Chapter 57: The Calm After the Party
The next morning arrived with the brutal clarity of a magical hangover.
It wasn't a physical hangover. His Occlumency, even in a "relaxed" state, had done its job, filtering out the worst effects of the mead and the twins' Euphoria Potion. His head was perfectly clear.
No. This was an emotional hangover.
Timothy woke in his dormitory in Ravenclaw Tower, the morning sun streaming in. And the first thought that greeted his consciousness wasn't runic theory or conceptual physics. It was: Hermione.
The memory of the kiss was... loud. In his mind, which treasured order and a passion for knowledge, the kiss was a chaotic variable. It had been messy, passionate, and overwhelmingly real. He had liked it. He had liked it too much. And now, the elegant, predictable dynamic of their intellectual game of "push and pull" had been shattered.
He sighed, getting out of bed. The balance he had worked so hard to build was wobbling.
Insufficient data, he thought as he got dressed. I need to see her. I need to gauge her reaction. Was it an alcohol-fueled experiment or a paradigm shift?
With a new sense of purpose that had nothing to do with magic, he headed to the Great Hall for breakfast. He arrived late, intentionally. Most of the students were already there. He saw Ron and Harry at the Gryffindor table, eating with their usual enthusiasm. And he saw her.
Hermione was sitting across from Harry, but she wasn't eating. She was stabbing her scrambled eggs with a fork. Her hair seemed even bushier than usual, and she was hunched in her seat, staring at her plate as if it contained the answers to an impossible exam.
Timothy smiled. Good. She's over-analyzing it too.
He began walking toward the Gryffindor table, intending to sit down and, perhaps, enjoy the aftermath a little. She must have sensed his presence. The instant he took two steps toward her table, Hermione's head snapped up. Their eyes met across the hall.
Timothy gave her a slow, deliberately amused smile.
The reaction was instantaneous and spectacular. Hermione turned a red so intense it clashed with the Gryffindor crest on her robes. It was a blush that started at her neck and spread to the roots of her hair. Her eyes went wide, filled with pure, absolute panic. She mumbled something to Harry, something he couldn't hear, but which sounded like a hasty excuse. In a clumsy movement, she grabbed her backpack, which fell to the floor, spilling two books. She picked them up frantically, shoved the books back in, didn't even bother to sit up straight, and practically fled the Great Hall without looking back.
Timothy stopped in the middle of the aisle between the tables. He stood staring at the empty doorway through which she had just disappeared. He was... amused. And a little exasperated.
Fascinating, he thought, his mind regaining its balance. Pure Gryffindor bravery last night, and total Ravenclaw panic this morning.
He wasn't angry. He wasn't hurt. He realized that the kiss, for him, had been an inevitable conclusion to their game. For her, apparently, it had been a cataclysm that had shattered her world. He decided to give her space. Pressure, clearly, was counterproductive. He couldn't get data from a variable that fled the room.
He changed course from his original path to the Ravenclaw table and instead headed for the Gryffindor table. Harry and Ron looked up when he sat across from them, taking Hermione's now-empty seat.
"Good morning," Timothy said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Is Hermione in a hurry this morning?"
Ron let out a snort, spraying toast crumbs. "Good morning! Blimey, Tim! I didn't know you had it in you!"
Harry elbowed Ron. "Ron, shut up." He turned to Timothy, a knowing, relieved smile on his face. "And yes, she's been like that all day. She barely spoke to us in the common room. Just mumbled something about 'complications' and 'emotional analysis,' and then hid in the dormitory."
"She was acting completely mental!" Ron chimed in, swallowing. "I mean, it was just a kiss, right? Fred and George won't stop talking about it! Honestly, what's the big deal? She should be happy! Merlin knows you're the only one who can keep up with her when she starts going on about Arithmancy!"
Timothy took a sip of coffee, his smile widening. To him, nothing, he thought, amused by Ron's pragmatic simplicity. To her, everything. He realized that Hermione's passionate but fiercely logical mind was now at war with itself, her impulsive Gryffindor battling her inner analytical Ravenclaw.
"I suppose she'll process it," Timothy said, deciding to change the subject. "Give her time."
"Well, if it's not that, it's this," Ron said, pointing at the Daily Prophet lying on the table between them.
Timothy looked down. Sirius Black's gaunt, maddened face stared back at him from the moving photograph, the man silently screaming from behind the bars of Azkaban. The headline was large and bold: BLACK STILL AT LARGE.
"Speaking of mental," Ron said, his tone turning serious. "I still can't believe he's out. And that he's coming after you, Harry... it's terrifying, mate. The man who killed your parents."
Harry shrugged, though Timothy could see the tension in his shoulders, a stiffness that hadn't been there a moment before. "I suppose. But we're at Hogwarts. We have Dumbledore. And those foul Dementors are everywhere. What can he do to us here?"
