chapters a week.
I will also be posting advanced chapters on Patreon. I'll start with 5 advanced chapters, but 7 new chapters will be uploaded weekly. So, if you can't wait, I invite you to support me on Patreon.
Also, please let me know what you think of the fic; I enjoy reading your comments.
That's all for this note. I'll let you enjoy the fic.
Mike
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Chapter 5: The Eagle's Door
The name "Hunter, Timothy" resonated through the Great Hall, cutting through the murmur of conversations. For an instant, Timothy felt the weight of hundreds of eyes on him.
It was not a feeling he was accustomed to; his whole life had been based on going unnoticed, on being the observer in the shadows. But he did not feel nervous.
He felt a surge of a different emotion, one he had not experienced in a long time: a pure, electrifying curiosity.
With calm and measured steps, he separated himself from the first year group. He felt Harry, Ron, and Hermione's gazes on his back, but he paid them no mind.
All his concentration was on the small, frayed hat resting on the three legged stool in the center of the dais.
He did not see it as a mystical magical artifact. He saw it as a puzzle. An artificial consciousness, imbued with the magic and personality of the four founders, designed with a single purpose: classification.
It was, in his mind, the most fascinating evaluation system he had ever encountered.
He sat down on the stool. The wood was old and worn by the countless generations of students who had sat there before him.
For a moment, he had a panoramic view of the Great Hall from the perspective of the judged. He saw the four long tables, each a sea of expectant faces.
He saw the professors, watching him with a mixture of interest and professional assessment. He saw Dumbledore, whose blue eyes shone with a particular intensity behind his half moon glasses.
Then, Professor McGonagall lifted the Sorting Hat and placed it on his head.
The outside world disappeared. The darkness beneath the brim of the hat was total, and the noise of the dining hall vanished, replaced by an intimate silence.
And then, a voice, as old as the castle itself, whispered directly into his mind.
"Well, well. What have we here? An interesting mind. Very interesting, indeed."
Timothy was not startled. It was exactly as he had expected. He did not reply. He simply waited, listening, analyzing.
The Hat's voice was not like telepathy; it was more like reading a thought that was not your own.
The Hat began its work, gently rummaging through the recesses of his consciousness. It was like an experienced librarian searching for a book in a new section.
First, it explored the superficial memories, those of the last fifteen years. It saw the Liverpool orphanage, the monotony of the gray hallways, Mrs. Gable's face, the taste of the watery stew.
It saw the streets of Liverpool, the electronics store, Mr. Henderson's face. It saw the feeling of the rain, the sound of Britpop, the texture of a second hand book.
"Humble, yes. A difficult life. But there is no bitterness. Only... observation. Detachment. Curious."
The Hat tried to delve deeper, searching for the roots of his character, his family, his first memories. But it found nothing.
Timothy's memories simply began, abruptly and completely, in the cradle of that orphanage.
His mind, although unusually mature and structured for his age, seemed completely normal to the Hat.
Leo's past life was so deeply integrated, so fused with his new consciousness, that it did not register as an anomaly or a second soul.
It was simply the invisible foundation upon which Timothy's personality had been built.
The Hat, searching for trauma and family ties, found nothing out of the ordinary in an orphan's past. Simply, he was a boy without a past.
Unable to find answers in his origins, the Hat focused on the present, on the structure of his mind, on his desires and ambitions.
And it was here that the old artifact stopped, genuinely puzzled.
"How... extraordinary. I have seen brilliant minds, of course. I have seen the ambition of budding Dark Lords and the bravery of a hundred heroes. But this... this is different."
The Hat felt Timothy's thirst for knowledge. It was not the curiosity of a student who wants good grades. It was a hunger. An almost physical need to understand, to deconstruct, to catalogue.
It saw the ambition in his soul, an ambition that would rival Salazar Slytherin's, but it was not for power, nor for glory. It was for understanding. He wanted the knowledge that underpinned the power.
It saw his creativity, his willingness to bend the rules, to find shortcuts, not out of malice, but out of a fundamental aversion to inefficiency.
"You could be great in Slytherin, no doubt. Your ambition and cunning would take you to the top. But you do not seek to rule, do you? You seek to know. You seek the answers to questions no one else dares to ask."
