Chapter 173: Young Gil
Flitwick watched Ryan leave. There was one last thing he hadn't said, but he was sure Ryan would eventually realize it for himself: trying to rationally analyze the messy, complex state of emotions was a path of diminishing returns.
"Emotions are different for every single person," he muttered to himself. "Even with enough samples to analyze, you can never achieve perfect precision for an individual. Only by personally experiencing the extremes of love and hate, loathing and rage, can one truly understand the deeper relationship between emotion and magic."
Ryan, already long gone, didn't hear this.
But he could have guessed. He knew that a part of magic was purely metaphysical, and that magical power itself spanned both the material and the spiritual realms. The monitoring method Professor Flitwick had taught him would only work on the material level. The spiritual realm was a personal journey.
He could get feedback from the people his intel had helped, and he could use his own monitored reactions to various events as samples. But even if he successfully analyzed the entire formula for how magic, power, and emotions converted into one another, he wouldn't be able to use it.
Understanding and using were two completely different levels.
"No matter," Ryan thought confidently. "Even if I have to carry the entire magical world on my back, suppress all my useless teammates, and never fully master emotion-magic, I'll still be invincible!"
And if not, I'll just yell for Dumbledore to save me.
For the next twenty-odd days, he traveled, visiting different parts of the world. He observed their customs, their people, and the full spectrum of their lives. He also "starred in" and "directed" a few minor comeback-and-face-slapping scenarios for himself, just to experience the changes in his own emotions and those of others.
Gil Xavier was an eighteen-year-old lad who lived with his parents in Rutland, a county in England's East Midlands.
Rutland wasn't just the smallest county in England; its resident population was barely thirty thousand. The entire county had only two main towns: the capital, Oakham, and the other, Uppingham.
Gil Xavier lived in Uppingham, a town where almost everyone was related in some way. Every time he went out, running into a neighbor was the equivalent of paying respects to one of his countless aunts and uncles.
It was currently the holidays, and his favorite thing to do was go on a solo "tour de county." He would set off from Uppingham, head to the south shore of Rutland Water in the center of the county, follow the shore east, circle the entire lake, and finally arrive in Oakham, on the lake's western side.
He'd made the trip several times and knew it by heart. He could leave on his bike in the morning and easily arrive in Oakham in time for dinner.
Of course, the dinner in Oakham wasn't the important part.
The important part was not being in Uppingham. In the evenings, the residents of Uppingham would all gather in the town center to chat. This was, invariably, when the parents would begin their comparisons, and that perfect "neighbor's kid" would inevitably surface in the conversation.
Unfortunately, Gil Xavier did not fall into the category of "other people's kids." He could only look up to them while listening to his parents' incessant lectures, which, three sentences in, always turned to his future.
He never understood why his parents were like this. Generations of their family had lived this way. Uppingham was beautiful, the climate was pleasant, the environment was idyllic, and the cost of living was low. Yet his parents constantly told him to study hard, to go to a big city, to make something of himself, to have a real career.
They told him his secondary school years were critical. While other kids were playing, he just needed to work hard, and he could "overtake them on the curve." If he did that, he could get into Cambridge, and if he got into Cambridge, his life would be set.
"But I just can't learn it!" Gil said aloud, stopping his bike by the shore of Rutland Water. He kicked at the pebbles.
He was miserable. Aside from his grades being nowhere near Cambridge's standards, he'd had another one of those pointless, circular conversations with his parents before he left, which only made him feel worse.
"Gil, why isn't the phone working?"
"Dad, the phone is really old. It's probably just broken."
"Why isn't it working? It was fine yesterday!"
"Dad, the phone is really old!"
"Why isn't it working? It was fine yesterday!"
"We can go to the shop in Oakham, ask them what's wrong, and then decide."
"It was fine yesterday! Why isn't it working today!"
"Oh, for heaven's sake! Dad, I'm saying we can go—"
"I heard you! It was fine yesterday! Why isn't it working today!"
"..."
That was the last conversation he'd had. At that point, Gil had shut his mouth and stormed out of the house. As he left, he faintly heard his father's voice behind him: "Useless! Look at the neighbor's kid, he knows everything! Look at you, you know nothing!"
"What am I supposed to do..." Gil sat by the shore, fiddling with the pebbles, flicking them into the lake one by one.
Suddenly, his fingers brushed against something that didn't feel like a pebble. It had a warm, smooth, almost jade-like texture he'd never felt before.
He looked down at where his fingers were. There was a white stone, seemingly growing out of the dirt, but it was impossibly smooth, so smooth he could hardly believe it. He dug at the soil around it and found the stone was perfectly flat, with an incredibly sharp edge. As he cleared the dirt, a blade of grass brushed against the stone's edge and was instantly sliced in two.
"What is this?"
He was curious. Finding a remarkable, flat stone by a lake was the equivalent of finding a perfectly straight stick by a vegetable patch. No normal person could resist that temptation.
Gil Xavier was, of course, a normal person. His first instinct was to pick it up and feel its weight in his hand.
"Ow!" As he picked it up, he wasn't careful, and the edge sliced open his finger. A deep cut, not severe, but deep enough to sting, slowly welled up with a bead of crimson blood.
"What is this stupid thing!" His interest vanished, replaced by annoyance. He threw the stone into the lake and went back to his bike to find a bandage. He always kept one in his bike basket, as he often got scrapes from riding through the woods and along the lake.
As he walked back to his bike to wrap his finger, he didn't see the smooth white stone skip a few times across the lake's surface, then suddenly dissolve into starlight and disappear.
~~~
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