Timothy listened in silence, his mind processing the canonical history. Sirius Black, he thought, his Archive retrieving the data. James Potter's best friend. Harry's Godfather. The dog Animagus. Unjustly imprisoned for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles. Now escaped, searching for the real traitor.
He looked at Ron. ...who, ironically, is that pet rat probably sleeping in your pocket right now, Ron.
Timothy's passion for magic was his engine, but his second nature was that of a strategist. He had spent the last two years watching the Harry Potter "plot" unfold, intervening only when necessary to ensure his own peace and quiet for research.
He considered, for a fraction of a second, intervening. He could do it. He could end it all right now. He could tell Harry: "Black is innocent." He could tell Ron: "That rat is a man named Peter Pettigrew." He could take the rat directly to Dumbledore and rewrite history.
He decided not to.
Why? It would be a logistical disaster.
Revealing that knowledge now, without proof (and Scabbers would flee the instant he felt threatened), would make him look insane. Or worse, an accomplice. How would he, an eighteen-year-old Ravenclaw, explain that he knew the darkest secrets of the First Wizarding War? It would require him to reveal how he knew, exposing his knowledge of the future, which would lead to questions about his Archive, his mind, and his true nature. It would be a cascade of complications he had neither the time nor the inclination to manage.
Besides, this was Harry's drama. It was part of his narrative.
Timothy's only concern was pragmatic. His stance on Voldemort was one of indifference. The Dark Lord was a long-term problem, a collection of fascinating artifacts he planned to study. He wasn't worried about his return; in fact, he almost looked forward to it with academic interest. But if Black, in his desperation to catch Pettigrew, or Pettigrew, in his desperation to escape, ended up hurting one of his "anchors"—Harry, Ron, or Hermione—then yes, he would intervene.
Not as a hero. He would intervene as an architect eliminating a pest. Until then, he would let history run its course.
"Harry's right, Ron," Timothy said, his calm voice bringing them both back to the conversation. "Statistically, it's the safest place in the world. And Dumbledore is here. Black won't come near."
Ron seemed relieved by Timothy's confidence. Harry nodded, though his expression remained somber.
The conversation ran dry, and the bell rang, its metallic echo reverberating through the Great Hall, signaling the start of afternoon classes.
Ron let out a guttural groan and dropped his head onto the table, nearly landing in a puddle of jam. "Brilliant! Potions with Snape!" his voice mumbled against the wood. "Just what I needed! More time in the dungeons. As if the threat of a serial killer wasn't enough."
Harry sighed and began gathering his books, his face still grim from the conversation about Black. "He's right, though. Come on, or he'll dock points before we even get in." He turned to Timothy, forcing a small smile. "See you later, Tim."
"Have fun, Harry," Timothy said, giving him a casual wave. "Try not to blow anything up. Snape hates unexpected pyrotechnics."
He watched the two Gryffindors walk away, their robes billowing as they joined the mass exodus of students. Within minutes, the vast hall was nearly empty, the silence broken only by the distant clink of dishes being collected in the kitchens.
Timothy remained seated a moment longer, alone at the long table, his coffee now cold. His mind reviewed the events of the last twenty-four hours.
The kiss with Hermione. A genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It had been... unexpected. A chaotic, exciting variable he hadn't anticipated. And now, her flight from the Hall this morning... it was adorably predictable. She was panicking, her brilliant mind overheated by an emotion she couldn't catalog. He would give her space. He enjoyed the game, but the true passion he had felt in that kiss... that was new. It was a data set he wanted to explore further, but carefully.
Then, there was Sirius Black. He glanced at the Daily Prophet Ron had left behind. Black's face screamed silently.
Harry's drama, Timothy thought. He knew the truth, of course. His Archive was clear: Black was innocent, Pettigrew was the rat. But intervening now would be a tactical disaster. Sirius's escape was just... background noise. Unless, of course, that noise threatened his friends.
He had his own work to do.
The mention of Voldemort's history (through Sirius) had refocused his own obsession. The kiss with Hermione was a delicious distraction. Sirius's escape was Harry's problem.
But the Hallows... the Hallows were his.
His Archive showed him the memory he had torn from Ravenclaw's Diadem: Riddle's arrogance, his visit to the ruinous Gaunt shack. He saw the wooden chest hidden beneath the floorboards. He saw the gold ring with the heavy black stone. A stone that, he knew, was no mere jewel.
The Resurrection Stone.
His Archive had failed twice against the Hallows' magic: Harry's Cloak and the Founder's magic in the Diadem. He had been furious. And now, he had the location of the third.
A new wave of passion, the true emotion that drove him, flooded through him.
This weekend, he decided, his eyes gleaming with a cold intensity. During the Hogsmeade trip.
While the others bought sweets and butterbeer, he would take a little excursion. He would slip away to Little Hangleton. It was time to collect the Gaunt Ring. Riddle's Horcrux inside it was a bonus, another specimen for his collection. The true prize was the Stone.
It was time to see if his Archive, his will, his passion, could finally decipher and defeat the magic of Death.