'Power is a tool. Knowledge is the hand that wields it,' Timothy thought, his first and only comment in the silent conversation.
The Hat seemed to laugh, a sound like parchment rustling. "Exactly. You are a builder. An architect. And for an architect, there is only one true home in this castle."
"A place where your mind will not be a tool for ambition, nor a weapon for battle, but a treasure in itself. Yes... it is very clear."
Timothy felt the Hat's final decision, a certainty that resonated in his own soul. He agreed.
The brim of the hat opened like a mouth, and its voice shouted for the entire Great Hall to hear.
"RAVENCLAW!"
The table at the far left, the one under the blue and bronze banner, erupted in polite but enthusiastic applause.
Timothy took off the hat, handed it to a smiling Professor McGonagall, and walked with outward calm toward his new house.
As he sat down next to a prefect who clapped him on the back, his mind was buzzing.
He was not thinking about his new companions, nor about the food that had just magically appeared on the plates. He was thinking about the Sorting Hat.
'It just read my mind,' he realized, a mix of astonishment and slight unease running through him. 'Not just my memories, but my... desires.'
The Hat had called him "architect" and placed him in the house of knowledge.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. Ravenclaw. The place where knowledge was a treasure. It was perfect.
'The Hat is right,' he thought, his gaze turning to the teachers' table, and then to the ancient walls of the castle. 'I have a lot to learn.'
The feast ended with Dumbledore's speech. His words were cryptic, filled with warnings about a corridor on the third floor and the painful end that awaited those who wandered there.
While other students seemed confused or scared, Timothy enjoyed it as a good piece of theater. He saw the headmaster not as an authority figure, but as a narrator sowing the seeds of the year's plot.
"First year Ravenclaws, with me!" shouted a tall young man with a prefect badge. His name was Robert Hilliard, a seventh year student with a serious, academic expression.
The group of new Ravenclaws followed him, exiting the Great Hall and climbing the grand marble staircase.
It was then that the castle revealed its true, chaotic nature. The stairs moved. They shifted and reconfigured without warning, connecting different floors and corridors.
The other first year students gasped in astonishment and a little fear. Timothy, however, was fascinated. 'Stairs that move on a whim. Portraits that gossip and give passwords. Fascinating. And a complete disaster for getting to class on time.'
As they climbed, the portraits on the walls whispered and pointed. A knight in full armor greeted them with a clumsy nod of his helmet, and a lady in a silk dress asked them where they were going in such a hurry.
During the long journey, other first year Ravenclaws tried to talk to him, impressed by his quick sorting and his strange calmness.
"It was amazing how quickly the Hat sorted you," said a girl with blonde, curly hair. "Were you nervous?"
"Only curious," Timothy replied with a polite but detached smile. His mind was not on the social conversation. It was busy, absorbing every detail of the castle, every echo of ancient magic.
Quickly, the others caught the hint. He was not rude, but it was clear he preferred to observe than to chat. His reputation as a solitary and slightly eccentric genius began to be forged on that first trip to his new common room.
Finally, after climbing seven floors and avoiding a disappearing step, the prefect stopped in front of a smooth, dark wooden door in a solitary corridor.
The door had no knob or lock. In its center, there was a bronze knocker in the shape of a majestic eagle, with its wings spread.
"This is the entrance to our common room," Hilliard announced. "And here, in Ravenclaw, we do not use silly passwords."
He paused, his expression one of intellectual superiority. "To enter, an answer is required. Ingenuity is required."
The prefect, Robert Hilliard, stepped forward smugly. "Pay attention, first years."
He tapped the bronze eagle's beak once. The eagle's eyes, made of polished sapphires, seemed to glow with life.
A clear, melodious voice, which did not seem to come from the metal but from the air itself, resonated in the corridor.
"I have cities, but no houses. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?"
The prefect smiled at the new students, expecting them to struggle with the question. "Go ahead. Think. Logic is our greatest virtue."
A couple of first year students began to whisper. "¿A drawing? A painting?"
"Incorrect," the eagle's voice said.
"A dream?" another girl tried.
"Incorrect."
Timothy had found the riddle interesting for the first ten seconds. It was a nice word game.
But now, after a long day, the idea of having to do this every day... was unbearable.
It was not a challenge. It was a repetitive chore. And he hated useless repetition.
