Chapter 6: Day One and the Talent Gap
Timothy awoke to the grayish light of a Scottish dawn filtering through the arched window. For the first time in a long time, the awakening was not accompanied by the familiar feeling of existential boredom, but by a vibration. A feverish energy that buzzed under his skin.
He sat on the bed, looking out over the simple and yet luxurious room in its privacy. It had a purpose. He had a laboratory. And he was about to begin the biggest experiment of his life.
Her morning routine was quick. He dressed in the Ravenclaw uniform, the black robe with blue and bronze accents felt strange on his clothes, like a costume for a play in which he had just been cast.
He went down the spiral staircase to the Common Room. The place was already full of life. Older students sat in comfortable armchairs, reading books that floated lazily in front of them. A group of girls from her year was already hotly debating the answer to that morning's eagle riddle.
Timothy did not join them. He simply observed, absorbing the atmosphere. It was a place of knowledge, a sanctuary for the mind. Liked.
In the Great Hall, the atmosphere was completely different. It was loud, chaotic, and vibrant. He sat down in an empty spot at the end of Ravenclaw's table, his back to the wall, which gave him a perfect view of the entire room.
He observed the other tables like an anthropologist studying unknown tribes. The Gryffindors laughed out loud, patting each other on the back, a knot of loud camaraderie. The Slytherins were quieter, their conversations conspiratorial whispers, their looks calculating.
And the Hufflepuffs... well, they seemed to be genuinely enjoying their breakfast.
That's when the mail arrived. Hundreds of owls swooped down from the enchanted roof, dropping letters and packages on the tables. Timothy saw his own brown owl, which he had named Leo, fly toward him. I didn't have anything with me. It was just a visit, a silent acknowledgment before returning to the owlery.
Soon after, Professor Flitwick began to walk around the table, handing out the schedules. When he got to Timothy, he gave him a beaming smile.
"Good morning, Mr. Hunter," he said in his high-pitched, enthusiastic voice. "Their schedule. An exciting day, her first day of school. I hope to see great things from you in my Charms class."
"Thank you, Professor," Timothy replied, taking the piece of parchment.
He examined the schedule, his eyes sweeping through the subjects. Enchantments. Transformations. Potions. Herbology. Defense Against the Dark Arts. His heart beat a little faster. They were the keys. The names of the chapters of his new obsession.
He noticed the shared classes. Transformations with the Gryffindor. Potions with the Hufflepuff. Herbology again with Gryffindor. His mind registered the data with absolute indifference.
The house competition, the points, the rivalries... All this seemed to him like a child's game, a gamification system irrelevant to his true purpose.
The only thing that mattered to him was the content. These classes were his first chances to see magic in action, to feel it, to disassemble it in his mind, and most importantly, to begin to truly understand it.
The other houses, the other students, were just background noise. His true and only obsession was with matter itself. He doubled the schedule and put it in his pocket. The bell rang, signaling the beginning of the first class. It was time to work.
…..
The first class was Charms, taught by his own Head of House. Professor Flitwick's classroom was a cheerful and slightly chaotic place, with books piled up on every surface. The diminutive professor climbed on a stack of tomes so he could see over his desk.
"Good morning, class!" he squealed excitedly. "Let's start with something fundamental! The Enchantment of Enlightenment! Lumos!"
He explained the theory: channeling a small amount of positive energy into the tip of the wand. The other Ravenclaws listened intently, their faces full of concentration. Timothy also listened, but he didn't just hear the words; I felt the concept. Create light. Simple. Fundamental.
The students began to practice. The classroom was filled with erratic sparks and faint flashes that went out almost instantly. When it was Timothy's turn, he raised his ash wand. He did not concentrate on pronunciation, nor on wrist movement. He concentrated on the idea of a candle flame, warm and constant.
"Lumos".
A perfect light, neither too bright nor too dim, bloomed on the tip of his wand. He didn't blink. He did not hesitate. Simply... Existed. Professor Flitwick stopped giving instructions to another student and turned to look at him, his small eyes shining with obvious admiration.