While Hilliard encouraged the others to continue thinking, Timothy stepped forward, ignoring the glances of his classmates. He stood in front of the eagle.
"That is a map," he said calmly.
There was a silence. The eagle's voice took a second to reply. "Correct."
The door opened with a soft click, revealing a circular room.
Hilliard looked slightly disappointed by the quick solution, but nodded approvingly. "Well done, Hunter."
The group began to enter, but Timothy stayed behind, holding the door with his hand.
He looked at the bronze eagle. "A question."
The prefect stopped. "What is it, Hunter? Aren't you coming?"
"One second." Timothy looked at the eagle. "Do I have to do this every time I want to enter?"
The eagle's voice rang out again, this time with a hint of surprise. "It is the method of entry. It guards our tower from those who do not have a sharp mind."
"I understand. It's a good filter," Timothy said. "But it is... tedious. What if I am in a hurry? Or if I am simply not in the mood for riddles?"
Hilliard looked scandalized. "¿Not in the mood? Hunter, it is an honor to exercise the mind!"
Timothy ignored the prefect and continued speaking to the eagle. "Is there another way? A shortcut. A way to enter without the game."
The eagle's sapphire eyes seemed to flicker. "No one... no one has asked that."
"Well, I am," Timothy said with infinite patience.
There was a long silence. The ancient magic animating the guardian seemed to consult its own fundamental parameters.
"The core rule is to guard the tower from the unworthy," the eagle finally said. "Wisdom is demonstrated in many ways. By solving the riddle... or by knowing when it is not necessary to play."
"And then?" Tim pressed.
"If a true Ravenclaw wishes to enter without delay, he must only ask. Politely."
Timothy smiled. A slow, genuine smile. He looked at the eagle and said: "Please, let me pass."
The door, which had begun to close, opened again with a soft click.
Timothy turned toward the wide eyed Hilliard. "Much better. Now, where are those rooms?"
Robert Hilliard was still speechless, stammering. "Ask... politely. In the seven years I have been here, no one had ever thought of..."
He looked at Timothy with a strange new respect, as if he were seeing a creature from another world. Timothy simply shrugged.
"It was the simplest thing," he said, walking past the prefect to enter the room.
The Ravenclaw Common Room was spectacular. It was a circular, spacious, and bright room, with large arched windows that offered a breathtaking view of the surrounding mountains. The ceiling was a dome painted with a star map that glowed softly.
The place was filled with bookshelves, study tables, and comfortable blue and bronze armchairs. The air smelled of old books, parchment, and the faint aroma of residual magic.
It did not feel like a school. It felt like a sanctuary. A place built for thinking, for reading, for knowing.
The other first year students entered after him, looking at Timothy with a mixture of astonishment and shyness. Hilliard cleared his throat, regaining his composure.
"Welcome to Ravenclaw Tower," he said. "As you may have noticed, we value intellect. But we also value individuality. Unlike other houses, there are no common dormitories here."
He pointed to a spiral staircase on the opposite side of the room. "Your rooms are upstairs. One for each student. Your trunks have already been taken up."
The idea of a room of his own was a luxury Timothy could barely process. He followed the group upstairs. His name was on a small bronze plaque on the third door: T. Hunter.
He pushed the door. The room was small, yes, but it was his. There was a four poster bed with blue covers, a solid oak desk by the window, and a small bookshelf.
His trunk, with "Leo's" cage sleeping on its perch, was at the foot of the bed.
He closed the door, and the sound of the bolt clicking into place was the most satisfying sound he had heard in his life.
He stood in the center of the room, silently, just... feeling. For the first time in his fifteen years of life, and for the first time in his memories, he was in a space that was undeniably, absolutely his own.
It was not the creaking cot of Room 3B. There were no other seven boys snoring around him. There was no smell of dirty socks or industrial disinfectant. It was... peace.
He walked over to the window. It faced the Owlery, but beyond that he could see the dark outline of the Forbidden Forest.
This castle was a nexus of secrets, a labyrinth of knowledge. And he had just been given the key to his own private room in the heart of it all.
He looked at his trunk, where his new textbooks waited. They were just the beginning. The castle's entire library was calling him.
"Well, Timothy," he whispered to himself, a slow, genuine smile on his face. "It's time to start learning."