The next lesson was the Levitation Charm. "Remember, a nice, long flick of the wrist!" instructed Flitwick. "'Wingardium Leviosa'!"
Timothy watched his classmates. He saw their frustration, their concentration, the way their feathers barely moved or jumped erratically. He saw Hermione, sitting a few tables away, correcting Ron's pronunciation with barely concealed irritation before getting her own pen to rise, albeit with a slight trembling.
When it was his turn, Timothy didn't even think about the move. He felt the story of the spell. Telling an object the story that it has no weight. He looked at his pen and spoke the words.
He rose. He did not jump, nor did he tremble. She rose gently, with a liquid grace, and floated a meter from her desk, perfectly still. He controlled it with small movements of his wand, making it spin and dance in the air with a precision that others could only dream of.
Hermione watched him from the Gryffindor table, her own now-forgotten pen.
The admiration on his face fought a losing battle against a deep and unmistakable irritation.
The Transfiguration class with Professor McGonagall was shared with the Gryffindors. The atmosphere here was completely different.
Severe. Silent.
McGonagall was an imposing presence, his sharp gaze not missing a single detail.
"Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous magical arts you'll learn at Hogwarts," he said, his voice crisp and precise. "It requires a disciplined mind and absolute intention. Today, they will try something simple: transform this match into a needle."
The task turned out to be anything but simple. The classroom was filled with frustrated whispers from students. The matches became pointy, silvery, sometimes even sharp, but none of them turned into a real needle.
Timothy held the match between his fingers. He didn't think only of the shape of a needle. He thought about his essence. The coldness of the steel, the sharpness of its tip, the smooth emptiness of its eye. He concentrated on the history of the needle.
His match did not change slowly. Simply... it was rewritten. In the blink of an eye, the wood and the match were gone. In its place, on his desk, lay a perfect, shiny, sharp steel needle, as if it had just come out of a master craftsman's forge.
He said nothing. He just waited. Professor McGonagall, on her rounds of the classroom, stopped in front of her desk. He lifted the needle, examining it against the light. His eyebrow, normally so severe, arched into an expression of pure surprise.
He didn't smile, but he gave Timothy an almost imperceptible nod, the highest compliment he could give. "five points for Ravenclaw," he announced to the class, before continuing to walk.
The gap between Timothy and the rest of his year was no longer a theory. It was a visible fact, as sharp and clear as the needle that rested on his desk.
…..
If the Charms and Transfigurations classes had been an exercise in power and will, the Potions class was an immersion in a cold, tense silence.
The dungeons were exactly as they sounded: damp, dark, and with a depressing air.
The class was shared with the Hufflepuffs, a group of affable-looking students who seemed to wither under the gloomy atmosphere of the classroom. There was no open rivalry that existed with Gryffindor, only an atmosphere of boredom and latent tension.
Professor Snape slid into the room like a shadow, his black robes fluttering behind him. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, monotonous murmur, devoid of passion, but filled with an all-encompassing disdain.
"There will be no silly wand swings or absurd incantations in this class," he hissed. "As such, I hope that very few of you will be able to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making."
His gaze swept over the Hufflepuffs with almost palpable contempt, largely ignoring the Ravenclaws. To Snape, the Hufflepuffs' incompetence was such a predictable fact that it hardly deserved his wrath.
Only his boredom.
The task of the day was a simple Boil Healing Potion. The instructions were on the board. The chaos began almost instantly. The Hufflepuffs, nervous under Snape's gaze, were mismeasuring ingredients, their cauldrons emitting incorrectly colored smoke.
Timothy, however, worked with a methodical calm that was almost insulting amid the tension. He read the recipe once. He felt an impulse, a hunch, that he could make it better.
You could crush the snake fangs instead of crushing them, or heat the cauldron two degrees more to speed up the reaction. But he dismissed the idea. It wasn't worth the effort. He decided, out of pure exercise, to follow the instructions to the letter.
Every cut of his knife on the dried nettles was perfect. Every gram of crushed snake fangs was accurate. His hand was spinning the ladle clockwise in a steady, perfect rhythm, like a metronome.
I wasn't thinking about chemistry. I just felt the potion. I felt the ingredients combine, their latent magic awakening and intertwining.
He was having a conversation with the potion, and she was answering him.
At the end of the class, Snape began his round of criticism. He delighted in making the potion disappear from a Hufflepuff that he had managed to curdle into a gelatinous mass. He mocked the wrong color of another student's potion.
And then, he stopped in front of Timothy's cauldron.
The silence was lengthened. Snape stared at the gently bubbling liquid.
It was a perfect turquoise color, just as the advanced texts described, not the simple first-year book. There was not a single impurity. The steam emanating smelled exactly as it should.
It was, in a word, impeccable.
Snape said nothing.
There was no compliment, no nod, not even a grunt of approval.
He simply looked up from the cauldron, his black, empty eyes meeting Timothy's for an instant. And in that look, Timothy saw no hatred or admiration. Saw... an almost imperceptible bewilderment. The gaze of an absolute master who has found an anomaly that he cannot explain.
And without saying a word, Snape walked on.
To the rest of the class, who had been holding their breath, Snape's silence was more eloquent than any praise. It had been a verdict. And the verdict was "perfect".
…..
The last class of the day was Herbology, in the outdoor greenhouses, again shared with the Gryffindors.
The air in greenhouse number one was humid, warm, and smelled of fertile soil and something vaguely spicy. Timothy was immediately disgusted by the feeling.
It was manual work, dirty. He preferred a thousand times the clean, conceptual elegance of Enchantments or the precision of Potions.
Professor Sprout, a cheerful, stocky witch with dirt under her fingernails and a patched hat, welcomed them. "Today we are going to learn how to transplant young Dittany, a very important plant in healing! It's delicate work, so treat the roots with respect!"
The class quickly turned into a mess of spilled dirt. Timothy watched as Ron Weasley pulled a plant out of its pot with such force that it pulled out half of its roots.
Beside him, Hermione Granger was too technical, her movements were so rigid that she almost split the main stem.
When it was Timothy's turn, he sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and reluctantly dipped his hands into the damp earth.
But the moment his fingers touched the soil around the plant, he felt something. It wasn't just soil and roots; it was a pulse. A faint beat of life magic.
Instead of digging, he felt the plant. He traced the network of roots in his mind, feeling where the earth ended and where life began.
With an ease that seemed supernatural, he slid the plant out of its original container. Not a single root broke. He transferred it to the new pot with a softness that made the plant look like... settling happily, its leaves rising toward him almost instantly.
Professor Sprout, who was passing by, stopped in her tracks. "Heavens...," she murmured, astonished. I have never seen such an innate gardener's hand, Mr. Hunter. Ten points for Ravenclaw."
Timothy simply nodded, wiping the dirt from his hands with a grimace of disgust.
That night, back in the safety of his private room in Ravenclaw Tower, Timothy was finally alone. He stood by the window, watching the Forbidden Forest in the moonlight.
The day had been... developer. Lumos, Wingardium Leviosa, the needle, the potion, the Dittany. He went over every spell, every act of magic he had performed.
Were... Simple. Incredibly simple.
The magic I had witnessed, the one they taught, was fundamental, yes, but it also felt rudimentary. They were basic tools, the alphabet of a much more complex language.
He felt that there was much more. That this magic of Hogwarts was just the cover of a huge book.
He felt his own hunger for knowledge, now stoked by the confirmation of his powers, grow into a voracious obsession.
It was not enough for him to use magic. I needed to understand her. Disassembling. And then, build your own.
The first day was barely over, and he was already looking beyond the horizon of his curriculum, toward the library and the thousands of secrets that awaited him.